Hello you guys! New Chapter, longest chapter. About 10k words, don't be afraid!
It's one in the morning and I have school tomorrow, oh god.
But I finished it. And yet, not even close to being done...
This includes days 1-4 of hiding out, the next part will have 5-7 probably.
Enjoy! -ACR
I don't own Sherlock. (Wish I did though.)
It wasn't raining when John got up. A miracle, maybe. It wasn't sunny either just… a day. When he woke up, he found Sherlock was already awake, shoving Johns clothes into his only brown suitcase.
"Ah, what are you doing?" John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared at his… boyfriend? Person. Friend.
"We're leaving. Not for long, just a few days."
"Why? Where?"
"I'll explain it all soon," He zipped the suitcase up and tossed it to John, "Come on."
"Wait, you can't just wake me up and tell me to go. Let me get dressed, have a few minutes."
"Then have them! But we have to go."
John stood up and quickly got dressed while Sherlock raced around, mostly grabbing cigarettes and Johns laptop. John frowned at him as he came back out.
"Sherlock, are you having an attack? Is this some sort of Asperger's thing?"
"Shut up," Sherlock sighed, "Let's go. Now."
John took his suitcase and followed Sherlock down the stairs. At the bottom, they met Mrs. Hudson. She offered them a smile just for a second and then frowned.
"Where are you two off to?"
"We've got to go, but we'll be back in a few days. I hope you'll keep quiet about my being alive?"
She grew a look of sternness on her, "Of course."
Sherlock gave her a nod and a quick smile before opening the front door. Past him, John saw a black car that could only belong to Mycroft.
"I thought you were moving in, now we're on our way out?" John pressed himself against Sherlocks shoulder, "What's going on?"
"John," Sherlock turned to look at him, "You trust me?"
He searched his tall friends face, "With my life."
"Then get in the car," He handed him the suitcase, "Go."
"What? You aren't coming?" But before Sherlock could give him an answer, he was being pushed outside, the door closing firmly behind him. He let out a hollow breath and walked towards the car, but not before an eerie feeling began coming over him. He glanced around, and quickly saw what he was feeling. At least twenty pairs of eyes, were gathered around, down the street, in windows, sitting on stairs, in cars, watching him closely. They sent shivers down his spine. He quickly ducked into the black car and was shocked to find Mycroft sitting inside, with a black suitcase next to him.
"What's going on?" He shut the door and set down his own bag, "Where's Sherlock?"
"He'll be joining us shortly," Mycroft tapped the window and the car began driving off, "After he jumps a few roofs and ducks into alleys. Can't risk being seen at this point, not with so many people watching you."
John narrowed his eyebrows, "…Right. And why are people watching us?"
"Goodness, he really didn't tell you anything, did he? Well," Mycroft pulled out his phone and clicked through it a few times before reaching over and handing it to John, "I think you'll find that keeping secrets has never been London's most keen effort."
John took the phone and looked at it, his mouth dropping open. It was a wall, a huge brick one, splattered with blood-red graffiti. On it were the words SHERLOCK LIVES in wonderfully scary text.
He handed the phone back to Mycroft, "What's happening?"
"These have been appearing all over town within the past six hours. Of course, they were noticed. Its only whispers right now, but they will grow into roars. Needless to say, people are eager to believe, and it's all falling wonderfully into my brother plans."
"Sherlock did this?" John frowned, why wasn't he told?
"Actually, I'd say this was Irene's doing. She has quite a hold on underground rebellions these days. Her own… new protection."
"Irene?" John felt his shoulders tense up, "As in Irene Adler? She's in town, she's alive? And Sherlock is… working with her?"
"It would seem so. It's all rather clever, isn't it? Create a superstition that he's alive, and people will be bowing at his feet before it's even confirmed. My brother always was extremely… clever." Mycroft's phone beeped and he glanced down at it. He turned his head towards his driver, "Two more block, please. Sherlock is waiting."
"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand. Where are we going?"
"Well first, we'll have to make a tiny detour. I've had people following me all day; it's becoming tiresome. Sherlock sure does know how to make a lasting impression with stalkers. Then you and he will be delivered to a house, a small one on the edge of London that I own for purposes just as this. You'll stay there for a few days and no one will know about your whereabouts except a small list of people who are pawns, needing to fall into play as Sherlock chooses. Then, once people are at a standstill and we know the police won't arrest him, Sherlock will make his debut among the living once again."
The car stopped and the door opened, Sherlock stepped inside. He looked slightly out of breath, as if he had been running to get here, which he probably had.
"What are we talking about?" He said deeply. John decided to ignore him.
"Who will know where we are?"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, and myself."
"Great. So everyone who knows we're alive."
"Oh," Sherlock glanced between them, "I told you to wait. I wanted to explain the situation to John."
"Nonsense Sherlock, you shouldn't withhold any secrets from John." Mycroft met Sherlocks eyes and gave him a meaningful look.
"Yeah Sherlock," John looked out the window, "You shouldn't."
They drove in silence for about twenty minutes before John realized they didn't seem to have any sort of destination. They drove through alleys and up and down the same streets until finally they pulled into a parking lot of an abandoned building and stopped. Sherlock grabbed the suitcase next to Mycroft and gave his brother a wink.
"Thanks for the ride, brother. Do keep in touch, won't you?"
"Get out of my car, Sherlock," Mycroft frowned.
"Come, John." John grabbed his own case and opened the door, following the black haired man. There was only one other car in the lot, an old, broken down, silver one. Standing next to it, in sunglasses and an odd smirk, was Lestrade.
"This is your car?" Sherlock asked, accusing without words. John watched Mycrofts black one speed off into the road.
"Yes, shut up and get inside." Lestrade answered. Sherlock and John did as they were told, hopping in the back. Sherlock took his and Johns cases and tossed them into the front seat, then proceeded to lay down with his head on Johns lap.
"What are you doing?" John said, trying to hide the fact he was blushing.
"Mycrofts car had blacked out windows, this one doesn't. I can't risk being seen, even in the back of a car."
Lestrade visibly rolled his eyes and started driving out the opposite way Mycroft did, "Yes, I'm sure that's why."
Sherlock chose to ignore that remark, "What the word with the police, Greg?"
"A few of them have heard rumors, but Sergeant Donovan is the only one who has come to me about it. I told her I can't do anything about rumors, and mostly shooed her off. Eventually people are going to notice that John won't be coming to work, though."
"I'm not allowed to go to work?" John piped up. He was having troubles figuring out what do with his hands. He couldn't put them on his lap because Sherlock was there. Part of him wanted to rest them on Sherlocks chest and in his hair, but he was still angry about the fact he hadn't told him anything about this plan. So he just folded them on his chest and ignored the blue eyes looking at him.
"I can control the police," Lestrade said, making a turn, "But I can't control the general people. I can't do anything to stop people from following you or kidnapping you for information, everyone knows you are the number one target."
"Yes," Sherlock said, "Today I didn't get in the car with you so people would think I hadn't been at the apartment. That should eliminate the possibility that Mrs. Hudson knows anything. Our number one priority is to keep you out of the crossfire of this."
John was silent, choosing to look out of the window again. People passed by normally, but he knew it wasn't. Whispers were there, thoughts in the back of their heads; the great Sherlock Holmes is alive. He wondered how long this would take. After twenty or so minutes, people became less frequent, as did the buildings, replaced by odd looking houses.
Finally Lestrade pulled in front of a house. It was small, maybe two bedrooms, but one floor. The yard was surrounded by a white fence, it all looked peaceful enough.
"Alright boys, this is it." Lestrade frowned, "I have your numbers, and I'll be in touch."
"Thank you," Sherlock sat up. He seemed really sincere about it, "I mean it. Thank you for all of this."
Lestrade didn't look like he knew how to reply, "Uh, no problem."
John got out of the car and grabbed their cases. He gave Lestrade a nod and turned to walk towards the house, Sherlock at his heels. At the door, Sherlock pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door, letting them in wordlessly.
It seemed fairly normal for a Holmes house. Having been to Mycrofts house and seen how professional it was, and then having lived with Sherlock long enough to know you couldn't walk two steps without seeing something weird, it was absolutely average. The front room had a nice, beige sofa and a TV on a table. The kitchen had all the kitchen essentials along with a metal, black table and two chairs. John quickly found the bedrooms; both containing a small trundle bed, the type with mattresses underneath you could pull out, and a dressing table with drawers. The single bathroom was fairly large, with both a tub and a shower. John sighed.
"I'm going to change clothes," Sherlock took the black case from Johns hand, brushing it on purpose. John didn't say anything, just watched Sherlock vanish into one of the rooms. He went to the other one and began unpacking the clothes into drawers, and then opened up his laptop and sat down in bed.
He found the fastest search engine and typed it, "Sherlock Lives."
It brought up a ton of results, but the first was the most popular; a blog entry of a woman in London, a reporter maybe? He clicked on it.
If you've woken up this morning and you're an avid follower of London news and rumors, you've no doubt heard these. Signs appearing all over London, graffiti on the underground walls of London streets, fliers on trees, written in bathrooms. Sherlock Lives.
A year ago, you couldn't open a newspaper without seeing news of Sherlock Holmes; the greatest detective in history, they said! With nothing but his knowledge and perception, he solved unsolvable case after unsolvable case. From Reichenbach to Baskerville, his name was on the tongues of everyone. People couldn't wait to get their hands on Sherlock Holmes, it seemed. He flew from case to case for months, but avoided journalists and reporters, becoming one of Londons greatest mysteries. And then it all changed with the case of Moriarty; a man who had managed to break into three of the highest-security places in London at the same time.
The case was a riot! Sherlock Holmes himself made an appearance and a testimony, proving to the world of his antisocial and yet extremely intelligent behavior. And yet, with the juries final decision, Jim Moriarty was found not guilty and was free once again.
And then one night, Sherlock Holmes was arrested under suspicion of making up the cases he had solved, before he pulled a gun on the police and ran! Then, a story that Moriarty was actually an actor named Richard Brook, hired by Holmes, was published. The rebellions began, no evidence appeared that Sherlock was either guilty or innocent, no record of Richard Brook of James Moriarty anywhere on earth.
And on the day of the stories release, Sherlock Holmes jumped from a building to his death in the world's most affecting suicides in history. His body was found, quickly hidden by police, as was the body of Brook/Moriarty, both hidden without word. No stories were released of their suicides, but no one could doubt its suspicious nature. John Watson, Holmes' partner and room-mate (and rumored lover), refused to give a statement of the deaths, only releasing a blog post on his infamous blog that said; "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."
This sprung forth a great and secret uprising, a phrase; I Believe in Sherlock Holmes. Among them were the thousands of people who believed Sherlock was innocent, including many higher up officials, and the rebellions only calmed down after months after the suicides took place.
No greater uprising has come until today's, words flying around that Sherlock Holmes lives. Are they rumors, only now appearing because of the one-year anniversary of the great detectives death two days ago? Is it a practical joke, meant to start another rebellion within the streets? Or a deeper, more intellectual question; is it true? Was the death of Sherlock Holmes covered up because it didn't happen at all?
We may never truly know, or perhaps all will be revealed with time. For now, the evidence is clear. Sherlock Holmes is not yet dead to his believers, the police are hushing up, and John Watson seems to have mysteriously vanished. What do you believe?
John finished reading it, both amazed and worried. He looked up and saw Sherlock watching him from the doorway.
"Interesting, isn't it? All of this, amazing how fast people come together to rebel."
"Interesting is one word," John shut his laptop and stood up, "I'm hungry, is there food around?"
"Yes," John tried to walk by, but Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him, "Is something wrong?"
"No," John lied. Sherlock let him go, though he knew he didn't believe him. If John was mad, he'd talk about it. If he didn't want to talk about it, Sherlock knew to leave him alone.
He didn't really know what he was more angry about; the fact Sherlock didn't tell him about his plan or the fact Sherlock had gone to Irene for help. Or maybe the fact Sherlock didn't ask for HIS help because, let's face it, John was pretty useless to him.
John found an apple in the kitchen and sat at the table eating it. Sherlock came in and didn't say anything, just sat down across from him and twiddled with his phone.
"How long will we be here, then?"
"A few days, a week at most."
"Alright," John sighed.
"Others will start to come. That's part of the plan too."
"It is?"
"Yes," Sherlock looked at him, "People will be watched, people who know me, people who are the most obvious to know where I am. And then, slowly, they'll start to disappear, come here. It's mostly to get people talking."
"But… There's only two bedrooms."
"This house was built specifically as a hideout by Mycroft," Sherlock smiled, "You don't think he included a secret basement?"
"Oh, alright. So it begins, then."
Day One
It was weirdly quiet, mostly. John sat inside on the computer or sat outside and smoked and listened to Sherlocks phone go off every five minutes, texts from Mycroft and Lestrade and god knew who else. He would answer the phone for calls, too, when they came. John listened but he only heard little answers from Sherlock, things like "Yes" and "I see" and "Keep trying." John mostly kept his eye on the internet for news while Sherlock mostly ignored him.
When Sherlock finally approached him, it was with an idea.
"Have you updated your blog since I died?" Sherlock asked, but he knew the answer.
"No," John said, refreshing the news page he was on, while reading a conspiracy theory about Mycroft's government and Richard Brook in another tab.
"Maybe you should do that now," He walked away.
John went onto his blog and opened up to write a new text post. Within the last few hours his blog had over a thousand hits, but he hadn't even written anything in over a year. He wondered what exactly he could write. Maybe something short, simple, an answer. Like, "Yes." He could even write "Sherlock Lives" but that seemed like it gave too much away. He wanted something simple, maybe push the uprising further. He smiled and began to type.
Met with an old friend today. It's been a long time.
He hit submit and closed his blog, returning to what he was doing. Within minutes, he heard Sherlocks phone blast from the other room, and heard Sherlock answer it. "Yes?... Mhmm… I told him to write it….. Of course."
Sherlock didn't say anything to John after that, but John knew he had done well.
When night came, John ate and Sherlock didn't, locked up in his room discussing plans with Irene. John knew it was Irene because Sherlock didn't make any attempt to hide his conversations with anyone else. After he was done eating, he took his time getting ready for bed, listening to the deep mumbles of Sherlocks voice through the wall, hearing him laugh every so often. Jealousy was growing deep inside of John, making him feel sick. He turned on the fan and heaved into the toilet for a few minutes before brushing his teeth and going to bed.
They slept is separate rooms that night, at least until John started screaming from nightmares and Sherlock came to bed with him. He pulled him in close and John forgot, just for that moment, that he was angry.
Day Two
Sherlock was gone when John woke up, but not without clear evidence that he had been there. He found him on phone in the living room, looking like he hadn't slept at all. He was wearing a deep frown, the first indication that something was wrong. John leaned against the wall and waited until he hung up.
"What's wrong?"
"There was a break-in on Bakers Street today," Sherlock sat down on the couch and put his hand to his mouth, as he often did when he was thinking, "Nothing was taken, they were just looking for us."
"Oh," John nodded, "It's working, then."
"Indeed. I'm worried for Mrs. Hudson, though, so she'll be joining us today. Not what I planned, but part of the plan nonetheless."
"Good, great," John kind of liked the idea of her joining them; it would maybe release a lot of the tension.
"I'll give her my room, don't want her to walk up anymore stairs than she has to. And the basement only has three rooms."
"Do you want to sleep with me, then?" John offered. He was still pretty angry, but he couldn't sleep soundly without Sherlock next to him. That much was obvious at this point.
"If you'd like," Sherlock met his eyes.
"I would."
"Fine," He stood up, "I'll set up the trundle bed, just so people don't think-"
"That we're sleeping together, yeah." John looked away, not really focusing on anything. Sherlock walked past him and he went to sit down on the couch. He wanted to cry, again. There wasn't much he hated more than fighting with Sherlock, maybe nothing at all.
He closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock moving things into his room and fixing the bed, and then he heard nothing at all. He opened them and saw Sherlock standing a few feet in front of him, watching him like a hawk, looking kind of… sad.
"What?"
"You're upset with me," Sherlock walked forward and gently nudged Johns leg with his foot, "And I don't like it at all."
John didn't say anything, but Sherlock was suddenly on his knees. He crossed his arms on Johns lap and rested his head there. John smiled even though he didn't want to, Sherlock seriously acted so much like a child. After a moment, John ran his fingers through Sherlocks messy hair, just smiling to himself.
Sherlocks phone was ringing from where he had put it by the TV.
"Sherlock, your phone."
"Let it ring,"
John laughed, "Don't be an idiot, it could be important."
"It isn't. Not as important as this," Sherlock mumbled.
John stared down at him until the phone stopped ringing and he lifted his curly head. His eyes met Johns and he pulled himself up, sitting on the couch with him, and wrapped an arm around his back, pulling him close. John rested his head on Sherlocks shoulder and let his eyes drift closed.
"Will you tell me what's wrong?" Sherlock breathed into his hair, "And don't say nothing."
"I wished you had told me about your plan, before throwing me into it."
"I literally only had it figured out after you fell asleep, and spent most of the night making the arrangements for it. If I had known, I would have told you."
"Oh," John sighed, "What about Irene? Why… Why her?"
"She had the connections I needed, and needless to say, I consider her a friend."
"I don't know if I like it," John muttered.
"Why?" Sherlock moved his head, "John Watson, are you jealous?"
"Hmm, let me think about that. The only person who made you a bloody mess for a month is back and helping you. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I am jealous." John pulled away from Sherlock and crossed his arms.
"You made me a mess for a year," Sherlock pointed out.
"Hmm…"
"Well, I guess now's a bad time to tell you she'll be joining us in a few days."
"What! Sherlock!"
"Sorry," Sherlock tried and failed to hide his amusement, "It's part of my plan, really. I won't even talk to her, just say the word."
"I just don't want her here."
"John," Sherlock leaned over, grabbing his companions face between his hands, "Why not?"
"What if she tries to put the moves on you?"
"I'll stop her? Didn't I say I'd be yours, and only yours?"
John sighed, "And I still don't understand why."
Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John, softly, and then spreading his lips to take Johns tongue. His small friend let out a tiny whimper.
"I love you, what do you need to be certain? Do you want me on my knees?" He growled.
"A proposal? I thought you said you'd never be a husband?" John mused.
"I wasn't suggesting that," Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gave the most amazing smirk John had ever seen. He couldn't breathe for a second. He almost said yes and then the doorbell rang.
"Fuck," They breathed at the same time, and then laughed loudly. Sherlock stood up and went to the door, opening it to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They looked at him and he sighed, throwing his hands up.
"You couldn't have taken five more minutes to drive around!"
"What?" Lestrade frowned.
John elbowed Sherlock and smiled at them, "Nothing. Please, come in."
They all walked in together and Sherlock took Mrs. Hudson's bags and showed her to her room, while Lestrade stood in the living room with John and looked around.
"It's a bit small, isn't it? How are we all supposed to live here?"
"Secret basement, apparently. Though I haven't actually seen it yet."
"Oh," Lestrade looked around, "How many bedrooms up here?"
"Two."
Lestrade stood in silence and then grew a big smile, "Sherlock sleeping in your room, eh?"
"Shut up, there's two beds."
"One more then you'll be needing."
"I will hit you in the face."
Lestrade was laughing as Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson rejoined them. The small woman smiled delicately up at them.
"Shall I make some tea, then? And you two can explain exactly what is going on, I didn't get many details from Mycroft, I never do."
"Yes, tea please." John smiled at her. She went to the kitchen, and Lestrade began to exit towards the door.
"Change of plans, Lestrade," Sherlock glanced at him, "One person a day."
"Alright… Molly tomorrow?"
"Yes,"
Lestrade left, closing the door quietly behind him.
"Molly? Exactly how many people will be joining us, Sherlock?"
"Molly tomorrow, Lestrade Friday," He turned around and pushed John onto the couch, sitting next to him, "Irene Saturday and Mycroft Sunday."
"Mycroft? Oh for god's sake, no one will stop arguing by the time Monday comes."
"Yes, but the sudden disappearance of one of the most important men in Britain will certainly get people talking. I figure by a week from now, I can make my appearance as… not dead."
"Okay, and what then?"
Sherlock leaned back and returned to thinking-posture, "Then, nothing. We continue to live, people continue to come to me for advice, I return to being the only consulting detective in the world."
"And the point of all this is…"
"To ease it. You can't just pop up and say 'I'm alive!' It's too much of a shock."
It made sense to John, "And what about Moriarty's people? I thought you were concerned that they would come after us all again?"
"I've been assured it's been taken care of, and if problems arise, we'll figure it out. Together." He met Johns eyes.
"Boys?" Mrs. Hudson came around to look at them, "I almost forgot to ask; when this is all over, will you be moving back into Bakers Street, Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"And you'll be needing two rooms?"
Sherlock and John shared a look for a second, "No, I don't think we will be."
A smile grew over her face and she turned, "I'll go back to making tea now."
"Right." Sherlock stood up, "John, will you help me attend to business in our room?"
John smiled and followed him.
They spent a half-hour 'attending business' and talking on Johns bed, before they went outside and joined Mrs. Hudson for tea. They explained everything to her, and like the tough woman she was, she just nodded and understood. She went to her room and unpacked, bringing John a few books she had taken from his apartment 'in case he got bored' and bringing Sherlock his violin.
She spent a lot of time in the kitchen, baking. John thought it might be a coping mechanism, or she just didn't have anything to do. He was grateful to have someone around to make food though, and he promised himself to make Sherlock eat something before he passed out. When she wasn't cooking, she was playing the games on Johns laptop.
John and Sherlock mostly stayed in their room, sometimes coming out to walk around and talk to her. In the room, they rotated between Sherlock talking on the phone while John read and making out on the bed. They got a little too caught up, though, and forced Sherlock to miss quite a few calls. (One of which being from Irene, which pleased John the most.)
Mrs. Hudson walked in on them approximately one time, quickly becoming embarrassed and promising to knock next time, then informing them that dinner was ready before she shut the door and left.
John leaned into the pillow and laughed, "Oh god. That was so embarrassing."
Sherlock chuckled, "She should have knocked."
"You had your hands on my arse, I don't think I would have even noticed if she knocked."
Sherlock stood up and buttoned up his shirt before his phone started ringing again. He picked it up, "Hello dear brother….. Yes…. Oh really?... Fantastic…. No, we've been here. Rather busy, in fact," he sent a wink towards John, "Yes, I understand…. Indeed…. Tell him to call me about it." He shut the phone and threw it on the bed.
"What was that about?" John inquired.
"Ah, there have been reports of people who think they've seen me." Sherlock laughed, "People these days will say anything to have it on the media."
"Media?"
"Yes, there's apparently going to be a news report tomorrow about all this."
"Is that good?"
"Better than good! Fantastic. Let's go." He went for the door and John shot up to stop him.
"Wait, Sherlock. Promise me you'll eat." He grabbed the tall mans wrists and met his eyes.
"Wha-"
"Promise. Me." John leaned into him, "You haven't eaten in two days, please, just eat something. Don't offend Mrs. Hudson, either."
Sherlock looked and saw the clear worry in Johns face, "Fine, I'll eat something."
"Thank you."
They joined Mrs. Hudson for dinner, and Sherlock did eat. After they were done, she went to bed and they took turns in the bathroom getting ready for sleep. When John came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was fast asleep. Actually asleep. John laughed to himself.
"Even the great Sherlock Holmes gets worn out."
Day Three
John woke up to Sherlocks phone beeping with a text, but Sherlock was so fast asleep he didn't make any moves towards it. John picked it up and checked it.
Hello sweety, I did the double checks on Moriarty's people like you wanted. I'll see you Saturday. Hugs and kisses! –I.A
John bit his lip and glanced at Sherlock. If he replied, there was no way Sherlock wouldn't know. Would he care? Probably not. John hit reply.
When you get here, don't bother making any moves. I'm not interested anymore. –SH
He set down the phone and curled back up in the blankets, watching Sherlock. He was so fast asleep, John wondered how long it had been since Sherlock really slept. Maybe he had nightmares, too. John hadn't really asked. He assumed Sherlock didn't even dream.
He leaned forward and laid his face inches from Sherlock's, listening to his breathing. It made his heart race in his chest. He wondered if that would ever change. If in forty years, he would still lay here and his heart would still race just thinking about him.
He couldn't take it; he leaned forward and kissed him.
Sherlock woke up then, he felt groggy and tired, but he pushed forward and kissed John back, sighing into him. John pulled back and sat up, pulling Sherlock with him by his collar, until Sherlock was sitting up too. But he didn't kiss him. He sat forward, his lips a breath away from his, and stayed put. Just breathing.
He closed his eyes and listened.
Sherlock was breathing at normal speed, but it was… abnormal, too. One breath would be long and shallow, hesitating, and his exhales were fast. John put his hand on Sherlocks chest, feeling. It was beating fast, too fast for him. When John opened his eyes, he studied Sherlocks. They were catlike as always, but extremely dilated.
"You like me," John smirked, "You totally do."
Sherlock laughed, "What are you doing?"
"Checking," John lifted his hands and closed his eyes, "Stop moving for a second."
Johns hands started at Sherlocks jaw, his fingers dancing towards his chin, memorized every little bit of it. Then they found his lips, pulled them open. They were soft, really soft. Unnaturally soft. He stroked his cheeks, washing his thumbs over his cheekbones, three times until he felt like he had enough of them. Sherlock closed his eyes as John inspected them with his hands, touching, feeling. Then his forehead, back down his cheeks and too his lips again, for a few more minutes. He pulled away, and set his hands in his lap, and opened his eyes. The sight took away his breath.
John had never seen Sherlock cry before. He didn't actually think it could happen. He heard him cry, on the phone with him, that fateful day a year ago. But seeing it was so different. It was tragic, one of the saddest things John had ever seen in his entire life. But something about it was… strangely beautiful. Like a bird that only ever was a burning red, changing colour into a beautiful blue.
"Sherlock…" John gasped. Sherlock found his hands and opened his eyes, the tears dripping down them. He didn't think it was possible, but they were more beautiful when he was crying.
Sherlock leaned into him, pressing his head into Johns shoulder, letting out a tiny sob. It was the crying of a man who had been holding so much inside, too much. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and resting his head against his, rocking him slightly and pulling him into him.
"It's okay," John let out a shaky laugh, "It's okay. Everything will be fine. I promise you, you'll never have to hurt again. I'll never leave you."
He just held Sherlock for an hour while he cried. It didn't feel like it would ever end, and then he finally stopped shaking, just breathing into Johns neck like a scared little child. And John rocked him and didn't say anything else. Eventually, when he was sure he had stopped, he spoke.
"Are you okay now? Your phone is ringing."
"Yes," Sherlock pulled back and rubbed his eyes, pushing back without looking at John. He picked it up and stood, walking towards the window, talking mindlessly into the phone, normally, like he hadn't just broken down. John stood up and found new clothes, leaving the room to go get dressed.
Molly arrived an hour later, and Sherlock managed to insult her and smirk like he always had. She, however, seemed unphased. Maybe just glad he was back. Lestrade insulted Sherlock back a few times before leaving, and Sherlock then showed them the secret basement. The entrance to it was hidden under the sofa, a passage to a tiny flight of stairs into an area with three bedrooms and another bathroom, as well as a locked door of what looked like a vault. John decided not to ask, just decided not to talk at all.
Sherlock avoided eye contact with him, paced the living room and talked to Molly and Mrs. Hudson, who were seated on the couch. He told them about how he had faked his death, told them about how life was solving cases, and even explained some cases to them in detail. They sat and marveled as they always had, asked him questions. He was caught up in his little world of explaining.
John leaned against the wall and watched him, for any sign that he might break down. He knew he wouldn't, and he knew they probably wouldn't talk about what happened in the bedroom, ever. Sherlock didn't want to be vulnerable, but the fact he was, for John, was enough. After a while, Sherlock sat down and listened to them. He listened to Molly talk about her and Lestrade, about work and about how hard it was to pretend she didn't know Sherlock was alive. They all just… talked. It was nice, listening to their voices. After they all got bored of talking, Mrs. Hudson went back to baking and Sherlock rotated between pacing the room playing on his violin and talking on the phone. After a while John stood up and went to his room, leaving them all alone. He shut the door and laid down in the bed, closing his eyes. He was really tired, suddenly. After a few seconds, he drifted to sleep.
This dream started out the way most of them did; he was running though a smoke. He could hear noises; people screaming and guns firing. He kept screaming, "Sherlock!" But no noise would come out, overpowered by all the other noises. And then they died down, until it was silent. He stopped running, kept trying to scream but he heard nothing. He waited, the smoke started to clear, in front of him he saw a building… And Sherlock was on top.
In his head, all the things he wanted to say were with him. Not again, don't do this. I love you, I will always love you. If you leave me now, I will never love again. I will never breathe again. But when he opened his mouth to say them, nothing would come out. And then Sherlock jumped.
That was usually how these nightmares ended, but not this one. It kept going.
Suddenly, John was on the building. The skies were red, he was looking down but he couldn't see the bottom. Fear was in his heart, he turned around but Sherlock was behind him. His eyes weren't blue anymore, no, they were red. He was dressed in a pure black suit, making him look even paler. John opened his mouth but said nothing, because Sherlock was advancing. He got on the ledge with John and leaned forward, kissing his lips. And then he pushed John off the ledge.
"John!"
John's eyes flew open, he was gasping, gripping the blankets and drenched in sweat. Hands were on his chest. He looked up. Molly.
"John, are you okay?" She was searching his face, "I heard you yelling, Sherlock is downstairs I don't think he could hear-"
"Don't tell him," John panted, sitting up, "Don't say anything, Molly, don't."
"I… why?"
"He can't," John shook his head, "I can't, he can't… Just, don't, Molly."
Molly hesitated, and then her eyes went to the doorway. John followed her gaze, Sherlock was standing there, looking at Molly. John gulped.
"Molly, will you please leave me and John, please?"
"…Yeah," She stood up, looking at John, "Sorry."
She walked past Sherlock and he shut the door behind her, loudly. He looked out the window and didn't say anything, just sat on the edge of the bed.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't want you to know I was still…"
"Having nightmares."
"…Yeah."
"Of course, I know. I'm not an idiot."
John stared at him, "What?"
"You have them when you sleep, every night. Except when I hold you, then they stop. But…"
"But I'm still having them. I don't know why, I wish I did." John looked down.
Sherlock sighed, "I know why."
"You…do?"
"Yes," Sherlock took out his phone and flipped through it, finding something and showing it to John. It was the text he had sent to Irene.
"Uh…" John looked away.
"You don't trust me," Sherlock stood up, "Still."
"I didn't-"
"It took a lot, for me." Sherlock stood up and walked towards the window, "To open up to you. To tell you how I felt. To…" He waved his hand and didn't say it, but John knew what he wanted to say. To cry.
"Sherlock," John sighed.
"And you still don't trust me," Sherlock hissed. He turned to John then, "I told you I wouldn't go near Irene, and still you sent her such a… rude text. She's my friend."
"And you weren't turning her down, Sherlock. I just did it for you."
"No. You let your jealousy get the best of you. I understand the nightmares, John. Not this." He threw his phone on the bed and turned away, "Maybe I should sleep downstairs tonight."
John shook his head and stood up, "No. Don't bother." He opened the door and left. He walked towards the kitchen and found Mrs. Hudson. She smiled at him.
"Hello dear, you missed dinner. Would you like something now?"
"No," he pulled on his jacket, "I am going for a walk. I'll see you later."
"John?"
He shut the door and let out a single breath before continuing down the walk, onto the sidewalk. He didn't know where he wanted to go; just that he couldn't take it in that house anymore. That he couldn't take it… here anymore. Sherlock was right, of course. But he didn't feel like he did anything wrong. Sherlock said he wanted him, but he didn't do anything to show it to Irene. Part of John wished they had a label, something substantial to say. To tell Irene what was going on and maybe she'd back off. He didn't trust that woman as far as he could throw her.
John walked at a brisk pace, trying not to think. One street, two streets. It wasn't long until he noticed the black car following him. He walked faster, but it caught up, the back window rolling down.
"Lost, are we?" Mycroft called from the window.
"Nope, trying to lose."
"My brother?"
"My mind," John stopped moving and so did the car, "And you're following me."
"Keeping an eye on all of you, I get bored sometimes too. Get in the car?"
"Only since you asked so nicely," John sighed. He opened the door and ducked in.
The car started driving again, "You left, because?"
"I didn't feel like being yelled at." John looked out the window and into the sky. Stars.
"By Sherlock? I didn't even think he yelled, just argued and insulted."
"You haven't been around him enough then."
"Or you just bring out that side of him."
John didn't reply. They sat in silence.
"I understand he gets to be a lot to handle. No one knows more then I," Mycroft sighed, "As a child, I always wanted to study and he'd never let me. He'd harass me that I was a baby, because I never wanted to go out and explore. I know now that he just wanted someone to play with. Everything was a game to him. He'd upset our mother and think it was a game. I'd yell and he'd just smile, it was all a game. As he grew, nothing changed. He settled on being a detective, because nothing is as fun as a little danger. I never thought he'd ever be serious about anything, he'd be a child forever."
John looked at Mycroft, "And?"
"And then you came along." Mycroft met Johns eyes, "All he ever enjoyed in life, was solving crimes and being clever. He loved it; he'd never give it up for anything. He'd trade me and Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson for a good serial killer. But you… You made him feel something else, love something else. And then he started having feelings, for other people as well. And when he started to love people, he would jump off of a building for them. For you."
John frowned. He knew all of this, of course he did. But hearing Mycroft say it was so different. Mycroft, who didn't care at all what happened to his brother, and now he was telling John to keep trying.
"He thinks I don't trust him."
"Do you?"
"Yes," John gulped, "I trust him more then I have trusted anyone in my entire life."
"He's insecure, you're cautious." Mycroft took out his phone.
"Why would he be insecure?"
"If no one has ever loved you in your entire life, and then suddenly someone did, would you be able to understand? He thinks he's unlovable. Maybe," Mycroft turned towards him, "It's him who doesn't know how to trust you. How to love you."
John stared at him for a few minutes. Mycroft opened a new text message, and decided not to send it.
"It's just… a lot to handle right now." John breathed, "Where are we going?"
"My house. I have a spare room you can sleep in. Give you some time to handle it, give him some time to calm down. And in the morning you can find him and fix it."
"But the plan…"
"I don't think the plan will change over one night somewhere else."
"…Thank you, Mycroft."
They drove to Mycrofts house and John slept in a strange bed, alone, without nightmares for the first time in a year.
Day Four
When Sherlock woke up, he was alone. His heart ached in his chest, a feeling he didn't care to understand, maybe a side effect of emotions. He sat up and stretched, carefully, trying hard to comprehend the events of the night before. What was it, exactly? A fight? Did they break up? No, that would require a relationship. Sherlock sighed. Not putting a title on their thing seemed like such a good idea, but now everything that had to do with it didn't have titles either. Made it all very confusing.
He didn't bother getting dressed, just wore his pajama's into the kitchen. Molly was sitting at the table on her laptop, reading something intently, probably news. Mrs. Hudson just offered him a caring, and yet knowing, smile. But John wasn't there.
"Where's John?" Sherlock took the cup of coffee as she handed it to him, "Hopefully not still downstairs moping, it's unbecoming of him."
Molly looked up and Mrs. Hudson glanced at him, "Didn't he come to bed with you? I don't know; I went to sleep after he left."
"Left?" Sherlock stopped drinking, "What do you mean, he left?"
"He wasn't sleeping downstairs," Molly piped up, "I thought he was with you, Sherlock."
"Wait, left?"
"Yes, he left the house last night. Said he needed a walk."
"…And he wasn't downstairs. He never came back." Sherlock set down his coffee and pulled out his phone, calling Johns. It rang a few times and then went to voicemail.
"I'm sure he's fine, dear," Mrs. Hudson touched his arm, "Maybe he caught a ride back into town…"
"Or he was kidnapped."
"Who would kidnap him? Be real," Molly sighed, "You fought, Sherlock. I'm sure he just went out for a drink and ended up and some girls house or something..."
Mrs. Hudson met her eyes and shook her head, Molly only then realizing what she had said.
"Oh, god," Sherlock squeezed shut his eyes, "Oh god oh god oh god." He pulled out his phone and called Mycroft. After two rings, he answered.
"Mycroft," Sherlock gripped the counter, "I can't find John. Have you been watching him? Find out where he is."
"Sherlock-"
"Please, hurry. He could have been kidnapped or… Or worse."
"Sherlock, relax. I know exactly where he is."
"Where?"
"He was here. He was at my house. He just left with Lestrade, they're on their way now."
"Oh," Sherlock sighed in relief. He realized Molly and Mrs. Hudson were watching him so he straightened up and walked out of the room, "Why was he with you?"
"Luckily I was keeping an eye on the house last night. I saw him leave, stopped him before he could do something really stupid."
"Thank you," Sherlock cleared his throat, "But what do you mean, something stupid?"
"What did you mean 'or worse'?"
"Nothing."
"Don't yell at him, Sherlock. It's strange enough he loves you at all, don't frighten him away."
Mycroft hung up and Sherlock sighed. There were things he needed to do. He searched for Irene's number and dialed it, going into his room.
"Yes, my sweets?" Her voice was like water.
"I need to talk to you," He stood by the window.
"About?"
"That text yesterday. I didn't send it, John did."
"Oh honey, I know that. You never reply to my texts, why would you suddenly? His jealousy is so much fun."
"He sent it," Sherlock frowned, "But he was right."
"Really?"
"Yes. You're allowed to come, allowed to help, because I need your help. And you are my… friend. But John is important to me, more important than you. So you are allowed to come, but keep your flirting to yourself. I don't need the tensions."
"What if I can't? Stop flirting with you, I mean." She giggled over the phone, "You're so sexy, what if I can't stop myself?"
"Then don't come." Sherlock hung up as he saw Lestrades silver car pulling into the driveway. He watched John get out, smiling and looking actually fairly well rested. Sherlock sat on the bed, thinking.
"Hello dears," Mrs. Hudson greeted them at the door, "John! Where were you? Gave Sherlock quite the fright this morning when you weren't here."
"Really?" John didn't get his answer, because Molly nearly jumped into Lestrades arms and they were having a passionate, and rather disgusting, exchange of tongues, "Where is he?"
"Bedroom," Mrs. Hudson frowned at them, "I have seen far too many people kissing in this house…"
John walked past her and towards the hall. Outside of the door, he stood and took a deep breath. He knew what he wanted to say. All that was left was saying it. He opened the door, Sherlock was sitting on the bed but he stood up as soon as John came in. His eyes ran up and down Johns body, as though checking to make sure it was fine.
"…Hi," He finally said. John nodded at him and turned, shutting the door.
"I wanted to apologize," John stood tall, looking over the man he loved, "You were right. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have sent that to Irene. Because I do, I trust you so much. I don't trust… her."
"I should have told her to leave me alone. In fact I did, this morning. I don't want her to come between…."
"This," John laughed, and then became solemn, "Look, I know this is hard…"
"What?"
"This. Loving me. Having me love you. But if we don't trust each other we're never going to have any sort of relationship."
"I know that," Sherlock set his phone down and approached him, "I wanted to talk to you, too, about that."
"About what?"
"Our relationship," His eyes met Johns and his stomach dropped.
"Oh, god. Are you breaking up with me? I mean…" John shook his head, "I knew we weren't actually together or anything but…"
"What?" Sherlock reached out and grabbed him, "No. Not that."
"What then?"
Sherlock sat down, looking up at him, "This is all very scary, isn't it? Being part of something, like us."
"It's terrifying. But worth it."
"We are together, aren't we?" Sherlock looked up at him, "I don't want any labels but… we are together."
"Sort of, yeah. We kiss a lot. We fight, have trust issues, make up. I'm sure the sex would be amazing, if we had it," John laughed, "And we love each other. So… we're together. But there's no need to put a label on that."
"Do you want a label? I never asked you, what you want. If you want me to be your… boyfriend, then I will be. I won't like it, but I'll do it."
"No," John sat down and took Sherlocks hand, "Mostly because I don't think there's a label to describe us at all. None whatsoever. You're a sociopath and you piss me off because you're so clever, but I would be so lost without you. And I think… you'd be pretty lost without me, too."
"Indeed."
"See? We're Sherlock and John. We solve cases and sleep together, and no one can define that. It's fine."
Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, "And what if one day, that's not enough for you?"
"That will never happen."
"What if there are things I can't do? There are things wrong with me, John. You know that. What if I can't… give you what you need?"
"Is this about the sex thing again? Sherlock, I need you. If I want sex I'll…. Wank off privately or something. Until you're ready. And if you're never ready, I'll never push it."
"Would you really be fine with that?"
"I think sex is a beautiful way to show love, but not necessary to show it."
Sherlock looked at him. He didn't look so scared now. He didn't feel so scared.
"I'm sorry I yelled yesterday."
"I'm sorry I left yesterday."
"I'm sorry I cried yesterday," Sherlock laughed, almost hysterically and it was a tad scary, "Oh god, that was so embarrassing. I don't know why I did it, I just did. I will never be able to understand emotions."
"I think you were being intimate and you got scared and it had obviously been a while since you cried, so you did."
"You say it like it's no big deal."
"It isn't."
"It is to me!" Sherlock stood up and paced, "I cried on the phone with you a year ago, but I don't count that, I was drugged. So before yesterday, the only other times I had cried in my life was as a baby and as a child when Mycroft pushed me out of a tree. And that was pain!"
"Sherlock, you're being hysterical again. Sit down." He did as he was told, "Crying is a big part of human emotions. If you're going to try to work through them, crying is a part of it. You cried when you were scared by the Hound, remember?"
"I did?"
"Nearly. Its fine, it's okay. Emotions get extreme and people cry."
"I don't."
"You're a human. Even though you don't think so, and sometimes I don't think so." John sighed.
Sherlock put his face in his hands, "It's so embarrassing."
"I cry."
"Yes, but you're an emotional wreck."
John stood up, "Yes, make fun of me. That will solve our problems."
Sherlock smiled at him and stood up, "I'm only kidding. I can joke, can't I? Is Lestrade here, shall I go greet him?"
John turned to the door and turned the lock, "No, I think your mouth will be busy doing other things in a moment."
"Will it?" Sherlock smiled as John pushed him into the bed and straddled him. He leaned forward, but as Sherlock reached up to kiss him, he pulled back.
"No, no," John smirked, "You're going to have to work harder than that."
Finally, they came outside, miraculously fully dressed and pretending they didn't make a massive mess of their room just fooling around. And the rest of them acted like they didn't know. Mrs. Hudson brewed tea and they spent the day together, making plans and Sherlock being generally offensive, especially towards Molly and Lestrades relationship. He often referred to Molly as a crypt robber and John wondered why everything was funny to him.
Later, as the day was drawing to a close, John sat on his computer at the table with Sherlock across from him. Mrs. Hudson whistled to herself and cooked food, and Molly and Lestrade were watching TV together in the other room. John had almost totally forgotten about the TV. He didn't know why Sherlock was sitting across from him, he could be doing anything else but instead he chose to be there. John scrolled through news stories with his right hand and held Sherlocks across the table with his left. It was all unnaturally intimate, but John didn't mind at all. He couldn't ever pretend to mind.
Sherlock stroked his thumb over Johns palm while resting his head on his other arm, watching the sun sink and being deep in thought. He looked so precious and content. Mrs. Hudson kept glancing at them, smiling to herself.
"What are you thinking about?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock. His friend didn't say anything, just sat there. John opened his email to find one from Harry;
Are you okay? I watched the news and heard the rumors that he's alive, is it true?
"I feel like I'm missing something important," Sherlock frowned, "I feel like something critical might go wrong. But I don't know what."
"You're smart, if you can't think of it, then I'm sure it will come to you. Or maybe it's just one of those nagging feelings that turn out to be nothing." John said, hitting reply to his sisters email.
I'll call you in a few days and explain everything. Stay patient, Harry.
He hit send and looked at Sherlock. His eyes were closed now and he had stopped stroking Johns palm. John took his hand and shook it.
"Are you falling asleep?" John raised an eyebrow at him, it wasn't even dark yet.
Before Sherlock could answer, Lestrade came into the room. Sherlock quickly let go of Johns hand and hid his under the table. The fact Sherlock wasn't keen on Lestrade knowing about them was kind of weirdly amusing. John thought it was because then Greg could make him the butt of more jokes.
"How's the food coming, Mrs. Hudson? Can I help?" Lestrade smiled.
"Yes, nearly finished. Sherlock, are you going to eat dear?"
Sherlocks eyes were closed again, John decided to answer for him.
"I think he's tired, so no. I'd better get him to bed." He stood up and nudged his lanky friend, "Come on, get up. You look like you're about to pass out."
Sherlock barely made any effort to argue, just stood up and made a sort of groan in annoyance at John. He laughed and nudged him out of the room. Luckily he could just go to bed, since Sherlock hadn't really made any effort to get out of his pajama's today. Once Sherlock was under the covers, John undressed and got ready himself. He turned off the lights and crawled into bed, curling up behind Sherlock and wrapping an arm around him.
"Why are you so tired?"
"I didn't sleep well last night." Sherlock mumbled, "Bad dreams."
"So you DO dream."
"Of course I do, don't be stupid."
"You're mean when you're tired."
"I'm mean all the time."
"So true," John smiled and leaned forward, kissing the back of his friends neck, "Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"It's officially been six days, since you came back."
"Really?" Sherlock rolled onto his back, turning his head to face John, "It feels like so much longer, doesn't it?"
"A lifetime of listening to you talk," John purred.
"And that year apart seems like it lasted a million years," Sherlock sighed.
John opened his eyes and leaned forward, kissing Sherlocks lips softly.
"It basically was."
Sherlock closed his eyes and laughed sleepily, "If I loved you forever, would you be mad?"
"Why would I be mad? God you're weird when you're tired."
"Sometimes I don't talk for days," He muttered, "I play the violin when I'm thinking…"
"That's exactly what you said before we became roommates," John smiled at him through the darkness.
"Potential soul mates should know the worst about each other."
John shook his head, "Go to sleep, you're being odd."
Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then he quickly sat up, "John."
"What?"
"Someone's watching us."
"You're tired, go back to bed."
"No, John," Sherlock nudged him. John sat up and followed his gaze. Outside of the window, across the lawn, across the street, someone was standing. He was staring into the house.
"What the…" The man turned, and walked away. Chills crawled up Johns spine. Someone knew they were here.
"Oh god," Sherlock fell into bed, "I'm so tired I'm seeing things."
John stood up and walked towards the window, closing the blinds. He went to the side of the bed and pulled out his phone, sending a text to Mycroft.
Just saw someone outside watching us. Please tell me it was one of your men.
"Sherlock, go to sleep now, please."
"Fine, only if you lay with me."
"I will," John got back into bed, "I will."
But he couldn't shake the feelings they were being watched.