When Sherlock entered the room, Noel dropped his book. Sherlock glanced around - there were books and clothes everywhere. The desk was cluttered with a pile of assignments. The general mess reminded him of their living room, with all its toys and baby clothes.
Noel grinned, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. "Sherlock Holmes in my room - wow. I've always thought of a thousand things I'd ask you if we ever met, but honestly, right now, I can only think of one. So you don't actually wear the hat?"
"No, of course not."
"Oh. Well, um...do you need some help with the case?"
"Pull up your sleeve."
"No. Why?"
"You just confirmed my hypothesis. You self-harm."
"No, I don't."
"Then pull up your sleeve."
Noel stubbornly bit his lip.
"Noel - is that your name? - you must listen to me carefully. There's nothing wrong with you and absolutely no reason to be ashamed. People are wired differently, and who you really are - it matters, and it's fine. It's all fine."
His eyes followed the way Noel was hugging his pillow. "Look there!" he said suddenly, pointing out of the window, and Noel looked. In a trice Sherlock had the pillow and had plunged his hand into the stuffing. He pulled out a small tin box and opened it to find, as expected, the small blades. Noel stiffened.
"Your body works day and night to keep you alive, Noel. All that blood and bone and muscle. Don't hurt it. Don't disregard it. Situations change, but these scars - they're a permanent reminder of what went wrong."
Noel swallowed shakily. "Look, I - I appreciate this, but you don't know me. With all due respect, you really don't know what it's like in here, in my head."
Sherlock's fingers closed over the marks on his own forearm, and then he was thinking about the loneliness, and those dark days in Europe while he'd hunted down Moriarty's men. He'd never thought he could be lonely….but before John, he'd never known he could have friends. He swallowed and brought himself back to the present, back to this small, scared boy in front of him, and left the room, taking the blades with him.
Sherlock paced his room that night, his frustration increasing. Chasing down the person who was orchestrating this drama was turning out to be a lot more difficult than he'd thought. Irene, Mrs Hudson, the help at the Evans' - none of them had led back to anything. Even the Golem had chosen to die rather than reveal his employer's name. The only person who had ever inspired such fear was...well, Moriarty.
He wanted to pick up his violin and play something to help him think clearer, but he also didn't want to disturb John or Rosie. The poor man really needed a good night's sleep. When he wasn't tending to Rosie or his patients, he was looking after Sherlock, forcing him to eat or sleep enough. Sherlock didn't mind. He'd noticed that his body did tend to shut down after a few days of fasting.
Sherlock had to admit that deep down, he was starting to feel a little hopeful about his situation with John. Of course, he didn't have much practical experience, and he couldn't decide where to draw the line between platonic and romantic. But ever since John had moved back into Baker Street, there was something...different. Like glances and casual touches that lingered for seconds longer than necessary. Or the fact that it was no longer uncommon for them to wake up in the same bed - either John would crawl in because Sherlock had nightmares, or Sherlock would wake him up and bring him in when he thrashed about on the sofa. Sherlock put it all down to a craving for human intimacy due to his lingering grief.
"Sherlock!"
On hearing the strangled cry, Sherlock immediately grabbed his gun from the bedroom table and ran out, heart thumping hard. Who is it why are they here who's hurting him what's going on - oh it's just him and Rosie. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw John swinging Rosie up and down, looking perfectly happy, and dropped his gun.
"John, what on God's green earth? You nearly gave me a heart attack. The next time you need help changing a diaper, you could just shake me awake -"
"Rosie just said her first word!"
" - instead of screaming your head off - she what?"
"She said daddy."
Rosie giggled. "Daddy."
"Oh." Sherlock stepped forward tentatively. "Oh. Rosie, say murder."
"Sherlock! I thought we had talked about this. God, I wish Mary were here to see this." John sighed and hugged her tighter. She squirmed out of his embrace and stared at Sherlock, then declared, "Dadda."
"Huh?"
"DADDA."
"Sherlock, that's you." John said proudly. "Here, take her."
Sherlock did.
"So...I'm daddy, and you're dadda." John said.
"I suppose."
John looked up, eyes shining with happiness and pride, and Sherlock didn't even question it (sentiment?). After months of conversing with Rosie in sounds and gestures, it was another thing entirely to hear her actual voice. They passed her back and forth as she said daddy and then dadda, and then John finally stepped forward and crushed them both into a hug.
"This, Sherlock, is what family feels like."
"Oh. I think I like it."
"Not something I ever thought I'd hear you say."
"I am offended by that assumption."
John laughed, and they broke apart and set about putting Rosie back to sleep. Finally, they sat down next to each other in the semi-darkness, thoroughly exhausted.
"John."
"Hm."
"You had a homophobic father."
Despite all the distance between them, Sherlock could almost feel John tensing up next to him.
"Yes." he finally said, "When Harry came out, nobody reacted well. Not him, not mom, not any of our relatives. I tried to stick up for her, but he was quite immovable. Mum and dad didn't even come to her wedding."
"Where are they now?"
"They died while I was in Afghanistan. TB."
Sherlock had always thought that John's parents lived somewhere out in the country. When they hadn't been on the guest list for John's wedding, he assumed there was some unresolved ongoing family conflict and decided against asking John about it. And his father...so that was why his sexuality was such a touchy subject with him. Sherlock couldn't imagine missing Rosie's wedding, no matter who she chose to marry.
All these years, and he hadn't even noticed this crucial detail about John. At a loss for words, he closed the space between them and tentatively put a comforting hand on John's knee. John stiffened and Sherlock sighed resignedly - too far? - but then John put his hand on top of Sherlock's and squeezed.
"Thanks, Sherlock. You going to sleep?"
"I am."
"Should I come with you?"
"Of course."
After the dust and smoke of London, the fresh air of Stargrounds was quite a pleasant change. John, Sherlock, Noel and Rachel were standing on the outskirts of a small wood - well, Sherlock was crawling, searching for something in the dust. John could tell that he was already bitterly disappointed by whatever he had found. Finally, he heaved a frustrated sigh and got up, lightly dusting his trousers. Of course, John thought. Posh boy's wardrobe probably costs more than my annual income.
"Where do you camp, exactly?"
"There are a few spots in the woods, but we mostly stuck to this path and trekked to a small hill just beyond the trees. Stellar view, and no animals nose into the camp." Noel said.
"Take us there." Sherlock said.
John wasn't entirely sure what the point of visiting Stargrounds was, especially since Noel's dad's murder had taken place almost a week ago. In any case, they'd already examined the exact spot where his car had been found and come up with nothing. He followed Noel and Rachel into the trees, but hung back a little to talk to Sherlock.
"What's in those?" he asked curiously, pointing to the heavy backpacks Sherlock had been toting around.
"A tent, clothes, sandwiches, some other stuff."
"Oh, are you camping?"
"No, we are."
John looked at him in surprise. "Seriously? I thought you didn't care - "
"It's for the case - and don't worry about Rosie, she's with Molly. I need to watch this area for a night, just to see if there's anything suspicious going on. I could use your company, I suppose."
John raised an eyebrow.
Sherlock bristled. "Oh, all right. I thought it would be a nice change for you, since you're always griping about bloody London air and the honking, but if you're going to be so - "
"No! No, I think it's a great idea." John smiled widely at him. "Honestly, I've always loved camping, and it is good to get out of London for a while. Just didn't peg you as the type."
"I do have faint recollections of camping with Mycroft and Redbe - Victor Trevor. Anyway, now that you know, you can carry this bag. Back to the business at hand - there are still plenty of things I'd like to ask Mrs Evans about Mark."
They caught up with Noel and Rachel and Sherlock fell behind, engaging Rachel in conversation. Noel and John walked on ahead, separately, each lost in his own thoughts. They were surrounded by tall trees on both sides, well-sheltered from the evening sun. John softly stomped on the crunchy leaves as they followed the worn forest path. He glanced at Noel and decided to break the awkward silence.
"So, what are you planning to major in when you go to college?"
"I don't know." Noel said vaguely, snapping back to the present. "Literature, I suppose. Er - is everything you write on the blog true?"
"Very much so."
"Oh."
They fell into silence again, and John noticed that they'd left Sherlock and Rachel far behind. He hoped that Sherlock had the good sense to follow the path and not run off into the woods on some wild scent. Noel stopped abruptly and stepped into the trees, leading John into a clearing. Set in the middle was a pond, its surface pristine and undisturbed, save a few stray leaves.
"I used to come swimming here with dad sometimes." Noel said softly.
As John dropped his bag and glanced into the pond - it looked quite deep - he felt some of the old panic returning. He forced himself to take deep breaths and look away, and stepped back a little. You're being unreasonable, he told himself. You know how to swim.
But it isn't the terror of drowning. It's more the terror of putting your head under and not being able to breath or see beyond the torrent of -
He took another few breaths, shutting off his thoughts and turning away.
"Dr Watson." Noel half-whispered, still staring into the water, "Could you - could you double back and get mom? I just want to be here with her for a short while. Could you do that for me?"
"Yes, of course." John said, jumping at the idea of getting away from the pond. He easily found the path again and followed it to where Rachel was standing. He could see Sherlock standing a few feet away, frowning at the bark of a tree.
"Dr Watson? Where's Noel?"
"Er, he sent me back to call you. He stopped at a pond - said him and his dad used to swim there?"
Rachel looked at him blankly. "Noel doesn't know how to swim. None of us do."
At almost the same moment, they both made the connection between what Sherlock had told them yesterday and what Noel was doing now. The boy was depressed, he couldn't swim, he lied to get John away for a few seconds, he was alone near a pond, and the way he had been looking at the water - oh, Christ.
Even as the first few vestiges of panic began to appear on Rachel's face, John was already running full pelt back to the clearing. He could see Noel's arms desperately flailing somewhere in the middle, and he quickly ripped off his jacket and shoes and dived in. The water was cold and his muscles seized a little as he swam furiously for the first time in months, but there was no time to process. He was right - the pond was deep, and also apparently a lot wider than it looked. As he finally reached Noel, just in time to grab his unconscious body, he could hear Rachel yelling from the edge.
He tried to keep a firm grip on Noel as he started paddling back again, suddenly aware of how much harder it was to stay afloat. He vaguely heard Sherlock's strangled cry from the edge of the pond - John! - as the panic he'd been avoiding till now started to set in. Noel wasn't light, and he was dragging them both down. John was struggling to keep both his head and Noel's above the water, trying to hold on as the faces and lights flashed before his eyes.
John, don't be stupid, you can swim. Just take deep breaths -
The voice in his head changed, mirroring the same rough one that had tormented him for months at a time: You want pain? I'll give you pain.
The water covered his mouth and he was instantly back in that hellhole, tied to the wood, and his shoulder wound flared up with phantom pain. Years of suppressed memories and trauma were finally resurfacing, and he was dimly aware that his legs were wildly thrashing to keep him afloat.
And then suddenly there wasn't wood or cold metal behind his back anymore - it was warm muscle.
"I've got you, John." Sherlock whispered, "Keep a tight grip on Noel. We're going to get out of the water, just keep swimming."
Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, and he let his head fall back on Sherlock's shoulder, grateful for the support. At least his nose and mouth were out of the water now - but his shoulder still hurt, and he was still panicking, though it was slightly manageable now that Sherlock was with him.
Somehow, they made it to the edge, and as they clambered out of the water, he finally blacked out. The last thing he saw was Sherlock's concerned face and Rachel's teary one - and then he passed into oblivion.