Resurrection, pt 2
Post Reichenbach Falls
Sherlock/John
NC-17, Eventually
Disclaimer: Rights to Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and the respective owners.
"I'm honestly surprised this took so long."
John Watson's eyes snapped open, years of military training kicking in with a vengeance. Fully alert and aware, he took stock of the situation. His head was pounding and there was a sour, sharp taste in the back of his throat that burned a path down to his stomach, the clear after affect of too much alcohol. There was a solid, heavy warmth against his back, a masculine, muscular arm around his waist, the flutter of deep, even breathing that stirred his hair. There was a tidy, well-dressed man sitting in an unfamiliar chair next to the bed, flipping through a palm sized notebook.
Okay, he thought through the boozy cobwebs. Quick recap. He'd gotten brutally drunk, considered suicide, slept with his best friend, his male best friend, his up untill last night presumed dead male best friend, and now he was waking up to find himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes.
With a force of will, John managed not to scream. Or vomit. He shifted, trying to adjust a very sore shoulder, and both impulses took on a new, very real intensity.
A couple of deep breaths through gritted teeth, and his stomach reluctantly retreated back where it belonged, although the curdled, acidic bite of heartburn continued. Focusing on the most immediate issue, John twisted his neck to look back over his shoulder. Behind him, Sherlock Holmes was still asleep, his features slack, his long black lashes making dark half-circles on his high cheekbones, his lips parted just a bit. His left cheek was bruised, the corner of his eye showing the start of a very nice black eye. John winced, feeling a little guilty about that, and feeling even more guilty that he didn't feel more guilty.
Bastard had deserved that one.
But the bruises hadn't kept him from sleeping like a child, all loose limbs and a faint sweet smile. As John watched, he shifted, just a bit, burying his face in his pillow, his right arm stretched out beneath John's head. He mumbled something and cuddled closer. Against his will, John's heart did a quiet, dignified flip-flop in his chest.
"John-"
John held up his hand, stilling Mycroft. He pointed to the door and Mycroft gave him a look. John returned the look in kind, a tight smile and steely glance making it clear that this wasn't one fight that Mycroft was going to win, and if he woke Sherlock there was going to be hell to pay. He pointed again, and Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh before he flicked his notebook shut and stood. Dusting a non-existant piece of lint from his lapel, he tucked the notebook into an inner coat pocket before he headed for the bedroom door, umbrella hooked over his forearm.
Only vaguely aware of Mycroft stepping out of the room and pulling the door shut with a muffled click, John turned his full attention to Sherlock. It took him a moment to slip free from Sherlock's grip, taking care not to wake him. Once he was seated on the edge of the bed, he picked up Sherlock's outthrust left arm, turning it palm up. With careful fingers, he traced the skin on the inside of the elbow, the wrist. He paused to take the pulse that beat there at Sherlock's wrist, and leaned over the other man, using the early morning light to study the skin around Sherlock's mouth, his nose, his eyes. With one careful finger, he nudged Sherlock's lip up, checking his gums and teeth.
With a faint sigh, he sat back, satisfied. About to stand, John paused, pushing Sherlock's hair back away from his forehead. Without thinking, he leaned over and brushed a kiss across Sherlock's brow, smiling a bit as he sat back. Amazing how much a life could change in one day. Or one night, to be more precise.
It took him a moment to find his pants, and he stepped into them without bothering with underwear or socks. His shirt, of course, wasn't in here, and it wasn't in wearable condition, even if it was. He felt his cheeks heat as he remembered the buttons bouncing in all directions. He'd always assumed the phrase 'tearing each others clothes off' was an exaggeration, but it seemed it was possible. More than that, probable.
Left with no real choice in the matter, John started for the door, then paused halfway there. Turning back, he drew the blanket up over Sherlock's shoulders, the gesture affectionate and protective. Leaning over, he couldn't resist tracing his fingers across Sherlock's throat, checking the pulse there. Steady and strong. Amazingly so, for a dead man.
He wondered how long it was before he could believe it enough to stop taking Sherlock's pulse.
Chuckling under his breath, John crossed the bedroom and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him with a faint click. Mycroft was seated in John's usual chair, a deliberate act, no doubt, but John didn't really care all that much. There was a cardboard carrier on the end table, with two paper cups still in it. Mycroft was sipping his own, and he waved a hand at the other two without even looking up from his notebook. John crossed to the table and picked up the nearest cup, not surprised to see that Mycroft, or one of his dozens of assistants, knew just how John took his coffee.
"Poisoned?" he asked, his lips quirking as he took a seat on the sofa. That earned him a chiding look from Mycroft, and he shrugged. "I'm never sure what your intent is, Mycroft."
"I must admit, the thought crossed my mind during the long healing process." Mycroft tapped a finger to the bridge of his nose. He'd gotten through the injury without any obvious damage. John was a little disappointed. "However, it didn't seem worth the trouble." He paused, his own cup hovering by his lips. "Or the repercussions."
John gave a faint chuckle, slumping backwards to take a sip of the coffee. It was excellent, and still hot, and he wrapped his hands around the paper cup, savoring the heat. A quick glance at the window made him suspect the day would be clear and warm, but for right now, it was still early. And he was only wearing his trousers.
"Why are you here, Mycroft?" John said, his voice quiet. "It's not that I'm not always pleased to see you, but I have a headache."
"You have a hangover." Mycroft arched an eyebrow.
"Also true."
"Your drinking has been-"
John choked on a laugh and a mouthful of coffee. "Oh, no. No, no, no. You do not get to pass judgement on me."
"I'm sensing some animosity, John."
"It's remarkable how the two of you are able to make these intellectual leaps based on tiny hints, hints like me saying, fuck off, Mycroft."
"You're still angry," Mycroft said, his voice resigned.
"I'm not the best brother out there," John said, studying his coffee cup lid as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. "Harry and I haven't exactly been best mates. But I do know that if a known psychopath and possible mass murderer started asking pointed questions about her, I'd take that as a reason to introduce him to my Browning. It certainly wouldn't be a time for tea, biscuits and a pleasant chat about childhood pets." He took a sip of his coffee. "But then again, we're very different people, you and I."
"Indeed," Mycroft said, without a flicker of expression on his face.
"I'm just curious," John said, voice tight. "At any point during your little meetings, did you question the fact that you were feeding your own flesh and blood, your only sibling, to a man determined to flay him alive? Did this... Bother you in the least? The knowledge that the best outcome that was possible was that Moriarty would just kill him? You served him up on a silver platter, drove him to his death, and then had the bloody gall to show up at the funeral looking vaguely annoyed with the proceedings. I have a gun; you're lucky all I did was break your nose."
Mycroft glanced at him, as if they'd met during a particularly boring dinner event. "It wasn't my idea to be there."
John chuckled, the sound harsh and humorless. "Ah. Did Sherlock demand his pound of flesh that early in his afterlife?"
"He is remarkable in his ability to make my life unpleasant."
John gave him a mock toast. "Another reason for me to admire him." He stood. "I repeat, why are you here, Mycroft?"
"Because this-" Mycroft waved a laconic hand at the flat. "Complicates things."
John glanced around, and yes, this was a complication. His shirt, wadded up against the wall. His empty pistol, surrounded by bullets and buttons. The chaos he'd created in his drunken stumblings. And he, himself, standing there in just his trousers, bare foot and bare chested. Not to mention Sherlock, still asleep in bed, bare from the neck down.
"I don't see how," John said, his voice soft. "I would've died for him before this, so there's not much change."
"Sex changes everything," Mycroft said, his voice silken.
"No. It really doesn't. Unless you're particularly shallow." John headed for the kitchen, hoping against hope that the asprin bottle would still be on top of the fridge. "It just makes certain things more noticeable."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that he's lost at least two stone in the past few months, and he hasn't got it to lose. Also the fact that he's still asleep, that neither you coming or going, or me going stirred him. He pops awake at all hours normally, and the sound of the fridge door cracking'll usually have him appearing in an instant." John gave up his quest for painkillers and leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest. "How bad has he been, and has he been on anything?"
"I wouldn't know." Mycroft reached for his attache case and flipped it open. Removing a small pill bottle, he offered it to John.
Pride was not as important as getting his head to stop throbbing. "Thank you. And you're lying. There's no way you wouldn't have had him under constant surveillance, no matter where he was holed up."
Mycroft handed him the bottle. "Agreed. That is, of course, if I'd known where he was at all."
"You're telling me you lost him." John shook three pills out and downed them with a swig of cooling coffee. "You. The man with access to every security camera in this hardwired country."
"Misplaced. On a temporary basis. From time to time." Mycroft took the bottle back from him and took a few for himself. "He is remarkably wily when he puts effort into it."
"How much effort did he put into it?" John asked, curious.
"A monumental effort, my dear Dr. Watson. Positively monstrous, in fact." Mycroft returned the bottle to his case and leaned back in his chair, looking exhausted. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and winced. "He's been unpredictable. Mercurial." He paused. "Very, very angry."
"Being dead will do that to a bloke."
"Being unable to go home will do that to a... Bloke," Mycroft corrected. "And he's not the only one who's lost weight. You're looking a bit below your prime, yourself."
John folded his arms over his chest. "Grief'll do that. What's your excuse?"
"Wondering if and when my not-quite-dead brother would topple the British crown will do it as well."
"Oh, for pity's sake," John said, rolling his eyes. "And you accuse him of melodrama."
"He could."
"But he wouldn't."
Mycroft's lips tipped up, just a bit. "You've more faith in him than I."
"Well, that's obvious. I don't think he's going to topple the government, and you're reserving the possibility that he might. It's a rather large difference of opinion."
"He does... Inconsistent things when he's bored." Mycroft tapped his right index finger on the arm of the chair. A small tic, from anyone else. A huge show of nerves from Mycroft.
"He wants to be useful, occupied. He's not destructive by nature," John said, rubbing his temples. "Just clumsy, perhaps."
"He is enormously destructive, albeit more from lack of comprehension than from malice." Mycroft finished his cup of tea and stood to find a trash can. "Clumsy is apt, perhaps, but no amount of instruction has encouraged anything in him that could be mistaken for grace, social or otherwise."
John's temper flared. "For all your petty bickering, he is your brother, and he wants your respect. Something approaching affection, if you're capable of it. It doesn't lessen you to occasionally act like a human being."
"He requires neither affection nor admiration from me. He never has." Mycroft set the empty cup in the dustbin. "Or anyone, as a matter of fact. He's never shown any inclination for such things."
"If you think that's true, then you weren't paying attention." John stared at him, his jaw working. "Perhaps that's why you are waiting for him to topple governments and lay waste to the countryside. Because you see no reason why he wouldn't."
"Sherlock is incapable of-" Mycroft paused. "No. Perhaps before. But you crossed his path, and in an inexplicable way, you've altered him. He's imprinted on you. Like a baby duck."
John stared at him, mouth agape. "Jesus," he finally managed, appalled. "Every time I talk to you, I am shocked that he's as stable and normal as he is. It's like I hear this voice whispering in my ear, he could be so much worse." He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands and trying to soothe the ache there. "Mycroft, if you've any hope of salvaging a relationship with him, let alone not have him as a true and very dangerous enemy, you need-"
"I believe, John, that you're laboring under a false assumption," Mycroft said, his voice soft. "Sherlock's anger has not been on his own behalf, but rather-"
There was a loud thump from the bedroom, and both of them froze.
Sherlock slammed into the living room, clutching a sheet tight at his waist. His hair was a tangle of black curls, his eyes harsh beneath lowered brows. "Mycroft," he growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble.
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "This was rash, Sherlock."
"This is none of your business," Sherlock snapped back.
"Everything you do is my business. Because everything you do ends up affecting me." Mycroft folded his hands in his lap, looking just a tiny bit annoyed. "Not to mention the rest of the Commonwealth."
"Your inability to do your job properly is none of my concern," Sherlock said with a tight smile. He slumped down in his usual seat, staring daggers at Mycroft. "Not. Another. Word."
John sighed. "I'm going to go and see if Mrs. Hudson has anything in the fridge. Please don't kill each other while I'm gone." Pausing, he scooped up his ruined shirt and shrugged it on. Somehow, even though it gaped open in the front, it was better than going shirtless. Awkward enough to be in the room with the two of them right now, he'd like to be dressed.
Neither of them seemed to notice him leaving.
He pounded down the stairs, not at all surprised to find the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat unlocked. She seldom remembered to lock up properly, and she'd figured out long ago that Sherlock would just pick the lock if she tried it. John passed through her very feminine front parlor, heading for the kitchen. It was spotless, and he took a moment to savor the clean space. There were likely no body parts in Mrs. Hudson's fridge.
Ah, the strange things one could get used to with a flatmate.
There were eggs in the fridge, sausages in the freezer, beans in the cupboard and a relatively fresh loaf of bread in the breadbox. John took it all and scrawled a quick note to Mrs. Hudson, explaining he'd that he'd replace her stock as soon as possible, then headed back upstairs.
The Holmes boys were still staring at each other.
"Right," John said, shifting his burden. "You're both idiots." He stalked past them, shaking his head. "Since you're clearly having a silent pissing match, I'll cook."
"I'm not hungry," Sherlock snarled, eyes narrowed on Mycroft.
"Thank you, neither am I."
John set the food down on the kitchen counter and returned to the living room. With extreme care, he put his hand down on the end table. "That," he said, his voice soft and gentle, "was not a matter open to discussion. I am going to make a proper breakfast. You will eat it. If you'd like to whine or twit about it, you can do so after you have eaten. Every single thing on your plate." He leaned down, meeting Sherlock's gaze head on. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
Sherlock considered him, a bit wary now. Mycroft chuckled. "You might as well give in, old man. I don't think you're going to win this one."
"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, folding his arms over his bare chest.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." John turned on his heel. "Breakfast will be ready in ten."
It was the most goddamned awkward meal of his life.
Mycroft ate with careful precision, his manners impecable. Sherlock, still clad only in a sheet, ate only when he was reminded. And John himself ate without tasting a bit of it, not able to keep from checking the closed blinds constantly. Even here, locked in 221B, he felt exposed, terrified that someone would find Sherlock. It didn't help his digestion.
On the plus side, no one threw anything, and no one ended up stabbed.
Mycroft was the first to set his utensils down, folding his napkin and placing it beside his plate. "Thank you, John." His plate was clean, every bit of his breakfast consumed, and he reached for his teacup.
"Really," Sherlock said, stabbing his fork into his egg, "don't talk to him."
John gave him a look, one that made no difference at all because all of Sherlock's attention was on Mycroft. "That's nonsense," John said at last. "He's your brother. Of course he's going to talk to me." He reached out and stilled Sherlock's wrist flat on the table. "Eat your egg, it's already dead."
Muttering under his breath, Sherlock went back to eating.
John looked back and forth between them. "I don't know what's going on," he said, his voice tight. "Which, I admit, that I should be used to that by now, but I'm not. It's quite frustrating. I've had an absolutely nightmarish couple of months, and I don't estimate my life's going to get any better, any time soon."
Sherlock stilled, head down over his plate, and without thinking, John reached out and stroked his hair. "Right now, you two are keeping secrets from me, and I'm getting sick of it." He stood, still touching Sherlock, his fingers comforting despite his harsh words. "I've been sick of it. I know I'm the village idiot around here, but both of you left me holding the bag. I understand why you did it, I trust you both had your reasons, but let's get something straight. I will not continue to be a pawn between you."
He leaned over, caught Sherlock's chin, and tipped his head up. Ignoring the heat that flooded his cheeks, he kissed Sherlock's lips, hard and fast, and released him. "Okay? Okay." Feeling like his face was going to catch fire, he picked up his plate, and Mycroft's as well. When Sherlock moved to stand, he pointed at the plate. "You. Eat. Talk to your brother. I'm going to take a shower."
Sherlock's fingers tightened on his fork. "There's nothing to say," he said, but his eyes were speaking volumes. For his part, Mycroft wasn't even looking in his direction. His focus was on refilling his teacup from the pot.
"Figure something out, or sit there and glare, I don't care. Just work it out, whatever it takes," John told Sherlock, peevish. "I'm a medical doctor, not a therapist, and I intend to keep it that way."
"You ought to listen," Mycroft said, reaching for the sugar bowl. "You've been difficult all morning."
"Yes, because it's so easy to have an uninvited guest first thing in the morning," Sherlock snapped back.
"Hey," John started, holding up a hand.
"If I waited for an invitation, I would've died of old age," Mycroft said, measuring sugar with precise movements. "You'd disabled the tracker in his phone, and your own."
"Wait, the what?" John asked.
"Months ago," Sherlock said, teeth gritted. "You managed to get his hours changed at the surgery."
"I should've known that was you," John said, and his headache was back, pounding with a vengence behind his temples. "Mycroft-"
"Early morning hours made it harder for you to follow him about," Mycroft said to Sherlock, ignoring John.
"Harder, but not impossible. To follow him and throw off your bloody hunters."
John looked from one to the other, outrage building in his chest, and he suddenly started to laugh. When both of the Holmes boys looked at him, he held up a hand. "I was just thinking," he said, almost weezing with the force of it, "that I now have this to look forward to. Those Christmas dinners you told me to imagine," he said to Mycroft, his eyes tearing up, and he had to stop talking, the laughter overtaking him. "I am now imagining them." He wiped his palms against his eyes. "I am imagining the rest of my bloody life with the two of you flicking peas at each other over and arguing about who got the best of the dinner rolls. Intepreting the soles of my shoes. Judging the knot in my tie. Arguing over the meaning of my mobile ringtone."
He threw his hands in the air. "Why am I so happy about this? What the bloody hell is wrong with me? Why am I actually happy about the thought of the two of you-" He smacked a hand off of his forehead. "Happy Christmas!"
"John," Sherlock started, his voice soft and uncertain.
John paused and leaned over, kissing Sherlock's curls. "It's fine, Sherlock, it's fine. Eat your breakfast." Still laughing, he left the kitchen.
This shower could not possibly be hot enough to clear his head, but he didn't have any better ideas at the moment.
"You are incredibly lucky."
Sherlock slumped lower in his chair, his face set in petulant lines. Mycroft tapped his spoon against the rim of his tea cup in a fast, angry staccato rhythm. Catching himself, he stilled his hand. Control. Control. "I hope you understand that," he said, his voice holding a surprising amount of frustration. "How close you came to utter disaster."
Sherlock shrugged, chin dipping low against his chest. His muscular shoulders were tight with some unspoken tension, and he scraped his fork through the remains of his fried egg.
Mycroft slammed his spoon down on the table. "Christ, Sherlock. Of all the foolishness. I understand, truly I do, but-"
Sherlock's head snapped up, his bright eyes full of rage. "You have no idea," he gritted out.
"Actually, I do." Mycroft picked up his tea cup, more to have something socially acceptable to do with his hands than anything else. "Whether you chose to believe me or not is immaterial, I have bled over these past few months. I have done everything possible to assist you, when you would allow it, but I warned you not to push Watson too far."
"Fuck your warnings," Sherlock muttered, and Mycroft lost his temper.
Standing so fast that the kitchen chair went toppling backwards to clatter across the floor, Mycroft slapped the cup down. It stayed intact somehow, but went flipping over, splashing the tea to the table. "You selfish little brat," he snapped out. "From beginning to end, you ignored the very human cost of what you were doing."
The whole thing had been an unending nightmare. From the instant he'd picked up Sherlock's encrypted call, Mycroft's life had been spinning into chaos. At the time, he'd been so overwhelmed by relief that it wasn't until he'd hung up that he truly understood the impact of Sherlock's call.
He was alive. And he was angry.
In retrospect, Sherlock's demands had been straightforward. He needed time to finish sorting out Moriarty's network, to make sure that there was nothing that would come back to haunt him. He would stay 'dead' as long as it took him to do this. In the meantime, he needed to keep John safe.
And if he couldn't, then that task fell to Mycroft.
Keeping an eye on John Watson without him being aware of it, and trying his best to keep tabs on Sherlock, had stretched Mycroft's resources to the limits. Under ordinary circumstances, his pool of talent would've been much larger, but Sherlock's continued survival was more than top secret.
There were a number of men Mycroft could call on at any time. Their paychecks may have listed one government agency or another, but in reality, they worked for Mycroft, and that wasn't in question. Their loyalty was to him, at all times, and it was at his whim that they were dispatched and moved. They were the only ones he could use to track Sherlock, and really, to watch Watson as well.
The constant effort to shift men and resources, to track Sherlock's sporatic appearances and John's increasingly erratic behavior, to do his own research on Moriarty's associates and criminal web, to keep up appearances on all fronts, had taken its toll on Mycroft. Never much of one for lazy lie ins or relaxation, over the past months his free time had dwindled to nothing.
Sherlock, and by extension John, had become his entire life.
The report last night had come far too late, and heads would roll for it. But when Anthea had dashed in to hand him the single page, looking ruffled and a bit panicked herself, he hadn't had the time or the inclination to deal with the offending officers. It had taken no more than an instant for him to recognize the potential for disaster in the handful of precisely typed lines.
He'd run.
Mycroft hadn't run for wars, for acts of terrorism, for the collapse of entire governments, but last night, he'd run for his brother. For his impossible, frustrating, infuriating and singular brother. He'd run until the car Anthea had sent had intercepted him, and then he'd taken that path of least resistance. The trip had taken minutes, mere minutes, but he'd spent the whole time struggling to get his breath back, running through disaster scenarios, through recovery plans, through anything he could focus on.
Anything to distract him from the disaster he was expecting.
The front room of 221B had stopped his heart. For a fraction of a second, he'd known what death had felt like. He'd stepped over the gun, glowing in the pale moonlight, his feet sending bullets rolling across the floor, his eyes taking in every inch of the flat: the echoes of violence, the torn shirt, disordered furniture.
His hand on the doorknob to Sherlock's room, he found himself praying to a higher power. It was awkward and it was uneven, unpracticed since he was a child, but he was praying. He was praying with heartfelt desperation when he pushed the door open.
And somewhere, someone was listening.
He'd seen John first, his face relaxed in sleep, his bare shoulder rising above the edge of the blankets. His pale hair was disordered, one hand resting almost against his cheek on the pillow, his fingers half curled in on his palm. His lips were curled up in a secret little smile.
Sherlock was so close behind him that for an instant, Mycroft had mistaken him for a shadow on the night dark pillows. As if he was sleepwalking, Mycroft had stepped to the head of the bed, his eyes fixed on his little brother. Sherlock was curled against John's back, his face half buried in John's hair. He was smiling in his sleep, just like John was, and he it was obvious that he was just as naked, his pale neck and back visible in the moonlight.
For a long, long moment, Mycroft had just stared down at them, and with a shaking hand, he'd reached out and stroked Sherlock's hair away from his face. The curls had been so soft that it was like he was a child again. The skin beneath was warm and alive and relaxed in slumber, and Mycroft felt like he could breathe again.
Mycroft had left them to their sleep, returning to the living room in silence. He'd taken a seat in Sherlock's chair, and let his head fall back. The night had stretched out around him, silent and dark, and it wasn't until he felt the moisture sliding into the hair at his temples that he'd realized that he was crying.
He sat there, letting the tears fall without making a sound, until the phone in his vest pocket became too much to ignore. Then, and only then, feeling ancient and exhausted, he'd sat up. Not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks, he'd pulled out his mobile and started fixing what he could of this mess.
It had taken hours, and he'd barely scratched the surface by the time the sun was fully up.
Now, after hours of stress and fear and scrambling attempts at patching holes in this increasingly leaky vessel, staring at his unrepentant little brother, he lost what little grip he still had on his temper.
"Do you have any idea what the suicide attempt rates are on soldiers who have seen extended combat?" he said, his voice soft and cold and sharp as a scalpel. "Did you give any thought at all to that? That you were taking a man, a medical man, one who's shown every indication of being overprotective of you from the moment you met, and you make him watch you kill yourself?"
Mycroft's voice rose, word by word, uncomfortably loud in his own ears, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "And then, after you shock him with your suicide, leave him to deal with the aftereffects on his own, and once you force him to deal with the fact that it was all a lie, you push him into a sexual relationship!"
Sherlock flinched, the smallest flicker of something that could've been guilt or could've been stubborn frustration, it was impossible to say.
"I warned you, didn't I? That every security check, every back ground check, everything I had found out made it clear that he'd never been involved, romantically, with another man. That at the very least, this would be a situation that he was unprepared for, and still, you still pushed him into a corner. You could not show the least patience or consideration for the one person who has always been, wil always be, on your side, you were so desperate to control him, to hold him, that you deliberately pushed him beyond his comfort zone, and I cannot imagine how that actually worked.
"When I arrived here last night, I truly expected to find one or both of you dead. My God, Sherlock, John Watson may be pure steel to his core, but even steel, in a corrosive environment and subjected to enough stress, will fracture. And fracture catastrophically."
Sherlock's lips tipped up at the corners, just the tinest twitch of his facial muscles. "Did you just try to explain my lover in engineering terms?"
"A wise teacher speaks as the pupil can understand, no matter how foolish it may seem to him," Mycroft snapped back, but despite the cutting tone, he could feel the temper flow out of him, replaced now by exhaustion and a strange sense of resignation. "You cannot continue to take him for granted, Sherlock. He's proven to be much stronger than either of us anticipated, and thank God for that, but he has been ill-used by both of us, and if you're not careful, it will be the end of the two of you."
Sherlock stood, and Mycroft was perversely pleased to see that a bit of his usual disdainful arrogance was bleeding back into his bearing. Perhaps it was a mask, perhaps it had always been a mask, but if that falsehood could help Sherlock get through this, then Mycroft was not one to deny it of him. "You might have underestimated him," Sherlock said, with a tight-lipped smile, "but trust me, dear brother, I never did."
"You are very lucky," Mycroft said, as his mobile trilled. He pulled it out and flipped through the incoming texts as he continued speaking. "You are perhaps a gambler at heart, Sherlock, but remember. Even if the odds are in your favor, lady luck does not always favor the bold. You will someday take a chance with that man, and you will come up snake eyes."
"If that happens, what will you do?" Sherlock asked, and there was actually curiosity in his voice.
Anything he needed to do. Anything he had to do. Mycroft was adept, after all, at doing distasteful things, things that weighed on his soul, for the betterment of queen and country. And his brother. "Let us hope that it never comes to that," he said, with a pleasant little smile. "Excuse me. I took the liberty of requesting some clothing be brought around for both of you." He cast a speaking glance at the pile of buttons and bullets that John had collected earlier. "You've ruined Dr. Watson's shirt and I've no doubt whatever you were wearing last night would be better off burned."
"As much as I do love your fashion sense, Mycroft, I must decline." Sherlock readjusted his sheet and headed for the bathroom. "I've no doubt that whatever you've picked out, it won't suit my current plans."
"Oh, as if I didn't know you've been hiding amongst your protective little band of Irregulars," Mycroft said. "You can look homeless and not be crawling in vermin, Sherlock."
"But the vermin add so charmingly to the ensemble," Sherlock countered. He didn't look surprised that Mycroft had discerned one of his main methods of moving undetected through the city. Of course, it hadn't done Mycroft much good. Even with an increased police presence and blocking off several of the favorite haunts of the homeless population, Sherlock's innate ability to mimic others and blend in seamlessly to an environment had made him impossible to track. He'd been captured a few times on the CCTV network, face buried behind a cap or a beard, but for the most part, the pictures were all that Mycroft had gotten out of the situation. By the time men had been dispatched, the real thing had long since disappeared.
Sherlock could be a ghost when he pleased. Despite his height, his striking looks, his presence, when he chose to disappear, he did so with aplomb. Mycroft harbored the frustrating suspicion that he had passed his brother by on the streets often these last months, unaware of the fleeting contact. If that was the truth, he didn't wish to have it confirmed. His ego had taken enough of a beating, after all.
"Most people," Mycroft tutted at Sherlock, "appreciate their lovers to be free of fleas, at the very least, Sherlock. A lack of stench also is considered a plus in the bedroom."
Sherlock's shoulder hitched up in a half shrug. "I showered before he got here." With that stunning pronouncement, he stalked off.
"You were planning the whole thing," Mycroft said, resigned. "You do not have any idea how lucky you are, you truly do not. I know this is your first real relationship, Sherlock, but you've started it on very uneven footing. Some caution, and a lot of care would not be out of the question."
"I'm well aware," Sherlock snapped. "And you've adapted to the fact that we're lovers quite quickly, haven't you?"
Mycroft chuckled. "Sherlock, the only reason it took this long is because you couldn't bear to let anyone close enough to allow for physical contact. " His mobile buzzed again. "Ah, the clothes have arrived. Stay out of sight, and do not cause additional problems." Moving towards the door, he glanced back at Sherlock. "If that's possible."
"Boring," Sherlock drawled out, and slipped into the bathroom.
John was leaning against the tile of the shower, one arm braced over his head, the other holding a washcloth. He should use it, he thought, but it was so much more comfortable to just stand there and let the hot water pound on his head and back.
Maybe he could just stay here for the rest of his life.
With a sigh, he pushed himself upright, and scrubbed the washcloth over his face, hard enough make the skin sting. It did little to clear his head, but at least he felt a bit better. He reached for the soap, intending to give himself a proper wash at last, just as the shower curtain was jerked open.
John made a sound that was very close to a shriek, his feet twisting under him as he skidded on the wet bathtub. Sherlock, naked and calm, grabbed his elbow and dragged him back upright. "Jesus," John managed, and because it didn't seem like quite enough, "Jesus, Jesus, JESUS, Sherlock, you scared the bloody HELL out of me."
"Sorry," Sherlock said, even as stepped into the shower, using his body and his grip on John's arm to manuever John deeper into the spray, making room for himself.
And suddenly there was a lot of naked skin in this shower.
John, torn between the impulse to get out, and the even stronger impulse to start licking anything he could reach, barely noticed when Sherlock took the washcloth from his hand. He considered asking Sherlock what the hell he was doing, but he wasn't certain he wanted the answer. Instead, he said, "Done arguing with Mycroft?"
Sherlock shrugged, a quick jerk of his shoulders as his hands worked up a lather with a bar of soap and the washcloth. "For now. You heard him?"
"I considered going back out there, but he calmed down before I could." The raised voice had scared the hell of John, to be honest. He'd been so certain that nothing short of the end of the world could provoke a raised voice from Mycroft. "You shouldn't push his buttons, Sherlock."
That won him a snort. "He doesn't have any buttons." To John's surprised, Sherlock rubbed the washcloth against John's shoulder, swiping it across his chest. "Turn around."
Oh, God, that was a bad idea. John did it anyway, turning into the spray of the shower as Sherlock scrubbed his back. "He's your brother. Not only does he have buttons, you know all of them. Hell, most of them, you probably put there."
Sherlock's fingers dug into John's back, and John groaned at the pressure, his muscles jerking beneath the almost painful pressure. When Sherlock spoke again, John could almost hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop talking about Mycroft, at least while we're naked. Unless you'd like me to invite him in?"
"Ha ha," John said, bracing his hands against the wall. "The shower's not that big." Sherlock's hands stilled on his back, and John started laughing for real. "No. No, no, no, there will be no Mycroft. I'm still pissed at him." He paused, even as Sherlock's fingers rubbed the aching column of his neck. "And you."
"I know." The fingers turned gentle, and then there was the brush of lips, just below John's hairline, enough to send a shudder through him. Sherlock's hands smoothed over John's shoulders, down his arms, even as Sherlock's lips continued to move around his throat. Head tipping to the side, John gave him better access, only to be rewarded by a sharp nip and steady suck against the skin just below his jaw.
"This is-" John jerked in Sherlock's grip, choking on a groan. "This is not going to make me forget, Sherlock."
"Mmm." Sherlock's chest was pressed against John's back, wet skin sliding against skin, hot and slick. The sensation was enough to leave John dizzy and breathing hard, already half-hard and getting harder by the second.
He closed his eyes, bending forward to reach for the faucets, trying to buy himself some breathing room, both figuratively and metaphorically. Sherlock, as if realizing that his fun was about to be ended prematurely, slid his arms around John's chest from behind, pinning John's arms against his sides, and pulling him back in, so tight now that the heat of his skin was punishing. John sucked in a breath, and it wasn't enough, not nearly enough.
Dizzy from lack of air and too much heat, John found himself relaxing into Sherlock's embrace, his head falling back. "Okay, now," he was babbling and didn't care, well, not that much, "I don't know what you're up to, Sherlock, but-"
Sherlock's chuckle in his ear was dark and wicked, and put paid to any possiblity John had of getting out of this unmolested. Or wanting to, for that matter. "If you're having trouble figuring it out, then your intellect has slipped much farther than I had anticipated." His tongue flicked against John's earlobe, and John arched back into his body, panting in the steam. "I will just have to be less subtle about my intentions from now on."
"I'm going to die," John managed. It was the wrong thing to say, he knew it even as the words left his mouth. Sherlock's arms tightened, the grip painful, and John hissed out a breath. "Sherlock, let me go." Calm and centered. No emotional impact. For an instant, there was no response, just the harsh feeling of Sherlock breathing behind him. "Sherlock, let me go."
The arms went slack, and John turned in his arms, bringing them face to face. Pulling his hands free, he reached up. "Look at me," he whispered. "Sherlock, look at me." He cupped Sherlock's face between his palms, his arousal taking second place to affection. When Sherlock's almost colorless eyes met his, he smiled. "I love you," he whispered, canting the words low and soft, forcing Sherlock to pay attention. "And I'm not going anywhere."
Pushing himself up, holding Sherlock's gaze until the last possible second, John sealed their lips together. "I love you," he whispered against Sherlock's mouth, the words a breath against Sherlock's beautiful lips. "I love you." His body pressing as close as he could get it, he slid his hands into Sherlock's wet hair, pushing it away from the planes of his face. "I love you," he said, and it got easier each time. No longer a dizzying, confusing revolation of some hidden secret, hidden even from himself, it was now...
Normal.
He grinned against Sherlock's mouth, winding his arms around Sherlock's neck, wet and aroused and dizzy and possibly insane, and happier than he had been, ever. The kiss stretched out, Sherlock still and frozen against him. John touched his tongue to Sherlock's lips and just like that, he seemed to come back to himself. His fingers dug into John's back, into his hips, lifting him almost off of his feet as the kiss took on a new desperation.
Startled, John opened his mouth against Sherlock's, responding in kind. His fingers stroked the nape of Sherlock's neck, down the planes of his back, to the masculine planes of Sherlock's ass. Unable to resist, he gave the firm muscles there a pinch, and Sherlock gave a little yelp into his mouth.
Breaking the kiss, Sherlock stared down at him, his breathing heavy, his high cheekbones flushed red. John grinned up at him, not the least bit intimidated, even as Sherlock's eyes narrowed into sharp blue-green slits that seemed to glow with some fresh wickedness. "You are pushing it," he whispered, his lips brushing against John's with each syllable.
"Yeah, I like you better as your normal overbearing self," John said, tipping his chin up to kiss Sherlock dead on again. "This cautious version of you is terrifying. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."
With a growl, Sherlock backed him up against the shower wall, and John found himself pinned between Sherlock's weight and the cool, crisp tile. He groaned into Sherlock's mouth, his hips jerking up, feeling Sherlock as hot and heavy and aroused as he was, pressing hard into John's stomach.
Sherlock's fingers slid across John's hip, finding the thick arch of John's erection, his fingers wet and strong. John's whole body seized, an incoherant sound of pleasure shaking him down to his bones.
"I love you," Sherlock whispered against John's mouth. "I love you," he repeated, his fingers stroking in time with the words. "I missed you, so much, I couldn't-" His palm tightened around the hard arch, already learning how John liked it. He didn't need to ask, he didn't need to do more than watch and listen and feel, and John felt like he was going to go crazy if it got any better.
Wrenching his mouth away from Sherlock's, he leaned his face into Sherlock's shoulder, panting too hard to keep the kiss going. "God, Sherlock, oh, GOD," he managed. From a distance, his pleasure fogged mind too out of it to really pay attention, he could hear Sherlock's dark chuckle. In retaliation, he turned his face into Sherlock's shoulder and bit, his teeth scraping the skin. He sucked hard, determined to mark the pale skin.
The orgasm hit him with crippling speed, knocking the knees out from under him as he collapsed into Sherlock's arms, his hips jerking as he came, wave after wave of pleasure making him choke on a scream. He buried his face against Sherlock's shoulder, stifling the noise against the hot skin.
As the pleasure slowly subsided, he found himself clutching Sherlock's shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Panting, he raised his head, blinking to bring his eyes back into focus. Sherlock was staring down at him, eyes bright as stars, lips parted, his expression one of arrested pleasure. John grinned up at him, forcing one hand to release Sherlock's firmly muscled shoulder. Letting his hand stroke down the wet planes of Sherlock's chest, he found the sticky residue of his semen, marking the flat expanse of Sherlock's belly. "I should not find that as hot as I do," he said, glancing down at his fingers.
"I don't know why," Sherlock said, his voice rough and pitched low. "I love it." There was a dark note of pleasure there, and John shuddered.
"God, I love your voice," he whispered, and watched, a little shocked, as Sherlock's blush deepened. John grinned, wide and happy and a tiny bit smug. "God, you're gorgeous."
Sherlock's smile was sweet, and a little shy, and John kissed him, unable to resist the need. And it was a need now, a growing addiction, and he wasn't sure if he felt bad about it, or if he didn't care. For the moment, Sherlock seemed more tthan happy to put up with it, so he found himself relaxing into the need. "You taste good," John said, his teeth scraping against Sherlock's generous lower lip. When Sherlock groaned against his mouth, John grinned. "All over."
He tore his mouth away from Sherlock's, moving his lips down the tight column of his neck, across the hard lines of his collarbone and over the planes of his chest. His tongue flicked out to curve around Sherlock's nipple, flicking there, making the pink flesh tighten. Sherlock's hands were digging into his back, finding a comfortable grip on John's wet skin, his back flush with the wall and his head thrown back. Sherlock was panting, his mouth open and his eyes closed.
John watched his face, enjoying the pleasure that twisted Sherlock's mobile features. And since Sherlock had made the mistake of closing his eyes, he pulled his lips away and simply dropped to his knees, taking Sherlock's erection in his hand and mouth all at once. Sherlock, caught off guard for once, let out a sharp, agonized sound as John's lips closed over the head of his erection.
His hands tightened on John's head, his fingers weaving through John's wet hair. "John," he said, and it came out as a brutal growl. "Don't-"
John pulled back, his fingers still stroking over the wet skin. "Why not?" he asked, curious. "You taste good. All over." He canted his head up, meeting Sherlock's panicked eyes as he grinned and opened his jaw wide. Sherlock's cock slid over his tongue and he maintained eye contact as he started to suck.
It should've been weird, but the way Sherlock was staring down at him was incredible. The naked pleasure and stunned desire there was intoxicating, the desperation that John could read in his amazing eyes, in the bright red of his flushed cheeks and swollen lips. The grip on John's hair was painful, and Sherlock's hips were jerking, a broken, stuttering sound of need slipping fom his parted lips. His erection twitched in John's mouth, he came on a howl.
John sucked hard, swallowing hard as the salty liquid filled his mouth. When Sherlock finally relaxed, his body slumping back against the wall, John pulled his mouth away, coughing a bit as he did. Exhausted and stunned by his actions and Sherlock's enthusiastic reaction to them, he leaned his forehead against Sherlock's hipbone, his breath hot against the skin. He smelled good, tasted good, felt good, and John's chest felt too tight. Not wanting to think about it, about that unstable feeling of love, he leaned heavily against Sherlock's leg. He swallowed, tried to figure out what to say.
There was a firm knock at the door.
John started to laugh against Sherlock's hipbone, one hand smoothing the length of Sherlock's muscular thigh. "Oh, that's right. We have a guest," he said, his face burning with embarrassment. "I'm going to just stay here. For the rest of my life."
Sherlock's hand cupped John's head, his fingers gentle as he stroked the pale hair there back into place. "I'll kill him," he gritted out, his body still slumped against the shower wall. "I will fucking kill him."
John caught his wrist and turned Sherlock's hand palm up so he could press a kiss there. The skin was rough and hot against John's lips, and he licked the center of Sherlock's hand, making the fingers twitch. "Don't kill your brother. Especially not in the middle of our flat." He stood on trembling legs, embarrassment morphing into a giddy sort of humor. "This is the most awkward day of my life, Sherlock. I am not joshing, this is just unacceptable."
Sherlock steadied him, his hands and arms and body a rock in John's shifting world. "I love it when you get all snotty about minor inconvienances," he said, eyes dancing. "Have I ever told you that, John?"
"Somehow, that's never come up in conversation," John said, leaning into Sherlock's embrace. "But you can feel free-"
The second knock was firmer.
"Mycroft," Sherlock snarled. "Shut up. Shut up and go away."
"It's Anthea," the bored voice came back. "He's waiting for you."
John was laughing out loud now, water in his face, in his mouth, and he couldn't do anything more than reach for the taps, turning off the flow. Their water bill was going to be astronomical if they kept this up. Somehow, he didn't much care.
"Bloody Mycroft and his bloody damned minions," Sherlock snarled out, even as he grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around John's shoulders, his hands gentle. Startled, John caught the terrycloth and scrubbed it over his skin before wrapping it around his waist.
Sherlock stepped out of the shower, stalking soaking wet to the door. Wrenching it open, he looked down the length of his impressive nose at Anthea. "What."
She looked up from her Blackberry, meeting his eyes for only an instant before her gaze slid down the full length of his naked body. Her expression didn't change as she returned to her mobile. "Clothing," she said, nodding at the bags by her feet. They carried the familiar logo of a high end men's shop, and Sherlock glared down at them.
John reached around him to wrap a towel around his waist. "Thank you," he said to Anthea, grabbing the bags by the handles and pulling them into the bathroom. "Sherlock, c'mon." Juggling his own towel and the bags, he tried to grab Sherlock's arm. The knot at his waist slipped, and he tried to pin his towel in place with the side of his arm.
Anthea's lips curled up. "You two are adorable," she said, still focused on her mobile, and John felt his face heat. Sherlock stepped in front of him, blocking Anthea's view, and shut the bathroom door. On the other side, Anthea giggled, a soft little twitter of sound.
"Idiot," Sherlock snarled.
Laughing, John tossed the bags beside the sink and grabbed another towel, glad that they were still there at all. He'd known that Mrs. Hudson's attempts to clean the place had been haphazard, but it was like no one had touched the bathroom at all. "Lean over." He wrapped the towel around Sherlock's hair, rubbing with gentle fingers until the locks were reduced to damp curls. "I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson, make sure she doesn't finish cleaning this place and start looking for a new tenant."
"She won't," Sherlock said from under the towel. When John pulled it away, Sherlock had a contented, relaxed look on his face. "Mycroft's been paying the rent."
Everything clicked into place. No wonder she hadn't been in any rush to pack up the last of their things, nor had she asked John to come collect Sherlock's personal effects. He'd assumed that she'd been talking to Mycroft, but not like this. "She thinks I'm going to move back in. When I'm ready."
Sherlock shrugged as John moved to dry his chest and shoulders. "I'm sure she'd prefer it."
"I couldn't afford the rent on this place on my own."
"I left you-"
John put a hand in the center of his chest and gave him a sharp shove. "Don't even. Jesus, if you think I was going to touch pound one of your money, you're mental."
Sherlock stared down at his chest, confusion on his face as John threw the towel at him. He caught it. "What's the point in ignoring an inheritance?"
"I am not having this conversation." John shook his head, and finished drying himself with a couple quick swipes of his towel. He grabbed one of the bags, a quick glance told him that the clothing was sized to fit Sherlock, not him, and he handed it over before he emptied the other onto the counter.
Thankfully, the clothes were the right size, and simple. Shorts, a pair of jeans, a pale blue button down shirt and clean socks. Relieved, John started dressing.
"I specifically changed my will so that you would-"
"Okay, Sherlock, when I say, I'm not having this conversation," John snapped out, fastening his jeans and reaching for the shirt, "I mean, shut up now, because you're just making me mad again, and I don't think that's what you want."
Sherlock opened his mouth, and John pointedly put his back to the infuriating man. He heard a faint sigh, then the rustle of the towel fabric.
"It's just-"
"OH MY GOD." John slammed out of the bathroom, socks clutched in one fist, and stalked back into the living room. Mycroft was sitting on the couch, looking as if the information in his notebook was the only thing that had any importance whatsoever, and no, he was not going to be part of this discussion. "Please explain to your brother that I have no desire to profit from his death!" John snapped, throwing himself into his chair.
"I should have an easier time explaining theoretical physics to a hedgehog," Mycroft said, one eyebrow arching. He glanced up, and groaned. "For heaven's sake, Sherlock, we have all seen quite enough of you for today, please put your trousers on."
"I haven't," Anthea said from the kitchen.
"Dear, please refrain from posting any photos to the internet, at least until he is 'alive' again," Mycroft said, and that was enough to send Sherlock back to his bedroom to get dressed.
John's eyes flicked between them. "You wouldn't-" he started.
"Of course not," Mycroft soothed, but Anthea's mouth was still twitching with something that looked like revenge in progress. Mycroft cleared his throat, and closed his notebook. "While we have a moment of calm," he said, clearly meaning a Sherlock-free moment, "perhaps it's best to discuss where we're going from here."
John leaned back in his chair. "Yes. Let's."
Across the street, a cigarette was placed on the windowsill, a thin curl of acrid smoke curling upwards in the darkened room. The smoker grinned, his teeth white and sharp. Captain John Watson, it would appear, had finally returned to 221B Baker Street.
Finally, the endgame could begin.