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Sherlock died in the explosion.
It had been a fairly routine case, and hardly anything near the most dangerous thing they had ever done. But the suspect had clearly been expecting them to show up at his leased building after hours, and had planned accordingly.
Even Sherlock hadn’t noticed the bomb until it was seconds from detonation. He’d rushed John, pushing him down and using his own body to shield him as the world exploded around them.
There was heat and dust and smoke, then the loud silence of the aftermath.
John didn’t lose consciousness, and as he tried to push himself upright, Sherlock was dead weight against him. He took one look at Sherlock’s open eyes and unseeing face, and his stomach dropped.
He pulled himself out from under Sherlock, swallowing thickly. Sherlock’s body was still in once piece, but it was messy. His clothing was mostly blown away, revealing bloody flesh and muscle on his back and legs that was peppered with large debris. In a few places, John could see bone.
John got to his feet on autopilot, his ears still ringing, Sherlock’s words from over a decade ago echoing in his mind. He grabbed Sherlock’s arms and began dragging him to the exit. It didn’t look like the building would collapse, but he couldn’t leave Sherlock’s human remains where they could be destroyed.
By the time he got to the building’s front doors, there was a police car on the kerb, and he could hear sirens in the distance.
John let Sherlock drop to the pavement, and something in him broke. It wasn’t hard to cry, knowing that there would be no coming back from this.
-----
The police arrested the suspect turned bomber, though it seemed like a footnote to John with everything else that happened.
Mycroft took control of things, as John knew he would. John let him, without question or comment. There was a memorial held for Sherlock, and officially, his remains had been cremated.
Unofficially, John knew without asking that Mycroft had taken Sherlock back to their lands and released the spell that held him, making him a dragon again.
This wouldn’t be like last time. While Sherlock’s first death had been witnessed, it had still been conceivable that the genius detective had somehow faked his fall. But there had been dozens of responders on scene at the bombing, and there was no possible way that anyone could survive the gory mess Sherlock’s body had been.
Sherlock Holmes was dead to the world, and would remain so this time. Even though John had the knowledge that Sherlock still lived, it did nothing to quell his own sense of loss. Sherlock was alive, yes, but it was unlikely that John would ever see him again. Sherlock might as well be dead, for all the ways John’s life was going to change.
A day after the memorial, John realised he hadn’t spoken to Mycroft since the day of the explosion, when Mycroft had taken possession of Sherlock’s body at the morgue. John had been adamant about staying until Mycroft came, not leaving the hallway outside the room that held Sherlock.
And Mycroft did come, pulling bureaucratic strings in his wake. He went in to officially identify the body and came back out with a grim look on his face.
Even in the empty hallway, John couldn’t ask what he wanted to ask.
Instead, he said, “I’m so sorry, Mycroft.”
“You shouldn’t be. I am, however, genuinely sorry for you.”
With that, Mycroft nodded his head, adjusted his grip on his umbrella, and went into the office next door to arrange the final paperwork.
John numbly stared after him. It took him more than a few moments to realise that Mycroft had smoothly answered both of the questions he’d had without ever saying anything odd. On the surface, he had absolved John of any guilt about Sherlock’s death and offered condolences in return. In reality, Mycroft needed no condolences because Sherlock’s body had not been damaged badly enough to prevent him from transforming back into a dragon, but the mention of John’s loss firmly enforced that Sherlock would not be coming back.
That had been the last communication he’d had with Mycroft.
John supposed he could have gone and confronted him, demanded an update or at least ask for any message Sherlock might have relayed, but he couldn’t summon the willpower.
The flat was painfully quiet. The building was painfully quiet, Mrs. Hudson having died several years earlier. With no one but himself there, John already felt like a ghost haunting his old life.
It was a few days later that a text from Mycroft came.
Please come to settle estate matters at your earliest convenience. MH
Below was an address in a fashionable part of town. John immediately recognised it as Mycroft’s home address. He’d seen it on the back of the occasional card Mycroft insisted on sending, which were usually opened by himself, as Sherlock was inclined to toss them into the bin unread.
John knew that Sherlock had most likely left him any money he had acquired. That was probably all Mycroft wanted to talk about. But something about the text jerked him out of his stupor. It was barely nine in the morning, and John decided that his earliest convenience was as quickly as he could get across town.
Just over an hour later, he was climbing out of a cab in front of a row of stately-looking houses. He double checked the number of the nearest one, and then climbed the steps and rang the bell. Mycroft opened it a few moments later in his shirtsleeves. He was still dressed more formally than John, but for Mycroft it looked stunningly casual.
“John. Come in.”
Mycroft shut the door behind him, and John realised he had never once been in Mycroft’s home. He could see several rooms, and waited politely for Mycroft to direct him.
“This way, if you please.”
John followed him up the stairs, looking at his surroundings as they went. The house was traditionally and tastefully decorated, and exactly what he would have expected. On the first floor, Mycroft led him into a room that John assumed was Mycroft’s home office.
On second glace, John decided it was an extremely private office. There was a desk and the expected bookcases, but there was also an abundance of trinkets. Though ‘trinkets’ was perhaps the incorrect term. Even with a cursory glance, John could tell they were all valuable antiques, artfully arranged behind glass displays. There were toothpick cases and snuff boxes and chatelaines, signet rings and watches and fobs, and other things that John couldn’t immediately identify. They were all exquisitely crafted, and all made of silver or gold and embellished with gems.
He had known that Mycroft collected precious metal from a comment that Sherlock made long ago, but he hadn’t supposed that Mycroft still engaged in it at present. Then again, all of the items here seemed to be particularly selected, and John knew that such collections weren’t uncommon among those who had the means to do so. It wasn’t a collection that would raise any eyebrows, even if someone happened to see it.
Mycroft shut the door behind him, and John smirked to himself. He was properly in a dragon’s den.
Mycroft took a seat at the desk, and gestured for John to sit in one of the chairs across from it. “We can speak freely here, though not too freely, if you take my meaning.”
John nodded. He could ask about Sherlock, as long as the word dragon was never mentioned.
Mycroft brought his hands together on the desk. “Let us dispense with formality, then.”
John blinked in surprise. His mouth might have even fallen open a little bit.
“I’ve astonished you.” Mycroft gave a wry smile. “Despite my nature, I have learned the art of being blunt. One must in order to communicate with Sherlock, as it’s the only language he speaks.”
“All right,” John said slowly. “So I guess everything went well?”
“Well enough as can be supposed. There was no damage, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s still sulking over having his time here cut short, though he admitted that he wouldn’t have changed his actions. You do realise, of course, that he almost got himself killed for you?”
John had. If the explosion had been larger, or they had been closer, Sherlock’s body could have been blown to pieces or worse. People who were actually on top of bombs when they went off—well, they weren’t people after that. Sherlock had to have known the risk he was taking, even in the seconds left to act. His mind worked too quickly for him not to have realised that in protecting John, he might very well lose his life, his true life.
“I never asked him to,” John said. “But if it had been me that was closest, I would have done the same thing.”
“Yes. I know.” Mycroft unfolded his hands, and John thought another comment would follow.
When none did, John prompted, “You said you wanted to talk about Sherlock’s estate?”
“In good time.” There was a pause, and then Mycroft said, “He wants you to come with him.”
John was sure he had misheard. “What?”
“He wants you to come with him.”
John’s heart leapt in his chest, even as his mind declared the proposition impossible. “But—how? I mean, that wouldn’t work. Would it?”
“Our family lands have a shared border.”
John nodded. England was small enough that the few dragon territories that existed here were going to border something human. Only in larger places were some dragons’ territories surrounded by other dragon lands. Who got what lands was something for the dragons to work out amongst themselves, of course, but he knew that in other parts of the world, the most interior lands were the most desirable.
“Our mother gave Sherlock his own parcel of land, even though lands are generally shared. Once it became clear that his nature was not going to change, she had sympathy for him and gave him a refuge. No one goes there unless invited. As you might gather, invitations were never forthcoming, not that anyone was slighted by the insult. Sherlock is something of a black sheep.”
“I can imagine.”
“What is relevant to our interests is that, in all likelihood, no one would notice if Sherlock acquired a human companion. Even if they did, it would be dismissed as the sort of unnatural thing he would do. They would assume he picked you up somewhere on his recent travels, for whatever unfathomable reason. They would never guess the truth. But it would not be a point of speculation, because Sherlock has quite driven any society away, and is far from an object of interest to anyone.”
John shifted in his chair. He had been resigned (upset, but resigned) to the unpleasant fact seeing Sherlock again would be unlikely. Dragons and humans didn’t have anything to do with each other, with open suspicion on the human side and complete disdain on the dragon one. That wasn’t even touching the fact that the secret of Mycroft and Sherlock’s transformation could never be suspected by anyone. Even if John had imagined somehow being able to see Sherlock again in passing, anything more than that seemed impossible.
“Where would I live?” John asked.
“Either in a town nearby, or preferably, in the dead zone,” Mycroft said easily.
The dead zone was what humans collectively called the first couple of miles that surrounded any dragon territory. There was nothing in any treaty that precluded humans building houses right up to the border, except the fact that they didn’t want to.
There hadn’t been any record of dragons invading human lands since the agreements centuries ago, but the fear and doubt remained. Any family unlucky enough to have had property on the border when the treaties were drawn probably still had it, or had simply abandoned it to be reclaimed by the local government. Even in modern times, with land at a premium, not even the most radical entrepreneurs would build shopping centres or housing developments in the dead zone. The result was a mile or two of uninterrupted wilds that surrounded any dragon territory, before the first sporadic human construction began, getting increasingly dense as distance increased.
“Both have their advantages and disadvantages,” Mycroft continued, businesslike. “There are the occasional houses constructed in the dead zone, but they’re generally regarded so ill-advised as to be taboo. Along the twenty miles of our southern border, there are a total of seven houses in the adjoining forty square miles. Four have been abandoned for decades and are not habitable. The other three are privately owned and are occupied by individuals who are probably recluses at best. Building a new home would draw too much attention, though there is the somewhat unattractive option of a caravan. Living in the dead zone would have the advantage of a short walk to the border, but it would garner some speculation once it became known that you were living there. On the other hand, if you were to live in a town, it would need to be one of a large enough size that you wouldn’t be noticed as new face. Then your distance to the border increases, and your continual journeys would eventually be noticed, even in a town where neighbours don’t know each other’s business.”
“All right,” John said slowly, as he turned the options over in his head, still trying to piece together how this could actually work. “What do you think about all this? I mean, really.”
Mycroft pursed his lips and brought his fingers together. “Were I vehemently opposed, we would not be having this conversation. While I don’t think Sherlock’s attachment to you is necessarily wise, I suspect your attachment to him is more than sufficient for you to do whatever is needed.”
“Needed?” John asked, raising a brow.
“You cannot live a double life,” Mycroft said plainly. “You cannot move somewhere new and make acquaintances to whom you constantly lie, to whom you will be expected, however informally, to account your doings. You would have to keep entirely to yourself. In effect, you would be choosing Sherlock over any semblance of normal life.”
John laughed. And here he thought it was going to be something hard. “I did that a long time ago.”
-----
John returned to Baker Street that afternoon.
Mycroft had given him a lot to process, but really, there was no decision to consider at all. Of course he was going where Sherlock was. He hadn’t thought it even a possibility before, but now that it was, nothing was going to keep him away.
He found himself already walking around the flat and eyeing things speculatively, thinking about what to take and what to leave, what could be given away and what needed to be boxed up. Even after he moved, it wasn’t inconceivable that he might be in London sometime, and it would be nice to still have a place here. But more than that, John wasn’t quite ready to completely let go of the flat yet. He decided he could rent out Mrs. Hudson’s old rooms simply to have someone in the building, and keep 221B more or less as it was.
Not seeing a reason not to jump right in, John started clearing space in the living room and making piles. Mycroft was nothing if not efficient, and there was no reason to think that finding a suitable house was going to take very long. Even closing dates weren’t a hindrance if you threw enough money at them, and thanks to Sherlock’s estate, John had more than enough money. John still wasn’t quite clear on exactly where Sherlock got all that money, given that it obviously wasn’t inherited as he had first assumed. Either Sherlock and Mycroft had brought material assets to their created identities, or they had been clever enough to make large amounts swiftly. Both options seemed equally likely.
As it was, John had nothing to remain in London for, and was excited about starting his new life as quickly as possible. Only this morning, he had been looking forward to nothing but monotonous days spent alone stretching out before him. Now, he was going to join the person he thought was lost to him forever, and get to spend time with a dragon—no longer in human form—for the rest of his life on top of it.
The only person in London to make a real account of his moving away to was Molly. Harry had been living up north with her new wife for years. Lestrade had retired last year, and had moved out of London himself. He still commented on John’s blog and they occasionally kept in touch by email, but John had only seen him twice since then. Molly still worked at Bart’s, but John expected that their relationship would fade the same way when he told her he was moving.
It should have bothered him, really, how easy it was to leave their acquaintance. But that had always been how it had gone with him. He’d had plenty of friends at uni, then men who were near-brothers in the Army, and lots of colleagues at work. John was easy going and sociable, and had good acquaintances wherever he was. But inevitably, when paths went in different directions, well-meaning intentions to keep in touch never quite lasted. Even when they did, it was an occasional email here or there, never anything more enduring.
Mycroft had once said that John didn’t seem the type to make friends easily. And maybe that was true.
But he’d made one.
-----
John found himself in Mycroft’s home office again two days later. The estate papers had been fully settled, but more importantly, Mycroft had been investigating John’s real estate options.
“I’ve found several properties on the market in nearby towns that would be suitable. All are on the edge of town and are nicely situated. However, after delving into the dead zone properties, it seems that one of them may be available.”
“It is for sale?”
“Not as such. It’s owned by a young woman who’s not yet twenty. She recently inherited it from her great aunt, who lived there until her death when she was ninety-six. The woman built the house with her husband in the fifties because it was the only land they could get, and lived there cheerfully, ‘dragons be damned.’” Mycroft’s lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “Apparently she was quite the local character. Her great niece, however, only took the house to escape a frankly horrible home situation, and lives there most unhappily. She would jump at the chance of a purchase offer. As you can imagine, none are forthcoming.”
John bit back a grin. Whatever searching Mycroft had been doing, it was obviously more involved than what one could find on property descriptions. Not that he was surprised.
“It’s less than a mile from the border,” Mycroft continued. “Wooded all around, as undeveloped land tends to be in that part of the country. The house itself is a small two bedroom cottage. It’s connected to the electric grid, and there’s a functioning well on the property from when the cottage was first constructed.”
“It sounds perfect,” John said. He’d turned it over in his head the last few days and had decided that living in the dead zone would be preferable, though he’d resigned himself to the fact that he would be unlikely to find something there, given how few houses had been constructed.
Mycroft nodded. “Naturally, I can’t handle the particulars myself, but I can recommend an excellent law firm that will expedite any wishes you have.” He handed John a card.
“Right. Is there anything else?”
“Only one matter.” Mycroft paused. “As you know, I came here with Sherlock, initially to keep an eye on him, though I had my own reasons as well. I have, shall we say, expanded my horizons since then, and am not finished here simply because Sherlock is. However, without Sherlock, certain matters become more complicated. I have always intended to plan my own exit, but one can never rule out something such as an accidental car crash.”
John nodded. ‘Plan his own exit’ was clearly a euphemism for ‘fake his death.’
“While Sherlock remained, it was irrelevant, as he would take care of anything were I killed. That is not an option now. I have no other living relatives—” In human form, thought John, “—so I find myself in something of a quandary. I propose to solve this by making you executor of my estate.”
John knew the surprise showed on his face. “What?”
“It’s a precaution only,” Mycroft said, sliding a folder across the desk and opening it. There were small Post-It flags marking the lines that needed his signature. “We share no extraordinary relationship, but you will do this for Sherlock.”
“I will,” John stammered. “But I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to get a body, well, anywhere other than into the ground.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that. Sherlock and I discussed many scenarios. If it comes to that, he will be able to give you any information you require. At any rate, Anthea knows I am to have no autopsy, no embalming, and absolutely no cremation, though not the reasons, of course. My wishes for a quick and private burial are also filed with my solicitor. But I require an executor who has certain relevant information.”
Mycroft pushed a pen towards John.
John couldn’t find any particular reason not to sign it. It was odd that Mycroft would ask—well, demand—this of him, but John could also see that Mycroft didn’t have another option. Mycroft needed an insurance policy, and John was it.
John signed where indicated and then slipped the folder back across the desk.
Mycroft picked it up. “Thank you,” he murmured, flipping through the pages to make sure all was in order. A moment later, he closed the folder and put it in his desk.
John realised that was the first time Mycroft Holmes had ever thanked him for anything.
-----
The firm Mycroft recommended was very obliging.
It only took an offhand remark of who had referred him for them to treat him like a most favoured client. He mentioned the house he wanted to buy, as well as where it was, and the solicitor, to his credit, didn’t offer any reaction. John used his own minor celebrity as an excuse, saying he simply couldn’t be in London anymore, and didn’t want to be anywhere he had to deal with people. All he wanted was a refuge, and after being in the Army and running around in the wake of the mad genius Sherlock Holmes, nearby dragons who had never done anything out of the ordinary didn’t bother him.
John wanted the firm to handle everything. Approach the owner, arrange the sale, organize the inspections, etc. He made a more than generous offer on the house, and as Mycroft predicted, the girl jumped at it, even though he stipulated that she needed to be out in three weeks. He bought it sight unseen, except for the photographs that were provided upon request.
In less than a month, everything was done. He found a nice young couple to rent Mrs. Hudson’s flat to, and he had sorted through 221B. He took his chair and Sherlock’s chair, but left the sofa. He took all of the furniture from his room, and the nicer chest of drawers from Sherlock’s room. Sherlock’s bed and wardrobe he left, as well as the kitchen table and the table in the living room.
John had had days of sorting through the clutter, putting any interesting case notes or mementos in a trunk, and throwing away anything that should have been thrown away long ago. Mycroft had made it clear that anything of Sherlock’s was his to do with as he saw fit, when John had asked if anything should be saved. Some things, like the violin, were sentimental to him and he saved without question. Other things, like Sherlock’s clothing, there was no practical use for anymore. John took most of Sherlock’s books—any that looked interesting to him or had substantial writing in the margins—and left the others on the shelves, mostly to prevent the flat from looking totally empty. When John was done, he had more than enough of their things to make his new house feel like home, while the flat still looked like the two of them had lived there.
Deep down, he knew it was pointless of him to keep the flat, but since he had the money for the upkeep of the building, there was no reason at present to sell. John liked knowing it was still there, even if they would never be there again.
Since the furniture he was taking was all small, John hired a lorry and, besides paying movers to get the furniture down from 221B, handled the moving himself. The cottage was cosy and had been very well kept indeed, the mark of a home that had been loved by the owners. Even the paint wasn’t in bad shape. Heavy bookshelves had been left in the living room, as well as a few smaller pieces of older furniture throughout the house that John supposed might not have appealed to a young woman. But they suited him perfectly.
Once he had everything settled, it was dark. But the moon was nearly full, and the woods didn’t seem that hard to navigate. He’d been in the middle of worse woods in worse conditions before on cases. At least here, he wouldn’t have to worry about things like black dogs or wargs that still lurked in undeveloped areas. Anything large and four-legged here was likely to become prey itself; even large predators knew to stay away from the places that dragons flew.
Grabbing his phone, a torch, and his gun, John shut the cottage door behind him and started walking north.
The existence of the dead zones had always amazed John a little. Not the fact that 99.9% of the population didn’t want to own property there, but the fact that no one went there. It would only be natural that places on the edge of society, as it were, would attract the edges of society. But the dead zones didn’t become hubs for criminals, the homeless, or rebellious teenagers. While it was true that dragons hadn’t crossed the borders in centuries, sometimes they did fly very close. And since the dead zones hadn’t been inhabited in centuries, there were few fences or other designators. The dragons undoubtedly knew every inch of what was theirs, but it would be very easy for a person to accidentally cross the border without realising it.
Under the last treaty (the so called Final Treaty for how long it had held), dragons had agreed not to cross the decided upon borders, with the stipulation that they were free to do as they wished with any intruders into their lands. Crossing the border wasn’t technically illegal for humans, but any person who did it left the protection of law behind them. A dragon could—and very well might—kill you for simply stepping into their territory. So perhaps it was understandable why even the smallest dead zones were at least a mile wide.
There was a famous and confirmed story from 1919 about an impoverished earl whose vast estate bordered dragon lands on one side. He got it into his head to kill his wife in order to gain access to the money she inherited from her brother who died in the war. Instead of arranging another sort of accident for her, he took her to the edge of the estate and marched her at gunpoint over the border, staying on his own land himself and refusing to let her back across. A dragon out flying spotted her soon enough and began to swoop low in the sky. But it quickly spied her husband in the brush, and leaving her well alone, set fire to his hiding place and burned him alive. Dragons might not care for humans, but they despised being made fools of, and only a fool would try to manipulate a dragon. Dozens of acres of prime hunting land burned that night, and the event of the earl’s death was impossible to conceal. The countess gave testimony on the whole incident, and added that as far as she was concerned, the dragon had violated no treaties in destroying the family’s land, as she would readily trade scorched acres for her life. The diplomats eventually had the whole story confirmed by the dragons who spoke for their kind, and the countess was absolved from any suspicions about her husband’s death.
That had been over a century ago, but it stood as an example in the minds of many that even staying on the right side of the border wasn’t a guarantee of safety. Even in the digital age, when almost everyone had GPS in their pocket, venturing too close to the border was something no one wanted to do.
John smirked to himself, checking his own phone. He was almost at the border. He’d asked Mycroft, before he’d left, if Sherlock knew he was coming.
“Yes,” Mycroft had said. “But not because I told him. I haven’t had any communication with him since I restored him, nor will I.”
“Then how does he know?”
“He told me he wanted you to come, and I promised to relay the message. The rest is obvious.” He raised an eyebrow, looking smug. “What else would you do?”
John had put aside his annoyance at being found so predictable. “So, what, he’s just expecting me to show up sometime?”
“I’m sure he’ll be keeping an eye out. When you arrive at the border, fire your gun into the air. That will get his attention.”
John had reached the border, or close enough to it. He pulled his gun out of his jacket and sent off a quick shot. However, the trees didn’t immediately disappear at the border, so he either had the option of waiting for Sherlock under complete cover where he couldn’t be seen, or continuing on without Sherlock. Mycroft had pointed out their family lands on a map, with particular attention to the part that Sherlock called his own. John had been assured that no other dragons came there, so there was no reason he shouldn’t freely wander on. After a moment of deliberation, John double checked his bearings and continued forward.
Some minutes later, he saw the dark shape of a dragon cross the sky in the distance. The trees had started to taper off, and there was more open space around him. The dragon wheeled closer, cutting across the moon, and John’s breath caught. Sherlock was truly magnificent in flight. It had been over a decade since John had seen Sherlock in dragon form, and it was something he thought he’d never see again. He certainly never thought he’d see Sherlock like this, in his natural element.
John’s heart was beating faster, and not just from the wonder of the moment. While part of him wished they were still comfortably ensconced together at Baker Street, the larger part of him wouldn’t have traded this for anything.
In another moment, Sherlock landed a short distance away, the air displaced by his wings gusting wildly for a moment before it subsided. “John.”
John couldn’t help grinning like an idiot as he approached.
He once again marvelled at Sherlock’s size. Sherlock had looked large enough in the disused Tube station, but seemed even more so here. He stood tall and unconfined in the clearing, wings loosely spread about him instead of tucked close to his body. Sherlock looked black as night under the moonlight, though his eyes were just as pale.
“I suppose I should start with thank you,” John said. “For when the bomb went off. I know what that made you give up.”
“A life that was replaceable,” Sherlock said. “Yours was not.”
“Still.” This was the second time Sherlock had died for him. He’d never done anything to deserve that.
“I disagree.”
“Are you reading my mind?” John demanded without heat.
“You’re thinking very loudly. It’s difficult not to.”
John mentally closed the subject. “I’ve been talking to your brother a lot,” he offered.
“For which I apologise. I hardly meant to die and inflict Mycroft on you.”
“He was actually shockingly helpful.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Then he tilted his head, looking down at John. “Where are you staying?”
“I’ve bought a house in the dead zone,” John said.
Sherlock was visibly surprised. “Already?”
“I told you Mycroft was helpful.”
“Well,” Sherlock conceded. “I suppose he has his uses.”
“This is beautiful,” John said, gesturing to the landscape.
“It’s boring.” Sherlock flapped his wings once, in what John figured was the equivalent of a shrug. “Though you might as well see it.”
At that, he crouched low to the ground, a clear invitation to get on his back.
John would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t hoped to fly with Sherlock sometime. But he’d resolved never to ask, not after knowing how it was generally held in dragon opinion. Any offer would have to come from Sherlock himself. And while John had suspected there would be one, he’d never assumed it would be so casually done, even after all their years together.
But then, Sherlock was never one to care about propriety.
“Riding a dragon,” John muttered as he started to climb up. “Could be dangerous.”
“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock said, a pleased note creeping into his voice.
John settled as best he could near where Sherlock’s shoulders met his neck, which he realised was not very well at all. He could manage to sit, but there was nothing to steady himself with.
“Are you ready?” Sherlock asked.
“Yeah. There’s just, uh, not a lot to hold on to here.”
Sherlock snorted. “As if I would lose you, John.”
With that, Sherlock reared up, flapping his wings and leaping, and a moment later, they were airborne. John felt a lurch in his stomach as the ground grew distant beneath him, but the rush that flew through him more than made up for it.
Ascending into the sky with Sherlock felt like a revelation. Running together through the streets of London—the best times John had ever had—couldn’t hold a candle to this. It was exhilarating.
The steady beat of Sherlock’s wings pushed them higher, and the wind whipped into John’s face. After another few seconds of climbing, Sherlock seemed to have come to the altitude he wanted, and he started to level out and glide on the air currents. Moonlight lit up the silent countryside beneath them, and John could see the clusters of intermittent tress that occasionally gave way to open meadows.
John felt Sherlock’s muscles shift beneath him with each slow flap of wings, and John fell into the rhythm of it as well. He felt suspended in more ways than one, the cool night air on his face a contrast to the warmth that radiated from Sherlock.
He felt like they were alone in the world.
Several times Sherlock banked slightly left or right, and John found it easy to lean with him. It was simple and unspoken, like he’d been doing it his whole life. Maybe he had, in some way or the other. He’d spent years reading Sherlock without words.
Despite the fact that there was little to hold on to, John was no longer worried about falling. He didn’t know why he ever had been.
John leaned forward, pressing himself close to Sherlock’s neck. “Can you go faster?” he called.
Sherlock laughed, a deep rich sound, before he put on a burst of speed. “I thought you’d never ask.”