Chapter Text
Sherlock's scarf smells like gin, cigarette smoke, and the slightest hint of women's perfume as he unravels it from his neck, gently prodding at the purple splotches underneath it. It's been another one of those days, one where Sherlock almost gets strangled, John remembers how to use a gun, and the world continues to spin around the sun.
With a heavy sigh, Sherlock spins gracefully on his heel and steps out of the bathroom, padding back towards the living room.
"Any pictures this time?" he asks John, who's busy pretending not to fall asleep behind a copy of the newspaper. Even in the dim light, the shadowy circles under his eyes are evident, and the faintest labour could be heard coming from his chest.
"Of us?" he mutters in response, rubbing at his eyes. "No. You told me you took precautions for that."
I did," Sherlock says, smiling ever so slightly at dark television set. "Oh, how I do love the media, John. So many delightfully clueless people in one profession, it's almost like the police force."
But John had missed his sarcastic remark, because his eyes were too tired to stay open, and he was now quietly snoring instead of listening.
With a cluck and a muttered comment about John drinking more caffeine, Sherlock swipes the paper from John's hands and sets it on top of the table in front of him, which was stacked high with various books and magazines, most of them covered in bright post-it notes.
The room is blissfully quiet after John falls asleep, save for his soft snoring and the methodical ticking of the clock on the wall. The sounds of the London streets get tiresome to listen to, and ever so slowly, even as he tries to fight it, Sherlock leans back into the couch, and falls fast asleep.
•
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Sherlock wakes with a start, halfway to his feet before he could even fully open his eyes.
"John," he hisses, eyes passing over the room frantically. "John Watson! Wake up! There's an intruder!"
He snorts, awaking with a little hmph, staring wide-eyed at Sherlock, who was trying to listen.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Well, go bloody see who it is!" John snaps, voice rough with sleep as he staggered toward the kitchen. "Probably just Mrs. Hudson-why would somebody break into the apartment of Sherlock Holmes-"
"Shh," he breathes suddenly, staying completely still as he listened. The tapping had suddenly stopped.
He takes one cautious step toward the kitchen, inwardly cringing when the floorboard creaked beneath his feet. He flips on the bright kitchen light, eyes trained on the kitchen window, which happened to be half open. Of course it was.
"Bloody hell," says a quiet voice from outside, forcing the window up a little further. A man ducks his head inside, seeing Sherlock immediately, and he grins from ear to ear. "Mr. Holmes," he says. "It has been entirely too long."
•
A cold gust of wind blows through the window, causing a shiver to run down John's spine as he glares at the man halfway into the room. "Sherlock?" he asks, gesturing at the man, who was still struggling to fit his frame through the window. One very long leg appeared, then another, followed by the rest of the person. John could only see glimpses of a knit sweater and his legs as he pulled himself inside, but he didn't look older then 23 at a first glance. As he squints in the bright light, he could finally see him-tousled brown hair, crooked glasses, pink lips-and the kid was looking at Sherlock so obliviously he should've had little cartoon hearts floating all around him.
"Oh, no need to worry, John," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes still locked with the boys. "This is the very face of MI6 we've got here, no intruder."
"Pleasure to meet you," he says slowly, adjusting his glasses and smiling in a half-innocent way. "But I wouldn't let Bond hear you say that. He likes to think he's what keeps the country running smoothly, but really it's me and my laptop doing all the work."
Only after Sherlock pokes him in the back does he grumble a hello and lightly shake his hand, which is smooth and unmarked, unlike John's scarred ones.
"'Ello," he says, sheepishly rubbing at his face and suddenly wishing he'd changed into something nicer. From the way they were staring at each other, it was obvious the pair had something between them... And it made John feel something he hadn't in awhile-old and humiliated, because since when did he get possessive over Sherlock?
"Isn't used to sneaking around yet," Sherlock says, and he looks so close to genuinely smiling that it actually hurts. John's never seen him smile like that, not ever. "Still has 'is spots, he's but almost as smart as me. Almost."
"Indeed," the Quartermaster replies, all dimples and cute little moles on his face-and-and... John squints closer at him, and tries to do what Sherlock would do (and did, with all of John's girlfriends), deduce.
Smells a bit like nicotine. Left hand shakes slightly. Smoker, most likely. Subtle hint of cologne by his neck, collar is a bit flat on that side too. Suggests he's been hugged recently, most likely by someone a bit older then him since the cologne seems older. Doesn't fidget, stays still. Almost too still. Means, of course, he's been trained. Long, thin fingers tapping a pattern on his leg. Morse code? R, B, F... No. Quartermaster, probably types all day, force of habit. Very thin face, well shaven. Someone else does it for him, probably.
He tries to focus on those main biographical details as Sherlock and "Q," as he so affectionately called him, talk like old mates, but he kept getting stuck on small, probably made up details. That scarf looks familiar. Is it Sherlock's? Did he wear it to remind him of something? Did he-
John stops the stream of his thoughts and forces his eyes away from the pair, focusing on the wall behind them instead.
"May I speak to you alone, Sherlock?" Q asks suddenly, lips pursed ever so slightly, eyes a bit watery from laughing at one of their shared stories. "No disrespect for you, John, but alas, Mycroft has a message for him and such."
Q might've been a secret agent, but John is a military man, and he knows a lie when he hears one. And, because John felt like being a bitchy little twat, he opens his mouth to say no, but before he could, Sherlock turns around to face him.
That's a lie and you know it, his eyes say. "I need you to trust me," his voice says and his voice is deep and serious, his eyes shining with unruly danger that sets John off a little bit.
"N-" he still tried to say, but Sherlock took two steps closer so they were mere inches from each other.
"I need you to trust me," he repeats, and the tone is so commanding that he almost stumbles backward a bit. "I... I would never put you in harms way, John. Please trust me-and don't listen."
John doesn't like it. He doesn't like the way the Quartermaster is nervously picking at his fingernails and shifting his weight towards the window, or how Sherlock's glaring so strongly at him it feels like he's looking right through him. But deep down, he trusts Sherlock. And he wants to prove it to him. So he simply replies: "Sure. Should I make some tea since we're all awake now anyway?"
"Earl Grey," they both say at the same time, and John tries not to imagine Sherlock brewing him a kettle as morning sun creeps though the kitchen windows of Q's flat, but it happens anyway.
"Thank you," Sherlock says, and the shock of his politeness barely registers, because John suddenly feels a million miles away from the man he calls his best friend-or is he?
•
"Nice of you to ask Bond to okay guard," Sherlock remarks, pulling his coat closer around his shoulders and nodding his chin towards a dark silhouette on the street.
"The view from the fire escape is beautiful at this time of the night," Q says, ignoring the statement completely as he toys with the sleeves of his sweater.
"Ever better from the roof." Sherlock replies, and the statement hangs between them for a moment, heavy in the air.
"Sherlock, I-" Q begins, eyes large and nervous behind his glasses, but Sherlock cuts him off.
"Have you told him yet?"
Q shifts his weight again, unconsciously towards the side of the street where Bond awaits him. "Have I told who what?" he retorts stubbornly, crossing his arms, and Sherlock lets out a sharp laugh.
"Oh, you're perfect for each other, alright. A brilliant, sharp mind, a bright young thing, and a scarred, secretive old-pardon me, middle aged-man holding enough secrets to bring down a nation. Do you suppose the Queen will come to the wedding, on account of how many times you two have saved her country?"
"You're going to miss him, aren't you."
Another subject change. Damn Bond, he's rubbing off on him already.
It's early, and as the street lights begin to click on, Sherlock can see how sincere he looks, from the crinkles by his eyes to the way he's standing up straight and tall.
"It's for the good of the country," he tells him. "I don't need love. I do not need anyone."
Q scoffs and rolls his eyes at this one, scuffing his expensive loafers against the metal stairs. "He's willing to die for you, you know. Everyday. He's not stupid, Sherlock. He knows what he's gotten into by now. And you know damn well he loves you too."
Sherlock swallows hard and stares down at the street, listens to the familiar symphony of car horns and barking dogs, echoed conversations, and, somewhere, a train with a passenger named James Moriarty, headed straight out of England.
"I know he does," he says. And it's true.
— end part one