TheScienceODeduction: Oh believe me, their relationship will be going places soon. I just like to drag out the agonizing UST for a while XD I am cruel. Thank you for leaving a review, I'm glad you like the story!

Well hi there! I updated this chapter a bit, because I was in an incredibly sleep deprived state at the time of writing having been up all the previous night, and I realized that half the sentences don't make sense. It's exactly the same, just with corrections to my frankly appalling thought track.

You guys seemed to enjoy the angst in the last chapter- and GOOD NEWS! There'll be more! YAY! I am trying to make the story as painful as possible, purely because I think it's nicer to see them together in the end if they've had to work on it.

OH! And in other news- I need help from all you lovely people out there. A few people have messaged me asking about the story I mentioned earlier on in Chapter 20, the fairytale that Sherlock's mother used to tell him, and asked me to write it up. Well, I've half done it, and I was wondering if you guys would tell me whether to publish or not! It's semi-linked to the story, and I tried to make it fit with some of the story's main themes. Ugh, I'm explaining this horribly. What I'm trying to ask you, shamelessly, is to review and tell me what you think of this chapter/whether I should publish the next story. I'm a review whore, what can I say?

Anyway, enjoy the chapter. Just to warn you, it's a bit of a talking one, and next chapter will be super fluffy. Still, we must have fluff to take away from the angst. I'm also going on holiday tomorrow, so I thought I'd just say that it's unlikely that I'll be able to post in that time. Love you all :D

Part the Second

In a big city, where there are so many houses and people that there isn't room for everyone to have a garden, and so most people have to make do with flowers in pots, in such a place lived two poor children. They were not brother and sister, but were just as fond of each other as if they had been. Their parents were next-door neighbors; they lived in attics at the tops of next-door houses. Where the sloping roofs almost touched, a gutter ran along between; and across this, each house had a little window facing the other. You had only to step along the strip of roof to cross from window to window.

In the winter, of course, there was no sitting out on the roof. The windows were often thick with frost, but the two children would each warm up a coin on the stove, then press it on the frozen pane; this would make a splendid peephole. Behind each round hole was a bright and friendly eye, one at each window, These were the eyes of the little boy and the little girl; his name was Kay and hers was Gerda.

December 12th

9:00am

Sherlock picked up the plastic toy and felt the smooth edges. It was a robot of some kind; Sherlock knew little of childhood but knew that this was true. Apparently, he was supposed to walk around and do things with the little silver remote that came with him. He looked into the robot's dark eyes, blank without the spark of electricity that he needed to be alive.

To think he would threaten a child. Sherlock should not have been shocked by this- after all, Moriarty had kidnapped a young boy during their previous game. It was the subtlety of his action that had surprised him- the barest hint of a threat. Sinister, provocative, but never obvious. Of course, the child would not have been bothered by not recognizing the sender- it was a toy, and he wanted it. Simple enough for a child.

The innocence of it scared him. How where they supposed to know who was safe and who was not? Children, in Sherlock's mind, were almost invariably stupid. Their unwavering trust was dangerous. His mind flew back to the memory of Frasier with a pang, and guilt coupled with anger seemed to form thick and painfully in his throat.

He brought his long, pale fingers up to his neck and stroked the slowly forming bruise. He could feel it now, a few hours after John had pinned him to the wall, it was swelling under his skin. Waiting to burst out.

Sherlock knew that he had gone too far, he had been certain of that at the time. He was unused to seeing John so… useless. All his usual, dynamic behaviour seemed to freeze, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of himself behind his eyes. The moment where emotions don't seem to matter anymore, when the empathy dies. He'd only said it to create a reaction, to stop John seeming ineffectual.

He pressed down on the faint pink marks where John's fingertips had been earlier, wincing a little at the exquisite sting of pain he felt. Sherlock smiled guiltily- John had marked him. He would always have the marks to remember. He never thought he'd want to be owned by anyone in his life, but knowing that John had cared enough to hurt him, that meant far too much to him.

The outburst had stopped him from being so frighteningly indifferent, and Sherlock found that having John look at him like that was the most arousing thing in the world. The undeniable passion and fury in his eyes made heat pool in his stomach- if only he could bottle that look, if only he could make it something tangible and analyze it until he understood the reaction it caused. If he understood it he could reject it, and leave it for other people to experience like he had with so many other things.

Except this time, he didn't want to leave it. He wanted to keep it close to him and never let it go.

John sat down beside him in Lestrade's sofa, as far to the other side of the sofa as possible. So he was nervous…

"Sherlock," he said, his voice low and calm. "Are we… ok?"

"If you want us to be," he replied, attempting to mask the excitement he felt at hearing John refer to them as one unit.

"I do. Christ, I do." He touched his hand briefly, making Sherlock shiver.

"Your hands are cold."

"It's snowing. I've been outside."
"Oh."

There was a silence.

"What do you think is happening?" John said, in almost a whisper. "Next?"

"I'm not sure. It will take time to think about."

"We haven't got time."

Sherlock didn't answer, simply biting his lip hard. He felt his teeth puncture the soft flesh and a wet rush of blood meet them.

"Shit," he mumbled, wiping the blood with his hand. John's eyes lingered on the broken skin of Sherlock's lips. They glinted with something Sherlock could not describe. Achingly slowly, John licked his own mouth.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment. What was he doing? "Er, well, I should get back to the case."

"Can I help?"

"Do you want to?"

"Yes, Sherlock," he said softly. "In any way I can."

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "Then stop me from going mad with frustration, will you?"

John laughed. "We can't joke around, Sherlock, serious stuff is going on."

"Well I think I might go spare if the atmosphere doesn't lighten soon, John. I need some release. I need to be able to think about work without being dragged down in the melancholy."

John paused. "I was thinking about going shopping for stuff for Christmas later on. Do you want to come?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I ought to buy a present for you, I suppose."

"You needn't sound so annoyed," John grinned.

"I really do."

10:30am

Sherlock knocked on the door of the bedroom.

"Come in."

He entered, to see Lestrade sat on his bed, staring out of the window.

"Have your children gone to your sister's?" said Sherlock, not wanting to beat around the bush.

"They left earlier this morning." Lestrade still did not look at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm going to be blunt about this-"

"Aren't you always?" Lestrade replied, not in an angry way, but not in a friendly way either.

"Do you still want to continue with the case?"

Lestrade gaped at him, standing up. "Are you kidding? Of course I do. This is my investigation. I don't want anyone handling it but me."

"But your children-"

"Are safe," he interrupted. "And nothing bad will happen to them. I want to catch this bastard for threatening my family."

Sherlock sighed. "Don't you think it's a bit, well, personal?"

Lestrade glared at Sherlock. "You mean you think I'll get distracted."

"No, I just-"

"Or you think I'm not up for it?" he yelled suddenly, moving a step closer to him.

"No!" Sherlock cried. "Jesus, Greg, no! What is up with everyone today?"

Lestrade looked slightly ashamed. "Sorry," he mumbled. "It's been a bad day."

"It's fine."

"What did you mean by 'everyone', anyway?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Nothing in particular."

"Oh?" Lestrade raised his eyebrow quizzically.

Sherlock sighed. "John's being a bit- we, I mean to say-"

"Say no more. Is that what that bruise on your neck is from?"

Sherlock frowned and his hand jumped to his neck, shielding the ugly mark from view. "How did you notice?"

"That's my job, isn't it?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, I suppose so. I don't give you enough credit Greg."

"No. You don't." It was said kindly, but Sherlock couldn't help but see something cold in Lestrade's expression. The words had felt serious.

He felt the all too familiar buzz of his phone in his pocket. "Yes?" he said wearily.

"Hey!" Moriarty drawled, clearly smiling. "You alright sugar?"

Sherlock smirked. "Moriarty, you really can't pull that off you know."

"You're so cruel. And you never call me by my name, do you know that? You never say it."

"Maybe I don't feel comfortable with that."

"Say it." His tone had darkened; the barest hint of a threat was evident.

"Jack."

"Jim."

"Jake."

"JIM!"

"Say it all you like, I won't call you that," Sherlock grinned, happy he had something over Moriarty.

"What about John? Will you call me John, Sherlock?" There was a brief silence, Sherlock unable to speak due to revulsion that thought had caused. To compare Moriarty to… It didn't bare thinking about. Moriarty laughed. "So you figured out my little problem. Good job."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," Sherlock growled. "That was personal."

"Was it?" he said gleefully. "I had no idea."

"You had every idea, don't lie to me. You knew that he had known John."

"And? That would be important to me, precisely why?"

"It bothers you, doesn't it?" Sherlock said smugly, regaining the confident swagger he had with so many others. "It bothers you that I've found someone I can spend time with."

"Not as much as it bothers you."

There was a painful silence where Sherlock was too stunned to say anything, before he heard Moriarty hang up.

11:00am

"So what do you think, Sherlock?" said Lestrade wearily, taking a third cup of coffee from a disgruntled looking Sally. "Five Gold Rings. That's the next line."

"Obviously. But it could mean anything! I need more to go on."

"Perhaps it could be a jewelers?" suggested John. "They sell rings, after all."

"Good, if we can connect it to something," Sherlock said quietly, pacing Lestrade's living room. "We need to investigate Adam Doherty's family further."

"What, in case we find that he's related to Gollum?" Lestrade laughed harshly.

"It's a start, isn't it?" Sherlock sighed. "We need leads."

"Sherlock, I'll get on it. But you have to promise me something."

"What?"

"Relax for a bit, please?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"You look haggard mate. It's like you're half dead!"

Sherlock laughed cruelly. "Please. Don't make me out to need things like you and John, Greg."

"Be that as it may," he said coolly, "Even you're human. I'm not asking you to do something as drastic as, oh, I don't know, have a decent night's sleep for once, I'm just saying- well, just look at yourself!"

Sherlock pulled out the mirror that Moriarty had given him as a gift and held it at his eye level. He had to admit, he was hardly at his prime. His face was bloodless, the pallid complexion looking corpse like next to his colleagues' flushed faces. Sherlock had always looked thin, but now his face was as gaunt as it had been when he was still addicted to heroin. He had once heard Molly describe his skin as "moon lit", something he dismissed as frankly ridiculous, but looking at it now the comparison seemed laughable. He was sallow faced, with dark bags under his eyes, making him appear emaciated and weary. Was he sleeping or was he dead?

"I've looked better, I'll admit. But I'm fine!"

"No excuses. John, take him away somewhere for a couple of hours will you? He needs relaxation."

"Yes sir," John grinned, grabbing Sherlock by the collar. "Come on you."

Sherlock stepped out onto the street with John, feeling a silvery snowflake land on his nose and melt into nothingness. The cold was brutal, and for the first time, it truly felt like winter had arrived in London.

"Those are the white bees swarming," said the old grandmother.

"Have they a queen too?" asked the little boy, for he knew that real bees have.

"Yes, indeed," said the grandmother. "Wherever the flakes swarm most thickly, there she flies; she is the largest of them all. She never lies still on the ground, though, but soars up once again into the black cloud. On many a winter night she'll fly through the streets of the town and peer in at the windows, and then they freeze into the strangest patterns, like stars and flowers.

"Yes, I've seen that!" both children cried at once, knowing now that it must be true.

"Could the Snow Queen come in here?" asked the little girl.

"Just let her try!" said the boy. "I'll put her on the hot stove and then she'll melt."

But the grandmother smoothed his hair, and told them other stories.

In the evening, when little Kay was back at home and half undressed, he climbed onto the chair by the window and looked out through the little hole. A few snowflakes were drifting outside; then one of these, much larger than the rest, settles on the edge of the window box outside.

This snowflake grew and grew until it seemed to take the shape of a lady dressed in the finest white gauze, which was in fact made up of millions of tiny star-like flakes. She was so beautiful, wonderfully delicate and grand; but she was of ice all through, dazzling glittering ice- and yet she was alive. Her eyes blazed out like two bright stars, but there was no peace or rest in them. Now she nodded towards the window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened and jumped down from the chair, and then he thought he saw a great bird go flying past.

*All extracts of The Snow Queen are the work of Hans Christian Andersen, translated by Naomi Lewis. Their work, not mine.