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Chapter Text

*

"Nice interview today."

"Oh, you heard it? Yeah, I guess it wasn't bad. There's something comforting about doing radio, apart from not having to get all tarted up." Benedict lit a cigarette, inhaled, and expelled smoke through his nose.

"You're probably sick of telling the South Africa story by now."

"Yeah, well –" Ben inhaled again and idly rubbed the back of his hand over Tom's inner thigh. "I expect I'll be asked about it for a long while yet, so I might as well get accustomed to it."

Tom concentrated on the sensation of Ben's fingers caressing his skin. "Mm. Doesn't it – do you feel like you're reliving it, telling it over and over? Isn't that upsetting?"

"Erm…not exactly. It's hard to explain. You can't ever forget something like that. I mean, even if you're in a dangerous part of the world, the Gaza Strip or the Khyber Pass or something, most people don't think that anything traumatic is going to happen to them, so when it does, it leaves an indelible mark. I've got the details seared into my brain so when I do talk about it, it feels a bit more immediate, but at the same time I think I've managed to compartmentalise it properly. Also, I wasn't truly hurt – they didn't beat me or cut me or rape me, so I can be a bit more sanguine about it."

"Jesus, Ben." Tom shuddered. He rested his hand on Ben's chest, discerning the calm, steady beating of his heart.

"If it happened again, I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't fall apart, but as it stands, I'm okay." Benedict drew on his cigarette again. "Besides, it was a long time ago. Time does wonders to heal, you know. Everybody agreed that it would be the worst sort of publicity to talk about it, so we didn't. Besides, even if we had, nobody would have given a fuck because nobody knew who the fuck I was, even if it was a definitive incident in my life. The only reason I get asked about it is because I'm a bold-type or boldface, whatever, name right now, and the press adores traumatic backgrounds."

"As long as you're okay with it."

"Yeah, I'm fine." Benedict stubbed out his cigarette and turned on his side to face Tom. "Talked to a therapist and everything. She said that statistically, kidnap victims are largely okay after the event is over. There's less PTSD involved than you'd think. I don't want to be 'Benedict Cumberbatch, the actor who was once violently carjacked' for the rest of my life, but right now it's fine. It's a good story." Ben smiled, and slid his hand a bit higher. "Talking of kidnapping, I came up with a brilliant bit of roleplay this morning in the shower that requires an absolutely obscene quantity of rope, if you're up for it."

Tom found he was very much up for it indeed.

*

The bed dipped beneath Tom's body. Benedict was wriggling out of Tom's arms and pushing himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. Through sleep-hazed eyes Tom watched Ben sink his head into his hands for a long, still moment, then ruffle his hair angrily and stand up, a bit wobbly on his feet.

"God-damned idiot," Ben muttered, and stalked out of the room.

"You okay?" Tom called softly, but Ben hadn't heard him or had chosen to ignore him. Could have been either; Ben's mood was a little – well, a lot – erratic lately. Even the post-kidnap cuddle had been a bit on the awkward side. Reticent as Benedict could be in public, with good reason obviously, he was warm and affectionate in private, and though maybe Tom's own needy psyche was to blame, he craved more than a few hugs and murmured assurances. Probably it was Tom's fault, extraordinarily high and unrealistic expectations. Still, he'd hoped for more empathy, considering that Ben had undergone a similarly traumatic event.

Benedict had gone downstairs, stomping emphatically like an angry child. Tom heard his thumping footsteps, heard the fridge door open and bang shut, heard various mutterings and thudding until Ben went into his study and threw himself onto the sofa. Tom waited for the sound of the television – Ben liked to soothe himself with movies, an excellent habit – but only silence followed the thud of twelve stone on cushioned leather.

Tom sighed and turned over onto his belly, hugging Ben's pillow in lieu of his body. He did feel a bit better, all things considered; obviously he'd have to cope with the aftermath in his own fashion, and in private – he still wasn't certain that leaving was the right thing to have done. Henry might still talk, and leaving a crime scene, even as a victim, was probably a crime – but Ben was right: the public fallout would be horrible. Might be anyhow. Christ, people were still asking Ben about the carjacking that had happened seven years ago. He didn't want to be Tom Hiddleston, Serial Killer Almost-Victim for the rest of his life.

On the other hand, he'd have to dissemble in front of Graham and Fi and the others forever. Chances were the connection between them would be discovered regardless of his participation and it would come up in interviews. You've known Henry Walter Burgess since you were at RADA together, haven't you? The press loved the three-name serial killer format. Did you have any inkling that he was unhinged? You knew some of his victims, didn't you?

Too, there was the young girl Henry had just killed, Tom's fan – God rest her soul, whatever her name was. He hadn't killed her, but he might as well have done – she'd died because of him. That would be on his conscience until the day he drew his last breath.

Pushing his face into Ben's pillow, he bedewed it with a few bitter tears. The only person he could talk to about this was Benedict, and Benedict hadn't seemed inclined. And the rescue…! Jesus Christ, that training for Sherlock had paid off handsomely. He'd never seen anyone so ruthlessly calculating and competent – not that Ben wasn't fit, but that escape and rescue had been Tarantino-worthy. It was a debt Tom couldn't hope to repay, not that he would mind trying, if Benedict allowed it. Maybe after a few years had passed, he'd follow Ben's example and talk about it.

A long, drawn-out note wended its way upstairs and into the bedroom. Benedict was evidently attempting to tune his violin. Tom groaned a little and stuck his head under the pillow. Benedict was a man of vast talents, but music wasn't among them. Even extreme gratitude wouldn't make it so. That was okay. Real-life action hero trumped accomplished musician.

Below, Benedict played a few arpeggios – he'd got better at that, at least – and then, sweet, upward-spiralling notes that wound into near silence, and then a tune that was familiar, something lovely and romantic, almost gentle. Tom hummed along, trying to place the piece. It grew, quick-tempo, playful and a little whimsical, then returned to the familiar theme, and –

Tom's body froze; his humming stopped abruptly.

Moving like a somnambulist, he pulled his head out from beneath the pillow and got up from the bed. The music surrounded him, brilliant and sweet, full of joy and virtuosity.

Virtuosity.

The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood up as he tiptoed downstairs and toward the library. He stopped at the threshold and stared, open-mouthed; Benedict was standing facing away from Tom, his fingers moving with nimble grace and surety over the strings, his bow ripping purest beauty out of the inexpensive violin that had never yielded more than a few clumsy scales and beginner pieces for kids.

He stood transfixed, listening, watching, until Benedict half-turned and caught sight of him. The music came to an abrupt halt.

Tom caught his breath, though it wasn't easy; he was light-headed with hunger and complete stupefaction. "How…." He wet his lips. "Where the fuck did you learn to play like that?"

Benedict lowered the instrument and tapped the bow against his thigh. He exhaled, a deep, weary sigh that seemed to come from the tips of his toes. "I've been playing since I was six years old."

"No, you haven't. You hardly even touched a violin until you started filming Sherlock. That's what you told me, anyhow." What else was Ben hiding? Astounding musical ability, action-hero prowess – what was next, he fucking hunted big game with a blowdart in his spare time?

"Small wonder the bowing's so tragic on the programme if he learnt on this rubbish thing." Benedict lifted the violin and sneered at it. "Bow's all right, though. Miraculously." He smiled at Tom, but the smile curdled on his lips and didn't travel upward. His eyes were icy, calculating.

A slender ribbon of fear curled round Tom's spine, tangling there. "I…what the hell's going on?"

Benedict only shrugged. He lifted the bow and inspected it.

"Ben?"

Slowly, Ben shook his head. "No."

Tom backed up a step. "What's wrong with you?" Adrenaline flooded his system, but after the night and morning he'd had, it exhausted him instead of galvanising him. He'd have said that Benedict was in character, but Ben didn't do that, he didn't need to, it wasn't part of his process. But here he was, cold-eyed, his posture altogether different, his speech patterns familiar but nothing like his own, playing as if the devil had granted him some mad, fervent wish.

"I told you earlier, but you didn't listen."

"Told me? Told me what?" It was utterly crazy, but…this wasn't Benedict. Christ, I'm too far fucking gone for this!

"You still think Cumberbatch could have sorted out what happened to you and then rescued you? Please." Benedict's lip curled, and he took another step forward.

Thoroughly creeped out, Tom staggered against the door frame and put a hand out, warding him off. He wasn't a Catholic and neither was Ben, but he wouldn't have been averse to an exorcist at this moment. "You're scaring me."

"There's absolutely nothing to be frightened about. It's a simple matter of physics." Benedict halted and frowned. "Well, maybe not completely simple, but straightforward. You haven't got any idea of who I am? Can't you take a stab at it, for God's sake?"

I could, but that would make me completely fucking insane. "You're my…my…." Weirdly, he couldn't say boyfriend, not with Ben being so bizarre. "You're Ben."

Ben rolled his eyes. "You haven't noticed anything amiss beginning with Thursday night. Come on. I'm good, but I'm not omniscient, not quite. No alarm bells for you at all?"

Tom wet parched lips. "The…the rescue. You were like Bruce Lee, or Chuck Norris or something."

"No idea who those people are, but that's a start." Ben tossed the violin to the sofa and folded his arms, the bow still in one hand. "Go on."

This is fucking crazy. But slowly, so slowly it hurt, little things occurred to him, coalescing into a notion so beyond rationality it made Scientology seem completely plausible. "You wouldn't run on Friday morning."

"Running for recreation is pointless." Benedict nodded. "Don't stop."

"You didn't eat the food I ordered, even though it's your favourite."

"I prefer Thai, or Vietnamese at a pinch."

He'd been storing anomalies subconsciously all along, Tom realised, small incidents that he'd chalked up to Ben's accident, but now…. "You tried to gag me during sex, when you knew I didn't like it." Knew. He knew that. Sex, oh what the FUCK –

Benedict – was it Benedict? – shrugged. "Insufficient data."

"You fucked Mark in the loo." Tom let a little animosity pour out.

"Well. That term's a bit strong, I think. If we're splitting hairs, I only –"

"Never mind, I get the general picture." Tom stared, unable to take it in, but then the last item clicked into place. "That first night. That –" Tom stared into chilly, pale eyes. "You called me John."

Benedict It had to be him, what the fucking fuck smiled. "You remembered that. Not bad."

"Jesus," Tom breathed. "Jesus Christ." He stumbled backward and hit the opposite wall, his back scraping against a sharp picture-frame. His phone, where was his phone? He had to call the police.

Madman, I'm trapped in here with a madman, oh God I can't take this any longer!

And where the fuck was Benedict?

He felt slippery wood under his bare feet and curled his toes forward, ready to sprint, to get the fuck out of Ben's house and find the nearest police officer, get a neighbour to call, had he been in on everything with Henry, was it a ploy, dear Christ was Benedict with Henry right now?

Tom opened his mouth to say God only knew what, and whooshed air out harshly as a body slammed him up against the wall and pinned his wrists. He wanted to scream, but no sound emerged from his throat.

"Tom. Tom. Get hold of yourself, for God's sake. I've dealt with more temperamental actors in the past few days than anybody deserves, and I'm sick of it. Calm yourself. Think rationally." The voice was soft in his ear, and familiar. Familiar.

"Rationally!" Tom's voice was unnaturally high. "You're trying to tell me you're – you're –" He couldn't say it. Multiple personality disorder. He never told me. It's okay, I can cope with that, I had a pal who suffered from it, he was –

"Who? Go on. Say it."

Tom's heart was slamming against his ribcage, but he didn't dare break the hold on his wrists. He swallowed, and shivered.

He was a rational person, and reasonably intelligent. There had been a few times in his life that had required what had felt like an extraordinary leap of faith: first time on the football pitch, surrounded by bigger boys. Asking a girl to dance. First time he'd had sex, with a girl, then with a boy. His first oration in Greek. First time onstage. First time in front of the cameras. Afterwards, he'd marvelled at his own fright – sometimes, it was simply a matter of taking a deep breath and accepting the outcome of a decision. And he liked to think that he was still open to the world's extraordinary surprises.

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. He believed that – not necessarily as some airy manifesto of the supernatural, but as a student, always learning, always receptive to new and, yes, even outrageous ideas. And sometimes, even a rational soul required an extraordinary leap of faith. And if anything required a leap of faith, the events of the last few days, considered as a whole, certainly did.

Tom took another deep breath and then said it. "Sherlock. Holmes."

As he spoke, he felt uncertainty melting away, snows caught in the sun beneath time-lapse photography. It was mad, it was round the twist, but it felt true. He trusted his instincts.

"There. Was that so hard?" Sherlock sighed.

"Sherlock."

"Ye-es," Sherlock said, and let Tom go. He went back to the sofa and sat down with a thump, stretching out his legs and contemplating his toes.

Tentatively, Tom took a step forward, watching the figure on the sofa. "Sherlock," he whispered again.

"It's not actually necessary for you to keep saying my name," Sherlock replied irritably.

"I'm just trying to wrap my head round it," Tom said. He crouched next to the sofa and peered curiously at the familiar face.

"Yes, it's Cumberbatch's body. We switched." Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head in a manner that suggested the entire affair was altogether too tiresome for words.

Tom stifled a laugh, then stiffened. "Ben."

"Oh, he's fine. At least, I think he's fine. He was fine when I last saw him, anyhow. Of course, he'd been taken prisoner by Moriarty, and John –"

"Fuck – what?" Tom got to his feet. "Moriarty? Is Ben in danger?"

Sherlock sighed. "Obviously. It's Moriarty."

"When you last saw him – when did you see him?"

"It's a bit of a long story. Are you up to hearing about it?"

Tom had made the leap; no point in going back now.

"Yes. Tell me."

*

When Sherlock finished talking, he leant back against the sofa and blew a breath out. His throat was dry, his voice raspy. TWH was staring at him with wide eyes. To his credit, though, he hadn't interrupted Sherlock's explanation with a million inane questions. He'd simply listened with enormous interest.

Reminded him of John, a little.

Sherlock's heart thudded in double time. He gazed down at his lap and plucked at a worn thread at the edge of the grey t-shirt he wore.

"That's amazing."

Damn it. Sherlock's mouth twisted upward. "What's amazing?"

"The whole thing, really. Do you suppose – do you think this happens a lot? It's not a completely foreign concept. I don't know if you know about this, but Plato, the philosopher, had this allegory or parable about a cave – there's a fire burning within this cave, you see, and there's a row of people bound to the wall, and all they can see are shadows –"

"Yes, I know about it," Sherlock said, waving a hand. "It hardly explains the concept of an alternate universe."

"No, it's about humankind's perception of reality, at its basest level. But it raises the question –"

Sherlock overrode him. "I'm positive that anyone who's experienced this has kept his or her mouth shut. To speak of it would mean certain ridicule and probably institutionalisation. In the mental health sense."

"And it might drive an ordinarily stable individual to a breakdown." Tom gave Sherlock a stormy look. "You've criticised Ben pretty liberally, but it sounds as if he's held things together well, all things considered."

"He could have done much worse," Sherlock allowed grudgingly. "He might yet."

TWH got to his feet and paced back and forth. "So you won't see him until tomorrow at 7:30?"

"7:35, as far as I can determine."

"What if he's hurt? It's…it's Moriarty, after all. Criminal mastermind."

"Oh, I think 'mastermind' is debatable," Sherlock scoffed, but his heart clenched again. Moriarty was clever enough to find Sherlock's weakness. And if John was with Cumberbatch, he'd found it already. He didn't value John, Sherlock knew, except as a pawn. Which, on reflection, made the term mastermind iffy. He had no idea of John Watson's true worth.

"Isn't there anything we can do to help him?"

We? "I tried to give him advice, but he was only semi-conscious. God knows if he retained any of it."

TWH stopped and bit at his thumbnail. "Well, if real life –" He grimaced oddly. "If real life is anything like fiction, he'll be just fine. You're difficult to kill."

"It's true," Sherlock agreed modestly.

Tom glanced at Sherlock and chortled. "Wow." He resumed pacing. "I suppose we can't affect what we can't control – we can only hope for the best and wait."

"Obviously. That's what I've been doing since Thursday."

"Are you hungry?" Tom asked suddenly. "I'm famished."

Sherlock had been ignoring his muttering stomach for the past eight or so hours. "I could eat something," he admitted.

"Takeaway? No, never mind, I don't feel like seeing anyone right now. I'll whip something up." He about-faced and stalked out of the library.

Sherlock heaved himself up and followed. "Not an egg-white omelette with kale or whatever."

"Ha!" The interjection came like a distant explosion. "That should have tipped me off, too. Spag bog? Won't take long."

"All right," Sherlock said indifferently, though his belly rumbled in enthusiastic agreement.

Tom was already bustling around the kitchen, pulling out pots and boxes and tins. "He's always got the makings for that, it's sort of comfort food. Mine's better, though." He opened the freezer compartment and stuck his head inside. "I'll have to quick-defrost the meat in the micro. Do you mind?"

"Nope."

"I saw some plonk in the fridge. Want some?"

"Why not?" Sherlock was thirsty, and a couple of glasses might be just the thing. It was shaping up to be a really peculiar night, even as the past few nights went. He sat at the table and watched Tom dash back and forth, getting glasses and more cooking utensils, then pulling out a block of Pecorino and a bottle.

"Oh, Veuve Clicquot. Better than I'd thought. Ben's got great taste, and I don't think he'll mind if we drink the whole fucking thing under the circumstances. Open that, will you?"

Sherlock took the champagne amiably and wrestled the cork out without popping it. He poured two glasses and waited for the foam to settle.

Tom came to the table and picked his glass up. "I feel like we should toast."

"Erm. Cheers," Sherlock said, hoisting his glass.

"No, we need something a bit more memorable."

Sherlock frowned. "Toasts aren't really my area."

"I shouldn't think so," Tom replied, lifting a brow. "What about…." He laughed and raised his glass. "Truth is stranger than fiction."

"I'll drink to that," Sherlock muttered, and downed half his drink in a gulp.

Tom drained his and set the glass down. "Sherlock…God, that's –" He shook his head. "I have to thank you for the rescue."

"Ah." Sherlock poured them both another glass. "It's fine."

"No, it's – I do thank you. You didn't have to, you know. You don't really know me." Tom sipped more carefully.

"Hm. It made for a tolerably diverting case in the midst of extreme boredom," Sherlock said. He twirled the stem in his hand, watching the bubbles, the liquid's low-protein, low-surfactant qualities causing rapid ascent, counter-rotational vortices near the axis of the glass, hardly a movement along the glass's periphery. He made a mental note for a cold case Lestrade had given him a few months ago, a man sealed in a beer keg. Kegs. Well, bits of him in different kegs. "Besides, Cumberbatch asked me to help you."

Tom's expression, already a bit sloppily sentimental, softened more. "He did?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I wasn't otherwise occupied."

"Well, thank you," Tom said, grasping Sherlock's shoulder before pulling back abruptly. "Sorry," he said, and held his glass out for more. Behind him, the microwave beeped. "Oh, meat's done."

"It's okay," Sherlock mumbled, and took another drink.

Tom worked with admirable and quick precision, and in almost no time they were sat at the kitchen table in front of heaping platters of aromatic pasta, the half-drunk bottle of wine and a softly glowing beeswax taper between them. Sherlock's head was buzzing pleasantly; a good thing, he reflected soberly, that he was about to eat. Lots of alcohol and too little food hadn't been a good combination a few days ago.

Tom had found some music on Cumberbatch's laptop, and it poured smoothly from the speakers in the other room – Boccherini, that was nice. He'd opened the back garden door, and a soft night breeze drifted in, setting the candle flame dancing and introducing the odours of Matthiola incana and Erysimum cheiri. Sherlock ate hungrily and tried not to think of the innumerable dinners John had made for him, trying to stave off malnutrition. Silly – Sherlock ate when it was necessary. But he'd appreciated the gestures, even if he hadn't actually said so.

Maybe he should have done.

For a long while the only sounds in the kitchen were the clinking of cutlery against the heavy pottery plates, the music, and occasional approving grunts as they ate. The level of the champagne dropped steadily, and finally Sherlock sat back, his stomach almost uncomfortably full.

TWH cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock's plate. "Didn't think you were much of an eater."

Sherlock patted his mouth with a napkin, discreetly stifling a burp. "No, that's Mycroft's department."

"Mycroft." Tom whistled softly, then his brow clouded.

Oh, dear.

"All right, look. I was thinking about just keeping shut, but…what was that?"

"What was what?" Sherlock inquired innocently.

Tom snorted. "Oh, come on. Don't give me that – that puppy-dog stare, you know perfectly well what I mean. Mark."

"Ah."

"Yeah." Tom scowled. "I mean, I'm glad it wasn't really Ben, but what the hell?" He held the bottle up to the light, then set it down again. "Christ, it's…all right, tell me. What did you get up to? I might as well know the truth."

Sherlock's face grew warm. Must have been the champers. "I can't see why it matters."

"Try."

"Fine," Sherlock replied sulkily. "I fellated him. Happy? Feel enlightened now?"

"Do you have a thing for your brother or something?" Tom pushed his plate away. "God, never mind, don't answer that. And you had sex with me! I knew something was wrong –"

"Didn't seem to stop you," Sherlock retorted. He wanted a cigarette badly.

"Well, no, because I thought you were my god-damned boyfriend! Why didn't you say something?"

"What? 'Oh, hey, Tom, by the way, let's not have sex, okay? I'm feeling under the weather because I'm not really Benedict Cumberbatch.' That would have gone over well."

"You didn't try very hard. That's all I'm saying. I don't pressure Ben into sex when he doesn't want it."

"And I'm sure that he rarely wants it," Sherlock said in his most acid tone.

"Oh, is that what you thought?" Tom stabbed a finger at him. "You think because he's an actor he's got some sort of uncontrollable libido? Christ's sake, Mark didn't even look particularly happy when I walked in, and I don't mean just guilty. Did you even say may-I?"

"He didn't object."

"Wow." Tom got up and cleared the plates from the table. "I thought you were meant to be asexual, anyhow."

"Who said that?" Sherlock demanded.

"It's canon," Tom said, putting the plates in the sink. He started to clean up the cooking detritus. "Pretty explicitly, too. Sherlock Holmes is not interested in women."

Sherlock remained smugly silent.

"Oh."

Ha.

Tom turned round to face Sherlock. "I see. Girlfriends. Not your area." He folded his arms. "So you've never had a girlfriend?"

"Nothing that lasted."

"Can't imagine why," TWH murmured. "Well, I suppose it's just as well. If you'd cannoodled with anyone here –" He broke off, watching Sherlock's face.

Sherlock coughed and poured the rest of the wine.

"Oh, dear God. Who, for God's sake?"

"Brealey," Sherlock muttered.

"Who?"

"Brealey!" Sherlock got up and faced Tom, swaying a little with the champagne.

"Brealey. Loo Brealey?" Tom's eyes were huge.

"She didn't seem to mind either."

"No, I don't suppose so. They had a casual thing for a while. A while. Anyone else? Rupert? Andrew Scott? Ms Stubbs?"

"That's all," Sherlock said. He sat down again. His head was starting to spin.

"That's all," TWH snorted. "You certainly made the most of your time here."

"Hmph. Have you got a cigarette?"

"No." Tom's eyes narrowed. "What else were you doing? Shredding Ben's reputation with your rapier wit?"

"His reputation?" Sherlock sniffed. "What about mine? Nobody's going to want to hire me if I ever get back home."

"If?" Tom paled and staggered back to his chair. "If?"

"Well, it's entirely possible that I'm going to be stuck here for a long while, you know. It's not as if we have a means of controlling inflationary expansion. Cumberbatch said that Mycroft's working on the problem, I told you that if you recall, but Christ knows how long it'll be."

"Oh my God in heaven," Tom said softly. "That's…."

Sherlock nodded. "Precisely."

They sat in silence for a while. Boccherini slipped into Vivaldi, and it rippled through the air in imperfect but still harmonious counterpoint to the crickets singing in the garden.

Sherlock thought about never seeing John again. He couldn't accept that, he wouldn't. Even four days without him had been terrible. With John, all this might have been an adventure, and it still could be, if he got the opportunity to go back and tell him all about it. But if he didn't get that opportunity….

A small, bitter chuckle escaped him. All his extraordinary abilities, all his intellectual prowess, his insight, his deductive skills, his inherent superiority to almost every person who crossed his path, and what he wanted most was to be back with John Watson.

I never told him. Never told him anything at all.

It was the wine, making him maudlin, affecting him the way it did any common idiot. His throat tightened, and his eyes itched.

There was a touch on his arm. He looked up.

"I'm sure if Mycroft's half the genius he is on the programme, he'll get you home in no time." Tom's hand squeezed Sherlock's arm. His eyes were full of warmth.

Sherlock nodded, his stupid body unable to respond in any other way.

"We'd better go to bed. It's really late, and I'm still exhausted. It's been a jam-packed day." Tom smiled tiredly. "We can…I guess we can sort this out in the morning."

"Okay." Sherlock got to his feet and trudged upstairs and into the bedroom, TWH following closely behind him after turning off the music and lights and closing the door.

"Good night." Tom hovered in the doorway, then stepped away.

Sherlock frowned. "Aren't you…?"

"I think I'll take the guest bedroom." Tom gave Sherlock an apologetic half-smile.

"Oh. Right. Quite right. Good night, then."

"'Night." Tom disappeared down the corridor.

Sherlock crawled back onto the bed, his body heavy with food and wine and weariness. Naturally Tom didn't want to sleep with him after he'd discovered the truth. Sherlock would have felt the same way. Not that he had anybody to sleep with on a regular basis.

Despite his exhaustion, he stayed awake for a long while, peering unhappily into the darkness.

*

"Sherlock, wake up."

"Mm?" Sherlock opened one eye. TWH was sitting on the bed with a very grim expression. "What?"

"Sorry. I need to talk to you."

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Sherlock struggled to sit up. His head ached. "What time is it?"

"Half noon. Sorry to wake you, but I'm worried about Ben."

Sherlock's post-case fatigue usually resulted in lots of sleep. John always tutted, but it didn't seem to have any long-term ill effects, and so Sherlock saw no reason not to yield to the urge even if the case was a minor one, as yesterday's had been. "Don't suppose you could manage a cup of tea."

"Okay. But could we talk about Ben for a bit?"

"Why? You said it yourself – there's nothing to be done but wait. Besides, it's not Cumberbatch who's –" He broke off, tightening his mouth.

"What? It's not Ben who's what?"

"Forget I said anything." Sherlock slid out of bed and stumbled into the loo. He yanked Cumberbatch's warm-ups down and pissed for hours. Felt glorious.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock glared at Tom over his shoulder. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry, force of habit." Tom turned and went back into the bedroom. "You don't think Ben's in serious trouble?"

"I never said that." Sherlock flushed and washed his hands.

"You were about to, though."

Sherlock frowned at Tom, who was wearing what looked like rugby shorts and nothing else, sprawling across Cumberbatch's bed as if he owned it, all legs and arms. He had a brief flashback to their short intimate encounters, and his face got warm again. "I don't think that hurting me is the aim. Not physically."

"Not you – oh, dear. John."

"Correct." Sherlock dropped into a slipper chair.

Tom groped for words for a moment. "Look, I'm sure he's fine."

"You're sure? Oh, good, I feel so much better," Sherlock snapped. "You're sure – how, exactly? You've no idea what Moriarty is like, and there's no way to be certain that Cumberbatch hasn't cocked the whole thing up. One wrong word and John could be – never mind." At this very moment, I haven't got a clue whether or not John is still alive. And there's no way to find out, and it's driving me mad.

"Sorry," Tom said quietly. "I wasn't thinking about John."

"Clearly."

"Ben's a great actor," Tom said. "He's managed so far, hasn't he?

"With the occasional spectacular foul-up here and there, yes, I suppose he has," Sherlock said reluctantly.

"And John's smart, and brave. He won't let anything terrible happen."

"You're underestimating Jim Moriarty." Sherlock folded his arms.

"Am I? All right, maybe I am. He does seem a bit…cartoonish and silly, though, don't you think?"

"Seems, yes. I assure you that he's quite capable of lethal malice, though."

Tom nodded. "You'd know better than I would, of course. Look, it's only – you've got seven hours left before you learn what's happened. Let's go downstairs. I'll make you some tea and toast, and then we can…erm, work out what to do the rest of the day."

"Oh, are you my nanny now?" Sherlock returned. "Lovely." He got up, though, and followed TWH downstairs.

Tom put the kettle on to boil and made toast. "Someone on Twitter said Ben told them to piss off the other day. Is that true?"

"Well, how would I know that?"

"I think you know what I mean," Tom said, sliding a plate of toast toward Sherlock.

"Fine. Yes, I told some intrusive moron to piss off. It's ridiculous and more than slightly surreal that actors get so much attention. For play-acting, no less." Sherlock bit into the toast, crisp and buttery and perfect.

"Ben's good enough at play-acting to pass himself off as you," Tom reminded him.

"Hmph."

Tom removed the whistling kettle. "How do you take it?"

"Milk, two sugars."

"Who else did you annoy, just out of curiosity?"

"Who knows?" Sherlock shrugged. "I hardly keep track of that sort of thing."

TWH shook his head. "Ben has a good working relationship with most people. I'd hate to see it damaged. The thing with Mark –" He shook his head. "That alone is going to cost him God knows what. You can use the shock as –"

Sherlock, sipping his tea, watched Tom's face. "What?"

"I've got it." Tom grinned. "It's brilliant."

Brilliant. Sherlock doubted that. "Got what?"

"To the internet, my good man. I don't approve of self-diagnosis via the World Wide Web, but a little research should reveal all."

*

Sherlock set Cumberbatch's phone on the kitchen table. "No."

"I told you that you should have called him first."

"I don't see why I should." Sherlock was peevish. Prevaricating for three hours had exhausted him more than the most physically and mentally demanding case ever had. "He's a grown man; surely he's had his share of meaningless acts of…intimate…erm, congress."

"Because it's the right thing to do, that's why." TWH was stern, inexorable. It was oddly appealing, though certainly not what Tom preferred in bed. Though bed and related areas was the cause of all this insincere glad-handing, so perhaps best not to think about that right now. "You practically attacked him, from what I can work out. You owe him an apology."

"He didn't say no."

"I see. So that makes it perfectly okay?" Tom rubbed his face; there was a faint rasp of beard against skin. "Have you ever had an ordinary sexual relationship, Sherlock? Boyfriend, girlfriend?"

"I fail to see how that's relevant."

"Have you ever been pressured into having sex? Ever been reluctant?"

"Certainly." Sherlock spread his hands wide. "Who hasn't?"

Tom looked at him for a long while. Sherlock scowled beneath his scrutiny and was about to snap something insulting when Tom said, "Do you think you and John will ever have a romantic relationship?"

Blood surged to Sherlock's cheeks. "What – why do you ask that? Just because you're attempting to hide what too many people still think are deviant practices in order to maintain some sort of impossible glossy façade, you believe you can pick me apart? See what makes me tick? Haven't you got autographs to sign or journalists' arses to kiss?"

TWH gave him a soft, maddening smile. "That's what I thought."

"Oh, sod off." Sherlock pushed away from the table and stalked away.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped. Keep walking. You've got nothing to learn from some smug, self-important actor.

"It's okay. He does love you. Can't you tell?"

"He's not gay." Sherlock bit off each word and spat it out. "He's said so, numerous times."

"You don't think it's a case of protesting too much?"

Sherlock turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen. "He's got girlfriends, lots of them, an endless parade, in point of fact. I've never seen him exhibit the slightest interest in other men, and I've looked, thanks very much. Despite the reams of fanfiction – you do know what fanfiction is, don't you? Piles of romantic, empty-headed drivel in which the two of us are endowed to a point of utter absurdity and shatter headboards on a routine basis whilst solving the most banal cases known to humankind, and I assure you, most of it is not fit to line the bottom of a birdcage – he is not interested in me, either romantically or sexually. I'm his colleague. That's all."

Tom's face was irritating in its obvious compassion. "Have you ever asked him?"

"Of course I haven't! For God's sake!"

"You should try."

"Oh, that's sweet, really. I can't, in case you hadn't noticed."

TWH reached out his hand. Sherlock was prepared to snatch his own away if Tom got gluey and patted him again, but Tom only grasped Cumberbatch's phone and drew it close. He tapped the screen a few times, then held it up to his ear. "Mark? Hi, it's Tom Hiddleston. Hi."

Surprised into docility, Sherlock sat.

"I'm good. Yeah, I'm – look, about that. I have a bit of upsetting news. It seems Ben's suffering some side effects from the shock the other day. Yeah, yeah, I'm afraid so. I had to get him back to hospital yesterday. What? Oh, God, it was sort of – no. Anxiety, agitation, erratic behaviour – really sort of scary. His doctor said they were common side effects, and he's coming home tonight, he's going to be just fine, but they recommend a week of recuperation. I'm afraid that's going to put a dent in your filming schedule. I don't suppose you can work around him for a week?"

Sherlock wasn't unimpressed. TWH was a cool liar.

"Yeah. It kind of explains a few things, from what the doctors said." Tom glanced at Sherlock. "No – look, you don't have to say a word. Ben's going to be terribly embarrassed about everything, though. You know how he is. No, of course I do. You know, as weird as this sounds, I think it's best if we just write this week off. No, I don't think he will. He's trustworthy, and obviously – yes. No, he elected to have private home visits, and I think it's best if we just let him have some peace and quiet this week. Yeah. Yeah. Oh, absolutely I will. What? Oh, God, Mark, please, don't give it another thought. Yes, let's absolutely find something to do together. Shakespeare? That'd be brilliant. Yes. Okay. I'll have him call you soon, but it might not be for a few days. Right. Yes. Okay, 'bye now." He hung up. "God forgive me."

"What did he say?" Sherlock demanded.

"Poor Mark. That was unbelievably deceitful. If there's a hell, I'm headed there."

"There's no hell," Sherlock snorted. "What did he say?"

"He's embarrassed, obviously, even though that little incident was your fault. He's concerned for you, too. I just told that man a huge pack of lies."

"Not precisely. Those are some of the side effects of electrical shock. Besides, you didn't have any trouble telling all those other people the same thing."

"Yeah, but you didn't have sex with all those other people, except Loo. Thank God she's cool." TWH sighed. "Anyhow, I've bought you some time. I don't know what's going to happen when the week's up and you have to go back to work."

"Christ, I hope I won't have to deal with all this in a week."

"You made this bed," Tom said sharply. "You deserve to lie in it."

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in studied indifference, but drummed his fingers on the table nervously. "Well, it's sorted for the moment."

Tom nodded and got up, stretching. "Well, I'm off for a while. I've got to have a word with my PA and then I've got some scripts to catch up on. I'll be back seven-ish, though. Don't leave the house. I've told the world that you're having some serious issues – don't screw me by going out in public, please."

"Fine. See you later." Sherlock marched upstairs to shower.

*

The afternoon dragged by with excruciating slowness. Sherlock showered, drank three cups of tea in rapid succession, sawed away at the low-quality violin, and finally sat down in front of Cumberbatch's laptop and read more fanfiction. It really was awful, most of it.

The doorbell shrilled, and Sherlock glanced at the clock. Three hours? He'd lost three hours to this rubbish? God. He got up, stiff from sitting in one position for so long, and went to the door, affecting a face full of anguish in case it was somebody TWH had phoned. But no, it was Tom, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, looking suspicious. Sherlock let the mask drop.

"Everything okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Sherlock let Tom in, noting that the sky was darkening. Autumn was coming with its crisp days and chilly nights. Statistically, fewer murders were committed in autumn, but there was always a pleasant anomaly now and then.

"Just checking. Did anybody call you?"

"Probably. I didn't notice." Sherlock went down the hall and into the library. Hastily, he shut the laptop.

"Sorry I'm late. I left a lot undone this weekend." Tom looked round. "Nothing's happened yet, has it?"

"No, not yet." Sherlock sat on the sofa, and Tom sat beside him.

"Did you watch the news?"

"No."

"Henry's the big story right now." Tom's lips thinned into a stern line. "Luke mentioned it to me – he knows Henry slightly – but nobody's called, nor stopped round. I can't believe he hasn't said something."

"He might yet, but if you deny it innocently enough no-one will believe him."

"He and Graham stopped by earlier that evening. That's how Henry managed to knock me out. What if they find traces of my DNA at the crime scene?"

"Good Lord, what sort of television programmes have you been watching? You're severely overestimating the success of DNA testing. Even if they do find some hair, for example, conceivably the only thing besides fingerprints you could have left behind, and given how you were bound between two pieces of furniture, I doubt you left any decent ones, they'd still have to sort it out from all the other hair that's likely down there. They've got a slew of bodies to choose from on his property, I suspect, and because they'll be predominantly female despite the sexual threat you received, I'm certain they're going to work the rape angle more intensely than any other factor. If he starts jabbering about you, you can calmly state that you've been friends for a long time and yes, you get the odd letter or two now and then, but nothing worth worrying about. Act, for goodness' sake." Sherlock paused and cleared his throat. "All that said, I do have to admit that you handled yourself fairly well, considering the situation. Granted there was a good deal more crying than I'd expected, but still."

"Thanks for the glowing compliment." Tom gave a wry laugh. "I feel…okay, actually. That is, I'm still upset and rattled, and I might talk to a therapist anyhow, but generally I'm doing okay. If you hadn't acted so quickly I might not even be here. I owe you a lot."

Sherlock smiled tightly. "It's fine."

Tom glanced at his watch. "Seven thirty-four."

"Right." Sherlock folded his legs inward and waited.

"Give Ben my love, would you?"

"Oh, Lord. If I must." I will if he's still alive.

Tom smiled. "Thanks."

"Mm." Sherlock settled back against the sofa so he wouldn't fall and closed his eyes, waiting.

The light flashed, blinding white.

He opened his eyes.

"Oh."

*

Sherlock's room was dark and pleasantly cool, but Benedict's hunger was so intense it drove him out of bed. He went to Sherlock's closet and found a dressing gown, deep merlot silk, shrugged into it, and made his way into the kitchen. When was the last time he'd eaten? John's lovely breakfast, that was it.

"Morning." John was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper, a mug of tea beside him. "Or afternoon, rather."

"God, did I sleep that long?"

"I didn't want to wake you. I reckoned you needed the rest."

Benedict went to the fridge and looked inside, then belatedly remembered the body parts. He shut the door hastily. "I did need the rest, honestly. Thanks for that." He found the Cadbury biscuits from the other day and took them to the table. "I thought you'd be at work," he said after demolishing a biscuit in two bites.

"I called in sick." John folded his section of the paper. "I thought you could use some company, considering the day we had yesterday."

"John, I'm touched. Thank you." Benedict smiled openly at John, and saw John's mouth compress, his eyes dart back to the newspaper. "Erm – what do you and Sherlock usually do when you're not working and he doesn't have a case on?"

"Oh, I don't know. Nothing out of the ordinary, actually. I potter around the flat, read, watch telly. He'll do research or experiments, or play the violin. Once in a while we'll play a board game, though that didn't go well last time."

Benedict grinned. "Cluedo?"

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess. Do you talk, the two of you?"

John laughed a little. "Of course we talk. We talk all the time, when he's not having a sulk."

"Sorry, of course you do. It's just difficult to imagine a life of cosy domesticity with you two."

"Well." John laced his hands together and looked round the flat. "It's home, you know. I don't think either of us are due for pipes and slippers warmed at the fire quite yet, but we can't run round London all the time."

Benedict munched on another biscuit, delicious but empty calories. He craved real food. "Look, I don't know what you've got on for the day, but I was wondering…I know it's presumptuous, but I was wondering if you'd mind if we did run round London a bit. I'd love to see your London, maybe some of the places where you and Sherlock shared adventures." John gave Benedict an odd look. "It would help my research for the programme," Benedict went on hastily, "and…well, I thought it might be fun. We could have lunch first. My treat. Well, Sherlock's treat."

Looking bemused, John scratched his head. "God, that's not something Sherlock would ever say."

"That something would be fun? Or that he was treating you to lunch?"

"No, that he wanted to revisit something. He never looks back. Ever."

There was something in that last that sounded slightly bitter, but Benedict might have been imagining things. "We don't have to, if it bothers you."

"No, no, it's fine," John said, and cleared his throat. "Fine. Yeah, it might be fun at that. It's just…." He waved his hand vaguely. "It's just…seeing Sherlock and hearing you. It's still a little odd. Sorry."

"It's fine. I know it must still be a shock. But I'll only be here until the end of the day, if all goes well."

John nodded and got to his feet. "Right. We'd better get a move on, then. Why don't you have a quick shower and I'll think of some place to eat."

"Angelo's?" Benedict suggested, and saw John's face contract a little, as if he had a sharp pain. "Or maybe not. You two probably eat there all the time."

"Yeah. Let's go somewhere else, if that's okay." John gave Benedict a conciliatory smile and walked into the front room, pulling out his phone.

Benedict watched him for a moment, his compact body, his tidy haircut, his neat, economical movements, the way his shoulders moved beneath the thin cream-and-blue striped cotton jumper he wore. His heart twisted for a moment, and he held the flat of his hand to his chest in wonder. Did the heart have its own memory? How could Sherlock not look at John Watson and understand that before him was the great love of his life?

Oh, Sherlock. You idiot.

*

"Good Lord," Benedict murmured, staring up at the façade of 23-24 Leinster Gardens. "He won it in a poker game?"

"Yeah." John stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned. "Those were the stakes – that and several of our internal organs."

"It's not very useful, though, is it?"

"You never know," John said cheerfully. "Might come in handy one day."

"I reckon it could." Benedict started to walk again. "So was she arrested, the Clarence House Cannibal?"

"Oh, God no." John laughed.

"What? What's so funny?"

"Nothing," John said. "She just wasn't the sort of person who ends up in prison, that's all."

"Why? Who was she?"

"Old. Rich. Untouchable."

"Hm." Benedict strolled in silence for a while, and John seemed content to walk beside him without talking as well, though every so often Benedict caught John stealing glances at him. He wanted to say something reassuring, but every time he made even a mildly sentimental remark, John looked upset. Best not to stir the pot. He's had a hell of a shock and less time to get used to it than I have. "So…where does Sherlock's money come from? It's sort of vague on the programme. Gambling?"

"No, no. That amuses him every once in a while, but he claims it's too easy and gets boring. He's got a little family money that's just about enough to live on, but we do take payment for cases. He sort of charges by whim, though, and only if the client's got money to burn. He's not entirely heartless. Sometimes clients give him gifts, too, and most of the valuable ones get sold on eBay. He's got a really high seller rating."

Benedict laughed. "I'd always pegged him as being really careless about money."

"He's pretty methodical, actually. He pays the bills, does all the budgeting. I mostly just give him cash for the rent and utilities and tax and stuff. It's worked so far."

"That's good to know," Benedict said truthfully. He and Martin had cooked up an approximation of what Sherlock and John's domestic life might be like, but in their version, John was the responsible financial party. Interesting that it was the other way round.

"Hey, Ben – can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, of course."

"All those things you knew about Irene Adler. Was that because it already happened…on the programme?"

Benedict pressed his lips together hard, unsure how to proceed. "We…we were in the process of shooting the second series when I got the electrical shock. The first episode in the series deals with Irene. So yes, in a sense it already did happen, though we've got a few pickups to film yet."

"How many episodes in a series?"

"Three." Benedict started to get uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

"And how much time passes in a series? Are you ahead of us, if you know what I mean?"

"Erm…it's…I haven't done the arithmetic but I think it's about a year, year and a half. But John, things aren't the same at all. That is – that visit to Buckingham Palace, that was in the script, but everything that happened afterward…none of it was the same. So if you're asking me if I know what's going to happen in your future, I don't –"

"No." John stopped walking and held up a hand. "Christ, no. I don't want to know. Even if it's not the same, I…I don't think that would do any of us much good."

Relieved, Benedict nodded. He was amazed at John's restraint, though; he'd have burned with curiosity to know what was going to happen. "I do wish I could show you the series, though. I think you'd love it. One of the really brilliant things about it is that we really focus on John's internal process, a lot more than any of the other adaptations."

John frowned. "Other adaptations?"

"Oh my God. I didn't – didn't I say? You're famous, you are, John Watson, and have been since the late eighteen hundreds. A man by the name of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote dozens of stories about Holmes and Watson, and they've been best-sellers forever. There have been movies, earlier television series, animated versions, radio plays, et cetera, et cetera. Everyone loves you, and Sherlock too. The whole world knows the names of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. It's wonderful to be a part of that. I love it to bits."

The bemused expression returned. After a while, John simply said, "Wow." Then he smiled. "Both of us?"

"Absolutely. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be half the man he is without John Watson."

"Fancy that."

They walked on companionably. Benedict gloried in the day, just cool enough to walk a long distance without breaking a sweat. Too, now that the pressure of his false identity was off and the return home was, he hoped, imminent, he was able to enjoy John's company without distraction or worry, and he was delighted to discover that John was lovely – quick-tempered, to be sure, but generally calm, considerate, and good-hearted. And if he knew that John wished that it were Sherlock walking beside him, Benedict didn't begrudge John a thing.

John's emotions were palpable, though; he was crap at concealing them, even though he thought he presented a stoic front. It might have been poking at a wasps' nest, but Benedict couldn't help it. "Can I ask you something, John?"

"That's only fair."

"What do you think about what Jim said? Moriarty, I mean."

John's smile dissolved. "He said a lot. What do you mean specifically?"

As if you didn't know. "About Sherlock's feelings for you."

"Oh." John laughed, a bit scornfully. "That's Molly, isn't it? She's a romantic."

"Maybe," Benedict allowed. "John, you've got to tell her about Jim. Don't let Sherlock do it. Be kind to her – Sherlock won't be. You know he doesn't know a thing about handling people gently. It takes a kick in the head to make him do it."

"Poor Molly. She loves him, you know."

"I know." Poor Molly; lucky John. "John, you've got to say something to him."

John sighed. "Ben –"

"Please, just let me finish. Sherlock's such a fucking stubborn arsehole, he'll cheerfully die before he admits to a tender emotion. He'll never say one word – he probably doesn't even understand how because normal human feelings are incomprehensible to him."

"Not always, though."

Benedict frowned. "How so?"

"He's not always a prick. Seventy-five, eighty percent of the time, yeah. But the rest of the time –" John smiled. "I don't think he even realises it. He's got a lot invested in that prick façade of his. But I've seen him being unbelievably sweet with Mrs Hudson, and he's actually not bad with kids, though you'd think he'd send them away crying ten times out of ten. And he's…he's a good flatmate. A good friend. He'd cringe to hear me say it, but it's true."

"But…Saturday night, in Sussex, you –"

"Are we a couple on your programme?" John interrupted.

"Well…not as –"

"In the stories? The movies?"

"But you can't expect the Victorian Holmes and Watson to be a couple, they'd never – some of them, though, the romantic themes are really strong. Holmes and Watson are practically bywords for romantic male friendship –"

"Friendship," John repeated firmly. "That's love, too. There are all sorts of love, Ben. It doesn't have to be about romance, or sex. Okay?" He walked faster, ahead of Benedict.

But you do love him. Romantically and sexually. It doesn't matter what the other Holmeses and Watsons do. This is your reality, John. Grab it with both hands and don't let go.

He couldn't say that. He didn't want to make John angry, not for the short duration of time that they had together. And considering the past few days, he didn't want to take any action that might result in a horrible ripple effect. If he pushed, who knew but that John might decide that moving out was the best thing to do?

He's braver than that, though. I know he is. He was brave on Saturday night.

No. He couldn't fuck things up more.

He caught up to John and plucked at his sleeve. "Sorry. I'm a pushy bastard sometimes."

"It's okay." John was still tight-lipped.

"No, I – I'm sorry. You're right, there are all sorts of love. I've just got sex on the brain, that's all. I'm an actor. We're ninety percent libido." He grinned hopefully, and John finally smiled back. "John, thanks for showing me round. You're a sweetheart. It's been a great day. I've enjoyed myself for the first time since Thursday night."

John chuckled a little uncomfortably. "Thanks." He seemed to lighten up. "I had a good time too."

"I suppose we'd better head back, though. Mycroft will be at the flat."

"Yeah, I guess so." John gazed at Benedict for a moment, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then walked on.

Benedict followed. It had always been difficult to repress his strongest convictions, and he was nearly bursting with a thousand pieces of advice and pleading. He'd keep his lips zipped, though.

No matter how much it ached, God damn it.

*

Mycroft had already installed himself in 221B, along with his assistant Not-Anthea who tapped away at her phone, ignoring the dozen men and women, technical people, Benedict presumed, with laptops, obscure scientific equipment, medical gear, and what looked like several hundred polystyrene cups of coffee. He regarded both of them flatly. "How nice of you to turn up."

"We're five minutes late, if that, and you didn't give us any special instructions," John said. "Thanks for knocking and waiting, by the way."

Benedict marvelled at John's courage. Mycroft Holmes was the most terrifying person he'd ever clapped eyes on.

"The equipment has been thoroughly vetted – well, inasmuch as it can be – but I saw no reason why our technicians should loiter on your doorstep when they could be using their time wisely." Mycroft sat in Sherlock's chair and crossed one leg over the other. One pale, well-tended hand caressed the smooth hook of his umbrella handle.

Benedict hovered uncertainly in the doorway, watching the techs bustle about. They looked like ordinary tech people, obscurely sloganed t-shirts and jeans or khakis and scuffed trainers, but he regarded them a little fearfully nonetheless, unsure what they were about to do to him. "Should I – erm – do anything?"

"Yes." A woman with short, bright red hair and horn-rimmed glasses moved toward him, iPad in hand. "I'm Dr Paisley – I'm the project leader. I have some questions for you, if you'd like to take a seat on the sofa, please." Benedict went obediently to the sofa and answered a few health questions and queries about the circumstances of his accident. When Dr Paisley finished, she made a few rapid taps on her iPad and met Benedict's gaze. "We've got about ten minutes. Any questions before we get started?"

Benedict shook his head. "No. Wait, yes! This is a little odd, and it's been bothering me just a bit. I've felt things – or known things that aren't in my ordinary scope of comprehension. Sherlock's mobile number, for one. Also, I had this stray, weird burst of knowledge about automatic weapons, and just this morning, or afternoon, rather, I had…I felt…." He glanced at John, watching the proceedings with concern, then at Mycroft, who was peering at him curiously. "It was just an emotion that was unfamiliar to me."

Dr Paisley smiled a little. "I can't speak to the emotional aspect of matters, but it's entirely possible the other occurrences mean that you're simply experiencing Mr Holmes' ordinary cognitive functions – his mental muscle memory, so to speak. It's also possible that you've experienced a loss of density in what you might term the personal inflaton field between you and Mr Holmes. The veil becomes thin, in other words. Don't let it alarm you." She turned to the technician beside her who was recording their conversation. "We're ready for the monitors."

"I don't quite understand," Benedict said.

"Not to worry, Mr Cumberbatch. You'll be home in no time at all."

"Do you do this sort of thing a lot, then? Get errant travellers back home?"

Dr Paisley's mouth curved upward. "Just relax. We won't be long." She moved aside, and two techs came in with what looked like some very expensive and sophisticated electronic equipment. They gently urged Benedict to remove his shirt, then attached sticky electrode bits to his temples, chest, arms, and belly. They wired the bits to the machine.

"Seven minutes," someone said.

"Still recording," someone else replied.

"Novikov unit functional."

"Feynman unit functional."

"Shapley unit functional."

"Accelerate, please."

Through the bustle, Mycroft stood and walked toward Benedict. He held a small carbon-steel box in his hand, and as he sat beside Benedict, palpable tension rendered his movements stiff and even slightly nervous. "Mr Cumberbatch, in this box are two spherical objects. One is for you, and one is for my brother. When you make contact with him, please give him one. In order to complete the exchange, you must then make physical contact whilst holding the spheres. A simple handshake will suffice, but it's important that you maintain contact until the exchange is complete and you find yourself back in your own universe. Do you understand?"

Benedict swallowed, and nodded. "Okay. Erm…will it hurt?"

"I've no idea. I recommend you not break contact even if you do experience discomfort."

'Discomfort' – that was a nice word. It was usually the physician's euphemism for 'excruciating pain' but fuck it – he wanted to get home. "All right." He met Mycroft's scarily intense gaze. "Thanks for this."

Mycroft coloured a bit. "This is for my brother, Mr Cumberbatch, not you. However, I appreciate your position, and I must congratulate you for your relative equanimity. Well done."

Benedict grinned ruefully. High praise indeed from Mycroft Holmes.

"Four minutes."

Benedict glanced up; John was still watching anxiously. "Could I have a word with John? A private word?"

"I'm afraid we must keep recording," Mycroft said, rising to his feet, "but bid farewell if you wish. However, keep it brief – we're short on time." He turned to John. "John, Mr Cumberbatch would like a word with you."

John nodded and hastened forward, sitting on the sofa next to Benedict, and Mycroft stepped back.

"Mr Cumberbatch," John said sotto voce, mocking Mycroft's intonation.

Benedict snorted laughter, then sobered. "I'm going to miss you. You're brilliant, John."

John bit his lip. "That's usually my line."

"Yeah, I know. Thought I'd turn the tables. How does it feel?"

"Nice, actually," John said, and grinned. "It's been good getting to know you."

Benedict wanted to give John one last exhortation to follow his heart, but instead, he leant forward, careful of the wires and stickers, and embraced John warmly. "Take care of yourself," he said, and moved back. "And Sherlock too. He needs you more than he'll ever admit."

"All right. I will." John squeezed Benedict's hand. "Thank you."

That was enough. It had to be. Benedict nodded, then turned to Mycroft. "I'm ready."

Mycroft addressed Dr Paisley. "Time?"

"Two minutes."

"Very well." Mycroft stepped forward, proffering the box. "I'll open it. Please take the items carefully."

He opened the box, and a golden glow suffused the room, soft and brilliant at once. Benedict gasped, and cautiously peered inside at two tiny spheres of what looked like gold glass, no bigger than marbles, unfaceted, tiny pinpoints of black dancing within their coruscating depths.

"Jesus," John breathed.

No-one else spoke. The only sound was the electronic and digital whirring of multiple pieces of equipment.

A Pulp Fiction crack occurred to Benedict but scampered away as he stared at the little globes. They looked like globes, he realised – two minuscule worlds, or maybe suns. They were beautiful.

"What are they?" he whispered.

"Difficult to explain," Mycroft said. "All in all, though, a rather elegant solution to get you home. Please take them."

Hesitantly, Benedict reached inside the box, afraid that they would be searing-hot, that his flesh would blister and crack, and the blood would pour – but then he touched them, and they were warm, pleasantly warm to the touch. He picked them up and held them in one hand. They seemed to hum, like little fat glowing bees. He closed his fingers over them, and the light spilled from the narrow spaces between his knuckles, radiant beams flashing as he moved his hand slightly to and fro.

"Please lie supine, Mr Cumberbatch," Dr Paisley said.

Benedict lay full-length on the sofa. His heart hammered in his chest; he was suddenly terrified. What if something bizarre happened – if he was sucked into another universe, or the things in his hand exploded or imploded, or if the switch didn't work? Oh, God, please let it work. He cast his gaze frantically around the room, staring through the beams of light, and met John's eyes.

John nodded and smiled. "Take care, Ben."

"'Bye, John."

The golden beams transmuted to brilliant white. Benedict shut his eyes, wincing.

The light dimmed, softened, no longer searing his eyelids. Carefully, so carefully, he opened his eyes, and gave a soft cry of wonder.

"Oh."

Benedict looked at Sherlock, standing only a short distance away, but his attention was diverted by the room around them – no longer a white box, but a deep black pierced with tiny pinpoints of light, like stage backdrop stars. "Hi. This is –" He glanced around again. "Different."

"Yes," Sherlock said softly. He frowned and straightened his spine. "You're all right? You and John?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we're both fine." Benedict blew out a sharp breath. "Moriarty's dead."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You killed him?"

"He killed himself. It was totally unexpected. Mycroft was closing in, and I suppose it was that or be captured. Drastic solution, though." Benedict thought of the scene they'd filmed on the rooftop. Moriarty…well, Mycroft had emphatically stated that he was dead. If Mycroft Holmes said something….

"What a boring solution," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "John's all right, though."

"He's fine. He's looking forward to seeing you again."

Sherlock's face softened for a moment, then slid back into its cold, impervious mask. "Did Mycroft sort everything out?"

"So he says." Benedict opened his tightly closed hand, and the little golden spheres beamed brilliantly anew. "I get one of these, you get one, and we maintain physical contact." Sherlock scowled. "We don't have to do anything but shake hands, Mycroft said."

"Oh. All right. Give it here." Sherlock held out a hand.

"Hang on just a minute," Benedict said, closing his fingers over the warm spheres again. "We should have a moment to talk. I…I just wanted to say that I feel like I gained a lot of insight into your life and your world. You really do live on the edge. It's more than my heart can take." He smiled.

"Hm. I suppose I gained some insight into your life as well. To wit: it's ridiculous."

Coming from another person, that might have been hurtful. "Think so?"

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow. "Well. It's not quite as easy as I'd have surmised, but it's still overwhelmingly silly. People say they love you, and they don't even know you." He cleared his throat. "Although it seems you do have a few sincere friends."

"Oh? Such as?"

"TWH, for one."

"TW – oh, Tom. Yes, Tom's wonderful." Benedict's chest expanded a little. "Yes, he is."

"He trusts you implicitly. That's probably a dangerous vulnerability."

"I trust him, so I reckon we're both vulnerable."

"If you like that sort of thing," Sherlock shrugged. "He's not a complete washout in the intelligence department, at least."

Benedict grinned. "He's great, isn't he?"

A reluctant smile stretched Sherlock's mouth. "He's not bad."

"It's nice to have someone you love by your side." Benedict couldn't resist a tiny bit of needling. He opened his hand again and held the spheres out, extending his other hand. "Ready?"

Sherlock took Benedict's hand. "Thank you for keeping him safe."

"It was my absolute pleasure," Benedict said. "I'd do anything for John."

Sherlock gave Benedict a shaky smile. "So would I," he murmured, and took one of the little spheres. He locked eyes with Benedict for a moment, then looked up. "Is something supposed to happen?"

"I hope so," Benedict said uneasily. "I – oh, God!" He jumped a little as the spheres in their hands brightened suddenly, expanding balls of pure gold light, bathing them in it, enveloping them in a warm glow. The spheres dimmed then, and the black walls around them seemed to expand, falling away into deeper blackness, a rich ink spattered with colour Benedict had never seen in such profusion and beauty, and it took him a moment to realise that what he was seeing couldn't possibly be real.

It was a celestial sea, teeming with life. Stars of yellow and green and icy blue; swirling clouds of pink gas, golden-grey plumes of nebulae, spiral galaxies, embryonic solar systems, all round them, above and below, though they still occupied solid ground. And then, faintly, almost too faintly to discern, a massive web or net or hive of gossamer golden light surrounding them, with other figures dimmed to near transparency. Were they people? Human? Their figures seemed so, some of them at least. He swore he saw two men in medieval monk-like garments, two women in Renaissance dress, two tall, lean figures that bore only slight resemblance to humans, two thick filaments of orange light. Pairs, so many pairs. What did it mean? Could other people, or whoever they were, see him and Sherlock as well? Tears of awe stood in his eyes and escaped, rolling down his cheeks. He squeezed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock squeezed back.

And then, Sherlock's grasp became ephemeral. Benedict clutched at the insubstantial hand, but his grip slipped away. The sphere in his hand glowed brighter and brighter still until its radiance blotted out the deep ocean of space and blinded him, and he felt himself fall. "Sherlock!"

Benedict's head hit something soft, and the hand gripping his became corporeal again. His body gave a convulsive twitch, and he opened his eyes.

There was a desk, with bookshelves next to it, a closed laptop. His desk, his books, his computer.

Drawing a shuddering breath, he turned his head. "Oh my God. Tom."

Tom's hand tightened. "Are you all right?"

"Tom." Tears welled in Benedict's eyes again. "It's me. It's Ben." He lunged forward and tackled Tom in a crushing embrace. "I'm back. Oh, fuck. I'm home."

"Ben." Tom wheezed a bit from the strength of Benedict's embrace. "Ben." He wrapped his arms round Benedict's body and squeezed hard, then found Benedict's mouth with his own.

Oh, God, he was home. Home. Benedict kissed Tom deeply, tangling his fingers in Tom's auburn curls. "I'm home," he whispered in between kisses. "Love you."

"It's really you?"

"It's me." Benedict held Tom away for a moment. "Let me look at you. Christ, you look fucking amazing."

Tom smiled and took Benedict's face in his hands. "It is you." He kissed Benedict and caressed him, his back, his hips, back up to his hair, then his face. "I only just found out last night – you have to tell me everything. Everything."

"You didn't know it was me?" Benedict teased. "Was he that good?"

"I knew something was wrong, but body-swapping wasn't on the list of probable causes." Tom kissed him again. "Oh, Ben. Tell me."

Benedict wanted to drag Tom upstairs and fuck him senseless, but he forebore, for the moment. "All right." He leant back on the sofa, then jumped up. "I can't sit still for this. Let's go for a walk. I'll tell you everything."

*

Sherlock opened his eyes and scowled at the anxious faces hanging over him. No-one familiar. Hadn't it worked?

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock sat up, hampered by wires and electrodes. He was on his comfortable, sprung-in-all-the-right-places sofa. Relief flooded him, leaving him weak. He wouldn't stand quite yet. "What the hell is all this?" He sought Mycroft out and found him, standing slightly behind a group of what looked like IT administrators.

Mycroft pushed neatly through the small throng and stood over Sherlock, a small, infuriatingly smug smile on his face. "Welcome back."

"Don't sound so thrilled."

Mycroft turned to a woman in glasses. "Excellent work, Dr Paisley. I'm delighted that the sphere performed so well."

Sherlock remembered what had got him back home and opened his hand, but the sphere had disappeared. "It's gone. Did I drop it?"

The woman shook her head. "No, it dissolved. Spherical disintegration is almost always inevitable." She pushed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses up on her nose and crouched down beside Sherlock. "How are you feeling, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock took her in at a glance. Late forties, married, fond of 99s – small smudge of chocolate and blot of ice cream on her shirt. One precocious daughter (science-expo flyer sticking out of right pocket) and several dogs (hair, three different colours and varying thickness). "Fine."

"Good." She began removing the electrodes, and several techs jumped forward to help. Sherlock sat silently, his gaze roaming, until he found the object of his search.

John was standing on the threshold of the kitchen, worry – at least Sherlock thought it was worry…he hoped, just a little, that it was worry – creasing John's face, making him look slightly haggard. He didn't move, but watched the proceedings closely, his left hand opening and closing over and over again. Sherlock winked, and John's eyes lit up. "Hey," he said.

"Hi," Sherlock replied, and couldn't keep a grin from spreading across his face. John grinned in return, and his body sagged. Relieved, then. Happy to have Sherlock back.

That was good.

The techs clustered round him, making notes and murmuring to each other, peppering him with questions until Mycroft intervened. "I think we can arrange for Sherlock to meet your team in a few days, Dr Paisley. It would be best to give him some time to collect himself."

"Yes, we can do that." She directed her minions to pack up, and within fifteen minutes they were trooping out the door, leaving Mycroft, Anthea, and John alone with Sherlock.

"That wasn't tedious," Sherlock said. He stretched and yawned. Oh, God, it was good to be back home.

"Walk with us, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He turned to John. "John, you'll give us a moment?"

"Sure," John said. "Erm, I'll start some dinner, yeah? Sherlock, want some pasta?"

"Sounds marvellous," Sherlock said. Pasta in 221B with John Watson sounded, in fact, like heaven. He got up and followed Mycroft and Anthea down the staircase and out into the street.

Mycroft ushered Anthea into the car and stood beside it, regarding Sherlock thoughtfully. "I'm glad you're home. We were all quite worried."

"Oh, God, you didn't tell Mummy and Dad, did you?"

"No, no, don't be ridiculous! Can you imagine? The moment I told them, they'd be on my back until I got it sorted and I wouldn't have had a moment's peace. No need to alarm them now, I think."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Suppose not."

"I expect you to fully cooperate with Dr Paisley and her team. A good many taxpayer pounds went toward retrieving you. And I want to hear whatever you fail to impart to her."

"It's not as interesting as you might think."

"Nevertheless." Mycroft coughed, his cheeks flushing. "I should tell you that I had to resort to…unorthodox methods to get to the bottom of things."

"I heard," Sherlock replied drily.

"Yes. Well…it was necessary. Obviously, it's best that it's behind us. Best for both of us."

"Obviously." Sherlock felt good enough not to take any more jabs at Mycroft, his pompous, self-righteous, priggish, annoying brother. He wondered what would happen if he were to grab Mycroft and hug the stuffing out of him. No, he'd save it for another day when Mycroft was really off guard, if that day ever happened. And he might tell him about Mark Gatiss as well. He'd see about that. "Thanks. For this."

"Ah. Certainly. As I said, I'm glad to see you back." Mycroft twirled his umbrella in one hand, then nodded abruptly. "I'll be in touch. Good night, brother." He climbed into the rear seat of the car and closed the door.

Sherlock watched the car pull into traffic, its taillights winking red and vanishing into the night, like distant stars. He looked up, but saw only clouds, dark lilac-grey, concealing the heavens.

He smiled and trotted upstairs.

John was bustling about, dropping wet leaves of lettuce onto a tea towel, opening a can of tomatoes, wiping down the table. When Sherlock came in, he stopped and gazed openly. "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Good. That's good. You feel okay?"

"Yes."

"Good," John said again. He wiped his hands on the seat of his jeans. "Do you…do you remember what happened to you?"

"Certainly I do, John. I remember every moment. I haven't been afflicted with amnesia."

"Right, I wasn't sure. It got pretty weird here, though not much weirder than any other week, when I really think about it." John smiled.

A knot formed in Sherlock's throat. Four days of absence – an infinitesimal drop in a gigantic bucket. He'd lost weeks to ennui and malcontent and drugs and counted it as nothing, but four days without John had been endless. Seeing him now, so blessedly ordinary, his sturdy practicality in the midst of their lives of clamour and riot, his generosity, for not even Sherlock's own brother was as patient with Sherlock as John –

He thought of that other world. Millions of words about Sherlock and John.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock took a step forward, and wrapped John in a tight embrace.

*

"My goodness," Tom said. "All that in four days. It's hard to believe."

"You do believe me, though, don't you?" Benedict pleaded in a raspy voice. They'd walked for hours in softly lit Hampstead darkness as he'd told his story, and come back to Benedict's house to drink beer and snack on cheese.

"What? God, of course I do. Not just because you're telling me, but because…well, I've got some stories as well."

"I heard a bit," Benedict said. "Your stalker."

"Yeah. But I'll save that for later. You must be tired."

Benedict finished his beer in a long draught. "Oh, fuck, that's good." He set the bottle down and eyed Tom lasciviously. "Not that tired."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You feel like a shower?"

For an answer, Tom turned and walked out of the kitchen, casting a come-hither look over one shoulder.

Benedict followed him up to the bathroom, shedding clothes along the way. He rummaged in a cabinet and couldn't locate the lube, but found a sample-sized jar of Crème de la Mer from a recent swag bag. Good enough. He turned on the shower, then pivoted so that Tom got a good look at his erect cock. "Get in."

Tom stripped off his shirt and kicked off his trainers, then slid off his socks and jeans, revealing his own erection. He stepped into the shower and let the water run over his long, lean body. Tilting his head back, he shook his head under the spray and braced his hands against the glass sides of the enclosure. "Come on in. Water's fine."

"Since you insist." Benedict went into the stall and closed the glass door. Impatient to touch Tom everywhere, he held himself back with an effort, and leant forward to kiss his mouth. He allowed his cock to brush against Tom's lightly and rocked his hips forward in the smallest motion, rubbing with delicate pressure, enough to tantalise.

"Oh." Tom slipped his hands down to cup Benedict's arse.

"Hands back on the wall."

"You're killing me." But Tom obeyed, thrusting his hips forward.

Benedict brushed his fingertips across Tom's right nipple, then bent to suck at it, teasing it with his tongue, feeling it harden in his mouth. He moved to the left nipple, swirling it with wet warmth, then traced his tongue upward until he fastened his mouth on Tom's throat. "Missed you, love."

"I missed you." Tom's voice was ragged; he gasped as Benedict rubbed their cocks together, both enclosed in Benedict's hand. "Fuck."

"What did you and Sherlock do?"

"Nothing like this. He wasn't – ah! – he wasn't nearly as good."

"Good." Benedict unscrewed the jar of obscenely expensive seaweed cream and dipped his fingers inside. He moved his hand, grasping Tom's tight round arse for a moment before he worked two fingers into Tom's body.

"Oh, fuck –"

"Shhh." They were pressed up against the shower wall, warm water cascading over them. Benedict urged Tom round and pulled him back a bit. "Bend down. Just a bit."

"Fuck. Hurry."

Benedict slapped Tom's thigh gently. "Who gives the orders here, darling?"

"You do," Tom rasped. "Please, Ben."

Stifling a groan, his cock so hard it hurt, Benedict found the cream again and slicked himself up. He positioned his cock against Tom's arse, then eased in, shivering in pleasure. "Take it. Take it all."

"Oh God. Ben…."

Benedict thrust forward, careful not to bang Tom's head into the wall. For a moment he wished he'd chosen the bed; he wanted to be face-to-face with Tom, to kiss him and cling to him. But there'd be time for that. He felt Tom's muscles clenching round him and moaned.

"Harder. Please…." Tom was pulling at his own cock frantically, his other hand braced against the wall, white-knuckled.

Rhythmic plundering fogged Benedict's sensibilities to all else. He grasped Tom's hips and thrust, harder and harder until he cried out as his climax washed over his body. He half-collapsed over Tom's back, feeling the tight muscles round his cock clench tighter as Tom finished with a shuddering moan. They stood still, panting, until Benedict slipped out and lowered himself to the shower floor.

Tom smiled down at him. "You're all red."

"Hot. Can you cool the water a bit?"

Obligingly, Tom turned the hot tap down and knelt on the tile beside Benedict. "Better?"

"Much." Benedict opened his arms, and Tom melted into his embrace. Benedict's chest tightened, and tears filled his eyes. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"It's okay, sweetling. It's okay. You're back home."

"I love you." Benedict clung to Tom tightly.

"I love you, Ben." Tom kissed him with tender affection. "Love you."

Benedict felt his body relaxing, and closed his eyes, grateful for the warm retreat of Tom's sinewy strength, his soft voice, his effusive heart. In Tom's arms, the crushing grip of the last four days began, slowly but surely, to ease.

*

Never in his life had John so desperately and paradoxically wanted to wriggle out of an embrace. He screwed his eyes shut, reluctantly pressed the palms of his hands against the scant flesh of Sherlock's shoulder blades, and endured.

Hey, John, come on in! Welcome to As Far As You're Going To Get. Population: You.

His head swam with purest misery. He should be happy, he knew, getting Sherlock back safe and sound. Ecstatic, even. He'd missed Sherlock terribly over the…God, it had only been two and a half days total, really; Benedict had pulled the wool over his eyes pretty well.

Stifling a shudder, he remembered the kiss he'd given Benedict, the passionate declaration. He couldn't do that again, and all at once he wondered if he'd only summoned the courage because he'd known, on some level, that it wasn't really Sherlock he was kissing and addressing. It was a soul-shrivelling thought, but it made sense. Sherlock would have stopped John cold if he'd begun to tell him he loved him, never mind actually kissing him.

Sherlock was still holding on, and John started to get a little queasy, terrified that he'd end up with a hard-on and disgust Sherlock right out of the flat. He started to step back, and Sherlock pulled away, keeping his hands on John's shoulders and staring deeply into his eyes, that hypnotic stare that John was never quite able to match no matter how hard he tried.

"It's okay," John said.

"It isn't."

Confused, John gaped for a moment. "Huh?"

"I don't believe in fate or coincidence, John." Sherlock stepped away and rested his hands on his hips. "Why are you here?"

John hesitated, though something in him relaxed at the odd question. "I…I live here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation but heroically refrained from making a snotty remark. "When we moved in together, I understood your reasons for doing so: stagnation coupled with financial need. When you began to accompany me to cases, I understood that as well. You are, in popular parlance, an adrenaline junkie. Accordingly, it's simple to comprehend your reasons for continuing to work on cases. However, you're fiscally solvent now. You could move out if you wanted to, have a flat of your own. Furnish it with three-piece suites, something nicer than what you termed my…what was it you called my furniture? Charity-shop castoffs, wasn't it?"

John flushed. "Well…it's a bit –"

"What I can't understand," Sherlock continued, as if John hadn't spoken, "is why you insist upon staying. I've never had a flatmate who lasted longer than three months. My habits aren't tidy, save my personal hygiene, I use the kitchen as a lab, I play the violin at all hours, and I stole your good shoes to test speed of fungal growth on a pair of feet I borrowed from Molly. Sorry about that, by the way."

"I wondered where they'd got to."

"I'm rude and thoughtless, and evidently I manage to say the wrong thing at the wrong time on a fairly regular basis."

"True." John smiled a little.

"On the two occasions that we've gone to a pub, you had to intervene before I was beaten to a pulp. Though I'd have thought it was fairly obvious that those rugby players were there to buy cocaine, and that incident with the MP and the under-aged girl was even more painfully obvious."

"You are a bit high-maintenance. I can dress you up, but I can't take you out."

"So it seems. The past few days have been moderately enlightening, John, but they also beg the question of why you choose to stay on, other than my razor-edged mental capacity, my knack of finding the best possible work in London, and the cheap rent."

John thought about repeating what he'd told Benedict on Saturday night in the Sussex cottage, but he couldn't make the leap again. The first blow had been too painful, and he still felt raw. He scratched the back of his neck, shrugged, and exhaled sharply. "I guess I've just…got used to you. I missed you when you weren't here."

Sherlock blinked. "You did?"

John chuckled. "Yeah, 'course I did." He turned away, his heart sore, and lifted the pasta from the cooker, pouring it into a colander to drain. There it is. Life goes on.

"John."

"Yeah?" John turned around, and jumped when he saw that Sherlock was only a few centimetres away. "Christ, you –"

Sherlock bent and kissed him, resting his hand on John's cheek.

John stood frozen, shocked, disbelieving, terrified that it was a huge joke. Sherlock's lips were warm and soft, the same as a few nights ago, but this was Sherlock, it wasn't Ben, and this was fucking crazy and couldn't possibly be –

Slowly, Sherlock broke the kiss and pulled away. "I missed you as well."

"Jesus." John touched his fingertips to his mouth, collecting the last of Sherlock's warmth. "Sherlock…."

Standing statue-still, Sherlock merely watched him.

"You…oh, Sherlock." John reached out and grasped Sherlock's hands, then kissed him back. He pulled Sherlock close, holding his body tight, tighter, until his arms hurt and he was sure Sherlock could scarcely breathe, but he couldn't let him go. Sherlock didn't protest; he opened his mouth for John's kiss, yielding to him, then kissing back just as hungrily. At last, John drew back. Sherlock's eyes blazed. His mouth was full and wet. "Sherlock, how long…how long have you…." He couldn't bring himself to ask the question; he wasn't even sure what the question was.

A frown laddered Sherlock's brow. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it does." John stepped away, his prick aching with need. "I'm mad about you, all right? I love every little fucking thing about you, and like I told Ben, it took me all of a week to fall hard. Those few days without you were horrible, and when I thought that you might not come back I wanted to…I felt the way I did before I met you, before Mike introduced us. And I know you don't give a fuck about feelings, but –" He shook his head. "If this is some sort of experiment, Sherlock…I can't. Do you understand? I can't do it."

Sherlock was silent for a long time. "John," he said at last.

John regarded him warily. "Yeah?"

"I promise you that I will never, ever experiment on your heart." Sherlock reached out and pressed his hand to John's chest. "It's far too valuable for that."

Did I say that neither of us were romantic? What a fucking idiot I am. He pulled Sherlock into his arms again. Between kisses, he made free with his hands, touching and caressing, drinking in Sherlock's body through his fingertips. He tried to be tender, but there was hardly room for tenderness or tranquility. John devoured Sherlock's mouth, stroking warm flesh trapped in crisp cotton, summer-weight wool. Unwilling to break contact, he urged Sherlock into the front room and dragged him to the sagging sofa, lying half on, half off his taut body. His prick throbbed, hard and needful. Sherlock arched his body upward, grinding against John's crotch, rutting.

"John…stop…."

"What? Are you okay?" John rolled off, afraid he'd pushed Sherlock too far. Sherlock wasn't terribly experienced, after all.

"Sit." Sherlock slid off the sofa and knelt between John's legs. He undid the button of John's jeans and slid the zipper down. "Be very still." He tugged John's pants down, letting his erection spring free.

"Sherlock, are you sure you -- oh God." Sherlock's lush mouth closed over his cock, and the wet suction was exquisite. "Oh, God, oh, fucking hell." John placed his hands on Sherlock's head, caressing his hair, guiding him down. "Wait, can you really oh fuck!" Sherlock drew back, swirling his tongue round and round, then bent low again.

John tried to keep himself from bucking forward like a kid, all untaught force and no control. He forced himself to stay still, but Sherlock was enclosing him, deep-throating, his muscles clenching and unclenching, and at last John couldn't keep still a moment longer. He thrust forward, fucking Sherlock's mouth, until he came in violent, racking shudders that left him exhausted. He sprawled on the sofa, trying to catch his breath and caress Sherlock's hair at the same time.

Sherlock slipped deftly from beneath John's hands and moved up to the sofa. He pushed John's limp body forward and wriggled behind him, curling close, his belly pressed to the small of John's back. John felt Sherlock's erection, but was too exhausted, for the moment, to attend to it.

"Okay," John rasped. "Where'd you learn that?"

"College."

"I thought you were a virgin."

Sherlock snorted. "What ever gave you that idea?"

John leant back, relaxing into Sherlock's lean body. "Dunno. I just reckoned you were, Mr Not My Area."

"Hmm. You make far too many leaps of logic, John. One of your many faults."

"It's a wonder you bother with me at all." John turned and kissed Sherlock's neck. "So tell me…what else do you know how to do?"

"Quite a lot, actually. Shall I show you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, show me. But first, let's see what I can do for you."

"In a minute." Sherlock took John's hand. "First tell me what you told…Ben."

John smiled. "That I loved you. And a lot more."

"Oh, you'll tell him, but you won't tell me. I see."

"I will, I will. You're too impatient. One of your many faults."

Sherlock laughed soundlessly. "I suppose we're stuck with each other."

John pressed his thumb into the palm of Sherlock's hand. "Guess so." I hope so. Oh, God, I hope so.

*

In a chilled, white room, a body bag lay on a table, smooth, black, ordinary bulges here and there. An attendant unzipped it briskly, revealing the body of Jim Moriarty, pale as milk, utterly still.

"It's all right," the attendant said.

Jim opened his eyes. He smiled at the attendant, Coddington, and at the trembling doctor who'd pronounced him dead. "Crikey, that's a long time to stay still." He sat up and stretched, twisting his spine this way and that. "We've got a way out?"

"Lift's clear, sir," Coddington replied.

"Great." Jim wriggled out of the body bag and slid off the table. Dried faux blood encrusted the back of his head and neck and had probably ruined his suit. Hard to explain that one to the cleaners. "Right, let's get going." He beckoned to Coddington and went to the door. "Oh, jeez – forgot!" He turned to the doctor. "I'll let your wife go tomorrow. And hey, she can probably still give you a hand job with four fingers. Who uses their little finger for anything, anyhow?" He twinkled a wave with his own fingers in farewell. "'Bye, doc. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

He exited the morgue, whistling merrily.

It was a good day to be alive.

*

Benedict poked Tom in the side as Tom fumbled with his lock. "Weren't you cheeky!" he exclaimed. "Calling me darling. The internet's going to have a field day with that."

"Sorry, darling." Tom returned the poke. "It wasn't any worse than you climbing onto my lap, though."

"I think we were both punchy. I fucking hate press junkets."

"A necessary evil. Let's get a drink." Tom took Benedict by the hand and led him past his Christmas tree twinkling with tinsel and bright ornaments even in the darkness of the front room, and into the kitchen. "What's your poison?"

"Don't care."

Tom got out two bottles of Guinness, opened them, and handed one to Benedict. "To the internet," he toasted, clinking his bottle against Benedict's. "I doubt they'll care."

"You'll see. Even the journalist felt the bromance." Benedict leant in and kissed Tom. "Thank fuck that's over." He loosened his tie.

Tom took a deep swig of his beer and set it on the worktop. He bit his lower lip and stared at the tie dangling from Benedict's hand. "Is that a good tie?"

Benedict regarded it and shrugged. "Oswald Boateng."

"I'll buy you a new one if you use it on me."

"Ooh. Tempting. Right, you're on. Get upstairs. Be naked by the time I finish my beer." Benedict swatted Tom's arse and watched him leave, his cock already standing to attention. He leant against the cupboards and drank leisurely.

Life was good, his bitching about junkets notwithstanding. War Horse was doing wonderfully well, he was pleased with their scenes, and both his and Tom's dockets were bursting at the seams. They were hot, and getting hotter, and they intended to ride the wave as long as possible, to spend sensibly, and to choose their projects with care. They weren't out; there were still too many complications for that. But it was okay. Maybe someday. Maybe.

His phone buzzed with an unfamiliar text. He pulled it out. Private number.

Happy New Year, Cumberbatch.
Regards to TWH.
John and I are well.
SH

Benedict gaped. "What the fuck…?"

A cold chill settled over his body. It wasn't…it couldn't be. Tom, playing a joke? No…Tom's phone was on the worktop. And he hadn't told anyone else what had happened. Tom's side-effects ruse had worked perfectly. Though he'd had trouble meeting Mark's eyes for a few weeks, and Mark apparently felt the same. But even that had blown over, eventually.

"Can't be," Benedict whispered.

Unless it was. Stranger things….

He hesitated, then hit REPLY.

The text sent, he placed the phone gently on the worktop next to Tom's. He shook his head, laughed, and hurried upstairs, to the brilliant warm reality that awaited him.

*

Sherlock opened the message.

He's fine, thanks. I'm glad you are, too. My very best to John. I won't ever forget our grand adventure. Happy New Year. Benedict xx

He grinned and set his phone down. There were moments, now and then, when he felt something unusual, like a ripple in the fabric of existence (given that amorphous feelings were hardly evidence of spatial anomalies, and he'd experimented, sending texts to Cumberbatch, testing his hazy hypotheses. There was never a response, but this time he'd got lucky, apparently. New Year's Day was a few days away, but it never hurt to be cordial, so John had told him. Pain and effort were two very different things though, obviously.

He stretched and opened his naked legs invitingly, but John was ignoring him, poring over a stack of CVs. "Just pick one, for God's sake, and come back to bed."

"Yeah, yeah. Give me a minute."

"John, you've been looking at them for an hour and a half. How different can they be? It's 31K a year to weigh people and take their blood pressure and ask if they've had any medication changes. Just pick the one who's had the most experience and doesn't seem unbelievably stupid and be done with it."

"They all seem to have commensurate experience. And they all seem pretty smart."

"Doubt it."

"Fine. Fine." John fanned out the stack and held it up like an oversized hand of cards. "Blomquist, McGregor, Westermann, Morstan, and Sorel. You pick."

Sherlock pointed to one CV. "That one."

John pulled it. "Elaine McGregor. Fine. Done and done." He tossed the stack aside, shucked his bathrobe, and climbed into bed. "Freezing."

"There happens to be thirty-seven degrees of available warmth right under your nose, but if you fail to take advantage of it, I can hardly sympathise with you."

"Smartarse." John wrapped his arms round Sherlock and nuzzled his neck. "Shut it, or I'll host another drinks party."

"Oh, God, spare me." Sherlock enclosed John's hips with his thighs, pressing his knees close. "Never again. Never."

"Not until next Christmas, anyhow," John said. He bent to kiss Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text.

"Don't pick it up. Don't," John murmured.

"Hang on," Sherlock said, and grabbed the phone. John rolled over, groaning. "Oh, hush, John."

Two murders, looks like weapon is a blowpipe. Interested?

Sherlock grinned. Give me an hour. SH He sent the message, then considered and sent another text.

Make that two hours. SH

He set the phone down. "We're expected at the Yard in two hours. Gives us just enough time."

"You are a pain in my arse."

"Mm." Sherlock rolled over onto his belly and caressed John's calf with his foot. "Two hours."

John laughed. "Right. No time to lose, then." He tackled Sherlock to the bed.

They had their disagreements, their out-and-out arguments, their pockets of cold anger and disappointment. It wasn't perfect, but he'd never expected that. Had, in fact, never expected anything more than companionship. To be given more was an unexpected gift, and though gratitude wasn't Sherlock's strong point, he did his best. What he was most grateful for was not having to admit that spending time with a too-tall, overfriendly actor had shifted his perspective slightly, or that something as ridiculous as a story written by a mooning fan had helped to unlock his heart just a little. He'd moved beyond all that, anyhow. Whatever happened, it wasn't according to anybody's conscious design but his and John's. Not many people realised that; he was lucky.

Maybe that was why he'd sent the text. Besides experimentation, maybe there was a bit of gratitude. Just a bit.

They were writing their own story now, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And whatever happened, it was sure to be a grand adventure.