A/N: This is getting deeper and heavier than I had originally intended. As a writer, you purge emotions from your system onto characters in a narrative – oops.

I decided not to call all my extra characters Chandler for this one, an exception to my rule.

There'll be a case in here somewhere, soon. -csf

2.

The rural property glows in the yellow electric lights, highlighting the sharp lines of primly trimmed yew trees flanking the entrance gates. The truck turns on gravel to slow down by a pair of unflappable pheasants idling by the crimson door to the main stone cottage.

'These are our guest houses. Our place is further inside the property. You know, for a bit of privacy when Hetty puts her smalls in the laundry line and such.'

'Looks really nice. You've done really well, mate,' John says. If Sherlock notices that John gaze is still somewhat disconnected in time and space, as a man lost in old ghosts of recollections buried deep inside, he keeps it to himself in an uncharacteristic show of manners.

'I've put you up both in the same suite. The other guests will take up the other suites, the bride will have one for the make-up and her maids of honour, you know the drill. You'll meet them tomorrow evening, along with all the family you don't know yet, John. Blimey, it's been a while! Aunt Margaret is still here, you always liked the old hag. Hetty's parents will have the suite next to you when they arrive in the morning. I'll introduce you then… Are you sure this place is not too small for the two of you?' Henry checks, looking doubtful.

Sherlock is quite sure that John needs some wary supervising right now. The doctor is almost swaying on the spot.

A bit tired out by the car journey in bumpy rural roads, John shrugs. 'Why would it be?'

'Alright, then. The key's in the lock, make yourselves at home. Breakfast is served from…' he hesitates, recognising his institutional speech is best served for guests who are not actual family members. This seems to positively derail him, and without a backup speech, he quickly settles for: 'It's good to see you well, John. I'm sorry we—' Henry swallows, hesitates again, turns and leaves them to their new lodgings, walking away.

John shakes his head to his internal musings, grabs the door handle and turns it.

'He refused you when you got invalided home from Afghanistan. You were practically homeless when I met you.'

Sherlock's bullet-spray-style deduction, just a rush of air really, catches John off-guard. He turns to see Sherlock standing in front of a million stars in the dark night sky.

John had forgotten how night can be so beautiful away from the eternal electrical glow of major cities.

A bit like the desert skies of Kandahar.

'Yeah, you know, he had his kids – this will be his second marriage now – and I was a war invalid. He didn't think a war invalid would be a good fit with his nephews. Quite possibly right too.'

Sherlock blinks, a flash of anger suddenly illuminating his features into a blaze. 'He's a moron.' And, with that sentence, Sherlock walks past John and the open door into the little house, feet stamping on the flag stones of the entryway.

A small place built for guests. Very modern, somewhat soulless, a bit commonplace, but comfortable enough with the long sofa and a fireplace, and the large bed visible from the bedroom. The only bed in the only bedroom.

'That better be a sofa-bed,' John comments, tiredly. 'What did you tell Henry about us? Does he think we're—'

'I didn't say a word. Your blog entries gave him quite the impression all on their own.'

'And you knew that?'

'I didn't correct him. Didn't see the need to. You are the one always going on and on about privacy, after all.'

'Oh, that's thoughtful.'

'Is it?'

'No, Sherlock. It really isn't. Shut the front door, you're letting the cold air in.'

.

Sherlock comes out of the small bathroom scowling at the midnight watch tartan pyjama bottoms, too short on his long legs. John glances at him and nods. 'They fit,' he comments, all practicality.

'They're too short.'

'Then bring your own next time. No wonder your bag was so empty. Did you really just pack a change of clothes for the wedding day and that was it?' John sniggers.

'I brought the most important part,' the detective replies in his full dignity. "Forgetful genius" is a tag that suits him well on occasion; it never ceases to amuse John.

John smiles fondly. 'You did,' he concedes, pushing back the bedspread. He's too tired to gallantly propose to sleep on the sofa tonight. Sherlock and John have had to share a bed like any two awkward adults before. Mostly due to Sherlock's arrangement blunders and a few hideouts. It has become less and less consequential every time they do this.

The doctor still suspects that Sherlock does it on purpose to mess with him; why the predilection, he is not sure.

Sherlock planks himself over the duvet – cheap cotton, many washes, ghastly colour toned down thankfully – folding his arms under his dark curls, staring at the bland ceiling. For his part, John is removing his battered old wristwatch to place it on the nightstand. John rubs his palms on the navy-blue pyjama bottoms he kept for himself.

'What is she like, the bride?' Sherlock asks the ceiling.

'Hetty?' John says, smiling softly. 'She's alright. Better than Henry. He really doesn't deserve her. You'll like her.' John thinks some more, and he further says: 'I guess she's bringing in the money to fix the property. I mean, did you see the pheasants? I bet there are peacocks and whatnot. Wasn't like this when I was a child, that's for sure.'

'You visited often?'

John lays back against the pillow, they are now side-by-side, staring at the ceiling. 'Harry and I got shipped here a lot when we were kids. You know, school holidays and such. Mum was ill and taking care of two boisterous kids was too much for her. Dad wasn't around much at that time either. I don't suppose he could handle her illness either.' John sighs and asks: 'Do you need the lamplight on?' a clear request to change or end the conversation, to have Sherlock let go; but Sherlock can't – won't – let go, only maybe for the night.

The detective studies the blond man's profile for a couple of moments. John doesn't resist it. Sherlock's interest and scrutiny is still welcomed, and Sherlock feels himself quieten.

'No, go ahead and turn the lights off. You can sleep, John. I've got to think.'

'Think? What? Now? There's no case!'

Sherlock hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

John turns the lights off by his side. Through the windowpane he can see the starry sky spreading out into the distance.

.

Surprisingly, John sleeps deeply and peacefully, and his unguarded state coaxes Sherlock's body to mimicry, finally allowing the detective to fall asleep some two hours later, lulled by John's soft snores. It's as if John's short unburdening before sleep had fuelled some much needed repairs in his psyche, allowing him to have a deep night sleep. Not even when Sherlock turned in his sleep and his hand collided with John's face did John regress into battle mode sleep. Had any of the two been awake to notice, they would have seen John bat away the large hand with the acid scarred fingers, and Sherlock's mouth twitch, and that was it.

The same trust that fuelled their partnership in the daytime was permeating into their unconscious states as companionship and mutual protection.

Sherlock awoke first, feeling like he had overslept by hours, just six hours later. John would sleep through that, his cheek impressed by the creases from his pillow, his eyelids twitching softly in response to a dreamworld of his own, his breathing rate slow and serene.

The detective got up gently and scratched his neck and other parts of his body that felt particularly numb after an uncustomary long sleep. He beelined for John's luggage and fished for the spares of things he suspected John had packed to lend Sherlock – just in case. Finally, he locked himself in the bathroom for a long hot reviving shower.

When he finally got out, hair dripping and fully dressed, John was still sleeping deeply.

There was nothing else to do but to explore the property, so he texted this to John, who got weirdly upset whenever he lost track of the genius, as if Sherlock could not take care of himself, and he left the guest suite cautious not to make too much noise on the gravel outside, so not to disturb John.

In the cold morning light, the property's manicured hedges looked more like fortification walls than surrounding greenery. Sherlock craved a cigarette, out of boredom, and tried hard to file away that sensation back into the deeper archives of his Mind Palace brain. He fleetingly blamed the six hours of sleep for his body's bold cravings. Sleeping properly would make him lose his fine control over his body and mind, if he kept going on like this.

Kicking some gravel along the path, Sherlock found his way around the unit and finally got the first glance at the woodlands behind the property line.

Tall, dark firs and other conifers, wafting evergreen canopies and a few mysterious clearings among the greens, from where rising fog was hovering above creeks. It was both tantalising and inviting.

Sherlock was about to zero in on the woodland, when a sharp gunshot echoes through the morning silence.

Panicked birds set off in mad flights in all directions. A freeze frame of human activity follows due to disbelief in almost all of the suites but John's.

In fact, the former soldier himself races out in socks and mussed pyjamas, wild eyes and hair sticking out in all directions.

'What do you think you're doing, Sherlock?' he shouts at once.

'Why do you blame me? It wasn't me!'

'It seems like the sort of thing you'd do!'

'Yes, granted, but it wasn't me!'

They are interrupted by a grumble of "damn pheasants!" nearby. They turn to see a bony old lady, back ramrod straight, walking wobbly on the gravel with her scuffed kitten heeled boots, and grey hair pulled back in a tight bun, revealing a tall forehead. Oh, and she is wearing a hunting outfit and carrying a hunting riffle.

'Aunt Maggie!' John rushes to her, and gently displaces the riffle from her hands, checks it, removes the cartridges and locks it, before handing it back. 'How are you? It's John, remember me?'

She looks at him closely and smiles. 'John Hamish, what devil brought you here after all this time!'

Wincing slightly at his second name, John does not miss the old lady looking disgruntled at the riffle, but swinging it over her shoulder all the same with a warm smile at her nephew.

'Henry and Hetty's wedding, Aunt Maggie. The other guests will be asleep, so best not to raise them just yet. Here, I'll walk you back to the house.'

'In your pyjamas?'

'It will be our secret,' John winks at her, taking it all in his stride.

'Who's the looker?' she asks.

John is not sure if she means the one looking, or the one who has the nice looks. Either way, he prepares an answer, but Sherlock anticipates him by deriding:

'I have a fine brain, you know, can we skip the looks for once and talk about my brain?'

'This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes.'

The old lady smiles vaguely, already focusing on something else. 'Will there be haggis for breakfast?'

'You despise haggis, Aunt Maggie.'

'Hence why I ask, John.'

The doctor smiles with ease. Banter is always easy with John and Sherlock feels a slight pang of jealousy, that he quickly stores away.

Sherlock follows the two, always a couple of steps behind, over to the main house, a dark business of stone cornices and too many angles, where a couple of ugly gargoyles wouldn't have gone amiss. The door opens and a young woman dressed in a stuffy uniform crossed between nurse and maid comes to redirect the old lady back inside. She takes the secured riffle with a grumbled sigh. With a singsong Scottish accent she chides the old lady for her jolly walk, thanks John with a tired nod, and turns them inside.

'We never found out if there was indeed haggis for breakfast,' Sherlock muses.

John nearly jumps off his skin, as if he had all but forgotten Sherlock today.

It could be the residual trauma from the firearm discharge, or the frequent memories revisiting that John has been doing since he has arrived on the property leaving him stranded in no man's land.

'Sherlock, uh…'

'Very eloquent, John. Do return to our guest unit, and I will endeavour to find us some breakfast.'

Still a bit puzzled, and absently rubbing his left shoulder, John nods and follows the instructions without much fight.

Sherlock watches him walk back and turns one last time to the house with the locked front door. Definitely some gargoyles are missing from the stone lintel above the front door.

.

'Is that my t-shirt?'

Sherlock turns to John's voice, trying to gage extra social cues. Purloining your friend's clothes might be considered a bit not good, on second thought.

'You brought enough clothes for two days, John. I thought you wouldn't overly mind.'

'We are going to be here the whole weekend, you berk. Two days. And I don't mind.'

'Two days? When did I agree to two days?'

'When you insisted we'd come over. This was not my idea.'

'John…' Sherlock suddenly loses steam. He looks fleetingly guilty, as if he now realises the emotional toll this revisiting of John's past must be having on his friend.

Sherlock can get carried away with an idea, and John, being the indulgent enabler he is by nature, will sometimes let Sherlock get away with too much before putting on the brakes on their exploits.

The good doctor walks over to Sherlock and states firmly, looking him squarely in the eye: 'Thank you for insisting I'd come back. It will give me the closure I need.'

'John, I…'

'And it will do me good in the end.'

'You…' another aborted attempt at speech. When is Sherlock so unintelligible? Only around John Watson.

'Thank you for being in this with me.'

Sherlock's upper lip snarls immediately. 'Don't thank me yet.'

The detective hates polite greetings, pleases, thank yous and goodbyes; all the societal conventions that through sheer repetition lose meaning. Words should be economical and have real meaning. Words should never be wasted with John.

Misunderstanding him somewhat, John pats his friend's shoulder gently and turns away, accepting the implicit demand for the conversation to end.

John knows Sherlock well, he just doesn't yet fully understand Sherlock well.

Same goes for Sherlock.

.

TBC