Be Her Guard || Epilogue

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Words: 1,387

Masterlist

Snow isn’t all too frequent of an occurrence in London, therefore, it’s always a pleasant surprise to see the streets blanketed in a thick white layer of frozen crystals especially in time for the holidays. Typically, when the once grey sky turns to a frosty white, the city slows as locals try to remember how they’re supposed to travel in such slick conditions. As for this day, travel seems to be an important requirement given the fact that most ‘sane’ people must attend family gatherings.

Sherlock stares out the frosted window of his shared flat, drawing the bow delicately across each string of his violin which lets off a smooth humming melody matching some Christmas song he doesn’t see the appeal with; however, it had gotten stuck in his head after Mrs. Hudson had requested he play it at least a four times throughout the evening.

His attention is only broken from the song when you walk to his side, reaching up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. He’s quick to turn his head, catching your lips against his with a smile. The evening has been eventful, not that either of you’ve minded.

While Sherlock isn’t usually one to enjoy decorating for the holidays, he could never say no to you especially when you continue to insist that this Christmas is the most important one of all. Although he’ll never admit it out loud, he actually finds himself tolerating that extra twinkle brought to the flat by the Christmas lights draped over the mantle of the fireplace as well as the small Christmas tree tucked away in the corner, dressed in a mix of colored orbs, science-y tools, and police tape (guess which Sherlock put on).

Of course, neither of you spend the holiday alone. Earlier, you had been joined for Christmas dinner by Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and the Watsons with their little daughter, Rosie. Even Sherlock’s parents came by for a visit while Mycroft had simply called to wish you and his brother well for the holiday. Needless to say, the evening had been filled with plenty of laughter and joy, a wonderful fit for such a special Christmas.

“…Sherlock?” He hums in acknowledgment, too entranced by the feeling of your arms around his waist with your body pressed against his back to actually open his eyes and look at you,“ don’t you want to open your present yet?”

He had completely forgotten about that. When you first set the little blue box under the tree exactly five days ago, informing him it’s a present for him when he questioned, he insisted he didn’t need any material things as he’s simply happy being able to call you his wife for the holidays. Of course, you can be as stubborn as your husband when you want to be, arguing that you’ve already spent the time carefully wrapping it, thus it’s officially his present.

Once again, the present had been brought up by John who noticed it still under the tree when everyone began exchanging presents. Surprisingly, despite your previously expressed excitement for Sherlock to open the box, you dismissed John’s concern right away, announcing that it’s a special present for Sherlock to open on his own. Worried it might be something to do with your, well, ’intimate’ time together based on your way of wording, no one else asked any further questions and you had failed to mention the topic again yourself until now as you gaze up at the back of Sherlock’s head expectantly, chewing on your lower lip while awaiting his answer.

At last, he agrees, setting down his instrument while you happily retrieve the box from under the tree and hand it to him just as he finds his seat in his chair. His fingertips brush against the white ribbon, his eyes moving to you as you quite literally sit on the edge of your seat in front of him, your lip still caught in-between your teeth. Your eyes glow yet your body language shows that you’re nervous, although, he can’t guess why. He may be blunt and not the easiest person to shop for, but he loves you dearly and will no doubt treasure anything you gift him with.

Your behavior has admittedly gotten him curious, leading him to waste no more time removing the ribbon and wrapping paper which reveals a plain shoebox, however, judging on the weight of it, there aren’t shoes inside. Lifting the lid, Sherlock is left staring down at the only content lying amount a thin layer of navy-blue tissue.

Tapping your fingers against your leg, you sit straighter with your eyes directing to the floor,“ I…I know we haven’t really gotten the chance to discuss it much aside from little comments here and there, but…well, I personally think this is something good and I, um, I’m just hoping you’ll agree. That’s why I waited until now to have you open it. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of everyone else, j…just in case you aren’t happy with it-”

You don’t get to continue much further with your rambling, the words being muffled by Sherlock’s lips against yours. It’s a long kiss, one that makes you almost forget all about the worries you’ve been dwelling on for the last two weeks now.

Sherlock’s the one who pulls away, his hands rested against your legs as he kneels in front of you, his eyes twinkling with a noticeable uplift to his voice,“ not happy? I’m overjoyed with it! How could I not be? I’ve been dying waiting for you to finally tell me.”

“Finally tell…? Sherlock Holmes, did you already know?” You blink once getting over your daze from the kiss, your eyebrow raised with mocked annoyance which makes him roll his eyes.

“I deduced it a week and a half ago after noticing your recent case of nausea, fatigue, missed menstruation cycle, and swollen bre-” He goes to list, but you cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“-Yes, I know the common signs of pregnancy, after all, I’m going through it all firsthand…but if you knew so soon, why didn’t you say anything?”

He becomes a bit bashful at your question, taking your hand in his so that his thumb can rub against your soft skin,“ while I’m not normally wrong on my deductions, I especially didn’t want to be wrong about this one. I figured it would be best to simply keep my hopes down until you confirm it yourself…”

“Oh Sherlock…” you smile, moving your free hand to his cheek. He immediately leans into your touch,“ over three years of being together and I still forget you’re a master deducer. If I would’ve guessed you might already know, I would’ve told you sooner.”

“Firstly, deducer isn’t a word, love, and second,” you roll your eyes at his comment, but smile nonetheless especially when his lips reach yours again, his hand now pressed lightly to your stomach,“ I think you telling me now is a perfect gift for our first Christmas together as husband and wife.”

When he moves away from the kiss, he takes both of your hands in his, leading you to stand up where his arms can wrap around your waist. Knowing the movement all too well, you drape your arms over his shoulders, pecking his lips every once and a while as he sways you around, humming the melody he had been playing on his violin earlier.

It’s always a lovely sight to have a young couple dancing in their flat late on Christmas Eve, not a worry in the world as they only wish to remain in each other’s arms which is perfect shelter from the cold. It’s a type of love that words can only do so much to describe, although, one look is usually enough to understand.

Sherlock Holmes absolutely adores you, his precious Mrs. Holmes, with such a feeling having already expanded to his unborn child that you bare, making you all the more valuable to him. That alone is excellent proof that the great detective does, in fact, have a heart that can easily be burned so long as far more careful steps are taken next time around, ones more reliable than entrusting some ordinary lovesick idiot as a client. It really is a lovely sight to watch indeed.

~Fin~

Be Her Guard || Chapter 26

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

WARNINGS:Blood, death

Words: 2,115

Masterlist

Everything seems to go in slow motion for Sherlock which wouldn’t be a rare thing if inside his Mind Palace, but this is the real world. He puts his hand up, although, he isn’t sure if it’s to helplessly reach for the gun again or to fruitlessly block the bullet as a gunshot rings out throughout the church like thunder, shaking the walls and echoing in everyone’s ears

BANG!

Sherlock flinches at the terrible sound which is loud enough to make his ears ring and his heart skip a beat of terror. His eyes had snapped shut almost subconsciously, opening again reluctantly while half expecting to be greeted by darkness, but alas, that’s not the case.

Instead, Sherlock watches in shock as Apollo’s own features melt into the same emotion. His mouth trembles open yet the only sound to come through is one similar to a gurgled gasp as he wobbles with unstable legs until they finally give out from under him, causing him to collapse to the ground and leave Sherlock’s line of sight clear to you.

You stand mere feet away with arms raised and pointed towards where Apollo once stood, Sherlock’s gun grasped tightly in your hands. You falter once exhaling which forces you to lean against the wall for support, your expression a mix of both relief and horror at the realization of what you’ve just done.

It takes even Sherlock a moment to process the events that had unfolded within mere seconds. He spares a single glance at Apollo who lies on his stomach with barely any motion aside from the slight shaking of his body as he chokes on both his own painful breaths and bloody saliva, the wound in his chest gushing at an alarming rate.

The sight of the red liquid snaps the detective out of it, his first action being to grab the gun and stuff it in his coat pocket before sprinting over to you or tries to at least. Due to the piercing pain in his own abdomen, he only makes it a short distant before falling to his knees, having to drag himself up right at your side.

By that time, you’ve already slide down the wall, one hand placed over your mouth while the other refuses to drop the weapon within your grasp. You’re taking deep breath as if you’ve just ran a marathon, your eyes slowly filling with tears, yet your state of shock is interrupted when Sherlock immediately places his hands over your cheeks. It’s an action you return after finally dropping your weapon.

You whimper his name, your eyes searching his face as he nods, taking deep breaths himself with teary eyes,“ I…I’m here…Everything’s okay.”

He finds himself repeating those words even when your arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, pulling the two of you together as you cry into his coat. He leans back, taking you with him so that he can begin rocking you while staring up at the ceiling. Letting everything sink in, he squeezes his eyes shut, pressing dozens of kisses to your forehead with his hand entangling in your hair. At that point, the only sound within that quiet church is a combination between your muffled sobs and his own shaky breaths.

There’s a patterned beeping inside the room when you enter only to hesitate in the doorframe. Sherlock’s curls are glowing in the light of the evening sun, his eyes set outside the window in boredom. When he turns your way, you feel yourself smile softly, finally walking into the room completely while the door clicks shut behind you.

Sitting down on the empty bedspace ever so carefully, you take his hand in yours and give it a slight squeeze,“ how are you feeling?”

“Fine…You won’t believe the pain meds they have me on,” his head flops to the side dramatically, but you still catch a hint of that smirk he wears at his own comment which might’ve made you roll your eyes if not for the thought of why he’s even lying in a hospital bed in the first place.

Sherlock watches silently as you trace his knuckles with your thumb absentmindedly, a distant look in your eyes as you try to focus on the softness of his skin. Neither of you have been apart for too long, in fact, your boyfriend had put up quite the fight to ensure it. Upon arriving at the hospital, he had stubbornly refused to be wheeled off for surgery, that was, until he spotted a frantic John run through the hospital doors. Knowing you’d be safe in the company of his friend (and maybe not wanting to deal with his nagging), Sherlock had finally agreed to treatment much to your relief.

Speaking of John, the poor man had been in a panic since Lestrade first received that vague yet strict text message from Sherlock explaining to meet at some abandoned church at a very specific time; no sooner, on later. His worries had only been confirmed when arriving on scene only to be informed that Sherlock was being rushed to the hospital for a gunshot wound.

You had explained the situation to him in limit detail while sitting together in the waiting room, although, he didn’t press you to say too much, understanding by the somber look on your face alone that it’s not the time. Instead, he simply concerned himself with you and Sherlock’s current conditions, fussing over whether you’ve had your own injuries examined which, of course, the answer was ‘yes’. Sherlock wouldn’t dare let a hand be laid upon himself unless positive you’ve been properly attended to first.

“…Is John angry?” The detective finally breaks the silence between the two of you, his eyes not moving away from your hand.

“Not sure if I’d say 'angry’. He seems more worried above everything else. I think he understands the situation Apollo put you in, though. I just can’t promise you still won’t get an earful from him later,” you answer in a whisper. When the nurse had announced Sherlock’s out of surgery, John insisted you be the first to speak with him alone, thankfully realizing that the two of you have a lot to reflect on together. Besides, it isn’t as if he doesn’t live with Sherlock. He’ll have plenty of time to give him Hell later without so many witnesses around.

You move to lean back against the pillows yourself, closing your eyes as you try to think of something to say when there’s just so much that needs to be said,“…Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

You turn your head into the pillow, once again whispering the words that feel so useless compared to their actual weight,“…I’m…I’m so sorry for involving you in all this crap. I should’ve never taken a chance with Apollo back then. Neither of us would have to be here if I would’ve just denied him right at the beginning. You wouldn’t have been hurt and-”

“-Love,” you blink open your teary eyes at the feel of his warm hand against your cheek, his eyes staring back into yours,“ it could never be considered your fault that Apollo took advantage of you or your kindness and, as far as me getting shot, if I had to, I’d do this all over again if it meant keeping you safe. As I hope I’ve made very clear, I will always be your guard against danger regardless of what it entails.”

With a sniff, you nuzzle your face against him, not missing the cold tears that roll down your cheek as you bury your face against the hospital gown that lacks the same comforting scent as his normal clothing,“ I just wish I was better at doing the same for you…”

"But you already have been. I’m sure anyone could confirm something so clear…” Sherlock runs a hand through your hair, his voice trailing off which allows you to speak with muffled words.

“Back at the church-”

“-You said you’d go with Apollo willingly if he left me alive. Even when given the option of dying yourself, you didn’t hesitate to take it to keep me safe. While I can’t say I approve of the idea of you giving your life for me, I suppose I can’t complain seeing that I’m the one who walked directly into a trap prepared to give my own life if it meant buying yours more time to be saved…but that isn’t the only time where you’ve saved me.”

You look up again, meeting his half-lidded eyes which seem dazed with both admiration and possibly the pain medication in his system, although, you doubt the latter lessens the meaning behind his words,“…For most of my existence, I’ve been simply surviving, using thrills like drugs and cases to drag pass each day of boredom. Even when I’ve had John or Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, I’ve never found myself truly…living;at least in the same sense that normal people seem to…but then you came back around.

"When you began staying at Baker Street, I found myself feeling content with my existence for once. Throughout the last month, I haven’t once felt the need to turn back to my former habits and, while that might not seem like a lot of time to stay clean, it is for me; John will tell you. I’m happy simply being around you and knowing that you’re going to there when I return from a case or leave my Mind Palace. For the first time in my entire life, I feel…excited to look at the future and think of it as involving the two of us together.

”…Because of you, I think I finally understand what John meant when he said there’s a 'hidden meaning’ to life. It’s having someone by my side to love and enjoy existence with. It’s having you be mine,“ Sherlock’s speech is quiet and hesitant at times, his mind stumbling to think of the correct words to express his exact feelings.

Although he’s nervous voicing such intimate thoughts, said anxiety melts away with that smile you’re giving him. He can feel your heart beating quickly which isn’t difficult based on how close the two of you are, your chests practically pressed against each other. Your eyes glisten with tears that drip onto the pillow even when you try to quickly wipe them away.

"Ever since what happened with Apollo, I had given up on the idea of being safe let alone happy with someone. I figured I was just better off spending my life alone because how could I possibility trust and love someone else again after everything he had put me through? But I don’t feel scared anymore. If anything, I feel safer around you than I had even alone…Now, I can’t imagine spending my life any other way than being at Baker Street with you.”

Sherlock smiles, his forehead falling against yours where it rests for a moment before your lips meet at last. Your hands find their way onto his chest, careful not to hit his injury while one of his own still rest on your cheek, the other entangled in your hair. Even when pulling away, it doesn’t take long for your lips to find each other again, every kiss lasting a bit longer than the last which becomes a cycle difficult to break until the creaking of the door opening meets your ears.

“Shit, sorry-! I didn’t mean to interrupt anything- I’ll…I’ll just go back outside…” While you can’t exactly see it with your back turned, you can hear Lestrade rambling in embarrassment as he attempts to quickly backtrack out the door, bumping into something along the way before finally managing to exit.

Sherlock groans, although, the redness of his cheeks hints towards him being more embarrassed about being caught rather than annoyed at being interrupted. Despite the tint of your own cheeks, you can’t help but chuckle quietly, especially with the faint voices of Lestrade whisper-shouting at John as to why he didn’t warn him first.

“…I’m sure he needs to talk to us about what happened…We’ll have to give statements, right?” You mumble, nervously gripping onto the fabric of his hospital gown at the reminder that you will eventually have to explain what had happened today regardless of how difficult it may be.

“At some point, yes, but the Yard will just have to wait. Right now, we’re busy,” by the time you allow yourself to smirk, his lips are already back against yours which is plenty to put to rest your worries for now because so long as Sherlock Holmes is around, you’ll never have to worry about your own safety ever again.

LAST CHAPTER ➡️

Even though it was Christmas Eve, it didn’t feel like the holiday season whatsoever. Perhaps it could be deduced that the last eighteen months for Sherlock Holmes had been nothing more than a whirlwind of leads and clues and drugs and hopes and John, John, John. Or, rather, the lack thereof. The snow had been falling heavily – thick layers pouring from the skies above, almost as if they were offering Sherlock the guiding light home. Yes, Sherlock was finally going home. Perhaps it should have been more dramatic, really. A single bullet fired from Mycroft’s gun – not even point blank it should be said – but nonetheless, one dead man was the equivalent to a return ticket to the place Sherlock missed most.

The car ride was long. Longer than before – when Sherlock touched the doorknob and had to turn away. He had never been much of a patient man nor had he been one to work with the correlations of time, but after eighteen months of separation, another fifteen minutes should have been something that had been celebrated. That was not the case though – this was different. Thoughts plagued the consulting detective’s mind as reality set in on the scene. Yes, he was going home – and not just to 221B, because he’s learned not to argue with science or logic over the matter. He was going back to John. But that thought alone was what began a trail of thoughts and perplexities that towered in the detective’s mind. It had been so easy months ago, when he had learned and felt and accepted and hoped for something more with John. It had been so easy – too easy, really – and now, now it was much harder for Sherlock to weave himself out of such thoughts.

He had never been allowed them before.

But John was happy. And Sherlock couldn’t imagine taking that away from him after already taking away so much. He could handle this – he knew he could. He could push aside feelings and thoughts – those hopes – and slowly allow himself to fall back into the lifestyle he lived just a year and a half ago. But that was just it – beyond that existence he led and desired just now, he was unsure of what things were going to change around the corner.

And that’s what his thoughts were on the ride back to 221B – back to the place that he hadn’t even the key for anymore (lost in Venice; anger and drugs and restlessness to be blamed). He’d always had his way with John, battling nothing more than a petty argument to get his way, but he didn’t think he could keep up such an act if John came at to him, explaining (after the reunion, of course) that he was in love and planning to get married and was going to leave. After eighteen months of separation, seeing John smile as elegantly as he had in the last few months was more than enough of an argument for Sherlock to actually let him leave. But these were all just assumptions and educated guesses that had not truth because Sherlock was still three footsteps away from the door of 221B, breathing a little bit too heavily.

It had been a really long time since he had been home. And he was just a little tired.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, fishing out his mobile phone and setting it in the palm of his hand as he fingered out two simple messages.

Happy Christmas, John.

Open the door for me.

Both messages were sent and he waited. He’d waited eighteen months and he had waited a lifetime for a friend like John Watson. It was snowing and while he loved the winter season, it was colder than usual, even for Christmas Eve. But he waited – because they’d both waited long enough and finally after a year and a half – regardless of what was held in their future – it was finally time.

He was home.

This is a good part of the story. Well, more like a great part of the story. You can throw whatever adjective in that sentence you’d like, once you finish reading the tale.

But you can be assured, this particular part of the story – this one – you will like.

The biggest flaw with Sherlock in his thinking, primarily when it is in regards to one he cares about (John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and to an extent, a few others) is that he focuses more on the why of a situation versus on the how. He has thought of nothing but whyin the last few months that he has not begun to piece together how to get back home. It’s complicated, of course, and that’s a valid excuse. But Sherlock doesn’t like excuses. He likes answers and reasons and results. He’s thought about, almost constantly, why Moran has taken a role into John’s life as pseudo-new best friend. He’s thought to why the man, once given that role, has done nothing but act it out. Actors are allowed to act of course, but there must be some point in which the curtain is drawn and the lights are shown so the audience gets to see what happens in the end.

It’s the audiences turn now.

When you’re a consulting detective, you always want to know two things: whyandhow.

Of course, going back to the idea of whyandhow - it’s as easy as that. Sherlock’s needed to devise a way to send him back home. For the last six months he’s wanted to avoid risking John’s life with Moran such close at hand. Regardless of Sherlock’s intense desire to return home - he wasn’t going to risk John. John, despite every back and forth thought that plagued Sherlock’s head, was (and even now, is) defined as home. When Sherlock would enter 221B and John wasn’t there, it was simply another dwelling for him to lounge around that had decent access to the internet. But, oh, when John was there - he was allowed into a world that he once thought would be dull and boring and trite, and god, just like the sugar, he got that wrong too. There was nothing like having John with him in the flat - well, anywhere for that matter.

John helped make him feel like someone else was there listening - maybe even cared about what Sherlock was saying. Yes, they’d become intricate parts of the other’s lives. It’s hard not to when you watch your flatmate-turn-best friend covered in semtex and even more to so when you see the opposite party (Sherlock) drop from a four story building to his ultimate death. If you ignore the heightened parts of their friendship, you would still see two men who had, unknowingly, become the center of the other’s world. Solar system - the sun - the rock - whatever romantic title you’d like to give it. Of course, being said before - and here again, now - this wasn’t a romantic story (not yet, at least), but a love one. Sherlock and John were a love story - you just have to look at it from all the right angles to have a firm understanding of how their relationship worked.

John helped Sherlock feel as if he wasn’t invisible.

And so all this reasoning alone - saving each other’s lives, sticking up for the opposite, petty arguments over the simplest things in the sitting area, arguments over who buys the milk this week, arguments over who forgot to buy the milk this week when they were firmly told it was their turn, glasses of wine and terrible telly and passing out on the sofa,  helping a man find his heart and reminding a man that he was still brilliant under all those layers of military uniform, trust, care, compassion, love - and for all the reasons just listed, it was easy enough to see why John was (and still is) home. And Sherlock wants to go back. He’s been ready since he survived his fall and for every month, week, day, hour, and second in between - he’s been ready. But that friendship - that one he has with John that he  not risk has been the solid reasoning as to why he’s been safe with his choices. He’s always been a man to act out recklessly and without the consideration of others but he can’t do that with John. And he hasn’t.

Instead, if you’ve read, he’s done it with himself in a sense. The drugs, of course. Mycroft told him he could have cigarettes when the patches stopped working (four days after his fall) and then he had his first taste of cocaine in over six months a month later. He knows that it is silly - giving into cocaine - that the high is only fifteen minutes tops and sometimes he sees monsters and aliens and guns and blackness, but gods, sometimes, a lot of the times actually, he sees John and you may understand Sherlock’s feelings on John now. There is a quote he likes to use to explain it, but it comes with a story. Just a small one before the last one and the curtain is drawn on this part of the play.

Sherlock’s never put much time into literature except when it came to scientific readings or material used for cases or experiments. But from time to time, when the boredom hit high levels and John would nag at him for doing utterly nothing for almost three weeks straight - he would read. And so, being the man who avoids all sexual interest and romantic intentions at his earnest, of course he goes for the titles that have to do with sexuality. He doesn’t remember the title nor the author, and to be frank, he nit-picked it to the best of his ability - peeling apart the plot using the method of reading every other line and skipping parts in between that bored him.

But there was something said that reminded him of John. Of the relationship between John and him.

“But I think we both knew, even then, that what we had was something even more rare, and even more meaningful. I was going to be his friend, and was going to show him possibilities. And he, in turn, would become someone I could trust more than myself.”

Gods, the book was boring. All this romance between two men and their love and everything in between. It’d been just as dull as some of John’s blog entries really, but, Sherlock had read that quote and it stuck. It stayed. And that, in a sense, defined how Sherlock felt in regards to John. At least at the time. Now? Of course there was more. Eighteen months did a lot to a man - including his heart (which he had recently learned actually existed). He missed John, and that missing turned into the acknowledgement of care and love and want.

Maybe it was Mycroft, or maybe just himself, but he had realistic hopes that upon his return they (John and him) could make this work. That they could actually make this work. It needn’t be said again that John is straight and Sherlock just doesn’t do these things but it’s always been different with them. You could tack on a larger explanation regarding their history and friendship and romantic tension if you’d like, but that sums up their odds of actually entertaining the possibility of engaging in a relationship together.

The line had always existed - the one just about friendship - and now that Sherlock’s had his chance to look at it, he knew that he wanted to. He wanted to try. He might not have ever been good at it and clearly he would need a lot of practice because he didn’t have a lot of background (two kisses, one round of sex) in the whole relationship sort - but he would try and he thinks he might even like it because gods, really, what’s there not to like about John? So through this all - eighteen months of death he has learned what he has been missing in his life and how he wants to rectify it with one single person - not just because he is allowed as a human being but because somehow, someone gave him an invalided medical doctor from Afghanistan and Sherlock’s never loved anyone more.

But, as you have read earlier in these stories, John’s happy. He’s bloody happy with this girl who takes his hands and kisses his palms and tucks stray hairs behind his ear (he really does need a trimming). He smiles and laughs and grins and carries a blue box in his pocket waiting for the right moment because it might not have been Sherlock - and though he misses the consulting detective every day - he knows he needs to move on from the dead and here at the end of some unhidden rainbow is a lovely girl that he thinks he’s going to take a chance on. He still loves Sherlock, of course, but he thinks his heart is big enough to have more than one love of his life in it and that’s something he’s just fine with.

It really is all fine.

And so the consulting detective who has missed, cared, and come to realization of his romantic interest in the opposite holds a lot of cards in his hand. But now it’s time to throw all the cards away and just go home. He ignores the fact that even though he is going home - he may even be going to a different one, where there is a different John. Sherlock’s not the only one who has changed over the last eighteen months. He ignores the fact that he’s just a little bit heartbroken over the fact that John’s moved on and is happy and he can’t have what he hoped for - even if they were just small hopes. He ignores the fact of why Moran is doing all of this because he’s worked the last six months to investigate any and all leftover strings holding Moriarty’s web together. He ignores the fact he wants to know why Moran came in and took John as his best friend and treats him to dinners and shares beers and talks and doesn’t shoot him.

He ignores it all - ignores all the questions of why, and he is left with how.

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to answer how.

*

It’s Christmas Eve. Most of the streets are dead - best they were, anyways, at around eight o'clock on the night before Christmas. There are a few cars traveling here and there to make it in time (or rather, be late for) their Christmas Eve dinners. A bar or two are open, of course, to welcome with open arms the gentlemen and ladies out there who have nowhere to go. A good pint is almost the same as a hug from a niece of nephew - especially when the child reaches for a four second hug and pulls away to return to their new electronics or mobile phones or whatever kids get these days at the age of six, seven, and eight.

So the bar it is.

Sherlock and Mycroft sit in the back of one of Mycroft’s black vehicles. He keeps the heat on because he’s getting a little too old and his bones freeze right to their core this time of year. Sherlock, on the other hand, is more focused on the environment outside versus the set temperature inside of the vehicle. They’re set side by side and there is a silver mobile phone in Sherlock’s hand. It’s nothing special - capable of nothing more than making phone calls, sending and receiving text messages, and maybe sending a picture of terrible quality. But it will do. It has been programmed, for the time being, to be John Watson’s number - sending and receiving. And the only number loaded to the phones is Moran’s.

Sherlock clicks the screen on and his tongue darts out between his lips before his fingers dexterously begin to type out a message. He’s worked on what to say for the last three weeks - he knows it word for word for perfection.

Hey mate. Want to grab a pint? Something I want to ask you before I.. you know. Well. Right.
JW

There is a small ding when it is sent and Sherlock swallows hard before glancing back at Mycroft. Mycroft faintly smiles, gripping the end of his umbrella a little too tightly. They’re both nervous and anxious and they know that there is only one outcome they will allow: Sherlock getting to go home.

Maybe thirty seconds pass before there is another ding, indicating a text has been received. Sherlock glances at the screen and reads it once, twice, and responds before even showing Mycroft.

Sure. Not getting nervous are you? It’s not that big of a deal, but then again, you are just a soldier. ;) The Abbey? Give me twenty?

Just a soldier my arse. You owe me a pint for that one, Seb. Already here. See you then.
JW

Mycroft reviews the exchange of text messages in his seat. He only nods, keeping a grip on his umbrella steady. “Ten minutes and then send him the text. You’ll need to be in the alley then.”

And so they wait - the only sound roaming through the entire vehicle was their patient breathing and the echo of the car running. They’d all but forgotten that it was Christmas Eve. Nothing else mattered besides the minutes dwindling down and the time left between now and the moment that Sherlock returned to 221B. The moment he returned to John.

Two minutes before, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and Mycroft grasps his wrist firmly. “You’ll be fine, Sherlock,” Mycroft speaks, though his eyes are directed to his own tinted window to the left. “We will get you home tonight.”

He’s not exactly sure what is going through his brother’s mind, despite how smart either of them are. Sure, Mycroft understands love and to an extent, has it with Greg Lestrade. But there is something more fine-tuned and mutually-defined between Sherlock and John and he dare thinks that no one will ever be able to comprehend it. He does understand the fact that there is nothing more that Sherlock wants in the entire world is to have his friendship with John back, and Mycroft is going to do everything in his power to give it to him.

One minute till.

“Are you ready, Sherlock?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead he looks down at the silver mobile phone and keys in another message quickly before sending it off. He glances up at Mycroft and folds one center of his jacket over the other, tighten it up before he opens the car door to the world outside - to London and snow and winter and Christmas Eve and home.

“Are you ready, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turns his head once to his brother, letting only a small smile tilt at the corner of his lips before he murmurs, “John.” With that, he’s out of the car and moving swiftly to the alleyway besides the bar. The mobile phone is left in his seat, which Mycroft reaches for and reads over the latest message sent.

Actually, outside the bar in the alley. Beer. Nerves. Retching. Bring me a towel or I’ll use your shirt when you get here. And hurry. Usually Colonels aren’t this slow.
JW

Mycroft can’t help but smile a bit. Sherlock is Sherlock, but he knows John all too well. He slides over to Sherlock’s side and peeks through the darkened window at his brother. Sherlock has taken a position about fifteen feet deep into the alleyway, hunched over in the darkness where only a spare silhouette of him can be seen. No questions, Mycroft thinks, ask no questions, Sherlock, and just get it over with. Get it over with and go home.

The phone dings again and Mycroft looks down.

Soldier, don’t make me kick your arse. I’m not cleaning up your puke you prat. But I did bring you a towel. I already told you, giving her the key to your flat isn’t the same as bloody marrying her or something. Calm the fuck down, John. I’ll be there in two or three minutes. Try not to die on me, soldier.

Mycroft smiles - he can’t help it. There is some hope left. So it was just a key in the little blue box, and not a ring. There’s still a chance - there’s still hope.

Sherlock.

Mycroft watches again, from the interior and containment of the car. Sherlock knows how to act - bend over and lean against the wall and create the illusion he is John Watson, retching his brains out. The clear image of Sherlock doing so triggers thoughts in Mycroft’s mind - of what he has done to his brother, what he has seen. He sees Sherlock, stuck with a needle in the arm, claiming there are monsters here and he only wants John. He’s seen the empty eyes of the opposite as weeks turned into months and months hit a year and it was just so much on one single man. He knows the crimes he has committed and he also knows that Sherlock, in a sense, has forgiven him. But still it lingers on like a pot of water rolling on the boil. It never goes over the edges but is always heated - always there in the back of his mind.

His mind is pulled from one topic to the next as he hears the rev of an engine just a short distance away. Moran has parked to the side opposite of his vehicle and he takes time to give his motorcycle a quick glance over before walking across the street, towel in hand. It is time, Mycroft thinks, and he knows that either way - one of the two men will die tonight. He just hopes Sherlock pulls the trigger fast enough. He really wishes he didn’t have to hope, but when it comes to men like Sebastian Moran, you have room for just a little.

Moran passes Mycroft’s vehicle and moves inside of the empty corridor. Mycroft is too curious - he cannot help it. He presses the trigger button to the window, just so it goes down less than several centimeters. He wants to hear - he needs to know - he’s the British Government.

“What did I tell you, John,” Moran starts before he’s even ten feet away from Sherlock, “I told you that if you sat down and thought too much about a bloody fucking gift, you’re going to get yourself sick. And where am I now? On bloody Christmas Eve? Not getting pissed with my best mate but, instead, cleaning the retch off my best..”

He stops.

Everything stops.

Everything has to stop.

Sherlock stands tall, no longer bending over and Moran knows.

In a car crash, the time before impact is something that someone, usually, can always remember. Sometimes you remember the realization that no matter how hard you (or the driver) presses the brake, you are going to collide. It is a realization that is swallowed and nulled to your chest as you reactively think to pull any and all body parts up to protect two places: your head and your chest. It could be said that your heart and brain matter most, but in such a quick decision, it is always curious as to why you instinctively go for those two areas. Sometimes people remember the sounds. One person may have hit realization a half a second earlier and bellowed out a scream or a yell, and in reaction, you remember that sound - then the sound of tires burning across pavement, and of course, the collide.

This is not a car crash. This is, however, a hide speed impact.

Eighteen months, eight days, eight hours, thirty-six minutes.

Sherlock never really collided with the ground at St. Bart’s. Now he does.

Eighteen months, eight days, eight hours, thirty-six minutes.

John.

“Took you long enough, Holmes,” Moran smiles brightly against the darkness of the night. Snow is falling lightly, painting them with a cascade of white and gray flecks. It is almost like a scene from a movie, if only an orchestra was playing in the background. “Took you far too long for being the world’s only consulting detective.”

This is the part of the story where Sherlock needs to act quick - needs to reach in (one hand), pull out (twice as fast), and aim for Moran’s head (releasing the trigger and one bullet). This is how in the factor of why and how. This is how it is to be done.

Instead:

“Have I surprised you, Mr. Moran?”

“Surprised?” Moran laughs and takes a step closer. He is hardly shaven and due for one, yet he does not reek of alcohol. This man has been John’s best mate for the last few months. This man has, in a sense, replaced Sherlock. “Hardly surprised. I just didn’t think it would take you this long to make a move. Have you figured it out yet then, Holmes? Why I sit next to Doctor Watson on the school bus and play with him all day like in primary school?”

Sherlock swallows. The gun is in his pocket. He knows this - Moran knows this. Moran’s probably armed too - he has to be. He’s a sniper and he never comes unprepared. They have bullets and there can be wounds but for now there are only words.

“Was it for revenge, Moran?” Sherlock asks. His voice is sharp and the air around his lips puffs out in smoke with each word offered. “Were you really shagging Jim and now your poor, broken heart needed revenge?” It’s been eighteen months but Sherlock still knows how to pick his battles. “Really, I don’t know who would want to bed a man like Moriarty, really, the man hardly ever shut up.” He stops again, eyes glittering, “Or are you like us? Get bored a lot? Needed a new distraction?”

Moran snorts.

And that’s it.

Sherlock falls to his knees at the sound, almost waiting for his own car crash to happen where a bullet impacts him. But it never does.

It takes a second - two - three - and his eyes focus on Moran just feet away, first falling to his knees and then falling face first in the snow - blood pouring from his head and melting into the snow. Sherlock gasps, takes another second, still with his hands covering his head and finally shifts a bit, looking around.

“It’s time to go home, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. Sherlock blinks and finally regains reality as he sees Mycroft standing several feet behind him, wiping the end of his gun with a handkerchief. He watches the scene for a moment, first Mycroft and then back to Moran, lying motionless on the snow in front of him.

“Mycroft.”

“It’s time to go home, Sherlock,” Mycroft repeats. Sherlock moves, albeit unsteadily, and stands completely to his feet from his knelt position. He’s shaky around the edges and alters his vision from the dead body to his brother as reality is beginning to sink in. “You’ve had enough blood on your hands. Go home.”

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock moves closer to the body, which is in between him and the older sibling. Moran is still motionless, not breathing and very clearly, dead.

Mycroft closes the gap and looks down at the body and then back up to Sherlock. “Greg will be on his way after I message him. I’ll handle this. You need to go home. It’s time.”

Sherlock nods, completely deadpanned still by what happened yet simply trying to focus on what needs to be done now. “Mycroft, you,” he belts out, stepping around the body and clenching his eyes shut. Reality is starting to seep into his veins and blood and realization (car crash, moment before impact, or even, just after) is taking its toll on the younger brother. “Lestrade - he, are you going to tell him?”

“I’ll handle this, Sherlock, but yes, I will tell him you’re alive. And I will tell him that I have known.”

Sherlock stops him short. “I could lie to him. I can tell him that you never knew until now.”

“No,” Mycroft replies, pushing the gun into his pocket. He’s surprised that no one has come by the scene of the crime just yet, but then again it is Christmas Eve. “I’ve already lied to him enough. I’ll deal with how he reacts for what I have done in the past and now. That’s my situation and mine alone.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock sucks in air, “He’s going to be hurt.”

“My situation, Sherlock,” Mycroft responds and lifts his right hand to squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go home, Sherlock.”

It’s a scene to take in, really it is. Mycroft looks like a glass figurine against the white snow fall - body of sniper, Sebastian Moran, casually lying in the snow, blood pouring from the gunshot wound. It should be more climatic than this, but this is what was expected. This is what the ending required. Sherlock takes one more look - a glance to the sniper’s head and then back to his brother whose facial expression is nothing but neutral and calm. He probably defined both terms. Sherlock opens his mouth but nothing comes out because beyond this - beyond Sebastian Moran there is only one thing:

John.

And so he goes.

He goes back home.

Its two days before Christmas. The snow’s finally come and the night sky is nearly the darkest hues of black imaginable. Flecks of white fall overhead and tidings of Christmas joy are just around the corner. Lights stay on for this joyous occasion as Christmas Eve tomorrow is just as important as Christmas Day just beyond. The streets are empty with just a passing car or two - tomorrow there will be signs of activity and life as people do their last minute shopping and traveling, and then for once in the year, the world will turn to be very quiet. There will be the calm before the storm of children rushing down to unwrap presents and wives making coffee for their husbands and smiles and laughter all contained inside of their houses and flats. There may be lunches and dinners and visits to the church. There may be photographs and joy and thrills of new toys and presents and smiles laced around the family like the lights tangled in treetops. But for once during the year, it’s all just quiet on Christmas Day.

It’s two days before Christmas, but Christmas Eve matters too. It’s the day that Sherlock Holmes is going to kill Sebastian Moran and go home.

It’s what everyone has been waiting for.

The night is dark and Sherlock’s abandoned Mycroft’s residence, persisting in the fact that he needed time to think. It’s actually more than just that. He needs time to breathe and readjust and come to terms with the fact that he will be going home in less than twenty-four hours. Mycroft told him that it wouldn’t be easy to come back to life and Sherlock snapped back that it was much worse dying. Come now, months after that argument, Sherlock is renegotiating with his mind in regards to those terms. Going back to the world that he’s created shouldn’t be that hard really. He knows Lestrade will give him the work and he knows that he’s got enough evidence to erase the public’s thoughts on him and at least give him the green light to bealive again. He knows it won’t be easy, of course, and more or less, it will be gradual - the world acknowledging that he exists again. But that’s not the only thing on his mind tonight. No, of course not.

It’s been a year and a half. Eighteen months that have changed a lot of things. Well, to be exact, it’s been eighteen months, seven days and roughly ten hours (thirty-three minutes and ten seconds) since he’s died. That’s quite a bit of time.

Sure, he’s still Sherlock Holmes. But he’s also human. God forbid the idea would once terrify him; it now lies as fact because evidence is evidence and a scientific man such as himself is not one to meddle in petty arguments with science. Instead he has learned to accept these terms and live with them. However, with this knowledge, small things have changed. Small things that have turned into bigger things. Of course, it would be criminal to think that eighteen months would do nothing to the mind and body. You could probably add heart in there, too, if you are one of the few that think Sherlock Holmes is capable of having that particular organ. He does, but he’s not one to admit it lightly.

And so those small things that have turned into large things have become apparent. You need only flick back through his travels over the last eighteen months - all well documented, it is to be assured - and you can see the transition of a machine into a man. You can see how the robot lost its metal and learned of things such as veins and blood and of organs such as the brain and heart and how they can co-exist in the same body. You can see acceptance and submission and hope.

He’s missed John, of course. John had become, during their friendship and time together, an integral piece that kept Sherlock Holmes the man he was, and more so, John helped make him to be the man he was now. John wasn’t just the man who bought the milk and carried a gun and wrote down notes. He was the man who would look Sherlock in the eyes and tell him the god’s honest truth. He was the man who’d kill another man for Sherlock. He’s a man who’d probably kill himself to ensure that Sherlock lived. That’s what Sherlock did for John anyways. No, he wasn’t just a flatmate or friend or some sort of label that they could never find the proper word for. He was more. He had always been more. Stubborn as Sherlock was, John stayed. And Sherlock needed that all of his life - someone to stay and never let go and just to be there. And so in these last eighteen months (and seven days and ten hours), Sherlock accepted the fact he missed John.

But that small fact turned into something larger because as the machine slowly started to assemble itself into a human, it soon learned that it was also capable of lovingJohn Watson. To many, the friendship they shared while together was apparent as ever. Perhaps it could have been labeled as love, even the domestic and brotherly sort, months and months ago. It was more apparent now to anyone who had been graced by the presence of one John Watson after the loss of his best friend. The love and care he held towards the consulting detective radiated off of his body like the North Star guiding Sherlock home. Everyone knew this, months after Sherlock’s death, and John slowly accepted it. He began, even, to submit himself to this idea.

But that was John, and sadly, only two people knew about Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t talk to Molly much, but she knew of that small fact that had now grown into a larger one. She had known it for a long time, even before Sherlock’s fall. She stayed quiet though, because she always thought her opinion never mattered. Still, eighteen months after helping save Sherlock’s life, she still thinks it doesn’t. But she has spoken up - she has told Sherlock, through texts and quiet nights when he’s made home to her sofa, what she thinks on the matter. He mostly batted her away, but he was never one to understand how to be social in the first place. He did listen though, because, well, Molly was his friend. And she counted.

However, more apparent of this transition of care to love was one Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock stayed with Mycroft for countless days and weeks and months and they pieced together the last bit of Moriarty’s web that, well, really wasn’t much of a web at all. Mycroft, though, had seen this all firsthand as Sherlock began to not only accept, but feel the pressure in his heart as he began to come to terms with his affection, emotion, and care for the good doctor. He also saw as his brother began to understand that he was in love. It wasn’t easy, no, and it didn’t come quietly. But it came and it sat there and slowly but surely, Sherlock began to see that it was present and it existed and he needed to allow it in. And so he did.

And so this is the point in the story where one must say to their selves, isn’t this the part where the great kill happens and Sherlock returns to 221B, crawls into John’s arms and apologizes and it ends with one great big happily ever after?

Well, it is only the night before Christmas Eve (well, one hour to Christmas Eve to be exact), so we can’t make assumptions or go that far yet. But it can be said that Sherlock’s plan is thorough and Sebastian Moran will die tomorrow. Sherlock, too, will go home. That’s been his plan all along. But it must be mentioned there is nothing sure after that point in time.

John’s been happy, as mentioned before. And Sherlock doesn’t know what that means. Well, he does - it’s good that John is happy. He needed that; he needed it more than anyone Sherlock knows. But he also doesn’t want to mess with that. The woman - the pediatrician who has somehow managed to put bandages around John’s wounds is someone, quite frankly, that may be there to stay. For good. Sure, Sherlock knew that it was a sound possibility that one day his doctor and best friend would get married and go off onto the great new adventure. But that was before - that was before all of this. Before Sherlock jumped and before Sherlock learned that he was human and that he, despite his previous deductions, was allowed to act out on being a human. All of which included caring and loving and having aspirations for the future.

It seemed inane at the time, for a man like Sherlock Holmes to willingly accept and submit to such notions but really, eighteen months is a long time. And John Watson wasn’t just a flatmate or friend. It had always been more. It had always been there. That line just above friendship that always existed and was allowed but never looked at for more than a second. And Sherlock looked, god, he looked at it every minute of every day since he has been away.

And he wanted it.

He let himself believe he could have it.

But, really, John is just so happy. He smiles and laughs and lives and Sherlock cannot deny him that. Sherlock cannot deny him anything.

And so, an hour before Christmas Eve dawns, Sherlock rests against the brick wall of a tunnel. He’s in a park tonight, where the dull yellow of the streetlights above barely line out his silhouette from his hiding spot in the tunnel. The tunnel isn’t very large by far, maybe fifteen feet high and ten feet across, but it’s enough room for him to rest against and he knows the dealer here.

He needed time to think - needed spaced to breathe - needed the cocaine just one more time. He’s been high for the last ten minutes, leant back against the brick wall with his legs thrown out in front of him as he slides to sit down against the cold stone below. His highs don’t last long anymore, but that’s to be expected when you use the drug as frequently as he has in the past six months. He tried his best with just the cigarettes, but everything has been getting to him more than he had ever thought possible. And so now he soaks in the last few minutes of his high before reaching into his pocket, manhandling his mobile phone out with the lack of any grace whatsoever.

Need you to get me.
SH

Hyde park. Now.
SH

Are you alright?
MH

Now, Mycroft.
SH

It is all that Sherlock can send in his state and he can’t think to check his mobile again to see if Mycroft has sent any other messages after his last response. Instead he rests his head back against the brick wall and tries to clear his thoughts. He doesn’t remember much of what went through his head during his high, but he knows that there was no monsters this time and only John and that was just good enough for him. He’s hot now, itchy around the edges and his pulse is elevated. But that’s all too common with the initial states of the high falling and as always, Sherlock falls just a bit too fast.

He’s also unaware of how much time has passed when Mycroft arrives. He’s sure there’s not much time in between because Mycroft’s the type of brother who will rush out at a moment’s notice in efforts to save the younger. Mycroft is not part of the British Government in these moments. Instead, he is just an older brother who is paying for his sins and trying to help the person he gave a death sentence to, as best as he can. He is only human, too, and there is only so much he can do in these moments. He does not carry his umbrella tonight, nor does he call out Sherlock’s name in desperation. Instead he jogs through the park, eyes flicking to each and every general direction in hopes to spotting the younger brother. It’s not easy, and really, he’s not a man who handles legwork well, but he does it because it’s Sherlock and the man needs someone. The man needs someone that he cannot be, but god help him, he’ll do whatever he can.

Sherlock may not know how long it has taken for Mycroft to get here, but Mycroft has calculated to be exactly twenty-four minutes and some odd seconds. He kneels down and places a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “Sherlock,” Mycroft says. Sherlock looks up and his eyes are wide and innocent. He looks so frail here - young even, and raw around the edges. Mycroft knows what Sherlock has gone through, watched it from afar without being allowed to touch, and he knows that this is the part of the story where Sherlock goes home, but not to the home he has created in his head. “Sherlock. I’m here.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says back. He places both of his hands on the stone below and tries to push himself up. He’s still dazed - coming off of his high. He would have taken pills to make this all last much longer, but he needed that rush - he needed to see John in the way he wantedto see John. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Mycroft says, letting his fingers drift down to Sherlock’s neck to check his pulse.

There is a long pause and Mycroft speaks again, voice shaking. “What have I done to you?”

It’s been said many times, how much Mycroft dwindles in the thoughts of what he has done and how much his brother has taken on. No, it’s not easy dying or coming back to life, but it’s also not easy falling in love and accepting it and being away from the person you need most. It’s not easy for Mycroft to watch from a distance and he knows it’s not easy for Sherlock to handle on a first hand basis. He wants, more than anything, to fight these demons and take the damage but the damage is already done and now he must learn to simply stand aside and hope with all of the hope he can muster that Sherlock will be alright.

“What have I done to you, dear brother?”

Sherlock answers softly, still dazed, “It’s time to go home.”

Mycroft traces Sherlock’s jaw with his index and pointer finger of his right hand and guides Sherlock’s vision upwards, at him. “Tomorrow, Sherlock.”

He fights all of humanity and the entirety of his heart not to breakdown the moment he sees slick tears trace down Sherlock’s cheeks. He’s just so tired and worn out and ready.

Even men like Sherlock Holmes get tired.

Tomorrow, Christmas Eve, will come, and at some point, in less than twenty-four hours, Sebastian Moran will die. Sherlock may not be going back to the home he imagined for himself, the one where he has John in his arms for the rest of his life, despite the romantic idealism behind it, but he will be going home. He will go home and tell John he is sorry and why he did it and what he did and he will not lie. He will answer anything John asks of him and he will go home, and if there is a god out there - someone who is looking out for the greater interest of the consulting detective - if there is someone out there who can give him just a little - he, in the very least, will have his friend back.

And he could make do with that.

On the way back to Mycroft’s residence, Sherlock lies on his side with his head in the older’s lap. Mycroft has his own jacket on top of Sherlock, keeping him warm, while his fingers thread through the younger’s hair. He has to keep Sherlock safe right now - keep the withdraw effects of cocaine at bay and help him hold on for just one more day.

Music plays quiet over the radio in the car.

It’s almost Christmas Eve and it’s time for Sherlock to go home.

And Sherlock’s still lucid enough to think of what home is.

221B, cases, experiments, John, John, John.

*

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your nose,
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir
And folks dressed up like eskimos.
Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe
Help to make the season bright.
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow
Will find it hard to sleep tonight.
They know that Santa’s on his way -
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh
And every mother’s child is gonna spy
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.
and so I’m offering this simple phrase
To kids from one to ninety-two
Although it’s been said many times,
Many ways: “Merry Christmas to you”
Nat King Cole - Christmas Song 

Its four weeks until Christmas. It’s that time of the year where shops start to litter their stores with countdowns for the holidays and lights glitter across buildings and treetops. The snow has yet to fall in London for the year, but it’s just around the bend. It’s the time of the year where London fog matches up with your own breath of air and you cannot tell the difference between the two. It’s the time of year where families, friends, alcohol and happiness collide all into one mass of chaotic madness. It’s the time of year that Sherlock generally looks down upon, but right now, he likes the cold weather. It’s been a long time.

It’s been a month since Sherlock’s been in Peru, hunting down ties to terror cells that, quite frankly, really no longer exist. He’s been patient in his motives - carefully formulating a plot that will essentially bring him back home. Mycroft, truth be told, has been somewhat shocked in the fact that Sherlock hasn’t just pulled the bloody trigger and skipped off back to his flat - back to his world - back to his John, but then again, he never expected his younger brother to really fall in love. Sure, he thought his sibling had the capacity and heart to hold friendship in his arms and while he mocked the ideas of love in front of the younger’s face, he never truly thought that this would happen.

And again, it should be said, Sherlock really should have run off home by now - but there is something in the way that Sherlock is challenged with. Something he has yet to comprehend his own feelings with.

John is happy. He’s really, really happy.

She’s a pediatrician. Of course she’s a pediatrician. She’s got brown hair down to her mid back and for god’s sake, she has a smile that blinds out the sun itself. She works a lot but seems to always make time for John. And not that Sherlock’s counting, they’ve gone on approximately sixteen dates before they agreed to a relationship - which was just over a month ago. Apparently John needed to take things slow and she understood. Pediatricians are always that way it seems. But John smiles - and he laughs. Mycroft still has the feed set up in Sherlock’s room at his residence, so the younger sibling can watch to his heart’s content with how John is and what he does and everything in between. Mycroft almost wonders if this is just as worse as cocaine. It probably is. Sherlock’s destroying himself and his ideas and his hopesframe by frame as John lives on.

They go out to dinners and to the cinema and she seems to make John forget the pain and the past and maybe even forget Sherlock. It’s not that Sherlock is being dramatic in that deduction, it’s simply the truth. She holds his hand and smiles at him and he smiles back and he would be lying if he didn’t feel that pang of jealousy twirl inside the pit of his stomach. Still, he watches.

He watches him take her coat and set it to the side. He watches her find the wine glasses and pour them both a glass of red before sitting back on the sofa with him. He watches them smile and laugh and then he watches them kiss. He watches them kiss and kiss and kiss and he watches John take her up to his bedroom. There is a feed there but Sherlock really don’t want to watch that so he turns off the monitors. But just because he’s turn off the view doesn’t mean he thinks of it any less. He tries not to imagine them but its hard not to. He does not know how John makes love to another but he remembers his time with Irene and he carefully decides that, while Irene may be far more experienced, John probably has the ability to grace the act with much more intimacy and love than Irene could ever comprehend.

This time - this time he’s turned off the monitor - he is unsure if it’s their first time. He assumes it isn’t as they’ve been dating for a while and a lot has happened in between his travels before his return to London. He could ask Mycroft if he wanted to, as he is sure to know the answer, but he doesn’t want to have that conversation right now. Maybe not ever. He’s glad that John’s happy, though. He looked that way anyways - eyes sparkling and lips turned into a permanent smile. It’s good, Sherlock thinks, he needs this and deserves this and she’s giving it to him.

He doesn’t even know her name nor does he want to.

But, logically, he’s not mad at himself for how he feels. He knows what he was getting himself into when he came to terms with his thoughts and emotions towards the good doctor. Of course he knew most of it was chemical, but he wasn’t one to deny the emotional connection and attachment he had to his best friend. He even deemed that the idea of them going forth in some sort of relationship would seem possible. They could have made it work even though Sherlock was completely inexperienced and to be truthful, a complete prick. They could have made it worked because they have made everything work thus far and bent on hell and it all, Sherlock really loves John. It was a good enough reason to try.

But now he doesn’t know. He sees John too happy - surrounded by love and affection and adoration and he doesn’t want to take that away. Not after everything he’s been through. Not with what’s coming his way - the return of his best friend and the emotional turmoil that will lay itself out like baggage. He knows his return will not be pretty and consequently, it will probably lead to an argument and fist fight versus a romantic kiss upon Sherlock’s arrival. He knows all of this and this is the exact reason why, for the last three weeks and four days, Sherlock has decided to wait to put his plan in motion on killing Moran. He’s had a solid excuse, though.

I want to monitor all of Moran’s communications for at least a month, Sherlock had said upon his return to London. I want to make sure he’s been in contact with no one for a follow up job, he added as he stepped inside of the residence, I want to make sure John’s safe.

It was enough to keep Mycroft from questioning the situation. But, of course, no less than twenty-four hours later did the older begin to question Sherlock’s choices. He watched from the background, monitoring how Sherlock watched the feeds in his bedroom. He knew seeing things like this - like John kissing his new girlfriend in their kitchen - would slowly make Sherlock crack around the edges. But what terrified him more - what made him question everything was how none of it seemed to affect Sherlock at all. The younger sibling kept off the drugs and smoked, at most, two cigarettes a day. He focused his mind on the details of call logs and e-mail transmissions and while at tea, it was the only thing they’d discuss. Everything else, apparently, was not subject for discussion.

If Mycroft hadn’t been the man to kill his brother, he would have said something by now.

Mycroft does not decorate his flat for Christmas, but he’s put up a tree and stockings just because Greg mentioned it. It shouldn’t be said, but the man who holds the keys to the British Government can, at times, be a romantic. Greg seems to like it and Mycroft doesn’t mind it. There are only two stockings, of course. Mycroft still has to lie to Greg about Sherlock - mourn when asked and turn his face when mentioned. He knows he’ll have to handle the repercussions when the truth is let out, and maybe that’s a reason why he’s not too angry with Sherlock in his delay of killing Moran. He simply wants to live in his fairytale world a little while longer. It could be taken away, British Government or not. It probably will.

“Moran and John went out shopping today,” Mycroft explains, crossing one leg over the other and balancing a cup of tea in his right hand. He knows he really shouldn’t mention John, but he has to for this conversation, “John’s back home, as you should know, as is Moran. They exchanged a few text messages earlier on this evening but nothing more.”

The fireplace is lit in the sitting room and Sherlock has his eyes on the growing flames flickering in shades of red and orange and yellow. He’s never been much of a pyromaniac, but much like the weather and stars and John, he can appreciate it.

He swallows thickly and his question hangs in the air, awkwardly yet firmly asked. “Do you think Moran’s the only one?”

Mycroft considers the question. He’s thought on it deeply and researched it just the same. Records and transmissions prove that, while right after Moriarty’s death Moran had been in contact with others on several occasions, during the last nine to ten months, there has been absolutely nothing. Sherlock had come to Mycroft, explaining the henchman from Peru’s story and despite the sentiment behind his testimony, Mycroft felt the need to trust his words. It made sense. No man was going to kill without payment, unless for personal reasons. Obviously this meant that Moran’s own reasons for keeping up with this game were personal. It had to be personal. Moran was Moriarty’s favorite sniper - maybe more, he wasn’t sure and couldn’t be bothered to deduce it all out. There was a reason that Moran had wormed his way in John’s life.

“Truthfully, Sherlock,” Mycroft replies quietly, setting his tea to the side, “Yes. I believe he is the only one. The only two things that matter though are, what you believe and when do you plan to make this all stop. That, my death brother, is entirely up to you.”

A silence settles between the pair but that much is normal. Sherlock is tired. He’s really tired actually. He’s handled cases and lack of sleep and minimal food for ages but this is different. For the last year and a half he has done nothing but fly from country to country, sit in his thoughts and learn that he loves someone more than he’s ever loved another in his entire life. It may not seem like a lot in a year and a half, but for him, if you calculated everything and added it all together - it would be more than enough. It would be everything. It’s taken a lot out of him. He’s more than ready to go home. And not just to cases or experiments or any of that mess. No, he simply wants to go home and look at John and say he’s sorry and close his eyes and rest.

Even consulting detectives get tired from time to time.

“How soon, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock does not waste time in his reply, “Before Christmas. I have a plan and I know what I need to do,” he stops and tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling. If he were any more emotional he would be crying right now, “Before Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And if things change by then?”

Sherlock does not look at Mycroft but he replies, knowing full well what Mycroft speaks of despite his question, “With John or with Moran?”

“With John, of course.”

“This is not about him.” Sherlock responds, still with his eyes focused on the ceiling. They never looked so tall.

“It has always been about him, Sherlock,” Mycroft responds and before Sherlock can even respond, the older sibling carries on. Apparently he has something he needs to say. “It has always been about him, Sherlock and you cannot deny it. You’re going back home because of him. You died because of him, Sherlock. You would have not done this for anyone else - everythingyou have done, Sherlock, and my dear brother, you have done a lot,” Mycroft stops and swallows, standing right after, “You can sit here and wallow in your thoughts about John or you can finish this mess and go home and tell him why you’ve done this all. There are words for it, despite you acknowledging their existence, and even men like us are allowed to use them. There are words and you need to use them. Waiting for the right moment is over, Sherlock.”

Sherlock would say something but he knows where he stands on this situation and he also knows the truth of it all. Mycroft knows it all too and that’s clearly enough to avoid a chaotic battle between the siblings. Instead Sherlock stands and looks at his older sibling with only three words offered, “Before Christmas, Mycroft.”

He goes back to his guest room and picks up the violin before bellowing out a tune. It’s the song he’s composed for John ages ago, and the one he’s tuned over time to near perfection. The notes carry across the residence and Mycroft stays in the sitting room, listening to the faint music that his brother plays.

It was mentioned earlier that Sherlock’s tired. It stays the same now. He’s done a lot - been through a lot. Dying isn’t so easy, nor is the prospect of coming back to life. It can be said that the ideas that once lived in his head - John, John, John - being pushed away isn’t exactly the easiest thing he’s had to do either.

And he decides, playing several more notes, he simply wants to go home.

Home being, 221B, cases, and experiments.

You can see what’s missing from there.

He’s chasing sunrises and only finding sunsets. There is a beginning he seeks yet all that is illuminated is the end. Mycroft told him, three and a half weeks ago, he needed to get the London fog from his lungs and sent him away. He’s been to Paris all over again - to Rome and Italy and Peru and Poland. He ventured to the States but only stayed half a day before catching a flight to Eastern Europe. Mycroft pays for everything, of course, but at least it keeps the consulting detectives mind going instead of focused on pressing sharp ends of needles into his pale flesh. It’s all about finding decent substitutions, Mycroft thinks. And if you really thought about it - connected the dots and crossed the lines - you could see he was pretty much right. Substitutions replaced distractions and distractions replaced John.

It’s the twenty-sixth day from being away from London when Sherlock finds himself in Peru all over again. He’s lived in boutique hotel rooms where the sheets were too white and the walls were too thin. He smokes despite the warning and tries his best to avoid the drugs. Mycroft sends what he can - names and locations, all of which Sherlock dresses to the nines for and scopes out. He wants to go home and he knows that sooner or later he’s going to need to put that bullet through Moran’s head and as the sunset fades in Peru, he’s starting to believe that it will be sooner rather than later. The year is coming to a close - just two months till Christmas and he’s ready. It’s been long enough and truth be told, for a man with a limited level of patience, he can’t wait much longer.

He’s been without John for too long.

He’s been watching an older man, mid-forties, who goes by the name of Liam Williams. He was, per Mycroft, one of Moriarty’s aides. He did the dirty work that Moriarty preferred not to, and for the last three days and six hours, Sherlock’s been nonetheless stalking him through the streets of Peru. But he’s not getting the answers that he needs. The man seems to be nothing short of a family man - quaint house in the city with a wife and child. Hell, the man even has a dog. It’s almost picturesque, really, and all the while Sherlock sits with his thoughts of what are this man’s motives? Moriarty wrote the checks, obviously - probably even ones to buy their house and furniture and everything that they have surrounded their selves with. But now - now it seems as if the man, Liam Williams, is doing nothing more. Sherlock invades his privacy on busy street corners and sees no indication of a weapon - no showcase of harm. There are no signs of blood around his fingers or dark circles underneath his eyes. There is only a man who goes to the market with his family, selects what to cook for dinner, and plays in the yard with his child and dog, while the wife stands by, wearing a proud smile.

It should be more complicated than this, Sherlock thinks. There should be men out there trying to kill him - trying to kill John - and yet, he’s stuck here with the thought that there may only be one man - Moran - doing that job.

He doesn’t understand it.

He still doesn’t, a day later when he is in a small cafe purchasing a coffee (not made by John).

“So you’re the great Sherlock Holmes,” a voice comes from the corner. Quiet yet obvious to Sherlock. He tenses slightly and turns his head back to the voice that has caught his attention and, apparently, knows of his identity. “I’m really not surprised you’re the one who made it out alive.”

It’s Liam. He has eyes that are icy blue but when his face tilts against the morning light of Peru, you can see shades of deep navy that hint around the edges. He stands shorter than Sherlock but he has the stock and build of John. He holds his own cup of coffee and takes a step closer to Sherlock. The consulting detective has been perched against the railing inside of the cafe, faced out towards the open window. Their words are quiet and sparse, but carry great depth with each syllable offered.

“Now much faith in your boss then, Mr. Williams?” Sherlock asks and takes a sip of his own coffee. He flickers over his shoulder to seek out anyone nearby, but the cafe is quiet with the two employees doing their own work behind the counter. Still, he keeps his voice low and guard high.

“No longer my boss, Mr. Holmes,” Liam replies. He takes his own sip of coffee, “The checks stopped coming after he died.”

“And you’re here because?” Sherlock draws out his sentence almost as if he’s bored because in all reality, he hasn’t had this much fun in ages.

“I could ask you the same question,” Liam responds and turns to face the taller man. He has a few scars on his face but he looks nothing less than a normal bloke with the wife, kid and house. It’s actually exactly what he has. “But we already know the answer to that. We should take a walk.”

Sherlock would be frank and ask questions such as, so you can kill me?orseveral shooters out at the bay waiting for my arrival? but he doesn’t bother as Liam is already out there door and he has answers Sherlock needs to find before asking his own.

The sun is still rising in Peru and the clouds are at a low level with the morning light pouring in through the breaks. The ground is cobblestone and they take a turn for a corner behind the cafe. It’s not that they fear what others hear - it’s just that they do, by nature. No man wanders around and speaks of murder and killing and life and death as if it’s nothing. Well, unless of course you’ve got John at your side or you’re Moriarty. There are exceptions toeveryrule.

“Have you killed any of the others, Mr. Holmes?” Liam asks. He’s leaning against the brick wall on the side of the cafe. His leg is crossed at the heel and his right hand holds his plastic cup of coffee. “I don’t keep up with the lot anymore, but I worked close with several of them.”

Sherlock stands in front of the opposite, tall and strong and doing what he does best - figuring things out. “Two.” Sherlock responds, “The snipers. I’ll assume by your choice of words that there are more.”

Liam laughs and nods, almost as if he found amusement in their conversation. “Of course there are more, Mr. Holmes,” he answers, chugging down the rest of his coffee in one go before tossing the plastic cup to the side. He may be a homebody now but that doesn’t make him any less of an ex-murderer; nonetheless, a person who doesn’t mind littering. “But much like myself, they’re not interested.”

“And why is that, Mr. Williams?”

“I already told you the answer, Mr. Holmes,” Liam laughs again, caught off guard by how easy Sherlock is easy to read. “The checks stopped coming. The day Moriarty died, I got my last check, went home to my wife and settled down. More or less everyone else has done the same.”

“More or less?” Sherlock asks. He finishes off his own coffee and repeats the action of disposing the cup to the side. Both hands fold behind his back, knitted in their leather gloves. “That is an open-ended answer, Mr. Williams.”

“Obviously you know of Moran, yes?” Liam remarks. There is no more laughter in his voice, nor is there a tone of amusement. Instead it is the straight forward answer that Sherlock has been seeking. The older man waits for no response before he continues on with the conversation as he already knows Sherlock’s answer to the question he has offered. “Everyone else - well, Mr. Holmes, like I said of myself, well, is just not interested. I’m not going to dirty my hands if there is no a pay cut for me. Neither are any of the other men - and, well, if you’ve killed two of them, outside of Moran, there are roughly eleven more,” he stops and licks his lips. There are signs of tar on the outskirts of his chapped lips and Sherlock almost has the nerve to ask him for a smoke. This is turning out to be far too casual for his liking but he needs to know everything that can be offered. “None of which will do anything, really. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that part out yet, though I am, again, surprised you did survive your fall. Moriarty is probably turning himself over in Hell on that one.”

Sherlock stays quiet and adopts all of the words that have been exchanged into his mental mindset. There is some truth and logic behind this all - no man would murder without a reward. There is no one signing the checks nor patting them on the head for a job well done. “Then why does Moran continue to seek me out?”

Liam shrugs and pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket. He pops one in his mouth before giving it a light. Sherlock does not ask for one and Liam does not offer. They are not friends and that is not allowed. “Moran, well, he’s always been different, you know? He was always Moriarty’s favorite,” Liam chuckles and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Everyone always thought they were pounding each other into the wall - all that repressed anger, but it wasn’t really like that, no. They were just both fucked up enough in the head to enjoy what they did - money or not. Boss liked that about Moran. Plus Moran kept the boss in order,” he stops and taps some of the ash from the tip of his cigarette against the brick wall, “We’d go in for a meeting if we had a job and half the time you’d hear Moran yelling halfway down the house at Moriarty for not eating his sandwich or some shit. Motherfuckers were cynical sometimes, really. One moment Moran’s taking out boss’s suits to be cleaned and the next he’s putting a bullet through some blokes head on a moment’s notice. Boss would just giggle when his favorite sniper came walking through the door covered in blood. They were fucking different.”

Sherlock tries to imagine this word for word as Liam speaks. It’s almost unnerving to imagine but he must. It’s a place, even though Moriarty is good and dead, he must revisit to analyze and piece together a solution. To figure a dead man out.

We’re just alike, you and I, Moriarty had said. In some ways it reminded him of his own relationship with John. The doctor rambling about his lack of desire for eating, or rather, more or less, doing anything that didn’t involve cases or work or composing. He had, too, walked into the flat more than once time drenched in blood. It was almost unfitting of how the pair paralleled the story that Liam was telling. Maybe they really weren’t all that different - just opposite sides - angels and devils.

“Still doesn’t explain why Moran is still after me.”

“Like I said, Holmes,” Liam replies, finishing off the last bit of his smoke, “Moran was different. Still is, probably, if he’s still after your arse. At the end of the mission, while we were all waiting for our checks, Moran was awaiting the next assignment. He didn’t care for the money and still doesn’t. He’ll probably be after you until the day you die. And then he’ll go after that doctor of yours, if he hasn’t already.” Liam shrugs his shoulders and stretches out his arms in front of him, “I can’t really tell you why the fucker’s still on your arse, but just because the boss died doesn’t mean he’s going to stop. It’s just who he is and it’s why he was boss’s favorite. Moran would force a Xanax down Moriarty’s throat to get him to calm the fuck down and Moriarty, believe it or not, would let him. They were just different, and well, fuck, it may be revenge. I don’t know. Maybe they were pounding each other into the walls, but Moran’s not going to stop. Not until he’s done whatever he has his mind set to.”

“And why are you telling me this?” Sherlock asks, “All of this information you’re giving me, willingly, why do so?”

“Because, Holmes,” Liam replies, pulling out another cigarette and stuffing it into his mouth. He probably doesn’t get to smoke at home, Sherlock thinks, and the older carries on, “I’ve got a family and I’d like to keep it that way. You told me you killed two of the others and I don’t want to be any of the next. Moriarty wanted you dead for a reason. The little twat may have never admitted it, but he did fear you at times. He knew what you were capable of. I mean, for all I know, you could pull a gun out on me and shoot me dead center in the head. It’s a risk I took coming up on to you, but I figured giving you the facts would straighten things out.”

Sherlock stays quiet. He’s tapping his fingers against the palm of his right hand behind his back as he continues to organize all the information he’s been provided. Of course it’s logical, but logic and science do not come into play when John is involved. He knows he really should just kill the man, and kill all the other men out there too. But, again, it’s been far too long since he’s seen John. It’s been far too long since he’s been home (221B, cases, experiments, John, John,John).

“You’re going to have to kill Moran if you want your old life back,” Liam speaks, though this time much more soft, “but the others, well, they’re not going to do shit unless they’re paid. I know I’m not, even if I was. I’ve got a kid now, you know? I have enough to hold me over for a few years until I find a decent job - but I got my hands dirty enough and I don’t want my kid to see that.” He stops and finally pushes himself from his leaning position on the brick wall, “You’re going to spend years and years tracking down all the other men. Your hands will get dirtier than mine. It’s not fun playing the devil’s advocate, Mr. Holmes, and I suggest you don’t.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Moran?” Sherlock asks. The older man is already steps away from the open sidewalk, up and ready to disappear from the scene forever.

Liam turns his head over his shoulder and offers a small smile, “He was boss’s favorite for a reason. Best sniper you could buy and he knows how to use his fists, too. He’s smart, could control the boss - and like I said, boss let him. He’s done some crazy things, Moran, and he’s not scared of anything. Boss would tell him to do something inane like the bloody laundry and Moran would tell him to fuck off. Boss put a gun dead center at his sniper’s head and Moran just laughed. Sat there and laughed in front of everyone before walking off. They really were a pair – they probablywere shagging the fuck out of each other. But outside of that,” Liam shrugs, stepping one step further away, “I really don’t know much. He does like whiskey though. Drank in between assignments. Smoked in Moriarty’s flat - pissed the little twat off but Moran just grinned.”

Sherlock parted his lips to ask another question but the henchman was off and on his way. Sherlock, for the most part, in any other ideal situation, would have run after the man and demanded more answers to at least two dozen more questions but he had enough for now and he had the answer to what he was going to do from here on out.

When he retired back to the hotel he had been staying at for the last six days, four hours and thirty-six minutes, he lay back on the bed and took a long drag from his own cigarette.

Sometime later, three and a half hours maybe, he sends a four text messages to his older brother. Mycroft replies with one.

Coming back to London.
SH

I have a plan.
SH

Book a flight out tomorrow morning.
SH

Need nicotine patches.
SH

Alright.
MH

Withdraw is a nasty thing. Especially with cocaine. It works like any other drug out there, really. You crave it right after and then days later because your mind thinks you need it. Your body starts to believe it too. Sherlock doesn’t give in but it becomes increasingly harder by each day that passes. Mycroft tries to be patient with Sherlock for the most part - understanding that his younger sibling is volatile and on edge and seconds away from pointing another needle at his pale flesh and to be honest, that’s the last thing they need right now. So, instead, Mycroft sits with him in the sitting room with a hot kettle and a plate of biscuits. Mycroft tries to talk but it doesn’t work in the same manner as it does when he’s announcing a hall of very important individuals. But he still tries because someone has to and if it weren’t for him, who else would there be?

“When you decide to go in for Moran,” Mycroft states, hands holding the teacup, “you’ll get to go home.”

Sherlock snorts and looks out at the London night sky. “You never used to be this obvious, Mycroft. Try harder.”

“When you decide to go in for Moran,” Mycroft rephrases and sets his teacup aside, focusing his attention on the younger and the two hearts Sherlock holds in the palm of his hands, “you’ll get to be with John again.”

It takes less than four seconds (three point thirty-eight total) before Sherlock’s teacup collides with the nearby wall, splattering the cream colored liquid that tastes like tea but smells like blood into a masterpiece. Mycroft doesn’t flinch because he’s used to this. He’s adjusted to it and he knows what cocaine does to the mind. God, he thinks, my brother has such a beautiful mind that the world is envious of and here he is in a place that I have mended him to be. What have I done and what could I do? How do you fix the fallen and how do you teach them to stand?

“You could be with him,” Mycroft pushes. He knows he needs to light his words with a softer flame but he wants to keep this information alive and solid and there and leave hopeful thoughts so that Sherlock stays calms and keeps away from the monsters that hide behind a syringe. “You would have to try. John will want things, but not much, and you will have to give them. He will not have expectations, Sherlock, but he will have hopes.”

He knows that he is pushing a relationship in on his brother but he also knows that they’re just around the corner from putting a bullet through Moran’s head. He knows enough and he knows more and he knows that Sherlock will be the one to do it. They have filtered through all of the sniper’s contacts and they have watched countless minutes trail by on the CCTV of John and Moran interacting and for god’s sake, really, there is only so much Sherlock can take before he picks up the heavy metal of the gun and points it at a man and doesn’t bother to offer a word before that trigger is pulled. He will kill him this time, and he will not mourn it and he will be able to go home because heroes always get to go home. Sometimes they return home bloody and sometimes they return home alone and sometimes they return home dead, but they get to go home at the end of a journey and that’s all that Sherlock wants.

“You may not be interested in sexual activities, Sherlock, and I doubt he’d demand them of you. But he will want attention. He will want to know he’s loved.”

Sherlock squeezes his hand tightly into a ball before standing up. Cocaine withdraw is in effect and the world is crashing down on him because no one seems to understand. No one seems to just get it.

“You think I know nothing.”

Mycroft already knows what he is speaking off. “Just because you slept with Miss Adler does not mean you are necessarily comfortable with the idea of sleeping with others. You did it because of John and it left you in a worse scenario than the moment you offered the idea to her.”

Mycroft knows of Sherlock’s history with sex and dating and all of those activities that Sherlock claims to be boring. Mycroft would have half a mind to admit the same if he wasn’t in his own shell of a relationship. But he also knows it’s not because that they don’t stimulate his mind - no, sex, on the contrary, is much like a drug in itself - as is love - but he knows that Sherlock’s never had practical experience in either categories. It is hard being a genius, let alone one that the world barely accepts. He thinks Sherlock could be open to it, if given the opportunity, but he also knows that, more than likely, nothing will change between Sherlock and John if they entered into a relationship. If Sherlock didn’t try.

“You think you know,” Sherlock snarls. On most days, when the sun is bright and the clouds are high and the world is as itself, Sherlock stands tall against his brother and holds his reservations and talks in a belittling voice rather than that of an outraged lion. But today is not one of those days because his blood is pumping and he has not had a high in four days and he needs one now. He knows where it is and he knows how to get there and even if Mycroft came after him, it would be far too late. “You think I’m oblivious to the ideas of a relationship or sex or anything of that nature. You think I wouldn’t know how to give John what he needs. And here you are, Mycroft, set with your teacup and knowing glances thinking you can mend and mold me to be a better person when you have yet to see the type of person I am to begin with. You do not know me, Mycroft,” Sherlock swallows, steps two steps closer to the door and clenches his eyes shut as he touches the door handle, “You do not know me and I fear you never will. You barely know yourself.”

Sherlock leaves with his withdraw and Mycroft is left with his thoughts. Sherlock retires to the guest room as he begins to clumsily reach through the drawers to find his stash. Mycroft tries to take it away, but Sherlock has had too many years of experience to have an older sibling keep his cravings at bay. It’s only moments later when Sherlock has a needle jammed into his right arm and he falls back to the bed. The sheets have been cleaned today and the duvets feel cool against his shirt-covered back. He falls into heaven and hell and he rushes to think of things so he can have that beautiful vision that he desires.

Cocaine is quick but Sherlock is quicker. He thinks of John and what Mycroft has said and how he could be good enough. How, even though he has only had one sexual encounter ever in his life, he could do this for John. He’d want this with John.

Cocaine grabs him and he starts to dream - words, thoughts, hopes, denial, John, all whirling about in his head.

*

They’re forty-four and thirty-eight now. They’ve been together just four years now but it’s been the happiest four years they’ve ever had and they know there are many more to come. John has never cheated and Sherlock’s never been forced. They kiss quietly and John breaks to the loo on some nights. Sherlock never counts the time that John is in the bathroom, nor does he think about what is in John’s mind as he finds relief. John never offers, either, because they know that’s a line they do not cross. But after he finishes he always returns to bed and holds Sherlock close.

The first year or two it took an hour or two of coaxing Sherlock, letting him know that it’s fine and he’s happy. The year after John starts to add in the fact that he loves Sherlock and it only takes thirty minutes. It’s almost five years and it only takes two or three minutes and Sherlock will turn to face him, kiss him softly, and say that John in his world.

John will laugh and say that Sherlock is his world and he’s glad to be a part of it.

*

They’re forty-nine and forty-three now. John has a lot more gray hair but he can still keep up with the chase. John proposes and Sherlock accepts. They don’t have a huge ceremony but they both want a small one. It’s more than signing a piece of paper to them. They invite maybe ten or twelve people and have a small dinner afterwards. They’re all smiles and John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. The world is nothing but perfect for the consulting detective and his husband.

I love you, John says into Sherlock’s ear, I love you, I love you.

I love you, too, Sherlock says back.

They have a honeymoon and they don’t have sex. Sherlock has an idea and John trusts him. John sits in the bath first, covered in bubbles to hide his private areas. He politely closes his eyes when Sherlock enters and strips of all his clothes. He settles in between John’s legs and it’s just like sitting on the sofa together, except they are lacking trousers. John shifts a bit and tucks himself as best as he can so Sherlock is comfortable.

They stay in the bath until their fingers are wrinkly and almost all the bubbles are gone. Sherlock’s fallen asleep with his back to John’s chest and his head rested at an angle on John’s shoulder. John doesn’t fall asleep and simply holds him in the now lukewarm water.

They decide to do this at least once a week for the rest of their lives. Sherlock likes it and so does John and John never pushes for more. He never masturbates either, when they escape the bathtub. He knows that this is far more intimate than something of sexual need. This is Sherlock opening up. And this is John going in.

Sherlock loves him for this because he doesn’t have to explain for John to understand.

*

They’re fifty-four and forty-eight now. Sherlock’s starting to get gray hair but not by much. They still live at 221B but they take far less cases. Sherlock mostly works on experiments and he’s started to write articles for science journals. John’s working on a book dedicated to all their adventures. He’s honest in his writing. Says that they are married and in love, but he leaves out the details of their private life. He mentions kisses and tea and always and forever. He doesn’t talk about the fact he gets to hold Sherlock each and every night. That secret is for him alone. No one else gets to hold Sherlock.

John sometimes has to take arthritis medicine and Sherlock sleeps a bit more than he used to when he was younger. Lestrade is retiring soon and they go to his retirement party. Everyone knows they are married but no one knows how much they are in love.

Simple minds could never understand the complexity of their love.

John writes about that, too.

*

They’re fifty-nine and fifty-three now. They retire. They’re in Sussex and they have a small cottage. It has three bedrooms. One for their selves, one as an office-turned-experiment-room and the last as a guest room. They do have guests, contrary to popular belief. People respect them and sometimes they host. Only sometimes though, as they are private people. They share tea on the patio a lot and Sherlock watches the growing dandelions.

Those thoughts still linger in his mind as he has aged. Not wondering if John’s made the right choice (that is threaded in his heart with the best thread that could be crafted by love), but if him taking a life of celibacy was right. But those thoughts have dwindled over the years. Sherlock never said it was going to be perfect and John never said it was going to be easy, but it’s been just fine. Sometimes those thoughts still litter Sherlock’s mind but just like the petals off the dandelions flowing with the wind, such thoughts venture on their own journey because they don’t belong in his mind.

They never did.

They still take baths together, though John no longer closes his eyes when Sherlock steps in the tub. He has to make sure he gets in safely (Sherlock hunched too much over his microscope all his life and he has a bit of trouble with certain movements). Sherlock doesn’t mind though because he knows John is not looking at his privates, and instead he is looking at his heart and seeing how wonderful it was crafted to be.

He sees how it is his.

That’s more than sex, Sherlock realizes as he slips into John’s arms and lets the warm water wash away all of his fears.

*

They’re sixty-four and fifty-eight now. John no longer masturbates, as he knows he doesn’t have a lot of time left in the world and he’d much rather be set on the sofa with Sherlock lent on his side, flicking through a book. This day John sits Sherlock up and faces him and kisses him the hardest he has ever kissed him. Sherlock’s not taken back and he follows into the kiss, even letting his tongue run along John’s lips. They’re wrinkled and hard and need lip gloss, but they’re much older now and it’s understandable.

When John pulls away, they’re both breathless. Sherlock looks up, tears rimmed around the edges of his eyes. It’s been twenty years and Sherlock comes to a huge realization.

“I probably could have had sex with you,” He admits. He could have if he tried real hard and just let his mind go and if he just gave in. He could have, he could have, he could have.

John raises Sherlock’s chin with his fingertips and he’s smiling so elegantly that a single tear falls down Sherlock’s cheek.

“I never wanted you to,” John says, tucking a strand of hair behind Sherlock’s ear, “It’s exactly how it should have been.”

Sherlock rests his head against John’s shoulder and sobs into the crook of his neck. No one’s ever loved him like this man and no one ever could. Just like he could never have sex, no one could love him just like this. John was made to love him and Sherlock was made to love him back.

It’s at this point that he comes to another realization: sex is not a requirement for love.

John holds him close and strokes his back. They never kiss so roughly ever again.

Once is more than enough for a lifetime.

*

They’re sixty-nine and sixty-three now. Sherlock has cancer.

He’s tired and weary and he has to go through a lot of chemotherapy. He loses all of his hair and John catches it with his hand and throws it away. John still tells him he is beautiful and Sherlock believes him. They both know the inevitable and they both hold each other through the last few days like they’re dying together.

They are.

When Sherlock dies, it is a cool autumn day. They’re at home and John’s made him comfortable. He’s not like a wallowing husband who sits by their partners’ bed side and pleads with the god’s to make this change. No, he won’t let Sherlock go down like that. Instead he crawls into bed and tucks Sherlock into the safety of his arms and never lets go.

Sherlock says he loves him and he’s tired and that John was the greatest thing to ever happen in his life. He says that John made his life worth it. I love you, I love you, I love you, Sherlock says into the crook of John’s neck.

John just holds and holds and holds until Sherlock breathes no more.

They never had sex but that doesn’t matter because they had everything else and more.

They had each other.

*

He’s seventy-nine now.

He’s finished their book and had it published.

He’s tired, too. He knows he could probably live longer but he’s tired and his heart still hurts. He knows he was gifted nearly thirty years with his husband and he had a few extra himself.

He makes two cups of tea and sets them on the nightstand.

He closes his eyes and the only thing he thinks of is Sherlock.

When he opens them, Sherlock’s there, takes his hand and pulls him home.

I love you, I love you, I love you, says Sherlock into the crook of John’s neck.

I love you, too, John says back.

*

When Sherlock wakes from his high, Mycroft is at his bed side, holding his wrist. It takes a moment for him to try and grasp reality but when he does, he laughs to himself. He knows what he’ll want with John, if he’s allowed to have it. He knows he’ll want kisses and sex and love and more. But he also knows that even if he couldn’t offer all of that - even if he was the man that Mycroft has painted him out to be - John, his John, would still take him as he was.

He is not a sentimental man, and really, he is married to his work. He does not date and he only engaged in his very first sexual relations just months ago, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t human and that doesn’t mean he is allotted a spot of time in his lifetime to grace someone else with love. He may not have a lot of it in terms of what people proclaim to one another, but he has died, theoretically speaking, for John, and he would do it again and again and again and that should just be enough. That should just be enough to allow one genius to offer love to another without the public looking at him as odd or different because, really, he’s already a freak and he’s already done so much and even if it is seemingly out of character, it’s just this one thing he wants.

He turns his head on the pillow and hides his smile from the older sibling because he refuses to share it. Mycroft simply thinks he is still high and maybe he is, but he can only think of how much he has missed John and when he goes home, if John will let him, he’s going to say one thing:

I love you, I love you, I love you, into the crook of his neck.

And maybe John will say it back.