A/N: I'm dedicating this chapter to MindPalaceofVersailles, because I woke up this morning to the best present ever: more genie!lock art. It's at the bottom of the chapter on my AO3 site, and simply beautiful. Click on the link here ( post/50474116629/i-havent-drawn-anything-for-mojo- in-ages-and-her) and tell her how amazing she is.

Also, thanks to Snog and Science, betas extraordinaire. It's funny, because I was impatient and almost tossed this chapter out there without them, and then they both caught so many little things! So it's all the better now. Enjoy!

Chapter 13: A Chilling Loss

"Fuck," John says with feeling, pushing Sherlock back. "Goddammit." He sits up enough to look over the back of the sofa and indeed, there's Harry at the bar, Melissa on one side and the heavily padded ginger on the other.

John hauls himself to his feet and irritably goes to diffuse his sister's drama, a situation in which he's had too many years' experience. He shoves the damp, crumpled vest into a cargo pocket as he circles the chaise, but entirely forgets the cane lying on the floor next to it. Sherlock drifts on his heels, strikingly mussed and beautiful; in spite of the camo service shirt, sleeves awkwardly short, buttoned at the bottom to hide his stained trousers, but only concealing half the wet patch.

Harry, like her brother, is sans overshirt, wearing only a tight black vest. She's nose to nose with Melissa, shouting. As John comes close enough to discern more than tone, acidic words taint the air.

"... you pathetic, sodding bitch. Jesus fucking christ," Harry pokes her finger hard at the false name sewn over her real one on Melissa's uniform. "Watson," Harry laughs, cutting and cruel. "Watson, my arse. I can't believe I brought you with me, Watson. What a sniveling little beggar you are. You'd just crawl for me, wouldn't you? Where's the challenge in that?"

"Stop, Harry," Melissa's voice is raised, but shaking, as if it's hard for her to yell. "Stop talking like that. I know you're just... drunk. I know why you're kissing ... her," she points over Harry's shoulder at the redhead who's been avidly crowding up behind Harry in order to hear every word. She's got her hands wrapped around Harry's waist, and curled up underneath her breasts in a gesture both possessive and blatantly sexual. "You don't want that," Melissa wretchedly pleads. "You want me."

The ginger steps around, and pushes Melissa, who's a good 5 inches taller and outweighs her by several stone. Melissa is taken by surprise, and staggers back a step, knocking into a stool, which falls with a clatter. John's eye is drawn to the puddle of drink and broken glass at their feet. Harry's doing, no doubt: she has always been a fan of the dramatic gesture.

Melissa regains her balance, and flings a loose fist at the ginger. "Stay away, you harpy," she cries. "Look what you're doing, you slut. She has a girlfriend. She..."

Harry steps forward at this point and slaps Melissa hard in the face, tugging the redhead behind her simultaneously. "Yeah, you wish... 'Watson'" she sneers. She puts two fingers on the hopeful and inappropriate name tag covering Melissa's on on her uniform. "You grovel. You have no spine. You can't even fuck worth a damn. Just go home." She swings around and momentum carries her right into her brother.

"Harry!" John growls, grabbing both her wrists. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Harry breaks away with enough force to send her reeling back into the bar. "Fuck you, man," she shouts. "And the horse you rode in on." Then she catches sight of Sherlock over John's shoulder, intently minding the scene, and laughs until she's breathless. "Yeah, the horse you rode in on," she wheezes. "We're outta here."

John lets her and the ginger go. Melissa is trying to mop the remains of a flung drink off her face, and looks more miserable and unattractive than she did an hour earlier. John grinds his teeth. Yes, just another night out with Harry. This is not the first time he'll be consoling her date and sending her home alone in a cab. He takes Melissa's elbow and guides her gently to an empty chair. "Come on," he says. "Let me get you something to drink, and then I'll call you a cab."

Melissa bursts into tears, and drapes herself all over John, who stands rigid under the onslaught, tentatively patting her padded shoulder and trying not to breathe in her stale breath. He finally deposits her in a chair and turns to get her something caffeinated, when he bumps into Sherlock, who is directly behind him. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, and a little tic at the corner of his mouth is the only emotion or opinion he shows about the whole affair. He turns to keep pace with John as he goes to the bar.

"The horse you rode in on?" he asks slyly. John gives him a repressive frown, but can't quite stifle his snort. He relaxes minutely, suddenly aware of how not alone he is.

John waves at the barkeep, who doesn't have far to come, as she was standing there when the fight went down. "How about a Coke for my friend, yeah? And then we'll send her on home." The woman hands the soda to John with a muttered "on the house" and relief evident in the lines of her body. John face folds momentarily into wry acceptance, and then he's back at the table to comfort Melissa.

Both he and Sherlock remain standing, so as not to get too drawn in. But Melissa hangs on John's shoulder anyway, sobbing about Harry and strength and abandoned promises. John pats her back, but his focus is on Sherlock. Oh, fuck, he thinks. I had sex with that man not seven minutes ago. What ismy life? And Sherlock reads it all in his expression, of course, and smirks back.

When Melissa has slurped up the remainder of her drink, John helps her to stand. "All right, Melissa. Time to go. Here," and he digs into his wallet and hands her 50 pounds. "Go get yourself a cab, alright? I'll find Harry and tell her what a git she is, and collect our coats, and then we'll be out, too, in case you haven't found a cab yet. Yeah? Alright? Sound good?"

Melissa stares at him dully for a few beats, then folds her fingers around the note. "Yeah," she agrees. She lurches forwards and folds John into a rough hug, which he endures, but makes his skin crawl all the same. He catches Sherlock making an abortive movement, as if to shove her away, and that makes him feel better. While he knows academically that he's touch-starved and needy with it, contact from strangers makes him recoil, generally, and he never reaches out on his own. His gaze lingers on his tall companion, and he corrects himself. There is one undeniable exception.

Once Melissa's out of the way, he hands the coat receipt to Sherlock. "Go get our coats, ok? And I'll find Harry. I'll meet you outside." Sherlock takes the ticket, and the few notes that John has wrapped around it, and melts into the crowd. John sighs and squares his shoulders, pushing his way back through the main dance hall looking for his sister.

It takes fully a quarter of an hour before he spots them, his sister and the redhead. They are frotting against one another near one corner of the room. Harry has her uniform shirt tied around her hips, and the vest under it is hiked up to just under her breasts. Sweat shines on both their bodies, where they aren't pressed skin to skin, and John feels a sudden, intense disgust at what he and Sherlock had just done.

Does it look like this, to strangers? A vaguely repellant grind of pallid flesh, inappropriately showcased in a public venue? There is nothing, from John's current perspective, of the heat and passion that had flooded him and Sherlock. A voyeur cannot witness the whitewater of feelings, of chemicals and firing neurons which render such an act beautiful to the participants. What he is now approaching appears, to an outsider, no more than a drunken, horny maul, and his mouth twists when he gets there, grabbing Harry's shoulder and then quickly stepping back so she wouldn't let fly a fist.

"We're leaving," he says tightly, as soon as her eyes focus on him. "Melissa's gone home in a cab, Sherlock and I are leaving, and you're on your own. Don't expect we'll ever do this with you again."

Harry is too drunk to care about having ruined a chance at reconciliation with her brother. Instead she shouts, "What? You sent that lame bitch home? Goddammed arsehole. She had my keys! And my bankcard!"

John laughs. "Serves you right, Harry." And with that he swings away and fights through dancers from whom all mystique has been drained, and now look like nothing more than hedonistic inebriates, undressed in lewd costumes, looking desperately for a good time. He is relieved when he hits the arctic air of the outdoors, and looks around.

The usual crowd stands clustered outside, smoking or snogging. The pungent, unique aroma of pot hangs heavily over one group, and John's hairline moves as his eyebrows twitch. These kids today, no sense of self-preservation. Sherlock is not among the people scattered there, so John wanders into the parking lot, heading for the gate. Perhaps Sherlock has already summoned a taxi?

Deeper in the darkened lot, he sees no one, but hears a truncated shout from behind a white delivery van. Senses immediately on alert, he weaves through cars in that direction, keeping to the shadows to be sure he isn't seen. He hears the exhalation of someone who's been punched, all the air inside released in one painful huff, and there's a grunt and a choked but recognizable laugh. Gravel is scuffled by heavy boots, and a body is thrown up against the van, rocking it gently on its wheels.

John edges around the side, arms up and fists ready, knees bent and body low. He doesn't know what he expects, but it certainly isn't Sherlock, fighting off five men all dressed in black. Well, four. The fifth is standing away a bit, back to John.

Sherlock's skin is ghostly against those dark jackets, and John notes irrelevantly that he's lost both John's shirt and his slippers, bare feet stark and bleached against unforgiving gravel. He's pressed against the van, held by a man on either side, but kicks out viciously with one leg, scoring a hit in the solar plexus of one attacker, who crouches for a moment, struggling for breath. The man in front of Sherlock punches him in the face, vicious and determined. Sherlock's head snaps back and hits the top edge of the open bay door with a crack; but he manages to wrest free an arm and throw an elbow to good effect, judging from the colorful curses one of the men lets fly.

John creeps forward now: he's silent, because surprise is a weapon, and jerks back the watcher by the neck, fingers pressing hard and without pity at his carotid. The man passes out quickly, having never made a sound, and his companions are none the wiser. Solar plexus man is still dizzily trying to regain his feet, but he'll need to breathe first.

Sherlock makes eye contact. The side of his mouth is swollen and smeared red, and blood trails sluggishly down from the crest of his eyebrow, but he's alert and seems to be enjoying himself more than being frightened. He whips forward and smacks his head with a sickening thwack into that of the man trying to choke him, dropping him like a stone and freeing himself from all but two.

Solar Plexus weaves to his feet and his eye catches on John. Before he can warn his companions, John kicks hard to the side. He aims directly, without pity, at the man's knee, can feel it dislocate under the sole of his boot, and his opponent falls with a keening shout, curled around his injury. Just as the remaining two men cop on to the fact that there is someone behind them, John sees Sherlock eel out of their grasp; spinning and kicking, he ruthlessly stabs at one of them with stiffened fingers to his throat. The man staggers back, trips over the body of one of his cohorts and falls heavily to his back, silently clutching his neck and no longer focused on the fight. He rolls to his side, curled around himself. The doctor in John worries about a dislocated larynx; the soldier, however, is satisfied that the man is down, and will stay down for some time.

The sole man standing whips out a gun.

"Stay still, you fucking poofters," he begins in a Geordie accent. But his hold on the pistol is unskilled, and it isn't even aimed yet, so John lunges forward, catches his arm and twists it back, quickly taking charge of the weapon.

"What the fuck are you doing?" John hisses around his shoulder, for the man is taller than he. "What's going on here?" He jerks up on the arm and the man in his hold arches his back to lessen the strain and whines a little.

"Little shit," he growls. "I weren't told there'd be two."

Sherlock wisely takes several steps back, picking his way carefully, soft feet over sharp stones, to stand free from the shadow of the van, now littered with four bodies in varying degrees of unconsciousness or collapse, several moaning and stirring. "Who didn't tell you there'd be two?" he questions. "You were sent here specifically for me?"

The man laughs rudely. "Aye. The genie poof. You're easy enough to find."

"And who sent you after the genie poof?" Sherlock inquires serenely. John keeps a tight hold on the man's arm, gun pressed implacably to his temple. The man spits, although it doesn't come near approaching Sherlock's long feet, now blue with cold.

Dislocated Kneecap speaks up. "Shuddup, ya tit," he gasps. "Don't say nothin'."

John spins around so that Kneecap can see the gun. "Stay where you are," he warns.

Sherlock presses on. "Who? Who knows about me? Who sent you? And... why?"

"Not fer us to ask why," John's captive sneers. "Maybe he just fancied a taste? He said he was a fan. Who cares? He had the brass, we din't ask no questions."

John looks over at the van, side door gaping black in the shadows. Rope and fabric were fallen half out of the doorway, mute evidence that they intended to bundle the genie within, tie him up, and put a bag over his head. "Where were you going to take him?"

The man under his hands said, "Dunno. We was gonna get a phone call."

"Shuddup, Lew!" says the other.

Two of the men on the ground begin to stir, and John looks over at Sherlock. The odds are not good, even though they've now got a gun on their side, and it seems that more information is not forthcoming. John tips his head at Sherlock, Have we got all we need here? Sherlock nods minutely For the moment. Better go. Sherlock scoops a soft heap off the ground that John suspects is their coats, ducks around the side of the van and heads for the road.

"You. On the ground," John says, poking with the gun. Lew obligingly drops, but still snarls at the ignominy of the position. John backs up a few steps, gun held steadily in front of him. "Lie on your stomach, hands behind your head." Lew does, and John feels antsy. One of the downed men begins to stand, muttering and disoriented.

"John! Come on!" Sherlock shouts.

John backs up until he's at the corner of the van. "I will shoot you if you follow us," he warns, and his voice is cold and empty. He's killed before, he's got no objection to killing again, and that comes through in his tone.

He looks to his left. Sherlock stands at the lot entrance, next to a cab with one open door. "John!" he calls again. John gives one last glare at the crew on the ground and then spins and sprints towards the cab.

He's light, he's running like the wind, and he doesn't even feel the gravel shift beneath his feet. He recognizes this high as the one he'd get during a firefight in Afghanistan. He's floating, and he's simultaneously someone in a movie and also vividly real. His heart is pounding hard but steady. Everything about him is steady. He's like the aimed barrel of a gun, solid and strong and ready to direct lethal force, and every inhale is like a drug, filling him with fierce joy and purpose.

Sherlock's body, barely covered, gleams like a beacon, and John runs easily towards it, most of his focus behind him, engaged with the threat, ready to turn, to fight; ready to kill, even. Because ahead of him lies the prize, and he'll battle anything for it, although he's not crass enough, even in his subconscious, to put it in those terms. But he will win that, by god. Sherlock will belong to him and no other, if he cannot be free on his own terms.

John reaches the cab, and Sherlock swings in ahead of him, John crowding from behind, hands rough on smooth, frozen skin, thrusting against its living resilience. The hand with the gun, safety engaged, pushes against his back; and the outline of the gun at the small of Sherlock's back is the most erotic thing John's ever seen, and his breath leaves him in a gasp, and his cock is hard and raging even before he's turned to shut the door. He looks back, and there's a single man already in the aisle between the cars, who by the blue glow at his ear is on the phone; and Sherlock says, voice breathless with laughter and adrenaline, "221 Baker Street, and quickly."

The cab pulls away with a jolt, tires spinning for a moment in the gravel, spraying a satisfying kickback, and John sucks in a breath to ask what the hell just happened, but...

Sherlock launches himself at John, shoving the coats to the floor and grabbing John's sweat-glossed shoulder, crooking sharp fingers behind his neck, and pulling him in for a kiss. And John is lost in the hot, sleek copper of Sherlock's split lip, in a dizzying, drowning kiss.

It is hard, and elated, as sharp-edged and electrifying as their recent encounter. John fights back, mouth stretched in a grin, leans back to pull Sherlock on top of his chest, sliding the gun down to press along his lavish arse, catching under those glorious buttocks with the hard edge of steel, and Sherlock bucks back into it with a groan, then a snicker, and the tongue licking his mouth retreats in heat and laughter. But the ensuing bite on his lip is sheer lust, and John can't hold him in tight enough, slicks his hand across bare skin over which he feels complete, barbaric ownership...wants to fuck him now.

"'Ere, now!" The cabbie swerves as she admonishes. "Not in my cab, you don't, young men. I'll have you sitting right and proper, if you don't mind, until we get there." And she reaches back with a rolled up magazine and swats the hand on Sherlock's bum, miraculously not noticing (or perhaps she ignores it on purpose) the gun. "I'll pull over, now, and kick you out." Her voice is so maternal and admonishing that it penetrates the haze of lust and adrenaline. Sherlock turns to glare, and John's eyes open to see the profile of an older woman, plump and smilingly wrinkled.

She looks nothing like their landlady, but commands the same immediate, nostalgic respect, and Sherlock and John disentangle themselves, flashing wry, laughing, frustrated looks at one another. John leans down to swipe the bundle of coats off the floor, and tosses Sherlock's into his lap. "Better cover up, you'll catch cold," he says gruffly. His eyes linger on Sherlock's nipples, pink and pinched tight, taut against snow-white skin, mottling with new bruises; and he sighs in disappointment as the coat swallows up dancing lines of henna.

"What do you think that was all about?" John asks.

Sherlock shrugs and stares out his window, "I don't know," he muses, and does not offer anything more. John examines the gun, and then stows it away in his pocket.

They are silent until they arrive at Baker Street, and the cabbie grins impishly as she takes their money. She winks. "Have a good night, boys," is all she says; John represses the inclination to salute.

Inside the door, in the chilly hallway of 221, John turns to Sherlock again, hungry and unsated, despite of the crust of semen chafing his belly reminding him of what happened in the Lounge not an hour earlier. He maneuvers Sherlock until his back is to the wall, and tugs his head down to get a better look at the cut clotting over above his eye, and rub his thumb across the swollen, discolored side of his lip. "I need to take a look at this," he murmurs.

Sherlock turns his head and sucks John's thumb boldly into his mouth, tonguing it indelicately before biting it between his teeth. John huffs and presses closer, just as Mrs. Hudson's door opens.

"Oh, Sherlock. John. You're back earlier than I expected." She eyes them, shrewd and amused as they pull apart in the little foyer. "Have a good time, then?" she teases. "I won't keep you, dears. I'm sure you have better things to do than chat with me in the hallway here. But a gentleman stopped by earlier, Sherlock. Said he was an old friend of yours, and wanted to leave you this note."

Sherlock stiffens perceptibly. "An old friend?" and his voice has dropped a full octave; he sounds like rusty water running over a rocky creek bed. There's an undertone of fear, but mostly it's pure, uninhibited curiosity.

"Why, yes, he was a very polite young man," she says. "A bit shorter than you, thin, pale skin, dark hair. Snappy dresser. I tried to ask how he knew you, but he wouldn't say any more, just handed me the note. I never even got his name." She waits after this delivery, watching Sherlock expectantly, clearly hoping he'd open the note and satisfy her curiosity.

Instead, his face grows blank, and he wheels for the stairs. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson," he tosses over his shoulder. "I'll let you know if I need anything further."

John makes an abortive apologetic gesture towards her, before following Sherlock up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson gives a resigned little flutter of her hands before turning back to her own flat. She recognizes when she's been thwarted.

In the flat Sherlock shrugs out of his coat, letting it drop to the floor, and begins to examine the envelope under the kitchen light. John stoops to pick up the coat, hangs it on the hook behind the door with his own, and then stands to the left of Sherlock's shoulder, watching him study the paper. He notes the developing bruises around thin wrists and above pointed elbows, worries about the livid patches growing dark across that pale torso, the blossoming evidence of vigorous combat with multiple partners.

"Later, John," Sherlock says, flinching away from John's fingers, ghosting up the marks on his side.

Sherlock squirms away from John's assessment to grab a knife out of the kitchen drawer, and for once John isn't caught by the poetry of his body, but rather the intense focus radiating from him; and John finds that his own heart is beating faster, and he isn't surprised to notice that he's holding the gun ready, at his side.

Sherlock carefully opens the envelope and draws out a single sheet of paper, thick and textured, heavy and expensive. Sherlock deliberately turns his shoulder so that John cannot see.

What John can see, is the sudden, shocked jolt when Sherlock reads the few lines, and the harsh intake of breath, before he slowly, carefully folds it back up. Without looking at John, Sherlock bolts back to his bedroom, but John is right on his heels.

The light snaps on, and John hears a shaky exhale.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asks.

"My lamp.

"John. It's gone."

"What?" John shoulders Sherlock aside and enters the room, gun up now, alert as he hadn't been moments before. "Are you sure?" He scans the room, neat and empty but for a few clothes fastidiously stacked on the dresser, strangely old-fashioned shoes beside them. He steps silently to the wardrobe and flings open the door. No one. Under the bed is barren as well.

"Yes," Sherlock sounds shell-shocked. "I can't feel it, John. It's gone, and I can't feel it. It's not in the building." He makes a gesture, as if calling out his cigarette and filter, but nothing happens.

He stands, staring at the dresser, and a shudder so full-bodied it's almost a short seizure overtakes him. John looks at him, worried, but calculates that it's far more important to investigate the rest of the flat for intruders before comforting Sherlock. "Go sit down," he says, nodding towards the living room. "I'm going to look around."

The flat is empty, and John pauses upstairs long enough to get out his own, familiar Sig, loading the magazine and jamming the clip home with a click, chambering a bullet before engaging the safety. He tucks it in the back of his trousers as he crosses the living room. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa. The bundle of clothing from the dresser in his bedroom now sits on the coffee table; there is a small, ornamental box in the middle. Sherlock stares at it intently, fingers together against his chin, twitching and scraping at his skin. His knees bounce arrhythmically.

John pivots from the kitchen, where he was going to make some tea, to sit beside Sherlock instead. "What is this?" he asks, nodding toward the collection on the table.

"Clothing. Shoes. A box of powdered lead," Sherlock replies tonelessly.

John does a slight double-take, and stares at the small box again, a very uneasy feeling squirming to life in his stomach. "A box of lead?" he repeats. He looks again at the shoes, narrow, made of dried, cracked discolored leather, surmounted with a large, tarnished square buckle. The clothes, folded as they are, seem faded and musty as well. John can smell age and mildew from where he sits. "Sherlock... What is this?" he asks again.

"They're mine." Sherlock clenches his hands into one twisted fist, tendons and veins pop along wrists and forearms at the pressure, and his skin becomes stark red and white where he grips. "From before. From... that night."

John is silent for a moment before the penny drops. "Oh, jesus," he exhales. "That night? The night? Fuck. Sherlock, what does this mean?"

Sherlock shakes his head, lips pressed so tightly together that they vanish. "I killed him," he mutters, nearly inaudible. "It's Moriarty. Is it Moriarty? How can it be Moriarty? Who else can it be? But. I killed him. With lead from that box." Breath judders into his lungs, too shallow, and his face is momentarily ghastly with a more sickly cast than his usual untouched alabaster. The smear and trail of blood stands out in stark contrast.

"Are you... safe right now? Can you... be pulled back into the lamp?" John has a bizarre urge to quickly handcuff Sherlock to the sofa, to keep him protected and nearby. His heart is beating too fast, and he finds he craves a fight, needs a raw confrontation right now to get rid of the choking, burning sensation of adrenaline crawling on his skin.

Sherlock shivers. "You are the only one who can compel me in or out of the lamp. Until you've made your wish. Or you're dead." He looks sidelong at John now, and his eyes are slate blue and hard, closed off.

His pupils are pinpoints in the dim light. John automatically checks for shock, reaching out and to place his hand across the skin of Sherlock's forehead, avoiding the small wound, and then resting his fingers at the hinge of his jaw. He's cold, clammy and jittery, but his pulse is within normal range.

He gets Sherlock's coat off the hook and drapes it over his shoulders. "Here. It's not warm enough in here. Put this on. I'm making you some tea." John moves briskly towards the kitchen. "What did the note say?"

He can hear the creak of the sofa as Sherlock shifts position, and the rustle of paper as he draws the envelope out of his pocket. Then it's drowned out by the rattle of water going into the kettle, and John presses the lever down before going back to Sherlock, who is drawing the paper sightlessly between his fingers. He holds a damp flannel in his hand, and sits in front of Sherlock, pulling his fringe back and examining the wound. He begins to dab at the gummy blood striping his temple and cheek. "Go on, then," he prompts.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but is interrupted. They both jump when John's phone rings, buzzing and chirping raucously in his pocket. "Fuck!" John tries to stifle his shout. "God." He quickly fishes out the phone and looks at the screen. No name. He swipes it on. "Yes?" his voice is clipped and cautious.

"Hi. This is Detective Inspector Dimmock of New Scotland Yard. Have I reached John H. Watson?"

What? "Yes, you have." John's posture straightens into military form, unsure what's going to be asked of him. It's well after midnight, so it can't be good.

"You have a sister, Harriet E. Watson, is that correct?"

John frowns and relaxes a bit. Fucking hell. Damned if he's going to pull her out of the drunk tank tonight. "Yes," he replies warily.

"I'm afraid... I'm very sorry to tell you that... This is never easy. But. We've found your sister's body. We need you to come down and give us a positive ID."