Thursdays and Tallow Stains

by tepid sponge bath

John Watson lost Sherlock Holmes, but he is determined to get him back, even through means eldritch and arcane and obviously illogical, even if the consulting detective is as unreachable as somewhere East of the Sun and West of the Moon. A Post-Reichenbach retelling of the Norse fairy tale for Let's Write Sherlock's second challenge.

6. If I may go to the one who is here

Part 6: "If I may go to the one who is here, and be with him tonight."

But one remembers all they had done for the other. And one might conjecture that, at this time, they made love, or dreamed that they did. – Neil Gaiman, The Dream Hunters

Since there was nothing either of them could do about the inch or so of foul water on the floor of 221C (John took a peek from the top of the steps that led down to the basement flat to confirm this), they went upstairs directly after finishing the tea and biscuits. There was glass everywhere in 221B, glinting wickedly on the floor, the dust covers on the furniture, and the plastic crates into which they'd packed Sherlock's things.

"It looks like it did when that house blew up across the street," said Mrs. Hudson. "Remember that?"

John did, and he could see the resemblance quite clearly, even though the place was rather more damp this time around. At any rate, the storm had left it a terrible mess, and he spent the rest of the morning helping Mrs. Hudson clear it up, leaving his jacket carefully draped over the bannister. He insisted (quietly but firmly) on treating her to lunch, and they talked about the state of things over Indian takeaway in her kitchen. She asked him, delicately, for his opinion on her touching Mycroft for a month's rent in advance.

"He pays for your old flat now," she explained. "Sends a young lady in a town car with the money every month, grand as grand can be. I've told him that he can just wire me the money instead of taking all that trouble, but he is Sherlock's brother after all. He can't resist the drama."

"Right." John had very strong opinions on the poor job Mycroft had done of being Sherlock's brother, but he kept them to himself. He also refrained from explaining in detail how he'd avoided the man ever since – and even at – the funeral, turning down any and all invitations from well-dressed young ladies to get into mysterious town cars (and there had been quite a few, especially in the first few months).

"And I hate to ask – it's bad enough that he pays the rent without using the flat – but there's so much to be done," Mrs. Hudson was saying when he stopped remembering that he was angry and started paying attention again, and she looked at him expectantly, waiting for his thoughts on the matter.

"Well," he said, pushing a piece of lamb around his plate, "it can't hurt to ask." And he smiled weakly and offered her some more of the papadums.

The idea of Mycroft owning the flat made John uncomfortable and ever so slightly more reluctant to go back up to the living room that was already achingly familiar and appallingly empty. But up he went while Mrs. Hudson did the washing up, to check that water hadn't gotten into the crates. He also thought, in the sort of frenzy that can overcome one whilst tidying up, that he should hang plastic sheeting over the tall windows against the possibility of more rain (that would have to do for now – the boards Sherlock had used to cover them up after the blast were somewhere in the swampy depths of 221C). It was but the work of a moment once he'd fetched the stepladder from downstairs (Mrs. Hudson pointed it out to him while she was talking on the landline, presumably to one of Mycroft's young ladies), and after that, there was nothing more for him to do.

That sort of realization always left him winded, and he was now suddenly aware of the full effects of his sleepless night and unplanned day of physical work. He decided that he needed a rest halfway through putting on his jacket, and he decided that he needed one right this instant when he took a step and staggered. Pulling the white sheet off the sofa so that he could lie down, just for a while, just to get his bearings before he went back to Mrs. Hudson's gentle fussing, seemed the most sensible thing to do, but before he could do more than put his hand in his jacket pocket to shift the round lump that was pressing uncomfortably into his side, he had closed his eyes and was fast asleep and dreaming.

John found himself walking down a curiously empty and quiet version of Baker Street. The colors felt wrong and stretched, and they hurt his eyes, and in his hand he held the golden apple from the glass hill. Its skin shone in the strange, bleached light of that place, and it smelled so sweet that you could almost believe that one whiff of it could cure even the most mortal of ills. As such, John supposed it might be irreverent of him to be tossing the fruit from one hand to the other like the world's most inept juggler, but he was entirely uncertain as to what he needed to do, and the uncertainty was making him nervous. In all the other dreams, what was required of him was made as clear as day and as obvious as a nose three ells long, but beyond a definite sense that he'd finally gotten where he needed to be and a vague hope that something would turn up, he had nothing to go on.

It came as a profound relief when he spied Mrs. Hudson beyond the red awning of Speedy's (the cerise of her blouse made him squint). She greeted him with a grave smile and beckoned him over when he drew even with 221B.

"It took you long enough to get here," she said.

"Yes, well, it wasn't easy." John caught the apple one last time and held it behind his back like a secret.

"It never is." Mrs.-Hudson-in-the-dream crossed her arms over her chest, and the expression in her eyes was distinctly reproachful (What did you expect? they seemed to say). "But you're here now, and that's what matters."

"About that…" John pressed his lips together, decided that he might as well ask her outright. "I don't know what's going on. What am I supposed to do?"

"Well, dear, you could start by offering me that apple of yours. What do you want for it? You can say what you like."

John closed his fingers around the fruit. When it came to it, he didn't feel like parting with the thing, not for gold or money. He'd gone through such hardships to get it, and it was altogether precious and beautiful. He opened his mouth to tell this version of Mrs. Hudson so, but before he could speak, she looked at him pointedly and indicated the door to the flat with the barest sideways tilt of her head. John stared at her, stared at the brass numbers on the dark wood, and the realization dawned on him, sudden and honey-warm as sunlight through a patch of cloud.

"Oh my God," he breathed, and it would forever be a wonder to him that his knees did not give way. "He's – he's in there, isn't he?"

"Isn't that why you're here? I always thought you two were so good together."

"It's not – we weren't –" John stuttered to a halt, gave up, and shrugged. "You know what we were."

"I do." Mrs. Hudson gave him the look she used when she thought (altogether too frequently) that having the second bedroom was a bit of a waste in her opinion.

"And if I give you the apple," said John, bowling over the certainty of her tone, "I can see Sherlock, I can go to him?"

"You need to say it properly, John."

"Say it properly? Right. Right." John rocked on his heels, took two decisive steps towards his former landlady. "Take it then," he said, holding out the golden apple, practically shoving it under her nose. "Take it. It's yours. Just – please, let me see him."

Mrs. Hudson plucked the apple from his fingers. "You may do that," she said (but why, asked the little part of John's brain that looked for these things now, did she look sad?). "Go on up, love. You know the way."

John barely waited for her to finish. He rushed into the foyer and up the stairs, his heart pounding fit to burst. All that met him was cold silence, and dread began to seep in, filling his lungs, making his fingers tingle. He began to bargain with the universe, trying to reason that it would just be too cruel for it to let him down now, after everything, and when he pushed open the door to the sitting room, he found that the universe, even in dreams, could be very cruel indeed.

Sherlock was there, on the sofa, but it was Sherlock as he had last seen him: broken by the fall, with blood streaked across his face (though his eyes were closed now – John vividly remembered how they'd been blank and empty when Sherlock lay on the pavement) – and one hand trailing limply on the floor, much as it had from the gurney they'd wheeled him away on. There was no crowd of people to keep him away this time, and John went to him, calling his name, admonishing him to stop this ridiculous business of being dead because it was a bit too much for him to go on doing that even here.

He touched Sherlock's wrist, his neck, and the side of his face, felt no pulse, felt the horrible give of a broken skull when he moved his hand to examine the back of Sherlock's head. Afterwards, John could not have said how long he stayed there. He called to Sherlock again and again, but Sherlock stayed as he was and none of John's efforts could put any life in him, not even when, against all logic, he tried CPR, leaving dark stains on the purple shirt, tasting blood and stale coffee (yes, Sherlock had stayed up all night at Bart's, hadn't he?) when he breathed into his mouth. It was crushing and unspeakably painful, so much so that John could not even weep.

Waking up was almost a physical relief after that. John sprang up from the sofa as quick as he could, as if doing so would put more distance between himself and that dream, and he paced the flat, weaving through the furniture, barking his shins on an unexpected crate, because he needed to think. The dream had been terrible, far worse than the nightmares he had about the actual event, but there was something there, something he'd been missing before, probably something obvious once he pushed past the gutting sorrow, and if he could just put his finger on it…

John laughed aloud when he realized that he'd been striding about the flat lost in thought with his fingertips pressed together, tapping the sides of his forefingers against his lips as he went. Of course.

Baker Street.

It was not in John to waste time gloating over his deductions (in his opinion, that sort of thing was best left to consulting detectives). Instead, he hurried downstairs to return Mrs. Hudson's stepladder; to convince her to let him stay in 221B again, even if he had to fight Mycroft for it; and to kiss her soundly on the cheek for realizing before he did that the storm, the North Wind, had done some good in driving him back to Baker Street after all. He did not even stop to look for the golden apple that had disappeared from his jacket pocket.

Mrs. Hudson did not need much convincing. She declared that she'd be happy to have him before he was barely halfway through explaining that he didn't like the idea of her appearing to be a little old lady living on her own when the builders came (which was true – it may not have been the entire truth, but it did not mean that John Watson cared any less), and she promised to talk to Mycroft – or at least to one of his young ladies – about his staying in 221B.

With that settled, John headed back to his new flat. He was reluctant to leave Baker Street now that (he hoped) he'd figured everything out, but he was not equipped for even an overnight stay, and most definitely not for the kind of stay he had in mind. The riding crop and the microscope were foremost on his list, since the apple seemed to have been taken as some form of toll, and, since practical considerations could not be completely disregarded, he needed his toothbrush at the very least. He packed all these things and a few more essentials into the overnight bag he usually used for conferences, carefully wrapping the microscope in a towel, and stowing the riding crop alongside it.

The builders were still at Baker Street when John returned there after work the next day. They were in serious discussion with Mrs. Hudson regarding what was to be done in the basement flat, so John went up by himself, having indicated his presence and intentions with a series of hand gestures and facial expressions (she acknowledged this with a little wave and a nod over the shoulder of the man who seemed to be in charge). He discovered that the windows had been fixed, and, wandering into the kitchen to see if the taps were still in good working order, he saw that Mrs. Hudson had made the bed in Sherlock's room.

"I hope you don't mind," she said later when she brought up a pot of tea. "I couldn't manage the second flight of stairs today, not with my hip. Oh dear." A worried look crept into her eyes when she saw his face. "Oh, John, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's fine," he said quickly. "Perfectly fine." And he smiled to show that he meant it. "You shouldn't have bothered, really. Thank you."

It was not perfectly fine, though. It was still very much Sherlock's room, from the framed things on the walls to that specific smell that other people's rooms always seemed to have (specific, of course, to the person in question – in Sherlock's case this meant a clean, chemical whiff that was not unpleasant, quite the opposite in fact), and John couldn't help feeling like he'd come in uninvited. He thought briefly of sleeping in his own old room instead, and he went so far as to go upstairs to check on it, but it was in need of such a dusting as he had no strength for. So he struggled to fall asleep on Sherlock's comfortable bed, in between sheets better that any he'd ever owned that smelled of Sherlock's closet, on feather pillows (because of course Sherlock would have feather pillows, the bastard), and in the end he couldn't have told you how he managed it.

He left his bag open by the side of the bed, being deeply uncomfortable with the thought of putting his things away in Sherlock's room. The only things he removed from it were the microscope, which he freed from the towel, and the riding crop, which he placed on the bedside table after ascertaining that it had not suffered during transport.

The Baker Street in his dream that night looked like the colors had leached out of it, and that made the golden riding crop he was carrying all the more vibrant. It also made the figure of Irene Adler strikingly vivid, standing as she was before the door to 221B. She was the only other bright thing in that place.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," she said, and her red, red lips curved in a smile.

"Hello," said John cautiously. And because, in dreams, you can be blunt about these things he asked, "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

She shrugged. "Only for a given value of dead. And you'll be surprised how flexible the terms can be."

"I suppose you knew someone of help there." Like the record keeper, maybe, or the ferryman, or – and John would not put this past her – the god of the Underworld himself.

"I knew what he liked." Her smile was knowing this time and perhaps the tiniest bit softer, and John did not want to ask her to elaborate. She held out one hand, palm up and red nails gleaming. "Now, I think you have something for me."

"Yes." John hesitated a little, then proffered the riding crop. "You can have this," he said, "if I can go up and see Sherlock. That's the bargain, isn't it?"

"Something like that, yes." She closed her fingers around it, and looked straight into John's eyes. "I suppose you're the one who should have had him, then." The slight raising of her eyebrows gave her words an edge of inquiry, and there was something about the way she said 'had' that made it clear she was being entirely indelicate. John blushed to the tips of his ears.

"I don't know about that," he said. "But I care enough to try and get him back."

"Hm." Irene regarded him closely, tapping the little leather fold of the riding crop against her palm. (Did she sound disappointed? Why?) "All right, go on in then, if you're sure about that."

This time, Sherlock was in his room on the first floor. He was lying on the bed, much as he had after their first encounter with the Woman, right down to the cut on his cheek John had given him in their tussle and the welts from the riding crop. He was in his trousers and his charcoal shirt, because at that point John had been uneasy about undressing him any more than was strictly necessary, and he was still wearing his socks because getting his shoes off had been enough of a bloody struggle. (The left one had caught John on the chin, and so Sherlock had, in small way, gotten his own back, even if he hadn't known it.)

This time, at least, he was breathing, though John could take little enough comfort in that.

He called to Sherlock, and shook him, and shouted, but the man remained as still and as silent as someone who had pricked their finger on the spindle of an enchanted spinning wheel. In the end, all John could do was curl up next to him, with his hand on Sherlock's chest where he could feel the slow, steady thu-thump of his heart, and he stayed like that until daylight came in the morning and drove him out of the dream.

Going to work was the last thing John wanted to do after that, but the surgery was understaffed, and there was no real reason for him not to show up. You couldn't just call your place of work to say, "Look, I feel like shit today: I had a bad dream about my dead flatmate, and I won't be fit for human company for quite a long while, could I have the day off please?" and expect it to go swimmingly from there. And so John Watson pushed through a Saturday filled with all the things that can beset a GP and then some, doing his poor best to stay good-natured throughout.

It finally became too much for him when the diaphragm broke off of his stethoscope. He swore when the thing came off in his hands, swore again when it came to him that he'd need to have it repaired, and swore a third time when he realized that he'd been using all that foul language in front of a girl with a bad case of the flu and her mother, who was looking increasingly scandalized.

The upshot of it all was that he had to drop by his new flat before heading on to Baker Street so that he could fetch his second-best stethoscope, seeing as part of the reason he'd chosen that flat had been its convenience for work. It was much more sensible to get what he needed now rather than making a separate trip on another day.

As he searched his closet, trying to do the job systematically and failing (up till then then, he hadn't realized just how little he'd unpacked from the time he'd moved in), the skull caught his eye and, if empty sockets could be said to do so, held it. It looked rather lonely on its shelf – God knew John's toiletries weren't much in the way of company, even if some of them were in a nominally decorative wooden box – and if John hadn't known better, he'd have said that it fixed him with a pleading look, not unlike what Sherlock could manage when he was trying particularly hard to be charming.

John couldn't bring himself to abandon it after that. Upon finding his stethoscope (it was in a small cardboard box inside a larger cardboard box underneath a smaller, slightly heavier one at the back of the closet), he picked up the skull to find out for himself just how much attention it could attract on the commute to Baker Street.

That night in the upstairs bedroom of 221B, John Watson was more comfortable than he'd been for quite some time – for several months, in fact, or perhaps even longer. He hadn't known how much he'd missed his room at the top of the stairs until he was there again, never mind that he'd had to do some heroic dusting as a start to getting himself sorted, or that he'd put the skull on the chest of drawers (Mrs. Hudson had passively expressed her displeasure at finding it on the mantelpiece again and John had been compelled to move it). But even so, as so often happens when you actually want to fall asleep, John found it difficult to keep his eyes shut, or indeed to keep his head on the pillow.

If he was right, he only had one more shot at this, and going by what had transpired so far, it would happen tonight (or in the wee hours of the morning), and if the prospect of that was not unnerving, John didn't know what was. It got worse as he continued to stay awake because his mind raced, resisting all of his efforts to keep it blank. What if he failed? Or, worse, what if he managed to do whatever it was that needed to be done this time only to find that it had all been for naught, that it been nothing more than a mad series of dreams all along? Doubt, John thought, was an ugly thing, and he rolled on his side to reassure himself of the presence of the golden microscope on his bedside table.

Baker Street again, and now the place was rich and warm, as though an artist had decided to paint the scene in oils during an exceptionally glorious autumn sunset. John walked slowly, holding the microscope the way he'd been taught – one hand under the base and the other one on the neck – and he was considerably surprised to see who was waiting for him this time.

"Molly," he said stopping some distance away from her. "Molly Hooper."

"John. Hi." She smiled at him, shy and sweet, and unless John was much mistaken, there was the tiniest hint of guilt in her expression. "It's good to see you. I'm sorry you had to go through all that."

He blinked. "It wasn't your fault."

"No, really, I am. Sorry, I mean." She plucked nervously at the sleeve of her coat as she faced him. "I did what I was asked, I helped."

John waited, but there seemed to be no further explanation forthcoming. "I'm sure you did," he said uncertainly. "But I'm here now, aren't I?"

"At last, and just in time too. Oh, John." Molly spread her hands in a gesture that was open, inviting, beseeching. "You're the one who should have had him, you know."

John's fingers tightened on the microscope. Last chance, he thought. And if he was going to be absolutely, brutally honest with himself, wasn't that, on some level (a rather large level, with high ceilings that had to be supported by vaulting, and which actually took up most of the building structure), why he was doing this? "I'd rather have asked him first," he said at length. "That's not a one-sided decision, and you know how he is. He could easily disagree." He sighed because he needed time, if only such time as could be bought with a long exhalation of breath, because it wasn't easy for him to say, because once you said something like that, it colored your entire world and there was no going back. "But yes. If you mean what I think you do, then yes, and I'd be his too, if he'd have me."

"I thought so." Molly walked up to him, stopped when they were almost standing toe to toe. "If it were up to me, I'd let you go in for nothing, but there are rules and there are rules." And she put her small hands over his on the microscope.

John nodded. He understood that bit. "So I'll give this to you, then."

"Yes?" she prompted him.

"If I may go to the one who is here and be with him tonight."

"You may do that," declared Molly gladly, taking the golden microscope from him with that slight faltering that happens when you hand over something that needs a precise sort of grip, and she stepped aside to let him pass.

Up in the flat, there was no one in the living room or in the first floor bedroom, but John thought he saw the pattern here and did not let the emptiness worry him unduly. Instead, he turned his feet to the second flight of stairs and went on up, slowly, with measured steps, and he took the slightest of pauses before pushing open the door to his bedroom.

"John." And there was Sherlock, wrapped in his sheet as he had been on so many mornings (the one when they'd been whisked off to Buckingham Palace stood out in John's mind). He was sitting on the edge of the bed as he had never done in real life, with his legs curled so that his feet were on the mattress and off of the floor, and while his hair was distinctly sleep-tousled, his eyes were wide open and alert. John's breath caught in his throat. He had almost forgotten the impossible color of them.

"You're awake." As first words went, they weren't brilliant, but they would have to do. The alternative was to say too much, too fast, and John was too full of overwhelming joy to manage that.

"I knew you were coming."

"How?"

Sherlock tilted his head in the direction of the chest of drawers. "The skull told me."

"You have no idea-"

"I probably do." The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards in a familiar, self-satisfied smirk.

"Smart arse," John laughed, and Sherlock's answering chortle was every bit as rich as he remembered. He went to sit next to him, and Sherlock obligingly moved his feet to make room on the bed. "It really is you, isn't it?"

"Obviously," huffed Sherlock. "What else would I be?"

"I don't know. A ghost, maybe. A revenant. Or, God forbid, a figment of my imagination."

"Is that what you think I am?" Sherlock's tone was indignant, and he pulled the sheet closer about him as if to shield himself from the affront.

"It's what I hope you're not." John looked at his flatmate, taking in everything from the outline of his toes beneath the sheet to the red tones the light was picking up in his hair, wondering if he dared demand proof and, with some trepidation, what would happen if he did.

Naturally Sherlock saw it, and he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You choose an inconvenient time to stop taking me at my word." There was a slight movement beneath the sheet, and he stretched out an arm, offering John his wrist. "Here."

John took Sherlock's hand, laid two fingers across his wrist, and felt the pulse there, unmistakable and, as far as he was concerned, damn well miraculous. He stayed like that for a long while, silently counting out each surge of warm blood that Sherlock's heart was pushing through his arteries, and he would have stayed like that for longer still if Sherlock hadn't twisted his arm in his grasp so that he could hold John's wrist. He brought John's fingers to the side of his neck, held them there against his carotid artery (left), and then, using his thumb to uncurl the rest of John's fingers, he brought his hand to his chest, just where the sheet fell open.

John felt long fingers easily circling his wrist, felt warm skin and a sparse dusting of hair under his spread hand, felt Sherlock's chest rise and fall with each breath, felt his heart beating beneath his skin, behind his ribs, between his lungs, and it was the most marvelous thing in the world.

"Satisfied?" asked Sherlock, and his expression was utterly open and unguarded. It stripped years from him, made him look painfully vulnerable, and John swallowed, somewhat guilty of his part in causing it.

He opened his mouth to say 'yes', but stopped himself before the word left his lips. It would have been a lie, and that would not have done, not here, not now, not after what he'd said before Molly let him in, and most definitely not with Sherlock looking like that.

"No," said John, and before he could think better of it, he moved forward and kissed Sherlock Holmes.

He didn't mean for it to be more than a declaration of sorts, an I-think-I-might-be-in-love-with-you-and-this-may-be-my-last-chance-to-let-you-know-sorry-for-the-trouble, and he was fully prepared to apologize for it afterwards if – as he thought was likely – it turned out that he'd misread things and taken appalling liberties, but to his everlasting amazement, Sherlock made a soft, surprised sound against his lips and leaned in so that he could move his mouth against John's. His grip on John's wrist tightened, keeping his hand on his chest, and John could feel his heart speed up as he parted his lips, deepening the kiss and turning it into one that almost inevitably led to other things. And if John had any doubt as to what those other things were, they were firmly and irrevocably banished when Sherlock brought his other hand to John's back and pulled him close, letting the sheet fall to pool about his waist.

John had had dreams of this sort before, and, yes, some had involved Sherlock, but this was vastly, brilliantly different. It was all in the details. There were things that were vague (for instance, he wasn't sure what happened to his shoes, and he definitely didn't know exactly how they managed to get horizontal), but John knew his imagination could never have supplied the exact texture of Sherlock's lips and the warm wetness of his mouth; the tangles in his wild curls; the frantic kicking of his long legs as he struggled to get free of the sheet; the constellations of small, dark moles on his skin; the precise shape and taste of his earlobe between John's teeth; his breath on the scar on John's left shoulder; his nose crushed against John's chest as he planted kiss after kiss there; the movement of his own chest and his stomach with every soft, wordless sigh and gasp that escaped his lips; the head of his cock, slick and hot, against John's navel; the slight unevenness of his bollocks (nothing alarming, it only proved he was human); and the intense, electric slip-slide of his erection against John's as they moved together on the bed. If it was nothing more than a dream, then it was a good one, and if it was all he would get, even after everything, then John Watson would take from it what he could, give what he could.

He threw himself into it with a fierce, wild joy, exulting in Sherlock and Sherlock's body and the sweet, desperate eagerness which seemed to indicate that he wanted this just as much John did, if not (was it possible?) more. And John had wanted – oh, he had wanted this, wanted his fantastic-amazing-brilliant flatmate for so long, only he hadn't known, and then he hadn't known how to admit it, not fully, not until tonight, and he would have told Sherlock so, told him at length and in detail, but it was easier – better – to go on kissing him, curling into his touch because Sherlock was holding them both, his palm sticky-slick with pre-ejaculate, doing gloriously clever things with his fingers. John knew the theory of the act, but he hadn't known, had never thought that it could feel like this, intense and intimate and incandescent, but it was Sherlock, and that made all the difference, it was Sherlock—

John came quite suddenly, his face pressed into the long column of Sherlock's neck, and through the bright, tidal roaring of it, with startling clarity, he heard Sherlock gasp his name, felt his chin move as his lips shaped the word. It came to John that they had, up to that point, been moving in reverent near-silence, but that thought was lost when Sherlock stiffened against him, shuddered, and hot streaks striped his belly and John's and the narrow space on the bed between them.

There was nothing that needed to be said for a long time after that. They lay facing each other, sharing a pillow, Sherlock's bent knees touching John's thighs, and John's hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder, simply breathing together, and for John, at least, there was more than enough wonder in that. Still…

"Why did you do it?" The words slipped out unexpectedly, but John did not think he wanted to catch them back, and he did not think he needed to clarify what he was asking.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, and his shoulder went tense under John's touch. "I had to, John. I would have lost you otherwise."

"I lost you." John didn't mean to admonish or to reproach, he meant to say it like Sherlock could say things like that, all fact and nothing more, but it was hard to keep all of the hurt out of his voice.

"Not quite." Sherlock brushed his fingers against John's cheek to demonstrate the truth of this. "But I'm sorry about that. I didn't think you'd…care…quite so much. I'm glad to have been wrong." And when he smiled, his eyes were warm and rich, for all that they were the color of the sea, and John could have drowned in them just as easily.

He was still trying to reach for an answer to that – an answer that meant something, not sleepy, honey-colored, hormone-hazy nonsense – when, somewhere not all that distant, a rooster began to crow. Sherlock frowned, lifted his head off of the pillow (How the hell was there a rooster crowing in Baker Street? thought John when it sounded a second time), and he turned back to John looking sad, resigned, regretful. It couldn't have been a clearer 'You have to go now' if he'd actually said the words.

"It can't be morning." John would have given anything, anything to stay a while longer – golden wings and combs of beaten silver came to mind, heartfelt songs plucked out on a lyre, firstborn children, half the years of his life. He moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to his elbow, from his elbow to his wrist, threaded their fingers together, squeezed his hand as though he never meant to let go. "Come with me," he said, urgently. "That's the point of this, isn't it?"

"I can't." Sherlock tugged at his hand, held it over his heart, and he kissed John lightly, once on each eyelid. "It's not over yet."

Notes:

Yes, still working on my post-TRF fic - one of the very few things, apparently, that did not happen before S3. *guilty look*

This chapter is based on the events towards the end of East of the Sun and West of the Moon, and I also drew inspiration from'The Grey Cock' (here's Salsa Celtica's version of it, 'Grey Gallito'), a ballad also known as 'The Lover's Ghost'. Thank you so much to ChapBook for bringing the lyrics up in the comments on an earlier chapter, and for pointing me in the direction of that gorgeous cover! The song gave me chills (more than ever now, given Sherlock's full name), and I loved it, and I had to find a way to fit it in.

And this fic is now for Batik, for her contribution to Fics for the Philippines. She asked for Johnlock with a happy ending - yes, that's where this is headed :) - and said that it could be something I was already working on (and this, as it happens, is what I was working on directly before the weather event that precipitated my little campaign in the first place), and I hope this satisfies. So much gratitude for your help!

(On a more trivial note, this is the first plotty fic that I've written a porny scene for - it's usually all plot or all porn for me, with no in-betweens, and I spent a rather long time debating whether or not it could get by with just the 'There was great joy and gladness between them' of the original fairy tale, but it didn't feel quite right? Please, please let me know if there's anything that needs tweaking!)