Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

COMING HOME

The stone floor was slick. Water, maybe. Or blood. Sherlock hadn’t checked in days. His knees ached where they met the freezing slab, arms suspended above his head by rusted iron shackles that had long since rubbed his wrists raw, the cold biting into the bruises. Beneath, the skin had gone slack from too many days without rest. Hunger and fatigue weighted him down, each breath dragged through bruised ribs, thick with the damp, stagnant air of the cell. His mouth was dry. Tongue leaden. The copper tang of old blood lingered on his cracked lips.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there; he’d lost track of time. He counted pain instead. Bruises, flinches, missed meals. He catalogued his tormentors, their voices, the cadence of their footsteps, their patterns. Every visit was data, carefully collected into a single objective: survive and escape.

But today the data had grown strange. The two men guarding the door were quiet, not lazy, nor bored. The air was charged, sharp, and the unusual silence between the guards felt expectant. He didn’t bother to look at them directly, he didn't need to, he'd memorized them by now. One heavy-set, impatient, always rocking on his heels, like a boxer before a match. The other tall and lean, twitchy, prone to smirking just before a blow. He always watched, noticing the patterns in their routine, the state of their clothes, the shift in their posture. It was different today. Today, they were silent. The tall one stood unnaturally still, arms folded, mouth curled at the edge in something like anticipation. Sherlock noted the change, filed it, didn’t let it show. His breathing stayed steady, his chin didn’t lift. But behind his bloodshot eyes, thoughts turned like razors. Something was coming.

They never announced it when the whipping would begin, it was part of the performance. You didn’t need to speak when pain was the only language left. And yet, the lean one stepped forward, taking him in, a hint of satisfaction in his stance.

“You’ve been holding out,” the man said, tone almost conversational. “No screams. No tears.”

Sherlock said nothing. A long drip fell from the ceiling and hit the floor with a wet tap.

“You’re proud of that, aren’t you?” The man continued. “All that silence. All that grit. Thought it made you stronger?”

The other guard chuckled from the corner.

“But here’s the thing,” the first said, crouching down until he was eye-level. “Turns out… we’ve been going about it wrong.”

The man leaned in, breath foul with cheap cigarettes and meat. “See, your type… the clever ones, the ones with their posh coats and posher mouths… You don’t break from pain.”

He smiled.

“You break from shame.”

A pause.

The silence crackled like static.

“From what I hear,” he added, voice dropping lower, “your kind might even like it. All the pain, the restraint. Bit of a thrill, yeah? Hard to tell if you’re suffering or enjoying yourself.”

Sherlock’s stomach coiled, but his expression didn’t change. He knew better than to react to vague threats. Vague was safe. Vague meant they were still guessing.

But then the door opened. Heavy metal screamed on its hinges, and Sherlock’s gaze flicked up. Absently at first, then sharply. Everything in him stilled. Breath, thought, blood. Not a hallucination. Not this time. The silhouette in the doorway was unmistakable. Compact, sturdy frame. Straight spine. Military clothes.

John Watson stepped into the room like he belonged there.

Sherlock felt something inside him jolt.

John.

The name exploded in his brain like a gunshot. He stared, breath caught in his chest, the room warping around him. He couldn’t reconcile it, couldn’t compute. Last time he saw him John had been busy burying him. Broken, but unharmed. Yet, all his work for the past two years, keeping John Watson safe—gone. But how?

John’s eyes swept across the room, slowly, calculating, and landed on him. Sherlock looked, searched for the smallest reaction, the tiniest flinch, but he found none. His face was blank, distant. Cold. As if he was looking through Sherlock and not at him. Sherlock’s throat went tight, his heart pounded, wild and unregulated. He almost didn’t hear the man beside him speak again.

“Ah,” the guard said, watching Sherlock closely. “That’s what I was talking about.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He couldn’t. All his processing power was now locked onto the man in the doorway. John’s steps were measured, clinical. His hands were at his sides, a gun holstered on his belt. He watched him cross the room, unable to tear his eyes away. There were no tells; no clenched jaw, no twitch of the fingers. No warmth. Nothing of the man Sherlock had thrown himself off a roof to protect.

He wanted to say something, call his name. But his lips wouldn’t move.

“You'll take him raw?” One of the guards asked in a cruelly delighted voice.

Sherlock barely registered the words. His mind could only grasp one detail at a time. John’s uniform. The gun at his hip. The calm precision of his steps.

Another voice. “Oi, I want a turn. He just got here and gets to have the first go?”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John for a fraction of a second, just to place the speaker.

“I told you,” The other said. “Once he gives us what we want, you can do whatever you like. But the doctor gets to break him first.”

And suddenly, Sherlock understood. He understood what they meant. What they wanted. Why they had brought John. Panic, swift and hot, flooded his chest. He recoiled instinctively, pressing back against the wall, breath catching.

“Look at him,” the heavy one said. “Finally afraid.”

Sherlock flinched. Not visibly, but John would have seen it. The others didn’t.

John stepped forward, one slow movement at a time, and reached out. Gentle fingers threaded through Sherlock’s hair, now oily and sweaty after days in captivity. But John didn't seem to mind. He caressed his hair carefully, deliberately, as one would with a lover. He tilted Sherlock’s head up to face him. Sherlock didn’t resist him, didn’t have the strength to. He looked up at him, mesmerized and utterly terrified. A thumb brushed against his cheek, trailing lightly over a bruise, the warmth of John’s palm stinging more than any of the beatings had. Sherlock wanted desperately to lean into it. The touch was intimate, electric, so much more than anything they ever dared. But Sherlock didn’t know if he could trust it.

When John finally spoke, his voice was velvet-smooth and sharp as a blade.

“You can have him as you like,” John said, still staring into Sherlock’s eyes. “But first, I want him to myself.”

Sherlock's whole body froze. He turned his head away, barely breathing.

One of the guards scoffed. “Leave something for us to enjoy, Doctor.”

“Don’t take too long,” the other said, as the door slammed shut behind them.

And then John dropped to his knees, the transformation immediate: all calculation gone, urgency taking its place. His hands caught Sherlock’s face, and his voice came low, trembling and real.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You’re safe now. I’m getting you out.”

Sherlock’s head dropped forward, forehead resting on John’s shoulder. He hadn’t meant to, but as soon as he felt the strength of John's arms his body gave up.

John moved quickly, eyes scanning bruises, hands checking restraints. “You need medical attention. I’ll take care of you as soon as we get out of here,” he said, concern dripping from his voice as he went on to work on the shackles, his mouth tight.

“Mycroft’s on the roof. Helicopter’s ready. Can you walk?”

Sherlock managed the tiniest nod. He felt too tired to speak.

“I’ll kill them all.” John murmured. “For what they did to you.”

The quiet fury in John’s voice prompted Sherlock to meet his eyes. His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“Is it really you?”

John gave a small, broken smile. “’Course it is.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Let his head fall against John’s shoulder again.

“…you didn’t have to touch my hair like that.”

John stilled. Sherlock swallowed, throat raw. The weight of John’s hand on his face still lingered, more grounding than pain. More intimate than anything he'd let himself imagine.

“It’s going to be okay,” John said softly. “But we have to move.”

Sherlock forced himself upright, legs trembling under him. He managed it, barely. Every joint screamed, every muscle begging to stop.

John turned to the door, already moving. “Stay close. Follow my lead.”

Sherlock nodded and something passed between them, an unspoken understanding. No time for apologies or explanations, but trust. And Sherlock trusted him completely.

John opened the door with swift precision, gun raised. The two guards looked up, startled. They barely had time to reach for their weapons when the shots came. One in the chest, one in the head. Clean and quiet.

Sherlock blinked. The bodies dropped.

John didn’t hesitate. “Clear,” he said, and Sherlock followed.

The corridor beyond was poorly lit, cold concrete echoing with each hurried footstep. John moved like a soldier: efficient, silent, brutal. Sherlock tried to keep up, his limbs sluggish, vision blurring. But he watched. He catalogued. A man stepped out from a side hall, rifle raised. John shot him in the throat without breaking stride. Another came from a stairwell above—John ducked under the swing of a baton, drove his elbow into the man’s solar plexus, then brought him down with a single shot to the gut.

Sherlock forced himself not to stare in awe. He had seen John fight before, in brief flashes. Always reactive, always with restraint. But this was different, and Sherlock found it was beautiful. Not the violence, but the clarity. The command. He trailed after him like a ghost, bloodied and weak. He was unable to look away: this was the man he’d kept out of the plan. The man he’d tried to protect by omission. And now here he was, protecting Sherlock instead. A bullet whizzed past Sherlock’s ear, and he ducked reflexively. John turned, fired once, and the shooter fell with a grunt.

They kept moving. Up a flight of metal stairs. Across a corridor that reeked of oil and old smoke. Two more down at the exit, John didn’t even slow to check. Finally, they reached the door to the roof. John kicked it open, checked the corners, then waved him through. Fresh air hit Sherlock like a blow, causing him to stagger. The night sky above was wide and black, the thrum of rotor blades filling the air. Mycroft’s helicopter was waiting, blades cutting the dark like a promise.

John turned back to him, his chest heaving, face slick with sweat.

“You still with me?”

Sherlock nodded again, unable to utter a word. The pain caused by the running felt excruciating, every step was agony, his wounds reopening with each jolt. But even more so, John presence hushed him. John had come for him, had killed for him. Had led him to safety.

They boarded without ceremony. Sherlock first, half-stumbling with John’s steady grip under his arm. The doors shut with a final, mechanical thunk, as the engine noise swallowed the world below. Sherlock collapsed into the seat across from Mycroft, too exhausted to feign composure. Blood was dripping from his back and every inch of him hurt.

John was already beside him, tugging open a first-aid kit stashed under the seat. No words, just practiced hands: gauze, antiseptic, pressure dressings. His face was unreadable. Sherlock winced once, but didn’t protest.

“Your little performance was effective, if a touch dramatic,” Mycroft said, smoothing his cuffs. His tone was dry, but his eyes flicked quickly over Sherlock’s injuries, and his fingers tapped too fast against the briefcase on his lap.

Sherlock gave a weak, hollow laugh. “You would have preferred a polite RSVP to the torture party?”

Mycroft didn’t smile. “I would have preferred you not get captured at all.”

“Noted.” Sherlock winced again as John disinfected his wounds. “Although I seem to recall it was your intelligence network that failed to warn me about the ambush.”

“Because you chose to go off-grid for six days and rejected backup,” Mycroft shot back. “And I’m told you were meant to observe, not interfere.”

Sherlock tried to glare, but it softened as John dabbed antiseptic along a split on his collarbone. He hissed.

“Don’t recall asking you to patch me up.”

“You didn’t,” John said, not looking at him. “You’re lucky I’m still in the mood.”

That silenced Sherlock more effectively than pain.

Mycroft's gaze flicked between them. A faint crease between his brows suggested something like curiosity, though it was quickly smoothed away. He remained seated, gloved hands folded neatly on his lap, but his attention lingered on the quiet, methodical care John was giving his brother.

For a while, the only sound was the rumble of the rotors and the soft clink of metal tools. John worked efficiently, pressing bandages into place with deliberate precision, anchoring a dressing along Sherlock’s ribs with a tenderness that made Sherlock’s throat ache.

Then Mycroft spoke, low and composed.

“Did the intel hold?”

John nodded without looking up. “Mostly. The shift schedule was off by half an hour, but it was manageable.”

“No interference from local authorities?”

“They were paid not to look. And they didn’t.”

Mycroft allowed a breath of satisfaction. “And the warden?”

John finally looked at him. “Was exactly what we needed.”

Mycroft gave the faintest incline of his head. “Good. I’ll see he’s compensated.”

Sherlock blinked. His gaze moved slowly between them. The edges of his exhaustion lifted just enough for something sharper to take its place. Sherlock turned his head toward John, who was now rolling gauze back into its pouch. “What’s going on?”

John hesitated, then offered a small shrug. “We’ll explain. Once you’re stable.”

“No,” Sherlock said, voice quiet but pointed. “You knew about me? That I wasn’t dead?”

John didn’t answer. His hands stilled briefly over the kit, then resumed, tighter than before. The look he gave Sherlock wasn’t anger exactly, but it wasn’t forgiving either. It said: Don’t you dare ask me that right now. Sherlock heard it loud and clear.

Instead, Mycroft answered. Calmly. “John was… persistent.”

A muscle jumped in John’s jaw.

“You two,” he muttered, snapping the latch shut on the first-aid tin, “have a maddening habit of assuming everyone around you is dumber than they are.”

Sherlock didn’t flinch, but something about the words hit. A pause lingered, heavy with what had not been said. John looked directly at Sherlock. “But we’re not doing this now,” he said flatly. “Not here.”

Sherlock stared at him in silence before turning to his brother. “Then tell me why you’re cutting the mission short. I’m not done with Moriarty’s web, there are threads left to follow—”

“Well, you got yourself captured brother mine,” Mycroft said mildly, folding one leg over the other. “Hard to do much untangling from a basement cell.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t have pulled me out unless something was urgent.”

Mycroft inclined his head, just barely. “Indeed. There’s been… movement. Credible threats. London.”

John looked up at that, attention sharpening.

“From Moriarty’s people?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft’s mouth tightened. “Possibly. Possibly not. But someone’s filling the vacuum he left. And they’re moving faster than anticipated. We’ve intercepted chatter, multiple foreign agencies have eyes on British soil. Something’s coming. And I’m afraid it requires your… particular skill set.”

Sherlock watched him carefully. “You’re being vague.”

Mycroft didn’t deny it. “I’m always vague when the stakes are this high. You’ll be briefed properly once we’re secure.”

Sherlock leaned back slightly, breath still shallow from pain. “You already have a suspect.”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked toward the window, to the blur of clouds beyond. “Not a suspect. A person of… interest. But I need confirmation before I act.”

There was something in his voice. That carefully cultivated neutrality, slightly too polished. Sherlock heard it like a violin string just a bit off pitch.

“You’re hiding something,” he said.

Mycroft offered a faint smile. “Of course I am.”

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave his brother’s, but he said nothing. Across from him, John sat rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest, gaze flicking between the two of them.

“You’ll have the full briefing when we land,” Mycroft added. “But suffice to say: whatever web you think you were chasing it may not be the only one.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly. His injuries throbbed with every breath. He didn’t respond, not with words. But he sat straighter, subconsciously reading himself.

John’s voice broke the silence. Quiet, dry. “Well. That sounds like fun.”

Sherlock glanced at him. It was the first trace of levity he'd heard in John's voice since he rescued him. A flicker of the old rhythm, buried beneath layers of tension. It steadied something deep within him.

They spent the rest of the way in silence, each mulling in their own head, until finally the helicopter surged forward, angling toward the lights of London far below: bright, sprawling, and as full of secrets as ever.

***

The safehouse was quiet but watchful, its sterile walls echoing faintly with the hum of hidden cameras and whispered secrets. Sherlock followed Mycroft down a narrow corridor, his polished shoes tapping lightly on the linoleum floor. Mycroft had given him the time for a quick shower and a change of clothes, and yet he still felt exposed without his Belstaff, which was promised to him at the end of the meeting.

The air smelled faintly of cold metal and antiseptic, a stark contrast to the musty prison cell he’d just left behind. The echo of his own breath bounced sharply in his ears, measured, but edged with disuse. A flicker of fluorescent light above them buzzed faintly. He couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined.

Mycroft’s posture was straight, his pace brisk, yet there was tension coiled in his shoulders, restrained urgency that Sherlock had rarely seen from his brother. Telling. Even John’s stride beside him felt distant, not quite in step with the memory he’d carried for months. Sherlock noticed the faintest hitch in his gait, a small tremor in his fingers as he adjusted his shirt. It was gone in an instant, buried beneath the soldier’s mask, but it was there.

They entered a windowless room lit too brightly where a conference table dominated the space. Lady Smallwood stood beside it waiting for them, sharp-eyed and composed. An unnamed intelligence officer sat across from her, eyes flicking over Sherlock with professional detachment. Mycroft closed the door with a soft click, and for a moment, none of them spoke. He didn’t waste time to introduce them. Their presence alone spoke volumes on the matter at hand: it was a coordinated operation.

“You’re alive,” Lady Smallwood said simply. Not a question, just the shape of one, weighted with calculation and something faintly like relief.

Sherlock met her gaze steadily. “Barely.”

Mycroft stepped forward. “You’ve been briefed on the basics,” he began, voice low but clipped. “London is under threat. Again. And it may or may not be related to Moriarty’s network, which now is... fractured.”

Sherlock’s gaze flicked to John, who stood silently by the wall, arms folded, watching closely.

Lady Smallwood tapped a folder on the table. “The network splintered after Moriarty’s death. It broke down into smaller cells, independent and disconnected. That fragmentation makes the threat unpredictable and therefore, more dangerous. And terror alert has been raised to critical.”

John’s voice broke in, calm but firm. “So, this is less about one enemy, more about many. No central control. Harder to trace motives and operations.”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Exactly. These cells operate on varying motives: ideology, greed, survival instincts. It’s a far cry from the carefully orchestrated chaos Moriarty managed. However, we have solid information an attack is coming.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “How solid?”

“There’s an underground network planning an attack on London,” Lady Smallwood said gravely. “An agent gave his life to tell us that.”

The unnamed officer handed out folders thick with intel. Sherlock took his without glancing at it; he could already feel the shape of the problem: disorder. His mind reeled with the implications.

John glanced at Sherlock, then down at the intel folder in his hands. “This is damage control, then. And you haven’t identified the cell responsible for this, I take it?”

Mycroft gave a tight, but secretly pleased smile. “That is why we need Sherlock Holmes.”

***

Outside the safehouse a black car waited for them. Sherlock moved stiffly, file folder tucked beneath one arm. In the time it took him to retrieve his Belstaff John was already at the curb, speaking briefly with the driver, low words Sherlock didn’t catch. When Sherlock reached the car, John opened the rear door for him without comment.

They slid into the leather seats, doors shutting with a soft, final thud. The cabin was warm. Dimly lit. Private. Sherlock settled in, the file folder resting on his lap like an afterthought. Across from him, John exhaled, his breath fogging faintly on the cool window beside him. Silence stretched between them, not hostile, but thick with everything unsaid.

Sherlock ached to speak. To say anything. To hear John’s voice again, not in the clipped, professional tone he’d used back at the safehouse, but the one Sherlock remembered from before. But the words lodged in his throat like splinters.

He turned his face toward the window instead, watching the blurred smears of light rush past. Part of him — the part that had clung to the thought of John like a lifeline while on the run — had imagined this return differently. He'd entertain scenarios in which he would show up to an unsuspecting John, maybe with a touch of theatricals, a disguise of sorts. And the emotional rollercoaster that would follow: John fainting for the unbearable surprise, hugging him with tears in his eyes. Not necessarily dramatic, but... familiar. The two of them back at Baker Street, with its clutter and creaking floorboards, the smell of old books and stale tea. Home.

The idea of it had kept him upright, kept him calculating, breathing, enduring. He hadn’t realized how much of his survival hinged on that return. He glanced in John's direction, ready to say something, when he noticed the street sign they just passed. A slow, cold suspicion crept in, not a deduction, not yet. But a pressure behind the ribs. A quiet wrongness.

“You took a wrong turn,” he said to the driver, sharply. “You should’ve turned left at the crossroad—”

He didn’t notice how tightly he was holding the edge of the seat until John spoke.

“No, it’s fine. Keep going, thanks.”

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

John’s voice was calm, composed. He didn’t look over. “This is where I live now.”

The car slowed to a stop. Sherlock stared at the curb outside, then at John, something in him twisting. The space between them stretched like taut wire. Sharp and final.

John didn’t quite meet his eyes. He just sighed, tired, maybe, or just unwilling to say more. “I'll come by tomorrow to change your bandages. If anything comes up… call me.”

Then the door opened, and he was gone. Sherlock sat frozen in the echo of the closing door, the silence of the car thickening around him. The rest of the ride passed in a blur. When the familiar façade of Baker Street finally emerged, it felt wrong, like a memory built from someone else’s bones.

He climbed the stairs in silence, each creak an echo of a life that had moved on without him.

***

The flat felt unnaturally quiet in the morning light. At first, Sherlock had been relieved that Mrs. Hudson was away at her sister’s for the week. He’d imagined he wouldn’t have had the energy to explain what happened, not yet. But now, in the stillness that enveloped the rooms, he found himself wishing she were here. Even the clatter of her teacups would have been a welcome disruption. He checked his phone. Again.

A dozen messages from Mycroft, as expected.

None from John.

His eyes drifted to the window, watching life running by just like he used to. Should he text him? Probably.

Feign an emergency. A case. Something to draw him in. Anything to justify contact.

The phone buzzed.

How are you?

JW

 

Well enough.

SH

 

Your wounds?

JW

 

Bearable.

SH

 

I’ll stop by to change the bandages.

Five-ish?

JW

 

I’ll be waiting.

SH

He stared at the messages.

Not “Can I come by?”

Not “If you're free.”

Just, “Will stop by.”

It was enough to make something twist low in his stomach. His own last words hung on the screen, absurdly formal and far too revealing. He set the phone down. Picked it up. Checked again. Still nothing.

The tea had gone cold. The violin lay silent in its case.

Eventually he resolved to leave the phone on the table and turned instead to the wall, decorated with possible leads. The new case. The folder MI6 had given him contained any sort of file Mycroft had managed to get his hands on: documents, coded threads of financial transfers, intelligence leaks. He spent the day mapping the lines between them, looking for an identifiable stream of cause-effect, the feeblest of evidence that would link any of his appointed markers to the fragmented cells of Moriarty’s network. He huffed, unsatisfied. His mind worked fast, but not deep enough. Too easily distracted. He kept glancing at the clock.

1:37 PM.

The pen in his hand stopped mid-air. He pulled himself back to the files. Notes. Patterns.

2:12 PM.

His leg started to bounce. Annoyed, he stood and paced.

3:08 PM.

He scowled at a tea ring on the corner of the file. Left by no one but himself.

4:10 PM

He wasn’t reading anymore. Just staring.

4:58 PM

He was back on the sofa. Phone in hand. Staring at the last message.

I’ll be waiting. It felt juvenile now. Too open. Too hopeful.

5.00 PM

He was pacing the flat like a ghost trapped in a familiar room. Touched everything. Moved nothing. The fireplace was cold. The tea in the pot too bitter.

5.32 PM

He considered texting John. Something light, controlled. He typed a message, then hesitated. Maybe John didn’t want anything to do with him after all. He had come all the way to Serbia to bring him home, and that was it.

6.02 PM

He couldn’t wait any longer.

You said you’d come.

SH

He cringed at himself for the desperate tone. Forced himself not to send another.

6.43 PM

The message was still unread. An uncomfortable feeling settled all over him. Dread.

6.47 PM

Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

Not John. Sender unknown.

Save souls now!

John or James Watson?

Saint or Sinner?

James or John?

The more is Less?

Save. John. Watson.

Sherlock froze. Every line of his body snapped to attention. He was already moving before his coat hit his shoulders.

***

Everything was wrong.

He came to, half-conscious, air thick with smoke and the sour stink of petrol and scorched leaves. His head throbbed from whatever they’d drugged him with. For a second, he thought he was dreaming.
Another nightmare, another memory twisted wrong. But no, this wasn’t Afghanistan. His eyes shot open.

He couldn’t move. His limbs were leaden, numb. He blinked and blinked again. All he could sense were flickers of orange light, the crackling of wood, and the air. Hot. Scorching. Panic clawed up his throat. He willed his body to move, his limbs to drag himself out of there, but the lingering effect of the drug was so severe he could barely feel any life in his arms and legs. He heard the voices, close but out of reach: laughter, children shouting. A crowd.

Then it hit him: it was Bonfire Night. He was inside a fucking bonfire. As the realization downed on him John recognized the shadow looming over him from above, the edge of the pyre, already catching fire. He tried to scream as loud as he could, while heat surged in.

“MOVE!”

“JOHN!”

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard it. A voice. His voice. He was coming through the fire for him, familiar hands gripped him hard, dragging him through shards of flaming timber.

“Got you,” Sherlock muttered, half-gritted. “I’ve got you.”

The words didn’t make sense.

He couldn’t breathe. Smoke clawed at his lungs as they stumbled backward, Sherlock half-carrying, half-hauling him. His knees buckled, and he hit the ground hard, cheek pressed to damp grass and gravel.

Cold air tore into his chest. He gasped for it.

Sherlock collapsed beside him, coughing just as violently, his voice ragged and rough with soot. People screamed in the background, or maybe it was just the blood pounding in his ears. John rolled onto his back and found Sherlock there, knelt beside him, wild-eyed, chest heaving. His curls singed and darkened with soot, his coat smoked at the edges. His hand was firm on John’s shoulder and John revelled in the contact, anchoring himself to him. He could see it in his face, beneath the ash and the adrenaline: terror. Real, raw fear. Not for himself. For him.

“Sherlock?” John's voice cracked. He hated how fragile it sounded.

“You’re safe now,” Sherlock said, voice quieter, but unsure. Something broke in it, relief or rage, John couldn’t tell.

John blinked up at him. “How did you know—?”

His voice failed him and he tried to push himself up, speak again, but the world was tilting sideways. The light above Sherlock’s head fractured, a halo of flame, maybe, or just the way his vision blurred at the edges. The only thing he knew for certain was the feel of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. Then the darkness took him.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2

THE EMPTY HEARSE

When John opened his eyes, everything felt too white. Fluorescents buzzed overhead in the kind of dull, clinical way he hated, the kind that made everything feel like a dream you couldn’t wake from. A nurse was leaning over him, her hands steady as she stitched a shallow cut just above his brow. He barely felt it, if none at all. She worked quickly, efficiently.

“Welcome back, Dr. Watson,” she said gently, her tone practiced. “Just a few stitches. You’re cleared to go once the paperwork’s in. But you need rest.”

John managed a tired nod, his gaze drifting.

Sherlock sat in a chair by the bed, still as a statue. Elbows braced on his knees, hands folded tight together like he might fall apart otherwise. A thin gash crossed his temple, barely cleaned, and there was soot streaking the crease of his collar, as though he’d come straight through the fire and hadn’t stopped moving since. But his eyes, they were fixed on John, painfully bright, the intensity of them making it hard for John to breathe.

“So,” he muttered, voice low, hoarse from smoke. “This is what it takes for us to spend time together now.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Head wounds are convenient excuses,” he replied, voice thinner than usual.

John gave the faintest of chuckles, which turned into a cough. “Better than tea.”

Silence settled in. Not awkward, but heavy. Sherlock shifted, pretending to study the anatomy poster on the wall. “You should stay at Baker Street tonight.” He said, casual but tight. “It’s closer than your flat.”

John didn’t answer at first. His hands gripped the blanket tighter than necessary. He would have loved to.

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock added, voice pitched wrong. “Of course. It was only a suggestion.”

John turned his head slightly, studying him. Sherlock looked uncertain, possibly even fearful of a rejection.

“Any idea who did it?” John asked, his voice rough. A soldier’s pivot. The same way he’d dodged grief with strategy, heartbreak with facts.

He let the silence hover, then added, more pointedly, “And how did you know I was there?”

Sherlock swallowed and for a moment something flickered in his eyes, guilt, or the ghost of panic not yet shaken.

“There was a message,” Sherlock said finally. “A skip code. No signature.”

John’s brow furrowed. “A cipher?”

“It came from a blocked number. It read: ‘Save souls now. John or James Watson. Saint or Sinner. The more is less.’ First word, then every third. Mycroft’s been looking into it.”

John was quiet, absorbing that. “Bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s eyes were sharp. “It was meant for me. Meant to make me run.”

“And you did.”

“Of course I did.” Sherlock’s answer came too fast, too raw. His throat bobbed as he looked away.

“I thought I might be too late.”

Something twisted in John’s chest at that. “You weren’t,” he murmured. “Luckly for me.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked back to him, sharp, searching. “Did you see them? Faces, clothes, anything at all?”

John shook his head slowly. “Not much. Black hoodie. Chemical smell, chloroform maybe. There were two of them, I think. But I was out before I could be sure.” He hesitated. “I was coming over to Baker Street.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted subtly. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No. I didn’t. Somehow, they knew where I’d be.”

Sherlock’s gaze drifted past him, toward some invisible constellation of clues in the air.

“They didn’t want to kill you. Not immediately. They wanted me to find you.”

John exhaled. “Is this tied to the terrorist thing Mycroft mentioned?”

“It might be,” Sherlock said, jaw tight. “I can’t see the pattern yet. It’s still too nebulous.”

John’s gaze lingered. There was more he was dying to ask — why didn’t you tell me you were alive? Why did you let me grieve? — but this wasn’t the moment. So instead, he leaned his head back against the pillow and muttered, “Feeling a bit smoked.”

Sherlock’s gaze locked onto the fresh cut above John’s brow. His own voice dropped, cracking a bit. “I’m sorry John,” he said, voice heavy, “once again you were hurt because of me.”

John’s eyes snapped to his. “Don’t say that. That’s not how it works. If I get hurt, it’s because of the choices I make. Don’t take that from me. And don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Sherlock looked at him like he might disappear if he blinked.

“We both know,” he said eventually, voice lower, “it’s not just that.”

“I’m not as fragile as you think I am,” John replied, fierce and soft at once.

Sherlock’s mouth trembled like he might argue, then didn’t. He dropped his gaze.

After a moment, John’s voice fell quiet. “You should’ve told me.”

No venom. Just truth. The kind that comes from someone who’d waited too long to say it.

Sherlock met his eyes again, and didn’t deflect.

“I wanted to,” he said. “I nearly did. A dozen times.”

John gave a tired huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Why didn’t you?”

Silence. Sherlock looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t know how to deal with it,” he admitted. “How you’d take it.”

John didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was barely above a murmur. “I could’ve come with you.”

That caught Sherlock off guard. He looked at John fully then, and for a moment, it was like the bunker walls of Serbia were back around them, the way John had stood there, blood on his knuckles, breath ragged, dragging Sherlock back to safety.

Sherlock’s voice broke, quiet and rough. “I wish I hadn’t left at all.”

And there it was. The truth laid bare. The regret neither of them had spoken aloud until now.

A knock at the door.

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, as though the sound had sliced clean through the moment. John’s eyes snapped toward it, jaw tightening in reflex. The fragile space between them — open and tentative — sealed shut like a book snapped closed mid-sentence.

“Oh my god, John—”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up.

A blonde woman stood at the doorway, dressed like someone who’d left her flat in a hurry but still chose her coat carefully. Wide eyes, out of place in the sterile lighting. She rushed forward and John visibly stiffened.

“Mary,” he muttered.

Mary.

Sherlock blinked, mind adjusting with jarring force. He should have known, should have predicted John would have had someone. More miscalculation on his part.

“Why didn’t you call? I had to hear from Lisa, she saw your name on the trauma board.”

Sherlock stood, saying nothing.

John offered a weak smile. “Wasn’t serious.”

“You’re bleeding from the head.”

He looked away. “It’s fine. You didn’t have to come.”

Sherlock saw the wince in John’s shoulders. Saw the lines Mary’s mouth drew; concern, but laced with irritation.

“Yes, I did.” Her tone cooling.

Sherlock hadn’t been told. Not by John. Not by Mycroft. Not by anyone. So, he watched carefully. She didn’t kiss him, didn’t touch him either. Affection (feigned?) but not intimacy. She was too alert, not very flustered. And John… John wasn’t glad to see her. That much was clear.

“Lisa said you were brought in by someone—?” She asked, turning toward Sherlock.

John hesitated.

Sherlock offered a smooth, empty smile. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Oh. You’re—”

“Yes.”

Her face went pale. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s jaw set.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

John, groggy, half upright in bed, groaned, “Mary—”

Mary turned sharply to him. “You knew? You knew he was alive?”

“Learned that recently,” he lied smoothly, voice firm and convincing.

Mary turned back to Sherlock, breath still uneven. “Why? Why hide it?”

He gave her a faint, cordial smile — like handing over a dangerous object and trusting her not to drop it.

“Safety reasons. Might be best if you don’t tell anyone just yet.”

“Of course,” she said sweetly. Mary looked between them, the tension humming sharp and bright in the room, like drawn wire. “I won’t say a word,” she added.

Sherlock studied her. Calculation flickered beneath her features, masked again almost too quickly. He didn’t like her. He didn’t know why yet; she was polite, perceptive, but there was something in the way her presence uncoiled into the room… Measured. Clever, even dangerously so. Definitely not the same category as John’s previous girlfriends. And John hadn’t smiled since she walked in.

She turned to John again. “What happened?”

John cleared his throat. “Someone decided it was a good idea to… light me up.”

Sherlock grimaced, Mary hissed in shock.

“And Sherlock here rose up from the dead to save me.” John concluded, gazing at him.

Mary stood there, glancing up between the two of them.

***

John climbed the steps to 221B with an odd tangle of nerves and exhaustion. Everything looked the same as always, the worn stair rail, the smell of dust and old papers, and yet it felt different. Sharper somehow. Or maybe just quieter in the places it used to echo.

He heard voices from the flat, polite and lively.

“…St. Paul’s, the Tower, but they weren’t letting anyone into parliament. Some big debate going on…”

Clients, John assumed. He knocked out of habit, then pushed the door open.

“John!”

Sherlock turned, surprise colouring his features as he stared wide-eyed at John from the sofa. Standing on the sofa.

He froze like a guilty schoolboy caught mid-prank, expression startled and far too alert for someone casually entertaining company. Beside him were an older couple, both neatly dressed and visibly amused.

“Erm, sorry, you’re busy—”

“No, no, no, they were just leaving—”

Sherlock said quickly, bounding off the sofa with all the grace of a cat shoved off a windowsill. He tried to guide the woman to her feet with some urgency. “Trains to catch, important things to do—”

“No, oh, were we?” She said brightly, untouched by the fluster. “Well, I suppose… Oh, you must be John!”

She beamed, slipping out of Sherlock’s herding grip and stepping forward with outstretched hands.

John blinked. “I—yes. John Watson.”

John glanced sideways just in time to catch Sherlock’s expression: pure, silent horror. The look of a man praying to be vaporised by spontaneous combustion.

The woman, meanwhile, pressed on with maternal determination. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you, John. We’ve heard so much about you.”

John raised an eyebrow, glancing at Sherlock, who was suddenly deeply fascinated by the floorboards.

“I doubt that.”

“Oh, don’t doubt that at all!” She chirped. “Sherlock talks about you all the time!”

“Does he, now?” John grinned, shooting a teasing look at Sherlock, who looked absolutely mortified.

“…and I must tell you John,” she continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “I am so very glad that you’re helping Sherlock through this time, it was absolutely horrific, what they said about my boy. Oh, and Mycroft told us you had a prominent role in the extraction, so—”

“Sweetheart,” the older man cut in gently, to Sherlock’s obvious relief, “we should really be going.”

He stepped forward and offered John a warm, genuine handshake. “Very pleased to finally meet you, Dr. Watson. I’m Sherlock’s dad — quite a fan of your blog.”

“Thank you, sir,” John replied, returning the handshake. “But it’d be nothing without a good story to tell,” he added with a small nod toward Sherlock.

Sherlock’s mother beamed, still talking as she let herself be guided toward the door. “Well, you know we’re here until Saturday!”

“Ring us more often, will you?” Sherlock’s father added. “You know she worries.”

“Yes I—”

“Promise.” His mother pressed, soft but firm.

Sherlock sighed, voice lowered so only John could really hear. “I promise to ring more often.”

“There, was that so hard?” she said, glowing with triumph. “Goodbye, dear,” she added to John with a little wave, and the two of them bustled out into the hallway, coats and scarves and the calm energy of people who had just absolutely ruined their son’s day and would do it again in a heartbeat.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, staring at the door as though it might open again and deliver a second wave of embarrassment.

John leaned back against the desk, chuckling.

“So,” he said eventually, the corner of his mouth lifting, “they are your parents.”

Sherlock inhaled through his nose. “Indeed they are.”

“Lovely people. Your mum hugged me.”

“She’s inappropriate like that.” Sherlock muttered.

“Oh, I quite liked her.”

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face. “I feel like I’m fifteen.”

“You certainly acted like it.” John smirked.

“I was trapped. Mycroft offered to take them to a matinee of Les Mis and they tried to talk me into joining them.”

John chuckled again, quiet and genuine. He shrugged off his coat and dropped it over the back of the chair, easing into the space like muscle memory. Sherlock looked at him then, properly, and the humour in his features softened. There was something tentative beneath it. Vulnerable.

“Didn’t know you’d be coming,” he said quietly.

John nodded. “Yeah. Took a day off.”

Sherlock watched John take in the room, the papers strewn across the desk, the familiar clutter of Baker Street like a held breath. He shifted slightly, as though unsure whether to sit or pace.

“How are you?” He asked, voice low.

John let out a breath, too fast to be a sigh. “I’m fine—”

“You’re not,” Sherlock said, cutting him off before the word could even settle. “I’m still looking into it. The abduction. I don’t know who did it yet, but I will. There’s something off about it, the timing, the method, it doesn’t align with the threat Mycroft flagged or—”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted gently. Not sharp, but solid. Enough to stop him mid-spiral. “We can talk about that later.” 

“Right now, I just…” He motioned vaguely toward Sherlock. “I never got the chance to check you over. Yesterday. I didn’t even ask how bad it was.”

Sherlock looked briefly confused, then he followed John’s gaze down to the bruises on his hands, the line of a healing cut near his collarbone, the tension he’d been ignoring in his ribs. He blinked, mouth half-open.

“Oh,” he uttered. “You mean…”

“Your wounds, yeah. Have you got them checked?”

“I forgot.”

John gave him a small smile. “That’s a very you thing to do.” He gestured toward the sofa. “May I? They’re rather severe, I don’t want them to get infected.”

Sherlock stared at him for a second too long. Speechless. He opened his mouth as if to object, then closed it again. Finally, he nodded and shifted to sit back properly, slowly undoing the buttons on his shirt with stiff fingers while John went to fetch the emergency kit in the bathroom. He set to work, quiet but focused. He cleaned the wounds, inspecting the edges. Sherlock didn’t flinch but John could feel the tension in him like a wire pulled tight.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked quietly.

A moment of silence passed. Sherlock’s throat moved as he swallowed. “It was ugly,” he said.

John nodded once. “I can bear it.”

He felt Sherlock relaxing beneath his hands.

“Most times I didn’t act alone. Especially at first. I moved with a special MI6 division directly responding to Mycroft.”

John applied a new dressing with practiced care, adjusting the tape so it wouldn’t pull on the skin. He didn’t say anything, didn’t push further. Just secretly prayed that Sherlock would confide in him.

“The further we went,” Sherlock continued, voice low, “the clearer became the need for a man on the inside. That’s when it got rougher.”

When John finished patching him up Sherlock felt the absence of his hands on his skin. John’s touch had been precise, steady, professional, but something gentler threaded through it too. Concern, maybe. Or loyalty. He moved to button his shirt up, but didn’t turn to face John. He found it was easier to talk when he wasn’t looking into his eyes.

“There were nights when I didn’t sleep,” Sherlock confessed, voice low and ragged. “Days when I didn’t speak. Weeks I thought I wouldn’t make it out. I did things I…” He trailed off, not out of reluctance exactly, but because he hadn’t decided yet how much of the truth John could stand to hear.

John’s answer was steady, a quiet anchor. “That was brave of you.”

In the time when he was furious, when he could have beaten Sherlock up for this little trick, he would have only thought of his own pain. But he now felt the guilt, the helpless ache of knowing Sherlock had spent so many nights without warmth or certainty. Pain, isolation. God knows what else.  

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I nearly got in contact so many times… I thought I’d considered everything — planned every variable, catalogued every tool I might need. But I never accounted for the weight of your absence.”

John swallowed hard as silence followed, thick and taut with all the time that had passed between them like fog that hadn’t yet cleared. Sherlock could hear John meddling with the emergency kit, felt him as he stood and began to pace, his hand flexing restlessly at his side, as he crossed to the desk, putting distance between them.

“I thought I was going mad,” John admitted, voice hoarse. “Seeing you in strangers. Chasing shadows in the grocery lines. I’d turn corners expecting—” He stopped, jaw tightening.

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice cracked. “I know what I asked of you. Even without asking.”

John looked at him. “You just left.”

“I’m sorry, John.” He said quietly. “If I could do it all over again I would never…”

“You let me believe you were dead,” John said. Not loud or dramatic, but exhausted. “I mourned you. I buried you.”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped, shame flaring so fast he didn’t bother to contain it.

“Your family knew, didn’t they? That’s why they weren’t at the funeral.” John pressed.

“I thought…” Sherlock began, “that keeping you out of it was the only way to keep you alive.”

John gave a humourless laugh. “It was the best way to get me to join you.”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped back to him, stunned, searching. Like he hadn’t heard correctly.

“Got close,” John said, softer now. “Not the first time I entertained the idea.”

“John…” Sherlock started, careful, afraid.

“That’s not on you,” John interrupted, firm. “That’s my problem. All I’m saying is… knowing would have been better.”

Sherlock rose from his seat slowly. “If you hadn’t been here when I got back… I don’t think I’d have had a reason to come back at all.”

The room fell into an astounded silence. The meaning behind his words hung in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.

“How did you get involved?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious but also to give John an out.

John cleared his throat. “I didn’t at first. Couldn’t.”

He paused, fidgeted slightly, then moved to his usual chair. Sherlock followed a moment later, the return to habit grounding them both.

“Took me almost a year to start thinking about it properly. I had questions and you…couldn’t answer them.”

Sherlock glanced at the fireplace, not quite able to meet his eyes.

“I never believed for a second the things you told me that day. So, I tried to make sense of what had happened. Many did, in fact. Wondered how you faked it. I focused on why.”

Sherlock’s head tilted, lips parted as if to ask something, but he didn’t.

John leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. “Eventually I started seeing the holes. In Moriarty’s presumed plan, Mycroft involvement...  and this idea popped up in my head. I paid attention to foreign policy. It wasn’t much, but it was consistent. Quite the series of events exposing local corruption and criminal organizations, coincidentally since you died.”

Sherlock just stared at him. Listening to every word.

“I resolved to talk to Mycroft at that point. Cornered him.”

Sherlock’s brow rose. “Cornered?”

“Harassed, more likely,” John admitted with a faint smile. “Pestered. Wore him down. Called him at ridiculous hours. Threatened to publish what I’d found on my blog if he didn’t at least talk to me.”

That earned him a laugh, small, but real. Sherlock’s shoulders dropped half an inch.

“In the end, he cracked. He let me in on the basics. Not all of it, but enough. Said you were still under. Said it was dangerous. When you got kidnapped in Serbia I insisted to go.”

Sherlock didn’t find the words right away. He looked at the man in front of him, glorious, stubborn and impossibly loyal. If he were as brave as John thought he was, he would have kissed him right then and there. But he wasn’t.

“You’ve known for months,” Sherlock said softly, a quiet ache in his voice, “and Mycroft never told me.”

John’s mouth twisted. “Said it might distract you.”

Sherlock let out a faint, humorless laugh, then lowered his gaze. “I underestimated you,” he admitted, voice raw, fragile. “I always have. That’s the truth. And I’m sorry.”

John blinked, as if startled by the honesty, caught off guard by Sherlock’s open vulnerability. Sherlock looked undone by the admission, and reverent of it all at once.

“You are… extraordinary, John.”

John blinked, taken aback.

“You would’ve been a better spy than I ever was,” Sherlock added, a lopsided smile flickering. “More heart. Just enough ruthlessness. And an impeccable aim.”

John huffed a quiet laugh at that, but Sherlock’s face didn’t lose its awe.

“And still… I couldn’t involve you. Not because I didn’t believe in you. Because I did. I do. But because you were being watched. You. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. If I hadn’t jumped, you’d have all died within seconds. I couldn’t risk that…”

He trailed off. Let the words hang.

“I know about the snipers…” John said slowly. “Mycroft told me.”

Sherlock stared at him, jaw tense, throat tight. 

“And about that,” John added, voice lower, tighter. “There’s something more I have to tell you.”

Sherlock straightened slightly. The room seemed to contract.

“I don’t have the whole picture yet,” John said, fingers laced together between his knees. “Not enough to act. What we have are suspicions, fragments. Some of them line up in ways I really, really wish they didn’t.”

“Go on,” Sherlock said, his tone clipped and focused, like a scalpel ready to cut.

John hesitated. “The woman you met yesterday.”

Sherlock’s heart sank. “What about her?”

“She likely worked for Moriarty, according to Mycroft’s intel.”

The words hit like a stone dropping into still water.

“Back when Mycroft let me into the plan, he shared that they were still hunting Moriarty’s right arm, but hadn’t been able to locate him, nor to elaborate an identikit. Well, around a year ago a new nurse showed up at St. Barts. Quiet, friendly, but oddly… calculated. Trying too hard to fit in.”

Sherlock listened.

“I told Mycroft. Turns out this woman came to existence four years ago. No records prior to that. Additionally, Mary Morstan is the name of a stillborn, years back. Could be a coincidence, but still.”

John’s voice dropped. “That’s when it clicked: maybe they’ve been looking for the wrong person all along.”

“They were looking for a man.” Sherlock’s voice came sharp.

“Exactly,” John said. “No hard proof yet, but… she might have been involved.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “How did you come to suspect her at all?”

John shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose some of your deduction power have rubbed off on me after all.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, amused despite the weight of everything.

“She carried herself in a laboured way, almost rehearsed. Her speech pattern too. She sounds English but I don’t think she is and…” he hesitated. “She took an interest in me from the start.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened, a thread of something complicated crossing his eyes. John’s cheeks flushed slightly, betraying a hint of awkwardness.

“She came on strong. At a time I was still vulnerable. I think she saw an opening and tried to exploit it.”

Sherlock’s voice was low, probing. “But you’re… together now?”

John shook his head firmly. “No. I’m keeping her close enough to watch her, nothing more. She’s never been to my place, nothing like that. I’m not—” he paused, wanting to make that clear. “I’m not interested.”

Sherlock exhaled, relief flashing through him too quick to hide. “Why hasn’t Mycroft told me this?”

John shifted, guilt flashing across his face. “We agreed I should. I meant to tell you yesterday, but—”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened again, mind snapping to the next logical conclusion. “She’s watching you. She came to find you yesterday, she could have had a hand in what happened…”

John nodded slowly. “That’s why Mycroft and I agreed to keep a close watch on her. But I suspect she was more interested in you, looking for confirmation you were back.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened, a surge of anger barely contained. “Mycroft actually allowed you to stay this close to someone connected to Moriarty? That is reckless — borderline insane!”

John held firm, calm but resolute. “We don’t have a choice. If she suspects anything, if she thinks we’re onto her, she’ll disappear or worse.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “I’m going to have a word with him. This... arrangement is unacceptable.”

John’s expression softened. “It’s not real, you know.”

Sherlock stared at him for a beat, something easing inside his chest. “Yes,” he admitted, voice rough. “I understand.”

A quiet pause settled between them, the weight of unspoken fears and trust lingering in the air. Sherlock glanced at his watch, then back at John.

“Since you’re off work today,” Sherlock announced, a flicker of his old spark returning, “I propose we make good use of your time.”

John smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Sherlock rose to his feet. “Excellent!”

“Where are we going?”

“To find the owner of this—” Sherlock said, throwing him a wool beanie. “Client left it while I was out.”

John took the beanie, frowning. “Related to the terrorist attack?”

Sherlock shrugged. “More than that, it’s been bothering me.”

John tilted his head, brows furrowing.

“Mycroft stopped by,” Sherlock offered as an explanation.

John folded his arms, bemused. “That’s never a good sign.”

“He saw the hat. Made a deduction.”

John sighed, already knowing where this was going. “And you disagree.”

“Of course I disagree,” Sherlock shot back, sharp but almost playful. “He was wrong. I intend to prove it.”

John squinted at him. “So let me get this straight — you want to leave the house to… prove your brother wrong?”

Sherlock paused, then nodded with absolute certainty. “To solve a case and prove a point.”

John laughed under his breath. “Two birds, then.”

Sherlock was already at the door, coat in hand. “Exactly. Coming?”

John shook his head with a grin, following. “Yeah. Lead on.”

***

Mr. Howard Shillscott definitely had an interest in trains, John noted as they stepped into the man’s house. It was a cramped but oddly charming flat, train models on shelves and vintage rail posters covering the walls.

The man, nervous but eager, met them with a quick handshake.

“My girlfriend’s a big fan of yours,” he said, eyes darting to Sherlock.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. “Girlfriend?”

The man looked momentarily thrown, as if surprised to be asked. Sherlock’s glance flicked to John, who was scowling at him in warning.

“…Sorry. Do go on,” Sherlock corrected himself, curt and brisk.

Shillscott gestured them toward a battered computer setup, a grainy CCTV video paused on screen. “Look here — District line, late train. A man boards the last carriage at Westminster. Only one passenger. When the train reaches St James’s Park — no trace of him.”

John frowned. “Couldn’t he have just jumped off?”

“There’s a safety mechanism that prevents the door from opening in transit.” The man said, a bit irritated at John’s ignorance. “But there’s something else. The driver of that train hasn’t been to work since. Came into some money.”

“Bought off?” Sherlock muttered, mind already whirring.

“Looks like,” John agreed, leaning forward

“So the driver was in on it,” Sherlock mused, “which means the passenger did leave the train.”

“There’s nowhere he could go,” Shillcott insisted. “It’s a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There’s no side tunnels, maintenance tunnels. Nothing on any map. The train never stops and a man vanishes.”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered, the glint that meant the puzzle had taken root. “Someone made a man vanish,” he murmured, “from a moving train. In the middle of London.”

John glanced at him and shook his head slightly. “I’ve seen that look before.”

Sherlock smirked, feeling John’s eyes on him.

“We’ll take the case,” he declared, then pointed at the frozen video. “Play it again. Slower.”

John stood nearby, arms crossed, while Shillcott hovered by the computer. They kept watching the video multiple times, until John started to wonder what Sherlock was truly looking for.

“Sometimes,” Sherlock said suddenly, his voice low with realization, “A deception is so audacious, so Shillscott obeyed, and they watched the sequence over and over, grainy images flickering by.

Then Sherlock spoke, voice low and charged with revelation. “Sometimes a deception is so bold, so outrageous, you miss it even as you look straight at it.”

John straightened, alert. “What are you seeing?”

“Seven carriages leave Westminster,” Sherlock explained, finger tapping the screen, “but only six—”

“Cars,” Shillscott corrected automatically.

“…yes, thank you,” Sherlock snapped, impatient. “Six arrive at St James’s Park.”

John blinked, following. “So you’re saying the man didn’t disappear—”

“The entire Tube compartment did,” Sherlock cut in. “The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last carriage.”

John stepped closer. “Detached where?”

“There’s nothing between those stations,” Shillscott insisted, frustration creeping in.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed, electric. “Nothing on the official maps, perhaps. But once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” His voice was triumphant. “The carriage vanished. Therefore, it must be somewhere.”

John watched him, a rush of heat blooming in his chest, a wordless awe. Sherlock alive, in motion, unstoppable. His eyes lit with purpose, his hands animated, his voice charged with that dangerous kind of brilliance John had never seen in anyone else.

“But there’s nothing down there, Mr Holmes, no sidings, no ghost stations.”

Sherlock dismissed him with a faint, contemptuous smile. “Why don’t we check a little better, shall we? You said you collect full schematics of the underground system?”

“Yes, of course. Even the discontinued proposals. Here—” The man rummaged through a pile of files before pulling out a faded sheet and laying it flat.

Sherlock shot John a quick look, excitement practically vibrating through him. “This is going to be fun.”

“But why detach it?” John asked, brow furrowed. “What’s the point?”

“That’s what we have to find out…” Sherlock said, already looking at the map Shillscott handed him.

“This whole area is a big mess of old and new stuff,” he started, “Charing Cross is made up of bits of older stations, like Trafalgar Square, Strand—”

“What else?” Sherlock inquired.

“Well, there’s Sumatra Road.”

“But it’s not on the maps,” John noted, as he checked at the files before him.

“It was closed before it ever opened.” Shillcott explained. “They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it all got tied up in legal disputes. So they never built the station on the surface.”

Sherlock leaned in, tracing the line with his finger. “It’s right beneath the Palace of Westminster.”

He stared at the map again, then turned to John. “A carriage vanishes between St James’s Park and Westminster. A man disappears. You’re kidnapped and nearly burned alive at a fireworks party…”

His voice trailed off, the pieces clicking together. “What’s the date?”

John looked up at him, eyes filling with understanding. “November fifth.”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to him. “Tonight there’s an all-night sitting in Parliament. They’re voting on the new anti-terrorism bill.”

There was a long beat.

“I think I have pretty good idea of what’s down there.” John said, voice taut.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3

PROXIMITY SURVEILLANCE

Dust floated through the torchlight as Sherlock and John descended the rusted staircase, boots echoing on concrete. The air was dense, old and metallic.

“This place looks like a horror film set,” John muttered, eyes wary.

Sherlock didn’t reply. His fingers grazed the damp-tiled walls, absorbing every detail. His thoughts were running far ahead, although a part of him always kept track of John. They followed the old rail line, carefully avoiding the corroded track. And then, looming through the gloom, they found it: a graffitied Tube carriage, slumped like an abandoned carcass in the dark.

They stepped inside.

John’s hand hovered near his side, instinctual. He didn’t carry a gun, but his posture screamed combat-ready. Sherlock clocked the movement with a flicker of something unspoken. Soldier instincts, sharp, dependable. Images of John saving him came flooding back to his mind, and he moved down the length of the carriage to focus.

It hadn’t taken long.

Few steps into the dark, and the rhythm of it returned. The silent code between them, their balance. No one else he’d ever worked with fell into sync so effortlessly. No need to speak. John simply was where Sherlock needed him to be. He'd forgotten how visceral it was, this partnership, the feeling of someone watching your back who meant it. He had missed it more than he could let himself admit it.

They moved in perfect synchrony; Sherlock pried open bench seats, while John scanned for threats.

“It is true,” John said quietly, staring at what Sherlock had revealed.

Sherlock nodded. “Not just transporting explosives. The entire compartment is the bomb.”

Together they dismantled, they peeled back layers of benches and false panels, outlining the shape of the circuit, until they found its convergence. Sherlock watched as John lowered to the floor, showing no hesitation nor fear. His brow furrowed, not in panic, but in deep concentration. In that moment, brief and sharp, Sherlock felt it again, that quiet awe John had always inspired in him.

“What are you doing?” He asked, more gently than intended.

“Not the first bomb I see,” John said as he studied it. “We should call the police. They may need to evacuate Parliament.”

Sherlock hovered closer. He stared, probably more intensely than he was supposed to do. John, his shoulders, the way his fingers brushed the casing.

“This doesn’t look right.” John said after a beat.

Sherlock crouched beside him. “Meaning?”

John didn’t look up. He felt Sherlock’s shoulder brush his and shivered, praying it went unnoticed.

“I know how to defuse a bomb. But I’ve never seen one with an off switch.”

“And what does that tell you?” Sherlock said quietly.

“That someone wanted this stopped. Not detonated.”

In practiced silence he disabled the device. When the last light blinked out, the carriage fell into stillness again.

John leaned back. “No secondary. No fail-safe. Very… unlikely.”

Sherlock stood slowly, his gaze distant. His thoughts fracturing into too many questions.

“Yes,” he said at last.

John looked at him. “You think this was staged.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to say it,” John murmured.

With wary, careful eyes he watched Sherlock’s profile in the shifting light, and a quiet ache in his chest whispered beautiful. They had clicked yet again, even after two years apart. There was comfort in it, and pain too. It hurt in a secret, familiar way… reminded him what it had been like before everything fell apart.

They returned to Baker Street in a stunned silence, neither of them quite sure what to feel. The threads were tangled: a bomb that wasn’t meant to kill, a threat perfectly aligned with political movement. And through it all, a tension between them neither dared name.

John found himself distracted by Sherlock’s nearness, the terrifying familiarity of it. He hadn’t been ready, John thought, to feel everything again so easily, so strongly. He wondered if he was truly ready for it.

***

In the hour that passed since the news broke out a crowd had formed across Baker Street. Press mostly, with long lenses and shouted questions, held back by a couple of beleaguered uniforms. Flashbulbs flared like lightning. Behind the curtain, John stood beside Sherlock at the window, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

“They’re multiplying,” Sherlock muttered, baffled.

John huffed, not quite a laugh. “They crave the story of your resurrection.”

They stood in silence a moment longer, side by side, not touching. John risked a glance at Sherlock’s profile, watching the way the light played on his sharp features. The way his eyes moved, tracking faces in the street like a puzzle to be solved.

Then heavy steps thundered urgently up the stairs. The door burst open without a knock, and Lestrade filled the frame, out of breath and dishevelled like he’d come straight from the car without pausing.

“You bastard,” he said, voice hoarse and bewildered. He closed the distance in three fast strides and pulled Sherlock into a crushing, clumsy hug hat knocked the air from both of them.

Sherlock froze at first, arms stiff at his sides. Then, cautiously, he raised one hand to pat Lestrade’s back, unsure and awkward, but not unwilling.

John’s mouth quirked. “Don’t squeeze too hard. He bruises like a peach.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered, but didn’t pull away.

Lestrade stepped back with a shaky exhale that was halfway between a laugh and a breath. “I thought you were dead. You absolute—” he cut himself off. “Christ, Sherlock.”

“You and half of London,” Sherlock murmured, adjusting his cuffs like it might help compose him.

Lestrade blinked hard, then turned to John. “Did you know?”

John hesitated. “Not at first.”

“But later?”

“Eventually…” John admitted.

Lestrade shook his head, disbelieving. “I didn’t get so much as a phone call. You faked your own death and I have to learn you’re alive from bloody Mycroft?”

“I was working…” Sherlock said, lowering his eyes in shame. “But I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Yeah, well, I hope it was worth it,” Lestrade said, not unkindly. He turned back to the window, where the crowd outside had swelled. “They really can’t wait to see you. You’re about to be everyone’s favourite miracle.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “Delightful.”

John raised an eyebrow. “What, you don’t like being popular?”

Sherlock hummed, but his expression betrayed a glimmer of amusement.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “You love it.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards, as a familiar and yet rare feeling of belonging settled over him.

Then Lestrade clapped Sherlock lightly on the shoulder. “Good to have you back.”

Sherlock smiled back, grateful and real, and something warm blossomed in John’s chest at the sight. He’d missed that, not the smirk or the condescending grin Sherlock so often wore like armour, but this: quiet, and human. He didn’t even realize he was staring until Sherlock glanced his way. John looked quickly to the window, pretending to check the street.

“Ready to face them?” He asked, a little too casually.

Sherlock looked at him curiously, then straightened. “Might as well.”

He turned up his collar with theatrical flair, smirking sideways at John.

“Into battle.”

***

Later, when the crowds had thinned, the flat went quiet except for the distant hum of traffic.

“Did you have to put the hat on?” John asked jokingly.

Sherlock dropped into his chair, still reeling from the aftershock of too many flashing cameras and shouted questions.

“They love the hat. Shall we order Chinese tonight, John?”

John sucked in a breath.

“You forget I don’t live here anymore,” he replied, not unkindly, but wary.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, and the disappointment, while faint, rippled through his voice.

To change the subject John picked up the newspaper from the table and tossed it to him. “You’re a hero again.”

Sherlock’s lips barely twitched. “Temporary, I’m sure.” He said, catching the newspaper midair.

The headline stretched across the front page in bold print:

BOMB PLOT FOILED — HOLMES SAVES PARLIAMENT

“They’ve got you on every channel,” John continued. “It’s like they forgot everything else that happened. ‘The Return of Sherlock Holmes.’ Sounds like a bloody novel.”

“Jealous you didn’t get to write it?”

“Watch me,” John shot back with a faint grin. But it faded just as quickly. He sat down, facing Sherlock.

“Seriously though. It was poetically dramatic, don’t you think? Parliament saved on Guy Fawkes Night? Very tidy. Couldn’t have written it better.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“It’s convenient. The timing, the case, the visibility. Your reputation restored.”

Sherlock exhaled through his nose. “What are you saying, John?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.” Sherlock snapped, more defensive than he meant to be.

John leaned forward. “Maybe this whole case was orchestrated. Not just the bomb, but the spectacle. The drama. It was about justifying your return. Getting the public to want you back.”

Sherlock looked away, jaw tight.

“You’re suggesting someone engineered a fake terrorist attack to… bring me home?”

“Not someone…” John hesitated.

Sherlock met his eyes, the silence sharp.

“You can’t possibly mean that.”

“Why not?” John said quietly. “He has the means. The contacts. And… he told me once he couldn’t extract you without a proper reason.”

Sherlock blinked. “He said what?”

John nodded. “Apparently missing your brother isn’t good enough when national security is on the line.”

Sherlock looked down at the newspaper again. He didn’t speak, but his thumb slowly crushed the corner of the page.

“Just think about it,” John went on. “It was too easy. An off switch, Sherlock? And the whole investigation leading to it… you got the right client right away who, through unrelated suspicions, gave you the answer you needed to solve a matter of catastrophic consequences.”

A heartbeat of silence.

“You don’t believe in coincidences,” John said, quieter still.

Sherlock remained silent. His thumb, still pressed against the corner of the page, had started to crumple it. John watched him closely, the quiet between them heavier than the accusations. As moments passed, he regretted saying anything at all.

“I don’t want to believe it.” Sherlock said. His voice was low, almost inaudible.

John considered his next words.

“Well… then maybe don’t,” he said gently. “I’m just saying things, really. Trying to be clever.”

Sherlock turned his head toward him, slowly.

“You are,” he said simply.

Then he pulled out his phone, typed a message, and sent it without hesitation.

John tilted his head. “Who was that to?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but John didn’t need him to.

It took less than an hour for Mycroft Holmes to arrive at 221B Baker Street. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes swept the flat in a glance — the untouched tea, the half-folded newspaper, the sharpness in the air that meant something important had been said and left to hang.

“You summoned,” he said flatly.

“You were already halfway here,” Sherlock replied, not bothering to rise from his chair.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Nonetheless.”

He paused, assessing Sherlock with an almost clinical curiosity. “How did it feel? The applause? They’re very good at loving you when they think you’ve saved them.”

Sherlock rose abruptly, every line of his body tight. “Cut the theatrics,” he said, voice low. “How real was it?”

Mycroft lifted a single brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“The threat,” Sherlock snapped. “The bomb. The attack.”

Mycroft let out a faint sigh, as if Sherlock were being tiresome. “Ah. That.” His lips curved with something like satisfaction. “Took you long enough.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there. “Answer me.”

“It was real,” Mycroft said evenly. “In its own way. But the response—” he tilted his head, his tone maddeningly smooth. “—was shaped.”

“Shaped,” John repeated, disbelieving.

Mycroft nodded, patient and infuriating. “I had contingencies in place. No one was ever truly in danger. But the narrative needed a certain… ending.”

Sherlock’s hands curled into fists at his sides, shaking with something close to betrayal. “You played god.”

“And you played the hero.” Mycroft replied calmly. “We all do what we’re best at.”

Sherlock turned away, fists clenched. He paced, fury humming through every nerve, but there was nothing to throw, no flaw in the logic to break open. Just the cold efficiency of it all.

“You used me.” He said.

“I saved you.” Mycroft countered, almost gently.

In the tense silence that followed, John watched, unable to say anything to fix the scene unravelling in front of him. He’d never spared Mycroft much thought, but the past year collaborating with him certainly expanded his understanding of the man. For once, he was glad Mycroft had acted the way he did. But Sherlock looked so raw, so breakable, in a way John had rarely seen. He could see the tremor in Sherlock’s hands, the pallor still clinging to him. And John thought of soldiers who held it together just long enough to collapse behind closed doors. Sherlock was close to that edge. John recognized the signs.

Sherlock’s voice was hoarse. “I didn’t ask.”

“There was no need,” Mycroft returned, matter-of-fact, but something in his eyes faltered for just a second.

Sherlock turned sharply, storming down the hall to his bedroom. The door didn’t slam but the silence after it was deafening.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Mycroft called after him.

Mycroft’s gaze lingered on the empty doorway, a flicker of grief in it, just long enough for John to notice.

You missed him too, John thought. You just don’t know how to say it.

Mycroft turned to him, his voice resuming its unshakable smoothness. “When did he figure it out?”

John cleared his throat. “He—well, I had a theory.”

“Oh?” Mycroft tilted his head, clearly amused. “Your theories are becoming increasingly accurate. An admirable habit.”

John gave him a tight smile. “You didn’t have to go that far. The press, the spectacle… you made him a symbol.”

“He is one,” Mycroft said, almost fond. “People need to believe in someone infallible. Who better than a man already accused of being inhuman?”

“And what if it had gone wrong?” John asked quietly.

“It wouldn’t have,” Mycroft assured him, cool and absolute. “I give you my word.”

John’s eyes lingered on him for a long second before nodding, still unconvinced. “What about yesterday?”

Mycroft furrowed his brow.

“I know you know. Cut it,” John said. “Why was I kidnapped?”

For a moment, Mycroft didn’t answer. Then he exhaled, as though shedding a skin.

“The message had to be personal,” he said. “They were making a point. And a warning.”

“They?”

“There are always shadows behind the curtain, Doctor Watson.”

John narrowed his eyes. “You’re not talking about Moriarty.”

“No,” Mycroft said. “Not anymore.”

“Was she involved?”

Mycroft shook his head. “We can’t say for certain.”

“She came to the hospital, right after it happened,” John said slowly. “Though I suspect she only went to confirm that Sherlock had returned.”

“Which tells us she must have informants of her own.” Mycroft replied, unbothered.

John nodded. “At least one from the hospital.”

“And I suppose you haven’t seen her since?”

“None at all.” John confirmed. “I’ll see her tomorrow at work. Any instructions?”

Mycroft considered, then said, “Unfortunately, we’re still in the dark about her true motives and allegiances. Strengthening the acquaintance might prove decisive.”

John grimaced. “How close, though, Mycroft? I don’t like this plan.”

“Neither do I,” came a low, deep voice from the hallway.

Both men turned. Sherlock ha reemerged, pale but steady, studying them from the kitchen.

“No longer sulking, then?” Mycroft’s smile was thin. “Lovely of you to join us.”

Sherlock didn’t dignify that with a reply. His silence said enough.

“Now that Sherlock is back,” Mycroft went on, “she’ll be desperate to reassert her place in your life, John. The longer you delay contact, the more threatened she’ll feel. If she suspects you’re pulling away, she might bolt.”

John pressed his mouth tight.

“You got kidnapped and yet haven’t contacted in her in any way. That alone will make her feel she's losing control.”

“But—”

“The entire purpose of this ruse,” Mycroft continued, “is to monitor her. If you discard her the moment Sherlock reappears, she'll realize she no longer has a hold on you. And then we lose her.”

John swallowed, uneasy under Sherlock’s gaze.

“You’re going to let her feel secure in this relationship of sorts,” Mycroft said, “We need her to lead us to whatever remnant of the old network survived, and more importantly, how it’s evolving. If you keep her close enough for long enough, it buys us time to find real evidence.”

John looked down at his hands as he flexed them. It had been easier to pretend when Sherlock was gone. To sit with her, to share meals, to play the part. Now, everything felt sharper, more dishonest, like a betrayal not of her but of Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffed, sudden and sharp. “So, you’re dangling John like bait.”

Mycroft barely blinked. “Hardly bait. More like… proximity surveillance.”

“It’s dangerous.” Sherlock snapped.

“You’ve both done worse.”

“This could backfire. Spectacularly.” Sherlock insisted.

“Then don’t let it,” Mycroft replied. “Play the cards right.”

Sherlock stepped forward, voice tight. “What was the point of her at all?”

“A failsafe,” Mycroft said without hesitation. “My best estimate is that she was meant to keep John close. And keep him away from you.”

Silence fell. John closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he forced himself to say, “I’ll do what’s necessary.” The words tasted like rust on his tongue.

Mycroft gave a short nod. “Then we proceed as planned.”

He moved toward the door, pausing just before he left. “And John, if she senses she’s lost her grip on you, you’ll be in more danger than either of you realize. Keep her calm.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

“Not a great plan,” Sherlock growled, moving to the kettle with brittle purpose. “Awful, actually.”

John slumped down in his chair, staring into the cold fireplace. His heart ached.

“She’s going to know I—”

Sherlock turned, all his focus on him, voice delicate and raw. “Know what, John?”

John faltered, panic sparking behind his ribs. Sherlock was watching him in that way of his, like John was the only fixed point in a world of variables. He used to find comfort in that gaze, but now it burned. Now it asked things.

“Nothing,” he muttered, and rose too fast. “Good night, Sherlock. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The flat door swung shut behind him, and he stepped out into the cold, his breath clouding in the air, his heart hammering in his chest like a warning. Coward.

He hadn’t meant to look back.

But from the window above, Sherlock stood unmoving, silhouetted against the lamp glow, watching him leave. And John hated himself for walking away.

***

“Your eleven o’clock has arrived,” Mary said, knocking the door with the back of her hand before letting herself in.

John glanced up from the chart in his lap. “Thanks. Who is it?”

She smirked, eyes dancing. “Alan Whitby. He says he’s here for a... sensitive rash, but judging by how pale he went when I asked where, I’d say you’re in for a treat.”

John chuckled despite himself. “Brilliant. Can’t wait.”

Mary leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded in mock sympathy. “Told him you were very professional and wouldn’t laugh to his face.”

“Which I appreciate.”

She smirked. “I didn’t say anything about after, though.”

He shook his head, lips twitching, one of those easy, practiced smiles that had nothing behind it. For a moment, it felt like the world had slipped back into place: just a normal day, the clinic, the rhythm of banter and routine. But behind it all, John felt an ache.

He had left Sherlock alone. Still fragile, still recovering. The thought of it made his chest twist painfully.

“You look tired,” she said after a beat, softly.

His smile cracked for half a second. “It’s been a long week,” he managed.

Her eyes flicked across his face, reading. “Still can’t believe what happened to you. And then… Sherlock Holmes. All in the same breath.”

He forced a wry shrug, eyes dropping back to the chart. “I’m still catching up.”

Mary stepped forward, just a bit. “I worry about you, you know,” she said. “I know how these things mess with your head. And I imagine him being back doesn’t exactly help.”

There it was. His spine didn’t stiffen, he was too trained for that, but everything in him sharpened. A wire pulled taut. But he didn’t let it show: just lifted his eyes again, softened them with guilt. Played it like it was real.

“It’s... complicated.”

Mary pushed off the doorframe and walked closer. “Is it? You haven’t been yourself. You barely look at me anymore, John.”

His mind went still, his nerves lit up. The tone in her voice wasn’t necessarily accusing, but pointed and measured. So, he smiled, soft and apologetic, the kind of smile that says you’re right, I’ve been a fool, without ever having to say it. He leaned back slightly in his chair, relaxed his shoulders, like he wasn’t calculating his next ten words and watching every twitch of her mouth.

“I didn’t know I’d been neglecting you,” he said lightly. “Guess I owe you dinner and a bad bottle of wine.”

Mary laughed, the sound low and wry. “Throw in a compliment or two and I’ll let you off the hook.”

He tilted his head. “You’re not going to make me say you’ve been the prettiest nurse on staff all month, are you?”

“Only if you mean it.”

John held her gaze just long enough. “Of course I mean it.”

Her posture softened a little, a subtle shift. He could almost feel her letting go of whatever tension she’d brought into the room. It was a performance, all of it. His and hers. And yet, her part made his skin crawl.

“Bold of you to say,” she teased.

Inside, a part of him twisted. He hated this. Hated the smile in his own voice, the careful flattery, the fact that he could make it all sound easy. Easier when Sherlock was gone. Easier when it wasn’t a betrayal. But Sherlock was back, and now this felt like treason with every word. Still, he let the moment stretch a breath longer, then glanced at the chart in his hand like it really mattered.

“Duty calls,” he said with a grin. “My next victim awaits.”

Mary smirked and stepped aside. “Let me know if it’s contagious.”

He nodded, his pulse hammering in his ears.

For their lunch break they ended up in a crowded café near the clinic, a place they’d been to before. John sat across from Mary, picking at a half-cold plate of eggs, while she scrolled through her phone with the easy familiarity of someone who felt no threat at all.

He felt the opposite. Every nerve seemed on edge, like exposed wires. He shouldn’t have left Sherlock alone the night before, not after that moment between them, not after seeing Sherlock standing there with those eyes, all hope and dread twisted together. It made John sick to think about, a cold stone lodged in his chest. What if something happened to him while I was gone?

“So,” Mary started, snapping his focus back, “I still can’t get over seeing him the other night. Sherlock. Alive.”

John kept his tone steady, just the right amount of tension in it. “Yeah. Bit of a shock.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’re taking it rather well.”

“Hardly,” he deflected, forcing a hollow grin. “But… he’s like that. Always the dramatic entrance.”

Don’t let her see it, he reminded himself. Don’t let her see how much it matters.

Mary pushed her fork around her salad, eyes cool and deliberate. “You had no idea, then? None at all?”

He forced a laugh, brittle and tired. “Not a clue.”

She smiled, soft and harmless. Too harmless. “But that can’t be right, can it?” She leaned in, voice playful but sharp. “When did you really find out?”

John kept his shoulders loose, posture casual. “That night. I didn’t know before. You saw me.”

She nodded, eyes cool, picking her moment. “But you didn’t exactly seem surprised. You held it together well.”

John let a faint smile slip through. “Shock does that to you.”

Mary tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle. “He explained everything?”

John shrugged, trying to act like the question bored him. “Not everything, no. I’m still piecing things together.”

Mary’s eyebrow rose, but her plastic smile stayed in place. “Come on, John. Really?”

He leaned forward, trying to sell it, forced smile in place. “He’s Sherlock. Always a riddle, always ten steps ahead. You think he told me all the details that night? I’m still waiting for the whole story.”

She seemed to consider that, then stabbed a fork into her salad with deliberate calm. “You trust him?”

John’s chest twisted, but he answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

That part wasn’t a lie.

Mary let that hang, then smiled again, sweet and sharp. “Because in that hospital room? You didn’t look surprised enough. You looked…” she searched for a word, “…relieved.”

John forced himself to meet her eyes, breathing slow and steady. “He pulled me out of a bonfire, Mary. Of course I was relieved. I thought I was going to die.”

She accepted that with a tiny nod, smile even wider. “Of course.”

Then she changed tack. “What was it like, John? Losing him? Thinking he was dead?”

His stomach twisted, bile rising. She was probing the wound. Testing him. He gave a shrug, voice flat. “It was hell. You can imagine, when a friend commits suicide.”

Generic. Good.

Mary’s gaze sharpened, her tone growing oddly gentle. “I just want to understand. What you went through. You two were so close. And then…” She made a vague gesture. “Gone.”

John gripped his coffee cup, knuckles whitening. That was dangerous territory. Time to pivot.

“Yeah,” he managed roughly. “Where you in London when that happened?”

“Oh,” Mary blinked at the change of subject, but recovered smoothly. “Oh. France, actually. Just a trip. In fact, I only found out later, yeah.”

John mastered his best expression of casual jealousy. “France, very romantic. With an ex-lover, maybe?”

She laughed, a pretty, practiced sound. “Just friends.”

He pushed, just gently. “Must be really close to travel together.”

“You could say so,” she replied. “When you grow up an orphan, friends are all you have.”

Mary twirled her fork slowly, as though weighing how much to share. John let the silence linger, giving her space to fill it. People always filled silence, Sherlock had taught him.

She sighed theatrically, a practiced gesture that almost fooled him. “Three of them. Closer than family, really.”

He gave a small, sympathetic nod, letting the bait dangle. “That must have been hard. Growing up, I mean.”

Her expression shifted subtly, a flicker of old anger maybe, then vanished. “You get used to it. I had a good foster family after a while, but… you know.” She shrugged. “That’s why you keep friends close.”

John smiled thinly, detached. “Good friends keep you on the right path.”

Her lips curved, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Yeah. They make sure you stay who you’re meant to be.”

“They work here, too?” He asked as casually as possible. “Would be lovely to meet them.”

She glanced at him carefully. “They work abroad I’m afraid.”

John put on his best, sympathetic smile. “You must miss them a lot then.”

Time to change direction. “Mary R. Morstan,” he read off her badge, letting the tone lighten. “What does the R stand for, by the way?”

She arched a brow, amused. “My middle name?”

“Yeah,” John teased, keeping it light, “in case I ever need to shout at you properly.”

She smirked, playing along. “Rosamund.”

John repeated it softly, saving the syllables like evidence. “Mary Rosamund,” he tested, then nodded with a smile. “Sounds nice.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicious for just a heartbeat. “You’ve never asked before.”

“Haven’t I?” He said, letting a trace of apology slip in. “Guess I got curious.”

She held his gaze for a second too long before dropping her eyes. “I’m flattered.”

“Anyway,” he said lightly, pushing forward, “I’d love to hear more about Paris sometime. I’ve never been.”

She relaxed, easing into the topic, and he let her talk.

He forced another smile, but inside his chest still ached. The entire time, the only thing he could think about was a lonely detective waiting for him at Baker Street, while he made small talk with someone who felt like a loaded gun at the table.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4

THE SIGN OF THREE

The day dragged on way too long. Between the endless stream of patients and Mary’s relentless attempts at flirtation he felt scraped thin by the end of his hours. Each forced smile cost him more than the last. By the time he stepped out into the cooling evening air, he felt like a man wearing someone else’s skin.

He crossed the street slowly, hands deep in his coat pockets, his phone burning a shape against his thigh.

Just text him. Something simple. How are you? or Sorry for leaving like that.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet. The memory of Sherlock’s face the night before, raw, expectant, still twisted in his gut. He’d run, shame clinging to him like damp cloth.

As he turned the corner onto his street, John noticed a black car idling quietly a few doors down from his flat. Not Sherlock, not Mycroft’s government car. John slowed instinctively, eyes narrowing, posture shifting just enough to be ready to run or defend.

But then the car door opened and a ghost stepped out.

John’s eyes widened. Same stiff spine, face hollowed. The haunted look of a man who hadn’t slept properly in years. Standing in front of him, careful posture and haunted eyes, was Major James Sholto.

“I didn’t know who else to go to.”

John stopped in his tracks, the war coming back to him in fragments, hitting him in full force: sweat, heat, gunfire. The shouts. The silence after. He hadn’t seen this man in years, and yet the ache of loyalty rose like a reflex. He opened his mouth and found he had no words.

“Christ, James,” he said at last, voice quiet with something like reverence. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”

He reached for his keys with shaking hands, the keys to a quiet life that had never stayed quiet for long. Inside, the flat was silent, still carrying the scent of this morning’s toast and last night’s tea. John flicked the lights on low and gestured for Sholto to take a seat.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, slipping off his coat and heading into the kitchen. “Kettle won’t take long.”

He moved on muscle memory, filling it, switching it on, all while glancing sidelong at James settling into the chair like it was unfamiliar terrain. He hadn’t changed much. Still composed. Still holding himself like someone waiting for orders, even years out of uniform.

“This is… quite nice,” Sholto said eventually, eyes sweeping the room, resting briefly on the stack of books by the window, the worn leather chair. “It suits you. Comfortable. Neat.”

John gave a soft huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Yeah, well. Took me a while to find a place that felt right.”

Sholto nodded, the faintest of smiles ghosting across his face. “You’ve done well.”

There was silence as the kettle began to hum. When the water boiled, John made two mugs without asking, bringing them over and setting one gently in front of Sholto before lowering himself into the opposite chair.

“So,” John said, wrapping his hands around his mug. “Something’s happened?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands, gloved in callouses and long habit, curled around the tea. Then he nodded.

“Yes. And I… need your help.”

John leaned back, trying for a smile, aiming for levity to cut through the density in the air.

“Well. I wish you’d come just because you missed my company.”

He heard the heaviness under that line too late. He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat, suddenly unable to meet James’s eyes.

Sholto didn’t seem to mind, though. He smiled, small and sad. “Maybe I did. Missed a few things.”

That landed somewhere between warmth and ache in John’s chest.

Sholto took a sip of his tea, then added, carefully, “I’ve been reading your blog,” he said gently. “Over the years.”

John froze for a second, the words catching him off guard.

“You write about him a lot,” he continued, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Holmes.”

John swallowed hard. “Yeah, well. There’s a lot to write about.”

Sholto nodded, slow and thoughtful. “I’m glad you found something else, after all of it. You left that life behind.”

John looked down into his tea, the warmth in his hands a poor match for the sudden cold in his chest.

“You were always good at making people believe in something.” Sholto went on gently. “Even when you didn’t believe in much yourself.”

There was weight in every word, stretched taut across old wounds neither of them had ever named.

“What’s going on, James?”

He took a measured sip, shoulders tense as if bracing for a blow. When he finally spoke, it was quiet and precise.

“I debated whether to come,” Sholto admitted. “Truthfully, I’ve debated for days.”

John folded his hands between his knees, waiting, letting him build up to it.

“There was a death,” Sholto said. “A woman that worked for me, she handled security.”

John’s eyes narrowed, attentive.

“She was found two nights ago. In her flat. Apparent overdose. The police ruled it a suicide within the hour.”

“And you don’t agree.”

Sholto shook his head, face pinched with guilt. “I know— I knew Robyn. She wasn’t the type.”

John looked down, brow furrowed. “That’s what they always say, though, isn’t it? ‘Not the type.’ Sometimes we miss the signs.”

“I didn’t,” Sholto replied. No arrogance, but certainty. “You must understand. I select very carefully who works for me, John. And last week she asked for a private meeting. She’d noticed certain…patterns. In the area, in our routines. I assumed she was being cautious. Paranoid, perhaps. We all have scars.”

John nodded. Of course they did.

“I told her we’d speak after the weekend,” Sholto went on, voice low, distant. “That was the last time I saw her.”

“Was there a note?” John asked softly.

“Apparently.” Sholto’s expression darkened. “I was told out of courtesy, you see. Just one line: ‘I was wrong to think I could protect anyone.’”

John exhaled through his nose, a sound too thoughtful to be disbelief.

“I think,” Sholto said carefully, “she found something. Or someone. And they made sure she wouldn’t speak of it.”

Silence stretched between them. The tea sat cooling between their hands.

Finally, John leaned back, running a thumb along the handle of his mug. “You were right to come to me,” he said, though his tone was cautious. “But I’m not sure I’m the best help you could get.”

“You are,” Sholto said, not unkindly. “You see things clearly. And you know how to act when the moment calls.”

John gave a small, wry smile. “These days I’m mostly just a doctor, James. I’ll help you… but we’ll need Sherlock Holmes.”

Sholto’s jaw tightened, a flicker of disappointment there. “I had hoped,” he admitted, “that I could rely on you directly. You see the world…more humanly than he does.”

John’s throat clenched, surprised by how that stung. And yet, hadn’t he thought the same years back?

“I wonder about him,” Sholto confessed. “Holmes. Brilliant, yes. But there’s something about him… something cold.”

John’s heart twisted, almost protective, defensive. He could see Sherlock as others saw him — inhuman, alien, too bright to look at straight on. But John had seen what lay beneath all that fire and ice.

“He can be frightening when he wants to,” John said, honest. “But he’s not the man you think. He’s the bravest, more caring man I know. And if someone’s playing a game with you, then you want him on your side.”

Sholto considered that, gaze distant.

“I trust your judgment.” He said at last, resigned but respectful.

John smiled, faintly. “Then trust me when I tell you: Sherlock Holmes is the man you need.”

He watched Sholto nod, and in that moment, John saw the difference laid bare between the two men — one who had taught him how to fight, how to survive, and another who had taught him how to feel again, how to burn. Both had left marks on him that would never fade.

***

Sherlock emerged from the lab entrance, coat buttoned tight against the wind, a fine mist clinging to the collar. He’d spent the last few hours at Bart’s, mostly in silence, running analysis on a piece of mould scraped from a stolen item. It had told him nothing. Molly had tried to chat. He hadn’t been listening.

His thoughts were still turning when he stepped onto the pavement, too wrapped up to notice the woman walking right across him.

“Oh,” she said, breath catching just slightly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, is it?”

He turned, halting mid-step. “Mary.”

Dressed neatly, tote bag over her shoulder, takeaway coffee in hand. Casual. Natural. Calculated.

“Reacquainting with the neighbourhood?” She smiled gently.

“Sure,” Sherlock said tightly, forcing a smile. “How are you Mary?”

“Oh, same old. Glad John’s back unscathed.”

Sherlock stood very still. “Indeed.”

“I should thank you,” She sipped her coffee. “For finding him.”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t shift. “No need for that.”

“Would you say these things happened often? Before?” She asked sweetly. “John getting in danger because of you.”

Sherlock kept his voice even. “I’d argue danger finds John, not the other way around.”

Mary tilted her head, pretending to consider that. “Of course. Still, he seems to fall into it more frequently when you’re around.”

He didn’t respond.

She stepped slightly closer, voice still gentle. “I just wonder, Sherlock… how many times he can come back from that. Whole.”

Sherlock met her eyes. “I take it you have an opinion on that.”

She smiled, soft and deliberate. “Just that John’s been through a lot. And you—” She gestured vaguely.

“Well, you make everything feel like a game. For the rest of us, though, there are real consequences.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

“I think John deserves peace,” she added, almost to herself. “Don’t you?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m a danger to him.”

“I think you’re addicted to danger,” she replied. “And John is addicted to you.”

Sherlock didn’t flinch, but she saw the flicker in his eyes.

She smiled again, as if nothing had been said. “Anyway. Was nice to bump into you.” A beat. “Try to take care of yourself.”

She turned and walked off, her figure folding back into the city crowd like a spectre disappearing at the edge of vision.

Sherlock stood very still, staring ahead, wind tugging at the hem of his coat.

Then his phone buzzed.

Case for you.

Coming over.

JW

A pause. The smallest lift at the corner of his mouth. He turned, and began walking toward Baker Street, the city moving around him in indifferent swells. The streets blurred at the edges; traffic, footsteps, voices — all white noise beneath the sharp ring of Mary’s words.

“Would you say these things happened often? Before?”

He should’ve dismissed it. Should’ve deflected, but it had sunk in like a splinter under the skin.

“John getting in danger because of you.”

He had always known it to be true. John had been in danger the moment he stepped in St. Barts that first time. Since then, danger had been trailing them like a shadow, all of it magnetised by Sherlock’s orbit. John had chosen it, yes, followed him willingly. But choice didn’t negate consequence. And the possibility of losing John was a thought Sherlock refused to entertain, not because of danger alone. Mary had implied a choice for John, a life of peace Sherlock could not offer. A life with someone else, someone normal, someone capable of reciprocal affection in the ways John seemed to prefer. The thought, cold and precise, settled in his gut: John would always choose that, eventually.

He reached the door to 221B and hesitated, hand on the key.

Mary Morstan was dangerous. That much he was sure of now. Not in the way Moriarty had been, not a spectacle, not an explosion. Mary would undo a man slowly, with precision, with credibility. Her greatest weapon wasn’t that she saw Sherlock as a threat: it was that she might be right. Right about John deserving a peace Sherlock couldn't give. Right about John inevitably seeking a different sort of connection.

The flat was quiet, unnervingly so. Sherlock paced in the hallway, tea going cold, as he waited.

Then he heard footsteps on the stairs. He recognised John’s rhythm, followed by a second cadence behind him, slower. The knock was a formality; John had barely lifted his hand before the door opened. Sherlock’s gaze went immediately past John, to the tall man shadowing him.

Broad-shouldered, pale-haired, dressed in a sharply tailored civilian coat, military-cut. There was a stillness to him Sherlock knew instantly, that he’d read in John posture those first few weeks of their acquaintance. Still playing the part. But privately. There was something else too, weariness behind the eyes, a guarded pain that had settled in and made itself at home.

“Sherlock,” John said, voice carrying a note of caution. “This is Major James Sholto.”

Sherlock extended his hand with flawless politeness, every movement measured. “Pleased to meet you.”

Sholto took it, the handshake solid, eyes direct. “John recommended you personally.”

There was a flicker between them. Not rivalry, but a tight thread of something unspoken. Sholto’s name had never come up before. Curious. Concerning.

“Please,” Sherlock gestured with a clipped sweep of his hand, “tell me everything.”

He stepped back, expecting John to join him — shoulder to shoulder, as they always had — but John surprised him, slipping past to sit next to Sholto instead. The moment snagged him, made him falter. His fingers twitched, halfway to folding behind his back.

Interesting.

The arrangement was wrong, reversed. This wasn’t the usual dynamic, them facing a client together, united in purpose. This was John and Sholto presenting a case to him. Sherlock stayed standing, deliberately holding his height and distance, a silent claim of ground he felt was slipping under his feet. He adjusted the weight in his heels. Observed. And tried very hard not to feel the unfamiliar pang of exclusion, of being the third point in a triangle he didn't belong to.

Sholto launched straight into the story, calm and clipped, no wasted words: a woman on his private security detail, found dead two nights ago, apparent overdose, no thorough investigation. Sherlock’s eyes darted between the two of them, catching the subtle way John leaned toward Sholto.

“She noticed patterns,” Sherlock cut in when Sholto paused.

The major gave a small nod.

“Someone watching the property, altering logs.” Sherlock continued. “You assumed it was hyper-vigilance.”

Sholto’s face tightened, jaw working. “I did.”

John shifted, a quiet reassurance in his posture, protective. Sherlock felt a sharp spike in his chest that he crushed immediately. Not the time.

“You encouraged her to stand down,” Sherlock went on, voice like a blade, “and then she was dead. How convenient.”

John shot him a warning glance. “Sherlock—”

He turned away, pacing to the window, folding his hands behind his back to hide the tremor in them. A retreat, but a strategic one.

“She was silenced, that much is evident.” Sherlock said finally. “If she found something, they made certain she couldn’t share it.”

Behind him, he heard Sholto shift slightly, a weighty exhale, a small movement.

Sherlock pivoted halfway, watching them. “How secure is your staff now?”

“Reduced.” Sholto replied. “They’ve been told to remain on leave until further notice.”

“Good,” Sherlock nodded, clinical. “You were right to come. But understand this: if she was silenced, you’re the next target.”

The faintest hesitation crossed Sholto’s face, then steadied.

“I take it that’s already occurred to you.”

Sholto’s voice softened, almost confessional. “She trusted me. I failed her.”

Then, almost to himself. “One more kid.”

John’s hand landed gently on his shoulder. Sherlock tracked that contact with surgical precision.

“If she trusted you,” Sherlock said, voice cutting through, “then she may have told someone else. A friend, a colleague, someone outside your chain of command.”

“She lived alone,” Sholto said. “No partner that I know of. Private, even with the rest of the staff.”

Sherlock considered his words. “I’ll need access to the flat, the property, any communications she had with you, and a list of everyone who knew she came to you.”

Sholto nodded without pause. “Of course. I’ve already begun collecting what I can. I’ll see to the rest tonight.”

John spoke next, quiet and firm. “Do you need help sorting through this, James? We can do it together.”

We. Sherlock felt the word sink, heavy and unwelcome. John had never mentioned Sholto. Not ever, in any detail. And yet there he was, a familiar camaraderie, effortlessly offered. It made him want to shoot the walls.

“I shall need some rest tonight, John. Thank you. But can I expect you tomorrow at the property? I’ll introduce you to the local police.”

“Of course,” John said, casting a glance at Sherlock, prompting him to confirm.

Sherlock gave the smallest nod. “I’ll be there.”

Sholto stood, offering Sherlock a steady look. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you.”

Then, to John — quieter, but full of weight — he lifted two fingers in a subtle salute. “Doctor.”

And he was gone, the door closing behind him. The silence in the flat rang loud.

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Sherlock.” John reminded him, a hint of apology in it. “You’ll help him?”

Sherlock stared at him, something dangerous sparking in his eyes. “Why didn’t you ever mention him?”

John blinked, hesitated, exhaled. “Didn’t think it was important.”

Sherlock stepped closer, voice low. “Didn’t think he was important?”

A flicker of guilt crossed John’s face. Then, with a deflective shrug: “There wasn’t much to say.”

Sherlock looked away, jaw tight. He didn’t believe it and John knew that.

Trying to recover, he asked, too casually, “He said the woman worked security?”

“Yeah,” John said, latching onto the subject gratefully. “Robyn. Watched Sholto’s house for years. He trusted her.”

Sherlock’s voice sharpened. “Why does he even need a security detail?”

John sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “He was my Commanding Officer, back in Afghanistan. He was good at his job, better than most. One day he led a team of crows into battle—”

“Crows?” Sherlock inquired, brows furrowed.

“New recruits. It’s standard procedure to break the new boys in. But it went wrong. They all died, including an eighteen-year-old cadet. James was the only survivor… he’s been receiving death threat since.”

Sherlock’s eyes studied John’s face, watched the quiet pain there, the old loyalty that never really healed. A loyalty he envied. Part of him ached at the reverence John showed this man. This quiet, composed man who shared things with John that Sherlock didn’t know. But he felt the pull toward knowing, toward asking questions he had no right to voice. Not when John had walked out of him the previous night.

He swallowed the bitter taste behind his teeth. “We’ll need the names of the recruits who died, and start investigating among their families.”

John straightened, tension slipping into professionalism. “I can do that.”

By now they had eased their way into their chairs, the dynamic shifting almost back into place, if only apparently. But the question still pressed against Sherlock’s throat. 

“Was there something between you two?” He asked at last, low and raw.

John’s gaze snapped to Sherlock, a deer catching the glint of headlights. He looked away, exhaled. Rubbed a hand down his face like it cost him something. Then he looked back, steady, and Sherlock felt his own heart lock into a painful stillness.

“I won’t lie to you.” John said, voice rough with something half-buried.

The weight of those words nearly made Sherlock flinch. His pulse quickened. He had been bracing for one of John’s old, comfortable lines — I’m not gay.

But it didn’t come.

“Nothing ever happened.” John said carefully. “It couldn’t. Not in that context. He was my Commanding Officer, we were soldiers. It wasn’t... an option.”

Sherlock nodded once, the movement stiff, drinking every word.

John went on, quieter, a confession that cut both of them. “And it’s not something we ever spoke about. But… it was there, I think.”

Sherlock’s mouth felt impossibly dry. His voice escaped him before he could catch it. “Looked like it’s still there.”

John’s eyes found his, unwavering and painfully honest. “It’s not.”

The words landed harder than anticipated. Sherlock looked away, hiding more than he let show. He felt a bitterness much sharper than any of John’s old flings ever had. All those hurried affairs and quiet breakups had barely scratched at Sherlock’s composure, they had been easy to dismiss, small interruptions in the quiet gravity between them. Fleeting and insignificant.

But this felt different. John’s history with a man who had been so closely tied to his past, to the worst of his scars… this run deeper. Because it was real. Because it had been close, even if unspoken. Jealousy burned through him with a violence that surprised him, ugly and unsteady, and the reason for it wasn’t just the fear of losing John’s attention, the way it had been with the string of women before. No, this felt worse — because this had almost been. It had almost mattered in the same way Sherlock needed it to matter.

The truth in it rang through Sherlock like a bell, equal parts painful and liberating. Liberating, because John was not entangled with Sholto, a potential rival that Sherlock hadn't even fully accounted for as a possibility until now. Painful, because it confirmed a new, unsettling truth: John was capable of profound, intimate connections with men. A part of John’s sexuality Sherlock had never quite grasped, or dared to hope for. But even so, it still wasn't Sherlock himself.

And yet, John had made a choice, to sit across from him, to tell him what had happened. Sherlock breathed in, letting that fragile honesty settle under his ribs, even as it trembled like a newborn thing, terrified of the light. He was glad, at least, that John had offered him the truth with a clarity he had always withheld. That, in itself, was a profound new landscape.

***

John walked the length of the gravel drive, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the grounds out of instinct more than necessity. He tracked over the low walls, the carefully clipped hedges… all fragile illusions of safety. Inside, Sherlock moved like a force of nature, rifling through phone logs, staff rosters, scraps of data with that near-maniacal focus John had come to know so well. Brilliant. Relentless. Through the window John could picture it perfectly — the sharp flick of Sherlock’s hands, the restless shift of his shoulders, the tiny crease between his brows whenever he was a thousand thoughts deep and blind to anything else.

John exhaled, letting the chill air steady him. His mind ran through the case again: Robyn had trusted her instincts. She’d come to Sholto about a man who circled the estate, asking questions, watching. A stranger with no consistent name, working his way through Sholto’s staff, trying to pry into his routines. She’d noticed the patterns and tried to act.

Sholto, worn down by years of death threats, had told her they’d speak after the weekend. But Robyn couldn’t let it go. She’d agreed to meet the man, to confront him, to threaten police involvement. She didn’t know he’d been courting other women on staff, always under false identities, always hungry for information.

The Mayfly Man, Sherlock had called him.

Sherlock suspected a link to Sholto’s past, of course — a former cadet’s family perhaps, someone nursing a festering wound. But there were too many names. Too many broken people left behind. John had helped cross-reference the list of recruits who’d died, sitting with Sholto as they read through each name. That had been hard, for both of them.

Through the glass, Sherlock suddenly lifted his head, eyes catching on John like a hook. The look rooted him in place, a bright, painful tether. God help him, John thought. There it was again: that longing, sharp enough to bleed.

He sighed, then stepped inside. Sherlock’s attention snapped to him.

“Anything?” John asked, voice rough.

“Yes. Possibly.” Sherlock’s words came quick, measured. “There was a partial fingerprint on the seat cushion where Robyn argued with him. I’ve forwarded it to the local force. They’re running it through military adjacent databases now.”

John dropped his coat on a chair. “Good. Means they’ll be faster.”

Sherlock’s tone softened, almost unguarded. “There’s nothing else we can do. We have to wait.”

“Right,” John echoed. Part of him had hoped, stupidly, they’d have the killer nailed down by now.

Sherlock’s gaze lingered on him, thoughtful. “Most likely someone connected to the recruits. Someone angry, with a personal tie to Sholto.”

John sighed, tension coiling up in his shoulders. “It’s just too many, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tapped a paper, thinking aloud. “Three families of the deceased recruits have members with prior arrests. Then there’s the family of the youngest. That would be my starting point.”

John’s stomach knotted — because of course grief could fester like that.

Sherlock’s gaze darted sideways, sharp but oddly gentle. “That bothers you.”

John let out a rough laugh. “It’s familiar. Losing people and needing someone to blame. You think it saves you from the guilt, but it never does.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but his eyes softened in a way that made John ache.

They stepped outside again, where Sholto stood in hushed conversation with a police sergeant. Then the radio hissed and crackled.

“They found him,” the sergeant said. “Johnny Small.”

The name made Sholto’s shoulders stiffen, and John’s heart sank.

“The brother,” Sherlock murmured. “Worked his way through Sholto’s staff. Ruthless.”

John clenched his jaw. A civilian in a war he didn’t understand, playing revenge like a long game of chess. Grief turned into obsession, obsession into murder. He had killed Robyn to preserve a petty, twisted revenge. John exhaled through his nose. It was cruel how senseless it all was.

They started back to the car. Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet for a few long minutes, then asked, low and searching, “Why did you stop seeing him?”

John turned, meeting his eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat, a faint awkwardness crossing his face. “Your previous commander,” he added, almost sheepishly.

John smiled faintly. “’Previous’ suggests I currently have a commander.”

“Which you don’t,” Sherlock said gently, almost reverent.

“Which I don’t.” John nodded, voice soft. “It was James’s choice and I respected that.”

Sherlock seemed to consider that, a thousand deductions passing behind his eyes.

John took a breath. “You know why I cared about this so much?”

Sherlock stayed silent, but John could feel him listening.

“If I hadn’t met you,” John said, voice steady, “I might have ended up exactly like him. Alone and paranoid, haunted by the past. He just wasn’t lucky enough to meet Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, his features drawn and painfully open.

Sholto had thanked them both. There was gratitude in his voice touched with a quiet grief that felt final. A chapter closed, in more ways than one. As they rolled toward London, it wasn’t Sholto’s voice that lingered in John’s mind. It was Sherlock’s. That question, quiet and bare the night before, asking if there had been anything between them. The way he’d asked, as though bracing for pain, as though needing to hear it.

John rubbed his hands together, trying to banish a cold that had nothing to do with November.

It wasn’t the admission that haunted him, but what it implied. Pretending there was nothing to admit, not with James, not with Sherlock — all those old denials had crumbled. But John doubted anything had changed for Sherlock. That door might have opened, but only one of them was standing in the threshold. And he had no reason to believe Sherlock would ever step through it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

THE GAME IS ON

A sharp knock rattled the door, pulling Sherlock from a thin, fractured sleep. His eyes snapped open to shadows and stale air, the familiar hush of Baker Street pressing in like a vice. Another knock, sharper, cut through the quiet.

“Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice rang out, high with exasperation but woven through with unmistakable affection. “Are you in there, or have you finally turned into a ghost?”

He groaned, rolling over, tangled in the sheets. A third knock, louder.

“I’m coming in whether you like it or not!”

Sherlock shot out of bed, unsteady, and staggered toward the kitchen just as the door swung open. Mrs. Hudson breezed inside, hands planted firmly on her hips, eyes sharp as knives.

“Sherlock Holmes, you absolute bastard!” She snapped, voice quivering with emotion.

The sound was so familiar, so full of life, that Sherlock’s heart clenched in a way he hadn’t expected, despite the insult. There was something grounding about the way she said his name — with love, frustration, and bone-deep relief all tangled up together.

She dropped her bags on the floor with a thump that seemed to shake the quiet air. “I heard the news days ago,” she said, shaking her head as if she still couldn’t believe it, “but I thought it was some tabloid nonsense. Imagine my shock when I realized it wasn’t… and you didn’t even tell me yourself?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, Mrs. Hudson reached out and advanced on him, jabbing a finger at his chest.

“Two years, Sherlock! Two years I prayed, I lit candles, I cried over your stupid face on the news. And now you’re here, just… standing there, like you only popped out for a pint of milk!”

Sherlock swallowed, voice rough. “I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

“Oh, don’t give me that secret-agent rubbish,” she snapped with a fond smile. “You’ve always put me in danger. At least before, I knew to expect it!”

Sherlock tried to answer, but before he could, she reached out and wrapped her arms around him, fiercely. His breath hitched, startled, but then he let himself sink into it — this rare, uncomplicated comfort.

“God, I missed you,” she murmured into his shoulder.

“I missed you too,” he admitted, voice quiet, almost vulnerable.

They pulled apart slowly, and Mrs. Hudson’s gaze searched his face with a mother’s concern, tinged with relief.

“How did John take it?” She asked carefully.

Sherlock’s throat went tight. “He… found me. Pulled me out of it. Along with Mycroft.”

“Thank heavens. I don’t think he could’ve survived another winter without you.” She breathed out, wiping a hand across her forehead. “My boys, back at it again. I can’t believe it!”

Sherlock tried to respond, but something in his chest twisted, sharp and unyielding.

She reached up, brushing a stray curl off his forehead. “You should’ve seen him,” she went on, voice low. “After you left. “I’ve never seen someone look like that… like he’d lost the love of his life.”

Sherlock’s hands trembled, and he folded them together to hide it. Mrs. Hudson saw anyway, her eyes going impossibly kind.

“It’s good to have you home, dear,” she said softly.

He nodded, voice so quiet it nearly disappeared. “It’s…good to be home.”

Mrs. Hudson let out a relieved laugh, shaking her head. “I should have guessed when your brother insisted on keeping the flat ready.” She rolled her eyes. “And here I thought it was for sentimental value!”

Sherlock’s lips tugged into a faint smile.

“Well then,” she said briskly, pivoting toward the kitchen with that unflappable energy, “now you just need to bring him back.”

Sherlock froze.

He opened his mouth, but she was already bustling off, humming as she unpacked her shopping, restocking the cupboards like nothing had changed.

Sherlock turned, eyes falling on the empty chair by the fireplace. The space was still familiar, still right — but that one missing presence made it ache. For the first time in far too long, Baker Street felt like a home waiting to be whole again.

“Like he’d lost the love of his life,” Mrs. Hudson had said.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do with that.

***

“I’m telling you, it’s exhausting,” John said. “Trying to act normal around Mary.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up. “Is she growing suspicious?”

“No. That’s the thing.” John let out a dry laugh. “She thinks we’re connecting. She thinks I’m just… finally warming to her. Trying to understand her better.”

They were at Baker Street, facing the evidence wall, which Sherlock had turned into an overly curated pinboard, to track the collected data on the presumed remains of Moriarty’s web. The nearby table scattered with files and used post it.

Sherlock discarded the file he was holding. “Is that not what you’re doing?”

John raised a brow. “Well, yes, technically. But it’s exhausting, Sherlock. This pretending. And not because I’m bad at lying — though I am — it’s that the whole thing is… it’s hollow. There’s no real connection. Just performance.”

Sherlock tilted his head, pretending interest only mildly, but something in his jaw betrayed him.

“And?” He asked, a beat too casual. “Still not interested?”

“Still not,” John confirmed, almost laughing now. “Honestly, I think that’s the clearest sign she’s hiding something. We’ve been in the ‘getting to know each other’ phase for nearly a year. Most people would’ve taken the hint and legged it by now.”

It was a joke, John’s voice carried the cadence of one, but Sherlock didn’t laugh.

Instead, he looked at John for a long second, and said, “Why would knowing you make someone leave?”

John blinked. “Sorry?”

“They should consider themselves lucky,” Sherlock said simply, with no embellishment. No irony.

John froze, caught in that space between confusion and something that almost felt like hope. A familiar, stupid tug somewhere beneath his ribs. But he quickly shut it down — Sherlock doesn’t mean it like that. He doesn’t get how relationships work. He probably thought he was being factual, not kind.

So, John leaned back with a slight shake of his head and changed the subject.

“Anyway. I’ve been keeping her talking. Casual stuff, mostly. She’s clever, careful, most of what she says is bullshit.” He paused. “But even so… you slip a thing or two, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. His gaze sharpened — familiar territory now.

“She said she was an orphan,” John continued. “Which I believe. But she mentioned she had three very close friends. Not family, but like family. Grew up together. I asked where they are now and she dodged. Didn’t push, obviously. But it felt loaded.”

Sherlock was already halfway to the wall before John finished speaking. “A group of four,” he said, scribbling. “From the network. Probably off-grid.”

“You think they’re active?”

“Would explain why she hasn’t broken cover. She might not know where they are because she’s waiting to be reactivated.”

John blew out a breath. “So, we’re back to playing the long game.”

Sherlock said nothing. His pen hovered midair, just shy of the board, like an equation had collapsed in his head. Then he turned away and crossed to the cluttered table, rummaging. From beneath a stack of case files and notes, he pulled out a slim file.

John frowned, recognizing Mycroft’s seal on the corner. “What’s that?”

“From that folder when I came back.” Sherlock flipped it open with practiced fingers.

John hummed, disappointed. “It certainly wasn’t in mine.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He passed it across to John. On the first page were the letters A.G.R.A.

“What is this?” John asked, leaning in.

“A freelance unit,” Sherlock said. “Highly skilled, government-adjacent, at least for a while. Took on black ops contracts when plausible deniability was required. Operated in silence. Then vanished.”

John scanned the report. “No names?”

“Page three,” Sherlock said. “Assuming they’re real.”

John read aloud. “Alex, Gabriel, Rosamund and Ajay. No surnames?"

“Would be too easy, wouldn’t it, John?” Sherlock said dryly.

John scanned further. “No known locations. No digital footprint. Just a list of operations. Most over ten years ago.”

“Precisely. The timeline fits. Could be the ‘friends’ Mary mentioned.”

John tapped the edge of the page. “If she was part of this… that rules out her being one of Moriarty’s people. Doesn’t it?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “Not necessarily. These operations were early 2000s. Moriarty might have been a shadow back then, he wasn’t global yet. Still, he was smart. If AGRA went dark, he could have found them. Recruited them.”

“Repurposed them,” John muttered, eyes darkening. “Turned them into something else.”

“Exactly.”

“But if they were working for the government — wouldn’t Mycroft know for sure about her?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Government-adjacent, not MI6. Everything was done through intermediaries. Names were compartmentalized, comms routed through third parties. They never met face-to-face.”

He pointed to a footnote on the second page. John leaned in to read, scowling.

“How convenient,” he muttered.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was already scanning the board again, recalibrating.

John lingered over the file, thoughtful. “She said something else.”

Sherlock didn’t turn, but he was listening.

“Her second name,” John said slowly. “It’s Rosamund.”

That made Sherlock pause. He turned halfway, just enough for their eyes to meet.

John’s voice dropped. “Could she be—?”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, quiet and exact. “I think we’ve just found our ‘R.’”

Later that evening, after John had left Baker Street and was making his way home, his phone buzzed. It was a familiar, encrypted line.

“Evening, Mycroft,” John said, his voice easy, almost cheerful.

“John,” Mycroft’s voice was as smooth and precise as ever, but with a barely perceptible edge of curiosity. “I trust Sherlock is readjusting well?”

“As well as can be expected,” John replied, a dry laugh escaping him. “Stubborn as ever. Speaking of which, I had an idea.”

“Oh?” Mycroft’s tone implied he was bracing himself for something ridiculous.

“An expensive one,” John added, a mischievous glint in his eye even though Mycroft couldn't see it. “For you.”

A beat of silence from Mycroft. “Continue.”

“I noticed Mary likes beautiful things,” John explained, his gaze sweeping over a brightly lit shop window, momentarily distracting him. “Could be a nice way to throw her off. I was thinking… a gift.”

Mycroft let out a faint, dismissive huff. “Hardly a weakness for an operative.”

“No, but vanity might be,” John countered, a small, knowing smile on his face. “Especially when you’re trying to build a new life. A new identity. A new aesthetic. She's surprisingly susceptible to pretty things, particularly if they come from someone she’s trying to manipulate.”

Mycroft paused, a subtle shift in the air that John, knowing him, recognized as genuine consideration. “You wish for me to commission a piece of… adornment?”

“Precisely. Something elegant. And with a tracker, obviously. Small enough to be undetectable, even by her.” John imagined it: a delicate necklace, maybe earrings. Something she’d wear daily, something too precious to discard. “Something she won’t check because it’s a gift, and she thinks she’s fooling me.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then Mycroft’s voice, a single, perfectly delivered remark, dripping with his signature disdain and a grudging appreciation. “Let’s hope she is that desperate to impress you, John.”

John smiked. “I’m counting on it. Can you arrange it?”

“Consider it done,” Mycroft replied, the line going dead with a soft click.

John put his phone away, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Another piece in play.

***

The rain had been falling steadily all day, tapping against the windows with the insistent rhythm of a thought Sherlock couldn’t quite dismiss. He sat curled on the settee, violin untouched at his side, case notes open in front of him but forgotten. Somewhere in the background, the kettle clicked off.

It was then that the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson’s voice floated up a moment later. “It’s for you, dear! Someone important, by the look of her.”

Sherlock didn’t move until footsteps echoed up the stairs and the door opened without ceremony.

Lady Elizabeth Smallwood stood in the doorway, her expression tightly composed. She looked like she hadn’t decided yet whether this visit was a plea, a command, or a confession.

He rose from his chair, intrigued.

“Lady Smallwood,” he said. “How unusual. Tea?”

“No,” she replied curtly. “But thank you.”

She stepped inside with the precision of someone used to moving through rooms where nothing good ever waited. Her eyes swept over the flat: books in gentle disarray, violin untouched, skull askew on the mantel. She lingered briefly on the empty armchair near the fireplace — John’s usual seat — and Sherlock’s jaw tightened. He gestured for her to sit.

Lady Smallwood sat, straight-backed and poised, then removed a slim file from her leather bag and handed it to him.

“I need your help,” she said, her voice a touch lower than usual. “And this doesn’t go through Mycroft. Not officially.”

Sherlock arched a brow. “How rebellious.”

Lady Smallwood gave a ghost of a smile. “Even we loyalists have our limits.”

He opened the file. Inside were photographs, redacted transcripts, surveillance reports. The name stamped on the front in clean, heavy font:

CHARLES AUGUSTUS MAGNUSSEN

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened. He leaned back slightly, fingers steepling as he read.

“Where have I heard this name before?”

“He’s a media tycoon,” Lady Smallwood said. “This man has influence in places even Mycroft treads carefully. He inserted himself into delicate conversations. Sensitive inquiries collapse when his name is whispered. Investigations stall. People forget.”

“A blackmailer.” Sherlock said, eyes still on the file.

Lady Smallwood’s expression darkened. “Of the highest order. He weaponizes truth. Or rather, perception.”

“What does he have on you?”

“Letters. Photographs.” Her voice remained composed, but something in her posture tightened. “They concern my husband. Years before I met him, he corresponded with a young woman he thought was of age. When he discovered she wasn’t, he ended it immediately. There was no further contact.”

“But the letters exist.”

“Yes. And if they were ever made public, they’d ruin everything. My reputation. My work. Decades of public service, reduced to a headline.”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. “What does Magnussen gain from exposing you?”

“Nothing.” She said bitterly. “He’ll ruin me simply because he can.”

There was a silence between them then, dense and thoughtful. Somewhere beyond the glass, the city blurred under the weight of grey skies.

“No one stands up to him,” she said at last. “No one dares, no one even tries. If there is one man in England capable of stopping that disgusting creature it’s you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock’s gaze held hers. She had spoken with a fiery admiration she wasn’t known to share.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to destroy him. Quietly.” She talked with steel in every syllable. “But thoroughly.”

He raised a brow. “Quietly?”

“I advise discretion, Mr. Holmes. For your own sake as much as mine.”

***

Not much later after Lady Smallwood had walked out, a faint hum rattled across the cluttered table, breaking through the hush that had settled over Baker Street. Sherlock lifted his head from where he’d been studying the swirling dust. The hour was too late for polite visitors and too early for nightmares, so there could only be one logical explanation.

He reached across piles of half-sorted case files, glancing at the screen, unsurprised.

He accepted the call, voice flat. “What do you want?”

From the other end came that measured, polished voice, brimming with brotherly condescension.

“Good evening, Sherlock. How was your day?”

Sherlock froze, a darkly amused smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Really?”

Mycroft paused — just a fraction, enough for Sherlock to taste the discomfort.

“You’re spying on me, aren’t you?” Sherlock accused, a spark of cold amusement in his voice.

“‘Spying’ is such an ugly word,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Let’s call it monitoring.”

Sherlock smirked, tipping his head back, eyes drifting toward the smoke-stained ceiling. His gaze swept across the corners of the room, searching — purely on principle — for any cameras he might have missed when he’d checked after returning.

“And what exactly were you monitoring?” He asked, as if it were nothing more than idle curiosity.

Mycroft’s sigh, tinged with world-weary disappointment, reached Sherlock’s ear through the line. “Elizabeth Smallwood. She left your flat precisely eleven minutes ago.”

Sherlock glanced out the rain-speckled window, thoroughly unbothered. “And you waited until she was gone to ring me. Very polite.”

Mycroft ignored the jab. “Why was she there?”

Sherlock shifted in the armchair, reaching for his violin where it rested beside him. He picked up the bow, testing the tension of the horsehair against his thumb, more to steady his own thoughts than for any musical reason.

“That, dear brother, is none of your business.”

Mycroft’s voice dropped by half a degree, cold enough to draw a chill through the phone. “Tell me.”

Sherlock toyed with a loose thread on the cuff of his dressing gown, relishing the brief power of refusing him. “She’s asked me to neutralize a problem.”

“Define neutralize.”

“Quietly.” Sherlock echoed, letting a hint of a smile slip through.

Mycroft’s tone sharpened. “Don’t be smart. You cannot afford another grand performance, Sherlock. Not so soon after—”

“Oh, that takes me back.” Sherlock’s voice, a ghost of a memory, echoed in the room. “‘Don’t be smart, Sherlock. I’m the smart one!’”

“I am the smart one.” The declaration was firm, unyielding.

“I used to think I was an idiot.”

“We both thought you were an idiot. We had nothing else to go on. Until we met other children.” The last words were laced with a shared, unspoken grimace.

“Oh yes. That was a mistake.”

“Ghastly. What were they thinking of?” Mycroft's disdain was palpable, even through the silence that followed.

“Probably something about making friends?” Sherlock mused, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Oh, yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now.” The words almost a sneer.

“Don’t you? Ever?”

“You seem rather slow to me. Can you imagine what real people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish.” Mycroft said, voice dripped exasperation.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the chair, listening, his eyes closing for a moment as if savouring the familiar rhythm of their banter. “Yeah. But I was away for two years.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d found yourself... a goldfish.”

He could practically feel Mycroft rolling his eyes across the line, a silent, expressive gesture.

“Speaking of goldfish.” Mycroft’s tone shifted, becoming more direct, more pointed. “Do you intend to involve John?”

Sherlock’s eyes fell, unbidden, to the empty chair across from him, John’s chair, the quiet ache of its vacancy tugging at him, unspoken longing knotted tight behind his ribs.

“He involves himself,” Sherlock replied, voice softer than he meant it to be.

A pause, full of the weight of a shared history. Sherlock could almost see Mycroft on the other end, reading every fracture in that moment the way only a brother ever could.

“You have to be careful, Sherlock,” Mycroft said at last, his tone gentler, older somehow.

“I am.”

A sigh reached him through the speaker, weary and sincere. “I really hope so.”

The line went dead, leaving silence once more to flood the flat. Sherlock lowered the phone slowly, then set it on the table. With a restless movement, he tapped the violin bow against the arm of the chair, letting the soft rhythm carry him as his mind drifted away again, already turning toward the next move.

***

John sat forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, the heel of one hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if he could scrub away the worry. His voice, when it came, was low, weary, edged with an ache he wasn’t even bothering to hide.

“I’m telling you as a friend,” he said, “and as a doctor. You have a past, Sherlock. You can’t get close to that stuff again. Even if it’s for a case. It’s too dangerous.”

Across the hearth, Sherlock stood motionless by the fireplace, one hand splayed on the mantel, knuckles pale where they dug into the wood. The flickering lamplight caught the angles of his face, hollowing the cheekbones, sharpening the line of his jaw. There was a leanness about him — not sickly, but worn down, thinned at the edges, like a violin string stretched to breaking.

“I’m not going to fall for it, John,” he answered finally, voice steady, clipped, as if he’d rehearsed that certainty over and over.

John finally looked up. “How do you know?”

Slowly, Sherlock turned to face him. The movement was precise, deliberate, but his gaze — when it locked onto John’s — was anything but cold. It was raw, stripped bare, almost painfully honest.

“I have a new addiction now,” he said. “Hurts more.”

The words landed between them like a confession, and John felt his breath stutter. Something flared in his chest, fear, relief, longing, he couldn’t even name it. His mouth opened automatically, but the words jammed in his throat. A beat passed. He tried again, failed again. He didn’t ask what Sherlock meant. Didn’t dare. He felt as if reaching for something he wasn’t sure to be allowed to want.

Sherlock looked away first, shifting his weight as if the moment had drawn blood. He stepped toward the window, letting the curtains rustle against his sleeve. His voice, when it returned, had slipped back into its familiar cadences, measured and brisk.

“Magnussen doesn’t trade in crimes,” he said. “He trades in compromise. People who can be controlled. Blackmail, influence, secrets — he hoards them like currency.”

John clenched his hands tighter. “So, you’re just going to pretend to spiral?” He demanded. “Because you think that’s a brilliant idea?”

“I’m not pretending to spiral,” Sherlock shot back, tone clipped, jaw tightening. “I’m showing him what he expects to see. What he already believes. He collects weakness, John. I’m going to give him mine.”

John shot upright, his voice straining between frustration and something nearer to desperation. “It’s not a weakness, Sherlock, it’s a bloody addiction. You don’t use that. You survived it. You don’t go back there.”

Sherlock turned fully toward him, and for one suspended moment, every sharp edge softened. “I’m not going back,” he said quietly. “It’s about making it look like I did.”

John stared at him, swallowing hard. “And if he pushes?” He asked, voice low. “If Magnussen decides to test just how far you’ve really fallen?”

Sherlock hesitated. Not long, but enough to make John’s gut twist.

“I won’t let it go that far,” Sherlock said, but he didn’t quite meet John’s eyes.

John let out a ragged breath through his nose, moving forward, pacing a half-step closer to the cold hearth. His voice dropped, raw. “You’re not invincible, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, but the humour was bitter. “I never claimed to be.”

“No,” John shot back, “but you liked it when I thought you were.”

That hit deeper than either of them meant it to. Sherlock’s eyes darkened, the line of his mouth tightening. He didn’t deny it.

Silence swallowed the room — thick, loaded, almost suffocating. Sherlock stood across from him, composed in posture, but the tension humming off him betrayed every fracture. John pressed his palms flat against his thighs, grounding himself, forcing the next words out before they tore him in two.

“So,” he managed, softer now, resigned, “what do you need me to do?”

Sherlock’s reply was so quiet it nearly vanished into the hush.

“Watch me,” he said. “And if I get too close… pull me back.”

John’s throat worked, something thick and unspoken caught there. He nodded, slow, deliberate, sealing a promise that was far older than any case.

“I will.”

The conversation dissolved into silence. Sherlock moved toward the desk, drawing the battered file Lady Smallwood had left, flicking it open with a restless snap of his wrist. He bent to read it once again, but the tension still clung to his spine, a brittle set to his shoulders that refused to ease. John kept his eyes on him, taking in every motion, every careful breath, afraid that the next time he looked, Sherlock might be lost again.

***

Weeks later, a delicate silver pendant nested within a string of subtle, intricate beads, arrived via discreet courier at John’s house. He marvelled at it: it was indeed a proper, and quite expensive, piece of jewellery, and without knowing its true purpose, there was no way Mary could detect the tracker inside.

He was very happy with it, especially so that it would spare him from following her around London at unexpected hours. He told himself he was getting too old for that, but the actual reason was that, without Sherlock by his side for the thrill of the chase, for the shared danger, he had no reason to. Sherlock had been mostly absent from Baker Street, his scarce texts – short, cryptic, but present – the only tether for John to know he was alive, as they’d agreed.

Need to disappear for a while. Trust me.

SH

 

Promise you’ll call if you need help.

JW

 

Always.

SH

During this time, the quiet deception with Mary had deepened. He had been playing the long game, carefully strengthening his hold on her, making her believe he was finally, truly, hers. And tonight, he was taking her out to a upscale restaurant, the kind of place Mary had hinted at.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and murmured conversations, as John watched her across the table, her eyes scanning the room with a practiced, almost imperceptible vigilance that belied her relaxed posture. He felt a familiar hollowness in his chest – this performance was becoming second nature, yet it was utterly devoid of the messy, unpredictable truth he shared with Sherlock.

"You know," Mary said, a soft, almost wistful smile on her lips, "it's nice here." She paused, her gaze searching his, looking for confirmation. "You haven’t mentioned him much, lately. You know, Sherlock.”

John met her gaze, a carefully constructed blend of casualness and weary understanding. "Yeah, well. He’s back to his own thing." He shrugged, a slight, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him. "Always was the solitary type. To be honest, we always needed a bit of space, didn't we? After all the drama." He watched her carefully, noting the tiny flicker of satisfaction in her eyes, the way her smile deepened, a private triumph. She believed him. She wanted to believe him.

"I suppose so," Mary murmured, and then, with a touch of vulnerability that might have been genuine, "It just felt like... for a while there, after he came back, you two were inseparable again."

"Old habits die hard, I suppose," John said, offering a tight smile. "But things change. People change." He leaned forward slightly, reaching into his jacket pocket. "Speaking of things changing... I got you something."

Mary's eyes widened, a genuine, unforced surprise on her face. Her hand instinctively went to her throat. "Oh, John, you really didn't have to." But her tone was eager, a note of anticipation in her voice.

He pulled out a small, velvet box. Inside, nestled on white satin, was the pendant. The silver gleamed under the soft restaurant lights, and the tiny beads shimmered with a delicate, almost ethereal glow. It was elegant, subtle, and utterly convincing as a thoughtful gift.

"I know you mentioned missing some of your old pieces," John said softly, his voice imbued with a warmth he didn't feel, watching her intently. "And I thought... well, it suited you."

Mary picked it up, her fingers tracing the intricate work. Her smile transformed, becoming softer, more unguarded than he had ever seen it. It was a smile of genuine affection, and in that moment, he felt a pang of something akin to pity. She saw affection, where he saw a strategic chess piece. She saw connection, where he saw a means to an end.

"It's beautiful, John," she whispered, her eyes shining. She leaned across the table, a quick, light kiss to his cheek. "Thank you. Really. It's perfect."

John forced a smile, the taste of champagne suddenly flat on his tongue. “May I?”

He got up and delicately fastened it around her neck, making sure to slightly brush her skin. He allowed himself a fleeting thought of the dangerous game he was playing, the threads he was weaving.

She turned to him with a smile, the silver nestling against her skin. "I'll never take it off."

He had succeeded. The tracker was on. He had her in his sights. And the hollow feeling deepened.

Hours later, in the first quiet hour of the morning, a hum rattled across the silent bedroom, where John lay awake and alone. He didn’t need the location spelled out. The message said enough.

Come if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.

Coordinates. No signature. Unknown number. But John knew the cadence of it, the blade-sharp brevity — nobody else could say everything in so few words and leave out all the rest.

The place was a carcass of a building, slumped into itself like a dying animal, walls scabbed with mildew, shattered glass crunching under every step. The smell was a collision of rot, stale urine, and despair — a place where people went to vanish, to cut themselves off from the world, to bleed quietly into the silence.

He found Sherlock on the floor, slumped against a filthy wall, legs stretched out in an ungraceful sprawl, a patch of weak light from a broken window catching on the angles of his face. A dark bruise sat under one cheekbone like a punctuation mark. Around him, other ghosts shuffled in and out of the gloom, but none close enough to matter.

John stopped breathing for half a second. He knew this was the plan. Knew it was performance. And still it twisted something deep and ugly in his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” John breathed, dropping into a crouch. “You said you’d fake it, not live it.”

Sherlock tilted his head, slow, that eerie puppetry he could do. A tiny curl of a smile ghosted across his lips. “Authenticity,” he rasped, voice sandpapered and unsteady.

Whether it was a joke or a challenge John didn’t laugh. He reached for Sherlock’s wrist, fingers pressed into the pulse there, quick and erratic under cold skin.

“Pulse is elevated,” John noted, voice clipped.

“Adrenaline,” Sherlock answered distantly, as if reciting a line from a book. “Controlled.”

“Yeah? Well, you look like shit.”

Sherlock’s exhale was slow, measured, almost triumphant. “Perfect.”

“Perfect, my arse,” John snapped. “You’re pissing in a jar, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, wounded pride flashing across that too-sharp face. “John—”

“No. Enough,” John cut in, already shifting closer, one arm bracing under Sherlock’s shoulders to try and get him on his feet. “If this is all fake like you claim, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock winced as he stood, legs a little too unsteady for John’s liking. “You're ruining the illusion.”

“Good,” John ground out, adjusting his grip, “because the illusion is ruining you.”

Sherlock had no reply. His gaze slid away, glassy and far too distant, and he mumbled something under his breath about trajectory and convincing displays as John half-carried him through the broken doorway.

At Bart’s, Molly was already waiting, alerted by John’s call, arms folded, eyes blazing even before they stepped through the lab doors.

John didn’t waste a second. “I need a full tox screen,” he barked. “And I want to see the results myself.”

Sherlock made a thin, dismissive sound. “I’m not a suspect, John.”

John spun on him. “You’re acting like one.”

Their eyes locked, a furious stalemate, neither willing to look away.

Sherlock broke it first, voice dropping, cold but small. “Are you worried I’ll relapse?”

“I don’t know,” John answered, the honesty tearing out of him like a wound. “You tell me.”

Molly reappeared, a printout in one hand, her other hand clenched tight enough to shake. She didn’t hand the results to John. Instead, she stared right at Sherlock, as if trying to bore through the skin to the soul underneath.

“Well?” John demanded, gentler this time, a raw note in it. “Is he clean?”

Molly’s mouth went tight, white at the corners. “Clean?” she repeated, a bitter laugh catching at the word. Then, before anyone could blink, she stepped forward and slapped Sherlock across the face, the sound cracking through the lab like a gunshot.

Sherlock reeled back a half-step, startled. John startled too, shock flooding him, and if he was honest with himself — a dark, guilty part of him — he’d wanted to do the same.

Molly’s voice shook, loaded with grief and rage in equal measure. “Say you’re sorry!” She demanded, her hands still trembling. “Say you’re sorry for wasting the beautiful gifts you were born with!”

Then she turned on her heel, lab coat swirling like a judgment, and was gone before either of them could speak.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 6

PRESSURE POINT

Sherlock bounded out of the cab, a blur of motion, leaving John to sigh and fumble for his wallet. “So, I'll just pay, shall I?” John called after him, knowing it was a rhetorical question.

Sherlock, already halfway to the door, paid him no mind. He was pointing, a rigid finger aimed at the brass knocker. “The knocker's been straightened,” he declared, his voice a low, intense murmur of observation.

“He always corrects it. OCD, doesn't even know he's doing it.” As if compelled by an invisible force, Sherlock reached out, his long fingers precise, and nudged the knocker back to its familiar, slightly crooked repose.

Sherlock and John came bursting through the door, where they found Mycroft sitting elegantly on the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock’s voice, sharp with a mixture of surprise and irritation, sliced through the air.

“I phoned him,” John said, stepping around Sherlock, his gaze steady.

“You phoned him?” Sherlock repeated, folding his arms like armour across his chest, the gesture less defensive than disbelieving. The idea that John would betray his carefully constructed privacy, especially to Mycroft, seemed to genuinely stun him.

“Of course I bloody did,” John snapped, his temper flaring, the words barely out before Mycroft’s dry, perfectly synchronized voice echoed his sentiment. “Of course he bloody did. Now save me a little time, where should I be looking?”

Sherlock eyed him. “You’re putting on weight. Your waistcoat is clearly newer than your jacket—”

Mycroft, a picture of elegant repose moments before, now stirred on the stairs. A rare flare of something akin to exasperation, or perhaps deeply buried concern, flickered in his eyes. “Stop this, just stop it. You’re a celebrity now, you can’t afford a drug habit. Or even the whisper of one.” He sighed, the sound heavy with a weary familiarity that spoke volumes of past battles. “Did you make a list?”

Sherlock scoffed, his eyes narrowing as he finally acknowledged Mycroft’s presence fully, the initial shock at John’s actions giving way to a familiar sibling antagonism. “Of what??”

“Everything, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, his voice chillingly calm, yet infused with an unmistakable thread of past trauma. “Everything you’ve taken.”

John looked worriedly from Sherlock’s rigid form to Mycroft’s unyielding face. “A list?” He interjected, a frown deepening on his brow. The very concept seemed alien to their usual understanding of Sherlock’s chaos.

Mycroft’s gaze, momentarily softening only for John, held a ghost of a distant, painful memory. “We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since… that day.” He explained, his voice low, almost a quiet burden. “Wherever I find him, in whatever back alley, or doss house, there will always be a list.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock exploded, the denial and fury finally bursting forth as he bounded up the stairs, leaving John and Mycroft to follow in his agitated wake. “I don’t have a drug habit!” Sherlock bit out, his jaw tight, every syllable dripping with a desperate, furious pride. “This isn’t what you think. It’s for a case.”

“What case could possibly justify this?” Mycroft’s question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusation.

Sherlock met his brother’s gaze evenly. “Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

The temperature in the room dropped, a sudden, palpable chill. Mycroft’s face, usually so composed, seemed to drain of colour, a bloodless pallor settling over his features.

“Magnussen is not your business.” He said, a raw fury simmering beneath his controlled exterior.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, with deliberate innocence, “you mean he’s yours?”

“You may consider him under my protection.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, a predatory gleam reflecting the challenge. “I consider you under his thumb.”

A long silence followed, thick and electric, charged with unspoken history and dangerous implications.

“If you go against Magnussen,” Mycroft said finally, his voice quiet but razor-sharp, each word a precise incision, “then you’ll find yourself going against me.”

Sherlock’s smile was all teeth, a flash of pure, defiant malice. “You’re afraid of him.”

“I’m aware of him,” Mycroft said coolly.

John, watcher as ever during sibling banters, caught the strain in Mycroft’s throat, a tension in his shoulders that didn’t release. He’d never seen Mycroft truly concerned, if only about Sherlock’s safety.

Mycroft exhaled slowly, a long, weary breath, then turned to leave. He paused at the threshold, umbrella in hand, his voice clipped but remarkably soft, almost a whisper of warning. “You should be careful, Sherlock. You think you’re playing him, but people like Magnussen don’t play. They own.” He didn’t wait for a reply, merely offered a final, simmering stare before turning and reaching for the doorknob.

Silence settled between the two men, thick and heavy with unspoken questions. They looked at each other, the weight of the last few minutes pressing down on them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went straight to the bathroom. “Well. That was dramatic.”

“You’re really doing this?” John asked, quieter than he meant.

Sherlock raised a brow. “Would you prefer I wait until he collects more leverage on my client?”

John didn’t answer. He just gave a short nod and sat down, listening as the bathroom door clicked shut. Then the sound of water. John stared at the wall, but his gaze was vacant, seeing nothing beyond the swirling anxieties in his own mind. The knot in his shoulders, a persistent companion through the recent chaos, refused to yield. Now, with Mycroft's cutting presence gone and the immediate crisis seemingly averted, his thoughts circled back to the raw, unsettling edge of Sherlock's performance. How easily he’d made himself look ruined.

And now, Sherlock was in the other room, water running down his body, steam coiling around all those sharp, dangerous edges, washing away the grime of his deliberate disarray. Vulnerable. The word, unbidden, hung heavy in the air, conjuring an image John tried desperately not to form. A Sherlock stripped bare, not just of clothing, but of his meticulous self-preservation. Vulnerable in a way John tried hard not to imagine, a vulnerability that pulled at something raw and protective within him, a fiercely tender instinct he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, especially not for Sherlock.

Except he was imagining it. Of course he was. Every line, every shadow, every drop of water clinging to pale skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles white as he clenched a fist in his lap, the fight against the intrusive thoughts a losing battle.

Not much later, Sherlock was pacing, a restless figure cutting through the sitting room. His damp hair, darker now, clung to his forehead, framing a face still bearing the faint imprint of exhaustion, despite the recent ablution. He was fresh from the shower, a fact that was both undeniable and excruciatingly clear in the faint scent of soap and warm skin that now permeated the air.

John tried not to notice. He failed.

“So, Magnussen.” He said, if only to shift the focus. “That’s the guy we’re going to go and see?”

Sherlock spoke quickly, mind racing.

“He is the Napoleon of blackmail. He knows everything about everyone. No conscience. No boundaries. He will use anything to control people.” He stopped, looking for John. “I’ve dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

John shifted his weight, frowning. “You think it worked?”

“Of course it did. I needed to appear dirty. Addicts are easier to manipulate. He doesn’t trust clean men. I gave him exactly what he was looking for.”

A knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson peered out, a palpable nervousness, her usually rosy face pale. “Someone’s for you Sherlock,” she whispered, her voice tight with thinly veiled fear.

Through the now-open doorway, three figures materialized, vast and imposing in dark, tailored suits. Private security. One peeled off to systematically check windows and doors, while the other two advanced directly on John and Sherlock, their intent unmistakable: to frisk them.

Charles Augustus Magnussen stood in the doorway, smiling with bland amusement. His presence didn't just fill the threshold; it seemed to shift the very air in the room, a pervasive fog of entitlement and absolute control. He didn't enter like a guest. He entered like an owner, every casual movement an unspoken claim.

“I understood we were meeting at your office,” Sherlock’s voice cut through the burgeoning tension, calm but clipped.

Magnussen's gaze, calm and strangely indifferent, drifted from the room to Sherlock, then away again, as if none of it truly held his interest. He offered the faintest, almost imperceptible shrug, his eyes already drifting as he strolled forward. “This is my office,” he declared, the words dropping into the space with the weight of undisputed fact. A small, dismissive gesture towards his impassive security team followed. “Well, it is now.”

John frowned, a silent question passing between them, but Sherlock gave him a subtle nod: Just bear it. Endure.

Without preamble, Magnussen scooped a few papers from the cluttered table, then wandered over to the sofa, dropping onto it as though it were his own, the cushions sighing beneath his weight.

Sherlock, remarkably, remained composed. “Mr. Magnussen?”

Magnussen glanced up, a bare flicker of attention in his otherwise placid eyes.

“I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood,” Sherlock began, his voice clear and formal, “on the matter of her husband's letters.”

Magnussen simply stared. His eyes were blank, unblinking pools, and the half-smile on his face remained serene, never quite reaching them. He shifted the thick glasses on his nose, a slight adjustment, almost a preening gesture. His presence, even in repose, felt like a silent, growing pressure in the small flat.

“Some time ago, you brought pressure on her, concerning those letters,” Sherlock continued, undeterred by the man's unsettling stillness. “Given that the enquiry into your newspapers that she was then conducting has now foundered, she has asked me to negotiate with you. She would like the letters back.”

Still no response. Only that tranquil, unsettlingly blank expression.

“Lady Smallwood has empowered me to act on her behalf,” Sherlock pressed on, a subtle increase in his own intensity.

Nothing.

“Obviously, the letters are no longer of any practical use to you, so with that in mind—”

Abruptly, Magnussen barked a laugh, a harsh, unexpected sound that scraped against the quiet. It was a private, self-satisfied amusement that didn't invite company.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, cold and assessing. “Something I said?”

“No. I was reading.” He adjusted his spectacles, a smirk touching his lips, thin and cruel. “And frankly, Mr. Holmes…” He chuckled again, a low, rumbling sound. “You’re so restrained. Very boring. One would expect a mind like yours to have a more unconventional appetite. Or perhaps you keep that well hidden?”

Sherlock stiffened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. His gaze flickered, imperceptibly, towards John, before settling back on Magnussen with renewed intensity, like a mask being pulled more firmly into place.

John, who had been observing the unsettling chess match, felt a jolt. He looked at Sherlock, a flash of pure curiosity igniting his eyes before shame immediately washed over him. He felt his cheeks warm, caught between an almost clinical interest and a sudden, fierce protectiveness.

“Sorry, you were probably talking.”

“I was trying to explain that I am acting on behalf of—”

“Bathroom?” Magnussen interrupted, without lifting his gaze from the papers.

“Opposite the kitchen, sir,” the security man supplied promptly.

Sherlock paused, momentarily disarmed by the sheer audacity of the interruption, but quickly recovered his equilibrium. “I have been asked to negotiate for the return of the letters. I am aware that you do not make copies of any sensitive—”

“Is it like the rest of the flat?” Magnussen asked, his voice laced with a faint, sardonic curiosity.

“Sir?” the security man replied, clearly confused.

“The bathroom?”

The security man nodded, his expression remaining bewildered.

“Maybe not, then. You Brits, what's the secret—no shame, or no sense of smell?” Magnussen mused, a faint sneer now evident.

Sherlock pressed on, his voice a relentless tide against the bizarre currents of the conversation. “I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents, so as not to compromise their singular value. The return of the letters would be a significant step then. Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?”

Magnussen studied him for a long moment. “Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I like her.” He smacked his lips grotesquely, a sound that brought an unwelcome image to John's mind.

“Mr. Magnussen,” Sherlock insisted, his voice hardening, “am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?”

Magnussen merely sat there for a moment, contemplating, his face a mask of inscrutable calm. Then, without a word, he raised a foot and, with a casual shove, sent the coffee table skidding across the floor.

“You know why I like her?” he said, his voice a low, almost intimate rumble. “She's English with a spine. It's like a genetic experiment.”

He rose and wandered to the fireplace, his movements unhurried, owning the space with every step. He flicked a finger at the mantelpiece, a silent command. Instantly, the security man moved, pulling the fire-guard away.

“The best thing about the English,” Magnussen pontificated, his gaze sweeping over Sherlock and John, “you’re so domesticated. All standing around, apologising, keeping your little heads down.” And then, with a casual, shocking disregard, he unzipped his trousers. The immediate, unmistakable sound of urine sizzling against the coals in the grate filled the room.

John stood frozen, a statue of barely contained fury, his face a livid, brick-red. Sherlock's expression, by contrast, remained utterly cold, utterly unchanging, a perfect mask of disinterest.

“You can do what you like here, doesn't matter,” Magnussen continued, his voice echoing in the small room, “no one’s ever going to stop you. A nation of herbivores.” He sighed contentedly, the steady stream continuing. “I have interests all over the world, but everything starts in England. If it works here, I try it in a real country.”

He finished, zipping up with a final flourish, and turned. His security man, anticipating the need, stepped forward with a packet of wet wipes. Magnussen plucked a couple out, cleaning his hands meticulously, then tossed the soiled tissues carelessly onto the floor. “The United Kingdom—petri dish to the Western World.”

He pulled a thick sheaf of papers, clearly the letters, from his jacket. “Tell Lady Elizabeth,” he said, his voice devoid of any real malice, “I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them. Goodbye.” He smirked, holding the papers up for a brief, infuriating moment. “Anyway. They're funny.”

He turned and began to walk towards the door.

“If you had no intention of negotiating with me,” Sherlock's voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding, “why are you here?”

Magnussen paused by the doorway, a subtle shift in his expression, his eyes resting on Sherlock with that unsettling, blank appraisal. His voice dropped slightly, taking on a purring quality, low and utterly devoid of warmth. “You're Sherlock Holmes, you're famous. I'm interested.”

“In what?”

“In you. I've never had a detective before.” He held Sherlock's gaze, the implication hanging heavily, deliberately. And then he was gone, his men trailing silently behind him, leaving behind the stench of urine and the lingering chill of his presence.

John felt a cold fury unfurl in his gut. His hands clenched, and he took an involuntary step forward, the urge to lash out at the smug, predatory man almost overwhelming. He stared at the empty doorway, seething, his hands clenched into fists. “Jesus!” he exploded, the single word a raw expulsion of disgust and barely suppressed rage.

Sherlock, however, remained unnervingly still, his eyes fixed on the spot where Magnussen had stood. “Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?”

John whipped his head around, his face incredulous. “There was a moment that kind of stuck in the mind, yeah.”

“Exactly—when he let us see the letters!” Sherlock's voice held a sudden, almost manic energy.

“...Okay,” John said slowly, trying to process.

“He's brought them to London, whatever he says, he's ready to deal!” Sherlock declared, his mood shifting entirely, a cheerful, brisk confidence replacing his earlier tension. He moved with a renewed burst of energy, pulling on his coat.

“Magnussen won't deal with anyone until he's found their weakness… pressure point, he calls it. Clearly, he believes I'm a drug addict and no serious threat. And of course, since he's in town tonight, that means the letters will be in the safe in his London office, while he goes to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain, from seven till ten.”

“You want us to infiltrate his office? And how do you plan on doing that?” John asked, trying to inject some caution into Sherlock's sudden zeal.

Sherlock stopped, turning, the brightness in his eyes dimming abruptly, replaced by a familiar, stubborn glint.

“Not us,” he stated, the word a wall between them. “Me.”

John blinked, still rattled by the stench, unsure whether he had heard correctly. He stared at Sherlock, cold disbelief blooming in his chest. “You don't want me to come?”

Sherlock hesitated, his gaze flickering away, a silent war playing out behind his eyes. “It could be dangerous, John.”

John felt an icy dread unfurl, tightening around his heart. His voice dropped, raw with accusation. “I thought we agreed on this matter. Never again.”

Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable, like a man caught in a lie he hadn't fully acknowledged. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere this time, just—”

“You're not going alone,” John cut in, each word a desperate hammer blow. “Do you want me to remind you what happened last time you left me behind?”

Sherlock's features tightened, a sharp intake of breath. The vivid, visceral memory of John’s fingers in his hair crashed through him, pulling a low, aching longing from deep within. He cleared his throat, the sound strained. “Yes, fine. See you there?”

“Wait for me.” John's voice was quiet, but infused with an ironclad resolve.

***

“Remind me how we’re getting in?” John muttered under his breath, adjusting the collar of his jacket, the thin fabric feeling inadequate against the sudden chill of the night. He kept pace beside Sherlock, whose very presence seemed to hum with an unnatural tension.

“Human error,” Sherlock replied flatly, a quick, almost imperceptible flash of a forged ID badge at the security camera. He strode towards the towering glass doors of Magnussen’s HQ with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. “Every system has a flaw. The flaw is always people.”

The lone guard at the desk glanced up, then back down. Sherlock didn’t break stride, his gaze already ahead. The badge passed the scanner with a pleasant ding. John followed, heart thrumming against his ribs, hands already curling into tight fists deep in his coat pockets. The cold, polished lobby felt vast, impersonal, holding its breath.

Up the lift they glided, past floor after floor of muted lights and closed doors, the ascent eerily silent, like a coffin rising. The higher they rose, the more John’s nerves tightened, bristling with the familiar static of impending action. Sherlock was in one of his states, John noted, watching his profile: sharp, electric, a live wire, utterly unreadable, every thought coiled and ready to strike.

The lift doors opened with a whisper.

Magnussen’s floor was immaculate. Sleek. Polished like a museum.

“Place gives me the creeps,” John murmured.

“Good,” Sherlock said. “Means it’s working.”

A cold knot formed in John’s stomach. No one was waiting for them. No alarms, no armed security, no glint of movement down the long, glassed corridors. Nothing. It was wrong. Too easy.

Then he saw her. Slumped beside her desk, a young woman, unconscious.

“Magnussen’s PA,” Sherlock stated, already halfway down the hall.

John hurried to her, dropping to one knee. “She’s alive,” he confirmed, quick, professional, his fingers already at her pulse, noting the shallow breathing. “Drugged, maybe.”

He looked up, but Sherlock was already gone, vanished around the next bend, drawn deeper into the office like a predator on a scent.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, the name sharp with an edge of fear. “Wait—”

“Stay with her John,” Sherlock had said before vanishing beyond the next set of doors.

John turned back to the woman, checked her breathing again. Steady. Safe, for now. He looked from the vulnerable woman to the empty, silent corridor, the hush pressing down on his chest like a physical weight. He had to find Sherlock. The thought was a frantic drumbeat in his head. Danger. Sherlock was a magnet for it. John shoved his phone into his pocket, heart thudding a frantic rhythm, and moved.

He ventured into Magnussen’s sterile, glass-and-steel domain, the quiet hum of the building mocking his rising panic. The hallway led to a larger, open-plan room, and as he reached it—

John stopped cold.

The sight hit him like a physical blow. Blood. Bright, immediate, a blossoming stain across Sherlock’s white shirt, spreading dark and fast, soaking the fabric. His body was twisted, impossibly still, legs slack, collapsing. He wasn’t moving. Beyond him, Magnussen stood, hands raised in mocking innocence, utterly untouched.

Halfway out the door a blur of a figure, but John recognized her. Gun already in hand, every muscle told him to run after her, every instinct screamed for it. But then Sherlock made a sound, a choked, raw gasp… and John’s world shifted. He ran to him, dropped to his knees with a jarring thud.

“Sherlock! Can you hear me — stay with me!”

Sherlock’s skin was getting paler by the minute.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” John said, pressing hard against the wound, his eyes frantically scanning for entry and exit points, assessing the damage. “Just hold on. Please.”

Magnussen stood quietly watching, like a man at the theatre, a connoisseur of suffering, silent and amused. John didn’t spare him a single glance. His world had narrowed to the frantic beat of Sherlock’s pulse under his fingers, the slick, horrifying heat of his blood. With his free hand, he fumbled for his phone, and found it.

“Ambulance, now!” He bit out, the words more prayer than command, ragged with terror.

“Hold on,” he breathed again, his gaze locked fiercely on Sherlock’s paling face. “Don’t you dare. You don’t get to leave me. Not again. Not ever again.”

He just kept pressure on the wound. Kept whispering, a litany of defiance against the encroaching darkness. Kept praying with every desperate beat of his own heart, because Sherlock Holmes wasn’t going to die on a cold, sterile office floor. Not while John Watson still breathed.

***

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, the world swimming into a blurry wash of white light filtering through gauze-curtained windows. The ache exploded a moment later, a heavy, blooming pain in his chest, dull and relentless, pulling him back from the comfortable darkness. He blinked, slowly, until vision sharpened: white ceiling, a thin, unfamiliar blanket, monitors at his side humming a steady, artificial rhythm.

A shadow stood by the window, in the far corner of the sterile room. Mycroft.

Sherlock watched him through half-lidded eyes, too weak to even form a thought, let alone speak. His brother stood with that impossible straight back, hands clasped behind him, a statue of British government efficiency. Mycroft turned, slowly, alerted by some faint, unconscious shift from the bed. Their eyes met, and Sherlock faltered. His brother’s expression, usually a perfectly constructed mask of indifference, was utterly stripped bare: exhausted, lines etched deep, dark with something that looked devastatingly close to grief.

“You’re awake,” Mycroft said, his voice softer than Sherlock had ever heard it, brittle around the edges, like spun glass.

Sherlock tried to speak, but his throat was raw, parched. He managed only a faint nod.

Mycroft stepped forward, hesitating only slightly before reaching down, movements uncharacteristically unsure, to adjust the blanket over Sherlock’s chest. An awkwardness, a tenderness, Sherlock had never seen before.

“The surgery lasted hours,” Mycroft continued, his gaze drifting to the monitors. “You got... very close, Sherlock.” His voice cracked, audibly, on the name. He cleared his throat, recovering himself with an almost violent effort, and dragged a chair beside the bed. He sat stiffly, fingers curled against his knees, shoulders hunched just slightly.

“He was here the whole time. John,” he clarified, almost needlessly. “We waited together. He didn’t move, barely spoke. Just watched that damn door like it owed him something. When you finally stabilized, he made me promise not to leave you alone. And then… he left. To resolve something.”

“Mary,” Sherlock rasped, the name a painful whisper.

Mycroft gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Never quite seen the good doctor so... un-good. He found her. Tracked her down.” Mycroft paused, the silence heavy. “He didn't kill her.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched, a sharp, ragged gasp. Not in surprise. Something closer to a painful, profound relief that John, given every reason, every right, had still, ultimately, chosen not to pull the trigger. Sherlock knew him capable of it. Knew the dark edges of his past. And John had still chosen light.

“She’s in MI6 custody now,” Mycroft said. “John will return once the paperwork’s settled.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily, eyes closing for a long, slow breath, letting the information settle. Then opening again, fixing on his brother.

“You blame yourself,” he said hoarsely, the words measured, a statement of fact.

Mycroft didn’t speak right away. His jaw tightened, his face hardening into that familiar impassive mask—then cracking, just slightly, at the corner of his mouth, a raw vulnerability.

“You’re my little brother, Sherlock,” he said, the words barely audible, stripped of all pretence. “This should never have happened. Any of it.”

Sherlock turned his head towards him, the burning behind his own eyes preventing any retort, any cutting remark. For once, he was unwilling to make fun of him. Mycroft looked tired, so much older than usual, like someone had peeled away the mask of omniscience and left only the raw, grieving man beneath.

He ran a hand down his face, a rare, unguarded gesture. “You should never have been in that office. She meant to kill him—and if you hadn’t been there, she might’ve done it. And spared us both this.” He gestured vaguely, his hand sweeping across the wires, the humming machines, the blossoming bruises under Sherlock’s skin.

“It’s my fault.” Mycroft said, voice low. “I should’ve told you. From the start. About Magnussen. About what he knew.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking at him then, a question in his gaze that needed no voice. Mycroft hesitated, then met his gaze.

“I wanted you home and I made sure we’d have a reason for it. I was careful, but he found out. I ignore how much he knows, but enough to give me trouble. If it becomes public... I’ll face treason charges. Life imprisonment.”

Silence stretched between them, heavier, more honest than any argument they’d ever had.

“I wanted you home so you wouldn’t risk your life…” Mycroft’s voice broke, sharp and raw. “Only to have you bleeding out on a floor here in London.”

Sherlock turned his head away, eyes burning with a complex mix of anger, understanding, and a strange, unwelcome tenderness. “You didn’t have to bring me back.”

“Of course I did,” Mycroft said, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual steel, but still laced with something fiercely protective. “Despite your insufferable habits, you're my little brother. And your loss would break my heart.”

***

Sherlock wasn’t fully asleep when the door clicked open, just suspended in that gauzy half-world of drifting pain and sedated thought. The scent of antiseptic still clung to his skin, sterile and cold. The last thing he remembered was Mycroft being embarrassingly affectionate, which didn’t suit him. But this time, he knew, before even opening his eyes, that whoever entered wasn’t medical staff. Not Mycroft, or John.

He blinked sluggishly. The room was blurry, bright with too many flowers, a grotesque display of care that made his stomach twist. A figure moved among them, the glitter of gold-rimmed spectacles catching Sherlock’s eyes.

“They’re not all from me,” the man said softly, conversational. He moved closer, the wheels of a chair hissing as he sat next to the bed. “But I do approve the aesthetic.”

He smiled, dragging his fingers along Sherlock’s limp hand, lifting it like a prized artifact, as he turned it between his palms. Sherlock felt too weak to flinch. A terrible assumption of ownership.

“I covet your hands, Mr. Holmes,” Magnussen murmured. “Elegant. A musician’s hands, an artist’s.”

He pressed a slow, wet kiss to the back of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock recoiled with what little strength he had, breath shallow and sharp in his throat.

“A woman’s,” Magnussen teased, shooting him a mischievous look. Sherlock pulled his hand away.

“Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You’ll get used to it.”

Sherlock glared, vision swimming, but Magnussen just smiled wider, like a cat toying with something already broken.

“She came to kill me,” he said lightly, “that woman. She shot you instead, left me untouched. Curious, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t tell the police who she is. Why would I? Information like that is currency. And I never give away anything for free.”

Sherlock stared at him, jaw set, heart hammering. The physical pain in his chest, a dull throb, was nothing compared to the cold, infernal fury growing underneath, desperate to claw its way out.

Magnussen leaned forward, closing the distance, into Sherlock’s ear. “Want to know your pressure point?”

“The drugs thing I never believed for a moment.” His voice dropped, soft and cruel. “But look how you care about John Watson. You should see the look on your face when he’s in danger. Or worse… when you’re bleeding and he’s the one watching.”

He adjusted his glasses, the slight shift a movement of casual dominance. “Your medical records were a treasure trove. Do you remember what you said while you were under anaesthesia? I do.” His gaze was unwavering, piercing right through Sherlock's walls.

Sherlock’s fingers curled weakly into the sheets, the fabric bunched uselessly in his grasp.

“You said his name,” Magnussen said, with a look of mock sympathy, twisting the knife. “Over and over.”

“I read people, Sherlock Holmes, not files,” Magnussen continued, his voice a slow, deliberate pronouncement. “You’re all little libraries, walking around unguarded. And you,” he leaned in, conspiratorially, his breath ghosting Sherlock’s ear, “are the filthiest romance novel I’ve ever skimmed. Dense with longing, repressed and predictable.”

He reached forward, brushed something off Sherlock’s chest. Imaginary, most likely, but the touch was a violation.

“With everything I know, I could make you dance for me like a monkey.”

Then, in a whisper that seemed to sink into Sherlock’s very bones: “And more.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, the sound sharp and final in the sudden silence, Sherlock felt himself shaking uncontrollably, unsure whether from the sheer, impotent fury or the cold, creeping tendrils of fear. His heart ached, not from the physical wound, but from everything else – the horrifying intimacy of Magnussen’s knowledge, the utter helplessness. He hadn’t felt this powerless in years, stripped bare and vulnerable, and it wasn’t the bullet that frightened him. It was how much Magnussen knew, how deeply he saw, and how much he enjoyed knowing it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7

COMING TO TERMS

The light in the room was low, softened by the thick curtains, painting the hospital white a gentle grey. Machines hummed a steady rhythm beside the bed, calm and clinical, a lullaby to the damaged. Sherlock lay propped up slightly, pale against the sheets, eyes open, mind racing, every thought a frantic circuit. Magnussen’s visit had left a residue, the kind that clung to the skin long after the source was gone. The kiss to the hand – deliberate, threatening, a vile claiming. He could still feel the dampness against his knuckles, the cold imprint of a predator’s mouth. This was the point, wasn't it? Magnussen touched to prove ownership, to demonstrate power over a broken thing. He wielded discomfort the way others wielded guns.

Sherlock had endured worse. He reminded himself of that with a practiced, desperate self-deception. And still, it wasn’t the touch that unsettled him most. It was what Magnussen knew. Sherlock had spent years hiding it from himself, even longer pretending from others. But Magnussen had seen it, clear as a fingerprint. He’d studied Sherlock’s dependency, his profound, terrifying fear of loss, his unspoken longing. And he’d weaponized it with chilling precision.

Moriarty had too, he reminded himself, the bitter taste of that old truth rising.

I’ll burn the heart out of you.

I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.

We both know that’s not quite true.

Had he always been so transparent? When he hadn’t known himself yet?

He pressed his palms into his eyes, seeking the comfort of darkness, but even that failed him. He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but Magnussen’s words had shattered something inside him, broken a careful seal. His mind palace was cracked open now, forced to make room for memories that had lived only at the edges, whispered, unnamed, ignored for so long. It was a silent, searing, personal humiliation, that both his greatest enemies had named his heart before Sherlock could.

He stared up at the ceiling, unmoving, until the door opened softly and John walked in.

John stood there for a moment, a silhouette against the hall light, hesitant, as if stepping into a fragile space. Then he moved, lowering himself into the chair beside the bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Sherlock didn’t look at him right away, the instinct to protect himself overriding everything else. He was too afraid his face might say too much. Or worse, not enough.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up,” John said, his voice low, rough with an exhaustion that ran bone-deep. Each word felt carefully chosen, hesitant.

Sherlock’s head turned toward him fully, taking him in. “Mycroft told me.”

John nodded, a silent acknowledgment. Shadows sat heavy beneath his eyes, bruised and dark. His shirt was wrinkled, the same as the day before, clinging to his frame. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and Sherlock suspected he hadn’t.

“I’m glad,” Sherlock said after a moment, the words a fragile offering, surprising even himself with their sincerity, “that you didn’t kill her.”

John’s eyes lifted, sharp and burning, cutting through the dimness. “The first time I killed for you,” he said, voice tightening, pulled taut with memory and a furious protectiveness, “we’d known each other for a few days.”

Sherlock didn’t blink.

John’s voice dropped lower, rawer. “Didn’t hesitate in Serbia either. I was ready to do it again. For you. Always.”

It hit Sherlock harder than he expected. Not the words themselves — he’d known John’s capacity for violence — but the sheer loyalty behind them. The way it burned through the quiet, filling the sterile room with a blazing, terrifying heat. It reminded him of the very first time he’d deduced it… the cabbie, the gun, John’s precision. The knowing. How quickly it had all started. How violently, inextricably, it had stayed.

“I don’t want another body on your conscience because of me,” Sherlock whispered, weakly.

“She shot you,” John bit out, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. His carefully worn mask shattered, the controlled weariness giving way to a sudden, wrenching grief. He dropped his head into his hands, tears sliding between his fingers, glistening wetly in the dim light.

“You flatlined, Sherlock,” he said hoarsely, the words muffled by his hands, thick with unshed sobs. “You died. Again. I lost you. Again.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched, a physical, painful spasm. He felt the unexpected heat rise behind his own eyes, tears forming under his lashes, mirroring John’s grief. He reached out, blindly, fingers trembling, desperate to bridge the chasm that had opened between them, one of shared, overwhelming terror.

“John.” He managed, barely above a whisper, the name a raw confession, a plea.

John caught his hand with both of his, held it tight, a desperate anchor. It felt grounding, real, his skin warm and alive against Sherlock’s own cold, clammy touch. Sherlock shuddered at the staggering difference. This wasn’t Magnussen’s violating ownership. This was John’s fierce, unwavering, undying loyalty.

“I can’t keep losing you,” John said, barely above a whisper.

“You won’t,” Sherlock said, pulling John closer in a tight, awkward embrace neither of them had seen coming, Sherlock’s good arm wrapped around John’s neck, pulling him into his hospital bed, holding him as tightly as his injuries allowed. John’s face was pressed into his shoulder, wet with tears, breathing in Sherlock's scent, a confirmation that he was real and alive.

There were no clever deductions, no cases to solve. Just two men, breathing through the raw aftermath of shared trauma, clinging to each other as if nothing else in that shattered world mattered.

***

Later that day, Mycroft joined them. He moved with a quiet severity, standing at the foot of Sherlock’s hospital bed, his usual imperious posture slightly softened, perhaps by genuine concern, perhaps by the presence of John, still slumped exhausted in the chair beside Sherlock. His eyes flicked once to the morphine drip, but if he had any biting commentary, he mercifully kept it to himself.

“I suppose you will both want the truth,” he began, his voice even but lacking its usual polished detachment, a hint of something grave beneath the surface.

Sherlock tilted his head, reading every minute shift in his brother’s posture, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw. John shifted beside the bed, tense, as though bracing for a new blow, his hand still resting, unconsciously, on Sherlock’s arm.

“The woman you know as Mary Morstan,” Mycroft continued, his gaze sweeping over them both, “is in fact Rosamund Moran. A freelance operative who, for some time, acted as Moriarty’s primary sniper.”

Mycroft’s eyes softened, just slightly, as they settled on John, carrying a flicker of something Sherlock could almost interpret as pride, or relief. “Thanks to you she is now in custody. I must admit, it was a smart move, John.”

John shrugged it off, his fingers unconsciously tracing a pattern on Sherlock's hospital sheet. “Well, you gave me the tracker, didn’t you?”

“A resource well spent,” Mycroft acknowledged, with a nod that almost felt like a bow, a rare show of respect.

“Care to elaborate?” Sherlock interjected, his brow rising, the detective’s curiosity overriding his pain.

“I gifted her a pendant with a tracker inside.” John explained. “She’s been wearing it since.”

Sherlock looked up at him, stunned. “Clever.”

“I found her within hours. MI6 were already closing in thanks to the signal. I shot her in the leg, so she couldn’t run.” John’s voice was clipped, precise, but he paused again, breathing unsteadily. “I wanted to kill her.” The admission was raw.

Sherlock felt something twist painfully inside his chest, though he couldn’t name it — a complex knot of pride and gratitude, and inexplicable heartbreak for the visible toll it took on John.

Mycroft spoke gently, surprising both of them with the uncharacteristic softness. “It was good that you didn’t.”

“She nearly murdered Sherlock.” John hissed, his protective instinct flaring.

Mycroft nodded gravely, his gaze meeting John’s with a shared understanding. “And you nearly committed murder yourself. But you didn’t. That will matter later, John. Believe me.”

“She was Moriarty’s sniper then?” Sherlock asked.

“She joined a small rising network and went fully freelance, the group we know as AGRA.” Mycroft explained. “Rosamund Moran was the appointed sniper for John when you met Moriarty the first time—”

“At the pool?” John interjected, disbelief painting his face.

“Indeed. And then again when Sherlock jumped. She wasn’t expecting Moriarty to die, it was meant to be you,” he nodded to Sherlock. “When that didn’t happen, she went rogue.”

“Why did she target me?” John asked.

“You were a possible asset, a valuable leverage point. This was, apparently, part of Moriarty’s plan all along. To have her inserting herself into your life whether or not Sherlock survived. She took her time, but eventually got back to the original plan on her own terms.”

“To gain what?”

“Control. Of you, and therefore Sherlock down the line, and then possibly me as well.”

Sherlock studied them both, breathing carefully. “What happens to her now?”

“She is in MI6 custody,” Mycroft replied. “She will be interrogated, and then she will disappear. Permanently.”

John nodded, but there was no satisfaction in it, just a profound, aching exhaustion that seemed to weigh down his entire frame. “Fine by me.”

“If you have any questioning you’d like to do,” Mycroft said slowly, “I can arrange for that. When you’re up to it, of course.” He added, gesturing toward Sherlock.

Sherlock shifted weakly against the pillows, the physical pain a dull counterpart to the mental strain. “And Magnussen?”

Mycroft’s lips pulled thin, a familiar sign of deep frustration. “Nothing, for now. You need to recover.”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened, a flicker of his usual defiance. “He’s dangerous. We have to act now.”

Mycroft raised a hand, patient but stern, unyielding. “And what would that entail? As long as I remain still, he will not push. He enjoys the knowledge that he has bested me. That buys us time.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, a small, helpless sound. “And how long before he gets bored?”

Mycroft sighed, and for a flicker of a moment he looked genuinely old, the weight of his responsibilities etched on his face. “As of this moment, Sherlock, your safety is my priority.”

Sherlock sank back, defeated, a tremor running through him that had nothing to do with pain, everything to do with that suffocating, terrifying sensation of being powerless, a pawn in a game he couldn't play. He hated the feeling, even as part of him, the rational part, knew his brother was right.

Mycroft straightened his coat, re-establishing his usual composure. “Speaking of which,” he continued, more briskly, “I am arranging for a private nurse when you are discharged. You cannot possibly look after yourself—”

“I’ll do it.”

John’s voice cut through, decisive and warm, unshakeable.

Sherlock’s heart stuttered, a sudden, thrilling jolt.

Mycroft blinked, genuinely surprised, a rare crack in his facade. “John?”

John met Sherlock’s eyes, and something raw, blindingly honest, shone there – a fierce, unyielding devotion that defied logic. “I’m moving back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson’s already on board. I’ll take care of you.”

Sherlock’s breath caught, an unexpected heat rising behind his eyes, blurring his vision. Home. John was coming home. The word resonated deep in his chest, a profound relief.

“But what about your job?” Sherlock managed, his voice fragile, barely a whisper.

John shook his head, a sad, resigned smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ll leave it.”

Before Sherlock could protest, the sacrifice too immense, Mycroft interjected smoothly, a familiar, well-oiled intervention. “There’s no need for that. I can arrange a temporary post at St. Bart’s, they’ll hold the position until you’re ready to return.”

John exhaled, a visible easing of tension from his shoulders. “That would be great.”

Mycroft nodded crisply. “Then it’s settled.”

Sherlock stared at John, wanting to say a thousand things — gratitude, relief, a desperate, terrifying spark of something he still refused to name. But the words wouldn’t come. Couldn't. So, he held John’s gaze, letting it stand in for everything unspoken, every terrified hope, every profound sense of belonging.

***

The journey home from the hospital was quiet, almost painfully so, filled with the hum of the cab and the unspoken weight of what had just passed. John handled the arrangements, shepherding Sherlock through the bureaucratic fuss of discharge papers, prescriptions, signatures. Sherlock tolerated the fuss with tight-lipped impatience, too proud, too vulnerable, to admit he was still struggling just to stand upright. John kept a firm, grounding grip on his elbow, guiding him down corridors, out to the waiting cab, a silent promise of support.

Neither of them spoke until the familiar sight of Baker Street came into view, its worn brick a comforting, solid anchor in a world that had tried to fall apart.

Home. Sherlock thought, the word a warm ache in his chest, and stopped, staring at the familiar facade in quiet wonder. It would finally feel like home again with John at his side. Now to climb.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting, fluttering about like a protective sparrow, her concern a tangible warmth. She reached for Sherlock’s face the moment he crossed the threshold, half-laughing, half-crying, scolding him for being too thin, too pale, too everything. He let her fuss, much to John’s quiet amusement, even tolerated a brief, clumsy embrace, though he stood stiffly, unsure how to receive such open affection.

“You’ll be fine, dear,” she told him, patting his cheek, her voice thick with relief. “We’ll make sure of it.”

“We?” He asked, glancing sidelong at John, a thread of curiosity cutting through his exhaustion.

Mrs. Hudson beamed, a conspiratorial, knowing glint in her eye. “John’s back for good, of course. Can’t have you left to your own devices, now, can we?”

John’s throat worked around a reply he never said aloud, but his eyes spoke volumes, a silent, powerful vow: I’m not leaving you again.

The stairs were harder than Sherlock cared to admit, each step an agony, a fresh reminder of his shattered body. John hovered directly behind him, one hand at the ready in case he stumbled, a quiet, unwavering presence that felt simultaneously humiliating in its necessity and profoundly comforting in its steadfastness. Upstairs, the flat looked exactly as they’d left it. Dust had settled on the violin, a half-finished chemical experiment had long since gone crusted and stale, and the familiar scuff-marks on the floorboards were right where they should be. Sherlock sagged into his armchair with a long, shuddering exhale, a jolt of pain flaring bright and sharp in his chest. He closed his eyes, fighting past the wave of nausea and dizzying weakness.

“Pain?” John asked, instantly, crouching next to him, his voice low with immediate concern.

“Bearable,” Sherlock lied, the word a strained whisper.

John’s expression said he didn’t believe a word. But he only nodded, then busied himself putting away Sherlock’s medication, lining up pills with the meticulousness of a field medic, his movements calm and practiced. The silence stretched, thick with everything they’d been carrying, all the unspoken terror and relief.

“You alright?” Sherlock asked, surprising himself with how gentle, how genuinely concerned it sounded.

John didn’t answer at first.

“You scared me,” he said finally, voice quiet. “More than ever.”

Sherlock swallowed, throat dry, a cold knot forming in his stomach

John met his gaze, and Sherlock saw every ounce of pain and relief written across his face. “Don’t do that again.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “I’ll try.”

John let out a short, incredulous laugh, a burst of raw, relieved emotion. “Bastard,” he muttered, but with such profound, aching fondness that it made them both laugh, a fragile, shared sound in the quiet flat.

“I’ll get your bed made with fresh sheets, okay?” John offered gently, the practicality a deliberate breaking of the moment before it overwhelmed them both, before the tears could return.

Sherlock’s first instinct was to protest, the indignity of needing such care, but exhaustion, an overwhelming, bone-deep weariness, won out. He felt a sudden, unfamiliar flush creep up his neck, watching John move through his bedroom, opening drawers, sorting linens, his movements efficient, familiar. It was so intimate it nearly made him dizzy, a sensation both comforting and terrifying.

A caretaker, Sherlock thought, dazed. A friend. A... partner?

The last word felt impossibly heavy, dangerous. No, never that.

He tried to imagine asking John to stay close that night — for purely practical reasons, of course. The thought was alarmingly tempting, burning a subtle heat through his tired body. Besides, he reasoned, John’s room upstairs wouldn’t be ready yet. And if something happened in the night, he’d need help. Yes, plausible, Sherlock told himself, sinking deeper into the cushions of his armchair, trying to justify the raw, desperate wanting.

It wasn’t long before John returned from the bedroom, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed from fussing with blankets. He glanced at Sherlock, then to the bathroom door, a subtle, almost imperceptible hesitation crossing his face.

“You want to freshen up before bed?” John asked, his voice gentle, even clinical, and yet somehow careful, as if measuring each word, sensing Sherlock’s fragile state.

Sherlock shifted in his chair, feeling the dull ache deep in his ribcage, a constant throb. He did want to wash away the hospital’s smell, the sweat and grime of sickness, but the thought of standing unassisted was already daunting, the effort monumental.

John read the uncertainty in his silence, the subtle tightening around his eyes. “I’ll help you,” he offered, his voice softer now, a quiet, unwavering strength.

Sherlock swallowed, fighting the sudden, cold panic fluttering in his stomach. The idea of John seeing him — scarred, vulnerable, half-naked, a broken thing — made his heart pound, a frantic drum against his ribs. Far worse, though, was the thought of John touching him, his hands steady and kind and entirely unknowing. Because Sherlock knew with dreadful, horrifying certainty that if John’s hands touched his bare skin, even in complete innocence, something shameful, something utterly forbidden, would spark in him. A shiver of heat, of arousal, unwelcome and unbidden rising from his own body. And John would leave him.

Pathetic, a voice sneered in his head, a voice that sounded disturbingly like Magnussen.

He looked away, refusing to meet John’s gaze. “I can manage.”

John raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You can barely climb the stairs, Sherlock.”

“I’ll manage,” he repeated, sharper now, voice cracking on the last syllable.

John paused, searching his face, his expression softening with a mixture of understanding and resigned affection. Then he nodded slowly. “Okay,” he conceded, the word a gentle surrender. “But I’m staying just outside. If you even think about falling—”

“I know,” Sherlock cut in, too quickly, too defensively.

John gave him a look, a familiar look, half exasperated, half affectionate, and stepped aside to give him privacy. Sherlock pushed himself upright with a grimace, one arm protectively curled around his healing chest. Every muscle shook, a humiliating tremor. Ridiculous, he thought, teeth gritted. It’s only John. He’s seen worse.

But not this. Not him, cracked open, unguarded, all the masks left behind in a puddle on the bathroom tiles. He shuffled forward, shutting the bathroom door behind him with more force than needed, and braced himself against the sink, breathing hard. In the mirror, he looked… breakable. Pale, pinched, bandaged, nothing like the detective the world knew. Nothing like the man John had once called amazing.

What would he think if he touched you? If he knew what you really felt?

The question burned through him, hot and terrible, because he wanted it. Wanted John’s hands steadying him, wanted the safety of his voice, the warmth of his body so close it might swallow him whole. And God help him, he knew that this wanting, this need, would betray itself in ways neither of them was ready to name. With a shaking hand, he turned on the tap, splashing water against his face until the shame subsided, at least enough to breathe again.

On the other side of the door, John’s quiet presence waited. Sherlock could almost feel him there, a silent promise, an unmoving anchor, one that steadied him even through the roiling confusion and terror of his own body.

“You all right in there?” John called softly after a while, his voice gentle.

Sherlock swallowed, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Fine.”

For now, that lie would have to do.

He emerged from the bathroom moments later, skin still prickling from the humiliating heat of shame and want tangled in his chest. His legs trembled faintly with effort, but he wouldn’t let them fail him. He wouldn’t let John see him crumble again, not so soon.

John was already there, hovering by the doorway, gaze sharp and assessing. He stepped forward without waiting for permission, one hand at Sherlock’s elbow, the other bracing his back.

“Lean on me,” John said gently, his voice a quiet command.

Sherlock didn’t argue. The short distance to his bed felt endless, and he sank down with a gasp, arms clutched protectively around his ribs. John fussed for a moment, adjusting pillows, making sure the phone was within reach, checking the glass of water, every movement a testament to his ingrained care. Then he sat back on his heels, studying Sherlock’s face with a focus that felt like an intimate, knowing touch.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” John said at last, voice low. “It’s closer than my room.”

Sherlock’s breath caught. The words were perfectly reasonable, so practical, so John, and yet they were devastating. The idea of John sleeping only a few steps away, a tangible, physical presence in the flat, was a comfort so keen it bordered on pain, an unbearable sweetness. And yet some traitorous, greedy part of him wanted more, wanted John here, in this room, within arm’s reach, warm and solid and breathing beside him. The thought flared so hot it made his pulse jump, a frantic drum in his ears.

He almost spoke. The words — Stay. With me. Please — trembled on the back of his tongue, raw and aching. But they wouldn’t come. Couldn’t come. The shame, the fear of revealing his true need, choked them back.

John watched him carefully, something unspoken flickering in his own eyes, curiosity, worry, maybe a suspicion of what Sherlock wasn’t saying. He opened his mouth as if to ask, then closed it again, deciding better of it. Instead, he sighed, gently brushing a thumb across Sherlock’s wrist where the pulse still thudded a frantic rhythm. “All right?”

Sherlock nodded, a fraction too late. “Fine,” he managed, voice rough.

John’s lips quirked, not quite a smile, but almost. “If you need anything, shout. Or call. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

Sherlock nodded again. “Understood.”

John paused in the doorway, glancing back, reluctant to go, reluctant to stay. Then, with a resigned sort of affection, he pulled the door nearly shut, leaving a narrow strip of light from the hall, a thread connecting them.

Sherlock lay back, staring at the ceiling, his body thrumming with exhaustion and something far worse: longing. In the faint hush of the flat, he could hear John settling, the muffled thump of cushions, the sigh of weight easing down. That closeness, and yet that distance, burned him alive.

Closer, Sherlock thought miserably, heart twisting, but not close enough.

***

John lay on the sofa, blankets bunched awkwardly at his feet, the glow of the streetlamps painting thin slices of light across the ceiling. Sleep came slowly, dragged down by exhaustion and worry, until it finally pulled him under. The dream was instant, vicious, merciless. Sherlock on the floor. Blood spreading, too red, too fast.

Sherlock—

He was back at Bart’s, running across the pavement, seeing a body crumpled on the concrete, lifeless. He tried to reach him but his legs refused to move, rooted to the spot, a horrific paralysis. Then the scene shifted, and Sherlock lay in Magnussen’s office, chest blown apart, eyes staring blindly up at nothing.

Again.

John was screaming, he thought, a silent, internal shriek, but no sound came. All he could see was that lifeless, slack expression, the utter stillness that signified absence. It happened over and over — Moriarty’s chilling voice, Mary with her gun ready, Sherlock’s voice saying Goodbye, John — until John clawed himself awake with a hoarse gasp, heart hammering against his ribs, chest tight with a panic so sharp it made him dizzy, leaving him breathless.

The flat was silent except for the hush of night traffic outside, a jarringly normal sound after the terrors of his dream.

A soft voice, rough with sleep and pain, drifted from Sherlock’s bedroom, a lifeline. “John?”

John wiped a shaky hand over his face, swallowing against the tightness in his throat, fighting for control.

Sherlock’s alive and safe, he told himself, eyes closed to keep the tears at bay. Sherlock’s alive.

He forced a breath, managing to calm the frantic beat of his heart. “Yeah,” he managed, his voice still hoarse. “You’re alright?”

A faint rustle of sheets, then Sherlock’s voice again, smaller this time. “Fine. Are you?”

John almost laughed at the absurdity of that, a strangled little sound. “Fine. Just… go back to sleep.”

There was a pause. “John,” Sherlock whispered again, a crack in his usual confidence, “stay close.”

John blinked hard, pushing away tears. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A quiet awe settled over John, warring with the lingering terror. He’d always thought of himself as the broken one, the soldier carrying his scars, pushing down his pain until it inevitably burst through. Sherlock, in his brilliance and detachment, had been the one who healed him, the impossible, exhilarating force that made him feel more whole than he ever had before. He’d simply believed Sherlock was… unbreakable. Always had. Sherlock always wore his best armour, even in front of John, rarely showing a true chink. But now, in the aftermath of what had happened, John fully grasped the profound, terrifying extent of Sherlock’s trust. Sherlock was showing him the deepest, most wounded parts of himself. And with that revelation came a crushing, visceral fear.

He remembered Moriarty’s threat, almost ridiculous in its theatrical wording: burn the heart out of Sherlock. He wondered if Moriarty had succeeded, because his own heart had certainly been burned to the ground when Sherlock jumped off that roof. It had never stopped hurting, not even when hope had risen and given him the will to keep living. And now, fate, or perhaps just sheer, cruel coincidence, had seen Sherlock shot in the chest, so close to his heart. If Sherlock, his anchor, his impossible constant, could be this broken, this afraid, what would become of John if he ever lost him again? The thought was a cold knot in his stomach, a terrifying glimpse into an abyss he never wanted to face.

He waited for a response but none came. Slowly, John laid back down, eyes open, trying to listen to the sound of Sherlock’s breathing.

He found a rhythm in those first days, tending to Sherlock with the steadiness he was proud of. Waking early, making breakfast, checking bandages, counting pills into Sherlock’s palm. Sometimes Sherlock complained, mostly about the indignity of needing help, but he let John fuss over him in the end.

Sherlock, for his part, healed with agonizing slowness. The pain was constant, a dull saw through bone and muscle, flaring hot when he tried to move too quickly. But more unbearable was John’s nearness: John steadying him as he dressed, John brushing a warm hand across his forehead to check for fever. Innocent, efficient, and yet it twisted something in Sherlock’s gut, a rush of wanting that tangled with shame, with the chilling echo of Magnussen’s knowing smile.

He told himself to master it. He had kept far darker things buried for far longer. This was nothing, he insisted. Nothing at all. A purely physiological response to proximity. Easily managed. But every night, with John sleeping on the sofa within earshot, a tangible, breathing presence just beyond his door, Sherlock would lie awake and replay every accidental brush of their hands, every shared breath, every moment of John's gentle care. Each contact, each fleeting interaction, was vividly burned into him, a searing brand on his consciousness.

John didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he did, Sherlock thought with a cold dread, but was too kind, too decent, to name it, to expose him further.

He was careful, almost painfully so, adjusting Sherlock’s pillows, helping him to the bathroom, never lingering in a way that might be mistaken or anything more than necessary care. Sherlock watched him, saw the ghosts in his eyes: nightmares left unspoken, images of blood and collapse replayed behind each gentle smile.

One night, John was checking Sherlock’s stitches by lamplight. His fingers were firm, businesslike, but Sherlock could barely keep from shivering as those same fingers brushed skin so close to the centre of him, so close to the wound, to his heart. It was a brutal battle not to betray himself, to keep his body from reacting in the wrong, shameful way, to keep his breath even, his pulse steady.

“Does that hurt?” John asked, voice low, his breath warm.

Sherlock shook his head, jaw tight, forcing neutrality into every syllable. “No.”

A lie. When John left to wash his hands, Sherlock closed his eyes, mortified by the rush of arousal he could feel, unwelcome and fierce. Pathetic, he scolded himself. This is John. Just John. Not yours.

Hidden in the bathroom John stared down at his trembling hands. Seeing Sherlock so fragile, so wounded, had shredded something deep inside him. He wanted to protect him, fiercely and hopelessly. But another part of him, the part he had spent years locking away, wanted more. Wanted to hold him, to press against him, to chase every haunted shadow out of Sherlock’s eyes. But he knew, with the same certainty that after dawn came light, that Sherlock Holmes did not need him that way. Never had, and never would. John was done wanting things he could never have, so, he would be grateful for what he had, for having Sherlock alive and breathing. That had to be enough.

When he returned, Sherlock was watching him, fingers worrying the edges of the blanket with a kind of brittle tension, as if holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“Something wrong?” John asked softly, his concern immediate, intuitive.

Sherlock hesitated, humiliation burning high in his cheeks, a flush that had nothing to do with fever. But something worse than fear — a desperate, aching need for comfort, for closeness — pushed him to speak.

“You should sleep here.” He managed, voice carefully neutral, clipped, detached.

John blinked, a slow, careful blink. “Here?”

“In the bed,” Sherlock clarified, eyes averted, fixed on a point just beyond John’s shoulder. “The sofa must be uncomfortable after days, and you haven’t made your room yet.”

John stood silent for a moment, measuring the distance between what was said and what was meant, the words hanging in the air, weighted with implication. Sherlock could see him weighing it, the doctor’s practical logic fighting something gentler, a deeper understanding that flickered in his gaze.

“That’s… probably a good idea,” John said at last, his voice quiet, almost a sigh of resignation. “Closer if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded, a stiff, painfully formal movement. “Yes. Practical.” The word was a shield, a flimsy protection against the storm raging inside him.

Sherlock shifted to make space, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, while John moved to the far side of the bed. When they laid down, their shoulders brushed, a brief, electrifying contact, the heat between them like a live wire, sparking raw nerves. Sherlock tried to control his breathing, to keep it even, focusing on the calm, steady rhythm of John’s presence, willing his own body to obey.

Close. Stay close. Don't leave.

John let out a long, measured breath, settling into the unfamiliar bed. “Call me if you need help, all right? Even if you can’t talk, tap on the bed, wake me up.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered.

The room fell into a hush, broken only by the rustle of the sheets. John’s breathing slowed as sleep took him. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, acutely aware of every inch of John beside him. It was unbearable, and perfect.

Sherlock, though, stayed wide awake. Every faint motion from John sent shockwaves through him, each reminder of how near he lay leaving Sherlock unbearably, ferociously aware of his own body. He tried to fight it, tried to push down the heat crawling through him, but hours later he was still trembling, hard as steel, shameful and desperate. The sheer ache of wanting John so close had poisoned him past reason, his brain spinning impossible images of what it might feel like to let go.

He slipped from the bed, chest aching, a dull throb from his wound, and half-stumbled to the bathroom, his legs unsteady beneath him. The mirror showed him flushed, hair damp with sweat, shaking from more than just exertion.

He’d never been this hard in his entire life.

His erection pulsed with every heartbeat, a merciless agony of frustrated desire. He braced himself on the sink, his breathing ragged, a choked sound in the silent room. He took his cock in his hand, rubbing over his erection in long, desperate strokes, trying to force himself to go slow, to draw it out, to gain some semblance of control. But he couldn’t resist it. He started pumping into his fist hard and fast, eyes squeezed shut, teeth biting into his lips to stay silent, to keep any sound from escaping. Shame and relief crashed together in dizzying, overwhelming waves. His erection throbbed painfully with each thrust, and he leant heavily on the sink to not lose balance, pleasure crawling, then exploding over his skin until he came, hard, shots flying to the mirror in front of him, his throat raw with half-suppressed, ragged sobs.

He cleaned with trembling hands, wiping himself down, the cold sweat still clinging to him, worried that his uneven breathing, the frantic beat of his heart, would somehow betray him. Back in the bedroom, he slipped carefully under the covers again, trying to make no sound, praying John hadn’t noticed.

John shifted a little, half-awake, a soft, sleepy murmur. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock froze, heart hammering, every nerve screaming. “Fine,” he croaked, his voice raw, barely his own. “Go back to sleep.”

John sighed, a deep, unconscious sound of assent, of comfort. “All right.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, chest twisting with the aftermath, and let the unbearable closeness anchor him, even as his shame still burned, an ugly, persistent ember in the quiet darkness.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8

HIS LAST VOW

The sound came out like a strangled breath, so raw Sherlock almost didn’t place it. He turned sharply, ignoring the protest of his healing ribs, when he heard his own name, torn from John’s lips. It was a guttural, desperate sound, laced with terror.

John was half-sitting up beside him, breathing too fast, eyes unfocused, trapped in the chilling grip of a nightmare. His hand clutched the blanket, shaking, the word Sherlock breaking through like a wound, a cry for help Sherlock instinctively recognized.

Sherlock felt a bolt of cold pierce straight through him, recognizing the profound distress. He reached over, gently resting a steadying hand on John’s shoulder. “John,” he murmured, his voice soft, an anchor in the darkness.

The contact snapped John back, his breath hitching, blinking hard until his eyes cleared and met Sherlock’s gaze. Relief, pure and overwhelming, poured through his expression, mingling instantly with something like profound shame, a flinch of self-consciousness.

“Sorry,” John rasped, dragging a shaky hand across his mouth, wiping away the phantom terrors. “Did I wake you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said softly, dismissing the triviality. “Bad dream?”

John gave a short, harsh laugh, devoid of humour. “Yeah. The usual.”

Sherlock hesitated, his own guilt a fresh wound. He learned to know the 'usual.' Then he forced the question out. “The shooting?”

John shook his head, then nodded, struggling to explain, his words fragmented by lingering fear. “It’s... both. Bart’s. The day you... and now again.” His voice frayed apart, raw with terror. “They came, you know, when I thought you’d died. They faded once I started doubting it, once I knew there was a chance you were alive.” He swallowed, his throat working. “And now they’re back.”

He let the words break apart, unable to finish. Sherlock felt guilt tear through him, sharp and cold, a bitter taste. He had inflicted this.

“I’ve never said,” John muttered, his voice barely audible, his gaze fixed on the rumpled sheets. “But I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at him, stunned, incomprehension warring with a sudden, painful clenching in his chest. “For what?”

John cleared his throat, his posture still slumped, heavy with unspoken burdens. “That last day at Bart’s. For so long, I thought you jumped because of what I said to you, that day. It haunted me.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched, a physical ache. “I knew you didn’t mean it.”

John nodded, swallowing hard, relief warring with the deep-seated pain in his eyes. Sherlock imagined John carrying that crushing guilt, alone, all those years — the burden of it, a weight on his soul — and the thought left him aching, a profound regret twisting inside him.

“I should be the one apologizing,” Sherlock whispered, voice rough with emotion, the words catching. “For everything I’ve put you through. For being a constant source of near-death experiences.”

John managed a faint, tired smile, a ghost of his usual warmth. “I’m just glad you’re here when I wake up,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-confessional whisper. “That’s all that matters.” His eyes, though still shadowed, met Sherlock’s with an unwavering loyalty that Sherlock interpreted as the truest form of friendship.

“Do you want to talk about it? The nightmares?” He asked, hesitantly, a clumsy attempt at comfort.

“Not really, no.” John exhaled, a weary sound. “It’s fine, they’ll fade again. They always do.” He sounded resigned, almost defeated.

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing out, a complex mix of gratitude for John’s presence and a wrenching shame for the cost of it.

John sighed, the tension slowly bleeding out of him, and pushed off the bed. He moved with that quiet, steady competence Sherlock had always admired — the doctor, the soldier, the man who saved him over and over. The man who had stayed, despite everything. The comforting clink of crockery echoed from the kitchen, a domestic balm as John started fussing with breakfast, humming under his breath. He looked tired, but purposeful, trying to keep the lingering darkness of his nightmare at bay with routine and tender habits. Sherlock watched him, eyes tracking every movement, every efficient, caring gesture. He felt John’s presence like a physical ache in his chest, a profound sense of home in a way he had never experienced before. John was warmth and light, an anchor. And Sherlock, in his own brokenness, was merely the object of John’s unwavering, selfless friendship. The want for more, for something deeper, burned through him, sharp enough to strip flesh from bone, a brutal, relentless ache. It was unbearable, a silent scream of longing.

Just then, a light tap echoed from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson’s voice, bright and cheerful, floated up the stairwell. “Everything alright up there, dears? I’ve made tea! And I’ve got some crumpets, still warm!”

John’s head popped back into the sitting room, a wan but reassuring smile on his face for Sherlock. “Sounds lovely, Mrs. Hudson!” He turned back to Sherlock, a silent question in his eyes. “See? Nothing a good cup of tea can’t fix.”

Sherlock nodded vaguely, his gaze already drifting, seeking an escape. The thought of facing Mrs. Hudson, of having to maintain any semblance of normalcy while this raw, consuming need thrummed beneath his skin, was an intolerable weight. He needed a moment. To breathe. To put himself back together, even if it was just a temporary facade against the inevitable. He couldn't trust himself.

“I’ll… just be a moment,” Sherlock mumbled, pushing off the bed, heading straight for the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him, pale and drawn, haunted by the night’s revelations and the morning’s burgeoning, unwelcome truth. John's nightmare had been a mirror to his own torment, a stark reminder of the pain he inflicted. And yet, the desire for John, the overwhelming physical pull, was relentless, almost a mocking counterpoint to his guilt. It disgusted him. How could he feel this animalistic need for the man he had so profoundly hurt, the man still suffering from his actions? The contrast was sickening.

He splashed cold water on his face, again and again, trying to shock his senses, to wash away the unwelcome heat, the hard ache that was already building, insistent and shameful. But it was no use. This wasn't something he could deduce away, or ignore, or simply think out of existence. It was a terrifying, physical reality, a breaking point. He was hard, and John had barely touched him with his eyes.

He reached down, fumbling with his trousers. Humiliation burned through him; this was supposed to have been dealt with. Yet here he was again, a teenager in his own bathroom, fingers frantic against his underwear. This was not about pleasure, but sheer, annihilating need. His body, hot and betraying, demanded release, threatening to reduce him to a sodden heap of raw, unthinking lust. He stroked hard, his right hand on his cock, his left gripping his mouth shut as a desperate, choked sound escaped him. The heavy weight of his impending orgasm sank in his core, driven solely by the frantic need to return to equilibrium, to regain control, to make this inconvenient thing subside. His legs threatened to give way under the sheer, desperate force of his release. He finished, leaning heavily against the sink, his forehead pressed against the cool mirror, feeling utterly ravaged and defeated.

When he joined John in the kitchen, feeling hollowed out but outwardly composed, he offered him a tight, almost imperceptible nod, a silent agreement to proceed with their mundane morning rituals. The clink of crockery and the scent of toast filled the air, a familiar rhythm. John, ever practical, was already gathering the dressing supplies.

John returned to change Sherlock's dressing, and Sherlock instantly tensed, every nerve thrumming with a palpable, vibrating tension. John’s warm hands, so gentle, so familiar, brushed over his skin. The touch was innocent, purely practical—a doctor tending to his patient—yet Sherlock’s breath hitched, a sharp, uncontrollable spike in his otherwise precise control. Desire, undeniable and cutting, surged through him, pooling hot and heavy in his belly. He felt a mortifying flush creep up his neck to his cheeks, his skin burning with utter embarrassment. He had always prided himself on his detachment, his ability to remain aloof from the messy chaos of human emotion. John, however, had unknowingly dismantled every wall Sherlock had painstakingly constructed, and while Sherlock had long stopped lying to himself on what he longed for, having his traitorous body betraying him again felt like the ultimate humiliation.

As John continued to work on Sherlock’s chest, his fingers lightly grazed Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock’s remaining control shattered, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat. The heat within him intensified, a desperate response to John's innocent touch.

John paused, his brow furrowed, his fingers hovering. “Did that hurt?”

“No,” Sherlock lied, voice thin, strained.

John gave him a puzzled glance, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, then went back to smoothing the bandage in place, oblivious to the storm he had unleashed. Sherlock’s entire body was screaming, every touch, every accidental brush, flooding him with a wave of impossible, forbidden longing that was almost physical pain.

He couldn’t stand it. Not one more second. The unbearable tension, the self-loathing, the desperate hope that John would never know what he felt. It was all too much. He couldn’t let John see it, better to spare them both now.

He grabbed John’s wrist, sudden and clumsy, his fingers gripping tight. “Don’t.”

John froze, completely still, his eyes widening. “Don’t what?” His voice was quiet, laced with surprise, with a dawning concern.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the words would simply cease to exist, wishing he could retract the impulsive gesture. The confession burned on his tongue, acrid and bitter, a poison. If he didn’t say them now, the words that would inevitably send John away, he never would. And then he would truly shatter.

“Don’t touch me like that.” Sherlock said, the words forced out, raw and breaking, thick with unshed tears, a devastating admission.

The world stilled, sharp and crystalline around them. John went utterly, completely still, as if time had frozen him in place, his entire being locked onto Sherlock. He looked utterly bewildered, his careful composure crumbling.

John blinked, confusion written across his face, a raw vulnerability Sherlock had rarely seen. “Sherlock— I was just…” he trailed off, unsure, his gaze flicking from Sherlock’s face to his chest.

“I know. But. I’ll do it from now on. Just tell me how.” Sherlock swallowed, the shame and the uncontrollable desire coiling together into a suffocating knot in his chest. His voice dropped to a desperate, broken whisper, the true, humiliating confession tearing from him. “I can’t bear it anymore. You — your hands, your voice, your care — they break me. They make me feel… And then you leave me starving. For something I can’t have from you.”

John blinked, eyes wide, uncomprehending at first, then slowly, terrifyingly, a dawning realization began to bloom in their depths.

Sherlock’s breathing hitched, agony carved into every syllable, his greatest fear articulated, raw and exposed. “Don’t you understand, John? I can’t be your burden if you don’t want me back.

The words landed like a detonated truth, impossible to take back, shattering the air between them. John stood frozen, bandage still clutched in one hand, his expression wide open and unguarded in a way Sherlock had never seen. It was shock, yes, but beneath it, something else, something fragile and luminous.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” John breathed, his voice breaking apart, a whisper of disbelief and a desperate, tremulous hope.

The sheer, impossible hopefulness in John’s voice forced Sherlock to meet his gaze, to lock eyes with him, to offer no escape. “Yes.” It was barely a sound, a breath, a surrender.

John’s eyes glistened, searching Sherlock’s face for some impossible truth, for any sign of retraction or doubt. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. “John—”

“Because if you’re not… if you’re just confused, or unwell—” John cut in, voice trembling with the magnitude of the moment, with the pain of long-held suppression, “then we should forget this. I can bury it forever, Sherlock. I can go back to pretending, if that’s what you want.” His honesty was devastating, a mirror to Sherlock’s own years of denial.

Sherlock flinched, raw and aching, a fresh wound opening at the thought of John burying his feelings too, for him. “And if I am?”

John’s eyes shone, impossibly bright, unchecked. “Then I’m yours,” he said, his voice steady for the first time, infused with a fierce, quiet certainty. “Always have been. Body and soul. If you’ll have me.”

Sherlock’s heart slammed in his chest, a violent, overwhelming beat. His lips parted, but no words would come, choked by the sheer enormity of John’s confession. Instead, driven by something older and deeper than reason, something elemental that had been simmering for years, he leaned forward and kissed John, fierce and desperate, a hungry claiming.

Sherlock’s breathing still ragged, ribs protesting, but it was real. Their mouths found each other, salt-slick with tears neither of them had yet shed, tasting of relief and unspoken years, of fear and desperate, blossoming hope.

John kissed back so hard Sherlock nearly gasped, the bandage still between them, crumpled forgotten in John’s fist. Sherlock felt his body light up, all the emptiness of years, the crushing weight of loneliness, collapsing into that single, explosive moment. It was a complete surrender, a wild, unthinking plunge into the terrifying, exhilarating unknown.

They parted, breathless, stunned, foreheads pressed together, both shaking, the world tilting back into place, forever changed.

Sherlock stared at him, terrified and awestruck all at once, his mind still trying to process the impossible. “I thought you—” He tried to speak, voice cracking, raw with disbelief, “I thought you’d never— That you didn’t—”

John laughed then, a watery, broken sound, eyes shining with a profound, joyous sorrow. “Sherlock. You turned me down, remember? First day I met you, all bright and brilliant and impossible, and you told me you were married to your work.”

Sherlock’s breath caught, a cold jolt of recognition, because yes, of course, he remembered, every syllable carved into his mind. He had been so blind. So stupid.

John went on, softer now, raw and honest, exposing his own long-held pain. “I don’t even know if I was asking, not really. But I felt your rejection just the same. I made damn sure after that you’d never think I was— interested. I lined up girlfriends like trophies. Didn’t know if I was trying to fool you or myself. I didn’t want you to look at me and see… some creepy older man swooning over you.”

Sherlock’s chest felt like it might crack open, not from pain, but from the unbearable weight of revelation, of missed time, of John’s quiet sacrifice. “Never,” he whispered, hoarse, his own voice cracking. “Never, John.”

John swallowed, a tremor running through him, a raw honesty in his gaze. “I thought you knew. How couldn’t you? You’re—” he laughed shakily, a disbelieving sound, “you’re brilliant. And I was so pathetically obvious.”

Sherlock felt the world tilt around them, the pieces of his life slotting into place with terrifying, beautiful precision. “We lost so much time,” he managed, voice wrecked with regret.

John cupped his cheek, his thumb brushing at the corner of Sherlock’s lips, a gesture of profound tenderness. “No,” he said gently, fiercely, with an unshakeable conviction. “We weren’t ready. Not then. But we are now.”

And then he kissed him again, hungry, desperate, teeth catching on Sherlock’s bottom lip, a soft bite, as if to make up for all the years of lost chances, of unspoken desire. Sherlock gave himself over to it, let himself melt into John’s heat, let John anchor him, finally allowing himself to simply feel. It wasn’t long before he felt himself hardening, impossibly fast, his cock straining against his thin pants, a physical manifestation of a decade of repressed yearning finally unleashed.

John broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against Sherlock’s, breathing him in, drawing his scent, his very essence. Then he shifted, sliding a thigh between Sherlock’s legs, pressing close enough to feel the hard, rigid shape of him, and Sherlock couldn’t hold back a strangled sound, a raw, needy moan that ripped from his throat.

“John—” he hissed, head falling back, helpless.

“Let me,” John whispered, voice rough with promise, thick with his own unleashed desire. “Let me show you how much I want you.”

Sherlock nodded, words useless, a thousand confessions, a thousand apologies, burning behind his teeth.

John guided him to sit on the bed, sinking to his knees before him with a reverence that made Sherlock dizzy, a worship he felt utterly unworthy of, yet desperately craved. Careful, trembling hands tugged Sherlock’s loose trousers down, leaving only the thin cotton of his boxers, already dark with wetness, a visible testament to his desire. John’s breath shuddered, warm and damp against the swollen shape beneath the fabric.

Sherlock was trembling, hands fisted in the sheets, torn between a lifetime of shame and a raw, pulsing need that eclipsed everything, an irresistible force.

John leaned in, lips ghosting over the damp spot, breathing him in, a soft, intimate sound. Sherlock’s hips jerked, an involuntary response, a bitten-off moan escaping him.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, John peeled away the last barrier, the thin cotton. Sherlock’s cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, impossibly hard.

“Jesus,” John breathed, voice full of stunned admiration, awe.

Sherlock went to apologize, to make some self-deprecating comment, to say something clever, but the words died as John’s mouth closed around him — hot, wet, perfect. It was a shock, a profound, exquisite pleasure that jolted through every nerve. Sherlock choked on his own gasp, one hand flying to John’s hair to hold on, to anchor himself against the overwhelming sensation, a desperate grip.

John took him in, steady and sure, doing his best to give Sherlock all the things he liked the most. His tongue worked carefully, sliding over the head, teasing the slit, tracing the frantic pulse, and Sherlock’s hips twitched in response, an instinctual thrust, desperate for more.

“John,” he moaned, voice high and breaking, barely recognizable as his own.

That only spurred John on. He took him deeper, mouth slick and eager, his hands braced at Sherlock’s thighs to steady him, to hold him accountable to this shattering pleasure.

Sherlock couldn’t stop the instinct to thrust, shallow at first, then harder, drawn by the unstoppable pull of John’s heat and devotion, by the release of years of repressed desire.

When he came, it felt like years of loneliness, of cold intellectual solitude, ripped out of him in a single shuddering, violent release. John swallowed him down, refusing to let go, tongue still stroking him through the aftershocks, milking every last drop, and Sherlock thought he might black out from the sheer, merciful pleasure.

Flushed, he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s knee, breathless and proud, his body humming with satisfaction. Sherlock’s hands were still tangled in John’s hair, the aftershocks of release leaving him dizzy, overwhelmed, floating in an unfamiliar space. But beneath his fingers he felt John — tense, trembling, wanting, still hard and ready. Sherlock looked down, saw John’s pupils blown wide, breathing ragged, jaw slack with something dangerously close to devotion. He reached for him, weakly, drawing him up into his arms, crushing their mouths together in a kiss so deep it left them both gasping for air, for more.

“John,” Sherlock rasped, voice unsteady, thick with emotion.

John looked up, lips flushed, eyes shining with that impossible tenderness, that fierce, unconditional affection. “What?” he murmured, breathless.

Sherlock swallowed, trying to steady himself. His body still hummed, oversensitive, trembling slightly, but the need to give something back — to John, who had given him everything, who had loved him despite his own blindness — was burning through him, a fierce, unexpected desire to reciprocate.

“You haven’t,” Sherlock stammered, cheeks pink, glancing down at the obvious, insistent bulge in John’s trousers, “—you didn’t—”

John’s throat worked, embarrassed and utterly undone in a way Sherlock had rarely, if ever, seen him. “Didn’t want to stop,” he admitted roughly, his voice thick with unspent desire.

Sherlock’s heart twisted with a fierce, unstoppable affection, a profound tenderness for the man before him. Gently, almost shyly, he reached to cup John’s face, thumb sweeping across his cheek, wiping away a lingering tear track. “Let me,” he whispered, raw and earnest, a desperate need to give John the same shattering release.

John drew in a sharp breath, searching Sherlock’s eyes, trying to be sure, trying not to hope too much, still half-convinced this was a dream. But Sherlock’s gaze was steady, determined in a way that made something inside John crack wide open, a joyful, trembling surrender. Sherlock shifted, awkward and aching, but determined. He pulled John closer, fumbling with the zip of John’s trousers, his fingers brushing against hard cotton, against the undeniable truth. Breathing ragged, Sherlock wrapped a tentative hand around John’s cock, the unfamiliar weight of it startling, solid, hot in his grip, alive. John let out a soft moan, eyes fluttering shut, completely given over.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, a sound of pure awe and disbelief.

Sherlock swallowed, fascinated and uncharacteristically shy, but determined to learn what John liked best, to give him every ounce of pleasure he could. He moved carefully at first, studying John’s reactions, memorizing every twitch, every gasp, every subtle shift of pleasure. John’s hips stuttered forward into his fist, losing rhythm, losing everything, a helpless, desperate response.

“You’re— you’re perfect,” Sherlock whispered, reverent, as if stating a scientific fact, a profound, unshakeable truth he had finally deduced.

John bit his lip, his hands still holding Sherlock’s softening cock. He leaned into Sherlock’s forehead, their breaths tangling, hot and humid. It didn’t take long — John was already so close, had been close from the moment he saw Sherlock come undone, had been on the precipice of this release for years, and it was all too much. With a low, desperate groan, he spilled over Sherlock’s fingers, hips jerking, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to keep from breaking apart completely, his body arching, his mind screaming Sherlock's name.

Sherlock watched him with wonder, still stroking through the aftershocks, overwhelmed by how beautiful John looked like this — undone, trusting, loved.

When it was over, John collapsed against him, their bodies pressed together, warm and damp. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by their ragged breaths slowing into a shared rhythm. John was a warm, heavy weight against Sherlock, his head nestled into his shoulder, a steadying grip still firm on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock held him, his free hand stroking John’s hair, anchoring them both, a silent promise. When his breathing subsided, John stirred, and Sherlock felt the faint brush of his eyelashes against his skin as John’s head tilted up. Their eyes met, and in John’s, Sherlock saw his own stunned disbelief mirrored, mixed with a tender, raw vulnerability that stole his breath. John’s lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed, a few stray hairs clinging to his damp forehead. He looked utterly undone, and utterly beautiful. For the first time in years, neither of them felt alone.

“Sherlock,” John breathed again, his voice thick, a question and an affirmation all at once. He glanced down at his crotch, where Sherlock’s hand still held his softening cock. He swallowed, throat tight. He’d made a mess in his pyjama pants and all over Sherlock’s hand, and shame was washing over him in waves.

“Sorry about that,” he rasped, eyes downcast and cheeks flushed. But Sherlock reached out, cupping John’s cheek, his fingers tracing the faint stubble along his jawline until John met his eyes again.

“It was amazing,” Sherlock said, his voice husky, almost disbelieving himself. “You are.”

“I still can’t believe—” John tried, voice raw, a tremor running through him. “—that you would…” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat. That you would want me. That you would see me like that. That this is real.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Sherlock stopped him, his voice low, firm. “Wanted you.” He drew his thumb gently across John’s lower lip, a silent question. “More than you know. More than I ever let myself admit.”

John’s eyes, still wide and luminous, searched Sherlock’s face, tracing the lines of fatigue. “I thought you never... felt things like this. Not for anyone. Especially not... me. I mean—” His own voice was barely a whisper, freighted with years of suppressed longing and misread signals. “You could have anyone you want.”

Sherlock huffed a breath. “I’d never want anyone else. It’s always been you.” His lips curved into a faint, almost shy smile, a revelation in itself. “But I am, as you've often pointed out, an idiot where human emotion is concerned.”

John let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. Slowly, they dragged themselves onto the bed, John making sure Sherlock wouldn’t put too much pressure on his chest.

They shifted until they were side by side, limbs tangling in an awkward, affectionate sprawl. The bedsheets were a damp, rumpled testament to their honesty, a raw record of the confessions they could never take back. John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s, the closeness grounding them both, their heartbeats still wild and off-kilter.

“I keep thinking,” John whispered, voice rough with leftover desire and a deeper ache, “about all the things we never said. How many nights I just sat and watched you, trying to figure out what the hell was in your head.”

Sherlock let out a faint, embarrassed sound, a laugh that felt too small. “It was probably less interesting than you’d imagine.”

John snorted. “It was infuriating. You’d look right through me, like you knew every secret I had, but you’d never tell me your own.”

Sherlock shifted, trying to hold his gaze even as shame threatened to swallow him. “I didn’t know how,” he admitted softly. “There was no framework in my mind for it. Not until… not until you.”

“Sherlock,” John said softly, voice still hoarse, “You think this changes us?”

The question fell between them, terrifying in its simplicity.

Sherlock went still. “I hope it does,” he answered, voice nearly breaking, the admission as fragile as glass. “I can’t… I can’t go back, John.”

John’s throat tightened around a rush of emotion so sharp it almost hurt. “Neither can I.”

Sherlock let the words settle, breathing them in like a new religion, terrified and liberated all at once.

“I meant what I said,” John continued, his voice steady now, stronger. “If this is what you want, if I am what you want… you have me. All of me. No conditions.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, something loosening in his chest, a knot he hadn’t known he was still holding. He exhaled, his shoulders finally dropping. “Yes.”

“John,” he said, piercing deep into John’s eyes, a newfound resolution burning inside. “My first and last vow – to you. I will never leave you again. I swear I will always be there.”

John swallowed hard, searching for steady ground in the warmth of that admission. His hand slid across Sherlock’s chest, soothing, protective, brushing over the fresh gauze. “I promise you—” He locked Sherlock’s gaze. “I swear to you no one will ever hurt you again.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched, the simplest, most devastating promise he’d ever heard. His eyes stung, but he let them, this time. He let out a breath that sounded like relief and defeat all at once, letting himself lean closer, but then he stilled, as if something clawed at him again.

“There’s... something else.” His voice was tighter now, something raw simmering under the calm.

John blinked, immediately alert. “What is it?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Magnussen.”

John’s shoulders went rigid. “What about him?”

Sherlock looked away, jaw flexing. “He came to the hospital. After I was shot.”

John’s face went cold. “He was there when Mary shot you. He saw it happened and didn’t lift a finger.” He felt himself recoil at the memory. “What did he want?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “He... threatened me.”

John was still, then he shook his head, a sad, steady determination behind his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?” He asked softly.

Sherlock swallowed, eyes flickering with old shame, debating how much to say. “He kissed my hand. I was too weak to stop him.”

He could see the rage mounting behind John’s eyes, a dangerous fire igniting. For a moment, John simply stared at Sherlock, his jaw working, unable to form words. The sheer, insidious violation of it – Magnussen, preying on Sherlock at his most vulnerable, mocking him, claiming a grotesque intimacy – ripped through his fragile calm. His hand, still on Sherlock’s bandaged chest, anchored him to that reality, one where Sherlock, despite his brilliance and genius mind, could very easily fall prey to danger.

“He touched you.”  John finally rasped, his voice barely audible, thick with a fury so profound it vibrated through Sherlock. Not a question, but a terrified confirmation of what he’d heard. The words were laced with a primal territoriality Sherlock had never heard from him before. “When you were lying there. Weak. Alone.” His eyes burned with a cold, terrifying fire that made Sherlock feel instinctively safe in his arms.

“He won’t get away with this, Sherlock. I swear it.”

John flinched as if physically struck, his face contorting in pure disgust. “I knew he was a creep the moment I saw him. The things he said to you!”

Sherlock’s gaze darkened with resolution, remembering the chilling precision of Magnussen's words. “We’ll prepare and we’ll take him down. Mycroft’s hands are tied but we’ll find a way.”

John took a deep, shuddering breath, then exhaled slowly, the storm of his rage morphing into a cold, lethal resolve. He looked at Sherlock, his gaze hardening into something utterly implacable. “We will.” John said, his voice flat, dangerously quiet. “This isn’t just a case anymore. This is personal.”

Sherlock looked at him — really looked at him, the unwavering faith in those blue eyes, the devotion that had outlasted death itself — and felt something unbreakable settle into place.

“Yes,” he agreed, with a quiet, dangerous resolve. “Together.”

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Sherlock Holmes felt certain that together was exactly where he belonged.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9

TRUTHS AND CONFESSIONS

They lay entwined for a long time, the late morning light beginning to filter through the curtains, painting the room with gold rays. The world outside, with its cases and dangers and carefully constructed deceptions, felt impossibly distant, pushed to the periphery, a faint, distant hum against the overwhelming symphony of their newfound reality.

John shifted after a long, comfortable silence, his hand idly stroking the skin behind Sherlock’s hear, playing with his curls. His earlier anger, tempered by their shared intimacy, now solidified into a grim resolve. “So,” he said, his voice quiet, betraying nothing of the storm still churning beneath, “I’ll get us something to eat. Then we’ll see what to do.”

Sherlock stiffened imperceptibly beneath his touch. The easy calm from moments before evaporated, replaced by the familiar tension that heralded a new calculation. “Indeed.”

“You have a plan?” John asked, his tone deceptively casual. He knew Sherlock, knew the way his mind worked. Even in the throes of fever, or the depths of vulnerability, Sherlock would have been dissecting the problem, cataloguing data points.

Sherlock exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to carry the weight of a nation. “A nascent one. It involves Mycroft, or rather, exploiting his current paralysis.”

John frowned. “Paralysis? What are you talking about? He’s the British government.”

Sherlock finally met John’s gaze, his eyes sharp, devoid of their earlier softness. “Not where Magnussen is concerned. Mycroft is compromised, John. Deeply.”

John’s brow furrowed further. “How much?”

Sherlock hesitated, and John felt the tremor that ran through him. This was clearly a painful admission. “Unclear,” Sherlock began, his voice dropping, each word precise and weighted. “But enough to be a target. Enough that he cannot directly intervene, no matter the provocation.”

John’s eyes widened, the full implications sinking in. This wasn't just a personal slight; this was a national security nightmare. The sheer audacity of Magnussen to hold such a weapon over the Head of the British Secret Service was staggering. He swallowed hard, the warmth of their earlier intimacy giving way to a shared burden of grim reality. The stakes had just become immeasurably higher. Protecting Sherlock now meant protecting Mycroft, and the stability of their country itself.

***

The late autumn days blurred into a pattern of quiet recovery and intense, whispered longing finally shared in the open. Sherlock’s body slowly knit itself back together, fuelled by John’s endless cups of tea and the occasional shared takeaway. John became Sherlock’s shadow, a comforting, ever-present anchor. He changed Sherlock’s dressing with methodical precision, his gentle hands a stark contrast to the urgency of their conversations. Sherlock, still healing, found himself unusually compliant, leaning into John's touch, accepting the care that now felt like a lifeline. They moved around each other with a new, unspoken intimacy, their easy domesticity underscored by the gravity of their shared purpose. 

Sherlock spent hours poring over news feeds, hacking into obscure government databases, and observing Magnussen’s public movements, all from the confines of their flat. He explained to John in granular detail the sheer scale of Magnussen’s leverage – not just the information he held, but his insidious method of control.

Whenever Sherlock talked about him, John’s hand instinctively would instantly go to Sherlock's, covering it for a brief, reassuring squeeze. The doctor's oath and the soldier's instinct merged; the thought that Magnussen was a disease, a threat that had to be eradicated, was taking roots into John’s mind. Planting itself firmly.

A few weeks later, just as Sherlock was beginning to move with less pain, Mycroft arrived unannounced, his usual placid expression betraying nothing of his inner turmoil. In fact, he even humoured Sherlock by playing a round of Cluedo with him and John, a fact so extraordinary that not even Mrs. Hudson, bustling in shortly after with a fresh pot of tea and biscuits, commented on it. Mycroft had, of course, solved the mystery in three moves. And insisted they’d dragged it on for too long.

“I'm assuming your answer's a positive one, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled, setting down the miniature wrench piece with a faint smirk. “Regarding Mummy's annual festive ordeal, that is.”

“Nope, brother dear,” came Sherlock’s immediate, almost triumphant response, leaning back against the armchair.

Mycroft sighed dramatically, adjusting his tie. “Mummy will be very cross with you if you don’t come for Christmas, and with me for not making you.” He then turned his placid gaze to John, a subtle hint of exasperation in his eyes. “And I suppose he hasn't extended the invitation to you either, has he?”

John raised an eyebrow, a wry smile playing on his lips. “He hasn't, no. I was beginning to think I'd done something to offend the entire Holmes matriarchy.”

“Oh, Sherlock, for dear God.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, a rare display of exasperation. “John, you are officially invited to Christmas Day at our parents', with or without Sherlock, apparently. Though I confess, your presence would make his eventual attendance more likely.”

He gave Sherlock a pointed look, “You must come. If anything, Mummy would be too busy worrying over you to concern herself with me.”

“You mean she'd get distracted from her favourite son?” Sherlock inquired mercilessly, a glint in his eye.

“I do hope, dear brother, you know you're talking about yourself,” came Mycroft's dry response, not missing a beat.

“Not that I'm not having fun,” John suddenly interjected, a slight edge to his voice, his gaze sweeping between the two brothers. “Watching you two banter, but do you think we can discuss the other, more pressing matters at hand?”

Sherlock's expression settled into its usual stoic mask, the brief flicker of brotherly exasperation vanishing. “Indeed, John. As I was about to suggest. Let's discuss Magnussen.”

“I thought we agreed you’d let this go, Sherlock.” Mycroft said warily.

Sherlock scoffed, but his gaze remained fixed on his brother. “And leave a shark to continue feasting on vulnerable lives?”

“He may be,” Mycroft agreed, leaning forward slightly. “But you have no idea of the depths of his reach. Interfering now would do far more damage than good.” His gaze flickered to John, then back to Sherlock. “It’s better to leave it at that instead of making things worse, believe me.”

“Which is precisely why I must do something.” Sherlock pressed, his voice low, implying, but not outright stating, his desire to protect Mycroft from the consequences of Magnussen's leverage.

Mycroft's eyes held Sherlock's, a profound depth of emotion shimmering beneath their usual glacial calm. “If you make things worse now, Sherlock,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “I won't be able to save you this time.”

The air in the room grew taut, stretched to breaking point, but Sherlock seemed to draw strength from the warning. His features settled into a quiet, dangerous resolve.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes glittering, “you won't have to.”

Mycroft's expression hardened, a steely glint entering his eyes. “You must let it go. Let me deal with it in due time.”

Mycroft left shortly after, leaving behind a charged silence. His warning, far from deterring Sherlock, had only cemented his resolve. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he and John would have to operate entirely outside the system.

“You just wanted to make sure he wouldn’t interfere,” John stated, not a question, but a grim understanding.

Sherlock smirked. “You’ve become quite observant.”

“I can read you, Sherlock Holmes.” He paused, then tilted his head slightly, gaze dropping lower. A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes despite the lingering tenderness. “Though, just for the record, your body language just now is… remarkably easy to read. Even for me.”

Sherlock gave a soft, pleased laugh, heat rising to his cheeks. “A momentary lapse in decorum. I’m afraid.”

“I can help you with that,” John whispered, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. His gaze locked with Sherlock’s, a fierce certainty burning between them. He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on Sherlock’s collarbone, then his jaw, before finally, gently, reclaiming his mouth. It was a kiss of quiet assurance, of deepening affection, a promise of shared futures.

Sherlock huffed a breath. “Shouldn’t we move to the bedroom?”

John’s smile widened, a quiet, knowing warmth in his eyes. “Thought you’d never ask.” He took Sherlock’s hand and led him, with unhurried grace, towards their now shared bed. He pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his eyelids, before letting his lips brush lightly against his, tasting the lingering tea and something uniquely Sherlock.

“You're alright?” John murmured against his mouth, his thumb gently stroking Sherlock's cheekbones, checking for lingering shadows, for pain. It was a doctor's instinct, seamlessly blended with a lover's concern.

Sherlock hummed, a soft, contented sound that surprised even himself. His arms instinctively tightened around John, burying his face in the crook of John’s neck. “Never more so,” he confessed, the words muffled but sincere. He breathed in John's familiar scent, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against his own. It was a sensation of utter rightness, a feeling he hadn't known was possible, yet instantly recognized as essential.

They shed their clothes slowly, with a quiet dignity, John’s hands gentle as they navigated Sherlock’s still-healing ribs, and Sherlock, for his part, was utterly pliant, allowing himself to be led, to be touched, to simply be in John’s presence.

John brushed over Sherlock’s skin with marvelled reverence, feeling Sherlock’s nipples perking up under his fingers, the hardness between them pressing on his hips. Having Sherlock naked and willing in front of him was more than he had dared hope for. He brought his hand down, cupping sherlock’s hard-on, thinking about all the things they could do when Sherlock healed fully.

Then Sherlock bent to kiss him, and John lost track of his thoughts, eagerly stroking him now.

“I want—” came Sherlock panting voice, his right hand around John’s cock, his left caressing his balls. “I want to taste you.” He repeated as he sat on the bed, tugging John’s hips towards him.

“…please.” John whispered, dizzy with desire.

John’s cock was hard and wet when Sherlock took him in his mouth. Sherlock licked a slow, exploratory line up the length of him, eyes never leaving John’s. That gaze — sharp and vulnerable, almost reverent — threatened to undo John completely.

“Christ, Sherlock—” John groaned, fingers threading desperately into Sherlock’s curls, eliciting a soft moan from Sherlock himself.

Sherlock hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks of heat spiralling through John’s belly. He took him in deeper, lips sealing with practiced determination, adjusting to the weight and taste. A surge of pride, of possessive awe, lit John up from the inside out — Sherlock Holmes, impossibly brilliant, impossibly beautiful, was on his knees for him.

John’s hips twitched involuntarily, but Sherlock steadied him with hands splayed firmly across his thighs, sending an unspoken command. He set a rhythm, unhurried yet relentless, swallowing around him, letting each drawn-out pull leave John teetering at the edge of reason. John thought he might break apart from it, Sherlock wanted this, wanted him. The thought alone was enough to send him over the edge.

“Look at me,” John choked out, needing to see him, needing to anchor himself.

Sherlock obeyed, wide, dark eyes glassy with wanting, cheeks flushed pink. He looked almost shy, yet entirely confident.

When John felt the telltale coil tightening low in his gut, he tried to warn him, voice shaking. “Sherlock, I’m—”

But Sherlock didn’t stop, didn’t flinch, only pressed in closer, taking him deeper still until John came apart with a hoarse cry, spilling into Sherlock’s mouth, body shuddering with the force of it.

Sherlock swallowed carefully, then pulled off, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist, a small triumphant smirk playing at his lips. John let out a shaky laugh, sinking to his knees before Sherlock, gathering him close, kissing him like a benediction.

Sherlock let out a soft, relieved sound, resting their foreheads together as their breathing slowly synced. John shifted, letting one hand drift down Sherlock’s chest, fingers skimming skin until they wrapped around the hardness pressed uncomfortably between them. He glanced down, then back up — a warm, mischievous glint in his eye.

“My turn,” he murmured, voice low and edged with promise.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but tension rippled through his body, anticipation coiled tight.

John kissed him again — deep, claiming — then eased him back against the pillows. He began his exploration anew, mapping every inch of pale skin with lips and reverent hands, each touch deliberate. He tasted and teased, working his way down Sherlock’s trembling frame until he was arching, gasping, his control shattered in John’s hands.

When John’s hand wrapped around him, stroking his cock slow and sure, Sherlock moaned, raw and unguarded. John kissed his throat, his jaw, then moved lower, sucking at a nipple until Sherlock jerked, gasping.

“Harder,” Sherlock breathed, a command dressed as a plea.

But John didn’t rush it. Instead, he lowered his mouth over him slowly, taking him deep, savouring every twitch, every sound, revelling in Sherlock’s desperate pleas. Sherlock’s moans echoed off the walls, and John drank them in greedily, speeding his rhythm in the primal need of making Sherlock come, making him beg for it even, John being the only one to bring him to orgasm, with his hands in his hair and his cock in his mouth. The reverence turned possessive.

Fuck you, Irene Adler.

The thought surged like fire — uninvited, searing — and he pressed deeper, sucked harder, needing to drown it out. Needing to replace her in every corner of Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock writhed beneath him, hands fisting in the sheets, in John’s hair, voice breaking on each breath.

This wasn’t just lust anymore. It was laced with something far more desperate, darker. Fiercer. Every moan Sherlock gave him was another memory overwritten, another ghost exorcised. Every desperate cry, every helpless jerk of Sherlock’s hips — they were John’s now. His to take. His to give.

Not her. Not anyone else.

Me.

The thought burned hot and wild in John’s chest as he hollowed his cheeks and quickened his rhythm, drawing out a strangled cry from Sherlock that was pure surrender. He reached up blindly with his free hand, the other holding Sherlock’s balls while he sucked him, fingers curling around Sherlock’s, needing the anchor of contact. Sherlock was unravelling, every taut inch of him shaking, undone in ways John would never tire to see.

When Sherlock gasped his name, broken and reverent, John nearly came again from the sound alone.

“John, I—” Sherlock's hips stuttered. “I’m—”

“Let go,” John murmured, voice thick with possessive heat. “I want to taste you.”

And he did — swallowed every last drop like a vow.

Sherlock collapsed back against the pillows, boneless, flushed, utterly wrecked. And John, heart hammering, kissed the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, breath catching at the way Sherlock shivered from even that.

He lay beside him then, pressing their foreheads together, listening to the frantic beat of Sherlock’s heart slowly begin to calm. His own pulse was still roaring, but a different question, one that had been lurking in the back of his mind for years, now chose this moment of raw intimacy to surface.

“Did you ever... with her?” John murmured, barely above a whisper. There was hesitation in his voice, almost embarrassment, as if voicing it gave it too much weight. He felt Sherlock go still beneath him, a subtle tension tightening his shoulders.

Sherlock hummed, a considering sound, voice almost sleepy. “Who?”

“You know who I mean. The Woman.” Even saying it made John's cheeks flush with heat.

A beat passed in silence. Sherlock tilted his head, gazing down at him. “Of course not.” His tone was calm, but curious. “Are you... jealous?”

John tensed, bristling instinctively, though he didn’t move away. “Didn’t you deduce that yourself?” he countered, meeting Sherlock’s eyes directly. A flicker of challenge, old and familiar, danced there.

Sherlock’s thumb, which had been idly stroking the inside of John’s forearm, stilled. The faint amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by something warmer, quieter. “I wondered,” he admitted, voice low, “If I had misread the signs. But I dismissed it as protective instinct.”

He took a slow breath, then continued, his voice even, yet with an underlying current of significance. “No, John. I never 'went with her.' She was... an intellectual challenge. A fascinating mind. But I never felt... this.” His hand tightened gently against John's hip.

John's breath caught at the quiet intensity in Sherlock’s words — more powerful than any declaration shouted aloud. The jealousy ebbed, soothed by the honesty between them. But the doubt remained.

“But you were heartbroken,” John said, searching Sherlock’s face. “When she died. Both times. Even Mrs. Hudson saw it.”

Sherlock sighed, a sound that was less exasperation and more a profound weariness born of self-discovery. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, then met John’s gaze again. “I supposed I cared for her more than I realized.” He admitted, his voice softening, “A degree of concern for a human life, even one as... unconventional as hers.”

John eyed him, uncertain. “Nothing more?”

Sherlock met his gaze, unflinching now, his sincerity absolute. “Nothing more.”

“Still, I’m… sorry you lost her, Sherlock.” John’s voice was gentle, a subtle ache for what he perceived as Sherlock's past grief.

Sherlock assumed a pained expression, dreading John’s reaction to his next words. “She’s not dead.”

A beat of silence between them that felt like an abyss.

“Of course she is,” John said, his voice flat, tinged with disbelief. “Mycroft told me. He let me give you her phone…”

Sherlock shook his head.

John pulled slightly away from him, a strange, cold distance creeping into his eyes. “You let me think… all this time…” The hurt was clear in his tone, a fresh wound opening. “How?”

“She was to be executed and I stopped it. Saved her.” Sherlock admitted in a careful voice, suddenly missing John’s warmth.

“Did Mycroft know?” John's voice was sharp, a new layer of betrayal twisting his features.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. He wouldn't have risked the official channels for her, not after the political fallout she’d caused.” Sherlock shifted, trying to bridge the sudden gap between them. “I operated entirely outside of his knowledge.”

He paused, his gaze softening, reaching for John's hand. “It was the most logical course of action to ensure her continued existence without further complications.”

John ran a hand through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “I see.”

“Do you?”

“No.” John’s voice was dangerously quiet, completely devoid of its earlier tenderness. “I don’t. You saved a woman who tried to blackmail the Royal Family, who toyed with your brother, used you… and you didn’t tell me? She must have meant far more to you than just a ‘fascinating mind’.”

Sherlock saw the genuine, raw jealousy in John's eyes now, a betrayal far deeper than simple omission. He scrambled for the right words, for the logic that made sense to him, but it felt hollow in the face of John's pain.

“No, John, that's not it,” Sherlock insisted, reaching out, trying to touch John's arm, “I just didn’t want her to die. It was not... affection. Not in the way you mean it.”

“Then why did you keep it from me?” John pressed, his voice tight.

“I kept it secret because… I don’t know, I—” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls, frustration leaking through in a rare display. “I decided it was more efficient that way. Her survival depended on secrecy.” He searched John's face, his blue eyes pleading for understanding. “I am sorry for the deception.”

John stared at him, taking in the raw sincerity, the uncharacteristic pleading in Sherlock’s eyes. He felt suddenly tired, defeated. “It’s okay if you loved her,” he said slowly, making every word count. “I just wished you’d told me.”

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, his own shining with an urgency John rarely saw. “I never loved her, John. You must believe me. It’s you I—” The words caught in his throat, realising they’d never said that out loud. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

The words hung in the air, a breathtaking, almost terrifyingly raw declaration. John's expression, previously a mask of hurt and fatigue, fractured. His eyes widened, searching Sherlock's face for any sign of doubt, any flicker of the usual detachment. But there was none. Only a profound, vulnerable sincerity that left him utterly breathless.

“You—” John started, his voice a mere whisper. He felt a fierce, trembling joy begin to bloom in his chest, warring with the lingering sting of the omission. His eyes shined as he reached out, his hand finding Sherlock’s and lacing their fingers together. “I love you too, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “God, I love you too.”

He leaned in, closing the distance, and kissed him. It was a kiss of profound trust rebuilt, of understanding forged in vulnerability, and of a love that was, unmistakably, here to stay.

“You know,” John whispered into the stillness, his voice quiet and soft, “when we lived together, before… I used to think of this. Not this exactly, but whether it would ever happen, between us.” He tilted his head, meeting Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock's breath hitched, his eyes shimmering with unshed emotion. He tightened his arm around John, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. “Neither did I,” he confessed, his voice rough with profound tenderness. “I always thought I was destined for solitude. My burden, my choice. I never imagined… this.” He pressed a kiss into John’s hair, holding him as if he were the most fragile, most precious thing in the world.

“Why did you want that for yourself?”

Sherlock let the silence hang. ““I didn’t. I just thought it was all I’d ever have. Until you.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you, John.”

“For what?” John murmured, contentment seeping into his tone.

“For staying,” Sherlock whispered against his skin. “For seeing me. For… loving me.” The words felt heavy, immense, but they were true, finally articulated.

John shifted closer, looking up at him, his eyes shining. “Always, Sherlock. Always.” He leaned up and kissed him again, a soft, lingering touch that conveyed a lifetime of devotion.

***

It was a random Thursday morning when Sherlock found himself on his own in the flat. The moment John had closed the door behind him, Sherlock knew he had to make use of the alone time that followed. He had been carefully waiting for the perfect moment, when John wouldn’t be around, to get in contact with the man who humiliated him and threatened his brother. Part of him had wanted John to be present for that confrontation, his grounding presence a solid shield against Magnussen’s intrusive words. But the part that won this internal battle wanted John away for that very reason. In the odd chance the call went much worse than Sherlock expected, he didn’t want John there to witness how far he could fall.

With shaking hands Sherlock dialled a number he had learned by heart at that point, a private, secure line that only this special number would reach. It only rang once before someone answered.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Charles Augustus Magnussen's voice, smooth and condescending, filled the silence of the room. “To what do I owe this... unexpected pleasure?”

“I have been thinking about you.”

“How fortunate. I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Really?”

“Of course. How’s the heart going?” The implication of a double meaning didn’t go unnoticed, but Sherlock filed it away, not dignify it with an answer. Whatever Magnussen thought he knew about him, he wasn’t going to either confirm or deny it.

“I want to see Appledore. Where you keep all the secrets, all the files. Everything you’ve got on everyone.” Sherlock stated, his voice cool and unwavering. “I want you to invite me.”

“What makes you think I’d be so careless? You underestimate me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Impress me then. Show me Appledore.” Sherlock challenged.

A low chuckle came from the other end. “Bold, even for you, Mr. Holmes. I’m a businessman, everything is available for a price. Are you making me an offer?”

“A Christmas present.”

“And what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr. Holmes?”

“My brother.” Sherlock said, the word leaving his lips without a trace of hesitation or regret.

“A fair trade, wouldn't you say? My vulnerabilities for his.” Magnussen said, a smug satisfaction evident in his tone.

“Done.” Sherlock agreed, the single word sealing a pact.

“Excellent, Mr. Holmes. Excellent. I do enjoy a man who understands true leverage. We shall arrange for a visit. Consider it a Christmas gift, perhaps.” And with another chilling chuckle, Magnussen hung up.

Later, when John returned with bags laden with groceries, Sherlock watched him from the armchair, a flicker of something close to anxiety in his eyes. He rose up to quickly, hurrying over to help him.

“No, no,” John said, firmly. “You can’t strain yourself yet. Doctor’s order.” He winked at Sherlock, who opted to hover just close enough.

“Ready for Christmas at my parents', John?” Sherlock asked, his voice perhaps a touch too light. He watched John carefully, looking for any sign of hesitation.

John paused, setting fresh fruits on the table. He eyed Sherlock with a familiar mix of fondness and exasperation. “Did you think I'd run for the hills, Holmes?” He smiled, but then a faint blush rose on his cheeks as he picked up the canned beans. His gaze flickered around the room, taking in the familiar chaos of Sherlock's work in progress – scattered notes, chemical equipment, and then, the glowing screen of Sherlock's laptop on the coffee table.

“So,” John began, his voice quiet, “I'm going to your parents as your… as your… what, exactly?” He gestured vaguely, unable to quite articulate the sudden shift in their dynamic.

Sherlock turned to him, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. He reached out, taking John’s hand. “Just John will be enough,” he said, his voice soft, eyes shining with a profound, quiet pride. “I’m sure they’ve figured out the rest.”

John's smile softened, a warm glow in his eyes as he marvelled at him. “That’s good.”

But his eyes, drawn by something on the screen, narrowed. He stepped closer, peering at the detailed satellite image displayed there. The image was of a sprawling, modern estate.

“That's the place, isn't it?” John said, his voice dropping, the warmth replaced by a firm resolve.

Sherlock followed his gaze. “He calls it Appledore,” he explained, his voice losing its tenderness, becoming purely factual. “An unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. It’s the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world. The Alexandra Library of secrets and scandals. And none of it is on a computer. He’s smart, computers can be hacked. It’s all on hard copy, in vaults, underneath that house. And as long as it’s there the personal freedom of anyone you’ve ever met is a fantasy.”

John felt a shiver down his spine. “How do we get in?” He asked, his jaw tight.

Sherlock's lips curved into a faint, predatory smile. “That, my dear John, is where the fun begins. We don't break in. We're invited.”

John's eyes narrowed, a cold understanding settling in. The pieces were falling into place, and he had a terrifying feeling he already knew the outline of the invitation Sherlock had secured.

“Don’t tell me it’s what I’m thinking. Don’t tell me you sold your brother up.”

Sherlock leaned back, observing John's reaction with a detached calm that only infuriated John further.

“I do hope you have a very good plan, Sherlock! You can’t risk compromising Mycroft even more.”

“It's a calculated risk,” Sherlock conceded, his voice softening slightly as he saw the genuine distress in John's eyes. “Relax, John. It's all part of the plan. A staged vulnerability, nothing more. Mycroft is... robust. He will survive.”

“A staged vulnerability?” John repeated, his brow furrowing. “You mean... Mycroft is in on this?”

Sherlock hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Not precisely 'in on it' in the way you might assume. He has a... general understanding of the necessity to confront Magnussen. The specifics of the 'exchange' are best kept to myself for now. Suffice it to say, Mycroft will be unharmed, and Magnussen will believe he has gained an advantage that he has not.”

“This could go incredibly wrong.” John said, brows furrowed. “Have you considered the odds? And if Mycroft falls your safety net is gone, too.”

“Mycroft risked a lot for me,” Sherlock conceded, the admission almost painful to get out, but still laced with a rare, raw vulnerability, “I have to do this.”

John still looked doubtful, but the sheer absurdity of the situation, coupled with Sherlock's rare admission of care for Mycroft. “You truly believe this is the only way?”

“The only efficient way to gain the access we need,” Sherlock corrected. “Magnussen is not susceptible to conventional methods. To defeat a master blackmailer, one must play his game, but with different rules.”

John sighed, running a hand over his face. He didn't like it, not one bit. Sherlock putting himself in the line of fire would always sit hard with him, and yet it was precisely that sheer force of him that kept John going, the constant, infuriating, exhilarating presence of him, as reckless as he was. Whatever the danger, he would be there with him.

“Alright,” John said. “Tell me the plan.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10

DRAGONSLAYER

Christmas Day at the Holmes' was exactly as chaotic and eccentric as John had always imagined, a vibrant blur of familiar chaos and unexpected warmth. Laughter mingled with lively debate, the clatter of China, and the comforting scent of roast turkey. Sherlock's parents, in their own charmingly oblivious way, seemed to simply absorb John into the family, a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes. He found himself drawn into the peculiar rhythm of their traditions, a silent, comfortable presence amidst the boisterous intellectual jousting.

The subtle glances, the shared smiles, the comfortable silence that settled between John and Sherlock – it all painted a clear picture of shared domesticity, of a bond that was now irrevocably etched into the fabric of their lives. It was a warmth that curled in John's chest, both cherished and, at this precise moment, intensely painful. The knowledge of what was about to unfold, of the carefully constructed deception, lent a sharp, bitter edge to his contentment.

Leaving John to enjoy a particularly spirited round of charades with his parents – a game John surprisingly excelled at, much to Sherlock's quiet amusement – Sherlock found the perfect excuse to slip away. He headed for the crisp, cold air outside, a cigarette already poised between his fingers, a habit he and Mycroft had perfected over the years, a shared ritual of rebellion against their mother's watchful eye. He knew Mycroft would follow.

The crunch of Mycroft's sensible shoes on the gravel announced his arrival, accompanied by the familiar sigh that always seemed to precede a Holmesian conversation.

“I’m glad you’ve given up on the Magnussen business,” Mycroft stated, the smoke from his own cigarette curling upwards into the twilight.

“Are you?” Sherlock’s voice was low, laced with an irony that only Mycroft would fully appreciate. He took a long drag, the nicotine a familiar burn in his lungs, a momentary anchor against the churning calculations in his mind.

“I’m still curious though. He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?” Mycroft’s eyes, even in the dim light, held a piercing intelligence, probing beyond the surface.

Sherlock scoffed, exhaling a plume of smoke. “He attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets – why don’t you?” The question was a challenge, a subtle accusation of his brother's perceived inaction.

Mycroft merely adjusted his perfectly knotted tie, a gesture of almost theatrical nonchalance. “He never causes too much damage to anyone of importance, he’s far too intelligent for that. As I’ve told you already, he wasn’t going to bother me, and he hasn’t.” There was a subtle edge of self-preservation in his tone, a cold pragmatism that always grated on Sherlock.

“Only a matter of time. You underestimate him.” Sherlock's voice was tight, a flicker of genuine concern for Mycroft, quickly masked.

“He’s a businessman, that’s all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay.” Mycroft flicked ash from his cigarette, his gaze distant.

“A dragon-slayer. Is that what you think of me?” Sherlock asked, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his voice. The thought was both irritating and, perhaps, a little gratifying.

“No. It’s what you think of yourself.” Mycroft’s response was immediate, an effortless deduction that pricked at Sherlock's carefully constructed façade.

The door behind them suddenly creaked open, their mother peeking out, a formidable, inquiring expression on her face, the scent of lavender and roast goose wafting with her. “Are you two smoking?”

They instantly hid their cigarettes behind their backs, a practiced, almost comical synchronicity born of decades of shared rebellion.

In unison, Mycroft’s voice, a touch too loud, rang out: “No!”

“It was Mycroft,” Sherlock deadpanned, his expression entirely innocent.

She scolded them with her piercing gaze, a silent lecture that transcended words, but eventually, with a resigned sigh, she withdrew, leaving them alone once more. They resumed their quiet, clandestine conversation, the tension simmering beneath the surface.

“I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline,” Mycroft said, the abrupt change of topic a classic Mycroftian manoeuvre.

“I decline your kind offer.” Sherlock didn't even hesitate.

“I shall pass on your regrets.”

“What was it?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious despite his feigned disinterest.

“MI6. They want to place you back in Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months.” Mycroft’s voice was devoid of emotion, yet Sherlock caught the almost imperceptible clenching of his jaw.

“Then why don’t you want to me take it?” Sherlock asked with a smirk, a perverse pleasure in testing his brother's limits.

“It’s tempting, but on balance, you have more utility closer to home.” Mycroft’s gaze was unsettlingly direct, stripping away Sherlock’s usual defences.

“How do I have utility?” Sherlock pressed, a flicker of something akin to vulnerability in his eyes.

Mycroft smiled, a rare, genuine curve of his lips that held both affection and a knowing weariness. “Here be dragons.” It was a quiet acknowledgement of Sherlock’s dangerous nature, his propensity for chaos, and his undeniable, albeit unconventional, competence.

Mycroft looked irritated at his cigarette, flicking it away with a sharp snap. “This isn’t agreeing with me, I’m going in.” The words were a dismissal, a signal that their uncomfortable conversation was over.

“You need low tar, you still smoke like a beginner,” Sherlock called after him, a final, barbed quip.

Mycroft went to open the door, then hesitated. He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Sherlock's, no longer guarded or detached.

“Whatever you plan to do. I chose you, Sherlock. I have since we were kids, and I am doing it again now. Let the Magnussen thing go.”

His voice was soft, laced with a tired, immutable conviction that cut through Sherlock's composure like a surgical blade. It was a plea, a warning, and a raw admission of sibling loyalty all at once.

Sherlock looked at him, genuinely affronted, the carefully constructed calm shattering. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”

Mycroft's lips quirked into a faint, almost mischievous smile. “Merry Christmas?”

“You hate Christmas.” Sherlock retorted, the words sharp with disbelief.

“Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch.” Mycroft's gaze softened, a flash of genuine, weary amusement in his eyes.

“Clearly. Go and have some more.”

Sherlock watched him disappear inside, the door closing with a soft thud. He stood alone in the cold, the weight of Mycroft’s words pressing down on him. His brother had chosen him, again. And that choice, far from deterring him, only solidified his resolve. Magnussen wasn’t going to threaten Mycroft again, or exert blackmail on John. He would make sure of it.

***

Later that evening, as the last of the Christmas carols faded and the fire crackled in the grate, a hushed silence descended upon the Holmes household. The sedative, subtly introduced into the evening's refreshments, began its insidious work. Mycroft was the first to slump, his head lolling to the side, a rare, uncharacteristic doze overcoming him. Then, Sherlock's parents followed, their snores soon mingling with the quiet hum of the house, a gentle, rhythmic sound that would normally be comforting.

John exchanged a look with Sherlock, a silent communication passing between them. The moment had arrived. They waited, watching the still forms of the Holmes family, the weight of their imminent betrayal heavy in the air. The faint, rhythmic thud-thud-thud grew steadily louder, a distant murmur at first, then an unmistakable roar that filled the night sky. Magnussen's men. The noise from the helicopter above them intensified, signalling their arrival. The plan was in motion. There was no turning back.

Charles Augustus Magnussen sat in a minimalist yet expensive looking room, a glass of amber whiskey cradled in his hand. His gaze was fixed on the wall opposite him, where a security footage loop played. It was unmistakably clear: John Watson, against the roaring flames of a bonfire, rescued by the frantic, familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes. Magnussen watched, a faint, smug smile playing on his lips, occasionally raising the glass to his mouth.

Sherlock and John were ushered in by a man whose impeccable bearing suggested a butler, though his silent efficiency hinted at something far more formidable. Magnussen glanced at them, a dismissive flick of his wrist sending the man away. They approached slowly, their eyes immediately drawn to the horrifying loop on the wall. The memory was raw, visceral, for John. The heat of the fire, the sickening relief in Sherlock’s voice when he found him. It all rushed back, hot and vivid.

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock murmured, his voice flat. “It was you.”

Magnussen savoured the moment, a predator delighting in the cornered prey. “Yes, of course. Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr. Holmes. I told you the drugs weren’t it. And anyway, you wouldn’t care if it was exposed. But look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.”

John’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white at his sides. The anger for the event, subdued in the past months by the intimacy he shared with Sherlock, now surged, hot and furious, a dangerous current beneath his skin. “You put me in a bloody fire... for leverage?”

Magnussen merely chuckled, a dry sound that grated on John’s nerves. “I would never have let you burn, Dr. Watson, I had people standing by. I’m not a murderer.” He clicked off the looping footage, plunging the wall into darkness, the lingering image seared into John’s mind.

“Let me explain how leverage works, Dr. Watson. For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well, apart from me. Mycroft’s pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. Sherlock’s pressure point, is John Watson, his best friend, or—” he glanced at Sherlock, smiling cruelly, before turning back to John. “Or so you think, Doctor. But Sherlock and I both know you mean much more to him than that.”

Magnussen’s sneer was chilling, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “Shall we tell him? You won’t find it too humiliating, I’m sure. Such things are never meant to be kept hidden.”

He raised his glass again, taking a sip, missing the swift, knowing glance that passed between Sherlock and John, a silent affirmation of their shared understanding.

“It’s interesting, Mr. Holmes, how your pressure point isn’t drugs, or your intellect. You’re not even a high functioning sociopath at all, as there are no records of it. Quite a masterfully curated image you crafted.” Magnussen said dispassionately, as if directing a business meeting. “But no, your greatest weakness is emotional intimacy. Maybe physical too.” He added with a subtle smirk, and Sherlock’s mind, involuntarily flashed back to the hospital, to Magnussen touching his hands, his breath on his face, the violation stark and unsettling. He recoiled instinctively, a visible shudder passing through him.

Magnussen pressed on, aiming squarely at Sherlock's exposed nerve. “Must be quite pathetic to be in love your pet soldier, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock felt John’s eyes on him, a silent anchor, a steadfast presence urging him to endure, to let Magnussen gloat for now. But despite their newfound closeness, despite their fragile, growing hope for a future together, Sherlock’s face turned visibly pale at Magnussen’s words. His most hidden and truest longings, his deepest vulnerabilities, were laid out in the open like that, stripped bare, a stark and brutal reminder that his love for John would always put them both in danger, one way or another. The revelation, crude and public, felt like a branding iron across his soul.

Magnussen smirked at Sherlock’s loss of words, a small, triumphant curl of his lip, before shifting his stance to turn to John. “And you know, don’t you? You just don’t know what to do with it.”

John felt fury rising, cold and intense, the dangerous, surgical kind that made his hands clench. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he could beat Magnussen to death with his bare hands, not even bothering with the gun tucked into his waistband. He hated him for making Sherlock feel small, for stripping away his carefully constructed defence, for exposing such raw, profound pain. The sight of Sherlock’s pale face, the flicker of fear in his eyes, broke John’s heart, fuelling a desperate, protective rage unlike anything he’d ever known. He would tear this man apart for daring to hurt Sherlock.

Magnussen went on, oblivious to the storm brewing within John. “You understand, Doctor? I own you. I own Mycroft.” He spread his hands in a gesture of grotesque magnanimity, as if offering a gift, his tone mocking. “He’s what I’m getting for Christmas.”

Sherlock, recovering his composure with a visible effort, stepped forward and carefully placed Mycroft’s laptop on the sleek table in front of Magnussen. His movements were precise, controlled, betraying none of the furious contempt still swirling within him.

“It’s an exchange, not a gift.”

Magnussen’s thin fingers curled around the laptop, his smile widening. “Forgive me, but I already seem to have it.”

“It’s password protected. In return for the password, you will show us your vaults.” Sherlock’s voice was clipped, a dangerous edge beneath its calm.

Magnussen leaned back, contemplating Sherlock, a slow, appraising look in his eyes that held an almost dismissive amusement. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a thin, humourless sound that grated on John’s nerves, piercing the tense silence.

“You know, I honestly expected something good.”

“I think you’ll find the contents of that laptop—” Sherlock began, a hint of his usual intellectual superiority returning, his mind racing to execute the complex gamble.

“—include a GPS locator. By now your brother will have noticed the theft, and the security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived, they will discover top secret information in my hands, and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind, and I will be imprisoned. You will be exonerated and restored to your smelly little apartment. Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time, he’ll be a very proud big brother.”

Sherlock looked bemused, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow as he processed Magnussen’s unexpected candour.

“The fact you know it’s going to happen, won’t stop it.” Sherlock finally said, his voice quiet.

“Then why am I smiling?” Magnussen’s eyes glittered, daring Sherlock. Silence stretched, taut and agonizing. “Ask me! Ask why I’m smiling.”

Sherlock remained stubbornly silent, his pride warring with the chilling certainty he felt from Magnussen. John shot Sherlock a quick look, read his distress, and stepped forward. Magnussen had humiliated Sherlock enough for his liking. He was taking over.

“Why are you smiling?” John asked.

Magnussen stood, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock, a cruel satisfaction settling over his features. “Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves, and everything he holds dear.” He strode from the room, leaving behind a profound silence that echoed with the chilling words. John and Sherlock exchanged a worried glance, the weight of his words pressing down on them. They began to follow, dread a cold knot in John's stomach.

The hallway of Appledore was vast, gleaming white, carved out of sleek, cold surfaces that resembled icebergs. Magnussen led them along, his steps echoing in the stark space. He stopped at a door hidden behind a desk in a stylish, minimalist office, a single bowl of vibrant fruit the only burst of colour in the sterile environment.

He turned at the door, a triumphant smile on his face. “The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you all.”

He opened the door and stepped in. John and Sherlock moved to the doorway, their eyes widening in horror. It wasn’t a vault. It was a cupboard. A tiny, bare, walk-in cupboard, containing only a single chair. Magnussen settled into it, beaming at them, his unsettling cheerfulness utterly incongruous with the grim reality of their situation.

“Okay,” John said, his voice flat, keeping the horror from showing. “Where are the vaults then?”

“Vaults? What vaults, there are no vaults beneath this building. They’re all in here.” He pointed a thin, bony finger to his head. “The Appledore Vaults are my mind palace. You know about mind palaces, don’t you, Sherlock? How to store information so you never forget it? By picturing it. I just sit here. I close my eyes...”  

He closed his eyes, then opened them again, a subtle shift in his expression, as if awakening to a different reality. He began to mime descending a spiral staircase, his body rocking slightly in the chair. “And down I go to my vaults.” He continued the charade, wandering invisible corridors, mimicking opening a filing cabinet. “Where shall I go today? Oh, I know! I’ll look at the files on Dr. Watson.” He mimed leafing through the file, his lips forming silent words. “This is one of my favourites. It’s so exciting. All those people killed. Oh, you miss that, bad boy.” He closed his eyes again, then opened them, a triumphant smile on his face. “You see?”

John stared, utterly bewildered, the weight of the realization crashing down on him like a creeping chill. “There aren’t any documents. You don’t actually have anything here at all?”

“Oh, sometimes I send out for something, if I really need it. But mostly I just remember it all.” Magnussen’s eyes held a chilling, unblinking intensity.

“You just remember it all.” John repeated, the absurdity of it almost laughable, if it wasn't so terrifying.

“Every last detail. It’s all about knowledge, everything is. Knowing is owning.” Magnussen stood, his lanky frame dominating the tiny cupboard.

“And you don’t need any proof. You just print it out.” John concluded, forcing the words out, trying to buy time, to formulate a new plan.

“What would I need proof for? I’m in news.” Magnussen’s contempt was palpable. He glanced at an imaginary watch. “Speaking of news, you’ll both be heavily featured tomorrow. Trying to sell state secrets to me. Let’s go outside, they’ll be here shortly. I can’t wait to see you arrested.”

He headed out, leaving Sherlock and John standing in the doorway of the tiny cupboard. John looked at Sherlock, who hadn’t uttered a word, eyes downcast, the dawning horror of his miscalculation etched onto his face. John couldn’t bear to see him like that, broken and vulnerable. He had to find a solution, quickly. He searched for Sherlock’s gaze, a desperate plea to trust him, but Sherlock just looked winded, lost, utterly defeated. John reached out, his hand brushing Sherlock’s in quiet reassurance, but Sherlock didn’t even look at him, his eyes distant, unfocused.

Outside, the sun was setting, bleeding across the sky in hues of blood red. Magnussen was waiting in front of his spectacular, pristine house, his figure stark against the ominous backdrop. John emerged behind him, the rage simmering just beneath his calm exterior.

“They’re taking their time, aren’t they? Do you think they’ll send a helicopter?” Magnussen mused, his voice casual. His eyes lingered on John, a disturbing glint within them, relishing his power. “I love your little soldier face. I’d like to punch it. Bring it over here a minute.”

John glanced to Sherlock, who was now emerging from the house, his shoulders still slumped, his expression haunted. Sherlock caught his gaze, and with a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, urged him to comply. Play along. John moved towards Magnussen, every muscle screaming in protest, but he forced himself forward. He knew Sherlock would try to think of something, anything to get them out of there, but a plan was already forming in John’s mind.

“Lean forward a bit. Stick your face out.”

John gritted his teeth, the taste of bile in his mouth, but he complied, presenting his face to the monster.

Better me than Sherlock.

He let him flick his face, enduring the humiliating assault, hoping it would buy them some precious seconds. He knew what he had to do. He just had to wait for the right moment—

Then, the thunder of a helicopter above them intensified, the air vibrating with its approach. They were transfixed in a blazing spotlight from above, brilliant white light obliterating the dusk. From around the perimeter, a black-clad SWAT team now cautiously approached, their weapons raised.

Mycroft’s voice, amplified and booming, suddenly filled the air, cutting through the whirring blades and the rising tension. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man. Do it now.”

Neither Sherlock nor John budged, locked in a silent tableau, each consumed by their own desperate, converging thoughts.

Magnussen turned to Sherlock with an amused smile, utterly confident in his invincibility. “Here we go, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock looked at him, a gentle frown of thought, the analytical mind re-engaging, albeit with a terrifying new clarity. The pieces were falling into place for him, but with a horrifying implication. “To clarify: the Appledore Vaults only exist in your mind. Nowhere else, just there.”

“They’re not real, they never have been.” Magnussen confirmed, a triumphant smirk stretching across his face, utterly unaware of the deadly intent dawning in Sherlock's eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, step away!” Mycroft’s voice boomed again, laden with desperation, more urgent.

“It’s fine, they’re harmless.” Magnussen called up to the helicopter, his voice dripping with condescension.

With rising panic, John noted Sherlock’s gaze dropping, fixing on the gun in his waistband. In that instant, John knew. Sherlock was thinking the same thing. The same terrible, necessary thing. But with icing clarity, John knew it couldn’t be Sherlock, the man who was meant to protect, to solve, not to be a common killer. It had to be him. If there was to be a murder tonight, if Sherlock was to be saved, then John Watson would be the murderer. The decision solidified, cold and unyielding, in his gut.

Magnussen kept bragging, his smile wide and utterly victorious.

“There is nothing to be done. I’m not a villain. I have no evil plan – I’m a businessman acquiring assets. And you happen to be one of them, that’s all. Sorry, no chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes.”

Time stopped for a moment, stretched taut and unbearable. Just as Sherlock’s own hand began to move, a flicker of grim determination hardening his features, John’s hand slipped to his gun, fingers closing around the familiar grip. In a fast, almost casual movement, he drew it, the cold steel a shocking weight, and jammed the barrel against Magnussen’s forehead.

“Merry Christmas.” John’s voice was flat, empty of emotion.

Sherlock’s breath hitched, his heart leaping into his throat, his own hand freezing mid-motion. He’d seen the shift in John, the dangerous calm, but never in a million calculations had he expected this. The sheer, horrifying finality of John’s action, the unwavering resolve in his eyes, struck Sherlock with the force of a physical blow.

The gunshot ripped through the tense air, sharp and deafening, a brutal punctuation mark to Magnussen’s last words. Magnussen dropped like a stone, dead. John immediately dropped the gun, stepping back, his hands raised in the air, a silent surrender. A blaze of laser gun lights immediately swarmed over him, red dots blooming on his chest, painting him in an unearthly glow.

“Don’t fire! Do not fire on John Watson!” Mycroft’s voice roared, laced with raw despair.

Sherlock, staring at John, felt a wave of horror, cold and nauseating, wash over him. The world spun, reality tilting on its axis.

“Get back from me, Sherlock! Stay well back!” John’s voice was clear, firm, pushing Sherlock away, creating an undeniable distance between them, a chasm of consequence.

The SWAT team swarmed around John, their guns levelled at him. He stood there, alone, waiting, in the terrible, blasting light of the helicopter, a lone figure sacrificing everything.

“Fuck, John!” Sherlock’s voice was choked, a desperate cry, raw and ripped from his very soul. “Why would you? I was going to!”

“I know,” John said, his eyes fixing on Sherlock’s, unwavering, filled with a profound love. His voice was soft, an almost gentle farewell, a balm and a wound all at once. “You should’ve never had to. He won’t hurt you anymore.”

***

The wood-panelled office felt heavier than usual, the air thick with unspoken consequence, a blend of hushed power and the scent of expensive paper. Today, it was sharper, laced with the metallic tang of Sherlock's barely contained panic. Mycroft stood by the window, his back to the seated men in suits, staring out at the grey London sky as if searching for answers in its indifferent expanse. The mood in the room was impossibly grave, a silent acknowledgment of the tightrope they were walking.

“There are times, gentlemen, when the most delicate of instruments will suffice. When diplomacy and intelligence gathering are all that's required to navigate the treacherous currents of state.” Mycroft spoke softly, a low thrum that nonetheless commanded attention.

He paused, then continued, his voice hardening slightly.

“Equally, it sometimes needs a dagger. A scalpel, wielded with precision and without remorse.”

He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the men at the table, before settling on Lady Smallwood, her posture impeccable even when seated.

“There will always come a time when we need certain assets.”

Sir Edwin, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with disapproval, cleared his throat.

“If this is some expression of... familial sentiment, Mr. Holmes, regarding your brother's associate...”

Sherlock stopped his pacing, narrowing his eyes to the man. Mycroft's expression tightened, a flash of irritation in his eyes.

“Don’t be absurd. You know I sent my brother in Eastern Europe for two years. In any event, there is no prison in which we could incarcerate Dr. John Watson that would not, within days, risk exposing the very narrative we have so meticulously crafted around Magnussen’s demise. Furthermore, the alternative – allowing him to stand trial – would unleash a media storm that would compromise countless assets and operations.”

His gaze sharpened, again locking onto Lady Smallwood at the head of the table. “The alternative, however, would require your approval.”

“Hardly merciful, Mr. Holmes.” She stated, er expression a mix of professional assessment and something akin to an understanding.

Mycroft's face was pained, a flicker of genuine distress showing beneath his controlled exterior. The thought of Sherlock, spiralling without John, the descend into madness already unravelling in front of him, was a shadow even he couldn't entirely banish. This was for Sherlock, yes, but also for John, who had done what was necessary when others hesitated.

“Regrettably, Lady Smallwood... Dr. Watson is a murderer.”

“We're talking about John!” Sherlock interjected, his composure breaking. “He saved us all from that parasite.” He forced the words out, each one a struggle against the rising tide of his own anxiety. His mind, usually a pristine engine of deduction, felt like a chaotic storm, lashed by visions of John. He hadn't seen him in nearly a week. Six days. It was an eternity.

“The situation is, as you can appreciate, extremely delicate, Mr. Holmes,” Lady Smallwood replied, her voice cool, precise. She shifted a folder on the polished mahogany. “Magnussen was, despite his... methods, a significant figure.” Her expression a mix of professional assessment and something akin to a grim understanding.

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, a silent command for calm. “Lady Smallwood is merely outlining the necessary operational parameters, Sherlock. Dr. Watson's welfare is paramount, as is the stability of certain, shall we say, sensitive information.” His eyes flickered to Sherlock, a warning.

Sir Edwin, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, pushed back his chair, gesturing for the other officials to follow him. “I shall have a word with the MI5 operatives, then.” He announced, excusing himself from the conference room abruptly, his associates right behind him.

Lady Smallwood sighed as soon as they were out of earshot, the quiet exhale a relief after the rigid formality. “I understand your distress, Mr. Holmes,” she said to Sherlock, her tone softening almost imperceptibly. “But I must urge you to keep your personal feelings under control, especially when anyone else besides your brother and I are present. That being said, you have upheld your end of our bargain, regarding Magnussen, and I intend to keep mine.”

Sherlock's eyes widened, a flicker of desperate hope igniting within him. “What can you do?”

She exchanged a look with Mycroft, who spoke gravely. “The alternative to incarceration would be an undercover mission, approximately six months in duration.”

Sherlock's brow furrowed. It was the offer Mycroft had made him reject on Christmas Day. It felt like eons ago. “That's your solution?”

“The mission,” Lady Smallwood cut in smoothly, her gaze direct, “will be aborted before it even begins. I can make sure of that. But we'll need the cover of it.”

Mycroft nodded in agreement. “This is the best we can do, Sherlock. You must trust us that we’ll pull it off.”

Sherlock stared at him a second too long, then resumed his pacing, hands clasped under his chin.

“I shall leave you to brief your brother, Mycroft,” Lady Smallwood said, a final acknowledge that conveyed the end of the discussion. “I trust the details of the arrangement will remain strictly within this room.” With a discreet glance at Sherlock, a silent warning for him to maintain what little composure he had left, she turned and swept out of the office. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, leaving a profound silence in its wake, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic.

Sherlock spun around, all pretence of control shattering. “When can I see him?” His desperation a palpable force in the room.

His voice was raw, hoarse, stripped bare of all artifice. He took a step towards his brother's desk, his hands clenching. “It's been six days! What are you doing to him? What are you doing?” His breath came in ragged gasps, his face pale, eyes wide and haunted. “I need to see him. I need to know he's alright. Please, Mycroft.”

The word, so rarely uttered by Sherlock, hung in the air, a desperate testament to his anguish. He had never begged once in his life, especially not to his brother. Now he was begging for John.

Mycroft’s eyes once again fixed on his agitated brother, tenderness tugging at his heart seeing him like that. “Have you eaten, at all? Slept?”

The sheer absurdity of the question made Sherlock’s blood boil. “How can I sleep when John’s been in solitary confinement for six days, Mycroft? And you refuse to let me see him?”

“I never refused you, Sherlock. I didn’t have the means to arrange it until tonight.” Mycroft's voice was calm, but held a hint of genuine regret.

A beat of silence.

“I’ll see him tonight?” Sherlock asked, the question fragile.

Flashback: Mycroft's POV – Two Days Prior

The room was sparse, utilitarian. John Watson sat across from him, quiet, composed, yet radiating a profound sense of peace that Mycroft found both perplexing and, surprisingly, admirable. There was no hint of resignation or defeat in his posture, no sign of the frantic worry Mycroft might have expected from a man who had just shot another to death. Just a quiet, unwavering conviction. But than again, it wasn’t his first time.

“Are you comfortable, John?” Mycroft's voice was crisp, professional, his gaze analytical. John gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “As comfortable as one can be in a place like this. Mycroft, is Sherlock... is he alright?”

Mycroft felt a flicker of surprise. No questions about his own fate, no desperate pleas for freedom. Only concern for his brother. “He is safe. Physically, at least.”

A faint, genuine smile touched John's lips, a fleeting expression of relief so pure it was almost disarming. “Good. That's all that matters. Magnussen can't hurt him now. Or anyone else.” There was no remorse in his eyes, only a quiet, resolute certainty that he had done what was necessary.

Mycroft's gaze sharpened. John's composure was striking, yet his words carried a particular weight, a specific reassurance aimed at Sherlock's vulnerability to Magnussen. What precise wound had John identified and sought to cauterize? “How did Magnussen hurt Sherlock?” Mycroft pressed, a flicker of unease joining his intellectual curiosity.

John looked at him, wary. “He didn’t tell you, did he? I thought so.”

“Dr. Watson. What did Magnussen do to my brother?” Mycroft's tone was sharper now, a hint of steel entering it, an unexpected coldness born of dawning dread.

John sighed. “He harassed him in his hospital bed.”

Mycroft's breath hitched. The image, unbidden, of his vulnerable brother, recovering, subjected to that violation. A wave of impotent rage, sharp and unfamiliar, twisted in his gut. He closed his eyes for a bare second, willing it away.

“Please, never, ever let him see that you know.” John pleaded, his voice earnest, a raw plea for Sherlock's dignity that resonated with Mycroft's own buried protective instincts. “It would only embarrass him further. I’m only saying because I know how much you care.”

Mycroft went back to the conversation he had with Sherlock at their parents' house, a surge of bitter shame accompanying the memory of his own dismissal of Sherlock’s concern. e, who prided himself on seeing everything, had been blind to this.

“Then I am very glad you executed him, John.” The thought was cold, definitive, yet utterly righteous.

Mycroft studied him, a recalculation forming in his mind. He was reminded of his own consideration, years prior, on whether John Watson could be the making of his brother or make him worse than ever. The memory surfaced, sharp and clear. And now, the answer was undeniably evident.

John Watson had not made Sherlock worse. He had made him better, profoundly so. He had grounded him, loved him, and now, he had saved him. Not from a building, or a network, but from a predator’s claws, from the unbearable moral burden of becoming a killer for the sake of survival. John had shouldered that weight, knowing what it would do to Sherlock. John Watson was anything but simple. He possessed a moral clarity and an unwavering loyalty that Mycroft, in all his cynical calculations, had sorely underestimated.

Mycroft allowed himself a rare, internal sigh. He would protect this man. Not just for Sherlock's sake, but because John Watson, in his quiet strength, represented something worth preserving. And the price Sherlock was now paying – the desperate emotional turmoil that Mycroft could feel even from a distance – was a searing testament to the depth of their bond, a bond Mycroft now understood, and for the first time, truly valued beyond mere utility. He would do everything in his considerable power to reunite them.

End Flashback

“Yes, dear brother. I’ll take you to him.”

Mycroft held his brother's gaze, a flicker of something almost akin to compassion in his usually impassive eyes.

“But be assured, John is perfectly aware of the situation. He has no regrets, and he understands he saved you from a consequence you were quite prepared to embrace.” He paused, letting the implication settle.

“He is, however, rather worried about you.”

Sherlock faltered, his shoulders slumping slightly, the fight momentarily leaving him. John was worried about him? After everything? The thought was a fresh stab of guilt and a strange, overwhelming comfort.

“He wants to make sure you're not spiralling.” Mycroft said. “A spiral from which I, apparently, would be quite useless in retrieving you.”

Sherlock looked away, the admission too close to the truth. John, always the one to see past the masks, to understand the fragile human beneath the brilliant mind.

“I have nearly completed the official report,” Mycroft continued, his voice softer than before, “The evidence is being... recontextualized. Magnussen's death will be attributed to a highly classified event, unrelated to your presence. John's involvement will be erased.”

Sherlock's head snapped up, a spark of his usual brilliance rekindling in his eyes, but still shadowed by raw emotion. “Erased?”

“Completely. It will take time to fully integrate him back into any semblance of a normal life, but he will be free. And safe.” Mycroft offered. “But you have to understand that we must pass through this charade first, as it’ll clear him of any responsibility.”

He glanced at Mycroft, a new kind of pleading in his eyes. “Just let me see him, for now.”

Mycroft considered him for a long, silent beat. He saw the profound fear in his brother's eyes, a fear he had rarely witnessed. He had protected Sherlock from the world for decades. Now, John Watson had saved Sherlock from himself. The equation had shifted.

“I’ll send a car for you tonight.” Mycroft finally said, rising from his chair. “There are precautions we must observe. But you may see him.”

***

The car finally stopped in an anonymous industrial complex, a brutalist monument of concrete and chain-link fences. Men with faces as blank as the walls guarded every entrance, their presence a cold, stark reminder of John’s fate. Sherlock was ushered into a sterile corridor, the air cold and dry, smelling faintly of disinfectant and despair. Every step felt like walking through treacle, every moment of waiting a fresh turn of the rack. Mycroft accompanied him, a silent, imposing shadow, presumably there to ensure the security knew who they were dealing with. It was the only deduction Sherlock's mind was able to manage for the night, lost as it was in a desperate, frantic loop.

Behind bars, in a small, stark room, was John. He sat on a narrow cot, his prison clothes hanging a little loosely on his frame, a stark contrast to his usual comfortable jumpers. He turned his head as the heavy door to his cell opened, and his gaze, weary but steady, met Sherlock's across the short, agonizing distance. For a few, endless seconds, they simply stared, a silent scream passing between them, before the guard, a burly figure with an impatient scowl, swung the cell door open.

“You have twenty minutes.” He barked, the words echoing harshly in the confined space, before the door clanged shut, leaving them utterly alone.

All the carefully constructed barriers of Sherlock's mind crumbled to ash. He saw John, not as the calm, self-sacrificing hero Mycroft had described with clinical precision, but as his John, his human John, the man who had taken Sherlock's impossible burden onto his own shoulders, the man who was now locked away in this grey box because of him. The realization hit Sherlock like a physical blow, a visceral, shattering understanding.

“John,” Sherlock's voice tore from his throat, a raw, guttural sound he barely recognized as his own. It was a whisper, a sob, a desperate plea all at once. His legs moved before he consciously willed them, stumbling forward, then half-running across the cold, unforgiving floor.

John rose, his own face softening with a heartbreaking tenderness, a flicker of something deeply empathetic in his eyes. He didn't speak, just watched Sherlock approach, his arms not quite open, but not closed either, an unspoken invitation for Sherlock to bridge the final gap.

Sherlock reached him, grasping John's shoulders with a desperate, almost violent intensity. His hands trembled, his fingers digging into the thin, rough fabric of John's shirt. He stared into John's face, searching for... what? Guilt? Regret? But there was none. Only that profound, weary peace, unwavering and true. It broke something fundamental inside Sherlock, scattering the last shards of his composure.

“Why?” Sherlock choked out, the single word thick with anguish. His eyes burned, hot, silent tears already streaming down his face. John's hand came up, gently, to cup Sherlock's cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness.

“It's okay, Sherlock,” John murmured, his voice soft, that somehow only intensified Sherlock's internal storm. John leaned in, pressing light, comforting kisses on Sherlock’s temples, a silent embrace of his raw pain.

Sherlock shook his head, a frantic, desperate denial. “No, it's not! I could have managed it! I could have... it was my responsibility!” His voice rose, verging on a raw shout, thick with self-loathing. “You shouldn't be here! Not you!” He pulled John closer, not quite a hug, more like a desperate clinging, burying his face against John's shoulder, the harsh fabric scratching his cheek. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, the man of ice and logic, was utterly, spectacularly undone. He clung to John as if John was the only thing preventing him from falling apart completely, from dissolving into the raw, agonizing grief that threatened to consume his very being.

John's arms enveloped him in a warm, solid embrace. He held Sherlock tightly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingers tangling gently in his curls. He didn't speak, just held him, letting Sherlock weep into his shoulder, bearing the full, shattering force of his despair. He rubbed Sherlock's back slowly, methodically, a silent reassurance that he was there, solid and real, the anchor in Sherlock's turbulent world.

After a long, shuddering moment, Sherlock pulled back slightly, his face blotchy and tear-streaked, eyes still burning. He looked utterly broken, a shattered work of art. “He's working on a solution,” he whispered, his voice raspy from crying. “Mycroft. He said—”

John gave a small, tired smile, a ghost of his usual warmth. “He's got it all handled, I know.” He met Sherlock's gaze, his eyes unwavering, the depth of his conviction astonishing. “But even if he hadn't, I would have done it all the same. For you.”

“Oh, John—” Sherlock began, another wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

“I just need to know you're safe,” John cut him off gently, reaching up again to wipe a fresh tear from Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. His gaze was searching, deeply serious. “You haven't done anything you might regret, right?” The unspoken implication, the familiar spectre of Sherlock's past struggles, hung heavy between them.

Sherlock understood immediately. “I haven't taken anything,” he reassured him, his voice still raw, but firm. The confirmation, offered without hesitation, seemed to visibly ease a tension in John's shoulders.

“Good,” John breathed, a quiet sigh of relief.

He pulled back just enough to look Sherlock squarely in the eye, his hands still firm on Sherlock's shoulders, a promise in their grip. “You keep doing that, alright? I’ll be out of here soon enough.” His voice was low, earnest, a steadying presence in the chaotic room.

Sherlock merely nodded, transfixed by John's intense gaze on him.

“I'm scared, John,” Sherlock admitted in a whisper, the admission tearing itself from a place deep inside him he rarely exposed.

John felt a cold twist of fear in his own gut, a familiar ache for the man in front of him. But he knew, with a soldier's grim resolve, that Sherlock needed strength now, not shared anxiety. He forced a steadying breath, allowing none of his own terror to surface. Mycroft, he was sure, would pull him out of this. He had to. He soldiered on, his focus entirely on Sherlock's breaking heart.

“You don't need to be,” John said, his voice imbued with every ounce of conviction he possessed, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of Sherlock's fear. He leaned in, his gaze boring into Sherlock's, as if to imprint the truth directly onto his soul. “I love you, Sherlock. I waited two years for you. Can you do the same... for just a little while?”

Sherlock's breath hitched, the full weight of John's sacrifice, his unwavering love, and this impossible request settling deep within him. He didn't nod, didn't speak. Instead, with a raw, desperate intensity, he finally leaned forward, closing the last unbearable inch between them.

His lips met John's in a kiss that was both a plea and a promise. It was clumsy, tear-stained, tasting of salt and fear and the desperate, profound love that bound them. Sherlock's free hand rose, tangling in John's hair, pulling him impossibly closer, trying to absorb every last atom of him, to imprint this moment onto his very being. For a few, suspended seconds, the concrete cell, the guards, the political machinations, all faded. There was only them, clinging to each other, two shattered halves finding a fleeting, perfect whole.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, eyes shining with unshed tears. John's thumb brushed over Sherlock's lower lip, a lingering, tender touch.

“I'll be waiting,” Sherlock whispered, his voice thick with unshakeable resolve. “Always.”

***

One week later, the heavy prison doors groaned open one last time for John Watson. Not to welcome him back into their grim embrace, but to release him forever. The late afternoon sun, soft and forgiving, touched his face as he stepped out, blinking against the unfamiliar light. Right outside, a sleek black car waited, its polished surface gleaming. Standing beside it, a figure emerged from the shadows cast by the prison wall, his silhouette instantly familiar, utterly unique.

Sherlock stood, glorious and impossibly real, his coat swirling powerfully around him as a whisper of wind caught its fabric. His curls danced, seducing John's gaze to follow their dark movements. Once again, John felt that familiar, secret awe at the man waiting for him, as magnificent and captivating as he ever was.

As he neared him, closing the last few feet of an eternity, John couldn't help but smile widely, a wave of pure, unadulterated happiness bubbling up from deep within him. His own joy was reflected, bright and unmistakable, in Sherlock's luminous eyes.

“Where are we going?” John asked, the question laced with a playful edge, a lightness in his voice he hadn't felt in months.

Sherlock's own smile, rare and profoundly genuine, deepened. “Home, John,” he said, his voice a low, steady current of absolute certainty. “We are going home.”