Это перевод сайд-стори цикла "Пепел", который можно почитать на фикбуке или на АО3
A lot of thanks go to wonderful illulian for helping with this translation, but as I finished it without her - all mistakes are mine, eahh)) sorry, dears))
Meeting former Healer John Watson became the one mystery that promised to hold the interest of Sherlock's inquisitive mind for a very long time.
John had the most common name and the most common-although attractive-appearance, wearing simple clothes with minimum magical protection – in other words, nothing made him stand out from the dozens, hundreds of ordinary people passing by every day. The old good-quality cane was the only visible and interesting detail that immediately caught Sherlock's eyes. At first glance, there was nothing unusual about John Watson, whom he first noticed among the endless high shelves and heavy silence of the Library.
Stamford, who introduced them to each other, had been as always very uncomfortable around him, in contrast to his former classmate. Back then John had not even looked frightened, although he should have felt the restless surge of magic that Sherlock held in the iron grip of his self-control.
Only once he stepped closer to inspect mage that drew his attention, he suddenly realized how much taller he was compared to the man; at a distance it had not been obvious. At that moment, Sherlock had been given the opportunity to admire in detail the dark blue eyes and blond lashes. In the dim light, the man's blond hair looked almost gray, as if powdered with ash. Even his tan lines seemed to look washed out and gray.
Ministerial tracking and restraining spells were like useless shackles clinging onto John's magic, confusing and preventing Sherlock from taking a proper look at John's potential and usefulness. This was unacceptable.
Who are you?
Then and there, in the silent walls of the University Library, Sherlock's heart involuntarily began beating faster in anticipation of a new mystery. Sherlock knew that once again he had been peering too closely, violating several norms and conventions adopted and imposed by society, but he did not care. He wanted to step closer and loudly declare that now that interesting mage would not be able to hide from him. Not as long as he would be able to understand, disassemble into components and only then to put aside the puzzle under the name of John Watson, who by that time would have to lose his relevance and novelty.
On that day, the day of their first meeting, he was as far from revealing the secrets of why this particular former Healer was so delightfully interesting, as he was now, when he was sitting on the couch in the living room at Baker Street and was watching John.
John Watson, in his favorite striped shirt with long stretched sleeves and comfortable jeans passionately sorted books that previously were respectively laid on the floor into piles according to Sherlock's personal system.
The chaos that did bother only John who decided that rare, hard-won volumes in heavy leather bindings or just battered sheets sewn together should be handled appropriately and Sherlock did not object.
And now every folio, each manuscript was subjected to a thorough inspection; the confident hands of the experienced Healer carefully turned the sheets, yellowed by time, or checked old covers before posting someone's immortal work in the selected pile according to his own unknown criteria.
"Sherlock, why would you ever need three copies of Nosferatu (1) at once?" John's surprised tone sounded like music to Sherlock's ears. Something in the way John said his name, as if instead of a single word there were dozens of hidden importance, every time made him stop and listen. Listen to something that he could not unravel. And he just liked to hear his name spoken in that low, confident voice. "No, better not answer. I hate vampires. I hope we will never have to work with them."
"These volumes were necessary for one of the cases investigating a Vampire Clan in Sussex" answered the skull on the mantelpiece that had been silent up until this moment. The companion, had been invented and created by Sherlock, so that he would have someone to talk to about the Work. It was a cynically chosen subject, saturated with his magic with illusion of free will and deliberately showing his status as a dark mage.
Sherlock looked at it, displeased, but said nothing. He had better things to do. For example, watch a mage, who had so easily and simply walked into his life as if it were something natural and logical, rather than something that knocked out the monotony of Sherlock's existence, that occasionally was smoother with his Work.
Sherlock looked at the bent blond head, a defenseless ear sticking out of the hair regrown out of military standards, and admired the bright light of John's magic. He could not help but admire it. It beckoned, attracted and fascinated him all at the same time. And he personally contributed to the formation of this light, confirming his suspicions about the nature of that magic. Then he had naively believed that John would not be able to become more interesting. Now he fully realized the extent of his folly.
Who are you?
The other's unobtrusive presence filled him with anticipation, almost unbearable in its inevitability. Even his magic greedily reached for the source of the soft golden glow with the potential of becoming a blinding sun burning out everything in its path. It was not surprising that John attracted him. Since childhood he had been fascinated with all things dangerous and potentially fatal for him. Even after so many years, it still drove Mycroft mad. But his brother was still a hypocrite; they were the same in that regard. And now he had voluntarily acquired a weakness (2), which someday could cost him his life and career, but it was, as John liked to say, fine. It was absolutely fine.
He, Sherlock Holmes, had voluntarily admitted John Watson into his life and asked to share with him not only it, but also his home, and his Work. For the first time since spelling the common words of usual ritual suddenly acquired their true meaning for him.
Now he knew, could see for himself that what was happening between them, was something more than friendship or partnership. Who would have thought that his passing desire to keep, to tie would turn into this.
On paper, in the official reports of the Ministry, in the personal file, that at the first request was so helpfully provided to him by Mycroft even without asking for anything in return, John Watson was a regular, though highly skilled Healer with an excellent track record, stable career and a great reputation. But still, he was one of many. Even a change of civilian life for the army changed nothing. John Watson still remained a reliable, respected and able mage. For whom the opinion of the rest of the world did not matter, because he did not hesitate to exchange a quiet peaceful life for the life on the battlefield with its ugly underside. As he did not hesitate to make the contract with the dark mage, which was also not without reason suspected of illegal Necromancy.
John laughed at something the skull, glowing with blue flame, said, and answered something in return. Sherlock did not listen to what John said. He was interested in how he was speaking.
The other's voice was deep, low and a little hoarse. Sherlock wondered how John would sound, whispering in his ear his most intimate secrets. The thought both excited and intrigued him. Lust was not something alien to Sherlock, but it never guided him in life. From time to time he even indulged in the desires of the flesh, because he saw no reason to deny himself this. But the feeling that was now lurking somewhere in his abdomen, bore little resemblance to the familiar cocktail of hormones. This was a feeling he had never experienced before, so now he could hardly identify and classify it. It was not just lust. Because never before it had been accompanied by this strange pulling feeling in his solar plexus.
Sherlock looked at the broad shoulders and back covered with worn faded fabric, on a strip of light skin between the belt of the jeans and lifted shirt, on neat little fingers peeping from trouser leg, while John sat on the side to him, and could not appease the throbbing in his groin. And he did not even try to.
Sherlock imagined clearly how he could come close and jerk John up to his feet, immediately pressing him against the bookshelf without allowing him even the slightest chance to dodge or escape. Then Sherlock would run his fingers through soft hair, gather it into a fist and forcefully pull John's head to the side, exposing the defenseless neck and making it easier to run his parched lips along the column of his neck with anticipation. And bite the stretched skin near the collar, leaving a mark in the shape of his teeth. Or better yet, leave string of marks - smaller-bigger, brighter-paler, like a refined decoration, a gift from him, one of many that he would like to bestow on John.
Or he could pull John onto himself, to collapse together in the chair that John was so fond of. Sherlock imagined how John would twitch in anger, try to squirm away from his persistent cold fingers as he would sit him on his lap, taking John's weight and hugging him as close as was physically possible. Would he be obedient and pliable in his hands? Hardly. Despite John's admiring glances and all the trusting, sincere smiles and open acceptance, it was hard to read John's mind to guess or predict his reactions. With him he would never know anything for sure, and that was another reason for his admiration.
But all these still did not prevent him from fantasizing. Sherlock gritted his teeth. Excitement made everything around him brighter and clearer, as after a sip of elixir, but his face gave nothing away. He was fully able to control his body; it was just a tool, convenient and proven. Therefore, he just continued to lie curled up on the comfortable, sagging couch, ignoring the blood pulsing in his temples, his throat, and his groin.
Perhaps he should not have continued to imagine how he could now come up so very close, bend over and bury his nose in the spot behind John's ear securely covered with hair, to breathe in a strange smell - a mixture of shampoo, aftershave, black tea, oriental spices, honey, apples and burning. It was as if John once and for all had been scorched by merciless sun on the plains of Afghanistan, and no rain in London was now able to wash away that smell.
The world narrowed down to the size of a room, corner with books and a fireplace, to his frantically beating heart and pulsations of magic around him. Even the skull fell silent, wary. Runes around were shaking and vibrating with power, responding to his palpitating heartbeat. His next experiment in a string of incessant, various experiments solely devoted only to John Watson.
John turned around in surprise, feeling that something had changed. Now blue eyes watched him intently, no doubt trying to figure out what caused the sudden change of mood. The air darkened, filled with magic that went beyond the frames that Sherlock put on it on his own – magic that was strong, a little wild, and yet little known to John. Yet.
At that moment Sherlock could only stare back, struggling with an agonizing desire to squeeze himself through the light fabric of his pajama pants, so unbearable was his desire tearing him apart. He could only guess how the spark of excitement that he always felt in John's presence in one brief moment was able to grow to an all-consuming passion.
John's face was not canonically beautiful, but it was attractive enough that even strangers on the street turned around after them or followed the compact figure with interested glances. It was also unacceptable.
The air crackled with his suppressed power, fueled by new, still unexplored and unclassified emotions. He could not tear his eyes away from prying eyes that widened in surprise. Like John was able to catch all the changes around him, around them.
The skin tingled with anticipation and seething magic underneath it. The last time he was so close to losing control of himself, when he was twenty-eight. Then only the intervention of Lestrade saved him from himself and some murderous combination of opium and another experimental elixir mixed in one bottle. Now he was held only by these eyes, alert and sympathetic.
"Oh… Sherlock, is everything all right?" John licked his lips uncertainly. "If you did not want me to touch your things, you just needed to say so from the beginning."
Sherlock knew, had time to thoroughly examine how John's narrow lips could open with a silent sigh of surprise, so it was not difficult to imagine how they would be able to open with the same breath under pressure from his persistent seeking lips.
"I don't mind" Sherlock breathed the thin air in deeply and exhaled sharply, pacifying his almost out of control magic, again forcing it into a rigid framework. "As my partner you have the undeniable right to use most of the books and artifacts here. If I have something have any objections, I'll tell you about that right away."
"Okay" said John, still uncertain. "I finished sorting these two stacks. I think that's enough for today. Tea?"
"Yes, thank you. Without sugar."
John got up slowly from the floor, stretching his stiff legs and his compact body to go into the kitchen and make a perfect cup of aromatic tea. Tea that only could be done right by John and sometimes Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock avidly followed his moving form and waited. When he returned with the tea, John would have come very close, at arm's length, to give him his steaming cup. He briefly closed his eyes and sat up, stifling a groan from tearing out. Something should be done with his painful erection and done urgently.
Only when the door to the restroom was softly shut behind him, he could finally take a deep breath. Hissing he quickly pulled off his pants and grabbed himself. A few of leisurely strokes to extend, to stretch the moment of pleasure, were enough for him to finish, shuddering and gasping greedily with a gaping mouth.
He caught every drop later to wash away, to hide all the possible traces. It remained only to wait until the bright spots of blush would go from his usually pale face, for feverish gleam to go from his eyes, and he could go back, as if nothing had happened.
The sound of water was enough to cover one physiological need with another. Sherlock washed his hands and listened to the sounds in the kitchen. He perfectly calculated the time to go back past John who stopped in the wide doorway, taking a steaming cup from him and fleetingly touching his hot fingers. Only after settling in his usual chair he took the first sip with pleasure.
John Watson who dropped into the opposite chair with his lovingly made tea - milk, two spoonfuls of sugar - perhaps subconsciously knew what awaited him, but boldly still remained close.
Sherlock did not want to rash, he wanted to take the time stretching and enjoying his anticipation, disassembling, expanding and systematizing all the new sensations and feelings, but sooner or later he would make his move.
(1) In this magical universe expanded edition of the history encyclopedia of vampires written by the vampires and approved by their High Council;
(2) This may not be entirely clear, but it is the reference to the relationship of Mycroft Lestrade for which we had, have and will have the hints and references in all 3 parts of "Ashes". And maybe someday I will write their story.