Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once again, thank you christyimnotred for the beta and just her loveliness in general!  

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The day of the funeral is cruel in its ordinariness.  

 

The sun hides behind bleached wisps of clouds, the air is lukewarm on his skin, the ground stubbornly refuses to consume John from the feet up.  Friends and family John has never met filter in through the door, past the mahogany casket, and into the chapel.  John stands beside Dad and Harry; endures the tears of strangers, their smudged mascara, their reeking breath as they kiss his cheeks in consolation.  By the end of the procession he smells of stale perfume rubbed from the outcomers’ shoulders onto his, and the cloying bouquet of peace lilies.

He smells like a funeral parlor.

 

Today, every last thing on earth only serves to piss John off.  A lot.

Who the hell are all these people that somehow feel entitled to their grief?  Mum had been sick for years, he’d not ever seen one of these faces in his home as she succumbed to the cancer growing inside of her bones.

Where were they when mum’s temperature climbed over 40.5 degrees?  John had to help dad carry mum into the tub of freezing water while Harry called 999.  No one had come to relieve John when his father left the house to do the shopping and John held mum’s hair back while she vomited the poison of chemotherapy up from her guts.  It was painful, and slow.  

 

“I’m so sorry, Johnny,” she had said, “You shouldn't have to--  I never wanted..”

John shook his head, smoothed his hand over her back.  He could feel her bones rising up underneath the fragile, papery, skin.  “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

She tried throwing up again but it was only frothy bile, the room smelled of chemicals and disease.  Sickness had covered up his mother's perfume, erasing the light smell of jasmine and apples in exchange for antiseptic and vomit.

“Don’t fib, dear.  I know it’s disgusting,” she sat back against her pillow. John took the bucket into the sink and washed it out, came back with a glass of water.  She smiled up at him, thin fingers stroking his cheek, the tips cold as ice, “When you were a baby you would spit up constantly.  I took to wearing all my oldest shirts because you never failed to soil them.  Always so ill as an infant.”  Her fingers fell away from his cheek, and she held his hand.  Her lips trembled, eyes clouded over, wanting to produce tears but too dehydrated for her body to spare a single drop.

 

“You’ve grown so much.  Fifteen years old on Saturday and already a grown up,” she squeezed his hand weakly, somewhere down the hall the microwave pinged.  Harry heating the beef broth for mum’s lunch.  

Childhood seemed like a distant memory to John, he hardly remembered the time before his mother’s disease settled over their house like a big black veil.  Before, he had been known as “Johnny down the street, the one with a decent push kick,” always chosen in the first string for casual neighborhood football games.

Now he was known as “Johnny down the street, the one with the dying mother,” and his presence made his friends nervous.  Nobody knew what to say, one by one they simply stopped knocking at his door for football on Sunday.  At school they drifted and eventually began avoiding John altogether, treated him like he was a walking time bomb of tears ready to drench them in grief with the shifting of a breeze.  Teachers coddled him, and that was worse.  John could understand avoidance, but the useless sympathy was intolerable.  John wasn’t some weak thing.

 

“You’ll be fine.  Please be fine,” her words came out as a breath.  A plea.  John watched her until he was sure she was asleep and let himself out of the room.  He backed against the door as he closed it, inhaled deep, even, breaths until he was sure the lump in his throat wouldn’t dissolve in exchange for tears.  He hadn’t known at the time it would be their last conversation.  She slipped into a coma while she slept that night and never woke up.  Mum died two days after his fifteenth birthday.

 

John would be fine.  He’d be fine, because she’d said so.  

 

John is taken from his thoughts as the last of the procession trickles past.  Harry stands shaking alongside him, fingers threaded through John’s, her nose red and raw from weeping.  Dad smiling politely as men clap their hands around his shoulders, women offer their platitudes.  And John stands silently, hating them all.  

 

Intruders, the lot of them.  Mother belonged to Harry, and Dad, and John, and no one else.  

 

“If the family wants to take a moment to say goodbye--” The funeral director addresses their father, his eyes sliding to Harry and John.  

 

“Yeah,” Dad clears his throat, pulls Harry against him as tremors shake her body and she makes little choking sounds.  John wants to cover his ears and disappear.  “Yes, we’ll be a minute.”

 

Until now John had not looked into the casket, had no desire to look, but Harry tugs his sleeve and he follows her across the room.  Nothing seems real.  The walls and the floor underneath his feet, the soft glow of lamps, and the faint smell of coffee and disinfectant; everything feels like nothing.     

They stand behind their father, John watches the line of his shoulder slump in defeat.  He’d been fighting the second face of this battle since John was eleven.  He’d aged within those years, mousey brown hair giving way to grey, he’d lost weight.  Between teaching British Literature at the community secondary school, then coming home to illness, there was hardly a spare moment for him to be a father.  John didn’t begrudge him this, he had slipped effortlessly into the role of caretaker for Harry and himself.  Dad never once shielded John from Mum’s illness, and John was thankful for this.  He was treated more like a peer, instead of a child.  John and Dad would have whispered conversations in the dark sitting room after Harry was tucked into bed.  They made plans, divvied out chores onto a chart, sorted medication into the white pill boxes.  It made John feel useful, like there was some modicum of control to the creeping downward spiral.

John wonders if he and Dad have anything in common outside of their efficient rotation around the shadow that settled into the heart of their home.  Both of them grew stoic and seemed to forget what it was like to play out on the lawn.  For four years there was always something more important to do to fill in the empty moments.

 

“I’ll let you two,” Dad clears his throat, gestures toward the open casket with a limp wave, “--you know.”  His voice quiet, rough around the edges.  He bends and kisses Harry on the forehead, brushes strawberry blonde fringe out of the way, fingers touching down tentatively on John’s shoulder.  John can’t feel the brush through the barrier of his suit jacket.  Dad leaves and stands in a corner, he faces the wall and shudders a bit.

 

Harry holds tightly to John’s hand and they draw close to the lip of the casket to peer inside.

 

John expected to catch Harry as she fell, expected to have to drag her away kicking and crying and screaming, but she stands silent.  

 

“She didn’t like lilies,” Harry says blankly, touching the spray of white-pink flowers arranged in front of the coffin.  .

“I remember,” John replies.

Mum preferred the disorder of wild flowers, would bury her nose in the bouquets of yellow primrose, red campion, and dog violets that John and Harry would pick during their walk home from school.  She’d run the tap into a crystal vase and dissolve a cube of sugar in the water.  

“Keeps them fresh,” she’d say every time.  The flowers would sit out on the dining room table until they wilted and browned.  Mum never seemed to want to throw them out.  Sometimes she’d press them dry between the pages of a thick book, preserve the colours, capture the memory.  

 

Harry’s brow knits together, “It doesn’t even look like Mum,” she whispers.

 

John stares at the body wearing his mother’s clothes, her jewelry, the pink scarf with blue flowers she would tie around her head after her hair had fallen out (years ago);  but there is something distorted and fake lying underneath the skin.  The body is a stranger.  Negative space.  Another intruder to go with the rest that sit sniveling in the chapel mere feet away.  John finds himself wishing they had cremated her instead, this isn’t closure at all.  The image burns into John’s eyes, settles like a stone at the pit of his stomach.  

 

“That isn’t Mum, Harry,” John grasps her by the elbow, tries tugging her away, “It isn’t her anymore.”

Whatever it was that made their mother into a person is gone, leaving behind this empty husk.  John tries looking for the woman formerly-known-as-Mum in the set of the mouth, the thin lips they shared, and only finds something infuriatingly devoid of these distinctions.  Features familiar and unknowable all at once. He doesn’t want Harry to see the body anymore, doesn’t want her to have this memory, even though she is staring right at it and it's far too late to pull her away.   

 

Harry reaches out a trembling hand, her chipped purple nail polish glinting in the lamplight as she reaches toward the plasticine face.  

 

“Where is she?” she breathes.

 

John watches his sister’s fingers strain and fight the compulsion to touch as they near a hollow cheek.  

 

“I don’t know,” John murmurs, baffled and exhausted, “I’m sorry.  I don’t know.”

 

The body lies there, soundless and uncaring.

 

---

 

 

“We’re moving,” Dad says nearly a year later, over morning coffee.  He stares into the black, steaming, liquid and frowns.  

“Why?” John asks after some time has passed.

“I’ve taken a teaching position at a university.  The Dales.  I’ll start beginning of term.”

“Why?”  John repeats himself, slowly, because that’s not the real reason, and Dad is lying.  

 

“I don’t want to move,” Harry cuts in, “My friends are here.  This is where mum lived.”

 

An eruption of movement from the end of the table, John feels his eyes go wide and hears Harry’s surprised yelp when their father picks up his mug and sends it flying into the wall.  It shatters into ceramic bits onto the floor.  The man’s eyes go red and watery and John feels his cheeks burn in sympathetic embarrassment at the outburst.  Neither of them are given to overly emotional displays, like the passion of it is a painful ache in their very limbs.  Dad fists his hands in the air, clutching at it in exasperation.

 

“I know,” he grates out, “Don’t you think I know that?  That’s why.  We have to move on.”

 

“Don’t we get a say in it,” John hears his voice rising to match in volume, “So we just, what, pack her things and send them to charity?”  John throws his seat back to clatter onto the tile.

He can feel the bottled up fury pushing at his skin, when did he become so angry?  He pushes into his father’s space.  Harry starts crying.  

 

“What would you have us do?  Pretend she never existed?” John yells, his voice filling the room, covering up the sounds of Harry’s, “Shh, Johnny, shh,” between her sobs.

“YES,”  their father screams back, and John shoves him.  Throws the entire weight of his body into the push, sending the man staggering backward into the flimsy screen door leading to the back stoop.  To lash out feels terrible, it feels wonderful, and John looks at his hands and sinks to the floor to kneel beside his father who cries silently and grabs John into a tight hug.  Harry rushes down to them and lays her head against John’s knees.

 

“We have to get away from here,” Dad whispers to them both, rocking John who can only stare at his hands and hyperventilate.

“Don’t you see?  It will kill us if we stay.”

 

---

 

 

They keep Mum’s books and heirlooms.  Her clothes go to the women’s shelter.  Harry didn’t want to keep any of the gauzy dresses that hung unworn in their bags.  Pictures are wrapped in tissue and boxed up.  By the time the moving trucks are organised and packed full to the brim, the house is empty.  It hardly looks like a place that once held John and Harry, Mum and Dad, as a family.  John looks at the barren dining room where they shared dinner, joking and hiding bits of inedible roast in their napkins.  Mum had always been a terrible cook.  

 

Faded pencil marks go in ticks up the door frame where Harry and John would be measured every summer to see how much they’d grown from the previous season.

 

A hole in the drywall where Mum and Dad had tried relocating the aquarium.  The thing had tipped and broke against the wall.  The whole ordeal had resulted in a frantic family effort to grab the sputtering goldfish and drop them into plastic cups filled with water.  The bloody fish were dumb and slippery, they flopped from between John’s fingers as he tried to save them.  They managed to rescue them all, and instead of re-plastering the wall, Mum had set the new aquarium in front of the hole, said, “There, fixed it,” and smiled brightly.

 

Dad was right.

 

Being in the presence of the memories don’t bring John any comfort at all.  

The ticks on the doorframe only make John miss her desperately.  The uncovered hole in the wall mocks him in its emptiness.

 

Everything serves as representations for what John has lost.  The bathroom cabinets smell of her perfume, and the bedroom she insisted on painting cherry red beams at him like an open mouth.

 

It hurts to look.  To look and remember and not have.

 

John walks outside, climbs into the passenger seat of the Volvo and shuts the door.  His eyes close and he leans his ear against the cool glass.  He waits for Harry and Dad to follow.  

 

They’ll drive and drive and John won’t give in to the temptation to turn and look back.

 

Chapter Text

 Squishy hugs to christyimnotred for crossing some t's and dotting the i's that I tend to overlook!

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Fuck.  Fuck.  He is going to be late.  Football practice has long since begun, and John has yet to strap his shin guards on, much less actually make it from the second story of the school building, down the stairs, and onto the field.  He could either take or leave football, honestly, it’s just a game.  Extracurricular activities look good on his transcript, and well, it was a choice of either football or band.  

 

Unfortunately, John was rubbish at clarinet.  

“It honestly sounds like you’re murdering a cat.  I’d rather listen to nails scraping over a black board, that’s how awful it is.”

Harry was always so encouraging.  Football it was, then.

 

Bloody half gone four o’clock, Mr. Burnaby simply had to be the most long-winded chemistry tutor this side of the Western Hemisphere.  Also the most confusing.  Stoichiometry must be something sent straight up from the depths of hell, a personal gift from Lucifer himself, given to John as some sort of academic torture.  

That’s a bit dramatic.

Not that John is receiving the lowest marks in the class, but if he wanted to get into a decent university he’d need to keep his holding in the top percentile.  Maths come easily to John, but the variables within chemical equations drive him to distraction, resulting in a bothersome habit of second-guessing himself.  

 

He pushes the stairwell door open, the catch of the hinge preventing the heavy metal from slamming against the cinder block wall.  John starts taking the stairs two at a time, careful not to overstep, shouldn’t like to re-live the embarrassment of rolling down the case like an over-eager sack of potatoes.  Laura Higgins had laughed and laughed, it was definitely one of his less suave maneuvers.  He’d managed to silence her after a couple minutes of hysterical giggling by pinning her to the rail and snogging her.  Not a total loss for his bruised pride.

 

“What can you deduce from this?” Followed by the sound of shoes scrabbling against the ground, the resonant thud of a back being pushed hard against the wall.

 

Oh, not alone then, after all.  

John pauses in his race to get to practice.

 

“Just,” a low voice, cut through with breathlessness, “Just the obvious.”  A cough, shoes being drawn over the concrete foundation of the stairwell.  Something that sounds like a failed attempt to stand, met with laughter instead of assistance.  

John tries looking over the the bannister, sure he can recognise the voice of the first boy.  

 

Orange-red hair, the shade barely discernible since it has been shorn down to the scalp.  An absurd amount of freckles covering his face and arms.  A bit daft in appearance, somehow managing to straddle the line of brawn and doughy heft, with hawklike features.  The avian comparison is hardly in his favour.  He seems, what John imagines, a shaved bird might look like.  Never a good thing.

Leonard “Lenny” Upton, then.  Bully, habitual presence in the headmaster’s office, and just an all around bastard.  John tolerates him, having never found himself on the receiving end of Lenny’s less friendly attentions.  Still, John can’t begin to sort out how he manages to attract such a large following.  Wherever Lenny’s fists go, his flunkies’ fists are sure to follow.  He always has at least two boys with him.  John can’t make out whoever it is they have pinned this time.

“The obvious?”  Lenny asks.  Mock curiosity.

 

God, just don’t say anything, John thinks.  The goad isn’t even subtle.

 

“Yes.”

Damn it.

“Your proclivity for physical violence is an emotional transference of your own feelings of helplessness within your household.  Who is it?  Your father or your mother?”

“Shut up,” Lenny hisses.  

“Ah, an abusive mother, then.  Makes you feel emasculated.  Tell me, which is worse:  The fact that she beats you, or the part where you like it.”

 

Fuck.  

This is going to be very ugly indeed.  John begins toeing off his school loafers in exchange for his cleats, begins lacing up.  If he’s going to be up against Lenny’s group, he’ll at least get some good scrapes in.  

“What did you just say to me?”  Lenny’s voice low and dangerous.  

“Your Oedipus complex is glaringly apparent.  As is your budding pharmaceutical addiction.  I can tell by the size of your pupils you’re coming down from your fix.  Either that, or your latent sadistic tendencies are causing you to feel sexual arousal in regards to my current position.”

Lenny’s garbles out a loud curse, and John winces at the audible crack of a fist.  He nearly trips trying to get on his remaining cleat and takes the last set of steps before making it to the landing. Lenny and his minions’ heads snap over to John, suddenly aware of the scene they create.

 

“Oi!”  John says loudly, “Is there a problem here?”  

 

He hopes he sounds calm.  Non-threatening, but disapproving.  John looks at the boy in the middle of the circle where they’ve surrounded him.  His face is covered by hair and a forearm.  All that’s visible is the shock of inky curls, pale long-fingered hands, and crimson blood stain leaking out onto the collar of a white button up.  Scribbled-on documents lie all around, a few flutter about with the settling commotion.  Papers whisper as gravity pulls them back down to the cold cement floor.

 

One boy John doesn’t even care to know the name of, is holding a very thick textbook over the figure’s head, clearly having intended just moments ago to bring it down onto the boy’s skull.

“John Watson!  How are you, old chap?”  Lenny laughs.  

John looks down pointedly at the body that just now is beginning to shift and move.  A relief, that.  John had not been looking forward to dragging a limp, and now, it seems, very lanky, body all the way upstairs to see the nurse.

“Just a bit of fun with our new classmate” Lenny sneers, “Right there, Holmes?”

The boy pushes up onto his knees, still facing the floor, he coughs, spits onto the ground.  Blood and saliva, it’s pink against the grey slab.  John clenches his fists.  

“Funny, he’s usually more chatty than this.”  Lenny leans over, clapping the newly identified “Holmes” on the back.  John watches dark curls whip across high cheekbones and he flinches from underneath the touch.  His arms buckle as John watches him to try and center his weight, he catches himself before his face hits the floor again.  John shifts, raises an eyebrow at the group in front of him.  Some of them look ashamed, apparently not having intended the abuse to go so far.  Lenny just giggles, finally turning to face the exit.

“Good luck with the game this week, John,” and before ushering his friends out he turns back, “-and Holmes, we can finish our conversation later.”

John waits a couple seconds to be sure Lenny doesn’t change his mind and decide to go on ahead and make good on the threat.

 

John kneels beside the boy, “C’mere, let’s get you sitting up.”

“Leave me alone, I’m fine.”

John huffs a laugh, “Don’t think so mate.  Up, let me have a look.”  

The boy continues, (and fails) to try and sit up on his own.  “I don’t--,” a sharp breath as he uses a hand to swipe over and clutch at a spot on his ribs, “I don’t need--” and whatever the end of that sentence was going to be, is cut short by a fit of hoarse coughing.

John catches his shoulder, and is immediately shrugged off.  He backs away, sighs, extends his hand so it can be seen from underneath the dishevelled fringe.

“I'm not going to hurt you, just take it.”

Spidery fingers lift tentatively and slip across John’s palm.  The patch of fair skin is stained with a fresh swipe of blood, the contrast both lovely and horrible.  John rubs the fingertips of his right hand together in an effort to control the impulse to slip fingers underneath the boy’s chin, wanting to tilt it up and get a glimpse of the damage.

 

Soon enough it doesn’t matter, John feels the weight of a steady gaze before he’s even met it with his own.

 

Eyes like quicksilver, green and blue and grey all at once.  Bright, captivating spheres, with burning coal at the crux of it all.  A purple bruise is beginning to mottle the skin along the zygomatic bone, extending around the orbit of his left eye.  His nose doesn’t seem broken, but a fist definitely had some fun there.  Blood is smeared from his nostril across his cheek like a garish shade of blush, matting itself into hair.  

And his mouth.  Do people even have mouths like that?  Full and sculpted, held in balance by features that should be severe on their own, but somehow result in a hybrid of elegance and tenacity.  John shakes his head and refocusses.  

“Have you not ever seen a bloody nose before?  Shall I fetch you a magnifying glass?”

Oh, should probably stop staring.  Right.   

 

John clasps the hand, squeezes in a way that he hopes is taken as a comforting gesture, “Need to get you to the nurse, can you stand?”

Lips purse after a deep breath, and the boy nods, begins pressing weight into John’s hold.  John cups an elbow and they try rising together--

And it of course is a bad idea.

John’s patient’s legs give out and the backward momentum takes John down with it.  He lands on top of a very badly beaten, very surprised, very irritated looking young man.  John straddles a long thigh and just can’t help but find the awkward matter the tiniest bit silly.  He’s pretty sure he’s seen this bit in a film, though usually it involves someone of the female persuasion, and the person is typically a lot less bloody.  Quite the indelicate ordeal.  Hrm..

 

John scrambles to untangle himself and begins lifting his weight from what must be badly bruised ribs.

 

“That didn’t quite work out how I planned,” John admits, “Sorry, I know that couldn’t have helped.”

“Obviously.”  And the boy manages to bristle at John, like a wet cat.

“You did say you could stand.’

‘Can’t do anything with you on top of me, can I?”’  

“Oh, God, sorry, sorry, here-” and John shifts back onto his haunches, offers his hand again, “Let’s just get you sitting against the wall.”  

 

They catch hands again, and this time the maneuver goes as planned.  John kneels in front of the boy, whose head is leaning against the white cinder blocks.  Eyes closed in a wince, uniform tie askew and untucked from the knit vest, blood down his neck.  The sight makes John wish he’d given Lenny a few kicks of his own, for the sake of balance.

“I’m--’

"John Watson. Year twelve.  You’re late for football training, in part because your tutoring session with Mr. Burnaby went on longer than anticipated.  You receive passable marks in chemistry, but since you intend on applying for medical school you wanted to ensure your continued standing in top honors.  Single parent household.  The amount of tearing on the lining of your satchel implies it is second hand, likely a hand-me-down from a sibling.  And you’ve recently taken in a stray dog.  Yellow labrador mix.”

 

The monologue comes out in a swift, uninterrupted stream of information.  Pieces of John’s life retold to him by a person he doesn’t even know the first name of.  

“What?” John musters.

Yes!  Such skillful mastery of the English language.  Bravo.

 

“You should find another tutor, by the way.  Doubtful Mr. Barnaby even knows the difference between a redox reaction, and isomerization--” he dissolves into another series of coughs, holds his arm around his ribs.  John watches to make sure the hand up to his mouth doesn’t come away with blood.  It doesn’t, thankfully.

“How did you know?”

“Name is written on your books, twelfth year material, Mr. Burnaby's handwriting all over your chemistry homework.  Yellow hairs on your trousers and school jumper, judging from the length and coarseness: A dog.  Medium size.  You haven’t yet caught on to the fact that canines with rough coats shed constantly, else you would have made sure to roll the hairs off your uniform before showing up looking like you’ve had a romp at the groomer’s.  Since the vast majority of strays are lab mixes, the statistical likelihood--”

“What makes you think she’s a stray?  I could’ve picked up her up at the pet shop.”

A peculiar expression crosses over that impossible face, he sighs and looks at the ceiling, “You come to the aide of strangers in stairwells when the numbers are hardly in your favor.  So a penchant for helping those you deem unwanted by others.”

“I don’t deem anything.  Lenny is a right, foul git.  There was one of you, and three of them.  Hardly fair.”

“Strong moral compass.”

“Normal human being,” John amends.  They stare at each other, appraisingly, curiously.  “That was pretty fantastic.  That thing you just did.”

This earns John an incredulous eyebrow climbing up into dark curls, “Really?”

“Bit brilliant.”

“I am, yes.”  

John laughs, because of course.  Of course he’d be haughty and arrogant with bruises all over and blood still fresh on his lip.  

 

“Though not exactly a stroke of genius going up against Lenny and his boys.”

John’s new acquaintance shrugs as if his near beating to an absolute pulp is of absolutely no consequence.

 

“They’re idiots.”  Dismissive, like that should explain the reasoning behind the universe itself.  “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Sherlock,” John lets the name fill his mouth and roll off his tongue like he’s trying it on for size, “Good, that’s different.”

“Glad I have your approval.”  Sarcastic sort, this one.

“Think you can walk now?  Need to get you to the nurse for--”

“No.”  

 

John throws his hands in the air, exasperated, “You’re a bloody wreck, and I do mean that literally.”

Sherlock’s eyes shift about the landing, he throws out a hand and begins dragging papers across the floor.  Completely ignoring John.

 

“Take off your vest,” John says, helping gather papers into a stack.  One behind the other.  He looks up into wide eyes, “Oh. No, not like--” he’s usually a bit less awkward than this, and certainly not with another bloke,  “Can I check your ribs?  You did just have the shit kicked out of you, and if you don’t plan on going to the nurse--”

 

“You fancy yourself a surgeon, already?” But long fingers begin dragging the hem of the sweater vest upward.  It takes a few long moments as Sherlock must pause to readjust his range of motion in accordance to what must be a mapping of injury underneath.  He shucks the thing off, hair absolutely haywire from being dragged out of place.  Buttons next, blood sullied hands work at a hesitant pace.  

John thumbs through some of the retrieved papers, all twelfth year assignments, “How old are you, seventeen? Eighteen?”  John asks, hoping casual conversation will resolve some of the skittishness Sherlock puts off in perceptible waves.

“Sixteen, I was promoted a year early,” is the distracted reply as the last button gives and Sherlock pulls up the hem of his white undershirt.  

 

Sherlock winces at the first brush of John’s fingers over his ribs, he’d obviously been kicked at some point.  When John is satisfied that none of the bones are fractured he pulls his hand away and Sherlock is quick about re-dressing.  John helps him stand and hands over the packed satchel of books and papers.

 

“I hope you put those back in order, they were labelled,” Sherlock says, slipping the strap of the bag over his head and onto his shoulder.  To his credit, he barely slumps under the pressure.

 

“Thank you, indeed,” John rolls his eyes.  “So, you’re new here?  I'm fairly new, myself. ” John asks, and winces at the clumsy attempt at conversation.  He'd made friends quickly.  Much easier to do without pity and grief dogging his every step.  

“Please feel free to not engage in superfluous conversation on my behalf.  As you can see I am quite well, and your moral obligations are no longer required.”  Sherlock bites out, suddenly venomous and unapproachable.  John is taken aback, silently hands over the last sheets of paper still clutched in his hand.  Sherlock looks down, closes his eyes briefly, and gives a put upon sigh.

“Thank you,” he says it like it pains him to do so, reaches behind John’s shoulder, and let’s himself out of the stairwell.

 

John stands rooted to the spot in confusion, casting his gaze to the lingering red drops of blood on the floor.

 

He’s going to be late for practice.

 

 

Chapter Text

christyimnotred is the typo-scouting overlord

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“I’ve met someone.”

 

John looks up from his dinner plate and connects sights with his father, the grip on his fork tightening.  John didn’t even know he was entertaining the idea of dating again, much less actively “meeting” someone.

 

Dad clears his throat nervously as Harry and John stare on in horrified silence.

 

“She teaches physics at the University.”  

What the hell difference is that supposed to make?  She could be the sodding Prime Minister of Italy for all John cares.

“It’s barely even been two years,” John bites out, incredulous.  Harry only sits and gapes, a forkful of overcooked broccoli hanging limp between the tines of her fork.  

 

“I want you to meet her.  Just meet her, yeah?”

 

“Oh my god,” John grits out, smiles at the surreality of it all and sits back into his seat, “It’s serious, isn’t it?  And you haven’t said anything before now?”

John thinks over the past several months, Dad’s long nights “working,” the notes pinned to the fridge “Running errands,” or simply, “Going out.”  Those notes began appearing with increasing regularity.  Dad had been so distant for so long, he seemed to be getting better.  He’d stopped crying in the bedroom at night, John hadn’t heard him through the thin walls in months.  John was too busy with school or sports or girls to even consider why.  Both he and Harry are old enough to handle themselves, as long as there is food in the cupboard and the power stays on, there’s no need to worry.

 

“I was going to, but I wasn’t--” Dad sighs and folds his napkin on his lap, “I wanted to be sure that something was going to come of it.  Didn’t want everyone worked up over nothing.”

 

“Come of it?  What does that even mean?  It’s not like you’re going to ask her to marry you.”

 

Dad knits his fingers together and furrows his brow at them.

 

“Jesus Christ,” John breathes out the invocation.  “You must be joking,”

“What’s her name?” Harry asks, suddenly sounding interested and John glares at her.

“Don’t tell me you’re okay with this,” he accuses.

“It doesn’t matter,” she looks at him and shakes her head, “You think you’re the only one who needs friends?”

“No, I--” John starts and is interrupted.

“You don’t think the rest of us need to move on as well?  You date plenty of girls, why can’t dad?”

 

“That’s different, Mum wasn’t--” John tries to explain, tries and gives up.   

 

“No one can replace your mother,” Dad says firmly, John fights the urge to roll his eyes at the cliche phrasing, “I’m not asking you to love her.  Just meet her.  We’re having dinner with her family, Saturday.”

 

“Family?”  Harry sits up in her seat.  No doubt hoping for the next word to come out of Dad’s mouth to be “daughter.”  The lack of feminine perspective within in their home being a common gripe of Harry’s.  

 

Dad smiles apologetically, “Two sons, I’m afraid.  Smart boys from what I understand.  One grown and has a parliamentary internship in London.  The other is nearly seventeen, you might know him, Johnny.  Goes to the same school.  ‘Course he would have started new mid-term.  Had some issues in public school, before enrolling there,” he shrugs, “Violet never said what exactly.”

 

A public school prat, how wonderful.

 

“What’s his name?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” oh, “Odd name,” fuck.

So glad you approve.

Dad finishes, gathers his plate from the table, heads to kitchen to do the washing.

 

John slumps into his chair, watches Harry push her veg around the modest, white plate.  She looks about and nonchalantly pushes a shred of riesling chicken off the dish and onto the floor for the dog to eat.  

 

Gigantic blue-green eyes and crusted over blood, a feral mess of a person.  John certainly remembers.  He hasn’t seen the boy since that one unfortunate (and slightly fascinating) occasion, two weeks past.  What sort of gene pool could have possibly spawned that?

 

“Don’t feed Penny table scraps.  She’ll get fat,”John tells his sister, absently.

 

Harry smiles and drops another piece.  John hears Penny’s jaws smacking as she licks up the splatters of sauce from the floor.

 

“Give it a chance, please Johnny.  For Dad.  We’re just starting to get him back.  Please.”  Harry pleads quietly, “Mum would have wanted us to.”

 

John hates it when Harry is right.  Two years, gone.  It seems like no time at all.  It seems like forever.  Mum would be angry to have any one of them stuck in some sort of stasis with their mourning. She never did tolerate selfishness.  Happiness is a thing you share, something you seek out and hold onto once you've found it.

 

John often wonders if he’ll ever know the feeling again.  It seems to have died along with her, buried six feet under in the dirt and decay.

---

 

 

John tries looking for Sherlock during school.  They don’t share any classes within the rotation, lunch break comes and goes for the rest of the week and there’s no sign of him at any table.

 

John asks friends and acquaintances if they know Sherlock.  The answer is always, “Who’s Sherlock?” or, “I wouldn’t go looking for the freak if my life depended on it,” and variations of such.  Seems harsh.  Sherlock had definitely come across as a bit of an arse, but in a charming enough sort of way.  Aside from the part where he snapped off at the mouth like a rabid dog, but everyone has their moments.

 

Eventually John gives up his search.  Saturday dinner looms in front of him like an inevitable train wreck.

 

---

 

 

“How does she afford a place like this on a professor salary?”  Harry whispers to John as they trudge behind their father up the front steps.

 

“Looks old, maybe it’s a family home,” John shrugs, looks upward to the second story of what looks very much like Victorian architecture.  There are cracks in the white plaster, revealing the bricks and mortar underneath, a spider builds its web between a grey column and its soffit.  The lawn is ordered with sculpted shrubs, and all in all, it’s a bit impersonal.  John isn’t sure what he expected so he feels neither disappointed nor alarmed.  

 

Dad reaches for the front door and is relieved of the impending awkwardness of the knock-and-wait transaction when the thing suddenly flies open.  John finds himself staring around his father’s shoulders and into confident, blue eyes.  

 

Based on aesthetics alone, John can’t really blame Dad for having taken an interest in Ms. Holmes, the woman is elegant and deliberately constructed.  John often sees “middle aged” women who work diligently to maintain the image of their twenties, but Violet Holmes seems to have accepted the facts of aging and succumbed to it with grace.  Her chestnut brown hair is pulled back smartly into a chignon, but the patches of hair at her temples are scattered heavily with grey and white.  She’s nearly taller than Dad, thin, but not severely so, with a soft femininity.  And John is absolutely positive where he has seen those angular cheekbones and high forehead, before.  Aside from the average proportionation of her mouth, she looks very much like her son.  Or Sherlock looks like her, whichever.  She’s dressed smartly in charcoal coloured trousers, and creamy yellow button up.  Her smile is polite and unobtrusive as she beams it in their direction.

 

“I thought I heard your car pull onto the gravel, you’ve made it just in time.  Dinner just came out.”

 

John and Harry stay plastered gawkily in their spots behind Dad.  John is sure they look like shy toddlers by the way they peek from behind his coat.  Dad’s usual stiffness seems to melt away and he walks toward the woman at the door and kisses her lightly on both cheeks.  

 

“You cooked?”  Dad sounds skeptical, with an underlying tone of mirth.  

 

“If by cooked you mean order out, then yes,” she admits.  “I did attempt to make shrimp puttanesca, thought it would be impressive.  Things got a bit…  toasted.”

“Toasted?” Harry asks, stepping tentatively from beside John.

“I set the hob on fire.  Still smells smoky inside, I hope you don’t mind.  You must be Harry,” she extends a delicate hand, long fingers, manicured nails painted with clear varnish.

“Ms. Holmes,” Harry takes the hand and shakes it.

“Violet, please.  Ms. Holmes sounds so tedious after hearing it called out all day in my classroom,” and unlike her son, the syntax of her phrasing is gentle and humorous.

“You must be John,” the hand comes his way now.  John only spares one moment of hesitation before giving into the gesture.  Violet’s grip is firm and warm and without pretense.

 

“Yes,” is all John can seem to come up with.  Harry shoots him a chafed glare.  

 

“Good,” Violet withdraws and stands back against the door to let them through, “I hope you like Thai.”

 

---

 

 

For lack of a better word, dinner is normal, and John has no idea why that should be surprising, but it is.  It’s nice, and so close to being familiar that it almost hurts.

 

There’s Massaman curry, and Pad Thai.  Violet and Dad drink a couple glasses of Pinot Noir.  There’s conversation about work, and John’s plans after he finishes his final year of secondary school.  Harry is immediately at ease, always more social like their mother, she prattles on about school and a surprising knowledge about international business and political climate.  Harry has been most definitely holding back.  John is so accustomed to their sibling fights and inside jokes that they rarely converse about anything going on outside of their own home.  John would never have thought she would have a mind for finance and global exchange politics.

Seems so..  boring.  

Between Harry and John there’s hardly a years gap, Irish twins, Mum always called them.  John feels ages older than her, though.  Harry has always been the freer spirit, unabashed but mellow tempered, to John’s general impassivity with a troublesome, underlying ireful vein.

 

“You’d get along well with my eldest son.  Mycroft does so like to talk shop,” Violet says laughingly after a debate regarding the merits of foreign exchange control.  John and Dad listened on in silence, both men hopeful neither would be asked for an opinion to weigh in with.

 

Actually, the only thing odd about dinner is the lack of the youngest Holmes.  John had felt a ping of disappointment and annoyance when the table was set and what must of been his empty seat, remained unoccupied.  John isn’t sure why he should feel that way.  Maybe after having saved him from getting torn to bits in a stairwell, then searching the school campus for him the entire week, it feels too close to being avoided.  Which isn’t even rational, they only spoke briefly, and it wasn’t like the conversation was friendly.  John wonders what the reaction must have been when Sherlock came home to Violet with a black eye and bloody nose.  

 

“He’s upstairs, John,” Violet’s perfectly cultured voice cuts through John’s contemplation.  He blinks and looks away to meet her gaze, only then realizing he’d been staring daggers at the empty seat across from him.  “My youngest boy, I’m sure your father mentioned him to you.  He so rarely comes down for anything resembling a social occasion.”  She sighs and casts her eyes upwards just as a dull thud shakes the chandelier above their heads.

 

“Must be another experiment,” Violet grimaces and watches a bit of dry plaster flake off from the ceiling flutter into the Pad Thai, “God, I hope he isn’t making explosives.”  

Dad chokes on a sip of wine, eyes wide and a little bit alarmed.  

 

“He isn’t going to eat?” John asks, pushes a piece of pork around his plate.

“He will, at some point, I’m sure,”she spoons some noodles onto the clean dish set in front of the chair, “Sherlock can be--” she inhales deeply and searches for a word.

 

“An arse,” John fills in for her without meaning to, Dad’s fork clatters to the table.  John grimaces and quickly adds, “Sorry.”

“Oh, so you have met him.”  Not a question, but a statement.

“Er..  For a minute,” John leaves out the part about finding him cornered in a stairwell.  If Sherlock had told her the story, John reckons she would have brought that up right away, so he opts to wait it out.  She says nothing more on the matter and begins pushing back from the table.

“It’s usually better to just leave him to it, I’ll bring this up,” she grabs an extra pair of chopsticks and stands.

“I’ll take it,” John says, a little too quickly, “I mean, I don’t mind.  We spoke the once, I’m sure he’d remember.”  Certainly didn’t seem the type to forget a face.

 

Violet looks down to the food in her hands, back to John apprehensively, like he’s offered to diffuse a giant pipe bomb rather than bring noodles covered in peanut sauce up some steps.

“All right, there you are,” she hands over the plate, “Upstairs, first door on the left.  Try not to be offended if he acts like he doesn’t see you, he has a way of tuning everyone out.  It can be quite bothersome.”

 

John smiles, nods, and takes the stairs two at a time.  Now that he’s at the door what should he do?  Knock politely?  If Sherlock doesn’t answer, would that be weird?  Maybe he should knock once, then just open it up himself.  Give warning, then act decisively.

And why does John care about any of this at all?  How stupid.

He’ll just leave the damn plate in front of the door like it’s an old Bastille film.  Sherlock can just find it later, hope he likes cold Pad Thai.  John begins bending down to set the dish on the floor and--

 

“Are you coming in or not, John Watson,” comes the low, muffled voice on the other side of the door, “You’re hovering, it’s annoying.”

 

“Not hovering,” John protests, he was waiting, there’s a difference, and how does Sherlock even know it’s him?  

He turns the handle to let himself in anyway.  

 

Sherlock’s room is a cataclysmic thing of chaos.  Books stacked precariously high, some arranged in pyramid formation, papers filled with loopy handwriting “organised” haphazardly on a table in the corner.  Lab equipment everywhere.  It looks terribly lived in, much unlike John’s own bedroom.  John’s room at home is small and drafty, it makes him claustrophobic.  

 

“Jesus, is that a--” John points to where Sherlock stoops over a makeshift bench, safety goggles strapped across his eyes, rubber gloves over his hands, up his forearms.

 

“Pig foetus, yes,” Sherlock replies distractedly.  John isn’t sure what matter to address first.

“Where did you get a pig foetus?”

“Filched it from the lab at school.”

Oh, of course he did, John somehow has a perfect mental image of Sherlock scooping the jar of floating specimen right off the shelf and into his satchel, “Right, yeah. Um… Why?”

“Observing the effects of nitric acid on skin preserved with formaldehyde.”

 

John gulps and strains his neck a little to see what exactly the effects entail, “Where did you get nitric acid from?”

Sherlock only smiles mischievously down at his pig foetus, John notices a bright swipe of yellow-orange across the skin.

“Xanthoproteic reaction,” John comments absently, plate of noodles still clenched in his fist.  

Sherlock actually looks up from his experiment, “Pardon?”

“You know, when the acid reacts to the proteins--” John starts explaining.

“I know what a Xanthoproteic reaction is,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I’m not an idiot.  I thought you were rubbish at chemistry.”

“I’m rubbish at balancing equations, I do fine remembering sentences from a textbook.”  

Sherlock only huffs and shrugs.

“Your mum asked if I’d bring your supper up,” John says, shifting awkwardly and looking for a clear surface on which to set the dish.  There are none.  John opts to lay the plate at the foot of Sherlock’s bed.  “So, here.”  

Sherlock says nothing and continues poking and prodding at the foetus.

John watches him for a minute longer then decides when it’s gotten too weird, turns to let himself back out, stops before opening the door.

“They seem to have, um, hit it off.  My dad, your mum.”

Silence from the other side of the room, John might as well be talking to himself.   “I like her.  Your mum, I mean.”

More silence.

“Seems serious,” John tries starting the conversation again.  “My dad isn’t the bad sort, you know, if you were worried.”

 

“He’s going to ask her to marry him.  She’ll say yes,” Sherlock says so, casually, like it’s the weather or a trip to the park.  Like it’s not some cloud hanging precariously above John’s head.  

“How do you..”

Sherlock goes on and on with some recitation detailing the progressive courting habits of their parents versus couples in general, statistics and probabilities that John could absolutely care less about, because those are all just guesses.  Aren’t they?  And how the hell does Sherlock even know all this… stuff?  God, he’s so composed and too bloody smart, and nothing at all like their peers.  He doesn’t even look like them.

 

“--And there’s the highly incriminating matter of the engagement ring he has hidden in the glove compartment of your vehicle.”

Hold on, what?  

“When did you see inside our car?”

“Oh.  I picked it open when you lot were making conversation over take out.”  Sherlock waves toward a bent up wire coat hanger.

“You broke into our car, and searched through it.” John says evenly, slowly.

“Yes.  Don’t worry, I didn’t leave any marks.”

“You’re mad, absolutely mad,” John accuses.

“I expect he’ll pop the question by week’s end,” Sherlock goes on, popping the “p” like this is all just so amusing for him, “Mother will be more than happy to oblige,” the sentence comes out mockingly, completely unconcerned.  

 

“How long have you known they’ve been dating?”

“Since the start, approximately eight and one-half months ago.  Brief courtship by societal standards, but at their time in life--”

John waves his hand to cut Sherlock off, “That day, in the stairwell. Did you know who I was?  You knew then?”

Sherlock looks at John like he’s an idiot, those tilted, spectral eyes boring into him, “Of course,” and John isn’t sure if he wants to punch him or throw the nitric acid at him or….

 

“And you didn’t think to.. Oh, I don’t know, say something?”  

“Why would I?”

“Because you’re a part of this too, we both are.  You realise if they marry we’d be--”

“Step-siblings, yes, I understand how the marital exchange of children works.”

“So this doesn’t concern you at all,” John feels his fingers twitching at his sides, watches Sherlock’s gaze flick down to them and back up to stare some more at John.  Scrutiny and disdain and an unflinching line of sight.  Direct eye-contact doesn’t seem to make Sherlock uncomfortable in the least, some tenuous thing between them simmers along that line.  Resentment, and blooming hatred being a definite possibility.

“You’re angry,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, cocking his head.  Dark, curling fringe slides softly across his forehead. John flings his arms in the air, lets them fall heavily back to his sides.  .

 

Sherlock only shrugs in response, pipes some substance John could absolutely care less about over the stupid pig foetus, “For some reason you think I owed it to you to tell you about the carrying on of our respective parents.  I had never met you before.  We only spoke for five minutes.  How do you think you would have taken the news of your father’s romantic excursions from the mouth of the stranger?”

“That’s not the point--” John tries.  

“And as you can imagine, being that you saw my state at the time,” Sherlock squats slightly, furrows his brow at a yellowing swatch of pig epidermis, “I was somewhat distracted.”  He purses his lips, and keeps looking a little too intently at the foetus.  Something deflates a little inside of John, unwillingly, he wants so much to be angry.  Why does Sherlock have to be right in such an annoying manner?  All inarguable logic and something less definable that begs understanding.  John sighs and fidgets with the door handle.

 

“So you think she’ll say yes,” John concludes.

“I know she will,” Sherlock affirms with absolute certainty, “You ought to ensure your sister takes over my brother’s old room.  The extra bedroom is smaller, but has the added bonus of not having been occupied by Mycroft during his teenage years.”

 

John laughs at first, because he’s pretty sure of what Sherlock is implying, then the actual knowledge of the statement solidifies and John chokes on that laugh.  His brain had completely bypassed the fact that if dad remarried, there would be a move of some sort.  Their tiny cottage with the low rent and the shoddy furnace would definitely not be the residence of choice, by simple practicality.  Harry and John very nearly share a bedroom, as it is.  Oh God.

 

Living under the same roof as Sherlock.  

Sherlock who seems about as stable as nitroglycerine.

 

“If it’s any consolation, I’m not particularly enthusiastic about merging households either.  I’ve only just managed to get rid of Mycroft.”

 

John leans his head back against the door and looks at the ceiling for a moment before cutting his gaze back to pale figure fiddling with a swine carcass, “That… doesn’t make me feel any better.”

 

Sherlock smiles, well, something like it.  A twitch out of the corner of his mouth as he looks through a microscope, “No, I suppose not.”

 

John watches Sherlock for another long minute to see if he will come up with anything that actually does make John feel better.  Sherlock seems to be finished with conversation, John tries several variations of “good evening,” and receives no response.  He gets fed up with being ignored and lets himself out of the room, calms his nerves before rejoining everyone downstairs.  

 

“Ah, John, was starting to worry about you,” Violet greets John as he rearranges himself in his chair, “Last boy your age I sent up there never came back down.”

 

John’s eyes go wide and Violet is quick to smile and add, “I’m only teasing.  He climbed out of the window and down the terrace.”  This time she doesn’t qualify the statement, and John has a sinking suspicion she’s telling the truth.  “Try not to pay him any mind, he’s never been especially tactful.  I wouldn’t take it personally.  It’ll certainly be a rude awakening when he attempts to make it in society,” she adds, sounding contemplative and ever so slightly… disappointed.

 

For some reason the tone of her words unsettle John, “No, he’s brilliant,” John says quickly.  

 

Violet looks at him in surprise, then smiles placatingly and continues on with whatever the previous conversation topic was before John came back.

 

Honestly, the conviction in his voice was much stronger than John intended, and he has no idea why her tone bothered him in the first place.  After all, she’s right.  Sherlock is utterly tactless, and if his little confrontation with Lenny in the stairwell is any indication, society is already well on its way to ousting Sherlock as damaged goods.

 

But who isn’t a little fucked in the head?  Right?

 

John sits through tea and pudding, finds himself wondering how Sherlock’s experiment is resolving itself, and absolutely does not give contemplation to anything within the realm of weddings or combined households.

 

Somewhere within the conversation John’s trouble in stoichiometry becomes a topic of interest, and John suggests jokingly that if, “Sherlock is so keen, he could have at John’s assignments,” to which Violet resolves to force Sherlock to bloody tutor John on the subject.  Which, obviously, could only end in disaster, but John nods politely and says, “Maybe.”  

 

If he’s learned anything at all from his sessions with Mr. Burnaby, is that some people just are not meant to be teachers.

 

Dad insists on washing the dishes, Violet directs Harry to the loo, and suddenly it’s Ms. Holmes and John staring at each other from across the table.  The steady tick of the grandfather clock in the sitting room gives a sort of cadence to the settling quiet, John taps his finger against his thigh in time.

 

“He’s a good man,” John says after he’s sure they can’t be overheard.  It’s not so much a compliment as it is a statement of protection.  A warning.

“I know,” Violet says, voice sincere and unflinching against the potential for embarrassment at John’s directness.  “I’m not so bad myself.”  The words are meant to be reassuring, and John trusts the comfort in them.

“Don’t hurt him,” John says quietly, shaking his head and closing his eyes because suddenly the burden of responsibility he feels for his father seems to shift from off of his shoulders.  Reaches like a figment of smoke to be given way to another, “Please.”

 

Violet stretches out her thin fingers, rests her down turned palm lightly on top of John’s for the briefest of seconds, “Okay.”  Not a gesture of pity, but of solidarity.  

 

She clasps her hands in front of her, the silence that falls between them is somehow comfortable.

 

“Okay,” John confirms.  

He might as well have gotten down on one knee and did the thing himself.

Chapter Text

 

christyimnotred, I owe you a drink!

-------------------

 

 

 

It isn’t even another week before Dad informs Harry and John about his plans.  They’re at the usual location for such conversations.  Every serious family dialogue seems to occur around the dinner table, mid-meal, and this one does not deviate from the set pattern.  Dad clears his throat and scrapes the tines of his fork through the creamed potatoes.  John and Harry immediately look up in anticipation, but their father scrunches his brow at the full plate of food.  He opens his mouth to speak, but sighs in frustration before closing it again.

“It’s all right, Dad,” Harry says softly, “If you want to marry her, we’re okay about it.”

 

John is relieved that Harry's the one giving permission, because even though John has accepted the eventuality, it’s another thing to taste the words on his tongue.  Dad looks at him for confirmation, John swallows and nods away his consent.

 

“Thank you,” Dad says, voice raw, and he excuses himself from the table.

 

John told Harry about what Sherlock had said, about the not-so-secret ring after coming home that night.  

They’d gone into the glove compartment when Dad had fallen asleep.  Harry slipped the band of white gold over her ring finger, tilted the unassuming, but classically beautiful, emerald cut diamond until it gleamed in the overhead lights.  

“I don’t think I’ll ever get married,” John told his sister.

“Why not,” she ran a nail against the contour of the cut rock, “You’re suited for it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” John asked.

Harry only grinned at him, slipped the ring back into the slot of the jewelry box and snapped it closed.

 

“Mum always said you were so full of love that it hurt. I thought she was being sappy,” Harry’s smile faltered for a second before she ruffled his hair and placed the box back into the compartment.  “It means be careful.”

She left him there in the car, too perplexed to follow.

 

---

 

Between the time Dad asks Violet to be his (new) wife, and the point which they plan to seal the deal at the courthouse, there’s a long holiday that John’s entire household spends packing their tiny cottage.  

 

Violet comes over to help box and tidy the space.  She supposes if they steam the hallway carpet enough times, the landlord won’t notice the unfortunate piss stains from Penny’s housebreaking trial and error.  It really was a miracle Violet was so enthusiastic about allowing Penny to incorporate into her own home after they moved.  Something about Sherlock having had an Irish Setter when he was child, they’d had to put the creature down when he’d grown old.  

“He was in chronic pain, had severe hip dysplasia.  We tried to explain it to him.”

She said Sherlock wouldn’t speak to anyone for months afterward.  “I suppose he was angry, wanted to punish me.”

John didn’t agree with that.  Sherlock had been a kid, he was probably just sad and missed his dog.

 

“There’s no way he’s getting the deposit back,” Violet tells John, after the fifth run of the enzyme cleaner over the light green coloured shag.  “The carpet is hideous anyway.  Honestly, Penny did the landlord a favour by having a good squat in the middle of it.”

 

John laughs his agreement.  The carpet is extremely fucking ugly.

 

“So, where is Sherlock,” John asks casually, “I mean, not why isn’t he here.  I just mean where is he in general. I mean.”

What?

There ought to be some sort of award for having used ‘mean’ that many time in consecutive sentence structure.  

 

Violet breathes deeply as if hearing the name itself calls for meditative patience, “I tried to convince him to stay, get to know everyone a bit better, but he ran off to spend holiday in London at Mycroft’s flat.  He does so love the city.”

Well, John can definitely understand that.  If he had his choice of anywhere in the world to live, it’d be London.  The grit and smog and dizzying variety of London over any other bustling metropolis or quaint suburb.  Every spring Mum would take Harry and John to London to visit the gardens and museums. They’d buy cupcakes at Primrose Bakery, bring them to Victoria Park and eat them underneath the hawthorn trees.  Mum would snap a lush flower from a twig and pin it above her ear.

 

Those memories are the only ones left of Mum, unstained by the steady enveloping blackness of her disease.  The winter following John’s last trip to London, she’d been diagnosed with Chronic Myeloid Leukemia.  

The years she battled the illness, only once did she offer to take John and Harry and walk their usual paths in the city.  Harry agreed happily, but when the day came, John pretended to have flu and stayed home.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of chambord cupcakes underneath the scarlet blooms of the hawthorn, knowing with absolute certainty that it’d be the last time.

 

---

 

“My stockings itch,” Harry suddenly blurts out to John, before hiking her skirt in a somewhat immodest fashion and scratching her thighs.  John hears a nail catch the thin nylon.  “Shit, now they’ve laddered.  Bloody useless, these things.”

 

“Oh my god, just go in the loo and bin them! What are you--” and John turns his back as his sister toes off her black pumps right where they’re both sitting in aluminum chairs, and begins tugging the damn things down.

 

“Calm down Johnny, no one is watching,” she slips the nude coloured hose from where they’ve bundled at her feet and holds them in the palm of her hand.  The empty toe dangles from between her fingers, “Stick these in your pocket.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

“I didn’t bring a handbag, would you rather I drape them over the podium?”  

 

He rolls his eyes at Harry, she seems to take it as a challenge and tosses the hosiery up and out into the air.  They twist and float menacingly down toward the glossy oak lectern, and of course land right across the top.  The elastic waist drooping over the ledge, both legs spread out on either side like a lewd invitation.

He doesn’t mean to laugh at the sight, doesn’t want to encourage Harry, but the image of the registrar walking in to marry a couple, only to find a pair of shredded stockings hanging suggestively off his rostrum, John can’t help but let out an embarrassing giggle.

 

John looks around quickly, the small room where Dad and Violet are set to take their imminent marriage vows is empty.  (Well, aside from John, Harry, and her torn stockings.)  Dad forgot his wallet in the car, and Violet was caught in traffic last he’d heard.

 

John propels himself from the chair, the legs scrape against the floor as he makes a dash toward the nylons and snatches them up.  He turns around, shaking his fisted prize, “Good luck getting them back--”

 

--and of course Violet is standing right there in the doorway, eyebrow raised, Sherlock alongside.  Harry gives a choked laugh, covers her mouth with an open palm and sniggers into it as John just stands there with her stockings dangling for all to see.  He’s abruptly aware of the scene, and balls the hosiery up behind his back.

 

“Those were there when we got here,” John says lamely, as Sherlock and Violet walk toward where Harry sits with a completely innocent expression.  Annoying git.

 

“Yours laddered, too?”  Violet asks John, her eyes sparking with good humour.  “I had to put polish on mine to stop the bloody run.”  She twists her calf, sure enough there’s a small tear in the black nylon, stopped right before it reaches the inside of the knee by a smear of glossy nail polish.  “Your father should be in shortly with the registrar.  Let’s get this done, I’m starving.”  She smiles at Harry and John, sets her bag down and walks back through the door and into the hall.

 

They’re left with Sherlock, he shifts on his feet, unusually reticent, eyes flicking about.  

 

“Lo’ Sherlock,” Harry tries, looking him over.  Perfectly tailored suit, the plum dress shirt complimenting the starkness of his skin.  John has only ever seen him in his school uniform, or some variation of.  He’s had a haircut.  Dark curls crop tightly along his forehead, nearly over his ears.  Sherlock is quite a bit taller than John, lean musculature and a posture that doesn’t belong to someone his age.  The look in Sherlock’s eyes is that of a an older, wiser, man, but his face is that of a boy.  John has been lucky enough to avoid the awful skin changes of puberty, but is doomed to remain well below six foot.  Not that he’d expected to be tall and lean.   Compact and broad shouldered was always in the cards, genetically speaking.  .

 

“How was London?” It’s John’s turn to break the awkward silence, “Is your brother coming for the..” he searches for the word.  “Wedding,” seems too decorative for the sensible space, “service,” makes it sound like a funeral.  

 

“Mycroft has little time for these procedures,” Sherlock sighs and sits in a heap on the chair next to Harry.  “Too busy being tiresome and running the free world.”

 

“Right, of course, we should have known,” John says sarcastically.  Harry rolls her eyes and taps his shin with her foot in warning.  

 

“He doesn’t approve anyway,” Sherlock adds casually.   This time both John and Harry’s heads whip toward him, unsure of whether to shoot the messenger or go find the source.

“He doesn’t even know us,” Harry starts, but Sherlock waves his hand dismissively.

“Oh, he doesn’t care about you.  He doesn’t approve of the establishment of marriage in general unless it serves a mutually beneficial purpose.”

Harry gapes and John chooses to ignore the “doesn’t care” part, instead opting for, “Marrying someone you love isn’t mutually beneficial?”

“Sentiment,” says Sherlock, like any explanation can be found in the single word spat out like a curse.

 

Thankfully, at that moment, Dad and Violet send the door swinging open, the beleaguered registar tagging behind.

 

The entire ceremony lasts about fifteen minutes, includes a stamp on a bit of paper, and the typical repeated vows.  Harry sniffs a little alongside him and John pats her knee.  John half expects Sherlock to object at the part where “--Or forever hold your peace,” is called.  He risks looking over to see if Sherlock cries out just to be contrary, but he only looks on, eyes pale and expressionless.

 

“You may kiss the bride,” and John can’t help a small smile watching his father cup his hands over Violet’s ears to bring her lips against his own.

 

The ceremony concludes, and John and Harry begin rising to hug and congratulate.  John turns to shake Sherlock’s hand, prepared to offer some sardonic version of, “Welcome to the family,” but Sherlock is swift on his feet and walks quietly from the room.  John seeks to get Violet’s attention, but she’s busy talking to Harry.  No one even notices Sherlock has left.  

 

It seems sad.

For a brief moment John feels guilty and slightly ashamed.  He had been so busy adjusting to the thought of obtaining a stepmother, the concept reminding him of the real mother he’d lost.  He hadn’t considered the absence of a parent from Sherlock’s life.  John didn’t question the nonexistence.

 

John never thought to ask if there might be a father Sherlock missed.  He never looked past his own longing far enough to notice if Sherlock held silent and wished for more than John’s own father could give.

 

John supposes therein lies his and Sherlock’s commonality.  Perhaps they both feel orphaned in the place where a parent ought to be.

 

 

 

Chapter Text

christyimnotred for spotting my typos and redundancies.  And for loving some teenlock.

---

 

 

 

“Have you been through my drawers again?” John sends the door to Sherlock’s bedroom swinging open.  The momentum creates a gust of air, random papers littering the floor slide about, kick into the air with the lift of the current.  The door itself clatters against the wall.  John isn’t surprised at all when Sherlock doesn’t startle or even look up, continues marking away in some notebook, and--

 

“Is that mine?”  John cranes his neck, stepping closer to where Sherlock sprawls on his belly across his bed.  Legs bent at the knee, socked feet in the air, ankles crossed.  “That’s mine.  That’s my notebook.”

 

“You realise there are rules to molar conversion, don’t you?”  Sherlock, utterly put-upon, sighs and erases something.  He proceeds to pencil something over the newly blank space.  He looks up, stares at the wall like it’s a black board, eyes flicking about.  Sherlock is doing the problem in his head, looking into empty space and flipping grams and moles about as if it’s primary school maths.  Like the problem in front of him doesn’t require half a page of paper to convert and balance.  Sherlock’s mouth forms a quiet, knowing, “Ah,” and he writes something that is no doubt flawless in calculation.  The brilliant, bloody, bastard.

 

“Give it back, I’ll sort it out on my own,” says John, because no, because stop.  John so very much does not need Sherlock, nor his insatiable curiosity, looking through that particular notebook.

 

“Perhaps if you devoted as much attention to the lesson as you do to passing notes with Amanda Honeycutt, you’d understand the multiplicative identity of gram units.”

Great.  Too late.  John should have known.  He takes a deep breath and counts to three.

“Sherlock,” John tries summoning what patience he has left, “Did we not talk about going through my things.”  There’s also the matter of Sherlock going into John’s room when John isn’t even in it, but he passes over that point.  This was Sherlock’s home first, it seems a little much to ask that he not tread freely within his pre-set territory.  Sherlock doesn’t appear to know the meaning of “boundaries” anyway, but there has to be a give on John’s privacy somewhere.

 

“I was instructed to tutor you,” Sherlock’s says absently, ‘Ah, look, you got one right.  How clever.”  John is pretty sure he’s being facetious.

 

“Tutoring doesn’t mean doing the work for me,” John steps over to the bed, snatches the workbook from underneath Sherlock’s still-scribbling hand.  A long grey line now runs down the remainder of the page.  “I won’t learn a thing like--” John tilts his head at the paper, flips back a couple pages, past the somewhat-rude note conversation he’d held with Mandy.  Oh.  

 

“You’re a predominantly visual learner, I’ve written out the equations step by step, there are notes in the margins with additional explanation.  If you have more questions, ask, otherwise I believe you’ll find this method of tutoring more suited to your needs.”

 

“I--” John starts, clears his throat. “Thank you.  Um.”

Sherlock’s typically unreadable penmanship has been replaced with clear writing.  Instructive sentences are organised over each step of solvation, and yes, that’s actually… much better.  Mr. Burnaby drones on and on, only jotting down things after he’s finished explaining it audibly.  How did Sherlock know John was a visual learner?  

 

John looks back up from his notes, smiles, “That was good, Sherlock.  Really, thank you.”

 

Sherlock pushes off the bed, pulls his vest down from where its folded lopsided over his waist.  His lips twitch, and he looks around the room before settling with his hands clasped behind his back, “This way seemed less troublesome than having to actually talk you through it.”

 

“All the same,” John tucks the notebook under his arm.  “But seriously, stop going through my things,” he adds, more good-naturedly than when he first entered the room.

 

“Also, you should know Amanda is only flirting with you to make her ex-boyfriend jealous.”

John groans, because of course Sherlock would ruin the moment by barrelling headfirst into not-your-business territory.  

“Though I expect she might reciprocate some of the attentions sorted out in your conversation, given the opportunity.”

 

“We’re not talking about my…  extra-curricular activities, Sherlock.  It’s weird.”

 

“Better avoid the situation altogether, she would make sure her ex found out the nature of your tryst.  I doubt the fellatio would be worth the black eye.”

 

John is torn between laughter and cringing away from the sheer awkwardness of Sherlock’s phrasing.  Tryst.  Fellatio.  He ends up doing a combination of both, giggles and grimaces.

 

“I don’t know, I think it could be worth it,” John manages, a little breathless, a little incredulous.  It would definitely be worth it.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and begins slipping his developing petri dishes from his makeshift incubator.  “Tedious.”

 

“Sex is tedious,” John keeps his voice flat.  He had discovered the world of sex fairly early, his first experience at fifteen, not but a few months after Mum died.  Cynthia, the cobbler’s daughter two houses over.  It might have been a pity fuck.  It might not have been.  Neither of them had known what they were doing. Cynthia stole a condom from her older brother’s nightstand, and John is pretty sure he put it on inside out.  John came within 3 minutes, and poor Cynthia was left bereft.  John killed two birds with one stone and decided oral sex was the answer, that seemed to do the job.  There was really only going up from there.

 

Sherlock ignores him, and John sighs.  “We need to find you a girlfriend.”

 

“I don’t do that,” Sherlock says hurriedly, looking through a microscope.

John giggles again, Sherlock dismissively grouping an entire gender into ‘that’.  

“You don’t do girlfriends?”

 

Sherlock freezes in an instant, then straightens up abruptly and begins putting the petri dishes full of mold back into the incubator.  Darts to the chair where his coat is draped, and oh, oh.  John had just assumed..

 

“Sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry--” John backpedals like a madman, “If you’re, you know--”

 

“You’re right, this conversation is pointless,” Sherlock says, acid in his voice.  He  waves his hand in the air, looks underneath a pile of dirty laundry for something, shoes possibly, gives up the search and reaches for the door.  His movements jerky and frantic and John is such an arsehole.

 

“It doesn’t matter, I--” John thrusts his hand out, grabs Sherlock by the wrist and he whirls around, snatching himself from John’s grasp.  His face is flushed pink, Sherlock’s alarm and embarrassment burning in his cheeks, but he holds still and waits for John to finish his sentence this time.  Sherlock’s chin tips upward defiantly, he’s steeling himself, slipping immediately into defensiveness, like he’s waiting for the next punch.  

Oh, Sherlock.  

John resists the urge to hug and comfort, Sherlock’s panic wringing John’s instinct to help.

 

“It’s fine, whoever you like,” John says a bit simply, now that he has Sherlock full attention any other words have left.  “Does your Mum know?”

Sherlock’s eyes flare in alarm, then narrow in suspicion, wary that John might tear through the house shouting it out at the top of his lungs.  His refusal to speak out loud about this new bit of information evident in the set of his jaw.  John is fairly certain Sherlock had not intended for John to put two and two together and come up with gay.

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” John promises, “Really.  Just come back and teach me about--” John looks down into the notebook, “You know, percent yield,” he grimaces at where Sherlock had started the label before John tore the paper out from underneath the pencil.  He hands the thing out to Sherlock who stares at it like he can’t decide between ripping it to shreds or throwing it out the window.

 

Long fingers reach out and close around the binding, “Fine.”

“All right?” John can’t help but ask.

Sherlock purses his lips and jerks his head down, a quick nod of confirmation before he climbs back over his bed and begins writing again.

 John has, at times, wondered idly over Sherlock’s sexuality in general.  Whether or not he has been touched at all. Thought perhaps he wasn’t interested in any of it.  John is aware that other sexualities exist outside of straight, bisexual, and gay.  Wondered if Sherlock was going through the  phase where he didn’t know what his preferences were.  That’s natural, hell, before there were girlfriends, John sometimes had… questions.

Sherlock is just so..  different, like no one John has ever met.  When his mouth isn’t getting him into fights, Sherlock tends to himself.

John tries picturing him with girls, then with other boys, and his mind conjures up images of Sherlock flat on his back, typically pallid throat flushed.  Fine-boned, spidery fingers interwoven with that of some genderless, faceless person, long legs bracketing their hips.  What Sherlock’s mouth looks like when he’s gasping and--

 

Jesus, what?  

John’s imagination always has been a tad overactive.

 

John stands and watches him for a moment then grabs a squash ball off the shelf.  He settles in a chair and tosses it about for a bit before Sherlock snaps at him for the racket.  John smiles, because that’s the awkwardness of the last few minutes passed, and the chair is actually sort of comfortable.  John leans his head back against it and closes his eyes.  The weightless feeling of sleep has just begun to fall over him when Sherlock’s low voice breaks through the haze.

 

“How did she die,” Sherlock asks, “Your mother.”

 

John immediately sits up in the chair, startled out of his reverie.  “What?  Like you haven’t figured it out already?”  The words comes out dangerous, strained.

 

Sherlock meets John’s line of eye-contact and his mouth drops open a little before his shoulders come up in a huddle around the notebook and he looks away.  “Nevermind.”

 

John stares at him for a long moment, fingers tightening around the arm rests.  John doesn’t talk about Mum, rarely even with Harry.  Certainly not with Sherlock who has made clear his indiscriminate view on life and death.  A month after moving in, one of their classmates had been found beaten and dead, in an empty ditch on a dirt road.  John had barely spoken two full sentences to him, but was nonetheless disturbed and saddened.  The death had been labelled manslaughter.  Timothy Walen was notorious for his bad temper, and when his blood tested positive for barbiturates, no one was surprised.  It was rumoured he had owed some unsavory characters money, and it looked like the fight had gone too far.  Blunt force trauma to the head, he’d died from a mix of subdural hematoma and drug intoxication.  

 

Sherlock was not so convinced.  “He was still wearing his uniform, doubtful he was out to obtain drugs in that neighborhood in a school vest and tie,” Sherlock said disgustedly.  Everyone around the table ignored him, continued on with their, “It’s just terrible,” and, “..only seventeen.”

 

“The media reports don’t even mention the sexual assault,” Sherlock went on, mostly to himself, as everyone looked up to him with expressions of disturbed confusion.  “Oh don’t look at me like that, the police should do better to secure their online files.”

“Sherlock, you cannot be serious, we’ve talked about this--” Violet threw down her napkin.  “Last time you did this, we had a detective knocking down our bloody front door!”

“The body had been moved, obvious drag pattern abrasions on its elbows--”

“His name was Timothy, not it, you great prat,” John had bitten out, completely thrown at the level of disdain and morbid curiosity in Sherlock’s voice.  “He was someone’s child, Jesus, Sherlock.”

 

“Does the proper noun help?  Will that change the terms of his death?”

“No, but--”

“Then I don’t understand.  I assume his parents would rather know who sodomised and murdered him.”

Groans and gasps from around the table.

“Go,” Violet said, her voice cold and fed-up, “Your room Sherlock, just go.”

Sherlock had looked up, suddenly appearing more self-aware.  He shoved wordlessly away from his spot at the table, and climbed the steps to his room.  John couldn’t even hear the door shut.

“Sorry,” Violet closed her eyes and shook her head, “His behaviour, it’s unforgivable really.”

John looks at Sherlock huddled over, pencil scribbling furiously, and sighs.

Maybe Sherlock really doesn’t understand.  

 

“Acute Myeloid Leukemia,” John says on the exhale, sitting back against the chair and looks at the only empty wall in Sherlock’s room.  A crack in the old, discoloured plaster.  It arcs like lightning from one corner to the spot just over Sherlock’s head.  The writing stops for a moment then resumes, slower than before.  Several moments drag on, then Sherlock looks over his shoulder to John once again.

 

“What was it like,” Sherlock asks, his voice subdued, but interested, “Watching her die.”

“What do you care?”  John snaps off, a knee-jerk reaction to the question.  He watches as Sherlock’s pale eyes slide slowly away, the pencil stilled in his grip.  The long line of Sherlock’s body seems overly contained, rigid.  Remorseful. Sherlock, who views the sentiment surrounding the cycle of life, with absolute clinicality and objectivity.  He doesn’t pity John, not like others.  It’s why the vast majority of John’s friends assume his Mum and Dad are divorced, and John and Harry living with Dad is just a consequence of custodial arrangements. John doesn’t correct the assumption.  Sherlock’s mind is far too straightforward, and busy for silly things like coddling.  Sherlock tiptoes around no one.

 

“Slow,” John finds himself saying.  To say it here, in the presence of neutrality, it feels safe.  “And fast,” John adds, reconsidering.  “She was sick for a long time.  Until she wasn’t.  That part, the actual dying part, it seemed fast.”  John swallows and shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

 

Sherlock looks at him for a long time, and nods like he’s considering something.  “Do you miss her?”

John brings his legs onto the chair, hugs his arms around his knees, tilts his head to rest against velvet soft upholstery.  He looks at the crack in the wall, wonders if one day it will simply separate completely, tear apart because it can no longer stand wavering between sovereignty and wholeness.

“Yes,” John whispers, “All the time, yes.”

 

They sit in silence for so long that John nearly drops back off into a nap, his mind shakes away the haziness as John hears Sherlock’s bedclothes rustling.  Sherlock pushes to sit up, postures at the ledge of his bed with John’s chemistry book and notes in his lap.  He scrubs a hand through winding curls before letting it fall back down to the mattress.  

 

“She must have been angry,” Sherlock says, pondering, “Knowing she’d not be able to see you grow up.”  He extends his handful of study material toward John, “I think she would have been satisfied with your progress.”

 

The words should make John choke, should make his eyes burn hot with tears, should make John say something coarse like, “You didn’t even know her..”   But Sherlock says it with such conviction and sincerity that John can only raise his eyebrows and take the texts.  His palms cup the top of Sherlock’s hands briefly before Sherlock tugs them away, rubbing them on the tops of his thighs.  

 

“Thank you,” John bites his lip, unsure if he’s thanking Sherlock for the study guide, or for..  whatever that was.  Comfort?  Commiseration?  Sherlock only makes observations he feels for certain are accurate facets of the truth.  Usually it’s fucking annoying, other times John can’t help but be thoroughly impressed, but this is new.  Some timid step toward empathy, perhaps?

 

“Right.  Yes, well.  If you have any questions about,” Sherlock clears his throat and points at the clutter of books and papers, “--things.”

“I haven’t ever told anyone,” John blurts out in a rush, “I mean, I don’t talk about it.  People act weird after they know.  Treat me differently.”  And he has no idea why he’s telling Sherlock this, doesn’t really know what he’s even trying to say, but John wants him to know anyway.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Sherlock assures.

“I know,” John replies, then thinks better of it, not wanting Sherlock to assume John is saying that because he knows Sherlock doesn’t really have much of a social life anyway.  “I trust you.”

 

Sherlock blinks rapidly a few times, looks at John like he’s witnessing something he can’t really comprehend, “I--” and Sherlock grabs his coat and sweeps out of his room.

What did John do, now?  It was a compliment, was intended that way at least.

John shrugs and begins thumbing through the pages of notes and numbers, labels and bullet points.  He tries to study but his eyes grow heavy and John succumbs to the soft cushion of the tall back chair.  Surrounded by Sherlock’s labware, his volumes of text, the subtle undertones of his scent permeating the room, John sleeps.

 

 

Chapter Text

 

 

<3 you christyimnotred

---

 

“What the hell are we doing, Sherlock?”  

Christ it’s freezing, it’s fucking freezing and John just wants to find their way back to the house and into a steaming mug of tea.  A thick pair of wooly socks and vegetating in front of the telly seems like the equivalent of a tropical oasis.  How did he let Sherlock talk him into this.  Let’s have a walk, he said, let’s see how deep the snow cover is, he said.  

I’m bored, John, he said.

It was the last one that got John out of bed and into his winter clothes.

 

Sherlock’s boredom held in contained spaces, John has learned, is nearly as safe as a volcanic eruption.  A strop of epic proportions.  John has six melted toothbrushes, a drill hole through his wardrobe, and over a dozen screaming matches under his belt, to account for the fact.

At least with volcanoes there is usually some sort of warning, some precursory event that effectively lets you know that now would be the proper time to evacuate the immediate area.

Get out, get out, save yourselves, or suffer the fiery, indiscriminate wrath of Mother nature.

Sherlock is a lot like that.  A raging act of weather, the rising tide.  He reminds John of heat lightning, illuminating the sky in shades of blue and violet, white hot and surging.  Safe to look at from a distance, until the current of the storm blows into your space and demands you take it for a walk.

 

“Flammulina veluptides, John!  I told you.”

Fungi.  Some random species of fungi that John could honestly care less about.  John looks down to Penny who seems completely unperturbed by the snow, it must be pretty brilliant to have a built in winter coat.  She runs a few paces ahead, ducks her muzzle underneath Sherlock’s gloved fingers and he scratches behind Penny’s ears.  She took to Sherlock immediately, despite his initial ignorance of her efforts to have a cuddle.  He wouldn’t pet her, or sneak her treats like everyone else in the house, would get up from the chair he inhabited if she pressed the matter.  John figured his resolve to not get attached to another pet was at play and didn’t think anything of it.  That assumption was put to rest when John went looking for her one evening, and after not being able to find her in any of the usual spots, looked in Sherlock’s bedroom.  He was curled up at the foot of his bed, a thick textbook on one side, Penny on the other.  A bag of cooked bacon that John didn’t make himself, still gripped in Sherlock’s fingers.  (Sherlock knows how to fry bacon without burning down the house?)  They were both asleep.  John had smiled at the sight and left the room.  Suddenly Penny began actually listening to commands, whereas before she would ignore things like sit, stay, heel, and keep about her business. John is pretty sure that when no one is looking, Sherlock teaches Penny tricks.  

A dog doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide today is the day that she’s going to roll over and play dead, just for the hell of it.

 

“If I catch frostbite and my toes fall off, because of a bloody mushroom--” John ducks as  Sherlock releases a flexible branch he’d lifted in order to pass underneath.  The snow sloughs off the rest of the way from its perch, right on top of John’s head.  “Oi!  Watch it!”

Sherlock turns around in time to watch John use his gloved fingers to comb through his hair, shaking himself off like dog to get rid of the last flakes of melting ice.  Sherlock blinks and turns back around.

“What do you need it for anyway?” John asks, stepping in the indents of snow where Sherlock just tread.

“I want to have a look at the ellipsoidal spores.”

“I got that, but why?”

Sherlock turns around and smiles.  One of those smiles John can’t tell whether or not if it’s charming, or terrifying.  

“Because I can.”  Sherlock resolves, and faces the path again with a flare of his coat.

“I still don’t know why you needed me to find the sodding things,” John grumbles.  Sherlock either ignores him, or doesn’t know himself.  

 

They’re pretty far from the house now, John looks back to where it’s a blotch against the firmament.  Crystal blue sky, and crisp, white, snow; it paints a lovely picture. The result of an extremely rare, early winter blizzard.  School was cancelled due to treacherous road conditions.  John had braved the frigidity to take Penny out to piss on a tree, he panicked for a moment when she wandered off a couple metres and her yellow figure was completely obscured by the bleach of falling snow.  

It was over by morning, leaving behind clear skies, the sun burning bright and not nearly warm enough to put a dent in the snow embankments.  Dad and Violet’s flight back from a professor’s conference in Dunkirk was cancelled, they wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening, possibly, if everything thawed properly.

Well, they said it was a conference.  Sherlock was quick to inform John they were off on a private holiday without the burden of children, in order to have loads of recreational sex.

John pleaded with him to never, ever, mention his father’s name in the same sentence as ‘sex’ again, and proceeded to block the memory from his mind.  

Snow was expected, but the bulk of the storm was supposed to pass just north, that’s why when Harry announced she was off to spend the night with a friend from school, John figured it would be fine.  John did the appropriate older-brother routine of questioning if any other classmates would be spending the night as well.  (As if he'd be able to stop Harry for leaving, even if there were.) By classmates he meant boys, and Harry rolled her eyes just as Sherlock broke into laughter from the sofa.

“What’s so funny?” John asked as Sherlock turned the laugh into a cough, and Harry’s eyes narrowed into slits.  John felt a bit like he was on the wrong end of an inside joke.

“S’nothing,” Harry said, gathering her overnight bag, “Sherlock is an enormous berk, is all.  Isn’t that right, brother.”

Harry tolerates Sherlock about as well as John does, if anything Sherlock seems to prefer her, at times.  John has walked in, accidentally, on hushed conversations over bowls of vanilla bean ice cream.  The whispers stop as soon as John shoulders his way through the door.  Something in John rears a jealous head, every time.  Not really sure if he’s more green that Harry might be confiding in Sherlock rather than John, or vice versa, if John is being honest with himself.  Otherwise, John only ever sees them fighting.  Snarling like circling rottweilers, and coming up with inventive insults for each other.

“Calm down, John.  He just misses his brother,” Harry told him after a particularly brutal row with Sherlock.  John doesn’t really stand for anyone other than himself getting into altercations with Harry, but Harry gives as good as she gets and by the end John wasn’t sure whether or not he ought to be shielding Sherlock, or his sister.

“Not bloody likely,” John scoffed.  He has personally heard Sherlock assert during a phone conversation with said brother that if Mycroft was sucked into the vortex of a black hole right this moment, it wouldn’t be soon enough.

“I’d miss you, if you were off being important and left me here with people I hardly knew.  I’d even miss the rowing.”

 

“Can’t feel my nose,” John calls out to the steadily moving figure in front of him, “Or my fingers,” well, only just.  The thick gloves can only do so much.  “It’s so fucking cold, Sherlock.  Is your mushroom going to suddenly melt away with the ice?  Can’t we come back for it when it’s, I don’t know, not Siberia?”

 

“Stop whinging,” is Sherlock’s answer, “We’re almost there, just beyond the clearing.”

 

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s back.  They’re headed toward the pond at the edge of the property, John can tell that much.  He’d found it during his own aimless wandering.  It was mid-summer and a swim sounded fantastic, but when he waded in he found that despite the pond being fully exposed to the sunlight, its water was too chilled to soothe his overheated skin.  Upon second glance, he decided he didn’t like the pond after all.

Ducks don’t live in it, and the water is so black that John can’t see the bottom.  Murky and muddy and deep, a pool of water from a scary movie.  Dangle a foot in, and suddenly you’re getting snatched under by something from a nightmare.  

 

They reach the clearing and Sherlock looks around the area for a moment.  

“So, where’s your precious fungi,” because John will be damned if he has frozen his bollocks off for a miserable tromp through the woods, only to come back empty handed.  

Sherlock cocks his head in consideration, elbows bent at the joint and hands bracketing the air in front of him.  He takes a couple long strides to the right and begins digging through the snow, swiping powder out of the way until he’s dug out the jagged stump of a tree.  Penny sniffs and follows his example, front paws sending ice flying between her legs.

“They tend to grow on rotting wood, this is an elm.  Knocked over months ago, ah, yes, here we are!”  John walks over to where Sherlock examines the dome tops of the mushrooms, light brown and well, not remarkable at all.

 

“Can you eat those?”  John asks.

“You don’t like mushrooms,” Sherlock stuffs a hand down his coat pocket and rummages it around until he pulls out a plastic bag.  

“No,” John is a little surprised Sherlock knows something so completely mundane about his dietary preferences, for someone who can be arsed over the solar system, “But if Penny roots around for a snack and decides to give your fungus a go, she won’t start hallucinating my leg is a big, fat steak, or keel over and--”

 

“These are safe for consumption, yes.”

“Wonderful, can we go back now?”

 

Sherlock begins plucking the mushrooms and slipping them into the bag, Penny loses interest and wanders off.  John reaches down, grabs a handful of snow, this ought to do the trick.  There’s just enough wetness in the snow that that it compacts into a soft ball, John smooths it out, roughly the size of a fist, takes aim, and sends it flying toward the lean figure of Sherlock’s back.  The snowball explodes into powder between his shoulder blades, Sherlock immediately turns to see John sniggering.

 

“A snowball fight, John?  Bit childish,” Sherlock raises a deprecatory brow.  

“Got your attention, didn’t it?  You do realise we aren’t exactly in our eighties, it’s alright to have fun.”  

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and John makes another icy sphere and lobs it, this time at the mess of curls.  Somehow Sherlock anticipates this and ducks, the snowball lands in an anticlimactic heap on the ground.

“Nice reflexes,” John says as he rolls another ball, he looks down for just a moment and suddenly he has a face full of ice.  He looks up, licks his lips, tasting frost.  Sherlock is innocently tending his fungi.

 

“John, did you know that in Russia, approximately one hundred people per year are killed by falling icicles?”

“No, no I didn’t know that,” John keeps still, making sure Sherlock isn’t keeping track of his throwing arm via peripheral vision.

“Could be a perfect crime, the murder weapon simply melts away.”

From anyone else the random statistic might be creepy, might sound like a threat, but knowing Sherlock, he genuinely finds it interesting.  When John doesn’t confirm he’s heard Sherlock’s riff on murder-via-icicle, he glances up.  John’s acknowledgment comes in the form of a vengeful snowball right between Sherlock’s eyes.  He sputters a little, blows out a puff of white air, it makes his fringe fly upward.

“Didn’t your dad ever have snow fights with you?” John asks, unthinkingly, and immediately regrets the lapse as he watches Sherlock’s hands halt.  It was an automatic phrasing, John’s own memories of building embankments on the lawn with Dad and pummeling each other with chunks of snow until it clung to their hair.

Sherlock rolls his shoulders, and resumes picking mushrooms

“Yes,” Sherlock says, too casually, and John can hear the bitter edge in his voice.  Honestly, it wasn’t the answer John was expecting.  Even after having lived with the Holmes for months, the only answer he’s gotten in regards to Sherlock’s father is that he and Violet are divorced and he’s not sustained contact beyond that.

John clears his throat, “Can I ask you something?  You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock makes an, “Mh,” noise, that John hopes is consent, and stands up, levelling his gaze with John’s and--

God, his eyes.  The colour of clear skies, a shade greener, a fleck of brown too close to the pupil so from a distance it looks nearly misshapen.  The blanch of snow, Sherlock’s face marking the horizon, and John’s breath inexplicably catching in his chest.

“Why did he leave?  Your dad.  Why don’t you see him?”

Sherlock purses his lips and his brow draws downward, “I don’t know.  You’d have to ask him.”  His face is something so far beyond confusion or acceptance, he simply looks like someone thrust into a situation he wants no part of.  One that hasn’t been explained to him.  An expression that hints subtly at self-blame.  

Has no one ever told him that it isn’t his fault that his mum and dad divorced?  That if his father doesn’t make an effort to see his children, that is also not Sherlock’s fault?

Wasn’t that the first thing divorced parents are supposed to say to their kids?

John open his mouth to tell Sherlock all of these things, because someone ought to.

 

Oh, but no, Sherlock isn’t looking at John now.  He’s looking past him, jaw dropping open a little.  

“Sherlock,” John asks apprehensively, “What’s wrong?”

“Penny, come,” Sherlock calls, gentle, but firm.

John whirls around to see that Penny has chased a robin out onto the pond, the surface frozen over.  She rocks back onto her haunches, tail wagging, waiting to pounce.  Like a bloody Robin could give a damn about a game.  It titters and pecks at the ice, the orange throat a bright flush of colour against the snow.

 

“Shit,” John breathes, “Shit, how thick do you think the ice is?”

Sherlock’s eyes squeeze shut, like he’s trying to calculate the correlation between temperature, time, snowfall, and how all of this applies to ice build-up over the pond.  “Too many variables, I can’t be sure.”  He makes a clicking noise with his tongue and Penny looks up, tongue lolling.   Stupid dog.  Jesus.

As if on cue John hears a loud crack, ice fissuring, and John doesn’t even think how colossally unwise it is, he takes off toward the pond.  

“No, you idiot!  Your weight--” Sherlock is shouting and running behind him, but John is on the pond, feet slipping a little when his boots kick up the snow to reveal a plane of ice.  Starburst patterns appear under John’s feet.    

“Here girl,” John calls.  Penny looks between the robin and John and whines.  She begins walking toward John and there’s another loud crack but the ice holds.  

John is such an idiot, Christ, why did he run out here like it would make a bloody difference?  If anything it’s made things worse.  His instincts are mental.  Sending him out to help a dog, with no consideration for his own self-preservation.  

Penny reaches John’s outstretched hand and he loops a finger through her collar.  “Going to get each other killed, really a shite way to go.”  

“John!”  Sherlock yells across the pond, he’s standing just before the ice, hands on his knees.  “You really shouldn’t be standing, you need to distribute your body weight.  Slide on your stomach, crawl, I don’t care which.”

“We’re fine, thanks for asking,” John mutters under his breath, “Really can’t tell what you see in him,” he says to Penny.  She has nothing to add to the matter, padding a pace ahead of John toward Sherlock who kneels and clicks his tongue at her some more.

 

They’re only a few metres off now, John can see Sherlock’s face clearly.  Penny takes off at a sprint and works herself under his arm and laps at his jaw.  Traitor.  No idea why he feels annoyed with Sherlock, likely because John is the man on the ice and Sherlock is on solid ground, and the disparity itself is irksome.

 

“Come on, John” Sherlock urges, standing up to extend a hand toward John.  “I must say I really overestimated your intelligence.”

“Arse,” John says, mostly out of reflex, and continues stepping gingerly across the ice.

“Shut up and walk.”

“You’re a real comfort, by the way.  Just lovely,” John calls out.

Something cracks loudly underneath his feet and John freezes.  He felt that one, felt the shift of his feet, and he looks up and meets Sherlock’s eyes.  Wide and panicked and helpless.

“Sherlock,” John breathes out the name before the world tilts and then there’s darkness and his lungs hurt and there are knives stabbing him everywhere.

Oh shit.

Oh God, he’s in the water, he’s fallen through the bloody ice, into the bloody, buggering, pond with who knows what lurking at the bottom of it and there’s something he needs to do.

 

Dark, dark, how’d it get so dark?

 

Breathe, that’s what it is, John really needs to do that.  But not here, because he’ll drown, and that’s just no.  Not on.  Not in the creepy pond, for sure.

 

John flails in the water, and opens his eyes, the cold makes them numb and blur but he looks until he sees the patch where he fell.  The only bright spot in the aphotic world above him.  John has to kick his legs and arms, his coat and boots weighing him down but he can’t take them off, not when his lungs are burning from cold and oxygen depletion.

 

Everything feels heavy, but then there’s something digging into his shoulder and pulling him up.

 

John coughs and sputters and hyperventilates.  He’s gasping and someone is saying his name.

 

“You need to calm down!  John, calm down or you’ll pull me through as well!”

“Sherlock,” John manages to pant, teeth chattering uncontrollably and he hopes he can even be understood, “Go back to shore, you--” teeth clacking together, “I’ll sort it out, s’not safe,” and the black coat is missing from Sherlock’s back, “Where’s your coat?”

“Shut up, shut up, give me your hands.  You’re going into cold shock, we need to get you out before you surpass moderate hypothermia.”  He grabs again, fingers grasping the thick material of John’s coat.  Water sloshes up over the ice Sherlock is sprawled across, on his belly.  He clenches his jaw and shivers, but maintains his handle on John.  They try working together to get John over the ledge of ice but it cracks and John nearly plunges back under as Sherlock must shove away in order to avoid being taken down.

 

“We’re gonna need a rope, or--” John can’t catch his breath, he gulps air and tries to stay afloat, treading water toward where Sherlock is once again reaching for him.

“I’m not leaving you,” and the way Sherlock says it leaves no room for argument.

“S’cold, Sherlock,” John tells him needlessly as Sherlock attempts to steer John by an elbow, “Can’t say I recommend a swim.”  He dissolves into delirious giggles.

Sherlock shuts his eyes briefly and shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward to fight a smile, “You’re an imbecile.  Next time let the bloody dog alone.”

John’s leg cramps and his head becomes abruptly submerged, Sherlock shouts and grabs and hauls him up, arms shaking.

“John!  For christ’s sake!”

“Anything live in this pond?” God, his voice is shaking, he reaches an arm over the ledge, “You know, mutant eels or..”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms, teeth now chattering too, and John gets another arm over.

“You’re taking the piss,” John says.  John hopes.

“No,” Sherlock’s brow furrows in concentration, a small scrunch of skin at the bridge of his nose, “Oh, well, yes, eels, but not mutants.  Not as far as I know.”  He stretches his elbows into the cold water and winces, but manages to hook them underneath John’s armpits.

“Whatever you do, don’t pull, don’t do much of anything, mostly don’t pull, or I’ll be in there with you.  I doubt Penny is intelligent enough to call emergency services to come extract us.  You’ll need to roll onto your back as soon as you’re able.  You think you can do that?”

John nods his head, not really sure at all since his limbs feel absolutely frozen.  Sherlock nods in confirmation and counts to three and John is being dragged from the water.  He’s sure not to pull against the hands that lift and tug at him, Sherlock’s face is pressed into John’s neck and he’s breathing warm puffs of air that makes the skin there flare with new sensitivity.  John’s hips are out now, the ice cracks ominously but holds them as they struggle and coordinate.

“Turn now,” Sherlock says, his voice a soothing presence in John’s ear and he forces himself to twist, Sherlock’s hand helping along.  “Stay like that,” and John can tell he’s slipped his hands underneath him again and is pulling John the rest of the way across the ice.

 

They reach the bank and Sherlock repositions himself, John isn’t sure how since his brain feels all fuzzy from hyperventilating.  Sherlock tugs John up on solid ground, collapsing into a shivering heap with his fingers still digging into John’s coat.  John is also on his back, between Sherlock’s legs, his head resting notably on Sherlock’s bony hip as they both shake and cough.

Penny is immediately all over them both, nuzzling Sherlock’s chin, licking John’s face.

 

“We need to walk now, need to get inside.  You’ll be well and hypothermic if we stall any longer.  Can you walk?  Nevermind, doesn’t matter, you have to anyway.”

 

Sherlock pushes John away, off the hip that has slowly began to warm against John’s skull.  It takes some struggling, but John stands, knees threatening to buckle from the violent tremors that shake him.  John tries shaking his head, tries to clear his mind into cohesive thought, but there’s only the crunch of snow, the consuming frigidity of air itself.  Sherlock turns and looks at John briefly.  Sherlock’s lips are beginning to turn blue at the corners.  His eyes are red and there’s a sheen over them.  He reaches toward John, draws him near, their faces are.. really close.

 

“Sherlock,” John’s teeth clatter and form his name, Sherlock’s breath is so warm against his cheek.  It’s lovely, really, John opens his mouth to tell him as much.  

“Take this off,” Sherlock says as he works his fingers against the buttons of John’s coat, he slides it from his shoulders and leaves it there on the ground.  “Jumper too,” and when John can’t get his fingers to respond to the command, Sherlock slips his hands under it as well.  He helps John’s arms lift into the air, and tosses it to the ground next to the wet coat.  The air is freezing against John’s bare chest, but the wind blows the skin dry.  It’s preferable over the soppy heft of his garments.  Sherlock turns, scoops something off the ground, and dresses John in it.

 

“This is yours,” John huddles inside Sherlock’s coat.  

“Yes.”

“But you’re wet too, freezing, your lips are turning blue.”

“I have another minute or so before I start going into cold shock, a minute that we’re wasting debating this.”  He grabs John by the arms and begins pulling him in the direction of the house.

 

God yes, that’ll be fantastic, a nice hot bath.  Tea, maybe once John can feel his fingers again he’ll build a fire.  

 

John’s legs give out continuously, it’s a rough walk back.  Sherlock, true to his estimations, begins hyperventilating a little, but that could also be because John can’t figure out how to take proper steps and keeps falling in a lethargic heap onto the snow.  Penny runs ahead, waits for them at the steps.

 

Sherlock opens the door and drags John through it.  John immediately begins stumbling toward the stairs, needing the warmth of a hot shower, he can practically feel it, but he doesn’t make it.  Not even close, John becomes a shivering mess in front of the landing.

 

“Stay there,” Sherlock tells him, and John tries to laugh.  Where would he go, all frozen this way.  He’s practically the human equivalent of an ice lolly.  Sherlock darts over to the sofa and snatches a fleece blanket.  Harry’s by the look of it, zebra stripes, hideous.  Sherlock is back by John, stripping off his own jumper.  The blue is darkened, still wet with pond water.

 

John watches Sherlock’s fingers tremble as he works open the buttons to the shirt he wore underneath.  

And Sherlock is taking off his shirt.

He’s taking off his vest too. Well.  Okay.

 

“Trousers, off,” Sherlock commands, as he thumbs open his jeans and begins tugging them down.

 

John stares.  Can’t help it, it’s a natural response when miles of perfectly pale skin appear in front of you out of the blue.  He can see the clear outline of Sherlock’s musculature, flat stomach and the sharp jut of his hipbones.  

“Wh--” John tries, blinks as Sherlock kicks away his jeans.  Simple black pants.  They’re just pants.  That’s just Sherlock.

Practically naked in front of him.

 

“Why are you doing that,” John asks, but it’s more like a plea, more than a little desperate to understand.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, begins gesticulating and spouting off the mouth in one of those quick streams of information regarding the effects and proper care for victims suffering hypothermia.

“--if you’re warmed too quickly you can die from shock, the water would need to be approximately thirty two degrees celsius.  I can’t carry you up the stairs-” and Sherlock’s knees give out a little, he catches himself against the banister, “My muscles are starting to succumb to the effects of early hypothermia, we’ll just end up back on the landing.  With the help of warm blankets, our combined body heat should do the job of warming us up at the appropriate speed to avoid you going into shock.  At the moment this is the most practical means to warmth, now take off your trousers,” he hisses.

 

“I think I’ve seen this in a porno,” John says weakly, hands sluggish and he can’t undo the button to his jeans.  Sherlock rolls his eyes at the attempt at a joke, bends down to John, gets on his knees and straddles John’s thighs.  He flicks open the button.  John gulps as Sherlock works his jeans over his legs, and christ, is this really necessary?  Does Sherlock have to look back up at John as he extracts his socks and jeans from his feet?

 

“All right?”  So pragmatic.

No.  Not really.  

John nods anyways and Sherlock climbs between his legs, sits at the apex, his own long legs steepled above John’s thighs on either side.  Sherlock brings the blanket around his back, fistfulls of it coming around John’s shoulder.  Suddenly John finds himself on the receiving side of a tight, warm hug.

Feels fantastic.

Feels fantastic with Sherlock’s bare skin pressed against his, sending warmth that travels through John’s blood, his veins carrying it like a flaming torch.  Sherlock smells like frost, the lurid odour of pond water, and something clean and crisp beneath it all.  His hair is soft where it rests against John’s cheek.  Sherlock squirms a little, trying to settle into a comfortable position and that feels fantastic too.  

It’s not allowed to feel fantastic.  Sherlock isn’t allowed to feel soft and warm and right pressed up against John this way.  Sherlock’s heart beats too quickly, John can feel that too.  They’re both still shivering.  God, Sherlock's skin is practically vibrating under John's hands.

Oh, christ, stop it.  Stop it.  Stop moving.

Suddenly this feels much too close to intimacy.

 

“Er…” says John.

“Shut up, it’s not like I’m liking this either.”

“I could just wrap up in a lot of blankets,” John suggests, teeth chattering away.

“This is faster.”  His grip tightens.

“My arse is freezing, literally.”

“Are you suggesting we remove our pants?” Sherlock asks evenly.

“Oh,” John stutters and clears his throat, “Yeah, I suppose you have a point.”

 

They sit in silence for what seems like ages, John’s tremors start abating.

 

“Thank you,” John murmurs, his body wanting nothing more than to push Sherlock over and lie on top of him.  Even though the reverse would be more practical.  

John would like to lay on top of Sherlock, anyway.

Absorb all his heat like a greedy sponge.  He shouldn’t want that.

“For you know, not letting me freeze to death in your mum’s pond.”  

 

“It would have been difficult explaining it to your father.  There wasn’t much choice.”

 

John laughs, because that seems right.  A good, grounding statement, reminding John of exactly who is latched around him.

 

“I prefer you alive, as well,” and this time Sherlock’s voice is softer.  It knocks John for a loop all over again.

 

They don’t say anything else, for awhile.  John drifts off for a second and Sherlock pops the back of his head to keep him awake.  

 

They stay wrapped around each other long after the tremors have gone, after their teeth aren’t beating against each other.  John sinks into Sherlock, into the cocoon they’ve created, hopes Sherlock doesn’t take it the wrong way when one of his hands slips, and accidentally strokes over his sacrum.  

 

Sherlock’s head grows heavy on John’s shoulder, and then there’s a soft snore against his neck.  Sherlock’s lips brushing against his pulse.

 

John should really get up.

 

 

 

Chapter Text

 

As always many thanks to christyimnotred for getting in on the teenlock action with me even when it's snowpocalypse 2014 at her house!

And spirited-away-by-the-doctor for her utterly lovely FanArt

---

 

God, that’s warm.  Perfect.  All down John’s spine, wrapped around him like the softest winter coat.  Puffs of warm air between his shoulders.  Absolutely lovely.

So tired.  Comfortable.

Don’t get up, don’t wake up.  Never get up.

 

Tap tap tap

 

John’s mind lazily registers the noise.  

 

Taptaptaptap  “Ahem..”

 

John’s eyes flutter open, and there’s a brief moment of disorientation, where he can’t remember why exactly he’s on the floor.  Whose arms are these?  The long arms thrown across John’s middle, there’s a leg slotted between his.  Sherlock?

 

Sherlock, oh, God, what’s he doing there?  Why are they on the floor?  

Right, John fell through the ice like the biggest idiot this side of northern Europe.  When did he and Sherlock finagle their way into spooning?  They were sitting up, last John remembers and--

 

“While this is quite interesting to witness, you’re blocking the way upstairs.”

 

John’s body slams into action, he rolls out of the circle of Sherlock’s arms, the temperature of hardwood floors not nearly as welcoming as the warmth of Sherlock’s chest.  John props himself up on his elbows, glancing frantically about, until his sight connects with another set of pale eyes.  The shade is different, more blue rather than green, reminds John of water.  Even if John couldn’t recognise the figure of Sherlock’s brother from pictures, it’s the eyes that really give it away.  The same penetrating gaze containing the sharp edge of brilliance.  Except these eyes don’t hold the same open inquisitiveness as Sherlock’s.  The confidence that comes with age and experience, perhaps?  John quickly takes in the features of the person in front of him.  Taller, softer musculature than Sherlock, ginger-blonde hair with only the slightest wave.  How much older is he?  Six years?  Seven?

Physically, the brothers don’t really look that much alike, Mycroft’s skin is pale, but not moonlit like Sherlock’s.  The entire structure of the face is unfamiliar, cheekbones not as contoured, lips not as full.

But it’s the eyes.  Always the eyes.  They might as well be twins for the way John inwardly frets when fixed with that look.

 

“John Watson, I presume.  Good of you to keep Sherlock warm in this dreadful weather.”  The aristocratic diction is most definitely recognizable, as is the sarcasm.

 

“I, uh,” John stumbles over words, still blinking away the filminess of deep sleep, “Fell through the ice.  That’s why, shock, um,” John waves back at Sherlock’s still slumbering figure.  Now would be a good time for him to break in and explain how completely innocent-- Fuck.  He’s clutched the blanket against his chest and having a cuddle.  How is he sleeping through this?

 

“You’re Mycroft?  Sherlock’s brother?”  That’s it, change the subject.  Jesus, could this possibly become a little more awkward.  “How did you manage a flight?  Thought all incoming air traffic was re-routed because of the ice.”

 

Mycroft smiles, an obligatory expression from a script used to make people more comfortable.  It really only manages to unsettle John further.  “I have the appropriate means at my disposal.  Mother called, informed me of their extended stay in Dunkirk, and requested I check in on you both.  I see you’ve managed.  Barely, perhaps,” he adds, nudging the shiny tip of an umbrella against Sherlock’s still wet, and very much discarded pile of clothes.  “Sherlock does tend to get a bit.. mmh, shall we say restless when confined.”

 

“I’ve noticed,” John grumbles, looking about for something to wrap around himself, needing very much at the moment to escape this conversation and have a shower.  

Another smile that doesn’t quite touch the eyes, “Yes, I’m sure you have.”

 

For God’s sake, John has had enough of saying one thing and meaning another from this particular Holmes. “Look, if you’re implying we--”

 

Mycroft lifts a disdainful eyebrow, his palm coming up in a gesture that reads shut up, cretin, “I’m not implying any sort of impropriety.  I simply found the sight amusing.”  

“Glad you’re entertained,” John murmurs under his breath, he’s just going to have to walk off in his pants.  There’s only one blanket in the room and it’s currently Sherlock’s snuggle partner.  Heat soothes over John's skin, the light in the sitting room is golden orange, illuminated by fire.  For some reason, John can't imagine the man in the three piece suit with nary a wrinkle in sight, retrieving the cedar logs from the stack outside.  But he must have done, because it certainly wasn't Sherlock.

 

Mycroft walks over to Sherlock’s sleeping figure, “I’m loathe to wake him, his sleep is erratic at best.”  John has noticed this as well, he has no idea what Sherlock gets up to in the middle of the night sometimes.  All he knows, is that whatever it is, there’s usually a great deal of loud noises accompanying.  Explosions.  Things breaking, or being forcibly torn apart.   A chainsaw, once.  Violet woke to that one and put a swift end to the racket.  

However, there are other occasions where John is secretly grateful for Sherlock’s insomniatic tendencies. The second night after the move, John lie there twitching restlessly in bed, his body not accustomed to sleeping in the strange space.  He missed Mum, missed familiar space.  John doesn’t know what home feels like anymore.

He thought it was the radio to begin with, the mournful lilt of a stringed instrument.  Adagio, dolce, crescendo, crying out like a plea to the night.  John slipped out of bed and followed the sound, down to hall, past Harry’s room, past the antique frame carrying the painting of a serene meadow spotted with crimson poppies, he stopped in front of Sherlock’s door. John was outside, and the music was inside, and John turned the knob of the door.  He did so, slowly, pushing the door open until silver moonlight pushed through the crack.  

Sherlock stood by the window, like a scene from a film, a violin pressed between his chin and shoulder.  He seemed consumed by the music, lost to it and swaying with each accent, fingers lifting and shaking with the vibrato.  

John said nothing, silently closed the door behind him.  

Violin nights are John’s favourite.

“Even as a toddler it seemed he’d go days without rest.  Not sure if mother’s REM cycle has ever recovered.  Ah well,” says Mycroft as he grabs Sherlock’s blanket and yanks it upward.  The loss causes Sherlock to startle into wakefulness.  Eyes flashing wide open and bewildered, scrambling to sit upright, looking all over the place before noticing Mycroft’s looming figure.

 

“Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here!”

“Good to see you also, dear brother.  I trust your nap was rejuvenating.”

 

Sherlock suddenly is the personification of a wet feline, it’s difficult to reconcile the sight with the soft image of the sleeping Sherlock from a moment ago.  He’s bristling at his brother and they’re trading barbs, and John has no idea what either of them are saying.  It’s mostly in French anyway, John’s French is rubbish.  

 

It isn’t the brotherly explosion that has John clenching his fists and heading toward the stairs, it’s the other bit.  It’s the image of the long, upright lines of Sherlock’s body, not even half dressed, wildly gesticulating.  At home in his body, graceful as he tilts his head and stalks about.  The firelight licking at his skin like so many tongues.  

 

Crackle, Crackle, goes the fire.  Mocking.

 

Then the pounding sound of John’s feet as he bolts up the stairs, down the hall, into the loo, and he’s wrenching the knobs of the shower wide open.  He’s strips his pants off, not waiting for the water to warm.  John steps right under the showerhead and shivers all over again.  The temperature adjusts after a few minutes, but the pounding doesn’t stop.  It goes on and on, a resounding cacophony of  blood, freighting its way through John.  It reaches like heat down into his fingertips, through his veins, in his ears, and ignites a spark in some place never before touched.

 

John lets the water soak him through, faces into the stream as it directs a funnel from his fringe and into his eyes.  It washes away all evidence of the pond, the heady redolence of Sherlock still clinging to John’s chest, until the pounding stops and all that’s left is the steady beat of water against skin.

 

---

 

 

God, he’s hungry, starving, the early morning breakfast of tea and toast having been metabolised hours and hours ago.  Just gone eight o’clock, over eleven hours since his last meal.  Turns out nearly being frozen does wonders for an appetite.  Maybe Sherlock is hungry too, John could make him a sandwich.

“Thanks for saving my life, turkey on rye?”  

Maybe not.

 

Sherlock had met John coming out from the shower, and disappeared inside as soon as John stepped from the doorway.  Passed each other without a single word, jimjams thrown over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Alright, then.  Good.  Best not to acknowledge Mycroft walking in on their dubious cuddle, anyway.

John pads down the hall, considers pilfering through his room, he’s sure he left a bag of crisps in there.  Not exactly nutritious, but still appealing nonetheless.  

No, he needs more than that, something with protein, and perhaps something awful and sugary afterward.

 

“I took the liberty of restocking the pantry, I’m sure you’ll be able to find something to your liking.  Dreadful business, nearly freezing to death in an eel infested pond.”

 

John stops, looks toward the direction of Mycroft’s voice.

 

That door is always locked, since before John, Dad, and Harry came to stay.  John walks toward the open door, Mycroft is sitting behind a glossy desk, flipping through a file.

 

“Our father’s study,” he says without looking up, “Nothing left in here worth note, old business contracts, the old man is a venture capitalist you see.  Not brilliant like Mummy, but shrewd where his work is concerned.”  Mycroft looks up now to John, “You’ve wondered.”  The file is regathered and dropped to the glass cover of the desk.  “I see her tastes have changed, a literate rather than a businessman.  Your father makes her very happy.”  

The statement ought to sound like a compliment, but there’s a vein of cold analysis running through his words.  

 

“Sherlock doesn’t talk about your father, barely has spoken a word about him,” John says, unsure if it is a subtle plea for more information.  Mycroft smiles, a small, indulgent sort of thing.

“Well, he wouldn’t would he.  I suppose Sherlock has taken his disappearance the hardest.”

“Disappearance?   I thought he and Violet were divorced.”

“By default.”

Right, fine. “So he just..  disappeared.” That doesn’t seem right, “Did you get the police involved, if he’s a missing person--”

 

“We followed all the proper protocols for such a thing.  There was nothing left behind, no trail to follow.  Weeks turned into months, months into years. Well, I think you know the rest.  Quite a simple thing, really.  Sherlock hasn’t worked it out yet, I suppose.”  Mycroft's detachedness rubs against John, like hair being pushed against the grain.  Irksome and obnoxious.  

“It isn’t his place to work it out, he’s barely turned seventeen.”

 

“Sherlock is clever enough to sort the  matter, sentiment prevents him for arriving at the proper conclusions.  Does he still believe foul play was at hand?  I shouldn’t like him to keep poking about some of my father’s old business contacts.  Not always the most savoury of individuals.”

“Yeah, people do tend to get sentimental over their parents.  Like I told you, he doesn’t talk about it.  Even if he did, I wouldn’t tell you, being that you’re obviously such a big comfort and all,” John finishes sarcastically.  

 

John’s barb seems to have no effect whatsoever on the effortlessly calm figure in front of him, exuding confidence and superiority that doesn’t belong to someone in their mid-twenties.  Mycroft simply cocks his head in an eerily familiar way.  A Sherlock way, but more contained.  John is so accustomed to the unabashed way Sherlock moves, open and curious.  He compares the brothers, looks back to Mycroft, and hopes Sherlock does not grow into the same person.  There’s a sort of cynicism that Mycroft emits, whereas Sherlock, while a skeptic, retains a sort of childlike awe.

 

“You’re awfully defensive of my brother,” Mycroft observes, “How unusual.  I wonder what he’s done to deserve it.”

John opens his mouth to say something, because there must be some response to that.  John’s brain catches up with his tongue first, and suddenly words seem like a bad idea.  

Mycroft appears to notice this as well, smirks for some reason that John can’t be concerned with, and begins walking to the door of the study.  

 

“I suppose he prevented you drowning, it’s only natural you would feel compelled in such a manner.  I have Sherlock’s best interests at heart, I assure you.  He is my brother, after all.”  

“Then maybe you ought to try talking to him, instead of playing guessing games.”

 

Mycroft frowns, looks down to pluck at a cuff, “Tell me, John.  A man with a wife and children disappears one day.  Takes none of his possessions, leaves behind no note, no evidence, empties a private bank account, and is never heard from again.   What does that tell you?”

 

Mycroft waits, inspecting the beds of his nails, as John turns the question over in his head.  

“Could have been abducted, business deal gone wrong,” John suggests, because the other possibility is somehow worse.

“Or..” Mycroft prompts with all the patience of a crouching lion.

John’s jaw clenches and he looks Mycroft in the eye.  Grey blue and unknowable.

 

“Or he doesn’t want to be found.”

 

The answer seems to please Mycroft, “Balance of probability would suggest.  Well done, John.”  He begins to leave.

 

“Wait, so, did he?  Just run off like that, I mean.  Woke up one morning and decided.. that’s that?”

 

Mycroft sighs, still facing away, toward leaving.  “Sherlock wasn’t the only person our father left that day.”  He turns to face John, chin tipped up, “He doesn’t deserve to be missed.  Not by Sherlock, not by anyone.”

 

Mycroft walks out, leaving John alone in the study of an absent man.

The shower is still running, pipes protest, but fulfill their duty.  Soon, Sherlock will come out, smelling strongly of lavender shampoo.  

 

John goes out into the hallway, locking the door behind him.

 

---

 

John eats his way through two ham sandwiches, a tangerine, and decides against the can of baked beans, by the time Sherlock makes it down. Damp curls, uncombed and spiralling every which way, feet bare against the cold, ceramic tile.  How can he stand it

“Fancy a sandwich?”  John pushes the loaf of whole grain toward Sherlock as he heaves himself into a chair.  He fiddles with the discarded tangerine peel, a nail scraping against the white pith.  

 

“Maybe later,” the bright peel is tossed through the air, lands a few feet away in the bin.  “Something sweet will do.”  Sherlock looks at John expectantly.

 

“You realize the order is usually dinner, then dessert,” but John is up and shuffling the through the freezer.  “Ice cream?”

 

“What flavor.”

 

John looks at the tub and grimaces, “Pistachio, who the hell eats--”

“Mycroft.  It appears he’s shopped for his own tastes, what else is there?”

“Nothing else you’d want in the icebox,” John remembers a tin of chocolate biscuits back in the pantry and moves to grab them, but is sidetracked by a jar of cocktail cherries.  He snatches them up and shows them to Sherlock.

 

“I’m not eating those,” Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

“No, not plain like this,” John turns back to the freezer, surely Harry didn’t eat the whole bag.  He turns over unidentifiable foods wrapped in foil, digs to the back corner where Harry hides her stash, and, yes, there!  John drags out the half eaten bag of bittersweet chocolate chips.  He’ll have to replace them later.  

 

“What the hell are you eating?”  He’d made the mistake of asking one afternoon.  Harry was curled inside of her blanket on the sofa, jar of peanut butter in one hand, bag of chocolate nibs in the other.  She’d dip her spoon in the peanut butter, then sprinkle the chocolate over it, and in her mouth it all went.  “That’s disgusting.”

“Have you ever had PMS, Johnny?” She’d asked nonchalantly.

There was no good way to answer that, “Er.. I haven’t.”

She whirled and lobbed the remote at John’s skull, “Start bleeding from your twat, then come to me with how disgusting it is!”

John fled the scene with great haste.

 

Sherlock observes the new addition clutched in John’s hands, “I don’t see how they go together.”

“They don’t, not like this,”  John shifts a little, casting his gaze off right.  “Something my mum would make during Christmas holidays.  Terrible cook, my mum, but somehow could make the best sweets.  Fudge, truffles, toffee, all that.  She’d melt the chocolate down and dip the cherries in it, roll them around in coconut flakes to look like snowballs.  We don’t have the coconut bit, but I never liked that part anyway, so..”  John looks to Sherlock who stares a hole through John’s face, “I-- uh-- nevermind, probably would take too long anyway.  I’ll just--” and John turns back to retrieve the chocolate biscuits instead.

 

‘No!’ Sherlock says loudly, standing up and moving to block John from returning his items from whence they came.  Their hands brush, Sherlock’s fingertips to John’s knuckles as he thwarts John’s attempt to open the pantry.  Sherlock withdraws like he’s been shocked.

 

“No.  That thing, you talked about,”  Sherlock gestures about, stove, cherries, the great textured ceiling, a flutter of fingers, “I’ll try it.”

John stares at him for a moment, then down to the jar of Opies cherries, the bag of chocolate.

“Double boiler?”

Sherlock furrows his brow.

“I need a double boiler to melt the chocolate, so that---” John laughs, obviously Sherlock wouldn’t know where the appropriate pots and pans are located, “I’ll find it.  Sit down and eat something.  You need more than cocktail cherries and chocolate to live off.”

Sherlock smiles, and turns to the pantry as John attempts to locate the double boiler.  There isn’t one.  There’s a metal bowl instead, he’ll just have to be sure to watch closely.

 

John remembers this bit:  Water in the saucepan, wait until it’s simmering, set the bowl over the steam, stir the nibs until melted.

 

“We could put the chocolate in the microwave, it would be faster,” Sherlock says, digging around in the silverware and extracting a spoon.

“Mum tried, said it wasn’t the same.  That it doesn’t heat evenly.”

“That’s taking ages to boil,” Sherlock whinges, begins twisting the lid from a jar.

“Whatsit they always say?  A watched pot never boils,” John quotes absently, looking down to where Sherlock is stirring with the spoon.

“That’s a ridiculous saying,” says Sherlock, and looks into the saucepan as if to prove John wrong.  

It really only makes John laugh and nudge Sherlock away from where steam is beginning to rise at the edges.

 

  “Your brother is--”

“A fucking bastard,” Sherlock finishes, and John snorts.  Sherlock cursing is always fun to hear.  Off-colour language rolling off his tongue in the silkiest of tones.

“I was actually going to say interesting, he reminds me of you,” John says, as Sherlock fixes him with the most affronted expression he’s ever seen, “No, I mean, not the fucking bastard part.  Although, to be fair, if you drill another hole in my wardrobe I’ll have to amend that statement.”  Sherlock sighs and leans back against the bench.  “You’re both too smart for your good.  He’s like you, but different.  Know what I mean?”  Sherlock’s gives John a withering look, that too makes John smile.  

 

“You two don’t get very close to people, do you?”

“Neither do you,” Sherlock says, all observation, but it doesn’t keep the words from stinging when they ring true.

John looks up and Sherlock doesn’t say anything.  

 

“I suppose that’s right.”  John murmurs, a hollow admission.  Trust Sherlock to see through the stream of friends from school, the occasional girlfriend snuck up through his bedroom window at night, the invites to parties, and straight into the heart of the issue.  John, burying himself underneath the soothing, and grating, facade of normality.

There’s something completely relieving, and then desperately painful, when it comes to halfing an identity down to its bony splinters.

John: Co-Captain of the football team, John:  Boy with the dead Mum.

Dad had thought moving far away would make it better somehow, but the illness still sits there, untouchable, and consuming.

 

Sometimes John is comforted by the straightforward trials of adolescenthood, the ease of routine.  Decent marks, making friends, losing them, a quick kiss with a pretty girl, in the broom cupboard.

 

Then, other times, he wants to shake them all, scream at them that his Mum is dead.  She’s dead, she’s dead, and she’s never coming back.  He barely remembers her smell, yesterday there was a moment he couldn’t recall the exact shape of her smile, and John wanted to latch onto the nearest body and shout it out.  She’s dead and buried, lying there under so much dirt, and a piece of John is there too.

 

The chipping gravestone, rising up from the earth like a crooked tooth.

 

“Your pot is boiling,” Sherlock points his empty spoon, and John realises he’s been staring at him.  Getting lost in the pull of Sherlock’s steady gaze like the strongest tether.  

“Yeah, hold on,” John pulls away, dumps the chocolate into the metal bowl, nestles the dome of it over the steam, and begins stirring.  

“Don’t you have to temper it, or something of that nature,” Sherlock asks, dipping his spoon into the jar of whatever it is he snatched from the pantry.

John shrugs, “Dunno, all I know is that it’s supposed to melt,” Mum never said anything about tempering.  “How the hell do you know about tempering anyway?  Is that what you get up to at night, chocolatiering?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, John finds himself drawn to the way the opalescent spheres rotate in a loop.  He looks away, stirs his chocolate, the rich colour starting to coat the sides.

 

“I do nothing of the sort,” Sherlock says dismissively.

John is about to ask precisely what he does get up to in that case, after all, he’s still curious about that Wednesday evening with the chainsaw…  but then John’s breath is evacuating his chest.

 

Sherlock is digging out an amber glob of what looks to be honey and sticking it in his mouth.  He sucks at the cup of the spoon, having turned it over to rest against his tongue, which is, thankfully, inside of his mouth.  Sherlock’s brow draws downward in contemplation just as John’s shoot up.

 

“Dutch imported,” the utensil is removed with a quiet sound, “Hm, not bad,” and back into the little pot of honey goes the spoon.

John’s cheeks burn in an unaccountable way.  He watches another helping disappear behind Sherlock’s teeth.  Sherlock sucks on his bottom lip.

 

“John--”

The word sounds thick because Sherlock hasn’t swallowed away all the honey, John watches the movement of Sherlock’s throat as he manages.  Sherlock gulps a little, an amaranth swipe of tongue licking at the corners of his mouth.

“John.”

It’s clearer this time.  Sherlock is looking away, toward the hob.

“Sherlock,” John acknowledges, clearing his throat.

“I think your chocolate is seizing,” Sherlock squints and cocks his head, “Looks dodgy.”

John glances down and sure enough, the chocolate has taken on a grainy texture and is beginning to lump together.

“Brilliant,” John bites out, taking the bowl off the saucepan. It clatters heavily against the granite countertop.  “Well, there’s that idea buggered.”  He waves a hand at Sherlock, because somehow this is definitely his fault.

 

Sherlock ignores John, looks into the bowl of over-heated chocolate, then back at the jar in his hand.  “This might smooth it out,” he digs in with the spoon, the one that had just seen the inside of his mouth, “The glucose in the honey might act as a binder, aid in reconstitution,” he brings the spoon over the bowl and begins drizzling it on top of the ruined chocolate.  It paints thick ribbons of gold over the ruined mess.  “There’s some water content in honey, I’m not sure if it will react properly with the fats in the chocolate, might cause further separation, so there is some risk.  Hmm.”  

 

John watches as Sherlock slips effortlessly into an impromptu experiment, left hand still dangling the honey spoon, right hand stirring it all together.  “Not perfect, I’ll grant you, slightly more viscous than a moment ago.  You might be able to still dip the cherries, but I doubt the coating will harden.”  Sherlock nudges closer to John in order to show him the results of the experiment.  He smiles brightly, “Applied chemistry, you see.”

 

Sherlock releases the silicone spatula stirring the chocolate.  A pale index finger swipes over the hollow of the spoon, sweeping away the remaining coat of honey clinging there.  He holds it aloft, allowing the honey to drip onto the somewhat less texturally unappealing melted chocolate.

 

“Might as well try it since you’ve gone through the trouble,” Sherlock nods toward the Opies cherries, and then slides his honey-coated finger into his mouth.

John can feel his stomach drop, his pulse thrums in his ears.  It’s the same feeling John would get when he and Harry would have spinning competitions out on the lawn.  Turning their bodies around and around, arms outstretched and their eyes on the sky.  Twirling until one of them became so discombobulated that all they could do is lie on the grass and watch the world spin into a kaleidoscope.  Sickness and delight all at once. The dizzy beat of his heart.

 

“What…” John tries, eyes fixed on the way Sherlock’s mouth purses and sucks, “What are you doing?”

 

Sherlock releases the digit with a pop and licks delicately at the rest of his fingertips, “Sticky,” he tells John, completely distracted. He grimaces, and laps once more at the pad of his thumb, it glistens with saliva.  

 

John wants to suck on Sherlock’s fingers.

 

He isn’t sure when that happened, and later this is going to be extremely confusing.  John doesn’t have a moment to spare for that consideration,  because right now John needs to press up on his toes.  He needs to watch Sherlock’s eyes go big as saucers, iridescent and so beautiful and crossing as John presses their mouths together.  

 

It’s a hard kiss. A dry, closed-mouthed thing that John barely registers before Sherlock is making a muffled sound, and using a hand to shove him off.  Alarmed at his own impulse at having more or less forced a kiss on Sherlock, John allows the hand to push him backward. Away.  John stumbles in retreat, catches himself against the bench.

God, he needs to get away, what the hell is wrong with him?

 

“I… I..” John reaches for words, any words would do.  Sherlock stares at him, like he’s forgotten how to blink, fingers cupped over his lips protectively.   “I’m so sorry, sorry, Sherlock.  I shouldn’t have done that, I..”

 

Sherlock’s fingertips trace over his bottom lip.  His perfectly full lower lip that always manages to look like it’s on the verge of a nice long pout.  John tries not to watch, tries not to lick his own lips in mimicry, and finds himself doing both.  His taste buds immediately register the lingering cloying sweetness stolen from Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“You kissed me,” Sherlock whispers, eyebrows furrowing in alarm and bewilderment.  

“I..  Yes,” because it happened.  It’s done, and there’s no denying it now.  Maybe he can talk Sherlock into forgetting the past five seconds.  Maybe John can evaporate into the atmosphere like the steam from the pot, wouldn’t that be lovely and convenient?

“Why?”

“I’m sorry,” John apologises again.  Sherlock shakes his head.

“No, it’s not..  It’s just that I haven’t.”  Sherlock keeps on staring, and John waits for the sentence to complete itself.  When Sherlock says nothing else, the realization hits John squarely in the chest.

 

“Oh my god,” John breathes out in a rush, “No one’s kissed you before.”

No one’s as much as had his mouth, and John goes and steals the first taste.  For what?  What does this mean about John?  Is he gay?  He doesn’t feel gay. Well, aside from the compulsion to pin Sherlock, for some inconceivable reason, up against a good solid surface.  He doesn’t know what he’d do after that.  

Sherlock won’t stop stroking his index finger over his lip, won’t stop staring at John.  He nods.

 

“I’m sor--” and John is going to apologise again, just keep at it until he’s blue in the face, but Sherlock is grabbing him.  Pull here, turn there, John trips and stumbles forward, and Sherlock drags him in.  Sherlock’s back is hitting the fridge and John can hear glass jars rattling inside upon impact.  

 

He doesn’t know how it happens again, who starts it, him or Sherlock.  Both, presumably, because Sherlock’s mouth is on John’s.  It’s another hard kiss, closed mouthed, and it should be chaste.  Should feel chaste, but John’s body reacts like he’s being snogged tongue and all.  Sherlock pulls back, squirms and squirms, his and John’s noses bumping, mouths open a little and panting as they come within centimeters of one another without actually connecting.

 

Sherlock is tall.  Lithe and warm and long and moving.  He scrunches his body, trying to reach John in a comfortable way, and he can’t seem to figure it out.  His efforts sets off friction between their lower bodies, and oh god the friction.  Wriggling must stop.  

 

“Here, here, let me--” John says frantically, steadying Sherlock with a hand on his chest that turns into fingers gripping shirt.  John nudges Sherlock’s legs wider by pushing his right ankle with John’s left.  John reaches, reaches up with both hands, strains comfortably on the balls of his feet and cups his palms over Sherlock’s ears.  Sherlock follows the pull, ducks his head and this time the meeting of their lips is softer, still urgent, clumsy, but lovely.  Desperate and hot and right there, Sherlock’s fingers dig into John’s hips like ten perfect claws.

John feels something soft and wet, stroking his bottom lip, dimly registers it as Sherlock’s tongue.  Sherlock makes such a noise when John licks back.  

 

The whole world is suddenly the body pressed against John’s, the smell of lavender soap filling John’s nose, and John chases the taste of honey.  Follows it from his lips, and into Sherlock’s mouth.  

 

“Like this?” Sherlock asks, breathless, tilting his head at a new angle and opening his mouth to John’s, “Is this the right way?”

“I don’t--” John touches the tips of their tongues together and shivers, “Maybe, I don’t know,” because John doesn’t know.  He’s never kissed someone like this, this way, his whole body combusting, his cells tearing themselves apart with wanting.

 

John tangles his fingers in shower damp curls, he nips at Sherlock’s jaw, bites down at the hollow of his throat and rubs his lips over the spot.  Sherlock’s body jerks and John hears him gasp.  John pulls back and looks, the bite is light and rosy pink.  John groans, moves to the other side and does it again.

 

“What are-- ah,”  Sherlock grabs the hair at the nape of John’s neck, tugs until John leans back and bares his throat, “Let me try, just to see.”  Sherlock's voice is shaking, so cut through with need that it hurts John to hear it.

 

“God, okay, yeah, yes,” John babbles as Sherlock fits a trembling palm against John’s cheek, he maps out a spot low on John’s neck and licks softly.  There’s the tickle of Sherlock’s teeth, gentle and curious, the brief sting of a bite and the feverish caress of Sherlock’s lips.  John hisses through his teeth.

 

“You liked it?” Sherlock asks, panting and seeking out John’s mouth again.  

“Yes,” John says, he usually doesn’t talk so much when kissing, but this is Sherlock.  John is accustomed to answering his random questions, and then they’re pawing at each other all over again.  John’s hand stuck underneath Sherlock’s t-shirt, rubbing frenetically, up and down against his ribs.  Sherlock’s fingernails scrape against the small of John’s back.  

 

They shouldn’t be doing this, Christ, they really shouldn’t.  John shouldn’t feel compelled to stick his fingers below the barrier of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and pet over where the swell of his arse begins.  It shouldn’t be compelling when Sherlock arches underneath the touch, presses himself against John, and John can feel Sherlock hard against his stomach.  John shouldn’t be in a similar state, one step away from rutting against Sherlock’s thigh, his hip.

 

But he wants to, it’s beyond understand how much John wants to.

Wants to push Sherlock down over the dining room table, fall into him.  Fuck him.  He’s never done that before, but they could sort it out. Sherlock’s so smart.

 

“Yes, alright,” Sherlock tells him, eyes fluttering closed and a ruddy blush rising high on his cheeks.

 

John said that out loud?  He did, oh God, John remembers now.

Sherlock said yes?

 

“I mean, no,” Sherlock amends and right, John thinks, bedroom.  Brain a blaze of hormones and the re-routing of blood.  He goes in for another kiss, because Sherlock’s mouth is just so close, and his lips are simply perfect---  but John drags his face backward, away.

No.  

No to all of it?  Or no just to..  that other thing.  Was it a withdrawal of consent?  John already stole one kiss, it isn’t a mistake he’d care to make twice in a night.

 

Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes until he feels John’s retreat, the air between them is nearly unbreathable in how tightly it pulls at John.  They stare and stare at each other, John’s fingers twitching in restraint, Sherlock’s pulse still skittering in his carotid.  

 

“John--” Sherlock starts, but then his eyes widen and dart toward the kitchen’s French doors, and those are the soles of shoes, landing against the hardwood with a tap.

 

How did they forget about bloody Mycroft?

 

Sherlock shoves John away, or John shoves Sherlock away, they’re both stumbling and turning and John manages to turn on the tap and watches the pouring water.  Sherlock is opening the fridge and squinting aimlessly at its contents when the door opens and Mycroft is upon them.

 

“Good evening John, Sherlock,” he says flatly, turning a page of a thick book.  Thankfully he doesn’t look up, merely waves his hand until it connects with a bistro chair and he pulls it out to sit.  John clears his throat and hums a greeting.  He sticks a hand under the cool water and rubs it over his forehead.  His body looks to have done most of the work to calm itself in the wake of such a different sort of adrenaline rush than the one he was in the middle of a minute ago.  John shuts off the tap, pitters about with the bowl of grainy, soupy, fucking instigatory chocolate.

 

“Sherlock, if you leave that open any longer the milk is going to warm and smell like one of your experiments.” Mycroft leans back with his book in hand, crosses his legs and looks every bit the part of an English gentleman.  “Speaking of which, one of your samples is corrupted and the trial needs repeating.”

John has no idea what they’re referencing, and maybe he can slip out without being noticed.

John watches over his shoulder as Sherlock seems to take a deep breath, the line of his shoulders lift and fall as he shuts the door.  

 

“Stay out of my things, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighs, and turns around.

Aside from his hair being mussed from where John’s fingers found their way into it, Sherlock looks passable.  Skin not as pale as usual, but that could be from anything.

 

“Well, I’m off to bed,” John announces, hoping it sounds unceremonious.  Hoping Mycroft won’t hear instead, “I’m off to bed to reevaluate my sexuality and possibly to have a very confused wank thinking about your little brother’s hip bones.”

 

Mycroft does look up, briefly, “Yes, I’m sure you’re quite exhausted.”

John watches the man.  Is Mycroft saying one thing, and meaning another?  It’s hard to tell with Holmeses.  Mycroft glances up again and sees John trying to figure it out.  Mycroft lays the book in his lap.

 

“John, did you strike your head when you fell into that pond?”

“No,” John says, “No, I’m fine.”

“Then are you experiencing a petit mal seizure?  I only ask because I’m not sure if I should be concerned or complimented.”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring.”

 

Oh, yeah, that is probably weird and John definitely needs to leave the room.

 

“I’m sure John’s quite fine,” Sherlock intercedes, tossing a tangerine at Mycroft’s head but Mycroft lifts a graceful hand and snags it from the air without looking.  Sherlock frowns in disappointment, John inches toward the door, Sherlock follows.

 

John is nearly out when Mycroft suddenly has Sherlock by a wrist.  Sherlock twists himself, tries to wrench the limb away.  None of it works, and Sherlock goes still.  His lips purse, eyes cast themselves upward and he shakes his head.  The last thing John sees is Mycroft plucking something off Sherlock’s collar, holding it up, pinned between a thumb and forefinger.

 

“I would advise against that, brother mine,” Mycroft says, cool as an autumn breeze.  

 

John walks quickly, and as inconspicuously as possible, up the stairs.  

 

Should he go to his room?  Wait in Sherlock’s?  They need to talk about this, they can’t… this.  

They’re brothers, sort of, not really.  

Not really at all in fact, by marriage, but what’s that?  A piece of paper.  It isn’t John and Sherlock and their same blood.  

 

That’s a dangerous way to think.  Possibilities whisper in the back of John’s mind, seductive and unheedful to all of the inevitable complications they would spur.

 

John goes to Sherlock’s room, paces in a nervous circuit.

Bed. Window. Bookcase.  

Bed. Window. Bookcase.

His heart, a wild thing ricocheting off the bones that house it.  

 

John grips the headboard to the bed, hunches over and takes a lovely moment to hyperventilate as his mind turns the scene in the kitchen over and over.  

 

Someone clearing their throat:  Sherlock.  John looks up from where he’s hanging onto the bed for dear life, and quickly lets go.  Considering the position they were in a few minutes ago, probably not the wisest place to have a conversation.

 

“Sherlock, I need to--”

But Sherlock holds up a hand and sighs “There’s no need to apologise.”

“Apologise?”  John asks, confused.  He wasn’t going to do that.

“We’re both exhausted from the events earlier today.  You were feeling grateful for me saving your life,”

“I--” John shakes his head, wait, wait.

“You could have potentially died, that sort of thing tends to set off overcompensatory reactions.”

John stares at Sherlock, his face an impenetrable mask.  He looks like Mycroft.

“Your brother,” John sighs, “Your bloody brother.”

“Mycroft has nothing to do with..  what that was,” Sherlock finishes clumsily.

“So when I had my tongue in your mouth, that was just me being thankful,” John’s voice is sarcastic, and surprisingly bitter even to his own ears.

Sherlock eyes go a little dark, his cheeks redden and he steps backward.  “Obviously”

“Obviously,” John echoes, something gone hollow inside the word itself.  “And what were you feeling, then?”

 

Sherlock’s gaze shifts about, a muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Bored.”

 

John laughs, a fake, bark of a laugh, and he looks over again to Sherlock.  Blue green eyes burrow into John, pleading with him.

 

Sherlock is giving him an out.  Asking John to drop it.  

Something is caught in the back of John’s throat, burning, and alive, and tasting like honey.  He swallows it down.

 

John’s shoulders slump.  It’s better this way, Sherlock is right.  This could only get bolloxed and complicated, he and Sherlock were only just becoming friends.  Dad would…  God.  Dad.  The thought makes John shudder inwardly.

 

“Yeah.  Okay, yeah.”  John relents, hands coming up to fold protectively across his chest.  

 

“Good, business as usual, then.”  Sherlock moves from his post in front of the door and nods toward it.  

 

John goes, tries not to pause when his steps line him up alongside Sherlock, and the door shuts as soon as he’s clear from it.

 

Back in his room, lying on his bed, John curls in on himself.  The bite of frost still lingering in his bones.

 

---

 

Chapter Text

 

So many high fives to christyimnotred for sorting through my drivel!

 

 

---

 

 

“You’re going to need to raise that percentage,” Dad glances over John’s shoulder, down at the stapled bit of paper littered with red marks.  “I thought Sherlock was tutoring you.”

 

John’s grip on his pencil tightens, “Yeah, it wasn’t working out.”

It’s a lie.  Sherlock’s detailed notes plotted out in the margins, penmanship legible like it never is, it makes all the difference in grading qualifications.  

 

“Ah,” is Dad’s unsurprised answer, a world of implication behind a single syllable non-word.  

“It wasn’t because of him,” John blurts out.  “That isn’t why…  It wasn’t him.”  John had stopped giving Sherlock his notebook on Wednesdays, Sherlock doesn’t go into John’s room anymore, through his things, ever since…  “I get distracted is all.”

 

Dad looks at him, unconvinced.  Where John, Harry, and Violet are comfortable and friendly, Dad and Sherlock barely seem to acknowledge one another’s presence.  Their interactions are never rude, but they’re uncomfortable to watch unfold nonetheless.  They treat each other like awkward acquaintances.

“How was your day, Sherlock?”

“Quite all right, thank you.  Yours?”

“All right as well.”

 

Somehow it’s more worrisome watching their delicate tip-toeing. John, at times, wishes for Sherlock’s rude deductions to spur on something.  Make Dad react in some way, any way at all.  Break through whatever it is that separates the father John knew before Mum fell ill, from the stoic father John knows now.  The one that still looks at John so sadly, seeing only his dead wife.  

 

Dad pushes away from the dining room table where John sits grimacing at his marked up chemistry work.  “I’ll put on the kettle, make you something to eat.  Looks like you might be at that for a minute.”

 

“Ta,” John mumbles, flips the sheet of paper helplessly.  Maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll magically understand.  That’s what Sherlock does, stares into space, plucking the answers out of thin air.

Keys scraping into the lock of the front door; speak of the devil.  John doesn’t look up, fights the urge to glance backward over his shoulder and watch Sherlock slip through.  The hinges complain and the handle of the door bounces off the wall as it’s thrown open.  Sherlock doesn’t shut it.

 

“Tea, Sherlock?”  Dad calls out from the kitchen.  

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, which isn’t necessarily odd, so John keeps squinting at the numbers, the words that don’t make sense no matter how hard John looks. Sherlock’s feet on the stairs, up, one, two, and then John’s ears are perking up because he can hear Sherlock’s inhale hissing between his teeth.  A shaking breath, and then feet up the stairs as fast as they can go.  The gait of the footfalls sound uneven, one side being favoured over the other.  

 

John turns around, somehow unsettled,  but Sherlock has already rounded the landing, through his bedroom door, closing himself off behind it.

 

“Guess that’s a no, then,” Dad says to himself.  “Sugar, no milk, right?”

“Just milk,” John replies, a reflex, he cranes his neck toward the staircase.  It doesn’t matter, Sherlock is already barricaded from his sight, John tries all the same.  He looks back down to his work.  This is ridiculous, he should go up, ask for help.  No harm in that, what would Sherlock do?  Shut the door in his face?  That’s happened plenty of times, once more won’t make a difference.  He’ll go up.  Just to check.  It’s stupid anyways, shuffling around each other.  John will sit in the comfy chair while Sherlock sprawls over his bed and outlines procedures in John’s notebook.  John will not stare at the nape of his neck, because John is not gay, nor would he be interested even if he was.  John won’t look. John isn’t allowed.  

 

John, under no circumstances, will imagine what it might be like to have Sherlock’s long legs wrapped around his waist.

Oh God.

 

Business as usual.

 

They kissed, it happens.  They had been cooped up with the storm, it had been a strange day, there’s a million explanations why John can’t stop fucking thinking about the colour Sherlock flushes when his throat is nipped at.

 

They both agreed never to speak about it again.  Not in so many words, but that was obviously the solution.

 

Dad walks in with the mug, John snatches it out of his hand.  “Yeah, thanks.  I need to do.. “ Steaming liquid slops over the side and onto his thumb.  Burns.  “Stuff.”

 

“Well, as long as that’s clear,” Dad sighs and settles down at the table with a Consumer Report magazine.  John gathers up his schoolwork and heads toward the staircase, up to Sherlock’s room.

It feels like that night, the first dinner, when John went upstairs to give Sherlock a plate of pad thai, he stood at the door and wondered if he should knock.

John wonders the same thing right now.  They had taken to barging in on each other, or leaving their doors open a crack so permission was assumed, then it wasn’t rude to push through.  

John didn’t realise how comfortable they had become with occupying one another’s space.  Sherlock scratching at the papers, John reading Sherlock’s books on poison classifications, the ease of silence settling like a conversation in itself.

 

John knocks softly, and Sherlock says nothing at all.

 

John twists the door handle, opens it a crack, “Sherlock.”

“Get out.”

He pushes the door open anyway, bugger it, he isn’t walking on eggshells until he goes off to uni.

“Do you not comprehend English?” Sherlock says tersely, whirling around to face his wardrobe and away from John.

“I could ask you the same thing, sometimes,” John replies, hoping it sounds joking and casual.  “I could use a bit of uh..” Sherlock doesn’t turn around,  stares at his wardrobe and shrugs up inside of his coat. “Umm. Help.  You all right?”

“Fine, now go away.”

This is getting ridiculous, Sherlock won’t even look at him now?  

“Sherlock, I get it, okay?  You’re mad, or whatever, I don’t know.  What happened, last month, that was.. odd.  And now everything is all weird, and I told you I was sorry, and could you actually look at me because I feel like I’m talking to a wall.”

“Are you finished?” Sherlock asks, his voice flat.

John throws his hands in the air, “Are you going to turn around and have this conversation with me?”

Sherlock continues on with studying the wardrobe.  Well, that’s just fine.

John stalks over to where Sherlock stands motionless, “Right, well, I’ll just come to you then, shall I?  Really, this is chil--” John grabs a shoulder to spin him around but Sherlock cries out.  A short, hoarse sound that immediately has John unhanding him.  

“Sherlock.  Look at me.”

Sherlock tilts his chin down and turns away.

“Right now, or I’ll go find you mum.”  It’s a stupid threat, but John watches Sherlock tense all the same.  John reaches two fingers out, slips them under Sherlock’s chin.  There’s something sticky, just there, and John’s fingers come away red.  

 

John feels sick.  Something twists, uncurls, only to wrench terribly deep within his stomach.

 

“Look at me, please,” he stares at the smear of blood on his fingers, blood that definitely isn’t John’s own.  Sherlock takes a deep breath, then another, he straightens up and faces John.

“Sherlock.”

Oh fuck.

Bruises everywhere.  John immediately takes inventory of the damage he can see.  A busted blood vessel in his left eye, the shiner already turning brilliant shades of violet and crimson.  Blood from his ear matted up in his hair, Sherlock’s hair is so dark.  John only knows it’s there because that patch of curl is wet when it shouldn’t be.  The corner of his bottom lip split open and the cut still wells up when Sherlock purses his mouth pridefully.  A cheek abraded, bits of dirt caked into it where… God, someone held his face down.  Held him still, and ground him down until the grit cut him.

 

“Lenny,” John says, the muscles in his arms twitch, fists clenched up tight.  He remembers the day he found Sherlock in that stairwell, Lenny’s promise to “continue their conversation.”  He had figured it was an idle threat, that was at the beginning of the new bloody term!  Sherlock gets into tussles with disturbing regularity, but nothing like this, he never looks like this afterward.   Not since that first day when John found him in the stairwell.  Sherlock is quick and clever and has doled out his own fair share of busted noses.  When his presence in the school was still new, his severe brand of intelligence and strangeness made him an easy target for bullies, and they quickly learned he was not weak or helpless.

But there is only so much one can do when cornered by Upton’s group, aside from curling up and trying to protect your head.  John, very much, wants nothing more to tear the bastard limb from limb.

 

“Well, you’ve seen.  Now go away.”

“I’m going to kill him,” John reaches toward Sherlock’s shirt.  Needs to pull it up, needs to see where else he’s bleeding, where exactly each bruise is painted so John can deliver them to Lenny in a similar fashion.  Sherlock evades his touch, he favours his right ankle, careful not to put much pressure on it.  “We need to tell your Mum, this can’t…  This isn’t…  You need to go to a clinic.  Have them look at you.  The police, something.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, big blotch of red nearly touching the iris.  John watches it and seethes.  “Don’t be tedious.  I’m capable of handling this on my own.”

“You are not, you’re black and blue, God, you idiot!  You arse, how is this possibly okay?  What are you planning on telling your Mum?  You tripped and fell off a bloody mountain, what?”

“I’ll think of something, no need to exacerbate the problem by involving her,” Sherlock says nervously.  Eyes John like he’s about to dart out the door, screaming to the top of his lungs about the banged up lump of meat that is Violet’s son.

“Right.  Get on the bed and wait there.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow shoots up, the swatch of purple inching up onto his forehead.

“I have a kit.   I’m going to fetch it and some ice from downstairs, and we’re going to clean you up.  We’ll figure it out from there.”

Sherlock’s eyes slide over to the bed, then warily back to John.

“I’m going to do this,” John states, matter of factly, because there’s no room for brokering.  He takes Sherlock by the arm, ducks and slips it over his shoulder.  “Lean on me, I’ll help you over.”  

 

Slowly, Sherlock presses against John’s side, fingers curling and grasping into his sleeve.  John can smell the metallic tang of his blood, sweat, and dirt, and John has to breathe deeply.  Count to three, until the anger calms.  That won’t help right now.  Maybe later.  Tomorrow, between classes, it’ll help then.

 

They make it across the room, the ankle must not be broken because it has some range of motion. No doubt that it’s nasty sprain by the way Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose.  The bike ride home must have been excruciating.  John helps Sherlock sit at the edge of the bed, begins gathering pillows.

 

“Lie down, you need to prop up that ankle.”

“Is that really necessary,” Sherlock’s words are saturated with impatience, and it doesn’t bother John in the least.  

“I don’t know.  Is it?  Where’s your mobile, we can call your mum and ask her.”

“Blackmail?  Hardly noble, John,” but Sherlock eases backward onto the mattress, props a knee up and begins undoing the laces of his shoes.  John reaches to help with the other foot and Sherlock shoots him a dangerous look until John relents.

 

“S’not blackmail.  You have to tell her.  Either now or later.”

Sherlock says nothing by way of response, simply lifting the affected foot into the air while John stuffs pillows underneath it.  

“Back in a minute,” and John sprints downstairs.  Dad has cleared out from the dining area, John can hear the telly blaring from across the house.  

 

Bag of ice in hand, damp flannels, John races back up to his room to retrieve his first aid kit.  Harry had bought it as a gag gift for Christmas, that and a can of beans.  The kit came stuffed full of betadine swabs, pads of alcohol, gauze, ointment, a shiny pair of tweezers.  It was the best gift he received.  With a madman living down the hall setting fire to the drapes, one can’t be too careful.  

 

John shuts the door behind him when he re-enters Sherlock’s room, he walks over to bed and sets his things down atop the bedside table.  

 

“Take off your shirt, your vest.  Take it off, let me see.”

“Playing doctor again, are we,” and it would have sounded like a flirtatious line if it weren’t for the contempt.  “I believe this is how we met, actually, mh?  I’m sure you remember, John.  You were clumsy and fell on top of me, always so keen to help but really you just makes things worse.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.  That’s not going to work,” John ignores the barb, Sherlock’s first defense always seems to go for the jugular when he’s upset.

“Running out on the ice like an idiot to save your precious dog.  That stunt nearly got both of you killed, excellent work.”

“Do you need help taking your shirt off?  Because this is already awkward enough. I can strip you if that’s what you’re aiming for.”

“This complex goes all the way back though, doesn’t it?  Started with your mother, am I right?”

John’s fingers dig into the wet flannel.  Water drips softly onto the bed.  Sherlock smirks, the freshly clotted blood on his lip is drawn open and John watches it well up and spill anew.

“Stop.”

“I’m sure you thought you were helping.  Tending to mummy, assisting poor father at night when everyone had gone to sleep.  How much help can a child really be until they’re simply slowing you down.  It must have been so tiresome, having to explain everything.  Especially to one as dull--”

John’s hands shoot out, fingers digging into Sherlock’s collar, “Don’t,” John’s voice falters for a split second before he recovers.  “Just.  Just don’t.”   

 

They stare at each other, Sherlock’s eyes hard and nearly translucent, challenging John to hit him. Punch him, something.  John’s fingers loosen around  the bloodied collar, palms travel flatly down Sherlock’s chest and slip under the knit material of the sleeveless uniform jumper.  He begins rucking it up, inching it toward Sherlock’s shoulders, under his chin.  Sherlock’ mouth falls open a little, and he leans forward, allowing John to tug the thing over his head.

“What are you doing,” he asks when John works to loosen the navy and yellow striped tie.

“What’s it look like,” buttons next, John flicks them open.

“John--”

“Shut up, if you can’t tell me anything helpful, then just shut the fuck up.”  John pushes the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders.  Ignores the hurt flaring in his chest, lemon juice into a paper cut, Sherlock with his finger on a trigger.  The dimming sunlight filters through the window and turns Sherlock all kinds of shades, all of them horrible.  All of them beautiful.

 

“Why are you still here?” Sherlock pulls off his vest, studies John’s face when he winces sympathetically at the mess of contusions on Sherlock’s ribs.  John makes him lean forward, it’s even worse on his back.  The ratio of milky white to bruise purple is not at all in Sherlock’s favour.  John’s palms run down the long plane of heated skin of Sherlock’s ribs.  

“I can’t tell if any are broken or not, what do you think?”

“You’re still here,” Sherlock repeats, grabbing John by the wrist and bringing it up between them, “Why?”

“You look like you went four rounds with a grizzly bear.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

 

John shakes his head and Sherlock lets him go.  He  wraps the bag of ice in a flannel and sets it over Sherlock’s swollen ankle.  

 

“I  hate you,” John says.  Even though it’s not true, John wants it to be.

“Most people do.”  

 

“Doesn’t mean I like them touching you,” John clears his throat and dabs at the blood on Sherlock’s lip, “I mean, hurting you.  Whatever.”

“After what I just said to you, and you can’t consider for a moment that I might have earned every bit of this,” Sherlock gestures toward his raised foot.

“I don’t doubt you went off at the mouth, but I also don’t think pinning you down in the dirt and kicking you senseless is the proper way to get back a bit of your own.”

“I wasn’t aware there were other methods,” Sherlock says, his voice sounds distracted, and when John looks down to meet his eyes, Sherlock’s gaze is fixed on John’s lips.  John licks at them self-consciously, and Sherlock is quick to turn his head away.  John uses a q-tip to smear antibacterial ointment over the split of Sherlock's lip.

“I don’t always understand you,” Sherlock says, accusatory.  Like John is being so, so, terribly unfair.

“That must have been hard for you to admit,” John replies, fighting off a smile at the petulance in Sherlock’s voice.

“I want to though.  Sometimes, I do.  It shouldn’t matter, but I want to understand anyway.”  Sherlock tells him.  Said as a simple statement, completely uncomprehending of how it sends a burst of warmth through John’s body.

 

Sherlock doesn’t care to understand modern monarchy, or heliocentrism, or where his Mum keeps the bloody laundry starch, but finds John and his ordinariness worth the effort.

How is that Sherlock can bring John to the brink of madness only to topple him over into something far more dangerous.  

 

“Stop talking now, need to clean the dirt out,” and John’s voice comes out a bit rougher than he should like.  Sherlock’s brow twitches at the burn of alcohol over the abrasions on his cheek.  It goes on for a long time; the silence, plasters being laid down over cuts, the hitch in Sherlock’s breath when John smoothes the blood matted curls from his ear.  John wraps Sherlock’s ankle in a  brace he’d stashed away from an old football injury.

“We did this in the wrong order, you ought to have showered first.  All the plasters are going to fall off.”

“I’ll put them back on.”

John arches a sceptic brow, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I will.  I’ll re-apply the ointment and everything. Stop that.”  Sherlock’s fingers reach out, three of them pressing at John’s mouth.  “You push your lips out when you’re thinking too hard.”

 

John takes a moment to adjust to the pressure of Sherlock’s hand, huffs a breath of air through his nose and backs away.  Sherlock flutters his fingers in the air and sets them in his lap.

 

“You really do have to tell your Mum.  She’s going to go mental when she sees you.”

Sherlock shrugs, winces as he tries to settle onto his side.  Tilted eyes shutter closed and he goes still, a thought occurs to John.

“Did you get kicked in the head, hit, anything?”

“I’m not concussed.”

“Would you know if you were?”

“So wake me in an hour to make sure I haven’t inconveniently gone comatose.”

“Don’t say that,” John reaches out in an instant, slides both of his hands in Sherlock’s hair to perform a compulsory check for swelling.  Sherlock sighs and leans into the touch.  There’s a bit of a bump just above his left ear, John’s thumb strokes over it lightly.  

“Just a little lump I think.”

“Mh,” is Sherlock’s answer.  His breathing evens out, mouth falling slack.

Slowly, John untangles his fingers from Sherlock’s curls and begins to pull away from his bedside.  Sherlock’s hand moves abruptly, snatching John by the wrist and pulling him back in.  His eyes are open, tinged red and disoriented from sleep interrupted.

 

“I didn’t mean it,” he says softly, “those things I said.  About you, about your mother.”

John swallows, pats the top of Sherlock’s hand, rubs over his bony knuckles, “Yeah.”

Sherlock tugs at him, slides his grip up John’s forearm until John’s fingers are twined through his hair again.  Sherlock snuffles down into the pillow, knees draw up and he hugs them.  The soft snores return.  John doesn’t move for a very long time.

 

---

 

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t go to school in the morning, which is for the best.  John snuck back into Sherlock’s room last night after everyone had gone to bed.   He sat in the tall back chair and dosed, awaking periodically to rouse Sherlock, check his pupils.  Sherlock would complain, John would insist.

 

At some point Sherlock must have limped off to the loo to bathe while John slept, true to his word all the plasters were replaced, ointment shiny where he has smeared it back on.  It glinted in the lamplight when John finally woke up to the sight of Sherlock curled under his duvet.  

 

Sherlock is still asleep when John leaves the house.  Per usual Violet and Dad are the first people out the door, headed to the university to prepare for early morning lectures, to share a cup of coffee and breakfast in the cafeteria.  Sherlock promised to tell his mother, that he would speak to her after she returned from work.  She never came up last night, not even a knock on the door.  When Sherlock shuts himself off inside of his room, he might as well be on an entirely different continent.  She doesn’t disturb him at all.

 

John lets Sherlock sleep, he’ll wake up aching and stiff.  He leaves Paracetamol and a glass of water on the bedside table.  Feels familiar, like muscle memory, taking care of someone who needs it.  Then John looks over Sherlock’s black eye and cut lip and is sick all over again.

 

He stuffs his football kit into the school bag, his scattered books, reaches for the marked up chemistry work he never corrected.

Lined notebook paper is pushed up between the the stapled pages, Sherlock’s handwriting detailing each equation, sarcastic notes scribbled in the margins.  

“We’ve been over this before.  The Law of Multiple Proportions is not up for debate.  John Dalton would roll over in his grave if he saw this solution.”

“Penny could balance an equation better than this.  And she consumes cat feces on a regular basis.  Fascinating..”

 

Then the more unrelated, “This is boring.”

And the inexplicable, “You talk in your sleep,” written in small letters, just underneath an exothermic reaction.  John looks over at Sherlock and thinks of combustion.  Imagines nebulae and explosions and one hundred burning hot suns.  Comets striking earth and leaving nothing behind.

 

---

 

John waits patiently through morning classes, through lunch break where Samantha Branch declares she’s broken up with whomever and what does John think about that, through endless minutes waiting against the wall in the overgrown courtyard.  Lenny takes his cigarettes there because no one likes that courtyard with all the brambles.  It’s where the custodians leave the damp butts of their own cigarettes.  They dump the filthy mop water in the corner where stones turn slippery and green with moss.  John waits and waits, righteous anger pushing underneath his skin, bright and furious and utterly calm.

 

The aluminium door is pushed open and Lenny is there, cigarette in hand, waiting to be lit.  John goes to meet him.

“Watson!  Fancy a cig--”

John grabs Lenny’s extending hand, pulls his arm until it’s twisted up behind his back and pushes a pasty white and freckled cheek roughly against the brick wall. Lenny’s fingers twitch when the breath is knocked out of him, the cigarette falls soundlessly to the ground and rolls away.

 

“I guess you’re not here for a smoke,” Lenny coughs.

“You guess right,” John replies, adjusting his feet and shoving his forearm across Lenny’s shoulders to keep him still.  “But now that I have your attention there’s a matter we need to discuss.”

“Oh?” Lenny struggles to turn around, to clip John with an elbow, but what he has in height and strength, John makes up for in simple anatomical knowledge.  He pulls at Lenny’s arm and it wrenches at an awkward angle.  Lenny swears and tries to move again, John tightens his grip, “I could dislocate your shoulder like this, doubt your right hook would be much help then.  So, either you can stay and have a chat, or we can see how far this arm can twist, hm?”

 

Lenny snorts, tries to shove backward, only to give a pained howl when John gives another tug on the captive arm.  

 

“Fine, fine! What the hell is wrong with you!”

“You, or any of your boys, as much as look at Sherlock the wrong way--”

“Oh my god, this is about him?  I know your dad fucks his mum but--” John pulls Lenny away from the wall where his cheek is pressed and shoves him roughly back into it.  “Agh, fuck fuck, okay!”

“You don’t touch him.  None of you go near him.  Everyone is so careful not to piss you off, but I know what kind of person you are.  You’re just a bully, you target people who are alone and different, you’re nothing but a cowardly shit.”  Lenny jerks, wrenching his own arm in the process.  John rolls his eyes as he whimpers pathetically and sags against the wall.

 

“I’ll let you go now, have a good long think about whether or not you want muck about with Sherlock, again.  Sherlock might not be one to tattle, but I’ve grown up with sister and have absolutely no problem going to the headteacher.  Or the police.  I’m sure they’d be interested in the bottle of pills in your trouser pocket.”  John nudges a knee up, hears the rattle inside of the cylindrical bottle hidden there.  Lenny’s drug habit, one of the first deductions John had heard Sherlock make.  “All right?”  John asks.  Lenny doesn’t answer right away so John pulls a bit at the the shoulder.  “All right?”

 

“All right!  Fuck, let me go now!”

 

John pushes backward, steps away while Lenny winces and rubs at his shoulder.  He rolls it once, curses some more, stoops over to retrieve his cigarette.  His fingers are shaking and it takes him three tries to light the thing.  The smell of burning nicotine begins saturating the little courtyard.  John stares for a moment, birds titter and land on a delapidated bench, they peck at the soggy wood and fly away.

 

“See you around, mate,” John says pleasantly, smiles and it’s insincere.  He slings his satchel over his shoulder and turns to leave.

 

“Sherlock was right though, you know,” Lenny calls out as John walks toward the door.  John doesn’t look back.  “That day in the staircase when we had him, said I liked watching him get bloodied up.  That I got off on it.”

 

John’s feet stop moving, fingers begin clenching into the strap of his bag.  He ought to keep walking, push through the door and be the one to leave the situation.  But his feet are in disaccord with his rationality and John stays glued to the spot.  Lenny chuckles.

 

“He ought to stop poking his nose in other people’s business, tell him that, would you?  Might not like what he finds.  Hate for something to happen to him when his guard dog isn’t watching.”

 

John turns, says coolly, “Is that a threat?”  It is, obviously it is.

Lenny shrugs, takes a drag off his cigarette.  He throws it to the ground and crushes it with a toe.  “People should know their place, is all.”

 

“They really should,” John agrees, voice gone low with implied warning.  He turns to walk away.

 

“Freak’s a pretty one though, innit?  Especially with a little blood on his lip.”

John grits his teeth and forces himself to keep toward the door.  

“Tried to get him on his knees, but he just won’t shut up will he?  Guess he wasn’t keen.  Too many people there, performance anxiety, I get it.”

 

John stops, his whole body flickers down for a brief moment before the surge of adrenaline begins flooding his veins.  He lets his bag slip off his shoulder, it lands on the cement with a dull sound.  He turns around to face Lenny who only smiles, his teeth stained yellow with tar.  

 

“He makes the most amazing sounds when he’s being hit.  When he’s hurt.  You know?  Like he’s being fucked.  Oh, and I’ve been meaning to tell you, might want to have your baby sister cut back on the drinks at the next party she’s at.  Anyone could slip something in.  How is she, by the way?”

 

John sees red.  One minute his feet are on the floor, the next second he’s straddled Lenny’s stomach, knocked him over with an elbow in his solar plexus.  John’s fist rears back again and again and again and there’s blood on his knuckles.  All that’s left is the fury, hot and uncaring.  John thinks about Harry, about Sherlock lying curled in bed, about Mum’s funeral where strangers stood and wept and knew nothing at all of the woman in the casket and how much John loved her.  

The anger sweeps in, a flood, a vein being opened and spilling all over.

Lenny makes a gurgling sound and John keeps punching, snarls and shouts incoherent words.  One of Lenny’s fists clips John in the eye, knocks him back for a moment. The pain doesn’t even register and he’s scrambling to get back over to Lenny.

 

Someone drags him away, people shouting his name, screaming at him to stop.  He lunges out from the pull and reaches back for Lenny who screams at whoever will listen, telling them to get John away from him. They have to pry John’s fingers from where he’s gripped Lenny’s collar.

 

“Watson!  Let him go!”  

 

A strong pair of arms circle around John’s waist, hold him in some semblance of a hug, but it’s too tight.  John struggles but is ultimately wrenched backward.

 

“God, God, what’s gotten into you!”  The voice of his football trainer.  John twitches, his fists still clenched.  Still red with Lenny’s blood, warm and disgusting, his stomach turns and he wipes the stuff off on his trousers.  Another teacher kneels next to Lenny who points at John and screams things John could absolutely care less about.  The teacher pats Lenny down, checking for injury, fingers slip into his back pocket and pull out the bottle of prescription medicine.

 

“Fucking hell, Watson, please tell me this has nothing to do with drugs.”.

“No,” John says immediately, seething and panting as Lenny makes excuses and bleeds. Fat lipped, swollen and just hideous all around, from the inside out.

 

“What then?”

John watches the cesspool of a human being leaking all over the concrete, remembers his words, the threats, the implications.

 

“It was just a fight,” John shakes his head and is treated with a sceptical look.  “Lost my temper.”

 

Coach sighs and tugs John to his feet.  They stop in the bathroom on the way to the headteacher.  John dips his hands under the tap and looks in the mirror.  His hair sticks up in a hundred different places, his eyes still dark and feral, the left one swollen hot with a bruise.  

He spreads his fingers under the cool water.  The blood swirls around the sink before washing down the drain, and John isn’t sorry at all.

 

 

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

So many thanks to christyimnotred for picking through this one.  Work called and I sent it without even reading over once.

Also, I couldn't get shootbadcabbie's long socked teenlock out of my head..and..well, you'll see.

---

 

Dad picks John up from school and says nothing.  The car ride home, they stop for petrol, Dad says nothing.   John presses his bruised eye against the window, the glass cools and soothes the ache before adjusting to the same temperature.  He’s been suspended for two days, is on probation, it honestly could have been worse.  John’s only saving grace was that the entire school staff is aware of Lenny’s provocative tendencies, and John had no record of misconduct leading up to the fight.  Unfortunately the suspension spans the weekend, so there will be a total of four days in which John can sit under the thumb of obligatory punishment.

 

He still won’t apologise.

 

They pull onto the gravel and Dad shuts off the car.  John waits for some cue to tell him if they’re going to have the “talk” here or if he should go inside and wait there.  Dad looks straight ahead, lips pursed and shoulders tense, he sighs and gets out of the car.  John watches him walk inside before following.  

 

“Sit,” Dad says when John enters into the dining room.  John does so, obediently.  He wonders if Sherlock is still sleeping upstairs, warm and soft in his bed.  John hopes so.  Violet must be in here, somewhere, her classes end early on Fridays.  Sherlock has had hours, he must have explained his own bumps and bruises by now.  Harry won’t be home for hours, John really needs to talk to her, warn her, interrogate her, just in case.

 

“What happened,” Dad says, voice flat and cold.  He stands in the corner, arms folded across his chest.

 

“He deserved it, I’d do it again,” John blurts out, immediately defensive.

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

John clenches his teeth and looks at the wall.

“What were you thinking, Johnny?  I thought you were smarter than that, if you have a problem with someone you don’t solve it by--”

“Oh christ, you don’t understand,” John rubs his palm across his forehead, through his hair.

“What is there to understand?  You acted like a bloody ape, got yourself suspended, that stays in your transcript I hope you realise.”

“It’s one stupid fight, I doubt--”

“You need to learn how to control your temper, I thought after we…”  Dad pauses and takes a deep breath.  “You seemed to get better after we moved.”  

 

John thinks back, when Mum was sick but still alive, after she died and the year before they moved to the Glades.  There were fights, brawls, nothing serious.  Teachers had called Dad, John listened in on the bedroom phone, covered the speaker so they couldn’t hear him breathing.  Words like, “angry” and “instigatory,” “unresolved emotional trauma,” bleeding through the line.  

 

“This isn’t acceptable, it just isn’t.  Your mother would be so disappointed in this behaviour.”

 

John coughs, chokes on his own saliva, slams his hands down on top of the table “You think so?  You think that makes me feel guilty?  Sorry?  Mum’s dead, she isn’t here and she doesn’t care, and it doesn’t even matter!”

 

Violet pushes through the door right at that moment, her pretty smile extended across her face only to fade when she glances down to John and his black eye.

 

“Oh dear, John, what happened?”

 

Dad looks at John, his eyes hard and unreachable, before looking at Violet, “He started a fight at school, got himself suspended.”

 

Violet’s eyebrows shoot up and she shakes her head, “I don’t know what’s gotten into these boys, is there something in the water?”  She sighs and shrugs.  “Sherlock is a walking bruise, I expect it from him, though.”

 

John pushes his chair back, unable to sit any longer.  “Wait.  Did he..”  John squeezes his eyes shut and starts over, “You saw him, and he explained to you what happened?”

 

“Had a bit of a fight with a few boys, but that’s not the first time that’s happened.  He’s been expelled from a school for that once before, not something I would aspire to, John.”  Her tone advisory, careful not to overstep the invisible disciplinary boundary of a parent.  That part, John doesn’t care about, the part where Violet dismisses the injuries of her son, yes, that.  John cares about that.

 

“Bit of a..  They pinned him to the ground, held him down, kicked him in the ribs, made him bleed, and you think that’s just a bit of fight?  That’s how I met him, you know.  They had him cornered in a stairwell, about to bring a book down over his head.  Yeah, just innocent fun, that.”  John’s voice escalates and both Dad and Violet look at him, stunned.  “Sherlock can be a prat, but he doesn’t deserve to be beaten for it! God, what the hell is wrong with you?”  He turns to Violet and yells it at her, her mouth goes agape and John can hear Dad trying to shout over him.  “You want to know why I went after Lenny?  It was him that day in the stairwell, by the way, if you’re even interested.  If you care.  If you had heard the things Lenny said…  What they tried..”

 

John stops and breathes, no one moves.  They stare at him like John has completely disappeared, evaporated into nothingness, and left in his place is a snarling animal.  He can’t tell if they’re horrified by his outburst, or by the words themselves, maybe both.  Hopefully both.

 

“Sure, I lost it.  But I was defending Sherlock, I was.  Someone ought to.  Have you even tried to talk to him? Really, talk to him?  Try to understand him?  Because he’s brilliant, and ridiculous, and he’s worth the trouble of trying to understand.  Is it that you’ve tried, or that you just can’t be arsed to listen?”

 

“This isn’t about Sherlock--” Dad tries to cut in, but John won’t have it.

 

“Lenny is a bully, but you are too, you know.  You’re just more quiet about it.  Sometimes you act like he doesn’t even exist and that’s worse.  He tries to impress you, wants to make you happy because you’re his Mum.  I can tell, I remember what it's like.  My mum would have loved Sherlock, she wouldn’t have ignored him just because he didn’t fit some weird definition of normal.  Lenny deserved that bloody nose.  I’ll do whatever the punishment is, but don’t expect me to apologise.”

 

John looks at Violet, she sniffles and wipes at her face, and John can’t find it within himself to be moved by her tears.  Dad’s mouth opens and shuts like a fish out of water, looking for words and unable to find them.

 

“Go to your room,” he says after a long time.  

 

John gives a choked laugh, more than ready to leave this room and its hypocrisy behind him.  He steps outside of the archway of the dining room and turns toward the stairs.  Sherlock is right there, matching black eye and his scabbed up lip.  They regard each other, unmoving.  Sherlock’s face completely blank.  John is suddenly very tired.  He walks up the stairs without a word, Sherlock trailing behind him, still limping.  John opens the door, Sherlock shuts it after he’s through.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?”  Sherlock hisses.

John rolls his eyes, “Oh god, not you too.”

“You know how I dislike repeating myself.  What do you think you’re doing?”

“It doesn’t matter!  God, don’t you understand?”  John wants to yell at him, but everyone would hear. Instead, the argument dissolves into whispers that have all the force of a shout but without the decibel value.

“Understand your ability to mind your own business--,” Sherlock advances on him.  The outline of his bruises are yellowing, but the gravel burn, the split lip, it’s all still there.  Blood barely sealed over.

 

“Oh, now that’s rich.  Especially coming from the bloke who picked my locked the first night here and went through--”

Sherlock waves away that answer, John can practically see the irrelevant matter, John unformed on his lips.

 

“He hurt you,” John says simply, giving up.

 

“I’m not talking about Upton and his cretins,” Sherlock paces in exasperation. “Although that was likewise idiotic.”

 

“Oh.. Okay, what then?”

 

Sherlock sighs and turns around, hands flinging in the air.  His white t-shirt raises up with the movement of his shoulders, a line of unbruised skin appears, pyjama bottoms low on his hips.  

 

“You’re mad that I…” John tries to think, and oh, right, “I yelled at your Mum.”  Well, yes he did.  John would never put up with that sort of thing if he was in Sherlock’s place.  “Alright, I get that.  I’ll, you know, say sorry, for the yelling bit.”  But not for the rest.  John was right about the rest.

 

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

 

John shifts, thinks of Violet’s lack of concern, the implication that Sherlock had a beating coming to him, all of the times she’s behaved like Sherlock is more of disappointment that a son.  Everyone’s seeming inability to accept Sherlock on his own terms, wishing he would limit himself to theirs.

 

“So, what is this?  Hm?  I already have one overprotective brother, I hardly need two.”

 

“You think this is about brotherly compassion?”  John laughs, because no.  No.  He’d do anything to protect Harry, anything at all, because she’s his sister and John loves her.  John is fairly certain he’d do anything to protect Sherlock, he hadn’t realised it until he was attempting to shove his fist through Lenny’s face, but the brand of protectiveness deviates in a specific way.  

 

“I don’t need you to fix me!”  Sherlock sneers.

 

“God, fix?  You’re a one man apocalypse, what is there to fix!”

 

“What then!  Is this some form of manipulation I’m unaware of?”  

 

“No,” John says, a little horrified by the thought.  Manipulate?  Sherlock can’t even be manipulated to hoover the rugs.

 

“You think I owe you gratitude for your intervention,” Sherlock stops when John groans and lands heavily against the wall.  His head thunks against the plaster, John stares up at the ceiling.  The cobweb in the corner.

 

“What is it that you want, if you don't--”

 

“You,” John says abruptly, he balls up his fists, bloodied knuckles burning as the skin stretches.  “Just you!”

John’s voice is too loud, accusatory, he nearly shouts.  Wants to take Sherlock by the shoulders and shake him up.  

“I hate it how much I want you.”

John says it like he’s had enough of the whole goddamn world and will never be satisfied.

 

Sherlock looks like he’s been shot through with a bullet, and John can’t begin to fathom how this is surprising for Sherlock at all.  How could Sherlock be so observant of every tiny, seemingly insignificant detail, and be lacking self-awareness so completely?

 

John scrubs his hands over his face, “Sorry, that’s not..”  John sighs and Sherlock keeps doing an impersonation of a stone, “Look, forget what I said.  Delete it, put it wherever you left basic astronomy.   I’m sorry if I pissed you off or--”

 

Sherlock moves like lightning.  John doesn’t even have a chance to track the movement across the room before he’s being pressed up against the empty wall of his bedroom and has Sherlock’s mouth against his.  

 

It’s light, very light, and Sherlock’s split lip scratches faintly against John’s skin.  John should push him away, because this is stupid, Christ it’s stupid, but then John’s fingers unclench and twine themselves in Sherlock’s curls.  He pulls Sherlock closer, opens his mouth and, yes, perfect, Sherlock’s soft tongue curling against his.  Still tentative and unsure, and still driving John absolutely mad.

 

Their lips part, soundlessly, Sherlock stares at John through his fringe.  John’s fingers loosen and cup the sides of Sherlock’s throat, fall to his shoulders, fall down his chest, fall heavily to John’s sides.  

 

Sherlock folds his arms, weaves them across his chest, presses his brow hard against John’s.  It sets off the aching in his bruise, their mirroring damage.  John wants to crush their bodies together, drag Sherlock over to his mattress and--

 

Sherlock pulls backward, “I can’t think,” and he’s throwing open the door, walking out of it.

 

---

 

 

John lies in bed, it’s cold in his room.  The window doesn’t close properly and winter air drafts through.  It’s a slow process, frigidity seeping through at the push of a breeze, John hugs the duvet about his shoulders.

 

He can’t sleep, he isn’t quite sure why exactly, but he can’t.  The events of the day roaring through his mind, only to burn out into nothingness.  White noise.  

 

Harry had found him after she’d come home.  Brought him up a plate of lasagne and bottled water.

“Jesus, Johnny.”

“I know.”

“Your eye looks like shit.”

“I know.”

 

“Have you been drinking again?”  He’d asked.  There have been occasions where John has found empty wine bottles under her bed, pinched from the rack and gone unnoticed by Dad and Violet alike.  It started up after Mum died. Sherlock, of course, had identified the issue during a tutoring session.  Harry had stumbled in the room, asking John if he’d seen her extra pair of spectacles.  

“Merlot stains around your mouth, compromised coordination, slurred speech.  The effects of inebriation inhibits your sight, not to mention your memory.  Your spectacles are on top of your head.  Stop being tiresome.  It’s not even dark out yet.”

 

“Not much, nothing I don’t have control over,” Harry responded defensively.

 

John explained Lenny’s implied threat, pleaded with her to be careful.  She grimaced, and promised she wouldn’t take any drinks at parties.  John hoped to god she would keep that promise.

 

John hears the rattle of a handle, the dim light from the hallway spills through as the door cracks open and the outline of a long body slips through.  

“Sherlock?” John whispers into the darkness after the door is closed.  His eyes begin readjusting, moonlight the only thing giving definition to the moving shadow.  “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

 

His feet are soundless against the wood floors.  John’s bed dips, something thunks on top of his bedside table, blankets are peeled away and there’s a sharp blast of chilled air.  The cold doesn’t last long, because a warm body is sidling up next to John’s and the blankets are being pulled over them both.

 

John stays lying on his back for another moment, he can feel the warm puffs of Sherlock’s breath against his neck.  He turns onto his side and faces Sherlock, moonlight making already fair skin appear impossibly more pale.

 

Sherlock leans forward, rubs his lips against John’s, not a kiss but a caress.  John blinks and Sherlock resettles, they stare at each other the best they can, their combined shadows intertwining like a blanket between them and obscuring John’s line of sight.  Sherlock’s shoulders are bare, John can’t see the freckles he knows are there.  John reaches out his index finger, touches it down against Sherlock’s ribs.  The finger dips in and out of the crest and hollow between each bone, the softness of the skin stretching between waist and hip, until the fingertip makes contact with bare thigh.

God.  Fuck.  He’s only wearing pants.  

 

John needs to ask him something, speaking earlier with Harry reminded him.  “Did Lenny..” John shifts uncomfortably, scared of asking, scared of Sherlock’s answer.  “He sort of implied that he tried to.. do other things.  To you.”

 

“He didn’t.  He would, perhaps, given the chance.  I’m nearly sure he’s done much worse, but he didn’t.  Not to me, at least.  He was only trying to provoke you into attacking him.”

 

John breathes deeply, it’s short lived relief.  “Worse?  How do you mean?”

 

“Kiss me.”

 

Alright, that’s not an answer at all, but it might as well be for how John’s body rushes eagerly ahead of his mind.  One minute Sherlock is beside him, the next minute he’s underneath him, and their tongues are in each other’s mouths, there’s the copper taste of blood from Sherlock’s cut lip.   Sherlock’s fingers are tugging at his hair, John’s using a hand to hitch Sherlock’s thigh over his hip and--

 

“Are those my football socks?”  John sits back slightly, runs his hand down Sherlock’s knee, his calf.  One long navy blue sock.  He’d been missing his extra pair for weeks.

“They’re warm,” Sherlock says, a bit breathless, “You really ought to seal that window.”

 

John giggles and falls heavily down on top of Sherlock, who nearly ruins it by swearing at him to be careful.  Which, right, Sherlock is still a giant bruise, John has to be gentle.  

 

He rests his weight off of Sherlock, and on a whim, cups his hips forward, just a little, just to see.

 

Sherlock’s stops breathing for a second, before releasing it all in one shaky exhale.  John kisses him softly, presses his palm into Sherlock’s trembling chest, down his stomach, hooks his fingers in the band of Sherlock's pants.  

 

“I shouldn’t be..” John whispers, rubbing his fingers just below that barrier, feeling the thin skin, the tickle of pubic hair, the heat just below that.

 

“Unresolved sexual tension,” Sherlock gulps and John’s fingers push themselves further down.  His middle finger brushing over something damp, hot and soft, and familiar.  God.  “I’ve worked out the solution,” Sherlock’s voice hitches when John rubs over the same spot again.  “Resolve the tension, resolve the problem itself.”

 

John shakes his head, reaches down into heat and hardness, feathers his fingers lightly up the length of Sherlock’s cock.  John shouldn’t be this interested, if his sexual history is anything to go by, he shouldn’t be nearly this eager to touch another man’s erection, but instead of confusion John feels curiosity.  The immediacy of desire.  He wants to touch Sherlock here.  Everywhere.  He wonders if that’s always been there, if his now-skewed sexuality has always been a subconscious matter just waiting for the right moment.

 

Sherlock groans loudly at the contact, the volume alarms John and he kisses him quiet.  Wraps his fingers around Sherlock and moves his hand slowly.  His whole body feels like it’s burning, spontaneous combustion, every cell set fire to.  John can almost see the pink flush creeping up Sherlock’s chest, his throat, his abraded cheek.

 

“What am I doing?”  John uses his right hand to shove at Sherlock’s pants, he’s fed up with the restriction.  “God, what’s happening.”

 

Sherlock curls his head into John’s forearm and shuts his eyes, his knees fall further apart.  “You’re touching me,” he says, quiet and amazed.  He bites down on the skin of John’s wrist and moans quietly.

“Take yours off,” Sherlock whispers, licking once over where John’s skin stings from being clamped down on so hard.  “Please.”

 

John grunts and shoves clumsily at his own bottoms, unwilling to take his hand off Sherlock.  Especially not when he’s pushing up in little shivered thrusts through John’s fist.

 

Finally they’re both clear of pants and pyjama bottoms, John settles back between Sherlock’s legs and suddenly, this is very clearly two males engaging in sex.  John shifts, rounds his hips, and his and Sherlock’s cocks slot next to each other.  Sherlock arches into the touch like a bow pulled taut

 

“Oh god, oh my god,” Sherlock says, inarticulate like he never is.

 

“Yeah,” John pants, rocks their erections together, “I--”  and is taken by the inspiration to close his hands over them both and gives a tug.  

 

“That’s--that’s--” Sherlock attempts, gives up and pulls John down into a kiss instead.  John tries desperately to keep the kiss soft, Sherlock’s lip will never heal if they keep this up.

 

“We could..  if you wanted to, we could,” Sherlock says against his lips.  John thinks he possibly knows what Sherlock is suggesting and swallows roughly.  Unsure.  It isn’t a matter of want, because John does, in fact, want.  Very much.  But that want is on an even keel with apprehension.  It isn’t the taboo of anal penetration that weaves a knot of unease in John’s belly, it’s the sheer mechanics of it.  

 

“There’s other things we could do,” John suggests, “I don’t have expectations..  I know you haven’t..”  John trails off.  Sherlock has barely been kissed, John is fairly positive they’re in virgin territory here.

 

“Only by myself,” Sherlock says, mouth dropping open when John’s thumb runs over the slits of their cocks, smearing the precome in a circle around the heads.  “My own fingers, I was curious,” he makes clear.  Tells John this like it's a clinical investigation and not the sexiest thing John has ever been told in his life.   John’s hips shove up.  Pushing Sherlock up the mattress, nearly into the headboard.

Lust drops like lead in the pit of John’s stomach and burns.  Immediately he’s seeing Sherlock spread pale and open across the bed, easing his perfectly fine-boned fingers into himself.  What does he think about?  Sherlock, biting his lips until they’re bruised, and trying not to cry out when he comes.  Godgodgodfuck.  And quite suddenly John is bemoaning his own lack of self-exploration in this area.

 

“But,” John shakes his head to clear out the image, it doesn’t work, “Condoms, um. Other stuff.”  For some inexplicable reason his cheeks burn with embarrassment when John goes to say lube, especially odd seeing as Sherlock has admitted with an utter sense of normality that he, at times, fingers himself in the pursuit of knowledge.

 

“Bedside table, no condoms.  Why? Do you need one?”

 

Ah, well… No, not technically, he’s always used condoms with girls.  It’s been over two months and a routine physical exam at the clinic since he’s fucked around at all.  John shivers, takes his hand away from where it was clasped around them.  He reaches over to the bedside table, feeling around until he knocks his knuckles against a plastic bottle.

 

“How should I…”  John looks down, Sherlock grabs John’s left hand and flips the cap to the bottle.  He pours a good bit of the stuff over John’s fingers, swallows audibly and lowers John’s hand between his legs.

“Where did you get… lube.” John asks, nervously smearing the stuff against Sherlock’s arsehole.

“I, uh, ah,” Sherlock stutters in distraction, “You told me to never mention your father’s name in the same sentence as sex.”

“Oh, God, please stop there,” John replies in a rush, he definitely does not need to hear about the contents of his and Violet’s bedside drawers.

Sherlock laughs shakily and John bends to kiss him.

Some of it is common knowledge, massaging the lubricant against the ring of muscle until Sherlock says, “One finger,” and John dips the pad of his middle finger in tentatively, sliding it shallowly a few times before going deeper.  Sherlock gasps, and says, “Yes, like that.”

 

“Christ,” and John chokes off a moan when Sherlock’s palm accidentally comes into contact with his cock.  

“Another,” Sherlock pants.  John adds his index finger, Sherlock gasps, turns his head into the pillow and says something that sounds vaguely like John’s name.  It makes John move his digits a bit faster, less like probing, and much more like fucking.  His body straining toward heat and friction, but his mind is completely concentrated on the dim sight of his fingers sliding in and out of Sherlock.  

 

John only means to switch the angle of his aching wrist, turn his palm up.  He shifts his shoulder, his elbow, his fingers twitch inside of Sherlock, nudge against something inside of him and Sherlock is abruptly turned into some writhing thing.  John stills his hand in alarm.

 

“God, did I hurt you?  I’m sorry, fuck, I’ll--”

“No!  No, no! What did you just--”  Sherlock breathing escalates, fisting his hands in John’s sheets. “Do it again,” he demands.

 

John raises an eyebrow and repeats the motion, middle finger rubbing against a soft, rounded protrusion.  

 

“Just, ah ah,” Sherlock pants in little breaths, hips bearing down around John’s fingers.  John pets helplessly at his body, his long torso, his bony hips.  “Now, John, do it now.”

John doesn’t need to be told twice, he curses and watches Sherlock’s bruised ribs rise and fall, nearly hyperventilating.

 

“Oh god, you have to tell me,” John babbles, slicking himself up and lining the head of his prick against where his fingers just slipped out. “If I’m hurting you.  You need to--Oh, oh fuck,” and Sherlock wraps both of his legs around John’s back.  

 

The long football socks rub softly against John’s skin.  Ankles locking against his spine, the sprained one on top of the other.  John’s cock slips in slowly, just the head, and he groans before he can stop himself.  Sherlock’s fingers fly up and into John’s mouth.  John nips and sucks at them, completely unthinking, tasting skin and the hint of salt from where Sherlock wiped sweat from his brow.   John’s hips twitch forward and Sherlock tenses.  John grabs Sherlock by the wrist, extracting his fingers.

 

“We can stop, I--”

 

“One minute,” Sherlock says, voice shaking, “it’s just more, different, it’s fine.”

 

Johns tilts his head and breathes, tries to override the instinct to thrust and push forward and fuck Sherlock into the mattress.  He lowers his shoulders and sucks softly at Sherlock’s lower lip, careful of the split.  Sherlock squeezes his thighs and draws John inward into the swallowing tightness, heat and the unfathomable intimacy of skin against skin.  Two minutes later and John is completely buried inside of him.  

 

They stay clinging to one another for several long moments, John fighting off orgasm and telling Sherlock how amazing he is.  He is amazing, beautiful, and bizarre, and John could just go on and bloody on.

 

Sherlock nips at his earlobe.  John threads their fingers together, pulls them above Sherlock’s head.

 

“Can I move?  Christ, please can I move?  Need to--”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock acquiesces against John’s mouth.

 

John pulls backward and pushes back in slowly, and fuck, fuck, it can’t possibly be this good.  He does it again, and Sherlock melts, goes pliant and rolls his body with John’s.  

 

“Harder,” Sherlock whispers after a few experimental shoves, and John answers with some combination of vowels.  He thrusts into Sherlock, their flesh smacks together.  The sound of it making both of their inhales erratic, feverish and stuttering, as John pulls at Sherlock’s hips and does it again.  Again.

 

Sherlock eyes stare up into John’s, lids hooded and incessantly observant, John gets lost inside them.  Forgets the difference between sky and room, between geometry and breath, their skin touches and it’s the sound of when two opposites finally collide.  

 

“You’re mental, mad, God, you’re mad,” and Sherlock takes it as the compliment it was intended to be, huffs, licks his lips and smiles.

 

John loses himself in the pull of Sherlock’s body, digs his fingers into bruises by accident and Sherlock hisses and moans quietly and trembles when John brushes curls away from his brow.  John pushes Sherlock’s legs up over his shoulders, wraps fingers around Sherlock’s leaking cock and pumps his fist.

 

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes going glazed and wild and fluttering closed as his entire body strains.

 

“Oh,” says John, he feels a rush of fluid over his knuckles, and Sherlock makes a choked noise.  Arches his back and pleads with John not to stop touching him, not to stop fucking him, as if John might, and then he comes with a gasp and it’s John’s name on his lips as it all falls apart.    

 

“Sherlock, I’m going to,” John says, abruptly aware of the tensing at the base of his spine, “I'm-- God, I’m going to come in you.”  

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says urgently, fingers carding through and pulling at John’s short hair, “do that.”

 

There’s no choice in the matter because John hips snap in short, quick thrusts, driving Sherlock into the pillows, and coming is as much a relief as it is ecstasy.  John buries his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and chokes out little ah, ah’s.

 

“I can feel--” Sherlock swallows and flails his hands until they’re pulling John’s hips like he wants more of him.  “Moving, I can feel you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” John breathes out, still pulsing, coming down.

 

“No, it’s fascinating.” Sherlock says into his ear.  It makes John shiver.

 

Damp panting breaths, still clutched around one another.  John slips Sherlock’s socked legs from his shoulders, slowly pulls out.  He resists the compulsion to dip his fingers back into where Sherlock is still a little open, filled up.  

There’s no reason the thought should be as hot as it is.

 

Sherlock brings his knees together, tugs John's socks back into place, rubs his hands through his mess of inky, disheveled curls.  John lies down next to him.  Presses his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and breathes in the scent of sex, and Sherlock.

 

“What are we going to do?” John asks quietly.  

 

Sherlock is silent for a long time before reaching down and slipping his hand underneath John’s.  He sighs heavily, hoarsely, almost like he might cry. “I don’t know,” Sherlock whispers into the night, “I don’t know.”

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Spotting my shoddy typing like a boss christyimnotred

---

 

 

 

They’re quiet and unmoving for what feels like ages, their body temperatures dropping and Sherlock begins to shiver. John reaches over absently, rubs his palm over Sherlock’s arm feeling the gooseflesh, the coil of his muscles underneath,

“I think Upton murdered Timothy Walen.” Sherlock says suddenly. John shakes his head as if the random statement might bounce about in his skull and make sense.

“What?” In John’s experience, as far as post-coitus subjects go, John can definitely say murder has not been among them.

“The one you berated me over the dinner table about. He was someone’s child, Sherlock,” and Sherlock does a pretty fair imitation of John’s pitch and accent, “Months ago.”

“O..kay. What makes you think it was Lenny?” John asks, curiosity momentarily staving off the rising cacophony inside.

“Walen often made dealings with him. I implied to Upton that I was aware of his barbiturate dealings after pickpocketing--”

“First off, what the hell were you thinking. Second, Lenny is a bully, he’s perverted and dangerous, but a murderer?”

“Oh, I don’t think he intended to murder Walen. Drug him? Yes. Perhaps Lenny told him the drug was a narcotic, watched him ingest it and waited until the tranquiliser took effect. Sexually assaulted him while under the influence of a depressant. Walen was still wearing his school uniform, found dead in a location known to be frequented by dealers, addicts, and prostitutes. High crime rate. If you were going off to make a drug deal in that location, would you wear uniform trousers, a tie, a sleeveless jumper?”

“No.. No, because that would bring you a bit of unwanted attention, I imagine. Make you stick out. So you think.. Walen came around during the assault? Threatened to go to police?”

Sherlock looks over at John and smiles, “Now you’re understanding. Yes, and in his panic Lenny struck him over the skull with a heavy object, killing him as a result.”

John nods, “Okay.. so he would need to move the body. Dump it in a location where the list of potential suspects would detract from him. Walen would just be a dumb kid in the wrong part of town trying to score, and got killed instead.”

“That would explain the abrasions on the arms, the drag patterns on his clothes. Of course I could only determine bits and pieces from the online report, really no way to determine from that if the cuts were post-mortem. Surely the family has done away with the body by now,” Sherlock says disappointedly, “I’m fairly certain I could have sorted out a way to break into the morgue. I’ve researched--” Sherlock breaks off and furrows his brow at John, who can only lick his lips and stare at the boy next to him. “What?”

Sherlock is still in bed with him. Still very much naked, in bed with John. John came inside of him hardly an hour ago. If John reached down between Sherlock’s legs he’d still feel wet from it. John could probably slip right back in and fuck Sherlock all over again, but instead they’re having a conversation about murder, and Sherlock won’t stop being so bloody smart. It’s surreal, and they’re staring at each other, and John longs to kiss Sherlock.

“We just--” John says as Sherlock breaks the stasis by reaching and pulling his pants back on. He lays back down next to John. They look up at the ceiling.

“I thought if we resolved the tension, I wouldn’t want…” Sherlock never finishes the sentence. Instead he twines his fingers into curls and tugs in exasperation.

“We just--” John can’t stop repeating it, he can still vividly recall the feeling of Sherlock trembling, anchored underneath him. The exact sound of Sherlock calling out John’s name when he came, and God, John wants him again. They’re still covered in each other’s saliva and sweat and semen and it’s unbelievable. It’s extraordinary.

“Sex, John. That’s what it’s called,” Sherlock finishes, sardonic.

John can’t help it, the laughter bubbles up in his chest, it burns in his throat and shakes him. Noiseless and mirthless, and painfully coming to terms with reality.

“All right, John?” Sherlock asks him, touching his shoulder and sounding a little alarmed.
John laughs and chokes, his eyes well up when he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. He glances over at Sherlock and Sherlock looks a bit afraid.
It only makes John giggle harder.

“I took your virginity,” John manages to breath out as the laughter subsides. The panic stays, gnawing and igneous inside of his chest, clawing upward into his oesophagus.

“John--”

“We’re step-brothers,” John says, “Our parents..”

Sherlock sits up quickly, and stares down at John, “Obviously they can’t know, the relationship is inappropriate.”

“But we’re not related, it’s just a technicality.”

John can see Sherlock’s eyes roll, even in the dimness of the room. “Still,” Sherlock says quietly, “Technicality or not,” he props himself up on his elbows, “They would find it unacceptable.”

“Then let them,”, John turns his body to face Sherlock, frustrated by the circling of their unresolve. It isn’t like he’s asking Sherlock to go downstairs this instant and explain to their prospective parents about the shag they just had. It’s just incredibly frustrating to have Sherlock so close, only to have him turn skittish and push John away. “Since when do you care about people?”

“I suppose that’s easy for you say, isn’t it,” Sherlock’s voice cuts, “Regardless of what transpires between us, you won’t be alone. You have friends, a sister and father who will accept you no matter the circumstances. You have far less to lose. I, on the other hand, have a nonexistent father, no friends, a mother who sees me as more burden than son. There’s Mycroft, but you’ve met him, he doesn’t..” Sherlock huffs and refuses to look at John. “You don’t want this. You might think you do, but you don’t. Not really. You’re attracted by the danger aspect, a sense of rebellion--”

“I’m attracted by you, you great idiot,” John interrupts, beyond tired of Sherlock trying to create reason out of emotion.

“Mycroft said that you’ll grow tired of the situation when it fails to give you the same adrenaline high. Experimentation is normal for a male your age. Eventually you’ll decide to follow the heteronormative identity you had assumed prior to… to this.”

John shakes his head, “Mycroft is wrong.”

“Mycroft is never wrong.”

“Then he’s a real arrogant wanker, because he doesn’t even know me.”

 

“I’m going back to my room, goodnight John,” and with that, Sherlock is propelling himself off the side of John’s bed. Wearing only his pants and John’s football socks, still limping and John feels a twinge of guilt. Sodding him couldn’t have helped, now he’ll have a sore bum to go along with all the rest of his patchwork of bruises and aches.

“So what about you, then?” John calls softly after him, “All this talk, and you act like I’m the one with the problem. I’m telling you that I want you, I’m invested in… whatever this is. You’re trying to talk me out of it like I don’t know what the bloody fuck is going on in my own head. Maybe this is something you don’t--”

“That first day,” Sherlock says quickly, turning back, hand on the door knob.

 

“What?” John puzzles and watches Sherlock run his fingers around the brass.

“That first day, you saw me in the stairwell and gathered my papers. You were trying to help me and I deduced you.” Sherlock says, his tone not sentimental or soft, another solid recollection of facts, “You told me I was brilliant. I’ve wanted you since then. I don’t know why.”

John’s mouth falls open. Torn down the middle as to whether or not to grab Sherlock around the waist and pull him back into bed, and the other bit reviewing months and months worth of moments between them. Moments that apparently were charged with want without John realising it. John sneaking a couple girlfriends up the trellis, through the window at night and fucking them quietly, Sherlock always could tell the next morning. He’d either make some snide comment and ignore John for a couple days, or not ignore John and snap off at the mouth at him every available chance. John thought maybe he wasn’t being as quiet and discreet as he’d thought, that perhaps the occasional escaped moan kept him awake.

Now, John thinks, perhaps Sherlock was jealous. John hurt him, he didn’t know he was doing it, but it doesn’t matter. It can’t be helped now, but John feels sorry anyway.

“Sherlock, wait--”

“Goodnight,” says Sherlock, and in one fluid movement the door is opened, latched shut, and John is alone.

John stares at the door, his heart sinking and sinking when it doesn’t re-open. He lays down. Turns his face into the pillow and smells the lingering traces of Sherlock’s shampoo. John rolls over onto the empty bit of bed that Sherlock had occupied, squirms, presses his palms into the mattress, seeking out residual body heat. The spot has gone cold.

___________________

 

John spends all weekend alone in a house full of people. It’s the most quiet weekend John has had in a very long time. Everyone is avoiding him.
Violet forces smiles and attempts casual conversation that John can’t pretend to be interested in, he’s still angry. They both know every exchange of words is only another way to avoid having another awkward conversation.

Sherlock barely comes out of his room. The one time John tries to walk in on him, Sherlock is on his bed asleep and breathing softly. Long legs and arms somehow wrestled against his belly and chest, he’s curled into a ball. All of his bedclothes are ripped from the mattress and discarded in the corner of his room. John gets a closer look at them and Sherlock appears to have saturated them in… pineapple juice? They smell like pineapple juice. John immediately gives up trying to figure out why exactly, he learned early on that 90% of Sherlock’s experiments are completely beyond reason.

John watches the sunlight glinting through his hair, strands the colour of firelight scattered throughout. It’s been nearly four days since his fight with Lenny. Bruises are still bright in some places, the lesser ones fading out into sickly shades of yellow and green.

John wants to touch him. The need is something that crawls into John’s gut and aches in his bones.

John shucks off his jumper. It’s soft and warm and he spreads it over Sherlock the best he can. Sherlock will wake up and find himself tucked underneath the thick wool and he’ll think of John.

 

Dad doesn’t seem to know what to say, so he says nothing at all. John became accustomed to the distance years ago and it doesn’t phase him anymore. Mum was always the one he went to with his problems or for advice, Dad can’t seem to usurp the position despite the relentless void. He doesn’t even try.

 

John misses her so much. He misses her so much that it’s hard to breathe.

 

“You all right, Johnny?” Harry asks before she leaves off on a date with someone she refuses to tell John the name of.

John grimaces and watches his fists clench and unclench. “I wish Mum was here.”

Immediately Harry’s eyes go red and glossy with tears, as they often do when Mum is brought up. John sighs and looks away, unable to bear the sight. “I’m sorry.” Because he knows, John knows the words feel like pressing the burning end of a cigarette into tender flesh. To want and miss and yearn, knowing you always will.

“It still hurts to talk about her,” Harry’s voice gone high and cracked, she wipes at her eyes, smearing the kohl, “God, when does it stop?” Her lips tremble as she holds it all in.

John covers his face with his palms when her tears spill anyway, run down her freckled cheeks and she looks toward the door, wanting to escape. He can’t answer her question.

___________________

Lenny is still under suspension, likely to be expelled from school and John is quite fine about it. Sherlock’s suspicions regarding Lenny’s potential murder of Timothy Walen unsettled John even further, especially after the not-so-subtle threats he made against Sherlock and Harry. If they can’t find solid proof of Lenny’s involvement, then maybe the bastard will have the decency to disappear. Or better yet, fall off the side of a steep cliff.

By the time John is settled back into his classes, word of the fight has made it around. Turns out, brawling with bullies in the courtyard can do wonders for a reputation. John spends the first day back fending off claps on the back with, “‘Bout time someone stood up to that arse.”

A few girls make a point to “accidentally” rub their skirted thighs against his underneath the canteen tables. Nice girls, pretty girls, and John should want them.

He leaves the tables and goes looking for Sherlock instead.

It’s always an experience looking for Sherlock during break hours, especially since they began putting better locks on the lab’s doors. Sherlock’s fault. He was caught filching specimens from the ice box. John has caught him outside, past the gymnasium, sitting nestled against the sculpted evergreen shrubs and smoking cigarettes. John always rages and bats the things out of his hand, stamping his shoe down until tobacco flecks the pavement, while Sherlock glares. Most of the time Sherlock simply hides himself away somewhere and John can’t find him at all, no matter how long he spends looking.

 

John is nearly to the doors when he hears Sherlock’s voice, deeper and more resonant than should be allowed for someone under the age of twenty. Sherlock never, eats in the canteen, it’s not happened once since John has known him, even when John has asked.

“I can introduce you to my friends, they’re not that bad.”

“They’re insufferable, and you are as well when you’re around them,” Sherlock had said. John didn’t argue, because he knows Sherlock is right. He’s different around them. John doesn’t need to act around Sherlock.

 

John turns and scans the crowded canteen for Sherlock, he must be close by if he’s heard him. Off to the right, Sherlock laughs. John turns and finally connects the voice to the body. Sherlock sits alone at the table closest to the doors, well, no, not alone. He’s next to another boy, Indian descent, looks like. Smoothed over skin the colour of cinnamon, glossy black hair, darker than Sherlock’s but equally as curly. Spectacles and a big, white smile as he points at some papers and asks Sherlock a question. John has never seen him before. John stands like an idiot in the middle of the canteen and watches Sherlock lean closer to look down where the texts are spread out. He takes out a pen and marks over something, hands the writing utensil back, dark fingers brush over pale ones as the pen is retrieved.

Maybe John should go to them and flip the table over.

Sherlock’s new (possibly?) acquaintance leans over and whispers something in Sherlock’s ear, Sherlock closes his eyes and laughs. The crinkle that he always gets at the bridge of his nose appears, it makes him look boyish and lovely, and John is furious. Sherlock glances up as if he can feel John’s line of sight boring into him, he must see John’s expression because Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in confusion and looks backward over his shoulder, eyes sliding back to John’s. Blue-green and bewildered. Obviously not thinking that John’s pursed lips and tense posture is any of his doing.

The boy touches Sherlock’s shoulder.
John shakes his heads, balls his fists, and leaves the canteen.

He can’t think the rest of the day. John’s mind is continuously driven to distraction with images of Sherlock’s pink lips pressed against coppery flesh. The stark differences of the shock of Sherlock’s body caught against dark. The ying and yang it would create if the two bodies were writhing around one another.

John’s stomach turns.

Jealousy. Oh, God. It’s been a while since John has felt it. Never with such intensity.
Feels like shit. To put it bluntly.

They weren’t really doing anything, not really. Talking. John is just paranoid.
It looked like flirting.

For some reason, it never crossed John’s mind that Sherlock might be interested in other people. He’s actually seen the occasional well-intending girl attempt to chat Sherlock up. Sherlock is strikingly attractive, has the appeal of something unattainable, then he opens his mouth and any romantic notions are completely abandoned for outright hostility.

Not that Sherlock would be particularly interested in a girlfriend.

Classes let out. John seethes, waits for Sherlock by the bicycles like they typically do when John doesn’t have football practice.

Two dark, curly heads, walking alongside each other. John’s gloved hands burrow downward into his coat, he considers leaving and allowing Sherlock to ride home alone. The idea is immediately reconsidered, John would rather not risk Sherlock adopting another short-distance travelmate instead.

“John,” Sherlock says by way of greeting.

John smiles tightly, offers his hand to the boy from the canteen. “John Watson. I don’t think I’ve seen you in school before.”

“I, um,” the boy smiles shyly and glances over to Sherlock, who rolls his eyes.

“This is Fadi Pradeep, on temporary student exchange. His father works at the Consulate General, here on business. Fadi, this is John Watson. My step-brother.”

John can’t tell if Sherlock hesitated in defining him as such. Pradeep shakes John’s hand.

“What are you doing with him,” John asks, Sherlock furrows his brow. That might have come across a bit rude. “I mean, were you assigned someone to show you about, or..”

“My original guide was very welcoming, but Sherlock and I share some common interests,” Fadi explains in a pleasantly accented voice. “I met Sherlock during French studies, he helped me decipher a difficult translation. He’s very well-versed on a number of topics.”

“Yes, he’s quite brilliant,” John says, smiling, although it feels like he’s baring his teeth. “Smartest in the school, actually.”

“Yes, ah,” Pradeep casts his dark eyes down to where John is still gripped onto his hand, steadily squeezing it. John clears his throat and lets go.

“Ready, Sherlock?” John mounts his bicycle, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock unlocks his bike from where it’s latched to the rack.

“Here, Sherlock,” Fadi reaches into his pocket, extracts a pen. He fingers circle around Sherlock’s wrist, Sherlock’s fingers unfold automatically, offering his palm. John breathes shallowly through his nose, looks out the corner of his eye toward Sherlock’s face. “My mobile number, in case you want to study or...”

“You could have just told me, I would have memorised it.” Sherlock says, and John can’t tell if it’s flirting or admonishment.

“I know,” Fadi smiles brightly, releasing his grip around Sherlock’s wrist, cradling the overturned hand in his own. Sherlock raises a brow and withdraws his hand.

“Right. Well,” John walks his bike between them, “We’re off. Evening.”

Sherlock nods and they set off on the bike path, John glances back after they’ve made it a number of metres away, Fadi’s sights are still locked on Sherlock like he’s tracking a bloody target. John is grateful when they turn the corner.

 

“So,” John begins, looking resolutely forward. Cold air rushing past his ears, pushing through a gap in his collar. “What was that about?”

“Be more specific,” Sherlock calls out, bike tires making gritting sounds against the cement.

“Fadi.”

“The situation was explained to you,” Sherlock pedals past John a bit.

“You going to call him up for a study date?” John asks, trying to sound uninterested. Trying, and likely failing.

“Doubtful he needs my assistance, he’s clever enough.”

John’s jaw clenches, “You can’t possibly be that thick. He doesn’t want you over to translate bloody Voltaire.”

Sherlock turns back for a moment, genuinely surprised, “You know who Voltaire is?” He looks John over once before facing forward again.

 

They make it to the cobblestone road that takes them on a shortcut to the house. It’s straight and unlittered, they’ve raced each other down it before.

Sherlock keeps ahead, blue scarf unwound and showing his neck. Wind reaches like fingers into his hair, pushes it around in so many directions. John watches. Sherlock balances on his seat, stretches his arms outward like wings, fingers spread open. He closes his eyes and tips his face upward to meet the grey sky.

____________________

 

No one else is home. No one comes home early from work on Wednesdays, Harry is always always with friends after school.

As soon as the bikes are discarded under the port, and they’ve made it through the door, John snaps. Grabs Sherlock by the hips, bullies him up against the door, using his back to slam it closed. Sherlock blinks in surprise, then catches on, and next it’s lips and tongues and soft noises escaping from Sherlock’s mouth and echoing into John’s.

“What--” Sherlock breathes when John pulls away to mouth at his neck, tugging the scarf off and clenching it in his fist. Penny runs up to the door to greet them, jumping up and pushing John firmly against Sherlock. He reaches behind with a hand and shoos her away. He hears her claws clicking dejectedly against the hardwood, the swing of the Plexidor pet door as she wanders outside.

“You drive me mad,” John accuses, tangles his fingers up in the loopy curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and tugs, bares his throat.

There should be a mark there. Somehow, there ought to be. Purple-red, and preferably the shape of John’s mouth.

“We’re going upstairs,” John says, nosing along the long column on skin, he bites down softly at the base of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock sags against the door, breath releasing in a rush. “Come on.”

 

John grabs him by the elbow, begins hauling him toward the stairs. It’s a difficult trip, as they keep taking turns to push one another against the rail, against the wall, divesting each other of coats along the way.

“Fuck,”John growls when Sherlock bites the lobe of his ear, “Christ, I’d take you right here.”

Sherlock nods eagerly, licks John’s lips, wraps his arms around the crown of John’s shoulders. John shoves him roughly against the wall when they get to the first landing, before the corner turns and the stairs continue up to the top floor. Sherlock gets a leg over John’s hip, John curses some more, reaches underneath both knees, uses his upper body to pick Sherlock up against the flat surface. Both legs wrapped around John’s back now, just how he likes it. Better than his imaginings.

 

Sherlock’s hand fumbles upward to hold onto something, anything, before being forced to resettle around John’s shoulders. A picture is knocked off, and thankfully the glass doesn’t shatter. John yanks Sherlock’s tie loose, gets a hand up underneath the sleeveless jumper and Sherlock pulls it over his head. The garment falls in a heap, tumbles a few paces downward before losing momentum.

“Someone will see the clothes,” Sherlock pants at him, John bares him down until his back is settled against the wood precipices of steps. They’re not going to make it to the bedroom.

“So?” John asks, uninterested, fingers flicking button from their catchings.

“So they’ll think you’ve been undressing me on the stairs,” Sherlock’s fingers hook into John’s belt loops, hauling his hips down to line up against Sherlock’s. They both groan from the pressure and friction, Sherlock pushes and pulls at John frantically, they rut insistently against one another. John has to reach out to take hold of a spindle, has to slip his arm underneath the space between the small of Sherlock’s back and the stairs. After a lovely moment of spiralling friction, John disentangles Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock makes a plaintive sound and tries to buck back up to reengage but John arches away, leans up to nuzzle at that place on Sherlock’s throat, right above the prominent suprasternal notch.

 

He nips and kisses, “Can I?” John murmurs against his skin, “Can I?” He sucks softly and suggestively at the spot, Sherlock’s fingers curls around the back of his neck, fingernails scratching.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, rolling his body up to meet John’s, now that he’s lowered himself again to get leverage over Sherlock’s throat.

“Want to,” John says desperately, nibbling up the tendons, pulling away only to press a hard kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, then back down to the hollow underneath his jaw, returning once again to the jugular notch. “Just want to mark you up a bit, see what it looks like,” As excuses go, it’s pretty transparent. He bites down, a little harder this time, releases the skin.

“Please,” his fingers drag down, undoes Sherlock’s shirt buttons, ghosting across newly exposed skin. He cups Sherlock’s cock through his trousers and smiles against his throat when Sherlock makes a helpless sound that buzzes underneath John’s lips. He flicks open the fastening, lowers the zip and palms him through the thin cotton of his pants.

“Yes,” the word close to inaudible.

 

John bites down, hard and fast, and Sherlock cries out, jerks up into John’s grinding palm when he tongues over the spot and begins sucking the patch of skin. Some close-held possessive instinct thrills through John’s veins, making him bold. He’s not been like this with anyone else, something about Sherlock begs it out of him.

The spot gets hotter as blood is drawn up underneath the skin, small blood vessels flooding the area with what must be brilliant colour. John increases the pressure, touches the tip of his tongue down as he worries the skin.

It’s low enough, no one will see unless Sherlock wants them too.

But John will know it’s there. Anyone who tries to undress Sherlock will know it’s there. Sherlock will look down and be reminded of how he let John tag him. After the nonconsensual bruises on his cheek and ribs fade, the one Sherlock chose for himself will linger.

 

John pulls away, licks at the skin to soothe the heat, and admires the sight.

“God,” John whispers, caressing the speckled violet with a thumb, smearing his saliva into Sherlock’s skin. His eyes flick up to and meet grey-blue, Sherlock’s pupils blown huge, plush bottom lip glossy from being bitten. John groans and hooks his fingers into Sherlock’s pants, pulls them down and descends over him in one swift movement.

He’s not done this. Not this way. Not with a cock in his mouth. He knows what he likes in a blow job, though. It just takes practice, a girlfriend told him once as she looked up at him from between his legs. He’s gone down on plenty of girls, gets off on it. John’s mouth always feels inexplicably empty, not good for his chapped lips as he constantly feels compelled to run his tongue over them, but he’s been told the fixation translates in a lovely way when it comes to oral sex.

“You’ve never been had like this before,” John confirms, because he knows Sherlock hasn’t.

“Of course I haven’t,” and John is sure Sherlock wanted that to come out a lot more sarcastic than desperate.

“Just me then,” no one else, “Good.”

John closes his hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, flattens his tongues against the fraenulum and licks.

Sherlock tries to call out, only garbling the first sound of John’s name before he arches up when John sips at the head. John has to pull off quickly to avoid choking and scraping Sherlock with his teeth.

“Be still,” John teases, uses his forearm across Sherlock’s hips to hold him down. This time he wraps his lips around the head and sucks firmly, moves his tongue in a way that feels natural.

 

Sherlock makes noises, gasps, his hips tremble under John’s arm. God, he loves that, loves to feel the tremors take hold of Sherlock’s body, desire shaking him at his typically impervious core.

John quickly undoes the button of his trousers, rubs at himself to relieve some of the tension.

He experiments with how far down he can take Sherlock into his mouth, halfway, for now.

Maybe when he’s more confident he’ll experiment with his gag reflex. He hums a laugh, thinking how like Sherlock that sounded in his head. At the vibration, Sherlock fingers fly into John’s hair, tightening and tightening as John begins bobbing his head. It takes a bit of multitasking, trying to avoid too much teeth, maintaining suction, working his tongue against foreskin and fraenulum. He pulls up, suckles tenderly at the head, licks lightly into the slit, the acrid taste of precome bursting across his tongue. Nothing he hasn’t tasted before. If a girl is willing to swallow, then definitely the least John can do is kiss her afterward. There’s something impossibly hot about tasting himself on another person’s lips.

“Oh God, I can’t--” Sherlock whines, “I need to--” and his fingers pull at John’s hair until his eyes begin to water.

He knows Sherlock is about to come in his mouth, can tell by the way his cock twitches against his tongue, Sherlock hips push up impulsively, John has to struggle not to let Sherlock press him down and choke him. Even though, somehow, the idea seems fucking gorgeous. It’s the most pleasant idea of choking John has ever entertained.

Sherlock’s breath spirals up, gasping like he can’t get enough air into his lungs, and then he holds it. Holds it. John gives one solid suck and that seems to do it, Sherlock makes a brilliant sound, some perfect keening hybrid of mewl and groan. John expects the pulse of ejaculation, it’s still somehow surprising, and he jumps a bit as his mouth is abruptly flooded with salt and bitter. He tries not to linger on the texture, or the taste, swallows it as quickly as he can, even as his stomach twinges the tiniest bit. That part doesn’t matter at all. He pulls off and licks at the last beads of come, until Sherlock begins shuddering with each lap of tongue.

So sensitive, God. John looks up for moment, takes in the bright flush on Sherlock’s cheeks, heaving chest, damp hair matted down to his forehead from thrashing.

 

John scrambles up Sherlock’s body, hisses when he slips his prick from where it’s been straining almost painfully against his pants. He spreads Sherlock’s shirt wide open, braces a hand above Sherlock’s head, and begins jerking himself off against Sherlock’s stomach.

“You don’t have to-- I could try--” Sherlock says breathlessly, reaching down and cupping John’s moving fist with a hand, “I’ll do my best, I promise.”

There’s something in the eager-to-please way that Sherlock says it, that sends John right over the edge. The image of the bow of Sherlock’s lip undone over John’s cock is too much to take, and he groans, starts to come all over the creamy white belly underneath him.

“Oh,” says Sherlock as John’s heat beats out against his skin.

John tucks himself back into his underwear, after he’s finished, plants both hands by Sherlock’s ears and tries to breathe slowly.

They just did that on the stairs. If John could breathe, he’d laugh.

Sherlock’s arm shifts, and John looks down between them as two of his fingers run through the mess on his stomach. John thinks to apologise, but then Sherlock is bringing the fingers up to his lips without touching them. He glances up through his lashes and meets John’s eyes. Sherlock’s fingers are wet. John’s breath goes a little ragged, Sherlock waits like he’s waiting for instruction. John swallows.

“Lick it off,” he says, voice low and hoarse.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifts into a smile before he slips his index and middle finger behind his lips. John watches his eyes shutter closed again, watches his jaw move as he sucks his fingers clean.

John can’t take it anymore, he wrenches Sherlock’s fingers out, ducks his head, and just devours Sherlock’s mouth.

“God, what are you,” John asks as they cling to one another and kiss, John’s unbuttoned shirt smearing come all over them both.

“We need to get cleaned up,” Sherlock whispers, “We have approximately fifteen minutes before our parents walk through that door.”

“Yeah, alright,” John starts crawling off of Sherlock, takes his damp fingers in the palm of his hand, works to pulls Sherlock up, helps him adjust his trousers. John replaces the picture back on the wall and gathers the discarded clothes while Sherlock darts down and scoops up their satchels. They dart upstairs, John grabs clothes from his wardrobe while Sherlock uses a damp flannel to clean himself off.

 

John walks to Sherlock’s room and closes the door behind him. Sherlock is sprawled across the bed as usual, belly down, flipping through a book. His soiled uniform replaced by an oversized purple t-shirt and dark jeans. John watches him scratch absently behind his ear, catch a curl, tug it straight, only to let go and have it bounce back into a spiral.

John climbs onto the bed, uses Sherlock as a full-body pillow, lays his head between sharp shoulder blades.

After a few moments Sherlock rolls, catching John underneath him. Sherlock’s weight spread across John’s body makes him feel blissfully anchored.

 

“You were jealous today,” Sherlock says as John closes his eyes. His hands wandering up to pet Sherlock’s back.
“Yeah,” John admits, somewhat ashamed. Somewhat relieved. He was utterly jealous. It felt vile.

“Because I was with Pradeep, you were jealous,” Sherlock surmises.

“Yeah,” John says after a while. Sherlock strokes his cheek, feathers a kiss at the corner of John’s mouth. John’s heart swells.

“You don’t have to be,” Sherlock whispers in his ear.

“Doesn’t matter,” John sighs, tilting his head to rub against Sherlock’s, “He was chatting you up. I hated it. I thought maybe you wanted someone.. I don’t know. Cleverer. More appropriate.” Which would definitely be understandable.

 

Sherlock lies down, nudges his head into John’s shoulder. “I don’t.”

“We’re going to try this, then,” John says, because it needs to be discussed. It has to be. They can’t keep doing this and never arrive at any decision.

Sherlock goes still, “It has to stay secret.”

John considers, and yes. For now. Both of their parents would automatically make the leap that their children are shagging each other senseless as soon as the lights go out, and they wouldn’t be wrong. Maybe later, once they’ve both gone off to Uni and there’s more distance between households, it’ll be less odd. Easier to accept. They could share a dormitory, maybe a small flat.

John immediately closes down the dangerous step toward long-term plans his mind begins to spin.

“Okay,” John says. “All right.”

Sherlock lifts his chin, they kiss, straining lethargically at one another until they hear the open and shut of the front door.

John pulls away reluctantly, half hard, and yearning.

He goes and sits in the tall-back chair. Watches Sherlock take two deep breaths before settling into school work. Below them, someone laughs.

Chapter Text

Christyimnotred for her support while I try not to bomb this!

---

and Izikinha for the most lovely FanArt for this chapter!!

 

 

 

“You’re supposed to be tutoring me,” John scolds when Sherlock shoves the books off the bed. He darts to the door, locks it, then suddenly John has a lap full of Sherlock. “This is counter-productive.”

The pale columns of Sherlock’s arms wind around John’s shoulders, hips shifting as he settles.

“Oh god, stop that, I know you’re doing it on purpose.” John is fairly certain getting comfortable doesn’t include subtle attempts at a dry-hump. Sherlock glares at him, sullen and put-upon.

“You were distracting me,” Sherlock dips his head, brushes his lips against John’s, “It was getting annoying.”

John scoffs, “I was distracting you? Since when do you write notes with your arse in the air? What’s that about?” One moment Sherlock was sprawled, John looked down to his literature assignment. John glanced back up to ask Sherlock a question and Sherlock had his weight resting on his elbows, bum tipped up and hips circling in the air.

“An invitation,” Sherlock murmurs, plucking one of John’s hands from off his hip and placing it in his hair. John’s fingers tighten in warm curls, pulling lightly. Sherlock’s sighs and his head tips back, John breathes warm air against the spot where his pulse beats steadily underneath skin.

There’s a scratch at the door and they both startle, Sherlock begins propelling himself off John’s lap. He pauses when sniffing and snorting can be heard under the door, a shrill whine. Penny yips at the door, then moves on down the hall to pester Harry when no one opens it for her. Sherlock relaxes slowly back into John’s lap when they hear the open and close of Harry’s bedroom door as Penny is given admission. John exhales in relief.

 

They had already escaped one close call, two days after the staircase “incident.” It was dinner time, Dad had made a stir fry, Sherlock had actually come down to eat with everyone else. He sat next to John, and rearranged bits of basmati rice on his plate. A perfect circle made of rice grains, colorful rays of julienned carrots and bell peppers, the flowered tops of broccoli positioned around the shape to look like a sun. Playing with his food. John wanted to snog him senseless.

 

Harry was going on about something John can’t recall, and Sherlock knocked his ankle into John’s. John chewed on his carrot and prodded back. Socked feet began stroking down calves, toes fighting for dominance as each tried to remain on top of the other. Sherlock won when his left hand crept underneath the hem of linen table cloth, and rested palm down in John’s lap. Rubbed softly, then faster, harder, when John’s cock couldn’t help but twitch in response. John coughed to cover up a groan, stole a look at Sherlock and immediately regretted it when he was caught by the sight of pink flush creeping into Sherlock’s cheeks. His lips pursed in concentration as he looked at his plate, John could see the muscles twitching through his shoulder as he fought to keep still the part of his arm that could be seen over the table.

Stupid. Dangerous. Fucking table full of people. Family.

John still slipped his fingers under the table and flicked open the button to his trousers, quietly unzipped. Watched in his peripheral as Sherlock’s mouth fell open a little, and then there were fingers pushing under the elastic band of his pants, wrapping around his cock. Stroking slowly. Usually the pace would be too languid for John to get off on his own, but it was Sherlock, rubbing him off underneath the table while everyone else prattled on about work and school and nothing John could remotely care about. His skin felt hot and oversensitive, like a good breeze might be enough to set it off.

God, Sherlock was going to make him come. Come in his pants, right there at the dinner table.

 

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, Sherlock,” Violet’s voice rang out light and clear across the room.

Immediately Sherlock’s hand was out of John’s pants. After a precarious moment in which John thought he might vomit from the sudden flood of panic, he pushed his napkin off the table so as to have an excuse to use both hands to readjust his pants and trousers.

Sherlock cleared his throat, “I’m not,” he used his fork to obliterate the stir fry sun.

“I’d say that bruise is a bit too low for it to be from the violin’s chin rest,” Violet cocked her head in an eerily familiar way and John’s stomach dropped, “Too large.” She smiled and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock’s cheeks grew impossibly more ruddy. John looked over, saw where the collar of Sherlock’s t-shirt had slipped down, exposing the still-violet love bite John had given him that afternoon on the stairs.

 

Dad’s eyes went wide, and he turned back to his plate in order to avoid the awkward scene. Harry giggled and John could have tackled her from across the table.

“I--” Sherlock faltered, clearly trying to formulate some legitimate reason as to why he would have a hickey sitting low on his collarbone.

“No need to say anything else,” Violet said pleasantly, “Be safe, is all.” She looked to John and smiled, and John had no idea how to take it. Hopefully it was a coincidental line of eye contact.

 

They didn’t touch each other for another two days, mostly out of fear it seemed. Sherlock broke first, pulling John into an unoccupied cupboard during lunch hour at school. Sherlock pinning John’s arms over his head against the filing drawer, their hips lining up, cocks pulled out and rubbing against each other through the circle of Sherlock’s free hand. They panted quietly into each other’s mouths, kissed when possible. They left a pile of soiled tissues in the bin and agreed to be more careful at home.

 

John uses his nose to caress Sherlock’s throat, “Harry’s down the hall, our parents are downstairs.” John kisses over the spot and lets Sherlock’s hair go. Pushes in at his hips in an attempt to dislodge him. Sherlock relents somewhat, tucks his face in the crook of John’s neck, rests heavily and soundlessly on John’s lap. Cold fingers absently tickle silvery blonde hairs at John’s nape, intimate in a way that they’ve not been yet. Silent and content, Sherlock snuffles against John like he can’t quite get close enough. John pets his back, marveling at being allowed to do so, at how Sherlock becomes gentled with every brush of his palm.

A month ago John would never have thought Sherlock to be the type to accept simple affection for more than five seconds before jumping into the next experiment.
“I like this,” John works his fingers underneath Sherlock’s shirt, strokes over soft skin, “S’ nice.”

“What is?”

“You. All.. I dunno,” John giggles a little, “Having a cuddle.” Terrible word. But it’s the only one he can think of when Sherlock seems content to hug around John’s neck and breathe warm, damp air against his shoulder. John thinks about taking a nap. Wouldn’t it be lovely to fall asleep and wake up with Sherlock?

 

“Tell me about your mother,” Sherlock says quietly.

John’s fingers stutter along Sherlock’s spine, in surprise, then resume their petting, “I… What for?”

“Was she very like you?” Sherlock asks.

 

John thinks for a moment, “Sort of. Not really. I look most like her. Harry has more of her personality though.” But not exactly, Harry has the whimsicality, but lacks practicality, and Mum’s constant unselfishness.

 

“At what point did she discover the illness?” Sherlock probes, gently curious.

John clears his throat, heart skittering uncomfortably. He doesn’t talk about it, not in details, and never from the beginning. Never. Not ever.

 

“Mum was pregnant,” John’s voice strikes even and he’s thankful for it, “They had been trying ages for another. Mum always wanted lots of kids. She was an only child, she was always…” John swallows, “Lonely.”

Sherlock hm’s his understanding and stays clinging to John, pressing little kisses into his throat.

 

“She underwent a lot of treatments, fertility medication, stuff like that. I don’t remember that part very well. They had pretty much given up, I think. Stopped trying, and then of course that’s when Mum turned up pregnant.” John shuts his eyes, trying to remember the scene, dulled by time and deliberate repression. There’s so much he’s forgotten, gaps in the chain of events because it was before Dad decided John needed to know grown up things in order to survive Mum dying.

 

“We were happy, everyone was. Even if Harry made a show about not being the baby anymore, she was excited too. After a few months they found out it was going to be another girl. Mum bought loads of purple and pink stuff for the nursery. She painted wildflowers at the bottoms of the walls. Those were her favourites.”

John’s throat constricts momentarily, he breathes it away, “Mum stayed sick, but just assumed it was normal pregnancy symptoms. She was tired, kept up a fever sometimes, I heard her and dad talking about anaemia. They took a blood panel early on, but it must have been too early because nothing really came up then. But she kept losing weight, even after the morning sickness died off a bit, she kept losing weight when she shouldn’t have been. She’d get awful bruises and have no idea where they came from. She was almost seven months along. It was the weight loss that took her back to the midwife, they sent out another blood panel and that one came back with excess abnormal white blood cells. They referred her to another doctor then.”

 

They didn’t tell John or Harry, at that point. John can remember coming home from school and walking in on Mum with her arms wrapped around Dad’s waist. Dad staring listlessly into the grey dishwater. Knuckles turning white from gripping the ledge of the bench so tightly. The hazy afternoon sun gleamed against the generic brown of his hair, Mum stood in his shadow. It’ll be fine, love, Mum had whispered, it’s probably just a mistake. A mix-up, I’m sure of it.

It wasn’t a mistake.

 

“They were waiting for the results of the biopsy when Mum…” John stops, tries to arrange it inside of his head how the next part must have happened. “She must have started bleeding that night. I…”

“She was miscarrying,” Sherlock says factually, relieving John of the need to say it himself. Giving distance to the word so that John won’t have to own it.

“Yeah..” John whispers, “They left in the night while we slept. Must have been panicking, didn’t have time to tell us. I didn’t know until that morning. They didn’t have to say anything, we just sort of...knew.”

 

John doesn’t tell Sherlock about how he woke up to Dad throwing all of the baby’s clothes into the bin liner. How he looked down at Dad’s wrist and saw the hospital band, and the gutting feeling of putting two and two together. John and Harry helped Dad paint over the wildflowers. Hid the colours of sage and poppy orange and the globes of seeding dandelions under layers and layers of bleach white.

 

“Mum didn’t come home for days,” John can’t remember how long, the time blurs together. Everything was happening so fast. So slow. John had never felt so helpless. “She was still in the hospital when they told her about the leukemia. Told her that as terrible as the miscarriage seemed, that at least she wouldn’t have the burden of trying to carry a child through chemo. Dad said Mum threw her canteen tray at the doctor’s head at that.” John laughs, Mum had a quick temper. Usually passive aggressive and harmless, unless truly provoked.

 

“Harry and I didn’t hear the official diagnosis for another couple weeks after she came home. I had never seen her like that.” John suppresses the tremor that threatens to run through him, “Just… empty.”

 

The memory hurts, twists in his guts like a rusty, serrated blade. Mum didn’t smile or speak, would hardly bathe or eat. When Dad threatened to take her back to the hospital she finally nibbled a bit of toast and drank a cup of orange juice.

 

Mum, who never complained, never reacted in defeat, seemed so small and obliterated. It was terrifying. John tells Sherlock about how he found her huddled at the dining room table, eyes glassy and rimmed in red from lack of sleep and crying. Her body had confused the signals, her breasts became engorged. and when there was no baby to nurse, the milk spilled over. John found her in the dark kitchen, her shirt sodden down to the tops of her thighs from spontaneous let down. She was confused and shivering and he called out for his Dad, for anyone to come and help.

 

She grabbed his hands in hers, bruises mottled her wrists from the IV line. Her arms clutched around him, he smelled her sour skin and didn’t recoil. She rocked him and wished he was the daughter she’d never know.

“I would have named her Abigail,” she said absently, “it means joy.”

 

John inhales and shakes his head, tries to rid himself of the sudden overwhelming influx of emotion. The scene replaying, growing acidic in his mind, “God. No. That’s it, I can’t anymore.”

And Sherlock’s lips are immediately upon his, kissing him wildly until the memory fades and his focus is replaced by the heat of Sherlock’s tongue tracing his bottom lip. John’s fingers dig at his hips, in his hair, cupping his jaw. He bites Sherlock’s lips, kisses him too hard.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock breathes, his eyes closed as he lets John pull at him, mouth desperately at him and John isn’t sure if he’s punishing him, fucking the grief away, or trying to tell him more. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

 

John won’t cry. Not when he shoves Sherlock off of his lap and onto the floor, or when their fingers tangle trying to rip at each other’s trouser fastenings. They rut roughly against one another, chafing friction that works in the end and John watches Sherlock thrash as he doubles over, comes over John’s hand, onto his own stomach. John bites down on Sherlock’s lip when he does the same not a minute later.

They pant in unison, in the aftermath.

 

John shakes and shakes and has no idea why, Sherlock shushes him, pets over John’s trembling shoulders. John collapses on top of him. Peels Sherlock’s hands off of his back, grasping each wrist in his palms. Elbows bend as he pins Sherlock’s hands up to frame his head. John weaves their hands together, Sherlock’s long fingers brush over his knuckles and reopen. John slides padded tips through the soft pits between Sherlock’s fingers. They hold hands like they’ve not really done before. Their stomachs are damp and tacky and the hardwood is chilled and must be uncomfortable against Sherlock’s sharp shoulder blades. Still, neither seem willing to move.

 

John rests his head against Sherlock’s chest, hears his heart beating hollowly in the ribbed space that houses it. John wants to curl up just there.

“Don’t die,” John whispers, even if it’s out of place to say, even if it’s admitting too much. “Please don’t leave.” He wonders if Dad held onto his mother, much the same, pleading with her to stay.

Sherlock keeps silent, holding John until the shaking stops, until all that’s left is the heart. The delicate throb of it.

---

Sex hasn’t changed their constant squabbles, if some ridiculous argument doesn’t occur before sundown then Sherlock is either ill, or nowhere to be found.

It’s refreshing, actually. There’s no need to silently endure oppositions or pet peeves. John still swears at Sherlock for not washing his toothpaste spit down the drain, allowing it to dry chalky and blue against the white porcelain of the sink. Sherlock manipulates John into doing chores that don’t belong to him. Sherlock gets gratifyingly jealous when girls call John and ask if he wants to come to their parties, study groups, over to their houses “just to hang out.”

 

John is having a bit of a time getting a still-interested ex-girlfriend off the line. Sherlock sulks while John talks and occasionally laughs, because Laura always was funny. He paces the room, bouncing a squash ball off the floor, turning it over in his palm, tossing it again. Laura says something about meeting at the cafe on Sunday. John chokes on his response when suddenly Sherlock comes to stand in front of him, only to slide gracefully to his knees with a sigh. He unbuttons John’s trousers, unzips them, looking deliberately from underneath his lashes.

 

John stares and Sherlock stops. Won’t move until John tries to pick up his place in the conversation. As long as John is talking, Sherlock will touch him. Mostly John says, “Right, yeah, God yeah,” and he isn’t really agreeing with Laura’s position on why a mutual friend should or should not be dating whomever. Sherlock tugs down John’s pants, mouths greedily up the side of his prick. Pink tongue formed into a little cup to lick at the glans. John stutters and falls silent, Sherlock pulls his head back, examines his fingernails where he holds John’s cock.

The utter ,wanker.

 

John breathes heavily and lets his head fall against the wall in exasperation, commenting generically and sporadically since he has no idea what Laura is going on about at this point. Then, in an extremely pornographic manner, Sherlock takes the plump head of John’s cock into his mouth. He bobs his head a few times, taking John in just past the ridge of the corona. Pulling back and smears his reddened lips against the slit, glossy with saliva and precome. John watches as Sherlock sucks on his bottom lip.

 

Just because Sherlock, up until this point, has never had a cock in his mouth, doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with his technique.

Laura asks John about football. Or maybe a literature assignment. No idea.

 

John says, “I uh--” and Sherlock continues to kiss slowly up the length of him, nuzzling at the slope of his pelvis and over John’s hip. “What?” Sherlock bites down over the hollow past John’s iliac crest, enough to sting. John feels the slick hint of the tip of Sherlock’s tongue licking softly at the pinched skin.

“John, are you even listening to me?”

 

“Sorry,” John tries not pant, Sherlock bends again to mouth at the tip, pulling away to ghost a puff of cool air over the damp head but not moving any further than that. Lips pursed into a heart. “Got distracted by..” Sherlock’s mouth latches on, able to accommodate John halfway, and begins to suck, tongue moving maddeningly against foreskin and fraenulum as he bobs once, twice, then lets John slip nearly completely out of his mouth because he’s stopped talking. Again.

If John were a pushier person, he would grab Sherlock by the curls and--

Fuck. The mental image of fucking Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth…

John bites back a groan and asks Laura about her recent break-up, which is obviously the reason she called John at all. It wouldn’t be the first time she or John propositioned each other for a rebound shag. She knows it. John knows it. Sherlock knows it because he narrows his pale eyes, and John would laugh at the sullen expression if he could, but then he’s being sucked again. Everything is soft and wet, hot and slick, and no one should be allowed to look that sexy while on their knees, giving head. It’s just not fair. John mmhmm, mhmm’s at Laura so that Sherlock will keep his mouth moving. John cups the back of Sherlock’s neck and tries so hard not to push.

 

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, like he’s just so content to have a mouthful of John’s cock. He occasionally makes little choking noises when John can’t help but thrust forward a little, and John feels guilty because he likes that a lot. Sherlock speeds up when John has to hold the receiver away from his mouth so he can pant ah ah and then lets out a breathless, “Keep going,” and Laura thinks he means her and she prattles on.

 

The hot clutch of Sherlock’s mouth is divine, and John begins to tip over into orgasm when he notices that Sherlock is squirming against his own hand down his pants. John presses some of his weight against the wall and thrusts his shin out a bit, his foot, so that he can feel Sherlock rub hard up against him.

John swears and says, “You’re so bloody gorgeous.”
Laura gives a high, musical laugh and says, “Well.. thank you.”

 

Sherlock hums, wraps his arm around John’s leg, hips shivering. Mouth going loose where he’s been sucking, pulling away until it’s just the tip, body tremulous like it always is when Sherlock comes. Fighting hard not to arch and thrash about, the sharp ridge of tooth can be felt as Sherlock fights his body’s response. It tickles. It makes John hang up on Laura and throw the mobile off somewhere, anywhere, it doesn’t matter.

“Jesus fuck,” John gasps, “Oh, oh,” and Sherlock’s breath evens out and he looks up at John. He crawls up his leg a bit and buries his nose in John’s stomach, kisses through the cotton. Shudders again as he adjusts his trousers. He rocks back down, arse resting on his heels. He opens his mouth and waits. John’s eyes squeeze shut and he takes Sherlock by the nape and applies pressure until he can feel the firm press of Sherlock’s tongue.

“Yeah,” John reassures needlessly, “That’s it, that’s it,” when Sherlock moves his head and swirls his tongue, pops off with an obscene noise, then sucks John back down. John doesn’t push hard, absently feels his hips lifting off the wall to selfishly cram more of himself into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock gags and John immediately reels himself back, but Sherlock won’t seem to have it. He grabs John’s hips and holds him still as he tries to swallow around him, and it’s enough. More than enough.

“Oh fuck,” John grits out, thrusts inward a little more, “I can hear you choking,” and Sherlock makes that noise again and John exhales too loudly and fucks Sherlock’s mouth in three sharp thrusts before he’s tipped over into orgasm. Most of the come goes into Sherlock’s mouth, down his throat, before John has to pull out and see the last pulses dribble across Sherlock’s lips, and chin.

Sherlock licks around his reddened mouth, tilts his head and laps at John’s oversensitive flesh, cleaning him off. John twitches and can’t breathe right, Sherlock pulls his pants back up over John’s hips, adjusts and re-fastens his trousers. John stays exactly where he is and watches Sherlock strip off his own trousers and soaked pants, showing off the perfect skin of his flanks and lower back, his long legs. He tosses them in a corner and slips into running bottoms before walking back over to where John is propped up by a wall.

 

Sherlock barricades him in with his arms, leans in to whisper in John’s ear. “Has Laura Higgins done that with you? Hm? Exactly like that. Has she gagged trying to suck you? Let you come in her mouth, on it?”

Well. Only in the technical sense. He’d tried to tell her, twice. I’m going to come can really only mean one thing when receiving a blow job. Laura prefers to pull a bloke through orgasm, which is completely understandable. She’d stayed on a moment too long and John gasped and pulled up on her hair to dislodge her, but came spilling across her tongue. She reared back in surprise and the rest ended up on her face and blouse and she was none too pleased.

 

“I know what she was really asking you over for,” Sherlock states, nipping at John’s ear. “Don’t mistake my inexperience in these types of relationships for ignorance.”

“Wasn’t going to go out with her,” John runs his hands up Sherlock’s chest, over the wiry muscle of his biceps, smoothing down his waist. Trim, and lithe, but unmistakably masculine. It sends thrills through John, for reasons he can’t fathom.

 

“You were flirting with her though,” Sherlock says icily, John shakes his head, “Yes, you were, you flirt with everyone. Girls. Even other boys, sometimes. Although I’m not sure if you realise it.”

“Don’t want everyone,” John murmurs, trying to angle his chin up for a kiss and Sherlock evades.

“Good, because they’re idiots. Now when Laura goes to chat you up, you’ll remember having me on my knees. Were you as sexually possessive with them as you are with me? Doubtful. You’re too busy playing nice, nice boys don’t suck bruises onto the girlfriends. They don’t fuck their throats and come on their mouths without asking first.”

“Sherlock--” John says breathlessly, straining toward his lips. Sherlock brings his mouth close, only to pull back just enough to where John can’t reach.

“Did your girlfriends like it when you marked them up? Because I prefer it, actually,” and Sherlock breaks into one of his recitations, voice deepening, John can barely keep up because Sherlock is speaking so quickly. Sherlock is utterly perfect when he does it, John can’t keep his eyes off him.

“Nice John Watson is boring, no one else knows what you’re like when you drop the pretense. Admittedly, my knowledge in sexuality is more studied than practiced, but it’s not difficult to sort out how you want me. You’d have me any number of ways; tied down, begging, you’d like to hurt me.”

John’s breath goes ragged all over again.

“Nothing extreme, nothing that would actually damage me, just enough to make me squirm. Enough to turn my brain off for awhile. I want that too, John.”

Sherlock looks John in the eyes, states plainly, “I’m the only person you’re fucking,” and it sounds like a promise.

 

They’d never given terms to the relationship of course, but John never considered anything other than monogamy. “Of course you are,” John kisses his throat because it’s right there in front of his mouth, right fucking there, and John mouth feels empty and he wants to suck at the skin where his pulse flutters. He won’t though. Settles for kiss-bite-licks that leave sensitive skin faintly pink. “Are you coming to my room after dark?”

“Nope,” Sherlock pops the ‘p’ like he always does.

John’s heart sinks like a stone, “I swear Sherlock, I wasn’t going to go on a date or anything with Laura. I don’t even notice I’m flirting. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that,” Sherlock says dismissively, and John feels more hopeful. “Your room is cold. Mine isn’t. Our parents will be asleep at approximately half ten, Harry around eleven, give or take a quarter hour. Avoid opening the door past a forty degree angle because the hinges creak and Mummy is a light sleeper.”

“I--” John commits the random string of precautionary information to memory and smiles at how Sherlock has worked it down to a bit of science, “Or you could come to my room. You still have my socks to keep you warmed up.” John’s heart quickens at the memory, long-socked legs spun about him.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitches in acknowledgment, “I’ll wear your socks regardless. You have strange kinks, John.”

John laughs and finally Sherlock gives in and kisses him.

---

“I’m going to London for holiday,” Sherlock tells John that night. The house is dark and John snuck into Sherlock’s room when he was sure no one would hear the creak of his feet landing against the flooring. Sherlock’s curled around John like a comma, their legs are tangled up. Bare skin against cotton. A gale rolled in later in the evening, lightning flashes through the room, lighting up the pale flesh of Sherlock’s hands over John’s ruddier complexion. Wiry branches from the crab apple tree swipe shrilly against the window.

“Oh,” John murmurs, “That’ll be...nice.” If by ‘nice’ one means ‘awful,’ the idea of being separated, even for the span of a week, leaves a bitter taste in John’s mouth.

“You could...um.” Sherlock shifts around John and mumbles something into his back.

“What’s that?” John asks.

“If you wanted to, you could come with me,” Sherlock suggests, trying to sound unimpressed by it and failing. “If you wanted.”

 

John’s fingers circle around Sherlock’s wrist, petting the underside with his thumb. “Do you want that?” He smiles, wanting badly to hear Sherlock admit that he does.

“I--” Sherlock pauses and huffs, falling silent for a moment. “Yes,” he says quietly, against John’s shoulder.

“I’d like that. I haven’t been there since..” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but John thinks Sherlock must know anyway because he kisses up his spine, flowering sweet bites and licks to his nape. Then something occurs to John. “Uh.. Sherlock. Where would we stay.”

“Mycroft’s flat, of course.”

John turns abruptly over to face Sherlock, “You’re joking, right? He’ll know Sherlock. Your brother is.. He’s..”

“He knows already, John. Since that night. You must remember, you practically attacked me.”

“Did not.”

“Mmmh, yes.”

 

John laughs breathily, because yeah. He did. “But he thinks you called it off.”

“Yessss,” Sherlock drawls, nibbling along John’s jawline. “So?”

“So, he’s even more observant than you,” John points out. Sherlock scoffs indignantly. “He’ll know.”

“Yes, I expect so,” Sherlock says lazily, using his tongue to trace John’s bottom lip. It takes a good bit of self-control not to roll Sherlock over and just… just.

 

“Ugh, Sherlock,” John groans quietly and pushes back so he can see Sherlock’s face. Lit up by the blue glow of his digital alarm, the brilliant flashes of electricity. The thunder follows moments later, it sounds like the sky is being cracked open. Sherlock’s eyes like they always are, open and calculating, curious and feral and brutal and gentle. A human built out of opposites and extremes. “Aren’t you worried about… I dunno. That he might tell your Mum that you’re in London getting shagged by your step-brother while your actual brother is down the hall?”

 

“How presumptuous, John,” Sherlock says with mock seriousness, John can see the mischievous glint in his eyes. “No, Mycroft wouldn’t. He’ll disapprove of course, for decorum’s sake, but he’d never break confidences with me. Unless he has something to gain from it, which he doesn’t. Mycroft does so hate to upset our mother. Besides, I know plenty of his secrets. One’s I’m sure he’d rather Mummy not sort out. It’d turn into a constant loop of blackmail. Mycroft has more pressing issues than to expose the improprietous affair of his baby brother and step-brother.”

 

John’s nerves are somewhat assuaged by Sherlock’s confidence on the matter. He leans back toward him and Sherlock sighs happily against John’s lips as they kiss. It really is wonderful to kiss him. Soft. Sherlock has gotten quite good at it, has a tendency to bite unpredictably, and John has to fight him from taking over every single time. It’s the most fun John has ever had snogging anyone.

“All right,” John says when they begin to take off each other’s clothes, when their hips press together, when they slide against one another. Sherlock’s socked leg over John’s hip. His fingers are already trembling against John’s shoulders as he moves. “All right, let’s go to London.”

 

Sherlock hums, closes his eyes as his mouth falls open against John’s lips.

 

They fuck into each other’s fists, John crawls over Sherlock when he’s close. Pushes his legs up and presses the wet head of his cock against Sherlock’s arse, glides over the spot again and again until he can slip inside, dipped shallowly enough that it won’t hurt him, but when he comes, John does it inside of Sherlock. Biting his lips while he has to restrain from shoving in completely to fuck him hard through it.

Sherlock gasps at the feeling, starts trembling in earnest. John doesn’t even have time to take Sherlock in his mouth. There’s the bright strobe of lightning, and the amazing sound of Sherlock coming is timed perfectly with the resonant peal of thunder.

Chapter Text

My beta, christyimnotred for sorting through this long ass chapter.  And congrats to her for recently defending her master thesis!

 

---

 

 

 

 

Sherlock drums his fingers impatiently against the window, they haven’t even made it out of the countryside yet and already he’s grown aggravating and impatient.

Thrumpthrumpthrump goes Sherlock’s fingers. John looks up from his book and frowns at the dark headed thing in front of him.
Thrumpthrumpthrump

 

“That’s not going to make the train go any faster,” John tells him, flipping to the next page.

“Why must everything take so much time,” Sherlock whinges. John stifles a smile.

“I don’t know, maybe if you complain some more you’ll change the laws of existence.”

 

Sherlock huffs, twitching fingers switching from glass, to his leg, the thrumming grows softer against his denim. “I want my violin.”

“Can’t. It’s been stowed. Besides, I don’t think they allow for impromptu serenades, so..”

“They ought to. I play well enough,” Sherlock says, needlessly offended. “You like it.”

“Yes, I do.” John really really does. John has seen very few things more beautiful than Sherlock engrossed in the lilt of his ministrations, fingers effortlessly caressing the instrument into song.

 

“I need something, John,” Sherlock’s head flops back against the seat and he slumps miserably, “I’m bored. God, I’m so bored.”

John looks around in exasperation, gesturing at the passengers surrounding them. “And just what do you expect me to do, hm? Should I have brought you a colouring book? Maybe the old man a few rows up will let you borrow his Sudoku puzzle.”

Sherlock looks down at John’s hands, grins mischievously.

“Absolutely not,” John puts an immediate end to that line of thought before Sherlock can even state his case as to why it’s a good idea, “I’m not wanking you in the middle of all of these people.” John is sure to whisper. Not taking that risk, one of the professors in Violet’s department boarded the train and is seated two rows back.

Sherlock sulks and takes up thrumming his fingers against the glass again, this time his leg bounces with it, practically exploding with unspent energy. Within the first hour of boarding, Sherlock has already made deductions regarding anyone in their line of sight, so that option for entertainment is right out.

“Show off for me,” John requested, holding his book splayed open in front of their faces and quickly kissing Sherlock, licking their tongues together once before having to pull away.

The next five minutes were spent watching Sherlock slip into his element. By the end, John knew of the newlyweds, already struggling financially, on their way to visit the wife’s wealthy aunt in hopes of securing a deposit for a flat.

A lawyer’s personal accountant, embezzling funds, and making her escape before she’s discovered.

Um, you sure? Shouldn’t someone know a thing like that? John had asked. Sherlock shrugged and said, “He’s sexually harassing her and pays her less than she’s worth. Why shouldn’t she rob him blind.” John couldn’t really disagree.

Football player in the third row, recovering from surgery on his ACL.

Single mother with at least two, no, three, children. In transit to retrieve them from their grandmother’s where they’ve vacationed during winter because she worked offshore.

The middle-aged man, an over-confident car salesman, chatting up the younger woman, and getting absolutely nowhere. (Although John could tell that one just by looking as well.)

 

Sherlock spouting off in his uninterrupted streams of information, truly confident and brilliant, just ridiculously sexy.

When Sherlock finished, John thrust the book in front of them again, snogging him quickly, but thoroughly in the way Sherlock should always be kissed.

He pulled back before lying the book down, said, “I would fuck you through your seat,” and resettled in time to watch Sherlock flush and pupils dilate in such a satisfying way.

 

Thrumpthrumpthrumpthrump “John,” thrumpthrump “Ugh, John.”

“Relax, enjoy the scenery. Look at--” John leans over to glance out the window and frowns, “--the cows.” Just cows, and pastures still turned dull from winter. Wild daffodils spring up in thick patches here and there, bringing relief to the flatness, fat calves lying amongst the buttery yellow bells.

He really ought to have brought a colouring book for Sherlock. Maybe they make one for geniuses. Colour the covalent bonds! Perhaps not.

 

Sherlock snarls at the cows, “They’re just cows, lazy, boring creatures,” like it’s just so very unfair, and the cows have done this to Sherlock on a personal vendetta to upset him. “Why don’t they do something other than graze and emit methane.” Sherlock says loudly, gives the poor, unsuspecting cattle, the two finger salute. A few people turn around and stare in alarm, before turning their attention back to their books and mobiles and travel mates.

 

For a minute John wishes Harry had come with them after all. It very nearly happened. Whenever John had asked if he could go to London with Sherlock, she immediately tried to insinuate herself into the trip as well. Under any other circumstances John would have been fine to drag Harry along, but this particular instance.. not so much. John had been looking forward to being as alone with Sherlock as he could get, not having to worry every minute that they’d be found out and the roof would inevitably cave in as the result. Sherlock seemed completely confident that Mycroft would sort it out immediately, but would keep their secret. That was good enough for John.

At the last minute Sherise Thompson, Harry’s current best friend, asked if she wanted to go with their group to Hamburg for a music festival. Harry jumped at the opportunity, although it took some begging for Dad to allow it.

 

“Don’t go to Reeperbahn. I’m not coming to bail you out if you’re caught passed out in the bloody red light district.” Dad told her.

To John, Dad said, “I’m glad you two are getting along a bit better, and Sherlock is a smart young man, like you, but…” John cocked his head, eyes narrowing defensively before realising it. Dad swallowed, “Sherlock just has a sort of way about him, which is fine. For him. I’d rather you not pick up on it, though.” He finished, chin tipping up. Since the fight at school, and the subsequent outburst of John versus Dad and Violet, the relationships have been tentative. Everyone tiptoeing, choosing their words carefully.

John chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything that would immediately give them away. Instead he opted for a strained, “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Eventually, John will tell Harry, when he’s ready. He’ll tell her first, maybe in a few months, after exams and John gets accepted into university. Shagging a step-sibling is one thing, but being a bloke, shagging your step-sibling who also happens to be a bloke, adds another layer to “that thing.” Harry already asked why John hasn’t been bringing girls around lately. She always seems to enjoy having them over, and has stayed friends with a couple of John’s exes long after they’ve broken up.

 

Sherlock’s head tilts slowly, declines until it’s resting on John’s shoulder. John looks back to Violet’s fellow professor and potential whistleblower. The man’s neck is crooked at an awkward angle, white bearded chin vibrating as he snores. John sighs in relief, turns and buries his nose in the soft mess of clean-smelling curls, lays a quick kiss against the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Tell me about London,” John says, even though he’s been before. Seen it with his own eyes, but that hardly matters. Sherlock sees everything differently, and John plays with the cold ends of Sherlock’s fingertips as he begins to speak.

He doesn’t tell John about museums or high rise buildings, not about lovely gardens, or famous restaurants. Instead, Sherlock describes the cover of fog on summer mornings. Men and women who have drowned themselves, or been drowned in the freezing Thames. He tells John about full English breakfast in a cafe John has never heard before, where the dogs dig for trash in bins out back. The gritty alley, where Sherlock got lost when he was eleven, snuck out thinking he could explore alone, and found himself witnessing a man being beaten for his money. Sherlock could look up and see the stars because it was so dark. Sherlock sounds wistful, John can hear him wishing for the constant noise and information and energy of the city. Sherlock speaks and speaks about rooftops and shortcuts and rows of flats lined up, empty and waiting.

“I’ll live there one day,” he says. John nods, yearning for it too.

---

“How does he afford this flat? He’s barely turned twenty-five.” John asks when Sherlock produces a key from his pocket and slots it into the lock. Mycroft’s flat is located in De Vere Gardens, John looks up toward wrought iron terraces, classic architecture, some windows have the curtains pulled away, showing the opulent furniture just inside.

Sherlock shrugs, uninterested in the financial matters of the well-to-do. “Various factions and businesses have been competing for Mycroft’s attentions since fifth form. This was probably part of an incentive package.”

“I thought he had an internship with Parliament?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock turns the key and John hears the bolt give, “They aren’t exclusive though, Mycroft isn’t above lucrative freelance opportunities.”

“Uh.. what sort of work does he do?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows in thought before he shrugs again, “Haven’t the faintest.”

Right.

 

Mycroft knows as soon as they let themselves through the front door. John with an armful of luggage, his and Sherlock’s both, since Sherlock couldn’t be arsed. Mycroft glances up from where he’s studying documents at a rather expensive looking circular table, gives them both a once-over and looks back down with a heavy sigh.

 

“You’re both idiots, this can’t possibly end well,” he says, sounding bored to tears by it already. John’s mouth gapes. Sherlock strokes an index finger under his jaw and John manages to shut his mouth, teeth clicking, then grinding.

“I see your trip went well,” Sherlock says in a nasally, higher pitched voice, “Yes Mycroft, very well. I managed not to be expelled from the train during the stop in Leeds this time.” Sherlock wanders off toward the table where Mycroft shuffles texts about, and sits heavily in the chair across from him.

“When my little brother should decide to experiment with romantic attachments” the word is practically sneered, “Trust him to engage in one as dynamically convoluted as possible.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Sherlock says lazily, reaching into the crystal bowl placed in the middle of the table, he plucks out an apple and begins twisting off the stem.

“Whatever would Mummy say,” Mycroft ponders with nonchalance. John looks at Sherlock, feeling alarm in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps Sherlock was overconfident that Mycroft would keep their secret.

Sherlock rolls the glossy, red apple between his palms, “I do wonder, sometimes. She’d probably be quite bothered. It might would anger her as much to know that you’ve hired at least three of your own to keep surveillance on her new husband, and persist in monitoring all of their post correspondences. There’s also the phone tap, and the security cameras..”

John coughs loudly. What??

“And speaking of inappropriate relationships, perhaps she’d like to know why the boyfriend prior to Nathan Watson decided to call it quits two months in and moved to Kensington to be “closer to family,” even though he doesn’t have any in the area. Is that actually his wallet on the bench? He did seem have a penchant for Italian calfskin.” John’s mouth gapes all over again.

“You two no longer are exclusive, not necessarily because of the age difference, more to do with the fact that you’re smarter and more successful than he is, and at a younger age. He felt emasculated. James always did have a pathological superiority complex. You still sleep with each other sometimes, out of convenience.” Sherlock shudders and makes a face.

“Sherlock..” Mycroft warns dangerously. “That is none of your--”

“You really ought to lose him altogether. He’s an imbecile. As much I loathe to add to your own feelings of superiority, you really could do much better yourself.”

That was actually, for Sherlock, quite a lovely compliment. John looks between the brothers who sit silently now across from one another.

Mycroft blinks hard, once, at Sherlock. It’s the only admission the man seems willing to give on the matter. He takes a deep breath.

 

“John,” Mycroft looks up and John realises he’s still postured at the front door, laden like a pack horse. “The guest bed is down the hall, first door to the right. I’ve turned your room into another office, Sherlock. You’re upstairs now.” Mycroft’s eyes narrow and his gaze drifts between his brother and John.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “John, just leave my bag in your room.” John’s cheeks burn when Mycroft’s eyes flare in realisation.

“I uh…” John says helplessly, wanting very much to laugh at the tension. but what else is there to do?

 

“My flat is not the threshold of your sexual awakening, Sherlock,” Mycroft says with mock patience.

“Are you really trying to protect my virtue, because really--”

“All right!” John calls out just as Mycroft begins to issue a response, they’ve not been through the door five minutes and he’s already had enough of the Holmes brothers. “Stop it, you two. I’m in the room, actually. Over here, hi!” Mycroft and Sherlock’s faces snap toward John. “Sherlock, stop goading your brother.”

“But he--” Sherlock tries.

“It’s his flat, I’ll put your things upstairs.” Sherlock will just sneak down anyway, or vice versa, Mycroft must realise this. It would take an act of Parliament to keep John out of Sherlock’s pants over the next few days. Mycroft still looks smugly back at his brother.

 

“I’ll install exterior locks on your door,” John overhears Mycroft whisper to Sherlock as he begins down the hall.

“You’re just giving him more incentive, Mycroft,” John calls out and turns around to level a look back at them both. Mycroft’s chin tips up as he runs an appraising eye over John, seems to find something there, (John doesn’t know what,) and then sits back into his seat. Papers are straightened, a few handed over to Sherlock who looks at them with little interest.

 

“Fine, save yourself the trouble of going upstairs John, deposit all the luggage in your room,” Mycroft regretfully instructs. Sherlock smiles victoriously. John’s heart beats wildly at the thought of keeping Sherlock all night without one of them needing to set an alarm in order to retreat back to their own room before dawn. John nods and begins down the hall.

 

“But if I hear anything,” Mycroft continues, “You’re both on the first train back to the Dales, understood?”

“Crystal clear, brother mine!” Sherlock says enthusiastically, bounding out of his seat, walking over a coffee table, then down the hall to follow on John’s heels.

“Be ready for dinner in two hours, have a wash. You both smell like public transit,” Mycroft calls after them, then mutters something unintelligible under his breath before Sherlock opens the door to the room and pushes it shut.

 

John immediately drops their luggage, his and Sherlock’s dinner suits zipped up in the dressing bag, and begins pushing Sherlock toward the bed. Sherlock ducks from John’s arms long enough to fetch the crumbled bag and hang it in the empty wardrobe, and then he’s on John again, walking them back. They topple gracelessly over the quilted, beige duvet.

 

John twists them over, writhes lazily underneath Sherlock, spread across the bed. Just kissing, mostly, some groping involved. John has his hands sliding up underneath Sherlock’s shirt, scraping blunt nails between shoulder blades, down to the small of his back. Sherlock worries the skin behind the hinge of John’s jaw.

“Need to have a bath,” John murmurs when Sherlock’s hips take a decided interest in forward motion, “Mycroft said dinner.”

“You ate something from the trolley,” Sherlock points out, sitting up and straddling John’s hips. John rubs his thighs, thumbs skirting teasingly along the inseam.

“I ate a soggy ham sandwich,” John tries to resist the urge to take Sherlock by the hipbones and assist in his ongoing grinding effort.

“Precisely,” Sherlock falls forward a bit, the white pillars of his arms straightened alongside John’s head.

“I’m so bloody hungry,” John says between clenched teeth when Sherlock undulates, bum creating lovely friction over the bulge of John’s trousers. “Not everyone exists off of tea and the occasional leftover take away.” Before Sherlock can rub against him again, John drags him down by the collar, kisses him quickly and says, “Get in the shower.”

“Get in there with me,” Sherlock suggests. It’s a brilliant suggestion, really one of Sherlock’s best. Unfortunately.

“I’ll fuck you if I do,” John’s hands come up to hug around Sherlock’s waist. “Two hours, not enough time, the way it takes you to get ready. Plus your brother is awake, and down the hall, and it probably wouldn’t be on for him to see me following his baby brother into the loo for a shag. At least not within the first hour we’re here. Bit rude.”

“I’ll tell Mycroft to cancel dinner reservations, we’ll order Thai, then you won’t have to go anywhere. You can shag me right here and Mycroft will--”

“--Most certainly know,” John finishes for him. “Go get in the shower, he went through the effort of making the damn reservations. We have three more days to sneak around and avoid him, then. He’s your brother, you haven’t seen each other in a few months, he wants to have dinner with you. Us. Mostly you, though, I imagine.”

Sherlock groans and slowly lifts himself away from John, crawling off of his body, “I’m sure he’s picked somewhere expensive and pretentious and French. He’ll of course make you uncomfortable when he insists on paying for us both, even though you’ll insist otherwise.”

John shrugs, because it’s not so bad if he knows now what to expect when the time comes. He’ll just let the man pay if that’s what he wants.

 

Sherlock begins dropping clothes, shirt tugged up over his head and thrown toward John, curls bouncing back into place. “And I don’t take a long time to get ready,” he says petulantly. John looks over his long body, the Venusian dimples sitting low and enticing on his back. John must inhale deeply and look away.

“Yeah, you do,” John reaches over to the bedside table, grabs a magazine with sailboat floating on top of cerulean seawater. Foamy white spray is sent skyward as the contoured boat slices triumphantly through unbroken swells. John grimaces at it, Mycroft doesn’t seem the sailing type. Sherlock smiles before leaving the room and John’s stomach still flips like he’s not ever seen it before.

---

Dinner is everything Sherlock predicted, John can’t even read the menu because unlike a bloody Holmes, John isn’t fluent in French. Sherlock tells Mycroft he’s put on at least nine pounds since he’d last seen him, Mycroft tells Sherlock his French is accented poorly and he conjugates like a toddler, and John tells them both to shut up and order him something edible because what’s Langue de boeuf anyway?

 

Apparently it’s beef tongue and it arrives cut up in four portions with some sort of plum sauce and a bed of spinach. John looks at it helplessly while Sherlock picks disinterestedly at his ratatouille. Even though the stuff is tender and seasoned perfectly, John’s brain unhelpfully, and continuously reiterates the fact that John is eating a cow’s tongue. A tongue. John runs his own against the points of his teeth, sympathetically.

By the end of dinner Sherlock is deducing which servers washed their hands after a trip to the loo, Mycroft is hissing at him to keep his voice down when patrons begin turning around, and John attempts to hide the plate of Langue de boeuf under his downturned napkin.

The best part about the ordeal is watching Sherlock sitting with his perfect posture, dressed impeccably in his suit. The white silk of his shirt stretches pleasantly over his chest, the tails tucked into his trousers and accentuating his trim waist. John would love to tug that shirt up, unbutton each button and push it over his shoulders so it could all fall to the floor with a whisper.

Mycroft catches John staring, twice, and rolls his eyes both times.

 

They’re given a ride back to De Vere Gardens in one of Mycroft’s black cars, and the driver doesn’t say a word even though John tries and tries to get him to talk about football, then the weather. Anything to cut through the brothers’ snarky banter. The man never says a word and keeps his eyes forward, John might as well be a mosquito buzzing about in his ear.

 

They reach the flat and Sherlock wanders off while Mycroft is mid-sentence, and shuts himself off in the bathroom. John and Mycroft both stare after him, hearing the sink water start up a few moments later.

 

“The basket on top of the bench, third shelf up in the refrigerator,” Mycroft informs.

“Pardon?”

The bathroom door is opened and shut, followed by the door to their bedroom.

“Bread, and all the dressings for a sandwich. Feel free to search the contents of the kitchen if you’d rather something else. You ought to be starving by now.”

 

John considers lying, not wanting to seem ungrateful for Mycroft having gone through the trouble of treating them to dinner. He decides against it, undoubtedly Mycroft will discern the lie and otherwise, he doesn’t seem the type to concern himself with platitudes. John smiles and nods instead, says, “Thank you.”

“I have some business calls to make to some associates abroad, sleep well, John,” Mycroft turns and begins unbuttoning the olive coloured, moleskin waistcoat, slips it off and drapes it over his arm as John sets off toward the kitchen.

“He’s pleased to see you, you know,” John calls after the elder Holmes.

Mycroft turns, a thin smile tipping up one side of his mouth, eyebrow raised, “Oh?”

“I have a sister, I know what it’s like.”

“Sherlock doesn’t adhere to the context of typical sibling relationships,” he gives John a once-over and sighs, “Obviously.”

John doesn’t let that bother him.

 

“John,” Mycroft rolls up his cuffs and comes to stand in front of John, he looks down his nose at him. Analytical and critical in a way that Mycroft probably can’t help but be, “Excuse my being ineloquent, but as Sherlock’s brother, and the closest thing he has now to a father figure, there’s a bit of an obligatory conversation we need to have.”

John frown, blinks and shifts on his feet in preparation.

“I won’t bother telling you that Sherlock has an extraordinary mind. My brother is capable of great depth, though I am sure he’d be first to deny that. Mummy did have him tested after all.”

“Tested?”

“Nothing I’m sure hasn’t crossed your mind before. Sociopathic tendencies, officially. I think we can both agree that the diagnosis is inaccurate. Sherlock does not see the world through rose-coloured lenses, much like yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I know there’s nothing wrong with it,” John returns. Mycroft shrugs.

“Sherlock simply lacks discretion and the desire to utilise his verbal filter.”

“I sorted that bit out for myself within the first five minutes of meeting him. What’s your point?” John asks, frustration beginning to ebb into his voice.

“It’s not something I foresee changing. You shouldn’t expect too much from him.”

“I don’t want to change him,” John says quickly, forcefully. Mycroft simply looks on, not Sherlock’s poker face, but something more complicated. A different layer of observation deliberately shown in order to make John sweat.

 

“He could be anything he sets his mind to. I’m already creating space for him within my line of work, in fact. He only need hone his skills. Although, you do present a distraction.”

John tilts his head, a thin smile begins to spread defensively. “You ought to let him make his own decisions.”

Mycroft laughs indulgently, “I simply wish to see him reach his full potential. Not squander his time and energy on an adolescent infatuation.”

John’s face lights in sudden understanding, “Ooohh, I see what this is. You don’t think I’m good enough for him. You think I’ll hold him back. His step-brother after all, people might talk. Can’t be good for his reputation, or yours for that matter. Son of a former secondary school teacher gone small town uni literature professor. A dead mum to top it off at that,” John says bitterly.

“I wasn’t disparaging your--”

“Yeah, you were. I’m not brilliant the way you or Sherlock are, but I’m not an idiot either.”

“This isn’t about anything as tedious as social classification.”

John folds his arms over his chest and waits, wanting very much to leave the room in the same flippant manner Sherlock had done.

“Please forgive me if I’ve offended you,” Mycroft says airily, the intonation of a man unaccustomed to apologies. That too, is familiar. “You must understand that Sherlock is my responsibility, and--”

“You’ll smother him, like this, you will. If you’re anything with him the way you’re being with me right now, you’ll drive him straight off. You can’t assume you know what’s best for him, let him figure some things out on his own.”

 

“I don’t wish to see him..” Mycroft casts his gaze down, examine his fingernails absently, “..damaged.”

Now that is something John can understand.

“I’m not here to hurt him.”

 

Mycroft studies John for a long moment before pushing away from where he was leaned against the bar, “No,” he murmurs, looking at his watch, “No, I suppose you’re not.” He begins to head in the direction of what must be either his room or an office, “Please see to it that it remains that way.” Mycroft can’t seem to help but add, and John rolls his eyes at the poorly concealed implications.

 

John’s stomach begins protesting loudly at its emptiness, and John hurriedly throws together a sandwich made of cold cuts and a smear of mustard. He eats it too fast and darts to the bathroom to brush his teeth, hoping Sherlock will still be awake.

 

John opens the door, and no. Sherlock is curled up on the bed, a pillow hugged to his belly, still completely dressed in his suit, sans the jacket. John smiles at the sight of Sherlock soft and vulnerable, twitching restlessly because his energy keeps winding even when he’s passed out. John shucks off his clothes, slips into his flannel pyjama bottoms and crawls over to Sherlock, presses lightly at his shoulder to roll him over.

 

Sherlock grunts in his sleep, but goes with John’s hand. John works off the shoes, the black socks, watches Sherlock wriggle his long toes. He undresses Sherlock as gently as possible, trying not to wake him, has a bit of time getting his trousers over the swell of his arse, but he keeps at it until they slip free. John gets lost in the methodical process of slipping white buttons through their slots. Sherlock doesn’t wear vests underneath his shirts usually, originally John assumed he couldn’t be bothered to take the time to take on and strip off an extra layer. He knows now that it has more to do with skin sensitivity. John caught sight of it early in the winter when the weather necessitated the warmth of an undershirt. Sherlock had slipped off his school button up after entering his room for tutoring, the vest came off next. John frowned when he saw the rosy red line of chafing around his neck and shoulders.

John had watched him undress from the waist up at that time, and didn’t really think anything of it. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the white skin stretching over ribs, the tempting dip of his belly button, the prominent jut of collarbone that John can’t keep his mouth off of. John bends now and kisses the hollow above the bone as tenderly as possible. Undoes the cuffs of his sleeves, tugging slowly until the shirt bunches up against Sherlock’s lower back. John slides the thing free and hangs it back up, just in case.

Sherlock is lying on top of the duvet so John fetches a wool blanket he finds at the top of the wardrobe and climbs into bed. He eases away the pillow Sherlock has taken up cuddling with, and replaces it with his own body, bringing the blanket over them both.

Sherlock sighs, his breath sweet and warm against the nape of John’s neck. Even in his sleep, Sherlock curls possessively around John’s body, weaving legs and arms and fingers together. Sherlock’s body blazes with its natural heat and John has to pull the blanket away from his shoulders.

He settles and drifts, contented. The gentle hums of Sherlock’s exhales follow John down into sleep.

---

They wake up early, or more like Sherlock wakes up early and is sure to make as much noise as possible in order to wake John up as well.

God, but the bed is so comfortable, “Five more minutes,” John pleads, his voice muffled by his pillow since he’s used it to put over his face to block out the light.

Sherlock makes an impatient noise, dimly John feels the dip of the bed, then, “Shit.” John gasps as Sherlock stuffs his hand inelegantly down John’s pants, wraps his own sleep-damp fingers around John’s morning hardness, and strokes at him. He can feel Sherlock’s fingers curl under the band of his bottoms and the seductive burst of centrally heated air against skin as they’re tugged downward. John keeps still, breathing rapidly, then feels the first slick hint of a tongue lapping over the tip of his cock.

John throws off the pillow and sits up on his elbows to watch, wide awake now, and is confronted by the sight of Sherlock kissing and sucking shallowly at the head, watching John in turn.

He pulls abruptly off, lips glossy and pinkened. “Get dressed, let’s go out.”

John gapes at him. “You’re not serious.” Sherlock jumps off the bed and from between John’s legs, tossing the blanket and it tents over John’s crotch. “You are, you’re going to leave me like this.”

Sherlock smiles and throws John’s clothes at him. “You can take it out on me later tonight,” he says suggestively, dressing himself in dark jeans. “I promise.” A burgundy cashmere jumper is slipped on over another crisp, white button up. Buttons undone all the way down to the V of the jumper’s collar, exposing his throat. Such a lovely throat. John could choke him.

“Tease,” he grumbles instead, gathering the clothes.

“Hurry up, John!” Sherlock calls as he ruffles his curls and darts out of the room.

John considers a quick wank, but in the end just wills away the arousal and pulls his striped jumper over his head.

By the time he makes it out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, Sherlock is already knotting his scarf about his neck, and has his charcoal coloured greatcoat on. The one that he rarely wears at home. The one that makes him look taller and more elegant than he already is. How is it possible that no one else has wanted him the way John wants him? Desperately, and all the time.

 

“Fancy some breakfast?” Sherlock asks brightly, holding the door open. John stretches up on the tips of his toes. He brushes the hair over Sherlock’s ears and kisses him until Sherlock stumbles backward through the door and into the chilled morning.

---

Breakfast is delicious, a place John has never been to or even seen on his trips to London in the past. The broiled tomato is fresh and sweet, the sausages are savory and taste mildly of fennel seed, coffee newly ground and delivered to them in a French press. Sherlock orders a fry up with poached eggs, bacon and chips. He even eats it all.

The rest of the morning is spent walking the streets, they talk and walk and Sherlock observes as always. Both of them seem content to simply relax into the pathways, the beat of their feet against the damp concrete, the sun actually peaks through the clouds before noon and the last vestiges of morning fog are scattered.

 

John insists on going to Holland Park to eat lunch, the temperature is raised just enough with the sun out that they shouldn't grow cold. Sherlock puts up a fight at first because, “Ugh, John, we just ate breakfast,” but in the end he agrees and they order Indian takeaway from a restaurant a couple of blocks away from the park.

 

Sherlock stretches out on his stomach on a patch of dry grass, pushes his container of Butter Chicken off to the side for John to place back into the brown paper bag. He tosses a pebble at the pond, the water ripples and the reflection of blue sky and bare trees waver.

“This will be quite pretty in the spring,” John comments, picking at a bit of Naan bread and wishing for ducks to feed, “When the trees finally decide to bloom” He looks up at the Japanese cherry blossoms, maple trees and stoned-in flower beds that will probably spring up with tulips and gerberas when the earth grows warm enough.

Sherlock turns over onto his back, knees only slightly damp from the ground. Dried leaves have woven themselves into the fluffy crown of his hair. John’s heart swells and he must swallow before he crawls over to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes close against the sun, lips parted slightly and John runs his thumb over the front two teeth that show just there. He picks out a leaf and Sherlock squints at it.

“You had a stowaway,” John comments, reaching for another.

 

Behind John, a woman coughs loudly. Sherlock rolls his head to see, and John glances quickly over his shoulder. An old lady sits on the black bench, woven shawl wrapped about her shoulders. When she sees them staring she frowns and averts her gaze in disdain. John feels his fingers clench, and looks over to Sherlock who stares intently into the sky, even though the brightness of the sun must make his eyes ache. His lips pursed. John sees him take a deep breath and begin to scoot away, which isn’t right. Which is--no. Just, no. There’s no one to answer to, here.

John leans over him, hands on either sides of his shoulders, Sherlock looks surprised. John ducks down and kisses him softly, twice, until the old woman clears her throat again. Louder.

 

John straightens his back, turns to face her, “I’m enjoying lunch with my boyfriend, if you have a problem with that I suggest you find another bench.” He doesn’t call her an ignorant old twat, like he wants, and puts his hand over Sherlock’s, who seems frozen in his spot.

The woman makes an affronted, “Well, I never,” and leaves in a huff. The soles of her boots clicking down unrepentantly against the stones, the pavement.

 

“Ignorant old twat,” John says it now, because who cares. He certainly doesn’t, Sherlock shouldn’t. “Can you believe--” John looks down to where Sherlock’s propped himself up on his elbows, his belly a soft slope as he stares at John in bewilderment. “All right?” John asks, confused.

“You--” Sherlock closes his eyes and shakes his head, “Is that what this is?”

“Huh?” Has John missed something?

“Boyfriends.”

John frowns at the word because now it sounds a bit dull for what he and Sherlock have, Sherlock doesn’t fit the typical definition of anything, so boyfriend seems a shade too mediocre.

“Well, technically. Right? I mean, partners or.. I’m not sure what else you’d call it.” There’s a woeful shortage of appropriate terms available at the moment. Then John takes pause and says, “Wait, did you not think we were in a relationship? That we've been… what?”

“No!” Sherlock says in a hurry, “I mean, no, I just hadn’t thought in those terms. I underestimated the effect it would have, defined out loud. I…” Clearly unused to having the term applied to himself, John smiles at Sherlock’s bafflement. He doesn’t mean to, but it’s.. sort of sadly adorable.

 

John cups the back of his neck, slides his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and watches the rest of the brown leaves flutter out and onto the ground. He presses their mouths together, from across the pond someone whistles a cat call and John smiles against Sherlock’s lips. At least the park isn’t completely full of homophobic elders.

 

“Can we go back to the flat now,” he asks, watching Sherlock’s eyes flutter open after a second, still partially lost somewhere inside the kiss they just shared. The first one out in the open, no one there to tear them apart, disown them, or punish them for wanting one another. “Want to kiss you some more. We can come back later. Go wherever you want, I promise.”

Sherlock nods. John takes his hand and pulls him up, he dumps their cold leftovers in one of the public bins.

They walk silently alongside each other, knuckles and fingers brushing and silently asking for permission. Sherlock grabs first, fingers weaving between John’s.

They hold hands all the way back.

---

As soon as the door is shut behind them, everything is hands and mouths and heat and teeth. John is informed that Mycroft won’t be in until much much later, so John isn’t worried at all when he begins stripping Sherlock out of clothes right there at the front door. Sherlock is down to a fully unbuttoned shirt and his jeans around his ankles, before they remember to make a move toward the bedroom.

 

They take turns pushing each other hard against walls, Sherlock making throaty, “Unh” noises when the breath nearly gets knocked out of him. John isn’t really looking and they trip and fall against the long, rectangular, dining room table that lies between them and the hallway leading to their room. That works too. John pushes Sherlock’s up onto it, leans over him as his back goes flat against it, bites and licks kisses down the line of his throat. Sherlock’s sharp hipbones cupped perfectly in John’s palms as he drags Sherlock downward across the slick, varnished top, bum cradled in John’ lap.

“Want you, want you, God, I want you,” John murmurs, frantically petting at Sherlock’s body, he licks over a nipple and feels him arch and gasp. So perfect, just gorgeous how his skin is as observant as his mind. Taking in stimulus and reacting so completely. Sherlock threads his fingers into John’s shorter hair. Pulls him up until they face each other, Sherlock teases John with his mouth. Every time John goes to claim it, Sherlock gives a backward tug, his soft tongue protruding a little from between his teeth. John wants to suck on it, just like that.

“You said I could have you, this morning, you promised,” John whispers, trying once again to capture that tongue.

“How do you want me,” Sherlock says, low and teasing.

“Right here,” John growls when Sherlock thwarts him yet again, “Want to bend you over the table,” John turns his head and bites Sherlock’s wrist. “Fuck you so hard.”

That does it, Sherlock groans and lets John have his prize. John sucks the tip of his tongue, licks possessively into his mouth.

He feels Sherlock reaching up to fumble over the table. Suddenly he’s sitting up, thrusting a glass bottle with a stainless steel funnel, filled with what looks to be oil, into John’s hand.

 

“Olive oil,” John asks, hurriedly swirling it once. He looks up to the table, takes note of the twin bottle filled with what’s probably red wine vinegar. John stifles the hysterical laugh bubbling up at the thought of using Mycroft’s salad oil as lube.

“Yes,” Sherlock grabs at John, rubs his body against him.

“You sure, I could just run down the hall--”

Sherlock bites John’s lip to shut him up, then suddenly is turning over onto his front, right underneath John’s hands.

“Christ,” John manages breathily, tugging Sherlock’s pants down in one swift go. Oil over his fingers, dribbling some over the cleft of his arse.

 

“Start doing something,” Sherlock whinges.

John kisses down the knobs of his spine, “Shh now,” John rubs his forefinger against heat and tightness, dipping inward once he feels Sherlock relax.

 

It’s been since that first night together that they’ve really done this fully, aside from their one attempt to have John in this position. John had been the one to suggest it, curious. Their parents were supposed to be out for the night on a date. Sherlock of course had agreed to experiment, and took his time fingering John open. Lovely hands, long fingers, cleverly pressing inward and twitching around to find the right spot, the spot that had turned Sherlock into a wanton mess. John didn’t seem to be quite as sensitive there as Sherlock, but it worked well enough. The extreme intimacy of the act being enough to turn John hard. John’s breath was just beginning to turn rough when they heard doors opening below them, their parents' voices laughing and talking. It was a panicked flurry of limbs and lubricated fingers and John nearly falling out of Sherlock’s bed in order to dart back into his own room, just in case their parents decided to check on them. They just haven’t revisited it since.

 

Three fingers now, and John tries to take his time, mind clouded with want, especially as Sherlock begins making noises and rocking onto John’s fingers.

John rubs oil onto himself, pushes his jeans around his hips, and in one slick, urgent thrust, he buries himself inside of Sherlock.

Sherlock cries out, not a painful sound, but surprised. John pulls out and plunges back in just as quickly once again, groaning in time with Sherlock. He holds him by the hips, moulds against Sherlock’s downturned body, splayed submissively across the table, pliant in a way only John is allowed to see. His hips twitch shallowly, his cock brushing so deeply inside of Sherlock, nudging easily, in this position, against his prostate. John reaches one hand underneath the table and runs his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock, is gratified that he already beginning to leak.

John pumps his hips once, hard and sharp, pulling Sherlock back against him. He can see Sherlock’s eyes go closed, mouth loose. “Can you come from just this?” He humps him again, stills and runs his palm flatly down Sherlock’s back, the line of freckles between his shoulders. “Tell me the truth, have you ever tried? With just your fingers?” Sherlock is so sensitive, here, there, everywhere, John wouldn’t be surprised.

“I--” Sherlock pushes back into him, making a choking noise when John rolls slowly against his arse, moving just enough to tease at real pleasure. Sherlock shrugs helplessly and never answers, already incapable of conversation.

“Okay,” John says, “We’ll see. If you don’t, then it’s just payback for this morning.” Of course John would never go through with that, but he says it anyways.

 

“John,” Sherlock says desperately, breath fogging up the gloss of varnish. John begins slamming into him, quick but not overly rough, one hand crawling up into dishevelled curls and pulling. Sherlock makes a noise John hasn’t heard before, high, young, and it nearly undoes John completely.

Sherlock’s fingernails scrabble uselessly, slipping against the tabletop, he pants and says John’s name. He begs and begs and begs and begs. “Please, please, please,” over and over again, and never asks for anything at all.

 

“Oh God,” John’s voice gone hoarse as he tries to keep hold to spiking pressure coiling so deeply inside of him, “Oh God,” his thrusts grow frantic. “Come on, Sherlock. Shit, shit,” so good.

Sherlock tries reaching a hand underneath the table to take hold of himself but John says, “No!” and grabs his wrists, pins them up behind his back. Three more hard pushes, and John goes breathless when he feels the first tremors run through Sherlock’s body. He snaps his hips more quickly, feels those shakes that start in Sherlock’s thighs, shivering up his spine, and John knows he has him.

 

“Do it,” John hisses, wanting it so much, “You’re right there, just do it.”

“Ah, ah,” the sounds exhaled, only to be sucked back into Sherlock’s chest as he holds his breath for one.. two… three.. and then the next noise he makes is like sob, and it’s beautiful. God, it’s so beautiful.

“Jesus,” John’s voice is shaking, completely mesmerised, and he pushes Sherlock through it, “God, you’re,” John releases Sherlock’s wrists, folds himself over his back and kisses there, “Amazing, just.. oh,” and John cries out, loses himself inside of Sherlock. He feels the sudden warmth of coming, Sherlock hyperventilating all over again with each pulse until they’re both left shaking and sweaty against each other.

“God, that was,” John searches for the word, “Intense.”

Sherlock nods, pressing up to standing as John climbs off of him, pulls Sherlock pants back over his hips before reaching to adjust his own. They look down to the mess on the floor. Come and olive oil. Sherlock snorts inelegantly.

“We should clean that up,” John suggests.

They look back up to each other, and dissolve in laughter. They giggle like a couple of schoolboys until Sherlock bends down to wrap John up in kisses.

---

They’re lying on the sofa together watching crap telly, John’s head snuggled up against Sherlock’s chest, while Sherlock strokes over his back. They can do that here, there’s no one to walk in on them, aside from Mycroft. But he phoned an hour ago, informed Sherlock he was going to have someone deliver dinner since he wouldn’t be home until much later. John allows himself to settle, the sounds from the telly growing fainter and fainter in his ears as John wonders what it would be like to have this all the time. Would Sherlock grow tired of it? Would John? He’s nearly asleep, still pondering it, when Sherlock shifts, plucks at John’s old dressing gown.

 

“My father would have snow fights with me in the winter.” Sherlock says, out of the blue, sounding uncomfortable.

 

“Oh?” John asks, not wanting to pressure Sherlock into such a potentially volatile subject. John immediately recalls the day after the snowstorm, Sherlock’s only admission of his father was that he had a snowball fight with the man. That was before John fell into the frozen pond and Sherlock pulled him out. Before chocolate cherries, before John kissed Sherlock and his mouth was still cloying with honey. Before they irrevocably tipped the scales.

 

“Not often, the cold always did test his limits. When I was a child he would take me to work with him, let me practice my maths. He could tell primary school bored me, Mother wouldn’t let the school promote me early because she was afraid I’d fall behind socially.” Sherlock laughs, and John can’t imagine Sherlock so young. The sullen child giving way to the cold distance of Sherlock’s exterior. Whatever left him lashing out to hurt other people before they hurt him.

 

“He let me check over the accounting books sometimes. I’d borrow books from the shelves of his office. Real books, like Mycroft had. Not the simple stories they kept giving me in school. Then he left.” Sherlock finishes abruptly, pauses and breathes for a moment, his fingers warming against the nape of John’s neck.

 

“It was surprising,” Sherlock ponders, “I was actually confused. I figured he’d come home at some point, so I didn’t fret over it. Months went by and brought no new evidence. No one would tell me anything, so I decided to look on my own. After a year I broke into his office and searched through his business contacts, banking information, tried to parse together a picture of his activities prior to disappearing. There was nothing. He left absolutely nothing. I conjectured that perhaps foul play was at hand, he did have a tendency to associate with those who teetered on criminality. Mycroft found out and put an end to that.”

 

“And,” John asks cautiously, “What do you think, now?”

Sherlock’s hands still, “I think he’d be here if he wanted to be. He doesn’t. So.”

 

John honestly has no idea what to say about it. Instead he turns his face into Sherlock’s shirt, kisses across his chest.

“Mycroft doesn’t know that I picked my way into his private files. He found our father over two years back, he lives in America now. Boston, Massachusetts, actually. He’s changed his name and has a new wife. She had a set of fraternal twins soon after they wed, a boy and a girl.”

This, John definitely didn’t anticipate. He pushes up on his elbows to look down at Sherlock, mouth opening to say something, anything really, but nothing comes. He drops down to kiss Sherlock’s forehead.

 

“I didn’t know he was unhappy. I blamed our mother at first. They fought a lot. He’d never been unkind to me. But it was all of us, every one of us, he left us all and replaced us with something better,” and it’s the way he says it so quietly, believing it, it makes John clasp Sherlock’s face between his hands. He forces Sherlock to look at him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” John says firmly.

“I never said I did, I haven’t accepted the blame for it.” Sherlock’s voice is a challenge, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he’s made himself.

“You didn’t do it, Sherlock. You aren’t responsible for him being a worthless shite of a husband and Dad. If he wasn’t satisfied with what he had, then he won’t ever be satisfied with anything. You aren’t just something to choose or not choose when it’s convenient. He fucked up, you didn’t. All right?”

Sherlock looks up at John, cheeks bracketed by palms, and nods.

“All right?” John asks again, peering more closely at him.

“All right, John.”

John kisses him softly on the mouth a few times, before settling on his chest.

“Do you think you’d want to see him again?” John asks after a few minutes pass. “For closure?” John remembers his mother’s open casket on the day of the funeral, her exposed, lifeless body meant to bring a sense of peace. Instead John only felt frustrated, confounded, then numb.

 

“No,” Sherlock says with conviction, “No, I wouldn’t.” His arms come around to clasp over John’s shoulders. “Why would I want someone who doesn’t want me.”

---

The next day Mycroft rearranges his work schedule, much to Sherlock’s dismay, in order to attend the Millais exhibit at the Tate Britain.

John resolves to put a homing device on Sherlock at some point, because they lose him within the first five minutes of setting foot in the museum.

 

Mycroft walks alongside John, as John fidgets and peaks around dark corners in search of his boyfriend. His Sherlock. Whatever he is. Missing, currently.

 

“Don’t worry John, he’ll turn up sooner or later. I always have an eye out.”

John gestures about, “Where?”

“Everywhere,” is the nonchalant answer as Mycroft studies an oil painting, red and orange poppies scattered across a meadow.

They enter the Millais exhibit, the luscious strokes of pre-Raphaelite art hung on the walls, displayed in cases. John is drawn to one, close to the center of the room.

A beautiful woman lying in a river, her heavy dress dragging her down into the water, lips parted in song, flowers floating all about her. Willowy plants spring up from the water, the marshy banks. John frowns at the scene.

“And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued,
Unto that element; but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.”

“Drowned,” John says softly, completing the well-remembered prose of Queen Gertrude.

“Drowned,” Mycroft repeats. “I see you’ve read Hamlet.”

John nods, “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah. Ophelia was my Mum’s favourite.”

Mycroft seems to accept this, thankfully says nothing of it to John, and stands silently alongside him.

 

John looks at the painting, his eyes tracing Ophelia’s face, her singing lips, her outstretched hands.

---

“Arrested!” John whisper-shouts at Sherlock when they’ve made it to New Scotland Yard, “First you run off in the bloody Tate, then next thing Mycroft gets a call and you’re arrested?” Because that’s exactly how it happened.

One minute: Renaissance art. Next, Mycroft’s mobile goes off and he says I see, and then casually informs John they’re off to the Yard to pick up Sherlock before he finds himself in a cell.

 

“They ought to have secured the crime scene more effectively if they didn’t want anyone getting in.” Sherlock says dismissively.

“It was,” a young constable walks over to where John has been berating Sherlock, “Usually people see the yellow tape and know well enough to keep out.”

“Oh, is that what it’s for?” Sherlock says innocently. John sits in a heap next to him on the bench and digs an elbow into Sherlock’s bicep.

 

“And you are..?” The constable turns a weary eye to John, now. He seems young enough, but is already going silver at the temples, dark brown eyes somehow simultaneously eager and exhausted.

“John. I’m his boyfriend-”
“Step-brother-”

He and Sherlock say both things at the same time, then look at each other in alarm. John actually hadn’t meant to say “boyfriend” but out it came anyway.

“Step-brother-”
“Boyfriend-”

Fucking hell. They take turns with the definitions, switching one for the other and still coming out wrong. They don’t try again. The constable furrows his brow.

“Right. Yeah, well,” he looks back toward where Mycroft is shut behind the glass door of an office, discussing the situation with a Detective Inspector, it seems. “I’m Constable Lestrade, the one who was supposed to be keeping people out of the secured crime scene.”

“He’s sorry,” John promises, glaring at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes before turning back to Lestrade.

“Yes. What he said.” Sherlock concludes, in lieu of an apology.

 

“Mmhm,” Lestrade hums, rightfully unconvinced. “Just be careful, yeah? Seem like a smart enough kid, minus the breaking into crime scenes bit. Good eye, noticing the hypodermic needle mark. We’d written it off as a suicide by overdose.”

“I know,” Sherlock says boredly, but the self-pride is right there underneath.

 

“Wait, hold on. Were you mucking about with a body?”

“Well I didn’t touch it, if that’s what you’re asking. I couldn’t nick any gloves. But it wasn’t like it wasn’t obvious. Spilled bottle of Klonopin, if anyone had bothered to read the prescribed amount, you’d know that it was the exact number of tablets spilled. None had been taken. They assumed she ingested the medication, but there was no vomit. A pinprick of blood at the pit of her elbow, slight bruise discolouration around the area. Hypodermic injection of air, seems likely. So, why would a suicidal female go through the trouble of getting out medication, then spilling it all over the floor, only to give herself a air embolism?”

John stares at Sherlock for a moment, “She wouldn’t. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock turns to look at John now, eyes lit up in excitement in an absolute mesmerising way. “Someone wanted to set it up to look like she had.”

“You think she was murdered?” John asks, just to be sure. Sherlock smiles, and John can’t bring himself to reprimand it.

“Now if only I could get a look at that flat--”

 

“No, no, no, no,” Lestrade breaks in, points his finger at them both, “I said it was a smart observation, but you go back to that crime scene, they’ll have you in youth court quick as flash. This is, actually, what our sort gets paid to do. Maybe come back when you’re older.”

Sherlock grumbles and sits back in his chair, looks around the constable as Mycroft exits the office.

 

“I think you’ve had quite enough excitement for one day, Sherlock,” Mycroft says benignly, looking over to Lestrade. “I do appreciate you not filing papers on him, it’s made this ordeal pass much more smoothly.”

 

“He’s not so bad,” Lestrade says, keying off Sherlock’s cuffs, “A menace, but quite a bit more helpful that most. I’d say a career in police work would suit him, one day.”

Sherlock scoffs, then grimaces at the cubicles lining the walls. “Doubtful.”

John shakes his head, and tries not to smile when he can only imagine Sherlock in a constable’s getup, interfacing with the unsuspecting citizens of London.

 

“My brother lacks the temperament to follow procedure, unfortunately.” Mycroft stares Sherlock down as he rises from the bench, rubbing his wrists.

“All the same,” Lestrade says amiably, moving to clap Sherlock on the shoulder, and seeming to immediately re-think the move. “Think about it, at least. Could use an eye like yours. Stay out of trouble, boys.” Lestrade winks at them both.

 

The ride back to Mycroft’s flat is mostly silent, everyone looking out windows, Sherlock and Mycroft trading the occasional glare.

 

“I’m telling mother you got yourself arrested,” Mycroft whispers to Sherlock.

“I’m telling mother you’re fellating her former lover,” Sherlock hisses, reiterating the threat from their first night.

Mycroft’s eyes slide toward John, weighing his leverage, and John just bursts into a fit of laughter at them both. Somehow both Holmes brother sink back into their seats, both baring expressions of downtrodden sulkiness.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” John wheezes after a few more giggles trickle out.

“Who is?” Sherlock demands, looking pointedly at Mycroft.

“The both of you,” John says with conviction, “Absolutely ridiculous.”

Sherlock chews his lip and tries not to laugh, Mycroft looks heavenward and shakes his head, but later John sees him smiling out of the window.

 

---

 

They’re lying in bed, sweaty and panting in the aftermath of snogging turned blow jobs. A competition to see who would give in first.

John lost, but Sherlock cheated, which resulted in John’s losing. Sherlock stuck his fingers in John’s mouth to suck on while he licked at John’s ear, nibbled down his neck, sucked lightly at the skin under his collarbone. John went feral with it, flipping his body’s direction, using a hand to roll Sherlock’s hips toward him, and taking Sherlock down in one swallow. Which, conveniently, left John’s body in a position for Sherlock to reciprocate mutually.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock groaned, lips pulled to kiss over the slit, while John bobbed his head, “This is an efficient angle for simultaneous stimulation”

It might have been some of the sweetest bit of dirty talk John had ever heard. Nearly as brilliant as the way Sherlock’s licks grew sloppy and uncreative as John sucked him to orgasm, swallowing away the sharp taste of him.

John followed a couple minutes later when Sherlock regained his bearings, plying John’s cock with light, open mouthed kisses, teasing John into fucking his mouth. Then licking him clean as John gasped for air in the aftermath.

 

“John,” Sherlock starts, rubbing his fingers absently again ribs, the dip of skin leading toward John’s hips, “Have you considered your career plans?”

John smiles, kisses over Sherlock’s palm, “Are you asking me what I want to be when I grow up?”

“No.”

“Oh, okay then,” John laughs, rubs his lips over each individual fingertip.

Sherlock sighs, “What do you want to be when you grow up, John Watson.”

“You already know, mostly.”

“Yes, but you’ve never said outright.”

 

“Well,” John begins, thinking it over like he has for months, years, “You knew from the start I was interested in being a doctor. So, that.”

 

Sherlock shifts, “There’s something else though, isn’t there.” His voice gone softer, it’s almost an imperceptible change in tone, but John hears it all the same.

“Yeah.” Trust Sherlock to already know. John hadn’t prepared for this conversation.

“The military.” Sherlock says with finality, trying to sound objective.

John nods. “Eventually.” Sherlock’s hands are still and John begins to shiver a little. Quiet settles heavily between them.

 

“Are you mad at me?” John whispers after a long time.

Sherlock’s hands begin petting again and John sighs at the soothing touch of warm palms against chilled skin.

“No, it isn’t my choice to make.” Sherlock doesn’t even sound disappointed. Just quiet and warily accepting. “No. I think it’ll suit you fine.”

“Oh,” is all John can say, because he is, honestly, surprised. He was sure Sherlock would call him a idiotic, sentimental, patriot with a death wish. “How about you, then? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Sherlock tugs the blankets up around them, turns until he can cup his body around John’s like a spoon, hands never letting go as arms come under John’s and their clasped fists nestle against his chest,

Sherlock presses his lips against John’s nape, whispers, “I don’t know,” and says nothing else.

Chapter Text

As always, big thank you's to Christyimnotred for ping-ponging this fic with me and giving it the once-over!

 

---

 

 

 

 

Sherlock is being uncharacteristically reticent on the train ride back home. He fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeve, leans into the window with an elbow, lips and chin pressed against his knuckles. The city rapidly passes them in a blur of slate and shapes and skyline. Sherlock looks out the window and John can’t stop looking at Sherlock. The first hour goes by in near silence. An attendant brings them bottled water and John thanks her. John cups his hand softly over Sherlock’s knee when he can’t stand it any longer.

“What’s wrong?” John asks, leaning closer into Sherlock, nose brushing over his shoulder. “You’re being too quiet, it’s freaking me out.”

The hand that has been resting in Sherlock’s lap suddenly moves, reaches out to where John is touching his knee. John thinks Sherlock means to shove it off, but instead Sherlock is weaving their fingers together, grasping tight until John feels the first hint of tingling in his fingertips.

“What’s wrong,” John says more urgently now, “Sherlock, look at me. Talk to me.”

Sherlock purses his lips, brow furrowed like he isn’t really sure of what it is that has him so bothered.

“Please,” John whispers, bringing their joined hands up to his mouth and pressing a hard kiss to Sherlock’s bony knuckles. “Is it about going home?” Because John isn’t looking forward to sneaking around again either. Having to go back to monitoring how often he looks at Sherlock from across the dining room table, refraining from the impulse to reach out and put a hand to his hip, his cheek, brushing a thumb over his lips whenever John pleases. It isn’t fair.

“What happens when you go off to university? When you’ve completed your training and the military sees fit to deploy you off to some hot desert, what then?” It tumbles out of Sherlock’s mouth, and he looks sharply at John. Wary. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He grimaces and rolls his neck to face the window again.

“What do you--” John blinks a few times, trying to parse together the real meaning behind Sherlock’s questions. “Are you asking what happens to you? To us?”

“Sorry,” Sherlock says. The apology sounds awkward as it usually does when the word is formed on Sherlock’s tongue. “I’m not presuming that we’ll still be.. This. When the time comes. I understand a different social setting will present you with other.. opportunities.”

Oh. Oh, Sherlock.

“If the time comes for a long distance relationship,” John leans over Sherlock’s shoulder until Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns to face him. “We’ll work it out, then. If we end up at different universities, we’ll make it work. If I’m on the other side of the bloody Earth, we’ll make it work.”

“You’re going to leave,” Sherlock says, sounding completely convinced.

“I’m not. Not the way you mean when you say that.”

“People leave.”

“Don’t compare me to them.”

Sherlock sniffs, sardonic.

John’s voice grows stern, “I’m not going to suddenly stop wanting you, or--” John chokes on a dangerous word that bubbles up so effortlessly in his throat, filling his mouth, and he isn’t ready to say it. “Look, you’re just going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to believe me when I tell you--”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Sherlock says flatly, then looks over to John, “I don’t foresee it changing. In case…” he pauses, indecisive and nervous about it, “In case you were wondering.” He finishes simply. “Statistically speaking, romantic relationships formed in the adolescent years tend to--”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John laughs, presses a quick kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Statistics, not very romantic.”

Sherlock shrugs, his nerves seeming to be assuaged for now.

There’s no familiar faces in their passenger compartment, so they hold hands, play with each other’s fingers. Palms opening and rubbing against one another.

Another half hour to go before they reach the station where Violet will be waiting to pick them up. Sherlock must be thinking of it too because he grips onto John harder, noses up against John’s lips and kisses him. Their tongues slide softly together, Sherlock pulls up a bit of John’s wooly jumper and slides his fingers against his skin. Someone coughs pointedly, John sighs and they part.

 

Sherlock’s leans against John’s shoulder, John uses a finger to draw spirals on top of Sherlock’s thigh.

“I don’t want to go home,” Sherlock says as the railway station appears distant on the horizon.

---

“How was London?” Violet asks when Sherlock has climbed into the back seat of the Volvo and laid himself across the seats. John sits in the front passenger side, scratches at the back of his head.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled from where he's thrown an arm over his face.

“And Mycroft?”

“Dull,” Sherlock sighs.

“Did you enjoy yourself, John? Were my boys well-behaved?” Violet smiles politely, but keeps facing forward as she starts the car and begins pulling out of the parking area.

“Uh,” John searches for the right word, well-behaved certainly not being it. “They kept me entertained.” Yeah, that should do it.

“Mmhm,” Violet arches a knowing brow.

The ride home is awkward and quiet. Obligatory questions asked, then answered. Violet notifies John that Harry made it safely home from Germany and brought everyone Kinder Eggs.

John leans back in his seat, tilts his head until he can see into the rearview mirror. Immediately he catches Sherlock’s eyes in the reflection, John’s heart skips happily when the corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifts into a lopsided smile.

John looks for as long as feels safe, and diverts his eyes back to traffic. They stop at the light right beside the children’s play park. Women push their toddlers in the harness swings, a small blonde girl climbs backwards up the slide, lets go at the top, ringlets flying about as she laughs and slips back down. Her mother catches her at the bottom, grabbing the child up into a hug and twirling.

A murder of crows perch all around the wooden climbing frame. A boy runs past, whistling, but the soot coloured birds are immovable. Shrewd-eyed they stare. Eventually, out of instinct, the children stay away.

---

Sherlock sneaks into John’s bed that night, they face one another, pinky fingers overlapping. Breath smelling of toothpaste co-mingling in the space between. Sherlock’s hair halos out onto the pillows. John closes in, kissing Sherlock’s mouth, it’s much slower than they usually are. Always so eager to get to skin, to feel each other shudder and come. John just wants to be close to Sherlock, now. That’s all. To lie down and hold him would be enough.

 

“I didn’t expect this. It’s been a long time since I felt like this.” John tells Sherlock, turning his hand over, stroking over each individual finger, tracing over the blue veins of Sherlock’s wrist. “That sounds really..yeah.” John shakes his head, his words inadequate.

“How do you feel?” Sherlock asks, obviously misinterpreting, and swiping his palm against John’s forehead and cheek. Checking for fever.

John searches his vocabulary, never as articulate as Sherlock, but trying anyways. Instead he says simply, “Happy.”

Sherlock freezes for a few long seconds then releases his breath. “Oh,” he says, sounding a bit dazed, “I..” and it’s Sherlock’s turn to be speechless.

 

“I miss London,” John murmurs, cupping a hand against Sherlock’s ribs. “It feels like taking a step back. I want to be able to look at you without making sure no one is watching.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispers, putting his leg up over John’s hip and wrapping tightly around him. He kisses John’s throat, behind his ear, feather light brushes of warm lips over John’s closed eyes. “I hate it here.”

John brushes Sherlock’s prim nose with his own, a hand to his chest, feeling the rise and fall there.

“Why? It’s your home.” John asks when Sherlock settles and breathes against John’s collarbone. John thinks of Sherlock shut off in his bedroom on so many nights, everyone assuming he prefers it that way. He thinks of all the empty rooms, the locked door of the office John has only been inside of once, all the people surrounding Sherlock, unable to understand him, and not even trying.

Sherlock shakes his head, nudges his brow into John’s, says quietly, “Sometimes, it’s as if I don’t exist.”

---

It all goes to hell two weeks later, on a Wednesday.

 

John is behind schedule in getting home, a combination of a previously unscheduled football practice, and then Laura Higgins cornering him in the gymnasium. She wanted him to kiss her, kept touching the top of his hand, ruffled his hair until John could feel it spike up against the grain. John backed away when she grasped the hem of the spare jumper he threw on for practice, grey and white and now streaked with grass stains. She looked at him, confused and slightly offended.

“I’m sorry,” John told her, “It’s not… it’s just that I’m with someone.”

“We just talked about getting together over a week ago,” Laura cocked a brow. Well, John never agreed to a date, he just hadn’t said no outright because he was ever so slightly distracted by Sherlock sucking him off throughout the conversation.

“Yeah, well,” John floundered, “that’s how it goes sometimes,” he finished lamely.

Before John could jerk away, Laura leaned into him and kissed his cheek, “If it doesn’t work out, you know my number,” she smiled prettily. “She’s a lucky girl.”

John nodded, knowing he couldn’t really correct the assumption, and feeling guilty and wrong nonetheless.

 

John uses a foot to nudge the front door closed when he gets home and wanders off toward the kitchen, hoping Dad didn’t take the leftover pasta from supper for his lunch. Wednesday afternoons are John’s favourite day of the week. Dad and Violet work late in their classrooms, Harry knows this as well and takes advantage of their absence to go off and do… whatever it is that Harry does when no one is there to police her.

John passes through the hallway leading to the living room, the sounds of the telly echoing off the walls. Sherlock is sitting upright on the sofa, fingers steepled underneath his chin, face a mask of concentration. John takes a moment to stand and look at him. Sherlock really is mind-blowingly beautiful. It isn’t an adjective John often uses to describe men, but just like everything else about Sherlock, he defies average terminology. Sherlock is something rare and inestimable, and meant to be kept. Sherlock has said on more than one occasion that John is receiving the poorer end of the “deal,” when really it couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Sherlock is special. Even when he is being exhausting, even when his tongue is sharp enough to cut; Sherlock is extraordinary in a way John will never be.

 

“John, the bubonic plague is fascinating,” Sherlock says suddenly, head tilting as a bearded man on the telly drones on about an epidemic in the Republic of Moldova. “I never realised.”

“Ah, yes, necrosis of the extremities, be still my heart.” John decides to forgo pasta leftovers for the time being, and sits down next to Sherlock. The screen flashes, large greasy rats skitter down a cobblestone street, spreading their disease to the unsuspecting peasants of 18th century Russia. An advertisement disrupts the rapt look on Sherlock’s face and he turns toward John. Immediately his eyes narrow and he strokes a thumb over John’s cheek. He brings it up to his nose, sniffs twice, then John huffs in surprise when Sherlock grasps his dirty jumper and sniffs at it as well.

“Strawberry scented lip balm, Elizabeth Arden Sunflower perfume,” Sherlock glances over John’s hair, lifts his hand and runs it through, fingers scratching John’s scalp. John arches into the hand, if he’s going to be deduced then he might as well get a good pet out of it. “Smaller hands than mine, a female’s, definitely, created this ruffling pattern. Is there really no one else that Lauren Higgins can proposition for casual intercourse?”

John turns and kisses over Sherlock’s palm, then places it back on his head, Sherlock gets the hint and keeps brushing his fingers through the golden tips of John’s hair. John’s eyes fall closed. “I told her I wasn’t available, that I was taken.”

Sherlock hm’s and adds another hand into the mix, massaging John’s scalp, “How did she respond to that bit of information?”

John laughs, “She said you were a lucky lady.”

Sherlock scoffs, giving John’s hair a quick pull, forcing his chin to tip up. John opens his eyes and stares into polychromatic irises, Sherlock kisses him once and says, “She obviously has a sinus infection, if she smelled you she wouldn’t be saying such things.”

“I smell fine,” John pouts. Well, he doesn’t smell bad, anyways. There’s nothing offensive about a bit of healthy sweat, the rubbed in odour of dirt and field grass. To prove as much, John pins Sherlock across the shoulders, down into the sofa cushions, and snogs him for a minute. When he pulls back, Sherlock eyes are closed, a flush creeping into his cheeks. “Good enough for you anyways.”

“You’re always good enough for me,” Sherlock says absently, running his hands underneath the stained jumper, over John’s chest, around to scratch his back. John’s breath never ceases to catch when Sherlock doles out one of his rarely expressed praises. Sherlock buries his nose in the crook of John’s neck and inhales, plants tickling kisses up John’s throat. He looks up at John and says like he’s having a minor epiphany, “You smell like springtime,” and smiles like he’s so pleased with himself for having finally placed the scent.

 

“I love you,” John blurts it out, and oh god. “I--” and once he’s registered his own shock, he is capable of processing Sherlock’s expression.

Sherlock looks terrified.

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, not even to slip his hands out from under the jumper, not to clap his fingers over John’s mouth to keep him from saying anything else.

“I--” John has no idea what the rest of the sentence is supposed to be. He hadn’t meant to say that, regardless of how truly he knows it, how he can feel it wind around his chest, and burning in his veins. It’s been there, and stayed there, and hasn’t moved in ages; the love. The first kiss in the kitchen over seized up chocolate brought it rushing out from the dam.

“Why?” Sherlock whispers, so confused as if he’s not ever been told it before by anyone at all.

 

John only blinks and stares down into Sherlock’s bewildered eyes. John knows why, but how does he explain it? How do you explain love that feels this hot and expansive? How do you explain air and light, the distance between two points on a map, wind and sadness? Bridges and connections, galaxies, stolen kisses, and so much hunger. Love is Sherlock softly calling out John’s name from underneath his hands, true north, and the snap of tiny, invisible, bones breaking around John’s heart. How can he say it and have Sherlock understand?

 

“I don’t--” John closes his eyes and sighs in exasperation at the futility of the English language. “Everything,” he says eventually, like it’s a good answer. “Because you’re Sherlock.”

They stare at each other, mirror images of surprise and trepidation. Please understand, John thinks, please. It’s terrifying, yes, I know. John is intimately familiar with the facets of love, how sometimes it’s just another way to be hurt.

 

Sherlock’s eyes look red and watery and John is immediately leaning down into him, kissing over his cheeks, his forehead, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” even though he isn’t, but Sherlock looks like he might cry and it hurts to look at him and say nothing. “Please, Sherlock, please,” and John has absolutely no idea what he’s asking Sherlock to do or not do.

“John,” Sherlock chokes out, grabbing him by the nape and pulling until their mouths are pressed together. The kiss is frantic, not rough or even all that sexual, but Sherlock slips his tongue past John’s teeth and makes a desperate sound when John reciprocates. “You can’t do that,” Sherlock says hoarsely, between hard presses of lips, “Don’t do that.”

“I can’t help it,” John’s voice all breath and urgency, he kisses down Sherlock’s throat, “God, I do though,” he pulls at Sherlock’s collar, yanks it to the side and feverishly mouths at the bare skin of his shoulder, “You’ve no idea how I--”

“Shut up, shut up,” Sherlock hisses, lifting up from the sofa and rubbing himself against John, hips lining up in their practiced way. John groans, rubs a thumb over Sherlock’s nipple, even through the barrier of Sherlock’s button down it hardens and makes Sherlock pant. John has to stop rutting in order to climb up Sherlock’s body and kiss him, kiss him again, Sherlock makes a noise and it’s lost into John’s mouth. He claws at John’s back, fingernails catching and dragging across the woolen knit of the jumper.

 

Someone gasps loudly.

Something falls to the ground, the rustle of a paper bag dimly registering as Sherlock freezes underneath John.

Fuck. Fuck Fuck.

John thinks wildly for a second, that perhaps if neither he or Sherlock look, that whomever it is that’s walked in on them might cease to exist.
John’s heart stutters with the flood of panic, he watches as Sherlock’s eyes close and lips purse, and John knows there’s no alternative but to turn to see. The first reaction after those paralysing seconds of panic, is for both them to repel off of each other, identical poles of two separate magnets forcing space.

Harry stands with a hand clasped over her mouth, Dad, utterly expressionless alongside her.

No one speaks and it feels like hours, it can’t be that long, but shock makes it seem that way.

 

“Harry, go to your room,” their father says tonelessly.

“Dad, just wait--” Harry tries to speak but Dad interrupts.

“Now,” his voice low and dragging the word out. Harry looks at John and shakes her head helplessly before she turns and quickly walks down the hall. John can hear her footsteps above him as Harry finds her room and shuts herself inside of it.

 

“Can someone,” Dad starts slowly, his expression still uninterpretable, “Please, tell me what exactly is going on here. Tell me it isn’t what it looks like.”

“Nathan, I--” Sherlock is the first one to speak.

“Not you,” Dad turns and practically sneers it at Sherlock, who clears his throat, brow furrowed and he looks off to the side.

“Dad, you don’t have to talk to him like that,” John tries to make his voice sound calm. “If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me.” They can talk about this like adults. Can’t they be adults? John helped the man change bed pans and wash Mum’s hair for god's sake, this is hardly their blackest moment. Catching your biological son groping your step-son on the sofa is nothing compared to sorting pain medications for your dying wife.

Even after having practically told Sherlock to shut up, Dad turns and addresses him, “You’ve done this,” he accuses senselessly.

Sherlock tilts his head, John can practically watch the wall form around him, Sherlock’s defenses going up. But all he says is, “Yes.”

John jumps up from the sofa, looking first at Sherlock, then at Dad, “No, actually, I was the one--”

“My son isn’t a faggot,” and it sounds like an ultimatum.

 

John’s body jolts like he’s been shot, mouth open and one foot stepping backward. Away from the sting, away from this man that John isn’t certain he knows at all. Never, not once, ever, has John heard his father say anything derogatory about sexual preferences. He’s always been taught to be open and accepting. It’s shocking to hear the slur come from his own father. A man usually so reticent and composed, seeming to burst into something unrecognizable right there in front of John’s eyes. John’s stomach turns and knots, then goes cold. John looks back to Sherlock, pale eyes dangerous and locked onto John’s father like he might just jump the gap and put the man in a headlock.

“How the hell would you know? I could be shagging loads of blokes and you’d be none the wiser,” John stands straight again, panic and fear dissolving into the smooth beat of anger, “You don’t know me. I can’t remember the last time you talked to me, actually talked to me. You’re always too busy with Violet, or work, or literally anything else, as long as it doesn’t have to do with asking me how I feel.”

“So that’s what this is,” Dad throws his hands in the air and they fall into fists by his sides, “You’re punishing me for remarrying. You--”

“This isn’t about you!” John yells, “Are you that selfish? Are you that blind? How do you not see what’s going on around you. Jesus fucking--” John has to pause and take a deep breath. “Punishing you? We’d just be happy if you looked at us like we--” John watches as Dad immediately averts his eyes, hands on hips to stare at the wall. John’s skin burns. “Look at me! I matter, I exist, look at me!”

Dad turns his head, his face pinched, looking every bit of his 45 years of age.

 

“You know, I had forgotten what it was like, being happy.” John’s voice begins to fray at the edges, his train of thought jettisoning off in all sorts of directions. “Mum died and we were alone. You… you left and never came back, not really. Not to us, at least. You’re there for Violet and for your students, your work, but not Harry. Not me. You aren’t the dad I knew before Mum got sick. I get it, I do, I’m not the same either. I had to change so that I could just make it through the bloody day. Harry still cries in her room most nights, she won’t even let me talk to her about Mum anymore because it hurts so much.. She--” John considers bringing up the self-medicating with alcohol but decides against it, “She gets in a real bad way. Do you even notice? You weren’t the only one of us who got left, who felt lonely and wanted to reach out to someone.”

“This has nothing to do with your mother, you don’t get to use her as an excuse for everything you do wrong. For that,” he points at Sherlock.

“Nathan,” Sherlock says coolly. “I would advise you wait and continue this conversation when--”

“Shut up, this is your fault. I know about how you like to toy about with people,” Dad turns to John, his eyes pleading, “He’s a sociopath, you know. Violet told me.”

John is speechless for the span of five seconds, looking quickly over to Sherlock whose bottom lips twitches, and John knows his Dad landed a cheap blow.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” John seethes.

“If your mother could hear how you’re--”

John erupts, “SHE’S DEAD! She doesn’t care about anything anymore, she’s dead and she’s not coming back! Not ever!” he yells it, finally he’s able to scream those words out at someone, and it feels right. It feels good. It makes it sound real and tangible, and inexcusable. “And I hate it, I hate it!” and oh god, he can feel it, the burning in his eyes, wetness creeping up and blurring his vision, filling to the brim and running down his cheeks.

“I hate her for leaving me, for dying and leaving us alone with you. And it should have been you, it should have been you and not Mum! Mum loved us, she loved us--”

Because Mum would never call John a faggot. Mum would never have let Harry seep into depressive episodes. Mum would tell them every day that they were loved, accepted, no matter what. John feels Sherlock’s fingertips touching down against his shoulder and John has to shrug away, too furious and embarrassed.

“You’re nothing but a coward,” John chokes out, “You’re a fucking coward, and it should have been you.”

Before John can process the movement, he feels sharp pain across his cheek, his jaw cracking and he bites his tongue as his own father strikes him. John’s head is flung to the side by the force and he staggers sideways with a gasp, fits his palm to the stinging welt.

Dimly he registers the air current of someone moving quickly past him, and for a moment John is too shocked to register what is being yelled. He touches his fingertips to his bottom lip and they come away wet and red.

Mum would also never strike him.

 

John looks up and immediately begins scrambling, tripping over his own feet as he tries to get to where Sherlock has twisted Dad’s arm up and around behind his back. Dad’s cheek digs awkwardly into the frame of the door. He’s breathing hard, looks dazed when his eyes flick up to see John, see the blood shining on his lip, his fingers, face blotchy with angry tears and nose running.

 

“Sherlock--” John says slowly, “I’m fine, it’s fine. Let him go.”

Sherlock tightens his grip and pulls up on an elbow, the wrench makes Dad grimace, but he’s otherwise silent. “No,” Sherlock’s brow furrows as he stares a hole through the back of his step-father’s skull, “He’s emotionally compromised right now, he might strike you again.”

 

High heels come clicking hurriedly down the hall, rounding on them with urgency.

“Sherlock,” Violet gasps, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let him go this instant!” She looks quickly at John, the blood, his eyes, and then back over to Sherlock. A miserable expression crosses her delicate features. She grasps Sherlock around his bicep, fingers softly scratching against his school shirt.

“Come away now,” She tugs at him, “Sherlock, let go.” Slowly, the tension in Sherlock’s body dissipates, his fingers uncurl from the vice grip on the elbow. Sherlock backs away, hands held up, eyes dark and feral when Dad turns around. The man’s hands shake as he rubs his arm.

“Boys, I think it’s best you both went up to your rooms now while I have a word with Nathan. Sherlock, you go first.”

Sherlock blinks at John, ducking his head like he’s done something a bit not good, and walks from the room. When they hear his door close, Violet tells John to do the same. “Stay in your room John. While we get this sorted. Don’t go to Sherlock.”

John frowns and clenches his fists, he needs to go to Sherlock. Needs to see him and hold him, and know that this hasn’t ruined them.

Ruined.

The thought makes John’s blood run scared and cold.

 

He goes upstairs, closes the door, licks his bottom lip until he no longer tastes the blood seeping out.

The melancholy lilt of Sherlock’s violin drifts down the hall, through the cracks in the walls.

---

Harry knocks quietly at his door around the time they usually eat supper, she’s brought a tupperware of brown stew and a mug of tea.

John takes the tea, leaves the stew.

“Johnny,” Harry closes her eyes and sighs.

“Not you too, God, please, not you too,” John begs. He’s had enough for now, he feels like he might jump through the window if he has to have the argument over again.

“I wasn’t going to--” She looks closely at him, “What happened to your mouth?”

John laughs bitterly, pushes the steaming mug of tea away, the incessant jangling of his nerves still making him feel queasy. “Dad happened.”

Harry gapes, lip trembling, “Oh god,” she says. “I can’t believe he’d… Does it hurt still?” She shakes her head.

John prods the cut with his tongue, it feels feverish and sore, but otherwise fine. “Just a nick is all. Barely feel it. Old man has a shite right hook.” Harry giggles, breaking the tension a bit.

 

John looks at the floor then back up to his sister. She’s cut her own fringe recently, it’s lopsided, and thick, but somehow manages to look artistic in the way it frames her heart shaped face. He takes a deep breath, “Look, about Sherlock--”

“I’m gay,” Harry says suddenly, brown eyes gone wide and unblinking.

It takes a few stunned moments for the statement to set in and John shakes his head in confusion, “You’re what?”

“I like girls. I really like girls. Do you remember Allison, you two dated in August. She cheated on you, with me. I know that’s really gross and probably breaks some sibling rules, but she was ginger and gorgeous. Sherise, the one I went to Germany with while you were shagging Sherlock in London? She’s my girlfriend, we’ve been dating a couple months now. All those times I--”

“Wait, wait, wait,” John pinches the bridge of his nose, totally caught off guard by Harry’s rapid-fire confession. He’s honestly never considered Harry’s dating habits. Figured she was too fickle or too busy with friends to adhere to a relationship, but now that she says it… it makes sense.
“How long have you known?” John asks.

Harry shrugs, looks at where her hands are clasped in her lap, thumbs fidgeting, “I suppose I’ve always known.”

“Does anyone else know?”

Harry bites her lip, eyes shifting toward the door and then back to John, and for a moment he’s offended. “You told Sherlock, and not me?”

“Tell is definitely not the word for it, he sorted it out for himself probably within the first five seconds of meeting me.” John can’t help but smile a bit fondly, because yeah, that sounds about right. Harry nudges John’s foot with hers, “You all right?”

“Did you know? About me and Sherlock?”

Harry shakes her head, “No, not really. You were always bringing girls about, then suddenly you didn’t anymore. Sherlock and I would talk sometimes, he’d always try to work in questions about you. I just thought he was curious. Then he stopped asking. It crossed my mind, but I didn’t seriously consider it.” Harry pauses and finds John’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me. Boys, girls, Sherlock. It doesn’t matter to me. You’ve been happy, I haven’t seen you smile and mean it in ages. I just thought you should know.”

John grimaces, “Dad called me a faggot,” he laughs, the sound caustic in his throat.

Harry looks crestfallen, “He’s just upset, he didn’t mean it.” She doesn’t sound convinced by her own words.

“I told him I wished it was him that died instead of Mum,” John can’t even look at his sister as he says it. The fact that John has sometimes wished it while it the darkest throes of his grief, doesn’t make the guilt settle any easier.

The room stays quiet, John listens for Sherlock, for Violet and Dad having it out, deciding what to do, negotiating consequences. What if Violet sends Sherlock away? Would Dad do that to John, as well? Where could he possibly go?

 

All at once, John is exhausted, in every facet of the word. Mind grinding in on itself, his split lip throbs and his shoulders sag. He scrubs the heels of his palms against closed eyes. “Why does everything have to get so screwed up?”

Harry sniffs and looks out of the window.

---

John waits and waits after it’s dark and he’s sure everyone is asleep. He creeps down the hall, to Sherlock’s door. It’s locked shut. He taps lightly, willing Sherlock to open the door, but he never does. John’s stomach grumbles loudly, he never did eat supper, and had been too angry to go downstairs and face Dad. He resolves to heat up the leftover brown stew, then try picking the lock to Sherlock’s bedroom afterward.

When he’s made it to the kitchen, John flips on the dim light that illuminates the hob. He decides against risking the ping of the microwave and pours a bowl of the organic cereal that Violet buys in bulk. John leans against the bench, sorts through the clusters of almond and granola, trying to find the raisins.

The kitchen is suddenly fully illuminated. John jumps in surprise, milk slops over the edge of the bowl and splatters against the ceramic tile.

“I figured you’d get hungry, eventually,” Violet says casually, arms folded and standing against the wall.

John loses his appetite and he places the half-empty bowl in the drain, “Yeah, well, I’m not anymore. Good night.”

Violet holds up her hand, “Can we talk? I know you’d rather not, considering the afternoon’s events, but I’d really like to have a word.” John stands still, waits and says nothing. Violet takes a deep breath, “You were right, that day you came home with a black eye for having defended Sherlock. I don’t understand my son. I never quite have.”

“That’s not his fault, you’re his Mum. It isn’t his responsibility to--”

“I know that,” Violet says quickly, “I do. I admit it. I thought maybe if I pushed him enough.. I just want him to fit in.”

“You should want him to be happy,” John says flatly. “He isn’t Mycroft, he’s not you. Stop comparing him to other people. He’s extraordinary, how can you not be proud of him?”

Violet’s hands pick up and she runs them through her hair, shame and exasperation, “He can be so difficult.”

“He thinks you hate him.”

Violet looks sharply at John, “He can’t honestly believe..”

John stares, offering nothing else.

“I love Sherlock,” Violet says softly, “It’s just hard sometimes.”

John huffs a derisive laugh, “It shouldn’t be.”

John throws down a paper napkin and wipes the spilled milk with his foot before heading toward the door. He stops next to Violet before leaving her alone in the empty kitchen.

“You and my Dad can hate it all you want, try and separate us. But Sherlock is the best thing that has happened to me. He’s my best friend. He’s more than that, and I’ll fight to keep what we have.”

“At the expense of you and your father’s relationship?”

“Yes,” John answers immediately, “If his love for me is that limited, then yes.” Violet purses her lips.

“I knew the entire time,” Violet says, and John blinks in quick succession.

“And you were okay with me…” shagging your son every chance we got?

Violet holds up a hand, “My sons aren’t the only ones capable of simple observation. Sherlock’s poker face might work on a great deal of people, but not me. And John, darling, you really are an open book.” She straightens her shoulders. “I’m not a perfect mother, I admit that I’ve treated my children more like peers than sons. Their father was always the fun one, and I was the disciplinarian. He left and I had no idea how to function in both roles. I am hard on Sherlock because I want him to succeed. Mycroft is much like his father, but Sherlock is all mine. I don’t want him to make the same mistakes I made, I don’t want him to be hurt as I was. Perhaps my hopes for him have been more damaging than intended, but he’s my child and I love him. I only want his happiness.”

“Me too,” John says simply.

They stare at each other a moment longer, and Violet nods. “I’ll talk to your father. I think he’s just confused.”

“Yeah, because giving his son a bloody lip really screams confused.”

“No, no, that behaviour was unacceptable and he knows that. He’s shocked. But trust me, I can be persuasive too. He only needs a bit of perspective.” John shrugs his scepticism. “And John,” Violet calls gently, “I’ve not said anything before, because I wasn’t sure if it would be apt, but.. I of course never knew your mother, but I understand she was a lovely woman, and obviously a wonderful mother. I am so sorry that you had to learn that kind of loss at such an early age. I don’t know why such terrible things happen to good people. You’re a fine young man, John.”

John looks out of the doorway, into the darkened dining room. “Thanks.”

Violet pats him once on the shoulder and leaves.

 

John walks quietly up the stairs to Sherlock’s door, taps lightly, twists the door knob but it’s still locked.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, “Please let me in, please talk to me.” John turns and presses his back against the door, slides downward until he’s sitting. John puts his head in his hands. The door stays locked.

Chapter Text

Christy for picking through the rubble!

 

---

 

 

 

“I’m taking you to school this morning.”

John looks up from his mug of tea, tangerine still in hand from where he plans on stuffing it in the side pocket of his satchel. “It’s a fifteen minute bike ride, I think I can manage.” John can hear the soft plodding of Sherlock’s footsteps coming from upstairs, and John aches to see him. Sherlock is lovely in the mornings. His curls a thing of fluffy chaos, typically with one side being completely flattened against his skull, bleary eyed and clumsy for the first few minutes until his brain arrives, exploding online.

John has barely caught a glimpse of him since Wednesday when everything came crashing down on top of them. He’d overslept the following morning, having spent the majority of the night propped up against Sherlock’s door. Eventually his back grew stiff and he was forced to retreat back to his own room where he twitched restlessly, legs tangling in the bedclothes as he rolled his body from belly to back, over and over. Exhaustion claimed him close to the 4AM mark, and he slept through his alarm. No one came to wake him, and by the time he finally roused, it was past noon and there was no point in going to classes. He’d already been counted absent, and there was no chance of being able to actually concentrate past the ache in his chest anyway.

Dad had been sure to be back at the house before Sherlock made it home from school. John didn’t want to be anywhere his father was, so he stayed in his room. Waited and waited for a knock at his door that never came. He fell asleep and dreamt of London, of Sherlock stooped over a dead body. Of fog rolling across the city, swallowing Sherlock up. John reached out toward the obscure lines of his body and Sherlock turned into smoke.

John woke up gasping and shaking, and alone; his bed the worst sort of isolation.

 

Dad doesn’t look at John, reaches for the keys to their car and clicks his briefcase closed. “Yes, well, let’s go.”

“Are you serious?” John asks, head cocked, “I can’t even ride my bike to school with Sherlock?”

Dad ignores him, “Do you practice after classes today?”

“I… No, we don’t on Fridays.”

“I’ll be waiting to pick you up then, let’s go.” John looks at him, incredulous. “I said let’s go.”

John shakes his head, slamming his half-full mug down with more force than necessary. He follows his father out of the door.

---

 

The entire ride is spent in tense silence, neither one of them looking at the other. The vague sounds of traffic filtering mindlessly into the numbness. There’s nothing left for John to say to Dad, not now at least. No apologies, no concessions, no making room for ultimatums masquerading as compromise.

Dad parks the Volvo, John is quick to sling the straps of his satchel over his shoulder. He reaches for the door handle so he can finally be free from the suffocating environment of the car’s interior. Dad reaches across and blocks the door from being opened, immediately John flings himself backward into his seat, finding as much space from the man’s hand as possible and glaring at him.

“I know it seems like I’m punishing you, and I’m sorry that you--”

John laughs hoarsely, shoves the hand away from the door and opens it, “Yeah, I’m sure you’re really sorry. Don’t waste your breath.”

Dad frowns angrily, “You don’t speak to me that way. I’m only trying to make this easier for you.”

“Easier? Do you plan on escorting me everywhere for the rest of my life? You think that will keep me away from Sherlock?”

A patronising sigh, “Johnny, you’re not quite eighteen yet, your entire life is ahead of you. This… thing with Sherlock, it’s an infatuation, hormonal, and completely inappropriate. Whatever it is you think you’re feeling, you’ll grow out of it.”

“Hormones,” John says blankly, “I guess that means, what? I’m incapable of loving someone? I didn’t realise there were age qualifications.”

Dad shakes his head, “You’re a teenager, you don’t even know how love works,” and it’s the pitying way he says it that causes John to slam the door closed again and jab a finger in his face.

“So when I was holding Mum’s hair back while she was sick from the chemo, that wasn’t love?”

“That’s not the same--”

“When we couldn’t bring her fever down and I helped you undress her and put her in the ice bath, that wasn’t love. When I helped Harry with her projects because Mum was too doped up on painkillers and you were working late, that wasn’t love. All those nights I stayed up with you to sort her meds, when I made sure Harry and I made it to school so you could have the extra hour of sleep. How about the time I kept the house from falling apart when Mum went septic that winter and you were gone to the hospital for a month? Hundreds of doctor’s appointments where they kept telling us she could still pull through, but in the end I still watched her lie down on that hospital bed and die. I didn’t even get to say goodbye, I don’t remember telling her I loved her. I guess it doesn’t matter because it wouldn’t have counted anyways!”

Dad bangs his palm on the steering wheel, “That’s enough!”

John reaches for the door handle once again, ready to evacuate the stagnant air of their combined fury. “You keep saying that Mum would be so disappointed by me right now, but I think you got it wrong. She wouldn’t even recognise you.”

John steps out of the car and slams the door, Dad lingers in the parking lot until he’s sure John won’t deviate toward the bike racks to wait for Sherlock.

A group of John’s teammates spot him and wave him over. He used to stay with the group in the mornings before classes, listened to them talk sports and romantic conquests. The past couple months, he’s spent most moments before class snogging Sherlock in the empty changing room of the gymnasium and taking great relish in rucking up his sleeveless jumper. Pressing up against his long body until the flush steals high in his cheeks, and--

John can’t think about that right now.

There’s no way to avoid his mates without seeming rude so he finds his place among them and plasters on the fake smile that once had been a relief to wear, but now only feels like a painfully strained muscle.

In the distance he sees black curls being pushed about by the wind as Sherlock latches his bike to its post. One side of his shirttails has come untucked and he doesn’t bother to fix it. John wants desperately to go to him, but then the bells are sounding and he’s being clapped around the shoulder and steered toward the door.

Sherlock stoops to pick up a dropped book and takes quick strides toward the side door of the Maths building. John watches over his shoulder until he’s out of sight.

---

 

John is trying to decide between crisps or a cereal bar at the vending machine when a hand is closing around the crook of his elbow and tugging him away. John struggles for a moment in surprise, then whirls about, immediately going pliant when he sees who has grasped him

“Sherlock,” John breathes, bounding an extra step in an effort to get closer, “Jesus Christ!”

Sherlock looks down both sides of the hallway, and drags John into a supplies cupboard.

As soon as the door is closed, John is crowding Sherlock against the shelves, dragging him down by the collar and kissing him hard. Sherlock’s hands flail about like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to still touch John. Which is stupid. So John grabs one of Sherlock’s wrists and nudges his cheek into an open palm.

 

“Why wouldn’t you answer the door,” John growls between hard presses of lips. He moves in to nose at Sherlock’s neck, inhaling deeply and licking against his pulse point. Distantly, he’s aware of Sherlock leaning his head back against the iron shelf and gasping softly. “You must’ve heard me, you hear everything.”

“I--,” Sherlock shakes his head and pushes weakly at John’s shoulders, “Stop.”

John backs away, suddenly overcome. He rubs erratically at his face, through his hair, the events of the past two days washing over him. Anxiety, fear, anger, grief, helplessness, all grinding relentlessly against each other and setting John’s teeth on edge.

 

“John,” Sherlock says warily, watching while John has to cup his hands on top of his head and breathe evenly. “All right?”

“Yeah, I’m just brilliant,” John manages between breaths.

“You’re being facetious.”

“Of course I’m being bloody facetious,” John leans against the shelf opposite Sherlock and stares at the ceiling. “What do we do, Sherlock? I don’t know what to do.” Sherlock purses his lips. “Why didn’t you let me in the other night?”

“I needed to think,” Sherlock explains impatiently, “I couldn’t do that with you there.”

“You were avoiding me,” John says plainly, sighs and shakes his head.

“Of course not--” John fixes Sherlock with a look. “Fine. A bit. It’s only that I… I just.”

“I need you right now,” John can’t meet his eyes and say it, because it sounds weak. He hasn’t needed anyone in a very long time. Need is dangerous because things can be taken from you and used as leverage. John learned early on that love and need are not synonymous, they’re separate entities not always belonging in the same place. It’s the love that makes you whole, but the need is what makes you dependent.

Sherlock closes his eyes and looks like he’s about to speak again, but then the door handle is being twisted open. Before the light from the hallway filters into their cupboard, John watches Sherlock’s eyes flash in frustration before he turns and begins pawing through the contents of a box behind his back.

 

“What are you two doing in here?” Ms. Badji, French studies instructor, asks in her heavily accented English. She looks suspiciously to John who gestures aimlessly before Sherlock takes over. He whirls around holding up a ream of printing paper, packaged in its clear cellophane that makes crinkling noises when he tucks it under his arm.

“Computer lab requested supplies,” he lies effortlessly, offering Ms. Badji a gleaming smile.

“You need a key to open this door,” her dark eyes narrow and she blocks their exit.

“Of course,” Sherlock says, digging about in his pocket then producing a silver key with a tag looped about the chain labelled Inventory. “Now, if you don’t mind, we need to bring these to the lab before the bell.”

The woman huffs but pushes away from the door, grabbing Sherlock’s key and locking it shut before handing it back to Sherlock. “I’ll see you in class, Mr. Holmes,” she says with a furrowed brow, and ignores John. They listen to the clicking of her heels until she is out of sight. Sherlock rolls his eyes and props the printing paper on a window ledge.

“Where did you get that key?” John asks.

“Pinched it.”

John nods, because it’s exactly what he expected Sherlock to say. John reaches out, wanting badly to slide his fingertips against Sherlock’s.

The bell sounds and immediately students are filing back inside from courtyards and into classrooms. John shifts on his feet and looks after them, unfeeling. He knows Sherlock is staring at him.

“I don’t want to be here,” John says absently.

“Where do you want to be?” Sherlock cocks his head in confusion, tracking their classmates in his peripheral.

John doesn’t know. Anywhere. He knows well that it isn’t the physical displacement he wishes for, it’s escape. It always feels that way when he’s been thinking too much of Mum. The overwhelming desire to run and run until his lungs burn with it, until the physical ache in his muscles is enough to make him forget about the groping, crepuscular slur wrapped around his heart.

Sherlock seems to notice something that has crept into John’s expression, and he makes a breathy noise. Grabs John by the elbow and pulls him into a corner, half hidden by the lockers. He wraps John up into a tight hug. It makes John’s eyes prick dangerously, and he buries his nose where throat slants into shoulder, where Sherlock smells amazing, and John wants sink into him. Take Sherlock apart and dig into him with his fingers and his teeth and everything until they’re interwoven to the point of never being able to be separated. Until John is absolutely certain nothing and no one will be able to take Sherlock from him.

Sherlock lets John go far too quickly.

“We’ll talk tonight,” he says, looking around to be sure no one saw them. “Try and think clearly about what it is you want.”

“I know what I want,” John replies defensively.

“Think about the events of the past forty eight hours. Consider the far-reaching consequences. I’d rather not bear the responsibility of effectively ruining your relationship with your remaining parent.”

“Sherlock, what the hell are you--”

Sherlock talks over him, “Ask yourself if this is worth it, worth estranging your father over.”

“I don’t care what he--”

“Think about it, and we’ll speak tonight.”

John grits his teeth when a couple looking to snog in the corner Sherlock and John currently occupy pass by, glaring. “Promise me,” John says, adjusting his satchel over his shoulders, “I’m not just going to spend the night with my back against your door. Promise you’re not going to shut me out.”

Sherlock purses his lips and nods sharply, “Yes,” and then, “Promise.”

“Alright,” John takes a deep breath, allows his eyes to run over Sherlock’s face, “See you tonight.”

The bell rings and John is late for class.

---

 

Dad picks John up after school as guaranteed that morning, John sits in the back this time, needing to put as much space between them as possible. Thankfully Harry decided to come along instead of going off with her friend. Her girlfriend. Whatever. She sits up front and reads from a textbook, jotting notes on a separate piece of paper. Dad won’t stop clearing his throat, a nervous habit that is currently grating on John’s every nerve. They pull into the drive and park, John can’t get out of the car fast enough. He doesn’t want a repeat of their morning conversation.

Sherlock hasn’t yet made it home, and John isn’t surprised since bike travel tacks on extra time. Harry follows John inside, sitting with him at the dining room table while they silently share a bowl of popping corn. Dad meanders in and out of the rooms, John can hear him pulling back the blinds, checking to be sure Sherlock hasn’t arrived, dropping his bike haphazardly on the lawn as is his habit.

An hour goes by and Sherlock is still gone. Two hours and nothing. Three hours, Violet comes home. Kisses John’s father on the cheek and puts up some shopping. Colourful vegetables are stuffed into the crisper, a bag of rice emptied into a air-tight container and shelved. Fish filets left out by the hob as Violet searches for a skillet. John goes upstairs, just in case he missed Sherlock entering, but his room is empty. All of the rooms are empty.

Seven o’clock and John is beginning to feel unease rising up inside of him. It isn’t uncommon for Sherlock to run off for hours at a time. Possibly Sherlock is out wandering in order to avoid the thick, awkward atmosphere of the house.

John looks around Sherlock’s room, something panicked and unbalanced settles deeply in his gut. He goes back downstairs, ignoring his father when he passes him on the staircase, and finds Violet in the kitchen. It smells awful, she’s grimacing and burning a Talapia filet, the skin sticks to the pan when she tries to flip the fish. John turns on the vent to clear the smoke that is just beginning to billow up.

“Uh, Violet,” John looks around to make sure they’re alone.

“Hm?” Violet removes the broken fish from the smoking mess, deposits it onto a napkin to drain. It flakes apart on her spatula and she grunts in frustration. “I don’t know why I try.”

“Yeah, well,” John reaches up to the gas knob, turns it down and takes the pan to wash it off in the sink. “So, it’s getting a bit late,” John says, wiping the dampness from the dip of the skillet with a paper napkin. He sets it back over the burner with a pat of butter and waits for it to melt.

“It’s only half seven,” Violet says distractedly, reaching into the fridge and taking out the fixings for a salad.

“Right, it’s just that--”

“You know how Sherlock is, John,” Violet selects a sharp knife from the block, slices through a head of lettuce. “He only likes confrontation when it suits him. I’m sure he’ll be in once everyone has gone to bed, I wouldn’t worry.”

John scoffs at her, tosses a seasoned filet into the melted butter that is just now beginning to turn a nutty brown. “It doesn’t concern you where he might be?”

“This is far from the first time he’s shown up past dark. Don’t worry,” she looks at John kindly, “He’s probably down by the pond. He goes there to think or study, play his violin sometimes. Has done since he was a boy. He would force Mycroft to build a tent out of sticks and blankets and they’d stay out there all night. Fighting, mostly, but Mycroft would read to him, they’d play games. Real games, not mind games like you’ve seen. So, you see, it’s a bit nostalgic for him.”

John sighs, unable to feel comforted by Violet’s assurances.

He slips in another filet, the butter pops and burns John’s fingers.

---

Sherlock isn’t home by dinner. Sherlock isn’t home when Violet retires to bed. Sherlock isn’t home when Harry looks at John and shrugs, before heading off to her room to talk to Sherise on the phone. Sherlock isn’t home when Dad falls asleep on the sofa, waiting for him to come inside so he can be sure John doesn’t run off God-Knows-Where with Sherlock. John sneaks off and calls Sherlock on his mobile, which, fine, Sherlock would usually rather pick up a live snake than accept an actual call. It’s when half a dozen texts go unanswered that John feels the first tendrils of something more frantic run through his veins.

Sherlock, where are you. -John

swear to christ if you don’t answer me i’m calling your brother and having one of his minions find you.-John

He doesn’t know if that’s even possible or not, but it seems that if Sherlock were going to respond to anything, it’d be the threat of having his big brother checking up on him like a wayward toddler.

John paces in front of the windows, fingers twitching restlessly.

Sherlock said they would talk. He promised, and it’s dark outside, it’s colder than it has been the past few nights, and something isn’t right.

John rushes up the stairs, into his room. He begins throwing off the school uniform he hasn’t bothered to change out of since coming home. He pulls on jeans, his boots, whatever jumper is lying about, and his navy blue hooded sweatshirt. If Sherlock is out by the bloody pond that nearly tried to drown John once, then he’s at least going to have some company.

PingPing goes John’s mobile text alert. “Jesus Sherlock, about fucking time,” John grumbles, his stomach flipping nervously as he reaches for his phone. He unlocks the screen, thumbs his way into the inbox and reads the message.

John freezes.

He really should mind his own business.

John stares at the message for too long, it’s from Sherlock’s number, but Sherlock always signs with his initials, no matter how many texts John receives. That’s not from Sherlock. Someone has his phone. John’s pulse slams into action, flooding his body with adrenaline

Who is this -John

He waits and it feels like ages. John looks around the room helplessly, shakes the mobile once like it might make the reply come any quicker. Finally the alert pings again.

Shame, little brother is so pretty. Wonder if he tastes as good as he looks.

A tremor goes through John, but his fingers peck away at the keyboard steadily after he tries to call and it’s sent immediately to the voicemail Sherlock never bothered to set up.

I’m calling the police. -John

The reply is almost immediate, like whoever it is on the other line depended on John sending exactly that.

I wouldn’t if I were you. This could get much worse.

And with the text a picture is attached. John can’t even shake the paralysis out of his limbs long enough to sink onto the edge of the bed. The picture doesn’t show Sherlock’s face, but John has memorised the nape of his neck, the way dark curls cluster and twine around each other. Sherlock is unconscious (God, John hopes he’s just unconscious) and John can see where he’s bleeding from an ear, lying face down with his hands tied together and positioned awkwardly just over his head. John looks desperately for any sort of clue that would tell him where Sherlock is being kept, but there’s only damp cement.

John paces directionless, unable to think past the poundpoundpound of blood being sent through his body.

“Jesus,” John fists his hands in his hair, “What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Sherlock. Fuck. Fuck.”

He should tell someone. Anyone. Violet. Dad.

What the hell would he say? They’d insist on calling the police, which, obviously, is the right the thing to do.

God, but what if it isn’t? What if ‘the right thing’ earns Sherlock.. what? A bullet? Blunt object to the back of his head? He’s already bleeding.

If it was Sherlock, he would have already figured out where John was by the splash patterns on the bloody cement. Figure out who had him bound up by the type of binding knot and--

“He ought to stop poking his nose in other people’s business, tell him that, would you? Might not like what he finds. Hate for something to happen to him when his guard dog isn’t watching.”

The conversation rushes into John’s memory.

“Freak’s a pretty one though, innit?”

Lenny wouldn’t.

He’s a bully and pervert, and has had a personal vendetta against Sherlock since the moment John laid eyes on him that day in the stairwell. But he wouldn’t purposefully go out of his way to cart him off and…

Sherlock also thought Lenny might have had a hand in the murder of Timothy Walen, all those months ago. Drugged him, assaulted him, and panicked and killed him when Timothy came around. Circumstantial, but convincing.

Is there really any predicting people like Lenny? People who taunt and bruise and take because they like the look on your face as they try to break you.

“He makes the most amazing sounds when he’s being hit. When he’s hurt. You know? Like he’s being fucked.”

John’s fingernails dig into his palm, before he can come up with any kind of plan at all he’s rushing down the stairs, sneaking past Dad. He’s still snoring on the couch, a late night talk show that John could absolutely care less about playing softly in the background. He draws the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and slips out of the side door, the one the leads through the garden. It’s overgrown from negligent care, briars catch at John’s ankles, catch on his jeans and scratch at his skin and he doesn’t register the insignificant sting.

John mounts his bike. Where the hell should he go? Sherlock could literally be anywhere, John doesn’t know where Lenny lives. It isn’t like John had been over for a nice cuppa and a chat about the weather at any point. He opens his phone and begins sorting through contacts, someone, anyone who might have even the slightest suggestion as to what direction John should look.

He passes by former girlfriends, a couple of mates from the old neighborhood where they lived before Mum died, before the grief drove them away.
Teammates, a few numbers with names unattached.

Paul Taylor

John squints at the name. They had started football season together, but Paul had been cut before the first game after receiving low marks in a few classes. His average dropped and that was the last John had seen of him.

Until that day in the stairwell.

Paul stood off to the side, not participating, but not helping either. The worst sort of cowardice. He dials the number, no one answers. He punches the call button again, “Pick up, you arse,” and still no one answers.

John calls a total of a dozen times, back to back, before Paul answers.

“Who the bloody hell is this?” The voice on the phone growls, “If someone doesn’t answer the first time, that usually means--”

“Look, Paul, it’s John. John Watson,” John tries to keep the panic out of his voice, “We played footie together.” Well, for a minute at least.

“Uh.. right. You know it’s just gone midnight, yeah?”

No, John stopped keeping track of time a while ago. “Lenny Upton,” John gets straight to the point, “You two are mates, right?”

“I guess, sure, not anymore though. You got him expelled last I heard.”

John grimaces, “Bit of a disagreement. We’re past it,” he lies.

“Not surprised, Lenny’s always been a tosser. Anyway. Mind telling me why you’re calling me like a madman in the middle of the night?”

John holds the receiver away from his mouth and takes a deep breath, calms his nerves until he’s sure that his desperation won’t seep into his voice. “Yeah. Wanted to make a deal with him, if you know what I mean.” Ugh, Christ. That’s terrible. He’s not going to believe that. “He told me just to come by, but he never told me where. I was wondering..”

“I never pegged you for the type, mate.”

John hm’s, not knowing what else to say. If he wants to assume John is after drugs, he’s welcome to it.

“He tends to move a lot, usually if he’s making a deal, he comes to you. Not the other way around.” John’s heart sinks. “I know there use to be a house, well, if you could call it that. His old man used it to work on cars before he left off. I’m not sure of where exactly they had it. But John, if I were you, I’d just wait it out. It’s in the south part of town, and no offense.. not sure if you’d fit in there.”

John doesn’t even thank him, the mobile is hung up and deposited in his pocket. If he’s quick about it, John can make it to the busses before they stop running. John’s thighs and calves burn as he pushes himself as fast he can pedal, thinking only of Sherlock’s bleeding ear, the limp way he lay there on the floor, his lovely hands bound together. John pushes faster, if he slows at all there’s room for the fear, thoughts of Sherlock’s eyes open but without him. There’s room for John to imagine what it would be like to lose him.

The wind rushes past his ears, turns John’s nose pink and cold. The darkness of the sky spreads out over him in an endless, speckled blanket of stars and satellites.

---

 

John hunches up inside of his hoodie, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He leans against a light post, stares at the picture of Sherlock on his phone. Not the picture with Sherlock tied up and bleeding, but the other one. The one John took while Sherlock wasn’t looking.

Sherlock was knelt over a small colony of Nylander ants, the smell of damp peat and stone filling the air, and it was all very insignificant. The sun caught Sherlock just the right way, set off the shades of copper that weave around the deep sable of his hair. The blue sky framing his profile with wisps of cirrus clouds. It was before they even kissed. John had not understood why he’d taken out his phone and quietly snapped a picture. He had not understood why something in the region of his chest throbbed at the sight.

The street smells vaguely of piss and cigarettes, and something sweeter. Something John has smelled and seen at a few parties, but never partook of himself. Not out of moral objections, so much as there was always something else to do instead. Some girl to flirt with, some game to play.

A strip of suspicious looking shops, a few stand-alone buildings. John has heard of this place, after Timothy was found dead, his body dropped like so much rubbish in a ditch. Beaten and riddled with drugs. The police had raided the block of businesses, set up drugs busts and tried to shut down the night traffic that came looking for the men and women that waited on street corners, waiting to strike a deal over the services of their bodies.

They kept coming back, though, no matter how often the police broke down their doors. Eventually the public outcry over Timothy’s death dwindled, and with it the interest in cleaning out the dredges of Southtown.

John hopes Sherlock isn’t locked behind one of these dingy doors.
John hopes that he is.

If he isn’t, then John is back at square one with nowhere to look and that’s unacceptable.

 

“You waiting on someone, love?”

John startles, whirls around to see a woman dressed in questionably weather-appropriate clothes. Her lipstick has smeared itself against her teeth, red and waxy against ivory bone. The wind blows her dyed red hair about her face, it sticks to her lips and she brushes it away with nails chewed to the quick. Her fingers shake.

“No, I’m just looking for a friend.” John smiles politely to her, then immediately second-guesses his expression and scowls instead.

She shrugs, “Word of advice, sweet thing like you probably shouldn’t be haunting this corner. Unless you’re angling to be picked up.” She looks at John warily, “Are you? There’s usually a guy, comes around in about an hour. You look his type.”

“Type?” John echoes in confusion.

“Young, big doe eyes, blonde. Small enough to fuck in the back seat of a car.”

“No!” John says quickly, “God no, I’m not…” he shakes his head and looks at the woman, “Yeah, I’m not looking for that kind of friend.” His ears burn red. Jesus Christ.

She laughs, fingers still tremulous as she lights a menthol cigarette and takes a long drag. The end burns bright and orange before she slips it back out from between her lips. Ash is flicked from the tip and she releases the ruined air into a stream, chin tipped up. She offers the fag to John and he waves it away.

“Name is Trixie, by the way.” She offers her hand, John shakes it. The palms of her hands are clammy, nicotine stains in the bed of her nails. He wonder if it’s her real name.

“John.”

Trixie grins and continues to smoke. A car parks a few meters away from them, she looks down the street, the vehicle flicks it lights twice and she nods toward it before turning back toward John.

“Best not to get mixed up in all this, anyway,” she frowns and looks toward the car. “Watch yourself, love,” and off she starts toward the street.

“Trixie!” John calls after her, “Hey, um, by any chance..” She stops and looks impatiently between John and the car that flicks its high beams again. “Do you possibly know a Lenny Upton around these parts?” John watches confusion cross her face and his heart sinks heavily in his chest. “Medium build, bit heavy through the middle. Ginger, but his head is shaved, so it’s a bit hard to tell.”

Trixie appears to think for a moment before her face flickers with some realisation, “Oh! Oh, I think I know who you’re talking about. I don’t know him by Lenny, but there’s a guy two blocks down. Goes by Fox, dunno why, but it sounds like it could be him.”

John tries to keep his expression guarded, “Have you seen him tonight? By any chance.”

Trixie considers it, holding her palm up toward the car when it risks a quick bellow of its horn. “Look, if he’s the one you’re supposed to be meeting, I might would give it another hour.”

“Why’s that,” John demands, eyes flicking up and down the street. Fingers curl into fists.

“Saw him earlier, he was with another bloke. If you know Fox, you know what I’m getting at.” The side of her mouth twitches in distaste. “Poor sod could barely stand, he--”

“Where is he,” John cuts her off, devastation bubbling up and consuming him, “Just point me in the right direction.”

“I don’t want trouble with that creep,” Trixie is quick to say.

“I’m not going to tell him anything. I swear. Please.”

The car’s horn sounds longer this time, a man with a thick Russian accent yells something indecipherable from the window.

“I have to go,” she turns around, adjusts her purse strap over her shoulder, then looks back to John, “The west end, set a few meters away from the launderettes, the one with the iron door tagged with red paint. I hope you find who you’re looking for.” Trixie scurries off to the car, slamming the door shut. John doesn’t wait to for the car to start up and leave before he’s taking off down the sidewalk running, headed west. People crowded under covered stoops watch him run, one male voice calls out after him, but John doesn’t turn back.

His boots make gravely sounds as they touch down against the pavement, and now that John has a direction, he has no idea what he’s going to do when the time for confrontation arrives. Bust through the door with a, “Hi, hello there. Mind if take my boyfriend back, and turn you over to the police?”

Shit.

John stops in the middle of an empty street, he’s made it two blocks, perhaps there’s a sign for the launderettes. It isn’t quite raining, but everything is misty, John can feel the gathering humidity saturating his clothes, sticking in his hair. It isn’t the fresh petrichor scent that fills the air, but something soggy and rotten like dead wood. Stale and pungent, and filling John’s nostrils with every panted breath. His hands come up to scrub over his face, he paces down the road.

Something with a glare catches his eyes as he passes an alleyway and John moves in for a closer look.

Oh, thank Christ. The sign Lucky Clover Launderette gleams down at John in a sickly neon shade of green. A small, nondescript building looms perpendicular to the business, an iron door hung on the front, tagged in red graffiti that John doesn’t knows the significance of. A peephole sets high on the door.

He sprints over to it, fist poised to knock before he withdraws. He can’t knock on the fucking thing. It isn’t as if John has shown up for a friendly chat. God knows what Lenny would do if he took a look out and saw John staring back. What he might do to Sherlock. What he might have already done to Sherlock, a nasty voice whispers to John. Immediately he turns the thought over, pushes it down, and drops it before his mind conjures any more images of Sherlock bloodied and bound up, unable to defend himself.

John sets his ear to the door and hears nothing. The iron is far too thick. There aren’t any windows at eye level, the only point for alternative entry looks to be up the scaffolding and onto the second floor. John makes for the retractable stairs, and fuck, why does he have to be so short, no way he can jump high enough to bring the ladder down. Frantic, he looks about, kicks an empty box that dents with the pressure of his toe, damp and unusable.

Finally, John spots a metal bin overflowing with rubbish. He uses his forearm to knock debris out of the way, turns the thing over and empties it. The bin is drug below the scaffolding and John clambers on top of it, nearly losing his balance, but in the end he’s able to press up on his toes just enough that he can loop his fingers around the bottommost rung. He tugs and it extends for John to climb.

The window is unlocked, and John is thankful for that at least, he climbs through as quietly as possible. The attic is full of rusted car parts, rubber tubing, an old moped is toppled sideways onto the floor, a rusted engine sits in a corner. John tiptoes, careful not to run into anything that might clutter across the floor and give him away. There’s a cracked door at the opposite side of the room, a sliver of light filters through. John unlock his mobile and uses the light to guide him through the mess until he’s made it close enough to that little bit of golden light to navigate freely. Blood pounds in his ears, dread and anticipation, reticulating, knotting itself in the pit of his stomach.

God, what the hell should he do? Sherlock has always been the one for random bursts of strategy, but John thrives on spur of the moment action. He’s usually at his best when he trusts the solid press of instinct. The door whines when he nudges it open a little wider, John listens for voices, noises, anything that could possible tell him what to expect. He tamps down on the overwhelming need to charge forward, fists flying, to find Sherlock and cling to him until John is absolutely certain no one will ever hurt him again.

John slips through the door and plants his back flat against the wall. There’s a line of railing in front of him and he can see the foundation of the warehouse, but he can’t see Sherlock.

A soft noise echoes below John’s feet, breath and moan, discomfort. The hair on the back of John’s neck pricks up. Another helpless groan and John is sprinting as quietly as he can to the utility stairs that will take him downstairs. Down to Sherlock.

John gives a perfunctory survey of the area he’s able to see, if Lenny is in the building, he’s either in another room, or next to Sherlock and John is just going to have to take his chances. He skips entire steps, hand gripping the rail to keep him from falling face first down the last five steps, and finally he’s at the bottom. Still no Lenny.

“John” comes the somewhat slurred voice, and even through the thick disorientation of it, John would recognise the intonation anywhere. “What are… How did you?”

John spins on his heels and sees Sherlock propped up against the wall, wrists roped together and strung up above his head.

“Oh my god,” John breathes, rushing over to him, cupping Sherlock’s face in his palms before he nudges their foreheads together. “Sherlock can you understand me?” Sherlock blinks hard, obviously having trouble focusing. Not wanting to spare any more time John reaches up and unhooks Sherlock’s constrained hands from the nail they were hanging on. He works hard to unwrap the knots, but they’re so tight. John can see the stain of browned blood against the rough fibers of the rope. Sherlock’s wrists must be badly abraded.

John looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, his pupils look uneven in the dim light. The blood from his ear is matted into his hair and dry on his neck. Bruises the shape of fingerprints. “Shit,” John grits his teeth. There’s a smudge through the blood, like someone took him by the throat and ran their thumb through it.

Sherlock’s shirt is torn. The sleeveless uniform jumper missing. “Where is he? Sherlock,” John touches Sherlock’s cheek with his fingertips, moves them into his hair and feels the gash above his ear. “Where’s Lenny?”

Sherlock winces when John finally undoes the knot of the rope, blood wells up and begins running down Sherlock’s forearms. Sherlock keeps blinking hard, shakes his head once, “I… I can’t remember,” he furrows his brow, “I always remember. I remember everything, don’t I?” Sherlock’s eyes flutter close, “I’m tired, John.”

“I know, love. Just keep talking to me, yeah?” John watches Sherlock’s eyelids open again. “Tell me what happened. Can you do that?”

God, they really need to get moving. Even if Lenny isn’t here right now, he’s sure to come back. John shucks off his hooded sweatshirt. “Budge up a bit,” he tells Sherlock.
Sherlock rolls his hips up and John slips his mobile into Sherlock’s back pocket so it won’t be lost while he’s ripping up clothes to use as bandages.

John begins tearing at the hem of the thin long sleeved shirt underneath. Cloth begins to give, then shred, John rips a strip off and goes to wrap it around the wrist that appears to be bleeding more profusely than the other.

“Stayed after school,” Sherlock begins hesitantly, “Wanted to pinch a few things from the lab, but I can’t remember what exactly..” his voice trails off, and John pops him lightly on the cheek to rouse him. “I went to the bike, and..” Sherlock looks at John in confusion, “Something happened. I was there, and then I was here.” Sherlock holds up his hand and examines his fingernails. Blood is caked underneath the perfect crescents of his nails, flaking against his cuticles. “This isn’t my blood.” He crooks all five of his fingers and makes a clumsy scrape at the air, “Seems I must have scratched at my attacker. Good for evidence.” Sherlock sighs, “I’m not exactly in my best form. I’m afraid I’ve been drugged, you see,” and if John weren’t so frenzied, he’d laugh at Sherlock’s petulant tone.

“And concussed to boot,” John murmurs, “That’s fine, we’ll figure it out together. Need to get you to the hospital, can you walk?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, “I’ll have to,” and he reaches out to grasp onto John’s forearm. John leans in, wraps his other arm behind Sherlock’s back.. It puts his face right in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He smells of grime and sweat, metallic blood, and something that smells like old engine oil. Sherlock base scent completely invaded and overthrown. John knows he will always associate these odours with desperation, and fear, from here on out.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, too, it’s just that I’m fucking surprised. Didn’t invite you.”

John slowly lowers Sherlock back down to the floor, straightens his back and turns around.

“Yeah, well. Maybe next time don’t send a text, bit obvious, that.” John smiles tight-lipped at Lenny. His orange hair has grown out slightly, it sticks straight up into gelled points. He’d look ridiculous if it weren’t for the dangerous glint to his expression. Four ragged scratches extend down Lenny’s cheek and onto his jaw. At least Sherlock got a good swipe in. “Look, I just want to get Sherlock and leave.”

“So you can go running to the police? Don’t think so, mate.”

John looks back to Sherlock who is struggling to stand up, pushing his back against the wall to use as leverage.

“How you feeling, freak?,” Lenny sneers, eyes locked predatorily on Sherlock. He begins to stalk toward him, John immediately moves to block but then Lenny reaches behind his back and pulls out a clip blade. The sharp, tapered edge glints in the light, he holds it to John’s chest, moves it to his throat, and Lenny smiles as he steps around John, forcing them to switch positions. The knife pulls across his skin, John can feel the vague sting where it skirts just on the edge of slicing into him. Lenny tuts, and rounds on Sherlock who has managed to make it upright. He’s panting heavily, and shakes his head at John when he sees the muscles twitching through his arms, straining toward Lenny.

Lenny sets the blade to Sherlock’s shirt, “You think you’re so much better than everyone else with that big brain of yours,” he begins slicing through the buttons, Sherlock’s skin being exposed bit by bit. “Someone really needs to take you down a notch, or twenty.”

Fury shoots through John like a rocket taking to orbit, he takes a step toward them but Lenny hears and presses the knife to Sherlock’s belly. Sherlock winces and bites his lip to keep from gasping when the blade twists and frees a small trickle of blood.

Lenny looks at John, “Don’t. That’s rude. You’re lucky I’m letting you watch.” Sherlock purses his lips and looks at the ceiling.

“Turn around,” Lenny grabs Sherlock by the hair and wrenches hard. A pained noise escapes Sherlock’s mouth before he’s turned around and pressed hard against the wall. Lenny holds the knife pointed against Sherlock’s ribcage, he lifts the tails of Sherlock’s shirt and runs his dirty fingers over the skin of his lower back, the brush is possessive, entitled.

“Don’t touch him,” John says slowly, clenching his fists up tight, “I swear to christ, if you lay a finger on him--”

“I’m already touching him, see?” Lenny laughs, cups Sherlock around the hip, “If you take a step over here I’ll slice his pretty throat.” The knife goes over Sherlock’s ribs, one by one, before settling at the base of his throat. Lenny leans in and licks a long messy stripe up his neck. Sherlock makes a noise of disgust, jerks, but is immediately stilled when Lenny moves the blade implicatively.

“Why are you doing this,” John asks, desperate to buy time, “You’ll be caught. This is stupid.”

“I might get caught,” Lenny says casually, “Might not. Gotten away with it before.”

“Is that what this is about? Timothy Walen?” John keeps talking, unable to look away when Lenny goes to peel Sherlock’s shirt over his shoulders. It pools at the crooks of his elbows. “There’s no proof.”

“Well--” Sherlock cuts in and John could throttle him.

“There’s no proof,” John continues on, “We’re not going to say anything.”

Lenny cackles and looks incredulously at John, “You might not, but this one here,” he nudges against Sherlock, “He never shuts up. I don’t know how you stand it. Besides, that’s not why. Walen is old news, no one cares about him anymore.”

“What is it then, hm?” John asks loudly, his skin feeling hot all over when Lenny moves to slide his hand into Sherlock’s trouser pocket for a grope. John can’t remember which pocket he’d slipped his mobile in for safekeeping. If he could just distract Lenny long enough for Sherlock to dial 999.

“Actually, this is all your fault John,” Lenny says, hand stilling. “I was finished with Sherlock, for the most part. Had a bit of fun roughing him up, I would have taken that and been happy. Then you just couldn’t keep to yourself, could you? Had to play big-brother.” He looks John over once, “Or overprotective boyfriend,” he laughs. “Got me expelled, I’m on probation with juvenile courts too. Showed me up in front of half the school. This is really only fair.”

“This is about reputation?” Sherlock slurs against the wall, “Ugh, dull.”

Before John can do anything, Lenny has his fingers pulling at the nape of Sherlock’s hair, he pulls him back once, throat bared, before smashing him back into the wall. Sherlock’s breath goes out of him, unable to make any noise. The knife goes back around to Sherlock’s throat.

“Not reputation,” he hisses in Sherlock’s ear, “It’s about power, about doing something to you and you not being able to do anything back,” and with that Lenny is unbuckling his belt, shoving clumsily at Sherlock’s trousers and--

John jumps, blind with fury, the blood hot and resonant in his ears as he reaches for the arm that holds the knife. John hooks his elbow over Lenny’s, wrenches it sideways, taking some of Lenny’s weight with him as they stumble away from Sherlock. John twists, and the knife sinks into Lenny’s bicep, he cries out.

Sherlock slides down against the wall, dazed, a hand to his throat. John can’t check to see if Sherlock’s been nicked in the exchange because suddenly Lenny is on him, pushing John to the ground and straddling his hips, hands around his throat. Blood runs down Lenny’s meaty arm and onto John, it stinks, copper and unwashed body pressed against John, cutting off his air.

“You fucker,” Lenny snarls, digging his thumbs into John’s throat, “I’m going to make you regret that. I’ll tie you down and make you watch while I--”

John is gasping and gasping, unable to fill his lungs, and God it hurts.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice, “John, come on John, get up. Get up!”

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is rasping as he rolls and dry heaves onto the concrete.

“I knocked him with the tire iron, I called 999 but I have no idea where we are. They’ll only be able to trace to the general area, we need to get outside, hurry.” Sherlock’s hands are shaking when he reaches down to John.

They lean against each other, Sherlock’s eyes flicking about, looking for the proper door.

“I’m seeing in doubles, I swung twice before I clipped the bastard. Now, where’s the damn door.”

John can’t help it, he manages a hoarse laugh and points to the right, “It’s over there, follow me.” John nestles Sherlock into his side and they set off toward the exit.
“I’m sorry, I should have found you sooner,” John says, holding still and looking back at Lenny’s limp figure when Sherlock trips and then wavers uncertainly on his feet.

“Stop that, don’t apologise,” Sherlock says tersely. “You found me, and I’m perfectly well.”

“You’re concussed and drugged, and he touched you.”

“Yes, but he’s the one out cold now, so in the balance of things I’d say we came out fairly well.”

“Jesus,” John sighs and sets their pace again. “This is not how I imagined the evening.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, the shuffle of his feet louder than John’s as if he’s not quite sure the ground is firmly beneath him. “How did you imagine it?”

John giggles breathlessly, ”Well, no psychotic junkies kidnapping my--” but then John can’t breathe and there’s something burning hot and sharp, somewhere on his body. “Sherl--” but he can’t get out Sherlock’s name. Why is that happening?

Sherlock whirls, eyes gone wide and unblinking before he’s lunging past John. There are noises, yelling, the muffled sound of something being struck over and over. For some reason, John can’t right himself, can’t track the movement properly. There’s a pressure building and contracting in his chest, like weights have been heaped on top of him. John’s vision is hazy and darkened at the edges, and he isn’t sure what that is about either. Maybe Sherlock can explain it to him.

“John, John, you need to.. Fuck, I don’t know! John!”

Why does Sherlock sound so scared? John would never let anything happen to him, not ever.

There’s warmth pressed against John’s side, which is nice, really nice, because John is absolutely freezing. It feels like the icy pond, the one John fell through. Murky blackness swirling up around him, choking him and shaking him from the inside out. Eels waiting underneath the ice, ready to wrap their slimy bodies around his ankles and drag him so far down into the cold mud.

John can’t feel his fingers. That’s odd.

He pulls his hand up to look and make sure they’re still there.

“Oh,” John says, and even through the drunken daze he sees the redness coating his fingers, thick and tepid. “Are you bleeding?” he asks Sherlock, confused. John’s knees buckle and Sherlock is already there, bearing him to the ground. John is only somewhat aware that he’s hyperventilating, breathing quick and ragged.

 

“Please don’t, John, don’t, don’t,” Sherlock is pleading with him and John can’t figure out why he’s doing that. He’ll give Sherlock whatever he wants, there’s no sense in begging. John tries to focus on Sherlock’s face. His eyes are red and his cheeks are wet, John wants to reach up and use his thumbs to wipe it away, but he can’t stop shaking. Can’t feel his arms or toes, can’t be warm.

“Cold,” John says.

“You’re going into shock,” Sherlock unties the bit of John’s jumper from around his wrist, and presses it somewhere on John. The burning sensation grows more uncomfortable and John makes a sound. “Sh, sh, you’re going to be fine, John. Don’t talk.”

“What’s happening,” John whispers, teeth clattering.

Sherlock makes a miserable choking noise, “You’ve been stabbed. The abdomen, I don’t--” he takes a shuddering breath, “There’s a lot of blood, I can’t see.” Sherlock sniffs loudly, there’s more pressure against John’s torso. “It won’t stop,” his voice is hoarse, “You’re bleeding out.”

“Stabbed?” John asks like the word doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t remember being stabbed. “That’s a bit rubbish.” John is so tired. Surely Sherlock would not mind if he drifted off for a moment.

“NO!” Sherlock shouts above him, “You can’t do that, you can’t fall asleep. Stay awake, John. Open your eyes.”

“S’okay, Sherlock,” John slurs, his vision darkening and blurring Sherlock’s lovely face. “Doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. Nothing has changed for me.” He tries to smile. Hopefully Sherlock understands.

“John, “ Sherlock voice sounds distant, “Please wake up. Please please,” the words whisper softly through the dimness.

John is sure he has extremely important things to tell Sherlock, it’s just that he’s having trouble remembering what they are. Sherlock will forgive him.

Blackness creeps in, eclipses the bright points of Sherlock’s eyes. Numbness washes over John, seductive in the way it sets so deeply into his blood, into his bones.

 

Someone calls his name, but John can’t answer.

There’s a buzzing that John can’t quite touch. Clarity remains out of his reach.

As silence claims him, images play in disjointed, rapid flashes, like the old home movie reels his mother kept boxed in the attic. She would take them out and thread them through the projector.

Air hissing softly through the rolled down window of the car as John fled his childhood home.

Lilies spread in front of a casket.

Mum’s laughter echoing into the hallway.

The crush of soft curls in John’s palm.

Harry facing the wind, hair blown about, face chapped and coat unbuttoned.

Dad against the wall of the funeral parlor, hands in his pockets.

Sherlock’s body spread out and undone underneath John’s, whispering in his ear.

The world trammeled, broken down into neoned figments.

------
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Chapter Text

Christy for constant support and help and cheerleading for this fic!  When I came up with this concept, she was the one who championed me actually writing it, and I'm so glad I did!

For any upcoming fic information or to read my various comments cursing like a sailor, you can follow me on Tumblr!  Cheers!

 

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“John--”

Mum stands by the shore. She collects broken seashells mixed with the whole ones, one by one she places them in the folded hem of her skirt. Shattered sand dollars, the feather of a gull, she tosses the empty shell of a crab back out to sea.

She moves among the salt water mist, ocean still churning and grey from a storm. The palm fronds are blown black. She lifts one pebble, then another, some pink, some the colour of milk glass, and slips them into her breast pocket.

The waves break loud against the sand, foam washes over her feet, up her calves, swallowing her knees, her waist, and John can’t reach her.

John would shout out to her if he could, but his voice is lost. Ocean and ocean, the roar of wind, fish jumping out of the water and plummeting back into the depths.

The sea swells over her, and she’s lost.

“John--”

Sherlock sits across from John at the dining room table, nibbling on buttered toast. He takes his coffee sweetened, no milk.

Above them, the roof has disappeared, lightning bisects the sky.

Sherlock sits there without saying anything.

“Come closer so I can see you,” John pleads.

Sherlock presses his warm mouth to John’s shoulder, to his throat, and the world starts up again.

 

Someone is screaming. Everything is burning, sharp and consuming. He’s dreaming.
He’s dreaming.
Nothing is supposed to hurt in your dreams.

Right?

“John.”

“John, look here, John, can you hear me?”

Oh fuck, he’s gasping, gasping, and someone is still screaming. It feels like he’s being ripped open at the seams.

“I need you to calm down, can you do that?”

John’s eyes fly open and are met with glaring fluorescent light. They’re moving. A man he’s never once seen before is bent over him, shining a penlight in his eyes. John’s throat is aching, and it takes several miserable moments before he realises he’s screaming from the pain, and what happened? Why does everything hurt?

Another pulse of searing pain shoots through his body and John screams again.

“Of course he can’t calm down, he’s been stabbed you moron!”

Sherlock? Oh, god, it sounds just like Sherlock. John wants desperately to see his face, but the stranger is in the way, poking and prodding at him. Each touch sets loose another hysterical cry, wrenched from John’s throat.

“We’re on our way to the hospital, you’re in an ambulance. It’s important that you don’t move though. You’re going to be fine.”

John can only cry and scream.

It hurts. Everything hurts and he can’t breathe.

Suddenly Sherlock’s face is over John’s, upside down. His face is blotchy and cheeks are wet, he cups John’s jaw with his lovely hands. The man with the penlight keeps trying to ask John questions, but John can only see Sherlock. Can only hear Sherlock.

John tries to say Sherlock’s name, but it’s all he can do to stare wide-eyed and panting from pain.

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock insists, “I’m right here, I’ve got you, you’re going to be okay Please don’t move.” He presses the lightest kiss to John’s forehead.

“I’m scared,” John whispers, his entire body beginning to shake.

Sherlock’s mouth twists for a moment and he’s opening his mouth to say something, but then the ambulance hits a bump and rocks. A fresh wave of searing agony tears through John like a hundred stabbing blades. He knows he’s shrieking again, he just can’t hear it.

“For god’s sake!” Sherlock shouts frantically, “Can’t you see he’s pain? Give him something!”

Sherlock continues to shout threats, but John can’t seem to comprehend them through the shrill ringing in his ears.

There’s a pinch, a burn in the pit of his elbow. John is being submerged into blackness.

The world goes blissfully silent.

---

There are people talking around him, but John can’t speak back to them. He feels disconnected from his body in a pleasant way, sort of like John is there, but not in the usual spot that there is. He’s swimming about inside of himself, a bland sort of numbness buzzing all around.

“You honestly can’t think I’m leaving this room.”

Oh, that sounds like Sherlock.
SherlockSherlockSherlock, John’s addled consciousness supplies helpfully.
John loves Sherlock. Sherlock is so brilliant, and never boring, and soft and gentled when he wants to be.

“If you assume for one moment that I plan to remove myself from this exact spot, then you’re a bigger idiot than I took you for.”

Sherlock is really such an arse, and John loves that too.

SherlockSherlockSherlock. His lovely voice makes the numbness even more sweet. If John could figure out if he still has the ability to speak, he’d ask Sherlock to stroke that spot on the nape of his neck where John’s normally straight hair begins to flip out when it grows too long. He likes it when Sherlock touches him there.

“Are you going to allow him to speak to me like that? For god's sake Violet!”

Ugh. Dad.

“Calm down! The both of you. You’re giving me a migraine. John doesn’t need your squabbling either, so shut it!”

A high, feminine voice. Harry? No, not Harry. Violet.
Dad grumbles.

“I’m calm! I’m extremely calm! I’d be much more calm if everyone would stop insisting I--”

“The doctors need to have a look at you, too. You’ve blood all over.”

Something on John is shifted, taken and clasped. Maybe a hand.

“I’m not leaving until he’s awake. They can have me then, and not a second before.”

SherlockSherlockSherlock. John is here, and Sherlock is somewhere out there, and if Sherlock could just work out how to get to where John actually is, everyone would be a lot happier.

“You’re wretched. Bleeding. You have a concussion, you’ve been drugged and god knows what else. Do you think John will be too pleased to see you in such a state? It will be another day, at best, probably longer, before he’s even able to open his eyes.”

“Yes, and I intend to be here when that happens.”

“You can come right back. After they’ve stitched you up.”

“Absolutely not!” Dad’s voice, “He’s the reason John is here at all!”

“Shut up, Nathan. Sherlock is not responsible for the actions of a deeply disturbed individual, and I will hear no more of it from you. They are both victims in this situation and I will not allow you to lay blame where it is unwarranted. If anyone is going to bring John a modicum of comfort right now, it’s my son. Or do you not want that? Would you deny John that as well?”

The room is silent for several moments and John wonders if they’ve disappeared altogether. Or perhaps John is the one that has vanished.

“Now, Sherlock. Will you please let the doctors tend to you, without you taking swings when they come near. You’ll be allowed back in, afterward. I swear.”

The grip on John’s (possibly) hand tightens. John wants to squeeze back, but his muscles have turned to water and the sudden need to give himself over to the silence of sleep is overwhelming.

“Fine,” ,Sherlock says, he sounds so distant. There’s a warmth next to John’s ear, a whisper, “I’ll only be a moment.”

John can’t reply.

---

John dreams of the frozen pond. He dreams of elm trees broken off at their rotten stumps, and fire bursting out of the ground to swallow them whole. The flames lick at John’s skin and he can’t be silent as he cries his broken self back into warmth.

He dreams of Mum, the last few days before she died. John unable to hold vigil at her bedside, unable to speak to her, because every word could be the last. What might he possibly say? Beg her not to leave, beg her to stay alive and in so much pain? “Please, Mum” he could have whispered. “Don’t leave.” John wanted to be selfish and keep her, and it was odd to be so jealous of the catch of death.

She was deliberate in the way she died; slipping away in gradual increments until there was nothing left.

Outside, the intercom paged for doctors and nurses.

John remembers the sound of the flatline when her heart stopped beating.

“Time of death, 7:28AM,” the doctor said.

John watched the shadow of a rhombus travel across the wall when the sun shone through the window.

---

Something moves beside John. Blistering heat on one side, and snug warmth on the other. He’s half submerged in sleep, half awake, and unable to succumb to either. John tries moving an arm, but can’t seem to summon the strength for that much. He manages a twitch instead, a very small one. Encouraged, he tries again and oh, and jesusfuckingchrist What is that? It hurts like the dickens and John should have gone the opposite direction and opted to fall back asleep.

“Unghh,” John mumbles. An unintelligible sound that echoes in his head. His mouth is dry, he feels like he hasn’t spoken in days. “Bloody hell,” nothing but a croak. He tries opening his eyes, managing to slit them a bit, only to squeeze them back shut again when the most obnoxious light threatens to blind him.

“John?” The side of him that doesn’t feel like it’s being stabbed moves, leaves the right line of John cold as it pushes away.

Stabbed, that’s exactly it, John remembers now!
It’s fucking awful.

John makes another miserable noise.

“Hold on,” and John opens his eyes enough to see a pale arm stretch across him. He can hear the click of a button, a sudden cold burn in his veins, and gradually the edge of sharp pain ebbs into dull ache. “Is that better? They’ve given you a morphine pump for the pain.”

“Sherlock,” John rasps when cool fingers swipe over his eyes, clearing the sleep gathered at the edges. It’s an incredibly intimate thing, and even through the slight disorientation of the morphine, John can feel his heart pick up slightly at the gesture. He looks over toward Sherlock. He’s gotten a chair and moved it all the way up to the edge of John’s bed. Sherlock has a bruise along his cheekbone, the thin skin under his eyes are light violet like he hasn’t slept in ages. Curls are more fuzzed up than usual, one side stuck down to his skull. He must have rested his head on John’s bed.

“Your father is home with Harry, it’s the first night he’s been gone since you’ve been admitted.”

John wants to ask Sherlock how it’s even remotely possible that Dad allowed Sherlock to stay with him, alone. He’s still so tired, and talking, even so very few words, is a feat within itself.

Instead John asks, “You okay?”

“Am I-- me?” Sherlock chokes a small laugh, leans into John’s shoulder and presses a kiss. “You very nearly bled out, been unconscious for three days, underwent surgery to repair your spleen, and you’re concerned about me?”

John tries to roll his eyes, “Yeah, but, are you okay?”

“Cuts and bruises, mild concussion. You’re not comatose anymore, that improves my mood immensely.”

John tries to laugh, and Sherlock curses at him when the pressure of filling his diaphragm causes John to gasp in sudden pain.

“Lenny?” John asks, because maybe if he’s somewhere in the hospital, John can go smother him with a pillow. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Sherlock grimaces, “He’s in a different hospital under armed guard. Afraid I only gave him a subdural hematoma,” Sherlock says regretfully, “I’ve given my report to the authorities. I’m sure they’ll want the same from you when you’re able.”

John sighs and nods. Sherlock strokes his thumb over John’s knuckles. “Get up here,” John says when he can muster the strength. “Beside me.”

“I don’t think your nurse would respond kindly to finding me in her patient’s cot,” Sherlock sounds unconvinced by his own argument.

“Get in the damn bed,” John closes his eyes, breathes out the demand.

John hears Sherlock shuffling about, the cool air on his skin when Sherlock peels the bedclothes back, and then the familiar heat and contours of Sherlock’s body begins to curl around John.
Sherlock nudges his head against John’s chest, one leg drapes over John’s thigh and Sherlock hooks their ankles together. John is able to move his arm and bring it around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I very nearly lost you,” Sherlock whispers when they’ve settled. “Don’t do that again. It’s unacceptable. You can’t ever do that again. You’re not allowed to die.”

John can’t promise that of course, he rubs weakly over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do my best.”

Sherlock grows tense beside John, his fingers curl into and grip John’s hospital gown.

“I love you, too,” he says softly.

John turns, twists his neck, eyes going open painfully wide. Sherlock looks so afraid. “You wouldn’t stop bleeding, I thought you were going to die. And you wouldn’t have known how I…” Sherlock closes his eyes, lips pursed as he takes a ragged inhale.

“Don’t ever use it as leverage over me,” Sherlock says firmly, silvery eyes focussed back on John. “Don’t use it to ruin me.” He leans in and presses his lips in a soft caress under John’s jaw.

“Sherlock,” the name comes out as a thick sibilation from between John’s lips. “I wouldn’t. I’d never--”

Sherlock shushes him, tucks his face back into John’s side. “Sleep, now,” he murmurs. “I love you,” and it’s more confident this time. As if the words make it into something that Sherlock can hold and protect with gloved hands.

---

When John wakes up, Sherlock is still wound around him. The pain is still there, but at the moment it’s bearable, and John takes the chance at consciousness to look around his room. Eyes flick over to the IV line where several different drips are hung, various machines displaying John’s vitals. A blue vase filled with hospital gift shop roses in a vase. “It’s a Boy!” the balloon attached reads.

“The ‘Get Well Soon’ ones seemed too morbid.” John turns his head to the right, sees Harry with her knees drawn to her chest, sitting in the green-vinyl covered chair. “How are you?”

John thinks it over for a moment, “Um, stabbed, basically.”

Harry nods, “Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock twitches in his sleep, hums deep in his throat and snuffles even further into John’s ribs. John’s hand drifts idly into his hair, loops individual curls around the knuckle of his index finger.

“He’s barely left your side,” Harry looks at Sherlock lying there. “He bit a doctor who tried to pry him away from you,” and the sentence ends with Harry’s soft laughter.

“Oh Christ,” John breathes looking at the ceiling and shaking his head, but smiling all the same.

“It was all we could do to get him to take a shower, this is the first time I’ve seen him asleep,” Harry says, still giggling. She sighs, her face grows more serious, “I’ve never seen him like that. He’s always seems so cold and just.. You wonder if he cares much about anything.”

“He’s not really like that,” John says immediately, “It doesn’t matter what anyone says, he’s not a sociopath. They don’t know him like I--”

“I know,” Harry intercedes, “I know.”
“Where’s Dad,” John asks after some time, a sick tendril of dread weaving into his belly.

“Re-evaluating his life, probably,” Harry waves a hand at the door in a flippant gesture, “Not really. He’s getting lunch in the canteen before he comes up.” John looks at the clock, but it’s broken. He has no idea what time it is and it’s unnerving. John’s wristwatch has been removed, and he can’t get to Sherlock’s.

“I told him,” Harry says abruptly, “About me.” John opens his mouth, a barrage of questions on the tip of his tongue, but Harry continues. “He was acting mental when he found out. Told Violet if she had sent Sherlock away like he’d asked then this never would have happened. She basically told him to get fucked, course’ she didn’t say those exact words, but.. Anyways. They wouldn’t stop rowing, and I snuck a few shots of-- Don’t look at me like that, Johnny-- but I stopped caring. I blurted it out. Told him that I’d been kissing girls since primary school. That I’d sooner touch a crocodile than a cock. That part didn’t go over well.”

John gapes at her.

“He just walked out. Walked out the house and left us there, drove here by himself. Barely spoken a word to anyone since.”

 

Called by fate itself, the whine of the heavy door’s hinges call out, signalling their father’s arrival. He pushes the curtain open, gaze settling on Harry, then on Sherlock in bed, and he finally meets John’s eyes. He clears his throat and holds up a bottle of orange juice.

“The doctor said you could start drinking liquids. They’ll need another night of monitoring before you’re clear to have solid food.”

“Alright,” John says, his hand settling protectively at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, like Dad might walk over and tear Sherlock away from John.

“Harry, could you give me and your brother a moment?”

Harry looks at him suspiciously, folds her arms across her chest, “He’s only woke up. The doctors said to keep him calm.”

“Yes, I know,” Dad protests, “I’m not going to--” he sighs and sets the orange juice on a tray. “A couple minutes, is all. Please.”

Harry looks at John, to make sure he approves. John gives a quick tuck of his chin, and Harry rises warily from her seat. Crosses the room, giving their father a tilt of her head telling him to overtake her chair. Harry closes the door behind her.

“Is he, um,” Dad nods toward Sherlock’s sleeping figure, “Perhaps this would be better just between us.”

“He’s fine where he is,” John smiles, tight-lipped. “I’ll only tell him later, anyways.” Or Sherlock will figure it with one look to John’s face.

Dad sits, hunches over and rests his elbows on his knees. “Pretty sure everyone hates me, right about now,” is the first thing out of his mouth.

John groans, unable to stand the self-pity. “If you’re looking for a guilt trip--”

“I know, I know. Sorry,” Dad says, straightening up and furrowing his brow. “I’ve thought a lot about everything that has happened. I’m..” he seems to search for words, “I’m ashamed of how I’ve treated you. And him,” his eyes move toward Sherlock. “I was surprised.”

“And your first reaction was to call me a faggot?” John says, unconvinced.

Dad grimaces and averts his gaze, scrubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. “I shouldn’t have said that, should never have called you that.”

“But it’s what you think.”

“No, I--” he shakes his head, “I don’t. That’s an awful word, and I never should have used it. Like I said, I was completely surprised. It was never anything I was expecting, and in the moment-- And the days following-- I overreacted. He’s your step-brother and--”

“That’s not my fault either,” John protests, “Even if you hadn’t married Violet, it still might have happened. It’s only by accident that we ended up step-brothers to begin with.”

“I understand that. It shouldn’t be surprising that the parents of a combined household, who share common interests and attractions, should find their respective children might do so as well.”

John mulls it over in his head. “Violet told you that, didn’t she.” Dad blinks and John huffs a small laugh, because anything more would hurt too much. “It just sounded like you were reading it from a script.”

Dad shrugs, “She did, but she had a point as well.” He makes eye-contact with John again. “I’m sorry, Johnny. You’re likely still angry, and I believe I deserve that, but I am sorry for how I behaved. It should have been handled so differently.”

John’s eyes narrow, “So what are you saying.” He’s beginning to grow tired again, and he wishes Dad would just get to the point.

“I’m not going to interfere, with the two of you, I mean. It’s still going to take some getting used to, and we’ll have to set some ground rules while you’re still living with us. But I’m not blind. I see that he’s important to you. I see that he cares greatly for you. I didn’t want to acknowledge it before, but..” he trails off, sighs and runs his finger through hair that’s long gone grey. “You were right. Your mother wouldn’t know me, by how I’ve acted.”

John looks down for a moment. “When I said that it should have been you, instead of Mum.. I don’t wish that. I was angry, I wanted to hurt you. I don’t wish you were dead.”

“Okay,” Dad says, picking at his cuff.

“What about Harry?”

“I’m going to talk to her as well.”

John nods and they sit in silence. A page rings out in the hall. The wheels of a cart squeak as it’s rolled by their door.

“Mum is gone, and you’re all we have left. You need to understand that, what it means. You don’t get to choose when you want to deal with me. With us.”

“I know,” Dad says , looking out the window. “You remind me so much of her. I look at you, and I see her. It hurts to look at you.” A finch perches on the sill. “I haven’t forgotten. I thought I might, with time. I miss her every day.”

John watches his father, the deliberate way he can’t cut his eyes back to John. “It’s all right.” And it is, somehow. Perhaps John has gotten better at being crushed now, than before.

John closes his eyes, depresses the button for the morphine drip. Sherlock strokes his hand over John’s hip, and John knows he’s been awake for the entire conversation. Knew when Sherlock’s natural breathing fell into a rhythmic pattern of feigned sleep. John turns his head, hides his nose in Sherlock’s hair, and kisses the crown of his skull.

John doesn’t understand life, how sometimes your own soul can be lost into the breath of another person. Loving, touching, entering another person and trying to fill them. How every chord strikes wild, and absolute, and brief. How joy and hollowness can exist simultaneously. Grief opening and closing like an iron gate, affecting everyone at some point; violent, peaceful, consenting, and suffering it all.

Everyone meandering and searching for answers, wondering all the while if they’re really out there.

If it requires so much time to find purpose, how do you know it exists at all?

---

Turns out, prolonged admittance into the hospital is incredibly boring. The food is boring, the routine is boring, the decoration is boring, the third-story view out of the ovular window is boring. John is crawling in his skin.

Sherlock is inexplicably calm about the entire matter, and John can’t quite believe the way the tables have turned in this particular situation. Usually, it’s John who has to talk Sherlock down when his ennui sets in.

Sherlock sits quietly at the foot of John’s bed after Dad and Violet have gone home to rest before work in the morning, Harry has school. Sherlock somehow manipulated his physician into writing a couple weeks worth of excuses. Dad was hesitant to approve when Sherlock, in his smug way, volunteered to stay.

“Honestly, Nathan. He’s stitched up with a drainage bag sticking out of his side. What on earth do you think they could possibly get up to?” Violet had said, throwing her coat over her shoulders. “Besides, he shouldn’t be alone.”
Sherlock stayed.

Now, he flips through John’s school work, having already completed his own, he chews on the end of the pen.

“Don’t bloody do that,” John fusses

Sherlock raises his brow at him, removes the pen from between his teeth. The tip glistens with his saliva and the sight of it only infuriates John more.

“Do what?” Sherlock asks, looking down to the papers, then pointing to them. “I’ll place a fair amount of wrong answers so no one believes I did it for you.”

No. That’s not what John was referring to. He lets Sherlock believe it is. “Charming. Let me do the work, it isn’t like I have anything else to entertain me.”

“Stop whinging. Your precious James Bond film comes on in a half hour.”

John groans. He’s seen it before, there’s no point. “Come here.”

“Your stitches--”

“Damn the stitches, Sherlock. I don’t want telly or school work. I want you. Not down there, up here. Your face--” John points to his own mouth, “Right here.”

“God’s sake,” Sherlock grumbles, gingerly climbing over John, careful not jostle him. He won’t even set a finger to the majority of the left side of his body, overly conscious of the wound and the nicked up bit of organ underneath. He lets his face drop in front of John’s, keeps their lips apart. “Is this what you wanted?” His tongue swipes along the seam of his lips, a perfect little glimpse of pink.

“Yes,” John breathes, tilting his chin up to reach that mouth. Sherlock keeps his eyes open when he kisses John this time. The blissfully indulgent smear of Sherlock’s lips, they’re still a little damp from being licked, and John presses forward, wanting more. John nips once at the full bottom lip, and Sherlock lets out a small breath before opening his mouth. The first touch of soft wetness throws John ahead an extra few paces and a hand flies up and into Sherlock’s hair, tightening and holding.

“Ah,” says Sherlock, and it’s been too long. It’s been far too long since the last time John has had Sherlock making those panting, helpless sounds against John’s mouth. John thinks about straining upward, wanting badly to put as much of himself onto Sherlock as possible. Sherlock seems to notice John beginning to shift and sets a firm hand in the middle of his chest. Pulls their mouths apart with a pop. Sherlock snorts at the sound and does it again, exactly the same way. Just to hear that stupid pop.

John wants to bury Sherlock underneath the flimsy hospital blankets and make love to him. It sounds maudlin in his head, but it’s exactly what John wants.

“Keep kissing me,” John demands, tugs on Sherlock’s shirt. “The nurses don’t round for another hour.”

“No, you’re getting too worked up.”

“Yeah, but I won’t be quite as cross, will I?”

Sherlock appears to have the decency to consider the notion for half a second before he’s re-establishing their distance. “You need at least six weeks before you’re able to exert yourself. Besides, what would you do? This bed is hardly conducive for shared orgasms. We’d end up on the floor. On the germ infested hospital floor with your ruptured and bloody spleen, no less. Not sexy, John.”

Six weeks? Six miserable, weeks?

“I could watch you,” John suggests casually, “That’d be nice too.”

Sherlock considers that for at least three whole seconds before dashing John’s hopes against the jagged rocks of his forcefully suppressed libido. “No, that would be anticlimactic all around.”

“I’m bored. Sherlock, this place.. How are you not climbing the walls?”

Sherlock shrugs, climbs off the bed and over to his overnight bag. “I don’t think your recovery would be served best by me repelling down the cinder blocks. I can handle the tedium for now.”

He digs around in the bag, pulls out a book with a worn cover. “I found this in your room. It was boxed up, but judging by the creases in the binding it has been read often.”

John looks at Sherlock, smiles, “You want to read me a good-night story?”

Sherlock’s bottom lip twitches petulantly, “I want you to stop behaving like a dodgy old retired man with nothing to occupy himself with.” He sighs and looks at the ceiling, “But yes. If you’d like me to read to you, I have no objections.”

John considers it, the book looks familiar, but John has no real recollection of it. That’s not the part that matters, it’s the bit where Sherlock will lie next to him, reading in that unfairly sonorous voice, that makes John’s heart feel full and content. “I’m amenable,” John tells him, “Get in the bed and read me a story.”

Sherlock climbs in next to John, helps him shift and maneuver until John is lying on Sherlock’s shoulder. Which is a bit bony. John wedges a pillow between it and his skull.

“A Wrinkle in Time,” Sherlock announces, “I assume that is to be taken in the metaphysical sense, as this is a fantasy book, it appears.”

John nods, “Doesn’t matter. Go on.”

The story seems familiar, a girl bullied at school for being different, her little brother, a mysterious stranger named Mrs. Whatsit who travels by storm is blown off course. A popular athlete joins the girl and her brother. Another Mrs. Who makes generally indecipherable, but cryptic comments. Sherlock reads into the fourth chapter when the girl is suddenly sucked into blackness, bodiless and silent. Sherlock is just getting to the part when Mrs. Whatsit is explaining that they’ve actually fallen through a tesseract, a wrinkle in time, and have been transported to another planet entirely; when there’s a soft rustling.

A slide of movement between the pages when Sherlock licks his thumb to catch the book paper and turn it.

A dozen wildflowers, pressed flat and thin, scatter in a whisper, and land on top of the sheets. One lonely violet flutters down and into John’s hair. Sherlock picks it out and holds it up to the light. The flower is dry and so thinned out that John can see the veins where the colour has been preserved.

Sherlock looks back down to John, a question in his eye when John opens his mouth to speak and can’t find words. He knows where he’s seen the book, now. It was Mum’s favourite.

John’s memory conjures the images of his mother sitting on the old lawn chair in the back yard, the gauzy pastel green of her favourite sundress wrinkled up at her knees. The floppy straw hat with the blue silk bow tied around the bucket of it, the ends of the ribbons beginning to fray. The tumble of her blonde hair before it had all fallen out. She had lovely hair, true golden blonde, shiny and straight. John had only somewhat inherited that gene, his hair is more gold than Harry’s tawny tint, but still a duller shade. Where Mum’s hair was fine, John’s has an errant coarseness. John tries not to remember what it was like when it began coming out by the handful. Mum smiling as she looked down at her own dislodged hair strung between her fingers.

“I always wondered how I’d look bald,” she’d said. Dad helped her shave it off. He kissed the top of her white head.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, but later John heard him crying at the sink. John opened the bin and saw the mound of blonde hair mixed in with the rubbish.

 

Mum would sit and read for hours when the sun was out. If it was a weekend, Dad would bring her out a cocktail. Rum with crushed strawberries. When she finally came back inside, her cheeks would be flushed from sun and drink, she’d sneak up behind Dad and kiss behind his ear. He’d blush, not overly given to public displays of affection, but he never denied her.

 

Sherlock gently picks up the preserved bloom of a Queen Anne’s Lace. He runs a fingertip against the white canopy.

“My Mum,” John manages quietly, “We’d pick her wildflowers in the field on the way home from school. Usually she kept them on the table in vases until they wilted away. But.. but sometimes she’d put them in heavy books so the colours would keep. She loved them.”

Sherlock looks at John for a long moment. Eyes softened in a way they so rarely are. Long fingers scoop up a yellow primrose, he examines it closely. “Extraordinary,” he says.

One by one he gathers the flowers into the cup of his palm, careful not to crush their papery blooms. Red poppy. Sunny-yellow cowslip. Bluest Larkspur.

He empties them back into their place between the pages, closes the book and gently sets it aside. Sherlock kisses John’s face; over his closed eyes, his cheeks, temples, before settling on his mouth. When he’s finished, Sherlock gathers John tightly to him.

“I wish you could have met her,” John whispers after Sherlock pulls the chain to turn off the overhead light. It kills John to say it, but he wishes so much. “She would have loved you.” Mum always loved the wildest things, found beauty in madness and disorder. Sherlock would have been the embodiment of everything she found spontaneous and whimsical.

“I’m sorry that she died, John,” Sherlock whispers back to him. From anyone else, it would be an awkward thing to say, but from Sherlock it’s an arm of comfort.

“Thank you,” John says.

---

John is discharged home on a Thursday. Harry and Sherlock gather the bouquets sent from school staff, friends, some attached with tags bearing names of people John has never met before. Dad and Violet have gone to bring the car around to the patient discharge pick-up.

Sherlock stands straight-backed, arms full of blood red roses, pink carnations, multi-coloured daisies sprinkled with glitter (Glitter?). Sherlock rolls his eyes and asks, “Do you really want to keep all these?”

Harry watches a green daisy detach from the stem and fall on the floor. “Does that colour even occur in nature?” she muses.

John smiles at them both, beyond caring about the florist bouquets. “Bin them, give them to the nurses, I don’t care.”

“Fantastic,” Sherlock says with disinterest, tugging Harry by the elbow out of the room and into the hallway. A moment later they return empty handed.

“Nurses were a bit confused, but they said thanks,” Harry shrugs and sits next to John on the bed. She eats the leftover pasta from John’s lunch while Sherlock flops down onto the chair.

An estimated four day hospital stay turned into an eleven day admittance after John developed a low grade fever. The doctor insisted on starting John on Vancomycin and monitoring him throughout the course of the antibiotic. “We can’t be too safe when dealing with splenic recovery,” the man had explained. John pleaded with Sherlock to sneak him out, to no avail.

 

The nurse walks in after a short knock to the door, Dad follows in behind her. She lays out the discharge papers onto the lunch tray and rolls it over to where John sits on the bed.

“We need to go over your discharge instructions, and then we’ll have you on your way,” a tight lipped smile. John is far from anyone’s favourite patient. The claustrophobia of his room adding to a naturally combative tendency, and it’s hardly John’s best quality. Between the stagnancy of his body, and the residual pain of the stabbing and surgery that followed, John’s temper has been brought to the surface.

It doesn’t help that Sherlock is everywhere, the scent of him is everywhere, and it’s driving John mad.

The nurse goes through wound management, prescriptions and when and how to take them, says, “No vigorous activity for six weeks.”

John stifles the scream that rises up in his throat when Sherlock cuts his eyes to John and smiles mischievously.

“Sign here, stating you understand,” she hands him a pen and John scribbles his signature across the flat, black, line.

John is forced into a wheelchair after a good bit of grumbling, glaring, and asserting that he, “--feels fine! I’ve got a butchered spleen, not a broken leg!”

“It’s policy, Mr. Watson,” the nurse contends.

Dad asks her a few extra questions while John fiddles with Sherlock’s trouser pocket, when he comes to stand next to him. He slips two fingers into his empty belt loop, gives a quick look around to make sure no one is watching, then lifts his shirt up a bit and plants a wet kiss right on Sherlock’s hip. John watches, pleased, when Sherlock’s mouth falls open a little and he takes a quick breath.

Dad pushes the wheelchair downstairs and Violet is waiting for them in the Volvo, engine running underneath the covered drive.

Sherlock sits next to John in the back seat, their fingers touching and sliding together. The hazy afternoon light and the pain medication John had taken before leaving the hospital makes him drowsy. Sherlock seems to notice, pulls at John until his head is resting against Sherlock’s shoulder.

John sleeps the whole way home.

---

“No vigorous activity,” Sherlock whispers, holding his weight off of John’s body, even as John clutches at his shoulders to pull him down.

They’re two weeks into the six week sentence of no vigorous activity, and so far Sherlock has been too wary to touch John beyond heated presses of their lips and tongues. When John’s hands begin to venture below the belt, Sherlock pulls away and does a thorough investigation of John’s wound. He declares John unfit for anything other than chaste cuddles.

 

“Doesn’t have to be vigorous,” John insists, and slides his hands over Sherlock’s bottom, squeezes. Sherlock allows himself to be pulled down on top of John a little more, curls brush over John’s forehead, tickles. “Just want to touch you a bit.”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip, appears to be considering it, and ducks his head to mouth at John’s throat. He nips at John’s collarbone, begins kissing down his chest, and holds John down with a hand to his throat when John tries to arch up as a flat tongue licks over a nipple.

“The minute you begin squirming too much--” Sherlock says, and never finishes the sentence because then he’s sliding down John’s body, tugging down his pants, and taking the head of John’s cock in his mouth in one swift movement. Tongue presses firmly against John’s fraenulum and Sherlock sucks once.

“Shit,” John curses, one knee bending so that he can plant a foot on the mattress. A hand flies into Sherlock’s hair, not pushing, just resting. John follows the slow bob of Sherlock’s head as his mouth slips halfway down John’s cock, slick and hot and perfect, before he pulls off and nurses at the slit.

John wants to buck up, but he knows if he does, Sherlock will stop. The thought is completely intolerable to consider.

One of Sherlock’s hands rests on John’s hip, the other wrapped around the base of his prick. His mouth sinks down and back up so slowly, Sherlock deliberately keeps his mouth soft, his saliva more accumulated than usual. Sherlock’s cheeks hollow every time he slips his lips back up the shaft to swirl his tongue around the glans.

“God,” John whispers, propped up the smallest bit so he can watch Sherlock suck, “So good, you’re so good at this.” John pants and his eyes close when Sherlock pulls off to flick his tongue in delicate licks.

It’s the slowest blow job John has ever received, and somehow it makes it that much more intense. The pressure builds gradually, John’s consciousness narrowed down to the jut of flesh between Sherlock’s lips. The suction increases when John’s thighs begin to shake, when he begins making little involuntary thrusts into Sherlock’s mouth. Apparently Sherlock will allow for minimal movement so John keeps doing that, hips pushing and fucking himself slowly between Sherlock’s soft lips.

“So close,” John says breathlessly, “Sherlock, ah, let me come in your mouth. Please, please,” he can’t stop babbling. “God, oh God--” John’s breath holds in his chest, heart pounding away in his ribcage as Sherlock presses a damp finger to John’s perineum and rubs in circles.

John pushes up once into that mouth, holds while Sherlock gives one final suck, and then John is shivering and trying not to be too loud when he moans and comes, his cock jerking against Sherlock’s tongue as he swallows.

“You--” John says breathlessly, his entire body engulfed in endorphins, “You’re so-- you just--”

Abruptly Sherlock is climbing back up John’s body, and John can feel Sherlock twitching all over. Sherlock is fisting his cock, straddling John’s chest as he jerks himself off. John grabs his wrist to feel him move, and Sherlock is grunting and spilling hot and slick over John’s breastbone. Sherlock’s body twitches with the aftershocks.

“Bloody gorgeous,” John tells him, hands coming up to pet over Sherlock’s spine. He takes Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth and licks them clean. “You should have let me touch you.”

Sherlock wheezes out a laugh, “Couldn’t wait,” he grabs John’s shirt from the bedside table and wipes him clean. “Are you in pain?”

“God no, feel amazing.”

“We’re breaking the ground rules,” Sherlock says, taking a drink from a bottled water, and snuggling down against John’s side.

“Yeah, well. I doubt anyone thought we would keep to them anyways.”

After they’d come home from the hospital and life more or less settled down, Dad had “the talk” with John.

It was awkward. One of Dad’s stipulations was that Sherlock was not allowed to come into John’s room after dark. Really, as if John would stop Sherlock.

Dad grew frustrated by it and eventually said, “Please attempt to be discreet,” and wandered off into the living room. Violet had been there, she looked at John and shrugged. Penny nosed at John’s hand, whining until he scratched behind her ears

 

John pulls the duvet over their bodies, turns his head to capture Sherlock’s mouth with kisses. Sherlock lips are still warm and swollen from sucking John off. John’s stomach twinges with the knowledge of it.

 

“John,” Sherlock weaves their fingers together and yawns, “Remember when you asked what I wanted to be when I grow up?”

“Yes, I remember,” John strokes his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles.

“I believe I’ve invented a profession I might find tolerable.”

John smiles, “Invented?”

Sherlock squeezes John’s hand and let’s go, fingers idly tracing the bandage on John’s upper torso.

“I’ll explain tomorrow. Tired now.”

“Give me a hint,” John says. He waits for Sherlock to say something, but soon there’s the vibration of light snores against John’s shoulder. Sherlock’s hand rests protectively over John’s healing wound. With Sherlock beside John, distance is at bay. Emptiness has gone where emptiness goes, swept wordlessly back to its distillates.

“Love you,” John murmurs as his eyelids draw closed.

Chapter Text

 

 

 

Sherlock lies on the sofa, watching John tap away at his blog. He sits in his chair, laptop on his knees. For someone so deft with their fingers, he types with the technique of a six year old.
Tippitytippitytaptaptap

The man is a surgeon for god’s sake. John can hold a gun like it’s a part of his hand, pull the trigger and shoot a man dead. Why is it that he only utilises his index fingers to compose e-mails and blog entries?

“You’re staring at me,” John says without looking up. “I can feel it.”

“I’m always staring at you,” Sherlock keeps watching, John looks up from the glare of the laptop’s screen and smiles. Sherlock’s heart leaps like it always does when John smiles, John has such a wonderful smile. Bright and genuine and so lovely when it touches his eyes. “Your typing form is terrible.”

“Yeah? Well, you know what else is terrible? A bloody stump of a foot next to my leftover curry.”

Sherlock furrows his brow, “The two things are unrelated.”

“Yeah, but it’s still terrible.”

tap tap tippitytaptap

John lit a fire earlier to take the chill out of the air. The flat tends to keep a draft during the winter. It reminds Sherlock of sneaking into John’s bedroom when they were so much younger, of crawling under the sheets and wrapping his legs around John’s waist as John pushed into him. It reminds Sherlock of football socks and John’s gentle fingers.

They’ve overcome much in their years together, more than most.

When John found out through Mycroft about Sherlock’s extra-curricular use of illegal substances, John had been angry and devastated and said that he’d kill Sherlock himself. He had gone off to do his RAMC training while Sherlock continued on in university. The excruciating nothingness that signalled John’s absence had effected Sherlock more than he thought it might. It was the first time they had been apart in years. Sherlock couldn’t see John, could barely speak with him on the phone, there were letters but no data. Sherlock couldn’t see John’s face and know what he was thinking at any given moment, Sherlock had no distraction when boredom surged up like white noise in his brain and consumed him. Aloneness crept in on Sherlock, painful and familiar.

John had somehow managed to obtain special orders to come home. John cried when he saw Sherlock, cried angry tears like Sherlock had only ever seen him do twice. John saw how Sherlock had lost weight, more manic than usual. He’d walked right back out the door, leaving Sherlock stunned and defensive. Sherlock wanted to blame John, be furious and shake him. He had not believed John would come back.

John did, he walked through the door and wrapped Sherlock in the tightest hug while Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s skin like he might grasp on forever. Panic and anger gave way to relief, Sherlock apologised over and over again, begged him not to leave.

“You can’t do this to me,” John said calmly, “Not after what I’ve gone through with Harry. I won’t watch you do this. I love you. Don’t you get that, you bastard? I love you.”

Sherlock never touched cocaine again.

John has almost died, twice, even though Sherlock had specifically told him not to. The first time was the knife in the body, the second time was the bullet through John’s shoulder.

Sherlock has always been listed as John’s emergency contact. The RAMC representative came knocking at Sherlock’s old flat in Tottenham. Sherlock had immediately seen through his expression.

“Is he dead,” were the first words out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Sir--”

“Is. John. Dead.” Sherlock has said between clenched teeth, his heart a heavy, listless, thing in his chest. The man described the nature of John’s injury, that he’d lost a lot of blood and at the moment it was touch-and-go.

Sherlock had not been that afraid since turning around in an old warehouse and seeing a knife stuck into John’s side, the blood pouring out onto his shirt, onto the ground.

Sherlock hadn’t been able to see John until he was well enough for long-distance travel. When Sherlock first picked him out of the crowded airport, it was very nearly like staring at a stranger. John had aged within his deployment, blonde hair taking on shades of silver, dark blue eyes containing an edge that had not been there before.

He looked amazing.
John looked terrifying.

Sherlock froze in his spot when John set sights on him, they gazed at each other for long moments while airline passengers passed through the space between them.

Then suddenly, John was there, stretching up on his toes and pulling Sherlock down by the nape of his neck, kissing him fiercely. John pushed him back and back and back until Sherlock was pressed against the nearest wall. People passed by, judgmental stares being shot in their direction and Sherlock could have absolutely cared less.

When John pulled away they were both hard and panting. “I was afraid I’d never see you again,” John told him.

“I thought I told you not to die,” Sherlock whispered angrily, biting John underneath his jaw. They went home to Sherlock’s cluttered flat, and spent the next several days in bed. Sherlock didn’t even take cases from Lestrade. John’s trigger finger would leave bruises on Sherlock’s waist where he dreamed of shooting insurgents down in Afghanistan. Sometimes he woke up wet cheeked, hyperventilating, and Sherlock would stroke along John’s back until he calmed.

A week later, they moved into the Baker Street flat where Mrs. Hudson fawned over John like a doting mother, bringing him tea and biscuits and scolding them for the mess.

That night, John shot a cabbie for Sherlock. He took him home afterward, cursing Sherlock for running off without him, and ended up having Sherlock over the dining room table. Sherlock clawed at plates and labware, stacks of magazines that crashed onto the floor when Sherlock came.

 

The fire lights John in just the right way, and Sherlock can hear the rich hiss of incinerating logs. The soft shade of flame offers its drapery. Sherlock finds it charming how the fire burns ruthlessly, careless, and exacting.

John closes the laptop with a click, sets it aside and walks over to where Sherlock is draped over the sofa cushions. John leans over him, and Sherlock closes his eyes and waits to be kissed. John whispers in his ear instead, “Come to bed, madman.”

---

Sherlock is lying underneath John, tethered down by the solid press of John’s compact weight. Sherlock is sucking on John’s earlobe, nipping at it with the barest edge of teeth. John always has had sensitive ears and Sherlock has no qualms taking advantage of the fact.

“Fuck,” John says quietly when Sherlock spreads his legs and John settles between them. “Take your clothes off.”

Sherlock slips his thin pyjama shirt over his head, sees John’s eyes darken when he watches Sherlock’s wayward curls bounce about. John has always been extremely particular toward Sherlock’s hair, sulked for days when Sherlock had it cropped up over his ears for a case. He grabs it now, tugs lightly and kisses Sherlock’s neck while Sherlock works off his bottoms, kicking them away with his foot.

“Oh Jesus,” John laughs, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s calf and stroking, “Where did you find these?”

“Your drawer, it’s not as if they were hidden well,” Sherlock sticks his foot in the air and examines the long navy blue sock pulled up past his knees. The colour is faded from age and washing, but even Sherlock is given over to nostalgia where John is concerned. “They’re still quite warm.”

“I took your virginity in those socks,” John says proudly. He pulls back and shucks his clothes off as well, and Sherlock is thankful for it. Takes the opportunity to flip their positions. One kiss over the jagged scar at John’s shoulder, another to the faded white line on his torso where a blade pierced his skin.

John reaches over to the nightstand and grabs the tube of lubricant from the drawer, presses Sherlock back down into the pillows and stares possessively over his body.

“God, you’re lovely,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss Sherlock on the mouth, “It’s not fair. You keep getting more gorgeous and I keep getting older.”

“Might be the most absurd thing you’ve ever said,” Sherlock counters his argument, because those words are ridiculous. “Which saying quite a lot, John.”

John’s boyishly handsome appearance has given way to a mature ruggedness that Sherlock wants to roll about in.

John kisses and licks his way down Sherlock’s body, wrapping his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock just as he slips a finger between Sherlock’s legs. The chill of lubricant being smeared against him is completely overridden by the heat of John’s mouth. He sucks lightly and one finger dips inside of Sherlock.

Sherlock lets out a string of profanity and John hums a laugh, sucks slowly down Sherlock’s length. He barely registers it when John adds another fingers, presses softly in and out while Sherlock squirms in anticipation.

“What’s the rush?” John asks, pulling off to nibble at Sherlock’s hipbone. He sucks a bruise in the hollow of that hip, Sherlock arches into it. John had immediately taken to marking Sherlock up as soon as they were out of their parents’ house and there was no one to stare at the rosy bruises and frown in consternation.

John’s fingers twitch inside of Sherlock, crook and brush soft, lightly; Sherlock keens and, “Oh,” the actual word of realisation, like it’s still a new event to be breeched and touched deeply.

John lifts his body a bit, rubs his cock along the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, the touch is hot and damp with pre-ejaculate. He fucks Sherlock with his fingers, hard enough to make Sherlock’s body mimic the bounce of sex. John pants hot air against Sherlock’s belly, hips snapping more firmly against Sherlock’s thigh, and moans. The sound curls heat into Sherlock’s abdomen, flourishes like the flames lined by the hearth.

Oh God, he’s getting close, they both are, Sherlock’s getting much too close, he gasps, “John.”

“Yeah,” John breathes, fingers still jamming in hard and perfect, and Sherlock wants more. “Mmhm, mmhm.”

John is not paying attention.

“Are you--” Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes hard, “Fuck.” Fuck.

It seems to remind John of his original plan, and John slips his fingers out, moves quickly to line himself up properly. “Going to--” John assures him. “Sherlock, Sherlock,” as he pushes inside. He goes slowly, it’s been a few months since they’ve had sex this way, it’s been a few months since there’s been time for anything other than hurried frottage in the foyer between clients and murders and crime of all sorts. Hurriedly they’ll reach out to one another after a few days on the case. They’re driving each other around the bend, needing to reestablish what they are beyond The Work.

John buries himself inside of Sherlock, swallowed up tight, he touches their foreheads together. Sherlock’s fingers tangle in John’s short hair, slipping and re-threading through the nape when John moves languidly, not pulling out too much so that he may stay nestled deeply inside. Both of their lips are parted, breathing the same air.

“God, missed you, this,” John presses kisses to Sherlock’s brow, his mouth. Hips pump slowly, Sherlock wraps a leg around John’s back and tilts his pelvis up for a better angle.

When they do employ the act of penetration, Sherlock tends toward the bottom. It makes sense, sensation wise, Sherlock is extremely susceptible to stimulation this way. John less so, but sometimes, after cases where Sherlock has been particularly brilliant or done something to impress John after all these years; John will pull Sherlock toward him and demand to be fucked.

It isn’t just sensation Sherlock is after. Sherlock, after all, is wired nearly completely to the psychical aspects of every last thing on earth. It’s glorious, and not-boring, and utterly exhausting. Sometimes the world gets cluttered, Sherlock feels the vertigo of knowing all the subterfuge beneath even the nicest surface.

When he pulls John into himself, it’s an act of grounding, to be taken and held, stroked and invaded. It’s like saying I am here, these are my borders, hold me down a little while. Make me real to myself.

To let it happen, the desire to be out in the world. More than just in it, but wholly of it. To want more and more and then more.

 

“Let me get on your lap,” Sherlock tells John, suddenly wanting that, “C’mon.”

They’ve maneuvered more gracefully, but John ends sitting up against the headboard, moaning when Sherlock sinks back onto John’s cock. HIs fingers bump over the notches of Sherlock’s spine, cup into the dip as warm hands caress his sacrum. John grabs Sherlock by the hips when he begins moving, fingers digging in hard as Sherlock tightens down, muscles contracting. John’s head hits the headboard with a bump, and then Sherlock is gasping because John is quickly getting carried away. His grip on Sherlock’s hips tighten, bringing him down rough and fast.

“God, the way you feel--” John says in a rush, one hand releasing the hip to close around Sherlock’s erection. “Tell me your close. Sherlock I--” and he never finishes the sentence, though Sherlock could wager how it might have ended. John rolls up to thrust into Sherlock, fingers pull hair and teeth attach to skin and John curses when he comes.

Sherlock watches him, watches the furrow of his brow. Lines that weren’t there so many years ago when John fucked the warmth into Sherlock and irrevocably changed him. John crawled inside and never left, and Sherlock clings helplessly to his shoulders; gasping at the pulsing wetness spreading inside of him.

His hand on Sherlock’s cock has gone still as John works through the haze of orgasm. He looks up at Sherlock through his blonde lashes, much thicker than they look far away.

John rolls his thumb in a circle over the glans, rubs once at knotted skin of the fraenulum.

Sherlock groans John’s name and his entire body shudders and jerks while John watches him shatter to bits.

 

They lie sweat slicked and kissing in the aftermath, holding hands and saying silly things that Sherlock will deny in his foulest moods.

 

Sherlock knows this from science: At the center of every snowflake, dwells a grain of dust. He knows ice can have its way with land.

 

There were none before John, and will be none after.
They have held each other up when the fire has dreamed of swallowing them whole.

Sherlock curls into John, whispering his love against the scar under John’s ribs.