Author's note: This was supposed to be a single, long chapter, but seeing as life's kept me from finishing it in time, I decided to break it up :)

References to show cannon checked at ariane dot devere dot livejournal dot com (great transcript)

There should be 3 more chapters after this one, unless the story gets a will fo its own again :)

Enjoy!

Chapter 13: Of simple things

It's all about the wavelength, really. Ultraviolet and visible light have shorter wavelengths than infrared heat, which is why light can pass the barrier of glass while heat remains mostly trapped beneath it. It's simple physics. This is what Sherlock Holmes has done to John Watson – made him willing to give up his light and turn into heat, too slow to escape whatever confinement he enters in his radiant phase. And he will do it, willingly, because it's in light's nature to shine, not matter the consequences, and it is in John Watson's nature to do things properly, be it war and only retreating from it after he'd given his everything – his years, his skills, his flesh, bone and blood – or love (sometimes the line between the two is a blurry, indistinguishable one), from which there is no retreat, not even after and if all is sacrificed. You can pay war's release toll in blood and pain, but you can't buy your freedom from love – it is a much more merciless master. It is indifferent to riches and contemptuous towards bargains and promises of favours.

John remembers the Dionaea muscipula by which he found Sherlock the first time they met in the greenhouse, and ponders how very fitting (ironic) it was that the warning was there right from the beginning, the Universe's foreshadowing shout-out to those clever enough to listen for it. He was warned, John was, because love is very much like that Venus flytrap that loomed in the shadows behind Sherlock's back the day when the air was heavy with the smell of soil and greenery and things unnamed. Beware of love – it's a living thing, very much in possession of will and often cunning. It will lure you in, like that sly Venus flytrap, until it sure you've reached the point of no escape, when you are so deep in the soft, living, juicy inside of it that your feet are stuck and your head is swimming with disorientation. It won't even have to snap shut around you to keep you in, swallow you whole. You will go willingly, taking bits of it with you, feeding off it as it feeds off you. Beware of loving – it is the shortest path to getting eaten alive. Love will be everything and you won't even wish to escape it, allowing it to conduct unhindered its planned transmutation of you. For the sake of love, for the will of devotion, even light will turn into heat, invisible and temporary. Destructive. Dark.

If you asked John what the edge of the world looked like, he would tell you it looked like a cabin on a cliff, overlooking a waterfall. He would tell you it looked inadequately spectacular for its dramatic title. If you asked (but you wouldn't, not John, not there – you'd let the man walking the ledge walk it in silence), John would tell you the edge of the world was the muzzle of his gun, all geometry of destruction in densely packed atoms of metal. He would tell you that the edge was not a single line in a single dimension, but several of them, some running parallel and some perpendicular, cutting and crossing, all sharing one point of contact. A point of converted light. A point of dark.

Him.

There is something dark about John Watson, but for the first time in his life, John finally understands precisely why the dark is there. It's just the right shade of dark for him to be able to do this. It's the sort of dark that allowed him to become a soldier, because no man made of sheer light would ever do such a thing. It is the force that clamps a sturdy hand over the mouth of one's nagging conscience in just the right moments to keep balance between a serial killer and a complete innocent. Dark is what it takes to love imperfect men and what it takes for imperfect men to love. Dark is what it takes for John Watson to love Sherlock Holmes in the only way that is proper.

People think love is composed of light and warmth and soft things that caress tips of ears and corners of lips in those neither-here-nor-there refugee moments of early mornings. But love is neither a duckling nor a puffy cloud of candy floss. It isn't velvet or the tenderness of a pansy's petal. Or, to be fair, it's not only that. As already mentioned, love is the very edge of the world – and dark is its colour.

If you asked John Watson what the edge of the world looked like, he would tell you it looked like a cabin on a cliff, overlooking a waterfall, the muzzle of his gun, several dimensions, and the act of loving.

So, don't ask John Watson about the edge of the world. You probably won't like the answer. Better yet, don't ask him anything, or if you do, forgive him any disappointment his answers might bring you. John Watson isn't a perfect man. In fact, he is doing his very best not to become one, because he knows a thing or two about perfect men. Didn't you hear?

All the perfect men are broken.

Dark is the colour the world will fall into once it ends. Only, dark isn't a colour at all, just like love isn't a feeling, not really. Just like love, the dark is something else completely.

Dark is protection against perfection.

Dark is what a choice feels like – the choice to die alive rather than live through death in the name of perfect men.

Didn't you hear?

All the perfect men have broken hearts.

Just as the sun reaches zenith, a sign marking the area's most famous attraction in four languages, English being at the very bottom, becomes just big enough for John to read. Walking towards it, he thinks of a painting, the retrieval of which he once witnessed some lifetimes and two or so worlds ago, that shared the name he now reads. Gifts of diamond cufflinks and forced thank you-s pull the corners of his mouth just a bit upwards into a rueful smirk as camera flashes blind him from the corners of his memory that host the before – before the thing that changed it all, before the faux-end that even as such ended something true.

The path is hard and frozen underneath his feet, the high altitude forbidding the ground from thawing even in midday Sun. It's an ice age that grows from the ground up, into John, sliding glaciers through the soles of his feet and towards those infinitely warm, human bits of him. It's alright – the cold is welcome. It will help, numb him, make him immune to pain. Or so he hopes.

The gun at the small of his back has the reassuring quality of an old friend's hand pushing him gently on. John tries to shake apocalyptic thoughts – he was never one for dramatic end-of-the-world scenario's, he always thought Sherlock would be the one for that, out of the two of them – because he knows nothing is yet set in stone. Hell, even if it were, if anyone knows that things set in stone – in gravestones, no less – can still change, it's John. Maybe all of this will play out in his favour. Maybe nothing will go wrong. Maybe he'll manage to get all this done before Sherlock even wakes up and the worst thing he'll have to deal with is Sherlock's accusatory glare upon waking. It's really not that impossible, given that John is a rather good shot, not prone to waves of self-doubt when it comes to his combat skills.

Still, if you ask John, that's quite a lot of 'maybe-s'.

But it doesn't matter. Well, of course it matters, but the funny thing is that in the grand scheme it sort of doesn't. No matter how things pan out, scales will be tipped and John is intent on making sure the only two possible outcomes are those that will tip them in favour of John's side of the battle.

Outcome no. 1: All the maybe-s become reality and three lives are saved for the price of one.

Outcome no. 2: The maybes become an unfulfilled hypothetical and two lives are gained for the price of two. Still a fair bargain.

Outcome no. 3: John fails and – well, no point on finishing that sentence. Outcome no. 3 is completely out of question.

In a moment of sheer, insane hilarity, John thinks how surreal this whole thing is. Very James Bond. A sleek villain lair in a remote but exclusive retreat, a lonely figure under the crisp Sun going in for all-or-nothing. There's even a pretty girl in the story, though in a Bond movie she would play a slightly different role. The only thing missing is a plot twist and the whole thing could be written down and sold as script. John would like that movie. In an even sillier moment it hits him that he may never see a Bond movie again. Or any movie, think of it. For some reason the thought is like a punch to the gut more than any he had. Maybe it's because it's such a ridiculously mundane thing, movie-watching. It's not a larger-than-life, slightly-unbelievable concept like worlds and intricate processes than hold them together only to tear them apart. It's so simple, so familiar, so exquisitely boring and that's what makes it so painfully real.

So, maybe it's the unbearable realness of possibly never getting to see a movie again that twists John's guts, or maybe it's the fact that as he thinks this, he passes the wooden sign he spotted from afar, the one with the name of the attraction written in several languages. He already knows what it says, but still, for some reason it feels like the point of no return. John's step falters fractionally as he casts one more look at the name before striding decidedly pass it.

It's a name he knows, from before. The press had used part of it for some of Sherlock's nicknames. It is the name that, in John's head, will always mark the beginning of the end. How fitting it is then, that it is here that all of this is taking place.

John quickly turns into a steadily diminishing figure against the impressive scenery and the path once more becomes deserted, with just the wooden sign and the same name written over and over again in white lettering on green boards. The name of the edge of the world, tucked away in the middle of a small European country...

...The Reichenbach falls.

Jonathan Small's cabin is a strange affair, all light pinewood and sleek steel and glass panelling. Like a futuristic ski-cabin, it perches on the edge over one of the smaller waterfalls, ensuring its value in money at a price most people can't even spell correctly. The Sun is beating unrelentingly at the polished surfaces of the cabin, making it impossible to look straight into parts of it and turning the windows into mirrors. It's like something out of a magazine, one of those things you can never be sure are actually real and not just offspring of Photoshop. The patch of land in front of is a bare meadow, save for the uncannily green grass and a few rocks that seem to grow from the ground, that offers no cover and John knows he's as visible as a candle in a calm night. Not that it matters, really, since he isn't counting on the element of surprise. This isn't something that can be done covertly. He will literally have to walk up to the front door and knock. What a very English way of dealing with things, perfectly civil even when dealing with rather barbaric matters. Really, it's almost too easy. There really should be more fuss about it. One is not supposed to be able to just walk up to a drug lord's holiday house and ring the door bell. Where's the drama in that? James Bond would be horrified at such a no-nonsense approach. And just like with the movie-watching, the simple directness of it shears away any illusion that could make things just a bit easier by making them just an ounce unreal. There will be no black-ops style descent onto roofs or action movie sequences. John will walk up and ring or knock and that will be it. And it will be done willingly, no matter how real and true and scary. Thing is, only lies have detail, as Sherlock likes to say, and there's nothing left but the truth now – John can't, won't lie to himself – so all of this, for the first time in a long time, is something rather simple.

By the time he finishes his musings on nature of terrifying things, John's at the door. A security camera follows his movements with the rapt precision of a voyeur as he raises a clenched fist to knock. But before he gets the chance to beat the expensive wood with frayed knuckles, the door swings open.

"Captain Watson. Please, do come in." Jonathan Small is, despite his name or maybe as a cosmic joke, a tall man with, broadly built and distinguishably exotic looking. Were it not for his name and John's knowledge of the man's background, John would think him a native to some country in South America. His British accent (not entirely pure, although it is obvious Small is trying to make up for the slight presence of a Cockney ring in his voice by affectation that's supposed to sound refined but just makes him seem pretentious) sounds almost unnatural given the air of foreignness that surrounds him. John enters the cabin and finds himself standing in a vast, open lounge with an airy quality to it. There is a stair case leading both up to the first floor, and down, to what John guesses is the basement. Past it , a black leather sofa dominates the space, with an LCD TV fixed on the wall and a row of floor-to-ceiling windows in the background, overlooking the rocky slope down which a steady surge of foaming water is cascading.

'This is too easy', John thinks as he turns to face Small, whom he can hear coming up behind his back. In one swift movement, John rounds on him, pulling out his gun before Small can get a chance to snatch it away. He scans the drug lord from the top of his head, where a flow of slick black hair trails down to the nape of his neck and ends in a small ponytail, to the tips of his pointy, Italian-leather shoes.

"You are a brave man, Captain Watson" says Small, standing still and quite unfazed in front of John as light streams luxuriously through the wall of glass behind John's back, illuminating the modern, minimalistic interior of the cabin. White walls and sleek, sharp lines of blockish furniture leave no softness in the space. There is a certain brutality to all of it. The cabin isn't a home – it's a lair.

"I was once told that bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity" John retorts. The gun in his hand is trained unwaveringly on Small, like a natural extension of John's hand, all his darkness concentrated in the smoky alloy.

"Well, then perhaps I am lucky. You seem to possess a lot of...bravery. How much easier is it to outwit a brave man than a clever one do you think, Captain?" The smirk on Small's face speaks loudly of how clever he considers himself for managing to (not-so-subtly) squeeze in a quip about John's intelligence.

"Probably as easier as it is for a brave man to press the trigger not caring about the consequences that it is for a clever one."

"You would shoot an unarmed civilian? I'm disappointed to see the moral standards of the British Armed Forces slipping these days."

"I'm pretty sure the British Armed Forces can live with your disappointment. After all, I don't think they'd feel all that inclined to taking advice on moral from a drug lord. Besides, you are hardly an unarmed man, Mr. Small. I think that gun tucked away at your side and not really hidden by your jacket excludes you from that particular category." It is only after he finishes his little speech that John realises how much he sounded like Sherlock just now. The realisation carries with it a strange emotion, a mix of pain and relieved serenity, because it means that even now, he has a bit of Sherlock with him. In him. There an imprint somewhere within those parts of John that are more invisible empty space that actual physical tissue, and in that imprint a piece of Sherlockian nature lied embedded, inextricably logged between thought and instinct.

(Only John doesn't know that it isn't a piece of Sherlock – it's all him, all John, only truer and rawer and more sharply defined than before, a light centred by a lens or a prism until it's a burning, white-hot beam. But don't tell John any of this; let him have this little comfort. You don't poke at the man walking the edge of the world with a stick. It's just not a nice thing to do.)

"Perhaps. Yet, I am not the one holding you at gunpoint" replies Small. "Are you really going to shoot me like this? I had you pegged as a man of principle, Captain."

The constant use of John's military title doesn't go amiss. John knows it's a taunt as much as it is an appeal to his internal code of honour. John is aware of the fact that Small thinks he can play him into giving up, but what Small doesn't know is that some principles run deeper than others. Doctor-soldier-John, all layers one on top of the other are now being stripped away until only the most basic remain.

'Too easy, too easy, too easy', John's instincts scream, the internal chant causing him to try and scan the room from the corner of his eye, but there's nothing. It's just that simple. Too simple. Where is the plot twist? In a Bond movie, this is precisely when the plot twist would kick in.

Seconds turn into a minute, but nothing happens. John has no intention on lowering his gun, but since he also can't bring himself to shoot a man who is just standing there, he is stuck in a draw. He wishes Small would do something, a too-quick movement, a wrong step – anything that would give any bit of leeway for a warranted shot. But not like this. There may be darkness in John Watson, but he is not a murderer. At least, not a cold-blooded one. He won't shoot a man who poses no immediate threat to him or a third party. Only, he can't stand here, waiting for a prompt, angry that Small has correctly calculated John's mind-frame to an inch. This is not how things were supposed to go, but John can't help feeling just slightly relieved as he flicks his gun towards the door.

"Very well, then. You win. I won't shoot you, but you're coming with me."

Small's laugh roars through the sparsely-furnished space, bouncing off bare walls.

"Why in heaven's name would I do that?"

"Because while I have no immediate plans to shoot you, I do have a gun trained on you, while you, as you pointed out, do not have one on me."

Something sly crawls into Small's grin that makes John break out in cold sweat. He knows that face. It's a face of a chess master about to announce mate.

"Oh, Captain Watson, you really should listen more carefully. I said I wasn't the one holding you at gunpoint. I never said there wasn't someone else doing precisely that."

Small's eyes never leave John's as he raises his voice a bit and calls out to some invisible third party.

"You can come out now, say hi to our guest. I believe you no introductions are necessary. After all, the two of you know each other rather...intimately."

John can sense movement behind his back, as a figure he knows so well steps out from behind the stairwell. He can't see the person yet, but he doesn't really have to. He has a pretty good idea who it is, an idea that is only further confirmed by the person's voice.

"Hello, John."

He knows that voice, heard it say mundane things over tea in the morning and other, not-so-mundane in ecstasy in the dead of night. That voice that once meant comfort now only means betrayal. John knew it couldn't be that tidy, that simple. Because it isn't. He knows what this is...

...It's the plot twist.