Archive of Our Own

If john had been able to choose a life for himself it would probably not have looked anything like the one he is leading right now.
But he is also well aware that, having been orphaned at a young age and with no other relatives either alive or willing to take him in.......ending up a homeless pick-pocket in the dodgier neighborhoods of the city had pretty much been the best he could have hoped for anyway.

He pulls his cap a little bit lower on his head and his threadbare coat a little bit tighter around his body, the early September morning air already carrying a hint of the oncoming barren chill of autumn with it, as he follows his most recent mark.
The man had stood out to him as soon as he had seen him; a shiny and new top-hat, neatly pressed and well fitting trousers, spotless boots and a thick grey overcoat with a peculiar lining of which the man can't help but check the left inner pocket as if he has something valuable stashed away in there.
It's probably his wallet.
John hopes it's his wallet.
He hasn't had a proper meal in quite a number of days and this man both looks as if he isn't from around here and as if he's got quite a bit of money to spare.

The tourists are always the easiest to steal from. They are far too busy keeping an eye on the horizon and pay far too little attention to what's right underneath their feet.

John follows the man, unseen - slipping from shadows into damp corners, behind stalls and between people performing their regular morning routine - until the man in the grey coat makes the mistake of heading into a narrow alleyway.
John follows him.
When they both reach the halfway point of this far too narrow street – where the light is lowest and the crowds on either end of it the furthest away - John bumps into the man, just hard enough to make him stumble, and, using the ensuing confused dance to to set them both to rights again as a distraction, John slips his hand into the man's left inner pocket.

There's John's other hand firmly holding on to the man's shoulder, keeping him in place, a loud 'I'm so sorry, sir. I wasn't looking where I was going', a way to keep the man's focus on his face and words and not on the clever and quick path of his fingers.
It's easy, really.
A diversion.
Just a simple trick.
He's done this far too many times by now.
The peculiar purple inner lining of the man's coat flashes bright for a moment as the wallet slips out of it and into John's own trouser pocket.
The man hasn't noticed.
Of course he hasn't.
They never do.
They never pay close enough attention and they never see.
John is good at what he does. He has to be. When he grew up on the streets it was either learn how to steal – the tricks of the trade - or die of hunger, cold, and thirst.

And, so far, he isn't dead yet.

He doesn't feel bad as he leaves the man alone in the alley to wipe the dust off his trousers and boots and wonder what exactly just happened.
John will be long gone by the time he actually realizes. By the time the confusion on his face will make way for shock and dread and a loss of faith and trust in humanity altogether.
It's his own fault really.
You shouldn't trust people.
Especially not those who manage to get close to you.
Especially not those who are desperate.
Desperate people steal and betray and......well......that's just how the world works.
John's world, anyway. He doesn't remember the world being anything else but this and he doubts it will treat him with even a hint more optimism or kindness in the future.

John is not there to see the man pat down the inner pocket of his grey coat with the bright purple lining. He doesn't see realization dawn only when it is far too late already.
John doesn't see any of this.
It doesn't matter.
He never looks at the faces of those he steals from anyway.
After all: you can't remember something you've never even seen. And what you can't remember, surely can't keep you up at night.

*******************

John sags with disappointment as he sits on the cold and uneven cobbled ground at the docks and examines the contents of the wallet he had taken from the man in the grey coat.
It had felt heavy in his hand.
Heavy usually meant value.
Money.
Coins.
Food and shelter.

But now that he's actually got a moment to properly examine it, it doesn't appear to be nearly as heavy as it had done moments before.
There's hardly anything in the wallet.
There's about 50 cents in coins and a couple of other strange copper coins that John doesn't recognize the currency of. He doubts any of the merchants will give him something of value in return for them. He might as well throw them into the sea.
There are no banknotes, no personal information, no........nothing.
Just a meager handful of coins and.......well.......there is one other thing of note in the wallet, tucked away in one of its folds is a crisp piece of paper with words printed on it and John takes it out curiously.

The folded paper turns out to be a ticket.
A ticket to a performance. A performance that is being held tonight just at the edge of the city where there is a grassy clearing surrounded by trees.

“The Amazing Sherlock Holmes”, the ticket reads, “Marvelous Magician”

Apparently the man in the grey coat with the purple lining had been planning to go and see this “Marvelous Magician”.
This.......”Sherlock Holmes”.
Well.....he won't be able to now.
John turns the ticket over in his hands a couple of times, his dirty fingers leaving smudges on the crisp white paper.
He can't remember the last time he's had a proper wash.
He also can't remember the last time he had just.......relaxed......enjoyed himself.

He can use the 50 cents to buy himself a meal at one of the shelters and have the rest of the evening free to......

John's never seen an actual magician perform before.

It sounds.....interesting, or.....distracting at the very least. Something to take his mind off of his own miserable life and dire situation for just an hour or so.

It would be a shame to let the ticket go to waste.
When you already have so little......letting something go to waste is pretty much considered a cardinal sin.
John neatly refolds the ticket and tucks it away safely and securely in the pocket of his jacket, he pockets the coins as well, even the strange ones, the wallet he tosses into the water. It's of no use to anyone now anymore. John watches the faded leather float for a couple of moments until a wave takes it and it gets lost amidst the foam and froth.

John gets up, dusts off the knees of his trousers, and heads for the nearest shelter.

****************************************

That evening, after a small meal of bread and vegetable stew, John steps out into the clearing bathed in the magical light of late dusk. Long shadows and deep honeyed colours seeping into purple and black surround him.
In the middle of the clearing a small wooden podium has been set up illuminated by a string of gas-lights. At the moment a heavy set of curtains still obscures most of the podium from view.
Purple curtains, John notices absentmindedly just before he bumps into a tall and surprisingly slender mustached man wearing a top hat asking him for his ticket.
John hands it over absentmindedly, his eyes too focused on the scene before him.

John feels as if he's stepped into a dream.
As if he's stepped into a world that doesn't belong to him.
The life of another man.
The life of a more fortunate man, a man with an expensive grey coat with a lining as purple as the curtains that still obscure the stage.

As time passes more and more people seem to have found their way to the clearing and by the time the performance is about to start a fairly substantial crowd has managed to gather. John positions himself off to the side a bit, force of habit he supposes, he never really liked crowds. Far too many eyes and hands that can turn themselves against you in an instant.
John reflexively keeps a close watch on anyone that moves too close to him, keeping his own hands close to his body and his pockets, even though he has nothing left for anyone to steal.
He briefly contemplates looking for easy victims in the close crowd of people.
A mother too busy reprimanding her young daughters, an old man bent and too reliant on his cane..........but.......not tonight. Tonight he would like to pretend he belongs in this fantasy world and, just for a couple of hours, allow himself to believe that he is the kind of person that has money to spend on frivolous things like tickets to see an unknown and mysterious magician perform.
And so he ends up watching from the sidelines as the curtains slowly slide open, the buzz of conversation from the crowd first dims to a hum and then silences altogether, and the show starts.

******************************
At first there is nothing.
An empty stage in the gathering night only partially illuminated by the string of gaslights along its edge.
But then, suddenly, a loud and deep voice rings out across the stage and the crowd surrounding it:

“And now!”, the disembodied voice says, “Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight you will be shown wonders far beyond mortal comprehension. Witness a man who's actions cannot be explained. A man with magic in his blood and sorcery in his veins. Please, welcome to the stage.....the one.....the only..... the most marvelous magician......Sherlock the Amazing!”

John rolls his eyes but claps along with the crowd anyway.
When anyone speaks this highly of themselves.....it's usually an attempt to try and hide their own shortcomings.
He's met too many charlatans like this. People who swear up and down they can get you the stars and the moon but leave you with nothing but empty pockets and a handful of dust.
At least he didn't pay for his ticket.
And, even if this Sherlock turns out to be a total fraud, at least he'll still be entertained.

The applause fades and scatters as a man with dark curly hair, an expensive looking black suit, black boots and an equally black cape steps out onto the stage.
He stands and halts right in the middle like a shadow - silent, quiet, observing - for what feels like far too long. His far too bright blue eyes scanning the crowd, searching, reminding John - once again - far too much of the seedy types of men that frequent his own, far more familiar, part of the city.

Finally the magician's plush lips pull themselves up in a smile – a smile that seems to hide more than it reveals, a smile that makes John's heart stutter and his blood cool only to heat up and scald his veins when the magician's piercing eyes seem to zero in on him as he raises one of his hands, snaps his long and elegant fingers, and a row of previously unseen lights springs to life at the back of the stage, suddenly bathing it in an otherwordly yellow glow.

Another scattered applause rises from the gathered crowd. John finds himself unable to move, somehow transfixed and frozen to the ground by this strange and mysterious man and his far too sharp eyes.

“For tonight's performance”, the magician says, his voice low and seductive, traces of an earthquake before you find yourself buried beneath it, “for the first time in your life, you lucky few will have the privilege to witness real magic”, he takes a step forward then,”that is.........if you are willing to let yourselves believe......”

He snaps his fingers again and suddenly he is holding a flower, the gathered crowd releases an impressed “Ooooooh”, another turn of his hand and the flower turns itself into a brightly colored scarf and.......

John feels his initial sense of strange awe melt away as he realizes his earlier assumption had been right.
Had nobody else here noticed that the flower had just been hidden in the length of the magician's far too wide sleeve? That the scarf had already been visible poking out of his right pocket before he quickly exchanged it for the flower with some simple slight of hand?
Takes one to know one.......maybe.
John knows the tricks of the trade.
He knows how to make things appear and disappear quickly and, apparently, he could have been making a far more lucrative way of living out of it.
If only he had had the showmanship.
Because that is absolutely something that the magician possesses in abundance.
Maybe that's why nobody else seems to notice how paper-thin and see-through his 'magic' really is.
Or.....maybe people do notice but they don't really care.......maybe people want to be fooled.
Maybe it's just nice to be able to believe that real magic exists. Even if it's just for one night.
John tries to let himself get swept up in the illusion as well but.....he just can't because, unlike the rest of these people, he is far too aware of what kind of reality he'll be going back to once this is all over.

Next the magician seems to conjure up a coin from thin air but......John knows what slight of hand looks like, he knows how to hide things in the sleeve of your jacket and the lining of your cape. He can't help but notice that the second coin the magician now conjures up out of the first single coin was probably hiding inside of the initial coin because he never really did show the back of it.
Now that John's watching, noticing.......it's fairly easy to spot.
John sees the hint of another red flower folded into the collar of the magician's cape before he reaches back and makes it appear in the palm of his hand. John sees him pocket the card an elderly lady chooses from the deck before pretending to set it on fire with the rest only to secretly slip it in the pocket of another gentleman only to be re-found there later under excited applause. He sees the flutter of a feathered wing belonging to a small bird in a cage strapped to the magician's arm inside of his wide sleeve......

Smoke and mirrors.

Slight of hand.

Deceit and trickery.

The magician takes his final bows under loud applause and cheers and he directs the onlookers to a couple of donation boxes located at the corners of the stage before the curtains close and he disappears.

John doesn't move. He just stands there for a while, just staring at the now closed purple curtains and the shadows and shapes the flickering gas-lamps cast on their surface.
By the time he seems to come back to himself most of the crowd has already dispersed and he honestly doesn't know why he had stayed so long himself.
The magician hadn't been that special, his magic nothing John hadn't seen before......the same tricks he's learned during his life on the streets just.......presented better.
A more acceptable package for the same deceit. Deceit people are, apparently, more than willing to pay for.
It's.......strange.
Odd.
Unfair.....maybe.

And yet......he feels as if he's still missing something.
As if there's been something......happening right under his nose and he's just.........he's missed it.
He feels like one of his own victims and it's not a nice feeling.
He checks his own pockets in a reflex but there's nothing in them, of course not, there never was.

Finally, as the last stragglers seem to leave the clearing John manages to shake himself out of his strange mood as well and starts to leave.
Back to the city and its familiar streets, and away from the stage and the warm glow of lights and the smile of a man, maybe a bit too similar to himself, that he never really got to know.

*******************************

By now the night has become unpleasantly cold as John finally turns himself away from the clearing. Biting and sharp like an accusation as it claws itself a way underneath John's collar and through the far too thin fabric of his far too worn-down clothes.

He shivers as he pulls his old coat a little tighter around his body, his breath forming small clouds losing themselves amongst the stars in the clear night-sky.

“What did you think of the performance tonight?”

John only notices the man leaning against the side of a tree, casually smoking a cigarette, when he speaks.
He almost doesn't recognize him.
Without his dark attire, cape, smug grin and a flood of stage lights to accentuate his features, the magician almost looks like a different man entirely.
John might not have recognized him if it hadn't been for his voice....

Thunder amidst the clouds, a rolling distant danger, low and deep........the sound of it, even without the embellishments of a stage and bright lights to accompany him and the crowd to cheer him on, still manages John's heart to beat just a little bit faster as his cheeks flush.

This close, the magician is handsome.

Probably no older than John, early twenties, probably, but he carries himself like a man much older, like a man who has seen the wonders of the world and has only ever managed to get bored by them.
There is a strange air of ennui that envelops him. As if the world has told him a secret and he has been terribly disappointed by it. As if.......

Now that John is able to get a better look at his face. Now that he is no longer being distracted by showmanship and bravado and bells and whistles and..........now that the magician is just a man in casual trousers and a loose dark purple shirt......there is something surprisingly human about him. Something soft and gentle but still.....mysterious.
John can't help but be drawn to his mouth, those full lips, as the magician takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke back out in one thick plume as he purses them.

“Yes.....well......”, John says. He finds himself suddenly tongue tied, “It was.....it was....fine. I've just never been to....something like this.... before.”

The magician laughs but it's not unpleasant. John doesn't feel as if he is being made fun of.
“I could tell. But you still enjoyed it?”

The magician takes another drag from his cigarette and for a moment his eyes shine like coals in a furnace in the gathering dark.
“It was......yeah.....it was.....good.....I suppose”, John says.

The magician raises an eyebrow.
“Merely good......you suppose?”

John shrugs.
“It's just that......begging your pardon, but I've seen slight of hand like that before, that's all.”

At his words the magician lowers his cigarette, his posture straightening out as he now seems to give John his full attention.
“Slight of hand? My dear man, I would never stoop so low as to perform mere parlor tricks. I only perform actual, honest magic.”

John chuckles.
“Magic doesn't exist.”

The magician gives him a smile, crooked and full of secrets.
“That's what you think.”

For a moment John doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do. For a moment he even forgets how to breathe. It's intoxicating to be this close to the magician, even outside of the stage and out of his show clothes. Even while John knows full well that all of his tricks.....they had been just that.......just tricks, slight of hand......false. But still.....John finds there is just something about him that.......that cannot be explained.
That feels just a little bit too real.

“What's your name?”, the magician asks, breaking the spell that had suddenly come over John.

“John”, he answers, “but....is your name actually Sherlock?”

The magician lets out an amused snort.
“Sadly, yes.”

“So......with a peculiar name like that, you were pretty much destined to become a magician then, right?”

The magician shakes his head.
“Oh, no. Hardly. I don't believe in destiny. I believe that each and every one of us possesses the power to change their own fate. It's just that not all of us have the strength and determination to also act upon it.”

John lets out a humorless chuckle.
“So you're saying I'm dirt poor because I'm just not determined enough?”

Again the magician – Sherlock – raises a singular eyebrow at him.
“Changing your fate has nothing to do with how wealthy you are.”

“Yeah, well. That's easy for you to say with your fancy stage clothes and all, and I've seen how many people stopped to put something in your donation boxes after your performance was over...... Fortune favors those who are already fortunate is what I mean to say.”

John half expects Sherlock to get angry, to tell him to sod off to whatever gutter he crawled out of, to go back to the streets where belongs. It's the response he usually gets when he talks back to one of his betters but.......Sherlock doesn't say any of that. Instead he gives him a small smile that is so full of sadness that it gives John vertigo.

“You are right, I do have fancy clothes”, Sherlock says, “but I only wear them on the stage. Apart from them and my magical props and equipment I don't own a lot because I travel a lot. Everything I own is everything that I am able to fit into my wagon. I am only ever able to stay in the same place for a couple of days at most. Because of that I have no friends or close relations and whenever I start to get to know someone......I have to pack up and leave. Wealth does not equal happiness, John.”

“Are you unhappy then?”, John asks. Because he finds it hard to imagine how the loud and flamboyant and confident magician he had witnessed on the stage earlier could be anything but happy....and yet......smoke and mirrors.......slight of hand...............just a trick.

Sherlock shrugs as he takes another drag from his cigarette, at this point there's only a small stump left of it, Sherlock might leave once he finishes it completely and, to his own shocked surprise, John realizes that he doesn't want that. He would like to spend a little bit more time with this man who seems to have two very different sides to himself. Figure him out. See how the trick is done and still be amazed by it......

“If you are just as unhappy as me”, John says, “but you also believe we all have the power to change our fate, then.....what are you doing to change the course of your own life?”

“I'm still working on it”, Sherlock gives him a smile that seems to hide more than it is saying before he adds - clearly and quite obviously changing the subject: “Do you want to see another magic trick? A better one? A real one this time?”

John shrugs as he agrees:
“Sure, show me what you've got.”
It's not as if he has any other important plans he needs to get back to tonight anyway.

***********************************************

Sherlock doesn't drop his cigarette as he reaches towards John with his other hand, his fingers slightly too warm as they brush a lock of hair back behind the shell of John's ear. The contact too short but a the same time more than enough to make John feel warm and flushed all over.

When Sherlock pulls his hand back, still surprisingly empty, he lifts it, the fingers slightly curved, the palm facing up, for a couple of breaths nothing happens, and then.....a flower grows in the palm of his hand, silky soft petals unfold becoming fiery red and then blue and then.....the flower transforms itself into a butterfly that flaps its wings hesitantly, as if to get used to the sudden sensation of them, only to take flight and disappear somewhere in the darkness amidst the trees beyond.

John can't believe what he is seeing. This is nothing like the tricks Sherlock had performed before. This feels nothing like anything he had done before.
“How......how did you do that?”

“I told you. Magic.”

John shakes his head.
“There is no such thing as magic.”

It has to be a trick....a slight of hand......a paper butterfly taped securely to the back of Sherlock's hand only to be pulled out at the exact right time......

“Show me again”, John says.

And Sherlock does.
Time and time again.
As the evening gradually shifts well into night around them, deepening and darkening, more and more butterflies appear. Each one more colorful than the next, more extravagant, each and every single one most assuredly real. And, instead of flying off into the world around them, these new butterflies settle and perch themselves on Sherlock's shoulders and arms. Living and flamboyant embellishments to his previously far too normal and plain attire.
Somehow it suits him.
When there are too many butterflies to count Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, opens them again, softly breathes out and as he does so, a gentle whistle in the gloom can be heard, and the multitude of coloured insects takes flight and dissolves into stardust overhead.
John catches some of it in the palms of his hands.
The dust feels warm, gently pulsing with a soft glow, as if it has a heartbeat of its own.

“That was amazing”, he says.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, instead he just smiles at him, gentle and lovely and beautiful and radiant as stardust, and John just feels warm.....he feels hot all over......he feels......

“How.....”, he hears himself say, but the sound of his voice comes out low and husky, a rasp to it as if he is suffering from a thirst he doesn't know how to quell, “How......how did you do that? I mean.....this is nothing like what I've seen you do on stage.....”

Sherlock grins, beautiful and increasingly familiar.
“Magic. I was inspired. I perform my best tricks only for a very special audience.”

John feels his cheeks flush. Obviously Sherlock doesn't mean........Sherlock is a performer. His profession is to captivate and spell-bind audiences........to seduce them.....
But John does find himself absolutely spell-bound. Becoming more and more entranced by this strange and yet wonderful, beautiful man by the second.

For a couple of moments the night stretches on around them, dark and cold and far too quiet, except for the strange bubble of private warmth and light they seem to find themselves standing in.

“I will make you a deal”, Sherlock suddenly says, “if you agree to be my assistant for a year, travel around with me in my wagon and go wherever I perform, I will tell you how that trick is done by the end of it.”

John frowns, unsure.
“Do you even need an assistant?”

Sherlock just shrugs.
“We all need a bit of assistance from time to time.”

John smiles wryly as he shakes his head.
“Not someone like you though.”

“I assure you, I do. You can help me set up the stage and sell tickets and......I suppose......you could keep me company......and I you. We would both be less alone.”

Sherlock has a point and the offer he makes sounds awfully enticing but.....also a little bit too good to be true.
Things like this.....random job-offers......they don't happen to people like John.
He looks down at his threadbare clothes, the dirt underneath his nails and the scuffed noses of his shoes as he asks: “and what will happen after the year is over?”

Sherlock shrugs but John can't help but notice his smile slightly faltering.
“Well.....I cannot keep someone around who knows how my best trick works”, he says, “once I've told you how the butterfly-trick works your job as my assistant will be over but I am not an unfair man. I will reward you for your troubles and send you on your way with a hundred gold pieces and the knowledge how to perform the trick for yourself. I dare say......you will end the year far better than you had started it.”

John can't believe what he is hearing.
A hundred gold coins......that is more money than he could have ever dreamed about. It would be enough money to buy a small house and start a business for himself and live comfortably and.......

“How can I be sure you'll keep your word at the end of the year?”, John says. He's been promised things before and hardly ever have any of them held.

The look on Sherlock's face is stern and serious and he seems to have aged decades in the blink of an eye.
“Because I always keep my word”, he says, “if we shake on it, I can assure you that that will be how it is done. You will be rich by the end of the year.”

John should know better than to trust the word of a man he's only just met. A man who deceives and tricks people for a living. And yet......there is something about Sherlock that makes John want to trust him, something that makes him feel, right down to his bones, as if there is only one actual option left to him....

..... each and every one of us possesses the power to change their own fate.....

And so John reaches out his hand while Sherlock does the same. They shake on it. And that is how John's year as a magician's assistant starts.

*************************************************

Sherlock's wagon is small and cluttered, he has books and clothes and strange gadgets scattered across every available surface, but together they are determined to make it work.

That night John helps Sherlock dismantle the stage and tie its separate components to the sides and roof of the wagon, the curtains get stashed under the small bed. Sherlock owns a dark horse, large and strong enough to pull the wagon along without too much trouble and so that's how John finds himself at the outskirts of the next town over in the very early hours of the next morning, slowly coming to grips with the fact that, for an entire year, this will now be his life.

****************************************************

They travel a lot.
Never staying in the same place for more than a couple of days, just as Sherlock had told him.
On the nights where there is a performance John will help Sherlock set up the stage, sell and collect tickets, and prepare his tricks, while during the day he keeps himself busy tidying up the wagon, running errands, and looking after the horse.

Sherlock, John soon discovers, is not a very tidy person. He will leave magical implements just carelessly lying around and it is because of this carelessness that John discovers he had been right about the methods of one of Sherlock's coin tricks.

John is just in the process of sliding the second coin back into the hollowed out first coin when Sherlock walks in. John expects a reprimand but.....all he gets is a shrug as Sherlock tosses his cloak somewhere on the floor.

“I.....erm.....I found your coins just lying around”, John tries to excuse his actions anyway.

Sherlock shrugs again but says nothing as he leafs through a book he seems to have found on the floor as he threw down his coat.

“Doesn't it.....I don't know.....doesn't it bother you that I figured out one of your secrets?”, John tries again.

Sherlock just shrugs again.
“Not really. You are my assistant aren't you? And besides, you already figured that one out on your own.”

And as Sherlock proceeds to toss his boots in a corner and sits down on the wagon's only chair, engrossed in his new book, that seems to signal the end of their conversation.

******************************

John discovers a lot more of Sherlock's professional paraphernalia just randomly scattered about over the next couple of weeks.
He never brings it up with Sherlock again.
There is a part of him that starts to believe that Sherlock actually wants him to find them and, besides, he never finds anything even remotely related to the butterfly trick anyway.

**********************************

They alternate sleeping in the small bed. Each night one of them will sleep in the bed while the other sleeps on a pile of blankets on the floor and the next night they just simply switch.

It works well.

It is a system.

Until September rolls into October and then late November and the nights get bitter cold and a frosty draft seeps and creeps in through the cracks between the windows, floors and doors.

“We should probably start sharing the bed”, Sherlock says one morning after John has spent the night trying not to shiver too audibly on the floor, “it will be a tight squeeze but it won't do us any good either if one of us freezes to death overnight.”

He has a point.

And it's not as if John hasn't shared beds and blankets and warmth with other men before on too cold wintry nights but.......somehow it feels different with Sherlock.
Everything with Sherlock feels different.
But he agrees anyway.
Because Sherlock has a point.

*******************************

For the entirety of the winter they spend their nights tightly packed together under the blankets on the small bed.
It turns out to not nearly be as awkward as John had feared it would be.
It's actually.......nice.
Yeah.
It's very nice.
Sherlock's body pressed against his back is warm and soft and comforting and sometimes one of Sherlock's arms will slip across John's chest or waist in his sleep and......he actually really likes that too.

He likes the idea of those elegant and capable fingers subconsciously reaching for him because.....well......because that's something they want to do.
Because that's what Sherlock wants.
Because Sherlock wants him.
Because.......

John might like Sherlock holding on to him, embracing him, a little bit too much.
Every time Sherlock's warm fingers ghost across his skin something deep inside of his chest and abdomen heats up and on some nights the fire of it roars so loud that it ends up keeping him awake for the better part of it.

*************************************
On this particular night the world outside their small wagon is cold and silent. The only sound that reaches them the cracking of the thin layer of ice on the small window and the laboured movements of barren branches troubled with too much snow.
Nothing else moves and nothing else seems to live.
The world sleeps and holds its breath until spring finally comes and manages to thaw the icy and deathly grip that midwinter seems to hold over it.

Sherlock's arm is wrapped tightly across John's chest and John doesn't think he's ever felt warmer in his life.
Moonlight reflecting off of the snowy landscape outside filters in bright and clear through the window making Sherlock's already pale skin appear even paler than it usually is.
Soft....and delicate......

Lovely.

John can't stop staring at the elegant curve of his long fingers.
Those same fingers that Sherlock uses to conjure up coins and cards out of thin air. Those same hands he uses to wow and stun audiences....always working and always busy.... and now......now they seem to have chosen to come rest, tired and weary, on John's chest, almost as if they have a mind of their own....

A magic of their own.

John finds he can't help but lift his own hand and place it over Sherlock's.
Just to feel what it would be like.
Just to feel.......him.
Sherlock is asleep anyway.
It's not as if he is going to.......

“What are you doing?”
Sherlock still sounds half asleep and, apparently, being half asleep only manages to make his voice come out even deeper than usual and the rumble of it settles low and slightly uncomfortable in John's abdomen.

John has to swallow before he answers, his throat suddenly having become far too dry and his tongue uncooperative.
“I was just......I was admiring your hands....and what they can do.”
His answer is clumsy and awkward but, well, the truth usually is.

Sherlock doesn't pull away.
If anything he moves closer, pushing the palm of his hand tighter against John's chest and, in the process, pressing his own body even firmer against John's back.
His breath warm and slightly moist against the skin of John's neck as he speaks.
“Do you want to find out what else they can do?”

And.....surely he can't mean......he can't......

John's thoughts and mind are working overtime, spinning themselves to fragmented pieces in their confusion.
Surely Sherlock can't mean........surely Sherlock can't want......

Surely John can't want......

But he does........

What if Sherlock would slip those capable fingers under the hem of John's shirt and just.....

The idea of it only manages to make more heat course through John's veins like molten lava, scalding his skin, the tips of his fingers, burning through his palm where he still presses it against Sherlock's hand.....

He pulls his own hand back as if he has been burned. And maybe he has.
“I.....I don't know......maybe......”

At his words Sherlock's hold on him loosens and John immediately regrets his answer.

“This is the same as it is with magic, John”, Sherlock says, his voice still a warm rolling thunder in the night, “You have to be absolutely certain about it for it to work.”

“I'm sorry.......”, John says, because he is, in more ways than Sherlock can possibly know, in more ways than he can understand......

But, next to him, Sherlock just rolls onto his back, the loss of contact more bitingly cold than any snow or ice the winter could possibly throw at them.
“It's alright. You just need a bit more time to figure out exactly what you are looking for.”

Soon enough Sherlock's breaths even out.
John, on the other hand, only manages to fall asleep again by the time the dappled light of early morning starts to filter in through the frosted windows.

*****************************************

They don't talk about what happened that night, not really, but Sherlock does start touching him less, keeping his distance during the day and his hands folded across his own chest and body during the night.

John secretly misses it.

Misses him. Misses the closeness they were starting to have and what it might have been starting to turn into.

Like a flower into a butterfly, he thinks, or maybe just butterflies into dust.

John tells himself that it probably wouldn't have gone anywhere anyway.
Sherlock is......Sherlock is out of his league.....miles and miles.
Were they two people living in the actual world, in society, and not in the intimate bubble they seem to have created for themselves, Sherlock would probably not look at John twice.
He shouldn't.
He should......

John doesn't know what he should or shouldn't do.

He knows what he wants Sherlock to do.

But he had turned Sherlock down and the moment has passed anyway.

He will only be here for a year after all, he tells himself.
Sherlock had only offered him a job for a year.
A kindly gesture from a gentleman of good fortune to a lowly beggar and thief like John.

Generosity and philanthropy...... pity. Nothing more.

***************************************

On another evening they are sitting together in the wagon, rain beating down on the windows in heavy sheets, drowning out the opportunity for a chance at a performance tonight.
No crowd will show if the weather is this abysmal.

“You knew I was a thief before you employed me, right?”, John asks, because he has to know. Somehow he feels it's dreadfully important that Sherlock sees him as he really is.
Sees him as he really is and still wants him around anyway.

Sherlock turns a page of the book he is reading but doesn't look up.
“You were never really a thief, John.”

John finds himself getting angry now. He doesn't know why, he doesn't know why now of all nights but still.......

“I stole the ticket I used to watch your performance that night we met”, he says.

Sherlock flips another page, ignoring the conversation, as if he hasn't even heard what John has just said, so John decides to carry on. He's already started now.....he might as well dig the hole just a little deeper:
“ I stole it off a rich gentleman in a grey coat with purple lining and the reason why I'm describing him like that is because I was too much of a coward to look him in the eye when I took his wallet from him.
I.....I might not be someone you want in your life, Sherlock.”

At least not for much longer than a year.....and maybe not even that, is what he actually means.

This time Sherlock does look up at him but only briefly.
“You're not a thief, John. You were just never given an honest chance.”

John's anger boils over. He doesn't even know who he's angry with – Sherlock, himself....the world - but it still fumes out of him, hot and scalding like steam, determined to hurt anyone it touches indiscriminately: “that's not what you said when we first met. You said you believed that everybody had the means to change their own fate.”

John might be spoiling for a fight. He doesn't know why.....or maybe he does. Maybe there is a part of him that just wants Sherlock's hands on him in any way he can get them.

“Isn't that what you're doing right now?”, Sherlock says and it takes John a moment to realize that Sherlock is referring to his earlier statement and not the messed up and very confusing thoughts of Sherlock grabbing him, wrestling him to the floor......the bed, that have been raging around in his mind.

“I.......I'm going to get some fresh air”, John says, getting up and stepping outside into the unrelenting rain before Sherlock even has a chance to stop him.

************************************************

That night is yet something else John gets to add to the list of things they don't talk about.
Not that he would want to anyway.
When he had come back inside later, bedraggled and wet and cold, finding Sherlock already fast asleep in the bed, he had felt more than a little ashamed of how he had acted.

He had slept on the floor again that night, getting up extra early the next morning, sore and hurt, and still very embarrassed, heading out for errands before the sun was even up, feeling far too much like a coward and........not in the least, as if he had let himself miss out on something........something that, perhaps, might have been nice.

*************************************************

Winter eventually ends and moves into spring.
Green grass wakes as it emerges from underneath its blanket of snow while bright flowers shyly peek their heads up from underneath the soil.
The sun is warmer and the air softer, less biting, and somehow kinder.
The world feels fresh and new as the days lengthen and the amount of performances they get to put on gradually increases.

On one late spring afternoon they find themselves on the outskirts of a small village.
There are not a whole lot of people in attendance as Sherlock performs.
The nearby village is small and rural, inhabited by poor workers and farmers who, now that the season looks promising again, have far more pressing matters on their hands than watch 'The Amazing Sherlock Holmes' perform his tricks.

The gathered crowd is rowdy and unpleasant and John watches them with a suspicious eye.
John has lived on the streets long enough to recognize trouble when he sees it.
And sure enough, a couple of the gathered men start drinking, something heavy and fiery from flasks that they have brought with them and, as they get drunker and drunker, they get louder and louder. Shouting insults, mocking, laughing, and, eventually, throwing their now empty flasks at the stage. One of them even managing to hit Sherlock in the shin.
This is where John draws the line.
He tries to confront them quietly, telling them to leave in hushed tones but, apparently, the situation has already progressed beyond the reach of reason.
One of the men takes a swing at him and John is only just able to dodge it.
He is not so lucky with the second swing, or........he wouldn't have been......if it hadn't been for Sherlock leaping down off the stage and punching the drunken man square in the jaw.

A fleshy crack can be heard that John really hopes is the man's jaw dislocating and not Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock definitely still needs the use of his fingers....
A moment of stunned confusion follows and then........the rest of the drunkards join the fight.

Sherlock does not get to finish his performance that evening.
But he does get to show John that he is a surprisingly good fighter.
Both him and John get out fairly unscathed before the drunken crowd decides they've had enough and just heads for home.

Sherlock sits on the edge of the stage, a bloody gash on his cheek that John dabs at with a wet towel.

It hurts him to see Sherlock like this. To see his perfect skin blemished and marred by people who probably don't even deserve to look at him.

John looks at him. The curve of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips......

Sherlock is beautiful.

Even with a bloody cheek......Sherlock is still beautiful.

John wonders if he knows how beautiful he is.

How......

“Has anything like this ever happened before?”, John asks him.

Sherlock shrugs, then hisses as the gesture pulls the damaged skin of cheek just a bit too tight.
“From time to time. Can't be helped really.”

John carefully wipes away a fresh drop of blood that slides down Sherlock's face.
He feels.......he feels unreasonably angry.
He's been in his own fair share of fights over the years he's lived on the street and, far more often than not, they had been started about surprisingly little and he had never really cared either way but.......this.......now that Sherlock is involved it all just suddenly feels different.....and he's not quite sure why.

“Doesn't it bother you?”, he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock gives another, more careful, shrug this time.
“Not particularly. I'm used to it. Not everybody is good and kind. The trick is to not let yourself become one of those people.”

John doesn't know what to say. How to answer.
How to tell Sherlock that, being around him, desperately makes John not want to be one of those people. Not anymore.....
It makes him doubt and worry that, maybe, he used to be one of them.
It makes him worry about what Sherlock might think of him........if he knew.......if he knew how John felt......how......

“What I'm not used to”, Sherlock suddenly says, “is having someone actually care.”

John momentarily halts the movement of his fingers across Sherlock's face, the tending of his wound........the care.

If only Sherlock knew..........

But what does Sherlock even know?
They barely know anything about each other.
About who they both were before.......

John finds he would like to know Sherlock that way.
Something inside of him warms at the thought of knowing things about Sherlock that nobody else knows.

Private.

Intimate.

“Tell me something about yourself”, he suddenly hears himself asking, “where did you grow up? Where did you come from?”

Sherlock smiles, soft and only there for a moment but John catches it anyway, only barely resisting the urge to trace his fingers across Sherlock's lips, gently molding them back into that lovely curve.

“There's not much to tell”, Sherlock says, “my childhood was surprisingly uneventful. My parents paid me little attention. So one day I ran away with the circus and they never even noticed.”

John laughs. Sherlock's story is utter nonsense. It has to be. It's too fantastical to be true. But still....it's nice to have a moment like this with Sherlock. Unhurried and unguarded and.....

“I find it hard to believe that there's anyone who wouldn't notice you”, John says. Because it's true. Sherlock stands out wherever he goes. Even if they had met under different circumstances John finds it hard to believe that Sherlock wouldn't have immediately commanded all of his attention.

Sherlock gives him another one of those far too soft, too intimate, and too quick smiles.
“The same could be said about you.”

***********************************************

Spring rolls into summer and the days and nights grow almost equally and unbearably hot. The world and earth already so drenched with heat during the day that none of it seems to be able to escape when the sun finally does go down.

It probably would have been smart for them to start alternating sleeping in the bed again but.....they don't.
Sherlock doesn't mention it and John doesn't bring it up either.
He likes these moments, cherishes them. He likes having Sherlock this close.....close enough to touch and.........he just likes looking at him.
John watches Sherlock as he sleeps often.
At least this way John can watch him for as long as he likes without Sherlock noticing.
Without Sherlock noticing how John feels about him.

Sherlock is.......

Sherlock truly is amazing.

He's something else.

He's not like anyone John has ever met before and........John is starting to become all too aware of the fact that September and the end of his year with Sherlock is starting to get uncomfortably close.

In the darkest hour of a heated August night, when Sherlock has already been asleep for quite a while, John gently traces his fingers along the expanse of Sherlock's neck, his shoulder, his arm......the skin underneath his hand feels warm and sticky with sweat.

Intimate.

Maybe there is a part of him that wants Sherlock to wake up again.
To ask him the same question he had asked him what now seems like a life-time ago but......Sherlock sleeps on.
Just as lovely and enigmatic and out of his reach as ever.

Even with his hand pressed against Sherlock's chest, feeling the vibrations of the steady beating heart underneath, even like this....he feels as if he still can't reach him.

He really is lovely.
A brand of magic all of his own.
If only John could keep him.......keep this.......
But that's not how the world works for people like John.
Everything he has ever owned he has stolen and things you steal......there's always someone who makes you give them back at one point or another.

He doesn't want to steal Sherlock as well.

If he is to have Sherlock he wants to have him for keeps.
He doesn't want to be made to give him up. That would break him.
He tells himself that it's probably for the best to just never have had him at all then, that way he can't lose him either, but the words ring hollow and false in his heart and mind.

Smoke and mirrors

Make believe and slight of hand

Just a trick.

Eventually, summer will end.

Eventually this, will end.

**************************************

As August keeps on progressing, no matter how much John wills it not to, he finds his mood growing darker and darker.
The thought of having to leave Sherlock behind pouring salt in the sweetness of every single summer day.

He knows what Sherlock had promised him: the secret to the butterfly trick and a hundred golden coins to live the rest of his life out comfortably but........it all seems rather trivial now.
The thought of living in luxury but living in luxury alone........not nearly as enticing as it once had been.

Sherlock seems to have picked up on his foul mood too because, one afternoon, as John is brushing down the horse perhaps a bit too harshly, Sherlock asks him:
“Is everything alright? You seem troubled.”

John doesn't know what to say.
He wants to tell Sherlock the truth. He wants to tell him that he wants him, wants to stay with him, and not just for a year but.......for as long as he'll have him.
But then he remembers who he is......where he comes from.......he remembers telling Sherlock he stole the ticket he used to see his show from a man he hadn't even dared to look in the eyes as he did it and then he remembers storming out in the rain because he no longer could stand the thought of Sherlock seeing him like that and.......

Why would Sherlock want him.......his affections......while Sherlock himself is so.......

“I'm fine”, he lies, “I'm just.....tired.”

They've had a couple of long traveling days behind them. Being tired is a more than plausible explanation for his current mood, except.....

“Hmmm-mmm”, Sherlock hums, “time for some well earned rest then.”

John, probably to the relief of the horse, puts down the brush and turns himself towards Sherlock, curious.
Sherlock is waving his elegant hands in the air theatrically, purposelessly, smoke and mirrors, John knows how this trick goes, he's seen it many times by now, he knows what Sherlock is about to do and the exaggerated hand gestures are only there to distract.
Eventually Sherlock reaches behind his back and pulls out a red rose.
“Ta-dah!”

John smiles, he can't help it, it's always so easy to smile when Sherlock is around.

“Let's see if you can figure out how this one works”, Sherlock says as he covers the rose with his hand only to reveal a yellow rose as his hand moves away again.

This is a game they play from time to time. Sherlock will perform magic tricks and John will guess how he does it.
The only unspoken rule to the game is that Sherlock never performs or asks him about the butterfly-trick.
That one gets saved for the inevitable and dreaded end of their year together.
But their simple game does always manage to make John feel better because, occasionally, he gets it right.

Today however Sherlock is clearly making it far too obvious as he leaves wide gaps between his fingers as he covers the rose's petals so John can actually see him turning a switch on the stem causing the petals to turn inside out, revealing the hidden colour on the inside.

John laughs and shakes his head.
“Stop that.”

Sherlock feigns ignorance.
“Stop doing what?”

“You're making it too easy.”

Sherlock lifts one of his eyebrows now, a smirk forming on his shapely mouth that begs to be kissed.

You're making it far too easy for me to grow far too fond of you, John thinks but what he actually says is: “You know what I mean.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as the rose suddenly disappears somewhere in the folds of his shirt.
“Let me show you a different magic trick then, a better one, one that's just for you.”

Within the palm of his hand a purple butterfly forms with silvery-grey edges along its wings.
John has no earthly idea how it got there and he watches it as if flies off, his eyes watering as he blinks up into the sun.

“Why a butterfly?”, he asks, because it seems important somehow. Sherlock usually never performs this trick when they're playing their guessing game.

“Because it reminds me of you”, Sherlock replies.

John is just confused now.
“Why?”

“Because butterflies are beautiful but flighty and very hard to catch.”

John's throat feels dry and in his chest there's something tense and new that feels an awful lot like hope and dread all at the same time.
“Are you trying to catch me too then?”

“Am I succeeding?”

John doesn't know what to say to that.
He stares up at the sun, at the butterfly that is now long gone, at the day progressing and the season changing and the year coming to an end and.........when he finally looks back down Sherlock is gone.

**************************************

August ends and September rolls around and eventually, finally, the day arrives that marks the end of John's year with Sherlock.
Neither of them mentions it when they both get out of bed that morning, nor as they dress and start on their own chores.

Sherlock is going to be away for the better part of the morning and afternoon, selling tickets to his show in the next couple of towns over, trying to gather as large a crowd as he can. John is left behind with not much to do, restless and his mood far too gloomy for the brightness of the day and so, just to give himself something to do, he decides to start packing his bag.

It will be no use to save it for the last moment.
When the time comes where Sherlock will send him on his way.......he reckons he would rather like it to be something quick. A sharp pain that will only last a moment instead of drawing the agony out.
Having his bag all ready and packed will surely help with that.

He doesn't own much. Just some new clothes and a couple of books and trinkets Sherlock has bought for him over the year and......maybe he should leave all of it behind, start new and fresh, he will be quite easily able to buy everything he wants with a hundred gold coins but...........the thought of having nothing tangible left to remember Sherlock by makes him pack them anyway, stuffing them way down in the bottom of his bag first but..........

His travel bag isn't empty when he opens it.
There's something pushed way down at the bottom. A piece of fabric, old worn, grey......grey except for its vibrant purple inner lining.
It's a coat.
A coat that John remembers from what now feels like another life.
A life where he faintly remembers slipping his hand inside and finding a wallet and a ticket and........changing the course of his life in the process.

This.
This hadn't been here before.
He's used this bag many times during the year they've been traveling together and he's never noticed this coat before.
As a matter of fact, he's never seen it anywhere else in the wagon before either.

Someone must have put it in here, quite recently.
The only person who could have done such a thing, apart from himself, would be Sherlock.
Sherlock wanted him to find this.
Sherlock wanted him to know........on today of all days......that.......

I believe that each and every one of us possesses the power to change their own fate. It's just that not all have the strength and determination to act upon it.

We all need some assistance from time to time.

We would both be less alone.

You have to be absolutely certain about it for it to work.

I was too much of a coward to look him in the eye when I took his wallet from him.

John had never seen the man's face.

John drops the coat back into the bag as the door behind him opens and Sherlock steps inside.
“Ah, there you are! I was looking for you”, Sherlock says.

John's hands shake, they don't feel like his own.
“I was looking for something too”, he replies.

“Oh, did you find it?”

As if Sherlock doesn't know. As if he possibly still can't know how John.......

We all posses the power to change our own fate.

John gets up from the floor and, slightly more steady, turns himself towards Sherlock.
“I believe I have.”

He reaches Sherlock in two large steps that his legs seem to take without the intervention of his conscious mind.

Sherlock looks at him then, those piercing and bright blue eyes hesitantly hopeful, searching, asking:
“Are you certain?”

John can't help but smile. He's never felt more certain in his life. He realizes that now.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”

He takes Sherlock's hands in his, those long elegant fingers that he's been dreaming about for far too long and that he's been watching far too closely for over a year.
He leans forward, pausing for a moment, giving Sherlock time to step away, to reject him, but......of course Sherlock doesn't. John already knew he wouldn't.
Maybe he's known for a lot longer than he has been willing to admit to himself.

Their kiss starts slow and gentle but all too soon it turns into more.
Summer heat, autumn storms, and winter chill simultaneously gathered on the tip of Sherlock's tongue and John relishes in the taste of it because, this way, at long last, at least he doesn't have to experience them alone.

Sherlock's hands, those lovely elegant hands end up on the side of his face, drawing new lines along the planes of his skin, making John feel like a different and entirely new man in the process.

It's nice to have someone actually care, he thinks, to be noticed......

Sherlock is the first to move away, leaving a last chaste kiss on the corner of John's mouth in apology.
“Please stay”, he says, “I've been trying to catch you for far longer than you might realize.”

John just laughs, airy and light like butterflies.
He might be beginning to realize.......
The coat.....the ticket........Sherlock.
He just kisses Sherlock again, wrapping him up in his arms, holding him close and tight and not planning to let him go for quite some time yet.

The bag lies forgotten on the floor. John doesn't end up using it and when he goes to look for the grey coat with purple lining the next day, it has strangely disappeared.

**********************************************

Epilogue:

The fact that John's year with Sherlock has definitely ended but he simply hasn't left is another one of those things they just never talk about.
They don't have to.
They both know where they stand where this subject is concerned.

John is now Sherlock's permanent assistant, indefinitely, for as long as he wants to stay.

He watches Sherlock perform almost every night, the familiar tricks, the finding of cards and the conjuring of coins. The slight of hand and the secretly hidden objects that only John ever seems to notice only........the closer attention he pays......the less sense it all seems to make.

Sherlock will slip a pulled card in the pocket of his coat only.......now that John has seen him do this trick many, many times, now that John knows where to look and when to pay attention, John realizes he never sees him take it back out again. At the end of the performance when John folds Sherlock's discarded coat and puts it away in their wagon, the card is still there, in his pocket, only........sherlock had also produced the desired card mid-performance and had given it to a lady in the audience.....only......John doesn't know how.
How both can be true at the same time. How the card can be in two places at the same time.
How......

There are scarfs that get conjured up seemingly out of thin air that John was sure he could see sown into the sleeve of Sherlock's coat earlier......only.....at the end of the performance they would still be there, safely tucked away inside of Sherlock's sleeve......as well as in a pile in the middle of the stage.

The songbird Sherlock conjures up for the finale has a decidedly different feather pattern than the one hidden in the cage strapped along Sherlock's arm and the coins he conjures up are of a strange currency that John doesn't recognize and definitely not the same as the ones Sherlock had been practicing with earlier and......

John doesn't believe in magic.

Real magic doesn't exist only.......when he's with Sherlock it's almost too easy to start believing in it anyway.

Everything about Sherlock seems to defy logic and reason and common sense and he's just so......magical.

John's very own private brand of magic that he has decidedly become addicted to.

A couple months later still John has stopped trying to figure out how Sherlock does any of his tricks altogether.
It doesn't matter
Not anymore.
Just like his feelings for Sherlock, he finds it doesn't need to be explained,
Maybe it's the unexplainable that makes it special.......magical.

Real.

Because what he feels for Sherlock is definitely real.

On the stage Sherlock winks at him as he links two closed iron hoops together with just the flick of his wrist.
John has no idea how he does it.
The gathered crowd applauds politely, John's heart heats and melts at the sight of it.
He follows the movement of Sherlock's hands, his slender and elegant fingers, fingers that have, by now, probably touched every inch of John's body when they curl up together in bed at night, leaving fiery trails of their own private magic in their wake.
A special kind of magic that Sherlock reserves just for him.
Only for him.
Only for the two of them.
John smiles as Sherlock takes his final bows and the gathered onlookers rise from their seats, getting ready to leave.

He can't wait to have Sherlock to himself again.

He can't wait to do this all over tomorrow.

And the day after that.....and the day after that and........for the first time in his life he realizes: his future might actually look, unexpectedly and unexplainably, bright.