They stepped out onto a granite slab porch, lit by the floor to ceiling glass walls behind them. The grounds spread out in front of them, perfectly cut grass and low ground landscaping. Stone walls broke up the estate into attractive terraces, spreading out to the forest beyond. The dim foggy day had settled into a soft, chill dusk.
"I still don't understand," John said, waiting for the sound of a helicopter approaching. No doubt it was landed nearby, waiting.
"And there's the back of the t-shirt."
Yes, piss me off.
"You just 'know things'. How does that work?" he asked.
"I just so love your little soldier face. I'd like to punch it. Please, bring me your face."
Magnussen ordered. Sherlock looked distraught but needed for him to obey. They had to stall for backup. Then Magnussen could let everyone in the country watch him shit a brick for all he cared. As long as Magnussen was in jail and Mycroft controlled the contents of his vaults. John had no doubt that if Magnussen ran now, they'd never find him.
"Lean forward a bit and stick your face out," Magnussen ordered. John tried to contain a smile.
I could rip you apart.
"Please," Magnussen mocked him. "Now, can I flick it?"
Sherlock looked horrible, standing by the window, staring at John like he'd lost him.
He'd be willing to lose Magnussen to protect my pride.
Magnussen began to flick at his face, like that would mean something.
"Oh, I just love doing this. I could do it all day," he gloated. "It works like this, John. I know who you've hurt and killed. I know where to find people who hate you. I know where they live. I know their phone numbers. All in my mind palace, all of it. I could phone them right now and let them know where you live and you'll be seeing that carport everywhere you go, whether I post it or not. And I will," he explained, flicking him while he spoke. "Unless you let me flick your face. This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries. Just because I know. Can I do your eye now? See if you can keep it open."
John watched him, trying to hide his fury. He could see why people cowered before him, gave him all they had in supplication in the face of such threats.
But I already see that carport everywhere I go.
It was a more simple problem than defeating Magnussen's knowledge. Knowledge wasn't everything.
By Magnussen's own confession, every judge in the nation would have personal motivation and political pressure to ensure Charles Augustus Magnussen never communicated with anyone ever again. A blackmailer in isolation, no threat at all. He heard the buzz of a helicopter, approaching from the side of the house. He pointed his gun at Magnussen's face and stepped away.
Magnussen's eyes widened in the barest hint of surprise. He smiled softly, like this too he had planned for.
"Hands in the air," John ordered sharply and Magnussen obeyed, sighing as if bored.
"You'll ruin your shoulder for good if you fire that gun. You'll never be useful to your precious genius again. And you can't hide behind heroism this time. All this fuss is to protect you. Your life, your reputation, your pride," Magnussen laughed. John didn't waver. He had no doubt the man could talk his way out of a jail cell. Not much use if no one was listening. Magnussen sighed again.
"I really don't see why you keep him around. So childish," he commented to Sherlock. Sherlock was leaning against the side of the house, comfortable now. "Threatening me will do you no good. You don't think I have a …contingency plan?"
John flinched at the term but controlled it. Magnussen smirked. Sherlock pushed himself up from the side of the house to approach the man, looking confident now. John stood up straighter, enjoying the feeling of his eyes on him.
"You have men watching. They'll send out those photos of me shitting myself under torture and they'll try to encourage my enemies to find me, but here's the mistake you made: We will always have enemies who know who we are. Everything you're threatening to take I've already lost. All my friends, the whole of Scotland Yard's Homicide and Search and Rescue divisions have seen those photographs. Sherlock has seen them. Show them to the country, give them to newspapers, twitter and wherever else. You'll have lost anyway. So here are your choices: put your hands in the air or I'll shoot you."
"I could make it so your genius would never get a client again," Magnussen whispered. Another tactic - he was retreating now. John leveled his gun at the man's face. "His mind will rip itself apart like an engine without work. A beautiful metaphor, really."
John snorted. They'd faced that before. Magnussen was resorting to old threats now.
"Doubt it. People need him. I really will fire this."
The helicopter was getting nearer. John could tell the moment Magnussen heard it - his eyebrows furrowing in concern and worry, no doubt wondering why his security force was not responding immediately.
"You'll find no vaults here. You'll go to jail and I know men who will ensure you're never paroled," Magnussen tried again and this time John smirked.
"Not likely. This is a legal sting, under the express direction of Mycroft Holmes," John crowed. Magnussen frowned sharply, disbelieving it. Sherlock never worked with Mycroft. John enjoyed watching the realization hit - that he'd focused on Sherlock, considering Sherlock's every action, and never thought about what would happen if John just said 'we tell Mycroft'.
"Put your hands behind your head and get on your knees," John ordered, recognizing security services' helicopter in his peripheral vision as it landed.
"Also, we tracked Lady Smallwood's letters. That way, is it?" Sherlock piped up finally, pointing off into the open yard before them. Magnussen closed his eyes, looking like he knew exactly what would happen to a blackmailer without his vaults, put before a judge he'd no doubt 'influenced' before. Mycroft would make sure of that.
"Goodbye, Magnussen," John added, pushing his gun into his pocket. He'd never even taken the safety off. He stepped away from the man to let a security services officer take his place.
Mycroft strolled up, looking exceptionally pleased. He was almost smirking.
"I must say, Sherlock, this is a remarkably legal arrest for you. I'll barely need to postdate anything," he drawled.
The closest he can get to a compliment, John thought, rolling his eyes.
"John, thank you," Mycroft said, his voice deep and sincere, holding out his hand. John shook it, wondering how many layers of meaning that 'thank you' was supposed to contain that he was missing. Judging from Magnussen's snort, many.
"What a touching reunion," Magnussen drawled like that'd mean something nasty.
"Lets open those vaults, shall we?" Mycroft asked, clasping his hands together in front of his waist. Sherlock handed his phone off, with the tracking data, in a casual gesture John had never seen. Sherlock never shared his phone and surely he wanted to delve into Magnussen's catacombs. An underground trove of information with all its mysteries? John thought Sherlock would have been diving in before the vault was safely unlocked.
"Let's get out of here," Sherlock said. John blinked at him for a moment. Mycroft smiled at them, taking the phone. "My mother will be out of her mind if we miss Christmas dinner," Sherlock added. Mycroft scowled at the words. He was probably going to be late, John deduced, huffing out a laugh at their quick reversion to antagonism. He followed Sherlock to Mycroft's helicopter, deciding that since they'd apparently just handed Mycroft's reins to the United Kingdom, they could bloody well steal his ride home.
The copilot helped them into their seats without protest. Apparently Mycroft had already cleared it for them to take the flight home. That rather cut into their enjoyment of it. Sherlock pouted and the helicopter engine started up. Mycroft waved, smirking and Sherlock turned away.
"What a ponce," he grumbled into the headset mic. John laughed, guessing the pilots could hear and that Sherlock was already fully aware of that. Sherlock switched the input settings on his mic so it'd transmit only between them and showed the setup to John. John obediently fixed his as well. Sherlock caught his hand in his own and held it for a moment, only to drop it, and then pick it up again.
His nails had almost fully grown in, John noticed, inspecting his own hand and Sherlock smiled.
"John," he called and John looked up from his damaged cuticles.
This was important. Sherlock had a storm brewing in his eyes, something that couldn't come through in the gravelly transmission of a helicopter headset, barely audible over the roar of wind and engine.
"Wait," John said and heard Sherlock's teeth snap together over the mic pickup. John smiled softly, as reassuringly as he could, but Sherlock pulled his hand away. John grabbed it back and gripped it strongly, watching for any signal that this touch was too much. It didn't come and John knew what Sherlock was going to say. "You're going to say that that 'maybe' was as stupid as it looked - two men wanting something and running away from it, right?"
He waited and Sherlock's eyes smoldered. Such a light blue to be filled with such intent. Sherlock swallowed heavily and nodded yes.
"I just -" John cleared his throat, uncertain if his voice was still getting carried over the microphone. "Just want to do that when I can hear you. Maybe after you help me bathe," he said. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in open bafflement. He stared at John, his hand twitching a bit in John's grip, until John realized.
But now I just said it.
He cleared his throat again, trying to recover, and closed his eyes.
"Damn it," he cursed and Sherlock's face broke out in a happy smile, amused at his expense. Sherlock reached his hand out slowly to touch his face, cupping his cheek with his hand only to leave it there, taking each experience in stride. John waited as Sherlock shifted in his seat to free his arm from the seat harness, so he could run his hand down John's face, over his jaw and behind his neck. His fingers felt warm against John's skin, a comforting pressure. He tugged then, rather abruptly, and John obeyed, leaning forward, only to realize that Sherlock was going to kiss him and he'd somehow missed that entirely.
Fear hit him hard, bringing with it all the voices of his past telling him not to be gay and teasing him for the close bonds he'd formed with his comrades. Harry especially, mocking him for his crushes one moment and accusing him of homophobia the next. Maybe she was right; maybe he'd delayed this because he hated what it'd mean. Sherlock pulled back, watching him.
"You're a bit gay, John," he said easily and John laughed. That made it easier. This was something they could joke about, homophobia in all its forms.
"So you're..you've been..this whole time?" John asked and Sherlock stared at him as if affronted by his idiocy.
"Yes," he answered simply. "And in love with you," he added as an aside, shrugging.
Whoa. John wasn't ready for that.
"I…uh.." He started and Sherlock kissed him. The man's mouth was stiff against his own for a moment, too aggressive and too fast, and the mics caught in the way, but then Sherlock retreated, his mouth softening around John's and the hand on his neck moving to tangle in his hair. John shifted in his seat, his erection getting quite rudely pinched off by a safety strap, and leaned over to run his hand down Sherlock's side to feel his solidity, the muscle and soft skin just beneath his shirt.
I don't like being touched. Apparently not… entirely true. And not for Sherlock either, judging by the way Sherlock leaned into his hand like a cat. Sherlock pulled away from him, scowling at his body's need for air.
"Breathing is boring," he said and John laughed.
"So, what, we solve crime, we make out, you help me bathe, and we figure out how our different kinds of crazy intertwine?" John asked and Sherlock smirked.
"Unless you want to take that desk job. They called, by the way. Some job offer," he said and John groaned. He needed a job. And they had flexible hours.
"I'll take it," he said and Sherlock smiled like he'd lit up his world - taking that to mean the whole life, evidently. John didn't correct him. He'd take that too. They didn't talk about feelings much. Probably good to do it now, when they were already doing it and the microphones could muffle their tone. "Also..I don't like erm…we're partners? Just us, just.. together?" he asked and Sherlock stared at him, looking rather confused at why he'd say such a thing aloud - too obvious, probably, and John rubbed at his face, pushing his mic out of the way so they could make out again.
We're doing this. That was incredible. He was in a relationship with a man. A healthy one, when he could never have said that about his life with Sherlock before.
Sherlock was first to pull away, a fact that John noted with great satisfaction. He could enjoy the sensation of Sherlock's hand playing at the back of his neck without a hitch in his thoughts.
He was free. Or he would be, with enough time. And that was bloody well enough for him. Sherlock stared at him, his eyes wide with admiration, and John pulled himself back into his seat. Sherlock looked excited and self-pleased and John had to grin at that.
"Well, this was thoroughly satisfying," Sherlock congratulated himself, adjusting his safety belt. John rubbed at his lips, quietly agreeing.
~~/~~