The burned man
Sherlock had never believed in "happily ever after", in these stupid fairy tales where in the end the prince marries the princess and all is well. Happily ever after would be him and John. He had hoped, maybe, there was some happiness for him in that, he had hoped till the day John went back to Afghanistan. Sequel to "His last dance".
Chapter 1
They both were marked men. Sherlock's body still bore the marks of abuse and neglect and John had been a soldier, shot and deadly wounded. But far worse than the wounds inflicted on their body was the pain in their soul. Both were lost without the other.
Every morning Sherlock awoke with a start and the blood cursing through his veins, because for one moment in the last minutes of his sleep he could not find John's body next to him. But then, every morning, he opened his eyes and John was standing there, barely dressed in his shorts and a cup of tea in his hand. Sometimes when the sunlight shone through the window John was glowing and Sherlock felt as if his chest might burst. Sherlock had never known happiness in his live and seeing John in the shy light of morning always felt like a shock. And sometimes when John smiled and asked "Tea, Sherlock?"he could feel the tears rising in his eyes. Such a weak creature Sherlock had become.
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It always had been Sherlock who had needed little sleep, who was the early riser. But since Sherlock came back from the dead John always woke first. Out of fear. John feared nothing more than waking up in the morning and Sherlock was gone again.
Sherlock had made him whole, Sherlock had healed his soul. Sherlock, beautiful Sherlock. John loved to watch him sleep; Sherlock was so vulnerable when resting in John's bed. Sherlock's naked body was only partly covered, his chest nearly as white as the sheets glowed in the rising light, his locks were always a mess. But the most beautiful thing was his face, so relaxed, ethereal and unearthly. John could watch for hours but most times Sherlock woke with a start searching for him. John. And that made him smile, because the hours in the night and the early mornings were the only ones in which Sherlock admitted his true feelings, lost the facade of the cool detective and became the man John loved most: An honest man.
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Sherlock knew John was full of fear and doubt. It was something that never passed. He saw it for the first time when they solved their first case after his fake-death: There had been this man who had murdered his wife. He and John had cornered him and Sherlock had started to insult him, provoke him to make a confession. But suddenly he had this gun and before Sherlock could react John had pushed him out of the way and himself in the line of fire. It had been John's only luck that the man was inept in handling a gun. He had shot the wall instead of John. But it had nearly made Sherlock lose his mind. It was the first time ever John had seen him cry, between kisses and sobs Sherlock had told him for the first time "I love you!"
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Every day felt like losing Sherlock again. Every day Sherlock ran after another stupid case not caring for his own safety, for his own life. Every day it killed a part of John and made him clutch even harder on the consulting detective.
John knew that Sherlock knew. There were these touches, soft and reassuring on his back. There were this feather light kisses on his cheeks, not the longing kisses of the night but caring ones, kisses to show John Sherlock was safe.
But John never felt this way. He felt insecure and vulnerable and after a few month living with Sherlock he got deep circles under his eyes again and now and then his hands started to shake. Sherlock always grabbed them to steady John's touch. There were questions in Sherlock's eyes, questions he never dared to ask. Not until one night when John had started to shout at Sherlock, insulted him, threatened him only to keep him safe. "Will you leave me?" This whispered question did it for John. Never, never, Sherlock! After that they had slept together for the first time.
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Mycroft Holmes had always been on the watch. His little brother was everything he had left and even if he had told Sherlock one time after another that caring was not an advantage he knew it was a lie. For the first time Mycroft felt at rest because there was someone else to protect his brother, too.
Caring for Sherlock meant caring for John. And so Mycroft had another task: Keep John safe. It was a far easier task than keeping his brother out of trouble. John was a sensible man, caring and dutiful but not impulsive. And even though Sherlock might have had the bigger brain it was John who did the thinking before rushing into a new adventure.
But still: Keeping John safe was Mycroft's biggest task. He knew if anything would happen to John, insanity's iron grip would wring the life out of his little brother. There would be nothing left of Sherlock but a body that looked like him. His mind and his soul would be lost without John.
Keeping John safe had been easy. Easy until that fateful day when Sherlock and John had their first big row and Sherlock in his stupidity had kicked John out of the apartment, had insulted him as a slut and worse only because his angry mind had overcome his true feelings. Keeping John safe was no longer easy because after that incident he decided to join the army again: One last duty, one last campaign to feel useful again.
Sherlock had been in a rage, had shouted, begged, threatened. But John had gone. Mycroft knew why. He knew of John's never truly healed heart, he had watched John after Sherlock's "suicide" and for some time had feared John would follow. And when Sherlock finally came to his older brother, sobbing and totally lost, admitting his weakness, Mycroft had promised: To keep John safe again.
He did everything he could, send John here, send John there – but not to the front line, not into action. He made sure of that. Until the day when a suicide bomber blew himself up in the middle of the main camp, killing 32 soldiers, six went missing. Mycroft could never have prevented that.
It had been Sherlock's only joy these past weeks, when Mycroft had come home with news from John. How he had operated on the man with the wounded leg, how he had saved this woman beaten up by her own husband in Kundus. He had loved that because stories about John meant John was safe.
Mycroft was barely able to control himself that day, the day he came to tell another story. He thought he had seen his brother in every state of pain, but nothing could be compared to that blank look on his face when Mycroft told him that John was gone: Blown up in an explosion, not even a body left to bury. Sherlock's eyes lost focus and he sacked down as if his life was sucked out of him.
Mycroft touched him, spoke to him, kissed him, called his name. But Sherlock was lost. His little brother was lost to a world of darkness, a world he could not follow into. Sherlock was gone: A prisoner in the deepest dungeon of his mind castle.
To be continued