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Just Within Your Reach

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The case was a disaster. The storm had come early, and they were stuck in the hotel. John didn't want to be in the room, not now. Not with Sherlock right there. Just within his reach. If he wanted, he could reach out, pull Sherlock close, hold him, kiss him, love him. But he wouldn't. John couldn't. Because Sherlock didn't have feelings for him.

But John couldn't stop his thoughts. He had closed his eyes a while ago, but he was unable to fall asleep. Aside from Sherlock, the chair was hard as hell, and so was the wall. He doubted he was going to get much sleep at all.

Lestrade had given them this case. A young woman had shown up dead at the local beach. Police had taken her fingerprints. Her dental. But she wasn't in the system. She wasn't anywhere. She was unidentifiable. So, naturally, Lestrade had given it to Sherlock. The case, however, wasn't in London.

It was in Manchester, UK. Not only was it far, but the forecast had said something about a big storm. Sherlock had, of course, ignored it. Bustling John into a taxi, yelling at him for taking so long.

They had been on the case for three days now. Three long, rainy, dreadful days. Three days Sherlock Holmes had been unable to solve the case. He thought Sherlock would have it figured out within minutes. But it had been three days.

John wondered how long Sherlock would go before he tried...other methods of thinking. The longest he'd seen Sherlock go on a case was a week. It had been an assassination. But not just one, multiple assassinations.


He didn't think he could go a week like this. He was always tense, and his mind was always wandering, and always at the most inappropriate of times. When they were surrounded by people, or when Sherlock would actually eat and he would tell his love of the food through his throat.

God, how John hated when he did that. He hated it, with everything, but he loved it just the same.

And Sherlock...Sherlock was ruining him.

And just by sitting there.

John wanted to open his eyes, to lean forward. He wanted to tell Sherlock everything.

But something held him back. He was afraid. If Sherlock didn't have feelings for him, he would ruin everything with just three words. And that was the last thing he needed. To lose Sherlock. He wasn't going to lose Sherlock. Not now, when John needed him the most. He would do anything to keep Sherlock close, to know he was there.

He was not going to do anything to push Sherlock away. 

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Sherlock was tense. John was sitting across from him, his head leaning against the brunette wall, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. He was thinking, Sherlock knew that. He had studied John for so long, he knew everything. Yet, John was still foreign to him. Sherlock wanted to kiss John. Wanted to show John he cared. But he couldn't. Because John didn't have feelings for him.

Sherlock knew that. But it didn't change anything. It didn't change the way Sherlock would stare, taking in every aspect of John when he was engrossed in something, like one of his books.

He did that now, studying John. He kept creasing his brow, his nose crinkling slightly. His hand was clenching and unclenching on his thigh. Sherlock doubted John even knew. He did it when he was thinking of things that hurt to think about.

John let out sigh, and Sherlock jumped at the sound. "John?" His voice was loud in the small, quiet room. John jumped and opened his eyes, locking his dark blue eyes on Sherlock's. His chest tightened, but he didn't break the gaze.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John's voice hitched.

Sherlock abruptly wondered what he'd been thinking about. Sherlock tilted his head. "I'm bored."

The statement was simple, but John pushed himself out of the chair, moving to the small-ish kitchen. Sherlock watched as John did the preparations for tea. Bringing freshly drawn, cold water to a boil in the kettle. Standing at the stove, watching the water.

"A watched pot never boils," Sherlock voiced.

John snorted, his shoulders shaking with the laugh. "I've never actually believed that. I used to watch them as a kid, just to see if it was true."

Sherlock watched as pain took over John's face. "You know, it actually takes the exact same amount of time for water to boil whether or not it is being watched. The temperature is set, and the water boils slowly no matter what. Although adding salt does speed up the process, it is only an illusion of the mind for most, because they learn from a young age that the myth is true, when in all actuality, it is not."

John stared at him, and Sherlock could see some emotion on John's face, but he couldn't place it.

"What?" Sherlock didn't like not knowing things.

John shook his head, moving his attention back to the now boiling water. "The water's boiled. Probably 'cause I didn't watch it," John said.

Sherlock scoffed. He watched as John poured the water into cups. John took both after he finished and walked to Sherlock, handing him one. "John, get my laptop would you?"

John set the cup down in front of him and looked around. "Where is it?"

Sherlock looked at the cup. "Beside me, on the table."

John made an annoyed sound. "Could you not get it yourself for once? I always do it."

Sherlock smiled. "But you wouldn't have it any other way. You love me, and you know it, John. Now get it, would you?" Sherlock noticed the tense of John's shoulders at his words, but he pushed it away. John handed him the laptop, and he pulled his feet up, tucking them underneath himself. He opened his laptop, turning it on and watching the slow movements of the coloured windows.

A loud boom echoed throughout the room, and Sherlock looked over to the window. A flash shot through the sky outside, and Sherlock could see the rain was pelting down. The sound of the rain hitting the building was calming. He heard an intake of breath and turned.

John was sitting, his cuppa on the dark carpet, now darker in one spot. He was straight backed, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair. His face was white, and Sherlock saw him swallow.

Sherlock leapt up, hurling himself in front of John. He put his hands on both of John's thighs, and Sherlock could feel the tremor rocking through John's body. "John?" His voice was quiet. John didn't seem to notice. Another crack sounded, and a small whimper came from John. Sherlock's eyes widened. He didn't like this. Not at all. "John?" Urgency laced his words.

John's eyes un-glazed. They were the colour of midnight. If midnight could shine the way the galaxy seemed to shine. They were tinged with a light green on the outside of his pupil. "Sometimes...I still see the war."

Understanding shot through Sherlock. He gripped the fabric of John's jeans. He could hear John's trembling breath, feel the muscles in his leg tense. Sherlock was squatting in front of him, his face inches away. "John." He uttered the name, shaking his head, but John seemed to suddenly focus, pushing himself from the chair, stumbling across the carpet. Sherlock stood, the room tipping a bit in his vision of worry. "John, where are you going?"

John didn't turn, just stopped, one of his hands on the knob of his bedroom door. "Bed." And with that one word, he opened the door, slipped inside, and shut the door behind him.

God, Sherlock was so stupid. Why would John want to talk about the war?

Actually, you are a very smart intellectual, he reminded himself. He had wanted to make sure John was okay. But what if he had pushed John away? Accidentally shown how he felt?

He moved back to the sofa, lying down, letting the warmth of the room take him over.

He closed his eyes, and images of John flashed unburdened. Maybe tonight, he would sleep.

Maybe John would too.

Maybe, if Sherlock was lucky, he would dream of John.

Just maybe.


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This is just here to say that if English isn't your first language, or if it is and you know someone who likes to read these and English isn't, or if you enjoy reading it in a different language, comment it below.


I will make one with any commented languages.


Love you all. Hope you do!

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John sat in his flat. He could still hear the echoes of guns being fired. He wondered how long it would last. He didn't want it to last. Then again, he could end it.

Right here, right now. He didn't need to be burdened with the images of his friends dying. Watching them fall. And then trying to save them, and failing.

Some wounds were fatal, some were just deep enough to leave a scar, and some would heal without any indication there had been an accident.

His wounds...his were fatal. And he had the gun. Right there. Harry would be okay. She might drink, but she would be okay.

His parents were dead, so no problem there. He reached for the gun, his fingers fitting perfectly. He looked at it for a long moment.

Could he really do it? Could he shoot himself? Was he that much of a coward?

His breath trembled, and he started to shake. At first it was tiny tremors, then it got worse. He dropped the gun, and it clattered to the ground. He fell not far behind, sobs wracking his body.

He just wanted it to end. He didn't matter anymore. He wasn't anything to anyone. He knew he would do this again in a couple days, and again he would fail to actually put a bullet in his head.

As he cried, images came:

The war.

All the fatalities.

All the death.

And all the pain.


John jerked upwards, and hit his head smack against something hard. The something yelped, and John pulled in a breath.

"Dammit John. You could've broken my nose." From the sound of it, Sherlock was fine.

"And damage your ego. We wouldn't want that now would we. And what the hell are you doing in my room?"


"Sherlock, what were you doing in my room?" Still no answer from the other man. Worry lanced its way into John's gut.

"Sherlock!" John's voice rose.

"You were screaming," John froze. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. He opened them again, and found he could see Sherlock more clearly now.

"I-I was screaming." It wasn't a question. Now that he focused, he could feel the rawness of his throat. Sherlock nodded. They both stayed quiet for a moment.

"I was worried." John looked up at Sherlock.

"Why?" Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Why was I worried?" John flinched. "I was worried, John Hamish Watson, because you were screaming your lungs out, and I was afraid. I don't want you in here every night screaming because your scared! But you won't let me help. Let me help John."

John sat still for a moment, "Lie with me." He saw Sherlock's facial change. "What?" Sherlock's voice was low, confused.

John sighed, "When I was young, Harry would lie with me when I had nightmares. Lie with me, Sherlock." Sherlock stayed a moment, then moved slowly. He laid on the bed, with John next to him. John had a pressure in his chest, and his vision was blurry.

"Hold me." his voice was quiet, and he felt Sherlock tense.

"What?" Sherlock's voice was rough. "I need pressure. Please, Sherlock." And Sherlock did. He pulled John to him, pressing him against his chest, and John had a sudden realization. Neither had shirts on. John could feel every muscle, every bone in Sherlock's body. He wrapped his leg around one of Sherlock's.

He would blame it on the sleep later. But right now, he didn't care. Sherlock was close, and the pressure was relaxing.

His head was on Sherlock's chest, and for once, John thanked his height. He could hear the thud of Sherlock's heart.

Unnaturally fast.

John mentally shrugged it off.

The pressure was slowly subsiding. Sherlock was holding him close, and he was listening to Sherlock's heart beat.

He counted each beat, and it sounded like music to John's ears. He was in love. Indefinitely. With Sherlock Holmes. But never mind that, because the beats had slowed to a rhythm. And the rhythm was lulling. Like a lullaby.

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Sherlock was lying in the same bed as John. John was curled into his side, his head pressed into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock counted each breath John released.

Nine hundred eighty seven

Nine hundred eighty eight

Nine hundred eighty nine

One thousand

It seemed to be Sherlock's knew favorite sound. He loved the feeling of John pressed flush against his side. He shut his eyes. His heart had slowly to it's normal rate from earlier, and a weight that Sherlock didn't even know he'd had lifted.

He wondered how it would be tomorrow, when the storm was over, and the thunder stopped.

A crack sounded in the room, a he felt John tense beside him, a muffled sound coming from his throat. He pulled John even closer, wrapping himself around John, his heat mixing with John's.

But he wasn't going to sleep, not now. Not with John right there. He wasn't going to sleep.


Sun hit Sherlock's face, and he brought an arm up, covering his face, blinking some. The foundations of where he was didn't sink in until he pulled his right arm, only to feel a slight weight on it.

Sherlock looked over, and smiled. John was still there, although asleep. He looked younger. Sherlock reached out, and lightly rubbed one finger down John's cheek; from his temple to the edge of his lips. The edge of his mouth was soft, and Sherlock imagined kissing him there.

He pulled his right arm slightly, and John pushed himself further towards Sherlock. Sherlock moved his fingers through John's hair. It had grown out, since Sherlock forced John not to cut it.

It was soft, and Sherlock liked the feel of it. The smell of sage, and and a bit like mahogany. Sherlock continued to knead John's hair, and he could feel John stir. The smaller man let out a small puff of breath, and it brushed Sherlock's skin, causing him to shiver.




Sherlock jumped, throwing his arm out. His fingers connected with the phone, and he answered before another ring ran through.

"Sherlock?" He heard the voice, but looked to John instead.

He was still curled up in Sherlock's side, but one of his arms was thrown over Sherlock's stomach, his fingers grazing the slip of stomach that had been released from the sheet he'd thrown over himself.

John let out long sigh, and Sherlock watched as his face relaxed again, moving back to Sherlock's neck.

"Sherlock." A scowl crossed his face. He felt something in his chest constrict, and glanced back at John.

"What do you want, Lestrade." It wasn't a question.

"I have a case here, four missing people. All found dead in their homes, no prints, house locked from the inside, alarm systems weren't set off." Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't want to leave John, not now. "Sherlock, are you still there?" Sherlock sighed.

"I'm with John right now, Lestrade. I can't," a sigh mirroring Sherlock's issued from the phone.

"That's not all Sherlock." He waited, but he knew what Lestrade was waiting for.

"Well? What is it?" his voice had risen a bit. Hesitation.

"They're spelling something. And we have a good idea what." Sherlock's interest piqued.

"What are the letters?" Another sigh issued from the phone. "Lestrade, what are the letters?"

"S. H. E. R." Sherlock shot up out of the bed, a surprised noise coming from behind him.

"What!?" One thought crossed his mind, but he pushed it away.

"We think it's your name." Sherlock bent over, picking up a dark blue shirt off the floor. A button up. He pulled open a drawer, taking a pair of trousers out.

"I've gathered that."


"Will you leave, to come back here?" Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh.

"Yes, I'll come." He hung up, pulling his trousers on. Someone was killing people, and they'd left a message. Letters. But, then again, so many things could start with S H E R.

Sherlock counted all the words he could think of: Sherbert, Sheriff, Shergottite, Shareefs, Sherpas, Sheroot, Sheriffdom.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock tensed. He had been about to button his trouser. He'd forgotten about John, for a moment. Sherlock turned, and immediately averted his eyes.

John had run his fingers through his hair, ruffing it, the only part of his that was covered was his left leg, the coverlet having slipped off. His eyes turned up to Sherlock, his right leg hanging off the bed. A slip of his navel was showing where his boxers had slid. The sun glinted off of John's skin, a light sheen of sweat was on the slip of navel, and his eyes had a glassy look to them, his pupils a bit blown. Sherlock found himself getting a bit lost in those eyes. They had a hint of green, yet blue and grey were fixated within them.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John's voice pulled Sherlock, and Sherlock looked away. He hadn't even realized he had looked back at John.

"Yes, I'm fine." he waved a hand in John's directions, and moved to slip his shirt on.

"W-well where are you going?" Sherlock looked back to him. "Where am I going?" John nodded, and raised his hand to block a yawn.

"Yes, Sherlock, where are you going. There is no one else for me to ask." Sherlock cocked his head a bit, and his brows furrowed.

"I am not going anywhere." He could see John swallow, and a though ran through his hair.

What would it be like, to kiss him there? Right below his neck.

He mentally shook himself. Now was not the time to think like that. "But you just got off the phone with...someone."

Sherlock nodded, "It was Lestrade." John just looked at him.

Sherlock began buttoning his shirt, "And?" Sherlock sighed.

"He has a case." John nodded.

"Are we going to go?"

"Obviously," Sherlock deadpanned. John gave him a funny face, and Sherlock turned away.

"What was it about?" Sherlock finished his buttons, and rolled up his sleeves.

"What do you mean?" John a sound, and Sherlock turned his head. "What do I mean? What was the call about?" Sherlock turned back to face John fully.

"Bodies. Four of them. Missing. No evidence of to how." John stood, stretching his arms above his head, another yawn escaping.

Sherlock watched as the muscles in John's stomach tighten for a moment. His boxers slipping a bit, more of his navel exposed. Sherlock's breath hitched. He heard the crack of John's back, and the gasp that came next only led to Sherlock's thoughts worsening.

Sherlock turned and walked to the door, his breath still coming uneven.

"Pack your bag. We leave today," his hand reached to the knob of the door, and a warm hand touched his shoulder. He tensed, but turned. John's hand fell to Sherlock's upper arm.

"Why are we leaving for this? You still haven't figured out this case yet." Sherlock shook his head.

"She was murdered by her husband. She had an affair, and he walked in on it. He got mad, struck her, and she fell, hitting her head on the edge of the island. He cleaned the blood, but residue was still there. He then moved her to the butlers home. He got drunk one night, told a friend of it, and the friend told him off. Told him it was bad, and she was his wife. He should feel so much worse. So he tried to kill himself, but something happened, and he moved his hand, most likely a knock on the door, or a window being rattled. He then got a graze on the head from the bullet. He told the police it was a mugging, and that he was lucky to be alive. After she died and he failed on killing himself, he went after the woman she had an affair with. He killed her. The body was of the wife's lover." John stared at him.

"How the bloody hell did you know all that, and when did you find it out?" Sherlock smirked. "No, don't tell me how you knew it all, you'll be going on for hours if you do."

"I've know since the first 8 seconds I stepped in his house."

"You knew after 8...8 second, and you didn't tell them. We've been here for three days. You've been so upset about not figuring out the case. But, if it wasn't the case, what were you so upset about?"


The thought invaded Sherlock's mind. He didn't answer, just turned away, opened the door and shut it behind him.

Of course it was John, it always was. John was always the first thing he thought about in the morning, and it was the last thing he thought about before going to sleep.

John was always going to be there, but the last couple days, he was constant. He kept seeing John, and his thoughts kept wandering. He thought, maybe, he could tell John. it's why he hadn't told anyone he figured out the case.

If he just told John...but he couldn't. John was his best friend. Nothing more. Even if he wanted, so much more, John didn't.

And Sherlock would have to live with that.

Even if it killed him.

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John made his way to the kitchen, the smell of fresh tea in the air. He would have to thank Mrs. Hudson the next time he saw her. He missed when she made it, but now he had to depend on Sherlock for the time being. He made his way down the stairs thinking over what had happened. Sherlock had come into his room because of his nightmares, had held him all night, and then rushed out.

John had no idea what to make of it, or if he even did want to make anything of it. He entered the kitchen and looked around. Sherlock wasn't here, so he was probably in his room. They had booked separate rooms, with a door connecting them.

John leaned into the fridge, wondering what to actually cook, when he heard a noise behind him.

He turned around to find a disheveled Sherlock leaning against his kitchen counter. His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles. John took the rest of him in. He was dressed in the clothes he'd rushed out in.

John averted his eyes, leaning back into the fridge.

A low laugh went through the kitchen, "Are you making breakfast?" 

John shivered, "I was thinking about it." He heard Sherlock hum.

"So? What are we having?" John shook his head, which was still in the fridge. "I don't know Sherlock."

A moment passed. "Are you going to keep your head in there all day?"

John turned, but the look on Sherlock's face wasn't rude, or mirthless.

It was humorous. He was laughing, and kidding, with John.

"No," he said, " do you actually want food, or did you just come down here to mess with me?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together, and John looked away for a second.

"I think," he said, "that I do want some food."

John nodded, and turned back to the fridge, grabbing some bacon that had been thrown in there when they had first arrived. He got it out of the package, lying it in strips in the pan.

The sizzling was a welcome noise to the quiet.

John moved to the cup of tea and then turned to Sherlock. "You made this?" Sherlock nodded and took a sip. He turned his eyes up to Sherlock.

"This one is actually good, Sherlock." the other man smiled and John's stomach twisted.

He's your best friends. Stop looking at him like that, John thought.

John shook his head head and looked down, hearing a shuffling. "How long do these cook?" John looked up.

"They should be done by now," John turned to set his cup down before he walked over, only to be rewarded with a sharp gasp sounding and the loud clang of iron hitting linoleum. John started forward cursing, and rushed to Sherlock. The pan was on the ground, forgotten by John.

Sherlock was standing, the pan at his feet, looking at his left hand. John cursed and took Sherlock's wrist, pulling it so he could look at the palm of it better. Sherlock let out a little gasp, but John ignored it, and pulled Sherlock to the sink, turning the water on, and pushing Sherlock's palm under without a word.

Sherlock took a sharp breath when the water hit his palm. "Why the bloody hell did you just grab it?" John asked. Sherlock turned a bit to look at him. "I forgot you couldn't just grab it."

"You forgot-How the hell did you-Did you...delete that you have to use a pan holder? John's voice rose a bit. A grin went across Sherlock's face.

"I don't really need it in my line of work," Sherlock had leaned down a bit, and a shiver went through John.

John dropped Sherlock's hand and bent down to pick up the pan, which no longer was 'burn you skin off' hot. He sighed a threw it in the opposite sink. "Now we have nothing to eat," John mumbled under his breath and ran a hand through his hair.

"We should probably go anyways," Sherlock said and pulled his hand from the water, turning the faucet off.

John nodded and made his way to the stairs, ignoring Sherlock when he called for John. He pushed his door open and grabbed his bags, heading back down the stairs.

He felt angry, his chest constricting, and he had a faint pounding in his head. Although he had no idea why he was so angry.

John sighed as he set the bags by the door, only to have Sherlock come from his room, holding his bag as well. John let out another sigh, and picked his bag up, throwing the door open. He made his way out to the car they had "borrowed" from Lestrade, and, once again, threw open the door, hoping in. Sherlock was about a minute later than John, but did the same.

He opened the door, climbed in, threw his bag in the back and started the car. He put his hand on the wheel and flinched a bit. God dammit, John cursed to himself. He should've bandaged Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock began driving, and John looked out the window. He watched building pass, and then they began to disappear, until almost no houses were seen, and woods and fields took their place. It was soothing, the hum of the engine, the feel of the car driving, and the woods passing by quickly.

John leaned his head against the window, and closed his eyes. He was like that for a couple moments, and then he heard a low humming coming from beside him. He didn't move, and just listened. The pressure in he chest eased a bit when he realized what Sherlock was humming. It was one of the works he played on his violin whenever John was upset.

John had looked through the pages one day, and saw the words : John's piece. He had loved the sound of the way Sherlock had played it before, and had loved it even more after that. And he felt a deep darkness coming over him as he listened to Sherlock's humming.

And, as the song hit it's crescendo, John fell into sleep.

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Alright guys. So, right now I have Type A flu, and I can't really do much, but I really want some idea for the next chapter, or upcoming chapters after that. Tell me what you want to happen, who you want to come in. Please leave me so comments, and please please let me know what you think of the story so far. I don't think I'll be able to get through this story at all without you guys.


Chapter Text

Sherlock looked over, and saw that John had already fallen asleep. He smiled to himself and  began humming. He hated how the waltz was always in the back of his mind. But he loved how it sounded, he loved how much he felt John when he played it or hummed it. 

Sherlock had made the song when he first realized his feeling for John. It was surprising, really. Sherlock wasn't one to feel things, especially love. Mycroft had always told him love was a weakness. He supposed Mycroft was right, but that didn't stop him. 

The car ride was long, and Sherlock kept himself humming John's song.




Sherlock pulled the car in front of 221B Baker street, and he felt a slight pressure in his chest ease. He looked over at John, who was still asleep. Sherlock let out a sigh, shut the car off, and opened his door, making sure to close it loud enough to wake John. He opened the back seat door, and leaned in to grab his bag, and saw John leaning back to grab his. 

Sherlock swallowed and took his, slamming the door shut, and turning to the door that would lead inside. He took a slow breath, put on a smile, and walked up, opening the door. 

"Mrs. Hudson?" his voice went through the house and he heard the breaking of glass before Mrs. Hudson was hugging him. He laughed and dropped his bag, hugging her back.

She, too, was one he had emotions for. He had attached himself to her. And he didn't regret it. He buried his head in the older woman's shoulder for a moment and breathed her in. She had the same smell as always. Citrus, the body wash she used (that Sherlock would occasionally steal for experiments), cleaning chemicals, and fresh tea. 

When he heard John bustle in, he quickly stepped away from Mrs. Hudson, who rushed to John. Sherlock scowled and turned to march up the stairs. When he made it up, he slammed the door shut and collapsed on the couch. 

Hopefully he could go and get this case done as soon as possible.




John was pushed back a bit as Mrs. Hudson raced at him and gave him a hug. He let out a laugh and hugged her back. He pulled away when he heard Sherlock move up the stairs. Well...more like stomp up the stairs. 

He flinched slightly when he heard the door slam. Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms and looked at him.

"What did you do?" John gaped. 

"I didn't do a thing, Mrs. Hudson," he said, as she began to move to the low table and sit down. She sighed and pushed a cup of tea to him, and he smiled, taking it.

"What was all that about, then?" John just shook his head.

"He got a call from Lestrade. A case was found, but Sherlock closed off a bit," John's voice was a bit higher than usual and he cleared his throat. 

"Did you try and find out what it was?" Mrs. Hudson asked. John sat for a moment and thought back. Then he set his cup down and sighed. 

"No. I didn't Mrs. Hudson." She shook her head and looked away from John.

"Well, tell me how it was," John looked at her. "How what was?" She gave an exasperated sigh, "The case. The city. What you did," she laughed. 

John smiled, "It was fun actually. There were a lot of old building in the place we were, and the drive there and out was beautiful. I spent the most of the three days trying to figure the case out, when Sherlock had it in the first 8 seconds, and didn't tell anyone." 

"That sounds like him," Mrs. Hudson said, and pushed his cup back toward him. "A storm hit last night, though." John put in.

Mrs. Hudson's face fell, "Oh, John. Were you alright?" John thought for a moment before answering.

"It hit hard again. Sherlock, uh, heard me." John's voice fell and he took a drink of the tea. He had  missed how she made it. Mrs. Hudson nodded and took his hand. 

"How did it go?" John swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"I asked his to stay and sleep with me," He cleared his throat again and took another drink of his tea.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a look, which he couldn't pinpoint. "How long has it been since the last it happened?" John thought for a moment.

"About a year," he whispered. Mrs. Hudson smiled and reached over, taking his hand again. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. John nodded and felt his eyes water.

"I can't deal with having nightmares. Not right now," John said, his voice breaking at the end. Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything, just waited for him to finish.

After a moment, John swallowed, and continued, "I see them all the time. Its been years, and I can still barely sleep. I have this tightness in my chest at all times, and it's always hard to breathe. I have this fear of being closed out. I can't be in rooms alone anymore, and when I am, it's like that world is crumbling and falling apart.

And I love going on cases with Sherlock, but the really bad ones...the ones with soldiers who have...Those are the hardest, and I can't tell him because if I do, he'll stop himself from going on cases like that, and I can't do that to him. I gets worse the more I push it down, and the nightmares...those are the worst things I can ever imagine." John's voice broke, his breathing shaky. Mrs. Hudson nodded once more.

"Did it help, dear? Having someone like that?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was low. John shook his head, and then nodded. "Just...pressure. When I get like that, I need pressure," John mumbled. Mrs. Hudson reached out, and once again took his hand. 

"Sherlock would understand. He does understand, John," Mrs. Hudson. said John opened his mouth to answer, but a loud thump came from above them. Mrs. Hudson looked up, frowned, and then looked back to John.

She squeezed his hand lightly, and nodded. He let out a sigh, and hopped up, rushing out of the room.

What in the hell did Sherlock do this time?

Chapter Text

So I haven’t been on for such a long time, and I just wanted to say sorry. I’m finishing up a new chapter for you guys. I’ve been sick lately and my family has been such over he place, my depression has been getting pretty bad, and it’s just really hard to push myself to finishing even one chapter. But I do promise you you’ll get one soon. In the mean time, I wish you all a Happy Valentines Day and hope (if you have one) your sweetheart treats you right.

Chapter Text

Martha Louise Hudson never would have thought she'd have to sit down with an ex-army doctor, and tell him that having PTSD was normal. She never would have thought she'd have to look at the ex-army doctor and see how desperately in love he was with his best friend. Never would she have thought she'd see how in love his best friend was with him.

But, that's what she got for housing Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

She loved Sherlock and John, she couldn't deny that, but having those two be so in love and not realize it, was devastating.

She would hear them fight a lot, and she would often hear Sherlock's violin. She could hear John storm up the stairs whenever something got to be too much.

But never in her time that they had lived there, had she heard a fight this big.

" I don't care if you go, Sherlock, but you can't just say something like that and walk out!"

"I can damn well do what ever the bloody hell I want," the violin started.

"NO!" John's voice echoed down the stairs. "You are not going to play that thing and shut me out!"

She heard the sound of the violin being taken from Sherlock, and then she heard the normal - well, for her at least - gun shot, that meant Sherlock had gone for the gun to shoot the wall rather than hurt John in any way.

She sighed, knowing she would have to go up there and patch the wall up. Again.

It was about every other week she would have to patch that wall up, now.

"Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock. Quit shooting the god dam wall! " John's voice echoed.

"Why are you so worried about it in the first place?" She heard another crash. There goes the table, she thought.

"Maybe because other people live around here?" John shouted.

Others did live around them, but they too had grown so used to the fights and the loud noises and the occasional gun shots, that they no longer complained.

Mrs. Hudson stood after a moment, and busied herself with making two cups of tea. There was one thing she always told the boys, "I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper", but she loved those boys.

As she finished the second cup, the boys' voices rose again.

"Sherlock, I swear to God, you can't just assume who it is!" John's voice made it's way down. Mrs. Hudson shook her head, and laid the cups on one of her silver trays.

They were the only thing the boys - especially Sherlock - knew they couldn't touch. It was one of the only family heirlooms she still owned.

She carefully maneuvered her way up the stairs, and pushed the door open that led into the main room of the flat.

Both men were glaring at each other, both tense and angry.

"I made you some tea, Dears." She said, and John turned, his face calming. She saw him paste on a smile, and then he walked over to her. She handed him one of the cups, and he took a small drink, before he grimaced.

Sherlock strode over, and took the cup, lifting it, and smelling it. "Can't you do anything right? John hates sugar in his drinks," Sherlock bit out.

Martha Hudson was used to the words he would bite in anger, or the way he would stride when he was upset. She was used to it, but it still put pressure on her chest when words like that left his mouth. 

She smile slightly, "I must have forgotten. I'm sorry," Sherlock looked up at her. Martha was never one to apologize to the two boys, and Sherlock must have realized his mistake.

"I'm...I shouldn't have said that, Mrs. Hudson." She supposed that was the closest to an actual, "I'm sorry" from him. She pressed the other cup into John's hands.

"I must have gotten them mixed up," John smiled at her.

She took the now empty tray and made her way to the door.

"Is there anything to eat?" She heard Sherlock ask. She didn't turn around, but threw the same answer she always had over her shoulder.

"I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

Chapter Text

Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson walk out. After he heard her footsteps receded almost fully, he plopped down in his chair, and pulled his legs up.

After a couple seconds, he saw John lightly sit in his own chair across from Sherlock.

Sherlock had told John about the sudden case, and John had freaked. Now, they had one broken table, and new bullet holes in their wall. He didn't see why it was such a big deal.

Yes, there were bodies that might be spelling out his name. And yes, Sherlock had gone through everyone it could be. And yes, he knew it was dangerous.

"John?" Sherlock's voice broke through the silence. John hummed his attention, but Sherlock just looked at him.

After a moment, John let out a small sigh and looked up at Sherlock. His eyes ran blue today and Sherlock had to break eye contact with him after a moment. "I don't understand why you're so upset about it."

John huffed out a breath, "This could be anyone, Sherlock. This isn't some game anymore. Someone is trying to get your attention by killing people," John sat up straighter and turned to Sherlock fully.

"You know who this looks like?" John asked.

Sherlock tensed. Yes, he had thought about that. But he watched the man kill himself. A small voice in the back of his mind crept up, And John saw you jump. Just because you see it, doesn't mean it's true.

Sherlock shook his head and looked at John. "It's not him, John."

John scoffed, "Every time....Every time we think it's over, it gets worse."

Sherlock sighed, "I know. I do know John. But it isn't him."

John nodded and turned to the stairs that would lead up to his room. Sherlock's mind flashed to the night before. Just a one time thing. Sherlock felt his chest constrict.

God damn his feeling. God damn him wanted human contact. That's not what he was like. That was not Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't even realized John had gone until he heard the bedroom door shut. He knew what he was gonna do.

He was gonna go back to hiding everything. Get back to doing cases and loose himself in them. He wasn't going to let anyone know. Well, anyone else. Mycroft knew, but then again, Mycroft knew everything. So, here Sherlock was. Back again to hiding.

Back to the sociopath and freak everyone knew as Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

It wasn't easy being in love with Sherlock Holmes. It was, in fact, the hardest bloody things John had every had to do in his life. It was the hardest thing he knew. Well....second hardest at the moment. But he wasn't going to do a things about it.

When Sherlock raised his voice, it got deeper. And lord above help him if that didn't get him all hot and bothered. But right now, he was angry at Sherlock. He was not going to get himself off when he was this pissed. 

He shucked his clothes off and climbed into his bed. It felt nice to be back in his own one. He didn't much like the one at the hotel, although if he was honest, it was only because Sherlock was much to close then. He was a floor above Sherlock now, and there wasn't a chance that if, and that was an if, he had a nightmare, Sherlock would not hear it. 

John shifted under the cover he'd pulled up and around himself and shuddered as he dragged the edge of his cock against the sheets.

No. He was not doing this. He'd lie perfectly still, and think about dead puppies. Not Sherlock's cheekbones, or the way he looked when he stepped out of the shower, or how his hair curled at his temples, or about when he was experimenting and he'd chew on his bottom lip. He wouldn't think about the way Sherlock arched his back like a fucking cat after he'd fallen asleep half on John and half on the sofa while watching some show on the telly. 

And he wouldn't think about the smile he got when Lestrade came over with a new murder. Or how when Molly (tried) to hit on Sherlock, he would always turn to John for some reason, as if asking "what should I do?".  And he wouldn't think about the private smile he gave John when he was particularly happy about something, or how he ran his fingers through his hair when he was frustrated. 

Bloody hell. He needed to sleep. Not lay here and think about Sherlock bloody Holmes. He was being pissed at Sherlock. For hiding that Lestrade had found a new body. Or how it had been spelling out Sherlock's name. 

John's chest constricted. He couldn't loose Sherlock again. Not after....the fall. It had taken two years...two years of drinking and hurting himself and talking to someone who wasn't even there...

And to make it all that much better, he'd turned down a lovely woman named Mary, who'd seemed quite into him. But he had been Sherlock's, still was Sherlock's. And then after two years, two bloody years, Sherlock had shown up. And....all that pain had just...evaporated. Had just left. 

And now, after a year and a-half of Sherlock being back, being here, someone was threatening him again. They'd been through so much already. Moriarty, The Fall, Eurus....

Especially Eurus. Seeing as she'd almost killed John. But they'd gone through it together. And now Sherlock was back to hiding things from John.

John rolled onto his back and closed his eyes tightly. Some how he always ended up here at night. Thinking about "The Fall". About how it felt to watch Sherlock fall off that building. And to see him there on the ground...

John shuddered and tears prickled at his eyes. He pressed his palm against them and let out a ragged breath. He fucking hated Sherlock. He hated him to no extent. He fucking hated Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

John turned back onto his side and held back the need to punch his pillow. He swallows and kept his eyes closed. He knew he wouldn't sleep. He never did anymore.

Because of Sherlock. And because of the war. And because of the fall. 

He fucking hated Sherlock Holmes. 

But he loved him even more. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock sat in the chair, his legs pulled up and against his chest. He hated lying to John about the bodies, and he hated even more when John found out. He'd stopped lying about everything and told John all the answers after Eurus. 

Sherlock vaguely saw Mrs. Hudson come in again and set a tray of tea beside him, but he knew he wasn't going to drink it anytime soon. His minds was running through every possible way he could keep John away from the case. Away from the danger. But with every single outcome John Watson was still in it.

Sherlock shook his head after a moment and glanced at the clock. 

12:45 p.m.

His brows furrowed. He'd been sitting here for hours. Alone. And now in the dark. He sighed and stood up. When he moved to walk, his leg hit the edge of the chair and he stumbled forward. His knee hit the side table and in the process the tray of tea came crashing down onto the ground, and Sherlock tumbled after it. 

It was a loud thump after his that made him look up in time to see John come out from the stairwell, his eyes wide. Sherlock could see better now from the light upstairs and it was then that he realized his vision was blurry. Sherlock blinked and it took him another moment before he processed the fact that his eyes were full of tears. 

He couldn't think why he'd be crying until he heard John let out a sharp breath and then Sherlock was being pulled to his feet and away from the mess.

He tried to argue and say he needed to clean the mess he'd made, but John was having none of it and Sherlock just went quiet. John pulled Sherlock to the kitchen table and made him sit. Sherlock felt a bit of a burning feeling in the palm of one of his hands and he looked down at it.

A large cut ran from his thenar to palmar digital. His brows furrowed again. So that was why he'd teared up. He could still see a piece of glass in his hand and he sighed heavily.

John came back and pulled Sherlock's hand up so his palm was facing up as well. He pulled something out Sherlock didn't think about and started on Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock looked away and to the doorway, going into his mind palace. It would have to take at least 10 minutes. 

He went through everything again in his head until he was running in circles and had no where else to go. So...he came out of it and winces right away. He looked down at his hand to see a white bandage around his palm and wrist. He looked up to see John sitting at one of the chairs. 

Sherlock shifted in his seat and looked away. 

"I bandaged your palm," John states after a moment. 

"I know, I can see that," Sherlock answers and then winces to himself. He sounded like his normal arrogant all knowing freakish self. 

John sighed and then leaned forward and touched Sherlock's inner arm - since he usually touched Sherlock's wrist and Sherlock's wrist was in a bandage at the moment. 

"You can talk to me, Sherlock," he murmured. Sherlock felt his heart pick up at the single touch and he took a deep breath looking up at John.

"Not about this," he answers. "You went through Moriarty and Eurus. And you still go through Mycroft. I'm not letting you into this one," he adds quietly. John nods slightly but doesn't move his hand.

"It's not up to you what I can and can't get into," John says. Sherlock looked up at him again - he'd down casted his eyes after a moment of silence between them. 

"Fine. But the moment things get out of hand, you're leaving things be," he states. John nods and Sherlock can see him relax. He looks tired, Sherlock realizes. 

John stands after a moment and leans down, pressing his lips to the crown of Sherlock's head before he pulls back and runs a hand over his face murmuring something about bed. Sherlock stays frozen, but within that second Sherlock took in everything about John.

He'd smelled of honey which meant Mrs. Hudson had given him tea. And he smelled like wood which led Sherlock to realize John had taken a shower, and he could still feel the heat of it coming off of John in waves. He could feel John's skin against his arm and he felt it even more when he pulled away and it wasn't there any more. He could taste the stress coming off of him, and he could smell.....

Sherlock blinked. He could smell himself on John.

Sherlock raised himself off of the chair and slowly walked to his room. He pulled off his clothes and laid down, curling up to one of his pillows. Yes, that was Sherlock's smell. And it had been on John. He let out a long breath.

He was so fucked.

Chapter Text


He had been stupid. He'd fucking kissed Sherlock Holmes on the head. 

He ran a hand over his face as he laid in his bed. It was stupid. No, more than stupid. They were best friends. Of course Sherlock wouldn't feel like that about him.

Two guy best friends who shared a flat, he argued with himself. 

But they were just friends. Sherlock had said before he wasn't one for relationships, he thought.

Yeah, and that's why he's lying to you to protect you, he argued again. 

He turned over onto his stomach and sighed. It wasn't easy being in love with Sherlock. He had been able to feel Sherlock's skin, and he'd been able to see the curve of his cheekbones and the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck.

And how his hips felt under his fingers and the way they peeked out from under Sherlock's shirt. And the curve of Sherlock's thighs under his pants and the way he tensed and John could see the muscle jump. And the way his shoulder blades moved under his shirt and the way Sherlock rolled them when he was nervous.

God, what John would give to touch them, and to press light kisses in between them and to be able to see Sherlock fall apart. And how he would dig his fingers into Sherlock's jutting hip bones, and how he would nip and bite at them, leaving marks there. And how his fingers would curl into Sherlock's hair.

Or how he would make Sherlock beg under him while he licked and bit at the other man's neck, marking up his collar bone. Fuck, how that collar bone killed John every time he saw it after Sherlock would come out the shower. 

And he always came out with a towel riding low on his hips - those damn fucking bloody hips - and he would walk around the flat, which would pull John to look at his thighs, and fuck how he wanted to have those thighs tighten around his head as he made Sherlock cum from just his mouth.

John didn't even realize that the moment he started thinking about parts of Sherlock's body, he began rutting against the mattress. He groaned out loud and went faster, thinking of the ways he wanted to take Sherlock in the shower, how he wanted to pound into him through the haze of water beating down on them. 

He shuddered and his hips stuttered against the bed, and he almost reached down, but he would be damned if he allowed himself to touch himself thinking of Sherlock right after he'd fucking kissed him. 

So he just rutted faster until his breath was coming in fast pants because the friction on his cock. 

He groaned and whimpered - not even fully into the pillow and he was vaguely aware that his noises were echoing around his room. His hips almost fully stopped as the warmth in his stomach tightened to a wire and then broke, and he came. Rutting against his bed. Into his boxers. Half naked. Thinking of Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

After of moment of coming down from his high he stood on wobbly legs and peeled his boxers off, tossing them onto the floor and grabbed a washcloth, cleaning himself. He groaned - him still being sensitive from already cumming once. 

He slowly climbed into his bed and wrapped the covers around him. He was more than tired now, his eyes fluttering closed. 

He half thought about being quieter next time before sleep over took him and he curled himself into his pillow, thinking of Sherlock as he fell asleep.


Chapter Text

Sherlock spent the last five minutes listening to John do….listen to John do whatever he’d been doing. Because ‘whatever’ it was, had reached Sherlock through the halls as he laid in his bed.

And no, he had not gotten turned on hearing that. And no, he hadn’t reached down to palm himself through his boxer. And no, he definitely did not reached under his boxer and touch himself slowly when he listened to John

It wasn’t on purpose that he’d listened to John. Except that he hadn’t done anything to drown out those noises. He hadn’t done a thing to stop himself when he heard John’s groans pick up in speed.

But the moment everything died down, and he sat there for about three more minutes, he pushed himself off of the bed and he scrambled for the closests pants. He did the same with a shirt and pulled on his socks, along with his shoes. He had to calm himself before he ended up bursting out into the hallway and waking half of Britain.

He took a deep breath and then pulled his door open slowly, and slipped out. He walked quickly down the stairs, and he didn’t even bother with his signature coat. He just pulled the door open to be hit with a small breeze of air, and closed the door behind him.

He didn’t want to leave the flat, far from it, but he didn’t have any other choice. John hadn’t given him another choice. And now, after John had leaned down and kissed the crown of his head, he’d had to hear what John definitely sounded like after he came.

And it wasn’t like Sherlock didn’t like the sound. No, quite the opposite. He very much liked it. Maybe too much because now he had thoughts of John coming undone in his head. And then he had thoughts of John’s thighs in his head, and how they would clench when he came.

And then it was how John’s back would arch off of the bed, or how his body would shudder and he’d lose his breath and then he’d scream. Because Sherlock knew, whether he wanted to or not, that John had been holding back.

And he really wanted to know why because Sherlock very much wanted to hear profanities fall from John’s mouth, and fuck if he didn’t want to see John wearing his unif-

Sherlock cut that thought from his head faster than he’d done anything in his life. His brows furrowed and then he was aware he was already in a long hallway. He must’ve lost track of things when he’d been thinking of John, and thinking of John cumming, and god that unif-

No, Sherlock told himself firmly. Not here. Not in Mycroft’s office would he think of….that. Instead, he rolled his shoulders and opened the door in front of him. And of course Mycroft was exactly where Sherlock expected him to be.

Mycroft looked up and gave a small smile - which ended up looking like a grimace instead - and then he spoke: “Hello, brother mine. I suppose you have another favor to ask me?”

Sherlock waited a moment before he finally found Mycroft’s eyes - eye contact was something he never did unless he was very serious about something. “Take me out of London,” he stated.

Mycroft’s brows furrowed, “Out of London? London is where you belong dear brother,” he said lowly.

“Well, brother mine, I don’t feel London is doing well for me,” Sherlock hissed out.

Mycroft only looked down at the files in front of him. “I suppose this about the bodies found,” he more stated than questioned.

“It is,” Sherlock answered. His eyes kept flickering down to the files on Mycroft’s desk, and he wondered what he could do to get them without the older man noticing.

“You’d have to pass me to get theses, Sherlock, and even I know you won’t do that,” the man says and then looks up and Sherlock finds his eyes again. “What about John?” Mycroft asks gently.

Gently? Sherlock thought. Since when did Mycroft Holmes do anything gently. Sherlock shook his head, “What about him?”

“You faked a death for him, Sherlock. And then after two years the moment you were in London you went back to him. Do not ask me what, dear brother,” Mycroft argues.

“I can ask what about anything I damn well please. And John is...fine...without me.”

“Fine, Sherlock? You didn’t see him while you were gone, and I doubt you see him now.”

“I see perfectly fine, Mycroft. Now will you get me out of London or now?”

Mycroft sat in silence for a moment, “Tell me the truth of one thing, and I’ll get you out by tonight without another comment about anything.”

Sherlock hesitates but eventually nods, “Fine.” Whatever Mycroft wanted to know couldn’t be that bad.

The older brother got up, straightened his shirt vest and his tie and then walked forward until he was in front of his desk and he leaned back against it. He tilted his head a bit as if trying to read or see through Sherlock. After a moment of this he gently sighed - again, with the gently? - and he fixed a piercing gaze on Sherlock. “Are you in love with John Watson?”

Sherlock tensed and his eyes widened. He couldn’t answer that. If he did that made it real. That would mean he really did care and he had feelings and that those feelings were towards John and maybe if those feelings were to John and he didn’t have those feelings back well then Sherlock would be fucked.

 And maybe if John did Sherlock wouldn’t have to leave, but he wouldn’t ask because he’d be damned if he ruined anything with John now. And if he ruined things before he even had much of a start to fix them it wouldn’t be fair.

 But then again life wasn’t fair because he was having to leave London to protect a damn man who didn’t love him back. But he’d do anything for John and even if that meant….

Sherlock cut his mind off and looked back up at Mycroft….only to see him writing something down on a piece of paper. Sherlock’s brows furrowed and then Mycroft straightened and handed the paper to Sherlock. He looked down and his confusion mounted:

Sherlock Holmes, flatmate of John Watson - 221B Baker Street and part of the Yard’s criminal questionings, is given permission to leave the city of London, England at any given time he wishes. No questions will be asked about his whereabouts after, and none is to tell of where he goes. No one shall touch Sherlock Holmes in any way, and none shall speak to him. He is given to go wherever he likes, and he shall be treated accordingly to his place, and mine.

            -   Mycroft Holmes


Sherlock looked back up at Mycroft and he shook his head. “I never answered,” he says.

Mycroft looks him over quickly, “Yes, you did Sherlock. You answered me as well as anything, brother dear,” he states and then waves his hand distractedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s mind ran as he made his way out of the building.

What in the hell had Mycroft seen?

Chapter Text

It took John a moment to realize that he hadn’t woken up for a while now. He groaned and roll onto his back, rubbing a hand over his face. He blinked a couple times and then pushed himself up. He hesitated before he climbed out of his bed and looked around for clothes.


He slipped on a pair of sweats and wandered out of the room. When he made it downstairs he stopped for a moment in a patch of sunlight coming from the nearest window. While he stood there he realized he didn’t hear any of the normal loudness coming from the flat.


His brows furrowed and he wandered into the kitchen only to find not a thing had changed from the night before. His stomach did a flip at the thought of the night before and he took a deep breath turning away from the room.


He slowly walked towards Sherlock’s room and hesitated by the ajar door. He pushed it open and his breath caught. Sherlock wasn’t in the room. He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t in the living room. He took a deep breath and turned away from the room, rushing downstairs and his heart calmed.


Sherlock’s coat was still there. He had never, not once, left without the coat. Unless….John closed his eyes.


Unless he had left in such a rush that he had left it.


His hands balled into fists at his side and took another sharp breath. Sherlock wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have gone without telling John...without telling someone.



He would have told someone…..


John groaned and then stomped up the stairs. He rushed up to the room, threw on the first pair of jeans - after shedding his sweats - and practically tore the shirt onto his head. He rushed into his shoes and had to do them again after putting them on the wrong feet. He also had to turn his shirt right side in because he hadn’t realized it hadn’t been.


He rushed back downstairs and grabbed his jacket, pausing to write a small note to Mrs. Hudson:


Went out for milk


  • John


After he made sure she would find the note he practically slammed the door behind him and made it maybe a block before he stopped abruptly and turned to the nearest security camera.


He looked around and then pointed at it, “You get one of your cars, and come bloody get me,” he half shouted. He took another sharp breath when nothing happened.


“I know you’re watching! You always do, so I fucking know you can see me. Get. Me. A. Car,” he said roughly.


The camera - after a moment - turned and pointed towards the ground. After about a minute of John trying to calm his breathing, a sleek black car drove up and one of the back door opened.


He didn’t even hesitate as he got in and found a woman sitting there. He half glared at her, “What took so long?” he asked hotly.


“Mr. Holmes has work to do,” she answered simply.


“He can answer me,” he shot back.


She simply hummed. He looked out the window. He took a deep breath. This wouldn’t end bad. I couldn’t end bad. Not now.

So here he was.


Going to see Mycroft bloody Holmes.

Chapter Text

Mycroft sat in his office waiting for John Watson. The man was nothing short of a business man, going through files and filing things in his mind.


Mycroft Holmes


Mycroft Holmes was the older brother of Sherlock Holmes and Eurus Holmes. He was part of the British government; or, how Sherlock Holmes would say, he was the British government.


He was also the only one John Watson would come to if he was worried about Sherlock. And he had every right to be worried about him, but Mycroft wouldn’t tell John that until he showed.


So here Mycroft was, sitting in his office, his head in his hands because he had just let Sherlock leave London. He....had written him a pass to go wherever he wanted.


All because Sherlock couldn’t hide that he was actually in love. And after all this time...after years of Sherlock thinking himself unable to feel....


Mycroft sighed heavily and stood. It was no use in dwelling over spilled milk. Except.....except with Sherlock it was.


Because he needed John for this case, and Mycroft would be damned if he didn’t let John help Sherlock.


And Mycroft hasn’t said anything about not telling John about how Sherlock left London, and where he went.


Mycroft stood in front of the mirror on his office and fixed his tie; he’d been nervously messing with it for the last three hours , waiting for John to get his attention and now waiting for him to arrive.


His head snapped up to look at the door when it swung open and Mycroft fois himself looking at an angry John Watson.


“Hello John,” he said gently; and he wasn’t particularly sure why he was going for gently with these two idiots.


“Don’t bloody hello me Mycroft,” John snapped. Mycroft only raises a brow at him through the mirror. "Where's Sherlock," John asks.


Ah, so getting right to the problem, Mycroft thinks to himself.


"Out of London," Mycroft answers. There was no use hiding it from John. He saw

John's face fall, and of course he saw the pain John was trying to hide - and failing at it. Mycroft sighs and turns to look at John fully.


"He left London at approximately 4:36 a.m. this morning and arrived somewhere is France about an hour ago," He says and moves to lean against his desk.


John lets out a sharp breath and after a moment takes a step towards Mycroft, "You just let him leave?"


"I couldn't stop him," Mycroft answers.


"Of course you could've! You're his brother."


"I made him a deal, John, and he did his part in it."


"A deal? What kind of fucking deal would he make with you to go all the way to France?"


"I asked him a simple question and he answered me correctly."


"What? What question!?"


Mycroft stayed silent.


"No. No Mycroft I deserve to know."


And he did: "I asked him if he was in love with you, and if he answered me truthfully, I'd give him a pass to anywhere."


John froze.


"You...asked him...if he....if he..." John trailed off and Mycroft suddenly felt sorry for the man. "What did he answer?" John asks suddenly.


Mycroft shakes his head. "All I can tell you is he didn't answer with his mouth." John curled his hands into fists again and Mycroft had half a mind to offer him some brandy, but seeing as his shirt was inside out, he figured John didn't exactly need it right now.


"With his mouth? What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"


"It means he didn't verbally answer."


John ran a hand over his face. "Bring him back," he said quietly.


"....On one condition," Mycroft answered.


John looked up at him, "What?"


Mycroft tilted his head as if he was thinking, "Answer me...are you're in love with Sherlock? The same question I gave him."


He watched as John shifted. His brows furrowing. His hand twitching at his side. His eyes changing emotions. His body leaning away from Mycroft.


Mycroft nodded and turned around, pressing a button on his phone, "Bring Sherlock Holmes back to London, please." He turned back to John and nodded.


"You got your wish, Sherlock Holmes is coming back to London."


John shook his head, "But I never answered."


"But you did."


"No I did no-" he was cut off by Mycroft raising a hand. "You can go back to your flat, John. He'll be there in about an hour. Maybe two."


John stood for a moment and Mycroft waved an impatient hand at him and he turned and left. Mycroft dropped his shoulders then and let himself sag into the desk, running a tired hand over his face.


Those two idiots would be the death of him.

Chapter Text

John was sitting in the flat, his back against the wall, as he was sitting on the couch. His mind was reeling, but at the same time, he was the calmest he'd ever been. 

Part of him was wondering why Mycroft called Sherlock back even after John had never answered. But he supposed that was just how the Holmes brothers were. They did things without thinking and when they did think, they didn't take anyone else opinion into matter. 

Anger boiled into John. Sherlock was fucking stupid for leaving. And without telling John. Or Mrs. Hudson who was very worried when John got back to the flat. 

John's fist tightened on his thigh. It was stupid. He was being stupid. How was he supposed to love someone who didn't even care for him?

He left for you, you idiot, he thought to himself. 

John shook his head. No. Sherlock didn't love him. Mycroft was just another pawn in the game. And John....John was the one stupid enough to fall into the game. 

God...the stupid game. With fucking Moriarty and Eurus. Sherlock was right. He'd dealt with so much...he'd gone through almost dying more than once...

But it had all been with Sherlock. When Sherlock would let him in and talk to him just enough for John to understand. And now John didn't understand a thing.

His chest constricted and he got up, pacing around the room and he glanced at the clock.

"Fuck," he said aloud. It had only been an hour. How had it only been an hour? It felt like an eternity. Like he'd been in this room forever. 

He twisted his hands and then let out a long breath. He needed to calm down. 

He closed his eyes but they flew open a moment later when he heard the door slam open on the floor below, and he heard that familar fast treading of shoes, and he felt his heart speed up and his mind race....

....and then the door flew open and there stood Sherlock, his hair a mess, his shirt a bit undone and rid up on his hip, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

And then Sherlock spoke, his voice low and rough and laced with worry and desperateness; "Yo....You're not hurt? You're a-alive"

Chapter Text

Sherlock kept looking at the clock on the plane.

10 minutes....

20 minutes....

25 minutes...

30 minutes and 45 seconds.....

40 minutes.....

58 minutes, 23 seconds, and 1.5 milliseconds....

An hour.....

1 hour and 15 minutes...

Sherlock jumped when someone touched his shoulder. "We're here, Mr. Holmes," they said and Sherlock jumped from his seat. He rushed off of.....whatever he was in and....and realized Mycroft had a car waiting for him.

One of his normal black sleek cars, and Sherlock didn't even wait another moment  before he opened the door and quickly climbed in. And apparently the driver already knew because they began driving the moment the door was closed. 

Sherlock spent the entire ride with his leg going, his foot hitting the floorboard over and over again. He worried at his bottom lip and pulled at the edge of his shirt. 

And when the car got stuck in traffic, not even 10 minutes from the flat, Sherlock felt his heart stop. 

He didn't even think. He just simply threw the door open - not even shutting it behind him - and he began to run. He couldn't even count the number of people he ran into. He no doubt looked like a mess, his hair astray and his shirt rucked from where he ran into people. 

The moment he saw 221B, he sped up. He threw the door open, ignoring the slight scream from where Mrs. Hudson would be cleaning the floor because of the time and the date. 

He rushed up the stairs and threw the door open....and his heart sped up even further, his chest rising and falling fast, his mouth agape. 

"Yo....You're not hurt? You're a-alive" he asked, his voice low and rough and laced with worry and desperateness. John stood still, his own stance the same mix. Sherlock shook his head and swallowed. "M-mycroft said you were....." he trails off and mentally hits himself. Of course Mycroft had lied. 

Sherlock straightened himself, and he shook himself. "You're fine," he stated. 

"Of course I'm fine, Sherlock," John answered.

"Nothing happened to you."

"Well I wouldn't say nothing."

"Then something did happen?"

"Yeah, something happened. You bloody left Sherlock."

"I left to protect you."


Sherlock's heart sped up. He'd said something wrong. He'd done everything wrong. John knew. John hated him. John didn't want him anym-

"You should've told me," John whispers. 

Sherlock looks up at him. "No. I couldn't have."

"Why not?"

"Because you would've tried to stop me."

"And what if I did? Huh? Maybe you're worth stopping."

Again, silence. 


Angry and hurt roared around the room.

"I'm not worth stopping," Sherlock answered. 

"And why not?" John shot back.

"Because I'm Sherlock Holmes. The freak."

"Maybe that's why you deserve it"

"I deserve it because I'm a freak?"

"No, because you're Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh yeah, what makes me so special? Look, John, no on cares." 

"I care, Sherlock"



"You shouldn't"

"Why not? It's my choice."

Sherlock sighs and runs a hand over his face, moving into the room, not looking at John.

"It is, Sherlock. It's my choice," John's voice rose. 

"Well it's a stupid choice," his rose as well.

He wondered why John was so....why he cared so much....

"Oh Mr. Let-me-up-and-leave-with-no-note-and-have-my-only-friend-worry-about-me-Holmes."

Sherlock scoffs.

"No! You do not get to scoff at me."

"Why not? It's my body."

"Well as it turns out it's also mine, to keep you from doing drugs!"

Silence again.

Voices echoing.

"I can do them if I want"

"No you bloody well can not"

"And why not? It's not like you care!"

"I..I dont c-care? What in the bloody name of the queen do you mean I don't care?"

"I mean you're to busy in your own head all the time to actually notice the things right in front of you! You're too into yourself to see what's so blindingly obvious that it's actually so stupid you cannot tell. And I'm beginning to think I should've never come back!" he yells, his voice broken,

He can feel John break before he hears it, "I'm the one being to into my own head, Sherlock? You're the one who being so stupid and retarded you can't see the shit we all for you! You can't see the things I hold back every day for you!"


Sherlock's mind reels. What he hold back every day? Does can't mean....that's impossible....he can't feel...No, Sherlock was going crazy...

"What the hell is so important to you , you hide it away from me? Don't you think it's fucking unfair that you're doing that? What the fuck did I come back to because this right here is not worth it. What is so worth it?" his voice is rising even more, and he can feel the tension roll off of John in waves.

"I'm in love with you, you bloody idiot!"


Echoing words.





Chapter Text

John stood silent for a good minute. Has he just....said that....out loud? No that...he wouldn't do that. But now Sherlock was standing there like he'd just seen Mycroft do something particularly disgusting.

John shook his head, "I didn't mean that," he half whispered.

Sherlock stayed still. Not a word, his hands at his side, his mouth slightly agape.

After a moment of Sherlock standing like a statue, still as stone, he spoke: "Why would you love me?"

John's brows furrowed, "What?"

"Why would you love me?"

"Why would I not?"

"Because is what I'm like?"

"God, Sherlock. You may think you don't matter but you do."


John sighed heavily, "Okay, fine, yeah, I love you. Okay? You can be pissed all you want and if it really matters I can get my stuff and find another place to stay."

Sherlock's mouth fell open again, "Why would I want you to leave?"

John shakes his head again and runs a hand over his face, "I just said I loved you."

Sherlock goes still again.

"And?" he asks after a moment.

John stares at him, "And? don't love me back so it'll make a weird tension."

Sherlock tilted his head, "What makes you think I don't?"

"B-because you're Sherlock Holmes. You don' people."

"God, John, see this is why I said you're stupid."

John took a step forward and pointed his finger at Sherlock, "I am not stupid."

"Yes, you very much are."

"I am not."

"Then prove it!"

"How in the bloody hell am I suppose to prove it?" John's voice rose and he took another step closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffed, "You're John Watson, don't you always find a way?"


"I can't away find a way, Sherlock."

"Why not? You found a way to get over me for two year!"

John moved and pushed Sherlock on the chest, "You're an ass. You know I didn't just get over you dying."

"Then what was her name? Mary? That little fling with her? That was getting over me, John."

"That was me trying to forget! Why...why do you even care?" his voice rises.

"Because you're not the only one in love!"

"Oh, well now, who would the great Sherlock bloody Holmes be in love with!?" John practically yelled. 

And then....God, and then John was being pressed against a wall.

His space taken up.

Hands pulling him closer to the warmness of a body.

Soft lips crashing against his.

His fingers tangling in dark curls.


Fingers pushed at his shirt, pulling it up.

Hands touched his skin.

His fingers trailed over heated skin.

Down the heated neck....away from the curls

Pulling at the purple buttons.

Fingers gripped his waist.

His tongue asked for entrance of the soft mouth; it gave way.



Lips and tongue.

Lavender tea.


His hands pulled the man closer.

Pressed against his thigh.



Lost of breaths.

Erratic movements.

His head tilts up; soft lips on his neck. 

His hips jump; thighs press against him for friction.


Every emotion poured into the movements.

Lips crashed back against his.

Marks on his neck to stay.

Lips slow.

Words fall from his own. 

Feet stumble across the room; bodies don't un-attach.

His legs hit something.

His back falls into something soft.

A bed.

Lips don't slow.

Hands speed up.

Movements go faster.

Clothes gets pulled.

It all slows.

Three words fall from the other mans mouth; 'I love you'

Four fall from his; 'I love you too'

Chapter Text

So due to some family problems and school pushing too much work on me, I'm putting pause on writing this.


My pause should only be about a week - maybe two. Thank all of you who read this story and love it!


Once again, I'm sorry I have to put this on pause for a bit. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock listened to everything come from Johns mouth and his mind ran. This….this is why he’d fallen in love with John. But he was being insanely stupid. His eyes flickered down to John’s mouth and he quit hearing anything John was saying.

And if he said anything, he didn’t even know it. He watched John’s tongue nervously come out, wetting his lips, and Sherlock’s mind stopped - and that was saying something.

He surged forward, not knowing if he was cutting John’s talking off, and he didn’t care either way. He crashed his lips against John’s and he almost pulled away when John tensed, but then he relaxed and tilted his head up and Sherlock couldn’t help it when he sighed against John’s mouth and his hands moved to John’s waist.

He held there and pressed himself closer and his mind ran. Because John Watson was kissing him back.

So much for not being gay, he thought, and then pushed it away. He’d figure that out later, but right now, Sherlock’s mind was on John.

It was on the way he smelled: like honey - mostly because of all the tea he made for Sherlock, and the smell just stayed with him - a bit of wood. The wood was different today than it was before. Today he smelled more of amber - rich and warm, vaguely honey like….ah, that’s where the honey was from, not the tea. And he smelled of citrus, which Sherlock supposed was lasted over from whenever John had taken a shower, he always zoned out when John took one. He smelled a bit of lavender, which was from Sherlock’s last experiment that John had gotten to close to.

He smelled purley John and Sherlock stifled a groan. God, he loved the way John smelled.

John’s finger came up and curled into Sherlock’s hair, tugging at it, pulling Sherlock closer. Sherlock obliged, letting his body relax into John’s, moving his legs so they were as close as he could get them, one of them slotting between John’s. And yeah, maybe that one wasn’t an accident at all.

A thought crossed his mind, and he rolled his hips, pushing himself against John, and at the same time, moving his leg so it to pushed against John. He shuddered and he felt the same reaction come from the man pinned under him. Except he wasn’t pinned under him, he was pinned against a wall.

Sherlock wanted to change that, but he couldn’t move except to roll his hips again, his groan caught by John’s mouth, as the man pulled him closer again. Sherlock took it in that John had lost all his tension, and his mind flickered to the thought that maybe he had been tense because of Sherlock. But he pushed that away, like the other one, and simply ran his tongue over John’s bottom lip, reveling in the shudder he pulled from the man.

He’s responsive, Sherlock thought. And that one didn’t get pushed away, instead is lingered in his mind as his fingers tightened on John’s waist. He could use that. He filed away the information, and flickered his tongue over John’s lip again, pulling another intense shudder.

And then he could move. He moved back, pulling John with him. The other man followed, but that didn’t stop a lot of stumbling, seeing as neither wanted to pull away and take any real lead. At least neither did yet.

Sherlock turned at the last possible moment when the reached room. He was pretty sure it was his since they hadn’t hit any stairs. He barely moved away when John hit the bed, only to move his hands down to John’s hips and move him up further onto the bed.

And everything slowed. His fingers untightened and instead of the frantic kissing they’d been doing, he went slow, John going along and opening his mouth, giving Sherlock more access. Sherlock’s tongue darted in and he almost lost control right then and there.

He tasted a bit like strawberries, but he supposed that was Mrs. Hudson’s doing - always buying fruits for them, wanting them to be healthy. He tasted a bit of lugduname, and that was one Sherlock had himself to blame, for he’d given the sweetening agent to Mrs. Hudson when he found out everything about it he needed to know about it. But he did taste like tea. And not just any tea, it was Sherlock’s Earl Grey Lavender one.

John tugged at his hair and Sherlock moved faster then, his hand - as well as John’s, since they had to move around each other - pulled at the others clothes. He stopped after a moment, and he almost sighed when he realized he’d have to pull away.

He did just that. He pulled away just enough to get a breath, his eyes finding John’s blown ones - he already figured his were - and he silently asked if this was happening. If they were actually doing this. John must’ve understood him because he simply nodded, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked a bit and he held back any remarks he wanted to make. He simply pushed himself up and half struggled with his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it somewhere to the side - ah, okay, by the side stand it was.

He looked down to find John had done the same, and he took in the fact of where John’s shirt was - at the edge of the bed, near the floor - before he let his eyes roam. His breath left in a rush, and his eyes flickered from John’s face, to the skin he was showing.

He moved and leaned back down, capturing John’s mouth gently after seeing the other man had started to move self-consciously under Sherlock’s gaze. “Perfect,” he murmured under his breath to John, and Sherlock felt him relax.

Sherlock moved his hands away from where they’d rested on the bed, either side of John’s body, and he pulled at his own jeans - yeah, the one day he’d actually worn jeans. He hesitated and looked back at John. He hated feeling uncertain, but at the same time he wanted to be uncertain with John Watson.

John nodded and reached for his own - which were some dark colour, like a navy blue mixed with some kind of lighter one - and he started on them.

Sherlock’s heart sped up, thumping in his chest, and he pulled his off, tossing them aside taking in where they landed - by the door - and he looked down at John. His breath left him again and he had trouble pulling in a breath.

Sherlock let his vision roam over John - even if he wasn’t fully unclothed - and his heart sped up again. He’d fallen in love with this. Of course he’d gone and fallen in love with someone perfect.

He looks back up and he smiled gently when he saw John was doing to same thing to him - looking at him and taking in every aspect. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John lightly, reveling in how he tasted. But John reached up and tugged at his hair again, and Sherlock's mind lost track. Sherlock carefully slips of John's boxer, and his own as well.

And then Sherlock is pushing his erection against John's, and Oh god the friction felt amazing. Sherlock moved his lips down John's jaw and to his shoulder, and the he reaches down with a free hand, and firmly wraps his hand around John's cock, and strokes him.

John pulls in a stuttering breath, and arches his back. And Sherlock loves that stuttering breath of John’s

And then Sherlock presses another kiss to John's shoulder and starts to move down, nosing against John's stomach, leaving soft kisses on his way. He breathes in deep against John's skin, holds his breath a little too long, and lets it rush back out in a warm puff that makes John shake.

Sherlock gives John's thighs attention, and he makes sure to leave marks on them. And if no one would know, but it made John’s his. And he found John’s thighs were very sensitive when Sherlock flicked his tongue over the marks.

Sherlock revels in the full body shudder that rips through John at the first touch of Sherlock's lips to the head of his dick. He whines, and throws his head back when Sherlock hums and John bucks up into Sherlock's hot wet mouth.

Sherlock goes slow, licking just John's tip. Sherlock sucks and brings his hand down to jerk John where he's not surrounded by Sherlock's hot mouth, and John buries his hands in Sherlock's hair and whines for more, head thrown back against the pillows.

Sherlock pulls off and makes a soft, delighted noise when he watches as John's dick leak precome. He licks it off with a blissful little smile, and then he finally moves down lower.

John takes in a shuddering breath, and Sherlock breaths out hard, sending a tremor through John's body.

And then Sherlock's tongue shoots out and swipes over John's entrance, and John's hips jump up even as his hands spasm and bury in the bed sheets beneath him. Sherlock's tongue is hot on Johns hole, and John lets out a whining beg, and Sherlock’s stomach twists hot when he hears the sound.

John is close, but when Sherlock pushes his tongue inside of him and his hand, still warm and sure, wraps around John's dick, Sherlock knows he’s struggling to breathe by the rise and fall of his chest being uneven with the air leaving him.

John's fingers weave through Sherlock's hair, and he pulls and jerks it with pleasure. Sherlock hums as John alternates between pushing up into Sherlock's warm grip and riding back down onto his hot tongue.

"Fuck," John breathes through clenched teeth.

And then Sherlock's mouth is gone, and he's heaved himself up to kiss John. Sherlock pulls back a bit. John’s face is flushed red, pink lips slightly open, pupils blown black, he looks so gorgeous that Sherlock can't breathe.

"Please," John gasps out, hoping to god Sherlock can actually hear him. Sherlock moves down a bit to give John's nipples some attention. Small kisses first, then licks, and when he bites down, John arches off the bed with an embarrassing whimper.

Sherlock's fingers find John's hole, and John to cries out. And when he does, Sherlock pushes a digit past his ring of muscles.

He goes slow, but when John pushes down, desperate, he adds another, and John let outs another embarrassing whimper. Sherlock goes faster this time, but soon enough, John is pressing down wanting more and more.

John can't help the pathetic whines that claws there way out of his throat, the way his hands fly up and grip Sherlock's upper arms, the way his legs start to tremble around Sherlock.

Sherlock adds another finger, then, watching John’s face contort into pleasure. Sherlock can see his body has never been this ready - has never wanted - Sherlock this bad before. And then Sherlock pulls his fingers out and kisses John softly.

The first touch, just Sherlock's tip rubbing against John's hole, John's breath rushes out of him.

Sherlock finally, oh so carefully and slow, pushes all the way inside, until he's buried to the hilt. His body freezes, then, and he's quietly whining when he rests his head against John's sternum.

"I just...I need a second," Sherlock breathes out.

Sherlock takes his time as he breathes deep and nuzzles into John, his dick hard and pulsing inside of John. He's filling John up so perfectly, like they are both made for this.

And then Sherlock starting with a slow, careful grind.

John keens, and his fingers scratch down Sherlock's back, until he'd holding Sherlock's ass, pulling him deeper, and harder.

Sherlock’s mind is swimming, nothing feels important but the feel of John under him, the slow, hot movement of himself inside John, the way he holds onto John, kissing him.

"I love you," Sherlock breathes out, and John's entire body breaks down in shivers and soft little whines.

Sherlock starts to gain momentum, to move faster, but it's only when John whines for more, harder , that he gives up the careful thrusts and drops his control.

Sherlock starts going faster, harder, slamming into John in a pace that has him gasping for breath and scrambling for purchase, fingers digging into Sherlock's shoulders much too hard.

Sherlock is panting too, his breaths erratic as he grinds down into John. Sherlock growls, low and a little lost, and his hands fist in the sheets beside John's arms.

Sherlock whines low in his throat, and keeps grinding into John when John begs him to go harder.

And then Sherlock thrusts into him again, and John howls low and desperate, and he goes over the edge, and Sherlock swears he’s gonna lose it.

And when John whines a low half needy sound, Sherlock goes over the edge with him, burying his head in John's shoulder, his thrusts stuttering to a stop, his vision blurring and his back arches, his fingers painfully digging into the bed sheets.

When Sherlock's orgasm ends, he pulls out of John carefully, and kisses John's stomach. He presses another to John's hips, and the gets of the bed, moving towards the closets bathroom.

Sherlock stumbles back in to find John lying there, his eyes closed, and he smiled. He moved towards the bed with a wet washcloth and a glass of water. He makes John drink first, then moves down between his thighs to carefully wipe John clean with the warm cloth, clean him up as best as he can without ushering him out of bed and into the shower.

After he cleaned, Sherlock climbed into the bed, and pulled John against him, and he sighed when the latter put his face into Sherlock's neck, inhaling. He ran a hand down John's side and let his eyes flutter shut.

After what seemed like forever, when Sherlock was close to sleep, John's voice, albeit thick with sleep, reached him. 

"This isn't a one time thing, is it?"

Sherlock half smiled to himself and moved so John was pulled flush against him. "Of course it isn't a one time thing," he answered.

The time between words was longer, but once again, when Sherlock was on the brink of sleep, John's voice reached him, and it seemed to be more thick with sleep this time.

"I love you."

Sherlock's heart pounded. He smiled and he took in the feel of John's body pressed flush against his. He had taken in every little scar, every little things John would see as a flaw, and he'd filed it away. he knew he would use it when John was feeling very down on himself. He did that now. He ran his fingers on a small scar on John's outer thigh. it wasn't much, but it was noticeable. Sherlock felt John tense, relax, and then sigh contently.

"I love you too, John Watson," he answered before sleep finally took him over and he fell into unconsciousness. 


Chapter Text

Mycroft stood in the damp room, and he straightened his shirt. He wasn’t….no, his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest at all and the hand that ran through his hair wasn’t shaking. He let out a long breath and looked around the room again. It was blank, and dark, like the sun hadn’t shone into the room for….Mycroft looked around again quickly. For about three months, due to the fading on the walls where the sun had hit it at one time.


The room was empty except a single chair pushed up against one of the damp walls - where Mycroft had put it when he’d first waken. He knew the walls her damp, not only because he’d touched them lightly, but because the colour of it was different from regular cement. Yes, he knew it was cement.


There were scratches running across the middle of the walls, like someone had tried to dig their way out with their nails. And Mycroft knew what looked like. He’d watched people try it over and over at Sherrinford. He knew what he was in, but he kept his mind blank of that thought.


The last cell he’d been in had been…but she wasn’t doing this. Not this time. Because she was back in Sherrinford and she couldn’t get out. She hadn’t even tried to get out since Sherlock.


Mycroft shook his himself and looked around again. There was no door. There was an outline where one should’ve been, but there was no way for him to do anything with it. The ceiling had a single vent, which Mycroft knew was only so whoever was in here would be able to breathe. There wasn’t a way out. Mycroft didn’t know how he’d let himself get taken. It had been stupid. Of all the people to get taken they had decided to take the person who was technically the British government.


A sound went through the room - like a speaker coming on - and Mycroft tensed. He looked around quickly but found nothing that could lead to the sound.


“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” the voice sounded, light and calm. Mycroft’s chest tightened, and he his sped up.


No. He…he wasn’t scared. He couldn’t be. And his hands weren’t shaking, his breath wasn’t coming out in little short bursts. This…he wasn’t…because this couldn’t be real. That wasn’t her voice and this wasn’t some cell down in Sherrinford. It wasn’t.


“Do you want to play a game, Mycroft?”


Little. It sounded little. Like a child.


“I don’t want to play a game,” he answered, and he hated how…scared, he actually sounded, his voice shaking in all the wrong places.

“Why not?” it sounded hurt. “You played with me. You played all those funny games with me. Let me play with you.”


Mycroft’s breath left his lungs. It couldn’t be her. But…it sounded like her. Exactly like her. “Who are you?” the question left his mouth before he could take it back.


“You know who I am. You’ve known since you woke up.”


Mycroft shook his head. No. It…he looked around the room again. The vent wasn’t empty. He knew that. It was took clean to be empty. If everything else in the room was damp and dirty, why would the vent be shiny and clean? And the scratches - they were intentional. He should’ve known that - from the way they ran to how deep they were. And the chair - he walked over and he moved the chair. There was small writing on it. All over it. He knew that writing.


He stood up, his back straight, and he let out a harsh breath.


“Eurus,” he murmured, his voice low. It was her.