Heading home, all good times had by the two men, they parted ways.
Fond memories swathed his heart bolstering it as he worked his way through the soft greenery that unfolded around him along the path. It seemed so very long ago, he would have given almost anything to have Sherlock with him silently moving through the night through the ferns and loaming twinkling depths of this evening.
Now, he would love to have the man beside him, barking mad about absolutely killing his beautiful bespoke shoes on this holiday milling through the walking path between the manor and their cottage. No, his beloved would rather have been in bed for the day reading to him, enjoying each other through words and maybe later, a duet. Even later still a piping hot bath and more words, stories this time. They had the running child's story, the fairy tale that John was planning on writing and possibly publishing that they would knock about a bit and he would write up a draft of their discussion before going to bed.
But neither Sherlock, nor John existed anymore on this plane. Now there was Auryn and his full yet broken heart that longed for promises fulfilled and lover's sighs that he was left to imagining. The supple alabaster skin left to sense memories and pale comparisons.
How he missed that indomitable man, loved him still almost two years later.
Two years since the fall.
Making his way to his home, he noticed the fire had been stoked as a rosy orange glow could be seen from the back windows dancing along casting warmth on the leather of the seats before it. How marvelous that would feel to his stress-worn body. Then music, something he did not recognize falling through the air hauntingly remorseful and somber. Gravid with unrequited emotions, unspoken delights and promises having eluded the composer.
Where was this coming from?
Must be a recording as it was played throughout the sound system in their home. What a wonderful gift to be sent for him, this had to be Sherlock's. He knew it to his marrow. Going to his case, he was thankful now he had left it out on the nook table as inspiration hit him desperately hard. If he could not physically hold the man he loved he very damn well would play with him, even if only for himself. Maybe, just maybe Sherlock would be able to feel the resonance of his fingers upon the strings as the bow slid across finding harmonies, bolstering, leading, dancing around his ever present melody.
He had placed his lap top on and began recording, so he could lose the technical side of his musician's brain and solely press into his heart and just feel. Run with his lover to a time before loss, headlong into the deep nights and restless wanting. The passion that was innocent and pure and raw that was new to them both on different levels and held different meanings for the two at the time.
Then it began into the second movement, closer to his lullaby, sweet, loving, poignant. Tears coursed down quietly tracing his cheeks with salty lines as he closes his eyes and allowed himself to be swept away. To be brought to safe harbor by the man that had loved him so he gave his life to secure his physicians.
He once had told him of the fine silvery lines that held him, knit him together that he could see in his palace. He said it was terrifying and exhilarating to know that someone could knit another's soul and heal it and bind them as well. The healing of old scars and new hurts. John had tried his damndest to lessen the harshness of day of emotion that others could never understand. He was the balm that soothed the daily burns that were experienced by his fragile brilliant love.
As it turned yet again, he knew the ending. He could feel the hope rising, the complement now to his leading voice. The drive he was pursuing in finding his own melody and new secondary's that echoed the original movement he longed for. He knew he could be whole again, knew it would only be when Sherlock was back in his arms. He found himself fervently praying for his archangel for the first time in two years, begging him to come back to his physician yet again. To not be afraid to fly with him as his fingers flew now.
When it ended, he held. Eyes closed close to a meditate state he didn't want to break the silent communication, the prayers he was throwing to heaven entreating God for his angel. Hitting his knees before the fireplace, he lowered his viola to the ground and curled over his knees in an ages old position of supplication.
Everything had been wrung from him, in between the whiskey, the night, and the music especially he felt languid and emptied. Relaxing in this child's pose he allowed himself to slightly doze, to reach his inner self for just a few moments allow the dream to exist.
The icy edges of his lovers fingers skated along the like of is spine. Feeling him kneel beside him he smiled as he felt both hands gently press and hold onto his shoulders. He had missed him so; he had committed it to memory so very well. He felt the flutter of movement, then a questioning finger beneath his chin. He could not open his eyes and break what he had conjured with the fairie magic he had borrowed from their tale.
He knew it was him, and he was not afraid. Tilting his face upward, his lips were claimed chastely but the icy soft ones that now covered his asking entrance, how could he deny. As he opened, he was filled with light, he felt it settle about them cocooning them and see it around the edges of his closed eyes.
"Hamish…"
"No, no longer…call me Rhys."
"Is this your given name my brother? My one?"
"It is now until the day I die. I took your name."
The long finger hand traced its path to take up his left hand and hold it, linking their fingers together. His ring felt like it was coldfire against his skin. He couldn't be bothered with it. Instead he leaned in askance and was immediately taken again. The movement perfect. Everything, all hope he held was flooding him. Bringing his free hand up he ran his hand through his beloved's hair.
"Oh the Gods must favor me tonight. Take me to bed beloved."
They stood together as Sherlock wrapped his arms around them both; and instant later they were in their room. He felt himself turned around to face the bed as the long cool fingers ghosted down to the hem of his jumper and pulled it swiftly off of his body then returned for the buttons beginning at the top and popping them efficiently finally untucking and finishing the last three.
Then they were everywhere.
His hands became fire scorching him between the band of his trousers and the flesh below. His hands moving up his body pressing him closer to Sherlock's chest. His warmth, his heart, reforming Auryn into his more perfect version. Kissing his neck, wrapping him and holding him near. So knowing and unsure.
"Tell me Rhys."
Turning back around, he works on Sherlock's clothes as well, moving to push him onto their bed after throwing his great coat out of the way. Unfastening, unbuttoning, moving together as they slowly dance as countless lover's before them in discovery. Wrapped into their silence, everything else was white noise.