Six Months Before
It had been a rough almost four months. John and Sherlock were running on only a few hours of sleep most days, and twins didn't yet have a set schedule of sleeping, and seemed to delight in being awake during the early morning hours. They had begun to take a bit of cereal with their milk and could hold onto different toys by themselves. Hamish in fact loved to grab onto Sherlock's curls and not let go. It was often only with John's help could Sherlock be untangled from Hamish. Rachel on the other hand delighted in pulling on John's short locks or his ear, or even sometimes his nose.
It was a very stormy night in late March that John found himself alone with screaming twins, while Sherlock was out for the NSY. He had tried everything, diaper changing, feeding, playing, and reading stories. He had even tried a bath, which usually guaranteed a calm evening. Nothing doing for Hamish and Rachel. John was at his wits end.
"What did I do, babies, huh? What's wrong?" He asked, trying to shush and coo at the same time. Rachel was in his left arm, squirming and wailing, and Hamish was in his right arm still, but crying all the same. "Oh, come on!" He whispered desperately. As if in answer to John's whisper, Sherlock burst through the door, causing John to whip around towards him.
"Christ… Did you pinch them?" Sherlock asked, smiling a little at John, before turning to take off his belstaff. John glared at him, but when Sherlock was looking at him again, his look turned pleading.
"Please, I need your help. Please." John murmured, and Sherlock stared at him for a moment. John knew he was being deduced, but he was so exhausted that he couldn't bring himself to care. When Sherlock nodded, John sighed in relief. "Will you please try your violin?" He paused, as Sherlock moved for his instrument. "I've tried changing, feeding, reading to them, I've even given them baths, which was no easy feat at the same time, let me tell you. Rachel seemed to calm down after I read, but Hamish hated all of it, which made Rachel cry again." Sherlock had tuned the violin while John babbled, and when he paused for breath, Sherlock began to play with a flourish. John recognized the melody, but couldn't place the sorrowful notes, and the octave jumps were particularly heart wrenching. Rachel and Hamish quieted, but tears were still leaking out of their little blue eyes. When Sherlock entered the last few bars of the piece, John was watching wide eyed. I'd forgotten how he looks when he plays. As if he should always be playing… As if it were what he was born to do. Brilliant… Beautiful.
Sherlock finished the song, and his eyes stayed closed, as if living in the last note. He slowly lowered his violin and opened his eyes, only to see John gaping at him. Sherlock smiled a small smile, but the twins took this moment of quiet to start crying again. Sherlock put down his violin and reached to take Rachel from John's arms. For a moment, John and Sherlock stood close together, with the twins sandwiched between them. In that moment, the doctor looked up at the detective, and he felt his tongue dart across his lips, anxiety ruling him. Sherlock paused in his movement of taking the girl and stared down at the doctor. The twins had quieted, and were now staring up at the two men. This caused John to look down at them.
"They've stopped crying." John said, and he looked back up to Sherlock, smiling a tired smile. Sherlock smiled back, and John in his exhaustion didn't notice the flush that had begun to sneak up the detective's neck. Sherlock took Rachel up in his arms, and was beginning to back away from John when Hamish started crying again. "No, oh come on." John murmured, and Sherlock moved back towards John. Immediately the infants quieted again. Sherlock huffed a laugh.
"The little beggars…" He murmured, and John looked at him, irritated.
"So they missed you. Right, well come on." John said, and he tugged on Sherlock's sleeve, going to their bedroom. Sherlock was confused, but kept quiet.
Once in their room, John went to Sherlock's slightly larger bed and pulled back the covers with one hand, laying Hamish down first. Sherlock watched from a few feet away, and was astounded when John crawled into his bed too. "John! What-" He began, but John shut him up with a look.
"Get in this bed. I am positively knackered and I am in no mood to fight you, persuade you, or drug you. Just come here with Rachel, so I can sleep." John stated, and kicked off his slippers, before laying down on the left side. Sherlock pursed his lips, but laid Rachel down next to Hamish, before unbuttoning his shirt and going for his pajamas. In his absence, the twins began to fuss again, and John hummed the melody the detective had played.
Once changed, Sherlock came back to the bed, gingerly crawling in. Once he had settled, Rachel and Hamish both started cooing and looking at him. Sherlock looked over them at John and saw the doctor had a blissful smile upon his face. The two men laid on their sides, facing each other, and looking down at the babies. After a few minutes the babies quieted, and they stared at the ceiling. It wasn't long before they were sleeping, and Sherlock looked over at John to see him staring at him. The doctor grinned tiredly at him.
"Sorry… Told you I'm knackered." He yawned, and shifted slightly. Sherlock only nodded, turning to turn out the bedside lamp. The detective settled again, thinking of John's scent, his impossible blue eyes, and his tongue across his lips. He gave a sigh, and was surprised when John asked, "What was the piece you played?"
Sherlock wanted to pretend he was asleep, but felt that John wouldn't ask again. And I want him to know… I need him to know it was for him. "O Mio Babbino Caro. It's a popular soprano aria." Sherlock murmured, recalling the words. "Lauretta begs her father to let her go and buy a ring, so that she may be with her beloved… She threatens to throw herself into the river if he doesn't." John gave a tired chuckle.
"What a ridiculous woman," John murmured, settling further into Sherlock's bed. Sherlock found himself thinking, If only I could be the bed… Ridiculous.
"Yes… Ridiculous," Sherlock murmured back, listening as John's soft breathing, telling him that the doctor was asleep.
Present Day
The sitting room had been dedicated to red string and pictures again. A few days went by with minimal speech from John and Sherlock. The only spoke words were "Tea?, Morning, Afternoon, John." Sherlock threw himself into case files that Mycroft had brought, and John took multiple shifts at surgery. John was unspeakably angry that Sherlock had made the decision to send the twins away. John couldn't bring himself to speak to Sherlock, let alone say his name.
On the fourth day, John left for surgery, with no trace of Sherlock in the flat. He breathed a sigh of relief and went about his day. It was dark when he returned, and John could tell something was off when he entered the landing downstairs. He knew Mrs. Hudson had gone on holiday (no doubt at Sherlock's suggestion), but her door was ajar, and he could see that some of her dishes had been smashed upon the floor. He quickly did a sweep, only to find no evidence of the burglar. John thought he knew where the perp was headed and who the target was, and looked to the ceiling, listening. No sound… odd. John walked out of Mrs. Hudson's flat, looking up the stairs. Is Sherlock still out? What has he been doing?
John started up the stairs, gripping his case and hoping the burglar was already subdued or even gone. I'm in no mood to fight anyone. Except maybe Sherlock. Oh, but then you wouldn't be able to hear his brilliant theories. Shut up.
His heart dropped when he made the landing, for the door was swung wide, and he saw an indent in the frame. Upon closer inspection, he could see red upon the wood, and a few hairs stuck between the splinters. Cor… Hopefully those aren't Sherlock's. He entered the flat, taking in the devastation.
Sherlock's mind map was ripped from the wall, and pieces of it were strewn all around the sitting room. Sherlock's violin was also away from its usual perch, though thankfully in one piece. His bow and music however, were in strips upon the floor. A window was smashed from the inside, and John winced, for the hole was big enough for a head. He turned slightly, and found books and pictures on the floor as well. When he finally turned enough towards the kitchen, he was gasping and dropping his case. "Sherlock!"
Among broken dishes and emptied cabinets, Sherlock lay upon his side, one arm underneath him at an odd angle, then the other laid upon the floor. His face was very pale and blood stained. His eyes were wide and unseeing. Blood dripped from his nose and gathered upon the floor, and John couldn't help as his mind travelled back to the fall. "Oh, god. God, no." John could hear himself say, although it sounded alien. His breath was coming in and out with short bursts, and he saw it. Bart's roof, Sherlock standing at the edge, the wet pavement, and Sherlock's voice in his ear. It's what people do...Leave a note… It's just a magic trick… He recalled how his heart was hammering, much as it was now, and how when Sherlock jumped, everything seemed to stop.
He moved forward, much like that day, and reached for the free wrist. His hands shook and he murmured his mantra of "God, no." over and over. He finally grasped the wrist properly and breathed in deep to silence himself. He was bent over, one knee touched the ground, when he heard the crunching of footsteps behind him. He stiffened, and let go of Sherlock, standing abruptly and turning so he could face his attacker. His eyes were blurry from tears, and he swung blindly, satisfied that after two hits he had connected with a body. He was shocked when he heard Mycroft's voice say, "John! John!"
John stilled, and then crumpled, his tears dropping down his face. Mycroft gripped him, holding his arms, and murmuring small words of comfort. I couldn't feel a pulse… No breathing… He's gone. And I didn't tell him. Again. Shut up… Shut up! SHUT UP!
"John!" Mycroft's voice cut into his thoughts. Apparently John had shouted, and Mycroft was gripping his arms forcefully. "Not here." The bureaucrat murmured, and John felt a sharp prick in his neck. His consciousness was slipping and he found his legs shaking. He gripped Mycroft's jacket in front of him.
"God… N-no." He heard his own voice, and then knew darkness.
…
John awoke sitting in metal chair, restraints around his wrists. Brilliant. Fucking Mycroft. But was it Mycroft? You were a little distraught. Try a lot distraught. Fuck off. John gave his head a slight shake, and he took in his surroundings. A two-way mirror in front of him, in a small white room with no light. Fuck. Captured? Routine by Mycroft? What the actual-?
He was taken out of his musings when a door opened behind him. Heels clicked as they walked towards him and came to a stop behind him. A woman? Anthea? Or someone else? He tensed as soft hands caressed his neck, then came to settle on his shoulders. The hands moved down his chest, nails painted black and fingers long, they scraped at his clothing, and he felt his tension double. The owner of these long fingers leaned next to his ear whispering huskily, "Oh, doctor, what shall I do to you?" John stared at down at the hands, his mind slowly working. Those hands… a familiar scar on the index finger… Slight tremor in both hands… It couldn't be. He wouldn't.
John looked ahead to the two-way mirror, seeing a tall woman with long dark hair. He couldn't see her face, but saw she was wearing all black, goth type clothes that he saw a lot of the kids wear around London. John also saw that someone had dyed his hair to black, and he was now noticing he had a black eye, as well as a long scar down the side of his face. He knew that someone had used makeup to make his face look different. He looked back to the woman in the reflection to the mirror, thinking hard. He felt a small smile light his face, and gave a small jerk of his head, causing the woman to come closer.
"Do you know any magic tricks?" He murmured. John thought he could hear a huff of laughter from the woman and watched as she came around him, standing in front of the two-way mirror. She didn't move, from what John could tell, but suddenly the room was bathed in light and the woman turned back to him, and John finally looked into her face. Well, his face.
Sherlock Holmes was dressed in drag, but fantastically so, for John felt he only could tell because he knew the detective so well. Sherlock was staring at him, and John couldn't describe the feeling filling him. Anxiety… Fear… Panic… John opened his mouth again, and Sherlock rushed forward, putting a finger to his mouth, and leaning his mouth to the doctor's ear.
"Listen carefully, thirty seconds. I faked my death again, after letting Moriarty's men see me get into trouble with some drug dealers. Mycroft followed you home to ensure you had seen me, and that Moriarty had seen you enter. Mycroft then came up with our cover story, and disguises, which I will explain when we're alone." John shivered, for Sherlock's voice had changed on the word alone, and the detective hastened to continue, "For now, go along with the briefing you're about to receive. Five seconds." Sherlock moved away from him and came to stand in front of the two-way mirror again, fixing his face back to indifference. John gave himself an internal shake, sitting a little straighter. He watched in the mirror, seeing the door open, and a man with sunglasses and suit come in, holding a blank folder. He looked to Sherlock again, and thought, Into battle.
…
Several hours later found Sherlock and John sitting across from the other on matching beds, in a far off hotel room, staring at the other man. Sherlock had taken off the wig and tossed it disdainfully on the floor behind him, but still kept the gothic garb on, complete with knee-high black boots. John would have laughed if his disguise wasn't as equally ridiculous. Leather jacket with a white tee underneath, and jeans as tight as his school days. He also wore black boots that reminded him of his issued ones in the army. What am I supposed to be? A greaser? He felt like laughing, but thought if he started, he may never stop. This whole thing is ridiculous.
Mycroft's plan was for John to infiltrate Moriarty's men, in way of a double agent. Sherlock was to, because he was so known by Moriarty, blend in in some company as an IT worker, in his disguise, and find Moriarty's accounts and hack into them. According to Mycroft's calculations, it would take at least two years. Too long. What about Hamish and Rachel?
This brought Sherlock and John back to their room, where they faced one another, staring at the other. They had been in silence since being ushered into the room, which was being watched by Mycroft's team. Rain had begun to pellet outside, and John wagered the rain was enough to muffle their voices. He stood for the first time in hours, and swept about the room, looking for Mycroft's bugs and cameras. When he was satisfied, he sat again in front of Sherlock, opening his mouth. As usual, the detective beat him to the punch.
"John." It came as a whisper, and his lips trembled a bit. John forced himself to breathe, trying to settle his face into calm. He knew from the tension in his muscles that he must have been wearing his Captain's face. He clenched his hands into fists upon his knees.
"I thought you were dead." John whispered back. He felt his eyes water, and the picture in his mind's eye again. "How could you-?" He was interrupted by Sherlock moving forward to come and sit beside John on the bed.
"I had to. To get Mycroft to agree to help. I had to agree to his terms, so that I… So that we…" Sherlock stopped his murmurs, and reached a hand to John's face, making the doctor meet his eyes. "It's my fault, for coming back. I've endangered you again. And Rachel and Hamish. I had to agree to Mycroft's terms so that he could give me the materials needed to be rid of Moriarty once and for all." Sherlock had tears in his eyes, and John recalled the defeated man he had came home to many days before. "I can't let Rachel and Hamish be separated from their father for two years." Sherlock whispered, lowering his hand. John turned towards the detective, taking his hand.
"We won't let that happen." John whispered. "They need their Sherlock too." The detective gave a soft gasp, a tear falling. John raised his other hand to the detective's cheek, wiping away the moisture. John stared into his eyes, willing his face to convey hope, even though he wasn't sure he was feeling any. Sherlock's seemingly dead body swam before his vision again, and he closed his eyes, taking in a shaky breath. "I can't let you leave us. Please don't do that to us. To me." He opened his eyes when he felt Sherlock's breath upon his cheek.
The detective had leaned closer, and John could see the tears that lingered upon his eyelashes. "I'm never leaving you again." Sherlock whispered, his hand reaching for John. The tremor was back in his hand. John reached for Sherlock too, I have to tell him… I have to make sure he knows.
"Sherlock," John whispered, reaching to the detective as well, licking his lips and looking to the other man's mouth. "Sherlock… I should have told you… I always wanted to tell you-" Sherlock interrupted him with a bruising kiss, bringing a whimper from the doctor. The detective gripped his jacket tightly, deepening the kiss, bringing their tongues crashing together. John broke the kiss briefly to crawl into Sherlock's lap, causing a quiet moan to come from both of them.
"John… I've wanted this… I've wanted you-" John shushed him, staring deep into his eyes.
"It's fine… It's all fine." John whispered, kissing him again. I can't… Too much… We've waited too long. John was reaching behind Sherlock, unzipping the black dress his ridiculous friend was wearing. At the though,t he laughed a little into the kiss. Sherlock huffed a laugh as well.
"Not my best disguise, I admit." Sherlock whispered, shucking off John's jacket, and letting John lift the dress above Sherlock's head. Thankfully, Sherlock wasn't wearing any women's undergarments, for he thought he would dissolve into hysteric giggles if that were the case. He ran his hands down the detective's chest, kissing him again. Sherlock was tugging at his white shirt, finally getting his hands to John's stomach. The feather light touches were driving him crazy, and he responded by giving one of Sherlock's nipples a pinch and a slight twist. Another gasp came from the detective, and John moved to his neck, kissing and sucking at his pulse points. "Ah… John…" Sherlock barely whispered out, bucking his hips. John moaned at the contact and stood, pulling off his tee and unzipping his pants. Sherlock hastened to help him, reaching his hands to John's hips to slip the jeans down his legs.
"Bugger." John whispered, realizing he still had on the boots and his jeans wouldn't come all the way off. He bent forward, trying to loosen them to kick them off, while Sherlock ran his fingers along his thighs causing John to stutter in his movements. He looked up, trying his best at an angry look, but was sure he only succeeded in a look that conveyed his desire. "Not helping," He whispered. Sherlock grinned.
"Would you like my help?" He murmured, standing and pushing John to the other bed. John huffed a bit, and watched as Sherlock put one of knee-high boots between John's legs, and leaned forward, slowly unzipping his own boot, never breaking eye contact. John felt the brush of Sherlock's hand as he took off the boot, and switched to the other boot, taking the zipper at the same speed. John gave a small groan.
"Bloody drama queen, get on with it." John murmured, grabbing Sherlock for a quick kiss. Sherlock gave him a wicked grin and moved away from him again, reaching for John's boots. They were off in a flash, as were John's jeans. Sherlock was kissing up his legs, and John moaned, falling back onto the bed. He felt Sherlock crawl on top of him, kissing various spots as he made his way back to John's lips. When he finally made it to his goal, Sherlock was breathing heavily, and running his hands through John's hair. "Sherlock…" John whispered, when Sherlock broke away for air.
"Amazing," Sherlock whispered back. And John met his eyes, feeling all the pent up emotions from the past months crash upon him. Fear...Love...Panic...Happiness... Sherlock ran a hand through his hair again, eyes never leaving John's. John's eyes filled with tears again, a few spilling over his lashes. Sherlock wiped them away, bending to kiss him again, gently.
Again, their kiss deepened, and John let his hands wander. His hand found Sherlock's pants, and he ran a finger under the band, feeling Sherlock stiffen. "Alright?" John asked, pulling away, and looking up at the detective. Sherlock gave a little moan.
"Yes, God yes, John, please." He replied, leaning forward to kiss him again. John broke into a smile and reached his hand to Sherlock's member, rubbing through the fabric. Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, and John felt Sherlock's hand move to his own cock. He gave a sigh into their kiss, and began to peel off Sherlock's pants. Sherlock copied his actions, pulling off John's pants as well. When their skin made contact again, John knew he was very close to coming, but he didn't have time to think about that, as Sherlock took both of them in his hand. John bucked his hips, and reached his hand to join Sherlock's, and they began to move together, moaning into the other's mouth.
Their movements became erratic quickly, and John knew it was because of how long they'd been waiting. Almost like having foreplay for years. Sherlock was jerking against him, and John felt his whole body warm. Sherlock had pulled away from John's lips and was at his ear. "John… I'm-I'm going to-" Sherlock was whispering, and John felt as if it was a summons, rather than a warning, for his body tensed as he spilled over, and he kissed John's neck to muffle the sounds of pleasure coming from his mouth. John came a moment later, his free hand gripping the bed and writhing in ecstasy.
Sherlock pulled off of John for a moment, and returned with a towel to clean them up. When he was satisfied, he sat next to John, staring down at him in silence. As John caught his breath, he stared at his partner, his long time friend, and suddenly knew this was what he had always needed. He sat up on his elbows, giving a small smile.
"So, Sherlock," John murmured, giving him an appraising look, "what's the plan?" Sherlock grinned widely, and leaned forward to give him another bruising kiss.