Work Text:
It wasn't that John had meant to keep it a secret. It was simply that no one had asked and so he hadn't said anything. If someone asked, well then of course he would deny it till the ends of the earth because no one can find out he has superpowers are you kidding?!
He hadn't always had powers; he was made, not born. It had happened in Afghanistan. The official story was that a mission gone wrong had led to a bullet wound and infection in his left shoulder which he was lucky to have escaped from alive.
The unofficial record stated that there was an ambush on a routine walk-round and John was drugged and taken prisoner by an unknown organisation. Memories of that time were hazy, with parts merging together into a drug-induced fog. There were certain moments of clarity. Being forced to sprint to avoid being run over by a tank. Pushing aforementioned tank in the sweltering sun of the desert. Being actually shot. The reason he survived wasn't luck, it wasn't divine intervention, it was whatever they'd done to him. Bigger wounds couldn't heal completely, hence the mess that was now his shoulder but smaller marks could disappear within hours and sometimes even minutes. The rest of the official story was fairly true. He had been rescued almost by accident by an elite team who were storming the base anyway. His shoulder had been infected but it was mainly a reaction between the hospital drugs and whatever was in his system. He had returned to England with a psychosomatic limp, a cover story, and a will to ignore the fact anything had changed.
Then Thursday happened. It was one of the few days he had made it out the house and had been aimlessly wandering the city, trying to find some reason to be excited about any of it. As usual it hadn't worked but he still kept trying because what else could he do? Trudging back to his bed sit was when things changed, if only slightly. He'd taken to walking down the side-streets and alleyways that other people avoided because for one, he didn't want to be around other people and two, they were the only place he felt like he belonged. This particular day he was taking a new short-cut when he heard a woman screaming. Acting on instinct, he ran towards it. As he turned the corner he took in the scene, his military training kicking in. A young woman was pinned to a wall with a knife held extremely close to her throat by a scrawny twenty-something that John reckoned he could have taken pre-powers. Post-powers? The guy didn’t even stand a chance.
His entrance startled the guy who inexpertly spun around at the noise, thankfully taking the knife away from his victim’s throat. John ducked into a shadowy corner and waited.
“Who the fuck’s there?” the guy shouted. The distant sound of sirens was the only response. The guy huffed, as if this was simply a huge inconvenience to his criminal activity. “Stay there or this gets a lot worse,” he said to the girl, shoving her back into the wall. The thug stalked over to where John was concealed and John found himself thinking what sort of amateur is this? He then decided it probably wasn’t great that it was his first thought over, say, actually working out what he was going to do when the thug found him.
As soon as the guy was within reaching distance, John struck.
It was actually quite simple, just a well placed blow to the abdomen to wind him and then an incapacitating blow to the head. He should be fine. Probably. Maybe. John didn’t really care. There were other problems than an unconscious criminal.
He turned to where the girl was still cowering and realised why she hadn’t run; there was a huge gash down her leg. Still concealing himself, he called out to her in his best ‘bedside manner’ voice. “Hey. Umm, he’s unconscious now. You should probably ring an ambulance and the police. Do you have a phone?”
The girl cringed away from the unexpected voice but nodded at his question. “Good,” he replied, “you do that.” Perhaps not the most eloquent of speeches but what else was he supposed to say? They don’t exactly teach vigilantism in school and saying anything else would just feel cringey.
As he backed off from the now double-crime scene, he heard a small voice say “Is this yours?”
She was holding his cane which he had dropped when the adrenaline had kicked in and it had rolled down the alley in his short tussle.
“Could you roll it back over here please?” he asked and she nervously placed it next to her on the floor and pushed it over.
“Thanks by the way,” she said timidly. He didn’t reply.
He stayed in the shadows until he was sure the emergency services were called and went to wait around the corner to see everything was cleaned up. Then he went home with a buzzing feeling in his veins, making his teeth chatter and breath quicken and heart pound and hands still. He simply carried his cane, his leg not bothering him for the first time in months.
The next day, a few lower profile news sites had christened the mysterious saviour the Victoria Vigilante after the close Tube line and because a good mystery always sells. By the weekend major new sites had picked it up.
John closed his laptop with a huff. Oh, he was in trouble.
***
When he met Sherlock Holmes, he was sure he had been caught. There was no way this man who could tell him about his mental state, his service, his sister, all from a few glances would be oblivious to his secret.
Apart from he was.
He spent the first few hours in Sherlock’s company tense with worry about when he was going to piece it together and wondering what the hell he was supposed to say in response. Hopefully he could stay in the flat for a little bit, it really was better than his bed-sit, and he was fairly certain Sherlock was not the type to blab to the papers. But instead what happened was they ran around London on a wild chase that sparked the same feeling he had while on his ‘outings’ (he refused to call them missions, there weren’t any orders from on high, just coincidence and good timing).
This somehow made the secret almost worse. John could recognise a kindred spirit in Sherlock’s actions, although he always proclaimed it was for the puzzle over the people. But what they both drove for was the chase and herein lay the problem. How do you go about telling your flatmate/ colleague/ new best friend that you weren’t in on Wednesday to help go solve a murder case because you were jumping rooftops after a gang leader that aforementioned flatmate had been looking for, for four months? It wasn’t something you could type into Google.
There was also the other problem. Because there always was.
The Sherlock problem.
The ‘Sherlock was an incredibly good looking genius who could be an arrogant sod but also incredibly thoughtful and funny when he wanted to be and was awakening his latent bi feelings’ problem.
He was also ignoring that problem.
Actually he was ignoring that one more than the secret problem. Somehow secret powers were easier to deal with than actual feelings. Go figure.
So instead of dealing with his issues like the adult he was, John and Sherlock settled into a very haphazard, very unstable routine. Cases were the foundational structure. If they were brought by a client then John would play mediator to assure Sherlock wouldn’t get attacked every time they let someone into the house (that old man was determined and vicious) and either the chase would begin or Sherlock would sulk all day about the lack of imaginative crimes until the process repeated itself the next morning. If no people emerged then it was up to emails and texts and badgering every known detective at Scotland Yard, and if that didn’t work then the experiments would start up. John could honestly say every day was an adventure. And every few nights, when the cases weren’t forthcoming or Sherlock was thinking which meant he was formally dismissed, he would climb the stairs, pretend to go to bed, change into his black body gear and steal out the window. On the rare occurrences Sherlock noticed his absence, he feigned ignorance and said that Sherlock probably didn’t realise he’d left. It worked perfectly.
Until it didn’t.
You see, although he’d avoided detection himself, the Victoria Vigilante had gained some traction in the media. He was by no means front page news anymore but every so often someone would credit him with a rescue (most people embellished the story a bit; he was a giant, he was tiny, he threw an actual car at someone, he was a passionate kisser) or someone would report a sighting. John tended to ignore them after quickly checking there was nothing tracing back to him but did find it amusing he apparently had at least 16 love-children from 13 different women.
Unfortunately he was not the only one watching. Because of Sherlock’s annoying habit of taking whichever laptop happened to be closest, John was often left to scrounge for wherever the other had been chucked. This time it was under the sofa, obviously, and John almost thought of leaving it before realising it was the only way of getting a blog post written today. His highness was nowhere to be seen. He set up station on the desk and aimlessly doodled on his notebook while the laptop switched on and Google loaded. No wonder Sherlock always stole his, this thing took forever. At the cheerful chirp that registered the thing was finally ready, his eyes flicked up and he froze completely.
He was confronted with a picture of himself. Well, not quite himself. His other self.
It was one of the better pictures he had to admit. He was crouched on a rooftop; the image was from a zoomed in camera from across the street. His masked face was turned away, looking at something down in an alley. His body however was on show, and through the dim lighting, the definition of his muscles under light-weight kevlar and lycra could be seen.
He flicked over to the next tab. Another of picture of him on another rooftop, simply a murky outline against the dark. He skimmed through the other tabs. All in all 12 pictures of the Victoria Vigilante. His first thought was where the hell were these people getting these from? The url was from a fan-website, people tracking vigilantes from across the world. Most people shared theories, rumours and possible sightings. His second thought was that this meant Sherlock was definitely onto him.
Fuck.
He had several options. One was to stop immediately and burn all the evidence. To do this may arouse more suspicion however as it is not entirely normal one creates a bonfire in the middle of June. Two was to carry on and hope Sherlock would never notice the person he was living with also happened to be the person in the photos using a careful disguise of the most ill-fitting clothes known to human kind and blind denial. Three was to look Sherlock in the eye on simply tell him-
“John?”
At the noise he flinched and spun round. He reminded himself that although he was technically keeping a secret, Sherlock was also secretly stalking a vigilante without telling him. It was a small something but he held onto it for courage. He was not the only one to be questioned.
Sherlock’s eyes flickered between him and the laptop before landing on the laptop and the images on it. To John’s surprise, his cheeks reddened. Was Sherlock...blushing?
“It isn’t, I mean, I don’t know how much you saw but, it’s not, I mean,” Sherlock stammered. John found it both endearing and alarming in equal measure. “It’s not what it looks like.” He finally stated and then crossed his arms huffily.
John didn’t even know where to begin. What did Sherlock think it looked like? Why was he blushing? He was a detective and so investigating was in his nature. Apart from there was something-
Oh.
Well it couldn’t be that.
But it would explain the blush and the shifting and the general air of caught.
But no.
But the photos did all make him look strong and powerful and, if he could say so himself, hot.
“You fancy the Victoria Vigilante?” he asked incredulously, desperately hoping he was both right and wrong at the same time.
“No,” Sherlock shouted back but the panic in his eyes gave him away easily.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” John hurried to explain and then stopped, unsure how to proceed.
“I know there’s nothing wrong with it. But it doesn’t matter. Because I don’t. So there,” Sherlock said sharply. “You shouldn’t be snooping anyway.”
“You stole my laptop and the tabs were open. You should be more careful with your secret crushed,” John retorted, wagging a finger in Sherlock’s direction. It was easier to tease him because the only alternative was to start to hyperventilate. That may have been slightly suspicious and John had a lot of practice hiding his own crush.
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave your stuff around to be taken,” Sherlock shot back.
“Er, pot kettle my friend.” John gestured to the laptop.
“Well you’re still wrong.”
“Yeah, you may want to tell your body language that. There are advantages to your constant nagging about observance you know.”
“I do not nag. I merely pointed out- John.” Sherlock’s speech flipped from annoyed to concerned. John, who was busy pulling off his jumper, flung it off. Sherlock was staring unblinkingly at his midriff.
“Sherlock what? Oh, that,” he said, remembering the gash in his side. It looked a lot worse than it actually was. He had acquired it yesterday after one very angry burglar was not all too happy about being tackled to the ground and John had suffered for his second of distraction looking for the other guy who was taking off down the alley. He’d caught them both in the end but even his healing abilities were struggling with this one.
“It’s nothing,” he tries but Sherlock’s already narrowed his eyes and was in full thinking mode. His eyes flickered round John’s body and then systematically around the living room, assessing and sorting, unravelling as best he can. John felt it in his bones that this was now the time that Sherlock was going to find out. He knew it before Sherlock’s eyes landed back on the laptop and nearly flickered away until something caught his eye. Once again he looked between the laptop and John and once again he blushed.
“You’re-”
“It’s complicated.” John cut him off.
“Then enlighten me.” Both froze. John knew he had the power here. He could walk away, refuse to explain and ignore it all and strangely he thought Sherlock would let him. He sighed and looked towards the ceiling.
“It happened in Afghanistan. I wasn’t just shot at random, like everyone assumes. They, they gave me something. I don’t know what it is so don’t bother asking but all I know is that now I can do things. I’m stronger, faster, can heal quicker...” He trailed off, unsure how to continue.
“And the vigilantism?” Sherlock’s tone was consciously neutral.
“I guess you could call it a hobby? I needed something to focus on when I got back and I couldn’t tell anyone but I could at least use it for something useful.” He shrugged and shuffled his feet, suddenly finding the floor fascinating.
“So no one else knows?”
“As far as I’m aware, it’s just us.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched.
John glanced at him. “What?”
“Nothing. Just, us against the rest of the world. As always,” Sherlock said with a small grin.
John finally looked at him properly. “As always.” They smiled at each other and John felt like maybe this was going to work out after all. Sherlock didn’t seem to be angry at him for his secret and although there was bound to be endless questions and a lot of avoiding repeated requests for experiments, it seemed they hadn’t fundamentally changed.
Then something occurred to him that brought him face to face with his other secret. Well, no time like the present he thought. Apparently he wanted to see how far he could push his confessional luck.
“Sooo, do you still fancy him?” he said, nodding towards the photo. It was quite possibly the worst line he’d ever used. In fact he wanted to take it back for being awful and try it again if it wasn’t for the renewed blush and small smile on Sherlock’s face.
“It rather depends on what he thinks of me.”
So, because actions always spoke louder than words, John stood up, stepped forward, and kissed him lightly on the lips. He kissed him slow and soft and slightly scared. Sherlock froze up and John thought of backing off and apologising but then Sherlock was leaning into him and they were kissing and John couldn’t help but smile. He brought his hands up to cradle Sherlock’s face as he felt Sherlock’s hands land on his waist. He backed away slightly, just enough to say “That answers that question don’t you think?”
Sherlock smiled and pressed their lips back together briefly. “Then yes I think I do fancy him quite a bit. But just in case, I think we should try that again.”
“Oh really?”
“Scientific reliability John.”
Well he couldn’t argue with that. But there was just one thing-
“So you really don’t mind?”
Sherlock looked him in the eye. “Mind what?”
“The whole powers thing? That I didn’t tell you? That I have them at all?”
“I think I’ve made my thoughts on the powers quite clear. And you’re going to make it up to me,” Sherlock said smirking.
“And how am I supposed to do that?” John replied, chasing Sherlock’s lips.
“Oh I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Sherlock finally reconnected their lips into another kiss. They didn’t do much talking after that.
***
Sherlock was running after the culprit. As usual there was no time to wait for Scotland Yard but he was sure they would catch up. Eventually.
They twisted and turned through alleyways until Sherlock chased him down a dead-end street. Panicking, the suspect spun round and lunged at Sherlock, aiming for his throat. Sherlock reared back but before the culprit could make contact, he was thrown backwards.
“I had it under control,” Sherlock smirked at the figure in front of him that had dropped from above.
“Sure you did babe.” John grabbed him into a quick, biting kiss. “Race you back?” he smiled as the sirens increased.
“No cheating,” Sherlock said as he backed up to the edge of the alley.
“As if I would dare!” John laughed as he swung himself up back onto the roof and disappeared.
“He’s down there, check the tread of his shoes and his sister’s address. Statement tomorrow, got to go, bye,” he yelled at the confused DI.
He then turned and bolted after his masked beloved. Superpowers he may possess but his sense of direction was still absolutely shocking.