Anyone else vaguely depressed about the three words for S3? Rat, Wedding, Bow. Ah well, there is always fanfic. Huge amounts of respect and trouser-less vampires to my beta and non redheaded BFF Lyrium Flower for her Herculean efforts towards making this chapter palatable. Much love to all of you - named, guest and anon - who have reviewed (I have a special review wiggle), faved and followed. Slash, Sherlock x John. Vague allusions to torture in this chapter.

In Memoriam

Chapter Twelve

Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, John is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, and if he dreams at all he doesn't remember. An echo of sound wakes him to an anaemic dawn, the light crawling weakly in through the curtains and expiring halfway across the carpet, leaving the room even more leeched of colour than usual. Turning on his side he grimaces at the scratchiness of the mattress and listens, heavy and listless, eyes still shut, but the flat is quiet inside and out. It's warm and he's tired but he knows he's not going to go back to sleep, a thin tendril of anxiety worming its way through his chest and pushing back the drowsiness.

Oh God.

The tendril becomes a crushing band as the events of the previous night pile into his head like some horrible multi-car accident, each vivid memory driving dents into his already fragile mind state.

You slept with Sherlock. Shit. You had sex with Sherlock. Your flatmate. On the flimsiest, most transparent pretext ever. You had sex with the man (the man) you now have to share a living space with.

"Oh God," mumbles John, mashing his face into the pillow.

But that isn't the problem, if he's honest with himself. Not really. Not the fact that Sherlock's his flatmate or that he'd been manipulated into participating in some twisted psychological experiment and not even that the other participant had been a bloke. The problem is is that after one of the most intense sexual experiences of his life (with a man, his subconscious supplies helpfully) Sherlock had given him the once over to see if anything had changed and then had promptly buggered off when he'd realised that it hadn't.

He bloody twisted you round his little finger and you were lizard brained enough to let him.

Although...for a split second there, John had thought he seemed - what? - Disappointed? Angry? Probably both but difficult to tell as he'd still been reeling from the unexpected onslaught of emotion and sensation, not to mention the after-effects of an acute lack of oxygen, and was having enough trouble forming coherent thought let alone muster the ability to decipher complicated facial cues. Then the moment had passed and his flatmate's briefly transformed face had smoothed itself into its normal dispassionate mask. Shaking off his hands - and, Jesus, hadn't that sent a sharp spike of hurt through him - Sherlock had left, not even bothering to take his clothes with him.

One night stands had never really been an issue for him before and, regrettably, it looked as if this little interlude was heading that way. On the one hand, Mature John with the stable ego and three continents' worth of sexual endeavour was willing to try and brush this off as a mistake to learn from and move on. On the other hand, the John who had suddenly developed the emotional faculties of a sixteen year old girl had entertained the thought that bordering-on-operatic sex - pretty bloody impressive sex for someone new to the gender, thanks very much - would lead to grand declarations of love. This John hadn't wanted to let it go. This John had agonised in his room, been one CD away from listening to country music and had then been martyrish enough to go to Sherlock to poke at the open wound just a little bit more by making a frankly embarrassingly dramatic confession.

Much good it did me.

John curls into himself, a tiny dry orgasm of shame at the memory making him shudder. Bottom line is Sherlock doesn't reciprocate any feelings for him, as nascent and unformed as they are. He scrubs at his face. Fuck it, even he's not sure whether they're real or imagined.

"Right."

Enough of the soap opera pining, he tells himself. If he can't be Sherlock's...whatever...he can certainly attempt to be his friend, God knows the man could do with one. If he can stick around without being driven insane, that is. He nods decisively. Emotional crisis over, tea required. Normal is what's needed from here on out. Sparing a glance at his stripped bed and the blast radius of clothes on the floor he hesitates and then shakes his head. Tea first, then perhaps more sleep now his mind's a bit clearer.

Normal.

In the wavering half-light John pauses curiously by the sofa en route to the kitchen. Sherlock's violin lies face down in a nest of cushions as if sprawled mid fit of pique, the bow lying sulkily on the floor halfway across the room. John lifts the instrument gently, knuckles brushing the Union Jack pillow which still holds a whisper of warmth, suggesting a recent departure. Exploring the worn cloth with his fingertips he turns away with a shiver before replacing the violin and bow back in the case. After a last lingering look he closes the lid with a determined click.

Normal.

Sherlock's door is resolutely shut. John drags his thoughts from the man inside with an effort, quietly makes himself tea and returns to bed.


He wakes a few hours later feeling weak and fuzzy-headed, surveying his room once again with a brief spasm of disappointment before heaving himself out of bed. Pulling on his dressing gown and forcing a briskness which is almost entirely beyond him he replaces the sheets and covers and gathers up Sherlock's discarded items of clothing, holding them as far away from his body as possible. He'll dump them outside Sherlock's door like any normal flatmate would and leave him to sort them out. Considering the mess Sherlock's already made of the rest of the flat that likely that means said clothes will be completely ignored and left to moulder away over a period of years until a team in Hazmat suits comes to remove them in the interest of public safety, but he'll be damned if he's going to pick up after him like some bloody doormat.

Normal.

John enters the living room with an armful of clothes he is stubbornly not sniffing and stops dead on seeing the two figures facing each other down over the occasional table.

Definitely bloody abnormal.

Two Holmeses appear to be involved in a bizarre stand-off, each trying to glare holes through the other over a violin and an umbrella handle respectively. If John were a betting man he'd have put money on some sort of who-can-hold-their-breath-longest competition, or maybe the first one to blink getting pointed and sneered at, but either way both men are utterly silent and intent on curdling the air between them. He watches with reluctant interest for a moment and then starts sidling towards the kitchen.

"Ah, Doctor Watson," says Mycroft and two heads swivel to fix on him as smoothly and creepily as dummies on a ventriloquist's knee. John clears his throat and drops his bundle onto the nearby sofa as the pair rake their searchlight gazes over him. Sherlock looks away almost instantly but Mycroft continues his slow appraisal, eyebrows rising sharply.

"I see," he says finally, turning his attention back to his brother who flushes, hunching down in his chair and clutching his violin closer to his chest. John, automatically following Mycroft's gaze, seeing expressions of mingled defiance and shame chasing each other across the sculpted features before Sherlock's face closes off completely, starts to form an angry retort. It's none of Mycroft's business after all, no matter how much he thinks it is, and he opens his mouth to tell him just that but the older man swivels again to fix him with a vicious, sub-zero glare and he has to steel himself against it, taking a step back and closing his mouth with a snap.

"Sherlock has been rather reticent this morning regarding today's review of his case and I believe I now understand why. I require a few moments alone with him, Doctor, if it's not too much trouble."

"It's today? The case?"

John wilts under the twin eye rolls which are pointed enough to scour lines in the ceiling.

"Are you going along?" He asks weakly.

"Now, if you don't mind."

John retreats to his room.


"Oh shut up, Mycroft."

"I haven't said anything."

"I can hear you thinking and you can sod off because it's none of your business."

"Sherlock-"

"No."

Mycroft sighs as Sherlock turns his face away, fingers worrying at the violin, and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"As usual you tried to force the issue and now you have nothing left to fall back on."

"I'll think of something," snaps Sherlock, misery evident in the lines of his mouth and the droop of his shoulders.

"Sherlock-"

"I'm fine," he says tersely. "It's nothing. Nothing but nerves and sinew and redundant physiology. Pointless waste of time. Don't know why people set such store by it."

Mycroft suppresses another sigh, watching a stray memory blow heat across his brother's set face, but refrains from commenting further, drawing a file from his briefcase instead.

"Not much to go on, I'm afraid. Preliminary reports confirmed buccal midazolam. Highly concentrated. Any longer than few seconds in the mouth would have been potentially fatal. Only a handful of chemists have the skill to prepare this." Sherlock takes a long, careful breath in through his nose, his face draining of colour. "Whosoever supplied this was rather careless of our Doctor Watson. All it would take would be a delay in fetching a glass of water-"

"No reason to assume he might not have come by this himself."

"I don't think-"

"John's always been a risk taker," retorts Sherlock acidly. "Likes the thrill of the unknown. Classic adrenaline junkie. Guns not dangerous enough has to go and play Benzo roulette for that extra kick.""

"He throws himself headlong into potentially disastrous situations, that is true." Mycroft offers, earning himself a sharp look. "But usually with laudable intentions and more often than not at your instigation."

Sherlock says nothing, focus turned inwards. He flicks Mycroft a sidelong glance, fingers steepling beneath his chin.

"There's something else."

"In the file, if you'd care to read it."

"Just tell me, Mycroft. I'm giving you the chance to do what you enjoy doing most - revel in the sound of your own voice."

Mycroft tuts reprovingly. "Dear me. I was under the impression people were supposed to be much more relaxed after se-"

"Piss off."

A thin smile. "My team took the liberty of analysing the vial that was found at the scene."

"Wasn't paramedics who picked him up then. Part of your surveillance."

"Medically trained, of course. The emergency call was re-routed, naturally." Mycroft waves the file lazily. "Interesting. Cocaine analogue, short acting, again bespoke and very difficult to pick up through normal testing methods."

Sherlock keeps his face carefully neutral, the feel of small scars amidst soft hair ghosting across his fingertips. When he looks up Mycroft is watching him, brow furrowed.

"Leave the file," he says shortly and then falls silent, attention caught by the figure in the doorway.

John is standing there, parade ground stiff and neatly dressed in suit and tie.

"I'd like to come along to the review, if I may," he says, and it's not really a question, more of a statement of intent. He raises his chin in the face of Sherlock's obvious confusion and Mycroft's mild surprise. "I know I won't be of any help particularly but I thought it'd be good. You know, to show support."

Sherlock's brows come down even further and his mouth works but he says nothing and after a pause Mycroft rises to his feet smoothly.

"Your support is much appreciated and certainly your presence there will help our cause," he inclines his head towards the stairs. "Shall we? I have a car waiting." He moves past John with a nod. "Sherlock," he adds by way of a farewell.

"Right," says John, hesitating in the doorway. "See you later, then."

"I very much like your suit, John," calls Mycroft from halfway down the stairs and John starts slightly, realising he's been hovering while Sherlock stares in space. At the sound of his brother's voice his head snaps back furiously and his face contorts.

"Bugger off, Mycroft!" He roars and with that he twists away from John, curling around his violin, his spine a bow of tension so tight John fancies he can almost hear it creak.

"O-kay," John remarks half to himself and when it's obvious he's not going to get any sort of reply he leaves reluctantly.


The case is fascinating. Fascinating. John sits squashed between two enormous minions he's previously met on the doorstep of the flat, peering at the proceedings from the gallery. Mycroft, of course, is rather grandly positioned in the front row, foot idly moving to some internal rhythm as various pieces of evidence are exhibited and the most trivial minutiae of Sherlock's cases are picked over by suited vultures. Greg's there along with a scowling, dark haired woman and a weaselly looking man; he's called upon to talk through some of the cases and John smiles at his enthusiasm, catching his eye on several occasions to an answering grin.

He looks around the courtroom idly. There seem to be a lot of press attending together with a considerable amount of attractive women. Some of them make obvious eye contact with him and smile.

Hanging round with Sherlock must've done wonders for my sex life he thinks. Definitely a pro on a long list of cons.

A tiny shiver runs through him as a flash of wide blue eyes on fixed on his, a long white neck stretching and hot hands grasping at his thighs surfaces and he shakes his head to clear it, concentrating instead on Greg's clasped hands and earnest tone.

"I think that went well," says Greg jovially, as they mill around outside the courtroom, awaiting the final decision. "Was half expecting him to come barrelling in demanding justice and calling us all idiots," he adds to John in an undertone. "You all right, mate?"

John visibly pulls himself back from wherever his thoughts had wandered. "Oh. Yes, fine. Everything's fine. You were great in there."

"Cheers. Anything come back to you yet?"

"Nothing useful." He sighs and looks around, hiding a sudden flush, catching several interested looks from the clusters of people in the hallway.

"Oh no," mutters Greg in an undertone as the couple he was sitting with in court approach them. "John, that's Donovan and Anderson. Haven't told them anything about what's been going on recently."

John nods and smiles affably as they draw closer, noting Anderson hanging back uncomfortably even after Donovan tugs at his arm, earning himself a sneer.

"Still pining after the freak, then?"

"Sorry?"

"Donovan."

"Must be nice for you now, not having to run around after him. Did you a favour topping himself like that, the bloody psycho. This is all bureaucratic bollocks. Can't believe they're taking these 'cases' seriously." She smiles nastily, raising her fingers to frame the words.

"That's enough, Donovan-"

"Yeah, whatever." She steps into John's personal space and smirks at him. "Some of us aren't so easily fooled."

Greg's face is splashed an ugly red, hands stuffed deep into his trouser pockets. John meets his eyes quickly, a silent understanding passing between the two men before he turns back to the grinning woman, whose eyes widen slightly, smirk slipping at his expression. In the periphery of his vision he sees Anderson take a step back and smiles pleasantly.

"Donovan, was it?"


Congratulations mate. Although John's made my work environment a lot less of a pleasant place to be

Explain. Your grammar is awful, Lestrade. Is my brother handing out my number on street corners now? - SH

Found it in a phone box. You look good in a bikini. I'll let John explain himself but it was fucking funny. Let me know when you want to get back to work.


Sherlock thumbs through the numbers on his phone and selects John's, hovering over the keypad before throwing the handset aside. It's late and he's sore and tired and restless but John's not back yet and he's not concerned, he's not but he should have been home hours ago. Not letting Sherlock in on his plans for the evening is not flatmate-y behaviour, especially after-

Not that what they did was behaviour commonly accepted amongst flatmates...was it?

Sherlock makes a noise of frustration at the sheer amount of 'nots' eroding away at his temper and now sounding utterly nonsensical through repetition and picks up his phone again. He drops it almost immediately and reaches for his violin instead, hurling himself in amongst the pile of clothes on the sofa, letting out a pained grunt as his backside hits the seat.

Indignity not worth the effort, should have taken variables into account.

Except said variables had also not taken into account the unbelievable swathes of sensation. He closes his eyes, tattered edges of warmth licking at him at the remembered feel of John's hands, his mouth, his silken skin, the way his face lit up with pleasure.

Sex. Nerves and stimulation. Friction.

He tosses his violin to one side irritably, hands scrubbing at his hair. The memory of John's body on his sends heat shooting through him, a low throb of desire igniting in his groin, bringing with it an almost pathological need to press himself against the solid form of his flatmate again.

Connections must be severed. Objectivity the key.

A failed experiment and not to be repeated, whatever his treacherous body demanded with all its puerile, romanticised imaginings. Kicking furiously at the heap of clothes he shoves them towards the far end of the couch and stretches restlessly.

Too much to do. The last thing you need is him hanging round you like a lovesick teenager getting in the way of everything.

"Stay out as long as you like," he mutters crossly. "Don't need you, got along perfectly fine before you barged your way in here."

Needed him though whispers a cool voice at the back of his head.

The front door bangs open and Sherlock flinches, grabbing his violin and arranging himself into a pose of unconcern, pulling his dressing gown around him more tightly. John stomps into the living room and Sherlock notices his eyes go first to his door and then find him sprawled on the sofa, widening slightly in surprise.

"Congratulations," he says evenly, plonking a bottle of wine and a carrier bag onto the table. "Got you some dinner on the off chance you felt like eating."

Sherlock says nothing, fingers locked over wood and metal string, and after a pause John shrugs off his jacket and wanders into the kitchen. He leans forwards and sniffs at the bag. Curry. Average and over spiced.

"Dinner with the Inspector," he remarks. "Conversation must have been scintillating."

There's a brief silence from the kitchen and then the sounds of tea-making resume, slightly more aggressively than before. John re-enters with a mug and eyes him.

"You're welcome," he says eventually.

"You're late," snaps Sherlock, sighting down the bow at him. "You took Lestrade out for dinner to apologise to him and possibly to avoid me. What did you do?"

"Avoid -? I'm not fifteen, Sherlock." John shifts uncomfortably. "Shut up and eat your dinner."

Sherlock sweeps the pile of clothes onto the floor with his foot and re-targets the bow onto the space left behind. John closes his eyes briefly and then sighs in defeat, placing his mug down on the coffee table and throwing himself gracelessly next to Sherlock.

"Look, before we get into this, about last night-"

"Forget about last night, it's irrelevant. What happened at the courthouse?"

"Irrelevant," repeats John softly, biting the inside of his cheek. "Fine. Short version: Donovan had a go, I lost my temper, told her to sod off."

"What did she say?" Sherlock goes very still, brows lowered and John shoots him a sidelong glance.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," answers Sherlock in a low voice, the only movement the flutter of his eyelashes and the rise fall of his chest.

"She was calling you names," says John quietly. "Freak, psycho. You're supposed to be dead and she was calling you names. After all you've done for them. I couldn't-" he presses his lips together and knots his hands, shrugging helplessly. "I couldn't let it go. I lost my temper, shouted at her. Said they didn't deserve you, none of them did. Said it was their fault for doubting. For not believing in you. She was saying all these horrible things to my face, Sherlock."

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "I shouldn't have let it get to me but it did. I was so angry at her." Stealing another look, he sees Sherlock watching him with an unreadable expression. "I'm an idiot. You got your name cleared, you can go back to work and I've just made things ten times more difficult for you. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry." repeats Sherlock slowly and falls silent again, gaze in the middle distance.

John waits but nothing else is forthcoming, the other man seems to have retreated into himself and he's not sure whether that's a good thing or not but guilty memories of a catatonic statue on the sofa send a twinge of anxiety through him.

"I'll, er, put the food in the fridge, then," he ventures, almost gasping with relief when Sherlock gives a brief incline of his head in response. He swipes the bag off the table and mutters "long as there's room amongst all the heads," and looks confused for a moment, aware of a sudden, narrow stab of attention. When he returns from the kitchen Sherlock is again absent, albeit gently plucking at his violin. "Going to shower and then go to bed, I think. Long day."

There's no response this time and John grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. "I am sorry, Sherlock. I'll apologise tomorrow." As he turns towards the bathroom he fancies he hears a soft sigh behind him but he doesn't stop to look back.

The water is tepid - Sherlock must've used it all earlier - but he stays under the spray regardless, feeling aching muscles gradually relaxing. After an indeterminate amount of time he hears the bathroom door open and turns as the shower curtain is pulled back to reveal Sherlock, arms wrapped tightly around himself, blue dressing gown fluttering in time with his shallow breaths.

"What-?"

Without taking his eyes off his crossed arms Sherlock steps into the tub, forcing John backwards, rushing water flattening his hair and welding immediately sodden cloth to the lines of his body. John doesn't move and Sherlock doesn't look up, taking one more tentative step towards him and then dropping his head to rest on the smaller man's shoulder, finally laying his face along the curve of his neck.

"Don't apologise," he murmurs into his skin, the words almost lost in the sound of the water.

The shower beats down on them, growing colder by degrees and still neither man shifts, the only warmth, the only point of contact between them leaving their faces proximate, turned away from the other. Then just as abruptly, Sherlock straightens and whirls, spray arcing off him as he steps out of the bath and pads from the bathroom without a word, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

John remains where he is, heedless of the water beginning to puddle on the lino, eyes on the trail of damp footprints from the bathmat to the door. The puddles widen and merge as he continues to stand there, the sting of the now freezing shower raising goose-pimples on his wrinkled skin until the lingering warmth of Sherlock's touch is washed away.


Sherlock's slim figure retreats along the sand bank as the sky turns the churning sea an ugly bruised grey. The water climbs higher up his legs, tugging him sideways, holding him back and he reaches a hand out towards the retreating form as the first drops of rain spatter his face.

John jerks awake, choking around a cry, dragging air into a chest which feels banded with iron. He struggles against a restraining pressure on his arm until cool fingers tighten and he stills, gasping burning lungfuls.

"John."

Sherlock is an indistinct shape perched on the edge of his bed, one hand on his arm, the other on the headboard. John turns his head slightly, aware the other man is peering down at him, and then pushes his face into the pillow, blotting away moisture.

"What were you dreaming about?"

"Nothing," mumbles John, rubbing his chest and trying to slow his breathing. "The usual. What are you doing here?"

"You were calling me."

"I- what? No I wasn't."

"Why else would I be here?"

"Yeah. Why else. Just...give me a minute, will you?" John turns onto his front, burying his head in his arms, aware of the other man shifting further onto the bed. Minutes pass and he eventually turns his head to the side, facing Sherlock who sits patient and cross-legged, elbows resting easily on his knees. His arms are bare, no dressing gown, clad in a loose t-shirt and pyjama bottoms and John reaches out to run a finger over the bandage on his forearm.

"How did you get this?" Sherlock starts to withdraw but stops when John rests gentle fingers on his wrist. "I'm tired of being the one who talks all the time. I'll tell you about the dream but you go first."

Sherlock turns his head, his profile a tousled cameo silhouetted by the streetlights outside the window.

"Warsaw," he says flatly. "I managed to infiltrate a drugs cartel, the remaining cell. Needed information on an agent of Moriarty's which they kindly provided." His face moves in the half-darkness but John can't tell whether it's a smile or a grimace. "I alerted the police but I was tired, sloppy." And too eager to get back home, he thinks ruefully. "One of them followed me back to my bolthole."

John shifts onto his side. "What happened?"

"Police raided their hideout but a few of them escaped, tracked me down, tried to extract information," he smirks without humour. "Who I was, who I was working for. Thing about working alone is that there's no information to give but they were determined to get something."

"I saw your back. God, I'm sorry."

"They were fairly thorough. Didn't manage to flog anything out of me, though. Or burn it." he eyes John from under a tumble of hair, a glint of triumph swirling in the stormy blue. "Told you I'd endured worse."

"That's not funny," replies John, feeling nauseous.

"Sorry," says Sherlock without inflection, the sudden light in his eyes dimming. "Neighbour alerted the police, I managed to escape along with another of the group, the courier."

"What happened to him?"

"He tried to run, I tracked him down." He lowers his head, fringe hiding his expression. "Couldn't risk him warning anyone, not even those who would have potentially helped me. Too dangerous. Had to stay anonymous."

"What are you saying?"

"What do you think I'm saying?" grates Sherlock, gripping his knees, shoulders tense.

"You killed him."

There's a long, weighty silence broken only by soft breaths and the worn springs of the mattress beneath them until John rolls onto his back, carefully not looking at Sherlock who raises his head warily.

"Seems we're even now," murmurs John. Sherlock's head tilts curiously in the periphery of his vision but he keeps his eyes on the ceiling. "I killed a man to save you within a day of us meeting, isn't that right? We're even." He watches the line of the other man's shoulders relax by inches and closes his eyes, grasping at the remnants of the nightmare.

"We're by the sea, I'm paddling, you're on the beach just sitting. Have we ever been to the seaside? No, doesn't matter. It's nice, you're smiling at me like you're quite content to be where you are and I smile back. Then," John covers his closed eyes with a forearm, frowning, "it gets dark, water's choppy, starts rising. I turn back to look at you and you're walking away from me. I can't move fast enough, it's up round my waist and I'm calling to you and you don't look back, you just keep walking. I can't catch up to you and it's so dark I can't see you." He draws in a shaky breath. "I'm trying to run but you've gone and there's all this water."

A long pause. John rubs his face back and forth under his arm. "That's it."

"All of it?"

"Yes."

The bed dips slightly and then Sherlock's weight is gone. Turning onto his side John sighs and curls into himself, pulling the duvet up and over his head so he won't have to hear the finality of the bedroom door closing. He concentrates on the rise and fall of his chest, the patter of his heartbeat, and drifts, watching storm clouds scud across a low horizon.

Morning comes too soon and he prises apart crusted eyes, unfolding stiff limbs with a faint moan. One of his feet touches warmth behind him and he starts in surprise, rolling to meet Sherlock's wary gaze. For a moment they stare at each other until John smiles hesitantly.

"You came back."

Sherlock lifts a corner of his mouth, blinking owlishly at him in the half light.

"I never left."

And in that one brief moment, John Watson's universe collapses.