Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from this, that pleasure belongs to ACD/Moffat & Gatiss/BBC
"What if he doesn't believe you?" the whispered question hung between them as they lay, limbs entwined, softly stroking arms, and bodies, and hips, sated and warm.
"Let me worry about that if"…*kiss*… "and when"…*kiss*… "it happens" the lips moved down to allow a gentle nuzzling at the slender neck, the tip of his tongue flicking across the stuttering pulse-point, eliciting a deep moan that vibrated through them both. They pulled closer together.
"When?"
"Tomorrow"
"Will he be there?"
"Trust me"
Golden head rested then on alabaster chest, and in the safe cocoon of their love they drifted into sleep.
xXx
Greg couldn't tear his eyes away from John Watson as the small blond man stood at the graveside, silent tears streaming down his face.
When he'd received the notification of the date and time of the funeral, Greg had almost decided there was no way he could face it, almost took the time off work and stayed home. It was the phone call that finally convinced him.
That John had called him personally to make sure he was coming must have taken a great deal of courage, so who was he to deny a friend the support he needed.
Molly was there too, with Mike Stamford, each comforting the other, and Mycroft's PA Anthea stood at her boss' shoulder, a silent sentinel, for once bereft of her smartphone.
Even Mrs Hudson had support, Mrs Turner – friend and confidante – and, Greg almost smiled at the thought, irrepressible gossipmonger and local gatherer of news. She'd dine out on this experience for weeks to come.
Thankfully Mycroft's security staff had 'advised' the press that not only were they not welcome, but that their continued presence could be detrimental to their health.
With the coffin lowered, the earth scattered, two by two the mourners left the graveside until only John and Greg remained. The police officer moved back to give the doctor space to say a private farewell, while remaining fairly close at hand.
"Thanks for coming, Greg"
John's voice startled him out of his musings.
"Didn't think you'd want me here" he confessed "God, John, I'm so sorry. I wish I'd…"
"It's alright Greg, really. He understood, you know." He gestured towards the cemetery gates and the waiting black car. "Mycroft's letting me use a government 'safe house' for a while, until I feel ready to go back to Baker Street. Come back with me? I need to talk to you"
"Sure mate, anything"
A soft smile passed briefly over John's face as he ducked into the rear seat of the car.
xXx
"Tea?"
Lestrade whistled softly as his wide-eyed gaze roamed around the Canary Wharf apartment, before bringing his attention back around to the man leaning against the kitchen counter.
"Got anything stronger?" he asked hopefully.
"In your tea? Or as a chaser?"
"Chaser"
John brought two mugs of tea and a generously filled glass of whisky, putting them on the coffee table before taking the chair opposite. He waited until his companion had taken an appreciative sip of the excellent spirit and relaxed into his chair.
"I need to talk to you about Sherlock"
"Are you sure?" Greg looked a little worriedly at his friend "Isn't it a bit…"
"Greg" John met the other man's gaze, "There's stuff going on that you have no idea about, stuff you're going to find a bit hard to believe"
"I found everything about that man a little hard to believe!" the older man choked out, memories of Sherlock's at time outrageous antics making him grin.
"Yeah well, this is going to be the icing on the bloody cake mate – what would you say if I told you he's not dead?"
This time Greg really choked, his face turning puce as he coughed and spluttered, his eyes watering, and his throat burning.
Accepting the glass of water that was pressed into his hand he sipped the cold liquid, his blurred vision never wavering from the concerned face of the good doctor.
Happy that his guest was going to be alright, John sat back down and waited.
Greg, recovering, stared back, wondering if grief hadn't tipped the poor man over the edge, a thought that was reinforced when John sat back and smiled, sipping his tea as if this morning's service and burial had never happened, or at least happened to someone else's best friend. He opened his mouth to speak, then realised he had absolutely no idea what to say.
"If I try to explain, will you listen Greg, will you keep an open mind no matter what?"
The silver grey head nodded, a worried frown still creasing his brow.
Relaxing back into his chair, John told Lestrade the whole story, from the court acquittal to the false identity of Rich Brook, from Kitty Riley's hatchet job on Sherlock's reputation to the seemingly final nail in that reputation's coffin – the scream. He spoke about the threat, Moriarty's need to destroy Sherlock, reminding the other man that there could be no doubt whatsoever that Moriarty had taken his own life, but not before he had issued his final ultimatum.
"Sherlock had to die Greg; he had to jump to save three lives"
"I don't follow. Three lives?"
"The three people that Sherlock cared most about in the world; me, Mrs Hudson," he paused, looking deep into the other man's eyes "and you"
In the silence that followed John's final words, the Greg was convinced he could hear the beating of his own heart, as loud as if it were the base beat to a rock song. Sweat trickled down his neck, and the room seemed for a moment to lurch as his vision tunnelled down to blackness.
xXx
"Really John, you were supposed to be explaining things to him, not frightening him into a fainting fit!"
Confusion was uppermost in Greg's mind, that and the fact that he shouldn't be able to hear that voice. Then he realised he could feel luxurious wool carpeting under his cheek.
"Shut up, prat"
That was the voice he expected to hear – John Watson – friendly, ex-army doctor John, who had just told him…remembrance of their conversation shot through him, and he tried to sit up, his arms feeling like rubber as he tried to push himself up.
"Take it easy, Lestrade, you've had a shock"
The deep baritone voice, so familiar yet unexpected, caused the older man's head to swivel round, until he found himself staring at a dead man.
"He's right, Greg. Here, let me help you"
Never taking his eyes off the young man, Lestrade allowed John to slide his hands under his armpits and gently lift, steadying him as his boneless legs threatened to drop him again, guiding him back into his chair
"You're dead" Even as he said it he realised he had just offered Sherlock perfect ammunition to ridicule him – except that Sherlock was dead, and he was obviously dreaming this.
"Oh do keep up, Lestrade" staring at the Detective Inspector, his chin resting on steepled fingers, Sherlock watched and waited for the outburst of gibberish.
A hand gently resting on his shoulder made Greg jump, and he looked up into concerned blue eyes.
"You okay?" John handed him a fresh cup of tea
"Scotch would be better"
"I don't doubt" came the smiling reply, "but until you've recovered from the shock of seeing Lazarus, tea is all I'm prepared to prescribe"
Greg sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving the man sitting in the chair opposite him. Only John seemed able to ignore the strained atmosphere in the apartment, as he pottered around in the kitchen, pouring more tea for himself and one for his flatmate.
Gingerly, as if afraid he would disturb the apparition in front of him, Greg finally plucked up the courage to reach forward and put his hand on Sherlock's leg. At the feel of solid, warm flesh under the trademark tailored trousers the older man flinched, then allowed his gaze to meet the cool grey stare.
"How?"
Sherlock's gaze flicked up at John as he joined them, sitting on the arm of Sherlock's chair.
"We planned for the eventuality, we knew Moriarty wouldn't be satisfied with just beating Sherlock, or even getting him imprisoned for Moriarty's murder," John spoke softly "We were even fairly certain of the method he would chose for Sherlock's 'suicide'"
"Jumping"
John nodded. "We had very little time, and limited resources"
"How limited?" Greg forgot for a moment that the man sitting in front of him was supposed to be dead, his interest caught by the fact that, for the first time since he had made Sherlock's acquaintance, the consulting detective was letting someone else do the talking.
"We were limited to a few tricks that I had up my sleeve"
xXx
"Look, let me get this straight – you told Sherlock to fall…"
"And I just let myself fall forward"
John grinned at the expression on Lestrade's face.
"You're wondering whether to nick the pair of us for wasting police time, or have us sectioned" his grin widened as he saw in the older man's expression that he'd scored a hit.
"John, you'll have to tell him" Sherlock interrupted quietly.
"Now what? Tell me what, John?"
The smile dropped from the doctor's face, and he looked soberly from one to the other.
"Greg, what we need to tell you, what you need to know, you can't tell anyone else" he held his hand up to forestall any interruption. "Not if you want to keep your job"
"Oh come on, John" Greg threw himself back in his chair, a look of disgust on his face "Don't you start threatening me with the wrath of Mycroft!"
"No, it's not that simple. You see, I'm not who you think I am"
"Go on"
"My given name is Beelzebub" John watched the swift succession of thoughts cross Lestrade's expressive face, going from disbelief, through uncertainty, to anger – a white-hot anger that had him leaping from his seat, intent of punching the blond doctor.
Before he could complete the action, Sherlock was on his feet standing between them, and any doubts that the police officer might have had about the consulting genius being alive were put to rest as he collided with the thin but muscular body.
"Sit down Lestrade" sharp grey eyes stared into angry hazel ones "it's natural you have questions, and John will answer them, but I can't let you hit him for telling you the truth"
Lestrade swallowed hard, his body still tense.
John's hand tugged lightly at Sherlock's sleeve, silently asking him to sit down. With a glance over his shoulder the young man nodded and returned to his chair.
"Well?" Greg sat down once more, but glared menacingly across the room at his companions.
"It started with a question," John allowed a small reminiscent smile "asked of many, the answer to which left me and a few others banished from our home, and left to fend for ourselves here." He glanced at the young man sitting beside him, knowing that the story was as important to him as it was to their guest. This would be the first time he'd heard the full story.
"It was no hardship, certainly not for me. I eventually found myself a niche in the army, used my healing skills to great advantage, but I'm no miracle worker, I couldn't save them all."
"Eventually?"
"I've been around a while, Sherlock, surely you realised that?" he waited for the nod of affirmation. "My own injury meant I had to move on once more, and I was killing time, thinking about where to go next, when Mike introduced me to you"
Greg noticed for the first time the way the two men looked at each other, and his eyes widened.
'They're lovers!' he realised, watching the subtle play of expressions across their faces
"Yes, yes we are Greg, does that bother you?" John responded to the thought as if the other man had spoken.
"I…don't know" The older man admitted. He might have said more, but Sherlock had another question that was, for him at least, much more pressing.
"Mike said you were an old friend, I assumed from Medical School"
John nodded. "Couldn't just walk into the Army recruiting office and say 'I'm a brilliant doctor, give me a job', now could I? Had to get the relevant qualifications first"
"Okay and I assume our resident genius deduced there was something different about you, so you had to tell him."
"Not really," Sherlock took up the story "I just realised that John had much more than his fair share of good fortune, always surviving against the odds. So I asked him"
"It took a while for it to sink in, but we got there in the end" John smiled fondly down at his partner "And believe me, once I'd found him I wasn't going to let that insane bastard take him away from me"
Puzzled, Greg looked from one to the other, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard.
"I don't understand, Sherlock – I mean, evidence is your God, without it…"
John squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. "Why don't you explain why I rustle up some lunch for us?"
He slipped from the room, and as he pulled together the makings of a quick stir-fry meal, he listened to Sherlock explain about the wings, and the manipulation of senses, reminding the older man about the day Anderson had seemingly turned into a squealing pig. A brief glance through the door showed him the rapid range of emotions sweeping across that tired face, until it eventually lit with wonder.
Greg watched John manhandle three well filled plates into the room, handing them out, and settling himself back onto the arm of Sherlock's chair.
"I assume there's a reason you felt you had to tell me all of this?" he spoke around a mouthful of chicken and vegetables. "I mean, you could have pretended you'd arranged an elaborate method of falling onto some kind of – I dunno – bouncy castle?"
All three men grinned at the thought.
"We could, but we thought you deserved the truth" Sherlock shrugged "We are both aware of how much you risked to stand up for me to your superiors"
"And, until we have neutralised Moriarty's insidious web of criminals, until we have removed the threat of the snipers, no one can know that Sherlock survived." John pushed his food around his plate. "Only you and Mycroft know the truth. We need your help if we are to prevail"
"What about Mycroft? Can't he do something?"
"Oh he'll play his part," the doctor confirmed "He will convince the world that I can't return yet to 221B, that I am, in fact, living at the Holmes family estate, in deep mourning for my friend."
"And me?"
"Greg we need you to look after Mrs Hudson. I can't protect her while I'm away; she needs someone reliable to watch over her"
"And Sherlock? You'll look after him, keep him safe?"
Blue eyes met hazel, and as the silence lengthened Greg saw the blue feathered wing wrap around the consulting detective and hold him close.
"I'll take that as a yes then" there was a wry acceptance in his voice as Greg accepted the bottle of Scotch that Sherlock passed over to him, and he poured himself another generous glassful. "Can I ask a question?"
John nodded.
"Who are you really? The Devil or Dr Watson?"
"Neither" John replied "The Devil is actually a name humans have given to every dark and sinister character that has ever haunted their nightmares." He grinned widely. "And Dr John Watson doesn't exist"
xXx
The pale body convulsed as his orgasm ripped a hoarse cry from his throat, and thrusting deeply within him John's own release followed swiftly, sighing his lover's name, each syllable uttered as homage to the man shuddering and breathless beneath him.
As the world settled they haphazardly pulled the sheets around them, and as sleep encroached on the edge of his consciousness John wrapped his body protectively around this most precious burden.
"John?" the whispered name hung between them as they lay, limbs entwined.
"Hmm?"
"What was it?"
Blue eyes flickered open, calloused palm caressed a sharp-boned cheek, pulling the curly head against his chest.
"What was what?"
Sherlock smiled at the sleepy voice.
"Do keep up John, the question – what was the question?"
"Oh"
There was silence, then
"We were asked who we loved more, God or man. We were not corrupted by demons as many believe – we fell because we loved humans too much"