Authors note: Alright, I'm a walnut, but here we are! Also I'm sorry...
"Beg, little Holmes boys," A blonde man grinned-so similar to a man Sherlock met beside chlorine drenched water, the light upon John's chest still etched into his mind. "Beg for your lovers" Insanity like shattered glass within his eyes, crackiling in the points of light that scratched over his face. Mycroft was frozen beside his brother, staring at the glint of a ring on a still body in the shadows. Neither could even think of motion, too frozen with emotions they never felt, pain they deemed useless, love they never wanted.
"Oh shut up," A shot rang out, shrill as an untuned violin, and the spell was broken. The next moments time spun slowly. A bullet, bright and deadly disappearing in shadows and grazing through light, flying past the sound barrier. Clever eyes dancing with it as it broke the air, finally to find a home in the center of a crazed-and strangely happy-face. "Damn crazy bastard." Burnt flesh hung like July humidity, the sound of blood curling from it's home taking over the sudden silence.
Both Holmes spun in near unison to find a man almost their height smirking. His eyes bluer than a police box, his hair mussed up, and a thick, military coat dangling around his calves. He flicked his eyes over both of them, giving a sharp salute to their utterly disbelieving faces. "Pleasure to meet the infamous Holmes Brothers."
"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock blurted, all other thoughts at a standstill in the face of this unknown man.
"Captain Jack Harkness," He gave a little bow. "Pleasure." Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, a look Sherlock was all too familiar with distorting his features. Sherlock remembered it well, that was the night Mycroft had caught him with Sebastian in his room.
"No disrespect sir, but don't you have bigger problems."
Suddenly reality struck them both like a whip, pulling leather through their skin and letting blood trickle down.
The American gave them a sympathetic look, dark eyes feverish with a memory, before he spun away. "Go, do something." Mycroft growled at his dumbstruck men before tearing down the stairs, Sherlock in tow.
The stairs felt as if they were millions of miles, each one creaking under panicked feet. The world distorted around them as they careened forward, the iron scent getting stronger with each hiss of wood. Sherlock felt splinters grind their way into his fingertips, but he was too numb for pain.
'Breath you idiot,' His mind begged the still form he could make out to be John. 'I refuse to repeat these past months.'
'I'm sorry,' Was the only phrase echoing in Mycroft's mind, over and over, sometimes a shout and others a whisper as he stared at the love of his life and the man he sent to his death. 'It's all my fault.'
Leather met concrete in a slap, then the sharp noises divided, each to end with the dull noise of knees against ground as they fell.
In the center of aching breaths and pleas to a God none of them believed gave a damn, staring into rotten wooden boards, were dead blue eyes that held the last fading burst of happiness that the agony of a red hot bullet brought.
"And Sherlock?" Molly whispered, brown eyes skidding over the familiar face before her. Hope broke her voice into splintering pieces, syllables crashing to the floor as she waited those heartbreaking moments…
"He's fine, my dear," Mrs. Hudson whispered to the young girl, a smile gracing her lips. If she ever had a daughter she would've wished for one like this darling. "We've got them back." It was more to herself then the doctor, a tiny noise in a buzzing world, but the most heartfelt that the air had ever heard.
"Oh God…." Molly mumbled, taking Mrs. Hudson with her as she collapsed onto the rose print couch. "I can't believe….I'm so happy…." Her voice was wobbly, "This is brilliant…" Just a breath between bitten-pink lips, tears tracking the way down her features.
"It won't be perfect you know," Forced out, but it had to be said. Mrs. Hudson knew her boys wouldn't be angry forever, but when they got back...Well she was no fool. "They'll be fighting."
"But they'll be together." Molly finally managed her cheeky smile, one of the few things that had kept Mrs. Hudson above water for the past months. She and Molly had been spending a growing amount of time together for months now, holding each together up as they watched Sherlock disintegrated.
"Hopefully they'll realize it." Mrs. Hudson sighed, a warm sort of happiness finally washing over her. Like tea in the morning, or John smiling at her when he got the paper. Oh good Lord she was going to get to see that again.
"I can't wait to see him." Molly finally laughed, breathy and tear broken, but honest laughter. "Do you think he still does the hedgehog thing?"
"I don't believe he could stop." Mrs. Hudson smiled, tears gentle on her skin. "I can't wait to see Sherlock sm-smile again." Molly nearly lunged forward to hug her as Mrs. Hudson lost it, unadulterated happiness flooding her system in a rush so fast she couldn't breath. "My boys…."
"They're alright," Molly soothed, small hand flat and comforting on the older woman's back. "Sh, sh Martha...They're alright."
"Yes, they are…" She hiccuped out, smiling into the young woman's shoulder.
"Time of Death 12:03." A thin man mumbled, pulling latex gloves from his fingers with a sharp snap. Dark eyes finding the two disheveled men who had stood a few feet behind him. He only knew them in name, but he was certain they weren't the type to ever let emotions through. The kind of men who could stare into the face of a loved one with empty lungs and a still heart and simply nod, only to return to the safety of home and destroy themselves.
"You're sure?" The elder, at last he assumed as much, of the two asked. Nothing in his voice, but every single person in the room could feel the cold. The chill of defeat, the ice of guilt, and the numbing feeling of heartbreak. It was like poison gas in the air, he two Holmes the center of it all. Shoulders low, trousers crusty with drying blood, eyes silver with something unnamable. It made his heart constrict just looking at them.
"Absolutely." With a quick dip of his head he let the verdict sit there. The two seemed to absorb it, accepting the truth with the kind of cold logic of a true scientist. The information being pulled from the heavy air and into those two chaotic minds. He could see it in those gunmetal eyes, like adding a room to a palace, it was frighteningly beautiful.
"Thank, Dr. Conan-Doyle." All Arthur could do was give a nod, unable to stand the feeling of crawling finer tips and breaking sanity anymore, and he fled up the stairs. Then something like a ghost grasped him, he felt as if a reassurance was warranted, if not needed.
"The others will heal fine, with proper medical care." With that he was out of that muggy prison, hope trailing from his heels.
"You….bastard…." Greg's voice was like sandpaper, clawing up his throat, sand words falling from his cracked lips. "You….utter...cock…." He felt his mouth split, warm blood on flaking skin.
"I know…" John hissed, a groan bursting from his mouth as he shifted to look at the other man. "You...alright?"
"Will be."
"S'rry." Greg just snorted in response, letting his head loll to the side to look at John, and God was it good to actually look at him. "And...tha-Ah!-nks."
"No problem." Greg nodded, both men already feeling like passing out again. Slowly, feeling like his muscle were soaked in lead and his arms were draped in dripping wool, he lifted one arm and pushed his fist into John's arm.
"Wha…"
"I owed you one." The darkness swallowed Greg with he fading whispers of John's thready laughter.
Sherlock learned how to experience fear at the age of 7, when the older boys at school deemed him the weakest. He remembered the feeling of it, blurring his thoughts and vision, making his hands shake, his ears pop and his voice go hoarse from screaming. A show raised above his head, his tiny arms trying to protect his head, tears soaking his skin. Then he heard a scream and a pop, and the horrifying noise of a bone breaking, and opened puffy eyes to find his brother breathing heavily above him with murder in his eyes.
He felt it only in sharp jolts after that, for years being nearly fearless. Then one day a normal, plane, utterly boring soldier showed up in 's and fear became a second language.
Everyone, from Molly to Mrs. Hudson 'round to Lestrade and Scotland Yard, and even Mycroft, knew Sherlock had been beaten and twisted with gut wrenching horror that night the pool. All thrill at finding Moriarty gone the second John stepped out and opened that thick, green parka. To this day Sherlock refused even the scent of chlorine in their flat.
After that he saw a 'hound' and his mind spiraled away from him. Words falling from his mouth, things he never meant, but he refused to take back. The hound, though, was not the thing that made his stomach tighten and his hands sweat, no the thing that made him shake from head to toe was John's back disappearing from his view, shoulders a straight line and knuckles white. The air was brittle with an end, and his mouth was dry with terror.
Day after day, case after case, john managed to strike panic into Sherlock's heart from the moment he fired the shot the detective never expected to the wordless July afternoon, and finally today. Seeing John's form lying still on pavement, blood and bruises and cuts covering skin. It was like hell to look at him, chest still, pulse barely a movement under Sherlock's fingers.
Now Sherlock was sat at the side of a bed, monitors reassuring in his ears as he stared at the content form of the man he'd fallen so hard for he was certain he'd never get up. The feeling now, staring at John's lax face-even with the shaggy dark hair and curls, the new lines, and the scars- Sherlock felt something he'd only ever heard in passing. A complete easiness, like he could stare at that face until the world came crashing down and be perfectly glad to let the city fall around him if he just got to hold those hands.
Anger was simmering inside him, but he knew it would pass. He could already feel it fading from his mind, easy and simple. All that was left was a kind of happy that didn't have a word, or had thousands. Like coming home after a vacation, or hugging an old friend, sipping your favorite wing, looking at old photos, reading a well loved book. Things that you never knew met so much, all of it together in one giant wash of passion and shock.
It was, Sherlock supposed, what most referred to as 'love'.
John shifted in his place, a disgruntled little whine breaching his lips as he shifted over. His eyelids flickered, and Sherlock's back went pin straight. Suddenly those deep, midnight sky blue eyes slitted open, languidly sliding around the room until they landed on Sherlock, and the look in them was breathtaking.
Alright, quick QA here, after all this do you want a fluffy/angst/hurt comfort series of 'The Aftermath' of all this?
We're almost done, I can taste it. Review, my heartbroken!