A special thanks and dedication to my John Watson, Aramanta C.
Triple Threat
Smoke like a snake's body wafted up through the darkened room. The lamp, sitting quaintly on the bedside table, was the only source of light. It gave off a gentle, orange glow. The room itself was small. But that was the case with most motel rooms. Certainly most motel rooms nestled along the seaside of Pakistan. As it turned out, the motels that took British traveler's checks and those that might have been considered habitable didn't overlap often. Not that it mattered much. It was a safe place, and that's all that counted. He watched the smoke rise from his cigarette, the burning cherry like a firefly in the night. He was going to get addicted again after this. John would have his head. Oh well, he'd manage. At the moment, there were other things to think about. Like how he'd successfully manage to stage a very convincing death in the middle of a terrorist hide away. He doubted if Mycroft himself would see passed the smoke and mirrors. But, the most important detail to note was the feel of a hand against his chest.
Turning, the man met the coarse green eyes of the woman, who lay nude beside him along the top sheet of their bed. Her hair was unpinned and spread down along the pillow beneath her head. Her makeup was washed away, all pretenses gone with it. There was a lingering, natural beauty that sat beneath that disguise. He had come to admire it. The face she showed no one else.
"We must never see each other again after this," he said. His deep voice was soft. Barely above a whisper, but meaningful. Sincere. "The world needs to go on thinking you're dead. For both our sakes."
The woman ran her fingers up and down the crease of his pectorals, eyes following the trail of her red fingernails. "Must we? I'm afraid my life will be rather dull without you chasing after me."
That caused his lips to flicker momentarily into a smile. "You? Dull? Hardly." That elicited a smile from the woman, eyes twinkling in the dim lighting. He wasn't sure if what he felt was love or not. In fact, he wouldn't know what to call it, if anything at all. Slowly, she rose above him, sitting along his stomach. The softness of her curves was picturesque amongst the darkened backdrop. If only he had a canvas.
"If that's the case then," she began, "let's make the most of it."
It took only a moment before the man she sat upon rose beneath her. Setting his cigarette aside, the two now sat face to face along the bed, legs intertwined and bodies connected with more symmetry than a jigsaw puzzle. A perfect fit. Their lips pressed together in the shadows, hands sliding up and down each other's skin. Each one was insistent on making due in what little time they had left.
There, miles away from home, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes embraced for what might very well be the very last time.
Greg Lestrade found himself outside 221B Baker Street as he had many times before, needing the aide of one Sherlock Holmes. It was misty outside, the nip in the air causing the inspector to turn up his coat collar. Stepping forward, he knocked on the door, Mrs. Hudson being the one to open it. He smiled in greeting, always a pleasure to see the woman. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Is Sherlock in?"
"They should be, the both of them," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I don't think they left yet today..."
"Alright. I'll go check." With a nod, the man headed up the stairs, poking his head around the corner. "Sherlock? John?" The living room was empty. A few papers were scattered about, two half finished cups of tea were on the table. A pillow or two were thrown to the rug. Sherlock's scarf was tossed haphazardly along the couch headrest. John's jumper was in a pile on the floor. It wasn't until he heard the faint banging that he realized they were there, they just weren't in the living area. Frowning, he headed upstairs towards the sound. Were they in trouble? Had someone broken in and gag tied them in the room, leaving them with the only option of hitting the wall or floor to try and alert Mrs. Hudson for help-?
"Oh god, John-!"
Apparently not. Lestrade heard the moans that followed and he closed his eyes, rolling them heavily. "Oh bloody Christ..." he muttered to himself. Well, best turn around and and pretend he didn't hear what he just heard. That, however, would be very difficult to do.
Inside Sherlock's room, the thumping was much louder. And with good reason. John Watson, stripped naked and legs spread, was currently on the dresser, being pulverized by the consulting detective in between his waist. Spindle hands gripped at his thighs, keeping them tightly to his narrow hip bones. Sherlock's hair bounced as he thrusted, the slapping of their skin intermingling with the rocking of the rickety furniture John was perched on. Sherlock panted against his neck, sweat dripping down his back. Mouth wide, his nails dug into John's left butt cheek. "John... ha... hahhhh..."
John bit his tongue from crying out, but to no avail. "Sher... oh god!" he gasped. His grip on the dresser tightened, trying to hold himself steady. That feat alone was hard to accomplish with the thrusting into him, each movement more desperate and stronger than the next. The fire he felt in the pit of his stomach only spread throughout him. He was getting close, then. The sheen of sweat made him slide further up the dresser as Sherlock kept at him furiously, his hot breath against his neck. One of his own hands wrapped deftly around his cock, pumping in time with his partner. The feeling of nails digging into his thighs were enough to set him off. "Sherlock-!" he barely realized how loud he had been as his mind flashed white. Spilling over his own hand, pleasure bloomed through him as he hopelessly slumped against the dresser. He had felt Sherlock follow closely after him.
Pressing their hips close together, Sherlock had groaned loudly into the crux of John's neck, feeling his body quake with his own release. After it began to cool, the detective's eyes rolled open, mouth wide and laboring for breath. Good God, when was the last time they had that kind of mind blowing sex? Probably not since New Years. Removing himself from his companion, Sherlock helped John off the table top and managed to clean himself up a bit. Only by glancing out the window did he realize that they had a visitor.
"Oh." He pushed the curtains back a bit, open trousers sitting on his narrow hips. "Lestrade's here."
John, who was right in the middle of putting his socks back on, froze. His face went red. "What...?"
"Probably has been for the past ten minutes."
"Oh no." Mortified, John hurried and got himself dressed, while Sherlock took his sweet time fixing himself up. Honestly, did the man have no shame? Lestrade had probably been sitting in their living room, listening to John moan to the moon and beyond. He could only hope that Mrs. Hudson had kept him busy. But, upon rushing downstairs (the best he could with a limp not related to his trick leg), he saw the Inspector Detective settled on the couch, arms along the top and one ankle balancing on his knee.
"Mornin'," he said casually. "You two doing some renovating?"
Still red with embarrassment, John flittered abut the living room, trying to tidy up the mess they'd made. All the while, Sherlock approached his armchair, cool as you please, before settling himself on the cushion and putting his hands together. "Very well, Lestrade. What was so important you had to interrupt?" John, keeping out of the conversation, quickly moved their tea set into the kitchen for a wash.
"You sure you two are done?"
Fingers pressed flat together, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "What, you can't tell? Alright, John, looks like the Inspector needs a demonstration." A great clatter of dishes was heard from the kitchen as the blogger nearly dropped them.
"Sherlock, do you mind?!" After all, Lestrade was one of the few people who actively knew of their relationship, but that didn't mean Sherlock had to be distasteful to him about it.
"Alright, alright!" Lestrade held up a hand to stop the joke before it went too far. "I don't know which Sherlock is worse. Before or after you were asexual." Shaking his head, the cop stood, hands on his hips. "Look, I've got a case you might be interested in. We only just got it ourselves but... well, it's a little puzzling."
"How so?"
"Seems we got an invisible robber. Not unlike that Blind Banker bloke that did all the graffiti."
Quite notably, Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to John. "'The Blind Banker'? Really? Because there was a strip of paint across the portrait's eyes? I think I should be naming your blogs from now on, thank you."
John, finally getting over himself, entered into the living room, drying his hands off along the way. "I'll let you name my blog entries the minute you take an active interest in them."
"Why would I? I know how talented I am, why do I need to read about it?"
"Oh yes, Sherlock, because it's all about you."
"Isn't it?"
"Anyway," Lestrade continued pointedly. "The British Museum was broken into early this morning. The only security guard there was knocked out and tied up while the robber got away."
"And you don't know how he got out?"
"Frankly, I don't know how he got in. One of the cameras malfunctioned around three in the morning. All the rest were operational. The one that wasn't only showed the room where the artifact was stolen. There are no entrances or exits in that particular room, and the feed outside showed no sign of entry otherwise."
"Tampering with the security tapes, perhaps?"
"There are over a hundred cameras in that building. I doubt he'd have the time to fix each one of them seamlessly and still get away before dawn."
"Hm." Sherlock tapped his fingertips to his lips before standing. "Sounds promising. John." He straightened his blazer before flashing a crooked smile. "Shall we?"
The party arrived at the British Museum not long after. The police had already blocked off most of the area, allowing the three of them to slip inside. They were lead to wear the security guard had been attacked and the artifact stolen. It was a small jeweled urn, taken from a glass case with ease. Sherlock walked about the display stand, taking out his compact magnifying glass before turning to the security guard. He was a tubby man, with bulky clothes and a double chin. Short hair, stubby fingers. Sweat along his rounded face. His aforementioned bulky clothes sat rather strangely on him, as though he were uncomfortable just standing up. A purple and yellow bruise sat on his temple. Sherlock narrowed his eyes before approaching.
"This must be the guard." The man nodded. "Tell me what happened here. John, take note." His companion removed his notebook and began to short-hand as the fat man spoke.
"Ah. Well." He fiddled with his hands. "I was watching the monitors like usual when I saw the one for this room black out. The wiring can be faulty sometimes so I went down to see if everything was working. Next thing I knew..." He made a motion towards his head, as to hit himself with an imaginary object. "Next thing I knew, I'm taped up to a chair and the pot's vanished. Never got a chance to look at him."
"Curious... Where did the man tie you up?"
The man pointed to a wheeled office chair, a wrinkled mass of duct tape on the floor beside it. Sherlock was silent, observing the scene before turning to his lover. "Look him over, will you?" With that, he once more took out his glass and moved about the chair and the rope banister that sat beside it.
Turning from the consulting detective, John rounded to the man in question. "May I?" Taking his personal torch, he held it up to the man's eyes, seeing them stretch and contort naturally against the light. "How are you feeling now?" he asked, putting it away. "Do you feel dizzy at all? Woozy, disoriented?"
The man shook his head. "Just a little sore. And tired." He turned to Lestrade. "When can I go home?"
"Soon, I promise."
The doctor took a few more notes before making his way to Sherlock. Currently, the detective was staring at the knob of the rope banister with great interest. "He's a little spooked, but he should be fine. Injury isn't too bad. No skin broken, just a little bop on the head."
"Oh?" Sherlock didn't bother looking up, wiping his gloved finger along the metal orb.
"So... Guard gets knocked out, thief steels an urn. All we have to do is figure out how he got in."
"No... I don't think we do."
John frowned in confusion. "We don't?"
"Nope." Sherlock stood, staring at a bit of debris sitting on the tip of his finger. He turned to his partner, that oh so common look of superiority starting to flash in his eye. "Tell me, John. How close do you think the thief would have to be to make that kind of wound? Granted, he's clearly not the strong sort or else he'd be in much worse shape. So... how close, would you suppose? And from where?"
"How close? Well..." John turned to look at the man, who was still fidgeting beside Lestrade. "I'd say with the swing, he would have been... oh... behind him, I think? Maybe less than a foot away? Obviously he had to be close."
"Obviously. In fact, I'd say he was close enough to practically be in the man's own skin."
John, blinking and in a daze, shook his head. "Sorry... what?"
Sherlock, turning back to the rope bannister, clicked his tongue. "As ever, John, you see but do not observe." He snapped the magnifying glass shut before rounding to his partner. "An attack like that is impossible. I dare say he was ever attacked at all."
Lestrade, hearing it all, knit his brows together. "Alright woah now. What are you saying-?"
"What was your name, sir?" Ignoring the Inspector Detective, he turned to the security guard.
"Erm... Dunlap, sir."
"Dunlap. Mr. Dunlap, would you mind unzipping your trousers?"
The man's chubby face turned bright, beet red, his eyes popping out of his skull. "Wh-wh-what-?!"
"Alright, that's enough, Sherlock." Lestrade tried to quit the man's harassment, but Sherlock turned only to the rope pole.
"This man was tied by duct tape by this pole here. This is where he was found, this was where he was left, presumably. If you look closely, you can see fibers on the knob of the pole. Not just any fibers, Inspector Detective, cardboard fibers. The same sort of cardboard that one might find in a roll of duct tape. Which, I can only assume - " Sherlock went to one of the evidence bags and held up the empty roll. " - the thief didn't dispose of because... why? Can't be bothered to find a bin? Furthermore, if you observe Mr. Dunlap's ridiculously over-sized cranium, you can see the bruising at a forty five degree angle. You were very close, John, but not quite right. The aggressor wouldn't be behind him, he'd have to be within the first couple of inches of him. A space that even some of the most skilled hitmen couldn't safely venture. Thirdly. The case." Quickly, he strode forward, pointing to the glass display case. "No scuff marks. No forced entry. Mr. Dunlap there has a ring of keys on his belt. Funny that the thief was polite enough to return the key to its proper place after stealing the urn."
"Hold on, how did you know he has the key?"
"Display cases are made with specific, miniature locks locked only by specific, miniature keys. It would behoove a museum of this size to have a skeleton key, wouldn't it? As it stands, Mr. Dunlap has a row of six. One is an apartment key, one is a car key. One is a card key to the museum, two are clearly for miscellaneous locks like bathrooms and cupboards. That last one is far too small to qualify for anything else than a display case. And lastly." Sherlock flipped to the security guard, smile brightening. "Mr. Dunlap here may be a large man, but his poor proportions work in my favor. Fat body, small hands, feet and limbs. There is absolutely no way that a man of this proportion can have a bulge in his pants that big. And so I ask again, Mr. Dunlap...
"Unzip your trousers."
There was a very stunned silence after Sherlock tore through the scene like a skilled animal of prey. With a white face and shaking hands, the guard slowly began to open the flap of his breeches. The moment the zipper hit the bottom, down came the ancient urn, hitting the floor with a clatter. Ashamed, he hung his head, tears in his eyes. Sherlock ignored the fat man's blubbering, and instead picked up the ancient artifact and smiled, watching the encrusted jewels glitter in the lime light.
Lestrade shifted awkwardly as the guard continued to stutter and sob. "Look, do me a favor and don't resist arrest, will you?" He didn't bother handcuffing Dunlap, seeing as he wouldn't be able to make it far either way. He left him with one of the men from the Yard before striding over to the detective.
"Thanks for coming by and figuring all this out." he gestured to the guard once more with a wave of his hand. "And er- sorry for interrupting." The Detective Inspector cleared his throat uncomfortably and left, taking Dunlap with him.
John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. They had their fair share of strange cases and criminals, but this man was more on the pathetic side than most. He almost felt bad for the guard, but the bit of empathy didn't last long. John approached the man, a twinkle in his smile. "They're going to want that back, you know." Gently taking the artifact from the detective's hands, he set it down on a nearby table. A curator could pick it up and put it away later. "So the guard did it to himself then."
"A very easy fix," Sherlock explained. Casually, he sat himself in the wheeled chair. "Put a roll of duct tape on a holster - " he gestured to the rope pole. " - take a little piece of it for yourself and then..." Kicking off from the floor, he spun in place, before pausing with a smirk. "Like a bug cocooning himself."
"Brilliant," John found himself saying. He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck as Sherlock stood to his feet. "Honestly, Sherlock. That was brilliant." He happened to glance behind him, seeing that most of the squad was already outside. "Though I'm afraid Lestrade is starting to become a little traumatized around us."
"Oh let him be traumatized," said Sherlock, waving it aside. "He gets what he deserves for dragging me all the way out here for a case that's clearly a four." Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and turned to his lover. "Well. I think we have the rest of the day to our selves. Shall we-?"
That's when he stopped. His eyes, momentarily leaving John's face, fell onto the shiny surface of a coat of armor. Something was in that reflection. Judging by the curve of the breast plate and the size of the reflection itself, someone who was a mere ten meters away. And someone who was watching him. Sherlock turned to try and find the source, but all he could see were columns. He narrowed his eyes, staring. That's when he saw it. The little bump in shadow behind one of the pillars. Barely 5'6" in height, slim and curvy, but a coat covered most of them, the flaps making shadows of their own. A woman then? What woman would be spying on him like this...?
What woman indeed.
Sherlock felt the breath leave his throat. There was a moment where all reality was turned off. All he could do was stare at that shadow. His mouth was dry, and his heart hammered. Was it really her? It couldn't have been. They left one another in Karachi and decided it would be best to never see each other again. But Sherlock's intuition had yet to fail him. It had to be her.
"Sherlock - I say Sherlock!" The detective blinked back into existence and turned to see Lestrade waiting for him. "The museum wants to open back up soon. We should get going."
"Oh. Yes, I..." He turned back to the pillar before rounding to John. "Why don't the two of you head out? I'll join you shortly."
"After what?"
He hesitated. "Just want to study a little history is all. I'll be out in a moment." He and John locked eyes before Sherlock turned and left, slowly making his way towards some of the other displays in the room. Lestrade sighed, hands on his waist.
"Come on then. You know how he is. I'll buy you a cup, eh?" Patting John's shoulder, the two made their way out of the room. "Honestly, I don't know how you stand him. I thought my wife was bad..." As they left the room, John chanced a look behind his shoulder. Sherlock was completely turned from them, staring at one of the displays with a keen fascination. Something was off. John was tempted to stay behind, try and see what it was, but one thing he learned about Sherlock Holmes – when he needed the space, John was wise to give it to him. So, worry in his mind, he left with the Inspector Detective, leaving the man in silence. Keeping his eyes fixated on a recovered Chinese tapestry, Sherlock finally spoke.
"It was a dangerous move coming back, Ms. Adler." He could almost feel her smile.
Stepping out from the shadows, Irene Adler leaned against the pillar, her thick coat coming up to frame her jaw. Sherlock turned, their eyes meeting. All those feelings, all that time from before, came flooding back to him. The longing, the loss, the betrayal and the redemption. She was the same as ever. Her blood red lips perked smoothly in a coy smile. Her brown hair was pinned in its usual way, swooping along the top of her brow. Approaching the detective, she let her hand touch his shoulder. A shiver ran through his spine, but he refused to let it show on his face.
"I have a habit of making dangerous moves," she replied softly, eyes aglow. "What? No kiss hello?"
"Well perhaps I should bring the officers of Scotland Yard in for a big welcome home party."
"An orgy then? My my, Mr. Holmes, you know what a girl likes."
Turning fully too her, he kept his body as taut as possible, face hard as stone. "What are you doing back?"
"Got home sick." Her hand laid against his chest, making his brow pop up curiously.
"What? Taking my pulse too?"
"How'd you guess?"
"I don't guess."
"Yes you do.
"For example," she continued. "You're trying to guess as to why I'm here. Not everything has to be elaborate, you know." She cut Sherlock off from whatever he was about to say but running a manicured nail under the collar of his coat. "Work got too slow for my liking. I barely even had to try to get what I wanted, and that's no fun. No one was brainy or sexy enough for me, so I came to visit someone who was both." Smiling slyly, the woman tucked one of the detective's errant curls back in place.
Irene did her best to keep her face passive, betraying no emotion, but a flicker of sadness crossed her eyes. Then it was gone. Pulling back, she walked a slow circle around him, surveying. "You look different from when we last saw each other. I'm not quite sure if I find that a good thing or bad one." Stopping in front of him again, she shrugged off her coat and revealed a laced, black, slit leg dress. On anyone else it would have looked awkward or at least unassuming, but it accentuated her perfectly. A square collar sat along her front, having no need to show cleavage; the mere presence of the woman made the air corrode with sexuality. And, perhaps buried somewhere in that corrosion, a bit of sincerity. She folded the coat over her arm and leaned against the pillar behind, her eyes never leaving the detective's face. "I'd ask you to dinner, but I don't think your little play thing would love it when you didn't come home for the night.
"I am curious about that, though. Tell me, Mr. Holmes, is this sentiment or did you miss the fun we had in Karachi enough to strive to find a replacement?"
Sherlock didn't answer for a moment or two more. He had stayed entirely quiet during her entire speech. His eyes, however, did dart up and down her body at alarming pace whenever he had the chance and she wasn't looking. But, just as their first meeting together, Sherlock found himself completely hitting a brick wall. Damn. He could detect no history on her person. Nothing about her told him where she'd been, how she'd been or for how long. He couldn't even gander when the last time she washed her hair was. He hated this effect she had on him. This crippling uncertainty that by all means left him feeling... normal. It was despicable.
"You're a clever woman," he finally said. "I'll leave you to make your own deductions. Whatever it was we had in Karachi was meant to be left there." Whatever it was. Now that was a laugh. There was no speculation on what "it" was. In fact, those memories returned to him without hesitation. The feel of her skin. The sounds they made together, their bodies falling into a routine of sweat and movement, hidden away in a crumbling foreign motel room.
Irene clicked her tongue, arms folded beneath her coat. "Oh dear... You're betraying your own rules. Such a shame. What was it you said to me that night?" Approaching him, she let her perfectly polished fingernails toy with the fold of his scarf. "Love is a chemical defect found in the losing side..."
"What is it you expect me to lose, Ms. Adler?"
That had her smiling. "Come to dinner with me."
"No."
"Such conviction. You really must adore that little puppy of yours."
"It's none of your concern."
"Isn't it?" Irene moved in close, Sherlock refusing to pull away out of pure pride. "Tell me... did you do that little trick I taught you?"
Finally, Sherlock turned away. His pulse was starting to quicken. This was getting too much to bear. "If you'll excuse me... I have someone waiting for me outside."
"Ah. Pity he doesn't like to share."
The two stared one another down for a moment after. Sherlock knew he was being obvious, and he hated that fact. Little could be done to help it, though. She had that kind of sick power over him. Always had. Finally, Irene moved forward, laying her fingers along the back of Sherlock's neck. "Well, if you ever do want to come and play, I'm sure you'll know how to find me." Lifting her head up, she placed a slow, long kiss on the corner of his mouth. It took everything Sherlock had not to crumble right then and there. Finally jerking his head away, he strode quickly from her side towards the room exit. Her eyes burned holes into his neck the entire way there.
"What do you mean there was nothing you could do about it? She's your wife-" John stopped mid-sentence as he saw Sherlock walk out the museum. He shared a quick glance with Lestrade, silently asking if he knew what was going on. The detective was visibly distraught, but neither could guess why. The Detective Inspector only shrugged in response. He had said something about studying history, so what could have happened that effected him so quickly and so harshly?
As Sherlock came closer, Greg took a quick sip from his drink and raised a weary eyebrow in his direction. "Oi, what happened? Are you alright?" he asked.
Sherlock ignored them both. With a quick stride, he flew down the steps of the museum, coat billowing behind him. His eyes were focused on the ground, his jaw tense and his hair flying. He swooped right passed the pair and held a gloved hand up to the street. "Taxi!" he called out. He needed to leave. To get out, to get some air. Damn that woman. His skin was still prickling from where she'd touched him last. Lestrade turned to John with worry in his eye. He wasn't the only one.
"Uh, there's a murder on the west end if you're interested..." He watched as a cab passed Sherlock completely, the man hissing in frustration before trying to hail another one. Lestrade's brows knitted and he tried to approach the consulting detective. "Sherlock, what - ?" He reached out to touch Sherlock's shoulder. In a sudden move, the man turned and knocked the arm away violently enough that he nearly had Lestrade tumbling off his feet. A moment of tense silence followed such an action and Sherlock, his eyes wild and his face distraught, caught John's gaze.
John. Innocent, loving, sweet John. Oh God it made him sick. Irene was in his mind, and probably would be for some time. And there John was, the man who'd waited for him, who'd seen him at his best and at his worst times... He had no idea. No idea the terrible things that woman put in Sherlock's head. That the thought of betraying him for a single night if only for the hollow pleasure of being with a manipulator and a black mailer. One who should have been dead at that. Sherlock never told John that Irene was alive. Never told anyone. Irene had been his secret. His secret, one that no one would ever find out about. No one would ever know about that night in Karachi. About what transpired between those motel sheets. About what Sherlock kept locked tightly away in his heart for not even his closest friend to see. But that was crumbling away, like sand beneath a tap. Irene was back. The temptation was there, and fully realized.
He'd never felt so ashamed of himself.
Turning, he once more raised a hand and got a cab to finally pull over. Opening the door, he got inside and slammed it shut. "221B Baker's Street. I'm in a hurry."
"Sherlock, wait – Sherlock!" John tried to follow, but to no avail. Before he could even touch the door handle, Sherlock Holmes was carted away, down the street and into the stream of London traffic. John stood there, baffled and fraught with worry, as he was left beside Lestrade.
"What the hell's gotten into him?"
"I don't know." he finally replied. John was being completely honest, he didn't know. A thousand thoughts and theories ran though his mind, but none fit. There hadn't been anything said or done between them that could've triggered a reaction like that, yet Sherlock had left without a pause. Something was off. Sherlock was rarely one to behave like that, no matter what his state was. Yes, he could be an annoying prick at times, but he was not a person who lashed out and refused to explain himself.
Instead of trying to question it further, Lestrade simply shook his head. "Alright then, let me at least give you a ride home."
He considered saying no, and taking a cab, but he knew riding with the man would be quicker as well as easier stress-wise. Nodding mutely, John walked over to the car and slid in on the passengers side as the engine turned over. They rode in a weary silence like that for most of the ride, until Lestrade coughed awkwardly and spoke up.
"Erm- I don't know if it was me, but was there lipstick smudged on his bottom lip? When he swung at me I think I was something like that..."
Lipstick? John turned to Lestrade, trying to think of why lipstick of all things could have suddenly appeared. Thinking about it made his head hurt however, and he let it go, sighing against his seat. "No. I don't know...maybe?" John stared out the window. "All I'm sure of is that something's wrong."
That was then end of their conversation, both left to their own thoughts. As they rounded the corner on Baker St. John wasn't sure if he was relieved or terrified to see the light on in their flat upstairs. "It might be better if you didn't come in. I have no idea what he's like now." Looking up, he managed a grateful half-smile. "I owe you a pint, though. Honest. Once whatever all this is blows over." Lestrade nodded, and John pushed himself out of the car and waited for it to drive off before heading inside.
Mounting the steps two at a time, John walked into the flat carefully. "Sherlock?" he called out, trying to keep his voice steady. It obviously failed and it only came out as a worried whisper. Clearing his throat, the army doctor tried again. "Sherlock, you here?"
Sherlock was there. But he made no noise to indicate it. He stood at the window, quiet as could be. Staring into the distance. Watching. Waiting. A drink sat in his fingers. Almost empty. Alcohol had never been his first poison of choice, nicotine usually taking its place. This day, however, it was appropriate. When John approached, Sherlock did little to recognize it. A mere tilt of his head, a shift in his eyes, not fully, before turning back to the window. The clouds had started to gather thicker above him in the sky, small droplets of rain trailing their way down the glass. The heat of his breath made soft steam appear before his lips, face gentle with the ambient lighting of the starting rain.
"Don't ask, John," he finally said. He refused to turn to look at him. "Don't ask if I'm all right. I hate that damned question." Lifting his crystal, he took a drink of the amber liquid, the ice clinking against the glass brim. He set it aside for a moment, fingers dangling off the edge before falling completely off. His hand laid limp against his thigh, his other nestled deep in his pocket.
Where was she now? Hiding, perhaps. Where? Was she watching? Waiting for Sherlock to break? God help him, part of him wanted to. But he couldn't. He wouldn't let himself fall to that temptation. Reaching down, he picked his violin from his case, watching the strings as if they themselves could give him an answer. Slowly, he nestled it beneath his chin. Holding the bow as if it was an extension of himself, he began to play. It was nothing at first, but slowly, his fingers began to betray him.
Irene's song. He hadn't played it in ages. But the melody cooled him. Soothed him. And brought him more confusion than before.
John stared, listening to the sad tune. He recognized it at once, of course. How could he forget it? Sherlock played that bloody song of his nonstop back then. Back when he had been more depressed than John had ever seen in his life. But why? Things were just fine a minute ago. Sherlock had been his usual self. Solving a case with the enjoyment and excitement of a boy opening Christmas presents. And that morning... well, that morning's entertainment couldn't be the reason. John was still sore, and happy to be so. So what? What could have possibly happened in those five seconds that changed all that? Why so suddenly, and why had it hit him so hard, whatever it was? John tried to think of some catalyst for it all, but the only person who could guess what was wrong with Sherlock was... well, probably Sherlock himself.
Quietly, John took the alcohol out of his reach. Getting drunk would only exacerbate the situation. Setting the crystal aside, John laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "What is it?" he asked tenderly. "Look, I want to help but I can't do that unless you tell me."
Sherlock's bow paused, lowering a little from its strings. His eyes refused to leave the rain spattered window, his blinks slow and meaningful. "There isn't much you can do."
"Isn't there?" John pleaded. "Sherlock, I'm your... well... I'm your partner. And I'm here to help you whether you like it or not so..." Gradually, their eyes met. Deep within those clearwater greens, John could detect something. Something that caught him off guard. "Oh God..." Realization hit his face and his shoulders slumped. "How? And why now? What...?" He couldn't go on. Instead, he hung his head, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "Jesus, Sherlock... Look, before you say anything, I should have told you." Lifting his face, he took his hand with both of his own, the violin bow hanging limply from his fingers. "I'm so sorry. I just – I thought I was protecting you. I should have told you Irene was dead."
That, most surprisingly, got a chuckle from the man. It was more of a breath than a laugh, and was laced with a sort of self loathing John had never heard from him before. Turning from him, Sherlock once more stared out the window. "Save yourself the guilt, John." A pregnant pause hung in the air between them. Finally, after teetering on the truth for a while longer, Sherlock spoke. "She's not dead."
John blinked, their hands still interlocked. "She's not?"
"No." Once more, he shifted his head to John. "I insured it." His words were quiet, calculating and without mercy. John felt the truth hit him like a guttural punch. He didn't need to ask before Sherlock began to explain. Doing so while watching the rain was easier than seeing the hurt in John's eyes.
"After that night, I kept a close watch on her. She told me she wouldn't last six months. She was right, of course. When I found out she'd been taken, I managed to follow her. It was that week I told you I was going to a conference in Switzerland. She was taken to Pakistan, and I was a mere two steps behind. Infiltrating a terrorist cell isn't nearly as difficult as you might think. I managed to get my hands on the very sword that was meant to kill her. Undoubtedly, it was a mistake on the terrorists' part.
"I took her to the outskirts of Karachi. We found a safe place for the night." Hesitation was in his voice, but he continued. "I have never been more... consumed. I lost myself that night. Lost all semblance of good judgement and deduction just to... be." He took a long breath through his nose.
"And now she's back." He finally forced him to yet again turn and face John. "We were never supposed to see one another again. But I don't think she's the type to respect the rules."
John had been so stunned by the story he hadn't even noticed that their hands fell from one another. Now limp and blindsided, John recalled what Mycroft told him the day he heard the news.
"It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me."
It looked like that wasn't just an expression. John felt his mouth go dry, not sure how to deal with this new piece of information. Sherlock knew that Irene had been alive this whole time. More than that, he kept it a secret. Keeping it hushed up from Mycroft John understood, of course. But from him? Weren't they supposed to trust one another on everything? That hurt him the most. Swallowing it down a bit, John righted himself. The last thing he wanted to do was break down because of this. "I see then. Is there anything else you want to tell me?"
"Like?"
"Oh I don't know. Maybe you've got Moriarty hiding away in your closet somewhere? Maybe I didn't really shoot that cabbie and you and he go out for a round or two every weekend?"
"You're overreacting."
John's nostrils flared as he tried calming himself. He hated it when Sherlock was so calm like that. It was as if he was a statue, cut from granite. No emotion, nothing to trip him up. John so envied how he could switch his feelings on and off like that. The bastard. "Fine, well." He shifted on his feet, licking his lips out of habit. "That's all done with then?" Sherlock caught his eyes once more. "I mean... it was years ago. She may be here, but there's no reason for you to go back to her. Right?" He felt his throat tighten as Sherlock gave no response. "Because you have me. That's right... isn't it?" Still, the man said nothing, answering by staring at the one before him. John could feel panic rise within him. "Sherlock," he hissed. His voice was starting to crack. "For God's sake-!" But the detective was as silent as ever.
Without a word, Sherlock brought his violin back to his shoulder, and continued to play.
It was like a slap to the face. Stomach curdling in on itself, John stood there for only a moment longer before storming his way out the door and down the steps. The sound of Sherlock's violin haunted him as he descended the staircase to the front door. While he walked, he yanked his mobile from his pocket.
I still owe you a pint.
Meet the Red Lion soon?
JW
Sending it to Lestrade, John burst through the front door and went wherever his feet took him. Sherlock watched as that head of blonde hair bobbed its way down the street and out of sight. The smooth strings of his bow slowly weeded away from the bridge of his instrument, before slowly falling from it all together.
Perfect bloody timing.
GL
The Red Lion was marginally empty, as it was still the middle of the afternoon. Lestrade, who decided to finish work early that day, sat himself in a corner. He'd already ordered himself a pint. Spying John walk in, he raised his hand in greeting. His smile was weary, and his eyes had heavy bags beneath it. Heavier than usual anyway. His wedding ring was off, which meant only one thing; marriage troubles. Since the "death" of Sherlock, Lestrade acted as a confidant for John, letting the man use him for council and advice. When Sherlock returned and the two became more than just flatmates, Lestrade's company came in even greater demand. Eventually, the Inspector would use John for the same, and the two in turn became close friends.
"Cheers," he said lowly, chin on his fist. Looking up to the barman, he ordered John a beer. "I'll get this one. You can order the next round, eh?" A pint was set before the army doctor and Greg half-heartedly clinked their glasses together before taking a swig. He sighed at himself, finger tapping on the glass. "So old Sherly was right. As usual. Found out my wife was sleeping around again." He blew through his lips. At least he wasn't the type to break down in tears. At least, not at this level of sobriety. "She came in today to serve me with papers. Right in the middle of the damn office." Mug in hand, he took a deep drink before setting it aside and wiping his lips.
"Honestly, I envy you sometimes, John." He turned his lucid eyes to the man beside him. "At least whenever Sherlock does something awful he'll come right out and say it to your face. Not after ten years."
John, the cruel irony of it all still settling in, took a decently sized drink of his own. "You'd be surprised," he said venomously.
"Oh?" Greg lifted a thick brow. "What was wrong with him then? You two fall out?"
"A bit," John clarified. How much should he really say? Lestrade might have been a confidant, but he was still a man of the law. No need to complicate things further. "Sherlock bumped into someone at the museum."
"Did he now? I feel sorry for them."
John took a calming breath, trying to settle himself. It proved quite a challenge, even after the time spent getting there. "Turned out to be an old girlfriend of his."
Greg's face contorted into one of bewilderment. "Girlfriend? I thought you were the first one to ever put up with him."
"I guess 'girlfriend' simplifies it a bit. But she was the closest thing he ever had."
"Really...?" Lestrade wracked his brains, fingers tapping on the bar's top finish. "Would I know her?"
John shrugged. "Probably not." Even though he had all the reason in the world to just come out with the truth, John kept himself from telling it. "She decided to spy on him while he worked today. That's why he was so frazzled earlier."
"Spying? Well that explains why she was his girlfriend. Sounds like a perfect match." Lestrade paused then, watching John's sad eyes stare at the foam of his mug. He quickly backtracked. "Not that you're not – er... Ah, John, don't take it that way. That's not what I – "
"No, you're right." Letting his fingers trail up the glass, John's eyes were far gone and helpless. "She was perfect for him. Absolutely perfect. Bloody brilliant, she was, just like him. She... she challenged him. That's something I don't think I can ever do." He took a decent swig, his beer almost half way gone by now. Setting the mug aside, he watched the foam drip down the inside of the glass, licking up the left overs on his lips. "I'm not a genius or anything. Smart enough to keep up, but not enough to stay ahead. S'always been that way. I figured it was just right for it to stay like that but..." Pausing, John realized he'd gone on a tangent. "Oh, erm. Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble. Your wife. I... I'm sorry."
Lestrade smiled tiredly, elbows on the bar. "Nah. Should have seen this coming, honestly." Turning to his beer, he let his fingertip linger on the top edge. "I guess I didn't really expect her to change. People... well they don't change much, do they? Stick in their ways and then they keep at it till the day they die." A heavy pause fell between them after that as they both kept their eyes averted. How true. Just as Greg's wife would never change her ways, neither would Sherlock. Hard as it was, John would just have to accept that. Suddenly, he heard a laugh from his drinking buddy.
"Hell... maybe I should be the next to switch sides, eh?"
John couldn't help it. He smiled, almost grimly, at the thought. "It's not any easier on this end, trust me." In spite of the grey clouds that hung over their heads, the two managed to have a good laugh at that. Sitting up, Greg patted John's shoulder, smiling kindly.
"Come on, mate. Finish up and buy us a new round."
They drank for some time after that. John stuck to beer, but eventually Lestrade fell into ordering a few shots to go along with his tap diet. John tried advising against it, but had little luck. Eventually, the man was slumping over against the bar, going on and on about some girl he should have been with instead from uni and what have you. John couldn't follow all too well after a certain point. By the time their tab was paid, it was nearly nine at night; quite a feat considering they'd started at about four in the afternoon. It didn't help the soreness in John's back end that he'd sat for five hours. Scooping Lestrade's arm around his shoulders, he helped him head outside and hail a taxi. The rain had stopped for now, the world layered in a fine sheen of water.
Lestrade, his head bobbing a bit, smiled up at John as the army doctor tried to grab a cabbie's attention. "You are a true friend, you know that?" he slurred.
"Ah, thanks Greg. You're fine yourself – taxi!" He held a hand upwards, but they were passed up yet again.
"Nah, nah, I mean that." He pushed his finger against John's chest, feet tipping either way beneath him. "Y'know... if I didn't mind takin' a banana up me pipes, it mighta well've been us sharin' a flat, eh? Ha ha ha!" He laughed shrilly to himself, face pressing up against John's neck. John could only hope he'd forget about this all in the morning. Finally, a cab pulled up beside them. John managed to somehow pile the drunk police officer into the cab's back seat and told the driver his address. John watched as Lestrade righted himself in his seat before leaning up against his open window. "Hey." He held up a finger. "Ye're too good for him sometimes. You remember that, mate."
John smiled a little weakly. "I'll try to. You get some sleep then." Pulling back, he slapped the roof of the cab and sent the man on his way. A bit of a smile snuck its way to his lips. Poor sod. At least his wife wasn't sleeping there anymore. That would give him a little room to sober up without distraction the next morning.
As for the doctor himself, Lestrade's drunken rantings had let him drift off into his own mind, and think of his own problems. Thinking back to it now, he guessed he had reacted a bit badly. After all, Sherlock had a good reason to hide the truth from the world. Irene was a very wanted woman. Anyone but him knowing of her faked death could mean trouble, and lots of it. Furthermore, Sherlock had never been one for sharing if it didn't include showing off. And with it happening so long ago and Sherlock's intention of never seeing her again... John figured he had a bit of an apology to make when he got back to 221B.
Yet he couldn't be completely blamed for his little fit. Walking himself down the street, there was still a cloud of doubt that hung over his head. He was not one to doubt Sherlock's loyalty, but there was reason to be concerned. In spite of never actually admitting it, Sherlock had been deeply in love with the woman. So much so that he'd traveled to a third world country in disguise, risking his life to save her. And with how he reacted when she stepped back into his life, there was room for reasonable suspicion, however small it was. Still, he supposed he shouldn't think of it that way. Sherlock had indeed never claimed to love him – never claimed to love anyone, really – and he would do what he would. There was no doubt that if his mind was set one way or another, John could do little to change it. The thought clogged his chest and he pulled his jacket tighter over his shoulders, a sigh escaping his lips.
Bleep bleep.
Blinking, John pulled up his phone. An unrecognized number. Frowning, he opened the text. After only a glance, he felt that clogged chest tighten even more.
Don't look so down,
doctor. Doesn't suit you.
IA
Damn it all. Where was she? Swiftly, John turned this way and that, trying to find the blasted woman. Frustrated and fueled by jealousy, John craned his neck to stare into the shadows. "Where are you?!" he demanded. "Come on out! I'm through playing games with you, Adler!"
The soft clicking of a pair of heels echoed against a near by alley way. There, at the mouth of it, Irene stepped into the light, calmly as ever. A gloved hand held her open phone, a quaint smile on her lips. "Good evening, Dr. Watson," she said politely. "Shall we go somewhere more private or would you prefer to confront me here?"
John felt his nostrils flailing at the sight of her. She was just as she had been all those years ago. Sharp as a blade, perfectly put together in every way. Even he had admired her beauty in one way or another. Back before things had grown so complicated. Without a word, he marched off into the alley way she had appeared from. The sound of her hallow footsteps followed him in. they walked until coming to a small open back patio for one of the local shops. It was far too late to stay open, and so the benches were deserted. The lanterns above them, however, remained on. Alone from the rest of the world, Irene sat herself on the edge of one of the tables, hands folded in her lap.
"So? How has it worked out for you?" she began.
"How has what worked?" John snapped.
"Trying to talk it out with that policeman friend of yours. I heard a drunk man is the best person for advice."
John felt his brows tighten above his nose. "How did you - ?"
"I had my little dove deliver the divorce papers herself. I can always tell what men are drinkers."
A sneer formed on the army doctor's face. Granted, he was much more sober than Lestrade had been, but he still had quite a bit of alcohol floating around in his bloodstream. Enough to make him lash out when otherwise he might have played his hand closer to his chest. "You get off on that, do you?" he demanded. "Playing with other men's hearts? Is that what you do to keep yourself entertained? Tying them up, giving them a good spanking, that's just not enough these days, is it?"
"Oh come now," Irene said smoothly, "you're being unfair. I'm not like Moriarty. I don't play with them for nothing. I have actual purpose."
"Right. And that purpose is to ruin Sherlock's entire life."
"You misunderstand me." Bringing herself to her feet, Irene approached the man, her fingers laying against his jaw. "I never wanted to ruin him. I wanted to liberate him."
John pushed her hand away. "I know what you want."
"The same thing you do, apparently."
The wind whistled between them, the cold air making streams of steam form between their faces. Turning finally, Irene took a few steps to the side, fondly running through the text messages on her phone. "Does it bother you that much, I wonder?" Her head turned to him, the glow of her mobile screen highlighting the edge of her face. "The fact that I was his first? Or that I intend to be his last?"
"He'd never let you," John insisted blindly. "He might have helped you out a few times, but he'd never let you keep him for that long."
"Oh... but he'd let you?" Turning back to him, that ruby red smirk grew bigger. "Tell me, John. Did you imagine the two of you growing old together? Solving crimes until you were withered and grey before settling down somewhere in the country side? Two old bitties sipping tea and admiring the birds. A perfect ending to a perfect love story. Tsk, tsk..." Her finger went to the bridge of her lips, eyes sharper than a snake's. "You know he's not like that. He'll live and die on these streets. Chasing criminals, solving puzzles."
"I've never tried to change him."
"Oh but you have. In fact, I say you've changed him quite a bit. He told you the only reason he caught me, didn't he? I was careless. Blinded by admiration of him, high off the chance of beating him at his own game. Thought that I could play along side him and never get hurt. That I was untouchable and... even if I weren't... that he wouldn't have it in him to hurt me." That smile slowly fell from her lips, the world around them growing colder. "But he did. He always had. That thrill of the chase, of victory... That will always take precedence over anything in his life. If he cannot be the great and clever Sherlock Holmes, his life is nothing."
John was starting to feel his throat tighten. "So?" he said shortly. "How is it I've changed him? Hm? He's still him. He's still as obsessed as ever. Still as big of a git as he's ever been."
"You've made him weaker."
That, among anything, was a punch to the gut. Weaker? Sherlock Holmes? For only a moment, John wanted to laugh in her face, until he realized the horrible truth behind those words. He felt it on that dreary gray day all that time ago. If it hadn't been for him, Sherlock would have never had to taken that jump. He could remember the sadness in his voice on that phone call. The way his deep voice helplessly trembled at each words. Keep your eyes on me, he begged. If John had had the strength or the speed, he would have dropped his phone right then and ran beneath the ledge, arms open and ready to catch him. But he didn't catch him. Sherlock had fallen. He had died because of him. John shut his eyes tight, trying to keep himself from crying.
"He's not a weak man," he said quietly. "He's back. He's happy with me. He's... we're..." His words petered off, shoulders shaking. Irene, with the facade of care in her face, approached him. Those thin hands cupped either cheek.
"Oh... dear, sweet boy." John managed to open his eyes a bit. They were nearly an inch away from each other. "It's not your fault. No one blames you." Her thumb ran beneath one of his eye, brushing a dot of wetness away from it. "Anyone would have it."
"H...have what?" John choked out.
"Why... doubt, of course. It's there, isn't it? So hard to kill the thought once it makes itself known." She slowly pulled back, fingers slipping from his face and falling between them. "It's that nagging little feeling in the back of your mind. No matter how happy you think you are, there is always that fear that you are not enough. So if you love him, Dr. Watson, you'll give him to me."
John felt himself teeter back, unable to be close to her any longer. Her words burned him, both inside and out, as he could find no way to undermine their meaning. The alcohol must have been really taking its toll, because John could feel the world spinning around him. Nausea was welling in his stomach, yet he willed himself not to give in. Shaking his head, he blinked rapidly, those tears clinging to his short lashes. "No. No. You." He held a shaking finger up at Irene, knees knocking beneath him. "You damned... No! You stay away from him! He...!" He felt his body weigh heavily to one side and ended up crashing against the brick building beside him. He wanted nothing more than to collapse and die right then and there. "Don't take him away... please don't take him... Not again..."
"Stop being dramatic, John. It's unattractive."
Both pairs of eyes turned to the tall figure hiding within the shadows. Just as before, the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes had followed them, listening in on every bit of conversation. While John remained plastered to the wall, Irene perked and approached with no hesitation. Sherlock took one quick look at his lover before turning onto Irene. "What did you give him?"
"Relax, Mr. Holmes. It's a mild sedative. I was surprised it took this long to take affect."
"What for?"
"I planned on having a decent conversation with the good doctor. I know how he can get when it comes to you. It was preemptive protection on my part."
Preemptive protection? Was that why he was starting to feel woozy? He had, of course, handled liquor before. Many times before. A few pints of beer wasn't supposed to knock him around like this. Damn that woman; she must have gotten the bartender to spike his drinks. Grumbling to himself, John felt his body sliding down along the brickwork towards the street below. His entire body felt heavy. Sherlock, watching his friend deteriorate, turned back to Irene with a sneer.
"A mild sedative?"
"Yes." Irene touched her cheek with the tip of her finger. "Very mild. Just given to him repeatedly all night."
Sherlock stepped forward, but by now his voice was beginning to sound far away. Like an echo. "You have gone far in the past, but I will not let this stand."
"Awe. Have I been bad, Mr. Holmes?" She held up her hands, playfully so. "Well then? Take me into custody. I'm sure your brother will be absolutely thrilled." Sherlock did nothing, face as stoic as ever. "No? What a shame. I so fondly imagine you trying to cuff me."
"The game is over, Ms. Adler."
"Oh I don't think so. After all, I'm still playing. And so are you." Her eyes turned to John, who was growing more and more dizzy by the second. "The poor lamb. You really have done a number on him, haven't you? I suspect he'd wait for you till the end of time." Slowly, she walked forward, her hands laying flush against his breast. Sherlock did not shy away, his lips parting as those eyes enticed his own. "But you don't need someone to wait for you. You need someone to run at your side. Keep you running. Until your last muscle gives, and the two of you tumble into death itself. You don't need a domestic, Sherlock. You need a challenge. And you know just who among us is that challenge, don't you? So? Who will it be?
"Make a choice."
That was the last cohesive thing he heard. John felt his head dip down and up, watching the two figures fade back and forth into focus. Their voices had been like a bad radio reception, and soon, John caught only every other word. And what he did catch he didn't understand. Soon, the world around him grew darker than before. All he could see were the pale outlines of the two of them together. Speaking lowly into the night. He tried reaching out, tried to balance himself. It was to no avail. Before too long, he fell completely, the world around him folding his body into a cold blanket of night.
John awoke with a start. His mouth had the feel of cotton, and he had never been dizzier. Slowly, his head lifted and he looked around. He was in his room. The door was ajar. Through it, the sound of violin music. It was not, thank the heavens, Irene's song. It was classical. Bach, if he was correct. Groggy and dazed, John slipped to his feet. He had been changed into something more comfortable. His pajama pants and a jumper. Outside, the morning sun flew through the windows, grating on his eyes. With heavy feet, he trudged his way out the bedroom and towards the sound of music. There Sherlock was, as always, playing beside the couch. His back was turned away as his bow see-sawed up and down the strings. Had he been dreaming? Had Irene Adler really arisen from the dead to try and take Sherlock for herself? It felt real enough. The pain was still there. And still the question remained...
"Yes, John." Ending his final note, Sherlock turned to see his estranged partner standing blankly on the other side of the living room. "She was real. All of it was. She left shortly after I called a cab for us last night."
John's wrinkled face frowned. "How did you...? Oh, never mind." Rubbing his forehead, he managed to settle himself in the couch, trying to nurse his terrible headache. Without a word, Sherlock passed him a full glass of water and a pair of aspirin. Blinking at the offer, he nodded in thanks before taking them. "So it was all real then." Not a question. Slowly, he tapped the edge of the glass with his finger. "The last thing I remember... she asked you to make a choice."
Sherlock was quiet, having set his violin to the side. "She did."
Slowly, John's warm brown eyes lifted from his water. "Did you?"
Hands in his pockets, Sherlock kept his own on John's face. His was unreadable as always. "Make a deduction," he instructed quietly.
A deduction, was it? John felt that frustration from the night before gurgle back up to the surface. "You want me to deduce... I can never deduce anything from you, Sherlock." The man stood to his feet, glass of water forgotten on the table. "Because there are just... times where everything I think I know about you is turned on its head. The fact that you were dead, for one thing. For another, the fact that I thought Irene was dead. There are so many instances where I just don't know and for god's sake it drives me mad!" He found his voice cracking as he struggled to control it. "I don't know how to deduce anything from you. Not a thing."
"So you won't even try."
John shook his head. "I won't... I can't. I just... I can't, Sherlock. But I will say this." Those words from the night before ran themselves around in his head. So, as much as it hurt him to do this, John knew that he was compelled to. Slowly, he breathed in through his nose, heart hammering in his head. "There are a lot of things about you I just don't know. Plenty that I do but I understand that I can't know everything. You've never claimed to love me. I realize that it's just how you are. I've never been angry at you for it. I also know you get bored. And I... well... I know I'm not the most exciting person in the world. I may entertain you for a bit but... soon enough it just won't cut it. I'd been hoping that the day won't come for a while. I'm not... I'm not Irene. I never will be." A great turmoil blew through his mine then. He begged himself not to say it. But he couldn't keep himself from the words.
"So... I won't try to keep you." His ribcage tightened exponentially with each passing syllable. "If you want to go to her, I won't stop you. It's completely up to you. I won't hold any animosity towards you if you leave just... just know that I won't be around to watch the two of you move in together." Unable to look at that unchanging face any longer, he turned his head to the side, arms folded tightly against his chest.
Sherlock didn't answer. Not in words. Silent as the grave, his feet stepped forward, and before John knew it, they were mere centimeters apart. Reaching up, Sherlock tilted John's chin, forcing him to lift his eyes as well. Leaning in, it took only a moment before their lips met. The kiss was true and tender, Sherlock's arms wrapping securely around John's waist. When they broke apart, Sherlock's swan like neck angled itself forward, his lips gently brushing against John's ear.
"As ever... you see but do not observe." With one hand cradling his head, Sherlock pulled his own up, their eyes never breaking a connection. "When you left, I was forced to be alone with my thoughts. When I lost Irene, I was devastated. I could think of little else during that time. You know that. Having her come back from the dead – twice now – well. There's very little that can catch me so off guard.
"But when it comes to you." Sherlock pressed his hand flat against John's jaw, those eyes melting with the truth. "John, I cannot even fathom the thought of losing you. That day, as I stood on the roof of Saint Bart's, I could imagine a bullet hitting you. Ending your life in an instant. I would do absolutely everything in my power to stop that from happening. So yes, she asked me to chose that night. I had been battling with myself all day, but right then, the choice for me was never clearer. When it comes to Irene, I would find a way to divert the gun.
"When it comes to you? I would take the bullet myself."
The power in those words were overwhelming. Had Sherlock not held him, he probably would have fallen over. For yes, as John had pointed out, Sherlock had never claimed to love him. And standing there, face to face in the parlor, it was very clear why. He never needed to. Dissolving against the man, John pushed his face into the crux of Sherlock's neck. There he felt safe enough to let go. Sherlock was his, he was Sherlock's. Maybe it wouldn't last, as Irene predicted. Maybe the great detective would grow tiresome of whatever it was the two had together. But they had it. It was real. As real as Sherlock's arms tight around his body. John resigned never to let go.
They made love that morning. There among the pillows, with nothing to disturb them, John was laid along the cushions, Sherlock on top of him. Their kisses were long and withstanding their passions. Like magnets Sherlock's hands did little to detach from the doctor's body. Pressing against him, they nearly looked like a single creature, muscles tightening and slacking with every slight movement. It was noon time before they fell apart, and for hours after that, there they lay, with John curled atop Sherlock's pectorals. A blanket was tossed over their lower halves, Sherlock gently petting the back of John's hair as he rested. After a time, he was quick to realize the man was asleep. With a little smile, he placed a kiss against John's crown. His mind went back to the night before.
Sherlock had plucked John from the cold ground, cradling him easily to his chest. Without a word, he had made his choice. Irene watched, almost in shock, as he did so. Disappointment read in her eyes.
"This is it then?" she asked quietly. "Why? What could he possibly offer you I couldn't?"
Sherlock stared at the unconscious man in his arms. "Nothing, really."
"Then what is it? Why don't you...?" She couldn't finish her sentence. Looking at the woman before him, he saw true heartbreak there. He knew it well. He had felt the same that Christmas. Stepping forward, Sherlock laid their lips together sweetly. When they broke apart, he saw a hint of desperation fall from her face.
"We could have had the world," she had said. "We could have gotten anything we wanted. No one could have stopped us."
That elicited a small smile from the man. "Someone did." Turning away, he held John tighter to his body, keeping him safe as he left the alley and vanished into the night.
End