Chapter Text
Age-old ends up being a prophetic choice of words as John takes in their antigrav vehicle. “Is this thing even safe?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Perfectly. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“There’s a fine line between a sense of adventure and a death wish,” John points out as he walks round the craft. It looks structurally sound, but he’s pretty sure the thing is both older than him and in worse condition. Which, given he’s missing an entire limb, is truly saying something.
“You’re being overdramatic,” Sherlock says, pressing a few buttons to open the door. He begins loading their equipment into the cargo area.
They work side by side in silence for the next few minutes, checking their protective suits and ensuring the antigrav is actually safe to fly. John sits in the driver’s seat and punches the coordinates into the nav computer. The holo-unit comes alive and shows him the terrain.
They have to approach the Magnussen compound from the east to avoid detection. Then they can use the cliffs for cover as they make their way to where the refuse from the facility unloads into the Methane Sea. Billy’s still on the lookout for Rory Smallwood’s bolthole(s) and they’re at a dead end with the medical files, but if he and Sherlock can prove that Kat’s body entered the Methane Sea through the Magnussen refuse tunnels, maybe they can get New London police to re-open the investigation. For once police resources would be enormously helpful, especially since even Melly couldn’t get into the Magnussen data cloud. For now, they just have to hope that Rory and the rest of the group are still alive. Sherlock thinks they are, because he thinks Kat’s death was either accidental or she died trying to escape. John hopes Sherlock is right.
Sherlock has finished stowing their equipment and joins John in the cockpit, fastening his seat belt.
John presses a few buttons and grips the steering console as the engines roar to life. In a way, he’s glad it’s an old model, because it’s close enough to the medivac transports they had on Mars that he can actually drive—or more accurately fly—the damned thing.
They’re in an industrial area at the south edge of the biodome. John looked hard the other way when Sherlock paid a dock worker (and known Dust smuggler) for the use of the antigrav, but it was an absolute necessity since they need a vehicle with a barcode to pass through the biodome airlocks.
It’s early evening on a Sunday, and there’s little to no traffic. John is glad of it, because it takes him a bit of time to get used to the sluggish controls. The antigrav is not built for city traffic, it’s made for low-to-zero gravity environments, and the artificial gravity inside the biodome is messing with the controls. The first few metres are bumpy, and John drives into a stack of crates. Sherlock gives him a questioning look, and John mutters, “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Sherlock points out as John manoeuvres them out of the hangar.
“You were going to.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I know you?”
Sherlock is silent for a beat, then he says, quietly, “You do.”
John is glad he needs to concentrate on guiding the unwieldy vehicle and can’t think about the sudden and unexpected warmth blooming behind his breastbone.
Once he’s used to the controls, John finds that steering the vehicle is relatively easy and, since traffic is sparse, it takes them less than ten minutes to reach the airlock. The sensors scan the barcode and let them pass unhindered. John takes a moment to worry about re-entering the biodome, because security entering is much tighter, but he just has to assume that Sherlock knows what he’s doing.
It’s surprisingly easy to trust Sherlock with his life, he finds. It’s much more difficult imagining trusting Sherlock with anything else.
Once they’re outside the airlock, he can feel the gravity engines hum to life, anchoring the vehicle and enhancing gravity inside the vehicle as well. John is sort of used to working in low gravity environments (the gravity generators on Mars used to go out occasionally when there was a bombing), but he doesn’t especially like it. He likes his feet tethered soundly to some sort of ground.
Sherlock is flicking through Kat’s holo. “Anything else on there?” John asks.
Sherlock shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything, obviously lost in thought. He’s probably looking for hints of Rory Smallwood, but is apparently unsuccessful so far. The holo was wiped shortly before Kat disappeared, and Melly wasn't able to salvage much of the data.
John leaves Sherlock to it and concentrates on navigating their transport through the low gravity environment. It’s easier to drive the antigrav away from the artificial gravity of the biodome, the controls are much more responsive under these conditions. The antigrav feels lighter, and John lets himself relax into driving and enjoying the view out of their windows.
The landscape is barren, with jagged rocks disrupting the empty plains and the Methane Sea in the distance like a dusty mirror. It’s beautiful in a stark, lifeless way, and John infinitely prefers it to the cramped tin boxes they squeeze life into on the space station he grew up on. Even though human life on Titan is only sustainable at the razor edge of disaster, it’s still preferable to the sterile sameness he experienced when he was living in a more controlled environment.
It’s hazy today, but not overly so. The sun is so far away that light on Titan is always weak and sickly, but the methane clouds are letting more of it through today than on other days. John is just glad it’s not raining, as the liquid methane would freeze on the hull and make it more difficult to steer. There’s a storm front brewing on the horizon, but the scanners show it’s still far enough away that they’ll probably be back in New London before it becomes an issue.
As John turns south, he gets a glimpse of the biodome that contains New London and, as ever, he is fascinated by the gleaming buildings, the iridescent surface of the dome, and the scope and size of it. At the same time, he can see how truly small it seems when compared to the shadow of Saturn hovering in the sky.
They pass the water refinery, a smaller biodome covering the facility. The pipes that bring water from the ice crust of Titan to the city run along the route they are taking towards Magnussen’s facility.
Soon, the Magnussen compound is visible. John lowers his speed and takes the long way around, well out of view of the facility. It’s situated on cliffs directly next to the Methane Sea, an endless power supply for the facility’s gaping maw. Electricity, heat and life itself are sustained by the methane that powers everything — the biodome, the oxygen tanks, the farms, and the terraforming stations all over Titan. Methane from the air, from the sea, from the atmosphere. It gives them life, on this barren rock. It’s the reason they’re here. Well, that, and the water. Anything else they can supply for themselves. Artificial sunlight, generators for gravity, for oxygen, for heat. But water and a power source aren’t replaceable.
Sherlock looks up from the holo and watches the facility as they drive a big circle around it.
John follows his gaze and thinks of the people working in there, trying to better humanity. Where did some of them go wrong? And what’s happening to the people that are trapped in there, being used like lab rats?
He thinks of what Mycroft said and feels a sympathetic twinge in his shoulder. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock makes a low inquiring sound and turns his head slightly, eyes not leaving the facility.
“I talked to a lot of people earlier today, and none of my patients have been approached by Magnussen. And I haven’t been, either. We need to figure out what the others had in common, medically.”
“That’s making an assumption that it’s not pure coincidence that the people you talked to weren’t approached. And that Magnussen’s people are done. You might be approached yet,” Sherlock points out, not taking his eyes off the facility. “But I agree with your general point, we need more data. I've programmed some holonet archival searches about our missing people, maybe that will turn up something. And there’s got to be a way to get patient files on the other missing persons.”
“I won’t be able to get patient files, but I might be able to get some yes or no answers to very specific questions,” John replies. “There are only a handful of medical facilities catering to this community and I know most of the staff working at them.”
“The charming and yet so very dull Doctor Sawyer being one of them?” Sherlock asks, eyes cutting over to John for a fleeting moment that John catches in the windshield’s reflection. Sherlock’s tone is carefully neutral, but the fact that Sarah is John’s ex, and the one he dumped when he and Sherlock got together, is something that they’re both very aware of. Sherlock was scathingly sneering to Sarah at the time because he was ragingly jealous, not that John realised it at the time. But John chose Sherlock over her, and that’s a fact they’re both very aware of as well.
“Problem?” John asks, meeting Sherlock’s eyes in the windshield’s reflection.
Sherlock looks away, but there’s a noticeable pause before he says, carefully and decidedly, “No.”
John nods. “Good. I’ll holo her first thing tomorrow.”
Sherlock doesn’t say anything else, and John lets the conversation drop because he needs to concentrate on not crashing into the cliffs or the Methane Sea. The wind is picking up in advance of the storm front heading their way, but conditions are still safe for flying, and should be for a while yet. John chooses a spot out of sight of the facility and descends the cliffs—at least a hundred and fifty foot drop—to the level where they expect the refuse outlet to be.
Sherlock looks out at the cliffs and points. “There.”
John nods in short acknowledgement and moves the antigrav closer. The refuse pipe is situated about ten feet from sea level.
John manoeuvres them down to the narrow strip of beach. “So how do you want to do this?”
Sherlock points at a rocky outcropping. “Land over there. We’ll take samples from the beach, and then we can send the drone up to take samples from the refuse pipe itself.”
John gives him a short nod and starts the landing manoeuvre. “Cameras?” he asks.
“Won’t catch us on the beach, but will be an issue when we use the drone. Which is why I brought this,” Sherlock says, holding up a small box.
“Great. What is it?”
“A little invention Melly calls the Camera Confuser.”
“How much do you owe Melly by now?” John asks, only half listening, most of his concentration focused on landing the craft.
“Oh, enough. She’ll come to collect one of these days, but you know her. She likes it when people owe her. Especially me.”
John lands the craft in silence, but he can’t shake the feeling he’s missing a piece of the puzzle again. He turns off the engine as the gravity clamps engage, but he doesn’t move to get out of his seat.
Sherlock looks at him expectantly, apparently waiting for John to get moving. But John needs a question answered.
“Why did you take this case?”
Sherlock looks at John from the side, obviously surprised. “Lady Smallwood came to me, I told you.”
John turns to Sherlock and gestures at the refuse pipe. “But there’s no mystery here. We know where Rory is. We don’t even know whether Kat was murdered. Or if there’s anything illegal going on in there. And yet here you are, spending time, money and favours like it’s a locked room triple homicide.”
“People need help, John. People nobody else cares about. Isn’t that reason enough?” Sherlock asks, but he isn’t looking at John, gazing instead at the vastness of the Methane Sea just in front of their vehicle.
John thinks about Sherlock’s answer. It makes sense on a surface level. He knows Sherlock genuinely cares about the junkies, homeless and veterans that make up most of the inhabitants of the Dregs. He cares about his homeless network, even as he uses them for their ubiquity and their social invisibility. But what confuses John is how many ressources Sherlock is expending on this case. Before, when Sherlock took on the occasional missing persons case from his network, he’d holo Lestrade or poke around a bit. That’s it. This type of relentless pursuit used to be reserved for cases rating eight or more.
Maybe Sherlock is just bored. Maybe cases have been few and far between, and he’s just glad to be doing something. Anything.
And maybe it’s all of the above, and something else. But what that something else is, John doesn’t know. And he’s sure that if he insists Sherlock explain, he’d just get another evasion. It’s exhausting, not knowing whether he can believe anything that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth.
But the storm is gathering, plus they’re slowly but surely losing daylight. Driving back to New London in the dark is one thing, but poking around a narrow beach beside a sea made of liquid methane is an entirely different story.
So John decides to put off this discussion for now and unfastens his seat belt. “Let’s go.”
*-*
The thing about space suits is, it’s nearly impossible to get dressed in one alone. You can do it, but it’s much easier when you have help. So John obligingly turns his back when Sherlock strips off his utilitarian jumpsuit (John’s wearing one, too, oddly it makes him feel like he’s back on a mission), but steps up to help when Sherlock takes out the space suit.
They’ve done this many times before, so there’s a sort of routine to it that distracts them from how close they are. From how many times John’s fingers brush Sherlock’s body as he helps him into the lower part of the suit, adjusts buckles and closes seals over the boots.
But as he’s helping Sherlock pull the material over his shoulders, the thermal underwear slips and reveals a bit of Sherlock’s shoulder and John freezes.
There’s a mark there. Red and glossy in the way only recently healed scar tissue is.
“What…” John’s voice doesn’t quite work, and he is unable to stop himself from brushing his fingertips over the mark. Sherlock stiffens and goes very still as John traces over the mark. John feels Sherlock’s muscles jump under his fingers, can see the slight shudder that runs through Sherlock’s body. “What’s that?”
Sherlock shrugs, clearly uncomfortable as he twitches his shoulder out of the reach of John’s fingers. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell a medical professional and combat veteran what these are.”
John swallows, hurt by Sherlock’s defensive tone, by the way he hunches his body away from John. “Where did you get them?” he asks, trying to keep his voice as emotionless as possible, trying to keep his hands steady.
Sherlock shrugs again. “I went to war,” he says, shortly, a bit sharply, obviously trying to end the conversation.
John opens his mouth to reply to ask what that means, to ask a thousand follow up questions. All of them mainly in the vein of What happened to you? Who did this to you? Are they still alive? Can I murder them? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me protect you from this? How bad is it? Can I see? Let me make it better, please?, but Sherlock cuts him off with an impatient gesture. “We’re losing the light.”
John is five seconds away from saying Fuck the light, we’re doing this now,, but then he catches Sherlock’s eyes reflected in a shiny panel, and he looks defensive and vulnerable. John bites down on the impulse to demand things he has no right to anymore, and grips the edges of Sherlock’s space suit. “Come on, then.”
Sherlock hides his relief well, but John can feel a bit of tension drain from his body as John helps him dress in the remainder of his space suit. Boots, gloves, helmet go on in a silence that isn’t exactly comfortable, but what John would call utilitarian. Setting aside issues and going back to work is what they do best after all.
It’s what they did after their first case together, when John shot a man to save Sherlock. What they did after Sherlock crashed John’s date with Sarah and got them kidnapped. What they did after the pool, more or less. Only after the pool, they added shagging to their list of avoidance tactics. It’s a pattern John isn’t especially proud of, but he doesn’t actually know how to break it.
He gives Sherlock’s suit a last one-over check—making sure all the seals are intact and the small oxygen tank attached to his back is working and full— all the while avoiding Sherlock’s searching eyes on him. He engages the force field and hooks the cable attached to Sherlock’s suit to the side of the vehicle.
Sherlock grabs the scanner and the evidence cubes and presses the button to open the doors.
John goes into the cockpit and seals the door behind him.
The rush of oxygen leaving the tight space sounds from the other side of the door as Sherlock disengages the force field.
John engages the comm panel. “Comm check.”
“Check.” Sherlock’s voice over the comm is tinny and distant.
John watches as Sherlock runs the scanners over the beach, looking for human DNA—hair, skin, something.
Sherlock bends down several times, and John watches as he puts samples into the airtight evidence cubes.
“Anything?” John asks quietly, knowing how loud voices over the intercom can be in the absolute silence of a space suit helmet.
“She was definitely here. DNA, hair, skin.”
John nods to himself, glad that the effort they went through for this isn’t pointless, and sad to imagine the energetic young woman he saw in that photo lying on this beach, body riddled with tumours, dying and in pain.
“Are you coming back in?”
“In a minute. I need to plant Melly’s Camera Confuser at the bottom of the pipe.”
“Be careful.”
“Obviously.”
John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like being careful is at all like you, Mr Punchline,” he mutters without pressing down the comm button.
John watches as Sherlock slowly but steadily climbs the ladder. It’s slow going in the bulky space suit and John wishes, not for the first time, that their positions were reversed. Not that he doesn’t trust Sherlock to not break his neck, but…
Well. Actually. He doesn’t trust Sherlock not to break his neck.
That’s part of the problem, he recognises that. He has no faith that Sherlock has any regard for his own life, and John absolutely can’t, and won’t, watch Sherlock willfully self-destruct again. And he has zero faith that Sherlock will show any more regard for his own safety now that he’s back from the dead. John knows for a stone-cold fact that he can’t live like this. Not anymore.
So either something changes, and the pattern shifts. Or they’re done.
John isn’t sure how he feels about that.
*-*
John shifts the antigrav back into gear as Sherlock packs away the drone and the samples it took from the refuse pipe. The craft rises along the cliff face, and John needs all his concentration to avoid slamming them into the rocks, because the wind has picked up noticeably.
John flies the craft along the cliffs for a few hundred metres to be sure they’re out of sight of the facility, then he raises them back up to ground level.
Sherlock re-enters the cockpit with his jumpsuit half on, the upper half knotted around his waist and the sleeves of the undergarments he wore under the space suit rolled up. He’s a bit sweaty and his hair is an unruly mess. John has to look away because the whole look is incredibly hot, and John can’t handle that right now.
Fortunately, flying the craft takes a lot of concentration in the rising wind. The storm is closing in on them, but for now they’re still safe.
“Wait,” Sherlock says just as John is about to punch in the coordinates that will take them back to New London. “Look.”
Sherlock points at a silvery tube in the distance that leads away from the facility, but not towards New London.
“What is it?”
“Magnussen’s private rail tunnel. It leads to his mansion.” Sherlock points at the horizon. “Do we have enough fuel left to see where it leads?”
John checks the fuel cells and the weather readings and nods. They should be able to do this and still be back in New London when the storm hits. He lowers the craft to near ground level, parallel to the tunnel, before following the shiny tube as it winds along a path of least resistance through the Titan landscape.
It doesn’t take long before they see an enormous biodome rising in the distance.
“Woha,” John mutters under his breath. “What is that thing?”
“It’s a terraforming station, an orchard, and Charles Magnussen’s mansion,” Sherlock says, enlarging the image on the holoscreen. “He bought the entire dome from the Titan government, under the stipulation he keep both the terraforming station and the orchard operational.”
John stares at the enormous structure coming ever closer, then slows the antigrav to hover just outside of what he guesses is the safety perimeter. He can’t even imagine how rich you have to be to buy yourself a biodome.
“So his house is in there somewhere?” John asks. He can only see endless rows of trees through the shining, iridescent surface of the dome. To the right, the terraforming station is churning away, mainly occupied with trying to stabilise the atmosphere to let in more sunlight.
“Apparently. It’s called Appledore,” Sherlock adds with an audible eyeroll.
John snorts. “Seriously? He’s an even bigger ass than I thought.”
“What do you know about him?” Sherlock asks, eyes cutting towards John, obviously interested.
John shrugs. “The usual, only what every doctor working in the field knows. Magnussen inherited the company from his father, but he’s a genius in his own right. He enhanced nerve-conducting far beyond earlier levels. He revolutionised the enhancement chip technology and the sensitivity of both positronic devices used in traumatic brain injuries and sensory organs. Magnussen eyes are one of a kind, really. He’s hailed as a medical innovator up there with Alexander Fleming for antibiotics and the Ruis brothers for their cancer cures, but the thing is, he’s really just a greedy entrepreneur. If you luck into a Magnussen part, you’re hard pressed to maintain it. The parts are so sensitive that they need constant maintenance and the replacement parts are so prohibitively expensive that I can only stock the most necessary components in my clinic. Even the software updates cost me an arm and a leg. But when he’s asked about it, he says the market determines prices, he just makes the product. And then he points out that he donates to clinics, which is true, but it still barely scratches the surface. ”
“Have you ever met him?”
“On a medical conference, years ago. Some people thought he was charming, but honestly, he made my skin crawl.”
Sherlock gives John a small smile. “Likewise.”
John looks over and gazes at Sherlock sharply. “When did you meet him?”
“At one of Mycroft’s terminally boring Christmas parties, just before you and I met, actually,” Sherlock says, giving John a small, fond smile. “Magnussen was, shall we say, interested in my companionship. I politely turned him down. He was… persistent.”
“What did you do?” John asks, feeling his fingers cramp around the antigrav’s controls as an entirely irrational surge of protective anger makes his heartbeat quicken.
Sherlock shrugs. “Distracted him with a deduction about another person at the party, then escaped through the service entrance.”
John snorts a laugh, as irrationally relieved as he was angry before. “I bet Mycroft loved that.”
“He should be glad I didn’t burgle him. That time.”
“You burgled Mycroft in the past?” John asks, unable to keep the amusement and the fondness out of his voice.
“I was the reason he got a titanium safe for Christmas when he was fourteen.”
John chuckles. “How long did it take you to crack it?”
Sherlock frowns at the memory. “New Year’s Eve. I took advantage of Mycroft’s distraction with the ridiculous party my parents insisted on throwing. I got Mummy to order lemon cakes, Mycroft’s favourite, and I knew I’d have an hour alone in his room. It was more than I needed.”
“What did you buy?” John asks, smiling fondly at the image of a young Sherlock diligently cracking his brother’s safe while Mycroft was gorging himself on lemon cakes.
“A new scanner for my lab, a few of the most lurid true crime holobooks I could find, and twelve black spiders.”
“Why the spiders?”
“To put under Mycroft’s pillow, of course.“ Sherlock grins at John, wicked and sharp, and John’s stomach lurches with a sudden and not entirely unwelcome stab of attraction. God he’s gorgeous, John thinks, not for the first, and very likely not for the last, time. He’s always gorgeous, even sweaty and dishevelled, jumpsuit slung messily around his hips. Well, if John’s honest with himself, especially sweaty and messy and dishevelled, because that’s always been his Sherlock. Not the put-together Invulnerable Consulting Detective, but the flesh and blood person who shared John’s life.
John looks out the window, trying to get a grip on the sudden urge to press his body against Sherlock’s and just smell him, the bodily reality of him. Alive and well and back where he belongs, right beside John.
Now is not the time. For many, many reasons. One of them being the gust of wind hitting the antigrav, warning them that their respite from the harsh, inhospitable Titan atmosphere is nearing its end.
John grips the controls and holds the antigrav steady. “We should get out of here.”
Sherlock nods and gazes absently at the biodome. “Can we go around just once?”
“Sure.”
John steers the vehicle, watching Sherlock as he uses the board camera and the infrared sensors to map the biodome as John slowly circles it.
“You think we’re going to have to break in, don’t you?” It’s not really a question.
“I’ve analysed the plans of the facility, and it’s nearly impossible to break in. The only weak spot is Magnussen’s private train tunnel. If we need to break in, this is the way,” Sherlock answers, gesturing at the biodome.
John is silent as he keeps the antigrav steady in the wind while Sherlock works. They’re losing the light, the sun setting on the horizon reflecting in the methane haze, turning it golden and red. Lights blink on in the biodome, and John can see the ostentatious mansion emerging from the trees as they slowly round to its side of the dome. What a tremendous waste of space and resources, just for one man, he thinks. Magnussen has no family. No spouse, no children, no siblings. Rumours are he doesn’t even have many staff.
There’s something in the way Sherlock eyes the readings, the way he watches the mansion, that John doesn’t like. A gleam of something beyond the thrill of the chase.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock makes an inquiring sound, but keeps his eyes on the scans.
“You hate him, don’t you?” John asks quietly, finally able to piece a few things together.
John can see Sherlock tense up, his spine straightening and his shoulder muscles bunching. “Hate is a strong word,” Sherlock says, voice carefully neutral.
“That’s not an answer,” John points out.
Sherlock shrugs, but he doesn’t look at John.
Fucking hell.
All right. This far, no further.
John pushes a few buttons, and the antigrav powers down, gliding slowly into a holding position, gravitational clamps engaging with an audible thunk.
Sherlock turns and gestures at the dome. “We’re losing the light, John. And that storm isn’t going anywhere, either.”
John crosses his arms over his chest and turns towards Sherlock, leaning against the controls. “I don’t give a flying fuck. You tell me everything, and you tell me right now. You’ve been hedging and evading and I’m fucking tired of it. You tell me the whole story about you and Magnussen, and you tell me what you’re planning, or I’m out. For good.”
Sherlock visibly hesitates, and John adds, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, “You seem to think that lying to me constantly is somehow all right. I realise that I used to let you off the hook for this shit all the time. Before. But I can't anymore. I can’t live like this anymore, never knowing whether anything you’re telling me is true, always wondering what the rest of the story is, where the angle is, what I’m walking into. Never knowing whether I can trust anything you say. So. Either you stop lying to me, or I stop believing you. Which option would you prefer?”
Sherlock looks out at the compound and sighs. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, clearly uncomfortable. “I told you the salient points.” He hesitates briefly, but then he keeps talking, even though it clearly makes him uncomfortable. “He… he offered me drugs. To. You know. Go home with him. It was obvious he knew about my past, about my addiction. He told me he had a whole assortment of recreational substances at his home, to, ‘make the experience more pleasurable’.” Sherlock indicates the quotes with his hands in a sharp, disgusted gesture, a disgust mirrored in his voice and in John’s chest. “I… thought about it. For about a second, but I thought about it. I was bored and lonely, and I thought about it. And even though I told him to stuff it all up his pompous arse, he knew. And he looked… smug. Triumphant. Like he’d actually had me. And I knew, if I’d met him a year previously, or even six months, I would absolutely have done it.”
John swallows heavily, thinks of reaching out but decides against it, because Sherlock’s body language is like a ‘no trespassing’ sign. “That says a lot more about him than it does about you,” John finally says, gently. He’s surprised at Sherlock’s honesty, and now he understands the reluctance to tell the whole story. Drugs and sex are both difficult subjects for them.
“I know,” Sherlock says, and a bit of his usual haughty arrogance has returned to his voice and in the slightly annoyed look he gives John. “That’s why I… find him viscerally unpleasant.”
John huffs a humourless laugh. “Yup. That’d do it, no doubt. Well, makes me want to kill him just to watch him die, so. I’d say we’re on the same page here.”
Sherlock gives him a small smile that’s both relieved and fond. “Well, if we do have to break in, I’ll make sure you leave your gun, so you won’t be overly tempted.”
Silence falls, and they hold each other’s eyes in the failing light.
A gust of wind brings them back to the urgent business of not actually dying out here. “You got everything you needed?”
Sherlock looks at the oncoming storm front, which is a lot closer than it was five minutes ago. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really,” John answers, steering the antigrav away from the biodome.
“Can we make it back to New London in time?” Sherlock asks, looking worriedly at the horizon, where the dust clouds are dark and threatening in the sky.
“We might, but if we try and fail, we die. Especially if the storm gains force, which looks likely right now,” John says. “I was on patrol once on Mars. An armoured tank got stuck in one of those dust storms. The thing was barely recognizable. It would be safer to find shelter. A cave, maybe. With the gravitational lock activated, we should be fine, but we don’t want this thing to catch us in the air.”
Sherlock nods and types in a few coordinates, scanning the nav computer. “There,” he finally says. “It’s small, but we should fit.”
John looks at the outcropping of rocks Sherlock has pointed to, then at the storm. This is going to have to do.
“Let’s find out.”
*-*
They barely make it.
Turns out John was right, the storm is gathering strength rapidly, and the winds gust around them and make the antigrav extremely difficult to steer. John is glad they made the decision not to try to outrun it, because they would have failed.
When they reach the rock formation, the storm is just about to hit. Debris and dust are making it almost impossible to see, and the howling of the wind makes conversation nearly impossible.
Fortunately, there’s not much to be said anyway.
John goes as fast as he dares, which is a great deal too fast for his liking, but a great deal too slow for the storm. He navigates them around the rock formation, and it’s a bit better, the solid wall of stone protecting them from the full force of the wind.
The cave barely deserves the name. It’s made of rocks and it has three walls and a roof of a sort. But it’s more of an outcropping with a few piles of rocks on either side. It’s got to do them, though, because the storm is here.
John backs them into the small space, wincing as the hull of the antigrav scrapes along the rock.
“There goes my security deposit,” Sherlock mutters. John gives him a look that clearly says ‘shut up’ and Sherlock responds by shooting John a wicked grin.
“You mean the dirty crook you bribed to let us steal this thing was actually going to give some of that money back?” John asks through clenched teeth as he inches them into the cave.
“Borrow, John, not steal. We are going to return it. Though I’m not sure how much is going to be left of it,” Sherlock says, wincing as a rock bounces off the roof.
“You can either shut up, or you can drive,” John says, but he knows his voice sounds fondly exasperated rather than irritated. If he’s being honest, he’s enjoying himself tremendously. The adrenaline rush of danger, coupled with Sherlock’s presence and the sharp, irreverent banter they used to share as easily as breathing is making John more than a bit giddy.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John can see that he’s smiling, and it makes something within John’s chest unclench, just a bit.
With every centimetre they inch into the cave it gets darker, and by the time they’re parked John can barely see. He engages the gravitational clamps with a sigh of relief and almost has to peel his fingers off the steering console, he was gripping it so tightly.
His artificial arm spasms a bit from the pressure, and his fingers give a little twitch he feels up to his shoulder.
“All right?” Sherlock asks, a small frown line of concern appearing between his brows.
John nods. “Fine. Just a bit of strain.”
Sherlock looks at him suspiciously, but when John returns the look with a ‘drop it’ stare, Sherlock visibly relents. “All right, you’re fine, whatever you say,” he says, raising his hands in a disclaiming gesture.
Silence descends as John powers down the engines. The hum of the engines cuts out and leaves them with only the howling of the wind and the steady patter of small particles bouncing off the rocks protecting them.
“How long will this last?” Sherlock finally asks, and John can hear the suppressed annoyance in his voice. The indignation of being kept from pursuing the case by something as boring as nature.
John shrugs. “Four, five hours?”
“Oh my god, this is going to be unbelievably boring, isn’t it?” Sherlock complains.
John can’t help himself and he laughs. “It’s minus 160 degrees out, the winds are strong enough to rip us apart,” he wheezes out between bursts of giggles, “There’s no oxygen out there and all that’s keeping us alive is this decrepit piece of metal that’s got just about enough power to ensure that we can, you know, breathe, and won’t freeze to death. But yeah,” he adds, still giggling, “you’re going to be bored out of your skull.”
Sherlock looks at him with an odd expression in his eyes. If John wanted to think about it, he’d probably guess that it relates very closely to the ache deep in his chest he feels whenever he looks at Sherlock and remembers . “I’m glad you find this funny,” Sherlock says, but his voice lacks bite. It sounds… wistful, more than anything.
John grins and gestures at the surroundings. “Well, I’m sorry this storm is going to prevent you from doing something else that’s as reckless and stupid as this little trip has turned out to be. For a whole five hours. But don’t worry, you can use the time to figure out what dangerous and unhinged thing you’d like us to do next.”
Sherlock’s lips stretch into a smile. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re going to break into Appledore.”
John has a bad feeling about all of this, but he thinks Sherlock is probably right. “That’s why you’ve been dating Janine, isn’t it? Because she’s been to Appledore?”
“Of course.”
“So this was the plan all along?” John asks, weary and not trying to hide it.
“No, but I don’t see another way. Do you? The longer these people are in Magnussen’s custody, the more likely it is that one of them will die. And quite honestly, I don’t like that we haven’t been able to figure out what he wants Rory for,” Sherlock says, grabbing for his holo.
John nods, because he understands Sherlock’s concern. Especially in light of what Sherlock just told him. Breaking in seems the only way forward, and yet John has no idea how they’re going to pull it off.
But that’s not what he’s worried about.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock looks up from his holo, cocking an inquiring eyebrow.
“Promise me that you won’t go in there alone. Under any circumstances.”
It’s nearly dark in the antigrav, the storm and dusk falling making it difficult to see. The only light comes from Sherlock’s holo. But Sherlock’s hesitation is palpable. “I don’t…”
“Sherlock.” John cuts him off. “Promise me.”
Their eyes meet, and it’s as if Sherlock’s reluctance is another person in there with them. But John holds his gaze and hopes that Sherlock sees how absolutely crucial this is. Finally, Sherlock nods. “All right. I won’t.”
John finally looks away, and he should feel relief, but the problem is that he’s not sure he believes a word out of Sherlock’s mouth anymore.
“You don’t believe me.” Sherlock’s statement is presented as a cool deduction, but John can hear the uncertainty underneath.
John shrugs. “Can you blame me, considering?”
Sherlock is quiet for a long time. “I suppose not,” he finally says.
John rubs a hand over his face and gestures between them. “I know you want to flick a switch and say the right combination of words so that everything will magically go back to the way it was. But I’m not sure that’s possible, Sherlock. Too much has happened. To both of us.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?” Sherlock says, and John can hear the deep insecurity in his voice, something that’s almost dread. “I’m trying, John. I can’t do more than that.”
“I know,” John says. And he does. It’s just that the intellectual knowledge that Sherlock is trying to be different isn’t magically making John trust him again. “I don’t know if it means anything, but I’m trying too.”
There’s a silence that’s punctuated by Sherlock looking like John ripped out his heart and then put it back in. “It means everything,” Sherlock says quietly.
“Well. Then. Let’s both keep trying. I suppose it’s all we can do,” John answers, trying to keep his voice steady. God he’s crap at this, and he’s had too many of these talks today. “In the mean time, let’s try to survive for long enough to figure this out.”
Sherlock huffs a small laugh and seems relieved that John has decided to pull the break line. “Good idea. I’ll analyse the data we got from the drone.”
“I’ll see if I can find out what Magnussen wants with them.”
John grabs his holo and they settle down to do research, but John feels Sherlock’s eyes on him a lot, and it’s not an unpleasant feeling at all.
*-*
John rubs his eyes and cracks his neck from side to side a few times. He’s hungry, he’s cold, he’s tired and yes, okay, he’s bored.
It’s been two hours, and John is seriously considering a nap. He’s been trying to figure out what program Kat and the two others missing veterans were involved in, but Magnussen’s dealings with the Army are extensive. He’s also looked into the medical trials Magnussen Inc. has registered with the Systems Medical Certification Board right now, and none of them seem relevant.
“This is a dead end,” he mutters, putting the holo down.
Sherlock looks up from his own holo, where he’s apparently analysing the footage and data they collected from their fly-by around the Appledore biodome. “It was a long shot.”
“If he ever wants to use whatever he’s testing, a medical trial is the route he has to take, so,” John answers with a shrug. He gets up and looks through his bag, pulling out one military ration bar for himself, and tossing another to Sherlock. “Eat.”
Sherlock ignores him and concentrates on his holo. He’s sitting on the floor against the back of the antigrav, legs flopped out in front of him, ever graceful even when sprawling messily in the back of this piece of shit.
John bites into his ration bar. Beef and onion flavour. They had these for every meal on Mars. He kind of liked the breakfast ones, those tasted faintly of porridge. After he was discharged, he promised himself he’d never eat this shit again, but he can’t even count the number of times he’s broken that promise, on stake-outs and getting a quick bite in while dashing across New London keeping up with Sherlock. And in the clinic when he didn’t care about anything and just ate so he could stay alive. Well, a version of alive. He suddenly realises that the disgust at the bar he feels now is the first time in two years he’s actually cared about what he’s eating.
He looks over at Sherlock, who’s tossed the holo aside in frustration and is watching him and not even remotely trying to hide it.
“I hate these things,” John says, unnecessarily, because Sherlock is well aware.
Sherlock gives him a small smile. “I know.” He rubs his hands together briskly, and John notices that he’s shivering a bit.
“Are you cold?” John asks, opening a cupboard to take out the emergency blankets.
Sherlock looks like he wants to argue, but John tosses the blankets at his face. Sherlock responds by glaring at him after removing them from his head. “Why do you even bother asking if you’re not going to wait for an answer?”
“An excellent question,” John says, then picks up the ration bar from the floor where Sherlock dropped it and tosses it at his face. It hits Sherlock square in the nose, and John doesn’t try to hide his grin when Sherlock glares at him. “Eat,” he says, “low blood sugar will make you even colder.”
“You’re not my mother,” Sherlock grouses, but he picks up the bar and starts peeling it out of its wrapping.
“No, but I am your doctor.” John sits down across from Sherlock and takes another bite of his ration bar. He suppresses a shudder of disgust and takes another bite.
In the dim light that the storm lets in, John can barely make out Sherlock’s face now that the light of his holo has gone out. “You’re not my doctor anymore, though,” Sherlock says after a bit, and John is sure he doesn’t imagine the wistfulness in Sherlock’s voice, and the slight emphasis in the word ‘my’ sends a shiver down John’s spine.
It brings out a truth that John has been sitting on ever since Sherlock jumped. “I’ll always be your doctor,” he mutters into the quiet. I’ll always be yours. Whether you want me or not. Whether we ever go back to what we were or not. I’ll always, always be yours.
Sherlock is watching him. John can feel the intensity of all of that razor focus on his skin, but he can’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. He’s honestly afraid of what he’ll find there. He’s not ready for either rejection or acceptance, so he does what he has done so often in his life. Deflect, hide, run. “Did you find anything?” he asks, gesturing at the holo, trying to find safe ground again. The case is safe ground. The Work is a refuge, a shield and the lowest common denominator they can always fall back to.
He can hear Sherlock’s frustrated huff of breath, but he lets John change the subject. “Several possible entry points, but we need more information. Maybe Melly can get us the construction plans Magnussen submitted to the Titan government.”
“When this is over, you’re going to have to work for Melly for a solid year.”
Sherlock just shrugs.
John finishes his ration bar and takes a swig of water, then hands the bottle to Sherlock. Silence falls, and he can hear Sherlock’s impatience build with every minute they sit here, doing nothing.
“How long will this last?” Sherlock asks, irritated, tapping his fingers against the holo with impatience.
John shrugs. “No idea. Could be an hour, could be three.”
Sherlock sighs, and John has to smile. “I know. You’re bored. And all things being equal, you’d rather be tortured than be bored,” he says, quoting back a line Sherlock has used many times before.
There’s a noticeable pause before Sherlock answers, “Oh, I don’t know. I think I somewhat overestimated the fun factor of torture in the past.”
Sherlock is trying to keep his tone light, but John can hear the strain. John closes his eyes and tries not to think of the implication of what Sherlock just said, of what must have happened while he was gone. The marks on his back. Finally, John decides to stop being a fucking coward and does what he quite honestly should have done weeks ago, maybe months ago, but had been too angry to do. He opens his eyes, looks directly at Sherlock, who’s watching him warily, and asks, “What did you do for the two years you were gone?”
Sherlock shrugs, dropping his gaze to his hands still fidgeting with his holo. He’s quiet for so long that John isn’t sure he will answer, and when he speaks, his voice is so quiet it's hard to hear over the roaring of the storm outside. “I told you. I went to war.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
Sherlock shrugs again. “I went after Moriarty’s network. He was working off the Jupiter stations mostly, had a few bases of operation on Europa and Io, but they weren’t closely connected to the network on Titan. I spent the first six months station hopping, looking for leads, for a way in. Then I worked my way up the chain of command. It was shockingly easy, really. Turns out having nothing left to lose is a distinct advantage when it comes to undercover work.” Sherlock’s voice is brittle and with a streak of self-loathing that John doesn’t like.
“You got caught, didn’t you?” he asks, gently, because he can see it now, can understand now. The feverish gleam of Sherlock’s eyes when he got back, the new hardness of his face, the way he’s so much less boastfully arrogant. The marks on his back, his cagey reluctance now.
“Mycroft promised he’d let me come home if I took out the boss on one of the Europa stations, Little Belgrade. I wanted to get it over with. I got sloppy.” Sherlock’s voice is dry and matter-of-fact, but he’s looking out of the storm-darkened window and studiously avoiding John’s eyes. “I wanted to go home,” Sherlock says quietly, and John has to shift forward to hear him talk. The darkness helps, he thinks. The fact that they can barely see each other, don’t have to stare it in the face in the glare of day, what the last two years have done to them, have reduced them to. “They caught me. It was… an unpleasant experience. But Mycroft rescued me and chucked them out of an airlock. I got to watch them drift off into space. It was… rather satisfying.”
“I would have ripped them limb from limb,” John says, unable to stay quiet anymore. “I would have made them scream and made them watch each other die.”
Sherlock finally, finally, looks at John, meets his eyes, and he gives him a small smile, all sadness. “I know.”
They look at each other for what seems like a long time before John finally has the courage to speak. “Do you think I’m ungrateful?” he asks, finally voicing what’s been on his mind since Mycroft said it this morning.
“I thought we agreed long ago not to listen to Mycroft,” Sherlock says, but there’s something in his voice, anger and sadness and a nameless frustration.
John snorts, and Sherlock gives him a small half-smile. “Well, yes, but I can’t help but wonder whether he had a point, just this once? Am I punishing you for saving me?”
“I made you watch me die by suicide, John,” Sherlock points out. “Don’t for a second think that I’m not aware that what I did to you was unspeakably horrible.”
“But you did it to save me. Everybody seems to be harping on that point. Like I’m supposed to shrug off everything else. Molly, Billy, Mycroft, even Lestrade. But not you. Not so far, anyhow. So. Tell me. Am I being ungrateful?”
Sherlock is silent for so long that John thinks he’s not going to answer, and he resigns himself to it just about the time that Sherlock starts speaking again. “I didn’t do it for you. Not really. Not only. I jumped so you’d live, yes, but I could have stayed in Mycroft’s basement for a few months and let his agents handle it. I wanted to be able to live safely, and for you to live safely, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, but I also wanted to clean up my mess. For once in my life, I wanted to take responsibility for my mess and actually do something to clean it up instead of just leaving everything to Mycroft the way I always did before. Overdose, Mycroft. Trouble with the law, Mycroft. Can’t make rent, Mycroft. And Mycroft did help me this time as well, and he would have just taken care of it. But we both knew that I was the most qualified person to lead the mission, because this wasn’t espionage, or politics. No, this was crime. And that’s the one thing I know more about than Mycroft.” He looks at John and gives him a small, fond smile. “I went to war because I thought I had something of value to contribute. Turns out you’re a bad influence on me.”
“And now tell me something,” John says, with a subtle dread in his stomach, because this, as they say, is it. The heart and the core of the issue. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before you jumped?”
“There wasn’t time,” Sherlock says, and John can see him get impatient. “There were sniper—”
“Fuck the bloody sniper drones, Sherlock,” John interrupts, sharp and angry, but it’s a quiet sort of anger. An anger that wants bloody answers, for once. “You set this up. You planned it. You schemed with Mycroft, with Billy. You sent me away, you went to meet Moriarty on that bloody roof alone. After everything we’d been through together, you just…” John makes a helpless gesture of fury, “cut me out.”
“I was trying to keep you safe,” Sherlock says, impatient and exasperated. “He would have killed you.”
“You do realise you could have gone through with your bloody stupid plan anyway, even if I’d known? If you’d told me it might come to this, you could still have faked your death.”
“It was imperative that your reaction be genuine. It wouldn’t have been if you’d known. And you would have insisted on coming with me, and I wouldn’t have been able to say no, and the mission would have failed.”
“So, bottom line,” John says, catching Sherlock’s eyes, even though they can barely see each other in the dim light, “you didn’t trust me.”
He can see surprise register on Sherlock’s face, and he can also see that this is a genuinely new idea to Sherlock, so he continues, “Do you remember the pool?”
“Not something you forget,” Sherlock answers quietly, obviously curious where John is going with this.
“Do you remember when you were about to shoot the bomb?”
Sherlock nods and John continues, “You looked at me, and you asked. You gave me a choice. And I chose to die there, with you, and I thought, he gets it. He knows I’d rather die with him than live ten lifetimes without him. He knows we’re in this together, or not at all. And then you went and did all of that going it alone shit all over again. I thought we were partners. I thought you respected me. I thought you loved me. But then you plotted and planned behind my back, didn’t share your fears, didn’t include me in your plans, didn’t give me a choice. Then you lied and you lied and you lied, for two years, you lied. Every day you got up and you decided to continue lying. And all that time, it didn’t occur to you once to just have a tiny bit of faith in me, and to trust me with the truth. It didn’t occur to you that you might sit me down and tell me why I couldn’t go to war with you. It didn’t even cross your mind that someone who served in an active war zone might understand that their presence could endanger your mission and your life. So, you treated me not like your partner, not like a comrade in arms, but like a child who didn’t deserve and wasn’t capable of making an informed decision.”
Sherlock looks…stricken. There’s no other word for it. He looks like John punched him in the gut, like John reached into his mind and flicked a switch, and John finally realises that up until now, Sherlock didn’t wholly and fully understand exactly why John is so angry. Sherlock swallows, and John sees the gears in his mind turning, sees him re-examine John’s argument to find the logical fallacy, but John knows there isn’t one.
“It wasn’t you I didn’t trust,” Sherlock finally says, quietly. “Do you know what I remember most, when I remember the pool? I remember the moment he looked at me, with those snake eyes of his, and he said he’d burn the heart out of me. And that second I realised he meant you. And I knew that if he killed you, it’d be my fault. Because I played with fire and you got burned. And I knew that if I took you along with me he’d find a way to kill you, even from beyond the grave. But I was so afraid that if you knew I was alive, I wouldn’t be able to leave you behind. I’d take you with me because being without you is excruciating, and I’m so selfish. I wouldn’t have been able to withstand the temptation. And I would probably have gotten us both killed. ”
John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He’s tired, and he’s sad, and he has no idea how to feel about anything right now. “So you decided to go it alone, and only get yourself killed.”
“I will always choose your life over mine, if I’m presented with the choice, and please don’t be hypocritical enough to say that you wouldn’t do the exact same thing.”
“That’s not the same, Sherlock. I don’t blame you for a split second decision, I blame you for two plus years of lying and deceiving and going behind my back.”
Sherlock is quiet for a long time, and John is seriously thinking about just going to sleep when Sherlock finally speaks.
“I made a mistake,” Sherlock says quietly, not looking at John but looking at his hands. “I forgot that while I can’t trust myself, I can always trust you.” He looks up and meets John’s eyes, and John is overwhelmed by the emotion he can see there. “I can’t take back the past, John. I can only try to do better now. And I can start by not lying to you anymore.”
John swallows and repeats the question from earlier. “Why did you take this case? Really? Was it because of Magnussen?”
Sherlock smiles at him, sad and wistful. “A bit. But mostly, I took this case because I missed you, and because I knew you wouldn’t turn it down. It was the perfect opportunity, the perfect excuse to go and see you, to work with you. To see whether you might have cooled down enough to see whether you could forgive me. Or whether you even wanted to try.”
“I want to,” John says, the conflicting emotions ravaging his chest making his voice unsteady. “I’m not sure I can. But I want to.”
Sherlock’s sad smile remains. “That’s more than I have the right to ask for.”
Silence falls as they look at each other. John’s exhausted, but he feels like they achieved something momentous, like they’re finally understanding each other. It doesn’t make everything magically okay, but it's a giant step in the right direction.
"John?" Sherlock’s voice is tentative, unsteady with emotion.
John nods for Sherlock to go ahead and say whatever he has to say.
"I don't know if you want to hear this right now, but I have to say it, and I hope you know that I don't expect a response."
John nods again when Sherlock pauses.
He can see Sherlock swallow heavily before he continues, "I didn't realise until yesterday, you see. That you even considered that I might have left you behind because I didn't want you there. That I…" Sherlock pauses, then continues as if the words physically pain him, "That I don't love you. And that's… not true. That was never true. Not for one second."
John rubs a hand over his face. God he's exhausted. But even though Sherlock said he didn't need to answer, he feels like he should. In the spirit of trying to be honest with each other. “I believe you, I do. At least I do now. But you need to understand that if I can’t trust you, and if you don’t trust me, all the love in the world won’t make a difference. We’ll be right here again when you decide to keep me on a need to know basis, and I don’t know whether I can believe a word you say to me.”
Some of the tension goes out of Sherlock with John’s answer, and he nods. He looks like he wants to say something, but apparently thinks better of it.
Silence falls, and it’s both heavy and oddly comfortable. John feels wrung out, and from the expression on Sherlock’s face, he feels similarly exhausted.
The storm rages on, pelting the sides of the antigrav with pebbles and hail made of frozen methane. It’s oddly soothing. John closes his eyes and lets his body rest against the side of the antigrav.
He doesn’t realise that he’s falling asleep until he’s almost gone. A sudden warmth wrapping around him drags him briefly back from the brink, and he mutters a quiet, “Thank you,” as scratchy wool is draped over him.
He falls asleep to Sherlock’s whispered, “You’re welcome,” letting the howling of the wind, and Sherlock’s even breathing lure him into unconsciousness.
*-*
“Sherlock, please.”
“Please step away from the ledge.”
“Please stop this. Please. Please don’t. We can fix this. We can leave. Just you and me, right? Who cares about anyone else. Please come down. Please. Stay with me. Don’t leave me.”
“Goodbye, John.”
“No. No! Please, God, no, no, no, no-”
“John.”
“No, please, please don’t, stay with me.”
“John. Wake up.”
John’s eyes fly open with a strangled, horrified noise as he all but launches himself bodily out of the nightmare. It’s dark, the dim light of a holo projection the only illumination. Sherlock is very close, gentle hands on his shoulders. For a horrible moment, John isn’t sure where he is, and what’s happening, and that any of this is real.
“Blood,” he mutters, “there was a lot of blood.”
Pavement. Hospital. Hands holding him back. Dark curls matted with blood, sightless eyes. No pulse. No life. Cold.
“John. Look at me.” Sherlock’s voice is gentle, but firm. “Look at me.”
John looks at Sherlock, who looks terrible, harrowed and exhausted in the dim light. John raises a hand and traces it over the place where the wound was, the solidity of the bone, the reality of messy curls not plastered to a broken skull. He slides his hand down Sherlock’s— warm, alive, safe, here—face and feels for the pulse at his carotid. Strong, if not especially steady.
Sherlock’s breath hitches, and John can feel the tremor running through Sherlock’s body.
“You’re here,” John whispers, still trapped in the naked terror of the nightmare. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
Sherlock puts his hand over John’s, presses it into the pulse point at his neck. “Yes. I’m here. I promise, I’m here.”
John breathes and tries to claw back a bit of his composure, but it’s hard, it was so real, he could smell the blood on the pavement, hear the way Sherlock’s voice trembled and broke.
“John.”
John’s eyes snap back to Sherlock’s. Sherlock grabs both his hands and puts them on the side of Sherlock’s face, on his—intact, beautiful, alive—skull, hands pressing John’s into his skin. “Look at me, John. I’m here. I’m fine.”
John’s breath hitches, almost a sob. He feels raw and cut wide open and not entirely conscious, but he lets the reassuring pressure of Sherlock’s unbroken skin, the intensity of Sherlock’s eyes on his—hungry, devouring, ravaging eyes—pull him slowly back into himself, into his body.
He lets out a long, shuddering breath, lets Sherlock put their foreheads together, lets Sherlock’s ragged, uneven, but undoubtedly there, breathing soothe him.
Slowly, John calms down. Slowy, he comes back to himself. It’s all right, he thinks. He’s here, he’s fine, he’s alive. Slowly, John breathes and he breathes and lets the relief take over. For the first time, maybe, he lets himself feel the bottomless, fathomless relief held at bay so long by anger and resentment.
He pulls back and looks at Sherlock, who looks about as ravaged as John feels. “You’re alive,” he whispers, not trying to hold back the fierce gladness he feels, the enormous relief that he doesn’t have to live the rest of his life with this yawning, gaping chasm of pain and emptiness inside of him. “You’re alive.”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers back, fierce and gentle and broken. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
John decides he’s heard enough. “Shut up,” he mutters and pulls Sherlock into a kiss.
It’s not gentle and hesitant, like their words, no, this is their bodies talking now. It’s hard and fierce and almost bruising. It’s fingers grabbing and lips meeting and tongues battling, it’s bodies saying I missed you and Finally and Home.
Sherlock pulls John into his lap and they all but collapse against the far side of the antigrav. Sherlock’s hands are everywhere and John feels Sherlock’s body underneath him shuddering and trembling like a leaf, and he knows he’s no better off. He’s wanted this so badly for so long. To be touched and seen and wanted like this, like oxygen, like sustenance, like the next breath, and the one after that.
They kiss and kiss and kiss, hands roaming over chests and backs and arms, grabbing, pulling. John pulls off Sherlock’s thermal shirt, and Sherlock tries unsuccessfully to peel John out of his jumpsuit, but they’re unwilling to let go of each other for long enough to actually undress.
The storm still raging outside swallows their harsh breaths and their greedy mouths swallow moans and pleas and whispered vows. “Never again—” and “I missed you so much—” and “God I love you—” muttered against skin, against Sherlock’s pecs, John’s throat. Hungry fingers carding through curls, holding and begging. “There, please, god, there—”
Somehow, John doesn’t exactly know how, they make it out of most of their clothing, and the feeling of all that skin against his is beyond amazing. He feels like he just came out of a coma, like he’s blinking his eyes open for the first time in two years, like his heart is re-starting. He’s trembling and shaking and utterly incapable of stopping himself from touching and grabbing every part of Sherlock he can reach. Closer, closer, closer. Sherlock’s similarly affected, hands grabbing at every part of John he can reach, shaking fingers on the zippers and buttons of his remaining clothes, peeling John out of the rest of his layers and breathing reverent kisses on every inch of exposed skin.
They land on a pile of scratchy blankets and discarded clothes, Sherlock hovering over John, devouring him with greedy eyes. John pulls him down on top of him, and it feels heavenly, being touched all over, being warm and desired and feeling all that pent-up emotion well up inside of him, all the want and the loneliness of the last few years. Sherlock’s naked body against his is both incredibly arousing and so comforting while Sherlock’s greedy kisses are breathing life and warmth back into his body. They kiss and kiss, unable to stop, unable to take their hands off each other. John’s cock is hard and leaking against Sherlock’s stomach, and he knows when Sherlock finally touches him he won’t last long. He feels as tightly wound as an overwound bowstring, and from the way Sherlock trembles with the slightest brush of John’s body against his cock, he’s not much better off.
After what seems like ages, Sherlock rolls them to their sides, still facing each other, and wraps his hand around both their cocks. John pulls him in and they do their best to keep kissing while Sherlock slowly takes them both apart with his hands, but they mostly just smear their mouths together and pant incoherently into each other’s skin.
John’s orgasm builds quickly, and he comes moaning Sherlock’s name into his skin.
Sherlock follows just seconds after, and then they simply lie there, panting against each other’s mouths, hands still grabbing at each other. John’s are fisted in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock’s rest possessively on John’s arse.
“That was a bit quicker than I would have liked,” John finally whispers against Sherlock’s lips.
Sherlock grins. “Well, we have absolutely nowhere to go, so I’d say we can try a repeat performance.”
“Best idea I’ve heard all night,” John mutters and pulls Sherlock in for a deep, dirty, filthy kiss.
*-*
It’s cold and uncomfortable. They’re sticky, the floor is rough, and the air around them reeks of sex and sweat.
John lies with his head pillowed on Sherlock’s chest in a makeshift nest of scratchy, woollen emergency blankets, thermal underwear, messy jumpsuits and discarded ration bar wrappers. He feels fucked out and flayed open and surprisingly content. He’s not asleep, but he’s drifting. Sherlock’s fingers carding through his hair are making him feel boneless and blissed out.
“John?” Sherlock mutters, almost too quiet to be heard, but John’s so close to him that they’re practically fused together, pressed skin to skin from toes to heads, and John can feel Sherlock talking as well as hear him. It’s wonderful. He can’t get close enough.
At this rate we’ll stick together, John thinks, smiling a bit stupidly into the skin of Sherlock’s chest. Good.
He makes an inquiring noise to indicate to Sherlock that he’s listening, if not entirely awake.
He can feel Sherlock’s hesitation in the hitching of his breath, the tiny pause of fingers carding through his hair. “Am I…” Again a pause, and now John lifts his head to look Sherlock in the face. He looks like someone—John—turned him inside out and upside down and he hasn’t had time yet to pull himself together again. It is a look John has always loved. Sherlock swallows, and John makes an encouraging sound, urging him to go on.
“Am I forgiven?” Sherlock finally says, sounding insecure and hesitant and so very unlike the Consulting Detective Genius that John’s heart stutters a bit. There he is, he thinks. The Sherlock only I ever get to see. Remember this, Watson. Remember this the next time he’s the System’s only consulting arsehole. Remember this remarkable person loves you, for no other reason than that you’re you.
Still, John hesitates, and he hates himself a bit for it, and for the unvarnished dread he sees in Sherlock’s eyes. “I need you to understand something,” John finally says, when he’s figured out the words to use to express this. “When you talk about my life and your life and choosing one over the other. You need to understand that there’s no difference. Sherlock Holmes lives means John Watson lives. I survived your death. But I wasn’t alive, Sherlock. Not really. There’s no point to anything without you. So to answer your question, of course I forgive you.”
He can feel the relief in every tendon and muscle of Sherlock’s body pressed against his, and he can see it in Sherlock’s face as he closes his eyes and breathes, “Thank you. Thank you,” against John’s hair, pressing his lips against John’s hairline.
John grins, feeling lighter than air all of a sudden. “I won’t pretend that it didn’t help that you finally, you know, actually apologised.”
Sherlock’s laugh is more breath than sound against his sweaty skin. “I never got around to it the first time I tried.”
John grimaces a bit. “I was too angry to listen. I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s all right. I understand. I wasn’t very… sensitive, I suppose. I should have led with the apology. I was just so scared about how you’d react, that you’d tell me to fuck off—which you did—but I somehow thought if I acted as if it hadn’t been a big deal, it wouldn’t be. And then when you threw me out, I had to face the fact that I’d done something unforgivable, and that you might—not.”
John lifts his head and gazes at Sherlock, and marvels at the self control it must have taken Sherlock to leave John alone for the time he needed to cool down. And the courage it must have taken Sherlock to face John again, in the full knowledge that John might not forgive him, and with no expectation of being forgiven. “Thank you for coming to get me,” he says, and he doesn’t care that his voice isn’t entirely steady. “I’m so glad you did.”
Sherlock smiles. “Me too,” he says, pulling John up for a kiss. “Me too.”