Sherlock & John Rebellion of Angels: Acclamations

by Skyfullofstars

Sherlock has a revelation concerning John's addiction. But does it come too late? Mycroft has a crisis of self. Mummy plans the wedding betweeSherlock to Capt. John Watson. Part 2: A threat from Sherlock & Mycroft's past threatens the boys honeymoon & Mycroft & John find themselves in a battle for Sherlock's life - and soul. Angst. Violence. Language. Disturbing imagery. SLASH.

10. Chapter 10

These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.

SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS

Part One: ACCLAMATIONS

Ch. 10

CAUTION: REVIEWS FOR CH. 10 CONTAIN SPOILERS.

PROMISES: Mycroft being Mycroft. Mummy being Mummy. And John Watson being all possessive and BAMF. Hope you're okay with that.

WARNINGS: Secrets, Sins - Holmes-family style.

OooOooO

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."
― Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories, Volume I

OooOooO

John showers and dresses quickly. He then checks his mobile for an anticipated call or text from a medical colleague. Nothing. He momentarily considers sending a text to Lestrade, then thinks better of it. Best not to get the man's hopes up. Besides, he has nothing to tell the DI – yet.

He comes out of their room, intent on finding Sherlock, and stops, his hand still on the door knob. The hallway is in semi-darkness, the length of worn Oriental carpeting a beacon in faded scarlet and gold. At the end of the hallway, under the window, is a pile of canvas tarps and various painting supplies, all neatly stacked. Sherlock mentioned the mansion is undergoing renovation. Apparently, Sherlock's former wing is next on the list.

Every door to every room is shut, except theirs. John stands in the open doorway - and stares.

Sherlock stands a dozen feet away, in profile to John, directly in front of one of the closed doors John walked by the night before. He is dressed in his ancient flannel pyjamas and grey tee. The thin cotton, so worn as to be nearly translucent, slides over the muscles in his arm as he slowly raises one hand toward the door panel.

John frowns. There is something off about Sherlock's demeanor. He keeps his voice low, so as not to startle his lover.

"Sherlock?"

The detective does not respond. Instead, he places his palm flat against the closed door, fingers splayed. At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock shudders slightly. But he does not turn.

"Sherlock?"

John walks up to him and tentatively places one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He presses slightly and the detective finally turns his head toward him. Something in John's stomach twists, a flutter of trapped wings. The grey-green eyes are unfocused. Sherlock is not aware of him.

"Sherlock?"

Five seconds past the charm, and still Sherlock doesn't seem to recognise him. The beautiful face is slack and John can clearly see the fine sheen of sweat that covers the pale skin.

John's pulse pounds in his neck. He raises a steady hand, finds a point behind Sherlock's left ear and presses inward. Gently. Sherlock blinks – and then his eyes refocus. John blinks in relief.

"John?"

"Yeah. You okay?"

"Of course, I'm okay." Sherlock glances at the door in front of him, then lowers his hand and takes a step back. He looks from John's worried gaze down the corridor and back to John.

"What are we doing out here in the corridor?"

"That was my question, Sherlock. I found you standing here. Alone."

"Standing here? Don't be ridiculous, John, what are you on about?"

John's eyes narrow. He cups Sherlock's cheek in his palm, then passes his hand over the detective's forehead. Sherlock just looks at him with bemused forebearance. He looks into the light eyes for any lingering sign of migraine. But the pupils appear normal.

"Well? Any sign of fever? And are you done playing doctor?"

"No. No fever. But bloody hell, Sherlock Holmes, you always find new ways of scaring me to death."

The gray-green eyes narrow.

"John, I think one of us needs to go back to bed and rest. I need a shower. Excuse me."

He pushes past John, who steps aside and watches as the detective goes back to their room. John glances at the closed door, then at Sherlock, who turns toward him before he enters their bedroom.

"John, since you are obviously dressed, go on down to breakfast. I'll – be there shortly."

"I'll wait for you."

John raps his knuckles on the closed door.

"What's behind this door?"

Sherlock just shakes his dark head. "Really, John. You've been here twice before. I gave you the grand tour your first visit." He ducks into their room, then pokes his head back out.

John has not moved. He still looks toward Sherlock. Expectant.

"If you have forgotten already, John, that was my room years ago. It's connected to the old nursery, the next door over. Mycroft's former room is on the other side of that. I believe Mummy is having the entire wing renovated soon. Probably why the doors are kept shut. To keep the dust out."

He goes into their room. The door shuts behind him.

John waits for a moment, then turns to look at the closed door. He reaches out and places his hand on the cool door knob. And twists.

It's locked.

So are the next two doors over.

OooOooO

His text chime sounds and Mycroft picks up his mobile from the seat next to him and glances at the screen. He reads the message, then nods. And thumbs a memorized phone number.

"John Watson. Mycroft?"

"John. Good morning. I hope I am not interrupting breakfast."

"Just waiting on Sherlock, actually."

"John, I am currently enroute to the manor house. And I have just received an interesting text."

John hears the shower running. He turns to glance out their window. The morning sun is bright with promise. Perhaps he and Sherlock can steal a few moments away from the manor house. Of course, it all depends on Mummy's schedule. John still intends to speak with her at his first opportunity.

"And?" he prompts.

"And, Doctor Watson, it seems that we have been working at cross purposes, upon Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's behalf."

John turns away from the window and puts his concentration on Mycroft.

"This is about Greg's daughter."

"Yes, John. And I believe I have some heartening news."

John's eyes momentarily close, then reopen. Behind him, he hears it as Sherlock turns off the taps.

"Yes? We can all use some good news, Mycroft. I had a colleague checking into the bone marrow donor program –"

"Yes, John. And that is what my call entails. I will be there shortly. I am now approximately thirty minutes from the house."

The bathroom door opens and Sherlock comes out, dripping, wrapped in a towel. And nothing else.

He glances toward John, then begins to dress. At John's next words, he raises an eyebrow.

"All right, Mycroft. It can wait for thirty minutes, then."

"I believe so, John."

The two men hang up and John tosses his mobile onto the bed.

"What did my arse of a brother want, John?"

John turns, half expecting to see Sherlock standing behind him, nude. Instead, the detective perches on the edge of their bed and pulls on his socks. He already wears jeans, and a white cotton shirt.

John stares. It is so seldom he sees the detective in anything other than a suit that the sight of the long legs encased in jeans slightly stuns him.

"Lestra—" John clears his throat. Watches as Sherlock tugs on boots – boots! And then rises to his feet. He tries again. "Lestrade. Both Mycroft and I have people looking into the bone marrow donor program."

Sherlock nods. "And Mycroft has good news about that?"

"Apparently."

Sherlock yanks his cuffs down and finishes buttoning them, then crosses to the antique bureau and begins to pick up and deposit various items in the jeans pockets. Mobile. The small magnifying glass. Loose change – although what he intends to use it for around the estate, John cannot fathom. A pen and minuscule notepad. A small tape measure. A tiny compass. Bits of this and that. John watches, fascinated, as all the items disappear into the jeans pockets. What doesn't fit in the jeans pockets, Sherlock slips into the pockets of the short jacket.

The one item that he has never seen Sherlock carry on his person is a hair comb. Doesn't seem to be much point, actually, John thinks.

He crosses the room and stands in front of Sherlock, who looks down at him. John reaches up one hand and tucks a damp curl back from the pale face.

"Sherlock – earlier. What was all that in the corridor?"

The detective frowns. He places both hands on John's shoulders and gently pulls the soldier toward him. John goes willingly enough, but places both hands on the white cotton shirt to steady himself. It's incredibly easy to get lost in Sherlock Holmes. He looks up into the pale grey eyes.

"Sherlock? The corridor?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, John. Really, I think you need some breakfast." He bends to kiss his soldier's mouth, then straightens and smiles.

"Let's go down, shall we? You can eat and with any luck, everyone else has breakfasted and we can make good our escape."

"It's not that late, Sherlock. It's just coming up on 8:00. And you'll be eating, as well."

The detective frowns, then twists his wrist to glance at his watch.

"8:00? I was certain that it was later than that."

The tiniest of frowns touches John's face and he studies his love's countenance in the early morning light.

"Since when does Sherlock Holmes not know the time of day?" he asks gently.

Sherlock bends and plants another kiss on John's thin lips. "Since he has Captain John Watson in front of him, looking thoroughly edible in the early morning light, that's when."

He turns John around and shoves him toward their door.

"Come on. Before Mrs. Robinson gives your meal to the cat."

John obligingly walks down the corridor. And notes that when they pass the locked door to Sherlock's old room, the detective does not acknowledge it or hesitate. He just walks right on past it.

John frowns, his mind racing.

OooOooO

His text chime sounds – again – and Mycroft retrieves his phone. Anthea. He wonders why she doesn't just call him.

Then he sees the tiny image. He taps it – and is treated to a close-up of one slender hand.

It's Anthea's left hand. And a sparkling blue stone rests on the ring finger. He looks at the tiny photo until it closes of its own accord.

He nods, then thumbs her number and waits for her to pick up.

"Anthea. Good morning."

"It is now. About time he took care of business," he says gently.

Anthea / Lizabeth laughs. It's a warm laugh and Mycroft smiles at the obvious pleasure in her voice.

But the smile doesn't – quite – reach his eyes.

OooOooO

As empty as the manor seemed the night before, that is how full it seems to John now. Once he and Sherlock come down the stairs, people are everywhere.

"Good morning, Captain Watson. Good morning, Sir."

The young girl hurries by both of them, her arms full of magazines and newspapers. She heads down the main hall, toward the library.

John barely has time to say "Good morning," back before two workmen pass them by, to go up the stairs he and Sherlock just came down.

"Captain Watson, Sir. Mr. Holmes." Both men nod and hurry past, but John thinks one of them glances at him and Sherlock appraisingly.

"Good morning, Sir," a young woman, a bit older than the first, goes by both of them, glances once at John, and blushes a brilliant scarlet. She hurries up the stairs and at the top, turns right toward the East Wing.

Sherlock glances at John smugly. "Your reputation precedes you, Captain Watson," he says smugly.

"It's the motorcycle, Sherlock. Women dig motorcycles," John jokes in an easy drawl. To tell the truth, he is a bit uncomfortable with the reactions he is collecting.

"Captain Watson. Sherlock. About time you two came down to eat. I was just sending – now where has that girl got to?"

Mrs. Robinson smiles at John and Sherlock and John smiles back. He notes that Sherlock remains silent during all of these acknowledgements. The Holmes housekeeper is the only member of the household staff he acknowledges.

"Mrs. Robinson, I need to speak with my mother," Sherlock begins.

Eugenia Robinson shakes her grey head and scoots both of them toward the breakfast room. "Your Mum's gone off to London. Left at the crack of dawn, this morning. Said to tell you and the Captain that she would return just after luncheon. Now get on with you. Everything's laid out and ready. I'll be in later to see how you're getting on."

What she does not add is Regina Holmes' emphasis that everything – "Everything, including meals" – be kept as casual as possible so as to keep John Watson comfortable in his surroundings. She smiles at the young Captain and leaves them both to it. So far, Mrs. Holmes' admonition seems to be working.

John and Sherlock watch her as she scurries past, intent on her duties. She walks briskly toward the kitchen. A young man comes up to her and has a hurried conversation. Mrs. Robinson nods and both of them walk off together. Both men watch her go, then glance at each other.

"This way, John," Sherlock murmurs. His tone of voice sounds relieved, John thinks. He follows Sherlock.

John shakes his head at his surroundings, as he and Sherlock make their way into the sunnier of the dining rooms. He saw all of this months back. But it's one thing to walk through room after amazing room with only your lover by your side, engaged in a running commentary, some of it snide, most of it humorous, regarding the Holmes family fortune, estate, staff, antecedents and family history, all the while giving you the grand tour. And yet quite another to see those same surroundings by the light of day – and fully staffed.

He glances around and notes a dark-haired young woman who sits by herself at the very end of the long dining table. The woman glances up at them as they come in and smiles. Then she ducks her head and goes back to jotting down notes on a lined pad in front of her. John notes her plate is empty and pushed back to make room for a bulging file folder, the note pad, two pens and a mobile phone. No one else is seated. Even as he notes this, a young man bustles in, removes the offending plate, speaks quietly to the young woman, pours her more coffee, then bustles out again, taking the used plate with him. John shakes his head.

It's not until he sees and smells the buffet that he realises how hungry he is.

Sherlock glances around, then picks up a cup and saucer, pours himself hot tea and goes to sit at the other end of the table. He ignores the woman, who John guesses to be the same individual who has been texting them more or less constantly over the past few weeks.

He frowns at Sherlock's rude behaviour, then frowns again when he realizes the detective has not availed himself of food. John fills a china plate with bacon, fried eggs, toast and yes, beans, thinks further, adds sliced tomatoes, then plunks the plate down in front of Sherlock. The two men stare at each other.

John's eyes narrow and he stands there until Sherlock sighs and picks up a fork. Then he nods and goes back to fill a plate for himself. He ignores the sausages but adds a slice of ham to his plate. He tries not to even think of the seemingly huge amount of food or what happens to it all once the meal is over.

As he passes by, he slows and the woman glances up at him. She rises to her feet.

"Captain Watson?"

John stops, sets down his plate and cup and immediately holds out one hand. "John. Please. Captain Watson, no longer. And you are?"

"Deborah. Just – Deborah. Mrs. Holmes' assistant, temporarily. We've spoken several times over the phone."

They shake and she smiles a blinding smile at the doctor.

John nods at the lone figure at the other end. "That rather rude individual is my fiancée – Sherlock."

Deborah smiles gently. "I recognised both of you."

"Won't you join us?" John asks. Her eyes spark with intelligence - and humor. He smiles again at her, suddenly enchanted.

"Thank you, but I've already finished. We'll be seeing each other later today. I believe Mrs. Holmes is in London, but when she returns, we're all slated for a late afternoon meet. I'll see you then, Captain – Doctor Watson."

Deborah smiles again, takes up her file folder, her notes, pens, phone and her cup of coffee and leaves the room.

John watches her go, then brings his own filled plate over to sit with Sherlock.

The detective frowns at the food in front of him and continues to fiddle with his fork.

"Well, that was rude of you," John murmurs. He plunks down his cup of tea and seats himself.

The detective does not look up at him.

"Think so?"

"Know so." John takes one bite of egg, then lays his fork down.

"Okay, out with it. What has you in a strop?" But he thinks he knows.

"Really, John. Does anything have to be the matter? I'm just not very hungry, that's all."

"That's a lie. You haven't eaten a thing since yesterday morning. And unless I'm mistaken, hot tea has not yet been incorporated into one of the major food groups."

He studies the detective for a moment, then shakes his blonde head. "Sherlock," he says gently, "unless you want a repeat of last night's headache, you need to eat."

Sherlock frowns and pushes food around his plate for a moment.

There's a minute of silence while John attacks his eggs.

Then –

"I don't know if I can do this, John." Sherlock lifts his cup of tea and chokes down a mouthful.

John watches him in silence.

"How about we get through this first meal –"

"Second meal, John."

"I stand corrected. Second meal. And then go out and walk the grounds. Lots of changes I hear."

The detective glances up at John and John sees, actually sees his eyes for the first time since they came downstairs. He puts down his fork. And reaches one hand across the table. His sturdy fingers rub up and down the long fingers that currently drum gently on the tablecloth.

"Cordoa? Something wrong that you didn't tell me about?" A small fear shoots through John's stomach. He waits, all the while watching Sherlock's face.

"No, John. The news there was much better than I had anticipated."

Relieved, John picks up his cup and drinks his tea. He places the delicate cup back in its equally delicate saucer and takes the extended hand in his. He gently rubs up and down the cool skin with his thumb.

"Then what is it? It's not just seeing your Mum, Sherlock. There's something bothering you. And has been since yesterday. Before that, actually."

Sherlock nods but does not look at John again.

He clears his throat. "John. I – I haven't been exactly forthcoming with you about one particular aspect of this wedding."

"It's coming out in a minute," John thinks. And realizes he should just go ahead and tell his fiancee that he knows – or thinks he knows – what the matter is but before he can say anything –

"Gentlemen."

"Bloody hell," Sherlock whispers.

Mycroft stands in the door of the breakfast room.

OooOooO

Anthea hangs up from speaking with Mycroft Holmes. Then she opens her pc and brings up the interrogation report on the cab driver. The same driver who ferried the individual around London who seemed bent on shadowing Deborah's every movement.

She reads through his statement. And frowns. No joy. His description of his fare does not match anyone in her database. She cross-references. Still nothing.

According to the cab driver, he picked up the fare close to Whitehall Street, followed his directions to drive to a certain store in central London, where they watched as a young woman with two boxes in her hand came out, got into her own waiting cab, and drove off. His fare had asked him to then shadow the second cab holding the young woman in the back seat. This went on for two hours as she apparently ran errands around the city. At no time did the man speak, other than to instruct him to 'Don't lose them," and "For gods sakes, can't this thing go any faster?"

He dropped off his fare at nearly the same point he had picked him up, received a very generous tip, and drove off. And that was that.

Until two very determined government agents came knocking at his door.

Anthea commits every word to memory but decides not to bother Mycroft with it at the moment. After all, she has nothing of import to tell him.

She notates that she has read the interrogation report, then closes it and opens another.

After reading the two lone paragraphs, Anthea picks up her mobile. And calls Mycroft Holmes back.

OooOooO

"Sherlock. John."

The elder Holmes brother comes into the room, glances around, then goes to select food. He brings his plate, only half full, John notes, back to their table and sets it down, along with a cup of tea.

Sherlock sets down his fork. "Well, this is lovely and all, but I need some fresh air." All spoken in a tone of voice so utterly snide that it has John pause, tea cup half way to his mouth. Mycroft merely looks at his brother.

Sherlock stands and turns to leave, when John reaches out to tap his wrist with one warm finger. The detective looks down at his soldier and his eyes narrow. But he picks up a slice of toast, forks some scrambled eggs on top, slaps another toast slice on top of that and wraps the whole thing in his cloth napkin.

He nods at both men and leaves the breakfast room. John watches him go with a frown.

Mycroft picks up his cup of tea and regards his future brother-in-law over the rim.

"Well, that went well," he says.

His mobile rings.

"Excuse me, John." Mycroft rises to leave the room to take the call and John shakes his head and attacks his eggs while they are still warm.

He doesn't even glance up as the elder Holmes brother finishes his conversation, then comes back to regain his seat.

The two men busy themselves with eating and drinking. Finally, Mycroft puts down his cup, rests his chin on his folded hands, and regards John Watson over his long fingers.

"John, would you recognise the violin you purchased for Sherlock if you were to see it again?"

Whatever John Watson is expecting Mycroft to say, this isn't it. He puts down his fork, shoves his plate back and picks up his rapidly cooling tea. A young man comes in, hovers over the two men, refills their cups of tea, murmurs something, and goes back out again. John thanks him automatically and then realizes that he has no clue who this individual is. But can't be arsed to care at the moment.

He stares at Mycroft over the steaming Assam.

"Say that again," he asks.

Mycroft lowers his hands and takes up his own cup. "John, the violin that you presented to my brother as an anniversary gift is not the same violin you purchased for him one week earlier. I merely asked if you would recognise the instrument you originally purchased for Sherlock, were you to see it again."

John stares at his brother-in-law as if Mycroft Holmes has lost his mind.

"You're telling me that the violin I bought for Sherlock is not the one that I gave him," John repeats slowly.

"Exactly."

John looks at Mycroft, glances back at his cup of tea, then sets it carefully in its saucer. He places both hands on the table.

"All right, Mycroft. To answer your question, I might recognise the violin I purchased. Not entirely certain. But I do remember a scratch, a very slight one, on the fingerboard."

He regards the elder Holmes brother for a moment. "Assuming you are correct, suppose you tell me where the violin came from that I did give to your brother."

Mycroft Holmes smiles. "That part's easy, John. I've just received confirmation that the serial number inside that particular instrument exactly matches the serial number of a violin that once belonged to the Holmes family estate in France."

"France," John says.

Mycroft nods. "Yes. The instrument in question was once owned by our grand-oncle. How it came to be in your possession – and by default – Sherlock's – is a most interesting question, indeed. One that both Sherlock and I would like to understand."

"Your grand – you mean your father's brother." John thinks a moment, then narrows his eyes. "And the initials that were on the card – VMH ?"

Mycroft nods again. "They stand for Victor Mycroft Holmes. Our father's older brother. Deceased. Over twenty years ago, as a matter of fact. My grand-oncle passed away when Sherlock was a young teen."

Mycroft automatically speaks 'grand-oncle' with an impeccable French accent. John doubts if he even knows he's doing it. He continues to stare at Sherlock's older brother. Finally, he stirs and speaks.

"How do you know that the serial number of the violin I originally purchased doesn't match the serial number of the one I gave Sherlock? How do you know this?"

Mycroft replies patiently, "Because, John, that violin is still in the shop in Basingstoke. It was never packed and shipped to you. In fact, your original purchase price was promptly refunded to your card. Which you would have noticed, doubtless, if you and Sherlock hadn't been quite so busy these past two days. At the very least, you would have noted it the next time you thought to check your bank account balance."

Mycroft leans back in his chair and regards John's rather incredulous expression.

"Which begs the interesting questions, what was it doing in the possession of a rather ordinary second-hand music shop in Basingstoke? How did the young man who sold it to you come into possession of it? If, indeed, he was the one who actually shipped it to you. That fact remains to be ascertained. Why was it shipped to you, John? And therefore, to Sherlock? And how is it now residing at 221B Baker Street?"

OooOooO

Deborah glances up as Sherlock Holmes strides by her, his long legs eating up the carpet in the main hallway. She hesitates, then calls to him. "Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stops. He stares ahead of him at the hall that leads to the kitchen, his actual destination, then grimaces. He puts a resigned expression on his face and turns toward her, as she walks up to him.

"Mr. Holmes? I need to mention something to you that your mother and I noted a few weeks back. Something you might have forgotten."

Sherlock merely lifts an inquisitive brow. He does not respond but waits for her to continue.

But Deborah has stared down more exasperating individuals than Sherlock – although she can't quite remember when. She takes a breath and leaps into the fray.

"Rings," she says in her quiet voice.

"Rings," the detective repeats.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, rings."

Sherlock frowns down at her. He notes her appearance, her slight accent, cultured speech patterns, the color of her eyes, hair, skin, her obviously well-designed, yet understated clothing, beautifully manicured nails, posture, the tilt of her eyebrows and the tilt of her nose, and automatically deduces her down to her fingertips. Out loud all he says is, "I just thought that we would –"

"Mr. Holmes, there is no way on this earth that your mother is going to allow the two of you to be married using Captain Watson's dog tags."

"You knew about those, then." It is not a question.

"Your brother informed me."

"Ah. Right."

He regards the dark-eyed young woman in front of him with interest.

"What do you recommend we do about that?"

"You've got a bit less than one month before the wedding, Mr. Holmes I suggest you and Captain Watson decide on rings."

Sherlock nods. "I think we can do that."

"Good. Then if that's settled, can I count on your cooperation this afternoon, once your mother returns?"

Sherlock stares at her. He pivots on his heels and heads for the kitchen.

Deborah watches him go. She makes a mental note that the hazard pay she requested of Anthea really needs to go to John Watson. She turns and goes to the library to continue her notes. At least it's quiet in there. Peaceful.

Holmes-less.

OooOooO

Mycroft reads something off his phone, writes two names down on a pad, then rips off the top sheet and hands it to John.

John takes it, reads the names, and nods. "Matthews, definitely," he says. He rereads the second name. "I've never heard of Ridgeson, but my specialty is emergency medicine, not oncology." He glances up at Mycroft, who watches him with interest. "Or at least it was."

John folds the single sheet of paper, folds it again, then slides it into a pocket of his jeans. He looks at Mycroft.

"Are you going to call Greg?"

"Someone should," Mycroft says easily.

John nods. "Then make it yourself, Mycroft. And the sooner the better. Time is of the –"

"Quite." Mycroft picks up his tea cup.

OooOooO

John excuses himself while Mycroft places his call to Lestrade, then stops in the outer hall. Finally, he makes his way to the kitchen. He feels more at home there and perhaps someone knows where Sherlock went.

Someone does. The same young man who refilled their tea, gestures toward the kitchen door which leads into the garden.

"Mr. Holmes stopped here for a moment, then I believe he walked toward the stables, Captain Watson."

John starts to correct him, thinks better of it, and just nods his thanks. He leaves through the kitchen door. Two people watch him go. And sigh.

Outside the air is still cool and John lengthens his stride. He really needs to add regular exercise back to his schedule, now that he's feeling better. He pauses outside the garden gate, glances toward the far lawns and streams, then turns toward the stables.

As he walks, he thinks over the odd incident in the corridor earlier that morning and realises he failed to ask Mycroft about the locked doors. Why locked? Why keep rooms due to be renovated locked at all? And one of them the former nursery?

Unless – John's facile mind supplies the most obvious answer. Unless they were only locked because it was known that both he - and Sherlock - would be staying in that wing. And someone – Regina? – wished to keep either or both of them out of those rooms.

Which scenario strikes John as preposterous. "You're seeing mysteries, boyo, where none exist." Guilt by association, John thinks.

John walks up to the large oak which marks the first of the outer fencing - and stops dead in his tracks. He is now less than 300 yards from the actual stables. And 100 yards from the dirt track. And from Sherlock. Who stands in the bright morning sun, conversing with a diminutive gentlemen with a shock of near white hair.

And a horse.

"Let us not forget the horse," John thinks incredulously. Although he is reasonably certain the creature has not joined in the conversation, which carries in the clear morning air.

"Thought first she were favorin' that fetlock, but t'were far off in bright sun. Seems sound enough."

"Best be certain. Shove over, Daphne. There's a girl."

Sherlock bends and runs one slim hand over the area in question. The creature – Daphne - obligingly lifts its foot and lets the detective palpate her ankle area. He pats it once, then sets it back down. Both men watch as the horse paws once at the ground, then turns her head to nudge at the white-haired man.

"Oh, get on w' ye." He shakes his white hair.

Sherlock reaches for the reins and pulls the animal toward him. "She's certainly not favoring it now and no sign of swelling. She seems raring to go. Have a look, Mr. Edwards."

"Aye." Edwards squats down, lifts the same foot and runs a practiced hand up and down.

He, too, pats the leg, then lets the animal put his weight on it. He remains bent over, and watches as the creature shifts its weight slightly, as if to bely his suspicions of injury.

"Right as rain, Mr. Sherlock. Trick o' the light, then."

John stares as the world's only consulting detective stands a few dozen yards away from him, and holds the reins of a magnificent and utterly terrifying beast, conversing about fetlocks and equine injuries as if he were to the manor born.

"Well, he was," John reminds himself, suddenly feeling very plebian and rustic.

The breeze insinuates itself through Sherlock's dark curls and tumbles them around his love's face. John watches, as his heart rate increases.

And by the way, where did that white cotton shirt and worn blue jeans come from? Hell, he watched Sherlock dress this morning, but was only marginally startled to see the man in jeans. He thought he knew every article of clothing in Sherlock's wardrobe, but this is the first time he's seen Sherlock Holmes in a plain ordinary pair of blue jeans and boots. Jeans that are worn across the knees, loose in some places and nicely tight across that magnificent arse and the hell of it is, John is now in pain in his own jeans.

No way he can walk up to the two men now, not in this obvious discomfiture.

At least the white shirt is like all of Sherlock's other shirts, buttoned at the sleeves. If it had those stupid flowing wrist things, John didn't think he would survive it.

As if on cue, Sherlock reaches out with one hand and idly begins to roll up a sleeve, then shifts the reins to his other hand, while he rolls up the second sleeve. His pale wrists are just visible. John cannot see the fading red marks left by the barbed wire. He wonders if Mr. Edward notices them. If he does, the older man says nothing.

The Horse, antsy, starts to pull away but Sherlock automatically puts up his other hand and soothes it by rubbing up and down the long velvet nose. The horse nuzzles at Sherlock's back pocket and he turns to regard it and laughs. A light-hearted sound that goes straight through John's heart.

"All right, hold on."

Sherlock digs something out of the pocket of his jeans. John can't tell what it is. A slice of carrot? Apple? And holds it out, flat on his palm. The rather alarming creature nuzzles up to Sherlock's palm and proceeds to eat right out of his hand.

John, having been in the similar situation before - without the carrot - feels his mouth go dry.

He moves to take advantage of the shade cast by the lone oak, which stands by the outer fence. He stands slightly behind the trunk in order to hide his confusion and utter disbelief at what he has just seen – as well as the beginnings of a rather impressive erection.

If the love of his life is going to spend this entire weekend looking like something out of a photo shoot for Pride and Prejudice, well, John's already fragile ego is not going to survive.

"Just so long as it's not Wuthering Heights," he thinks. "That would put me in the role of who – Cathy?"

John shudders. What is it in the air out here that has his thoughts taking such literary and lusty turns. It's not that far from Baker Street. Is it? For fucks sake, this is the countryside. And Sherlock may know his way around a horse but there's no way in hell he knows how to actually ride one of the things. Correct?

As he watches the tableau in front of him, John experiences a feeling of unreality, as if he's been transported to – well, anyplace but where he stands. The moors of north Wales, perhaps. But that's ridiculous, if this is the moors, there should be an impressive thunderstorm brewing on the horizon.

A breeze springs up and John turns his head to view the faint outline of purple thunderclouds far in the distance. Right. There it is, then. Rain will be on them before the night is out. Perhaps before then. In the meantime, the skies overhead remain clear and blue.

At the slight breeze, the horse shies and John momentarily expects it to bolt. It never gets the chance. Sherlock yanks hard on the reins in his hands, and talks soothingly to the creature, while Mr. Edwards rises to his feet, dusts his hands off and nods.

"She's looking good, then."

The gray-haired man looks at the youngest Holmes son with an amused glance. "Want to take her out for a bit?"

Sherlock laughs. "And break my neck? It's been too many years as a city dweller for me, I'm afraid, Mr. Edwards."

"Suit yoursel' then. But you canna convince me you've gone and lost your seat. I dinna believe it."

Apparently unaware that John stands a hundred yards behind them, Sherlock grins.

"Well then, let's test that hypothesis, shall we?

He turns slightly toward the horse and the breeze comes out of nowhere again to play in the curls on Sherlock's head. John groans. And the hell of it is, it's entirely unconscious. Sherlock has no frigging idea what he is doing to John Watson's heart.

Shite.

Any moment, he's going to get a leg over and mount the stupid horse - and dear Mary, Mother of Heaven, he just did.

The detective tugs on the reins, pulls Daphne around to his near side – and mounts in one smooth motion.

"Just to the stall, then," he says drily.

"Aye," Edwards replies. John shuts his eyes. Then reopens them in sheer disbelief.

Sherlock can ride. Sherlock – John's often socially clueless, Mr. Taxi Cab, "I can't make a decent cup of tea" Sherlock - can ride a bloody horse.

And with that thought foremost in his head, Mr. Edwards turns slightly and sees John standing by the oak. Both men regard each other for a moment. Then Edwards jerks his head slightly, as if to tell John to come along.

John nods and moves to the gate as Sherlock pulls back slightly on the reins, tilts his ankles and turns the beast toward the paddock. He continues to speak with Edwards, who turns his back on John and walks alongside for a few yards.

Edwards says something that John doesn't catch, and Sherlock nods and kicks his heels into the glossy side. And the horse takes off.

Runs? Cantors? Trots? John shakes his head at his own ignorance of all things "horse."

"So all of that bloody talk about the beasts being dangerous on both ends and crafty in the middle was just talk. Well, of course it was."

John walks up to Mr. Edwards, who stands, his back to John, and waits for him, his hands in the pockets of his ancient trousers. For once, John thinks, here is another adult male actually shorter than he is. He thinks he and Mr. Edwards might get along just fine.

"Still has a fine seat, Mr. Sherlock. But nought compared to Mr. Mycroft." Startled, John turns to the older man, then holds out his hand.

"John Watson," he says.

"Aye. Thought it might be." Edwards shakes hands, then gestures to the stables. "Get on w'ye then. He'll be waitin'."

John looks from Edwards to the stables. He nods his thanks and starts walking. If he's going to be put in the role of Cathy, then bloody hell, someone has to keep an eye on Heathcliff.

OooOooO

John feels rather than hears the text chime. His phone, muted, currently resides in the left front pocket of his jeans but he can't be arsed to fish it out.

His bright head lies in Sherlock's lap. The detective sits on the deep green grass, his back against one of the broader of the oak trees. His soldier's head nestles nicely in the well formed by his drawn-up legs and his flat stomach. His left hand alternately rubs back and forth over the left shoulder of John's tee shirt or moves to caress John's neck and jaw. The long fingers of his right hand riffle through the white-blonde silk on John's head, then move to trace the dark blonde eyebrows.

John has removed both his boots and socks, and his legs are stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. Sherlock's gaze occasionally leaves John's face to roam over the tight angles and planes of his lover's body, currently displayed to advantage by the worn jeans and the tight black tee.

"How many of these do you own?" Sherlock muses aloud, as his left forefinger insinuates itself between the collar of the tee and John's bare skin. He gently rubs over the thick scar tissue under his fingers. John's skin is warm from the sun and Sherlock feels his groin tighten.

John shifts slightly; he pulls up one leg and his bare toes dig into the grass.

"Are you kidding? After your enthusiastic reaction to the first? I buy them by the gross lot. All of them one size too small, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock says.

"And extra stretchy," John says. "Stretchiness is a given."

"Goes without saying."

A second text chime sounds, this time from Sherlock's mobile. He idly picks the phone up where it lies on the grass next to him and glances at the screen.

"That annoying individual, again," he murmurs. He drops the phone back on the grass without answering the text and bends to brush a kiss along John's hairline.

"Which one?" John asks. His eyes are closed but at the brush of lips across his forehead, he opens them to encounter Sherlock's crystalline gaze.

"Valid point," Sherlock agrees. His lips nuzzle along John's forehead, across each blonde eyebrow, then he bends farther and plants a kiss – upside down – on the tip of his soldier's nose. John's eyes nearly cross at the close proximity of the amazing lips.

"You look intriguing upside down," John says.

"Fallacy, John. I am, at the moment, right-side up. You are the one who is currently at an angle. A right angle, to be exact."

"Oh." John shuts his eyes again. His right hand brushes back and forth along the tops of the velvety grass. His left lies on his stomach, his fingers curled.

Sherlock notes no sign of a tremor in the left hand and this small fact is enough to put a tiny line between his pale eyes. Stress. Even lying here in the summer sun, under a cloud-rimmed blue sky, John is under stress.

Or, more likely, on alert. And his soldier's seemingly languid pose is just that – a pose.

"Sooner or later, they'll send someone to fetch us." Sherlock shifts marginally and his fingers brush through the bright fringe, then down to feather along John's right cheek.

"Hmmm." John sighs and he tilts his head slightly as Sherlock's fingers drift down his cheek, to his neck and beyond. "Probably another annoying person. In your words, there appears to be a surfeit of them at the house this weekend."

Sherlock leaves off caressing John and leans his dark head back against the tree trunk. He looks at the sky overhead. The cool breeze from earlier has turned warmer. And heavier. He can – nearly – smell rain.

"The sooner we get this wedding planning nonsense out of the way—"

"The sooner we can go home," John finishes. Both men have their eyes closed.

John's mobile tingles in his pocket.

"They're calling now."

"Obvious." The detective's voice is a velvet drawl. He moves ever so slightly in order to pull John more closely into his embrace. His soldier willingly shifts his position.

"You know, John, that if they wait much longer to send the aforementioned 'annoying' individual, said person just might get more of a reception than they expected."

"Hmmm?"

"It can hardly have escaped your attention, my dear Captain Watson, that the formerly soft surface you are lying on has become –"

"Bumpy? Hard? Wooden?" come the amused tones.

"Hmm. I was going to say that it is obviously –"

"Strained? Heaving? Throbbing?"

"John. Please. I have vowed not to throb. I do not throb. I have never throbbed and I shall never, ever –"

"Beat? Pulsate? Pound?"

Sherlock bends his dark head and one of the curls brush against John's closed eyes.

The whisper comes as a gentle hum, a caress softer than the summer breeze that blows over John's face.

"Je vous adore. Mon l'un, mon seul amour."

John's left hand clenches around Sherlock's left hand where it has wandered over his chest. He tugs his lover's hand to him and tightens his grip. His voice deepens to a husky tone.

"Damn it, Tish, that's French."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "Another obscure cultural reference, John?"

John sighs and turns his head to rub his cheek against the – article – in question. "Never mind, Sherlock. It just means I find you sexy hot when you speak French."

"How is that different from the 'sexy hot' when I speak Italian?"

"It's a different type of sexy hot," John murmurs.

"If you say so, John."

Not for the first time, John thinks that in Sherlock's mouth, his given name sounds exotic. Warm. Anything but bland.

John's dark blue eyes open and he looks upward into the pale green orbs above him.

"Hello," he whispers.

"Hello yourself," Sherlock whispers back.

His dark head lifts. "And hello to you, you intruding arse."

"Gentlemen."

Mycroft Holmes walks into the small copse and stands, his hands on his hips.

"Really, Sherlock? Mummy's assistant has been attempting –"

"Female. 30ish? Brown of eyes, hair and skin? Product of a West Indies mother, who is an educator and published author, and Japanese father, a diplomat, if I'm correct. Chooses to go by the soubriquet of Deborah – obviously first name of a cherished female relative. Not mother, so - Grandmother or favorite Aunt? That assistant?"

"Fine. When you're done showing off, I might point out that the young woman in question is my assistant's assistant. Hence, in my employee, Sherlock. And worthy of respect."

John sighs and pulls himself to a sitting position. He looks around for his socks and boots. He tosses his question over his shoulder. "Did you know he was here?"

"No, John, not until the gentleman in question came upon us."

Mycroft moves closer and nudges one of John's boots toward him. The soldier nods his thanks and yanks on the boot, then stands in one fluid motion. Bits of grass go flying.

Sherlock watches John for a moment, then comes to his feet and brushes one long hand over the back of John's shirt. He picks out an errant blade of grass from his love's hair, then rather possessively leaves his hand on John's shoulder.

After all, this is Mycroft here and it has not failed to escape Sherlock's attention, that his brother once fancied John. Or so he believes.

He's never tested the hypothesis and certainly does not intend to do so now. Besides, such a test would necessarily be of a potentially upsetting nature. And any attempt to play on his brother's jealousy, valid or not, is just plain tawdry.

And John wouldn't like it. There is that.

"Do not tell me you actually walked here, brother mine. It's well over a quarter mile from the house. Or have you embarked on a new exercise regime that I was as yet unaware –"

"If you continue on that course, Sherlock, you will necessarily end your sentence with a preposition. It might upset the horses."

"Aw."

As if on cue, Mr. Edwards walks into the clearing, holding the bridle of Daphne – and one other horse. A two-year-old bay roan that Sherlock has yet to meet. His mouth twists.

"Again. I would have heard you ride –"

"Oh for heavens sake, Sherlock! We were walking the horses when Deborah texted. We are expected in the main parlor for an update on the arrangements. I was asked to fetch you and John."

"Ay, Mister Sherlock, and here's a new 'un, a young lady, to make your acquaintance."

Sherlock obligingly walks up and tilts his head at the pretty bay.

This is the first time John has seen a – nearly – pink horse. He stares at it with appreciation.

"Goldie. She's your Mum's new fav'rite."

Sherlock nods at Mr. Edwards. "Very nice. Although the name is a bit misleading. Come along, John."

John nods at Mr. Edwards, then at Mycroft, and follows Sherlock out into the open air. He, too, smells rain.

John turns to Sherlock and grins. "So … Mister Sherlock … are you ready to go to this meeting?"

Sherlock reaches up and gently cuffs John on the side of the head. "Yes, Slave Watson, ready when you are."

The two men walk away from Mycroft and Edwards, and head for the house. As they walk, they continue a conversation begun weeks earlier – and carried on whenever they have the inclination.

"Slave Watson? Really? I was slave Watson three nights ago. I believe it's my turn to be—"

"Really, John. Whose pirate ship is it, anyway? If it makes you feel better, you can be bos'un."

"It's First Mate or nothing."

"There's no pleasing you, is there? I might point out that as my personal slave Watson, you have certain – privileges – that we have yet to discuss."

"Are these privileges of a sexual nature?"

"Could be, slave Watson. Could be."

"Please, Sherlock, not in front of the livestock."

"You mean Mycroft?"

The two men walk off, still gently arguing. Mycroft sighs and pulls Daphne to him by the reins.

Mr. Edwards just looks at the elder Holmes brother and shakes his head.

Mycroft mounts Daphne and waits for Mr. Edwards to mount Goldie. They trot off toward the stables. The two horses and their riders pass Sherlock and John, who totally ignore both of them.

OooOooO

The men enter the house and John takes the steps two at a time in order to grab the first shower and change.

Thirty minutes later, John and Sherlock are met at the bottom of the stairs by Deborah, who smiles at them. "This way, Gentlemen." She walks down the hallway toward the main dining room.

When John enters the dining room, he notes the table is set for lunch, but there is something odd about the seating. Both ends of the table have been kept clear, and the place settings have been kept to the middle section alone. He sees a neat pile of file folders at one end. He sighs. This is going to be a very long afternoon.

Sherlock glances at the table and then puts his hand on John's lower back to guide him to a seat.

"Sherlock. John. Good afternoon."

John turns. Regina Holmes stands behind them.

OooOooO

"Whatever John wants."

Regina puts down her pen, picks up her water glass, and observes her son over the rim.

John observes her. Sometime in the morning, apparently in London, Regina's dark hair has been considerably lightened. Her natural streaks of white and grey have been all but blended in. John thinks she looks much more formidable now.

Accordingly, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back a bit. He keeps his dark eyes on his mother-in-law and notes that she looks him over appraisingly, as well.

Yes, a very long afternoon indeed.

Sherlock could give a rat's arse. He taps on the folder in front of him with a pen, shifts his feet, then finally pushes his chair back in order to cross his long legs at the ankle.

He regards his mother curiously. But says nothing.

"Son, so far we have covered just about all aspects of the wedding ceremony itself, with two exceptions. It is not helpful at all if you keep insisting that John's decisions – and only John's decisions – are what count here."

"Valid point, Mother. And may I make one more?"

She sighs and puts down her glass. "Please do."

"Boring. This entire procedure is a shocking waste of our time. Nothing has gone on here that requires my or John's attendance or attention. However, in the interest of being amenable –"

Here John turns his dark blue eyes on his paramour, as Regina turns her crystalline grey gaze on her son – both of them in shocked silence.

Sherlock nods to the table. "I will concede that any questions of protocol or procedure that arise necessarily be governed by –"

"Whatever John wants," his mother intones.

Sherlock lifts his curly head to regard the Holmes matron.

"Exactly," he drawls.

"Sherlock –" John begins to speak in a hushed tone. "I think what your Mum – your mother wants here is—"

"What my mother wants and what she is going to get may be diametric opposites, John."

He glances across the table to the place setting that still sits there, unused.

"Where is my arse of a brother?"

"Your brother Mycroft does not need to be present at this point, Sherlock. Although it would be nice if you would, once and for all, acknowledge that he is to serve as your best man."

Sherlock guffaws. John has heard this expression his entire life but has not understood it until now. He glances sideways at Sherlock, then shrugs his shoulders. John intends to ask Greg Lestrade to stand up with him, if the DI has had better news by the time the wedding rolls around. He notes this on a sheet of paper and slides it across to Deborah, who takes the page, read it, nods once and makes a note on her pad.

The meal and meeting do not start out on a firm footing, as Regina requests that John and Sherlock sit opposite each other. They decline and sit together.

Deborah then asks that John give her a list of his comrades in arms, as she put it, who he wishes to invite to the wedding.

John declines, after mentioning Bill Murray, if the latter is still alive, which he doubts as Murray has always been, as John puts it, "a right horse's arse when it comes to his personal safety." After making certain his sister, Harriet, is on the attendee list, as well as Mike Stamford, he shows no further interest in who shows up to cheer him on. He briefly thinks of Sally Donovan and becomes very quiet indeed.

Regina then requests if Sherlock and John wish to write their own vows.

Both men look at each other, raise two sets of incredulous eyebrows – and decline.

John's refusal comes in the form of an uttered 'For fucks sake' and Sherlock's in a lazy drawl – 'I Sherlock take thee, John. There. End of vows. Everyone happy?"

Deborah makes a note on her pad and sighs.

Regina clears her throat, looks at her youngest son, then comes to a decision. She sits up a bit straighter.

"Sherlock, I do believe it is time for you to, let us say, fill John in on a few things?"

Sherlock raises his crystalline eyes to his mother and proceeds to engage in a staring contest. John thinks it's a toss-up as to who wins. Finally, he turns his head to regard John.

"John, I need to speak with you in the hallway."

John looks from Sherlock to his future Mum-in-law and back to Sherlock. And just nods.

"All right."

"Excuse us, Mother." Sherlock does not acknowledge Deborah by name but just pushes his chair back and he and John leave the room.

The two women look at each other and Deborah notes what seems to be the beginning of a headache as Regina Holmes' forehead is creased and her pupils dilated. She fishes out two paracetamol and hands them over to Sherlock's Mum, who takes them, nods her thanks and reaches for her water glass.

In the outer hallway, Sherlock plunges his fists in the pockets of his short jacket, which he has not removed, even in the house, and regards his soldier.

John crosses his arms over his chest – and just waits. He has to fight to keep a grin off his face, but manages to do so.

"John –"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The detective clears his throat. "John – here's the thing."

"Okay."

"John – damn it. This shouldn't be so hard."

"Just say it, Sherlock."

The detective takes a breath. His fists clench and unclench. He keeps his eyes on his soldier's open face.

"You're not going to like it."

"I already don't like it, Sherlock, because whatever it is, seems to bother you so much."

"John - I'm a ruddy Viscount."

"Yes, Sherlock, I know."

Dead silence.

"You knew? How? No, I mean – you knew that marrying me meant marrying into –

"A title? Yes, Sherlock. I've known for some time. You chose to say nothing, so I just let it go as well."

More silence.

John sighs and lets his arms fall to his side.

"For fucks sake, Sherlock. I'm still capable of using Google. What part of "Right Honorable Holmes" did you not think I would get?"

"John, I –"

"I assumed you renounced the title or whatever you do, and if not, then that's fine, too, as I have nothing whatsoever to do with this and have –"

"Lord."

"What?"

"You, John. Would become a Lord by marriage to me. At least, I assume so since the alternative would be 'Lady.'

"You're fucking kidding me?"

"No, John. I am in earnest."

"Well – that's just bulls- . Well, Shite."

John Watson's dark blue eyes widen and he brings one hand to his pursed lips, as he thinks over this new information.

Sherlock just waits.

After a moment, John nods. "All right then. Here's the deal."

Sherlock nods.

"We forget all that."

The detective cocks his head and regards his soldier. "Excuse me?"

"I mean it, Sherlock. We just plain forget all this Viscount and Lord nonsense. And go on with the wedding."

"But, John, the invitations –"

John sighs and takes a set toward his lover. He places one warm hand on Sherlock's wrist. And looks up into the amazing eyes.

"Look, Sherlock, I've been expecting this for some time. I never brought it up because – as I said – you seemed to want to ignore it, as well. Neither of us has any say over what went out in those invitations, and I understand they have all been mailed. So what say we both continue to ignore it and just get on with it?"

Sherlock looks down into the dark eyes … and nods. A slow grin spreads over his face.

"This will undoubtedly make Mummy furious."

"Don't know about that, Love, but it seems to me it's your deal. Not hers."

Sherlock, who never tires of John's endearments, flushes, then reaches to brush through John's bright fringe. "John, you really have not been paying attention, have you?"

His soldier shakes his head. "Sherlock, it's your mother who hasn't been paying attention. I have some inkling of what this is going to do to your Mum. And I plain don't give a flying fuck. We go on just as we always have. If you're willing to forget this Viscount nonsense, so am I. Until it becomes relevant."

Sherlock repeats. "Relevant."

John nods his head again. "Until you need to pull rank for – I don't know, a case? Or last minute dinner reservations. Or get a really good deal on a used car or something. But until then, life just goes on."

"A used car? John, might I point out that we take taxi cabs everywhere in London and except for the occasional foray into the countryside, at which time my arse of a brother –"

"For fucks sake, Sherlock, I was joking! Just let it go. The title, what you are called and what I will be called, let it all go. Until we have to actually acknowledge it or do something about it, okay?"

Sherlock regards the love of his life and then pulls John toward him with two large hands on each shoulder of the soft jumper.

Brown and chocolate and Burnt umber. John should wear these colors more often, to show off his hair. In addition to ocean blues and greens, of course. To bring out his eyes.

"Very well. We let it all go and go on as before. Works for me."

He bends his head and kisses John on the lips. John responds with enthusiasm and Sherlock feels a tiny knot that had hitherto taken up residence in his stomach unknot - and dissolve. He breathes easier.

His soldier whispers into Sherlock's open mouth. "Damn straight."

The detective sighs, plants one more kiss on the thin lips, then straightens. He looks toward the closed door.

"John Watson. Love of my life. I have been dreading this little conversation for a while, but you have just glossed over any inconvenience this blasted title might have held. I believe everyone's waiting on us."

In answer, John encircles Sherlock's waist, digs his hands into the soft shirt and pulls the lanky body toward his own. He tilts his head back and ever so slightly rises on the balls of his booted feet.

"They've waited this freaking long, they can bloody well wait another damned minute. Or five."

Sherlock grins.

OooOooO

Deborah closes her file folder, makes a last notation on her pad and lays her Biro down in front of her. She and Regina glance at each other – and nod.

"Excellent. John." Sherlock pushes his chair back, nods at his mother, finally acknowledges Deborah's presence, and waits for John to come to his feet. Which John does, slowly.

He and Regina regard each other.

John smiles grimly. "Regina, may I speak with you a moment? Not here, of course."

Regina Holmes inclines her head, as if she has been expecting this, and turns to Deborah. "Thank you, my dear. I think we made real progress here."

Deborah smiles. "We didn't discuss the rehearsal dinner."

"We can do that tonight, Deborah. If you would excuse me, I believe Captain Watson and I have something to discuss – in the library."

John places one warm hand on Sherlock's wrist. And then glances up into the pale eyes now a steady grey with no hint of green or blue.

The detective frowns. He looks from John to his mother. Then just turns and leaves the dining area. John does not watch him leave.

John waits courteously by the door as Regina precedes him out of the room, then follows her to the library.

Sherlock takes the curving steps two at a time, heading toward their room. His head has begun to pound.

In the hallway, he hesitates only slightly as he passes his old room. He frowns at the closed door, lifts one hand to the knob, then lowers it without attempting to enter the room.

In their bedroom, Sherlock glances around, then runs one hand through his dark curls. He goes to the window to glance out at the afternoon, which is rapidly darkening.

Finally, he kicks off his shoes, tears through the buttons on his shirt, dumps it on the floor, steps out of the trousers, and goes to shower - his third of the day.

Under the steaming water, he attempts to wash away all things Holmes.

He is not successful.

OooOooO

"I'm not entirely certain that any of this is your business, John."

John crosses his arms over his chest and regards her.

"Then you haven't been paying attention, Regina."

"Please, John. You must understand that what's done, is done."

"I'm not an idiot, Regina, whatever you and Mycroft may think. Sherlock was fifteen when this occurred. And yes, what is done is done. However – "

"However, my oldest son and I both felt – at the time - that in the interests of what was best for Sherlock –"

"No. No. Damn it, you're going to shut the hell up and let me finish. It's far too late to undo what you did. But holy hell, you can still do something about all of this."

John waves his hand around the library, indicates the Holmes manor, and by default, Regina and Mycroft Holmes.

"I fail to see how, John."

"You would, wouldn't you? What is it with the Holmes family?"

Regina does not answer him, but stands to go to one of the windows. She looks out at an increasingly dark sky.

"Jesus, her very back is aggrieved. Now I know where Sherlock gets it."

He comes to stand a few feet behind her.

"Dear God, Regina. You can talk with him. Just talk with your youngest son. And please note I said 'with' and not 'to.' It's not too late to re-establish some sort of bond. Do you think because his shoe size is larger that he doesn't still need you? I don't know how late it is for Sherlock and Mycroft to have anything other than – what they have - but damn it, you're his Mum."

He watches as her back stiffens in her cream-colored linen jacket. For the first time, John realizes he has never seen Regina Holmes wear anything other than trouser suits. He wonders if that means something or if it's another indication of how sartorially clueless John Watson is.

He comes to a decision – takes a deep breath – and steps off the cliff.

"Regina?"

At his softer tone of voice, she turns from the window to face him. Her beautiful face is nearly bloodless. John puts out one warm hand and touches her on the wrist. She does not pull away from him.

"Regina - do you know the one thing about Sherlock that struck me when we - became a couple?"

"I really do not require the details of your –"

"Shut it. I don't intend to betray any confidences here today."

John withdraws his hand and begins to pace – up and down the dark blue and gold Oriental carpeting. She watches him as he paces. Finally, he comes to a stop in front of her and spreads his hands.

"Jesus, Regina, most of our time together is spent in my holding on to Sherlock. I would anyway. I want to. He's mine. Make no mistake about it. No one and nothing is going to take him away from me."

Her grey eyes widen but she says nothing.

John Watson stands in front of her and looks into the pale grey eyes she passed on to her younger son.

"When we became – intimate - my work was cut out for me, Regina. The man was – and is - starved for simple, human affection."

John swipes one hand through his bright hair, aggravated – and not a bit exhausted.

His voice drops. "Holy hell, Regina, without betraying Sherlock's trust in our more private moments, you must know that two thirds of the time we are together is spent in my holding on to that man. My arms wrapped around Sherlock. And make no mistake about it – there's no place on earth I would rather be."

Her eyes widen more, if that's even possible, John thinks.

She glances around, then sits in the wing-back chair behind her. John looks down at her.

"I have no idea what happened between the two of you that I inherited this – "

"Problem?" Her voice is cool, nearly icy. But her eyes betray her. They are haunted.

John pulls up one of the armchairs and sits opposite his future mothering-law.

"No. No, not a problem. How about truth? For all his snide manner, the constant demeaning or belittling of everyone and everything around him, for all his derisive comments, Sherlock remains desperate for affection."

She looks down at her clasped hands and speaks to the carpet.

"Then I believe it's a good thing for my son that you are there to give it to him, John."

John regards her evenly. A look of sadness fills his dark eyes.

"There's no talking to you, is there?"

Regina sits back suddenly, deflated. Suddenly she looks every one of her years. The careful mask falls away and John can see the exhaustion and tiredness there.

"What would you have me do at this time in my life, John? I can barely - touch – my son. That day at the mansion, when he was so horribly injured, so maltreated –"

John leans forward. He holds both his hands out. After a moment's hesitation, she takes them in hers. He nods encouragingly.

"You had your hand on his shoulder."

She nods. "John, that was the first physical contact my son has allowed between us for – I can't remember. For years."

"And why do you think that is?" John asks tiredly.

Abruptly she pulls her hands out of his and buries her face in her slim hands. John just waits.

When she finally looks up, it's with a lost expression on her beautiful face. For a second, John frowns. Her features are Sherlock's features. It's – difficult – looking into her eyes.

"John, I love my son. Both my sons, John. I always have done."

She comes to her feet and turns to John. Their faces are a few inches apart. John can see the flecks of green in her grey eyes.

"But there are – circumstances – of which you remain unaware. Incidences that I cannot divulge at this time, in the interest of my son's safety."

She lifts her chin and he is reminded that she is his height in stocking feet. It is only the heels that give her the allusion of height. Still, she is wearing heels today and he has to tilt his eyes slightly to look her in the eyes.

"Cannot – or will not, Regina?"

"Cannot, John," says Mycroft from the doorway.

OooOooO

Sherlock turns off all the lights in the room, pulls the curtains and crosses to the bed. He tears the covers off their bed, and lies down. He wears dark navy silk pants and nothing else. He throws one arm over his eyes to block out the ambient light.

He doesn't expect to sleep, but in a few minutes the world fades away.

Sherlock dreams. Badly.

After a few more minutes, he groans.

"John."

OooOooO

Mycroft looks from his mother – to the real power in the room. He blinks. It takes a great deal to garner any overt reaction from the elder Holmes brother, however small, but John Watson just managed to do it.

John stands a few feet away from Mummy, arms crossed over his chest. Defensive posture in anyone else; command posture in John's. His arms aren't crossed in an unconscious effort to protect his vital organs from attack. John's posture is upright, yet manages to be relaxed. His hands are not clenched and Mycroft sees no evidence of a tremor in the left. He appears fully at home confronting Regina Holmes and his crossed arms belie any nervousness that any observer might at first deduce. Or suspect.

As for the normal oatmeal-tinted clothing, John has eschewed his familiar worn jeans for a pair of trousers in dark brown brushed corduroy, a slim-fitting jumper in a warm chocolate color, obviously cashmere, soft, also brushed, over a button-down in a darker burnt orange color – Sherlock would have called it burnt umber. Mycroft calls it appealing.

The only thing 'normal' about John Watson is his Army boots. Mycroft surmises he has taken to wearing them everywhere around the estate, eschewing his brown loafers for dinner and later in the evenings.

The entire effect is one of quiet strength and determination and it's easy to see what his brother – and countless women and not a few men, have found attractive in the former soldier.

Both his mother and John look at him.

"Son –" Regina begins.

Mycroft waves one hand at his mother and she stops talking. He comes over to stand in front of her and John.

"Mummy, I think it's time John learned certain truths –" he begins.

"No! I cannot, Mycroft. I won't. Please do not expect it of me."

Mycroft takes her arm in his and pats it. But makes no further show of affection.

"Mummy, you need to have a lie-down. I'll speak with John from here on out."

"No, Mycroft. We agreed, years back. We agreed for Sherlock's sake. I have to keep him safe. Keep him protected."

"You've done all that – and more – for years, Mother. Please go lie down now. I'll speak with John."

She glances from Mycroft to her future son-in-law. And bites her lip. Finally, Regina nods. She brushes by John with a murmured, "Excuse me, John." Both men watch her as she leaves.

At the quiet click of the door behind her, John turns to Mycroft. He has a puzzled expression on his face.

OooOooO

Restless and unable to sleep, Sherlock swings his bare legs over and sits on the edge of the mattress. He presses the palms of his hands into his closed eyes.

It doesn't help.

After a moment, he stands to go to the cubbie and tug out John's worn duffle. He yanks the drawstring, then dumps the contents on the floor. He finds what he is looking for. Prescription bottle in hand, he stands at the window, impatiently brushes the heavy drapes aside and looks out at the approaching storm.

There is a far off boom of thunder.

Sherlock shudders once. His long fingers grip the window sill and finally he turns to regard the room. His pupils are wide with pain and he winces against the small amount of light.

He takes two of the pills, washes them down with water from the tap, then tosses the bottle of pills back on the top of the canvas duffle.

He hurriedly dresses in the jeans and a fresh shirt, then shrugs into the short jacket, after first checking his pockets. He leaves their room, walking quickly.

OooOooO

"John, you must be curious by now as to why neither Mummy nor myself – or most particularly Sherlock – ever mentions our father."

John regards the elder Holmes steadily.

"It has crossed my mind, Mycroft, more than once."

Mycroft nods. "It's Mummy's – and my – conscious decision, John. As for Sherlock, I doubt if he remembers much about our father. And what memories still exist, we take great pains to keep suppressed."

"What are you saying, Mycroft?"

His brother-in-law turns to him, and John sees the look in his eyes.

No. Just. Don't.

The sun still shines outside, barely, although a storm rapidly approaches. It has gone very quiet in the Holmes library. Mycroft frowns, as he gathers his thoughts. John's pulse begins to quicken. He doesn't like the look on his brother-in-law's face. And suddenly wishes he could just leave the room.

"There are horses in the stables," thinks John. "Beautiful horses." He could go collect Sherlock and the two of them could go out now and feed the horses carrots. They could walk to the stream; walk all over the estate. Take the Harley for a spin; do anything but stand here and listen to this. There's time – before the storm hits.

Time. There's always time, right?

Mycroft stands in front of the tall window and regards the exsoldier.

"There are all types of torture, John. Physical. Mental." He glances at John. "Emotional."

"Mycroft ." John's voice sounds alien to his ears. He suddenly doesn't want to hear this. He doesn't.

"I wasn't here. I was at Uni. Mummy was here, but not all the time. She had her charities. Trips to the continent. What more natural than that her youngest be left in the company of his own father?"

"Don't." John's eyes widen. He can see the weak sun shining right outside the window. The rays slant in and paint Mycroft's hair a dark shade of ginger. A single cloud moves slowly across the face of the sun. The room is plunged in semi-darkness.

"Mycroft."

The elder Holmes brother goes on as if John is not in the room. He talks quietly, as if talking to himself. Recounting the horror.

"Sherlock was an – impressionable – child. Curious. Trusting."

"No. Mycroft, don't."

"John – have you ever noticed the scar Sherlock has on his left shoulder? It's not a very large scar, John. Small. Perfectly round?"

John's hands grip the back of the chair. "Yes. He's got numerous scars. Sherlock is always being injured or –

"John."

Mycroft stands with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. They stand in the library of the Holmes manor, backlit by a dying sun which is rapidly being eaten by storm clouds.

And John is losing his mind.

"No," he whispers.

OooOooO

Sherlock takes a small flat piece of metal out of the pocket of his jacket and stops in front of his old room. It only takes a moment for him to pick the lock.

He pushes open the door and reaches out for a light switch. With a click, his old room is thrown into relief. He looks around at the shelves of books, the shadow boxes of butterfly collections and mineral specimens and carefully preserved animal skeletons, sees the dusty skulls and stacks of notebooks and myriad diagrams and posters – he looks at Bear – and at his old chemistry kit, still sitting in its metal case by the cupboard.

He crosses to the far wall, cylinder in hand. And uses the flat end of the metal cylinder to twist the screws out of the light switch cover.

As he works, he frowns. Too slow. I'm being too slow. Must be the migraine.

The cover comes away in his hands.

He lets it fall to the floor.

OooOooO

Mycroft Holmes frowns. He stares at a point beyond John, at the blues and golds of the worn Oriental carpeting.

"I came home early from Uni one long weekend, John. My original plans were to stay with friends in London. But Mummy insisted we all be together for Sherlock's birthday."

"His birthday," John says. When did his voice go hoarse?

"I came in early on a Friday afternoon. Sherlock's birthday celebration was set for Sunday morning. However, I had not seen my brother for two full months. I had brought him books he'd asked for from University. I wanted to see his reaction to my other gift – a rather comprehensive chemistry kit."

Of course. Sherlock would appreciate a chemistry kit, at his age. John tries to remember if he ever owned one. He doesn't think so.

"Hence I came in approximately twenty-four hours earlier than expected by Mummy, the household staff – and our father."

"Mycroft," John's mouth has gone dry. He needs to get some water. He really does. Or maybe someone would bring them tea. Do they actually 'ring for tea' here or is it just a given that there will be tea? Does it just show up, unannounced?

"Mummy wasn't here at the estate. She was in London, having her hair done, I believe."

Of course, Regina was gone. Of course, she was. But then John thinks of her face as she left earlier – and decides to forestall judgment.

"Our housekeeper had brought luncheon earlier to my father's study, per my father's request. He said he was 'coaching Sherlock' in his reading. My brother was ten-years old and reading on a college level. They were going over Fermi's theorem, I do believe."

John tries to breath past the rock in his chest.

"I left my kit by the door and went down the hall toward the room our father used as his study. I tried not to make a sound, as I wanted to surprise both of them."

"It was windy," thinks John. "Probably raining, too. Mycroft's left that bit out. Of course, the wind was blowing outside. The day was gray. It's always grey in January, right? Grey. Cold."

"I came down the hall, half expecting to hear my brother's laughter or his loud defense of some theory, John. In those days, even at the age of ten, Sherlock would defend his ideas with enthusiasm. You could hear him all over the house. But it was deathly quiet, John.

I came upon father's study door, which was closed, but not locked."

"I have to stop this. Put a stop to this."

"Mycroft –"

"I opened the door as quietly as possible, John, with the idea of surprising them both. Our father sat in the chair at his desk. Sherlock sat at his feet, his knees curled up to his chin. He was dressed in thin cotton pants and a thin tee shirt. Nothing else, John. No socks, no slippers. No robe. The fire had gone out long before."

Mycroft refocuses his gaze and looks deliberately at John Watson.

"The window was open, John. January in England. And the bloody window was open. It was freezing in the room. I could see every breath Sherlock took. My brother sat on the cold floor in a freezing room, John, dressed in nothing but his underwear. He had both arms wrapped around his knees."

John frowns. His heart labors in his chest.

"I stood in the open doorway and the first thing I noted was my younger brother's condition. Which was horrid. He was shivering uncontrollably from cold. The second thing I saw was the livid red mark on Sherlock's left shoulder. And the third thing I saw, John, was our father's eyes, as he looked up from contemplation of his youngest son and looked at his eldest."

"Mycroft." John clears his throat and tries again. "Mycroft –"

"I didn't recognize him, John. Not really. There was something - there – behind the eyes. I remember the feeling as a blow over the heart. Sherlock was white as a sheet. But he kept his arms wrapped around his knees. He was rocking back and forth."

"When I saw the red mark, John, I knew without being told that my younger brother had been deliberately burned by a lit cigarette."

Mycroft looks at John with narrowed eyes.

"I saw all of it immediately, John. Father followed my line of sight and shook his head. All he said to me was, "Mycroft, I'm afraid your younger brother does not have your propensity to follow instructions." Then he stood and I remember I stood back from him, as he brushed by me.

"Father turned to look at Sherlock and then at me. He said, "He needs to remain that way for another hour or two. Just to learn his place.' And he left, John."

John comes around the front of the chair and sits heavily. He continues to watch Mycroft Holmes' face as he speaks. He wouldn't stop him now even if he could.

Mycroft nods once. "I went over and put my arms around Sherlock's shoulders. He didn't move. Just kept rocking back and forth, looking ahead at the cold fireplace. His face was paper white. I told him, 'Come on, Sherlock. Get up now.'"

John takes a deep breath. Takes another.

"All Sherlock said was, "I can't, Mye. I have to stay here. He'll see. He'll know."

John's blood runs cold.

"I grabbed a throw from the chair and wrapped it around my brother and tried to get him to stand. I asked how long he'd been made to sit there like that?'"

John looks up at him. Waits. He can hear the blood rushing in his veins.

"Sherlock said, 'Three hours, Mye. "

Mycroft moves to sit in the chair that Regina vacated earlier. He leans forward, toward John, and clasps his hands.

"Three hours, John. Three hours sitting on the floor. In his cotton pants and thin shirt, barelegged and barefoot. Unmoving. Slowly freezing. Three hours of emotional, mental and physical torture – a few dozen feet from the staff in this household. None of whom knew or suspected a bloody thing about it."

John just looks at him, sick to his stomach.

"I had to literally bend and pick Sherlock up, John. He began to struggle. To cry out, 'No. No. He'll see. He'll know.'"

Mycroft frowns, remembering. "He refused to stand."

"Stop now. Stop."

John's eyes are wide and he thinks he's going to throw up in the bin by the table.

Mycroft shakes himself and his eyes come back from wherever they were.

"I picked him up, John, and placed him on the divan. He wouldn't stretch out his legs. He remained curled up in a ball."

Mycroft looks down at John's boots, as if speaks to them alone.

"I was afraid father would come back at any minute, John. So I left Sherlock on the divan, wrapped as warmly as I could make him and shut and locked the door. I closed the window and built a quick fire in the fireplace. Then I picked up the landline to call Mummy. The head of the salon refused to put me through. I put a call through to the local precinct. Finally, finally, someone agreed to get Mummy on the line. But it took a long time, John. All the while, I sat there, gripping the phone with one hand, and holding onto Sherlock with the other. We sat there together. And neither of us said a word."

Mycroft sighs and leans back in his chair. "John, I have an excellent memory, eidetic. But to this day, I cannot tell you what I told our Mother. I can only tell you that she left the salon and was here in under two hours. The police, of course, were here much faster."

"The next thing I consciously remember hearing was our former housekeeper's voice outside the door. Demanding I unlock the door and let her in to see to Sherlock."

The elder Holmes brother looks John Watson directly in the eyes.

"I vowed to not open that door, John, unless it was to our mother. I refused her request. I took the extra chair and slid it up under the knob. And sat there with my arms around Sherlock until our mother got there. It was two hours, John. Although the police were here before then. But I refused them admittance, too. I couldn't be certain now, could I?"

Mycroft shakes his head. John watches every expression that crosses his face.

"Two hours, John. But it felt like days. Then, I heard something that sounded like an argument and – things – hitting the door. I heard our father's voice, angry, demanding. And other voices. And then finally, Mummy's voice, saying I could open the door now. He was gone. We were safe. So I opened the door. Sherlock never moved in all that time. He just lay there, wrapped up in that damn throw. Staring at the fire."

John just looks at him. And waits.

"Sherlock doesn't remember that, John. Or rather, he can't."

"You're saying that Sherlock has no memory of something so foul that clearly had a horrendous effect on him? Mycroft –"

John stops speaking and as the thought occurs, his dark blue eyes fill with horror.

Mycroft nods. "You're a doctor, John, and as such will understand. He was in what you would refer to as a catatonic state for hours. Mummy and I called an ambulance. Mummy sat with Sherlock in the ambulance and I followed directly behind in one of the family vehicles."

Mycroft stops speaking abruptly and John looks at him.

"Mycroft?"

The elder Holmes stands and turns to the window, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

He looks out at the gathering storm. His voice, when it comes, is utterly cold. But it's not the tone that makes John Watson shiver.

"I never saw our father again, John, after that night. Mummy told me once, and once only, that he was being 'cared for' by top people, as I believe she referred to it. But no matter. I never laid eyes on him again. Neither did Sherlock. I understood why. But Sherlock didn't. He never consciously remembered any of it. All he knew was that when he returned home from hospital, after a sudden illness he couldn't even remember, our father was gone. With no explanation. Just gone, never to return."

"Everyone leaves," John whispers.

Mycroft turns from the window and nods tiredly. "Just so."

Mycroft regards John grimly. "Eventually, our father was determined fit enough to be released back into society by the very doctors we had trusted to keep him away. He attempted to contact Sherlock one time, through Sherlock's school. That attempt failed. His attitude toward my younger brother at that time was – untenable – to say the least. Mummy and I requested that our father leave and never return."

John frowns. He stands a few feet behind Mycroft and suddenly, he's afraid. He's afraid of what Mycroft Holmes is about to say next. He wants nothing more than to jerk Mycroft by the shoulder and demand he stop speaking. But he cannot talk. He's literally mesmerized by Mycroft Holmes slow voice, by the way he stands in the faded light, by how very similar his profile and mannerisms are to Sherlock's.

He watches his brother-in-law turn to face him and John thinks, not for the first time, how alike the brothers are – their silhouettes, the way the light tinges the dark hair auburn, in Mycroft's case, more of a dark ginger shade. The way they both stand with their hands in the pockets of their trousers, as if that simple act anchors them to the earth. The way they often rock back on their heels as if observing everything and everyone around them. Deducing. Observing. Re-defining reality.

"Are you certain you want this truth, John? Because once spoken –"

"Just tell me then," John says. He's so damned tired now. And he needs to leave this place and find Sherlock. He's afraid. Jesus, he's afraid of words now.

The two men stare at each other.

"Our father, John, who at that time resembled Sherlock to an astonishing degree, save for his hair color, was requested to relinquish all parental rights as our father and to divorce our mother, with as little publicity as possible. In return for this, he was offered a deal, an extremely lucrative one, I do believe. The details of which called for him to remove his presence from our lives and this country and to stay as far away as possible from the Holmes estate – and from his sons, particularly his youngest, for all time. He utterly refused the divorce, however. But accepted the other terms. Mummy went along in the interests of protecting all of us. After negotiations with our mother's attorney, he finally agreed to these terms."

Mycroft looks at his brother-in-law. "It was only after he left England, John, that Mummy was finally able to speak with his physicians. At first, they refused to divulge any information about our father's treatment. It was after she obtained a court order, that Mummy was allowed access to father's psychiatric records from the 'facility in question.' It turns out that both of his examining psychiatrists recommended he be kept at that facility – or some such – for the remainder of his natural life. But father had not only an entire team of lawyers at his disposal, including some of the sharpest legal minds of the age, but rather extensive and far-reaching contacts within the British government."

John watches as Mycroft clenches his hands into balls in his trouser pockets.

"For want of a better term, John, our father had been thoroughly examined and determined to be clinically insane."

OooOooO

Written to Adele's "I Set Fire To the Rain." Particularly, the last section. 'sky'