Hi guys,
Here is the next chapter! There are fluff and feels and Mycroft!
Hope you enjoy it. Also, tomorrow is the day when this story Trilogy series becomes a year old. So... Happy Birthday to my darling baby boys!
Hugs and Myc plushies to- Raven, Nauss, TakedaEmo120 and those who followed/favourited this story! Love you guys.
Also, I have published a Johnlock oneshot, 'Never Let Me Go'. Give it a chance if you have time.
Now, enjoy the read!
Ebb and Flow
"I still feel your breath on my skin
I hear your voice deep within
The sound of my lover, a feeling so strong
It's to you I'll always belong..."
- 'I Will Always Return' by Bryan Adams
John's head hit the wall with a thud.
"Ow! Sherlock, what the-"
Nimble fingers were already wrenching his clothes off, but those lips remained sealed tight.
Sherlock wasn't talking.
For the detective, not talking wasn't rare, but when he refused to even utter a word after the medic discovered that there was, in fact, a slightly grazed would inches above John's right hipbone, it was alarming. John's body was war toughened; it was just a scratch. But Sherlock stopped talking right after that. So far his only outburst was a snarl aimed at a doctor who had asked him to leave the room while giving John a full body check-up; other than that he demeanour was blank throughout the journey back to Baker Street. And now that same man was tearing John's shirt apart with a manic speed.
"Sher-Sherlock, I'm okay, I'm alright- ev-ow!"
Sherlock froze immediately, "Where? Where are you hurting? Where else are you hit? Are you- are there-"
"Sherlock, love-"
"Where's it, John?"
To his horror, Sherlock started to shake. A slight tremor grew to be a full body shivering. After a beat, John's soldier mode kicked in.
"Sherlock," he cupped his boyfriend's pale, sunken face, "I just hit my head on the wall. Just now. That's all. I'm not hit anywhere else, honest. You-" he tightened his grip when Sherlock wanted to break free, "you saw that yourself, right? When that doctor checked me, you saw that, right, love?"
"No, not right, not right, no no no no no."
Sherlock's lithe frame was trembling, struggling, panting. John's own panic level increased.
"Sherlock-"
"NO! No, not right. Nothing is right, nothing. You- you were shot, John, you were- I- you could have died; I could have-" he let go his grip on John's hands and clutched his own hair instead, "I could have lost you. One of those bullets could have penetrated you and- and I would have lost you all over again. And I just stood there, like a brainless buffoon. I knew there'd be violence and yet- and yet- John, John..."
Sherlock never dwells on could haves. This means...
John did the only thing he knew that could stop Sherlock going into shock. He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's to stop them from tugging painfully at those curls, pulled the younger man flush against him and crashed their mouth together. He felt Sherlock's lips moving as the younger man still kept talking.
Okay, yeah, maybe that wasn't a great way to handle someone in shock, considering John's medical background, but he just survived a shoot out, came this close of losing Sherlock...so, cut him some slack, yeah?
Sherlock's lips stopped moving finally after a few seconds and his fingers loosened their grip. John opened his eyes without breaking the kiss and was greeted by a very up close shot of a cross-eyed Sherlock as he was trying to look at John. John pulled away and licked his lips; Sherlock's wide eyes followed every movement.
"Want me to stop?"John asked breathlessly. Sherlock pounced on him, smashing their lips once again.
The kiss was brutal, hungry, desperate. Sherlock bit John's lower lip hard, making him wince but he didn't pull away, realizing that Sherlock needed some sort of control to convince himself that he didn't fuck up everything.
Teeth clanked together, tongues collided inside warm, wet mouths, eliciting moans from both of them. John let go of Sherlock's shirt and gripped his narrow, bony hips. Bodies flushed, their erection brushed together. Sherlock hissed into John's mouth who thrust his hips forward in response.
"John"
The breathy whisper forced John to open his eyes once again. Were they closed? He was too lost in the sensation to notice. However, the sight made him groan in pleasure. Sherlock looked debauched; he looked aroused, delectable.
The hair a wild mess, eyes glazed, lips red, spit slicked and swollen. His Adam's apple bobbled as he swallowed.
"John."
"I love you."
"John"
"I love you so fucking much."
"John, I-"
"Tell me, Sherlock?"
"You're here. I didn't lose you. You are here, John."
"Yes, yes, we are here. We are safe, and now you are going to stop talking and kiss me some more."
But he didn't wait for the other man as he turned them around so that now Sherlock was the one with his back to the wall. John captured those lips with his own, without any delay, and suckled on them hungrily; all the while rubbing their raging hard ons together. When he began to get down on his knees, leaving sloppy kisses in his wake, Sherlock grabbed his shoulder clumsily and shook his head.
"No.."
"Wha'?" John's arousal making it hard for him to speak.
"No."
It took a few seconds but the fog began to clear up finally and John's flushed face began to lose its colour quickly.
"You mean- oh! Oh God!...I'm- I'm sorry. I thought you- I assumed that you...fuck! I'm so sor-"
"NO!" Sherlock cut in immediately, "no, I want it, very much so. It is not that."
If John didn't know any better he would have thought that Sherlock was blushing. But John was too mortified thinking that he, again, imposed himself on Sherlock without the other man's consent and that wonderful red tinge on his pale cheeks was just arousal flush and most certainly anger, not a blush. He had fucked up once again. John swallowed.
"What is it, then?"
Sherlock gave him a hesitant look, "I want to do it this time."
John's breath hitched as the meaning of Sherlock's words sank in. Those lips wrapped around his cock, cheeks hollowing in suction... John closed his eyes briefly, "Y-you mean you want to suck me off?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, all embarrassment gone, "Yes, John, I want to 'suck you off', to give you a blowjob which also called the act of fellating where you get naked, or at least, pull your penis-"
"Okay, okay, alright, I get it," John interjected promptly, because seriously! "Have you ever..."
"No," Sherlock looked thoroughly annoyed by now.
"Sherlock, you don't have to do it. It's not- It's not about taking turns, you know," John caressed Sherlock's left cheek. As happy as his cock felt at the prospect of having Sherlock's mouth around it, John couldn't let him do it out of obligation. Not ever."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "You doubt me. You doubt my ability to apply theoretical knowledge to a practical situation. You don't trust me with your body anymore."
"W-what?" What?! What was he going on about?
"Of course, you do. And it is only logical for you to do it. After how spectacularly I failed today. I knew it'd be dangerous and yet I took you with me and, and now there is another bullet would in your body. I knew, I should have seen it but I didn't care, I just went on..."
Shit. Shit. Shit.
John yanked at Sherlock's half opened shirt collar, "Shut up, you brat! You talk too much," and kissed shut his mouth once more. Sherlock didn't continue to speak this time. John pulled back when he was sure the younger man wouldn't start talking immediately, and looked into the silvery eyes in front of him.
"You want to know how much I trust you with my body?" When Sherlock didn't even blink John leaned forward and whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Take me, Sherlock," and bit his earlobe to emphasize.
He leaned back to see how his lover had taken the request.
A moment of blankness, then Sherlock began to blink furiously, opening then closing his mouth. John's heart swelled with affection.
"So, what do you think, lover?" He teased, 'Three Continents Watson' voice is on.
"I think we need a horizontal surface to follow through that, um, request."
John grinned, "Bedroom?"
"Bedroom."
~0~0~0~
Sherlock knew every freckle, every line, every curve of John's body better than he knew about the periodic table. Since they had begun to sleep on the same bed, and more often than not, naked, he catalogued John with utmost dedication. Yet, every time he saw John naked, he would find him more mysterious than before, like there were still lots of things he had missed to store away in his John-wing.
Such as this almost invisible little brown freckle, just over John's heart. This wasn't here the last time he explored this enigmatic body. Sherlock thumbed the spot then ran his tongue over it, leaving the skin glistening. Carding the fingers through his curls John tugged him forward; John's other hand slid up and down his back. He averted his eyes from the freckle and looked up at John, chin resting against the broad chest.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"But you don't bottom."
"I'm not gonna ask how the hell did you know that but you're right. I don't bottom, usually."
"Then what has prompted this sudden change?"
John squirmed under him. Sherlock knew his boyfriend was getting impatient; instead of having frenzied sex he was being interrogated. Poor John. Sherlock bit down the skin closest to his mouth.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"You didn't answer me."
"Well," John flicked Sherlock's nose, "I'm crazy for you. Top, bottom, middle, I'm all in for you, Lock."
Sherlock didn't smile back, though. All too aware of how close he came today losing everything. All too aware of what John was trying to do.
"Do not fool yourself thinking that I am not aware of what you are trying to do."
John's fingers playing over Sherlock's nape stilled and he said, "Oh? And what is it?" But not really seeking the answer as he went on without pausing, "You know what, I don't want to know. This is not the kind of talk I fancied having when you pushed me into this bed. Come on, Sherlock, I thought you're gonna pound me into the mattress."
The slight desperation in his lover's voice didn't escape Sherlock's trained ears. He pushed himself up, enough to reach John's mouth.
"You don't have to make me feel in control. Power doesn't soothe me, John, truth does...you do. And though losing control over my mental as well as physical faculties unsettle me thoroughly, I can live with it if I know you are safe and with me. It is you, John, who has taught me that it is quite acceptable to be scared at times. Therefore, my brave soldier, it is all right to be scared. You don't have to be strong just because you think I need you to be. It's all right; we can be scared together...as long as Mycroft doesn't get notified."
John's eyes stung and he blinked to clear his blurring vision. At the mention of Mycroft he choked out a laugh.
"Who are you and what have you done to my Sherlock?"
"An idiot came and turned him into a human," he nipped at John's nose, slid down lower and took John in his mouth. If his fear, insecurities, vulnerability led him to John then Sherlock would embrace them, not without trying to find another way, of course, but he agreed to let go of his control as long as John was there to keep him right.
~0~0~0~
John woke up fuzzy and warm, feeling content and complete. He opened one sleep mushed eye. A nice, warm weight against his chest. He looked down and saw a sheet covered lump; Sherlock was underneath, tracing a finger across John's stomach.
John removed the cover and ruffled the curls fondly, "Hey." Sherlock didn't respond.
John remembered last night. Remembered a completely different Sherlock. A Sherlock who took control by letting himself go. A Sherlock who convinced John that it was okay to show weakness, to be demanding, to want to lean on. A Sherlock who took care of John made him feel wanted.
He tugged at those curls and scratched the scalp lightly, "Hello, sunshine," and bit his lip in amusement for Sherlock was surely going to kick him any minute now.
The kick never came nor was there any other response. Alarm bells went crazy within John's head. He tried to bend without dislodging his lover to look at him. Sherlock kept on drawing patterns on John's skin.
"Sherlock?" John asked carefully.
There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke.
"I never went to see her."
The abruptness of that statement informed John that Sherlock was emotional, meaning, he had to be very careful.
"Who, love?"
"Mummy."
His heart stopped for a moment then gave a loud thud. Sherlock never, NEVER talked about his mother.
"Do you want to go?" John didn't know what he should not say that could put Sherlock off kilter; he just hoped that this question was safe enough.
"No."
Another pause; John weighed his next question. "Okay...um...but why so?"
Sherlock didn't look at John, once; nor had he stopped his finger.
"She is not there. She is dead."
There were more to come and John waited.
"She left me."
John wanted to gather him up and held him tightly. His chest ached with longing. But he didn't do anything. It was not a hug, or a kiss that Sherlock needed now. He'd have to blend his love with clinical eagerness.
"Did she do it willingly?"
The stilling of that roaming finger was the only sign that the question had made an impact. John didn't coax for more. A tiniest slip and Sherlock's guards would be shut tight.
"Say, she had other options, do you, um, do you think she still would have left you?" He tried really hard to sound genuinely curious rather than pitying or patronizing.
Sherlock didn't answer but stopped all his movements.
"Love?"
"Not enough data to conclude."
"Okay, alright, okay. But, uh, if you were to draw any conclusion based on the data you have now, what would that be?"
"...She would not have left. But that is entirely hypothetical.
"Yeah, yeah, totally hypothetical, no relevance at all, entirely-"
Sherlock sprang up and scowled which looked more like a pout. John wanted to smother him with kisses. He reached out and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, Sherlock shook his head. He loved this man so much, so very much that it hurt.
"Why are you condemning her for something she didn't do?"
"If it hasn't crossed your mind yet, John, she is dead. What I do or do not think about her does not affect her in any way."
He gave Sherlock a pointed look which earned him a glare.
"If it is your prelude to some horribly sentimental lecture, keep it to yourself. Spare me the torture." He flops down over John's chest. John 'oof'd'.
"I do not blame her for anything. She is dead, John."
John just hummed non-committally and squeezed that bony shoulder of Sherlock, "Do you see her in your Mind-Palace? Like the way you used to see me or...Redbeard?"
Broaching this subject was like walking on the quicksand, John was well aware of that, but he had to do it anyway. Sherlock was seeking reassurance in his own twisted, misguided way and John would give him just that.
"She is always either in the kitchen or in her library whenever I visit her. She coddles me like I am still six. Disgusting."
Sherlock burrowed his nose into the golden skin of John's torso. It tickled and John tugged the curls playfully, smiling.
"So..."
"No."
"Don't you want to meet her?"
"I visit her often enough."
"But I want to meet her too."
"No need. She knows all about your idiocy already."
Something warm spread through John's chest.
"She does?"
"Obviously."
John took a moment to let that sink in. Sherlock talked about him to his mother whose death he never accepted. Knowing this broke John's heart. He tilted his head at an odd angle and kissed the top of this adorable genius man child who was currently biting and kitten-licking John's skin.
Sherlock caught the hand in his nape and brought it around and pressed his nose in it.
People didn't have any clue how cuddly Sherlock really was. Whereas a mere brush of skin from others could put him in a snit, he practically glued himself to John when they were at home. Sometimes, John had to literally carry him when he refused to walk or even stand in between a snogging session. And John loved every minute of it.
"I still want to meet her," and when Sherlock scowled at him he added, "Not all of us has the luxury of having a Mind Palace, love. Will you be willing to take me to her?"
Sherlock didn't answer; he half crawled, half wriggled upwards and nuzzled into John's neck. John wasn't used to this soft, warm, open version of his boyfriend and it made him ecstatic to know that Sherlock felt safe enough with him to expose this side of him.
"No, I'm not willing to-" he kissed John, "take you-" another kiss, "to her."
"But you said she already knew about me."
"Sheez 'zy." Sherlock mumbled into the neck.
"What?" John laughed at Sherlock's antics.
"She. Is. Nosy. Now, shut up and don't move."
John chuckled despite the tightness in his chest. Under all this pomp, the 'sociopathic' act, there was a boy who was still clinging to his mother's memories, unable to let go. He didn't want to snatch away Sherlock's illusion of his mother's presence. But Sherlock clearly wanted to visit her grave and needed John to give him courage; it was Sherlock's offhanded way of asking for help, and John would do anything to support him.
"Okay," John heaved a mock sign, "then I'll just have to ask Mycroft-" he couldn't even complete the sentence before Sherlock sat up with a spring's reflex.
"No! You will not ask my brother for anything. Anything," he bellowed, "I'll be everything you need. You are mine, John, only mine. I will not let anyone take you away from me. I will not."
John pressed his hand against Sherlock's chest in an attempt to soothe his sudden agitation. Sherlock stopped abruptly and looked at the hand and then back at John.
This ingrained fear of losing loved ones, this all consuming abandonment issue- John could see these were engulfing Sherlock, making him obsessed, almost delusional, at an alarming speed, and it scared him no end. This was a deep rooted fear. One of the many skeletons that Sherlock had hidden in the closet of his Mind Palace. But he also knew it wasn't time to address the problem. This was a topic he'd have to broach with the precision of a surgeon. And the time hadn't come yet.
"I am yours, Sherlock. Only yours. Don't you trust me?"
Still pinning John with those piercing eyes, Sherlock gritted out, "I don't trust Mycroft."
"Why?"
And just like that, Sherlock's face shuttered completely.
"I do not wish to have a debate about my action and reaction towards my brother with you. You have tried, innumerable times, to convince me of my brother's 'justified' and 'good willed' meddling, but forgive me if I do not agree with your ill-formed explanations."
So, I guess, the mystery behind the brotherly 'love' of these two prats won't be revealed today also. John signed and tried to sit up and winced when the sheet grazed over the bandage a little harshly.
Sherlock's expression became totally blank, "Perhaps, you are better off without me, John."
John stopped his movements for a second to say, "Really?" Then readjusted himself to a more comfortable position and continued, "'Cause, compared to dying in a fucking desert with holes in my body and memories of you...or, contemplating suicide to escape a life without you, I'll happily accept a life where I survive a bullet shower with a mere flesh wound and wake up in the morning next to you."
Sherlock's lower lip jutted out, eyes roamed from John's injured shoulder to his chest to the bandaged area, he blinked a few times then made to get up and leave the room.
"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare to walk away from me. Put your arse back under the cover so that I can snuggle with you for the unforeseeable future."
Sherlock looked at John owlishly for a moment and slipped under the cover without another word, immediately tucking himself around John.
"Christ! I just wanted to meet your Mum. What will I have to go through when I propose you?!" John murmured absent-mindedly, mostly to himself, completely missing the way Sherlock went still beside him, barely breathing, clinging to John like he would drift away otherwise. He also missed the whispered "'When'...not 'if'...
~0~0~0~
Despite John's desire to spend the whole day in bed, it didn't happen. Because, Mycroft Holmes happened.
When he entered the living room, stretching his limbs and scratching his bum, Mycroft was there, sitting on John's chair with all his git-y attitude and punch worthy smugness.
Aristoprat but aloud he greeted him with a "Hey" and put the kettle on, "tea?"
"Hello, John. Yes, please. No sugar."
John hummed absentmindedly.
"Still on a diet, brother?"
"Still wrapped in your security blanket, brother?"
Sherlock sneered, "What are you doing here?"
"To ensure John and your wellbeing, of course."
The git mentioned him first deliberately, John rubbed his forehead. It's too early for this.
"We are fine. Go away." John heard Sherlock grit out.
"John is making tea. For me."
"Mycroft!" Sherlock all but shouted. No one could get into the younger man's skin the way his brother did.
At least, that bark made Mycroft drop the act, "You two need to leave the country for a while, but before that, you are required to visit the Scotland Yard for a debriefing."
John was done lurking in the kitchen and hurried back into the room with two steaming cups. "Leave the country? What do you mean?"
At the same time Sherlock demanded, "Where's mine?"
John looked at him, confused, "You said you didn't want a cuppa when I asked."
"I didn't know you'd be making tea for Mycroft!"
John took a deep breath, "Alright, take mine, then."
"No, take Mycroft's away."
John's eye began to twitch and his fingers begged to strangle someone.
Mycroft put his umbrella down.
"Adorable as it is to see you two fight like an old married couple, I do not wish to bear witness to such a private..uh..scene. Therefore, Sherlock, if you can manage to act like your age for a moment, I have things to discuss."
"And why should I listen to you?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
Mycroft twirled his umbrella, "No reason at all. Then, I'll just ask John to accompany me to my car so that I can have a discussion in a more suitable environment."
"You will not take John away to anywhere!"
The pitch was almost eardrum shattering and John scrunched up his face. One of these days he was going to be completely deaf for this part banshee boyfriend of his.
"Quiet down!" He said at last.
"Are you taking Mycroft's-"
"Of course, he is, brother de-"
"Mycroft, shut it. Sherlock, shut up. I will not be subjected to your cat fights. Sherlock, you'll sit there with me and listen to what Mycroft has to say. Mycroft, you'll tell us what you've come to tell, then get the hell out of here. Are we clear?"
"Crystal" the brothers chorused
"Good."
Sherlock sat on the red chair while John sat on one of the armrests.
"You were saying something about us leaving the country...what was that?"
Mycroft glanced at his brother briefly before answering John, "My department has had run a search about the snipers that attacked Milverton and his men, and came up with a blank. There is no data, no file, encrypted or otherwise, nothing that can reveal their identity." Mycroft shifted in his seat very minutely but enough to give away his embarrassment, "They even jammed and froze all the camera feeds surrounding the area before the attack. That is quite a task- breaching MI6 security system."
"Clearly." John chirped in.
Mycroft, predictably, chose to ignore and continued, "We are considering a possible infiltration, but whoever they are, they are quite efficient and have done their homework. Though it looked like they saved your lives, until their intention and identity are clear enough, I cannot and will not risk your safety. Therefore, you two must spend some time away till everything is under control."
John exhaled loudly after Mycroft's monologue stopped. It was a lot to take in and if they were going to...hang on! Why is it so quiet? John cocked his head and eyed the younger Holmes suspiciously. The man was still and currently squinting at his brother who, for his part, met the gaze with a poker face.
"Spit it out, Mycroft."
"I do not know what yo-"
"You are growing senile quicker than anticipated if you think that pretence will work. Now, what else?"
Mycroft's jaw line hardened at once but he restrained for retorting and said, "The head of the Black Lotus clan has been found dead last night."
"Black Lotus? Isn't that the gang Milverton was dealing with?" John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock.
"Yes, that's the one," Sherlock got into his classic thinking pose, "which means, by killing Milverton and the Black Lotus men the sniper gang was settling some things, obviously. But why that particular moment when the job could have been done any other time in a move convenient place? And why hacking MI6 when the first guess should have been NSY?"
They all knew that Sherlock wasn't exactly seeking answers but Mycroft answered anyway, "Why indeed."
"Ah! I see!" Sherlock's eyes widened and he exclaimed to the bison.
"What?" John asked.
"Don't you see, John?" He turned his head to face him, "It was never them. It was me. Do you remember when the shooting started? Precisely the moment when Milverton ordered his men to kill us. I am the MI6 connection. I am the central piece of this puzzle."
"Or I," Mycroft butted in, "always so full of yourself, aren't you, brother dear? I wouldn't be so sure if I were in your position, seeing that the most probable reason of you being the actual target is your connection with me. If the group has gone so far as infiltrating government's confidential files, then the chance of them using you as a pawn to reach me is quite high."
Sherlock was a creature of reason, but when did sibling rivalry bother with logic? John took a deep breath to prepare himself to witness some Holmes bashing.
"Is that so, Mycroft? Well, judging by your line of reasoning there are two possible conclusions: either all that fat has finally clogged your brain and your ability to observe clearly has been compromised...or this is one of your many naive attempts to score one over me. Over confidence is often misleading, but then, you are pretty habituated with it by now."
In reply Mycroft did what Sherlock hated most: he ignored his brother completely, barely sparing him a glance before addressing John, "You two need to change your location until I find out the group's motive."
"And you'll never be able to do that without me," Sherlock bit out, "you need me for this."
"No, I do not."
"Hey guys, listen-"
"You know better than to force me into anything, Mycroft."
Mycroft was standing now; he tapped his umbrella on the carpet and turned towards his fuming brother.
"You are willing to risk John's life so that you can feed your ego? After everything you have put him through? That is quite a...shocking thing to do to someone you claim to care about so much."
"Mycroft!" John yelled at the same time Sherlock uttered a "Get out" in an eerily quiet tone.
Mycroft looked at them for a moment long before striding off the room proudly. But he stopped at the door.
"John, please accompany me to the car. I have some important things to discuss."
What John really wanted to do was to hit the insensitive bastard on the head, but he was also aware that making a fuss about what Mycroft just said could backfire for Sherlock. He looked at his boyfriend once, who was now standing by the window, and followed Mycroft out.
"What the hell was that for, Mycroft? How can you do that to your brother?" The instant they reached the car, John hissed out.
Mycroft just opened the car door and gestured to get in. John gaped at him.
"Seriously? After that stunt you pulled upstairs, you expect me to get cozy with you in your kidnap car?"
Mycroft exhaled slowly, "My brother has chosen to stand by the window for a reason, John. He can lip-read."
John's head snapped up to see that, yes, Sherlock was indeed looking at them with a blank face. He knew there'd be hell to pay if he got into the car now, but was also aware that he should at least hear Mycroft out. The man was not known for idle chatting. He glanced at Sherlock once more before entering the car.
"Now, make it quick."
The prat lifted an eyebrow at that and gave a toothy smile, "Aren't we eloquent this morning?"
"Oh, shut it. I knew you were a prat but what you did back there was way below the belt. Do you have any idea how shaken he was last night? He blames himself for what happened, for God's sake!"
"It was indeed his fault, yes. He reasoned correctly."
John pinched the bridge of his nose and struggled to control his rage. It took him a moment to form any response.
"You...are you serious? How can you be so-...so cold? He's your own brother! You know, I always thought it was rather childish of Sherlock to treat you the way he did. I have no idea what's wrong between you two but I never thought of you as a cruel person."
Mycroft smirked. "You seem to think very highly of me, dear doctor. I am flattered, but it also surprises me as it contradicts with your usual habit of following my brother in every way."
"Highly or not, I can't ignore, nor can I forget, the fact that without you I might not have gotten him back, ever."
"I didn't do it for you."
"I'm sure you didn't."
Mycroft stared at him speculatively for a long moment before looking out of the window, "The only time I can retract any form of reaction from my brother is when I patronize him. He deems me worthy of his time only when I succeed to aggravate him. My relationship with my brother is not common." Mycroft grimaced slightly, as if the word had left a bad taste in his mouth, "He is easy to manipulate when he is angry. His hate is a better option for me than his aloofness."
John opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to say something, anything, and finally shook his head, "That's probably the shittiest excuse I've ever heard. That's the best you could think of?"
Mycroft blinked at him, "I do wonder what Sherlock sees in you."
"Something he doesn't see in you, clearly."
"Thankfully."
John huffed tiredly and rubbed his temples, "Mycroft, it there any real reasons you've stuffed me here? Or you just love to spend time with me in confined places?"
The elder Holmes' lips formed a tight line, "I was not in a jesting mood when I stated about Sherlock's life being in danger."
"Why do you think so?"
"I have reasons to believe."
"And what are those might be?"
"The ones that I gave you and Sherlock earlier, are they not enough?" He leaned forward, "Look, John, I know you will not overlook a danger just to spite me. Do you not find it strange what happened yesterday?"
"But why'd anyone try to kill Sherlock? I mean, has he had ever pissed that big of a criminal who'd send a whole bunch of snipers after him?"
"My brother has an inherent talent of making people turn against him. However, in this particular situation, I do not think it is related to Sherlock, directly."
"So, you think someone's trying to get to you through him?"
"I believe so, yes."
John stared at his own hands.
"I do not wish to take risk where my brother is concerned if I can help it. I trust you to understand that."
"How long do we have to go away? And where?"
"A couple of weeks. In France."
"You mean at your grandmother's house?" That was where Sherlock was going when they first met. A lifetime ago.
"No, somewhere else, where I can plant my men. Our grandmother is quite, uh, averse to the idea of allowing unknown agents to her house."
John snorted, imagining an old lady throwing tantrum.
"And it will do you good to have a vacation."
"Oh, shut up," John said without any bite. "Okay, alright. I can't promise you anything, but I'll try to convince him." And he opened the car door but paused before getting out, "I guess you've already asked your men to tail behind us, but please ask them to be really discreet, at least for tomorrow, yeah?"
"Do tell why so?"
John hesitated; he really didn't want to tell anyone, let alone Mycroft of all people, about tomorrow. It felt like betraying Sherlock's trust, but he also knew that any kind of hindrance can jeopardize their plan.
"He...uh, he has agreed to take me to his- your mother."
If it were any other time John would have relished the gobsmacked look on Mycroft's face. But his head was too addled to register the expression. He got out of the car.
~0~0~0~
Sherlock was no longer peeking out of the window. John took a deep breath before entering the flat.
"Sh-"
"NO."
John jumped out of his skin at the sudden shout.
"Lis-"
"NO! No, no, no! My answer is no."
A livid Sherlock stormed out of the living room and John heard the bedroom door slammed shut.
He rubbed his hands over his tired face. Sometimes, he really wanted to scream at Sherlock, like just now, but instead, he put the kettle on.
... ... ...
John was gripping the kitchen counter when Sherlock appeared in his peripheral view. John didn't look at him.
When, even after a minute or so, John didn't acknowledge his presence Sherlock started to fidget. John wouldn't relent though. He was so done with this daily drama.
"Erm...we are out of milk."
That's his opening line for a patch-up plan? Yeah, so done. "Go and buy it, then."
Sherlock frowned lightly, "But it's your job to buy milk."
"My job, huh?" John let out a bitter laugh, "It's great to hear you describe my caring, my love for you as a 'job'. Well, let me tell you, Sherlock Holmes, that it is not my job to buy your milk, to do your laundry, to make sure you eat and sleep, to tolerate your snide remarks and tantrums. I do all these because I love you, and I do not consider loving you, or anyone for that matter, as a job." John shoved his hands into his pockets and licked his lips, "I'm not a saint, Sherlock. I do get angry; I get murderous even. Sometimes, I want to yell back at you, or break things. Sometimes, I even consider of moving back to the bedroom upstairs. But I never act upon any of these thoughts. Know why? Because I love you. No matter how many times you drive me up the wall, at the end of the day, when I see you safe and happy, I feel complete. But do not take my patience as deliberate helplessness. I can yell at you, too, whenever the mood strikes, or I can take all my frustrations out at you. Trust me, I really can. I just choose not to. I don't mind your temper tantrums but I am not your punching bag."
Sherlock's face was completely blank. John wasn't sure if his boyfriend was still with him and not tucked somewhere in his Mind Palace, but was too tired to care. He headed for the door; he needed to get away for a moment. But stopped short.
"I want to you to be safe just as much as you want me to be."
The door clicked shut quietly behind him.
~0~0~0~
After venting out his frustration over a pint or two at the pub with Mike, when John finally opened the main door of 221B almost three hours, the air smelled foul and burnt. He sprinted the rest of the way to their flat.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"
The sound of hastily dumped utensils came from the kitchen area. John dashed for it.
"Sherlock?"
And there he was, his boyfriend, standing stiff as board, looking awkward, near the sink. The burnt smell was thick here. John felt baffled.
"What are you doing here? What happened?"
And then his eyes fell on the table and any other questions which he might want to ask died down immediately. The table was set. For two. And it looked like...
"You were cooking?!"
John didn't mean his voice to actually squeak but he couldn't help it. The whole situation was...bizarre.
"I made dinner." Sherlock attempted a defiant tone which fell flat and sounded more like a mumble.
"You did what?"
Sherlock was getting restless but John was too shell-shocked to care.
"Dinner. I made dinner for you. Is it really that hard to understand?"
"Under- Sherlock, you made dinner! You cooked! Y-you never even butter your toasts yourself!"
"That is a lie! I did butter my toasts last week."
John closed his eyes and shook his head. Surely he wasn't drunk enough to conjure such an elaborate scene? Sherlock made dinner for him? To apologize? Maybe he was drunk!
"Wh-what's the smell? What did you burn?"
"Eggs."
Sherlock sounded as if the eggs deliberately burnt themselves just to spite him.
John licked his lips, "Yeah, stupid eggs."
"Are you laughing at me, John?"
"Nope, never," he then let the small laugh slip through him, "I don't even know how to react, actually. You cooked. Is there a reason or..." he trailed off. He had a very good idea what the reason was but couldn't let go the temptation of hearing it from the man himself.
"It was for experimental purpose."
John sighed and gave a small, a tab bit sad smile, "Of course, it was." And before Sherlock could say anything he hurried towards the table, "Okay, let's see what are we having tonight!"
Slightly burnt toasts and dubious looking omelettes.
But John's throat felt tight for a different reason. It'd been ages since anyone cooked just for him, without being paid, ordered or duty bound. So what if it was breakfast food he'd be eating at dinner? Nothing could diminish the joy he felt right now.
He sat down and made an enthusiastic sound and said, "Shall we?"
But before he could take a bite of his omelette, Sherlock stopped him, "Don't eat it."
"What? Why?"
"It is not edible."
"How do you know? You haven't even touched yours."
"Look at them, John! These omelettes look like distorted dead bodies."
"Urgh...Sherlock.." John whined and grimaced.
"Sorry," came Sherlock's quiet voice when he was trying to shove off the images of omelettes as scattered dead bodies. But that small voice jolted his musings to a halt.
"What?" Did Sherlock just...apologize?
But the man was deliberately avoiding John's eyes and now staring at his plate.
"Sherlock-"
"You are not my punching bag."
John frowned momentarily then his eyes widened with remembrance, "Hey, listen I didn-"
"I do not consider you as my punching bag," Sherlock went on, "nor do I take you for granted. I do not function like a normal person. I- I try, for you, but I suspect that I am incapable of succeeding in this matter. I do all those things which you have rightfully accused me of doing because I know that you will not judge me and I can get away with them. I feel free when I am with you and I am aware how lame it must sound to you. But I never had anyone like you; I have no prior experience how to behave civilly or how to be in a relationship. People treated me with contempt and I returned the gesture doubly. And those experiences made me more and more inhuman. I don't understand sentiments... All I know is, there is you and you will keep me right. I won't have to be alone anymore. I never stop to consider that that may not be what you want in a relationship. But believe me, John, you are and always will be the centre of my being. Therefore, I would like to apologize for the things you have to suffer on my account. I want you to know that...that I love you, most ardently. I fail to express it through my inexcusable actions but I...I will do whatever you decide, just...just don't leave me, John."
Both sat there in a complete silence for a long moment. Instead of bursting out with emotions John felt a serene calm washed him over. He closed his eyes.
It was the sound of a chair scraping the wood that broke John's trance. Sherlock had stood up and was about to leave the room, clearly taking John's silence as rejection. John caught Sherlock's wrist when he was passing him.
"If I wanted normal I wouldn't have replied to your snarky texts. If I wanted normal I wouldn't have fallen for you. But I did and despite my complaining, be sure that you will not getting rid of me anytime soon. In fact, if my plan works, you are stuck with me for the rest of our lives." John looked up to see Sherlock looking at the floor with an inscrutable expression, "Think you can deal with that?"
Sherlock nodded his consent vehemently, bouncing his moppy hair. John smiled and brought that knobbly, pale wrist to his lips.
"Chinese or Angelo's?"
"Angelo's."
~0~0~0~