Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes John hated letting the sun go down.

It wasn’t as if he was afraid of the dark, because that was patently ridiculous, and he was a decorated soldier thank you very much. It was the nightmares. But not the fear of them, or the way they kept him up so he was falling asleep in the consultation room, that didn’t bother him so much anymore. What bothered him was that they didn’t bother him anymore. He didn’t want to live the kind of life where waking up with the feeling of blood slicking his hands, juddering gunfire in his ears and the taste of death in his mouth was something he just had to take in his stride.

But he watched a young man in desert camo hit the ground with dead white eyes in the shadow puppet show that he knew so well by now. It was his fault, all his fault. Fumbling forward he crawled on bleeding knees to reach out for the boy. He knew what he would find by now, but the dream-John didn’t, so he had to go through it all with the same old blinkers and-

And his eyes flicked open without any input from his brain. His vision swam for a moment, the memory of the blinding desert sun overlaid by the dark of his bedroom wall. He blinked. This was sooner than he usually woke up. Not that he was sorry to miss the rest of the nightmare, but his combat instincts thrilled in his chest, insisting that something must have woken him. He lay frozen for a moment, trying to locate the source of his dread.

Up the stairs from the living room floated the sound of music. I play the violin when I’m thinking sometimes, whispered Sherlock in his ear, and John tried to force himself to relax. Sherlock was playing in short violent stabs at the strings, like he always did when he was frustrated. It was testament to his skill with the violin that it still sounded oddly beautiful, and John breathed deep.

He rolled onto his back, debating whether he should get up, and then let out a strangled yell.

Downstairs, Sherlock’s violin silenced. After a pause, it started up again, a cleaner and more soothing melody; Sherlock was used to John’s worse nights.

“He doesn’t seem very concerned for your safety,” said Lyesmith from the bed next to John.

John scrambled to a sitting position, clutching his blanket. What the hell?

“Well, at least it’s pretty.” Lyesmith was lying in John’s bed like he had every right to be there. He’d been watching John sleep. Watching him sleep. What?

And he was humming tunelessly along with Sherlock’s violin. John searched for his voice. “Lyesmith?” he hissed. Lyesmith’s eyes crinkled in a smile that John was horribly afraid was genuine.

“Hello again. Is that any way to greet your good friend?” He jerked his head towards the door, indicating the stairs down. “What’s that he’s playing?”

John strangled down the urgent thrumming in his hind brain, the animal urge to kill the intruder. He thrust the feeling down deep in himself, blinked and it was gone. Okay, he thought in his most reasonable headspace. Waking up with a strange man in your bed. No need to panic. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he’d woken up next to worse-looking strangers than this. And he was a civilian and he did not have to resort to violence. He said, “um.”

Lyesmith took his eloquence in stride. “Sounds almost like Strauss.” He was perfectly at ease, reclining in a suit that was maybe even more expensive than the one he’d worn last time they met.

“He makes it up as he goes along,” John said carefully. Lyesmith looked faintly disappointed.

“Shame. I quite like it.” John breathed in.

“Lyesmith?” he asked.

“Doctor Watson,” Lyesmith replied easily.

“What the bloody fuck are you doing here?”

Lyesmith looked faintly shocked at John’s language, but smiled indulgently and brushed some nonexistent lint off his sleeve. “I’ve come to have an honest conversation,” he said.

John blinked. “A what?”

“That was your advice to me last month, in the bar.” Lyesmith said amiably. “Stop messing with Sherlock and have an honest conversation, and you know, I’ve been thinking you were right. Sherlock really hasn’t done anything to deserve my undivided attention; I should give the man a break. After all, he is so delicate. Some people just can’t take it at all. No sense of humour.” Downstairs the violin picked up tempo as Sherlock apparently assured himself that John was sleeping soundly. “I should lay off him. Besides,” he smiled brightly, “I’m sure you can take it much better.”

John groaned. Balls. If Lyesmith noticed the look on his face, it only made him smile wider. He beckoned with one hand. “Come lie with me.”

John was leaning on his bad arm, and it was beginning to give. That was the only reason he lay down. To get the uncomfortable weight off his old wound. It had nothing to do with the dark storm green eyes, or that trickster’s smile, come lie with me. It was just that exhaustion was starting to creep in like it always did after a nightmare. The first time he’d had this dream at Baker Street, Sherlock had been awake like now, and John had stumbled his way downstairs; listened to his new flatmate play the violin and fallen asleep on the sofa.

“I’m not a therapist, Lyesmith,” he said, settling against the other man. They shuffled for a moment before John lay next to the wall and Lyesmith lay on his back, his head pillowed on John’s shoulder. And that was awkward too until John slung an arm around his slim shoulders and pulled him in. “I’m a GP.”

“Relax,” Lyesmith murmured, and patted his hand. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Now. It all started back in my childhood... I suppose my father never really loved me enough.”

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, we’re not doing it.” Lyesmith looked up at John, surprised. “You can find someone else to play with and I’ll go back to sleep.”

Lyesmith paused. “This is serious.”

“Really? Because it sounds like you’re lying through your teeth.” John’s eyes drifted closed without him quite meaning to.

“I’m not, though. I’m being sincere.”

“It sounds like you’re doing it again.”

“But this is what I sound like when I’m sincere!” Lyesmith’s voice still had that mocking quality to it, but a hint of petulance crept in underneath. John opened one eye.

“You really can’t stop that, can you?”

“I don’t think I even know what you mean.” The back of Lyesmith’s head dug into John’s chest as he craned upwards, reaching for eye contact. John frowned.

“Right,” he said. “Er, sorry. Tell me about your father.”

Lyesmith lay back down, stretched across John’s mattress and examined the ceiling. “I really sound like I’m lying?” he asked. John paused. He had sworn he heard laughter in Lyesmith’s earlier words, and his outright declaration of intent to mess with John, but...

“No,” he said, “not lying. You just... don’t... sound like someone who’s being honest. Kind of.”

“Oh,” breathed Lyesmith. “I didn’t know that.” He was quiet for long enough that John wondered if their honest conversation was over, then, “My brother’s friends were men... and women... of action. Whenever they needed someone to do their talking, that would always be me. I suppose it was beneath them. I spent a lot of time lying. And almost as much time swearing I was telling the truth.”

John thought back to his own sessions with Ella, and tried to think of something reassuring she would say. He was buggered if he could remember a single thing. “How does that--” he yawned, “--how does that make you feel?”

“Like a liar.”

“Hn.” He let his hand fall slack on the other man’s collarbone. “In a good way or a bad way?”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Lyesmith’s lips pull into a smile.

Chapter Text

If John had hoped that one honest conversation would be enough for his housebreaking new stalker, he had probably known it was wishful thinking. He made a point of locking up the doors and windows before bed, setting various burglar alarms, but it didn’t help. Even the time he’d shaken talcum powder into his carpet – When he checked in the morning there were no footprints from the door or the window, but Lyesmith had somehow slipped into John’s bed while he slept.

He was getting used to it. Every couple of nights, maybe twice, three times a week, he’d wake up to find Lyesmith there. Loki, as he preferred to call himself. John would drift out of sleep like he’d been called, and Loki would be ready to start the night’s honesty. Not once was he woken by Loki Lyesmith tripping over his bedroom clutter, not even the tripwires. Loki never prodded him awake, never crept into the room when John was lying sleepless. He’d just settle himself on the bed (where the bedsprings wouldn’t creak, not enough to wake him) and wait.

So John would wake, or he would open his eyes, snuffle and curse for five minutes and then be awake, and Loki would talk. After that first night his walls of defensive flippancy steadily lowered, and he began to speak more seriously, though he did still use codenames – his father was always “Odin” and his overbearing older brother was “Thor”. John was relatively certain that the Loki in the stories wasn’t Odin’s son, but Norse myths seemed to be important to this Loki. John finally recognised why the name Lie-smith had seemed so strange to him, and stopped using it.

And he learned a lot about the man. Adopted kid who had issues with his new parents. Why would he take me, Loki whispered one night, if he didn’t want me? He had the weirdest mix of inferiority and superiority complexes where his brother was concerned, He was always so perfect. Golden. I wonder why no one ever noticed how stupid he was. He was the smallest and weakest in a household that wanted boisterous sons, probably an army brat, and the only way he could make himself feel okay about that was by constantly proving how clever he was. It explained the tricks he pulled.

Oh, and he was perfectly delusional. Completely mad. He told John about the time he’d shapeshifted into a tree to avoid being killed by dwarves in the same breath as the day he found out he was adopted. And the ridiculous stories seemed to hold as much emotional weight for him as the normal ones. He almost broke down talking about Odin’s last words to him before he left. (Loki had attempted suicide, or run away, John couldn’t tell. He’d fallen off the rainbow bridge after the bifrost was destroyed, and John was too tired to translate.)

“He kept saying, oh, Loki, we can’t possibly go to war against the Jotuns! We’re far too weak! and, don’t leave the bifrost open, you might destroy a whole realm, LOKI. The only thing he didn’t do was wink! I just thought...” Loki’s frame shook a little next to John, grief or anger. “I thought I was doing what he wanted. I would have ended it all in his name, but then he looked at me and he said... He just... He said no, Loki.”

John gathered Loki against him, tucked his head under his chin and held him until the tremors stilled. Loki whispered, “then what?” against his chest, and John did not ask him what he’d done to his father that he thought was as bad as Frost Giant genocide.

---

Sherlock wondered if it was time he asked John about his nightly visitor.

Ask rather than observe, because John did tend to get upset when Sherlock discerned things about him that he considered ‘personal’ (an inconvenient fiction that people spread around to avoid embarrassment, Sherlock thought. There was no objective difference between ‘personal’ facts and any other facts). And if John was willing to go to such lengths as sneaking him or her in through the window – Sherlock would have known immediately if anyone had passed through the front door – then perhaps that was a hint that he wanted some privacy.

The visitor was more likely to be male, Sherlock thought, not from any evidence of the person in question, but rather from his previous observation of John’s social-sexual responses. Then again, he had seemed so sadly closeted when they’d first met, so the gender of his mysterious partner was anyone’s guess.

Sherlock pulled the knife from the mantel, and slid his mail off the blade. John was still occasionally horrified at how he kept his paper mail (“It’s not our mantelpiece, it’s Mrs Hudson’s!”), but there was little enough of it to keep. He leafed through boring request after boring request, I don’t do cheating spouses.

He may be unwilling to actively observe John’s burgeoning affair, but he could hardly be blamed for picking up on the obvious. And there was enough ‘obvious’ about John’s behaviour to make Sherlock question whether he was actually having sex with anyone at all.

He was certainly awake at night, and not alone – his sleep deprivation was hardly difficult to spot. Only the other day he had spent twelve minutes searching for the television remote control that was in his hand. He had been annoyed at Sherlock for not telling him, but Sherlock had been curious to see how long he would take to notice. But despite his wakeful nights, he didn’t seem to be getting any sexual gratification. He wasn’t walking like someone who regularly had sex, homosexual or otherwise, and he certainly wasn’t displaying the upswing in endorphins that accompanied recent orgasm.

Sherlock paused at one particularly boring letter and vocalised his annoyance. Stolen painting, reward for return – Sherlock had seen this one in the paper, solved it in ten seconds. The son’s babysitter had obviously taken the thing in an act of revenge for her dismissal. The irrelevant details were all part of an insurance scam by the parents; boring, boring, boring.

He wondered idly if there would be any repeat of the Lyesmith cases. Those had held Sherlock’s interest, but the last case with Lyesmith’s fingerprints had passed Sherlock’s door months ago now. A man in the midst of an identity crisis with an uncanny talent for causing trouble and some truly baffling methods; a man who for some reason had chosen to name himself after the trickster god, Loki. Someone who could pass for English without a qualm, but who had little to no idea how the English mind worked – or at least, had started without it. The speed with which Lyesmith had learned had made him very interesting indeed, and Sherlock had been disappointed when he had stopped. Perhaps John had scared him off, unlikely as that sounded.

Well, either way, John’s business was John’s business. If he wanted to carry out his orgasm-less affair without Sherlock’s comment then he could. It was a matter of being a good flatmate. Or a good enough flatmate not to get kicked out. Speaking of which – John would get pissy if Sherlock missed out on rent again. The case may have been boring, but the reward was ostentatious. And luckily the painting’s owners had included a mobile number as contact. Sherlock quickly sketched out a text to arrange a meeting.

Chapter Text

For a while John had been uncomfortable lying so cuddled up while Loki talked. He knew Loki did it to hide his face when he mentioned his brother or his father, but it made John feel weirdly like he was taking advantage. Loki resisted any suggestion to move to chairs. John had tried insisting that they lie top to toe, but Loki had (“Accidentally”) kicked him in the face until he relented. John resolved to just not think about it so hard.

Besides, there wasn’t anything there to think about. Loki was probably just a tactile person, and there was nothing awkward about giving physical comfort. That’s all it was. No one was trying to seduce anyone.

John woke up to Loki’s eyes watching him with that amused speculation that made him question things. For the second night running he lurched uncomfortably into consciousness, caught by that look he didn’t quite understand. “Mmph. Loki,” he muttered.

Loki was dressed down tonight. He usually wore the full Savile row, three piece suits, sometimes even shoes in bed, but tonight he was in nothing but the trousers and oxford shirt, open halfway down his chest and bare feet. He was lying propped on one elbow in a way that made John think of the film Titanic, paint me like one of your French girls. “John,” he smiled.

John scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and swallowed, hard. “Is everything okay?” he said to Loki’s left ear. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”

“I never do what people expect,” Loki laughed softly. “Are you sleeping naked, John?”

The question came without preamble and John froze. It was a warm night, and he’d gone without a shirt. “What? No.”

Loki’s eyes were glinting wickedly in the half light. “Really? Because it looks like you’re naked. Is it just because you didn’t expect me? Every night I’m not here, you’re sleeping in the nude?”

“I’m not sleeping naked,” John retorted weakly.

“You’re clutching the blanket a bit tight for a man who’s wearing clothes.”

John bristled. “I don’t... clutch.”

“No, of course not,” Loki said soothingly. “If you’re not naked, prove it.” He shifted in the bed, propping himself up to lean over John, and his hand dropped to the edge of the blanket.

“Loki.” John put on his most reasonable voice. “I don’t have to prove...”

Loki’s voice dropped, half whisper, half giggle. “Just let me see-”

He reached down and John caught his wrist. A brief scuffle later, and Loki hit the floor next to the bed with a thud. John stared at him over the edge of the bed where he sprawled long limbed and resentful and tried to look as dignified as possible. “Oh, fine,” he said. “Keep your modesty.”

John reached down and pulled the bottom of the blanket up to show Loki his ankle, and the trouser leg of his pyjamas. Plaid flannel. “Happy?”

Loki shrugged and scooted back to sit with his back against the bed. “Happy enough.”

John listened, but he didn’t hear anything from Sherlock’s room. They’d gotten away with it, he thought with relief. “What’s gotten into you this evening?” He shot a suspicious look at Loki, who was straightening the seams of his trousers. “Is there a reason you’ve suddenly decided to be insane?”

“Don’t be silly, John, I’m the picture of mental health. Now. Today I’m going to complain about all the things I hate in Muspelheim.”

And that, apparently, was that. Loki was determined to behave like nothing had happened, but he stayed resolutely seated on the floor so John had to balance on the edge of the mattress. It was awkward and unfamiliar to be listening to Loki talk this way – John lying and Loki sitting, it felt like John was the one in therapy.

Not that this was therapy. John was a GP.

Loki meandered from topic to topic. He didn’t stay in Muspelheim long, but that wasn’t anything new. His line of thought was always fitful, like a little bird, John sometimes thought. And it always landed in the same place – Asgard.

“It was just because he could always see the truth, and no one could fool him but me. He never liked me, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t have to like me, he just had to do what I told him. I was king!” Loki had his head leaned back against the bed, frowning at the ceiling. “He was bound to obey me, and Thor was banished at the time. How much must he have hated me to still choose my brother? And I ask you, what other king has had to wage war with a traitorous gatekeeper? He was supposed to be my protector.”

John reached out to lay a hand on Loki’s shoulder. The angle was uncomfortable, but Loki squeezed his fingers. John shifted. “Loki, there’s no heterosexual way to say this, but... are you coming back to bed?”

Loki glanced back. “No, you made yourself perfectly clear. You don’t want me up there.”

“Loki...”

“And why would you. I can’t even hold on to the loyalty of someone who should be sworn to me.” John knew he’d only said it to make him feel guilty, but he’d been listening to Loki for too long to miss the flash of genuine pain across his face. He sighed.

“I’m sorry. Come to bed?”

Loki shook his head. “No. Can I come under the sheets?”

“Yes, Loki, you can come under the sheets.” John lifted up the blanket. “It’s almost dawn. Get up here before my alarm goes.”

It was more than almost dawn, and the light filtering past the blinds helped Loki climb in and settle gracelessly against John’s side. John slid an arm under his head and Loki’s arm came over his waist. He tried to ignore the brush of warm satisfaction he felt at the smile that touched Loki’s lips.

“So what did you do about Heimdall?” he asked.

“I gave him his orders,” Loki muttered darkly. “Told him I expected loyalty and I would have it.”

John said nothing. Loki had a lot to say about how good he was at manipulating people, but he really didn’t know much about convincing people to do what he wanted. John shifted downward in the bed as Loki hooked a leg over his hip to get comfortable. Probably best not to say a thing.

Chapter Text

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 15:58
Why aren’t I on your blog?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:00
Loki? – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 16:01
I’ve read your blog. Where am I on it?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:05
You’re not. I thought you wouldn’t want me posting all your most private secrets on the internet. Loki, you shouldn’t text this number, it’s probably under surveillance. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 16:08
Oh, what do I care about secrets, you still think I’m delusional.

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 16:09
You’re missing a trick here – you post all those lovely things about Holmes and the deductive process in catching criminals... Why not write some cases from the criminal’s point of view?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:11
Jesus Christ, Loki, people read these texts! Governmental people! – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 16:12
What did you do to get the British government reading your texts?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:13
I moved in with the British government’s brother. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 16:14
Oh, this is about Mycroft Holmes. You know, he’s not nearly as clever as you think he is.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:17
He’s a Holmes brother. He’s automatically brilliant. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 16:17
As brilliant as me?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:19
Of course not.

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 16:20
Good answer. All right, I’ll take care of this Mycroft thing.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:21
What do you mean, ‘take care’ of it? – JW

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:28
Loki, how are you going to ‘take care’ of Mycroft? – JW

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:35
Loki, what are you going to do? – JW

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 16:46
Loki?

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 17:21
Come on, rewrite one of the Lyesmith cases on your blog. I could do an interview!

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 17:24
Loki, I am not making you internet-famous. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 17:25
Spoilsport – L

Chapter Text

The most perplexing thing about it, Loki thought despondently, was that he was actually trying to lie.

Not about the big things; John had been right about that much. Loki had needed to have an honest conversation about the things he had done. Needed to tell someone how he had tried to murder his own race just to prove to another one that he was one of them. It didn’t even matter that it sometimes felt like John was just humouring him when he pretended to believe Loki’s words – even if he dismissed the events as self-aggrandising fantasy, he was thinking of the mortal equivalent and forgiving Loki piece by piece.

It surprised Loki just how good that felt.

But there were the other things, things he neither wanted nor needed to be forgiven... John had his way of asking bland questions in a bland voice, and Loki would think of the glib answer -- then tell him the truth. John always asked about his childhood and Loki found himself talking about how lonely it could feel when people pretended to like you. Nothing John needed to know, nothing Loki wanted to tell. But something in the way John soaked in Loki’s words made him want to keep talking. Loki would accidentally uncover some private weakness and brace himself for the attack, but when he looked at John, it seemed to have completely escaped his notice that Loki had even made a mistake. He’d calmly accept the offered secret like it meant nothing more than any of the others.

And that made Loki uneasy, but he just couldn’t stop. There was something about John’s presence that calmed the maelstrom of insecurity and get-them-before-they-get-you instinct that had become Loki’s life. Whatever else he did with himself, he could slip into that darkened room in a north London flat and block out the world while he smoothed out his own rough edges. Surely that was something to be grateful for? It was an unfamiliar feeling to Loki, but there was nothing familiar left to him but the small hours of the morning and the occasional sound of the violin downstairs.

---

It wasn’t stalking, just a little light investigation. If Sherlock Holmes was allowed to do it, Loki thought, then John wouldn’t mind him doing it. He wandered through the crime scene invisibly, plucking a cardboard cup of tea from the hands of a police officer (who found herself momentarily distracted, then wondered why her empty hands felt so cold). John was trailing after Sherlock as usual, doing most of the talking. He made a point of asking Inspector Lestrade for the dead man’s name, and watching Sherlock for reaction. At least Loki wasn’t the only one he held to unreasonable expectations of moral fortitude. Holmes was expected to Care About People too.

Loki sipped from the tea (terrible; he dumped it out on the ground) and watched the great Sherlock Holmes at work. He’d seen it before – it had first attracted him to the man, and he had been charmed by his sparking intellect. He had thought he’d found a match for his own mind and had pursued gladly. Then John had been Holmes’ shadow, a point he was making to Scotland Yard; I hate the forensic analysts in this city so much I would rather listen to an army medic. Now he recognised why Holmes chose to keep him around. He just didn’t understand it yet.

Holmes had out his little pocket magnifying glass and was bent double over the body. Loki wondered how long it would take him to find the smudge of kohl eyeliner that had been placed behind the man’s ear. It was the whole point of the exercise, he knew. He’d been standing behind Jim Moriarty as he’d arranged this little scene; another one of his consultant crimes. Loki may not have much time for the man himself, but he had a craftsman’s appreciation for a trick well played, and Moriarty’s signature of leaving secret messages for his nemesis was a nice touch. He did worry that Jim had left too much of himself in this particular murder, but if Moriarty wanted to be caught that was his lookout. Loki wasn’t interested in him for his own sake.

For his part, Moriarty had been smug enough at Lyesmith’s renewed interest in his work that he hadn’t paid any mind to the questions Loki asked about Homes’ assistant. Mugging for information on the mortal who had stolen his wits in order to mend them.

“So, how’s Mycroft?” John asked, not quite subtly. Holmes ignored him, still peering at whatever it was he’d picked off the body. “No, er... no attempts on his life or anything?”

Holmes frowned at that, surprised out of his examination. Loki just grinned. John had so little faith in his subtlety. “There are always attempts on my brother’s life,” Holmes said shortly. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. It’s just... I bet his work is dangerous, is all.”

“Thinking of going into the government, John?” Holmes dropped his eyes back to his cupped hand and pulled out his pocket magnifying glass, apparently satisfied with this answer. “It’s no more dangerous than the army. The attempted murders are more interesting, though. Some weeks ago someone sent Mycroft a stamped addressed envelope with a poisoned glue strip. As if he ever opens his own mail. There.” He stood triumphantly, slipping something Loki couldn’t see into his pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief. “The shooter was ex-military, obvious, but fallen on hard times. The rifle probably cost less than the whiskey. Not to say that he was drunk today -- John, are you listening?”

Holmes paused, just getting into his usual rhythm when he noticed John’s face. John looked up. “Hm? Yes, of course I am.”

“You don’t seem as... as you usually do.” Invisible, Loki didn’t bother to hide the sardonic smile. Sherlock was so see through, all me, me, me all the time. His reaction to John’s attention falling elsewhere was quite sad, really.

But John looked contrite. “Sorry, sorry. I’m miles away today, I... So, military?”

“It’s him, John.” Holmes’ eyes picked up a certain light. “It’s Moran.”

The distraction immediately dropped from John’s face. “Moran? Then...”

“We’re dealing with Moriarty again. And we can tie him to it this time.” He turned on his heel and swept away, his coat trailing dramatically. From the other side of the crime scene, Lestrade called after him and he shouted back, “No time! Got to go to the lab at St Bart’s – to solve the compelling and troublesome mystery of the man’s left ear!”

Loki sucked on his teeth as he watched John make a helpless motion to Lestrade before hurrying into a half run after his Great Detective.

Chapter Text

Loki was lying with his face pressed into John’s neck when he woke, and he wondered if the man was actually creeping into his bed to sleep now. The thought was objectively terrifying, but it was three in the morning and Loki was a warm weight and John’s sleep fogged brain was through giving a damn.

Loki’s fingernails scraped against his skin as he traced the scar on John’s shoulder, his hand opening and closing idly. “Did you know,” he whispered, his breath tickling John’s neck, “that you have nerve damage here? You couldn’t even lift a hammer with this arm.”

More Norse symbolism. “It’s been brought to my attention, yeah.” He mumbled. A hundred years ago in a desert, John bled and shook and begged an unfeeling universe not to let him go. And he could so lift a hammer. He’d put up the shelves on the opposite wall without any trouble at all.

“Well it’s not good enough.” Loki murmured back. “What use do I have for a hero with nerve damage? I’d be laughed out of Asgard. Try... this.”

He flattened his palm against the shiny, long-healed skin and John felt a rush of something both warm and cold that made him feel very young. Stars burst across his vision in the filtering pre dawn light, and his hand on Loki’s shoulder tightened involuntarily. He gasped, and as the feeling passed it left nothing at all in its wake – the low constant pain that he’d come to find familiar washed away. He flexed his hand experimentally, finding none of the weakness that he was so used to. Loki lifted his head to watch with a self satisfied smile.

It was like the wound had been lifted out of his body and thrown away. Not just the wound. The bullet, the pain, that whole black day of wondering whether rescue was coming, sitting at his CO’s desk waiting for the words medical discharge, just say them already. In a surge of thoughtless panic, John tried to hold on to it. He was a man who had almost died; it made a difference. But it all felt like pictures on a pane of glass. He dragged in a breath. “How did you...?” he asked shakily.

Loki looked pleased to have been asked. “It’s magnets and mirrors,” he smiled. Bent his head to press a casual kiss to John’s shoulder. Still reeling, John didn’t notice the strangeness of that intimate act. “And misdirection.” Another kiss. “And other things beginning with ‘M’.” Loki nosed his way up John’s neck until his breath teased the space behind his ear. “That aren’t magic.”

That word propelled John to sit up, dislodging Loki where he’d curled around him. His free hand, normal hand flew to his shoulder. No scar. “I don’t believe in magic.” He ground out. “I don’t believe in gods.”

Loki Sky-walker reclined comfortably in his bed. “We don’t usually care about that sort of thing.” Shadows fell across his face, but John could see him easier here than in daylight. How long had it been since he’d looked at him in daylight? Had he ever looked at him in daylight?

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I need you to leave.”

“John?”

“Please, just go.”

There was no shifting weight, no sound of the protesting bedsprings, but when he opened his eyes Loki wasn’t there. Gone as if by magic. He fell back on the bed, hands pressed into his eyes to keep the water standing there from spilling. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck.”

---

In the morning, John felt better. The memory of his wound, if not the physical scar, was a little clearer and the panicked conviction that he was losing himself faded. His arm moved with an easiness that he’d forgotten it could.

He slipped out of 221b while Sherlock was distracted, avoided saying good morning to Mrs Hudson, and walked to the nearest library, thinking about a cane he’d left in a restaurant and never picked up again. Most of the books he needed were on high shelves. It didn’t hurt at all to reach for them.

So he sat at a table in the corner surrounded by a small fortress of books, ignored the occasional buzz from his mobile, and read about the gods. It had been years since he’d visited an actual library, but the austerity and weight of the place seemed to fit the circumstances. Besides, he didn’t know why, but the thought of typing Loki into Google made him feel all kinds of wrong.

Loki Lie-smith. Son of Farbauti and Laufey. Brother of Helblindi and Byleistr. Father of several monstrous looking illustrations, and mother of a few more (was that true? The Loki who had talked his way into John’s bed hadn’t mentioned any children). These were not the gods John was used to. He’d always been told that God was the great big father-figure in the sky. That He cared about you and would protect you if you had faith in Him. These gods didn’t seem to give a damn about mortals at all.

New books, folk stories, poetic Eddas in olde tyme language that John couldn’t make any sense of. He read about the times the gods did take interest in mortals. The stories ran from ancient to modern, and mostly seemed to agree on only one thing. The gods picked up on any mortal they found interesting, and then fucked them up. Until they got boring or died, whichever happened first.

John sat with his head in his hands and wondered what in hell was wrong with him, that he was glad Loki had picked him instead of anyone else.

Chapter Text

“I texted you.” Sherlock had his violin out when John returned, but he wasn’t playing it.

“Really?” John grunted as he hung his jacket behind the door. “I must not have heard it. Was it important?”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock flicked his fingers. “What interests me is that you once checked your texts in the middle of being kidnapped. It’s been hours without a reply.”

John’s hands formed into fists down at his sides (both hands; how long had it been since he’d been able to do that?) and he clenched and unclenched them a couple of times before replying. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I was distracted.” And I somehow forgot that I have to account for everything I do with you.

“You’ve been distracted.” Sherlock was watching John in that way he had of pretending that he wasn’t watching John. “It’s getting distracting, just how distracted you are.”

Too impatient for Sherlock’s shit tonight, John turned for the stairs up to his room. He’d barely reached the first step, though, when Sherlock called after him.

“Just tell me it’s legal, at least.”

John turned back to frown at him, but he was apparently engrossed in tuning the violin on his lap. “What’s legal?”

Sherlock fixed him with his patented why are you so slow to catch up look. “I mean the medical trial, the one with such impossible results. I want to know that it’s legal, John; in my experience the illegal drugs are always the ones with no experimental process behind them.”

John tried not to, but he couldn’t quite stop the twitch of his hand towards his shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said weakly. “If you want to talk about illegal drugs, Sherlock, I’m not the one who has the police out here once a month. Honestly, if we have one more drugs bust--”

He had been aiming towards some witty turn of phrase involving supermarket loyalty cards, but he was cut short when Sherlock stood and in one smooth motion threw the violin at the wall. Instinctively – Sherlock’s violin is the only thing that keeps him bearable! –John caught it, and cradled it. In one hand. Sherlock looked vindicated.

“A week ago,” he said, “you wouldn’t have been fast enough to do that. Nerve damage of the type and extent you suffered in Afghanistan should be permanent, John. But this morning I noticed you’d almost stopped favouring that arm altogether – I don’t care how long you’ve been taking this drug; there’s nothing on the open market that could have that kind of effect, and nothing in the better publicised medical trials taking participants in the area. Add to that the fact that you know very well what a futile effort it is to keep secrets from me and I can only assume you had a very good reason to try. I’m trying not to believe that you would be so stupid, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

John’s fingers tightened against the neck of Sherlock’s violin. It was such a rare thing to see Sherlock reach the wrong conclusion, and John was so irate that he wanted to laugh in his face, but... Sherlock’s theories made so much more sense than the truth. John couldn’t expect even Sherlock to look at the facts and see healed by the Norse god of mischief after weeks of being his impromptu therapist. In that moment he wanted to tell his best friend the truth, wanted to tell him so bad he almost groaned aloud with the frustration of it. But he didn’t know enough of the truth to tell it, and Sherlock was demanding answers about mysterious miracle drugs.

“You could be putting anything in your body! For god’s sake, you’re a doctor, John.”

John blinked. “You’re worried about me?” he asked blankly. Sherlock didn’t meet his eye.

“I wouldn’t go that far. You’ve proven yourself a better housemate than could have been hoped for, given everything, and I wouldn’t want to go to the trouble of finding another. And I have appreciated an alternative to Anderson’s clumsy attempts at,” the words dripped with disdain, “forensic science.”

John watched him. “And the rest.”

Sherlock groaned. “I’ve said it once before, John, don’t make me say it again.”

“I need to hear it.”

Sherlock looked up at John’s tone, then rolled his eyes in acquiescence. “I’d be sunk without you, John Watson. And, you know, probably dead several times over, so that’s also relevant to my interests.” He shrugged his shoulders in that way he had that only couldn’t be described as flouncing because he was a grown man instead of an eight-year-old girl. “And you’re putting the best asset I have at risk by entering into stupid unregulated medical trials!”

“Right,” John growled. “That was beautiful while it lasted. I’m not an idiot, Sherlock, I know the risks in medicine. A damn sight better than you do.”

Sherlock made a frustrated sound. “Well, what else can I believe, John? I thought for a while you were just sleeping with someone, but if you are then it’s frankly amazing you haven’t bothered to have sex with them yet!”

“Oh, god, Sherlock!” Appalled, John raised his voice. Sherlock looked mulish.

“Tell me I’m mistaken.”

John looked down at the violin in his hands, then with quick fingers he twisted the pegs on the strings as far as he could. He threw the instrument back to Sherlock, who ran his hands over the sagging tuneless strings with an expression of abject horror. With a resentful look, he set to work tightening them again.

“You’ve been acting completely irrational lately,” he said, with as much dignity as he could manage. “You should tell that to whoever’s running the trial, it’s a debilitating side effect.”

John sighed. “There isn’t any trial, Sherlock. Legal or otherwise. It’s...” He flexed his arm. “It’s difficult to explain, and I don’t think I can tell you.” Sherlock looked up through his lashes, picking at the D string. “Yet. But if it helps, I don’t think... I don’t think I’m actually in danger.” He had no way of knowing that, but he knew it anyway. Or he just wanted to believe it hard enough that it didn’t matter.

Sherlock observed him silently, still fingering the strings of the violin. Unable to find anything else to say, John turned back towards the stairs. To his bedroom, where he didn’t expect to spend the night alone. As he mounted the first step, Sherlock called after him, “I can find out, you know.”

John wasn’t so sure of that. “What if I ask you not to?”

A pause. “Not yet?”

“I’ll tell you when I can.”

“It’s a deal.”

Chapter Text

It was just after midnight when Loki arrived. This time, for the first time, John was awake and waiting for him, and saw his arrival for what it was. No wonder he had never been able to catch him coming in. One moment there was an empty chair by his bed, and then, without any kind of transition, there was a god.

John sat up slowly. First he sat with his back against the wall, out of arm’s reach of Loki, then changed his mind and settled himself on the edge of the bed, so close their knees almost touched. Loki’s face was blank, but John could see the muscles tensing in his jaw. It was up to John to speak first, then.

He opened with the three words that hadn’t left his head all day. “You’re a god.”

Immediately he wished he’d said something that was less bloody stupid, but Loki’s expression didn’t change. “Yes,” he said.

And the last of John’s feeble hope that he was imagining things, or leaping to conclusions, vanished. Loki was the god of mischief, the fire bringer, who would help bring about the end of the world. John let out a shaky breath, feeling sick. “You told me you were. You told me, I should have believed you... I’ll believe you in the future, I should...”

“John,” Loki said gently. “You’ve just found out that I’m the god of lies.”

John blinked. And blinked again. The bubble of laughter that escaped him then was probably hysterical, but it broke through the tension that was holding John taut. “Yes,” he said breathlessly, “I suppose that’s true.” Loki, his Loki was the most famous liar in the history of the world. Did a lot to assuage his guilt for calling him out on bullshit claims, that did. Even if those claims turned out to be entirely true.

“Okay, okay,” he said, squashing the giggles that still threatened to spill. “But does god mean god? Or are you just really powerful, I dunno, aliens or something?”

“Are aliens easier to believe?” asked Loki mildly. He was smiling now, and John realised he was relieved. A god had been afraid John would stop talking to him. “Aliens who just happen to match your ancient gods?”

“You could be just... really old aliens, like that Stargate show on TV.”

Loki paused and leaned in closer. “If we were, John, would there be any realistic difference?”

“Oh. No, I suppose not.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just... gods. You’re supposed to be this ineffable concept, like a mass hallucination, not real! I mean... Norse gods, too! Turns out the whole time in Afghanistan I was praying to the wrong one? And the whole war! How many wars could have been avoided if the Norse gods turned up? Sorry, you’re all wrong, we’re the real gods. And your brother; he makes the thunder, why did no one tell me that in primary school--” He was babbling helplessly, and Loki silenced him with a finger to his lips. His fingertips skidded across John’s jaw and John wanted to just close his eyes and lean into it, let Loki’s touch be his anchor.

“John,” he murmured, voice so low John leaned in to hear, “John. Hush now. You oughtn’t to think so hard about this.

“How can I not?” John whispered back.

“I’ll help.” That was all the warning he got before Loki darted forward and took John’s open mouth with his own. He tasted like ozone and ice water and then Loki, beautiful, brilliant, broken Loki was kissing him.

Involuntarily, John’s eyes fell closed, and when Loki drew back he chased the sensation. He told himself that the quiet little sound of want couldn’t possibly have come from his throat. Loki had a hand on his chest and he bore John firmly down to the bed, moving to straddle his hips. His mouth didn’t leave John’s as he gently, deliberately brushed a thumb across the scar that wasn’t there anymore.

Then Loki pulled back, letting cool air come between them, and held John’s body against the mattress. “Are you afraid of me?” he asked steadily. His firm grip on John’s arms said he wasn’t going any further until this question was answered. The aesir who had discovered he was a frost giant.

John looked up into his storm dark eyes, and knew what he had to say. “No,” he answered with a conviction he wanted to feel. Then Loki’s face lit into the brightest of smiles and John knew he couldn’t have answered any other way.

---

John didn’t really expect Loki to still be there in the morning, but Loki had already warned him that he’d never do what John expected. He kissed him awake in the streaming daylight and they shared one another’s presence, just enjoying the feeling that they’d won something. At length, Loki left the way he’d come the night before, and John headed downstairs to be respectable.

And if Sherlock muttered finally under his breath, John was in a good enough mood to pretend he didn’t hear.

Chapter Text

Loki’s method of distraction was good. (Really good, enough that John wondered what he had been doing with women all those years. Before long that gave way to just wondering what he’d been doing with people who weren’t Loki all his life.) But John still thought his way through Loki’s godhood. Turning it all over in his head to find out how he felt about it. People (Sherlock) had told him before that he was slow, but he figured things like this deserved the extra consideration.

He thought less about the sudden revelation, oh, by the way, gods are real, and more about the kind of man he’d invited into his life. He tried to line up all the things he’d read about Loki with the man he knew, then realised how stupid that was and stopped it. One thing did catch in his mind, though, because it was common to both versions of Loki – the tricks.

Loki the trickster was the stuff of legends. Almost every story Loki told him about his childhood had involved either pranking some innocent member of the court or one of Odin’s over-the-top punishments for said pranks. (And now John had to believe what Loki told him, he had some Questions about Odin’s parenting skills.) Lyesmith, before John had met him, had taken an obvious joy in causing trouble. And John had told him to stop it.

It made him uncomfortable. Like somehow by taking away Loki’s pranks, he’d managed to diminish the essential lokiness of Loki. John didn’t want to ever be the reason for Loki to deny himself.

He mentioned this to Loki one night while they lay together playing wordless fingertip games under the sheets. Because he had his eyes closed, he didn’t see the blink of surprise, or the thoughtful expression that crossed Loki’s face as he realised that, yes, John was right, he hadn’t been indulging his nature.

And because he didn’t see these things, it would be a while before John thought to identify this as the moment everything started going downhill.

---

It actually started quite conservatively, when Sherlock found an envelope at a crime scene meant for him. The crime scene was the kind that had looked interesting on paper but Sherlock had announced halfway through the primary investigation that it was boring him to tears; all that redeemed it in his eyes was the envelope. John hadn’t been at all sure that stealing it from the scene without alerting the police was okay, but it didn’t seem to hamper the investigation and Sherlock had a list as long as his arm of reasons why he was meant to take it.

“Look at where it was placed, John,” he said, pinning the heavy envelope up in the light from the window. “No one would have looked for it there, no one but me.” It had been in a cabinet, to which the key had been thrust into the victim’s left boot. By someone other than the victim, but not the murderer. John questioned Sherlock’s insistence it was his – surely the police would have found it eventually?

Sherlock slit the top open carefully, from a distance and opened it with two fingers. Assured it wasn’t about to explode, he shook out two sheets of paper on the table. John peered over his shoulder.

“Is that sheet music?”

“Obviously.” It was untitled, and Sherlock turned both sheets over in his hands looking for markings or writing before turning his attention to the music. “The paper’s nothing special, ordinary photocopier fare, cheap too, and the shine on the ink and a slight-” he sniffed the front page “-burning-sweet smell suggests this was from a photocopier at least ten years old, the industrial-toner kind – probably from a public library, the funding in those places is a travesty. I don’t recognise the music, though. John, bring my violin.”

John rolled his eyes at the imperious tone, but complied. “So could it be from Moriarty?” he asked. Sherlock had spent the last week and a half convinced that every step he took was right on Jim Moriarty’s heels, ever since they’d arrested Sebastian Moran. Scotland yard actually had a useful file on him now, a nice change from the fallout of Sherlock and John’s big Swimming Pool Adventure, when they’d had to argue to convince the police that he actually existed.

But Sherlock shook his head thoughtlessly. “No. This murder wasn’t one of Moriarty’s projects. Straightforward domestic violence gone wrong, there’s no room for Moriarty in a crime of passion. Although...” He straightened, thinking. “This kind of hidden message does fit Lyesmith’s modus operandi. The unrelated crime, hiding places tailored to my deductive ability – and we know the two did work together for a time.”

As he spoke, he took the violin case from John, and set to applying resin to the bow. “It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he’s taken up a position on Moriarty’s payroll, and that’s where he’s been,” Sherlock continued. John said nothing, revealed nothing, didn’t even move. Sherlock’s brow creased just slightly as he glanced John’s way anyway. Then he raised the violin and started playing.

Sherlock hadn’t tuned the violin, and he played like he was in a hurry to get through it, but it was of course note perfect, and John nearly choked as he instantly recognised the song. “What is it?” asked Sherlock, lowering the violin.

“Um. It’s, er... It’s the theme song from Inspector Gadget.”

Sherlock just looked at him blankly, the look that meant carry on...? John cleared his throat. “It’s a cartoon, for kids. About a detective. Er, he’s not very good.”

“A detective.” Sherlock’s voice was blank.

“He’s actually sort of terrible. It’s a cartoon about a terrible detective. I think they made a film of it, too.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, and John made his escape as quickly as possible. Later in the evening, he happened to look at Sherlock’s laptop screen – a youtube window was open, Inspector Gadget, episode 4, pt 2/3. Even later in the evening, Loki denied all knowledge of sheet music and then did something with his fingers that made John stop asking.

---

Two days later, at another crime scene, Sherlock found another envelope, identical to the first. Back at home, he swept into the kitchen, violin and phone in hand. “John,” he said, “the shazam app informs me this is the theme from the Pink Panther. Does that mean anything to you?”

John set down his mug and wondered how Sherlock could not have heard of the Pink Panther. This was more than just disinterest, he thought, it would take a feat of wilful ignorance. “Another detective show. Films, this time.”

“And what’s the detective like in this one?”

“Worse than Inspector Gadget, I’m afraid. And French.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away.

---

The next crime scene brought the sheet music to the theme from Murder, She Wrote. The one after that was a CD, a pop song by The Dandy Warhols which, after some googling, turned out to be the theme music from Veronica Mars.

And John understood that he had somehow given Loki his permission, so this was entirely his fault.

Chapter Text

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 12:11
Exploding pigeons, what. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 12:15
I know, I’m a genius.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 12:16
Loki, we are in London. The streets are swimming with feathers. What have you done, this doesn’t even make sense. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 12:17
You just don’t appreciate me. I thought you weren’t texting anymore because Mycroft Holmes was spying on you.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 12:19
I thought you said you were taking care of that? – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 12:21
Presumptuous, aren’t you? You’re just lucky I did already take care of it.

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 12:36
John?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 12:41
Loki. I am covered in feathers. They are STICKY.

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 12:45
Ah. You should have stayed at least five feet away from the nearest pigeon, really.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 12:47
I can’t do that, Loki, we are in LONDON. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 12:50
Take a shower.

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 12:50
You’ll see the funny side.

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 12:57
Eventually.

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 13:06
Oh, the silent treatment. Very mature.

---

Loki had taken to the habit of falling asleep draped over John, sort of like a cat John had kept when he was young. It would be endearing, if it wasn’t so uncomfortable. As it was, the last thing he needed was an extra blanket, especially one who breathed hot against his neck. He shifted restlessly, trying to unobtrusively break Loki’s grip without waking him.

“Mmph.” No such luck. “John. If you didn’t want people to fall asleep on you, why’re you so warm?”

John gave up and carded his fingers in Loki’s hair. “Er, biology?” he ventured.

“Well, there you go. Stop doing that and I won’t sleep on you.” Loki was mumbling, more than half asleep still, and John didn’t want to find that endearing either.

“Your elbow is in my solar plexus.”

“Don’t care.”

“Start caring.”

“No.”

John poked him. “I’m getting up now.” He slid both arms around Loki to lift him far enough that he could slip out of the tangle of limbs. Loki made a sound something like nooo, why are you so awful, but didn’t really raise a protest.

John crossed the room to where he’d left half a bottle of water and sipped from it. As he lifted it, a couple of feathers shook themselves loose from the pile of fabric it had been lying on. John sighed as he lifted the ruined clothing. “You know,” he said to the unmoving form on the bed, “you ruined one of my favourite jumpers.”

Loki finally lifted his head. “With pigeon guts? Hah,” he crowed. “Good. I hate those jumpers.”

John responded by throwing the stained jumper at him, and followed to crawl deliberately careless over the bed. He settled his back against the wall as Loki picked feathers out of his hair. “I also had to spend about two hours unwrapping everything in my office after it was mysteriously wrapped in clingfilm. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

Loki paused, then snorted in laughter. “I’d forgotten I did that.”

“Forgotten? Loki, you individually wrapped the tongue depressors, it must have taken forever!”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Not as long as you’d think.”

“You did it with… magnets?” The word magic was still too ridiculous for John to say out loud.

“Mmhm.”

“You have a wrap things in clingfilm spell?”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Loki stretched the kinks out of his limbs as he spoke, but stayed lounging in the bed. “It’s hardly my finest work. But really, John, you have to start with the small stuff. Build your way up.”

John swallowed the vague horror at that thought. “What, you don’t think you’ve done enough? I mean, the pigeon thing’s got Sherlock spitting.” That wasn’t really true. Sherlock had made a comment about alka seltzer wrapped in bread, and then ignored the whole thing (apart from ducking behind John when that one pigeon had gone up). But he didn’t feel like saying that to Loki – the only reason Sherlock hadn’t had the attention to spare had been the serial deaths that had required his investigation. Nothing would distract Sherlock from a good serial killer short of another serial killer, and there was no sense in giving Loki ideas. “He’s been cursing your name all day, you know, after the sheet music.”

“You’re talking about Sherlock again,” Loki muttered, the smile on his lips softening the rebuke. John frowned. Wasn’t this whole thing about Sherlock? He caught Loki’s eye, the indifference edging on contempt there. Apparently not. The realisation that he’d been in bed with his... whatever Loki was, and talking about another man trickled through slowly.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Sorry, that’s awful isn’t it.”

Loki shrugged. “I forgive you. Not saying I won’t hold a grudge, mind, but I forgive you.”

“Generous.”

“I thought so.”

“But either way. I don’t think you really need any escalation, do you? After exploding all the pigeons in Trafalgar square?”

Loki hoisted himself up on his elbows to pin John with an extremely unsettling smirk. “Getting nervous already John? You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in Asgard. I must tell you a story some time, which starts with cutting my friend Sif’s hair and doesn’t end until I’ve bet my head to a group of dwarves. That’s the kind of mischief that got me my reputation.”

John didn’t know whether he was supposed to laugh at that. He smiled uncertainly. “You bet your head...?”

Loki was moving now, over the sheets. He was all fluid motion and sharp relief in the shadowed half light, and he pressed John back against the wall without even a touch, just leaning in. “Mm,” he said, brushing a thumb along John’s jaw. “You should have seen what they did with it.” He followed in with soft lips, like he was stealing kisses. John’s hands were skimming Loki’s hips, and he wasn’t sure when that had happened but Loki sighed into his mouth and John was happy to go with that.

“But you’re right,” Loki murmured between kisses. “I should stop escalating. I’m sure I can find something else to do with my time.”

And then John slid a hand up his spine to the back of his head, just to hold him in place, and they were finished talking for a while.

---

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 10:13
Loki, something strange just happened – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 10:13
What is it?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 10:14
I just got on the train at Baker Street station, rode for three stops and got off at Goodge Street. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 10:15
That’s very impressive, John.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 10:17
It is a bit, because last time I checked Baker Street and Goodge Street weren’t even on the same line. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson 10:17
Are they not?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith 10:18
No. Loki, what did you do, and why is the Underground taking me through dimensional portals? – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson 10:21
I’m playing Mornington Crescent.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith 10:22
I’m going to be late for work, aren’t I? – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson 10:23
Well, that depends...

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith 10:23
On what?

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson 10:24
How far is your work from Mornington Crescent?

Chapter Text

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 18:42
What do you think of this one? Better than Mornington Crescent? Worse?

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 18:42
I’m just not sure whether I’m escalating or floundering.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:43
I don’t think I approve. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 18:44
Don’t think it’s funny?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:45
I just think it implies a level of dependence that’s a little insulting. – JW

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:45
Frankly, I’m a bit offended on behalf of my nation. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 18:46
Are you trying to tell me that London DOESN’T run on supermarket brand tea?

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:47
There’s true and there’s tactful Loki. Don’t poke us in the national stereotypes. – JW

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:48
How did you even do this? There is literally no tea left in the city! – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 18:48
It’s okay to be impressed by me, John.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:49
I’m not impressed, I’m disapproving. Just think of what this is doing to the economy! – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 18:50
You laughed, though.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:51
Did not. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 18:52
I can see you.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:55
...Stalker.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:56
Okay, so maybe I am stunned by your dedication to causing utter chaos. And a little impressed. – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 18:58
I accept your glowing praise in the spirit in which it was offered.

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 18:59
Sherlock’s going to be a nightmare tonight. He lives on tea while he’s working! Maybe I can distract him with the violin... – JW

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 19:00
Ah. I wouldn’t count on that...

Text from John Watson to Lyesmith, 19:11
Loki, WHAT have you done with SHERLOCK’S VIOLIN?

Text from Lyesmith to John Watson, 19:12
Bahahahaha!

---

As expected, Sherlock was Displeased with Loki’s latest prank. John had tried to keep his attention away from thoughts of music by asking increasingly desperate questions about the latest case, but Sherlock’s train of thought was like a bullet. Despite what Sherlock’s brother and school friends and half of Scotland Yard thought, John had no better chance at steering him than anyone else.

He did, however, hide his gun.

And then remembered some important errand he had to run on the other side of the city.

It wasn’t enough to distract Sherlock from the case, though when Inspector Lestrade called them to another murder scene in the morning – a teenage boy, too young to be anything but tragic – Sherlock stomped around being more obnoxious than usual. It was a bad day for Anderson to have shown up for work, and Sherlock slammed three separate doors in his face (Thank you, Anderson, it’s good to know I can always count on you to wrap my day in sunshine.) Sherlock trotted out the word “dunce”, which John hadn’t heard in a while, and threw it in Lestrade’s face. John didn’t escape unscathed either – “I would explain it to you, John,” Sherlock snapped when asked about a particularly twisty bit of mental gymnastics, “but I find myself temporarily bereft of colourful crayons, so you wouldn’t understand.”

John would have snapped back, but honestly he felt for Sherlock. And it was mostly his fault, after all, so he bit his tongue and apologised to the Scotland Yarders. In return, Sherlock dragged him down to the estuary to sift through mud looking for the dead boy’s watch. John sincerely doubted the thing was real.

Chapter Text

“When the odd behaviour of the London Underground was linked to the Radio Show, I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue and the game Mornington Crescent, some people thought it was just too ridic--” Sherlock flicked the television set off at the dial, silencing the news report. He was studying the other monitors in the room, displaying the CCTV feeds all over the Museum. Each room shown on the screens was empty, as you’d expect in the middle of the night, but that wasn’t the reason Sherlock (and, by extension, John) had been invited.

John lingered just outside the door of the security office, reading one of the placards on the displays. The curator hovering over Sherlock’s shoulder had assured him that this room was supposed to be holding an exhibit of Greek amphorae. Now it showed photograph displays of happy little green aliens, and the placard was eager to teach John all about the first McDonalds opened on Neptune. It hadn’t done very well, apparently, since the gravity on Neptune meant that they were drastically undercharging for their quarter pounders. John hid the smile and rolled his eyes. Loki was getting creative.

There was evidence of Loki’s rampage everywhere John looked these days. On the desk next to Sherlock, a newspaper headline boldly proclaimed, BEES!, with no other explanation. There wasn’t really any explanation required, thought John, shuddering at the memory.

He slipped past the door frame to look over Sherlock’s shoulder, though he’d long since given up any expectation of seeing the things Sherlock saw. The monitors showed him exhibits of interestingly shaped pencils and baby photos of a little dark-haired boy, and one room that looked like a display of My Little Pony. Sherlock had his eyes closed, brow creased the way he did when he was certain he’d missed something. Staring at the inside of his eyelids never helped, but it didn’t stop Sherlock from trying. John nudged him.

“I’m not surprised the Neptunian McDonald’s had to close down,” he said lightly. “I’m not sure I’d trust a cheeseburger the size of a cow for three quid.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock muttered, and John shut his mouth. “This is pointless. Being here is pointless.”

“Sherlock?”

“This isn’t getting me any closer to the boy’s murderer, and it’s not getting me any closer to Moriarty – it’s a diversion at best and a deliberate one at worst.” He glowered at the monitors. “It’s obviously Lyesmith.”

John blinked. “How did you know?” he blurted. Then winced.

“It’s hardly a difficult leap, John – the astronomy department has been rearranged to show nine habitable realms on the branches of Yggdrasil,” his voice slipped into an effortless Nordic accent, not quite how Loki pronounced the word, “and the placards suggest that the best way to travel from Asgard to Midgard is via the Bifrost. Clearly that’s the work of the kind of man who would name himself after the Lie Smith. Only an idiot wouldn’t figure that out.”

He narrowed his eyes, shooting John a sharp, suspicious look. “How did you know?”

“Me?” said John, “I’m surprised. Lyesmith? Really? I thought he was gone.”

“You asked how did you know. Not what makes you say that, like you normally would.”

John scoffed, trying not to sound as shifty as he felt. “That’s shaky reasoning, Sherlock. I told you you should have slept last night.” He pretended to suddenly notice one of the monitors. “Sherlock -- are those your baby photos?”

Sherlock spared the screen a glance. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I’m not worried. Mycroft made those pictures available on the internet years ago; revenge for something petty.”

“You don’t think that’s something that deserves your attention, though? Someone’s clearly targeting you.”

“Lyesmith’s clearly targeting me, John, and it’s not like he’s not done it before. Lyesmith is intriguing, but harmless.” John wasn’t sure how far he could believe that. Loki, tucked against his side in the middle of the night could make him think it, but just for a moment his mind was caught on a tube station four days ago. Trying without success to calm a hysterical teenage girl who simply didn’t understand why this was happening to her. He’d told Loki about that, and Loki had laughed. He thought about telling Sherlock, but he had that look in his eyes. “I want Moriarty.”

Moriarty. The one subject that guaranteed Sherlock would act irrationally no matter what John said or did to him. Not that he was sure whether he wanted to steer Sherlock towards Loki’s reign of terror or away from it. He sighed. “You should be careful with him, is all, you should be careful.”

Sherlock looked up, with the sort of contempt he usually reserved for Donovan or Anderson. John caught himself short, hurt. “Careful?” Sherlock spat. “I never bothered much with careful before, John, and it’s suited me fine. There’s a perfectly good serial killer on the loose, and you want me to waste my time on...” he waved an agitated hand at the monitor, “plastic ponies because you think it’s more careful. I wonder, John, when did you become such a nebbish?”

John sucked in a steady breath and reminded himself that Sherlock had been working the same case for nearly a week now, with all the stress and adrenaline that came with it. Loki had taken his tea and destroyed his violin, and had made every effort to get under his skin. John knew what Sherlock could be like, that Sherlock still needed him. And so he did not want to break his best friend’s nose for calling him a coward to his face.

“I know people are dying, Sherlock. But you’re getting obsessed again. I--” He bit off the sentence. I’m worried about you never did any good, least of all with Sherlock. “How can you even be so sure it’s Moriarty? I’ve been here the whole investigation, and you haven’t given me one reason to believe it’s him, other than because I say so.”

“It’s him, John, I know it.”

“How?” John tried, but couldn’t keep the confrontational tone from his voice. Sherlock turned back to staring at the monitors, but John gripped his elbow. “Usually you can’t wait to share your reasoning with me. What is it that makes you so sure that it’s Moriarty?”

“Because it’s for me.” Sherlock hissed. “The young man who died today was the same one who served me in a shop last week. The woman before him was trying to convince me to take a case. It was boring, and I told her so, and now she’s dead. Before that was the man who lives above my tailor’s shop. I’m the only connection I’ve seen so far. The deaths are for me, it’s Moriarty.”

John felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “Sherlock... Jesus Christ, Sherlock, why didn’t you say anything? Are you all right, this must be...!”

Sherlock sketched an elaborate shrug. “It makes little difference. I’ve already told Scotland Yard my conclusions, they don’t usually need to know the reasoning behind them.”

“Sherlock, you can’t pretend that this doesn’t affect you!” John was about to say more when a tinny sound started playing. It took him a moment to realise that Sherlock’s phone was ringing, an actual call instead of the customary text messages.

Sherlock didn’t even look at John before answering with bad grace, “What.” John spread his hands in frustration, we were talking, but then Sherlock cupped both hands around the phone. “Hello again,” he whispered.

A stillness pooled in John for no reason he could immediately identify.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment listening, then he said, “No, don’t try to tell me where you are, he gets angry when you do that. Just read the text, please,” and John knew exactly what was happening on the other end of that phone call.

John stepped back and dug his own phone out of his pocket, eyes on Sherlock as he dialled. The call connected on the third ring, “Hello, Scotland Yard. How may I help you?”

“Is Lestrade on?” he asked shortly. The woman on the other end hesitated.

“I can certainly find out who’s on duty tonight, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“It’s John Watson, I’m a sometime-consultant, or rather I work with one... Listen, it’s an emergency, I need to speak to DI Lestrade.”

“I’ll see if he’s available. Hold on?”

Thirty seconds of silence later, Lestrade’s voice came on line. “John,” he said. “What is it, has something happened?”

“I think something’s about to. Moriarty’s called Sherlock again. He has a hostage.”

Lestrade cursed under his breath. “Where are you? And is it somewhere we can get an armed response to before Sherlock goes haring off after this psychopath?”

“British Museum, the security office. I’ll try and keep him here until you arrive.”

“Thanks.” Lestrade hung up without another word. When John looked over, he saw Sherlock had done the same.

“That was DI Lestrade,” he said. “He’s on his way.”

“That’s an interesting if irrelevant piece of information, John, as I have no intention of waiting for him.”

John glared. “Sherlock...”

“I’m going to solve a murder now, John. You can stay here and be careful. See if you can figure out what it is that Lyesmith wants.”

“Sherlock!” Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked out of the office. John watched his retreating back, and something hot and mean lit in the back of his mind. When Sherlock set his mind to being beyond the limits of human patience, there wasn’t anyone in the world who would last longer than John. But he had limits, too, and he thought about warm sheets and a dark room, and Loki’s smile.

When Lestrade arrived fifteen minutes later, John handed him the phone with Sherlock’s MePhone locator signal, and went home.

Chapter Text

Loki was reclining at John’s desk when he came back to his room. “I’m thinking about making all the dogs in the city sentient,” he said, by way of greeting. “Just for a day. What do you think?”

John bit back on an annoyed grunt. Perfect. Sentient dogs was exactly the kind of thing he wanted to think about right now. He crossed over to the bed, wanting nothing more than to curl up under the covers and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. He sat on the edge of the mattress. “Why dogs?”

Loki shrugged. “Why not? There are a lot of dogs in London. More cats, really, but cats are vicious and have sharper claws. Make them sentient and they’ll just go on a mass murdering spree. A prank’s no good if everyone’s dead by the end of it. No, with dogs you just get the added awkwardness of the licking situation.”

And city wide chaos, but that went without saying. John dug the heels of his hands into his eyes to stave off the developing headache. Moriarty and sentient dogs on the same day. He was going to die. The mattress dipped beside him, and Loki’s shoulder bumped into his own. “I’m just thinking about the socialites and their tiny handbag dogs. That’ll be priceless.”

“Did you know?” John asked abruptly. Loki paused.

“Know what?”

“You’ve worked with Moriarty before, Loki. Did you know that he was...?” He glanced up sidelong, and Loki leaned back, an expression of polite confusion in place.

“Jim Moriarty? What’s he doing with himself now?”

John wished, not for the first time, that he had some way of reading Loki. He never had any idea what was going on behind his eyes, even though Loki did nothing for hours but explain it to him. “He’s killing people.”

Loki’s puzzled frown was just a touch too perfect, and John didn’t believe it. “…and this is different from what he always does?”

“He’s coming after Sherlock again. It’s starting all over again, and we’re worn to the bone from dealing with...” he gestured to Loki, whose face darkened.

He shifted on the bed, leaving John’s personal space and fixed him with an arch look. “Well,” he said, “I didn’t realise I was causing you such inconvenience. Now that I know I’m making a nuisance of myself, I’ll be sure and stop.”

John grit his teeth. Of course it was too much to hope that he could say a single thing to Loki without him retreating behind the trickster mask. It was like a reflex with him to think the whole world was against him. “Look. The pranks were fun, even the terrifying ones, and the people who got the jokes thought they were hilarious, but, Loki! People are dying; we need to give this our attention. Just…” he passed a hand over his eyes, “Just take this seriously for five minutes!”

Loki narrowed his eyes. “I don’t do what I do for your amusement. How is it, John, that you can find more of note in a human killing other humans than in the words and actions of a god?”

“Moriarty is killing innocent people!” John surged to his feet, and Loki stretched out to take up the space he left on the bed.

“Has he killed a thousand innocent jotuns?” He hissed the word, innocent, like it meant everything and nothing at the same time. As if his own guilt depended entirely on the innocence of his victims. John’s mouth felt dry as he clenched his teeth against the instinctive reaction, they weren’t human. Appalled at himself, he didn’t say a word, and Loki smiled tightly at his silence. “Then I’m still ahead.”

John forced himself to breathe. “It’s not…! It’s not a contest!” he ground out. If it was, Loki would win without question, but… John had never been afraid of Loki. Apprehensive, but not afraid, not the way he was afraid of Jim Moriarty. The difference between honest conversation at midnight, stories about stealing apples from Idun’s tree and cheating Frost Giants, and the weight of the bomb around his neck and the chill of the swimming pool was too great to even think about. That somehow Loki didn’t understand that, that Loki was putting himself on a scale with Jim Moriarty just made John feel like he could spit acid.

He threw up his hands instead, glaring. “Moriarty’s insane,” he said. “He’s going to try to kill Sherlock!” John stopped, pulled up short by the reminder, and the ghosting feeling of eight pounds of semtex sewn into his clothes. “Fuck, he’s going to try and kill him… What the hell am I doing here?”

Loki launched himself off the bed, smooth as shadow forcing his way into John’s personal space. John took an involuntary step back, but then Loki’s fingers dug into his arm to hold him still. “Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!” he hissed. “Why can’t you ever talk about anything else?”

“What, like you?” John spat, pulling his arm out of Loki’s grip. “Centre of attention, back on Loki! You know, I had a life before you, and sometimes, just maybe I might have better things to do than listen to you whine about how hard your life is!”

John’s brain caught up with the words spilling out of his mouth and then checked out for good. Loki stilled as suddenly as if he’d been frozen, and when John sought out his eyes there was no emotion there at all. John felt cold acid pool in his stomach.

“Oh,” he blurted, “Oh, shit, Loki, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever said!” He’d told wounded soldiers they had minutes left to make their peace; he’d warned his sister that if she didn’t stop drinking he would be out of her life for good. He’d told Sherlock once in the middle of an argument that he wondered if he even had a soul. But Loki had trusted him where he couldn’t trust anyone else and John had thrown it back in his face because he was angry about some stupid pranks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, not a word… I would never want to…!”

He reached out to take Loki’s shoulder, wanting touch, wanting to take it back, but Loki ducked under his hand. Then his own hands curled in John’s shirt, snake quick and stronger than Loki’s slight frame would suggest, and John was tumbling off balance. Loki bore him onto the bed, shoved him down roughly and moved to kneel over him. There was a bloom of pain as John’s arm was twisted up awkwardly behind him, but Loki’s hands were unyielding when John struggled against him.

“Do you think I give the smallest of fucks about what you would rather be doing, John Watson?” he breathed, too close for John to look him in the eye. “I am Loki, Silvertongue, the Lie Smith, on whose word cities are built and burned. I walked between the stars when your ancestors were mewling babes.”

And Loki’s hand was wrapped at the base of his throat, pressing him back, down on to the bed as he leaned close to hiss in John’s ear. “You’ll be here for as long as I need you, John.”

John turned his head to catch the burn of something in Loki’s eyes before he pushed it down and hid it. I need you, John. Then he released John with a jerk and stood, lips pressed together and chin held high, ice in his eyes to hide the hurt. Before John could gather enough wits to say a word, he was gone.

Alone in the room, John let his head fall back and concentrated on breathing. He rolled his shoulder to test it, no harm done, and wondered why he was always so stupid about these things. How he could get his foot wedged so far in his own mouth.

He shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have given Loki any more reason to believe he was somehow alone in this. He shouldn’t have brought up Moriarty in the first place. Shouldn’t have left Sherlock in the museum. His head was in cascades as he tried to figure out the exact point where he’d started saying all the wrong things. It was all his fault, but what good was knowing that if he couldn’t place where he’d gone so wrong?

He struggled to sit, too angry at himself to punch the pillow, and swallowed. Loki would be back tomorrow night. There was no way Loki wouldn’t be back. He could think of something to say before he saw him again.

Then Sherlock was thrown, struggling, from the roof of a three storey building, and John didn’t come home for three nights.

Chapter Text

It was dark this time of night, the overhead lights in the corridors switched off. Saving money or rainforests. It was a step away from what Loki knew. In Asgard, the healing rooms were always kept lit; death and convalescence was, after all, something that happened at night as much as day. But it seemed that London hospitals switched themselves off at night, and the only light in the long, sterile corridor spilled from the rooms along with soft beeping and gasps and rattles.

Loki walked carefully, slowly, the way he walked when he was invisible. He was grateful for the darkness, really. And for the smell of disinfectant, and the far-off sound of the television at the nurses’ station. They let him feel disconnected from the healing halls of his youth, feel how far he was from home, and if he could be far enough from Loki then he could find the right room and slip inside, a deeper shadow in the shadows by the door, and stand beside the huddled figure of John Watson keeping vigil.

The lights weren’t on in here either. There was a halogen light outside the window, though, which leant faint illumination to John’s tired and hooded eyes. Sherlock Holmes was lying in a hospital bed, whiter than the sheets under him, with machines at his bedside to measure how fast he slipped away. They beeped softly in the distant fluorescent light. This meant that Loki had won, didn’t it? Holmes was dying and it wasn’t his fault.

John’s elbows were on his knees, and his hands clasped over his mouth, and this felt as little like victory as anything else in Loki’s new life.

John straightened as he heard Loki approach.

“It wasn’t Moriarty,” he said. His voice was a hoarse monotone and his eyes were hooded and he didn’t look away from Holmes’ face. “After all that, it wasn’t even Jim fucking Moriarty. Just some copycat who thought it would help his reputation to take out Sherlock Holmes. He heard about the games Moriarty played, decided to dress himself up as a hostage in a bomb jacket. Sherlock led the Yard straight to him, but then...”

His shoulders slumped, and Loki saw them shake, once, before falling still. “Fuck,” John whispered on the edge of hearing.

Loki wanted to touch him.

He didn’t touch him.

John wasn’t crying, but his eyes were red. He leaned forward, both elbows on the bed. “He’s going to die, Loki. Oh, god. Sherlock Holmes is going to die here, now, on the say-so of some idiot serial killer who just wanted to feel big. It’s not right, Sherlock’s so much... He’s bigger than this, he should die with...”

Loki was looking for it, so he saw the moment the idea struck in John’s eye. “You healed me.”

Something heavy and uncomfortable settled in Loki’s stomach. He swallowed it down and kept his face still as stone, impassive. A frozen mask of concern for his friend, as John looked up at him with that raw, painfully open expression. If he’d blinked, Loki might have imagined himself in a brightly lit room of mirrors in a SHIELD base in the desert, and then he might have fallen apart. “I am so sorry,” he breathed, unable to quite stop himself.

John straightened in the seat, hands curling into fists. “Sorry?” he breathed, “No, why sorry? You could heal me, can’t you...?” He choked on the request, as if to frame it in words would be going too far.

Loki shook his head, dropping his eyes in regret. “John, when I healed you, it was a gift. An expression of the deep affection I owe you. Sherlock...”

Holmes had none of his affection. Loki waited for the implication to sink in for John. He’d believe him. John was quick to believe him now. And Loki’d had enough practise with this kind of lie. I’m sorry, I can’t do that because…

But John was shaking his head. “No, no, there has to be something… You don’t love him, but what about me? What about my affection, I’ve got enough for us both, Loki, and you can have it, have it all…! I don’t know magic, I don’t know anything about it, but… if you need, I don’t know, blood, or some kind of equivalent exchange… like, if you need to hurt me to help him, you can. Just tell me what I can do!”

“Stop it.” Loki hissed, and John fell quiet, gulping. Loki’s eyes squeezed shut against the knife-twist of anger that shot through him. But anger was chased by something else, some cold and empty space. He recognised the tilt of his world as he hung by one hand over so much nothing and realised he had been so wrong. That what should have been his victory, what he’d worked and schemed for should be met with, No, Loki.

It should have been simple. A man like Sherlock Holmes, all you had to do was hurt him and wait for someone else to scent blood in the water. So that when it happened it wasn’t your fault.

It wasn’t Loki’s fault that John was looking this way.

He wondered with a bitter clenching in his heart why it had to come back to Sherlock Holmes. How a man like that could win such importance in John’s eyes, and earn such loyalty. Whether the way he looked at Loki meant anything at all when he looked at Holmes like this. He reached out, hesitantly, past John’s shoulder to hover his hand over Holmes’ mouth. He could feel the warm ghosting breath in his palm, and he could have closed a fist around it and carried it away with him.

He could feel the broken rib, where it had splintered, shifted and cut into Holmes’ lung. He could feel the fractured clavicle that had come so close to slashing his throat, and the spread of torn muscles and snapped ligaments in his leg that meant he would probably not walk again in a midgardian lifetime. He could feel the sick warm pooling of blood behind Holmes’ stomach, an internal rupture gone unnoticed by the doctors, which would kill him. And with his eyes closed he could feel the high fast beating of John’s rabbit heart behind him. And Holmes’ last breath in the palm of his hand.

If, someday, John decided that he only had room for one source of chaos in his life, he would choose Sherlock Holmes. Wrapped up in his own grasping, Loki had forgotten to make any effort to seduce him until after he knew he needed him. And now Sherlock Holmes had the prior claim.

“Loki.” John’s voice was a thread close to snapping, and his head was bowed again over Sherlock’s still form. “If he dies because I didn’t save him…”

If he died, he died because Loki didn’t save him. Loki was the Lie Smith, but John was the exception to everything. And Loki couldn’t keep a truth like this from him, not even for the length of one human life. He drew up a chair beside John, to sit at Sherlock’s head, and held John’s face in his hand.

“This isn’t for him,” he said. It was important that John should know that, and Loki would figure out why later. “What I do, it is never for him, John. This is a gift to you.”

John’s eyes widened, and Loki saw the creeping hope there, the hope John didn’t dare to trust yet. John nodded, and Loki moved his hand to hover over Sherlock Holmes. He gathered the thread of Sherlock’s life and wrapped it around his palm like a golden light, felt the tug and pull of the weaver. The light in his hand spread, up his wrist to draw what it could from him, then receded to pool in his palm, heavy like liquid. He tilted his hand, let the viscous light drip down his fingers and on to the sheet that covered Sherlock’s chest. It ran down his body like there were channels cut into his skin, and Loki shaped it into runes.

When all but the barest drop of light had sunk into the shapes on Sherlock’s chest, Loki moved his fingers to the dying man’s mouth and let the last of his life trickle against his closed lips. Then he stood, moved around behind John, and waited.

When Sherlock’s mouth opened, his tongue snaking out to catch the light there, and he groaned, a sound escaped John. Something halfway between a sob and a laugh of relief. The sound of it burned Loki’s heart, and he turned to leave.

“Loki, wait…” John reached for him, but Loki evaded him easily and closed the door behind him. Holmes would wake up just as soon as the light from the runes died, broken bones and ripped muscles and internal bleeding all healing themselves, and John would not follow Loki.

---

Mycroft Holmes was standing in the hallway, caught looking down at the linoleum floor. His face was paper white. When he heard Loki’s footsteps his head jerked up and the greasy not-quite-charming smile was already in place. “Ah,” he said, the quaver unnoticeable in his voice, “you must be the dashing young man who’s stolen our Doctor Watson’s heart away.”

Loki didn’t break stride. “No, I’m not,” he said as he passed. Mycroft nodded soberly.

“No, of course you’re not.”

Later on, he didn’t remember seeing Loki there at all.

Chapter Text

Thor walked the bridge where his brother had slipped away from him. His hands gripped Mjolnir tightly, and if they were tighter than was his custom then it was surely a coincidence. His heart beat steady in his chest.

Heimdall lifted his chin as he saw his prince approach, and Thor nodded to him. “Do you see her?” he asked, the same question he had asked every day since the Bifrost was destroyed.

Heimdall nodded once. “Her research has not yet brought her close to finding you,” he said. Thor smiled. Jane had not ceased her search for him, not for a moment, and Thor was grateful to her for her unwavering faith. He hoped to reward it.

He hesitated, but asked the second question that he had asked so many times. “And... my brother?”

As ever, Heimdall’s face did not move. He had sent word months ago, first to Odin and then to Thor, that he had seen the lost trickster alive. Thor remembered Odin’s face when they had received the news, remembered it far better than he would have wished. His father had shown no surprise. As he had shown no grief when they had drunk Loki’s memory. Thor had not asked for an explanation, and Odin had not offered one. Heimdall gave a miniscule shake of his head. “I have seen nothing.”

But Thor knew now, his brother had survived letting go. Heimdall had seen him on Midgard, of all places, so close to where Jane waited. The gatekeeper told him that Loki’s magical defences fell for the briefest of moments, in a drinking establishment. Loki had been sitting with a man who seemed to be his enemy, but with whom he had laughed as a friend. That man had urged his brother to seek help with his pain, and Loki had refused.

So Loki was alive. And on Midgard. Earth, with Jane. “Then it is time,” Thor said to Heimdall with a smile. Heimdall returned it, and lifted his sword as he and Thor stepped into the rebuilt observatory.

Thor was returning to Earth.

Chapter Text

Loki lay on John's bed and listened through the Ways to the silence of the living room downstairs. It was hours past sunset now, and he hadn't moved to turn on the lights yet, not really seeing any reason to. It occurred to him just how that made him look, even when there was no one to see him. Or especially when there was no one to see him. He set the electric lights glowing with a wave of his hand and waited.

Sunrise came and Loki switched the lights off again.

Afternoon was wearing itself thin when he heard the door open and close, and John and Sherlock were back from the hospital. Loki listened to them, to John fussing over Sherlock's health as if Loki might have left the job half done, and Sherlock insisting he was fine. He narrowed his eyes, upstairs in the darkening room, when he heard Sherlock tell John, "Honestly, I've been given a clean bill of health by fifteen other doctors, John, I don't know why you think I need one from you too. You should go upstairs," but relaxed when that suggestion was followed with, "You look like you haven't slept in days. Frankly, I'm getting tired just looking at you."

Loki heard John sigh. "I… all right. Will you…?"

"I've been asleep for half a week, John. I'll be fine down here."

"Coma isn't the same as sleep, Sherlock."

"Whatever. Go away."

"Thanks, Sherlock."

Loki breathed steadily in and out as he listened to John's footsteps mount the stairs. He had earned this. Whatever John had to say to him, he had earned it. This was just the same as waiting to be called to Odin's chambers after being caught out at a prank. He would just have to appear appropriately sorry, and convince John to take him back. He could make John forgive him. John was easily seduced, and just the right level of sweetly gullible. Loki could force his way back in.

He was so tired of tricking love out of people.

He let his eyes slide closed just as the door opened. A few more seconds where he didn't have to see the look in John's eye, and then he'd go to work. He heard John's intake of breath when he saw him lying there.

"...Loki!"

And finally, Loki looked at him. There was no mistaking the sound of unforced pleasure to find a murdering trickster in his bed, and Loki blinked at seeing the same reflected in his eyes. "Loki, you're here - thank god, I was scared I'd lost you forever." He crossed to the bed in hurried steps and leaned over Loki, one knee dipping the mattress and rolling him onto his side. He caught his balance and looked up into John's wide smiling face as John slid warm hands into his hair. "I just- when you left the hospital, you looked so..."

He shook his head, and dipped in to kiss Loki. Loki found himself responding, somehow the gentle brush of John's lips on his becoming something he couldn't bring himself to break. He lifted his hand to touch John's neck, but flexed his fingers on empty air. It was John who broke the kiss, who smiled like there was nothing wrong.

"You did it," he muttered, pressing his forehead against Loki's. "I can't believe you actually did it." He lay down on the bed, rested on his hip, and pressed Loki back against the mattress with an open hand. It was like he wasn't willing to stop touching Loki for the time it took to lie next to him, and he kissed him again. The warmth and gladness in his lips was so at odds with the empty, scoured feeling in Loki's chest.

"Mm," John murmured as he pulled away. "Sherlock's going to be fine." Loki swallowed. He didn't know what to feel at that, so he felt nothing, just tightened his fingers where they'd landed in John's shirt. "He tells me he should have at the very least a broken clavicle, and that's what all the X-rays and surgeons tell me, too. I didn't know what to say to any of them, so I just stood around and acted like it was a miracle. It was a miracle, Loki."

A miracle thought Loki. An act of benevolence by a higher power. I killed him before I saved him. Is that a miracle? Or is it just what I've always done? A part of him couldn't bear this, being praised for healing hurt he had caused. When a thousand times in Asgard it had brought him nothing but disdain - and John was looking at him like... Like it was a miracle. He didn't dare open his mouth for fear that he would say everything he was thinking, without filter like he had done in this bed a hundred nights.

But despite Loki's silence, John was still talking. Still touching him. "You did something impossible. Because I asked you to. Loki, I don't even..." His hand slid up into Loki's hair, and he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "After… after what I said to you, I wouldn't have been surprised if you never wanted to see me again." It took a moment to register, but when it did Loki's throat closed up. John was about to apologise to him.

"John, you don't…"

"No. No, I need to… Loki, I'm sor--"

Loki surged up on his elbows, cutting off John's words with his own lips, and tongue, and teeth because he couldn't hear it, he couldn't.

He claimed John's mouth again - claimed him, kissing him with a vicious intensity that he thought could shake him apart. But John held him down, and slowed him down. He was firm and patient, and thorough, and as he kissed him Loki could feel the darkest of his anger drain away bit by bit. Loki tore at John's clothes, ripped buttons out of the fabric, tangled them both up in sleeves and seams and John let him, but when he moved it was gentle, unhurried. His body fitted against Loki's and the friction of their skin caused heat that, for once, didn't burn.

"John," he breathed, arching up against him. God, how do you do this to me? He rolled them over in the bed, taking control of his lover's body as he fought the maelstrom inside him. He kissed John again, and again it faded a little further. After all I've done to you?

Loki moved one leg between John's and fitted their bodies together, not wanting anything more than just this, to touch him, to kiss him, to feel as much of his skin as he could. He wanted to consume him, to keep him, his, only his. He thrust his hips, and John gasped, hooking a leg around his waist to pull him closer.

"Loki, yes," he groaned, and he laughed in such open, such agonisingly uncomplicated joy that Loki's hands came up unbidden to wind into his hair, grip him and hold him close.

In a moment it hit him; John didn't know. He couldn't know because there wasn't anything in John that could even recognise Loki's urge to ruin and destroy. He was so unspoiled and Loki was struck by the hard, hot need to keep John, to have him, to take him inside and hold him there. If he could just have John, this man who thought the best of him without being asked, if he could have John and he could keep him, he might escape this web, the strings that pulled him back into place, always the architect of his own ruin. If he could have John, he wouldn't have to hate himself with every breath.

"I should let you go," he said, but the words were muffled, hidden in the hollow of John's throat as Loki clung to him. John's hips rolled under him, deliberately, and John's breath was hot against his ear. He pulled Loki up far enough to kiss him, and they moved together.

"What you did for me, Loki," John breathed through the daze, and Loki wanted to silence him, push him down and cover his mouth with a hand until he couldn't breathe. He kissed him instead. "Mm. What you did for me, you didn't have to do - I know you didn't want to do it. But you did. You saved a life today. You can talk forever about how dark you think you are, but when you had the choice you were so, so good, Loki . Loki--"

And it was truth, this was the truth, and Loki balked to hear it, that the truth could have any power to sway him, the father of lies.

Some kind of floodgate broke in him, and he shuddered with the force of it. "Oh," he breathed, then, "oh," again.

Suddenly, John's arm was around Loki's neck, and his lips were warm against his ear. "I love you," he whispered, quiet enough to hide it from everyone in the world, and loud enough, just loud enough for Loki to believe him.

He'd never thought he could wrap himself so completely in lies that the truth could be such a revelation.

Loki shuddered and came apart, and he tangled John in his arms, holding him close as skin as he gasped into Loki's neck and did the same.

He caught himself on his elbows and watched John's face as his breathing slowed. And he wondered at what he had found in John Watson.

Only a few months ago, Loki had been annoyed to find himself surrounded by humans, these tiny little people with their tiny little minds. A couple of weeks after that, and he had seen only Sherlock Holmes and dismissed the people around him as dullards and morons. And after that John had only been there to amuse him, for Loki to watch the panic in his dull eyes as he talked about things midgardians had no business knowing. It had taken him so long just to see John where he stood. He closed his eyes and thought about all the ways that John could save him, if he asked.