They strolled through Russell Square Gardens in the high noon, as the sun reached its tipping point in the sky. They walked side by side, fingers linked, until they came to rest upon a bench, their hands releasing each other's as they settled down. The light breeze snapped at Sherlock's hair, causing the curls to blow gently across his forehead as he gazed at John, who stared off into the distance, not looking at his companion.
Sherlock moved his hand to rest on top of John's, but still he did not turn. "Where are we going with this, Sherlock?" John asked pensively as he watched a young couple push a pram along the path, smiling and laughing as they walked.
"Into forever," Sherlock replied solemnly. "If that's alright with you."
"It's more than alright, Sherlock," John sighed.
"Even if it means you'll be hunted by Moran for the rest of your life?"
"Even if," said John, who finally looked round with his brown eyes soft. "I wouldn't leave you for anything on Earth. You're worth so much more than safety, than freedom."
"Are you my boyfriend, John?"
"I suppose so," John said, then he smiled as his head dropped. "It sounds weird though, coming from you. I'll get used to it."
"I'm glad you're happy, John."
"I'm glad you're here, Sherlock."
His palm turned to face the sky, and the men curled their fingers around each other's once more, holding on gently, not rushing, not forcing. Just holding. They sat like that, watching the world turning as the day's light slowly faded and expired.
As they wandered back to Baker Street, they both wore expressions of absolute contentment, with their ambling gait exquisitely synchronised.
They lay in bed, their arms wrapped comfortingly around one another, and their eyelids dropped, each man having the blissful knowledge that they belonged nowhere but then and there, and that they would never, ever willingly part again.
[One month later.]
John came home from work in the late hours, but the sky was still light, as summer was fast approaching. As he opened the door into the flat, he was greeted by an empty room, which was strange, because Sherlock would usually be there to welcome him back with one of his kisses or a dear embrace. "Sherlock?" John yelled. "You there?"
A faint reply came from the basement. "I'm down here, John!"
John practically jumped down the stairs, eager to see his partner again after the harsh work of the day. He was about to turn into 221C when a stifled scream ripped through the air. Nina. And then Sherlock's voice, low and threatening, but the words were imperceptible.
John burst through Nina's door to see Sherlock in his long coat and blue scarf pressing the twenty-six year-old against the wall, his forearm across her neck and his gun pressing into her stomach. "What's going on?" John shouted. "Sherlock, let her go!"
"She's a spy, John," Sherlock said.
"What?" John looked at her teary face in bewilderment. "No, she's not!"
Sherlock pressed harder against her windpipe as she tried to let out another scream. "She's had cameras all over the flat for the past three years, John. Very well hidden." He didn't need to see John's face to know that it had fallen in fear. "And yes, that means in our bedroom, too."
John was lost, and he started pacing, his head gripped in his hands. "This can't be happening," he said.
Nina's cracked lips were bloody. "John, please," she blubbered. "Get him off me, please. I don't know what's going on –"
"Save your lies for someone who's gullible enough to believe them," Sherlock hissed malevolently. "What have you told him?"
"Please," she begged. "It's not me. I didn't… I wouldn't –"
"WHAT HAVE YOU TOLD HIM?" Sherlock bellowed in her face, pushing the gun hard into her stomach. She groaned in pain.
"Stop it, Sherlock!" John said. "You're hurting her!"
"She has been feeding information to Sebastian Moran since she moved in here," Sherlock growled. "She was helping to get you killed, John. And if anyone hurts you, then I will hurt them back." He enunciated every word with unrivalled malice, glaring into her panicked eyes with deadly fury.
Nina's sniffles became great heaving sobs as Sherlock's arm relaxed upon her neck. "But I suppose she can't tell me anything dead." His lip was curled in revulsion as he raised his gun to her temple, pressing his knee against her legs to keep her immobilised.
"Tell me," he snarled. "Who you are."
"No," she snarled right back as she writhed uselessly against his hold.
John was dazed. "Nina? You… I trusted you."
"Well maybe you should be more careful about you who choose to be your friends, John," Sherlock said.
"I chose you. That wasn't a bad choice," John countered defensively.
"And how many times have you almost died? How many dangerous situations have you been in? How many of the world's most sadistic men have wanted you dead?" said Sherlock. "You should definitely be more careful." He turned his attention back to the woman in his unyielding grasp. "Now tell me who you are."
She wriggled helplessly. "I said… No," she rasped.
"John," Sherlock said without taking his eyes off her. "Get the wireless router and take it to Lestrade. The cameras were on a direct link through the Wi-Fi to her contacts. Get them to trace it. I don't really need her at all." He clicked the gun off the safety. "Any last words, Nina?"
She glowered defiantly back at him, despite the gun at her head. "Yeah," she sneered. "That's not my name."
"Then what is?"
Her smirk became a fanged grin. "Christa Moran."