John pokes his head into the sitting room. "North? How north?"

"Near Berwick-upon-Tweed, Northumberland.

"Sherlock, that's basically Scotland! What the hell is up there?"

"An old acquaintance with a unique problem, a lot of cows, and virtually nothing else."

"I see. Any other details you'd like to share at the moment?"

"Not particularly. Be sure to bring a jumper," Sherlock adds dryly, and John gives a small snort.

"Do we at least have time for lunch before we go?"s

"Eat on the train."

John groans, and in less than an hour they are on their way to the North Country.

"So, where exactly is this place?" John asks after they've both gotten depressing sandwiches and unrecognisable coffee from the food car.

"From what I understand it's a recently restored, but rather isolated estate near the coast. It's a ways away from the station but our client said he'd send a car for us, and he has rooms for us in his…well, I suppose castle would be the most apt term for it."

John raises an eyebrow. "And our client is?"

Someone he doesn't think about anymore, someone who seems so far in the past it's almost like Sherlock is looking at a film strip of things that had happened to a stranger…

Sherlock pauses, trying to think how to explain it to John. At last he settles on, "A university mate of mine, we did our first year together. I solved something for him once, but I fear it brought more grief than anything else, and I haven't seen him since. I had heard he'd moved abroad."

He can tell John wants to ask more, but restrains himself, and they both fall silent. Sherlock stares out the window at the rushing countryside and finds himself getting lost in the past, to the degree that he has actually forgotten John beside him and is startled when his friend touches him discreetly on the thigh and asks, "All right, Sherlock?"

He blinks to clear his mind. "Of course, John, why do you ask?"

"Because you've been completely silent and motionless for a good 45 minutes now."

"Ah." Had it been that long? "Just thinking."

John's hand on his leg is warm and grounding. "What were you thinking about? The case?"

"No. I was thinking about how much I despise working in the country." This is not strictly what he had been thinking about, but it's true enough.

"You do? I mean I know you're a city boy like me, but don't you think it's nice for a holiday now and then? And if there's ever not a miserable time to visit the north, it's the height of summer."

John is a city boy, but he likes nature, likes getting out in what passes for wilderness in England, sometimes he even goes trekking voluntarily which is truly beyond the realm of comprehension, maybe he misses the vast expanses of sand and mountains in Afghanistan…

"I don't take holidays, and this isn't one. The country is so much more…sinister…than the city."

"Oh yes," John agrees gravely. "With all the trees and birds and friendly farm folk waving hello to everyone all the time. All that fresh air. Ominous."

"Birds are fine. Trees are a hassle. It may be beautiful out here, but for cases and crimes it's far worst than the roughest neighbourhood in London."

"Okay, you're going to have to help me out with this one," John tells him, shifting a little closer. "I'm lost."

"Unsurprising," Sherlock comments, sharper than he means to. "In the city there's plenty of crime and violence, I'll grant you. But there is always someone to hear, to see, to notice something even in the darkest alleyway. Someone's always watching, even if they don't do anything about it. They can always be tracked down. No one just disappears without a trace, at least not for long. There's always something to go on, someone who knows."

Nothing goes truly unobserved in London, which is both comforting and unsettling, it's lovely for finding things out but the thought of who else might be observing him, observing them, is enough to give him a chill sometimes…

"True enough," John says mildly, showing no offense at Sherlock's snappishness. "So, what about the countryside?"

Sherlock snorts. "House far apart, estates in the middle of nowhere, deeds hidden by high hedges or deep forests, miles of empty moor and fen. Anything could be happening. No witnesses, no questions. Everyone turns up for church on a Sunday with a clean face and their best clothes and no one knows if the devout man in the third row beats his daughter of a Saturday night or if the well-bred lady in the back is growing marijuana in her back garden. Anything could be going on and there might be no witnesses, not even a rumour."

"Hmm. Well, thank you for that."

"For what?

"For ensuring I never look at a pastoral landscape again without seeing a grim scene full of twisted, wife-beating cow rapists."

Sherlock sees that John is grinning a bit and can't help a small chuckle himself.

John always looks so shiny when he's teasing, it makes Sherlock feel warm inside, maybe because there's never any malice at the heart of it, it's as good as affection, sometimes better, he wonders if John knows that…

They arrive at the station just at sunset. They are pretty much the last people on the train and the only ones to disembark here, so it's not hard to figure out that the single vehicle in the car park is for them. It's about twenty minutes drive to a massive, ancient stone structure not far from the sea cliffs, surrounded by a few smaller buildings but otherwise not within sight of any other home.

Perhaps castle was too mild of word, Sherlock thinks as they get out of the car and gaze up at the monolithic building. He judged it to be as early as the 12th century, with new repairs to it obvious even in the dwindling light. It had been comfortable enough when they got off the train, but here with the sun nearly gone and the wind blowing in from the sea, it's shockingly chilly for late June.

The chauffer shows them in through a set of doors one could drive a carriage through, into large hall with a roaring fire. The room is well lit, but mostly by candles and lanterns.

"Did we just travel back in time?" John whispers to him, as they shed their coats.

Sherlock has no chance for a snappy comeback, as their host strides briskly into the room, flashing a wide grin as he spots Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he says warmly, breaking in to a trot to meet him, grabbing his hand and pulling him into an hearty, unresisting hug. The man is nearly as tall as Sherlock, slightly broader but still slender on the whole, with thick auburn hair and bright blue eyes, both glittering in the firelight.

Last time Sherlock had seen him he'd been so gangly and thin, a stretched out adolescent just hinting at his future handsomeness, but then they both had been, a pair of awkward teenagers playing at being men, at being sophisticated and worldly…

"Victor," Sherlock greets him, beaming without even realising it. Victor still has one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and the other behind his neck, almost but not quite brotherly. "I had heard you went to Saudi Arabia with some big oil company and then something about a knighthood?"

"Long story, not important. I hear you've refused a couple knighthoods yourself. I still get Christmas cards from Mycroft. But I am very glad you're here – let's hope this mystery has a less traumatising resolution than the last one, eh?"

Sherlock chuckles, relieved that there's no lasting resentment from Victor. Not that it had been his fault, but sometimes people retain negative associations for a long time.

John coughs pointedly next to him.

"Oh yes… sorry… Victor, this is my… um… John…" he manages lamely.

That was potentially Not Good, but he'd been caught off guard, they never have discussed a proper name, and "person upon whom my existence depends" seems ungainly, besides their relationship usually doesn't come up when working cases and everyone who knows them just says Sherlock-and-John and knows what it means…

John steps forward and, uncharacteristically, puts a hand firmly on the small of Sherlock's back.

"Doctor John Watson," he says. "Pleased to meet you."

"John, this is Sir Victor Trevor, previously of Norwich."

Victor give them both an appraising look, then withdraws his hands from Sherlock and takes a few steps back, removing himself from Sherlock's personal space. His expression wavers briefly, but then he smiles at John as well, teeth dazzling, and welcomes him graciously.

Sherlock detects a distinct, non-verbal exchange taking place between Victor and John but is unable to decipher exactly what is happening, except that John is flickering at least as fast the firelight, and crackling a bit and Victor is keeping carefully at arms length.

That is what John looks like when something is wrong, not so much dim as disjointed, uneven, going from dark to bright in an instant and back again, sparking with displeasure, he wonders what's happened, whatever it was took place in the last few minutes…

"Well, unfortunately I'll have to wait until tomorrow to show you the grounds, but you must be famished anyway. Let me show you to your rooms – they'll be heated and lit properly, unlike this one – and you can freshen up. We can catch up over supper." The last he addresses to Sherlock, but includes John with a friendly glance after the fact.

They are led up a cold stairwell to the third floor, to a well-furnished room that is as warm as the hallway is frigid.

"There's a connected bathroom and study," Victor tells them. "I also arranged separate rooms for Dr. Watson, but if you don't need—"

"This will be fine," John cuts him off. "Thanks."

"Well, then," Victor says, rubbing his hands together. "Supper in an hour? No need to dress, of course, it's just us three."

Sherlock flops into an overstuffed chair by the window, worn out and not sure why. He realises John is staring at him and that it is not a good stare.

Still flickering, out of kilter, unhappy but not sad, angry but not furious, annoyed perhaps…

"Well?" says John.

"Well, what?" Sherlock asks, genuinely baffled.

"You told me," John replies in a calm, cold voice. "That we were helping out an old acquaintance. Not visiting a former lover in his own personal fortress!"

"Lover?" Sherlock sits up straight. "We were never lovers. Perhaps friend would have been more accurate a word than acquaintance, but that's as far as it goes."

"Right. You were never lovers and I got this hole in my shoulder by falling on a picket fence."

John is holding back, at least to some degree. Sherlock knows his ability to read the nuances of emotion in facial expression and tone is not always to be relied upon. He's best when they're touching, and he can read in John's body the things that aren't being said. John seems to have figured this out on his own, and often moves closer to Sherlock when there is a misunderstanding, to make it easier for him to catch on.

But John doesn't move closer now.

"I mean it, John. We were good friends. That's it."

It's it and it's not-it, he doesn't know how to explain what it was, just like he doesn't know how to explain what he and John are, but the two aren't the same, not at all, still John might not believe that it's completely different…

"Like you and I are good friends?" John say, reading his mind.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John doesn't let him talk. "You know what, Sherlock, it's fine. Really. I've got exes, why shouldn't you? I mean I've never tricked you into a weekend getaway with one of mine, but there's a first time for everything. I just wish… I wish you'd warned me, okay?"

John has calmed somewhat, though Sherlock can tell that he's still not happy.

"I'm going to take a shower and change," John adds, rummaging through the bags that were brought up before them and taking out the nicest button-up he has with him.

"We don't need to dress for dinner," Sherlock reminds him, grateful to be off the topic.

"Oh, you don't," John agrees. "Nor Victor. Seeing as how you're both already wearing perfectly cut, designer clothing in a modern yet timeless style. I'm not showing up in this." He indicates his rust coloured jumper.

"I like that jumper," Sherlock offers.

"You hate this jumper."

"I like it on you?"

"Liar." But John's face has relaxed and he moves closer to Sherlock at last.

"I… like you in spite of the fact that you are wearing that jumper?" he tries.

He does like the jumper on John, the hideous, horrible, shapeless, scratchy jumper, because it is so very John, so very unstylish, he doesn't want him to start dressing smartly all the time, that would be very not-John…

"There we go. Snob." He puts his hands on Sherlock's and leans to down to kiss him briefly. Sherlock can feel that he's been reprieved for the moment, but that this subject is not, by any means, closed in John's mind. And John does not invite him to share the shower.

Dinner is, thankfully, in a small room off the kitchens and not in the cavernous and droughty main hall. It's what Victor considers simple fare – roast pheasant, bread, cheese, soup.

"I apologize for the leanness of the spread," he says sincerely. "I didn't know what time you were getting in."

John seats himself closer than usual to Sherlock and puts an arm over the back of his chair, casual but definitively possessive. They make small talk while they eat, and Victor is mindful to include John in the conversation, steering away from old school reminisces and private jokes. Slowly Sherlock feels John's tension ease next to him, to the point where he even laughs at some of Victor's remarks. Victor is very charming and very funny, Sherlock remembers.

Victor is that rare aristocratic creature, well-born, at least on his mother's side, wealthy, titled, educated, generous, unfailingly gracious, kind to a fault, liked by nearly everyone, not many people can manage that, Sherlock certainly couldn't and he'd had far more advantages as a young man…

"So, how did you come by this place?" John asks finally. "Family home?"

Victor laughs, an easy silvery chuckle. "Not quite. As I'm sure Sherlock has told you, there was some family unpleasantness after our first year at uni and I found myself without parents, money, home, or even a name I could call my own. I got a job in oil on the last of my father's good reputation and did very well there made my fortune and my name, but I missed England. I started looking for an estate, and mother had some people from up here.

"I found out about this place, pretty much left to ruin since the 1920's, and thought if I could fix it up it would be a nice tourist attraction, you know, help the economy around here. This is a lovely area and it doesn't get as much attention as it should. But as you can imagine it's a rather Herculean job – half of the place is still completely uninhabitable and only a small part of what is has heat or electricity right now. Wiring a place like this is an undertaking in and of itself. Sometimes I feel like I'm camping out inside of it!"

"So, what's the problem that called us up here? Sherlock's been rather tight lipped about it," John adds pointedly.

Still annoyed with him but not dangerously so, he can relax for the moment…

"Oh, don't blame him, I didn't give him much to go on. And in fact, I think it should wait for the morning… it makes more sense if I show you rather than tell you," Victor says sheepishly. "I didn't call the police because I figured they'd think I was crazy. I get enough of that talk just from moving into this place. And of course, Sherlock's the smartest man I've ever met. I'll bet you'll have it solved before tea tomorrow, right?"

"That remains to be seen," Sherlock says in a carefully neutral tone, but pleased at the compliment.

"Well, early start then, yeah?" John pushes his chair back. "I think I'll turn in."

Sherlock makes a half a move to get up as well, then hesitates, looking at John uncertainly.

Is it a test, doesn't seem to be, John doesn't usually play mind games like that, although nothing about tonight has been usual…

"No, it's fine. Why don't you stay and catch up?"

"If you're sure…"

"Of course," John says pleasantly, although Sherlock thinks there might be the barest hint of an edge to his tone. "I'll see you upstairs. Victor, thank you for supper."

Victor nods to John, and John leaves, brushing Sherlock's shoulder with his hand on the way past. Once he is gone Victor asks, "Are you sure you shouldn't join him?"

"No. He said it was fine."

It is fine, isn't it, John said it was but he uses fine to mean so many things and some of them are most definitely not fine and he can't tell if this one of those times or not…

Victor raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. He puts his feet up on the table and leans his chair back on two legs, sprawling comfortably, while Sherlock pulls his knees to himself and wraps his arms around them so he forms a surprisingly compact figure, both men unconsciously assuming old postures and attitudes around each other.

"I just want you to know that I had no idea about you and John when you came here. I hope he knows I wasn't trying to… well, I hope I didn't make him uncomfortable. He seems like a very good man."

"He is," Sherlock agrees firmly. "I see you've never married."

Victor doesn't ask how Sherlock knows this, he's seen him work things like that out hundreds of times before. "Not the marrying kind, I suppose. No more than you. A few fleeting things, but boyfriends are bad for business in conservative Muslim countries, even secret ones. And up here…well, you can imagine. I keep myself entertained though. The role of eccentric bachelor landholder suits me." He pauses. "I have missed you, Sherlock. Very much. Have you missed me?"

"I did, at first," Sherlock admits. "It was difficult. But after that I only thought of you quite rarely. I was glad to see your email, though," he hastens to add, realising his previous statement might be misconstrued.

Victor only smiles, unoffended. "You haven't changed, have you? Same Sherlock as ever. I wish I had your talent for compartmentalising, would have saved me a lot of grief. To just put something painful away in a box like that, and not have to look at it if you don't want to… it's a gift, my friend."

They chat a bit about their school days and old memories, Victor doing most of the talking. Sherlock isn't one for rehashing the past, but listening to Victor is enjoyable and they both avoid any emotionally loaded territory. After some time they both lapse into companionable silence, nursing red wine and staring at the fire. "Did you ever think we'd sit like this again?" Victor asks after many minutes have passed.

He always was sentimental and romantic, loving poetry, to hang on the past, to dream of the future, he knew how to spin such pretty stories, how many hours had they spent by a fire just like this, Victor telling outrageous tales, or Sherlock lecturing on forensics, or neither of them saying anything at all…

"No, I didn't. But it's… pleasant." Sherlock shakes himself. "I should retire if it's going to be an early morning."

"Do you still only sleep a few hours a night?"

"Usually."

Victor gives him a knowing grin, and if it's a bit sad as well Sherlock doesn't notice. "Off you go then."

To Sherlock's disappointment John is quite soundly asleep when he comes in, on his back and on the very edge of his preferred side, like he's still sleeping on a narrow army cot. He stirs when Sherlock crawls under the thick, old fashioned bedclothes but doesn't wake – his subconscious has identified that it's his friend and there's no need for alarm. If anyone else had come through that door, he'd have been awake and at the ready in under three seconds. Sherlock's seen him do this and it's really quite impressive.

Sherlock feels a small twinge of guilt, although he's not sure what for. He's done nothing wrong, and yet it still seems as if he has. Or as if John thinks he has, and those amount to the same thing.

John is never cruel on purpose, almost never tries to punish him for things done, but sometimes just navigating the emotions of another human being, even a very understanding one is so exhausting, he wonders how other people do it and with multiple friends and family members too, how could anyone keep it all straight…

He traverses the expanse of the mattress until he is next to John, scrunching down so he can put his head on John's shoulder and a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. Sherlock closes his eyes, meditating on the rhythm, but does not fall asleep for sometime.

He awakes to bright sun streaming through the east window. Dawn is early here this time of year, and it's a nice way to be woken considering he's usually up while it's still dark. John rouses slowly and smiles to see Sherlock snuggled up next to him in the morning light, an extremely rare occurrence.

"Morning, nightmare," he murmurs, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He can feel John's not angry with him any more, content and soft like the sunbeams around them, and sighs happily.

"I'm sorry I was a bit horrible last night," John says after a minute. "I was tired and this whole thing took me by surprise. I was just jealous, I suppose."

"Jealous?" This thought had not occurred to Sherlock. "What could you be jealous of? I haven't seen Victor in eighteen years and we were never…not really… Anyway, it doesn't make sense to be jealous, I'm yours."

Of course now that it has been pointed out it's blatant that John was acting out of jealousy, but why would he be, how could Sherlock make it any clearer to the man than he already has, it seems so obvious to him all the of the time that John is all there is, how could there be room to think of anyone else…

John's eyebrows go up at "not really" but he lets it go for the moment. "Well, the lovely thing about jealousy is that it tends to be completely irrational." He sighs. "I guess when I saw you and Victor I felt… well, out of place. You two look so good together, it seemed like you belonged with him and not with me. You're both gorgeous and tall and upper class, like a pair of champion racehorses or prize hunting dogs, all sleek and elegant and perfectly matched. And then… well you hugged him and you smiled for him and you laughed for him. I'm not used to it."

"I laugh and smile very often, John."

John shakes his head. "You laugh and smile at people all the time. Smiling is a reflex you've trained yourself to have around people, but it's not a real smile. You laugh or smile for real when someone is being stupid or when you've just gotten a brain wave or heard there's an exciting case. But there's only two people I've seen you really smile for or hug, and one of them is Mrs. Hudson. And I've only ever seen you let one person make you laugh for real, at a joke or something clever, only one person you laugh with…"

It is true, he only ever laughs with John, jokes with John, lets John make him giggle, and he has since the day they met, the rest of it is an act or laughing at the universe or the folly of others, Mycroft used to make him hysterical with laughter as a child, laughter until he couldn't breathe but that had happened less and less and now it would never happen again…

"I didn't realise," Sherlock says, honestly.

"I know you didn't. It's a stupid thing to be hurt over, anyway. I want you to laugh and smile and be happy, and not just for me. I don't want to be that selfish. I just… I didn't expect it."

"We were very young when we knew each other – I suppose I was a little less guarded then and that's why he can still make me laugh now."

"I think maybe that's what I was most jealous of. You met him long before me. He knows you in ways I can't ever, he has a part of you I can't approach, he got to see you when you were just starting to be who you are. I often wish we'd met in university, had all those intervening years together."

"But if we'd met then, we wouldn't be us now," Sherlock says, as if that would be unthinkable.

"True enough." John kisses Sherlock's forehead and runs a hand smoothly across his flank. "Tell me about him and you. Please. How you met… what you were not exactly to each other. I won't be cross, I promise, I just want to understand that part of you."

Sherlock hesitates.

This doesn't smell like a trap, not John's style anyway, but he doesn't want to hurt him again, make it worse, still John's body is relaxed, languid, not waiting to pounce but wanting to make it up to him…

"His dog bit me," he says finally. "Second week of my first term. I was walking and reading at the same time and suddenly this horrid little bulldog was attached firmly to my ankle and refused to be shaken off. Victor ran up, calling to the dog, and managed to pry him off me, apologising the whole time. He was so embarrassed and he insisted that I let him help me to his rooms, as they were close by, and he would call our college's physician from there. I could hardly walk on my own and I didn't have any friends, so I agreed. He ended up putting me up for a week while my ankle healed, declaring it was his responsibility to see to me, and by the end of that time we had grown quite close."

"Close?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not like that. Not quite. We were both late bloomers, as you can imagine, still figuring ourselves out, not much of an idea about who and what we were. I knew I wanted to study chemistry and deductive science, but that was all I knew, and all I did, before I met Victor. He was so incredibly different from me – gregarious, suave, light-hearted, sentimental. But he was fascinated by what I did and it flattered me. He took interest in my experiments and I let him drag me to parties once in awhile. By end of term we were inseparable and when the summer holidays rolled around he invited me to stay. It was a far sight better than rattling around that house with no one but Mycroft."

By then too much had happened, too often a parent, too seldom a brother, how could they be expected to bear each other's company for an entire summer, everything had been said and there was no one left to pretend for…

"I can believe that," John agrees. "But something happened that summer?"

"His father liked me well enough, but in showing off my deduction skills I accidentally stumbled on a secret of his, one which was about to be revealed anyway, that the man was a fraud and had made his money as a criminal and thief. His father died of the shame and stress shortly after – someone had been blackmailing him. I helped Victor piece together the true story, he lost everything and left the country. Hadn't heard from him since."

"That's all?"

Sherlock pauses for a long time, debating what to say. "Three kisses," he says finally. "There were three kisses. Brief, chaste, childish kisses. Once in his rooms as the first term was ending. Once in the orchard at his father's house before things turned bad. And once to say goodbye."

So incredibly innocent they had been, the merest brushing of lips, he'd never spoken of them to anyone, he treasures them still, keeps them in a little corner of his mind and takes them out to look at once in awhile, not for wishing to have that time back, but as reminders of the only thing that could be called true affection he'd tolerated between childhood and John, a brief respite from having to be defensive against the constant grating of the world, before the days of anonymity and mutual use and physical need that had characterised what little else there had been for him until now…

He feels John's mood shift, but can't tell how. "Are you upset?"

"Of course not," John tells him, touching his arm reassuringly. "I was just thinking how very sad that must have been for you."

Sherlock had never thought about in the context of sad or not sad before. It was lovely at the time and then it had gone away. He settles on "It was unpleasant when he left. But it was a long time ago."

John accepts this, but seems sceptical.

"I was rather thinking you might take to Victor," Sherlock adds. "You are not really very dissimilar."

"I have taken to him," John admits reluctantly.

"Have you?" It seemed quite the opposite to Sherlock.

"Of course I have. I doubt there's a person he's met who hasn't. He's friendly and sincere and entertaining and attractive. That's what's frustrating… I wanted so badly to dislike him right away but I couldn't make myself do it. He's completely and utterly likeable."

"I don't understand," Sherlock says, baffled.

Don't you either like someone or not, how can you hate that you like them, can't you choose, but maybe it was a bit like him and Moriarty, being drawn to each other, hating but needing, but then again hopefully it was nothing like that at all…

"I know. Don't worry about it. I promise to behave from now on. You can't blame me for being a bit territorial, though."

"Mmm. I don't mind." Sherlock yawns. "Better get going, we've got a case to solve!" Now that his worries about John are relieved he's anxious to get started.

"Do we?" John asks innocently, and rolls himself easily on top of Sherlock, legs straddling his waist. "I should think we have a few minutes before breakfast."

"Perhaps… a few…" Sherlock agrees absently, distracted by the movement of John's fingers across his chest.

They are only a very little bit late for breakfast.