The surface beneath him was hard and uneven, softened only slightly by a thin woollen blanket – at least it's what it felt like for the tips of his fingers when he touched the material tentatively. He thought for a moment about opening his eyes to see what exactly was going around him, but the sun was warm on his skin and he was so comfortable, that he decided to simply enjoy this blissful moment a little longer.
There was a sound of ocean surf somewhere down below – a constant noise of waves breaking on a rocky shore, soothing and relaxing. A cool breeze blew across his skin, and John shivered slightly, attempting to curl up in order to remain warm and comfortable.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock murmured, his voice filled with awe and delight. "To think that I never had time to appreciate all that… Amazing."
Surprised by his friend's presence, John blinked his eyes open, uncurling and propping himself up on his elbow. They were on the top of the cliff, the detective sitting on the same blanket not far from the doctor, facing away towards the ocean, his legs bent and hugged to his chest.
Another dream then, but this time it appeared to be shared.
But even considering that this was a dream, Sherlock's words were kind of… strange. For a creature so logical and rational like him, anyway.
And John, of course, didn't fail to point it out, although a hint of a smile was clearly heard in his voice. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with the real Sherlock?"
His soulmate turned around to face him, a smile tugging at his lips and his dark curls swept back by the gust of wind. "You always berated me for not paying attention to anything outside my job. I finally decided to change my mind about that, and you're grumbling again. Where's the logic?"
"Blissful moments in life are not ruled by logic, Sherlock," John answered with the smile of his own. "It's just… I'm a little surprised, I guess."
The younger man chuckled. "We have merged recently, remember? No wonder that I'm channelling you now, don't you think?"
John shifted around on the blanket, copying his friend's pose. "Well, finally some indication that my presence is rubbing off on you."
"I'm not dignifying that with a response."
"I'm not expecting you to. Let's just enjoy the moment, shall we?"
They both fell silent, looking into the distance. The ocean was calm now – not a wave, not even a slightest ripple. The sky was cloudless, and the sun was starting to set, colouring the surface of the ocean with gold and red hues.
"It's going to be dark soon," Sherlock remarked, moving back so his shoulder rested against John's. "Which makes me wonder…"
"Greetings, Chosen Ones," the voice come from nowhere, making the blond jerk in surprise.
The dark-haired man, however, was obviously expecting that. "Ah, a new name. And I guess it's not the last one."
"We will consider that, Curious One," their mentor said after a brief pause, and the two men exchanged glances – was that a mockery in a "higher power's" voice? "Now, however, is the time for you to ask questions."
"Okay, then I have one," John announced without skipping a bit. "Are we going to do the learning thing together from now on?"
"Most of the time. There still going to be some moments that would require separate consultations. But you're allowed to share new information afterwards."
Sherlock frowned. "So why split us up? Why can't it be handled when we are together?"
"Your level of adjustment to your gift differs from the one that Quiet One has, and therefore in some situations your interference may impede his progress."
John felt his friend's body tense beside him and hurried to forestall Sherlock's cutting remark. "Considering the fact that Curious One already has quite a head start, I think it's reasonable."
His soulmate, however, outright refused to take the hint. "That's rubbish. How is it interference if I'm only going to observe him?"
"Due to the fact that you underwent the merging, your mere presence during the training is going to affect the Quiet One energetically on all levels, disrupting his concentration."
"Right, then how long would it take for our difference to balance out?"
"It can be reduced considerably for both of you by creating an energy imprint of each other," the voice paused, and then continued in a much softer tone. "It will also help to overcome the anxiety should you be separated against your will during the next two weeks."
The two men gave each other puzzled looks, and then asked in unison. "The anxiety?"
Their mentor's voice sounded genuinely apologetic now. "We are sorry for not mentioning about a significant side effect of merging earlier, but you will need each other's presence nearby, up to the point of physical craving."
John ducked his head, trying to hide his sudden blush, and Sherlock's eyebrows nearly crawled into his hairline. Always priding himself on being the most rational man in the entire world, the detective managed to keep his voice calm and steady.
"Excuse me, but I think you ought to elaborate on that statement," Sherlock said bluntly, causing John to emit a choked, almost hysterical giggle.
"We realise that it may cause you certain problems..," the voice began, only to be interrupted by John, who evidently was on the brink of losing it.
"Oh, you have no idea how CERTAIN they are going to be," the doctor snorted, and the detective reached out and clamped his hand around his soulmate's wrist, attempting to distract him from going down the path they both had tried to avoid up until now.
And distract him Sherlock did, judging by the sudden hitch of breath on John's part, and the fact that the good doctor's body went absolutely still.
A moment after that all conversation was impossible as John slowly turned, raised his head and looked straight into his eyes. Grey-blue met dark grey, and the detective found himself drowning, sinking into their warm depths and never wanting to surface again.
And then John turned his hand around in Sherlock's loose grasp and sort of slid his palm along Sherlock's, entwining their fingers.
A jolt of energy sizzled through the detective's body, setting all his nerve endings on fire, and the world around him faded away in a whirlwind of colours and sensations…
Sherlock surfaced from sleep, feeling the feather-light touches of John's fingers on his face. He was lying on his back, a pillow under his head and a duvet tucked around him, so John must've gotten them comfortable during their brief nap. His soulmate was skimming his fingertips gently across his forehead, down his cheek, across his jaw, and then pausing for the moment under his chin only to mirror his movements on the other side of Sherlock's face. John's gentle ministrations left a pleasant feeling in their wake, and the detective allowed the corners of his lips to quirk up into a smile.
A breathy chuckle sounded close to his ear, and John's fingers stilled on his forehead, causing Sherlock to growl slightly and push his head against his friend's hand.
"I take it that you like it, don't you?" the doctor murmured, resuming his caress.
The detective hummed, not bothering with expressing his contentment verbally. But his soulmate evidently wanted to hear it, so the petting stopped once again.
Sherlock huffed in irritation and opened his eyes, shooting John a pointed look; but the doctor just raised his eyebrows in enquiry and continued to refuse getting with the programme. The staring contest lasted nearly a minute, ending with the younger man rolling his eyes in exasperation and reluctantly providing an answer.
"Tingly," he muttered and nudged John's hand again.
"I'm sorry but I didn't quite catch that," the older man replied, still annoyingly refusing to take the hint and move his hand.
Sherlock huffed again. "You're just going to make me say that, aren't you? Okay, fine. I get a tingling feeling all over my body when you touch me, regardless of WHERE exactly you touch me. Happy now?"
John's hand moved at last, and Sherlock started to relax only to be jolted into awareness by his soulmate's next question.
"What sort of tingly? Good, bad, something else?" the blond enquired, moving his hand down onto his partner's shoulder and starting to massage it, digging his fingers into muscles lightly.
"You think I would've allowed it if it was anything but pleasant?" Sherlock countered with the question, closing his eyes and drifting out again.
"I guess not," John worked his fingers down his friend's arm and took his hand, paying attention to each one of Sherlock's slender digits. The detective hummed again and turned on his side, bringing his other hand in the vicinity of John's skilful fingers. John grinned. "What me to do you all over?"
The younger man opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by light knocking on the door. John let go of his hand and moved away, and Sherlock discovered that he was missing his soulmate being close already.
"Come in!" he called out, pushing up into a sitting position and rearranging the duvet so it was wrapped around his shoulders.
The door opened slowly, and Stanley Barlow poked his head in. "Good morning, Sherlock, John. I hope I'm not intruding..."
"No, Stanley, not at all," John got up from the bed and went around to greet the therapist. "I was just planning to give Sherlock a backrub, but that can wait. Are Mycroft and Gregory up already?"
"Yes, I saw them both going into what I assume is Mr. Holmes' study," Barlow allowed John to escort him to the nearest chair and sat down.
"Was it on the second floor near the tower?" Sherlock enquired, watching the two doctor's interactions with avid curiosity.
"On the second floor – yes, but I'm not sure about the tower. Somewhere in the middle, more likely."
"Then it's certainly the library," the younger man said confidently, his eyes locked onto his friend's face which was displaying a noticeable signs of distress. "John, are you all right?"
"A bit itchy," the blond admitted, suppressing a strong desire to scratch his arm. "But it's already fading, so don't worry."
"Good. How about breakfast, then?" Sherlock smiled at him sympathetically. "Because I'm sure Mycroft will wish to see us quite soon."
"Sounds wonderful, Sherlock. Lead the way," John answered, and the three men left the room...
"Quite an impressive mansion you have here, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade remarked, coming over to a window to take a peak outside.
"Thank you, Detective Inspector," the politician gave an acknowledging nod. "It is quite convenient to have such a place in circumstances like this."
"I bet it is. But you didn't call me here only to enjoy the view, did you?"
"Quite a direct approach, Gregory, but no. I have a proposition for you."
The policeman's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'm not sure we know each other well enough for this type of conversation, Mr. Holmes."
The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched up into a ghost of a smile. "Very well, Gregory. You can call me Mycroft, by the way. And it's an offer of employment."
The DI turned away from the window, locking his gaze with Mycroft, and the politician guessed his answer right away. "I'm deeply honoured by your attention to my humble person, but I must decline, I'm afraid."
Even if the older Holmes was disappointed by his answer, Gregory Lestrade couldn't see any indication of that. "It's your choice, Gregory, and I'm not going to trouble you with it any longer. But should you reconsider, I want you to know that my offer still stands."
"Thank you, Mycroft, and I promise to think about it," a warm smile lit up Lestrade's face. "Now, you were saying something about the plan yesterday…"
Right at that moment a door to the library opened and Sherlock walked in, followed by John and Barlow.
"Ah, well, about that… Gentlemen, please, take a seat. Sherlock, how are you feeling?" Mycroft moved towards his sibling, and Sherlock flinched slightly. John, noticing that, took a step forward and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The older Holmes stopped and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"He's okay, Mycroft, don't worry," John reassured, towing Sherlock along in the direction of a chair and parking him there successfully. "Please continue."
A slight frown creased Mycroft's forehead for a second, but he let the subject drop, focusing his attention back on the subject. "Gentlemen, I think you are all aware of our situation, so it's time for us to decide on a course of action we are going to take. Doctor Barlow, what's your opinion on Sherlock's condition?"
The sandy-haired doctor jerked a little, not expecting to be questioned, and cast a fleeting glance at his patient. "Well, his recovery seems to be going quite efficiently, no relapses so far, so I can safely say that he is perfectly ready to return to a normal life."
The older Holmes reached out for the manila folder on the nearest table and flipped it open. "Normal, you say? I can assure you that my brother's life is as far from normal as it possible for a human to have, Doctor Barlow."
John's jaw tightened. "Mycroft, I don't think now's the perfect time to discuss this."
"Oh, but I beg to differ, Doctor Watson," the politician leafed through the pages in the folder. "According to the information in this file, Sherlock's brain now operates on a much wider capacity than it did before the clinical death. More than that, the scans are clearly showing that certain parts of his brain have been activated – the parts that are usually associated with the so-called supernatural abilities."
"Mycroft," the blond hissed. "Stop it! He already has enough on his plate; he can't deal with that right now."
A hand slid up his arm, fisting into the fabric of his shirt, and Sherlock tugged him closer, forcing him to take a seat on the arm of the chair. After that the younger man clamped his hand on John's thigh and raised his chin defiantly.
"And your point is, Mycroft?" the detective all but growled, ignoring his soulmate's feeble attempts to wriggle free.
Mycroft's cold blue eyes assessed his irritated sibling, and his lips twitched. "No need to be so possessive, brother dear, I'm not going to subject you or John to any kind of tests. And besides, I'm certainly not the one you should be afraid of."
Sherlock's grip tightened a bit more, and John yelped in pain, wrestling the punishing hand off his leg.
"Watch it, Sherlock!" the doctor rasped, rubbing his leg vigorously. His pained voice seemed to snap the detective out of his haze, and a guilty expression appeared on his face.
"Oh God, John, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean…" Sherlock reached a trembling hand to touch his soulmate, but John involuntarily pushed his hand away.
The younger man gasped and tried to shrink deeper into the chair, his fearful eyes fixed on his friend's face. The blond cursed under his breath and turned to the older Holmes.
"Mycroft, can we postpone this conversation? I really need to calm Sherlock down, so I would appreciate everyone leaving right now."
The politician nodded and ushered Lestrade and Barlow out of the room, closing the door carefully and leading his guests away.
Meanwhile John looked around the room and spotted a leather sofa in the far corner.
"Well, Sherlock, it's only you and me now," he said gently and reached out to take his soulmate's hand. "Come on."
The dark-haired man looked at him in confusion, but still allowed to be pulled up and then obediently followed his friend to the sofa. John took a position at the corner of the sofa and motioned for Sherlock to lie down, which the younger man did without a word, using John's thigh as a pillow.
"It's okay, Sherlock," the doctor whispered soothingly, running a hand through the dark curls. "Everything's fine, you're safe now. Just let it go, mate. Just let everything go."
For a moment nothing happened, and then Sherlock took a shuddering breath, turned his head, pressing his face into John's thigh, and his body started to shake…
John continued to simply stroke his friend's head, a sad and tender expression gracing his face. Because right now, right at that moment, Sherlock Holmes finally set his foot on the road of becoming not only a great, but a good man as well...
"Excuse me, Sir, can I help you?" Sally Donovan called out, seeing a stranger walking purposely to Lestrade's office.
The men stopped and turned to her, a friendly expression on his face. "Actually I think you do," he said amiably, strolling towards her with his hand extended in greeting. "My name is Thomas Sanderson, and I'm looking for Detective Inspector Lestrade."
Sally eyed the strange man suspiciously, but still stretched out her hand and even allowed Thomas to kiss it. "Can I ask why?"
Sanderson glanced around quickly and leaned closer to her. "I have sensitive information about the Abbot case. And I think that the Detective Inspector would be very interested to hear it."
Sally cringed inwardly. Another crazy lunatic pretending to be the key figure in a totally lost case. "I'm sorry, Sir, but Detective Inspector Lestrade is unavailable at the moment. You can leave him a note, if you want."
The strange man glanced towards Lestrade's office, utterly disappointed. "That's a pity; I was really hoping to see him. Can I leave you my card? It's really important, you now."
"I don't doubt that, Sir", Sally's mobile chirped on her desk, and she turned away to get it, but it stopped ringing almost immediately. Shrugging her shoulders, she turned again just in time to see Sanderson walking into her boss' office. "Excuse me, but what the hell you think you're doing?"
Startled by her voice, Thomas jerked his hand away from Lestrade's desk and looked at her guiltily. "I'm sorry, but I just couldn't resist. All that stuff… Investigations, murders, secrets… It's fascinating, isn't it?"
"For outsiders like you – maybe, Mr. Sanderson. For all of us, who work here – not anymore, I'm afraid. Anyway, you were saying something about leaving your card?"
"Oh, right," Thomas reached into his pocket, dug out the card and placed it on Lestrade's desk. "Here it is. And I'm already leaving, so don't you worry, Sergeant Donovan."
She frowned. "You know my name? How?"
"Oh, it's simple. I read the papers, you know. Have a nice day, Sergeant."
He smiled slightly and walked away, leaving her staring after him in bewilderment. Shaking her head, she closed the door to the DI's office and returned to her desk, her mind already focused on her paperwork.
Thomas Sanderson walked out of Scotland Yard, pulling his leather gloves on, and in the next moment his face changed drastically. Gone was a funny, pathetic man – a cold, hard expression appeared on his features, and Norman Norton was back again, his thin lips curving in a condescending sneer.
A ghost of Lestrade's vital energy signature was still clinging to the tips of his fingers, and Norton balled his hands into fists, trapping the sensation against his palm. He was absolutely sure that the DI was still somewhere near Sherlock, and therefore, could be used as a human beacon in a process of finding the actual location of Holmes' family hideout.
The driver was already holding the rear door of the black Jaguar open for him, and Norman slid onto the seat in one smooth motion.
"Home, Gary. And contact Mr. Melford, please. Tell him I need everything to be ready. We are leaving straight away…"