Author's Note: This chapter was the most difficult thing I've ever had to write for absolutely no reason at all. It was like my brain went out to lunch for two weeks, leaving my hands to do all the writing, and they don't know what the fuck they're doing, now do they? I re-wrote this five times before essentially giving up, and here it is. Chapter up ahead is confusing, I'll admit, but the next one is more straightforward, I promise. Thank you for all reviews! Enjoy.
Chapter 9: Twofold Path
John let out a loud grunt as he landed heavily onto a gratuitous pile of pillows, his bad shoulder bursting into pain despite his soft landing. There was a tremendous roar that sounded through his ringing ears as John rolled away just in time to avoid the muscular furry arm of Flopsy, the factory owner's daughter's thieving illegal pet.
It had been three weeks since Sherlock and he had stopped the murderous Outska and ever since then, crime had been popping up in the most unusual of places. This was Sherlock's fourth case, starting out simply with Lestrade coming to him when several higher class citizen's had awoken to their private gardens mauled by some unknown culprit. The plunderer had ripped through the steel fences around the vegetation, devastated all manner of plants, ruining thousands of coin worth of property in the process, and then left without a trace. Or so it seemed to all but Sherlock.
With his near psychic abilities, the man had deduced the criminal from a minute tuft of fur and a single footprint leading them to the owner of five major smithing factories, a Mr. Kintsworth. Kintsworth's daughter, a tiny little monster of a girl, had demanded a unique pet from her father in order to be 'better than all the other rich girls'. Tormented by his child's rather loud requests, he had found himself at the shop of a rather shady pet merchant who in turn convinced him to buy a foreign creature, which at the time had 'looked like a small ball of fur with remarkably long ears', as stated by the flustered Kintsworth. Delighted by the adorable creature, his daughter and the furball had left the factory owner in peace for all of ten days.
Unfortunately, as Sherlock had haughtily explained, Flopsy was an extremely illegal mammal from the realm of Alternic, with a nasty habit of growing ten times its size once it reaches sexual maturity along with gaining massive strength and a seemingly endless hunger. It was a common trick for illicit pet dealers to pull on unsuspecting buyers, feigning ignorance when asked to take back the monstrosity the customer now owned, which Sherlock pointed out the desperate man had fantastically played right into.
John rose unsteadily to his feet as the massive animal bucked and slammed itself into the hallway wall, screeching in anger. He looked for Sherlock desperately, his blood running cold when he saw the man clinging to the meaty neck of Flopsy as it rampaged through the tight space, desperate to shake Sherlock from its being. Quick to grab his revolver, which John had to buy new projectiles in lieu of his flatmate's new hobby, he aimed it carefully at the creature's snarling mouth.
"Put it down, John and cover your ears!" Sherlock called from Flopsy's neck, stabbing a syringe into its tan furry hide.
"Wher-?" He started, but an ear piercing howl rang out from the depths of Flopsy, and John understood quickly the reason for covering his ears. The glass candles in the room shattered as the beast shook its great head, swaying as whatever drug in its system took effect. Sherlock jumped down from its back just in time for Flopsy to come crashing to the floorboards, letting out a final groan in a tremendous gush of hot air, smelling of rotting vegetables and wet animal. Its breathing began to even as its eyes closed and Flopsy moved no more save for the even rise and fall of its massive side.
Sherlock stepped carefully over its massive limbs, his wings raised high in pride of himself, and their onyx plumage puffed out enough for John to see the gold inter-weaving. From a door near the end of the hall on the opposite end, Mr. Kintsworth, his maid, and his daughter peaked out to see the aftermath of Flopsy's little jaunt.
"Daddy, they've killed my Flopsy!" The daughter was outraged, and the father began his hardest to soothe her. John paid them little mind as he glared openly at Sherlock, whose expression of triumph turned to one of confusion as his feathered appendages deflated.
"How much of my meticyndlin did you use on that thing?" John asked, almost seething, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Haven't a clue what you're talking about."
"Don't give me that. Do you have any idea how much that costs per ounce?"
"The creature was large, therefore all of the tranquilizer was needed in order to control it. I will get you some more." He seemed to promised, putting a reassuring hand to John's shoulder. Their mutual gaze lasted a moment too long for John's comfort, only to be broken by Mr. Kintsworth, bumbling about money and keeping this 'quiet'. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock was a man with little interest in monetary value, and both Kintsworth and Flopsy were carted away to be jailed or shipped back to their home realm, respectively.
Glowing from completing the case, Sherlock led them home, hand placed firmly on John's back as they moved about the quiet late afternoon streets, and fingers drumming lightly on his knee when they were seated in the rickety yusuei-drawn carriage. John said nothing of it for the most part, having resigned himself to quietly accepting the new found affection placed upon his person since Mid-Sing.
It had started off slowly. A small touch to the shoulder here, standing just shy of appropriate here began the abrupt turning of their relationship. A hand would inexplicably find its way to John's knee if they were sitting anywhere near each other during the mornings, and in the evenings, Sherlock almost gravitated around him if he was in the flat, never straying too far away if Lestrade didn't need him.
While John made tea, the other man would stand quite close to his side, jabbering on and on about his day. If John decided to sit on the couch, Sherlock would be there, lying with his head quite close to the doctor's thigh. Experiments were still restricted into the kitchen, though their use was less now due to the consulting job as Sherlock dubbed it, though somehow, he would wiggle a few less explosive ones into the sitting room if John was relaxing there. In public, nothing changed really, thankfully, save for those small unnecessary touches, such as a hand on his lower back when Sherlock pointed something out, or a few fingers on his wrist to pull him in the right direction. It was tentative, so close to intimate with still being in the bounds of platonic.
At first, he tried to ignore it, allowing the small touches to continue, the new closeness to thrive. He couldn't deny he enjoyed it, though each instance made him quake with a small anxiety. John knew there was only one direction this could go if he didn't stop it, but he didn't know if he could. He didn't exactly want to and he could still delude himself that nothing was too come of this, that each unclear moment, when he would catch Sherlock's eye for just a moment too long, was nothing more than another part of their friendship because nothing else had changed. The man was still infuriating as ever, distant most of the time and entirely too strange for the rest.
Of course, as time went on, the hand on his knee would move just a bit further up his thigh, his closeness in the kitchen escalated as he would peer over John's shoulder, nearly pressed up behind him, and on the sofa, his head found its way onto John's leg as he lay mulling things over. His delusion weakening by the day, John still said nothing, stoically allowing things to progress. The affections contented him, excited him, like a child seeing how much he could get away with before getting caught. He caught himself more than once leaning in to a caress, or even going to give one of his own. He fought hard against the need to reciprocate the new physicality, despite his yearning for it.
Tonight was no different of course, and John wondered where it might be leading to, but the silence on his part needed to end. He had been on the sofa, immersed in the daily news for a small article had popped up on Sherlock's third case, in which they found the location of a strange disappearance involving an giant woman, a young boy, and a veritable trail of baked goods. The writer praised Lestrade on his victory, and John nearly laughed when he recalled the hopeless expression on the bluecoat's face when he had approached Sherlock and John.
Reading the rather botched version of their adventure two weeks ago, John hadn't noticed Sherlock approaching until he had a lap full of the winged man's head. Startled by the sudden attention, he looked down to see that Sherlock had curled up next to him, placing his head upon John's thighs, facing his stomach. His wings flapped restlessly as he settled in, and John felt warmth begin to spread as the man finally stilled.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"Resting. I would've assumed that was plainly obvious."
"Right, no. Get up." Sherlock appeared confused, face a mask yet his wings perked up in inquiry, by John's sudden outburst, though he surprisingly obeyed. "Why the sudden need for touching?" The limbs lowered, as Sherlock's eyes widened. "I don't know how relationships work in Exemia but-"
"No." Sherlock shook his head, getting to his feet. "I've…I've made a mistake." He went to leave yet John caught him by the wrist, pinning him with a glare of his own.
"No, you're not running off to hide in your nest." When Sherlock did not correct him, John realized something was not in the norm. "What's going on with you? You've been strange lately."
"It's nothing of your concern. I have it under control. Now if you please…" He assured through gritted teeth as he yanked his arm away, beginning a swift pace towards his room. Stunned momentarily, John was quick to follow, stopping him once more in the hallway. "Leave it alone, John." He warned, trying to appear intimidating with his wings stretched out and raised high, though the doctor could hardly be bothered by it.
"I want to know. You can't just damn well act like a nutter and then expect me to let it go." They were standing quite close, John having pinned Sherlock with a hand to his shoulder. The winged man was avoiding his gaze, uncomfortable with John's demands, though he didn't struggle against his grip. "Just tell me what's going on. I am your doctor after all."
"If left ignored-"
"I'll ask Mycroft if you don't." It was a real threat, and Sherlock understood, taking in a breath before looking at John finally, a mixture of emotion going through his eyes as the careful mask he held in place began to crack. There was something juvenile in it, as if he couldn't cope with plethora of different emotions going on. His lips were pursed, his brain trying to place exactly what to say here. It was odd, the longer they stayed in this close proximity, the more pungent the scent that had found itself attached to Sherlock at odd intervals became. It's exotic flavor seemed to seep into John's senses, clouding his thoughts ever so seductively, the world turning slowly into a very warm place.
Sherlock watched him curiously as a fever began low in his stomach, creeping through his body. The winged man's eyes widened, comprehension blooming on his eyes just as John's knees began to give out, arousal blooming the more he was in contact with the odd perfume. He blinked rapidly, fighting back the need to do…something. He didn't know what, but his skin itched for it, whatever it was.
"What is this?" John gasped out, as Sherlock helped him sit upon the floor, back resting on wall. Where the man touched him, even with the layer of clothing, it blossomed into a kind of pleasure, and John could see where this might lead. Sherlock disappeared for a moment while John tried to control his breathing, as he began to quiver from the lust in his veins. It seemed to calm, and soon there was much more bitter smell in his nose, clearing his mind with the same effect as a slap to the face. Everything seemed to wash away, though his body still shook at the rapid change.
"Mixture of mortal realm peppermint oil and Exemian dirr extract." Sherlock murmured, pressing it into John's hands once he'd capped it. "Just in case." John murmured a thanks, covering his eyes with his hand as his senses reassembled themselves. He sneezed a few times, his nostrils stinging from the oil mixture as his eyes began to water slightly. His sinuses felt as though they were on fire, but this effect was much preferred.
Sherlock was hovering close, nearly switching in a silent anxiety, wings fluttering ever so slightly. John wanted to reach out and calm him in some way, yet he merely sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and blinking a few times.
"Now that you've destroyed my sense of smell, could you please tell me what all of that was about?" Sherlock opened his mouth the retort yet John interrupted him before he could. "You owe me that much. Gods know you do."
Sherlock scowled suddenly, rolling his eyes and glaring, much to John's bemusement. "I've stated before that it is of none of your concern. It is being taken care of, and it would be best for you to forget about this little venture." Angered by his companions stubbornness, John stood quickly, nodding to himself while matching Sherlock's searing stare with one of his own.
"Right." He turned, marching down the hall, only to have Sherlock calling after, intrigued by his new route.
"Where are you going?" He asked when John reached to door to leave.
"Out. I need some air." With that, it was a jaunt down the stairs and out the front door into the warm night. Save for the few passing carriages clacking and sputtering loudly by, the streets were unusually quiet, with few wayward souls making their way through Gueir. A para bird alighted itself by a bench as John passed, watching him go with mild interest as it cooed softly, only to be chased away by a more territorial bird. John observed their squabble in a disinterested way, feet carrying him slowly to gods knew where.
He'd grown up on these streets, not Baker Street specifically, but in Gueir, in this massive city surrounded constantly by metal and stone, with only the barest hint of greenery intermixed. Despite this, he assumed in the few months Sherlock had spent hounding the pathways that the winged man knew the twists and turns much better than John ever could, though he wondered if it might be a burden to always know where one was going. John enjoyed walks among the city which entailed getting lost for a brief time, allowing himself to meditate on the steady steps and the noise of the civilization around him.
The calming effect of losing one's self in the process of moving without a destination allowed John to forget the troubles of the day, and focus solely on how his feet contacted with the ground or how the world continued to whir past him as he strode without purpose or care. He did this now, not knowing where he might end up yet the anger and frustration at Sherlock pulled him from his usual state of reflection. He grumbled internally at the insufferable man he'd left in the flat, wondering briefly if he might be pouting on the sofa with violin in hand, or if he'd sulked to his nest, tenaciously silent and unwilling to move until something interesting pulled him from his black mood. He almost expected the man to be following him down the cracked sidewalk, and glanced continuously over his shoulder in case the opportunity arose to confront him. The streets remained clean of feathered foreigners and John pressed on.
Whatever was happening, John had decided, was his business to understand. If it affected him in such a way, these odd scents and Sherlock's own presence, then he was a participant in whatever thing had interwoven itself between them, Exemian customs be damned. The winged man's hesitance and adamant approach to leave out details was nothing new, yet the doctor felt this was different. He needed to know, had every right to, yet how does one pry an explanation from the icy grip of Sherlock's relentless hold?
The opportunity arose forty minutes into his heedless jaunt through the dark night. He found himself in the park, a sudden change from the brown and grey as he moved into the green soft fields interrupted by the pathways. A small pond made up the center, with few aquatic diving birds skimming the surface in the late evening, its watery edges dotted with sitting benches, on which John found himself seated, mind whirring as he fought with need to yell to the heavens. Placing his head between his hands, he did not hear the quiet footsteps as they approached until he was being addressed by a smooth, cool voice.
"I hope I'm not disturbing your park seat musings." The drawl of Mycroft caused John's head to whip around fast enough to cause a crick in his neck for the next week. The elder Holmes stood there, leaning on his umbrella, staring down at John with what might have been an attempt at sympathy, but mostly just made the man look like he thought John as a mildly interesting specimen. "Frustrating night, I suspect."
"How-, never mind." John had wanted to ask how Mycroft had found him, yet the answer was probably more frightening than he needed. Taking a seat without any invitation, Mycroft settled down easily, and for a moment John wondered if the ambassador could feel his wings against the metal bench even though they seemed hidden from reality. "What it is, Mycroft? I've had to deal with one Holmes tonight, and I don't actually feel like being in the company of another."
"While I can see that is the case, I was rather hoping to shed some light on his and yours current predicament." John's expression was skeptical, but he was curious enough to bite. There was little harm to be done it, either way.
"Go on then. Enlighten me."
"Sherlock feels the need to inform you of nothing, not because he is being stubborn, as you might believe. He is frightened. My brother has finally found himself in a situation he cannot worm himself out of with logic or sheer will, and if he indulges you in the reality of his situation, which is truly both of yours, he fears he may lose you in the process."
"What do you mean?"
"As I assume you know, Sherlock is not a man intended for the emotional side, and unfortunately the nature of the issue delves completely into the unfamiliar territory." He paused to give John a very long and exhausted look, the same 'almost-sympathy-but-not-quite' expression interlaced his features. "He is, in your brunt terms, falling in love with you." There was another pause in which John let this sink in, and he nearly laughed at the hysterical idea.
"No." He said, shaking his head, disbelieving. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "He doesn't…do that. He's said it himself."
"And yet for the first time in twelve annuals, he's confided in me for some sort of support. Now, he may have an inclination to step away from the intimate side of socialization, yet when he decides to seek me out personally for help on a subject, I would be one to believe it is a very real issue." It finally hit what Mycroft was saying. It wasn't some elaborate hoax. He thought back to the conversation he had overheard, the clear distress in Sherlock's voice as he spoke begrudgingly with his brother. "What might that mean?"
John knew perfectly well, stunned into a sort of frozen silence. In the back of his mind, he had been acknowledging these things, taking them in and giving ulterior explanations in order to feed his Guier bred ignorance. A part of his was elated at the words, content to hear that the man held some form of affection toward him. He almost felt like a child again, finding a girl glancing shyly to him with his heart speeding at the thought she might want to talk to him. Save this wasn't an innocent education side affection, and he was dealing with something much more consequential. The thought alone sobered him from his musings to find Mycroft watching him closely.
"O-oh." He replied lamely, unsure of what to say. It was a war zone in his head, two sides of emotions battling for grounds, leaving his tongue thick and thoughts hazy.
"I must inform you that due to the ramifications of possible courtship between the two of you has led Sherlock to decide his immediate departure to Exemia once his prosthetics have been equipped and are properly-"
"What?" John interjected, shifting smoothly from his emotional battle back to the issue on hand.
"Both of us believe it to be in the best interests for the two of you if the temptation was removed and a normal life could be resumed before a more permanent bond could be implemented."
"Permanent(1)?"
"Relationships for Exemians take on a more lasting form than a ceremony indicted by a priest. It is written in chemicals and down to the very core of the individual, instead of written on paper. Once realized, it can last for decades, and prying the two apart is near impossible without catastrophic mental pain being involved. It would be best to avoid such a thing with the state that things are in at the moment, wouldn't you say?"
"And I don't get a say in this whatsoever?" John was seething, not having to be a genius to figure out the answer.
"A third party on the matter muddies the issue. It would be beneficial if-"
"No. This concerns me, and I'll be stoned before I let either of you leave me out of this. So damn you." He stood up abruptly and began to walk away, for the second time that night angry beyond words, though this time he was headed to his flat. He had little idea of what his plan might entail, but it was certainly a better one than listening to Mycroft anymore. Inexplicably, the ambassador appeared out of thin air just before him, making John stumbled ever so slightly back, though he soon regained his footing, remaining firm, not allowing the bemusement at Mycroft's instantaneous movements show upon his face(2).
"I strongly warn against any actions that might heed my brother from returning to Exemia. This solution benefits the both of you and you are not thinking clearly."
"Move." John snapped, knowing in a fight, he'd most likely be outmatched by whatever Mycroft had hidden up his sleeve. He tried to step around, yet Mycroft did his trick, blocking the path again. "What is it with you? Why do you want him back so badly?"
"It matters not, but I will remind you that if any curious officials catch wind of any sort of scandal happening in your flat, I personally will not do anything to deter them." John opened his mouth to retort, yet within a blink of his eye, Mycroft had gone, disappeared into thin air as if he was never even there. Too angry to be honestly surprised, he began his walk home, taking the time to plan out what he might say to Sherlock when he arrived. He still did not fully understand what was going on, but he'd be damned if he let Mycroft sway his decisions.
It was the reasonable choice, the better choice to swallow his feelings, whatever they may be, and say goodbye to Sherlock once the time came, but they pulled at him. The thought of never seeing the man again was a painful one, and he was ready to do whatever it might take to not allow it to happen.
John found Sherlock with his knees drawn up, wings cocooning himself upon the doctor's chair, surprisingly. He was staring absently at the window beyond, seemingly vacant, yet John knew his mind was whirring with whatever thoughts he may be having. Surrounded by the glossy feathers in the untidy room, the man appeared out of place, unreal as if a figure from a dream or a piece of art.
"Mycroft's been filling your head with all sorts of things." He says as John enters, not bothering to glance at the doctor, who merely nodded, deciding that the customary questions of 'how' where unnecessary at the moment. He strode over to where Sherlock sat apprehensively, his earlier drive having dissipated slightly upon the walk back. He chastised himself for not taking a carriage. A quick look around, and he noted that the amount of disarray had been doubled at least in the two hours he had been away with papers strewn about from wing beats and a new acid burns in the carpet.
Sherlock watched him wearily, pale eyes glued to the doctor as he sat in the chair opposite him. There was a long moment of silence as they merely stared at each other, waiting for someone to speak. It was awkward at best and there was a second where John felt to need to walk out again, yet he stayed firm, knowing this had to happen or it never would. He was winding himself to speak, but was beaten to the punch.
"You're wondering what my reasoning is for my behavior."
"That's one way of putting it."
"It's for purely selfish reasons. Getting away from you specifically will help clear my mind." He assured, and John had to wince at his wording.
"What if I were willing to try this... a relationship with you." John asked. He kept his gaze steady, even when Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise, wings moving ever so slightly in intrigue.
"You don't try something like this, hoping to back out. Once allowed to unfold, it doesn't allow for one member to back out because it doesn't fit them(3)." He snapped defensively, trying to push the doctor away, yet the expression on John's face must've told him this wasn't a battle he could win, for Sherlock became curious. "You don't want this." He tried, and John shrugged appropriately, hands clasped between his legs as he leaned forward.
"I don't know what I want, but I do know that I'm willing to compromise if it keeps you here. With me." He ended quietly. Sherlock merely stared at him inquisitively for a long moment, as if to try and dissect his certainty.
"I see." The man before him was cautious, though clearly excited by the prospect. Whatever John was telling him silently must have sparked something from Sherlock. "Are you even willing to leave with me if I can find a way for it to happen?" Surprised, John opened his mouth to reply, yet Sherlock cut him short. "I need a yes or a no." There it was: the prospect lain bare before them, and John didn't know what to do. He felt helpless, that war beginning again in his mind as he weighed each side.
To leave with Sherlock was unknown, path with untold excitement and dangers. The time between now and getting out of Trias would be rife with peril and paranoia imagining bluecoats breathing down his neck at every turn, but he might be happy. He wouldn't be bored, or lonely. To have Sherlock leave, however, would put him back where he was eight months ago, except with the raw memory of an exhilarating lifestyle swept away into a rift as he scrambled to find a wife. It would be less than the other option, but safe, assured. A career already in place, a family, and all those things any metal-worker should want that he felt slipping from his desires like sand through a sift. He followed Sherlock into the doll shop, into the path of psychopath and a monster, yet could he journey with the man into a the unknown?
Sherlock watched him silently, before unfurling himself from John's chair, making his way over to the doctor carefully, wings heavy behind him, close to dragging along the floor. That scent hinted the air as the winged man made his way, wafting cleverly into John's senses. He stopped just short of John, peering down at him with an expression of apathy before placing two fingers underneath the doctor's chin, lifting his face ever so. He bent down, placing a soft dry kiss just shy of John's lips.
"You have until my prosthetics are in place." Sherlock murmured gently into his ear before moving away, disappearing in the hall towards his bedroom, leaving John flustered, warm, and still unsure of what to do.
1- Exemians lives anywhere between 200 to 3000 years depending on what race they are. In Sherlock's case, he could be around for around for about five hundred. Now, the average life-span for a metal-worker man is about fifty-two years, so in the case that John and Sherlock did start a relationship in Trias, it would technically be permanent. Between Exemians, the relationship in which Mycroft is proposing would last between eighty years to indefinitely, again, depending on the races and the strength of the bond.
2- Since metal-workers have a small distrust in supernatural or magical things, and since Mycroft is an ambassador, he would not indulge in these things often (ergo why he keeps his wings hidden). Seeing how he's trying to intimidate John, who is used to Sherlock's shenanigans, and they are in a relatively deserted park, he would be more open about using these little things to gain the upper hand.
3- Much will be explained next chapter, mainly because it didn't fit this one, which is what I struggled with to write in five times. So, patience is requested. Though ask questions if needed, and if I am not going to explain later in the story, I will answer them!
Confused? Good. Come back next chapter and I'll have most of it sorted out, which will hopefully be in at least week. Again, apologies for lateness. Please review and thanks for reading!