Note on the schedule: Wow, guys. Wow. It has been an unpardonably long time since I've updated. However, RL has been beating me to a bloody pulp, and this chapter was a bitch to write. So never fear! The next three chapters are written; just some light edits between Miyako and myself before they can be posted. God willing, there will NEVER be such a long wait between chapters again.
As always, love and eternal gratitude to Miyako Toudaiji; without her mad beta skillz this chapter would not be half so good as it is. All remaining mistakes are entirely my own.
I'd like to personally thank everyone who reviewed. Even if I haven't been able to respond to your comment, please know that without each and every one of the reviews I might not have managed to finish this. Knowing that there are people out there (a strange feeling, to be sure) who really want to know what happens was all that kept me going for a while. I'd also like to personally thank Charlie from , who doesn't have an account and whom I therefore cannot respond to. Your reviews gave me the final kick to get my ass in gear and finish this. So thank you, sweetie, and thank everyone else who's left some love.
Mild trigger warnings for this chapter: mentions of kidnapping, drugging, human trafficking, murder, mayhem, and in the closet jokes. Nothing graphic.
"Sherlock!" John screamed.
John pushed, ran, locked his eyes on Sherlock's body standing so high above him, tried to get there in time, tried to catch him when he fell. . .
The thug charging Sherlock didn't stop, didn't try to dodge, didn't even break stride when Sherlock nimbly stepped out of the way and whirled as the thug went past him, planting his hands on the thug's lower back to give him a hard push.
The thug stumbled, tripped, tumbled, fell, fell, fell. . .
John reached out, eyes raised as though to Heaven, watching as Sherlock swayed, feet firmly planted on the ledge but arms waving for balance, right on the very edge of the twenty-foot drop onto a solid concrete floor.
Sherlock turned, and saw him. Their eyes locked. John was still charging forward, and knew that at any second Sherlock would ask him to turn, to go back, back the way he came, do this for me, John, just this one thing. . .
"John!" Sherlock yelled, his face twisting not in grief, but in anger. "Behind you!"
Instinctively, John ducked, whirled, led with his elbow and threw all his weight into the turn. His elbow connected with someone else's stomach with a satisfying, meaty thud.
Right. Bad guys. Armed bad guys. In Spain. Abandoned subway station. Trying to kill Sherlock. Trying to kill John. One had fallen; three to go. Right. Right.
John's SIG was on the floor twenty paces away, clip empty, and his left hand would need a bit of ice before he could comfortably make a fist again. Nevertheless, he was able to use his right hand to get a good hold on the next man's collar and backhand him viciously enough to disorient him. He was only dizzy for a moment, but it was more than long enough for John to nick his gun.
After that it was simple. The other two thugs were disposed of (one with rather less. . . guilt than the other, because when John shot him he was going after Sherlock with a knife) before Sherlock had even managed to make his way back down the metal stairs to John.
John stood over the last of the thugs, energy and sweat pouring off his skin. The only sound was his desperate breathing, and Sherlock's quick footsteps behind him, and a distant plink, plink, plink, as of tears.
"John!" Sherlock crowed gleefully, only four paces away and coming closer, "John, that was fantastic! Did you see when that other one-"
Sherlock's words were lost as John whirled and punched him in the face.
There was a thud as Sherlock hit the floor, and then the only sound was John's desperate breathing as he looked down on Sherlock, and the faitest metallic clatter as the gun in his hand shook, and the ever-distant plink, plink, plink.
Sherlock wasn't breathing at all, was just lying on the damp concrete with his legs sprawling and his coat tangled beneath him and one elbow propping him up with the other hand on his cheek. His mouth was open in shock, eyes wide, staring up at John.
Plink, plink, plink.
"Sherlock Holmes," John said, voice steady and normal and not betraying the slightest hint of the unidentifiable emotions clawing at the back of his throat, "don't you ever do that to me again."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John hated that, hated that Sherlock was gazing up at him with sweat in his hair and blood on his cheek and that look on his face that said he'd found a puzzle, his deducing face, his not-bored-now face, the face that said he was going to take what John just said and make a case out of it.
Plink, plink, plink.
"John," said Sherlock, sitting up slowly and dropping both hands into his lap, but that was as far as John let him get.
"That, Sherlock," John gestured roughly with his gun-free hand towards the death-drop Sherlock had recently been standing atop, while never taking his eyes off his face. "You're never allowed to do that again."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Actually raised them to Heaven like he couldn't believe what he had to put up with, and sighed like he was the most long-suffering of men.
Plink, plink, plink.
"John, I walked down the stairs, as you may have noticed. I didn't actually fall-"
"Yes you did."
That got Sherlock's attention. Now his eyes, his impossibly light eyes, his eyes that had looked so bright with the red, red blood softly slipping along his skin and the hazy morning rain, those eyes that had been too bright and too perceptive right from the beginning, those eyes were staring at John. This time, at least, Sherlock had the grace to look confused.
"You did," John repeated firmly. Swallowed. Kept going, not a hitch in his voice. "You fell. I saw you. I was there. You are never allowed to do it again."
Plink, plink, plink.
Before Sherlock could stop him, before John could stop himself, he shoved the gun into the back of his pants, stalked to Sherlock's prone body and grasped the back of his collar, hauling him roughly to his feet. Unheeding of Sherlock's yelped protest, unheeding of the hair tangled in his fingers that he was no doubt viciously pulling, unheeding of Sherlock's stumbling, unbalanced steps, John dragged him to the body of the man who had fallen and died.
Still holding Sherlock by the scruff of his neck, John dug into Sherlock's pocket, grabbed his phone, pressed a button to light the screen, slapped it into Sherlock's hand, and turned the light onto the man's bloody skull.
Forcing Sherlock's head down, John commanded, "Look at him."
John turned and walked away, unable to stay one moment longer and maintain control of himself. One more second near Sherlock and John would have done something he'd live to regret.
Or not, as the case may be. Perhaps one more second of baring his soul to the deducing face and John would have simply shot himself.
He walked out of the huge, echoing space into a smaller corridor. The lights weren't working that well, but the flickering illumination was enough for John to find the supply closet they'd passed on their way in. He managed to get the door open and closed, then discovered that the closet was just barely large enough to hold a full-grown man if he sank to the floor and curled up around himself and pressed his face to his knees.
Plink
Plink
Plink
Sherlock's footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the closet, then paused just outside the door. John had collected himself enough to face him again, had wiped his face thoroughly and brushed as much of the dust and rubble as he could from his clothes, and was just standing when Sherlock paused. Without any hesitation, John opened the door.
Without looking at his friend, John stepped out of the supply closet, closed the door behind himself, and started walking back towards the surface. After a moment, Sherlock followed him.
John only stayed in the lead for a few moments before Sherlock's long legs caught up with him, their footsteps echoing hollowly off the concrete walls of the corridor, and then Sherlock took his customary place a pace and a half in front of John and to the right. John's heart ached.
Secretly, John had hoped that they would be attacked once they started moving again. Or maybe, even, that the sounds of conflict would have been what drew him out of his hidey-hole in the first place. Because this was difficult. Walking down a damp, dim hallway with Sherlock, nothing to break the silence but their footsteps and dripping water, nothing more sinister impinging on John's senses than the occasional rat.
There was no distraction. There was nothing forcing him to focus on anything, anything at all, which meant his mind could go where it would. He couldn't force himself into doctor mode or soldier mode, not now, not today, not after he thought he was going to watch Sherlock fall again. Anything else he could have dealt with. Anything else he could have pushed to the side, brushed away until he was ready to deal with it. But this. . . this he wasn't sure he could handle. Not on two hours of sleep and an empty stomach. The only thing that could get the image of That Day out of his head would be a brawl, and since the only person here was Sherlock, John would have to simply suffer through it.
So suddenly John stumbled back a pace, Sherlock whirled. His eyes were blazing.
"It's irrational," he spat. "It was more than a year ago! How can you still be upset?"
John glared at him. "You have no idea what it does to me, do you? Has it ever occurred to you what it might be like, having to watch me die?"
"But I didn't die, John!"
"Well I didn't know that, now did I?"
"You found out soon enough."
"Months later, Sherlock. You're the deductive wizard, you should have seen as soon as you got back what those months were like."
"But they're over now, John. It's done. More than a year." Sherlock threw his hands in the air and turned, walking in a circle before coming to a halt in front of John again.
"I suppose I can't ask you to understand," John said, voice full of scorn and spite. "After all, it would require you to actually care about me. Only sentiment explains what happens to me when you fall, and we both know how messy that is-"
"Would you stop talking about it in the present tense!" Sherlock cried. "It's not as though it's still happening!"
"Yes it is!" John roared. "You are always falling!"
Sherlock stopped short and stared.
Something in John broke, he could feel the sharp edges of it slicing in his chest, the back of his throat, behind his eyes, between his ears. He brought the heel of his hand up to his eyes and hated himself for finding them moist, hated that he was so weak, hated hated hated that he was doing this in front of Sherlock, but his breath was hitching and he couldn't stop.
John tried to steady his breathing, took long, deep breaths, rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes until they came away dry.
"John," Sherlock said. His voice was quiet. John didn't react.
After a moment, he heard Sherlock's voice again. It was even more quiet than it had been before. "You said you forgave me."
John chuckled, glad that it didn't sound too much like a sob. "Of course I did. Still do. But that doesn't mean I'm not pissed as hell."
A moment of silence, then Sherlock said, "John- John, I don't-"
"This way, isn't it?" John asked, cutting him off. He brushed past Sherlock, not daring to glance at him, and continued walking down the corridor. By the time they reached the surface they still hadn't spoke.
Hours later they were in a dingy loft above an abandoned flat, waiting for a certain someone to enter the café across the street.
John knelt next to the window, checking and rechecking the high-power rifle he and Sherlock had managed to nick from the very criminal organization (human traffickers, the monsters) they were trying to dismantle. Unfortunately they'd only been able to nick a gun, not a silencer, so John would only get one shot. He'd almost layed Sherlock flat with a glare alone when Sherlock asked if he'd need more than one.
John tipped his head, sighting the café door through the scope, minutely adjusting his grip and the tripod that the gun was braced against. "You're sure he won't show up this soon?"
"Yes, yes, of course I'm sure. Child's play," Sherlock snapped, pacing away behind John. If it was a bid for attention, he was going to be disappointed. John could perform major surgery on a battlefield, he could certainly set up a shot with Sherlock Holmes raving in the background. Child's play, indeed.
John glanced towards the flag above the café door he was using to gague the wind and was pleased to see it was still hanging straight and limp. He was just glad they didn't have to start watching their backs just yet; until John pulled the trigger, no one in the organization would know that anyone was after them. It was a large organization, well-funded and international. The higher-ups had finally begun to feel secure enough in their power to begin kidnapping women from English-speaking nations, which was ultimately when Sherlock became involved.
As soon as he found out what the case was about, John had suggested that they go for the quiet and thorough approach. He was in favor of hacking computers, copying databases, alerting authorities and only killing when absolutely necessary, but doing it quietly. Poisons, faked accidents and the like.
Sherlock had just shaken his head. There was a 'shipment' due to arrive from England sometime this week. The idea was to make as much trouble as was humanly possible, shake up the higher-ups, and delay the 'shipment' long enough for the English authorities to reach it before it left the country. Seeing as none of the methods they intended to employ to wreak havoc on the trafficking ring were, strictly speaking, even kind of legal, the Spanish authorities would have to be kept out of it until at least after Sherlock figured out how to delay the shipment. After that, they'd be free to bring in the authorities (no matter how incompetent they were, even Sherlock was forced to agree that in this case the extra numbers on their side would be helpful) and finish demolishing the organization, at which point John and Sherlock could mostly wash their hands of the matter.
What that meant, though, was that John and Sherlock's entire roll in bringing down the ring essentially came to this: Raise. Hell.
"And you're sure no one knows about us yet?"
"Yes, John! For the hundredth time: no one is looking for us. No one has any idea of the danger they're in; nor will they, until you shoot someone. Then we'll have to run for cover, but as of now we're perfectly safe."
"Mmm," said John, not turning around. "And how did you reach that conclusion?"
Sherlock scoffed and launched into an explanation that seemed to be more a treatise on what he thought of John's intelligence rather than an actual rundown of his reasoning. John tried to hide a smile against the rifle. He knew perfectly well why no one was looking for them yet; he just wanted Sherlock to have something to occupy him for the next five minutes.
With neither an immediate threat nor an immediate target, and with his mind still hideously unsettled from the earlier reminder of Sherlock's fall, John's focus started fracturing: while one part of him was still lining up the shot (one part of him would always be lining up a shot), another bit of him was thinking about Sherlock. But with the distraction of the stakeout, with the cold calm that came from being first and foremost a soldier, from the danger- and excitement-induced adrenaline came a startling clarity.
It wasn't like Sherlock was bloody well going to make the first move.
Hell, Sherlock probably didn't realize there was something to make a move towards in the first place. Or perhaps he did, but he didn't want a romantic relationship with John. There was no way for John to know. Sherlock was, to put it kindly, sending mixed signals, and always had. Were it anyone else John might have known what to think, but Sherlock was so different from anyone else John had ever known that there was no way for him to judge what was going on. He had no idea if Sherlock would be okay with dating John, now that there was no possibility of sex.
John's grip on the rifle tightened. He was still more than halfway focused on the café door and the possibility of the mark showing up before Sherlock had predicted, so the thought didn't affect him the way it normally would. He accepted it, the same way he'd accepted watching his friends blown to bits on the roads of Maiwand: it was a fact. It was how the universe was, now. A soldier and a doctor had no time to mourn facts, had no capacity to wish things were different.
All a soldier and a doctor could do, could ever do, was work with what he had. No bullets? Use a knife. No bandages? Rip something. Sherlock wasn't in love with him, and may or may not be interested in a sexless romantic relationship? Take what he could get.
"What do you think about dating?" John asked.
"I fail to see how lining up the dates in this particular case would help anything. There's no chronological pattern beyond the one I've already established."
"Not that sort of dating. Romantic relationships."
He heard Sherlock throw himself, no doubt dramatically, on the narrow bed behind John and to the left. "Do I really need to explain it again, John? It's a family-run enterprise, so there are necessarily a few romantic couples-"
"Not the case," John said, eye never leaving the café door. "I meant you."
"What about me?"
"What do you, Sherlock Holmes, think of romantic relationships?"
"I've made my opinion perfectly clear countless times before."
"Reiterate."
"I don't repeat myself."
"Summarize and take me through it. Obviously I've missed a few things."
"No more than usual, apparently," Sherlock grumbled, hardly bothering to lower his voice.
Ever patient, John repeated, "What do you think about dating?"
"Dating? You mean that thing you do, that pointless little mating ritual? Find quarry, identifiable by markings of barely-tolerable physical appeal, and the lowest IQ possible. Torture one another by demanding progressively more insipid, vapid excursions to dull and increasingly bizarre locations- movie theaters, poorly-lit and overpriced restaurants, tourist attractions- followed by sloppy, unhygienic copulation with the express wish to achieve the best orgasm possible while avoiding any possibility of procreation. Continue at will until said quarry has either performed to the limit of their abilities during sexual intercourse and cast them aside, or become so stupid and lust-addled you feel the desire to go through a tedious legal process that changes nothing except a few tax forms and requires rings. Grow increasingly more boring, get old, and die alone anyway. Really, John, I can't imagine why you put up with the things."
John chuckled. It became an outright giggle when he realized he could actually feel Sherlock glaring at the back of his head. "Well, I guess that summarizes what you think of other people's relationships pretty well."
Sherlock harrumphed. "You're the one who asked," he pointed out.
"I did ask, but that wasn't an answer to my question."
"Yes, it was. You asked what I thought of romantic relationships and I've told you. That constitutes an answer, John."
John chuckled again. "Fine. I'll rephrase. What do you think of romantic relationships involving yourself?"
"Do keep up, John, I just told you-"
"No," John cut him off, "you told me what you think of other people's romantic relationships. I'm asking about you, specifically."
"Your phrasing is appaling, John," Sherlock sneered. Which, John knew, meant 'I don't understand the question,' though Sherlock would never be able to say the words.
"It's like this, Sherlock," said John, trying to work out how to explain, "it's just- look, that's a sort of abstract idea of relationships. It's non-specific. I'm not asking about relationships in general, I'm asking about relationships you are involved in. It's like- like I'm asking what you look like, and you're saying 'I have two arms and two legs and a face.' It's too broad, too general, and doesn't take you specifically into account. Do you see the difference?"
"I see the difference, I'm not an idiot," Sherlock snapped. "What I fail to see is why you assume that if I was ever stupid enough to be duped into such a relationship it would follow anything other than tired social norms."
Had John been anywhere else he'd have put his head down and laughed until he cried. Considering the situation, however, he settled for giggling insanely and saying, "Because it's you, Sherlock! God, when have you ever done anything the normal way?"
Still giggling, John tried to picture Sherlock behind him. He wasn't saying anything, but he also hadn't had the last word, so John knew it was only a matter of time before the man spoke again.
"You're saying that, were I in a romantic relationship, it would be unlike other such relationships," said Sherlock slowly. John could tell he'd pursed his lips before he started speaking. "However, were I in a relationship that followed no known social patterns, I fail to see how it could be considered romantic."
John took a minute to try and figure out what the hell Sherlock was trying to say. After a moment he said, "Our friendship's pretty unconventional, and it's still a friendship."
"But 'friendship' is such a broad term, it can encompass any sort of relationship wherein both parties find each other's company enjoyable. Even sexual intercourse can be included in a friendship. Romantic relationships are much more specific."
"True," said John, "though can I just say for the record that the whole 'friends with benefits' thing never, ever ends well. But I see your point. On some level you're right, I guess," John paused for a second, eyes flicking to the flag hanging from a window above the café that he was using to judge the breeze, then relaxed when it once again hung perfectly limp. "There is a certain feeling that comes along with a romantic relationship that's not present in a friendship. A sort of- I don't know what to call it. It's difficult to tell the difference between a friendship and a romance from the outside, sometimes."
"Obviousy," Sherlock said, and John could tell he was thinking of all the times they had been mistaken for a couple.
"The thing is," John said quickly, suddenly almost giddy with the realization that he could explain everything to Sherlock, could show him that if they did do the romance thing it wouldn't have to be like everyone else, and it wouldn't have to include sex, "there are a lot of different aspects to a romantic relationship. The underlying feeling is always the same, though. You've always got a crush on the person you're with, always fancy them, you know? If you don't, well, then it's not a good relationship. But aside from that, aside from that feeling of romantic love for them, all other aspects vary from couple to couple."
Sherlock's voice was alive with interest when he snapped, "Elaborate."
"Like I said, there are lots of different aspects. Whether or not you'll be monogamous, level of commitment, whether or not you go public, how far you do or don't go sexually- it's all different depending on who it is."
Sherlock was silent. John could almost feel the cogs in that massive brain whirring.
Now or never, John thought. "Like, for example, some couples are very sexually open. Sometimes that means each partner is allowed to have sex with other people. Sometimes it means they engage in sex acts as a couple that are kinky or fetishized. And sometimes," John tried not to let his mouth run away with him, tried to make sure he didn't sound like some sort of eager teenager, "a romantic relationship is wholly without sex. Sometimes one or both partners are unable, physically, to have sex. Or one of them is asexual. Or one of them had a traumatic experience that put them off sex. Anything. Sometimes romantic couples stay together for years, even forever, without ever having sex. Some couples do nothing more than kiss, and touch each other affectionately but non-sexually. Anything's possible." He snapped his mouth shut before he could say something that was obviously no longer theoretical.
"An almost infinite number of variables," Sherlock breathed behind him.
"Exactly," said John. "Almost infinite aspects to any relationship, and an almost infinite number of characteristics that makes each partner a unique human being. Each aspect of the relationship can be tailored to match the combined needs of both partners."
"Oh," Sherlock breathed, "oh, that is brilliant. Why has no one ever. . . John," Sherlock suddenly said loudly, sitting up, and why could John still feel him glaring at the back of his head? "If that's the case, why have you never had a good relationship that actually met any of your needs? If each-"
Gunshot.
The roar echoed through the tiny room, bounced back and forth between the buildings lining the street. There was screaming from outside the window, and the sudden noise of running feet.
"Sorry," said John absently, ducking down belown the window with the gun so no one saw him. "Mark showed up. Didn't have time to warn you." After a moment he added, almost smugly, "Right between the eyes."
He twisted around to look at Sherlock, who was frozen on the edge of the bed, obviously startled by the sudden, deafening noise.
Seeming to realize John was watching him, Sherlock glared at him. Very intensely. John smiled sweetly. "You did that on purpose," Sherlock hissed.
"I did not. And we should leave, um, right now." He was crouched beneath the window, already disassembling the gun and fitting it neatly into its case. He'd have to clean it later.
It was true, anyway. He certainly hadn't fired just to forestall Sherlock's question, though he was sending a continuous litany of thanks to the universe that the mark had shown up at precisely that moment.
There was no use speculating on what would have happened if Sherlock had asked why all of John's previous romantic relationships had failed and John had blurted out, 'Because none of them were you.'
"So," said John conversationally as they flagged down a cab one street over, "if you were in a romantic relationship, what would it be like?"
Sherlock pulled a face. "Despite your 'infinite number of variables' approach, I'm sure it would still consist of insipid dates and-"
"No," John said, exasperated, "we've been over this. That's all there is when other people do it. So that's what you think of other people's romantic relationships. But if you were in one, what would it be like?"
"The same, I imagine."
"No, it wouldn't be. Nothing containing you is ever the same as it is with anyone else. Okay, so let me ask it like this: if you had romantic feelings for someone- and I realize how stupid that sounds, but just for the sake of the argument let's go with the hypothetical here- if you had romantic feelings for someone, what would your ideal romantic relationship be like?"
Sherlock stared at him.
"Stop basing it on everyone else's relationships. Clearly that wouldn't work. Forget about normal, and just think about yourself. Shouldn't be too hard. What would you want?"
"Taxi's here," Sherlock said, pushing him towards the cab.
John grinned. "It's a lot to think about. I understand. Take your time."
Sherlock glared. "Shut up."
John just turned towards the window and smirked.
"Monogamy," John said, roughly twelve hours later.
"Not the time, John," Sherlock panted.
"Is too. You've had long enough to let it. . ." John trailed off for a moment, trying to breathe, before continuing, "had long enough to. . . percolate through that brain of yours. I'm helping you along by. . . watch the pipe!. . . by asking about specific variables."
Sherlock jumped clean over the pipe and kept running. "Really not the time, John."
John couldn't reply for a few moments, as his lungs were too busy gasping as he tried to run up a fire escape two steps at a time. Once he was about three floors up he managed to call, "What happened to 'a conductor of light' and all that?" at Sherlock's retreating back.
"Do keep up!" Sherlock called over his shoulder. Long-legged bastard was half a flight above John already.
Once they made it to the roof of the building John said, "We're still capable of speech. I don't see why this shouldn't be the topic of conversation."
"You're not going to let this go, are you," Sherlock stated from where he was kneeling before the roof-access door, trying to pick the lock. John noted absently that he still had a bit of whipped cream on the edge of his coat. He wondered if it had happened during the explosions (cherry bombs in each of the main dishes at a large banquet) or when they were fighting their way out of the hall.
Using swords, John couldn't help but remind himself. Actual swords. Because the point was not to kill everyone at the banquet (most of whom belonged to the family that ran the trafficking ring), the point was to make it look good. And if anyone knew how to do something with a bit of dramatic flare, it was Sherlock.
John grinned so wide he wondered if his face would split in half. "No way in hell."
Sherlock sighed. "Get me the other set of lockpicks. No, the right pocket. What was the question?"
"Monogamy," John replied, slapping the thin black case into Sherlock's outstretched hand.
"That's not a question."
John was silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of pursuit, but it sounded like everyone was still down below; certainly the fire escape wasn't rattling under anyone's weight. "How do you feel about monogamy, I mean. Would you want to be allowed to see other people? Would you want your partner to be exclusive with you or not?"
Sherlock stood with a triumphant smirk, pulling the door open as he tucked both lockpick sets back into his volumous coat. "I do not share, John."
John continued smiling as he followed Sherlock inside. "Okay, so your partner wouldn't be allowed to date anyone else. What about yourself?"
"I can hardly fathom having any sort of romantic interest in one person, much less more than one at once."
"And morally?"
Sherlock sighed. "Were I in a romantic relationship, John, on every level I would expect both my partner and myself to remain rigidly faithful to one another, no matter if we had inclinations to do otherwise."
"In favor of monogamy, then," John said absently, just before he heard a door somewhere below them bang open, followed by the shouts of their pursuers.
"Going public," John whispered.
Sherlock sighed, but quietly. "Still not the time, John."
John would have shrugged, but had no room to do so. "We've nothing else to do but talk."
"They might hear us, John."
"We'll whisper. It'll be no louder than breathing, anyway."
"No."
"You'll get bored."
"I'll cope."
"You never cope."
"I could try to cope."
"I'll get bored."
"Unlikely."
"See? We've been talking for five minutes and nothing bad's happened."
"Forty-five seconds and something still might."
"How would you feel about going public?"
"John," Sherlock hissed, clearly exasperated, letting his forehead thump unpleasantly against John's shoulder. John would have liked to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls, but was fortunately prevented from doing so. The closet they were mashed into was so small John's arms were pressed against the walls; he couldn't lift them if his life depended on it. Which, he hoped, it wouldn't.
John pressed his cheek against Sherlock's hair and said, "We can talk about this, or I can start making 'in the closet' jokes. Your choice."
Sherlock groaned, but so quietly John only knew he was doing it because he could actually feel the vibrations. Good thing he was able to control his libido so well when he was in life-and-death situations, otherwise Sherlock definitely would have found out about John's less than platonic thoughts, if only because his thigh was so firmly between John's legs. Down, boy.
"Fine," Sherlock hissed. "Explain going public."
"Telling people," John said without missing a beat. "Would you want to keep it a total secret, or sing it from the rooftops?"
"Are those my only options?"
"No, but the ones in the middle can be more complicated. It's easy to only tell a few people, a few close friends, but not so easy to convince them to not tell anyone."
"Mycroft would know," Sherlock said with a shudder.
It was a really good thing John had iron control of all his physical reactions when he was in a combat situation, because God, that shudder.
"Okay, but that's not really a matter of choice," John said. "What would you want?"
Sherlock didn't answer for a moment. John got the distinct impression that he was actually thinking about it, was actually considering what it would be like to be in a romantic relationship and weighing his options for allowing the rest of the world to know that. A good, good sign.
"I don't think I'd want to tell anyone," Sherlock said at last.
"Why not?" John asked almost absently. It had just occurred to him that he was trying to keep himself from getting a stiffy with Sherlock pressed so firmly against him, when he'd spent so long since the accident worried that he'd never be able to get it up again.
Was reining it in a habit? Or was he actually getting hard? Was. . . God, John knew he was mad about Sherlock, but was it actually possible that. . .
Sherlock snapped, "Because I wouldn't want anyone else to know."
John chuckled, then stopped when the gust of air made Sherlock's hair tickle his nose. "But why? Would you be ashamed, or-"
John got no further, because Sherlock shook his head almost viciously, nearly knocking John's jaw. Fortunately John managed to move just in time and avoid getting his teeth chipped.
"No," Sherlock hissed, "no, I wouldn't be ashamed. I would- if I ever was in a relationship like this, John, one that I actually wanted to be in, with someone who actually wanted me, I'd be- I think I'd be proud."
John didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything. What on earth could he say to something like that?
"Besides," Sherlock continued with a wry chuckle, and John noticed he still hadn't lifted his head from John's shoulder, so his face was still hidden, "I believe it's the done thing to take one's partner's wishes into consideration."
"True," said John, "and that's one of the things that should be true in your relationship, too. What I don't get is why you assume your partner would want to keep it secret."
"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed, in that voice that meant he could not believe someone as dim-witted as John actually managed to walk around without hitting the walls, "do you honestly think anyone in a relationship with me would want the rest of the world to know that?"
John's mouth dropped open.
Unfortunately, John's mouth was not the only thing that opened, because at that moment the closet door was jerked wide, and for the next several minutes John was more concerned with Sherlock's survival than his emotional well-being. But only just.
"You would have to explain why you did things, why you wanted things. That would include telling your partner about your past," said John.
"Go to sleep!" Sherlock hissed.
"You're not sleeping."
"I don't need to sleep."
"You do too."
"Not yet."
"I'm going to keep talking about this," John pointed out, pulling the blanket up further. Why, oh why, did they only have one blanket? They could have carried two. Or five. Or, hell, they could just light the bed on fire. Would be warmer.
"Go to sleep. We'll talk about it in the morning."
"Yes, we will," said John, looking at Sherlock, perched next to the window. How the hell had he not frozen yet? Not that the window was open, but it had to be even colder over there than it was on the bed, away from the window and door, under the one miserable blanket. "But we're going to talk about it now, too."
Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, very quickly. "Fine!" he hissed at last. "Fine. Talk."
"I just mean," John repressed a sigh, knowing it would spark off another round of arguing, "what you said earlier. About your partner not wanting to let anyone know they were going out with you. About them being ashamed of you-"
"I never said that," Sherlock snapped.
"It may not be what you said, but it's what you meant."
Sherlock didn't say anything. Before he could, John continued, "It sounds like. . . like maybe you've got some experience that would make you think that's the case. I'm just saying that, all these decisions you and your partner would make about your relationship. . you'd have to explain why you make those decisions."
"I don't see why. That's no one's business but my own."
"Untrue," said John. "If it's something that affects both of you, it's both of your business. That's part of being in a relationship."
Sherlock turned to smirk at him. "A normal relationship, maybe. What happened to nothing being normal with me?"
"It's not necessarily normal," said John, trying to wrap the blanket around his back so the cold air didn't skitter down his neck, all without uncovering his feet, "lots of people keep lots of secrets in their relationships. But telling each other things like that is healthy."
Sherlock cocked his head. "Why?"
"You remember that case two months ago? The one with the woman with PTSD?" John could have used his own PTSD as an example, of course, but dammit he and Sherlock weren't in a romantic relationship yet, and there were still things John wouldn't tell him.
"Of course," Sherlock snapped, obviously offended at the idea that he could actually forget something.
"Okay. You remember that the reason she beat that guy up was because he triggered an attack?"
"Yes, John. I was there, too, no need to repeat the whole case."
"Patience, genius, I'm getting to the point." John gave up on the blanket and just curled up tighter. Then he spent a moment gathering his sleepy thoughts, trying to find words that were scientific and clinical and would get the point across to Sherlock. "Past experience dictates how we respond to new stimuli. Okay? Relationships- relationships of any kind, not just romantic ones- tend to influence us very strongly. One bad relationship and we can get pretty messed up. If your partner knows a lot about your past, they can avoid doing or not doing things that would upset you. Like the woman with PTSD. Right? If her friend had known about any of her triggers, none of that would have happened. You don't want to do something that might cause your partner to freak out, and you want them to know how to avoid upsetting you."
"Why should they care about upsetting me?"
"Because they should care about you," John said. Horrified.
Sherlock harrumphed. "You're asking an awful lot of my hypothetical partner, John."
"I'm asking next to nothing."
Fortunately, before he could get too worried about what Sherlock might read in that comment, John's shivers became truly unbearable, and his teeth started chattering.
"Oh, for godssake," Sherlock said, unfolding off the window seat. "You'll be no use if you don't sleep."
Sherlock went to the foot of the bed and began clambering up it, positioning himself between John and the wall.
"Thank God," John groaned, rolling over and raising the blanket so Sherlock could slip underneath it. "I seriously thought I would freeze to death."
Sherlock chuckled. "Not cold enough for that."
"Gotten hypothermia, then."
"Might be cold enough for that," Sherlock conceded, wrapping the blanket around himself.
John rolled to face the door again, scooting backwards so his back was pressed to Sherlock's chest. He sighed in bliss when Sherlock wrapped an arm around his chest. "God, you're warm," he murmured approvingly.
"Indeed. Now go to sleep."
"Yes, yes, all right," John said, shifting to get more comfortable. Sherlock was a wonderfully warm weight all down his back, from the crown of his head to the back of his knees. After a moment Sherlock shifted, slowly, so the tops of his feet were pressing to the sole's of John's.
"Jesus!" John cried, jolting. "Your feet are ice!"
Sherlock began moving away, muttering something, but before he could go any further John ordered, "Here, put them between my calves. They'll warm up faster. God, Sherlock, next time you're that cold say something! What if you'd gotten frostbite?"
There was silence from behind John for a moment before Sherlock said, "Still technically too warm to get frostbite."
"Whatever. Just warm up your bloody feet."
"All right," Sherlock whispered. There was something in his voice that made John's heart clench, even when he instinctively flinched as Sherlock's frigid feet slid between his calves.
Obviously Sherlock expected John to take it none too kindly when he put his cold feet against John's soles. A completely reasonable expectation, John thought. But the fact that he seemed so thrown that John would try to warm his feet up, that John would try to take care of him, even after all this time. . .
John carefully took stock. His breath was doing funny things, trying to both hitch in sadness and deepen into sleep; his pulse was still slow and steady; Sherlock couldn't see his face or his pupils. Not much more danger than usual, then.
Not that John was feeling anything like aroused. But, quite honestly, arousal would be much easier to deal with than the blinding ache of raw affection tugging him towards Sherlock.
He wound his fingers through Sherlock's, clutching his arm to his chest. "Now," said John, nuzzling his face into the pillow, "be sure to wake me up if anyone comes through the door. I'll wake up fast, don't worry. Just make sure you tell me what's going on."
"I know, John," said Sherlock. But he squeezed John closer and pressed his face against the back of John's neck.
Sherlock didn't wake him until sunrise, and until then John's dreams were sweet.
"I'd be amenable to such a relationship, provided my potential partner met one specific criterion," said Sherlock firmly.
John gaped at him.
After a moment John managed to gasp, ". . . Timing."
Somewhere off to the left, one of the girls began crying softly; gasping little sobs that sounded so lost John had to close his eyes for a moment. He looked back at the girl he was tending to, made sure she was propped up against the wall comfortably, before rising and making his way over to the far corner of the shipping container he and Sherlock had finally located.
It turned out that some of the information given to Sherlock at the beginning of the case was faulty, and therefore his estimate of when the 'shipment' from England would arrive was a week off. That meant that the shipping container with the kidnapped women had arrived in Spain just a day after Sherlock and John had. Their interference had disrupted the trafficking ring enough to prevent them from moving any of the women from the container, until Sherlock (finding new evidence as he and John raised hell) had realized what was going on, and he and John had bent all their energy on locating the container. Which, at last, they had.
It wasn't until John squatted down in front of the crying girl that Sherlock's words finally caught up with him. His breath hitched, but then she let out another sob, and any thoughts John may have had that didn't deal with helping every single one of these poor women abruptly fled.
Thankfully, none of their injuries were serious. The worst that had happened to them physically was drugs, and there was nothing John could do about that. They'd have to get somewhere safe to detox right away. John grit his teeth when he went over statistics in his head, and realized it was likely that at least twenty of the girls were addicted to the drugs already.
John clenched his hands. The monsters. Kidnapping these poor women, drugging them, treating them like chattal, forcing an illegal and unhealthy addiction on them, leaving them in darkness and fear to await their fate. . .
Sherlock stood just behind his shoulder for a moment. John calmed down. There would be time to deal with all this later. For now, keeping the girls safe was the priority.
"What criterion?" John asked.
Sherlock shot him a quizzical look, but didn't deign to answer.
"You mentioned it earlier. Said your potential partner would need to meet one specific criterion. Do keep up," he couldn't help but add, grinning broadly. Sherlock glared at him.
John had been wondering about that criterion ever since the Spanish authorities showed up and he no longer needed to be the one in charge of the situation. After seeing all the girls safely off, he and Sherlock had been summarily arrested, which had been unavoidable. Thankfully, this time Sherlock had seen fit to inform John that they would be arrested long before they had put the final phase of the plan in action, so John wasn't too upset to find himself sitting on a bench next to Sherlock in the far corner of a holding cell, awaiting the promised Mycroftian rescue.
It wasn't that John couldn't think of anything Sherlock would require of a potential romantic partner; rather, it was that John could think of a hundred things, and had no idea how to narrow it down to just one. What one thing would Sherlock require above all others?
They must be scathingly intelligent. They must live on the other side of the world, thus necessitating a long-distance relationship. They must be able to text with only one hand. They must know the periodic table by heart. They must be willing to experiment (though Sherlock would not mean that in anything like the normal sense). They must not have children. They must not interfere with his smoking habit.
John had also spent rather a long time trying not to think of everything Sherlock could say that would automatically (and perhaps pointedly) rule John out. They must be female. They must not be ex-Army. They must not be a doctor. They must be attractive. They must not interfere with Sherlock's work or experiments. They must not annoy him. They must be able to keep up with Sherlock intellectually.
If only Sherlock would say something reasonable, like they must be able to put up with him or they must care about him above all others. Something easy like that. Something that was already true of John, something he could work with.
Sherlock simply said, "They must understand this nearly infinite number of variables approach of yours, and be willing to use it."
John looked away so Sherlock couldn't see his expression. He could definitely work with that.
They both remained silent, their gazes overtly hostile as they kept an eye on all the other inmates of the holding cell. Before John could register what a bad idea it was, he glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at him at precisely the same moment, and before they could help it they were both giggling like madmen. The adrenaline still coursing through their veins, the triumph of a case well-solved was making them slap-happy. Oh well, John thought to himself, hopefully all the other criminals locked in there with them would think they were simply crazy and would leave them alone.
John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. His eyes were closed, his face scrunched up with giddy laughter, his hair a wild tumble over his forehead. He'd never looked more handsome. John almost kissed him.
Right, then. He could work with this. He would work with this. Once they got back to London he'd give it a little while to settle, some time for Sherlock's brain to grow more accustomed to the idea of a romantic relationship, and give them both a little while to come down from the post-case high.
Then he'd ask Sherlock. Ask him to be John's. . . John's what, exactly? Boyfriend was a bit juvenial, and they'd already been partners for years. Lovers was both too intimate and something that would remain forever untrue. What, then?
Labels could wait. For now John could laugh, could revel in the pleasant ache in all his muscles from a case gamely and bravely won, and the deeper ache in his chest that was mingled happiness and yearning for the man sitting next to him. Once things settled down in London John would talk to Sherlock about it, and it was just barely possible that Sherlock wouldn't turn him down.
Still giggling, they rose when one of the guards came in and called their names (despite his obvious effort, John's name still sounded like 'Juan Wathon,' while Sherlock's was almost unrecognizable). John let Sherlock step out of the cell first, before following on his coattails like always.
He couldn't live without this, he realized. He'd lived without knowing the feel of Sherlock's lips against his own for his whole life and hadn't died yet. But if he lost Sherlock entirely for any reason his life would be well and truly over. Yet he was so desperately unhappy, wanted Sherlock so much, that he wasn't sure how much longer he could continue seeing Sherlock every day without doing something drastic. The pull between the two options- take a risk, take the plunge, ask Sherlock to be his romantic partner; or leave things as they were, have to watch him every day without being able to touch him and listen to him being brilliant without saying how much John cared about him, all while risking John snapping one day and either kissing Sherlock senseless or blurting out something embarrassing and having no contingency plan for what to do in either the case of acceptance or rejection- the pull was overwhelming.
John had no idea what to do. He couldn't live without Sherlock, but he couldn't continue living the way they were. He didn't want to risk loosing him, but he didn't want to stay with him forever and not really have him. Just before they stepped up to the desk belonging to the leading DI (or whatever they called them in Spain), John finally found a compromise with himself: he would try dating Sherlock, but he would never allow it to go past the point of no return. And if it ever looked like their romantic relationship might drive them apart, John would end it. No matter what.
He took a deep breath. Now all they had to do was get back to London, so John could actually talk to Sherlock about it.
.
.
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IMPORTANT NOTE: Even though this story is a work of fiction, human trafficking and slavery are tragically real and rampant in our world. I strongly urge all of you to donate any time or resources you can spare to some of the many wonderful organizations out there dedicated to helping victims of human trafficking.
One such organization is Women At Risk International (warinternational dot com). It's dedicated to helping women and children who are otherwise unable to help themselves; many of them are victims of domestic violence and slavery. They sell beautiful jewelry, scarves, ornaments, etc. that are classy and well-priced. No better place to find Christmas gifts!
And that concludes today's chapter. Please review if you're enjoying the story; concrit is welcome, as are suggestions.
Jez out!