Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Discontent: (noun) a restless desire or craving for something one does not have

1.

There are a lot of things Sherlock is prepared for when he bursts into 221b at one in the morning, precisely two years after his supposed death. He expects that after he and John have a long, grueling conversation filled with anger, pain, and apologies, John will pull him into a fierce hug and fondly call him a bastard or a git, or something to that effect. Then they'll spend the rest of the night talking by the fireplace, John in his chair, Sherlock in his own, recounting the two years they spent apart, reminiscing on the great times they had in the past, and perhaps even planning great times to have in the future.

Sherlock is not a man of delusions, though. He understands that John sometimes reacts to emotionally-intense moments with physical violence, so he is completely prepared for the scenario of John giving him two black eyes and a few well-deserved shoves.

What he is not prepared for, however, is for the flat to be cold and quiet and clearly uninhabited.

Confused, he stumbles through the door and flicks on the lights, only to be greeted by a room full of white sheet-covered furniture. The dust is an inch thick on any given surface, rolled-up carpets rest against the wall alongside a lone stack of papers and one haphazardly sealed box, and his bookshelf is completely barren. Only his skull remains in its familiar perch on the mantel.

At first, he thinks he must be experiencing some sort of hallucination. After all, it's been a while since he's slept (forty six hours and ten minutes, to be precise) so it could very well be his hazy, overworked mind playing tricks on him. He desperately wants to believe this is the case, but the white cloth beneath his fingertips and the sharp smell of dust feel undeniably real.

Something fierce and panicked roars inside his chest when it occurs to him that John has done the unthinkable and moved on. Sherlock has been forgotten.

The thing is, this wasn't supposed to happen—this wasn't part of the plan. He wasn't prepared for this.

He did not spend two years in what he can accurately call his own hell only to come back to find his old life in tatters. He did not spend every single second of his 'death' thinking about John, regretting all the times he should've done something but didn't, or wanted to say something but refrained, and planning out the perfect apology and most sincere confession, only to realize John has moved on just fine without him.

He did not kill himself for this.

2.

When he finds out John is engaged, an unexpected ache blossoms inside his chest like a rose, all thorny and robust and thoroughly unrelenting.

"Isn't it wonderful, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asks as she refills his glass of orange juice at breakfast, precisely forty eight hours after he has rejoined the land of the living.

Sherlock's heart withers inside his chest, but he does his best to look unaffected; the habit of keeping a steely expression and cold eyes despite great internal distress has apparently stuck with him. He pushes his eggs around his plate and tries to appear neutral. "Yes, it is wonderful. I wonder why John failed to mention it to me when we spoke."

Mrs. Hudson frowns and pauses in her task of brewing their tea. "Now that's odd. He's been practically shouting it from rooftops ever since he proposed a month ago. I wonder why he didn't bring it up."

The thing is, it wasn't supposed to be this way. When he was hunkered down in a rat-infested motel in Dzershinsk, drinking cheap liquor from a paper bag and awaiting his next mission, he kept his spirits up by imagining what John would say when Sherlock finally confessed that he loved him.

When he was wandering the slums of Bremen, kicking up puddles of exhaust and smoking himself halfway to lung cancer, it was the image of 221b that kept him from leaping into the icy waters of the reservoir and ending it all.

When he was trapped against a brick wall with an assassin's knife at his throat in Brescia, it was the thought of John that kept him from pushing into the blade and welcoming sweet death. 

John was what kept Sherlock afloat during these past few years; he was Sherlock's only light, his source of hope.

But John, apparently, got on just fine without him. 

3.

There is a lot to say, but neither of them say it.

They don't talk about anything important, John doesn't get angry, Sherlock doesn't fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, and nothing goes according to plan, because apparently there is someone named Mary in the picture now, and that really changes everything.

"She's incredible, Sherlock," John tells him one afternoon while they're unpacking boxes and moving Sherlock's things back into the flat. "You'll like her."

Then, John has the gall to pat his knee and smile as if there is even one iota of a chance that Sherlock will not abhor whoever has stolen John away from him.

"Yes, I'm sure." He places another book back onto the shelf with more force than is perhaps necessary.

After that, they don't say much except for John occasionally asking if this goes there or if that belongs here. Sherlock doesn't mind the silence because it's far better than hearing about Mary Elizabeth Morstan (soon-to-be-Watson) and all of her wonderful, admirable traits.

Bitterness coats his insides like tar, and although he is well aware that it's cruel, he hopes that Mary turns out to be an awful woman who will break John's heart and send him running back to Sherlock. Guilt nips at the tail end of this thought, but not enough to make him regret wishing for it.

...

Two hours into it, John breaks the silence and says, "I missed you, you know?"

Surprisingly, he isn't looking at Sherlock, he's staring down at something in his hands with a faraway look. Closer scrutiny reveals that it is a picture of the two of them that Sherlock cut from the papers a few years back. It seems John framed it while he was away.

Sherlock swallows hard and looks resolutely at the floor. He already knows that whatever he says won't even come close to what he actually feels for John, and for that reason alone he almost forgoes responding altogether. However, the last thing he wants is for John to think that Sherlock does not care about him, so he puts down the box of old files and looks at him.

"I missed you too, John. Every single day."

If things were different, he might've punctuated that confession with 'I love you'. He might've reached out and grabbed John's hand and pulled him to heart like he's wanted to for the longest time. He might've told him about the countless nights spent staring at motel ceilings, desperately counting down the seconds till his return to Baker Street.

But things aren't different, so instead of doing any of these things, Sherlock goes back to stacking papers and John resumes shelving books, and the two of them continue dancing around the elephant in the room. Even though John is only a few feet away, the distance between them might as well be ten thousand miles.

…

So glad you're finally going to meet Mary! Do you need the address of the café?

I'll find it. SH

Sherlock, thanks again. I really appreciate this.

…

That night, he dreams that he is swimming in the ocean and John is waving to him from the shore. Sherlock wants to go to him, but every time he attempts to swim towards John, the water surges back and holds him in place like a steel fist. He flails about uselessly and tries to call John's name for what feels like hours, but his voice is muted and the water level continues to steadily rise. Before long, John grows tired of waiting and leaves.

It's when he realizes that John isn't coming back that Sherlock finally stops struggling and allows himself to drown.

4.

"Hi, I'm Mary," she says with a smile. Her eyes are as green as sour apple gumdrops and her laughter is reminiscent of chiming bells and summer evenings spent on the beach. There is elegance in her hands, grace in her smile, kindness in her words, and a nonspecific sort of beauty emitting from her like beams of light.

"Sherlock," he says and shakes her hand.

She's a nurse. He can see it in her precise movements, sharp, intelligent eyes, and the way she doesn't look phased when the conversion briefly dawdles near corpses from a recent case. His supposition is proved correct when she tells him that she and John first met at the clinic. She has well-kept nailbeds, shiny blonde hair, a cardigan sweater, and dimples at either end of her smile. She is the epitome of John's 'ideal woman'.

Mary beams at him. "It's so lovely to finally meet you, Sherlock. John talks about you constantly."

John ducks his head. "Now, now, love, it's isn't constantly…"

Mary just chuckles and places her hand over John's, gazing at him warmly from across the table. Equally enamored, John stares back, his features nearly unrecognizable in their blatant tenderness and adoration.

The whole display causes a strange ache to settle inside Sherlock's chest.

Without doubt, she will give John a perfectly acceptable life. There will be Christmas cards with pictures of the family, baked goods cooling on the counter each morning, and neatly-ironed, freshly-laundered clothes hanging in their shared wardrobe. John will come along on cases with Sherlock occasionally, perhaps when he has nothing better to do, but at the end of the night he'll always return to his warm house and beaming family, and Sherlock will go home to a quiet flat with empty rooms.

The Watsons will have charming children, a nice house, and a beautiful garden bursting with color. John will work happily at the clinic while Mary continues her career as a nurse, and the two of them will lead a lovely, picturesque life until they are buried side by side in their designated, flower-adorned grave plots.

"Er, Sherlock? Are you alright, dear?" Mary asks.

Mary is all John has ever wanted in life; she is stability, she is beauty, she is constancy, patience, and kindness all wrapped into one convenient, feminine package.

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and flutters his fingers anxiously against the table top.

It does not take a detective to understand that John's family portrait—equipped with the house and the kids and the wife—does not include his lanky, looming form. He doesn't fit in and it's a miracle in itself that he's managed to keep John's company this long.

"Sherlock? Hello? John, is he alright?"

It's only been fifteen minutes and their drinks haven't even arrived yet, but Sherlock can't stand to be here another second. Mary is saying something—probably to him, judging by her gaze and gesturing hands—but his blood is rushing in his ears too loudly for him to hear.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asks. He looks mildly concerned, probably because Sherlock has barely spoken three words and is currently making a point of ignoring whatever Mary is telling him.

Sherlock stares at John for a long moment, gives him a veiled look, and then abruptly stands. His glass of water is untouched. "This has been lovely, but I'm afraid something vastly important has come up. Apologies, Mary. Shame we couldn't have chatted."

Without another word, he sweeps out of the café in three long strides, his hands fisted inside his pockets and his jaw clenched tightly. Outside, the pavement is slick with rain from this morning's storm and Sherlock nearly slips in his haste to distance himself from the building. His eyes sting with moisture and a sharp, terrible pain thrums behind his ribcage.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what the bloody—hold on, will you?" John shouts as he pushes his way out of the café, the front door's bell chiming in his wake.

John's stride is much shorter than Sherlock's so it takes a bit of jogging for him to catch up. When he's close enough, John reaches out and grabs the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, pulling him to a halt.

"Sherlock," he pants, "what the hell was that back there? What came up?"

Sherlock pointedly looks away, his tone flat. "You wanted me to meet Mary, correct? Well, now I've met her. A prolonged interaction was unnecessary and I have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment."

Having caught his breath, John straightens and releases Sherlock's coat. "Oh?" he says with a frown. "What's more important than this?"

Sherlock suddenly feels the strangest urge to hurt John. Not physically—he'd never do that. No, instead Sherlock has the cruel urge to make John feel as miserable as he does; he wants John to feel that rotting ache behind his ribcage, that stabbing pain that pierces his heart like a knife, that dread that drags itself all the way down to his toes. He wants John to understand how bloody miserable he feels. And he knows exactly how to do it, too. His words can be cutting when he wants them to be.

"Perhaps staring at a blank wall," he replies coolly. "Or maybe watching paint dry."

His words provoke the intended reaction and John immediately looks angry. Unfortunately, he also looks hurt, but Sherlock supposes that's collateral damage he'll just have to live with for now.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Do you not like Mary?"

Mary is perfect and, more importantly, she is normal. She's exactly what John wants. However, she is nowhere near what John needs.

Rainclouds assemble overhead. Sherlock keeps his tone even and detached. "She's dull, John. Insipid."

Now John looks furious. He steps towards Sherlock and Sherlock backpedals into the mouth of the alley, his back hitting the brick wall behind him. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, what's your problem?"

Tension crackles and spits in the air like embers of fire. He can practically hear John's heart pounding—can practically feel it from their close proximity. Yearning scorches the insides of his chest so fiercely that the sensation could easily be mistaken for anger. If this were a different day, he might've ducked down and kissed John. He might've pressed his lips to every inch of his skin and sobbed into John's neck from the utter relief of it.

But today is not that day. John is Mary's now—only she can do those things.

"Problem?" he laughs, because the only alternative is to sob. "I don't have a problem, John. You have a problem. You're trying to convince yourself that she can give you the kind of life you want, but she can't and you know it as well as I know it."

Sherlock wants to say awful things, he wants to fight. He knows he's goading John and he's pretty sure that John knows it too, but they're both obviously itching to hash things out—for different reasons, of course—so, instead of being a rational adult and calming down, Sherlock gets harsher.

"She's dull and typical, John. I thought you'd already moved past the pathetic phase of your life in which you intentionally sought unsatisfying things. Don't begrudge me for not being impressed with this false little suburban existence you're endeavoring to construct for yourself, and do not dare resent the fact that I abhor this virtuous, picture-perfect woman you've chosen to place at the center of your terribly misguided universe—"

"Shut up!"

When John's fist connects with his face, white stars explode behind his eyelids and sharp pain scorches through his skull like liquid fire. His nose is in agony. He staggers back and braces himself against the brick wall, pausing for a moment to take stock of the situation. John is breathing heavily and staring at him with regret on his face and blood on his knuckles. He looks like he hates himself.

However, Sherlock doesn't want an apology. He wants his face to ache—it provides a lovely distraction from the pain blooming in his heart.

"You broke my nose," he marvels, allowing the blood to drip over his lips and down his chin.

John's voice is shaky. He takes a step closer. "Sherlock, I'm sor—"

Sherlock takes a large step back. "Don't."

Overhead, the heavens split open and the rainclouds begin to weep.

"I don't like Mary," he repeats, and he isn't quite sure why he says it, only that the words are sitting there on his tongue and he has no pressing reason to hold them back.

John looks up at him with tired eyes. "You're so selfish, you know that?"

Sherlock doesn't feel like laughing anymore. He laughed earlier because at the time it felt marginally better than crying, but now he suddenly feels too tired for either. Subdued, he drops his gaze to John's shoulder and plucks at the hem of his sleeve. "Yes. I know."

John flexes his sore fingers and stares down at the crimson streaks across his knuckles. "You were gone for two years, Sherlock. You were dead and now you've just decided to waltz back into my life and demand that everything fall in sync with your plan. What about me? What about what I want?"

Sherlock exhales, feeling as if he has the weight of the world on his breath. "What do you want, John?"

"You were dead," John repeats, as if that answers anything. "Maybe if you hadn't—if you—I don't know, if you hadn't disappeared for all that time, maybe things would be different. But now, I just…I want," he runs a frustrated hand through his hair and looks skyward. "I want you to not hate her. I want both of you in my life, alright? That's what I want. Please, just give her a chance, Sherlock."

Two years ago, he told himself that he wouldn't lie to John anymore, so instead of promising anything, he settles with a nod. It's acknowledgement, at least.

"I really must be going," he lies. "Busy schedule and all."

John bites at the inside of his cheek. "I'll call you, okay?"

Sherlock's smile is twitchy and forced. He knows there are bloodstains on his teeth but he shows them anyway.

"Yes. Okay."

…

But it isn't okay.

So he goes home and breaks a few things, and winds up where he usually does, holed up in John's old bedroom on the unused mattress, burying his nose into the material and trying to conjure up John's scent. It's pathetic and useless—like most things he does these days—but he can't seem to help himself. He thinks perhaps he needs distance from John, just until he can get his head on straight and put his heart back in his chest where it belongs, instead of on his sleeve for the world to see.

Chapter Text

Distance: (noun) the space between two places

1.

After three days of static silence, he receives a text from John.

It's two in the afternoon and he's right in the middle of a very important experiment involving a myriad of semi-toxic chemicals, but the moment his mobile lights up with John's name, he drops everything. After peeling off his gloves and collapsing onto the sofa, Sherlock stares at the small, dimly lit screen of his mobile for so long that the letters appear on the backs of his eyelids when he blinks.

I'm sorry for breaking your nose.

Sherlock isn't surprised that John was the first to reach out; it was only a matter of time before his guilt forced him to apologize. However, the last thing Sherlock wants is an apology. If anything, he should be grateful that John only broke his nose. Sherlock provoked John—he pushed at his buttons and said things he knew would hurt him, all for the sake of soothing his own petty heart. The fact that John contented himself with just a punch was an act of kindness.

However, he knows John Watson and he is well aware that John doesn't see it that way.

I deserved it. Don't apologize. SH

No, you didn't deserve it. Don't say that. I lost control, it's my fault.

Sherlock absently touches his healing nose with an index finger and thinks, No, I most certainly did deserve this. But, of course, John Watson, the ultimate bearer of guilt and good heartedness, isn't going to agree with that.

There's quite a bit he'd like to tell John—namely, that he only said those things because he's a broken hearted fool with no self-restraint—but the mountain of unspoken things seems too vast to compact into one message.

Do you think we could get lunch tomorrow? Need to talk to you.

His kneejerk reaction sends his fingers flying across the keyboard in haste to reply with an enthusiastic 'Yes!', but right when he's about to hit send, it occurs to him that if he goes to lunch with John, John will think things are okay between them. And if John thinks things are okay between them, he'll feel comfortable enough to bring Mary along the next time they go out, and before Sherlock knows it, he'll be back to square one, having terrible coffee dates with the soon-to-be Watsons, while John and Mary smile adoringly at each other and Sherlock stares uncomfortably at the tabletop.

And, see, that's the tricky part about not talking about things: it always results in bottled up something or another, which in this case happens to be heartache and misplaced anger. The wise thing to do would be to address the problem at the source and finally talk about those terrible two years they spent apart. The wise thing to do would be to let John scream and shout and get everything off his chest, instead of allowing the unsaid things between them to fester in the air like poison. The wise thing to do would be to tell John why he jumped, why he had to leave and lie and deceive, and make him understand that he is the only thing in Sherlock's miserable life worth saving. The wise thing to do would be to confess that losing John would be like losing his own heart.

But Sherlock has never claimed to be wise, so instead of doing any of this, he lies.

I'm afraid I can't. Currently in the middle of an important case. SH

In reality, his schedule is as free as a bird. He hasn't taken a case in days and the last time he was offered the prospect of work (this morning when Lestrade stopped by with a stack of files) he promptly refused, figuring that brooding in his empty flat was more enticing than solving some halfwit crime.

However, despite the complete availability of his schedule, he is in no shape to see John.

Tuesday then.

Sherlock stares at the message, his heart aching at John's persistence.

He takes a deep breath and does not allow his resolve to waver. What he needs right now (and for the foreseeable future) is to distance himself from John and wait until his emotions settle. If he tries to see John now, it will most likely end in the same manner their last meeting had, and that'll just bring misery for them both. It's in both his and John's best interest that the two of them avoid each other for a while. There's simply too much tension and energy charging in the air right now—things need to simmer down before anything resembling normalcy can begin to return to their relationship.

Busy. SH

Wednesday? Thursday?

As I said, it is an important case. SH

Well, let me know when your schedule frees up. I want to see you.

Will do. SH

Then Sherlock throws his phone back onto the table and continues doing nothing, his empty schedule stretching out before him like an endless, vacant road.

2.

"John hasn't come around for a while dear, is everything okay between you two?" Mrs. Hudson asks one evening as she restocks Sherlock's fridge.

"Yes, yes, everything is fine, Mrs. Hudson, we simply have a lot going on in our respective lives at the moment."

She pokes her head out of the fridge to give him a doubtful look. "Really, love? Because you haven't moved off that sofa in about a week."

She certainly isn't wrong about that, but pride and stubbornness prompt Sherlock to deny it. "I've done plenty in the past week, Mrs. Hudson, though perhaps you were too busy with your incessant fretting to notice." He wraps his dressing gown around himself and flops onto the sofa with a huff, the silk material whipping dramatically around him like a cape.

"Now don't get sharp with me, dear," she warns, waving a finger at him. She plucks a jar of marmalade off the top shelf and turns it over in search of the expiration date. "Besides, love, there's no need to lie to me. I've known you for some time now, Sherlock, I can tell when something is bothering you. Now, why don't you tell me what is happening between you and John?"

"I assure you, nothing is amiss with John and I, so kindly stop insisting otherwise because—"

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson interrupts, placing the jar onto the counter with a loud thud. "Please, stop with that."

She crosses the short distance between the kitchen and the sitting room and puts her hands on her hips, brow furrowed and expression blazing, looking like the embodiment of matronly chastisement. "If you claim that everything is fine one more time, I will contact John Watson myself and find out what is going on, because I do not appreciate being lied to. I want to know why my two favorite tenants are no longer speaking to each other." She sighs heavily and leans against the wooden threshold of the kitchen, her eyes going soft. "I know how much John means to you, dear, and I also know how private you are about your emotions, so I won't pressure you into telling me anything. I just want you to know that whatever this is about, whatever is happening between the two of you, is only an obstacle. I have no doubt that you two will overcome it."

Memories of Mary's pretty smile flicker before his eyes. He thinks about the way John kissed her hello and stared at her like she was the sun, and the notion of him and Sherlock 'overcoming' anything seems exceptionally unlikely.

"Perhaps you're right, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says eventually, because he knows she's waiting for a response. "We'll figure it out."

She beams. "I know you will, dear. That's the spirit!"

Now weary, Sherlock closes his eyes and ears and descends somewhere quiet, his face pressed into the cushions of the sofa. Mrs. Hudson says something in dulcet, comforting tones, but it doesn't reach him inside the soundproofed walls of his empty, echoing mind palace.

...

Are you free this week?

Murder case, 3 victims, no connections. Busy. SH

You said the same thing last week, only then it was a kidnapping. And the week before was grand theft.

I'm a busy man, John. SH

I talked to Lestrade yesterday. He said you haven't taken a case in a month.

Sherlock why are you avoiding me?

Can we talk?

Sherlock.

Please?

3.

"I miss him," Sherlock tells his skull one evening. There is, of course, no reply, so he sighs morosely and places it back on the mantel, then trudges off to bed for yet another dreamless, restless sleep.

…

Nights are especially lonely, so to fill the silence of the empty, dimly lit flat, he plays the violin until his fingers cramp and his wrists ache. Red-eyed and exhausted, he conducts symphonies before the sitting room window, watching as the sun spills like yolk over the early morning stretch of horizon.

[You have 9 missed calls and 4 voice messages]

January 30, 5:15pm

Oh, that was the beep. Okay, right, I suppose that's my cue then. Er, Sherlock, it's John. I don't know why you aren't answering your phone but it's starting to worry me. I mean, I know you're physically okay because Mrs. Hudson and I chatted yesterday and she said you were fine, but…well, I just wonder why you won't take my calls or answer my texts. Are you angry with me? I know I shouldn't have punched you and I haven't stopped hating myself for it since it happened and—god, I'm just, I'm so sorry, Sherlock I lost control. I was an idiot and if I could take it back I would.

Just, please call me back when you get this. I miss you.

January 31, 8:30pm

I had a few pints with Lestrade the other day and he told me you aren't taking any cases. Mycroft would've alerted me if you were anywhere near drugs again, and I don't imagine you'd be content with sitting around the flat watching telly every day for several weeks, so I can't puzzle out what you're so preoccupied with. You said you were busy but you've got nothing on and that means you're just ignoring me for the sake of ignoring me. Please, Sherlock, just tell me what I need to do to fix this.

February 1 st , 1:15am

Right, got the machine again.

February 2 nd , 2:30am

Mary thinks I need to give you space. She says I need to stop pestering you with calls and messages because you're a 'grown man with a lot going on in his life right now' and it's 'no big deal' that you're busy all the time because 'that's how things are sometimes.' She says I'm overthinking things. I don't know, maybe I am. Maybe this is how things are going to be between us from now on: you doing your own thing, me doing mine. Except—no. You know what? I'm not content with that. I lost you for too long to just give you up again so easily. You said things that hurt me that day, Sherlock, and I know I did my own fair share of damage. But you can't keep ignoring me like this and trying to sweep what happened under the rug. In case you've forgotten, I can't read people the way you can. I don't know what's wrong with you just by your silence. I don't know how to make this better and I never will unless you tell me. I told you what I want already: for you and Mary to be in my life. I love Mary, Sherlock, and it would mean the world if you at least liked her. You're very important to me and…sometimes I just, I wish you — I don't know, if only you hadn't….

You know what, it's too late at night to be saying this. I can't sleep which is why I'm calling you at such an ungodly hour. Maybe you're still awake too. Or you're sound asleep like the rest of London's sane residents. Yeah, alright, I think I'm gonna go. I'll probably wake up Mary if I keep talking. Call me back or text me when you get this. Hell—send up smoke signals in the sky. I'll take anything.

Goodnight, Sherlock.

*beep*

[You have saved 4/4 messages]

4.

Sitting around the flat and pitying himself loses its luster fairly quickly, so on the eighteenth day of ignoring John, he peels himself off the sofa, shrugs into his coat and a pair of decent trousers, and despondently makes his way to St. Bart's in hopes of finding something to distract himself.

Molly, may I use the lab today? SH

Of course, Sherlock! Is this for an experiment or a case? xoxoMolls

Experiment. Preferably a tissue dissection. SH

Okay, sounds good. I'll meet you there :) xoxoMolls

After not seeing daylight in so long, the outside world seems blindingly bright and intolerably loud, and it's all so overwhelming that he winces as soon as he steps out of the flat. Thankfully, the journey from the flat to Bart's is a short one.

…

As soon as Sherlock enters the lab, a little bit of tension immediately melts from his shoulders. The room is clean and smells strongly of floor cleaner and chemicals, and the walls are lined with the familiar vials and tools that he's been using for years. This place is his second home, his safe haven: his escape.

Molly is somewhere behind him babbling and giggling nervously, but Sherlock ignores her in favor of searching for the new shipment of lab tools.

Unfortunately, there are no good bits left over from the latest murder—which he missed during his sulking binge the previous week—but there is however a jar of perfectly serviceable ring fingers in the ICAC freezer unit, and Molly will be happy enough to give them to him as long as he makes sure to smile and 'ask nicely'.

"Molly?" he smoothly interrupts, "Could I ask something of you?"

She stops telling her story immediately and raises her eyebrows, her expression bright and open. "Of course, Sherlock, what do you need?"

He takes two brisk steps and plants himself in front of the freezer's metal door, ready to ask for the jar, when it occurs to him that perhaps there are more important things he ought to ask of Molly. She seems willing to listen to whatever he'd like to say (which is not particularly surprising since Molly is the sort of person who genuinely cares about other people's problems) and she is one of the few people he feels semi-comfortable discussing personal matters with. He supposes that if anyone should be privy to the emotional conflict warring inside of him, it ought to be the beaming woman before him.

Decided, he moves away from the freezer and seats himself on a stool at the counter, figuring this conversation is one he'd rather have sitting. It's a long, complex subject to broach, so he starts with something simple. "Out of curiosity, what do you think of Mary?"

She follows his lead and takes a seat on one of the tall metal stools. "John's fiancé? Well, she's friendly and quite beautiful, and she seems to make John happy, so I suppose I like her. I've only shared a few polite conversations with her, but from what I gather, she's a lovely woman."

His fingertips drum in discord against the cold metal tabletop. "Yes, of course."

It's hardly a surprise that Molly feels this way, because Mary happens to be quite charming. His half-hearted hope of discovering a flaw within Mary's seemingly perfect persona wanes, but doesn't die entirely. He clears his throat and attempts to appear unaffected, deciding to use a different route of questioning. "Were you in contact with John when he began dating Mary?"

Molly bites the inside of her cheek, a vaguely troubled look passing over her features. "We weren't in contact right when they started seeing each other, so I didn't see the immediate change in him. But I did see him a few months after you, er, died, and he was an absolute wreck." She frowns and looks away. "I bumped into him at Tesco's last year and he looked fifteen pounds lighter, sleep-deprived, and half-dead. We had a strange, extremely brief conversation—something about the rising cost of apples? I don't know, we were standing in the produce section—and then he brought you up out of nowhere. He just started talking about how you used to leave your lab reports everywhere and how you'd always hack into his laptop no matter how many times he changed the password. I wasn't really sure how to respond, but it didn't seem to matter because John had this hazy look about him, as if he was alone with his thoughts and wouldn't have heard me anyway.

"The next time I saw him was three months ago, and let me tell you, he didn't even look like the same person. For one, he actually visited me, which was shocking in itself since he hadn't left the flat in more than a year. Even more surprisingly, he actually looked happy. He was flushed and smiling and his old humor was back in place—I couldn't believe that the subdued, hollow-eyed John I'd seen in Tesco's that afternoon had somehow transformed into the grinning, lively man before me. Goodness, and when he talked about Mary his entire face just lit up like a firework."

Storm clouds gather under Sherlock's skin, sending sharp envy and shame roiling through his veins like waves of frozen water. "So, what you're saying is, John is better off with Mary?"

"Yes, I'd say so, he's—" she cuts herself off suddenly and narrows her eyes at him, her gaze questioning. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably under her surprisingly piercing gaze.

"Sherlock," she says slowly, "what is this about? Why are you asking these things?"

"No reason. I was simply curious about how John's manner changed when he met Mary."

"You looked pretty surprised when I told you about the Tesco thing…did he not tell you about how he felt while you were gone?"

"It hasn't come up," Sherlock says quietly.

He of all people managed to break John Watson, the infallible solider and steady-handed doctor. A sharp jolt of self-hatred cuts through Sherlock's heart like a knife.

"What do you mean it hasn't come up? Have you two talked to each other about those two years at all…?"

Something hot and wet pricks at the backs of his eyes and the sensation is so unfamiliar that Sherlock initially fails to recognize them for what they are: tears. Or, at least the beginnings of them.

"Molly, I actually just remembered I have important business to attend to at Baker Street, I really must be going. Thank you for answering my questions. Your responses have…enlightened me."

"Sherlock, wait, where are you—"

But he's already out of the lab with the door slamming behind him before she can finish the sentence.

…

Later that night, he spends three solid hours pacing in the sitting room, trying to decide whether or not to call John. On one hand, he wants to talk to John and make amends, but on the other, he can't get over Molly's anecdote. It has only confirmed what Sherlock has always suspected about himself: even with the best intentions in mind, he can't seem to stop ruining John's life and branding him with scar after scar after scar of emotional trauma. Mary wouldn't do that to John, and it is with that thought in mind that he realizes he is not worthy of John Watson. He supposes he never was.

Still, for the rest of the night, it takes every ounce of will power not to pick up his phone.

5.

On the following Tuesday, Sherlock wakes up, drinks half a cup of bitter coffee, checks the blog for cases, and doesn't call John. On Wednesday, he forgoes the coffee and tries his hand at tea—fails—and then pointedly doesn't call John. Thursday and Friday are similar in that he watches telly for the entirety of both days and also on both days, does not call John.

By the time Saturday rolls around, he decides that the temptation is torture, so in a fit of temporary madness, he thrusts the sitting room windows open and dangles his phone over the pavement, prepared to drop it and bid adieu to any possibility of contact. Thankfully, however, his sense returns to him when he realizes that he is about to destroy his very expensive mobile just to avoid the urge to make a phone call, so he pulls his arm back inside, closes the window, and goes to lie down on the sofa to clear his tangled thoughts.

...

That night when he goes to bed, he removes the battery from his mobile and tucks it under the couch cushion where he won't be tempted to use it.

Two hours later, he sneaks back downstairs to retrieve the battery. He almost wishes he hadn't though, because only twenty minutes after his battery is replaced, the phone buzzes with a new text. He doesn't read it until he is back upstairs, buried under the sheets, his solemn face illuminated by the blueish-glowing screen of his mobile.

In the inky darkness of his room, he stares at the text with a heavy heart.

Are you awake? Talk to me. Please.

For the next thirty minutes, he sits in bed with his knees pulled to his chest and his gradually-dying phone in his right hand, trying to think of a way to respond that will let John know why he's doing this without revealing too much. He spends hours typing a dozen messages phrased in every possible way, but doesn't send a single one.

John, this is for your own good. You're better off with Mary. You don't need me anymore.

[UNSENT]

I hurt you so much, why would you still want me in your life?

[UNSENT]

I can't stand to be around you when you're with her because it hurts me to see how happy she makes you.

[UNSENT]

I hate that you love her so much.

[UNSENT]

Why can't you love me the way you love her?

[UNSENT]

Why can't you love me?

[UNSENT]

Chapter Text

Guidance: (noun) advice or information aimed at resolving a problem or difficulty.

1.

The next evening, Sherlock decides that if he has to spend another night alone with his thoughts, he'll go mad. So, with a heavy heart, he slips his coat haphazardly over his pyjamas, stomps into a pair of scuffed oxfords, and grudgingly hails a cab to a place he has never visited willingly: his brother's home.

On the ride over, he reevaluates his decision, fingers tapping moodily against his knee, and wonders if this whole thing is a bad idea. The fact that he is about to spend an entire evening with the bane of his existence speaks volumes on his growing desperation for company. He briefly considers ordering the cabbie to turn back around, but images of his empty, desolate flat jump across his mind's eyes and he reluctantly resolves that even the company of his brother is preferable to the unsettling stillness of his home.

I'm stopping by. SH

I didn't hear a request in that message. What if I am entertaining guests? MH

You aren't. SH

It's rude to presume, brother. MH

It isn't a presumption if I'm correct. I'm 5 minutes away, so kindly rid yourself of your imaginary guests. SH

Manners, Sherlock. MH

He's well aware that this is his brother's roundabout way of saying 'feel free to come over', in the same way that Mycroft undoubtedly knows that Sherlock's message is his roundabout way of saying 'I'm alone and I need help'. In the private corners of his mind, Sherlock realizes that he is quite lucky he and his brother are in sync enough to understand the meaning between the lines. He supposes it pays to be well-versed in the language of unspoken words.

…

Mycroft, thankfully, doesn't make a big deal of it, and merely crooks a silent brow when Sherlock shows up at his door with cigarettes in his shaky hand and misery written clear across his face.

He simply says, "Come in, brother, I don't imagine you'd like to stay out there in the cold," and Sherlock drifts inside, tired and gloomy and wracked with relief.

…

Ten minutes later, they stand side by side on the balcony of Mycroft's office, smoking in silence.

Despite the serene setting and quiet atmosphere, Sherlock feels as if his mind is on the brink of implosion. Life without John, he realizes, is a life without peace. He can't think straight or eat right or solve cases without John's hurt, confused expression floating before his eyes, and it's making him sick with guilt. Sherlock is aware that he has no right to ignore John like this, especially since he hasn't even told him why he is ignoring him in the first place, but the pain of seeing John with someone else is far too strong to overlook, and he still can't bring himself to talk to him. Along with that keen stab of heartbreak, Sherlock also feels ashamed of himself for hurting John so badly during those two long years. Memories of Molly's story drift hauntingly through his mind, painting dreadful images of a hollow-eyed John ambling through London like a ghost.

But even though the shame and remorse chew at him like starving rats, Sherlock still can't bring himself to regret his decision. John's life was on the line and he would've done anything to ensure his safety.

He understands that John is entitled to his feelings of anger and abandonment. He understands that in his absence, John found someone else to place at the center of his universe. It only makes sense that he would seek another partner rather than sit around the flat, grieving uselessly over his deceased flat mate. Sherlock completely understands. However, it is one thing to understand something logically and entirely another to understand something emotionally. Being the petty, heartsick human that he is, he believes that he should be the one with John Watson at his side, not Mary bloody Morstan. Unfortunately, reality does not agree.

"Is it difficult spending your life alone, Mycroft?" he asks into the silence. The crickets sing into the empty pause that follows and the wind continues to sigh mournfully through the trees.

Mycroft takes a long drag and exhales deeply. Against the black backdrop of night, it looks as if his soul is spilling out of his mouth.

"I'm not alone, Sherlock," he answers eventually. "I have my work, my family, and my mind. There's hardly enough room in my sphere of existence for anything more than that."

Sherlock takes a deep, slow drag and lets the smoke circulate in his lungs. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Then clarify, brother."

Love, he wants to say. How does one live their life without love, knowing the splendor it has to offer? There was certainly a time when Sherlock would have scoffed at the notion of fearing loneliness, but that was back when all he knew was solitude; he never longed for company or the emotional fulfillment of a relationship because he'd always deemed those things useless, and it was quite easy to abstain from something that had never graced his existence. However, now that he has stepped to the other side of the spectrum and experienced this blessed (cursed) emotion, he hasn't the slightest idea how he can be expected to live without it. He wants to ask Mycroft, how do you live like this? How are you content with being alone?

"How does one live without a companion, is what I meant," he answers eventually.

Mycroft looks at him from the corner of his eye and takes another lazy pull from his cigarette. "I assume we're talking about your doctor, correct?"

Sherlock quietly relishes the possessive pronoun. His doctor. His John. "Yes."

"Well, brother, I'm not sure I can provide useful advice, being that I've never encountered such a person or circumstance in my life. What you and Doctor Watson have is unique and exceedingly rare." He blows a curl of smoke into the night sky. "Though I'll admit, I was under the impression that you didn't want anything to do with John these days. You haven't spoken to him in more than a month, yes?"

Has it really been a month? Christ, it's hard to tell. The days just seem to bleed into one another.

"Yes, we haven't corresponded in some time."

"And why is that?"

Sherlock clenches his jaw and resolutely looks ahead. "Because it hurts. I hate that I lied to him for two years and every time I even think about John, I can't help but feel guilty and ashamed. I destroyed him, Mycroft, I don't deserve to have him in my life." Sherlock plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and paces restlessly across the balcony. "And then there's the whole issue with Mary. I just…I can't be around him and his lovely fiancé and be expected to just smile and act as if I don't care that John is getting married soon and moving on with his life. I can't hold my tongue about Mary and I can't stop thinking about how much I want John. I want him, Mycroft. I can't pretend not to."

There is a beat of silence before Mycroft evenly replies, "You can and you will pretend, Sherlock, unless you'd like to lose John entirely."

The way his stomach dips at that notion makes the act of smoking feels repulsive, so he grinds the tip of his fag into the bannister and snuffs it out. There is ash on his fingertips. "Pardon?"

"It's quite simple, brother. You have two choices: you can assimilate to the situation and accept that Mary is going to be a permanent fixture in John's world, or you can rebel against John's choices and eventually force him out of your life for good. Either adapt or die, Sherlock: nature's rules."

Sherlock scowls, annoyed that his brother has reduced his situation to something so simple. As if any of this is that easy. "And I suppose you think I'm a fool for worrying over this, don't you?" he asks sharply.

Mycroft gives him a sideways glance. "Sherlock, you are being defensive and paranoid. I do not think you are a fool, however I do think you're going about this quite foolishly. I understand that you feel guilty for deceiving John and I also understand that it is painful to be around him and his fiancé, but the fact of the matter is, you must deal with both of those things if you have any intention of keeping him in your life."

"There has to be another option," Sherlock insists, still pacing restlessly, "You're oversimplifying things, Mycroft, this situation isn't so black and white."

With a tone bordering on exasperated, Mycroft replies, "Well I suppose you could die again. Perhaps fake your death every once and a while to renew his concern for you."

"Don't be sarcastic about this, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps.

"Then don't ask questions you know the answer to," Mycroft retorts. "Of course there is no third option. I just told you what you can do, either take the advice or continue estranging John out of indecision. I don't care very much what you do."

There is a long beat in which Sherlock clenches and unclenches his jaw and Mycroft calmly lights his second cigarette. Eventually, his brother breaks the silence with a cool, measured tone.

"Make a definite decision and stick with it, Sherlock. Do not be hesitant because hesitance leads to inaction and inaction results in failure. You are not someone who is made to fail, so I suggest either fighting for John's friendship or setting it free. None of this 'in between' rubbish."

"That's quite easy for you to say," Sherlock bites. "You've never felt pain like this."

"Perhaps that is true. But that has no bearing on the fact that you are exceedingly poor at handling conflict, brother."

Sherlock glares. "At least I don't eat my pain."

Mycroft smiles blandly. "And at least I do not smoke mine."

Sherlock scoffs. "Kindly step off your high horse, Mycroft, you have a cigarette in your mouth as we speak."

"Yes, but unlike you, I smoke to my victories. And at the moment, my life is something of a success."

"Well, isn't that lovely for you. Would you like a prize? Perhaps another useless certificate to add to Mummy's fridge back home?"

Mycroft just lifts a brow, looking amused. "Don't bring Mummy into this, Sherlock, you know that road only leads to pettiness. Anyhow, as it turns out, I already have a prize."

Sherlock gives him a dry look. "Oh really? Do share."

Mycroft's expression turns serious. He snubs his cigarette into the cement railing of the balcony, looking thoughtful. "You, Sherlock."

Sherlock stops glaring and freezes, his mind halting at the unexpected response. "What does that mean?"

"I mean that my greatest victory, my greatest achievement, is you, Sherlock. Who you've evolved from and who you are today. I've always taken a great personal interest in you—and at times a great personal investment—because I know you have good things on your horizon. There have of course been obstacles, but in the end, I've never doubted that there is something worthwhile at the end of your 'path', so to speak. I can't put my finger on what that is exactly, but I know that there is solace there. Perhaps even contentment. I smoke to my victories because you have surpassed all expectations I had for you in the best of ways; I know I've always told you that caring is not an advantage—and it isn't—but it is also an unavoidable human flaw, and you've not only learned to live with it, you've also learned to thrive in spite of it.

"I'm not telling you these things to embarrass you, or shame you, or make you feel guilty; I'm telling you these things because I'd like you to know that my advice comes from a place of sincerity. I want to see you succeed in every endeavor you embark on and, more importantly, I want you to have contentment in your life. In this case, your friendship with John hangs in the balance, and since I know how vital he is to you, I caution you to do everything in your power to ensure that he remains a part of your life. I recognize that heartache will inevitably accompany this decision, so the choice essentially boils down to whether or not you're willing to endure that pain in exchange for John's companionship. Only you can decide that, Sherlock."

There isn't much to say in response to that, so Sherlock just braces himself against the bannister and stares blankly ahead. "I…I thought you said you don't care what I do," he says eventually.

Moonlight winks over the surface of Mycroft's dark eyes. He smirks without malice. "I lied. We Holmeses are not exactly known for telling the truth, are we?"

Despite how difficult he always expected it to be, when he finally comes around to expressing gratitude, the words come rather easily. "Well, thank you, brother, that was—" he searches his suddenly barren vocabulary for the proper word "—nice."

Mycroft scrunches his nose. "Come now, Sherlock, Mummy isn't around, no need for such sentimental language."

Sherlock huffs an awkward laugh and Mycroft gives him a faint smile in return, and Sherlock thinks that this is what the rest of the world must mean when they say 'brotherly companionship'. It's a strange but not an entirely unwelcome sensation. He is by no means under the impression that this single moment will reconstruct the dynamic of their entire relationship, but it has certainly allowed a bit of understanding to slide into place. Comfortable silence settles over them like a fine layer of snow, setting Sherlock's tense shoulders at ease.

Sherlock knows with absolute certainty that Mycroft is right about John; Sherlock can either accept his choices and be a part of his life or risk losing John forever.

Although a life with married John will be difficult and extremely painful, a life with no John is the kind of existence he'd rather die than endure. Besides, by ignoring John, he's not only hurting himself, he's hurting John as well, and he's already caused the man enough pain. It is time to stop hiding behind excuses and fear and finally confront this situation head-on. It's time to paste on a smile and make things work.

Sherlock looks up at the stars, a feeling of acceptance settling in his chest. "I've got to start pretending now, don't I?"

Mycroft sighs and brushes ash from his hands. "Adapt or die, Sherlock. Adapt or die."

2.

Briefly, Sherlock worries that it's too late to completely rectify things between them (perhaps John has grown tired of waiting?) but his fears are assuaged the next morning when he opens his laptop to yet another new email from John. Hope flutters desperately in his chest as he hungrily devours every word.

From:  JohnnyWats221

To:  SHolmes-ScienceofDeduction

Subject:  talk to me, you git

You haven't been answering your phone or replying to texts for about a month now and at this point I'm getting desperate, Sherlock. If you fail to respond to this email (which I've specifically sent to your work inbox so you'll have to see it), then my next option is a carrier pigeon. After that, two tin cans and a string. And if you still refuse to speak to me, I'll have no choice but to scale the walls and break into the flat through a window, possibly throwing out my back in the process.

Please, Sherlock. I miss you, alright? Talk to me.

John

Sherlock soaks in the richness of every word: the slight humor, the pleading, the admissions, and the unabashed sincerity. He can practically hear John as he reads and the phantom sound of his friend's voice is more comforting than he expects. After a minute, Sherlock takes a deep breath and carefully constructs a reply, mindful of keeping his tone as neutral as possible. Something nervous and excited wriggles in his chest at the notion of seeing John again.

From:  SHolmes-ScienceofDeduction

To:  JohnnyWats221

Subject:  [no subject]

You'd hardly throw out your back, John. You have remarkable climbing skills. However, if you'd still like to break in, I'll be home tomorrow around noon. I can make tea if you'd like.

Oh, and kindly refrain from sending any pigeons. I don't care for birds.

SH

Chapter Text

Apology: (noun) a written or spoken expression of one's regret for having insulted, failed, injured, or wronged another.

...

1.

The night before John's arrival, Sherlock falls asleep at one am and rises only three hours later, feeling restless and jittery. He tries to compose, but the instrument in his hands feels hollow and stiff, so he then moves on and attempts to conduct an impromptu experiment on ficuses, only to discover his fledgling plants expired sometime last week when he apparently forgot to water them. The dusky, quiet morning is looking quite bleak, so to stave off the urge to do something reckless (like procuring a gun and shooting holes is his valiantly-healing wallpaper), he sets about organizing the flat.

Sherlock isn't sure what sort of appearance he should be endeavoring to uphold, but just in case he's supposed to seem 'collected and untroubled' when John arrives, he tidies up and makes sure everything is in its designated place. It wouldn't do to let John see the chaotic mess his life has descended into, and the piles of untouched dishes and angrily-torn case files are plain evidence of that fact.

Only after he has hoovered the carpet, dusted the furniture, and organized his haphazard, cluttered bookshelf, does he realize that by cleaning up he is making it glaringly obvious that something is wrong. A spotless flat is not a sign of his glowing mental health, it's a clear indication that his life without John became so shambolic and terrible that it necessitated a thorough cleaning—in short, the exact opposite of what he would like to convey. The last thing he wants is for John to realize how lost and desperate he has been.

With that in mind, Sherlock takes all of the books back out of order, bends them at odd angles, and leaves them lying around the sitting room, making it seem as if he, enamored with his endlessly thrilling novels, simply had too much going on to bother placing the books back where they belonged. After that, he takes sample #8 of his ash experiment and sprinkles it across the carpet, rubbing it in with his heel to give the appearance of moderate filth without making it seem too unkempt. And finally, he completes the image by mussing up the couch cushions and carefully blotting a coffee stain onto the arm of his chair.

He surveys the charmingly disheveled sitting room and nods his approval. The flat says, See, I am not terribly pathetic without you, but I'm also not entirely content either. It says, I had plenty to do in the time we spent apart, but I will happily make room for you in my schedule because you are incredibly important to me. And most importantly, it says, Remember the pleasant homeliness of this flat? The comfortable mess, the warm atmosphere? Remember the good times we had here? Don't you miss it?

Don't you want to come home?

Sherlock shakes his head and derails that last train of thought. It won't do to think like that. The point of this meeting is not to persuade John to move back—unfortunately that is not on the table unless he'd like Mary to come along as well, which he most assuredly doesn't. It is about apologizing to John and making an effort to fit into the small corner of John's life he has been allotted. His plan is to apologize for ignoring John's attempts at contact and excuse himself by saying he simply 'needed some time to himself'. He'll keep things light by asking how Mary has been, perhaps make boring smalltalk to put John at ease, and then, once comfortable companionship has settled over them once more, he'll say something witty and needle-sharp to break whatever remaining tension is simmering in the air. John will giggle in that high pitched, endearing way of his, and Sherlock's mouth will tick up in an amused smile, and before either of them know it, they'll both be laughing at the utter absurdity of each other just like old times.

Despite the faint thread of anxiety shivering inside his chest, Sherlock feels reasonably in control; he has nearly every aspect of this meeting planned out and for once there are no surprise variables that might pop up. It's just him, John, and a series of apologies.

Sherlock sighs and stares out the window, willing John to arrive sooner.

2.

At precisely 11:59, Sherlock hears the familiar thud of John's footsteps coming up the stairs, but he hardly has time to relish the sound before the door swings open. There, standing in the threshold, is the object of his affections, the owner of innumerable terrible jumpers, and the man who has resided at the center of his universe from the minute he met him.

"Er, hello," John says with a small smile. "It's been a while."

All at once, Sherlock's resolve to keep a polite distance for the initial portion of their meeting dissolves into nothing. He can't help the gush of relief that crashes through him like a flood and he is equally helpless to stop the smile that breaks across his face.

"John," he breathes and it sounds like a sigh.

He rises from his chair and hurries over to the door to take John's coat, which he immediately realizes is ridiculous because when John lived here they never used the coatrack, save for the one time Sherlock was forced to use it as a weapon against a rather unwelcome intruder. However, Sherlock finds that he needs something to do with his hands and hanging John's jacket is a perfect way to occupy himself while he endeavors to reassemble the previously unshakable plan he spent all morning formulating. John seems to recognize the detective's need for a moment to regain composure, so he happily hands over the clothing and makes his way further into the sitting room, admiring the space as if it were an exhibit in a museum.

"Just as it always was," John says to himself, sounding both awed and nostalgic. He smiles affectionately at the sight of their two chairs, posed in the exact arrangement they might be in if he and Sherlock were occupying them. His dark eyes wander along the knick-knacks on the fireplace, the artful chaos of the evidence wall, and the stacks of case files splayed across the coffee table.

Sherlock has so much to say that his chest is positively aching with the volume of it, but as most of the pronouncements involve either begging John to return or spilling his messy, tangled emotions at John's feet (and neither of those would be particularly beneficial to the current situation), he bites his tongue. With steeled nerves, Sherlock firmly shoves those urges deep down and refuses to entertain them.

"John, it's very good to see you. I…I missed you quite dearly," Sherlock says instead, turning away from the coatrack to face him, not caring in the slightest that his expression probably looks just as earnest as he feels. He didn't realize how badly he missed John until he was standing right before Sherlock, smiling a little unsurely, with his beautiful eyes and achingly familiar mannerisms.

Something equally genuine rushes across John's face. "Yeah, I missed you too." He exhales a bit shakily through his nose and raises his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "A lot, actually. Couldn't sleep or function properly this whole month."

Sherlock doesn't intend for the truth to roll off his tongue, but it does. "Me neither."

Any pretense of lightheartedness evaporates from the air and quite suddenly Sherlock just wants to stalk over to John and embrace him hard enough that their bones crush together and their hearts slam in sync.

"John, shall we sit?" he asks, forcing his voice not to quaver. John nods and sinks into his chair, a look of nostalgia briefly flitting across his features at the familiar sensation.

Sherlock sits stiffly in his own chair, his mind suddenly as blank as a sheet of paper. He can't recall what he planned to happen next. Words are occurring to him just as quickly as they are leaving him, and the silence of the room is beginning to feel a bit more oppressive than peaceful. After what feels like a decade of just sitting there, actively avoiding each other's gaze, the universe finally takes pity on them, and the phone rings.

The sound is loud and shrill in the quiet flat, effectively cutting through the unbearable stillness like a knife. Even though Sherlock wastes a trip to the kitchen only to find that the caller is an obnoxious salesman peddling refrigerators, he is grateful for the interruption nonetheless.

When he puts the phone on the counter and returns to the sitting room, John seems to have thawed in his absence, because the moment Sherlock sits down, he says, "You wouldn't talk to me for a month. Why?"

Surprisingly, his tone is neither angry nor particularly distressed. It is perhaps a little hurt and somewhat frustrated, but more than anything John just sounds overwhelmingly neutral. Sherlock finds it incredibly unsettling to be unable to read him.

However, before Sherlock has the chance to begin, John puckers his brow and follows up with, "Is it really just because you don't like Mary?"

This is the hard part. "I…" he drops his gaze to John's shoulder, temporarily at loss for words. He takes a breathe. "I do not dislike Mary. I know it doesn't seem that way considering what I said on the pavement that day, but I truly bear no ill will towards her, John."

Even to his own ears, his voice sounds too mechanic. It lacks inflection and sincerity, and although John is certainly no consulting detective, it doesn't take a genius to recognize the hollowness of his words.

"Oh?" John says sharply. "So, what, you just said those things on a whim?"

"No."

"Then why, Sherlock. Speak."

The lie feels like poison when it leaves his tongue. "I…wasn't thinking."

"You weren't thinking?" John repeats slowly, his anger finally making its appearance.

Sherlock is actually a bit relieved because it's far easier to deal with a furious John than a curiously blank one. At least now he'll know where he stands.

"You weren't thinking? Since when do you not think when you say something, Sherlock? Every damn thing to leave your lips has some sort of purpose, no matter how small, so there's absolutely no way those things you told me were meaningless. No," he shakes his head, "there was definitely a reason. You called her insipid, Sherlock. You said she'd never be able to give me what I want. You said horrible, bloody awful things about my fiancé and if you didn't say those things because you hate her, then why the hell else would you say them?"

"John—"

"Do not insult my intelligence by telling me that you just said those things because you buggering felt like it, because there was unmistakable intent to your words, Sherlock, there was a blunt edge to every word and you never make such serious statements lightly. Hell—I punched you in the nose because of it! There was an end to your means and it sure as hell wasn't just because you didn't think it bloody through."

The temptation to just blurt out the truth—it's because I'm disgustingly jealous of Mary and can't stand that she gets to have you—is nearly overwhelming. Sherlock has to physically bite down on his tongue to refrain from saying anything aloud. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, all too aware of John's shaky, infuriated form practically emitting waves of anger next to him.

With renewed resolve, Sherlock swallows and summons the lines he spent all morning rehearsing. "The truth is I…I needed time for myself, John. I only returned to London a few months ago and there are still many things I have to face within myself before I can surround myself with people I care about. I spoke harshly about Mary in an attempt to drive you away, ensuring my own solitude. I didn't mean what I said. She is not insipid. In fact, I'm…I'm happy for you. For the both of you."

As Sherlock speaks, he realizes that there is a grain of truth in what he is saying. What happened during those two years was scarring (both physically and mentally) and it is important that he set aside time to deal with his 'demons'. Of course, the more traumatizing internal conflict has to do with his unrequited love, not his distress over what transpired while he was dismantling Moriarty's web, but since he cannot divulge the truth to John, this explanation will have to suffice.

There is also some measure of accuracy in his statement regarding Mary: he still believes that Mary will never be enough for John, but he doesn't hate her. He is just terribly, irrevocably jealous of her.

Conflicting emotions war on John's face, one side demanding that he soften his words and comfort Sherlock, the other shrewdly noting the omission of truth in the detective's statement. But because John Watson is the kind person that he is, he ends up entertaining the former.

"Sherlock," he says at length, a note of unwavering sympathy in his tone, "I'm sorry that you felt like that. I can't even begin to imagine the things you faced during those two years and I wish I could somehow erase that pain. But…but you have to understand that I went through a dreadful time, too. My best friend was dead and the world seemed bleak and pointless. I felt as if I was a dead man walking half the time and the other half I just wanted to sleep away the misery." John runs a tired hand down his face and leaves it there for a moment while he takes a deep breath. "We didn't really talk about this enough when you came back, we just sort of glossed over it and tried to move on, but that didn't really work did it?"

John's eyes grow solemn and he scoots closer to Sherlock, his body perched on the very edge of his chair. "Listen, the reason I'm saying this is because I want you to recognize that when I say what I'm about to say, I am in no way demeaning your emotions. They are completely valid. I just…I just don't understand why we couldn't have worked through them together. Like I said, it was a shitty two years for both of us, so doesn't it make sense that we'd help each other heal instead of isolating ourselves and making everything that much worse? I don't know about you, but there was nothing healing or helpful about not talking to you for four weeks, Sherlock. I was a miserable, pathetic sod and I could hardly bother to get off my arse and go to work most days. It hurt like bloody hell too because I didn't understand why I was being ignored. It never occurred to me that you were trying to mend yourself and conquer internal conflict. Now that I know what you were going through, I'm sorry. I should have tried to understand better. I should've been more patient."

Guilt clings to his insides like stalagmites, his chest a hollow cave glittering with shame. John is so goodhearted and kind that he thinks that he was selfish for not being understanding of Sherlock's 'healing' process, when in reality Sherlock is the selfish one who hid in the shadows just to avoid the pain of seeing John with someone else. He can't stand it.

"John, there is nothing to apologize for. You didn't know. I myself am terribly sorry that I hurt you by isolating myself and I shouldn't have said those things about Mary. It was uncalled for and cruel. I do hope you'll forgive me."

John's mouth remains pressed in a line, but his eyes regain their warmth and his expression softens. "I'll forgive you a thousand times over if you do one thing for me, Sherlock," he says.

It doesn't even occur to Sherlock to question John's terms. He says yes as soon as John poses the deal.

John takes a deep breath and, shockingly, takes Sherlock's hand in his. His dark-blue eyes look deep and imploring. "Sherlock, for my sake, please make an effort to get on with Mary. It's important to me that you at least tolerate her. She's my fiancé and you're my best friend and I desperately want you to like her, okay? All I want is for you to try. If you can do that for me, then all is forgiven."

Sherlock knew this was going to be expected of him from the get-go, but his heart constricts nonetheless. "Yes, John, of course. I'll try again."

"Thank you," John breathes.

His heart stutters and stops in his chest when John releases his hand and pulls him into an embrace, his hands fisted in the back of Sherlock's shirt. As if by muscle memory, Sherlock instinctively pulls John closer. He smells like cinnamon and laundry soap and something earthy and indiscernible, something that is entirely John. Despite the fact that he's never hugged John like this before—for such a long period of time and with such fierceness—the embrace feels completely natural, as if they've done this kind of thing every day. Since neither seem inclined to pull away, Sherlock tightens his grip on John and very slightly nuzzles the side of his face against John's hair, humming a low note of approval. He doesn't even have the chance to wonder if it's too much because John simply sighs in response, sounding about as relieved and content as Sherlock feels.

When they finally break apart a few moments (or millennia) later, Sherlock's eyes settle on John's outfit with a note of interest. "I like your jumper," he praises, gazing appreciatively at the light blue clothing.

John crooks an eyebrow. "Well, you did buy it for me, I should think you'd like it."

"Evidently, I have impeccably good taste."

John snorts in amusement. "Do you now?"

Sherlock's smile grows crooked, his eyes dimming from jocular to sincere. "I'm friends with you, aren't I?"

The creases around John's eyes grow more pronounced as he smiles in return, all soft edges and warm colors. "Yeah, you are. I'm glad."

After that, John changes the subject to the most recent case Lestrade presented to Sherlock, pointing out that he really ought to help the poor sod out because there is no way anyone at the Yard will realize that 810 is not the area code of the killer, but the mailbox address of the victim. Sherlock complains about Anderson's incompetence and John pretends to chide him while he suppresses laughter, and the two of them banter and converse as if it's two years ago and nothing has changed.

They spend the rest of the afternoon talking about new cases and reminiscing on old ones, hardly noticing the sun's gradual descent or the fluid passing of time.

3.

So you're sure about this, then? 

Of course, John. I meant what I said. I'm willing to try. SH

You don't know how much this means, Sherlock. Thank you. The address is 377 Edgeware Rd, Mary and I will be there at 1pm. 

I'll see you then, John. SH

...

Sherlock 'tries again' two weeks later at a quaint restaurant with a one page menu and an impossibly small staff. It bears a striking resemblance to the place where the three of them first met, so Sherlock deduces that either Mary has a particular fondness for cafes or John somehow thinks that a smaller environment will make this whole exchange easier. Sherlock supposes it doesn't particularly matter, because either way he's still here, seated next to John and across from Mary, wondering what on earth to say.

When the server pops by, Mary orders a cup of decaffeinated coffee and a blueberry muffin, John chooses a slice of chocolate pie and tea, and Sherlock politely declines the offer of breakfast entirely.

"Sherlock, love, it's my treat! Help yourself." Mary coos after the waiter has gone, placing her hand over his in what she surely intends to be a comforting, welcoming gesture.

Sherlock forces a smile and removes his hand under the pretense of stretching his fingers. "Thank you, Mary, but really, I'm fine. As John can tell you, I don't eat much."

John playfully nudges his shoulder into Sherlock's. "Yeah, not unless I'm there feeding you up, you great bony git. I swear you've lost weight since you've been living on your own."

"Hardly. I'm quite sure my weight has not changed, John," Sherlock replies.

John stares accusingly at the exposed vee of skin at the top of his shirt and frowns at the sharp collarbones protruding there. "Speaking of which, how many square meals do you eat each day, Sherlock? And don't lie, I can tell when you're fibbing."

Strangely, Sherlock feels the ice in his chest begin to thaw at John's familiar nagging. "Three, just as you've told me to eat, Mother."

"Now that," John says with bright eyes, "was a lie. Go on, tell me the truth."

He pretends to be put out, but in truth he feels impossibly pleased to know that John still cares about inane minutia like this. It's strangely comforting. "I eat now and then when the case files aren't particularly interesting. Most of the time, though, Mrs. Hudson stops by with a meal."

"Ah. And she's still claiming not to be our housekeeper?" John asks with a grin. Sherlock's heart clenches around the word our but he does his best to look unaffected.

"Of course," he drawls, "Much in the same way that Mycroft is still not overweight and Anderson is still not an absolute fool." To Sherlock's utmost delight, John chuckles at that, and the sound is enough to set Sherlock's blood ablaze within his veins. There are champagne bubbles under his skin. Warmth floods his chest and his heart explodes like a firework.

For a moment, it's as if they're back at Baker Street, sitting across from each other at the breakfast table or side by side on the sofa, sharing jokes and familiar banter.

Then reality comes crashing in when Mary seamlessly wedges herself back into the conversation.

"Speaking of cases, have there been any interesting ones lately, Sherlock?" Mary inquires, her eyes sparkling with interest.

"Yes," he says, after a sufficiently awkward amount of silence has passed. At John's expectant look, he reluctantly elaborates. "Er, there have been two murders and one theft in the past few months. Surprisingly, the theft was the most interesting."

"Ooh, tell us about it then!" she insists. She looks like a caricature with her head tilted dramatically to the side and her chin cupped in her hand. All that's missing are a few cartoon question marks floating over her head and then she'd be the complete epitome of overly-enthusiastic curiosity.

He almost wants to take another drink just to make her wait more, but since he doesn't particularly care for water and John looks like he wants to hear what Sherlock has to say, he decides against stalling. "Well, some time ago, a man reported theft, certain that the perpetrator was a colleague of his. However as it turned out, it was the man's supposedly 'doting and loving' wife who had been siphoning from his account for more than a decade and using the money to purchase a variety of drugs. With a little investigating, I managed to find ten thousand pounds worth of Cocaine and Heroin that she'd hidden beneath a loose floorboard in their bedroom. It was hardly a clever hiding spot, though, which was somewhat disappointing."

"Brilliant, Sherlock, how'd you find it?" John exclaims at the same time that Mary asks "They let you on drug cases?"

It takes Mary only a second to catch herself and immediately look contrite. "I am so sorry, I don't know where that came from. It's just, John's told me you struggled with—that in the past and I imagine it must be very difficult to be around so much temptation." She clears her throat. "But that's none of my business, my apologies."

Sherlock raises a brow. Something dark and mean inside him relishes the misstep. See, John, she isn't so flawless after all. 

"I deal with drugs quite often because it comes with the territory, but I haven't indulged for years. Thankfully John has never known that side of me, and since I am quite steadfast in my sobriety, he never will."

"Yes, of course," Mary nods. "Again, apologies, I always end up with my foot in my mouth at some point during a conversation, especially when I'm a bit nervous." She giggles uneasily, consoled only when John places a kind hand over hers.

"Nervous?" Sherlock questions neutrally. "Why?"

"Well, it's just, John is always talking about how incredible and wonderful you are and he just thinks so highly of you…and, well, I desperately want us to get along. It's a bit daunting to meet with someone as brilliant as you, Sherlock."

A conflicting series of emotions pass through Sherlock like the scenery outside a car window. First there's a warm flush at the thought that John speaks so kindly of him, then a flicker of triumph at Mary's unease, but in the end he realizes that no matter what John thinks of him it'll still be far less than what he thinks of Mary; Sherlock can win all the consolation prizes he wants but it'll always be Mary who owns John's heart.

"No need to be nervous, John thinks the world of you, Mary. I couldn't dream of measuring up." Sherlock offers tight smile. "In fact, if anyone's to be nervous, it should be me."

At that, Mary grins, John gives him a questing look, and Sherlock hides his trembling lips behind a long drink of water.

Chapter Text

Challenge: (noun) a task or situation that tests one’s abilities

1.

One week later:

“Sherlock, are you listening?”

“Of course, John, please continue,” Sherlock encourages, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder. Talking to John is always a treat, but talking to John and dissecting the large mound of intestines Molly gave him as an ‘early birthday present’ is practically Christmas. He slowly cuts into the ascending colon, careful not to jostle his arm enough to drop the phone.   

“Well, Mary’s going out of town for a few days to visit her sister and I was wondering if it would be alright if I stay with you at Baker Street? I can sleep on the sofa.”

Sherlock smiles, pleasantly surprised by John’s request. “Of course, John, you can always come over. And nonsense about the sofa, your bedroom is just as it was, you can sleep there.”

There’s a brief pause on John’s end and then a blur of words, but Sherlock hardly registers any of it because he is at a pivotal point in his experiment and cannot afford distractions. He carefully positions his knife at the entrance of the sigmoid colon, slowly drawing the blade down. Two slashes later, an unidentified dark liquid oozes out of the pyloric sphincter and Sherlock immediately recognizes it as the answer to his hypothesis. He drips some of the goo onto a slide and examines it under his microscope, both annoyed and thrilled to find the solution is what he least suspected.

“Of course, why didn’t it occur to me sooner!” he exclaims, placing his scalpel flat on the table. “It wasn’t in the steak, the poison was in the wine—Christ I’m blind. Really must call Lestrade about this…”

“Sherlock? Still with me?”

“Hm? Oh, my apologies, John. I just made a discovery that ties up my latest case quite neatly. What was that you just said?” He lifts his shoulder to adjust the phone, making his way over to the sink to wash his hands.

“I said, you haven’t cleaned out my room yet?”

Sherlock scoffs. “No, of course not. Why would I?”

“Well, to get another flat mate, I suppose. Or to use the extra space as storage.”

What John is suggesting is not unreasonable—in fact it’s incredibly practical—but for some reason, the thought of replacing or moving any part of John’s room for someone else’s use sends Sherlock’s heart plummeting to his feet. As ridiculous and sentimental as it is, that room is the last piece of John that belongs solely to him and he’d sooner burn down the entire flat than alter it in any way.  

“I have enough space around the flat for my things and I never plan on having another flat mate. You’re irreplaceable, John.”

Self-deprecating as usual, John insists otherwise. “I’m really not, Sherlock. I’m just as ordinary as the rest.”

Sherlock silently marvels at that fact that John still has no understanding of his own importance. John is a single glittering star within an otherwise dull universe and no one will ever outshine him; to search for a better flat mate—or even a better friend—would be pointless because no such person exists.

Sherlock turns on the sink and scrubs his hands beneath the cold tap. “The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions,” he quotes.

“Who said that?”

“Confucius. The point is, despite what you seem to think, you are incredible, John.” Sherlock finds that the words are surprisingly easy to confess. He’s never been particularly skilled in expressing his emotions, but in this case, the truth just rolls right off his tongue. “You are kind, brave, patient, and intelligent, and you never cease to amaze me.”

“Sherlock, I—” John stops and starts again. “Thank you.”

Sherlock smiles to himself and turns off the sink, drying his hands and finally removing the phone from its uncomfortable perch. About time, too, his neck was starting to get a crick. “What time would you like to come over tomorrow?”

“What time is good for you? Mary is leaving at two pm.”

“Then come at two-thirty,” Sherlock suggests, not caring that he sounds eager. “I don’t have anything important on for tomorrow, so I’ll just be here.”

He relishes the smile in John’s voice when he replies, “Smashing. I’ll see you then.”

2.

Preceding John’s arrival the next day, Sherlock prepares a rather impressive spread for lunch (thanks to the eager assistance of Mrs. Hudson, of course) and makes a point of wearing his best clothes. Typically, fashion falls to the bottom of his list of ‘important matters’, but since he knows that John favors his plum-colored button down shirt paired with the black blazer, he makes a point of wearing them. At precisely 2:30 on the dot, there’s a knock at the door. As Sherlock heads over to answer it, he smiles to himself at John’s ingrained military punctuality.

“Come in,” he greets, immeasurably pleased to find that John is wearing the lovely navy-blue jumper that brings out his eyes. “I made lunch.”

John steps into the flat and stares at the feast on the coffee table with wide eyes. “You sure did,” he agrees dazedly. “Christ, is all this food for the two of us? You really didn’t have to go through the trouble…”

Sherlock waves it away and ushers him into the kitchen. “Nonsense, John, it took no time at all. Mrs. Hudson was in one of her cooking moods and I had already wrapped up my latest case. I assure you, it was no trying task. Here, take a seat. I made custard tarts.”

…

An hour into their meal, Lestrade bursts into the flat, unannounced. The DI is halfway through reciting a case by the time he notices that he's clearly interrupting something. He stops short, looking sheepish.

“Er—hello, John,” he says awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “Didn’t realize Sherlock had company, I’ll just come back some other time…”

“Hey, don’t stop a case on my account,” John protests, standing from his chair with a look of determination. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock stares between John and Lestrade, trying to deduce whether John genuinely wants to interrupt their lunch or not. From the angle of his jaw and the set of his shoulders, he seems eager enough. Besides, the two of them haven’t taken a case together in two years and it’s about time they get back to it.  

Satisfied with his deductions, Sherlock tears his focus away from John and faces Lestrade. “We’ll take it. I see this case is particularly difficult judging by the stress-induced perspiration stains under your armpits, so kindly explain it in the most detail possible.”

Lestrade has to purse his lips to physically hold back an indignant reply, but he valiantly powers through with the debriefing—though he does plaster his arms to his body in order to make the stains less apparent. “Four people have been killed in the past two days, all the victims are unrelated in every discernible sense, there was no weapon at any of the crimes, the killer managed to avoid leaving a single trace of evidence, and the causes of death were all different. Poison, gunshot, slit throat, and tampered medication. The only reason we’re inclined to believe these deaths are linked at all is because each person has died within exactly ten hours of the last, and there’s no way that’s just a coincidence. At the moment, we’re looking into the latest death, Sydney Carmichael, a seventy-something year old chap in retirement. Interested?”

Sherlock puts down his tea with an audible clink and rises from his chair, seconds behind John, who is already hurrying towards the door. “Text me the address and we’ll meet you there.”

3.

As they stand outside the flat, flagging down cabs, Sherlock can’t help but notice the vague aura of hesitation surrounding John. It appears that something is troubling him. Sherlock stares at his profile with keen eyes as they stand on the pavement waiting for the car to pull up, dissecting the minutia of his breathing patterns, pupil dilatation, and stance. By the time they step inside the car, Sherlock has it figured out.

“Mary’s told you that you shouldn’t come with me on cases,” he states casually once they’re seated inside. He averts his gaze to his phone, pretending to research something.

“She told you?”

Sherlock purses his lips, minutely disappointed that he was correct. Shot in the dark and all.

“No, but it was hardly a difficult deduction. Judging by the contrast between the eagerness in your eyes and the hesitance of your gait, it’s clear something is preventing you from enjoying this as much as you usually do. It can’t be the case itself as this is at least an 8.5; it isn’t your sudden aversion to danger either because I’ve felt your pulse three separate times in the past twenty minutes and it indicates that you still glean a considerable adrenalin rush from this activity; I highly doubt it has anything to do with your own personal reservations about the gore involved because you are far from squeamish and I’ve kept things that are twice as gruesome in our fridge over the years; thus, I am forced to conclude that it is an external source that has made you hesitant towards cases. The only people with strong enough influence over you are your friends, family, and love interests. Your ‘mates’ have no issue with it, Harry doesn’t care, and your parents are not around to pass judgment, so it must be your significant other.”

Sherlock clears his throat and pointedly looks out the window. “Mary, to be specific. She doesn’t care for my line of work and prefers that you do not get yourself tangled up in it. Her interest at the restaurant was feigned.”

“Sherlock…”

“Well, it’s true isn’t it? That’s why you haven’t come out with me until now: Mary always insists that you don’t go.”

“Mary…Mary doesn’t understand us. She doesn’t understand this,” John says with a note of frustration in his voice. Sherlock tears his gaze away from the passing scenery and looks John in the eyes.

“And what is ‘this’?” Sherlock questions.

To his surprise, John doesn’t shy away from the question. Instead, he returns Sherlock’s steady gaze and replies, “Me and you. The way we work. She doesn’t get that you’re incredibly important to me and she doesn’t get why this—the crimes, the chase, the cases—is what we enjoy doing together. She thinks it’s all mad.”

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and places his hand on the seat, abundantly aware of the scant distance between their fingers. “And do you think it’s mad?”

At that, John’s eyes soften. “Of course it’s mad. But so am I and so are you.” He crosses the few inches of distance and sets his hand over Sherlock’s, giving his upturned palm a brief squeeze. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

A small smile works its way across Sherlock’s face. Even after John removes his hand, the warmth lingers on Sherlock’s skin for the rest of the ride.

…

The entire Yard is standing in the street outside of Sydney Carmichael's retirement home, there is no discernible evidence to be examined, and nothing about this case is making sense.  

“I don’t get it,” Sherlock growls, pacing back and forth with his hands alternatively tugging at his hair and gesticulating wildly. “There is not a single common factor among all four victims, yet they’ve been killed in perfect succession since yesterday evening. First death, an unimportant business man with a string of gay lovers, second death, a middle aged housewife with a rich husband, third death, a young intern at a local art institute, and now a seventy-eight year old man in retirement. Each killed within exactly ten hours of the last. Not a single minute off. Why? Why them, why that much time, what is the motive, what is the point, and where did the bloody goddamn murder weapon go? Did someone muck about with the evidence? Christ—was Anderson here?”

“Shut up, Sherlock, I didn’t tamper with the bloody evidence,” Anderson snaps, leaning against the police car with a scowl. “Don’t get all snippy with me just because you’re upset you can’t show off to your little groupie for the first time in two years.”

John shoots Anderson a dark look but makes no comment, crossing his arms over his chest in a clear display of self-restraint.

Sherlock decides to follow John’s lead and forces down the swell of anger. “Stop talking, Anderson, you’re being useless.”

Anderson snorts unattractively and gives him a look of disbelief. “Oh, I’m the useless one? How about your partner, hm? All he does is spew constant praise and follow at your heels like an adoring dog. Talk about useless.”  

Something fierce and angry twists in his chest, and without intending to, he clenches his hands into fists. “Do not speak of my partner that way, Anderson,” he warns lowly, his voice a dangerous timbre. “I’d like to return my attention to the investigation, but I cannot do that if you continue with your incessant drivel, so kindly shut up.”

“Oh? And if I don’t?” Anderson leers. “Gonna sic your attack dog on me?

“Sherlock,” John starts, reaching for his arm. “He’s not worth it, let’s just—”

“No, John,” Sherlock deflects, sliding out of his grip.

Sherlock stalks over to the car and leans in so close that Anderson nearly goes cross-eyed trying to keep eye contact. “Listen to me you worthless, blithering worm, if you say one more word that distracts me from this case, I will make it my personal ambition to make each and every one of your pointless, wasted days as terrible and intolerable as possible. And before you snipe about me already doing that, keep in mind that as long as I have known you, I’ve only ever deigned to comment on your blundering idiocy perhaps twenty percent of the time.” He smiles darkly. “Would you like to experience 100% of my attention, Anderson? Because I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Anderson just blinks owlishly in response.

“Yes, I didn’t think. I should also mention that if you ever attempt to degrade or pass judgment on my partner in any way ever again, I will personally see to it that the government takes a profound interest in you from here on, which may or may not result in the discovery of compromising material on your computer and smart phone. And by ‘compromising material’ I of course mean ‘grounds for expulsion from this country’, though I’m sure even your simple brain pieced that much together. Do keep in mind that I have a brother in high places who can certainly make all this possible.” He narrows his eyes and steps back. “Tread lightly.”

As Sherlock marches away, John clears his throat, the rest of the Yard makes a point of checking their phones, and even Sally doesn’t dare make a snide comment.

“Sherlock, here’s the autopsy report, Molly just faxed it over,” Lestrade calls a minute later, walking over with a thin stack of paper. Most of the tension in the air wanes and disappears thanks to the interruption, but Anderson still continues shooting sour looks at everyone, much to the detective’s annoyance.

“Brilliant, Lestrade,” he praises, swiping the file from the DI’s hands. “Now let me just—”

Sherlock freezes mid-sentence as his eyes land on a particular line of the report. He glances up from the document with rising dread and slowly asks, “Lestrade, I thought you said this man died of poisoned medicine. This report clearly states that the cause of death was injected poisons, meaning he couldn’t possibly have been killed via ingestion of tampered pills. It was manually administered by the killer.”

Lestrade sighs tiredly. “Yeah, well the thing is, they did find poisoned medicine on the premises, he just hadn’t taken it yet. The killer got to him themselves before he had the chance I guess. Whoever we’re dealing with is thorough as hell, I’ll tell you that much.”

“No, no but this changes everything!” Sherlock hisses. “If he was killed by an injected poison, then that completely rules out the possibility that the killer is his live-in nurse who was after his hidden fortune—Christ, it means there’s no hidden fortune period. That eliminates yet another connection, then. There wasn’t a single sign of forced entry found at this crime scene, whereas in every other case there was at least some evidence of an attempted burglary or some form of struggle, but it didn’t make sense in those contexts because those people weren’t even killed in their own homes! Why does the one scene with an intruder show no signs of break in, while every other one does? Why would the killer bother planting poison in the man’s medicine if they intended to take care of him themselves and—wait.”

He freezes like a statue and shuts his eyes, his pupils flickering madly beneath his lids. After two beats, his eyes snap open again and he reanimates.

“Oh, I’ve got it! We’ve overlooked the significance of time, here, Lestrade! Oh, it makes sense, the pieces are falling together! Don’t you see, the killer had to use the needle to kill the old man because he wasn’t taking his medicines as he was supposed to! Perhaps he forgot or just fancied skipping a day, but he didn’t take them. That means the killer was watching him, that means it was vitally important that Sydney take his medicine exactly when the killer anticipated he would, and do you know why it was so bloody important? Because for some reason the next person has to die within ten hours of the last. We commented on the killer’s unfailing ability to strike within such a precise time limit, but we never bothered to wonder WHY. Why ten hours? Why not eleven? Surely if this was just a matter of killing off people one by one then it wouldn’t particularly matter when they died, as long as it got done. No, this murderer is trying to convey something. Ten hours. Ten hours! Ten, what is the significance of ten? This is a message to someone. Or a group of people. An entire organization? This is a warning or a symbol or a clue or—it’s something. It means something. What is ten?”

“W-well what does it mean?” Lestrade fumbles, trying to keep up.

Sherlock grabs fistfuls of curls and tugs fretfully, resuming his pacing. “I don’t know, Lestrade. I don’t bloody know.”

...

After six more fruitless hours of bumbling about the crime scene, screaming at the Yard for its collective incompetence, and digging through useless file after useless file, John finally tugs him away and shoves the two of them into a cab, insisting that Sherlock has ‘done enough for today’.

The cab ends up dropping them off a few blocks from the Chinese place John’s been wanting to try. They could have easily taken the car to the front steps of the restaurant, but Sherlock suspects that John thinks a nighttime walk will do Sherlock good. John has always been very understanding towards the mania that follows an unsolved case. What John doesn’t understand, however, is that this isn’t just an unsolved case, it’s a failure. It is yet another item on the running list of reasons why John should stay as far away as possible from Sherlock.

It’s bad enough that his role in John’s life has shrunk to whatever small corner Mary deigns to allow him, but now he has just rendered himself useless by failing to provide John with the flush of excitement and success that he is supposed to supply. That’s why John likes him: the cases, the danger, the lighthearted adventure. And now that he’s come up short on those demands, what good is he?
As they walk along the pavement, Sherlock shoves his hands deep in his coat pockets and stares sullenly at the moon, his jaw clenched in frustration. “I’m sorry I couldn’t solve it,” he murmurs, bitterness and self-hatred coloring his tone.

John stops walking and turns to him with a frown. “Why are you sorry?”

The streets are quieter than usual, the late hour painting London in dark blues and deep purples. Street lamps dot the subdued, empty streets, casting warm, glowing light along the darkened rows of buildings. Sherlock exhales wearily and his breath looks like ghosts in the cool air.   

John grips his shoulders and holds him at arm’s length. “Sherlock, look at me.”

“John…” he complains, looking away.

“Humor me, alright? Just stop glaring at the sodding sky for two seconds and look at me.”

Sherlock releases a put-upon sigh and meets John eyes, unsurprised to find himself immediately drawn into the navy-blue pools. At once, he becomes all too aware of John’s warm palms on his shoulders and the meager distant between their bodies. “Yes, John?”

“First of all, the investigation is far from finished, so there’s no need to throw in the towel and call it quits just yet. And second of all, this is clearly a very complex case, so the fact that you couldn’t manage to solve it within a few hours is hardly your fault. It’d take a bloody machine to process information that quickly. Plus, we don’t even have much evidence at our disposal. We have all day tomorrow to work on the case and if we still can’t figure something out by then, we’ll talk to your brother—and don’t give me that look, Sherlock, it’s a last resort, alright? The world isn’t ending just because you couldn’t whip up an answer to this mystery from thin air. It’s all okay, it’s all fine.”

In the face of John’s kindness, Sherlock feels even more miserable. “But don’t you see, John?” he pleads, stepping out of John’s grip and anxiously clenching his fists. “I have to make these cases perfect for you. There has to be just enough risk, adrenalin, and success for the experience to be thoroughly enjoyable and tonight I have not provided those things. I failed to solve the case, John. I failed.”

“Christ, Sherlock, why does it matter so much that I enjoy the—”

“Because,” Sherlock cuts in, “if you don’t enjoy the cases, then you won’t have a reason to…to visit me,” he finishes unsurely.  Sherlock casts his gaze to the floor and attempts to regain composure. “I don’t mean to say I disapprove of my new role in your life, of course. I completely understand that my job is to provide a certain measure of danger and excitement for—”

“What?” John interrupts, sounding genuinely baffled. “Your job? You think if the cases aren’t interesting enough I’ll just stop coming round? That I’ll stop seeing you?”

“Mary already doesn’t care for us spending time together, is it so unreasonable to believe you’d no longer care for it either? It’s simple, really: once an object ceases to function, it is no longer valuable and should be discarded. Same goes for me, John. I get it.”

“Sherlock Holmes, are you mad?” John cries, “You are not an object for Christ’s sake. You are not a convenient outlet for my danger fix, you are not an instrument for my amusement, and you are NOT a tool that should be ‘discarded’. You are my best friend who just happens to have the same mad addiction to peril that I do, and together we go out and solve crimes. Sometimes they’re easy and sometimes they don’t work out, but the success of a case has never been a deciding factor in our relationship. It’s true that Mary doesn’t particularly like me running around with you on cases, and I know if she had her way, you and I would spend our time watching football in pubs instead of going after murderers. But that doesn’t mean I feel that way. It doesn’t mean that I’m just going to stop spending time with you. I would never do that, alright? So please, get it out of your head that you need to cater to my every whim to keep me in your life—I’m already here and I have no intention of ever leaving.”

John gives him an expectant look and squeezes his forearm. “Okay?”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, overwhelmed by the influx of information. No intention of leaving?

“Okay,” he breathes.

“Good. Now, what do you say we get some dim sum? I’m bloody starving.”

...

In the dim golden light of the restaurant, John crooks a teasing brow and leans in across the small table. “You told me once that you can predict fortune cookies. Care to make good on that claim?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies, pushing a cookie in John’s direction. “Here you are.”  

John cracks open the cookie and reads the slip of paper with a perfect poker face. Sherlock smirks and leans back in his chair, arms crossed confidently over his chest.

“Well?” John prompts, his eyes bright and playful. “Go on, then. Impress me.”

“You will soon find yourself surprised by a trusted companion—do not take things at face value.”

John’s eyebrows rise on his forehead and he looks incredulously from the fortune to Sherlock. “No buggering way…”

“Really?” Sherlock asks, sitting up in shock. “I got it?”

John snorts and tosses the paper at him. “No, you tit, it says some rubbish about financial gain.”

The comment surprises a laugh out of him, and when John joins in, Sherlock finds himself helpless to stop the smile spreading on his face. “Perhaps you’ll come into some money, then.”

“Nah,” John dismisses with a lazy smile. “I’m rich enough as is.”

“I see. Did a distant relative die and leave you their estate recently?” Sherlock inquires drily.

John chuckles and shakes his head. “No, I didn’t mean I’m financially rich. I just meant, well, my life is pretty damn good right now.” He looks at Sherlock from across the table with warmth in his eyes. “I’ve missed this, you know. Going on cases, running after you without having the slightest idea where we’re headed. I’m glad we’re doing this.”

A heady glow blossoms inside Sherlock’s chest like a brilliant flame. For just a moment, it feels as if the entire world is contained within these four walls and the only two people left are him and John, trapped eternally in this perfect moment. Sherlock soaks in John’s visage, colored in golds and shadowy browns from the flickering candle, and carefully stows the image away in his mind palace.

“Me too, John,” Sherlock smiles. 

Chapter Text

Mystery: (noun) something that is difficult or impossible to understand


The next morning:

“So that’s it, then? They’ve just stopped?” John asks in disbelief, leaning against the wall of Lestrade’s office with his and Sherlock’s respective coffees in hand. “Forty-eight hours of back to back deaths and now nothing?”

“Radio silence,” The DI confirms, sipping at his own drink with a troubled expression. “After Carmichael was offed yesterday, ten hours have come and gone without another death. I haven’t the slightest idea why they would’ve abated so soon—I mean, if you’re apt enough to kill four people in two days without leaving a trace of evidence, why stop there? Why not take out a whole bloody town while you’re at it?”

“Condoning murder, Lestrade?” Sherlock questions drily, speaking for the first time in two hours.

“Ah, it speaks!” Greg exclaims, slapping his palm on the table. “And no, Sherlock, I’m just saying that I don’t see their goal here. Care to enlighten us? You’ve certainly have ample time to think.”

Sherlock unfolds himself from the small chair in front of Lestrade’s desk and begins pacing the office, his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s simple. The reason the murderer has stopped killing is because their message has been conveyed. Four people killed within ten hours of each other over the span of two days—each one of those numbers is highly significant. Though, I am not yet certain what they signify. However, I do know that the first step to unraveling this case is looking at the first victim: January Phillips.” He stops pacing and looks to Lestrade. “May I see her file?”

“Yeah, gimme a mo’, I think Donovan was the last to look at it.” Lestrade says, rising from his desk. “John, make sure he keeps his hands out of my things, yeah?”

“On it,” John salutes.

The moment the door closes behind Lestrade, Sherlock gives John a significant look and gestures towards the door.

John understands his intentions in a heartbeat. “No, Sherlock, the man just said—”

“Please?”

“Fine.” John scowls and begrudgingly marches over to the door. “Coast is clear,” he mutters.

At that, Sherlock sprints to the cabinet behind his desk and begins rifling through files. John crosses his arms over his chest and raises his brows at the large stack of paper Sherlock unearths.

“So, what exactly are you looking for?” John asks, eyeing the array of photos and documents spilling from Sherlock’s arms. “Greg’s going to get January’s file right now, what else do you need?”

Sherlock ignores him and sets the papers aside, digging through the drawers until his fingers graze the bottom of the cabinet.

“Damn,” he mumbles under his breath. Without a single word of explanation, he pulls the chair next to the bookshelf and runs his hands over the tops of the shelves, stirring up giant clouds of dust in his wake.

“Sherlock, really, what—”

“John, hush,” Sherlock hisses, patting his hands along the wooden backing of the shelf. His fingertips snag on a few unruly splinters, but he’s too focused on his task to register the pain.

“Here we are,” he murmurs at last, holding the small black microphone between his index finger and thumb. The instrument is half the size of his fingernail. With great care, he sets it on the floor directly under his shoe and crushes the device to smithereens.

“Bug,” he explains when John expectantly raises his brows.

“Is it your brother’s?”

Sherlock squats down to sweep the residual pieces into his cupped palm. “No, this isn’t his brand. This belongs to a private operation.”

John frowns. “How’d you know we were being bugged?”

“A feeling,” he shrugs, depositing the broken chips of metal into his coat pocket. “A hunch, really.”

John crosses his arms. “And why did you wait until Lestrade left? I highly doubt he would’ve minded if you checked his office for bugs”

“Like I said, John, it was a hunch. Wouldn’t have done to be incorrect, would it?”

John raises his eyebrows and releases a surprised huff of laughter. "All that to avoid being wrong?”

“Of course,” he replies, dismissively. “Anyway, the discovery of that microphone just confirmed my suspicions. Whoever committed these crimes is keeping tabs on us, which means they must still be lingering in London. Either that or their organization spans so widely that they have their operatives stationed here while the murderer themselves stays safely aware from the scene of the crime.” He purses his lips and drums his fingers thoughtfully against the table. “I’ve yet to decide which is the case.”

“Well,” John says, “first things things first, we need to look through January’s file. Then, why don’t you talk to your brother and see what he knows? In the meantime I’ll head to the Yard and sort out the chaos that has no doubt broken loose in your absence.”

At the mention of his brother’s name, Sherlock’s features reflexively assemble into a scowl, but upon second thought, he realizes it isn’t a bad idea. Besides, Mycroft has proven to be unexpectedly helpful as of late. “Brilliant plan, John,” he beams, digging into his pocket for his mobile. “I’ll let him know I’m stopping by.”

“Oh, you’re going to see him right now? What if he has company over? Or an important meeting?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Mycroft’s personal contact book consists of myself, my mother, and Anthea, and he never holds a business meeting on a Sunday. He considers it bad luck for some absurd reason. I’ll hardly be interrupting anything of importance.”

I will be at your office in approx. 30 min. for information on the 10 Hour Deaths case. January Phillips, Jessica Hepburn, Nathaniel Hastings, and Sydney Carmichael. SH

Ah, am I your personal well of information now? Who’s to say I am not currently busy? MH

John has already voiced similar concerns and I assured him that your endlessly eventful social life with not be an obstacle. Nor will your business life, as it is Sunday. SH

I’m aware. MH

Undoubtedly. See you in 30. SH

2.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock snaps, throwing the papers onto Mycroft’s desk with a loud smack, only to pick them up a minute later and continue irately scanning them.

“According to January’s file, she was married to Matthew Phillips. He died at forty five of a heart attack. Apparently, he was a wealthy businessman who worked in finances, he’d accumulated a respectable personal worth by the young age of twenty five, and his marriage to January was made official in a courthouse just outside of Sussex a decade ago. Yet for some reason his file is only,” Sherlock flips through the thin stack, “four pages long. Most grown adults who’ve done nothing but sit on their arses for forty years have at least ten pages of information. So why is there so little information on Mr. Phillips?”

“These are forged,” Mycroft replies succinctly, placing the paper back on his desk. “And not just anyone has the ability to forge papers this high up. Clearly, this is the work of a private operation.”

Sherlock scowls and continues pacing the room, unconcerned that his shoes are wearing tracks in his brother’s fine, imported carpet. Unfortunately, Mycroft does not share his lack of concern.

“Sherlock, do keep in mind that that rug is Parisian. It costs more than your entire flat, so kindly tread elsewhere.”

“Mycroft, I am thinking,” Sherlock snaps. His patience is already razor-thin, so he has no time for his brother’s useless nagging.

“Ah, yes, and what am I doing, Sherlock? Juggling?” Mycroft returns sardonically. “If you would just take a seat, I would be happy to show you the remainder of Mrs. Phillips’ file so that we may proceed.”

Sherlock stops pacing and deigns to take a seat, his fingers drumming listlessly against the cherrywood arm of the chair. “I already saw January Phillips’ file, Mycroft. I read it cover to cover at the Yard, there’s no need to rehash things.”

“Oh, really?” Mycroft drawls, leaning back in his chair with a knowing expression. “So then I suppose you are aware of the eleven years of untraceable documents that are absent from Mrs. Phillips’ file?”

His petulant expression melts away in an instant and Sherlock sits up in his chair, his curiosity undeniably piqued. “Go on.”

“Well, you see, for the latter portion of her file, Mrs. Phillips’ life is fairly unimpressive. She quit her job as a children’s nurse a month after she met her wealthy husband and lived a life of ease and relative luxury for the next ten years. However, the question is, what occurred in the beginning of her life? Her birth certificate is legitimate and her first few years of adolescence are soundly documented, but then at age eighteen she completely drops off the map. The missing information has gone unnoticed before now because she was clever enough to put ‘placeholder’ information in the empty spaces, which allowed her to evade the careless eyes of data management for several years.

“I am not yet certain who or what we are dealing with exactly, but they are clearly quite powerful, judging by the bug you told me about. I believe it is in the best interest of everyone involved that we keep this to ourselves until we completely understand the situation,” Mycroft cautions. “There is no reason to present partial information to the Yard as it is unlikely they will be able to do much with it. Besides, there is a deeper issue at hand—one that surpasses four mere murders. If I thought you would respect my wishes, I would insist that you leave this case alone entirely and allow me to deal with it.” His brother sighs. “But I am not a delusional man and therefore have no misconceptions about where you stand with your cases. I understand that you intend to be part of this from start to finish, and I, however reluctantly, accept that.”

“That is quite decent of you, brother,” Sherlock admits, mildly impressed. “And you are correct, I have no intention of leaving this case in anyone’s hands but my own.”

“So we are in agreement, then? To keep this under wraps for the time being, I mean,” Mycroft confirms.

“Yes, January’s files will stay within the confines of this office. As for the rest of the victims, there’s hardly anything amiss about their information so I shall not hesitate to share my findings with Lestrade and his lackeys.”

“It’s a deal,” Mycroft says, a note of finality in his voice. He lowers his head and begins signing one of the many papers stacked on his desk. Sherlock rises from his chair, aware of the unspoken dismissal.

“Oh, and Sherlock?” Mycroft calls from his desk a moment later, almost as an afterthought.

Sherlock turns away from the door and faces his brother, startled to find that Mycroft’s expression holds no hint of condescension or malice. Instead, his face looks completely devoid of its usual haughtiness.

“Sherlock, I’m glad you repaired things with John. You seem much happier now and that makes me,” he pauses and clears his throat. “Pleased.”

Caught off guard, Sherlock nods stiffly, surprised at his brother’s kind words. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he says at length, inclining his head in gratitude. “If I require anything else, I will not hesitate to text you.”

Mycroft nods and pointedly goes back to writing, but Sherlock doesn’t miss the faint smile that crinkles around his eyes.

3.

The Yard is, as usual, filled with bumbling idiots and chaos. Sherlock asks himself why this fact still surprises him.

First of all, the case files are splayed haphazardly across three separate tables, his carefully labeled evidence samples have been emptied from their organized bins, and the sound of useless chatter clouds the air like smog. Secondly, there is not a single person who is actually doing something useful; most of the detectives are too busy shouting at each other or scrambling through the mess in search of ‘proof’ to bother occupying themselves with anything important.

Sherlock thanks his lucky stars that John is here, because the moment Sherlock sets foot in the building, John meets his gaze from across the room, nods once in understanding, and proceeds to use his patented Captain Watson voice to shut everyone up.

“Quiet, you lot!”

As expected, the entire room falls silent and every eyes turns to John. “Sherlock is here and I’m sure he has a few things to share,” John explains calmly, clasping his hands in front of him and nodding to Sherlock.

As Sherlock walks through the now-silent crowd and makes his way to the evidence table, he privately relishes the fact that John silenced the entire room for him. He used his powerful, commanding soldier voice to simultaneously shut the mouths of every idiot within the building, all for Sherlock.

He forces himself to bite down a smile.  

Once he’s reached the front of the room, he turns on his heel and faces the waiting crowd of inspectors and detectives. “The first thing we must do is look at the victims themselves. After extensively delving into each case and discussing several important details with my brother, I have noted a common factor amongst each of the deaths that undeniably ties the murderer to all four cases,” Sherlock begins, his fingers skimming idly over the assortment of evidence containers. “First, we shall begin with the death of January Phillips: the death that spurred all the rest. January was a forty two year old woman married to the currently deceased Matthew Phillips, and she was killed at exactly two in the morning. Cause of death? Her throat was slit with a poison tipped knife.

“Then we have Jessica Hepburn, the twenty five year old intern at the Academy of High Arts, who was shot and killed whilst sitting in her car in the parking lot of her workplace. The shooter was at a sniper-level distance, which means they must have been equipped with long-range shooting skills. Poison was detected in her blood and around the entry wound, but the toxin itself wasn’t identified in the official autopsy report due to either incompetence or conspiracy. I am unconcerned with this omission, however, because it takes only a bit of thinking to discern what kind of poison was in the bullet.” Sherlock plucks the photograph of the woman’s autopsy off the table and examines it with narrowed eyes. For some indiscernible reason, the image wobbles briefly and his headache from earlier returns with vengeance. Refusing to be deterred by his irritating transport, Sherlock ignores the sensations and barrels on.

“First, it depends on the design of the bullet. Then we must factor in air friction and metal malleability. This toxin would have had to be basic enough to reside within a steel casing without eating through the material, but acidic enough to break the bullet tip and disburse upon contact. One thing that comes to mind is the method used by the KGB police during the assassination of Georgi Markov: they disguised a gun to look like an umbrella and stocked it with small bullets filled with ricin. And there we have it—ricin. Pricey, rare, and extremely fatal even in minute doses.

“Next, we have Mr. Nathaniel Hastings, the homosexual businessman who met his untimely demise at 10 P.M. as he was topping off his day with a hard earned drink. Unfortunately, his martini had 200mg of cyanide mixed in and he was dead within 15 minutes of drinking it.

“And finally, we have our latest victim, Mr. Sydney Carmichael, a former businessman living a simple life in retirement. A fatal dose of Dimethylmercury was injected into his carotid artery at 8 A.M. As there were no signs of forced entry or struggle, the killer must have been either extremely clever or so familiar and seemingly non threatening that it didn’t occur to the man to have doubts. He or she would have had to get extremely close to the victim to have injected poison into him.”

Sherlock stops speaking and turns to the crowd of silent detectives, waiting for a chorus of understanding to greet him. Instead, he receives blank stares.

“Aren’t you all seeing the pattern here, too?” he demands, frustrated. “First case, poison tipped knife, second case, bullet filled with ricin, third case, cyanide in the martini, and now this, injected Dimethylmercury.” Sherlock spins back around and stares at the spread of evidence with a calculating expression. “It’s clear that whoever we are dealing with is an expert in poisons. In fact, it’s their calling card.” He holds up the photographs from the crime scenes up to the light to better view them. “Four different mediums—knife, sniper, cyanide, injection—and not a single slip up. I’d go as far as calling them a professional. Let’s see, let’s see, what else do we know—ah, yes, this means the killer would have had to seem trustworthy, correct? Someone you might not expect to stab you in the neck. That narrows it down to either a close friend of Mr. Carmichael’s or a very unintimidating person in general. Someone plain? Or perhaps attractive—roses with their thorns and all that rot. Perhaps someone young?” He closes his eyes and mentally sifts through characteristics that one might deem non threatening. “Think innocence, think safety, think comfort. The killer knew these people. The victims maybe even trusted the killer. There’s a history here, an undeniable—”

Sherlock stops suddenly as a jolt of nausea shoots through his body and the images before him begin to swim. He closes his eyes and holds one hand against the table to steady himself, the other pressed to his temple.

“Sherlock?” John asks, leaning towards him in concern.

“I—I’m fine,” he forces out, willing away the dizziness rattling in his skull. His blood is pumping far too loudly and his heart beats wildly inside his chest.

“Can we get a minute alone?” John requests, having astutely discerned that Sherlock is indeed not fine. When no one moves, John scowls at the crowd of staring detectives and squares his shoulders. “Lestrade? Think you and your lot can stop gawking at him for a minute and give us some privacy?”

“Er, yeah—apologies,” the DI replies, clearing his throat. With authority, Lestrade turns to the rest of the Yard and gruffly begins ushering them out of the room. “Come on now, give the man some peace. Out you go—yes, and that means you too Anderson.”

Once it’s just him and John, Sherlock drops his pretenses and gives into the urge to crumple to the floor in a heap. The earth undulates beneath his feet. “I think I’ve been poisoned,” he mutters faintly, his head lolling against his shoulder. John squats down to join him and gently presses two fingers to Sherlock’s arced neck, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he takes the detective’s pulse. With steady hands, he takes hold of Sherlock’s chin, turns his head towards him, and carefully lifts his eyelid with his thumb, scanning the area for signs of narcotic poisoning. After a few more minutes of inspection, John sits down beside him looking thoroughly unconcerned, and states, “You definitely haven’t been poisoned, Sherlock.”

“Then why do I feel as if I’m on the verge of collapsing?” he grouses, rubbing weakly at his temples.

“Because, you git, you haven’t slept in ages. You’re suffering from sleep deprivation.”

Sherlock blearily opens an eye and frowns at him. “And you’re sure it’s not poison?”

“Well let’s see, are your symptoms headache, nausea, lack of focus, and weakness of muscles?”

“Yes.”

“Right, yeah, that’s sleep deprivation. When is the last time you got at least five hours?”

“What month is it?”

“Sherlock,” John warns, “I’m not joking.”

Sherlock releases a sigh of defeat and looks at John from the corner of his eye. “I believe the last time I slept for a complete five hours was…a week and a half ago? Somewhere around ten days. Or was it eleven? I don’t quite know.”

To his surprise, John remains uncharacteristically silent. Instead of blowing up or scolding him, John says nothing at all for the longest time. Sherlock closes his eyes again, figuring it’s probably the safest option.

“John?” he mumbles eventually, still not opening his eyes.

Nothing.

“John,” he says again, this time opening his eyes. Sherlock scans John’s face, attempting to read him, but there isn’t much information to glean because John keeps his expression unbearably neutral.  

Finally, John relents. “Sherlock, why haven’t you been sleeping?” While he doesn’t sound angry or on the brink of lecturing, his voice does carry a deep note of disappointment, which is somehow worse.

For quite a long time, sleep has evaded him. Sherlock recalls countless nights spent staring at the ceiling with the weight of the world pressing down on his chest like an anchor, each elongated minute spent trying to figure out which way to turn next in the impossible maze he’s come to call his life. At one point, violin was a soothing remedy to his insomnia, but now that he is alone, the music feels more haunting than comforting. What’s the point of a symphony without an audience, after all?

He bites the inside of his cheek and casts his gaze to the floor. “You are not there to remind me and it’s never been a priority of mine, so it’s quite easy for the sleepless nights to slip by without notice.”

“So, what, now that I don’t live there you’re just going to kill yourself with neglect?”

Sherlock presses his lips into a flat line. “That wasn’t my intention, no.”

“Right. Well, that settles it,” John declares at once, startling Sherlock with the abrupt change in tone. “We’re going back to the flat. Right now.” He stands up and holds out a hand for Sherlock to grab. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”

Panic flares in his chest and he immediately stiffens in protest, plastering himself against the wall and as far away from John’s offered hand as possible. They are this close to arriving at some sort of conclusion with this case, and to leave now would mean leaving innumerable loose threads hanging at the mercy of blithering fools like Anderson.

“But, John, the case—”

“The case can bloody well wait when your health is on the line,” John snaps.  

“John, I promise if we stay for at least three more hours, I’ll go to bed the moment we get home and sleep in extra late tomorrow morning. In fact, I’ll even throw in a few naps too! Yes, I have three or four unoccupied slots in my schedule this week and if it’d truly appease you, I’d be more than happy to fill them with rest.”

“Sherlock, get up.”

Still pressed against the wall, Sherlock continues bargaining, “John, be reasonable about this. I’m sure this headache will abate and surely the dizziness is temporary. If we could just stay for a bit longer, I might be able to save lives, and aren’t you always going on about how important that is? Wouldn’t you prefer that I—”

“This really isn’t up for debate,” John cuts off, his resolve unyielding. “If you don’t stand up and leave this building like an adult, then I will be forced to pick you up and bloody carry you out of here. Don’t think I won’t, Sherlock Holmes. You know I’m not bluffing.”

Sherlock allows his entire body to go limp with defeat. He knows when he’s lost and John’s tone clearly leaves no room for persuasion.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But you may have to make good on your word, because I can’t quite stand at the moment.”

…

Sherlock imagines that he and John look quite ridiculous walking out of Scotland Yard like a married couple, John carrying Sherlock with an ease that is equal parts impressive and mortifying. Sherlock resolutely looks ahead, determined to maintain his pride, but unfortunately, it’s quite difficult to look intimidating when he has his arms linked around John’s neck like a blushing bride.

“Jesus, you need to eat,” John comments as he adjusts his hand on the underside of Sherlock’s thigh, jostling the detective in the process, “You barely weigh anything!”

“John,” Sherlock mutters through gritted teeth, abundantly aware of the stares the two of them are receiving. “Please keep your comments to yourself, I’d rather not make this situation any more embarrassing than it already is, thank you.”

“Yes, well, I did give you the option of leaving on your own two feet, remember,” John replies. “You’re the one who opted for this.”

“Opted is a very questionable term,” Sherlock snaps.

Untroubled, John continues carrying him bridal-style through the crowd of Yarders who, due to a mixture of shock and perhaps confusion, part like the red sea. Greg catches sight of the two of them and opens his mouth in question but, at John’s expression, immediately cuts himself off and presses his lips shut. “I’ll, er, see you boys tomorrow then, yeah?” he says instead.

“Bright and early, Greg,” John chimes, ignoring the faint growl from Sherlock.

Their cab is in view, they’ve endured only a few raised brows, and things are starting to look up, when a certain greasy-haired idiot swims into view. Irritation boils in Sherlock’s veins and he nearly leaps out of John’s arms right then and there, heedless of his enfeebled leg muscles.

“Christ, here comes Anderson. I am not dealing with him right now,” Sherlock bites, turning his face resolutely into John’s jumper-clad shoulder. He can practically taste the git’s stupid comments. His head is pounding and his vision is fuzzy, so he’s really in no mood to shoot down the moron’s incessant drivel.

“If he says anything, I’ll handle it, alright? Besides, after the way you shot him down yesterday, I highly doubt he’ll be coming back for more,” John assures him. 

Sherlock scoffs into the material of John’s sweater. “Idiots are funny that way, John. A lesson never quite sticks and—Christ, I can smell his cheap cologne from here. Is he getting closer? I refuse to look.”

“Well, yes, he’s walking over and—hello, Anderson. May I help you?”

Even though he’s turned away, he can perfectly picture the leer on Anderson’s face. “Yes, John, as a matter of fact, you can. I was just wondering when you decided to leave your perfectly lovely fiancé for this lunatic. By the looks of it, you two are clearly headed off on your honeymoon right about now. Funny,” Anderson says, mock-thoughtfully, “but I never pictured him being the woman in this setup.”

Sherlock is seconds from whipping his head around and giving the git a verbal lashing that’ll make his head spin, when John calmly replies, “Whether we’re headed to our honeymoon or our flat, it’s none of your business, Anderson, so if you could kindly step aside and allow us to get into our cab, that’d be lovely.”

Because Anderson is an idiot and apparently deaf to the Implicit Threat lining John’s seemingly polite tone, he crosses his arms over his chest and remains rooted in his spot.

“Really though, how is your fiancé okay with you mucking about with this psychotic—”

“Maybe,” John cuts in, his polite tone taking a harder edge, “you didn’t understand me the first time. Kindly get the hell out of my way, unless you’d like to take a quick trip to hospital. Because rest assured, I can provide that for you, Phillip.”

And, miraculously, the path to their cab is quite accessible after that.  

4.

By the time they’ve made it into 221B, it’s 8 P.M. and the pounding headache plaguing Sherlock has yet to abate. If anything, it’s gotten worse, and his vision is a bit more blurred than usual as well.

At John’s insistence, he allows himself to be guided into his room. Once they’re in the threshold, Sherlock grips the doorway with one hand and stares tiredly at the perfectly creased, cold sheets tucked over his bed. Dread spills through him like a flood.

Even though he can feel John staring at his profile, he doesn’t bother trying to mask his distress.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“I have trouble falling asleep,” Sherlock confesses after a pregnant pause, looking at the stiff white sheets with frustration. “I can never seem to make my body relax these days. There’s always so much to think about and get done, it’s hard to just shut everything down.”

It’s always been like this. Sleep has never been something Sherlock can simply ease into or bask in—it has always felt forced, tiresome, useless, and unhelpful. To the detective, sleep means tossing and turning for endless hours in a dark room with nothing to do but think. And because Sherlock Holmes is not an ordinary man, he doesn’t think linearly, drifting smoothly from one half-formed thought to the next; he thinks in double helixes and figure eights: his thoughts circle round and round like a snake eating its tail. For every notion to skim his brain, ten more are produced, and from each of those, twenty more branch off into their own experiments, questions, hypotheses, and theories. His mind is a colorful, loud, uncontainable device that runs at all hours of the day. It’s a beautiful place, of course, and it teems with knowledge and brilliance, but he can never switch it off. Only in moments of utter peace and comfort is he able to drown out the noise, and he’s only ever achieved such a mental state by two means: cocaine and John Watson.

With both aids absent from his life, sleep has become a distant notion with little meaning and even less relevance. Logically, he knows he’s better off without it, but apparently his exhausted transport disagrees.

After a long moment of deliberation, John sighs and steps into the room. “I’ll help you, alright?”

Sherlock frowns. “Help me?”

“With, er, relaxing,” John clarifies, scratching the back of his head. There’s a few beats in which nothing is said, and Sherlock quickly realizes that if he allows the silence to stretch on any longer, John will lose the nerve to do whatever it is he plans to do. Without wanting to seem too eager or reluctant, Sherlock seats himself on the edge of his bed and steadily meets John eyes.

“How do you intend to help me? I suppose I’m amenable if it means getting rid of this headache.”

“Have you ever, er, had your hair stroked?”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disdain. “I’m a man, John, not a dog. Why would I enjoy being petted?”

“So you’ve never?” John raises his eyebrows and Sherlock momentarily feels as if he’s taken a misstep by admitting to it. He’s on the brink of dismissing the whole situation and locking himself in his room, when John smiles easily and sits down next to him. “It’s actually fairly relaxing. Come here, I’ll show you.” John situates himself against the headboard and drops a pillow unceremoniously into his lap, patting it invitingly. “Put your head here.”

Even though he is abundantly aware that assuming any sort of intimate position with John is bound to have bad results, Sherlock lays down and rests his head on John’s thigh without a second thought. The smell of laundry detergent and warm skin roll off John in waves and it takes every ounce of his willpower to refrain from burying his nose in John’s jumper and inhaling deeply.  

“Here, see?” John says quietly, running his palm across Sherlock’s cool forehead and into his tangle of curls. “Relaxing.”

Soothingly, John repeats the motion, his warm, calloused hands skimming deliciously over Sherlock’s skin.

“Mm. That’s not…terrible,” he murmurs drowsily after a few moments.

John laughs softly. “Oh hush, you love it. You’re practically purring.” Sherlock wonders if it’s his imagination that is making John’s tone sound so fond.

“Good?” John asks.

The feeling is so lovely and intoxicating that he can’t find it in him to summon a response, so instead of speaking, he sighs and tips his head back in John’s palms, unintentionally revealing the pale column of his neck. John chuckles warmly at Sherlock’s response and scratches his nails lightly against Sherlock’s scalp, sending white-hot sparks down the detective’s spine and turning all remaining tension to liquid.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, losing himself in the sensation.  

He slips into unconsciousness reluctantly, afraid of losing a single moment of John gently brushing curls away from his forehead. If he keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t think of anything outside this moment, it’s quite easy to pretend that this is his life—that John loves him instead of Mary. He can pretend that John will soon lean down and press his lips against Sherlock’s temple, then his cheekbones, trailing down, down, down, until he reaches the smiling corner of his lips. He can pretend that he has the option of sitting up and tilting their mouths together, kissing deep and warm and wet, sliding his large palms across the uncharted planes of John’s skin and claiming each territory as his own. He can pretend that John will eventually lie down beside him and murmur I love you into his ear, along his neck, and against his heart, repeating the phrase over and over until the letters are branded onto Sherlock’s skin like tattoos.

As he drifts off, he convinces himself the pretending is enough. It has to be.

Chapter Text

Reality: (noun) the world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to a romanticized or notional idea of them

1.

When Sherlock wakes up the next morning, the first sensation he registers is the soft wool of John's jumper against his cheek. Then, as he gradually regains awareness, he notices the delightful warmth encompassing him.

"Mm," he hums contentedly, wishing he could keep this moment preserved forever in amber.

John is still sitting against the headboard, his chin tucked to his chest, with Sherlock splayed partially on top of him, one hand loosely entangled in the detective's curls. His head is resting on John's thigh and his long legs are curled up in a wild heap at the other end of the bed. From what he can deduce, John fell asleep shortly after Sherlock and hadn't bothered to move the two of them or change positions.

Sherlock can't say he minds terribly.

It's strange, this position, because they've never been like this before: this close, this warm, this simple and intimate. If he keeps his eyes closed and ignores his thoughts, it's easy to pretend that this is just another morning in their domestic, romantically-involved lives.

Sherlock inhales slowly and stores the sweet, warm smell of skin and laundry soap and cinnamon on the highest shelf of his mind palace, along with the rest of the vital minutia he's gathered on John over the years.

He wonders what spurred this sudden burst of physical affection. He supposes it could be because John doesn't see this as anything more than a random, thoughtless expression of platonic fondness. Or it could be a mere coincidence that they ended up like this; perhaps John doesn't care much either way and permitted the two of them to remain in this position simply because it was more convenient than going through the trouble of relocating. Of course, there is also the possibility that John doesn't even realize their position. Sherlock is hesitant to even entertain the fourth possibility because it is incredibly far-fetched, but he supposes there is also a small, infinitesimal chance that John allowed this because he has a genuine desire for intimacy with Sherlock.

A small chance. Practically nonexistent, really.

"You awake?" John asks, his voice scratchy with sleep.

Sherlock tenses up, briefly worried that John will fully awaken, realize their position, and fling himself away in disgust. Hesitantly, Sherlock replies, "Yes," without looking up or moving. His heart waits in his chest.

However, instead of getting angry, John just yawns and drowsily pats Sherlock's curved back. "Morning."

A series of sensations spill through him like a flood, fear replaced by relief and relief replaced by joy. "Good morning," he replies back, immeasurably pleased at John's apparent lack of concern.

"Have you been awake long?"

"No, only a few minutes. You?"

"Mm, just woke up right now," John replies, stretching a bit and lifting Sherlock's body with his in the process. Sherlock considers sitting up, but John doesn't seem at all bothered by their arrangement, so Sherlock happily decides to remain right where he is.

Content and still basking in tendrils of sleepiness, Sherlock watches pale morning light spill through his bedroom room window and realizes it's been ages since he's awoken late enough to miss the sunrise.

"How long was I asleep?"

Absently, John brushes a lazy hand through Sherlock's hair and replies, "At least eight hours. It's seven o' clock right now."

"An entire eight hours? I haven't slept that much since I was a child." Sherlock sits up and rubs a hand against his forehead, surprised to find the pain from last night gone. "My head feels incredibly clear and my muscles no longer ache," he marvels.

"Yeah, sleep'll do that for you," John says, sounding smug. Sherlock decides against commenting on it because he reckons John has earned the right to a bit of self-satisfaction. He was correct, after all.

"In the mood for breakfast?" John asks as he gets out of bed with a yawn.

Surprisingly, he is. Apparently a healthy appetite is another result of a good night's rest. "Yes, actually," he admits.

John smiles and shuffles to the door. "Two stacks of pancakes coming right up."

2.

After breakfast, Sherlock unearths the files from where John stowed them last night and resumes working on the case. After spending an entire hour pouring over the information, he finds himself hitting dead end after dead end.

There simply isn't enough evidence to work with. Yes, he'd successfully found one common factor among the string of deaths—poison—but there are dozens more factors that he hasn't the slightest inkling of. There is connection here, a person, place, or motive that ties these seemingly unrelated victims together in irrefutable synchronization, but for the life of him he cannot fathom what exactly that link is.

Sherlock grits his teeth and paces the sitting room, his hands fretting about like anxious birds. John watches him with an odd expression that Sherlock doesn't have the time to analyze, because his mind is miles away from John, this flat, and the entirety of London. His focus rests solely in this maddening, impossible case.

"This is incredibly frustrating," he says behind clenched teeth. "There is nothing I can do about this case until more information comes to light, and since I've already searched each of the crime scenes myself and discovered nothing, it's unlikely that more evidence will resurface on its own. No, before we solve this we will have to wait until they strike again. This case could take weeks—hell, months to solve."

John looks up from his paper. "Sherlock—"

"And even then we'd still need to analyze the new data alongside the old and who knows what other inexplicable anomalies will crop up after that?"

John tries again, "Sherlock—"

"Not to mention the difficulty that the lack of fingerprints presents—how can we expect to find the identity of the killer if they leave the crime scenes completely clean? Devoid of all identifications and evidence? Hell, we couldn't even find most of the murder weapons, let alone—"

"Sherlock," John interrupts. He folds the paper in half and gives Sherlock a significant look. "Listen, I think you should take a short break from this case, alright?"

"John," Sherlock frowns, ceasing his pacing. "I need to find the connections between the murders, how can I possibly stop now? Or better yet, why would I?"

"Sherlock, I completely understand. Cases come first, I know," says John. "But you told me yourself, this is going to take a long time to solve. Before you figure out anything definite, you'll have to wait for the killer to make their next move, and who knows how long that'll take?" John clears his throat. "In the meantime…well, I have something quite important to ask of you."

If Sherlock wasn't paying complete attention before, he is now. "Yes, John?"

"I've been thinking about this for a long time and I figure now's as good a time as any to ask, so I was wondering if, er," John pauses and looks uncharacteristically unsure of himself. "Well I was wondering if you'd be my best man, Sherlock."

"Your…your best man?" he asks faintly.

"Yes, my best man." John's bright gaze meets his. "Will you do it?"

At the mention of the wedding, something inside Sherlock splinters in two. Spending so much alone time with John these past two days has made him foolishly forget that the rest of the world still exists outside of their comfortable flat. The genuine affection in John's eyes makes something inside Sherlock melt, but the thought of standing beside him while he makes vows of marriage to someone else hurts more than Sherlock can comprehend.

However, he knew this moment would come. When he decided to mend his relationship with John, he promised himself (and Mycroft) that he would do his best to abide by John's wishes, so instead of turning down the offer, he smiles and replies, "Of course, John. I'd be honored."

…

A half hour later, while they're watching one of John's ridiculous Bond movies on the sofa, Mary rings. John looks surprised to receive the call, but answers it with a smile nonetheless.

"Hello? I've been wonderful, love, how has the trip been?" John's smile falters at what she says next and Sherlock immediately tries to deduce the other side of the conversation. Whatever Mary has just told him is a surprise, and not a very good one.

"Wow, love, so soon?" John asks with a frown. His voice still sounds pleasant, but there is a frayed edge to it, almost as if he is forcing himself to remain cheery-toned. "I thought you were staying with your sister for two more days? Why did—oh. Another row? She said what? Christ, I'm sorry, darling, that sounds awful and—that too, huh? Bloody hell, she's really got a mouth on her, doesn't she?"

John keeps the phone pressed to his ear as he aimlessly paces the sitting room, his expression troubled and vaguely disappointed. "Right, yeah, I understand. Of course it's fine! You won't be interrupting us, Sherlock and I don't have anything on right now." John glances at Sherlock and shoots him a tight smile. "Okay, love, have a safe drive back and call me when you're in London, yeah? Ta."

After he hangs up the phone, John rubs his forehead tiredly and leans against the back of his chair.

"I'm a terrible fiancé," he mutters.

"You? Terrible?" Sherlock scoffs, doubting that the words 'John Watson' and 'terrible' could even coexist within the same sentence. John is exemplary in every area of his life, including his position as Mary's fiancé.

"John you are exceptionally kind and thoughtful. Add to that your loyalty, affection, and physical charm and you have the ideal fiancé." Sherlock sniffs and pretends to resume watching the film. "Don't say bad things about yourself, they are blatantly untrue and thus tedious."

John looks stunned, then fairly endeared by the announcement. His lips remain in a worried line, but the crow's feet around his eyes crinkle in a smile. "Sherlock, that was…that was a very lovely thing to say." He clears his throat. "But I meant what I said. I…I should be excited to see my fiancé again, right? But when she said she was coming back a few days early, I couldn't help but feel disappointed. Which I shouldn't. I absolutely should not be upset that my fiancé is coming back from her trip sooner than expected. In fact, if anything, I should be excited, shouldn't I?"

Vain hope flutters in Sherlock's chest, but he forcibly pushes it down. "And why aren't you excited about her early return?" he questions neutrally.

Tangled in internal conflict, John resumes his pacing from earlier. "It's just been so great being around you again, Sherlock, and I know this sounds strange, but for the past few days I've almost forgotten that I have a different life now. This weekend has been like going back in time to when it was just the two of us solving crimes and getting takeaway—and you know what? It's been bloody wonderful. I've missed you," John says sincerely.

"Don't get me wrong, I love Mary. Of course I do," John says, as if he's attempting to convince someone. "But sometimes it's so hard being the man she wants me to be. It's hard when she says she doesn't like me going out on cases. It's hard when she insists that my lifestyle is too dangerous and risky, because those things are such huge parts of who I am. I love her and I'm lucky to have her, but sometimes it's just hard. Things are so easy with us, Sherlock, and sometimes I forget it isn't like that with everyone in my life." He stares almost pleadingly at Sherlock. "Am I a bad person for feeling that way?"

"No," Sherlock assures him. "Of course not."

Sherlock almost blurts out how immensely he misses John and how the silence grows oppressive in his absence, and how days and nights stretch on meaninglessly when he isn't here. He almost says that these past few days have been the best gift he could've possibly received and for the first time in years he feels truly happy. He almost confesses to the sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling and the endless days spent lying morosely around the flat.

He almost says he's so in love with John that it hurts, that it burns, but instead of saying anything at all, he bites his tongue and stops the words from tumbling past his lips.

When silence stretches on for too long, John assumes Sherlock has no intention of speaking again, and sighs."Right, well I suppose I should pack my stuff together, then. Shouldn't take long since it's just a couple of shirts and toiletries, but Mary said she'd be back in London by around ten, so it wouldn't hurt to get ready now."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees quietly. "It wouldn't hurt."

3.

Later that morning, after John finishes packing, he walks into the sitting room as Sherlock is playing his violin. Though Sherlock is facing the window, he is immediately aware of John's presence. He decides against his initial urge to turn around, half afraid it'll scare John away or put him off from discussing whatever is clearly on his mind.

Instead, Sherlock remains where he is and watches London amble into wakefulness, the windows of adjacent buildings lighting up one at a time like drowsily blinking eyes. It's late morning, so rosy blush has already finished its languid crawl across the sky and the stars have long since twinkled their final goodbyes before sunrise. He pulls the bow across the strings slowly, like a yawn, and finally turns to face John, who is simply standing there in the middle of the sitting room with his bag, gazing at him, while the light from the window casts lovely shapes across his face.

"What is that piece called?" The words are a sleepy hum, as soft and precious as the dew clinging to the window pane. Sherlock slows the music to match John's tones.

"I haven't decided yet. I'm composing." He draws the bow up sharply and produces a complicated, fiery staccato, then smooths the bar out again with a slow medley of sweet, elongated notes.

"It's beautiful," John says. "It sounds like…"

"A lullaby?" Sherlock guesses, absently continuing the melody, eyes downcast at the instrument.

"No." John replies, his voice quavering like a plucked string. "It sounds like a love song, Sherlock."

That's because it is, John, he wants to say. I wrote this for you, I write everything for you. You alone have a thousand symphonies pounding through your veins; your every heartbeat provides the first note to a hundred ballads; the light in your eyes is enough to inspire sonnets and serenades and beautiful concertos to last a lifetime.

"I suppose," he murmurs instead, carefully avoiding John's gaze.

John's fingers move restlessly at his sides, clenching, unclenching. "But why does it sound so sad? If it's a love song, why does it sound so terribly broken?" He asks this as if it is the most important question in the world.

Perhaps it is.

John's face looks so naked in morning light, so open and true, that Sherlock suddenly has the strangest urge to cry. Something in his chest aches and throbs and threatens to burst. John's eyes are the ocean—full of dark, stormy waves thrashing about, pent up and wild like nature's unbiased rage—but his mouth and hands are soft. They are resigned, accepting, closed then open, careful, cautious, unsure, unwilling—unable—and Sherlock does not know what to make of any of it.

It is then—though not for the first time and certainly not for the last—that the measureless unfairness of it all crashes over Sherlock's head. He suddenly has the urge to break his violin in half, throw it out the window, and listen for the sound of it hitting the pavement; he wants to smash all of the delicate cups that are scattered throughout the house and dance atop the broken shards; he wants to grab John's hand and press it to his chest and ask if John can feel the shattered mess residing there. Can he feel the bleeding, splintered pieces? Can he feel that endless, aching throb?

John's voice shakes. "Why?"

Sherlock thinks something is going to happen—that something is finally going to be said and the house of cards they've been living under will at last come crashing down. But then John's mobile rings in the next room (they both know who it is), and just like that, the moment has withered up and blown away like a dead leaf.

John bites the inside of his cheek and cuts his eyes away. "That's probably Mary. I should take that."

Evenly, Sherlock agrees. "Yes, you should."

John makes as if to leave, but then pauses. "Sherlock?" he asks. "Are you alright?"

What a terribly funny question.

Sherlock wants to sob, wants to scream, wants to yell, wants to bloody hate the world for dealing him such a soul-crushing lot, but instead he carefully places the violin down and smiles. The expression nearly kills him.

"I'm fine, John," he assures. "Now go call Mary back, you wouldn't want to keep her waiting."

Chapter Text

Tension:  (noun) a strained relationship between individuals 

1.

That afternoon when John is prepared to leave to the airport to pick up Mary, he pauses in the doorway and asks, hopefully and unsurely, if Sherlock would like to come over for dinner.

"You've never been to our flat before and it's about time you see it, don't you think?"

Internally, Sherlock heartily begs to differ; he has no desire to see the domestic dwelling John and his lovely soon-to-be wife inhabit. However, he understands how important this is to John, so he bites his tongue and feigns a look of excitement. "Yes, I'd love to."

The decision is made worthwhile when John gives him a one thousand-watt smile and says, "Smashing. I'll text you the details once I've spoken with Mary, yeah? Should be around seven or eight tonight."

Sherlock nods and continues smiling despite the twitch forming in his cheek. "Sounds lovely."

2.

Mary wants to know if 8P.M. is OK? 

Yes, that's fine. SH

Great! The address is 5823 Royal Worchester St. Any requests for dinner?

You know me, John, I do not particularly care either way. SH

Right. Mary wants to know, so I'll just tell her you said mince pies since that's my favorite. 

I was under the impression your favorite dish was roast chicken with parsley and lemon? SH

Instead of buzzing with a new text, Sherlock's phone starts ringing. Surprised, he answers it.

"John?"

"How did you know my favorite dish is roast chicken?"

"With lemon and parsley," Sherlock corrects.

"Yes, with lemon and parsley," John says, and Sherlock can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "I've never actually told you that—in fact I myself forgot I loved that dish. How did you know?"

Sherlock shrugs and then remembers John can't see him. "I'm not sure, but it's really not surprising as there is quite a lot of minutia about you stored in my mind palace, and I don't recall half of the information's origin. Maybe your sister mentioned it once."

"You've never met my sister."

"Yes, but you could've mentioned it via email or when you were speaking with her on the phone. I have a tendency to eavesdrop and borrow your computer, remember?"

John snorts. "Yeah, borrow."

"Did you really call just to find out about the chicken?" Sherlock asks. "Not that I don't enjoy talking with you, of course, because I do. Immensely," he adds, and then mentally smacks himself for sounding too eager.

"Er, yeah. I did. When you said the chicken thing I was…surprised. And flattered." John clears his throat self-consciously. "Is that weird?"

"I don't think so. But then again, I am not exactly the prime example of 'normal.'"

John laughs and Sherlock's heart swells at the sound. "Neither am I, actually. We're both quite mad, aren't we?"

"I prefer the term 'unconventional' or perhaps 'unique'."

"'Creative individuals opposing society's norms' is a good one," John muses. "Or maybe 'rebels against the status quo'."

"We're not forming a gang, John, no need to come up with clever names," Sherlock replies drily. John laughs and it's the best thing Sherlock has ever heard.

"Well, I better go help Mary prepare dinner. See you at eight?"

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, torn between feeling pleased and dreadful. "Indeed."

3.

John and Mary's flat is located in the suburban part of London, where birds sing in the trees and the streets are perpetually filled with laughing children. There is no danger of smog or murder or honking cars here: only peaceful silence, sunshine, and homemade pies cooling in window sills. The building is equipped with overflowing flower boxes at each window and a quaint parking lot for the few eco-friendly cars that belong to the occupants. Upon first sight, Sherlock can see that this is an ideal area for cozy families.

It's all terribly dull.

When he enters the building and climbs the well-kept staircase, Sherlock counts all the differences between this place and 221B, and tries to imagine why on earth John would prefer this.

He raps his knuckles on the door twice.

"Sherlock, lovely to see you!" Mary sings upon opening the door. She steps back inside and gestures for him to follow. "Well come on in!"

He does.

"So…this is it," John says, sweeping his hand out in a presenting motion, as Sherlock steps inside the flat. "Our humble abode."

Immediately, Sherlock feels suffocated by his surroundings. Butter-colored upholstery, vases of flowers bursting from every corner, hand-sewn doilies resting on the coffee table: the flat is grossly overzealous in its attempt to appear warm and welcoming. Everything about the room seems deliberate and calculating, from the organized throw pillows to the bowl of colorful potpourri by the door; it's almost as if Mary has modeled her home directly after the stereotypical suburban households plastered throughout Style Magazine. The whole place reeks of domesticity.

The only trace of John is the small wooden desk in the corner—presumably his writing space—which is adorned sparingly with a UK ARMY mug, a thin stack of papers, and his laptop. Aside from this one detail, though, there is no indication that a man lives here, let alone John Hamish Watson, former army doctor and esteemed Captain.

To Mary, he says, "It's lovely," because he knows that's what she wants to hear, and to John he merely nods in approval. Sherlock figures somewhere deep down, John doesn't actually care for the décor and atmosphere of his own home—he's never known John to have any particular fondness for vanilla incense and floral drapes—but since it's become customary to dance around the Unsaid things between them, he refrains from commenting.

"Thank you, Sherlock, I'm glad you think so!" Mary coos.

John gives him a look that is equal parts relieved and disappointed, and then makes a beeline for the sofa where he immediately pulls out his laptop and begins typing. Sherlock raises a curious brow and is on the verge of inquiring what John is so enthusiastically working on, when Mary walks into his line of sight and gives him a beaming, white-toothed smile.

"Here, I'll take your coat," she offers, reaching out and lightly grabbing his sleeve. As if burned, Sherlock flinches away from her touch and pulls the coat tighter to his body.

"No," he says harshly, and then quickly catches himself. "I mean, no thank you,"
he rephrases, clearing his throat. "I'd prefer to keep it on."

"Oh! Well that's fine too," Mary chirps, though her smile looks a bit forced. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He's on the verge of saying no simply on principle, but once it occurs to him that if Mary leaves to get a drink, he and John will be left alone, he changes his mind. "Yes, please. Tea would be lovely."

"Alright, be back in flash!"

As soon as she has disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock crosses the room and joins John on the sofa.

"What are you writing?" he asks.

"Er…an email to my sister," John replies, unsubtly turning the screen away from Sherlock's view. "Nothing interesting."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and takes in the faint flush of frustration on John's cheeks, the absentminded twitch of his left hand, and the unthinking glances he keeps throwing in Mary's direction. In one smooth cognitive burst, he arrives at the conclusion that John is writing his vows.

"Why are you working on your vows right now?" Sherlock asks. "The engagement party isn't for weeks and the wedding itself is months after that."

"Could you kindly keep your voice down so Mary doesn't hear in the kitchen?"

"Fine," Sherlock amends, dropping his voice to whisper. "You didn't answer my question."

John reclines back into the cushions and removes his hands from the keyboard. "I'm working on them now because I want to get them out of the way as soon as possible." He frowns at his own phrasing and tries again, "I didn't mean that, that sounded too harsh. I just mean, I know this part of the process is going to be difficult so I want to give myself a good amount of time to get it right. Reasonable decision, right?"

John's relaxed words and the irritated lines around his eyes do not say the same thing.

"Then why are you frustrated?"

"Because," John exhales, "this is turning out to be far more difficult than I thought it would be. I don't know, the words just won't come to me. Every line I write I end up deleting because it sounds too empty and vapid. Christ, Sherlock, it shouldn't be this hard."

"You seemed apt enough at writing poetry for your girlfriends in the past," Sherlock reminds him, his tone a bit sharper than intended.

The tips of John's ears go pink at the mention of his poems, and he averts his eyes to the far window. Sherlock thinks it's just embarrassment until John slowly says, "Those weren't actually for my girlfriends."

He frowns, thrown off. "They weren't?"

"No," John replies hesitantly. "I never sent any of them. They just sat there in a word doc and gathered dust, alright?"

This is certainly an interesting bit of information. Sherlock stows it away in his palace for later analysis.

"I don't know why the words aren't coming easily for this," John continues. "When I wrote those poems, the words just flowed onto the page. It was effortless."

Although Sherlock once poked fun at John for writing those poems, in the privacy of his mind he always thought they were quite beautiful—which, coming from Sherlock, was exceedingly rare as he typically had no stomach for romance or flowery sentiment. He reckons John's poetry—like most things John-related—is yet another exception to his rules.

"Who were you thinking of when you wrote those poems?" Sherlock asks, though he doesn't particularly care to hear the answer. He's willing to bet his body weight in pounds that John's muse was an old girlfriend or some unattainable female stranger he passed on the street; in other words, yet another woman Sherlock has to be jealous of. "In essence, who was your inspiration? Simply tap into that well of ideas and use it to write your vows."

"They…they were about a friend," John says quietly "Someone I couldn't be with because, well, it was rather complicated. And no, I can't use the thought of them because isn't that similar to, I don't know, envisioning someone else while you're having sex your partner? It's depraved, it's wrong. I should be able to write deep, meaningful things about Mary alone, shouldn't I? I don't know why this is so hard—"

"Tea's on!" Mary announces, walking into the room with a tray filled with drinks, biscuits, and a variety of artfully arranged fruit. "I wasn't sure how you take your tea, Sherlock, so I left it black," Mary says. "Here, the milk and sugar are right here." She points at the two small containers and then turns to John. "Darling, I know you prefer yours with nothing in it, so here you are!"

John smiles appreciatively and takes the cup from her.

"Thank you, Mary," Sherlock says, dropping his customary three sugars into the cup.

"You have quite the sweet tooth, don't you?" Mary comments, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's drink.

Sherlock stares at her and pointedly drops a fourth cube into the tea. Then a fifth. "Hardly," he retorts drily.

Mary's expression falters for a fraction of a second, but in no time her 'perfect-hostess' grin is firmly back in place.

…

He isn't sure why he does it, but when Mary mentions all the planning they've yet to do for the engagement party and a shadow passes over John's face, Sherlock finds himself saying:

"I'll plan it for you."

The moment the words escape him, he regrets it. In truth, he knows why he did it—to save John the stress of fretting over yet another frivolous thing—but that doesn't mean his mouth had any right to open up and offer something as ludicrous as his assistance in the whole endeavor. He should be doing everything in his power to stay as far away from this wedding (and all of its accompanying events) as possible, not throwing himself right into the bloody eye of the storm. Besides, he's never even attended an engagement party, let alone planned one.

But if Mary and John's respective expressions of gratitude are anything to go by, this is not the sort of thing you can offer and then retract.

"Really?" John says, his eyebrows hitting his hairline. "You will?"

"Of course," he assures with a faint smile. "I'd love to."

"That's…that's an incredible gesture, Sherlock" John says. "Thank you so, so much." He gives the detective one last heart-melting smile and then returns his attention to his laptop.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad you've decided to help us with the engagement party," Mary gushes, tucking a stray blond hair behind her ear. "I've been so busy lately, what with my sister and all the makeup work at the clinic…I really can't thank you enough. There are just so many details involved in planning the wedding itself, that I nearly forgot about the engagement party!"

"It's not a problem, Mary," Sherlock assures absently. His eyes drift over her shoulder at John who is sitting on the love seat with his laptop balancing on his knees. Judging by the slightly quicker pace of his typing, he's now working on either an email or recreational writing, the latter which he has never known John to do. Sherlock immediately rules out the possibility that he's writing his vows again, because the set of his shoulders is relaxed and the lines around his eyes have disappeared. He looks relatively at peace—perhaps even content—which makes Sherlock even more curious to find out what he's doing.

"—and the balloons ought to be silver and lavender. I know what you're thinking: why those colors? Well, you see, I've always adored purple but if we went with a darker shade I fear it would be too garish and grey is just so plain, isn't it? That's why I've settled with a nice pastel lavender garnished with the metallic silver for a little extra pop. You know?"

"Mm? Yes, of course. Pop indeed," Sherlock answers, completely oblivious to everything she just said. "John, what do you think?" he asks, just to bring John's focus back in his direction.

"Purple and silver sound lovely," he says without looking away from the screen.

"Lavender and silver," Mary corrects. She cocks her head at John's focused expression, clearly annoyed that is isn't aimed at her. "What are you writing, love?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing. Just sending Harry an email," he says nonchalantly, closing the laptop with finality. Sherlock can tell it's a lie from John's mouth and eyes and hands, but there isn't enough data to conclude what he was actually doing, so Sherlock lets it slide for the moment and resolves to question John later.

"Well," Mary says, bringing her hands together in a clap, "why don't we get started on that chicken?

…

Dinner is an odd affair.

In his own home, John seems oddly subdued and polite, whereas at Baker Street he was bursting with life and energy. Sherlock wonders if it's just his hopeful imagination looking for signs that John isn't happy here. Mary, in contrast, appears to be entirely at home among these rose colored walls and floral arrangements; she oozes confidence and domesticity and affection, to the point that Sherlock can't look at her too long without becoming vaguely unsettled.

"So, love, what did you and Mr. Detective do while I was away?" she chirps, as she passes around the bowl of colorful garden salad. Sherlock watches ten different answers pass over John's face before he settles with, "Oh, you know, just watching old Bond movies and milling around London. The usual."

Mary spears a cherry tomato and raises a brow. "Oh? No cases on?"

Evidently, Mary has mastered the art of passive inquisition. Interesting.

Instead of lying, John casually states, "Just one. But it was riddled with loose ends, so we hardly spent any time bothering with it. On a more important note," John says, smoothly changing the subject, "I asked Sherlock to be my best man, and he said yes." John smiles at him from across the table, and for one lovely moment it feels as if they are the only two people in the room.

Of course, that illusion breaks as soon as Mary rejoins the conversation. "Oh, that's wonderful!" she beams. "Look at you, Sherlock, the party planner and the best man! How lovely!"

"Yes, it is an honor," he replies, bowing his head slightly. "I'm pleased to be part of the wedding ceremony."

"And we're pleased to have you," John says, his blue eyes twinkling.

"So, Sherlock," Mary interjects, the smile easing from her face so fluidly he nearly misses the transition. "What was this weekend's case about? I'd love to hear about it."

This feels like, and most likely is, a trap. Why Mary is so adamant about hearing what happened (and why John is so reluctant to tell her) is quite clear—she doesn't approve.

The wisest route, he decides, is to simply downplay the truth. "A series of murders, expertly committed, with no link to the killer. John is correct, though, I am leaving it alone for the time being as there is nothing we can do until further information reveals itself."

Unbeknownst to both John and Mary, is a lie. He has no intention of leaving the case alone, no matter how little evidence he has at his disposal. Something is different about this series of killings. Something about it invokes a hollow feeling in his chest and makes him uneasy in ways he cannot explain. This isn't just a gang member or a drug lord or a psychopath seeking revenge, this is someone smart. Obscenely smart. Terrifyingly so. This murderer had very clear motives for killing each victim, and who's to say they've finished? For all he knows, there could very well be another string of deaths looming on the horizon, waiting to add another piece to the killer's message. He wonders if it's a warning or a plea or a harsh promise. Perhaps a code? A lesson? A caution?

Either way, he's starving for answers.

"That seems wise," Mary says, nodding. For a single moment, her bright green eyes flash and something strange passes over her face, but it's gone before he has time to analyze it. "Taking a break on the case, I mean," she clarifies after a beat, the merriness seeping purposefully back into her tone. "It's always better to be patient and arrive at a conclusion once all the evidence is available."

"Indeed," Sherlock agrees neutrally. He takes a bite of flavorless, tough chicken and smiles at his hostess. "The food is delicious by the way, Mary."

She smiles back and he can clearly see her canines. They're quite sharp. "Thank you, dear."

4.

By the time he gets home at 10 P.M., his mind is swimming. When John and Mary bid him goodnight and closed the door, he could practically taste the oncoming row simmering in the air.

He knows John is bound to either text or call him, so he kills time playing frantic, jittery nonsense on his violin until his fingers throb and his wrists ache. After that, he paces the sitting room and realizes, for the first time, that Mary's issue with Sherlock's cases has the potential to make things very, very difficult. What if she demands that John stop seeing Sherlock altogether?

What if John lets her?

At this point, it's Mary against Sherlock, and no matter how desperately he wants John to choose him, he can't be sure that he will. The anxiety ties his stomach into knots and makes his head hurt, so he is eventually forced to lie down on the sofa and stare listlessly at the ceiling.

At one in the morning, his phone buzzes.

From now on, cases are taboo topics, okay? Mary wasn't pleased about this weekend. 

From now on. That implies that John intends to continue their adventures, and more importantly, it implies that he intends to continue seeing Sherlock.

Sherlock's heart sinks to his knees in relief.

Yes, of course, in the future we'll keep it between the two of us. What did she say? SH

She insisted that it was ridiculous for me to keep risking my life like this. She said I'm too old to be 'running around London chasing bad guys' with you.

You're not old. SH

Ha. Well, the 42 birthday candles on my cake say otherwise .

John, I'm 38 and I do not consider myself too old for this profession. Neither are you. The only question is, do you enjoy 'running around London chasing bad guys' with me?'SH

Of course. 

Then there's no need to stop, now is there? SH

It'll be our secret then, yeah?

Of course. SH 

Good. 

What were you doing on your laptop today? After the vows, I mean. SH

Looking for new cases & updating the blog.

At that, Sherlock puts his phone face down on the sofa and grins at the ceiling. That's what was making John look so content and pleased? The thought of going on new cases with Sherlock? Warmth spills through his chest like honey and he finds himself unable to stop smiling.

Find anything? SH

Of course. Why don't we talk about it over breakfast tomorrow? Lou's Cafe, my treat . 

You know I don't eat in the morning. SH

Would you make an exception if I asked extra nicely? 

Perhaps. SH

Wonderful, brilliant, intelligent detective, will you please accompany me to breakfast tomorrow morning?

Fine. Just for you, John. SH

Excellent. I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Sherlock. 

The conversation feels like an affair: a delicious little secret budding underneath his skin. He loves that he knows something Mary doesn't, even if it's something as small as he and John taking cases. He loves his and John's banter, the smooth flow of conversation, and the way they fall so easily in sync with each other. He loves that John values Sherlock more than he values Mary's rules. He relishes it, he basks in it.

He wishes for more.

Chapter Text

Rules  (noun): a code of regulations governing the conduct, action, or procedure of an individual.

…

1.

Despite the fact that he and John agreed to meet at seven, Sherlock wakes up at five the next morning. He dresses in record time, fixes his hair in a matter of seconds, and makes it to the cafe twenty minutes early.

The establishment is as quaint and comfortable as Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, and the chatter filling the small building is pleasantly lively without being too disruptive. There are so many strangers in the cafe—and so many deductions to make—that from the moment he steps inside, his senses are overwhelmed by a plethora of data and information. An elderly woman and her granddaughter sit at a table in the corner, the latter smiling and nodding as the former recounts a childhood memory with nostalgic eyes; clearly the grandmother has been diagnosed with a fatal illness and the young woman, previously uninvolved in her life, felt guilty and resolved to move in with her and make up for lost time. A man and a woman lean against the bar, chatting and laughing while they share a plate of pumpkin pie; they are undoubtedly in love with each other, if the constant 'accidental' shoulder bumps and lingering glances are anything to go by. A spindly young man near the entrance occupies a table by himself, blandly reading the newspaper and occasionally glancing across the room at the kitchen door. Judging by the cagey look in his eyes and the forced nonchalance of his posture, he slept with the cook several nights ago, and despite their agreement to keep it a secret, he is paranoid that the cook will not keep his promise.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Sherlock blinks and realizes he's been standing in the threshold of the restaurant for a good three minutes now. He clears his throat and steps the rest of the way inside, smiling briefly at the hostess. "Yes actually. Table for two?"

A spark of recognition lights her eyes and she tips her head to the side. "Say, you wouldn't happen to be—" she glances down at her clipboard "—Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would you?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I am. May I ask how you know me?"

She beams. "Mr. Watson said you'd be coming. He described you as a tall bloke with a long coat and 'blueish-grey' eyes, and I figured you fit the bill. Right this way, sir."

On the way to the table, Sherlock chews on the fact that John specified about his eye color. Blueish-grey.

"Here you are, sir," the woman says with a smile, pointing to the table a few feet away.

John is already sitting there, nursing a coffee and staring tensely out the window.

Even from across the room, Sherlock can tell something isn't quite right.

From the pronounced shadows under John's eyes and the terse line of his mouth, Sherlock deduces that he got into another row with Mary last night, retired to the couch, and, as a result, received very little sleep. He looks wan, exhausted, and frustrated. Perhaps a little sad too.

Sherlock dislikes seeing John like this.

"John?"

Despite the blatant misery written on his face, John immediately breaks into a smile as soon as Sherlock sits down. It's short-lived and tired, but a genuine smile nonetheless.

"It appears we both had the clever idea of arriving early," Sherlock notes.

"Well we are clever people, aren't we?" John says. "Or at least you are."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, John. Doctors are generally quite clever and you are even more intelligent due to your proximity to me."

John laughs and shakes his head. "Right, so I see your modesty is still wonderfully in check."

Sherlock smirks. "As always."

John takes a sip of coffee and his gaze slides over to the window again, as if magnetically drawn to it. The look of happiness drains from his face, revealing the dull, weary pallor of his true emotions.

"How are you?" Sherlock asks without thinking.

As soon as he says it, they both immediately look surprised, and Sherlock realizes, perhaps at the same time John does, that he has never uttered that utterly typical, polite phrase in his life.

"What?" John says, blinking hard.

"I…asked how you were."

"Right, yeah, but since when do you do that?"

"Er, never. It sounded quite…odd out of my mouth," Sherlock admits, tilting his head. "But, strangely enough, I meant it. How are you?"

John clears his throat and drops his gaze to the tabletop. "That question is a just formality, right? I'm sure you figured out every single thing I'm about to say the moment you saw me."

"Yes," Sherlock concedes, "but that doesn't mean I don't want to hear what happened. In your words."

With a heavy sigh, John tiredly meets his gaze. "As you know, Mary wasn't too happy when she found out about you and me working on a case while she was gone. At first she just seemed mildly upset by it, but, well," John frowns at the spot over Sherlock's shoulder, his posture slumping with his next words "After I texted you, right before we went to bed, she brought it up again and made me promise that I'd stop."

Sherlock's heart plummets in his chest. "Stop," he repeats dully.

"Yes."

Sherlock tries to imagine going on cases without John.

There is no point in sprinting through London with his life balancing on a needlepoint if he doesn't have his steady footed doctor running behind him. Filing stacks of paperwork in Lestrade's office will become dreary and unbearable without his best friend in the chair beside him, snickering about some snarky remark or another. Clamping handcuffs on the criminal's wrists and ushering them into police custody will hardly taste as sweet without his flat mate beaming proudly up at him, calling him brilliant, incredible, wonderful, clever, amazing, perfect.

"And did you?" Sherlock asks quietly. "Promise, I mean."

John's eyes lock onto his and he deliberately shakes his head. "Of course not. I would never."

Shaken by both relief and residual anxiety, Sherlock gives an uneven nod and takes a long gulp of water. He presses his palms flat against the table so that their trembling isn't so obvious. "That's…that's good."

"Hey," John says softly, placing a hand over Sherlock's and squeezing gently. "I promised nothing would stand between us, didn't I? I'm not going to stop going on cases with you and I'm definitely not going to stop seeing you. You're my best friend, Sherlock, I wouldn't do that."

He feels the weight of the world slide from his shoulders. He takes a deep breath. "Okay."

On a crazy whim that he will later marvel at, Sherlock turns his flat hand palm-up and tangles their fingers together. To his utmost surprise (and joy), John doesn't pull his hand away.

It's at this moment that their waitress returns and glances unsubtly at their linked hands. She is a young girl, no older than twenty two, with bright hazel eyes, a chipper smile, and cinnamon colored freckles. From the blisters on her hands and fading tan on her arms, Sherlock deduces that she used to live on a farm, but moved to the city for Uni.

At the sight of him and John, she grins widely. "I'm sorry if this is out of the blue, but you two make a beautiful couple," she gushes, clutching her notepad to her chest. "You remind me of my parents when they were young. You see, my dad was dark-haired and tall, like you sir," she says, smiling at Sherlock. "And my Pa was fair haired and short like you, sir," she beams at John. "Though I believe he was more strawberry-blonde. Well, anyway, they were absolutely nutty for each other." She laughs, and the sound reminds Sherlock of chiming bells. "They love to tell folks about how they met each other—some quirky, adorable mishap in the market—and they always go on and on about the countless dates they've had in this very cafe. In fact, it's half the reason I ended up working here myself."

The entire time, John doesn't remove his hand. And, strangely, instead of looking disgusted or annoyed at the misconception, something bright shines in John's eyes instead. In any other context, Sherlock would call it 'pride' or perhaps 'satisfaction'; here, however, Sherlock has no idea what it signifies.

"Thank you," John replies with a small, genuine smile. Sherlock blinks a mile a minute in John's direction, completely bemused, but John makes a point of not looking at him.

"Now, what can I get you boys?"

"A number three for me and a seven for him," John answers without missing a beat.

She glances at Sherlock and giggles. "A seven?"

John smiles and nods. "Indeed."

"Alrighty, your food will be here in a minute, darlings!"

"Ta," John calls as she spins on her heel and returns to the kitchen.

Finally, John looks back at him, his hand having (unfortunately) finally found its way back on his side of the table.

"I have a few questions," Sherlock begins slowly, his palm still tingling pleasantly with warmth.

"And perhaps I have some answers."

"First, why didn't you correct her?" Sherlock asks, genuinely confused. Two years ago, if anyone even insinuated that they were together, John would launch into his customary 'Not Gay' speech and make a point of leaving a healthy distance between him and Sherlock for the rest of the week. Now, John is suddenly okay with holding his hand in public and listening to some young woman prattle on about how 'adorable' they are?

Suffice to say, the detective's head is spinning like a top.

John shrugs and pretends to scan the menu, even though he's just ordered. "I didn't correct her because she was a sweet girl and she meant well. Besides, we were holding hands, so it wasn't as if her observation was completely uncalled for."

If I question this further, then I will be looking a gift horse in the mouth, Sherlock thinks to himself. I shouldn't mention it, I should drop this subject entirely and go back to leaving the unspoken things unspoken. As they should be. 

But Sherlock is a curious man, so he ends up voicing his question anyway. "So you're okay with holding my hand?"

If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd say the tips of John's ears went red as he said this; however, since he's never seen John blush over anything in his life, he chalks it up to the fairly warm temperature of the cafe.

"I am," John says at length. "It's…it can be a friendly gesture, can't it?" he asks, sounding a touch defensive.

"Of course!" Sherlock assures, perhaps too eagerly. "I mean, yes, it is friendly. Platonic. It's just a hand after all, right?"

John nods vehemently at that. "Yes, just a hand."

"I had another question as well."

"Go on," John says, relieved at the subject change.

"What is a number seven and why did you two seem so amused by it?" \

To his utter annoyance and endearment, John only grins.

…

A number seven, as it turns out, is a pancake decorated to look like a smiling clown.

"Really, John?" Sherlock deadpans, staring down at the monstrosity's whipped cream, blueberry-dotted eyes. "This is quite childish."

John laughs. "Oh come on, you love having sugary rubbish for breakfast. Hell, biscuits are practically ninety percent of your diet."

Sherlock sniffs indignantly and raises his chin. "I'll have you know, I ate a roast on Tuesday and had Chinese on Wednesday. Those certainly aren't 'sugary rubbish'."

John smirks and raises a brow. "Tuesday was dinner with Mrs. Hudson and Wednesday you were at the lab late and Molly brought in takeaway. Those two instances hardly prove you can demonstrate a well-balanced diet."

"How did you know?" Sherlock asks. "Did you talk to them?"

"Nope. I just can't imagine you slaving away at the oven preparing a roast, and you're far too impatient to phone the Chinese place yourself and order takeaway. That's why I always did it, remember?"

Sherlock does remember. "Of course." He glances down at his plate and sighs. "Well, I suppose I'll give the chef credit for at least being creative with his medium. The strawberry slices for hair was quite inspired."

John grins.

"So," Sherlock says, sectioning off a bit of the clown's forehead. "What cases did you find yesterday? I can't imagine there was anything spectacular as I was just on the blog the other day and nothing ranked higher than a four."

John grimaces. "Yeah, it really was slim pickings. I did manage to find what I thought was an eight, but once I reread the email a bit more carefully I realized it said 'gerbil' instead of 'German'. That made the whole thing drop to a very generous three."

"Yes, I believe I made the same mistake. Missing lampshade, shredded photographs?"

John nods. "I did however find one that might be fun just for the afternoon. It's only a five, or maybe a four and a half, but it takes place in rural Sussex which I've heard is lovely this time of year. Might be a nice getaway, don't you think?"

Going anywhere with John for any period of time always sounds lovely. "Indeed. What was the case about?"

"A woman is convinced that her ex-husband stole a family heirloom from her and pawned it off for money. I'm sure it'll be an open-and-shut ordeal, but it'd be good to get away from the city for a while."

Sherlock takes a measured sip of coffee and addresses the elephant in the room. "And what will you be telling Mary?"

"That I'm visiting Harry," John replies smoothly. "Harry lives in Eastbourne, which is only an hour more away. You will coincidentally be out of town the same day because of some business you're taking care of for Mycroft. Or, actually, she probably won't even know you weren't in, since it's pretty unlikely she'd drop by the flat."

Sherlock nods, an electric thrill dancing up his spine. "So we're doing this?" he asks, doing his best to suppress the excitement in his voice.

John grins at him and that same glint of adrenalin dashes across his eyes. "I'd say so."

"When do we leave?"

"Well, the clinic is going to be booked all week, so we can leave next Saturday. We'll solve the case, stay in Sussex overnight, and then come back Sunday morning. Sound good?"

Sherlock smiles. "Sounds perfect."

…

After another hour of easy banter, laughter, and the occasional exchange of glowing looks, John's mobile buzzes.

He scans the text and frowns, the joke he was in the midst of telling falling from his lips.

"Is everything alright?" Sherlock asks.

"Hm?" John looks up from the phone. "Oh, yes, everything's fine. Mary just said we're going to miss our movie date."

"I see."

"Here, I got it" John says, placing money and a generous tip on the table inside the bill.

"John, really, it's fine, I can—"

"Nope," John says simply. "My treat, remember?"

"I'm paying next time," Sherlock insists sternly, reluctantly allowing John to foot the bill.

"Good," John smiles. "Alright," he says, rising from the table, "I better get going. Take care, yeah?"

Then he pulls Sherlock into an unexpected but nonetheless welcome embrace, holding him for a few beats longer than is perhaps strictly necessary. Sherlock exhales slowly, trying to alleviate some of the suffocating pressure (longing, yearning, desperation) building in his chest, and relaxes into the hug. Without really meaning to, his hands cling to the material of John's jacket, as if trying to hold him in place for as long as possible.

"Sherlock, this whole morning has been wonderful. I…I really needed it," John confesses quietly, not letting go. His breath feels warm against Sherlock's neck.

He doesn't know what to say, so he simply nods his head, relishing the sensation of his cheek brushing against John's. The morning stubble feels quite nice.

When John finally pulls away, he squeezes Sherlock's shoulders and gives him a long look. He could plunge into those blue pools and spend entire afternoons wading around in them—and most likely would have, had John not looked away and glanced down at his watch a beat later.

"Mary wants me home by eleven, so I should head back," he says, not looking overly pleased about the arrangement. "I'll text you, though, okay?"

Sherlock nods and stuffs his hands deep into his pockets, wriggling his fingers against the spare change and house keys. "And I will text you back."

John grins and ducks his head. "Ha, alright, good. I'm glad." He heads to the door and then pauses in the threshold.

"Sherlock?" he says, turning around.

"Yes?"

John smiles. "You're brilliant."

"What makes you say that?"

John only grins and pushes open the door, calling over his shoulder, "It's been a while since I've told you that. Just wanted to make sure you didn't forget."

…

Sherlock's chest doesn't stop glowing all the way to Baker Street.

2.

A week later:

He knows John doesn't want him working on the Ten Hour Deaths case for many reasons—mostly because he doesn't want Sherlock to lose sleep over something that physically cannot be solved without further evidence, especially since he should be focused on helping with the wedding right now. Sherlock is aware that Mary doesn't want him on the case either, but he doesn't give a rat's arse about what she thinks anymore, so her opinions don't even come into consideration as he debates whether or not to reopen the investigation.

When it comes down to it, he recognizes that there are not many things of value in his life right now, aside from John and the Work. And since John's time and energy belong almost entirely to Mary, Sherlock has only his cases to keep him sane. Besides, the sweet call of the unsolved mystery is beckoning to him, and Sherlock has never been very good at resisting temptation.

He reckons it wouldn't hurt to do a little research.

I am looking into the THD case again. I need info. SH

Pardon me, brother, but since when have you made your own acronyms for cases? I was under the impression that was John's territory. MH

The Ten Hour Deaths case, Mycroft, excuse me for not being eloquent enough to type it all out. Now, are you willing to help or not? SH

Am I willing to share information? Perhaps. But like most things, it shall come at a price. MH

Feel free to take my first born child. SH

Thank you, but you provide more than enough infantilism in my life as is, Sherlock. I'd prefer if you solved a case for me. MH

What is the case? SH 

Oh, it isn't quite formed yet, but I can sense it on the horizon. And, as you and I both know, my senses are hardly ever wrong. Simply consider this an IOU. MH

Now who's using acronyms? SH 

Deal or no deal? MH

Deal. SH

Splendid. Now what exactly do you need to know? MH

Chapter Text

Investigation: (noun) a searching inquiry for ascertaining facts

Even though Sherlock has visited his brother’s home countless times, he still feels the same overwhelming urge to roll his eyes the moment he sets foot on the front porch.   

Mycroft’s manor—and, yes, it is indeed a manor—is a looming, ridiculous thing with posh white trim, yawning dark windows, and a mess of artfully-grown ivy plants. Sherlock presses his finger to the doorbell and listens with a sardonic smirk as the buzzer chimes Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5; of course Mycroft wouldn’t settle for something as pedestrian as a simple ‘ding-dong’.  

Unsurprisingly, it is not his brother who answers the door; rather, it is his elderly maid, Prudence. She is a sixty-eight year old woman equipped with what is easily the most impressive hunchback Sherlock has ever seen, as well as the ability to maintain a monotonous tone in any situation, no matter the emotional intensity. He reckons she could remain even-keeled and nasal-toned while London itself was burning to the ground. 

“Hello, Mr. Holmes, come in,” she drones. “Your brother is in his office.” 

“Doing paperwork I assume?” Sherlock questions, stepping over the threshold and shedding his coat.

“You know I don’t bother Mycroft Holmes when he’s working, Mr. Holmes. You’ll have to see for yourself. Follow me,” she says, leading him down the long, oil-painting adorned hallway.

Whenever Sherlock visits, he always makes a point of engaging Prudence in conversation, as she is quite entertaining in her complete disregard for social niceties. He reckons that is why Mycroft has kept her on his staff over the years: she is unapologetically blunt, uninterested in prolonged interaction, and does not go above and beyond in her tasks. For a man who abhors pleasantries as much as his brother, she is the perfect worker. 

“So, Prudence, how have you been?” he asks as they walk.

She scratches the side of her nose with a single claw-like nail. “The economy is in the pits and my oatmeal was too lumpy this morning. How do you think I’ve been?”

“And your cats, are they well?” 

“You mean Jefferson and Lionel? Well they’re still better than half the human population, if that’s what you mean.”

“To be fair, it isn’t terribly difficult standard to exceed,” Sherlock points out. “Regardless, kudos to your pets.”

She merely grunts in response. 

As they continue to make their way down the hall, his eyes slide unappreciatively over yet another portrait of some stodgy, long dead ancestor of theirs and he silently vows never to allow himself or Mycroft to be commemorated in such a ridiculous manner.

“Enjoying the cool weather we’ve been having?” 

She gives him a sour look. “Cold weather makes my bones hurt. Of course I’m not enjoying it, you ninny.” She stops in front of one of the manor’s many doors, having reached their destination. “Your brother is expecting you, feel free to go in.”

“Thank you, Prudence,” he says, bowing his head. 

“I walked you to a door, I didn’t cure cancer,” she mutters. “No need for the parade float of gratitude. Good day, Mr. Holmes.” And with that, she turns on her heel and hobbles back down the hallway, mumbling complaints under her breath as she goes.

Sherlock wishes she were their grandmother. 

“Hello, brother,” Mycroft welcomes, rising from his chair as Sherlock opens the door. 

The cherrywood surface of his desk is covered with a chaotic explosion of papers and documents that, to the untrained eye, could easily be mistaken for simple disarray. Sherlock, however, is able to immediately recognize the patterns, structures, and indices hidden amongst the heaps of seemingly random clutter. Sherlock is quite familiar with this way of thinking as he too prefers to live in organized bedlam.  

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, nodding his head in greeting.  

“Here again without John?” Mycroft comments. “I was under the impression the two of you were working on this case together.”   

Sherlock makes a point of turning away and examining a painting on the wall, even though he’s seen it about two hundred times. “I’m sure you are aware of our situation, Mycroft, I shan’t bore you with useless explanations.”

“Ms. Morstan isn’t particularly fond of your work I take it?” 

It’s clear Mycroft knows every detail of their circumstances, backwards and forwards, but for some reason his brother is endeavoring to act as if that is not the case. Sherlock can’t decide if he finds it more annoying or confusing.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock begins wearily, facing him, “you know why I’m here, you know Mary’s feelings towards my detective work, and you are aware of my reasons for excluding John from this investigation. Why are you feigning ignorance?”

Mycroft clears his throat and looks mildly uncomfortable for a moment—which, for a man whose confidence never wavers, is practically a lifetime. “I’ve been told that it is polite to wait for information to be revealed through friendly conversation as opposed to blatant statements.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him and scans his face for any sign of ulterior motives. Surprisingly, his search proves fruitless. “You are…attempting to be civil?” 

Mycroft nods stiffly. “Indeed.” 

“I assume this is the work of some higher power,” Sherlock huffs. “Perhaps Mummy?”

To Sherlock’s utmost shock, instead of confirming or denying or choosing all of the above, Mycroft does the unthinkable and averts his eyes. Sherlock thinks—and fervently hopes—that it’s just a trick of the light, but he is almost certain he’s just seen his brother, head of the British government and chairman of multiple secret organizations, blush. 

“It may have come up when Anthea and I were dining last night,” he offers eventually, his valiant attempt at nonchalance failing miserably. “She mentioned something about my ‘people skills’ needing a bit of ‘work’.” 

“…And you took that into consideration?”

Mycroft clears his throat (for what might just be the fourth time in as many minutes) and stiffly replies, “Yes. I have.” 

There is a long stretch of awkward silence. “Right. Well…that’s good I suppose.” 

However, it isn’t good, it’s strange, uncharacteristic, and frankly a bit unsettling. Since when does Mycroft take what his underlings say into account? Sherlock’s eyes travel automatically across the planes of his brother’s face in search of an answer, deducing and forming conclusions practically of their own accord. Mycroft realizes what he’s doing a second later and immediately wipes his expression clean, but it’s too late because by that point Sherlock has already gathered a plethora of information and the results are bloody fascinating.  

“Oh!” Sherlock says, a tad gleefully. “Oh that is quite interesting, indeed.”

Mycroft tightens his jaw and raises his chin, as if daring Sherlock to continue. “Sherlock Holmes, it would behoove you greatly to hold your tongue.”

“I’m simply speechless,” Sherlock continues, ignoring him. He has to physically fight the urge to chuckle. “You are among the last people I would have expected this from, brother.”

“Sherlock Holmes…” Mycroft trails off, his tone warning. 

Sherlock smirks and raises a knowing brow. “You’re dating Anthea, aren’t you?” 

“That is irrelevant,” Mycroft replies calmly, though his posture looks anything but relaxed. His spine is held a bit too straight and the line of his mouth twitches every now and then, as if he is attempting to suppress the urge to scowl. 

“If your physical reaction is anything to go by, I’d say this development is fairly new as well,” Sherlock observes. “A week maybe? Two?”

Sighing as if he has the entire world on his breath, Mycroft sinks back into his chair and gives Sherlock a half-hearted glower. “A week and a half,” he answers, rubbing his forehead, “but please, for the love of all that is holy and good, do not inform Mummy. If she and Father hear about this, they’ll be on my doorstep by tomorrow morning and I am neither willing nor able to entertain them at the moment.” 

Sherlock pulls out the chair before Mycroft’s desk and collapses gracefully into it. “I suppose I’ll refrain from mentioning it,” he replies loftily. “If only because I know I’ll be forced to entertain them as well.”  

“Splendid,” Mycroft retorts drily. He folds his hands atop his desk and raises a brow. “Now then, shall we move on to the actual purpose of your visit?”

Sherlock’s mind switches gears and every thought irrelevant to the case leaves his mind in an instant. “Yes,” he says, leaning forward. “Show me the files.”  

…

They sift through the painfully thin stack of information for two hours before either of them arrive at a conclusion.

“Mycroft, this is the same information we had access to last week,” Sherlock complains. “Tell me you have some new developments.”

“January Phillips was no ordinary woman,” Mycroft says at length, his eyes unhurriedly roaming over the documents on the table. “She and Mr. Phillips were quite the enigmas.”

Impatiently, Sherlock closes the file in his hands and scowls. “Speak plainly, brother, you know I have no stomach for riddles.”

“Fine,” Mycroft concedes, casting a mildly displeased look in his direction. “Do you recall what I said when we first spoke about Mrs. Phillips last week?”

“Yes. You said there was a significant amount of information missing from her file,” Sherlock replies, pacing the room with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “You also mentioned that her and her husband’s official documents were forged by some high-ranked secret operation. I assume you were referring to either the M16 Classis Occulitis branch or the CIA.”

At the mention of such confidential matters, Mycroft’s gaze darts reflexively to the locked door. He clears his throat and looks back at Sherlock. “M16 C.O. does not exist outside this room, understand?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but Mycroft’s gaze does not waver. “Understand?” he repeats more firmly. 

“Yes, yes, I am well aware of what ‘confidential’ means, Mycroft. Carry on.”

“M16 C.O. could easily have played a part in this—perhaps someone from the organization assisted in the forged papers—but as a whole, this case smacks strongly of United States involvement. I believe it is the CIA at work here. For some reason, they’ve decided to intervene in British matters.”

“Meaning?”

“January Phillips was not her real name,” Mycroft says simply. “She was clearly an ex-agent from either M16 or the CIA—though I highly doubt it’s the former as I would have been aware of her situation—and her life as a luxuriant housewife was merely a cover. Now, whether that cover was meant for a mission or a retirement plan, I couldn’t say.”

“And Mr. Phillips was a former agent as well I presume?”

“Ah, no, you’ve missed something, brother.”

Sherlock scowls, annoyed at himself for overlooking a detail. “Have I?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, folding his hands on his desk. “Her husband never existed. If you don’t believe me, ask his colleagues at the business company he supposedly worked at. Perhaps a few might know him by name as he was listed on the payroll and catalog of employees, but I can guarantee no one will claim to have ever shared a conversation or cup of coffee with him. He was merely a name and a falsified background: yet another accessory in Mrs. Phillips’ elaborate disguise. Quite ingenious on her part, I must say.” 

Sherlock flicks his hand in an impatient gesture. “It’s hardly ingenious to rely on the incompetency of other people; at any given moment, someone could’ve looked a bit deeper into her married life and completely destroyed her ruse. Then where would she have been?” Sherlock shakes his head. “The stakes were far too high to merit such a decision.” 

“Oh, I disagree, brother,” Mycroft contradicts. “She knew the truth about her ‘husband’ would never come to light when she moved to London three months ago: if the neighbors never actually saw Mr. Phillips, they would’ve just assumed it was because he worked very often, and what is spectacular about that? Perhaps they might’ve met and made acquaintance with January, but she would’ve ensured that each meeting was casual enough to deter further involvement. She knew what she was doing because she was exceedingly clever.”

“Not clever enough.”  

“Yes, not clever enough,” Mycroft repeats absently, his eyes glossing over in thought. “Now the remaining question is, who would kill her? Once I get access to her actual files—the ones she acquired over the past few years and subsequently hid in CIA archives—we will be able to discern who she really was, which will then make it easier to determine the exact motive behind her death. Why was she in London, and more importantly, why was the killer in London?” 

Sherlock chews on the questions for a moment. “How soon can you get those files? I assume there is a reason you’ve yet to acquire them?” 

“Semantics,” Mycroft states, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand, “I should have them in my possession by next week.” 

“Wonderful,” Sherlock mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says wearily, “you are not a child; I expect you to understand that attaining top secret files is not as easy as operating a vending machine. Admittedly, I do have a plethora of confidential information within arm’s reach, but in this case, the files in question are not only top secret, but they have most likely been buried in hidden archives as well. You’ll just have to be patient.” 

Sherlock scowls. “You’ve known me for quite some time, Mycroft, I would have assumed that by now you’d have grasped that the fact that I am not a patient man.”

Mycroft smiles blandly. “Then learn to be, dear brother.”

Just for the sake of being rude, Sherlock ‘accidentally’ scoots his chair back and knocks the ceramic vase behind him to the ground. His brother, well accustomed to his fits, simply raises a brow. 

“That was three thousand pounds, Sherlock,” Mycroft says evenly. “Will you be paying me back via cash or cheque?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and strolls over to the bookcase, where he carefully inspects the spines. “Romantic philosophy, ancient poetry, inaccurate science textbook, outdated physics theories…” he straightens and shoots Mycroft an unimpressed look, “I believe it is high time you update your library, brother.”

“Cheque I take it?” Mycroft repeats smoothly. 

Without tearing his eyes away from shelves, Sherlock replies, “Kindly get over it, Mycroft, your pocket change could fund a small country.” 

Mycroft gives him a dark look, but thankfully moves on. “The fact that January was the first death is a vitally important piece to the puzzle, Sherlock.”

Sherlock puts down the thick history book in his hands and turns to face his brother. “Yes, I am aware. She was a catalyst of sorts. Whatever she did or whatever the killer thought she was about to do was what spurred the killer to action. And I am willing to bet a reasonable sum that it had something to do with her past. Perhaps she learned the killer’s secret and needed to be exterminated? Or maybe it was something different,” he muses, “Perhaps it wasn’t something she did. Perhaps it was something she said—something she shared with the others. Look at the other victims: there was nothing spectacular about them, so perhaps what made them unique, what made them targets, must have been something that January told them.

“We know she had a double life: a past that contains innumerable secrets that we are not yet aware of. For all we know, she could’ve been acquainted with the other victims at some point. Under a different name, an alias, a disguise. Perhaps she is the link. She is the common factor, the one thing that ties all of these seemingly unrelated deaths into one cohesive crime. Don’t you see?”

Mycroft furrows his brow and presses his folded hands to his mouth in contemplation. “You are proposing that these people were killed because Mrs. Phillips, an ex-CIA agent, shared compromising information with them, thus placing them on the murderer’s radar?”

“Perhaps she hadn’t told them yet,” he says slowly. “The killer is clearly intelligent and I’m sure if January knew something incriminating, the killer would’ve kept tabs on her.” He stops pacing and spreads his hands flat on Mycroft’s desk for emphasis. “If someone knew secrets about you, secrets that could potentially harm you, wouldn’t you make sure to strike at the first sign of them telling? It’s likely she hadn’t said anything yet, but only because she didn’t have the chance to. The murderer got to her before she was able.”

“I want to agree with you, Sherlock,” Mycroft says after a moment of thought, “but there are still flaws within that theory. To presume that Mrs. Phillips knew something about the killer is to presume that the killer was in some way connected to Mrs. Phillips’ past life—her life as an agent. It also implies that the rest of the victims were affiliated with the agency as well.”

Sherlock purses his lips, annoyed that they’ve yet to reach a conclusion that explains all of the facts. “Maybe they were.”

At that moment, there are three sharp knocks at the door. Mycroft’s thoughtful, conflicted expression clears and is immediately replaced by one of passivity and calm. His ‘head of the British government’ face. 

“Enter.”

Prudence pokes her small, wrinkled face around the partially opened door and croaks, “There is an important message for you on line three, Mr. Holmes. France.”

“Ah,” Mycroft says, his eyebrows drawing together. “That would be the prime minister. Sherlock, we will take this up another time, yes?”

Sherlock nods and moves away from his desk, taking his coat from Prudence’s arms. “Yes. Any time after this weekend will do.”

Mycroft pauses, his hands frozen in the motion of dialing the phone. “Why not this weekend?”

With a touch of pride, Sherlock announces, “John and I will be in Sussex this Saturday and Sunday. It’s for a case.”

Mycroft crooks a brow. “Unbeknownst to Mary, I assume?”

Sherlock raises his chin, daring Mycroft to question him. “Yes.”

Instead of commenting, Mycroft merely nods his head and resumes dialing the number. Wordlessly, he inclines his head in goodbye and raises the phone to his ear. “Bonjour Monsieur Valls, j'espère que vous allez bien!” 

“Come along, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Prudence drones, beckoning him out of the office. 

Sherlock accepts Mycroft’s dismissal and allows himself to be led from the room by Prudence, his mind still running in circles from their fruitless investigation.

What did January know? Who had she planned on telling? Why was the killer concerned? 

He is so lost in thought that he doesn’t realize they’ve finally reached the front door until Prudence pointedly clears her throat. He blinks, shaking himself from his mental fog, and steps outside into the evening air. 

“Goodbye, Prudence. Have a good night,” he calls over his shoulder, trotting down the steps of Mycroft’s porch. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving it away. “If they play something other than bloody EastEnders reruns, it will be.”

…

Before he goes to sleep later that night, his phone buzzes. 

What time do you want to head out tomorrow?

Sherlock has to force himself to resist the urge to clutch the mobile to his chest and grin like a loon. They’re going on a short holiday this weekend, just him and John. The two of them against the world. 

Just like the good old days. 

As soon as humanly possible. You know I wake up quite early so time is no matter. SH

I’ll need a bit of time to pack, so how does 9:15 sound? 

Perfect. SH

Twenty minutes pass by without a response and it is rather late, so Sherlock assumes John has fallen asleep. Just when he is plugging in his phone and shutting it off for the night, the screen lights up once more, this time with a phone call. 

“John?”

“Er, hi. I just…I wanted to say I’m glad we’re doing this,” John whispers. From the muffled sound of his voice, Sherlock assumes he is covering part of his mouth with his cupped palm to avoid making too much noise. “Mary’s asleep right now, if you were wondering why I’m whispering.”

Even though there’s no real need to, Sherlock feels compelled to match John’s tone. “I’m glad we’re doing this, too, John,” Sherlock whispers. “I like having you by my side.” He doesn’t bother to add ‘during cases’. It’s late and he’s feeling a bit bolder than usual. 

“I, um, I know this is going to sound strange,” John says slowly, “but even though we just saw each other last week for breakfast, I, er,” he clears his throat quietly, “miss you.”

Sherlock lowers himself onto his back and presses the phone tightly to his ear, as if in hope that if he pushes hard enough he’ll be able to feel John through the plastic. “I miss you too.”

A long, comfortable silence passes after that, settling comfortingly over him like a blanket. Sherlock closes his eyes and keeps the phone cradled against his face like a stuffed animal. “John,” he whispers after a while, “is it okay if we don’t hang up yet?”

“Yeah,” John whispers back. 

Just the sound of John softly breathing is enough to make him feel as if he’s finally found something perfect in this confusing, mixed up world. It feels like safety and constancy and permanence. It feels like coming home. 

Sherlock falls asleep with his mobile on the pillow beside him. 

Chapter Text

Holiday: (noun) an extended period of leisure and recreation, especially one spent away from home.

1.

The next morning, the two of them meet at Speedy’s café in order to figure out the final details of the case. Despite the fact that their meeting was set to be at eight, both he and John show up at seven thirty. The thought that John is so eager to see him makes something warm and lovely unfurl in Sherlock’s chest.

At eight fifteen, Sherlock carefully takes a sip of his piping hot coffee and asks John, “Give me the bare bones of the case.”

From across the table, John pulls out his mobile and reads the client’s email. “Apparently a woman called Janice McDermott believes that her ex-husband, Isaac Potts, stole a valuable family heirloom from her and pawned it off for money.”

Sherlock mulls it over. “And what is she basing this supposition on?”

Still reciting the woman’s message, John continues, “She believes Isaac is guilty because, he is, quote, ‘a filthy rat with greed greater than the scummiest scum of the earth’ who would ‘do anything to get his grimy hands on extra money’.”

“I see.”

“She attached a rather unflattering picture of him as well, and I have to say, he doesn’t look like the most trustworthy bloke in the world,” John mumbles, turning the phone and showing the photo to Sherlock.

Sherlock scrutinizes the image for a solid three seconds before lowering John’s hand with a faint grimace. “Well, his resemblance to a rodent is quite uncanny, but we cannot base our assessment of his guilt on a bad photo.”

“Well, she also says that since they split up, he’s purchased a considerable number of luxury items as well. And being that he is a man who ‘doesn’t get off his arse for anything,’ she believes there is no way he earned those belongings honestly.”

Sherlock raises a brow. “How much was this heirloom worth exactly?”

John whistles lowly. “Five thousand pounds. Apparently the heirloom itself was a pair of Victorian wall sconces.”

“Wall sconces,” he repeats, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Monetary worth aside, what is the purpose of five thousand pound decorative items?”

John shrugs and tucks his phone into his pocket. “Well, if they’ve been passed down generation from generation I’d assume they have significant sentimental value.”

Sentiment. The root of all evil—and, admittedly, goodness.

“Right. Shall we head out then? Ms. McDermott is expecting at before noon.”

…

The car ride to Sussex is lovely and slow and their time together, cramped in Mrs. Hudson’s old car, stretches on as endlessly as the road out in front of them. John drives and Sherlock lounges in the passenger seat, messing with the radio dials and playing ridiculous games at John’s insistence.

“’Guess That Song!’ is the best car ride game ever,” John protests when Sherlock groans at the idea. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Give it a go.”

Deciding to indulge him, Sherlock switches on the radio and listens to a few bars of the poppy, loud song that streams from the speakers. After a moment, the terrible music becomes too repulsive and he is forced to turn it down. “That was bloody awful. How do people enjoy this rubbish? It’s the same four or five lines repeated ceaselessly over the same obnoxious beat! What’s to enjoy about it?”

John chuckles. “I take it you don’t know it then?”

“John, you know I don’t listen to that rubbish, of course I don’t know what it is.”

“Well to be fair, I don’t know either, though whoever it is sounds about fifteen years old. Alright, what about this one?” He switches to the next station.

“Dear god no.”

Switch. “This one? A bit of country music?”

“Repulsive.”

Switch. “Punk rock?”

“Abhorrent.”

Switch. “Gospel?”

Sherlock only deadpans in response. “Really, John?”

The ride continues in much of the same manner, easy banter bouncing between them like it did when they were flatmates several years prior. Being alone with John like this nearly makes him forget that both of them lead completely different lives back in London now. John has Mary and his new flat and Sherlock has….well Sherlock has a John-shaped hole and an unused bedroom.

2.

Janice McDermott’s house is small and cramped and it takes Sherlock less than one minute on her property to feel incredibly claustrophobic. Janice seems to be the sort of person with an affinity for knick-knacks and sentimental clutter, if the stacks of dusty yearbooks in the corner and mountains of laminated birthday cards on the counter are anything to go by. The sheer amount of stuff in her house is so incredibly vast that piles of belongings can be seen from the windows and clutter spills from every open crevice like magma.

“You have a…very nice home,” John says awkwardly, as they tiptoe their way to the kitchen, trying to avoid stepping on the minefield of objects spread across the floor.

“Thanks,” she replies snippily, “but clearly you don’t mean that. Maybe I would’ve bought it if Mr. Holmes over there wasn’t grimacing like we’re in a bloody landfill.”

“Aren’t we?” Sherlock questions coolly, miffed by her sour attitude.

She gives him a black look but chooses not to reply. “Take a seat at the counter, I’ll put the kettle on,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock glances at the cushions of the stools and, upon noting a questionable stain, decides he’d prefer to stand. John follows suit.

“Well she’s a charming one, isn’t she?” John snorts, leaning against the counter, “keeps a lovely home too.”

“Thus far, I can’t say I fault Mr. Potts for stealing from her,” Sherlock retorts drily. “Though how he managed to find a valuable heirloom amidst these mountains of rubbish is beyond me.”

“Tea,” Janice calls, returning to the room with surprisingly organized basket of dressings and sweeteners. The sugar and milk pots look incredibly delicate—not to mention quite expensive—and the deftly crafted tea pot seems like something one might stumble across in a history museum. In contrast to the rest of her utilitarian furniture and dishware, the tea set appears elegant and painstakingly cared for.  

“Your experience with Isaac has not made you treat your heirlooms with more discretion I see,” he comments, taking a tea cup and examining the intricate paintwork of its handle.

“Just because my buggering ex got sticky fingers around my family treasures, doesn’t mean I’m going to start hiding them away,” she retorts defensively.

“Thank you for the tea,” John interrupts, forcing an amiable smile in her direction, “it’s delicious.”

She raises her chin haughtily. “I should think so, it’s imported.”

It takes every last ounce of willpower for Sherlock to avoid rolling his eyes.

“Right. Now, why don’t you tell us about your relationship with Isaac,” John says, thankfully changing the subject, “I’d wager you two didn’t end on good terms?”

“He cheated on me,” she replies bluntly. “We filed for divorce a week after I found out—coincidentally, the last day he was here was also the last day I saw my wall sconces. And as if that wasn’t damning enough, that jobless rodent bought two brand new suits less than forty eight hours after my sconces went missing. Isaac has never had more than a fiver to his name in all of his worthless bloody life—there’s no way he got those suits with his own hard earned money. I confronted him a few days ago but he denied everything, obviously.”

“And where might we find Isaac?” Sherlock asks.

“Well, I called the cops on his lying arse this morning, so he should be down at the station still.”

Sherlock scowls at the woman. “Why would you bother my partner and me if you intended on bringing your case to the local police anyway?”

Janice is what John might call a ‘feisty one’, so instead of cowering at his dour expression and dark tone, she straightens her small shoulders and returns his scowl tenfold. “I was stolen from, Mr. Holmes,” she bites, “of course I went to the police. But you know how these minor cases of theft tend to be swept under the rug and ignored— that is why I contacted you and Mr. Watson.” She cracks her knuckles and looks menacingly at the photograph of Isaac on the far wall, “I’d like to ensure that my rat of an ex is properly dealt with.”

John clears his throat uncomfortably. “Ma’am you do realize that we aren’t going to, er, take care of your ex-husband, correct? We’re not that sort of duo.”

“Well, no shit,” she says, annoyed, “I just meant I want him brought to justice. That filthy bugger thinks he can sleep with my sister and steal my bloody wall sconces? Ha! He’s got another thing coming!”

“Yes, well you’ve made this task significantly more difficult by contacting the police,” Sherlock snaps impatiently, “whereas before we could have simply broken into his home and scoured the scene for clues, now we’ll have to circumvent a crowd of incompetent officers and detectives just to speak to Mr. Potts. John,” he says, turning away from Janice, “If Ms. McDermott is correct and her ex-husband is currently being interrogated at the station, I assume we’ll need to somehow sneak inside.”

“Sneak in?” Janice says, placing her hands on her hips. “Isn’t that a bit unprofessional? Not to mention illegal?”

Sherlock glares at her. “Oh yes, you’re quite right,” he drawls, “I suppose John and I will simply attend several years of police training, get out badges, join Scotland Yard, and then return to commit this act within the perimeters of the law. Does that sound sufficient?”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Mr. Holmes,” she says with a glower. “I don’t care how you incriminate Isaac, I just want it done. Understood?”

Sherlock does not particularly care for being ordered around like a servant and is on the brink of saying something truly scathing when John lays a firm hand on his shoulder, as if to advise him to let it go. Reluctantly, he does.

“Indeed,” he replies evenly. “We will contact you again this evening with the fruits of our investigation. Good day, Ms. McDermott.”

…

“Well she was a bit annoying,” John says as they push open the doors to the police station. After spending the entire walk over stewing in annoyance, Sherlock simply shoots John a dry look.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

John only snorts. “Right, well, props to you for sparing her a verbal lashing.”

The local police station is small and somewhat cramped so it takes only a moment to locate Isaac Potts. He is sitting on the other side of one of the officer’s desks, slouched in a plastic chair, as he answers what seems to be a series of questions regarding the theft.

“Now what?” John asks, following Sherlock’s line of sight. “What if the police just handle this themselves?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and reads the officer’s lips as he speaks. “They won’t,” he says confidently, “the man interviewing Isaac has already decided that the case isn’t worth their time because Isaac has flat out denied every claim and there is hardly any substantial proof that indicates otherwise. What he is doing right now if purely a formality. In his eyes, the case is already closed.”

“So I suppose we’ll have to talk to Isaac ourselves then?”

“Well, yes, but—oh! That was unexpected,” Sherlock exclaims, watching as the head investigator—a stern-looking woman with the nametag ‘Sanders’—leads Isaac away by the arm. Her mouth moves too quickly when she speaks, but he catches the words “interrogation” and “room” which are the only clues he really needs. He watches with keen eyes as Sanders disappears around the corner with Isaac in tow, only to return a few moments later, this time alone.

“Splendid, we’ll have to sneak into the interrogation room,” Sherlock says, clapping once with finality. “I’m sure if I can manage to charm the head investigator, she’ll be willing to allow it.”

John raises a brow, looking incredulous. “Sorry, did you just say you’re going to charm her?”

Sherlock shoots him an annoyed glance from the corner of his eye. “Yes, I did, John. Clearly. You know I hate repetition.”

John only laughs. “Right, yeah, I just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly. Apologies for being a bit taken aback that Sherlock ‘I don’t mingle with useless pedestrians’ Holmes plans on charming his way into that interrogation room.”

“Are you implying that I cannot be amiable?”

John smiles and shakes his head, his eyes still alight with mirth. “Of course you can be. But you’re also quite prickly around the edges and while I enjoy it greatly, I don’t think sharp wit and dry observations are going to woo that terribly stoic looking woman.”

Sherlock knows it is petty (and also quite unnecessary as he agrees with John that he isn’t the best person for this task) but he raises his chin in defiance anyway and says, “Well do you suppose you can do better?”

A surprised huff of laughter jumps from John’s mouth, but his eyes go bright at the prospect of a challenge. “And what do I get if I manage to persuade her?”

“What do you want?”

John tips his head in thought, mulling it over. “You know,” he says after a long moment, “I think I’ll hold onto my favor if that’s all right.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agrees, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now go on then, get us into the room because I’m so incompetent.”

Without missing a beat, John grabs Sherlock’s hand and presses a quick peck to his knuckles in order to placate him. “Don’t cry too hard,” he says cheekily, “this is definitely your only area of incompetence. It’s nice to be the genius for once.” And with that, John spins around and heads in the direction of the front desk, where Detective Sanders is having a deep discussion with her partner, Detective Michaels.

The feeling of John’s mouth on his skin, however brief and teasing it was, twists his stomach into knots and sends his heart careening through his chest like a rouge firework. He flexes his fingers and stretches his palm and although he knows logically that he has not undergone any biological change, it feels as if something magnanimous and irreversible has seeped into his skin and rearranged his molecules, all from that simple contact.

He shoves his hand in his pocket—stupidly, for the sake of protecting it from unworthy onlookers—and turns his attention to John and the Detective.

Smoothly, John enters the pair’s conversation with a half-apologetic, half-winning smile, saying, “So sorry to interrupt, Detective Sanders, but could I have a word with you? It’ll only be a minute.”

Detective Sanders does not strike Sherlock as someone who takes kindly to being interrupted, what with her broad shoulders, stony face, and perpetually clenched jaw, but the moment John lightly touches her arm and grins warmly, every trace of gruffness melts from her expression. As if unused to the sensation of smiling, she offers an unpracticed twitch of her mouth—which John correctly interprets as a positive reaction—and allows John to lead her a few feet away. John happens to be facing him, so Sherlock is able to read his lips and discern every word he is saying.

“Now, I’m aware that what I am about to say is not of dire importance, so try not to hold it against me,” John says, putting his hands up in mock surrender, “but you look absolutely divine in the color green.”

Sherlock can’t see her face, but she ducks her head and her shoulders shake slightly with what must be a giggle, so he presumes she is somewhere between flattered and embarrassed. Judging by John’s reaction, she responds with something faux-casual in effort to appear nonchalant and unaffected.

“No, really!” John insists, “That scarf really brings out the colors in your eyes. It’s quite lovely.”

She shakes her head, most likely making some excuse about having to get back to work. Perhaps with another man this might’ve worked, but not with John Three Continents Watson.

With a charming smile, John ‘brushes a lash’ from her cheek, says something about her eyes, and all bets are off. It is clearly only a matter of seconds before she hands over her entire bloody key ring.

Having stumbled across this moment of reflection, Sherlock wonders to himself why he isn’t jealous of Detective Sanders. Is it because she clearly is not John’s type? Is it because he knows John would not stray from Mary?

He glances down at his (now sacred) hand and the answer hits him like a brick. As strange as it may be to think so, Sherlock realizes that the reason he doesn’t feel jealous is because when John kissed his hand, it was almost as if he was making a promise to Sherlock. Not consciously of course, but perhaps John’s unconscious mind meant it as a way to reassure Sherlock that whatever transpired between him and Detective Sanders was purely for the sake of gaining access to the interrogation. What else could explain Sherlock’s utter lack of jealousy? It certainly isn’t his renewed sense of romantic confidence, as that department is still as minuscule as ever. It definitely isn’t his strong self-assurance, as that is also quite low in stock. The only possible answer is that he feels strangely comforted by John’s unexpected display of affection, however joking it may have been.

Though, Sherlock does wonder why John’s mind, unconscious or not, is concerned with reassuring him.

“Come along Detective Holmes,” Sanders calls, pulling him out of his reverie, “Captain Watson here has already explained everything.”

As soon as he sidles up next to John, he drops his voice and whispers, “Captain? Really?”

John just grins. “Never could resist the urge to pull rank.”

…

“Now,” Sanders begins with her hands on her hips, “you two are allowed to watch the proceedings but you may not interrupt or ask questions of your own. I understand that as professionals yourselves such a task will be somewhat difficult but I’m afraid we have to adhere to our rules here. Can’t just have anyone walking in and tampering with our cases.”

“Completely understood,” John says with a nod, “thanks again, Velma.”

She nods her head but a distinct flush spreads across her face at the mention of her name. “No problem, Doctor Watson. Officer Deb will be running the interview but holler for me if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, bowing his head slightly.

Once Detective Sanders has made her way back around the corner and returned to her desk, the pair of them turn their attention to the glass-paned interrogation room before them. Inside, an officer reads off questions and accusations from a clipboard while Isaac passionately disputes each one.

The questions are dull and Isaac’s voice is quite whiny and grating, so Sherlock tunes out the noise and focuses instead on the man’s physical appearance. A plethora of answers lie within his attire alone.

“Got anything?” John says after a moment, nudging his shoulder lightly into Sherlock’s.

Isaac is skittish and cagey-eyed. Everything from his nervously chewed nails to the patch of obsessively scratched skin on his left wrist indicates that he is guilty. In fact, Sherlock surmises if they compared his bank account figures today to what they were a short month ago, there would be a significantly higher number of zeroes and commas tucked inside his savings account.

If Sherlock were to wager a guess, he’d say the man before them suffers from compulsive kleptomania, caused by some childhood trauma or another, most likely at the hands of his father. Behavioral disorder aside, he is also afflicted with mild paranoia that he self-medicates with—if his jittery movements and gaunt face are anything to go by—a variety of unprescribed anxiety pills.

As for the material evidence of his guilt, the answer lies quite blatantly in his uneven attire. His shirt is two sizes too big—further enhancing his reedy frame—his shoes are at least four years old and scuffed beyond repair, yet the watch on his wrist is glossy-faced and gold-plated. The jacket bundled under his arm was obviously a hand-me-down, perhaps from an older sibling, but instead of being adorned with simple wooden buttons there are shiny new silver fastens lining the edges of the coat. Additionally, he smells strongly of designer cologne—Clive Christian’s newest release, clearly—and the kind of man who can afford to splurge hundreds of pounds on perfume is not the same man who can wear a pair of battered sneakers and a shabby clothes like a second skin.

He is guilty, and that is that.

However, instead of saying any of that aloud, Sherlock elects to hold his tongue. If he solves this case within an hour of their arrival, what reason will John have to stay?

He convinces himself it is not lying, it is omission. They are very different things.

“I’m not entirely certain. As much as I’d hate to prolong this case and keep Ms. McDermott waiting in the wings, I suggest we confront Isaac in person. Perhaps later in the day when these legislative measures have been dealt with?”

“Hm. Alright, well that works too. Lunch?” John asks as they make their way out of the station.

“Starving,” he answers immediately. Even though this case was hardly enough to stir up a ravenous appetite, the thought of sitting in one of the town’s quaint, cozy restaurants with John beside him is quite enticing.

“Hey, that’s exactly what you said the first night we met too,” John points out, nostalgia coloring his features. “And then you went on about how you could judge the quality of a Chinese place based on their door handles.”

“Well that is because I can ,” Sherlock informs him haughtily, “and just so you know, I can also discern the quality of an Italian restaurant based on the paintwork.”

John rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder playfully into Sherlock’s. “Well then, why don’t you point us in the direction of the best café, detective?”

…

After thoroughly inspecting the handles, paintwork, and doormats of each shop on the block, Sherlock ends up deciding on a little Spanish restaurant called Luna Rosada.

“You turned down a delicious bakery and three posh Thai places, but you’re willing to settle with a place called ‘the pink moon’?”

Sherlock smiles cheekily and pushes past the chiming bells on the door, “Indeed.”

The shop is small and painted in a variety of warm colors that give it the permanent appearance of fall, and the owners are a man and a woman, respectively named Kimberly and Michael Gonzales. Kimberly is small, petite, and blonde and Michael is her polar opposite, all lanky limbs and dark scruffy hair.

“Welcome!” they chime in unison.

Sherlock nods in greeting while John cheerfully returns the sentiment, “Thank you!”

Sometime after they’ve made their way through two servings of heavenly Paella and easygoing conversation, John heightens the experience even more by ordering the two of them a delicious slice of chocolate cake.

“I’d like to own a bee farm someday,” Sherlock says around a bite of the rich dessert, “out in Sussex. They have lovely rural locations here, you know.”

John looks surprised at his statement. “You would be content to retire to a bee farm someday?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies easily. “Bees are fascinating creatures and it would take years to conduct all of the experiments I have in mind for them. Non-harmful ones, of course,” he clarifies.

“And you wouldn’t miss London? The exciting, ceaseless chaos of city life?”

“Oh I’m sure I might feel a pang of longing every now and then, but for the most part I would be far too engaged with my bees to worry over it.”

John eyes go soft in the same way they do when Sherlock accidentally says something charming. The expression is a mix of things and Sherlock feels annoyed that he cannot pick apart and analyze each component: he despises being left in the dark.

“What?” he asks, somewhat self-consciously.

“It’s just, I never pictured you saying something like that,” John says, “and I mean that in a good way.”

“You could always come along,” Sherlock suggests casually, dropping his gaze to his plate to avoid John’s eyes. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Lovely thought, but I doubt three people would fit comfortably in a small cottage out in the country,” John replies with a friendly chuckle.

Ah, right. Three.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says, waving the notion away with a hand gesture, “that wouldn’t work. Besides, I’m sure you’re quite fond of your flat in London.” He risks a look up at John and finds his smile has dimmed. A second later, his expression brightens tenfold, but Sherlock gets the impression that it is a bit forced.

“Right, yeah, it’s great,” John says with too much enthusiasm, “sure, it’s a little domestic for my tastes, but I reckon I’ll grow to love it. I guess I’m still too used to our flat with all the mess and comfortable chaos.”

He desperately wants to say ‘Well you could always just move back in’ . Or perhaps ‘ You like our flat better anyway, why not stay with me? We’re happy. We make sense’.

Maybe ‘I miss you even when you’re right in front of me because I know at the end of the day you’re still Mary’s.’

Or ‘It isn’t fair’

Or ‘What’s the point of the bee farm if you’re not there too?’

But because he is well versed in the language of lies, he simply smiles and takes another bite of cake. “But your new apartment is lovely too. I’m sure you’ll grow into it.”

Chapter Text

Encouraging: (adjective) to inspire with courage, spirit, or confidence.

1.

Isaac Potts turns out to be just as infuriating as his ex-wife. Perhaps even more so.

After lunch, he and John wait on the bottom steps of the police station, ready to ambush Isaac as soon as he emerges from the entrance doors. Fortunately, they are not forced to wait long as Isaac steps out into the sunlight only five minutes after their arrival.

"Isaac Potts? Could we speak with you a moment?" John calls to Isaac as they climb the steps two at a time.

"Whaddya want?" Isaac barks, irritated.

"Hello," John says pleasantly, "my name is John Watson and this is Sherlock—"

"I didn't ask for your bleeding names," Isaac hisses, wrapping his coat tighter around his spindly frame, "I asked what ya wanted." He glares between the two of them. "So? What is it?"

Sherlock does not care for the man's tone or rudeness towards John, but he is wise enough to realize that engaging in a fight, verbal or otherwise, would be entirely counterproductive. Facing two equally terrible people in one day and holding his tongue on both occasions has been nothing short of utter hell; he reckons that when this is over, he'll need to insult Anderson for a week straight just to break even.

"Right then," John says briskly, "we would like to know what your current relation to Miss McDermott is?"

"You coppers?" he questions, narrowing his eyes, "'Cos I just talked to the lot of them a second ago and I don't like repeating myself."

"No," Sherlock responds coolly, "we are not police officers."

"Then why the hell are you asking me about Jan?" he spits.

Christ, this is tedious. "In spite of your apparent distaste for learning our names, I shall introduce myself," Sherlock says, raising his chin. "I am Sherlock Holmes and your ex-wife hired John and I to investigate the case of her stolen property."

"Wha—" Isaac begins.

"Let me finish, please," Sherlock snaps. "Now, I'm sure you're wondering why I've told you my purpose for being here. One might think that staying undercover would be wisest, yes? Well, in your case, Isaac Potts, I believe this arrangement will work best if we are all quite candid with each other. I don't take you for a man who excels at mind games, am I correct in this assumption?"

Isaac glares at Sherlock, aware his intelligence has been insulted but apparently not quite sure how. "I ain't a fan of mind games, no."

"Excellent. Then let's all just be honest, yes? John?" he says, turning away from Isaac, "if you'd repeat your question?"

"Isaac," John says slowly, "What is your current relation to Janice McDermott?"

Instead of answering, Isaac's eyes fall to the bag in Sherlock's hand. "What's that?" he demands, ignoring John's question. "Smells pretty good."

Sherlock doesn't even bother wasting the energy it would take to roll his eyes.

"It's leftover Paella," John answers impatiently, clearly exasperated that this man has the attention span of a Golden Retriever, "from our lunch."

"Hm," Isaac says, his eyes glossed over, "that sounds real nice. Got a great love for Spanish food myself, ya know."

"Fascinating," Sherlock says coldly, moving the bag deliberately out of sight, "but if we could please return to Doctor Watson's question—"

"Tell ya what," he interrupts, "I'll answer whatever it is you blokes want, as long as I get what's in that bag."

"Are you serious?" John asks incredulously.

"As a heart attack, mate."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and thrusts the bag of leftovers in Isaac's direction, disgusted. The man already resembles a rat in appearance and the feral, hungry look in his eyes is not doing him any favors. "There," he snaps, "you've got your bloody food. Now will you kindly answer the question?"

"Sure. Let's sit," he says, settling onto one of the steps and removing the Styrofoam boxes with great care. Once he's spread a napkin over his lap and stuck his hands knuckle-deep in seafood and rice, he says, "Jan and I used to be married. We divorced 'cos I, er—'cos we had different interests."

"Ah, yes, your interests lay in sleeping with her sister and Janice didn't care for that, correct?" Sherlock questions evenly.

Isaac glowers at him but doesn't refute it. "Anyway, we divorced a short while ago and now the crazy bint thinks I stole her damned sconces!" He angrily shovels a handful of Paella into his mouth. "She even went to the bloody police about it!"

"And you claim that you didn't steal them?" John clarifies.

Isaac's eyes dart from John's face to the floor and back. "No," he says too quickly, mouth full, "I didn't steal nothing."

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Potts?" Sherlock asks, changing tactics.

Isaac looks at him warily but answers anyway. "I'm a janitor at the local secondary school."

"And how much do you make per hour?"

"Oi, that's none of your bloody business," he sneers.

"That question was a formality," Sherlock says crisply, "I am aware that you make slightly more than ten pounds an hour. Now, if you could enlighten me, Isaac," he begins, "how does a man who makes about two thousand a month afford an Armani suit and perfume that costs three times his paycheck?"

"I—"

"And while you're at it, can you also explain to me why a man who is completely blameless cannot maintain eye contact with me or my partner?"

"I—"

"And, since we're on the subject of blame, please tell me why a man who is supposedly innocent would feel the need to take twice the dosage of his anxiety medicine, if not to quell his own budding guilt?"

"I—I don't know," Isaac barks, his tone of gruffness and nonchalance slipping out of his grasp, "I don't bloody know."

"Of course not," Sherlock says harshly, "yet you still claim that you did not steal from Ms. McDermott?"

"Like I already told him," Isaac bites, gesturing at John, "I didn't steal nothing from Jan!"

"So if John and I went to your flat right now and checked underneath your mattress we would not find the leftover money you gained from selling the heirloom? If we went to the local pawnshop, the man behind the counter would not have your ex-wife's sconces sitting on his shelves? Is that what you are telling me, Mr. Potts? Because I can assure you, if it comes to light that even the smallest detail of that is untrue, you will find Scotland Yard's finest perched on your front steps in the time it will take you to realize that lying to me was not a good idea."

Isaac weakly raises a hand, as if to make one final defensive statement, but Sherlock plows on mercilessly. "There is only one remaining question, Isaac, and it is this: who would you rather deal with? London's top detectives, whom I have on speed dial, by the way, or the harmless, indolent officers you just spoke with moments ago? If it were me, I'd prefer the locals over the Yard, but who knows? Maybe you like a bit of danger in your life."

"I…I," Isaac stutters, apparently speechless.

Sherlock loves that delightful moment when the criminal's expression wilts with the knowledge that he or she has been bested by Sherlock Holmes, London's finest consulting detective. Christ, that's nearly his favorite part. So, with a puffed up chest and smirk, Sherlock keeps his eyes on Isaac and waits for the inevitable.

But, of course, things take a decidedly different turn. Instead of sagging in defeat, the bloody idiot bursts into tears.

"I'm sorry!" he bawls, his hands still buried rather pathetically in the rice and shrimp, "I—I just wanted to get even with 'er, ya know? She—hic—threw me out on my arse with n-nothing and I hadda get the money from somewhere s-so I grabbed that stupid bloody—hic—set of sconces she was always bragging about. T-turns out they were worth something. But I'm sorry! I ain't no thief! This is t-the first an' last time this'll happen, I swear it!"

Sherlock grimaces at him in disgust and rises from the steps. "Right then. That was clearly a lie but I won't bore you, John, or myself by rehashing your history of kleptomania. If you could pull yourself together enough to walk into the station and confess, that would be lovely, Isaac," Sherlock states dispassionately.

In response, Isaac only sobs harder.

Unlike Sherlock who couldn't care less about the wretched man before them, John looks torn between his natural instinct to comfort an upset person and his duty to treat the man as he would any other criminal. Eventually, he settles somewhere in between. Kindly, he helps Isaac to his feet and firmly tells him, "Go in there and confess that you stole the sconces. You'll have to sell your new watch and suit in order to reimburse Ms. McDermott, but I'm sure if the two of you talk things through, she will not press charges."

Clearly, that is a lie as Sherlock is certain Janice would sooner cut off a limb than let Isaac off scot-free, but John's words seem to soothe Isaac and gift him with a small measure of logic, so Sherlock holds his tongue.

"O-okay, I'll do that," Isaac says thickly, wiping his nose with his sleeve like a five year old. Sherlock winces and looks away as the mucus is inefficiently smeared across his face.

"Good. Off you go," John says. Isaac nods and begins unsteadily climbing the stairs, clearly disoriented from the overabundance of tears and anxiety pills.

John watches him stumble into the station and then turns to Sherlock with a faint look of distaste. "Well, that was quite strange."

"And pathetic," Sherlock contributes helpfully.

"Yeah, that too. Hey," John says, looking up at him, "you knew Isaac was guilty this whole time, didn't you?"

Sherlock pointedly turns his gaze to the clouds. "What makes you say that?"

To his relief, John chuckles, which means he finds Sherlock's omission amusing rather than upsetting. "It took you less than ten minutes to reduce that bloke to a simpering puddle—clearly you had time to connect data and figure out his pressure points. Why, I'd even go as far as saying you knew he was guilty the second we looked at him this morning in the interrogation room."

Sherlock tries quite valiantly to hold back the smirk threatening to curve his lips. "You would not be wrong in that assumption…"

John only laughs. "Thought so. Well, since we wrapped that up rather neatly, what do you say we head back early?"

He absolutely detests that idea up until John continues with, "When we get back to London I'll just let Mary know I'm staying over at Baker Street for the night. I doubt she'll complain since I'll still be getting back home on Sunday as I initially planned to."

"Ah. Yes, I like that idea very much," Sherlock says, fighting the urge to beam. "I'll just text Janice and let her know things have been taken care of, then we can be on our way."

Your rodent has been taken care of. He just confessed his crime to the local police and has agreed to reimburse you for the stolen item. If you wish to retrieve your sconces they are at Paul Junior's Pawn Shop on the corner of Blossom Hill and Sherrinford. Send the check by mail. SH

Ha! Good riddance to that spineless bloody ponce. Now why don't you just pick up the check at my house? –Jan MD

I would sooner chew off my own arm than return to your home. Mailing address is: 221B Baker Street, London, UK. Good day. SH

Fine! But don't expect a damned tip with that attitude. –Jan MD

I wouldn't dream of it. SH

2.

"Bugger, my phone's dead," John says, watching in dismay as the lit screen goes dark. "You wouldn't happen to have a charger on you, would you?"

Sherlock frowns desolately at his own mobile. "No, in fact mine is on the brink of shutting off as well. I believe I have five percent battery remaining. Who did you need to call?"

"Mary," John answers, "she wanted me to check in with her sometime late Saturday."

"Why?"

John shrugs, "She says she worries. I don't know. Alright, listen, why don't you wait in that pub right there while I go hunt down a payphone? After that we can start driving back."

Sherlock scans the building in question with faint disgust but agrees, if only because he knows John won't be gone for long. "Yes, I'll do that. There is phone booth several meters away, it shouldn't take long to get to it."

"Ta. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

Sherlock nods and pushes open the doors to the dimly-lit bar. "I'll be waiting."

…

Sherlock doesn't particularly care for alcohol—and besides, the evening is too young to warrant drinking—so he sips water at the bar instead. After only two minutes in the pub, a man approaches him.

"Hi, name's Nick," the stranger says with a smile, taking the seat next to Sherlock at the bar.

"That's nice," Sherlock says without moving his gaze from the entrance door. If the distance from here to the phone booth is as short as Sherlock recalls, then John should be returning in about five minutes. Perhaps a little more, depending on how long it takes him to sift through his pockets for change.

"You have really nice hair," Nick continues, ghosting his fingers over Sherlock's curls in a way that makes him entirely uncomfortable, "and you smell like bloody heaven."

'Thank you' is probably the appropriate response, but he doesn't care for the way this man keeps touching him and smiling at him, as if he knows Sherlock and has any right to be in his personal space. Only a select few are allowed this close to him and this Nick character is certainly not one of them. So with a dark look, he pointedly scoots away and retorts, "You, on the other hand, smell like discount cologne and beer."

Nick raises his brows in surprise but is not deterred. "Feisty, huh? I like that. So can I get a name?"

"I was under the impression that you already had one, Nick."

"Clever," he grins, "but I actually meant yours."

It's more of a reflex than anything, but he replies, "Sherlock Holmes."

"That's a lovely name," Nick purrs, "would you—"

"Not interested," Sherlock interrupts. The angle of the man's hips and the darkness of his pupils clearly indicate that he had the intention of propositioning Sherlock, and that is something the detective has absolutely no interest in.

"Right, sorry," the man apologizes, ducking his head. "You're straight aren't you?" Then, more to himself, he mumbles, "The good ones always are."

Although Sherlock is well aware that the man's question doesn't truly require an articulate, well thought out answer, he mulls over the inquiry anyway. He's never identified as any particular sexuality since he didn't care for either gender. People in general were tedious, time-consuming leeches whose complex social rituals were far beyond his realm of understanding. It never seemed worthwhile to pursue anyone.

The first spark of attraction he ever felt towards anyone occurred to him in his first year of Uni when he met a boy named Victor Trevor. Victor was three inches shorter than Sherlock but what he lacked in height he made up for in muscle and appealing aesthetics; the combination of his reddish-brown hair, coffee-colored eyes, and charmingly crooked smile was quite striking, and his easy-going nature propelled him even further above the masses.

Victor kissed him for the first time on April seventeenth at eleven pm, twenty minutes into one of their study sessions. The moment Victor's lips met his, Sherlock found every dormant feeling of desire, want, and attraction sparking to life in one grand explosion. It was as intoxicating as a drug and Sherlock found he wanted more, more, more. When Victor asked him if he'd like to be his boyfriend the next day, it didn't even occur to Sherlock to say no; Victor's touch made him feel alive in a way he never had before and there was no way he was going to give up that sensation easily.

Victor asked him to help with—and eventually do—his homework and projects quite often, but Sherlock had never been in a relationship before so he figured that was simply how it worked. Sherlock solved Victor's Chemistry problems and in turn Victor was kind to him, and for once in his young adult life, Sherlock didn't feel completely out of place among his peers. He felt normal. Wanted, even.

The feeling was short lived.

They 'dated' for only three weeks before Victor broke up with him on the last day of term with an insincere apology and a hearty pat on the back, saying it was time they 'went their separate ways' and 'met new people.' He would have believed that too, if a day later he hadn't overheard Victor telling his friends how he'd only managed to pass his Chemistry class because of that 'freak he bedded last month'.

Suffice to say, Sherlock did not seek relationships after that.

John's entrance into his life had been an awakening of sorts, in both a social and sexual sense. He hadn't felt attraction to anyone in so long that when John called him 'brilliant', he'd momentarily thought his clammy palms and flipped stomach meant he was coming down with something. And three weeks later, when the unaccountable urge to kiss John possessed Sherlock, he simply chalked it up to a lapse in judgement and moved on.

It wasn't until John threw himself at Moriarty and shouted at Sherlock to run—to get as far away as possible and save himself—that Sherlock realized what he was truly feeling. Those odd stirrings low in his gut and that undeniable warmth in his chest were not symptoms of illness, they were side effects of love. He was in love with John Watson.

Sherlock Holmes in love: it was a novel phrase, to be sure.

Irene had been a momentary distraction along the way: a beautiful, enticing puzzle he simply could not look away from. Although she fascinated him, he was careful with his feelings towards her; she was not the sort to be gentle with his heart and he'd already bruised it enough for a lifetime. When she stabbed him in the back and nearly destroyed the British government later in their acquaintance, his assumptions were only proven correct.

In the end, though, he saved her. Not for love, obviously, but because she was a gem of a woman and the thought of simply standing by and watching such a brilliant mind die was unacceptable.

John has always been constant, though: a consistent tremor of music underlining every song Sherlock has composed, every orchestra he has created. In every single memory of the last four years, John is there, either sitting in the background or smiling in the foreground. Even the moments John was absent from are filled with some distinct piece of him, like his jumper left hanging on the chair or his perfect cups of tea cooling on the counter.

Sherlock gets the strong impression that everything he will do for the rest of his life will be colored with John's blue eyes and silvery-blonde hair. Every action will carry some discreet, subtle stride towards John. His every word, a hidden love ballad. A secret message. A slow note of longing.

Everything will always be for John.

"Sherlock?" Nick asks, pulling him out of his reverie.

It has only been a few seconds of silence but Sherlock recognizes that social norms require far shorter pauses in conversation. "I am not straight but I am also not interested," Sherlock says firmly. "Kindly leave me alone. That man in the corner looks willing enough, I suggest you go chat him up instead."

Nick exhales and gets off his stool, "Right, got it. Sorry to bother you, mate."

It is as Nick is standing up that John enters the building, his eyes zeroing in on the two of them immediately. His jaw tightens imperceptibly and he strides towards the bar with an expression Sherlock cannot quite decipher. On anyone else he might have called it jealousy but as he's never seen John look envious of anything, he isn't quite sure what it means.

"And you are?" John asks Nick politely, though there is a sharp edge to his tone.

"Just leaving," Nick replies with a ducked head. "Cheers, Sherlock," he calls as he makes his way out of the bar, apparently uninterested in chatting up the bloke in the corner.

John raises his brows but doesn't comment. "Ready to go?"

"Definitely," he breathes, sliding off the barstool.

3.

The drive back to London is fairly similar to the drive to Sussex, in that it is pleasant, unhurried, and filled with obnoxious music Sherlock has never heard of.

"Not even the Beatles, Sherlock? Really?" John says exasperatedly, "now that's just bloody criminal."

"I deleted them a while back, John, they weren't important enough to hold onto."

"Not important enough!" John cries, "Have you not heard Here Comes the Sun? Or Yellow Submarine? They're absolute legends!"

"Mm, yes I'm sure," Sherlock placates, staring out the window with a smile.

John laughs. "Oh shut it, you git. One of these days I'm going to sit you and down and make you listen to good music so you can realize what you're missing out on."

Sherlock hums indulgently and John chuckles again, but on the inside he adores the idea of John showing him his favorite songs. To hear music John finds precious would be like receiving pieces of John himself.

An hour later, as Sherlock is on the brink of slipping into a nap, John breaks the comfortable silence with a question.

"So," John says casually, "Who was that Nick bloke?"

The forced nonchalance in his tone indicates that he's been thinking about the question for quite a long time, which Sherlock finds odd because he himself hasn't thought of Nick since the moment they left the bar.

"He was trying to chat me up. I believe he had sexual intentions," he answers simply.

"Oh. Well…alright. I see," John says awkwardly. "And did you—were you…?"

"Was I what?" Sherlock asks, confused.

John clears his throat and drums his fingers against the wheel. "Were you interested in him? I mean, he was a handsome bloke after all."

"Handsome?" Sherlock echoes. It hadn't even occurred to him that Nick was good-looking.

"What I meant was, did you…are you—er," John fumbles, his face growing somewhat red.

"Are you trying to ask if I am gay, John?" Sherlock asks bluntly, putting John out of his misery.

Relieved by the frankness, John drops his shoulders and nods. "Er, yeah. But if it's too personal, then don't worry about answering, I completely understand."

"It's hardly of import, so I have no issue telling you," Sherlock replies. "I do not like labels so I do not identify as anything in particular, but if you are asking if I am attracted to men, then the answer is yes."

"What about women?"

"Also yes."

Sherlock doesn't bother mentioning that unless John switches genders anytime soon, he will never have interest in another woman again.

"But you don't identify as bisexual?"

"No. Nor am I gay, straight, asexual, demisexual, pansexual, etcetera. I simply am."

"I like that outlook."

Sherlock shoots him a small smile. "Yes, it suits me fine as well."

Something in John's face relaxes and for a moment he looks as if he is about to divest something important. Sherlock's skin breaks out in goosebumps as if in reaction to the premonition that something vast is about to occur, but just as John's mouth opens, his mobile buzzes on the dashboard.

"Oh, that's Mary," John says, keeping his eyes on the road, "Could you take it off the charger and see what she wants? Should have a full battery by now."

Sherlock obliges and plucks the mobile from the sun-warmed dashboard. "It's a text," he says, unlocking the phone with a swipe of his index.

"What's it say?"

"She wants to know if you're on your way back from your sister's yet. And she also wants to know what time you'll be home."

"Yes and Sunday at noon," John replies succinctly.

"Would you like me to tell her you'll be at the flat or…?" Sherlock asks, his fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard.

"No," John says after a moment. "Just tell her Sunday at noon."

Chapter Text

Chess: (noun) a game of strategic skill for two players, in which each player attempts to capture opposing pieces according to precise rules.

1.

By the time he and John return to Baker Street—after stopping for a quick bite and gas along the way—it is a little after ten thirty. The time is awkward because it's too late to go anywhere but too early to retire to bed. Once they've got themselves settled inside the flat, John proposes a solution by suggesting that they end the night with From Russia with Love.

Sherlock sighs dramatically and collapses onto the sofa. "More James Bond movies, John? Have we not watched enough of that man for a lifetime?"

"No, we haven't," John replies succinctly. "Besides, you haven't even seen this one yet. It's one of the best."

Sherlock drapes a forearm over his eyes and groans. "That's what you said about all the rest, yet almost every single one involved a one-dimensional villain, a sexually-appealing woman, and Bond wearing a myriad of expensive suits."

"Exactly," John replies, already popping the DVD in. "What's not to love about that?"

Resigned, Sherlock makes room for John on the couch. "Fine, but can we at least lower the volume so that all the explosions don't render the two of us deaf?"

"Fair enough, but hush, it's starting now," John says, sounding as giddy as a child. Sherlock stares at John's profile, glowing blue from the telly's light, and feels a ridiculous burst of affection flood through his chest. He is still baffled that he finds everything John says or does charming and winsome. He supposes that it's simply one of the many side effects of love.

…

Not for the first time, Sherlock wakes up and realizes they've fallen asleep together. Unfortunately, he isn't actually lying on John as he was the last time this happened (bugger, he needs to be more strategic next time around) but John is leaning against his side with his head lolled on Sherlock's shoulder, and that small contact is more than enough to brighten his day.

The morning passes far too quickly for his liking. Before he knows it, the clock has struck twelve and John is packing his things, ready to leave the wonderful sanctuary of 221B and return to his 'charming, domestic flat' with Mary.

"I had fun this weekend," John says as he zips up his duffle bag. "It was nice to get away for a bit."

Sherlock settles into his chair and watches with dimmed eyes as John slings the bag onto his shoulder and glances at his watch. He wishes they didn't have to keep doing this: seeing each other weekend by weekend. He wants John to be the last thing he sees before sleep and the first thing he sees when he wakes up. It isn't enough to have John coming in and out of the flat, Sherlock wants him to be a permanent presence at Baker Street.

"I'm glad," he replies, happy but subdued.

John gives him a long look, as if deciding whether to address the mutual feeling of dread hanging in the air. It is abundantly clear that John isn't too keen to leave either, so Sherlock doesn't understand why they can't just go back to living together. They both want it, so why not?

It is then that someone knocks at the door and, ironically, what lies on the other side wordlessly answers Sherlock's question.

"Mary?" he says, once he's pulled the door open. "What are you doing here?"

Mary titters gaily. "Goodness, Sherlock, no 'hello, how are you?'" Smiling, she pushes past him and enters the flat. Upon seeing John, her cheerful expression doesn't abate.

"Good morning, love!" she chirps, sauntering over to him. John looks surprised to see her but responds nonetheless when she stands on her toes and kisses him hello. Sherlock, still frozen at the door, pointedly looks away. After a few moments, he takes a deep breath and joins them in the sitting room.

"Excuse my rudeness from earlier, Mary, how are you?" Sherlock asks, relieved when she and John move apart.

"I'm wonderful," she replies brightly. "What about you, dear?"

"I'm well." Sherlock is about to repeat his question from earlier when John steps in and saves him the trouble.

"Er, Mary, I hate to ask this, but what are you doing here?"

"Oh, well, I wanted to speak with Sherlock about the engagement party plans and I figured you would stop by here on your way home, so that was an added bonus." She smiles guilelessly at the two of them, giving no indication that she knows they were just on a case together.

Sherlock finds himself feeling both relieved and disappointed, because while he doesn't want John to get in trouble for lying, he has the depraved urge for Mary to know that in this small, infinitesimal way, John chose Sherlock over her.

"Well, since I'm already here, I could help with the planning," John suggests.

Mary waves the notion away. "That's silly, John, don't you have that stack of paperwork from the clinic to catch up on at home? Besides, it's no hardship, I'm sure Sherlock and I will work together swimmingly."

"If you're certain…" John trails off, glancing at Sherlock to gauge his response. Sherlock gets the odd impression that Mary wants this meeting to include only Sherlock and herself, so out of sheer curiosity, he decides to go along with it.

"Yes, it'll be fine, John," he assures. "No need to worry, Mary and I will tackle this task just fine together."

2.

Once John has made his reluctant departure, Sherlock bustles into the kitchen to make tea for the two of them.

As he searches the cabinets for sugar, he wishes he'd bothered getting dressed prior to Mary's unexpected arrival. He is currently sporting a dressing gown, black sweatpants, and a loose cotton t-shirt. To make matters worse, his hair is disheveled from sleep and whipped into quite the bird's nest.

Mary, on the other hand, looks immaculate. Her candy apple red sweater contrasts beautifully with the deep charcoal black of her pencil skirt and the modest gold necklace on her throat adds an air of sophistication and poise. Her blonde hair is artfully weaved into a loose bun and her face is adorned sparingly with peach lipstick and rouge. With the engagement ring on her finger and the sweet smile on her face, she looks like the perfect image of a soon-to-be wife.

"So, Sherlock," she begins pleasantly, "would you care to see the binders of decorations I put together? I'd love to hear your opinion on the color scheme."

"Silver and lavender, was it?" he asks, half listening as he pours the two of them their respective cups of tea.

"Yes! Aren't those two colors just lovely together?"

"Indeed."

When he carries the tray of drinks into sitting room and glances at the towering stacks of folders, it occurs to him that there is a lot to party planning he is completely ignorant of. What does he know about color scheme, tablecloth tensile strength, or hors d'oeuvres? What about the type of wine? The decorations? What kind of flowers are appropriate? To make matters even worse, he happens to be fairly opposed to the union of the couple in question, which only serves to make this whole ordeal even more difficult. Feeling suddenly quite daunted by the task, he hands Mary her cup of tea and settles uneasily into his chair.

Mary smiles and accepts the cup. He tries not to scowl when she sits in John's chair without hesitation. "Here, take a look at this, will you?" she asks as she hands him the white plastic binder. The cover is decorated with the words "John and Mary Watson" in sweeping, calligraphic print and the pages are thick with post-its and paper-clipped images. Clearly, ample time has been spent on it.

"Now, Sherlock, what color do you think the napkins ought to be? I was leaning towards a cooler color, perhaps dark purple or blue?" She points to the swatches of color and raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock stares at the spread of dog-eared magazines and carefully cropped photographs and decides he could not care less about the damned color of the napkins. He'd very much like to stand up, sweep every blasted piece of engagement paraphernalia from his flat, and promptly show Mary to the door.

He wants to tell her the napkins could be lime green and it wouldn't matter. Hell—they could be lime green, glittery, and inscribed with Latin swear words and it still wouldn't matter.

"Yes, I think it would be best to stick with deep violets and royal blues," he comments instead. "Warm colors would throw off the scheme."

Mary smiles at him like a teacher pleased with her pupil. "Good! I'm glad you agree. For some silly reason, John thinks we shouldn't 'worry so much about the little details.'" Mary makes a show of sighing dramatically. "I've told him time and time again that this is our wedding and none of the details are little, but he doesn't seem to get it."

Even without hearing John's side of the argument, Sherlock can already guess that when Mary broached the subject, John vouched for a conservative ceremony with close family and friends only. John is the kind of man who values the sentiment behind an event more than the event itself. Though Mary apparently dislikes this trait in him, Sherlock finds it incredibly charming.

"Well," he says neutrally, "he may have a point. What are napkins in the grand scheme of things?"

For the briefest moment, Mary's smile wavers and is replaced by something sharp, but the look is gone before he has the chance to analyze it. "Of course," she indulges, pointedly closing the binder. "I'm being ridiculous."

Yes, he wants to say, you are.

"No, you aren't," Sherlock assures with forced lightheartedness. "You can't be blamed for being excited over your own engagement party. From what I understand, that is very normal behavior for a bride-to-be."

"No, love, you and John are right. Napkins are quite trivial aren't they?" Despite her blithe disposition, there is something lurking beneath her words. He is struck with a baseless sense of foreboding that reminds him of wading through murky waters, unsure what will emerge from the unseen depths. He doesn't like it—it sets his teeth on edge.

"I suppose," he answers evenly.

"I've noticed," she continues, "that you and John tend to see eye to eye on most things, don't you?"

"You could say that, yes."

Something about this entire exchange reminds him of a chess game. One wrong move and his opponent will gain an advantage—one wrong word and Mary will have the upper hand.

Mary takes a measured sip of tea and places the cup down with an audible clink. "Speaking of John, did the two of you have a good time on the case, Sherlock?"

Despite the surface offhandedness of her words, the friendly atmosphere disappears in an instant. Her smile is still there but it now looks plastic and doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Instead of answering, Sherlock examines her. In spite of the deliberate neatness of the rest of her attire, there is a missed button on her sweater. Intentional? Perhaps. It certainly provides a believable flaw in her otherwise impeccable appearance. He supposes its purpose is to make her seem more approachable, more imperfect: human. Why she had to put in a concentrated effort in order to look this way, however, is beyond him.

The delicate palette of her makeup also perplexes him. In the past, she has proved to be fond of bright reds and striking crimsons—shades that indicate confidence and poise. Never has he seen her wear light pink. Pastel colors represent innocence, sweetness, wholesomeness; the fact that she has chosen to wear such demure colors to a confrontation shows yet another attempt at deceit. For some reason, she wants him to perceive her as harmless and amiable despite the implacability of her words.

"The case," he repeats slowly. His eyes do not leave hers. Neither of them flinch when the silence drags on for several beats.

"Yes, the case," she replies smoothly. "The one from which you and John just returned?"

She already knows the truth, it would be tedious and inefficient to lie at this point. "Ah, yes," he says with a bland smile, "I recall. Though it can hardly be called a case. Took us less than an afternoon to solve." He wishes to leave it at that but feels somewhat compelled to reassure Mary, if only so that she will not feel too upset with John. "There was no danger involved, I assure you. The perpetrator couldn't have wielded a weapon even if he wanted to and the client had no desire to harm anyone but her thieving ex-husband. John was not in harm's way."

Her jaw clenches imperceptibly. Sherlock watches the muscle flex beneath her flawless, creamy skin and wonders why this information has not assuaged her.

"If it was not a dangerous case then why did John feel the need to lie to me?"

"Perhaps because you forbade him from going on cases with me," Sherlock returns evenly. His tongue feels razor-sharp with suppressed scorn. Something white hot and angry sparks in his blood but he forcibly tampers it down. How dare she tell John what he may and may not do—he is a grown man for Christ's sake! She has absolutely no right bossing him around as if he were a child.

Her face doesn't change but her eyes grow a few degrees cooler at his words. She tips her head to the right and deliberately arches a perfectly-shaped brow. "Pardon me, love, I must have misheard you. Did you just suggest that I forbade my fiancé from doing something? Because I can assure you, I did not."

Sherlock takes a sip of tea without tasting it. "Fine," he retorts, "in your own words, what did you tell him?"

"I simply told him that although this kind of lifestyle may be fit for you, it is not fit for him," she replies coolly. "John is forty years old, Sherlock, he has no business running around London tackling criminals and chasing down drug addicts." She eyes him with thinly-veiled disdain. "John Watson is not you. He doesn't belong out there with the murderers and investigators and police officers. He should be at home with me or at the clinic working, not prowling the streets for delinquents to beat up."

Sherlock places his teacup down on the table for fear he'll end up crushing it out of indignation. "Have you met John Watson?" Sherlock snaps, tired of playing this game with a poker face and even tone. "Are you aware that he was an army doctor? Are you aware that he enjoys coming on cases with me, no matter how 'inappropriate' you apparently find them? Are you aware that John has always been attracted to danger? Are you aware that it is as much a part of him as his own bloody name?"

Instead of matching Sherlock's fiery, angry tone, Mary merely stares at him dispassionately. "Who are you to tell me who my husband is, Sherlock Holmes?" she asks coldly, every trace of passion and color drained from her voice.

"He is not your husband yet, Mary," he barks.

She doesn't dignify his comment with a response, instead pressing her lips into a humorless, flat line. Her eyes remind him of emeralds, cold and lovely.

Sherlock's heart is pounding in his chest from both anger and anxiety. They have reached a stalemate. If he says anything else to offend her, there is no doubt she will run to John and complain, and although Sherlock is almost certain that John's loyalty would prevent him from deserting Sherlock, he'd rather not put more strain on their relationship.

However, if he simply sits down and accepts Mary's ridiculous claims, he'll be paving the way for more rules and regulations in John's future. What he says next will change things for either the better or the worse.

"You care about John very much," Sherlock says at length, his voice careful, "and I too care greatly for John. Isn't it in our best interests to base our actions off what will benefit John the most?" Having gained Mary's full attention, he leans forward and steadily meets her eyes. "John enjoys going on cases with me and he…he loves you. Quite dearly." Sherlock clears his throat. "To make John choose wouldn't be fair, so why don't we avoid putting him in that position?"

Mary smiles and places a hand over Sherlock's. Her skin feels smooth and cold. "Dear, answer something for me, will you?"

"Of course."

Her cat-like green eyes glint in the afternoon sunlight. "Are you saying we shouldn't make John choose because it would be unfair to him? Or," she continues lowly, "is it because you are afraid you won't be the one he chooses?"

Sherlock's mind screeches to a halt. "I…I don't believe I understand."

Mary's tilts her head and smiles. The sweet hue of her lipstick does nothing to dull the sharpness of the gesture. "Oh, I think you understood me perfectly, Sherlock. Think about it, dear: whose engagement party are we planning today?"

Beneath her neutral tone, he senses the acidic tremor of a threat. Mary knows that if given the choice, John would choose her without a second thought, and she is apparently unafraid of boasting that fact. A bolt of fear shivers through him as he contemplates the damage Mary would be able to cause should she find the desire to remove him from John's life.

He understands that there is a dark promise lying beneath the surface of her words, a threat to tell John that she doesn't feel that Sherlock belongs in his life. He doesn't want to test her limits.

The clock on the mantle ticks monotonously in the ensuing silence. Mary leans back in her chair and crosses her legs, her eyes never leaving his face. Her expression remains carefully blank, like a pure white canvas devoid of all evidential markings, and he finds himself unable to make any deductions. It's like she's closed herself off.

He thinks he may have underestimated her.

"So?" she asks eventually. "Do you, Sherlock?"

He flexes his fingers against the chair's arm. "Do I what?"

"Understand me."

His eyes fall to her ring finger, adorned with the sparkling diamond John spent a year and a half paying off, and he feels something bitter churn in his gut. "Yes," he says quietly. The single word feels like poison.

"Excellent," she replies. This time when she smiles, the expression carries an air of smug triumph. "Now then, shall we get back to the party planning?"

3.

A few hours after Mary leaves, John texts him.

So what did you and Mary talk about?

You, Sherlock thinks. And more specifically, Mary's apparent ownership of you. I was warned not to have any illusions about to whom you are most loyal. I suppose she is correct; she has your ring and I do not, it isn't difficult to discern whom you would ultimately choose.

Unfortunately, saying any of that is completely off the table. After a few moments of contemplation, he settles with a partial truth.

We discussed the details of your engagement party. SH

Yeah, that's what she said too. Something about color schemes and hors d'oeuvres and a bunch of other rubbish I can't remember. Anyway, thank you so much for helping out.

It's no problem, John, I am happy to be of assistance. SH

Did she say anything about the case?

She knows about it. She asked how it went but did not seem particularly upset. SH

Another half-truth.

That's good I suppose. We talked when she got home and—actually this'll take ages to say through text. Can I call you?

Of course. SH

Sherlock traipses into John's bedroom as per routine and sits on the bare mattress with his knees pulled to his chest. John's smell has long since faded away, but sometimes if he closes his eyes and focuses very hard, he can summon vestiges of that familiar aftershave and laundry soap.

His mobile buzzes on the pillow beside him and he answers on the second ring.

"So what did she say?" Sherlock asks, jumping right into it.

"She didn't talk about the case much, but she did give the impression that she was disappointed in me." John sighs. "I apologized for lying about where I was going and eventually she apologized for overreacting. She said that she was just concerned for my safety. Apparently, me going on cases with you makes her worry."

Sherlock highly doubts that that is completely true. He suspects Mary's real reasons have to do with wanting control more than anything.

"Ah, I see," he says instead. "Am I correct in assuming there was a compromise at the end of the row?"

"Yeah," John exhales. "I was thinking, maybe Mary wouldn't be so uncomfortable with me going on cases if she could see what it's like firsthand."

Sherlock's hopes fervently John isn't about to suggest what he thinks he is. "Meaning?"

"Well," John says slowly, "Maybe she could come on our next case with us?"

Sherlock forces himself to sound calm as he says, "John, give me a moment, please, I'll be right back. Mrs. Hudson is at the door." He places his mobile face down on the pillow, leaps out of bed, stalks into the sitting room, opens a window, and sticks his head into the cold air where he shouts a long, unbroken string of expletives at the passing cars. He starts in English but once he's run out of words he moves on to Polish and German, eventually ending with a few sharp, succinct slurs in French.

A minute later, he makes his way back into the bedroom and picks up the phone. "Yes, I don't see why not, John. Feel free to bring Mary along."

"Wonderful," John replies warmly. "Thank you so much, Sherlock. I knew you'd be good about this."

Sherlock lies on his back in defeat and stares blankly at the ceiling, the phone pressed loosely to his ear. "It's nothing, John," he assures. "Nothing at all."

...

He can't sleep that night and when he finally does, his dreams are plagued by dark shapes with sweet voices and long nails. Blonde-haired devils scuttle about in the shadows and whisper evil things in his ears.

He's mine, they chant. Forever and ever.

Green eyes cut into him like shards of sea glass and he watches with numb horror as blood pours helplessly from his wounds. Red rivulets run down his hands and arms in bright streams, catching on his wrists and staining the material of his sleeves.

You're done, they taunt. You had your chance.

Mary emerges from the blackness and pets his hair back, a cruel parody of the soothing gesture. It's over, Sherlock, she murmurs softly. Just give in already.

John is mine.

...

He wakes up breathless and sick, and spends the first ten minutes of the morning retching over the toilet bowl, trying desperately to cleanse himself of the undefinable ache clawing at his insides. Mary, Mary, Mary. Memories of her cold words and flat smile stick to the backs of his eyelids like thumbtacks, painful and indelible. Her words echo in his head endlessly, like an angry wasp trapped in a bell jar.

For the sake of gaining even a small measure of mental peace, he pulls out his mobile and sends a text to John.

Good Morning. SH

He has never texted John without a direct purpose before, so the act of sending the simple message feels both alien and exciting.

Morning :-)

A smiley face, John? Really? SH

[PICTURE MESSAGE: downloading]

Is the real thing better?

Sherlock stares at the photo of John's smiling face for far longer than he perhaps should, his heart melting like ice cream in July. He resolves immediately to print the picture and put a small copy in his wallet, hidden behind the credit card he stole from Mycroft last year, as well as on the mantle, right beside his skull. He'll need to go shopping for a suitable frame, he supposes. He looks closely at the image and determines that wherever John took the photograph clearly isn't his home, as there are trees and a sloping green hill in the background.

Very much so. Feel free to use photography instead emoticons from now on. Where are you? SH

On my way to the post office to send something to Mike. Decided to stop by the park on the way.

Letter or Parcel? SH

Parcel. Oh, and good news! I told Mary about our talk last night and she seemed to really like the idea.

Splendid. I will make sure to alert you the moment a new case comes up. SH

In reality, Sherlock has no intention of going to great lengths to find the three of them a case. He is willing to suffer a considerable dry spell in detective work as long as it means Mary won't be coming along and ruining the one sacred thing he and John have left.

He exhales wearily and lets his head fall back against the bathroom wall. Bloody hell.

Chapter Text

Doubt: (noun) a feeling of uncertainty or a lack of conviction that something will work out.

1.

For one week, there is blessed silence.

No new cases pop up on the blog, 221B's doorbell is untouched, the client chair stays empty, and Sherlock's mind remains a blissful, Mary-less place. Of course, the downside to being away from Mary is that he is also away from John, but, thanks to several phone calls and text messages throughout each day, Sherlock doesn't feel his absence as keenly as he otherwise might have.

Since going out on cases isn't a possibility—and since he hasn't accumulated many other hobbies in the meantime—he spends the week moving lazily from experiment to experiment, prodding with vague interest at new specimen Molly drops off every now and then. When he isn't experimenting, he thinks about the impending engagement party. More specifically, about Mary Morstan and the terrible meeting that transpired last week.

For the life of him, he can't figure her out. When he first met her, she seemed to be fascinated with his detective work; in the café, she even begged him to recount a case for her and John. But for some reason, once she came back from her sister's, she began telling John how dangerous and unsuitable 'Sherlock's lifestyle' was for him. Practically overnight, she became more possessive and controlling, and now she had the gall to waltz into his flat, kiss John in the middle of his sitting room, and harshly remind Sherlock of where he stood.

And all of it was done with a smile.

Part of him is duly impressed with the poise and composure with which she holds herself. Another part of him is fascinated by how effortlessly she is able to transition from sweet and adoring to cold and calculating. And another part, a smaller, desperately ignored part, is bloody terrified of her. Never has he met someone with such complete control over their emotions and words; everything about her seems carefully selected and deliberate. There was a time when he prided himself on having similar abilities, but now, thanks to the world of emotion John invited him into several years ago, he is just as susceptible to lapses in judgement and emotional distress as the next person. He both enjoys and despises this phenomenon. On one hand, he is privy to the warmth and happiness that comes from opening oneself to companionship and love, but on the other, he is forced to suffer through the pain of loss and the constant, sharp sting of longing. As reluctant as he is to admit it, Mycroft was not entirely wrong when he said that caring is not an advantage.

It is incredibly rare, perhaps bordering on impossible, for someone to be able to love uninhibitedly while still holding strict control over their emotions; the fact that Mary is seemingly able to do both makes him wonder if either of these apparent circumstances are false. Which traits are real and which are feigned? Is her confidence a façade or a simple truth? Does she truly care for John?

He can't make heads or tails of her and it is absolutely killing him.

Sick of thinking about Mary, he unearths the Ten Hour Death case from his stack of unsolved files and attempts to look deeper into it.

From what he and Mycroft discerned, the first victim, January Phillips, was murdered because of her association with a clandestine organization—most likely the CIA, though M16 cannot be entirely ruled-out. Her recorded 'backstory' was forged and her husband, Mathew Phillips, never actually existed. At the end of their meeting last week, he arrived at the conclusion that January was on the brink of divulging some important information to the other victims before the killer got to her. Assuming this theory is correct, it means that Sydney Carmichael, Jessica Hepburn, and Nathaniel Hastings were part of that same secret organization; and while it's lovely to have determined what the common factor is, there are still a number of questions he cannot answer. What was the killer's relationship with the victims? What was January about to tell the others? What is the significance of ten?

The killer is clearly a professional—it is rare that amateurs have such a distinct trademark in their executions. Whoever they are dealing with has a penchant for poison, judging by the arsenic-tipped knife at January's throat, the cyanide in Nathaniel's martini, Mr. Carmichaels' bloodstream full of Dimethylmercury, and the ricin-laced bullet embedded in Jessica's skull. Unfortunately, no other information will be available until Mycroft can get his hands on January's actual file, which is buried in the United States' secret archives.

Sherlock despises incomplete cases, and this one is practically mocking him with its loose ends and enigmas.

2.

On Friday morning, his laptop chimes with an update from the blog. The sound itself is quite innocuous—a short chirping noise akin to a bird—but it might as well be a funeral march for the dread that sinks in his gut is a stone.

Reluctantly, he peels himself from the sofa and flips open the laptop, fervently hoping the notification was for something else. Unfortunately, the universe is not in his favor, so it is a case.

Dismayed, he scans the email from a man named Patrick Chester. Apparently, he is convinced that his bank account was emptied by his own mother and he'd like to look into it without involving the police—'You know, to give my mum benefit of the doubt and all that.' The message is riddled with grammatical errors and the case itself doesn't rank higher than a very generous four. If it were up to him, he would simply shut the laptop, forgo replying, and resume sprawling out on the sofa thinking about the THD case.

Except, it isn't up to him. John's phone is connected to the blog, so he gets notified as soon as there is an update, meaning there is no way Sherlock can prevent John from seeing this. His theory is proved correct when his mobile buzzes with a text a minute later.

Finally, a case! I'll let Mary know and we'll be over in an hour!

He paces the flat fretfully for a few moments, wondering how on earth this situation is going to pan out. Last week, Mary made it fairly obvious that she hates Sherlock. She threatened him, mocked him, and flaunted her engagement ring with a smug smile and dark eyes. Now, he'll be going on a case with her. A case! His own private sanctuary is about to be destroyed, and John, unaware of the tension between him and Mary, is the one orchestrating this entire mess. It is upsetting in the extreme. He knows he shouldn't, but he ends up calling John anyway; he needs to hear his voice so he can calm the hell down.

"Morning," John greets after two rings. "I'm so glad we're finally about to go on a—"

"John," he interrupts. "Are you certain this is a good idea?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Mary has made it quite plain that she dislikes my detective work, so I highly doubt her mind will be changed by taking her along for a case. If anything, it will only serve to make her more upset."

After a contemplative beat, John says, "Sherlock, I talked to Mary about this, remember? She liked the idea of seeing what it was like. She was a little reluctant at first, but once I explained how important it was for you and her to get along, she agreed to do it. Besides," he continues, "this case is probably even less dangerous than the one we took in Sussex. If you're worried that we'll be ambushed or kidnapped or something of that ilk, I'm certain you have nothing to worry about. It's just some bloke who thinks his mum siphoned money out of his bank account, right? That's barely a four. It'll be fine."

He feels somewhat assuaged by John's calm tone, but lingering doubt still persists. "It's…it's just that this is our thing, John. It's very important to me and I know it's very important to you as well, so it's a bit difficult to imagine letting someone else be a part of it. Especially because that person doesn't care for my work in the first place."

"I know, Sherlock," John says softly. "I know how precious this is to you—how precious it is to us—and I cannot thank you enough for allowing Mary to be a part of it. I'm just sick of having to lie to her and sneak around behind her back just to spend time with you. It isn't fair to any of us. If taking Mary along on this case today means ending that, then I am more than willing to do it. Aren't you?"

Although he completely understands where John is coming from, he cannot bring himself to dredge up similar optimism. He too would like to live in a world where John doesn't have to feel guilty for going on cases with him. However, some small, petty part of him enjoys that John has sometimes chosen him over Mary, no matter how seemingly insignificant the event itself was. He doesn't just wish that Mary approved of him, he wishes that Mary wasn't in the equation at all. If it were just him and John again, that would be ideal.

Unfortunately, that is not the case, and the closest thing he'll get is a non-threatening Mary Morstan, and that can only happen if he allows her to come along on a case and take a peek inside his and John's world.

"Your happiness is vital, John," Sherlock says at length. "Whatever it takes to achieve that, I am willing to do."

"You're incredible, you know that?" John replies after a beat. Sherlock can hear the smile glowing in his voice. "Thanks for this, Sherlock."

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, caught between a smile and a weary sigh. "Of course, John."

"I'll see you in a bit, okay?"

"Until then, John."

…

He tries his best to act polite when Mary arrives, but the fact that she won't stop kissing and touching John makes it quite difficult.

It starts the moment they step into the flat, when Mary says something fond about John and gives his cheek a lingering peck. It escalates when Sherlock dashes to his bedroom for his coat and returns to find Mary pushing up on her toes and kissing John with a passion that really does not belong in someone else's sitting room. He bites down on his tongue so hard, blood wells up. After a bit of small talk, the three of them head out to pavement to catch a cab. Sherlock doesn't miss the way she refuses to let go of John's hand for the entire ride.

To Sherlock, she is perfectly pleasant. "How have you been, love?"

He watches the scenery pass in the cab's window. "I've been well. Experimenting, reading, the usual."

"That's lovely," she beams. "Thank you so much for allowing me to join you boys. I'm so glad John came up with this idea, it's absolutely brilliant." Apparently overcome with affection, she grins and presses a succinct kiss to John's mouth. John smiles in return and the two of them spend a ridiculous amount of time staring adoringly at each other. Sherlock exhales loudly and pushes himself as hard as possible into the door, trying to keep a good distance between himself and the happy couple.

He doesn't like Mary, plain and simple. Initially, he disliked her because she was so sweet and lovely and perfect—all the things Sherlock could never be for John. His aversion stemmed from petty jealousy and resentment. But, after his and John's falling out, he had decided to give her a second chance, so, despite her sugary smiles and ridiculous flat, he had forced himself to grin and pretend to like her for John's sake. The moment John confessed that Mary forbade him from going on cases, however, any notion of possible fondness flew out the window. The strange, sickly-sweet meeting that transpired last week was the last nail in the coffin, so to speak.

Sherlock does not like her, in fact he might even hate her.

But the odd thing—the thing that makes him feel off-balanced and confused—is the way she looks at John. It's sincere and open and luminescent: a look one can only give to someone with whom they are completely and hopelessly besotted. It is a look that says, if you ever left me, I'd die.

I need you more than I can describe.

I am so in love with you it hurts.

Sherlock knows the look because he's seen in his own reflection every morning. And it is because of this indescribable look that Sherlock cannot force himself to hate her entirely. Yes, she is manipulative and deceitful, and perhaps even cruel. Yes, he is still irrevocably jealous of her place in John's life. But she looks at John as if he's the most precious thing in the world and Sherlock cannot deny that she adores him. As much as he'd like to write her off as a cold, calculating wench and be done with it, he cannot ignore the sincerity of her emotions. He understands what it feels like to love someone so much that you would do anything to hold onto them; in his case, it meant flinging himself from a building and disappearing for two years, but in Mary's case, he supposes it means possessively guarding John. While he doesn't approve, he understands.

And the thing is, he actually wishes he didn't understand. It'd be so much easier if he could look at things black-and-white and simply hate Mary without question. But he can't. Sherlock sees in shades of grey, so he does understand and he doesn't hate her—no matter how much he bloody wants to—because when it comes down to it, Mary makes John happy. And hasn't John's happiness always been the most important thing?

He sighs heavily and stares unseeingly at the blur of passing buildings.

John seems to sense his discomfort, so he scoots away from Mary and bumps his shoulder into Sherlock's.

"Hey, you good?" he asks lightly. Buried beneath his words, John is clearly saying, I know this is weird and I know this is really hard for you to deal with, but are you okay? If you aren't, we can always just cancel this.

Sherlock turns away from the window and forces a smile. "Of course, John."

The white lie is immediately worth it when John's face brightens. "Good," he replies, clearly pleased.

The cab stops a moment later and Mary peeks out the window. "We're here!" she chimes.

Sherlock steels himself with a deep breath and steps out into the cold, London air.

Chapter Text

Interloper: (noun) one who intrudes upon a situation where they are not welcomed or perceived to belong

1.

Having Mary on this case feels a bit like having his house invaded by vagrants—except, he's met most of London's tramps and not even they would be this unpleasant. She is treading on sacred territory, precious London pavement with its intricate history and decadent crime, yet she behaves as if this entire city is beneath her.

It would be easier to justify his annoyance if her actions were blatantly cruel, but as it stands, she continues to appear lovely, sweet, and doting, and takes every possible chance to cling to John like an octopus.

"John, I can't express how pleased I am to be here," Mary says for the third time in as many minutes, as they walk up the front steps of Patrick's porch. "I'm so glad you two decided to include me."

The urge to roll his eyes is so overwhelming that Sherlock is forced to tear the conversation out of Mary's control just for the sake of holding his tongue.

"So," he interrupts, "are we all caught up with the case?"

"Indeed!" Mary chirps, "We looked at it together this morning."

John smiles in agreement. "We're good to go, Sherlock."

"Wonderful," he mutters sullenly, and rings the doorbell.

…

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock says, taking the red headed man's hand in a firm shake, "pleasure to meet you."

"Patrick Chester, though I'm sure you knew that from the email. Hello Doctor Watson," Patrick beams, shaking John's hand as well. Mary smiles sweetly beside him and Patrick returns the gesture. "And you are?"

"Mary," she pronounces. "John's fiancé."

"Oh! Well congratulations you two, I had no idea Dr. Watson was in a relationship! Didn't see it on the blog and all."

"Er, yes," John replies, scratching the back of his head. "The blog hasn't been updated in quite some time now. Perhaps after the wedding I'll write something. Thank you for your well wishes."

"Now then," Sherlock interrupts, eager to move on from the subject of weddings and the Watsons. "Onto the case itself. Why do you think your mother stole from you, Patrick?"

"Well," Patrick begins with a frown, "I left all of my cards and information at her house last weekend—that being the only time I ever let my important financial items out of my sights—and, what do you know, the very next day, two thousand pounds went missing from my bank account. The only person who could have had access to my password and card numbers is her, Mr. Holmes. As much as I hate to say this, Mum used to have a gambling problem when we were kids and I'm thinking it might've started up again."

"When 'we' were kids?" John cuts in. "You have a sibling?"

"My brother, Roderick," Patrick clarifies.

"I see," John says. "And where is Roderick right now?"

"Well, last I spoke to the bugger, he was mucking around in Glasgow with his new girlfriend. He doesn't keep in touch that often, unfortunately, so I'm not exactly sure what he's up to."

John nods thoughtfully. "Have you spoken to your mother or brother about your suspicions, Mr. Chester?"

"No, of course not, Dr. Watson," Patrick replies, aghast. "Accuse my own mum? No way in bloody hell. What if I'm wrong? That's why I called you and Mr. Holmes; I need you to snoop around her house for any evidence that she did it. I sent her to a spa retreat with her friend, so the house will be empty all day."

While Sherlock mulls this over, he allows his gaze to move unhurriedly over Patrick's form in search of telling character traits. His bright, unclouded green eyes imply a clean history, his smile is easy and untroubled, and his manner is casually friendly and warm, indicating that despite his mother's gambling and his brother's implicit drug problem, he has remained sunny and upbeat. Part of Sherlock admires that.

"Do you plan on alerting the authorities if she did do it?" Sherlock asks.

"No!" Patrick exclaims, sounding offended at the suggestion. "I just want to know if she did it so I can help her, Mr. Holmes. Family is family; I would never send my own mum to prison. Same goes for my brother, no matter how scummy he can be at times."

"Well, thank you for explaining a few things, Patrick," Sherlock says, shaking his hand once more. "If you could just give us the directions to your mother's house, we can start the investigation immediately."

…

Mrs. Chester's home looks exactly as an elderly mother's home might be expected to look, equipped with family photos, kitten-themed calendars, and the indescribable scent of lavender and baked goods.

Despite the seemingly guileless appearance of the house, Sherlock is keen on details the moment he steps over the threshold. Oddly enough, so is Mary.

He doesn't miss the way she discreetly kicks a hidden spool of yarn into sight as the three of them scour the sitting room. Nor does he miss when she feigns surprise and innocently asks John if it has any importance.

"Yarn?" John says, turning the spool in his hands. "I'm not sure. Sherlock, what do you think?"

So that is how she'd like to play this? Solving the crime herself without saying anything out loud? He can't help but think that it's the perfect way for her to covertly display her intelligence. She is bragging to him.

"Yes," he replies succinctly, without elaboration, and continues scanning the room.

Homemade sweaters hang on three separate pieces of furniture and hand-knitted tea cozies rest on nearly every available surface. Mrs. Chester has an obvious penchant for knitting, apparently. Sherlock notes with interest that Mary's eyes follow the same path of objects his do; she notices the sweaters and the cozies, and even seems to arrive a conclusion he has missed.

"This looks warm, doesn't it?" Mary comments idly, running her fingers over the material of the nearest jumper. "This sort of thing would be lovely in winter."

If she hadn't shown her true colors at the 'party planning' meeting last week, Sherlock would have looked over her comment without a second thought. However, since he is well aware that there is bright, sharp intelligence burning behind her simple façade, he knows better than to take the words at face value—clearly something about this sweater is important.

John, oblivious to the layers beneath her statement, offers absentminded agreement as he sorts through a stack of bank statements across the room. "Winter, yes. Quite right, love."

In two quick strides, Sherlock swipes the jumper off the back of the chair and smells it, surprised to find the heavy scent of wet wool and cigarettes. The puzzle pieces snap together in moments, leaving him with a crystal clear mental picture.

"Whomever wore this did not expect that it would rain," he states immediately, addressing the room. "They left the house with only fags and a lighter, got caught in a storm, and made it back once they'd been soaked to the core. Being that the smell is still quite strong, I'd say this series of events occurred only last night."

Mary's eyes glint in the sunlight streaming from the window, almost in challenge. "And what is the significance of that?" she asks innocently.

He pointedly looks to John when he answers. "Mrs. Chester is not a smoker, but do you know who is?" Sherlock plucks a frame off the nearby mantle. "Patrick's brother, Roderick. Neither Mrs. Chester nor Patrick have mentioned seeing him recently, in fact his brother seems to be under the impression that he's staying out in Glasgow with a friend, so he must have shown up at night, taken care of whatever business he had here, and left, undetected, before the sun rose. He returned the sweater before he left, so that neither his mother nor brother would know he had been here."

"And you know these things about Roderick how exactly?" Mary questions, though it's clear she's known the answer for ages.

"Preliminary research," he answers swiftly. "And I posed as a telemarketer this morning before you two arrived in order to speak with Mrs. Chester. She's quite chatty and had no issue with recounting her past week for me. She mentioned her son's problem with smoking and how dearly she misses him since he never bothers to call her."

John's chuckles, his expression a mix between impressed and fond. "Christ, Sherlock, we've been here ten minutes and you've already solved it?"

"No, I've formed a theory. A very likely one, granted, but a theory nonetheless. I'll need to look around more before I can make any definite statements."

"You know what, I feel like I need to help out," John announces. "I'm going to check the bedroom upstairs. Might be something important up there."

The very last thing Sherlock would like right now is to be left alone with Mary, who is currently liable to threaten him, degrade him, or debase him at the drop of a hat. However, Mary will consider it a sign of weakness if he scuttles after John and makes it clear that he doesn't want to be around her by himself, and whatever remains of his pride simply will not allow him to retreat with his tail between his legs. Besides, he wants John to feel included right now; John's enjoyment of these cases is half the reason Sherlock even bothers with them in the first place.

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea, John," Sherlock agrees after a moment. "Mary and I will continue looking here and see if anything comes up."

2.

Now that the two of them are alone, he isn't quite sure how to behave around her. Preferring to observe first and act later, he moves to the bookshelf and pretends to examine the collection of dust on the spines, all the while keeping an eye on Mary in his peripheral.

Her posture is straight and confident and her movements are unhurried, almost lazy, as she inspects the stack of notes on Mrs. Chester's desk. It is clear Mary thinks she is in control of this situation; self-satisfaction and triumph practically radiate from her in waves. Now that she's proven she can make life difficult for Sherlock (i.e. convincing John to invite her along on a case) she appears to be under the impression that she has both John and Sherlock under her thumb—and though he resents this fact, he can't blame her for arriving at this conclusion. The only reason they're here is to appease her, after all.

Sherlock hates being uncertain about what to anticipate, so it's nearly a relief when she turns away from the desk and finally breaks the silence.

"The brother did it," she states, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I know," Sherlock replies calmly, pretending to examine the spines on the bookshelf.

Mary narrows her eyes at his profile. "Then why are we still here, Sherlock? The case is done, there's no need to look for anything else. A quick glance at Roderick's bank account would provide more than enough proof."

"Very true," he concedes. "But I thought perhaps we ought to spend a bit more time on the case, so as not to disappoint John."

She gives him a flat smile. "How kind of you."

Yes, I'm sure you find that concept quite foreign, he thinks waspishly, nearly choking on the urge to voice it.

"Hardly," he says instead.

"But, you know, Sherlock," Mary continues, "you really aren't in any position to make big choices today. The duration of this case is one of the many things that you have no say in."

"And why is that?"

"Have you already deleted our little meeting from last week, love? I thought I made it very clear where we all stood."

His hand clenches around The Tale of Two Cities. "Do not call me that," he says flatly. It seems cruelly ironic that Mary is the one addressing him as such, when the only person he truly wants to hear that word from is John.

"Fine, Sherlock," she says carelessly. "I thought that after last week, you would be walking on eggshells around me. And, I have to say, that would have been a wiser course of action than this."

"And what is this, exactly?" Sherlock bites. "I'm curious as to what you think I'm trying to accomplish here."

"Nothing," she replies bluntly. "Well, nothing worthwhile anyway. I'm sure you intend to intimidate me or reprimand me for solving your silly little case in less than ten minutes, but I can assure you, bullying me will prove to be a waste of time. I am not scared of you, Sherlock, and I, unlike you, am aptly aware of where I stand with John. Let's just say, the view from up here is quite lovely."

He's changed his mind, he does in fact hate her. "You're enjoying today, aren't you?"

"Am I enjoying the chance to best you at your own worthless game? Yes. Am I enjoying making John happy because I've decided to come along? Yes. This was a brilliant idea on his part, wasn't it, dear?"

He wants to retch at the honey-sweetness of her tone. "Hardly," he returns coolly. "Wasn't it you who claimed that these 'terribly dangerous cases' were the sole cause of your worried, sleepless nights?"

"I always sleep like a baby," she refutes crisply. "And I do find this whole business distasteful, but if it means pleasing John, I am willing to endure a few hours of misery."

"If your goal is to please John, then why don't you make this easier for everyone and stop insisting that he stay away from me and my work," Sherlock snaps.

"I said I was willing to endure a few hours, love, not an entire lifetime."

Unabashedly and unapologetically selfish, he thinks to himself. How charming.

"After this, do you have any intention of rejoining us?"

Her eyes flash. "Why would I?"

He despises when his questions are answered with more questions—it's a classic power play, and an obnoxious one at that—so he ignores her and focuses on a matter he actually cares about. "By the end of today, what do you plan on telling John?"

She takes her time replying, aware of how desperately he wants to hear her answer. "I know the last thing you want is for John to stop coming along on cases with you, Sherlock, so, out of kindness, I am willing to make a compromise that will suit us both. I am nothing if not reasonable."

She pauses to offer a saccharine smile, as if to punctuate her statement. Sherlock has to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain from scowling.

"A compromise with John?"

"No," she replies simply. "A compromise with you."

Now Sherlock does scowl. "The last time we spoke, you made it very clear that you didn't need my help to hold onto John. In fact, I believe your exact words were 'whose engagement party are we planning today?'"

"Very true. But I think it would be benefit us both if our relationship was a bit less hostile."

"I'm sure if we removed you from the equation, the hostility would magically disappear as well," he huffs under his breath.

"About the compromise," she continues, ignoring the jab. "I am willing to let John do as he pleases as long as you present the cases to me beforehand. I will assess the danger and subject matter of the case, determine if it suits John's best interests, and then I will either approve or deny his participation."

Indignation bubbles through Sherlock veins like lava. He feels hot with anger from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet. "So, essentially, you would like John to sign a permission slip every time he goes out with me?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"Not John, you. You will be the one I correspond with over these matters, there is no reason to involve John."

"Quite right, it isn't as if this is his life or anything," Sherlock snaps sarcastically. "Mary, if you think for one moment that I will go behind John's back and ask your permission for things that ought to be entirely up to him, you are far more deluded than I thought."

Her smug gaze turns icy. "You don't have a choice, Sherlock. Either you agree to this, or you agree to the notion of John staying away from you and your cases entirely. Which will it be? I assumed the answer would be obvious, but I can spell it out for you if you'd like."

He clenches his jaw so hard he can hear his molars gnash together. "Perhaps you should."

"It's simple. John loves me; as my fiancé, he is devoted to making me happy, just as I am devoted to making him happy. If I came to him and confessed how absolutely terrified these cases make me, I'm certain he would do anything to assuage my fears. And, unfortunately, love, that includes cutting his detrimental ties to you."

Sherlock is so angry that he almost doesn't see it—the cracks in her confidence. There is something off about her tone, something that sounds more panicked than self-assured. He tries to recall where he's heard it before.

And then he remembers; Mary's tone is the same one used by nervous-eyed men sweating bullets as they play for their mortgage in a poker game; it's the frantic, final bellow of a woman selling her failing business to an oblivious buyer; it is the falsely-confident disposition of someone with an empty wallet playing pool for their life savings. It is, quite simply, desperation.

This plan, this grand ultimatum she is presenting him with, is not well-calculated or precise in the slightest. Only someone running out of options would propose such a blatant, unsubtle scheme. Where are the double meanings, the layers of tone, the intricate fine print lying between each of her words?

"So, Sherlock? Do you agree to this?"

Sherlock stops pacing as something occurs to him. Suddenly, her rash, uncoordinated actions make sense. A glowing lightbulb all but pops over his head in revelation. "You're afraid,aren't you?"

His words have a clear and immediate effect. Though Mary's appearance doesn't noticeably change and her expression remains cool and unmoved, her air of confidence burns away like fog in sunshine and the relaxed set of her shoulders bunches up in tension. "Of course not," she scoffs. "What in the world would make you say that?"

Sherlock ignores her. "You are afraid. You know that you have no power over John. You know he'll do what he wants despite your rules and regulations—he must have said something. What did he tell you?"

"I can assure you, he didn't—"

"Oh, but he did. Despite all that bravado at our little meeting last week, you got nervous. You started to question whether John's loyalty was strong enough to compel him to cut me out of his life. You started to doubt yourself. So, as a test, you told John he could not come out with me anymore. You cried, you shouted, you made a big show about how terribly worried it made you and how you simply couldn't sleep at night for fear he wouldn't be there when you woke." Sherlock looks at her with disgust. "For all intents and purposes, it should have worked. John should have crumbled like a house of cards and promised never to go on another case again, for the sake of pleasing his adoring, wonderful, future wife." He pauses. "But that isn't what happened, is it?"

Mary glowers at him with cold fury burning behind her irises. Her lack of reply is answer enough.

Sherlock smiles icily. "No, because you miscalculated. You thought John was just going to let you walk all over him, didn't you? I'm assuming he told you, in no uncertain terms, that there was no way he would abandon me or my work, even for your sake. He put his foot down. He said no. And that is why you are here, Mary. This is to appease him. He has no intention of abandoning me if you have a terrible time today, this is just him being kind enough to try and make you more comfortable with the idea."

More cold silence.

"You wanted me to think that I was about to lose him, but the reality of it, Mary, is that you are the one in danger of losing him. You are the one who ought to be walking on eggshells, not me."

"Sherlock? Mary?" John calls from the sitting room. The shout breaks the tension in the room and seems to pull both of them back into reality.

Mary's expression smooths over in an instant, her posture straightening and her dark gaze clearing. "This is far from over, Sherlock," she states lowly. "You may have won this battle but I have no intention of letting you win the war. Once John and I are married, you and your silly cases will be the least of my worries." Then she turns to the door and bellows, "Coming, John!"

3.

Upon hearing that the culprit is his brother instead of his mother, Patrick nearly whoops in joy. "Thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he cries. "Knew it wasn't good ol' mum."

Sherlock and John share a look of mild confusion. "Er, we would have thought you'd be more upset about this, Patrick," John says with a frown. "The crime was still committed by family, after all."

Patrick waves it away with a hand motion. "Bugger to that, Roddy's stolen from me more times than I can count. I'll just do what I usually do and have my mate at the station talk to him a bit and scare him straight. Usually works for a couple of months or so."

Sherlock stares at him. "Mr. Chester, two thousand pounds have been stolen from you, I'm afraid I don't understand how you aren't distressed."

"I'll admit I'm a little peeved, but I'm just glad it wasn't mum. Roddy, I expect this from. Anyway, thank you so much," Patrick gushes, pumping Sherlock's arm so fiercely he begins to fear for the longevity of his shoulder. "You know, it would be an honor to get a picture of you, Mr. Holmes. My mate down in Liverpool is a huge fan, he'd love to see it."

Sherlock has never particularly enjoyed being photographed, even when in recognition for his success on a case, but he's buoyed on relief right now (thank god this day is finally over), so he decides to allow it. "John, would you mind?"

"I'm up for it," John replies good-naturedly.

Amicably, John sidles up to Sherlock with a photo-ready smile, and Sherlock tries his best to mimic the expression and look pleasant. After a few shutter flashes, Patrick lowers the camera and makes a beckoning motion to Mary who is standing off to the side with her head bent over her mobile. "Join the picture, Ms. Morstan!" he calls, gesturing in Sherlock and John's direction. "I'd love if you were in here as well."

Mary smiles modestly and shakes her head. "No, I couldn't possibly. I wouldn't want to intrude."

Sherlock can't help but think that if she had no intention of intruding, then she wouldn't have come here in the first place.

"Come on, love," John encourages. "Don't you want to commemorate your first case?"

Instead of looking pleased at being included, Mary's smile grows even more strained and her eyes take on a cagey, frantic quality. She briefly reminds Sherlock of a cornered animal, desperate for escape. Why a simple photograph has provoked such a reaction is beyond him, and he finds himself wondering what could possibly make her look so nervous all of a sudden.

"Well, of course, dear," Mary agrees hesitantly, "but I'm sure Patrick's friend wants pictures of just you and Sherlock. You two are the ones who solved the case after all."

Sherlock isn't particularly eager to create more evidence that Mary is now (literally) in the picture, but he finds her reaction too intriguing to simply overlook. He would like to test her—to see why she's acting so strangely over something as insignificant as a quick photograph for a friend. Neutrally, he interjects, "Mary, please, do come over. You helped with this case just as much as John and I, you are just as deserving of being in this picture."

She blinks, clearly not expecting that from him, and he relishes the brief unguarded surprise that dashes over her features. "Alright then," she says somewhat haltingly. With rigid posture and a forced smile, she joins them in front of the magnolias and places a hesitant hand on John's shoulder, posing in such a way that half of her body is facing away from the camera. The deliberate tilt of her face allows hair to fall before her eyes and shroud her features in shadow. Someone looking at the photograph would hardly be able to recognize her.

"Mary, if you could face me more, that would be great," Patrick calls from behind the lens. "Just turn a few inches this way—too much, a little more to the left—yes, right there. And raise your chin, we can barely see your face!"

Reluctantly, Mary follows his instructions and squares her shoulders at the camera. "Better?" she asks with forced cheer.

"Lovely," Patrick confirms, sounding pleased.

Mary does a fairly convincing job of looking calm and content. To the casual observer, her hesitance could be easily overlooked. However, since Sherlock is no casual observer, he doesn't miss the nervous jump of her fingers or the twitchiness of her smile when Patrick calls "Say cheese!"

4.

"Camera shy, are you, Mary?" John teases later, as the three of them make their way to the cab. "Never would have pinned you as that kind of person, love." Sherlock swallows a weary sigh and turns his attention to the cloudless, blue sky above. He may have won today's battle, but, unfortunately, that doesn't mean he's won the war. John still loves her and Sherlock still feels terribly, hatefully empty.

"Oh hush, I've never liked taking pictures. Wouldn't you rather I was too modest than too vain, anyway?" Mary replies light-heartedly.

"You have no reason to be modest, you're incredible," John beams.

Away from the photographer, Mary seems to have regained her confidence. With a playful eye roll, she bats John's shoulder and giggles. "You're making me blush, John, stop."

Once they've made it to the car, Mary steps in after John, but Sherlock makes no move to join them. Instead, he remains on the kerb with his hands clasped behind his back.

"You coming, Sherlock?" John asks from inside the cab.

"No, go on without me, please," Sherlock insists. "I have some errands to run before I head back to the flat."

John's face falls in disappointment. "Well, alright. Text me when you get home, so we can make plans for this week, yeah? Lunch maybe?"

Sherlock smiles half-heartedly. "I will, John."

"Goodbye, Sherlock," Mary beams, any trace of malice absent from her face. "Thank you again for allowing me to come along, I had a splendid time."

He flashes her a sharp grin. "Of course, Mary, it was a pleasure having you."

Sherlock stays on the kerb and watches them drive off, waving goodbye with one hand, while the other remains fiercely clenched inside his pocket.

…

Since his comment about needing to run errands was a lie, Sherlock kills time by wandering through London's winding streets, bored and troubled. Though he successfully stopped Mary's attempt at taking John off cases, she brought up a valid point that makes any form of celebration feel hollow. After the wedding, she will become John's entire life; she won't even need to try and separate him and John anymore, as nature will do that for her. Over time, he and John will gradually grow apart, because the Watsons will make friends with other couples, have kids, and possibly even move away. Meanwhile, Sherlock will be left in London, alone with his skull and his pathetic, fruitless longings.

Inside his pocket, his mobile buzzes. Sherlock groans at the caller ID and reluctantly answers the phone. "Mycroft, always a pleasure."

"Yes, I can tell from the excitement in your tone, brother," Mycroft replies drily. "However, this call is not merely for the sake of hearing you scowl through the phone."

"That's a shame. What is your purpose then?"

"Do you remember the favor you owe me, Sherlock? I believe we agreed that in exchange for my assistance on the Ten Hour Deaths case, you would help me with something in the future?"

Sherlock emits a weary sigh and leans against the brick wall of an alleyway. "Unfortunately, yes, I do believe I remember."

"Wonderful. The time for help has come, Sherlock, so please report to my office immediately."

"Report? I'm not one of your lackeys, Mycroft," he snaps. "And secondly, I'm tired. I've just finished a case with John and Mary and it was nothing short of exhausting. Can't we handle this over the phone?"

"Well, Sherlock, that depends," Mycroft replies evenly. "Can you dismantle a terrorist web over the phone?"

Chapter Text

Prepare: (verb) to put oneself in the proper state of mind, usually for an important event.

1.

"Pardon, did you just say dismantle a bloody terrorist web?" Sherlock cries. He steadies himself against the brick wall and tries to make sense of his brother's inappropriately blasé statement. "What are you talking about?"

But instead of being decent and answering Sherlock's question, Mycroft hangs up without a single word of elaboration. Sherlock isn't feeling particularly patient right now, so when he calls him back and Mycroft pointedly ignores him three times in a row, he doesn't think twice about texting him a long, colorful string of expletives.

Language, brother. Mummy would positively faint if she heard you. MH

What the hell, Mycroft? SH

Meet me at my home office. We can speak freely there. Threat level blue. MH

And threat level blue is…? SH

Now, Sherlock. MH

Irritated, he punches out a reply then jams his phone into his pocket and hails a cab. Since Mycroft found the time to reprimand him for swearing, Sherlock assumes the situation isn't terribly urgent. Still, it's apparently important enough for Mycroft to drag Sherlock all the way across bloody town, so Sherlock doesn't waste time dawdling on the pavement.

By the time Sherlock makes his way to Mycroft's office, his head is throbbing from both exhaustion and annoyance. He's had just about enough of this day and would give virtually anything to go home and collapse on the sofa, where he'd finally be alone with his thoughts. Though his mind palace is far from the perfect sanctuary it once was, today's small victory over Mary has returned a bit of desperately needed order and clarity.

Besides, with the engagement party looming two short days away, he'd like to relish every remaining second until then.

…

"What the hell is threat level blue?" Sherlock demands, shoving the door to his brother's office open without warning. He would've kicked the damned thing open if it weren't for Prudence's disapproving stare.

Mycroft is sitting at his desk with his ridiculous reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and his hand gripping a pen, poised to a sign a document. He seems only mildly surprised by Sherlock's thunderous entrance.

"I tried to stop him, Mr. Holmes," Prudence drones from the doorway, "but he blew right past me."

"No need to apologize, Prudence, I invited him here," Mycroft assures her. "His manner of entering, although aggressive, was expected. That'll be all, thank you."

At that, Prudence ducks out of the room and leaves the two of them alone: Sherlock fuming and Mycroft calmly looking on.

"So?" Sherlock demands.

"So what, Sherlock?"

"Is. This. Dire."

"Not dire, but quite important," Mycroft replies after a beat. "Thank you for rushing down here so quickly."

Sherlock scowls and collapses into a nearby chair. "Please, save the niceties for Mummy. I'd like to get this little meeting of ours over with as soon as possible. "

Mycroft removes his glasses. "You seem upset."

"I'm really not," Sherlock snaps and stares at Mycroft's collar, because he's never been able to look his brother in the eyes and lie convincingly.

"Is that so," Mycroft replies.

"Don'twe have a case to discuss?"

"In time," Mycroft dismisses, waving it away.

Sherlock grits his teeth. "I'm fine, Mycroft."

Mycroft narrows his eyes and scans Sherlock face with hawk-like focus. Although Sherlock would vehemently protest to being deduced on any other occasion, he's currently too tired to bother shielding his expression. Exhaustion sits heavy in his bones like cement and he finds himself unwilling to exert any extra effort; besides, if Mycroft wants to know something, he'll devise a way to figure it out no matter what Sherlock does.

"Mary is bothering you again, I see," Mycroft concludes at length. "Another threat perhaps?"

Sherlock doesn't particularly want to share these things with Mycroft, but he's dying to vent about this to someone and his brother has proven to be a surprisingly good listener in the past. The words end up simply rolling off his tongue. "She attempted to threaten me, but I called her bluff so it didn't work. Apparently John told her, in no uncertain terms, that he would never desert me or my cases. "

"Well, Sherlock, that sounds like cause for celebration, not misery. What about today was so terrible?"

"She brought up an unfortunately valid point," he sighs. "Once she and John are married, there will be no need to impose rules on him, because John will create his own boundaries out of a sense of obligation as a husband and, one day, a father. Mary won't need to worry about me anymore; John and I will grow apart naturally, as he simply will not have time to run around with me on cases anymore."

"Surely you realize John's loyalty to you is not because of the cases you bring him on, Sherlock," Mycroft states reasonably. "For whatever reason, he enjoys your company."

Without malice, Sherlock sarcastically rejoins, "Yes, who could fathom why on earth he likes me?"

"I do not jest, brother," Mycroft placates, sincerity glinting in his eyes. "John is quite fond of you, you and I both know that. And, clearly, Ms. Morstan knows as well, otherwise she wouldn't have bothered threatening you."

Suddenly brooding, Sherlock drops his gaze to the cherrywood surface of Mycroft's desk. "She won't be Ms. Morstan for long, you know."

Mycroft frowns. "Ah, yes. The wedding is in June, correct?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies with a sigh. "A mere three months away. Mary wants a summer wedding."

Mycroft is in the middle of replying, when his laptop chimes and interrupts him. "That," he says, opening the screen and scanning the notification, "would be the case I wished to discuss." Quickly, he types out a quick message and then closes the computer again. "One of my agents has some new intel."

"Right, the case," Sherlock says, and all thoughts of Mary clear his head in an instant. "Tell me about it."

"This case has been on my radar for ages now," Mycroft begins, folding his hands atop his desk. "That is why I informed you of its existence weeks ago; it was only a matter of time before the group did something that would wave a red flag."

"What is the name of this organization?" Sherlock questions.

"They go by many things, but the clearest translation I could find was Brothers of Blood. They are an organized crime group composed of Germany's most dangerous hitmen and assassins."

"And what have they done to grab your attention?"

"Though the group supposedly disbanded in the late nineties, our German M16 unit has recently spotted former members meeting together and trading drugs, weapons, and other black market items. The fact that they are steadily making their way towards England is certainly cause for concern. When I last spoke with my agent two hours ago, the Brothers were on the outskirts of the Netherlands. I estimate that they will be in London in less than a month."

"How do you figure?"

"They have stayed in each country for several weeks before moving on. I assume they take care of hits or illegal distribution of weapons in their time there. It will be at least three weeks before they breach London, at which point we must have our defenses ready."

"And I'm guessing there is a reason you haven't just captured them already? From where I'm standing, that seems to be the easiest option. Being that your agent has been able to keep tabs on them across Europe, I doubt subtlety is a large concern of theirs. I'm sure it would be quiet simple to rid yourself of them without involving me or anyone else outside of your circle of gunmen."

"From where you are standing?" Mycroft repeats, eyeing him coolly from across the desk. "Well, brother, I'm afraid where you are standing does not offer a good view of the big picture. Don't you think I would have had them taken care of ages ago if that were an option?"

"And why isn't it?"

"Since they haven't done anything blatantly illegal yet, there is little action we can take without angering the Germans. The Brothers are technically property of the German government, so until they do something on our soil that explicitly calls for parliamentary intervention, then there is nothing we can do."

Sherlock scoffs. "Trading weapons and drugs seems like a fairly blatant act of illegality, don't you think?"

"Of course it is, Sherlock, but all of that is under-the-table business. I shall put it to you this way: so far, they have done nothing we can easily pin on them. They are quite careful about avoiding the attention of foreign governments. In fact, if my men were not as thorough as they are, then I too would be completely ignorant of their slow movement towards our country."

"What makes you think England is their target? They could just be passing through for all we know."

"My top agent has infiltrated one of Germany's many crime rings and heard this information directly from the mouth of one of the Brothers. There is something in England that they desire, but for the life of me, I cannot figure out what it might be."

Sherlock digests this and leans back in his chair. "Do you have any more information on them?"

Mycroft unearths a thick stack of paper from the depths of his filing cabinet and places it before Sherlock. "There," he says, sitting back down. "That is all you need to know about the Brothers."

Sherlock leafs through the file, unhurriedly scanning over criminal records, rap-sheets, and photographs of crime scenes. After a while, he looks back up at his brother. "Mycroft, what exactly do you expect me to do about them? Because if you are suggesting that I work abroad once more…"

"No," Mycroft firmly interjects. "I am not asking that of you. I wouldn't, after those two years." He clears his throat. "I am not demanding that you drop everything and look into this, either. I am merely asking that you keep an eye on this case. Pin some things to your evidence wall. Ready yourself for when the time to truly investigate comes. I just wanted to make you aware of this case's existence and the potential danger it may pose in the future. These are not the kind of people you want to let take you by surprise."

Sherlock nods, drumming his fingers absently against the closed file. "Am I free to leave?"

"Yes. I can call Prudence to show you out if you'd like?"

"No, that won't be necessary. But, before I go, I would like to ask how the progression of the Ten Hour Deaths case is going. Have you managed to obtain the real files on the victims?"

Mycroft's expression sours. "Unfortunately, no. The United States is being extremely tight lipped about this whole ordeal and I cannot seem to glean answers from any of my usual connections. Though, I can't say I blame them; if some foreign government was poking its fingers in the personal files of my M16 agents, I suppose I would be equally reluctant to share information."

Something in Sherlock deflates at that. "So that's it? There's no way for us to find more evidence regarding the killer? We won't be able to confirm our theories?"

"It appears not," Mycroft replies, looking frustrated. "Unless the American government spontaneously changes its mind, it looks like this case is simply going to go unsolved."

2.

Despite Sherlock's grand plan to spend the next two days curled up on the couch feeling bad for himself in between bouts of violin, the moment he wakes up Sunday morning, his phone's inbox is bursting with last minute confirmation messages from various vendors and caterers for the party. Against his wishes, the ensuing twenty four hours are spent contacting the people in charge of the flower arrangements, solidifying the venue, and texting John back and forth about the menu, the color schemes, the champagne, and every other ridiculous detail Mary decides to bring up. Thankfully, John is content to be the buffer between Sherlock and Mary, though it's clear he isn't aware of their respective desires to avoid speaking to each other.

"Purple violets with silver vases?" John asks over the phone as the two of them go over the final list of decorations.

"Done. The shop ran out of the color 'metallic sparkle,' but I found 'shimmering mercury,' which is nearly identical."

"Excellent. Royal blue placemats with the matching napkins?"

"Taken care of."

"Oh, and Mary said she'd like to know if the napkin rings come in cherry-oak instead of cedar. Apparently cedar clashes with the tables? I don't know."

"One moment," Sherlock pauses to scan the site of the napkin ring-vendors in question. "Ah. They do, but it's ten pence more each."

"Okay, that's fine, go with the cherry-oak. What about the Breton Bellini champagne?"

"Raspberry flavor with frosted glasses, done."

"And the table runners? Did you end up choosing pearl or eggshell?"

"Pearl. The eggshell has undertones of yellow which would clash with the cold-color theme we've gone with. Pearl seemed much more appropriate."

"Good call," John says. "Alright, well, that's it, I suppose. We've officially got all of our ducks in a row!" He sounds almost as relived as Sherlock feels. "Thank god you and Mary handled most of this last week. There are so many bloody details to take care of. Hell, can you imagine what planning the wedding is going to be like?"

The last thing Sherlock would like to talk about is the wedding; this engagement party hurts enough as it is. "Difficult, I assume," he answers noncommittally. "Anyway, is Mary there?"

"No, she's out at the shops looking for an outfit for tomorrow. She owns enough clothing to open up her own shop, yet she claims she has nothing to wear."

"Do you know what you'll wear?"

John makes an unconcerned sound and even without seeing him, Sherlock knows John is shrugging. "Nice trousers with a sports jacket and a button down. I dunno, nothing too fancy. What about you?"

"I'm deciding between an Armani suit and a king's robe. Do you think it would be too flashy if I brought my scepter as well?"

John snorts. "Not at all. In fact, I encourage you to bring the crown along too."

Sherlock smiles at the ceiling and reclines back on the sofa. It's nice sharing easy banter with John again. Though it's only been a week since they've spent time together (yesterday doesn't count because Mary was there), he already misses John's presence keenly. "Are you excited about tomorrow?"

Oddly, John doesn't answer immediately. It's as if he has to think about his answer first. "I am. I'm excited. It's just…strange. I don't know, it feels as if this is the beginning of something very unfamiliar—and, yeah, it is, being married is something I've never done before—but I can't help feeling a bit anxious about it. I don't like not knowing what to expect, I suppose, and from this moment onward, my life is about to be a long series of 'firsts.'"

"And that prospect doesn't entice you?"

"To some extent, yes, but what I have going for me right now isn't too shabby, you know?" There is a beat of silence. "Hey, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"You know me getting married isn't going to change anything, right? We'll still spend a lot of time together."

"Of course, John, I'm aware," Sherlock assures him, though he feels as if the opposite is true. "I know we'll still see each other once you're married."

"Often," John corrects. "We'll see each other often."

Sherlock chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly in his chest. "Yes, John, often."

"I'm serious, Sherlock," John says, but his tone is light. "If I don't call, text, or visit you at least three times a week, I want you to break into my flat and reprimand me in person for being such a shoddy friend."

"And here I was under the impression that breaking and entering were on your list of things that are 'a bit not good.'"

"In this one case I'll make an exception. So is it a deal? Do you promise to hold me to it?"

The fizzle of happiness in his chest is somewhat dulled by the heavy weight of reality. John's kind words will mean very little in a few months when he is enveloped in wonderful domesticity. However, he understands the significance of the gesture and wants John to know that he appreciates it. "I promise."

3.

The party starts in less than an hour and instead of doing something useful like dusting off his 'social skills' or practicing his fake smile, Sherlock is stationed in front of his closet, fretting over what to wear.

At the moment, the decision is between a snug-fitting maroon button-down and an even snugger white button-down, but he can't make a definite choice because the shirt depends on the slacks, which are also up for debate since the charcoal ones fit quite nicely around the hips, but the black ones are hemmed much neater. Then there is the matter of belts—brass buckle or gold—and blazers too—sport cut or sleek business suit—and, Christ, not to mention the bloody shoes.

Because, of course, all of the aforementioned depend entirely on whether he decides to wear the Italian Yves Laurents or the brown leather Oxfords.

Sherlock usually does not take so long getting dressed, but this particular party is already going to be difficult to get through without the addition of insecurities over his outfit, so he'd rather not tack on any extra internal obstacles. Besides, he'd like to make sure he faces an apple-cheeked, starry-eyed Mary Morstan with a sharp outfit and careless demeanor, to show that he is just fine with the way things are playing out.

Unfortunately, the task of finding clothes that properly convey that message is much harder than he thought it would be. Even though Sherlock knows John is probably swamped with last minute minutia for the party, he pulls out his mobile and sends him a text message anyway.

John, I need your help with something. It will be brief, don't worry. SH

What do you need?

Feeling more than a bit ridiculous, Sherlock takes a photograph of himself wearing the maroon shirt, then the white one, and sends both to John.

[PICTURE MESSAGE SENT]

Which looks better? I'm afraid I can't decide. SH

The maroon one, definitely. Dark colors look great against your skin.

What about shoes? Trousers? SH

Sherlock, you look like you just stepped off a bloody Vogue shoot every time you leave the flat. You could wear a ruddy potato sack and sodding yellow wellies and still look incredible. Stop fretting, put on whatever you want, and get down here so I don't have to face my nit-picking relatives alone.

At John's words, Sherlock's chest swells with renewed confidence. John thinks he looks good, no matter what he wears. John notices what colors go well with his skin tone. John wants him at the party as soon as possible because he wants to see him. John approves.

With a deep breath, Sherlock pulls on the maroon shirt and sends back a quick reply.

On my way. SH

Chapter Text

Festivity: (noun) a jovial event meant for celebrating good fortune, success, or love.

1.

The moment Sherlock sets foot into the party, it feels as if he has stepped into an entirely different world. Bolts of lavender tulle spill from the rafters, deep indigo tablecloths glint in the light of suspended silk lanterns, bunches of blue morning glories and purple hyacinths bloom from silver vases and centerpieces, and small, white fairy lights twinkle over the entryway like constellations of stars. Beethoven's Allegro con Brio plays softly in the background and the sweet smell of vanilla candles and fresh flowers wafts through the air like perfume.

If Sherlock did not abhor the purpose of tonight's festivities, he would have been utterly enamored with his surroundings.

The hall itself is packed with John's friends, aunts, uncles and cousins, all speaking and laughing simultaneously so that the sounds overlap and create a steady buzz of white noise. Harriet is not in attendance, but that's hardly shocking considering the last conversation John had with her several weeks ago resulted in a shouting match over who had the right to judge the other's lifestyle. Suffice to say, they did not end that phone call on good terms. Aside from her, however, it appears that the rest of John's family has been kind enough to come out to London and show their support. Strangely, Sherlock notices that only Mary's friends appear to be here, while her relatives are nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock, you're here!" John cries from behind him, tearing Sherlock out of his reverie.

Immediately, he dons a smile and turns to meet John. Unfortunately, he isn't alone. "John, Mary, lovely to see you two," he says politely, inclining his head in greeting.

"Don't you look nice, Sherlock!" Mary coos, leaning forward and pecking his cheek. It takes every ounce of self-control for Sherlock to avoid flinching back, like her lips are hot coals.

"Thank you, Mary, you look lovely as well," he replies with a slight nod. "And, John, you look dashing."

In his sharp, navy-blue suit, pressed slacks, and crisp peach button down, John doesn't just look dashing, he looks absolutely radiant. The color of the suit perfectly mirrors the cool cerulean pools of his eyes, and the jacket's square shoulders emphasize the handsome angles of his strong frame. The pale peach shirt is certainly a bold choice, but the softness of the color contrasts pleasantly with the dark, dramatic tones of the rest of his outfit. Sherlock's heart positively melts at the sight of him.

"Thank you," John beams. "I'm glad you went with the maroon shirt, by the way. It looks smashing." Perhaps it's the glow of fairy lights overhead, but something in John's eyes shifts as he says this—his gaze grows brighter somehow. Affectionate, even.

Mary starts to make smalltalk, but John thankfully cuts her off. "Hold on one moment, love," he says apologetically, peering over the top of Mary's head into the crowd. "I think that's Maloney! Chris bloody Maloney," he laughs. "I haven't seen that bugger in ages! I'll be right back, yeah?" Then John disappears into the throng of people, jovially shouting out Chris's name.

Once John has departed, Sherlock slides his gaze back to Mary and offers a blasé smile. "The hall looks incredible, does it not?"

Mary doesn't look pleased. She's still smiling of course—when isn't she?—but her eyes are cold and the sharp jut of her canines is just visible behind her ruby-red lips. "It's gorgeous, Sherlock. Really, fantastic job. Except…" she trails off and runs her fingers over a nearby vase, tapping her long nails contemplatively over its silver surface. "This doesn't look like metallic sparkle, does it?"

"It's nearly identical," Sherlock replies flatly. "No one will be able to tell the difference."

"I am able to tell the difference."

He smiles patronizingly. "Good for you."

"I'm not going to let you ruin this day for me, you know," she hisses through grinning teeth. Her lips barely move and Sherlock finds the stiff expression quite disturbing. "John and I are going to have a splendid time and you are going to keep your worthless comments to yourself, understood?"

"Mary, I don't know if you realize this, but I spent a lot of my precious time planning this event—why on earth would I try to sabotage it? I thought we established that John's best interests are always my priority."

"Yes, of course. How kind of you," she coos in a sickeningly sweet tone. "Now, why don't you run along and use whatever remains of your abysmal social skills to mingle with the other guests?"

Instead of leaving, he stays where he is and scans the room over the top of her head. "Where is your sister, Mary? I was under the impression that after you visited her months ago, your relationship was fairly stable."

"She couldn't make it, I suppose," Mary replies offhandedly, turning her gaze deliberately to the crowd behind him.

Sherlock watches her blank profile with sharp eyes. "I just find it odd that your own sister wouldn't bother coming down to London to celebrate with you, especially with your actual wedding day looming so close. Twelve weeks is nothing, you know."

Mary's eyes glint in the bluish candlelight. "I said she couldn't make it, Sherlock."

2.

Already weary of the night an hour later, Sherlock makes his way through the sea of decorative hats, fluffy pastel dresses, and trays of raspberry champagne, and finds himself a nice corner to stand in, away from the noise and ruckus where he can watch John without being spotted.

Or so he thinks.

"You can't just stand around at a party and brood!" a female voice exclaims. A quick glance to his left reveals that the speaker is none other than Janine Hawkins, Mary's friend and soon to be bridesmaid. He's never spoken to her before, but her character traits are clear as day. She's single but uninterested in a serious relationship, she doesn't care for skirting around a subject or speaking obliquely, and she adores socializing with others. Janine is a reasonably tall, curvy, dark haired woman with doe-like brown eyes, a brassy Irish accent, white teeth, and a personality large enough to fill the room; objectively, she could be considered very attractive. However, since she is not John, Sherlock finds her physical appearance irrelevant.

"I believe I can, actually," he replies bluntly, his eyes still trained on John. Janine follows his unsubtle line of sight and emits a quiet "Ah" of revelation.

"So, Mr. Holmes," she says after a beat, "does he know how you feel about him?"

Sherlock grits his teeth and pointedly doesn't answer. At his silence, Janine raises a teasing brow. "Unless of course I'm mistaken and that longing expression is aimed at Aunty Marge…"

Sherlock scowls. "Margaret Banesworth is a seventy-three year old woman with a penchant for cat sweaters. Rest assured that I have no romantic intentions towards her."

"Mm, so it's the former then, yeah?"

"Do I know you?" he states pointedly, ignoring her question.

"Janine Hawkins," she says, tipping her head in greeting. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, well, the pleasure is all yours."

"I believe the phrase is 'the pleasure is all mine.'"

"I meant precisely what I said, Miss Hawkins."

"Call me Janine."

"Fine," he says tersely. "It has been splendid talking with you, Janine, but you really ought to be on your way now. Goodbye."

She merely smiles. "I'm quite alright here, thank you."

"You aren't welcome."

To his annoyance and surprise, instead of stomping away in a fit, she snorts and lightly bumps her shoulder into his. "Well aren't you a surly one!" she says around a grin. "There's no need to be so thorny, love. Though, I can't say I dislike it."

He rolls his eyes. She grins even wider.

"Sherlock Holmes, I believe we're going to be friends," she announces. "And as friends, we should tell each other everything. So, let's start with the basics. What's going on with you and Army man over there?"

"Army doctor," he corrects without thinking.

Janine is clearly a keen woman so thanks to his thoughtless response, she manages to extrapolate the answer to her question. "I see," she says, the teasing edge to her voice wavering. "So sorry, love. Been there, felt that. Longing is never a good color on anyone."

A few beats of silence pass and he thinks maybe she's dropped it, but then she's back on his case a moment later. "Are you planning on doing anything about it?"

Sherlock casts his gaze to the ceiling, currently the only place where there are no pushy Irish women attempting to delve into his personal life. "This is hardly an appropriate subject to discuss at the engagement party of the man in question, Janine."

She rolls her eyes and knocks back the remainder of her drink. "And since when has propriety been of great importance to you, Detective?"

"Since this inane conversation began," he retorts. The subject of this interaction has caused that familiar ache to once again settle inside his chest, so to make it go away—or to at least distract himself from it—he points out a bloke across the room. "There, that man standing by the desserts, he's your type."

She follows his gaze and eyes the man appraisingly. She's clever enough to know he's trying to change the subject, but apparently the prospect of a new love interest outweighs her desire to meddle—at least for the time being, anyway—so she allows it. "Well, go on, love. Paint me a picture."

Sherlock clears his throat. "He is financially stable without an excessive ego, currently single but looking to settle down, and he has a marvelous relationship with his family, as well as an impressive set of moral values."

"Sounds like my kind of bloke. What's the catch?"

Sherlock tilts his head and peers at the man. "Ah, yes. He has a particular fondness for feet and religion. Either of those bother you?"

"My mum's side of the family is as Catholic as they come and I've never had a problem with a few kinks in the bedroom. Religion and feet? No dilemma there, love."

"Wonderful," he drawls, "so why don't you pop over and chat him up? I'm certain it won't take much to sway him, he hasn't partaken in intercourse in about two…three…four months."

Janine just scoffs. "Nice try, detective, but I'm not deterred that easily. I believe we were discussing John?"

"And I believe I was leaving."

"Ah ah ah, not just yet, mister. Here, first take one of these," she leans over and swipes a champagne glass from a passing server. "Now, sit at this table and make me look enticingly unavailable."

"Enticingly unavailable," he repeats, reluctantly accepting the drink.

"Yes. Don't you know men only want what they can't have? I can't just waltz over to him and scribble my number on the back of his hand—he'd have no interest in me! But if he sees me sitting here with a gorgeous bloke having a good time laughing and chatting, he'll be much more eager when I finally do decide to approach."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and forgoes replying in favor of sipping pensively at his drink.

"I've read John's blog, you know," she says after a beat of comfortable silence. "The way he writes about you makes you seem like some alluring Byronic hero."

Sherlock huffs a laugh. "Hardly."

"No, I'm serious. It's clear how much he admires you. Every time you so much as blink during a case, he describes it as some momentous event worthy of poetry and epics for years to come." She looks over at him with a smile. "You're lucky to have someone who looks at you like that."

Sherlock bites back a sigh and places his drink down. "I don't 'have' him. If you haven't noticed, Janine, we are currently at his and Mary's engagement party."

Looking untroubled, Janine lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "So? Things can change, plans can change, and, more importantly, people can change their minds. Maybe he'll come around."

"You know, I don't think I understand you," Sherlock states, turning to face her completely. "You're Mary's friend, aren't you? Why on earth would you be rooting for John to leave her?"

"I wouldn't call what Mary and I have a 'friendship,' per se," Janine answers uneasily. "We're complicated. She's complicated."

This comment certainly piques Sherlock's interest. "How so?"

"Mary is incredibly intelligent, you know? She's so clever and keen. Within seconds of entering a room, she's able to figure everyone out. She's just—she's amazing. But…" Janine trails off for a moment. "But I wouldn't trust her for a second," she finishes flatly. "She can twist and bend herself to fit into whatever persona she thinks will benefit her the most—she can trick people. And I hate to say this because John is such a kind bloke, but that is exactly what she's doing right now. She's got her mind set on acting out this lovely little domestic existence with a perfect husband and doting family, and I imagine she'll do anything to get herself there. Including dulling some of her sharper edges so John will marry her."

Sherlock knows all of this from firsthand experience, so nothing Janine is telling him is news, but the fact that Mary's own friend is aware of her duplicity as well is certainly worth noting.

"You're not exactly singing her praises right now," he says, "so why on earth would she make you a bridesmaid if she knew you felt this way?"

Janine huffs a wry laugh and drops her gaze to the pale pink contents of her glass. "She doesn't know I feel this way. She thinks I'm stupid enough to buy her sweet, innocent act. I may have only met her two years ago, but I am well aware that she isn't who she pretends to be. I'm not saying she's a bad person, but I think anyone who can fake emotions that perfectly should be on your list of people to-"

"Wait," he interrupts with a frown. "You only met her two years ago?"

"Yeah. At some pub in the heart of London. She looked a bit different back then. More serious and worn-out, I think. Her hair was darker too—more dirty blonde than buttercup-yellow like it is now."

"That's odd. I've spoken to a few of her friends, and they too have only known her for two years," Sherlock says slowly. He doesn't know the specifics about John and Mary's courtship, but he's willing to bet John has only known her for that long too. "Don't you find that strange?"

Janine shrugs and doesn't look overly concerned. "Why do you think it's strange?"

Sherlock drums his fingers against the table in thought. "Her family isn't here either. Do you know anything about that?"

"Well, from what she's told me over the years, her parents died when she was a kid and her relationship with her sister isn't all that great. As for the rest of her family, I don't think she has any relatives in England. Either they've passed away or they live in another part of the world."

Sherlock mulls this over. It isn't as if this information is particularly incriminating or indicative of a bigger problem, but it certainly waves a flag in his mind.

"You know what?" Janine says, interrupting his train of thought. "I have a better idea. How about we forget about Mary and the bloke over there and just drink till we're honest?"

"You're suggesting we get drunk," he states flatly, "at John's engagement party."

In response, she smirks. "You have to admit, it sounds better than sitting here making eyes at John, right? And in my case, it certainly sounds more enjoyable than hitting on some random bloke who may or may not prove to be worth it."

He raises an eyebrow. "It's only eight pm. Besides, I do not make a habit of drinking in excess."

Janine just grins and knocks her glass back with a flourish. "There's always time to pick up new habits, detective. Besides, it's a party. Drink up."

…

Two hours later, there is a considerable number of empty glasses set on the table before them. Sometime after the third drink, things got blurry and their conversation topics began to veer back towards John.

"Tell me, Mr. Detective," Janine says, her head lolled lazily against his shoulder. "What do you plan to do about John?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock groans. "I never know with John, actually. I try to pretend that I do sometimes, but he's always—hic—surprising me."

"Are you gonna let him get married?"

"Ha! Let him. As if it's my choice, Janine," he scoffs.

"Hey, it could be!" Janine protests. "Besides, what're you gonna do if he does marry her? What then?"

Perhaps if he weren't drunk he might've had the presence of mind to lie. However, alcohol has always had a tendency of loosening his tongue, so thanks to innumerable glasses of champagne, the words rush from his mouth without his consent. "If John gets married, he'll be miserable. Right now he thinks he wants some perfect, normal woman and a dull life in the suburbs, but one day he'll wake up and realize that he made a terrible mistake. John doesn't need constancy and routine, he needs adventure and danger and excitement. He deserves so much more than someone who is controlling and manipulative like Mary. He's clever and extraordinary, he can't settle with weekly brunches and family holidays to some bloody ski resort. That might be something Mary wants, but that's not the kind of life John's made for."

"Then what life is he made for?"

Without hesitation, Sherlock replies, "One with me."

Sherlock is abundantly aware that his answer is selfish, but it feels oddly satisfying to say it anyway.

Janine is quiet for a long moment after that. She sips pensively at her champagne. "So, let me get this straight; Mary doesn't deserve him, but you do?"

Sherlock remembers a fable he heard once, about a foolish man who fell in love with the stars and attempted to lasso them down to earth without success. One should never attempt to harness a force of nature.

"No, I deserve John Watson least of all," he says around an exhale. He takes a long, somber drink and relishes the burn of the alcohol. "But that does not mean I want him any less."

Janine sighs and drops her forehead onto his shoulder, mumbling, "I know the feeling, love."

The words offer little consolation, but he can tell she means well, so he offers a wan smile in return and tips his champagne glass against hers. "To heart ache," he toasts.

She raises hers in turn. "To heart ache."

…

At eleven, Janine rouses him from his glazed-eyed, self-pitying stupor and says, "We should get out there and dance."

Sherlock snorts and drops his head back down into his hands. "You're an aspiring comedian, I see."

"Hey, I'm serious! What better way to prove you're having a good time than by dancing? Besides, we can't just sit here for the rest night moping and drinking fruity alcohol. I'm a bridesmaid and you're the best man—we have an image to protect!"

"And what image might that be?" he mumbles into his palms.

"That we are fun, exciting people who deserve to have such important roles in the wedding. Now, come on. Stand up."

Sherlock groans in complaint but stands anyway. "I don't see why this is necessary, Janine."

Janine happily ignores him. "One sec, lemme just fix your shirt a bit." She stands on her toes, then tugs at his collar and smooths over his lapel. It's when she starts popping buttons that Sherlock finally protests.

"What are you doing?" he exclaims, stilling her small hands with his own.

Janine looks up at him with an exasperated expression, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. "I'm helping you look a bit sexier. Trust me, it'll definitely catch John's eye."

"So you're taking my shirt off?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, of course not. You're just gonna have to show a little skin, okay?" Then, under her breath, she mumbles, "Lord knows why you insist on hiding the goods."

"The goods?"

"Shut up and dance with me!" she says around a laugh, taking him by the hand and leading him out to the dance floor.

3.

It seems cliché to escape to the roof during a party, but Sherlock is about ninety percent certain his head will explode if he spends another second in that loud, crowded hall, so just this once, he's willing to forgive himself for being trite.

The cold air mercifully clears away some of his alcohol-induced dizziness and the gentle breeze feels wonderful against his overheated skin. He shucks his jacket and tosses it by the door, ambling out towards the edge of the roof where the only thing standing between him and London is the high stone bannister.

Distantly, he hears the thumping bass of the music downstairs and the raucous laughter of guests.

Dancing with Janine wasn't fun per se, but it provided a much needed break from fretting over John's impending wedding, which he was extremely grateful for. Despite his initial misgivings, Sherlock finds that he likes Janine. He can appreciate her bluntness, and her extroverted personality contrasts pleasantly with his own. The fact that she doesn't care for Mary either is the cherry on top. Besides, it's been some time since he's had an uncomplicated, friendly interaction with someone, Though John is undoubtedly his best friend and the greatest man Sherlock has had the pleasure of knowing, all their time spent together is colored with longing and heartbreak. His friendship with Molly is fairly stable, but it's clear that she still has feelings for him, which makes conversations with her a bit strained. Mrs. Hudson is more of a mother-figure than a friend and Lestrade is a colleague, albeit a companionable one. Janine is perhaps the first person he's had a simple, straight forward interaction with in ages. In all honesty, it felt quite nice to speak with someone who wasn't breaking his heart, harboring unrequited love, or acting out a hidden agenda, for once.

Still standing near the door, Sherlock blinks out of his reverie and finally notices a figure leaning against the stone wall, looking out at the city.

"John?"

John turns around and Sherlock can see his white teeth in the dark when he smiles. "Sherlock!"

It's strange, but Sherlock is struck with the brief urge to run at John and tackle him in an embrace. They just saw each other a few hours ago, yet it feels like it's been ages since they've spent time alone together.

Sherlock makes his way over to the edge and sidles up next to John, careful to leave an inch or two of space between them arms. "Why aren't you down there?"

John sighs and looks up at the smattering of stars. "I don't know," he replies honestly. "As odd as it sounds, I felt like I didn't belong in there. Almost like I was at someone else's party." He pauses and glances at Sherlock. "That's stupid, right?"

"No," Sherlock answers simply. "It isn't."

"What about you? Why aren't you down there with that woman you were dancing with? She seems nice."

Sherlock snorts. "Ah, right, Janine. Nice isn't a word I would use. She's quite funny, though," he admits. "Blunt too."

He feels John stiffen beside him, evidently displeased with Sherlock's response. He doesn't understand John's reaction, but he moves on without comment. "The hall was far too loud and crowded," Sherlock continues. "I felt like I was going to suffocate if I stayed a moment longer. Plus, I figured the cold air might sober me up a bit. I'm afraid I'm a bit drunk."

John chuckles. "Can't fault you there, I've certainly had more than my fair share tonight."

Since his head is woolly from the champagne, and the late hour has provided courage that daylight would have otherwise burned away, Sherlock throws caution to the wind and scoots far closer to John than he normally would. His insides glow at the sensation of John's warm arm pressed to his.

"I miss living with you, you know," John says after a few minutes. He leans further into Sherlock, and although Sherlock can't tell if it's intentional or not, his cheeks grow hot and he leans in too.

"Which part do you miss? The thumbs in the crisper or the sulfuric explosions?"

"Mm, Both," John smiles. "And I miss you playing violin at two in the morning and having fits whenever you found out I hid your cigarettes again."

Something feathered and warm coils up within his chest and burrows there. "What else?"

"Your stroppy moods and quick retorts. The way you dramatically whipped your dressing gown when you left a room."

"I did not do that."

"Yes, you did," John remarks around a smile.

Something about this moment makes him bold enough to place his large palm over John's on the railing, covering it entirely. The single point of contact sends electricity shooting through his veins. He has never understood the wonder of touch as accurately as right now.

"I suppose I ought to admit that I've missed your hideous jumpers quite dearly."

"Oh?"

"Yes. And you make the most delicious tea in all of Europe. I should know, I've been."

"What about that tea shop round the corner?"

"Couldn't hold a match to you, John."

John hums a warm laugh and leans even further into Sherlock. His fingers flex happily beneath Sherlock's palm. "You know what we should do?"

"Hm?"

"We should sit," John announces. "My legs aren't quite fit to stand right now."

Sherlock chuckles and slides down the wall with John, so that their backs are against the bannister and their shoulders are pressed together.

John seems to be just as tipsy as he is, so he tries not to take it too seriously when John drops his head onto Sherlock's shoulder. Though Janine was doing the same thing hours ago, something about the gesture feels different in this context. Still, despite how wonderfully comforting it feels, Sherlock doggedly reminds himself that John intends for this to be platonic.

"You forgot to button your shirt," John mumbles into Sherlock's shoulder.

"Did I?" he tucks his chin to his chest to better see his own collar, surprised to find that three of the buttons have indeed come undone. Then he remembers feminine hands toying with his shirt earlier, and he drops his head back against the wall with a chuckle. "That'd be Janine's doing."

"Janine? The one you were dancing with?"

"Yup," he pronounces, popping the 'p'.

"Why did she unbutton your shirt?" Beneath the innocent question, John's words carry a slight edge.

"She said it'd make me sexy," Sherlock snorts, turning his head to see John, expecting a look of similar amusement on his face.

But John doesn't look amused, instead he looks startlingly sober with dark eyes and a parted mouth. "Yeah," John murmurs after a beat. "I could button it back up if you want?"

Sherlock isn't so far gone that he can't fasten his own shirt, but he'll gladly take any excuse to have John's hands on him. "Okay."

John moves so that he is sitting cross-legged in front of Sherlock, then smooths his palm over the exposed triangle of Sherlock's skin, a look of intent focus settling over his features. Sherlock fights the urge to sigh at the sensation. Slowly, John fastens each button, his fingers continually brushing against Sherlock's collarbones as he works.

He suddenly feels all too aware of John's proximity. Sherlock's senses are completely flooded with the intoxicating smell of him—spicy-sweet aftershave combined with laundry soap and that indescribable scent that is entirely John. It's making him feel lightheaded. Sherlock can't help but think John looks incredible in the moonlight.

"There," John rasps, "all done."

Sherlock nods, unable to speak for fear his voice will come out as a pathetic whimper. He waits for John to remove his hands from his collar, but he doesn't. They linger on Sherlock's lapels, warm and strong against his breastbone.

Then, John leans in and for a single mad moment, Sherlock thinks he's going to kiss him. But, of course, he doesn't. "You, er, had a bit of confetti in your hair," John mumbles, brushing at Sherlock's curls and then sitting back on his haunches. His eyes look like pools of dark blue ink.

"Thank you," Sherlock offers, his voice dying on the last word. He sounds just as breathless as he feels.

"No problem," John mumbles, swallowing hard and looking away. Sherlock doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he splays them flat on the floor. The cool cement does nothing to quell the feverish burn thrumming along his nerves like fire.

"Do you want to head back in?" John says quietly, after a long time of avoiding each other's eyes. "It's getting late and I know Mary wanted to share the last dance…"

The desperate ache in Sherlock's chest returns to its usual steady throb and he feels a slight chill settle along his extremities. "Of course, John," he replies, biting back a sigh. "Let's not keep Mary waiting."

4.

When he gets back inside, his insides feel like jelly and he can't decide if it's from disappointment or sorrow. Perhaps a bit of both. He spots Janine in an instant, dancing with the bloke he pointed out earlier with a smile on her face and his hands on her hips. Instead of interrupting them and stealing Janine away as he would like to, Sherlock collapses into a nearby chair and watches the party proceed with half-lidded eyes. He drinks more champagne because the waiters won't stop flitting by and offering it, and he's too apathetic to protest. When exhaustion begins to settle over him like a thick, suffocating blanket, he puts his head down on his folded arms and tunes out the noisy, crowded room.

Amidst the crowd, he notices John and Mary dancing. Mary looks like something out of a fairytale, with her silky lavender dress and her honey-blonde hair swept into a bundle of curls at the top of her head. John looks even more dashing, all sharp edges and strong lines in his navy blue suit. They look so terribly perfect together that Sherlock wants to scream.

But right now, with alcohol warming his blood and weariness weighing down his eyelids, he just wants to sleep. The last things he sees before slipping into unconsciousness are the fairy lights twinkling overhead.

…

An indeterminable amount of time later, he is quite rudely awoken by someone shaking his shoulder and announcing, "Hey! Party's over, Mr. Detective. Time to go."

A blearily opened eye reveals that it is Janine. "What time is it?"

"One in the morning," she replies, taking his hand and helping him stand. "Come along, we're going home."

"Baker Street?" he mumbles.

"Nope, my place. It's closer and more convenient, plus I highly doubt you'll be in any state to take care of yourself tomorrow morning. Did you drink more after you went to the roof?"

Sherlock allows her to sling an arm around his waist and guide him away from the table. "Mmmhm, yes indeed," he slurs, leaning heavily against her. "Raspberries are delicious."

If he weren't completely out of it, he would've noticed her rolling her eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure they are. Now come along, let's get you to a horizontal surface before you collapse."

"Sherlock?" someone calls. Sherlock's eyes are shut but he knows without a doubt that the voice belongs to John.

"John!" He exclaims happily, finally bothering to open his eyes completely. Unfortunately, John is not smiling, he is frowning.

"You're taking him home?" John says to Janine.

"Don't worry about it, John," Janine replies, waving it away. "I already called us a cab, it's no trouble."

"Is that truly necessary?" John asks. Even drunk out of his mind and tired beyond belief, Sherlock can hear the unmistakable sharpness in John's tone.

"Of course! I'm the one who got him drunk, the least I can do is nurse him back to health tomorrow."

"He could stay with us," John states, all but crossing his arms in defiance.

"And have him interrupt your night with your fiancé? No way. Sherlock, do you mind coming home with me?" Janine asks, addressing Sherlock.

"No. Can we just go now?" he begs, desperately fighting the jelly-like weakness in his legs. A faint headache is already pounding in his skull and the last thing he'd like to do is stay here longer than necessary.

"Yes," Janine answers succinctly. She tightens her grip on his waist and looks back to John. "We're headed out, but thank you for the party, John, it was lovely. Give Mary my best, will you?"

John straightens his shoulders and raises his chin in a manner that is clearly indicative of something that Sherlock does not have the present ability to deduce. Tightly, John says, "I will, Janine. Thank you for coming. Sherlock, text me tomorrow, yeah?"

"Anything for you John," he slurs, reaching out and clumsily patting John's shoulder. "Whatever you want, I'll do it. Always. You're so lovely and I—" but then Janine wisely covers his mouth with her hand, saving him from embarrassing himself further.

"We're gonna go now, John," she says pointedly, her palm still hovering nearby in case Sherlock decides to make any more potentially humiliating confessions. "Again, thank you for tonight."

"Bye, John!" Sherlock says with an uncoordinated wave, and then he and Janine make their way towards the exit.

Chapter Text

Jealousy: (noun) a fear of rivalry in love or aims.

1.

When Sherlock wakes up the next morning, there is a pair of amused brown eyes hovering over his face. As he gradually gains consciousness, smirking lips and a shock of black hair swim into view as well, along with the unwelcome addition of a very loud, very Irish voice, bellowing, "Good morning, sleeping beauty!"

"Christ, Janine," he groans, turning away to bury his face in the couch cushions. Intense waves of pain wrack through Sherlock's skull like metal fists and he briefly wonders if this is what it feels like to die.

"It's about time you finally got up," Janine says, sitting down at the end of the sofa by his feet. "It's one in the afternoon, you know."

He sits up in shock, only to immediately fall back down when his head throbs rather intensely in complaint. "One? I slept for—" he pauses and attempts to do the math, but the numbers twist and bend out of his grasp. "A long time?" he finishes lamely.

Pityingly, Janine pats his ankle and saves him the trouble. "Ten hours. You certainly got your share of beauty sleep, which I'm sure will come in handy when you deal with that massive hangover of yours."

As if in reply to Janine's comment, another surge of agony crashes through Sherlock's head like cymbals. He groans and presses a hand to his temple, vainly endeavoring to staunch the steady throb there. "Christ, massive doesn't do it justice," he grouses, squeezing his eyes shut to ease the sting. "How much did I drink?"

Janine just snorts. "I stopped counting after the fifth glass. And from what you told me last night, you apparently indulged in quite a bit more once you came back from the roof."

At the mention of the roof, Sherlock is immediately bombarded with a montage of memories from last night, beginning with the moment John said he missed him. He thinks back on their easy banter, their close proximity, their touching shoulders and interlaced hands. The warmth of John's leg pressed against his as they sat on the floor, talking about nothing. The heady burn of John's knuckles against his collarbones. The heat of John's palms seeping through Sherlock's lapel. The dark, nearly ink-like depth of John's eyes in the moonlight. That intoxicating, surreal moment when he thought John was actually going to lean in and—

"Sherlock?" Janine says, snapping her fingers in front of his dazed expression. "You home?"

He shakes his head, pulling himself out of his reverie. "Er, yes, sorry. Still a bit dizzy, I'm afraid."

"I don't blame you, detective," she chuckles. "You practically pickled yourself last night."

It's then that Sherlock realizes, with no small amount of discomfort, that he can't recall anything after they left the party. The trip from the hall to Janine's house is a complete blur.

Sherlock clears his throat, feeling a bit awkward. "This is perhaps a non-sequitur, but did we…did we do anything last night?"

"You mean, like each other?" she asks casually. "Because, yes, we did. Three times."

Sherlock can actually feel the moment his spine straightens to a perfect one hundred and eighty degrees and his brain frizzles out like burnt macaroni. "Oh my god."

Janine remains stoic for an impressive two seconds after that, before eventually breaking down and dissolving into a fit of laughter. "Holy mother of god, your face, Sherlock! Your bloody face."

He wilts in relief, then drops his head in his hands. "You're not funny, Janine!" he says into his palms. "Not even a little!"

"Ah, but that sure woke you up, didn't it?" Janine says, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. When she sobers up a minute later, she gives his knee a comforting pat. "Don't worry, we didn't do anything untoward. I assure you, both of our virtue is still mightily intact. We took a cab home and you went to sleep straightaway. You did confuse me for John very briefly on the way up here, but once I cleared that up, you lost all interest in anything other than passing out."

"And what did I say to you when I, er, thought you were John?" he asks uneasily.

"Nothing you haven't already told me," she says, waving it away. "Something about doing anything for him because he's so 'beautiful and good'. You talked about his arse a lot while we were climbing the stairs, too. And I mean a lot. I'm talking about pages of adjectives, here."

He resists the very strong urge to smack himself in the forehead. "Please tell me I didn't say any of this to John at the party? I don't really remember what happened after the roof, but I have a vague memory of speaking to him before we left."

"Well," Janine says, "I, being the wonderful friend that I am, stopped you before you could say anything truly incriminating. I don't know if you remember this much, but John really wanted you to go home with him and Mary instead of me. I said no, of course, which is why you're currently here instead of on Mary's floral sofa."

Sherlock hates the idea of letting Mary see him in such a pathetic, vulnerable state, so he's relieved Janine took the initiative of taking him home herself. Admittedly, it would have been nice to wake up someplace where John was in the next room, but it would've also hurt to have a front row seat to John's splendid little domestic existence with Mary. In truth, he's glad things didn't pan out that way.

"Well, thank you for that, Janine," he says. "As much as I enjoy being around John, I don't think it would have been wise for me to go home with him."

There's a long beat of silence after that.

"He takes you for granted, you know," Janine says eventually. "And I'm not saying that he's knowingly taking advantage of your feelings for him, but he has definitely gotten used to you always just being there, you know? Waiting. Willing to do anything he asks of you. Don't get me wrong, I think John is just as loyal to you, but sometimes I think he wants to—how should I phrase this—have his cake and eat it too. He wants a life with Mary, but he also wants to be the center of your world. He wants to be your number one person, even if you aren't his." She pauses for a moment to rethink her phrasing. "What I mean is, he doesn't want to openly make you a priority, even though he's probably just as in love with you as you are with him. The problem is that he isn't willing to take that final leap and commit solely to you."

Sherlock frowns as he mulls this over. "Do you mean to suggest that John is…is possibly interested in a romantic relationship with me?"

She rolls her eyes so hard her pupils nearly disappear. "Clearly, Sherlock. He just needs to realize that the clock is ticking and that you aren't always going to be waiting in the wings for him. And that is why I took you home with me. Among other reasons, of course."

He raises a brow. "Such as?"

"Well, I did get you drunk in the first place, so I suppose I felt slightly responsible. Also," she says, getting up from the sofa with a cheery expression, "I have plenty of chores that I'm sure you'd be more than happy to help with. You know, because of your undying gratitude and all."

…

Cleaning a flat, as it turns out, is not the most proactive thing one can do while madly hungover. After weakly scrubbing three dinner plates and swiping half the tabletop with a sponge, Sherlock retreats back to the sofa and collapses there.

"I'm bored and my head hurts," Sherlock complains, dramatically tossing his forearm over his eyes. "Fix it."

"Okay, I'll just get my magic wand and—"

"Your sarcasm physically pains me, Janine," he interrupts.

"We could have sex," Janine suggests drily, as she folds another towel. "I'm sure that would distract from the headache."

"Doubtful," he states dismissively. "Next."

"A trip to the park? Fresh air might do you good."

"Awful idea. Next."

"Well, you could actually help out with the laundry instead of just watching me do it."

"How are you so…" he wordlessly twirls his hand about, grasping for the phrase. After a moment, he gives up and settles for a simpler synonym. "How are you so okay right now? You drank just as much as I did, yet you're practically doing cartwheels."

"I'm Irish, love," she replies, slinging the bag of laundry over her shoulder and tying the drawstrings. "We're born to hold our liquor."

"Well I'm English and I feel like there is an entire bloody percussion section practicing in my head."

She rolls her eyes. "I swear, you are the most dramatic bloke I have ever met. I won't make you get up again, but I expect you to do something productive, so do me a favor and check the weather app on your phone."

Blearily, Sherlock swipes the lock screen of his mobile. He's on the brink of checking the weather when he notices seven unread text messages in his inbox, all from John. "One moment, Janine," he says, staring at the small screen with raised brows.

SENT AT: 1:15am

Hey, you just left the party right now, just wanted to say drive safe!

SENT AT: 1:25am

Just realized you're taking a cab, not driving. Stupid me. Have a safe cab ride I guess!

SENT AT: 2:00am

At home now. Mary says thanks for the party, it was great. You and Janine at her flat yet?

SENT AT: 2:30am

Random, I know, but do you think you could tell me about that sulfur experiment you were working on? Maybe call me?

SENT AT: 2:45

Right, you're probably busy. Sorry for the texts, just talk to me tomorrow when you can. Goodnight.

SENT AT: 3:00am

Is Good Night two separate words? Does that change the phrase's meaning? Are they interchangeable? Er, sorry. Again. Call me tomorrow.

SENT AT: 3:01

Or text me, whatever works.

Christ, John sounds flustered. Sherlock allows himself to very briefly entertain the thought that John might actually be…jealous. Just a bit.

His knee-jerk reaction is to immediately text John back, or even call him. However, Janine's words from earlier give him pause. What she said is true; he is always there, waiting for John, ready to take whatever scrap of attention he's willing to give. And though Sherlock has absolutely no intention of changing that mindset or becoming greedy with John's affection, he thinks maybe it would be a good idea to leave the messages unanswered for a bit. Just so he doesn't seem overly eager.

"So how's the weather task coming along, detective?" Janine says, snapping him out of his musings. "Hot, cold, stormy, rainy? What are we looking at here?"

"Er," he pauses to check the app. "Light showers and sunshine at noon."

"Great. In that case, we're going out to eat," Janine announces. She eyes his wine-sodden clothing and wrinkles her nose in distaste. "And there's no way you're leaving the flat like that, so I suggest you head to the shower ASAP."

He scowls. "Who said I wanted to leave the flat?"

"I did. I'm taking you to brunch. And before you say no, it isn't a question. Now, I have some clothes that'll fit you in the third drawer in my bedroom, so you can just grab those and hop in the shower. Preferably soon, because you smell like a bloody liquor shop."

"I must have misheard you," Sherlock says slowly. "Did you just say I should put on your clothes?"

"Mm-hm," she confirms casually.

"You're a woman."

She nods. "Well spotted."

"And we aren't exactly the same body type."

"I can see why you're so renowned for your detective work, Sherlock. Truly, bravo."

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and puts his foot down, both metaphorically and literally. "No. There is no way I'm wearing your clothing, Janine."

"Oh would you calm down? The jeans belong to my ex-boyfriend who was just as lanky as you, and the t-shirt is baggy enough on me that it'll fit. It's not like I laid out my bloody cocktail dress for you to wear."

Now, Sherlock is affronted for an entirely different reason. "Sorry, t-shirt? Jeans? Janine, from what I am currently wearing, I'm sure you can deduce that I am not the sort who wears those kinds of things."

Janine crooks a brow at him. "Well, Sherlock, since you're currently sporting a shirt with a wine bib and slacks with strawberry parfait on the thighs, I deduce that you're the sort who will wear whatever I am kind enough to send your way."

"But—"

"One more word and cocktail dress it is."

Sherlock remains curiously silent after that.

…

Janine's shampoo isn't nearly as nice as his own—it contains no minerals or herbal oils whatsoever—and all of her body soaps are named ridiculous things like Sexy Summer Fling or Decadent Kiss. He ends up using Midnight Goddess because it smells the least like bubblegum and artificial fruit and the bottle's decorations aren't terribly obnoxious, but even then, he finds himself longing for the spicy, rich scent of his own name-brand products.

As he stands beneath the warm jets, his headache starts to abate and mental clarity returns, allowing him to finally contemplate the events of the party. Namely, his brief interaction with John on the rooftop.

Without intending to, Sherlock brushes a slippery hand over his collarbones, right where John's hands had been last night. When the two of them were out there on the roof, it felt as if they were part of a different world, entirely separate from the rest of the party downstairs. His judgement was blurred, the night air felt cool and pleasant, and John's breath smelled sweet with raspberry wine. Everything was so strange and wonderfully surreal, it only seemed natural for John to kiss him. So when he leaned in, Sherlock was certain that's what he was going to do.

Except, he didn't. He didn't kiss Sherlock because he is in love with Mary. It wasn't until John pulled away that Sherlock realized how deluded he'd allowed himself to become. Clearly, whatever chemistry Sherlock felt between them was merely a product of his own wistful imagination.

Still, if he closes his eyes and focuses very hard, he can almost feel John's breath against the side of his face, murmuring, you have something in your hair…

"Sherlock, you've been in there for twenty minutes, are you almost done?" Janine calls through the door.

"No," he shouts back.

Even through the door, he can hear her annoyed sigh. "Fine, I'll check up on you in a bit, but I want my shower back. You're using up all the hot water."

Sherlock waits until he hears her footsteps patter away from the bathroom. Then, feeling extremely sorry for himself, he sits down in the bathtub and morosely examines the cracks splintering across the porcelain. Above him, the shower continues spraying, but even when the water grows ice-cold, he doesn't bother getting up. Though he realizes how pathetic it would be to freeze to death in Janine's bathroom, naked, with strawberry-mango shampoo stuck in his hair, he feels no inclination to move.

The texts John sent this morning seemed promising—and had served as reasonable proof of Janine's jealousy theory—but after reliving last night's crushing disappointment, he isn't so sure anymore. What if John is simply jealous of Sherlock having another friend, not a romantic partner? Does he think Janine is going to replace him as Sherlock's best friend? Does he even look at Sherlock as a potential romantic partner?

Suddenly, he begins to think that ignoring those texts was a mistake.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Janine shouts, rapping her fist against the door.

He lets his head fall back against the tiled wall behind him. "No one's home!"

"Sherlock, if you don't get your scrawny arse out of my shower in the next five minutes, I'm coming in and getting you myself. You've been in there a sodding half hour!"

"I was going for forty-five."

"I'm counting to three, Sherlock, and then I'm opening the door," Janine warns.

"If you open the door, Janine, you'll create an awkward situation neither of us wants to endure," he shouts back. "But if you don't believe me, by all means, barge in on me while I'm starkers and see where that lands us."

From the other side of the door, he hears her take a calming, fortifying breath. "Sherlock Whatever-your-middle-name-is Holmes, you are going to turn off that shower, put on those clothes, and come out here so we can have a nice, civilized breakfast at a nice, civilized establishment. And you are going to do so in the next five minutes. Understood?"

"Fine," he snaps, turning off the water. "But I won't be happy about it!"

He can't quite catch her next words because she moves away from the door, but it's something to do with 'wasted hot water' and 'sodding drama queens'.

…

The clothing Janine laid out is terrifyingly unfamiliar. It takes him a full minute of staring uneasily at the heap of material before he can steel himself enough to actually put anything on. With a deep breath, Sherlock slides the jeans over his hips, unaccustomed to the way the material clings uncomfortably to his legs and bum. They don't look terrible, but they cling to him like a second skin.

One down, one to go.

He notes with annoyance that his chest is still wet from the shower, and since the only towel he has is currently sopping wet on the floor, he is forced to make do and tug the t-shirt over his still-damp skin anyway. To make matters worse, the shirt is thin and white, so when he pulls it on, it looks as if it's been vacuum-sealed to his torso.

And because the universe hates him today, he then discovers there is not a single bottle of mousse or hairspray in sight. After scouring her bathroom for ten minutes and finding only hand soap, face wash, and perfume, Sherlock begins to give some serious weight to the notion of Janine possessing a magic wand.

How else could she do her hair without any products?

…

Wearing unstyled, dripping curls, fruit scented products, and ill-fitting clothing, Sherlock emerges from the bathroom five minutes later feeling absolutely ridiculous.

"Holy hell, Sherlock," Janine says, her jaw practically hitting the floor. "I thought you looked good in suits but…"

"I do," he says grumpily, tugging at the hem of the shirt. "And this is far from a suit, I know. No need to tell me how ridiculous I look, I am well aware."

"Ridiculous?" she cries. "Well, that's one word I certainly wouldn't use. Try delectable. Or perhaps hot as bloody hell."

He wrinkles his nose. "I'd rather not refer to myself as delectable, thanks."

"No, seriously, look at your arse. I could write poetry about that arse, you know that?

He rolls his eyes and reaches for his coat. "Janine, if you could just put your tongue back in your mouth, I'd be more than happy to head out."

Playfully, she bats his arm. "Oh, hush. I'm allowed a bit of aesthetic appreciation, okay? Now come along, breakfast awaits!"

2.

"And what can I get you two?" The waitress asks around a wad of sickly-pink gum.

Without missing a beat, Janine neatly folds her hands on the table and proceeds to list off the most specific breakfast order Sherlock has ever heard.

"…and I'll only eat the blueberry scones if the blueberries are acacia—if they aren't, then please change that to the strawberry scones, but make sure the dough isn't made with that terrible yeast additive they've been talking about on the news…"

As Janine speaks, the waitress's hand moves so quickly against the notepad that Sherlock fears the friction of lead on paper might cause a small fire. Just when he thinks she's done ordering, even more exceptions and additions spill from her lips.

"No two-percent milk, please, but if you have soy milk I would like a small glass of that along with a mug of black coffee, preferably made with roasted hazelnut beans…"

Whenever he's gone out to eat with John, the most complicated thing John ever ordered was a side of sauce or perhaps a special flavor of tea; never did he specify which type of bread he'd like toasted, the exact pulp content of his orange juice, or the precise temperature at which his crepes should be prepared.

"And you, sir?" the woman asks when Janine finally finishes, all but panting in exhaustion.

"Er, a cup of Earl Grey would be lovely," he says, handing the menu over to her. Looking happy enough to kiss him, the waitresses takes down his humble order and scurries off before he can change him mind.

"That was terrifying," Sherlock states, once they are alone again.

Distractedly, Janine files through the small plastic box of assorted sugar packets. "What was terrifying?"

"Your order."

"And why is that?"

"Well," he says with raised brows, "it was a bit specific, don't you think?"

Janine tears open the Splenda packet and shrugs, looking thoroughly untroubled. "I know what I want, detective, and I'm not afraid to ask for it. Besides, I'm a bit nauseous from last night too, and the last thing I need right now is a subpar breakfast."

"Speaking of last night," he says, smoothly transitioning into the matter that's been weighing on his mind all morning, "John texted me several times."

"Of course he did," Janine says without missing a beat. "What'd he say?"

"A lot of random things. Here," he says, sliding his mobile across the table. "See for yourself."

As she scans the texts, their food arrives. After a minute, she glances up from the screen and says, "Sherlock Holmes, he is completely, utterly, without-a-single-doubt jealous."

"Well, maybe, but—"

"No, not maybe. Definitely."

"But—"

"Listen, I know you're completely oblivious when it comes to John, but even you have to admit these texts pretty obviously convey that—oh my god." Janine's eyebrows shoot to her forehead and her coffee spoon clatters dramatically against the table.

Before Sherlock even has the chance to ask what she saw, the answer takes a seat next to him and pats him on the shoulder.

"John?" Though Sherlock is pleased to see him, he can't help but feel incredibly confused. Why on earth is he here?

"Yeah," John says, offering a quick, twitchy smile. "Janine said you'd be here and since I was in the neighborhood, I figured I would drop by and say hello!"

Janine sneaks Sherlock a knowing look and raises a brow. Then, to John, she says, "Well, in that case, hello, John."

Another forced smile. "Hi, Janine."

"Sherlock and I had a great time at the party, John," Janine continues, around a bite of crepe. "The champagne in particular was delicious, as I'm sure Sherlock can tell you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of tea. "You had your fair share as well, Janine, you're hardly one to talk."

John stares between them with a weird look on his face, his expression a mix between a smile and grimace. It's as if he can't decide whether to be pleased or annoyed.

Then, out of absolutely nowhere, John announces, "You two could be siblings, you know." When they both give him strange looks, he offers forced-sounding laugh. "I mean, you've both got the dark hair and the…the," he waves his hand about in search of the word, before Janine takes pity on him and supplies: "And the height?"

"Yes! Practically related, you lot."

Janine's eyes are twinkling when she bites off a piece of bacon and states, "That's an odd thing to say, John. What made you think of it?"

"Dunno. I just get a very strong brother-sister vibe from the two of you, you know? Just utterly platonic in every way."

Sherlock frowns, completely confused. Partially by John and partially by Janine who looks as though she knows exactly what's going on here. "I don't consider Janine a sibling," Sherlock says slowly. "I'm not sure why I would, actually."

"The height and the hair," Janine supplies drily, turning her amused gaze to Sherlock. "Apparently that qualifies us as family members. Utterly platonic family members, to be specific."

John is about as tense as a coiled spring beside him. "So, what did you two do last night?" he asks Janine, a bit too pointedly. "Watch any good movies?"

Janine takes her time eating a strawberry before she replies. "We didn't watch movies."

John's gaze gets sharper. "Board games then?"

"Nope."

"A nice chat?'

Janine's lips turn up slightly at the edges and she tilts her head innocently to the right. "There wasn't a lot of talking, actually."

When she doesn't explain any further, John's spine stiffens like a ruler and his shoulders tense up. "Oh? Then what did you do?" he nearly growls.

That's it. Sherlock has had just about enough of this odd, verbal chess match they appear to be engaged in. He's sick of feeling like they're both speaking some secret language he has no understanding of, so he decides to stop sitting there like a log and contribute.

"I slept on her couch," Sherlock announces loudly, and they both turn to look at him. "I passed out and then I slept on her couch. No movies, no games, no chatting, just sleeping. Does that answer your question, John?"

"Yes," John says with audible relief.

Janine raises an eyebrow at Sherlock as if to say, See? I was right. Jealous.

"Sherlock," John continues, now facing him entirely. "What do you say we get out of here and go somewhere? To, er, talk about the bachelor party I mean. Or the wedding. Or something else, I don't care."

"Okay," he says slowly, glancing at Janine. "Would that be alright?"

"Go, don't worry about me, we've had plenty of time to bond, today," Janine says with bright eyes. "Have fun."

"Here, Janine," he says, rising from the booth. "Charge the meal to this card and give it back to me the next time we see each other. It's one of Mycroft's debits."

"Sherlock, you only ordered tea, it's fine—"

"No, I insist," he says, sliding the card to her. The meal could cost a million pounds and it'd still be worth confirmation of John's jealousy. Janine accepts it with pursed lips but firmly tells him she's footing the bill next time.

"Alright then, John. Shall we go?"

He waits for a response, but John just gapes at him. Specifically, at his ridiculous outfit. Sherlock realizes with a flush of embarrassment that this is the first time John has seen him wearing anything less than slacks and a sharp jacket—he feels terribly exposed and out of place, suddenly.

"John?" Sherlock tries again. "Hello?"

When John finally scoops his jaw off the floor a minute later, he manages to speak again. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

His eyes lose their dazed quality and a bit more steadiness returns to his voice. "Wh—what are you wearing?"

"Er, Janine let me borrow some of her clothes. Well, the jeans belong to her ex-boyfriend, technically, but the t-shirt is hers…" he trails off uncomfortably, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to keep his coat on earlier. It's quite unpleasant to stand there in a tight shirt and equally fitted jeans without anything to hide behind. He'd kill for his Belstaff right now.

"Wow." John says, scratching the back of his neck, his face unaccountably pink. "Well, you look…good. Um. Yes, er, the jeans fit very good. I mean well. Well and good. It's all well and good. Yes."

From the corner of his eye he can see Janine holding back a snicker. "…Thank you?"

"Right, well, let's get out of here, now, shall we?" John says abruptly, clearing his throat. "It's been nice seeing you, Janine. Take care."

"Bye, Janine," Sherlock calls.

On the way out of the diner, Sherlock's phone buzzes with a text.

Might want to tell John to wipe that drool off his chin, Detective! Have fun xoxo –Janine

Chapter Text

Discover: (verb) the act of uncovering something unexpected

1.

Once John has managed to successfully tug Sherlock out of the diner and onto the pavement, he seems unsure of what to do next.

"Right then…well," John mumbles, awkwardly shifting his weight back and forth. "I'm forgetting what I meant to do…"

"You said you wished to discuss something?" Sherlock prompts.

"Yes! That's right, we were going to chat somewhere!" John says, lighting up with a sense of purpose. "Where would you like to go? The park is close by, but we could always just go back to the flat if you'd like?"

The thought of returning to Baker Street is lovely, but Sherlock finds the cold, fresh air quite sobering, especially with his abating headache, so he decides to choose the park. Besides, it's still early enough so that they aren't many people wandering about, and it'll be nice to have some alone time with John, out in public for the world to see.

…

Sherlock has never been one to swoon over nature or wax poetic about scenery, but sitting by the pond with John, completely alone save for a flock of birds, makes Sherlock feel as though he's in the midst of something indescribably significant. It's chilly outside, but Sherlock finds himself warmed by the unspoken sense of companionship that drifts easily between them.

"So, what do you think about Janine?" John asks carefully, in a manner that indicates he's been turning the phrase over in his head for a while.

"I think she's honest, funny, and good-hearted," Sherlock answers honestly. "I'm pleased to have her as a friend."

At that, John tears his gaze away from the calm surface of the water and meets Sherlock's eyes. "A friend? Just a friend?"

Sherlock snorts. "Of course, John. I'm not attracted to Janine and, in her own words, she merely 'appreciates my aesthetics.' We are entirely platonic."

When John sighs, the relief is as clear as a neon sign. "Are you sure?"

Unconsciously, Sherlock scoots closer so that their shoulders are brushing together. "Of course I'm sure. But can I ask you something, John?"

John notices the point of contact between them and instead of scooting away, he moves even closer. Their hands rest mere inches apart and Sherlock sincerely debates whether or not to close the distance entirely. "Anything. Ask away," John encourages.

"Well…I would just like to know why you were jealous back there," Sherlock asks after a beat of contemplation. "I have no preconceived notions or supposed implications about it," he clarifies, "I'm simply curious."

John's posture goes from easy to tense as a spring in seconds, but thankfully he doesn't move away. "Right. Jealous. Well, I suppose I just—when I saw you with her I—she…" John stops and takes a deep breath, composing himself. "Okay, I know how terrible this is going to sound, but it's the truth." Looking ashamed, John casts his gaze to their shoes. "I guess I didn't like the thought of you being with her because I don't want anyone else taking up your time. I…I hate that we can't spend more time together as is, and if you were to meet someone and start focusing on them, then, well…then I would never see you. And before you say anything, Sherlock, I know that's incredibly selfish of me. I know, I really do. But as petty and unkind as that thought is, I can't seem to shake it. You're just so important to me, I hate the thought of sharing you with anyone else."

Without really thinking it through, Sherlock blurts out, "Mary. That's how it feels to see you with Mary." The moment the words leave his lips, he regrets them. They seem to hit John like a sucker punch.

"Mary?"

A harsh buzz of panic starts up inside Sherlock's chest. Somewhat frantically, he says, "Please, ignore that, John. It's nothing, I assure you."

"Sherlock—"

"It's nothing, John, really. I said it without thinking," he chatters, averting his gaze to the mockingly calm waters. His heart feels like a drum as it pounds viciously against his ribs.

"Sherlock, please, just look at me," John says, placing his hand reassuringly over Sherlock's

But no matter how much he wants to, Sherlock can't look at John right now, because if he does, he might just tell the truth again, and he won't risk upsetting him. Not after they've come this far.

Memories of his first meeting with Mary flash before his eyes; he remembers storming out of the restaurant, then telling John he hated Mary but being unable to say why. With vivid clarity, he remembers the moment John broke his nose and called him selfish. Sherlock couldn't care less about physical injuries—that isn't what he's worried about right now. What he is worried about is making John look at him with those dark, disappointed eyes again. Never again does he want to witness John with slumped shoulders, a heart-broken expression, and clenched fists. It would kill Sherlock to hear John speak in that flat, hurt tone one more time.

"John…" he says to his shoes. "I promise, I'm fine. I didn't mean anything by it, it just came out."

John squeezes his hand tighter and, reflexively, Sherlock squeezes back. "Sherlock, please look at me."

Resigned but still a bit afraid, Sherlock cautiously raises his eyes to meet John's. "Yes, John?"

"Listen. I…I know having Mary around isn't easy for you," John says quietly, his gaze steady and sincere. "I know you want it to be just the two of us all the time. And you know how I know that?" he chuckles sadly. "Because I want the same thing sometimes. But I need you to know that just because I'm getting married soon, doesn't mean I'm leaving you behind. You are one of the most important people in my life, Sherlock, I have no intention of cutting ties with you at any point in the near or distant future. My day honestly gets a bit better every time I get to spend time with you or even speak to you, whether it's in person or over text. You are clever and brilliant and so incredibly kind, and I am easily the luckiest man alive to be able to know you as well as I do."

Sherlock is so swept up in John's speech that he doesn't realize John has been steadily raising their joined hands to his mouth, until the moment John presses a succinct kiss to his knuckles and says, "Are we good?"

Stunned, Sherlock just stares back at him, unable to speak or move or even nod his head. The place where John's lips grazed his skin burns hot like fire.

At his silence, John only smiles and, shockingly, does it again, this time on the joint of his thumb. When that receives the same gaping-mouthed, wordless response, he presses his lips chastely against Sherlock's pinky, ring finger, middle finger, and index, all the while maintaining an affectionate twinkle in his eyes. "Are—we—good?" John asks, in between pecks.

Stunned no longer covers it. Dumbfounded is a bit closer to the way he's feeling, but even that fails to adequately describe the situation. Never has Sherlock seen John so lighthearted and silly: so innocently flirtatious and warm. Is this how he was with his old girlfriends? Is this how he is with Mary? Sherlock simply cannot wrap his mind around the fact that John Watson, self-proclaimed heterosexual and currently engaged man, is kissing his hand as if they're lovers on a first date. His heart fell to his feet and floundered ages ago, so he can't even complain of it thundering in his chest. His veins are sparkling with champagne-like giddiness and it's a bit difficult to think at the moment, as his brain took a vacation the moment John's mouth touched his skin.

He marvels at how such an innocent act has completely demolished the entire organized structure of his mind palace.

"Y-yes, we're good," Sherlock says shakily, his hand still in John's, poised near John's lips.

"Good," John says, satisfied. He drops Sherlock's hand, but before the detective has the chance to feel dismay, John throws his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulls him in for a hug. "You're my best friend, Sherlock," John says into his shoulder, his voice somewhat muffled by the material of Sherlock's coat. "I'm never letting you go, so please stop thinking that you need to tiptoe around me just to keep us together. I'm here to stay, alright?"

Unabashed, Sherlock grabs fistfuls of John's jacket and keeps him close, the warmth and intimacy of the embrace melting whatever anxiety remained. "Yes, John," he breathes. "Okay."

2.

When Sherlock walks into the sitting room the next morning, still flying high on yesterday's moment at the park, he finds his brother perched in John's chair, leisurely reading the Sunday paper. The good feelings wane, but don't shatter entirely, which speaks volumes for the incredible moods he's in.

Upon seeing Sherlock enter the room, Mycroft lowers the paper and inclines his head in greeting. "Good morning, brother."

Sherlock crosses his arms in the doorway and narrows his eyes. "Is there a reason you're in my house, Mycroft?"

"No 'hello?' That's a bit rude, Sherlock. I did come all the way here after all."

"It's seven A.M., Mycroft, I am in no mood for polite greetings," Sherlock dismisses, taking the seat across from his brother. "Please just tell me your purpose for being here."

"Well, despite your utter lack of manners, I suppose I will."

Mycroft folds the paper in half and removes a thick stack of folders from the leather bag beside him. "After quite a bit of poking around and calling in favors, I finally managed to get ahold of the Ten Hour Death victims' files. The real files," he clarifies. "Unfortunately, there wasn't much information to be found, but the data that was available did manage to solidify some of our theories. Would you like to take a look?"

Sherlock's heart jumps in excitement. The last time they spoke about this, Mycroft was almost certain this case would have to be left unsolved due to lack of substantial evidence. Though the files in his hands don't necessarily mean they'll be able to find the murderer and pin down the exact histories of each victim, it does shed a bit of light on an otherwise inscrutable case.

Eagerly, Sherlock reaches for the documents. "Thank you," he says, flipping through the papers. "How much have you already read?"

"All of it," Mycroft replies simply. "I've read everything I could find on Sydney, Jessica, January, and Nathaniel, and I can say with utmost confidence that our theories were correct. Each of the victims was affiliated with the CIA. Knowing this, one can only assume that the killer must have had a similar connection as well."

"Ah, you're saying the killer was a part of the agency as well?"

"It would make the most sense, would it not? The CIA is what connects the victims, it is only logical to assume the CIA is also what connects the killer to the crimes."

Still scanning the documents, Sherlock says, "Would you mind debriefing me? I'm sure it would be much quicker than reading all of this and then discussing it."

"Not at all," Mycroft says with a nod, clearing his throat. "I suppose I shall start with our most recent victim, Mr. Sydney Carmichael. Apparently, Mr. Carmichael was a Paramilitary Operations Officer in the CIA for thirty seven years. He retired ten year ago at the age of sixty eight. According to his autopsy report, he was injected with fatal dose of Dimethylmercury. The detectives at Scotland Yard supposed that Sydney was home alone at the time of the killing, being that none of his neighbors mentioned him receiving any guests and Mr. Carmichael was not disposed to socializing with others, but in reality, he was indeed with another person at the when he was murdered. The security cameras Mr. Carmichael had installed outside of his home failed to capture the man or woman who visited him, as they made sure to tinker with the cameras beforehand in order to prevent themselves from being caught on film.

"I would assume that the person visiting Mr. Carmichael was someone close to him, someone he would trust. From the character reports and interviews with his neighbors, it is clear he was not typically a 'people person.' He was also quite paranoid, hence the abundance of cameras and alarms surrounding his house. The fact that he allowed this person to come inside at all is certainly noteworthy—it leads me to believe that the killer was an old friend of his, perhaps someone who served in the agency with him. Knowing his type, I believe that is the only sort of person he would be willing to trust."

Sherlock nods, mulling this over. "What about the first victim, January?"

"Well, as you know, we've already confirmed that Mrs. Phillips was part of the CIA. This report specifies that she acted as a Specialized Skills Officer during her time at the agency. She, like Mr. Carmichael, was also retired. Her forged legal documents and fabricated identity were unfortunate but necessary components to her safe retirement, as she was involved in many top-secret groups that were less than pleased to see her retire so early. Think of it as a Witness Protection Program, courtesy of her employers.

"She was killed in her sleep with a poison-tipped knife, but there were some reports of Mrs. Phillips acting strangely a few days before the attack. Apparently, after receiving a guest two days prior to her murder, she began acting troubled and uneasy. This behavior, reported by her neighbors and colleagues, can be supported by the pamphlets and plane tickets that were found in her nightstand. She was planning to leave the country. The police and other detectives looking into this case ignored this, of course, which is why I believe you were not able to find the pamphlet or the tickets catalogued in the evidence files at the Yard."

"I'm aware this may be a redundant question," Sherlock began, "but did any of the neighbors describe the man or woman who visited Mrs. Phillips before her death?"

Mycroft shifts his jaw in frustration and stares down at the file. "Unfortunately, no. The only reason people said she was entertaining a guest at all, is because there was a loud argument going on during the day while her 'husband' was at work. Neighbors assumed it was a friend or perhaps a lover in an illicit affair, but no one was able to describe the appearance or even the voice of the guest. They couldn't even say if it was a woman or a man."

"And how is that?" Sherlock cries, beginning to feel jolts of frustration himself. "How is one unable to distinguish a female voice from a male one?"

"No one was 'paying close attention' because it 'didn't seem like their business' and they 'didn't want to snoop,'" Mycroft reads from the report, his expression marred with annoyance. He puts down the paper with a frown. "I too fail to understand how people can be so thick, but I'm afraid that is beyond the point. It is simply important to remember that Mrs. Phillips met with the killer, had an aggressive interaction with them, and planned to leave, days before she was murdered. This suggests that she too knew the killer quite intimately."

"And what about the twenty five year old woman?"

"Ah yes, our second and youngest victim, Ms. Jessica Hepburn. Jessica, unlike Sydney and January, was not retired. In fact, before her untimely death, she was about to be promoted to her long-awaited position as an NCS Language Specialist. Also unlike the rest of the victims, she has a clear connection to someone—she was the protégé of Mrs. Phillips prior to Mrs. Phillips's retirement.

"Ms. Hepburn was on a hiatus in her training, so she moved back to England temporarily in order to get her degree at the Fine Arts Academy of London. As you know, it was in the parking lot of this university that she was shot and killed. Her case is relatively simple in comparison to others, as it's clear the killer went after her because of her connection to Mrs. Phillips, who was killed only hours before."

"Bullet filled with ricin, correct?" Sherlock confirms, forehead creased in thought.

"Indeed. The shot was taken from several hundred feet away with a sniper gun, so whomever killed her clearly has experience with weapons. The poison, as we discussed last time, is also a stylistic choice. Our killer uses this medium almost as a trademark, it seems."

"And what about the last bloke? Nathaniel, was it?"

"Yes. Precisely ten hours after Jessica's murder, Mr. Hastings was killed by a poisoned martini. Unlike the other victims, he had not seen or spoken to anyone aside from his colleagues that day, so the killer must have sneaked into his home and poisoned either his glasses or his alcohol beforehand. According to the autopsy, there was enough cyanide in his system to take out an entire office of people. Mr. Hastings was dead almost immediately."

"And what was his position in the CIA?"

"He was a Clandestine Service Operator. He, like Sydney and January, was also retired, despite being only thirty six years old."

Sherlock is immensely pleased to have confirmed his and Mycroft's theories about the victims' pasts, but they've yet to resolve the motive of the killer. Why ten hours? What does that signify? What is the message they were trying to convey?

"And have you learned anything new about the motive of the killer? Was there anything in the files that mentioned something important about the number ten?"

Mycroft frowns and shuts the folder. "No. I'm afraid the murder's motivation for killing four former agents within ten hours of each other remains a mystery. However, if I get anymore new information, I'll make sure to inform you."

Chapter Text

Decision: (noun) a resolution reached after intensive deliberation

...

1.

The ensuing weeks are a stressful, nettlesome time filled with altered plans and changed minds.

For one, Mary decides she'd like to have the wedding in late May rather than in early June. This means that instead of getting married in two months, she and John are now to be wedded in less than five short weeks, which then means that Sherlock, the one in charge of planning John's bachelor party, has very little time to piece something together.

Thus, he spends the latter half of April stressing over John's party like a madman.

For first few days, the notion is just a faint buzz in the back of his head. Sure, when he sees things on telly and in magazines that remind him of the event, a brief flicker of worry dashes through him, but it's so faint that it scarcely registers. In the back of his mind, he knows he ought to start planning things out, but the idea is buried so far beneath the clutter of his mind palace that he cannot compel himself to fret over it. For the first few days, he's fine.

Then the next week comes around, and Sherlock finally recognizes the magnitude of the task ahead of him. He's been given the responsibility of planning the one incredible night John has left before his wedding—which now looms only weeks away—and to fail at throwing a sufficient party would be to fail John himself.

That is the moment he truly begins to worry.

The party has to be absolutely perfect, but the problem with that is the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the poor sod planning this whole thing, is quite far from perfect. Though he is a genius in a many impressive fields—maths, chemistry, and deduction, to name a few—he knows next to nothing about planning a party, let alone a bachelor party, which telly and cinema have led him to believe are supposed to be wild nights of fun and impulsiveness.

And how the hell is he of all people supposed to be fun and impulsive?

2.

On Monday morning, four weeks before the wedding and only one week before John's stag night, Sherlock decides to shelve his pride for the time being and call for backup.

She answers on the first ring.

"Detective! I'm surprised you're calling so soon after our little rollerblading adventure last weekend," Janine says with a laugh. "I believe your exact words were 'If you make me put those monstrosities on, I am never speaking to you again.'"

"Janine," he huffs, "I'd really rather not—"

"You looked adorable in those purple skates, by the way." He can practically hear the cheeky grin in her tone.

"Will you please stop traumatizing me with memories and just listen for one moment?"

"Fine, but you're no fun."

"I need help planning John's stag night."

"And now are officially fun again. I love planning parties, this is going to be absolutely amazing."

"Yes, I'm sure it will be," he says, rolling his eyes. "How soon can you come over?"

"Two shakes of a lamb's tail and I'll be there, Sherl. I'm putting my coat on right now."

"Two shakes of—Janine, you know I hate idioms. And that nickname. Please just speak plainly."

"Alright then, Mr. Literal. I'll be there in fifteen minutes with a few treats."

…

As promised, Janine is at his doorway fifteen minutes later with pastries from the bakery across the street and a blue gift bag.

"Lovely to see you, detective," she greets with a wide grin.

"Hello, Janine," he says in return, leading her into the sitting room. Without warning, she tosses the gift bag in his direction and Sherlock scrambles to catch it. He peers into the bag in confusion. "What's this then?"

"Deluxe Biosilk Hair Serum for Men," she announces proudly. "Made to rejuvenate, hydrate, and style curly, dark hair."

"You bought me hair products," he states, turning the bottle over in his hands.

"Yes," she replies simply, placing the box of desserts on the coffee table. "You have lovely hair, Sherlock, it deserves to be treated kindly. Besides, a friend of mine owns the salon on Westchester, so I got it for free. Apparently it's a great substitute for conditioner."

"Fascinating," he says, placing the bottle on a nearby stack of books. He watches her remove the contents of the box and arrange them on a plate. "Janine, do those cupcakes have faces on them?"

"Yes!" she chirps, apparently pleased that he noticed. "The baker has a bit of a crush on me, so he's always putting silly stuff on my orders. Last weekend, he turned my biscuits into flowers and the weekend before that, he wrote my name with chocolate syrup." She grins and licks a bit of frosting off her thumb. "But, I don't believe you called me here to talk about sweets, did you?"

"Er, no. I wanted your input on how I should go about John's bachelor party."

"Right then. Grab a cupcake and we'll figure this out," she says, choosing a dessert and then seating herself.

(Sherlock appreciates that she makes a point of sitting in his chair instead of John's)

"Must I eat one? I really only eat biscuits and occasionally chocolate cake…"

"Hush and choose one already," she demands, swiping a dollop of whipped cream from the cupcake's side. Sherlock pettily decides not to mention that she has frosting on the tip of her nose.

"Fine." He grabs a pale green one with sunglasses. "May we proceed?" he asks, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Of course. What do you want to know?"

He considers this for a moment, then says, "Everything."

"Ah. Well, then I suppose we ought to start with the basics. You know the three staples of a bachelor party, don't you?" she questions, taking a bite out of the smiling pink cupcake.

"I'd assume that the three most important factors of any party are the guests, the entertainment, and the venue."

She scrunches her nose and moves her flattened palm side to side. "Eh. I guess you're technically right, but the answer I was looking for was: alcohol, nudity, and mates."

Sherlock is immediately struck with a very disturbing image of all of John's friends partying at a pub, naked and drunk. And, Christ, he did not need to picture Lestrade that way.

Apparently, his disgust shows on his face, because Janine hastens to clarify. "Okay, well, not every bachelor party needs to have that stuff, necessarily, but it certainly helps spice things up. After all, the whole point of a stag party is to enjoy your last night as a single person. Most blokes go to strip clubs or seedy pubs, get pissed off their arses, and engage in promiscuous activities. Like, I don't know, lap dances, private strip shows, that kind of thing."

"You're saying I should take John to a club of naked women," Sherlock states flatly.

Janine takes another bite of cupcake and offers a cheeky grin. "Or men, up to you."

"Right. Okay, absolutely not," he says decidedly. "There is no way in bloody hell I'm taking John to a strip club. Nor will I pay to have some scantily clad dancer rub themselves all over him like a sodding cat. That is simply not happening."

Janine laughs. "I know, I know, I'm only messing. John doesn't strike me as the sort of bloke who'd enjoy that anyway."

Sherlock exhales loudly and collapses on the sofa. "Then pray tell what would he enjoy?"

She takes a beat to think it over. "First, name some of his closest mates."

"Alright. Mike Stamford, Gavin—pardon me, Graham—Lestrade, a handful of his army mates from the engagement party whose names I don't recall, and those rugby blokes he went to Uni with. I don't remember their names either, but they should all be listed on the wedding roster."

"Hm. That sounds like at least eight people," she says. "Big groups tend to be harder to move from place to place, so maybe just five would be good. Do you know which people, aside from Mike and Greg, John is closest to?"

"Er, he seemed quite keen on Chris Mahoney when he saw him at the engagement party, so him, perhaps? Like I said, I'll have to check the roster for everyone else."

"And where would you like the party to be held? Your flat? A pub?"

He tries to picture a bunch of strangers milling around his private home, drinking his drinks and eating his food and touching everything, and he nearly keels over in horror.

"Definitely not here," he says emphatically.

"Pub it is," Janine nods. "What about entertainment?"

He frowns. "What is typically the entertainment at these sorts of things?"

"Well, you already said no to strippers, so that doesn't leave much else. Sometimes there's drinking games, like beer pong. Or cigar smoking and gambling. Stuff like that."

He scrunches up his nose in disgust. "That sounds terrible."

"Well, the point is to get all the desire and craziness out of your system before you get married. That's why most blokes go right for the stripper and the booze. But maybe you should do something different for John."

Different, yes, that sounds lovely. Anything that doesn't have to do with naked people. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, let's brainstorm for a bit. What do you think John might want to do before getting married?"

He frowns. "I don't know."

"Well, there's your mission. Find out what John wants to do before being tied down, and then you'll know how to plan his party."

Though they haven't arrived at a complete resolution, Sherlock feels somewhat better knowing they're at least headed in the right direction.

…

"While I'm here, I might as well show you my new online dating profile," Janine says later, taking his computer off his desk and pulling it into her lap.

"You don't know my password," he points out.

She rolls her eyes and doesn't look away from the screen. "It's John's middle name and then his birthday, obviously."

Sherlock sits up straight on the couch. "How did you know that?"

She tosses an amused glance his way. "Because you're obsessed with him, you loon. I figured it was either Hamish7-7-73 or 7-7-73Hamish. Turns out the first one I tried was correct."

"Oh."

"Yes, you can be obvious too, sometimes, dear," she teases. "Now then, come over here so you can see my spectacular profile."

Obligingly, he gets off the sofa and joins her. He stares at Janine's profile picture—a photograph of her grinning at the camera with a wine glass in one hand and a thick novel in the other ("it shows I can appreciate the finer things in life," she tells him)—for a long time before his eyes land on the paragraph beneath her picture.

"What's this?"

"My bio," she announces proudly. "It's a little 'about me' section. You know, it talks about my likes, my dislikes, my ideal man, that sort of thing."

He squints his eyes at the text and reads it to himself, cringing harder and harder with every word.

Well, hello, boys! ;) My name's Janine and if I had to describe myself in three words, they would be fierce, passionate, and fabulous. I'm looking for a man who isn't afraid to go on an adventure with me; I want someone who'll go skydiving at the drop of a dime, have wine at the peak of hill and watch the sunrise, and take me to Italy on a whim, just for the art and the wine. I'm looking for someone with a sense of humor and a love for flirting ;) But most of all, I'm looking for someone who is classy in the streets, but wild in the sheets—

"Janine, I can't read this anymore, I feel nauseous."

She snorts. "Drama queen."

He pulls out the chair from his desk and takes a seat beside her. "I am honestly debating whether or not to report you to the authorities for abusing the winking emoticon."

"It's flirtatious and fun," she insists. "It adds a bit of spice to your profile and lets people know you like to have a good time."

"How you get all that from a semicolon and a parenthesis is beyond me," Sherlock mutters, rolling his eyes.

"Oh! Someone just messaged me saying, Hello, gorgeous…"

"Well, that's—"

"Christ, he's hot as bloody hell. Look, Sherlock! Just look at him!" Janine cries, practically shoving the laptop at his face.

The bloke on the screen is tan and dark-haired, with straight white teeth and impressively symmetrical features. In his photo, he's holding an American football and staring off into the distance at the setting sun. Objectively, Sherlock supposes he's attractive.

"He's alright."

"Alright?" Janine repeats, dumbfounded. "Sherlock. His face alone is worthy of sodding epics. Epics! And his bloody arms, my god…"

Sherlock takes the laptop away from her—mostly so she can stop drooling all over his nice upholstery—and looks through 'Keith's' profile himself. After scrolling through several of the man's pictures, Sherlock is bursting with deductions, and none of them are good. He bites his cheek to refrain from sharing any of this with Janine.

Apparently he hasn't quite mastered subtlety, though, because Janine calls him out on it as soon as he hands the computer back.

"I know you're biting your tongue, Sherlock. Just say what's on your mind."

He doesn't. "You were right. He's perfect."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Really."

"Yes, really." But because he can't help himself, he follows up with, "Of course there are a few small things that some might consider less than desirable, such as his passion for leering at other women and belching rudely in public. Or his affinity for stealing underwear and money from his conquests' homes. Or his love for kicking small animals and shouting incessantly at sports games. Or his, er, racist tendencies." Sherlock clears his throat. "But other than that, he's a lovely gentleman."

Janine shuts the laptop and glares at him, then the ceiling. "Seriously, universe?" she cries, presumably to the heavens. "He's a bloody Grecian god, why does he have to be an utter dick too? How is that fair?"

"Life is rarely fair, I'm afraid."

Janine groans and buries her head in her hands. "Quick, tell me something about John to distract me from my pitiful love life. Have you two hung out lately?"

A small smile alights upon Sherlock's face at the mention of John. "He and I have gone out to breakfast twice a week for this entire month, and each weekend he's helped me solve a few fours and fives."

"Fours and fives?"

"Cases, I mean. They rank fours or fives out of ten on my scale of interest. It's mostly been minor thefts and accusations of infidelity lately, so they're not particularly difficult cases to suss out, but it's enjoyable to spend time with John, all the same."

She nods. "I see. And what's come of that weird, hand-kissing thing he did in the park last month?"

Ah, right. That.

"It may have reoccurred once or twice more…"

"Ugh. Sherlock!" Janine chides, batting his arm. "Shame on you! We already figured out John was jealous, remember? He was about as subtle as a bloody neon sign. And do you remember what I told you? About him taking advantage of you?"

"Janine. I am fully aware of what I'm doing here, alright? You just don't understand."

Now she's frowning. "What don't I understand?"

"John is and has always been the most valuable thing in my life," he says steadily. "I couldn't possibly treasure anything more—and before you get all soppy and dewy-eyed, I mean that in the most literal sense possible. John is the most important thing to me. I love him, he doesn't love me. That's fine. I get it. He has Mary and I have…whatever affection or physical contact he's willing to throw my way. I accept that arrangement, Janine, because I understand that that's the best case scenario here. I already tried the alterative—cutting John out of my life completely—and that was easily the most terrible month of my life. I can't do that again. I just can't."

He sighs and drops his head onto the arm of her chair, hoping she'll pet his hair. Obligingly, she soothingly strokes the curls away from his forehead. "You deserve better than that, Sherl."

"I don't want better than John Watson," he argues. "In fact, I doubt such a person exists."

"I don't mean John himself isn't good enough, I'm saying you deserve better than this situation. As much as you and I don't like it, he's going to be married soon. And eventually he'll have kids. And then what? You aren't truly content with the thought of waiting in the wings for the rest of your life, are you?"

"I am," he replies wearily. The admission feels sad but honest.

For a long time, neither of them says anything. The silence doesn't feel oppressive, though, it simply seems thoughtful.

Eventually, Janine says, "I think you should tell him."

Sherlock's heart nearly stops inside his chest. He sits back up. "Tell him?"

"That you love him," she clarifies. "You don't have anything to lose here, Sherl, other than an opportunity."

He barks an incredulous laugh. "Right. So you're saying I should just come right out and say, 'Hello, John Watson, engaged heterosexual man, I have been madly in love with you for years and I would like you to leave Mary for me'?" He laughs again, but this time it sounds distinctly bitter. "Yeah, I'm sure that'll go over splendidly, Janine."

Janine just stares at him. "You think John's heterosexual," she deadpans.

"I don't think, I know. He's certainly said so enough times."

"Right. What were his exact words?"

"His exact words were 'I'm not gay.'"

She smiles in satisfaction, much to his confusion.

"What? Why are you smiling?"

"Does the term 'bisexual' mean anything to you, detective? There are a number of things John could potentially identify as that 'aren't gay' but aren't exactly straight either. So if that's what's worrying you, please just let it go."

He's not quite sure that he believes her, but he does decide to let it go for the time being. Besides, there are more pressing matters holding him back that have nothing to do with sexuality and everything to do with Sherlock himself.

"He'll choose Mary over me any day, Janine," he says, stating it like a fact so it won't hurt as much.

(It doesn't quite work.)

"Well, considering how bloody oblivious the two of you are, I doubt he even knows you're an option!" Janine cries. "If you just tell him how you feel, point blank, one of two things will happen. One, he'll say it back, ditch Mary, and snog you into oblivion. Or two, he'll say he doesn't feel the same and you'll just stay friends. I know the latter sounds bad, but you're currently operating under the assumption that he doesn't love you anyway (as misguided as that is), so it'll be like nothing happened. Worst case scenario, your theory is confirmed, which sucks. Best case scenario, however, you get the man of your dreams." She raises a brow at him. "Now wouldn't you say the risk is worth the reward?"

"Janine…"

"Wait," she says, putting her hand out to shut him up. Her eyes look incredibly wide and she appears to be on the brink of an important revelation. "I think I just had the best idea of all time."

Now it's his turn to raise a brow. "That's setting up quite the expectation, Janine."

"Sherlock. What I'm about to say just might be the answer to our prayers."

Okay, now he's interested. "Well, go on!"

"Okay, I know exactly what you can do for John's stag night. First of all, it's just going to be you and him. No one else is invited, not his army mates, not those blokes from Uni: no one. You two can pub hop or solve a crime together or something like that, and then come back here to hang out. It'll be fun, easy, and intimate. Then, once the two of you are nice and comfortable from the alcohol, you can tell him you love him. Just put it all out there. And you know why this is perfect?"

His breath feels a bit shaky when he exhales. "Why?"

"Because if he says he doesn't feel the same, then you can just say you were drunk and didn't know what you were saying. Or that you meant it in the drunken 'I love you, mate' kind of way. It's fool proof. But, see, the real beauty of it is, this is John's last night to live out his deepest desires. And I'd bet a whole lot that that desire is aimed at you, Sherl. This is the one night John will be able to really act on his feelings."

He can't tell if this plan is incredible or incredibly stupid. "Janine…I know I just gave that whole speech about taking whatever John's willing to give, but even if he does feel the same, I don't think I could stand him pouring his heart out to me for one night and then getting married to someone else three weeks later. That would…that would be too much."

She nods. "I'll admit, we do run that risk by doing this. But, who's to say John won't leave Mary once he finds out that you feel the same way about him? Who's to say he'll even go through with the wedding after this?"

He can't get his hopes up. He absolutely cannot afford to dream up a scenario wherein John not only loves him back, but also leaves Mary in order to be with him. Because if he allows his mind to wander, if he allows his heart to soar into the clouds and live in fantasy-land, he'll be crushed when reality inevitably comes crashing in.

But.

What if this doesn't just have to be a fantasy? What if he can somehow make this dream of his a reality? What if this is his one chance to win John?

What if this is just mad enough to work?

Chapter Text

Climax : (noun) a decisive moment that serves as a major turning point.

1.

Sherlock’s plan, like most things he’s attempted to do for John’s sake, falls apart almost immediately.

It is eight P.M. and they’ve just left Angelo’s after a nice, intimate dinner. According to Sherlock’s carefully devised schedule, he and John should be back at the flat having a drink or two and confessing their feelings right about now. Instead, however, Sherlock is currently sprinting after a street thug while John races behind him, trying to brandish his Sig Sauer and chastise Sherlock at the same time.

“Sherlock, what the bloody buggering hell —”

Sherlock knew it was a terrible idea the moment he took off after the criminal, but that thief stole John’s wallet and there’s no way he’s getting off scot-free. John, of course, had a more responsible reaction to the crime, by phoning Lestrade twenty minutes ago and giving him a rough estimation of their location. Sherlock simply darted after the man with his metaphorical guns blazing.  

There’s no way he intends to let some random stranger rob John and ruin their evening. And besides, it’s been a while since he’s had a good chase.

“Sherlock—bloody—Holmes,” John pants, still struggling to keep up. “Would you slow down for— christ —two seconds?”

“This’ll only take a moment, John!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Wait, where are you go—”

But Sherlock doesn’t catch the tail end of that thought, because he’s already weaving through traffic and disappearing around a corner. He knows London like the back of his hand, so he there’s no doubt he’ll find a route to cut the thief off soon. He supposes he can worry about locating John later.

A few quick backroads and left turns later, Sherlock sees his opportunity.

“Hey!” he shouts.

The man startles and turns.

Against his better judgement, Sherlock takes a flying leap and tackles the thief to the ground. The two wrestle blindly in the dark alleyway. In an act of morbid stupidity, Sherlock twists at the wrong angle and accidentally gives the man the upper hand, which he then uses to pin Sherlock belly down on the asphalt.

“You have one second to get off me before my partner rounds the corner and shoots you , you ape,” Sherlock growls, turning his head to avoid getting a mouthful of gravel.

“Better act quick then, shouldn’t I?” the man spits.

And then without further ado, he slashes Sherlock’s side with a pocketknife.

Holy bleeding hell in a handbasket . Sherlock bites his tongue to avoid crying out in pain; he doesn’t want to give the cretin the satisfaction.  

“Up, right now!” John’s voice shouts from a few feet away. Even without looking up, Sherlock knows he’s aiming his gun and glaring at the man in that terrifying, deadly way of his. “Get off him and put your hands up now , or I’ll shoot.”

Sherlock already knows John won’t shoot him—if only because he legally can’t shoot him—but apparently the thief doesn’t, because he leaps away from Sherlock in a heartbeat.

“On your knees, keep your hands up.”

Lestrade, master of good timing, chooses that precise moment to pull up to the kerb with two police cars and a pair of handcuffs. Begrudgingly, Sherlock admits to himself that perhaps John was wise for calling Lestrade back at the restaurant. It takes the D.I. less than five minutes to retrieve John’s wallet—with everything still perfectly intact—and shove the man into the backseat of the car.

Unfortunately, all of this occurs whilst Sherlock is still groaning in the mouth of the alleyway, bleeding , and he really does not appreciate the utter lack of attention he’s getting right now. Finally, John remembers him and rushes over.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” John hisses. After assessing the wound, John sheds his jacket and effortlessly tears off the right sleeve of his t-shirt, bunching the material against Sherlock’s side to soak up the blood.

“Now you’re just— ow —showing off,” Sherlock grunts in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Instead of cracking a smile, John scowls at him. “It was a cheap shirt and this really isn’t the time for wit,” he says flatly. “Now, I’m going to help you stand, so take my hand.”

“I can stand on my own, John, no need to treat me like an old man,” Sherlock insists, unsteadily straightening to his full height. Unfortunately, standing involves stretching his abdomen in a very painful manner, so after a beat, he hunches over with his hands on his knees. His puffing breath looks like ghosts in the freezing air.

“See?” he pants unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”

John watches him with narrowed eyes. “I doubt it. We’re going to Bart’s, you need medical assistance.”

“I am not going to a hospital, John,” he snaps. If he wastes time going to a hospital, he’ll miss the very small window of opportunity he has to tell John that he loves him. Besides, the last thing he’d like to do is have John spend his stag night in a waiting room at Bart’s. He can grit his teeth and bear the pain, for now.

“Sherlock, don’t be an idiot,” John growls, hooking an arm around Sherlock’s waist to keep him up. “You’ve been stabbed, for Christ’s sake! If you don’t get help, the wound will get infected and then where will we be?”

“You’re— ah —a doctor,” he retorts, wincing as pain lances across his side. “You can take care of me. I won’t let anyone else touch me.”

“Sherlock, you’re being ridic—”

“Those are my terms, John. Abide by them or leave me here to bleed out on the pavement.”

“Why are you are so bloody difficult!?” John cries, but he starts walking the two of them forward anyway, apparently choosing the first option. “I swear, if you weren’t so mangled right now I’d pummel you myself.”

“I’m sure.”

“I would, alright?” John snaps back, but his voice sounds far too concerned for the bite of the comment to sink in. He waves down a cab with his free arm, letting out an audible breath of relief when the car slows to a stop. “Here, keep pressure on the wound, alright? You’re bloody lucky he didn’t hit your kidneys.”

“Stop fretting, John,” Sherlock insists once they’re both in the car. “Pain aside, the wound itself is superficial. He didn’t have the chance to stab very deep, in fact the knife scarcely penetrated me. At most, we’ll need to sanitize the wound and bandage it. I—ah,” he winces briefly in pain, “I can assure you, I am far from mortally wounded.”

“You’d better not be,” John mutters, leaning his head against the cab window grumpily. “Otherwise this would be one terrible sodding bachelor party.”

2.

By the time they’ve reached the flat, the adrenaline high has officially crashed and Sherlock is left feeling the full brunt of his injury. Whereas before the pain was sporadic, his side is now pulsating consistently with agony. He leans heavily against John’s side as John guides them both into the building and up the stairs, too achy and drained to attempt to walk on his own.

When they reach the flat, everything is pitch black.

“Great,” John mutters after flicking the switch several times to no avail. “The power is out too. The universe just loves us tonight, doesn’t it?”

He keeps his arm securely wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and slowly leads them into the dark flat, using the moonlight from the window to guide them to the dim sitting room.

“I’m going to light a few candles, okay? That way we won’t be in complete darkness.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock leans against the wall and watches as John fills the flat with tea candles and carefully sets each wick aflame. In truth, it looks quite…lovely. Romantic even.  

“Where did you get the candles? I don’t remember buying any,” he says, once John has finished lighting the last flame.

“Leftovers from an ex-girlfriend or two. When I lived here, I kept a stash just in case.”

“In case of what?”

John rubs the back of his neck and looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Well, in case I needed to create a romantic scene at the last moment and set the—you know what? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you have a chunk missing from your side.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but finds he doesn’t have the energy or will to correct John’s hyperbole. “Alright.”

“You’re way taller than me, so you stand in front of me and I’ll check the wound from here,” John instructs as he lowers himself into his chair. Sherlock obliges and stands before John with his arms hanging limply at his sides. Distantly, he is aware of the painful throbbing in his side, but his mind is still fuzzy with shock so the sensation hardly registers. He doesn’t even realize he’s been swaying on his feet until John gently grabs his hip to steady him.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says, loosely nodding his head. The warmth from John’s hand sinks through the material of his clothing and into his skin, setting a warm glow deep in his bones. He can’t help but sigh at the sensation. Either John doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he makes no move to let go.  

“Okay, shirt off,” John says in the firm tone. It is moments like these when Sherlock remembers that the man before him is not simply John Watson, jumper-wearing clinic doctor, but Captain Watson, authoritative, commanding, former army doctor.

He quite likes being told what to do, so he sets about removing his shirt immediately.

“Need help?” John asks as he watches Sherlock's cold, shaking hands struggle to unfasten the small plastic buttons. After a moment of more awkward fumbling, John lightly pushes Sherlock’s hands away and takes over the task himself.

“I got it,” he says quietly.

As Sherlock watches John slowly, meticulously undo each button, his typically bustling mind goes absolutely quiet. This moment feels so peaceful, so uncomplicated, that for once he has no desire to analyze anything.

He relishes the silence. The only noises in the entire flat are their mingled breathing and the soft sound of the buttons popping.  

“Arms down,” John instructs at last, and Sherlock drops his hands to his sides, allowing the shirt to fall from his shoulders. The material pools at his feet in a manner that is undeniably reminiscent of lovers undressing, and the thought makes Sherlock’s face grow warm.

“Turn around a bit, so your side is facing me.”

Sherlock complies and faces the adjacent wall. John places a hand on Sherlock’s waist to steady him as he carefully examines the wound just above the jut of his hipbone.

“You were right,” John says after a moment. “This is superficial. It’ll clot and be right as rain soon. Should take less than ten minutes since it’s quite shallow and only a few inches long. I’ll just need to clean it up real quick and bandage it.”

John pulls the first aid kit from the table beside him and carefully dabs hydrogen peroxide onto the wound with a cotton ball.

Sherlock wonders when he’s supposed to causally suggest getting drunk and confessing their undying love for each other among all this mess. How does one transition from knife wounds to red wine? What would Janine say if she were here?

“John,” Sherlock says, breaking the silence, “could you hand me my phone?”

“You want to text someone right now?” Sherlock can’t see his face, but he imagines it’s painted with incredulity.

“Yes. Er, Mycroft wanted to speak to me about something and I forgot to call him earlier. I’d like to make sure he knows I received his message.”

John hands him his phone. “And since when have you cared about getting back to your brother on time?”

“New Year’s resolution,” he answers distractedly as he pulls up Janine’s contact and types a new message.

We’ve just arrived back at the flat. SH

How’s it going so far? Was dinner good? Ooh, have you brought out the wine yet? ;) Xoxo J

No time to comment on emoticons, he reminds himself.

Dinner was great, but things aren’t going quite as planned. John is currently cleaning up my wound. SH

Sherlock, please tell me that’s some weird, new-age euphemism. Xoxo J

Not quite. I was stabbed in an alleyway about a half hour ago. SH

How the bloody hell did that happen? We talked about this! Dinner, drinks at the flat, then love confessions. At no point did I suggest you go and get yourself STABBED! Xoxo J

I didn’t exactly plan for this, Janine. Now how do I proceed from here? SH

Where is the wound, exactly? Xoxo J

Just above my hip. SH

So, you’re shirtless right now? Xoxo J

…Yes. SH

Okay! Great! That’s a start! Now, pay close attention to the next three or so texts, because they are going to outline exactly how you can get this night back on track. Xoxo J

Send them! SH

First, you need to—

Which is, of course, the exact moment his phone battery dies.

“ Sodding hell —John, could you plug this in?”

John stops blotting at the wound and looks at him. “Are you in shock right now? Because in case you haven’t noticed, the power’s out.”

Bugger. He must really be out of it for something so obvious to escape his notice. “Right.”

After a few more minutes of dutiful bandaging and silence, Sherlock sighs. “John, I’m…I’m sorry tonight has been such a mess. I know shouldn’t have gone after that criminal, but he stole your wallet and we haven’t had a chase together in a while and—”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts. “As stupid as going after him was, I get why you did it. And just so you know, tonight has not been a mess. In all honesty, it’s been the most fun I’ve had in ages.” He gives Sherlock’s unwounded hip a comforting squeeze. “Stop worrying about making everything perfect, okay? I always have a grand time with you no matter what.”

At John’s reassuring words, a bit of tension slides from Sherlock’s shoulders. “Good,” he exhales. “I’m glad.”

“Okay,” John says, “the wound is bandaged, so you can—” he stops.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, looking down at John with a frown.

“Sherlock,” John says slowly. “What happened to your back?”

Immediately, Sherlock feels dread sink in his stomach like a stone. The warm, lighthearted atmosphere disappears in an instant. He can’t bring himself to reply.

John says it again when the silence carries on for several beats too many. His voice is quiet and uneven. “Sherlock. What happened to your back? ”

“It’s nothing, John. Really.”

He shivers when he feels John’s trembling fingertips trace down his spine.

“This scar is new,” says John.

Opting for a neutral tone, Sherlock simply replies, “Yes.”

He knows precisely which scar John is looking at. It’s right below his left scapula, about nine inches long, and was caused by a carbon-steel blade seven months ago in an alley outside Berlin. He keenly recalls the sharp whiplash of pain that tore down his back when the unseen assassin poured from the shadows and attacked, stabbing with an accuracy that might’ve killed Sherlock had he not been so quick on his feet.

“This happened when you were—away?”

“Yes,” he says again.

John is quiet for a long time as he assesses the rest of Sherlock’s half-healed injuries. When he speaks again, his voice sounds strained. “What other injuries have you received in the past two years, Sherlock?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. “It doesn’t matter, John. They’re in the past.”

“Tell me.”

“John—”

“Tell me,” John demands, his voice breaking on the last syllable. Sherlock can feel John’s warm breath against his bare skin. “Please.”

"Fine." He screws his eyes shut and recedes into the room of his mind palace where he stores Those Memories. “Two broken arms, a collapsed lung, four mild concussions, a bruised trachea, one broken thumb, three sprained fingers, a fractured wrist, permanent damage to the tissue of my back, a handful of mild lesions, lacerations, abrasions, and grazes, and a bullet wound in my left thigh. From a psychological perspective, I’ve suffered from a myriad of mental traumas due to the nature of my missions and the physical torture that often ensued. If I did not know how to delete things, I believe I would be suffering from PTSD; as it stands, however, the worst of those memories are locked in an impenetrable vault that not even I can access.”

His heart beats in time with the ticking clock on the mantle. Everything from his breathing to his blood rushing in his ears sounds too loud in the utterly-silent flat.

After a lifetime has passed, John speaks up. “Sherlock, turn around.”

He does so without hesitation. The sight that greets him is perhaps the last thing he is expecting.

He’s never seen John like this before--so unguarded and raw . His eyes are navy blue from the darkness of the room, but the places where the candlelight kisses his irises are watery azure. Soft shadows outline the slope of his nose, the curve of his bottom lip, and the gentle arc of his neck.

There is a glossiness to his eyes that Sherlock realizes are tears .  

“Your scars, Sherlock,” John starts, breathing harshly through his nose. “I didn’t know. I-I had no idea you went through all this. I didn’t realize…”

Sherlock looks down at John, unused to seeing him so lost and broken. The sight sends cracks splintering across his heart. “John, I didn’t tell you. How could you have known?”

“I didn’t even ask,” he rasps. “I didn’t even wonder. You…you could’ve died out there.”

Something cold and black twists in his throat. Vivid memories of dark nights and blood-soaked hands flash across his mind’s eye like a nightmare. “Sometimes I wanted to,” he confesses softly. “But then I remembered who I had to come back to, and I kept going.”

John stares up at him. “Who?”

Somewhere outside, thunder crashes. “You.”

There’s a beat of silence before John chuckles bitterly and casts his eyes to the floor. “I am so selfish.”

“John, how on earth could you possibly think—”

“I am ,” John insists, the words tearing out of his throat like sandpaper. “I am such a fucking terrible person. I haven’t been here for you, I haven’t asked questions about what you went through, I didn’t try to bloody understand. I just ignored it.” He exhales harshly. “And—and here you are, with so many scars and injuries I can’t even count them all, yet you’re still giving me everything and expecting nothing in return. You planned my engagement party, you’re acting as my best man, and you are constantly at my side whenever I need you. You…you could’ve died out there, Sherlock,” John says, finally raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. “You could’ve died and not come back, and you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“John—”

“ You wouldn’t be here,” John repeats hoarsely, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s face, searching desperately for something . “Where would I be? How would I survive?”

Sherlock doesn’t know the answer to the question, so he just keeps looking at John, desperately trying to understand what’s going through his mind. John’s hands, previously clenching the arms of his chair, move up and gently brush against a faded bruise on Sherlock’s hip. The sensation burns through him like a slow, consuming flame.

“John?” he asks quietly.

John simply looks up at him with dark, sincere eyes, and splays his palm deliberately across Sherlock’s skin, not quite moving or touching, but feeling. Waiting. Sherlock’s breath catches and his heart thuds in his chest like a drum.

Carefully, with all of the caution of one handling a precious treasure, John leans forward and presses a feather-light kiss to Sherlock’s scar, the one right below his ribs. His lips linger there for a moment, ghosting over Sherlock’s skin like a whisper.

“John,” Sherlock croaks, his voice coming out mangled and torn. “Please, don’t…”

It hurts too much to almost have something like this: to receive a few spur of the moment kisses because of adrenalin and circumstance, only to have to wake up the next morning knowing it’ll never go further.

But he doesn’t stop. John holds onto Sherlock’s narrow hips with both hands and kisses the rest of the scars too, his lips blessing each flaw and imperfection with the reverence of a blind man regaining sight. Sherlock’s ribs, his hips, his abdomen. “You’re safe, I’m here, I’ve got you,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s skin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”  

There must be helium in his bones because he is floating out of his body right now: up and away from this room and this flat and this earth. His throat aches.

“J-John, stop,” he insists brokenly, his hand loosely cupping the back of John’s neck, trying to get the other man to look at him. He won’t be able to stand it if this progresses and John comes to regret what they’ve done.

John stops kissing the white tangle of scars, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his hands remain on the detective’s hips and his forehead rests on Sherlock’s bare abdomen. John releases a soft, shuddering breath against his skin. Sherlock shivers.

“What is this to you?” Sherlock whispers, though part of him doesn’t want to hear the answer for fear it’ll be something in the vein of pity or thoughtlessness. Sherlock wants—no, he needs for this to be sincere. After so long, he can’t settle with something meaningless.

John raises his head and steadily meets Sherlock’s gaze. When he speaks, his voice is shaky but resolute. “When you died, my entire world fell apart. You were so important to me and—and I’d lost mates in the war, I knew how it felt to lose a friend, but when I buried you, Sherlock, it was different. The pain ran deeper. It took me months to realize why.” John takes a deep breath and visibly steels himself for his next words.

“I hated that I never kissed you.”

The simple sincerity of it moves the earth beneath Sherlock’s feet. He can’t breathe, he can’t think. His brain is filled with buzzing white noise.

“Come here,” John says softly, pulling Sherlock down so that they’re eye to eye. John takes his face in his hands and strokes a thumb carefully his cheekbone. His dark blue eyes are filled with more vulnerability and naked emotion than Sherlock has ever seen.

“Sherlock, what are you thinking?” John asks quietly. Everything about this moment feels soft and surreal. The edges of his vision are blurry and his thoughts are moving as slow as molasses. The darkness of the flat lends a sense of privacy and blessed isolation; it feels as if they’re alone on this planet, trapped in a pocket of time that exists for only them.

“John,” he whispers, his voice catching a bit at the end. “I need you to answer me. What is this to you?”

He hates asking this, but he needs to know. John wants to kiss him, but Sherlock doesn’t want it to be because of pity, or curiosity, or just for the sake of one final hoorah. Sherlock thought he would be okay with that—taking whatever John was willing to give—but he realizes now that he isn’t. He needs for John to feel something. For him to feel anything.

John swallows hard and glances away for a moment. His warm palms drop from Sherlock’s face. “I…I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s heart falls to his feet. He can barely force the words past his lips. “Do what, John?”

John opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes look wide and terrified and as clear as drinking water. Sherlock wants to look away but can’t.  

“I can’t keep pretending that…that this isn’t what it is,” he says at last. “I feel things for you, Sherlock. Things I shouldn’t. I mean, I’m going to be married in less than a month, for Christ sakes, I shouldn’t still—I shouldn’t want ,” he stops in frustration and tries to articulate himself. “I thought that if I just ignored this-this thing we have between us, it would go away. I thought I could learn to be content with just being your friend.” He grabs Sherlock’s hand where it lies limp on the chair’s arm and holds on tight. “I know I’ve been selfish these past months. I’ve been using you to satisfy my own feelings and then tossing you aside and going home to Mary, and it kills me, Sherlock. I hate myself for it. Every time I hugged you, or kissed your hand, or brushed your hair back, I wanted to do more. The sodding second you popped back into my life, I knew I was done for. I was happy enough with Mary during those two years, but the moment I saw you again, all those old feelings just came rushing back. It was like…it was like living life in black and white and then suddenly rediscovering color. I was angry when you didn’t like Mary because it made me have to face my own guilt. I was—conflicted. Because the problem was, I loved her but I…I also…”

John struggles for a moment, then closes his eyes. He doesn’t continue.

Gently, Sherlock lifts John’s hand to his mouth and presses a chaste kiss to the center of his palm. “But what John?”

John opens his eyes and runs his thumb reverently over Sherlock’s bottom lip. The tension in the air looms like heavy fog.

John leans in and presses his forehead gently to Sherlock’s. When he speaks, his words are as soft as dandelion fluff. “But I love you too, Sherlock.”

Chapter Text

New: (adj.) not existing before; made, introduced, or discovered for the first time

1.

"You…you love me," Sherlock repeats numbly. His heart feels too big in his chest, his thoughts are blurry, and the only thing keeping him rooted to reality is the sensation of John's forehead pressed to his.

"Yes," John says simply, like he's exhaling the word. "Yes, of course I do, Sherlock."

Even though there are hundreds upon hundreds of questions swimming in the back of his head, Sherlock ignores his doubts for once and speaks the first thing to come to mind. "Does this mean that I can—that I'm allowed to…" he trails off uncertainly and casts his gaze to the floor.

"What is it?" John asks softly.

Deep breath. He raises his eyes to meet John's. "Does that mean I'm allowed to kiss you?"

"I—of course," John answers breathlessly. With pupils blown wide, John gently cants his head to the side, bringing Sherlock closer. But right before their mouths meet, he hovers hesitantly over Sherlock's lips and waits.

Sherlock understands the moment of reluctance. As much as he wants this, he knows they won't be able to take this back, once it's done. He also knows that if he does this, if he kisses John and lives out the longest-standing fantasy of his life, he'll never forget the feeling of John's lips against his; he'll want it again, forever. It'll become a white-hot yearning, ten times more powerful than the longing he already feels low in his chest. Will it be worse to know what he is missing, or to know he had the opportunity and didn't seize it?

Seconds pass as he waits for one of them to finally take the plunge.

"Please," John whispers at last, and that's all Sherlock needs to hear before crushing their mouths together in a sweet collision of teeth and lips.

One of John's hands roams up the nape of Sherlock's neck and the other presses against his bare back. Sherlock lets himself be pulled into John's lap, straddling him in the chair. John's arms twine around him, holding him close, and Sherlock's hands clutch at John's jaw, his shoulder, his hair.

John's mouth moves hungrily, desperately, perfectly against his. He kisses Sherlock as if his mouth is oxygen, gold, or something equally as precious. Sherlock is more than happy to respond in kind, his hands cradling the back of John's head and carding through his hair. Sherlock's dopamine-soaked brain scarcely registers a coherent thought as John snogs the breath from his lungs, but despite his attachment to logic and cool reasoning, Sherlock finds he doesn't mind one bit.

They move together, as sinuous and fluid as one being. Oddly enough, the strangest part of this whole thing is the fact that this—this kissing and groping and sighing into each other's mouths—feels completely natural. It's as if they've been doing this for ages.

John pulls back for a moment and looks at him, his open mouth rosy and wet. His eyes look incredibly bright in the dim room.

"What?" Sherlock asks breathlessly.

A short, fond smile dashes across John's face and he moves his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingers tangling in the curls there. "Nothing. I'm just really happy," he says, bringing their mouths back together for a few, short sips of kisses. "So, so happy."

Sherlock smiles against his lips. "Mm, John?"

"Hm?"

"Can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

Sherlock pulls back so he can see John's expression clearly, his hands still framing the sides of John's face. "I…I didn't say it earlier, mostly due to shock, but you know that I—that I've always…" he stops and takes a deep breath. "You know that I love you, don't you?"

At that, John completely melts. The sharp, navy-blue rings of his irises soften with affection and the corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile. He strokes a thumb reverently over Sherlock's cheekbone, his gaze so content and full that Sherlock cannot look away.

"It's good to hear that out loud," John says with a relieved smile "We're a couple of idiots, though, aren't we? Took us this long to say those three little words?"

"Worth the wait," Sherlock replies simply, lost in act of pushing John's hair back from his forehead. John's hands fall to his waist, where his thumb lazily runs back and forth over the jut of Sherlock's hipbone, the two of them settling comfortably into the moment of silence.

Though there is quite a lot they can do now, Sherlock is struck with the simple urge to just embrace John.

Without a second thought, he wraps his arms around John's neck and pulls him close, so that his face is tucked against the dip of John's shoulder and their bodies are pressed flush together. John is surprised for a moment, but he quickly sighs into the embrace, holding Sherlock against him with one hand and soothingly skimming down his spine with his other hand. Sherlock closes his fist around a bundle of John's shirt, half-afraid that John will disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

"Can you say it again, John?" he asks, voice muffled by John's shoulder.

He can feel John smile against the top of his head. "I love you, Sherlock. I love you, I love you, I love you."

…

He's been in his bed countless times, but now that he's tumbling into it with John's arms wrapped around his waist and John's mouth smiling against his, it feel like an entirely different place. Moonlight from the window outside draws rectangles and squares on the black silk of his sheets and the smooth planes of John's skin. Sherlock feels as though he is in the presence of art.

Above him, John, so lovely with his tan skin and silvery-blonde hair, looks like something out of a dream.

"Mm—did I ever tell you how much I love your hair?" John asks against the side of his neck, as he kisses his way up Sherlock's throat. "Because it's lovely."

Sherlock tips his head back and groans at the sensation of John sucking a love bite into his pulse point. He's so lost in the feeling that it takes a moment for John's words to register. "M-my hair?"

"Mmhm," John says, now moving onto the sensitive skin on his earlobe. "I can't stop touching it." As if in demonstration, John slides his hand up the back of Sherlock's head and takes a loose handful of curls, tugging just slightly enough to bare Sherlock's throat even further.

"John," Sherlock groans. "Do that again, my god."

"Mm, no problem, love," he murmurs and tangles his fingers into Sherlock's unruly hair, leaving a trail of kisses up and down Sherlock's exposed throat.

Sherlock's entire body feels restless and molten hot, as if there are hot coals and fireworks simmering beneath his skin. He can't stop touching John's tousled hair, his curved back, his jaw. "Wanna—kiss you," he pants out, scrambling to get John's mouth back on his.

More than happy to comply, John pulls off Sherlock's neck with a wet-sounding pop and slots their mouths easily back together. His tongue curls teasingly against Sherlock's, running lazily along the seam of Sherlock's lips as if to taste him.

John's mouth, Sherlock quickly discovers, is the best thing to ever grace his existence. Kissing John is not only physically enjoyable—though, enjoyable may be too mild a word to describe the mind-blowing experience he's having right now—but it feels emotionally satisfying as well. He's always ached to be closer to John, in both a physical and romantic sense. Kissing John, tasting him, having him close enough to feel the brush of John's eyelashes against his cheek, makes him feel as if there is not a single inch of space between their two beings. There are no cracks or open seams for anything or anyone elseto fit; it's just him and John, lost in their own little universe.

Sherlock wishes he could capture this moment in amber and have it forever. He can't help but think that if his thudding heart gave out right here and now, he would die a happy man.

"God, Sherlock, your mouth," John groans, deepening the kiss even further.

Along with having his hair pulled, it turns out Sherlock likes having his lip bitten too, because the moment John nibbles his bottom lip, Sherlock's entire brain short-circuits and fizzles out like a broken telly.

"Jesus," he chokes out. "Again, John. Please."

John smirks against his mouth. "You got it."

Agonizingly slowly, John sucks Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth and bites gently, his teeth teasing the plump curve of his lip. Sherlock groans again, and John immediately soothes the delicious pinch with a toe-curling kiss.

This, Sherlock decides, is what heaven must feel like.

"Mm, I think I'm a bit overdressed," John says later, as he plants feather light kisses across Sherlock's flushed chest.

As much as Sherlock would love for John to stay right where he is, he does have a point. Somehow, he's still wearing his shirt and trousers.

After a second, John makes an executive decision and declares, "I'd better fix that."

With one last peck, John, sits back and straddles Sherlock's hips, his hands moving to the hem of his shirt. Sherlock props himself up on his elbows and watches with hungry eyes as John peels the t-shirt off in one smooth motion and tosses it to the floor.

Though Sherlock has spent the past few years fantasizing about what John might look like beneath those modest jumpers and pressed trousers, he finds that the reality is infinitely better. John's shoulders are broad and modestly toned (Jesus Christ, his arms) and his waist, although softened by years out of the army, is stocky and strong, perfectly proportionate to his shorter frame. His eyes are practically ink-black from his blown pupils and his hair is in delightful disarray from Sherlock mussing it up and tugging it this way and that.

Aside from John's obvious physical beauty, Sherlock finds something so precious and about seeing this side of John: the sexual, passionate lover that he has never before had the privilege of knowing. It feels like an honor to be privy to such a sight.

"John," Sherlock breathes, his throat tight. "You're beautiful."

Despite what some might believe about his grasp of social norms, Sherlock is well aware that male normative adjectives do not include 'beautiful.' Still, he can think of no other word to better describe John.

John smiles with his eyes and crawls towards Sherlock on the bed, insinuating a knee between Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock props himself up on his elbows and reattaches their lips, the warm, wet slide of it both delicious and comforting.

"You," John whispers, ducking his head to suck kisses along Sherlock's neck, "are gorgeous. I mean, look at you." He runs a warm, calloused palm across the jut of Sherlock's hipbone and the sensitive skin of his abdomen, and Sherlock trembles. "You are the most perfect thing I've ever seen."

Sherlock blinks and stiffens in surprise. Noticing the change in posture, John looks up. "Sherlock?"

"Do you mean it?" Sherlock asks in a rush. His face feels unaccountably warm.

John looks completely dumbfounded, as if he cannot wrap his mind around the notion that Sherlock would question the compliment. "Of course, Sherlock," he says quietly, cupping the side of the detective's face in his hand. "You're incredible. You've got eyes that swallow me whole and a mind that never ceases to amaze me." He presses a firm kiss to Sherlock's mouth. Against his lips, he says, "You are so lovely, and I mean that physically and mentally. How could you be anything but perfect?"

John slides a palm across the front of his trousers and Sherlock arcs into him, his back bowing off the bed. John groans at his reaction and splays a strong hand against his arched spine, pressing their bodies impossibly closer.

"How about we take these off?" John says in between fevered kisses. "Might make what's about to happen next a bit easier, yeah?"

For some reason, Sherlock can't help but laugh. It's half nervous energy and half giddiness, and he ends up grinning against John's lips as he shimmies his trousers down his legs.

"Pants too?"

John gives him a wolfish smile. "Allow me," he says, sliding down Sherlock's body with dark eyes.

Sherlock throws his head back against the pillow, already half-mad from the sensation of John's hands running teasingly over his hips and abdomen. "God, John…"

If Sherlock didn't think the universe was out to get him before, he's sure of it now, because the moment John's fingers are poised on the band of his pants, John's mobile chimes loudly in his pocket.

"Really? Right now?!" John cries at the ceiling, presumably to whatever deity is in charge of terribly timed phone calls. Irritated, he answers the phone with a clipped "Hello?"

Sherlock watches John's irritation melt into recognition, then confusion. He looks at Sherlock with a frown. "It's your brother."

"Mycroft?"

"Yeah, he says you weren't answering your phone. He—fine, Mycroft. Alright, I'll tell him." John looks back to Sherlock. "He says he needs to talk to you right now."

Christ, it could be the Queen herself and he wouldn't be interested in taking the call. "Tell him to call me back, we're kind of in the middle of something here."

John winces at whatever Mycroft says into his ear. "Yes, alright, no need for threats, Mycroft." John sighs in defeat. "He says it's urgent, Sherlock."

Buggering hell. "Fine." He takes the phone and raises it to his ear, still panting a bit. "What do you want, Mycroft? I'm a bit busy."

"Sherlock, I don't have time for your antics. Just listen to me. Do you recall the German terrorist group I told you to keep an eye out for last month? The Brothers of Blood?"

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs impatiently. "Yes, I recall."

"And I assume you also remember me telling you that we cannot take action until they've done something worthy of parliamentary intervention?"

He furrows his brow, now interested. "Yes."

"Well, brother, they slipped up. One of their men went rogue and was caught peddling drugs on the outskirts of Dover two hours ago. I've had him flown in for a private interrogation and I would like you to be present."

He cuts his eyes over to John, who is still waiting patiently on the edge of the bed. He thinks to himself how unfair this is. He understands that what Mycroft is telling him is incredibly important—objectively, one could argue that it is more important to staying here with John—but everything that has happened tonight has felt so surreal and dreamlike, that Sherlock is afraid if he leaves, he'll break the spell. John said he loves him, but what if that was just a spur of the moment confession? Will it hold water in the daylight?

His heart plummets in his chest. What about Mary? Does John still intend to marry her in two weeks? Does he still love her?

All of these questions Sherlock is afraid to ask, for fear of what the answers will be.

"Fine," he says at last. "Where am I to meet you? Home office or work office?"

"Neither. This situation calls for a more obscure location. I will text you the address, please come immediately."

When Sherlock hangs up the phone, he feels like tearing his hair out in frustration.

"John, I need to leave," he says to the floor, his tone dull and flat.

John scoots close to him and kisses the side of his face, then his cheek, before finally landing somewhere near the corner of his mouth. "I love you," he says simply, as if he knows that's the exact thing Sherlock needed to hear. "That won't change. Two years apart didn't change that fact, neither will one night away. Okay?"

"Okay." Sherlock takes a deep breath and pulls John close, reveling in the warmth of the embrace. "We'll talk about everything later, won't we?"

Mary. The Wedding. The future.

"Yes," John says, tightening his grip around Sherlock's waist. "I promise."

Chapter Text

Reveal: (verb) to divulge secret or hidden information

1.

"I'll have you know you interrupted something very important," Sherlock snaps, the moment he slides into his brother's car. He scowls and pulls the door shut behind him with more force than is perhaps strictly necessary. "If it weren't for the magnitude of this case, I wouldn't have bothered coming at all."

In response, Mycroft merely rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't have contacted you at such a late hour if not for the case's magnitude, Sherlock. No need to be so dramatic." He turns his gaze to the window and offhandedly continues with, "And I'm sure you can resume your activities with John some other time, anyway."

Heat floods Sherlock's cheeks and he finds himself very grateful that he can't be seen in the darkness of the car. "What activities?" he scoffs, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

Mycroft casts him a sidelong look. "Please don't play dumb, Sherlock, it's unbecoming. As if John's panting over the phone wasn't a big enough clue, your shirt is also currently buttoned inside out."

Ah, right.

"Fine," Sherlock says, chin raised in challenge. "Yes, John and I were in the midst of a very intimate moment when you contacted me." With no small amount of displeasure, he continues with, "And while we're on the subject, I can't say I have a great appreciation for your timing, Mycroft."

His brother sighs impatiently. "Sherlock, as much as I'm sure you would like to discuss your newfound intimacy with John, and how tragically it was interrupted, you and I have more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, the man we are about to meet."

Sherlock straightens in his seat, recognizing the validity of Mycroft's statement. His focus now rests entirely on his brother and this case. "Continue."

"His name is Anton Adolfo Friedrich. He is one of the youngest members of the Brothers at twenty two years old. As I told you over the phone, he was caught peddling drugs in Dover. I managed to intervene before he was brought into police custody. I've arranged for him to be delivered to a private location for our interrogation."

A shiver runs down Sherlock's spine at the word 'interrogation.' He's worried that his brother may be using that as a euphemism for something darker, and he is by no means eager to dredge up the 'interrogating' tactics he was sometimes forced to employ during his two years away. "What do you intend for us to do?"

"Ask him questions, of course. Find out why Germany's most infamous gang is loitering on the outskirts of our country." Mycroft pauses and gives him a look. "What did you think I meant?"

"Torture," Sherlock replies without missing a beat. He isn't in the mood to dance around the subject.

Mycroft's expression doesn't change, but his eyes fill with something that Sherlock would call shame on anyone else. "I…I regret putting you through that, Sherlock," he says at length. "And I have no intention of forcing you into another situation where—that sort of thing is required of you. We will merely speak to Anton and try to glean as much information as possible."

"And if he doesn't want to answer?"

Mycroft's gaze darkens. He turns back to face the window. "In the event that Mr. Friedrich chooses to withhold information, I'm afraid I will have to send him to someone with more physical means of interrogation."

2.

The private facility turns out to be the roomy, metal-walled basement of an old abandoned factory on the outskirts of London. A two-way mirror in the hallway looks into the interrogation room, which contains a bare desk, a single light fixture, and one untroubled-looking convict.

In the center of the room, bound to a metal chair and wearing two sets of handcuffs, sits one Anton Friedrich, who is currently whistling something jaunty and tapping his foot.

Sherlock stands shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother in front of the glass and watches the man inside with interest. Anton is a reasonably tall, wiry young man with pale blonde hair, nearly colorless blue eyes, thin, deeply red lips, and shiny, silver-coated teeth that remind Sherlock of shrapnel. His hands are large and bony—skeletal, really—and they never stop flexing against his thighs, drumming out scrambled beats and half-remembered melodies. His feet tap in staccato and his mouth twitches every so often, too, either in a grimace or the blossoming of a smirk. Stark, black tattoos in both English and German cover him from neck to toe, each professing messages of loyalty to the gang, promises of violence to opposers, or symbols of homage to members who have died. Sitting there, bound and trapped but utterly flippant, Anton looks otherworldly and dangerous, with his red mouth, inked white skin, and perpetually twitching hands.

Sherlock glances at his brother from the corner of his eye. "Is there a plan I am expected to adhere to?"

"Of sorts. I would prefer if you remained quiet and observant for the beginning of the interrogation. Once he's willing to share information, however, feel free to ask whatever questions you deem fit."

Though Sherlock has never appreciated being told not to speak, he understands Mycroft's reasoning. "Fine. Shall we go in?"

Mycroft nods and pulls open the heavy metal door.

…

"Hello, Mr. Friedrich," Mycroft intones, stepping into the room. "I've heard much about you."

"Mm, and I you, Mr. Holmes," Anton rasps. His voice is low and hoarse—certainly the voice of someone who has smoked for most of their life. "Apparently you're something of a big deal around here."

"I am merely one part of a very large, very complex machine."

"Humble, are we?" Anton asks. His laughter rumbles in his chest like thunder. "From what I've heard, Mr. Holmes, you are the machine. Which is to say, you are the British government, of course."

"Perhaps." Mycroft drums his fingers against the desk behind him. "But enough about me, yes? I'd like to hear more about you, Anton."

"Oh, we're on a first name basis already?" Anton asks in mock-surprise. "Well, as flattered as I am, Mr. Holmes, I'm really not looking for anything serious right now."

Evidently having lost his patience, Mycroft's polite façade drains away. "Here is how things are going to proceed, Anton," he says brusquely. "I will ask you questions, and you will answer. Simple enough?"

In response, Anton cocks his head and grins, revealing two rows of silver-capped, chipped teeth. "I'm not sure I care for that arrangement, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft tilts his head and offers an equally humorless smile. "We do have other methods of extracting information from you, Anton. And I can assure you, those methods are far less enjoyable than simply chatting with us."

Mockingly, Anton asks, "Is that so?"

Sherlock leans against the back wall and watches the man's every movement with sharp eyes. His body type—wiry and tall with small, compact muscles—implies that he was not properly nourished as a child, indicating a poor upbringing. Sherlock isn't terribly surprised; oftentimes, children with lacking home lives tend to gravitate towards gangs, for either protection or a sense of community. Anton appears to be no exception. From his physical appearance, it's clear he has been working with the Brothers for a very long time. The many scars and half-healed wounds scattered across his face and neck alone are indicative of a violent day-to-day life, not to mention the handful of puckered bullet wounds and haphazardly-sewn stiches trailing up his left arm.

Anton's eyes are watery blue and bloodshot—the eyes of an alcoholic or a drug addict, surely—but his gaze never wavers or drops from Mycroft's. His jaw remains clenched constantly and his hands have yet to stop flexing.

Sherlock finds the man distinctly unsettling.

"Would you like a demonstration?" Mycroft asks evenly. "I'm sure my men would be more than happy to oblige."

Anton drops his chin to his chest and laughs. It's a low, rumbling noise that scratches out of his throat like sandpaper. "Oh, I'm sure they would. But, ah, I believe I will choose your first option. Chatting, was it? You seem like quite the conversationalist, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft leans back against his desk and folds his arms, never breaking eye contact. "So I've been told."

Another toothy grin. "Then let's begin, shall we, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the man. Something doesn't make sense here. Loyalty is branded across every inch of Anton's being—he's literally covered in tattoos pledging his allegiance to the Brothers—so why on earth would he comply so easily? Sherlock pushes himself off the wall and joins his brother by the desk.

"Why are you so ready to incriminate your own gang?" Sherlock demands.

Mycroft's mouth goes taut. "Sherlock—"

"The wallflower speaks!" Anton laughs. He looks up at Sherlock with a smirk. "Well, if you must know, Sherlock Holmes, it's because I know that no matter what I tell you and your power-bloated brother," he cuts his eyes to Mycroft, "you won't be able to stop us."

"And why is that?"

"Because what we are trying to do is hardly worth stopping; we're doing you a service, really," Anton says. "Besides, we won't stick around long enough to endure any possible ramifications, anyway, so it's useless to even think about."

Mycroft narrows his eyes. "Elaborate."

Anton gives a long-suffering sigh and leans back in his chair. "As shocking as this may be to you, Mr. Holmes, we are not here to tear apart your precious England. In fact, we're not here to do anything untoward at all. Our aims our simple, and once they've been met, we plan to leave just as quietly as we came. Our issue is not with your country."

Sherlock stares at him, feeling even more confused than before. "Then why are you here?"

Anton's jaw flexes almost imperceptibly. "To put it simply, we are here for payback, Mr. Holmes." His pale eyes glint in the light of the bare bulb. "For justice."

Mycroft's drumming fingers go still atop the edge of the desk. "And what might that entail?"

Anton looks between the two of them for a moment, shifting his jaw. "I will put it plainly," he says after a beat. He takes a breath and every trace of humor and impishness disappears from his face, his disposition growing cold and grim in a matter of seconds. "I'm here to kill the bitch who murdered my brother," he states blackly. "Annaliese Abbamonte."

Sherlock quickly flips through his mental catalogue of known female killers and assassins, but the name doesn't ring any bells. "Who?"

Anton's gaze darkens even further, his expression hardening like stone. "Annaliese Gabrielle Rose Abbamonte," he spits. "An American agent who once worked for the CIA." He clenches his jaw and shifts his gaze to the far wall. "And she did not just kill my Josef, either; she took a family member from each of us. It was like—like a checklist for her. The hits came so quickly that none of us had time to warn our loved ones or get them to a safe place before it was already too late. Josef was stabbed to death in his bed; little Achmad, one of Christoph's sons, was shot in the head during his morning walk to pick fruit; Joseph's new bride, Hannelore, was found with her neck slit in their bedroom. Wives, children, siblings, mothers—Annaliese took them all from us. She was cold and vengeful and ruthless."

Sherlock's mind is moving at a hundred miles an hour. The moment Anton said 'CIA' his mind immediately jumped to the Ten Hour Deaths case—is it possible that this woman is their killer?

"Anton," Sherlock says, pulling the man's gaze away from the wall and back to him. "You said she worked for the CIA?"

"Yes. Many years ago, she was an assassin for the American government. But then she began to go rogue during her missions—for whatever reason, she began killing people who were not on the CIA's list—and before they could punish her, either by revoking her position or trying her as a traitor, she faked her own death. For a year or two after that, she continued with the unlicensed kills, going after powerful individuals and low-down criminals alike, in no particular pattern or sequence. Deaths would just pop up across the globe, inexplicable and expertly covered. She was untraceable. She's spent the past five years jumping from country to country, avoiding the notice of the Americans and every other group or country she's managed to damage in her time as a fugitive."

"How did she become involved with the Brothers?" Mycroft asks.

Anton's jaw flexes. "She got in a dispute with one of our leaders. She was taking out members from rival gangs on our turf, making it seem as if we were the ones doing the killing. And I'll be frank: we killed when we had to. But we had a specific arrangement with the neighboring gangs and that arrangement guaranteed protection for all parties, as long as everyone stayed in their territory. By killing people left and right in our name, she was creating conflict. It-it got bad. Real bad. The gangs we made treaties with broke the truce and began selling their cargo on our turf; that inevitably forced us to make an example of them, which gave them a reason to fight back, and all that did was make the other groups think we were the ones who'd broken the arrangement in the first place, which made them unsympathetic. We were killing each other so often and so goddamn brutally, it was like being in an all-out war.

"Finally, one of our leaders tracked her down. He warned her to leave and never come back unless she wanted her head blown off, but she refused. He shot her and grazed her shoulder, but didn't kill her. She got away. As payback for the wound, she made it her personal goal to take down every single one of us by going after our families." Anton swallows hard, anger and sorrow breaking into his voice. "Family was off limits. It was never supposed to be this way, none of them were ever supposed to get hurt."

Ex-CIA agent gone rogue. Ruthless killer. Untraceable. All of these things fit the profile of the THD killer to a tee.

Before he can ask another question, Mycroft beats him to it. "And what makes you think she's here? From what you've told me, she's impossible to find."

"Oh, she was. But then she got careless," Anton replies, a grim sort of satisfaction working its way into his tone. "Anna was always so careful about covering her tracks. So precise. I suppose that was why she managed to stay off our radar for so long. But see, she couldn't resist her past." He flashes his silver teeth in a feral smile. "As they say, old habits die hard. She killed several members of her old team a few months ago to send a message to the people who are still looking for her. A warning to stay away, actually."

"Mycroft," Sherlock says urgently, his heart jammed in his throat. This is the killer, this is the elusive puzzle piece they've been so desperately trying to find.

"Not now," Mycroft interrupts, but he holds Sherlock's gaze long enough to make it clear that he sees the connection too. He turns back to Anton with laser-focused eyes. "What was the message?"

Anton shakes his head. "Don't know. But the moment we saw those deaths, we knew it was her: poison's her trademark weapon. Our theory was really confirmed, though, when we looked into last month's London Gazette and saw her photograph."

Sherlock frowns, unable to conjure up an image of the paper in question. Which issue? Which photograph? Who is this Annaliese woman?

After fruitlessly racking his brain for a moment, he turns to his brother, who seems to be deeply enveloped in his own mind palace. Raptly, Sherlock watches conclusions slide into place behind his brother's eyes like puzzle pieces. Mycroft's entire body is as still as a statue, save for his lightly tapping fingers.

Anton frowns and looks at Mycroft, then back at Sherlock. "What is he—"

"Shut up," Sherlock barks, not tearing his eyes away from his brother.

Finally, after two agonizingly long minutes, Mycroft blinks out of his reverie.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock says carefully.

"It can't be…" Mycroft mutters to himself, as some unknown revelation hits him.

"Mycroft—" Sherlock starts again, but his brother ignores him.

Mycroft silently paces the room, lost deep in thought. Then, without warning, he slams him palm against the wall in an aberrant display of violence, hissing a string of expletives under his breath. "We were so foolish. It was so clear—so unbelievably obvious …all of it…all of it was right there..."

Alarmed at his brother's loss of composure, Sherlock steps closer. "Mycroft, what photograph is he talking about?"

Then, without warning, Mycroft turns on his heel and leaves the room, offering only a flat, "One moment," as explanation.

Sherlock stares after him with his heart hammering in his chest. Something about this feels terribly, terribly wrong. He feels as if he's on the brink of a discovery that will blow his entire world wide open.

To distract himself until Mycroft's return, he decides to put his focus back on Anton.

"What do you intend to do with this woman once you've found her?" he questions.

The lightbulb overhead swings lazily to the side, casting Anton's already dark gaze in shadow. "We'll kill her."

"And then?"

"And then we will leave. You have my word on that."

Sherlock tilts his head. "I don't believe your word is worth very much, Anton."

"Once we get her, we're gone," Anton repeats solemnly. Sherlock watches his face.

He isn't lying.

It is then that Mycroft reenters the room with a newspaper in hand.

"Mycroft," Sherlock says, half-relieved and half-nervous. "What the bloody—"

"Take it," Mycroft interrupts. With an uncharacteristically blank expression, he hands the paper to Sherlock.

"What is—"

The moment Sherlock sees the picture, he immediately understands Mycroft's outburst. His heart seizes in his chest and every semblance of thought evaporates from his mind like mist.

"No," Sherlock murmurs faintly, his knees turning to water beneath him. He grips the edge of Mycroft's desk to steady himself. "No, it can't…it couldn't possibly…"

"It is," Mycroft confirms darkly. "It's her."

All at once, a series of blurred memories dash before his mind's eye like a broken cinema reel, displaying every naïve moment he spent in her presence, every deceitful word that slipped into his ears unnoticed. How could he have been so incredibly dense? All this time and the answer was right there beneath his nose.

"Odd isn't it?" Anton says, upon catching a glimpse of the paper. "She looks so sweet there with that bloke, you'd almost think she was innocent." He laughs and it sounds like nails rattling in a metal tin. "If only he knew how far from the truth that is."

With his blood pounding in his ears and his hands shaking, Sherlock drops the newspaper to the floor and watches in dazed horror as the picture of smiling Mary Morstan flutters to his feet like a dead leaf.

Chapter Text

Strategy (noun ): a logical plan of action designed to achieve a major goal

1.

Anton glances between the two of them for a moment, before landing on Sherlock with raised brows. "What's with the look, Mr. Holmes? Do you know her?"

"I…I…" He doesn't even bother trying to finish the sentence. Instead, he leans against the wall and does his best to push down the wave of dread and anxiety that is threatening to swallow him whole. He feels as if there is an elephant sitting on his chest. He feels as if the earth just split in half. He feels as if he's going to vomit or pass out from the sickening flood of horror that is crashing through him.

It's Mary. It's always been Mary. Pulling him away from John, demanding that they stay away from cases, putting up a front, making John's life domestic and controlled, spitting barbed phrases in Sherlock's ear, waiting in the wings for Sherlock's moments of weakness, picking at the threads of his and John's friendship, lying to them, lying to everyone.

He thinks he's going to be sick.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asks, touching his shoulder. "Sherlock, breathe."

It's been years since he's had a panic attack, but the feeling of all-encompassing terror is startlingly familiar.

"Breathe," Mycroft repeats steadily. "One, two. One, two."

He does. In, out, in, out. Distantly, he's aware of Mycroft's men escorting Anton from the room.

"John," Sherlock manages after a minute of catching his breath. "J-John. He's in danger."

"Sherlock—"

"Mary is going to hurt him, Mycroft," Sherlock says frantically, pushing himself off the wall and looking to the door. "She's going to do something horrible and we have to stop her. I have to go to him, I need to protect him."

The thought of losing John after they've finally confessed the extent of their feelings for each other makes Sherlock want to scream. Or cry. Or both. All logic is lost as he makes a desperate scramble for the door, his mind set solely on getting to John.

Mycroft reaches out and puts a firm hand on Sherlock's arm, pulling him back. "Sherlock, you can't go just yet, we need to figure this out first."

"John is in danger, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouts, tearing his arm out of his brother's grasp. "I need to speak to him right away." He spins on his heel and heads for the door, his heart hammering in his chest like a drum.

"Sherlock," Mycroft barks, his tone so sharp and commanding that Sherlock freezes in the doorway. "We need to be reasonable about this."

Sherlock clenches his jaw so hard he can hear his molars grinding. "Reasonable?" he repeats slowly, turning to face Mycroft. "You want to be reasonable when John's life is potentially on the line?"

"Yes," Mycroft replies evenly. "Unless you wish to put him in even more danger, I suggest you take a seat so we may discuss this like adults."

"Mycroft, I fail to see how bloody sitting here and chatting is going to do him any good," Sherlock shouts. "John is alone at the flat right now, completely unaware and vulnerable. We cannot waste time just bloody—"

"William. Sherlock. Scott. Holmes," Mycroft interrupts darkly. "If you do not stop shouting, I will have you removed from my office and expelled from this operation entirely." His steady, even gaze does not leave Sherlock's. "I am not bluffing. This situation is even more precarious than I thought, and we must proceed with utmost caution. If you were to go shouting Ms. Morstan's identity from the rooftops, that would only get someone hurt, or worse. So, instead of doing any of that, we are going to sit here and strategize. Do you understand me?"

"I understand quite clearly, brother, but who's to say John won't be hurt?" Sherlock demands.

"If Mary had any intention of harming John, she would have done so already," Mycroft replies calmly. "I am led to believe that she has genuine fondness for John; she would not have bothered saddling herself to him if that weren't the case. Because of this, I find there is very little chance that she will hurt John now or in the future."

Sherlock can still feel anxiety and worry buzzing underneath his skin like bees, but his brother's sharp, logical words make sense. As reluctant as he is to admit so, Mycroft is right. Mary does care for John, as twisted as she may be, and for that reason, John should be safe. And to make sure that he stays safe, they have to be smart about this. No rash actions or snap decisions.

With a deep exhale, Sherlock shakily lowers himself into the chair across from his brother. "Fine. What's the plan?"

Mycroft sighs and folds his hands atop his desk. "First of all, we need to solidify a few timelines." He unearths his laptop from the depths of his desk drawer and turns it on. "The Ten Hour Deaths case occurred about four months ago, yes?"

"Three months and two weeks," Sherlock corrects.

"Right. And what was Ms. Morstan's alibi?"

Sherlock frowns and thinks back. "I believe she was out of town visiting her sister for the weekend."

"Her sister," Mycroft repeats, narrowing his eyes at the screen. "Nowhere on her file is there any mention of a sister."

Sherlock leans forward. "Her real file is online?"

"Yes, now that I know her actual name, I was able to search her up on the CIA database. The documentation stops after her 'death' several years ago, but it contains a fair amount of information nonetheless. Her photograph is on here as well," Mycroft says, turning the computer for Sherlock to see.

In the picture, Mary looks like an entirely different woman. Her presently blonde hair is stringy and dark brown, her glowing, peachy skin is ghostly pale, and her green eyes look lethal and cold instead of warm and inviting. She looks sickly and thin in the loose fitting black shirt and jacket she's wearing, and her collarbones and cheekbones are practically skeletal.

In short, she looks like a stranger.

"I suppose her 'sister' is just another fact that she fabricated," Sherlock says after a moment, turning the laptop back towards his brother. "However, her alibi still stands. There's no way she could've killed four people in the amount of time she was 'visiting her sister.' She was only gone for a few hours when Lestrade contacted John and I with the first murder. She would've been at the clinic when Sydney was killed."

"Not necessarily," Mycroft rejoins. "Did John ever explicitly mention what kind of hours Mary was working?"

Sherlock frowns. "No."

"Precisely," Mycroft says. "It would have been quite easy for her to request flexible hours right before her departure to 'visit her sister.' She could've left work early, committed the murder, and then bid adieu to John shortly after, making him think she'd been at work the entire time."

"That would explain why she was so eager for John and I to leave this case alone," Sherlock muses, partially to himself. "Is there anything there that indicates why she chose the number ten? Or why she killed those four specific people?"

"I'm afraid not." Mycroft replies, typing something. "The only connection is that the four victims were part of her team, but even that correlation is weak, because there were plenty of other people Mary worked with and could have chosen to target. As for the number ten, nothing here explains its significance."

"Yes, I suppose only Mary herself would be able to explain it," he says thoughtfully. He looks up at his brother, jarred by a realization. "Do you think she suspects that we know?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "As Anton so aptly phrased it, she got careless. She's cocky right now. She thinks that her wit and intelligence are above both mine and your own, and therefore, she does not believe we are clever enough to figure her out. Her hubris is blinding her from our involvement, which happens to be a good thing. As long as she continues to believe we are unware, we will be able to clean this situation up in a calm, orderly manner."

"Clean this up? And how do you intend to do that?" Sherlock asks. Suddenly, Sherlock's mind is bursting with questions. "What will we do with Anton and the rest of the Brothers? How long must we wait before outing Mary? When can I tell John?"

"Slow down, Sherlock," Mycroft placates, drumming his fingers absently against the top of his desk. "I will start by addressing your question about Anton." He takes a breath and stills his hands. "I am in a very unique situation, you understand. Anton and his friends are part of a group that has been involved in innumerable international scandals, murders, and heists throughout the years, and simply releasing him to do his work would not be wise, nor would it be in the best interest of England's safety.

"On the other hand, however, if we were to imprison Anton or otherwise harm him, that could stir up conflict with the remaining Brothers, which might prompt them to seek revenge on both Mary and our country. It appears that the only reasonable solution here is to strike up a deal with the Brothers."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "And what would that deal entail?"

Mycroft purses his mouth and resumes tapping his fingers, clearly conflicted. "Well, to put it plainly, we would have to request that the Brothers wait an indeterminable amount of time before attacking Mary. While they are waiting, you and I would concoct a plan to perfectly corner Mary, tie up all her loose ends, and provide the safest exit route for both John and yourself." He sighs. "Unfortunately, I'm not sure how willing a group of gang members will be to postpone their murder attempt and simply stand by while we sort out the details."

Sherlock mulls this over. "The Brothers consider each other family, don't they?"

Mycroft narrows his eyes, unsure of where Sherlock plans to go with this. "Yes."

"Then, they would care greatly about protecting one of their own, wouldn't they?" Sherlock continues.

Understanding flashes across Mycroft's eyes. "Ah."

"Yes," Sherlock confirms, leaning back in his chair. "We can keep Anton in our custody and promise not to hurt him as long as the rest of the Brothers refrain from attacking Mary. Once our business is done, we can return Anton and let the Brothers do what they came here to do."

"That…might just work," Mycroft says after a beat. "I'll have to figure out the details of that arrangement and draw up a contract of sorts, but I'm sure with Anton's assistance I will be able to put something together."

"You think Anton will be willing to help us?"

"I imagine he'll be willing to do anything as long as the end result is Ms. Morstan's head on a platter," Mycroft replies coolly. "And since he has been quite cooperative throughout this whole interrogation, there will be no need to harm or torture him in any way, which I'm sure will only increase his feelings of amicability towards the British government." Mycroft closes his laptop and gives Sherlock a long look. "As for your other questions, brother, I'm afraid you will not be permitted to tell John anything until this situation has been completely dealt with."

Sherlock goes still. "And how long will that take, Mycroft?"

Mycroft gives him an indecipherable look. "I really can't give you an exact date, Sherlock. We aren't even certain if the Brothers will be willing to cooperate or not."

He tightens his grip on the arms of the chair. "Give me a rough estimation then."

Pointedly, Mycroft clears his throat and rises from behind his desk. "It could be weeks, Sherlock. Or months. I truly cannot say."

Suddenly, ice cold dread sinks in his stomach like an anchor. Weeks or months. "So…you're saying that John will have to go through with the wedding?"

Mycroft doesn't meet his eyes. "Yes. And he must do so without any dissuasion on your part, so as not to arouse his or Mary's suspicion that something is amiss." After a tense moment, Mycroft looks up at him with genuine sympathy in his eyes. "Sherlock, I know things between you and John are—good right now, and I'm terribly sorry for having to ask this of you, but I'm afraid you will have to stow your feelings for the time being and treat this case just as impersonally as you would any other. For the sake of your safety and John's, Mary must think that everything is working in her favor. We must lull her into a false sense of security before we attack. And before you suggest it, if John breaks off the engagement, her ire will be aimed towards you, and the last thing either of us needs is for you to have a woman capable of mass murder on your heels."

Bonelessly, Sherlock wilts back into his chair and drops his gaze unseeingly to Mycroft's shoulder. "John is going to marry her," he repeats dully.

"Most likely, yes," Mycroft replies solemnly. "And to avoid conflict with Mary, you mustn't spend a significant amount of alone time with John until then, Sherlock. You must keep your distance."

At that, Sherlock's heart breaks even further, because he knows exactly what John will think if Sherlock suddenly starts ignoring him after such an intimate confession. He'll think Sherlock has changed his mind or that he wasn't sincere in the first place. He'll convince himself to be content with Mary, since Sherlock apparently doesn't want him. He'll move on and take his all his love and affection with him. It isn't bloody fair; after years of heartache, longing, and pain, Sherlock still does not get his happy ending with John.

"I'm sorry, brother," Mycroft says again. There's a moment of silence before he continues. "I will do my best to make sure this case is wrapped up as quickly as possible. For now, I suggest you go home and bid John adieu. I will speak with Anton and arrange my meeting with the Brothers as soon as I can."

When Sherlock doesn't say anything, Mycroft consolingly adds, "It's only temporary, Sherlock. When Mary is gone, then you'll have him."

Sherlock isn't so sure.

2.

When he gets home, John is asleep in his bed.

He looks so peaceful there, nestled among the white sheets with a pillow clutched to his chest. The sparse moonlight from Sherlock's window casts glowing shapes across John's face, turning his already beautiful visage into something ethereal. With a heavy heart, Sherlock sheds his clothes down to his pants, peels back the covers, and situates himself beneath John's arm. Sleepily, John murmurs something against the top of his head and pulls Sherlock flush against his chest, but doesn't wake. Sherlock sighs; the sweet, cinnamon-laundry soap smell of John is absolutely everywhere and it's intoxicating.

Sherlock drapes his arm over John's waist and fists the material of his shirt, desperately hoping that this moment will last forever if he just holds on tight enough.

"I love you," he murmurs into John's chest. "Please don't forget that."

And with a final sigh, the detective falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Alter: (verb) to change an aspect of something in order to achieve a new result

1.

The first thing Sherlock sees when he wakes up the next morning is John's sleeping face two inches away, bathed in sunlight. His honey-colored eyelashes rest against the swell of his cheek and his slightly parted mouth looks rosy and inviting. The sunshine pouring from the window frames John's silhouette like a halo, setting his silvery blonde hair alight with golds and yellows.

Sherlock could stare at him for hours.

John's hand is lying palm-up on their shared pillow, so Sherlock carefully covers it with own, smiling to himself when John reflexively interlocks their fingers.

On the table to the right of his bed, his mobile buzzes with a new message. Sherlock rubs the sleep from his eyes and turns over to grab it. His heart sinks the moment he reads the words on the small screen.

Don't forget what you have to do, Sherlock. MH

The joy he'd felt upon waking withers in his chest in an instant, and dread crashes through him like a flood. This moment right here, this perfect, domestic, warm moment of intimacy, is about to be shattered. Sherlock is going to have to look John in the eye and tell him to marry someone else. He's going to have to step out of John's life once again and create a canyon of distance between them. He's going to have to break John's heart and his own.

He texts his brother back with shaky fingers.

I know. SH

Forlorn, he threads his hands through John's hair, gently brushing his honey-blonde bangs back from his face. He looks so peaceful like this: unguarded and calm. Years of tragedy and disillusionment are gone from John's features, leaving him with the smooth, untainted visage of a young man who has never endured pain.

Sherlock loves him so much that it hurts.

"Mm, Sherlock?" John mumbles drowsily. His eyelids flutter open, revealing two clear, bright, cerulean pools.

"Oh. I didn't mean to wake you, John," Sherlock whispers in apology, his hand frozen in the motion of stroking John's hair back from his forehead.

John offers a sleepy smile and presses a kiss right above Sherlock's eyebrow. "S'fine," he murmurs, pulling back to nuzzle his nose against Sherlock's. "Morning, love."

Despite the thread of anxiety buzzing through his system, Sherlock finds himself melting at the term of endearment. "Good morning, John," he says in turn, his heart pounding when John throws an arm over his hip and tugs him closer.

"How about a good morning kiss?" John murmurs, his mouth hovering enticingly over Sherlock's.

In the back of his mind, Sherlock knows there is a clear expiration date on what he and John have, but he can't bring himself to ruin this last, perfect moment by thinking about it. So, he ignores the gaping sorrow in his chest and looks up at John, his lips parted and his eyes bright. "Yes, please."

John grins. Without being told twice, he situates himself between Sherlock's legs and lazily slots their mouths together, one hand tangled in Sherlock's hair and the other cradling his hip. "Mm…"

Kissing John is overwhelming. Hearing the sounds John makes, tasting him, touching him, having him so close that there isn't an inch of space between them, is absolutely incredible.

"Thank you," Sherlock says without thinking, in between kisses. He presses the words to John's lips, his chest bursting with affection and love. He feels like crying, because in a matter of hours, he'll no longer have this. John will no longer be his.

"Thank you for what, love?" John asks gently, pulling back to kiss the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"For this," Sherlock replies quietly. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds shaky and uneven. "For loving me."

"Hey," John says softly, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock swallows. Just looking into John's eyes makes him feel as if he's drowning in the sea: losing all logic, losing all reason. "It's nothing. I'm…I'm fine."

John isn't convinced. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"Of course."

"Did something happen with your brother last night?" John asks.

"No."

"Well, what did he want?"

"Nothing," Sherlock answers in a rush. At John's frown, he clears his throat and tries again. "I mean, there was a case he wanted me to look into. Nothing special."

John looks him over for a minute, his dark blue eyes boring searchingly into Sherlock's. "Then why do you seem so upset?"

"I'm not," he lies.

A beat passes. "Is this about the talk we've yet to have?" asks John.

"The talk?"

"About, um. About the wedding. About Mary."

Sherlock drops his eyes to John's chin, another wave of pain crashing over him at the mention of her name. "A bit," he says eventually, because he knows John won't let this drop if he keeps avoiding the subject.

John nods and rolls off of him, leaving Sherlock feeling terribly cold at the loss of contact. "I thought so," John says quietly, sitting up in bed. "Do you want to talk about it right now or over breakfast?"

Both sound terrible, but he supposes he doesn't really have a choice. "Breakfast."

John nods and gets out of bed. Irrationally, Sherlock feels a jolt of panic shoot down his spine. "Wait, John," he blurts out.

"Yes?"

"Could you, er, could I have…" Sherlock pauses and tries to articulate himself. "Can you kiss me again?"

It feels ridiculous to say it out loud, but Sherlock wants to get every bit of affection he can before this perfect thing between them falls apart.

John's eyes melt at Sherlock's request and he immediately gets back in bed. "Of course, you git," he says warmly, fondness glinting in his eyes. "Come here."

2.

"So," John says, over his cup of morning tea. "Is now a good time to talk?"

Sherlock swallows the lump of dread forming in his throat and drops his gaze to the chemical-stained table before him. "I suppose."

John sighs. "There's that look again."

Sherlock glances up at John and then back to the tabletop. "What look?"

"The one that makes me think you're upset." John's eyes travel over his face, assessing. "This isn't just about the talk then, is it?"

He drums his fingers nervously against his placemat. "It is."

"Sherlock, I know you think I'm clueless when it comes to observation, but even I can tell something's bothering you. Just talk to me, okay? I want to help."

Sherlock's chest feels constricted and the room suddenly seems far too small. Anxiety bubbles under his skin like lava. He'd love more than anything to tell John the truth, but he promised Mycroft he would keep quiet and 'go along with the plan.' There is far more at stake here than just his love life if he doesn't adhere to that promise. People's lives hang in the balance, and he cannot choose to simply cast aside all logic and rationality, just for the sake of preserving his own happiness and peace of mind.

But. The way John is looking at him right now, so open and trusting and eager, makes Sherlock want to spill his guts about every single thing that's happened in the past twenty four hours.

"It's okay, Sherlock, breathe," John says a minute later, reaching across the table for his hand. Sherlock exhales shakily, unaware that he'd been holding his breath. "It's fine," John soothes. "If you're not ready to talk about it, we don't have to. For now, I'll just say my piece, okay?"

"Okay," he replies quietly. No matter what John says to assuage him, Sherlock will still have to tell him to stay with Mary, and that's going to hurt like hell.

John curls his fingers gently around Sherlock's. "Last night was…incredible. I know we didn't technically do anything, but the intimacy of it and everything we said to each other was nothing short of a bloody dream come true." John huffs a soft laugh and meets Sherlock's eyes. "You're so wonderful, you know that? You're exciting, brilliant, clever, kind, and absolutely beautiful. You mean more to me than anything, Sherlock. More than anyone, actually." He drops his gaze to their joined hands. "And I…er, I want to tell you that, um," he shakes his head at his own tripped up words and clears his throat.

Sherlock's heart stutters and comes to a halt. Is John about to say what he thinks he's about to say?

"I just want you to know that if you'll have me, I'm yours," he finishes. He smiles warmly and squeezes Sherlock's hand tighter. "I have no intention of marrying Mary, Sherlock. I just want you."

"Oh," Sherlock replies in a shaky exhale. He wishes he didn't have to stare into John's bright, hopeful blue eyes and break his heart. He wishes he didn't have to crush that loving, affectionate look on his face. He'd give the world to keep that smile in place. "John," he says quietly. "You can't do that."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to look up. "I mean, you have to marry her."

John blinks. "You…you want me to marry Mary?"

The lie tastes like poison, but Sherlock forces it past his lips anyway. "Yes."

A beat passes before understanding flashes across John's face like a neon sign. In an instant, the joy drains from his eyes and he dejectedly pulls his hand away from Sherlock's.

"I see," he says quietly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "I guess I misread things then, didn't I?"

No, Sherlock thinks frantically. No you didn't. I want to be with you more than anything.

John pulls out his chair and starts to stand. "Right. Okay then. Well, um, don't…don't worry about it. I suppose we don't want the same things. That's…that's fine. I'll just—"

"John," Sherlock interrupts desperately, his throat aching. "John, sit down."

"No, really, it's fine," John insists, but his voice sounds strained. "I guess I was overstepping some boundaries. So, er, I think I need to get my stuff and go. Yeah." John rubs the back of his neck and starts towards Sherlock's bedroom, his eyes still cast to the floor. "I'll just go."

Unable to take it any longer, Sherlock leaps out of his chair and stops John in his tracks, his hand fisted in the material of John's jumper sleeve. "John, wait."

He doesn't shrug off Sherlock's grasp, but he doesn't turn around either. "I get it, Sherlock," he says quietly. "No need to spell it out for me."

Sherlock's mind is moving at a million miles an hour. This moment and every action that follows will either make or break his relationship with John. If he lets John believe that he doesn't want him or didn't mean what he said last night, John will gather up his things, leave the flat, and in a mere two weeks, Mary will be his wife. He and John won't get their happy ending. Sherlock will be alone, and John will be in pain. Technically, things are progressing exactly as they should be, but Sherlock can't bring himself to stand by and watch everything he's ever wanted fall apart.

"John, please don't go," Sherlock begs. He isn't sure what his next move will be if John does decide to stay, but he can't be bothered to worry about the future right now; all he knows is that he can't let John walk out that door thinking Sherlock doesn't care about him. "Just stay for a bit. Please?"

John exhales through his nose and finally turns around, his expression hurt and confused. "Why, Sherlock? It's clear as bloody day that we don't want the same things, and I…I can't hold that against you. You never signed a contract promising that we'd be together, or anything, it's just..." He meets Sherlock eyes and gives him a wounded look. "The way you were talking last night, the things we said to each other, made it seem like you wanted to be together. I thought that we were on the same page. I thought you…" he swallows hard. "I thought you wanted to be with me."

"I do," Sherlock blurts out, still holding onto John's forearm. "Of course I do, John."

The hurt on John's face quickly melts into confusion, then anger. "Don't play with me Sherlock."

"I'm not," Sherlock replies fervently. "This isn't what you think, John. It's not that I don't want you, because I do. More than anything."

"Then what is it, Sherlock?"

Dread curls in his chest like cigarette smoke. "I…I can't say, John. As much as I want to tell you, I can't."

John clenches his jaw and turns his head away. "Right. Well, you enjoy your secrets, Sherlock. I'm leaving."

"John—" At loss of what else to do, Sherlock surges forward and captures John's mouth in a deep, desperate kiss, hoping he'll understand what Sherlock can't put into words. When John responds in kind, Sherlock loops an arm around the small of John's back and pulls him even closer, his other hand cradling the side of John's face as he angles their mouths together into another searing kiss. John sighs and tugs his hands through Sherlock's hair, his fingers tangling delightfully in the detective's dark, messy curls.

"Christ, Sherlock," John groans, nipping at his bottom lips.

Sherlock doesn't realize John's been backing him up until he feels the edge of the kitchen table against his lower back. Obligingly, he hops onto it and parts his legs, and John wastes no time in moving into the V of Sherlock's thighs and winding his arms around Sherlock's waist, tugging him so close that he nearly slides off the table altogether. There's hardly a breath a space between them.

"Don't go," Sherlock says at last, against John's lips. "Please."

John pulls back, his mouth rosy and wet, and stares at Sherlock with bright, impossibly blue eyes. "Tell me what you want, Sherlock, and I'll give it to you," he says desperately. "I love you so bloody much. I don't need you to make any promises to me, I'll take whatever you're willing to give."

"Everything, John," Sherlock replies softly, dropping his hands to frame John's hips. "I want to give everything to you. I want to be with you. I love you." He takes a deep breath and drops his gaze to the table. "But as much as I don't want you to marry Mary, you have to."

"Why?" John cries, exasperated and confused. "You—you keep saying how much you want to be together, yet you think my getting married is a good plan? I don't get it, Sherlock, explain it to me!"

A war rages inside of Sherlock. If he tells John the truth, he'll potentially be putting John in even more danger than he already is. But, if he lies to John about something this big, John might resent Sherlock for it even after the dust has settled and Mary has been taken care of. Their relationship will perhaps never be restored.

He's tried to lie to John for the sake of protecting him before, and it only resulted in heartbreak and pain. Sherlock still hasn't forgotten how broken John looked when he realized that Sherlock wasn't dead all those months ago—when he discovered Sherlock's suicide had been an elaborate trick and everything he'd said wasn't true—and he knows with complete certainty that he never wants to see that betrayed look on John's face ever again.

It's time to trust John instead of protecting him. He's clever, he'll know what to do, and he'll play the part perfectly. He'll help them make this mission a success.

Having made up his mind, Sherlock steadily meets John's eyes and takes a breath. "There are a few things you need to know about Mary."

Chapter Text

Explanation: (noun) an account that clarifies the important details of a particular subject

1.

"Mary?" John repeats, looking bewildered. "What about her?"

Sherlock hops off the kitchen table. "We should discuss this in the sitting room."

"Why?"

"You'll want to be sitting down for this," Sherlock sighs.

John gives him a dubious look, but complies nonetheless, trailing after Sherlock and following his lead when he seats himself in his chair.

"Alright," Sherlock exhales, drumming his fingers nervously on his thigh. "First of all, you need to know that everything I am about to tell you, no matter how wild and unlikely it may initially seem, is true."

"Okay."

"And keep in mind that I have only known this information for less than twenty four hours, so it is just as new to me as it is to you."

"…Alright," John says slowly.

"And as awful as it may seem, I have a plan that will allow us to emerge relatively unscathed."

Now, John looks uneasy. "Sherlock, I really don't like the tone of this conversation. Is someone dead? Is Mary in danger or something? What's going on?"

Deep breath. "No one is dead and Mary is not in danger. She is the danger."

"What?"

Sherlock meets John's eyes steadily. "I'll begin by saying that Mary Morstan is not her real name."

John freezes. "What do you mean?"

"It's an alias she took up a few years ago. Her real name is Annaliese Abbamonte."

"Why...why would she need an alias?"

Sherlock forces himself to maintain eye contact. "Because, John, she is a fugitive wanted by the American government for treason and several accounts of first degree manslaughter. She was forced to take up the false identity to avoid their notice."

Following that statement, there is a long, terrible silence.

"John?" Sherlock ventures after a minute. "Did you hear what I said?"

More silence. Sherlock's watches John's hands flex against the arms of the chair. His jaw is clenched, his unreadable, navy-blue eyes are set on the back wall, and his mouth is pursed and inscrutable; he's either furious or so deeply in shock that he's still struggling to process Sherlock's words.

Finally, John exhales loudly through his nose, like a tea kettle blowing steam. "So, what you're telling me is, the woman I was about to marry is actually a wanted serial killer."

"Yes."

"And her real name is not Mary."

"Yes."

"And she's been lying to me since the day we met."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Where is the proof? How do you know?" John demands.

"I only learned of these things a few hours ago," Sherlock replies. "I am ashamed to admit that I had no suspicions about her true identity until last night. You see, the reason Mycroft contacted me was to help him interrogate a member of the Brothers of Blood, a group of well-known, highly dangerous German mobsters—"

"German mobsters?" John interrupts. "How are they involved with this?"

It's rare that John ever cuts him off, so the fact that he just interrupted Sherlock shows how frazzled and upset he truly is. "Mary killed the gang's family members as payback for a gunshot wound given to her by the group's leader, so they've been searching for her in London in hopes of getting payback. Mycroft and I were lucky enough to catch one of their members, Anton, and bring him into custody for questioning," Sherlock explains. "We spoke to Anton and he told us her true name—Annaliese Gabrielle Rose Abbamonte—as well as a decent chunk of her past life. Apparently, she worked for the CIA, went rogue and began killing even when it wasn't part of her assignment, faked her own death to avoid treason charges against the United States government, then continued her spree all throughout Europe for the next few years, hiding under alias after alias."

John chews this over for a long time. "But how do you know Annaliese is Mary, if this mobster bloke has never met Mary? Couldn't he have been talking about someone else?"

"No. Anton showed us a photograph of Mary in the newspaper and explained that the Brothers used the picture to finally pinpoint her location. He also explained that he and the rest of the group are in England to kill her."

John's eyes widen. "Kill her?"

"Yes," Sherlock says gravely. "She's done some very terrible things to a large number of people, John."

John nods stiffly, his eyes firmly settled middle distance. "What else?"

"Well," he says slowly. "Anton also revealed that she is the killer from the Ten Hour Deaths case."

"What?"

"Yes. The weekend she 'went away', she murdered four members of her old team for reasons I have yet to figure out. As shocking as it is, it certainly explains why she was so insistent that you and I avoid looking too deeply into the case."

Calm disposition forgotten, John leaps from his chair and starts pacing, his hands clenched at his sides as if itching to punch something. "That was only a few months ago! Bloody hell—she was still killing people after we met?!"

"Yes, but, John, please calm down, I fear for your blood pressure—"

"Yes, you bloody well should! It's just hit the sodding ceiling!" he shouts, dragging a hand frenetically through his hair. "Jesus, I just—I can't even wrap my head around this. I don't even know what to say right now. The woman I am currently engaged to was off killing people when she told me she was visiting her sister, for god's sake—" John stops and gives Sherlock a wild look. "She doesn't even have a bloody sister, does she?"

"Er, no. She doesn't."

"Christ. I feel sick. I actually feel sick right now." John takes a few hard exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I need tea. Or whiskey. Or a club to the head." He collapses back into his chair and closes his eyes. "Jesus."

"John, I know it's a lot to take in," Sherlock says carefully. "But I'm not quite finished."

John cracks one eye open incredulously. "There's more?"

"I wish there wasn't," Sherlock says empathetically. "But I'm afraid sharing this information with you has come at a price. Now that you know the truth, we are going to have to create a new plan to take down Mary. And as reluctant as I am to put you in any kind of danger, you will have to play a key role."

"Wait," John says, sitting up in his chair. "You're making a new plan? So, there was another plan wherein you didn't share this information with me?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies honestly. "Mycroft and I originally agreed that you would be kept in the dark so as not to arouse Mary's suspicions."

John stares at him. "You really weren't going to tell me anything?"

Shame curls through Sherlock's chest. "No."

John clenches and unclenches his fists, not quite as an expression of anger, but for the sake of doing something with his suddenly restless hands. "Well, then what changed your mind?" he asks at last.

Sherlock leans forward in his chair and places a hand gently on John's knee. "Despite the consequences that may come from this, I couldn't bear to lie to you again. This whole situation is far too similar to the painful, heartbreaking process of faking my death two years ago, and I am not willing to recreate that chasm of distrust and betrayal between us once more. I'd rather be in this together, as a team and a united front, so we may take down whatever comes at us, knowing we have each other's backs."

For a while, John doesn't say anything; he just rubs a hand over his mouth and looks to the side, his jaw flexing slightly as he mulls over Sherlock's words. "I don't think I could've gone through that kind of pain again, Sherlock" he says eventually, his tone penetrating and raw. "It nearly killed me last time."

Sherlock drops his eyes to his shoes and nods. "I know."

John lets the silence settle for a moment, before dropping his hand over Sherlock's and squeezing lightly. "But I'm glad you trust me. I appreciate it." He exhales forcefully and shakes his head. "Your brother, however, I'd very much like to chin."

"Who among us hasn't felt that urge?"

John huffs a tired sort of laugh and Sherlock briefly joins in, before he remembers that he isn't quite finished talking about all the unpleasantness that the future holds.

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and stares down at their joined hands. "Now, here comes the hard part."

"The hard part?"

"The plan itself involves you convincing Mary that nothing is wrong," Sherlock explains reluctantly. "Which means that everything must proceed as she wants it to."

"Like the wedding," John says faintly, as if the realization is just dawning on him.

"Yes."

There's a moment of silence in which John drinks the idea in. "Sherlock," he says eventually, "she's a fugitive who has killed countless people over the years, and you want me to marry her?"

"I know, John, it sounds crazy."

John rubs a hand down his face in frustration. "Yes," he says. "It bloody does."

"As unpleasant and awful as it may be, John, you have to do it," Sherlock continues sadly. "We need Mary to believe that nothing is amiss if we want to catch her. She's been known to slip through the cracks, and we can't afford to let her get away. As we speak, Mycroft is negotiating with the Brothers so we may have some extra time to make sure she's completely cornered."

"So I'm just supposed to act like I still love her?" John asks.

"Yes," Sherlock answers, though he'd give anything to be able to tell John No, you don't have to. You can be with me and we can take her down some other way. Unfortunately, he is well aware that that isn't even an option. "Behave just as you did when you were in love with her. Be as affectionate and adoring as you need to be in order to keep her in the dark. Help with the wedding, spend all of your time with her, and treat every interaction as if she's the only person in the world you want to be with. You need to convince her that nothing is wrong, John. She has to be completely blindsided when we finally do attack." Sherlock pauses for a moment. "Do you understand what I'm telling you, John?"

"Yes," John says tiredly. "I understand."

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek, wishing they didn't have to do this. "Mycroft also told me that you and I cannot spend anymore alone time together until Mary has been properly taken care of."

"At all?"

Sherlock feels himself wilting in his chair. "Precisely."

John stares back at him, looking just as crestfallen as Sherlock feels. "Did Mycroft tell you how long we'll have to play along?"

"He said weeks. Or months," Sherlock replies dejectedly.

John groans and drops his face in his hands. "This isn't bloody fair."

"I know," Sherlock mumbles, his entire body weighed down with dread. He stares at John, whose face is still buried in his palms. It's then that it occurs to him that while this has been a terrible, possibly traumatizing experience for him, it must be ten times worse for John, as he was the one who spent two years in a relationship with her. He loved Mary. To find out that she is something completely different than he thought must be nothing short of earth-shattering.

"This is a lot to come to terms with at once, John," Sherlock says quietly. "What are you feeling?"

After a minute of composing himself, John sighs and looks up at him. "I don't know what to feel right now," John confesses. "On one hand, I'm absolutely pissed that she's been lying to me for so long. On the other hand, I feel…betrayed. I did love her at one point, and hearing that she's been living some terrible double life without my knowledge is strangely heartbreaking." He shakes his head. "I also feel disgusted that I allowed this deceitful, poisonous woman to slip into my life. I feel stupid that I didn't notice the signs. I feel angry that you and I won't be able to be together as soon as we would like. I feel scared as bloody hell, because I'm engaged to a serial killer who could decide at any moment to take the lives of the people I care about. I feel relieved that you told me the truth. I feel enraged that Mycroft wanted you to lie to me again. I feel both justified and sad at the fact that I want her dead. I just—I'm feeling a lot of things right now, and I can't bloody sort anything out," John finishes, dragging his hands through his hair.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock says at length, because there's nothing else to say. "You don't deserve this."

"Neither do you," John sighs. He meets Sherlock's eyes. "But despite all of the terrible emotions, the biggest thing I'm feeling is actually fairly positive."

Sherlock blinks. "What is it?"

"Love," John answers simply. "Love for you, Sherlock. And, listen, I know things are going to get crazy and terrible and possibly terrifying in the foreseeable future, but I just want you to know, I'll still be here for you when this is over. No matter how long this takes."

Sherlock darts his gaze over to John, surprised that John managed to address the unvoiced, but nonetheless niggling, doubt in the back of his mind. "You will?"

"Of course," John says softly. "Listen to me: I love you. And we've both waited so long for each other, a few weeks or months aren't going to change anything. We're going to go along with this plan, get Mary taken care of, and then you and I are going to have the rest of our lives to spend with each other."

"The rest of our lives?" Sherlock repeats. His busy stream of thoughts comes to a screeching halt when he realizes what John just said. They've never really spoken about the extent of their relationship before, only the fact that they both want each other. John talking about being with Sherlock forever is certainly new. Sherlock swallows hard, his heart singing with desperate hope. "Do…do you mean that, John?"

"Of course I do, you git," John says fondly. "I'm mad for you, remember? Always have been, always will be."

A flood of affection and love crashes through Sherlock's chest and he feels as if his heart might actually burst. "I love you, John," he blurts out, at loss of what else to say.

"Come here," John says with a smile, his eyes a deep, engulfing blue. Sherlock rises from his chair, both surprised and pleased when John grabs him by the waist and tugs him into his lap. John grins and crushes their mouths together, his hands immediately moving to cradle the nape of Sherlock's neck and the small of his back.

"I love you, too," John murmurs, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's curls and deepening the kiss. Sherlock melts at the sensation, falling bonelessly against John's chest like a ragdoll. "I love you so bloody much."

John's hands skim up and down his back, over the curve of his spine, along the jut of his shoulders blades, before settling at his hips almost possessively. His lips move unhurriedly against Sherlock's, as reassuring and dependent as the tide crashing into the shore.

Then, John's chair, apparently unfit to hold two grown men, breaks the mood by creaking loudly in complaint at their combined weight. John stops what he's doing and pulls back, giving Sherlock an amused look. "Did the chair just creak?"

"Yes," Sherlock says impatiently, bringing John's mouth back to his. Who cares about the sodding furniture when there's snogging to be done?

A minute later, it creaks again, because apparently it was not satisfied with ruining the moment once already. Stupid inanimate object. "As—Mm—pleasing as this is, John, we may be too big for this chair," Sherlock mumbles against John's lips. He can feel John smiling even before he pulls back and sees the expression for himself.

"It's your bloody long legs," John chuckles, pressing a fond kiss above his eyebrow. "You're six feet tall and we're both trying to fit in a seat built for one. At this rate, we're going to break the damn thing."

Sherlock smirks, bumping his nose against John's. "Let it break, then."

"Oi, easy to say when it isn't your chair," John complains, smiling despite himself. He leans his forehead against Sherlock's. "Tell you what, we can get up in a minute and—"

John stops midsentence as his mobile begins ringing in his pocket. Sherlock watches John glance at the caller ID and practically wilt with dread. He looks up at Sherlock with suddenly grave eyes. "It's Mary."

And just like that, the atmosphere of lightheartedness is gone, sucked from the room in an instant.

Sherlock untangles himself from John and gets out of the chair immediately, brushing down the wrinkles in his dressing gown and smoothing back his unruly hair. "Answer as you normally would," he instructs. "Remember: nothing is wrong and nothing has changed since you last saw her."

John nods once and answers the phone. The minute he starts speaking, his entire disposition changes in a flash.

"Good morning, darling," John says, a smile pouring over his face like sunlight. Mary says something and he shakes his head and laughs. "Oi! I know it's noon, but we may have had a bit too much to drink last night, so cut me some slack here, love. What did we do? Oh, you know, the usual stag night nonsense. We went on a pub-crawl until the sun rose, then dragged ourselves back to the flat and passed out." He laughs again. "Oh, hush, I'm entitled to a bit of drunken foolishness once in a while." He smiles to himself and nods at her next comment. "Of course, darling. First, I want to make sure Sherlock is going to be alright with this massive hangover of his, then I'll head right over. How does two sound? That way we can get a bite at that Italian place you love afterwards." More nodding and smiling as she says something else. "Splendid! I'll talk to you then, Mary, goodbye."

John puts down the phone, and the happiness drains from his face in an instant. "I feel sick," he says after a minute. "Well and truly sick."

"That was very impressive," Sherlock says. Though he means it as a compliment, there isn't anything particularly happy about his tone or expression, and John seems to feel the same, because he merely nods glumly in response. "Just keep doing that, I suppose."

"When will we see each other again?" John asks.

Sherlock frowns. "Mycroft said—"

"I know what your brother said, Sherlock," John interrupts. "But he also told you not to tell me anything, right? We'll find a way to see each other without making her suspicious. Hell—it might even be more suspicious if we stopped seeing each other."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm saying that you can help plan for the wedding. You can go out to lunch with us. You can swing by the flat with ideas for decorations or cakes or some rubbish like that, and use it as an excuse to stick around. I don't know, you can—can make something up and come over." John's tone is bordering on desperate. "I just need you around, okay? I won't be able to stand these next few weeks by myself."

Sherlock can't help the gush of relief that crashes through him at John's words. He feels just as eager to cling to John for support, and he's glad they're on the same page. "Yes, okay," he says around an exhale. "But first I have a very important call to make."

"To whom?" John asks.

Sherlock sighs and dials the number. "My brother. I believe he'll need to be notified about the new plan."

Chapter Text

Deca: (prefix) ten

1.

Sherlock's call with his brother is clipped, brief, and, on Mycroft's end, quite obviously incensed. While Sherlock speaks into the phone in angry, low tones, John busies himself in the next room by packing up his things and preparing to leave and meet Mary.

"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft chastises. "Would it have killed you to adhere to the plan?"

"Yes, Mycroft," Sherlock retorts, spitting his brother's name like a swear word. "It would have killed me."

There is a long pause on the other end. Presumably because Mycroft is endeavoring to compose himself.

At last, he sighs long-sufferingly and asks, "How much did you tell him?"

"Everything."

"As in…"

"Yes. As in everything. He deserved to know."

Mycroft laughs without mirth. "Yes, well, I'm glad you made that decision for us, Sherlock, because now the entire plan must be rearranged. As usual, the entire world is forced to accommodate you and your finicky, ever-changing whims of—"

"Mycroft," Sherlock interrupts. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, for once in your bloody life, you might be wrong about this? You may be an expert on issues of state, but I am an expert on John Watson. I know him and I know his capabilities. Nothing about the plan needs to change; John will play his role and play it well. He will not hinder this operation, he'll help it."

"Do you truly believe that, Sherlock?"

"I do," he replies firmly. "I trust John with my entire being. He won't disappoint us."

Another beat of silence. "Well, I suppose if it's been done, there's nothing for it now," Mycroft says with a sigh. "Is he still there?"

"Yes, but he's going to be leaving and meeting Mary in a few minutes. He already spoke to her on the phone and made plans for lunch."

"Well, as soon as he leaves, I would like to meet with you in person to discuss what has transpired in your absence. I have made significant progress with the—matters we discussed. For reasons I'm sure you can deduce, I'd prefer not to discuss this over the phone."

"Where am I meeting you?"

"I'll send the car around and we'll discuss it there."

Sherlock frowns. "In the car?"

"Yes, Sherlock, in the car," Mycroft says impatiently. "We'll drive about London while we discuss things. I cannot guarantee that my office and home are not bugged to high heaven with cameras and microphones, and I would rather not risk revealing important information. The only places I can ensure are entirely secure are your flat and this car, and since it would look slightly suspicious for you and I to have an impromptu meeting at the flat, I would like to speak with you in the car. Understood?"

…

"John you'll be alright, won't you?" Sherlock asks, once John is standing in the doorway with all of his things.

John gives him a reassuring smile, but his eyes and body language speak clearly of his unease and reluctance. "'Alright' is a bit of stretch, but I'll manage," he says with a half-hearted chuckle. "But don't worry, about me, Sherlock; I know what's at stake here and I won't be taking any of this lightly. I'll play my part and make sure Mary doesn't know anything is amiss."

"Good," Sherlock says with a firm nod. Despite the fact that anxiety and worry are buzzing beneath his skin like wasps, he forces his expression to remain calm and untroubled; the last thing John needs is for Sherlock to look as though he's on the brink of having a panic attack.

"Text me, okay?" John asks, his gaze earnest. "I may not be able to answer right then and there, but it'll make me feel like you're close by, and that'll definitely help ease my nerves."

"Of course, John," Sherlock replies. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, wondering how he ought to phrase the next question bouncing around in his head. "John," Sherlock says at last. "Would it be alright if…if I, er," he pauses and frowns, annoyed at his own inarticulacy. "If I could…?"

"Hm?" John says softly, taking a few steps nearer and closing the gap of distance between them. "If you could what?"

"Kiss you," Sherlock breathes, his eyes falling to John's mouth as if drawn there by magnetic force. He swallows hard and forces his gaze up to John's, nearly drowning in those pools of deep, unending blue. "May I?"

"Of course you can you git," John murmurs, affection pouring out of his face like sunshine as he slides a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and gently brings their mouths together. "Mm, you don't have to ask."

Unlike the one from earlier, this kiss is not hungry and desperate and filled with fiery passion; it's slow and impossibly sweet, and it sends deep, unending affection crashing through Sherlock's chest like waves. His heart feels so full that he begins to worry it'll burst right through his chest.

"I love you," John mumbles against his lips. The words sink into Sherlock's skin and make him feel as if he's floating.

"Love you, too," he whispers back, once they've pulled apart far enough to rest their foreheads against each other. After a few beats, John sighs and pulls back completely, leaving Sherlock cold at the lack of heat.

"Like I said, text me, okay? I better head out or Mary's going to start wondering where I am."

Sherlock bites back the urge to beg John not to go, partially because he's already agreed to meet his brother somewhere and partially because he knows there's a small chance John might just listen to him.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

As he watches John disappear down the stairs, it takes every ounce of willpower not to follow him.

2.

The inside of Mycroft's sleek black car smells like a mix between expensive cigarettes, expensive cologne, and, strangest of all, blood.

That is the first clue that something is not right. The second clue reveals itself when Sherlock sits down beside his brother and realizes that rather than wearing his usual posh, color-coordinated jacket and trousers, Mycroft is instead wearing a grim, all-black suit fit for a funeral, no tie, and brand-less dress shoes. His umbrella is also suspiciously absent.

"Whose blood is that?" Is the first question Sherlock asks, ten seconds after closing the car door behind him, and five seconds after laying eyes on the blood-spotted handkerchief wadded up in Mycroft's fist.

"Mine," his brother replies calmly. He opens his palm and reveals a sizable gash in the center of his palm, which, if Sherlock's instincts are correct, he received from a sharpened piece of wood. Most likely it was sloppily cut wood as well, if those jagged bits of flesh are any indication.

"From whom?" Sherlock demands, peering at the wound with narrowed eyes. "Did the deal with the Brothers go awry? Did Anton somehow do this?"

"No, and no," Mycroft replies, closing his hand once again. "Anton was perfectly cooperative and the Brothers and I have yet to meet. I received this after looking into the case of our dear friend, Ms. Morstan."

"Mary did this?" Sherlock straightens in his seat and feels the color drain from his face, his mind immediately dredging up a hundred different scenarios in which Mary is torturing or harming John in some way. "John just went off to see her, Mycroft, if she knows something, then we have to—"

"No," Mycroft interjects firmly. "Mary does not know anything and she did not do this to me. If you will kindly let me finish, brother, I will be more than happy to explain everything." Then, because he can still see the panic on Sherlock's face, he adds, "John is no immediate danger. She has no idea we know the truth, and I'm sure John will not say anything to make her suspicious. He will be fine."

Sherlock nods slowly, his erratic heartrate gradually falling back to a normal level. "Okay," he says on an exhale. "Go on."

"Well, after you left, the first thing I did was speak to Anton about meeting with the Brothers. At first, he was quite reluctant to participate. However, he was not deaf to logic, so once I explained that our plan to corner Mary completely before striking is the only guaranteed way to eliminate her, he was willing to be of assistance. After that, he told me, quite bluntly, that it would take some proof to make the Brothers willing to comply."

Sherlock considers this. "Proof of what?"

"They would like proof that we will allow them to take care of Ms. Morstan once we've dealt with all of the details and tied up the loose ends, rather than simply throwing them in prison and allowing Mary to roam free. I suggested a contract to Anton, but he made it very clear that governmental documents and such would not be welcome in the gang. So, as reluctant as I was to do so, I settled at a compromise." Mycroft sighs. "The Brothers will be placed under the official protection of the British government for as long as it takes us to deal with this case. Additionally, they will be given constant updates on the status of the situation. It is for the sake of that last clause that I ended up with this on my hand," Mycroft says, opening his palm. "I figured the best way to keep both the gang and myself updated, would be to install surveillance. Thus, after changing into this nondescript outfit, my men and I went to the Watson's home this morning while Mary was at work, and set up several microphones and cameras throughout the flat."

Sherlock raises a brow. "You didn't have any there already?"

"I was respecting John's right to privacy, Sherlock," Mycroft says with a sniff. "I would've thought you'd be glad."

"I'd be overjoyed if it weren't for that fact that you still have several cameras in my home."

"Yes, well, I can't be completely out of the loop, now can I?"

"Anyway," Sherlock says pointedly, bringing them back to the subject at hand. "How did you end up with that cut?"

"Ah, yes. Well, as I was putting up the cameras in the Watson's bedroom, I noticed something rather odd. You see, on Mary's half of the room, there was a dresser—a fine piece of furniture with gold trim and expensive rose quartz knobs—and on the side, amidst an otherwise flawless design spanning from the top of the dresser to its legs, there were several breaks in the pattern. Almost as if the painter had shifted one part of the design slightly further down than the rest. At first, I merely thought it was an artistic liberty. Upon closer inspection, however, I realized there was actually a removable panel on the side of the dresser. A custom-made panel, mind you. Before opening it, I did the sensible thing and made sure to survey the entire area for any traps or mechanisms that would alert Mary of the intrusion. After finding nothing, I removed the panel and discovered something quite interesting."

Mycroft removes a sizable stack of papers from his bag and drops it into Sherlock's waiting hands. "I did not take the original, of course," he adds, "so you'll have to excuse the somewhat grainy quality of the photocopies."

Sherlock ignores this and wildly flips through the stack, his eyes scanning each page for code or incriminating clues, before he stops and realizes what he's actually holding.

"These are just photos."

"Yes."

"From a photo album."

"Yes," Mycroft says again, taking them back and flipping carefully through each page. "They are indeed."

Sherlock frowns, utterly confused. "Well, it obviously belongs to Mary, but what's the significance of it? I don't recognize a single person and they all seem to be of different ethnicities, ages, and locations, so they can't belong to the same family."

"It's a glorified check list," Mycroft says at last, putting the papers aside.

"A checklist of what?"

Mycroft's gaze darkens and he turns to face the window. "Of everyone she's killed."

Horror sinks in Sherlock's chest like a stone. He grabs for the stack and looks through it again with new eyes. The pictures themselves are quite innocuous, despite Mary's use of them. One photograph depicts a smiling young woman with black hair perched on the edge of a balcony with a man standing beside her, his arm slung around her waist. Another shows a dark-skinned woman in her forties drinking champagne alone in a private garden, her face tipped up at the moon. Several more pictures feature the same tall, red-haired man again and again, playing tennis, driving on the road, kissing another man on a front porch, purchasing something at a store. The most haunting of all, however, is the sweet, young girl, who couldn't be older than ten, playing on the swing set of a playground while a man—presumably her father—watches fondly from a distance.

"I had a team of my identity specialists go over the photographs and quickly piece together the names and locations of each individual," Mycroft continues. "Upon searching them up, I found that they have all been reported either missing or dead in the past five years, in every country from the USA to Britain itself. For whatever reason, it seems Mary wanted to keep track of her 'hits'."

Sherlock still finds himself unable to speak. It was one thing to know in theory that Mary had killed people, but to hold a stack of people with real lives in his hands and realize that every one of them is now dead because of her, is entirely something different.

Noting his brother's shock, Mycroft keeps speaking despite the lack of response.

"Allow me to draw your attention to the most notable and incriminating piece of information I found," Mycroft says, sifting through the papers in search of a particular photograph. "Ah, here it is. This was one of the last photographs in the book. As if there wasn't already enough proof that Mary is our Ten Hour Deaths killer, this picture conveniently contains every single one of the victims."

Sherlock shakes off his disbelief and takes the proffered photo, surprised to find the bright-eyed, beaming faces of January Phillips, Jessica Hepburn, Nathaniel Hastings, and Sydney Carmichael, as well as several other smiling strangers, all crowded around each other at what appears to be a party. Mary's face isn't in the picture, but a small piece of a woman's shoulder and neck can be seen in the top left corner—the rest of her having been cut out of the photograph entirely—and Sherlock is willing to bet that it's her.

If the red plastic cups, platters of food, and festive decorations are any indication, they're celebrating something. A banner overhead reads, in colorful letters, Deca Family 2007.

"So all these people were on her old CIA team?" Sherlock questions, still staring down at the photograph.

"Yes," Mycroft replies. "Did you notice the banner?"

"Deca Family 2007," he mumbles under his breath, turning the phrase over in his mind. "Was that the name of her team?"

"Yes, Deca was the name of her team," Mycroft confirms. "Technically, the branch is called the Deca-Occulitis Clandestine Affairs Co-op, but I'm told that members often shorten it to simply 'Deca'."

"Ten," Sherlock says suddenly, the realization striking him like lightning. "That's the significance of ten. Remember, Anton told us she killed members of her old team to send a warning to those who were still looking for her? Well, this explains it! The ten hours—Deca hours—was a specific reference to her old team, meaning that those four people she killed must have done something or known something that the rest of the members did not. Think about it; she could have just as easily killed her entire team, rather than stopping with those four. But she didn't, because there was something about them that made their murder all the more remarkable; something that allowed her to convey a very particular message, not just a general warning. If she was simply looking to scare the living members of her old team, she would've killed with less precision. She would have killed more, and with less finesse. But she didn't because she wanted to express something very specific." A fresh wave of frustration washes over Sherlock. "And it is something you and I will not be able to suss out without speaking to her."

"The significance of four," Mycroft muses. "Yes, that is something we will not be able to deduce on our own. Only one who knew the victims intimately would be able to figure out the connection."

There's a long pause in which they both retreat into their respective mind palaces.

"There's one thing you haven't explained yet," Sherlock says after a moment. "How did you end up with that injury?"

"I am ashamed to say that this injury was merely a product of my own physical ineptitude," Mycroft admits sourly. "As I was examining the album, I thought I heard a woman's footsteps approaching the bedroom, so I quickly slid the panel back into place, accidentally cutting myself on the jagged wood in the process. After realizing it was merely my imagination—the footsteps had belonged to one of my men—I cleaned up the blood, took several photographs of the album, replaced the wooden panel, and fled the scene."

"And you left no indication that you were there?"

Mycroft gives him an imperious look. "Kindly remember who you are speaking to, Sherlock. Despite my brief slip in judgement," he gestures to his hand, "I am still your older brother and the head of the British government, and I have my fingers in every pie from here to the shores of America. I am not obtuse, so please do not ask me questions that insinuate that I am."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It was just a question, Mycroft."

"Yes, and I just gave an answer, Sherlock. Mary's flat looks the exact same as it did when I arrived, all the way down to the dust."

Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. "How on earth did you recreate—"

"Precision," Mycroft interrupts, "is everything, brother mine. I made sure to take all necessary measures, so do not worry." He pauses and looks out the window. "Ah, and it appears we've returned."

Sherlock turns to his own window and sees that they have indeed arrived at Baker Street. "Is there anything else you needed to tell me, Mycroft?"

"No, but I will contact you and John frequently to see how things are progressing," Mycroft says as Sherlock starts to push the car door open. "I will also make sure to notify you when I have engaged with my meeting with the Brothers. Until then, lay low and avoid ruffling any feathers."

"Understood," Sherlock replies, before leaving the dark interior of the car and stepping back into daylight.

3.

After being back in the flat for only twenty minutes, his mobile rings. It isn't John, because he just texted Sherlock a minute ago saying he and Mary were about to see a movie, and it isn't his brother, because he just saw him.

"Sherlock Holmes," he drones without looking at the caller ID.

"Now is that any way to treat a friend?" Janine's voice chastens from the other end. "After neglecting to tell me about stag night for an entire day, the least you owe me is a cheery hello."

"Christ, the last thing I'd like to be right now is cheery," Sherlock groans, rubbing at his temples. He lies back on the couch and props his head up on the armrest, the phone perched by his ear.

"What's got you down, detective? Did something bad happen on stag night?"

"No," he says unthinkingly. "No, stag night surpassed every expectation I could've imagined. John and I—" he stops himself when he remembers that they're supposed to be playing by Mary's rules now. Meaning: no telling anyone that he and John are 'together'.

"You and John what?" Janine cries. "Tell me! You've got me on the edge of my seat here!"

"Er, we got drunk and passed out at the flat," he finishes lamely, using the excuse John told Mary a few hours earlier. Best to keep the timeline consistent. "Yes, it was…great fun."

"Great fun?" She repeats. He can practically see her scrunching up her nose in confusion. "How the bloody hell did getting pissed and blacking out 'surpass every expectation'? Were your expectations really that low?"

He clears his throat. "Er, yes. Very low."

"So you didn't tell him anything? There were no heartfelt confessions?"

He rubs a hand tiredly over his face. "You know, Janine, I'm quite tired right now, so if we could have this conversation later that would be—"

"Oh, no, I am not letting you put me on the back burner, Sherlock Holmes. Is John over there right now?"

"No."

"Well, then I suggest making yourself decent, because I'm coming over with biscuits and cake right now."

"That's really not necessary, I—"

"Nope, too late. I'm flagging down a cab as we speak. The only question is, would you like carrot cake or devil's food cake?"

"Janine, I really don't think—"

"Pick one, dear, or I'm bringing two of each and leaving them in your fridge."

"Fine," he says in resignation, mentally throwing his hands in the air. "Carrot."

"Great," she chirps, clearly pleased with herself. "See you in a bit, detective!"

Chapter Text

Mendacity: (noun) deliberate untruthfulness or deceit

1.

When Janine shows up at his door ten minutes later, Sherlock isn't sure which looks more nauseatingly sweet—her smile or the giant cake in her hands. Before he can decide, she brushes past him and makes a beeline for the kitchen, where she then begins pulling out plates and utensils as if this were her second home.

"Nice to see you, too, Janine," he mutters, closing the door and turning to face her. Drily, he continues, "There is absolutely nothing I'd rather do right now than eat chemically sweetened desserts and watch you rifle through my meticulously organized silverware drawer."

"Oh hush," Janine says from the kitchen table, rolling her eyes. "First of all, I doubt you keep your forks and knives in any particular order. And second of all, as much as you like to pretend to be brooding and uninterested, it's clear you love having me around, Sherlock. No use trying to convince me of otherwise."

"Is that so," he deadpans.

"Yup!" she chirps, sounding quite confident and untroubled. "Now why don't you give me a hand with cutting this cake so we can sit down for our chat?"

"Our chat?" he echoes, making no move to join her in the kitchen.

Casually, as if the statement hardly requires elaboration, Janine continues sifting through the silverware drawer and replies, "Indeed. Our chat."

Sherlock just blinks. "And what might we be chatting about?"

Janine pulls out two forks and scoffs at him. "Stag night, of course. Did you really think I'd be satisfied with that shoddy explanation you gave over the phone? You have to spill the details, detective. I'm going to find out one way or another."

He crosses his arms over his chest and raises a brow. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

She swipes a finger across the side of the cake and licks it off appreciatively. "If you must know, I plan to bribe you with sweets and good company."

"Well, I hate to burst your bubble, Janine, but I doubt you'll get very far with either of those things."

"Oh, I don't know," she says, cutting into the cake and divvying up their slices. "I think if you take a piece of this delicious dessert and joined me in the sitting room, you might change your tune."

"Again, I doubt it," Sherlock retorts from his position in the doorway, still several feet away from both Janine and her proffered plate of cake.

"Here," she says, "you can have the first piece."

Sherlock frowns and crosses his arms tighter over his chest. "No."

"Not even a 'no thank you'?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Fine. No thank you."

Janine tsks. "Unfortunately, 'no' is not an acceptable answer right now. Here. Just take the cake and we can move on to bigger, more important matters."

"I'd really rather not."

"Sherlock…" she says warningly.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes"

"N—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, could you just come over here and take it?!" Janine cries at last, holding out the plate with an exasperated look on her face. "You're acting like a two year old!"

As much as he detests the idea of smalltalk and sugary treats (with the exception of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, of course), and as annoying as he finds Janine's insistence, he can't help but feel slightly grateful for her bubbly, demonstrative presence and decides he might as well take a slice of cake, since she did go through the trouble of bringing it over. Besides, it isn't as if his original plan to brood on the sofa and think dejectedly about John was a much better alternative.

"Fine," he says, with a world-weary sigh. He pushes himself from the kitchen's threshold and strides forward to accept the plate, doing his best to look as surly and unhappy about it as possible.

"There," Janine says, once he's taken it from her hands. "Now was that so hard?" She doesn't wait for his response, which is probably for the best since it would've just been something snarky, anyway. "Now, you go get comfortable in the sitting room while I put this in the fridge and make some tea for the two of us."

…

The very instant Sherlock sits down beside her on the sofa with his cake, the interrogation begins.

"Tell me exactly what happened at John's Stag night," Janine demands with no preamble whatsoever. He barely has the chance to register the question before she's leaning forward and adding, "And don't bother repeating that story you told me over the phone. The very first thing you said when I asked you how it went was that it exceeded all of your expectations. And since I highly doubt getting pissed and passing out exceeded any of your hopes, you must be fibbing about what really happened."

"Right to the point then, I see," Sherlock mumbles. He takes a bite of cake for the sake of occupying his mouth and stalling the lie he will inevitably have to tell Janine. As much as he'd like to tell her that he and John kissed, confessed their love, and nearly had sex, he absolutely cannot afford to jeopardize their plan to trick Mary into thinking everything is going in her favor. If Janine finds out that he and John are together, there is a chance—albeit a small one—that word will get back to Mary, and that could potentially endanger countless lives. As much as he hates lying to Janine, the only person with whom he has a genuine, uncomplicated friendship, he has no other options. There is far too much at stake.

So, affecting hesitation, Sherlock says, "Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but if you promise not to tell…"

"Of course I won't tell anyone," Janine assures him. A small pang of guilt jolts through Sherlock at the sincerity in her tone, but he pushes on nonetheless.

"Alright. It's a bit embarrassing, actually, but, well, I've realized that, er…" he pauses and rubs the back of his neck, pretending to be ashamed.

"Go on, Sherlock," she says gently, putting her plate aside and resting a comforting hand on his knee. "I won't judge you."

He clears his throat. "Yes, I know. It's just that…okay, I suppose I'll just come right out and say it. I've realized that my feelings for John were not real. They were merely based on my own self-delusions and projected desires." It hurts more than anything to say these things aloud because of how blatantly untrue they are, but he knows he has no other choice. "I put John on a pedestal, made him out to be far greater than he actually is, and once I opened my eyes and finally realized the truth—that John is just another ordinary person—I found my feelings for him disappearing in an instant. That is why I was satisfied with the fact that we merely drank and passed out at his stag night. I no longer wanted anything more than platonic companionship from him." The lies feel absolutely poisonous on his tongue and he hates himself for even saying them.

Janine looks at him for a long time, her eyes wide and unblinking, before she finally shakes her head and pronounces, quite matter-of-factly, "You're lying."

Sherlock fights the urge to wince and endeavors to keep his expression as even as possible. "I'm not, Janine. I know it sounds crazy but—"

"Yes," she interrupts, sounding both irritated and confused. "It does sound crazy. Not only that, but it sounds entirely fake as well. There is no way on bloody earth you don't have feelings for John, Sherlock Holmes," she asserts, all but putting her hand on her hips and wagging a finger at him. "I don't care what you say, I've seen the way you look at him. Hell—the whole city of London has seen the way you look at him! I know you think you're an expert at deceiving 'simple pedestrians' such as myself, but I know when you're being sincere, Sherlock, and from the moment I met you at John's engagement party, I knew you were head over heels for him. There is absolutely nothing you could tell me to convince me that you aren't madly in love with him, so I highly suggest you stop wasting your time trying to trick me into believing some shoddy lie." She sighs and meets his eyes, her expression full of earnestness. "Just tell me the truth, Sherlock. I don't understand why you think you need to keep this from me. Whatever you say, I'll still be your friend and I won't look down on you in any way."

Sherlock stares at her, once again stunned by her perceptiveness. A small part of him is relieved that she didn't believe the things he said about John—he feels terrible enough just for having said them aloud. However, now he must decide if he should tell Janine, at the very least, a partial truth, or if he should make up yet another lie and hope she'll buy it.

"Janine," Sherlock says after a few beats of silence. "I trust you. I do. But for reasons that I am not at liberty to disclose, I cannot tell you what happened. I wish I could, but that is something I simply can't afford to do right now. There's too much at stake."

She narrows her eyes and scrutinizes his face, clearly searching for an answer buried in his expression. After a minute, her eyes light up with a realization and she leans back against the sofa, apparently satisfied with whatever she has found. "I know what happened," she says calmly. "I get it now."

I highly doubt that, he thinks to himself. However, he's perfectly willing to go along with whatever Janine thinks happened as long as it means they'll be getting further from the actual truth.

"Do you?" he asks carefully.

Her expression remains frustratingly unreadable. "I do," she replies.

He nods slowly. "Well, go on and say it, I suppose, and I'll confirm or deny it."

There's a brief stretch of silence, before Janine's expression softens and her eyes fill with sympathy. Gently, Janine sighs and says, "John turned you down, didn't he?"

The moment the words leave her lips, Sherlock is struck by the simple brilliance of that explanation; not only does it explain his reluctance to divulge what happened, but it is also embarrassing enough to assure that Janine won't spread the word, if only for the sake of protecting Sherlock's supposedly damaged ego.

"Yes," he says at length, with just the right amount of shame and heartache. "I told John how I felt and he made it very clear that he considers me a friend and nothing more. Earlier, I suppose I was protecting myself—specifically my pride. It's still a very fresh wound, you understand. That is why I couldn't just tell you the truth up front."

"Of course," Janine says, looking at him with the utmost sympathy and compassion. "I get why you didn't want to go into specifics, Sherlock, it must have been horrible. I am so sorry."

Sherlock nods and stares unseeingly at his cake, his brow furrowed in a frown. "Yes. It was quite painful."

"Well, what were his exact words?" she asks carefully. "Maybe you misunderstood what he said?"

"I'm afraid not. His response to my confession was something along the lines of 'I'm about to be married and I've only ever considered you a friend, so I'm sorry but this will never work'. As terrible as the experience was, we have decided to remain friends, despite the obvious strain my feelings have cast on the relationship."

Janine frowns and shakes her head, clearly lost in thought. "I just don't understand how we could've read the situation so wrong," she mumbles, partially to herself and partially to Sherlock. "I mean, the signs were all there. John was constantly acting jealous or affectionate, and he always made sure that he was right beside you, practically shoulder to shoulder, whenever the two of you were in the same room. I thought it was clear as bloody day that he at the very least felt some sort of attraction towards you. The idea that he'd just brush you off and say he only wants to be friends is, well, baffling, to be quite frank." Her face fills with resolve and righteousness as she follows up with, "In fact, I have half a mind to talk to John Watson myself and have a little discussion about the detrimental effects of leading someone on—"

"No, Janine," Sherlock cuts in. "That really won't be necessary. What transpired between John and I that night is entirely between us, so there is no need for you to put yourself in the mix by interrogating him. As upsetting as his rejection was, I still respect and care for John and he still respects and cares for me, and neither of us harbor any ill will towards each other."

As Sherlock plays the part and says these things out loud, a small part of him wonders what he might've done if John really had turned him down two nights ago; if, instead of the careful kisses and sweet, candlelit confessions, John had recoiled in disgust and pointedly reminded Sherlock that he was engaged to Mary; if, instead of sharing intimate moments and smiling against each other's lips, they had both inched away from each other in discomfort, John in confusion and Sherlock in shame; if, instead of loving vows and long, searching gazes, they'd traded awkward promises to remain friends, even though it was too late and they'd already moved miles apart from each other, Sherlock's confession forming a gaping fissure in their relationship.

He shudders at the mere thought.

"I suppose I understand," Janine says at last, though her tone sounds begrudging and her expression is still full of tenacity and anger. "I'm still very cross on your behalf, mind you, but I suppose if you're willing to forgive him, I have no right to take matters into my own hands."

"Thank you for understanding, Janine," Sherlock says with genuine gratitude.

Janine sighs largely and resumes eating her cake, a mildly troubled look on her face. "It's just sad, you know? I mean, as silly as it sounds, you and John were like a fairytale. A very messy, unconventional fairytale, granted, but a sweet, beguiling one nonetheless. I figured if there was ever a situation in which love really would prevail and best the odds, it would be with you two." She shakes her head sadly. "And now that we've all been given a dose of reality, it just makes me see love in an entirely different light. How is it that Mary is more deserving of a happy ending than you? It isn't bloody fair."

Even though Janine doesn't know what really transpired, her words carry a ring of truth. How is it fair that Mary Morstan, easily one of the vilest, most terrible people Sherlock has had the misfortune of acquainting, managed to meet and subsequently charm a man as good and pure as John Watson? How is it fair that while Sherlock was selling his soul for the sake of a brutal, horrific mission, Mary was buying a flat with John and showing the world her sparkling engagement ring? How is it fair that he and John have to postpone their relationship—something that has been steadily building for years and years and years—for the sake of evading Mary's suspicions? How is it fair that someone as evil as Mary has somehow surrounded herself with such good, kindhearted people? How is any of that fair?

"No," Sherlock says with a sigh, "I suppose it isn't."

2.

That night, sometime after two A.M., Sherlock's mobile rings on his bedside table and jars him awake.

"Hello?" he answers groggily, his voice scratchy with sleep.

"Sherlock," John whispers. In an instant, Sherlock finds himself wide awake.

"John! Why are you calling so late? Why are you whispering? Did something happen?" Worry and concern crawl beneath his skin and he unthinkingly grips the phone tighter. Sitting there in his darkened bedroom, Sherlock's imagination conjures up a million different scenarios in which John is in danger or dying, and his heart twists anxiously in fear.

"No, no, everything is fine," John assures him, and Sherlock immediately relaxes. "I'm whispering because Mary's asleep in the bedroom and I don't want her to hear me, even though I'm in the kitchen. I'm just calling to warn you that Mary is throwing a dinner party tomorrow night and she wants to invite you."

"Dinner party? Tomorrow?" Sherlock echoes. "What on earth for?"

"I don't know. I asked and she said there's no particular occasion, she simply wants to 'thank you for being such a big help with the wedding arrangements'."

"That…sounds a bit suspicious," Sherlock says slowly. "Do you think she knows something?"

"No," John says firmly. "She was acting perfectly normal this entire day and gave no indication that she knows something is up. I agree this does sound a bit odd, but I don't think it's anything to get too worried about."

"Okay," Sherlock says reluctantly. Regardless of John's reassurances, he plans to keep his guard up from the moment he sets foot into Mary's flat to the exact moment he leaves.

"Right yeah, there's something else too." There's a beat of silence wherein Sherlock imagines John tiredly running a hand down his face. "I'm also calling to warn you that there are a few stories we need to keep straight."

Sherlock sits up fully and leans back against the headboard. "Such as?"

"Well, for starters, on my stag night we went to the Lion's Den, Joe's Pub, and The Black Stallion, in that order. We both did shots at Joe's Pub and I ended up getting sick in the bathroom after I unwisely entered a drinking contest with some giant tattooed bloke. If either of us talks about it, it's a funny story, with lots of teasing on your part and some begrudging laughter on mine."

"Got it."

"After that, you and I went back to the flat and passed out cold mere moments after arriving. In fact, we barely had the chance to speak to each other."

"Got it."

"Then, the next morning, you confessed to me that you wanted to focus on helping Mary and I with any last minute wedding details. I mentioned that you'd been very busy lately and therefore wouldn't have the time, so you promised me that you wouldn't be taking any new cases for the next week or so."

"Yes, that makes sense," Sherlock says, half to himself and half to John. "That way she'll think she won't have to worry about me prying into her case and digging up the truth. Anything else?"

"No, I think that about covers it."

There's a brief pause, before John clears his throat and quietly adds, "I miss you, you know."

Sherlock sighs to himself and tips his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling with a look of longing. "I miss you too, John. It's barely been a day and I'm already painfully aware of the gaping hole your presence has left in the flat. I hate that we have to keep pretending. I hate that we can't just be together."

"I know," John whispers back, his voice sounding just as dejected as Sherlock feels. He takes a deep breath, then continues, "Just think of it this way: once we've got this whole situation dealt with, it's just going to be me and you for the rest of our lives. No more drama or pain or heartache, just the two of us against the rest of the world, as it should be."

At John's words, Sherlock feels a small smile begin to dawn across his face. It's a lovely thing to think about, the future. If only the present weren't so terribly unsatisfying. "You're right," he admits quietly, his own voice unconsciously dropping to match John's. He likes whispering to John—it makes him feel as if they're exchanging secrets. "I love you."

"I love you too," John says back, and the phrase unfolds in the darkness like a beam of light.

3.

Just as John predicted, Mary calls Sherlock the next morning while he's preparing his cup of woefully subpar tea (John's is the only kind he has any taste for these days) and extends an invitation to her dinner party tonight.

"In my honor?" Sherlock repeats, forcing himself to sound surprised. "You really don't have to, Mary."

"Oh, I'm aware," Mary retorts cheerfully, though he can practically taste the metallic edge to her words. "I'm just so thankful you've decided to put aside cases for the sake of helping me wrap up the final details of my wedding. It's so generous and…uncharacteristic," she finishes, leaving a significant pause in between the words. "Let's just call this my way of paying you back."

"Really, it's quite unnecessary to go to such lengths when a simple 'thank you' would suffice," Sherlock replies in a tone so polite it nearly circles back to derisive. "There's really no need."

"Oh, but I must!" Mary coos. "You're John's dearest friend after all, I'm sure he'll be pleased as punch to have you over." She pauses and offers a saccharine giggle, "Though, if the two of you get into half as much shenanigans you got up to on John's stag night, maybe not!"

Sherlock offers a bland hum of amusement. "Right, stag night. Wild times indeed." With the phone sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder, he rifles through the cabinet in search of a teacup. "What time shall I arrive?"

"Dinner officially starts at eight pm sharp, but the socializing and appetizers will be at about seven. You could even show up a bit early if you'd like to help with the table settings and such."

Table settings and such? That sounds like far more preparation than a three-person meal necessitates. "If you don't mind my asking, how many people will be in attendance tonight?"

"Oh, I'm glad you asked, dear," Mary chirps. "Along with you, John, and myself, I've also invited several of your friends. Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and even my dear bridesmaid, Janine. If your brother would like to attend as well, I'd be more than happy to set an extra place at the table for him."

Sherlock freezes in the motion of stirring honey into his tea. Why on earth does Mary want his brother, Molly, and Lestrade to come to her flat? Is she planning something? That familiar buzz of unease resumes in the back of his mind, making his skin itch with discomfort and restlessness. "May I ask why you've chosen to invite those people?"

"Well, I figured since this is a party celebrating how wonderful you are, Sherlock, there might as well be people there who think the same!"

Sick of playing this little game of propriety, Sherlock flatly states, "I know you don't think I'm wonderful, Mary."

"Oh, very true," she blithely admits without missing a beat. "But it does wonders for my relationship with John when he sees me treating his odd, unlikeable best friend with kindness and warmth. It won't be long before John and I are married and living our own lives, separate from you, so don't worry about this sort of behavior persisting in the future. I promise you that once I truly have John, I won't bother with you one bit."

Sherlock nearly shudders at the disturbing contrast between her cold words and her cheerful tone. "I see."

"Splendid," Mary rejoins. "Oh, and it's a rather dressy occasion, so I suggest wearing something nice. Feel free to bring a bottle of wine as well, love."

"Don't call me 'love'," Sherlock mutters, already dreading the events that await him tonight.

"Oh, there's another call on the line. Probably Miss Hooper calling me back. Ta for now, love!"

When Sherlock hears the flat buzz of the dial tone, he nearly wilts in relief that the conversation is over.

…

A mere twenty minutes later, his mobile lights up with his brother's name.

"Mycroft, your presence is required at the Watson household tonight," Sherlock says upon answering the phone, with no preamble or context whatsoever. "I need you to be there."

"Hello to you as well, Sherlock. And yes, I am aware of the situation. Ms. Morstan phoned Anthea several minutes ago to extend the invitation. How much do you know about this situation? Do we have cause to worry?"

"No," Sherlock answers concisely. "From what John has told me, Mary has given no indication that she is aware that anything is amiss. As I'm sure you know, she has gone through the trouble of inviting Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and Janine as well. I'm not certain what her goal is here, but she briefly mentioned that the purpose is to make herself look better in John's eyes for being kind to me. Let's just hope her motivations end there."

"You understand that if I come, I will have to surround the area with guards and cameras of all sorts, correct?" Mycroft says.

"Haven't you done so already?"

"Well, yes, the cameras have been installed, but I will also have to bring along my men to ensure the protection of not only myself but everyone else as well."

Sherlock frowns. "I understand, brother, but won't it seem fairly suspicious if you show up surrounded by body guards? Mary will know in an instant that something is wrong."

Mycroft scoffs and Sherlock can practically see him rolling his eyes. "Sherlock, do give me some credit. My men will be posing as a civilians and other tenants of the flat building. It isn't as if I planned to have them waltz alongside me into the flat, donning dark suits and Kevlar vests. It will be a very subtle form of security. The only reason I'm bothering to tell you this at all is so you may be reassured that no one will be harmed, regardless of what Mary has planned."

Though he refuses to admit it aloud, his brother's words do serve to calm his slightly frayed nerves. "So you will definitely be coming, then?"

"Indeed. I will be there at precisely seven fifteen."

"Why seven fifteen?"

"Seven is far too punctual and eight risks leaving the five of you unprotected for an entire hour. Seven fifteen is a fair compromise."

Sherlock nods. "Well, then I suppose I'll see you at seven fifteen."

"Yes. Goodbye, Sherlock."

When Sherlock hangs up the phone, he feels trepidation and worry crash through him like waves, despite his brother's reassurances.

Mary Morstan, the deranged woman who owns a photo album with the faces of every one of her victims, and who is as mercurial and unpredictable as a storm, and who has stated on multiple occasions that she hates Sherlock, has not only decided to throw a party in his honor, but has also decided to invite his friends as well. Either she knows the truth and has something terrible planned, or she doesn't know the truth and simply wants to make Sherlock as violently uncomfortable as possible—both of which seem to be viable options.

Either way, he's dreading tonight.

4.

After several long hours of deliberation, Sherlock settles on a pressed white button down, a sports jacket, black trousers, and, of course, his Belstaff coat. The outfit is sharp without seeming too posh, and well-planned without seeming too desperate.

Are you on your way?

Just arrived at your building. Walking up the steps as we speak. SH

Good. I'll see you in a few.

The journey up to John and Mary's flat seems to be endless. Nervousness and worry slam against his ribcage in time with his rapidly beating heart, making him feel as if he's just climbed a mountain rather than a measly staircase. In a moment of doubt, he pauses right outside the door to send a quick, last minute message to his brother.

I'm about to walk in. You'll be here by seven fifteen? SH

Yes. Seven fifteen. Do not worry, Sherlock. Remember: it's quite possible that this dinner party is merely Mary's attempt to make herself seem better in John's eyes. There might be no possible danger at all. MH

Yes, but there's also chance that there IS danger here. SH

That is also true, but there's nothing we can do but deal with this situation head on. Now, stop fretting and go inside. I will see you in fifteen minutes. MH

With a deep breath, Sherlock pockets his phone and knock on the door.

"Sherlock," Mary greets warmly, upon opening the door. The sweet smell of freshly baked apple pie wafts out of the flat and into the hallway like perfume, mixing with the flowery smell of Mary's shampoo and the bowl of potpourri by the door. Her hair is held up with tiny sparkling pins and the tight black dress sheathing her figure looks both elegant and domineering. She offers a charming smile that reveals the sharp jut of her canines, and Sherlock feels the blood in his veins run cold.

"Come in, won't you?"

Chapter Text

Test : (noun) a procedure intended to establish the reliability or efficiency of something, especially before it is taken into an important situation.

1.

The moment Sherlock steps into the flat, he is overwhelmed by a deluge of sensory detail. On the cherrywood dining table, atop a silk, pearlescent runner, resides the long, complicated spread of their supper and an elegant candelabra adorned with wine-colored candles. Dinner consists of roasted chicken garnished with chickpeas and black olives; freshly-baked sourdough garlic bread still steaming from the oven and glistening with butter; a salad comprised of fresh spinach, cucumbers, and cherry-tomatoes, topped with homemade raspberry-vinaigrette dressing and orange zest; and to top it all off, a tall, gleaming bottle of white Merlot surrounded quite attractively by an artful arrangement of blood-red roses. The smells, mixed with Mary's perfume and the freshly-baked pie in the next room, form an intoxicating combination.

The food isn't the only attractive feature of tonight's dinner, however; there are also flowers bursting forth from every corner of the flat, coloring John and Mary's already brightly designed sitting room with vivid reds and striking violets. Hyacinths, roses, chrysanthemums, forget-me-nots, lilies, and morning glories spill from vases and corners alike, all vying for attention. To complete the image of domestic perfection, each article of furniture in the room appears very meticulously arranged, as if someone took a ruler and pushed everything into precise angles, making sure the chair is exactly adjacent to the sofa, and that the sofa is precisely two feet from the coffee table, and so on.

Classical music streams lazily from the radio in the corner, filling the flat with the piano's robust crescendos and the lilting, overly sweet notes of the harp.

"So, what do you think?" Mary says at last, her smile as bright and jarring as the explosion of flowers, music, and food around her.

"Splendid," Sherlock says shortly, his own smile brief and transparently insincere. "What a lovely choice of flowers."

Mary looks out at the room with an expression of extreme self-satisfaction. "Oh, I agree," she rejoins. After a beat, she gives Sherlock a sidelong look. "So, Sherlock, I haven't seen you since the engagement party. What have you been up to?"

The question sounds innocent enough, but the flat look in her eyes and the stiffness of her smile makes his skin crawl. With a forced tone of ease, Sherlock replies, "Oh, a few cases here and there. Nothing particularly noteworthy."

Her sharp, green eyes remain locked on him. "Is that so?"

Sherlock immediately remembers the lie he and John fabricated. "Yes. However, I promised John that I would take a break from my detective work in order to help the two of you with any last minute wedding details, so I suppose I'm through taking any new cases for a while."

"Yes, I believe John may have mentioned something like that," she says brightly. "It's so kind of you, Sherlock, really. We cannot thank you enough."

"It's my pleasure, Mary," Sherlock responds evenly. "Thanks are not necessary."

"Oh, but they are!" Mary insists. "That's the purpose of tonight, after all—to thank you."

Sherlock offers a measured smile. "And for that I am grateful."

"Now then, will your brother be joining us tonight? I left a message with his secretary and invited him, but he never confirmed whether or not he'd be coming."

At the mere mention of Mycroft, Sherlock feels a wave of relief immediately crash over him. As much as he usually loathes his brother for flaunting his excessive power and control, it will be an absolute godsend to have that security in this strange, unpredictable situation. The thought that the five of them will have protection and backup is immensely reassuring.

"Yes," Sherlock replies readily. "Mycroft should be here soon. When I last spoke to him, he mentioned that he would most likely arrive at around seven fifteen."

"Wonderful!" Mary chirps, clasping her hands together. "Would you care for something to drink?"

He considers agreeing—in all honesty, he wouldn't mind a beverage—but then the word poison flashes across his mind's eye like a neon sign, and he thinks better of it. Though a small part of him attributes the suspicion to mere paranoia, he'd rather not risk it. "No thank you, Mary. May I ask where John is?"

"He's in the bedroom fixing his hair," Mary replies, rolling her eyes in what Sherlock assumes is meant to be a good natured manner. "I don't know why he's fussing over his appearance so much. I always tell him how handsome he is, but for some reason he just doesn't believe me. Now isn't that ridiculous?" She giggles and shakes her head. "John is a very attractive man, he shouldn't worry about those kinds of things."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees absently, his eyes roving over the sitting room once more, this time in search of anything that might indicate the true nature of tonight's events. Their dinner doesn't appear to have been tampered with, but malicious intentions cannot be completely ruled out until Mycroft arrives and subtly inspects the food himself. It's true that Sherlock could easily walk over and search for odd discoloring or strange smells that might indicate poison, but he'd rather have a second opinion; besides, there are a number of chemicals that have no smell or taste that one could easily slip into a dish.

"Oh, so you agree then?"

Torn from his train of thought, Sherlock blinks and looks back at her. "Agree with what?"

"That John is attractive." Her eyes remind him of glittering green emeralds: beautiful but cold. She's still outwardly smiling, of course, but the sharp edge to her tone suggests that there is another question lurking beneath her seemingly innocuous words. Perhaps an insinuation as well.

Carefully, with just the right amount of nonchalance, Sherlock shrugs and replies, "I suppose. However, beauty is a social construct comprised of one's childhood impressions and role models, so it cannot be narrowed down to just one person's perception."

"Ah," Mary says with an empty laugh. Her mouth is still curved in a smile, but there is a distinct, jagged displeasure rippling in her eyes. "What an interesting philosophy."

Sherlock drums his fingers lightly against the surface of the dining room table, debating whether or not he should put a stop to this polite banter and speak frankly. "Mary," he says at last, having made up his mind. "Why am I here?"

She tilts her head and chuckles. "Why, for your party, of course."

He narrows his eyes. "Yes, but why? Answer honestly. There is no one else around right now and I know you do not like me, so please do me a favor and stop acting as if we're friends."

Mary's smile wavers but stubbornly refuses to fall. In a saccharine tone, she says, "I really don't know what you mean, love. This party is to show my gratitude—nothing more, nothing less."

He shifts his jaw, the beginnings of a scowl spreading on his face. "Do not call me 'love' and do not feign innocence. We established our mutual distaste for one another a long time ago and I see no need to pretend otherwise."

Another flat smile and flashing green eyes. "Be a dear and fetch John, won't you? I'm sure the rest of our guests will be arriving any minute now."

He grits his teeth. "Mary—"

"Third door on the left, love."

…

After making his way down a seemingly endless, photograph-adorned hallway, Sherlock finds himself standing in the threshold of John and Mary's bedroom. After a brief moment of hesitation, he steps inside and drinks in his surroundings. Part of him shudders in repulsion at the thought that this was once a very intimate place for John and Mary, but another part puffs up with pride at the fact that even though John still physically resides here, his heart is safely back at Baker Street, where it belongs.

John and Mary's bedroom is an odd thing, because while it has all of the accessories and appearances of a typical, unremarkable room, there are certain factors that stand out like sore thumbs. For example, amidst their pale yellow comforter and pile of lacey, home-sewn throw pillows, resides John's brightly-colored, wildly out-of-place Union Jack pillow, shining like a red and blue beacon. Then, on the desk in the corner, John's UK ARMY mug and battered, silver laptop sit beside a delicate pink vase of milk-white lilies and long sprigs of lavender, providing a strange contrast between Mary's overly-maudlin, feminine aesthetics and John's utilitarian, ungarnished belongings.

The wall parallel to John's side of the bed is definitely the most interesting bit. Alongside Mary's pastel-colored paintings of scenery and flowers, hangs a series of photographs (cut from various newspaper articles) of him and John, side by side, bathed in the light of the photographer's flashing cameras. There are six pictures in total, and each depicts them in the aftermath of a case. Though John has already confessed his feelings for Sherlock ten times over, Sherlock can't help but feel a pleasant jolt of surprise that John dedicated an entire wall to the two of them. It's nice to know he found those post-case moments just as sacred as Sherlock.

"John?" he calls, rapping his knuckles against the closed bathroom door.

"Yes?" John says, swishing the door open. Steam from his recent shower pours out of the room like fog, filling the air with the sweet, engulfing smell of John's body wash and aftershave. His face is red from the heat of the room and his hair is sticking up on the right side, but rather than looking messy, he looks boyishly charming—like a young rugby player fresh out of practice. John looks surprised to see him at first, and then inordinately pleased. "Sherlock," he beams, reaching out and wrapping Sherlock in a hug without missing a beat. Into his neck he mumbles, "I missed you."

As much as Sherlock would like to melt into John's embrace, he can't help but remember that Mary is merely one room away, liable to walk in on them at any moment. Reluctantly, Sherlock pulls away. "We have to keep our distance, remember?" he reminds John, his voice sounding just as miserable as he feels. "It's best if we don't do anything that might raise any flags."

"Right," John exhales, running a hand through his hair. He glances over Sherlock's shoulder and catches a glimpse of the clock on the bedroom wall behind him. "Shoot, it's seven twenty-five. Is everyone here already?"

"No, it's just me and Mary at the moment. However, my brother should be here by now…" Sherlock answers. Slightly concerned at Mycroft's uncharacteristic lack of punctuality, he glances at his phone, surprised to find there are no new messages or missed calls.

"Why would he agree to show up?" John asks, looking perplexed. "Dinner parties don't strike me as his sort of thing."

"Oh, trust me, they aren't. But being that tonight is very special—" he gives John a meaningful look "—he is willing to make an appearance." In a low tone, Sherlock continues, "His men will have this entire building secured the moment he arrives. That way Molly, Lestrade, Janie, and the two of us will not be harmed by whatever Mary may have planned."

John frowns, worry creasing his brow. "You really think Mary intends to do something harmful?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answers honestly. "But I would much rather be too prepared than caught by surprise."

"Yeah, you're right," John sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm still having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that my fiancé is a serial killer." He shakes his head. "See, the fact that I'm even saying that phrase is disturbing."

"I know, John, I wish you didn't have to be in this situation," Sherlock says. "I would like more than anything to keep the two of us as far away from her as possible, but I'm afraid that simply isn't doable right now. As I've mentioned before, our only option here is to play by Mary's rules and hope that her intentions for tonight really are as innocent as they seem."

"I know, you're right, we don't have any choice," John concedes, sounding defeated. "We have to keep the act up. I know it's pointless to think like this, but I wish things were different."

"As do I, John," Sherlock mutters, already dreading the moment the two of them will have to leave this room and join Mary, with all of her piercing stares and sharp smiles. "I should text Mycroft and make sure he's on his way. One moment."

Where are you? In case your watch somehow disappeared from your wrist, it is currently 7:30 and you said you would be here at 7:15. SH

Brother, do calm down. Securing the area took slightly longer than I expected, but now I can say with certainty that there are no weapons on the premise, nor are there any large scale, harmful devices. MH

Such as? SH

Oh, you know. Bombs, hidden reserves of poison gas. Things of that variety. MH

Ah. So we're safe? SH

So it seems. Of course there is always a possibility that items within the flat have been tampered with, but I will not be able to say for sure until I see for myself. MH

Speaking of which, when will you be arriving? SH

In less than two minutes. As we speak, I am climbing the steps to their flat. I will see you momentarily, brother. MH

…

When Sherlock rounds the corner with John several minutes later, he finds Mycroft standing at the center of the flower-filled sitting room, looking as out of place as an emperor penguin in a dance hall. Apparently Mary wasn't the one to let him in, because she looks rather caught off guard by his sudden appearance, a pie in her hands and a surprised look on her face.

"Mr. Holmes!" Mary cries out gaily, removing the oven mitts from her hands and stepping into the sitting room to greet him. "It's so lovely that you decided to come! May I ask who let you in?"

Mycroft offers a brief, polite smile. "Apologies, Ms. Morstan, but I let myself in. The door was ajar and the smells coming from the kitchen indicated that you were preoccupied with other tasks. I did not wish to interrupt you."

"Oh, don't worry about it," she assures him, her eagerness to make a good impression as obvious as her wide, slightly terrifying grin. "It's such a pleasure to finally meet you! I cannot believe we've gone so long without officially making each other's acquaintance."

"I assure you, the pleasure is all mine, Ms. Morstan."

"Oh, please, call me Mary."

Mycroft nods his head once. "If that is what you would like then I would be happy to address you as such, Mary."

Mary grins then turns expectantly to John. "John, darling, aren't you going to say hello to Sherlock's brother?"

Mycroft casts a drily amused look in John's direction and raises a brow. John glances at Sherlock, looking very much as though he'd like to rolls his eyes, before returning his gaze to Mycroft and clearing his throat. "Yes, hello, Mycroft. How have you been?"

"Well, thank you. And you?"

Sherlock knows with almost complete certainty that his brother is only being polite and boring for the sake of lowering Mary's guard; if she considers him simple and dull, she won't worry about the threat he might pose. For all Mary knows, Mycroft is merely a low-ranking government official with a taste for posh, expensive clothing. The less she knows about him, the better.

"I've also been well, thank you," John replies perfunctorily. "Would you like me to take your coat?"

"No, I'm afraid I'll be going back outside momentarily." Mycroft turns to Sherlock and removes a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. "Brother, would you like to go outside for a bit and indulge?"

Sherlock knows his brother doesn't want to go outside solely for the sake of smoking, and John apparently gets it too, because he doesn't bat an eye when Sherlock agrees. Clearly, he's looking for somewhere private to have a discussion.

"Good. Mary, Sherlock and I will be back in a moment, Please forgive me for being so quick to step back outside, but I'm afraid cravings are hard things to shake." He holds up the package in demonstration and offers a short smile.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Mary reassures him. "John and I will finish setting the table while you're gone."

"Splendid."

Sherlock tries to ask what Mycroft wants to discuss as the two of them walk down the staircase, but his brother refuses to speak a single word until the two of them are standing in the front of the flat building, side by side in the approaching darkness.

"So," Sherlock says, when it appears his brother will not be forthcoming. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

Mycroft takes a deep drag from his cigarette and tips his chin skyward, exhaling curling plumes of smoke at the darkening sky. "I believe I now understand what the purpose of tonight is."

Sherlock's own cigarette remains unlit and stiff between his fingers. "And what is that?"

Another drag. "It's a test, brother."

"A test?"

"Yes. And it is imperative that we all pass."

The simple statement floods Sherlock's mind with a deluge of questions. "First of all, what is the test? And secondly, how will we know if we have passed?"

"To answer the latter, I will know we have passed if by the end of the night we are not dead," Mycroft replies bluntly. "And in response to the former, well, that is where things become a bit complicated. You see, tonight is a test run of sorts. Mary wants to see how the five of you will act around her, so she can figure out whether or not she still has your trust. I'm sure she also wants to see how you and John will interact with each other in a more comfortable setting—surrounded by friends, drinking wine, eating food—to perhaps lure you into saying something compromising while your guard is down." He pauses to inhale another drag. "As convincing as I'm sure you and John have been, Mary still has her suspicions, apparently. Though, in this case, that might work in our favor."

Sherlock frowns. "How so?"

"Well, to Mary, it's quite normal for you to be pining after John. As long as John does nothing to indicate that he feels the same, Mary will be convinced that she is still in control of the situation. In fact, it might even be more suspicious if you suddenly stopped mooning over John."

Sherlock pointedly ignores the phrasing and plows on. "So…you're saying I should continue to spend time with John? It won't hurt our case?"

"No, it will not," Mycroft says decisively. "The point of this whole plan is to make Mary believe that in the past few days, nothing has changed. You are still hopelessly in love with John, John is still in love with her, and the wedding is still set to take place in a little less than a week—in other words, all is well. To achieve this, however, it is imperative that you avoid doing anything out of the ordinary. In this situation, behaving coldly towards John would be out of the ordinary, and therefore you mustn't do it."

Sherlock considers this. "So what shall we do now?"

"Now," Mycroft says, dropping his cigarette and putting it out, "you and I will go back inside and play along with Mary's little game, in hopes that she will find the results satisfactory and—oh, would you look at that." Mycroft stops to watch a cab pull up to the curb. "I believe that is D.I. Lestrade and Ms. Hooper."

"Right. We should head back inside with them."

"Indeed. Are you ready, brother?"

"For what?"

Mycroft drops his lighter back into his pocket and looks up at the looming building before them with steely eyes. "For the party to begin, of course."

Chapter Text

Outcome: (noun) the way something plays out; the result

"Sherlock, do you have any idea why we're here?" Molly asks, on their way up to the flat. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail and she keeps tugging nervously at the end of it as she speaks. Her small form is practically drowning in her oversized green sweater and her hoop earrings seem far too big for her face. Despite the utter mousiness of her appearance, Sherlock finds her quite endearing. He supposes friendship does that to a person.

"We are here to celebrate my brother, apparently," Mycroft answers for him. Into the silence that follows, he adds, "I am aware that that concept is quite strange to you all, but do try to leave your doubts at the door."

Molly nods. Lestrade frowns and looks at Sherlock. "Since when do people throw you parties? No offense, of course."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and continues climbing the steps two at a time. "Since now, Lestrade. As my brother said, it's best to avoid questioning this too much."

"Well, if nothing else, this'll be a great opportunity to get to know Mary, I guess," Lestrade continues. "John's been with her for years but somehow I've only spoken to her a handful of times." He looks expectantly at Sherlock. "What's she like? I want a bit of a warning before I'm thrust into a conversation with her. Anything I shouldn't mention?"

Sherlock doesn't miss the brief, ironic smile that flashes across his brother's face. Of course, the honest answer to Lestrade's question would be: What is she like? Oh, well, she's a wanted serial killer who slaughtered her way from America all the way to London, she's deceitful and cold, and her heart is most likely just a block of black ice sitting in her chest cavity. As for things you shouldn't mention, perhaps avoid the subject of me entirely, as she hates me with a burning, unending passion. Yes, and did I mention she's also quite sadistic and cruel? Because she certainly is, and whatever she has planned for tonight will, at the very least, result in someone's psychological damage, and, at the most, will end with the five of us poisoned in our seats. Any more questions?

But Sherlock is not at liberty to say any of that aloud, so instead he settles elusively with, "She's a lovely woman and a fair conversationalist, so I don't think you have anything to worry about."

…

"Sherlock, dear, could you get the door when Janine arrives?" Mary asks, once they've returned to the flat. "John's busy in the kitchen and I'd like to give Mr. Lestrade and Ms. Hooper a quick tour of the flat."

"Of course, Mary," Sherlock replies perfunctorily. He slides his mobile back into his pocket and takes a seat in the chair closest to the door, watching as the three of them disappear down the hall into the belly of the flat. In Mary's absence, Mycroft inspects the food splayed across the dining room table.

"The verdict?" Sherlock questions when his brother returns to the sitting room moments later.

Mycroft rummages around in his pockets for his package of cigarettes. "Everything on the table is clean. John made sure to check the contents in every pot and pan too, along with the pies in the oven, and he arrived at the same conclusion, so we may now safely rule poison off the list." He glances at the closed front door with a look of longing. "I'll be smoking downstairs if you need me."

Sherlock raises a brow. "Two in one sitting? I never took you for a chain smoker, brother."

"This is a highly stressful situation, Sherlock, and these are low tar, anyway," Mycroft says defensively. "You know what, I do not need to explain myself to you. I'll be outside."

Sherlock doesn't bother suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's pettiness. "Fine, fine. I don't know how long you intend to be down there, but I will text you when dinner is about to start."

…

Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimes.

"Sherlock!" Janine croons the moment he opens the front door. She wraps her arms around his neck in a quick hug, then pulls away to inspect his outfit. "Sports jacket, pressed button-down—don't you look dashing!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and feels his face grow warm at the attention, instantly reminded of his mother making a fuss over his clothes at Christmas dinner. "You look lovely as well, Janine," he mumbles.

"A compliment from the great Sherlock Holmes? Goodness, I should've brought my camera."

"Do calm down or I will happily retract it."

Janine laughs. "Now where is everyone else? In the dining room I assume?"

Sherlock takes her coat and leads her into the sitting room. "Mary is currently giving Lestrade and Molly a tour of the house, Mycroft is smoking outside, and John is—ah, John is right here."

John, still wearing his oven mitts, smiles and waves. "Hello, Janine."

"John," she nods.

"Sherlock," John says abruptly, turning to him, "would you mind going into the kitchen and checking on the pies? In the meantime, I'd be happy to entertain Janine."

"Of course," Sherlock says readily, accepting the oven mitts. "I will be back shortly."

Sherlock disappears into the kitchen and Janine's neutral expression immediately melts into disdain.

"Nice to see you again, John," Janine greets coolly. She crosses her arms over her chest and gives him an unimpressed once over. "You've been well, I assume?"

"Er, yes, thank you," John replies, confused by Janine's cold demeanor. "How are you?"

"I'm well."

"Splendid. How's work been?"

"Pay check at the end of the week, good dental plan, nothing spectacular," Janine replies briskly. She arches a black brow. "What about you, John? From what I've heard, you've been very busy these days."

"Sure, I suppose you could say that."

She scoffs under her breath. "I suppose I could."

John tilts his head and frowns. "Okay, perhaps I'm missing something, but is there a problem here? I'm sensing hostility."

"Hostility? No, of course not," Janine says with absolutely no conviction. "Though, I suppose it's possible that I'm coming off that way because I'm a bit miffed about something Sherlock told me the other day. It didn't exactly paint you in a flattering light."

John glances at Sherlock over Janine's shoulder, hunched over the stove with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, before returning his focus to the fuming woman before him. "…Right. Would you mind sharing the specifics? Because I really don't think you and I are on the same page right now."

Janine just shakes her head. "Don't play dumb with me, John Watson. I know what happened. Sherlock told me not to bring this up because he still thinks you're the center of the universe or whatever, but I just can't let this go without saying something. What you did to him was completely uncalled for. I know you have your nice little domestic setup here," she gestures around the sitting room, "and that's fine, but for you to spend so much time leading Sherlock on, acting affectionate, flirting, making him think things were real when it was actually just a game to you—that's just bloody wrong."

"Janine, I honestly have no idea what you're—"

"Stop." She drops her voice and leans in. "You listen here, John Hamish Watson, I am an angry Irish woman with three inch long acrylic nails and a vendetta. If you so much as smile at Sherlock without meaning it with all the sincerity of your heart, I will not hesitate to make life incredibly unpleasant for you. I will not stand by and let you hurt him again. No more games, no more pretending, no more lying. If you care about him in the same way he cares for you, then show it. But if all you feel is friendship, then please don't make him think something else is going on. It's cruel and Sherlock deserves so much better than that." Straightening, she raises her voice to a normal level and smooths down her skirt. "Now that we've hashed that out, I'd like to make tonight as pleasant as possible, so if you'd kindly tell me where you keep your utensils, I'd be more than happy to help set out the silverware."

"Top drawer to the left," John replies, watching in a daze as Janine makes a beeline out of the sitting room.

Sherlock, tired of speculating about the exchange from the kitchen, sets down the mitts, crosses the distance, and joins John the moment Janine leaves.

"John, could speak to you for a moment?" Sherlock requests, tilting his head in the direction of the balcony.

Relieved to escape for a bit, John agrees immediately. "Of course."

With John following behind him, Sherlock steps out onto the balcony into the cool night air, grateful for the respite from the oppressive atmosphere of the flat. The stars twinkle in the sky and remind him of crystals scattered across black cloth. He wonders if it would be too ridiculous to wish upon one of them.

John closes the door behind him with a click. "So, what was it you wanted to discuss?"

Sherlock leans his back against the bannister and faces John. "You should probably know the story I told Janine. She is under the impression that on your stag night, I confessed my feelings for you and you turned me down."

John raises his eyebrows. "Well, I guess that would explain why she was so cold to me. She practically threatened to claw my eyes out."

"Yes, apologies for not telling you sooner, John. I'm sure you would've appreciated the heads up. I'll make sure to talk to her later and calm her down."

John shrugs. "I actually don't blame Janine for reacting that way. What she said to me was perfectly justified, because she thinks I broke your heart."

Yes." Sherlock flexes his grip on the rail behind him and drops his gaze. An inexplicable ache settles in his chest. "John, I'm…I'm glad that is not what truly happened."

Even without glancing up at him, Sherlock knows that John's eyes look imploring and sincere when he says, "Sherlock, you have nothing to worry about. That isn't what happened, remember? There's no use thinking about it."

"I know, I know. It's ridiculous to think about what could have been, but sometimes I can't help it. What if you had turned me down? What if we hadn't been on the same page? What if you didn't love me?"

"Yes, except I didn't turn you down, we are on the same page, and I do love you," John says, stepping closer and gently placing a hand on Sherlock's hip. His eyes land on Sherlock's mouth and he sighs. "Despite the terribleness of this situation, I'm glad everything happened in the way that it did, because now we're together because of it. And just so you know, if there was no one else inside and we had nothing to lose, I would snog the living daylights out of you right now, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiles. "Good to know, John. We can certainly revisit that promise at a later date."

"Good," John says around an exhale, a smile of his own shining on his face. He takes a reluctant step backwards and removes his hand from Sherlock's side. "Would you like to go back inside now?"

Sherlock glances over John's shoulder at the brightly-lit, flower-filled sitting room behind the balcony's glass door and sighs. "Not particularly, but I'm aware we do not have much of a choice."

…

Dinner is an odd affair.

Mary opens the meal by grinning at the five of them and announcing, "I truly can't believe we haven't done this before. You five are John's closest friends and yet I've never truly had the chance to get to know each of you well." She pauses to take a sip of wine. "You know what? I think a great way to break the ice would be to go around the table and say one interesting thing about ourselves. John, love, would you like to start?"

John looks just as averse to this exercise as Sherlock, but he forces a game smile anyway. "Right. Okay, well, you all obviously know me already, but I suppose something interesting about me is the fact that I served as an Army Doctor for several years in Afghanistan."

"Splendid," Mary beams. "Sherlock?"

It takes every ounce of willpower to avoid rolling his eyes. "I am fluent in several languages."

"Really, dear?" Mary says with a nauseating amount of enthusiasm. "That's absolutely brilliant. Lestrade?"

"Er, right. Hm. Well, I don't think this fact is particularly fun or interesting, but I've been divorced twice." He frowns and scratches the back of his head. "Yeah, that one's not a real conversation piece, is it. I guess another interesting thing could be the fact that, I dunno, my favorite TV show is Downton Abbey?"

"What a marvelous choice in telly," Mary praises. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft takes a measured drink of wine and gazes neutrally back at Mary. "I enjoy reading the papers, on occasion."

"Which ones?" Mary asks, clearly attempting to strike up a conversation. "I myself am a huge fan of the London Gazette."

Mycroft lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Whichever, it doesn't quite matter to me."

"I see. Well, either way, it's lovely that you have an appreciation for written word. Janine?"

Janine dabs her mouth on her napkin in an attempt to fix her lipstick. "I'm a strong woman who values frankness and candor. I also enjoy yoga."

"A wonderful pastime indeed," Mary agrees. When Mary looks to Molly, Sherlock notices something significant shift in her gaze, and he knows instantly that whatever is about to come out of her mouth will be precise and carefully thought-out. "So, Molly, what about you, darling?"

Molly looks up from her salad like a deer in headlights. "Oh, er, there isn't anything exceptionally interesting about me."

"I'm sure that's not true. Has there been anything eventful in your personal life lately?"

"What do you mean?"

An innocent smile works its way across Mary's face. "I meant, have you met anyone interesting lately, dear?"

"Oh, well, I did meet a very intriguing woman at the morgue the other day. She'd recently operated on a man with a rare virus that—"

"No, darling," Mary chuckles, "I meant in regards to yourlove life. A man perhaps?"

"Oh. I see." Molly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and offers an awkward smile. "In that case, no. I suppose I haven't."

Mary hums thoughtfully and casts a brief look around the table, as if to ensure that she has everyone's attention. "That is actually quite wonderful to hear, darling, because I know someone who would be absolutely perfect for you."

Molly frowns. "Who?"

"Well, forgive me if I'm being a bit presumptuous here, Molly, but I think you and Sherlock would make a beautiful couple."

Molly practically chokes on her wine. Equally flabbergasted, Sherlock freezes in the motion of spearing a tomato and stares at Mary. What the hell is she playing at?

"Excuse me?" Sherlock says. It isn't a question so much as it is a demand.

Mary ignores him and smiles conspiratorially at Molly, whose face is grower redder by the minute. "John may or may not have mentioned that you once had a little crush on Sherlock, dear." In a stage whisper, she adds, "But don't worry, I think it's adorable

"Um, I don't—I'm not—I really just, er," Molly stutters, looking absolutely mortified. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Mary."

"Mary," John interjects, putting down his fork. "What are you doing?"

Mary casts a placating smile in John's direction and turns back to Molly. "Darling, I don't mean to embarrass you, I only mean to state the obvious. You're so lovely and sweet, and that is just the kind of woman Sherlock needs. You would certainly smooth out the less refined aspects of his personality."

"Um, Mary, I-I really don't think—"

"Oh, look, dear, you're blushing!" Mary giggles. "How charming!"

Incredulous, Sherlock drops his hand palm-down on the table, loudly commanding the group's attention. "Mary!"

All five heads swivel to look at him. "Perhaps I'm out of line for requesting this, but before you plan our wedding, Mary, could you take a moment to consider my thoughts on this?"

Mary waves him away. "Oh, do calm down, Sherlock, it's merely an observation. Besides, the two of you have been friends for quite some time, is it truly that unbelievable that I might consider you compatible?"

"Molly and I are friends and only friends," Sherlock states very clearly, since Molly doesn't seem like she's going to be able to articulate herself any time soon. "Our relationship is platonic. We do not have any romantic interest in each other."

Mary glances between Sherlock and Molly and arches a single brow. "Are you sure speaking on her behalf is the best idea, Sherlock?"

In his peripheral, Sherlock watches Molly's face turn even blotchier with blush. Belatedly, it occurs to him that she might still have feelings for him. As utterly reluctant as Sherlock is to deal with even more emotional chaos and confusion, Molly is his friend and the last thing he would like to do is hurt her feelings or embarrass her.

"Molly…" he starts.

"Um, no. It's fine, Sherlock. It's nothing," she babbles, tucking her hair nervously behind her ear yet again.

After a long beat of silence, Janine attempts to rescue Molly from melting into a puddle of embarrassment. "Hey, you know what? Who cares that she has a thing for Sherlock? I mean, just look at him, he's a bloody work of art. If he wasn't already head over heels for someone else, I'd be chasing after him in a minute."

It takes a beat for the words to sink in, but when they do, a wave of terrible silence floods the room. John glances at Sherlock with veiled panic, Sherlock looks to Mycroft with an alarmed expression, Mary narrows her eyes and sweeps her gaze around the table, Molly tries not to look crestfallen, and Janine blinks rapidly, realizing she's said too much.

Surprisingly, Lestrade is the first one to speak. "Sherlock, head over heels? For who?"

"For himself," Janine answers quickly, "I meant that he's head over heels for himself. You know, because his ego is far too big." She forces a laugh. "And, obviously, that's an unattractive trait."

Sherlock appreciates the attempt, but it's a bit late for backtracking.

"Sherlock Holmes is head over heels," Mary repeats carefully, her twinkling gaze locked on Sherlock. After a beat, she looks to Janine and smiles sweetly. "I assume you are referring to my husband?" No matter how untrue, the word grates Sherlock's nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

In the background, the piano screams, the harp shrieks, and the song reaches its tumultuous crescendo.

If Sherlock thought the silence had been oppressive before, he was dead-wrong. Now it feels as though the entire world has gone quiet. John's eyes widen, Lestrade's fork slips from his fingers, Mycroft freezes, and Sherlock feels ice-cold dread course through his veins like poison.

"What are you talking about, Mary?" John questions at last. Under the table, Sherlock can see Mycroft subtly hovering his hand over his mobile, ready to call for backup at a moment's notice.

Unconcerned, Mary takes a sip of wine. "I'm referring to the fact that Sherlock is in love with you, darling." She looks at Janine. "Correct?"

Janine blinks. "Mary, I didn't mean to imply—"

"Go on, Janine," Sherlock says through gritted teeth. "You might as well tell her."

"Oh?" Mary raises a brow in interest. "I wasn't aware there was anything more to tell. Do go on, dear."

Janine looks extremely confused for a moment, then reluctant. "Sherlock," she says quietly, "I'm not going to embarrass you by telling everyone what happened. I didn't mean to say anything about it at all just now, but it slipped. I'm sorry."

Sherlock exhales deeply and resolutely places his fork down on the table. "You want to know, Mary? Fine. I'll tell you." He looks her right in the eyes. "On John's stag night, I confessed my feelings and John turned me down." He flexes his hand on top of the table, fighting the urge to make a fist. "There, okay? I said it. That's it, that's all that happened."

Lestrade stares at Sherlock with his mouth gaping. "You told him?"

Molly shakes herself from her daze and looks to Lestrade with surprise. "You knew?"

"The whole bloody world knew!"

"Then why did you just ask who Sherlock could possibly be head over heels for?" Molly demands.

"Because I didn't think it could possibly be John, since he's sitting right bloody there and that isn't the most subtle of—I'm sorry, that's not really helping, is it?" He stops talking to Molly and ducks his head apologetically. "This really isn't our business, Molly."

Janine runs a hand through her hair. "As strange as it feels to say such a thing, I don't think this is my business either." She shoots a pained look at Sherlock. "I'm so sorry for saying anything, Sherlock, I really didn't intend to bring this up in front of everyone."

Sherlock isn't completely certain that their plan is working until he sees his brother's shoulders relax and his hand move away from his mobile. That means they have Mary right where they want her, and they're nearly in the clear.

Thankfully, John catches on in no time and plays his role perfectly. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, this must be mortifying. I had no intention of—"

"Enough, John," Sherlock snaps, in the manner of someone attempting to hide their broken heart with harsh words (it is not a difficult ruse to pull off, being that he is more than familiar with the feeling). "I'd appreciate if we could just move on."

Mary smiles prettily and folds her napkin up on her lap. "Well, this has been a rather eventful night, hasn't it?"

"Mary, I'm going to go," Janine says uncomfortably, rising from the table. Lestrade and Molly follow her lead.

"This has been…" Lestrade pauses, searching for the right words, before settling with, "a dinner. Yes, that's really all I can say to describe this whole thing. It's been a dinner. Can't say I had a great time either, but it was certainly memorable."

Molly trails after Lestrade with her purse in hand. On their way out, she pauses by a still-seated Mary. "I can't believe you would do that to Sherlock," she says quietly. "He is a good man and you embarrassed both him and me. I had a terrible time and I sincerely hope you never extend an invitation to me ever again. Good day."

Mycroft clears his throat. "Yes, I suppose I'll be on my way as well. Lots of papers to read, after all." As he passes by Sherlock, he squeezes his shoulder, wordlessly communicating that they passed the test. Mary thinks that Sherlock is hopeless and that John is hers. Tonight has been a success, as grim as it may seem.

Still in his chair, John watches the three of them leave. When the front door clicks shut, he looks to Mary with a serious expression. "Mary, I think we should talk."

Mary leans over and pecks his cheek, unsubtly glancing at Sherlock while she does so. "No need, darling. I am very aware of the situation now and I know you've done nothing wrong."

Partially to complete the ruse and partially out of genuine disgust, Sherlock shoves his chair back and storms away from the table. "I need some air."

…

"So," Mary says five minutes later, joining him on the balcony. "What did you think of the party?"

"Skip the niceties."

"Fine. If you must know, I followed you out here to get a personal account of what transpired on John's stag night." A look of supreme satisfaction spreads across her face. "Don't spare me any of the gory details."

"I confessed my feelings for John and he rejected me," Sherlock says flatly, his eyes fixated on the dimly glowing moon above them. "He said he considers me a friend and nothing more." Even though Sherlock knows what he's saying isn't true, it still stings. Without looking at her, he continues, "In short, he loves you, not me."

Mary smiles and her teeth look menacing in the dark. "Oh, I know, dear."

He gives her a sidelong glance. "Well, are you satisfied? He's yours now. There is nothing left to compete over, you've won."

"I've won," Mary sighs. "What a delicious phrase. I do believe I'll have it engraved somewhere."

Sherlock doesn't bother hiding his disgust. "Answer one question for me, would you?"

She laughs airily. "Oh, why not. Ask away, love."

"Is this why you gathered everyone here tonight? To publicly shame me and stake your claim on John?"

"No," she answers frankly. "But it was certainly a pleasant surprise."

"So what was your purpose, then? You and I both know you never arranged this to thank me for my help, so please don't patronize me."

"I wouldn't dream of it, darling," she mocks. "You see, I've had my suspicions about John's stag night since I spoke with him on the phone that morning. He claimed that you two merely drank and passed out, but knowing the ridiculous infatuation you have with him, I figured something far more significant happened. Instead of waiting tediously for the truth to surface on its own, I decided to speed things along by gathering a very specific group of people that I knew would get me the results I wanted."

"So you're saying everyone you invited served a specific purpose?"

"Oh, of course. Molly was here to provide a segue into your love life, Janine was here because I know you share your personal issues with her, and Lestrade was here to create a setting of familiarity that would put you at ease." She speaks about these cold, calculating measures so easily and casually that it makes Sherlock's skin crawl. "I knew Janine would most likely reveal something incriminating about you, but I had no idea it would be so juicy."

"And my brother? Why was he invited?"

"Ah, yes, Mycroft. I was merely interested in seeing a family member of yours. As it turned out, he was not as interesting as I had hoped, but I suppose a certain dullness is to be expected when one belongs to the Holmes family." Her green eyes glint maliciously in the dark. "No offense."

He ignores the jibe. "Aren't you worried that John will look down on you for offending his friends?"

She barks a laugh. "Hardly. He isn't close to Molly and Janine, so he won't care that they're upset. He is close to Lestrade but I did nothing cruel or unusual to him, so there is no issue there, and any harm I might've caused you tonight can be justified by the fact that you propositioned my fiancé behind my back. I've done absolutely nothing wrong here. If anything, you are the one to blame."

"This was a very precise plan."

"Well, I'm a very precise woman, Sherlock," she says, drumming her longs nails against the bannister. They click against the metal rail and remind him of the sound of bullet casings scattering against the floor. "Surely you've realized that by now."

"I have," he replies coolly. "I suppose I just needed the reminder."

"You're smart, Sherlock," Mary muses after a beat. "But you aren't smart enough. You aren't smart in the ways that matter. Deceit is a beautiful skill to have under one's belt, as is charisma and charm. You, my dear, lack all of the above." She gives him an assessing look. "Though, I will give you credit for managing to pine after my fiancé for so long without his knowledge. I suppose that does require a pitiful and desperate—but nonetheless impressive—brand of ingenuity."

"Goodness, do stop, I'm blushing."

"You can hide the hurt with jokes all you want, Sherlock Holmes, but the truth is out there, now. John doesn't want you." She looks heavenward, her blood-red lips stretching into self-satisfied smile. "He doesn't love you. Never has and never will."

Sherlock holds the bannister in a white-knuckled grip. "So what's next, Mary?" he questions flatly. "Now that you've executed your little test, I presume you have some sort of follow up plan?"

"The wedding, of course," she replies without missing a beat. "John and I will be married in a week as planned and then we will move away to live our lives far, far away from you."

"That last bit of information is new. Is John aware of this?"

"I brought it up to him this morning and he agreed completely. We need to start somewhere fresh, somewhere that does not have history and memories and you, so that we may raise our family in peace. Can't have you popping in and out of our lives anymore, darling." Her smile grows cold. "Your role in John's life has expired. You are no longer needed, as a friend or as a colleague. John is moving on and I suggest you do the same."

With every word, Mary chips deeper and deeper into Sherlock's soul. The only thing keeping Sherlock from breaking down entirely is the thought that everything Mary is saying will never come to fruition. He and Mycroft—along with the Brothers of Blood—will have taken care of her long before she has the chance to set her plan in motion. John will not be moving away, Mary will not be his wife, and the two of them certainly will not have a family together.

However, it is imperative that Mary thinks they will, so Sherlock forces himself to look as dejected and angry as possible.

"This isn't fair."

"Do stop crying over spilled milk," she returns flippantly. "What's done is done. I love John and he loves me, and right now that's all that matters. I don't give a rat's arse about what you say or what anyone else says for that matter." The moonlight glints off the surface of her green eyes, making them appear bright and serpentine. "Besides, as they say, all's fair in love and—" she chuckles, the sound twisting like smoke in the opaque darkness. "Well, you know the rest."

Chapter Text

Scheme: (noun) a systematic plan for completing an objective or putting a particular idea into effect

1.

Two days after the dinner party, at five o'clock in the morning, Sherlock wakes up to the loud, grating noise of his mobile vibrating against his nightstand.

"Hello?" he answers groggily, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Sherlock."

"Ah, Mycroft." Sherlock yawns. "What is it?"

"The Brothers have agreed to help us."

Before Sherlock has the chance to gather his wits and formulate a response to that statement, Mycroft has hung up and left the dial tone buzzing in Sherlock's ear. Now wide-awake, Sherlock props himself up against the headboard and quickly phones Mycroft back, annoyed by his brother's ridiculous melodramatic tendencies. Must he be so theatrical?

"What is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft answers somewhat tersely.

"Mycroft, I would appreciate some elaboration on what you just said. Surprisingly, a mere seven words did not provide sufficient explanation."

"Sherlock, I am rather preoccupied at the moment. Just keep what I said in mind and I will speak to you in person within the next few hours."

"Mycroft, I will not bloody wait around for you to—"

"Goodbye."

"Myc—"

Dial tone.

With a huff, Sherlock tosses the sheets aside and moodily drops his phone back on his bedside table. He's never been a particularly early riser, but it's already five in the morning and after that terribly unsatisfying phone call, there is no way he'll be able to sleep peacefully. No, if anything, he feels more alert and restless than ever.

There are several things he could do to fill up the 'next few hours' until his brother arrives, but at the moment, all of his options seem terribly tedious. He could play the violin, but he's feeling too jittery to stand still and compose; he could leaf through the pile of unsolved cases Lestrade dumped on his doorstep two weeks ago, but he already lied to Mary and claimed that he would not be taking any more work, and even though she is still under the impression that she has bested him, he'd rather not arouse her suspicions by looking into any cases; he could pop downstairs and visit Mrs. Hudson, who happens to be an early riser herself, but that would involve far more socializing than he is currently in the mood for, despite how dearly he loves his landlady. He could go to one of the corner shops and succumb to his cravings by purchasing a pack of fags, but John would definitely be able to smell it on him when they see each other later today and he knows how much John abhors smoking. In theory, he could make tea, but he already knows from experience that it won't taste half as good as John's, so why bother?

He finally settles on sitting on the sofa and digesting some information. There is quite a lot to mull over, after all—namely, Mycroft's message. Sherlock finds himself immensely relieved at the news, because it means that he and his brother are still in control of the situation. With the help of Mycroft's power and the Brothers' influence, Mary is going to walk right into their trap. Had the Brothers refused to help, that would have created yet another obstacle to overcome; it would've also made it quite difficult to determine Mary's fate once their plan came to fruition. At least with this current course of action, their hands will be clean and the Brothers of Blood with be there to take care of any unsavory tasks.

Despite the glow of relief and victory surrounding him, Sherlock can't help but feel a bit stunned that their plan is coming together so quickly. In less than five days, John and Mary will be at the altar, professing their love and exchanging vows, while he, Mycroft, and the Brothers orchestrate a plan to bring her to the ground. In less than a week, everything about Mary's past that they have been investigating, speculating about, and planning for, will finally come together and form one cohesive picture. Any holes in their knowledge will be filled.

But most importantly, he and John will finally be free to be together. With a sigh, Sherlock settles further into the sofa and loses himself in a daydream wherein it is once again just the two of them against the world, sharing a flat, sharing a bed, sharing a life…

Feeling that typical, abrupt sting of longing that almost always accompanies thoughts of John, Sherlock retrieves his mobile from the bedroom and texts him.

Are we still on for lunch today? SH

He already knows their plans are still in place, but on the off chance that Mary checks John's incoming messages before John does, he'd rather she see something innocuous and bland like this rather than the message he truly wants to send, which would probably read more like the opening lines of a soppy love letter.

Of course! Up early, I see.

Good, so John saw the message first. Sherlock smiles at the brightly lit screen and quickly types out a reply.

Early bird gets the worm. SH

Spouting idioms, are we?

Perhaps. SH

Mind if I call you?

Yes please. SH

"John," Sherlock greets a minute later. He can't help but immediately feel as though John is right here in the room with him, even though they are separated by miles and miles of distance. "Hello."

He can hear the smile in John's voice. "Morning."

"Good Morning. Is Mary around?"

"Nope. She's out at the shops buying more random clutter for the wedding."

Sherlock scrunches up his nose at the mention of the wedding. "Right."

John sighs. "But anyway, let's talk about something other than her or my upcoming nuptials. I've heard enough about both of those topics to last a lifetime."

Sherlock couldn't agree more. He folds his feet underneath him and gets comfortable on the sofa. "Did you sleep well?"

John chuckles. "Sherlock Holmes, asking if I slept well? Next you'll be commenting on how nice the weather has been."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I am allowed one plebian question every now and then, John. Besides, nothing is ever boring when it is concerning you."

"Fine. Just because I find you quite charming, I'll answer. Last night I managed a fair six hours, plus I had a rather interesting dream."

"Of?"

"Of you, actually."

Sherlock's eyebrows raise in intrigue. "Is that so?"

"Yes, though it was a bit different from my usual dreams of you. Usually, the dreams are memories: running through alleyways, sitting in the flat drinking tea, bickering over lunch at Angelo's. Last night's, however…" John pauses. "Well, last night was actually about the future."

"The future?" Sherlock echoes.

"Yes. And it was rather odd because I never have dreams that aren't based on memories."

"What happened in this dream?"

"Well, for one, you and I weren't at Baker Street. We were living in some little cottage out in the country. Nothing particularly wild happened, I just sat in my chair and read the paper and you stood in the kitchen pouring over your experiments, but something about it felt absolutely heavenly. I don't know why. I could smell tea brewing and I could feel the sunlight streaming in from the window behind me. There was very faint music in the background, too, probably from a radio somewhere. It was all very—domestic."

Sherlock leans back into the cushions, closing his eyes and envisioning the scene with crystal-clarity. "That sounds very nice."

"It was," John agrees. "It was a very short dream, but I can still picture it as if I were actually there. The most distinct thing I remember is how happy I felt. How absolutely, utterly content."

Sherlock sighs, wishing John were within hugging distance, rather than on the other side of London. He feels so hopelessly, ridiculously full of affection and longing and love, and it is the most frustrating thing in the world to not be able to express it.

"I miss you," he says quietly.

"I miss you too, Sherlock. Five days," John says steadily. "Five days and then it's just you and me."

"I know, I'm just sick of waiting," Sherlock replies wearily. "I feel as though we've been waiting forever."

"We have, love. We have."

After a beat, Sherlock shakes off the wave of sadness and tries to stay positive. "At least we'll see each other for lunch today."

When John replies, Sherlock can hear him smiling. "Yes, and I promise I'll hold your hand under the table again."

2.

Twenty minutes after eleven, Mycroft finally arrives.

"It's about time, Mycroft, I've been milling around the flat uselessly for hours," Sherlock complains, as he opens the door and lets his brother in.

"Well, pardon me, Sherlock, but I had some very important loose ends to tie up with the Brothers."

Is that so?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Though they have agreed to help us, they had their own fair share of conditions."

Sherlock frowns. "Such as?"

Mycroft sighs. "Do you mind if we discuss this in the sitting room? I've been standing for hours and I don't believe this is a conversation I would like to have until I am entirely comfortable."

Sherlock nods and follows his brother into the sitting room. "I'd offer some tea but judging by the smell on your coat, you've already had some."

"Yes, all civilized meetings include tea." Mycroft straightens his collar and frowns. "I cannot say the gesture of politeness and good intentions was entirely appreciated by the Brothers, but it certainly made me feel a bit more comfortable." Mycroft sits down on the sofa. "But that is beside the point."

"Right, yes, you were going to tell me what the Brothers' conditions were, correct?"

"Yes." Mycroft sighs. "I suppose I will just start at the very beginning."

"Please do."

"Well, with Anton's help, I arranged a meeting with the Brothers yesterday evening that was supposed to take place on neutral grounds. I suggested somewhere private and relatively secret, such as the warehouse by St. Reagent's, but Anton warned me that suggesting such a thing would imply distrust, which would then inspire feelings of animosity. As reluctant as I was to bring a gang of German mobsters into any personal facility of mine, I relented, and allowed the meeting to take place at my work office. To Anton's credit, this turned out to be a very wise move, because the show of trust on my part made the leaders of the group—whom I later learned were called Baldric, Achmad, and Imke—more willing to leave their weapons at the door. From then on, I explained the entirety of the situation to the men, starting with John's introduction to 'Mary' and ending with our successful ruse at the dinner party two days ago. By the time I finished speaking, they seemed to be under the impression that I was asking them to find her and kill her immediately, and they expressed that they would be more than happy to do so. Despite the fact that I stated numerous times that that was not the case, they continued to demand Mary's head on a stick. Anton managed to calm them down long enough for me to explain our real plan and how they would be a part of it. Initially, their leader, Achmad, laughed at me, claiming my plan was weak and useless. I, remaining quite unruffled, reminded him of the fact that Ms. Morstan has managed to evade capture by not only the Brothers, but the United States government as well, for over a decade. I explained to him that if we were to rush into this plan head first with no regard for caution, Mary would once again slip from authority's grasp and run free.

"Their only stipulations were the following: once Mary is within their custody, we are not to question, control, or deter whatever actions they find necessary; and two, they will be allowed to safely leave our country without attracting the attention of the official British government, as long as they do not do anything untoward on their way out."

Sherlock nods. "That's fair."

"Indeed. Far more reasonable than I expected, which was a welcome surprise. Now then, onto the plan itself. As you know, the wedding is in five days. On the day of the wedding, everything will go perfectly. The flowers will smell sweet, the cake will taste delicious, and the decorations will look beautiful, etcetera. Mary will think that she has the world in the palm of her hand. Meanwhile, while the wedding itself is transpiring, the Brothers will arm themselves and surround the area alongside my men, who will be disguised as John's guests. Right as John and Mary are saying their vows, I will trigger the fire alarm, safely evacuating all of the guests. To further isolate Mary, I will instruct John to abandon her and frantically chase after an elderly relative of his to 'make sure she is okay', leaving Mary alone with you. When she too attempts to leave with the crowd, you must stall her for at least an extra two minutes, just long enough for the last guest to leave, because then all of the downstairs doors will lock automatically. You can blame it on faulty security or a technical glitch."

Sherlock frowns. "Mary is highly intelligent, Mycroft, you don't think she'll know something is wrong? For one, all of the automatic doors locking in unison is fairly suspicious, and two, she'll be able to tell in an instant that there isn't a real fire."

"Yes, you are correct, Mary is very intelligent," Mycroft agrees, "but our plan is bulletproof. We have complete control. In regards to the fire alarm, there will be an actual fire in the hall."

"What?" Sherlock cries. "Mycroft I cannot think of a single thing less controllable than fire. You think committing bloody arson is the wisest choice?"

Mycroft scowls. "If you'd let me finish speaking, I would be more than happy to explain."

"Fine," Sherlock huffs. "Please do."

"There will be fire, but it will be contained to one area of the kitchen. Should the fire somehow escape or grow out of hand, I will trigger a spray of extinguishing material that will take care of it immediately. As for the doors simultaneously locking: while everything is happening, the lights will be flickering, the intercom will spew static, and the kitchen appliances will be turning off and on again, making the idea of a 'technical glitch' seem more convincing. Either way, Mary only needs to believe you for a few minutes. After that, she will receive a call from John, saying that he is upstairs in their room, injured."

"Why would John be upstairs?"

"He ran up there to get one of his guests—whether this fictional person is a friend or a relative is entirely up to John—but after helping them escape, he broke something (ankle, leg, whatever) and is now trapped in his room, awaiting the flames. And before you mention that the fire is contained only to the kitchen, bear in mind that Mary does not know this and, upon seeing the hall flooded with smoke, will assume that the fire is spreading throughout the building. The two of you will then rush upstairs to her room (164A) to rescue John, but when Mary goes inside, you will not follow her. Pause right outside and pretend to have sprained an ankle or something if you must, but do not go in. Panicked and worried for John, she will rush inside, too concerned with his well-being to doubt her surroundings or question them, and right as she steps over the threshold, the door will swing shut behind her and lock."

"How will you time it just right? There are many factors that will determine the exact time she enters her room, and surely not even you can predict every single one of them."

"No, I'm afraid I cannot predict everything, but I will not need to. I will have hundreds of cameras set up in the hallway outside of her room as well as in the room itself. I will be watching the events play out from a remote location and once I see Mary step into the room, I will be able to activate a device that will lock the door. To assuage your fear that she will then be able to break the door down or find some means of escape, the door will be steel plated, though it will have the outward appearance of a common wooden door. Once Mary is trapped inside, a capsule will release sleeping gas potent enough to knock her unconscious for the next twenty four hours. The moment she loses consciousness, the fire downstairs will be extinguished, the doors will unlock, and a team of my men and the Brothers' men will enter the building and take Mary. Of course, for the sake of legal documentation, you and I will have to speak to Mary first—once she has been restrained and locked in one of our underground interrogation rooms—and then she will be turned over to the Brothers to be dealt with accordingly."

"Christ, that's quite a lot." Sherlock rubs a hand over his face. "Is all of this truly necessary, Mycroft? I feel as though we are making this entirely too complicated."

Mycroft huffs a laugh. "Certainly not. If anything, Sherlock, this plan is too simple. Over the span of several years, Mary, or shall I say Annaliese, has managed to slip through the fingers of nearly every government on this side of planet, as well as numerous illegal gangs and organizations, so the very last thing we need to do is to underestimate her. We need her to be completely caught off guard when we finally trap her."

Sherlock nods, silently conceding that his brother has a point. Mary, as he so helpfully pointed out earlier, is an incredibly intelligent woman, so in order to trick her, they will need to take every precaution imaginable. As the saying goes, it's better to be safe than sorry.

"In the meantime, Mycroft, is there anything I need to do?"

"I don't believe so, no." He considers something for a moment. "Actually, I've been meaning to ask: what has the aftermath of the dinner party been like?"

Sherlock grimaces at the reminder. "Well, for one, Mary doesn't 'give a rat's arse' that John and I are still spending time together. We went out for breakfast yesterday morning and when I went to their flat to get John, she actually laughed at me when she opened the door. Then she kissed John goodbye and told us to have a good time." Sherlock exhales sharply through his teeth. "If I didn't know that her world was about to fall apart in less than a week, I doubt I could stand to be around her. She's so bloody smug."

"Good," Mycroft says firmly. "We need her to feel self-assured, remember? Have there been any ramifications for the way she treated Ms. Hooper and yourself at the party?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, from what John tells me, she called Molly and offered a very insincere apology, full of disheartened sighs and dramatic lamentations of guilt. As for myself, she apologized to me in front of John, then as soon as he left the room, smirked and reminded me of their impending marriage yet again."

Mycroft nods. "As unpleasant as I am sure this is for you, Sherlock, this is a relief to hear. This means that things are right on track."

"I know, I know," Sherlock says with a sigh. He glances down at his watch. "Speaking of John, I have plans with him for lunch in less than twenty minutes."

"I'm guessing Mary was apathetic towards this event as well?"

"Of course. At this point, I'm fairly certain I could drop to one knee and propose to John right in front of her, and she still wouldn't care. She thinks that she has won and that John is completely on her side. Which John has certainly helped with, being that he constantly reassures her that he and I are merely friends, despite my 'deeply unrequited love' for him." Sherlock sighs disdainfully and shrugs on his coat. "Now then, I'd hate to miss my date with John, so we will have to chat some other time, brother. Do keep me updated."

Chapter Text

Ready: (adj.) prepared for a specific event

1.

"So," John says, twenty minutes into their lunch date, as Sherlock continues absently poking at his untouched salad, "are you finally going to tell me what's on your mind?"

Sherlock glances up from the pile of somewhat wilted lettuce and casts an apologetic look at John. For the entire first half of their meal, he has been lost in his own reverie, mulling over his brother's plan and endeavoring to find the proper way to convey it to John. Unfortunately, the rest of the world is never aware of the loud, endless pondering that buzzes through Sherlock's mind, so John has been forced to endure this entire date in near silence. "Yes," Sherlock says, placing down his fork and clearing his throat. "I suppose now is as good a time as any."

"Thank god," John exhales. "You've clearly been mulling something over and I'd love to know what it is."

"Yes, I know, my apologies, John. I was merely searching for the best way to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Well, prior to this date, I had a brief meeting with my brother back at the flat, in regards to Mary's capture."

John raises his eyebrows in interest. "Did he give you any important updates? Any new information?"

"Yes, actually. You recall the Brothers of Blood, don't you?"

John nods. "The group of German mobsters who are after Mary, correct?"

"Indeed. Last night, Mycroft had his first meeting with the group's leaders and managed to successfully arrange a plan that will take place on your wedding day."

"My wedding day? We're going to wait until Mary and I are literally standing on the altar before we take action?"

"Yes," Sherlock says with a frown. "As much as I would prefer more immediate action, we have no other choice. The wedding day is the only day when we will be able to catch her completely off-guard, as she'll be too busy reveling in her supposed victory to be vigilant and alert."

"Right then," John says, his tone accepting but nonetheless miserable. "Now what about the plan itself?"

"That," Sherlock says with a weary sigh "might take a while to explain."

…

"Fire," John repeats ten minutes later, his meal entirely forgotten. "Your brother wants to start a sodding fire? He thinks that will provide the safest exit route for our guests? Is he mad? He must've been kidding."

Sherlock sighs and takes a sip of water. "No, I'm afraid Mycroft was completely serious. Granted, there are benefits to his plan and I can certainly follow his line of logic, but…"

"But fire is risky as hell!" John continues, still looking quite exasperated.

"It's a necessary measure, John."

John laughs in disbelief. "Alright, maybe it's because I'm not some incredible genius like you or your brother, but I really don't see how actual arson is necessary. Why can't he just run the alarms and, I don't know, place smoke machines throughout the hall?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John, this woman is an ex-CIA agent with a rap sheet that is as long as I am tall; if we use half-hearted deception, she'll be able to sniff us out in an instant. Keep in mind, Annaliese—I mean, Mary, has managed to escape the clutches of not only the United States government, but the Brothers of Blood as well. We need to be precise with every measure we take concerning her capture."

John shakes his head and returns his attention to his meal, somewhat aggressively sectioning off a bit of lasagna. "Fire doesn't sound all that precise to me, Sherlock. It's sounds bloody mad."

"I know, John, but as I've said, it is imperative. The only way to safely evacuate hundreds of people from a building without raising Mary's suspicion is by fire alarm, and that will only seem convincing if there is an actual fire to back it up. Besides, she won't feel nearly as desperate to run to your hotel room and help you if she doesn't think you are in imminent danger."

"It's mad," John repeats flatly. "But, I suppose if you think it's a decent idea, I'll trust your judgement."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock says, a flood of gratitude crashing through his chest. "I know how ridiculous and exorbitant this plan might seem, so I appreciate that you have faith in me."

There is a beat of comfortable silence.

"Sherlock, there is one other bit that I'm not entirely comfortable with," John says at length. He looks up from his plate and meets Sherlock's eyes. "I really don't care for the idea of you and Mary being alone together. What if she figures out what's going on and does something to you? What if she hurts you, or worse?"

"John—"

"Sherlock, I wouldn't be able to stand it if I lost you again," John interrupts, his voice steady and sincere. "I hate the thought of you putting yourself in the line of fire like that."

"Don't you think I know how that feels?" Sherlock returns. "Every moment you spend with her is another moment that I could potentially lose you. You live with her, John. You're carrying around a metaphorical time bomb right now, and there's nothing I can do about it except wait around and make plans." He sighs. "The fact is, there is no way either of us are going to completely avoid danger if we want to capture Mary."

John wearily sets his fork down. "So, basically, you're saying there's no safe way out of this?"

"No," Sherlock says in an exhale. "As much as it pains me to say it, there is indeed no 'safe' route in this situation."

John chuckles ruefully. "Funny, because you and I usually live for danger and now we're avoiding it like the plague."

"That's because there is something important on the line, now," Sherlock says soberly, staring unseeingly at the blocks of ice in his drink. "You."

"You as well" John retorts. "Don't start getting some kind of martyr complex, Sherlock, you and I are both going to emerge from this situation unscathed, no matter how messy things get. We have to. I haven't waited this long to be with you, just to let some mad American spy break us up."

Sherlock smiles crookedly. "You make it sound so simple."

"That's because it is," John replies without hesitation. His hand, as promised, finds Sherlock's underneath the table and latches on. "I have your back and you have mine. We're going to endure the wedding, capture Mary, and then finally be together. Okay? After four bloody years of waiting, it's the least we deserve."

Sherlock squeezes John's hand, reassured by the contact. "Promise?"

"Promise."

Subtly, so that only John can see, Sherlock mouths, "I love you."

And when John smiles and mouths it back, Sherlock can't help but feel as though a bit of the weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

2.

At eight A.M. the next morning, instead of starting his day by wandering about the flat and anxiously counting down the time until the wedding (four days, two hours, and forty-six seconds), Sherlock walks into the sitting room and finds Janine perched on his sofa, holding a gigantic basket of baked goods and a balloon.

"Oh. Hello, Janine," he says, around a yawn. He's grown so used to her randomly popping into his flat that it hardly registers as a significant event anymore.

"Good morning," she smiles. "Er, in case you were wondering, I didn't break into your flat, Mrs. Hudson let me in.

"Hm. A significantly less impressive mode of entry, but certainly a more appropriate one." He rubs the sleep from his eyes and ambles towards the kitchen. "Tea?"

"I'd love some, but first, I would like to apologize."

He freezes in his tracks and steps back into the sitting room, immediately noticing the balloon with I'M SORRY written across it, and the rather large cupcake at the top of the basket with a blue-icing frowny face. Additionally, Janine is wearing what she has referred to in the past as her 'contrite' outfit, which consists of a pewter cardigan, a pair of 'sensible shoes', and silver stud earrings. Even her expression seems to radiate remorse.

"What do you have to apologize for?" he asks, genuinely confused. These past few days have been so chaotic and stressful that anything that does not directly pertain to Mary's capture has been wiped from his mind.

She looks surprised. "You don't remember?" At his blank expression she shakes her head and moves on. "Doesn't matter. I'm here to apologize for embarrassing you in front of everyone at Mary's dinner party three nights ago." She frowns, looking genuinely distressed, and Sherlock feels a bit guilty because he hasn't given that moment a second thought since it occurred. "I revealed something that you confessed to me in confidence and I had no right to do that."

"Janine," he starts, "it's fine—"

"No, Sherlock, it isn't! If I hadn't opened my fat gob, Mary wouldn't have made a fool of you like that. Christ, and poor Molly, too." She groans and rubs a hand over her face. "It sort of just slipped out, you know? I got a bit too comfortable and forgot to bite my tongue."

"Janine," he tries again, "I mean it, it's really nothing—"

"No," she insists, her eyes now shining with unshed tears. "You're one of my closest friends and I feel so wretched for casting you under the bus like that. You don't deserve that, Sherlock. No one does. I couldn't even bring myself to speak to you these past three days because I felt so ashamed." She sniffs and wipes her eyes. "I've always thought of myself as the kind of person who can be trusted with a secret, and now I've gone and done something like this. I've acted like an utterly terrible, completely awful—"

"Janine," he interrupts firmly, taking the seat beside her on the sofa. "Look at me."

She does.

"I detest repetition, so I will only say this once: I am in no way upset about what happened at the dinner party. I know you didn't intentionally reveal my secret and I know you would never attempt to hurt or mock me. It's over, it's done, and I forgive you entirely. You are still one of my closest friends and I still trust you completely."

Janine offers a watery smile and sniffs. "You mean that, detective?"

He fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, Janine, I mean it."

"Can I get a hug?"

He groans. "No, you may not. I'll allow a companionable handshake, at most."

She chuckles and dabs at her eyes. "Oh, hush, I know you're just a big softie under that coat and those curls." She grins delightedly at his blatantly unamused expression and heaves the basket onto her lap, pulling out the bow and undoing all the wrapping. "Aside from my apology, I also brought sweets."

"Yes, I can see that, Janine. Quite a lot of sweets, in fact."

She breaks off a corner of a muffin and pops it into her mouth. "Well, I wasn't sure what you'd prefer since the only sweets I've ever seen you indulge in are those chocolate biscuits Mrs. Hudson is always bringing over, so I got a bit of everything just to be safe. Banana nut bread, chocolate muffins, vanilla cakes with sprinkles, red velvet cakes with icing, biscuits with cream, biscuits with peanut butter, biscuits with raspberry filling, strawberry wafers, blueberry—"

"Yes, I think I get the picture," he cuts in, gently prying the basket from her hands. "Now then, would you like to have some of—this," he gestures at the mountain of treats, "over tea?"

…

"So, how have you been?" Janine asks, taking a bite of a blueberry muffin. "I know it's only been three days but I feel like we haven't spoken in ages. Anything interesting come up?"

He shrugs and takes a small bite of the peanut butter wafer Janine practically forced upon him. "I wouldn't say so. John and I have been going out for lunch and breakfast these past few days, but I'm not sure if that counts as something interesting."

She freezes in the motion of taking another bite and stares at him. "You mean to tell me, you and John are still going on your little lunch dates, despite what happened at the party?"

"Yes," he answers simply. "We are."

"Oh no you don't," Janine says, all but shaking her finger. "Don't you act all nonchalant as if I'm mad for thinking this is noteworthy."

"You are mad and this isn't noteworthy."

"Sherlock bloody Holmes," Janine begins in a chiding tone, "you and John spent months playing this exact same game—going out to eat, flirting, insisting things were strictly platonic when they clearly weren't—and look where it landed you! John said you two were just friends, remember? Are you really willing to go through that pain all over again? Also," she continues, without taking a breath, "how on earth is Mary okay with all of this? After what happened at dinner, I would've thought she'd be keeping John on a much shorter leash. Which, of course, isn't to say I agree with that mentality, but it at least makes sense!"

"Mary doesn't care because John feels nothing for me," Sherlock lies, taking a long drink of tea to hide the wince on his face as he speaks. Even though he's said the phrase a thousand times at this point and even though he knows it is completely untrue, he can't help but feel the slightest bit of pain every time he says it. "We are spending time together only as friends."

"And you're okay with being 'just friends'?" Janine asks incredulously.

"Yes, of course. I've had time to consider my position in John's life and I've realized that I should be content to merely be his friend. I do not need anything more nor do I plan to ever ask anymore more of him. I am perfectly happy to be his best man and best mate."

Janine narrows her eyes at him, looking entirely unconvinced. "Sherlock, I know you and I can tell you're fibbing. Of course you're not over John yet, how could you be? You professed your love for him and were rejected less than a week ago, there is no way even you could have moved on so quickly."

"I have," he insists, reaching for another muffin for the sake of busying his hands. "And I'm a better man for it."

"Oh Christ," Janine groans. "Please don't start spouting inspirational tripe about how you've grown from this experience and changed for the better. Surely you don't think I'm stupid enough to buy that, Sherlock."

He sighs. "Janine, I do not think you are stupid. However, I do mean it when I say I feel no pain when I spend time with John, now."

(Which, technically speaking, is quite true, but only because he knows that John loves him too and that the only thing standing between them is a mere four days. However, that is something Janine cannot know, so for now, white lies and omission will have to do.)

Apparently that seed of truth is enough to make his statement believable, because Janine's frown softens and her eyes lose some of their skepticism. "So, you're okay, then? Even though the wedding's right around the corner?"

"Yes," Sherlock says with genuine confidence. "In fact, I'd say I couldn't be more prepared for the wedding."

Chapter Text

Wedding : (noun) a marriage ceremony; an event considered a celebration of unification and love

...

1.

"Well, dear, today's the day, isn't it? John and Mary's wedding," Mrs. Hudson says brightly, as she puts Sherlock's groceries into the fridge. She removes a jar of fingernails and hair from the third shelf and makes a noise of disapproval. "Really, Sherlock, you mustn't store these things alongside your food. It's ghastly."

From his position on the sofa, Sherlock gives an annoyed huff and rolls onto his side, pointedly hiding his face in the cushions. There's so much to think about and plan for, but it's impossible for him to focus with all of these distractions floating around; the neighbor's telly bleeding through the walls, the grating tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall, Mrs. Hudson clinking jars together and shuffling bags in the kitchen, the inescapable, endlessly frustrating noise of his own bloody breathing—it's all too much. "Do not remove that, Mrs. Hudson, it's highly important."

"You don't even know what I'm holding!"

Sherlock sighs in irritation and rolls on his back so that he's facing the ceiling. "I don't need to. If that rattling noise is any indication, you're holding my collection of keratin samples, which I will need for my next experiment." After a beat of consideration, he adds, "And if you come across that tray of scales in the crisper, please do not disturb them, they're quite fragile."

Grimacing, Mrs. Hudson puts the jar back on the shelf, wipes her hands on her apron, and shuts the fridge. "You know, I'm afraid you'll have to store your own groceries from now on, dear. I've seen enough organs to last a lifetime."

"Fine," Sherlock says briskly. He keeps his eyes firmly closed and continues mentally walking through Mycroft's plan, carefully going over each step and reviewing any possible setbacks that might arise.

"Did you hear what I said a minute ago?" Mrs. Hudson asks, taking a seat at the very end of the sofa, right beside his socked feet. "About the wedding?"

"Yes, yes, I am aware of the date."

When the alarms start going off, John will have to leave Mary's side within moments, though not too quickly otherwise it will seem coordinated. Once alone, Sherlock will have to find a way to stall her for approximately two and a half minutes, which he will be able to do by—

"And how are you feeling about it, dear? I've noticed you and John have been spending more time together lately, so I'm assuming things are going well between you two?"

"Yes."

Now, if the flame starts in the kitchen, it will have to be fairly large for the smoke to somehow reach the staircase and the second floor, successfully leading Mary to believe that John is in imminent danger, therefore—

"Good, good. Marriage can change people, you know. Sometimes it makes you grow apart from your old friends, move away, and move on…" she sighs and pats his ankle. "I'm just glad to hear that isn't the case with you and John, dear."

"Quite."

How concentrated will the sleeping gas be? It will have to be fairly strong otherwise Mary will have time to escape from her room before the capsules have the chance to open, which means that he must make sure to—

"After all," Mrs. Hudson continues, "friendship is truly the most important thing in life. Well, friendship and love, anyway. I just want to make sure that you're alright with today, Sherlock. I wouldn't be able to stand it if you were being hurt by this."

"I'm fine."

What kind of weapons will the Brothers have? If they come bearing guns, that potentially runs the risk of Mary fighting through the sleeping gas and disarming someone, then shooting her way to freedom, so perhaps they should bring some sort of tranquilizing darts, just in case the gas is not potent enough to—

"Really dear, there's no need to lie to me. Clearly you're worried about something and I'd hate for you to have to suffer in silence. Are you absolutely sure you're alright?" She gives his ankle a comforting squeeze. "I know you, Sherlock, and I'm aware that you are not a big fan of emotions, but sometimes it is important to embrace feelings, good or bad, and deal with them accordingly. So, tell me, dear, are you truly okay with John getting married today?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, everything is just peachy!" he cries at last, sitting up as if he's just been electrocuted. "I'm splendid and John is splendid and sodding Mary Morstan is splendid, so if you would kindly stop trying to console me on something I am in no way saddened by, I would appreciate it greatly!"

Instead of taking offense or being hurt by his harsh tone, Mrs. Hudson merely sighs long-sufferingly and rises from the sofa. "Sherlock, it's clear as day that something isn't right, but I suppose if you insist on pretending otherwise, there's nothing I can say that will stop you. Just promise me one thing, won't you?"

"What?"

"Promise me that no matter what happens, you'll always make an effort to keep John in your life," she says, her expression open and sincere. After a beat of silence passes, her gaze softens and her tone becomes a bit quieter. "You make him better, you know that? And he does exactly the same for you. It would be an absolute shame for either of you to lose your second half."

Sherlock frowns. "Mrs. Hudson, John is getting married today. If anything, his second half is Ma—"

"No," Mrs. Hudson interrupts matter-of-factly. "She isn't, and I think we both know that."

Considering the fact that Mrs. Hudson is not aware of the situation at hand, Sherlock is impressed by her astute observations. Mere weeks ago, Sherlock himself was too blinded by his own insecurities to realize that he and John truly were meant for each other, yet somehow Mrs. Hudson is able to point out such a thing with complete ease. Even though his relationship with John is now stronger than ever, Sherlock can't help but feel a rush of reassurance at her kind words. It comforts him to know that even people who are not directly involved in this situation can see that he and John belong together. In a way it's reassuring to know that someone thinks he is worthy of such a man.

"I promise," Sherlock says at last, meaning the single phrase with all of his heart.

2.

Several hours later, while Sherlock is staring apprehensively at his brand new suit and attempting to work up the nerve to actually put it on, his mobile buzzes on his bedside table. A torrent of unabashed joy crashes through his chest when he reads the name flashing across the screen.

"John," he greets warmly, relieved to tear himself away from the daunting attire hanging in the closet and focus on something more positive. He sits down on his bed, ready to settle into a (hopefully) long conversation. "I'm so glad you called," he says in an exhale. "I've missed you."

However, instead of hearing John's lovely voice repeat the phrase back to him, Sherlock is greeted by Mary Morstan's condescending laughter. "Have you, dear?"

"Mary," he says flatly, the joy deflating in his chest like a popped balloon. He supposes he shouldn't have assumed that it was John, especially since it is vitally important that he stay on his toes today. "Why are you calling me from John's phone?"

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "John and I are going to be husband and wife by the end of the night, Sherlock, what's his is mine, and what's mine is his. I believe I am allowed to make calls from his phone if I so desire."

An immediate jolt of irritation clenches in Sherlock's chest, but he forces his tone to remain even and unruffled. "Is there a reason for this phone call?"

"Am I not allowed to call and see how you're doing, Sherlock?" Mary asks with a pout in her voice.

Sherlock grits his teeth and fixes his gaze at the ceiling. "You'd like to know how I've been, Mary? Well, I've been fine. Just wonderful."

"Right, yes, I can tell by the way you're audibly clenching your jaw, love," she titters.

He ignores the jibe. "Where is John?"

"He's in the kitchen, finalizing some last minute details with the caterer." She sighs. "He's had to intervene with nearly every staff member we hired, which I suppose just proves that if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself."

There is something about that bit of innocuous information that strikes him as significant, but he can't put his finger on what or why, and he does not have the time to ponder over possible dead ends. Instead of lingering on the subject, he moves on to his next, less important concern. "So, have you and John spent this whole day together?"

"Yes, of course," Mary answers without hesitation. "We rarely spend time apart these days."

"I see. And I'm assuming you've heard of the superstition that a bride and groom should not see each other on the day of the wedding?"

"I'm familiar with it, yes, but I don't believe in silly superstitions," Mary replies dismissively. "I'd much rather spend the day of my wedding with my husband."

"Fiancé," Sherlock corrects automatically.

Mary laughs and even though it sounds like bells, it still sends shivers down his spine. "I suppose if you insist on focusing on technicalities, then, yes, John is my fiancé. But in a few short hours, we'll officially be together as husband and wife." After a beat of smug silence, she saccharinely adds, "Do you recall what I told you on the balcony last week, Sherlock?"

His scowl deepens at the memory. "Which bit? As I recall, there were quite a few noteworthy sentiments you expressed that night."

"The bit about what happens after the wedding," she supplies, her sugary tone dripping in self-satisfaction. "Do you remember what I said?"

Yes, with crystal clarity.

However, Sherlock has no intention of giving her the pleasure of knowing that even a single iota of her revolting presence has seeped into his memory bank, so he feigns ignorance. "I don't believe I do. I suppose you will have to repeat it."

"Aw, is that mind palace of yours getting a bit cluttered, love? I suppose I'll do you a favor by repeating what I so carefully articulated at the dinner party." She clears her throat. "The very moment John and I are married, we plan start somewhere fresh, somewhere that does not have history and memories and you, so that we may raise our family in peace. As I said, your role in John's life has expired. You are no longer needed, as a friend or as a colleague." Mary sighs rapturously. "John is moving on at last. Tonight is going to be the first chapter of an entirely new existence."

If only Mary knew how ironically true that statement is. Tonight will certainly be the catalyst of change, but instead of leading to a rose-tinted, domestic existence with John, that change will result in Mary's capture and subsequent incarceration. If anyone is to glean a happy ending from this situation, it will be Sherlock and John.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, mindful of keeping his tone neutral. "I suppose it will be."

"Oh, trust me, Sherlock, it—John!" Mary says, her tone immediately flooding with warmth and affection. "Darling, I was just speaking with Sherlock about the wedding. I know, I know, I'm just so excited I need to call someone and gush about it." John responds with something inaudible and Mary laughs. "Oh, of course. Here you are, love."

There's a moment of silence, and then: "Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock says, relieved that it really is him this time.

"Hi," John replies, his voice warm. "Listen, I would love to talk, but I'm incredibly busy right now, so can I text you later?"

"Of course," Sherlock agrees.

...

Hey! Sorry I couldn't talk to you earlier, I've spent this whole day sorting out a million last-minute details. My phone's been ringing off the hook for 24 hours, and I SWEAR if I have to deal with one more confused caterer, I'm going to tear my sodding hair out.

As much as Sherlock would like to immediately jump into his conversation with John, he realizes that he must proceed with caution. For one, these messages could be seen by anyone with access to John's phone, namely Mary. Secondly, there is a chance that Mary herself could be the one sending the messages, since, judging by their exchange from earlier, she has no qualms about using John's phone. She certainly knows John well enough to sound like him in text, and she is more than cunning enough to say just the right things to pull information from Sherlock. With all of this in mind, Sherlock decides to send a text to test the waters: something that only John will understand.

I'm sorry you've had to deal with so many idiots, John. People are quite infuriating on a regular basis, so I can't even begin to imagine how useless they are when it comes to staffing a wedding—

Sherlock pauses, fingers hovering over the screen. Perhaps a reference to one of their past cases would be the wisest choice, as there is no way Mary would have any knowledge on what transpired.

And speaking of idiots, do you remember that case with Janice McDermott a few months back? The one with the stolen wall sconces? SH

Sherlock waits impatiently for the next message, hoping that John will say something that proves that it's him. When his mobile buzzes a minute later, he isn't disappointed.

Christ, how could I forget? Her house was a bloody landfill and her ex was a sodding mess. Remember, he kept insisting that we give him our leftovers from that Spanish restaurant?

Relieved, Sherlock smiles and some of the tension in his shoulders melt away. It is John, which means he can have an actual conversation with him now, devoid of cautionary measures.

Yes, and I still can't believe he burst into tears when we confronted him. SH

God, yeah, that was awkward. Then the poor sod marched up the steps and turned himself in. Not exactly a class-A criminal, was he?

Not quite. SH

Hey, so I know this is probably a silly question, but how are you feeling?

In general? SH

Yes, but about tonight, specifically. Surprisingly, I'm feeling rather good. I believe I'm ready for whatever is going to happen.

I'm glad you feel confident, John. As for myself, I must admit I'm a bit anxious. I'd just like to dive right in and 'get the ball rolling' already. I hate waiting. SH

I know.

I'm an impatient man, John. SH

I lived with you for three years, remember? I'm quite familiar with your patience, or complete lack thereof.

:( SH.

Did you just…?

Waiting makes me resort to plebian behavior. SH

Christ, this is an odd day. Sherlock Holmes, using emoticons. What's next? Will you start listening to pop music too? Perhaps color your hair and get a tattoo?

Maybe I already have. SH

Ha! Sherlock Holmes with pink hair, that'd be a sight.

Sherlock rolls his eyes fondly at the ridiculous text. Speaking with John has always had such a calming effect on him, and now is no different. Still smiling, he types back a quick reply.

Would you still fancy me if I had pink hair? SH

You git, I'd fancy you if you shaved your head bald and grew three feet of ginger beard.

Three feet? That's quite specific. What about four feet? SH

Christ no, I have my limits.

Sherlock laughs and settles back into the sofa. A quick glance at the clock on the mantle reveals that the ceremony begins in only an hour and a half. Regrettably, that means he and John won't have much longer to talk.

I'm assuming you have to go soon? SH

Right now, actually. Listen, I probably won't see you much once you get here, so I'll just have to tell you this right now. (Delete the next few messages)

Sherlock silently commends John for thinking ahead and being cautious, and waits with bated breath for the text.

Sherlock Holmes, I love you so, so much. It feels like I've spent my entire life waiting to be with you and now that it finally seems possible for us to be together, I can't stop wondering if this is a dream. I trust you more than I trust anyone else on the planet and I know with complete confidence that we'll accomplish our goal tonight. [1/3]

You're the most precious thing to ever grace my existence and I will do everything in my power to make sure I'm worthy of you one day. I am so bloody lucky to have met you and if I had to relive our history, pain and all, I would, because it's led us here. And as flawed as the present is, it still contains you, and that is all I can ask for. [2/3]

I just want you to know that, no matter what, as long as we live, I'll never stop loving you. [3/3]

For a few moments, Sherlock can't even bring himself to formulate a thought. He just sits there in quiet shock, letting the words wash over him in gentle waves. He already knew that John loved him, but to see it written out so explicitly makes the sentiment seem so much more tangible and concrete. After another minute, he shakily types out a reply that in no way encompasses all of the beautiful, complex things he feels for John, and then blinks away the moisture gathering behind his eyelids.

I love you so much right now that I cannot think straight. SH

Then, after staring at John's messages and perfectly committing them to memory, he deletes the texts and rises from the sofa, finally ready to begin their plan.

3.

The wedding hall is, in short, breathtaking. Classical music and murmured chatter waft through the air like sweet perfume, adding yet another layer of beauty to the already stunning atmosphere. The guests—John and Mary's relatives, friends, and acquaintances—are all dressed in fine white clothing adorned sparingly with either silver jewelry or pastel ties (because of course Mary has a dress code), creating a sea of endless whites and pearly lilacs. Dessert tables crowded with glistening, golden flan and fluffy white meringue pies, seem to run endlessly along every wall. The large, rectangular windows invite moonlight to spill in like a flood, casting the entire hall in a silvery glow. Pale purple tea candles reside at the center of every table, providing a small wick of light that resembles starlight amidst the bluish darkness of the room.

"Well, well, well, don't you look dashing!" a familiar voice calls over the din of the crowd. Sherlock turns immediately and finds himself greeted by the beautifully-made up, beaming face of Janine Hawkins.

"Janine," he greets, genuinely pleased to see her. He takes in her appearance, noting the special care she clearly put into her hairstyle and nail color. "You look quite decent yourself."

"Goodness, decent?" Janine repeats, pretending to swoon. "Stop now before I faint at such flattery."

He rolls his eyes. "Take what you can get, you know compliments are not my forte."

Janine laughs. "Right, yeah, wouldn't expect anything less, love."

She moves so that they're standing side by side and joins him in scanning the room. "So, how are we feeling about tonight?"

As if the lowered tone of her voice wasn't enough indication that she'd like to discuss his feelings about John, she also makes a point of narrowing her eyes and staring at John from across the room. Sherlock takes a sip of champagne, relieved to find it isn't the same ghastly raspberry flavor Mary ordered for the engagement party. There are several suitable answers he could possibly give Janine, at least half of them involving a feigned smile and a concise 'I'm fine', but with everything coming to a close tonight, he does not feel compelled to lie. Not entirely, anyway. Obviously coming clean would be a terrible and undoubtedly dangerous option, so a half-truth will have to suffice.

"I'm apprehensive," he answers at last, his gaze resting comfortably on John, watching as he laughs and smiles with a small circle of his army mates. "But I am also quite eager."

Janine frowns. "Okay, apprehensive I understand—though I'd actually say that's a bit mild—but eager? Why on earth are you eager? The man you're head over heels for is getting married to—" she cuts herself off and immediately looks sheepish. "Er, sorry. That probably isn't helping. What I meant to ask was, have you really moved on that quickly?"

"Of course," Sherlock replies, infusing his tone with as much confidence as possible. "I will admit that it hurt quite dearly when John initially rejected me, but now that I've had ample time to heal, I've decided it is useless to wallow over things that will never be. I would prefer to spend tonight celebrating John and Mary, rather than standing bitterly in a corner somewhere, pining like a poor sod."

Janine narrows her eyes at him. "You're lying," she says after a beat. "Yes, you're fibbing. I know you are. As convincing as you seem to think you are, Sherlock Holmes, I can tell when you aren't telling the truth. However," she sighs, "I understand why you're doing this. And I support it. I mean, it's important that you move on, so I suppose it only makes sense that the first step is 'fake it till you make it'."

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm not faking it, Janine, I truly am over it. It's been some time since my rejection took place, so I'm fine."

"Sherlock, it's been a week. You can't be fine."

He gives an exasperated sigh. "Janine, I could have sworn we just had this conversation four days ago in my sitting room. I said it then and I'll say it now: there's nothing to worry about."

Janine offers a distressed frown and, without warning, thrusts her arms around his neck and pulls him into a hug. Caught off-guard, Sherlock jerks upright and nearly spills his drink. "I'm sorry this is happening to you, Sherlock," she mumbles into his chest. "You deserve so much better."

"Janine, I really don't think this is—"

"Shut up, it is necessary," she argues, stubbornly squeezing him tighter. "And I know you don't fancy hugs or any other form of physical comfort, but if you don't mind I'm going to hold on for another three or so seconds."

"I do mind, actually."

"One Mississippi..."

"Janine," he complains.

"Two Mississippi…"

"Janine."

"Three Mississippi…"

"Alright, time's up, no more touching."

"One more second," she insists, still clinging to him.

"No!"

"Just one more! This doesn't count if you just let your bloody arms hang at your sides like a ragdoll."

He groans. "Now you're coaching me on my hugging abilities? What's the point of this?"

"Okay first of all, you're making this last twice as long by questioning everything. And second of all, the point is, you're my friend and I know you're in pain, so I'm comforting you. This is a friendship hug."

"Fine," he mutters, throwing her arms around her in resignation. "One more second only, understand?"

"Three."

"One."

"Two."

"One. And….done. Okay, that's quite enough. You've had your hug, are you satisfied?" Sherlock asks with a grimace, smoothing out his lapel and straightening the rumpled front of his jacket.

"Yes," she replies, sounding rather pleased with herself. "Now then, what do you say we grab another drink?"

4.

Standing at the altar with her flowing white dress, honey-blonde curls, and pale pink lipstick, Mary looks as flawless and picturesque as the plastic topper on her wedding cake.

(Just as artificial too, Sherlock thinks to himself.)

John, however, looks strong, confident, and untroubled: the epitome of soldierly dignity. From every line of his posture, Sherlock can see that John is completely ready for their plan to commence and, unlike Sherlock himself, he appears to have no reservations or doubts.

Sherlock's mobile buzzes within his pocket so he tears his gaze from John and subtly checks the screen. When he reads the single line of text, his breath catches in his throat.

The countdown begins. MH

Five. MH

The officiant looks between John and Mary and beams, his pale eyes crinkled in joy. "Ladies and gentleman, we have gathered here today to celebrate and witness the union between John Hamish Watson and Mary Elizabeth Morstan."

The audience erupts in a sea of smiles and excited murmurs, clearly overjoyed for the new couple. Behind his back, Sherlock restlessly clenches and unclenches his fists.

Four. MH

The officiant turns to Mary and inclines his head. "Mary Elizabeth Morstan, do you take John Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband to live together in marriage?"

Mary grins and affectionately squeezes John's hands. "I do."

Beneath the sweet perfume of flowers, John's cologne, and the guests' pudding, a faint acrid smell begins to fill the air.

Three. MH

"Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him?"

Her smile widens and her grip visibly tightens around John's fingers. "I do."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock notices the first tendrils of smoke spilling down the hallway, like the trail of a lone cigarette. His spine straightens immediately and his focus narrows solely to John and Mary, all other thoughts evaporating from his mind in an instant.

Two. MH

Do you promise to cherish him in love and in friendship, in strength and in weakness, in success and in disappointment, to love him faithfully, today, tomorrow, and for as long as the two of you shall live?"

One. MH

And it is right as Mary is forming that final "I do," that the fire alarms begin to scream.

Chapter Text

Dire: (adj.) extremely urgent and dangerous

1.

There is a moment of absolute stillness before the crowd of people immediately begins flooding out the doors in a great deluge. The alarms shriek, the suffocating smell of smoke chokes the air, and Sherlock's senses immediately go on high alert. Following the plan to a T, John scrambles away from Mary to 'help guide his aunt to the exit', leaving Sherlock and Mary standing alone at the altar.

"John, wait!" Mary cries.

"I have to go, love, she's got a bad leg. You and Sherlock can meet me outside with everyone else, okay?"

"But—"

"Meet me outside!"

And with that, John disappears into the throng.

"I should go with him," Mary says worriedly, standing on her toes in effort to find John's head in the swarming crowd. "Don't you think, Sherlock?"

"No, I believe he'll be fine. Besides, I've met his aunt and she will certainly need some assistance getting out of here, especially because this place is so crowded and noisy. Here, take my hand, we can go through the back exit. It's much quicker."

"Okay," Mary agrees reluctantly, grabbing Sherlock's proffered palm. "Where on earth is the fire coming from, though? I don't think any of the candles were placed in precarious areas…"

"Smells like it might be coming from the kitchen," Sherlock offers, as if hazarding a guess. "Which means we should probably go the opposite direction."

"Yes, that makes sense, but—oh! I've found John. There, he's right there! I have to go to him, Sherlock, I don't feel comfortable being separated from him in a situation like this."

Dread crawls up Sherlock's spine at the prospect of their plan not falling through. "No, I think John is quite—"

But before he has the chance to finish the sentence, Mary has torn her hand from his grip and melted into the pulsating mob of people.

"Bugger. Bleeding—Mary! Mary Morstan!" he calls over the din of the alarms and the loud, frantic chatter of the guests. "Mary! Where are you?" He pushes people aside and attempts to wade through the sea of bodies, but he can't spot her white clothes or blonde hair anywhere. It seems impossible that someone wearing something as distinct as a wedding dress could disappear so seamlessly.

When five minutes go by and he still hasn't located her, panic truly begins to set in. Step one of the plan has already failed quite miserably, so he can't imagine things are going to go any better from here. The hall is emptying out quite quickly and he still can't find her, which means that he'll have no choice but to call his brother and tell him they need to readjust their plan. As promised, the flames have been subsided (though not distinguished entirely) in order to give the appearance of fire without any of the danger of the actual thing. Unfortunately, this means Sherlock has missed his window of opportunity and can no longer use that sense of urgency to inspire Mary to —

"Sherlock!" A familiar voice cries. Sherlock looks up from his mobile and sees Janine, who shines like a beacon in this hopeless, terrible situation. "What on earth are you still doing in here?" she shouts. "Come on!"

"Janine," he says in gust of relief. Finally, someone who can help him. "Have you seen Mary? I seem to have lost track of her and I am supposed to be guiding her to safety while John is taking care of his aunt."

"Well, John must have helped his aunt quite swiftly because I saw John and Mary together only a moment ago. John looked a bit drunk, which I thought was odd since he's only had one glass of bubbly."

"John and Mary were…together?" Red flags shoot up in every corner of his mind. Nothing good can come from this. "Did you happen to see where they went?"

"Er, yeah, I think I saw the two of them heading upstairs." Janine frowns. "Can't imagine why, though."

Dear god.

"Thank you, Janine," he says. "Now, please, escort yourself out of this building and wait with the rest of the guests on the lawn."

"Hold on just a minute, Sherlock Holmes, I am not leaving you in a burning building by yourself—"

"I'm going to get John and Mary and then I'll be out momentarily, okay?" he says impatiently. "Go. Please."

She looks unsure. "Sherlock, what's going on? Why are they up there in the first place? Please, just tell me what's—"

"Now, Janine!" he demands.

Her eyes widen at his tone but she seems to understand that there is no room for discussion because she doesn't argue. "Fine. Okay. But you take care of yourself, understand? They're going to send in some firemen in a minute to get John and Mary, so don't feel like you need to endanger your life to save the day."

"I'll be safe. Just go."

Janine gives an irritated huff and shakes her head. "I swear to god, Sherlock Holmes, if you die in here, I'll kill you."

"Fair enough," Sherlock says, pressing a spontaneous peck against the top of her head. Before she can react in any way, he spins her around and nudges her forward. "Now leave!"

…

As he rushes up the stairs, his mind is racing with all of the possible reasons why John and Mary might have come up here together.

None of them are positive.

His brain is operating on an entirely different plane at the moment, but his feet still manage to carry him to the half-open door of Mary's hotel room, the place Sherlock was originally supposed to lead her to. He stares at the number plate above the doorknob and feels a strange chill of forewarning trickle down his spine.

With a deep breath, Sherlock ignores all of the terrible possibilities his imagination has dredged up and pushes the door open.

The sight that greets him makes his heart freeze in his chest.

There, slumped against the far wall with his chin tucked to his chest, sits John. Despite the ten feet between them, Sherlock can already tell he is unconscious. Heedless of their plan and his own sense of logic, Sherlock bursts through the doorway and rushes to John's side immediately, his heart slamming against his ribs like a drum.

"John! John," Sherlock shouts, grabbing John's chin and tilting his head up. As he suspected, John is out cold, but his pulse is still steady and strong, which means he isn't in any immediate danger. A small wave of relief washes over Sherlock at the realization, but his shoulders remain tense when his awareness floods back in and he remembers where he is.

"He's fine," a female voice says from behind him.

Sherlock turns around to see Mary—the beautiful bride, the eager fiancé, the friendly nurse—walking towards him with her heels click-click-clicking against the polished wood floor. The moment she passes over the threshold, the door slams behind her, the lock clicks, and all of the windows simultaneously fall shut—all according Mycroft's plan.

She doesn't even flinch.

"What have you done to him?" Sherlock growls, his voice trembling. He keeps John's wrist in his hand, his pulse serving as a small reminder that John is alive and okay.

"I slipped him a temporary anesthetic," Mary answers casually. "He'll only be out for about twenty more minutes."

There are a million thoughts coursing through Sherlock's head at the moment, but he can't bring himself to focus on just one, so he just blurts out the first question that surfaces. "Why did you do this to him?"

"I figured John didn't need to be present for the beginning half of our conversation," Mary explains. At Sherlock's livid, shaken expression, she tilts her head pouts. "You mean you don't want some one on one time with me? I'm hurt. But anyway, we'll need to make this quick, love," she says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and crossing her legs. "Because that capsule of halothane your brother planted in the air ducts is scheduled to open in about thirty minutes and I feel like that might put a damper on our little conversation."

Ice cold dread plummets in his stomach like a stone. "Pardon?"

"Goodness, Sherlock, can we please stop playing dumb?" she laughs. "Surely you and I are on the same page at this point. If we weren't, I highly doubt you would've taken all the precautions that you have." She drops her eyes to examine her carefully painted red nails. "It's over, it's done, I know your little plan. You and Mycroft were clever enough to keep me in the dark for months, but I'm afraid even geniuses slip up sometimes. Yesterday as I was rearranging furniture in the bedroom, I stumbled across an odd stain on the side of my dresser. Rust-colored and small though it was, it caught my eye. A brief examination of the stain revealed that it was blood, and then a quick trip to one of my private labs showed me whose blood it was." She tilts her head and offers a humorless smile. "Your brother really ought to be more careful with cleaning up after himself, love."

Sherlock's heart sinks lower and lower in his chest the longer he listens to her. He clenches his hands to hide the fact that they're shaking. "You've only known for the past day and a half?"

"Regrettably, yes. I do wish I'd found out sooner," she pouts, "but oh well. As newfound as my knowledge was, I did still manage to pop in here before the ceremony and tamper with that gas capsule I was just talking about. I couldn't disarm it entirely without alerting Mycroft, so I merely adjusted the time at which it was scheduled to release. Clever, hm?"

"Quite," Sherlock answers numbly.

Mary sighs mournfully. "I'll admit, it did hurt me quite deeply when I realized that John was in on it too."

"How did you find out?"

"He wouldn't stop muttering your name in his sleep last night. Kept talking about love and Sherlock and finally." A bitter look crosses over her face like a shadow. "It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on."

Sherlock glances over at John and a familiar surge of anger replaces the fear clouding his mind. She did that to him. She hurthim in more ways than one, and now she needs to pay for it.

"And so you decided to poison your fiancé, did you?"

"I did what was necessary, love. I already explained that, remember?" she snaps back, her smile joyless and lethal.

They circle each other like two dogs ready to fight, their teeth bared and their eyes burning with hatred. With his physical alertness at an all-time high, Sherlock feels all too aware of his own steady heartbeat, the nearly inaudible sound of Mary breathing, and even the slight creaking of the floorboards beneath them.

"Has it been hard?" he says at last, coming to a halt. Pointedly, he clasps his hands behind his back and squares his shoulders.

Mary's green eyes glint menacingly in the faint lamp light. "Has what been hard?"

"Acting like the simple nurse, the doctor's fiancé, the virtuous, bright-eyed Mary Morstan," Sherlock spits, narrowing his eyes at her. "I imagine it was quite difficult dulling that sharp flare of intelligence in your eyes. For a smart woman like yourself that must have been positively dreadful."

"It was a challenge at times," she admits with a slight twitch of her lips. "But I believe it was worth it. I'm the woman I am today because of it."

"Ah, but is that a good thing?" Sherlock bites. "Because from where I stand, all I can see is a psychopathic liar with a crime-ridden past and delusions of grandeur."

Her expression changes so abruptly he doesn't even have the chance to rear back in surprise. Her disguise melts away in increments; the laugh lines around her eyes become grave instead of kind, the curve of her lips flattens into a dead line, and the warmth in her gaze is replaced by a burning, hollow hunger. Her façade falls, and her chin raises.

"I wouldn't be so brash if I were you, Sherlock."

Several alarms immediately go off in Sherlock's head, but he forces himself to stay calm. He can't think about the fact that they're all trapped in here, nor can he dwell on the fact that the sleeping gas has been stalled. He can't focus on John being poisoned, Mary's ire, or the cement-like dread sitting at the pit of his stomach. He can't think about any of that. It is imperative that he remains calm right now, even as his plan crumbles to pieces before him. Perhaps Mycroft will sense that things have gone awry—despite the fact that his cameras do not pick up audio—and take control of the situation in some way. Subconsciously, his eyes dart to the hidden camera, as if to give a concrete image to his thoughts. Almost immediately, he realizes how foolish and telling that was.

Mary tsks. "You seem distracted, love. Too busy thinking about big brother?"

Without warning, Mary pulls a gun from the underside of the nightstand. She twirls it casually around her finger, as if it's a toy.

"I wouldn't worry about Mycroft, I already dismantled the cameras. That means your sneaky big brother won't be able to see us. Isn't that grand?" She smiles and lowers the gun. "Finally, you'll be able to fully focus on what I'm saying."

Mary has a gun. An actual weapon. That certainly changes things—and not in his favor. Now that Mycroft will no longer be able to see what is transpiring, he and John are in even more danger than before. As much as he'd like to ponder over how the hell she managed to slip a firearm past the notice of both himself and his brother, he doesn't have time; right now, he must focus on stalling, extracting information, and keeping Mary as calm as possible.

"Yes," he says at last, his voice even. "I'm glad you've given us a bit more privacy."

Even before she opens her mouth to reply, Sherlock can already tell that she senses his unease. It's written everywhere from the whiteness of his knuckles to the imperceptible tremor of his bottom lip. Sherlock can read people and discern their entire life story, but Mary can read people and discern every last one of their weakness—and it appears Sherlock is no exception.

"You try to act cool and confident but I see right through you, love," Mary murmurs, her dark green eyes sweeping over him. "I see the worry, the concern, the fear."

"Are you afraid of me, Sherlock?" she asks quietly, a faint smirk teasing her lips. "Is the big, bad consulting detective afraid of me?"

"No."

The smile drops and her expression hardens like stone. "Well, you should be. You know what I've done and you know what I am capable of."

Sherlock keeps his expression as unruffled as possible. "I've heard many things about your past, yes."

"Then you know I will not go down easy, don't you, darling?"

Although her saccharine expression and dulcet tone are now completely gone, there is still a disturbing contrast between her words and her intent. The fact that she continues to call him affectionate pet names even though her body language says she could murder him in cold blood right this second, sends chills down Sherlock's spine.

"I never imagined you'd be an easy opponent to take down, Mary. However, I will remind you that I have been here before—faced with a villain, stuck in a harrowing situation—and I have always succeeded."

Mary offers a bitter laugh and shakes her head. "Oh you silly, silly man. Are you referring to James Moriarty? Perhaps Sebastian Moran? Because if so, I have news for you, dear: I am an entirely different breed of criminal. I'm not bored like Moriarty or stupid like Moran. I have no need for money or power. I don't kill for sport or lust or hatred. I do not kill for passion. Despite what you might think of me, I am quite utilitarian in my executions. There is always a purpose, Sherlock. Always a reason."

Sherlock stares down at her with disgust. "I know exactly what you are. Bury your motives in all the good intentions and fallacies you want, it won't change what you've done."

"I killed because it was my job," she spits. "You know what that's like, don't you, Sherlock? Killing out of necessity?" Her eyes harden as they sweep over him. "Oh, don't puff out your chest and square your bloody shoulders like some proud hero—you shed blood during those two years too. You stabbed, you shot, you killed."

An icy smile spreads across her face. "You're just as much a murderer as I am, love."

Sherlock clenches his fists as his sides. "I do not have to justify my actions to you."

Mary laughs, and the low, harsh sound dances down Sherlock's spine like cold fingers. "Oh, you hate it, don't you?"

"Hate what?"

"You hate that we're so similar," she replies. "Think about it for a moment, dear: we've both lied to John out of love. Granted, you had a rather grandiose, sentimental justification, but when you get right down to it, so did I. We both did it because we wanted to hold on to him, didn't we?"

Sherlock can't decide what he finds more enraging: the casual dismissal of the two years of pain and struggle he endured for the sake of John's safety or Mary's insistence that what she has done is in any way similar.

"You lied to him, tried to control him, and murdered several innocent people," Sherlock says lowly, his voice shaking with quiet fury. "Don't you dare try and compare your actions to the sacrifice I made two years ago. I did what I had to in order to protect John."

"Oh, and you think I didn't? Protecting John has always been my motive, Sherlock!" Mary shouts back. "Why do you think I was forced to kill those people? I had to make sacrifices to protect John, too. Four sacrifices." Moisture springs to her eyes, smearing the sharp edge of her eyeliner. In a quavering, hoarse voice, she continues, "It wasn't easy. I didn't want to do it. They were members of my own team, people I spent nearly a quarter of my life with. We grew up together, Sherlock! They were practically my family." The words tear out of her throat like sandpaper and she drops her head in her hands, a sob distorting her voice. "I loved them."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the unexpected display of emotion, but doesn't let his guard down an inch. "Then why did you kill them, Mary?" he presses. "If you loved them so much, why did you do it?"

For a long time, she doesn't reply. Her broken sobs echo throughout the hotel room and her shoulders shake in silent agony. Sherlock stares at her with calculating eyes and simply waits.

"Because," she says at last, the words muffled in her palms, "I needed to prove a point."

"To whom?"

Mary wipes her eyes and finally looks up at him, but she does not look wrecked and distraught. Instead, she looks amused. Her eyes are smudged with black makeup and nose is red from crying, but the dark, rueful smirk on her face is undeniable. Sherlock nearly recoils in disgust at the complete change in emotion.

"To anyone trying to find me," she replies coldly. She dabs at her eyes with a nearby tissue, carefully blotting away the grey tear tracks. "I have an idea, Sherlock. Why don't we play a little game of pretend?"

Instead of replying, he crosses his arms over his chest and nods his head ever so slightly.

"Good. Now, imagine you work for the CIA and you're pursuing a retired assassin. You convince yourself that because she hasn't killed in the past few years, she's weak. Vulnerable, even. You're feeling confident, self-assured, relaxed—heck, you're ready to show up at her doorstop right this second!" She pauses. "Now imagine that you find out she's just killed four of her closest friends because they were trying to find her. She poisoned her old mentor, shot her young apprentice, and stabbed two of her former best friends—people she loved and cared about for many, many years. Now," Mary continues, gazing up at him with fathomless, dark green eyes, "if she's willing to do all of that to people she loves, what will she do to the poor, inexperienced sap who's been hired to track her down?"

Sherlock takes a moment to absorb the information. "You're telling me you killed those people to make an example of them?"

"In part. But, as I said, they were on my trail and it was only a matter of time before one of them grew tired of waiting and blew the whistle. And where would that have put me?"

"Behind bars, though I suspect a more realistic answer might be in a coffin."

"Rhetorical question," she snaps. "The point is, I couldn't afford to let them walk free." She pulls another tissue from the box on the nightstand and cleans up the last of her smeared mascara. "Before I left the States, I warned my team not to come after me. I told them it would only result in bloodshed. They ignored my warning and came after me anyway, so I did what I had to do."

"And what was the point of killing them within ten hours of each other?"

She crumples up the tissue and casts it aside. "I wanted to make my actions perfectly clear to any potential troublemakers. Can you just picture the headlines? Four treasured members of Deca-Occulitis Clandestine Affairs brutally murdered within ten hours of each other." Her eyes are practically sparkling with self-satisfaction. "I'm quite sure my message got across."

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back, assuming his position from earlier. "Mycroft and I have seen your book, you know. Your little photo album of all the people you've killed."

"Oh, and I'm sure you think poorly of me for it."

"Would you expect me to feel differently?" he asks, regarding her coolly. "Photographs of dead little girls and married couples? Even for you, Mary, that is quite grim."

"It's not as twisted as I'm sure you think it is," Mary states dismissively. "I needed those photographs for my records. It's part of the job, love. Purely business. Wouldn't do to lose track of who's been taken care of, now would it?"

"I suppose not, but that doesn't explain why missions that are decades old require such pristine records. Surely a murder loses its relevance once a certain amount of time has passed?"

Mary shifts her jaw and doesn't argue.

"Right. Which means that you're holding onto this information for an entirely different reason," Sherlock concludes. "If I were a more sentimental man I might look at this and say you've kept those photographs as reminders—tangible, physical proof of your sins. You keep these dead faces because they haunt you, and that is your way of paying penance for your crimes. You never allow yourself to forget the lives you destroy and that is your own self-inflicted punishment." He looks at her, taking in her unreadable expression, glass-like green eyes, and linear mouth, and shakes his head ruefully. "But I fear that would be giving you far too much credit.

"Don't presume to know anything about me," she says frigidly. "You know only what the records have told you and what I've divulged. That is barely the tip of the iceberg, darling."

Sherlock's scowl deepens. "Don't pretend that you have some complex, well-intentioned motives behind your actions, Mary, because I have seen—"

"Sherlock?" a drowsy voice interrupts.

Immediately, Sherlock tears his gaze away from Mary and looks to the abandoned corner of the room, where John is rubbing his eyes and attempting to get to his feet.

"John!" he blurts out, relief and worry flooding his chest. On one hand, he's pleased to see John awake and well, but on the other hand, John is in even more danger now that he is conscious.

As much as Sherlock would like to rush over to John's side and wrap him in his arms, he's well aware that the slightest movement is likely to set Mary off, which is something he'd really rather not do when she has a loaded gun at her disposal. Willing himself to remain composed, Sherlock clenches his fists in restraint and tries to give John a subtle look of reassurance.

"Are you okay, John? How do you feel?" he asks neutrally.

John rises unsteadily, gripping the shelf behind him for support. "I feel—weird. Why am I here? Where is—" his voice dies in his throat when his eyes land on Mary. He blinks several times and the color drains from his face. "You."

"John—"

"You poisoned me," John interjects, absently raising a hand to his mouth, as if recalling the drink in question. "I thought my champagne tasted funny, but you insisted that it was just the carbonation getting to my head."

"I'm so sorry, my love," Mary says, an edge of sincere regret in her voice. "I didn't want to do that to you, but I'm afraid I had no choice. I needed to speak with Sherlock alone for a bit."

At the mention of Sherlock, John's eyes cut back to the detective and all drowsiness evaporates in an instant. "Sherlock. Sherlock, why are we here?"

There doesn't seem to be a concise answer, but before Sherlock even has the chance to try and formulate one, Mary rushes across the room to John's side.

"John, I'm sorry. You have to understand that you didn't give me much of a choice," Mary says pleadingly. "As difficult as it will be, I promise to forgive you for conspiring against me, if you promise to forgive me for hiding my past."

Longingly, she reaches up to caress his face, but John recoils in disgust, plastering himself against the wall to evade her.

"Don't touch me. Please, just don't."

Hurt flashes across the green pools of her eyes and she retracts her hands. "This hasn't been easy for me, John," she says quietly. "I've tried to make everything perfect for us, but people kept getting in the way. First it was my terrible CIA team who was going to turn me in—I couldn't let you find out about my past because I knew you would never look at me the same if you knew the truth, so I had to take care of them. And then it was Sherlock, who convinced you that I was horrible and wrong. He changed you, John, but you can still change back. We can still have what we used to have. This doesn't need to be a dead end for us, this can be the start of something entirely new and perfect! We can still have those beautiful kids and that lovely house. You can still work at a clinic somewhere and I can still be a nurse." Her voice rises in urgency and passion. "That can still be our lives, don't you see? We can still have all of those wonderful things!"

"No," John says coldly, stepping away from her. "You didn't just lie to me, Mary, you hurt people. You killed people. How can you possibly think I'll ever be able to forgive you for that?"

"You forgave Sherlock and he did all of those things, too," she insists. "He lied to you for years, John! You thought he was dead, remember? And I know you probably don't want to think about this, but while he was gone, he was killing too! Murdering men and women all throughout Europe. What makes him any better than me?"

John barks a laugh of disbelief. "Is that really a question? Sherlock did those things out of necessity. He needed to take down Moriarty's web of criminals, so I will respect whatever he had to do in order to achieve that."

"Oh? But you won't even bother listening to what I had to endure? Things aren't as black and white as they seem, John, I did these things because I needed to as well! I didn't choose this life, I was forced into it."

As Sherlock watches the two of them go back and forth, he wonders if John has lost sight of their plan, but then he realizes that John is actually doing him a favor. He's distracting her. And in a small hotel room housing three people that is a very difficult task to accomplish. Sherlock thanks the heavens for John's cleverness and quickly removes his phone from his pocket.

While John and Mary continue yelling back and forth at each other, Sherlock sends a text to Mycroft behind his back. It is extremely lucky that Mary did not have the presence of mind to take away his mobile when he walked into the room.

Cameras broken, Mary is armed, John is here. SH

Less than a minute later, he receives a reply.

I know. Stall her for another five minutes. The Brothers and my men are getting ready to storm the hotel as we speak. MH

She has a gun, five minutes is a long time. SH

Do your best. MH

Sherlock slides his phone back in his coat pocket and bites the inside of his cheek anxiously. John and Mary can only fight with each other for so long before her attention wanes and the focus moves back to Sherlock. And once that happens, he has no idea what he is supposed to do in order to stall for time.

"Enough!" Mary shouts, cutting John off, her sharp, shrill voice ringing out in the quiet room. Both she and John are breathing heavily and the air feels thick with tension. "I don't want to do this, John, but you refuse to listen to me. I have no choice."

With trembling lips, Mary raises her semi-automatic handgun and levels it right between John's eyes. Sherlock's heart nearly stops in his chest and it takes every ounce of willpower he has to avoid thrusting himself in front of John. The ticking from clock on the mantle sounds deafening in the ensuing silence.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

John, ever the soldier, raises his chin and stares down the barrel of Mary's gun completely undaunted. His eyes look clear and unafraid. "Answer one question for me, will you, Mary?"

"What?"

John clenches his jaw and looks her square in the eyes.

"Did you ever truly love me?"

To Sherlock's surprise, John's comment strips away her defenses: it melts the hardness of her expression and dulls the sharpness in her posture. Mary's dark eyes turn soft, and for a moment, she looks exactly like the sweet, beguiling woman he once believed her to be. The look is short-lived, but that small flicker of emotion allows Sherlock to deduce her answer long before she lowers the gun and tells them.

"Of course. You…you are so important to me. Vital, even. You cannot doubt that I love you, John. Doubt my character, my motives, or my means, but do not doubt the truth of my feelings." The uncharacteristic tremble in her voice indicates that she is telling the truth.

"We—we were so good together," she continues quietly. "We were supposed to have a lovely house with the garden and two kids. We were going to be happy. We were going to be normal."

"But you," she spits, turning on Sherlock, "you had to ruin it. You sad, pathetic, useless shell of a man, you had to steal him from me, didn't you? You had your chance the first time and you blew it. You don't get two chances! He was mine. We were together and you destroyed it. You destroyed everything."

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

It's been five minutes already hasn't it? It must have been. The concept of time doesn't seem to exist in this hotel room, but surely his brother is on his way by now. The Brothers should be bursting through the door at any moment, right?

Right?

"Now, Mary, be reasonable about this," Sherlock says calmly. "You have nothing to gain by killing me. If you are as knowledgeable of the present situation as you claim to be, then you understand that my brother's people will make your demise significantly more painful if you cause any harm to John or myself. The easiest way to go about this is to simply put the gun down so we can discuss this like adults and arrive at a compromise."

"Is that what you would like?" Mary asks without lowering the gun. "A compromise?"

Sherlock swallows. "Yes."

"Well, that's a terrible shame then, because you know what I want, Sherlock Holmes? I want justice. You sabotaged the one shot I had at happiness and I will never forgive you for that."

"Mary, please," John says, panic edging into his voice. "Be smart about this. Don't do anything rash."

Mary ignores him and keeps her eyes locked on Sherlock. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I really must be going. Mycroft's men will be storming in any minute now, won't they, dear?" She cocks her gun and levels it at Sherlock's forehead with narrowed eyes.

"If it's any consolation, darling, I promise I'll make it quick."

Chapter Text

Captured: (adj.) to be seized or arrested against one's consent

1.

In that moment, while Sherlock is staring down the barrel of Mary's pristine, compact handgun, several thoughts rush through his head like scenery outside a train window.

He thinks of John smiling at him, kissing the underside of his chin, holding him fiercely against his chest, pressing his lips to the top of his head, running his hands butterfly-soft against his bare skin; he remembers soft words whispered in the inky blackness of his bedroom, the unspoken promises laid out between heartbeats. He imagines the endless road of happiness and love and redemption that spills out before him.

Now, he imagines it being cut short by Mary's bullet.

He can't die now, not with loose ends hanging from every corner of his life. He can't leave John. He won't.

"Mary," Sherlock says carefully. His blood is rushing in his ears, pounding in tune with his frenzied heart. "Put that down and we can talk about this like adults."

She doesn't lower the gun an inch. "How many people does Mycroft have waiting out there?"

Since attempting to reason with her failed miserably, Sherlock decides to go a different route. Perhaps adopting an air of aloofness and confidence would be a better plan. "Enough to outnumber the people in this room, I would imagine."

"Don't play games with me, Sherlock."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Do you want me to shoot you?" she asks with a short laugh. "Because contrary to whatever plan you've devised in your pretty little mind palace, I will. In a heartbeat."

He levels her with a cold, unmoved stare. "Dozens," he says flatly. "Dozens upon dozens."

"What?"

"You asked how many men my brother has outside, didn't you? Well, that is my answer. There are dozens."

A brief, nearly imperceptible look of fear passes over her face, but it's gone before he has the chance to analyze it. Apparently this was one part of his and Mycroft's plan that she did not prepare for.

"You look worried," Sherlock observes, his tone bored. "Something eating you?"

John coughs to get his attention, flashing him a desperate look of questioning over Mary's shoulder. His expression very clearly reads: what the hell are you doing? She has a gun at your head and you're being a smart arse right now? Why?

To ensure that Mary's attention remains on him, Sherlock doesn't react to John's silent bewilderment, instead keeping his expression as calm and unruffled as possible.

"Worried?" Mary forces a dismissive laugh and shakes her head. "Have you forgotten that you're the one with your life on the line?"

Despite his body's knee-jerk reaction to the impending danger, Sherlock follows his gut instinct and keeps up the act. "I could ask you the same thing, Mary," he says coolly.

"What do you mean by that?" she spits.

He offers a flat smile. "I'd rather not say. I'm sure you're clever enough to figure it out."

"Feel free to spell it out for me, love," Mary says between gritted teeth, holding the gun in a firm grip. Everything about Mary's disposition is calm and carefully calculated (as usual) but directly beneath the surface, below her plastic smirk and glassy eyes, Sherlock can sense a faint tremor of unease. There's something about the way her jaw is fiercely clenched and the way her left eye twitches ever so slightly, that leads Sherlock to believe that Mary has lost her confidence. The building is surrounded by armed men and she has found herself lacking vital information; for once, she is completely and utterly cornered.

"Fine." The fully-formed idea blooms then, unfurling in his mind like a brilliant flower. "You can't kill me," Sherlock says, the words filled with unshakeable, easy confidence. "You can't afford to."

Mary's eyebrows draw together and her eyes narrow in suspicion. "And why is that? From where I'm standing, I believe I hold all of the cards right now, dear." She raises her chin in challenge.

"No, actually, you don't, Mary," Sherlock retorts. The anxiety and fear coursing through his veins evaporate, replaced by the cool, familiar embrace of logic. "At this point, I'm sure you've realized this, but I'll say it nonetheless: if you kill me, you'll lose all possible leverage you have over Mycroft, and then what's to stop him from killing you? I suppose in theory you could kill me and take John as hostage, but if push came to shove and you were forced to harm John in some way, you wouldn't be able to do it." He waves a dismissal hand. "Sentimental reasons, of course."

She swallows hard but doesn't reply immediately, so Sherlock presses on.

"Now, let's imagine for a moment that you decide to go with that plan anyway. You kill me and hold the gun to John's head, threatening to shoot him the moment Mycroft's men burst through the door. Seems like a fairly decent plan, correct?" He pauses "Incorrect. Holding John hostage will not help you because those men will not be MI6 agents. They won't work for my brother. They won't care about the life of a British civilian." He holds back his shoulders and tilts his head to the right, ever the picture of burgeoning conviction. "Would you like to know who those men will actually be, Mary? Or have you figured it out on your own by now?"

All the color drains from her face and her white-knuckled grip on the gun slackens. Sherlock decides to take that as confirmation.

"Yes, that's right, the Brothers of Blood. Remember them? The gang whose family members you slaughtered several years ago? Well, surprise." He smiles sardonically. "Because you are about to have a little reunion quite soon."

Mary falters at the new information, but makes an impressive attempt at maintaining her composure.

"You're right," she says after several long moments of tense silence. "You're right. The only way I'm getting out of here is by keeping you alive."

She glances at the clock on the mantle. "Your brother's darling little gas capsule ought to begin leaking any minute now, dear."

"It hasn't been thirty minute," Sherlock refutes.

"No," she agrees, "it hasn't. It's been twenty five. What I failed to mention was that the gas has been steadily leaking into this room for the past thirty seconds, and in less than five minutes it will have reached a potency that will knock both you and John unconscious."

"John and I?" Sherlock repeats. "And what makes you immune?"

She offers an airy laugh in response. "You think in my line of business I would allow myself to be susceptible to something as weak as a bit of halothane? No, darling, I've been putting my body through poison training for the past ten years. I would have to be trapped in here for at least twenty minutes before the effects began to show, whereas you and John will only have to be exposed for about ninety seconds."

Outside the door, Sherlock can hear boots thundering up the steps. By the sound of it, there are twenty men and at least half of them are heavily armed.

Mary tilts her head to listen, then forces a tight smile. "That would be your little brigade of British soldiers, correct?"

"Unless there is another group of armed men tramping through the hotel, I'd say yes," Sherlock replies drily.

"Hm. Well let's count down then, shall we? They sound close."

Even though Mary is smiling and pretending that she thinks this is a game, the faint tremor of her right hand makes it abundantly clear that she is unnerved.

"Five."

Sherlock holds his breath and strains to hear the encroaching footsteps, endeavoring to mentally map out how far they are from the room.

"Four."

He wonders how on earth Mycroft intends to get the three of them out of here alive, because despite his bravado about Mary not being able to kill him, he understands that once she is well and truly trapped, she is liable to fly into a panic and just start firing off bullets. Even if they do manage to trick her into releasing both Sherlock and John, there still doesn't seem to be an easy way to remove her from the hotel without (at the very least) shooting her in the leg or handicapping her in some way. And to do that would risk hitting a serious artery and causing her death, which is the last thing they want at the moment.

"Three."

When that barrage of men crash through the door, who's to say one of them won't just kill Mary on sight? Sherlock is well-aware of the agreement between Mycroft and the Brothers, but there is no guarantee that they'll stick to it once they are presented with the tempting option of killing their worst enemy right then and there.

"Two."

Even though Mary is the one who supposedly has the power in this situation, Sherlock can't help but think this is the most vulnerable she has ever looked. Her makeup is smeared from when she was crying earlier, the hem of her dress is ripped (perhaps from when she was running up the steps and her heel got snagged on the material), and her eyes looked bloodshot and wild. Now that she's cried away her concealer, there are very apparent purple shadows beneath her eyes. Sherlock doesn't necessarily pity her—it would be a tall task to do so when said women is threatening to murder him—but he does relate to her one iota more than he ever has before. He too remembers looking into the mirror on particularly bad nights over the past two years, and seeing the pallid stranger staring back at him, and wondering how the hell he ended up like that. She looks haggard, tired, and a bit mad, but he feels as if he is finally seeing the real Mary Morstan—or rather, the real Annaliese Abbamonte, for the first time. And though it is not a sight he sympathizes with, it is at least one he understands.

"One."

The word punctures the still air, stark against the otherwise silent atmosphere. There is a long pregnant pause and the entire room stares at the door with bated breath.

…

Instead of having the room immediately flooded with armed men as Sherlock was expecting, a single person kicks down the door. He is wearing a gas mask, a Kevlar vest, a belt of weaponry and tools, and heavy army-grade boots. He heaves the M-4 Carbine gun onto his shoulder and levels it at Mary.

"Step one inch closer and I'll blow his brains out," Mary says frigidly.

The man takes another slow step forward, so Mary presses the mouth of the gun even harder into Sherlock's temple, sending harsh flashes of pain pounding through his skull.

"I swear to god I'll do it. I'll kill him right here and now, in front of John."

Standing on the brink of death with the love of his life behind him and his worst enemy pressing a gun to his head, Sherlock finds himself painfully aware of every sharp, infinitesimal detail in the room. The air is filled with the scent of the hotel's lavender air freshener and the subtle, sharp tang of cigarette smoke from a previous guest. There are precisely fourteen grapes, two oranges, three apples, and a banana in the decorative fruit bowl on the coffee table, and each piece has been hand-crafted with fine acrylic paint and plaster. Mary's perfume, Claire de la Lune, clouds his senses, her sharp red nails dig into the side of his neck like knives, and the silky texture of her wedding dress tangles up around his legs, caught beneath his shoe. The barrel feels cold, solid, and absolute against the sensitive flesh of his temple. Though everything else in the room seems surreal and strangely dream-like, the sensation of the gun feels tangible and sharp, as if it's the only thing that is real.

The man takes one final step forward and Mary's grip on Sherlock tightens painfully.

"Fine," she says coldly. "You've forced my hand."

And with that, she pulls the trigger.

…

A second later, when his bones are no longer jelly and his mind is once again operating at a reasonable capacity, Sherlock realizes that despite what Mary just did (or rather, attempted to do) he is still alive and wholly intact.

She pulls the trigger again and again, but nothing happens. It's then that Sherlock realizes, with no small amount of surprise, that the gun is full of blanks.

Immediately, he wrenches himself out of her grasp. Looking shaken, John rushes over and stands in front of Sherlock in a protective, shield-like gesture. Without tearing his gaze from Mary, Sherlock reaches for John's hand and squeezes it reassuringly, silently communicating his relief and gratitude for his and John's safety.

"How?" Mary demands, the gun falling from his grasp and dropping unceremoniously to the floor. "How the hell did you—"

But before Mary has the chance to finish that sentence, the man with the gun fires two shots, sending her crashing to the ground like a chopped tree.

"No!" Sherlock shouts, his eyes blown wide in horror. "What have you done? You bloody fool, we needed her! We—" he stops yelling when the man removes the mask and Sherlock finds himself looking into the somber face of Anton Friedrich, the gang member who initially helped them discover Mary's true identity.

"Highly potent tranquilizer darts," Anton says, clicking the safety on the gun. "As much as it would please me to kill Annaliese, your brother and I had an agreement that she would leave this building alive. That is why I was the only one to enter; he trusted no one else to resist the temptation. The rest of my men are waiting outside."

John drops to his knees to examine Mary's supine body, checking her pulse at both her neck and wrist.

"Only thirty BPM," he says after a moment. "She'll be out for a while."

"Good," Anton says, slinging the gun over his shoulder. "Now then, Mr. Holmes is waiting for you outside, Sherlock." He glances over Sherlock's shoulder at John. "And I suppose you are Doctor Watson?"

"I am."

"Good. You will come with us as well, Mr. Holmes has a helicopter waiting on the lawn. He intends to take the two of you with him when he transports Mary to his interrogation center. Come along." Anton pulls the mask back over his face and turns to go.

Sherlock starts following him, but then stops as a strange feeling sweeps over him. His mind is suddenly clouded and his muscles have grown inexplicably weak. Without warning, he crumbles to the floor in a limp heap, his breath stolen from his lungs.

"Sherlock!" John shouts in alarm. He bends to help him, but a wave of abrupt exhaustion seems to hit him too because he collapses as well, joining Sherlock face-down on the carpet.

"John," he groans, feeling the sensation in his legs rapidly begin to disappear. The fog in his head spreads, permeating every crevice of his mind palace like poison.

"Whasshappening?" John slurs. "M'feeling so…tired…"

"Capsule," Sherlock mumbles, attempting to push the syrupy-slow words past his clumsy lips. "Mary tampered with the—with the…the," he blinks drowsily and drops his head to the floor with a heavy clunk. "The tie…timer."

"The halothane," Anton realizes, his voice muffled by the gas mask. Blearily, Sherlock watches him pull a black mobile from his belt and make a call.

"Mr. Holmes, Mary did not disable the capsule, she merely delayed it. Your brother and John Watson are currently inhaling the halothane and will most likely be unconscious in less than a minute. Please send in backup so we can safely transport all three bodies." He pauses to listen to the reply and nods. "You're coming up yourself? Yes. Fine."

He clips the phone back onto his belt and squats down to Sherlock's level. "Sherlock Holmes, can you hear me?" he asks, waving a gloved hand before Sherlock's sluggishly moving eyes. "Can you see me?"

"Hm," he mutters, turning his face to the side so he can look up at Anton properly. "Mm…my head feels heavy."

"I know, just focus on me for a minute. Okay?"

"Mm."

"Your brother is going to come up here and take you and John away. You two are going to help him interrogate, and then my men and I are going to take care of her." When Sherlock's eyelids begin falling shut, Anton grips Sherlock's chin in his hand and forces him to look up. "Listen to me. I am telling you this information because I need to know if there is anything in this room or on Mary herself that can potentially lead to her escape. She is very clever, remember. Even the slightest detail is important."

A lazy parade of images stumble across Sherlock's mind's eye—Mary's jewelry, her hair pins, the sharp points of her heels—but his mouth is too slow to form the words and in the back of his mind, his instinct tells him these observations are not worth sharing.

"Nope," he slurs. Anton release his chin, sending Sherlock's head straight back to the floor. "Oww," he mumbles around a mouthful of shag carpet.

Anton sighs and stands up. "Your brother should be here in a moment, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You and John Watson will be brought to safety in no time."

…

The next few minutes are a series of strange colors, smells, and sounds, as Sherlock slips in and out of consciousness. In the back of his mind, he supposes that if he didn't have his own 'poison training' to fall back on (aka several years of a severe cocaine addiction) he would have been knocked unconscious just as quickly as John.

"Sherlock!"

Mycroft's voice rings out in the quiet room and Sherlock blearily opens his eyes. Only the toes of his brother's polished black shoes are in view.

"He's fine, Mr. Holmes," Anton assures from above him, his voice distorted by the noise-warping effect of the gas. "Annaliese did not harm him."

The last thing Sherlock sees before succumbing to the gas is his brother's masked face looming over him, his expression filled with grim satisfaction.

"She's ours, Sherlock," he says. "We won."

Chapter Text

Confess: (v) to admit to a reprehensible deed; to divulge incriminating information

...

1.

When Sherlock wakes up, the first thing he notices is the familiar smell of expensive cologne, Indian ink, and powdered sugar. In seconds, he knows that he is in the presence of Mycroft Holmes.

"Sherlock?" a voice from above asks. His brother's face swims before him like a mirage. "Can you hear me?"

"Unfortunately," he mumbles. With a lurch of nausea and a pained groan, Sherlock sits up and officially rejoins the land of the living. "My head…" he complains, pressing his fingers to his temple.

They are currently in Mycroft's car, which means Sherlock was completely unconscious for the entire duration of the helicopter flight. All of the dark-tinted windows are rolled up and the partition between them and the driver is firmly in place.

"Good to see you're finally awake, brother," Mycroft says. "It's been about five hours since you and John inhaled the gas."

John. Yes, that's right, John was with him when he passed out in the hotel. "Where is John, Mycroft?" Sherlock demands, his vision still slightly blurred. He grabs hold of the edge of the leather seat and attempts to steady himself. "Where is he?"

"Do calm down, Sherlock, he's right here," Mycroft replies, at the same time that John lays a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, drawing his attention. Sherlock turns his aching head to see the completely healthy-looking face of the man in question.

"You're awake already?" Sherlock asks, peering at John with confusion. How on earth was John able to recover from the gas so soon? Of the two of them, Sherlock certainly has the stronger tolerance for poisons, so it makes no sense that he is feeling the effects so much more than John. "Why did it take so long for me to wake up?"

"You haven't been sleeping these past few days, have you, Sherlock?" Mycroft questions.

"I have," Sherlock lies.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You've never been good at fibbing to me. Your lack of sleep is why you were out much longer than John—your body was exhausted. John, on the other hand, seems to have a perfectly healthy sleeping schedule, because he woke up several minutes ago."

"Yes, I've been up for twenty minutes," John says. "But more importantly, how do you feel, Sherlock?"

"I'm fine. Are you okay?" Sherlock asks, searching John's face for any trace of pain or illness.

"I feel fine, too," John assures him. "No need to fret."

"Good," Sherlock nods. With that taken care of, he shoots an accusatory look in Mycroft's direction. "What the hell happened back there, Mycroft? John and I could have been killed!"

Mycroft sighs. "Come now, Sherlock, you didn't really think I would have left you and John at Mary's mercy, did you? I knew from the moment I devised the plan that Mary would figure things out and attempt to beat us to the punch."

Sherlock regards him warily. "How could you be so sure?"

"Because I left a glaring clue right in her flat, of course. The bloodstain, remember?"

"You mean to say you left that there on purpose? Bloody hell, Mycroft, what if Mary hadn't bothered to play along, and simply killed John right there in the flat? Or what if she had been better prepared tonight and actually managed to shoot me? There are so many factors that could have made this entire plan fall apart. You put both John and myself in harm's way. How the hell do you justify that?"

"The bloodstain was small," Mycroft replies calmly. "A streak scarcely larger than the edge of your fingernail. I left it there partially to test her observation skills, and partially as bait. She took the blood to a private lab that I purchased for my own purposes last year when you were still in Europe, and I told my scientists to keep an eye out for her. They revealed that she knew it was I who had been in her flat, which helped me gauge how much she knew and subsequently how to counter that knowledge—i.e. filling the gun with blanks. I told you, Sherlock, it was extremely important that Mary believed she held all of the cards, and that meant making her believe that she had a gun at her disposal. She was so confident in that plan that she didn't feel the need to devise a backup one, which then led her right into my trap."

"So…everything played out as you wanted it to? Even Mary finding out about our plan?"

"Especially that bit, yes," Mycroft nods. "This was a very carefully calculated mission. There was no margin for error."

…

"Now, then, onto the subject of what we plan on doing with Mary," Mycroft says, folding his hands in his lap. "More specifically, how we intend to get information out of her."

Mary's words from the hotel room are still floating around in the back of Sherlock's mind, taunting him: Oh, don't puff out your chest and square your bloody shoulders like some proud hero—you shed blood during those two years too, Sherlock. You stabbed, you shot, you killed.

"We will not use torture," Sherlock says firmly. "Not yet."

Mycroft turns his gaze to the car window, his mouth a flat line. "I'm afraid that decision is not yours to make, Sherlock. I will not require you or John to participate in any…uncouth methods of information extraction, but I refuse to pretend that they won't be happening. My men will handle the more unsavory tasks, and you will question Mary for several hours each day. John," Mycroft says, turning to address him, "for obvious reasons, I believe it will be ineffective and perhaps detrimental to have you on the premises while these interrogations take place, so I must ask that you put as much distance between yourself and Mary as possible. Waiting for Sherlock at Baker Street would be the best choice."

Sherlock frowns. "You mean I'll be staying here with you and John will be alone at Baker Street? For how long?"

"For as long as this process takes, Sherlock," Mycroft answers, his tone inviting no argument. "Surely I do not have to explain to you the importance of this case."

"Of course not, Mycroft, but I fail to comprehend why it is so necessary that John and I be separated." Punctuating this statement, he reaches blindly for John's hands and squeezes it. "Have we not gone through enough separation already?"

"Sherlock, please don't think I'm doing this to drive a wedge between you and Dr. Watson; if there is anyone who wants you two to be together, it's me. However, I cannot allow you to do whatever you please for the sake of love." He sighs. "All of your focus has to be in solving this case and wearing Mary down, and as much as I loathe saying this, you simply cannot focus when John is around."

Sherlock stares at him as if he's gone mad. "Mycroft, even you must realize how bloody ridiculous that sounds. John has been my partner for years. He has helped me on more cases than I can count and they've all ended in glittering success, so why the hell would separating us now be a good idea?"

"Sherlock," John says, placing his hand on Sherlock's arm, interjecting for the first time in ten minutes, "that's not why he's separating us."

"What do you mean?"

John ignores him and looks at Mycroft with a cool expression. "Isn't that right, Mycroft?"

Sherlock frowns. "John, what are you talking about? Mycroft—what does he mean?"

Instead of replying, Mycroft stares back at John, his eyes searching and keen. After several seconds pass and John still refuses to drop his gaze, Mycroft gives in.

"Your doctor is far more perceptive that I've given him credit for, Sherlock," Mycroft says in an exhale. "He's right. That is not the reason why I am sending him away."

"Then why?" Sherlock demands, glancing between them, frustrated that the pair seem to be engaged in their own silent conversation.

"Because," John says evenly, without tearing his eyes from Mycroft's, "he thinks I'm too simple to protect myself if Mary somehow escapes and comes after me."

Mycroft huffs. "Dr. Watson, I assure you, this is no jab at your intelligence, I merely—"

"You merely what? Think I'm a fool? Think I'm weak?" John demands. "Need I remind you, Mycroft Holmes, that I was a soldier for several years and a doctor for more than a decade? Should I pull out my medals and degrees and prove my worth to you? Then will you trust me to take care of myself?"

"It is not that I do not trust you, John," Mycroft insists. "But I would rather not endanger you if it is not strictly necessary. If I could have things my way, I would send both you and Sherlock back to Baker Street and handle this myself, but unfortunately, I require my brother's assistance."

John clenches his jaw and looks away. "You think I can't handle myself because of what happened back at the hotel."

"John, that is not what this is about—"

"She drugged me, Mycroft. There wasn't much I could have done to salvage that situation."

"I know, John, and I was not insinuating that Sherlock or I could have done better. I'm simply saying that having you on the premises while we interrogate a half-mad serial killer who claims to be in love with you, invites far more risk and danger than I'm willing to entertain. This is for your protection."

John glares at him and says nothing, but his eyes are filled with anger and frustration.

Sherlock completely understands John's surliness. He, like Sherlock, prides himself on his specific skillsets—intelligence, cleverness, competency in a tight spot—and after being stripped of those things and thrust into a helpless situation, he undoubtedly feels weak and ashamed. Of course, John shouldn't feel that way, as Mary could have easily blindsided any of them with that poison, but he understands John's point of view nonetheless.

Still, as much faith as he has in John, he can't help but agree with Mycroft. John and Mary should not be within such close proximity, even if there are guards and metal walls and chains between them. It's simply too dangerous.

"John," Sherlock says, placing his free hand atop their interlocked fingers. "I know you don't like this, but—"

"No, Sherlock," John says, moving his hand away. Sherlock's fingers curl around the empty air. "I'm so sick of you two protecting me. Wasn't that why you pretended to be dead for two years?" John asks, his eyes resolute. "Wasn't that why you lied? To protect me? What if something happens to you here? I'd never be able to live with myself if you were hurt or…or worse, and I wasn't here to help you." He holds Sherlock's hands tighter, begging him to understand. "Would you agree to this if I was the one asking to stay here with Mary? Would you be content to just sit at home and wait indefinitely for me to come home? Because if you say yes, if you would truly do all of that, then I'll go and I won't ask any more questions. But if you say you wouldn't, if you feel even the slightest bit of doubt, then ask yourself how you can expect me to agree to this."

He understands where John is coming from. He really does. But when he thinks about losing John, being alone in this world, coming home to an empty chair and an empty flat, his heart drops to the pit of his chest. There is absolutely nothing he wouldn't do for John's safety.

"I would, John," he answers honestly. "And as I much as I hate to ask, I need you to agree to this. Not because you're weak or because you need protection, but because I won't be able to stand it if anything happens to you. Mary is vicious and she has more than enough incentive to come after you. I'll be safe here with Mycroft and his men, so you don't need to worry about me. Please, John," Sherlock says, his eyes imploring. "Do this for me."

"Okay," John says after a long stretch of silence. "For you."

The days of Mary's interrogation blur together like watercolor paints. For six days, Sherlock's routine consists of phone conversations with John in the morning, two hours of interrogating Mary in the afternoon, three more hours of recording her confessions at night, and then six hours of torture at the crack of dawn. Sherlock doesn't participate in the last bit, of course, but he is abundantly aware that it is occurring. Mycroft's men always emerge from the interrogation room with bloodied gloves and torn clothes ("She won't stop clawing and scratching," Mycroft tells him, "so we'll have to start binding her hands."), and sometimes Mary's screams bleed through the cracks in the walls. The purpose of the interrogations is to tie up any lose ends involved in the Ten Hour Deaths case and to find out as much about Annaliese Abbamonte as possible.

It's a miserable, tiring, arduous process.

2.

"Do you know who James Moriarty is?" Mycroft asks during their Tuesday inquisition. Sherlock is watching the exchange from the other side of the room's two-way mirror, his pen poised above his notepad, ready to jot down any key information that comes up.

Mary just laughs. "You think in my line of work Moriarty and I wouldn't have crossed paths at some point? Of course I know him."

Mycroft watches her with steady eyes. "Were the two of you ever accomplices?"

"No."

"No?"

"I never would have worked with someone as careless as James Moriarty," she spits. "I will be the first to admit that the man was a genius, but he was also incredibly rash, temperamental, and impulsive. Not to mention insane. And, as I'm sure you are aware, all of those traits led to his messy demise two years ago."

"And you do not consider yourself any of those things?" Mycroft asks coolly. "Rash, temperamental, insane…."

"Me?" she says incredulously. "I'll have you know I am nothing like James. I am careful and precise in everything I do, Mycroft Holmes."

"Yes, that's how you ended up in captivity, correct?"

"I am not too proud to admit when I've been bested," she answers coldly, "but I refuse to pretend that I am simple. You may have gotten ahold of me, Mr. Holmes, but I can guarantee it won't be for long."

"Is that a threat, Annaliese?" Mycroft asks evenly.

"No." She smiles up at him, bloodstains from this morning's torture still crusted on her teeth. "It's a promise."

3.

"What is your relationship with your father?" Sherlock asks her Wednesday evening.

"He died when I was six years old," Mary answers blandly, her eyes set at middle distance.

"Any siblings?"

"One sister."

"Where is she right now? Back in America?"

"She's dead."

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back. "Did you kill them?"

"No," she answers colorlessly. "My younger sister was hit by a car when she was four years old."

Shattered family, tragic past. Duly noted.

"What is your relationship with your mother?"

"Do not ask me about my mother," Mary hisses, reanimating. "That woman is dead to me."

"And why is that?" Sherlock questions coolly.

"She hated me," retorts Mary. "And she had no qualms about telling me that each and every day."

"What did—"

"Enough questions about my mother. I will not answer any more. She was not involved in any form of crime nor was she ever an accomplice of mine. This string of inquiries is irrelevant, so move on."

4.

When he walks into the interrogation room on Thursday, she looks just as vulnerable and world-weary as she had when John rejected her in the hotel room. There are dark purple rings beneath her eyes and several slashes across her face, from either metal rings or the tip of a knife blade. Her face looks skinny and wan, and her figure reminds him of that of the bony, life-drained women he would see hanging around drug dens, back when he was used to wander London's streets late at night.

"How many people have you killed?" Sherlock asks.

"Consult the photo album," she mumbles, her pale eyelids sliding shut. "I'm tired."

"Who were your employers throughout the years?"

"There were a lot…"

"I need names."

"Fine," she mutters, lazily lifting her lids, revealing glassy, pink-rimmed green eyes. "Jaxson Gervais, 2004, Miami, Florida. Richard Manson, 2004, Glendive, Montana. Susana Black nee Jones, 2005, Glasgow, Scotland. Mariah Penwood, 2006…"

5.

On Friday, Anton accompanies him in the interrogation.

"Who did you kill in the summer of 2010, in Dresden, Germany?" Anton demands.

Mary smirks indolently, in spite of the fresh black eye marring her visage. "People you care about."

He flexes his jaw, causing the tattooed characters on his face to jump. "I want numbers."

"Not names?"

"No," he says darkly. "You are not worthy of saying them."

She pouts. "Do you hear that, Sherlock? I'm not worthy."

Sherlock leans against the wall and holds his silence.

Mary looks back at Anton. "Are you sure you don't want their names, darling? I could say them, you know. It wouldn't be any trouble, I have all of them memorized." She offers a derisive grin, but something mad and unstable flickers behind her eyes. It takes a moment for Sherlock to remember where he's seen that look before, and then it hits him—two years ago, on the roof of St. Bart's, when Moriarty stuck a gun in his mouth. That same twisted, tortured look of madness sits before him now.

"You dare smile about their deaths?" Anton asks in a low growl. The thick tendons of his hands pull taut as he forms a fist. "You are not fit to speak their names."

"Achmad," she whispers, her bleeding lips split in a grin. "Christoph."

Anton gnashes his teeth and steps forward, his clenched fists shaking at his sides. "Stop at once."

Mary ignores him and keeps grinning. "Hannelore. Milos. Viktor."

"Shut your mouth!"

"Josef," she shrieks, trilling with laughter. "Darling little Josef! Blue-eyed, blonde-haired, sweet little—"

Crack.

The sound of Anton's heavy, square palm slapping across Mary's face echoes throughout the room like a bomb.

Sherlock grits his teeth and reminds himself of what Mycroft told him: You are here as an observer. Do not interrupt in any way and keep in mind that I am watching, so if things get particularly bad, I will be there to stop it.

"Why do you do these things, Annaliese?" Anton asks lowly. His voice is quiet but sharp, like a dull piece of shrapnel. "Is it because your family never loved you? Is it because your darling fatherand dear mother hated you?"

Mary flinches back, as if the words are a physical blow. She no longer looks confident or self-assured, she instead appears small and shrunken, her green eyes huge in their purple-bruised sockets. "Stop," she says hoarsely.

"No," he growls. "You will listen to me, Annaliese. You will sit here and absorb every single word I tell you, because you have no choice. You are trapped here within these four walls. You will hear what I say."

She twists her head to the side and closes her eyes, breathing harshly through her nose. "No."

"It was your mother, wasn't it? She didn't want you." He smiles blackly, revealing two rows of sharp, silver-capped teeth. "A burden, she called you. A curse."

"Stop."

"And every time you kill, you prove her correct, Annaliese. She was right about you. She was always right."

She bows her head and screws her eyes shut. "Stop, stop, stop, stop—"

"No! I will not stop," Anton yells, the smirk evaporating from his face. "You murdered Josef! You are amonster—a black-hearted, incorrigible witch." He leans in and drops his voice, his body trembling with fury. "You are evil, Annaliese. Evil."

Abruptly, Mary's voice dies. Her face blanches and her entire body goes still.

"Evil Annaliese," she echoes, her voice quiet and devoid of inflection. Her emerald gaze rests unseeingly on Anton's shoulder. "What an evil child she is."

Taken aback, Anton turns to Sherlock with a frown, his enraged, flushed face now filled with confusion. "What is she talking about?"

"She's capable of sin, I tell you," Mary mutters. "Only sin."

It doesn't appear as though she is speaking to Anton, nor does it seem like she is speaking to Sherlock. Her expression has a glazed, detached quality to it and her awareness of her surroundings seems to have dissipated.

"They never stop speaking," she whispers, her green eyes haunted and unfocused. "They never stop weeping." She stares up at Sherlock with a desperate look, all recognition absent from her gaze. "Why won't they stop? Why won't they—"

"No," Anton interrupts, the single word crushing her timid plea like a fist. "Enough."

Anton squats down so that he and Mary are eye to eye, their faces mere inches apart. When he speaks, his voice is filled with quiet, shaking fury. "You are mad, Annaliese. Insane. But do you know what? You, you deplorable, devil of a woman, you deserve it. You deserve every sleepless night and haunted day, you deserve for your mind to fester in the graveyard of lives you've destroyed, for your heart to bleed just as you've made others bleed, for your wretched, blackened soul to—"

"Enough," Sherlock cuts in, placing a hand on Anton's tense shoulder. "That will be enough for now, Anton."

Anton bares his sharp, silver teeth and rises reluctantly, his body as taut as a bow. "I will leave now, and I will not return until it is time for the Brothers to take her," he tells Sherlock, without tearing his gaze from Mary. He flexes his square jaw and turns to go, pausing only when his hand is on the doorknob.

"Do not pity her, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he warns quietly, his back facing Sherlock. "She may be insane, but she is not innocent. Do keep in mind who you are dealing with, please. Think of how many lives she has ended, and remember: guilt does not absolve a criminal." He bows his head ever so slightly and turns the doorknob in his fist. "I of all people would know this."

…

Now alone, Sherlock paces the length of the small room, debating what to do.

The fact is, they've broken her. And even though this should be a victory, Sherlock can't help but feel a wave of discomfort at the sight of such a powerful, self-possessed woman reduced to a fearful husk. He doesn't pity her, she's done far too much to warrant such kindness. But he has never been a fan of torture—physical or otherwise—and this is clearly causing her mental anguish. Even from a logical standpoint, Mary needs to be fully sane and present in order for Sherlock to glean accurate information.

"Can you hear me, Mary?" he asks carefully.

Mary drops her chin to her chest, allowing her blonde hair to tumble forward and hide her face.

"She's a bad seed," she mumbles. "Can't be helped."

"Mary," he says after a beat of silence. "Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?"

It's always wisest to start with easy questions like this, as they are good indicators of the victim's awareness level.

There's a long stretch of silence and then a soft mewling sound fills the air, and for a moment, Sherlock thinks that Mary is crying. However, he soon realizes that she's actually humming. The simplistic melody and repetitive bars lead him to believe it is a child's nursery rhyme.

He frowns at her. "Did you hear what I said, Mary?"

Mary lazily raises her head and begins singing in a strange, off-key murmur, "'Will you walk into my parlor?' said the Spider to the Fly. Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy…"

"Mary," Sherlock says sharply. "Look at me."

She closes her eyes and starts to sway, as if in a trance. Her honey-colored curls swing back and forth like golden pendulums. "'The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, and I've a many curious things to show when you are there'."

He grits his teeth and leans forward, his hands gripping the armrests framing her sides. "Annaliese," he tries. "Answer me."

"'Oh no, no,' said the little Fly, 'to ask me is in vain, for who goes up your winding stair—" she pauses and her eyes fly open, bright-green and glassy, like a petrified doll's "—can ne'er come down again'."

She stops singing, then, and stares blankly at the far wall. At loss of what to do, Sherlock drags a lone chair from the corner of the room and sits a few feet from her, his hands steepled before him. Several moments of tense silence pass before he decides what to say.

"That is not a song, yet you sung it."

She stares at him with flat, unblinking eyes and does not reply.

"It's a poem," Sherlock clarifies without tearing his gaze from her face, "so why did you sing it?"

"Mum," she answers absently, sounding as though her thoughts are miles away. "Mum used to sing everything to me. Grocery lists, the weather forecast, poetry…"

Sherlock leans closer. "Why did you choose to sing that song, Mary?"

Her face still looks dreamy and detached. "The moral of the story, darling. This world is full of spiders." Her lashes flutter drowsily against her cheek. "Never forget that, my love. Never be led astray.

"Do you know who I am, Mary?" he asks again. "Do you know where you are?"

"Mum's going to be cross with me again." Her glazed eyes shine with tears. "She's always so disappointed, you know. Never wanted me to begin with. Got stuck with a bad lot, she says."

Mary is talking about her mother now—something she very explicitly refused to do at the beginning of the week. If anything is to show the extent of her breakdown, it is this.

"Evil little Annaliese, nasty little Annaliese," Mary whispers brokenly. It sounds as if she is repeating someone else's words. "She's capable of sin, I tell you. Only sin."

Sherlock rises from his chair and runs a hand wearily down his face. "This is mad," he says under his breath, pacing back and forth. "I don't know what to do about this."

"Mad…" Mary repeats softly.

"You heard me?" Sherlock whips around to look at her. If even a modicum of her awareness has returned, that is good news. "Alright, listen to me, Mary. I need you to tell me where you are. Do you know who I am? Do you remember what happened?"

"We're all mad here," Mary murmurs dreamily, her eyes sliding shut once more. "All of us, dear Alice."

…

"Something is wrong with her," Sherlock says, holding the unlit cigarette between his fingers. "She's lost it."

"I believe the correct term is psychological break," Mycroft informs him, bringing the fag to his mouth for another puff. "And I must say, it does not surprise me. Murdering countless people is bound to take some kind of toll on one's sanity."

"I warned you that torture was risky," Sherlock says bitterly. "And now look what's happened."

"There was no other option, Sherlock," Mycroft dismisses. "You know I am not a fan of excessive cruelty and would not have resorted to those measures if they had not been absolutely necessary. She refused to cooperate with us and we needed information. I have no regrets about my methods."

As repulsed as Sherlock is by this whole situation, he knows deep down that his brother is correct. He sighs. "So, what do we do, then?"

"We wait, Sherlock. We need that remaining information, and if it obtaining it means we have to outlast her mental episodes, then so be it. Once we release her into the Brothers' custody, there is no going back, so we have to be absolutely certain that we have gathered all necessary data first."

"I don't believe questioning her any further today would be wise. She's just mumbling nonsense."

"Then we wait another night," Mycroft decides with finality. "Come tomorrow morning, you and I will interrogate her and we will finish this case once and for all."

"Fine," Sherlock agrees. "Tomorrow morning."

Mycroft drops his fag to the floor and puts it out with the toe of his shoe. "You didn't light yours?" he questions, eyeing Sherlock's untouched cigarette.

"I suppose I've lost my taste for it," Sherlock frowns, gazing thoughtfully at the ashes on the floor.

6.

The next morning, as Sherlock makes his way down the lifeless, grey hallways of the interrogation center, he can't help but feel a wave of dread crash over him. When this process began several days ago, he was one hundred percent against any form of torture—physical or mental—but now he has ended up inadvertently partaking quite heavily in the latter. Forcing Mary to talk about her mother, keeping her locked in a blindingly white room, chaining her down with handcuffs and binds—all of it makes shame rise in the back of his throat like acid. He wishes this process could have been as swift and painless as he'd imagined it would be. Why couldn't Mary have just told them everything the first time they sat down? Why couldn't the Brothers have given them more time, so that Mycroft wouldn't have had to use torture to speed things along? Why is this all so reminiscent of those two terrible years he spent in Europe, killing and lying and slinking about in the shadows?

When Sherlock pushes open the door and steps into the room, however, his thoughts screech to a halt and the cup of coffee in his hand crashes to the floor.

The chair is empty, Mary is gone, and on the floor, beside a silver fountain pen, rests a single scrap of paper marked with curling blue script.

'And now dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er heed:

Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,

And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly'.

See you in hell, darling. Xoxo Anna

Chapter Text

End: (verb) to conclude or put to rest.

1.

The first thing Sherlock thinks of—the first thing that pops into his head and eclipses all else—is John. John's whereabouts, John's safety, John's life. He hasn't even finished processing the sight of Mary's empty chair before he's already dialing John's number, his mobile pressed so hard against his ear that it hurts.

Please answer. Please answer. Dear god, please answer, John.

"Hello?"

Sherlock nearly cries at the familiar sound of John's voice. "John, thank god," he exhales, sliding down the wall, boneless with relief. "You're okay."

"Of course I am; why wouldn't I be?"

"John, just tell me that you're safe. Are you still in the flat?"

"Yes, I'm here. You told me not to leave, remember?" As reassuring as John's words are, Sherlock senses something strange—his voice sounds too casual, almost as if he's forcing himself to seem calm.

Sherlock frowns and clutches the phone closer to his ear, his shoulders tense. "John, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," John laughs, brushing off Sherlock's concern. "Anyway, when you called me yesterday, you said you wanted to talk to Mrs. Hudson about something, right?"

Immediately, Sherlock's senses go on high alert. For one, he didn't call John yesterday, he texted him. And two, in the entire week that he's been working on the interrogation, he has never brought up Mrs. Hudson. The fact that John has mentioned both of these things seemingly out of nowhere can only mean that he's trying to tell Sherlock something, without actually saying it.

"Yes," Sherlock says slowly, playing along. "I'd like to ask her about the status of my mold cultures. Is she in right now?"

"No, she's out shopping," John answers. "You know, for brooches, Vatican cameos, antiques, that sort of thing."

Vatican Cameos—the code word that invariably means: I am in danger, held at gunpoint, and I cannot talk.

Sickening dread courses through Sherlock's veins, but he does his best to maintain an even, untroubled tone. "Well, when she returns please tell her to give me a call."

"Got it."

Thinking on his toes, Sherlock tries to concoct some way to assure John that he is on his way to save him. "John, you know that show you love, EastEnders?"

"What about it?"

"Well, you should know, your favorite rerun is coming on in less than twenty minutes. If you're feeling poorly, I'm certain it will lift your spirits."

"Twenty minutes?" John asks, and Sherlock can already hear the subtle edge of relief in his tone.

"Yes," Sherlock says, "It's the one with the marvelous reunion."

2.

It takes him and Mycroft less than five minutes to get into his brother's sleek black car—a vehicle Sherlock never thought he would be grateful to see—and peel down the road to Baker Street at a law-breaking speed.

"How long until we get there, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks for the fourth time in as many minutes. His hands won't stop anxiously fidgeting in his lap and his heart hasn't stopped thudding against his ribcage for what feels like ages.

"Ten minutes," Mycroft replies calmly. "If we go any faster, we run the risk of getting into a car accident."

"I don't care."

"A car accident would only prolong our journey, Sherlock. This is the quickest we can get to Baker Street." Eyeing Sherlock's nervous, tense profile, Mycroft adds, "You needn't worry about John's well-being. As I said before, I've already alerted my men. They are stationed outside of Baker Street as we speak, ready to capture Mary and subdue her."

"Well why don't they bloody subdue her already, then?" Sherlock explodes. "John is in that flat alone with Mary, and she has a gun. Why can't they just enter the building and capture her?"

"You know the answer to that, Sherlock," Mycroft chides. "If my men were to just crash into the flat, Mary might be startled into shooting John; look how she behaved at the hotel when you were her hostage. If I hadn't thought ahead and removed the bullets, she would have killed you without a second thought. We cannot afford to take that risk with John, because unlike before, we don't know what kind of weapon she has at her disposal."

"You have other means of getting into 221B that don't involve kicking down the front door, Mycroft," Sherlock insists, desperation spilling into his voice. He digs his nails into his thighs hard enough to leave marks, even through the thick barrier of his trousers.

Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock, you know that wouldn't change anything. The threat still stands—walking into a hostage situation and provoking the assailant could have messy results."

"Your security cameras, then," Sherlock presses on, "surely you can at least show me that John is okay?"

"She tampered with them, most likely by shooting the lenses. M16 cameras are quite susceptible to bullets, I'm afraid."

Frustrated and antsy, Sherlock turns to him with an angry look. "Mycroft, why the hell are you acting so unconcerned? Do you understand that she is alone with John right now?! It's bloody foolish to just sit and chat about this as if it's some hypothetic scenario with no actual ramifications, when in reality, John's life hangs in the bloody bal —"

"That," Mycroft interrupts sharply, silencing him, "is why I am remaining calm. If both of us were to act as irrationally as you, then we would not be able to accomplish anything. Besides, Sherlock, I have things under control."

"Then explain your plan to me and stop being mysterious," Sherlock demands.

"I told you, Sherlock," Mycroft says exasperatedly, "my men are waiting outside of the flat, ready to capture her the moment she makes herself vulnerable."

"And who's to say she's going to do that, Mycroft? From where I'm sitting, it seems highly probable that Mary is going to stay in the flat where it's safe and simply—" he falters on the next words and has to swallow hard before continuing. "—simply kill John."

"Sherlock, without any provocation from my agents, I do not believe Mary will kill John," Mycroft states, speaking with a confidence Sherlock envies; he wishes he were that certain about John's well-being.

"And what makes you think that?"

Mycroft sighs. "Think about her plan here, Sherlock. The moment she escaped, she headed to Baker Street, which, on foot, would have taken her about an hour. There were dozens of places along the way that were far closer and that would've have made much wiser hiding spots, yet she chose to run all the way to John. That means that whatever motives she had for going there were more important than logic."

"…And what does that mean? Is that good?"

"Yes, I would say so. I am inclined to believe that her reasons for going to John are more positive than negative. She went either because she wishes to inflict violence upon him, or because she wishes to explain herself. And as history has shown us, she is not interested in the former."

Sherlock stares at him. "You think she broke out of the interrogation center and ran to Baker Street to explain herself?"

"Sherlock, surely in the week we spent interrogating her, you learned something? The only person Mary has ever shown mercy to is John. During her mental breakdown yesterday, she expressed regret over her violent actions—which revealed a flickering flame of morality that she previously had not displayed. Combine that with the fact that she has never hurt John, and it seems only logical that she intends to spare his life. Even when she had the chance to kill him in the hotel, she didn't. She won't. As twisted as it may seem, she loves him too much to do such a thing."

"But you said your men won't risk capturing her because that might prompt her to shoot John," Sherlock reminds him.

"Yes," Mycroft agrees, "but only out of desperation. If she feels cornered, she might hurt him, which is why I have instructed my men not to enter the building from any entrance. She's not mentally stable, remember? However, with just John in the room, I don't believe she will inflict any damage."

…

When Mycroft said his men were surrounding every inch of Baker Street, he was not exaggerating. The entire road is blocked off, M16 agents crowd the street, and every window on the block is draped or shuttered. An eerie, terrible silence looms over the area, not a single agent speaking as they keep their weapons poised to fire, their eyes carefully trained on the flat building before them.

Sherlock's stares at his and John's sitting room window, where their thick burgundy-red drapes hide the flat from the outside world. Anxiousness and fear bubble in his gut, despite what his brother so confidently told him on the way here. Even if Mary's intentions are 'pure', she still has a gun and is therefore a danger to John's life.

He hasn't been standing there on the pavement for more than five minutes, before his mobile rings in his pocket, and John's face glows on his screen.

"Hello? John?" Sherlock says frantically, his plan to remain cool and calm flying out the door in an instant.

"Sherlock, I'm okay," John says, his voice sounding genuinely calm rather than strained and forced as it had earlier. "Don't worry, I'm okay."

"What happened? Where is she?"

John hesitates for a moment. "She's here. She isn't armed anymore."

"What?" Sherlock turns away from Mycroft, who is currently giving him a strange look. He drops his voice. "John, what are you talking about? Is Mary making you say these things?"

"No," John answers. "I have her gun. She dropped it and I picked it up. She's not putting up any resistance, Sherlock. I don't know what's wrong with her, but it seems like she's having some sort of breakdown."

"Where is she right now? In the room, I mean."

"She's on the sofa in the sitting room, crying."

Sherlock frowns. "She was aiming the gun at you before though, wasn't she? That's why you had to use Vatican Cameos?"

"She was. But then, she started talking about how much her mum would've loved me, and how wonderful our kids would have been, and how perfect we could have been together. I responded to her, but it was like she couldn't even hear me. She started crying after that, saying she couldn't harm me, and then dropped her gun."

"I need to go up there," Sherlock says, half to John and half to himself. "I can retrieve the two of you and safely return Mary to the interrogation center to finish her questioning. This changes everything."

"Yes, okay, I have the gun trained on her so I'll be fine until you come up. Let Mycroft know."

"Here, tell him yourself, I'm headed up right now. I don't want to waste another minute." Sherlock turns back around and hands the phone to his brother.

"It's John."

Mycroft frowns and takes the phone. "Hello?" There's a long pause in which John is presumably explaining the situation.

"Yes, alright, I'll allow it," Mycroft says eventually, but he doesn't look pleased. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

He hands the phone back to Sherlock and gives him a look of disapproval. "I don't like this, Sherlock."

"I'm going up there whether you like it or not, Mycroft. As I just told John, I will go up to the flat, help John safely leave, and then keep Mary cornered until your men can come up and capture her. It's important that I go alone, because if a swarm of armed men show up, that might make her do something desperate, which then risks John's life."

"Yes, fine. But I insist that you take a weapon with you, at least. On the off-chance that Mary somehow disarms John, I'd feel better knowing that you have something at your disposal as well."

"Fine," Sherlock agrees.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Mycroft calls, as he's walking away. "Do make sure to open the drapes when you're up there."

"Why?"

Mycroft hesitates for the briefest moment, a look of reluctance crossing his face, but the expression is gone as quick as it came. "Because I'm concerned about your safety, Sherlock, and it would comfort me to see what is occurring in there with my own eyes."

…

The climb up to the flat feels endless. When Sherlock finally creaks open the door to 221B, he finds the scene exactly as John described it: Mary, curled up in the corner of the couch, her eyes glassy and distraught, and John standing in the center of the sitting room, the gun in his hands carefully trained at her.

"Sherlock, thank god you're here," John says, his tense stance relaxing slightly at the sight of Sherlock. "I didn't want to do so until you got here, but I think it's fine if I lower the gun at this point."

Sherlock stares at Mary, picking apart her appearance and assessing each gesture. She seems just as shaken as she had at the interrogation center—and that madness certainly wasn't feigned—but at the same time, if she was able to escape from captivity in this state of mind, then there's no reason why she wouldn't be able to take back her weapon in this state, either.

"No," Sherlock says slowly. "Keep it raised."

Sherlock pulls out his own gun and levels it at Mary; not with the intention of shooting her, of course, but with the intention of keeping her where she is. "John, please go. I'll keep her up here until my brother can come up."

At that, Mary reanimates. "No!" She drags her hands through the matted blonde waves of her hair in distress. "John, don't go, love, please."

Jarred, John looks away from Sherlock and stares at Mary. "No?"

"Darling, why do you always leave?" she whimpers, her eyes welling with tears all over again. "Why must you always go?"

A look of deep pain crosses John's face and he lowers the gun a bit.

It's at that moment that Sherlock really begins to understand how difficult this whole ordeal has been for John. Sure, finding out Mary's true identity was difficult for Sherlock, but he can't even fathom how distressing it must have been for John. Because as much as John might scorn Mary for all of her lies and violence and deceit, she did give John comfort in Sherlock's absence. She was the one who pulled him from the depression that shrouded him after Sherlock's death. She did genuinely care about him, if her current breakdown is any indication.

Sherlock can't help but feel a bit ashamed that this is the first time he's really taken a moment to look at things from John's perspective. Sherlock obviously isn't pleased by Mary's descent into madness, but John must be absolutely heartbroken by it. He's staring at his ex-fiancé who is sobbing and pleading and asking why him why he doesn't love her—that can't be easy. Even though John's heart belongs to Sherlock, it still must hurt to stand here and watch someone he once cared about endure so much emotional pain.

"I won't leave, then, okay?" John says gently, clearly torn between his instinctive urge to comfort her and his logical inclination to remain stoic and unmoved. He glances at Sherlock. "We'll both just have to wait up here with her."

"Fine," Sherlock says, not exactly pleased with the change of plans, but nonetheless obliging. He completely understands where John is coming from. "I'll contact my brother."

Come up. Mary is subdued, but I suggest bringing tranquilizers just in case. SH

"Sherlock Holmes," Mary mumbles, bringing his attention away fr om his mobile's screen. "Why are you here?"

Her hair looks wild, her complexion is sickly and wan, and her face looks gaunt as a skeleton's, but a small measure of awareness has returned to her gaze.

Instead of answering, Sherlock replies with another question. "How did you escape?"

She offers a short, wild grin that sparks off her face like an angry flame. "The magician never reveals his secret, dear."

"Why did you come here to see John?" He already knows the answer, but this is a decent way to stall until Mycroft and his men show up.

"Love is a finicky mistress," she drones, her features settling back into detached sorrow. "And you are her murderer, dear Holmes."

Sherlock lowers the gun, a frown creasing his forehead. "Mary—"

"You," Mary interrupts brokenly, pointing her shaking finger at Sherlock, tears spilling down her cheeks in abundance. Her red, swollen eyes bore accusingly into his, her green irises muddy with resentment and heartbreak.

"Why does he always choose you?"

As much as Sherlock loathes the idea of drawing any comparisons between Mary and himself, he understands the way she is feeling. He remembers what it was like to see the person he loved in the arms of another: to feel that terrible, aching longing every moment of every day. He remembers how it felt to lie awake at night, wondering why John chose Mary, why he couldn't love Sherlock, why Sherlock wasn't good enough. He remembers that pain so clearly that seeing it in Mary's eyes makes him feel as if he is looking into mirror. As strange as it is, there is connection between them, one made of their mutual damage and heartbreak and pain. But while Mary snuck around in the shadows and tore lives to pieces, Sherlock was bruising his soul for the sake of John's safety. For the safety of Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade. For the safety of anyone who might have been a victim of Moriarty's web.

Those people were his tethers to reality. They gave him a purpose—a goal. He never forgot why he was there, in the heart of Russia or the slums of Germany, fighting and killing and fleeing. He never lost himself in the blood and smoke and misery. In more ways than one, his loved ones saved him.

And that is the primary difference between the two of them: Mary didn't have that. Even though both of them are wildly intelligent, perceptive, and, most importantly, damaged, Mary, unlike Sherlock, didn't have anyone to root her to earth, to pull her back from the edge when things got too dark. She was on her own in the cesspool of sin, murder, and greed that she built for herself, and she drowned.

Pity would too strong of a word for what he feels for her. Despite her troubled past, Mary made her own decisions. She holds all of the responsibility. The most that Sherlock can say is that he understands her, but for the moment, that is enough.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says, and he means those words sincerely. He's sorry that she's had to endure a terrible childhood, a loveless marriage, and a ruthless life of tragedy and murder and crime. He's sorry that the world molded her into the scarred, twisted woman that she is today. He's sorry that she will never get her happy ending.

Mary's face crumbles, a sob leaping from her throat like a cough. Her blunt nails dig red crescents into her palms.

"Why, John?" she whispers. "Why? I would do anything for you. Anything. You're the only thing in this entire world that I want." Her breath hitches. "Why don't you want me too?"

A beat of silence passes.

"Because, Mary, I love him," John says quietly. He doesn't say it to hurt her, or to rub it in her face. He says it softly, as though it's a simple fact that he wishes he didn't have to spell out. "I do. I always have."

Mary looks back at him, her expression painfully open and vulnerable, like a fresh wound. Shakily, she parrots his line from the hotel. "Did you ever truly love me?"

John's eyes grow glossy, catching the morning light streaming from the window. He exhales the words. "Yes, Mary. I did."

She closes her eyes and takes a shuddering breath. John's words seem to soothe her.

A small, watery smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, and for the first time in the year that Sherlock has known her, Mary's expression looks genuine. She walks over to the sitting room window and pushes back the heavy drapes, staring out at the city street with a calm, utterly blank look on her face.

Do make sure to open the drapes when you're up there, Sherlock.

She presses her fingertips against the cool glass, her whispered words creating a bloom of condensation before her lips. "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall."

"Mary?" Sherlock questions hesitantly.

Her cinnamon colored lashes flutter against her cheek, innocent as a child's. "But all the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again."

Sherlock realizes what's about to happen the moment he catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. Above her shuttered eyes, right in the middle of her elegant, milk-white forehead, rests a single red dot glowing like a beacon. John doesn't notice, and Sherlock notices too late.

"Goodnight, my love," she murmurs, pressing her lips to the window pane like a kiss.

…

The sniper's bullet hardly makes a sound when it breaks through the glass, though later Sherlock will wonder if perhaps the noise was drowned out by the shock of watching Mary slump to the floor, lifeless and still.

Her face, he will also later realize, looks serene. Almost like she's sleeping.

Chapter Text

Heal:  (verb) to soothe or comfort after a difficult experience

1.

Mary's body is placed onto a gurney and covered with a sheet mere minutes later. As Mycroft's men carry her from the room, her limp arm slips from where it's been carefully arranged atop her chest, knocking her fist against the wooden floor. Her engagement ring escapes from her slack hand, then rolls several inches and clatters to a halt before John's shoe.

His expression unreadable, John picks it up and examines it in the faint light streaming from the now-shattered window.

"John?" Sherlock questions, taking a hesitant step towards him. "Are you alright?"

John stares at the ring, turning it back and forth as if to watch his own reflection in the gold. "Yes," he says at last, sounding tired but genuine. "I am."

Deciding to give him a moment to himself, Sherlock locates his brother, who is posed in the doorway of the flat, watching his men remove Mary's body with the thoughtful, detached eyes of an observer. Sherlock stalks over, tearing Mycroft from whatever reverie he was lost in.

"You didn't tell me," Sherlock says without preamble. "You said this was a recapturing mission."

"I lied."

"Yes, Mycroft, I'm aware. But why?"

"Because, Sherlock, there are certain implications involved in taking a woman captive—even a criminal one—and then transferring her into the hands of the German Mafia. To do so as a citizen is already highly illegal, but to do so in the name of the Queen is simply abominable. The shot was executed by one of the Brothers in order to distance you and I from the situation."

As much as Sherlock loathes being lied to, he understands his brother's reasoning, and since he's never been one to argue foolishly with sound logic, does not protest. "And who among the Brothers shot her?"

Mycroft tilts his head. "Does it matter, Sherlock?"

"I suppose not."

"Anyway, the official records will say that Annaliese, an international criminal with an ambitious background, escaped, was shot by an unnamed citizen, that citizen was then dealt the appropriate legal punishment, and the woman was given a small, government-funded funeral. That way, England's hands, as well as your own, remain clean."

"And how is John meant to explain why his fiancé is gone forever? His excuse that she is visiting her sister can only last for so long before things begin to look suspicious."

"That's easy. He can say that they split up amicably after the strange fire at the wedding, having realized that they are not truly compatible. Mary has left England to travel and clear her head, and they have mutually decided to break all contact with each other, for the sake of moving on with their respective lives."

Sherlock raises a brow. "I can see you've thought this through."

"When don't I think things through?" Mycroft asks rhetorically. "Speaking of the devil, how is John?" Mycroft glances over Sherlock's shoulder at the man in question.

John is standing in front of the broken window, still staring contemplatively down at Mary's engagement ring. In spite of the slew of conflicting emotions that undoubtedly plague him, John's shoulders are relaxed and his stance is confident. It seems to Sherlock that John feels that they did the right thing.

He wishes he was as assured.

Noticing the troubled look lingering on Sherlock's face, Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock, you should know that Mary was completely aware of how this situation would end. She knew she was going to die, and that is why she came here. Even with her sanity hanging on by a thread, she chose to run here and offer John her last words." He pauses. "She stepped in front of the window, Sherlock. She knew what that signified. You did not kill her."

There it is, the phrase he has unconsciously been waiting for.

Mycroft presses on. "You cannot feel guilty for what happened to her, Sherlock. If she were not killed today, she would have been killed later on in a much more painful manner. This was the only humane death I could think to give her. Quick and painless. In the end, I believe we owed her at least that much."

"It was a lot easier to plot her death when things were black and white," Sherlock says eventually, his eyes fixed somewhere middle distance. "Now everything is quite—grey."

"That is life, brother mine," Mycroft says, sounding world-weary. "But do rest easy, because we did the right thing today. She will not be able to hurt anyone else, or herself, any longer. And most importantly,we've given her something she never would have been able to find in life."

Sherlock looks up at his brother. "And what is that?"

Mycroft places a hand on his shoulder. "Peace." 

2.

On the day of the funeral, the weather is unseasonably fair. Bluish-grey skies stretch overhead, the sun looms behind a herd of fluffy white clouds, and sweet, warm wind sweeps through the cemetery like a sigh.

The funeral party is small, comprised only of John, Sherlock, Janine, and Mycroft, though Mycroft is only there for security purposes. It is imperative, he told Sherlock, that this affair remain quiet and unnoticed. I will be there to make sure of that. 

True to his statement, Mycroft leans against a tree several feet away, pensively watching the three of them and absently twirling his umbrella handle.

Mary's tombstone is small, black, and contains only a single word of text: Annaliese. No birth or death date, no information or inscription, simply her name on a finely-carved obsidian plaque.

In the white plastic cup meant for flowers, John places her engagement ring.

"I can't believe she was leading this double life the entire time," Janine says dazedly, clutching her black purse to her chest. Sherlock spent the whole ride over explaining the bare bones of the situation, but twenty minutes is hardly enough time to process all of the events that have transpired over the past year, so Sherlock can't blame her for still being in disbelief.

"She was a very clever woman, Janine. She managed to trick us all."

"Too brilliant for her own good, I suppose," Janine muses.

"Indeed."

She turns to look at John and Sherlock, her eyes glossy with sympathy, and shudders a sigh. "I'm so sorry you two had to go through this. Sherlock, I commend you for the patience it took to bide your time and pretend to know nothing." She shakes her head in awe. "I don't know how you managed to keep your cool and play along with her game for so long." She extends a hand, seeking his for comfort.

"Thank you, Janine," Sherlock says graciously, accepting her proffered hand. She squeezes his fingers reassuringly and then releases him, turning to John.

"John, how are you dealing with this?" she asks, her brow furrowed in concern. "I can't even imagine how hard it was to keep up that facade with her for so long, especially after finding out so many terrifying things about her."

"I'm actually okay, Janine," John says, offering a small smile. "I mean, recovering from it was difficult, of course, but Sherlock has made the whole process incredibly easy." John looks up at Sherlock, eyes sparkling with affection, and takes his hand. "More than anything, I feel relieved that we no longer have to worry about each other's safety every minute of every day."

Janine raises a brow. "Well, the git does enjoy leaping from rooftops and chasing criminals, so I wouldn't make that claim so soon."

John chuckles and Sherlock smiles, feeling something in his chest thaw at the refreshing sound of John's laughter.

Janine beams at the two of them, and then turns back to the grave.

"To be honest, I don't know what to feel," she says with a sigh, her eyes trained on the solemn black headstone. "On one hand, she was one of my closest friends for two years. But on the other…" she frowns and shakes her head. "Well, you know."

"Yes," Sherlock nods. "I do."

"Did she have any family?" Janine asks, looking between John and Sherlock.

"A deceased mother and sister. Her father's whereabouts are unclear, but I doubt he was a part of her life."

Janine presses her lips into a solemn line and wraps her arms around herself. "She had a sad life, didn't she?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies frankly. "But I believe, Janine, that it would be best if we put her memory to rest along with her body. She was a complicated woman—neither a black and white villain, nor a domestic saint. Both of those things were merely facets of the strange, complex conglomeration that made up her personality. It would take us ages to unravel who she truly was, so it's best not to ponder it to deeply. Let us all simply make peace with her passing and try to move on with our lives."

…

"I'd better get going," Janine says later on, after placing a single yellow rose on the grave. "Thank you both so much for allowing me to be a part of this. I'm glad I had the opportunity to put Mary to rest."

"I'm glad you had that opportunity, too, Janine," John says, reaching out to shake her hand.

However, Janine is having none of that.

"Oh, just give me a hug, you silly man," Janine chides, throwing her arms around John's neck and squeezing him tightly. "I swear, you're just like Sherlock, always wanting to shake hands and raise chins rather than hugging it out."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Do ease up there, Janine, I'd rather you didn't suffocate John."

"And you!" Janine cries, leaving John in an instant and pulling Sherlock into an even fiercer embrace. "As much as I wish you told me all of this sooner, I'm glad you decided to trust me in the end. And I am so bloody impressed with you both for handling this situation with so much poise. Lord knows what I would've done had this been my fiancé."

"Whacked them over the head with your purse, most likely," Sherlock mutters.

Janine laughs and pulls away. "You know it, love."

"Would you like a ride home? My brother can take you, his car is right there."

"Oh no, I don't want to be a bother," Janine says, waving it away. "I've got a cab coming right now anyway, so I'll be just fine."

Sherlock nods. "Just make sure to text me when you get home."

"Okay, but one last thing before I go: John, Sherlock," she says, her eyes bright and sincere, "let me just say, I couldn't be happier that the two of you have each other. Despite all of this terrible mess, you two ended up together and in a way, that makes all of the pain worth it."

She glances between the two of them and smiles dazzlingly. "I'm just so glad you both finally have the chance to be truly happy."

3.

"Janine was right, you know," John says later that night, while the two of them are lying in bed, Sherlock's head resting on his chest. He cards his hands through the detective's dark hair, tangling his fingers pleasantly in the forest of curls.

"About what?" Sherlock murmurs, sleepy and warm. He tightens his grip on John's waist, nuzzling his cheek into John's grey cotton t-shirt.

"About us being together. About how it's made all of the pain and struggle worth it."

In truth, this past year has felt like a blur. Sherlock can still remember the sharp stab of heartbreak upon returning, the petty jealousy after his first meeting with Mary, his own staunch refusal to speak to John for a month, the gradual healing of their friendship, the tentative glances and flirtatious exchanges underlining nearly every interaction. The moment that John pressed his lips to Sherlock's scar-striped hips and said I love you for the first time. He thinks about the fear he felt whenever he knew John and Mary were alone, the poisonous glimmer in her eyes, the sharpness of her perfect, white teeth. He thinks about the sweet, intoxicating relief of being around John once she was gone, holding him close, feeling John's strong hands tug through his hair and drag him in for a kiss.

"You're worth everything, John," Sherlock says softly, listening to John's heart pound against his ear. "I'd go through all of that ten times just to be here, with you."

John hums, pressing a firm kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. "You know I'm madly in love with you, right?"

Sherlock smiles, privately resolving to stow the words away in his mind palace. The warmth of John's body, the smell of his freshly washed hair, the sweet, reassuring motion of John's fingers dragging through his curls, all make him feel as if he is in the most perfect place on earth.

"Can we never leave your bed again?" he mumbles into John's shirt.

John chuckles and Sherlock feels the vibrations in his chest. "You know, that's something people usually say in the heat of the moment."

"I can say it then, too…"

John half-groans, half-laughs. "Please, don't give me any ideas. As tempting as that sounds, we both need our sleep."

"Will you at least kiss me?" Sherlock says, tilting his head up to look at John, his bottom lip pouting ever so slightly.

John smiles and drops a hand to the side of Sherlock's face, stroking his jaw and coaxing his face upwards for a kiss. Sherlock moves languidly into the motion, sliding his hands through John's hair to pull him closer.

"I love you," Sherlock murmurs against John's lips. "So, so much."

John pulls back and stares at Sherlock with adoring eyes, his hands gently framing Sherlock's face. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Sherlock. And I just…I can't seem to find words that will properly convey just how sodding important you are to me, so…so," he falters, then lunges forward, pulling Sherlock into a tight, desperate, wordless embrace.

Surprised and pleased at the simple contact, Sherlock squeezes back, his hands fisted in John's shirt. "What happens now, John?"

Sherlock himself isn't quite sure what he means by that, but John seems to understand.

"Now, Sherlock, is the best part," John says, settling back down into bed, pulling Sherlock against his chest. John's strong arms encircle him and Sherlock curls into the warmth of John's body with a sigh.

"Because, now, we can finally start living."

Chapter Text

Forever: (adv) always, everlasting 

1.

“John,” Sherlock states several mornings later, while they’re in the middle of breakfast. “I’d like to have sex.”

John inhales sharply and nearly chokes on his tea, inspiring a rather long, rather loud coughing fit. “Christ, Sherlock,” he croaks. “Bit early for that kind of bluntness, yeah?”

“I fail to see how the time of the morning has any bearing on our presently sexless sex life, John.”

John clears his throat and places his enamel mug firmly on the table. “Right, well, I think we should discuss it first.”

“That’s what we’re doing, aren’t we?”

“No. Well, yes, technically we are, but I mean we should talk specifically about it, and then plan accordingly.”

“John, we were moments from having sex on your stag night. Why are you so hesitant all of a sudden?”

“Because, Sherlock, I want this to be special.”

Sherlock groans and covers his face with his hands. “John, I’m not a virgin. Please don’t feel the need to make this into some trite fairytale. I don’t need rose petals on the bed or some candlelit meal. I just want you.”

John picks up his chair and moves it, so that they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder instead of across from one another. He leans forward and kisses the back of Sherlock’s hand, coaxing him into revealing his face.

“I want you, Sherlock. You know I do. And I’m really not the kind of bloke who thinks that first times should be commemorated with silly rituals and romantic nonsense—”

“Then why can’t we just dash off to my bedroom and do it right now?” Sherlock complains.

“Let me finish,” John says, placing a hand over Sherlock’s. “As I was saying, I’m not interested in first time cliches. I know you’re not a virgin and I am by no means under the impression that you’re ‘fragile’. I know that you’re just as ready for this as I am, Sherlock, and I want to do this with you more than anything.” He pauses. “But, we can’t have sex just yet. We need to wait a bit longer.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you, but it’s important.” John brushes a stray curl back from his forehead. “Just please trust me on this?”

Sherlock sighs long-sufferingly and leans forward, his forehead propped against John’s shoulder. “You know when you ask that, I can’t say no,” he mutters.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back and pulls him in for a hug, resting his chin atop Sherlock’s head. “It’s going to be worth it, I promise.”

“Fine,” Sherlock concedes, sulkily hooking his chin over John’s shoulder. “But to make up for it, you have to let me sit in your lap when we watch telly tonight.”

“Sherlock, you’re a bloody giant. It’s nearly impossible to see the screen when I’m sitting behind you.”

“Deal with it.”

John pretends to be put out, but then completely ruins the ruse by kissing Sherlock’s forehead. “Fine, fine, I’ll cuddle with you, you great git.”

2.

One week, two hours, and sixteen minutes after their conversation, John bursts into the flat with a wild-eyed, triumphant look on his face.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock greets warily from the sofa, noting that John is panting and a red-faced. “Did you run here?”

“Yes,” John answers succinctly, his entire face split in a grin. “I did.”

“Right. May I ask why?”

“Because,” John says, crossing the room in three steps, “today’s the day.”

Before Sherlock can even begin to ask what that’s supposed to mean, John is grabbing him by his lapels and dragging him into a passionate, toe-curling kiss. One of John’s hands comes to rest in Sherlock’s hair and the other holds his jaw at an angle, deepening the kiss.

By the time John pulls away to ravish the side of Sherlock’s throat several minutes later, Sherlock is gasping for air and embarrassingly hard.

“Er, John, not to complain or anything,” Sherlock says, trying to focus on formulating words, in spite of the rather distracting things John keeps doing to his neck, “but where is all this coming from?”

“We can have sex now,” John says impatiently, working on a love bite beneath his ear.

“Oh,” Sherlock mumbles, dazed. A moment later, the meaning of those words sinks in and he springs to life. “Oh! We can—you mean—actual sex? We can have actual sex now?”

“Yes!” John exclaims. “Now let’s go to your room, otherwise we’re going to end up having our first time on the sodding sofa.”

…

John doesn’t stop kissing him until they reach Sherlock’s bedroom. The backs of Sherlock’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and he finds himself tumbling into bed with John’s arms wrapped around him and John’s smiling mouth pressed against his. John finally breaks the kiss and straddles Sherlock’s hips

“Shirt off,” John says breathlessly, tearing his jumper over his head. Sherlock scrambles to keep up, his overly-excited hands doing a shoddy job of undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“I’ll do it,” John says, batting Sherlock’s hands away and unfastening the buttons in record time. Sherlock sits up partway to pull the shirt from his shoulders and cast it aside.

“God, Sherlock, you don’t even know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” John says in his ear, his breath hot against Sherlock skin. “So bloody long.”

“Me too, John,” Sherlock replies dizzily, still unable to believe this is finally going to happen.

“Shorts off, too,” John says as he unfastens Sherlock’s belt and pulls off his trousers and pants in one smooth motion. No bloody wonder he was called Three Continents Watson—he apparently has the power to render a person entirely naked in less than a minute.

John slides his hand over the trembling plane of Sherlock’s abdomen, his fingers pausing to trace over the jut of his hipbones and the smooth, naked skin of his thighs. Sherlock’s breath stutters and halts with anticipation.

“God—John,” Sherlock chokes out, as John finally takes him in his hand. “Christ.” He arches into John’s touch, his body bowing off the bed.

John pumps his hand slowly, twisting his wrist and running his thumb teasingly over Sherlock’s slit. He presses messy, wet kisses along the long line of Sherlock’s throat, his teeth dragging lightly over Sherlock’s pulse point.

“John.” It’s more of a keening whine than an actual statement, but John understands it nonetheless and picks up the pace of his hand.

“Better?” he says into Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock groans, turning his head on the pillow and offering John the pale, unmarked expanse of his neck. John immediately sets about sucking a love bite below his jaw.

“Christ, Sherlock, your voice,” John groans against his skin, sounding absolutely wrecked.

…

“John,” Sherlock pants several glorious minutes later , propping himself up on his elbow. “As much as I’m enjoying your undivided attention, I think it’s a bit unfair that you still have your pants on.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” John says with a breathless laugh, shucking the final piece of clothing and climbing over Sherlock.

“Wait,” Sherlock says, pressing a hand lightly to John’s chest.

“Hm?”

“I need to look at you for a bit first.”

John raises his brows, but sits back on his heels without protest. “Well, then get a good long look, I suppose.”

Sherlock has the noble intention of drinking in every aspect of John’s body like fine wine, but the moment John actually leans back and puts himself on display, Sherlock’s eyes fall helplessly to John’s groin and remain there.

Sherlock clears his throat, his face hotter than the depths of hell. “Long is certainly the operative word, here.”

John shakes his head. “Puns, Sherlock? Really?”

On any other occasion, Sherlock would defend himself or, at the very least, say something clever to offset the bad joke, but at the moment, he’s so hard that it nearly hurts, so being witty is rather beyond his capacities. “Will you just come here, John? Please?”

“Oh god, yes.”

…

“You’re so beautiful, Sherlock,” John says, pressing kisses all across Sherlock’s chest. He runs a thumb over Sherlock’s nipple, inciting a long, low moan from the detective.

“Look at you,” John whispers reverently, replacing his thumb with his lips and lavishing the tight bud with his tongue. “You’re absolutely perfect.”

The praise hits Sherlock like a warm rush of champagne. Like a blinding flood of dopamine. “Say you love me, John,” he blurts out, surprising even himself with the strange request.

John doesn’t miss a beat. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he murmurs, as he kisses his way down Sherlock’s stomach. “You’re so brilliant, you know that? So beautiful and clever and lovely.”

This, all of this, feels so unbelievably good that it almost doesn't seem real. Sherlock is so overwhelmed, so lost in sensation and emotion and adrenalin, that he nearly feels like sobbing.

John continues his journey downward, pressing his lips to nearly every square inch of Sherlock’s body on the way. “You—are—amazing,” he says in between kisses. “So—bloody—incredible.”

Sherlock’s entire body feels as sensitive as a raw nerve. He is hyper-aware of John’s rough hands on his inner thighs, the bristly, soft texture of John’s hair threaded through his fingers, and the maddening, delicious sensation of John’s mouth against his fevered skin.

“John, I—” he starts. But whatever Sherlock is in the middle of saying is cut short, because that’s when John ducks his head and takes Sherlock in his mouth.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Sherlock groans, the expletive slipping past his lips unthinkingly. For the first time in what feels like ages, his mind is utterly blank, capable of producing only blind encouragement and desperate pleas. “Yes,” he gasps, as John swirls his tongue around the tip. “Fuck, yes, John, don’t stop.”

A moment later, John pulls off with an obscene pop and stares up at Sherlock, his mouth rosy and wet and his eyes nearly eclipsed by his pupils. “You swearing is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” John rasps. He pats the underside of Sherlock’s thighs. “Ankles on my shoulders, love.”

Somehow, the term of endearment makes that request twice as sexy. Sherlock does what John says and groans when John grabs him by the hips and pulls him even closer, his heart pattering like mad at the display of John’s strength. He could probably haul Sherlock over his shoulder with ease if he wanted to.

With Sherlock’s heels now resting on his upper back, John leans down and licks a long stripe up Sherlock’s shaft, his eyes dark and wickedly bright. “God,” John groans. “You’re delicious.”

…

“J-John, wait,” Sherlock gasps, as molten-hot arousal spikes through him, threatening to send him over the edge. “I don’t want to finish like this.”

“Okay,” John says, pulling off and slowly kissing his way back up Sherlock’s torso. When John’s lips reach the side of Sherlock’s neck, he drapes his body over Sherlock’s, his erection pressing into Sherlock’s thigh.

“I want to feel you, John,” Sherlock mumbles against John’s mouth. He hooks his ankles behind John’s back and tugs John closer, so that they’re pressed flush together from chest to hip. The feeling of John’s hot, flushed skin against his sends bright white sparks shooting down his spine.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John groans, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and rocking into him. Panting, he squeezes a hand between their bodies and takes both of them in his grip, stroking in unsteady, desperate pulls. Sherlock gasps at the sensation and clutches onto John’s shoulders, his head thrown back against the pillow.

The physical sensation of this is incredible, obviously, but what is even more earth shattering is that fact that Sherlock is finally allowed to be this close to John. Now they aren’t just bonded as colleagues, or flat mates, or even as friends: they’re bonded as partners, as lovers, as soul mates.

“Sherlock, you feel so good,” John groans, pumping his hand harder. “So bloody good.”

Sherlock’s orgasm takes him by surprise. He gasps as white-hot pleasure washes over him like a tidal wave and sends him careening over the edge. John follows soon after, groaning Sherlock’s name, his face buried in Sherlock’s curls.

…

Boneless and sated, Sherlock sprawls on top of John and tucks his face firmly into the junction between John’s neck and shoulder.

“So,” John says, running his fingers leisurely up and down Sherlock’s back. “Thoughts?”

Sherlock chuckles and burrows his face even closer to John, his lips grazing the warm skin beneath John’s ear. “I’d say it was rather decent.”

John kisses the top of Sherlock’s head and chuckles. “Just decent? Because from the noises you were making, I would have thought it was bloody mind-blowing.”

Sherlock smiles and lazily plants a trail of kisses along John’s jaw. “Good point. It was absolutely brilliant.”

“Only because you’re brilliant, love,” John says, fondly running his hand through the detective’s curls.

After a few more pecks against John’s neck, Sherlock props himself up on one elbow and leans down to kiss him properly, their mouths meeting in sweet, effortless union.

“Mm,” John hums, framing Sherlock’s face with his hands and deepening the kiss. Sherlock responds in kind, leisurely exploring John’s mouth and committing to memory every last taste, scent, and sensation.

“John,” Sherlock says, pulling away. “I have to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Why was it so imperative that we wait until today?”

The corners of John’s eyes crinkle in a smile. “I was actually waiting for you to ask that question.”

Sherlock frowns. “Why?”

John sits up in bed and clears his throat. Sherlock sits up too, smoothes down his unruly hair, and looks at John with a curious expression. “John?”

John takes Sherlock’s hand, looking slightly nervous. “Right. Okay. Time to do this.”

“Do what?”

John reaches across Sherlock’s chest for something on top of the nightstand. He looks down at whatever is concealed within his hand and takes a deep breath. “The first thing I’ll say, is that you’re my best friend. When I met you, I was in a bad place, Sherlock. I’d just returned from war, my sister had shirked her rehab therapy and was back on the bottle, and I felt as if I was completely alone.” John looks up at him, his blue eyes open and sincere. “You changed that. You gave me companionship and adventure, and a place to rest my head at night. You made the nightmares a bit more bearable and allowed me to finally find solace in this mad, bruised-up city. I never felt alone once I met you, Sherlock. You saved me.”

“John,” Sherlock says softly. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just squeezes John’s hand tighter.

John smiles. “You’re probably wondering why I made us wait to have sex, right?”

Sherlock nods dumbly.

“Well, I suppose I’m a bit of a romantic. I wanted to wait until we’d finally had this experience together before asking you.”

Asking him? Asking him what?

“And the reason I’ve waited so long to ask, is because I was getting the ring inscribed.” John laughs thickly and rubs at his eyes. “Um, this is the part where I’m going to get quite sappy.”