Work Text:
It had taken the better part of eight hundred years for Sherlock to get himself fully acquainted with his domain. The meadows of asphodel stretched for hundreds upon thousands of miles, slowly filling with souls that did nothing but stare regretfully into the distance and reflect upon the shortness of their lives. Elysium was little different – while some of the more intelligent heroes could carry out a moderately interesting conversation, the others were much too keen on celebrating for the rest of their Afterlives. He only returned a few times since, only to argue with the so-called “brilliant” philosophers his brother had blessed with “intelligence”.
The entrance was much better. There were plenty of strange and mysterious things in the river Styx, and Redbeard was always a delight to be around - even if the three heads were a bit disconcerting. At least he scared away any loiterers, mortal or not.
But, loathe as he was to admit it, there was something… lonely about the Underworld. There were only so many decades he could spend experimenting with different herbs, organizing the dead, and – well, not exactly brooding because he doesn’t brood but it was close enough.
The Goddess of the Harvest, Molly, loved to visit him in his realm. She thought it was romantic, the dead atmosphere, the darkness creeping around her and the cold seeping into her bones, wilting the leaves in her dress. Sherlock didn’t care for her, but she was much better company than anyone in his immediate family and less naggy than the two other gods he could tolerate. The rest of them all either hated or feared the God of Death and he hated them back. He had no use for them – he was perfectly fine on his own. (Even if he wasn’t.)
Which was why he nearly dropped his sample from the river Phlegethon while conducting yet another experiment when Molly said, “I turned a mortal into a god last harvest.”
“You what?” he asked, blinking rapidly. “A new god?”
She nodded, a little taken aback by his sudden interest. Her cheeks blushed lightly as she twirled her wheat-colored hair around her finger, explaining, “Well, there was a farmer who’d been very diligent in offering up sacrifices for me from his crop, so when he fell ill, I appeared to him and asked if he wanted to become a god. He laughed – he might’ve been hysterical, now that I think about it – and so, I got permission from Zeus and made him into a god.”
Sherlock scoffed. Of course – Molly had a soft spot for mortals and Mummy had a soft spot for Molly. She always encouraged him to go and visit her realm, but the one time he did, he’d killed all of the crops within a mile and Molly suggested that maybe he not come by for a while. If at all.
“So what kind of god is he?” Sherlock asked, picking the vial up from the table and examining it again. He nearly missed Molly’s reply and let out another loud scoff, rolling his eyes when she repeated it.
“He’s the God of Flowers.”
“Have you met him yet?” Hudson asked.
“Who?” Sherlock asked, staring intently at the sample of her hearth’s flames as he curled up in one of her chairs. The flames seemed to be completely different from each other, though he had a fairly good theory as to why.
“Persephone, of course,” Hudson said. “He’s quite kind, but he does look a little… odd.”
“Probably because he’s named something like Persephone,” Sherlock replied.
Hudson rolled her eyes. She stood up and added more kindling to the flames, which had started flickering ever since Sherlock entered her home. “Well, I think he’s just a little overwhelmed after becoming a god. Everyone’s been to see him. Even your brother - though he was very angry that a mortal was suddenly made into a god.”
Sherlock’s lips quirked. “It is always nice to see someone else being the source of my brother’s eternal headache. Perhaps I will go visit him.”
“You should,” Hudson said. “He gave me this lovely bouquet of flowers.” She started to leave but Sherlock lifted his hand.
“No, don’t bother,” Sherlock said. “You know what happens.”
“Well, maybe it won’t happen with these. After all, these are special.”
Sherlock didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.
It took him several years to finally get around to meeting the new god. He’d gotten few visits from Molly during that time but he did learn much about Persephone:
- His real name was John
- He had blue eyes and blond hair
- Many of the gods had taken a liking to him
- Even, begrudgingly, Mycroft, after he’d received his own special bouquet
- John didn’t like leaving much
- Molly really wanted them to meet
So, one day when death was particularly slow, Sherlock travelled out of his realm and appeared right at the figurative doorstep of Molly’s.
There were a lot more flowers this time around, as summer grew to an end. They grew everywhere, their pungent smell and pollen heavy in the air. He felt them under his feet, small petals poking between his toes and tickling the back of his heel.
He started walking toward the gates, across the vast field, when he suddenly realized that something was amiss. The flowers weren’t dying.
Sherlock spun around, his cloak fluttering behind him and landing over several plants and still, none of them so much as tilted downward. In fact, it appeared that they were growing. He bent down and grabbed one, plucking it out of the ground and scowling at it. It sat defiantly in his pale hands, refusing to whither even the slightest.
“Hey!” shouted someone from behind him. “Stop plucking them out!”
Sherlock turned around, a rebuttal already on his lips, when he saw who was shouting and the words died in his mouth.
The man was glowing – literally glowing, as though it was the middle of summer and he were a flower in full bloom. A sweet aroma filled the air around him as he ran forward, dizzying Sherlock with its pure intensity, but he forced himself to stay level headed. That didn’t help much, for as the man drew closer, Sherlock found only more reason to succumb. He was beautiful, so beautiful, with eyes bluer than blue and a smile that could light up the sun.
Oh gods, Sherlock was smitten.
“Do you know how long it took me to grow these?” he – John huffed, for this could only be the mysterious new god that everyone seemed to suddenly love, and Sherlock now understood why.
“I… I apologize,” Sherlock said simply. He hoped he wasn’t flushing.
“Good,” John said. He crossed his arms and looked up at Sherlock. “I’ve never seen you before… hang on – wait, you’re, uh, Hades, right?”
“Sherlock,” he quickly corrected. “Call me Sherlock.”
“Sherlock,” John repeated, and Sherlock wanted to slap himself in the face. This conversation was turning out wonderfully.
“Alright, um, well, I’m John – er, Persephone, really, but I guess you could just call me John.” He held out his hand expectantly.
Sherlock looked at it for a moment before grabbing it and giving it a firm shake. “Well, John. We finally meet.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you,” John said. “Well, actually, not much. Molly tells me you’re brilliant, Athena says you’re a pain in his arse.”
Damn Mycroft. “I can assure you, I’ve never caused any pain to my brother’s arse. It would prove to be exceedingly difficult, considering how large he is.”
For a second, Sherlock feared he might’ve gotten too familiar with John – dammit, he should’ve kept his distance, isn’t this what happens when you try to let someone in –
Then John let out a laugh, and it was the most wonderful sound Sherlock ever heard. More wonderful than anything the sirens could sing at him, more wonderful than the howls Redbeard lets out at the moon when it hangs overhead, more wonderful than the soft lamentations of the souls in Asphodel that sing of their once-great victories. Better than all of those combined.
“Yeah, he was pretty rude when we first met, but I won him over,” John said. “People seem to like the flowers.” His tone seemed sad, melancholic, as he let out a sigh and stared past Sherlock, out into the miles of grassland behind him.
Sherlock didn’t know what else to do, so he asked, “Would you like to come see the Underworld?”
“Oh, gods, yes.”
“At first, when Molly made me a god, I hated it,” John said, as they walked down one of the longer entryways to the Underworld. Sherlock could’ve just popped them there immediately, but taking the long routes from time to time – especially with company – was nice. Sherlock could appreciate aesthetic beauty, regardless of what others said.
“The other gods all gave me weird looks, I had all these sudden powers that I couldn’t control – it was just…” John took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists before continuing. “So I just gave the lot of them flowers and made them leave me alone. Some of them come back from time to time – Poseidon visited once and gave me these seeds of plants that only grew underwater, so I guess we became friends. Then Hestia, she set up the hearth in my part of Molly’s realm, and then made me these tiny biscuits that were very sweet – what did she call them?”
“Cookies,” Sherlock said. “She likes to use the fire from the hearth to make them. A recipe she discovered from her father, Kronos.”
“Oh,” John said. “Wait, you mean the Kronos? The titan?”
“The one and only,” Sherlock hummed. “She and my mother – Zeus, as you know her. They were his children. My mother is the one that threw him in the pits of Tartarus and made me watch over him. It’s mostly because Mycroft – Athena – had almost joined his side. Mummy doesn’t want that happening again. And my grandfather hates me, so…”
John nodded along, giving him a slight smirk. “Guess he isn’t that much of a God of Wisdom if he nearly joined the titans, huh?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. “Gods, he is an idiot.”
John laughed again, a flower poking out from behind his ear and blooming as blue as his eyes. Sherlock’s heart started to beat a little faster.
They reached the gates a few moments later, John’s mouth hanging open as he gaped at Redbeard’s size. “He’s… huge.”
“He’s as loyal as he is large,” Sherlock assured him, rubbing the top of Redbeard’s middle head and scratching behind his ears. He turned to John and said, “You… you can pet him, you know.”
John hesitated a moment, his hand wavering in the air before settling on the far right head and slowly moving it downward. Redbeard purred deeply, a sound that would’ve sent some gods screaming in the other direction, but it only made John chuckle and start rubbing his head more. “You like that, huh? All you dogs are the same, no matter your size.”
“You had a dog?” Sherlock asked. Stupid question, of course he had a dog, it was painfully obvious and yet he’d asked anyway.
John nodded. “Yeah, but he died a few weeks before I fell ill. Name was Gladstone – raised him from a pup into a brilliant guard dog. No barbarian came after my crops, which is why I was able to offer up so many to the gods.” He trailed off with a soft sigh.
Sherlock didn’t know what to say, so he scratched Redbeard’s head and let him get back to work, pulling John along inside. “Well, the fields of asphodel are quite dull because nothing but asphodel grows there, but there are some fertile grounds over in my home.”
John pulled back his arm and stopped behind Sherlock. At first, Sherlock feared that he might’ve done something to offend John – normally, he wouldn’t care about offending anyone, but John was… He shook the thought out of his head and turned around, biting his lip.
John raised his hand… and let out a yawn. “Wow, that trip down here took… took a bit out of me. It was pretty long. Plus, it’s night now, in my realm.”
“It is?” Sherlock asked.
“Yeah,” John said. “The sun was about to set when you arrived. Didn’t you notice?”
“I didn’t.”
John chuckled softly, yawning again. “Well, um… would you mind if I just rest here for the night? I’m sure Molly won’t mind. We can go exploring tomorrow.”
Sherlock blinked, not quite sure he understood. John wanted to stay. John willingly wanted to stay in the Underworld, overnight, so he could look around with Sherlock. (Well, he did say he wanted to come down and see it – yes, but that could’ve just been being polite – John doesn’t seem the type to – just shut up and say something to him.)
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Yes, that’s perfectly fine. I… well, I don’t have a spare room, so we will, um, have to share. Is that alright with you?”
John shrugged. “If it’s alright with you.”
It’s more than alright with me. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”
When they fell asleep, John and Sherlock were on opposite sides of the bed. When Sherlock opened his eyes, his head was burrowed into the crook of John’s neck with his arm around his chest. He quickly took a deep breath, which proved to be a mistake when he inhaled deeply the scent of flowers and springtime with the underlying scent of death that was associated with the Underworld.
Sherlock wanted to bottle it up and smell it forever.
He debated whether or not to slide out of bed and check in on whatever new souls may have entered the Underworld while he’d been asleep, but a rattling at the gates made the decision for him. He quickly climbed out and rushed out, conjuring up his dark coat as he went. “Oh, shut up, I’m almost there,” he huffed.
On the other side stood a smiling Hermes – or Anthea, has Sherlock had dubbed her when he was younger and she the personal messenger for his brother. Truthfully, it wasn’t one of his better insults but it was too late to change the epithet.
“Good morning to you, Sherlock,” she hummed cheerfully. “I have several messages for you.”
Sherlock groaned. Not how he wanted to spend the day. “Just get it over with, quickly.”
Anthea nodded. “Molly would like to know if you’ve seen John because she can’t find him anywhere. Mycroft would like to inform you that keeping the God of Flowers from his duties will result in some unfortunate consequences, and Zeus would like to know when you’re coming over for dinner.”
“Tell Molly he’s fine, tell Mycroft he can stick his fat nose in some pastry, and tell Mummy that I’m busy. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” Anthea said. She turned around and Sherlock quickly ran back to his bedroom. Please don’t be awake, please don’t be awake.
John was, carefully swinging his legs over the edge and sitting up as he stretched his back. It took Sherlock a few moments to realize that the sheet had slid off of John and he was naked. Bare naked. In Sherlock’s bed.
Don’t stare, don’t stare. “You’re up,” Sherlock said lamely, eyes staring pointedly at a spot behind John.
“Yeah,” John nodded. He rubbed his shoulder absently, and though Sherlock did his best not to look, he did see the dark scar left behind.
“You were stabbed,” Sherlock said before he could stop himself. No, no, don’t start analyzing, don’t – “It’s not a messy wound, no – clean and precise. Trained assailant. Possibly a solider – no, definitely. The diameter matches with the type of weapons they possessed at the time. You don’t seem to be the type to get into unnecessary fights, no – fight of honor? Defense – defense of someone else, perhaps? Yes, that’s it. Someone got into a fight with the soldiers – someone you know – and they were helpless. You stepped in, and paid the price.”
He took a deep breath and mentally kicked himself. Why did you do that? Why did you do that? He was starting to like you and you just had to stare, didn’t you? This is why they keep you in the Underworld, so you don’t make an arse out of – wait, what’s John doing?
Instead of looking deeply offended or upset, John looked… something else. The corners of his mouth were quirked up. Was he – smiling?
“Wow, I didn’t even tell Molly about that,” he said. “That was… amazing.”
Sherlock blinked, and blinked again, before clearing his throat. “… Most people don’t say that.”
“What do they say?”
“Piss off.”
John rolled his eyes and let out a little laugh, and suddenly everything was alright again.
Until John stood up and Sherlock remembered his nakedness. John seemed to have realized it too, and he blushed a bright scarlet as he closed his eyes, conjuring up a white robe. “It’s hard to get the hang of all of this clothes-appearing business,” he said a tad sheepishly.
“It’s much easier than finding an actual sheet to dress yourself in,” Sherlock countered. “Now, we have a garden to examine, do we not?” He spun around and walked out of the room, leading John out into the garden.
“It’s not much,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the few plants gathered in the small plot of dark land. “One… plant grows figs and the other grows pomegranates, but the rest, I have no idea. I don’t tend to them – it’s usually Molly or Hudson who cares for them…”
John walked over and bent down, grabbing a handful of dirt and rubbing it into his fingers. “This soil is incredibly fertile… How is that?”
“Dead matter,” Sherlock explained. “Most things here just decay, leaving behind the nutrients and whatnot. I did an experiment on it a long time ago – these are the only fruits I can touch.”
“I see,” John nodded. He plucked a pomegranate and sniffed it. “Smells nice.” He started to peel it open, and Sherlock hesitated slightly before clearing his throat.
“You – you can’t eat it. Or anything else here.”
John raised a brow. “What? Why not?”
“It’s a…” – curse – “… rule of the Underworld. If you eat or drink something of this domain, you’re to stay here.”
“Ah,” John said. There was a small moment of silence. “I guess that’s why you don’t have many visitors, huh?”
Sherlock shook his head, trying not to look as awkward as he felt. Now John was sure to leave, wasn’t he? He could’ve just let him eat that damned fruit – but then what? Let him hate Sherlock for the rest of eternity like all the other gods?
He opened his mouth to say – well, he didn’t know yet – but John was already heading back to the soil. “Got anything to dig with?”
Sherlock blinked. “What? Why?”
“Well, just because I can’t eat anything, doesn’t mean I can’t grow anything.” He turned around and shot him a smile, and Sherlock felt his heart do a funny flip in his chest.
John decided to stay until the new plants began to sprout. “Harvest is going to begin soon, so Molly won’t mind if I’m not there for a few days,” he’d said. It took Sherlock all of his personal strength not to do something ridiculous to show how excited he was. How smitten he was with John.
It was incredibly difficult because John was just so beautiful. Sherlock would spend most of his time just watching John, with his calloused hands lined with dirt and forehead scrunched in concentration. His lips would part and his tongue would dart out and Sherlock’s chest would feel strange again and he wondered, briefly, if John felt the same way.
The answer to his question came a few days later, when one of the pomegranates fell from the tree and hit Sherlock on the head.
“Dammit,” he mumbled, picking it up off the floor and brushing the dirt from it. He glared at it, then, without much forethought, peeled it in half and grabbed a handful of seeds, shoving them into his mouth.
Juice suddenly filled his mouth, leaking slightly out of the corners and he quickly crunched down on the seeds, swallowing all of them down as John returned outside. He looked from Sherlock’s stained lips and down to the fruit in his hands, raising a brow.
“I just… thought I’d try some today,” Sherlock said.
“I see,” John said. He walked over and pointed to the corner of his lips. “You’ve got some juice left over here.”
Sherlock forced himself not to look embarrassed and quickly licked his lips, trying to seem completely casual again. “I suppose now I can give you an adequate description of what it tastes like.”
“Yeah, I suppose you could,” John said. He took a step forward, and suddenly his lips were on Sherlock’s and his tongue was inside Sherlock’s mouth and – oh gods he was kissing Sherlock, wasn’t he?
John’s mouth tasted of springtime and sunshine, and Sherlock stood there for a few seconds before his brain caught up to the action and he finally started kissing back. It was a very strange sort of kiss, since John was excellent at it and Sherlock had never been kissed (except for that one time Aphrodite kissed him and Mycroft threatened to make her no smarter than an ass on Sherlock’s behalf), but it was still a good kiss.
“Well,” John said, after they’d slowly pulled apart. He curled his fingers around Sherlock’s hair, smiling softly. “How did it taste?”
“Wonderful,” Sherlock said, and he leaned forward to kiss him again.
They spent most of their time kissing. Sometimes in the garden, sitting at the base of the pomegranate tree; sometimes in bed, hands groping and fingers tracing lines in their skin; and sometimes just suddenly, when John wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and gave Sherlock a wide grin or when Sherlock bit into another pomegranate and let the juice trickle down his lips and fingers before licking it all up.
Everything had been going so wonderfully when, all of a sudden, John collapsed.
It was just into the dirt, since he’d only been gardening, but when he didn’t immediately get up, Sherlock rushed over and held him in his arms. He looked so… withered, like he was wasting away. His hair was lighter, more white than wheat, and his eyes were dull, devoid of their usual light.
He managed to croak out, “W-water,” before letting out a weak cough. Sherlock wasted no time in rushing him to bed and running out to the gates to call out for Anthea.
“Get Poseidon,” Sherlock said the moment she appeared.
She opened her mouth to ask why, but he cut her off. “Please. Please get him.” He leaned against the gates in anticipation, biting his lip as she disappeared and reappeared only a few moments later with a confused Poseidon at her side.
“Sherlock?” he raised a brow. “What’s wrong?”
Sherlock didn’t bother explaining, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. John was still there, possibly paler than before and he was barely breathing.
Poseidon’s brow furrowed and he bent down beside the bed, frowning in concern. He cupped his hands and mumbled something under his breath. Water suddenly filled his hands with not a drop spilling below, and he carefully leaned over to pour some into John’s mouth.
The result was instantaneous – the color to John’s skin returned, his hair grew livelier and his eyes suddenly fluttered open as he gulped down the water. Poseidon drew his hands away to let John sit up properly, wiping his hands on his robe. “You alright there, John?”
“Yeah,” John nodded, his voice still hoarse. “Thank you, Lestrade.”
“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked.
“His name,” John said, pointing at Poseidon. When Sherlock looked more confused, Poseidon shook his head with a soft chuckle. “Don’t worry about that. We have more important things to discuss – John, you need to return to your domain. There’s no water here to replenish you – half of it is full of decayed shit, one is literal flame, and the other gives you memory loss. And there’s no sun. You need to go back or you’ll die.”
“You can’t be serious,” John huffed, letting out a cough. “I… I can’t just get better here?”
Poseidon shook his head and stood up, holding out his hand.
John looked over at Sherlock, and Sherlock was forced to nod. John had to go – he had to get better. Then he could come back. Right?
John leaned against Poseidon, who barely grunted as he carried John to the gates. John kept looking back to Sherlock, still hesitant to leave. “You’ll come visit, right?”
Sherlock nodded. “Of course. Whenever I can spare a moment.”
“Good,” John said softly, his lips forming a sad smile.
Sherlock opened the gates and stood back, looking away as John began to leave. He would miss him a lot – his kindness; his interest in Sherlock not only as a god, but as a being; his soft smiles; his kisses; everything about him. It’ll be so lonely without you, John. Please don’t go. Please don’t –
And then something happened.
John was suddenly out of Poseidon’s arms and was running – how could he run? He was so weak, but he’s desperate, this is desperate running – running back to the garden. Sherlock had no idea what he could be getting – seeds to remember him by? Something else?
Poseidon was racing after him, his gaze narrow and cold, as though he knew what John was going to do but how could he – Sherlock didn’t even know. They both chased after John, running into the garden and stopping in front of the pomegranate tree.
It was almost like watching a play, Sherlock decided, as John reached up to grab a pomegranate. The scene was playing out right before him and yet, there was nothing he could do. Poseidon was rushing forward but it was too late – John had ripped it open and bit into the juicy seeds, coating his hands and lips with juice before shooting Sherlock a cheeky grin.
Sherlock blinked slowly. “John, you… you just…”
John spat out a few seeds. “I just bonded myself to you.”
Sherlock didn’t know how to respond, gripping John’s shoulders tightly as he let out an incredulous laugh. Gods, this man is completely and utterly ridiculous. And I love him.
Poseidon’s sigh shook them out of their reprieve, and he gave them a look. “Well, your brother isn’t going to like this.”
“He can’t stay,” Mycroft said firmly, crossing his legs as he leaned back in his seat. “He has a duty as the God of Flowers and Springtime – he can’t spend all year gallivanting around the Underworld with only my dear brother and the dead for company.”
“Oh, shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock huffed. “He has to stay in the Underworld for several months. That’s how many seeds he’d eaten. Even you can’t go against the laws of the Underworld.”
“You can’t deny true love, Athena,” Irene hummed softly.
“You stay out of this,” Sherlock sneered at her. Stupid Goddess of Love.
“Sherlock,” Mummy looked down at him from her throne. “This is a council meeting. You have to be civil to all council members – especially if they’re supporting you.”
Mycroft barely hid his snigger as Sherlock slouched in his chair, perking up when Mummy shot him a look too. “That goes for you as well, Mycroft. I can’t have my two sons at each other’s’ throats while we have an actual crisis to deal with.” She turned and looked toward Molly, who’d been sitting meekly and quietly for the entire meeting. “Dear Demeter, what are your thoughts on this?”
Molly shifted uncomfortably. “Well, if John must stay in the Underworld for a few months, then I suppose we won’t have any harvest during those months.”
“You’re suggesting that for half a year, we have a winter?” Mycroft asked, raising a brow. “You know how well that went last time, don’t you?”
“Well, that was because it was so sudden,” Molly pipped up. “If – if I had time to prepare, to ease into winter, I’m sure there will be less casualties than before.”
Mycroft let out a scoff and opened his mouth, only to have Poseidon interrupt him. “Molly is the Goddess of the Harvest – if she’s certain she can handle it, then we shouldn’t doubt her. Winter is no problem with me.” He turned to Mycroft and said, “You’re supporting her too, right?”
Sherlock raised a brow as Mycroft cleared his throat, all of a sudden looking very… awkward. “I, well… A period of no harvest will control overpopulation of mortals…” he mumbled before nodding. “Fine, I have no objections to this.”
“Excellent,” Mummy hummed softly. She looked down at John, standing in the center of the council chambers. He hadn’t said much during the meeting, only answering when asked a question. Sherlock couldn’t blame him – Mummy could be very intimidating, as the Queen of the Gods.
John licked his lips and looked up. “As long as I get to go back to Sherlock, I’m okay with this decision.”
“Excellent,” she said, and she clapped her hands together with the booming sound of thunder. “This meeting is finally over.”
John looked over to Sherlock and mouthed, ‘I’ll see you at home?’
Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. ‘Yes.’
John had to stay with Molly for the rest of summer that year but he came back the first day of fall, stepping through the gates of the Underworld and stopping to greet Redbeard on his way to the garden. Sherlock was there, grumbling quietly as he poured some water over the plants. Many more had grown over the summer, with the new water supplied by Poseidon and the small sun hanging above, created by the God of Crafts, Sholto, and blessed by the Goddess of the Sun, Morstan.
The garden looked more and more like John’s realm with each passing day.
“It looks real nice in here,” John said as he stepped beside Sherlock, taking his hand and helping him sprinkle the water around.
Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “It does,” he hummed softly. “Welcome home.”