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Sven Sigerson pulled up to the tiny log cabin and swung off of the snowmobile. Gathering the handles of the bags of groceries in both fists, he trudged over the fresh snow and tripped the door-latch with one elbow, slipped inside, and banged the door closed with his hip. The place had been a mistake -- central to his targets, yes, but the isolated location did more to confuse him than protect him. His environment was the city; this wooded wilderness was as impossible to read as Adler's bare skin.
And the cabin was barely more than a shack: no running water, no electricity, and a wood-stove for heat. Which had gone out again -- once he stripped off his parka he realized it was almost as cold inside as outside. He'd build up the fire, restock the cabin's supplies from what he'd brought, and leave at first light. He'd done the US first, now Canada was finished. Mexico next, then he'd work his way south, destroying Moriarty's network as he went. He turned to the firewood, and froze.
A man stood there, in the shadowed corner. Short, full beard (dark blond) in new, locally-bought cold-weather gear easily capable of keeping him warm for hours even in a freezing cabin. The intruder came at him, fast, low stance, military training, facial features obscured by a ski-mask except for the eyes---his eyes!
A punch to the gut left "Sven" on his knees, breathless. "Hello, John!" he gasped out.
"Hello, Sherlock." John pulled off the ski-mask, grabbed a couple pieces of firewood, and opened the wood-stove's door -- looked inside, then put the wood down and started shoveling ashes into the metal bucket. "That's what it felt like, you know -- watching you die. Like a punch to the gut, only worse. But you'll feel better in a minute." He looked into the bucket, dug out a few glowing coals with the shovel, and put them back into the wood-stove. Kindling, firewood, and a merry little blaze started right up. It had never taken Sherlock less than twenty minutes to achieve that in the entire time he'd been here.
"How did you find me?"
"Didn't. Mycroft sent me."
"Stupid! Protecting you was the point, now they'll---"
"They'll do nothing! Officially, John Watson is in a brass urn on Harry's mantle. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are still safe."
"So you faked your suicide too, they'll be---"
"I didn't fake anything." His eyes were bleak.
"Oh. I . . . I'm sorry."
John nodded. He turned to the groceries and started stacking the cans on the "kitchen" shelves. "Mycroft saved me, got me cleaned up, and here I am . . . " he'd come to a bottle of whiskey, half full, and looked back at the boxes and bottles he'd been putting up. The canola oil was half-full too, and the soy sauce down to a third. "Sherlock, where did you get these?"
"Jason Goodman's pantry. He won't be needing them anymore, and this place doubles as an emergency shelter."
John nodded, and put up the whiskey and rum. "Nice look, by the way."
"The blonde hair fits the name -- I assume that's what you mean, since weight gain isn't usually considered attractive."
"You were too thin. That's a lot to gain this fast, though."
"High-fructose corn syrup -- easily acquired since it's in such a wide variety of foods, excellent for rapid fat accumulation, and the satiation-suppressant effect was helpful."
"It really changes your face. No more cheekbones."
"As your beard does yours. Judging by the length, you stopped shaving roughly two weeks after my 'death'. And by your skin tone, you started drinking heavily at about the same time."
"Yeah -- thought I'd give Harry's game a go. It helped, for a while."
"I don't understand! I did this, I'm doing all of this, to keep you safe! How can I possibly mean so much to you? How could my death mean more to you than your own life?"
"Could ask the same of you. Mycroft doesn't think you intend to survive this."
"Mycroft's an idiot. If it weren't for him, Moriarty couldn't have gotten nearly as far."
"Yeah, but I think that was more arrogance than idiocy. Something you two have in common."
Sherlock paused at that. "I intended to survive," he continued more quietly. "I intended to come back to you . . . if you'd have me, after what I'd done."
"To keep us safe."
"To keep you safe."
"I'm a soldier, Sherlock. I'm not supposed to be safe on my own. I'm supposed to be at your side, so we can keep each other safe."
"My mistake."
"Yeah, we all make a few. Don't do it again. Where next?"
"Mexico. I've an idea for your appearance," he opened a drawer and pulled out a straight-razor, "if you trust me."
It took over an hour to heat a pot of snow on the wood-stove. They ate summer sausage and cheese on crackers while they waited, and Sherlock briefed John on his progress so far. Then he cut John's shaggy hair short with a pair of scissors, and did the same to most of his beard. He worked slowly, enjoying John's simple presence. He lathered John's face, tilted his head back, and put the razor blade to his neck.
John stayed still, relaxed, while Sherlock moved the blade over his skin. The beard disappeared under his hands, leaving a full mustache connected to muttonchops. Then he bent John's head forward, lathered his scalp, and shaved that. A quick rinse and the effect was everything he'd hoped for, the shape of John's face was changed utterly.
"I look like some kind of pirate!"
"You don't sound displeased."
"Mycroft told me you wanted to be a pirate when you were little."
"Mycroft talks too much, appalling behavior in a civil servant."
"No argument here. Do I get an eye-patch?"
"No, but I think we'll travel to Mexico by sailboat. Once we're far enough south it'll make it easier to tan, and I'll lose weight faster working the rigging." He put out a couple of mugs, and poured a finger of the rum into each. "Skaal."
"Sláinte. Have you ever sailed before?"
"No, but I'll research it on the way to the coast. You?"
"Nope. You sure you're not trying to get us killed?"
"Far too much to do first." With a few efficient moves he stripped down to his underwear and hung his clothes next to the woodstove, shivering a bit.
John did the same. "One bed."
"Best if we share body heat. Problem?"
"Nope." He got in, held the blankets back for Sherlock, and spooned up behind him. "After the past few months, I'll take all of you I can get. G'night, Sherlock."
"Good night, John. Hmmmmm, 'pleasant dreams'."
He thought he felt John smile against the back of his neck, and fell asleep to the warmth of his breath.