Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s raining on Titan.

The liquid methane pounds against the biodome, the orange clouds obscuring the sky.

Inside the biodome, condensation—from millions of humans breathing and sweating, and the stark contrast with the temperature outside— drips down in a poor imitation of the storm raging outside. It runs down the glass-covered facades of the tall skyscrapers that make up the upper levels of the city, down the brick walls of the middle classes and down the concrete walls of the tenements, before it collects, dirty and grey, in the puddles on the floors of the hovels that make up the Dregs.

Down in the Dregs, all the refuse from the shiny new world upstairs collects and runs in rivulets down into the methane sea, where it instantly freezes and sinks to the bottom.

John opens the little glass roof of his tiny courtyard garden, where he grows a few herbs that come in handy at the clinic, and breathes in the moist, humid air. A few drops of condensation fall on his face and into his hair.

He wonders, not for the first time and probably not for the last, what actual, real rain feels like. What it must be like, standing outside and smelling the earth as it soaks up the water.

Real water. Not synthesised, not cleansed.

Sherlock would scoff at this distinction, of course. Water is water, John. H2O. Chemistry. Science. Objectifiable truth.

The thing about Sherlock is that he never understood that there’s another sort of truth. A truth that has nothing to do with fact.

John turns away and dismisses the thought. He’s long since stopped caring what Sherlock would say. He wipes the moisture off his face but lets the drops linger in his hair. It feels good. It makes him feel alive.

That’s a rare commodity these days, and he’ll take what he can get.

*-*

His first patient of the day is a young woman with a malfunctioning contraception implant. She pays for half an hour of his time with an apple and an offer that John turns down.

Next he sees two local kids, one with a broken arm and one with the worst case of the Titan Measles he’s ever seen. He sets the bone and immobilises the broken arm, and is paid in actual hard currency for once. The second kid gets some antivirals, along with herbs for tea to soothe her raw throat until the antivirals kick in. John then tells her parents to come back when she’s healthy and he’ll see about getting all five of their kids vaccinated. Her parents pay with a hand-knitted jumper, a few old silicium chips they salvaged out of a dump site down by the docks, and a chicken.

He dumps the silicium chips in the battered old refiner and hopes the power will last until they’re cleaned. They’ll make valuable spare parts for all sorts of synthetic limbs, not the least of which is his own.

In the afternoon, he sees a few regulars. Sarah, who’s pregnant and scared, and comes in twice a week with home-made biscuits and hands shaking with the Titan cold that’s seeping into her bones. Irina, who bought her synthetic eye on the black market and got a motherfucker of an infection for her trouble. Lenny, a shaky drug addict who comes to John for a fix. John gives him a saline infusion and some food. If John worked in a proper hospital, like the one he trained in on Io, he’d see about getting Lenny into rehab or a halfway house. But here, in this city, with this patient, John has nothing to offer but kindness and half an hour in a warm bed. The next regular is Li, a hard-bitten veteran who has three synthetic limbs from her three Mars tours. She curses him out when he does something that hurts—inevitable, really, when you’re replacing nanochips in synthetic limbs that are fully integrated into the body’s nervous system—but gives him a gruff hug when he waves off payment with what are obviously her last credit chips.

His last patient is Harold, another regular and Mars veteran, whose synthetic leg has been acting up. “Shitty Magnussen parts,” he complains while John solders the faulty wires and re-sets the chip for the tenth time in six months. “They always dump their refuse on us because they know nobody gives a fuck about us vets.”

John doesn’t argue (it’s true in one way and complete shit in another) and sends Harold on his way, waving off payment like he always does for the veterans. Harold lost his leg in the same war that still gives John nightmares, that busted up his shoulder, and that sent him reeling and ricocheting all over the solar system until he lodged into Titan like a rusty old dart that got stuck in the board. Harold didn’t know John then, he served on the other side of the planet in a different unit, but they’re still brothers. John knows that tonight, while Harold is still sober, he will go over to John’s house and leave something on the doorstep. Bread. A knife he found in the gutter, repaired and cleaned and sharpened until it was a worthy gift. Basil seeds. A peony. John finds these gifts on his doorstep every day, and he recognizes them as the blessings they are.

John spends the evening in his workshop, repairing and configuring the silicium chips. They’re old, but they’re more reliable and a lot cheaper than the new Titan silver chips. Plus, John has three in his arm. One he’s done with the chips, he walks home, through dark alleys, past houses and tenements, bars and cafes and small shops. Past prostitutes and addicts high on Dust lying in the gutter, staring empty-eyed at nothing. Light and roaring drunk laughter spills out onto the wet pavement in front of the bar around the corner from his house. He knows that if he went in there, he could have a beer, some laughs and a hot plate of food he wouldn’t need to pay for.

He goes home. Once inside, he examines the variety of gifts that people leave on his doorstep every day, from drawings to flowers to food. He eats leftover pad thai noodles and reads an ancient spy novel by the dim light of a flickering lightbulb. He makes a pot of tea and sips it slowly, enjoying the aroma. Then he watches the Holonews. Elections on the core stations. Prime Minister of Io’s state visit to Titan. Dispute over Titan silver mining rights. Drug addict’s apparent suicide, solidly frozen body was dragged out of the Methane Sea last night. Low-Gravity Football tournament on the Moon—with the usual rant about the ridiculousness of still calling Earth’s moon “The Moon”, when there’s hundreds of moons, including several with larger populations and more importance to the System.

John switches off the holo, annoyed by the discussion.

When the electricity cuts out—third time this week—he sits in his tiny garden and looks out at the small patch of sky he can see. He will never get used to the way Saturn looms over this tiny world, but he’s grateful for any small patch of sky, even a hazy one.

It’s the only thing he misses from the Mars campaign. Days on Mars were hell. The winds and the constant vigilance and the ridiculous inch by inch advances and retreats, years spent in trenches, blood spilled over worthless pieces of rock because both the System leaders and Separatists want the precious ores under Mars’ crust.

But the night sky on Mars was brilliant and bright, nothing like he’d ever seen before or since. John was born on a station and at first all that space on Mars was intimidating, with no four walls around him. But he got used to it quickly, and learned to enjoy and appreciate the silence that comes with vast areas of empty space.

Here, nothing is empty. Every square inch of territory they’ve won from this hostile ice block of a moon is inhabited, used, planted, built on. Here, space is at a premium.

Here, this yard, this small enclave of green and sky, this tiny space to breathe and be still, is an invaluable luxury. It’s a sign of how much this community truly needs him, of how much he’s valued and appreciated.

It’s his space, his home. His people. It saved his life, quite literally. Twice. Once after he came here fresh from the war, reeling and hurting and ready to fall into the first available bottle. The second time after he trickled down from the upper reaches, an empty shell, sucked dry and thrown out by Sherlock Holmes like a used needle.

That’s what he was, in the end, he supposes. A quick fix. A distraction. Easily forgotten. Easily discarded.

Of course he didn’t know that then. When he came back here, he was nearly blind with grief and so broken that he could barely put one foot in front of the other. But these people welcomed him back as if he’d never left, and gave him a purpose again.

That purpose gave him the strength to tell Sherlock Holmes to go fuck himself when he came back. Not dead, indeed.

John wipes a hand over his face and unclenches his fist. No use being angry. It’s wasted energy. And what’s more, if he lets it, this anger will kill him. Will drive him straight into a heart attack, or a bottle, or the Dust that’s so easy to get. And he will not give Sherlock Fucking Holmes the satisfaction.

He looks up into the endless reaches of space, into the planet hovering above them, gas and ice, no real body, no solid, heated core. Just a cloud, held together by gravity and mass. By faith. Then he goes to bed and sleeps, wrapped tight in his duvet to keep out the cold seeping in from the icy core of Titan below.

*-*

Space is never truly warm. The only thing that truly generates heat in space is the presence of another body.

When John was a child, he sometimes used to sneak into the pens where they kept the animals. Cows, pigs, sheep. Dogs. John loved the dogs. He loved petting them and playing with them and curling up with warm fur under his fingers, feeling like one puppy among many. He was fascinated when Sherlock showed him the holos of the dog he had at his childhood home on Io. John’s mind was blown by the idea of actually owning a pet, having enough space to own a pet.

He dreams of warmth, of soft fur, of a teasing growl.

He dreams of bodies huddling together under a sheet of plastic to keep out the wind, camouflaged knees knocking into each other. Quick, half-dressed blowies behind thin barrack walls, a hot mouth on his cock, pleasure spiking and curling through his entire body.

He dreams of soft pillows and the hard angles of a familiar body pressed against his back, dreams of hands in his hair and tracing over his scar, lips on the nape of his neck, a deep baritone voice whispering his name reverently into his skin, the sticky sweat of skin against skin, the heat radiating from his heart into his toes.

He wakes up shivering and alone.

*-*

These days, John’s routine is well established and the days tend to blend into each other. He goes to the clinic in the morning, sees to patients until there aren’t any more, then does some maintenance work before going home to his tiny house. Occasionally, he has lunch with Mary, the technician who works at the clinic three days a week. She’s excellent with any synthetics, but she leaves the flesh and blood stuff to John. She was Mike’s last hire before he got a job on one of the Saturn stations, and he left her to John, along with his clinic, his patients and his house. Keeping Mary here was a good decision, maybe a better one than leaving the clinic to John, and John is grateful, because Mary’s presence eases the heavy loneliness he feels most days a little bit, and the clinic, dull as it can be, is a place he can go, a place where he’s needed and valued and necessary.

Sometimes, in the evenings, he goes for a pint at the local, a hole in the wall shack filled almost exclusively with veterans. It’s a place to have a drink and maybe some conversation if you’re in the mood. Many of his regular patients practically live there. The ones not addicted to Dust, that is.

Sometimes when he walks home, he allows himself a small detour past Angelo’s restaurant, the fanciest place in the Dregs. It even has tablecloths. On those nights he stands on the other side of the street and watches the table by the window. It’s always empty. Sometimes he closes his eyes and allows himself to think about sitting at that table, eating Angelo’s mouthwatering pasta and listening to Sherlock deduce the patrons. He thinks about his belly and his cheeks hurting from laughing and from too much food. Sherlock would give him a small smile when he was especially impressed by a deduction.

Sometimes he thinks of going to Baker Street and standing on the other side of the road and seeing if he can catch a glimpse of a shadow, a note of violin music.

These are the days that send John to the small hill outside the city, to the walls of remembrance that serve as graves in a world where digging up the ground isn’t really an option. He gathers the flowers he gets from his patients and walks towards the end of the rows, past hundreds of plaques rubbed nearly illegible from the touch of reverent fingers.

The plaque is unobtrusive. Cheap. A few people contributed, but they couldn’t afford marble, or even stone. The copper is soft and already oxidising. John occasionally cleans it, but it’s a pointless fight against time and physics. He always rubs his fingers over the H of her name, and puts the flowers into the tiny vase next to her plaque. And every time he looks over to the empty space where the other plaque used to be, the one made of the most exquisite marble, black lines cut into the stone. The one that used to read William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

It’s gone now, the four holes of the screws that used to hold it to the wall gaping empty like scars.

Sometimes, there’s a small candle resting next to Mrs Hudson’s plaque. Sometimes there’s a tea bag, or a button. John never touches the small offerings, but it does make him feel slightly less alone.

Maybe he isn’t the only one who misses their home after all.

*-*

The patients come and go. He gets every kind of problem, from gang stabbings to kidney stones to malfunctioning enhancement chips to obvious cases of drug withdrawal.

The rules stay the same. He asks only medically relevant questions, he accepts any form of payment except sexual favours and drugs, and he’s extremely careful about handing out pain medication.

He has a lot of regulars, but even they pass through this place like the water trickling down to the Sea. Many people who end up in the Dregs have nowhere to go but to prison or an early grave. Sometimes people come in every week for six months, then they’re gone, died of overdoses, sent to prison, or moved on to another place like this. Sometimes they even get back on their feet, get a better job, get dry, move on and up. Sometimes they move in with relatives. John hears of them through the grapevine, and he’s happy for those whose lives have gotten better. Yet sometimes he looks at the sky and thinks of just jumping into the next spaceship and leaving this place behind.

But the next morning he gets up, goes to his clinic, sees patients until there aren’t any left, then he goes home, eats dinner, sleeps, and starts the whole cycle again. And he will do this until the day he dies.

Sometimes that’s a comforting thought.

Sometimes it’s not.

Chapter Text

It’s Saturday, and theoretically the clinic is closed. It’s clean-up day for him and Mary, and sometimes people knock on their door to see whether they’re in. They see whatever patients come to their door, but usually it’s quiet and they do their cleaning in peace.

It’s an odd day from the start. The weak sunlight filters down into the Dregs of New London, misting up the moisture clinging to everything, giving the air a dishwater sort of quality.

The Dregs are quiet this morning. People go to work in the factories, bars, shops, or make their way to the wealthier districts to clean houses, drive hovercars, watch children, serve coffee. Members of the local gangs strut around and give each other threatening glares. The usual. But the slight mist in the air seems to have a dampening effect on the usual noise and chaos.

John walks the five minutes to work and, as always, gets a sweet bun and a coffee from Mrs Turner. Like every day he offers to pay, is refused, and swipes his credit chip over the tips bar when she isn’t looking. The coffee is bitter and could be used to strip paint, but it’s also hot enough to infuse a bit of warmth into John’s body, something his shoulder is especially grateful for. The damp makes him stiff, and sometimes he feels like he can hear the synthetic parts groan and rub against his protesting flesh.

When he reaches his clinic, he does a quick routine check of his prosthetic and resets a few circuits. It’s difficult work, repairing his own arm and shoulder joint, but he trusts nobody else to do it. The surgeon who put John back together after he was shot did a piss-poor job and is mainly responsible for the tremor in his hand that forced him out of the armed services and into a place like this. A place where nobody cares that his hands sometimes shake as long as his supplies are clean and they can pay him in chickens.

Of course that surgeon also saved his life, so there’s that. On balance, John would rather live. That’s a sentiment that he didn’t come by easily, and he clings to it with all the determination he has left.

Mary comes in with her breakfast, setting down her coffee on the desk. “Billy Wiggins is waiting outside. Are you seeing him?”

John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Send him in, then.”

Billy comes in and John motions for him to go to the examination room. “I’ll handle him, you start cleaning.”

Mary gives him an encouraging smile. “Will do, Doc.”

Billy’s seated next to the machine and has already plugged the optical cable into his synthetic eye.

“Do you even need me for this?” John asks, wavering between offended and amused.

Billy shrugs and holds out the diagnostic pad to John. “Rubbish spatial perception with one eye, Doc.”

John huffs out a small laugh and sits down. He checks the calibration of the scanner and takes a look at the reading. “What exactly is the problem?”

“Blurry vision, inability to focus.”

“And you’re sure it’s the implant and not the substance abuse?”

“Affecting just the one eye?”

John concedes the point with a shrug and concentrates on the diagnostics. “Software update, and a bit of recalibrating. Won’t take five minutes.”

“Them Magnussen parts need too much fucking maintenance,” Billy grouses, but he holds still as John installs the software and recalibrates the nerve impulse ratio.

“I could whittle you a wooden eye, if you want, and you could keep it clean with a rag and a bit of spit.”

“You’re funny. But you know what’d be even funnier? If I could just go out and buy an eye from another company.”

John shrugs. “You don’t have to convince me that medical monopolies are bad, Billy. I’m not spending my Saturdays fixing up old parts for the fun of it. I do it because Magnussen is the only company on Titan not giving me any free or reduced-fee samples. I pay market price for any and all replacement parts, and I have to buy software updates, too.”

“No worries, Doc, I can pay,” Billy says and hands his credit chip over to John.

John rolls his eyes and thinks about refusing Billy’s money, because he knows where it comes from. Drugs. And Sherlock. But in the end, John takes it, because money is money, and if he didn’t take Dust money, he’d have to close this place down. And his patients aren’t the only ones with nowhere else to go.

There’s a pause as John detaches Billy from the machine and once he’s free, Billy just sits still.

John waits quietly for the inevitable.

Finally, Billy speaks. “He’s asking about you.”

John shrugs and says nothing, doing his best to hide the twinge that goes through his entire body.

“What should I tell him?”

John shrugs again. “Whatever the fuck you want,” he says and opens the door.

Billy gets the hint and leaves, but he hesitates in the door. “How long you both planning on keeping this up, then?”

John shrugs a third time. “He knows where to find me if he has something to say.”

“You told him to get fucked, from what I heard,” Billy points out.

“Can you honestly blame me?”

Billy scratches a hand through his unruly hair. “Guess not. It’s just…”

“What?” John asks, a tiny bit curious in spite of himself.

“He doesn't look so good.”

“Do I look like I care?” John asks, eyebrows raised, hand clenched around the doorknob so Billy won’t see it shake.

Billy snorts. “Whatever you’re feeling for him, Doc, I’m pretty sure it’s not indifference.”

“Fuck off, Billy,” John replies, but he knows his voice lacks both heat and conviction. Fuck Billy for being right and fuck Sherlock fucking Holmes for everything else.

Billy grins at him and salutes. “Sure thing, Doc.”

John closes the door in Billy’s face, then leans against it, pressing his forehead against the cool wood.

He breathes deeply and lets go of the door handle, flexing his fingers, telling himself again and again that he doesn’t care, he isn’t angry, he isn’t hurt. It’s over, it’s done. It was never real. It was never anything at all.

He nods to himself and gets the cleaning supplies.

*-*

They met over a corpse, characteristically. One of John’s patients. John had been invalided out of the Army for five months, drifted to Titan and had just started working at Mike Stamford’s clinic in the Dregs. It was a menial job, two days a week seeing to coughs and faulty implants, with a steady stream of veterans showing John how bleak his future was.

Then, one day, he was called into the New London hospital morgue to identify the body of a patient. Suicide, apparently. The fifth that month. All from the Dregs, all poor and unimportant, dock workers, prostitutes, drug addicts. The police hadn’t cared.

But Sherlock had. He'd only cared because it was a puzzle, because it was interesting. But he’d cared. And before John knew it, Sherlock was putting him together like a 3D holopuzzle and they were running down alleys together. After their first case, Sherlock asked John if he was interested in a flatshare, and John said yes and didn’t look back until the day Sherlock jumped off the roof of New London Hospital.

And then Sherlock walked back into John’s life two years later as if nothing had happened at all. As if he hadn’t shattered John. As if he hadn’t lied, and betrayed, and razed everything they’d been to each other into the fucking ground.

It’s been two months, and John’s hands still shake when he thinks of it. So he doesn’t.

As far as he is concerned, Sherlock Holmes died two years ago. Everything they were died two years ago.

Sometimes John even believes it.

*-*

It’s a quiet morning. Not even his regulars find their way to the clinic. Mary deep-cleans the workshop while John does the weekly sterilisation to supplement the cleaning he does on the go. They meet in the kitchen for a quick cuppa around noon. Mary’s brought sandwiches, and John gratefully accepts one. They make small-talk about Mary’s flatmate, about their patients. Mary’s from the Core Stations too, and they talk a bit about their upcoming presidential elections.

“You think Muratti has a chance?” Mary asks as she bites into her second egg sandwich.

John shrugs. “I don’t think it really matters. The System Council decides everything important anyway.”

“Pity. I like her. Plus, she’s incredibly attractive. I would definitely sleep with her.” Mary winks at him, and John laughs a bit.

“Important qualification for a president, no doubt, but I’m not entirely sure she swings your way,” he quips, teasing Mary, even though he knows she has a point, and elections are pretty much beauty contests. John had always suspected that politicians are just fronts for the people who really run the System, and ever since he first met Mycroft Holmes, he knows this for a fact.

“Harold’s replacement servo finally arrived, by the way,” Mary adds, matter-of-fact again, pointing at the package behind her. “You seen him around?”

John shakes his head. “Nope.”

Mary shrugs. “He’ll be in sometime next week to get it installed, I suppose.”

John shrugs as he rises to his feet. People like Harold, they come and go. It’s the nature of the Dregs. He’s gotten used to it. He’s had to.

He thanks Mary for lunch and then goes back to work.

He’s just about done with laundry when there’s a knock on the back door. John frowns and exchanges a long look with Mary. The back door isn’t easily accessible, it just leads to a small courtyard where they house their bins. It’s only accessible through the house they share the courtyard with, and that house has been empty for a few months. Nobody has ever knocked on that door. Ever.

John gets up from his seat and walks towards the door with a feeling of foreboding he attributes to years of walking into shitty situations with his eyes wide open. Even now, he knows he has a choice.

He could just ignore the knock.

Well.

He could, if he wasn’t John Watson.

Unfortunately, John Watson has never been able to ignore a knock in his life. And if he’s completely, entirely honest with himself, he’s been waiting for this particular knock for two months.

John opens the door.

Billy was right. Sherlock looks terrible. Thin and pale, hair dull, dark circles under his eyes. He gives John a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

John just looks at him. Then he slams the door in Sherlock’s face.

Or he tries to, but Sherlock has his foot wedged in the frame. He winces in pain as the door hits his foot. “I’m afraid this isn’t exactly a social call,” Sherlock says, as he pushes the door open.

And just like that, John is fucking livid. “Get. Fucked.”

Sherlock presses his lips together impatiently, having the nerve to look slightly annoyed. “I understand the sentiment, but this really isn’t the time.”

John just gapes at him, incredulous and furious. “Get your fucking foot out of my door before I break it.”

Sherlock looks at John for a long time, then he slowly removes his foot.

John slams the door and breathes hard, trying to calm the racing of his heart.

He closes his eyes and counts to ten. Slowly, calm returns.

He rubs a hand over his face and sighs. Fuck.

Then, without allowing himself to think about what the actual fuck he’s doing, he opens the door again. Sherlock is waiting, looking utterly unsurprised by John’s change of mind, fuck him.

“This had better be spectacular,” John grates.

Sherlock shrugs. He sways a bit on his feet.

It becomes obvious to John that Sherlock is barely keeping upright, propelled mainly by adrenaline and willpower.

John inclines his head in the direction of the clinic, a silent ‘come in then if you have to’ gesture.

There’s something like relief in the lines of Sherlock’s body, and he gives John a small smile.

As he follows John into the clinic, John feels something in his chest uncurl, something that is unique to Sherlock Holmes, something like foreboding.

Something like anticipation.

The trouble is, he never could tell the two apart.

Chapter Text

John leads Sherlock, who’s unusually quiet and docile, into Exam One and motions for him to sit.

Mary sticks her head around the door, not even trying to hide her curiosity. “Oh,” she says as she sees Sherlock. “You.” Her tone is both amused and protective, and her eyes flick to John briefly.

John shrugs, because he really has nothing to say for himself. “Mary, you remember Sherlock, I suppose.”

Mary smirks at Sherlock, who glares at her with open annoyance. “Not exactly a scene you’re likely to forget.” She looks him over. “You look like shit.”

“Yes, thank you, Mary,” John intercedes before Sherlock can raze Mary to the ground with words John’s pretty sure he would never be able to un-hear. He gives Sherlock a pointed look. Sherlock just rolls his eyes, but says nothing. Then he turns to look at Mary, eyebrows raised in an unambiguous request to shut the fuck up.

Mary gets the hint and points at the door. “I’ll just get back to my work then.” She leaves but turns in the doorway and says, “Let’s leave the furniture intact this time, gents?”

John glares at her and she gives him a fake innocent smile before leaving John alone in a room with Sherlock Holmes for the first time in two months, and for the second time in two years, four months, five days, two hours and about thirty minutes, give or take.

For a few moments, they just look at each other, neither of them knowing what to say.

Finally Sherlock asks while gesturing at the door through which Mary left, “You broke some furniture?”

John shrugs. “Punched my fist through a glass cabinet. Cut my hand. It was stupid.”

Sherlock winces and silence falls again, heavy and leaden with all the words they haven’t said.

Sherlock is the first to speak again, “John…”

John raises his hand, because he doesn’t want to hear it. Excuses and explanations; he heard all of them when Sherlock showed up at his doorstep after two years of silence. There was a lot of I had to and He was going to kill you. John doesn’t need to hear it again. “Tea?”

Sherlock visibly deflates and gives a little sigh, like John is being irrational. It makes John want to break something again. “Please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Oh, manners. Now John is sure that Sherlock wants something. Something concrete, that is. Something bad.

“I’ll be right back,” John says and all but flees from the room before he does something stupid. The urge to punch Sherlock in the face and the urge to touch him, see if he’s really here, living, breathing, alive, are equally strong, and John knows there’s no way back from either path.

He takes extra care with the tea. Lets the water boil for a bit. Rinses out the pot before he spoons in the fragrant leaves of the special blend. The one he saves for guests or days when he’s just had enough of everything. He guesses this counts as both.

He sings under his breath while the tea steeps, the way his mother used to do it in their tiny kitchen compartment on Station Nine. She always said the song was the perfect steeping length. It’s an odd song, something about a ship, a proper ship that sails on water, not passes through stars. He’s been on spaceships, spent a good part of his life on them in fact, but he’s never even seen a body of water big enough to hold a ship, except through the portholes that gave them a perfect view of the blue planet in the distance. The planet that used to be home. John remembers sitting at that porthole, looking out and imagining what it must be like. Blue sky, bright sun. Actual gravity. He’s never been to Earth, he’s not rich or influential enough. Sherlock hasn’t even been. Well, as far as John knows. Maybe Sherlock went there in the two years he was gone. It’s just long enough that he could have made it there and back, with time to spare for sight-seeing. Sherlock is pale enough that a long space journey seems likely, at least.

John closes his eyes and imagines going into that room, handing Sherlock his tea and actually asking. Where did you go? What did you do? Was it worth it?

He knows he won’t, though, because he’s equally afraid of Sherlock answering, of hearing of adventures and dangers he wasn’t allowed to be a part of, and of Sherlock refusing to tell him, to be deemed not even worthy of that.

John looks down at the tea and tries to stop his hand from shaking as he pours the dark liquid through the streamer into the mug. He adds a splash of milk and a bit of sugar and goes back to Exam One, braced for whatever it is that brought Sherlock Holmes back into his life.

He’s armed with words, ready to demand what Sherlock is doing here, but the words die on his lips as he enters the room and sees Sherlock, slumped over the exam bed, fast asleep.

John leans against the door, tea in hand, and gently, quietly, sets the cup down next to Sherlock’s sleeping form. He briefly wonders whether he should worry, but a small snore lets him know that Sherlock’s really asleep, and not unconscious.

“Worked yourself into exhaustion, have you,” John says softly, resisting the urge to push the unruly hairs that fall into Sherlock’s forehead back from his brow, the way he used to do when they were still… whatever they were. Sherlock used to fall asleep like this, over his holo, his scanner, his research, and John used to wake him gently and steer him to bed. John always had to nudge him to eat, to sleep, to take care of himself. It fills John with a wistful sadness and an ugly satisfaction all at once that Sherlock apparently has nobody around to take care of him now.

He’s going to get himself killed again, John thinks and hates himself for the complex twisting hurt as the thought settles behind his breastbone.

He traces the familiar lines of Sherlock’s body with his eyes. The elegantly cut suit, the ridiculously vintage coat Sherlock loves so much. The curls are shorter, but still as riotous. Sherlock looks older, even in sleep. Harder. Even less like the young, enthusiastic, brilliant mad genius John met five years ago than on the day he came back. Something there, John thinks, something there got lost. Rubbed away by life. Innocence, maybe? Something else, even more essential?

He checks Sherlock’s brow for a temperature, then can’t help but run careful hands over his head, into his hair. John tells himself he’s looking for bumps, and it’s even halfway true, but his fingers linger a bit and he has to force himself to stop.

John doesn’t try to check the tiny sob that hitches his breath, as he wipes at his eyes with angry hands. Fuck, I’ve missed you so fucking much, he thinks even while wanting nothing more than to get Sherlock out as soon as humanly possible. Out of his house, his life, his heart.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Mary asks from the door.

John takes a step back from Sherlock’s prone form and raises an eyebrow at her.

She just shrugs. “Sorry. Not every day your ex shows at our inaccessible back door and falls asleep in our exam room.”

John gives her a small smile and looks back at Sherlock, who’s still deeply asleep. “Admittedly not a daily occurrence, but entirely on brand for him.”

“Well, he got your attention, I suppose.”

It’s an odd observation and it reminds John that above anything else, Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant liar and a master manipulator. He wishes he could tell Mary with confidence that Sherlock would never pull a stunt like working himself to exhaustion on purpose just to activate John’s Samaritan complex. But the thing is, he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock even in the least.

Seeing as Sherlock is fast asleep and apparently otherwise fine, John goes back to his work. He carefully inventories his store of medication. He’s running low on lidocaine and Titan Measles antivirals, so he orders more from the pharmacy of New London Hospital that supplies small clinics like his with the basics. He gets out more tubes of antiseptic gel used to treat wounds located on synthetic limbs and sorts them into the little cupboard in Exam Two, where he treats anything and everything mechanical.

Mary’s updating software and patient files, and John leaves her to get himself a cup of tea. He puts Sherlock’s in the warmer, to be ready when he wakes up. Sherlock hates cold tea.

At least that used to be true. John wonders absently, as he leans in the door and watches him sleep, how much of what he thinks he knows about Sherlock has any value anymore.

“I’ll never understand how you can drink that,” Mary says as she shrugs into her coat, ready to leave. “Tastes like dishwater and cigarette smoke.”

John smiles into his cup and shakes his head mildly. It’s an old argument. He looks at her and watches as she wraps her scarf around her neck and gives him a critical once-over.

She raises an eyebrow and nods at Exam One. “You’ll be all right here?”

John nods. “I can handle Sherlock Holmes.”

She gives a little disbelieving huff, which John admits might be warranted, and nods at him. “Good night, then. See you Monday.”

“Good night, Mary. Have a good Sunday.”

She gives him a last friendly nod, then leaves. The door clicking closed behind her is unnaturally loud.

John allows himself ten seconds to sag against the wall and fully appreciate that this is the first time he’s been truly alone with Sherlock Holmes since the morning of that awful, hateful day when Sherlock jumped.

He briefly checks Exam One, but Sherlock is still out for the count, so John wanders back into the tiny clinic kitchen and helps himself to one of the sandwiches Mary left for him. He goes to sit in Exam One and eats his sandwich while watching Sherlock sleep. It’s oddly peaceful. Well, Sherlock was always more easy to handle when he wasn’t actually conscious.

John bites down on a tiny, fond smile, wondering again how he can be simultaneously so angry and so achingly glad to see that mad bastard.

There’s a knock on the door. The front door this time. John checks the clock on the wall. Even if they were open, which they’re not, it would be late for a doctor’s visit.

The knock on the door gets louder, more persistent.

John sighs and looks at Sherlock’s still sleeping form. “What have you gotten yourself into?” he mutters, then gets up to answer the door.

He peeks through the door camera and sees three men he can only describe as thugs outside. So he carefully, very carefully puts his hand on the old-fashioned shotgun that’s hanging next to the door and opens it just enough to get a good look at the three unpleasant-looking thugs. “Clinic’s closed, gents,” he says, even though he knows in his guts that none of them have come for medical attention.

The middle thug, apparently the one in possession of the brain cell from the looks of him, gives what John suspects might be his best attempt at a pleasant smile. “Sorry to disturb, Doctor. We’re looking for a friend of yours.”

John keeps his face carefully neutral, because god, he hates to be right. Trouble follows Sherlock Holmes like it’s a stray dog. “Which one?” he asks, trying for a tone of idle curiosity, but he’s pretty sure it comes out tired.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the thug answers to John’s complete lack of surprise.

“We’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment,” John answers. He’s learned a few things about lying from Sherlock, and one of them is that you should do it sparingly. Tell the exact truth and omit a few key facts, and people’s minds will fill the blanks.

“So you haven’t seen him?”

John raises an eyebrow and says nothing, which the thugs don’t appreciate at all.

“Think I asked you a question,” the middle one growls.

“And I think I gave you an answer,” John says mildly. He’s stared down tanks, he can stare down a middle-aged thug with a beer gut. “I also think it’s been a long day and I want to go home. So I would suggest you gents get on your way, and I’ll make my way to my bed.”

One of the thugs takes a step forward, but John lets the shotgun slide into his hand and racks it. The unmistakable sound makes the thugs pause. The middle one raises his hands. “We don’t want any trouble, Doctor. We’re just looking for your friend.”

“Then keep looking. Somewhere else,” John says, his tone low and growling. Adrenaline is coursing through his system and he finds to his horror that a part of him actually wants the thugs to escalate. It’s been too long since he’s had a good brawl.

The thugs make the—ultimately wise but presently unsatisfying—decision to avoid a fight with the angry man with the shotgun and turn around to leave.

The thug who did all the talking turns around just as they’re about to pass out of earshot and says, “If you do happen to speak to Holmes, tell him Melly doesn’t like it if you don’t pay her.”

John shuts the door without answering.

He leans his forehead against the cool wood and closes his eyes, breathing deeply as the adrenaline slowly leaves his system. His hands are shaking from not fighting, in stark contrast to the steadiness of his fingers as they closed around the barrel of his gun.

Fuck, what is wrong with him?

“That was rather impressive.”

John nearly jumps out of his skin and turns around to see Sherlock leaning in the open doorway that leads from the hallway to the exam rooms.

John sags against the door and lets out a deep breath. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the wood. He needs to get a fucking grip before he either punches Sherlock in that beautiful fucking perfect face or he runs out of here as fast as his feet will carry him.

He waits as his body slowly eases out of fight or flight. Sherlock is being uncharacteristically still and quiet.

Finally, John thinks he can look at Sherlock without erupting into violence or bursting into tears, so he opens his eyes.

Sherlock is still leaning in the doorway, watching John warily and yet with that sort of hungry intensity in his quicksilver eyes that used to turn John’s bones into water.

Finally, Sherlock straightens and nods at the door. “Thank you.”

John shrugs, because whatever he might or might not feel about Sherlock Holmes, he’s not going to turn him over to people who, from the looks of them, would beat him to a pulp just for being his lippy bastard self.

Silence falls, and they keep looking at each other.

Sherlock nods at John’s hand. “You can put the shotgun down, by the way. Unless you’re about to shoot me, which I doubt. I know how you feel about bloodstains on the wallpaper.”

John feels an almost hysterical giggle stick in his throat. He bites down on it, but it bubbles up and comes out as an undignified snort. Sherlock gives him a tiny but genuine half-smile, and John carefully puts the shotgun back on its hook, unclenching his fingers from the metal.

He turns back to Sherlock, who’s still watching him. The neon lights in the hallway throw Sherlock’s face into stark relief, the paleness of his skin, the hollowness of his cheeks. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his brow, and John can see that he’s not quite stable on his feet.

John decides right then that, no matter what Sherlock has come here for, he won’t be leaving until John is sure he can stay upright for the entire trip home. John walks past Sherlock and into the tiny kitchen at the back of the clinic. He pours another cup of tea and sets it down on the table, then plates the last of Mary’s sandwiches and sets it down next to the cup. Then he pours a glass of water from the water cooler.

Sherlock has followed him down the hallway and is hovering in the doorway, watching him, uncertainty evident in every line of his body.

John nods at the table. “Sit. You’re going to eat that sandwich and drink both the water and the tea, and then you’ll tell me what you’re doing here, and why the most notorious hacker in the Dregs is looking for you.”

Sherlock hesitates and John puts down the glass of water on the table with a decisive thunk. He turns to Sherlock and gestures at the table. “You sit and eat. Or you leave now. Up to you.”

For a moment, John thinks Sherlock will argue. Will sweep out of John’s life as dramatically as he re-entered it. But then John sees something within Sherlock give way and he nods and sits down.

John turns away to pour a mug of tea for himself, mostly to hide the odd swell of relief that must be visible on his face, especially for someone who knows him as well as Sherlock.

John eventually turns back to face Sherlock and raises his eyebrows, nodding at the food and drink.

Sherlock says nothing, but he picks up his mug and takes a sip of tea. “That’s a very nice blend,” he finally says with a tiny appreciative smile.

John takes his mug and sits down opposite Sherlock at the table. “I like it too.”

Sherlock looks up from the mug, a tiny, fond smile playing on his lips. “A gift from Mrs Hudson. Good tea is expensive. You never spend money on yourself, but she regarded good tea as essential.”

“Good guess. Got it in one,” John says, tilting his head in appreciation.

“I don’t guess,” Sherlock replies automatically, and the small smile on his lips is asking for John to answer it.

“Yes you do,” John shoots back. Their eyes meet in the dim light of the kitchen counter, and John knows they’re both thinking about their first case together. The instant connection formed over the dead body of a serial killer, the knowledge that John had killed someone to save Sherlock.

John knows he would have done it again, without hesitation, and as many times as Sherlock would have needed him to. That knowledge sits between them like a stone, heavy and grey.

Sherlock looks away first, down into the mug. He looks pensive and sad and John is honestly surprised that he can read all of this so easily on Sherlock’s face. “Were you there when she died?” Sherlock asks, changing the subject and yet not. She was as much part of their shared home as the two of them.

John shakes his head. “No. It was in the middle of the night. Stroke, apparently. Her nephew let me know.”

“I went to her plaque on the grave wall,” Sherlock says, still not looking at John. “You left flowers.”

“How did you know they were from me?” John asks, as always awed by the way Sherlock sees so much, and yet so little.

“Nobody else would waste money on a silly sentimentality like geraniums, but wouldn’t even buy himself a nice blend of tea,” Sherlock says, and even though the words are brash and insulting, the tone of Sherlock’s voice is wistful and fond.

He’s sitting here like nothing happened, when he wasn’t there to bury her, when he wasn’t there for anything, John thinks out of nowhere. The melancholy sadness in his chest presses against his breastbone, turning sharply into anger. “I used to visit her grave when I visited yours,” John says quietly, hating the way his voice sounds tight, like he physically hurts. And the thing is, he does. It hurts to see Sherlock sitting here, having tea with him, smiling at him, sharing jokes and looks and griefs.

Sherlock looks like John punched him in the gut, then drops his eyes. “John…” he starts, voice quiet and serious.

John holds up his hand to ward off more words that won’t fix anything. “Eat your sandwich. And start talking. Why are you here?”

Sherlock grips his mug and looks like he’s about to say something, then he visibly deflates and reaches into his coat pocket. He takes out a holo and slides it over the table, before grabbing his sandwich and starting to eat.

John activates the holo, glad to have something to look at other than Sherlock.

It’s a police report, missing person. Rory Smallwood, son of Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. Mars veteran, known Dust addict. He went missing three days ago.

“One of Mycroft’s?” John asks, eyes tracking the information in the holoscreen in front of him.

“A good deduction, if somewhat obvious,” Sherlock answers between bites of his sandwich.

John gives a small shrug to acknowledge the point. Any case involving someone named Lady Smallwood almost has to be from Mycroft. “What does this have to do with Melly?”

“I recruited her to help me get access to the Magnussen Incorporated servers.”

John stares at Sherlock, incredulous. “You did what?”

“I hired Melly to hack into the Magnussen servers to find Rory Smallwood,” Sherlock repeats, unfazed by John’s incredulity.

“I’m surprised she took the job. Magnussen is infamous for its security measures.”

“I think she liked the challenge.”

“And then you didn’t pay her?” John asks, just to be sure he’s understood.

Sherlock shrugs and takes another bite of his sandwich. “I didn’t pay her because she failed to achieve her objective. She only got me access to security camera footage I could have gotten off the police servers. Also, I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment. I’ll holo her later. We’ll work it out.”

John shakes his head at Sherlock’s brazen attitude, but concedes he’s probably right, so he gets back to the original point. “What does any of this have to do with Magnussen?”

Sherlock swipes to the next page on the holo. It’s a grainy security camera image of a man John assumes must be Rory Smallwood boarding the Magnussen company train that leads to their facility a few kilometres out of New London.

“He hasn’t been seen since,” Sherlock observes, gesturing at the image.

“So that’s what you paid Melly for? Was that before or after you tried hacking the system yourself?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “After. Obviously.”

John decides it’s time to get to the point. “And what does any of this have to do with me?”

“I need your help.” It’s said plainly and directly. Sherlock is looking straight at him, barely even blinking.

“With what?” John asks, even though he already has a sneaking suspicion.

“Look at the rest of the file,” Sherlock says gently, nodding at the holo.

John swipes to the next page. It’s a missing person report. Mary Chu, Mars veteran. Missing since Friday. He swipes to the next page. And the next. And the next. Jack Walters. Mars veteran. Missing. Anna Hernandes. Mars veteran. Missing. Darnell Rollins. Mars veteran. Missing.

John swallows. “How many in total?”

“Ten at least, as far as I’ve been able to figure out.”

“Let me guess, you traced them all to that train.”

Sherlock nods, a mere formality.

“So you think Magnussen is holding them at the facility for some reason?”

Sherlock nods again. He takes a sip of his tea to wash down the last piece of sandwich and says nothing, letting John come to his own conclusion.

John rubs a hand over his face. Fuck, he’s tired. “So you show up here, after everything that’s happened, after two months of radio silence, and expect me to drop everything to investigate one of the most powerful men on Titan. A man who might be involved in all this, but also might not be.”

Sherlock gives him a look. A look that says that John already knows the answer and their conversation is entirely redundant.

John sighs and flips through the rest of the pictures. He pauses on the second to last one. “I recognize her. Kat Winters. They pulled her out of the Methane Sea yesterday. It was on the Holonews. Overdose, apparently.”

Sherlock gets up and looks at the report. “We’ll need to access the police files again, see whether any of the others have turned up dead. And we need to go look at that corpse.”

John notes the ‘we’ with a mix of irritation and exasperation. “You’re taking an awful lot for granted here, Sherlock.” You’re taking me for granted, he doesn’t say. Again.

Sherlock looks back at him and sits down. He meets John’s eyes in a way that’s frankly both unnerving and a tiny bit hot. “John. For one second, forget this is coming from me. These are your people. Nobody cares about these people. Nobody except you, and me. That’s what we’re here for. We’re the people they come to when there’s nowhere left to turn. I know you hate me, but this isn’t about me. It’s about them.” He gestures at the holo. “And the one thing I will always take for granted is that John Watson never shrinks from a fight.”

John rubs a tired hand over his face and wonders how someone so intelligent can be this stupid. Because fucking obviously he doesn’t hate Sherlock and never could. He’s incredibly angry, and he’s so hurt that he feels the cracks Sherlock left in him ache when it rains, but that’s not hate. That’s love, turned bitter and sour and dark. Turned destructive and ugly. But he would still step in front of a bullet for Sherlock, and Sherlock is right. He will never, ever walk away from a fight worth fighting. “Fine,” he finally says, aware that he sounds more resigned than angry. “So what’s our first move?”

“The morgue. You check out the corpse while I hack into the police files and see whether any of the others have been found dead.”

“Lestrade?” John asks, because he has to. It’s an obvious question.

Sherlock shrugs and looks down at his hands. “Can’t help. I’m still not exactly on speaking terms with much of the New London police.”

John gestures at the holo, the swift, sharp anger he feels on Sherlock’s behalf making his gestures energetic and his voice sharp. “But you were exonerated! It was all over the holonews, the police made a mistake, all charges dropped!”

“Yes, and having to admit to a mistake publicly didn’t exactly endear me to the top brass,” Sherlock says with a sardonic half-smile. “You know how government officials love it when they have to look into a holo camera and say they were wrong.”

John returns Sherlock’s humourless smile. “So we’re on our own?”

Sherlock grins at him, predatory and sharp. “Just like old times.”

John’s hands clench to fists at that smile, that look, those words. Just like old times.

Like nothing happened at all. Like you didn’t shatter my trust in you, like you didn’t collapse my lungs, my heart, my sense of self.

It was the wrong thing to say, and John can see on Sherlock’s face that he recognises that he’s pushed John an inch too far, because his smile falls and he looks—John has no words for the complex mix of emotions on Sherlock’s face. Defiance? Sadness? Regret? All three?

“Let’s get one thing completely clear here,” John says, and there’s something in his voice he knows is just a bit not good, something that speaks of violence and all the ugly, horrible days and nights he spent completely out of his mind with grief. “I will help you because it’s the right thing to do. Nothing more, and nothing less. Like you said, this has nothing to do with you and me. I can’t pretend that nothing happened, Sherlock. I’m not you.”

Sherlock looks a bit like John punched him in the gut. “John…”

“No.” John holds up a hand. “You made your bed, now lie in it.”

They hold each other’s eyes for a moment and John can see all the ways that Sherlock is different from before. All the hardened angles of his face, the shadows in his eyes, and John knows, he knows he’s being unfair, but then he remembers, Short version, not dead, and the moment passes.

Sherlock nods. “Fair enough.”

John looks away before he does something there’s no coming back from. Right now odds are even between violence and hugging Sherlock until they both break, and he’s not sure which option he would prefer. “Let’s go look at a corpse, then,” he says, trying for safer ground, for neutral territory, for something they can agree on, somewhere they can meet. Somewhere they can be Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson again, if only for a brief moment.

Sherlock gives him a tiny, humourless smile. “Could be dangerous.”

John grins in spite of himself, adrenaline rushing through his veins like the sweet siren song of adventure. “Are you trying to scare me off?”

Sherlock looks at him, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that speaks of the same lure that John is feeling, to the same north star. They go where normal people fear to tread, where there be monsters. “No. I’m trying to recruit you.”

And the thing about John is that he could never resist that voice, and nothing’s ever going to change that.

Chapter Text

Nothing has changed in Molly’s autopsy suite. It’s ten at night and it’s obvious that Molly was about to go home when Sherlock commed her, but here they all are, the body in the analysis bed, monitors on, readings on display. The rest of the morgue is dark and quiet, and John can hear their footsteps echo in the sterile halls of the hospital.

The last time he was here was on the day Sherlock “died”. It’s difficult not to think about it, but he tries not to remember how they argued about Mrs Hudson not an hour before Sherlock “jumped”. John went over that day so many times in his head, what he could have said or done differently, how he could have prevented what happened. It’s a pointless exercise, of course, but he still does it. Only now he looks for the cracks, for the lies, for the signs that he should have seen back then.

Molly is talking, and he shakes off the eerie memory overshadowing the present day. The memory of Molly, pale and scared and worried, gives way to Molly today, clearly uncomfortable and shooting him sideways looks that he pointedly ignores. “Obviously the tissue damage from being exposed to minus 179 degrees for hours makes trying to find the cause of death almost impossible.”

John nods and looks at the body in front of him. “How did the police determine it was an overdose?”

Molly gently touches the Kat's upper lip and moves it upward, showing him the blue-stained teeth of the Dust addict. “That was all they needed,” Molly says, and John can hear the sadness in her voice.

“Do we know where she entered the Methane Sea?”

Molly shakes her head and nods at Sherlock, who’s at the analysis station and is feeding samples into the spectral analyser. “Hopefully the samples we took from her clothing will be enough to put together a geographical profile. I would have done that already, but the police weren’t interested. She was squatting near the docks, that’s enough for them.”

John nods and returns his attention to Kat Winters. He carefully reads the data on the biobed, but of course any information they could have gleaned from her body was compromised by the cold. In a way it’s lucky that she has a synthetic leg, because the Titan silver nanochips give them an accurate time of death, since they switch off the second they’re no longer fed by the electric impulses generated by the human nervous system. That leg tells them she died yesterday morning at 9:34 am and that she entered the Methane Sea not long after her death, since the cold stops decomposition. “Any data on the nanochips?”

Molly shakes her head. “Nothing relevant. But I want you to look at something and tell me whether it’s normal. I don’t have enough experience with synthetic limbs to know.”

She taps a few keys on the display and calls up a full body scan of the victim that she apparently did before the physical autopsy, which very obviously hasn’t started yet. “Look at this,” she says as she enlarges the area around the victim’s hip bone, where the limb has been surgically attached to her body. It’s one of the most elaborate prostheses John has ever seen, because apparently the hip joint was entirely replaced by an artificial one. Molly points to a small mass on the ilium. “Is that scar tissue from the surgery?”

John shakes his head and zooms in. “No. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Can I take a look?” He nods at the body.

Molly makes a gesture that John interprets as meaning ‘be my guest’ and he grabs a pair of sterile gloves. He carefully looks for the small indentation on her skin that will allow him to open the synthetic flesh and peel it away from the artificial joint. Years of practice makes it easy to carefully open the small flap that will give him access to the chip and the delicate wiring simulating human nerves. Like every time he does this, John marvels at the craftsmanship and the ingenuity, even as he laments the necessity.

It’s immediately obvious that there’s a reason this woman took drugs. Field surgery leaves its mark. “Can I have—”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence before the magnifying lens is in his hands, and when he turns his head slightly to thank Molly, it’s Sherlock hovering over his shoulder, watching every move. “Thank you,” he says before turning back to his work.

“See where the synthetic femoral head was attached to the organic ligament during the surgery?” John asks, pointing at the area.

John can feel more than see Sherlock nodding, and he continues, “The synthetic femur isn’t exactly like a human bone. It’s heavier, for one. But it’s also not an exact replica of her original femur, because you need time for that, and that’s not something you have on the battlefield. You don’t want to wait four months for a custom-made new limb, you want people back on their feet and ready to fight as soon as possible. So Magnussen made whole set of generic limbs precisely for that purpose. And they serve their purpose fine, enabling a surprisingly short turn-around. But the thing is, as you can see here, the artificial bone was wearing on her ligaments. Which means you need to constantly re-adjust, recalibrate, and reinforce the ligaments, and even then, there’s problems. That is, if you can’t afford the surgery to replace the ligaments with artificial tissue or getting a custom limb made by Magnussen. And very few veterans can afford either.”

“What if you can’t afford it?” Molly asks, leaning in and watching as John peels away the artificial flesh to get a closer look at the mass she found.

“Chronic pain, stiffness, tremors,” Sherlock answers before John has even opened his mouth.

John focuses on the corpse, but he’s fully aware of why Sherlock knows this, and he feels a sympathetic twinge deep in his own synthetic shoulder blade. His arm gives the tiniest spasm and he has to concentrate hard to hide it. “Look, here’s the area.”

All three of them lean in close, and John is hyper aware of every millimetre of his body that’s in contact with Sherlock’s. He has to suppress a shiver and stamps down hard on the urge to lean in. He refocuses on the tissue with an admonition to be more professional.

He reveals the tiny mass and all three of them take a deep breath.

“Is that a tumour?” Sherlock asks, the puzzlement in his voice perfectly mirrored by the confusion on Molly’s face.

“Incredibly unlikely,” Molly says, but she gets out a small surgical kit anyway. “I’m removing it for analysis.”

John moves away to leave the field to Molly and turns to Sherlock, who’s also stepped back to give Molly room to work. “What have you found out?”

“Her clothing is a chemical residue nightmare, but the percentages of human waste and industrial chemicals do indicate that she entered the Methane Sea through a refuse pipe, albeit not New London’s. That’s as much as I can say without samples to compare the ones I took from her body.”

John turns back to the body, but he can feel Sherlock’s gaze on him like a physical weight. He’d almost forgotten what it feels like, having that razor sharp attention focused solely on him. Sherlock’s attention is heady and difficult to capture, and John always used to feel so special that he was able to hold Sherlock’s attention for any amount of time. Pathetic, really. He tries not to feel the prickle of Sherlock’s gaze in the back of his neck as he gestures at Kat Winters. “So you think she died inside the Magnussen plant, and they chucked her into the Methane sea?”

“Obviously.”

John rolls his eyes and bites down on a tiny smile. So typical.

Sherlock steps closer to the exam table and they watch Molly as she carefully removes the mass. Sherlock has shed his coat and suit jacket and is in rolled-up shirtsleeves, hair messy and eyes focused. He looks a lot more like the Sherlock John remembers, the Sherlock the public never got to see. They’re standing close now, and John has to stop himself from leaning into the warmth radiating from Sherlock’s body, stop himself from finding out whether Sherlock still smells like he used to— violin rosin, old books, that fancy shampoo…

John refocuses on Molly and ignores the way Sherlock’s eyes flick towards him and away again, like he can’t help himself any more than John can. It’s oddly flattering, but John doesn’t allow himself to think about it.

Molly finishes extracting the mass and puts it on the electron microscope. The image flickers on the holoscreen, and they focus their attention on the cells.

The cold of the Mehane Sea has done deep tissue damage, so it’s nearly impossible to tell, but…

“She did have cancer…” Molly breathes at the very moment John comes to the same conclusion.

John takes a step closer and examines the enlarged cells. Advanced bone cancer is rare, and it's difficult to fathom why she didn't have the tumour removed.

"We might have found out what killed her," Sherlock muses.

Molly shakes her head at the same time as John, but John is quicker to speak, “No. The cancer wasn’t advanced enough. She’d be in pain, but she wouldn’t have died from it. And she was in chronic pain anyway, so she might not even have noticed that much of a difference. She might not even have known.”

“So maybe someone from Magnussen approached her,” Sherlock says, gesturing at the image.

“So they brought her to the facility to …what?” John asks.

Sherlock turns to him and starts pacing, fingers steepled under his chin. “Whatever they’re doing in that facility, it’s top top secret. I found nothing, and Melly didn’t find anything either. I’m guessing they’re doing some sort of medical experimentation, and Miss Winters here was an optimal candidate because nobody would miss a poor drug addict from the Dregs. What do all our victims have in common?”

“They’re Mars veterans, and people nobody would miss. Do we know whether they all have synthetic limbs as well?”

Sherlock nods, his gaze fixed on something only he can see. “Rory Smallwood does. Leg. Just like Miss Winters.”

“Maybe that’s the commonality, then.”

“Too little data to speculate,” Sherlock rejoins, as he continues pacing. “We need to inspect her personal belongings, and we need to find out where she lived, or at least where she was squatting.”

“I’ll comm Billy to find out,” John says and takes out his holo to take a picture of Kat’s face.

Sherlock nods at him and turns to Molly. “Do you have her things?”

Molly nods. “I’ll go get them.”

John gestures to the empty exam room next door. “I’ll go comm Billy.”

Sherlock nods, attention back on the body. John leaves him to it; he knows that Sherlock needs time to think, to absorb information and synthesise it in his mind palace. He’s got that expression that means he’s withdrawn into his own head, and John goes out quietly, shutting the door, leaving Sherlock to think in peace.

*-*

Billy’s helpful as always and tells John exactly where Kat was squatting. John thanks him and rings off, before starting up the scanner and programs needed for the analyses he wants done on the mass they took out of Kat. It takes a bit of time because it’s been years since he’s had access to this type of equipment.

When he’s done inserting the sample, he sits in the dimly lit room waiting for the scanner to complete its work. He could go back to Sherlock and Molly. He should, in fact.

He only needs a minute. Only a minute.

Just one minute to gather himself. To smooth out the rough edges. To rub at his aching shoulder without feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him like heavy weights. To admit to himself, and then hide away, how much he has missed this, the thrill of the chase, the lure of the puzzle. How much he has missed Sherlock’s eyes lighting up with deductions, the easy grace of his movements, the subtle warmth of his body as he leans over John to take a look at something John has discovered. The quiet hum of his approval, the exquisite thrill of his attention.

There’s a soft knock on the door, then Molly sticks her head in. “Coffee?”

John nods and gratefully accepts the mug. It’s late, but he’s acknowledged that sleep is probably a lost cause tonight.

Molly tilts her head in the direction of the exam room. “He’s been asking where you went.”

John shrugs. “Waiting for the results of the analysis.”

She nods, taking a sip of her own coffee, watching the screen as the computer runs the analysis.

“I was surprised to see you today,” she finally says, carefully not looking at John, eyes focused on the screen. “I thought you weren’t…”

“I’m not,” John clarifies, though he isn’t entirely sure what exactly Molly is referring to. It doesn’t matter though, because whatever part of his relationship with Sherlock she means—flatmate, colleague, whatever else they were—he isn’t. He isn’t back, he hasn’t forgiven Sherlock, he’s not here at all, not really. “It’s just for this one case.”

Molly nods, but there’s a sceptical tilt to her mouth.

John expects her to drop it but, for some unfathomable reason, she doesn’t. “It’s just…”

John heaves an exasperated sigh. “Molly, what exactly makes you think I’d want to talk about this, to you of all people?”

“He’s been so unhappy,” Molly blurts out, apparently unable or unwilling to stop herself. “I mean, he’s home, after all he’s sacrificed, and Mrs Hudson is gone, and the cases are few and far between, because the police can’t get over how they were wrong in hounding him like that. And you…”

“What about me?” John says, barely controlling his temper. John doesn’t want to bloody hear about how unhappy Sherlock fucking Holmes has been because he has spent the last two years trying to glue the shattered pieces of himself back together as a direct consequences of Sherlock’s decisions.

“You’re punishing him for things that were out of his control when everything he did was done to save your life.”

John takes a deep breath and tries with all his might to stay calm. “And what, precisely, was out of his control?”

Molly frowns at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” John says, and even though he tries not to let it show, he can hear the vicious anger he’s been trying so hard not to let rip at Molly slip into his voice. “That he made a whole series of bad decisions, none of which he told me about or discussed with me. Not the least of which was engaging with Moriarty on his own terms, without even telling me. And of course he continued actively lying to me for the next two years. I mean, he could have told me he was alive every fucking day he was gone. And he didn’t. And while we’re on the subject, you didn’t either.”

Molly looks down, and he can see her tiredness. There are unshed tears in her voice when she says, barely audibly, “I wanted to. Every day.”

“But you didn’t,” John says, anger slowly draining out of him. He can see how upset Molly is and, in the grand scheme of things, she’s as much of a victim of Sherlock’s manipulation as he is. And part of that is on him. He watched as Sherlock manipulated her for years, and he said nothing. “I understand why you didn’t, but the fact is that you made a choice. There were exactly seven hundred and sixty-eight days where you got up in the morning and made the choice not to tell me. And he made that choice too.”

“There were drones,” Molly whispers, but her voice lacks something. Resolve, conviction. “Moriarty would have killed you.”

“I know,” John answers, and the anger has mostly left his voice, replaced by sadness and a weariness that goes down to his bones. “I understand why he jumped. I understand that it was an act of desperation. But when the drones were gone, he still lied. For seven hundred and sixty-eight days, he lied. He let me grieve for him. And you know what he did when he came back? He told me about all the people who knew. You knew, apparently. And Billy fucking Wiggins knew. And Mycroft, and his parents. But I didn’t. I was the last one he told. And I’m supposed to be all right with that?”

“He did it to protect you,” Molly says, sounding as weary as John feels. “Don’t you realise why I knew and you didn’t? Because he doesn’t care about whether I live or die. All the people he told, they’re collateral damage. An acceptable price to pay for your life.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” John retorts automatically. For some reason he still feels the urge to defend Sherlock from those who don’t understand that Sherlock is so very far from the heartless bastard he seems to be. “He loves you, even though he’d never say it. He came to you for help because he knew he could trust you.”

Molly smiles sadly. “Whatever he feels or doesn’t feel for me, he doesn’t love anyone the way he loves you.” She looks away again, at the screen where the analysis is still ongoing. “I was so envious,” she mutters, and he can see the pain in her eyes, can see what the last two years cost her. What they’ve cost all of them. “You two, with your eye-fucking and the way you’d finish each others’ sentences. The way he’d look at you, especially when he knew you couldn’t see him. There was so much wide-open longing in his face sometimes. And then when he finally got you, he was somehow… I don’t know. More. More Sherlock than ever before. You made him more himself, instead of trying to change him. I wanted that.” She smiles a bit, a self-deprecating gesture. It’s fleeting but John feels a sympathetic twinge. “Not necessarily with him, you know, because I always knew I wouldn’t really be able to handle him, if he were always there. He was more of a fantasy boyfriend, unthreatening because unattainable. But I wanted to love someone like that. To be loved like that.”

John suppresses the urge to get up and go and not stop walking until he hits the edge of the biodome. He looks away, blinking and biting his lip while pressing his left hand into a tight fist to keep the emotion in. Because he wants that back so badly, But the worst thing about all of this, is that he isn’t sure that any of it was real. Because how could he? How could he have let John go through all that ugly, horrible, heart-rending grief? How could he do that when he knew, had to know, how fucking much John loved him? How could he have left John to that despair, if he felt the same?

“I’m sorry,” Molly says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose it’s not easy for any of us.”

Molly gives him a tiny smile and nods at the screen. “I think the analysis is done. I’ll go get Sherlock.”

She turns to the connecting door to the lab, when John notices that it’s not not fully shut, a tiny sliver of light falling into the room from the autopsy suite. And he wonders whether Sherlock just heard every word they just said, and what he might make of it.

He sweeps all of that aside with a decisive shake of the head and turns to the data projected on the holoscreen.

As he suspected, the damage to the tumour cells is too great to identify them, but the chemical analysis is fascinating.

Not two minutes after she left, Molly returns with Sherlock, and they take their stations left and right of John. “Analysis inconclusive,” Sherlock mutters. “It’s definitely a tumour, but the sample seems contaminated…”

“I don’t think the sample’s contaminated. I think her entire body is contaminated. She was soaking in liquid methane for god knows how long,” John points out.

Sherlock shakes his head and gestures at the monitor. “Look at the compound analysis. The levels of ethylene oxide are just about what you would expect to find, but the concentrations of benzene and chromium are higher than what naturally occurs in the Methane Sea.”

“So how did it get into her cells?” Molly asks.

Sherlock nods at Molly. “Good question. I have no idea.” He gestures back at the door leading to the autopsy suite. “We need to know what killed her, Molly. As close as you can come to it, anyway.”

“I’m doing the autopsy first thing tomorrow morning. I’m going home to sleep now, and so should you.”

“We’re going to search Ms Winter’s belongings,” Sherlock says before John can answer.

“Suit yourself,” Molly says, shrugging. It’s a clear dismissal, and it shows how far Molly has come in the last two years.

John fully expects Sherlock to argue, push and insist, but, as if to demonstrate that the last two years haven’t left Sherlock unchanged either, he just nods and quietly says, “Thank you, Molly.”

There’s a whole load of subtext beneath those three simple words, and John is sure that Sherlock heard their conversation earlier.

Molly nods at him and looks at John. “Don’t be a stranger, now.”

Something about the comment, about how obviously she’s on Sherlock’s side, about how she looks at John with her hopeful puppy eyes, about the whole damn thing raises his hackles. He gives her a curt nod and says, cooly, “We’ll see.”

With that, he turns and walks out of the morgue, leaving Sherlock no choice but to follow.

*-*

They don’t speak. Not as they walk out of New London Hospital. Not as Sherlock gets them a hovercab and types in the address. Not as the unmanned vehicle zips through New London traffic. Not until it starts to descend into the Dregs. Sherlock programmed the vehicle to travel to one of the more popular gambling dens at the edge of the Dregs, because they don’t want to draw any more attention to themselves than necessary. Riding a hovercab into the worst of the Dregs is an open invitation to be stabbed.

They’re approaching the garishly lit building when Sherlock finally speaks. “Your anger at Molly is misdirected.”

“I’m not angry with Molly.”

He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, and doesn’t even have to look to know that one elegant eyebrow is sceptically arched.

John looks out of his window and half shrugs. “It’s true. You came to her, afraid and desperate. You pitched your voice just so, probably said, ‘I need you, Molly,’ or ‘You’re the only one who can help me, Molly’ and she fell over herself to do it. You strung her along for years and I watched. I let you. We both failed her, profoundly. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t lie to my face for over two years.”

“Because I asked her to,” Sherlock points out, but he doesn’t argue John’s central point, much to John’s astonishment.

“Yes,” John answers, turning to give Sherlock a pointed look. “You asked her to lie. And she chose to do it. She sat next to me at your funeral, you know. Held my hand. I kipped on her sofa that night. I think she was afraid that I’d top myself. Not that she said so, of course, but there’s a look people get when they think you’re about to do something desperate.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide and his face is pale, even in the dim light of the hovercab. It’s clear that he has no earthly idea what to say, and John gets a sort of grim satisfaction out of having shut up Mr Punchline for once.

“I didn’t sleep that night, and neither did she. Every time I moved, she came out of her room to see if I’d run off, or slit my wrists with a beer bottle. I finally found out where she’d hidden the good whisky and got drunk off my arse. I don’t remember the rest of the night, but I’m pretty sure I broke some things in her flat. She let me. She didn’t say anything when I drank her expensive whisky, or when I smashed her kitchen, or when I spewed all over her sofa. At the time, I thought she was being nice. Now I realise that she just felt guilty for not telling me that all of that was entirely pointless.”

“But you’re not angry with her?” Sherlock asks softly, and there’s so much sorrow in his voice it’s almost physically painful.

“No.” John swallows. “I’m not. But she needs to take responsibility for her choices, and she can’t expect me to just get over this. It doesn’t work that way. ”

Sherlock looks out of the window, unable to face John any longer, because they both know he isn’t really talking about Molly anymore. And they both know that John is lying through his teeth, because he is, in fact, seethingly angry with Molly, just as he is with Sherlock. Only the fact that she’s so obviously sorry about what happened is saving her from getting John’s anger with both barrels.

That, and John is still sorry about that night. About smashing her kitchen to bits, about getting so drunk that he didn’t know what he was doing anymore. About cursing at her, cursing at Sherlock, calling Sherlock every name in the book for putting him through that. He’s sure that he scared the living daylights out of her that night, and as far as he’s concerned, that makes them sort of even.

“John…” Sherlock finally says, and John waits, actually prepared to let him talk for once, but Sherlock apparently has no idea what to say.

John sighs and shakes his head, not sure what he expected, but he’s disappointed anyway. “Let’s just concentrate on the case.”

He catches Sherlock’s curt nod out of the corner of his eyes and they spend the rest of the short ride in silence, each looking out of their own cab window.

*-*

Kat was squatting in a warehouse near the sewage outlets to the Methane Sea that give the Dregs its name. It’s the middle of the night, and the only reason John and Sherlock are remotely safe walking here is the fact that they’re both well-known figures in New London’s underbelly. John has stitched up many of the thugs who frequent these streets, and Sherlock knows a good number of the homeless squatters by name, even if they don’t belong to Billy’s network.

Still, they’re both alert and walking cautiously, any interpersonal drama suspended as they move in the effortless synchronicity only achieved when you’ve been on the same side of a gun barrel with someone.

Kat’s sleeping place has long been re-occupied, her stuff picked over by the desperate. But one member of Billy’s network directs them to a small bundle of personal belongings of no value except to the person who clung to them as everything else slipped away. A few things no homeless person would ever touch. A small tea pot. A Mars rock, smoothed out by the winds of Tharsis. John runs his fingers over the smooth reddish rock, then gently puts it back where he found it. There’s a nearly identical rock sitting next to his dog tags and the few actual paper photographs he owns, all in a box he never bothered to move out of 221B. And next to Kat’s rock, John finds her dog tags. And a photograph. It’s dog-eared and ancient, and it’s of Kat with her unit on Mars. John recognises the uniform.

“She was a Ranger. A pilot.” He looks at the faces of her unit, all smiling, obviously just commissioned. “Elite.”

Sherlock hums an acknowledgement and continues rifling through what little remains of Kat’s personal belongings. “Born on one of the Earth Stations,” he muses, looking at the photograph and putting it together with the information he gleaned from her body. John knows he’s not really actually speaking to him, just thinking aloud. “Well educated, no signs of manual labour on her hands. Muscle tone says she spent a lot of time in low gravity environments, probably during flight training. No family to speak of, the only photo is of her unit. No mementoes from her childhood, no next of kin clamouring for the release of her body. Her family was the Army. Medical discharge, the synthetic leg slowed her reflexes, and the chronic pain led to disciplinary problems. She came here because somebody offered her a job flying antigrav transports, but the chronic pain and the drinking caused her to lose her job, and she spiralled from there.”

John looks at the photo for a long time, while Sherlock rifles through her things. Kat looks young and optimistic, thrilled to be chosen for this elite assignment. He feels his fingers twitch and his shoulder twinge as he looks at the meagre belongings of this woman and thinks, There but for the grace of you, letting his eyes travel slowly over Sherlock’s profile. He knows, and he’s pretty sure that Sherlock also knows, even though he’s being kind enough not to point it out, how close John once came to the slippery slope that drags down so many veterans. And the only reason he didn’t slide down that spiral of pain, rootlessness, lack of purpose and a genetic predisposition for addiction is the man standing next to him. It’s difficult to parse while he’s still so angry with Sherlock, so hurt, but he does know Sherlock saved him. Many times over.

John looks over at Sherlock and, for a brief moment, their eyes meet and John feels seen the way only Sherlock ever sees him, all of him, good and bad, ugly and lovely. He looks away quickly and blinks, breath hitching, just for a second.

Then he turns back and finds Sherlock’s already back to searching through Kat’s things, pretending their interlude never happened. But something is different all the same, a bit of the tension Sherlock’s been carrying around in that whippet-thin frame of his has eased.

“Here,” Sherlock says and hands John Kat’s holo device. “She hid that in the seam of a threadbare blanket. Clever. See if you can get something out of it.”

John punches the ‘on’ button, but nothing happens. “I think it needs a code.”

“Try her birthday, 0327,” Sherlock says absently while he shakes out what remains of her clothes and looks through the pockets.

John punches in the four digits. Nothing happens. “Nope.”

Sherlock shrugs and takes the holo from John’s hands, putting it into his coat pocket. “I’ll have to break that later, then.” He puts Kat’s things back in the neat pile they found them in. “There’s nothing here that could tell us why she was on that train that day.”

There’s something niggling at the back of John’s brain. Something obvious. Something he’s missed.

“Let me just have one more look,” he says, and Sherlock steps aside, watching carefully.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t know. Feel like I missed something.”

Sherlock nods and falls silent, watching John intently as he rifles through Kat’s belongings once more. Clothes, dog tags, Mars stone, an ancient wristwatch that’s not working. The photo of her with her unit.

That’s it. John’s sure of it. “Do you have your magnifying glass on you?”

“I’m insulted you’re even asking,” Sherlock says and hands it to John.

John looks at the photo again and this time, he studies the faces of her fellow servicemembers. All fresh-faced and young, enthusiastic. But he can imagine them older, grizzled, worn down by life, hair longer, unshaven the way you could never be in uniform…

There.

John points at a face. “I know him. He’s a regular at the clinic.”

Sherlock snatches the photo from John and looks at the young man. “Do you know where to find him?”

John gives Sherlock a small, humourless smile. “It’s Saturday night in the Dregs, Sherlock. Where do you think he is?”

*-*

The bar has no name. It’s a drafty shack with a concrete floor. Two naked lightbulbs and a handwritten cardboard sign that says, “Whisky - Beer - Vodka” stuck over the bar form the decor. The tables are sticky, ancient and full with Mars veterans. There’s a noisy game of dice going on around one table, and an even noisier one of darts in a corner.

Mark is sitting alone at a tiny rickety table, nursing a whisky and watching the darts game with the detached interest of a true alcoholic.

John nods at the bar and Sherlock follows wordlessly, letting John take the lead because this is his turf and these are his people.

Jack, the bartender, nods at John. “Doc.”

John nods a greeting and slides into a barstool. Jack pours him a whisky and nods at Sherlock. “Something for your friend?”

“Whisky as well, neat,” Sherlock says, sitting down next to John. He’s deliberately slouching a bit and softening his clipped vowels. Anything to stand out less. Of course he still stands out, the sharp lines of him and the spare elegance of his movements. And besides, everyone here already knows who he is, of course, because Sherlock Holmes has a reputation in these parts.

Jack nods and pours Sherlock two fingers of scotch. He slides the glass over and Sherlock automatically reaches for his credit chip, but Jack waves him away. “Doc don’t pay, friends of the doc’s don’t pay either.”

John considers pointing out that calling Sherlock his friend might be stretching the truth a bit, but since he can’t think of a single word in the English language that describes what, exactly, Sherlock Holmes is to him, ‘friend’ is as good—and as inadequate—as any. Sherlock shrugs and puts away his credit chip. “You have quite the reputation around these parts,” he says, and his tone is something between amused and impressed.

John returns the shrug and picks up his whisky glass. “I stitch them back together and I don’t ask any stupid questions. That gets you a long way around here.” He takes a sip of the whisky and gives himself a moment to enjoy the smoky smoothness, and the heat of it in his mouth and throat. “I think you should let me do the talking.”

Sherlock shrugs again and nods at Mark. “Let’s get to it, then.”

They walk over to Mark, who looks up and watches them warily. “Mind if we join you?” John asks, gently.

Mark shrugs. “Might as well. But I’ll tell you right now, Doc, if you tell me again what the drink’s doing to my liver, I’m out of here.”

John pulls up a chair and sits down. Sherlock does the same. “Time and place, Mark. Come for a check-up, and I’ll tell you exactly what’s wrong with your liver, but seeing as I’m currently pickling my own,” John holds up his whisky, “I’m not going to be any more of a hypocrite than I absolutely have to be.”

Mark snorts into his drink and raises his glass in a mock salute. “To pickling our insides, then.”

John raises his own glass, and Mark drinks deep from his pint before setting it down again. “Gather this isn’t exactly a social call, so best get to it while I’m still sober enough to be of any use, Doc,” Mark says, looking straight at Sherlock. “Who’s this, then?”

“Mark, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s—we’re—looking into Kat’s death,” John says, keeping his voice quiet so he won’t attract attention.

Mark’s mouth twists in a spasm of emotion that’s half bitterness, half grief. “What’s there to look into? Finally overdosed on that filth she was snorting, didn’t she. Told her this would happen.” He takes another drag of his pint. “Nothing more to say.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Sherlock asks, matching John’s quiet, gentle tone.

“Two weeks ago, maybe. Had a drink, bit of reminiscing.”

“Did she mention feeling ill, or being in pain?” John asks. The tumour must have been causing symptoms.

“You mean aside from the cancer?” Mark asks, looking grimly amused when John’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“She knew about the cancer?”

“Went to a check-up about three months ago. Came back cursing everything to hell and back.” Mark gestures expansively with his pint. “She was a firecracker, Kat was. Temper like a rabid dog. Got into more fistfights than the rest of the unit combined. She was cursing up a storm about Magnussen, how they gave her cancer.”

John exchanges a look with Sherlock. That’s something of a twist. “She thought her synthetic leg caused her cancer?”

“Yup. Was really loud about it, too.”

“Did she tell you her reasons for thinking that?” Sherlock asks, carefully avoiding getting sloshed with Mark’s pint as Mark turns towards him.

“‘Course she did. Wouldn’t shut up about it. Said a chap she knew from the army outright told her it was the leg.”

“Does that chap have a name, by any chance?” Sherlock asks, eyes gleaming with the suppressed excitement of a new piece of the puzzle revealing itself.

“Suppose so, but she never told me.”

“And that person told her that her cancer was caused by her synthetic limb?”

Mark nods, looking wistfully into his drink. “Explains a lot, in a way. She was different, after she lost her leg. Mind, I was there when her transport crashed, wasn’t a good day for any of us. But most of us got patched up and were fine. She was the only one who had a whole limb replaced. Never said anything, but you could just see how painful it was, especially in the beginning. She got short-tempered, started drinking. We thought it’d get better, but it never did. My two years were up around the same time as hers. Neither of us had any family to go back to, and I’d heard that you can get a decent job out here, so we boarded a transport. At first we both did well. Then she started using.” Mark shrugs, taking a deep drag of his beer. “Company closed down. We both lost our jobs. She didn’t get a new one. Dunno where she got the money for the Dust. Dunno that I wanna know.”

“Did she have any family history of cancer that you know of?” John asks, trying to steer the conversation back on track, because he sure as fuck also doesn’t want to know how Kat got the money for drugs.

“Never mentioned it. Far as I know, her mum died in a shuttle accident when she was in flight school, and her dad drank himself to death when she was a baby. Brother’s taken after his dad, drunk off his mind somewhere on the Earth Stations.”

John looks at Sherlock, trying very, very hard not to let it show just how close to home this is hitting him. “Anything else we need to know?”

“Mark, did Kat ever mention being in contact with someone at Magnussen?” Sherlock asks, and John is pleased by Sherlock’s gentle, patient tone, even though he can tell by the drumming against the whisky glass that Sherlock is running out of patience with the irrelevant reminiscing.

“No, but we had someone from Magnussen around here a few days ago, talking to some people with synth limbs. Something about a program, didn’t listen much.”

“Program?” John asks, interest piqued.

Mark shrugs. “Never talked to me.” He gives them a humourless grin. “All still the originals,” he says, holding up his arm. Then he grimaces. “Sorry, Doc, didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

John only notices that he’s been absently rubbing at his artificial shoulder joint when Mark’s and Sherlock’s eyes both linger on the unconscious gesture. He stops immediately. “Well, Mark, thanks for the help. We appreciate it.”

“Any time, Doc,” Mark says, winking at John. “Next time I’m at the clinic, maybe you’ll give me a bit of the good stuff?”

John gives Mark a humourless grin. “Not in this lifetime. But I’ll give you a free check-up anytime.”

“You’ll only tell me to stop drinking again.”

John shrugs. “Probably true.”

He claps Mark on the shoulder, nods at the bartender and walks out of the bar, Sherlock in tow.

Once outside, John takes a deep breath, enjoying the brisk night air after the stuffiness of the bar, where the stink of spilled beer and human misery permeates every cubic inch of air.

"What next?” John leans against the wall, suddenly aware that it’s past midnight as the adrenaline fades. This day has lasted for half a lifetime already, and John is suddenly exhausted.

Sherlock looks at him sharply. “I need to analyse the contents of her holo. And you need to go to bed.”

“You fell asleep sitting up this afternoon. You need to sleep as well,” John points out, because he sees the lines of exhaustion cut into Sherlock’s face and posture.

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock says, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

John sighs, because he’s pretty sure he’s going to regret this. “Look. How about this: We walk the ten minutes to my house. You can kip for an hour on the sofa, and then you can try hacking into the holo. All right?”

There’s a flicker of emotion in Sherlock’s eyes that John has trouble parsing. Curiosity? Something more complicated? Sherlock hesitates for a second, the complicated emotion passing over his face, before disappearing behind the mask of the cool Consulting Detective. “Fine,” he finally concedes. “A short nap is beneficial to the nervous system.”

“Yes, I think I read that somewhere. In, you know, every medical textbook ever.” John bites down on a smile, because he has a feeling that as soon as Sherlock is down, he will sleep for as long as his body needs to.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, doctor.” But he seems to be trying not to smile as well.

*-*

”This is my note…”

“No, Sherlock, no, please, please, don’t…”

“I’m sorry.”

Running, impact throwing him to the ground, so many people, confusing, and there’s Sherlock, lying on the ground, pale, blood, there’s blood, and his hand is cool and there’s no pulse, no heartbeat and suddenly it’s dark and cold, alone alone alone all gone the adventure and the fun and the bustling and the laughter the fights the sex the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his, he feels cold to the bone, never warm again…..

John wakes with a start. It’s pitch dark in his room and he feels a bit like a horse ran him over, so he can’t have been asleep for very long.

He needs a glass of water, and more than that he needs to get out of bed and get the taste of this nightmare out of his mouth. So he goes into the kitchen on quiet feet and gets himself a glass of water, and then moves quietly into the sitting room, where Sherlock is still fast asleep on the sofa.

John smirks. So much for a “short nap”.

He leans in the door to the sitting room and watches Sherlock sleep, allows himself the comfort of letting Sherlock’s even breaths dispel the ugly, clawing fear of his nightmare.

He wasn’t sure, for a moment there, whether Sherlock would really be here. Whether anything that happened yesterday was real. Whether Sherlock was still dead and buried and gone forever.

He can admit it now, in the darkness of the night and with Sherlock sleeping, he can let the fierce gladness take over, show on his face. He can let himself be nothing but deliriously happy that Sherlock is actually alive, and here, and breathing. The gladness is there all the time, of course, but so many times it’s drowned out by anger, because Sherlock ran around the System with John’s heart in his pocket without a thought of giving it back.

But right now, he can let himself revel in just listening to Sherlock breathe.

Going back to sleep seems out of the question, but he doesn’t want to wake Sherlock, so he goes into his tiny garden and watches the hazy clouds move over the night sky, occasionally giving him a brilliant glimpse of Saturn in all its glory above.

Saturn is huge tonight, the comparatively tiny moon they’ve carved this enclave of human life into oscillating closer to the gas giant that has caught this rock into its gravitational field. There are 102 moons on the same journey, in a similar orbit, plus the ice and dust and rocks that form the rings. All held together by the most undeniable force in the universe. The force that binds and ties and rules them all.

Gravity. Mass calling to mass. Bodies calling to bodies. In the end, that’s all they are, isn’t it? Particles held together by the mutual need to brace against a stronger force.

And when you lose that force, you fracture into a million tiny pieces. And you’re never truly right again.

John rubs at his shoulder. His entire arm hurts, and based on the way his fingers are shaking he suspects he might have blown a chip. The tendency to just short-circuit is the downside of the silicium chips compared to the Titan silver ones, but the Titan silver's so expensive that John switched out his chips to silicium long ago. You can’t re-program the Titan silver, either. Once they fry, they’re fried.

Well, fortunately he’s got enough replacement silicium chips here at home.

He gets up slowly and makes his way back to the kitchen, where he keeps his kit.

He’s got a whole set-up in there, because of how often he needs to do this. The treatment chair with the board where he can actually fix his arm without holding it up the whole time is the only piece of furniture he bothered to salvage from 221B. The rest held too many memories.

He turns on the small lamp, straps his arm in and goes to work, teeth clenched. He’s positioned the mirror, opened the skin flap to get at the circuits when Sherlock appears in the doorway.

John looks over at him and gives a small smile. “Sleep well?”

Sherlock shrugs and leans in the doorway, trying for nonchalant, but his body language is uncertain and his eyes have a hungry gleam as he looks at John. “What’s the matter with your arm?”

“I think it blew a chip, my fingers are shaking like crazy,” John answers, nodding at his arm. “I was about to change the chip. You can just go back to sleep, you know. It’s still ridiculously early.”

Sherlock hesitates in a way he never, ever would have done Before. Before, he would have called John a blasted idiot, strode over, and imperiously taken the tools from John. Now, John can see the conflicting impulses in the tense lines of Sherlock’s body. The uncertainty, the hesitancy. And the worst thing is that John doesn’t even really know what he wants Sherlock to do. Part of him wants Sherlock to just leave him alone, to repair his unruly mechanical part in peace. Part of him wants Sherlock to want to help him, to push to have that right again.

In the end, Sherlock makes a hesitant gesture towards the tools. “I could…”

John feels equally torn between embarrassment and the deep-seated desire to let go and let someone take care of him for a change. “It’s not necessary, I can do it myself,” he says, which of course is true, but hardly the point.

Sherlock gives him a small half-smile, then sobers and meets his eyes, head-on. There’s something there, something gentle and tired and almost pleading. “Let me?”

It’s soft and tentative and John can feel his resolve, his anger, his resentment crack, like the ice crust under Titan’s surface. He looks away, swallows. “Fine,” he says, voice not entirely steady. “Fine.”

For a split second, John can see Sherlock’s surprise and then his relief, before the mask slips back on. When he takes the chair and sits in front of John, his face is carefully neutral.

“I think it’s the processor chip at the trochlear notch,” John says, and Sherlock nods, fully concentrating on the task.

The silence in the kitchen is absolute as Sherlock carefully prepares the tools and the replacement chip. John suppresses a shudder when Sherlock gently takes his underarm and turns it a bit, so the elbow joint is in a better position for Sherlock to work.

The hair on the back of John’s neck prickles at the contact of skin to skin, and John thinks right now he can feel every cell of Sherlock’s palm touching his arm, every ridge and whorl of the tips of Sherlock’s fingers. He swallows and tries not to show how acutely aware he is of how long it has been since anyone has touched him like this. Gently, caringly.

“Cold?” Sherlock asks, undoubtedly feeling John’s slight muscle tremor as he tries his very best not to quiver.

Get a fucking grip, Watson, he thinks as ne nods. “A bit.”

He can see Sherlock’s eyes flit over his torso. John’s dressed in thin sleeping pants and a vest, and it’s a brisk night, but there’s something in the way Sherlock’s eyes linger on him, on his scar, that makes him suspect he’s not the only one to be affected.

They used to do this all the time. Fix each other up. Bandage wounds, apply stitches, change chips.

It’s the familiarity of it that settles John, that makes him relax into Sherlock’s care. Sherlock knows what he’s doing, and John just has to let him. It’s easier than it should be, because John isn’t sure he trusts Sherlock with anything else right now, but he knows, deep down, that Sherlock will never hurt him—physically, that is.

“You need to disconnect the circuit first,” John says, more for something to say to break the strange holding pattern they’re in. Sherlock’s just holding John’s arm and apparently as frozen with all this as John is.

Sherlock quirks a smile at John. “Really? Astonishing. Next you’ll tell me that gravity pulls you down and water is wet.”

John can’t help the smile that creeps into his voice as he says, “Come on, smartarse, get on with it, it’s bloody freezing in here.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “A simple thank you would suffice.”

“I’ll thank you once you’ve actually done something other than mouth off, genius.”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock sighs, taking up the tweezers and the small screwdriver. “Now be quiet, I need to concentrate.”

John does just that, he is quiet and watches Sherlock as he carefully, but with the ease of long practice, works on the chip. John shifts a bit with the burning ache as Sherlock slowly disengages the chip and winces when he pulls it out.

Sherlock is quiet as well, concentrating wholly on the task at hand, a small frown line appearing above his eyes.

John used to kiss him, right there, so often. It was one of his favourite places to kiss. He used to say it was the closest he’d get to actually kissing Sherlock’s brain. (And god, John loves Sherlock’s brain. His brilliant, sharp, incredible mind, the way he sees the world, his endless curiosity, his wicked humour, his lack of social grace in pursuit of his intellectual goals. All of it.) John looks away, absently rubbing a hand over his chest to ease the burning ache there, where all of his love for Sherlock sits in its ugly, cold cage of anger, hurt and resentment.

“All right?” Sherlock asks, quietly.

John nods but he keeps his head turned. He can’t look at Sherlock, can’t bear it right now, just how desperately he missed the fucker, and how alone he was without him.

Sherlock continues working on John’s arm, but the quiet feels heavy, laden with words unsaid.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Sherlock says after a few minutes, voice low and sad.

John turns his head back and watches as Sherlock inserts the chip, feels the tingle as he’s re-attaching the sensitive nerve ends. “You’re doing fine, from the looks of it.”

Sherlock briefly looks at John’s face, then he turns his attention back to his work. “I didn’t mean this.” He gestures at John’s arm with the tweezers. “I mean…” he gestures between them.

John sighs and rubs his free hand over his face. He doesn’t even know where to begin to have this conversation. Well, he supposes that’s as good a start as any. “I don’t, either.”

Sherlock looks at him again, eyes flitting over as if to see the expression on John’s face, to gauge his honesty. Then he focuses back on his work. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, finally, hesitantly, addressing the parts of John’s artificial elbow joint he’s currently putting back together. “I thought… It wasn’t selfish. For the first time in my life, I was doing the unselfish thing. Sacrificing my personal wants for someone else.”

“You…” John has to collect himself before he can continue speaking around the lump in his throat. “What did you personally want, that you sacrificed?”

Sherlock gives John a side-eyed ‘how stupid are you’ look. “You, John. I wanted you. With me. But having you with me would have endangered not only your life, but mine, and the mission. So I bit the bullet and endured it. Because it was what was best for you.”

John has a difficult time breathing, because he can hear the sincerity in Sherlock’s voice, can hear it in the hints of emotions that John can see carefully suppressed on Sherlock’s face.

“You… wanted me there with you?” John asks, not caring that his disbelief is clearly audible in the shaking of his voice, the tremor of his actual real human hand.

Sherlock looks at him, meeting his eyes, and he can see some of his own forlorn yearning reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. “Every day. I had to throw away my holo several times to keep from comming you. I was on the verge of boarding a flight, sending a message, so often.”

“I would have gone anywhere with you, done anything...” John says, not caring that his voice breaks over that last word. The anger-hurt-fear-cage in his chest gives a great big rattle.

“I know,” Sherlock whispers, swallowing hard around the unsteadiness of his voice. “That made it worse, in a way. Because I needed you there, and I wanted you there, and I knew you were one comm call away. But I knew I couldn’t come get you, because that was what I wanted, not what was best for you.”

“That’s not your choice to make, Sherlock.” John grabs Sherlock’s arm, connecting them in a circuit, Sherlock’s hand on John’s arm, John’s hand on Sherlock’s.

Sherlock tenses under John’s touch, but he doesn’t shake John off, doesn’t look away from John’s eyes. “It was my choice. It was my responsibility. My mess.”

“What?”

“Moriarty. I invited him in. I said ‘come and play’, that night at the pool. And he came and played. And you’ve been paying the price for my arrogance ever since. I couldn’t let you risk your life for my stupidity, for my hubris.”

“Moriarty was crazy, Sherlock, he would’ve targeted us no matter what you did,” John says, fingers tightening on Sherlock’s arm. “I never blamed you for him.”

“I did,” Sherlock says, finally looking away, down to where John’s hand is still encircling his forearm. “I was the one who brought him into our lives. It was my responsibility to get rid of him. To ensure that you were safe. If I’d taken you with me, and gotten you killed because I’d been stupid, I couldn’t have lived with it.”

“So you made me live with it,” John says, the anger curling tightly behind his breastbone, the hurt making his throat tight. “You made me live with having watched you commit suicide. You made me live without you, live with the knowledge that I couldn’t stop you from taking your own life.”

“So we both could live,” Sherlock says, and there’s a tiny thread of defiance in his voice.

“I would rather have died than go through that,” John says, voice hoarse with emotion, no longer able to hide it.

“Well, this way, we’re both still alive, and I don’t know about you, but I prefer it like that.” Sherlock’s voice is dry and with an edge of dark gallows humour that usually appeals to John, but just exhausts him now.

John tips his head back against the wall behind the chair, and Sherlock goes back to working on his arm. Silence falls, but it’s oddly comfortable, even though John feels a bit like he was hit by an aircab.

They stay quiet while Sherlock meticulously reconnects the chip in John’s arm and then gently closes the skin flap, making his artificial arm look wholly human again.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Sherlock says, gently, addressing John’s arm.

“You’ve probably got a list, but what specifically am I wrong about right now?” John asks, gently flexing his fingers on his artificial arm. It works perfectly again, and the aching has stopped.

“You’re not like her,” Sherlock explains, nodding at the still un-hacked-into holo. “You were thinking it before, when we were going through her things.”

“I’m a veteran with no family to speak of, a family history of addiction and chronic pain. How, exactly, am I any different?” John asks, opening the strap that held his arm still, and moving it around a bit.

“You’re a survivor, John Watson,” Sherlock says, with a small smile that’s all affection, just like the tone of his voice. “It’s what you do. You would have been fine without me.” He looks at John for a moment, serious and sad. “Never think that you owe me anything.”

John lets that sink in, then returns the small smile. Before you I was sad and lost and alone, so alone. You gave me a place and a home and a family, and most of all you made me believe that I was worth loving, by someone like you, nonetheless. “I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on that.”

Sherlock looks a bit startled by his answer, but John doesn’t want to get into another emotionally fraught discussion right now, so he gets up and flexes his arm. “It’s still ridiculously early, I think I’m going back to bed. You should sleep a bit more as well.”

Sherlock shrugs, picking up the holo. “I’ve slept enough. I’ll try to crack that holo, see if it holds any useful information.”

“Suit yourself,” John says, gesturing at the kitchen cabinets. “Help yourself to anything you want.”

He walks out of the kitchen, but turns back in the door, because there’s one more thing to be said. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks up from where he’s already deep in thought about the holo, an eyebrow inquisitively raised.

“Thank you,” John says, softly, gently.

Sherlock swallows, blinks a moment. Breathes. Then he answers, “You’re welcome,” just as gently.

John gives him a small smile, then turns and goes back to bed.

He sleeps without dreaming until morning.

When he wakes up, Sherlock is gone.

Chapter Text

John’s tiny house is eerily quiet when he makes his way out of the bedroom. The sofa is undisturbed, the blanket neatly folded. The kitchen is empty, the holo is gone, tools neatly packed away.

For a horrible, panic-inducing moment, John questions his sanity. He used to see Sherlock often while he was dead, on street corners, in crowds, on ledges, in dreams.

Was Sherlock really here? Did everything he did and said yesterday really happen? Did they talk during the night, did Sherlock actually, genuinely explain himself? Or has John entirely lost his grip on sanity and Sherlock is really, actually, still dead? Or at least still ensconced in Baker Street, indifferent to John?

The used mug in the sink unclenches the panic trying to tighten its grip on John’s lungs. There’s also a crumpled biscuit wrapper right next to the waste incinerator, which is such a very very Sherlock thing. John feels a mix of relief and exasperated fondness so strong that he has to lean against the kitchen counter for a few minutes just to breathe.

He straightens again, then brews himself his own mug of tea and throws the biscuit wrapper into the bloody incinerator, really, it’s twenty fucking more centimeters. How difficult can it be for the System’s Only Consulting Detective and resident genius to throw away his bloody trash correctly? John monologues at his inner Sherlock for the next five minutes as he makes breakfast and puts Sherlock’s dirty mug in the dishwasher.

When he’s eaten his toast and drunk his tea, he’s finally awake enough to wonder where Sherlock went and, perhaps more importantly, whether he’ll be back.

John puts his breakfast dishes away and then sits in the kitchen, unsure what to do with himself. Is his part in the investigation over? Did Sherlock get what he needed from John and decide he’s better off pursuing whatever he’s doing now alone? Exactly the way he did for the last two years?

John has often wondered, over the last two months since Sherlock came back, whether Sherlock was relieved to be rid of him. Whether he was glad to finally be able to shuck the dead weight of John Watson. Slow, normal, broken John, whose hands shake and who can’t tell people their whole life stories based on the eggs they had for breakfast. Who’s handy in a fight, sure, and a good shag when the mood is right, but otherwise ballast, useless. Emotion makes you weak, after all.

He still has a difficult time believing what Sherlock said last night. That he did miss John. That he’d wanted him there but couldn’t, for reasons one might judge good or bad, but which are at least understandable.

John wants to believe Sherlock so badly. He wants to believe that he wasn’t wrong before, when he was completely convinced that Sherlock loved him. That Sherlock wanted him. That the way they fit and lived and worked together as a seamless unit, wasn’t just John projecting his deepest wants and desires on a sociopath who was using him and playing him and indulging him to serve his own needs, and nothing else. John’s gone back and forth on this so often that he genuinely doesn’t know what to think anymore. That might be the worst thing about all of this.

His holo beeps. Text message.

Are you finally awake?

John snorts. The text isn’t signed and it’s from an anonymous holo, but there’s really only one person it can be from.

It’s not even seven in the bloody morning. Some of us do actually need sleep.

Sleep is boring. Baker Street. I need to show you something.

Another beep.

Please come, if convenient.

John smiles at that, because it’s clear that Sherlock is at least trying to be polite, trying not to take John’s compliance for granted. But he can almost hear Sherlock grate his teeth at the waste of time.

John is fully aware that he could, and probably should, back out at this point. But if he’s entirely honest, he doesn’t remotely want to. The case is important and, more than that, Sherlock Holmes has called Doctor Watson to action. And John has never been able to resist that call.

I’ll be there in a bit. Make sure there’s tea.

*-*

John stands before the door of his former home and realises that he’s in no way ready for this.

The door, with its slightly crooked old-fashioned knocker, is gleaming at him, the numbers streaked with dirt from the street.

John takes out a tissue and polishes the numbers, traces the 2, 2, 1, B, with the cloth.

He tilts his head slightly up. The curtains aren’t drawn, but nothing is moving in the sitting room, as far as he can see. Is Sherlock even home?

He should ring the videobell. And he will. In just a moment.

The thing is that every inch of this place has a memory attached to it. Most of them happy, many of them bittersweet. He’d open the door, and be assaulted by the smell of some noxious chemical, or welcomed warmly by the delicious aroma of Mrs Hudson’s scones. And he loved both smells equally, the sharp chemicals of Sherlock’s obsessions and the tangible sense of Mrs Hudson’s care. Sometimes he’d hear Sherlock screech on his violin. Or speak to someone over holo. Or Interrogate a client. Or shoot the wall on one memorable occasion. Sometimes Sherlock would play the violin, so sweetly, so beautifully, that John would take a moment, lean against the door and close his eyes, just listening to Sherlock reveal the heart he kept so carefully tucked away most of the time.

The smell of coffee from Speedy’s wafts into his nose and he takes a deep breath. How many mornings did he open the window of their bedroom on the second floor and smell freshly ground coffee beans from Speedy’s back windows? How many times did he pick up coffee or tea or a scone from that café?

If he went in there now, Mr Chatterjee would greet him joyfully, ask him how he’s been, prepare his regular order and might not let him pay. (John used to treat all the minor burns Mr Chatterjee got from his ancient sandwich toaster, an antique he is insanely proud of even though it is insanely unsafe. He says it makes the best cheese toasties in the System, and John has a hard time arguing with that assessment).

Or maybe Mr Chatterjee wouldn’t even recognize him anymore.

Sometimes he has trouble recognizing himself.

John shakes his head to clear it. This is a pointless exercise.

He lifts his hand to ring.

“You do know that ringing the bell on your own house might be considered somewhat redundant?”

John sighs. He really should have known.

He turns around and notes the sleek black hovercar, the sharply pressed suit. Mycroft has lost a bit of weight at last, but it doesn’t suit him, and the medical professional in John sees that the weight loss is a result of strain, not physical exercise and good nutrition. There’s a certain pallour to Mycroft’s skin that’s a bit too pronounced, even for a desk jockey on a rock so far away from the sun that methane turns liquid.

“It’s called manners, Mycroft. It’s customary to knock on doors of houses you don’t currently live in, no matter if you legally own them. It’s about respecting peoples’ privacy, but I guess that’s a foreign concept to you,” John snarks back, automatically falling into the Holmes speech pattern, already irritated.

“Yes, I am sure that is why you’re oscillating on the pavement, a deep and abiding respect for my brother’s privacy. I’m sure it’s nothing to do with the pointless resentment you’ve insisted on indulging ever since my brother’s return.” Mycroft gives him a thin smile.

John grates his teeth and counts silently to ten. Pointless resentment indeed. This oily git watched me grieve and probably thought it was funny. “Was there something you wanted, or did you come here just to annoy me?”

Mycroft’s thin smile turns slightly more genuinely amused. “Annoying you is more a pleasant side effect as I do have business to conduct with you. Would you give me five minutes of your time?” Mycroft produces a key and John moves out of the way to let Mycroft unlock the door.

John follows Mycroft upstairs, sparing a quick glance at the door to 221A, wondering what the flat looks like now. It’s difficult to imagine it without her. It’s difficult to imagine the building still being intact without her, quite frankly. John hasn’t set foot in 221 since the reading of the will, when he donated all of Mrs Hudson’s furniture to people in the Dregs he knew needed it. Like she would have wanted. John kept her holo, though, and spent the night getting drunk off his arse while looking at holos Mrs Hudson took of Sherlock’s birthday party the year before he jumped.

He hasn’t entered 221B since two days after Sherlock’s funeral, where he packed his meagre belongings in two boxes and left New London’s upper crust behind.

John hovers in the door to the sitting room and darts a quick glance around. The flat is a mess, but not more so than it ever was. Half-drunk mugs of tea, stacks of magazines and books everywhere. It smells musty and sharp, like something chemical, but underneath of nothing so much as Sherlock and home. Nothing has changed. The holes in the wall, the smiley face, the chairs by the artificial fireplace. The knife stuck through Sherlock’s notes, the wallpaper. It’s almost overwhelming how little this place has changed. Like the whole System has moved on, and only 221B remains forever unchanged. Forever stuck in the year 2395, when nothing of any significance happened other than Sherlock Holmes meeting John Watson on the dreary, dark afternoon of January 29th, over the corpse of a dead woman in New London’s morgue.

“Tea?” Mycroft asks, startling John back to reality.

He walks over the creaking floorboards to his chair in a half-trance, tucking the emotions away for later before settling in his chair. The springs and cushions that moulded themselves to his body welcome him with a familiar creak, and every inch of him settles into a place that seems to have been made for him, and him alone.

John closes his eyes and counts to five. “Stop snooping in your brother’s kitchen cabinets and tell me what you want.”

“Magnussen.”

“What about him?”

“He’s not Sherlock’s usual prey,” Mycroft says as he lowers himself into Sherlock’s chair.

John shrugs. “You sent Lady Smallwood to him.”

“I certainly did no such thing.” Mycroft’s voice drips with disdain. “She sought out Sherlock on her own account when my department failed to produce her son.”

“In other words, you couldn’t help her, so she went to Sherlock, who can.”

“The reason why we can’t help Lady Smallwood is the same as yours. Magnussen is the biggest manufacturer of alteration chips and synthetic limbs in the System. How many politicians and members of the police force do you think he owns?”

“If Sherlock is right, someone at Magnussen is killing people,” John spells out, even though he knows it’s pointless. Mycroft doesn’t care about people. Well, he cares about Sherlock, but he doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone else.

Mycroft smiles at John, all studied insincerity. “And he has saved thousands of lives, including probably yours, so on balance…”

“You can’t balance out human lives, Mycroft,” John snaps, irritated by that smile, that attitude. Like he’s an unruly, naive child making Mycroft’s life difficult with his silly little emotions.

Mycroft’s insincere smile takes on a condescending edge. “Of course you can. I do it all the time.”

John sighs and counts to five silently again so that he doesn’t punch Mycroft in his smug face. “I know for you any human life that doesn’t have the surname Holmes and isn’t closely blood related is completely worthless, but neither your brother nor I have mastered your callousness, so kindly fuck off with your moral relativism. People are dying. If Sherlock and I can stop it, we will.”

Mycroft’s smile vanishes, and he looks at John with a cool, calculating look. “It certainly does seem odd that my brother would take on a missing person case that’s so very, very obvious. What is this case really, a two? Three, maximum? But he’s running around out there like he’s chasing a locked room serial killer. Why, may I ask? Could it be that he does this because the people Magnussen targets are, essentially, well … you?”

“What?”

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that my brother stumbled back into your life when army veterans with prosthetic limbs went missing and started turning up dead? Or are you still too blind to see that my brother would literally jump off a building to ensure you take even one more pointless, wasteful breath?”

John presses his lips together and looks away, into the artificial fireplace. Can it actually be true? Did Sherlock take this case and show up at John’s doorstep just because he wants to protect John? Mycroft is a master manipulator, after all. What is the agenda here? He decides it’s pointless to guess and he might as well ask. “Can we get to the point where you tell me what you want from me, and I tell you to go fuck yourself?”

“I want you to make sure that my brother doesn’t kill himself for you a second time,” Mycroft says, and there’s steel in his voice, all fake joviality gone. “Do you think you can manage that? Or has your ingratitude for the many sacrifices my brother has made to ensure your safety reached the point where you don’t actually care whether he dies?”

John is about to answer when a voice interrupts from the door. “Kindly do go fuck yourself, Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s voice is cold and tight with anger. John turns around and sees that the anger is reflected on his face as well. He’s glaring daggers at Mycroft. He’s pale and thin and looks tired and run-down, and the word Mycroft just used in describing John flashes painfully in John’s head. Ingratitude.

It’s true, in a way. But what Mycroft doesn’t understand is that it’s not about that. Not for John and, if John isn’t entirely mistaken, not for Sherlock either. It’s not that John doesn’t appreciate that Sherlock didn’t have a choice when he jumped. What ties John into knots of helpless fury and hurt is the lies. The manipulation. The lack of agency. He never asked Sherlock to sacrifice himself for John. He didn’t get a say in it. He only got lied to and manipulated and treated like a chess piece. And he got to grieve. And now he’s supposed to be grateful for a sacrifice he didn’t ask for, didn’t want, and would have literally died to prevent.

Sherlock flicks his eyes over to John and, from the expression on his face, he’s exactly as unhappy with the situation as John.

Mycroft rises from Sherlock’s chair with an audible sigh of exasperation. “I do hope you know what you’re doing. If you go up against Magnussen without proof, he will destroy you.”

“Ten missing persons all last seen boarding the train to his facility. One of them turned up dead. And the one who turned up dead had this.”

Sherlock takes out Kat’s holo and presses a few buttons. What appears is a message from Magnussen corporate headquarters on Titan, offering the addressee the opportunity to take part in a medical trial involving their artificial limbs.

“You cracked it,” John says, getting up from his chair and taking a step closer to read the text.

“Melly obliged after I upped her pay,” Sherlock notes with a self-deprecating smile.

“Wonderful. Evidence no court of law would touch with a ten foot pole, and no police officer with more than one brain cell would ever use,” Mycroft says, rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation.

John ignores Mycroft and turns to Sherlock. “What’s our next move?”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft are drawing breath to answer when a voice from downstairs interrupts. “Sherly? Are you in, darling?”

The voice is female, loud, and the tone is familiar and teasing.

Mycroft and John both turn to Sherlock, eyebrows raised. Sherlock frowns at the direction of the voice, grimacing in annoyance, before he smooths his expression out. “Yes, do come in, Janine.”

John stares at the door, confused. Who is this woman? But all he says is, “Sherly?”

“Shut up for the next ten minutes, please,” Sherlock says to John, and then turns to Mycroft. “and you shut up for the next ten years. Now get out of my flat and stay out of my business.”

The woman opens the door just as Mycroft takes up his umbrella and nods at the two men. “Sherlock. Doctor Watson. I will leave you to it, then.”

Mycroft passes the woman, who looks at him suspiciously. She’s about thirty, dark-haired, attractive, dressed in a smart business suit with nice heels, decently made-up, sophisticated. But John can see that the air of sophistication is undercut by a very apparent lack of money to keep up appearances. Her earrings are cheap, her bag is imitation leather and her shoes don’t fit quite right. At a guess, John would say she works a corporate job near the bottom of the ladder and doesn’t have any personal wealth to augment her low income. But she has to keep up appearances at work, so she does the best she can.

“Who was that deeply unpleasant man, Sherly?” the woman asks as she enters the room, not caring that Mycroft can still hear her on the stairs.

“My brother, unfortunately.”

The woman—Sherlock called her Janine, John remembers now—nods sagely. “Oh, right, you mentioned him on our second date.” And then she kisses Sherlock, straight on the lips. No false stars, no hesitation.

And Sherlock kisses her back.

John feels a bit like someone’s removed his lungs. Or broke his breastbone. He can’t seem to catch a breath.

Sherlock and Janine break apart and she turns to John. “Oh, I’m sorry, how rude. I’m Janine Hawkins.”

She holds out her hand and John takes it. “John Watson.” He shakes her hand perfunctorily, on autopilot while his brain has gone offline.

Sherlock has a girlfriend. A girlfriend who has been here before, apparently, because she just casually slips out of her shoes and sits in John’s chair.

John is aware that he’s staring at her, and he’s aware that Sherlock is speaking, saying something along the lines of offering tea all around.

Janine accepts, and John doesn’t know what to do with himself. He can’t quite feel his body. There’s this woman, in his chair, in his home, kissing his…

No. Stop, he tells himself. You have no right. He can shag whoever he wants. You told him to get fucked, remember, apparently that’s what he did….

Sherlock is watching him warily, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Tea, John?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice, in his eyes when he meets John’s, something almost—pleading? Something that says ‘Trust me’.

John needs to get out of here right fucking now. He needs a moment, needs to catch his breath. “I need to…”

“You’re going to have to use the loo upstairs, the downstairs is broken,” Sherlock says, gently, something in his tone again so carefully controlled.

John nods blindly and all but flees the room.

Upstairs, John ducks into the bathroom and sits on the closed loo lid while trying to get his hands to stop shaking.

It’s none of his business. Sherlock can shag whoever he wants. He very clearly sent Sherlock away. He can’t expect Sherlock to remain single and pining, the way John has been single and pining…

Fucking hell, what a fucking mess they’ve become.

John hasn’t touched anyone that way in two and a half years. Not for a lack of opportunity, but because while he was touch-starved and shivering with loneliness and craving for human contact, he was touch-starved and craving Sherlock specifically, and the very idea of getting a shallow imitation of what he thought was real love, real passion, a real connection, was just abhorrent to him. Like drinking de-caffeinated tea to wake up. Similar taste, but entirely different effect.

He washes his hands and face, stares at himself in the mirror for a long time.

What did he expect, honestly?

He expected Sherlock to die alone, yearning for him.

That’s what he wanted, if he’s honest. What he felt Sherlock deserved.

On the days when he thought that Sherlock cared about him at all.

Part of him still doubts. Part of him thought Sherlock would just go back to being an island nation with a population of one, and that he would be content with that. Relieved even, to not have to pretend to care about John anymore.

John shakes his head at himself in the mirror. This was a bad idea. He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have gotten involved again. He’s going to tell Sherlock that he needs to leave, invent an emergency in the clinic. He will leave Sherlock to his cases and his girlfriend.

He leaves the bathroom and goes towards the stairs.

The door to the bedroom is ajar.

John can’t help himself. He pushes it open all the way.

The room is unchanged, down to the book Sherlock was reading before the Fall still lying on the nightstand. The bed is pristinely made, and the entire room feels unused.

The bed looks like nobody has slept in it for months, maybe years. No hairs on the pillows, no creases. The duvet is a bit dusty.

Something within John unclenches. At least he’s reasonably certain that Sherlock hasn’t had sex with Janine in what used to be their bed. He doesn’t know why it makes a difference, and it really shouldn’t, but it does. He knows he’s being unreasonable on several fronts, because he has no rights here, no leg to stand on.

But he can’t help remembering the way the day cover would scratch against his bare skin. The way Sherlock would fit himself against John whenever he came to bed in the early morning hours. Lazy Sunday evenings spent in bed looking out into the galaxy, watching Saturn drift in and out of view in the hazy atmosphere, lying quietly side by side, bodies sated and touching from ankle to shoulder, hands entwined. They were both always fascinated by Saturn, by its size, its mass, its colour.

John tilts his head up to the skylight, imagines Sherlock lying here alone, gazing up into the dust, trying to catch a glimpse of the gentle gas giant holding them all in place. But when John looks back down to the bed, he knows that Sherlock hasn’t. That for whatever reason, Sherlock hasn’t slept in this bed in a long time. Maybe since before he left.

He shakes his head to clear it and goes back out, leaving the door ajar as he found it.

There’s something going on here John doesn’t understand. Something doesn’t fit.

As he descends the stairs, he can hear Janine and Sherlock speaking. “I don’t see how you can reasonably expect me to be fully alright with you working with your ex, especially when you won’t even tell me what the case is about,” she complains.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, and then Janine speaks again, tone considerably softened. “Well, fine. You do what you must, I suppose.”

John wonders how the sudden turnaround came about, but when he re-enters the sitting room, he wishes he had remained blissfully ignorant. Janine is sitting in Sherlock’s lap and they’re… well, snogging.

Okay, that’s my cue to leave, John thinks, the burning in his chest—rage, jealousy and hurt—intensifying with every breath.

The floorboards creak when he turns to the door, and the rapidity with which Sherlock stops snogging Janine, sets her down on the armrest of his chair and springs up would be comical if it wasn’t so completely confusing. “Ah, there you are, John. Tea?”

John can’t help but look at Sherlock as if he’s lost his mind completely. But there’s that look again, that one that asks John for his trust, for his patience. “Why not,” John answers, deciding for now to ignore Janine, sitting down in his chair.

Sherlock gets the mug he apparently prepared for John from the kitchen and hands it to him. He turns to Janine with an overly bright smile, and John’s sense of ’wrong’ increases. This isn’t the way Sherlock smiles. It’s the way he pretends to smile. “Janine, love, I hope you don’t mind, but John and I have business to attend to. I’ll holo you tonight, and then we can go out for dinner tomorrow night?”

Janine narrows her eyes at the two of them, but Sherlock continues to smile at her.

John takes a sip of his tea. Splash of milk, no sugar. Perfectly to John’s liking, of course. He tries to look carefully neutral, even though he wants nothing more than for her to be gone.

Finally, Janine shrugs. “Fine. I need to get some work done anyway. I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed that you’re not busy just because it’s Sunday.”

“My work doesn’t keep to office hours,” Sherlock says, giving her a self-deprecating smile that still seems a bit off to John. “I’ll see you out.”

Sherlock opens the door and steps out into the landing, making a motion for Janine to precede him down the stairs.

Janine gets her bag and nods at John. She leans down a bit and drops her voice so Sherlock won’t hear. “I wish I could say it was nice to meet you, Doctor Watson, but I’m afraid I’m not quite insincere enough for that.”

Surprised, John looks at Janine, seeing the defiant glint in her eyes. There’s steel there, somewhere. He can respect that. He grins at her. “Honestly? Likewise.”

Janine gives him a small smile that’s as begrudgingly respectful as the nod John gives her. “Well, then. I hope we never meet again.”

“Heartily reciprocated.”

Janine picks up her bag from the floor, and her holo from the end table beside Sherlock’s chair. And that’s when he sees it. Her holo has the Magnussen logo engraved into it. It’s clearly a company holo.

John closes his eyes as the complicated knot of relief and outrage—at Sherlock’s lies and callousness toward this woman—war for dominance.

This is why I can’t trust you, a part of him thinks, even as another part of him is insanely, comically relieved that Sherlock obviously doesn’t care for this woman. That Sherlock didn’t move on and close that door between them. The door that was, quite honestly, only ever really ajar.

It’s impossible for John to look at Sherlock and not think about kissing him. It’s also impossible to consider being just friends with Sherlock. So whatever they’re doing, John knows it will either end with them tumbling into the nearest horizontal—or vertical—surface together, or with them going their separate ways forever.

Both options are too painful to consider right now, because John can’t imagine trusting Sherlock not to hurt him again, but he also can’t imagine never seeing him again. That conflict - not being willing to forgive and not being willing to say goodbye - is unsustainable in the long run; if he keeps this up his resentment will eat up every good feeling and memory left between them. So John knows that at some point he’s going to have to decide. Forgive, or leave.

Sherlock returns only a minute after he compliments Janine out of the door. He crosses the room and sits in his chair, facing John, not speaking.

John feels something profound within himself shift, just seeing Sherlock sitting there, in his chair where he belongs, while John sits in his. From the way Sherlock’s eyes trace over him he can imagine that Sherlock is feeling something similar.

Silence falls. It’s not exactly comfortable, but not terribly uncomfortable either. It’s just the two of them taking a beat, letting the reality of the two of them alone in 221B for the first time since that awful day settle in.

Finally, John tilts his head in the direction of the door. “She works for Magnussen?” It’s not actually a question.

Sherlock shrugs. “She’s his personal assistant. Unfortunately, her security clearance is insufficient.”

John huffs out a humourless laugh. “She’s a person, Sherlock. She’s not a chess piece. You do realise that, right?”

Sherlock locks eyes with John, all of his attention focussed on John, razor-sharp eyes seeing every one of John’s embarrassing little secrets. Sherlock gives John a half-smirk. “Would you prefer it if I was actually shagging her?”

John grits his teeth to try to get a handle on his irritation. Sherlock is right, of course, John is being a raging hypocrite, but that doesn’t change the fact that Sherlock is a manipulating liar. “Just makes you wonder, is all. What else you’ve been lying about.”

From the way Sherlock nearly flinches, John knows he’s scored a hit, got through the mask. For a moment, Sherlock looks hurt, but then the mask slides back on. Sherlock’s eyes flit over John’s face, then away to the fireplace. “Do you really think that?” Sherlock asks, quiet and sad.

Now it’s time for John to barely suppress a wince, cursing himself for forgetting how easily Sherlock can be hurt, how vulnerable he can be sometimes. John knows better than this, he really does. He is better than this. He needs to stop lashing out just to see whether he still has the power to hurt Sherlock. Because he knows he does. He knows, deep down, that Sherlock never faked the way he felt about John, never lied about that. “No,” he finally says. “I know you’re for real.”

The echo comes back to both of them, of the night before Sherlock jumped when all the world doubted Sherlock Holmes except for John Watson, who stood firmly at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock’s eyes come back to John’s. “One hundred percent?” he asks, and there’s something in his eyes now. Something like hope.

And right then and there, John makes a decision. He’s not sure whether they can fix the many things that are broken between them. But now John is at least sure that he wants to try. “Nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time,” he answers, voice firm and sure.

Sherlock’s smile is small and tentative, but genuine. It’s as far removed from the mask he showed to Janine as this barren rock is from the blue and green planet they all come from, one way or another.

They hold each other’s eyes for a long moment, and John feels like the entirety of Titan has shifted a few centimetres under their feet. Like he just achieved something monumental. Not that he’s forgiven Sherlock, but for the first time, he can see how they might get there.

“So what now?” he finally asks, and he means the case, and he very much doesn’t mean the case.

“Now, we try to figure out who told Kat her leg caused her cancer. Then we try to figure out whether they were correct.”

“We’ll need Kat’s medical records,” John points out. “Army and the ones from the local clinic that diagnosed her with cancer.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, obviously that had occurred to me.”

“You can’t hack into the Army cloud, Sherlock,” John retorts, pointing out the obvious once more. “Remember what happened during the Baskerville case.”

Sherlock grimaces and waves a dismissive hand. “That was a coincidence.”

“The virus you caught when you tried the hack wiped my holo clean, that wasn’t a coincidence, that was the System army security, as you well know.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Sherlock asks, and from the tone of his voice it’s clear that he doesn’t think there are any.

As a matter of fact, John does have a better idea. “Greg,” he says.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, then he shakes his head. “No. He won’t help. He’s risked a lot for me, and it backfired on him. He won’t do it again.”

“He will,” John says. “No matter how he feels about you, or me, or any of this. He will help us because it’s the right thing to do.”

Sherlock scrutinises John for a long time, then he finally relents with a curt nod. “Fine. If you want to waste your time showing undue faith in New London’s judiciary system, then go right ahead. I’ll comm Lady Smallwood for Rory’s medical records, see if he had a similar affliction and whether he and Kat have anything else in common.”

“I can ask around a bit on my way back, talk to some veterans about the Magnussen people and their ‘program’,” John adds.

“That might not be a complete waste of your time,” Sherlock concedes, as he switches on his holo unit. “Meanwhile, I’ll analyse the samples from Kat’s clothing. If we can prove that she didn’t enter the Methane Sea through the New London sewers, we might get the police to re-open the case.”

“Now who’s showing undue faith in the New London judiciary system?” John asks with a smile.

Sherlock flips him off without taking his eyes from the screen, and John laughs. An actual, genuine laugh. Of genuine amusement. It even sounds a bit fond.

It startles both of them.

Sherlock looks over at him, and John feels another piece of himself slide into place, like a puzzle that’s slowly being reassembled.

They look at each other for a few endless moments, then John nods to himself and points at the door. “Best get going.”

Sherlock nods. “Give my best to Graham,” he says softly, as another piece of them finds its place.

John nods and bites down on a smile. “Will do.”

*-*

The pub is well-lit, and the chairs are solid and heavy, bolted down to the floor, secured for when there are gravity generator incidents. There’s actual food on the menu and the people inside are not drinking to self-medicate, but to have fun with their friends and family. It’s Sunday around lunchtime, so it’s also half-empty, the few patrons consisting of a couple of families and a local low-gravity football club. It’s also very conspicuously not a pub John has ever been in, or heard of. It’s far away from Baker Street and even farther from the New London police headquarters. In short, they’re extremely unlikely to run into anyone who knows or cares who they are, and John can’t help but feel that Greg chose the pub for exactly that reason.

John looks around and sees Greg alone in a corner, halfway through a pint and a fry-up. He goes to the bar and gets his own drink, then orders lunch while he’s there (one and a half days back with Sherlock and he’s already falling back into ‘eat when you have the chance’ mode). Food and drink taken care of, he slides into the booth across from Greg.

Greg nods at him in greeting, and John nods back, observing Greg while he eats the remainder of his breakfast-lunch. “Bacon any good?” he finally asks when Greg is nearly done.

Greg shrugs. “All right. I think it’s soy-based, not lab-grown, so, you know, misses a certain crunch. Beans are good, though.”

“Can’t go too wrong with beans,” John points out, taking another drag of his pint.

“Tell that to the cantina ladies down at headquarters.” Greg finishes his meal and pushes his plate aside. “So. John. Fancy hearing from you so suddenly on a Sunday,” he says with an air of a man who’s resigning himself to an unpleasant conversation. “How’s… everything?”

John shrugs and looks down into his pint. It’s an excellent question, and John has no idea how to answer it. “I suppose… fine? Ish? Kind of moving towards it, maybe?”

Greg scrutinises him for a few moments in silence, and John reminds himself that Greg is very good at his job. “Have you seen him at all? Talked to him?”

John grimaces, because this is the awkward part of the conversation. John really, really likes Greg, and he’s the closest thing John has to an actual normal friend. But he’s here because he wants something, and he doesn’t like it. “I’ve talked to him, yes. We’re actually…” he takes a deep breath and looks at Greg, straight into his eyes. “Look, there’s no good way to say this, so I’m coming straight out with it. We’re working a case together, and we need your help.”

Greg’s face does something complicated, then John can almost see him clamp down on whatever it was. He sighs. “John. I’m glad you two are talking again, but you know damned well that I can’t. And I’m not really sure I want to, either.”

“He was cleared of all wrongdoing. He did nothing, Greg. It’s unfair to punish him for the fact that your people fell for Moriarty’s ruse,” John says, trying to keep his temper under control, but it’s not easy. For so long, anger was all John had to hold on to, and he’s not quite at the point where he can let it go yet.

“I know, but he also faked his own suicide, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much that haunted…just…everyone!” Greg wipes a hand over his face, clearly also trying to keep his emotions in check. “Fuck, you know how many nights I lay awake and thought about what I could have done to prevent it? Hell, why do I have to explain this to you of all people?”

John nods, at a loss for words for a moment, because Greg is right, of course. “He didn’t do it because he thought it was fun, though,” John points out, and if he thinks it’s slightly bizarre that he’s actually defending Sherlock, Greg’s face exactly mirrors that emotion.

“Are you actually defending him? You? When he came back, you told him to get fucked. I was honestly surprised you didn’t assault him, you were so angry.”

“I’m still angry with him, especially since he doesn’t seem to understand that lying to your friends for two years can’t be just shrugged off as a blip, but that’s not the point here, Greg.” John slides the picture of Kat and her unit across the table. “A woman is dead. Others could be in danger.”

Greg looks at the picture in silence. “You have the file?” he finally asks.

John sends it to Greg’s holo with another few button pushes.

The service bot delivers John’s food, and John starts eating while Greg reads the file. Greg’s right, the beans are excellent.

Silence falls as John eats and Greg reads the meagre information they’ve gained and looks at the grainy security images.

Finally, he looks up at John. “A bit of an odd case for Sherlock, isn’t it? Not much of a puzzle here.”

John shrugs, but he thinks back to what Mycroft said this morning, and concedes that maybe both Greg and Mycroft have a point. There’s definitely something he’s missing here.

Greg gestures at the file. “This is extremely flimsy. You have no evidence that Kat Winters didn’t die from an overdose, and you don’t know that this has anything whatsoever to do with Magnussen Inc.”

John puts his knife and fork down and gestures at the holo. “It’s all circumstantial, but if you found someone dead and they were last seen entering a specific building that didn’t belong to an influential billionaire, you’d at least investigate. Don’t tell me otherwise. You’re a good cop. And besides, how many times have you known Sherlock to be wrong about something like this?”

Greg hesitates, and John gives him a small smile. “You can be honest, Greg. He’s not here, and I won’t tell him what you said.”

Greg rolls his eyes, but he concedes the point with a shrug. “I almost lost my job over Sherlock. Several times. The last time I was suspended for two months. I’ve got kids, John. I can’t keep risking my job for Sherlock.”

“It’s not for Sherlock, Greg. A woman is dead. More may be in danger.” He leans in and pats the photograph with his finger. “Kat Winters has nobody, Greg. Nobody to claim her body or demand justice. She doesn’t have billions and lawyers and politicians in her back pocket. She just has us. You swore to protect and serve the people of this city. I’m not asking for favours, Detective Inspector. I’m asking you to do your job.”

Greg looks at John for a long time in silence, and John is almost sure that he went too far when Greg finally speaks. “Bring me evidence. Something other than a security camera picture that proves she was anywhere near the Magnussen facility. If you manage that, I might be able to re-open the case officially. In the meantime, I’ll see what information I can access unofficially. What do you need?”

“Her medical records. All of them.”

Greg lets out a low whistle. “I’ll see what I can do, though getting her Army records might not be so easy, and will definitely get someone’s attention.”

“Thank you, Greg. You’re doing the right thing.”

“Yes, I’ll remember that when I’m unemployed and have to feed my kids cheap ration bars,” Greg mutters, but John knows he’s not entirely serious.

“You can always work for me. I think you’d make an excellent nurse,” John says, grinning.

“I know I’d distract the patients with my good looks and calm demeanour, but I think they’d be put off by my spewing all over them at the first sight of anything remotely illness-related,” Greg shoots back, taking a deep drag to finish his pint. The smile fades from Greg’s face as he looks at John. “John. Seriously, though. Be careful.”

“Magnussen doesn’t scare me,” John says, with more confidence than he actually feels.

Greg shakes his head. “I wasn’t talking about Magnussen.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, an uncomfortable, hesitant gesture. “Look. I never said anything the first time you two fell into bed together, because anyone could see that you were in too deep already. But this time I’m saying something.”

“Greg—” John starts, getting irritated, because whatever the thing between him and Sherlock is, it’s also nobody else’s goddamned business.

Greg holds up his hand. “I know. It’s none of my business. But as someone who, idiot that I am, actually cares about both of you: Be very, very sure, before you do anything rash. Be sure, for your sake as well as his. Because if you’re not sure, if you go into this half-cocked and then decide you can’t do it after all, I’m not sure what that’d do to him. Or to you.”

John nods, just once, to show that he heard and understood. “Don’t worry, Greg. I know what I’m doing.”

Greg just gives him a look that’s both derisive and pitying. John takes a deep drag of his pint so he won’t have to say anything, because that was possibly the biggest line of bullshit John has ever said in his life.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.

The problem is, of course, that it won’t stop him from doing something. It makes it more likely, in fact.

It’s why he and Sherlock always got on like a house on fire. Because eight times out of ten, neither of them had any plan or clue and they still ran into danger full speed.

But they used to be able to work together to figure it out as they went along. And John just has to trust that the compatible chaos that led them to still be alive today will lead them through this storm as well.

*-*

John’s foray into the bowels of the Dregs is rather less successful than his meeting with Greg. He visits the few bars that are open on Sunday early afternoons, but nobody he talks to has had any contact with the Magnussen people. A few of the veterans know some of the missing persons, but not well enough to tell John anything about them beyond that they do in fact all have synthetic limbs. Which isn’t that much of a surprise, really. Magnussen Inc would obviously only be interested in people who actually have Magnussen products on or in their body.

Still, there’s plenty of people John talks to who have synthetic limbs who haven’t been approached by Magnussen. Also, none of John’s patients have mentioned anything to him. And John himself hasn’t been approached either. He fits nearly every other category, in fact he has more in common with most of their missing persons than he’s altogether comfortable with.

Which brings him back to the question that’s been nagging at him since he talked to Mycroft this morning, and which reared its head again when Greg said basically the same thing. Why did Sherlock take this case? It’s not the kind of riveting puzzle that normally draws him in. Corporate shenanigans and missing sons of Secret Service members are things Sherlock would usually avoid like the plague, in fact. So what is John missing?

Whatever it is, it will reveal itself sooner or later.

In the meantime, they’re not one step closer to solving anything.

*-*

John lets himself back into Baker Street using the thumbprint lock that still recognises him. He lingers a few moments on the landing, looking over at 221A. It’s difficult to accept that this door will never open again; that there’s no motherly landlady waiting for him with biscuits, tea and some much-needed advice.

He wonders what she would say to him, if she were here. Berate him, probably, like everyone else.

Or maybe not. She was there through the worst of it. She would understand why he can’t just forgive and forget and move on. Understand why it’s so difficult for him to let go of his anger.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to let go. It would be such a relief, to just go up there, sink into his chair, have a cup of tea, listen to Sherlock rant about something or other, or play the violin, or just be silent. And there. Have dinner together, watch a stupid holoseries, argue about whether it’s a good use of ressources to try and reverse engineer dinosaurs from chicken eggs. Go to bed, wrapped in each other, touch and be touched, warm, content. Safe. John so very desperately wants all of that. He just wants to go home.

But while the building is still there, dura-concrete walls and roof and windows encasing the perfect chaos that is 221B, and while the flat itself is unchanged down to the dirty mug he’s pretty sure has been there since before Sherlock jumped, and the very particles of their skin cells hopelessly entwined on the sofa and the carpet and the bed that used to be theirs, John knows that there’s no going back and pretending the last two years haven’t happened. John is a different person now. He’s been shattered and put back together and the cracks are still showing.

And John is beginning to suspect that the same is true for Sherlock. That the same cracks that run all the way down to John’s very sense of self are there inside Sherlock as well. That the fall that broke John also robbed Sherlock of something essential.

And he knows that they need each other to put all the pieces back together.

Only John’s not sure he can do it. Because it means he has to trust Sherlock again. Not with his life, that’s easy. But with his heart.

He sighs and traces the contours of the door to 221A with his eyes. Imagines what it would be like to go in, get a cup of tea. Sit down at the kitchen table. Look at her, ask her. How do I forgive him? How do I trust him?

He can almost see her shake her head, can almost feel her hand on his shoulder, her long, thin fingers surprisingly strong. Talk to him. Tell him. Make him see. Make him understand.

John swallows against the lump in his throat, blinks away the threatening tears. Then he nods at the door and ascends the stairs to 221B.

*-*

The sitting room is empty. When he calls out, Sherlock answers from the lab.

John pushes the door open and sees Sherlock poring over his holo unit. It takes up the entire wall, and Sherlock’s at the holo imaging station, a life-sized hologram of Kat Winters’ body in front of him. He’s constructed a model out of Molly’s scans and autopsy report, and he’s taking apart the holoimage of the synthetic leg, components hovering in mid-air, data readouts blinking next to them.

“What are you looking for?” John asks, stepping closer.

“Cause of death,” Sherlock retorts. “What did Lestrade say?”

“Prove she was at the Magnussen facility and he’ll re-open the case. Meanwhile, he’ll get us her medical records.”

“He already did,” Sherlock says, swiping his hand to send a scattering of documents over to the reading section of his holo unit.

John catches the document icons and transfers them to his own holo so he can peruse them in peace. “Do you have Rory Smallwood’s as well?”

Sherlock gestures at the holounit in an unspoken invitation for John to help himself. John locates the files and transfers them to his device.

“I’ll look through these, then,” John says, seeing that Sherlock is in the ‘don’t talk to me’ mode of his thinking process, as opposed to the ‘ask me questions to spark deductions’ mode.

Sherlock nods absently at him, and John takes the files and goes to the kitchen to make tea. The cupboards are nearly bare, but John expected that. There’s a tin of tea that John is pretty sure he bought when he first moved in, and no milk or anything else edible save for a few stale biscuits. The old-fashioned microscope is collecting dust on the kitchen table, and the whole flat gives the impression that it’s barely lived-in. It makes John sad, somehow, to see how little Sherlock’s apparently resettled into his life. The only thing that looks well-used in the entire flat is Sherlock’s violin.

So John makes the executive decision that whatever is going to happen in the future, he’ll at least leave Sherlock stocked with the bare essentials. He orders standard groceries and protein bars from the dispensary and makes a pot of tea with the remnants of what’s left in Sherlock’s cupboard.

He deposits a steaming cup next to Sherlock, knowing that he’ll drink it automatically while he’s locked in thought. After the food arrives, John makes Sherlock a basic sandwich, which he also puts right next to Sherlock’s hand.

Then he settles down in his chair and concentrates on Kat Winters and Rory Smallwood.

*-*

John sighs and rubs his eyes. It’s late afternoon, and he’s gotten a bit further, but not much. He connected Kat to two of their other missing persons through a holonews article about a Magnussen program for the Army, but it only stated that they all have Magnussen limbs, and he and Sherlock already knew that.

Rory Smallwood’s medical flies were inconclusive, except to prove definitively that he’s their outlier. Because not only is he well-connected and rich, while the others were poor or downright homeless, but he’s also the only one who got his original Magnussen synthetic limb replaced when he came back. He also doesn’t have cancer, as per his check-up six months ago. Plus, he’s not strictly a veteran, as he wasn’t in the army, but instead worked for the secret service, which explains why he was on Mars. Why Rory was there had bugged John, because most people who end up in the Army do it for a very specific reason, and that’s money. John’s first tour was the price he paid for his education. His second and third weren’t, but there’s no reason to get into that right now. Kat went into the Army because she was in a pilot program, but Rory went to an elite college on Io, and then to the military academy on the Mars security station.

John pulls up everything else Sherlock has on Rory Smallwood. Born and raised on Earth—that alone makes John pause and shake his head at the enormous gulf between these two people, Kat and Rory. But somehow they ended in the same place. Rory was gifted, a prodigy of an ancient titled family. He’s an only child, excelled at school, and followed his family’s career path of uni, military academy, secret service. Seems members of his family have worked in the intelligence field since before the Migration. Volunteered for a Mars command, spent weeks undercover in Separatist communities. Between missions, Rory was part of an exploratory convoy when his antigrav hit a landmine. He was the only survivor. Lost his right leg, got it replaced with a standard army synthetic limb and was transferred to Titan (against his explicit wishes, interestingly, John notes. He was probably overruled by his mother pulling strings in the background). The limb was replaced with a Magnussen custom made job, which should have taken care of the chronic pain. But Rory started slipping anyway, missed work for days at a time, spent more and more time hanging around the Dregs, scoring Dust. He’d still lived in the flat his mother bought for him, though, and he’d still answered his holo. Until four days ago, when he got on a train to the Magnussen facility and disappeared for good.

Sherlock wanders out of the bedroom turned lab/study and rubs at his eyes, obviously strained from the hours spent examining the holoimage of Kat’s body.

“Find anything?” John asks, keeping his voice low in case Sherlock is still deep in his mind palace.

“No,” Sherlock says, letting himself drop into his chair, limbs sprawling, head resting on the back.

John unsuccessfully tries to hide a small, fond smile. Apparently Sherlock still can’t just sit in a chair like a normal person.

Odd, the things you miss, when people are gone, he thinks. Sherlock sits like a child, sometimes, like he just can’t be bothered, like his limbs aren’t his own. And yet he can be so controlled, so graceful…

John has to look away. Overwhelmed by emotion from Sherlock sitting in a fucking chair, what the actual fuck is wrong with him?

Sherlock continues speaking, paying no attention to John’s emotional state. John is grateful, even if he doesn’t know whether Sherlock is acting out of tact or obliviousness. “As far as Molly could determine, she died from exposure. No entry or exit wounds, no defensive wounds, and while there was a residue of Dust in her system, Molly’s convinced that she hadn’t taken any drugs for a few days before she died. Stomach contents inconclusive.”

“Contusions?” John asks, glad for the opportunity to focus on the facts of the case.

Sherlock shrugs, waving his arms in a frustrated gesture. “Minus 170 degrees, John. Ruptured blood cells all over her body. But Molly did find something that looks like blunt force trauma post-mortem, along the left side of her body.”

“So what, she was pushed out of an airlock and then fell?” John surmises.

Sherlock gives him a small smile. “As a working theory, it will do. Of course it’s always dangerous to theorise without all the facts. She may have tried to escape the facility, tripped through the security force field and was then carried out with the rest of the debris, falling into the Methane Sea.”

“So we still don’t know whether she was murdered at all,” John concludes.

“I don’t think it’s relevant whether she was actively murdered or tried to escape and died in the process. We need to find out why she was in there in the first place.”

“I’ve connected Kat to two of the other veterans, they were all mentioned to be part of a Magnussen program to outfit the Army with Magnussen limbs, but we already knew as much. We can assume that the others were part of the same program, but the article didn’t mention what, specifically, the program was about.”

Sherlock nods absently. “Did you find anything in the medical records?”

“Only that Rory Smallwood is definitely our outlier. He got his limb replaced, he wasn’t in the Army, and he wasn’t medically discharged.”

Sherlock grabs John’s holo and pushes a few buttons, calling up the information.

“What’s wrong with your own holo?” John says, the familiarity of the argument making him both annoyed and oddly nostalgic.

“Too far away,” Sherlock mutters absently, flicking through information with rapid fingers. He rearranges the information so Kat’s and Rory’s files are next to each other, hovering in the air before Sherlock’s face.

John steps next to him. “What are you looking for?”

“A connection,” Sherlock replies, eyes flicking through the information.

John looks at the dates side by side, and his eyes snag on something. “Sherlock—”

But Sherlock has already seen it. He enlarges the information in both their medical files. “Bastion recovery centre,” Sherlock whispers. “March 2397 to September 2397.”

John turns to Sherlock at the same time as Sherlock turns to him. “They knew each other,” John says quietly, but with conviction. He knows Bastion recovery centre, it’s not that big of a place. If they were there at the same time with the same injury, they knew each other for sure.

“There was nothing in his flat,” Sherlock muses, turning back to the information. “Nothing on his holo either. But then, he left his flat two days before he vanished.”

“How do we know that?” John asks, watching as Sherlock reads information and makes connections, the light from the holo flickering over his face, reflecting in his changeable eyes. It’s difficult to look away when Sherlock is like this, almost glowing with the full power of his intellect engaged.

“Surveillance. His mother had a door camera installed and watched his comings and goings.”

John snorts. “Well, she’s a friend of Mycroft’s, all right.”

Sherlock turns to John and there’s the face, there it is. “Oh, of course!” Sherlock yells. He grabs John’s shoulders so hard it hurts, but John doesn’t mind. “You’re brilliant, John! Of course! He was under surveillance and he knew it, and he had a drug habit he wanted to hide from his mother.”

“So?” John asks, knowing his role in this.

Sherlock grins. “He had a bolthole, John. Maybe several. We find it, we might find a clue as to what this is all about. You’re absolutely brilliant!”

They’re standing very close, and Sherlock is still gripping his shoulders. Their eyes meet, and John feels a familiar rush, adrenaline and pure animal attraction at that look in Sherlock’s eyes. The look that says, You’re brilliant, fantastic, I want to eat you whole and never let you up for air again.

Two years ago, Sherlock would have already had John against the wall with his tongue down his throat. And John would have had his hands wound possessively in Sherlock’s hair, or grabbing his arse, or winding his leg around Sherlock’s. Or all three.

The air in the room is heavy with the weight of everything they haven’t said to each other, with every touch and kiss and look that they’ve missed over the last two years.

John has no idea how long they’ve been standing there, frozen, eyes locked, Sherlock’s hands gripping his arms with enough force he’ll probably leave bruises. John has no idea what would have happened if Sherlock’s holo hadn’t buzzed right then. He only knows that when Sherlock seems to snap back to some semblance of we’re not in that place right nowand mutters “Sorry”, before releasing John with a mixture of regret and what John is pretty sure is self-conscious embarrassment, John is equally relieved and disappointed.

He disappears into the kitchen to make them another pot of tea while Sherlock answers the call and talks to Billy Wiggins.

Sherlock appears in the doorway to the kitchen just as the tea is ready. He looks so unsure of himself that John takes pity on him. “Sit,” he says, deciding to just act like nothing happened, because really, actually, nothing did. “I made us tea, and we should proably see about getting something to eat, then we can decide what we do next.”

John doesn’t know whether it’s his tone, or the familiarity of the two of them in this kitchen sharing an easy domesticity, or whether it’s the two ‘we’s and the one ‘us’ that John just used, but for whatever reason, Sherlock visibly relaxes and sits down.

John pours the tea and hands a mug to Sherlock, sitting down himself.

And only then does he realise that he doesn’t live here anymore and he’s being a bit presumptuous just poking around in Sherlock’s kitchen, ordering food, making tea. “Sorry,” he says, and now it’s his turn to be embarrassed. “I… old habits.”

Sherlock is looking at him, genuinely puzzled. “What are you talking about? Why are you apologising?”

John gestures at the kitchen, at the tea. “I…didn’t ask.”

Sherlock gives John one of those looks that says, You’re stupid but I love you anyway. “John. I know you keep forgetting, but this is your house.” His voice softens, and his eyes drop to his cup. “And I hope you know that I consider this to be your home as much as mine, should you ever decide to come back.”

There’s so much John could say to that. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for this. Or I want that more than I want my next breath, but I can’t see how we’ll get there. But the words seem to be stuck somewhere in his throat, so he just nods once, acknowledgement, thanks and acceptance all in one.

He takes a sip of his tea to dislodge the aching in his throat, then asks, "What's our next move?"

Sherlock gestures at the kitchen. "Food. You need to eat, but we don't have time to cook. The Dim Sum place delivers.”

"Sounds good."

Sherlock is already reaching for his holo. “Any special requests?”

John shrugs and gets up to go back to work on the case. “You know what I like.”

There’s a noticeable pause where he can feel Sherlock’s eyes travel over him and linger. “I do,” Sherlock finally says, visibly shaking himself out of it, then places their order.

John swallows hard and takes a deep breath before he turns around. “So. Dim Sum. And what next?”

“Next, we take a little trip,” Sherlock says, and the grin on his face and glint in his eyes make John’s heartbeat speed up and his entire body prickle with adrenaline. It’s the age-old call to adventure.

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.”

Chapter Text

The sun is slowly rising above the horizon when they finally make their way back into New London. It’s ridiculously early, and John feels a bit like he was run over by a delivery bot on autopilot. He’s sore and overtired and his artificial hand is cramping from gripping the controls. The storm has passed, but the winds are still gusting and it’s difficult to keep the craft steady.

Sherlock is asleep on the passenger seat, softly snoring and dead to the world. He looks impossibly young, dressed haphazardly in his dirty jumpsuit, his hair an absolute wreck from John’s greedy fingers carding and pulling and gripping.

John smiles to himself. It’s a good look on Sherlock.

He winces a bit as he sits down and encounters the finger-shaped bruises on his arse where Sherlock gripped him—like he’d go anywhere with his cock halfway down Sherlock’s throat —and his smile widens. Every ache he feels is worth it, because, besides those pangs of mild pain, he feels—good. Not euphoric and punch-drunk, like he remembers feeling when he stumbled out of Sherlock’s bedroom the first time. But a sort of quiet contentment, paired with an immense relief. Like coming home after an arduous journey. Or finding something you thought you’d lost. He feels like he can take a full breath again.

And this feeling won’t last, he realises. Sex never solved anything, but he hopes against hope that some of the things they actually talked about for a change might actually stick.

John drives towards New London, the stark beauty of the Titan landscape slowly giving way to the immensity of the biodome as it slowly fills his line of vision. He worries briefly about the scanners at the airlock, but whatever Sherlock paid the thug at the docks was worth it, because they pass through the tunnel and the force fields without a problem.

Sherlock remains asleep even as the gravitational clamps disengage and the antigrav turns sluggish under the artificial gravity in the biodome. John senses the artificial gravity re-engage, and it feels curiously heavy to be back within the city. Back where he has to face the reality of how very different their lives are from two years ago.

It’s Monday. The clinic opens in an hour. John needs a shower, breakfast, normal clothes. He needs to go be the Doctor Watson for his patients, instead of the version of himself he only be around Sherlock.

And Sherlock will go home and will re-build the Consulting Detective shell. John is a bit scared that whatever uncertain equilibrium they reached last night in the dark, with nothing between them but air—and not much of that—won’t survive contact with light and life and reality.

As he manoeuvres the antigrav through early morning traffic, which is thankfully light, John wonders if he’s overthinking this. Wonders if he’s trying to argue himself out of this. Because honestly, he’s terrified. Not of the case or Magnussen or any physical danger they might face, but he’s terrified of giving Sherlock the opportunity to hurt him again. Of extending even the most fragile trust.

But he knows he has to, because the alternative is walking away right now, and he’s not stupid or self-delusional enough to think that that’s a line he can take and stick to. He’s still angry with Sherlock, still hurt and disappointed and sad, but he’s coming to terms with the fact that it doesn’t mean he’s not still as completely in love with Sherlock as ever.

But what’s more, John wants to give them a chance. He wants to see if they can fix this, and that’s something he didn’t think they’d achieve when Sherlock knocked on his door not even 48 hours ago.

The last two days have reminded John of how much common ground there still is between him and Sherlock. How many memories, good and bad, how much history and fun and trust. He’s also been reminded him just how awful life without Sherlock can be.

So. Ahead. He’s invaded Mars, he can do this.

Sherlock is still asleep when they reach the docks, but he wakes when John starts landing procedures and the steady drone of the engine suddenly cuts out.

“Where are we?” Sherlock mutters, slowly righting himself with a noticeable wince, rubbing his neck.

John bites down on a smile. Sherlock sleep-rough and bleary-eyed is somehow almost more intimate than Sherlock naked with John’s hand on his cock. “Docks. We’ve just arrived.”

Sherlock looks around, eyes slowly focusing. “What time is it?”

“Bit after six. There’s few people around. We can dump the antigrav and be on our way.”

Sherlock nods absently, reaching for his holo and checking messages. “Aha,” he says, grinning in that ‘I’m right and I knew it’ way. “Billy found Rory’s bolthole. We’ll go check it out, but first we need to stop at Baker Street. We can—”

“Um…” John interrupts, watching as Sherlock turns to him and raises an inquiring eyebrow. “I need to go to work. The Clinic opens at seven.”

He watches as Sherlock moves through a series of reactions. John can see the immediate objection being bitten down, can see inferences being drawn and deductions being made.

That’s when John realises that if he wants Sherlock to understand him, he actually needs to use words right now, because in the delicate operation of putting themselves back together, there’s no room for error. Maybe one day they’ll get back to the wordless synch they used to enjoy, but not now. “You can keep me updated by holo. Just comm me if you find something you need my opinion on, and I’ll take a break and look at it right away. And I should be done by four at the latest, I’ll just come by Baker Street and we’ll go from there? Besides, I’m sure I’ll get some more information from my patients.”

Sherlock hesitates, but in the end he nods and accepts John’s terms for what they are. “All right.”

John finishes the landing procedures, and they unload their gear onto the dock before returning the antigrav to the empty lot where they got it.

John closes and locks the door, patting the hull of the antigrav affectionately, knowing he’ll always think back on the night they spent in this decrepit wreck with fondness.

Sherlock is watching him, a small, fond smile on his face. Their eyes meet, and John feels a bit of the awkwardness that he’s felt the entire morning dissipate. They’re both so unsure where they are, what the way forward is. The ice between their feet is slippery and thin, but John takes a tentative step onto it anyway.

“Sentiment,” he says, a small challenging smile on his face.

Sherlock’s entire face softens, and his smile broadens. “Sentiment,” he answers, affirmation and promise.

Sherlock calls a hovercab, and they load the equipment Sherlock is taking with him to Baker Street. The docks are an easy walking distance to John’s clinic, so this is where they have to say goodbye.

The hovercab idles as they both hesitate, Sherlock’s hand already at the door. “I’ll holo you if I find something in Rory’s bolt hole. I'll get in touch with Lestrade later today, hopefully by then we'll know more about what this is all about. ”

John nods. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and why this separation feels so— weird. “I’ll let you know what Sarah had to say.”

Sherlock nods, and he also seems unsure of what to do. He makes an abortive gesture towards John, but there’s uncertainty in every line of his body.

John decides that this is ridiculous; there’s traces of Sherlock’s dried saliva on his stomach, after all, and he has zero intention of spending tonight anywhere other than in Sherlock’s—their?—bed.

So he bundles up the kind of courage that makes him face down killers with nothing but his and Sherlock’s combined wits and fists a hand in Sherlock’s jumpsuit, pulling him in for a decisive kiss.

It’s brief and messy and they both need a toothbrush rather urgently, but Sherlock’s arms come around John without a second’s hesitation. They cling to each other for a few moments, hands gripping and bodies luxuriating in that exquisite closeness.

Then John pulls back a bit and looks at Sherlock, who seems a bit dazed. “Be in touch.”

Sherlock nods. “You too.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” John adds. “Or at least wait for me before you do it.”

Sherlock nods again, solemn and serious, and when he says, “I promise,” John actually believes him.

*-*

“John.” Mary sticks her head around the door of his tiny office. “Harold’s here. Adjustment issue.”

“Be right there.”

John drains the dregs of his second cup of coffee, then stretches out his neck a bit and gets up from his desk.

He’s tired and a bit frustrated, because his investigation into medical records is going sluggishly. Sarah treated three of their missing persons, and all three of them had various conditions—severe nerve damage, stroke, muscle degeneration—and all three of them had Magnussen limbs no older than three years.

In between researching anything he might not already know about the different makes and models of Magnussen limbs (Sarah’s three patients all had different limbs: right arm, left lower arm, left lower leg), he’s seen his patients.

Sherlock has sent him two quick texts, one reading, At Baker St and the second, from half an hour ago, reading On my way to the bolthole now, update later. John is glad for the messages, glad that Sherlock is obviously trying to keep him in the loop.

It's odd being at the clinic as if it was any other day, but a part of John is glad for the routine, for the normalcy of this place, which is wholly his. It's something he knows he needs to hold on to, because, no matter how much he might want to and how tempting it is, he can't let himself be sucked into Sherlock’s orbit again the way he used to, can't let Sherlock be his whole world again. John needs to be steady on his own two feet, otherwise he will never be an equal partner in their shared life.

So he goes into Exam 2 with the best intentions of leaving the case behind for now and seeing to Harold, who’s his usual grumpy self. John recalibrates his chip and adjusts the artificial knee joint while half listening to Harold go on about how much he hates his limb. “Maybe I should’ve gotten it replaced when them Magnussen chaps offered back on Mars.”

John perks up, because that’s news to him. “They offered to replace your leg? When?”

“Third tour,” Harold says, scratching at his beard. “About two years ago. Told me there was some fancy new program for us Army folk called Titan Silver.”

John frowns. Titan Silver rings a bell in his mind. “What was the sales pitch?”

“Better conductivity, better durability. Didn’t take it because I didn’t believe it. Nobody gives you nothin’ for free, got to be a catch somewhere,” Harold says, gesturing at his leg. “This one’s carried me for ten years, it’ll carry me for ten more, if I live long enough.”

John pats Harold’s shoulder, amused at the cynicism that probably saved Harold’s life many times. Because Harold is right, of course, Magnussen wouldn’t just give something away. “That might have been a wise decision.”

He quickly finishes Harold’s treatment and sends him on his way.

The waiting room is empty, so John goes into his office to do some research on Titan Silver.

He has to do a bit of digging, because apparently Magnussen put some serious effort into sweeping this under the rug. But he is able to find out that about three years ago, when Magnussen started using silver from Titan as the conductor chips in their synthetic body parts, they gave the first hundred limbs to the Army as a publicity stunt, and called the program Titan Silver. John digs around a bit more and finds a holo with an interview with Charles Magnussen himself. In it, Magnussen explains how ‘our System heroes’ deserve nothing but the best, so he was gifting the first limbs outfitted with the chips to the Army before starting mass production.

John knows that Kat’s synthetic leg had the Titan silver chips because he saw them with his own eyes. He also knows how expensive the chips are to produce, how difficult to maintain.

So if Magnussen gave a hundred of these precious and expensive parts to the Army, there’s only one logical conclusion: He wanted data. The kind of data a medical trial can never give you.

There’s a lag of a year between the article announcing the Titan Silver program and the start of mass production. So, apparently, they did some adjusting. And apparently, they’re now cleaning up what’s left of the original Titan Silver recipients so nobody will know they used Army personnel as guinea pigs.

He pulls out his holo without a thought.

Sherlock picks up immediately. “What is it?”

John explains his theory about the chips, including how it explains why Rory wasn't affected, since he got his limb replaced with a newer model.

Sherlock hums in thought. “It’s as good a theory as any I’ve had yet. Well done.”

John smiles to himself, surprised at how much the praise means to him. “And you, what have you found out?”

“I’m at Rory’s bolthole right now,” Sherlock says, turning the holo so John can see the room.

It’s small, windowless and nearly bare, just a mattress on the floor and a small refrigerator.

“He definitely knew Kat,” Sherlock continues, holding up a reading pad with a picture of Rory and Kat on it, apparently taken when they were both in recovery on Mars. “And I found out why he went into Magnussen’s compound; he’s not affected by the malfunctioning chips, he was investigating Magnussen.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” John muses, thinking aloud, “he was Secret Service after all. You think it was an official investigation?”

“No. There was nothing in his flat, nothing on his work holo. I’m pretty sure this was off record.”

“We still haven’t found the person who supposedly told Kat that her Magnussen limb caused her cancer. What if it was Rory?” John considers.

“But how did Rory know? What’s his connection to Magnussen?” Sherlock asks, flicking through the reading pad. “He’s been investigating Magnussen for about a year. So whatever happened, it happened a year ago.”

“He’s been back on Titan for about eighteen months,” John says, checking Rory’s medical records. “He got his leg replaced around that time. There’s nothing in his medical records that would indicate any contact with Magnussen Inc.”

“He’s not investigating Magnussen Inc. He’s investigating Magnussen himself. There’s articles, pictures, interviews, plans of Appledore—interesting, the plans are very detailed.”

The dinging of the door tells John that another patient has arrived. “Listen,” John says, drawing Sherlock’s eyes to him through the holofeed. “I need to get back to work. Just send me anything you think I should take a look at, and I’ll try to get to it between patients. I’ll meet you at Baker Street around six?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes.” He hesitates briefly. “Or we could meet at Angelo’s? Go over what we’ve discovered over dinner?”

John suddenly feels warm all over, and smiles. “Good idea. I’ve missed Angelo’s lasagna.”

Sherlock returns the smile. “Me too.”

*-*

John checks his watch.

6:30 pm.

Angelo comes over and re-fills John’s water glass for the third time. “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. You know how he gets.”

Yes, John knows how Sherlock gets. But he’s still somewhere between annoyed, angry and worried.

He takes out his holo and checks Sherlock’s most recent messages. The last few are all about the analysis he did on Kat’s Titan silver chips. Turns out John was right, the Titan silver was contaminated with chromium, and it seems to have corroded out of the chips into her body. So now they know what’s at the bottom of all this. Unfortunately they still need to prove it.

Sherlock’s latest text reads Message from Janine, bit odd. Going to check on her, Angelo’s at 5:30?

John texted back a simple yes, and was here at 5:30. He was welcomed by Angelo like a returning war hero, was guided to their candle-lit table, water and wine already set out along with Angelo’s home-made bread and olive oil.

And John’s been waiting ever since.

Half an hour in, he sent a text. Where are you?

When he didn’t get an answer, he commed. No answer.

And he’s been stewing here for a solid hour by now.

There’s three possibilities, none of them good.

Possibility A: Sherlock has drifted into his mind palace, forgotten where he is and is unaware of the passage of time.

Possibility B: Sherlock got distracted by a facet of the case and is now off investigating without John, and without telling him.

Possibility C: Sherlock is in some sort of trouble.

There are precedents for all three possibilities, of course.

The question is which possibility is most likely, and what John is supposed to do now. If it’s A, he should pack up some food, go to Baker Street and watch Sherlock grovel, because he never does this sort of thing on purpose, his mind just gets away from him. If it’s B, John should go home and tell Sherlock to get fucked. If it’s C, John needs to find Sherlock so he can go rescue his sorry arse.

What John really needs to do is decide whether he wants to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt.

The part of John that never understood why Sherlock even gave him a second glance is absolutely convinced that Sherlock has ditched him again, like the dead weight he is. But the part of him that remembers last night and how Sherlock clung to him hard enough to bruise wants to believe that Sherlock deserves a chance.

Well. The very least he can do is check whether Sherlock is currently ensconced on the sofa in Baker Street. If he’s not, then John can decide what to do next.

“Angelo! I’ll take that lasagna to go, please.”

*-*

Baker Street is dark and empty.

John sets the lasagna down on the coffee table, looking at the empty sofa. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

He takes out his holo. The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Do you want to leave a message? “Sherlock. If you’re out there alone, so help me…” John hisses as he clicks off the holo, plunging the flat into twilight once more.

He sits down heavily on the sofa, looking around the dark, empty room for any clues of where Sherlock might have gone.

And all the while there’s a small, nagging voice in John’s head, whispering, When will you learn? How often does he have to leave for you to understand? He’ll never love you the way you love him, he’s not capable of it. You’re boring and normal and broken, and he’s a brilliant sociopath who’s playing tennis with your heart for fun…

No. John knows it’s not true. Sherlock doesn’t hurt him because it’s fun, he hurts him out of carelessness. Not that that’s much better, mind you.

There’s a soft light coming from the barely open door of Sherlock’s lab. John pushes the door open and sighs. Rory’s notes are scattered over the holo display, pages and pictures and plans for Appledore, with Sherlock’s sprawling handwriting on top. It looks like Sherlock left in a hurry, because the holo’s still on and the holopen is lying on the counter.

So Sherlock was researching, had an idea, went to check it out, and is probably at this moment rooting through a rubbish bin, or interrogating a dangerous thug, or… something or other.

John sighs and thinks seriously about just going home.

He could do it now. Walk away. He can survive without Sherlock Holmes. It wouldn’t be any worse than before.

Only it would be, because the emptiness he feels at the thought of life without Sherlock is worse. He realises now that he’d been holding on to the hope that someday he and Sherlock would be together again, and if he leaves now, that’s gone.

He looks over the notes and pictures and is just about to turn off the holo when he notices one of the pictures. It’s not of Rory, or Magnussen, or anything case related.

It’s one of Mrs Hudson’s holos from Sherlock’s last birthday before he jumped. It’s a picture of the three of them. Sherlock is wearing a silly birthday hat that John put on him. He’s shed his tailored coat, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. There’s confetti in his hair. He has one arm around Mrs Hudson and the other around John, and he looks young and relaxed and happy. His fingers are fisted in the wool of John’s jumper, and he’s holding John closely against him.

John remembers that moment, that day. He remembers how, shortly after that picture was taken, Sherlock threw out their guests and started snogging John against the wall of their kitchen, before dragging him to bed. He remembers picking confetti out of Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock insisting on keeping the hat on. He remembers laughter and Sherlock’s face as John sang that stupid birthday song, looking at him like he was a small miracle. “You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock had said, but John had heard I love you in his voice and read the same in his eyes.

John also remembers this morning, waking up cold and sore and uncomfortable, buried under emergency blankets. He remembers kissing the wrinkles off Sherlock’s forehead, remembers Sherlock blinking his eyes open slowly. He remembers whispering, “Storm’s over” and how Sherlock burrowed into him, half asleep.

“Ten more minutes,” Sherlock had muttered against John’s sternum, wrapping himself around John as tightly as possible.

And later in the morning, Sherlock solemn and serious. “I promise,” he’d said. And John believed him.

In the end, giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt is an easy decision.

Possibility C it is, then. Sherlock is in trouble.

Now John only has to find Sherlock and drag his arse out of whatever mess he’s found himself in.

It says a lot about the state of John’s life in general, and his relationship with Sherlock specifically, that John is relieved.

*-*

John stands before the nondescript high-rise and shivers a bit. The sun has set, and the biodome temperature has dropped accordingly. He pulls his jacket tighter, pressing the shape of his old service weapon into the small of his back. He hopes to god he doesn’t need it, but is glad it was still in its storage compartment at Baker Street, and that he is feeling its reassuring weight now.

He rings the bell and waits, impatience and worry nagging at his nerves. There’s two options for where Sherlock might be. Either Magnussen has him, or Melly. Kidnapping isn’t exactly Melly’s style, though, and Sherlock told him he was about to go see Janine.

So here he is. Visiting Sherlock’s fake girlfriend.

This is completely bizarre, and he’s feeling more than a bit uncomfortable. What is he supposed to say to this woman? On one hand, John feels deeply sorry for her, on the other hand he hates every atom of hers that came into contact with Sherlock. He’s trying really hard not to think about whether she ever actually had sex with Sherlock. He thinks it’s unlikely, but just considering it makes John slightly nauseous.

The sliding door opens to admit him directly into a tube lift. He presses the flat number, and the lift shoots up, lifting John’s stomach as it rises endless stories over New London.

The lift stops and disgorges him into a nondescript hallway with a dozen identical sliding doors. John can imagine what lies behind each one. Small, utilitarian flats, durasteel walls, tiny windows, synthetic carpets. Space is at a premium on this rock, and most people here live like this. Very few own townhouses in districts where two-story homes are indulged as the mind bending luxury they are. It’s a reminder of John’s own privilege, and also a reminder of the shoebox he lived in when he first came to New London. Even his tiny house with its miniscule garden in the Dregs is a luxury, and not only on Titan. Baker Street might as well be Appledore, compared to places like this.

A door at the end of the hallway opens, and John steps towards it.

Janine is watching him approach with an expression of wary defiance that makes John vaguely suspicious.

“What could you possibly want from me?” she snaps as soon as he’s within hearing distance.

It’s an excellent question, but her tone puts John’s hackles up, because he has done absolutely nothing to her whatsoever. “I’m looking for Sherlock,” he says as neutrally as possible. “New developments in the case.”

Janine glares at him. “I’m sure. Well, you can have him, and good riddance. Fucking bastard.”

So Sherlock apparently told Janine about the case or dumped her without an explanation. “So he’s not here?” John asks, aware that he sounds a bit not good, but he doesn’t have time for wounded feelings. He needs to be sure that Sherlock is all right.

Janine’s glare takes on such heat that John is glad looks can’t actually kill. “No,” she spits. “He’s not.”

“Did he by any chance tell you where he was going?” John asks, aware that he’s pushing his luck and she might actually punch him.

“No. And I don’t fucking care,” she snarls. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t care either.”

John supposes that’s fair enough. But something about the way she’s phrasing it, something about her aggressive yet somehow defensive body language seems off. “What do you mean by that, exactly?” he asks, taking a tentative step closer, trying to see past her into her flat.

“I mean,” she says, enunciating every word carefully, her dark eyes flashing with anger, “that he’s a lying, manipulative, deceitful arsehole who can rot in hell for all I care. And if you have any self-preservation instincts, you’ll leave now and never look back.”

“I know he can seem heartless, but he really isn’t,” John says, hoping that if he keeps her talking, she’ll give him some indication as to where Sherlock might be. If she knows at all.

“Easy for you to say. He didn’t use you for your fucking job. Or maybe he did, and you’re just too stupid to realize. Just like I was. But I’m done being used. He’ll get what’s coming to him now.”

John’s stomach sinks as he notices something on the synthetic carpet of her flat. Scuff marks. From expensive shoes being dragged over cheap material. A picture is askew. And most damning, Sherlock’s scarf is lying on the table. John takes a step closer. “Janine,” he says, trying to keep his tone level, “Where is he? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she says, but there’s something in her voice now. Something in her eyes and the way they won’t quite meet his.

“When did you figure it out?” John asks, gently, trying not to let his impatience and worry show. He’ll get more help from her if he doesn’t anger her further.

“I’m so stupid,” she mutters to herself, folding her arms across her chest. It’s a defensive and uncertain gesture. “I knew him by reputation. I knew about his relationship with you. But he was so fucking charming, so perfect, ticking every box…”

“He can be that way, yes. He can be exactly the way you want him to be. He’s extremely good at that,” John says, wanting to reach out but not daring, because he doesn’t really know Janine, and she might feel threatened. “But he’s not really like that at all. He just gets so single-mindedly focused on his goals that he sometimes forgets that people have hearts that can be broken.”

Janine looks at him, deeply sceptical and very obviously hurt. “He’s a psychopath who doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants.”

John sighs, because he used to think the exact same thing about Sherlock. But he knows it’s a lie, and he has to get Janine to see that if he wants any help from her. And he has a feeling he’s going to need it. “I know it seems that way but it’s not true.” He carefully takes another step closer. “Janine, he came here today because he was worried about you. He told me. He thought your message was odd and he wanted to check on you. To see if you were all right. Maybe he doesn’t feel the way he pretended to, but he does care about you. If you were in danger, he’d go to any length to save you. He’s been trying to find someone. A missing young man. His name is Rory Smallwood, and his mother is worried sick about him. We think he’s being held against his will at the Magnussen facility.”

“That’s nonsense,” Janine scoffs. “Mr Magnussen doesn’t hold people against their will. He doesn’t need to. He’s very good at figuring out what people want and giving it to them. And Rory Smallwood isn’t an innocent young man who’s being held against his will. He was Mr Magnussen’s guest in the past, many times. So if he’s there now, you can be sure he’s there because he wants to be.”

Oh, John thinks as the penny drops. Now he sees what’s going on, and sees it perfectly.

It’s like a perfect holofilm in his head. A party, maybe similar to the one Sherlock attended. Magnussen approaching Rory, an obviously struggling young man. Making him an offer. Rory accepting and spending the night at Appledore, in Magnussen’s bed, drugged out and uncaring. An offer for a repeat performance. It would explain Rory’s knowledge of Appledore, the detailed plans and descriptions on his holopad. Maybe one day he heard a fraction of a holocall. Maybe he read something in a document carelessly left open. Somehow he learned about corrupted chips, and people dying. Rory’s people, Mars veterans he fought and bled with.

“What did you do?” John asks again, and this time his worry is clearly audible.

“I turned him over to Magnussen security, of course,” Janine says, but she sounds even more defensive than before.

John looks at the hastily tidied flat. “Got a bit rougher than you thought, didn’t it?”

Janine looks away, obviously worried but trying not to show it. “They’ll turn him over to the police,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction. “He’ll be tried for corporate espionage.”

“They’re not turning him over to the police,” John says, exasperated. He’s truly worried now, because corporate security has a lot of leeway when dealing with intellectual property theft. Or people they suspect of espionage. “If we’re very lucky, they’re beating him up as we speak. That is, if they haven’t killed him yet.”

“Nonsense,” Janine says, but her resolve is weakening. “They said Mr Magnussen wanted to speak with him, but after that they’ll turn him over immediately.”

John takes a decisive step closer to Janine, laying a carefully gentle hand on her arm. “Janine. They won’t turn him over to the police. You know that.”

She shakes her head, unwilling to believe him. Or maybe afraid to.

“Does Magnussen scare you?” John asks, taking an intuitive leap, because something about the way she talked about him before wasn’t quite right.

Janine snorts. “Of course he does. He scares everybody.”

“And yet you handed Sherlock over to him,” John points out, hoping against hope that she hasn’t been in the corporate world for long enough to have every hint of personhood removed in favour of the bottom line. He takes out his holo and shows her the image of Kat, lying there on the autopsy table. “This is Kat Winters. She was last seen entering the Magnussen compound five days ago. She died in there, and they threw her body into a refuse pipe.”

Janine visibly pales as she looks at the holo. “That has nothing to do with me.”

“No. But if you don’t help me now, and this,” he gestures at the image, “is what happens to Sherlock, then it will. “

Janine looks hesitant, and ever so slightly nauseous. John can see she’s wavering, and he decides to be completely straight with her. “Janine. I know he’s a smartarse, and I know he can seem cold, and I know he hurt you. Believe me, I understand. But he’s also kind and loyal and he cares about people. If it were you being held against your will by someone who had zero compunction about killing you, he wouldn’t hesitate to get you out. Not one second. So do you really want to be a worse person than Sherlock Holmes?”

Janine laughs, just a tiny humourless puff of air, really, but the smile she gives John is genuine, if sad. “You should sell used hovercabs for a living.”

John gives her a tiny smile in return. Finally, finally, she nods. “Okay. Okay, fine. What do you need from me?”

“Your access card and a good description of the security at Appledore.”

Janine makes a sweeping gesture at her kitchen. “Well, come in, then, Doctor Watson.”

*-*

“For the record, I still think this is a bad idea,” Janine says as she clambers out of the hovercab.

“For the record, you don’t have to come along,” John answers, for what feels like the tenth time. “In fact, I think it would be better if you didn’t.”

“For the tenth time, you won’t get in without me, smartarse, so can we stop having this delightful conversation?”

John throws up his hands in resignation. “Fine. But for the love of god, please, let me do the talking in there.” He gestures at the derelict warehouse they’re about to enter.

Janine looks at the warehouse and John realises—or rather reminds himself—that her brazen attitude is mostly being used to cover the fact that she’s terrified. But she squares her shoulders and makes an inviting gesture, and John may not like her very much, but he has to admire her guts when she says, mockingly sarcastic, “By all means, lead on.”

John nods and does his own shoulder squaring before stepping up to the door.

One of the thugs who visited his clinic two days ago is keeping watch. He looks John up and down and grins. “Picked up a girlfriend, Doc?”

John shrugs. “Is Melly in?”

The thug gives him a condescending half-smile. “Like I’d tell you. But say she was, who would I tell her who wants to see her and on what business?”

“John Watson. Tell her it’s about Sherlock.”

“Thought you weren’t on speaking terms?”

“We weren’t,” John says with a shrug. “Things change.”

The thug grins. It’s a menacing gesture entirely devoid of humour. “Well, maybe I ain’t on speaking terms with Melly neither.”

John is about to reply when a tinny voice interrupts over the intercom. “Much as I like watching pointless male posturing, I’m quite busy. Mike, send Doctor Watson in, and make him bring his charming companion.”

“Brace yourself,” John mutters to Janine as the thug—Mike, apparently—manhandles him through the door. John is searched roughly, Janine very delicately. The thug leads them through a labyrinth of crates and walls of freight containers until they reach an area at the back of the warehouse.

It’s a bit like stepping into another world. The holounit takes up almost the entire back wall. Several projectors are running at the same time, a flow of numbers and images all floating around the slight girl sitting at the very centre, holo imager on her head, optic cable plugged into the neural implant at the back of her neck. The fibre cable is almost indistinguishable from the long, dark dreadlocks hanging down her back. The lights flicker off her sickly looking dark skin. Her eyes are hidden by the holo imager, but John can tell he has her attention because the image of the surveillance camera showing him and Janine flickers on one of the holo screens.

“John. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Melly asks. She doesn’t turn to face them, but the holoimages all switch to different camera angles of them. There’s at least three cameras, and they all feed into Melly’s holo imager.

“Sherlock’s missing.”

“So what else is new? Wasn’t he missing for two years, and didn’t it turn out he was fine, just fucked off without telling you? Who says he’s not doing that right now?” Melly asks, and John can see the holo imager flashing pictures of Sherlock’s funeral, his wake, grainy security camera images of John walking towards the clinic.

“Nice to know you’re keeping tabs on me,” John says faintly, valiantly ignoring the little voice in his head muttering that she’s exactly right and he’s fooling himself.

“I like to ensure my investments pay off,” Melly says with a shrug.

“I’m an investment?”

Melly snorts a surprisingly human sounding laugh, reminding John of the young girl under all the tech. “Not you. Sherlock. But knowing how you are is knowing how Sherlock is. And I can see you’re worried now.”

She takes the holoimager off and the holos all go dark and flicker off. She gets up and unplugs the cable from the back of her head. “Now tell me what happened, and I might be able to help you.” She grins. “For a price, of course.”

*-*

“I don’t quite see why you need me,” Melly says, taking a sip of her coffee.

John puts his own cup down on the end table and leans forward on the surprisingly comfortable sofa, elbows on his thighs. “Janine can get us past the airlocks and into the mansion, but we’ll need a way out. Plus we’ll need to fool the cameras and several security measures.”

Melly tilts her head and looks at him, her face carefully neutral and impossible to read. “And now tell me why I should help you.”

“You owe us. We saved you.”

Janine leans forward, intrigued. “You saved her?”

“Melly was kidnapped a few years ago, by a few thoroughly disreputable thugs who wanted her to do some hacking for them.”

Melly snorts. “They’d stolen a computer virus they didn’t understand, and they needed me to explain it to them. It was a primitive virus, completely worthless. I offered to repair it, for a price of course. They refused to pay and wanted to persuade me with other methods. That’s when these two showed up.”

“So they saved your life,” Janine says, making a ‘there you go’ gesture.

“And you know how many times they’ve cashed in that particular credit chip? No, we’re even. I helped you in Baskerville, I helped you with that goddamned Adler woman, I even helped Himself when he needed to disappear. We’re even, and then some.”

John sighs. It’s true enough.

“Also,” Melly adds with a grin, pointing at John. “This one doesn’t even like me.”

“I like you fine, Melly, I just wish you weren’t using your incredible talents in service of drug dealers and thugs.”

Melly shrugs. “Girl’s got to make a living in this harsh world, Doc. I need the money to finance my hobbies.”

“What are your hobbies?” Janine asks, sounding intrigued.

“A bit of good old-fashioned anarchy,” Melly says with a grin.

“Melly here likes what she calls guerilla justice. Banks have unfair lending practices, Melly causes their servers to crash so that loan data goes missing. Politician gets too self-righteous? Melly finds a scandal, and if she can’t find one, she makes one up.”

Melly grins. “I very rarely have to make anything up.”

“All right,” John says, bringing them back to the task at hand. “Down to brass tacks. What do you want?”

Melly thinks for a moment, then says, “I might consider it if you give me full access to the Magnussen cloud. I’ll give you a bug to plant inside.” She hands John a tiny device, not bigger than the tip of his pinky finger. “Insert that into any port, and I’m in.”

John nods, putting the bug into his pocket. It’s so small that he hopes he’ll find it again when the time comes to use it. “Fine. But no selling patents for synthetic parts on the black market. If these parts are badly made they can kill people, Melly. You don’t want that blood on your hands.”

She considers this for a moment, then nods. “Agreed. But even access to the cloud won’t cover the basic costs of the operation. Not to mention Sherlock’s outstanding bills. I’m running a huge risk here, I need something to make this worth my while.”

“Melly, I don’t have any—” John starts, but trails off when he realises that what he was about to say, namely that he doesn’t have anything Melly wants, isn’t quite true. He does have something. Two somethings. He has a house in the Dregs and he has 221 Baker Street. He has the one thing more valuable than money in a place like this. He has space.

Of course he’d rather hack off both his hands than give away 221; he could have sold the house at any time since Mrs Hudson died, and it would have set him up for life.

That leaves his tiny house in the Dregs. His refuge.

His Plan B.

But isn’t he here because he’s decided that he can trust Sherlock, that he doesn’t need a Plan B?

He’s already staking his life on trusting Sherlock. And, to be honest, the idea of moving back into 221B, of finally coming home, is quite frankly wonderful.

“You can have my house,” he finally says. “You always liked my garden.”

Melly looks surprised, then worried. “Wow. You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?”

John looks at her until she drops her eyes from his face. “Fine,” she mutters. “Gods know the fucker’d do it for me.” She looks up at John and nods. “Let’s go, then.”

*-*

They approach the biodome Magnussen calls home about an hour later. John is one hundred percent sure he doesn’t want to know where Melly got this hovercar, a sleek, dark, and yet somehow superficially nondescript number loaded with more tech than an Army surveillance van. Scanners, a full holo unit setup with a holo imager attached, micro transmitters, the works.

“Guard post ahead,” Melly says, her face covered with the holo imager, voice hollow as it echoes inside the helmet.

Janine turns to John. “I’ll get us through.”

John switches places with her and lets her take the controls of the craft while he goes back and looks over Melly’s shoulder. “How many guards in the dome?” he asks.

Melly checks the scanners. “Infra and biosensors pick up 36 human life forms. Mostly centred in the mansion.”

John nods, even though he knows Melly can’t see him. “Have you located Sherlock? Or Rory?”

“Not yet, we need to be closer for the scanners to work. I’ve fed in both their biometrics, so it should be able to pick up their vitals when we’re closer.” Melly pauses. “If either of them is still alive.”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

“That’s why you love me,” Melly says, and John can hear her irreverent grin in her voice.

John sighs and watches through the tinted windows as Janine approaches the airlock. The quality of the security equipment makes him doubly glad they have Melly along. They never would have made it without her. Her anti-surveillance gear tricks the infrared and biometric sensors into thinking their life signs and their body warmth are background radiation, and the security guards rely too heavily on their equipment to actually manually search the vehicle. Nothing gets past their security equipment, they’re sure of it. And it’s that arrogance John is counting on.

John bunches his fingers into a fist and shakes it to get rid of the light tremors and tingling moving up and down his arm.

He doesn’t want to think about how many of their assumptions are based on Rory still being alive. John can’t even bring himself to think about whether Sherlock is still alive. It’s unlikely that Magnussen would kill him without finding out what Sherlock knows and who he told, and it’s incredibly unlikely that Sherlock would reveal that information without some serious coercion. And it worries John quite a bit that, right at this very moment, Magnussen’s security might be beating Sherlock to a pulp to get him to talk.

And he knows Sherlock won’t talk. Out of stubbornness and a wish to protect both John and the investigation. And that’s why they need to get Sherlock out. Now.

Janine is chatting with the security guard while the scanners sweep the vehicle, then finally the scan completes and the guard opens the airlock.

Janine steers them through, and John gasps.

He’s never seen anything like it.

Trees, trees, trees, as far as the eye can see. Next to him, Melly takes off her holo imager and gazes out of the window.

“Wow,” she whispers, and John can only agree.

He has no reference for this. So much green. Neat rows of trees, lush grass and dense foliage that seems to go on forever in the dim light of the lamps going on and off as their vehicle passes through the path towards the house.

John nods at Melly. She grabs her mobile holounit, and John opens the hatch. Janine slows down a bit, and John and Melly roll out into the fresh grass.

The vehicle moves on and John and Melly duck into the shadow of the trees. Melly attaches the sensor deflector to John’s collar and then secures her own. Then they both just stand and breathe.

The air is soft and mild. It smells—fresh. Green. Lush.

“This is amazing,” Melly mutters. “When I’m super rich, I’ll buy this and I’ll start a lottery so everyone can spend a day here. Can you imagine living here? Just—going outside and seeing all this green, all this space…”

John nods, because he knows exactly what she means. Melly was born in a windowless, featureless shoebox compartment on the sixtieth floor of a high rise right in the grey, featureless centre of New London, just as John was born in a windowless, featureless shoebox compartment floating 42,000 miles above the surface of Earth. Neither of them has ever seen anything like this. John lets his fingers trail over the bark of a nearby tree. He takes another breath of the lovely, moist, fresh, fragrant air.

Then he straightens his shoulders and nods at Melly.

“Let’s go.”

*-*

Under other circumstances, the next half hour would be extremely pleasant. They walk through the trees, the soft earth bouncing underneath their feet, insects and the sounds of small animals humming in their ears. Occasionally, they catch a glimpse of the sky, of stars and moons, of Saturn, huge and gleaming.

They don’t talk, and more than once they have to duck behind a tree to avoid a patrol of Magnussen security guards.

Melly has located both Sherlock’s and Rory’s vital signs, and they’re both in the mansion.

If everything’s going to plan, Janine is inside the house by now and has made her way to her office and turned on the lights. That’s the sign that John and Melly can make their way towards the back door, which Janine will strategically leave open for thirty seconds when she goes out for a smoke.

The mansion, when it finally comes into view, makes both John and Melly pause and inhale sharply.

“Shit,” Melly breathes.

“Shit indeed,” John agrees.

The house is large, but they expected that. What they didn’t expect was the sheer ostentatiousness of the building. Turrets, columns, small balconies, large window, wrought iron grates and spikes.

“What a fucking wanker,” Melly finally says, summing up John’s thoughts after about a minute of open-mouthed gaping.

John snorts a laugh. “Come on.”

It’s surprisingly difficult to find the window of Janine’s office, even though she gave them a detailed description. The house just has so many turrets and alcoves and embellishments that it’s difficult to keep track of things.

“There,” Melly finally points at a lit window. “It’s that one.”

John decides to take her word for it because he’s totally lost.

They slowly make their way around the mansion. Melly’s tapped into the security system so she can send small bursts of static signals to the cameras to make sure that they won’t be detected.

“How are you so good at this?” John asks in a whisper as Melly makes him pause, then move forward at seemingly random intervals to make the brief camera malfunctions look like the small electric glitches which are completely normal on Titan.

Melly shrugs as she watches her small holounit intensely. “One of my newer clients is a cat burglar. Has this thing for Fabergé eggs.” Melly looks at John sideways and grins. “She’s really hot.”

“Good to know you’ve got your priorities straight,” John mutters as Melly gestures to him and they move along the side of the building, keeping close to the walls so they can’t be seen from the windows.

It’s late in the evening, but there seems to be a hearty amount of activity, judging by the noises from the guard room and kitchen. Janine told them that Magnussen doesn’t keep regular hours, and neither do the people who work for him. She’s had to work nights so often that she has a bedroom in the house, as does every other member of staff who works here regularly. Magnussen has engineers, bioengineers, medical staff and sales on call so that he can work whenever he wants.

He’s a bit like Saturn, John muses as they creep along the wall under the open window where guards are apparently watching a low gravity football match. Everything in his orbit has synched up to his rhythm and orbits him at his pleasure.

When asked how she can live like this, Janine shrugged and told John in a matter of fact way that’s deeply familiar that at least Magnussen pays well and doesn’t sexually harass anyone. They’re all just surviving out here, doing what they can to eke out a living in a hostile space not made for human life.

Melly stops him with a sharp hand gesture and John instantly freezes, melting against the wall. Breaking and entering is practically second nature after two years of ignoring closed doors and other people’s privacy with Sherlock. Melly carefully looks around the corner where Janine has hopefully propped the door open for her smoke break.

She turns and nods to John, lifting two fingers. Two guards. And Janine.

It’s Janine’s job to distract the guards, and as John and Melly inch around the corner, she’s chatting them up, apparently telling a highly amusing story.

Melly and John inch along the wall, towards the door. They’re about to open it when Janine says, “See, I told you. Walked right into it.”

John and Melly turn around slowly, and the two guards are pointing nasty-looking machine guns at them.

Janine grins at John, cold and humourless. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?”

Chapter Text

John silently curses himself as the guards push him and Melly through the door and down the stairs. Melly, walking by his side, is cursing him quite loudly.

“For fuck’s sake, John, what the fuck did you get me into? Why the fuck did you trust her?”

Melly only stops cursing him out when the guards push them down a narrow staircase and she needs to concentrate on not falling.

They’re led down an even narrower corridor, one guard in front, Janine and the other guard in the back.

“Where are you taking us?” John asks. “What are you going to do with us?”

Nobody answers, and John isn’t surprised.

“We’d be happy to wait for the police upstairs,” John adds, because fuck if he wouldn’t rather explain to New London police why they’re breaking and entering—even though they didn’t, really, Janine let them in after all—than follow thugs with guns down into a cellar.

“I’m sure you would be,” Janine says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“So you’re perfectly fine with anything they’re going to do to us?” John asks, hoping against hope that there’s something resembling a moral fibre left in Janine’s body.

“You came here out of your own free will, John, nobody forced you to trespass on Mr Magnussen’s property,” Janine points out.

The guard in front opens a door, and they’re roughly pushed through.

There is a figure half lying in a corner, hunched over himself.

“Sherlock!” John moves quickly to his side as Sherlock lifts his head.

“What are you doing here?” he asks weakly.

He has a split lip and a bruise on his cheekbone that are immediately apparent. John’s quick check-over finds some other scrapes, but he seems generally fine, and mostly alert.

“We’ve come to rescue you,” John says rather sheepishly, gesturing at the guards. “Didn’t quite go as planned.”

The guards yank John to his feet and search him, removing his gun and holo. They repeat the procedure with Melly, relieving her of all her electronic gadgets, which takes quite some time.

“Janine,” Sherlock says, looking up at her as he sits up more fully, even though it obviously pains him. “I know what I did to you was wrong, and I’m sorry. But John and Melly had nothing to do with it.”

“John knew you were bullshitting me, and he didn’t say anything. And I’m sorry for Melly, but can you imagine the bonus I’ll get for delivering Athena Melas to Mr Magnussen?”

“So much for the moral high ground,” John mutters.

“He lied to me. He kissed me and put his hands on me. He used me, made me think he liked me,” Janine spits, the hand pointing at Sherlock shaking with anger. “He brought this on himself. Now you can all stew here together and think about your terrific life choices until Mr Magnussen has time to decide what happens to you.” With that she sweeps out, the guards following close behind.

“Well, shit,” Melly says into the somewhat oppressive silence that falls once the door swishes closed.

John gets up from the floor next to Sherlock and starts examining their ‘cell’. It’s a mostly empty room with walls of nondescript dura-concrete, no windows, a small air vent, one metal chair and nothing else. There’s no obvious security equipment in the room, no cameras or shackles, so John guesses it’s an unused room in the basement and the guards put Sherlock here because they didn’t know what else to do with him. Storage. That’s what this is. Storage until Magnussen’s schedule allows him to see to them.

“Have you seen Magnussen since you got here?”

Sherlock nods curtly. “For about five minutes. They took me upstairs. He asked me who I was working for, I refused to answer and the guards kicked me in the ribs. Then his holo rang and he left.”

“Great,” John mutters. “Wonder how long they’ll stow us here.”

He goes over to examine the door. It’s durasteel and closed tightly. He tries to wedge his fingers in between the panels, but they won’t budge.

“She’s right, you know,” Sherlock finally says, so quietly John can barely hear him.

John turns around and sees that Sherlock is sitting up a bit more easily, the signs of pain easing somewhat from his face and body language.

“About what, exactly? Betraying us, her absolute moral relativism, selling her soul to Magnussen?” John asks, still busy scanning the room for a possible way out.

“Consequences,” Sherlock answers, and John looks at him more closely because of the tone of his voice, full of sadness and remorse. “Wasn’t that what you said a few days ago? I’m unwilling to accept the natural consequences of my actions? I think your exact words were, ‘You made your bed, now lie in it.’”

John winces. The words seem unduly harsh now, even though he knows, somewhere deep down, that those words were, to a certain degree, justified. It was only Sherlock actually taking responsibility for his actions that made John even consider forgiving him. “This is different.”

“How? I lied to her. Deceived her. Betrayed her.”

“You barely knew her, and she barely knew you. Arseholeish, yes. But nothing you deserve to die for,” John says. “Scale, Sherlock. Scale.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. She’s right. And you were right. I need to own my mistakes. I need to stop treating people like chess pieces.”

John has to smile, just a little. Trust Sherlock to have a crisis of conscience at the worst possible time. “I think that’s a very good resolution for the new year. But could we possibly delay the personal growth moments until we’re out of here?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What you’re doing is utterly pointless. There’s no way to open that door, no control panel, no nothing.”

“I could possibly rig a transmitter to trigger the door opener if I had a silicium chip and a power source,” Melly supplies, leaning against the wall, looking bored and a bit amused. “When you’re done with your heart-to-heart, that is.”

“Now if only I had a mobile electronics store hidden in my coat pocket, we’d be saved,” Sherlock snaps, dry and sarcastic.

“Um.” John clears his throat, but Melly and Sherlock both ignore him.

“Well, genius, maybe we can use your brain as a power source since you’re producing enough hot air to light New London,” Melly retorts. “I’m waiting for a better idea.”

“We need to break open the air vent, maybe one of us can fit.”

“Um—” John tries a second time. He is ignored again.

“Yes, perfect, now if one of us could shrink ourselves, that’d work perfectly. Do you have any potions in your coat, Alice?”

“Why are you calling me Alice?” Sherlock asks, genuinely perplexed.

Melly stares. “Alice in Wonderland. Classic novel? Classic 21st century television series?”

“Never heard of it, and utterly irrelevant now, if we—”

“Guys!” John interrupts the frankly quite annoying banter.

Both Melly and Sherlock turn, nearly identical questioning looks on their faces.

“What?” Melly asks, and Sherlock echoes the question with an arched eyebrow.

“We actually do have a silicium chip with a built-in power source,” John says.

When both of them frown, obviously confused, John gestures to his synthetic arm.

“No. Out of the question. Forget it,” Sherlock says before Melly can open her mouth.

“Well, how else are we going to get out of here?”

“We’ll find another way. I’m not going to mutilate you to get out of a situation that I got us into in the first place. There has to be another way.”

John grabs Sherlock by the arm to stop his pacing. “Listen. I knew what I was getting into. From day one, Sherlock, I knew. And all I ever wanted, all I want now, is to be allowed to be here with you, right in the heart of danger. Right where nobody else would ever go. You and me against the rest of the world.”

“But—”

“My decision, Sherlock. My arm, my life. My decision.”

Sherlock looks at John for a long time, and John can see the helpless dread in Sherlock’s eyes. Finally, he drops his eyes from John’s and nods. “Your decision,” he says, resigned and serious. He looks up again with a challenging glare. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

John bites down on a laugh. “That’s your god-given right.”

They’re very close together, and John leans in for a quick kiss, reassurance for himself as much as Sherlock.

Melly coughs discreetly. “Um. Gents. Not getting any younger here.”

Reluctantly, John lets Sherlock go, and with every show of equal reluctance, Sherlock removes his hand from John’s arm.

“Let’s get this over with,” John grates. “This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

*-*

John has replaced silicium chips dozens, if not hundreds of times. The problem here is that they don’t have any tools. So basically, he has to dig out the chip in his arm with his bare hands before ripping it out completely. While it’s still connected to his nervous system.

Since waiting isn’t going to make this more pleasant, and they have no idea how long they have before the guards come back, John wastes no time and sits down on the floor, positioning his arm on the only chair in the room.

Sherlock kneels next to him and gently takes his arm. “I’ll do it.”

Sherlock looks pale and shaky, but John knows it’s the smart decision, even if it’s going to be rough for both of them. “Take the one at the wrist, it will do the least damage.” John turns to Melly, who’s watching them, looking slightly green around the gills. “Can you maybe fashion me a sling or something? I probably won’t be able to use my arm.”

Melly nods and unwinds the scarf from her neck, then turns her back on them. John suspects it’s to give them privacy, but also because she doesn’t want to watch.

John can’t blame her.

Sherlock doesn’t look much better than Melly. He’s unnaturally pale and his hands are trembling ever so slightly as he opens the synthetic flesh flap to lay John’s artificial wrist bare.

John nudges his thigh and Sherlock looks up. “All right?”

Sherlock huffs a disbelieving laugh. “You’re certifiably insane.”

“Should I do it?” John asks, so quietly that Melly, who’s moved as far away from them as she can, can’t hear.

Sherlock shakes his head. He’s still pale, but he looks grimly determined. “No. I can do it.” He takes John’s wholly human hand and leads it to his thigh. “Tell me if I need to stop.”

John only nods, beyond words, as he meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“Take the one right at the base of the ulnocarpal joint,” John instructs as Sherlock does his best to gently reach into the delicate wiring of his synthetic arm. It already hurts, Sherlock’s fingers brushing the artificial bone and tendons. “Try to—” he takes a deep breath to keep talking through the pain “—try to get a firm grip on it, and then just… pull.”

Sherlock is wholly concentrating on the task, one hand gently turning John’s wrist, thumb sliding along his artificial skin in a soothing circle, the other digging deeper into his arm. It’s lucky that Sherlock knows what he’s doing, because John’s eyes are watering from the pain, and he’s breathing deeply and squeezing Sherlock’s thigh to keep from whimpering. It’s bad enough that Sherlock knows he’s hurting John, he doesn’t have to listen to it as well.

“I’ve got it,” Sherlock says, and his voice is shaking almost as badly as John’s hand on his thigh.

“Do it,” John says with the last of his coherence.

Sherlock pulls, one sharp movement, and this time John does cry out, crumbling forward. Sherlock’s arms catch him, hold him and soothe circles down his back, while Sherlock’s lips rest his hair muttering nonsense reassurances into his ear.

The pain recedes somewhat and John slowly pulls himself back together.

After a bit, he can sit up, and Sherlock reluctantly relinquishes his hold on John and helps him into the sling Melly made out of her scarf. It’s perfunctory, but it will do until John can repair his arm.

Melly’s working on the chip using a hair pin, while Sherlock and John look around their room for anything they can use as a weapon. Sherlock finally kicks against the chair a few times until he can detach two of its legs. He hands one to John and keeps one to himself.

“We should try and find Rory, since we’re here already,” John says, still sitting on the floor to get a bit of a grip before they go out there and face god knows what.

“You need to fix your arm,” Sherlock answers, looking at him like he’s nuts. “We need to get out now.”

“Melly knows where he is. We need to get him out, Sherlock. I’m fine.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and snorts. “Sure. I just ripped out a part of your body, but you’re fine. You know, for someone who’s rightfully on my case for lying to you, you’re not being especially honest yourself.”

John sighs. It’s true enough, he supposes, and he doesn’t have the energy to argue right now. “Look. Yes, it was painful. But it’s not an injury that needs immediate medical attention. I’m not bleeding, and this won’t get worse if I see to it tomorrow. Rory, however, is in immediate danger because now Magnussen knows that someone is looking for him. We need to get him out. Now.”

Sherlock hesitates and John can see the struggle.

“You know I’m right,” John adds.

“And you need to decide right now, because I’m done,” Melly supplies from where she’s perched on the ground, cross-legged, hunched over the tiny silicium chip.

“Fine. Fine.” Sherlock puts up his hands in defeat. “We’ll rescue Rory, get Melly’s car back and get out of here.”

“Good plan,” Melly says as her hairpin hovers above the silicium chip. “Ready? Oh, and I’ll take that,” she adds, taking the makeshift club out of John’s still slightly trembling hand.

“Fair enough,” John says and makes his way to his feet, supported by Sherlock, who only lets him go when he’s sure John can stay upright on his own.

Sherlock directs Melly and John to hide on both sides of the door, with Sherlock pulling John behind him to shield him with his body. John hates being helpless, but with his dominant arm in a sling, and his whole body still shaky from the pain, he can see that he’s pretty much useless right now.

Melly triggers the door lock, and John can feel the tension in Sherlock’s body as he prepares to face their guards as the door slides open.

Nothing happens.

Sherlock gestures for them to stay back as he peeks around the doorframe. He waves for them to enter the hall and they move down the corridor, Melly in front, John in the middle and Sherlock bringing up the rear.

John only got a short glimpse of their surroundings when the guards dragged them in, but he carefully examines the area now. He was right, it seems like they’re in the basement. The corridor they’re in is made of dura-concrete, isolated against the cold that radiates from the planet’s core, windowless and featureless. There’s nobody around, no guards posted and no obvious cameras, but John is sure they’ve been spotted by the sophisticated security system in the mansion.

“Where are the guards?” Melly whispers, obviously confused.

“They’re in their break room, I’d wager. They’re well trained but out of practice since nobody has tried to break into this place in years. It’s nearly impossible. They’re complacent, lazy and out of shape, relying more on their security systems than on their own feet and eyes. But we’ve got maybe five seconds before the sensors pick up on our movements—”

The sirens wailing an alarm cut off Sherlock mid-sentence. He grimaces. “Three and a half seconds, not bad at all.”

“How are we going to get past the guards?” John asks, thinking with some regret of the gun the guards took off him, and which he’ll probably never see again.

“We hide, we negotiate, and we fight,” Sherlock says as he opens the door to what’s apparently a small maintenance room. “And meanwhile, we cut the power. Melly, can you do it?”

Melly grins. “I’m insulted that you even asked.”

They duck into the room and Sherlock shuts and locks the door behind them. “This will buy us ten minutes, tops,” he says. “Melly, turn off the power, then you two make your way to the garage. Tell me where Rory is, I’ll get him and meet you at the garage.”

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight you’ve lost your mind,” John says, grabbing Sherlock’s coat lapel with his working hand.

Sherlock grasps John’s hand on his lapel and turns to face him. “John. Listen. I’ll be faster alone.”

“Yes, but Rory might need medical attention, and he might not be able to walk on his own. Or Melly could get into trouble. Better to stick together.”

Sherlock looks like he’s about to argue, but then seems to change his mind. “Fine.” He turns to Melly. “What can you do from here?”

Melly is at a maintenance panel, looking at a complicated array of breakers, cables and switches. “No idea what any of this does,” she says, “But since it’s chaos we’re looking for…”

She takes up the chair leg she’d leaned against the wall and swings it at the panel with all her might. Sparks fly, but nothing happens. She smashes the leg against the panel one more time, and more sparks fly.

The alarm stops, but the other systems seem unaffected.

“We know you’re in there,” a voice from the hallway sounds. “Come out with your hands raised, and we’ll take you back to your cell, no need for violence.”

Sherlock has his ear against the door. “Three of them, judging by their breathing and the shadows under the door,” he mutters. “Heavy breathing, they’re out of shape and unwilling to engage in violence, that’s why they haven’t kicked the door in. If we attack the moment the light goes out, we stand a good chance of overpowering them. John, you bring up the rear, but stay back until you’re sure the guards are down.”

“I’m fine,” John answers, rolling his eyes. The pain has dulled to a background ache now that it’s been awhile since someone has been actively rooting around in his nervous system. The sling immobilises his arm effectively so there’s no risk he’ll aggravate the injury by a hasty movement. And otherwise he feels fine, thanks to a healthy dose of adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream.

“You can’t use your dominant arm,” Sherlock points out, and John can tell that he’s trying not to snap at John but is getting impatient.

“We don’t have time for this,” Melly hisses. “Brace yourselves.” Then she lifts her metal chair leg and, with a manic grin John finds oddly reassuring, smashes against the panel a third time.

The lights go out.

Sherlock kicks the door open.

John follows him out, running squarely at a security guard. He kicks at where he thinks the guard’s legs might be, and is rewarded with a cry of pain. Then a fist lands in his stomach and he doubles over, but by sheer luck evades a blow to his head. He barrels into his opponent and tangles their legs together in the dark, bringing them both to the ground. He can feel when the security guard hits the floor, and even though his own fall is cushioned by the guard’s body, it’s still jarring, especially since he can’t use his left hand to brace himself. It also hurts, particularly when he lands on his immobilised arm with his full weight, but he shoves the pain aside, simply because he has to.

The guard is struggling, but John manages to get his feet under him and leverages himself up to sit on the guard’s chest, one knee on each of the guard’s arms.

The emergency lights come on, bathing the scene in an odd, green light. One guard is lying unconscious on the ground, apparently from a blow to the head. Sherlock has just picked up the guard’s gun and is pistol-whipping the guard who’s trying to restrain Melly, who’s apparently gotten a few good hits in with her chair leg.

John’s guard is struggling, but John grabs the gun he dropped and aims it at his head with his right hand. “Now, look,” he says, as the guard attempts to breathe with John sitting across his chest. “The way I see it, we’ve got a few options here. One, I shoot you. Two, I knock you out, leaving you with a nasty concussion and possibly a traumatic brain injury. Three, you help us, and none of the above has to happen. What do you think?”

The guard, a scrawny, pimply kid who can’t be older than twenty, glares at John. “I’ll lose my job,” he pants, and John eases a bit off his chest so he can breathe.

He catches the name ‘Eddie Wilson’ on the kid’s uniform. “Eddie. Look. Let’s be honest here. You’ll lose your job anyway. And I’m sorry about that, I really am. I know how tough it can be to make a living out here. But if you help us, I can promise that we’ll help you find a new job.”

“You can come work for me,” Melly says, looking down at the guard Sherlock just knocked unconscious. “Or I can give you a head trauma.” She holds up the gun Sherlock just handed her. “Your choice.”

Eddie looks at Melly and her gun, then at the gun John has trained on him, then at Sherlock, who looks coldly dangerous with his gun held loosely at his side, his dramatic coat and the green lighting making his skin even paler than it normally is.

“I’ll help you,” Eddie finally says.

John scrambles off Eddie, letting himself be pulled to his feet by Sherlock. He tucks the gun he took off Eddie into his waistband, immediately feeling better for being armed.

“Wise decision,” Melly says, grinning, then holding out a hand to help Eddie up. “Just so you know: If you betray us, I’ll shoot you.”

Eddie swallows and looks at each of them in turn. Then he nods and says, “Fair enough. So what’s the plan?”

*-*

Sherlock leads the way as he and John climb the back stairs to the third floor, where Rory’s room is located. They’ve separated from Melly and Eddie, who are on their way to get Melly’s equipment from the security station. The station should be empty because Eddie holo’d that he saw the fugitives climb out of a first story window and head towards the trees, and most of the guards have left the house to chase them down.

Sherlock and John move as quietly as they can around the third floor, a seemingly endless maze of rooms and corridors. They haven’t run into anyone so far, but that’s not surprising. Eddie told them that staff is supposed to stay in their rooms when an alarm sounds and, since it’s nearing midnight, those not on the night shift would be in the servant’s quarters, a smaller outbuilding about a hundred metres away from the mansion. Along with the outbuilding, there’s also a hangar at the back of the property that has its own airlock and direct access to the outside. That way, if Magnussen wants to leave the biodome, he doesn’t have to pass through the orchard.

They’re meeting Melly and Eddie at the hangar once they’ve found Rory.

They pass through another corridor and into an open-plan sitting room that takes up the entire length of the house. Huge glass windows are looking out over the orchard. There’s an open fireplace with a fire burning inside, and several comfortable sofas. An enormous desk and a large holounit take up one of the side walls. There’s a workspace with tools and a worktable next to the holounit, and the table is littered with nanochips, wires, synthetic bones and even a few whole synthetic body parts, an arm, a foot, an eye. Apparently, Magnussen is a tinkerer.

Sherlock steps into the room and walks directly towards the holounit.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John hisses, following him into the room. They don’t have time for this, as they have maybe fifteen minutes before the guards realise they’re nowhere near the trees.

Sherlock gestures at the holounit. “Everything we need to know is here, John. All the proof we need. “

“We don’t have time,” John argues, taking Sherlock’s arm to get his attention. “I get it, I really do. But we don’t have time.”

“So many secrets,” Sherlock mutters, eyes still on the holounit. “You can just go and get Rory, I only need five minutes…”

John recognises the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes, the need to know that’s almost an obsession. John’s uncomfortably reminded of their first case—a serial killer and a pill—and of Moriarty and the pool. It’s Sherlock’s greatest strength and his greatest weakness, his bottomless curiosity. It makes him a brilliant detective, but also reckless and dangerous, this burning need to see everything for himself. At first, John thought Sherlock needed to prove that he’s smarter than whoever he’s up against, but that’s not it at all. Sherlock just has to figure out how things work and how people tick and why everything in the universe works the way it does. The problem is that in weighing his need to know against his safety, the latter never wins.

And that’s something John isn’t prepared to live with any longer.

“Sherlock.” John’s fingers tighten on Sherlock’s arm and finally, Sherlock’s eyes snap to him. “It’s not worth your life.”

John holds Sherlock’s gaze, willing the thought into Sherlock’s brain, willing Sherlock to understand the value of his life and safety, if not to himself, then at least to John. Please. If not for yourself, then for me.

Finally, Sherlock visibly softens, and he nods. “You make a fair point. Let’s go.”

They make their way over the lush carpets back towards the door. Something’s nagging at John, though, something important.

It hits him just as they’re about to leave.

“Wait.”

Sherlock stops inside the door. “What?”

John starts rummaging in the pockets of his jacket, which is difficult with his right hand. The guards searched him, but maybe, maybe, maybe…

His hand closes around the tiny bug Melly gave him. He pulls it out and shows it to Sherlock with a grin.

“I think we can have our cake and eat it, too.”

Sherlock grins at him, bright and fierce. “God, I love you.”

“In this case, I’m afraid you actually love Melly,” John answers with a teasing smile.

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” Sherlock says, taking the bug from John and placing it into the device slot. “Next time Magnussen turns this on, it will open everything to Melly.”

“Let’s make sure she is somewhere she can actually access and use the data by then.”

Sherlock nods and they move out of the room quickly.

Turn left, turn right, and they’re in front of a nondescript door that supposedly leads to the bedroom where Rory Smallwood is being kept captive.

Surprisingly, the door isn’t locked and opens easily when Sherlock pushes the button.

It’s dark and smells of unwashed bodies and misery. Sherlock turns on the light as the door closes behind them.

The room is simple but comfortable. A bed, a few bookshelves, a small desk by the window looking over the orchard.

Rory is curled up on the unmade bed and, from the looks of it, is wearing the same clothes he stepped onto the train with. He blinks at them blearily, and John can immediately tell he’s high from the sluggish way he moves and the dilation of his pupils.

“Who the fuck are you?” Rory slurs, blinking into the light.

“Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Your mother tasked us with rescuing you,” Sherlock says, moving briskly towards Rory.

“Well you can go fuck yourselves, then, I don’t take help from that crusty old bitch. She’s the fucking reason I’m here in the first place,” Rory says, shuffling back on the bed as Sherlock and John approach him.

“What do you mean?” John asks, curiosity peaked in spite of their limited time.

“I told her what was going on with Magnussen, and she didn’t care!” Rory slurs, voice rising in anger. “What’s it to you, she said. He’s the reason you can bloody walk, now be quiet and go back to work.”

“I understand the sentiment,” Sherlock says, unceremoniously pulling the blankets off Rory, ignoring his indignant shout. “But we need to go. Right now it doesn’t matter that your mother sent us, as long as we get you out.”

“So she can lock me up again, in my windowless office, behind my fucking boring desk,” Rory says, sitting up. “Forget it. You can fuck right off.”

“Fine, then, be selfish,” Sherlock says coldly without taking his eyes off Rory’s. “We’ll leave you here to rot. All the evidence you’ve accumulated against Magnussen, and your testimony to the fact that he’s keeping people locked up, will die with you once you finally overdose on the junk you pump into your body so that your mind can escape the reality that you’ve fucked your life away for a bit. I suppose you don’t care that others are going to die, and that Kat’s killers won’t be held accountable, that Magnussen won’t be held accountable. Not as long as you can stay on your high horse of not accepting any help from your mother, who is a shit human being, but who at least cares enough about you to expend considerable resources to save your life when you are so obviously in need. It’s your life, throw it away if you want, but be fully aware that in your self-righteous rage, you’re throwing away other lives, and the only chance we’ll ever get to bring Magnussen down.”

Rory’s looking at Sherlock with the hazy blinking stare of the inebriated, but he’s stopped struggling and is letting Sherlock pull him to his feet. “Who are you again?”

“Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. You can thank us later. Now, can you walk?”

Rory sways a bit on his feet, but when Sherlock releases him, he stays upright. “Let’s go, then, I suppose,” Rory mutters, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he looks from Sherlock to John and back, like he’s only now realising that they’re really here.

“What about the others? What about Kat?”

“I’m sorry, Rory, but Kat is dead,” John says, putting his good hand on Rory’s shoulder.

Rory closes his eyes and presses his lips together. “How?” he whispers.

“We’re not sure, but we think she tried to break out and died of exposure,” Sherlock says, gently taking Rory’s arm. “Look, I understand this is hard, and I’ll tell you everything we know, but we have to get out of here now.”

Rory nods, and when he opens his eyes again, he looks grimly determined. “Yes. Let’s go.”

They move out of the room carefully, Sherlock in front, Rory in the middle, John bringing up the rear.

As they’re walking, John tucks his gun into the waistband of his pants and subtly adjusts his sling. His arm is still throbbing, but it’s bearable. Adrenaline is holding back most of the pain for now, but he knows when they’re out of here, he’ll feel it all the more because of it. That plus every scrape and bruise he got while fighting Eddie.

They can’t move especially fast, because Rory walks with the determined slowness of a person trying to shake off narcotics. It’s going to be a while before the Dust makes its way out of his system. As he watches Rory, John wonders why his door was unlocked, and how he had access to the drug anyway, although John has a few suspicions. Very likely Magnussen held Rory here merely by ensuring that he was never sober enough to leave.

It’s difficult for John to feel sympathy for people who are so deliberately destroying themselves, but he reminds himself that he didn’t fall down that same rabbit hole by sheer dumb luck and the stubborn survival instinct that makes him cling to every lifeline thrown at him. And he knows that it’s little more than coincidence that his brain is wired this way, so he does his best to support Rory whenever the man falters.

They move down the stairs toward the back of the house, where a walkway leads to the hangar that will allow them to escape the biodome.

The ground floor is lit brightly and they can hear boots and voices as they carefully descend. Apparently the security staff has discovered their ruse and are now looking for them inside the house.

They wait at the bottom of the stairs for a moment until the voices and boots fade, and then Sherlock looks carefully around the corner, motioning for them to move forward. Apparently, Melly has disengaged the sensors and cameras, otherwise they would most certainly have been found already.

They’re three steps into the corridor when a door opens and Janine steps out.

She’s as surprised by the encounter as they are, and they stare at each other in frozen shock for a few seconds.

John readies to draw his gun when Rory finally breaks the silence. “Miss Hawkins. Please.”

Janine looks at the three of them for a long moment, then drops her eyes. “I didn’t see anything,” she says quietly and steps back into the room from where she came.

They’re all still frozen, and oddly it’s Rory who shakes them out of it by saying, “Let’s move.”

John shakes his head to clear it, then follows Rory and Sherlock down the corridor.

They break into a jog as soon as they’re out the back door, running through the grassy, slightly sloped ground that separates the house from the hangar.

Visibility is bad, they’re running full speed, and John only has use of one arm, so when John’s foot snags on a stone, he goes down like a ton of bricks. He tries to brace himself with his right arm, but it doesn’t really work, andt his right knee takes the brunt of the fall.

“John!”

Sherlock’s at his side and helping him up in a flash, but John winces in pain as he tries to put weight on his knee. Sherlock unceremoniously slings John’s right arm around his neck and drags John along. Rory takes John’s other arm by the shoulder, and they practically carry John to the hangar.

It slows them down dangerously, and it’s obvious that they’ve been spotted from the house when the floodlights go on and shots are fired at them.

Interesting, John thinks. Apparently Magnussen doesn’t necessarily believe he needs all of them alive. Or maybe they’re stun darts, which is entirely possible.

They make slow progress over the lawn, but the hangar isn’t far, which is good, because John’s mangled arm, currently being pulled by Rory, is warring with his twisted knee over which injury is most debilitating.

The door to the hangar flies open and they see Melly’s slender form silhouetted in the door.

“Start the car,” Sherlock shouts at her, and she pivots and runs back inside.

Sherlock and Rory pull John inside, and John collapses against the closed door as Sherlock releases him to check their surroundings. Rory runs along the corridor that leads to the inner door—the airlock door—that seals the hangar proper when the outer doors are open. Beyond the airlock door, John can see Melly and Eddie readying Melly’s car, removing the last of the groundlocks from the antigrav engines.

Sherlock crouches next to John. “Just a few more metres. We just need to get in.”

John shakes his head and points at the airlock door. “We need to close it behind us so they won’t be able to follow us in.”

Sherlock eyes the door, then nods. “Good thinking. Come on, I’ll help you to the car, then I’ll go back to close the door.”

John nods and lets Sherlock pull him to his feet. They move down the corridor towards the airlock door painfully slow; every step is agonising and the few metres feel like miles to John.

They’re nearly at the airlock when the outer door behind them is kicked in, and a flash grenade lands in the corridor.

They both hit the ground hard, and John nearly blacks out with pain as his knee hits the dura-concrete floor.

Sherlock pulls him to his feet and in a flash of absolute clarity, John realises that the seconds Sherlock will need to help him through the airlock and close it are seconds they don’t have. In that moment, John realises he’s not going to make it.

But Sherlock might.

He has exactly ten seconds until the guards reach them. He needs to make them count.

John grabs Sherlock by the lapels. “Listen,” he says, panting through the pain. “Get out. Get Rory out. Activate the link. Get the information, get Lestrade.”

“What?” Sherlock says, looking confused.

John kisses him once, hard, on the mouth. “Remember that I love you,” he says, then he pushes Sherlock through the airlock door and slams his fist against the seal.

Sirens blare as the airlock seals and the outer doors that lead into the Titan night begin to open.

Sherlock looks at him through the tiny porthole in the airlock, frozen in shock. John thinks that for the first time, he might have an inkling of understanding how Sherlock must have felt standing on that rooftop, looking down at John.

“Run!” John screams, slamming his hand against the airlock, just as the security guards close in on him.

The last thing he sees is the expression in Sherlock’s eyes as he turns and runs, and he thinks, maybe, that Sherlock now has an inkling of understanding of how John must have felt, standing on that pavement, looking up at Sherlock.

Then the guards are on him.

They manhandle him to his feet, and the pain in his arm and his shoulder is so intense that he feels gratitude for the jab of a needle at his neck.

Sherlock is safe. That’s all that matters.

He gratefully surrenders to unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

John wakes up to a monstrous headache, a parched mouth and an inability to move. Keeping his eyes closed, he slowly takes stock of his body. The pain in his knee has been reduced to a dull throbbing, and the pain in his arm is gone. In fact, he can’t feel his arm at all. Like, at all. Like it isn’t there anymore.

He snaps his eyes open and tries to reach for his synthetic arm, but finds he’s been very effectively secured to a gurney, with straps binding his arm, torso and legs to the bed in several places.

He looks over at his left arm, afraid of what he’ll find, and nearly faints.

The arm is still there, but the synthetic flesh has been completely stripped off, exposing the wires and circuits down to the synthetic bones. But, someone must have disconnected the node that feeds into his nervous system while he was unconscious because he can’t move or feel it. The arm is strapped to an extension of the gurney, and there’s a whole array of tools and implements laid out on a table nearby. They are arranged as if the person who stripped the flesh from his arm was about to do something else when they stepped out. John figures that is probably exactly what happened.

He slowly breathes through the panic and tries to get oriented. Focus, Watson, he chides himself. Where are you? How are you going to get out?

He’s not, he quickly admits to himself. He’s not getting out of here on his own. He’s going to have to be fucking rescued. By Sherlock. Who’s never going to let him hear the end of it.

John can’t help but smile, because it’s more pleasant thinking about Sherlock being absolutely fucking livid with him than it is thinking about what’s inevitably going to happen between now and when Sherlock finally drags his sorry arse out of this mess.

He shakes his head to focus his scattered thoughts on the here and now.

His surroundings are mostly shrouded in darkness. The only two points of light are the surgical lamp over the gurney he’s strapped to, and a holoscreen in the distance. From the shadows, the sheer size of the room, and the configuration of the holo, he recognises the room as the large sitting room on the third floor of the Magnussen mansion. The one he and Sherlock surmised must be Magnussen’s personal quarters.

Which means he’s probably going to meet the man shortly. John has rarely looked forward to something less.

He switches his focus to trying to surmise how long he’s been unconscious. He figures no less than an hour, but not very much longer than two. If, and that’s a big if, Sherlock, Melly, Eddie and Rory got away from Magnussen’s goons, it would take them at least half an hour to get back to New London. Probably longer in the dead of night. Then they’d need to get to Melly’s warehouse, another fifteen minutes at least, Melly would have to activate the link to Magnussen’s holo and hack into the system, and then they’d have to go to Lestrade and get a squad together…

John realises that this is a pointless exercise and it’s doing nothing to calm him down. On the contrary, he can feel his pulse quickening. He has to stop and figure out what Magnussen might want with him. It’s not obvious—he has nothing of interest to say and there’s nothing he knows that would be of any use to Magnussen.

The door opens and closes, and a figure moves towards him. He knows the time for speculation is at an end.

Charles Magnussen is about Sherlock’s height, his hair is carefully styled and he’s wearing a pair of excellently tailored pants and a very comfortable looking jumper made out of real wool. He’s moving with the confidence of someone who owns everything around him, but he’s looking at John with the detached interest of the scientist.

“Oh, you are finally awake. Good,” Magnussen says in an easy, conversational tone. “I’m Charles Magnussen, but I suppose I don’t need to tell you that.”

“John Watson. Pleasure,” John answers, matching Magnussen’s tone. “I’d offer to shake hands, but I’m a bit tied up right now.”

Magnussen chuckles, sitting down next to John’s gurney on a backless swivel stool. “I admire your spirit, Doctor Watson, and I’m of course familiar with your record. How did a reputable doctor and a war hero such as yourself get involved in all of this?”

“I don’t like it when people hurt other people,” John answers, looking pointedly at Magnussen. “No matter whether they’re wearing a Separatist uniform or not.”

Again, Magnussen chuckles. He looks at John’s exposed arm with an air of genuine interest. “It’s odd that you’re making such a comparison, given you’re out there helping people using both of your arms thanks in large parts to—well, me.”

“Prostheses are as old as humans losing limbs, Mr Magnussen. Let’s not over-inflate your contribution.”

“My contribution is a matter of perspective, Doctor,” Magnussen says, still as pleasantly as if they are having a conversation over a nice dinner or a not especially interesting cocktail party. “I did not invent prosthetics, certainly, but I have enhanced them, I’ve made them so much better. Better than the human parts they’ve replaced even. Magnussen eyes don’t get cataracts or glaucoma, they don’t lose strength with age, they can be adjusted to detect UV rays or dangerous levels of radiation. In short, they’re in every way superior to the human eye.”

“If you can afford one,” John points out, “which many people can’t.”

“We’ve made charitable contributions that were more than generous, but we’re a business, not a charity. Our products cost a lot of money to make, why shouldn’t we be the ones making money from their sale? Besides,” Magnussen adds, gesturing at John’s arm. “You of all people should appreciate what Magnussen Incorporated has done for veterans like you. I gave you this very arm at a price that was more than fair, Doctor Watson, and yet you are ungrateful. Others received theirs as a gift, and are even more ungrateful.”

“Your gift caused Kat Winters’ cancer. And Jerry Hollbrook’s stroke. And Laura Yi’s muscle degeneration. And don’t pretend for one second that the Army didn’t pay through the nose for your gifts, because we both know that over the years you’ve received defence contracts that were more than generous.”

“The people you mention are the unfortunate victims of a slight error on our part, and I can assure you they’re receiving the very best medical care,” Magnussen says, still pleasant, but his tone has lost some of its nonchalance.

“I’m sure they appreciate it, if they can, in fact, still talk,” John answers, voice heavy with sarcasm as he thinks, Sherlock, I hope you’re safe, and I sure as fuck hope you’re getting Lestrade right the very fuck now.

“I don’t know why you think I would harm them. They’re quite safely housed in my facility with access to the top medical care in the System. Care they couldn’t afford on their own, I’m sure,” Magnussen says, his tone suggesting that John is both irrational and childish.

“And safely away from the public eye, so nobody will learn that your generous gift to the Army is a death trap. That wouldn’t play well with the public, or with politicians,” John points out.

Magnussen smiles. “Oh, politicians, Doctor. I own so many of them. And what’s the lives of a hundred veterans, most of whom have squandered their gifts on drugs and alcohol, compared to the millions, if not billions of lives I’ve enhanced, or outright saved? A small price to pay for the public to retain its trust in the Magnussen brand that’s changed so many lives for the better.”

“You should write holo-ads for a living, you have a certain flair for it,” John answers, rolling his eyes. This discussion is pointless, but the longer he keeps Magnussen talking, the longer the tools lying on that table stay unused. John has no idea what Magnussen is planning, but he’s very fucking sure he won’t like it, so talking is better.

“I do, don’t I?” Magnussen says, completely oblivious to the sarcasm. He pours himself a Scotch from the bar in the corner, then returns to sit by John’s gurney. “I regret that we’re meeting under these circumstances, Doctor, I must admit I was always a bit curious about you.”

“Why?” John asks, frowning. As far as he’s aware, Magnussen had never heard his name before today.

“Oh, not because of anything you did or said in your mostly insignificant life. But your connection to the Holmes family makes you somewhat of a… curiosity. I’ve known Mycroft Holmes for a number of years now, and I always assumed his younger brother was a chip off the old block. You see, we geniuses are solitary. Nobody could possibly ever truly understand the way we think, the way we see the world. But Sherlock seems so very keen to try to show you. To make a lasting human connection with someone who can never, ever truly know him. It’s impossible, of course, and doomed. You do know that, right?”

“Well, you’re right about one thing, at least,” John says, trying not to show that Magnussen is starting to seriously give him the creeps. “Sherlock isn’t like you. Not even a little bit.”

“That’s what you would like to believe, I’m sure. But people like Sherlock, like Mycroft, like me, will always understand that sacrifices must be made for the greater good, for the bigger picture, for the betterment of humanity.”

“That’s a very easy belief to hold when it’s never your life on the line,” John says, wondering whether he can talk Magnussen into giving him a swig of that Scotch. Probably not, all things considered.

Magnussen seems to concede the point with a shrug. “You are right, of course. But it has always been the way of the world that some human lives are worth more, and some less. Surely I have more to contribute to the world, with my intellect and my wealth, than someone like our late lamented Ms Winters, who wasn’t even smart enough to take a helping hand when it was extended to her.”

“That helping hand gave her years of chronic pain and a deadly illness, you can see why she was sceptical,” John answers, hoping to keep Magnussen talking while he very subtly tries to shift his weight to test whether he can wriggle out of the straps that bind him to the table. But they don’t move an inch.

“She was one overdose away from an early grave anyway,” Magnussen says, dismissing Kat with a wave of his hand. “You, however, are an entirely different matter. You aren’t one of the stupid, dumb masses, I can see by the modifications you made on your arm. But you still seem too normal to ever hold the interest of someone like Sherlock Holmes. So what is your secret, Doctor?”

John looks away from Magnussen, stares up at the ceiling, wishing he wasn’t so vulnerable and unable to hide or run. The truth is he doesn’t know what Sherlock sees in him, why someone like Sherlock gave him a second look in the first place. But he sure as hell doesn’t want a fucker like Magnussen to know that, so he composes himself and looks back at Magnussen with a sardonic grin that’s mostly bravado. “Did you consider that maybe I’m just really good in bed?”

Magnussen huffs a soft laugh, and this eternal calm freaks John out more than any aggression could. “You’re amusing, Doctor, I give you that.”

“Ta so much,” John says, his tone heavily sarcastic. “I can be a regular comedian when I’m not currently tied to a gurney, so why don’t you untie me, and I’ll even dance a bit for you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Magnussen says with a little shake of his head and a softly chiding wag of his finger, and John feels a bit like an unruly child. “Even with only the use of one arm, I’m sure you would turn violent rather quickly. Besides, I want to look at your synthetic arm.”

Magnussen picks up a fragile looking pair of tweezers, and John has a very bad feeling about where this is going.

John watches as Magnussen hovers over his arm with the tweezers. “What are you going to do with those?” he can’t help asking.

“Don’t worry,” Magnussen says as he descends, “You won’t feel a thing. I’ve numbed the relays into your nervous system. I just want to… have a look,” he adds with the absent tone of a scientist as he bends down and starts poking around John’s arm.

He’s true to his words, John doesn’t feel anything. It’s still more than a bit odd—and more than a bit terrifying—to have this stranger dig around in his arm. John has always done maintenance himself, with the exception of sometimes letting Sherlock do it, and Magnussen rooting around in his arm feels profoundly violating, even if there’s no physical pain. He does his best not to squirm and to keep the deep discomfort off his face as he says, “Stop that.”

Magnussen ignores him and pulls out one of John’s modified silicium chips. “Interesting, you seem to have made several adjustments. Clever,” he says, putting it aside to go back to exploring John’s arm.

“Stop. It,” John grates out.

“Oh, don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I just want to look at the modifications you’ve done,” Magnussen says, in the same friendly tone, as he extracts another chip.

“It’s my bloody arm, and I want you to bloody stop,” John grates out, struggling against the straps holding him against the gurney.

“It’s not your arm, Doctor,” Magnussen says as he extracts the ligament enhancer that John— with Sherlock’s help—grafted into his shoulder joint with great care and enduring patience. “It’s my gift to you. And I’m taking it back.”

John is about to respond when the holounit behind him flares to life and starts a frenzy of beeping.

Magnussen whirls around and John takes a deep breath even as he tries to wriggle out of the straps, but they hold fast.

“What’s this?” Magnussen says as he steps towards the console. “What’s happening?”

John grins, humourless and grim. “This, Mr Magnussen, is Sherlock Holmes. This is your chickens coming home to roost.”

Magnussen is at the controls now, and John can see the files and images and security videos flashing over the holoscreen. He can almost see Sherlock and Melly looking at data and transferring it out of the Magnussen cloud. “How many secrets are they going to find, you think? How many bodies have you discarded along the way? How many people have paid the price for your success?”

Magnussen turns around as the screen behind him goes dark. “Corporate espionage is punishable by up to thirty years in prison, Doctor. No judge in the System would use evidence obtained illegally.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure New London police will be knocking on your door any minute now with a warrant for all that data.”

Magnussen smiles. “My lawyers will keep them quite busy, I’m sure. In the meantime, I think you and I have enough time to finish our little chat. Where was I?”

Magnussen picks up his tweezers again and returns to John’s gurney. “I have to say, the enhancements you made to your arm are quite extraordinary. I admire your improvisational skills, even though you’re sloppy and slipshod in the extreme. Under different circumstances, I think you could have had a prosperous career at Magnussen Incorporated.”

“Sorry, don’t think so. I’ve got this pesky thing called a conscience,” John says through gritted teeth as Magnussen once again starts rooting around his arm.

Magnussen chuckles as he slides a hand down the delicate wiring of John’s wrist. John can’t feel the touch, but shudders all the same.

“Get. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off. Me,” he grates.

“So melodramatic,” Magnussen says, shaking his head, perplexed. “I’m not touching you. I’m just inspecting how you disfigured my property.” He grabs a small saw. “I think I’ll remove a finger, it will be interesting to see how your crude silicium chips stack up against Titan silver on the granular level.”

John grits his teeth as Magnussen holds up his hand, almost gently, and he swears to himself that he won’t blink as Magnussen activates the blade.

At that exact moment, three things happen at once. First, the power cuts out. Second, John hears the unmistakable roaring of a heavy-duty military transport outside of the window. Third, the door is kicked in with enough force to splinter the frame.

John can’t see much in the darkness of the room, but he can hear the stomping from boots in the corridor along with the familiar sound of a military-issue Browning sidearm loading a charge into the chamber. “Step away from him,” a familiar voice says as Sherlock steps into the room, his pale face a bare outline in the emergency lights.

“Oh thank fuck,” John says as he lets his head fall back to the gurney in relief.

Magnussen, meanwhile, just looks amused. “Breaking and entering, corporate espionage, assault with a deadly weapon that I am sure you don’t have a licence for. Oh, you are going to prison for a very long time, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock cocks his gun. “I said,” he repeats, stepping further into the room, “Get away from him.”

“Or what?” Magnussen is still exceedingly amused and still holding the saw to John’s finger, even though the power cut has made it all but useless. “I very much doubt you’d shoot me.”

“Harm one more hair on his head, and I can guarantee you’ll find out how wrong you are,” Sherlock grates.

“I don’t think you’re that stupid,” Magnussen says, but he does finally put the saw down. John sags with relief.

“I took this gun off one of your guards,” Sherlock says, not lowering the weapon as he steps farther into the room. “Interesting model. Several fascinating settings. Military grade, just like a lot of your security’s gear. I suppose it’s one of the perks of being a contractor, you get the good stuff. You have many friends in the military, I suppose.”

“I have friends everywhere. I have friends enough to ensure that you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison if you don’t put that gun down right now and return all the data you’ve obtained illegally,” Magnussen says, standing from his chair, his attention now entirely on Sherlock.

John tries his straps again and finds them as immovable as ever. He catches Sherlock’s eye, but Sherlock shakes his head and gives him a look that clearly says, ‘Stay put.’

“I talked to one of your friends, a General Morales. She was very interested in what Rory Smallwood had to say.”

“He’s a junkie, my lawyers will rip him apart in court,” Magnussen says, waving a hand dismissively.

“You held him captive,” John says, ignoring the murderous look Sherlock shoots him.

“I did no such thing. He came to a gathering he wasn’t invited to and wanted a word. He got drunk and I offered him a bed for the night. He could have left at any time.”

“You provided him with illegal narcotics, but be that as it may,” Sherlock says, neutrally, tilting his head to the side as heavy boots make their way towards the room. “I think your friends are arriving now.”

Magnussen smiles as the soldiers draw closer. “I suggest you lower your weapon.”

“The thing about the military is they turn a blind eye to a lot of things in the spirit of winning the war. What they don’t love, however, is a supplier who knowingly delivers subpar goods and doesn’t inform them when defects are discovered,” Sherlock says cooly, in a tone that suggests he might be talking about the weather, but the firm grip he has on the gun tells a different story.

John grins as he catches Sherlock’s drift. “Oh, that’s bad for you,” John mutters, giving Magnussen a smirk when he looks his way, then back at Sherlock.

“John, do you want to inform Mr Magnussen what it’s called when you knowingly deliver faulty goods to the military in times of war?” Sherlock says, eyes cutting to John as he moves ever closer to Magnussen and John.

“Sabotage,” John answers with relish.

“I’m sure General Morales will also be interested to hear about the Separatist connections in your personal assistant’s family,” Sherlock adds. “The accent, you know. People from Mars have a certain lilt to their speech, and your lovely assistant hasn’t quite learned how to hide it. The photos in her flat were also terribly revealing. Brother in the Separatist army, parents live on a Mars station. She got out because she wanted a better life. Classic story. But who knows what kinds of connections she still has on Mars. And you can scream to the heavens that you didn’t know, but they’ll never believe you. John, remind me, what’s another word for sabotage in times of war?”

“Treason,” John answers, grinning openly now.

“So,” Sherlock says to a wide-eyed Magnussen, who’s paled significantly and is looking at the door where the footsteps are coming ever closer. “I suggest you run.”

Magnussen looks at Sherlock with so much hatred it makes John’s insides hurt and he struggles against the straps, just in case Magnussen tries to attack Sherlock. But Magussen just hesitates for a moment, then walks quickly to a bookcase and pushes a few buttons. When the opening in the wall to a secret stairwell appears, he steps through. “This isn’t over, Holmes.”

Sherlock, who’s kept Magnussen in his sight and has moved his body between John and Magnussen, shrugs. “You’re wasting time.”

Apparently, Magnussen agrees, because he turns without another word and runs down the stairs.

Sherlock keeps the gun trained on the door, then drops it and John has to smile as the expression on his face goes from flintily murderous to concerned warmth within a millisecond. Then Sherlock is beside John in a heartbeat. “All right?” he asks gently, as he unties the straps holding John to the gurney.

“Been better,” John admits, and Sherlock gives him a shaky laugh.

“You’re certifiably insane and I’m so livid with you I could spit,” Sherlock says as he opens the straps one by one. “That was the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. What were you thinking?!”

John opens his mouth, but Sherlock continues, obviously overcome by relief and in the ranting stage of anger. “No, you know what, don’t answer that, because obviously you weren’t thinking at all. If you’d given me five seconds, we would have both made it through the airlock, but no, you had to play the martyr, you enormous idiot.”

John smiles at Sherlock, feeling slightly loopy from the combination of the aftereffects of whatever drug they dosed him with, fading adrenaline and a deep sense of relief. “I love you too.”

“Just so you know,” Sherlock says with a glare, ignoring John’s words entirely, “I’m seriously thinking about having you committed. I’m also giving you the award for the biggest hypocrite in the System since you are always on my case, but make the most harebrained decisions yourself.”

“So what you’re saying is we’re perfect for each other,” John says with a grin that turns into a wince when Sherlock helps him sit up.

Sherlock gestures at John’s arm. “What did that madman do to you?”

John shrugs and grimaces as he cradles his useless arm to his chest. It feels more than a bit strange to feel nothing while seeing the arm, all naked wires and synthetic bone. It doesn’t quite feel like a part of John, and yet he knows it is. He knows this piece of brilliant machinery saved his life and made him useful again, just as much as Sherlock did.

John shrugs. “He was curious. Guess I’m lucky he took out the neural node that feeds into my nervous system,” he says, gesturing at the part that’s lying next to his silicium chips.

Sherlock glares at the door Magnussen left through. “I should have killed him.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” John says, winding his good hand into the lapel of Sherlock’s jacket to get his attention. “I’d much rather not have to visit you in prison. Conjugal visits aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

“Let’s get you to the clinic, I can fix your arm there.”

“Call in Mary, she’ll help,” John says as Sherlock helps him stand.

“And then home and bed for you,” Sherlock admonishes sternly.

John nods and sags a bit against Sherlock as he tries to put weight on his knee. “About that,” he mutters into the fabric of Sherlock’s coat as Sherlock’s arms come around to help him stand. “I sort of gave my house to Melly.”

Sherlock stills and grips John’s shoulders to get a good look at him. “You did what?”

“She wanted my garden. It was the price for her help. And I would have given her a hell of a lot more to get you back. ”

“But—”

“And I was sort of hoping,” John continues, interrupting Sherlock to get it out before he loses his nerve, “that I might…come home?”

Sherlock says nothing, but his pole-axed expression melts into a fierce intensity as he pulls John into a serious sort of kiss, speaking of anger and relief and promises of a new beginning.

The door flies open and soldiers pour into the room. Voices in the background speak to them, and still they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Totally oblivious of time and space and everything except each other and the feeling of the future unspooling in front of them, a promise of better things to come.

Finally, John draws back, uncaring of the mayhem around them, and smiles at Sherlock. “Sentiment?”

Sherlock smiles back, openly fond and a bit mischievous. “Sentiment.”

John pecks him on the lips once more, just because he can. “Take me home?”

Sherlock looks at him like he’s not old and worn and broken, but precious and irreplaceable, and John finally accepts that for Sherlock that’s exactly what he is. Eventually, Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he says, pressing a final kiss against John’s lips. “Yes.”

Chapter Text

Six months later

It’s raining on Titan.

The liquid methane pounds against the biodome, creating a soothing patter for the many, many souls sleeping below.

The condensation caused by the temperature difference drips down and a thick drop lands on the glass roof above John’s head.

John stirs and blinks into the predawn darkness. The ambient light of the biodome creates a sort of mock dawn, the streetlamps casting the condensation on the window in a warm, orange glow.

John seriously contemplates going back to sleep, but the warm body pressing into him from shoulder to toe stirs, and hands that were passively resting a moment ago start to wander.

He turns and smiles. “Morning,” he mutters, then lets Sherlock pull him into a deep, sleepy, and tiny bit disgusting kiss.

“Do you need to get up?” Sherlock whispers against him, wandering hands finding their way underneath John’s pyjamas, tracing up his spine and down his arse.

“I’ve got a bit of time,” John answers and finds himself rolled onto his back, Sherlock’s warm weight settling above him deliciously.

“Good,” Sherlock mutters against his mouth. “I only need a little bit.”

John winds his hands into Sherlock’s hair.” Shut up,” he says before pulling Sherlock into a serious sort of kiss.

Sherlock sleeps naked, a delightful habit that John is happy to encourage, so they only have to deal with John’s pyjamas. Soon they’re pressed together head to toe with legs entwined, engaged in the sort of deliberate snogging that takes the scenic route to its inevitable conclusion.

Sherlock’s hands are everywhere—on John’s arse, tracing down his back, running through his hair—while his mouth playfully nips at John’s neck. John’s erection is sliding pleasantly against Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock’s is leaking precome on John’s thigh.

John wants more. He always wants more of Sherlock, but especially right now. He wants this delightful friction to last, but he also wants to see Sherlock’s face when he completely loses his mind, so he rolls them until he’s straddling Sherlock’s hips.

They lock eyes, and John grinds down on Sherlock’s erection pressing against his arse. Sherlock shudders and grabs at the nightstand, handing John the lube without having to be asked.

They move in wordless, perfect synch, and soon John is sinking down on Sherlock’s cock, breath hitching with every careful inch, with Sherlock’s hands on his body, greedy and gentle at the same time.

Time loses meaning as John slowly rocks himself on Sherlock’s erection, his own cock bobbing between them, rubbing against Sherlock’s stomach. It’s slow and lovely and intimate, just the two of them in the predawn darkness, nothing between them but air, and not a whole lot of that either.

The buildup is slow, and they trade gentle sighs and deep, dirty kisses as their bodies rock against each other.

At some point, it tips from slow and languid into urgent and hard. When Sherlock finally, finally wraps his hand around John’s cock and whispers, “Come for me,” in a rough, broken voice, John’s entire body shudders as he comes so hard it makes his toes curl and stars spark behind his eyes.

Sherlock grabs his hips and fucks him through it, then stills as he comes as well. John watches greedily as Sherlock falls apart, completely lost in pleasure and John.

They lie in a sweaty heap until John’s shoulder cramps and he has to move. He had to do quite extensive repairs since the Magnussen incident, but he’s used the best replacement parts in the System so, all in all, his arm isn’t any worse off than it was before.

They lie for a bit in silence, bodies touching from shoulders to toes, admiring the methane clouds racing over the sky until they part to reveal Saturn. They watch quietly as the weak Titan dawn slowly turns Saturn into its usual daytime shadow, a pale giant sitting in the sky, looking down on them, holding them safely in its orbit.

“I have to go,” John finally says, but when he looks over, Sherlock has already fallen back asleep, and is frowning and muttering in his slumber.

John smiles and kisses the wrinkles on Sherlock’s forehead, whispering, “I love you,” into soft skin. Sherlock stills, muttering something unintelligible as he turns to his side and starts snoring.

John gets out of bed and looks down at Sherlock’s sleeping form before going to take a much-needed shower.

*-*

Over breakfast, John checks both his and Sherlock’s inboxes for interesting cases. He flags a few for Sherlock to look at when he gets up, then puts the teapot in the warmer.

He grabs his jacket and goes down the stairs. He knocks on the door of 221A, and a bleary-looking Rory opens the door. “What?” he snaps grumpily.

“You want a ride to the clinic? I’m going in now. You’ve got your first group at eleven, right?”

Rory nods. “No thanks, I’ll go in later. I had a rough night.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No, just… life,” Rory says with a shrug. “I just need some coffee and an hour to pull myself together.”

John smiles. “Fair enough. See you later, then.”

Rory nods and closes the door in John’s face. John shakes his head in amusement and heads out.

*-*

It’s a damp morning as John makes his way to the clinic, Mrs Turner’s coffee in hand. John is in an excellent mood, even though the damp makes his shoulder ache. But other parts of his body ache much more pleasantly, so he opens the door to the clinic with a smile.

Mary’s already there, calibrating the machines.

“New delivery,” she says in lieu of a greeting, nodding at a box with the Magnussen company logo.

John smirks. Sometimes justice comes in a funny form. Magnussen isn’t in prison, but the patients he held at the facility are getting the best treatment Magnussen money can buy, and the lawsuits against Magnussen Inc. are still ongoing. John settled his suit out of court— the box with any and all replacement parts he could possibly want, delivered once a week for the next ten years, is all he needs.

The first patient comes into the clinic fifteen minutes later, and John’s pretty busy until lunch with the usual mixture of coughs, malfunctioning parts and the odd stabbing.

Rory knocks on the back door at around 10:30. He holds out his water cooker. “We’re out of tea.”

John gets him a tin of the good stuff. Rory nods in thanks and vanishes back into the house opposite, which Rory’s settlement money has turned into a halfway house and recovery centre for veterans.

John briefly watches through the window as the members of Rory’s small recovery group settle into their treatment room before going back inside.

With no more patients to deal with, John retreats to his tiny office to do paperwork and have a cup of tea with his afternoon scone.

There’s a knock at the back door.

John smiles and puts his tea down.

“First of all,” he says as he opens the door, “you have a key. Second of all, what’s wrong with the front door?”

Sherlock shrugs, leaning against the door, the collar of his ridiculous coat turned up. “Boring,” he says nonchalantly, grinning at John, unrepentant and unbearably sexy.

John pulls him in for a kiss, just because he can. Sherlock kisses back eagerly, then draws back and says, “Much as I’m enjoying this, I’m not actually here for a social call. Lestrade’s waiting, he’s got a case for us. Rather interesting little murder from the looks of it.”

John looks over his shoulder, at the paperwork piling on his desk, his half-drunk cup of tea resting on a stack of requisition forms and patient reports to be filed.

“I’ll wait until you’re done,” Sherlock says, gesturing at the kitchen. “If there’s tea.”

John smiles. “There’s always tea.” He looks back at his desk, then out into the dirty, dangerous streets of New London. “We can go. I’m done for today.”

“You’re sure?” Sherlock asks, and John smiles.

“Always.”

Together they go out into the street, toward a new adventure.