Demon harpies rip through his skin, clawing at his chest. They are half-bird, half-women. One has the face of Eurus Holmes, the mysterious E who he met on a bus. Another has the face of Irene Adler, beautiful with her cherry red lips and her sharp, sharp, claws. The last has Mary's face. She claws open his chest pulling out his heart and taking a bite. He turns his head to the side to avoid watching her eat it, and he sees Sherlock. Sherlock is chained to a rock just as he is. His black shirt flutters open exposing his chest and the small bullet wound there. The harpies stop their screeching and look up from John's torn flesh. As one, they turn their bloody faces toward Sherlock. John screams, "No!"
"John, John. It's all right. It's a dream. You just had a bad dream."
"Sherlock? Sherlock, is that you?" John opens his eyes to see Sherlock's face in front of him. He blinks and looks around. "Where are we?"
"On the mountain, in Scotland, remember? You fell."
John takes a breath. "Oh yes, I remember. What time is it?"
"Half-three."
John leans forward, his head falling against Sherlock's chest. He turns his head and listens to his heart beating. It beats faster. Sherlock has one arm around him. His other hand is pressing firmly against John's leg to prevent him from jostling his ankle which is throbbing with pain. He is clutching on to Sherlock, holding his arms in a death grip. His fingernails are digging into Sherlock's flesh even through his shirt.
I'm hurting him.
He pulls away, looking up to see Sherlock open-mouthed staring down at him with eyes round like the moon, bright as the morning sky. John lowers his eyes, reaching down to rub at his leg.
Sherlock removes his hand from John's leg, and scoots away from him as if he's been kicked.
It's not like I haven't kicked him before, kicked him when he was down. God, I'm a monster.
"I need a drink," John says.
"I'll get you one."
John reaches down to see the swollen ankle bulging out past the edge of the bandage. He winces as he pulls the leg toward him, then unwraps it.
Sherlock thrusts a bottle in his face, and he takes a sip frowning. "What is this?"
"Water."
"I said that I need a drink. Pass me my pack."
Sherlock pushes it closer and john digs around before pulling out a metal flask. He takes a sip and sighs as the alcohol burns his throat. Then he pours some onto his hand and sprinkles it on his swollen ankle, spreading it around with his fingers in large circles to cool the reddened skin.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks watching with sharp, attentive eyes.
"Just something my mother used to do when she had aches. She'd come back from work with pains in her feet or knees and she'd do this. She said it cooled it."
"Ah, the rapid evaporative properties of ethanol aiding in the cooling of said flesh, as well as providing a minor irritant that would increase circulation in the area."
"Yeah, I guess. She just said it made it feel better. The drinking also helped." John takes another sip from the flask.
"Your mother was an alcoholic." He says it like a statement, but he looks at him like it's a question. I suppose it is.
"Yeah, she was." he screws the bottle closed before placing it into his breast pocket.
"You never talk of her."
"She died when I was in college of cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
"I'm still sorry."
John looks down at his hands. "Thank you."
"And your father? Is he still alive?"
"Don't know, don't care. He left us, a week before my ninth birthday. My mother raised me and Harry. She worked two jobs, most of that time, packing things in a factory and waitressing nights and weekends."
"That must have been hard for you."
"We got by."
"Is that why you chose to be a doctor, to fix your mother's cancer?"
"No, well maybe in part. If I wanted to fix my mother I should have become a psychiatrist. Mum had all kinds of problems." John smiles. "But I loved her, I loved her very much."
"And did you love, Mary?"
John frowns. He looks up at Sherlock. "What's going on? Why the interrogation?"
"It's not an interrogation it's just… I realized that we never talk about you. We talk about work and Rosie, and crimes and unimportant things, but I never really ask about you. I don't really know anything about your past."
"I figured you'd have deduced it all by now."
"I have, but I've never asked."
John bows his head looking at his wedding ring. He remembers Mary's smiling face on their wedding day, then her look as she pointed a gun at him in the empty house. "Yeah, I loved her. But I didn't trust her."
"Do you trust me?"
John remembers Sherlock standing on the ledge above Saint Barts and before that in the flat, the lamplight shining harshly on his face.
'I know you're for real.'
'One hundred percent?'
He remembers the sound of the gun shot, and Magnussen falling to the ground while the helicopter flies overhead, and the airport…
'Sherlock is a girl's name.'
"I trust you for some things."
"What things?"
John chuckles. "You vain git, you can't even stand to talk about me for two minutes before it comes back to you, can you?"
Sherlock raises his hands, "Sorry, sorry, you're right. I'm sorry. So, tell me about yourself."
"Nothing to tell. I was never that interesting."
Sherlock laughs. "How can you possibly say that, John? You are the most interesting man I know."
John looks up to see if he's joking, Sherlock's face is open, sincere. Always so sincere.
Why am I doing this? Why am I listening to Sherlock again?
John lays back on the bed roll, his knee sticking up to spare his ankle.
"John, are you okay?"
"Fine."
"I shouldn't have kept you awake. You need your rest."
"Yes I do." John looks up at the ceiling. Wooden beams hold up the roof. The fire crackles. "What about you, Sherlock. Aren't you going to sleep?"
"No."
John closes his eyes and smiles. "You're not a robot, Sherlock, sleep."
Sherlock spreads out a blanket beside the fire and lays down on it. John turns his head to see his eyes are still open. He sighs. "You're not even trying to sleep."
"I can sleep later. I don't want to miss anything."
John props himself up on his elbows and looks at Sherlock. "There is nothing to miss? Nothing's going to happen here. It's hours before sunrise. You're not on a case, and I'm certainly not going anywhere."
"But you will go, John. That's why I won't sleep now."
John sits up. He takes a moment to adjust his leg before facing Sherlock. "Alright, we're here. It doesn't look like I'm getting back to sleep, and you aren't planning to sleep, so let's talk. So, Sherlock, why are you here? What exactly were you hoping to accomplish by following me up this mountain."
Sherlock pulls himself up and sits cross-legged. "I wanted to see you, John."
"I'm here. You can see me. Now what?"
"I wanted to ask you a question."
"What question? Did I love Mary? What kind of a question is that to ask a man who recently lost his wife?"
"I wanted to ask why you're leaving London."
"Who told you that I was leaving London."
Sherlock looks at him. He looks back and sees the certainty of deduction in his eyes. "I haven't made firm plans. I've just been looking, but … I thought, that with Mary gone, it was a good opportunity to move. Besides, someone might have known where she lived. She does have enemies. I wanted a fresh start. I know it will be hard at first..."
"You weren't going to tell me, were you?"
John frowns. "The last time I saw you, you had Greg pull a gun on me."
"You know why I did that."
"Yes, you thought I was crazy."
"Are you?"
John looks at the corner of the room. Mary is there, leaning against the wall. "Maybe," he says.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to do what I always do. Find a way to cope. Carry on living."
"I want to help."
John looks at him and his brow furrows deeply. "I don't think that I want your help."
"Why not?"
John remembers Sherlock falling from the roof.
"I don't need your help. I can take care of Rosie alone."
"You obviously can't. You sent her away. Were you afraid that you'd hurt her? That's what Ella thinks."
"Why is Ella suddenly someone you listen to. You used to say that she was an idiot."
"Well, were you afraid?"
"I'd never hurt Rosie, not consciously. I'm just not ready to take the responsibility just yet. I need to get my head on straight."
"You can move in with me. I'll watch her."
"You mean between chasing murderers and jumping out of windows. Carry her on your back to crime scenes, will you?"
"Why not? You did."
"I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have risked her. Rosie deserves a happy childhood, and a stable family."
"To make up for your childhood, because of your father's absence and your mother's alcoholism."
"Can you just stop deducing me!"
"I deduce because you won't tell me anything. You never do."
"Then shut up and listen!" John's voice is loud in the small cabin. He looks up to see Mary shaking her head at him. He pulls out the flask and takes a drink. He glares at Sherlock lest he cast a disapproving eye.
"I told you my father left when I was eight. He didn't divorce her, he just left. No money, no forwarding address, he was just...gone. It was hard for her being a single mum, and a waitress never gets any respect. She was young, but she looked older than she was. She was forty three when she died. Taking care of us, killed her. When I was sixteen my dad came back. Harry had gone on this quest to find him without telling any of us. She had been going out a lot, and we just thought that she'd found a new girlfriend that she thought Mum wouldn't approve of. Then one day, she brought him home with her. He just walked in the front door as if he'd never left. Mom was shocked."
John takes another sip from the flask. Sherlock watches silently as John seals it and puts it back into his pocket.
"He said, he was sorry. He said that he had been in a bad place and didn't think that he could be a good father. He thought that we would all be better off without him. Now he wanted to make amends. He wanted to know his son and his daughter. He wanted a place in our lives."
"And what did you say, John?"
"I told him no! I told him to get out of my house and never come back! He'd had his chance, and he'd missed it. There were so many times we needed his help, so many times we had hoped for someone to be there for us, and he hadn't been there. We needed him, and he wasn't there. Then he comes back when I'm almost grown to say that he wants me in his life? Well I don't want him. I don't need him. We were getting by without him, and we would continue to get by without his help!" John's face is flushed and he's angry. He's bumped his ankle and it's throbbing again. He takes deep breaths to calm down before continuing.
"Mary shot you, and she betrayed me, but she wanted that child. She told me that she wanted Rosie to have the kind of life she didn't have, and I believed her. I stayed, because Rosie deserved two parents who loved her. But Mary betrayed me again, rushing off on her world tour without me. I expected it, but I'd hoped that she wouldn't do it. I'd hoped that she wouldn't leave without a word. I'm up here, Sherlock, to put myself back together because I'm not okay. I'm not okay! I'm really, really not."
Suddenly it all crashes down on John, the guilt, and the self-hate, and the pain. He bends over covering his face so that Sherlock won't see him crying. Arms wrap around him then. A hand caresses his neck, and he remembers feeling this way before. He remembers feeling safe, safe in Sherlock's arms.
"John," Sherlock says. "I'm here. I'll be here for you and Rosie whenever you need me. I promise. I'd die before I let anything or anyone hurt you."
John breathes in sharply as anger coils in his abdomen. He slaps Sherlock's arms away from him and rises to his feet despite the pain.
"Get out!"
"John. What is it? What did I say?"
"I said get out of here! I don't want you here. I don't ever want to be in your presence again."
"John."
"Don't think just because I'm injured that I can't beat you to a pulp." John balls his hands into fists and leans back against the cabin wall bracing himself to spring forward. Sherlock turns and goes to the door, then he stops and turns back to face John.
"I told you to go."
"No."
"I'll kill you."
"I don't care. If I learned anything from Eurus, it's never to give up on someone that you care about. Tell me why you are so angry." Sherlock walks across the room until he is standing in front of John.
"Leave me alone!"
"No."
John launches himself at Sherlock and grabs his neck. Sherlock pries his hand off only to reel at a blow to the face that sends him to the floor. John falls down on top of him and grabs his arm pulling it up behind his back. Sherlock kicks his ankle and he cries in pain as Sherlock crawls away from him.
"Ow! That hurt, you bloody cock!" John says pulling himself up to a sitting position as he rubs at his ankle.
"Yes. Now tell me what's wrong. What did I do? What did I say? You were crying a moment ago, and then you just... exploded. What did I say?"
John smiles. It isn't a good smile. "You said you'd die for me. That you'd die for me and Rosie."
"So it's because I couldn't save Mary. You're angry because I vowed to protect the three of you, and I let Mary die?"
"You don't get it. You don't have any idea of what it's been like for me these last few years. What it was like after you left, and yes, I did notice that you never bothered to ask me. Ever since I've known you, Sherlock, you've been ready to die ever since that first night with the cabbie and that stupid game with the pill, and later on with the drugs. You came to me, hoping to win me back by almost getting yourself strangled to death in a hospital!
"I've been to war, Sherlock. I've seen plenty of people give up their lives for all kinds of causes, and you know what happens after they're gone? Someone else has to keep living. Someone else has to carry on.
"I'm a father now, and I have a child to take care of, and I know what it's like to have a parent that leaves you behind. It means never having someone there to teach you how to play ball. It means no one showing up on Parent's day, and never going on vacation because your parent has to work all the time to support you. Well, I don't want that kind of life for my Rosie, so I am not going to rush off and get myself killed. I am not going to throw myself in front of a bullet like Mary did. I don't have the luxury to die.
"So perhaps now you'll understand why I'm not tickled pink when you tell me about the money you want to give my daughter in your will. It doesn't please me that your first thoughts when you think of us is of your death. If that's the gift you plan to give my daughter, then I don't want it. She's going to have a hard enough time without her mother. Better that she never know you than to learn to love you, and have you leave us behind, again.
"Dying for someone is easy, Sherlock. The hard part is living for someone, every day, even through the pain and the fear. It's being there for someone when you know you aren't perfect, and you know that others might be able to do these things better, but they won't, so you have to do the best that you can. It's knowing that somebody needs you and loves you, and resolving that you will be there for them no matter what.
"When we were in the prison, you pointed that gun at your own head. You are always so willing to go first. Well, I've had enough of that. I won't take it anymore! If all you can give me is your heroic death, then go do it elsewhere. I don't want it. I don't need it. Ever since I've known you, you've been ready to die. Call me when you're ready to live."
Sherlock looks at John with eyes filled with hope. "John I…I don't want to die."
"All right, but are you ready to live... for me? Are you ready to be there for Rosie when she graduates from college? Will you hold her grandchildren in your arms? Will you loan her money when she needs to get a new flat, or get married, or buy a space ship, or God knows what challenges she's going to have in the future, because I plan to be there, and if you don't, then I don't want you anywhere near her."
"John, I want to live. I want to honor my vow and be there for Rosie… and for you."
"For the rest of your life? A life that had better not be shorter than mine."
"I can't promise that I will outlive you, John. But I can try. I want to… I plan to. If you'll have me."
"Do you mean it, Sherlock. I don't want this to be another one of your tricks. No leaving me behind for my own good, no doing or saying stupid things to get yourself killed, no playing footsies with serial killers for a laugh."
"John, I promise. If you let me in your life. If you come back home and let me stay with you, I won't be going anywhere."
"Honestly?"
"Honestly."
"Good. Now come over here and help me up, because my ankle is killing me, and I really have to go outside to piss."
Sherlock cracks a smile. He walks forward and puts an arm around John, lifting him to his feet. They hobble toward the door and go outside.
John puts a hand on the stone walls of the building and hops around the corner discreetly watering the wall before coming back and letting Sherlock help him to the door.
They pause, arms locked together, looking up as the first rays of dawn begin to spill over the horizon coloring the hills with a rainbow of colors that reflect in the silent loch. It's the start of a new day, and a new chapter in both of their lives.