Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Faraday is having one of his bad days.

Vasquez can tell by the way the younger man grunts when he swings up into Wild Jack’s saddle, the way his hand migrates to press against his side as they leave the campsite. On days like this, Vasquez keeps a closer eye on Faraday than he usually does, because he’s learned to recognize the signs of his lover pushing himself too far.

By midday, Faraday’s face is drawn and taut with the pain he’s refusing to show. Vasquez knows from experience that asking Faraday if he’s all right or if he needs a rest will just result in a scowl and probably a curse word or three, so he just reaches over and places his hand gently on Faraday’s arm and gives a light squeeze. A way of saying “I’m here if you need me” that indulges Faraday’s pride and stubbornness.

Faraday doesn’t say anything, but the tension in his back visibly lessens a little.

When they stop for the night, Vasquez dismounts quickly, ready to catch Faraday if his leg gives out. It doesn’t, but Vasquez doesn’t miss the wince on Faraday’s face as his feet hit the ground.

He also doesn’t miss the way Faraday is trying to carefully conceal his limp.

Vasquez has learned that Faraday’s preferred method for dealing with the aftereffects of his injuries is to deny their existence completely until his body physically can’t take any more. It’s something he and the others have tried to work with Faraday on, but they haven’t had much luck so far, and it’s clear Faraday is headed for another crash very soon.

All Vasquez can do is stay close and be there to help Faraday up when he needs it.

Vasquez isn’t surprised when Faraday volunteers to be the one to get water from the creek about half a mile back. And Faraday doesn’t look surprised when Vasquez announces he’s going to tag along.

“Don’t need a damn chaperone,” Faraday mutters as they set off, jaw tight with concealed pain.

“Maybe I just wanted some time alone with you,” Vasquez replies, which isn’t exactly a lie.

Faraday huffs, clearly not fooled for a moment, but doesn’t say anything else.

They’re halfway to the creek when Faraday’s leg gives out.

One moment he’s in the middle of a sentence, the next he’s hitting the ground with a thud and a choked off cry of pain in a way that reminds Vasquez all too much of when he got shot outside the church that day. Vasquez pushes that memory out of his mind - it’s not one he prefers to dwell on and it won’t help Faraday now.

He kneels at Faraday’s side, moving slowly. The gambler is still doubled over, breathing hard, his hands clenched into tight fists on the ground. When Vasquez speaks, it’s in a low, calming voice, like he’s talking to a frightened horse. “Joshua?”

“M’fine.”

Vasquez suppresses a sigh. “Güero…”

“Really. I’m just dandy, just give me a minute.” Faraday starts to get up, only to be forced back down as his leg still refuses to cooperate. “God-fucking-dammit!”

Faraday punches the ground hard enough that Vasquez knows there will be bruises later, and the Mexican is quick to catch Faraday’s hand in his own before the younger man can hurt himself further. “Let’s take your weight off your leg at least, si?”

Vasquez helps Faraday maneuver into a sitting position, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. Faraday brings a hand up to scrub at his eyes in frustration, chest heaving as he tries to keep the emotion locked away.

Trying to get Faraday to talk before he’s ready is a futile process, so Vasquez settles for just running his hands along the other man’s leg, massaging the muscles there, as he’s done many times before.

After a few minutes, Faraday mutters, “I hate this.”

Vasquez doesn’t stop his ministrations. “I know.”

Faraday exhales harshly. “I just…It feels like my own damn body is turning on me sometimes, and I can’t do a fucking thing about it. And I keep thinking, if I just push through it…” He swallows audibly. “Goddamn useless.”

Vasquez’s hands stop as he looks Faraday straight in the eye. “You aren’t useless, güerito.”

“Can’t even walk to the creek and back. That’s not useless?”

“No, it’s not.” Vasquez brings a hand up to touch Faraday’s face, frowning at the telltale glimmer he sees in the other man’s eyes. “We all need help sometimes. There’s no shame in it.”

The exhaustion from today’s physical activity has apparently worn away Faraday’s usual walls, because his face suddenly crumbles and a sob rips its way out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Vasquez immediately wraps his arms around his lover and pulls him close, careful to avoid jostling Faraday’s side or leg. Faraday’s own hands come up to clutch at Vasquez’s vest, his face buried in the Mexican’s chest as he gives in and finally releases some of the pent-up emotion Vasquez knows has been eating away at him.

Vasquez runs a hand through Faraday’s hair and kisses the top of his head, not minding the tears he can feel seeping into his shirt nearly as much as he minds the fact that he can’t do anything more to ease Faraday’s pain.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, running a hand up and down Faraday’s back. “It will be all right, querido. I’ve got you.”

I’ve got you.

Chapter Text

When Crixus first told them the words of the dying Roman, Agron wished for death. He wished for Jupiter himself to strike him down where he stood, because a world in which Nasir no longer drew breath was not one in which Agron wanted to remain.

He screamed and raged and tore his hair out by the roots, because the physical pain was far, far more tolerable than the grief.

After Spartacus came to offer words of comfort, the agony in Agron’s chest began to subside, replaced by a numbness that was a balm in comparison to what he had been feeling before. With it came a deep feeling of resolve, one that rooted itself deep in his gut and started to consume his entire being.

He would keep fighting, until the gods saw fit to reunite him with his beloved in the afterlife, or until he had slain every last Roman shit that still lived. He allowed his consciousness to narrow to that, and only that, pushing all other thoughts and emotions from his mind.

It left him hollow and empty - but the emptiness was preferable to the pain.

Now, as they set off for the mines, led by Naevia - Naevia, a gift from the gods themselves who took pity on him where Crixus did not, who revealed what the Roman had truly said with his dying breath - Agron finds himself utterly terrified.

Hope has begun to bloom in his chest, but with it, Agron feels the despair he’s felt for so many months begin afresh. Nasir had still lived when he’d been put to cart for the mines, but that doesn’t mean he lives still. And even if he is still alive, Agron has heard stories of what the mines can do to a man, the many ways they can break both mind and body.

When he’d believed Nasir dead, Agron had at least had the luxury of closure.

But now, with every step bringing him closer to his love, uncertainty takes hold again. The idea of his hope being renewed only to be crushed once more…

Agron isn’t worried about not surviving the loss a second time.

He’s worried that he will survive it. 

Chapter Text

It’s by no means the worst injury Nasir has ever sustained - he only has to look at the long scar on his side to remember that. And as for the pain, he’s suffered far worse; this is nothing compared to having his wound sealed by fire.

That’s one of the reasons he doesn’t go to the medicus.

The other reason is that he knows it was an accident. He’d been sparring with a new recruit, and the boy had gotten a little too carried away. Just a glancing blow to Nasir’s right side, but it had been enough to draw blood. The recruit had been horrified, apologizing profusely until Nasir assured him it was nothing.

Just an accident - but Nasir knows Agron will have trouble remembering that if he finds out. He doesn’t wish any harm upon the boy who injured him, not when he’d been so remorseful.

And the medicus has more important jobs to attend to. Nasir doesn’t want any time wasted making a fuss over him, not for something so minor. So when he returns to the tent he shares with Agron - the German, thank the gods, is absent - he carefully bathes the wound and wraps a strip of cloth around his middle, beneath his tunic. It stings somewhat, but he ignores it.

The injury is hardly dire enough for Nasir to feel justified in neglecting his duties for the rest of the afternoon, so after a few minutes of rest, he returns to the training grounds.

When Nasir returns to their tent that evening, Agron is waiting to greet him with a warm embrace.

Unfortunately, any plans Nasir may have had to keep his injury from his lover are ruined when Agron’s hand brushes his side and comes away damp with partially dried blood.

“You are wounded.” Agron’s voice is breathless, an undertone of rising panic seeping into his words, and he drops to his knees to pull Nasir’s tunic away.

“It is little more than a scratch,” Nasir says quickly, trying to soothe the German before he can become too upset.

Agron will not be pacified, unsurprisingly. He tears a strip of cloth from his own clothing and presses it against the wound, saying, “Hold this for a moment, I will send someone to fetch the medicus-”

“There is no need, I tended to it myself earlier.”

Agron freezes, stopping to look up at him with questioning eyes. “Why did you not seek help from the medicus?”

Nasir sighs and runs a hand through Agron’s hair. “It was not serious enough to require her attention.” He swallows. “And as a slave, my injuries were of little consequence, so long as they did not interfere with my duties,” Nasir adds, hating that his past still holds so much sway over him.

Agron’s face crumbles a little, his eyes growing sad, and he turns to press a kiss to Nasir’s wrist. “Allow me to examine it, at least,” he says softly. “Please?”

Knowing his lover isn’t going to let the matter drop, Nasir nods.

With gentle fingers, Agron unwraps the cloth and looks closely at the injury. It’s still bleeding a little, the result of Nasir continuing to spar with the new recruits instead of resting, but it looks far better than it did this afternoon.

That does little to appease Agron, though.

“This is the mark of a blade,” he says. When he looks up at Nasir again, there’s a familiar fire in his eyes. His voice drops to a low growl as he asks, “Who did this?”

“Agron-”

“ Who. Did. This? ” Agron’s words are laced with the promise of blood. “Tell me their name so I may rip offending hand from wrist.”

“It was but an accident.” Nasir carefully lowers himself to his knees and cups Agron’s face in his hands. “A training session that got out of hand, a recruit that was carried away by his enthusiasm.”

“His name-”

“Agron.” Nasir gives him a stern look. “He had no malicious intent, and he gave apology many times over. The wound is not serious, I have received far worse.” He presses his forehead to Agron’s. “Please, for my sake, let it go?”

The muscles in Agron’s jaw clench for several seconds as he visibly tries to rein in his anger. Nasir won’t deny that it warms his heart, the way his German is always so ready to protect him, to exact vengeance on anyone that might dare harm him, but he would prefer that anger to fall only on those who truly deserve it.

Finally, Agron sighs. “Only because you ask it of me. And because wound does not seem to pose serious threat.” He brings his hand up to tangle in Nasir’s hair. “If it did, I would not rest until I found the man responsible. If I lost you…”

Nasir gives him a small, reassuring smile. “I know.”

They stay like that for a while, breathing each other’s air. Nasir’s legs start to cramp, though, and he gets unsteadily to his feet. Agron is up immediately afterwards, guiding Nasir to their shared bed and glaring until the Syrian sits down.

“I have agreed not to pursue the person who injured you,” Agron says sternly, “but I am going to fetch the medicus, and you will allow her to tend to you. And tomorrow, you will remain here and allow me to do the same. Are we in agreement?”

Nasir can’t help huffing a laugh. “I believe that seems a fair compromise.”

And really, how can he object to the prospect of Agron spending an entire day at his side?

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a quick run into the nearest town for supplies, only requiring two or three men. Faraday had volunteered first, which meant Vasquez immediately did too - and since nobody wanted to be stuck alone with the two of them for even a day, they were the only two that went.

Quick. Simple. Easy. Back at the camp in time for supper.

That’s what Faraday is telling himself now as he stares down the four bounty hunters who had apparently recognized Vasquez as soon as he and Faraday had walked into the saloon. Damn these idiots for fucking up their day.

And damn them for even thinking they had a right to try and hurt Vasquez.

The Mexican in question is standing at Faraday’s side, just as tense as the gambler and sporting a cut lip from where one of the bounty hunters took a swing at him.

Faraday thinks he has exhibited truly miraculous self-control in not drawing his guns yet.

One of the bounty hunters takes a step forward, and Faraday doesn’t even think, just reacts, moving sideways and positioning himself so that he’s standing directly between Vasquez and the men in front of them.

“Joshua…”

Faraday ignores the warning tone he hears in Vasquez’s voice and fixes the bounty hunters with a lethal glare. “You want him, you’re going through me first.” One hand comes to rest on Maria, the other brushing against where Ethel rests on his hip. “And you ain’t gettin’ through me.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock closes his eyes and mentally counts to ten. Then does it again in Latin. Greek. German, French, Japanese, Russian, every language in which he’s even moderately fluent.

When he’s certain he can do so without exploding, he opens his eyes again.

The tableau had been waiting for him when he’d returned home: a neatly folded shirt placed in the middle of the dining room table. On top of it, an ordinary smartphone, and two small, nondescript packages artfully flanking the phone, one one each side.

To an untrained eye, it would be innocuity itself.

But Sherlock is not an untrained eye, and he identifies each object on the table with what can only be described as utter dread building in the pit of his stomach.

The shirt is the one Michael had been wearing the last time they met in person.

The packages, the heroin that Sherlock had planned on planting in Michael’s home.

And the phone?

The phone belongs to Watson.

With a hand that is far steadier than its owner is feeling, Sherlock picks up the phone and turns it on. There’s one voicemail, and while it’s from an unknown number, Sherlock already knows exactly whose voice he will hear.

“I’m back. I have something of yours. If you want it back, prove it and come find us. You have three days, Sherlock.”

When Bell walks into the brownstone, it’s chaos. Which is saying something, considering the state the house is in on a normal basis anyway.

Sherlock hadn’t said anything beyond a basic “come now” in his text, but Bell thinks a burglary must have taken place or something, because not a single piece of furniture remains upright. The sofa is upside down in the middle of the hallway, the bookshelves and their contents are strewn across the floor, and the end tables look like they’ve been hacked apart with...Probably the thing in the corner that looks suspiciously like a medieval battle ax.

Pulling his gun, Bell follows the trail of destruction down to Joan’s office, which, surprisingly, remains untouched.

That’s where he finds Sherlock.

The detective is standing in almost total darkness, back so rigid with tension Bell thinks it might snap if touched. He gives no sign that he heard Bell’s arrival, but he doesn’t seem startled when the other man speaks.

“Sherlock? What the hell-”

“Michael has Watson.”

Oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

“Okay…” Bell takes a moment to gather his thoughts, ignoring the spike of panic in his chest. Panicking won’t help Joan. Or Sherlock. “Okay, I’ll call Gregson, we’ll get a team over here, maybe they can find something.”

“If you intend to search the debris upstairs for clues, I feel obligated to stop you. The destruction was entirely my own doing, not Michael’s.”

Bell stares. “You did all…?”

Sherlock inhales slowly, fists clenching and unclenching. “I...may have lost my head a bit. Regardless, there were no clues to be found there anyway, I did manage to ascertain that much before my...outburst.”

Bell’s not nearly as surprised as he probably should be.

“Do you have a phone number? An email? Something we can trace?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, staring at the basement in front of them as if he can physically will Joan into existence.

“You misunderstand why I called you, Marcus.” Sherlock turns to him, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Bell want to take a step back. “I don’t want the assistance of the police department in this unless I have no other option.”

“Why’d you call me then?”

“I need you to do me a favor.”

Bell knows he won’t like where this is about to go. “What do you need from me?”

“I need you to, metaphorically speaking, look the other way for the next seventy-two hours. Say or do whatever you must in order to keep the Captain off my scent. After the seventy-two hours are up, I give you my word I will turn myself in and allow myself to be charged with whatever offenses I may have committed by then.”

“Sherlock, you know I can’t-”

“I promise you, I won’t do anything to anyone that doesn’t deserve it.”

Bell doesn’t want to know, but he asks anyway. “What exactly are you planning on doing?”

Sherlock’s lips pull back in a feral grin that is quite probably the scariest fucking thing Bell has ever seen. “Think of the worst things you’ve seen during your time on the police force and multiply by ten.”

Later on, Bell will deny it, but for a moment, just a moment, he almost feels sorry for what Michael has coming to him. 

Chapter Text

When Faraday was a boy, about seven years old, he’d been playing hide-and-seek with some older boys. The door of his chosen hiding place, a small cupboard, had gotten stuck, and it had taken almost an hour for someone to find him and get him out. By that time, he was a panicking mess. It was weeks before he could bear even being in the outhouse with the door completely shut, months before he could sleep without a lantern in the room with him.

He still dreams about it, now and then. Not the violent nightmares he had as a kid, but still unpleasant enough for him to wake up gasping for air.

It’s not a fear he’s willing to admit to anyone - including himself - but sometimes he can’t ignore it no matter how much he wants to.

Faraday wakes up in total darkness. His head is killing him and his mouth tastes like dirt. He groans, lying still as he tries to remember what happened. There had been a saloon - there usually is - and a poker game that turned ugly - also not unusual. And then he’d started back towards their hotel with the intention of spending a very pleasant night in a warm bed with a certain Mexican. He remembers getting about halfway there, then...nothing.

He has a sneaking suspicion someone may have hit him on the head.

He starts to sit up, only to curse as his forehead hits something hard. He moves his arms with the intention of checking for blood, but both hands scrape against wood as he pulls them upwards.

Faraday kicks his legs out, only for them to meet with wood as well, and the impact sends a thin mist of soil trickling down through the cracks in the top of the box.

No, not just a box.

A goddamn coffin.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He feels his heart rate kick up as his chest tightens and a cold chill comes over his entire body. Tears start to prick at the corner of his eyes and he doesn’t bother trying to stop them.

Not like this. Any way but this. Why couldn’t one of those bullets from Bogue’s men hit something vital? Why hadn’t the Gatling gun mowed him down, why hadn’t the dynamite scattered him all over that field in a hundred pieces?

Anything but being stuck here in the dark, knowing his air is running out, knowing he’ll never see the others again.

Never see Vasquez again.

Faraday closes his eyes against the blackness and allows himself one deep breath. He knows he could try and kick his way out, but even if he does miraculously manage to break open the coffin, how is he supposed to dig through six feet of dirt with his bare hands and no air? The physical exertion will only use up what air he has left anyway…

At least nobody will ever know that Joshua Faraday gave up without a fucking fight.

He lets a tear slip down the side of his face. He must have been in here for a while before waking up, because the air is already thinning out, he can feel himself starting to drift…

His last thought before everything goes hazy is, Vas.

There’s yelling. Distant, faint. Faraday tries to claw his way back into consciousness long enough to make out what’s being said, only to realize he can’t understand a damn word. After all this time he should have picked up enough Spanish to translate but most of what Vasquez has taught him has been in a more intimate context, not like-

Wait.

Spanish.

Vasquez.

Either Faraday is hallucinating from lack of oxygen or…

A scraping sound comes from somewhere not too far above him, followed by a muffled, “Joshua! Estás ahí?”

Faraday feels like his entire body is made of lead. He tries to shout but all that comes out is a hoarse wheeze, so with colossal effort he manages to lift his leg, kicking the lid of the coffin with all the strength he has left.

He can’t make out the stream of Spanish that follows, but he thinks it’s something good, so he kicks again. The scraping noise gets louder, and when Vasquez speaks again it’s much clearer. “Joshua, güero, we’ll have you out soon, just stay with me, si?”

Vasquez sounds more panicked than Faraday has ever heard him, which makes him frown, but there’s not much he can do about it until he’s out of this damn box.

He feels himself starting to drift again and considers letting that happen before Vasquez’s voice pulls him back. Right. Can’t sleep. Vasquez doesn’t want him to, and the poor man sounds so frantic that Faraday can’t even bring himself to be contrary for once.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, clinging to the sound of Vasquez’s voice - and there are others now, too, familiar ones - before there’s light suddenly streaming through the cracks in the wood right above his face.

Instinctively, Faraday tries to leverage himself up enough to press his face against the wood and inhales. He doesn’t get much air, but it’s better than nothing.

More daylight comes in as more dirt is cleared away, and then the coffin jolts and shifts as it’s lifted. And then there’s a creaking noise as finally, finally, the lid is slowly pried open.

Faraday squints against the light assaulting his eyes and manages to make out the face right above his. Vasquez looks like he can’t decide whether to smile or cry, so he seems to have chosen to do both. There are tear tracks on his dirt-streaked cheeks, but there’s also a wild grin on his face that makes Faraday want to smile in return.

“Hey,” Faraday manages to croak out.

Vasquez leans forward to press his forehead to Faraday’s. “Gracias a Dios,” he mutters before pulling back and asking, “Are you all right?”

“Dunno.” Faraday coughs. “How’d you…”

Another face appears over Vasquez’s shoulder, and while Faraday’s vision is too blurry to make out who it is, he’d recognize Sam Chisolm’s voice anywhere. “Billy and Goody heard the idiots bragging in the saloon about how they’d gotten their money back. Vasquez managed to...persuade one of them to tell us where to dig.”

Right, that was a story Faraday would have to hear later. Not now, though. Now, he concentrates on taking luxuriously deep breaths. His mouth still tastes like dirt but right now he doesn’t give a damn.

“Let’s get you out of this box,” Vasquez says, and before Faraday can protest he’s being picked up by wiry arms that are stronger than they look, and if he wasn’t so fucking tired he’d probably be extremely embarrassed at being carried like a blushing bride.

“Vas?” he mutters, sounding like a petulant child. “Can I sleep now?”

He both hears and feels the chuckle he receives in reply. Something warm and slightly wet presses to his temple and he feels the familiar scratch of Vasquez’s stubble against his skin. “Yes, querido. You can sleep now.”

So he does.

Chapter Text

Faraday glares as the door opens and Bogue strides in, McCann at his heels. Beside him, Vasquez tenses and mutters something that definitely would not be taught in a high school Spanish class.

“And how are my guests doing this evening?” Bogue asks in the same exaggeratedly amiable voice Faraday is used to hearing Goody use when he’s annoyed with someone.

It’s funny when Goody does it.

With Bogue, not so much.

“Thinking you could use a little advice on being a decent host,” Faraday remarks before he can stop himself - not that he would have tried to hard to stop himself anyway.

Bogue nods at McCann and Faraday isn’t even a little bit surprised when there’s a fist driving into his face a moment later. He feels more than sees Vasquez opening his mouth to shout and shoots the Mexican a look telling him to keep quiet. Which is probably hypocritical in the extreme but Faraday will feel guilty about that after his vision clears up.

“And I think you could use a little advice on being a polite guest, Mr. Faraday,” Bogue says. “If you keep making me angry, McCann here might do something you won’t live long enough to regret.”

“Kill us and you’ve got no bargaining chip, jackass.”

Bogue promptly fists a hand in Faraday’s hair and yanks his head back, ignoring the angry hiss from Vasquez. Faraday refuses to show any sign of pain and just glares up at Bogue

“I only need one of you alive to make a deal with Chisolm,” Bogue says, eyes glinting. “And if you don’t watch that mouth of yours, it won’t be you.” He wrenches at Faraday’s hair again and smirks when the younger man can’t hold back a wince.

“I’d love to stay and chat with the two of you, but I’m a busy man.” Bogue lets go of Faraday hair and wipes his hand off on his suit. “If you need anything, McCann will be right outside.” He glances at his watch. “Your friend Chisolm should be here within a few hours, so you shouldn’t have long to wait.”

When the door has slammed shut and the two of them are alone again, Faraday cracks his neck, muttering, “That hair thing doesn’t feel so nice when you’re not the one doing it, Vas.”

“Maldito idiota, are you trying to get him to kill you?”

Better me than you, is what Faraday thinks, but doesn’t say. Bogue’s right, he only needs one of them for leverage, and killing the other would be the best way to let Sam know he means business.

He would much rather it be him than Vasquez.

“‘Course not,” is what he actually says. “Now can we focus on finding a way out of here before I lose any more hair?”

Chapter Text

Three-and-a-half days after Bell’s visit to the brownstone, an “anonymous” text tells him and Gregson where they can find Michael’s remains.

It’s a derelict warehouse in Jersey, and when they get there Bell isn’t surprised when more than one cop turns green at the gills when they see what’s waiting for them. Because honestly, if he hadn’t gone in knowing it was Michael, Bell would barely be able to tell the horror show spattered across the tarpaulin is even human.

Sherlock isn’t there.

Neither is Joan.

Bell doesn’t mention either of those things. He knows he should, because even if Michael did deserve it, what’s happened here is unbelievably illegal, and Sherlock seems to have broken his promise to turn himself in, but…

Something feels off about this (besides the dead serial killer at Bell’s feet). Sherlock’s track record with being completely honest is shaky, but Bell doesn’t think the older man would have given his word without meaning it absolutely. Not about this.

Besides, Joan would have made him-

Unless.

Bell closes his eyes and says a quick prayer to whoever is listening that there’s an explanation for Joan and Sherlock’s absence besides the only one he can think of right now.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the living room and tries to stop shaking. His awareness is a fleeting thing - he’s not quite sure how he got back here, nor does he have any real idea of how much time has passed since he left the warehouse. He dimly recalls sending a text to Marcus and the captain, but everything after that is a blur.

He does know that it’s only a matter of time before the police are at his door. He did just spend almost twelve hours torturing a man to death, and while he didn’t leave a shred of incriminating evidence at the scene, Gregson’s not stupid, he’ll put the pieces together easily.

He can’t stay here. Even if the police weren’t due on his doorstep at any moment, he wouldn’t be able to remain in this house.

Not when it’s so totally saturated with memories of Watson.

Sherlock sends texts to Ms. Hudson and Alfredo asking them both to check in on Clyde as often as they can, then turns off his phone. It’s not as though he can take it with him, after all.

He goes upstairs to retrieve what he believes is colloquially known as a “bug-out bag” - he keeps several in the house at all times - only to stop outside the door of Watson’s room. It’s been firmly shut since she…

Since Michael…

Sherlock rubs roughly at his face and gives into the urge to go inside.

He’s always been fond of Watson’s room. It’s orderly without being pristine, with just enough personal touches to give one a vivid picture of the owner’s personality. He would never say it out loud, but privately, Sherlock has always thought of this room as the true heart of the brownstone.

The bed is made, but Watson’s robe is still strewn across the foot, and before Sherlock realizes it he’s picking the garment up and burying his nose in the fabric.

It smells like honey and coffee and something that he’s long since labelled both “Watson” and “home,” and he feels pinpricks at the corners of his eyes. He blinks once, roughly, and sets the robe back on the bed. He doesn’t have time to break down now, not unless he wants to spend the night in a holding cell.

He pauses in the doorway as he leaves and takes a final look around, committing the room to memory.

“Goodbye, Watson,” he says, and if his voice is a little hoarser and more choked off than usual, there’s nobody around to hear it but himself.

Bell is rushing up the steps of the brownstone when his phone rings.

The screen says “number withheld,” but somehow he knows exactly who’s calling.

“Sherlock? Where the hell are you, do you realize what we found in that warehouse?”

“My most sincere apologies, Marcus,” and there’s not a trace of sarcasm in Sherlock’s voice. “I did intend to turn myself in once my…business was concluded, but there were…unforeseen developments.”

“Sherlock, where’s Joan?”

Bell hears a shaky inhale on the other end of the line and his heart drops. “Sherlock?” he asks when there’s no answer.

“He had no reason to lie, in the end,” Sherlock says slowly. “And his story never changed. Even when I told him I would allow him to live if he told the truth. And there wasn’t a trace of deception in his face or his voice, so unless it was a lie of which Michael himself was totally convinced…”

“Sherlock-”

“He said she was dead.” There’s an audible swallow and Bell can almost see Sherlock trying to hold himself together. “I apologize for involving you in this, Marcus. I trust you to let your good judgment guide whatever actions you take next. If that involves starting a statewide manhunt for me, so be it. I do feel obliged to tell you that I’m calling on a disposable phone that can’t be traced, but I suspect you guessed as much.”

“Look, Sherlock, don’t…don’t do this. Come home and we’ll figure something out…” Bell doesn’t know if there’s anything to figure out, but he feels so off-balance right now that it’s all he can do to form coherent sentences.

It’s stupid but…he can’t lose both of them.

“It’s not home for me. Not anymore.” The raw emotion in Sherlock’s voice makes Bell’s throat close up. “I need…I need time.”

And Bell knows it’s going against every rule in the book, knows his career is probably over once it gets out that he helped Sherlock get away with this, but right now, all he can say is, “Take care of yourself, Holmes.”

“Likewise, Marcus. Likewise.”

Sherlock hangs up.

Chapter Text

David looks at himself in the mirror and grimaces. The rest of his face isn’t too bad, but the skin around his left eye is swollen and mottled with purple and red.

Not exactly something he can hide from anyone, not unless Blink has a spare eyepatch David can borrow. Granted, his mother and sister have both already seen his eye and fussed over him like he knew they would, and Les just thinks it looks impressive, but there’s one particular person who hasn’t seen it yet, and David knows the reaction won’t be a pretty one.

Admittedly, though, that won’t be his problem so much as it will be the Delancey brothers’ problem in the near future.

He flops onto his bed, dabbing at his eye with the damp cloth Sarah left on the nightstand, and looks at the open window leading onto the fire escape. Spot’s dropped in to see him every evening for the past two weeks and David knows it’s just a matter of time before the older boy appears outside.

The early summer heat settles on David like a thick blanket, and he finds himself dozing off.

Spot can’t help grinning as he swings through the open window with practiced ease. He missed David today - more so than usual, which is saying something - and he’s been looking forward to seeing his boyfriend all day.

David is curled on his side with his back to the window, snoring softly. Spot chuckles quietly to himself and perches on the edge of the bed, leaning over to nuzzle his face in David’s curls. “Hey there,” he mutters as David stirs.

“Mmm...Spot?” David’s voice is muffled by the pillow and slightly hoarse from sleep.

“You expecting anybody else?”

David snorts, then gives a soft sigh that makes Spot instantly concerned. “What’s wrong, Mouth?”

Instead of answering, David just rolls over onto his back and turns his head to fully face Spot.

The smile on Spot’s face vanishes immediately as he sees the shiner adorning David’s eye. His hands reflexively clench into fists as he demands, “What the hell-”

“It looks worse than it is,” David says, unfurling Spot’s fist so he can entwine their fingers together. “Really.”

“Who did it?”

When David remains stubbornly silent, Spot gives a soft growl. “Dave. Who was it?” He reaches out to smooth back David’s bangs with his free hand. “Tell me? Please?”

David sighs. “I suppose you’ll find out anyway. I had a...minor disagreement with the Delanceys this morning.” He presses a finger to Spot’s lips as the older boy opens his mouth to swear, saying, “They only got in one good hit before Jack and Racetrack showed up. It’s just my eye, honest.”

As if that makes it all right. Spot exhales harshly and shoves down the anger, lightly stroking his thumb over the bruise on David’s eye. “Sorry,” he says. “I just...I don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

The smile David gives him is warm and a little exasperated. “I’ve noticed.” He props himself up on his elbows long enough to peck Spot on the lips. “But let it go for tonight, okay?” He pulls Spot with him as he lies back down, and Spot lets himself be arranged into a comfortable spooning position, with David tucked nicely into his chest.

He can’t see David’s eye this way and he suspects that was intentional on the other boy’s part, but doesn’t say anything.

“Missed you today,” he says after they’ve been lying in comfortable silence for a while. He says that every day, because it’s true, but it always feels important to him that David hear it.

“Missed you too.” David pulls Spot’s arms more firmly around his middle and relaxes against him. “Well, you have a pretty good idea of how my day went. Tell me about yours?”

Spot does.

And as he talks, he makes a mental note to pay a visit to a certain pair of brothers after he leaves the Jacobs home.

Chapter Text

The basement is dusty, stifling, and smells of mold, but being stuck down there is infinitely preferable to what Faraday knows is waiting for one of them upstairs. They’ve all heard about Bogue’s interrogation methods, and if even a fraction of what they’ve heard is accurate, the phrase “a fate worse than death” wouldn’t be an understatement.

He looks at the others. Vasquez is pacing, has been for the past hour, and if they weren’t in a basement he probably would have worn a hole in the floor by now. Red, in contrast, is sitting silently in the corner, with the occasional blink being the only indication that he’s a live human being and not a statue.

Faraday knows one of them is going to be taken up pretty soon. Bogue wants to know where Sam and the others are, and since asking nicely has proved useless, it’s only a matter of time before he resorts to a less civilzed approach.

He considers the odds. They won’t pick Red, anyone can tell just by looking at him that torturing him for information would be an exercise in futility. And Vasquez...Possible, but not likely.

Which leaves Faraday.

Not that he plans on talking. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s almost certainly in for a world of pain in the very near future.

As if they can hear his thoughts, the basement door opens and McCann and Denali come tramping down the stairs, sinister smirks on both their faces. Vasquez freezes in place, Red slowly rises to his feet, and Faraday? He holds his breath and waits.

“Mr. Bogue wants to have a chat with one of you,” McCann drawls, his gaze falling on each of them in turn. He’s toying with them, and Faraday wishes the bastard would just get on with it.

His wish is, perhaps unfortunately, granted as McCann’s eyes turn to him and the smirk on the man’s face grows into a grin. “He asked for you, Faraday.”

Vasquez immediately growls and moves to stand between Faraday and McCann, but the pistol that appears in Denali’s hand is enough to make him pause.

“Let’s not do anything stupid, gentlemen,” McCann says. “Mr. Faraday?”

“Can’t say I feel much like talking,” Faraday can’t resist saying.

McCann’s eyes glint in the dim light provided by the single overhead bulb in the basement. “Mr. Bogue is anticipating that. Fortunately, he’s very good at getting people to...engage in conversation.”

Faraday supposes stalling is only going to get someone other than him hurt or killed. Hopefully Sam and the rest of their group will find this place before Bogue has the chance to do to much permanent damage.

He’s only taken half a step forward before Vasquez is saying, “Tell your hijo de perra boss that he can talk to me instead.”

“Vas, don’t,” Faraday says, and if it comes out a little more urgently than he means it to, he doesn’t care. Whatever Bogue has in store for him can’t possibly hurt as much as letting Vasquez take his place would.

Vasquez shows no signs of having heard him. “Well? You going to pass on my message, cabrón?”

McCann looks thoughtful, and for one horrible moment Faraday thinks the other man might actually be considering it.

“I’ll let Mr. Bogue know that you’ve volunteered to go next, should his discussion with your amigo here end...badly.” The last word is said with so much relish that Faraday can practically hear McCann salivating.

A string of Spanish curses falls from Vasquez’s lips as he lunges for McCann, only for Denali to step in and place the pistol against his temple. Faraday realizes that the idiot is likely to get himself shot at this rate, so, in as casual a voice as he can muster, he says, “We gonna get going before I die of old age? Take me to your leader, asshole.”

McCann gives an exaggerated bow and gestures for Faraday to lead the way upstairs. Faraday meets Vasquez’s eyes as he passes and he hates the panic he sees there. “Be back in a bit, Vas,” he says in what he hopes is a comforting tone.

Evidently not. Vasquez starts cursing again, growing louder and more frantic as McCann follows Faraday up the stairs.

The last thing Faraday hears before the basement door closes is, “Tómame! Bastardo, tómame en su lugar!”

Chapter Text

Ten days after Joan Watson’s disappearance, Bell gets a call from some teenagers who had apparently gotten bored and decided to do a little exploring.

It’s possibly the best call he’s ever received.

Bell practically leaps out of his car when he gets to the warehouse. It’s a different one this time, about an hour west of the city, and the atmosphere is far different this time. For good reason. His gaze immediately zeroes in on the wonderfully familiar figure sitting in the back doorway of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around her.

He hears Joan’s voice as he gets closer, reassuring the EMT for what is definitely not the first time that she was a doctor, she knows she doesn’t need immediate medical attention and she definitely doesn’t want to go to the hospital.

“And here I always thought you were the grown-up one,” Bell remarks as he reaches them, not even bothering to hide his grin.

Joan smiles at him and is on her feet in a moment, pulling him into a hug that he returns with vigor. “Marcus,” she murmurs into his collar.

“Good to see you too,” Bell says softly, pulling away after a while. “Thought we’d lost you for a while there. Especially since Michael couldn’t exactly tell you where you were.”

“He’s dead?”

Bell nods. “Sherlock…”

Joan closes her eyes and sighs, wrapping the ambulance blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “I had a feeling. How is he?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. Haven’t talked to him since the day we found Michael’s body. He hasn’t been back to the brownstone, we haven’t been able to track him down anywhere else.” He places a gentle hand on Joan’s arm. “He thinks you’re dead, Joan.”

Joan’s brow furrows. “Why would-”

“I guess Michael wanted to fuck with him before he died.”

He’s not surprised to see Joan’s entire demeanor change. She draws herself up to her full height, jaw set with purpose, and slides the blanket off her shoulders. “We need to find him.”

“If you’ve got any ideas where he might be…”

“I don’t. But I think I know a way to find out.” Joan exhales sharply. “I need a laptop and an Internet connection.” She pauses. “And a cheeseburger. I was rationing the food he left for me and I ran out almost two days ago.”

Bell chuckles in spite of the situation. “We’ll get drive thru on the way.”

Half a day later, Bell is pulling into a gravel driveway outside a cabin just across the Canadian border. It’s about as secluded a place as he can imagine, which was probably the idea. He doesn’t know how Everyone found this spot and frankly he doesn’t want to.

Joan hesitates before getting out of the car, worry creasing her face, like she’s scared of what might be waiting for them. Bell reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze. “You’re here now. He’ll be okay.”

She nods. “I hope so.”

There are no signs of life as they approach the cabin, and Bell is starting to think they’ve been sent here on a wild goose chase when suddenly the door flies open to reveal one consulting detective.

Sherlock looks like hell. His cheeks are sunken and the circles under his eyes are dark enough to make it look like he’s been punched in the face, and if his expression is anything to go by he’s probably on the verge of a heart attack.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Which, really, isn’t far from the truth.

Joan stops walking a few steps away from the doorway, Bell at her heels. Neither of them say anything as Sherlock stares, tries to process what he’s seeing and if it’s actually real or not. When Sherlock finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and grating, and it seems like he can only manage just one word.

“Watson?”

The woman who Sherlock desperately wants to believe is Joan takes half a step forward, and her voice is physically painful to hear, it sounds so much like her. “Sherlock.”

“You’re dead.”

He resists the urge to flinch back as Not!Joan stops in front of him and reaches out her hand. Her fingers brush his face and his knees almost buckle, because he would know that touch anywhere.

The small semblance of self-control he’s been clinging to finally drops and his body moves of its own volition as he lunges forward and pulls Joan into a crushing embrace. His face buries in her hair and the familiar scent makes his entire being ache.

Sherlock thinks he’s probably crying.

He doesn’t give a damn.

“I think this is the first time you’ve ever hugged me.” Joan’s voice is soft and slightly teasing in his ear, her own arms coming up to wrap around his waist.

Sherlock gives what he thinks is a chuckle. “Extenuating circumstances, Watson,” he chokes out. He swallows and pushes his face deeper into her hair. “I shouldn’t have believed him. I should have been looking for you, I should have known not to trust him-”

“Sherlock.”

“I would have burned the city to the ground to find you, had I known. I-”

“Sherlock. It’s okay.” Joan’s hand is rubbing soothing circles on his back. “We both know he was good at messing with people. Even you aren’t immune to that.” Her other hand comes up to rest at his neck as she says, “I don’t blame you for not looking. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He doesn’t let go of her, but he does pull back enough to look her in the eye. Her expression is warm and gentle and there’s not a trace of reproach in it, only relief and affection, and Sherlock feels himself smiling through the tears in what has to be the most maudlin display of emotion he’s ever given.

“I think it’s time we went home, Watson,” he says, pressing his forehead to hers.

Before he can stop himself, he’s adding, in a barely audible voice, “Joan.”

His best friend. His partner. His…

Joan.

Chapter Text

Red Harvest isn’t somebody who people tend to engage in casual conversation. Most who don’t know him tend to take one look at his appearance and decide he’s either beneath their notice or likely to butcher them the second they turn their backs, and the people who do know him know that he’s not exactly one for talking anyway.

Joshua Faraday is not most people. He talks to Red the same way he talks to just about everyone else: like he’s actively trying to get himself punched in the mouth. He prods and teases and frequently toes the line between being playful and being outright insulting, but miraculously, Red has yet to murder him in his sleep.

Sometimes, Red even shoots back with an acerbic comment of his own, which seems to honestly delight Faraday to no end.

Sam doesn’t question it. As long as they aren’t physically at each other’s throats, he’s okay with Red and Faraday constantly taunting one another.

However, Faraday apparently takes issue with other people crossing the lines he crosses with Red on an almost daily basis.

Sam witnesses this firsthand one afternoon, when they’re all settled in a saloon after a long ride. Most of the Seven are circled around a table in the corner, watching Faraday holding court over the poker game. It’s quiet and relatively peaceful - which, naturally, means it can’t last for very long.

One of the other men at the poker table has been glancing over his shoulder at Red for the past half hour, and Sam hears him mutter something that’s less than civil, but that doesn’t sound very different from what Faraday says to Red half the time.

Which is why it’s somewhat surprising when Faraday goes very still and slowly places his cards on the table.

“You want to say that again, friend?”

Sam can’t see the other poker player’s face, but his tone is taken aback and somewhat annoyed. “Beg your pardon?”

“I asked if you want to say that again.” Faraday’s voice has taken on the low, dangerous tone the others know means he’s very close to doing something stupid and probably violent. Vasquez has his hand halfway towards his gun and Billy is turning a knife over in his fingers, clearly ready in case things go sour.

“You got a problem with what I said?”

Faraday’s eyes flash. “I do. That man you just insulted happens to be a friend of mine. And I don’t take particularly kindly to people insulting my friends.” He pushes his chair back like he’s preparing to stand up. “So if you have a problem with him, why don’t we go outside and discuss it like civilized gentleman?”

Sam holds his breath, knowing this could go downhill very quickly. But it seems the offending man isn’t in the mood to make a bigger deal out of this than has already been made, because he holds up his hands in a show of deference. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it…”

“Damn right you didn’t. Now I think you owe my friend over there an apology, don’t you?”

The man splutters a bit in indignation, but a glare from Faraday seems to subdue him into turning around and mumbling one of the most half-hearted apologies Sam has ever heard.

Throughout all of this, Red has looked more amused than anything else, and he’s clearly enjoying himself right now. He nods to show that all is forgiven - although Sam doesn’t miss the comment he makes under his breath in Comanche.

Faraday seems to be appeased, because he pulls his chair back in and picks up his cards once more. The atmosphere is a little tenser than it was before, but that’s it.

Sam is suddenly reminded of his sisters. The way he and they used to eternally tease and badger one another - sometimes badly enough to make people who didn’t know them think there was actual malice intended - only to turn around and explode at anyone else who tried to cross those same lines.

Maybe that’s what’s going on here.

Although both Red and Faraday would probably be horrified by the comparison. 

Chapter Text

It’s been three days since the case ended badly. Three days since their suspect panicked and tried to drive out of the parking garage where they and the NYPD had him cornered. Three days since Joan shoved Sherlock out of the way of the oncoming car at the last second.

Three days since she was awake.

The doctors say that Joan’s prognosis is good, that her body just needs time to heal. They remind Sherlock that head trauma is a finicky thing, but that there’s no reason not to expect a full recovery.

Sherlock ignores them.

The only medical professional whose opinion he cares about is the one who can’t currently share it with him.

Sherlock isn’t naive enough to believe that talking to someone in a coma will actually have any real influence over when they wake up. If they wake up. The whole process is little more than a placebo effect, a charade intended more to make the speaker feel better than anything else.

He knows this.

But that hasn’t stopped the words flowing from his mouth as he waits at Joan Watson’s bedside.

He’s long since given up actually paying attention to what he’s saying. It could be anything - repeating Joan’s vital statistics aloud, half-heartedly berating her for being so reckless, spewing out random facts that have absolutely nothing to do with the current situation but that he thinks Joan might find interesting. Sherlock really has no idea. Hell, half the time he doesn’t even bother to process what language he’s speaking in.

Marcus has stopped by multiple times. Lin visits once a day, and Gregson, Alfredo, and Ms. Hudson have all put in appearances as well.

They talk to Joan, too.

Sherlock has long since reached the point where his ego wouldn’t even be bruised if someone other than him was the reason Joan opened her eyes.

He’s woken Joan up in an immeasurable variety of ways since the start of their partnership - finding new ways to do so has become something of a hobby over the years - but now, when he needs her to wake up more than he’s needed anything in a very long time, he’s helpless.

Ms. Hudson brings him his violin. He can’t remember the last time he played, has no desire to pick up the instrument, but he’s read that music is often used for therapeutic purposes, and if there’s even the slightest chance that it will help, he’ll do it.

He’s intimately familiar with Joan’s favorite songs, and he plays through each of them by ear. Here and there, he’ll intentionally make a mistake, hoping that it will annoy Joan into waking up and telling him to stop butchering the piece.

She doesn’t.

Sherlock keeps playing anyway.

“Watson, if you wake up now, I’ll do all the housework in the brownstone for six months.”

Nothing.

“Fine. A year, then.” Sherlock pauses, thoughtful. “And I will refrain from storing any body parts in our refrigerator for the same amount of time.”

He knows he sounds like a damn fool, but that hardly matters.

And honestly, he thinks he’d agree to just about anything right now if it meant Joan would wake up.

He considers sneaking Clyde into the hospital room and placing him in Joan’s bed, but decides against it. If only because he’d rather not risk the doctors kicking him out.

Besides, he can’t see anyone bringing Clyde to him, and he’s not about to leave Joan’s side to fetch the tortoise himself.

Sherlock has never had a religious bone in his body, but one night, when the beeping of the heart monitor is both comforting and taunting him with its steady rhythm, he prays.

Up until now, he’s refrained from physical contact, but eventually Sherlock gives in and takes Joan’s hand in both of his. It’s warm and slightly calloused, and her pulse is a soothing cadence beneath his fingertips. Sherlock wonders why he hasn’t held it until now.

He runs a thumb over her knuckles and, like he does every day, starts talking. But there are no clever remarks today. No medical observations, daily updates, or pathetic attempts at bargaining.

Today, he can only plead.

“Please wake up, Joan,” he murmurs, kissing the back of her hand. “I need you to wake up.” He closes his eyes and pressed his forehead against Joan’s fingers. “Please.”

There are several moments of silence, and then.

And then.

“I think…that’s the nicest way you’ve ever woken me up…”

Chapter Text

Vasquez has never had any particular aversion to the sight of blood. A man in his line of work can’t afford to be squeamish, and he’s seen far worse things in his life either way.

But now, kneeling here in the dirt with his shirt mashed against the bullet wound in Faraday’s gut, trying to keep the man’s life from bleeding out of him like a flood, it’s all he can do not to throw up.

Faraday grunts weakly as Vasquez shoves down harder. “Fuck, Vas, you tryin’ to kill me?”

“Not funny, güero,” Vasquez growls. His hands are slick with Faraday’s blood and he hates it. “Stop moving.”

“Damn uncomfortable,” Faraday grumbles. Vasquez hears him sigh. “Doesn’t matter, won’t...won’t be walkin’ away from this anyway.”

“Cállate! You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine!”

Vasquez normally isn’t one for deluding himself. He knows the bullet hit something vital, knows that unless the doctor gets here within the next couple of minutes, there’s only one outcome. But maybe, just maybe, if he refuses to believe it, if he just denies it hard enough, it won’t come to pass.

A limp hand falls onto his arm and he looks desperately up into Faraday’s face. The gambler’s skin has taken on a ghostly pallor and there’s a thin stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are bright despite the pain.

Vasquez has always loved Faraday’s eyes. Their mischievous sparkle when he’s hustling someone at poker or trading good-natured barbs with Goody. The way they flash when he’s angry, when he and Vasquez are arguing, when he’s in the middle of a firefight.

The warm, naked affection Vasquez sees in them when he and Faraday are alone, when Vasquez has him on his back beneath him and the rest of the world melts away until it’s just the two of them.

He prays to God that this won’t be the last time he sees those eyes.

“Vas.” His name comes out in a quiet rasp. “Don’t.”

“I can’t.” Vasquez pulls one hand away from the wound to place it over Faraday’s. “I can’t.”

I can’t just give in. I can’t not try to save you. I can’t admit that this is the end.

I can’t lose you.

I can’t do this without you.

“Yes, you can,” Faraday slurs. The light in his eyes is starting to dim and Vasquez chokes back a sob. “You’ll...you’ll be fine.”

Vasquez is burning with the need to hold him, but he won’t, he won’t move his other hand, not if there’s even a chance…

“Take...take care of Jack for me.” Faraday gives a feeble wheeze - the closest he can get to a laugh. “Damn horse...likes you better’n me anyway.”

“Joshua, stop.” Stop talking, stop bleeding, stop dying…

“And take...take care of yourself too. Won’t be around to watch...your back, Texican.”

Vasquez isn’t sure when he started crying and he doesn’t care. “Please, cariño. Don’t do this to me.”

“Love…” Faraday doesn’t have the strength to finish the sentence, but his expression says more than enough.

Vasquez moans and bends forward to bury his face in Faraday’s hair, an unending litany of “please” slipping past his lips.

An unfamiliar voice breaks through the haze of panic and Vasquez pulls away to see a man he dimly recognizes as the town doctor running towards them.

Faraday’s eyes slip closed.

“Joshua? Joshua!” 

Chapter Text

The actual explosion itself isn’t what gets to him.

It’s the landing. Faraday slams into the dirt and suddenly he’s back in that field with half a dozen holes in him and the smell of smoke and burnt flesh making him choke. Except this time, there’s no unconsciousness, no blessed blanket of darkness offering even a moment of peace.

Faraday keens and curls in on himself, shuts his eyes against the pain from the ghosts of wounds that have long since healed.

There’s movement over him, then familiar hands are on him, carefully turning him onto his back. He fights through the haze of confusion and pain enough to make out what the frantic voice above him is saying.

“Estás herido? Where are you hurt?” and Faraday can’t answer that because he doesn’t know, he’s not sure what’s real right now and what’s just angry revenants being conjured up by his own damn brain. The hands are running over his body faster than he can process, and when one brushes the place where McCann’s bullet wounded him so long ago he gasps and tries to curl in on himself again.

Vasquez’s hands still, but they don’t pull away. Faraday concentrates on the touch, tries to use it to anchor himself to here and now.

Apparently satisfied that Faraday hasn’t been mortally wounded this time, Vasquez moves a hand to Faraday’s dirty forehead and brushes back his hair. “Joshua, güerito, can you look at me? Please?”

It takes a staggering amount of effort, but Faraday manages to force his eyes open. His vision isn’t the clearest, but he can still make out the earnest expression on Vasquez’s face.

Vasquez smiles a little and leans forward so that their faces are only a few inches apart. “Listen to me. You’re not back in that place. You’re here, with me. You’ll have bruises tomorrow but you have not been shot.” He presses a kiss to the bridge of Faraday’s nose. “Don’t let your mind stay there, querido. Come back to now. To me.”

Faraday brings a shaking hand - he’s not entirely sure when he started shaking but he hopes it stops soon - up to Vasquez’s face. He wills himself to focus on the warmth beneath his palm, the feel of stubble under his fingertips.

This didn’t happen at Rose Creek.

He’s not in Rose Creek.

He’s not in Rose Creek, he hasn’t been shot, and Vasquez is here.

The pain in Faraday’s torso vanishes and he feels like he can breathe properly again. Vasquez must sense the change because he smiles, wider this time, and says, “What am I going to do with you, güerito, if you insist on getting yourself nearly blown up so often?”

And despite everything, Faraday laughs.

Chapter Text

Ironically, Agron’s worst nightmares aren’t of his crucifixion. It still haunts him, absolutely; still causes him to wake up sobbing, his hands throbbing with phantom pain as his body relives every moment.

But those aren’t the worst dreams.

The worst dreams are the ones where he’s being held down by Roman arms, watching as Nasir is nailed to the cross in his place. The ones where he’s helpless to do anything but bellow until he’s hoarse as some Roman fuck lashes Nasir down, ropes cutting into golden skin.

The ones where he has to listen to the agonizing screams as nails are driven through the hands he knows so well. The same hands that have held and caressed him, soothed his rages, brought him to the heights of pleasure, now mangled and useless.

The ones where Agron can only look on as Nasir hangs limply, hair plastered to his face and neck by sweat as his head slumps forward onto his chest, blood trickling down his outstretched arms.

The ones where Agron knows the exact moment Nasir’s breath leaves him, because his Syrian’s head raises enough for their gazes to meet, and he has to watch the light in those beloved dark eyes flicker out before Nasir slumps down again.

And in those dreams, Spartacus never comes, and Agron is left to stare at the body of his lover, rage at the unhearing gods and offer them anything, everything, to take him instead, until his own screams wake him up.

Chapter Text

“It’s very simple, Mr. Holmes,” Van der Voort drawls in a saccharine tone. “You can either decide which of these I use on your partner, or you can refuse to make a decision...in which case, I use all of them.”

Sherlock eyes the row of instruments on the table in front of him and feels bile rise in his throat. He can barely bring himself to look at them too closely, but he forces himself to study each one. Van der Voort isn’t bluffing, and Sherlock will go to his grave before he allows all of these implements to be used on Joan.

So he goes down the line, silently analyzing each item and calculating how much pain it will potentially cause his partner.

He’s suddenly reminded of the time Joan was abducted by Le Milieu. Of the way he’d had a very similar array of tools carefully laid out on the table in the brownstone, fully prepared to use any and all of them on Yoder, if necessary, in order to get his partner back unharmed.

He’d thought he felt powerless then.

But that was nothing compared to now.

He dismisses the knives and assorted blunt instruments immediately; he has no way of predicting just how they would be used and he doesn’t think Van der Voort is likely to tell him beforehand. After another moment’s consideration, Sherlock also rules out the blowtorch and the car battery.

For a second, he considers the syringes. What’s in them is unlikely to be lethal - Van der Voort doesn’t seem interested in actually killing either of them, at least not yet. But “unlikely” is still far too much uncertainty for Sherlock to chance with Joan, so he promptly rules them out too.

Eventually, Sherlock has ruled out every item on the table but one: a long, black leather sjambok . Its presence is unsurprising, given Van der Voort’s South African heritage,  and it looks deceptively unassuming compared to some of the other implements in front of him. But Sherlock has seen the damage such a tool can do. The pain it’s capable of inflicting.

But he’s out of options. And the probability of Joan sustaining any permanent damage, while not nonexistent, is low enough to be almost acceptable.

Sherlock makes his decision.

And wonders if he’ll ever be able to look Joan in the eye again.

Chapter Text

Van der Voort uses a pocket knife to carefully cut open Joan’s blouse, exposing her back and shoulder blades. She’s sitting on a stool, wrists stretched above her and bound with a chain hanging from the ceiling.

She’s been positioned so that Sherlock has a perfect view of her back.

He watches Van der Voort lash out at the air with the sjambok a couple of times, and the whistling sound as it slices through the air is sickening. Sherlock wants to scream, to rave, to beg the man not to do this, or to take him instead, but Van der Voort gagged him as soon as he made his choice.

Van der Voort also reinforced Sherlock’s restraints to the point where they’re virtually inescapable even for the detective. As if he already knew how hard Sherlock would struggle to break free once this began.

Sherlock is expecting some warning - an opening taunt, or maybe a sarcastic remark, something along the lines of, “I do hope everyone is comfortable,” - but there is none before the sjambok whips down and hits Joan’s back with an audible impact. One that doesn’t quite manage to cover her cry of pain.

A stripe of blood blooms, bright and angry against Joan’s pale skin. For a moment, time seems to stand still, the room falling silent apart from Joan’s heavy breathing. Sherlock watches a trickles of red slowly move down her back, and he has the strangest sensation of everything happening in slow motion.

Then Van der Voort is moving again, the sjambok a blur as he brings it down again and again.

Sherlock has spent years living with the conviction that he’ll never see anything so viscerally horrifying as the pool of blood he’d found that fateful day in Irene’s flat.

But right now he wouldn’t mind going back to the day, because anything, even that, would be preferable to this. It’s as though he can feel every blow on his own flesh, and he wishes, with everything in him, that they were falling on him instead. He’d welcome the pain.

It would hurt far, far less than listening to Joan hold back any further sounds - and knowing she’s doing so purely for his sake.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on for. Doesn’t bother trying to keep track. He thinks he might be yelling through the gag, but he’s not sure. His entire world narrows down to the mess of blood on Joan Watson’s back.

And to all the ways he’s going to make Van der Voort suffer for this before killing the bastard.

Just when it seems that the torture will never stop, there’s suddenly a crashing noise, following by yelling, and it takes Sherlock’s brain a couple of seconds to process what’s happening. A flurry of motion, and then Van der Voort is pinned to the floor, straddled by one very, very angry Marcus Bell. Someone is undoing Sherlock’s bonds - he doesn’t bother trying to identify them - and the instant he’s free he staggers over to fall to his knees at Joan’s side, where Gregson has finished untying her wrists.

“I’m sorry, ” he mutters, pressing his face into her thigh, and when he feels her hand come to rest on his head he doesn’t even bother trying to stem the tide of tears.

Later, from her hospital bed, Joan will fuss over the bandages on his arms - the result of his futile attempts to break through his restraints - and cut short every attempted apology he makes, because she knows that, had their places been reversed, he wouldn’t want her to blame herself. And because she is irrefutably the best, most patient, understanding person Sherlock has ever met.

But for now, he clutches at her - his partner, his best friend, his other half - and lets himself cry.

Chapter Text

Faraday’s not aware of too much right now.

He thinks McCann has stopped, but it’s also possible that he’s just gotten numb to the pain.

Well, the worst of the pain. Either way, he’ll take it.

McCann starts off pretty much how Faraday expected - as soon as he’s tied to the chair, a fist flies into his gut. It knocks the wind out of him, but that’s all, and Faraday knows, he knows he’ll regret it, but he can’t resist remarking, “You hit like a four year-old, pal.”

The feral grin he gets in return isn’t exactly comforting. “Let’s see how long you can keep cracking jokes, boy,” McCann says, driving his fist into Faraday’s middle again and making Faraday grunt in pain. Then he does it again. And again. And again.

It goes on like that for a while, McCann just whaling on him while Bogue watches with an uninterested expression on his face. Just when Faraday feels like he might just fall to pieces if McCann hits him again, Bogue holds up a hand, and McCann stops, leaving Faraday slumped in the chair, breathing hard, at least two ribs broken and several more at least bruised.

It hurts.

But it’s nothing he can’t handle.

He knows better than to assume the worst is over, though.

The knife that’s appeared in McCann’s hand is enough to confirm that.

Bogue asks about the locations of the group’s safehouses. Faraday eyes the pair of pliers in McCann’s hands and tells them both to go to hell.

His first fingernail comes off surprisingly easily.

The next four...not so much. By the time McCann starts on his other hand, Faraday is writhing. His lip is bleeding from where he’s been biting it in a feeble attempt to hold in any noises, and he uses the iron tang of blood on his tongue to try and ground himself.

If he’s bleeding, it means he’s still alive.

Bogue’s voice is in his ear. “You can stop this anytime you want to, son.” A hand smooths back Faraday’s hair in a twisted facsimile of concern and comfort. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“Fuck...you,” Faraday pants.

Bogue huffs in annoyance and digs his fingernails into the knife cuts on Faraday’s side and it’s like being sliced open all over again.

Faraday’s been trying not to cast nervous glances at the car battery in the corner since he got here. But now McCann is attaching electrodes to his hipbones and Bogue is standing over him looking disappointed. “Last chance, Mr. Faraday. And this will hurt you more than it hurts me.”

He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s woozy from pain and blood loss or if he just knows he has nothing to lose, but all Faraday can think to say is, “Y’know, Bart...feels like...the spark’s really gone out of...our relationship…”

There’s movement out of the corner of his eye and suddenly Faraday feels every inch of his body twitching and convulsing as the current zaps through him. It’s like white hot needles piercing every inch of his skin and his heart jumps and stutters in his chest like a sputtering engine and he can’t hear anything but he vaguely realizes the sensation in his throat means he’s probably screaming...

It takes him a couple of seconds to realize it’s stopped. His heart kicks against his ribcage a couple of times and he wonders if it’s going to give up altogether.

Bogue is saying something but Faraday doesn’t listen, it’s not like he could tell the bastard anything even if he wanted to.

He blacks out the instant McCann starts the battery going again.

There are voices, he thinks, but it sounds like he’s hearing them from underwater, and he barely has the energy to identify them as human, let alone make out what they’re saying.

Something brushes against his face and he reflexively flinches away before realizing he recognizes that touch, would know it anywhere. That touch means cigars and bright brown eyes and safety.

After several failed attempts to open his eyes, Faraday finally blinks up at the gorgeous, terrified face above him. “V’s,” he mutters, throat feeling raw and useless.

Vasquez makes a strangled noise that could easily be a laugh or a sob. A warm hand moves to stroke Faraday’s hair and Faraday welcomes it this time, doing his best to lean into the touch. Vasquez is talking to someone he can’t see, someone busy releasing all the restraints around Faraday’s limbs.

Sam’s face suddenly appears beside Vasquez’s, looking worried but not as distraught as the Mexican. “You with us, Faraday?”

“Didn’t tell ‘em anythin’,” Faraday slurs, because somehow that’s the most important thing for them to know right now.

Vasquez chokes and leans down to bury his face in Faraday’s hair, and Sam just smiles sadly and rests a gentle hand on Faraday’s shoulder. “I know, son. Never doubted you for a second.” Sam turns to Vasquez, asking, “Horne wants to get him back to the safehouse before he treats him. Can you carry him?”

Faraday starts to protest that he can walk perfectly fine, thank you, but then he’s being cradled against Vasquez’s chest and quiet affirmations of love are being whispering against his hairline, and there’s something wet dripping on his face that he knows isn’t rain.

He weakly nuzzles into Vasquez’s neck and murmurs, “S’okay, Vas. M’okay.”

Faraday knows he’s just about the furthest thing from okay right now, but here in Vasquez’s arms, he feels fucking fantastic.

He might not be okay right now, but he will be.

And he knows Vasquez and the rest of his family will be right there with him until he is.

Chapter Text

They’ve only been in Agron’s homeland for a few months when the surviving rebels find themselves threatened once more - this time not by Roman swords, but by sickness.

It’s a fever Agron saw more than once as a child. He and Duro had managed to survive it after falling ill, but many others hadn’t. And now it rips through the camp like a wrathful god, laying claim to anyone not strong enough to withstand it: the oldest and the youngest, but also many of the survivors who still haven’t recovered from the many hardships they faced before arriving here.

Nasir is none of those things. But he spends so much time doing everything he can to tend to the sick that Agron isn’t surprised when the younger man falls ill himself.

Surprised, no.

Terrified, absolutely.

He knows Nasir has a better chance of survival than most of the sick, knows his Syrian to be a fierce fighter in illness as well as in battle, but as he sits at his lover’s bedside, gently dabbing Nasir’s scorching skin with a wet cloth, he has trouble remembering all of that.

Much as Agron would like to, he can’t spend all his time at Nasir’s side. As a leader, he can’t ignore the rest of the settlement, especially not right now, so he asks Sibyl or Laeta to sit with Nasir during the day. Agron hates it, hates having to all but abandon his lover when he needs Agron the most, but at least he knows Nasir is in trusted hands.

That small piece of calm deserts him, however, when he comes back to the small hut he and Nasir share and finds his Syrian thrashing on the bed, shouting out phrases in a foreign tongue as Sibyl attempts to hold him down.

Agron remembers being sick himself as a boy, remembers the visions caused by the fever, and he’s quick to reassure Sibyl - even if he himself is anything but reassured.

He slides into the bed next to Nasir without even bothering to shed his armor, pulling the younger man next to him and gently pinning Nasir’s limbs to his sides before he can hurt himself with his violent flailing. Nasir’s skin is burning hot to the touch but Agron ignores it, only interested in calming his lover down. The arm not holding Nasir down comes up so that he can start to card his hand through the Syrian’s hair as he murmurs soothing words in a low voice.

It’s unlikely Nasir can hear him, but Agron talks anyway.

The words of comfort aren’t only for Nasir’s benefit, after all.

Nasir recently began teaching Agron his native language, in exchange for Agron spending many months teaching him his own, so while Agron can’t understand everything that slips from his lover’s lips, he’s able to pick out a few words and phrases.

Somehow, he almost thinks he’d rather not understand any of it.

His heart clenches as he listens to Nasir call out for his mother and father, the childlike fear in the Syrian’s voice enough to bring tears to Agron’s eyes. Nasir keeps muttering a name Agron doesn’t recognize, but it doesn’t take the German long to work out that it must be the name of the brother Nasir had once mentioned.

Nasir begs his brother not to let the Romans capture them both, tells him to run and hide, and it causes Agron physical pain to listen to it.

He clenches his teeth the first time Nasir’s fever dreams clearly turn to his former life as body slave, silently thanking every god he can that he doesn’t know the language well enough to understand most of what Nasir is whimpering; the little he can understand is stirring his blood, urging him to take up his sword and march straight back to Rome and slaughter every last fuck who ever dared to lay a hand on his lover.

Worst of all is when he recognizes the names falling from Nasir’s mouth, choked out in distress or shouted in fear. Agron hears his own name many times, but also those of so many others. Spartacus, Naevia, Saxa, Gannicus, the people whose deaths haunt Agron’s own dreams more nights than he cares to admit. He’s forced to lie there and listen as Nasir weeps for them, pleads with them to stay, tries to convince the Romans to take him instead. The words tell Agron much about the horrors the fever is forcing Nasir to witness behind his closed eyes, and what parts he can’t make out, his imagination is more than happy to fill in.

Sometimes, there are no words. Sometimes, it’s just Nasir sobbing brokenly into his chest, with each sob feeling like a dagger plunging into Agron’s heart. Crucifixion had been agony, but he thinks he would gladly suffer it again if it meant sparing Nasir this kind of torment.

It would be better than lying here uselessly, unable to fight off the thing causing his lover so much pain.

The fever breaks that night, thank the gods. Nasir doesn’t wake, merely falls into a relatively peaceful slumber, and Agron leaves the bed long enough to finally remove his armor and eat some of the food Sibyl had left for them earlier. He’ll have to make sure Nasir eats when the younger man wakes, but for now, Agron knows sleep is the best thing for him.

He takes a moment to wipe as much of the sweat from Nasir’s skin as he can before sliding back into bed and pulling his lover against him again. Nasir’s breaths are slow and steady against Agron’s neck and Agron feels the knot in his chest loosen a little, because for now, his beloved Syrian is safe. From the Romans, from the fever...and from the intricate tortures of his own mind.

Chapter Text

The smoke burns Connor’s lungs and reminds him of when he was nine year old and stole his first sip of whiskey from Ma’s bottle. At the time, it had felt like molten lava was being poured down his throat, but it had been a soothing balm compared to this.

He forces his eyes open as he peers into the flames, desperately looking for any kind of possible path through. A path to his brother.

“Murph! Can ya hear me? ”

He strains to hear any hint of his twin’s voice over the roaring of the flames. The smoke is making him light-headed, and Connor knows he only has a couple of minutes to get out before it’s too late.

The exit is only a few feet away and the way to it is clear. He could get out in seconds. But Connor isn’t leaving this building without Murphy, one way or another, and if that means them carrying his charred remains out in a box, so fucking be it.

He’ll take that over being separated from his brother in a heartbeat.

He thinks he’s spotted a relatively clear path leading farther into the building - and Murphy, God willing - and is about to make a run for it when suddenly there are hands on him and something, someone, is dragging him backwards.

The firefighters have arrived and they apparently don’t give a damn about what Connor wants to do right now.

Connor thrashes against the arms pulling at him because like hell is he leaving, Murphy is still inside. But the combined strength of the two firefighters holding him is more than his oxygen-deprived body can handle, and he finds himself being half-dragged outside, away from the blaze. Away from his brother.

They manhandle him over to where an EMT is waiting. One of the firefighters seems to sense that the second they let go of him, Connor will bolt back into the building, so he stays behind and physically holds the Irishman in place as the EMT starts checking him over.

Connor still struggles against the arms keeping him from getting to Murphy, barely hearing the EMT's pleas to, “Please hold still, sir,” over the way his soul is screaming out for its other half…

...and then there's an explosion.

He ducks instinctively, ears ringing as bits of glass and rubble rain down. It’s like he’s watching everything in slow motion as the building in front of them buckles and crumbles in on itself, several hundred tons of brick and concrete collapsing onto whoever is unlucky enough to still be in there.

Murphy.

Murphy is still in there.

And Connor goes limp against the EMT as he realizes there’s no way his brother is walking away from that, not from a fucking burning building falling on him, not even Murph is that tough, and fuck, if the fuckers had just left him alone Connor could have gotten him out, he’d be standing right here next to him, alive and breathing and…

The EMT is talking to him, hands are moving over him as his vitals are checked and his body looked over for injuries, but Connor’s barely aware of it. He lets them, lets them poke and prod and do whatever the hell they want, because what’s the point in fighting them?

What’s the point of anything now?

He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing here at the back of an ambulance without a fucking scratch on him while his brother is somewhere in that wreckage, bloodied and broken and not knowing Connor is out here feeling like he’s the one who’s been crushed, wishing it had been him, because it was always supposed to be him. If they couldn’t go together, he damn well should have gone first, that was the plan, that had always been the plan, Murphy going first and leaving him alone was never supposed to happen...

And then Connor sees him.

He’s covered in so much ash he’d barely be recognizable to anyone but the elder MacManus, who would know his twin absolutely anywhere. Murphy is leaning heavily against another firefighter, half doubled over in a coughing fit, but when he looks up and meets Connor’s gaze, he stills and stares, like he’s trying to make sure what he’s seeing is real.

They start moving forward at the same time, both of them staggering a little as they all but crash into each other. Connor clutches Murphy to him like he’s a drowning man being thrown a life preserver and buries his face in his twin’s hair. His eyes water and he knows it’s not just because of the cloying smell of smoke and soot, but he doesn’t care.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, ya bastard,” he whispers against Murphy’s scalp.

“Told ya it was a stupid fuckin’ plan,” Murphy mutters, voice muffled by Connor’s shoulder.

Normally, Connor would tell Murphy to shut his trap, but right now he’s just so thankful to hear his brother’s voice that he’ll take any shit his twin decides to give him

And to be fair, it was a pretty stupid plan.

Chapter Text

Connor is at Murphy’s side the instant the shooting stops. He’d seen his twin go down shortly after the firefight started, and while Murphy had shouted that he was okay, Connor is frantic to check his twin over for himself.

“Murph? Are you okay?”

Murphy grunts, hands moving down to clutch at the fresh bullet wound in his left leg. “Fucking fine,” he mutters. 

Connor’s gaze moves down to the wound and his jaw clenches. It doesn’t look like the bullet hit an artery or anything, thank the Lord, but that doesn’t mean they have a lot of time to just sit here gabbing. He yanks off his coat and mutters that this will hurt before tying it as tightly around the wound as he dares.

He moves to pull Murphy until his arms, but the darker twin shoves him off. “I can walk, ya bastard. Just help me stand up.”

The only thing that stops Connor from arguing is the knowledge that Murphy will fight him if he tries to carry him right now, and the elder MacManus isn’t about to risk making his brother’s injury worse. So he carefully pulls Murphy to his feet, and is pleased when his twin leans heavily into him instead of trying to put all his weight on his injured leg.

Murphy takes a couple of moments to visibly pull himself together. He looks at the dead gang leader lying facedown on the pavement and huffs a laugh, saying, “Thought we were supposed to do him together, arsehole.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to worry about him shooting me in the back while I was busy checking on my idiot brother.”

“Right, because it’s my fucking fault I got shot.”

Connor glances down at where his coat is tied around Murphy’s thigh. “Don’t think we can go to the hospital for this one. Doc’s got a first aid kit, though. Think you can make it to McGinty’s?”

Murphy snorts. “Yeah, but you’re buying.”

Despite the seriousness of their situation, Connor can’t help rolling his eyes. “Fine.”

They set off slowly, Murphy limping badly despite his clear attempts to hide his pain. Connor watches him like a hawk, eyes peeled for any sign of a misstep, but it’s still not quite enough to keep Murphy from stumbling every so often. Connor grinds his teeth fighting the urge to say something - he’s never been able to stomach seeing Murphy in pain, and not for the first time he wishes his brother wasn’t so fucking stubborn.

After about ten minutes at this awkward pace, Murphy abruptly pulls away from his twin. “This is fuckin’ pointless and we both know it,” he grumbles, sagging against the wall. 

“The hell are you talking about?” Connor demands.

“Con, we’re getting fuckin’ nowhere with you dragging me around like this. It’d make a lot more sense if you just left-”

“Shut it. We’re not doing that.”

Murphy gives him a pleading look. “The cops’ll be all over the place soon. They find us, we’re fucked.” He clutches at the hem of Connor’s shirt with a grip that’s weaker than it would normally be, obviously from the blood loss. “Better one of us gets away than neither of us.”

Connor reaches up to fist his fingers in Murphy’s hair, bringing his twin’s head forward until their brows are pressed together. “Listen to me, ya bastard. I’m not leaving you behind. Not ever. If that means we both get pulled in by the Feds, that’s fuckin’ fine by me.”

Murphy closes his eyes as he takes in his twin’s words. Connor strokes his thumb along the back of Murphy’s neck, silently reminding his brother of the unspoken agreement they’ve had since birth.

Together. In everything.

They stay like that for several seconds, just listening to each other breathe, half-expecting to hear the shriek of sirens piercing the air any moment. Finally, Connor feels Murphy start to pull himself together and asks, “Ready to go, then?”

“Long as you’re still buying.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m buying, ya bastard.”

It’s not something Connor would ever say out loud, but he’d buy every last drop of whiskey in Boston if it was what he had to do to keep his brother with him.

Connor adjusts his grip so that he’s taking as much of Murphy’s weight as the other will let him, and Murphy takes a couple of deep breaths before they set off again.

Together.

As always.

Chapter Text

It’s so unusual for Billy to get hit in a firefight that Goodnight doesn’t even realize what’s happened at first. He sees the younger man fall, body jerking at the impact, but it takes his brain a couple of moments to register just what he’s seeing.

When his mind does catch up to his other senses, however, he freezes, a feeling of seething hot rage seeping into his bones. All thoughts of the Owl vanish, replaced with sheer, raw anger as he raises his rifle and takes aim at the bounty hunters who mistakenly thought it would be a smart idea to ambush them.

It will be the last mistake they ever make.

You gotta hate what you’re firing at!

Before the last body even hits the ground, Goody is falling to his knees at his lover’s side. “Billy! ”

“I’m fine, Goody,” Billy grunts, but one look tells Goody that’s clearly bullshit. A dark stain has blossomed on his thigh, one Goody knows would be a vivid scarlet if Billy’s pants weren’t black. The same scarlet that’s currently covering the hand Billy has pressed against his leg.

Goody ignores the way his own hands tremble as he pulls out his handkerchief and starts to tie it tightly around the wound. The only show of pain that Billy makes is a barely visible tensing of his jaw and shoulders, and the only reason Goody is even able to spot it is almost ten years of cohabitation.

“It’s not deep,” Billy says, but that just makes Goody worry more, because that means the bullet is still lodged in Billy’s leg. Memories of the war flash unbidden through his mind, arms and legs becoming infected, turning gangrenous…

“We’re half a day’s ride from the nearest town,” Goody chokes out. “They’ll have a doctor there.”

“Goody.”

Billy’s voice is quiet, but insistent. Goody looks up to meet the other man’s gaze and is struck by how calm Billy looks when he’s the one who’s been injured. Then again, if their places were exchanged - and Goody can’t help but wish they were - he knows Billy wouldn’t be as composed as he is right now.

“Billy…”

“I’ll be fine, Goody. I’ve had worse, we both have.”

Goody knows that, he does, but that’s never enough to stop the fear, the utter terror at the thought of losing the most precious thing he’s ever had in his life. He’d lived on this earth for twenty-eight years before meeting Billy Rocks, but God willing, he’ll depart this life without ever having to do so again.

He shakes off those thoughts for now. “Can you ride?”

“Of course.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “Help me stand up?”

Goody obeys, letting Billy lean heavily into him as they both get to their feet. When they’re both fully upright, Billy makes no move towards his horse. He brings the hand not covered in blood up to cup Goody’s jaw and murmurs in Korean, “We’re all right, love.”

And Goody lets the words sink into him, because while they may not always be true, they’re true enough for the moment. Later on, when they’re both settled in a hotel room and Billy’s drifted off to sleep, Goody will lie awake beside him and let the dark thoughts come back, but for right now, he merely pulls Billy against him and just breathes.

Chapter Text

Agron discovers it the first time they lie together.

He almost misses it in his overly eager exploration of Nasir’s body. His fingers are running along the back of the Syrian’s neck as Agron nips at his collarbone, delighted in the responses it earns him, when he feels an uneven patch of skin just below Nasir’s hairline.

Nasir immediately stiffens in his arms.

Agron jerks his hand away as if burned, because he is determined that no unwelcome touch shall ever be inflicted on Nasir’s body again. But he can’t stop himself from asking, “What-”

Nasir cuts off the question with a wave of his hand, and Agron is fully prepared to drop the subject entirely. But then Nasir shifts, sitting up so that his back is angled towards Agron, and reaches up to pull his hair away from his neck. A clear invitation.

Sitting up as well, Agron carefully brings his fingers up to brush against the edge of the mark on Nasir’s skin. Several raised lines form a Roman symbol, and while the scar tissue is old and closer to Nasir’s natural coloring, Agron has seen enough knife wounds to know exactly how it looked when it was first given.

The thought turns his stomach. He wants to know, but can’t bring himself to ask, can barely look at the mark without wanting to throw something.

Nasir must sense this, because he begins talking unbidden.

“A man that my Dominus was not on good terms with said he wished to buy me. My Dominus took offense, said I must have done something to encourage him. He decided to mark me with his initial - to make sure there was never any question of who I belonged to.”

“Was brand not bad enough?” Agron growls through clenched teeth.

Nasir gives a humorless laugh, touching one hand to his thigh, where his brand is usually hidden away by clothing. “Brand is not easily seen. He wished for a more obvious symbol of ownership.” The hand comes up to brush over the scars. “At least it wasn’t my face he chose to mark.”

Agron’s chest aches. With a tenderness he hadn’t thought himself capable of before he met Nasir, he leans forward to ghost his lips over the marred skin. “You belong to no one but yourself, Little Man,” he murmurs, because anger is not what Nasir needs right now.

The younger man turns so they’re once again face to face. “Do I not belong to you also?” Nasir asks, a small smile gracing his face.

Agron shakes his head. “If one of us is the master, it’s not me.” He presses their foreheads together and says, “You claimed ownership of me long ago, Nasir.”

Chapter Text

Faraday knows he’s fucked. They’re at least a full day from any kind of civilization, and there’s no way he’ll last that long, not with the bullet in his lung. He might not be a doctor, but he knows that the fact he feels like he’s trying to breathe water instead of air is a bad, bad sign.

He’s not scared of dying. Never has been.

But he’s scared of what will happen to the others when he’s gone.

What will happen to Vasquez when he’s gone.

Part of him almost wishes Vasquez wasn’t here to see this, but...if this is how he has to go, being clutched against a familiar chest by strong, warm arms, Faraday can’t bring himself to complain. He just hates the way he can feel Vasquez’s entire body shaking with barely suppressed sobs.

“Just stay with me a little longer, güerito,” Vasquez murmurs into Faraday’s temple. “Sam and the others will find us soon, Horne will…” He swallows audibly, fingers digging into where they’re pressed against the wound in Faraday’s chest. “Just...stay with me.”

Faraday wants to. He really does. He’d hoped for decades more at Vasquez’s side - something he’d never expected to want with anyone until he’d met the Mexican. But his luck seems to have finally run out this time.

“Vas,” he mutters weakly. He tries to push through the pain fogging his mind in order to find something, anything, to say that will comfort his lover, but for once Faraday is at a loss for words. Mostly because he knows that nothing he says right now will help.

Vasquez’s free hand comes up to card through Faraday’s hair in a festure of comfort, although Faraday’s not sure which of them the comfort is for. Faraday leans into the touch as best as he can, wanting to savor every last second with Vasquez before…

“M’sorry,” he mutters.

The hand in his hair stills for a moment. “For what?”

Faraday can’t bring himself to say, “for leaving you,” so instead he shrugs weakly and says, “Gettin’ shot.”

“You can apologize to me later, güero.”

“Vas…” He rests his face in the crook of Vasquez’s neck. “There’s not-”

“Later, Joshua.” Vasquez’s voice is choked and strangled and it hurts more than any physical injury ever could.

Faraday wants to indulge his denial a little longer, but they’re running out of time fast and this isn’t something he’s going to leave unresolved. “Listen, you damn Texican. I’m fucking bleeding to death right now and that’s made me a mite ornery, so I need you to shut up and listen to me.”

Vasquez flinches, jaw visibly tightening, but he doesn’t say anything, so Faraday counts that as a win. “Sorry we didn’t have more time,” he says with a weak smirk, the face in front of him blurring a little. “Would’ve liked to see you go grey. Bet you’d’ve looked real distinguished.”

“If you didn’t make me go grey by now, nothing will.” There’s a slight smile on Vasquez’s face when he says it, and even though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, Faraday takes it as a good sign.

“Gonna have to watch your back a little more carefully from now on. Won’t be there to do it for you.”

Vasquez swallows. “And I should have watched yours more closely.”

“Vas.” Faraday reaches up to brush his thumb against the familiar scruff. “Wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame yourself for this or I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.”

“I wish you would,” Vasquez chokes out. “Joshua, I can’t…”

Faraday is starting to feel more than a little dizzy, but he pushes through it. “You’ll be okay. You’ve got Sam and the others.”

Vasquez presses a kiss to his forehead. “But I won’t have you.”

“I know. But it’ll be okay.” Faraday’s vision has grown fuzzy at the edges and he’s struggling to make out his lover’s expression. “Wanna thank you.”

“For what?”

“This. What we had.” He gives what he hopes is a comforting smile. “Never thought I’d have something like this, but…” He trails off, struggling to pull air into his lungs.

Despite his fading vision, Faraday is pretty sure he can see tear tracks on Vasquez’s face as the older man murmurs, “Thank you, querido. For being the best thing that ever happen to me.”

Neither of them need to say the words “I love you,” not when those words have been exchanged between them silently a thousand times every day for the past several years. Faraday hears them loud and clear in the way Vasquez cradles him closely and brings their mouths together in a desperate kiss, and he knows Vasquez hears them just as clearly in the way Faraday clenches his fist in the fabric of his shirt like he never wants to let go.

And then Faraday’s hand goes limp, the last of his strength leaving him. He slumps against Vasquez’s warmth as his vision goes completely dark, feels himself slipping away, and an odd peace settles over him like a quilt, because he knows Vasquez will be all right, and the others will be all right, and that’s all that matters to him.

The last thing he’s aware of before everything stops is his favorite sound: Vasquez saying his name.