title from "icarus" by edward field. kudos if you can catch the peter pan references, especially the (possibly) less obvious ones.

forgotten in the archives

they're just a bunch of lost children

│fall to merely standard

He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes, though he doesn't manage (or bother) keeping the irritation out. "We're not a couple."

"Yes you are." Holding up her phone, she stares at him. "There: I'm not dead. Let's have diner."

John glances away, suddenly not sure of anything, now; irritation gone, replaced by unease and a little confusion. "Look, who the hell knows about Sherlock, but—for the record—if anyone actually out there cares, I'm not actually gay."

"Well, I am." Adler smiles sadly, but it just might be his imagination. "Look at us both."

John doesn't know what to say to that, but Sherlock's phone prevents him from having to try.

Sherlock's phone.

Oh, God...

Sighing, he starts to move forward, but stops when the woman holds out her arm. Turning her gaze away from the hallway where the moan came from, Adler stares at him, as if trying to work out his soul. "I don't think so, do you?"

John doesn't have an answer. (He won't have one for years.) Instead, he shifts his weight and tries to get her to listen to him. "I need to speak to him," he pleads.

She lifts an elegant eyebrow. "I don't think he wants to speak to you, though."

He wants to argue, to throw a tantrum and make her see just how much he means to Sherlock, but he won't, and she knows that. "No," he murmurs, looking away. "I don't think he does."

But I think he wants to talk to you.

She sighs. "Who do you think we are?"

"Er, sorry?"

"You heard me."

He shrugs. "I don't know." John tries not to sound weary, but doesn't succeed.

"We're just a bunch of lost children, Dr. Watson. Even Sherlock Holmes." Adler lowers her arm, taking a step forward. "We need each other because none of us want to be forgotten."

John's not supposed to hear the accusing tone, but he and Adler bare similarities so the effort is useless.

Glancing at the warehouse floor, John murmurs, "We must leave at once...before we, in turn, are forgotten."

Adler's not supposed to hear that, but like before—like always—they bare similarities so the effort is useless.

(And when they smile at each other, a little confused, a little sad, a little hopeful, and a little mad, the meaning isn't lost.)

If they were different people, he would have taken her hand when she says, "Once upon a time, there was a boy who never wanted to grow up..."

If they were different people, she would have taken his hand when he says, "So he flew away to Neverland...where the pirates are."

(but he was very lonely. he needed a wendy. his lost boys liked wendy for her stories—full of adventure and romance. peter liked wendy for everything.)

But they aren't different people. So they pretend like nothing was said and continue on with their lonely lives, stumbling over each other, fighting for lost causes with a lost child. Barriers that have never been truly here are put back up, and John gets in the car that brought him to this warehouse. He pretends not to see Adler's devastation while she pretends not to see his terror.

(She's alone again, and he has to find his way back.

Children hate saying goodbye.)

(Saying goodbye means forgetting.)