Chapter 1: Our Fortune

I've been thinking about our fortune
And I've decided that we're really not to blame
For the love that's deep inside us now
Is still the same

And the sounds we make together
Is the music to the story in your eyes
It's been shining down upon me now
I realize

Listen to the tide slowly turning
Wash all our heartaches away
We're part of the fire that is burning
And from the ashes we can build another day

The Story in Your Eyes

© The Moody Blues


John Watson, retired M.D. and partner in many ways to the world's only consulting detective, stands in front the burnt-out husk of the building that he has been calling home for more than ten years with his soot-darkened head in his hands. It has just begun to rain, the drops hissing as they pelt against the charred remains of what two hours ago had been the three individual flats of 221 Baker Street, London. The acrid smell of smoke assaults his nostrils and his lungs burn as he takes in deep, gasping breaths in a pathetic attempt to steady himself. Every muscle in his body still trembles from the shock of waking up from the inevitable crash after solving a case to the loud, banshee wail of a smoke alarm, or rather three of them. Ironically, the rain is now coming down in sheets; John wonders if the house would have been completely destroyed had it started earlier. The cold drops on his exhausted body finally force John to look up and accept the reality of his situation. His home is gone, it is appropriate that the sun is going down, turning the raindrops into tiny prisms that remind him of dancing flames.

The ladders and hoses have been packed back onto the trucks. The firemen and women have done all that they could possibly do to fight the blaze. By the time they arrived, the place was a virtual ring of fire; apparently the old place was a tinder box in the waiting. The fire chief had shaken his hand and told him that there would be a full investigation; preliminary study made him think that the fire began in three different places in the building, there would be more information in a few days. John remembers just nodding to him as he watched two uniformed policemen cordon off the area with yellow tape. Something so familiar had never seemed so personal to John until that moment.

John comes back to the present with the dark and heavy sound of rolling thunder. He turns his head to the right and to the left, searching. He is still alone with his thoughts. He is glad that Mrs. Hudson passed on two years ago; it would have broken the woman's heart to see the home she loved demolished.

Though he has never been an overly materialistic man, John will grieve for the little things: the tawny human skull on the mantle watched over by an ebony bison skull wearing headphones; the dent in the back of the door that was made by John's fist the night that his partner reappeared after being "dead" for a year, the squeaky step on the short staircase leading up to the bedroom on the second floor that was actually cracked when the bodies of two grown men fell on it whilst locked together in a fiery, passionate embrace that same night; the horrid wallpaper that had seemed so familiar the first time he ever set eyes on it…just, many things. He shrugs a little to himself as his breathing begins to even out. The old sand-colored T-shirt that he grabbed from the drawer as he ran for the exit behind Sherlock when they realized this was not a simple kitchen fire is soaked clean through as well as streaked with black soot. John's normally white-blond hair is streaked charcoal gray and black from the rain and ash. In short, he is sure that he is a mess. He can feel his emotions spirally downward, pulling him along for the ride he doesn't have the energy to fight at this moment.

The wind carries with it the feeling of a hand on his shoulder and he leans back against the solid form of the person who is so much more than a significant other to him; grounding him, fully stopping the downward spiral. He takes another deep breath and rolls his shoulders, feeling the heat from the other man against his back; it is almost tangible and seeps into John's muscles and bones through the saturated cotton. The physical damage is done; all they can do now is soldier on. One lean, tightly muscled arm drops to his waist and a strong, long-fingered hand draws him closer; he can feel a wisp of air across his scalp through the short, wet hairs on the top of his head when Sherlock speaks. John would recognize that voice anywhere, even over the raging storm; it will echo across the vast plateaus within his brain for the rest of time. In his mind, he can even see Sherlock's beautiful lips move and hear the melted-chocolate baritone over the loudest crash of thunder; it is almost heart-wrenching the way the natural sounds complement one another. Lightning illuminates the scene, throwing the entire twisted hulk of what remains of their home into vivid relief. As all scenes of destruction are at that same time eerily disturbing and eerily beautiful, John cannot help but stare at the jumbled mess of blackened metal and fire licked wood that now sits mutely in front of them. It is a completely different scene that the one of raging flames and shouting firefighters backed by the spinning scarlet of lights and the crashes of the skeleton of the old building smacking against the ground with finality.

"John." John turns on the spot while Sherlock's strong, broad, warm hand remains possessively on his waist; an anchor against the quickly capsizing ship that is his mind right now. He attempts to wipe away some of the water running down his forehead and tells himself that it is all just rain then tilts his head upward to meet Sherlock's steely green gaze. Those eyes bore into John as if dissecting him, pulling apart each and every individual thread of what makes him who he is; as well as seeking reassurance.

John's soul is always touched by the dichotomy. Reading his partner loud and clear, Sherlock tightens his hand against John's hip then leans down to give him a soft kiss that says they are safe, possessions are only things and it is much more important that they are together and they have been through worse, much worse. Wordlessly, John agrees; they are both whole and physically unhurt. For now, it must be enough. His left hand seems to reach up of its own accord, pulling against the tabs of the amethyst dress shirt Sherlock wrestled from his closet while the sound of the smoke alarm played its riotous melody like some belting background music in an overdone action flick. John's soot-stained fingers leave wet smudges along the edges of Sherlock's collar; not that it matters anyway with the pounding rain. His favorite shirt is probably going to be ruined after this. The un-tucked tails of it flutter in the wind like silk flags as the storm kicks up its energy around them.

They are an island in the eye of the storm.

John closes his eyes. For an instant, Sherlock admires the way the raindrops collect against the golden colored hairs of his eyelashes. Water runs down Sherlock's pale temples and he shifts on his feet when the object curled beneath long pale fingers in the hand not currently on John's hip makes a weak sound. John's eyes fly open as he sees a minute, bedraggled and utterly soaking wet orange furry lump lying against Sherlock's wide palm. His heart does a funny little flip and he reaches out to the slight animal, tucking it beneath his shirt and against his heart without thinking. Sherlock rests an arm over John's shoulders and they slowly walk away from the ruin, their heads bent in an effort to keep the rain out of their eyes. Neither man feels the need to speak as there really is nothing they can say to change any part of the situation. Though they both feel the loss strongly, just being in each other's presence is a balm to these new wounds. Their opposite polarities tend to pull them together, rather than push them apart; rather than destructive, this force is productive, creative, and touches everyone around them: those on the side of the angels as well as those who are not.

It is only a few moments, though in reality it feels like hours, before a car pulls beside them, the rain making white steam rise from the bonnet. John considers asking Sherlock to just ignore it but the slightest stirring of the tiny creature he is cradling against his heart makes him hold his tongue. When the car stops, Sherlock opens the door and stands back to allow John to climb across the rear-facing bench seat first. After John is settled, Sherlock folds his long body and wiggles in beside him; he leaves a matching damp trail as his soaked denim-clad legs squelch across the black leather seat, following in John's wake. John breathes in deeply, inhaling the musky scent of two soaked-to-the bone men in a small, enclosed space. The windows of the sedan are fogging up.

Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, sits across from them with a pair of fluffy white towels in his lap. It is quite an incongruous sight to see someone wearing a well-pressed light grey power suit to have such domestic items. He hands one to each of them without saying a word, holding them out at the same time; the stark whiteness of the fluffy material showcasing his smooth scarlet tie like the inside of a cordial cherry. Sherlock dries his face then runs the towel over his hair, which does not really help the uncontrolled raven and just-starting to-silver curls that have decided today is the day to become anarchists. They stand up like a dark halo about his head; one even dares to fall over his left eye. He pushes it away with one hand only for it to fall right back in place. Mycroft studies them as if they are fish in an aquarium whose primary purpose is for his own entertainment. Sherlock finally gives it up and turns to his brother when Mycroft makes a strange sound.

The strangled huffing noise of surprise that Mycroft attempts to cover up with a wimpy dry cough comes when John pulls the miserable looking kitten out from underneath his shirt. He wraps it up in the towel and meets Mycroft's dark blue eyes with his own crystal cerulean ones: an unspoken "I dare you to say anything" hanging in the air between them like the thick smoke that poured from the burning frame of Baker Street. Mycroft just stiffens his upper lip, gives former Captain John Watson, protector of all things needy a nod and pulls his mobile out of his pocket with slender fingers in order to send off a text message to a member of his vast league of assistants that his brother rather drily refers to as his "minions."

Please pick up items that would meet the appropriate needs of a

He pauses and lets his gaze wonder over the sad little lump of fur. John eyes him closely as Mycroft seems to make up his mind about something and returns to his text message, his fingers flying over the keyboard as to not even touch.

…kitten that is approximately three weeks old, improperly weaned. Send to my flat. MH

He presses the "send" button. When he looks up again from the screen, his brother is staring right through him. Mycroft allows his eyelids to fall just a little, shaking his head slightly as he looks towards the floorboards. Sherlock's nostrils flare and he turns his head a bit to the left, carefully observing his brother even through narrowed eyes. Mycroft knows he is suspicions of his actions so he holds out the phone for Sherlock to re-read the text message. Most surprisingly, Sherlock gives a little grunt of approval and hands the phone back, shifting his eyes towards his partner. Mycroft accepts the gratitude just as silently, his eyes moving from Sherlock to John and back. They both know that what makes John happy satisfies Sherlock on a deep level, and with good reason.

John clears his throat. "When you two are done with your mind reading and posturing like territorial wolves, would one of you tell me where we are going?" He is rubbing the kitten gently with the towel that by no means can any longer be called "white". The sounds of its purring are larger than its entire body, filling up the tight space with the sounds of life. John never takes his eyes from his ministrations to the tiny body as he speaks; he doesn't need to look at the Holmes brothers to know clearly what is happening around him. John gently flips the little orange fuzz ball onto its back and is carefully rubbing its round belly, mud, shed hairs and even dried blood come away from coppery fur that is starting to show through the mess.

A strong burst of pride in his partner rushes through him with a whiskey-like warmth at the sight of John's gentle but knowing handling of the animal. It's inexplicable, but then it always has been that way between them; perhaps it reminds him of when John treats Sherlock's injuries and sicknesses. To bring his attention back to the present, he wipes one hand on his thigh, leaving dark traces of ash against the indigo denim. He then runs the now-sopping towel on his lap down both arms and reaches out to return it to his brother without thinking. When the thing remains in his hand, Sherlock turns towards Mycroft, the dirty towel barely defying gravity between them. The corners of Mycroft's mouth inch downward as Sherlock's shift upwards. It's a power play and they are both fully aware of it. Mycroft's eyes open in mock horror that his little brother would dare hand him something so filthy as that, so in turn Sherlock just drops the towel in the floor of the immaculate sedan. Something that sounds like a giggle escapes his throat and John jumps, causing the kitten to mew loudly in protest as she flips over onto her belly in his hands.

That's all it takes before the two of them lock eyes and break down in laughter more benefitting a comedy club—or a particularly grisly crime scene to people who really know these two. Mycroft frowns but has his wits about him enough to know that he should just leave them well enough alone, after all they have just lost their home and all of their possessions, save for the clothing on their backs, and apparently, a kitten. John has pulled the tiny feline closer to his chest, protecting her from falling even as he laughs with his partner like a lunatic.

After a few moments, the two men manage to stifle themselves enough that Mycroft tells them they will be staying in his virtually-unused flat across the city. John can see that Sherlock doesn't really mind, after all the address is much closer to New Scotland Yard than Baker Street. It won't be home, and it is probably going to be some time before they will be able to reestablish themselves a base of operations. John sits back against the seat holding the kitten in his hands and closes his eyes; Sherlock scoots over closer to him and touches her tiny head with one finger. The kitten's eyes close and Mycroft can see its thin body vibrate with the force of its purrs. For a second he considers that Sherlock's expression is exactly the same and he wonders if his brother is mentally purring as well. Both human and feline bask in the warmth that is John Watson.

Mycroft tears himself out of his thoughts by whipping out his phone, really doing nothing but trying not to stare at his little brother and John. He doesn't want to be jealous of them, but sometimes that green-eyed monster appears when he least expects it. He recognizes the impulse as childish and unnecessary, after all, he chooses to be alone; Sherlock's choices remain uniquely his own. Mycroft must concede that Sherlock has done well; he only hopes one day to find anything that equals what he sees on their faces when they look at each other, even in a time such as this. The ride to the flat passes by without another word from any of them; the trio remain in stasis with their own thoughts as night catches up with their city.


Author's Note: I've invented my own time line here, folks, I'm sorry. I am assuming that there were three years prior to Riechenbach, with Sherlock being gone for a year; this story begins six years after he returns. It's been a seriously hectic week and I needed some down time with the Baker Street Boys. This story has not much point other than it makes me happy.

Also-please do not be afraid to leave reviews! I only bite on Thursdays when the moon is full after the Equinox! ;)