Just a quick note: lines that are written in italics and bracketed by colons are thoughts. :Like this.:
Accept that all of us can be hurt, that all of us can and surely will at times fail. Other vulnerabilities, like being embarrassed or risking love, can be terrifying, too. I think we should follow a simple rule: if we can take the worst, take the risk. – Joyce Brothers
:1: Linked
A sound not oft-heard rings out in the downstairs hallway of 221 Baker Street, London, UK.
The pleasant melody of John's giggles fills the empty spaces in Sherlock's heart the way he's believed for so long that nothing ever could; it penetrates his sterling defenses, chips at the icy layer he's carefully molded into place around him—a transparent shield that people can clearly feel and mostly misunderstand. It has never been about keeping people away; it is about keeping himself inside lest everything that threatens to burst him apart at the seams break loose and destroy the fortress he's built.
There in the hallway of the old Victorian, the melody crescendos: Sherlock's deep purr of true merriment mixing joyously with John's higher pitch, the sounds dancing with one another; the two men from very different walks of life lean against the wall together, shoulders brushing, creating a new combination as if they are unique instruments: strings and winds.
Sherlock is unaware that he has slumped slightly, dropping his shoulders and slouching in order to make their heights even. He's unaware because he cannot stop watching John: the way he laughs unselfconsciously as if nothing else matters but this moment. Sherlock finds that he strongly agrees with the doctor.
The rest of the world beyond the here and now is silent, gently shrouded in the dim light from the lamp Mrs. Hudson has conscientiously left on for them. The detective recognizes the gesture as a throw-back to an older time and appreciates the sentiment for what it is, though he'd certainly never tell her that out loud. The time-smoothed dark banister and vintage accouterments of the house add to the atmosphere, suddenly that much brighter for the giggling presence of this dangerously normal man at his side. A newborn awareness is tapping at the corners of his consciousness; this is, without a doubt, something precious, something rare.
What is this that is happening to him? He's torn in two now, recognizing the duality in himself that he's just witnessed firsthand in the ex-army doctor: the helper and the fighter clearly standing out in the darkness with the brightness of a thousand suns. The mostly-buried helper part wants to show John his hidden secret; the fighter part, the passionate side of him, it wants to take a chance and step closer, bodies pressed hotly against one another-push the doctor against the wall and force him to really see—everything: not just who Sherlock is but what he is. The details of what was and what could be.
With great control he takes a deep breath. In the mind palace, he firmly closes a door but does not lock it. In his subconscious, he'll wear the antique brass key on a chain around his neck, yet, in the waking world, the key will be in the new melody they are slowly composing together.
Sherlock watches John closely, taking in every single detail of his new friend's face, from the way a single wheaten eyebrow hair bends the opposite direction of the others to the beginnings of the laugh lines at the corner of his cerulean eyes. Still unsure of revealing everything to John, Sherlock eventually grows a bit uncomfortable and has to move out of the entryway. There's too much could be in the air and he needs some space to breathe it in and allow it to coalesce into something more.
:-:
Shortly thereafter, in the tiny hours of the night, John stretches out in his bed that even for its small size is quite a luxury from the one he left behind in his beige bedsit. He's staring at the ceiling and wondering why the great detective hasn't yet deduced his lost abilities as easily as he called out his psychosomatic limp; never mind his desperation to be needed, to be useful. Perhaps Sherlock dared not probe too deeply because John did not? At first glance the man seems abrasive and rude…yet there is so much more there, John could feel only the slightest brush of …something he doesn't yet dare name…against his mind. Perhaps it was an unusual bit of consideration. It's very difficult for John to believe that Sherlock simply isn't aware of it. Not for someone who is so omniscient.
John's last thought before succumbing to a deep, cleansing sleep, is that there ought to be a smidge of guilt somewhere within him about that cabbie, oddly, there's only a strange picture of a large frozen pond with a single, small crack in it as he tips into the welcoming darkness of his psyche. Standing over it, as one can do in such dreams, he can see a reflection of himself in the translucent surface; upon waking, he will be surprised to recall that the reflection is so clear and bright, almost as if he's seeing himself through someone else's eyes. An unusual pair of eyes, ones that, until today, he's never seen in his entire life. Eyes that constantly shift their color until the word 'grey' is the best word to describe them, though even that seems wrong.
:-:
In the bedroom downstairs, the great detective himself is prone on his bed, limbs relaxed, with his eyes closed, his mind is fully aware. He listens closely to the soft squeaks of John's mattress as he gets comfortable in his bed; when he is satisfied his new flatmate is asleep, he Reaches deep inside himself and changes into his Were form.
John Watson does not seem to wake when a lean black tomcat leaps from the floor of his room to the windowsill and pushes open the window with a paw. The cat turns his head and gazes at the sleeping figure, swishes his tail and gracefully slips out and down the fire escape to the pavement below. With any luck, he'll be home long before John begins his day; he's so very sure of himself that he never pauses in his movement, never considers for an instant that he may have been seen.
:-:
:There's nothing new under the sun.: Sherlock Thinks hard at his brother as he blatantly makes a production out of ignoring him and all the others gathered nearby from where he's stretched out on the ground in the shadows of the trees.
The surrounding darkness is punctuated by stately electric lights that catch in the eyes of those Weres and Shifters gathered here tonight. The Owl dismisses the others from the meeting and glares down hard at the Cat only barely hidden at the edge of the clearing. Some of the others spare the feline a nod as they pass, most simply mind their own business.
:There is a reason you are here I am assuming.: Mycroft stretches his long, clawed toes after standing for so long, finally stopping and letting them curl lightly around the branch where he's been for the past several hours.
:Ah, dear brother, you assume…: Sherlock mentally snarks.
The Owl opens his beak in order to make a loud screech not very unlike the horrible caterwauling Sherlock calls forth when he tortures his violin. Down on the ground, the Cat pins his ears back and lashes his tail in irritation against the obvious jibe. A few seconds later, the Owl lands on the lowest branch of the tree closest to Sherlock, quickly folding his elegant tawny wings against his body.
:You interrupt an important gathering for nonsense, Sherlock? I could care less about Jeffery Hope; I have more pressing matters to attend to. Good riddance to bad rubbish and good evening. Go home.:
The Owl spreads his wings wide and makes to launch himself skyward. Sherlock makes an odd noise that to a human would sound much like a cross between an annoyed hiss and a kittenish mew; he doesn't use it often, and as such, it is a real reaction, not one of his cleverly crafted fake ones.
In his mind, Mycroft sighs. He's tired, it's been a terribly long week and what he wants to do most is go home to unwind a bit.
:The problem, then?: He asks Sherlock then carefully sends some warm, wanting feelings home towards his Bonded.
For a moment, the Cat studies the Owl. It seems that he is as disinclined to answer as ever. Mycroft hisses lightly.
:I am unable to get anything from Him.: The cat keeps his eyes on the ground, a child finding it difficult to admit his shortcomings.
Mycroft does not miss the fact that it takes his exhausted mind a couple of minutes to recognize the strength of the word 'him' in Sherlock's Mindspeech. Since he's in his avian form, he can't exactly frown; on the other hand, there's no doubt Sherlock comprehends the implications of Mycroft's slight hesitation.
:Sherlock,: Mycroft starts before closing his eyes. :In an effort not to sound trite, I am going to say this only once more, so please listen. Go home. He likes you for yourself.:
Mycroft doesn't dare utter the words 'preening' and 'trying to impress him' but he can clearly Hear Greg saying them earlier.
:He will never accept me.:
:No, Sherlock, in this I believe you are wrong. Throw him out, keep him, it doesn't matter to me.:
Without another thought or sound, the Owl takes to the dark sky, leaving his little brother alone to ponder his next step; past behavior has shown Mycroft how Sherlock reacts to his older brother having a favorable opinion concerning any of the detective's acquaintances, so this time he has made the decision not to interfere...at least until they give him a reason to do so.
:-:
"That's what people do!" James Moriarty screeches at the top of his lungs, his brown eyes rolling back in their sockets like a terrified animal.
John thinks that surely the lunatic should be foaming at the mouth, then his eyes meet Sherlock's seconds before he finds himself lunging forward and grabbing the madman by the neck.
"Run, Sherlock!"
Sherlock never takes his eyes off John; he would be unable to do it even if forced. There's an odd hum in the back of his mind that is familiar yet out of his grasp, keeping him cool though his heart is racing.
:Shoot him.:
The gun in his hand dips wildly for a few seconds as Sherlock visibly startles, which Moriarty sees clearly. Sherlock can tell that the madcap villain believes his words caused Sherlock to falter, words Sherlock is no longer hearing because all he can hear is an insistent, internal command telling him to move, to do something he's never actually done before. Granted, he's studied the methods, but…well, there's no time like the present.
Without another thought, Sherlock takes careful aim, hoping everything he's read over the years is true: aim for center mass. He points the gun at Moriarty's torso and pulls the trigger.
In a heart-shredding, air-filled-with-sound instant, John drops to the ground behind Moriarty. The bullet rips through Moriarty's chest and his body hits the tile with a thud. Sherlock's mind fills with the buzz of white noise, he can taste gunpowder, his ears are ringing and he's pulling John by the shoulders out from underneath the dead man and as far away from him as he can get. He rips the coat of dynamite from John's body and tosses it into the pool. It is completely waterlogged and on its way to the bottom in seconds, a pinkish trail of blood spatter from Moriarty's fatal wound follows it down.
Now they share a lame joke with John almost on his knees, back against the wall. He is trembling yet still completely in control. Sherlock drops to a crouch, reaching out with both hands and grabbing John's shoulders. John gives a crooked smile, a strained laugh, and, without any warning, leans forward.
Sherlock turns to the side a little, offering a larger target, thinking John wants to rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder, however, the movement is awkward and they end up stopping each other when their foreheads tap. Sherlock stares into John's eyes and John gazes right back; neither man speaks or makes any sounds until Sherlock hears the sirens. The weight of something new, something naked, something so old unfolding right there in the minute bit of distance that still exists between them; like dandelion fluff, it gracefully glides away when the detective is forced to speak.
"We've got to go."
John nods his agreement and follows Sherlock out the exit.
:-:
Later, the hour virtually unnamable, John fiddles with the kettle without actually ever turning it on. He blinks quickly, attempting desperately to keep the memories at bay of a past threatening to obscure the present. I can't do this again, he thinks, yet deep inside he knows it is too late.
The memory of the pain is so clear, the sensation that his heart was being torn from his chest while he could see it all—the agony of the shredding of a Bond held in trembling fingers rendering him blind and mute against an agony that could have been the echo of all his bones snapping simultaneously…the suddenness of being able to Feel everything and it was all…too much. The second sting of misery as he fought to close his Shield down as tightly as possible; the desire to never let anyone beyond it again.
Never.
Never did he count on a madman hell bent on ending his life in a dank and smelly pool, either. It's just possible that never isn't really a constant, isn't it?
His thoughts racing, John raises both hands to his head, steps away from the bench until his back hits the fridge then he stops, eyes fixed straight ahead, seeing nothing but dusty recollections. John slides down to the floor, rests his head against his knees and weeps silently. When a deep voice, strained in an attempt to stay quiet, possibly out of a bit of fear and even more so from true concern, speaks from the doorway, John knows he's lost the battle within himself.
"John?"
He will look back on this later as one of those rare occasions where Sherlock sounds a bit off. Using the heels of his hands, he wipes hateful tears from his face and forces himself to meet the other man's eyes. Right then, John decides that he can't do it anymore so he lets his Shield drop. It's physically and emotionally costing too much to keep it in place right now, after everything, and it is time to admit that after he mutely watched the Cat jump out his bedroom window, he knew.
Even if in the weeks, months they've known one another, Sherlock hadn't ever mentioned it, he felt it wasn't his place to start that conversation.
The force of John's Shield dropping reverberates through the kitchen. It is as physical a sensation as a mental one, causing Sherlock to step back a pace and stop awkwardly with one foot on the tile and the other on the carpeting. His gaze intensifies and he Sends a shy feeler from his mind towards John's. For the first time in their acquaintance, Sherlock finds himself wholly and truly shocked because while his thoughts distantly brush up against John's, John's mental channels are wide open, allowing Sherlock to Feel everything: so much that it is almost overwhelming: a veritable lightning storm of everything John is crashes over the detective and his jaw drops in awe.
The world spins on its axis and the vacuum of space is taken up by white light; blinding white light that crashes around them like a tsunami; it slams against the walls to echo against Sherlock as if his body has just made itself into a radar…the blips on the screen in his mind all point to one person. The very foundations of Sherlock's self-made fortress shake and tremble until some of the brightness fades away and he Reaches out carefully, a child searching in the dark for his favorite security blanket.
John admires the tall man framed as he is by the doorway from his place on the floor and lets Sherlock probe along what could only be described as a mental ribbon that binds them. He gives the detective the chance to stop this now, though John is aware that he's already all in. His head is spinning and the last thing he wants to do is frighten Sherlock off, but he thinks that this was the only way.
Without a second thought, Sherlock latches onto the tenuous Link that they have just created, just now, right here in the space of their dimly lit kitchen. Or maybe it created itself and the two of them are only along for the ride, he wonders as he settles himself on the tile next to John, discovering now the aching need to have as much physical contact with the other man as is possible in the moment. They lean against one another, both reeling from their discoveries, both breathing heavily as if they've just run across two blocks worth of roofs.
"You heard me," John states after a little while. His voice is gravely, his throat dry from being constricted against the fear of rejection.
Sherlock nods, "I did." He wants to say so much more, about how John effectively saved both of their lives by being the coolly logical one there at the pool…he is currently still so overwhelmed that he doesn't have the words.
"Mycroft knew," Sherlock announces softly as John Reaches out to him in turn, comforting thoughts that do not smother his own, instead, they complement them, allowing Sherlock all the space he needs should he feel like shutting John out.
"I thought he might," John agrees, slowly curving his fingers around the top of Sherlock's left hand, allowing his thumb to trace over the smooth skin there.
"He didn't tell me," Sherlock mutters petulantly, ever the baby brother. He sighs deeply and closes his eyes against the receding vertigo.
Being more experienced in these matters, John is recovering more quickly. Chuckling lowly, he lets himself relax into all of the sensory information he's gathering, physically and mentally. It is quite surprising to find out how gentle Sherlock's Mind really is. In all of their time together, John would have been sure it was a raging inferno of millions of thoughts racing against each other at the same time. Without a doubt, there's a lot of data here, yet it is more a meandering stream of pictures than a rushing river of digits and letters.
:It was exactly that way when I was younger.:
John closes his eyes now, leans his head against the refrigerator door, preparing again for the onslaught of painful memories, but there is nothing save for the man at his side. For that, John is filled with a gratitude he doesn't yet recognize. He Sends Trust in Sherlock's direction.
:You are here, now. I can't go back:
John welcomes Sherlock into his mind as easily as he's welcomed him into his heart. Though their Link is as fragile as a newborn babe, its overall feeling is more like slipping into a well-worn pair of comfortable jeans than it is a crisply starched tuxedo-it is Comfort and Not Alone, Strength and Solidarity.
:What is the next step from here?:
"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asks aloud.
:I want you to see me.: The detective moves so that they are facing one another. His eyes search John's face.
:You know that I do.: John replies.
Sherlock nods, gets to his feet and before John can count to three, is at once naked then gone. The black cat with the green eyes sits down on his haunches and regards John coolly. John laughs and reaches out in order to trace the outside of a velvety ear.
Along their Link comes appreciation and John finds himself smiling. Sherlock moves a little closer, butting his head into John's hand and setting up a deep purr. After a while, John returns to his tea-making, Sherlock Shifts back into himself and they pass a quiet evening reading, both men finding it easy to carve a place in their lives for each other.
Eventually, John finds himself in his bed, alone, considering this new advent in his life and for once being able to replay a few of his memories from a more detached point of view. As he begins to fall asleep, it occurs to him that it is probably no coincidence that Sherlock Shifts into a cat.
