Warning: This fiction deserves its M rating. The following chapter deals with very sensitive topics. Read at your own risk!
…
"Maybe when people longed for a thing that bad the longing made them trust in anything that might give it to them."
― Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
…
Sun Dazed
…
The days melted away like sugar cubes. Neither of the two men who shared the flat on Baker Street had experienced such a sensation. For Sherlock, a day was not something to be languished away with ease, unless he was in possession of a large amount of narcotics.
But here he was, abstaining from all drugs save caffeine, and letting the time slip past his fingers. It was, unlike he imagined, a very pleasant sensation.
The July heat seemed to mirror his own slow, lazy temperament. Hermione, in her visits, had almost caught them many times, sweating on the couch, with Harry straddling his lap, and sweat pouring off both of them.
Nights were still a nuisance for Sherlock. Despite having given into his subconscious yearnings, his dreams were still flooded with anxiety and dim, stone passageways. It was also the only time of day when he was not in proximity of the wizard living in his flat.
Mornings, on the other hand, became much more tolerable. How could they not be, when they were filled with coffee and Harry? A gentle slip of tongue, and a few quiet words, and Sherlock would forget all about his nightmares.
…
On one such morning, Sherlock came out of his room and immediately frowned. Hermione was sitting at his table, and having a quiet conversation with Harry. This developing routine of surprise visits was not welcome. She could, at the very least, text first.
"Good morning," she began, "Sorry to just let myself in, but I had to let you know."
Sherlock sat down. He noticed that his wizard looked particularly concerned.
"I have to leave the country tomorrow. There's a council that's been called. We've all got to go to Murmansk. The Continental ministry think they've found some very abnormal magical activity and they've called us all and-" She said, the apology very clear in her tone.
Harry nodded at her words with a solemn look.
"It's really rubbish; this isn't the time for me to go anywhere, but I worry I might be drawing unnecessary suspicion if I don't." She bit her lip and looked at Sherlock.
It was clear to him what she wanted. For Sherlock to put his metaphorical foot down and say 'You cannot leave.' It would absolve her from the responsibility. Sherlock grinned inwardly.
Since that first kiss with Harry, Sherlock found himself to be possessive, nearly insanely so. Like a dragon hoarding gold, he could hardly stand for anyone else to share the wizard's attention. He wanted every minute of Harry, every moment of his affection.
"You're right," Sherlock said, mimicking Harry's solemn look, "since you're our only contact with the ministry, you must not draw any doubts. You'll have to go."
…
"I've taken a look at the ministry employee lists you have provided me." Sherlock passed Hermione a piece of scratch paper where he had hastily written out five names: Andrei Mirum, Draco Malfoy, Rolf Grunspell, Henry Tonks, Amos Diggory.
"While you're away, I think you could find some spare time to look into these. Find out where they were the night of the murders in 99."
Hermione took the paper, and quickly scanned the list.
"I know all these men well," she said, "it shouldn't be difficult."
Sherlock nodded.
"I'll keep in touch. Phone me if you have anything new?" She said, looking at Harry.
"I will." The wizard said, and smiled. Hermione smiled back. Sherlock gritted his teeth and wished for a hastier good-bye.
…
"Do you really think it was one of the people on your list that did it?" Harry asked.
They were sitting together with Harry leaning against him, as was custom now. The tips of Harry's hair tickled Sherlock's neck, and his head gently rested on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Honestly, a shot in the dark. But mine are usually very good. Based on their positions in your ministry, those five are the most likely." Sherlock dragged his fingers through black hair. "What do you think?"
Harry leaned in closer, and scrunched up his face.
"Mirum was the interim minister when Kingsley got offed. He's the one that presided over my first trial, but- I don't really remember him. Malfoy's hated me since school, but I don't think he's got the gall to have done all that. And Diggory… I really don't think it was him. From what I recall, he seemed too nice a man. He's been minister since 2008, I think. I don't really keep up with all that… "
"And the other two?"
"Don't know them." Harry shrugged.
"We'll know more when Hermione gets back then." Sherlock said, and found that his voice sounded warm, reassuring and alien to his ears.
The people that Sherlock suspected were not random. He had looked through who had filled what position in British Magical Governance. Mirum was indeed the interim minister in '99, but he was also currently the head of Department of Magical Transportation, and was running for office against Diggory. Apparently he wanted the job of Minister for Magic once again.
Malfloy was the understudy to the head of the Department of Mysteries. Henry Tonks was the head.
Grunspell was head of the Auror Department. Amos Diggory was the minister. The aurors, the department of mysteries, and those involved in transportation… somewhere in those departments someone found out about Snape. And more importantly, what Snape knows.
Sherlock instinctively went for the heads of each department, the center around which agency matters revolve, usually. There were exceptions. People chosen to be leaders in order obscure the real leadership.
Sherlock would let Hermione take a look; see what she can come up with. Sherlock had started with the top of each agency, but it was possible that whoever was responsible was much farther down the chain of command.
With a confidence he was not used to, he wound his arms tightly around Harry. Sherlock felt good about the progress of the case. He also felt good about him and Harry. He really did have a handle on this domestic-partner thing.
What he did not have was knowledge of what to expect, (or do) once their intimacy escalated. Of course, he knew the mechanics. But it was all abstracted in his mind. It did not seem to apply to human beings, and especially the two of them.
Sherlock had tried to enlarge his scope of understanding on the topic. He had searched for films featuring men engaging in sexual activities with each other, on his laptop, late at night, with the sound going directly into a pair of earbuds.
It had initially almost turned him off the idea entirely. Sherlock's observant eyes cut right through the actors' moans and 'oh yeahs' to see two men begrudgingly getting on with it. Was he required to act like that, say those things whether he meant them or not? He can't imagine it was so.
He could not stop himself from deducing facts from the various details of the films; from the shoddy props to the miniscule twitches of the skin around the actors' eyes.
He had slammed his laptop shut with disgruntled frustration. An uncomfortable bubble of fear rose in his throat. Sherlock could not identify the source, except that it reminded him vaguely of disturbing dreams and being trapped in cramped, dark hallways.
Perhaps he was homophobic?
Sherlock shook the idea off as ridiculous. He had spent a considerable portion of the last month snogging a man on his couch. It did not matter what his gender was. Only that Sherlock was not sure how to proceed after snogging. Infact, Sherlock admitted to himself, he was not sure what he wanted at all, besides to have Harry never leave him.
Of that, at least, he was certain.
The wizard sighed and leaned more into Sherlock's arms. More weight was put on Sherlock's chest, but he didn't mind. He noticed the wizard close his eyes for a moment, and noted the darkened skin beneath Harry's eyes.
"Sleep badly?" Sherlock asked.
Harry looked up and nodded. Then, he yawned.
Sherlock scooted them closer to the couches edge, and leaned backward. The wizard, as Sherlock expected, followed, like a faithful dance partner. The result was that the two men lay on the couch, with Sherlock smooshed against the back cushions.
Harry appeared to doze. Sherlock was not very good at sleeping in general, and especially during daylight. He gazed absently at the sunlight filtering into the living room.
Perhaps, between him and Harry, just knowing the mechanics would be enough? Sherlock was less than well informed, but Harry might know a thing or two.
Anyway, the wizard never pushed him. If anything Harry was the more reluctant of the two. Perhaps they could live out the rest of their lives being content with early morning kisses, and warm embraces.
"What did you dream about?" Sherlock asked in an offhand way.
"Mmm?"
"Last night?"
"Oh, it was, er-" Harry started, "it was the Department of Mysteries."
"That's a place in your ministry. Lowest floor." Sherlock recited automatically.
"Yes, it is. I've had dreams about it before… a long time ago." Harry's voice was soft, as he was now in a halfway point between Baker Street and sleep.
"Good dreams?" Sherlock matched the soft quality of Harry's voice. He was able to replicate it well.
"Not really." Harry replied. "I was in a room, lit by blue lights, and I was trying to get out, but I couldn't. Then a man opened the door. He had no face at all, and a voice, like many insects buzzing and scraping, coming from under the floor."
"Did the man say or do anything?" Sherlock asked.
"'Not yet.' That's all he said." Harry said so quietly that Sherlock was sure that the wizard would be asleep in a matter of minutes.
He let himself lay there, finding comfort in the wizard's warmth and the squishy cushions of his couch. After some time he carefully extricated himself from between Harry and the couch. As happy as they were in the sunlit flat on Baker Street, both men had been plagued by their dreams, and Sherlock had to admit, he was completely out of his depth when it came to interpreting them.
Perhaps it was time to outsource? Sherlock dug his mobile out of his pocket, and texted a familiar number.
…
John sat in the small kitchenette of 221B Baker Street, and fondly remembered the past. Sherlock came back into view with a tea tray, and set it on the table between them. John looked into the teapot curiously. By god, there was even tea there.
He did not see Sherlock everyday, or even every week. There was something in that distance of time and space that hurt John, but it was not a festering wound. He had his daughter, Mary, and he was overall happy.
He smiled at Sherlock.
"Been getting on well then, have you?" John said, pointing a thumb behind him at the living room. There, the wizard was still asleep on the leather sofa.
"Yes." Sherlock said in a hushed voice and nodded. John thought he caught just the faintest smile crossing Sherlock's lips.
John concluded that things were getting on very well. He knew for a fact that if he had been kipping on the couch, it would have never been a reason for Sherlock to quiet down.
He sipped his tea. It wasn't abhorrent.
He fought an urge to congratulate Sherlock. On what exactly? He did not know. So, instead, he kept his mouth shut.
Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his nose, and sat silently, observing Harry from the corner of his eye.
"It was very nearly you, I think." Sherlock said, and John choked on his tea.
"What are we talking about?" John managed to gasp out through his coughs. He looked guiltily at the wizard but he had not stirred.
"You." Sherlock's gaze was now fixed on John, "And me." The detective fixed John with a significant look.
"You sure he's not awake?" John asked.
"Yes, of course, I'd know." Sherlock said.
John was trying very hard to stay in denial of what Sherlock had just brought up. Really, it was a bit of an awkward subject, wasn't it? John knew that Sherlock had come to this conclusion through a reasonable chain of logic. Of course, that logic usually excluded John's thoughts on the matter entirely. He was sure, for his part, that he never wanted anything more than a close friendship with Sherlock.
"I need some advice, I think…." John looked up sharply. He had never known Sherock sound so unsure of himself. Or to willingly seek advice.
"What?" John had lowered his voice to match Sherlock's. A strangely conspiratorial air settled around the small kitchen.
"I'm just not quite sure what to do. With the wizard. Or rather to him. Or, rather, nevermind." Sherlock finished, uncomfortably.
"Alright well don't freak out, it's normal to experience attraction with people living in close proximity."
"Oh, is it?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John. John had the distinct impression that he had missed something. How far along was Sherlock's relationship with the wizard exactly?
"Have you shared your feelings with Harry?"
"Yes. Maybe not the full extent of them. I don't know. How am I supposed to determine what Potter has or has not understood from what I've said and done?"
"Well the easy way is to be upfront and tell Harry you fancy him." John replied easily. He had a fleeting impression that this was wonderful practice for when his daughter would hit puberty, and had similar problems.
"Hmmmm," Sherlock looked at the wall separating the kitchenette and the living room, looked through it, as though he could see Harry on the other side, "I think he's caught on to me fancying him. That's not the problem."
"So what is?" John asked simply.
"What if I ruin it? What if this ruins me?" Sherlock whispered. "I haven't gone on any cases, haven't even wanted to. I'm perfectly content here, and I …"
The detective visibly shuddered.
"I've been having these dreams that are unusually vivid, and mostly unpleasant. It's as though they are extending into my waking life. I've lived here in Baker Street for so long now, John, but it has never looked more different. It's ridiculous, perfectly impossible, but I keep expecting something completely different when I round each corner of the flat. Everything has changed, even though reality has stayed exactly the same. I'm not sure how to describe it…"
"Yes, I understand. You've seen it so many times, but somehow it's all different. Like someone went and replaced all your stuff with an exact replica. You don't see the difference, you only feel it." John said, and Sherlock nodded. That feeling, the uncanniness, was not something John associated with domestic bliss. It sounded like Sherlock was experiencing an increased level of anxiety, but what it could be about, John wasn't sure. Who knows what goes on in that funny head of his?
"Has anything else happened?" John asked.
"No. I told you. No new progress in cases. Just me and him." Sherlock said, and looked down at his hands. For the second time John was stunned at how visibly different Sherlock was acting. If he didn't know better, he would think he was being put on.
"I don't think you should worry about ruining your career," John started, "Look, we went on plenty of cases together. You could say we almost lived like we were, well, together. It didn't seem to hold you back."
"No, it didn't. So why is this different?"
"You know why." John answered, and sipped his tea.
"What do I do, John? How do I handle this?" Sherlock said, and would not look up.
"Do? I don't see that you have to do anything different." This was puzzling. He was not sure where the source of Sherlock's anxiety was.
"Come off it. You know me. You know it's only a matter of time before I damage things beyond repair."
John took a pause. He was simply not used to his friend behaving in this manner. If nothing else, Sherlock was always sure of himself.
"If he feels the same, he'll forgive you," John said, with confidence he didn't feel. "And if he doesn't, maybe he wasn't the right one?"
Sherlock looked long and hard into his teacup.
"No. There's no one else. There could never be, after this."
…
John walked along the summer boulevards of London with unfamiliar feelings churning in his gut.
Was it almost him? Would he have reciprocated, if Sherlock decided that they were going to be more than just flatmates, more than just friends?
He was sure that no, in fact he preferred women's anatomies, having studied both extensively in his time at Bart's.
But he also knew that Sherlock was hard to say no to.
The dull ache John felt from Sherlock's absence throbbed, but then lightened. It was natural, he knew, to let go of things we love. He didn't make a to-do of it, but John quietly accepted the possibility that had almost happened, between him and Sherlock.
Ah well, but life goes on, he said to himself, and hurried home.
…
He knew where he was immediately. How many times had he run down this patch of grass, leading to the greenhouses, and beyond, to the forbidden forest.
It must have been spring, since wildflowers were in bloom, and a patch of lilacs had sprouted purple bouquets around Hagrid's hut.
He was running after Ron and Hermione, chasing them to the forest. The day was sunny..
As they reached the edge of the forest,, Ron and Hermione disappeared behind the dense foliage. Harry called out their names. His voice sounded dull and echoed to his ears. He stepped into the shade of the tall pines after them.
What he found was that he had actually been chasing two black haired girls, and not his schoolmates.
One was older than the other, and taller. The younger had curlier hair and bigger eyes. She smiled a wicked grin when Harry spotted her.
'Come to play with us, mudblood?' She teased.
Harry couldn't say anything.
'Don't say that, Trixie.' The older sister admonished.
'Why not?' The younger one scowled, 'Mum and Dad do. They know what they are. Don't you mudblood?'
The wicked girl's words hurt him immensely. Harry had the desperate feeling that he needed, by any means, to prove himself to her. I'm not like the others! He almost said. Look what I can do!
The ground started moving, and twisting under their feet. A deep, horrible noise, like the earth screaming, then the sound of insects scraping and chattering, saying something ancient, forgotten, and damned.
…
Hermione had been gone for several days.
Sherlock kept expecting Harry to bring up work, of one sort or another, but it was blissfully easy to keep the wizard otherwise occupied. If Sherlock didn't know any better, he would guess that the wizard was as desperate to have this thing between them as Sherlock was.
Of course, Sherlock knew that was impossible. He was going mad, and the wizard was not. Every night, the dreams became more intense, and Sherlock woke up more and more unsure of what world he occupied.
Sherlock attempted reading on the subject of psychotherapy, downloading Freud, Jung, and Lacan onto his laptop. A couple of hours, and he was sure that the whole field was nothing but maniacs with nothing sensible to say about the human mind. He felt on his own, on a turbulent sea of his own subconscious.
Before, he was sure that if he had just given into his desire for Harry, the nightmares, the anxiety, would all quell. Harry and he had been an official thing for nearly a month now, but the dreams persisted.
The only recourse that Sherlock could see was to escalate the nature of his relationship with the wizard. He remembered the last time that sex had been this important in his life. Boarding school, when he was just past sixteen, and it seemed that everyone was getting it on with everyone else.
Even back then, Sherlock was sure that he wanted no part of what common people obsessed over, but he did find it curious how someone's sexual status, (whether they were having sex, with whom, how many times,) translated loosely into their social status. Sherlock remembered feeling a certain isolation when the lads would get together and discuss their exploits. He never had much to discuss. Although, and it embarrassed him even now, he did listen to the other boys with rapt interest.
Now he found himself wishing he had not been so quick to write off sex when he was younger. It would have been much easier to engage with Harry if he had any experience to fall back on.
It was a frequent occurrence these days for him to ruminate about sex and potentially the first time he would have it, but every time he did, it seemed like the floor would fall out from under his feet and he would have a swell of anxious feelings, making him confused and nauseous. Oddly, memories of Moriarty would flood him; a very unpleasant subject.
Sherlock finally concluded that if he were to just have sex, the panic, the anxiety, the nightmares, the ball of dread lodged in his gut, would ease. They seemed tied together. A small part of his brain urged him to dig deeper into his labyrinth; that the answer was close, but he was not quite there. Sherlock ignored that voice, and made his decision.
...
"We haven't done much but kiss these last few days." Sherlock announced late one evening, as he and Harry were entangled on the couch, with the TV vaguely on in the background. It wasn't exactly correct. They've done nothing but kiss for what seemed like months now, and it was enough to keep Sherlock happy and content. But his mind was made up.
"That's alright. I don't mind going slow." Harry answered.
Sherlock looked at him
"You don't know what to do, do you? You said you've done this before." Sherlock said with mock accusation, hoping to cover up the truth, which was that he was the one who did not know what to do, and had never done anything like this before. And also, that he had a cold pit in his stomach every time he thought about sex. Oh, and also, he couldn't stop thinking about sex.
"Not with blokes." Harry admitted freely, shrugging his shoulders.
"Oh, well, fine. That doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing." Sherlock said, "I've been, er… doing some reading." More like watching.
"Ohh? Find anything interesting?" Harry asked.
"Loads." Sherlock smiled with a confidence he did not feel. He was still very nervous approaching the subject.
They were both skirting around it. To Sherlock it felt similar to the crouching vulture that Harry has described as following him. The thought was tantalizing at times, but frightening at others.
"Well do you have any specifics in mind?"
"Yes, but words were never really designed to give this kind of thing justice." Sherlock replied.
"Oh, I see. So you want to show me?"
Sherlock gave a quick nod. He leapt from the couch, and tugged on Harry's arm. The wizard obligingly followed.
He practically dragged Harry into his own bedroom, being sure to lock the door behind him. He walked the wizard over to his own bed, leading with a kiss. Allowing the kiss to bloom for several seconds, he wrapped himself around Harry. He felt like he was putting something unstoppable into motion.
Sherlock grabbed the wizard's arm, and pulled them both down to the bed, with the result of having Harry lay on top of him, the wizard's forearms on either side of Sherlock. They were still kissing, but suddenly something very strange happened. It started at the top of Sherlock's spine, and moved down like ice cold water: panic. He felt something poisonous, something terribly wrong, like he was being constrained, being used against his will. Sherlock let out a gasp.
He knew it wasn't supposed to be like this.
Harry noticed something wrong. He stopped and lifted himself up.
"Are you alright?" Concern was etched on every part of the wizard's face.
"Yes, yes of course. Lay down." Sherlock fought through the emotion. He had no idea where it had come from, but judging by the stone walls which now crowded his mind, he knew it had something to do with his labyrinth. Don't ruin this now, Sherlock chided himself. Surely, he was just nervous from potentially having his first sexual encounter. A part of his mind insistently told him that this was not just first-time jitters. It was much more serious.
Harry did lay down, but next to Sherlock as opposed to on top of him. Sherlock found that this alleviated his fears quickly. What was the difference, he wondered? The charged moment was now evaporating. Harry put his arms around Sherlock and softly kissed him, but there was no heat behind it.
Sherlock returned the kisses, and caresses. The two men wound themselves together, and fell asleep.
…
Murmansk was farther north than Hermione had ever been. It was the middle of July, and what the Russians called White Nights. Indeed, the sun barely dipped below the horizon at midnight, just to come back up a few hours later.
The Continental Wizarding Council had put all the visitors in small apartments, in a blocky, soviet style building. Hermoine dreaded every day that she was being kept here in the far north, when she was needed so desperately in Britain. There was Harry, there was Ron, and of course most importantly, her daughter. Darina had spent the week with her prior to Hermione's departure, after which she seemed happy to go with her father. Hermione hated it. She only had her daughter for the summers, since Darina started Hogwarts. But there was something in Hermione that was telling her to get Darina somewhere out of London, somewhere safer. Hermione had never been a believer in things like premonition, but she just couldn't ignore that voice. Viktor had agreed (was happy in fact) to take his daughter for the rest of the school holidays. It all worked out, she supposed.
Except, of course, Hermione missed her like crazy.
The Continental Council had called a meeting with all the assembled wizards and witches. They wheeled out an ancient, enchanted projector, and in the darkened auditorium, began showing everyone slides of odd activity they had been finding all over Europe.
"This one here, in Prague" said a studious, dark haired witch, who Hermione thought might be either French or Belgian, "this one, in Frankfurt."
They were all images of a similar sort. Muggle dwellings with mad, indecipherable etchings covering walls, floors, and in a few case studies, even the ceiling. At first, Hermione didn't know what she was looking at. She could not place the etchings to any language or Runic script she was aware of. Finally, someone else had a similar thought.
"Vat exactly are we looking at Miz?" Said a squat wizard in one of the back rows.
"This is Goetic." Answered the Belgian witch, and continued her presentation.
Hermione inwardly groaned. She did not think that Goetia was something to be taken seriously. It was all based on historical conjecture and rumor, and anyway, the writings which had apparently been found in the late 19th century never produced any results.
The Belgian witch completed her presentation. After her, an aging wizard took the podium and began his spiel.
"We believe, after deciphering the Lesser Seal of the Great King Belial, that a particular conjunction of Mercury and Saturn, being in the ninth house, and with influence of Scorpio and Pisces, creates a new dimension of power in the netherworld, and will make the act of openings and closing more accessible, and…"
The wizard droned on and on, and Hermione rolled her eyes. She decided she would be catching the next portkey home after today's presentation. There was no reason for her to be here, especially if the Continentals wanted to waste everyone's time with this.
"The Continental Council recommends each Ministry pay particular attention to cases of muggle homicide. They seem to be particularly susceptible to the influence of the netherworld, and it should be noted that each homicide should be followed up to see if there are associated ties to Ars Goetia…"
The speaker concluded, and Hermione was one of the first out the door.
…
That first night, sleeping next to Harry, Sherlock had the worst nightmare of his life.
He was in his boarding school, sitting and playing chess in his dorm room. Someone was playing with him, but he could not see the stranger's face. Sherlock knew that the chess move he was about to make would be a winning move, Check and Mate. Suddenly, all his limbs felt like lead, and he could not move. He dropped to the floor, along with the chess board and all the pieces. He looked at the black king, next to his face on the floor, and knew that he had not succeeded in making that final, finishing play.
The stranger picked up Sherlock's non responsive body and tossed him into his own twin bed. What happened next repulsed and hurt Sherlock, but he did not know exactly what it was. All he could see was his pillow, and all he could feel was pain and burning, awful shame. Had he let this happen?
When Sherlock woke up he was more terrified than he ever remembered being, but he was also, inexplicably, very turned on.
He felt completely out of control. He was swinging between two emotional extremes, like he was swerving in a car, trying to over-correct the steering wheel to avoid a wreck, and veering wildly off the road instead.
He came back to his earlier conclusions, that perhaps doing the deed with Potter would help his mental clarity. He decided he needed to hurry up, because it was evident that his mind was truly starting to unravel. How many more dreams could he have, that left him gasping for breath, panic and sexual excitement mixed into one noxious cocktail, before he finally went insane?
"Potter, Potter wake up!"
It took some time for the wizard to come to. It was 3:03 in the am. Sherlock hurriedly told the wizard what he wanted. He recounted an exact sequence of all the acts he had seen in a pornographic film which had stuck with him from his earlier perusing. He wanted to be held down, face ground into the mattress, arms bent behind his back.
"Sherlock, it's late, tomorrow-"
"No, tomorrow. I need you now, please, right now." Sherlock practically begged him, and started taking off his clothes. Harry started kissing him, but also, discreetly he took hold of Sherlock's hands and tried to still them. Harry started murmuring consoling words, and putting his arms around Sherlock in a warm embrace that had nothing to do with the raving desires Sherlock had expounded upon. He was trying to calm him, Sherlock realized.
It was obvious that the wizard would not oblige him tonight. Somewhere, Sherlock knew that this was good, that Harry was making a smart decision. But on the surface, he felt rejection, and it tasted bitter.
Sherlock decided to let himself be "calmed." After he was sure that Harry was asleep again, he slunk off to the shower.
...
AN: Well, I'm posting this story again, after, er- several years of not doing that. I have all the pieces to finish it, but it's going to get dark and ugly before the end. Thank you a million times to all the folks that kept reviewing this story after I stopped updating. I really want to finish this story. It had truly never left my mind, even when I stopped writing it. This time, hopefully, I can see it through to the end.
