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“Shite” John hissed as shots rang out around them, his gun merely clicking pointlessly in his hand.
“Here” Sherlock whispered, cautiously peeking his head over the crates they were hiding behind. Fireworks had begun to go off along the pier, they could see and hear the brilliant display across the Thames. Sherlock pressed another clip into Johns' hand hastily as the detective cast his eyes about for their portrait thief.
“Thank Christ,” John grunted, accepting the clip and reloading his gun. He and Sherlock where both breathing hard, gasps of the freezing night air stinging their lungs. After a moment John poked his head around the crate.
“Where the fuck is he?” John hissed.
Sherlock was silent for a moment, rocking on the ball of his good foot as the casted one knocked against the ground worryingly. As excited and alive as Sherlock looked, John couldn’t help his fear for the younger man’s health. Finally, Sherlock motioned to the large metal cargo containers to their left. Jesus fuck, John hated getting into firefights on the fucking docks. Too many places to hide, too many metal things for the bullets to ricochet off of. This was their, what, 6th time doing this since they started working together?
John motioned sharply for Sherlock to stay put, and Sherlock, perhaps knowing the scolding he was in for already, and unwilling to add to it, pouted and sunk down onto his knees. Silently John moved around the container. The man was crouched against the metal wall and was taking aim at…at Sherlock, who was but 10 ft away. John couldn’t withhold his hiss of rage. Suddenly their thief spun, he was clearly terrified, his hands shaking badly, his eyes wild. He darted out from behind his hiding spot quickly. John made a dash to catch up with him, but when he rounded the corner his heart stopped.
Sherlock was grappling with the man but, finally, the detective cried out in pain as his ribs where pulled badly and he was dragged to his feet. Sherlock looked furious but also had a pained grimace upon his face. The art thief was pressing a gun into Sherlock's temple.
“Get back!” the thief yelled wildly. John immediately stepped away, raising both arms in surrender.
“Alright,” he said, trying to be calming, “it’s alright, let’s talk, ok? I know you don’t really want to kill someone, yea mate?”
The terrified man let out a manic broken laugh, sniffing and shaking his head, “I know who you are!” he cried, dragging Sherlock a step back. Sherlock hissed as weight was put on his broken leg and John instinctively took a half step forward.
“I SAID GET BACK!” the man screamed, shaking Sherlock roughly. “I’ll kill him! I swear to god I will!” the thief was slowly making his way back… and back…
“Hey, hey, easy, ok? Listen, take the painting, it’s not worth all this, alright, just let him go-“ John tried
“You think I’m fucking stupid, huh?!” The man cried. John realized, suddenly, that this was no man, he wasn’t even twenty-five from the looks of it, he was just a boy. “You think I don’t know who he is? He’ll find me, he’ll fucking-“ He took another half step back, his lower back bumping against the railing separating man from river. Below, the cold black waters of the Thames, illuminated only by the New Year’s fireworks on the opposite shore, slapped gently against the algae-ridden concrete wall of the docks.
“A theft charge is a lot less lengthy than a damn murder charge!” Johns' voice was strong, it sounded like anger. But as he met Sherlock's eye, the detective knew it was hiding fear. Funny thing about John Watson, that. So rarely did he fear anything, yet so often had Sherlock seen it. And always in his name.
“I know you’re scared,” Sherlock tried speaking, “but we need to keep our heads, here.” Who he was talking to, he couldn’t tell. His lover or his captor, both were terrified and quaking in their boots in equal measure.
The lad ignored him, flashing his eyes around wildly, “Gimme your gun.” He directed at John.
John immediately set the gun on the ground and kicked it over. It passed the captor and slid across slick concrete into the water below. John internally groaned, Sherlock quietly cursed, and the thief looked into the water. Very quietly, the boy whispered “oh” as he stared down into the waters more than twenty feet below.
Just then the space was illuminated by another firework, while both men were momentarily distracted, the young thief hoisted Sherlock over the rail. John only had time to scream “no!” in panic as he saw his lover drop. He made a mad dash to the railing; he vaguely heard the boy take off in the opposite direction.
It didn’t matter, not then. What mattered was the casts weighing on Sherlock's body, what mattered was his broken ribs, what mattered was that the water was nearly freezing and black as death. John vaulted the railing and went…
Down…
Down….
Down…..
Almost like that day, so many years ago.
Then he was sinking in the darkest of nights….
A firework popped off above him. Johns' eyes stung as he opened them, but he kept them open, struggling the follow the fireworks and the laid path to salvation. Finally, after an eternity, he broke the surface of the water.
“SHERLOCK!” he screamed the moment he had air back in his lungs. There was nothing for a moment, John swung his head around wildly. Panic flared in his chest. A pain he knew too well…
No…
No.
No.
NO NO NO NOT AGAIN,
“SHERLOCK” he screamed again, swimming further into the waters. He couldn’t feel his fingers, was it the cold or the panic? He couldn’t see anything, why couldn’t he see?!
Another firework popped off, amidst the waves and wind John saw a hand encased in white plaster flailing and heard a garbled sound that may have been his name. John immediately began swimming as hard and as fast as he could. His eyes didn’t stray from the white cast, a flag calling him home, bobbing in the water. Finally, he reached his lover, with more strength than he knew he still possessed, John reached under the water and grabbed the collar of Sherlock's coat, pulling that glorious head above water. Sherlock wasn’t moving.
John felt his inner soldier boil to the surface. Nothing mattered now, just reaching the shore. With his right arm, he held Sherlocks head above water. The waves beat at him, icy scythes of death, sirens begging him to give in. His body grew cold, but determination kept him warm, kept him moving. The shore was so far, as if on another plane of existence, would he even make it? More importantly, would Sherlock make it?
Kick.
Arm.
Kick.
Arm.
“Keep going Watson,” he hissed internally, “there’s still time. Keep. Going.”
Was there?
Was there time?
He kept thinking they had more time; that they had all the time in the world. As though they were invincible. But they weren’t, were they? Suddenly Sherlock wasn’t the heaviest thing weighing him down.
It was a small box in his pocket. The same small box he’d carried with him ever since Sherlock returned.
The weight of their maybe’s and someday’s held aloft on his shoulders. He didn’t have time for doubts though, the shore was close. It was just a… matter… of… time.
Always a matter of time.
Water gave way to mud and clay, gave way to sand and stone. John gasped for breath as he dragged Sherlock onto the beach. Immediately he switched modes, from fighter to healer, turning Sherlock’s head to clear the water from his airways. Sherlock wasn’t breathing but… yes, there, a pulse.
Shirts gave way in John’s haste, buttons scattering to join the rocks, perhaps they would be found in a thousand years’ time, a relic of this horrid moment drifting at sea for all eternity. The doctor was in full control, the cold, the wind, the wet all pushed to the side as he started CPR.
Push.
Push.
Air…
Push.
Push.
Air…
The.
Cycle.
Repeated…
Finally, Sherlock gasped and jerked, gagging on filthy Thames water. John thanked any and every deity he could think of and turned his lover on his side. Sherlock kept gagging and spluttering, water draining from nose and mouth.
“John,” he choked out, his voice wrecked from the pain.
“I’m here” John gasped in turn, smoothing back Sherlock's hair. “I’m always here.” He promised breathlessly.
Sherlock awoke some hours later, warm, dry, with fresh casts on. He groaned, his throat felt as though he’d gargled acid, every breath was agony as he slowly opened his eyes. There was John, he looked radiant. Still in his clothes, though now they were damp, his hair having dried at odd angles, shoulders tense and worried. The most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen, dazzling in his righteous fury.
“What did I say?” he snapped the moment Sherlock opened those lovely stormy eyes of his. John shielded his lovers’ eyes from the harsh light, his livid voice and gentle hands at odds as he flicked off the light that had been blinding Sherlock.
“What did I ruddy say?” he continued, still sounding angrier than… than what Sherlock didn’t know. He was too tired to draw a comparison right now. “No fucking leg work cases, and what did you do? Get all excited and run off. Christ Sherlock, I fucking told you-“
“I know.” Sherlock cut him off, hissing as he shifted and sat up a little in the bed. “I know, I’m sorry. I thought…” Sherlock trailed off and sighed, massaging his temples with one long-fingered hand as the motor on the hospital bed whirred and John lifted him into a sitting position.
“Well, I’ll tell you one goddamned thing, Sherlock Holmes,” John grumbled, grabbing Sherlocks left hand in his own and pulling him close. “The next time you go in the fucking Thames for an evening swim you’re doing it as my damned fiancé, so there.” John huffed. Sherlock popped his eyes open in shock. Johns' face was drawn tight, he was, undeniably, still beyond furious with Sherlock. But there was also an underlying fear, fear at having to watch Sherlock drop, yet again, and anxiety over a not-quite-question he already knew the answer to.
“I- I’m, I- what?” Sherlock finally stuttered out, his eyes going wide. John cursed and rooted around in his waterlogged coat for a moment before extracting a little wooden box. Wrapped in brown leather, warping from the water, even though John had clearly tried to dry it out. From the style and material, Sherlock would say it was late Victorian era. When John opened it, Sherlock caught sight of an engraving on the top of the box.
Lucky for him Sherlock didn’t have to see the box or its contents clearly to know every tiny detail, for he knew this box, and he knew that ring. He knew the wedding ring his grandfather had worn nearly every day (save when he helped Gran in the gardens), and the little “bee box” he used to curiously dig out of his grandfather’s desk drawer as a child. John gripped Sherlock's hand tightly, drawing Sherlock's eyes back to John.
“Marry me?” he asked in all seriousness, “I’ve waited too damn long. And for that I’m sorry, but I’m done waiting because god knows we haven’t got forever. So, just… Just marry me?” John was hardly asking, it sounded more like exhausted begging.
Sherlock gapped at him. He knew this was coming, but he hadn’t predicted this. He had foreseen John clumsily trying to surprise him or entice him into some ridiculously romantic plot. Not this, not angry and tense with fear induced rage as they sat in a hospital room at Bart’s. Not fresh off a failed case, not right out of the Thames. Not when he had, yet again, almost abandoned John forever.
Sherlock realized it was absolutely perfect. The perfect place, the perfect time, the perfect circumstances. Nothing in their life would ever be easy, they would come close to death time and again for many years to come. Sherlock would have danger nights when the drugs sang their siren song and he attempted to drown it out with loud violin at 3am, John would have nightmares and dysphoric days when he wore his vests two or three deep and couldn’t bear to be touched. They would argue. John would storm off, still fearful of not being able to stop himself raising a hand and becoming his father, Sherlock would wait by the window, petrified John wouldn’t return (because who could ever love him?). The road they walked had demons beneath, and sometimes, just sometimes, the demons would inevitably nip at their heels, causing them to stumble and fall.
But it was perfect all the same. Let the demons come, Sherlock thought as he took in Johns' face, tight and determined, let them trip us and try to drag us down.
They can’t take us both, and if they can’t take us both, then they can’t take us at all.
“Shall we go down to the hospital chapel?” Sherlock finally choked out with a half laugh, wiping the tears from his eyes. Johns whole face softened into wonder, then broke into a smile.
“Sure, but you’re explaining to Mycroft why he didn’t get to pick our color scheme.”
“Blood red and gunmetal grey, easy.” Sherlock quipped grasping John’s wrist, presenting his left hand. John barked out a laugh, which devolved into happy sobs as shakily put the ring on Sherlock's finger.
A perfect fit, not surprising, Sherlock had always favored his grandfather in stature and appearance.
John grabbed him around the neck then, forehead to forehead.
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered; his voice painfully earnest.
“You-“ John began before he cut himself off with a rough laugh and a little sob, “You great git. You went and dragged me out of hell all those years ago and now…” John swallowed thickly, closing his eyes, it was easier to do this without seeing Sherlock's intense gaze, “now you’ve got a bloody responsibility, ok? We, we have a responsibility. To each other. Got it? You can’t… There won’t be a me without you Sherlock. I only lasted so long last time because there was… there was a chance. Do you get it? Do you understand?” John asked desperately willing Sherlock to hear what he didn’t know how to voice.
And Sherlock did. He understood perfectly. They had both been drowning in deep waters, going deeper still all their lives. So alone, so isolated, internally and externally dying, bodies betraying them, fate pushing them past their limits. Then suddenly the storm was washed away by a chance meeting, and they were lifted high. Without the other, they would fall yet again, and if they survived a crash into the deepest, darkest waters they could fathom, then they’d still be dragged down by their demons. Two halves of a whole, two wings of a bird. Survival without the other was possible, but painful, a half existence that made them incomplete and all the more alone for it.
What were they without each other? What was the drug-addicted machine who used crime solving to distract from his own painfully lonely life? A half man, a “great” man with no heart, no joy except to be found in unraveling the misery of others. And what of the soldier, the man born to a home of war and bloodshed, a man who could never survive without it? He was but an empty shell, treading the endless maze of loss and isolation that was his life, trying to control the uncontrollable, trying to rationalize the irrational. Together they held the other aloft, they gave each other perspective. Room to breathe, room to grow, room to process, but also room to grieve and fall apart and fail.
“I understand.” Sherlock finally whispered, pulling John tight. Because god help him, he did. He understood what they owed each other, he understood what it meant to be partners, in life, in love, in everything. He understood he’d had a responsibility to John Watson since that first day; one he would shoulder with pride.
They didn’t go to the hospital chapel. And because of this lack of foresight on Sherlock's part (also because he still had half the Thames in his lungs and John forbade him going farther than the loo), they were forced to…. Dear god help him…. Call people.
Mummy and Daddy were ever so pleased, Mycroft was smug, Lestrade laughed in disbelief, Molly squealed in glee, Harry didn’t pick up the damned phone (“Lousy drunk,” John grumbled with a touch of knowing sadness) and Mrs. Hudson cried.
There was one more phone call Sherlock felt he should make. He didn’t know how to, though. It had been so long, so many years…
John went out for work, about a week after they came home from hospital. Sherlock was fine, but he had done something a bit not good to his leg in the fall and would require minor surgery. Which would cost him another month and a half in the damned cast. He was very unimpressed with this and cursed the frailty of his body as he set a date for the next week. It shouldn’t even require him staying overnight, but it was still a day he could be working. Not that he was allowed to do much of that, John was still furious with him about getting in too deep and putting himself in needless danger, all over a stupid portrait. (“A £50,000 portrait is not worth your life, you damned fool.” John had huffed at him as Sherlock complained about the failed case whilst John carefully wrapped his casts before a shower.)
His mind felt hazy and scattered as he sat down at his desk on that beautiful Wednesday morning. The sun was shining, the birds singing, children laughing along the sidewalks below. How hateful it all was in the face of a long-dreaded confrontation with his past.
He let out a mighty sigh as he dialed the number, truly expecting it to ring out. When it clicked through, and a hauntingly familiar voice called out a greeting, Sherlock's mind went blank. Oh god, he hadn’t prepared! (Wait, no, had he?) Oh, Christ, he didn’t calculate, but then he had no data as to their schedule, now did he? Only what had been, once upon a time, decades ago, and and…
“Hello? Helloo?” the tinny voice called from the speakers.
“MizzusTrevor,” Sherlock spit out in a garbled mess, too fast for anyone to make sense of. There was a halt in breathing on the other end of the line and Sherlock felt panic rising. “I’m sorry,” he breathed out, “For, um, well yes. I’m sorry for everyth- well it’s just. I just wanted to… I have your letters, I’m sorry I don’t answer, I know I should. But I don’t. So, I’m sorry. Um, I don’t know if you still talk to Mummy, or rather, I’m sure there’s no reason for you too but…”
“Sherly,” Mrs. Trevor cut him off. Instantly Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and he swallowed thickly. “I missed you, love.” She said, her voice soft, teary, and full of fondness. Sherlock blinked quickly, biting his lip to resist the urge to sniffle.
“I’m sorry.” He croaked out again.
“Oh, darling boy, there’s nothing to be sorry for. You’ve had a hard go of things. You’re allowed to lose touch.”
“Why’d you keep trying?” Sherlock finally got out past the lump in his throat. “Why… He was gone, and you kept trying. I don’t understand.”
“Darling we love you, Vincent and I, we love you very much. We knew you needed time to grieve. We knew you’d reach out when you were ready. I just wanted you to know that we were still here.” Sherlock felt his resolve snap and he began sobbing. When was the last time he had cried this hard? When Victor died? When he was detoxing and saw horrible hallucinations (namely Victor blaming him, and his brother expressing the truest disdain towards him)? When he saw John begging him not to be dead at his gravestone?
“I’m so sorry I didn’t sooner.” Sherlock stuttered. “I- I missed you, I’m so sorry Mum.” There was reigning silence on the other end, he could picture Edna getting a hold of herself. Always strong, always soldiering through, pulling everything together even when she had every right to fall apart.
“It’s ok baby. You know it’s ok. I know why you’re calling too. And it’s ok. You don’t have to feel guilty for falling in love again,” that hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks, because she was right. She was right in ways he hadn’t even realized were true, ways he hadn’t yet identified. A part of him did, still, feel guilt. Guilt for reacting to Victor's death the way he did, for the drugs, for his hateful attitude, and now, for falling in love with John. For moving on, for laying Victor to rest in the walls of his mind, for not trapping himself in the mausoleum of his own making.
“I love him so much,” Sherlock confessed quietly, “he’s nothing like Vic was. Nothing at all, except that he’s still got that silly romantic soul.” Sherlock laughed through his tears and wiped at his eyes. “He burns so bright, like the sun. He has a temper that you wouldn’t ever guess at and endless patience for me. He loves the work as much as I do. He keeps me right. He- he, Mum he’s… you’d like him.” Sherlock finished lamely, unable to express to his second mother how amazing John truly was.
“I do like him,” Edna said with a smile in her voice.
“What?” Sherlock asked, confused.
“Your Mum-“ Sherlock cut her off with a huffing laugh.
“Of course,” he snorted. He could almost see Edna smiling.
“She sent your lad over at Christmas. He’s a good man, Sherly.”
“He- John came over?” Sherlock asked, stunned. When on earth…- the memory cut in suddenly. Christmas Eve dinner, after he’d gone into the office with his Da who was showing him some new experiments he had been working on. Then that night John had clung to him so tightly, sometime between dinner and bed then… Why hadn’t John said anything, though?
“… all Vincent’s idea you know. I imagine it’s not there yet, so I suppose it’ll be an engagement gift. I told the silly boy to get off his arse, but I must admit I didn’t think he’d do it so soon. What on earth did you do, Sherly?” Sherlock distractedly tuned back in, finding himself completely confused as to what Edna was talking about. What was going to be sent to them? A gift? What gift? Sherlock tried to shake himself into answering her question though and felt heat rise in his face.
“Ah, yes, that. I… may have taken a dip in the Thames, rather forcibly. I’m afraid I gave John quite a fright.” Sherlock answered sheepishly. Edna launched not a tirade about Sherlock needing to be more careful and when on earth are you coming for supper, you ridiculous boy? Don’t you dare forget that doctor of yours. Oh yes, you are coming, I will tell Violet if I must, Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock felt something warm in his chest, tears sparkling at his eyes. He forced his gaze away from the wasted years behind him and looked ahead to the not nearly as lonely future set out before him.
Three days later the Trevor’s gift appeared. John took up a crowbar and pried open the large wooden crate as his lover sat at his chair, hands clasped in his thinking pose, watching John with an intensity the older man could physically feel. John shot him a look before he pulled the whole front down, exposing the picture. Sherlock harshly sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“Oh.” He whispered in awe, levering himself up and trotting over on his booted foot. Reverently his fingers just barely grazed the canvas.
“I suppose Edna told you about it?” he asked, his voice steady. John moved away, allowing his lover free reign of the painting as John started tugging at the gloves he had worn to protect against splinters, if only for something to do with his hands.
“Ah, a bit, yea. She said he, um… she said it was his coming out, kind of.” John shrugged leaning against the wall, just observing his fiancé. Sherlock hummed noncommittally and nodded.
“Yes… it was more than that though. We’d been a couple for a while before this. But this… I was a late bloomer. Sexually, I mean. No surprise there, I didn’t really have any sexual draw to Vic. Romantic, certainly, I was mad for him, but it wasn’t… It wasn’t strictly speaking a sexual thing. We’d experimented a few times, I got off, he got off, nothing earth shattering was happening. He understood.” Sherlock flashed him a look and John nodded.
It was something he also understood, while Sherlock was now a being who could freely explore his sexuality, he also seemed to have the ability to turn it on an off at will, to an extent. It was, truly, an indulgence for Sherlock. A way to reaffirm his connection to John, a way to experiment and experience something novel, but not a true need. Sometimes, just sometimes, he was taken by it, and he needed John in that way. He needed to feel John surrounding him, needed to know he had the man, mind, body, and soul, needed to feel him there, in Sherlock, and Sherlock in him.
For Sherlock, sex wasn’t about getting off or orgasm. It was about the human connection with another being. He had told John, once, that he simply felt no desire for people he didn’t love. There had been no one since Victor he had even looked at sexually, and it had taken him months after meeting and falling in love with John to realize that he wanted the elder man intimately as well.
Sherlock nodded at the understanding in his eyes and continued, “One day, we were laughing. I don’t remember about what, but he pulled me tight and I just remember… It was like the world tilted a few degrees, nothing that was life-changing, but disorienting. I suddenly wanted what I had only given before. I didn’t just want to do it because it was nice for a few moments or because I knew he’d feel good, I wanted it for me. I wanted a part of him with me, I wanted him to have a part of me. This…” Sherlock trailed a finger lightly down the black paint meant to symbolize Victor's body, “is what he painted after. He rolled off me and just looked at me for a moment. Then I saw that look in his eyes. The one that said he needed paint and a canvas, now. Right this moment. He was single-minded in a way I identified with when he was like that.
He jumped out of bed and said “stay there Sherly, don’t move a muscle” so I didn’t. I laid there while he, naked as the day he was born and still covered in…us, pulled out the largest canvas he had on hand and heaved it onto his desk.” Sherlock smiled fondly, “I watched him paint all night. I fell asleep as the sun rose, he had paint in his hair and an intensity I envied in his eyes.”
Sherlock crouched on shaky legs, John didn’t move, just watched and waited. He knew that look in his lovers’ eyes, Sherlock was a thousand miles away and dancing in his own mind. With a trembling hand, Sherlock reached out and gently laid his hand to Victor's signature splashed across the bottom right-hand corner. He let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sob.
John took that as his cue and came to sit beside his lover. Sherlock slumped fully to his knees and leaned into John, crying. “I miss him,” Sherlock gasped, “He was young and pure, and together we were nothing but joy and bright days. I miss him and what he might have made me. What we might have been. I miss him so much it hurts some days. And I keep trying to tell myself it’s ok. It’s ok to love the memory of him and love the living breathing you. It’s ok that I fell in love, it’s ok I’m moving on.” Sherlock murmured into his jumper, clinging tightly. John held him even closer.
“It is ok,” John finally breathed, “and it’s ok if it’s not ok. It’s ok to still not be ok, Sherlock. You… When you hold tight to someone… it’s all-consuming. You don’t love lightly; you don’t forgive easily. You do everything in extremes. And that’s ok. And it’s ok that you still miss him, it’s ok to wonder what may have been. As long as you don’t go backward. You have to keep moving forward, love, always. Even when you don’t want to, you have to.” Sherlock fell into him then, holding with shaking hands and sniffling sobs.
“You never really grieved him, did you?” John asked softly, feeling his heartbreak.
“Not- not the right way, no.” Sherlock choked out through hiccups. John was suddenly assaulted with visions of a much younger Sherlock, drugging himself into oblivion, stuck on the knifes edge of agony and euphoria, sobbing and writhing on a dingy mattress amongst the living dead, aching for a lost lover, a lost childhood. It made him tuck Sherlock's head into his chest and pull the man half into his lap.
They sat for a moment, basking in the beauty Victor Trevor created in a fit of bliss. A bit of paint and a canvas encompassing so much more than the night Sherlock found himself ready for physicality, encompassing the love, the passion of two boys who became men together. Two people who loved deeply and may never have been parted were it not for a fateful night and a drunken driver.
When their legs had fallen asleep, and cricks had developed in their necks, they stood. Together they hauled Victor’s painting upstairs and hung it up in Sherlock's laboratory. As Sherlock distractedly muttered about finding a frame to protect the painting from any noxious fumes he may produce during an experiment, John looked to him in pride. Sherlock had once told him that he, John, was the strongest man in the whole of Britain. John thought, perhaps, Sherlock had been wrong. He didn’t give himself enough credit, the guilt over his actions blinding him to the truly epic proportions of his own battles. It was hard to struggle against the world; it was harder still to struggle against one’s self.
As John helped the younger man back downstairs and gathered the splintered wooden crate to take out to the bins, he smiled to himself. For he realized that their open wounds were closing. Wounds they had let fester and infect for far too long, together they were finally learning to stop picking at the scabs and allow the skin to stitch itself back together. This was more than love for them, this was a soul-deep bond, one that was for life. This was forever, this was past and present colliding to make way for the future. And oh, what a glorious future it would be.