Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes Sherlock remembers the bench as the first place John told him a lie.

Nothing changed there, because Sherlock knew what was going to happen in the future, and nothing shifted. But it began. Just a simple push, a miniscule slip of the fingers, and the avalanche had tumbled by the hill, and everything had fell, fallen, fallen into place to became what Sherlock had begun to categorise as New.

He knew that a few pushes of his thumb on a screen, and John would come running. Maybe he would set Alexandra down in the arms of her mother, or cease writing a patient report at his desk, or even return the tea to its pot. Sherlock knew, and that knowledge was enough to give him a steady head and steady fingers.

But how much longer would that hold out? He was waiting for New to officially kick in. A murmured denial, an apologetic "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't make it on time" or "Alexandra has a doctor's appointment, you know, babies require a lot of care, Sher" or a falsely wistful "God, I wish I could, it's just, you know, between working at the clinic and taking care of my family..."

But it didn't come. John was still there, begging Sherlock to eat and smiling after an especially tricky case and just being an available home. Sherlock was fine, but he was still waiting, wondering, stuck.

He didn't call John all of the time, only when the case wasn't that late notice and when he really needed someone to back him up other than another policeman he had found who was actually proving to be especially competent. If the man had silvery blond hair and was an almost exceptional sharpshooter, no one who noticed both redeeming qualities commented openly. He didn't call John all the time, only when Alexandra was tucked in and when Mary was trying to drown her dreams away by curling up with dogeared detective novels and lukewarm cups of coffee. He did not say, and he did not bother, and he did not disturb.

He woke up, and no one was there. He refused to think about eating, and no one was there to tell him to stop. He showed up to cases alone and unaccompanied by the familiar doctor that Scotland Yard had come to know and love, because no one was there. And the more he went though with what he was doing, he continued to acknowledge that no one was ever going to be there.

He was alone. John had lied. He had sat on that bench and stared at that guard across the street from the green, and he had lied to his best friend sitting beside him. Or maybe that was a lie too? Sherlock hadn't been able to spot any noticeable signs of deceit laid across his friend's features that noon in the kitchen, but who knew what John was really feeling?

Now, with no one around him to grudgingly make him tea or hand him his mobile, no one could know what Sherlock was really feeling.

♦♦♦

Lestrade was not the smartest individual Sherlock had ever come across, but that didn't mean that he didn't see it. Either that or he really needed that paperwork filled out.

Sherlock clutched the manilla folder to his chest like a lifeline, which it might as well have been. He didn't see a need to hide any impulses around Lestrade, and besides, he hated seeing that stupidly confused face struggle to figure out the reasons for Sherlock's suppressed behaviour. So dropping clues like birdseed was really much easier than bearing sight to the horrid process.

"No exceptions on these papers, Sherlock. With the distrust around you still working here and the fact that the suspect's capture occurred in a completely unobserved location -" With this he sighed exasperatedly and Sherlock smiled in turn - "only you and John can really give us an accurate summary."

"I know what you're trying to do," the consulting detective smirked, some of his misplaced arrogance still remaining.

"Yeah well," Lestrade murmured as he moved to leave his own office. "Soon I'll be the only one doing things for you."

♦♦♦

He wanted - no, needed - to hear John's voice out loud, not implied through the words of a text.

"I'll be there," the soldier promised, "By eight. If it gets too late, like it always does, Mary says I can sleep over." He laughed, a fond cry reverberating through the speaker, and Sherlock openly chose to believe that the affection was directed toward him.

"Your room's here," he spoke before he could stop himself. "It's here, always will be, always had been."

"I know," John said.

It was stupid, an unnecessary acknowledgement of something that they both could've gone without.

♦♦♦

It was seven o'clock and Sherlock knew John wouldn't be there. There was no reason that he should be. Nothing awaited for him at 221B except tarnished memories and an ex drug addict sitting on the floor.

Sherlock hadn't been sitting on the floor for the hour he had waited beforehand. He was perched on the couch, and then he wasn't, and then he was tracing invisible circles onto the floor where John had stood and John had walked and John had expelled air. And now he wasn't, because he didn't need to be. He had cured his limp and indulged in a few hobbies that had distracted him from his wartime injuries for a short time. And now, because he didn't necessarily need to be here, he wasn't.

Seven fifteen.

It was stupid, really, this constant struggle of tug of war they were playing. I need you, come back to me. You're my conductor of light. I need you, so can you stand here for me? You're my best friend.

Seven thirty.

He didn't stay awake to review the case files with someone who had never planned on turning up in the first place.

♦♦♦

I'm sorry, Sherlock. I forgot, with work and everything. -JW

God, but he sounded so honourable, even with incorrect grammar.

Sherlock? -JW

He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew.

Sherlock?

Chapter Text

Mycroft is smiling, and Sherlock is not. There is no reason to smile. He wishes that he wasn't being dragged to this dreadfully tedious luncheon, but the sooner he bypasses the event, the sooner he can go back to Baker Street. For the past few days, he's been simply lounging around the flat. Lestrade hasn't called him on any cases, and he can't find the strength inside of him to go find one himself. Now he's here, sandwiched between pastels and paisley, waiting for the next move like a chess game.

"Sherlock's been on a few very interesting cases lately, haven't you, dear brother," Mycroft questions with a cunning tilt. Sherlock fights the urge to roll his eyes and says nothing. Their parents forms incline toward them in obvious interest. The more Mycroft talks, the farther Sherlock is pushing back a second luncheon on his mental calendar.

"I actually would love to hear more about Mycroft's government doings," Sherlock refutes with a falsely kind air. "It seems as though Mycroft has to keep everything a secret nowadays, don't you, Myc?" Their mother nods in obvious agreement, and Mycroft's face reddens in anger at the obvious defiance of his younger brother.

"It's for the protection of all of us, Sherlock. You of all people should know about protection, even for reasons that may seem wrong to the general population." Sherlock can't think of an angry response to Mycroft's rebuttal, but he feels the salad swim in his stomach, feels himself sickening as the hour ticks away on the analog clock above the white clothed table set before them. If he is in this room for even more time, he's going to develop a mysterious stomach illness. He doesn't want have to deal with Mycroft's "I told you so's." Those words are the last ones he needs to hear right now. Right now, he just craves the safety back at 221B, something to resemble the life that they used to have. Or something to make himself calm down. The familiarity of that same, dusty long sofa and the damp, darkness of the flat that Mrs. Hudson doesn't even bother to air out anymore.

The subject changes to something else about the flowers his mother is growing or the car that his father is thinking about purchasing, both subjects that Sherlock doesn't have enough background knowledge to pitch in on. He could talk about the stolen million-pound rose or that gruesome murder where the blood was splattered all over the backseat of the Impala, but he has finally grown a filter that tells him those aren't good conversational topics. Mycroft is being a tiresome bother on Sherlock's left, the other head of the table, prodding at his foot or moving his plate too close. Sherlock can read the invisible cues of Smoke break, brother. We must talk. He doesn't want to follow him out into the cold.

He hears "soldier" and rights his head.

"How's the soldier fellow?" Father asks, and because it's Father, he feels if he has to answer. Father actually cares about John and Mary and the baby, and it isn't an overbearing care. (Sherlock would have never named her Alexandra.)

"John?" Sherlock says, as if there were ever another soldier, as if there were ever another fellow. (There has never been and will never be.) "He's fine, really."

"And the baby?" Father continues.

He hasn't seen Alexandra since last month. The visit was short and tension-filled. He was only at John's home to show him some case files. Mary's glares were anything but welcoming. It is a mistake that he will never make again.

"The baby is healthy and happy," Sherlock answers, and rubs the back of his fork's tines over the salmon he has yet to touch. There is nothing else he needs to say.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

The pavement is grey and separated from the lot by the shiny kerb. They are leaning on the outer wall of the restaurant, and their parents are inside the bathrooms, freshening up before strolling out and awaiting one of his brother's cars. Mycroft offers him a cigarette, and it is low-tar, and he doesn't say anything about it.

"How is John? Really?" Mycroft peruses.

Sherlock inhales. "The tremor in his left hand is fairly obvious. I'm not surprised Mary hasn't said anything about it."

"Of course," Mycroft huffs smugly. "She just wants him away from you, Sherlock. And that's what's happening. I'm quite satisfied with the way things are turning out. Everything is going well with the small Watson family, snug in the makeshift suburbs. And you are what you've always wanted to be."

He wants to retort, but he doesn't care, he really doesn't fucking care and he doesn't want Mycroft to believe that he does.

"It's almost embarrassing, how you let yourself go like that. Just shot Magnussen and thought you were completely justified for doing so. Thinking that for once, John was the damsel in distress." Mycroft's words almost reek as much as his breath. Don't care. "He's over there living the life that he's dreamed of, and you're waiting for his dreams to crash and fall just as yours' did when you jumped off of that building."

"We never had a chance. Even if I hadn't - even if Reichenbach had never happen - John would have found Mary in a few years, maybe months."

"Is that what you want to believe? Everyone saw it. The way he looked at you, it was like you were God passing through the desert to hand him some personal manna. You were his manna, his a posse ad esse, until you weren't there. Then he had to find a new one. But to him, you weren't fully replaceable. Otherwise, his hand wouldn't been shaking."

He wants to tell him Fuck off, but that could be easily translated to "I care", which he doesn't. When he lost Redbeard, he muttered every curse that he could remember into the confines of his sheets. 

"This conversation isn't necessary."

"Your absurd, depressing pining isn't necessary. I have a few cases that, if or when solved - " At this Sherlock glared, "would help shove you back into good graces. You'd be called on more and more, some high-profile. Drop that occurring fling that awaits you and ensure lengthy occupation. It's healthy."

"You didn't even want me on this job."

"It helps," Mycroft snorts. "Your emotions don't." 

He drops the cigarette on the path, right on the kerb. He puts it out with his heel, turns up his coat collar, and walks.

Chapter Text

He throws himself back into cases with a newly generated vigour. After an especially high profile one, a few news reports are scattered throughout the papers. Sure enough, John decided to call him on a Sunday afternoon. “I prefer to text” goes through Sherlock’s mind, but he finds himself reaching for the phone anyway.

“Holmes.”

“Oh come off it. You know it’s me. You can see my name.”

Sherlock chuckles at John’s immediate exasperated attitude, the sound ringing through the empty flat. “Face it, John. You never call.” There is a pause.

“Do you want me to call more?”

“No,” Sherlock answers, and it was true. He didn’t want to answer any of John’s calls. He had read that the more you blocked a person out of your life, the easier it would be to get over this - this, whatever it was.

“I saw the Somerset case in the paper and was interested. Wanted to know what really happened, past all of those details about your ‘swirling black coat’ and ‘your analytical grey eyes.'”

“As if what you used to write about me on your blog was much better.”

“Hey! I wrote about the details of the case too, not just some superhero story about you.”

“Is that what I am? A superhero?”

“An irritable one,” John says, and Sherlock can feel a smile growing on his face. John made him feel - special, different, amazing, brilliant. He remembers all of the crime scenes in a blurring flash, grasping John’s wrist in his gloved hand, pulling him down alleyways with the sounds of their feet hitting the pavement and their heavy panting hanging in the air. His pulse fluttering underneath the cloth of his coat underneath Sherlock’s fingertips. He feels - he knows - he thought that they would be doing things like that for the rest of their lives.

“How is Alexandra?” he asks, reminding himself that John had a life beyond him, and always had, and always would.

“She’s wonderful. So smart, curious. When she plays, she never makes a mess. She tucks everything away afterward, in little piles so that Mary and I can pick it up.” He coughs, and Sherlock remembers that doctors are the worst patients.

“I bet that is extremely useful.”

“It is.” John pauses again. “Wait a minute. Is the apocalypse pending? Is Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, making small talk?”

“Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting, drowsy detective, is trying.”

John laughs, and the sound is sweet, dripping with honey. Sherlock’s always had dreams that cluttered the back of his mind about moving to Sussex and keeping bees. He’s never told anyone about them, though, except for Mycroft, but he was heavily inebriated and needed someone to pick him up. It was for a case that he solved for the government, so Mycroft definitely owed him a favour.

“Tell me about the Somerset case,” John implores, and Sherlock fondly recounts John’s thirst for danger. He wonders if John stares at the knives in his drawer when he’s about to make food for Mary. He wonders if John’s gun is still stashed in his nightstand for him to trace his fingers over in the dead of night when Mary is sound asleep, or if it is locked in some child safety case that Alexandra would have no choice of finding. Would John yell at Alexandra to stop climbing on top of tables and counters, or would he begin to envision her in military uniform, if he hasn’t already?

“It was almost open and shut. The professor hated those who sat in his classes, but he struck at pupils in widespread universities to make it look like an intricate pattern. In the end, it all traced back to Bath. The student was in the professor’s office, but the paper was the one that mattered. He had written that he wished to see the student after class to discuss the paper on said sheet. He hated teaching, so why would he do that? No affair, he regularly cleaned his ring, showing that he was happy in said marriage and cared about the wife. He wanted another victim, and found one in the student. If he wanted to continue the pattern, he should’ve branched out, but he was too afraid about the extent he would start going to. Therefore, we know that it was him. Unfortunate it took five victims to figure that out.”

“You’ve solved cases like this before,” John responds after a moment, sounding a bit distracted. “Why did this one face media involvement?”

“Drums up interest in said media sources. ‘Could you, young uni student, be next?’ Also, I’m not a stranger to the media anymore. Everyone knows about what I do.” Reichenbach comes to mind, but he doesn’t push it.

“Oh, do they?” John teases. “Discounts at restaurants for the famous detective? Do people ask you for autographs as you stroll down the now christened streets?”

“A girl asked me to pet her dog the other day.”

“And did you?” Sherlock can hear John’s smile through the phone and the tapping of fingers against what sounds like marble. He’s in the kitchen, then. It’s eight o’clock, so dinner probably has just been finished. Mary must be reading a book, and Alexandra might be snug in her crib, sleeping in the steady way that infants do. (He really would have never named her Alexandra. Cressida is a name he has been thinking about.)

“I told her I would not pet an unwell dog.”

“Did she know the dog was unwell?” John’s voice has morphed to a tone of concern, and Sherlock openly rolls his eyes. Always the caretaker, that one.

“No, but she was very grateful for the revelation. I answered a few more questions about the impending cancer, and she fled to the clinic with the mongrel still in her arms, flopping around like a stringy mop.”

John chuckles and pats the table with one of his hands. Sherlock wants to remove the ring from his finger, slip it off and hide it somewhere where John would never be able to find it again.

“If you need me for any cases, let me know,” John says. “You haven’t called me for any of them. The last time I saw you was when you dropped those files off.”

“Mycroft has a string of them that are especially for me. He’s especially concerned this time around. It’s stifling.” The moment that the words slip from Sherlock’s mouth, he knows he’s made a mistake, but he can’t help it. He wants to cry for John, wants him to be back at 221B. He can’t lose him to an assassin and a dream. He can’t.

“Concerned? Why? Sherlock, don’t tell me you’re on drugs again. I swear I will march over there right now, and if I find one syringe -”

“John, don’t underestimate me. I’m over the habit. I don’t need cocaine to function.” Sherlock’s tone is disdainful. For John to so easily assume that he was back to his old ways - how dare he! It was simply rude.

“Then why is Mycroft concerned?” John is worried, a little irritated, and unmistakably guilty. Sherlock can read into his thoughts easily. Mycroft allowed Sherlock to traipse across London and immerse himself in highly dangerous cases, albeit as he was watched by paid spies. If Sherlock was being worried about by Mycroft, there must be something wrong.

“It’s the Work,” Sherlock lies. “He’s worried about the cases. I’m growing older, and they’re getting more dangerous. If he can assign me busy work, he can keep a stronger eye on me. Plus, he knows a little more about how much danger I’m placing myself into. He would never want me to get into too much trouble."

“Oh.” John’s consideration is a shallow little puddle, trampled on by his incoming thoughts. “But if you need me, Sherlock, you can always call. Okay? I’ve always got my mobile on me. I’m always ready for any cases you have.”

“You sound hungry,” Sherlock notes.

John laughs again, and Sherlock can tell that it will be last one of the conversation. “Maybe so. Have a good night, Sher.”

“You as well, John.” Then he ends the call. He severs the connection, and traces his lips, still curved into a smile, with his fingers. This is definitely love, and he knows it, and he feels it in his heart.

It’s so sad that John doesn’t feel it too.

Chapter Text

Alight. Alive.

That’s how Sherlock felt. He wasn’t injecting anything, snorting anything, taking anything. He was running, running fast and freely, his limbs cutting through the air thickly, mind only caught in a veil of get him and faster and You will, you will. It was dark and the rain was pouring down on him like a bag full of water had been slashed at the bottom. It was dark and the corners were sharp and the pavement under his feet was slick. He was so ready, so ready for this, and he pounced.

It had all started when Lestrade had noticed, because it seemed that everyone was noticing lately. “Oh,” he said with an empty voice. Sherlock knew what he had seen and rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, you look - you look gaunt. Like a ghost from Christmas past.”

“I’m fine, Lestrade,” he answered, his eyes flicking over the dead body with a clinical, detached air.

“Are you doing drugs again?”

“No.”

There was a silence. Sherlock leant down and sniffed the woman’s snapped neck, the scent of morning dew still streaked across it. As if her murderer, while walking, had dragged his fingers through the grass before wrapping them around her thin throat. It wasn’t anything less than eery, and Sherlock was revelling in it. This is what he lived for, not some damn army doctor stirring potato soup a few towns away. This is what he needed, and this is what needed him.

“John,” Lestrade began. Sherlock resisted the urge to pick his head up and instead observed that the victim’s blonde hair was unevenly cut. For a woman who prided herself on appearance, this was obviously strange.

“What about John?”

“Are you two okay?”

Sherlock held in a smile and told him that they were fine.

“Well then. Well. That’s good. I guess. Anyway, I’ve got this really important case - “

And this is why Sherlock was running.

♦♦♦

Lestrade and Donovan were sitting side by side at Lestrade’s desk, staring at Sherlock like they were on a panel and he was being judged. In reality, Sherlock knew that he couldn’t be judged, at least anymore. His deductions were almost always accurate, now that he had no one to distract him.

“So you want to know about the murders?”

This is when Donovan snapped, and as she hissed at him, Sherlock felt like her brown, curly hair rose in a cloud and surrounded her angry face. He was vaguely reminded of the goddess Medusa, with snakes coming straight out of her head and swiping at whoever stared for too long.

“We’ve been here for hours, Sherlock! It’s nearing midnight, and we’ve been working all day! Stop showing off and tell us the answer,” Donovan snapped.

Sherlock sighed at her antics and raked a hand through his own curls angrily. He very nearly decided to bounce back with a comment, but one look at Lestrade kept his mouth shut. The Detective Inspector looked like the world had taken a turn using his face as pavement. His silver hair was rumpled, and dark circles hung under his eyes, which he was blinking furiously in a futile attempt to keep them from closing.

“You’ll find everything in this file,” he sighed, taking a step forward and placing the manila folder in front of the actual detective, Lestrade. “I also wrote some additional notes. You’ll be able to understand everything in the morning - all the information is there. Since we caught the murderer, we won’t need to worry about time. You can relate this back to your superiors once you can connect it all.”

“This is . . . surprisingly helpful, Sherlock,” Lestrade deadpanned. “Thank you for helping us on this case - and all the rest of them. We wouldn’t be able to do it without you.”

Donovan’s expression was priceless. She looked like she was about to start beating Lestrade and Sherlock with hammers. Sherlock smiled and tilted his head, before walking out of the office and out of the Met. A glint to the left caught his eye, and he turned.

A man was sitting near the corner, and a silver chain he was wearing was snagging on slivers of moonlight. He looked shaky, crouched in a position that had to be anything but comfortable. Sherlock couldn’t help walking closer. It wasn’t impossible for pedestrians to be outside at this time of night, but it wasn’t something he usually saw. As he walked closer, he could see that the man’s hands kept dropping a cigarette into his lap. He picked it up and dropped it again.

The man, whose thighs hovered just inches from the ground as his arms were strewn over his lap, saw Sherlock walking nearer and turned his face. A full head of blonde hair nearing his ears and large brown eyes were his most noticeable features. He found his voice.

“I didn’t mean . . . I just . . . hello.”

The voice was small yet modulated and sweet. He wasn’t an older man, but probably around twenty-two, twenty-four at most. An underlying French accent was buried beneath the surface, but other than that, it wasn’t something to marvel at.

It was like the switch to Sherlock’s mind had flipped off abruptly. He could easily deduce that this wasn’t the first cigarette the man had ever smoked (or was toying with absentmindedly), that he wasn’t inebriated or under the influence in anyway, and that he was a fairly normal fellow (extremely shy, fiddling with cigarette, no lighter in sight). There wasn’t anything else he could see. Not a criminal, then. So why was he sitting outside of the Met?

“My girlfriend - “ the man began, and Sherlock tilted his head down from where he had been looking further into the night, deducing. “My girlfriend . . . kicked me out. I got lost. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay to not know right now,” Sherlock wisely advised. His opinion on this had changed over the years. After not coming across the information needed for some of the less important cases as quickly as possible, he became a little more content with delays.

The Frenchman looked up at him and smiled. Sherlock managed a quick nod and gave him a gloved hand, which he took with hesitance, pulling himself up from the pavement.

“I’m Ferdinand Bellamy,” he said.

Sherlock flicked his eyes over his face, open and trusting. Okay. Okay, he could house him for a while, persuade him to stay away from drugs, figure him out. He was in such a good mood that he was open to any entertainment right now. Better than an empty flat and a tingling mind.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

Chapter Text

There is no hiding the sparkling in Lestrade’s eyes akin to wonder. Sherlock inwardly smiles.

“You deduced all of that . . . from a bloody nail on the ground?” The tone of his voice is incredulous. For a second, insecurity shifts into Sherlock. He does not want to be doubted. But Lestrade looks away from the nail and catches Sherlock’s grimace. He nods slowly. “Great work as always; thank you, Sherlock.” Of course, the detective knows that Lestrade is being especially fragile with him, lifting him out of the world and into cases, transferring one china plate into another cabinet and being especially careful that it does not break. He tries to remind himself that he does not care and explains a little more of what has happened until a bell sounds.

Lestrade is not startled, staring down at the corpse, but Sherlock pulls out his phone quickly and swipes his bare thumb across the screen without looking at it. “Well,” he begins, “I didn’t realize how late it was, six already. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait!”

Sherlock turns abruptly from where he already started running, his coat whipping around him in a flurry of black wool.

“You, um, you okay?”

“Lestrade, I don’t have time for this!” he snaps, throwing his hands in the air. “Stop treating me like you think I’m going to break any second.” Dust from the old, creaky house they are in surrounds him, darkening him even more, adding to the mysterious aura. He turns quickly and bolts down the stairs to hail a cab.

When he opens the door to his flat, John is sitting in his regular chair, while Mycroft and Lestrade stand behind Sherlock’s, a shaking Ferdinand between them, huddled up in Sherlock’s seat. He really can’t deal with this today. Are they going to start searching his flat for drugs? He is about to voice his concerns when Mycroft beats him to it.

“Sherlock,” his brother begins, looking at him from where he is standing in between the chairs. Sherlock turns his head obediently. “Who is this man? We couldn’t get a word out of him.” Mycroft frowns with disdain and straightens his tie obsessively. Sherlock cannot hide the feeling of disgust surging through his veins at the words.

“That is because Ferdinand suffers from a major case of shyness.” He turns just in time to see John’s brow furrow. Ferdinand steps forward and in front of Sherlock, and Sherlock grabs his hand, threading his fingers together. Lestrade’s mouth is only able to open and then close abruptly, much like a goldfish.

“You - you - are you guys . . . ?”

“For goodness sake, Lestrade, not every pair of men who stand next to each other are buggering.” Lestrade flushes red and Mycroft rolls his eyes at the obviously guilty tell. “He is in desire of comfort at this point and I do not need someone having a panic attack on the floor of my flat.” He hates that it is not their flat anymore, his and John’s, but he guesses that in some way, it never was.

“Is this legal?” Lestrade asks, finding his voice.

“He’s just staying over until he gets his situation with his girlfriend handled. No problems have arisen. If you want to perform a search for drugs, I suggest you do so now. I’m in a much more indifferent mood then I would be regularly.”

Mycroft waves a stray hand in dismissal. “I have no desire to ransack your flat for nonexistent narcotics, little brother.”

Sherlock sucks in air through his teeth. “Well, I have a desire for all of you to go.” He hears John rise from his chair and after a second of contemplation, twirls around. “You can stay, if you’d like. I am fine with offering you an explanation.” Mycroft snickers and begins to walk out of the flat, followed by a weary Lestrade. John nods and settles into his chair. Ferdinand breaks out of the loose grasp and sits in Sherlock’s. His eyes flit to John’s form, hunched forward, before slipping away nervously. Sherlock sighs and stalks to the kitchen to grab another seat.

“Now,” he begins as he sits between his two blonde-haired friends, “I have pledged to explain. Ferdinand Bellamy, this is Dr. John Watson, a colleague on some of my cases and a friend. John, this is Ferdinand, he’s staying over for a little while until he gets sorted, as I voiced before.” He reclines and his chair and takes in John’s face.

There are a few wrinkles around John’s eyes that suggest concern; however, he is friendly and agreeable. He stands quickly and shakes Ferdinand’s hand before resting again. Sherlock attempts a smile and is unable to keep it up, so he lets the curtains fall down again, blocking any semblance of happiness.

“Why are you here?” he asks bluntly, turning to his right to face John. John sighs and looks down at his lap and folded hands, before raising his head again to meet his friend’s gaze.

“I’m going to be honest. Sherlock . . . I’m worried about you. You haven’t called in a week.” Sherlock notes that Ferdinand has scrunched up in his chair, curled up like a kitten, shaking, visibly nervous. He looks to Ferdinand out of the corner of his eye, then back at John, to remind him to keep the tone of his voice civil and quiet.

“I wasn’t aware that we were on a schedule.”

“We’re not, Sher, but - “ John has slipped back into using Sherlock’s nickname. He is either tired or exasperated. Probably exasperated, the way he is leaning back in the chair but is not relaxing into the new position; he's not looking to rest. “I just want to know if you’re okay. We’re still friends and I want to talk to you.”

“I’m busy, John. Between taking care of Ferdinand and my constant stream of cases, I haven’t got time for phone calls.” Ferdinand visibly bristles at the mention of his name, but then settles down again, his forehead resting on his knees.

“If you had ‘time’ for proper communication with me, hell, we wouldn’t have had to be here. Lestrade could have called me and I could have just dismissed his claims that you had drugs or needed an intervention or whatever,” John snarls. The volume of his voice is rising steadily, and Sherlock can’t have that in his flat.

“John, please keep your voice down. You’ll frighten Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’m focused on you right now! You don’t care, do you? You don’t care about me, or Mary, or even the baby! I was afraid you’d think I left you - now, I’m afraid you’ll leave me!”

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid, Sherlock.

He’d said that once, when he’d been visiting Sherlock’s grave. It was just a week before his official return, and -

“I’m afraid she won’t accept, because it’s only been a year. But I really, really love her.” He had laughed and wiped at his eyes with the back of his left hand, the one that wasn’t clutching the lilacs. John would always get teary around the cemetery.

I love her. I’m afraid, Sherlock, and I love her.

He can't stand for this, all of the memories rushing back, especially anything connected to Reichenbach. Those memories were completely untouched, locked and bolted behind a steel door. Unauthorized access to anyone, and John was trying to touch them. He was trying to touch them without even knowing it.

“You’ve got to go.”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is breaking on the second syllable, breathy and desperate and pathetic. “I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I? Oh, God, I have. Sherlock, please, please talk to me. That’s all I need. That’s why I’m here. Sherlock - “

“Just go, John!” he roars, picking his head up from where he had been staring at the ground. “Just go, please!”

John quickly runs out of the flat, but not without a backward glance at Sherlock, who solumnly stares at Ferdinand’s nestled form. They hold hands, fingers weaved together in a locked clutch.

I’m afraid, Sherlock.

So am I, John, he thought.

So am I.

Chapter Text

Ferdinand was fascinating.

Sherlock marveled at the way he held himself when he spoke and his sturdy silence when he didn’t. There were so many changes happening in his life that Ferdinand’s usual quiet was a comforting reassurance that some things would stay the same. And so Ferdinand did not speak, but Sherlock did, oh God he did. He slowly filled up the flat with poetry read aloud in a baritone and rich, swooning violin concertos, because Ferdinand liked poems and music but he was always afraid to request both. The flat was noisy with a content sort of affection unmatched by anything Sherlock had ever felt before. Even when he was living there, there were still the loud sounds of rows and doors slamming and soothing of hurt feelings afterward. Yet, no one had to say anything, and everyone in 221B (and for that, everyone else in the building) was still living happily.

Of course, Mycroft had to show.

Sherlock was in the middle of removing a hot pan of just-made four cheese lasagna from the oven that he usually barely acknowledged. Ferdinand was sitting at the kitchen table eagerly, waiting for the dish that the two friends had made. There was a quick knock at the door, and then it just burst open, as Mycroft gave up the pretense of a friendly visit. Sherlock hopped over to Ferdinand and set the lasagna down before looking up at his brother.

“Did your genetically superior nose trace the scent through the city, Mycroft?” he snarked, sitting at the end of the table and reaching for a knife to cut the lasagna. Ferdinand shook his blonde head silently before tilting it up at Mycroft and giving him a little wave. Mycroft nodded to his brother’s new companion before addressing his remark. “You’ve always found distractions. It’s just another way of keeping you away from the drugs. I’d rather this you be baking.”

Sherlock’s back stiffened noticeably before he ceased cutting and his eyes flickered to a pinstripe on Mycroft’s suit jacket. “Are you going to eat, or are you just going to ruin the rest of our appetites?”

Mycroft’s mouth opened for a quick second before he slammed it closed. “You’re actually inviting me to eat with you?”

“Why not?” Sherlock shrugged. “There’s enough to go around. We’ve got cheesecake in the fridge too.”

“What’s in it?” Mycroft questioned before he sat across from Ferdinand, his eyes drawn to the lasagna in the centre. Sherlock doled out a large piece to Ferdinand, who stood up and walked to the kitchen to grab another plate, fork, and wine glass.

“If you think we’ve drugged it because we prepared it together, you’re wrong. It’s a four-cheese - Parmesan, cheddar, mozzarella, and cottage. Nothing else besides meat, noodles, and cheese.” Sherlock, always polite, put a small piece on his plate first before attending to Mycroft’s - a fat, medium-sized slice which was dripping with cheese and smelled wonderfully of beef. Mycroft could feel his mouth water and he straightened up in his chair. Sherlock smiled knowingly before stabbing a fork into the top noodle and beginning to eat. Ferdinand joined him enthusiastically, and soon, the only sounds that could be heard in the flat were continuous chewing and the tinkling of forks on plates.

Mycroft was the second to pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his left sleeve in an unusually undignified way. “I must say, both of you, that was a delight. It was simply amazing.” Ferdinand smiled through a mouthful of food but continued chewing. Sherlock took that as his cue to excuse Mycroft and himself from the meal for a few moments to discuss what they always did, this time, on the fire escape.

“The height from here is disconcerting, to say the least,” Mycroft muttered as their steps clanked against the stairs. Sherlock shrugged again carelessly while Mycroft handed him a low tar cigarette, allowing him to indulge in the habit for once in his post-meal haze.

“Imagine Reichenbach,” Sherlock somehow said through his teeth as he cupped his hand around the cigarette to light it. Mycroft let out a low chuckle and braced himself against the black metal railing of the landing.

“John?”

Sherlock inhaled. His eyes flickered around the grey June sky for a moment as if he was thinking of an answer, then to Mycroft’s disappointment, he exhaled with words afterward of, “You watch him. You know better than I do.”

“Him and Mary are having . . . problems.”

“Oh?” Somewhere in the distance, a radio DJ announced that it was six-thirty in the afternoon. Sherlock could feel London’s pollution settle into his skin in a twisted sort of way. Everything was darkening, just the way that he liked it. The night sky would settle in with a sort of hushed urgency that excited him.

“He’s depressed, to say the least.”

“Isn’t my problem.” Inhale, exhale. Mycroft always made him smoke. Stress?

“I think you should run him. In fact, I highly suggest it.”

Run him. Sherlock snickered. “He may have married a bitch, but he isn’t a dog.”

“I know that you harbor a sentiment for John, but do not speak ill of Mary, please.”

Sherlock started, his eyes and mouth widening in shock. “She -! She shot me, Mycroft!" he whined. "Why am I the one getting scolded like a schoolchild? She shot me!”

“What?!” Mycroft hissed.

Oops.

“I assumed you knew. You know everything about me; you’re always watching me. I assumed you - “

“I had my suspicions, but to hear it confirmed in this way is utterly - “

“I just wanted the best for the both of them. I didn’t want to be involved. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?” His hands were shaking. He was going to drop the cigarette over the landing. Even though it was lowtar, it would still be a waste. “‘Don’t get involved.’ I’m not involved, Mycroft, I’m not involved. Are you happy now?”

“Are you accusing me of your own mistakes and misconceptions?” Mycroft was practically growling now, protectiveness and anger surging through his veins. That blasted John Watson and his excuse of a wife. Disgusting.

“No. I’m just doing what you asked.”

Mycroft brought his hands to his face and rubbed at his forehead with his fingers. “Sherlock, do you realize how much danger you’ve let John walk into? The child? Living with someone like that! Waking up every morning to that assassin in their hallways? The one they call ‘love’?”

“I did think about it,” Sherlock answered, his tone weary. “Then I thought ‘Hell, I’m always doing everything for John. Let me do this one last thing. He wants to live this life? I’ll let him.’ So I did.”

A knocking at the window behind them prompted both Holmeses to swivel around quickly. Ferdinand opened the window with swift hands and maintained a steady gaze with Sherlock. “John’s here. He’s worried. Says you haven’t called him since the, um, fight a week ago.”

Sherlock sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his fist clutching the cigarette, a childlike motion Mycroft hadn’t seen since his last relapse. “Alright.” He and Mycroft stepped through the window, and Sherlock instructed Mycroft to get the cheesecake from the fridge. Sherlock let John into the flat and turned around to sit back at the table when John shouted.

“No!”

Ferdinand was curled up in his dining chair, his eyes dead set on the cheesecake box Mycroft was placing down on the table. Sherlock took his seat and focused on John, who was taking Mycroft’s seat to the right of Mycroft, still clutching the white box in his hands. He could see that the box was slowly crumpling in Mycroft’s angry grasp.

“You don’t turn away from me, you can’t. Sherlock. Especially after what I said last week. Does this -” he motioned between them furiously with his hand - “even matter to you?” He was yelling now, and he sounded like he knew the answer to anything. Why did John have to bring chaos to his afternoon? Always, always. Insufferable man.

Suddenly a fist pounded down on the table with a hard thump. Mycroft’s face was pinched and furious. His hands were shaking, a Holmes tell for extreme emotion, and God, this is not how Sherlock wanted his dinner to end.

“Don’t you dare talk to him like that! I should have your wife jailed!”

John looked betrayed. Sherlock looked ashamed. Mycroft looked angry.

A small cough shocked everyone out of the silence, as all heads turned to Ferdinand, still sitting in Sherlock’s chair with his legs tightly crossed.

“Cheesecake, anyone?”

Chapter Text

Sherlock, with a weary sigh, picks up his mobile and readies his thumbs.

Case. Thought you were interested. SH

It had been a few months since the whole “incident” back at his and Ferdinand’s flat, but they really hadn’t come to a conclusion. Mycroft tensely vowed not to charge Mary with attempted manslaughter, and John and Sherlock promised to communicate. Now, Sherlock could not be accused of not keeping up his end of the promise.

I am. Are you at the flat? I can be there in ten. -JW

Sherlock does not miss the way that John still referred to the flat as a familiar place. It is not your home, he thinks, then looks over to where Ferdinand checks the news on his own mobile, his limbs sprawled, in Sherlock’s chair.

Yes. SH

John arrives to the flat in ten minutes, dressed in his normal, unnoticeable beige clothing. Sherlock rises from his reclined position on the long sofa and picks up his coat from its arm. Ferdinand stands up as well, pocketing his mobile and toeing on his shoes that next to the door. John leans on the doorframe and openly stares at him.

“Where’s he going?” John frowns, pointing at Ferdinand. Sherlock’s new friend looks up at him and smiles before flattening down his long blonde hair.

“Oh, he’s coming with us,” Sherlock answers distractedly, slipping into his shoes.

“With us?” John mimics. Ferdinand pulls on his jacket, oblivious to John’s less-than-friendly attitude. For whatever reason that disposition existed, Sherlock does not know.

“Yes.” Sherlock runs out of the flat with Ferdinand behind him, and John takes the precaution of closing the door. In a few moments, August’s hot air engulfs them. The darkening evening provides a cooler cover, however, so Sherlock doesn’t see the need to slip off his coat. He holds his hand up for a cab, and one appears within a minute. He slinks into the backseat with Ferdinand and shuts the door abruptly. The cab speeds off, and John is forced to call for another one, ordering the driver to “follow the one in front of us”.

“Took you a while,” Lestrade mumbles as the mismatched group strides toward him. The crime scene almost looks like a stage. The body lays straight in the middle, while yellow tape surrounds it in an almost square shape. The people working on this one don’t look too familiar - no Anderson or Donovan were in sight. Sherlock feels almost relieved. He quickly tired of overhearing about how Ferdinand is his new “pet”.

“It’s John’s fault,” Sherlock answers, his blue-green eyes flicking over the body with his usual detachment. John rolls his eyes but refrains from defending himself.

“John.” Lestrade nods curtly. “Ferdinand!” He turns and smiles at him. “How’s everything been going? With the girl?”

Ferdinand smiles back and rocks forward on his feet. “It’s going pretty well. We’re communicating a lot. She’s talking about getting back together.”

“That’s good,” Lestrade answers, before patting him on the shoulder. John stares in disbelief at how comfortable they are with each other. He doesn’t have time to comment because Sherlock begins to deduce.

“He’d been watching her for a long time, because he figured out that her left arm was the most dominant, even though you can tell that she was ambidextrous. He pounced on her and -” Without Lestrade’s consent, Sherlock bends down at the body and rolls up the left sleeve of the woman’s jacket. Her pale arm is reddened.  “Grabbed her arm. She managed some weak punches with her right.” He waved to her right hand. “Punches, because she really wanted to hurt him. Not a lover or friend.”

Sherlock stands with his usual grace. “You’re looking for a male at her workplace, someone who worked while she did. Someone who might have recently asked to change shifts so that he could watch her. Look for any complaints filed - she obviously disliked him enough to recognize that he was an enemy that quickly. Information about where she works could be found in her wallet or just by searching her name.”

Ferdinand is the first to respond. “That was good, Sherlock, but we both know it was rather easy.”

Sherlock laughs shortly. “Lestrade, why did you even call us?”

Lestrade sucks in air between his teeth, and then thrusts a piece of paper into Sherlock’s awaiting palm. John leans forward and internally sighs. It has a phone number scrawled onto it in blue ink. This happened on a case the year before for some adrenaline-craving group of junkies. Unseen to the rest of the city, but unfortunately very visible to Scotland Yard. They would only communicate with Sherlock, and they always returned to the crime scene.

Sherlock pulls out his mobile and texts the killer easily. Waiting for you. 

The group stands in silence for a minute, the detectives and police officers around them collecting evidence they perceive as useful. Lestrade knows better.

Here.

Sherlock catches a flurry of grey at the end of the alleyway. He takes off running. John and Ferdinand slip into gear easily and follow him, leaving Lestrade to explain their abrupt departure without alarming anyone enough to follow them.

The consulting detective is in the lead, Ferdinand closer to him than John is. Even his military training cannot defeat the winning advantage of youth. Eventually, Sherlock rounds a corner, and when John and Ferdinand reach the same spot, they find that there are two ways they could take. Ferdinand pants for a moment, the dusky dark blue of London’s sky curling around his silhouette, before coming to a decision.

“I’m -” He thrusts a thumb toward the left before turning in that direction and running. John allows his shock to consume him for a second, then he takes the right.

The left way was the correct choice. Sherlock is sitting on the back of the killer’s legs and holding his wrists in his hands. “Quickly, Ferdinand,” he spits out, since the criminal is trying to throw his head back and strike him in the nose. Ferdinand dutifully takes the handcuffs from his pocket, then maneuvers around Sherlock’s hands to cuff the man underneath him. Sherlock immediately sits back and relaxes, still straddling the man, but then he fists a hand in the man’s curls and wrenches him upward. Ferdinand sits down on the pavement and stares at the snarling face in front of him.

“Mid-thirties, dark hair and eyes, scrapes on face from own nails, vegetarian. God, he’s high right now.” Ferdinand huffs before hooking a finger underneath the man’s chin and pulling his head upward. The man gnashes his teeth together and glares at him with wide, black pupils that blend in with the darkness of the impending night. “All this for them, baby?”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. Ferdinand’s sadistic streak only comes around in moments like this.  The man seems to not be conscious of it.

Good thing John and Lestrade loop around the bend a few quiet minutes later.

♦♦♦

“It was a waste of time,” Sherlock complains. Ferdinand giggles childishly and nudges his arm with his own. “Eat the soup. We worked hard on it, please.”

John cannot believe this. He stares at them with wide eyes from his perch in the chair that he has brought closer, so that he can recline his feet on the coffee table. The source of his disbelief: Sherlock is sipping at the bowl of chicken soup in his hands and is not grimacing afterwards.

“But you do agree that it was a waste of time, don’t you, Ferdinand?”

“Yes,” the university graduate answers, before sipping at his own soup. They have forgotten spoons in the kitchen and have decided that they are too lazy to go retrieve them. Ferdinand smacks his lips before setting the bowl in his lap quickly, still holding onto it with both clean hands. “The repetitiveness of it all is boring. If we catch the gang -”

“But Lestrade says that we can’t until he convinces the higher-ups.”

“It is important!” Ferdinand refutes, and Sherlock makes a small nod.

“I know that, and you know that, but they don’t.” Sherlock brings the bowl to his lips and gulps down some more soup. The smell is tantalizing, but John definitely was not going to accept Ferdinand’s offer of a bowl.

“Do you guys just cook? All of the time?” Sherlock and Ferdinand look away from their soups at the same time and back to John. The contrast between them is remarkable - Sherlock is dressed in black pajama trousers and a white T-shirt, while Ferdinand is all aglow in a light blue button-up and short white bottoms. Sherlock’s bouncy dark brown curls move quickly and Ferdinand’s shaggy blonde head looks over his soup bowl. They are light and darkness, all wrapped up in the shine of happiness and contentment.

“We were talking about the case.” Sherlock voices what the two of them were thinking, even though Ferdinand is still far too polite to say it.

“Yes,” Ferdinand says, though whether he is supporting Sherlock or answering John’s question is unclear.

“We have made a multitude of dishes,” Sherlock suggests in substitution of an answer.

“Remember the linguini last week?” Ferdinand pips, and Sherlock is smiling.

“That was simply amazing,” Sherlock groans, tipping his head backwards. Ferdinand nods in agreement. “And the chicken parmesan?” he asks.

“Yes!” Sherlock enthuses, before putting his lips back to the rim of the bowl and tilting it toward him. Ferdinand turns to John and smiles, as if he is presenting his best painting.

“Sherlock wasn’t sure if we should make the soup with the heat outside. But I convinced him that my soup would make him think of a rainy day in Paris.”

“I told him that he couldn’t ‘make’ me think anything,” Sherlock continues.

“And guess what he said afterwards! He had a spoon and told me I was right!” Ferdinand’s mouth is open in an expression of shock, but he is faintly smiling. He swallows some more soup and sets his empty bowl down on the coffee table.

“It doesn’t happen often, though,” Sherlock refutes, finishing his own soup and sliding the bowl next to Ferdinand’s. They are painted a faint yellow. John knows that he never bought those.

“I was right that Mycroft was going to like that fondue thing,” Ferdinand argues happily, reclining into the cushion of the sofa. Sherlock’s eyes flicker over him and he sighs.

“Mycroft likes all of our desserts,” he says, directed to either Ferdinand or John.

“That he does,” Ferdinand finishes, with another little grin, and then they fall into a comfortable silence.

Comfortable for them, at least. Because a few minutes pass, and then Sherlock opens his eyes. (Sometimes, when he thinks about it, John’s presence is overstimulating, even though he’s only looking through his texts. And Sherlock’s almost scared to even look at him. He tries not to think about it a lot.)

“Aren’t you supposed to go home? Alexandra and Mary?”

John looks up from the screen, and panic spreads over his features. “Shit.” He begins texting an apology to his wife and shoots up from the chair. “It’s eight, I left work at six. I’ve got to go.”

“Evidently,” Sherlock says, and Ferdinand shakes his head reprovingly.

John gazes at the pair of them, the adrenaline-dimmed eyes and the lax limbs. Sherlock notices and flinches away, his eyes finding a place on the floor. He doesn’t like to be analysed, and he feels like his love for John has been painted over his face.

“Okay,” John answers, and goes to leave. Sherlock can predict that the night before him will be sprinkled with arguments and a large grudge from Mary. He doesn’t really care, because it isn’t his fault. John needs to judge his responsibilities accordingly.

Ferdinand grabs the bowls and moves to the kitchen to wash them. Sherlock pushes back into the corner of the sofa and closes his eyes again. He only opens them when he senses Ferdinand standing near him.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he murmurs. “I’m tired from the case. Heading off a little early. Just come in if you need me. I’ll try to keep up.” He chuckles wearily and rubs his fingers over his eyelids.

“Ferdinand.” Sherlock’s tone is low, and Ferdinand moves his hands before paying attention to what his flatmate is saying.

“I’m thinking of moving, leaving Baker Street.”

You are? Sherlock’s mind questions.

Be quiet. For once.

“Not now, of course, but,” he waves vaguely, “sometime next year, summer maybe. And if you are still living with me, I just wanted you to know.”

“Okay,” says Ferdinand. He blinks. He cannot associate Sherlock with any other place than Baker Street, but he isn’t averse to the idea of Sherlock leaving. Whatever Sherlock wants to do, he will always be one step behind him.

“I hope everything goes fine with Diane!” Sherlock yells, as Ferdinand makes his way to the bathroom.

“Me too!” Ferdinand calls back. And Sherlock smiles.

Chapter Text

“Read me the first one,” Sherlock urges, settling back into the sofa, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Ferdinand turns to him with his brow furrowed.

“Are you serious? John told me you hate these.” The scent of meaty kielbasa and perfectly cooked cabbage still hangs in the air. Ferdinand knows it is perfectly cooked because he is one of the chefs who cooked it, in bacon drippings in fact. The two gorged on the bountiful supper before throwing themselves on the leather seat, movements lazy and stilted, drowsiness brought upon by such a good meal.

Sherlock shrugs uncaringly, and cuddles himself in the crook of the sofa’s left arm, before tossing his legs over the cushions. Ferdinand does the same, clutching the screen of Sherlock’s laptop with one hand throughout, as to keep it from falling. Their legs rest next to each other, Sherlock’s pressed into the back of the couch.

“I’ll take that as a cue to continue, then.” Ferdinand sits the laptop on his knees and scrolls through the PDF file. “Hey, that rhymed,” he notes, picking his head up for a second to catch Sherlock’s annoyed expression. “Cue and continue. Hm.”

“Please stop,” Sherlock groans, and Ferdinand quirks a smile, before proceeding to read the first mystery.

“This one is called ‘When Time Stands Still.’ Are you ready? You may need time to prepare yourself. If you don’t solve it fast enough, you might not be able to contain your embarrassment afterwards.”

“It’s a children’s book!” Sherlock shouts, and Ferdinand has to bite his bottom lip to hold in his smile. “I think I’m as prepared as I can be.”

“Okay, here goes. ‘As a burglar reaches for something on the mantle, he accidentally knocks over a clock. It falls to the floor, breaks, and stops. The next morning, however, police aren’t able to determine what time the robbery took place. Why not?”

Sherlock steeples his fingers together under his chin and stares off determinedly into a distance that Ferdinand cannot see. He almost mimics him by turning around, but thinks better of it, staring at the madman and releasing his smile this time.

“Did he actually take anything with him?”

Ferdinand lets out a breath, and his eyes quickly scan the page. “Um, it doesn’t say.”

“It’s not about what it says!” Sherlock shouts, throwing his hands in the air before returning them to their steepled position. “What do you see, Ferdinand? What do you observe?”

Ferdinand frowns before returning to the mystery. “Well, in the picture it shows the man with the bag already, the broken clock on the floor. So he probably made off with the bag after the loud noise. He made off with something, then.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock throws his hands forward again, his palms on display, his fingers flying. “The clock can’t show the exact time of the robbery, only after the man collected all of those things, which could have been minutes off. Problem solved. Or!” Sherlock points at Ferdinand, and Ferdinand shrugs. Is this a prompt?

“The clock was never at the right time. It could have been Daylight Savings! You’d think it’s unimportant information, but I once had a case with a man who -”

“You’re wrong,” Ferdinand says. His pink lips are stretched to show a bright, enthusiastic smile.

Sherlock pauses, his lips still parted. A cocky smile materializes on his face. “You can’t possibly -”

“I’m going to give you three clues. This book is confusing; I didn’t see them at first.”

Sherlock shakes his head in mock-disapproval, but he grins. “Okay, hit me,” he yelps, leaning back into the cushion.

“Number one,” Ferdinand reads aloud, “The police could see the clock.” He looks up, searching for a reaction from Sherlock, but finds none. His face is stony, impartial, fingers pressed to his smooth chin, seemingly unfazed.

“Number two, the burglar did not alter the clock in anyway after it fell. Number three, the police didn’t expect to be able to read the clock. And number four, what kind of a clock is it?”

Sherlock and Ferdinand look at each other and chuckle spontaneously. “Why would that matter?” Ferdinand wonders.

“It matters the most out of all of those facts. You may be laughing at me, but I’m laughing because I’ve solved it. The clock was digital. When it broke, it couldn’t show the time.”

Ferdinand drags his finger down the trackpad and surveys the black text. “You’re correct.” He exits the window and brings the lid of the laptop down, sitting it on the coffee table. “Not that I expected anything less, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock repeats, and they smile again, before rearranging their limbs to fit cozily side-by-side. Sherlock smiles a lot with Ferdinand; it must be the fact that he is unplagued by romantic fantasies when he is around him, unlike how he is with John.

“How is Diane?” Sherlock asks. Ferdinand shakes his head, wisps of blond hair swishing in the air, before coming back to frame his small face, his small doll’s eyes framed by short, pointy blond eyelashes.

“Children’s mysteries and small talk, Sherlock? This has been quite a day.” Ferdinand crosses his arms.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Ferdinand sighs and lets his hands fall back into his lap.

“It’s fine. She wants to work on the relationship, and really, I want that too. I’m even giving her distance, see?” He points around the room, and Sherlock sighs. “But I don’t think I’m going to be moving back in quite soon. Which reminds me, where would you be moving, if you were to move out of Baker Street?”

Sherlock feigns thinking. Ferdinand has not known him well enough to tell that he isn’t thinking at all, because he has thought of this at length for many days now. There is nothing for him in London besides the crimes and Scotland Yard, and his proximity to John. Although there is criminal activity everywhere, and especially where he’s going to go, isn’t there? And John ... John doesn’t really need him anymore, does he? He’s cured his limp, he’s married, he’s gone.

“The States. New England. Or the South, I haven’t figured it out yet, though I don’t really like the heat. But the heat makes people do terrible things. Terrible, life-ending things.” He rubs his hand together and bares his teeth maniacally. Ferdinand rolls his eyes at his dramatics, but he knows that Sherlock really does love the murders.

“And what about John?”

Sherlock is jolted out of his hazy thoughts about sticky heat and blood-splattered fingers.

His eyes burn into Ferdinand’s. They rarely talk about John. Through all of the cooking and the mysteries, they haven’t had the time for it. Sherlock’s glad for that, actually. There really isn’t much to say that wouldn’t result in flowery confessions and words he will regret whining, the next morning.

A vibration catches both of their attention, much to Sherlock’s relief. Ferdinand furrows his brows as Sherlock reaches over the distance between the couch and the coffee table. John is calling.

Sherlock thinks of five possible results of his taking the call. They all end in some sort of emotional damage or irritation for one or both parties involved. He presses “Ignore” on the phone with his thumb, and wedges himself in the couch’s corner again.

Ferdinand is still, watching him with even more questions in his brown eyes.

Sherlock smiles and crosses his own arms. “What about John?”

Chapter Text

Even Ferdinand admits that they’ve gone a bit overboard with the spices this time, and Ferdinand loves his herbs and spices. He bought his own rack and keeps it in a separate cupboard away from Sherlock’s experiments that he never complains about. As long as Ferdinand has his spices, he’s fine. If Sherlock makes him tea one morning and coffee the next, Ferdinand adapts to it quickly, tugs the mug from Sherlock’s outstretched hand with a small smile and not another word about it.

But the tiny flat smells of sweet tarragon, unmistakable cilantro and parsley and red onion that Sherlock didn’t know would smell that weak, and the three cloves of garlic that Ferdinand insists he has to include in the herb paste.

“Three cloves?” Sherlock asks, arching a brow skeptically. He scoffs and crosses his arms haughtily. Ferdinand pulls apart the garlic cloves with short, fat fingers.

“Three cloves,” Ferdinand confirms. He smiles quickly at Sherlock, not even a half-smile, but a quarter of a smile. He lays both heels of his hands over one clove each. “Who’s coming to the party?”

“It’s not a party. It was an event for you and I and Mrs. Hudson, and then John, and then Mary and Alexandra, and then Mycroft, because he doesn’t want Mary and I together in the same room anymore, and then Lestrade.” Sherlock purses his lips, rolls his eyes, tosses his head back, reenacts every sign of a toddler’s temper tantrum that he can.

“And what’s wrong with Mary?” Ferdinand giggles, finding Sherlock’s signs of annoyance funny. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, really, and he doesn’t really need to know. By the end of the night, he might figure it out, though. Sherlock might tell him after a few glasses of white wine. 

Ferdinand has introduced him to a few varieties of the drink over the month that they’ve been planning this, well, “party” of eight. They settled on a white from Handford, because Sherlock has deleted much of the knowledge he would need to choose a good wine, and Ferdinand is sloppy about his alcohol choices. And the amount of consumption, judging from some of the stories he’s told Sherlock through December.

He can see why Diane kicked Ferdinand out sometimes. He’s still shy every time a client walks to the door, cheeks flushing and tucking his face between his knees in a semi-impressive display of agility. Sometimes he stares into space, complete blankness puddling behind his dark hazel irises. A brush of fingers across his shoulder startles him back into reality, without actual startling. He doesn’t jump, and his mind doesn’t growl angrily at the interruption, like it does to Sherlock. Instead, it’s a slow wading to the bank, his legs pushing through murky and clingy waters. He blinks at Sherlock, his smile just an upturning of the side of his lips, somehow not changing the rest of his mouth or his face.

Ferdinand smiles then, once Sherlock says, “More than you’ll ever know.” The Frenchman peels off the clove’s skin.

♦ ♦ ♦

The first person to arrive is Mycroft, five minutes after nine. His eyes dart around the lounge, as expected, and Sherlock doesn’t bother to hide his teasing smirk. Once Mycroft surveys the area enough for his personal liking, though, he turns to Sherlock and frowns.

“Don’t say anything, Sherlock.” He looks down his aquiline nose at him. Sherlock puts a hand to his chin and pretends to ponder.

“He’s a detective, he’ll figure it out.” Ferdinand nods to Mycroft as his welcome, setting six plates at the table for guests to pick up during the party.

“You neglected decorations,” Mycroft points out, as he sits in Sherlock’s chair. His back doesn’t touch the leather; he is not there to rest. Sherlock plops into John’s uncaringly and stares at Mycroft.

“In between cooking two herb-roasted chickens and choosing the fine wine, we didn’t have much time to scrounge up decor,” Sherlock hisses. Mycroft’s eyes expectantly widen at the mention of the chickens, and Ferdinand smiles. He walks into the lounge and perches on the arm of John’s chair. Sherlock finds that he doesn’t really mind.

“Yes, twelve servings of chicken roasted for about an hour, lightly sparkling with salt and pepper to strengthen the already-strong natural flavouring, sprinkled with two tablespoons of roughly chopped fresh dill. And yogurt sauce made with with onion, parsley, cilantro, tarragon, dill, walnuts, and garlic.” Ferdinand ticks off the ingredients with his fingers as he recounts them. Mycroft leans fully back into the seat.

“Brother dear, Ferdinand, have a very happy New Year,” he finally says, and Ferdinand grins with triumph before returning to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine.

Mrs. Hudson arrives with a plate of biscuits that Sherlock tries to refrain from perusing, to no avail. Mycroft joins him. Around 9:30, Mary and John arrive, deciding that bringing Alexandra to a party at Sherlock’s and Ferdinand’s is a bit not good. They leave her to be tended by one of the women in their building instead.

In the midst of the commotion, Sherlock and John sit together on the couch. John’s mouth is full of chicken or wine for most of the party. He doesn’t look at Sherlock, and stares pointedly ahead at the wall in front of them. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft are talking about former government procedures. Mycroft isn’t necessarily fascinated, but the company isn't horrible, and he figures that he must try to get used to lower-level dialogue once the Detective Inspector arrives. Mary tries to spark up a conversation with Ferdinand, and because he wants to know more of what Sherlock won’t tell him, he tries his best not to cower in fear.

It is all hazy, Sherlock has drunk too much wine, John is oddly silent, and the Detective Inspector sneaks in a half hour before the alarm on Sherlock’s phone begins beeping in a fifteen-second countdown.

The party switches to silence. John and Mary look at each other from across the room, where she sits with Ferdinand. Ten seconds remain. Sherlock stalks towards the pair. Ferdinand is still standing, grinning. His eyes are painted in glazed drunkenness. Sherlock feels the same trickling into the contours of his bones, mind, bones.

Mary looks at the floor. John stares at Sherlock, who is towering over Ferdinand.

Sherlock reaches down, curls his fingers on top of Ferdinand’s shoulders, clenches the fabric of Ferdinand’s collared, button-down shirt in his fists. Ferdinand is still smiling. The alarm beeps frantically. It is the New Year. Sherlock leans and presses his lips to Ferdinand’s.

Lestrade claps.

Chapter Text

John knows it’s going to happen. It is not a surprise when it does.

“Get the door?” Mary questions, her head hunched over a spy novel. John tries not to read them anymore. They don’t compare to what he used to do when Sherlock was around.

He walks up to the door, leg faintly trembling. It hasn’t gotten bad enough to use the cane, but it’s not in top shape. When he turns the dim gold doorknob, he’s met with the sight of a dingy man, dirty and long-haired, dressed in mismatched clothes.

“Uh…” John greets. Mary perks up her head from behind him.

“What’s the problem, John?” She stands up and meets him, and they stare at the man together. He doesn’t seem to mind, softly bouncing two packages wrapped in brown paper in his hands. They are both the size of books.

“Hello?” asks John, and expects the man to go through with the rest. He blinks through matted brown hair, like a sleepy dog, and holds the packages out to John.

“‘Lock and Fernie sent them. Christmas gifts for the Watsons. Enjoy.” He leans down and sets the packages on the threshold. John doesn’t feel suspicion seize him, like they’re just books instead of bombs.

The man walks down the wrong hallway, and John thinks about leaning out the door and informing him of this, before Mary slams it shut.

“Alex is napping,” he reminds her, but he knows that she’s done listening. She plops down on their loveseat, eyes glued to the packages he’s turning around. The paper crinkles.

“Well?” says Mary, motioning John to come over to her, with a narrowed and impatient gaze. John sits down next to her and hands Mary the one with her name. He watches her open it, her usually dimmed eyes glowing with excitement.

“Oh,” Mary says, when she finally sees it. It is an exhalation, but of nothing marvelous, heavy instead of wispy. She pulls the book from the paper and holds it up so John can see it. It is a text about medieval medical practices. She sets the book on her lap and flips the worn brown cover open, only to meet that the first few pages are blank, without any inscription or greeting from Sherlock whatsoever.

John doesn’t hide his smile. It is just like Sherlock to buy something individualized, but not tellingly personal, especially considering his feelings on Mary. Now that he notices it, his package is slightly taller in height. He tears at the stiff paper.

“It’s beautiful,” Mary appraises, after John takes out the dress and holds it up to the dim evening light.

It is a white knit frock, obviously hand-made, and sewn with care. John and Mary look at the dress for about a minute, before John is snapped out of the trance.

“Well,” he continues, clearing his throat. Only to be met with the sight of a similar-looking text, but this time, it is about medical practices in relation to punishment.

“Same thing, kind of,” Mary unhelpfully notes, smiling. John grunts and opens the cover of his own blue book. What’s not the same is that he’s the one who’s met with a note on the blank page before the title.

John,

Ferdinand knitted the dress for Alexandra. Merry Christmas to you and Mary.

From,

Sherlock (and Ferdinand)

John brushes his fingers over the black ink, the words in parentheses. And Ferdinand.

“What are you-” Mary begins.

“I’m going to bed. We’ll figure out their gifts tomorrow. I’m tired.” He sets the books on the table in front of them, then stands up and begins walking to the bedroom. He leans against the doorway and takes one last look at his wife.

“John-” Mary says, eyes widened in a conversational mood. It’s only an unheard plead for him to divulge.

“I’m tired,” John snips. “Tired.” He goes to bed without her.

♦♦♦

Mary’s sitting on the edge of their bed when John wakes. He has to turn to face her, since he usually sleeps facing the wall. He used to sleep on his back, before he realized that she took his position as a direct avenue to touch him.

Her hair is wet and frizzy. John shuffles over to her on his bottom, sitting on the edge with her. He begins to peel strands of her blonde hair off of the nape of her neck.

“Alexandra ate and played for a little bit. Now she’s sleeping,” she says, and guilt floods John, having not thought of his daughter first. He nods, and wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. She leans against his shoulder.

“What are you planning to get for Sherlock?” Mary asks. The “and Ferdinand” is also unacknowledged. But the guy knitted a bloody frock for his daughter. He has to come up with a great gift for him, too.

“I thought some beakers for Sherlock. Ferdinand, I don’t know. Maybe some money so he can move out. Or a road map.”

Mary snorts. “You’re so rude,” she murmurs, and softly kisses his neck. “But at least you don’t have to worry. I’ve already taken care of it.”

“Mmm,” John murmurs languidly, his neck arching into her kisses. He closes his eyes and rubs her shoulder with his right hand.

His eyes pop open. “What do you mean you’ve taken care of it? Ferdinand moved out?” He pulls away from her, his hands gripping her shoulders.

Mary laughs, shaking her head. “No, sorry to disappoint. I mean that I bought Sherlock this book and test thing about bees. I saw the pictures in his flat. And I bought Ferdinand a cookbook and some yarn.”

John smiles, grateful that she’s done something right. The thought of shopping for Sherlock (and Ferdinand) is painful, seeing as he won’t be there firsthand to see how much Sherlock enjoys his gift, like prior Christmases at 221B. “Domestic.”

“They are,” says Mary, “according to the stories you’ve told me.” That isn’t what John means, he means that Ferdinand is solely domestic, but he sees she is right. They cook and paint bowls, for God’s sake.

♦♦♦

When it does happen, Ferdinand wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kisses him even harder, judging by his furrowed brow of concentration. Soon both of their faces are smoothed, lines disappearing, the dim living room light sloping over the planes of their joined bodies. Sherlock cradles the side of Ferdinand’s head with one hand. When they pull away, they smile at each other, and Mycroft is the first to break the silence left after Lestrade finishes applauding.

“Happy New Year, everyone,” he says, holding up the glass in his hand. Lestrade shouts, “Cheers!” and runs across the living room to clink glasses with the government official. Mycroft looks equally startled, but somewhat pleased, leaning into his chair. Someone taps on John’s shoulder, and he turns to see his wife, her mouth wet with white wine.

He kisses the liquid off of her lips. “It’s time to go home,” he tells her.

“Okay,” Mary agrees. She stands and shakes Mrs. Hudson’s hand. When John waves to Sherlock and Ferdinand, who are standing next to each other, sipping more white wine, Ferdinand is the one to wave back. Sherlock catches his eyes and nods once, before looking down at Ferdinand like he always does.

The ride back to their apartment building is not silent. John isn’t very drunk, so he takes the wheel, driving safely through the boisterous streets.

“It doesn’t bother me. It just worries me, a little bit. Ferdinand is straight - right? He’s waiting on his girlfriend. It’s just strange, especially because they’re living together.”

“We’re living together,” Mary points out, pressing her index finger to the window. She must be the drunk one. John smiles at the windshield, unexpected fondness surging.

“Things are different now. He’s different now.”

“Maybe it’s good,” Mary sighs, closing her eyes. John tries to return his attention to the road.

Maybe it is good. For Sherlock,

(and Ferdinand.)

Chapter Text

John knows inviting Sherlock and Ferdinand to dinner is a mistake the moment he opens the door and notices that they are wearing matching button-down shirts. Sherlock’s is a dark olive, while Ferdinand is sporting an orange tint, and John doesn’t think he should say anything about it.

“You came,” he murmurs, as the two new friends smile at him. Ferdinand catches Sherlock’s eye at his left and his grin grows wider, if that’s even possible.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Sherlock says. He thrusts his fist towards John, his knuckles brushing the air just a few centimetres away from his chest. “I brought white wine, is that alright?”

“Lovely,” John says, taking the bottle from him. He smiles at Sherlock, and Sherlock catches it, but he looks to Ferdinand.

“Are you going to let us in?” But Sherlock still isn’t looking at him, just at the ground now, at Ferdinand’s brown shoes.

“Oh, sorry. Of course.” John steps back, and they enter his flat. Ferdinand looks around like an eager puppy, ready to explore his new home.

His home is with Sherlock, now.

John blinks.

“Mary’s with Alex in the nursery,” he says slowly. Sherlock nods and and shrugs off his coat.

“Is there anywhere I could put this? Ferdinand, take yours’ off too,” Sherlock says. Ferdinand nods and peels off his tan jacket. It looks like something John would wear.

“Uh, I’ll just take them and put them in the bedroom-”

“Can I see the baby?” Ferdinand clasps his hands together, his jacket still hanging on his arm. “I really love babies.”

“Relax,” Sherlock coaxes. He touches his shoulder and laughs. “We’ll see her when John brings her out.”

Ferdinand looks up at him and nods, smiling. He hands his coat to John without looking at him. John frowns, adjusting the bundles of fabric in his arms before trotting off to his bedroom.

Mary greets John and Sherlock next. “It’s so good to see you,” she says to Ferdinand, her smile oozing with plastered happiness.

Ferdinand smiles back, shuffles from foot to foot. “It’s good too. I mean, it’s good to see you. It’s good to see you too.”

Mary sneaks a glance at Sherlock - he doesn’t look like he’s about to call Ferdinand a bumbling idiot. He stands beside him without a trace of annoyance on his face, seeming relaxed, unperturbed.

Her arms are at her sides as she flexes her fingers. “Well, I’m glad that you’re glad. Ah, let’s go eat!”

The dining area is small with blue wallpaper enclosing the room. The table is rectangular, with two placemats set on one side, and one on the other. The one left alone is in front of a seat that has a high chair next to it, where Alexandra will sit, and next to that is the seat at the head of the table.

John will sit there. John is not there yet, and Sherlock and Ferdinand take their seats.

“Is there anything you need help with?” Sherlock asks before Mary leaves the room. “Bringing out dishes? I can always-”

“No!” Mary yelps. Ferdinand startles a little, raising a bit in his chair. Sherlock presses a little closer to him, brushes their arms together.

“No, no, it’s fine. You stay here, you’re the guests. John will bring the baby down, and then we’ll eat!” She smiles at them before departing.

Ferdinand looks above the table at the dusty chandelier - gauzy cobwebs are draped across its arms.

“It’s nice,” he murmurs, and Sherlock squeezes his arm.

John enters with the baby, her chubby leg thrown around his hip, his hands cradling her back. She’s hardly a baby now - just nine or so months old, but she is still so small.

When Sherlock sees them together, he thinks. About a life that he could’ve had, but never did and never will. Sherlock’s pale palm, Cressida’s on top, John’s hand finally closing the grip so that they are all together. Sleeping with a baby between them, dozing in the Saturday morning sunlight. It all seems so real, so close he could’ve touched it if he was there at the right time and the right place, but he was, he killed a man for John and John killed a man for Sherlock but they can’t even approach the happenings that Sherlock’s dreamed about ever since their eyes connected across that dark laboratory one fated day in Bart’s Hospital.

The toe of Ferdinand’s loafer accidentally jabs Sherlock’s ankle underneath the table. Ferdinand flushes. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock reaches over and squeezes his shoulder, then sets his hand back on the white tablecloth. “Don’t be, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

Ferdinand exhales, but the worried look on his face doesn’t pass.

“Hi, Alex,” Sherlock says. Her blonde head turns to him, and she smiles. She’s sleepy, her eyes half-lidded and a little bit of drool glistening on her chin.

“‘Lock,” she pipes up, as calmly as she would say “sky” or “door,” and Sherlock feels as if she’s got a gold hand wrapped around his heart, trying to tear it away from its arteries.

“I love your dress,” Sherlock says, and the white frock fits her perfectly, it being a few weeks after Christmas. She’s wearing a pink cardigan over it too, and John nods at them before setting her down in her chair, strapping her in gently.

Mary walks in with a pot of soup, setting it in the middle of the table like a centerpiece. Sherlock and Ferdinand watch the steam float up from it.

“It’s a dinner party, John,” Mary says, frowning at her husband. “I thought we said we weren’t going to have her wear the white dress.”

John chuckles at her, his smile teetering on his face as if it was set on with a loose hinge. “What’s wrong with white?”

“She’ll get stuff on it,” Mary snarls.

“She’s a baby! It’s bound to happen sometime. Why can’t she just wear it - Sherlock and Ferdinand are over here anyways?”

Typical dysfunctional relationships. Sherlock doesn’t roll his eyes, just in case his boyfriend can see.

Chapter Text

The soup is okay, but Sherlock knows he could’ve made better. It’s a concoction of yams and celery - both tastes are supposed to be sharp, but the way that Mary cooks them makes them dull. He wouldn’t even put those tastes together, for God’s sake. Yam and celery soup - who does that?

Fernand can almost read his face, Sherlock knows it. But he’s too kind to smile with him. He just shovels another warm spoonful onto his tongue, holds in his mouth. Covers his mouth with the spoon so he doesn’t smile, laugh, spit soup across the table like Alex does.

Mary brings a special bowl out for Alexandra - the soup is made out of some sort of wheat. Sherlock doesn’t remember it, doesn’t really care. He trusts that Mary and John know what they’re feeding their child.

And isn’t it strange - that John has a child now? Just a couple of years ago, Sherlock never would’ve seen that. He can’t picture John as a family man.

He knows John isn’t. It’s just the one.

Sherlock and Ferdinand watch as Alexandra purses her lips, lets the soup spray over the table. Ferdinand smiles and so does John, but they are different smiles. John’s is the smile that says “I’m a little happy about this now, but I know I’m going to have to deal with the mess later.” Ferdinand’s smile is the one of the free. You can smile at paintings and sculptures in an art museum (Sherlock doesn’t), but you don’t have to deal with securing them. You don’t have to deal with facilitating programs around them. You don’t smuggle the paintings home.

“I’ll just get the meatloaf,” Mary says, when they’ve all finished their soup. John looks up and nods at her, then continues playing with Alexandra’s little fingers. Sherlock watches, his chin rested on his folded hands, elbows on the starched tablecloth.

“How’s the cases been going?” John asks. Sherlock doesn’t have to search to hear the wistfulness in his voice. He can’t even hear it anymore, and Ferdinand has never pointed it out. But Sherlock knows it exists. It’s there. It just has to be, because John doesn’t want just the life he has - he wants two.

“Wonderful. There was a really good murder last week. Not a locked-door murder, but still good. We solved it quickly enough that Donovan didn’t make any remarks. It was, as I said before, wonderful.”

Ferdinand smiles. It’s probably the closest thing to a laugh that he’ll show tonight, here in the Watson’s dining room. “She didn’t make any remarks because you weren’t as harsh as you usually are.”

“Oh, Ferdinand. Have you come to criticize me too?”

“Not at all,” Ferdinand says, tapping the bottom of his spoon against his bowl. “But you’ve seen in the past couple weeks - the less things you say upset people, the more cases. The more work.”

“I think Sherlock’s always known that,” John chimes in. Mary laughs a little.

“Yes, but I told him he doesn’t have to act,” Ferdinand says. The skin around his eyes crinkles as he speaks. “He always cheeses it up a bit, have you ever noticed that?”

“Yes,” John answers, shaking his head slowly, devoid of harshness.

Sherlock chuckles. “Mary, what’s the next course? I’m excited for more of your food,” he says.

“Cheesing it up,” Ferdinand whispers, and Sherlock can’t contain a wide grin. They both know just how bad the food is.

But if they say that loud enough for Mary to hear - does that really matter? If Ferdinand and Sherlock comment on the bad texture and taste of the soup, does that compare to Mary shooting Sherlock in the chest, killing him?

“Coming right up,” Mary says. Sherlock feels the facade stapled to her.

Mary returns with a turkey. She puts it besides the pot of soup, which has stopped steaming.

“It looks well. It looks well seasoned,” Ferdinand praises.

Mary beams as she sits next to Alex again. The turkey is doled out so that everyone has a bit. Mary feeds some sort of mush to Alex as Sherlock talks.

“Ferdinand and I are starting something in the works. It’s going to be a change, but I think it’ll be for the better,” Sherlock says.

“Oh, sounds fun,” coaxes Mary. “I really wanna hear this.”

“You will,” Sherlock says, and Ferdinand nods. “I’ve spoken to Mycroft and I have several great opportunities open for me. Ferdinand and I are moving.”

“Moving where?” John inquires, fork hovering over the turkey on his plate.

“The United States,” Sherlock replies.

John drops his fork. Mary and Alex look down at it.

“I’ll go get the sides!” Mary exclaims. “I forgot about them, how silly of me! You can’t just eat plain turkey without mash.”

John asks Sherlock, not Ferdinand, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about moving for a bit of time.”

“How long?” John questions, something in his voice sounding thin. Fragile, frail, stretched out until it is almost gone.

Ferdinand is looking at his lap. He and Diane - that can’t be a thing anymore, can it? Sherlock knows that if he moves, it won’t be.

“Since before Christmas,” admits Sherlock. John’s eyes dart over to Ferdinand, so quickly that only Sherlock notices it. Sherlock is the one who usually notices everything, but he’s trained Ferdinand a bit. Apparently, not enough.

“Does - who knows about this?”

And there is John, always wanting to be sure that he is the first. Well, it is too late for that. That is all long gone.

Sherlock is leaving. With or without Ferdinand (with Ferdinand would be preferable, but...), he is leaving. He is going. He is hopping on the plane and flying across the ocean and just - leaving.

“Mycroft. I’ve hinted to Lestrade about it heavily enough that he’s understood it. Molly knows, and I’ll inform Mrs. Hudson about the lease. It’s a pretty easy process. Mycroft says that he knows some contacts in a warmer climate-”

John’s skin is pale in the lights, but he hasn’t always looked like that. He looks like he’s been shelled out of a warmer place he used to inhabit. “Are you sure this is what you really want?”

Chapter Text

Life with Ferdinand is a life with sleep. It is warm with the covers slipping down your body, warm with his head on your chest. His golden hair brushes you under your chin, and sometimes his head slips and you can almost feel his eyelashes flutter against your collarbone in sleep. He winds arms around your waist, curls his fingers around your hipbones and the pads of his fingertips press into your skin. He’s holding you even though you’re larger than him, even though you talk more. It doesn’t feel like he’s clinging to you through the storm, but as if he’s leading you in a waltz through your flat, through fog above the floorboards.

You wake to him and he presses his lips into your neck and it’s no longer a matter of getting up. It’s a matter of getting even more tangled in him, putting a leg between his and looping your arms around his torso, which is soft and unscarred. His skin is smooth underneath your fingers. He kisses you because he isn’t afraid, he kisses you as if he has to before he starts his day. As if you’re already halfway out the door, but he needs a kiss before you go. He kisses you as if there isn’t any reason why he wouldn’t.

Sometimes, you convince yourself that there’s no reason why he wouldn’t kiss you. There’s only him and you and the shrouded room. The curtains block out the sun. Only a vertical stripe of light at the edge of the window is able to come through. It masks his eyelashes with golden mascara, paints the crevices around them with something that makes them shine. You feel like hours pass each time. You can’t keep track, there’s only him in your arms in this morning. Your mobile phones haven't been been invented yet and the only sense of speed is dust particles floating in the air, the distant shuffling of people passing through the rest of London.

He has to leave you, and he walks over to the bedroom door to open it. He trots into the bathroom and you are still feeling the aftermath of the storm. You can almost feel mist on your face, gusts of wind ratcheting up your spine. You raise slightly in your bed, and by the time you’re climbing out of it, he’s already out of the bathroom. His face is fresh with cold water and his teeth would taste like mint if you laved over them with your tongue.

You take a shower, and this is the second moment of the day when he is not with you. And this may be a good thing. You count tiles and seconds and incidents. You rummage through case files and stuff things in drawers, slam doors shut and open photo albums. There are certain photos that you pinch between your index finger and thumb, and you can’t make out the image - it’s grainy, sliding in between black and white. You can’t see faces, not even your own, so you don’t know if you are still youthful, or cracked yet. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s calling your name from the kitchen. He doesn’t even need to call it because you will come down.

After you change your clothes, you eat with him at the dining table. It’s orderly and there’s nothing cluttering it, so he can reach his hand across the table and grip yours. He’s past the point of being too hesitant to touch you. He does it too many times that you start to feel anxious if he doesn’t kiss you before picking up something behind you. If he doesn’t grip somewhere around your waist when he’s walking down the hallway. If he doesn’t step on your toes when you’re looking in the same mirror. His hands are engraved in this place, fingers tapping against the floorboards like piano keys. Fingernails hammered through the wooden planks.

The cases are full of adrenaline-laced chases, evidence folders and snapping gloves over your hands, feeling elastic tug at your wrists. You’ve grown so much now that people don’t refute you as much as you’d expect. Maybe they feel bad for you, remembering your body set against the sky, dropping down the length of that hospital. But it isn’t your concern; people change and you would know that better than anyone else would.

When you arrive home, he is lying on the sofa, arms folded underneath his head. He sits up and asks you how you are, and sometimes you sit on the sofa next to him, catch his moving lips in a kiss. He grips onto your arms like he needs to. His fingers clench in the fabric of whatever you’re wearing as you brush your tongue over his. You talk quietly in the light of the television, let the whiteness scope over your slack bodies, and then you eat dinner together at the table again.

You taste mild spices, leafy herbs, the tang of sweetness, glazed and baked and warmed. The meals he creates in your home are better than anything they dole out in the city After dinner and dessert, you continue working on your cases and experiments while he watches telly. Or sometimes he goes out to the store and buys more food tomorrow, or he spends time with some of the people who roam about on the streets. They know not to touch him because he is from your home.

You are back in the bedroom at night, and only moonlight slips in this time. He pushes you down into the sheets with his mouth over yours. Your fingers scrabble at his back, scratch to raise pink lines on his pale skin. He trails his tongue down your neck and torso, until he has to slide down in between your legs. You are the cobblestone staircase of a church and he is a faithful worshipper who cleans the stone every night. His back hunches as he makes sure that you are shiny afterward, that he has done everything right. Your limbs will tangle with his and he will shudder breath against the side of your face, which is slicked with sweat. He smoothes his breath over skin stretched over your collarbone. He doesn't kiss your parted lips when you are under him; he doesn't gorge himself on honey when he's already fat enough.

Afterward he’ll clean you up and gather you, gather himself around you and you will push in close together. He’ll get his breath back and murmur goodnight to you as if this is the first time he’s seen the moon. You press your lips against his temple or his cheek, knowing that his head will slide down to your chest in the morning. Sometimes you say a few more things in murmurs that hush out any noise from the outside. But you aren’t able to hear anything, and you don’t want to hear anything else. Life with Ferdinand is a life of sleep.

Chapter Text

She is not what he pictured. Her hair is dark brown - almost black, arranged at the top of her head in a messy bun. Her skin is dark, midnight edging into the hollows underneath her cheekbones, lips cracked like dunes full of soot. Her cheekbones are prominent, but they shine underneath the lights, and they do not provide any harshness. Her white smile and bright eyes do not provide them either.

This is not what he was expecting. Ferdinand had spoken of Diane as if her personality had presented this. He had not spoken of her unkindly (“Sherlock, she didn’t mean to”) but reverently. As if she’d kicked him out holding a crumpled paper, a list of pre-approved things he could say including:

“Diane is considerate.”

“Diane tried her best to care for me, but sometimes I burdened her too much.”

“Diane respects me.”

And perhaps those things are true, now that he faces the woman who met Ferdinand at a party and took him back to her place. He knows that she knows him better than he does, and this almost uneases him, the idea of a wife at home. But Diane is not Ferdinand’s wife. Soon she will be just a penpal, after Ferdinand boards the plane and says his goodbyes.

“I don’t think I’ll ever think about Ferdinand without anything less than fondness.” She smooths her fingers against the wood of the table. The noises of the pub rushes around them. It is an unordinary place for a man and woman to meet, who are not friends or attracted to each other. But Ferdinand is not an ordinary person.

“I'll miss him. He kinda brightens up your life after everything bad, doesn’t he? Like, he can’t magically make things better, you know, but he’s just there for you if you need him. And he isn’t overbearing, filling up space with all those-” She waves, fingers flying, “all those unnecessary words.”

Sherlock nods, but he doesn’t avert his gaze. This is the woman Ferdinand handed his heart to, and then stole back from her while she was sleeping. And now he pushes it into Sherlock’s palm every morning, and he examines it - and there aren’t many damages. Just a few dents. Nothing like his own with a stab wound in it, or maybe just a gunshot that rips through the flesh. But Ferdinand’s is glass - maybe that’s why there are solely scratches.

Sherlock hasn’t given his to Ferdinand’s yet. John will mail it overseas to him in a few weeks, to his home tucked into wheat fields.

“This is probably stuff you already know - he has a sadistic streak. It kinda comes out during sex. He’ll be a little cruel, but he’s too afraid to hurt you. Don’t have sex with him after he’s cried.”

Well, that’s a new one. Sherlock chews at the inside of his cheek.

“His birthday’s September 27th - he’ll never mention it, he doesn’t make it a fuss. Did you celebrate it already?”

“No, we were out of town on a kidnapping case, so I was more focused on that than anything else.”

Diane’s gaze flits upward as she thinks, then she closes her eyes and nods. “Rightfully so. Well, next time just bake him a little cake. Is he working?”

“He was going to,” Sherlock said, “but the anxiety was preventing him from doing so. He helped me on cases, though, and he said he’s getting a job after we move. Getting one right now wouldn’t be worth much.”

Diane nods. “The plane is leaving...?”

“Next week.”

Her eyes widen, but then she smiles - the smile lights up her whole face. It raises her brow and draws laugh lines around her eyes. “Wow. Good luck, Sherlock. England will miss all the work you do.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m having a few cold cases sent to me. It will all work out.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Ferdinand is sitting awake in their bed when he returns home, having had nothing to drink. He’s reading from a Biology book, squinting in the lamplight.

“Hi,” Sherlock says from the doorway, already having slipped his coat and shoes off. He trots over to Ferdinand in socked feet, lays a kiss on his forehead. Just as he draws away, Ferdinand cups his jaw and brings him back for a longer kiss on the lips.

Their foreheads touch. “Hello,” Ferdinand speaks over his mouth.

Sherlock climbs over him to reach the right of the mattress, his side. “Diane’s different than I thought she’d be.”

Ferdinand gives him a half-smile once he settles his head down on the pillow. “Did you expect her to be ... I don’t know what you expected her to be.”

“Meaner?” Sherlock questions. He reaches a hand forward and curls it around Ferdinand’s side.

Ferdinand jolts a little forward with laughter. “No, Diane is definitely not mean.”

He closes the book, not bothering to mark his place, and sets it on the nightstand. He almost turns off the lamp, but then-

“Did you brush your teeth?”

Sherlock looks up from where he’s been pulling the hem of Ferdinand’s pajama shirt from his trousers. “Uh-”

“Go.” Ferdinand shifts away from him, leaving Sherlock’s hand to flop down onto the mattress. “Go brush.”

Sherlock sighs, but he goes to the bathroom anyway. He can’t seem to find his toothbrush - maybe he last used it for an experiment. So he uses Ferdinand’s.

Most of the decor in the bathroom is packed away -  there are no longer towels sitting in the corner. It hasn’t looked like this since Sherlock deposited all his things - before Ferdinand, Alex, John, before.

There are people in his life that he lived without once, but he can’t imagine living without again. He can’t imagine removing Alexandria or John from his life - he can’t imagine a life now, where John didn’t have Mary and still followed him and said, “Amazing.”

All good things come to an end.

He is different in the mirror. His hair is not as curly as it used to be, a little more limp, and his face looks more tired. Time ages everyone and he is not an exception. One day he will wake up with Ferdinand in the bed beside him, and his mind will not work in the same way it used to. Maybe Ferdinand will leave before that point, but he has affection for him, a different affection than John’s, more rooted and smooth. He desires domesticity and wasn’t just pushed into it. He desires Sherlock’s touch and hands, and he does not deny his desire. Sherlock doesn’t see him ever doing so.

Ferdinand sat on his old flat’s doorstep until night began to fall around his shoulders. Ferdinand will stay now.

Sherlock turns out the light to the bathroom and walks back into the bedroom. He slips off his clothes and on his dressing gown from where it sits at the foot of their bed.

♦ ♦ ♦

He’d been waiting for Ferdinand to bring it up, and he does in the morning. His arm curls around Sherlock’s torso and the fingers of his other hand twines in his curls.

“Do you still love John?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, thin eyelashes resting on his cheeks. “Do you still love Diane?”

Ferdinand’s fingers still in his hair before he continues, working them through.

“No. Not like I used to when we were living together. I know we have no future together. But I’ll always be grateful.”

“Grateful for what?” Sherlock asks. He can guess it, but he’d rather hear the words from his lover’s mouth.

“She brought me to parties and didn’t apologize for me. She made sure I knew certain things weren’t acceptable, but she didn’t blame me for everything. She made me realize that all people aren’t bad. She helped me.”

His fingers fall onto Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock sighs, a warm rush of air.

“I guess John did that for me too,” he says, fingers tapping against Ferdinand’s side.

“I think I will always love him. Just because - that’s how it always has been. But like you are, I’m grateful. He changed my life; he helped people think of me as human, because I had a friend. They trust me more.”

Ferdinand’s grip tightens on Sherlock’s neck. “I love you.”

Sherlock rises from the bed, the hands leaving him. He finds his lover in the dawn’s dark, kisses him to slip the sighs from his mouth, release clutches from his hands.

♦ ♦ ♦

His parents are angry at him. It’s set in the way his father’s knuckles are white around the table’s edge, the downward tilt to his mother’s mouth. He knows they aren’t angry at Mycroft - he’d had a good explanation about some economic issue in China he needed to focus his attention on, a reason for why he had to be a few minutes late to the dinner his parents titled, “The Last Dinner.”

“Sherlock, do not bring Ferdinand for The Last Dinner,” his mother instructed over the phone on Sunday. He could hear his father laugh in the background.

“Mum, don’t you want to meet your son’s-”

“No, not for this last one. This is just the last family dinner before you go to the States. For what reason, I don’t even know, but I just-”

“Mum. I’m just moving, not dying!”

“That’s what you said last time!”

But his mother had a bit of a laugh in her voice, enough to keep the conversation airy so he didn’t “accidentally” drop his call.

It’s probably a good thing that he couldn’t bring Ferdinand anyway - the last time his father saw a picture of him, he’d said, “The blonde hair makes him look like that soldier fellow.” He couldn’t imagine his father saying something like that in front of Ferdinand himself.

Everyone else in the restaurant is speaking except for these three people clustered around the table.

The lights are dim, but they glint off his mother’s string of pearls, highlight the white in his father’s hair. Being away from his parents while they’re at this age isn’t wise if he wants to be there until the end.

He can always catch a plane back.

“Do you know when Mycroft is coming?” Father asks. Maybe to diffuse the tension, shift the focus onto the worst son. At least Sherlock showed up.

“I estimate in about ten minutes,” Sherlock answers, and his father nods. He reminds him of John - the way he dresses, appears small, could handle Sherlock when no one else could.

“You’re leaving us, Sherlock. Leaving the family. What is so good about the United States that you have to go?”

“Mycroft and Lestrade have connected us with a few agencies and departments there. When Ferdinand and I get there, I’ll already have cases I can work on.”

His mother’s frown drags across him like the tablecloth’s friction against his fingers.

“But is it even necessary to go that far-”

“It is necessary. I want to start a new life. There’s too much here in London.” Sherlock’s gaze moves past them, to the world teeming outside the restaurant’s front window. “I need to leave.”

“But, Sherlock-”
“And you know what?” His eyes connect with his mother’s, and then his father’s. “Mycroft isn’t going to show up on your doorstep and tell you that I’m gone and then tell you not to be frightened. You won’t find out about my ‘death’ from the news. I’m telling you this now, I’m letting you know now. I’m letting. You. Know.”

He punctuates each of those last words with a slap of his palm to the table. The time moves slower when his parents blink at him.

They sit in clothes only older people could wear, wrinkled and pale and so small compared to the rest of the world. As a child, they were big, but now he is pulling away from them, making a home for himself across the ocean.

His father nods.

Chapter Text

John

He has the dream a week before Sherlock leaves. He sweats it out, limbs splayed over white sheets.

It is a dream about Sherlock’s breath on the back of his neck, raising bumps along his skin. Sherlock raking his fingernails down John’s back, fisting a hand in the waistband of his pants and pulling them down. He can feel the cold laying down in the dip of his spine, Sherlock’s lips making him warm again.

When he wakes, he is hot and panting and gets up to go to the bathroom. Mary says nothing, turned away from him, but he knows she is awake.

♦ ♦ ♦

Greg calls him up, asks if they can meet at the pub, like John’s the one leaving. John agrees to meet him on Friday night. They sit side by side, looking down into their pints instead of at each other.

Finally, Greg sighs, turning to John. He lets the liquid of his pint slosh. “What happened?”

John looks up at him through tired eyes. “Nothing, nothing happened.”

“Sherlock is leaving,” Greg stresses. “You are his best and closest friend, and he is leaving you.”

“He isn’t leaving me,” John says. “Just London. Maybe he’ll call-”

“I hope you’re taking the piss.” The phrase de-ages him. “You’re not understanding a word I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m trying to tell you!” Greg throws his hands in the air, lets them slam back down onto the bar. “Sherlock is leaving the person he probably has the deepest connection with. If he doesn’t talk to you, he doesn’t talk to the rest of us. And he probably won’t be talking to you, especially if Ferdinand’s there.”

“But you said it yourself, Sherlock and I are best friends. So why wouldn’t he talk to me?”

“Because he’s in love with you!”

“But that’s not a reason to-”

John pauses. He swallows.

Sherlock is leaving in eight days.

♦ ♦ ♦

During his and Mary’s honeymoon, while he and Mary are looking at what Sherlock has posted on his blog, Mary tells him that he should delete some of the posts.

“Or at least edit them,” she adds, tapping her fingers on the bedspread. John closes his laptop and sets it on the nightstand.

“Why?” He’s put a lot of work into giving what he thinks is an accurate portrayal of Sherlock’s life.

“Because. ‘He was charming’ and ‘He’s like a drug’ and ‘He’s strangely likable.’ And you’re married now. That’s why.”

He doesn’t delete the posts. He tells her he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, that it was never like that, that he loves her. They both wear rings - he shouldn’t have to say it anymore.

♦ ♦ ♦

Mycroft

Over tea with the teenage son of a local Italian mob boss, Mycroft thinks of fourteen ways he could murder Mary without anyone knowing.

When the son starts flirting with him, Mycroft thinks about the other sixteen ways he could murder Mary that don’t involve himself seeing the body.

“My father isn’t the only reason you came to talk to me, is it?”

The boy props his chin up on his fist and looks at Mycroft under dark brown lashes, batting them. He’s as ineffective at acting as Sherlock is sometimes. And at the thought of Sherlock and this boy being connected, he suddenly wants him to get the fuck out of his office.

“In fact, he is,” Mycroft reminds him. He looks at the papers scattered over his desk, picks one up and pretends to read the text inked onto it.

That signature looks ... forged. How did he not spot this before?

“But is he all you wanna talk about?”

Mycroft squints at the loops forming a name. “Yes.”

There is a pause, a silence hanging over the office, before the boy sighs. Mycroft hopes it is a sigh of surrender. He hopes it is, “I’m going to tell you all about my father before your associates torture me.”

“How did you even know about my father?”

“It’s rather obvious.”

The boy lifts his head and rests against the back of the chair. He has bad posture, stress stretched across the width of his shoulders.

“What are you?” The boy snorts. “Sherlock Holmes?”

Mycroft lets a brow lift. “Well, I am his brother. Though I am more intelligent than him.”

The boy’s eyes widen. It is only natural. “No. No, really?”

Mycroft lets his own sigh fall. He doesn’t have time to talk about Sherlock, ensure he’s lacking sentiment when he describes his younger sibling.

“Your father, Franceschi. The sooner you tell me everything I need to know, the sooner I free your sister from falling into drug addiction.”

The boy raises his brow and opens his mouth.

♦ ♦ ♦

If he focuses on it enough, he can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in his dining room. The sheets are cold. His eyes are turned to the window, and he wishes he pulled back the curtains to see the moonlight.

The voice comes from the person pressed against his side. “Will you miss him?”

He isn’t sleeping and Greg knows this, can read it from the tension of his back and painted down his spine. Mycroft doesn’t see the point in pretending around him. It does both of them a disservice. They have so little time together as it is. Most of their hours are packed with policemen and paperwork. It is satisfying to come home and see the man you love slumped over the dining table, already a half-glass into the white wine he bought you that he admits is mediocre.

“Sherlock?” There are many people he could miss.

Greg winds an arm around his waist, brings himself closer. “Of course.”

Mycroft searches for the right words. The ones that prove to this man that he can hold compassion. Not ones Greg could think of when he rubs his eyes and lists the reasons for his fatigue.

“We saw each other less often before Moriarty.”

Greg exhales, hot breath against the back of Mycroft’s neck.

“When we planned the Fall, we had to a new player to consider - John. That took longer than I wish it did. It was the first time Sherlock had been like that in a while. Anxious, pacing, staring at different places. You could see him file through all the memories he’d never deleted, which defied what was better for him.”

Mycroft feels fingers curl around his wrist, hold it in a loose grip.

“But maybe that was a good thing,” he continues. “If he didn’t have those memories, he wouldn’t have gone along with the plan. He wouldn’t have come home.”

Mycroft blinks in the darkness. “This is the closest I've been to Sherlock since the drugs, and now he is leaving London again.”

Greg’s fingers find Mycroft’s in the dark. They thread together. Greg says, “I tried to talk to John. I don’t think he ever knew about Sherlock - how he was in love with him.”

Mycroft huffs. The sound is soft and stretches over the sheets. “He knew. You knew and you weren’t Sherlock’s flatmate. John is a smart man. He knew.”

Greg nods, even though Mycroft can’t see him. Greg kisses the back of his neck, then releases Mycroft’s hand but keeps his arm around him.

Mycroft listens for the clock until they plunge into sleep.

♦ ♦ ♦

He meets John again at Speedy’s. It is the last meeting they will ever have there. He orders coffee for him and sits without his own drink.

John stares at him from across the table. He never looks like he has enough sleep, but now his hair is rumpled. He is not shaved.

Even if things had worked out, if Mary was never there, if John had stopped pulling away from the pull, this man is not perfect for his brother.

Is Ferdinand? Mycroft doesn’t know. It isn’t his job to know. Sherlock makes the decisions and Mycroft cleans up the aftermath. That’s how it’s always been, like that time five-year-old Sherlock flooded their bathroom to sail paper boats and Mycroft mopped it up.

John clears his throat. “Is there anything you called me here for? You couldn’t text me? We’ll see each other for Sherlock’s flight.”

“Sherlock and Ferdinand’s,” Mycroft says.

John smiles, thin-lipped and sharp. “We know that’s not why we’re here.”

Mycroft almost laughs. He cares for John, but he will always care for Sherlock more, and John is Sherlock’s fall.

“I hope my message is clear to you. You will do nothing to impede Sherlock’s departure. This is what he views the best solution, and I am helping him. If you do something to ruin things, you will suffer the consequences.”

John purses his lips. His eyes flicker across Mycroft’s face, but he says nothing.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sherlock

The alarm is for Ferdinand. Sherlock’s been pinching the sheets in between his index and thumb, pulling at pieces of fabric over and over again. His phone rings at midnight, smacking down the silence that usually permeates their bedroom. Ferdinand rouses, limbs sleepy and slack as he lumbers off the mattress.

Mycroft’s people will strip the bed and throw away the sheets. “Should I just leave my pajamas here?”

“Unless you like them,” Sherlock says. Ferdinand leaves them in a heap at the end of the bed and pulls on new clothes. Sherlock is already dressed, wearing comfortable clothes that will let him sleep on the plane. They grab bags already set by the door, sling them over their backs, lock the door and trudge into a little past midnight.

The dinner last night with Mrs. Hudson was quiet and sweet, trading goodbyes and cups of tea. Sherlock thinks about it as he leads Ferdinand to Baker Street station. But if he thinks about it even more, he might stay, so he stops.

They don’t have to pay. They board the Tube together, sit in close seats. Ferdinand’s hair is sleep-mussed, falling lazily against his forehead like wheat touched by moonlight.

He folds his hands and leaves them in his lap. His fingers flinch in their hold. Sherlock is lost in the drunk couple crumpled together in the next car, in the plastered advertisements of their own. He won’t see this train for a while.

He looks at Ferdinand, lets the words fall from his mouth. “Are you alright?”

And Ferdinand’s eyes are wide and brown and watery, and he is lost, and there are gasps fighting for space in his throat. “I -- we’re going so far, I’m going with you. I...”

“Is this not something you want to do?” Is he backing out, now ?

“No!” Ferdinand’s shout resounds in the car. “No, I want to go with you, it’s just a big move. This is a big decision.”

Sherlock stares, eyes on the hunched man in the plastic chair.

The car shudders after a curve. Ferdinand blinks and his eyes are clear when he turns them on Sherlock. “But I’m going with you and I want to.”

Sherlock tears one of Ferdinand’s hands from his lap, twines their fingers together and brings Ferdinand's knuckles to his lips.

“There’s no need to panic.”

He presses a kiss to the knuckle of his ring finger and then rests their hands on his knee.

Ferdinand smiles, shaky at first but then unfurling in the bright lights of the car.

Neither of them know when the train stops. Neither of them know when the couple shuffles out, when the drunkard in the last car leaves.

The car stops on the tracks. They are the only ones there. They walk outside and then make their way to a door in a stone wall. They open it and walk up the stairs, across a rooftop and down more steps.

There is the terminal. The plane sits, white against the black sky. When they are flying, they will see it pink.

Mycroft waits at the base of the steps. Sherlock and Ferdinand are still holding hands when they meet him.

“Here,” Mycroft says, handing Sherlock a thin book. It seems to be a journal, about three years old. Sherlock doesn’t question it, shoving it one of his jacket's pockets.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

Sherlock surprises himself by saying, “Thank you.” He reaches over and pats Mycroft on the shoulder. There is no audience here to watch the sentimental gesture - this isn’t last time.

Ferdinand nods when Mycroft threatens him as a big brother would do. He and Sherlock walk up the steps and the stairs begin to fold behind them. Mycroft watches as the door shuts and until he can't see them anymore.

Ferdinand moves down the aisle and settles into a seat. But Sherlock pauses at the front of the plane, nose twitching.

There is a scent of aftershave that he knows. He knows how it washes out in the shower or how it settles into the space around the sink.

He turns just as a door opens behind him. John steps out, smiling with tension pressed behind it.

They look at each other.

“You might want to sit. The plane’s about to take off.”

“Why are you here?”

“I know the pilot.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

But Sherlock flops into a seat beside Ferdinand, who can’t stop looking at John. As if he’s the one who’s returned from the dead.

Sherlock smiles back at John. The plane creeps down the runway.