Disclaimer: Nothing mine, of course. A.N. Aaand…we end. I know I know, this should have been up last month. But a heat wave named Lucifer – and definitely deserving of that name – stopped me from writing during most of the month. I still wrote my other stories, because a rushed, 'filler' chapter, or a silly oneshot would probably be forgotten in the grand scheme of things. But I couldn't give you all a disappointing ending to this story, so I took a hiatus. My dearest Sendai, I'm sorry, this story should have been ready ten months ago… but I hope it is satisfying.
The actual cleaning and patching up took much more time than it usually should…because they kept getting sidetracked. John was more than willing to concentrate on the task, but it seemed that every few seconds they needed to kiss. And nibble. Not that they ever got around to another full feeding, Sherlock had his bags and – werewolf powers or not – it was too soon to drink from John again. The vampire would interrupt them, too, just to lean his head on the doctor's chest and listen for five seconds or so.
"Your heart has a very peculiar rhythm, did you know, John? I've had to listen to tons of hearts during my…absence, make me hungry enough and I'll hear prey through a wall, but none was like yours. Your heart is not just exciting, or mouthwatering…but soothing. It's not something I am used to anymore," he remarked, after the third time he couldn't help himself, a bit ashamed by how little impulse control he was showing.
John interrupted the petting of slightly-less-matted curls, after a good wash, which he wasn't even entirely aware he was doing, to ask, "Anymore?" in a soft voice. He was curious – had been for a long time – and by mentioning it, however implicitly, the consulting detective had given him a valid reason to inquire.
He immediately wished he hadn't asked, because Sherlock startled away from him, eyes too wide, looking for a moment fully like a deer caught in the headlights. The detective licked his lips, and replied, "I…said so, didn't I? I…if you really want to know, I will tell you, of course. But I'd prefer to do so at Baker Street, if you're not in too much of a hurry to know. It would be more…comfortable"
"Of course I'm not in a hurry, love. Whatever you want. You don't have to share anything at all, if you don't feel like it. But I'm your blogger. You can't blame me for being curious," the werewolf assured, with a smile that would hopefully defuse the tension.
"He said something like that, too. once. Well, not blogger of course, blogs didn't exist back then, but…and here I am, planning not to talk about it, and still making a mess. I'm not great today, am I? I promise I will tell you everything when we're home," the sleuth rambled, half of him wanting to call John out on the endearment he'd used and the other too nervous to do so.
"Don't be silly, Sherlock, you are and always will be the most amazing creature I could ever meet," John replied instinctively.
At that, the vampire blushed, surprising himself. Usually he would need a conscious effort, but it seemed that half his brain was subtly engaged in 'how to properly answer to John's behaviour like a human being' without any obvious effort on his part. John made him…human. More human that he'd felt in a long time.
The werewolf's answering grin was definitely pleased. "So…since we're not talking – well, not about that, at least – and I don't think the safe house is stocked with necessities like Cluedo and Risk, any idea how we could spend the next couple of hours, until the plane that Mycroft arranged for us to get back home?"
"I'm open to suggestions," the sleuth replied nonchalantly, Sure, somehow they'd been kissing, and John had even uttered the L-word, though he didn't seem entirely aware he had, or attaching any great weight to it. Still, part of him insisted that the risk of going too far was much worse than the one of stopping too soon. He had been born in the Victorian era, and the only relationships worthy of such a name he had experienced started back in his human life. Such precautions were hard to shed, even after a few decades of it being safe.
"Well, one of the few things we're equipped with is a supposedly sturdy bed. I'm all in favour of testing it, if you feel like experimenting," John quipped, with a lopsided smile.
Well, with an offer like that… "I never turn down an experiment," Sherlock stated, fake-solemnly.
The blond bounded playfully towards the bedroom, the vampire in hot pursuit, seeming to almost glide across the spartan rooms. He caught John one step from the bed, and half-tackled him onto it. Trapping his wolf between his arms, he stilled for a moment, asking, "How far do you want to go?"
"All the way and then some," John replied, rubbing against the body over his.
"Sure? You've been very vocal…" the sleuth queried, his own sentence interrupted by a deep moan, but uncountable not gay declarations stinging still at the back of his mind.
"…In taking advantage of bi erasure so as not to make you think that I would push you to something you didn't want. But since you do want...you better get on with it, mister, because I've been waiting way too long," his blogger cut in.
"I've waited more," Sherlock rumbled. So many lonely decades…they seemed infinite and at the same time melted away into nothingness now, with John's body warm and eager under him. Quick hands made short work of the doctor's clothes, both of them not even noticing the blood spatters left by his earlier spree, in order to save his soulmate. They ended on all the corners of the floor, neither noticing or caring where they landed.
..And then the vampire stilled, a pout on his face, suddenly remembering that this was a stranger's safe house, and as such unlikely to be equipped with lube in the bedrooms. At his disappointed moue, John laughed. "Ooops…forgot it. You'll have to rummage on the floor. I pocketed one of the balms from the med kit, not exactly made for it, but I promise it'll do."
The sleuth groaned and dropped a kiss on a clavicle before breaking contact to look for it. It took less than a minute, but they'd been apart too long already…As much as he aimed for careful, the sheer need of them both was too powerful, and the werewolf's body could take a lot. With John egging him on with wordless groans that bordered on growls, Sherlock soon deemed his lover ready enough, and sank into him, with a drawn out moan.
There would be times – so many times – for slow, careful and teasing. Now, still mildly high from the fight, the reunion, such a rollercoaster of emotions in too short a time, all they wanted was a wild ride. Here – yes – mine – forever – finally would have been the words their lovemaking brilliantly substituted for. As it was, neither could seem to form words, much less a coherent sentence. But they didn't need to. Not when all their senses were fully awash in each other. With smell, taste, touch affirming that yes, this wasn't yet another dream, who needed clunky, stupid words?
Sherlock had never been happier to have thrown his humanity away. As a man, he would be too weak to do much more than kiss after such an ordeal. But as a vampire, after a huge meal, some doctoring, and John's extra healing factor coursing through him, he could let everything that had happened wash away from him like a bad dream, and luxuriate in his long beloved's passion. Thrust, caress, nip and be nipped – obviously only he was inconsiderate enough to break skin (but just the once, and the tongue immediately sneaking to clean any spill only seemed to make him giggle).
The conclusion was as brilliant as they knew it would be (and probably everyone in the city knew about it, not that they cared). Heaven didn't have anything on the love they shared. Afterwards, they snuggled together, the detective contorting himself so he could fit in the other's embrace, and rest his head on his beloved's chest, John breathing him in with every inhale.
Nobody dared to tell them that the flight Mycroft had readied was held for an extra day, because they slept through eighteen hours solid after that, and no one was insane enough to dare disturb them. Not even when the vampire mocked the bureaucrats' pitiful organization when told, after waking up, that they would need to wait for an extra two hours… Not because they were not ready, but because – strangely, but (if they had to take a guess) thanks to his bond with the werewolf – he was awake before sunset, and there was no safe way to have him board.
They'd both taken more than enough planes to ignore it…but they were together, once again, and every minute brought them closer to home. Hence the low buzz of excitement they couldn't seem to quell. They would throw glances at the window, trying to guess (sorry, Sherlock, deduce) where they were and how much longer it would take. Of course, there wasn't much to go on… but chatting softly together, throwing calculations and "Do you think these lights are Milano?" to each other was better than behaving like children and asking, "Are we there yet?" every five minutes like they would have wanted. And if to see better sometimes required that Sherlock lean over John…well, no one was complaining.
Relatively soon (years too late) they were back in London, and one of Mycroft's cars was waiting for them. That might be a sarcastic pet name, and certainly the British Government just wanted to ensure his continued cooperation with the Met – for all the progress made in more than a century, they could still be incredibly blind. Still, the vampire couldn't help a wave of gratitude. Here he was, snuggled against his love, and free of Moriarty's persecution because "Mycroft" had helped – all the way. His own brother, bless him, couldn't have done more. (This didn't mean he'd stop sniping at him, of course – the man would get suspicious).
The sleuth felt like breathing just became easier, as soon as he touched English soil. Entirely psychological? For sure, especially since he didn't technically need to breathe anymore. But the happiness and ease, for a moment, disappeared just where they should be stronger – on the doorstep of 221B, Baker Street. He'd promised John an explanation, and as heavenly as home sounded – his armchair, his violin, proper tea – his beloved's possible reaction to the detective's history made him want to hightail. John had demonstrated he was perfectly capable of tracking him down, though, so that option was out.
"Mrs. Hudson is out," the werewolf remarked, after a quick sniff. "Which is good, I suppose. I'm not ready to share you yet. I am sure she'll want to spoil you rotten when she finds you're back – though we might have to break it gently to her."
"She's made of sterner stuff than you suspect," Sherlock countered, taking steps two at a time. As much as he loved every brick and plank in this house, he wanted to sink into his armchair now. "But it's no wonder – it runs in the family, you see. Both the strength and the reactions to my peculiarities, it appears."
"So you knew her, what, grandma? Or maybe you saw Mrs. Hudson grow up? That would be funny, with her seeing you as a child all the same," John quipped.
"No, no, I met this Mrs. Hudson only a few years ago – I didn't feel like staying, after…and well, if I'd lived here all along people would have started to wonder at some point. I have to move every few decades, if I don't want to raise some questions that neither the government nor I want answered," the detective replied, finally sitting with a sigh of pleasure. 221B, John…the world's tilted axis finally righted itself.
"After…" his blogger encouraged. When the other looked down at his lap, he offered, "Right. Tea first, of course. I don't want to pressure you, if you're not comfortable. But I don't want to be kept out of your life, either. I just want it to be…us, you know? If you agree, that is."
"Of course I agree. I…well, I don't want you to think what we had was an one-time thing, because we were separated so long, because I spread the lie that I was dead, or for any other silly reason. The existence of an Us – as a proper couple – is exactly what I've hoped for since…well, to be honest, since I met you, though it took me awhile to come to terms with it. It took a while for us both, I'd say," Sherlock said, his fingers drumming on the armrest.
"Not going to dispute that," the werewolf exclaimed from the kitchen. A minute later, he came back to offer the sleuth a cup of tea perfectly tailored to the other's taste, and sat on his armchair, cradling a cup of his own.
"I suppose I have to start at the beginning," the vampire declared, after taking a sip. It might do nothing for his body, but it fortified his soul. "I was still human in 1881 when I rented these very rooms from Mrs. Hudson's foremother. I was just then establishing my career, so I needed someone to split the rent. Since I wasn't the most liked of people back in school, I would have never expected to find not just a flatmate, but the most faithful of friends and the perfect lover too. We were careful, of course – at the time, our passion was against the law – but it truly felt as if I'd found my other half, as ridiculously romantic as that sounds."
John didn't want to react poorly – he'd asked, after all – but that was a damned high bar to be compared to, even when Sherlock said he wanted them to be together. The doctor hoped his features didn't show his fears, when he said, "I'm glad you had that." It was honest, at least.
The detective didn't reply directly to that. Instead, he mentioned, "My beloved was…doctor John Watson, just back from our Afghanistan campaign."
John was shocked for a second, of course he was. But then he quipped, "Well, nobody can say that you don't have a type!"
The consulting detective grinned at that. "You'd think so, would you? But he flaunted a rather impressive moustache."
His blogger's hand raised to his lips. "Should I…Would you like…" he muttered.
"Oh, no," Sherlock answered immediately. "I love you for all the things you have in common, I'll admit – the bravery, the loyalty, the caring nature, even the stubbornness – but I love you also for everything that makes you, you. Because that makes me sure I'm not simply hallucinating his return – he was human till the end, you see, and I had to let him go. I love that you're clean shaven, I love that you know and accepted what I turned into, I love that you don't consider a finger of alcohol the cure to all upset, I love that I can call you by your Christian name without worrying that people will read too much affection into my voice. I even love that we went backwards from how I was brought up and we had sex first and I'm speaking of my feelings now. I love that you gave me the strength to speak up about this all when I was resolved to bring these feelings to my grave. I love you."
The werewolf couldn't help it, He got up and was snogging his love without a word until he was breathless. When biology forced them to separate, he said, "I love you too. And in this precise moment, I love that that bugger of a wolf bit me, too. Because one of the things they wrote in the pamphlet I got was that none of the recorded werewolves died in any other way than a violent death. Which might be too much to hope for – I'm not sure how far these records go, in the first place – but I'm pretty sure it means that we have way more than the fifty-sixty years I would probably have otherwise. I don't ever want to leave you, Sherlock. And you better not go off without me again!"
"I'm weird, not entirely crazy," the sleuth replied, smiling. "I would never leave you willingly again, love."
"Good," John growled softly. "So now the only question is, love, your bedroom or mine? Who moves where?"
For a split second, Sherlock blinked, confused by flashback. He'd been madly in love in this house, but they could have never been careless enough to openly share a bedroom, and alarms blared in his head. Then he realised it didn't matter anymore. They'd still be hiding some secrets from the general public, but not this. Never this. "Mine," he decided, grinning, "well, ours now." Simply because it was less shielded than the other. John would turn him into an exhibitionist, if the trend stuck.
Another quick kiss, and John declared, "I'll soon get to the moving part, but before that I have a post to write, love. The genius detective resurrected and, yes, we're a couple, finally. That's news that the world needs right now."
"That's news the years needed years ago," Sherlock quipped. "But all's well that ends well."
"What ending are you speaking of, honey? This is just the start," his blogger countered, grinning.
"Right. Let's both move to the sofa, though," the vampire proposed 'I want to snuggle you while you publish your love declaration' went unspoken, but not unheard.
"Sure. Far more comfortable," the doctor agreed. And when his beloved, in one of his most cat-like displays, decided to lay down and put his head on John's knees, mumbling something about it being easier to read the screen this way, John only nodded and let his hands wander between the keys and the too tempting curls on his lap.
"Now, you'll have to help me with the post, because the only thing that are running through my head at the moment are Princess Bride references – Harry was obsessed with that as a child. You know, stupid puns about you being only 'mostly dead' and not a fake at all, because we found true love..." the werewolf mumbled.
"John, as long as the message is impossible to misunderstand, I don't mind if you use pictures from a children's colouring book," Sherlock admitted, pushing his head against his love's arm like a contented cat.
"Duly noted, love. Ok, let's try this…" the blogger said, writing, Sherlock is alive (and) in my heart. And if a few references managed to slip in that immediately viral post after all…nobody had a complaint.
