Chapter 6: Or Burn the Palace~

A few hours later, Sherlock was laying on a mountain of pillows on the bed of the room in the Haven that he and John were sharing. Currently, Mycroft was at the British Embassy, explaining their situation to the Finnish authorities, and giving his bomb tech express orders to sweep the area for any more of this maniac terrorist group's plants. Major was scouting the hotel, keeping a look out for the Blood Eagle's possible return, or any body else who might pose a threat to his boys. And Yeats was in the room he was sharing with the Major (only Mycroft was allowed to have his own room, so that conversations with his superiors could be kept in confidence, even from Sherlock if so directed) locked in and under the Major's strict orders to "not move, not breathe, not eat, not sleep, not drink, not take a crap, and otherwise not do anything except sit and watch telly " until he returned.

Sherlock and John were under no such strict orders. They themselves had a job to do. Sherlock's job was solving the mystery of the scrap of Miata from the alley below, which he'd taken a picture of with his mobile, and was currently staring at in a sleepy stupor,pondering its significance. John's job was to keep Sherlock out of trouble until Mycroft and Major returned, Mycroft with the keys to some rental "off road" vehicle that they could take north to the place where the Mistress was keeping Yeat's sister hostage (if she were still alive...)

John had taken advantage of the room's elegant shower, soaking up all the hot water. Unpacked a scarlet cardigan , a loose pair of jeans, and the socks and boots he'd packed for their journey into the Northern wood. Grit his teeth. It was cold in here ,even though the room had a small gas-powered fire-place (some rich celebrity had insisted they add it to this particular room, this being their exclusive room when they made a trip to Finland. John laughed wondering what the pop star would do ,if she were come for an early Scandinavian Christmas, only to find Sherlock Holmes haunting her private suite). He imagined the cold out in the woods, and determined that it could be no less horrible than the extreme heat of his days in Afghanistan. In fact, it may be refreshing.

Finished washing and changing, and ready maybe to sleep for a while (undecided as to whether he should shove Sherlock off the bed, or kip on the sofa?) his eyes found their way to resting on his friend.

He felt an almost frightening sense of joy to be watching the young fellow as he sat there, not a memory,or a hallucination of his grief (that would be very hard to convey the depth of to you, unless you were able to understand how deep his love was for his friend, and then you yourself must truly have loved to the point of a dull pain deep within you). For it hurt, you see, the depth of the love he had for him, it was almost inexpressible, without comparison. When somebody loves their brother it is all natural as there's nothing about it that doesn't flow in sync with family instinct. But the man wasn't biologically his brother, yet he felt somehow closer than that, and that was a puzzle that John would never be able to wrap his head around. That was a puzzle harder than the very idea of his death had been...

But he wasn't dead, not anymore. He was right here, laying cross-legged on top of the bed, a large pile of pillows behind his back, staring at his mobile, as if just looking at the screen will help him.

He was wearing a thin white shirt, the fire-place being close to the bed, so he wasn't really cold enough to slip his jacket back on. John could see the outline of his myriad scars through the sheer fabric. The sleeves were rolled up and he could see the gauntlet burns.

This conversation was long over due. Since they had returned from Denmark, they had been running cases for Greg almost non-stop, distracting themselves from the absolute absurdity of the fact that they could somehow be living together once more, never mind that Sherlock was dead, as far as the world was concerned. But it was inevitable, they were going to have to talk about the time Sherlock was away, they were going to have to feel out the ground beneath their feet now, and see what sort of relationship two friends make, out of the shards left in the wake of a dramatic Fall from grace. For whether all was forgiven and forgotten or no, life still must go on, and it was never going to be the same.

Sherlock blinked, coming fully awake, when he felt the weight of John crawling up onto the bed, laying on his side beside him, chin propped on his palm.

"What?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from what he was doing.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?"

"About what? I take it you don't mean the case?"

John took the mobile away from Sherlock for a moment, and the younger man turned to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes. More than exhaustion was there. His eyes were haunted. He knew this was coming; he wasn't ready.

"You know what."

"No...No I don't think we should...It will only trouble you ,immensely."

"You died for me. You were tormented for me. How am I supposed to take that, mm?Isn't it only human to want to know what was done to you...if you're ok, or if you're still in pain..? If you are...isn't it only human for me to want to help you? 'Cause I can help you; I'm a bloody doctor!"

"Maybe we should talk about this when we aren't on a case."

"No...No we need to talk about this now. When do you suppose we will have the chance again? So much work recently, no telling how long this winter excursion will take. We may bloody well be here till summer for all you know. No, if we just...talk about it...it will be talked about, and we need never bring it up again. Except I need to know. What...did they do to you, when you were trying to keep me safe? "

"Do you really?-"

"Yes Sherlock I bloody well need to know."

Sherlock swallowed," Do you want me...to tell you in...detail?"

John felt like he could cry. " Yeah , I do. But tell me this...why...did you allow them to? You could have made something up, told them fake information...you could have found a way,...you're clever. Why was that the only reason you could protect me...?"

Sherlock bowed his head, looking nearly sick..."Moriarty's network...had almost as much surveillance as Mycroft does. They would have known I was lying, eventually, and when they found out, you would have been the first to suffer for it, and you would have died in a way that would make Satan's nightmares seem like a rather pleasant place to go to. John, I'm not sorry for what I did. When I thought that it could have been happening to you instead, it gave me every reason I needed to keep living through it, and it got to the place where it became standard procedure; almost didn't even hurt anymore, well at least not till after..."

"Were you...did they...try to ? Umm..."

John was embarrassed to even be asking this question. Sherlock read his mind.

"Molest me in anyway? God, no. They find me repulsive , apparently. That's the only time I ever felt grateful to be repulsive."

John giggled nervously, and clutched Sherlock's hand.

"That's been bothering you for a long time, hasn't it?"

"Yes..."

"No, they didn't, didn't even threaten to do something like that, so it's alright."

"Do you...still hurt?"

Sherlock looked John straight in his eyes, a little blue around the mouth, as if it troubled him greatly to be admitting all of this to him.

"Constantly."

" You mean, even now?"

"I can manage."

"No, don't. Does it hurt right now?"

"Yes."

"How bad?"

"Have you ever been cut open with a dull saw?"

John fell silent. Sherlock swallowed.

"I've grown used to it. S'Alright."

"No...no it's not...it's..." John swallows the urge to cry again.

"What did they do, Sherlock? The truth, every bit of it. Tell me,...let me help. Please, I want to help...if you don't have pain distracting you..you might solve this case faster?"

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. And then, he took John by the shoulders,pulling him closer, as if trying to keep him from possibly falling off the bed during this account, and he told him everything. Almost robotically, face a stone mask, as if everything he was saying happened to somebody else.

By the end ,John was speechless. For what do you say when your best friend takes you in his arms, and spends a full hour and a half telling you every minute detail, (from how deep a certain inflicted gash was, to how much his skull bled when he was kicked down a flight of stairs...and these were the easy to stomach things) of how he willingly had laid his life down for yours.

Suddenly John was crying, and Sherlock frowned, wishing he wouldn't; it upset him, he didn't know how to help. Suddenly, he was crying himself, why he didn't know, and he laid John's head against his chest, trying to mute his sobs, thinking maybe if they weren't directly looking at each other this crying thing would be easier.

Sherlock laid back then, letting the tears fall down his face, holding his breath, wishing he could just take it away from John, wishing he wasn't sad, sometimes wishing people didn't have sentiments because it seemed to only cause them more trouble than they were worth. Not realizing he had feelings too, and that maybe that's why he was crying right then. Chewing at his lip, he tried to distract himself, tried to go back to thinking about the case, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. Until he looked at the roof. And there in green spray paint, when he wasn't looking for it, he found the next piece of their puzzle.

"Or burn the Palace." he read aloud.

"Wha-?" John tried to ask, too breathless to really form a full word.

"Oh. I've solved the message on the Miata. See, the rest of its on the roof."

He pointed up. John squinted at it ,swiping at his tears.

"Hey, you don't have to try and guess at it. Your mind's too muddy right now anyway... I'll tell you when Mycroft gets here; get some sleep."

John started to get up, making for the couch, but Sherlock pulled him close again, laid his head in his chest again.

"No ,I mean, just go to sleep. I'll keep an eye out till they get back."

"Uh?"

"I may not really understand the whole "feelings" thing ,John, but I can relate to the event of processing too much at one time..."

Trembling, John lay down , suddenly as weak as a really little kid. He was asleep almost instantly, as if going into a shut down mode, just to be able to handle what he'd heard.

Sherlock smiled through his tears. John was a lot stronger than people knew. Why, just look at all the things he'd survived! He knew he'd be alright.

He also knew that things would never be the same. It wasn't a bad thing. Something was different between the two of them now. Now that Sherlock was "dead"they no longer wasted any thought over what people thought of their unusually close relationship, whether they condemned or praised it.

Things would never be the same, and they certainly weren't going to be the same as they were when Sherlock had died for John. This was a new life, a new series of ridiculous adventures. And now that Sherlock was back from the dead, there was not a single chance in a trillion he was going back in his Grave again, not for a long time anyway.

He smiled at the conclusion he'd come to. Sometimes it just felt amazing to be so clever...