The cab journey back to 221b is boisterous. Sherlock kisses me, pulling my head back so he can devour my mouth. His hands are everywhere, teasing, stroking, nipping until I am out of breath and blood rushes through my body. neither of us care about the driver or the motions of the cab as he throws us around corners, obviously keen to get us to our destination before he sees more than he cares for.
Sherlock pays the driving, grinning at him and wishing him a good night. Then he bundles me through the door. We are laughing, giggling and pulling at each other. He presses me against the wall and does a slow grind of his hips against me.
"I just want to let you know what you're in for Dr Watson," he chuckles as I gasp at the feel of him, hard through the leather.
We're halfway up the stairs, I am in front, one of his hands is on my backside and he is pressed behind me, urging me up every step. I stop. He moans as my halting pushes him against me and he runs his hands down my chest. When he gets no reaction he looks up. The door to 221b Baker St is open.
Not wide open but ajar. More ajar than we have left it. I even remember telling him to lock it before he set off to Laura's. I half turn to him and am just about to whisper, to ask him and he nods. He did. He remembers.
I step forward lightly on the balls of my feet and make the last few stairs without a creek. Sherlock waits for me to wave him up. I gesture with my hand for him to move, listening for sounds inside the flat but there is only a muffled breathing, a sound the water boiler sometimes makes. I flatten myself along the door, the layout of the room shielding me if the intruder is inside. Sherlock creeps behind me and I am just about to indicate to him that I will go in when I feel his hand on my shoulder and I see him nod. He already understands. It occurs to me briefly that this is like the fluent, unstinted team work I have had with my fellow soldiers and some part of me registers this union, this bond which doesn't need me to tell him anything in words. In a cold moment of fear it is a ray of light.
Carefully I inch myself through the crack in the door, it is barely wide enough and the door feels like it will protest, will creak and alert our intruder, because now I am certain that they are still in the flat. A sixth sense warns me and I've learnt to trust it. I grip the wood of the door and ease it back gently.
The lights are off and the yellow streetlight bisects the room through the long windows. The room is untouched, still the dreadful mess in which we left it. The only anomaly, the only addition, is the figure of a man sitting in Sherlock's green leather armchair. The darkness of his clothes reflects in the chair's chrome legs and arms. He has his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. From the posture I discern exactly who he is.
"Mycroft?" I turn on the light as I enter the room. He looks up and his face is such a picture of abject grief, red and swollen eyes stark against the pale skin and slightly ginger cast of his hair that I am shocked. He puts up a hand.
"Please, John, turn off the light." and I do. Sherlock pushes past me and I put out my hand to warn him not to lose his temper, not to say something cruel because his brother looks like he will break apart into a million pieces if he does.
But Sherlock is in the kitchen, I hear him getting glasses, pouring a drink. He comes across the room and puts one glass down at Mycroft's feet. It is a curiously child like gesture, like an offering and he doesn't hand the glass to him as though he's scared of the physical contact.
I cross the room and kneel in front of the now silent man. His shoulders are heaving and I think he's sobbing. A cold wave of dread washes over me. I touch his knee and he flinches.
"Mycroft, what is it? What happened?"For a moment he doesn't answer, he barely lifts his head when he does speak. His voice is as though someone has wrung all the emotion from him. He sounds flat, empty.
"Simon's dead." He whispers.
We've sat here in the dark now for an hour and Mycroft hasn't said another word. Sherlock's filled our glasses three times. I watch with interest his careful prising of his brother's hand from the glass. Despite all their bickering Sherlock can still see Mycroft is hurt beyond words.
"I got a message," He says eventually, "on the secure phone line. From Simon saying where I'd find him... god, they must have made him make the call and then..." his voice breaks. It's awful, terrifying how this usually so self reliant, cold man has been broken by this news. He sniffs and pulls out a large handkerchief and wipes his face. "When I got there, he was already dead. He was still warm. It could only have been moments since they..." he begins to cry quietly. Sherlock stands up and crosses to the window.
"Were you followed here?" his voice sounds remote and I look at him sharply, thinking how unfeeling his question is considering the circumstances but Mycroft looks up and his face is calmer.
"No, I'm sure of it. I wouldn't have come here at all but..." he screws up his face, like a child trying not to cry. I know what he means. He came here because he knows we will understand. Because if this happened to Sherlock or I we would be equally devastated. It makes me realise how vulnerable it is to love someone.
"Good. Do you know who they are?" Sherlock still sounds business like and Mycroft sits up and squares his shoulders, pocketing the handkerchief.
"Gus Freiman, I wasn't sure until now but I'm certain of it." Sherlock nods and I watch them both, how the details of the crime, the investigation brings them closer.
"What was Simon into?" I ask Mycroft gently. He smiles a thin smile.
"Me. Everything." His smile falters, "We'd been lovers for a year and I invited him to join the Rubber Ring. He met some people, we played some games, all harmless fun until Simon got into the kidnap scene." Sherlock nods again but all I can think is that Mycroft used the word lovers, just like Sherlock does, that Mycroft was in the Rubber Ring before Simon.
"Then he met Freiman? Who suggested he could provide something more interesting?" Mycroft nods.
"I don't think he knew what they were doing, I didn't know really, but I had some doubts. He must have found out though. It's why they've..." he trails off and drinks the rest of his whisky. "Thank you. Thank you for letting me just be here and feel this." He stands up and grabs his coat from the back of the chair. He runs his hand through his hair leaving it standing up and making him look younger and more vulnerable.
"Of course Mycroft, any time..." I don't know what else to say. Sherlock nods and puts his hand on Mycroft's arm. Briefly they look at each other and then Mycroft turns to go.
"Find them Sherlock." He says as he leaves. Sherlock nods again, his mouth a grim line. Mycroft opens the door and we hear his footsteps on the stairs.
Sherlock turns to me before I can speak. He crosses the room in three strides, stepping over the coffee table which is in his way. He grabs me and holds me tightly to his chest. I can hear his heart hammering through his ribs. With both hands he holds my cheeks and kisses me fiercely. His mouth trails hot kisses down my neck and into the neckline of my t-shirt while his hands roam over my chest. I am panting, disorientated. What is he doing?
"Sherlock? Sherlock!" he steps back briefly, his eyes are wild. "It's ok, I'm ok." He nods distractedly and I know what he is thinking. He's thinking what if that body wasn't Simon, what if it was me? What if he had lost what Mycroft has just lost? I kiss him gently. "It's ok." I soothe. Then we hear the front door slam and the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs.
Lestrade bursts through the half open door and looks at us for a while longer than I think is necessary.
"Ahem," he gives a fake cough and we stand apart. Sherlock gets the whisky bottle and fills his glass and drinks it right down in one. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for about a minute. Lestrade and I look at him.
"Family problems." I say and wave my glass at Lestrade but he shakes his head. "What's happened?" Lestrade sits in the chair recently vacated by Mycroft. He stretches out his legs and looks at the ceiling with an expression of exasperation.
I sit in the chair opposite and move the Union Jack cushion. Sherlock comes and leans on the mantelpiece.
"We've found the body of one of the Ukrainian boys. He's been pretty cut up. And there's another body but MI5 have taken it so we don't have a clue who it is." He rubs his hands over his face and sighs. "I was really hoping you two could shed some light on this."
"We can. John has successfully infiltrated the kidnapping ring and we're waiting for them to call him when they have something else planned." Lestrade looks at me like I just grew an extra head.
"You've infiltrated..? What the...? Ok, ok do I want to know?" he looks at me pleadingly. I shake my head.
"Probably not Geoff." He nods.
"Right don't tell me. You're sure it's the right lot you're in with?"We nod together and he purses his lips and frowns.
"So, do you know about this other body?" I look at Sherlock and Lestrade catches it. "Sherlock?" his tone is warning.
"It's someone connected to the Secret Service. We think he got too involved and tried to pull out." Lestrade looks from Sherlock to me and back again to Sherlock.
"And you're going to let him..." he doesn't finish the sentence and I'm glad because Sherlock's expression is not happy.
"Lestrade, if there was any indication that John would be in danger I would not be asking him to do this." He says through thin lips. "Once we know where they're going to be then we can hand it over to you." Lestrade looks at me. It occurs to me that we've not switched on the light and Lestrade's face is picked out in yellow and black shadows.
"John, are you sure about this? We could send one of the boys in? Someone trained." He looks pointedly at Sherlock who is stabbing the penknife holding the unopened post onto the mantelpiece in a vicious fashion. Before I can answer he turns and leans against the fireplace, it's a quick and aggressive action.
"Lestrade, Geoff, it's lovely that you want to look after John, really lovely but, I think you ought to know that he is going to be perfectly safe. With me." he ends closing his eyes in a long blink. It takes me a minute to register what he is saying but he seems to be implying that somehow Lestrade is interested in us beyond the case. Lestrade pinches his lips together and stands up angrily.
"Look Sherlock, we all know you've got this massive fucking brain and everything but this is John's life you're gambling with!" He turns to me and points his finger at Sherlock. "You want to think before you do everything he says John, he's not always right and two men are dead already!"
I blink at him; I've never seen Lestrade so angry, so frustrated. Sherlock is looking out of the window like nothing's happening. I nod at Lestrade.
"I won't. They're just going to phone me. Then we'll call you when I know the venue." He takes a deep breath through his nose and twists his mouth like he doesn't believe me. He looks at Sherlock who is still pointedly avoiding his gaze.
"Sherlock. Don't jeopardise the man you love just so you can be right." With this he grasps my shoulder and leaves. He stops at the door. "The Ukrainian boy was called Andrijj Domchek and he was sixteen." He looks at me, then to Sherlock who is still gazing out of the window. He sighs and we hear his feet running down the stairs.
We sit in silence. Sherlock doesn't look at me. I pour more whisky.
"Sherlock? You have to talk to me." he sighs and sits on the chair opposite me.
"Maybe he's right," he says. "Maybe Lestrade and Mycroft are right."
"What?" he's not making sense. He closes his eyes and steeples his fingers, his voice is tired.
"Maybe relationships are too dangerous. Look what it did to Mycroft. I've never seen him like that since Daddy..." he shakes his head. "Maybe you're better off without me. I'm dangerous John." he stands up and grabs his coat. I can't let him do this. I can't let him just say these things and leave. I stand up and grab his arm. He looks at me and it's like he's dead behind the eyes.
"Sherlock! For fuck's sake! Just listen to me. I am not a child. You aren't some all- fucking- knowing parent who can decide what's best for me. I've been to war for fuck's sake!" I shake my head, trying to clear it of the sing song voice saying 'this is it, it's all over.'
He looks at me and wipes a hand over his eyes, is he crying? No he can't be. I've never seen him cry. He doesn't cry. But in the dark of the room I can't really tell his expression. He starts to shrug my hand away.
"If you go now," my voice breaks and I shake my head. "If you go now it'll never be the same again. Because I can't trust you like I do if I think you're going to just walk away. Do it now and it'll always be an option, a threat." He stands perfectly still. My brain goes on overdrive, playing all the things we've done together in glorious Technicolor like my life flashing before me, or at least the best parts. I feel the lump in my throat, my nose prickles and my eyes feel hot.
He stands there for longer than is fair. I can see him breathing, his shoulders lift and drop and I try to burn him into my memory because if this is the last time we're together, really together, then I need to remember him.
The silence stretches out and it's more than my fragile ego can bear. I turn to go into the kitchen. If he's going to go now I can't stop him. I hear him follow me into the room, I don't know what he's doing but he's not leaving yet. The whiplash of emotion from despair to hope is choking me. I get out a new bottle from the cupboard. My head's going to fucking kill me tomorrow but I don't care. I open the fridge for the ice. Might as well do it properly
"John?" his voice is unsure. I turn and look at him in the gloom, the light from the fridge is blue and cold and I can't read his expression. I don't answer I just look. He puts out his hand and I don't know if he wants the bottle or me. He leans further and takes my hand.
"John?" he looks lost, like he doesn't know what to say. I've only seen him like this once, the time he reasoned himself around to telling me he loved me. He kisses my hand, his eyes don't leave mine. As I look at him one big tear rolls down his cheek, just one. All the emotion, the fear of never having him again wells up in me and I start to cry. He looks distraught.
"Oh god. I'm so... I'm..." he grabs me to him, kissing my face and I can taste tears in his kiss and I don't know if they're mine or his. He kisses me with ferocity, with fear in his touch. His hands are in my hair and he holds me tightly. I know that he cannot express how is feeling, what he just very nearly did to both of us. I know that this is the only way he can communicate what he needs me to know. But it's not my way. I pull back.
"Sherlock, tonight I've gone from perfect trust to the biggest dose of fear I think I've ever had." He looks at me; I can see he doesn't know what to do. "I can't just let this go without some kind of reassurance, restoring that trust." He nods, rubs his hand across his face, his lips.
"I know. And you deserve it too. John," he looks at me, right in the eye, the intensity is immense. It's like the world stops spinning and my heart stops beating. "I am sorry. I just couldn't bear you to get hurt, to be like Mycroft..." he shakes his head like he's trying to get rid of the memory. He breathes a deep breath like he's telling himself to just say it. "John, I promise you now I will never walk away again. You are too precious and too dear to me. If our relationship ever stops working it will not be my fault because I'm going to do everything I can to make it work until I die." Fucking hell. The last words are a bit rushed out, like he wants to say it before the logic side of his brain can take command. His eyes are wide and he looks just as surprised as I am. I take his face in my hands.
"I promise you too Sherlock." I kiss him and his hands slip from my shoulders down to my waist. We stand in the kitchen; me leaning slightly on the work surface, and kiss lazily, like we have all the time in the world. Our lips and tongues explore each other. My hands skim his chest and he moans as I trace past his nipples.
"Come to bed." He says to me gently, kissing my neck, my collar bone. I nod and let him take me by the hand.
Got to be honest I have no idea what just happened! This was not supposed to be the chapter I was writing! But the boys just fell out.:/. Was it ok? Do yiu feel disorientated or did it fit in? I have no idea what you're going to say but I need to know. You've been great so far for reviews espec those of you who do every damn time and those of you who tell me you never review!
Like Sherlock I couldn't do it without my Baker Street Irregulars: PrincessNala (makes me laugh how you think I'm marking your reviews for originiality, fangiling is cool), Peachsilk (a treasure to know), Darmed (hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear (went to the pub so I could write, bless you) Tasty- Kate(we're going to share fic genes transatlantic) , 2cajuman2(thanks for your lovely comments on the last two chapters espec. Does bold separate the A/N?)Tanya Zsa Zsa (back from Ibiza and already reading, thanks) ,Munchiees, Aelfric's cat(hope real life gives you back, do we need to send the Holmesmobile?), Nellyington (hoping laptop emergency is over) , mrs winny (nice to see you in the inbox, makes me smile) and Despairandcupcakechild (a star) and Mouserjb4 (are you back soon?), Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (who drew an awesome rubber ring pic here... http:/ jazzysatindoll. Deviant art. com/art /The-Case-of-the-Rub ber-Ring-1 79556 446) !
To OHOB who's been having fun and Reggie at the pub with Clubba, I love you! Cxx