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Chapter Text

The Stork Hotel   Thursday, 9th November, 1961 

These dreams he’s had. As a child, he’d had so many. Violin recitals where he realises he forgot to put on his clothes and is only wearing a sheet. In the current version, he is on stage at the Cavern Club. Naked. With no sheet. 

He finally dozed off and that was what he was left with—an audience throwing tomatoes at him.

He closed his eyes…rest.

His first time on stage at the Cavern with the new band had gone better than expected. The chemistry between them was perfection. They’d bonded, forming a chain reaction that transferred to the crowd. The result was explosive. Everyone on their feet, clapping, dancing, singing along. A success. At least that part of the night was…

The sun was about to come up. With a handful of uppers in his system and adrenaline pumping through his veins, sleep was hard to come by. Even the long, hot bath hadn’t relaxed him. He should try to at least rest. The bed was comfortable for a hotel. The place was clean. 

He understands the psychology of dreams—that it reflects the dreamer’s subconscious fears, desires, or unresolved issues. He doubts it’s a desire. He had no real interest in sex. He had experimented with men, and he had no interest in women. Love is merely a physiological response from the brain that he has neither the time or inclination for.

He has had many unresolved issues, especially regarding his brother, but it is fear of failure and rejection that follows him. He knows he is the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. He can accept that sort of rejection. But failure at his chosen profession? Never.

He knows how rare success is. Fame is like a fickle lover. But he also knows he has unique skills, intelligence, and tenacity to succeed on his side. Music has always been his passion. He loved the violin as a child. He was good. Very good. But he was never going to be the virtuoso his parents believed him to be. Even at seven years old, he knew enough to understand the difference between his talent and a child prodigy such as Erika Morini. True, he did fit into that niche of child prodigy—from the age of five, he could pick up any instrument and learn it well, but he wanted more than well. When he heard and saw exceptional, he knew it. He could play the piano but not like Van Cliburn. He could play the trumpet, but never like Louis Armstrong. He wanted more than mastery. He wanted genius.

His greatest ambition was to write unforgettable music. With every instrument he learned, he was never satisfied with the result of what he’d written. With each instrument he played and composed on, he knew he would never be enduring. 

Until he picked up a guitar.

From the moment he took that six string and strummed, he became obsessed with it. Nothing was like it. Every guitar had a different personality. Some were mellow, some brash, some shrill, some smooth. Each guitar has a different flavour. Electric or acoustic, he would choose and connect.

He listened to the radio and scoured record shops. And he found these new sounds of rock and roll, skiffle. He listened to Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, became a Londoner who followed the Mersey beat.

His passion to play expanded…he found composing on the guitar exhilarating. Better than any other instrument. Better than acceptable. Memorable.

The problem was he needed lyrics to compliment his music, but felt his words never lived up to his melodies. Not unforgettable.

He decided enough of trying to sleep. Be productive. He picked up his one and only love—his guitar.

He needed inspiration. He’d read about muses. Maybe he needed one. Muses could be people, places, things. 

People? He knew of no one. London? Ah, a fine muse but not his. 

He hated feeling this way. 

He played and hummed. Music poured from him but nothing fit. Words slipped through. Mindless. 

Most of the members of the band were staying with friends or relatives in Liverpool. John Watson was staying with some girl—Sally or Susan or whoever.  He had no one to stay with, but it was for the best. He’d had enough of sharing after Hamburg, sleeping in a make-shift bedroom next to the women’s lavatory. The band was packed side-by-side on filthy cots and had to climb over each other to get to their beds. He had to duck down to get into the room he shared with three other band members. Not only was it cramped, but it smelled like urine. Worse, they were forced to shave in the men’s urinals. 

The Stork Hotel was heaven compared to that. 

Years ago, The Stork was popular with actors from the Royal Court Theatre and later, the Liverpool Playhouse. In recent years it had become an underground haven for homosexuals. To the outside world, the Stork still presented a respectable face, but people talked. Sherlock hadn’t known all this until he stayed there two summers ago when he was touring with his last band. His brother Mycroft had suggested the place since he had a standing room he used when on business in Liverpool. Sherlock had stayed there with him on a few occasions. From the moment Sherlock stepped inside, he thought it was perfect. The same wallpaper that adorned his apartment on Baker Street graced the walls of its lobby. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped with rich, red-velvet curtains surrounded by wide, intricately carved window casings brought light and life to the lobby. Sparkling chandeliers illuminated it in the evenings. 

The bedrooms had the same elegance with excellent room service (his favourite was the deserts, in particular, the crème brûlée). The best part was rest without interruption during the day. 

He caught on immediately regarding its hidden proclivities. On the street people often winked and eyed him from head-to-toe, men included, but the attention he garnered at the Stork was unprecedented. 

While Sherlock had no interest in pursuing their attention, he felt safe here, and the Stork spoiled him with all the amenities he denied himself when on the road with the band. 

The place had been kind to him over the years he’d played in the clubs in Liverpool, but it seemed he should have kept it to himself that he was staying here.

He’d told one of his band mates and word got around.

His face and ribs still ached from the fight he got in last night outside of the Cavern. He supposed he should have just shut it, but the stupid arse kept heckling him during the show. He was big, broad and hairy. Thick black hair covered his arms and even grew out of his ears and nose. He was also pissed. He stood next to the stage calling Sherlock a poof and a bent bastard. Sherlock ignored Goliath. Afterall, he’d heard worse, and he didn’t want to start anything inside The Cavern. But after the show when they were leaving, the blighter was waiting outside for them. 

“There’s that no-talent, Holmes,” Goliath shouted. His face was flushed, and his thick-black hair standing up. “How many cocks did you suck to get in this band?” 

Sherlock sighed as he sat his guitar case down. 

“Leave it,” Watson told him. “He’s drunk.”

“And a neanderthal,” Sherlock said.

“More of that fruity, posh talk.” 

Of course he didn’t listen to Watson. Instead he stepped closer to the mastodon. 

“I’ll use little words so you’ll understand: Calling…you…an…idiot…is…an...insult…to…stupid…people,” he spat out. 

He thumped Sherlock in the chest, and Sherlock pushed him back. The ogre laughed and picked Sherlock up and shook him. Sherlock boxed him in the ears, and the big guy howled like a hurt dog and dropped him. 

“Stupid ogre,” Sherlock said.

“The name’s Edgar!” That’s when he took his big fist and swung at Sherlock, who managed to step back in time for those hairy knuckles to miss Sherlock’s nose by a hair. 

“You’ll never be the man your mum was.” Sherlock laughed back, but this time he wasn’t fast enough. Goliath popped Sherlock hard in the eye. Sherlock flew backward and landed, splat, on the pavement. Goliath got in two good kicks in his side before Sherlock grabbed the big guy’s legs, wrapped his arms around them, and pulled him down. He had a bad fall just like Humpty Dumpty. Sherlock leapt on top of him and began punching him in the face until Watson dragged him off. 

When Sherlock stood up, the bloke was blubbering for his mama.  

That was Sherlock’s night. Soon it would be day, and he looked like shite with his busted up face. He had sore ribs and one hell of a headache. Watson had worried he might have a concussion, but Roger, their drummer, assured him that Sherlock’s hard head could take it—and more.

“In fact,” Roger said, “I’d like to take a swing at him a few times meself.”

“At least he didn’t break his hand when he punched the woolly mammoth,” Watson said. “I’d hate to have to find another lead guitarist.”

And that was it. He was here in this group with Watson because he couldn’t play nice with others—or that’s what his brother told him since he could remember. 

Sherlock didn’t believe in luck, the supernatural, or any of the like, but he did believe that joining John and the Magic Makers was fortunate for him. While luck and magic were preposterous notions, he accepted John’s romantic notions. Still he’d have named the band something more pragmatic such as the Science of Deduction.

Name aside, the Magic Makers had played together for years and recently lost their lead guitarist, Mitchell Rent, to love. He met a girl in Hamburg and decided to stay in Germany, much like how Stu Suttcliffe left his place as bass guitarist for the Beatles. Sherlock didn’t get how someone could make such a choice. He could understand why Suttcliffe made the decision. He wasn’t a musician—he was an artist playing at being a musician. Rent, on the other hand, was an excellent lead guitarist. A handsome young man with dark hair and eyes with a rough edgy voice. And he wasn’t an idiot. 

As for the rest of John’s band, Sherlock believed he was fortunate because they tolerated him. Most of all John actually liked him. He’d met him years ago and got on with him well enough. It helped that he wasn’t an idiot. 

All of the band members grew up in London and had attended some university—not that attending university indicated intelligence—Anderson was certain proof of that. Sherlock had certainly met his fill of fools at university. But John was no fool. He had originally studied medicine, and Sherlock is certain that Watson would make a fine doctor. He was quick-minded and patient. He would have a brilliant bedside manner. He still talked about going back and finishing after “this music gig ends.” Sherlock hoped the gig never would end.

He was unpredictable, which made him never boring. Sherlock liked how the man never failed to surprise him. John was the founder and the Magic Makers. He was talented, but also understood his limits. He was an exceptional bassist, but he could play rhythm and lead guitar just as well. He had actually been in each of those roles. Girls said he was cute. Sherlock thought he had attractive blue eyes and a kind, thoughtful smile. He liked his sandy blonde hair and his laugh—almost a giggle but not feminine. But most of all he enjoyed his company. He rarely enjoyed anyone’s company. He was content to sit quietly in the room with him. He could slip into his mind palace and when he returned, John would still be there.

John had dedication. Sherlock did as well. He never was interested in going to university. His family expected it of him. Sherlock doubted he would ever go back. He did love chemistry and science, but he hated the atmosphere at university. He had drifted through or sacked off classes, not really attending much. He hated the lectures. Boring. There was nothing new for him to learn. Maybe if he’d had some brilliant professor who inspired him, it would have been different. 

The member Sherlock had known longest was Roger Adams, the drummer. Sherlock went to Oxford with him. Adam told Sherlock they'd had a class together, but Sherlock didn’t remember him. Easy to do since he was an average, ordinary bloke, who blended in with whoever was around him. Sherlock thought it an advantage to walk through life camouflaged. Adams was unremarkable except when he sat behind his drum set, then he became Duke Adams. All bow to the Duke of the drums.

The final member was Lenny James. He and John were the founding members. The rhythm guitarist was a longtime friend of John’s, and they had known each other since primary school. They’d shared playground secrets, played football together, and taught each other guitar licks. Sherlock felt something akin to envy…but no, that wasn’t possible. They were mates. That’s all.

He’d never really had a friend before. Not a real friend. He didn’t recall ever staying up until almost dawn talking to anyone before like he had last night with John. He even called Sherlock brilliant. 

He tossed off his dressing gown. He changed his clothes, put on a pair of old jeans and t-shirt. He opened his guitar case and pulled out his acoustic Gibson. He sat on the bed and tuned it. He wanted to polish up a few songs he was thinking about sharing with the band. 

He hummed and played. As he did he closed his eyes and imagined what it would have been like to grow up with a real friend like John Watson. 

He thought about going back to the Cavern. It was quiet this time of day. He could work on some songs and practise a bit before their afternoon gig. He wasn’t about to get anywhere playing here.

Chapter Text

The Cavern  Friday, 10th December, 1961 

Only early in the morning was the backstage at the Cavern peaceful. John loved it then. He could sit, drink some coffee and play guitar without interruption. That’s why John was surprised to find someone already seated in the old wooden chair where he usually sat. The man even had his feet up on the table, playing an acoustic guitar like he did. 

Although his back was to him, John knew that curly mop. He also knew that impeccable fingerpicking. He’d never seen anything like it. On his guitar his magical hands could replicate what it normally took three people to play. It was one of the reasons why he pushed to get Holmes in their band. He could play anything with strings and play it well, so it didn’t surprise him to find out he also wrote music.

John was mesmerised by his melodic yet haunting tune. Sherlock seemed aware of John. He shifted in his seat.

Then the work of art began to sing. He had an incredible baritone voice, and John was always captivated by it, but then he listened closer. It was all wrong. The flat, meaningless lyrics fought with the music. 

Sherlock must have sensed his disapproval. He stopped playing and turned around in the chair. He looked up at John.

“My God, you ended up with a spectacular shiner from that fight last night,” John said. “Really colourful. A sin to blemish that face. I bet your ribs are sore too. If it’s any consolation, the other bloke feels a lot worse. He was limping and cursing all the way out of the club.”

Despite the shiner, the man had bloody gorgeous eyes that change from blue to green and bow shaped lips tinted like roses. And those cheekbones…man or woman, John has always appreciated beauty in whatever container it came in.

Sherlock nodded and began to play again.

“Please don’t thank me for pulling him off you,” John added.

“I won’t.”

“That a new song you were playing when I stepped in?”

“You mean before you interrupted me?”

“Yeah, well sorry. Actually I love it…” John bit his lip to stop the rest of his thoughts from spilling out.

“But…” Sherlock painfully raised one eyebrow.

How did he do that? He always knew what he was thinking. It was unnerving.

“The words…” He knew he shouldn’t say it. It was one thing for Sherlock to know what he was going to say, but it was another to actually say it.

“What about the words?”

John had to tell him now. There was no way Sherlock would let it go. 

“They don’t fit.”

“Don’t fit?” Sherlock spat out, taking his feet off the table. “Lyrics aren’t a pair of shoes!”

“Well, actually it’s a pretty good comparison. They either fit comfortably, or they slip around on your feet.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Or they are worn and unfashionable like the ones you’re wearing.” He pointed at John’s feet. ”Those boots look like you nicked them from a drunk in the alley.”

John clearly saw that he was deflecting. So, Sherlock knew what the song lacked—the stubborn git just refused to admit it. That didn’t mean he didn’t take it to heart. John trudged on. 

“You know, if you can’t take constructive criticism, you’re never gonna get better.”

 When Sherlock said nothing, John took it as a sign to continue.

“It’s just that you don’t understand what you’re writing about. I’ve noticed most of your lyrics are, well, lacking when it comes to experience.”

“Lacking? I lack nothing! I comprehend more than you ever will. And I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

John shook his head, but didn’t get angry.

For a moment, John thought he was about to get popped in the nose, but Sherlock ignored him instead. Probably because he wanted to stay in the band. Better to not say anything else to piss him off.

After few more minutes, John decided to end the silence.

“Yeah, you didn’t ask, but you need to hear it from somebody. I know you are smarter than most blokes—probably smarter than anyone I’ve ever met, but it’s obvious that you don’t know a thing about being hungry or poor or…being in love. Have you ever been in love?”

Sherlock frowned down at his guitar. 

“I didn’t think so.” 

The way Sherlock squirmed in his seat and tapped his foot, John knew he wasn’t completely right in his assessment. Maybe Sherlock had never been in love, but he knew what pain was. John really did want to help him. Maybe if he used an example.

“Take that song John and Paul wrote, ‘I Saw Her Standing There.’ It’s about love at first sight. That’s near impossible to write about unless it’s happened to you.”

“Please remove your rose coloured glasses. Love at first sight is a fiction perpetuated by romantics like you. It’s merely hormones and chemistry driving lust and physical attraction.”

“See that’s the problem. When you talk like that, it pisses people off. It’s one of the reasons why you got the shite kicked out of you last night.”

“I suppose it’s also why my lyrics are shite because I am not in love with someone like Susie.”

He got her name wrong again. John wasn’t sure if it was intentional or that he just didn’t think she was important enough to remember. 

“I’m not in love with her,” John said.”She’s nice and smells like fruit punch. I like that.”

“That's because she spends so much time at the Cavern. Tropical fruit was once stored here. Over time the sandstone bricks absorbed the sweet scent. She’s one of the many sweaty bodies out in the crowd, soaking up the tropical nectar. The heat they generate makes the walls sweat, and the scent then permeates their clothing. They even have a name for it: Cavern Perfume.”

“And I thought she was just naturally sweet. You sure know how to spoil things.”

“Back to my lyrics…”

“Could we not?”

Now he was pouting. That was not helpful. It made John want to take back what he’d said—but it was necessary. Sherlock had to hear it. 

Sometimes he could be impossible. His bandmates didn’t understand why John even tried. For some reason John liked him. Nobody liked him, and John thought that was rather sad. The bloke must be lonely. People respected him, envied him, and yes, lusted after him, but no one ever really liked him. 

“Those lyrics are fine for filler, but you need something with heart. Write what you know,” John suggested. 

“I hardly think what interests me would interest the masses.”

“There you go talking like that again.”

The thing was, Sherlock was insanely talented but stubborn. Very stubborn. 

“If you think you can write better lyrics then you do it!” Sherlock shot back.

John was quiet for a moment. He didn’t think he meant it but, what the fuck? Why not call him on it?

“Alright I will. Play the song for me again.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but must have thought better of it and began to play.

John closed his eyes and let the music flow through him. He broke it down: key of G Minor with some crafty chord progressions, including a b7 diminished.

At the end of the song, John opened his eyes and said, “Again.”

This time he got up and sat in front of Sherlock as he played. That’s where he stayed as he listened to Sherlock run through it five more times. 

When finished, Sherlock looked at John expectantly. John clasped his knees.

“I’ve got it,” John said. 

“See you in a few hours. I have to meet Sarah before the show.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John got up to leave. John almost stayed. Almost. But he wanted their interaction to end on an up note. 

He sighed as he shut the door. Well, at least Sherlock had the room to himself like he wanted.

He’d see him soon enough. They were playing the afternoon and evening shows sharing the bill with two other bands: Rory Storm and the Hurricanes and The Beatles.

———

He was always nervous before a show, but the moment he got on stage, it melted away. He took a deep breath. He needed to relax.

Rory Storm and the Hurricanes were playing “Willie and the Hand Jive” finishing the end of their final set. John’s band would be setting up in about ten minutes and on the stage playing in a half hour. Enough time for John to step out for a quick smoke and calm himself. He flicked a match on the wall, lit the end, and took a long, deep drag when Lennon walked up. It had been a while since he’d last seen him. They were both playing at the Casbah Coffee Club at the time. After one long night of cheap beer and women, he got to know Johnny and Paul pretty well . He looked different from the last time he saw him, definitely thinner. Must be all of those long hours on stage in Hamburg washing down all the prellies. Lennon was dressed almost the same as John with sleek, black drainpipe trousers, t-shirt, and a snug, black leather jacket. 

“Nice boots,” John said.

“Yeah—Chelsea boots. Paul, George and Stu got a pair too in Hamburg.”

Maybe Sherlock was right, maybe John did need new boots. But his were so comfortable.

As for comfort, John didn’t understand why Lennon refused to wear his glasses. He was so nearsighted the bloke couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He was practically blind on stage. Maybe not being able to see the crowd helped with stage fright. Still, he was missing so much.

He had a girl once who refused to wear her glasses. She ran into doors and walls, but she’d rather look foolish than be called four eyes. He’d seen Lennon stumble on more than one occasion because he refused to wear them. John supposed Lennon felt self conscious with them on, but John liked the thick, black frames on him. The Buddy Holly look gave Lennon a kind of charm. 

Still, there was something else different about him.  

“What’s with the hair?” John asked.

“Mmm, Astrid, you know, Stu’s girlfriend? She cut it. Actually she cut all of our hair.”

“Hmmm. You let her around you with scissors? Thought you didn’t like her.”

“She’s okay. I like her enough to trust her with some sharp objects.”

“Looks good. Think your haircut will catch on?”

Lennon shrugged his shoulders. “I hope not. Imagine everyone wearing this same haircut.”

“Want one?” John pulled a pack of fags from his pocket.

Lennon nodded, and John handed him one.

“These will kill you,” John said.

“That’s cool, man.”

“We’re cool.”

“That’s because we’re both Johns.” Lennon winked at him.

“Right Johnny.” 

“Here comes Richie,” said Lennon, waving him over.

John didn’t know him well, but liked him. Friendly, kind, and quick witted. John’s band played a lot of clubs around Liverpool and London where Rory Storm’s band headlined. Richie Starkey, stage name Ringo Starr, was just a good guy.

“Great seein’ you again, Watson. Here you lost Jimmy. I never knew anyone who could drink that much and still walk. You got someone to sub for him?”

“Yeah, but he’s a real arse. You’ll probably like him,” John said.

Lennon barked out a laugh and punched Watson in the shoulder. “What’s the bloke’s name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Holmes?” Richie said. ”I know him from Hamburg. He was with the Rhythm Lords. No surprise he’s not with them after what he said to Anderson on the stage.”

“I hate to ask, but what?”

Richie lowered his voice and imitated Holmes' voice. “He said: ‘You’ve been an idiot your entire life. Why don’t you take a day off?’ right between sets. Everyone on the floor heard em. The place erupted in laughter—people shoutin’ even more outrageous insults at Anderson. He deserves it. Man is an even bigger arsehole than Holmes.”

So that’s why. John figured it was something like that. Public humiliation. 

“That’s not all. He took a swing at Holmes on stage and missed. Holmes ducked and tripped him. Anderson fell right off the stage, face first. Had a huge knot on his forehead, two black eyes. He looked like Frankenstein’s monster for weeks.”

“I almost feel sorry for Anderson,” Lennon said. “Wait…no I don’t.”

Lennon leaned back in his seat.

“If you ask me, the one they should have kicked out of the band was Anderson,” Lennon said. “Holmes is an arse—but Anderson is a bigger one. And Holmes is fuckin’ genius on the guitar. I have never seen anyone play like that madman. Girls love ‘im—at least until he opens his mouth and calls em stupid. He hasn’t got much use for women. Or men. Pretty much everyone.”

“He’s only interested in ‘the music,’” Watson said. “Well, I better get inside and help setup.”

“We’ll both be in to hear you in a bit,” Lennon said. “See you after.”

Chapter Text

The Cavern 10th December, 1961, Evening 

On stage Sherlock helped hook up the Vox amplifiers they shared with the previous band. They had their own equipment, but this was more convenient than dragging them from London. The Cavern’s manager had a deal with Vox. John and Lenny were sorting the cords and checking the mics while Roger set up his drums. 

“Some girl told me to tell you she’s here,” Sherlock said.

“She didn’t happen to give you her name?” John asked.

“Sally somebody.”

“I don’t know any Sally.”

“Maybe Susie, Sandra…how should I know which one?”

“You mean Sarah?”

“Whatever her name, she is extraordinarily daft. She seems to think I’m your personal messenger service. I thought you were staying with her.”

Sherlock didn’t like her, and she didn’t like him. John deserved better. 

“I am. Maybe. At least I did last night—well, what was left of the night when I got in. I was supposed to be staying in the guest room at her parents’ house. I’ve hardly seen her at all and she’s not happy about it. Hand me that,” John said as he pointed to the cord at Sherlock’s feet. “Her parents didn’t appreciate me coming in at four a.m. Her dad gave me a lecture in his dressing gown about how ‘nothing good happens at four in the morning.’ Sarah hasn’t told me yet, but I expect I am out on my arse. My poor back will just have to adjust to kipping on that lumpy couch at Lenny’s brother’s flat.”

As Sherlock handed it to him, he picked up the mic cord next to it. 

“Her father must be a simpleton. You are a musician, and we don’t keep regular hours.”

“Not a simpleton. I understand why he was mad. I disrupted his sleep. Her dad’s a doctor,” John said, as if this explained his reaction. John blinked. “You’re right though. As a doctor he should understand about professional obligations. Listen to me. I am starting to sound like you.”

“Good. I am having a positive influence on you.” John’s eyes scanned Sherlock’s face. “Wait…are you wearing makeup?” 

“Of course I am. I have a black eye and a split lip. I had to cover it up.”

“With eyeliner?”

“I do not have eyeliner on!”

“Whatever you say,” John said, plugging the jack into his Rickenbacker bass. “The place is packed. Standing room only.” 

Sherlock looked up from hooking up his mic. People were gathering in front of the stage. Male, female, short, tall, stocky, slim, blonde and brunette. Every shape, size, and shade—a sea of faces floating in front of him. Staring out over them, Sherlock noticed a change.  

“It feels electric,” Watson added.

“But they’re here for the Beatles.”

“Yeah, well, I am too. They are like magic on the stage, but you know what? They came here for us too. Maybe it’s their home, but word got around after last night’s show.”

“We were good.”

“You know what we’re gonna do? We’re gonna go out there and make them love us too,” John said.

“At least we’re not following them. They are pretty much the house band here. McCarney told me they’ve played the Cavern close to 200 times in the last three years.”

“Fuck. I knew they’d played here a lot—I just didn’t realise how much.”

“I want them to remember us.” Sherlock wasn’t sure why he admitted this to Watson. It was like exposing his soft underbelly to him.

John’s face softened, and he gave Sherlock a slow, easy smile. 

“They will. As soon as you make that guitar sing, they are going to be falling all over each other,” John reassured him.

Sherlock shook off the warmth that filled his chest. It wasn’t him.

“I’d rather not have those kinds of fans,” Sherlock said. ”There is a reason they call them that…fanatics. Speaking of fanatics…look closer at the crowd.” Sherlock followed Watson’s eyes. John’s eyes had caught a cute blonde in a peach low cut dress and cinched waist. “Not at the girls. The guys. What do you notice?”

Watson frowned as he paused a few seconds, then scanned the crowd again. Slowly a smile grew and widened. Watson had figured it out. John knew. Pride blossomed deep in Sherlock’s chest. This time he didn’t push it away.

“Their hair!” Watson laughed. “I’d say about half of them have it cut just like the Beatles! Fuck. Lennon’s gonna hate that!”

“You would think he’d like having them emulate them.”

“No. What? You think people would like to have that mop of curls you have?”

“I gave up long ago trying to fight them.”

The cute blonde had made her way to the edge of the stage and winked at them.

“Hi, Sher-rock. I’m Penny. Penny Simmons.” She held out her hand, but Sherlock didn’t shake it. Instead he stared at it in disgust.

“It is Sher-lock, and I am not in the least bit interested in who you are.”

“Be nice,” John said. “I am interested.”

“Of course you’re interested. You are interested in every halfway attractive female that sashays by you.” 

“That is uncalled for,” John laughed. 

What an unusual reaction. Most people would have been offended by his comment—instead he thought it humorous. 

“Hey you two!” Lenny shouted over. “Quit flirting with the birds. We go on in less than ten minutes! Tune up.”

——

Before introductions, it was John’s habit to begin the first set with what John called the baby songs: “There Goes My Baby,” “Be My Baby,” and an old jazz standard that they’d modernised and made their rock ‘n roll own, “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love, Baby.” 

Lenny began with his G, E minor, A minor 7 chord progression leading into “There Goes My Baby.”

Sherlock could see how much John loved singing the song. He could hear the smile in his voice as he sang. And when Sherlock added some thirds in the harmony to mix, John's voice practically laughed with joy. The crowd responded and clapped along. 

John stopped after the song and hopped twice on his right foot. Sherlock shook his head. 

“I’m John and these are the Magic Makers. Say hi to the nice girls, Lenny.”

John switched his left foot and hopped twice more. Sherlock knew John did it  for good luck, but he didn’t need it. 

“He plays the rhythm guitar and sings—if you didn’t happen to notice.”

Lenny blew kisses. 

“He also likes blondes.” 

John hopped one more time, this time with both legs. This hopping had to stop.

“That’s Roger on drums,” John said.

Roger played a buzz roll, then stood up and bowed.

“He likes to show off.”

“So do you. Stop hopping about like little bunny Foo Foo.”

“And our newest member, Sherlock, on lead guitar with vocals.”

Sherlock saw his opening. He winked and began to play the familiar children’s nursery tune. Lenny began to sing along, and Roger bopped out a beat on his drums.

Little bunny Foo Foo,

Hopping through the forest,

Scooping up the field mice,

And bopping them on the head. 

“Thank you for that.” John turned to the crowd. “Ready for some more fun?” John shouted at them.

The crowd exploded. Cheers, applause, and a roar of approval filled the room. No wonder. The Cavern was at—if not over—capacity. 

“Let’s go!” Lenny yelled.

Any anxiety remaining in John had drained away. Sherlock understood how it was. It’s always a gamble when a band steps on stage to a packed crowd. When you aren’t the featured act, one never knows if they are there for you, or just waiting for what’s to come. Until you feel that surge in the room, you never knew. They felt it and more. Maybe they weren’t number one on the bill, as John had told him, that didn’t mean that they couldn’t give them a show to remember as well. With “Be My Baby,” people were out of their seats and on the dance floor. There was hardly room to move. People were beginning to crowd the stage. 

Sherlock looked over at John on his right, then Lenny on his left. He felt comfortable between them. He turned his head to watch Roger on drums for a moment. He gave Sherlock one of his crooked grins. This was different from any other band he’d been in. He felt a kinship. Not like brothers since he didn’t have that close of a relationship with his own, but something was definitely there. An undefinable, electrical presence—an on-stage chemical reaction of sorts. 

Bands playing clubs often relied on the same old songs, but the best strived to have unique sets. Even if it was a popular piece like “The Twist” or “Cathy’s Clown,” good bands would change them up to make them their own. Of course writing its own songs set a band apart, but the number had to capture the audience’s heart. The band included some of John’s original pieces in each set for that very reason. One of the songs,”The Best Day of the Year” had become a favourite in London clubs. It was sappy and sentimental—exactly what the masses loved. John had told him last night that he hoped to capture the same effect at the Cavern and other clubs they’d play at in London.

After their first successful set, they came back from their short break with John’s song. Sherlock sang harmony and played the added riff along with the new lead solo that John had called “brilliant” the night before. It worked its magic on the crowd. The crowd had fallen in love with John and the Magic Makers. It was glorious. Sherlock was even smiling when they walked off the stage to let the Beatles take it.

Together they watched the Beatles play from off stage. It was standing room only. 

“What about Sally?” Sherlock hollered into John’s ear.

John shook his head, then leaned in close to Sherlock, brushing against his shoulder. He cupped his hand to his mouth and leaned into Sherlock. He was pressed against him, and Sherlock leaned down a bit so John could get closer so he could hear him better.

“Haven’t seen her.”

He also didn’t seem to be looking for her either. Not that Sherlock minded. They were brilliant as usual. Sherlock could see the genius in them. Their popularity had exploded in the last few months, and it was easy to see why. They were relaxed, funny, and utterly charming. When they played, Sherlock noted how classical music and traditional pop wrapped around their unique sound. 

Sherlock stayed with John on the far side of the stage until the Beatles’ set ended, then they moved around the room to find a seat in a back corner. That’s where they stayed talking about music and London memories until McCartney stumbled over, wearing Lennon’s glasses.

“I can see why he doesn’t wear em. I can’t see a thing with them on,” Paul said. 

He patted John on the back. “Great show! Hop over to our table Foo Foo,”  McCartney said. “Bring your new mate with you.”

“Come on, Sher-rock, let’s join em for a few.”

“Alright, Foo Foo,” Sherlock smirked. 

Good natured John. Sherlock hoped he hadn’t started something that would follow John. 

With the show done for the night, the crowd had thinned out. Still, people remained sitting at tables and at the bar. They skirted around a group of girls standing near the arches, winking and waving at the three of them. Paul smiled and winked back but kept walking to the table with them.

Normally Sherlock would ignore the girls. He never hung around much after finishing their set either. He usually just packed up his guitar and returned to wherever he’s staying for the night, but after their second set, John had grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him along, and he’d followed. 

Now John was grabbing his shoulder and pulling him along again. He set down his empty glass and complied because he wanted to go with John. He was surprised that he actually liked the idea. 

Paul helped John pull up two more chairs. They joined the rest of his band with the exception of Pete Best, who was busy flirting with two birds at the next table. They all were crowded around the table along with Richie Starkey, George Harrison, and Roger. Richie had been there warming his seat since playing the first evening set with Rory Storm.

“That new song of yours is fab,” Richie said to John as he sat down.

“You were damn good yourselves,” John smiled. 

“Thanks. Where’s Lenny?” Lennon asked John.

“He took off with this girl he met last night,” John said.

“If he follows his regular pattern, we won’t see him again until we play tomorrow night.”

“Same ol’ Lascivious Lenny,” Lennon said. 

“The same. Want another beer?” John asked.

“Yeah. My throat is scratchy,” Sherlock answered.

“A round over here,” John called. “Hope you’re not coming down with something.” 

John felt his forehead. His fingers were cool. His touch was soft and tenuous. 

“A bit warm. Maybe a low grade fever.” 

“Is it true you were going to be a doctor?” Richie asked.

“Yeah. Still might go back to uni. Never know what’s going to happen.”

“Yeah. I have me eye on this barber shop if things don’t work out.”

“What?” Paul said, eyes wide. “Your band is doing fab.”

“I can’t do this forever. You think people will still be listening to me banging on the drums in ten years?”

They all laughed except Sherlock. Lennon noticed. “If this doesn’t work out for you, what will you do?”

“Probably become a consulting detective. I did a bit of it in London when I was at university.”

“I hadn’t thought of you as a copper,” George said.

“Not part of the police, but consulting, when they are over their heads—as they so often are—I come in and help them solve crimes.”

“I didn’t know that. What kind of crimes?” John asked.

“Thefts, robberies, murders.”

That got the attention of everyone at the table. 

“Murders?” Lennon said. Then in an excellent Groucho Marx impression, he raised his eyebrows and said: “Do tell, do tell.”

“Yeah, spill it,” George said.

John helped the barmaid with the round of beers, handing Sherlock his. “I’d like to hear this too.” 

“I hate idiots. They bore me. Most of the world is filled with them. Just because you are a detective, doesn’t mean you have any brains. They completely botched the Landers‘ case until they handed me the file.”

“I remember that,” John said. “Dismembered body in a locked room.”

As Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder, he saw Sally. She was stomping toward them, eyes fixed hotly on Sherlock. He’d seen that disdainful look before. 

“That was it. Speaking of idiots, here comes one, and she is bearing bad news.”

John turned around in his seat.

“There you are! I thought you were going to join me after your show,” Sarah said. “You disappeared.”

“He was right next to the stage. Only an imbecile could have missed him,” Sherlock said.

Her fists clenched and her cheeks flushed in anger. “Imbecile? Why you…you…” 

“What? She can’t even speak in complete sentences,” Sherlock said.

“Shut it, Sherlock,” John said.

“I think that would be wise,” Paul added.

Hands on her scrawny hips, she stared down at Sherlock. “You are so rude.” She suddenly seemed to have realised who was seated at the table with them and smiled.

“I agree, he can be a tad rude, but he is rather fascinating. He solves murders,” Paul said, raising an eyebrow. “He also told me once that you can tell when a person’s smile isn’t genuine. Yours isn’t. It’s not reaching your eyes.”

“Of course it’s not genuine. I am angry.“

“Some people do smile when they’re angry,” Richie added. “Me mum would smile when she was swatting my arse.”

“Maybe she could swat your arse,” Lennon suggested. “I’ll hold Watson down, and you can have a go at him. Sally is it?”

“Sandra,” Sherlock corrected.

“It’s Sarah,” John muttered, covering his face with his hands.

“That’s not fair. If I were you, I’d run,” Paul said to John.

“I should have known I’d find him with you again,” she spat at Sherlock. “Since you joined the band, you’re always with him. It’s like you’re two magnets drawn to each other. And you’re all he talks about now. It’s always Sherlock this, Sherlock that. I am sick of it.”

“I think that's a bit of an exaggeration,” John said.

“Hardly.” She turned around, put her fingers in her mouth and gave a shrill, ear-splitting whistle. A short, ragged looking gent slogged up with a battered suitcase and old acoustic guitar case. 

“Your things,” she said. “It’s all there.”

“Thanks,” John sighed.

“Find somewhere else to stay.” She spun around, her blonde hair flying. “I hope you are very happy together.”

“Tough break, mate. Ouch. Sharp tongue, too, but she does have great legs,” Paul said.

“But she has no hips,” Richie said. “I prefer curves.”

“I want to hear more about murder,” Paul said.

“I don’t think so tonight. I think he’s coming down with something. Better get him back to his hotel.”

“Alright, but tomorrow night I want to hear all the bloody details,” Paul said.

But they didn’t get up and leave. Sherlock insisted he was fine and did tell them all the bloody details. They drank and talked with them for a good hour before leaving. 

As they stood up to leave, Sherlock helped John and took his suitcase and his own guitar while John carried his acoustic in one hand and his electric in the other. They walked together bumping shoulders out the door. 

“John, I know you’re not looking forward to sleeping on a lumpy couch. You can stay at the Stork in mine.”

“I’d like that. Thanks.” John smiled at him. “It won’t be a problem?”

“No. They expect extra guests at the Stork. And it’s my brother’s standing room, so I don’t have to pay for anything but the amenities.”

“That’s convenient.”

“I should warn you, I like to play the guitar late at night.”

“No problem,” John said. “I do too.”

Chapter Text

The Stork Hotel Saturday, 11th December, 1961, early morning

“This really is a nice place,” John said as Sherlock unlocked the door and stepped inside. 

“Yes. Wonderful service as well,” Sherlock said. “Speaking of which, you’re probably hungry. I can ring the kitchen, and they can bring something up. The menu is on the table there.”

“Thanks,” John said. “They make a good full English?”

“I’ve never had it here, but it’s hard to muss up. Even I can make a decent English breakfast.”

“That I would love to see. You’ll have to make one for me sometime.”

“Eggs, scrabbled,” Sherlock said.

“Scrambled.” John said. “Yes.”

Sherlock ordered while John put away his clothes in one of the few empty drawers in the dresser. Sherlock sure had a lot of clothes.

“Want to take a shower while we wait for the food?”

“Sure,” John said. “Nice silk socks.” 

“Comfortable feet are important—or so my mum told me.”

“Speaking of family, just what does your brother do to have a room ready for him at his beck and call like this?”

“He says he holds a small position in the British government, but he really believes he is the British government. I hate to admit it, but he does hold a good deal of power. He has a neat and tidy brain that probably has some dark secrets locked away in it. He has no title that I know of…”

John laughed as he went off to take a shower. He grabbed his red flannel pyjamas and closed the door. He looked in the mirror and rubbed his chin. He’d left his kit in his suitcase. He’d shave tomorrow.

Maybe he was wrong to assume Sherlock’s brother was homosexual just because he had a standing room at the Stork. John was sure that the British government had all sorts of business here in Liverpool. Right . And he, John Hamish Watson, was in line to the throne. As far as Sherlock’s status, he had already told him the music was all important. Tonight he found out he’d had another interest. Solving crimes. No wonder he didn’t have time for a relationship. But one night stands? He imagined he’d had a few. As to what partners he found appealing, John was pretty certain it wasn’t women.

He cleaned up quickly and dried off. He stepped out of the bathroom, and Sherlock slipped in.

“If the breakfast comes before I’m through, I left money for the tip on the dresser,” he called from behind the open door.

“You don’t have to do that. I can pay.”

“I know you can. Next time,” he said, poking his head out from behind the door. Then he winked.

John felt his face get hot. Which came to the sleeping arrangements. Of course Sherlock noticed him staring at the bed.

“You can take it,” Sherlock called out, leaving the bathroom door ajar. “I don’t sleep much, and when I do, I get up and down.”

“No, I am not kicking you out of your bed—especially with you not feeling well.”

“I am fine, and I can assure you that the couch is comfortable. I’ve kipped on it plenty of times over the years.”

“With your brother.”

“Of course.”

John heard the water begin to run and took the time to look around the room. He opened the closet to find it filled with bespoke suits. His brother’s, no doubt.

When the water stopped, John decided to go for it. What did he have to lose? He could hear Sherlock drying off and then brushing his teeth. 

“It is a big bed,” John said. “Plenty of room. Not like I haven’t shared a bed with a mate before. You know what I mean.”

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. Instead he poked his wet head out of the door and studied John’s face like he was reading a complex blueprint. With his makeup washed off, his black eye reminded John of a few of his own. It looked painful. 

John sighed—maybe he shouldn’t have pushed things. He liked the idea of sleeping next to Holmes a little too much. 

Suddenly Sherlock, as if he’d solved a great mystery, laughed. Then unceremoniously stepped out of door with only a towel slung low on his hips. 

“Very well,” Sherlock said. “I usually sleep in the altogether.” 

John shot him an astonished look.

Sherlock laughed. “Got you!”

“You wanker.” 

Sherlock whipped off the wet towel and slung it at John’s face with the splat.

John pulled it off to see Sherlock naked with his back to John, slipping on his pants. 

“Nice arse,” John laughed.

“Yes, so I’ve heard. Yours is nice as well.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. I’m not a homosexual. No, not true. Not completely. Or maybe, I’m not sure. Or possibly, I’m interested in experimentation? It was bad enough that he is playing in a rock and roll band instead of becoming a doctor. It was a crime. His family would disown him if they found out that he liked men. Enough of those thoughts. Women were acceptable. Instead he turned on the telly, and thankfully, room service knocked on the door. Sherlock grabbed his dressing gown and got the door and the tip. 

The breakfast was tasty although Sherlock pecked at his, concentrating on the toast, bacon, and tomatoes. 

There was no more bantering about. John was a bit disappointed.

“Don’t want this to go to waste,” John said, taking bites of Sherlock’s leftover poached eggs and mushrooms. 

John was tired, but Sherlock looked whipped. After eating, he watched Sherlock plop down in bed, curl up on his side, and shut his eyes. Within a few minutes, he was lightly snoring. John slipped under the covers and tried to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. He had to see him. He rolled around on his side, facing Sherlock. He opened one eye, then the other. Sherlock looked so innocent, like a child with his large hands cupped under his head, hiding his black eye. His hair was still damp and wet ringlets spilled over his cheeks. His hair was longer than what was fashionable, but Sherlock didn’t care.  

John tried to sleep, but it turned out, Sherlock was wrong. He slept fine. He also swiped all the sheets and blankets. And snored. Very loud. In that, Sherlock was annoying, but he was also so utterly handsome when dreaming that John could easily overlook that he was a bed hog. He rolled into John and threw his arm around him, then one leg. John gently pulled him off and rolled away from him, facing the opposite direction. Sherlock must have missed his warmth because he inched closer and closer until he was spooned against John. John tried to move away, but he was on the edge of the bed. His skin tingled where Sherlock was pressed against him. He could swear Sherlock’s cock was hard and pushing against the crack of his arse. He bit back a moan before rolling out of the bed.

He didn’t know what to think at first. He thought it was intentional based on Sherlock’s past, but it was now obvious that Sherlock was sound asleep.

So it wasn’t Sherlock who got up and played guitar. It was John. He had to do it—it was like an itch. He wanted to roll back and pulled Sherlock against him. He wanted to rut against him like Sherlock had just done to him. He needed to scratch that itch or remove himself from the cause of it. So he got out of bed.

He watched Sherlock sleep as he sat on the floor with his Gibson acoustic in his lap. He quietly tuned his guitar as he played Sherlock’s song in his head. It really hadn’t stopped playing since he’d first heard it. 

He didn’t know how long it took him, but he finally had it after ordering two pots of coffee from room service and consuming over half of it. He was surprised he hadn’t woken him up. The sun had been up for a while, but he’d let Sherlock sleep. It was getting late. He should be getting up soon to get ready for their afternoon set.

“Sherlock? You awake?” John asked, nudging his shoulder.

Sherlock answer was to pull the blanket over his head and roll around with his back to John.

“Hope you don’t get pissed, but I worked on some lyrics for that song you wrote. Do you want to hear them?”

Sherlock groaned.

“I can wait.”

Sherlock threw off the covers, sat up, and yawned. 

Actually, he’d done more than come up with some lyrics. He’d written an extra bridge and a coda for the end he really thought added to the song. He was pretty pleased with the lyrics. Actually more than pleased, and anxious to share them.

“Before I do, I need some of that coffee.”

“Sure.’ John poured him a cup with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy serving of cream. He handed it to him, and he gulped most of it down before setting it aside.

“Well, don’t keep me waiting any longer. Let’s hear it.”

Sherlock propped pillows behind his back and sat cross legged on the bed. 

John got comfortable on the floor and began to sing, replicating Sherlock’s intro, then began singing. As John sang, Sherlock closed his eyes.

You told me to write a song for you,

But now there’s no one to show it to. 

I’m writing this song for no one.

So for one I will sing,

There will be no one listening

I sing my song for no one.

 

Now that I am done,

Writing another song for no one.

Not seeing who it’s written by who it’s from.

 

It’s like you never really lived,

The only proof is this song I give,

But it will go to no one.

So for no one I will sing.

There will be no one listening

To my song for no one.

 

Now that I am done,

Singing another song for no one.

Not hearing who it’s written by who it’s from.

 

So I will sing this lonely song,

Since you went back to where you belong,

Somewhere I won’t find you.

So for no one I will sing.

There will be no one listening.

I sing for no one 

but myself.

 

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed as John finished playing and waited for his reaction. After a good minute, John cleared his throat. 

“Well?” John asked.

“Brilliant,” was all Sherlock said. It was all John needed. He grinned down at this guitar as he put it back in its case.

“It’s almost noon. We need to get ready if we’re going to get ready for our afternoon set.”

Sherlock jumped out of bed.

“Here.” John handed Sherlock a piece of hotel stationary. “It’s a copy of the lyrics.”

“Keep it. I have them all…” Sherlock said, tapping his head. “...right here.”

Chapter Text

Saturday, 11th December, 1961 afternoon

“But we haven’t played it together,” Sherlock said.

They were due to go on in a few minutes. The afternoon set was to include an acoustic playing of the song with John accompanying him.

“Play it like you heard it. You know it. It’s yours. I’ll follow,” John said. “Besides, it’s a slow afternoon. It will be a good test.” 

He didn’t even look at Sherlock when he said it. He meant the words, but something was off. How could someone who was so adept at determining people’s motives and actions be unable to read John Watson? When it came to emotions, he was useless. 

John had also been acting distant since this morning. He had been anxious to share the song, but he was quiet afterwards. Contemplative. 

Sherlock tuned his mahogany Martin acoustic and then set it back in the case all ready for their duo. Next he hooked his Les Paul Cherry Sunburst up to the amp. He felt a twinge in his side. It still ached from those kicks a few nights back. He recalled John’s words about how he held his own in the fight.

“Not bad for a snooty, posh boy.”

He learned early on that he was lousy at hiding where he came from—he could only keep the act up so long, especially with his penchant for tailored clothes and Doc Martens shoes.

As a child, he had few friends. Actually, he had one. His dog.  

Now he had John Watson, and he didn’t want to lose him as a friend. He must stop the dreams, but how?

But the truth was, he didn’t want them to stop. After all, the dreams he had last night were the most delicious and disturbing he’d ever had. All of them centred on John Watson. Touching him, kissing him, rubbing against him. He was never one to have many erotic dreams—at least not until recently. Until joining the Dream Makers.

It’s not as if John could tell he’d been having these dreams about him. Unless… John could in some way deduce that he had. 

Did something in his face give him away? Had talked in his sleep? Moaned John’s name? Any of those possibilities would account for John’s reaction. 

If John was attracted to him in return, it could also be cause for his avoidance. It was dangerous to care for another man. If John was even interested in men. He was almost certain he was. Still, John slept with girls. A lot of girls. Three Continents Watson was the joke among the band. 

But Sherlock had noticed little telling details that gave John away. The way his eyes lingered on Sherlock’s mouth when he told him to hand him his mic cord, or the way he licked his lips when Sherlock bent down to pick up his guitar. All signals. But had he read them correctly? Were all of those brief touches and bumps accidental? Sherlock doubted it. 

John could be confused, torn, and scared that he felt something for a man, let alone Sherlock. John had good reason to stay away from him. Sherlock knew he was impossible. Why risk his future on a man at all when a woman was acceptable? Why risk it on a man like Holmes?

John shouldn’t. And neither should he—but not because of the ethical or moral reasons that society foisted on them. He didn’t need to have this confusion in his life. Relationships would only hold him back, and the wrong kind of relationship would kill his career, and if not careful, get him arrested. 

He’d seen it happen. John had as well. No one ever came out publicly—not without grievous consequences. Even if you have a powerful brother like Mycroft.

Besides, he had no time for dating and absolutely no interest in girls.. He never had friends in uni—just acquaintances. He’d spent his time reading about science and playing music. The only person he could talk to was one of the men at Scotland Yard, an Inspector Lestrade. He was the only one who wasn’t a blithering idiot. He also was handsome. He’d had one or two of those dreams about Lestrade as well. He admitted to himself that for a time he became infatuated with him.

He knew Lestrade had a family. He also knew Lestrade thought of him as a son. He’d helped Sherlock when he’d been stupid and overdosed. He ended up in “the clinic” with his parents blaming his addiction on associating with “those musicians.”

That wasn’t the reason why he took cocaine and morphine. He told Lestrade he did it to  stimulate his mind—that it was from boredom. The truth was it felt good. He liked to feel good because he so rarely did.

He’d had sex. He liked it, but not as much as coke or any opiate he’d taken. The drugs also helped him forget. No more worrying about success or his unnatural sexual preferences. It did help him focus on a problem, but that was a fleeting response. 

What didn’t feel good was that when he came down from his high he realised he‘d all but neglected his music. 

He quit using because of his music, because it hurt his parents, because someone like Lestrade cared if he lived or died.

“The world would be a sad place without you in it,” he’d told Sherlock. 

And Mycroft was also disappointed in him. That wasn’t as bad since Mycroft was always disappointed in him, but what his brother thought of him did matter.

Sherlock both despised and idolised his brother. He was an enigma. To this day, Sherlock didn’t know for certain about Mycroft’s personal life. From Sherlock’s stays at the Stork, he had deduced that his brother had been intimate with men. He had dated at Oxford, but only dates that Mummy had arranged with the proper young ladies. After uni, Mummy no longer tried. She never tried with Sherlock.

She must know. It wasn’t what Mycroft, did but what he didn’t do. No indications from his brother but from those around him. It was his brother’s personal business, and his brother was more than careful. He was used to secrecy. It was his life. Although Mycroft had never spoken to Sherlock about it, he knew this. Instead of leading a double life, Sherlock felt it was far wiser to bury all of his wants and desires down deep and never let them see the surface. He was certain he could do this. Until now. Watson had touched a part of him that he once thought was untouchable.

When John woke him and played the song, he melted inside. He had wondered: was John like him? Those lyrics about lost love ached with innuendo of forbidden love. Where did John pull those words from if not from experience? Afterall, that’s what he’d told Sherlock to write about. 

Now they were about to go on stage and would play that very song—together.

The band was welcomed on stage, and John was smiling at him. Finally. A real smile that reached his eyes. 

The joy in John’s voice as he sang lasted all through their set. He looked deep into Sherlock’s eyes as they bent down into the mic and sang together: “Bom-bom! do-do-do-do-do.” 

His enthusiasm was infectious. Sherlock smiled and laughed and danced around the stage along with John. He played his heart and soul. 

And John was right. Sherlock should have known. When it came time to play his song “I Sing for No One,” it received two rounds of applause. Musicians from other groups approached them during break to tell them how much they liked it.

“The first of many Watson and Holmes songs,” John had said.

The first. Sherlock was excited and terrified. A musical partnership. Musical. Nothing more. He could do this. He could. 

Forget about his dreams. They are only dreams. Not-so-subconscious wishes. 

Then he saw her standing there near the front of the stage.

They played their last song, but the magic left them with the last notes. Sherlock turned around as John picked up his guitar. When he turned back, John had disappeared. Sherlock put his guitar backstage, but John wasn’t there.

He went out onto the club floor and scanned around. Still no John. 

He asked Lenny. No John.

He didn’t see what’s-her-name either.

Paul was waving him over to their table.

Sherlock sighed. He may as well join them until John showed. McCartney was sitting with Lennon and Harrison and a few girls Sherlock had seen around the club—a blonde was sitting on George’s lap, giggling.

“I’m Carol,” she said, winking at Sherlock. “You’re cute.”

Sherlock ignored her as George whispered something funny into her ear. Lennon patted the chair next to him, and Sherlock took a seat.

Paul leaned across the table. “I loved the song. I don’t remember the room being that quiet before, do you Johnny?”

“Everyone stopped what they were doing. Even the bartender stood and listened,” George added.

“Where’s Watson?” Paul asked.

“That’s what I would like to know,” Sherlock said.

“I saw him in front of the Cavern right after your set, talking to his girlfriend,” Carol said.

Sherlock shook his head. He hoped having to confront her again wouldn’t put John in a foul mood.

He could go out there and rescue John, but he didn’t want to have another confrontation with her. He’d wait here, listen and observe.

What he saw shocked him. Lennon wasn’t looking at the attractive bird sitting on the other side of him—he was watching Paul. Sherlock recognized the look of longing.

He loved Paul.

“Hey, Johnny,” George said, “hand me some of your chips. Cheer up! It’s Saturday. We have a day of rest comin’ tomorrow. Ohhh, look who’s back!”

John stepped up to the table with a glass of beer in his hand and sat across from Sherlock next to George.

“There you are,” Paul said. “

“Yeah, here I am.”

Sherlock didn’t ask where he’d been. He didn’t want to know. Instead they both said nothing. Sherlock looked in his eyes a little too long. John looked back an equally little too long. 

Lennon was the one observing this time.

“I was talking to Sarah,” John finally said. 

Except John’s tone of voice was all wrong. They hadn’t argued. He wasn’t angry or distraught. He was treading softly, talking to Sherlock, as if John had something to tell him that he wouldn’t like. Sherlock took a drink of his beer. It was bitter in his mouth. 

“What could you possibly have to say to her after what she said last night?” Sherlock asked, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

All talking ceased at the table, drawn into the drama unfolding. 

“I’m sorry for starters,”John said.

“You said you were sorry.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, unemotional.

“Of course. I am sorry.” John swished his beer around in his glass and watched it continue to swirl when he sat it back down on the table.

“And she forgave you,” Sherlock spat out. Why did he feel so bitter? It was for the best. He didn’t need the complication of John in his bed and more dreams like last night’s. He looked over at John, who was still staring down at his glass.  

“Thanks so much for letting me kip at yours last night,” John said. “I appreciate it. She says I can come back to hers tonight. Her parents are cool with it.”

“Cool with it,” Sherlock repeated. He kept his face expressionless. That’s it then. No more temptation. Why did he feel so lost? It was like the words of some sad song in his head. 

“Your suitcase,” Sherlock said. 

“Yeah, I thought you could bring it back to me tomorrow. Turns out she still had a few things of mine at hers.”

And then there she was, walking up from behind him. She put her arms around him.

“Ready love? It’s a nice day for a walk. Maybe we could go to the cinema. I am dying to see Passport to China with Richard Basehart.”

John stood up. “See all of you later. See you tomorrow, Sherlock.”

“Good bye.” Sherlock doesn’t watch John leave. 

Lennon shook his head. “Another round!” he called out and slapped Sherlock on the back.

“Thank you, but nothing for me.” Sherlock stood up and pushed in his chair against the table. 

It hurt. He hurt like his chest had been carved open, like his heart had been squeezed tight in someone’s fist. John may as well have done it.

No need for him to stay at the Cavern. He might come back later tonight to listen to the Beatles and Little Richard’s sets. Or he could stay in and write some music. He understands now what John meant when he said that one needed to know what love was in order to write about it. 

He understood all too well. 

—-------

The Stork, same day, evening

He decided not to go back to the Cavern. John would most likely be there with that girl. At first he sat around on the couch and floor, playing his guitar. He came up with a few viable tunes with some decent lyrics. Writing about pain was a snap. He checked the time. He thought he might be able to catch the last set, but…

He didn’t want to see John with her. Not tonight. He shouldn’t feel this way. Nothing ever happened and nothing would have ever come of it. Now there was no chance. 

It grew late, and he grew bored. He could go for a walk, or he could go downstairs to the Aintree Bar in the hotel and have a decent burgundy. He rarely went to the pub—a few times with Mycroft. He took a seat in the corner of the bar and ordered a glass of Meursault. 

He took a sip. He savoured its rich, buttery flavour.

“Sherlock Holmes! I thought that was you! You look good. Love your shirt. Makes your eyes pop! You should wear that on stage.”  

Little Richard. He hadn’t seen him since Hamburg. He was as flamboyant as ever in his crushed red velvet jacket trimmed in metallic gold cording with a puffy white blouse tucked into tight black satin trousers.

“You staying here?” Sherlock asked.

“Whenever I play Liverpool, this is where I rest my head, honey,” he said, patting Sherlock on his shoulder. “It’s one of the few places we can be ourselves. Mind if I join you?”

“Please do,” Sherlock said.

He slipped into the chair across from him.

“Your makeup is so natural, but you could use a bit of shadow and blush.”

Sherlock tried his best to smile. He really liked Richard.

“Look at us—all alone on a Saturday night. Honey, you look like you lost your last friend. Tell your Auntie Richard all about it,” he said, patting Sherlock’s hand.

“You can’t lose what you’ve never had.”

“I don’t think John would say the same about you. I saw you playing together this afternoon. You looked cosy.”

“How do you do it?” Sherlock sighed.

“My father kicked me out of the house when I was fifteen because he wanted seven sons, and I spoiled it by being gay. I was raised to believe that loving a man was an abomination against God. I believed it. A part of me still believes I will burn in Hell for my unnatural lust.”

Sherlock shook his head. He thought this was a person secure in his body, who accepted what he was. 

Sherlock believed in science, in maths. And music. He believed in those. Religion was another thing entirely. He understood why those who believed would feel torn. That it was a sin against God—at least that was what those who believed thought. He understood why Richard was conflicted.

“The truth is, hon, that love is love.”

Chapter Text

The Cavern,  Sunday, 12th December, 1961 early afternoon

“Where’s my bag?” John asked as he sat down his guitar case on the stage next to Sherlock. He had enough on his mind without Sherlock’s antics.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, dear. I seem to have forgotten it.”

John waved at Lenny, who jumped up on the stage with a guitar case in each hand. 

“Ray, the owner, said he’d like you to play a couple more acoustic songs,” Lenny said, nodding to one of his Gibson guitar. “He says the Sunday audience will appreciate it, so I thought I could join in on the fun.”

“I like the idea of all three of us playing together. We should do a couple songs from our set list. What about ‘You Send Me’ and  ‘All I Have to Do Is Dream?’ And you did not forget.”

“When did that song get added to our set list? I don’t remember it,” Lenny said.

“Which song?” John asked.

“You did not forget,” said Lenny.

“I did,” Sherlock, tuning his guitar. “It slipped my mind.” 

John sighed as he looked over at Lenny, who was still confused. Sometimes he was so literal.

“You did not forget isn’t a song title,” John explained. “It’s what this arse intentionally left behind— my suitcase with my clothes. I can’t wear this .” 

“True. That oatmeal jumper is atrocious. Did Sally knit it for you?” Sherlock dramatically looked out over the room. “By the way… where is Sally? I thought she would be attached to your hip.”

“You’re one to talk. What’s up with that purple silk shirt you’re wearing? You are impossible,” John said.

“I keep telling you that,” Lenny said to John. He along with John and Sherlock knelt down and removed their guitars out of their cases. 

“I have heard that all my life, and there is nothing wrong with this shirt. Little Richard told me that this shirt was meant to be worn on stage.”

Lenny brushed off his knees. “Someone should sweep this stage.” He stepped closer to Sherlock, studying his face. “That shirt is one thing, but you’re wearing makeup. Did Little Richard suggest that too?”

“I am wearing makeup, but Richard had nothing to do with it.”

“He has a black eye, remember the fight?” John said.

Lenny chuckled. “How could I forget? It’s been the only real excitement I’ve had in days.“ 

In a rush, Roger hopped up on the stage, took one good look at each of them and laughed. “What are you two wearing?”

John sighed. “Blame Sherlock. He was supposed to bring my clothes. It’s all I have with me.”

“John, you’re gonna get booed off the stage with that on. Someone has to have an extra t-shirt around somewhere.”

“I do,” Sherlock said. “If you ask nice, I might lend it to you.”

He was really trying to make this as difficult as possible. 

“Lend it to me. Now, you git.”

“That’s not nice.”

“It’s as nice as you’re gonna get.”

“Give it to him, Sherlock,” Roger said. 

“Very well,” Sherlock said, unbuttoning his shirt.

“I didn’t say change your shirt here,” Roger laughed.

But Sherlock kept unbuttoning, revealing a t-shirt beneath. He took off his silk shirt and handed it to Lenny. As Sherlock stripped off his t-shirt, Roger blasted out a drum roll, then struck the symbols with a clash. After his abbreviated strip tease, to much applause, Sherlock stood on the stage bare chested and handed the t-shirt to John. One of the waiting staff blew a powerful wolf whistle.

“I bet if John takes off his jumper, he’ll get a standing ovation,” Lenny said.

“I think I’ll change in the other room,” John said.

“Ooo, aren’t we modest,” Lenny joked. 

“Since when?” asked Roger. ”Is it the company?”

That hit a little too close for comfort for John. He spun around to go to change but stopped. He couldn’t put this off. “Come on,” he said to Sherlock. “We need to talk.”

Sherlock grudgingly followed him backstage. 

“What is it you’d like to say to me?” Sherlock asked, shutting the door. 

It was just two days ago that Sherlock sat in this very room and played the song John penned the lyrics to. In the last twenty four hours, his life had been turned upside down.

“Listen, Sherlock. It’s…” John rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. This wasn’t easy to tell him. It wasn’t easy to tell himself.

“She’s pregnant,” Sherlock said.

John was dumbfounded. “How did you know?”

He didn’t think he could be more surprised in one day. First he learned he was going to be a father, now Sherlock’s psychic revelations.

“It isn’t yours,” Sherlock said.

John flinched. That was Sherlock just being mean. John knew he could be cruel. He’d seen and heard him do it.

“Of course it’s mine.” 

“It isn’t probable. I put the odds at—“

“That’s enough . Are you implying that she’s been with someone else?”

“I’m not implying. I can give you a list.”

If it was anyone but Sherlock, he would have punched him.

“She’s not a whore,” John snapped.

“Define whore.”

It was taking enormous restraint not to give the arse a matching black eye, but there was something in his voice. Sherlock wasn’t taunting or teasing him. He wasn’t angry or spiteful. His voice was sad. He was hurt.

“It’s true, and I‘m the father. She will be a good mother,” John said.

“According to Ringo, she is deficient as a woman. Her hips aren’t wide enough.” Sherlock said, flatly.

John sighed. Sherlock was smart. Smarter than anyone he’d ever met. He must have uncovered or somehow deduced what John hadn’t. John took a seat at the table. 

“Alright. You figured out somehow she’s pregnant. She’s telling the truth about that, but what makes you think the baby isn’t mine?”

The door opened. “Hey get out here,” Lenny said. “We’re going on soon.” 

“We’ll be there. Give us a few more minutes,” John said. 

“Fine! I don’t know why I even do this.” Lenny closed the door.

Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat down next to John.

“I don’t think, I know,” said Sherlock. ”I began practising with the band thirteen weeks ago. In London. During that time, you never visited her in Liverpool. When were you in Liverpool last?” 

“We played the Cavern and the Jacaranda the first week of September,” John said.

“Three months ago—except she is more than three months pregnant.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“She is in the second trimester.”

“How would you know?” John asked.

“It is evident. Look at her. You have had medical training, and I have been self schooled. I was on the Diana Landers murder case. The murdered, dismembered woman was…”

“Pregnant. I recall.” 

“Simple biology,” Sherlock said. 

“Her belly? I…I don’t know. She could have just gained a bit of weight.”

“I believe that always happens.”

John put his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with his hands. He hoped Sherlock was right. He didn’t want to be a father. Not yet. Sarah was a fine girl, but he didn’t love her. He thought of his parents' loveless marriage. He didn’t want that for his son or daughter.

“She swears I am the father.”

“She hasn’t slept with you since, has she?”

John closed his eyes. There hadn’t been any opportunity, staying in separate rooms at her parents‘ house. Sherlock had a point. If he could see her naked, he might be able to tell better if he could get a good look at her breasts. Any other time, he’d be jumping at the chance to see them.

“Why pick me? I am a musician.”

But John didn’t have to say more. He remembered her father’s words about forgetting pipe dreams and going back to finish his degree and become a doctor to support his little Sarah. Still, it was possible Sherlock was wrong. 

“We need to go on,” Sherlock said. “We can talk more after the show.”

————-

He couldn’t stop thinking about it the whole time on the stage. Since Sarah was seated front and centre, it was hard to forget and get lost in the music. That was until they got out their acoustic guitars. 

When they began to play, all that chatter in his head ended. Lenny may have been seated in the middle, but John and Sherlock sat across from each other, looking into each other’s faces. It was only them and the song. Although all eyes were upon them, he didn’t care. They’d played ‘You Send Me’ and ‘All I Have to Do Is Dream’ together before, but never with acoustic guitars. It went seamlessly. John’s voice captured the smitten, giddy tone of falling in love in the words of ‘You Send Me.’ It was as if he was singing to only Sherlock. When John’s voice crooned ‘you-ooo,’ Sherlock practically swooned with the crowd, and John made sure eyes never left Sherlock’s.

As they began to play “All I want to do is Dream,” John began to sing. Ahh, dreams. He had so many. If only..,

As they did in the usual show, Sherlock harmonised with him on each chorus, but he surprised John and improvised with transient and bittersweet notes. 

When they began Sherlock’s song, their mood shifted with the words “so for no one I will sing. There will be no one listening.” Sherlock was singing it to him. Suddenly John felt an overwhelming sadness. He could lose all this. The music. His dream. Sherlock. What hurt more was he could see the pain in Sherlock’s face. It was his dream as well. And Lenny’s. And Roger’s. He was thankful they were facing each other, and no one else could fully see their anguish.

After the song, they took their break separately. John was too raw to talk to him. He was too raw to talk to Sarah. He went into the alley and shared a cigarette with Lenny. 

“Are you alright?” was all that Lenny asked.

But John didn’t answer. He continued to smoke, lost in his thoughts.

They went back inside and finished their only set of the day. As they were picking up their equipment, John turned to Sherlock.

“Who were they?”

“John…” he cautioned.

“No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But I do want to know how you would even know this.”

“Observation.”

“Observing what? You weren’t even around to observe.” John crossed his arms. As much as he wanted a reason not to get married, he didn’t want to have false hope either.

“Do pay attention. For example. When Sally had that confrontation with you, everyone’s eyes at the table were on her except one person. He didn’t engage in our conversation at all. His brow was furrowed; he glanced away from her and you. Most telling was the flicker of discomfort around his eyes. But the most telling came from Sally. When she saw him, she was afraid he would give her away.”

He saw it now. John thought at the time that the person in question was just avoiding the whole uncomfortable situation unfolding before him. Who wants to witness a breakup? 

“I said I didn’t want to know any names,” John said.

“I understand. Although I didn’t give a name, I don’t have to. You see, the person will confess to you himself.”

“He doesn’t have to tell me. I know who he is,” John sighed. 

“Hey, George!” Lenny said, popping his head up from across the stage. “What are you doing here? I thought today was your day of rest?”

“It was,” George said, “but I have something I need to tell John.”

Chapter Text

The Cavern,  Sunday, 12th December, 1961, afternoon

Sherlock stood by the backstage door and listened. He couldn’t help eavesdropping. It wasn’t his fault; it was his nature. If John and George didn’t want anyone overhearing, they shouldn’t have left the door open.

“It was last weekend,” he heard George say. “I didn’t know she was your girl. If you want to hit me, I’m fine with it.”

“No,” John answered. “I’m not going to punch you. I already knew about it.” 

“Whew! That’s cool. She told you then?”

“No, the Master of the Power of Deduction told me.”

“Mmm. Holmes,” he heard George sigh. “To tell you the truth, even if I would have known she was your girl, I probably still would have shagged her.”

Sherlock didn’t want or need to hear anymore. He decided to go out into the bar and take a seat to wait for John but changed his mind when he saw Sally. She sat at a table near the bar, her foot kicking at the table nervously. She spied Sherlock and nonchalantly looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen him. She was shredding a napkin as she glanced over at the backstage door where John was talking to Harrison. 

Sherlock made a beeline toward her, but Lenny grabbed him by the arm before he could. He pulled Sherlock through the alcove out of sight.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Lenny hissed.

“I was going to ask her a few questions.”

“You mean interrogate her? John was a mess for almost our entire set tonight. You will only make it worse.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Except for…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Except for when you played the acoustic numbers…”

“I need to prove to John—“

“No, you need to stay out of it.”

“Like you have? You’ve known from the start she was cheating on him.” 

“You’re right…I did, but I kept me mouth shut. It never goes well when you tell a mate his girl has been cheating on em. They kiss and make up, then you end up the bad guy.”

“He needed to know. He needs to know. There’s more to this than having a bit on the side.”

“If that’s the case, then it’s even more of a reason to keep your bloody nose out of it.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and pursed his lips as he stared over at the backstage door. “What’s taking them so long?”

“How should I know?”

“How long could it take to tell him I boinked your girlfriend?”

“You are such an arse. Here they come now. You don’t need to open your mouth and start something. Why don’t you go back to the hotel and get his suitcase,” Lenny suggested. “I’ll let him know that’s where you went.”

“He doesn’t need it. He’s not leaving with her.”

“Sherlock, go get my suitcase. I need to talk to her.”

As John walked past them with George behind, Lenny put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Listen, I know you’re worried about him. Maybe I don’t know all about what’s going on, but I do know that John is a steady bloke—he won’t go off half-cocked on her, but he is not going to be anyone you want to be around after he gets done talking to her.”

Sally sprang from her chair and rushed up to John, ignoring George who walked past them right for the door.

“John, it’s not what you think. You were in London, and I hadn’t heard from you in weeks! I thought you weren’t coming back,” she cried. “I love you. Please.”

She grasped for the t-shirt, but John stepped back out of her reach.

Sherlock waited and watched with Lenny. The couple had the attention of most of those seated around the room. John caught Sherlock’s eye and shook his head.

“We’re not doing this here,” John told her. “Come on.” John pulled her toward the door.

Bob Wooler, the Cavern’s compere, announced a new skiffle group who were about to grace the stage, but Sherlock didn’t care, John was going out the door with Sally.

He had to follow.

——-

The trick was to not let John know he was tailing them. Not easy on a lazy Sunday afternoon with few people on the pavement. Even more difficult because the two would suddenly stop and argue, then begin walking again. Although unable to hear their exchange, John's jagged and terse movements revealed his distress.

He shadowed them down Matthew Street then headed west on Harrington toward the River Mersey when John suddenly stopped again. Sherlock slowed and nonchalantly turned to look into a shop window: a cobbler specialising in safety boot repairs. 

“I know you’re following me,” John hollered across the street toward Sherlock. “Stop!”

He must be getting rusty at shadowing. He thrust his hands in his pockets. He could turn around then circle back, he could do as John directed. He may as well do as directed. He couldn’t hear a word that John said anyway.

But he couldn’t let it go. He circled around the block and found them standing where he last saw them with their arms around each other. John brushed the tears off her face, then kissed her.

He turned around and walked back to his room at the Stork. He’d wait there for John and hoped that he would realise that Sally was a liar.

He waited all afternoon, but John never came. He waited all evening, but John never came. He waited all night, but John never came. 

Everytime Sherlock thought back on John holding her in his arms, he felt sick inside.

He stared out the window to the street below, cars passed. People passed, but no John. What was wrong with John? Didn’t John care about himself? Did he think so little of what Sherlock told him that he would believe the words of this cheater?

He finally fell asleep at 5 a.m. and woke at 11. He called the desk. No word from John. 

Sherlock doubted that anything he’d said to John mattered to him since he believed her. It was as if common sense and logic had flown out the window. 

He didn’t know why it mattered to him. Friends only slowed him down. Relationships only drove him down. 

This was why he didn’t have friends. He should’ve remembered what it was like to be disappointed by them. Dogs were better. At least a dog was faithful.

He’d spent his entire life trying to be the best at something. Why did he think that he could be the best at friendship, let alone love? This had to stop. He paced the room. He got his guitar and tried to compose, but nothing came to him. It was like he was an empty glass with nothing to fill it with. He couldn’t afford to lose himself over a relationship that John would most likely never acknowledge. Mummy told him once that love is hard—that relationships take work. He didn’t have time to spare, or the patience to work at it. Acquaintances are better. Those he could discard without complications. 

The problem was he had those dreams again last night. This time the dreams became more explicit. John kissing him; John making love to him; John telling him he’d love him forever. 

What a nightmare.

He’d go on with the show tonight, stay in the band. He’d even accept that John was a father even if it wasn’t truly his child. What he wouldn’t accept was John leaving music behind. John had to see the truth when it came to his future. Yes, he would make a good doctor, a superior doctor. But he was a better bass player, writer, and happier because of it.

Music always made Sherlock happy. It was one of the few things that ever did. That and solving crimes. He loved the chase, the mystery, the solution.

By 4 o’clock, he showered and dressed. John’s suitcase sat on the dresser. He put some of his clothes in the drawers. Sherlock carefully arranged them in the suitcase. Some of his socks had holes in the toes and heels. He packed two pairs of his own in John’s case: one black and one brown. He shut the bag and latched it.  Sherlock carried it to the door. With John’s bag in one hand and his guitar in the other, he opened the door. He left his acoustic guitar behind and headed for the Cavern.

But when he got there he didn’t go in. He walked up and down Matthew Street. What are you doing? he thought. He stopped and looked up at the sky. It was beginning to rain. He used to enjoy walking in the rain. 

He walked inside the cavern and set down the bag.

“There you are,” Lenny said, rushing up to him. “John still hasn’t shown. I was beginning to get worried that you weren’t.”

“We won’t be on for another 45 minutes.”

“He’ll be here,” Lenny said. “He’s never missed a gig.”

“His girlfriend has never been knocked up before either,” Sherlock said under his breath, but it was loud enough for Lenny to hear.

Sherlock winced. He’d done it again, opened his big mouth. Now Lenny knows. Maybe it’s for the best, Sherlock told himself. The whole band should know, after all this is their future too, but it’s not his place to tell them and he never should’ve said anything to Lenny. Too late now.

“Is that what the problem was? No wonder John was upset. You weren’t supposed to tell me, were you?”

“He didn’t tell me not to, but…”

“No worries. I won’t say a word.”

But Lenny would because he was Lenny.

At that moment, John walked in the backstage door, carrying his guitar. He seemed to have found something to wear that wasn't entirely awful. She was tagging behind him. The moment she spotted Sherlock, she scooted up next to him and hooked her arm in his.

Sherlock’s stomach twisted into knots, but he smiled. He didn’t care if it looked genuine or not.

Chapter Text

The Cavern,  Monday, 13th December, 1961 afternoon

He was almost positive that she was lying to him. Almost. He refused to go to her parents’ house again since the surprise attack. She hadn’t told him she was pregnant. No hint, no word of warning of what he was walking into. She’d even written him a letter, declaring her undying love yet failed to tell him he was going to be a father.

Her father was terrifying. Dr. Stapleton didn’t swear, didn’t  raise his voice,  didn’t threaten, but he made it clear that he believed John had violated his little girl. 

John wasn’t sure where Mrs. Stapleton was until Dr. Stapleton told him she had to be sedated after Sarah told them. She hadn’t left her room all day.

With Sarah sitting on one end of the couch and John on the other, she sobbed into her hands as her father paced back and forth lecturing them.

“But she says she loves you,” he had said. As he spoke, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t know why, but she sees something in you. You will marry immediately and make an honest woman of her. Forget all the rock band nonsense and finish your medical degree. You must provide a solid future for my daughter and grandchild.” 

John had kept his mouth shut, but there was no way he was going to marry her if the baby wasn’t his. The timing didn’t make sense. Some women simply took longer to show. Maybe she was one of them. Still to be his child, she should be about twelve weeks along.

He had his doubts then, he had even more now. He’d never really believed her when she claimed she was a virgin, but had believed her that she was faithful to him—that is until Sherlock’s telling him about George. 

Then George told him the truth. It seems Sarah had her share of flings with various band members at the clubs. Hell, George reluctantly told him she’d been hooking up a lot. That’s why he thought she was unattached.

When she found out he was talking to George, she’d panicked. She was filled with denials after John confronted her. They’d left the Cavern to avoid a scene. He’d listened to her excuses until he could take it no more.

Of course he’d followed—that nosey prat. He told Sherlock to go back to his hotel.

“I suppose you are going to stay with him again,” she’d spat out.

That was it. “It’s not any of your business where I stay.” He might as well tell her. It served her right. “George and I talked. I told him.”

Sherlock had disappeared around the corner.

“You told him I am pregnant! Why?”

“I told him because I don't want anyone falling into this trap. How many others are out there that you could claim to be the father?”

She had slapped him right across the face. That really stung. 

Then she had begun to sob hysterically, saying, “You don’t believe me. Why don’t you believe me?”

It was a cruel thing to say. What if she wasn’t lying? What if he was the father? Who was he to judge her? It wasn’t like he’d been the devoted boyfriend.

He had hugged her and told her he was sorry for saying that. She had clutched at his back, and he wiped the tears off her face, and she kissed him. 

“It’s yours. It swear it,” she whispered.

That’s when he saw Sherlock again. He hadn’t gone back to Stork. Sherlock had circled around. He’d seen them hug, and then had turned around and left.

John finished walking her home in silence and got a cab to 25 Upton Green.

The best way to know for sure was to go to the doctor for her next appointment. He doubted she would, but he would insist. 

He knew enough from his med classes that after about 18 weeks, the distance between the pubic bone and the fundus is about the same as the number of weeks from her last menstrual period. The doctor could tell him how far along she was. 

———

John rushed in the backstage door of the Cavern.

He hated being late for anything. He liked to be places with time to spare. He knew was cutting it close. Damn cabs. He was horrible at hailing cabs. 

The moment he came in, who should come through the door behind him but Sarah. As he stepped around the corner, there was Sherlock and Lenny.

“About time,” Lenny said.

“Sorry,” John said. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“Actually, it could,” Sherlock said. “Calling a cab is simple. I’ll show you how it’s done some time.”

How does he do that? 

And Sarah, she didn’t miss a beat—she should take up drumming. She tucked her arm in his, making sure everyone knew he was hers. He let her. For now. She may as well be holding a big sign that said, “Hands Off, He’s Mine.”

Sherlock was the problem. She was threatened by him. She sensed a connection between them, and before a few nights ago, John would have described their relationship as purely an artistic partnership. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t wanted to go back to the Stork. He was afraid of what might happen between them if he continued sleeping in the same bed. He’d even told George that he’d no place to stay just to avoid that very situation.

“You didn’t stay at her parents,” Sherlock deduced. ”Those clothes. Whose? Hmmm , of course! The only person you spoke to before you left here was Harrison.”

The shocked look on Sarah's face was priceless.

“He has two older brothers. These are some of Pete’s old clothes,” John said.

“You spent the night with him?” she asked. 

“Mrs. Harrison is amazing. She sings all the time—making tea, breakfast, washing. Beautiful voice. And she has a real interest in George’s music. Must be nice.”

It wasn’t a jab at Sarah—but she took it as one. Her eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips. Actually he was thinking of his own parents' attitude toward his choice. What had his father called him when he told him he was quitting uni to play guitar? Oh yeah, a fuck wit. 

“Except for my brief infatuation with seven percent solution, my parents have been relatively supportive of my choices.”

It was John’s turn to be shocked. Lenny on the other hand was laughing so hard he was crying. 

As soon as he caught his breath again, he patted Sherlock on the back. “Come on, we better get set up.”

———

“I see Samantha has detached herself from you successfully.”

“Her name is Sarah. But you know that.”

“You have forgiven her infidelities.”

“That’s between me and her.”

“I didn’t think you were gullible enough to buy the old story of the seven pound premature baby.”

“I am not talking to you about this.”

“Why not? You talked to George at length.”

“Enough.” John sighed. “You didn’t bring your acoustic Gibson.”

“You didn’t bring your Epiphone.”

“Want to improvise? Let’s try to rock your song,” John suggested.

“You mean our song.”

Those words changed everything.

——-

From the first chord to the last, the audience loved their set selections. John had shared the set changes with the band members and told them they were playing the new song together. 

“I have an interesting bluesy drum pattern I wanted to try. Your new song will be perfect for it,” Roger said. “By the way, I like the black silk shirt better than the purple.”

“Thanks. I want to increase the tempo,” said Sherlock.

Beginning with Sherlock’s “one, two, three,” the song filled the walls of the Cavern. Sherlock was a man blessed with two voices: one that came from his incredible lips and the other from his evocative hands. The increased tempo generated a wave of rich excitement that swelled through the establishment.

The rest of the set slipped by quickly as one song flowed into another, and the final song, “Louie, Louie” shared the energy and heat as the band connected to the crowd.

Next on stage was the Beatles. The Magic Makers had already stored their equipment in the back.

Sarah was waiting. 

“You coming home with me now?” she asked, ignoring the others.

“I told you before, I am not staying at yours,” John said, placing his guitar case next to Sherlock’s.

Her eyes began to well up with tears.

Sherlock shook his head. “More waterfalls.”

John ignored them both. “The band is staying to catch the Beatles’ set. If you three go find us a table. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Sarah crossed her arms as she watched. John waited for them to leave before turning to her.

“You still don’t believe me,” she pouted. 

“I’ve been thinking. There’s one way I will.”

“How?”

“When’s your next doctor’s appointment?”

Her eyes grew wide. She hesitated, unsure. “Why?”

“I want to go with you.” John pulled out a chair for her to sit down, but she remained standing.

“I don’t think you are allowed.” 

Her reaction was telling. “I am the father. Of course I am allowed.” 

She blinked slowly. She was trapped. She placed her hand on the table to steady herself.  “I can’t recall for sure. It’s in a few weeks.”

“I’ll be there. What’s the doctor’s name?”

“Parker. Dr. Jameson Parker.”

“Thanks,” John sighed. “You should go home and rest.”

“Could you walk me? I can give you the appointment time.” 

John understood her plan. Get him to her house, get him inside, and keep him there. Not happening.

“I’ll call you tomorrow to find out. Wait here, and I’ll call you cab to get home. Looks like you’re knackered—get some rest.”

——-

“God, listen to him belt that out,” Lenny said.

“I love hearing him sing that,” John said, taking a seat. Sherlock sat across from him with a glass in his hand, his chair turned to watch the stage. 

“Me too,” Roger said. “I’ve heard a lot of bands cover that song, ours included, He is the best. No one sings ’Twist and Shout’ like Lennon.” 

“They are exceptional,” Sherlock said, leaning forward in his seat.

“Except for Pete,” Roger said.

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “He’s adequate on drums but not gifted in any way except for his pretty face.”

The boys all laughed, engaged in Lennon’s antics on stage as they began the next song, “Long Tall Sally.”

“Paul has a pretty face,” John said, grinning as he picked up his beer.

“Says the two pretty boys,” Roger grinned.

“But Paul also has a dramatic tenor’s voice and almost a five octave vocal range,” Sherlock said, finishing off his beer. “He can hit a G5! He far surpasses any other I have heard on stage. Wait…here it comes…there! His scream is uncanny. ”

John couldn’t help but feel a tad jealous listening to Sherlock’s praise. Why should he be jealous? 

But Sherlock was right. Paul was good. Really good. He heard about how the Beatles played with Little Richard in Hamburg, and how Paul sang backstage, and Richard would coach Paul on how to hit those high notes. 

“Yeah, and he just started playing the bass in the last year after Stu quit, and he’s already one of the best,” John said. “Look, he doesn’t just sing—he plays to the audience like he’s making love.”

“So do you. Don’t sell yourself short,” Sherlock said, pouring another glass. “You are a skilled bass player, and your voice is remarkable. You may not have Paul’s vocal range, but you have an emotive tenor voice with a generous range. The control you have over your voice placement resonates from centres such as the chest, head, and the pharynx at the back of the mouth which affects your vocal tone immensely.”

“Only you could describe singing like it’s a science experiment,” Lenny said.

He should mark this on a calendar. Sherlock Holmes just complimented him to his face without wanting something in return. Hmm. Maybe he did want something, but what?

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, grinning at him. 

“He didn’t mean it as a compliment,” said Roger.

“I took it as one.”

“The Beatles are going somewhere,” John said.

“We will too,” said Lenny.

“They were good before, but since they got back from Hamburg, they are tighter,” Roger agreed.

“McCartney can play almost as many instruments as I do,” Sherlock said. “Lennon has an acid tongue and have you heard him belt out ‘Twist and Shout’? I’d trade 30 IQ points to sing like that. Still, he can be a real arse sometimes.”

“Funny. He said the same about you,” Lenny said. “Guess that makes sense coming from one arse to another.”

He is an arse, but John had seen Sherlock on the stage play and sing through plenty of fights in Hamburg. John knew he had a hard time with getting things thrown at him or people heckling, but he always held back until the end of the set. Then he’d let loose. He’d seen Lennon actually throw a bottle back and start a brawl once at the Star Club in Hamburg.

“You staying with George again?” Sherlock asked, taking a drag off his fag then chasing it with a gulp of beer. John hadn’t recalled ever seeing Sherlock drink this much.

“Planning to.”

“Mine is closer,” said Sherlock. “Don’t forget that I have your clothes.”

“And if you stayed with Holmes, you wouldn’t be late,” Lenny pointed out.

“I wasn’t late.” 

“Semantics,” Sherlock said, taking another drink. “I could use your help. I have another song I am stuck on.”

John knew it wasn’t a good idea. He knew he shouldn’t say yes, but he was curious. 

“What song?” John asked.

Sherlock smirked.

“I do believe Holmes is hammered,” Roger said.

“Didn’t eat anything today, did you?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned. “Ah, no.”

“We could order some food here,” John suggested.

“What is sold here cannot be categorised as food,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, come on Sherlock. The chips aren’t bad,” Roger said.

“They aren’t good either,” said Lenny.

“I’d rather wait and eat at the hotel.” Sherlock rocked in place.

John pushed back his chair and got up to help him. 

“How about showing me how to hail a cab. I’ll get our guitars.” John turned to Lenny and Roger. “Tell George thanks for me and that I’ll be kipping at Sherlock’s tonight.”

“Will do, mate.”

When Sherlock stood, he swayed.

“Woah! You okay?” John asked.

“I will be fine.”

——-

John still couldn’t get over it. All Sherlock did was stand in front of the Cavern, raise his arm, and a cab appeared.

“You will feel better if I take the couch,” Sherlock said, as he got inside. 

John squeezed the guitars in between them and got in.

He was right. He would feel better, but he hated making Sherlock sleep on the couch.

The ride to the Stork was short. Sherlock stumbled out of the taxi and paid the cabbie as John lugged the guitars from the back seat.

Sherlock zigzagged through the lobby to the elevator with John behind him. As the elevator doors shut behind them, the elevator lurched up, and Sherlock fell forward into John. John dropped the guitars and caught him by the shoulders. Mouths only a breath away, Sherlock closed his eyes, hesitated, then pressed his lips to John’s. 

John could blame it on the beer lowering his inhibitions. He could have pulled back and pretended it was all an accident. But he didn’t. Instead, he moaned, opened his mouth, put a hand on the back of Sherlock’s head, and grasped a handful of his silky curls.

Sherlock moaned back and melted against him. The elevator stopped, and they jolted apart as the door opened.

It felt right, so right. His mouth still tingled where their lips touched. 

He picked up the guitars, stepped off the elevator, and followed Sherlock to his room.

Chapter Text

The Cavern,  Tuesday, 14th December, 1961, evening

Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t talk. All he could do was think: I kissed John. I kissed him. Why did I kiss him?

The miracle was that John had snogged him back.

While John stood behind him as if he was shell shocked, Sherlock debated what he should do next. Should he pretend nothing happened, or should he shut the door and snog John again?

But he didn’t need to decide. John shut the door for him, and put down his guitar case next to Sherlock’s feet.

“I’ll order room service. Get out your Gibson and play the song for me,” he told Sherlock.

So they were going to pretend.

Sherlock could pretend. He’d done it all of his life—he could continue doing it. He’d pretend that watching John dial the phone didn’t make his breath catch. He’d pretend that seeing him cradle the phone receiver in the crook of his neck didn’t make his pulse race. He’d pretend that hearing John’s voice all rough and gravelly from singing didn’t make his heart skip. 

Yes, he’d pretend, but it wouldn’t make how he felt go away.

He also didn’t want John to go away, and he was afraid if he didn’t pretend along with John that’s just what would happen. He rather have him in his life as a friend and creative partner than to risk it all on a romantic whim. The problem was…was it really just a whim?

His heart told him no. But for John? He didn’t know. John had kissed him back, however. It was a gamble.

John fiddled with the menu. “What exactly is Scouse? All it says here is that it’s a traditional Liverpool stew.”

“I generally don’t care for stew, but the Scouse here is tasty.”

”Is the Liverpool tart good?” John asked.

“Very.”

“Alright then…”

Sherlock took a seat on the couch and pulled out his acoustic Gibson. He took a few moments to tune it, listening to John finish the order.

“Should be up in half an hour or less,” John said, hanging up the phone as he turned to Sherlock, who began to play the song. 

It had a simple chord progression. John had told him that simple was often better. If one element was complex, such as the melody, the rhythm and lyrics should not compete. This had a three-four beat and switched to the chorus with four-four, and back to three-four for the verses. Sherlock had taken John’s cue and alternately sang nonsense words and hummed the tune. 

John stood next to the phone stand, listening. 

When he finished the song, John smiled. “It’s a love song.”

Sherlock agreed. “I hear cellos and violins accompanying me in my head when I play it. I hear music like that…in my mind palace.”

John walked over to the couch and sat next to him.

“Mind palace?” John asked.

“That’s where I organise music and memories, along with all of my detective work. There’s wings and rooms devoted to different crimes, people, places, songs.”

“Sounds fascinating. How can I get one?”

“Seriously?” Sherlock asked.

“Seriously.”

Sherlock rested the guitar at the end of the couch. John was truly remarkable.  

“Begin by leaning back and resting your head on the back of the couch,” Sherlock instructed. “Just like that. Now close your eyes and imagine an empty room. Place a piece of furniture in it, something that has meaning to you.”

“My old chair in my flat in London.”

“Perfect. Visualize it. The shape, size, pattern, the fabric’s texture. Sit down in it. Feel how the cushions cradle you.”

Sherlock gave him a few moments to relax in his old chair. 

John’s eyelids fluttered. “What next?”

“Place a bookshelf next to your chair.”

“Does the size matter?”

“No. It can be small for now. You can always build it bigger as you add to your room.”

He gave John some more time. “It’s done,” John said. 

“Now decide what you would like to keep there.”

John hesitated.

“It’s not necessary to share it with me. But I do need to know how to categorize it. Is it an object, idea, or memory?”

“Memory.”

“Ah, for those make connections with all of your senses. Break it down moment by moment. Define each second: the sounds, the thoughts, the touches, the images, the taste. Give each a name, and link them.”

John took a shaky breath and slowly released it. As he did, his face and body relaxed. He licked his lips and sighed. 

Sherlock wondered what memory he was capturing in his newly acquired room. Possibly a childhood remembrance, one of life’s many firsts, or a special time with someone he cherished. 

“From that room you can add on other rooms, add shelves, dressers, bookcases. You can furnish it as you desire. Organize and shape it to meet your needs and desires. Remember that securing whatever you store there to the senses builds a vivid and lasting connection that is easier to retrieve.”

John slowly opened his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. No one has ever asked me before.”

“Thanks again. Not only for the mind palace but the…you know…from before—in the elevator.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush as John leaned closer… Sherlock’s breath caught, and he closed his eyes waiting. 

Then a knock came to the door. Interrupted! Damn!

”Room service.” John gave a frustrated sigh and threw his head against the couch. “I’ll get the tip this time.”

This is happening , Sherlock thought, watching John wheel in the cart and push it up to the table. He was about to kiss me.

John placed both bowls of Scouse on the table along with the tart. “Come over, sit down, and eat. Smells delicious.” 

Sherlock did as asked and ate a few spoonfuls of stew. He kept sneaking looks at John, who was in turn, sneaking looks at him. 

“Could I use the phone in the morning?”

“Of course. No need to ask.”

“I need to call Sarah.”

Sherlock dropped his spoon, and it clattered against the bowl. He should have known John would stand by her no matter. 

John frowned. “It’s not what you think…it’s ….I’m going with her to her next doctor’s appointment. I need to find out when.”

“She doesn’t want you to come.”

“Of course not, but I am going.”

Sherlock wasn’t as optimistic. She was lying. The doctor would confirm that she was much farther along than she claimed. She will do her best to keep John from coming with her. 

There was another way to find out the truth, but Sherlock didn’t think John would approve. 

“Did she give you the doctor’s name?”

“Yeah, Dr. Jameson Parker.” John sliced the tart and plated two generous portions. “Until I know for certain…I can’t. I mean it’s not like we could ever be…”

“We could never be what?” Sherlock asked as he picked up his fork.

“I’m just not good at talking about this sort of thing.”

“I’m not good either. At friendships or relationships or whatever because I’ve had little experience with them. Until now. You, the band, these people I’ve come to know because of you—I have never had this. It’s overwhelming, but I don’t want it to end. No matter what happens, I want you as a friend.”

“I feel the same way.” John pushed one of the plates across the table to Sherlock. “How about we have some of this tart and then work on the lyrics for your song.”

Sherlock was torn. Did it mean John was interested but wanted to wait? Or was he misreading that John wanted more? This was so confusing. He hated not being able to pin down exactly what John meant. He could read people so well except when it came to personal relationships, then he was drowning in the unknown. He took a forkful of the tart. Lemony, soft, lush, and creamy filling. The perfect balance of sweet, sour, a bit of bitter. Just like love .

He could write a song about the Liverpool tart, but a song about pastry? No. 

Love? No. Not possible. He didn’t love John.

Then why can’t he stop dreaming about him? Thinking about him? Why did he want to spend every moment with him? Why did he kiss him?

He’s obsessed. Is that love? Is that part of love?

He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t have anyone to ask. He could call Mycroft. No. Not him. Mycroft is as clueless about this as he is. He could ask some other band members, but they would turn around and tell John. No, that wouldn’t do. Or maybe he could run into Little Richard again—he was filled with advice, but he probably has checked out. He could call Lestrade. He’s married. He should know something about love…

Then he remembered the Honey magazine cover in the lobby downstairs. One of the articles was titled “How to Know if You’re in Love.” Maybe he could get answers there.

“Sherlock? Sherlock? Hello.”

He blinked at John. “John.”

“Where were you? Anyway, this tart has to be the best thing I’ve tasted in a long while.”

“Yes, it is delicious.”

“Finish up and we can work on that song.”

He wondered if John knew what he was thinking about as he finished his piece of tart and began eating the rest of the pie,  thinking about how he could get down to the lobby and read that article without John knowing.

John got up from the table. He picked up his guitar case, set it on the coffee table, opened it, and got out his guitar. Sherlock sat on the other end where he’d placed his Gibson and began to play.

John joined in, following the chords and changes he’d observed earlier. John hummed along with Sherlock, whose words went from nonsense to something more…” Pretend that we’re happy. Pretend that we’re glad / That we aren’t together / When deep down I'm sad.”

“Sherlock,” John said, grinning. “That’s really good.”

“Really? You think so?”

“Yes.”

“What about this?” John continued to play. “ I’m expected to smile / When inside I frown / Since I cannot hold you / When you’re around.”

“We need to write this down,” John said. “Get that pad and pencil on the table over there.”

Sherlock set his guitar aside and scrambled over the coffee table. He grabbed them off the desk and jotted down the words as he raced back to the couch.

John was humming through the next verse. “What if you came back to the beginning with the ‘pretend that’ phrase?”

Sherlock scooted closer next to him. “Why not use the same first line? Pretend that we’re happy,” he sang. 

“… Pretend that we’re just friends,” John came back.

“ Say that we’re something more / And that’s where this ends,”  Sherlock sang.

“ Brilliant!”

As they continued working on the song, Sherlock couldn’t recall feeling such elation. With every additional piece of the song completed the intensity increased. When they were done, they sat smiling like idiots at each other until Sherlock yawned.

“It’s late,” John said, patting the pillow on the couch next to him. “I can take the couch.”

“Alright.” Sherlock was going to debate it with him, but his head had begun to ache thinking about John calling Sally tomorrow morning. The throbbing could also have something to do with all the beer he’d inhaled at the Cavern trying to forget how handsome John looked in George’s brother’s rust suede jacket. 

Sherlock put his guitar in its case and put it in the closet. He pulled a blanket and two pillows off one of the shelves.

“Here,” he said, handing them to John.

It was better this way. If John took the bed, Sherlock would be tempted to snuggle under the covers with him and press lips against his neck and—

“Sherlock? Sherlock? You disappeared again.”

John stripped off his jeans and tshirt, then set them on the back of the couch. 

“Mind palace. I was in my mind palace.”

John bent over and fluffed his pillows. 

“I bet it’s a nice place,” John winked and sat down on the couch. “Excuse me while I add to mine.” 

Sherlock opened the dresser and pulled out an old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms then ducked into the bathroom to change and wash up. When he came back out, John was lying on the couch on his back with his head propped up with one of the pillows, and the blanket tucked under his chin.

Perfect. Blonde tousled hair, drowsy blue eyes, and flushed cheeks while a small smile played on his lips. He was perfect, and in that moment, Sherlock never wanted anything as bad as he wanted John.

Not love. Lust . A biological urge, nothing more.

Forget the pitter patter in his chest, forget the need to hold him close, forget how those lips tasted, how John’s fingers felt when he tugged his hair. I’m not in love.  

He picked up John’s jeans off the floor and a note fell out. He knelt down to pick it up. A love note from Samantha. Awful! He put it back in his pocket and stood up, staring at John. 

“I…I seem to have a headache.”

John sat up. “Hangover already? Drink some water. Do you have any aspirin?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Take two with a big glass of water.” 

He didn’t think he could fall harder, but it was happening. He didn’t need Lestrade or some magazine to tell him. He was in love with John Watson.

“I will. Good night, John.”

“Good night.” John rolled on to his side, facing him. “Come here.”

He did. John grabbed the front of his t-shirt, pulled him down, and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

“Good night to you too. Now take those aspirin and drink that water.”

“Alright, Doctor Watson.”

Chapter Text

The Stork Hotel,  Wednesday, 15th December, 1961 morning

The aroma of coffee woke him. John rolled over and looked at his watch. He’d slept longer than he wanted to. As he sat up, he rubbed his shoulder—it was a bit stiff.

“Good morning,” Sherlock sang out. “I ordered breakfast and coffee.”

He was already dressed in some old jeans and a light blue silk shirt.

“Smells wonderful.” John got up and wandered over to the table where Sherlock sat at the table eating a raspberry Danish. John sat down across from him, transfixed by the sight. It was absolutely obscene the way he licked the gooey jam from his fingers. He had to be doing it intentionally. For someone who was inexperienced in this area, he was a fast learner. Probably using those powers of observation he’s always on about. 

He took a sip of his coffee. It was good and still hot.

John knew it was his own fault. He never should have kissed him back—there were so many reasons why this was a bad idea. He could be a father and—god forbid—married soon. He had a responsibility to his child. But there was Sherlock, so certain she’s lying. He knows Sherlock is probably correct but…

According to Sherlock, he’d never cared for love or romance. But now? He seemed to have changed his mind. Sherlock was snogging John silly and writing love songs. Added to the complications, they were in a band together, composing music. They would be in close proximity everyday. Now he was his roommate on top of it all! 

The eggs weren’t anything special, but he was hungry. 

Then there is the fact that Sherlock is impossible to get along with. He’s reminded of this daily by the other band members. Yet, John sees something more in him—his genius, his imagination, his compassion. Still, the man can be the biggest arse.

Finally and most importantly—he’s a man. 

John had skirted around his attraction to men for the most part. The legal and societal risks were too great. He had chanced a few trysts in secondary school and one in uni, but he loved women too. And they were socially acceptable. Attraction to men was wrong, perverse, a sickness. He recalled the beating he got from his friend’s dad when he caught John with his rugby mate Phillip. It was ugly. Phil’s relationship with his father had never been good, but after that, he rarely acknowledged him. 

Sherlock was grinning at him. Not good.

It was worse for Phil. He used to grin at him in the same enamored way. No more. Phil ended up turned in by his own family after he “slipped” again. He was given a choice: prison or treatment. He was coerced into “treatment.” He’d seen Phil afterward. He wasn’t the same person. No longer a happy, sweet boy but a bitter, broken man. 

That’s what happens to people like them. He didn’t want that to happen to anyone else he cared about. Not Sherlock. Why did he encourage Sherlock by kissing him on the cheek last night? Well, there was a quick way to stifle the heat behind Sherlock’s eyes.

“I need to call Sarah,” John said, checking his watch.

Sherlock’s face fell. “Go ahead.” He stood up. “I can give you a bit of privacy. There’s something I need to get from the lobby.”

“Good. Thanks.”

Sherlock stepped out the door and closed it behind him. John knew, of course, that Sherlock was standing on the other side of the door listening.

He pulled out his wallet with her number. He was terrible at remembering numbers. John sat down at the desk and dialed the phone. Her mother answered.

“This is John Watson. Could I speak to Sarah, please?”

“Just one moment…Sarah!” There was a muffled sound. John couldn’t make out what was being said.

“Hello? John.”

“I’m calling to get the appointment time and day.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s today at 3 p.m.”

He had an afternoon set today. He couldn’t cancel it, and she knew it.

“And you didn’t know this yesterday!”

Maybe he could get a sub. He could call George and get Paul’s number. And there was Les Chadwick. Gerry and the Pace Makers were in town playing at the Grafton. He’d try Paul first.

“I have had a lot on my mind,” she said.

“Well, alright but I will be at the next appointment.”

She was putting him off. He needed to just show up today and keep his mouth shut about it. That way she couldn’t make any more excuses. He’d find someone to cover for him.

“I’ll let you know when it is.”

“You do that. Goodbye.”

“Wait. John, when will I see you again?”

John sighed. “Our last show is Saturday, then we’re going back to London.”

“Dad has it all set to get us married. ”

“Listen. We'll talk about it later.”

“Tonight? After your set?”

“Yeah. We’ll talk then. Bye.”

“Bye, John.”

He expected Sherlock to walk through the door. He waited a few minutes but nothing. He called George and got Paul’s number to sub for him. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” John said. “I don’t want her finding out I’m coming.”

“Will do, John.”

He called Paul, who was just waking up.

“I’m hoping you could cover my afternoon set today. I don’t know if George said anything to you about my girlfriend.”

“Actually, he told me not to say anything. Mum’s the word.”

“Thanks, Paul.”

He hung up. Still no Sherlock. He shaved, showered, and had just finished getting dressed when Sherlock came through the door. 

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“You should already know. You were listening.”

“And Paul will be playing in your stead.”

“That’s right. It should be fun.”

“Consider yourself fortunate. You know they never do it. Never.”

“Paul owed me a favor.”

Sherlock promptly went into his mind palace. John sat on the couch and worried until it was time for Sherlock to leave for the Cavern.

“I’ll have the desk call a cab for you, so you don’t have a problem,” Sherlock said, as he picked up his guitar case. “I’d say good luck, but I don’t believe in it.”

“Well, I do. Break a leg.”

“Why would you say that to me?”

“How have you never heard of this? It’s an old superstition from theatre. You say it instead—anyway, you will be perfect.”

Sherlock was right. Having the desk call the cab for him was quicker.

His mind twisted and turned all the way to the doctor’s office. When he got out and paid the driver, he sighed. This was it.

The office was located on Horacio Street inside the Liverpool Maternity Hospital. In the main lobby, he found a plaque with the doctor's name that stated he was on the second floor. He took the stairs, glancing at his watch. He was fifteen minutes early. He opened the office door and scanned the room. The usual waiting room with chrome and green vinyl padded chairs. She wasn’t there yet. He took a seat and waited along with three women, all pregnant, one of which was very pregnant reading the latest copy of The Lady.

After waiting about ten minutes, a nurse behind the desk asked him if she could help him. She was older with a touch of grey in her brown hair in the traditional prim short-sleeved nurses uniform. As he stood and approached the desk, she squinted at him over her brown cat eye glasses.

“I’m John Watson. I’m here for Sarah Stapleton. She must be running late. Her appointment is at 3.”

The nurse leafed through her appointment book, tapping her pen. “I’m sorry. Her appointment was at 10:30 this morning.”

What? What was Sarah doing? This was no mistake. 

“I’d like to speak to her doctor,” John said.

She scratched her head where her nurse's cap was bobby pinned to her hair.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s seeing other patients right now,” she said.

She began to tap her pen again, looking down and not meeting his eyes.

“I can wait,” John said.

“May I ask what this is about?” she asked.

“I’d rather speak to the doctor.”

“What is your relationship to Miss Stapleton?”

“I’m the baby’s father.” He didn’t really want to say that, but he had no choice if he was going to get to see the doctor.

She placed the pen next to the appointment book. “Excuse me. I’ll be just one minute.”

The nurse left briefly and returned with a stern look.

“The doctor said that without Miss Stapleton’s permission, he cannot speak to you about her condition. Now, if you were married, that would be another matter.”

That was exactly why he wanted to talk to the doctor. Could he be the father? He needed to find out.

“Very well. I see I’m not gonna get anywhere here.” 

John turned around and walked out. He needed a cab. How did Sherlock do it? It took a good 20 minutes before he got a cabbie’s attention. He climbed in and  gave the cab driver Stapleton‘s address.

——-

As the cab pulled up in front of Stapleton‘s house, John pulled himself together to face what was to come. She had lied. She played him for the last time. What was she trying to do? He didn’t understand why she wanted him so much. Was she that desperate to have a father for the baby that it didn’t matter who? Was he just the best mark? He doubted that, but you never know when it comes to love. At least she claimed to love him. He didn’t think that’s what love was. 

Maybe she had other reasons to get away. She had a fucked up life with that father of hers. No wonder she wanted to get out of that house. He could understand that after having lived with a bastard himself, but this was no way to do it.

He stepped up to the door and knocked. He was relieved to see Mrs. Stapleton open the door. She didn’t seem too surprised to see him. 

Sarah, however, was.  

“What are you doing here?” Sarah asked.

“I just came from your doctor.” He could lie right now, and say that he talked to the doctor.

“Won’t you come in?” asked Mrs. Stapleton.

John stepped to the door. It didn’t look like Dr. Stapleton was around, thank God, but he wouldn’t count his blessings yet.

“Why did you give me the wrong time for the doctor's appointment?”

“I didn’t want a big scene,” she said. “You were coming over this evening. I was going to show you then.”

“Show me what?”

“Just a moment and I will.”

Sarah left him alone with Mrs. Stapleton. In her flowered dress with her arms crossed, she glared at John.

A moment later, Sarah was back with a piece of paper in her hand. She handed it to John.

“You wanted proof. There it is,” she spat out. She stood next to her mum, arms crossed the same.

John scanned the document. Medical notes on the doctor’s record with today’s date and time at the top, including Sarah‘s blood pressure, weight, height, due date with some of her medical history. 

Dr. Stapleton stomped in, pointing at the form in John’s hand.

“Now you can stop all this nonsense and marry my daughter. I have it all arranged. She says you’re trying to skip out on her and leave town on Thursday. We’ll have none of that. I have an appointment at the Mount Pleasant  register’s office and all the necessary paperwork. You will be there and ready to marry my daughter on Thursday. My daughter tells me you have a flat in London. I need to see if that will be sufficient for her before I can let her go there with you; however, I would think we had much less than you when her mother and I were wed.”

John stared down at the form in his hand. It stated she was 12 to 14 weeks pregnant with the corresponding due date. That meant he could be the father. He folded in and stuffed it in his coat pocket. He felt like he was going to be sick. 

“I don’t love her,” John said.

“That will come with time.” Left unspoken were the words like her mother and I . 

He wanted her married off and out of his house. Love? Not important.

He left the house. The house not a home . He never had a home, just a house. The other night when he’d stayed at the Harrison’s, that was a home.

John didn’t bother trying to hail a cab. It was a long walk to the Cavern, but he needed time to think. 

He should get there before the end of the set. The sky was clear, almost cloudless. It was chilly and damp from an early morning rain. He avoided puddles but still got his jeans wet from passing traffic splashing him as they passed. He pulled out the doctor’s form and unfolded it. It was all there. And that was odd. Why would the doctor give her part of her records? She must have asked—or insisted. Or her father probably asked a favor. Still, it felt wrong, so wrong.

He could hear the band playing as he walked up to the Cavern. Paul and Sherlock's voices clean and clear. Harmonising isn’t as easy as most people think. It’s intuitive. Singers breath together and mesh timing and tonality. Rehearsal polishes a performance. You can learn how to hold the notes and meld the phrasing, but there was more to it than that. Although Paul and Sherlock had never sung together, they’d listened to each other sing many, many times. Both had uncanny memories for melodies and a talent for transferring it through their hands and vocal chords. 

He stood outside and listened. He had no right to feel this way, but his life was falling apart. He sucked in a deep breath and stepped inside. The place was always dark even on a sunny afternoon like today. The name Cavern fit. Still, from the door he could see them, spot lights fixed on the stage. Paul was shaking his head as he screamed into the mic, and Sherlock had that smile on his face—the one that he faked for the audience, then his eyes met Paul’s, and it became genuine.

John was so fixed on their performance that he missed Richie waving at him and walking right up to him until he was directly in John’s face.

“You okay mate?” Richie asked.

“They sound magical together,” John said. Too good. His stomach clenched. 

“Yeah, they do. It all seems to come so easy for both of them.”

“Seems to. In a way it does. But I also know how much Sherlock practices. There’s a lot of hard work involved like the rest of us.”

Another member in Richie’s band stepped up next to them. John didn’t know him well.

“In Hamburg Sherlock paid people to wash his laundry but slept in the same dump of a room we did,” Richie said. “He shaved, brushed his teeth, and washed his armpits in the men’s lavatory like the rest of us. I know it bothers a lot of the blokes that he is from a titled family.”

“I assumed so from what he’s said about his brother,” John said.

“He’s born with everything handed to him. He’s never had to struggle for anything in his life,” Richie’s band mate said.

“How could we possibly know? Just because a person has money, doesn’t mean they don’t experience loss,” John said.

John walked toward the stage as they played the final song in the set, and Paul began to sing “Save the Last Dance for Me.” 

Chapter Text

The Cavern,  Wednesday, 15th December, 1961 late afternoon 

The couples filled the Cavern’s floor, swaying to the final song. 

“ But don’t forget who’s taking you home / And in whose arms you're gonna be …” Sherlock sang with Paul’s sweet harmonizations. “ So darlin, save the last dance for me .”

Sherlock’s mind had been half on the show and the other half wondering what was happening with John. He needn’t wonder anymore. The moment he saw John walk through the door, Sherlock knew something was terribly wrong. 

As they took their final bows, he and the other band members thanked Paul for stepping in. But that’s not where Sherlock’s mind was. It was on John, who had made his way to the bar. He watched John down a few shots of Scotch as he unhooked his guitar.

Paul and Neil Aspinall, the Beatles’ road manager, chipped in to help the band pack up. 

“They took it easy on me and stuck to songs I’d played before—just changed the key on some of them,” Paul explained to Neil.

He listened to everyone on stage talking and laughing, but his eyes never left John. Even in the dim light of the Cavern, he could see how stiff John’s shoulders were, how his jaw was set, his eyes sad. 

Sherlock watched as John downed a third shot and wobbled off the bar stool. Head down, he walked toward the stage. 

“There’s John,” Paul said half to himself, then he looked at Sherlock. “Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah, not good,” Sherlock said, putting his guitar in its case and latching it.

“We can finish up here,” Paul insisted. “Talk to him.”

Sherlock nodded and picked up his case

“Great set,” John said, stepping up on the stage.

“Thanks for asking me. It was good fun,” Paul said. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Sherlock said.

“Go on,” Neil said. 

They weaved their way through the tables, chairs, and people without too much fuss on their way out the door. A few girls waved and blew kisses at them.

Outside Sherlock turned to John. ”What happened?”

“She gave me the wrong time.” John stumbled a bit, but Sherlock caught him by his arm. “Shouldn’t have had that last shot, but damn, I needed something strong.”

Sherlock nodded and thought, you have me now. I will be strong for you.

They continued on toward the hotel. The sun was getting lower, and the wind had picked up, sending a chill through them.

“So you went to her house,” Sherlock said.

“Yes. She gave me this.” John handed the form Sarah gave him and explained what had happened, including Dr Shapleton’s marriage arrangements. As Sherlock unfolded and scanned it, his mind raced. 

Sherlock looked up from the form. “This was wrong. Very wrong.”

“What?”

“Look.” Sherlock stopped for a moment, holding out the paper so they could both read it. “The day’s date, basic information, her name, weight, height, is written by the same person—carefully written. These other notes along with the due date and the number of weeks pregnant.” Sherlock pointed to those lines. “All the same and written by the doctor.”

“What does that prove? The nurse would fill out the form first with name, weight, and other basic pertinent medical information.”

“Look carefully. Think . Shelly is in her second trimester. This isn’t possible. The notes are too technical. Must be a doctor’s.”

“You’re suggesting that the nurse didn’t write this.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not suggesting. That’s exactly what I am saying. This isn’t even Samantha’s record.”

“How is that possible? What about the doctor’s notes? You’re not saying that her father had something to do with it? He might be an arse, but he wouldn’t do this. Besides, what’s his motive? He hates me.”

“She did this herself.” Sherlock began walking again. ”She saw the opportunity from her very first appointment. I believe that instead of filling out the form first, the nurse writes each patient’s information on a notepad, then neatly transfers the information after the appointment. Inefficient, but for a compulsive perfectionist, necessary.”

John rubbed the back on his neck and sighed.

“Sandra wasn’t as stupid as she appeared. She needed a record to prove that you are the father. She got it.”

“I believe you, but…how do you conclusively know she wrote it?”

 “It’s her handwriting. She tried to disguise it—make it look like the nurse’s, but it’s hers.”

“How do you even know what her handwriting looks like?” John stared at Sherlock. “Wait…that means you went through my pockets!”

“No, that syrupy mess of a love letter fell out on the floor.”

“And you were forced to read it,” John smirked.

Sherlock shrugged. They were standing underneath the awning in front of the Stork. 

“I have to ask. Since when did you become a handwriting expert?”

Sherlock pushed the door open for John. “Since I worked for Scotland Yard as a consulting detective.”

John ducked under Sherlock’s arm and stepped inside. “Why didn’t you just tell me that it was her handwriting. It would have saved time. You are the biggest drama queen.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He’d been called that many times by many people, including his brother Mycroft.

“That’s all well and good, but I still have an appointment at the register’s office to get married,” John said.

As they walked through the lobby, they continued to talk to each other in hushed voices.

“Which you are under no obligation to keep.“

“Excuse me Dr.Stapleton, but Sherlock Holmes here says your daughter forged this document. Proof? Why he’s an expert on handwriting and says your innocent child, Sarah, forged it.”

“Exactly! Then the doctor can…”

“The doctor won’t, and I cannot skip out on her without some explanation. Despite it all, it would be better to have a bit more proof.”

They stepped into the elevator.

“I can get it for you.” He had already decided what he needed to do. “I have done this sort of thing many times.”

“Wait. How? Oh, no you don’t. Breaking into the doctor’s office at the hospital?”

“A tad dangerous, a touch risky.”

“Burglary? And theft?

“Well, technically burglary, but no need to take the records. I need a camera, film, chemicals and equipment to develop it. No problem. I’ll ask Arthur at the desk here. He’s helped purchase odds and ends I’ve needed in the past. I’ve even used the bathroom as a darkroom before. Mycroft didn’t appreciate it.”

“I’m going with you.”

Sherlock bit his lip. Part of him wanted John to come with him, but he didn’t want John to take the risk. The elevator stopped, the door opened, and they stepped out.

“We could get caught,” Sherlock said.

“I thought you were good at this.”

“I am, but there are always unseen variables.”

And there’s always Mycroft if something really goes wrong, he thought. Sherlock got out the key and unlocked the door to his room.

“I suppose you know how to pick locks.”

“Of course.”

“So when are we doing this?”

“Tonight.”

———-

It was easy to get into the Maternity Hospital through a side door on Oxford Street. From there it was a matter of pretending they belonged there. The plan was to find a cleaning cupboard and pass as caretakers cleaning the offices. That would draw less attention than passing as doctors—a lot less questions. 

“Besides they are invisible,” Sherlock added.

They located a cupboard not far from the door and snagged a couple of caretakers’ uniforms and changed.

Sherlock tried his best not to watch John remove his shirt and trousers. He was already distracted by John’s close proximity. Just one more look. His shoulders were freckled, his thighs muscled with a perfect bum. They stuffed their street clothes inside the cleaning trolley along with the camera and torches under some towels. They rolled it out of the closet and down the halls unnoticed.

The halls were empty and quiet. They took the service elevator to the second floor.

The lock was stupidly easy to open. No lock pick needed. All that was necessary was a card. Sherlock deftly slid the card in the gap between the frame and doorknob, slipped it under the latch, pushed in, and they were inside. 

John pushed the cart inside.

“No lights,” Sherlock instructed, and pulled both torches out from under the towels, stepped around the front desk to the door where the records were kept.

“To get the record, she went to her appointments early, talked to the other women in the waiting room, and found out which ones had a due date she wanted,” Sherlock explained. “It was easy from there. She listened, just listened as the targets made their next appointments, then she set hers up right before it. This was probably not her first attempt.”

“This is crazy. That would mean she took the other patient's record off the nurse’s reception desk.” 

“Exactly.”

Sherlock flashed the torch pn the filing cabinets. 

“Over here,” he said, shining the torch on the labels on the cabinet drawers.

“There!” He opened a drawer, and John held up his torch so that Sherlock could read the names on the files. He pulled out the one neatly labelled “Stapleton, Sarah A.”

Sherlock rifled through it, a smile on his lips. “My, my…she has been a bad girl. According to the records, she is due mid April. “

“That means she’s…” John calculated in his head. “…about 22 weeks.”

“Late second trimester, and before you met her. Not your baby.”

“Well, let’s take the photos of all these records before…What’s that?” John whispered.

Someone was in the hallway. 

They both turned off their torches. Sherlock shut the drawer, slipped the folder under the towels, and grabbed a broom off the cart. John picked up a rag and began dusting. 

They waited a moment. Sherlock opened the door and looked out. There was a cleaning trolley at the end of the hall and the door to that office was open. 

“It’s the actual caretakers doing nightly rounds. They have four offices to do until they get to this one. I’m going to take the photos. Listen and let me know if you hear anyone at this door.”

John nodded and stood sentry, listening.

Sherlock lined the forms on the desk and snapped photos of them. 

“All done. Time to leave.” Sherlock put the file back in the cabinet and stashed the camera and torches in the cart. They opened the door and quickly made their way down the hall to the elevator.

As the door pinged shut, John looked at Sherlock and began to laugh. 

“We aren’t out of here yet,” Sherlock laughed back, “but we have what you need. I’ll make enlarged photos of these for you tonight. If you like, I can go with you tomorrow to see her father. It might be best to have some support.”

“You sure? There’s going to be a lot of screaming and crying.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“You know, I believe you.”

Those words made him swell with relief. 

The elevator stopped. 

They made their way back to the cleaning cupboard and changed back into their street clothes. 

“We’ll go back to the hotel. I’ll set up the bathroom as a dark room. Arthur should have collected all the supplies by now.”

John opened the door. “All clear.”

They made their way back through to the same maintenance door they entered through.

“You look happy,” Sherlock said. “You’re practically skipping.”

“I am. I need to celebrate. I’m free. Didn’t we pass a corner store on our way here? Yeah, we did. There it is. Wait here...”

John raced inside and was out in a few minutes with a paper bag in his hand.

“Really, John? Cheap Hock wine?”

“Is there any other?” John asked, opening the bottle and taking a swig then passing it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took a gulp and started to choke. “There is. Remind me to educate you sometime.” 

He passed it back, and John tipped the bottle back.  Sherlock was fascinated as he watched  John’s lips pressed against the bottle‘s mouth, his throat working as he swallowed. His mind went to other ways that mouth could be put to use.

This could prove to be a promising night.

Chapter Text

The Stork,  Wednesday, 15th December, 1961 late evening 

”I can’t see anything,” John said. 

“Your eyes will adjust. Wait a few minutes,” Sherlock said as he blocked the last of the light seeping from around the door by stuffing towels in the cracks.

Sherlock unscrewed the light bulb and replaced it, then flipped it on.

“Ooo, it’s red...” John said, holding out his hand in front of his face.

“It’s called a safe light.”

John had never been in a dark room and had nothing to compare it to. Sherlock had trays lined up on one side of the counter along with a canister that Sherlock called a tank. He’d strung up a clothesline in the shower. All sorts of chemicals in bottles sat on the floor, and an apparatus sat on the other side of the counter.

”What’s that called?” John asked. 

“The enlarger.” 

John began to giggle. “We won’t be needing that.”

Sherlock winked. “We will for the photos.”

“This all looks technical.”

“Says the man who was at one time studying to be a surgeon. Actually it’s rather straightforward.”

“So how long will this take?”

“Less than an hour to develop the film, a couple more to enlarge and dry the photos.”

John watched Sherlock’s handsome profile in the eerie red light as he trimmed the end of the film and wound it on a reel. 

He had the baths already set up along with the enlarger all prepped.

“I’m ready to put the film in the tank now,” Sherlock said. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.

After that John watched as Sherlock put the reel with the film inside the cylindrical tank and turned the lid until it was firmly in place. 

“Now that the film is safe in this tank, you can turn on the light. I need to see to mix the developer.”

But before John could flip the switch, he had a long, lanky body pressed against him. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock whispered into his ear, then kissed it. “I hate to stop but…” Sherlock reached around him and flipped on the light. 

John took a seat on a stool Sherlock had carried into the bathroom. He watched with interest as Sherlock measured and mixed the developer. He poured it into the funnel of the tank and agitated it by turning it upside down and rolling it around in his hands. He set the timer, then continued to agitate it every minute or so.

The timer went off, and he poured out the developer and added what he called the stop bath.

John loved watching those long fingers work their magic, pouring off the stop bath and adding the fixer.

“It will take five minutes…” Sherlock set the timer, then turned and faced John.

This time John grabbed his fancy silk shirt and pulled him down to his lips. 

Five minutes wasn’t nearly long enough. The timer went off with John’s tongue exploring the inside of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Now what?” John asked, disappointment in his voice. 

“We wash it.”

Sherlock placed the tank under the tap and turned it on. 

“We need to let the water run for about twenty minutes, then I can hang the film up to dry. I can print the photos after. Why don’t you order some food and some better wine while we let it dry. We can’t open this door when I am printing the photos. If the food arrives before I’m done, go ahead and eat. Wait, before you go…”

The kiss was long, hard, and desperate. John was trapped between the door and the handsome lead guitarist. This was far better than he could ever imagine.

He hated opening the door, but Sherlock insisted. He wanted to look at the negatives.

“Breakfast or dinner?” John asked.

“Breakfast.”

The gentleman taking the order apologised that they were short staffed, and the wait time would be longer than usual.

John was fine with that. He expected Sherlock would be a while.

John sat down on the couch with his acoustic guitar. A song had been running through the back of his mind all night, and he itched to play it. 

I know I have no right to ask.

I know I have no claim,

But if you don’t choose me tonight,

I’ve only myself to blame.

I know I chose to let you go.

I know I caused you pain,

But if you give us one more chance

I won’t hurt you again.

Choose me

Don’t lose me.

Don’t tell me we’re through.

Choose me

Don’t lose me.

Don’t wanna lose you.

“You won’t,” Sherlock called out from behind the door. 

John put down his guitar and walked towards the bathroom. Willing the nerve to speak, he hovered near the door. 

“We need to talk,” he finally said. “We haven’t done that. Kind of hard with this shut.”

“I know,” Sherlock answered. ”I’ve been afraid of scaring you away. I’m still not sure if this is a good idea.”

“Probably not. But one thing I do know. You are the best thing that’s ever come into my life,” John confessed.

Sherlock was quiet behind the door. “You are the best, kindest, and most honorable person I’ve ever known. You’re all that I am not.”

“No. You are more…so much more. You are a constant, irrepressible beacon for this poor lost soul.”

Sherlock laughed. “And you are the hopeless romantic that I hopelessly love.”

John pulse raced, his breath caught. 

“Maybe it’s easier talking with this door between us.”

A knock came to the door from room service interrupting them. John was still a tad dizzy and wasn’t sure if it was from the wine earlier or hearing Sherlock tell him he loved him. He supposed it was both.

“Could you get that?” Sherlock asked. “I’ll be done in about five minutes.”

John’s legs still felt like jelly. He tipped the bellboy and pushed the cart to the table.

Meanwhile John was kicking himself. Idiot, idiot, idiot! Why didn’t I tell him I loved him back?

He decided to wait for Sherlock. He’d sat down at the table when the phone rang. It was close to one in the morning. Who could be calling Sherlock at this time?

“Want me to get that?” John asked.

“Don’t answer it. It’s probably my brother Mycroft. He always imposes at odd hours.”

John let it ring. It stopped then started again.

Sherlock opened the bath door and stepped out. “I’ll answer it. He won’t give up if I don’t,” he said. 

But it wasn’t who Sherlock expected. “Who wants to come up?” he frowned. “Um, wait a moment.” He turned to John.

“What’s wrong?” He hoped it wasn’t Sarah here to make trouble.

“Nothing. It seems that a bunch of your mates are in the lobby and want to come up. They seem to think you need cheering up.”

Of course, now of all times. John shook his head no.

“Sorry, John. They already sent them up,” Sherlock sighed. 

“We better eat fast because it will be a free for all once they get here,” John said.

Less than five minutes later, they knocked on the door. But it wasn’t his band—it was the Beatles. George came in followed by Paul, who was hung out the door. “Hey, Johnnie, in here,” he called out down the hall.

“You’re eating,” George said. ”Sorry to interrupt. Don’t let us stop you.”

“The bathroom is off limits,” Sherlock warned.

John rolled his eyes. Pure Sherlock to be that blunt. No welcome. John took another fast bite of his omelette. It was good, but he wouldn’t be able to finish it. That was no problem. 

“You going to eat that?” George asked.

“Be my guest,” Sherlock said.

George grabbed a fork and sat down next to him. “Delicious, thank you.”

“I was making progress with the girl in the hall,” Lennon said as Paul pulled him inside.

”l keep telling him that isn’t a girl,” Paul said.

Lennon shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, she is.”

“Pam? In room 412?” Sherlock asked.

“How did you know?” Lennon scratched his nose.

“I am observant. When I asked, she told me she’s a girl in all the ways it matters.”

“What does that mean?” George laughed.

“Either way, she’s attractively built,” Lennon smiled and raised his eyebrows.

“You could say that,” Paul said.

“Is that a Liverpool tart? Look here boys, it’s Liverpool tart!” He reached out, and Sherlock batted his hand away.

“I am not sharing that. Except with John.”

“Touchy!” George said.

Paul flopped down on the couch, arms sprawled out. “This is a nice place. Watson said this is your brother’s standing room.”

“We would have been here earlier, but we had a disagreement with a couple of idiots,” Lennon said.

“I hate idiots. The world is filled with them. You’re not an idiot, and neither are you,” he said to John. “—at least not always.”

“Thanks, I think,” John said. 

“I see why you’d prefer to stay here,” Lennon said, sitting next to Paul. He draped his arm on the back of the couch behind him. “Never been inside here before. I wondered what it was like.”

Sherlock deduced that John was curious about more than how luxuriously it was furnished.

“Bet this costs your brother a fortune,” Lennon said.

Sherlock ignored the comment. John didn’t think Sherlock had never wanted for anything growing up other than the pony he said he was denied when he was six. True, he came from a titled family with wealth. He tried his best to hide it—to fit in. Most of those playing skiffle and rock n roll came from working class backgrounds. John was. As for the Beatles, they were middle class.

No, Lennon’s interest in the Stork was about the secret side of this hotel—that it was a safe place for homosexuals. He was also certain that Lennon knew that wasn’t a woman in the hallway. He was also sure that his arm on Paul’s shoulder wasn’t just him being chummy. 

“So you’re partners now. Like Paul and me,” Lennon said.

Lennon’s double meaning was completely lost on Paul, but John understood. 

“Yeah, we’re writing music together,” Sherlock said.

Watson’s eyes grew wide, but he grinned. 

“Why can't I use the bathroom?” Paul asked. “I need to go.”

“It’s being used as a darkroom,” John said. 

Sherlock looked at his watch. “They should be dry by now.”

“I suppose the photos are top secret,” George wondered.

“Not top secret, but personal,” Sherlock replied.

“Do tell…” Paul said. “But let me use the loo first. I really need to after all that beer.”

“We’ll tell. Just not yet,” John said. 

“Give me a minute,” Sherlock said, pulling a folder from the desk then heading for the “darkroom.”

Lennon eyed them both. “He’s acting way too happy. He’s practically skipping. Where’s the grumpy Holmes that we all know and love? I hope this mood has to do with a favourable change in your situation…”

“It does,” John said.

“Very perceptive,” Sherlock added from the bathroom.

“Those must be some special photos you took,” Lennon winked.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom with the folder in his hand, and Paul raced past him and slammed the bathroom door with a bang.

“We told Lenny and Roger we’d check on you,” George said, eyeing the folder. “You know for sure then that she’s lying.”

“Yeah, we know,” John said. 

“I feel much relieved.” Paul walked back into the room. “And I missed something, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. John? Paul?” George picked up his coat he slung over the chair and put it on. “Time to go.”

“Yeah, go now that you polished off my tart,” Sherlock said.

“I wondered why he’s been so quiet,” Paul said. 

They took the cue from George and picked up their jackets from off of the back of the couch.

John and Sherlock walked their guests to the door. 

“We’ll see you again before we leave,” Paul said.

“Yeah, we will,”  John said as he waved goodbye and closed the door.

Sherlock yawned. 

“Tired?” John asked. He couldn’t help looking at the bed. 

“Not really.” Sherlock was looking at it as well. 

“So we are partners now, but I need to know, do you really want this?” 

“You mean us? Yes, I choose us.” 

Sherlock reached behind him and with a click, locked the door. “Partners. In every way.” The man’s face was filled with raw emotion. “I mean that.”

John took that as permission to lean closer. This time he would kiss Sherlock. John had never seen a more beautiful sight. John brought his hand up and caressed his cheek.  

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut as their lips met. He pushed Sherlock against the door. John drank in the kiss, his mouth open, and tongue exploring. John sighed as Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled their hips together. He groaned as his cock slid against Sherlock’s. 

Slowly, he touched John’s face like a blind man studying every hair, crease, and muscle. His fingers moving, tracing. No man or woman had ever touched John like this. 

“I meant what I said earlier—“ Sherlock said, “before we were interrupted.”

“And I didn’t get the chance to tell you.”

John hated wondering what was going to happen next. He felt the same jittery feeling that he experienced just before going on stage. His stomach did flips. Still he needed to do this. He wanted to do this. He said he loved him. He needed to say it back.

“You know when I made my first room in my mind palace? The first thing I put in it was our first kiss. Now I have another first to add. And I love you for it and for so much more.” 

He did it, and he felt euphoric. His head hummed, his heart thumped.

Wordlessly Sherlock's hand dropped from John’s face and slid down between them. He fumbled with his jeans and slipped them over his hip bones and let them drop to the floor. He unbuttoned his black silk shirt and slipped it off his shoulders. 

“The bed. Now,” Sherlock whispered. “Remove your jeans. That shirt must go too.”

John stepped away from the door and undressed. Sherlock's changeable eyes watched John’s every movement. With both of them standing a foot apart dressed only in their pants, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him to the bed. 

He took John with him as he flopped backwards onto the bed pulling John on top. His lips crushed John’s as he hungrily rocked into him.

With a jolt, Sherlock gripped both of John’s shoulders, pushed up, and looked down into John’s face. John felt bashful having him bowed over him, studying him like he was a masterpiece. Slowly, Sherlock traced his face. Fingers moving across his brow, trailing down his jaw, then touching his lips like a feather. John loved the feel of those large yet delicate hands. 

John thrust against him.  A rush filled him as his cock rubbed against Sherlock’s. 

Lining up his cock with Sherlock’s, he began a steady grind. The friction was delectable. Sherlock’s arms wound around him tight. With every slide and thrust, their cocks became more desperate. 

John’s heart raced. He was close, so close. He shifted and whimpered into Sherlock’s shoulder. They both went to that place they’d longed for, dreamt of, and yet were most afraid of. John hiccupped back a cry as he came. Sherlock held nothing inside and sobbed into John’s neck with his release.

Afterwards, John was drowsy and must have slipped off to sleep. He woke hearing the snap and punch of jeans being folded, then set down at the foot of the bed. He should have known Sherlock wouldn’t leave their clothes abandoned on the floor.

"Thanks for folding them, but I’d rather have you here keeping me…"

“Mmm, warm.” Sherlock immediately slipped in next to him. John rolled over facing him. “By the way, I caught Lennon looking at my bum.”

“And not mine?” Sherlock pouted. “Well, yours is nice.” 

“Thanks. Yours is magnificent.” He kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “He loves Paul, but Paul is clueless.”

“Not that clueless. He may be afraid.”

“You’re right. Loving another man can get you in a world of trouble,” John said. “I’ve seen what’s happened—why it’s necessary to pretend. We can do it on the stage. We can do it in public, but let’s never do it when we’re together alone again.”

Sherlock scooted closer. “Maybe I could help you with the lyrics?”

“You already have. I choose us.”