Author's note: Sorry for the wait, this chapter have me a bit of trouble :)


Chapter 2: There's a room where the light won't find you


Gravel crackles beneath thick, black tires, whispering nonsensical secrets into the night that smells like impending snow. Milling like a shiny beetle, Mycroft's car pulls up in front of the sand-coloured walls of his Victorian-style home. Warm glow falls from the windows, as if gently stroking the path in front, along with the now-non-functioning fountain. Frost slithers up the glass, like intricate embroidery that attempts to meliorate the shortness of days in wintertime.

John, Sherlock and Mycroft exit the car, their breaths clouding up the air around their faces as warm moisture that is so characteristically human betrays their warmth to the frigid air, which doesn't wait long to start stealing it. Luckily, the front door is only a few steps away, and before the night manages to lift any more heat off them, the men make their way into the foyer.

"I suggest you two get changed into some dry clothes. I do believe this house has seen enough convalescence in the last few days. We wouldn't want two pneumonia patients, now would we?" Mycroft instructs. "John, after you're done, I'd like to have a word, please."

John sees, out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock roll his eyes and open his mouth to object, but a nudge of John's hand keeps him quiet.

"Alright, give me a few minutes and I'll be right down."

With a nod, Mycroft retreats into his study while John and Sherlock ascend the stairs. Reaching the corridor, Sherlock turns left and John turns right, each towards his own room where their clothes are stored.

"I'll see you in a bit, yeah?" John says.

"Yes. Hopefully Mycroft will keep his litany short tonight." Sherlock replies. "I'd hate it if he bored you into a stupor."

"I can handle him." John's smile is only a bit tight. "Are you feeling ok?"

"Yes. Don't worry, the worst symptoms are over now. My legs still ache a bit, but I'm feeling better than a few days ago."

"And the cravings?"

"Tolerable."

"Sherlock..."

"John. I'm fine. It's all fine. I've done this before, I know my limits."

Sherlock can see the struggle on John's face, but his doctor gives up in the end and sighs.

"Alright. Go and get changed, then. You've dripped all over Mycroft's carpet, so mission accomplished there."

"If Mycroft gets too obnoxious, try flinging a tart at him, or some biscuits...he gets easily distracted by food." The twinkle in Sherlock's eyes makes John feel as if there is a fizzy drink bubbling in his veins.

"I'll keep that in mind" he laughs. Neither of them moves to leave. They seem rooted to the spot, as if their roots got tangled together in the invisible space beneath floorboards. If this were a whirlwind romance novel, one of them would push the other against the wall and kiss him senseless. If this were an epic romance saga, they would make their way into the first available room, with the door locking behind them to grant privacy. In a gothic novel a poltergeist would choose this moment to make the lights flicker and the windows shutter in the wind. In a world where the two men standing there aren't them, there would be some sickly-sweet admissions of adoration. Maybe, just maybe, if it were the hallway connecting the kitchen and Sherlock's room in 221B, there would be something irresistibly domestic about this.

But this isn't any of those things, because they aren't anyone else. They aren't casual and easy and flirty – not if the ordinary meanings of those words are considered. They both have a knack for drama and overreaction, but not the pushing-against-walls kind. They're Sherlock and John, so sickly-sweet admissions and tame domesticity fall on the wrong side of possible. They are only two inhabitants of this new world of theirs, that is still unexplored, still a bit volatile. It's very much them – a synthesis of extremes. Extremes are where they function best, the two of them. It's the in-between that they have trouble with. In-between such as this one, when they are standing at the edge, but aren't allowed to jump just yet. Moderation – that's the lesson they still have to learn.

"Urm..." John clears his throat, effectively shattering their reverie.

"Well, you better get going or Mycroft will send a spy to check up on you." Sherlock says and turns away with a smirk, stalking towards his room. John remains glued to the spot for another few seconds before turning around on his heal and marching into his room.

He dumps the wet clothes in the bathroom and pulls a dry outfit out of the bag that Mycroft's minions delivered. His head is buzzing with what might just be a beginning of a fever, but is more likely a potent cocktail of adrenalin, oxytocine, dopamine, serotonin and endorphins altering his perception. Not even the impending meeting with Mycroft can dampen John's high. It's a feeling very much alike to that which leaves John breathless every time he chases after Sherlock through London, or catches a perp. A moment of clarity, when his hand doesn't shake and he feels like his skin is finally the right size, in a place where everything around him makes sense.

A battlefield.

John Watson is thrumming with the adrenalin of battles – previous ones and those that are yet to come. Because he meant what he said – things will become even more complicated now. It's them – this was never going to anything else then another battle. They were never cut out for mundane. It will be a struggle to figure out how to make this work. But they won't be battling each other. Rather, each will be battling himself, his own shortcomings –that's how they'll fight for each other. John thinks it's the strangest war he's ever heard of, where the other side is an ally and your own forces are the enemy, and yet it makes perfect sense.

And right there, standing in his jumper (only half-pulled on), his trousers and only one sock, John realises that the reason why it was always going to be Sherlock for him is because with anyone else it would have been so horribly mundane. With anyone else he would have had to fight for his life, fight to keep himself from going crazy with boredom. With Sherlock, he gets to live his fight and that makes all the difference.

Because John Watson may be a blogger, and a doctor, and a brother, and a friend, but more than all those things John Watson is a soldier. And soldiers belong in battle.

It's twisted and just a bit dark and certainly unhealthy. John loves it. He loves it the way he aims his gun– steadily and precisely. He loves it the way he takes a shot – confidently and without hesitation. He loves it the way he used to rush across firing lines to get to the wounded – recklessly and instinctively. He loves it the way he imagines an addict loves a high – passionately and against better judgement.

In short – John loves it the way he loves Sherlock.

It's as simple as that. It's as complicated as anything ever was. It's exactly what John wants, what he needs.

Taking a deep breath, John finishes dressing. He has a conversation to sit through, so he might as well get it over with. Navigating his way to Mycroft's study, John knocks on the heavy door and enters when Mycroft's voice sounds an even 'Come in'.

Mycroft is standing in front of the fire, a tumbler of what appears to be scotch in his left hand, with his right hand resting lazily in his pocket. The orange glow of the fire dances across the glass in Mycroft's hand, as if trying to reach the liquid and set it ablaze. Mycroft seems deep in thought, and were it not for the fact that he summoned John, John would wonder if the older Holmes is even aware of his presence. He wonders what is so mesmerising in the flames.

"John. Please, take a seat." Mycroft finally tears his gaze away from the fire, taking his right hand out of his pocket and waving John over to the same high-backed chair that hosted him during their last conversation. Lowering himself into his own chair, Mycroft sets his drink aside, his eyes following the movement of his hand. A couple of moments pass before he finally directs his gaze at John, who's waiting, somewhat impatiently, for his presence to be fully acknowledges and its necessity possibly explained.

"I am sure you are aware that the news of my brother's...involvement with you has reached me." Mycroft begins. At first the sentence sounds rather rhetorical, so John waits to hear the rest, but Mycroft seems to be waiting for some sort of response, so John gives a short nod.

With a sigh, Mycroft's gaze falls from John's face onto the fire again. A pitcher of water placed on the table next to the chairs casts strange patterns of light onto Mycroft's face.

"You are a good man, Dr. Watson, but even good men make mistakes" he says, still not meeting John's eye.

John can feel the buzz of the night turning into something less enjoyable and more akin to outrage. Still, not wanting to cause conflict not even 3 minutes into the conversation, he keeps his voice calm but terse.

"First of all, Mycroft, whatever goes on between Sherlock and me is absolutely none of your business. Secondly, if you are trying to imply that my choices regarding Sherlock are a mistake, let me stop you right there – "

"On the contrary, John. I do not believe your choices to be mistakes, for the most part because you haven't really made many choices of which I could have any sort of opinion. That is precisely what I wanted to talk to you about."

Mycroft's voice is silk-smooth and snow-cold, and matches John's in force and intensity. There's no trace of his usually semi-smirk. The older Holmes' eyes are serious and sharp, and for the first time John is truly faced with Sherlock's Older Brother. While he never found Mycroft-The-British-Government very threatening, John has no doubts this Mycroft wouldn't hesitate to do anything he saw fit in order to ensure Sherlock's well-being.

"What do you mean 'haven't really made many choices'?" John asks.

"While you decidedly did choose to be with Sherlock, it is still questionable whether you have, in fact, actually chosen Sherlock himself."

"I don't understand."

"Up to now, John, certain major events in your life, which might have seemed to be your choice, were in reality decided for you by others. Take, for instance, Miss Mary Morstan."

John's bemusement quickly turns into anger again, and his voice resonates sharply. He can't possibly see how Mary is any of Mycroft's business.

"What about Mary?"

"You didn't really choose to end it with her."

If it weren't for the circumstances, John would think it down-right hilarious that Mycroft is conducting what seems to be a crash-course in romantic relationships. The idea is so surreal that John wonders if he didn't actually catch a fever and pass out.

"We came to an understanding. She didn't want me to have to choose between my life with her and my life with Sherlock" he says.

"And you didn't have to, did you? She – how convenient of her– took herself out of the equation, and spared you the choice."

John's left fist is tightened so hard by now that his short nails manage to dig into the flesh of his sweaty palm. Letting out a long breath through his nose, he purses his lips before spitting out measured words.

"Where are you heading with this, Mycroft?" he asks, but Mycroft continues as if John hasn't spoken.

"So, you see, you didn't really choose your life with Sherlock – Mary Morstan chose it for you. We will never know what you would have chosen, had the occasion arisen in which you would have been forced to decide between a possible long-term relationship – one that could have easily ended in marriage and children – and a co-dependency that, on occasion, verges on pathological, with a man whose way of life means a regular exposure to life-threatening situations.

And the same goes for these recent events involving the unfortunate drug-related case. As much as I admire the tenacity you've exhibited while looking for Sherlock during his absence, it was nothing more than your usual dynamics – when one of you is in peril, the other works as hard as possible to rescue him. So, of course, you managed to save Sherlock. You even beat me to it. I must admit I was rather impressed. Now, I'm not trying to belittle your role in my brother's life, nor the impact you had. I am simply trying to point to the fact that throughout the most recent course of your relationship with Sherlock, you have been chosen or chosen for, over and over again, but are still yet to make a choice yourself."

Pink tongue darts in and out as John licks his lips, as if slicking them up to make sure his next words fall clearly and without obstacles into the space between him and Mycroft.

"Are you saying that if I break your brother's heart you will end me?"

"If you must put it so crudely, yes." Mycroft's voice is calm and very unambiguous. John knows Mycroft means every word, but it isn't the fact that he is being threatened that bothers John. He understands Mycroft, understands the urge to hurt people who hurt Sherlock – thing is, if anyone ever tried to harm Sherlock in any way, Mycroft would have to manage the improbable feat of beating John to them.

"Sherlock isn't a child, Mycroft, nor is he a feeble creature prone to heartbreak, that needs his big brother to protect him from other people, and least of all from me."

"With all due respect, John, while you may consider yourself an expert on my brother, let me remind you that I have known him for a very long time – all his life, as it happens. I flatter myself that I know a considerable amount of what he is or is not prone to. Sherlock wasn't always the man you know now, and I have seen what happens when he sets out to self-destruct. You might not think him prone to heartbreak, but I assure you that he does have a heart, and it is as susceptible to breaking as any other. It is the fallacy of being human, but as it is unavoidable, I would appreciate if you kept it in mind."

"You make him sound like a damaged heroine from a Victorian romance novel."

A shift in Mycroft's eyes suddenly brings something dangerous to his stare, his voice sharpening into razor-like syllables.

"I make him sound human, Dr. Watson. As much as my brother likes to consider himself a high-functioning sociopath, nothing could be further away from the truth. It is for that reason that I warn you – it isn't enough to choose to be with him, John, you have to choose Sherlock, and all that that choice entails. There might come times when choosing Sherlock Holmes will seem like the stupidest thing you've ever done, but even in those moments you will have to stand behind your choice. You two are a dangerous combination – a man with severe trust issues and a man who, while not a sociopath or a psychopath, is highly skilled in manipulation and deception. He has done it once already, and it took you quite a long time to set the matter to rest. Sherlock is brilliant, but he is also fallible, and you may find yourself unable to forgive some of his failings. Not a second time around, anyway. So, choose carefully, good doctor. I recall you said during our first ever meeting that you weren't frightened of me because I wasn't a very frightening man. I wouldn't want to have to do something that would cause you to revise that statement."

John's breathing is laboured with anger that smells like evaporating alcohol and wood-polishing fluid.

"I said once that you could be the making of my brother, or you could make him worse than ever. I still stand by that statement. It is a dangerous thing, putting two addicts together. Oh, yes, John, you are an addict as well. Danger, peril, life-threatening situations – it's your high. It's why you fell so easily into the life Sherlock leads. It's why you didn't shun him out of your life when he came back after leaving you out for two years. And that is why you could be his downfall. Because you didn't choose him the way he chose you when he showed up at my doorstep a week and a half ago. You chose him the way an addict chooses to shoot up, but he chose you the way an addict chooses sobriety. Quite literally, actually. Yours was a choice that felt right, while his was the one that felt wrong but was right. So, when I say that a time may come when it will be crucial that you indeed choose Sherlock, I mean that if you will have to go against your every urge, persist in doing everything against your every instinct, then you must. If choosing him will feel like giving up on him or giving him up, you must do it, even though you won't want to, even though it will feel wrong. Addiction is a horrible thing, Dr. Watson. It doesn't really give you much choice. Which is why you cannot afford to make the addict's choice, when the time comes."

"Mycroft, what the hell are you talking about?" If storm clouds were ever stolen from the sky, one would find them stored in John Watson's eyes in that moment.

"I am simply stating that a time may come to choose a side, Dr. Watson. Truly choose."

Seeing that John is seething, Mycroft shifts his body a bit, his expression mellowing somewhat.

"John, I am in no way questioning you're loyalty to my brother, nor any other...sentiment you seem to have for him..."

"Really? Because it feels like that's exactly what you are doing."

"I am simply urging you to consider the magnitude of your decision to become even more involved with my brother."

"And you feel this is necessary? You think I need warning not to hurt him? I would never do that, and you know it."

"Not intentionally, no. But it is hard to fight one's nature, and so easy to give into it, especially when it seems like the right thing to do. And there lies the danger."

"You underestimate him. He's not as vulnerable as you make him out to be. And you certainly seem to overestimate my ability to hurt him. Not that I ever would."

"And you underestimate the intensity with which Sherlock can feel. As I said before, I have known him his whole life. You still see him as someone invincible, even after all that's happened. I can't say that I blame you – he did come back from the dead, so to speak. Hardly very human of him. And even now, only days after being rescued from captivity and suffering through a long and draining withdrawal, he seems fine. Completely unruffled. But just because he appears to be a certain way doesn't mean he truly is. Those who do their best to avoid pain are usually those who have felt it so strongly that they know, more than others, about its destructive power. And if it cannot be avoided, it can always be hidden.

As for overestimating your ability to hurt Sherlock...even machines have weak spots, John. Those bits that make them fallible, that break down first. So, you can imagine Sherlock, being human and not a machine, despite his adamant attempts to make himself seem like one, does too."

Did you ever try slap yourself, or bite your finger very, very hard? Physically, it isn't that hard, but something always stops you from using your full strength. But doing so to another is much easier. It is funny how humans are masters of protecting themselves from things that can break them. Hurt becomes anger and fear becomes rage – enemies domestic to enemies foreign, we charge at others in an attempt to battle the fear we feel within, hoping that it will somehow help. Hoping that by beating them, we can beat that part of ourselves that makes us afraid.

John feels anger, only John doesn't really feel anger. He is angry at Mycroft, but truth is "anger" is just a name – a wrong name. Some things change, but others never do, and this is one of those that remain constant. John Watson is still using wrong words. Anger-which-isn't fills him to the brim, and he knows that he has to leave. Rationalisations kick in like safety-switches: he is angry with Mycroft for insinuating that he would ever hurt Sherlock, he is angry with Mycroft for meddling in John's private life and assuming he has some kind of insight into John's psyche, he is angry with Mycroft for bringing up Mary and talking about things he has no idea about, he is angry with Mycroft for being an insufferable know-it-all who doesn't know his place.

He is angry at Mycroft for being right.

And there it is, the anger-that-isn't, a cracked veneer placed almost sloppily over something bigger, something raw. Something true.

"Are we done here?" John asks, clinging to his mask of anger. Mycroft radiates with the air of a man utterly convinced of being right. His eyes – so much colder than his brothers, so much more observant when it comes to the human heart – rake over John's form before Mycroft speaks.

"Yes. I hope you get a good night's rest. Oh, and John, I would appreciate it if this conversation remained private."

"You do know Sherlock will probably work it out, right?"

"Perhaps, but I would still prefer if you didn't help him in guessing the exact nature of our exchange."

"And what am I to tell him when he asks?"

"Think of something. I'm sure you'll manage."

"Well, that's helpful" John murmurs. "Good night, Mycroft."

No creak of the door marks John's exit. No moaning of floorboards follows him to the stairwell, where he climbs until he is at the top. In winter, when it snows, the sky does a strange thing. Even after nightfall, it remains light, its hue not morphing into dark blue, but rather remaining white. A dark white sky. Like matted canvas, or a white sheet thrown over a birdcage, it stretches over the land in its inexplicable antithesis of lightness and darkness.

John Watson is like the winter sky, both light and dark at the same time. There is, of course, the love for and the fierce protectiveness of those who manage to secure a place in his heart. He is the man who fixes Mrs. Hudson's tap when it leaks and who listens patiently to his patients' stories because he knows that sometimes people just need to know that someone is hearing them. Among Sherlock's extravagance, he is the simple but steady firmness of an everyday man, calm and understanding, human.

But he is also the man who revels in the darkness, who has seen the ugly face of the world and fell in love with it. He is an adrenalin junkie whose hand shakes when he walks through the park, but remains perfectly still when he is aiming a gun or being held hostage by madmen. He is a healer who gets a bigger thrill from flesh being ripped apart by a bullet than it being sown together by needle and thread, one who went into a warzone when an operating room wouldn't do, and who wields a gun as aptly as a stethoscope.

John Watson was never afraid of the dark. He never slept with a nightlight. The shadows were never containers of nightmares for him. He loved it, but was afraid of loving it. He loved it the way a child loves a forbidden storybook or a teenager loves a dirty magazine that sleeps hidden beneath his mattress – secretly, half in denial and half in attempts of justification.

Truth is, there is something dark about John Watson. Which is why the idea of risking everything makes his heart flutter with excitement instead of anguish, and why Mycroft is right – John fell for Sherlock's life style very, very easily. There is something dark about John Watson, and that's alright, because humans are not just one thing, and darkness is an integral part of them. The darkness is alright, because John Watson is only human. But because he is human, he needs Sherlock to indestructible, just as Mycroft said.

They can't both be human. One has to be more. Sherlock has to be more. Sherlock has to be Sherlock – the antihero who saved John, the ultimate fix for John's addiction, indestructible, constant, invincible. Because, if they're both human – well, then that's a recipe for a disaster. If Sherlock is indestructible then John's darkness is just another shade in the spectrum, the link which allows them to be who they are.

But if he isn't, then John's darkness might just be too much all together.

Have you ever seen an addict in search for a fix? They will go to incredible lengths to get it.

Standing at the top of the stairs, John allows himself, just for a moment, to look past the veneer of anger and at the truth behind it. What he sees there is more frightening than any war, because what he sees is confirmation of Mycroft's words. He is an addict, thriving on danger – one who would do anything not to lose his high. Give up anything. Or anyone. Even if it seems as if he were choosing them.

Standing at the top of the stairs, for the first time in his life, John Watson is afraid of the dark.

But there is a strip of light shinning in the dark corridor – a literal one – so John moves towards it, almost on autopilot. He knows what to do. Mycroft said he would have to choose. He might as well start right away, with a choice that was never really a choice but the only viable option.

He chooses Sherlock.

It's still partly an addict's choice, but John doesn't care. Determined that he will choose Sherlock as many times and in as many ways as it is necessary, he pushes the door to his room open.

Legs crossed into a lotus pose, Sherlock sits in the middle of the bed. His eyes flit to the door as John enters the room, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across the pale man's face. Softness of expression that adorned it only moments before disappears, a frown settling low between Sherlock's eyebrows as he takes in John's still-tense figure.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks, scooting over to the edge of the bed. "What did Mycroft want?"

"Nothing."

"That was quite a lot of time you spent discussing nothing."

A tired sigh escapes John's lips.

"He just wanted to go over your care plan for once we're back at the flat in Baker St. Which is supposed to be tomorrow."

"Good. Finally."

A guarded quality seeps into Sherlock's posture as he stands up and approaches John, who is still having trouble meeting the other man's eye.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock echoes.

"Nothing's wrong, Sherlock. Honestly."

"You're angry." John wonders sometimes if the Holmes brothers even hear him while having a conversation with him, because it really doesn't read like that from their blatant disregard for his responses. But he knew that it would be impossible to hide anything from Sherlock, so he grabs the opportunity to at least have him believe the anger sham. Before John can confirm or deny, Sherlock continues.

"You are angry, but I can't tell why. It is possible that it has to do with me, but..."

"No. I'm not angry with you, Sherlock. Okay?"

Sherlock's stare is intense, but the subtle shift of relief in it tells John that he isn't the only one emotionally compromised here. Glad to finally have the feeling that he understands at least a bit of what's going on, John pushes on.

"I am not angry with you. In fact, I am really glad that I found you here. I know we had this conversation earlier, but I just want to say this again – this is real, Sherlock. This. Us. This is what I want. This is what I choose. Just if I wasn't clear earlier."

John can still feel Sherlock's brain buzzing, trying to piece together a conclusion from ridiculous clues made up of the way John's sleeve shifts in the draught or the way the greys in his hair align with the blond parts, or something equally improbable.

"No, stop. Stop deducing. Just, for once, take my word for what it is, and nod if you understand."

Sherlock nods, but it's just a technicality, John knows. Deciding to abandon a technique he was never really good at, and which is obviously failing to fulfil its task, John does the one thing he always did best – he gives up on trying to word what he wants to relay, and lets actions speak instead.

A bullet that was their start, a tackle of a maniac that could have been his ending, danger night searches that were his care, a fall that was a dedication, a punch that was a 'welcome back', an escape-that-wasn't that was a vow and two kisses which were a goodbye and a hello, in that order.

They were never good at speaking their minds (hearts), but they were always brilliant at acting them out.

With both of his hands travelling at same speed to the sides of Sherlock's face, John kisses him in a way that is supposed to say 'Here, I chose. Here, stop it now, let it just be this. This is what I choose.'. Those are insanely high expectations from a single kiss, but John hopes at least some of it found its way across the infinitesimal space between their lips.

Breaking apart, Sherlock's eyes are no longer buzzing with attempts at deduction. Instead, they are the strangest mixture of clouded and blazing, like sunlight burning the bellies of cloud at sundown. John is pleased that he manages to stop the frenzied train of thought that would have lead, inevitably, to unwanted conclusions, but with Sherlock looking at him like that now, he isn't quite sure where to go from there.

"I, urm...do you want to stay here tonight or...?" he stumbles clumsily over his words.

"Yes." Sherlock's answer is very simple, very direct – almost forceful.

"Ok then. Urm...I suppose you're probably tired. You should-"

"No."

"Sorry?"

"I am not tired."

"Oh. Right."

"And I don't want to sleep."

"Ok." A beat passes in which Sherlock is standing so (maddeningly) close, staring at John with an unrelenting steadiness. There's a message in that stare, and it is quite clear. It's not even code any more...well, not a complicated one, anyway. But it's them, so they must play it out till the end. John licks his lips, his breath coming out in warm puffs between their faces.

"So what do you want, then?" he asks, and he swears Sherlock almost smirks.

"I want you to do again what you did just now." If John knew how to read music, maybe he would be able to write down the exact tone and depth of Sherlock's voice in that moment, but he can't, so he just lets it reverberate through the air and over his skin. The tone alone is teasing, taunting, even without the words' meaning. But two can play that game, so John does an impression of an idiot, something Sherlock accused him of plenty of times, just to give Sherlock a demonstration of what it really looks like when he is trying to be obtuse.

"Which part exactly?" John asks, but the chatter is apparently taking too long for Sherlock's liking, because his answer comes in form of another clash of lips.

"That part" he replies, drawing back. Slightly out of breath, he doesn't move far out of John's space, which is just as well, because it makes it that easier for John to close the distance once again after uttering a quick 'Ok, then'.

Actions were always their preferred language, and as the stumble onto the bed, sliding and shifting clothes out of the way, it is the most eloquent and elaborate conversation they've ever had.


Ok, so the next one will be the M rated chapter and it should be up tomorrow :)