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The large room was bathed in a soft golden light, contradicting the menacing mood that laid heavily upon the room's occupants. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Sherlock struggling against the handcuffs they both had around their wrists. He didn't dare look at him for longer than a second, fearing he wouldn't be able to bear to see whatever emotion was plastered on Sherlock's face. He swallowed his guilt and dropped his gaze to the floor, hoping that one day, Sherlock would understand that he was just as helpless as the detective himself.
Sherlock made a choking sound, and John's head shot up in alarm. His heart was racing as he finally met Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock tried to say something, but stopped. He seemed on the verge of tears. His light grey irises were blurry as he held back his tears. He was obviously uncomfortable; he was crouched in an odd position on a hard chair about nine feet from John. He looked defeated. John and Sherlock both knew what was to come.
John wanted to walk to him, wanted to hug him, wanted to tell him that they were going to be alright. They always were. It always worked out in the end. But he had funny feeling in his stomach, and he worried they wouldn't get lucky this time.
One of the many doors opened with a bang, and John flinched at the sudden sound. Familiar footsteps came echoing in their direction.
"Un-cuff John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes immediately," said Mycroft Holmes in a tone that did not relieve John. If anything, it made him even more nervous.
He looked to Sherlock for a moment and only saw terror. John gasped at the unfamiliar sight. He wanted to shout, wanted to demand to know what the hell was going on and why they were alone with a dozen armed guards as if they were Britain's Most Wanted. They were the good guys, weren’t they? Since when was Mycroft not at least the tiniest bit on the side of his baby brother?
The fear he felt was overpowering, he felt his throat tighten. This time it was him who made a choked up sound
He almost jumped as one of the guards un-cuffed him. Slowly, he rubbed his hurting wrists and shot Mycroft a death glare.
The silence was almost a tangible object in the room. John looked at Sherlock again, trying to figure out if this was a fight or flight situation, but Sherlock didn't move. John frowned.
After a few minutes two doors on opposite ends of the room opened and four more people entered the room. This looked more and more like a trial.
Everybody sat down, and John leaned back and sighed. He was already tired.
Mycroft looked at his brother first. John's heart clenched when he saw the cold expression with which he regarded Sherlock.
"Please state your name."
There was the tiniest pause. Sherlock composed himself and took a deep breath.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Your full name."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a split second before he managed to put on his inscrutable mask. His calm demeanor would have been believable, but his voice betrayed him.
"You just said it a few minutes ago."
Had this been a normal exchange, this would have been the part where Mycroft would sigh, but his face remained stone cold.
"We need it for the record."
Sherlock nodded.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
Mycroft turned to John with raised brow and asked the same question.
John stared for a beat band obeyed at last.
"John Hamish Watson."
He held his breath. Not knowing what would happen next wasn't a desirable feeling in the presence of Britain's most powerful man and twelve guards in his back.
To his surprise, Mycroft dropped his mask and gave a smile that did not reach his eyes. It twisted into a grimace. John winced in repulsion.
One of the guards, a woman, stepped closer and put a large wine glass in front of John and placed another in front of Sherlock. The latter looked like he was debating whether or not push the glass to the floor and let it shatter into countless pieces.
"Fancy some wine?" asked Mycroft and showed them a sealed dusty bottle. "It is a merlot," he said while pouring some in each of their glasses.
John's confusion grew. Hesitating, he smelled the wine and took a small sip. It was as promised, a lovely wine.
Stupid, echoed Sherlock's scolding voice in his head. John turned to the real Sherlock and met an alarmed expression. He knew he should not have done that. He tried to look apologetic. Sherlock turned away and focused back on Mycroft.
"Very well." Mycroft's voice sounded determined. "I gather you know why you're here?" He turned to John who only shrugged.
"Sherlock?"
"The last case that went wrong because yo-"
Mycroft cut him off, "This isn't just about the last case it is about every case since 2010."
Sherlock's eyes grew wide. "Every case since I met John?" he asked in disbelieve.
Mycroft smiled in a way that made John's blood run cold. Something about that expression told him that that was exactly the reaction Mycroft hoped he'd get. Sherlock appeared to have deduced the same because he straightened his back and again his face was unreadable.
"You two leave quite the bloody trail. Many people dying on account of you."
"They were bad people", argued John quietly.
Mycroft ignored him and produced a small book from his pocket.
"It begins with Jefferson Hope."
"We don't know who shot him."
John huffed at Sherlock's lame attempt to protect him.
"We certainly know very well it was John Watson." Mycroft turned a page. "Here of course Charles Augustus Magnussen."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The footage shows I didn't shoot him."
Mycroft ignored his brother and turned another page. "And then there is Daneel Miller."
Nervously, John shifted in his chair and reached for the wine in front of him. It was only when he felt Mycroft's piercing eyes on him that he remembered to not drink from it. That case had truly been unfortunate.
"Do you want more wine? Or are you afraid to spill the truth?" Mycroft smiled at his small wordplay and put the book away. "There are almost forty people on that list. Ten of them just recently added. At this rate, you two are turning into a serious threat to this country."
John laughed dryly. "We never harmed innocent people. We protect them. We solve their cases. We are hardly a threat."
"Please, John, tell me what all these cases have in common."
"Solved cases. Happy endings. Less criminals."
Sherlock shook his head slightly. "He wants us to say that we kill for each other; that you value me higher than everybody else and vice versa."
John shot him a confused look. This was the reason they were here? Because of mutual affection? Because they dared to love each other? When he looked back to Mycroft he knew it was true.
"Care to elaborate what happened on your last case?"
It should've been an easy case. A nice eight on Sherlock's scale. Something requiring his brains but wouldn't involve too much danger. He was wrong, obviously. No eight has ever been not dangerous. John knew that, Sherlock knew that, everybody knew that. And yet they carried on, and before he knew it John found himself at the butt-end of a gun, finger on the trigger, coldly and calmly asking, “Where is Sherlock Holmes?”
It was always so absurd when he or Sherlock were kidnapped. Such a predictable film trope, and yet, people continued doing just that. Maybe it was because they kept interfering in things that were too big for them. Gangs, mafia, smugglers. The list could go on for days.
This particular case had to do with human trafficking and somehow Sherlock had become a target. John wasn't even surprised to be completely honest. There must be a lot of villains out there who would pay a good sum to get to do whatever they pleased with the great Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was only supposed to find where the base of this gruesome stuff was located and who was behind it. But because Sherlock was Sherlock, he wanted to catch the guys himself. He had failed. Or else there wouldn't be a password protected chatroom with a countdown now.
Luckily Sherlock had figured out which warehouse he was to be sold in. Unfortunately he wandered off without telling John. Or the police, for that matter. He merely left a note, probably hoping everything turned out fine.
When John arrived at the warehouse, he knocked out two guards. He later learned he had accidentally killed them.
Now he was standing in front of three unarmed men who did belong to the trafficking organisation and absolutely knew where Sherlock was but just wouldn't say anything.
Without hesitation, he shot the first and turned to the next one in his lineup.
He repeated his question. "Where. Is. Sherlock. Holmes?"
One of them pointed to a door. John turned and started running to it, when he was tackled to the floor by one of the men. They struggled for a bit but John managed to shoot the man in the abdomen. When he stood again, the third man was already gone. John continued running, crashed through several doors and blindly shot at everything that moved too quickly in his direction. Never losing track of the countdown.
At last he saw Sherlock's tall figure standing above a lifeless woman. Daneel Miller. Head of the organisation and responsible for the chatroom. When Sherlock looked at John, he dropped a bloody scalpel and ran across the room.
John quickly tucked the gun away and met his partner’s embrace. They held each other as if they were the only thing keeping them sane, as if their lives depended on it.
"Thank god you're alive, Sherlock", he whispered into Sherlock’s shoulder. "The countdown was almost down to a minute."
"I knew you'd come and find me. Thank you for finding me."
John stroked Sherlock's curls and held him a bit tighter. "I know I say that after every kidnapping but please never do that again. I can't lose you."
"Never again", promised Sherlock and turned his head to kiss John's temple. "Never again."
John was desperately looking for a way to argue out of this situation. He found nothing. Defeated, he looked down at his hands.
When Mycroft started talking again, his tone was soft. "I always told you, Sherlock, 'caring is not an advantage'. Here is the proof. You two together are dangerous."
He put out his hand and one of the four people behind him gave him a thick book. Sherlock gasped; his already pale face drained of any remaining colour, leaving it in an unhealthy looking grey.
"Where did you get that?" His voice was barely a whisper. "You have no right to-" he choked on his words when Mycroft opened the book at a seemingly random page.
"'John'", Mycroft started and then quickly interjected, "This begins rather sweet. Innocent, even. One can clearly see when your relationship started to shift."
"One has no right to read my diary", spat Sherlock, livid.
"I hope you understand that we needed evidence for the nature and depth of your relationship to determine just how dangerous you actually are."
John's heart was racing and he wondered if he looked the same as the detective. Sad, infuriated, terrified, and humiliated.
"'John'", began Mycroft again, and John felt Sherlock's silent No deep in his bones as if he were screaming and not whispering. "'he is not as dull as about 87% of the people I know. He has a bad taste in jumpers but a good taste in tea. Or maybe my taste in tea is bad and we just like the same bad tea. I need to look further into that.'’’
Mycroft paused, “This was a month after John moved in. I never knew how hard you fell for him. And so soon. The pages after you came back from the dead were bad.”
Mycroft went through many pages and stopped when he found what he was looking for. "This is interesting. 'I can't bear to be so close to him. I can't possibly be his best man and not feel like he is slipping away from me. It hurts so much. This is not what I had planned. Everything was so neatly planned but nothing worked out.' I hate how you relapsed and started taking drugs again. You could've come to me, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked like he was about to throw up any second now. "Just stop, Mycroft. Please. I'm begging you. No one was supposed to hear that."
Mycroft continued reading on a different page, ignoring his brother. "'Never thought I'd see him again. And after less than ten minutes even. I was ready to die. After all, there was not much left for me. Being alone in 221b is already equally as bad as dying. I thought my work here was done. I killed CAM so that Mary would be safe and John could have a future with her. Have his happy domestic life he apparently wants.'"
Sherlock was crying by now, unable to hold back his tears anymore.
"Why the fuck are you doing this, Mycroft?" John tried to control the tremor in his voice and clenched his fists. He knew about the contents of Sherlock's diary, about the years full of misunderstandings and the deep affection they both felt from day one but were too blind to see. "When did you become his enemy?"
"Don't you remember, John? To Sherlock I've always been the enemy."
"Why are we here?" he demanded to know.
Something in Mycroft snapped. "You are here to break up," he almost shouted, "You are reckless whilst being together. You both have to leave England and assume new identities. You will never see each other again so that England can be a safer place again."
Panic rose in John's chest and he started to raise from his chair. He was ready to fight his way out. Take Sherlock by the hand and run away, never to let the bad people reach them again. It was then that he realised that Mycroft was right. He would kill for Sherlock. He had killed for him several times already. He was reckless and dangerous when it came to Sherlock.
Heavily breathing he fell back into the chair. "Why not prison?" he asked after a while.
"That is the government's favour to you for all the good you have done."
John nodded and closed his eyes.
This was it, then. To think, they had fought so much for each other, only to be undone by someone they thought an ally.
"You have one night to gather a suitcase with your most important things from your flat. The flat will be supervised. Don't bother trying to escape." Mycroft looked both of them in the eye, turned and left the room without another word. Four people followed close behind.
When they entered their flat it didn't feel as final as it was supposed to be. John walked after Sherlock into the sitting room and just stood in the middle of the carpet, not sure what to do now. He watched Sherlock tucking the curtains close and switching on the light, still none the wiser of what to do.
"Sherlock", he choked out, "Is this real?"
Sherlock remained silent, only nodded and turned with an apologetic look in his eyes.
"It's not your fault. Please don't think that for even a second. We were both reckless." He stepped closer to Sherlock, not knowing if his touch was still welcome. When he saw the look in Sherlock’s eye, he made up his mind and crossed the last inches and hugged him tightly.
"I will miss you", whispered Sherlock against his hair.
"We will find each other again."
He felt Sherlock shaking his head. "We won't. Mycroft will place us somewhere in the world with immediate alerts if we should so much as think about our real names. We won't be allowed back in Britain."
"We will find each other again," repeated John a little firmer this time. He held Sherlock a bit tighter before he released him completely. "Now go and pack your stuff. We only have tonight left."
Half an hour later John walked downstairs to Sherlock's bedroom. He hesitantly knocked on the door and then walked in and sat on the bed without waiting for an answer.
Sherlock looked up to him from the spot on the floor where he was sitting. "Didn't know it would take you so long, considering most of your jumpers are down here." A small smile appeared on his lips.
"I love you", blurted John despite himself. "We didn't say that enough. Thought you should hear it again."
Sherlock got up and joined John on the bed. "I know. I guess you'd say the same if we had done it more regularly, though." He moved and knelt behind John, massaging his shoulders, long fingers slowly wandering to John's collar and opening the first button of his shirt. He bent down to kiss John's neck and jaw, moving John gently onto his back. He hovered above him and kissed with lips salty from a few tears.
John was naked in Sherlock's arms when Mycroft arrived the next morning. They woke to the knocking on the door. A horrible and final sound.
"You have one hour. I will be in the sitting room."
He did not want to leave the warmth of the bed or Sherlock or their life. He did not want to face a punishment in another country without Sherlock. He couldn't even imagine life without him. He shook his head, willing new tears away, and woke Sherlock with a slow kiss.
"We need to get up, love. I fear we should not let your brother wait this time." He freed himself from the duvet and left Sherlock's arms reluctantly. With one last look behind his shoulder at a naked Sherlock, he left the room to take a shower and wash away the familiar smell of everything he loved.
A minute after he turned the water on, Sherlock joined him. It was almost too much to bear. It broke John's heart to know this would be the last time to have Sherlock this close, to be able to touch him, hear him moan and taste his salty sweet skin. There were too many I love yous, but not nearly enough. Their tears washed away under the steady stream of water
All too soon they found themselves in front of the door of 221B, not wanting to step outside. John held Sherlock tightly by the hands, physically unable to let go.
"John, your car has arrived."
Panicking he looked at Mycroft and then back at Sherlock. "I love you, Sherlock", he said one last time, took Sherlock's face gently in his hands and kissed him softly. "Goodbye."
"I love you, too", he heard Sherlock saying as the door closed.
"I'm sorry Mr. Watson. We need to blindfold you so that you won't know where we going. We can't risk you leaving hints for Mr. Holmes."
John didn't know the person talking to him. He just looked at her and shrugged. Too tired and heartbroken to do anything other than obey. He was blindfolded and guided into a car. The blindfold had to remain on until they reached their destination.
After what felt like hours they came to a halt and the door opened. John absentmindedly wondered why they were changing cars as he was led into a new vehicle.
"Can I take off the blindfold now?" he asked, not knowing if anyone was near to hear him.
"John?"
Apparently there was. He didn't expect to hear a familiar voice though.
"Sherlock?" His heart started beating faster and he leaned into the general direction from where the voice came.
The car began to move.
"You can both take them off, now," said Mycroft.
John was confused. As soon as he could see again he glared at Mycroft. "I don't understand."
"John!" Sherlock unbuckled and came crushing on John's lap. Almost sobbing, not caring that his brother saw it all.
John held Sherlock protectively and stroked his back, but continued glaring at Mycroft. "Please explain. There is only so much emotionally draining stuff I can take in twenty-four hours. If you take him away again, I swear to god-"
"This is all I can do for you. You should not be together. You really shouldn't, but I simply cannot separate you without hating myself until the day I die. You are family, after all." He grimaced at the sentiment but his eyes were shining in honesty. "You still have to leave the country, and won't be able to ever come back to Britain again, but you will do so together."
Sherlock sat close to John and regarded his brother with a long estimating look.
"Thank you," he said eventually.
They arrived at an airport and the pair immediately jumped out of the car, not looking back once.