Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I'd like to see you do better!" Sherlock panted, supporting his weight against the blue tiles of the pool.

"Right! Fine. Hold this." Coach shoved the stop watch at the stroppy teenager, and proceeded to stripped of his t-shirt, then dove into the water. As he surfaced, John pushed back his blond hair, now darkened and flat against his forehead. Sherlock noted the mottled scar on Coaches left shoulder, bare in front of him, and began to consider the possibilities of how it came to be, but before he had time to reach a satisfactory conclusion John nodded to him to start the timer. Sherlock refocused and readied the stop watch.

"Three, two, one, go."

John pushed off the wall at speed, and with precision, swam the full length of the pool and back again, showing his muscular, compact form to full advantage as he swam. Sherlock pressed down the button, and gawped at the results. John climbed up the ladder, and collected his towel from the bench. He proceeded to rub away the moisture from his face and hair. Coach sat down on the edge of the pool, smirking, as he draped the towel around his neck, once more covering the starburst scar. He casually dangled his legs into the water next to Sherlock.

"If I can do it at twenty six with this belly" He said, grabbing a modest roll of skin. "and my old shoulder injury, you can certainly do it Sherlock."

"You're so sure you made the time? I didn't even tell you the result."

"It was on your face." Coaches skin crinkled as his smile met his eyes.

Sherlock kicked back from the wall, and floated on his back. His black curls waving in the water.

"Not bad for an old timer, I suppose."

"Oy! Not so much of the old, you spotty oyke!"

Sherlock righted himself, and examined his face with long fingers.

"I am not spotty!" John grinned at the affronted teenager. "Or an oyke; whatever that may be."

"And I am not old." John smiled a broad toothy smile, and Sherlock's smile mirrored his. They laughed together comfortably, as Sherlock swam to the side, and rested his head on his arms on the edge next to John's dangling legs.

"You really think I can do it?"

"Yes. Yes I do." John fixed eye contact with those stormy grey eyes, and leaned marginally closer. "And what's more, you will smash my time once you put your heart into it."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully breaking the intense look Coach was fixing on him.

His mind was certainly engaged elsewhere. He was not there to break his personal best times or even compete. He was here to find out who had killed Carl. So why was he so concerned with what Coach thought? He wanted to please him. Wanted to do his best, which he had to admit was more than he had expected. Who would have thought his wirey body, that which he paid so little mind, was quite capable at competitive swimming. What indeed was his heart doing?

"Com'on practice is up." Coach offed his hand to Sherlock, and supported him while he climbed up and out of the pool. "We can try again tomorrow, but next time I want you to focus on what your body is doing, and get out of that enormous brain of yours. You're quite brilliant Sherlock, but you'll never get anywhere living in there." Coach said, tapping a finger to the teenagers temple.

"We can't have this argument again Mary. I love my work. There's this new kid." Johns face lit up, and his hands became animated. "If he really put his mind to it, he could be great. No. Not great, totally amazing and."

"Like you were going to be John?" John's shoulders dropped. Mary stepped closer to him, lowering her voice and placed a hand on his arm. "It's swimming luv! Splashing about in water. Don't you want to be more? On your wage, we won't ever afford a mortgage, let alone a family?"

John palmed his face and sighed. It was true that he had never intended to become a swim coach at the local grammar school, but after the accident he had been left with few choices. But teaching competitive swimming was the only thing he derived pleasure from anymore.

It was as though this conversation had been on loop for months, building up resentment on both sides. It was painful and destructive and going no where fast.

They had fought. Third time this week. Obvious. Crumpled shirt. Slept on the sofa again. Did not want to go into the bedroom to change. He showered at the pool. Hair still damp. Furrowed brows. Stressed. Flexing fists. Still rolling the argument over in his mind.

Sherlock watched Coach sitting in his little office, off of the pool changing rooms. Sherlock did not like the sullen man sat with his hands balled in his hair. That was not the man whose eyes sparkled from the reflection of the water, and beamed with pride when Sherlock shaved another tenth off his time. The man who punched the air when his team won a heat. This man was broken.

Sherlock turned to the locker and retrieved his kit, starting slowly to change for the next training session.

"Hey Sherlock!" It was a familiar, but unpleasant voice. Malcolm Maynard. Sherlock continued to change, stripping off his shirt and tie. "Hey, I'm talking to you." The body moved closer. "Think you're too good to talk to the likes of me do you posh boy?" Sherlock raised his eyes only momentarily, then resumed untying his shoes and placed them in the locker. A hand landed on his locker door firmly slamming it closed.

Sherlock had made little effort to fit in over the past term. With his primary objective of gathering evidence it had not, as of yet, been a requirement of his investigation. Some of his classmates had started gossiping about the reason he had been expelled from private school. It was true that he had been expelled, but it had been a necessary and quite deliberate measure. The gossip mills had turned and cultivated a rather salacious account, involving sexual favours to sixth formers. All, apparently, for essays, and answers to tests. Sherlock had balked at that bit. Ridiculous speculation and foundless claims. Where was their evidence? Any imbecile should be able to ascertain he was an A* pupil, in absolutely no need of assistance from horny sixth formers.

The boy leaned in and lowered his voice. "Bet you like it up the arse don't you Holmes? Fag like you must fit in perfect at a puffie posh school. Why'd you leave? I don't want any bum bandits in my school."

"Hurry up lads. Haven't got all day." Malcolm jerked away from Sherlock. Coach was standing in his office doorway, clutching his times clipboard and eyeing up Malcolm knowingly. Malcolm skulked off and Sherlock opened his locker, and resumed changing. Coach Watson walked over and stopped where Sherlock was sitting, removing his sock. John sat down, facing the opposite way on the narrow metal bench.

They sat a moment until Coach broke the silence.

"None of it matters you know. I mean. What happens here. In school now. It's not important. You aren't who you're gonna be, and what people do, what they say now, will be insignificant later. It feels important now, but later it really, really won't be."

"I know." Sherlock stated confidently, while removing his googles from his kit bag.

"Good. Well." John licked his lips, a little put out. "Good. It's all fine then?" Coach stood, but his eyes fixed on Sherlock's back, seeming to be waiting for something more. "Okay. So. In the pool in five." Coach turned to leave heading for the pool.

"Sir?" Sherlock stared at his pale bare toes.

"Hmm?" John swivelled, causing his trainers to squeak on the tiles.

"If you've heard rumours about me, then I want you to know, they are completely foundless." His stare lifted to his teacher. Why Sherlock felt the need to say this he did not know. It did not matter to the case. It was an irrelevance.

"I know that Sherlock. People talk crap sometimes."

"I find they do little else."

Coach smirked. "We'll not everyone can be a genius like you."

"You're not a genius, but most of what you say isn't crap."

"I'll take that as a compliment then shall I?" John shook his head in mirth. Sherlock echoed John's warm smile. "You're a piece of work kid! Com'on hurry up will you!"

"Okay lads." Coach clapped and blew his whistle. "Good work today, mostly." The young men began to clamber up the ladder in single file, some hauling themselves up and out from the ledge. "Fletcher! Bit more practice tomorrow with your breathing ay? Bit all over the place at the moment mate. Once you're all changed, I've got some news, so don't buggar off until I've had a word." The boys nodded and muttered.

"Right then. You're'll here yeah? Oy where's Holmes?"

"Still in the shower, Sir. He waits till we're all done to get in, Sir." Jones piped up.

"Weirdo!" Another added, smirking at his mates.

"Enough of that Chapman. No one's interested in your opinion." Coach scowled, and marched around the corner, and yelled over the din of the running water. "Not waiting all day Holmes."

Moments later Sherlock appeared, shampoo still in his hair, with his towel clutched around his middle, looking rather put out. The group sniggered.

"Right boys. Big news. We've got a scout coming in before we break up for Feb half term." Grins spread on some of the groups faces, and others buried their heads in their hands and groaned. "She will be here during the final swim meet, and will be looking for talent to sponsor. Hope you can hear me with all that soap in your ears Holmes." Sherlock whipped up his head, glaring as he continued to wipe his eyes with his towel. "I have hopes for some of you" Coach continued to look at Sherlock. "and expect you all to put in your best. If any of you harbour dreams of Olympic success one day, this could well be your break. So after the Christmas break, I will be ramping things up in training. If any of you can't commit to that, then you need to talk to me in January."

John sat in his office leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. He rubbed his scalp, fingers intertwined in his short crop of hair and sighed. He had not felt he should mention, to the lads, that he would be leaving after the spring term. Things at home had reached breaking point, and Mary had all but insisted he resign to go and work at her uncles insurance business. He had dreamed of going into medicine as a youngster, but that had been well beyond his and his parents means. The army had been his way in, but the accident had put a stop to that idea. So he had fallen back on his old love of competative swimming. Now he was going to have to give that up to, just as he was starting to get some real talent through.

"Oh well!"

John hefted himself up from the chair, and walked out into the moist air of the changing room, to start the cleaning and mopping up. It was quiet, except for the running water in the showers. He huffed, expecting that Sherlock had left it running, since everyone else had left five minutes ago. As he rounded the corner, he spied Sherlock at the end of the communal shower. Head low, one arm up against the tiles, with the water cascading down his lean pale back, washing away the last remnants of soap bubbles. John stood caught by the sight of the boy, who was now rubbing a flannel over his long neck, still with his head down, and black lank curls dripping down covering his eyes. He was beautiful, young and unspoiled. John swallowed thickly, and moved on towards the cleaning cupboard to get his mop.

Chapter Text

Sherlock had failed. He had gained no ground in weeks. It was immensely frustrating. After a promising start at the end of October, when he first arrived at Carl Powers school, he had expected to be done by Christmas at the latest, but here he was still attending a dreary community Grammar school with February a week away.

Sherlock had maintained the pretence, attended all his swimming training, and managed to gain a few strategic informants from all the year groups; by offering after school tutoring in the library. It had been tedious, but a necessary evil, or at least he had though so at the time. Coach Watson had been pushing him hard, but Sherlock was losing interest in it all, as Carl Powers mysterious death became less and less likely to be solved.

"This isn't good enough!" Coach shouted to Sherlock, the only other occupant of the pool. "You're like some belly flopping walrus today! We've got one week left and you need to get this dive start down pat. Do it again. You're not going anywhere until we've got this thing down to perfection."

Sherlock, who had been perched on the starting block, stiffened up straight and pushed his shoulders back square, eyes widening.

"We've!?" He spat. "And what, pry tell, have you contributed to all my effort today, other than shout, constantly repeating the same mindless instruction? Perhaps you haven't observed, but I really couldn't care less if my starts are perfection or not. This is an utter waste of my time. Why I bothered to continue humouring you, when I could have been focusing on more pressing matters, I have no idea."

Sherlock stepped down from the block, pulling off his swimming cap and googles. As he stomped passed, to collect his towel, John, who had been stood open mouthed, turned on him grabbing his upper arm roughly.

"You little git! You think I enjoy being here every evening, privately training you, when I could be at home? I'm doing this for you Holmes." John shook with rage, his fists tightening.

"Indeed I do." Sherlock growled. "Better this, than sat at your sisters watching her drink herself to death." John's eyes widened and he stepped back, releasing Sherlock's arm. "Funny how so many marriages disintegrate during the Christmas festivities. Must be all the terrible gifts people give." John's fists balled up, his thin lips pulling tight. "And as for doing this for me. I think you'll find you're doing this for yourself Watson. This is your dream not mine. I won't let you live it through me a moment longer."

Sherlock turned, and strode out towards the locker room, not looking back as Coach stood seething on the spot. While Sherlock quickly dried himself off at his locker, having no intention of showering, as was his usual habit, (Chlorine really reaked havok with his hair.) Coach Watson appeared beside him still quietly livid.

"You!" Coach stepped closer, eyes level with Sherlock's. "You think you know anything about my life!? That thing you did when we first met, figuring people out, I said it was clever, amazing even, but you know nothing about anything that truly matters. This is my life. Who are you to laugh at it?" John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulders. John lowered his voice. "I defended you, when all the guys were getting on at you saying you were a freak. I. God Sherlock I." John's voice wavered.

Sherlock, who had been shocked into silence, watched as the man he had admired and hurt so much crumbled. John went to his office slamming the door. Sherlock hesitated, wanting to flee, but felt compelled to fix his mess. He followed Coach, opening the office door slowly.

"Coach. I."

"Get out!" John was stood by his desk, not one metre from the door.

"Please. I shouldn't have said those things." Sherlock walked in, shutting the door behind him. "I've been wound up by. Well that doesn't matter, but I shouldn't have." John's deep blue eyes bored into him. "You are the most passionate teacher I have ever had. You are inspiring in so many ways, even with all your home life." John glared and Sherlock raised his hand to placate him. "I mean, that you stayed positive with the team." He stepped closer. "I could see you were sad when you thought none of us were looking, but I saw. You've had so much disappointment since the shooting."

"You know about that?" John looked surprised. It had happened in New York, ten years ago when he was there for his last swim meet.

Sherlock nodded, moving to perch himself on the edge of the desk. "There were lots of rumours to sift through, but, with a little research, I found the truth. "You took a bullet for a pharmacist in a chemist store that was being robbed. Gunman was an addict."

"I was only in there for a sleeve for my sprained wrist. I came out much worse than I went in."

Sherlock raised his hand and settled it on John's injured shoulder.

"I doubt I could cope as well if I was dealt the same hand. I think I'd go insane if I was unable to follow my passions."

"And what are your passions Sherlock?" John seated himself in his chair, but maintained eye contact with the half naked teenager sat in front of him. "I gather it isn't competative swimming from your little outburst in the pool. Why have you dedicated so much time to it if you have no interest?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but found he had no satisfactory answer to that question. He tilted his head frowning as though examining his own motives. After a few moments he replied with energy.

"Puzzles. Conundrums. Mysteries. These drive me forward. The thrill when I see something no one else does. When I understand the meaning and connections that draw the threads of the whole together to form the irrefutable truth. It is like nothing else." Sherlock shuffled where he sat, suddenly feeling exposed.

Coach sat captured by Sherlock's enthusiasm. He released a breath he did not realise he had been holding.

"And what we've been doing? How does that fit in?" John questioned again.

"I needed to join the team to gather certain information, to clarify a theory I was working on. Quite unsuccessfully I might add. But I felt compelled to continue training with you, to improve, to impress." Sherlock began to shiver, as his skin cooled. "I didn't want to disappoint you. You had so much faith in me and now I've let you down like everyone else in your life."

John scouted forward in his chair settling closer between Sherlock's knees.

"Look Sherlock. I'm grieved to admit you are right about me at the moment, although how on earth you knew boggles me, but I don't want it to affect you or." John rubbed at his face. "Just don't worry about me okay?"

"I do. It does. It affects me. I've found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything except for." Sherlock blushed and turned his head away. He jumped down from the desk, now standing between Coaches legs. "I should go." He wrapped his arms around himself, realising how vulnerable he was, stood in his Speedo trunks.

"Except for?" John pushed.

"Feelings. Sentiment." He spat out the words. "Seeing you miserable. Alone. It pulled at my insides. The feeling was... unfamiliar. It makes me uncomfortable. I just wanted." Sherlock felt his breathing become restricted. The tiny office suddenly feeling constricting, the atmosphere stifling. "I wanted to." He found himself repeating the sentence unsure how to proceed. Sherlock's eyes darted about the tiny office. Finally, he looked down as John's hands moved up to hold Sherlock's waist. "I just wanted you John." Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on John's hands touching him.

Sherlock moved forward, as John gently drew him towards him, the pressure of his fingers a suggestion rather than instruction. John's thumbs smoothed over Sherlock's navel. Sherlock leant down, eyes locking with John's.

"I want you." He breathed. "I want to touch you." Sherlock settled his hand on the chair behind John's shoulders. "I want to make you feel good and forget about anyone who isn't me. I want you to always look at me the way you do when I have pleased or surprised you. I need you to want me John." Sherlock slowly bowed his head lower. "Do you want me, John?"

There was a pause as they breathed the same air, their noses almost touching.

"Oh God yes!" John gasped, pulling Sherlock into his lap and cupping his hand behind Sherlock's head, bringing their mouths together into a soft, but insistent press of lips.

They both breathed out together, relaxing into the kiss. Sherlock settled into John's lap, enjoying the warmth that radiated from the man underneath him. They licked and sucked at each others lips. John's hands cradled Sherlock's face, while the boy hung onto him with arms wrapped around his neck. John's hand moved lower, his fingers grazing Sherlock's tight nipple, down the goose flesh of his torso and around his back, settling on and grabbing Sherlock's arse, roughly pulling him closer. Sherlock gasped, as their erections pressed against one another. The kiss heated, their tongues stroking and sliding together, delving deeper.

"Sherlock. I want you."

"Yes! Anything John. Please."

John's hands dipped into Sherlock's trunks, grabbing at his hips, nails digging into the flesh, while Sherlock ground down onto John's erection. John groaned loudly, then suddenly seemed to come to himself. John gently pushed Sherlock off his lap to stand. He leant across the desk and shut the blind. Grabbing his keys, he opened the door and, signalling to Sherlock to stay where he was, hurried out for a few moment, only to return and lock the door behind him.

"Don't really want any unwanted..." John began to explain. When he turned around to face Sherlock, he was confronted with a naked and beautifully aroused adolescent. Sherlock dropped to the floor in front of him, his hands peeling down Coaches shorts revealing his still eager cock.

"Wha... Oh!" John exclaimed, as Sherlock took him into his mouth. "Sherlock! You don't have to... Oh God that's good!" John ran his fingers through the inky curls. Sherlock smirked up at him, eyes bright. "Oh God, your mouth!"

Sherlock licked at the head, dipping his tongue into the slit, lapping at and tasting John. He sucked noisily, bobbing his head, while his hand explored John's testicals. Sherlock's other hand firmly gripped the base of John's cock, bringing it up the shaft with his mouth every so often. John could not help but tighten his fingers in the young mans hair, as his orgasm began to build.

When Sherlock moved to touch himself, John pulled Sherlock off him and pulled him up from his knees. Sherlock looked momentarily perplexed, but nodded approval when John pulled his T-shirt off, throwing it onto the desk, and pulled him into the private shower cubical.

The warm water trickled down their bodies, as their hands roamed over each other. John mouthed at Sherlock's neck and rubbed his palms over the boys slender hips and over his round bottom. Sherlock's mouth occupied itself tonguing John's ear lobe, his hands repeatedly rubbed and squeezed, enjoying the strong muscles in John's upper arms.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous Sherlock." John blurted, bringing Sherlock's mouth to his and tasting him once more. "God I shouldn't want this but."

Pushing them back out of the main jet of the spray, John brought their erections together in his grasp. Sherlock grip tightened on John's arms, holding on, as his knees buckled.

"I've never done anything with a man, but Christ, your arse Sherlock. It would push me over the brink every time I thought about you."

John slicked his hand with shower gel and massaged their lengths with slow, firm strokes.

"Oh... Ngh! You... Mmm... imagined me?"

"Yes, when I touched myself, I thought of you Sherlock." John quickened his hand on their shafts.

"What did you imagine, John?" Sherlock's asked, voice rough and breathless.

"This. Touching you, your hair, those lips." John leaned into Sherlock, resting their forehead together. "Us blowing each other, and me inside you, my fingers, my m... My mouth, my cock inside you. Anything, God, everything."

"Ohh... John. I'm going to."

"Yeah? Mmm. Like this." John's fingers twisted as they came up their lengths.

"Yes. Ngh. Yes John. Oh! "

Sherlock mashed his mouth against John's, while his cocked spurted ejaculate over John's cock and moving fist. John continued rubbing his erection in increasingly irregular strokes, chasing his own orgasm. Sherlock legs finally gave out and he sank to the floor of the shower, bringing him in line with John's flushed cock head. Looking up at John with his eyes squeezed shut, leaning forward, braced against the tilled wall, Sherlock darted out his tongue, swiping it over the come covered tip. At the touch of Sherlock's warm lips John lurched forward, coming over Sherlock's lips and chin in pulses.

"Arr, fuuck!"

John sank down to the floor, joining Sherlock, and captured the teenagers mouth with his. John kissed Sherlock's chin and cheeks and temple, then returned to the cupids bow of the young mans mouth, then slowly sat back on his heals, smiling broadly. Sherlock grinned back, cupping John's face in his hands. Their breathing settled as the force of their orgasms faded into a sense of satisfaction and calm.

"Up." John said, pulling them both up to their feet. "Here." John grabbed the shampoo and squeezed a blob of the yellow liquid into his hand, then turning Sherlock, he began to smooth it into Sherlock's scalp gently. Sherlock chuckled.

"What?" John enquired, still running his fingers through the curls, working up a lather.

"You really like touching my hair." Sherlock bent his head low, enjoying John's fingers, as they massaged the shampoo into the hair at the base of his neck. John huffed a laugh.

"I like touching all of you, but yes, I suppose I do." John kissed and smiled into Sherlock's neck. "I think I like touching you too much already. This, what we're doing, it's dangerous, but I can't stop.

"Then don't." Sherlock looked up, searching John's face. "Don't stop, John. Never. Stop."

Chapter Text

John was jolted from his pondering with the sharp rat a tat tat on the car windscreen. He rolled down the window and smiled warmly at the bundle of wool before him.

"Hey honey, you okay?" Clara mumbled though the thick red scarf wrapped around her neck. With mitten clad fingers, she shoved a steaming mug of tea at him through the window. "You've been out here a while. I was getting worried you might freeze to death. You do realise it's snowing luv."

John undid his seatbelt and clambered out of the car.

"Huh! It's quite deep already." John exclaimed, pulling his jacket tighter around himself.

"Well yeah. I thought I should rescue you before you got snowed in." She laughed. The fresh snow crunched under their feet, as they walked up the path to the house. "You're home later than usual. Kids giving you grief?"

"Hmm, something like that." John mumbled into his tea. "Harry home yet?"

"Nope. You know, some big scoop, deadlines, don't wait up Hun, leave dinner in the oven, yadda yadda." Clara flopped down on the sofa, still ensconced in her woollen fortress.

Sitting on the arm of the chair, John warmed his face against the ceramic cup. His mind was wandering back again to his activities earlier that evening, when a little voice broke through.

"ImfinkinboutleavinerJohn." Clara seemed to sink further into the coach.

"Pardon?" John frowned.

"I can't take it anymore John. I'm seriously thinking of leaving her."

John put his mug down and scrubbed his face with his hands. When it rains, it pours. He groaned.

"Look, I was thinking about what you said about you and Mary; Growing apart, wanting different things, not feeling supported. You were miserable John. Christ, you both were. Going your separate ways was the best thing for both of you." Clara shuffled forward and placed her hand on his knee. John peeped though his fingers. "I just think I've finally realised I'm the only one fighting to save our marriage."

John grasped her hand and looked down at her, with pain in his eyes.

"Are you sure? Clara, I don't think I'm the best example to follow, do you? Look at me! I'm a wreck. Separated, living with my sister and her wife, soon to be unemployed, with no real prospects and hell, I can't even tell you what other crazy shit I've got myself into." He huffed out a breath, then patted Clara's hand. "I know she still loves you."

"I don't think it's enough anymore." She sighed and pulled him down to sit next to her. "And you're not a wreck John. I've never met someone so strong and driven. You can move on now. Do what you couldn't while you were together." John fidgeted, feeling somewhat uncomfortable discussing this. "And there's something else. I've been offered a job in New York and I think it's the fresh start I'm going to need."

Screaming, stomping and throwing remote controls was all the incentive John needed to up his effort for flat hunting. He guessed it was for the best, while he still had a job and salary to write down on any application form.

John was still a little stunned by his chat with Clara, and the ensuing explosive argument with Harriet. Harry had blamed him, of course, putting ideas in her wife's head. To be fair she wasn't entirely wrong, but Clara was quite capable of making up her own mind about her neglectful, and often inebriated partner. The situation and Clara's words had, at least, given him the shove he needed. She was right, he needed to move on and decide what he really wanted.

"Lovely little place for a bachelor, don't you think Mr Watson? Our agency manages the place, so no need to worry about dodgy landlords." The squat balding man grinned.

No just smarmy agents. John looked around the cold and dreary bedsit. In his situation, it was the best he could hope for. The rent was minimal, and would not eat too much into his savings; his half of the savings that had been earmarked for buying a house with Mary. John groaned internally. Why had his life become so complicated?

"I'll take it. Where do I sign?" John's forced enthusiasm tasted bitter.

While the agent groped about in his suitcase, John meandered around the little flat again, checking that drawers opened and taps functioned. When he came to the bedsits front aspect window, to check the locks worked, he noticed a familiar individual skulking about on the street below. The young man looked a little different out of his school uniform. Even from three floors up, the boys signature unruly curls (that John had been fondling the day before) were clear to see, bouncing about, as Sherlock marched up and down the snow covered pavement outside the converted Victorian terrace, determinedly puffing on a cigarette.

John frowned, surprised to see his student, fling, lover, gorgeous shag, I'm going to hell, freezing his magnificent arse off outside John's, soon to be, sad excuse for a home.

"Here you are Mr Watson. Just fill these out and bring them back to the office as soon as possible and, once all the checks have gone through, this little palace will be yours." The agent held out the pile of forms for John to take, and smiled his sickening fake smile.

"Wonderful. Thank you Mr Barrett, I'll do that." John took the stack and rolled them, then inserted the roll into his jacket pocket.

Exiting the building, John could not help but grin when Sherlock turned to see him and smiled broadly, his eye lighting up as they settled on John. The young man's nose and cheeks were flushed red from the cold, despite wearing a heavy winter coat and thick scarf around his neck. John found the look quite endearing. John politely thanked the agent and shook hands. He waited until Mr Barratt had driven off before he approach the teen, who leant up against the garden wall.

"Filthy habit that." John stood next to Sherlock against the brickwork.

"I have a few." Sherlock drawled, grinding the cigarette butt out under his boot. "Dirty habits that is." He shifted closer to John, searching out the other man's body heat. "I find I have a somewhat addictive personality."

"Oh really?" John turned in towards his student and placed a tentative hand at the boys waist.

"Mmm... Well I seek pleasure where I can get it." Sherlock moved forward, and splayed his gloved fingers over John's, jumper covered, stomach.

"Ah, so that's why you followed me here. You couldn't help but seek your pleasure?"

"I did not follow you here. I merely tracked your trail and found you." Sherlock grinned and inserted his arms under John's coat.

John laughed heartily.

"Quite the blood hound aren't you."

The disgust that twisted Sherlock's face was comical.

"Although a grossly unflattering metaphor, I am willing to concede it relevance in this case. Rather than sniff you out, I aquired your records to find your next of kins address, since I knew that would most likely be your sister, with whom you are staying. When you were not at home."

"You went to my sister's house?" John exclaimed.

"Yes, and as I was saying, when you weren't at home I asked your sister, who I might add was well on her way to being off her face, informed me that her interfering twat of a brother was off flat hunting to get away from her, just like her wife had."

John rubbed his hand over his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I noticed one of the local estate agents letter headed paper on the hallway table, so from there it was just a matter of convincing the agent at the office that I needed to know where you were, since you'd left your phone at home and there had been a family crisis."

"That was amazing, utterly and entirely inappropriate, but bloodily brilliant actually. For a eighteen year old you sure do have a lot of"

"I'm not." Sherlock interjected.

"Sure you are! I've never met someone so bright at your age."

"No, not that John, I know my intelligence far surpasses my peers. I was referring to my age. I'm not eighteen, I'm sixteen."

John jerked back from Sherlock like he had been burned. "What are you talking about? You just had your birthday and you're in the Upper Sixth!" John waved his hands in an uncharacteristic panicked flap. "You're taking your A-Levels in the summer!"

"I told you my intelligence far exceeds my peers. Is it so hard to believe I'm capable of taking them early? I took my first GCSE at eleven." Sherlock crossed his arms and scowled.

John's mouth flapped open and shut, until he decided a face palm slap was a better way to express his stupidity.

"Sherlock I... Christ I'm an idiot."

"I won't hold it against you." John gave Sherlock a warning look.

"Sherlock, don't you realise how much I've fucked up? It's bad enough I'm shagging my student but, fuck it, Sherlock you're not even legal!"

"Sixteen is legal!" Sherlock retorted, growing increasingly frustrated with John's tantrum.

"Not when it's a student teacher relationship it's not. You ever heard of a position of trust?"

"I'd trust you in any position." Sherlock smirked and reached out for John, but was firmly held at arms length.

"This isn't a joke, Sherlock! They're going to lock me up and throw away the key. Look, I've got to go. We can't do this here, in the street. I need to think. Go home. I'll see you on Monday.

Sherlock watched John drive away. He shoved his hands into his pockets and slowly trudged back towards the high street. He was half way up the road, when a black Bentley pulled up beside him. Sherlock continted walking, his coat pulled tight around him. The snow began to fall and flutter around his head. The teenager heard the electric window wind down, but did not look up while the car crawled along beside him.

"Get in Sherlock." The man, sat in the car, calmly stated, while the driver continued to match Sherlock's walking speed.

Sherlock pulled his scarf tighter around himself, burying his face further into it.

"Mummy will be upset if you're late for supper, again."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

"And let Mummy's little cherub freeze to death? God forbid. Get in, or I will have to tell her what you've been up to." Sherlock halted and glared at his big brother.

Sherlock climbed in and flopped down on the black leather upholstery.

"Don't you think it's about time you gave up on your little obsession, brother dear?" The elder brother said.

Sherlock determinedly stared out the window at the white world. He worried his bottom lip in his teeth, and considered how he could shield John from Mycroft's attention. It was bad enough that John had reacted so badly, but to have his brother interfering was a guarantee to destroy any hope he had of winning the man round to his way of thinking.

"My, I really don't..." Sherlock pressed his lips together, then drew in a steadying breath. "Please, My. Could you for once, leave me be?"

"I've indulged this interest for long enough. It's time you transferred to a school with a bit more, refinement."

Sherlock fort hard to repress his smile. The relief that Mycroft did not know about his relationship with John was quite overwhelming. He managed to hide his glee.

"I was pleased that you had finally found something to focus your mind on Sherlock, but I will not let your education suffer."

"Oh, very well. I bow to your authority on this." Sherlock acted out a convincing huff.

Mycroft blinked and frowned, but quickly schooled his expression, clearly surprised with Sherlock's immediate and painless agreement. He had got what he wanted, and he did not like it. Mycroft made a mental note to up Sherlock's surveillance. The boy was clearly up to more than investigating a suspicious death.

John was in no mood to deal with Harry's baiting and self deprication. He had been home for no more than five minute, before he threw his coat back on and stomped up to the high road, in a blizzard, to his local pub.

It was warm and noisy and exactly what John needed to escape from his troubles. He downed his first two pints and ordered a third at the bar. A pretty blond woman, who was leaning against the bar, smiled at John, then sidled up beside him.

"Hey." She budge up closer. "I'm Lucy. I've seen you in here before haven't I?"

John smiled and turned towards her. She smelled lovely. Sweet perfum and soap, and the smell of a spicy liqueur on her breath. It was nice, but he was immediately reminded of how amazing Sherlock smelt and how good he tasted.

"Sorry Hun, I'm kind of seeing someone." Even if what was going on with Sherlock was wrong, he could not deny his feelings. John certainly wanted to avoid making things more complicated, before he had the chance to sort out what he was going to do about Sherlock.

"Suit yourself." The woman turned back to her mates.

John left his pint half finished, and headed off home. He got out his phone on the way and texted Sherlock.

Sorry I reacted badly. Will you meet me tomorrow in town?

He did not have to wait long for a reply.

Meet me outside the Hunterian Museum at 11. SH

John frowned at his phone. He had heard of the place, but had never been. He supposed the choice was very Sherlock. Odd, but fascinating.

Okay, see you then.

Chapter Text

Peering into the glass cabinet with morbid fascination, John could not help but gawp a little. The display was disgustingly intriguing, and he had barely stepped across the museums threshold. He had already been quite taken by the War, Art and Surgery pastels in the foyer, which graphically depicted scenes he wished he could have been part of.

Second floor gallery. Come at once. SH

It had taken John longer than usual to get into the city, due to the weather. It was ten passed the hour, when he had arrived outside the imposing gothic building. His phone pinged again at the arrival of another message.

You're late. SH

Jogging up the stairs, John felt Sherlock's gaze following him. John did not look up towards him until he was almost at the top. Lifting his eyes, his stomach twisted when they settled on Sherlock's elegant frame. It was ridiculous that seeing him could cause such a sensation. He knew it was perverted, but could not help but lust over the beauty and strength in the boy.

Sherlock grinned at John as their eyes met. When John reached the top step and stood next to the teenager, he suddenly felt awkward. John's brain stalled. He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets, to stop himself from touching, and fidgeted on the spot.

Grabbing his elbow Sherlock tugged.

"John, I wanted to show you. It's quite interesting. I've seen it before of-course, but I think you will appreciate it."

In the next room, Sherlock deposited John in front of the first of many cabinets containing every kind of surgical instrument from history.

"Do you like it?"

John soaked in the room and smiled. "Yes, thank you Sherlock." He paused a moment. "I wish I knew what all these things did and how I would use them."

"Here try this. It's a keyhole surgery training machine."

Manipulating John's hands, Sherlock showed him how to hold the instruments. When the video started, John attempted to grasp the diseased organ and laughed at himself. A moment later, he felt Sherlock against his back, wrapping long arms around him and gently guiding his hands.

"I love your hands." Sherlock's warm breath wafted against John's ear. "I have had some very pleasant thoughts pertaining to them." Sherlock pressed closer. "I bet you could do amazing things with hands like yours John."

"Sherlock..." John stepped back from the game and once again put his hands into his pockets. "We need to have that talk now."

"Oh, talking's boring John." He stated glibly, and huffing in an exasperated whirl of coat, strode into the next exhibit and peered into the microscope display.

"If you expect me to conveniently forget how old you are, Sherlock," John lowered his angered tone when a medical student, walked passed. "maybe, just maybe, you should stop acting like a fucking child. I didn't leave one dysfunctional relationship just to jump straight into another one."

Inhaling sharply and standing straight, Sherlock whipped around to face John. The broad smile that was flashed at John was disarming. He moved into John's personal space and placed his hands on John's hips.

"A relationship John!?" He breathed, eyes searching John's.

"Oh for! Sherlock! You missed the point!"

"Did I?" The teenager smirked. "Perhaps a conversation would be best. Come John. I don't live far from here. Well, my brother's flat anyway." Taking John's hand in his, he lead him out of the building and at the curb, hailed a cab.

"Is this wise?" John queried after a few minute into the ride.

"Oh, my brother Mycroft will be at work, I have a key." He jangled the aforesaid bunch of keys in front of John's eyes.

"On a Sunday?" John frowned.

"I don't think he understands the day of rest concept. Everyday is a weekday to Mycroft."

"And he won't notice you've been there?"

Shuffling closer in the back seat, Sherlock put his hand on John's knee.

"I usually stay with him at the weekends. He likes to keep an eye on me. Bit of a nuisance, but I can handle him. Just here cabby, after the post box."

Sherlock jumped out, paid the man and sprinted up the steps to the large glass entrance doors to the lavish looking apartment building. John followed behind, eyebrows rising into his hairline at the obvious expense of the place.

"Nice." John commented as they boarded the lift. Sherlock shrugged.

"Mycroft likes it. Bit extravagant for my tastes, but the location is excellent. When I start up my consulting agency, I'd like somewhere with a central location like this."

John quirked a questioning eyebrow.

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

John smiled warmly.

"Guess that makes sense. I'm glad you're planning ahead. It's good to have a dream."

"Sorry John, I wasn't thinking. You would have been an amazing surgeon."

"Yeah, about that. How did you know I was interested in studying medicine before I was shot?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was your strong but caring manner, and the way you hold your clipboard?"

"I'd say you were talking bollocks."

Sherlock smothered a grin. The lift doors opened out to the top floor hallway and they stepped out together towards the only door in the corridor.

"I might have overheard a conversation where the subject was mentioned."

"Who? Not Harry?"

Sherlock shook his head as he turned the key in the door.

"No actually, it was Mary."

John stopped, arm half out of his coat and glared at Sherlock.

"You met Mary?"

"Of course not John. I believe she was unaware of my presence."

John seemed to relax and removed his coat fully, while Sherlock continued to explain.

"I was investigating for my current case and needed to gather information through background checks and overheard a conversation in a coffee shop. She mentioned to a friend, that it was something you had wished to pursue with army funding. She seemed..."

Sherlock flapped his hand in a vague gesture.

"emotional. Something about you never really getting over it, or something or other."

Sherlock hung their coats up in the hallway, then lead John to his room at the end of the long mahogany panelled corridor.

"I'll make no comment about the snooping." John stated with a reproachful stare. "But i'd rather not talk about that subject at the minute, if you don't..." John paused when a body pressed up to his, and an arm reached out behind him to shut the bedroom door. "mind."

"So about this talk." Sherlock's voice rumbled, as he smiled and nipped at John's neck. "I assume that, since you came all this way, then followed me back here, and are currently in my bedroom, that you have no intention of breaking things off?"

"You're a cheeky bugger." Shaking his head in mirth, John extricated himself from the lanky teen and went over to the large bed in the centre of the room and slumped down onto it. "Okay, so I'll admit I have no clue what I'm, what we're doing. This is so many kinds of wrong, I shouldn't want you like this, but I'm not sure if I can stop now."

"I told you John. I don't want you to stop." He began to pace the grey carpet, gesturing with his large hands. "It doesn't have to be complicated. I'm moving schools after the Easter break and will be finishing my secondary education at the end of the summer term. You're leaving the profession. We can be discrete, if it suits you, until then. I suppose we could wait a few months to be together, if that is what you'd prefer, although I'd rather not. I'm not very patient. After that, I cannot perceive any further barrier to our relationship. My brother might be difficult, but once he meets you I am certain he will eventually approve. I'm taking a year out next year, to hone my deductive reasoning, before I start a chemistry with forensic science degree at St Mary's University. You could even study with me. Obviously not chemistry, but medicine. I hear Bart's is excellent and it's actually a part of St Mary's. It should be achieveable for you now, with your savings as a starting point. Just think about it John. It would be perfect."

John looked stunned by Sherlock's entire speech.

"You've really thought this through haven't you? I never assumed you actually wanted more than something casual. I mean, you're so young still, and might meet someone."

"No John. I know. I feel it, here." To John's surprise and amusement, Sherlock pointed to his head. "Don't frown at me like that. It means something. I don't ever, ever feel things like this. What happened the other night was incredible, but I felt this before that happened, and even though I didn't want to acknowledge it, it was there. You see me, John, for who I am, and you aren't repulsed. It's an incredible gift, one I can't bear to part with."

John stopped Sherlock's pacing by taking his hand and drawing him down next to him on the bed. He pulled the teenager down to lay on the white sheets and kissed him gently, tracing his lips with his tongue, and caressing Sherlock's angular face with his fingertips. Sherlock wrapped his arms around broad shoulders, as John shifted his body to hover over him. The kiss deepened until they were both panting and struggling to remove layers of clothing. John hummed when slick skin slid against his.

"John, I want to feel you, inside me."

John stopped moving and straightening his arms. He looked down on the flushed face of his lover with concern clear in his expression.

"So soon? You really want that?"

"Yes John." Sherlock sat up, his face now inches from John's. "I would really, (kiss) really (kiss) love to feel your thick cock (kiss) slid into my very tight arse (kiss) and pound into me until we both come. (Kiss) Would that be acceptable? Hmm?"

"Fuck yes. Lube? Condom?"

"Top drawer." Sherlock smirked as John leaned over to retrieve them.

John located the lube quickly and began to prepare Sherlock virgin hole. He had done this before with Mary, once or twice, but had never enjoyed this part as much as he was enjoying it now. The sounds coming from Sherlock's mouth were indecent and making John's cock twitch with every moan.

"Beautiful!" He murmured, his eyes drinking in the sight of Sherlock's lithe body writhing on the crumpled sheets.

John dipped his head down between the slim, but muscular legs, and tongued at the slick entrance where two of his fingers were sliding in and out slowly. Sherlock arched his hips and mewed. His already hard erection now growing stiffer and bobbing against his stomach. A small patch of pre-come smeared his belly. Removing his fingers from Sherlock's tightness, John ran them through the little puddle, scooping some up and pushed it inside Sherlock's body. Sherlock watched enraptured.

"John, I can't. In me. I want you John."

John sucked on his fingers, while Sherlock watched. Eyes wide and black. He slipped on the condom and slicked it more. Slowly, raising Sherlock's hips and resting the youngsters ankles on his shoulders, John pushed, gently but firmly, against the boys fluttering hole.

"Relax. Don't tense. Oh! That's it!" He sighed, when the guardian muscle gave way and he slipped into the warmth. He rocked slowly, eyes shut, pushing in, bit by bit, until he felt himself bottom out.

He looked at Sherlock then, and was upset to see tears in the teenagers eyes.

"Oh god! Did I hurt you?" He moved to back away, but Sherlock grabbed around his neck and pulled him down.

"Sorry, sorry. So stupid. I never thought it would be like this. Don't stop John. Perfect." He whispered.

Stretching to kiss one another, they rocked together until Sherlock gasped and, bracing his arms against the headboard said:

"Let me feel it John. All of you."

Withdrawing almost completely, John slid back in slowly. Building up speed he began to fuck into Sherlock with enthusiasm, taking Sherlock's breath away.

"Ah ah ah mmmm ah. Yes John. Harder."

Taking Sherlock's ankles in his hands John spread the teenager, then letting go, leaned into him. The sound of slapping flesh echoed in the room in sync with Sherlock's breathy cries.

To John's delight, come pulsed from Sherlock's prick in ribbons over his stomach and chest, and within seconds John climaxed to the sensation of Sherlock squeezing and pulsing around his cock.

John flopped down beside Sherlock and caught his breath. His cock still tingling as he removed the condom.

"I think that might have been a bit amazing." John said, turning on his side and resting his head on his hand.

"It was okay then? You enjoyed it?"

"You were brilliant."

Sherlock beamed and looked so young wrapped in the duvet.

"When will your brother be home?"

"Oh don't say his name! Not while I'm naked and all post coital. It might put me off forever." Sherlock exclaimed with a scrunched up nose.

John laughed.

"I'm sure he's not that bad."

"You'll understand when you meet him. However, I think it's best if that's not today. We have about an hour before he leaves the club. Shower?"

"Mmm." John nodded.

The sound of the front door shutting was loud enough to hear over the pouring water. Sherlock tensed in John's arms.

"Mycroft!"

"Crap! I'm dead." John uttered into Sherlock's hair. "Is your brother a big guy?"

"A little over 6 foot, rather round, but not remotely threatening. I've always out run him. He's got a mean umbrella though."

John sniggered.

"Shh don't make me laugh. He'll hear us."

Chapter Text

It had been an inordinate relief when the two of them had heard Mycroft almost immediately exit the apartment. Sherlock thought perhaps Mycroft had merely returned to grab a file. After a very pleasant farewell, John quickly realised Sherlock’s error.

When exiting the building, he had immediately found himself ushered into an unfamiliar posh looking black car, containing a young man fiddling with an umbrella.

John at least was relieved that Sherlock’s description had been accurate. The man in front of him look somewhat like a banker. Clearly John’s age, although his hair was already thinning, and stiff looking, with a sourness to his expression that was barely being suppressed.

The car began to move and the occupants sat in silence. Mycroft did not look at John, instead preferring to glance over a note book he had in one hand.

“Hello? I’m John. So you’re Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother..” John ventured, crossing his arms high on his chest.

“You can confirm you’re connection with Sherlock Holmes then.” Mycroft said passing a manila folder, an inch thick over to John.

John opened the file and was immediately confronted with an image of Sherlock and himself holding one-another, from earlier that day. He flicked through the file, noting his education and employment details, the newspaper articles from the incident in New York, in addition to his bank statements and marriage certificate. Finally, and to his utter mortification was a transcript of Sherlock and his conversation and activities in Mycroft’s apartment that afternoon.

John looked up at the steely eyes trained upon him and stared back with a determination he did not really feel.

“You don’t seem very afraid.” Mycroft commented.

“You don’t seem very frightening.” John retorted. Mycroft sat back in the plush leather and looked at John sternly.

“Mr Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you. Your association with my brother cannot continue. It would be highly inappropriate. Don’t you agree?”

“Hmm.” John stared out of the window at the moving traffic and people on the streets. He determinedly pushed down the nausea that threatened him.

“I don’t need to tell you that Sherlock isn't one to form friendships easily, and I must admit myself surprised at this development. I am not surprised, however, at the speed at which he has attached himself to you and invested a great deal emotionally into your future together. I need not remind you he is an adolescent, Mr Watson. Sherlock is starved of affection and has clearly grasped onto the first person to show him any genuine interest. It is a child’s infatuation and will inevitable end badly, as his whims and fancies often do. I’m frankly astonished that you would risk your reputation and even liberty on a teenage boy with a flair for the dramatic.”

Johns phone pinged and he drew it from his pocket and read the text.

Being with you today was incredible.
SH

John groaned into his cupped hands in his lap. Replacing his phone, John sighed and looked up at Sherlock’s brother.

“What are you going to do?”

“Although your actions should be brought to the attention of the authorities, I do not wish to draw unwanted attention to my brother, or the family.”

Mycroft paused. John licked his lips nervously.

“I'm willing to overlook this relationship, provided it end immediately, and in the manner that I stipulate. If you comply with my wishes, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money to ease your way into medicine.”

“No.” John glared, fists clenched at his sides.

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother.”

“You mean to continue with him then?” Mycroft frowned. “Are you so stupid?”

“No, I’m not.” John grit his teeth. “I’m just not interested in your offer. I’ll end it, okay, but I wont be bought off. I’ll do it because it’s the best thing for Sherlock.”

“We agree then. Good." Mycroft took back the folder that was clenched in John's hand and lay it back down on the seat beside him, then continued. "I must insist it is managed very carefully. I would prefer, for various reasons that my involvement go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship. Do not contact Sherlock until you have received instruction as to how this should be dealt with. Understood?”

John grudgingly nodded. Looking around, he realised that they had arrived outside the station carpark he had used.

“Are we done?”

Mycroft looked down his substantial nose at John.

“You tell me.”

John looked at Mycroft for a beat, then opened that car door and climbed out and walked away. As he did so, his phone pinged again.

You excite me like nothing else does. See you tomorrow 
SH

Chapter Text

John started awake when the staff lounge door slammed open. He sat up rubbing his aching shoulder.

“There you are John!” A red headed nurse exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Quick! Up. Up. Male, late twenties, cocaine overdose, just brought in by some homeless person!”

“What! Here? Bloody hell.” John jumped up and hurriedly followed the nurse to the treatment room.

“Guy says that he found the patient unconscious and then started convulsing. We’ve administered 10mg diazepam intravenously. Came in with a GCS of 3, breathing spontaneously with a supplemental bag and mask ventilation. Heart rate at 163 beats per minute supraventricular and ventricular arrhythmias. His BP was 115 over 38. Both pupils dilated and sluggishly reacting to light. He’s stopped seizing now with GSC of 4.”

John pushed through the double doors to the scene of his staff struggling with the patient on the trolley.

“Off me. Fucking bastards… I’m fine. Nuffin…nuffin wrong wit me. Bugger off.” The man barked at them in scratchy deep voice and struggled to sit up as two orderlies pushed him back down. “Get off me, you hear. My brother will get you sacked. Bastards all of you.”

John approached the patient with the intention to assist in calming him down, but stopped at the end of the trolley, and promptly froze in place. That face, older and more drawn, dark curly hair dampened down by sweat and dirt, but undeniably recognisable.

John’s breathing stopped when Sherlock’s hazy eyes settled on him. Sherlock ceased struggling for a moment, then his eyes widened and with a pained look began struggling again.

“No! No, no, no. Please not again. God no.” Sherlock began to scramble up the trolley away from John, tears gathering in his eyes. “No more. I can’t!”

“He’s getting delirious.” The other doctor stated. “Nurse Bridge. Please prepare 0.5mg of Naloxone.”

Sherlock sat at the head of the trolley, arms wrapped around his knees, muttering. His stare fixed unblinking on John.

John snapped out of his daze and strove to stop nurse Bridge from accessing Sherlock’s IV.

“He’s not delirious. It's me. I’m agitating him. I’ll leave and you reassess him then. Okay? It’s my fault.”

With that, John all but ran out of the treatment room, down the corridor and out of the drug treatment and rehabilitation unit into the cold night air.

“Fuck!” He shouted into the night. “Fuck!” John paced. He ran his hands through his hair, then scrubbed over his face. His hand shook uncontrollably. He observed his hand then clasped it with the other and breathed deep.

Someone coughed politely behind him and he spun to be confronted with a young man, clearly homeless from his apparel and most probably a user from the look of the reddened bags under his eyes and scruffy stubbly beard.

“You okay mate?” The tall man approached cautiously. He didn’t wait for a response before asking, “Shezza doing okay in there? Couldn’t leave ‘im like that. No other buggar was paying a blind bita attention to him. He alright now? I’d ‘av called his brother, but couldn’t find his phone. Weird that. Always on him usually. Some Cunt at the house probably swiped it while he was having a fit. He’s fine now though, yeah?”

“Erm… Er.” John blinked slowly as he processed the mans ramblings. “Improved. More alert. Beyond that I’m not at liberty to say really, since you’re not family.”

“Cool, cool. No problem mate. Glad he’s better. Handy having a place like this so close to the house. No chance I’d ‘av got ‘im to the hospital. He ain’t heavy none, but the blighter’s all gangly legs and all, and a bastard to drag any place far. You alright Doc? You’re looking peeky.”

“House?” John frowned at him.

“You know. That big empty place two streets over. I’d’a thought you being the rehab bloke, you’d’a known about all the usual haunts and that. Anyway, better go. Bloody freezing init? Thanks Doc. See ya.”

John slumped and sat on the cold tarmac and leaned against the nearest car.

He had been here, for God knew how long, shooting up just two streets away, slowly killing himself. Where was Mycroft? Why wasn’t the creepy arsehole looking out for Sherlock? He had looked so fragile. Thin and ill.

John’s stomach rolled and tightened around the sugary coffee he had gulped down a few hours before. He retched to the image of terror that had been on Sherlock’s face when he had seen John. He vomited bile onto the ground and moaned as his chest clenched. What had happened to Sherlock? Why was he terrified to see John?

“Fucking hell!”