Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Like an old friend visiting after a long absence, pain woke Sherlock that morning.

Not the type he was used to: aching bones and muscles, chills and itches, scratching until he bled. A pain that made him feel hollow and unable to leave his room.

This was different, unfamiliar. It started in the gut, a stinging pain that spread down his left leg and climbed up his chest. It pulsed to the beat of his heart, rudely waking him from his artificial slumber. In an attempt to soothe the sting, Sherlock shifted and immediately regretted it. The pain grew into a deep burn that made him gasp and hiss.

“Sherlock.”

John appeared at Sherlock’s bedside, one hand gently pressing his shoulder, the other taking Sherlock’s hand.

“Try not to move.”

John’s voice was soft, a welcome sensation amid the pain.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a stronger dose of painkillers. There um, there was a note in your medical file.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John for the first time since the surgery. His hair was ruffled, his shoulders stiff and uneven, and he was dressed in pale blue scrubs that brought out his eyes. From what Sherlock could tell, the note hadn’t put John off, but it still wasn’t something Sherlock wanted to discuss. Not now. Hopefully never.

“I assume the surgery was a success.”

John nodded. Sherlock looked around the room, spotting a chair with a blanket bunched on the seat, and a small table with a teacup and what looked like a manuscript. Sherlock turned back to John and eyed his scruffy beard.

“How long was I asleep?”

John looked over his shoulder at the chair, then turned away to fiddle with the IV bag.

“Two days.”

Sherlock blinked as he processed the information. John had spent two days by his bedside.

“I didn’t want to risk not being here if something happened. You know, in case the dog tags had an unexpected side effect.”

Sherlock nodded. John was right, of course, but that didn’t prevent a heavy weight from pressing on Sherlock’s chest that had nothing to do with his surgery and everything to do with the dog tags.

“How are you feeling? I mean, besides the pain.”

Sherlock sighed. Nauseous, sore throat, drowsiness, slight chills, all standard side effects of general anesthesia. None of it mattered. Because John had a two day beard and was looking at him like--

“Like I got stabbed.” Sherlock croaked.

John smiled. Sherlock’s fight or flight response kicked in, which was a horrible feeling to have while confined in bed, so he looked away. That look in John’s eyes. It kept giving Sherlock flashbacks of waking up in the Warehouse. Lying in his own blood, with John staring at him with that look and the dog tags dangling around his neck. Even with irrefutable evidence, Sherlock still struggled to believe someone as brave and honorable as John could care about him, let alone spend two days in a miserable hospital chair.

This needed to stop. How John felt didn't matter. Only the work mattered. They needed to continue as if nothing had happened. Sherlock couldn’t deal with this. Not now. Hopefully never.

Ideally, John would never look up the dog tags in the artifact database and therefore never discuss their conditions with Sherlock. He would rather talk about his drug addiction than tell John that the last time he fell in love, the world almost ended.

“With some physical therapy, your recovery would normally take four to six months.”

Even though Sherlock was lost in thought, he caught John’s turn of phase. “Normally?”

“Molly told me about an artifact that could help speed things up a bit.”

Sherlock frowned. “You develop the ability to use artifacts instinctually and all of a sudden you want to use them for everything? After all those speeches about me being reckless?”

“I wanted to do a test first, to not be reckless, as you are, hence the speeches.”

“You’re serious.”

“Assuming the test goes well, yes. I figured the quicker we get to the coordinates, the better.”

When did John become so endearing? Must be the beard.

“Which artifact?”

John looked down briefly before straightening his shoulders. “Clara Carton’s Gloves.”

Images of gloves flickered through Sherlock’s mind until he found the right pair of weathered leather gloves and its properties.

“No.”

“Sherlock—”

“I said no.”

“Molly and I went over the risks and we think—"

“I’m the patient, I have a right to refuse treatment.”

“Just hear me out.”

“No, you listen to me.” Sherlock ignored the stinging in his wound as he tensed in anger. “You are not the first Warehouse Agent to try and use an artifact for good and believe me when I say that no matter how prepared you think you are, it always backfires. Always. In the way you least expect. I understand that you want to use the gloves to heal me, but I won’t do it at the cost of your life.”

John crossed his arms. “Is it my turn now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. Have at it.”

“I know how the gloves work: the right hand heals by draining the energy of the wearer, and the left hand kills by absorbing the energy of the person you touch. Obviously, I want to use the right hand, but I don’t want to heal you in one go, I want to do it little by little. I touch your wound for a second, just to give the natural healing process a nudge. Once a day, if I can manage it.”

The whole ordeal was preposterous. Sixth sense or not, John had no idea what he was getting himself into. The few Warehouse Agents who had attempted to test artifacts in the hopes of using their properties for the greater good had such disastrous results that artifact testing had been prohibited since Warehouse three. There was a brief period during Warehouse Eight when the ban was lifted, but it was quickly reinstated after half the Agents were accidentally amputated. The point was, anyone reckless enough to attempt artifact testing would have to do it clandestinely.

Which was what Sherlock had done. For a time, it had worked. But even with every precaution, back up plan and careful preparation, the result was the same as it had always been: disastrous. Not only had the experiment destroyed part of the Warehouse, but Sherlock lost his partner before sinking into the worst period of his life.

“We would test it here, with Molly monitoring,” John continued. “If all goes well, we can continue the treatment at home.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. No good would come of this. He didn’t know how to make John understand. It didn’t matter if his idea was good, or that the prospect of cutting down the ungodly amount of boring recovery time was very appealing.

“Mycroft will never agree to this.”

“He already did.”

Sherlock stared at John wide eyed.

John smiled. “I know, I was surprised too. After everything Molly told me about the ban on testing.”

Sherlock wanted to ask what she had told him, but hearing that Mycroft approved...

“You really want to go through with this?”

John scratched his scruff. “Well, I’ve had two days to think about it, so, um, yeah.”

“John, I…” Sherlock frowned. What does one say to someone who offers to knowingly risk their life to heal you?

“It’s fine, take some time to think about it. I’ll get you something to eat.”

John was about halfway across the room when Sherlock spoke.

“John.”

He stopped and turned, sagging shoulders betraying his exhaustion.

“Thank you. For saving my life. Twice.”

John pinched his lips before he looked away and nodded. “Like you say, it’s part of the job.”

Sherlock winced as the weight on his chest twisted.

“Try and get some rest.” John murmured and left.

Sherlock tried to focus on a single point on the ceiling to fight off the oncoming panic attack. “Fuck.”

It’s not that he didn’t like John, on the contrary. Their relationship had felt special from the start, even with the constant arguing. None of it mattered: it was no used getting attached. It was bound to end in disaster, like it always had.

Sherlock couldn’t deal with this. Not now. Hopefully never.

“But it’s repulsive.”

“It’s good for you,” John replied without looking up.

“Then you eat it.”

“I’m not the one recovering from surgery.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. He longed to be back at the flat and, at this rate, it would take at least a week before he could risk moving without tearing his sutures. Unless John used the gloves, which was out of the question. How could he possibly ask that of John, on top of everything else.

Out of spite, Sherlock grabbed some mashed potatoes with his fingers and stuffed them into his mouth.

“Good.” John said, turning a page of the manuscript he was reading. “Now do that to the entire plate.”

“Wos’a” Sherlock tried to say with a mouth full.

“Come again?”

“What’s that?”

“A book.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to throw the remainder of his potatoes at John and settled on watching him read.

“Is it any good?”

“It’s a detective story.”

“Boring.” Sherlock grabbed a carrot. “What’s the case?”

John smirked and continued reading. Sherlock was about to insist for the details of the case when Molly walked in, holding an IV bag.

“Should I prep the gloves when you’re done?” she asked Sherlock as she made the switch.

“You've read the reports on Artifact Testing and you still went along with John's idea?”

Molly frowned. “I thought you would be thrilled at the idea of getting back to work sooner. Remember last time?”

“So I should let John drain himself so I can heal faster? Where's the logic in that?"

“It’s just a touch,” Molly continued, “like giving the natural process steroids, not a full heal.”

“This isn’t a bloody videogame. We’re talking about John’s life.”

Molly crossed her arms and faced Sherlock. “Do you know what happens if you use them just for a second?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. He knew where she was going with this. “No.”

“Then why don’t we try it here, in a controlled environment, and then decide how to proceed.”

It was painful, really, admitting Molly was right. 

Sherlock raised both arms and waved them around dramatically, which wasn’t very much because it hurt, and said, “Fine.”

“Great. John, when’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

John raised his head from the manuscript and blinked owlishly.

“Go eat.” Molly pointed to the door.

With a sigh, John closed his book and walked out with it. 

"What's that book he's reading?"

"No idea." Molly answered before sticking a thermometer in Sherlock's mouth. 

An hour later, Sherlock was lying bare-chest with John and Molly on either side of his bed, removing the bandages while wearing purple latex gloves. The skin around the wound was an irate red that stung as the ambient air came into contact with it. Even though John’s handiwork with the sutures was neat and clean, it was still a gruesome sight.

Molly took out the right leather glove from the neutralizing bag and handed it to John. Sherlock watched as John gently slid it on, fanning out his fingers to push them all the way to the tips.

There was a pregnant pause while they stared at the glove, waiting to see if something terrible would happen. When nothing did, John looked from the glove, to Molly, to Sherlock.

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded.

John took a deep breath. “Just a touch,” he murmured.

When it was a few inches from the wound, the glove started glowing. A pale blue that increased in intensity the closer it got. As soon as the tip of the finger touched Sherlock’s wound, there was a bright flash of white light. Sherlock felt an odd pulling sensation, as if his body was trying to absorb John’s hand. As quickly as it started, the pull vanished, and John stumbled to the floor.

“John!” Sherlock and Molly shouted together.

“I’m fine.” John wheezed as Molly helped him up into a nearby chair. “Should probably do it sitting down next time.” he added while Molly removed the glove and bagged it.

“There won’t be a next time.” Sherlock replied sternly.

John wrapped his arms around his midriff and hunched forward. “I’m fine, really. I just wasn’t expecting... that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes “What were you expecting, a walk in the park? This is exactly what I was saying earlier, you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Will you calm down? I meant that I wasn’t expecting to get sucker punched in the gut. I’ll be waiting for it next time.”

Sherlock shook his head. John had broken into a sweat, was breathing heavily, hell, Sherlock could see his pulse on his neck from two feet away. 

Molly raised her hands between them. “Just let me examine you both before you decide anything.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Right.” Molly put away the glove and examined John first.

While she took his blood pressure, Sherlock had his first look at his stab wound. The skin was still bright red, but what used to be a visible cut in the skin was now a clean white seam, held together by John’s neat stitching. It was extraordinary, really. Sherlock shifted; the stinging pain from the scar was still there, but weaker. He still felt the deep ache inside, but it was also not as intense. In fact, all of his post-anesthesia symptoms were gone.

Everything except the crushing weight on his chest, of course.

“Well,” Molly said, “good thing I made you eat or you probably would have fainted from exhaustion. Besides needing food and a good rest, you’re perfectly fine.”

John nodded and went back to holding his midriff, half hunched over. Molly moved on to Sherlock.

“John,” she said, making his name sound like a gasp. “it’s-- it worked.” Molly leaned in and gently prodded the scar tissue. “Incredible. This looks like two, almost three days of scarring. At this rate, you could probably take out the stitches tomorrow.”

“Good.” John still sounded strained. “Worth the punch.”

“Do you think it’s the same for the sutures inside?”

“It would make sense.”

Molly smiled at Sherlock. "How do you feel?"

"Better."

“I'm still going to run some tests, but I think we should be able to get you home safely.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock replied before yelping at the cold stethoscope on his chest.

“Cough,” Molly ordered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and coughed. Molly moved on with checking his reflexes.

“So you just… know?” Sherlock asked John. “You look at an artifact and just know it will work?”

“No, I--” John grunted as he straightened. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“You said we could talk about your ability after the surgery. If this is your attempt to postpone this conversation indefinitely--”

“It’s not. What I’m saying is--” John rubbed his face with his hands-- “we will talk about this after a good meal and at least eight hours of sleep.”

Sherlock was about to respond when Molly stuck a thermometer in his mouth again. 

“John, did you need help getting Sherlock dressed?”

Sherlock felt himself spiral into panic. He had been so focused on how bored he would be during his recovery that he forgot the other rather important part: needing help with everything. Including getting dressed. And moving. And bathing. Oh God, bathing.

“John?” Molly repeated.

“I’m good, thanks,” John replied and proceeded to stand.

Molly pulled out the thermometer, checked it and nodded. “I’ll go get the wheelchair then.”

By the time Sherlock caught up to what was happening, Molly was already out the door.

John grabbed a stack of Sherlock’s folded clothes from the bedside and placed them by Sherlock’s feet on the bed.

John saw the scar for the first time and whispered, “Wow.”

Sherlock watched him lean closer, eyes bright. The light was making the gray in his hair pop. Sherlock grabbed at the covers to dampen the urge to comb his fingers through it.

“How do you feel?”

“Good enough to go home.”

“Any side effects?”

“Besides the healing, no.”

“Good, good.” John nodded. “Then let’s get you dressed. I suggest we sit you on the side of bed with your feet on the floor. That way we can put on your shirt easily enough. Then we slide on the pants and trousers up to the knee, and finish by making you stand. Then we’ll sit you down in the wheelchair and head home.”

At least it sounded like an efficient method. Sherlock nodded as Molly returned with the wheelchair.

“Here you go.” She parked it next to John. “I’ll go call the car.”

“Thanks. Right then.” John pushed back the covers. “I’m going to slide one arm behind your back and the other under your legs to help you sit up and twist towards me, ok?”

Sherlock braced himself and nodded.

Strong hands slid behind his back and knees, the touch distracting Sherlock long enough to numb the pain as John twisted him into an upright position. When Sherlock’s feet touched the cold floor, John moved to support his back and gave Sherlock a moment to adapt to the new position. Gravity made the blood rush down into his wounded guts, accentuating the throbbing pain.

As he breathed through the pain, Sherlock realised he was holding John’s shoulder. Or rather grasping it for dear life.

John looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock managed to say between breaths. “Natural body shock response to-”

“To movement, I know, smartarse.” John completed with a fond tone.

Once the intense throb reduced to a sting, he let go of John’s shoulder. Sherlock tried to keep himself upright without using his abdominal muscles, which meant he was relying on his arms to steady himself while John untied his hospital gown. Warm fingers gently pulled it off Sherlock’s shoulders, slid down his arms and chest, and puddle in his lap. The chill of the cold room covered his skin in goosebumps while John grabbed the white shirt.

They didn’t speak, barely looked at each other. Sherlock could smell Mrs Hudson’s perfume as John slipped it up Sherlock’s arms and shoulders, confirming his suspicions that John had not left his bedside. Sherlock buttoned his shirt while John knelt to guide Sherlock’s feet into pants and trousers, before slowly working them up his calves.

Once he was done, John stood. “Hold onto the trousers. I’ll help you stand. Then you can finish tying them before sitting in the chair.”

Pushing down his self-consciousness at being half-naked in John’s arms, Sherlock nodded. John slid his hands under his arms and pulled him to his feet.

As gravity worked its magic again, pain throbbed up and down Sherlock’s body, making his legs buckle. He wasn’t quite sure how, but next thing he knew, John had one leg between his, and his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock, keeping him from falling to the floor.

“Just breathe,” John whispered.

As he did, Sherlock was slowly becoming aware he was uncomfortable for unexpected reasons. Obviously there was the pain, and the fact that his genitalia was awkwardly out and about between them. But what was making Sherlock uncomfortable was this new side of John. The Doctor side. The side that made his touch gentle and caring, and made the worried look in his eye a little softer.

This wasn’t the first time he had been under John’s care, but it was the first time it was severe enough to require this amount of medical attention, let alone such a gentle bedside manner. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure if John treated all his patients this way or if was due to sentiment.

“You ok?”

Sherlock nodded and steadied himself on his feet. With a little help from John, Sherlock finished pulling up his pants and trousers. He ignored the tingling sensation John’s thumb had left on his lower back, or how his hands were brushing against John’s jumper as he tied his trousers. The pain was all he let himself think about.

“Now one step to the side and you can sit. Use your arms to ease yourself in.”

Sherlock nodded and followed John’s lead. One step to the side to stand in front of the wheelchair. As John eased him down, Sherlock reached back to grab the arm rests. Together they sat Sherlock down, and even though the movement still hurt, it wasn’t that bad.

Once Sherlock was set up in the chair, John squeezed his hand. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Despite the stress of the move, Sherlock only felt the warm tingle of John’s touch as they headed out.

Molly was in the corridor, a large medkit bag over her shoulder.

“The car is out front.”

“Thank you, Molly,” John answered. “You’ve been a tremendous help.”

She blushed as she handed the bag to John. “It was no trouble at all. You know how to reach me if you need anything.”

“I will. And next time we should try and get a pint.”

Sherlock frowned. A pint? With Molly? Why?

“I’d love that.”

What? Was John just being nice or did he really want to spend more time with her? What had happened while he was unconscious? This would be much easier to deduce if John weren’t standing behind him.  

Molly smiled. “There’s this nice little pub in--”

“Can we go now?” Sherlock cut in.

Sherlock was even more confused when he saw Molly biting her lip as if she was trying to stop herself from laughing. Sherlock kept a cool exterior but inside he was at a bit of a loss. That was not the reaction he had expected from her, even though it did get the result he was hoping for. After a final goodbye to Molly, John pushed the wheelchair towards the elevator.

Sherlock couldn’t tell if John was angry. The reflection in the elevator showed him staring straight ahead, shoulders squared, but Sherlock could see the exhaustion. So he stayed silent.

They made their way outside and into the waiting car. Besides finding the transfer from the wheelchair into the car very unpleasant, every bump, turn, acceleration and deceleration was causing strain to his wound. When they pulled up at 221b, Mrs. Hudson came trotting out.

“Oh Sherlock, you shouldn’t be home so soon,” she cooed as she walked alongside the wheelchair.

With John on the other side, Mrs Hudson helped Sherlock up the two steps and into the foyer with a constant stream of words Sherlock didn’t bother listening to. Once inside, Sherlock leaned against Mrs Hudson while John took off his coat.

“How are you supposed to get him up there?” she asked.

John rolled up his sleeves. “I’m going to carry him up.”

Sherlock’s blinked. “What?”

Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock was in John’s arms being carried up the stairs.

“This is humiliating.”

“Shut it and watch your head.”

“John, your back,” Mrs Hudson tsked. “I’ll be up in a tick with tea and biscuits.”

If it hadn’t been for the pain, Sherlock would have wondered how often John had carried wounded people up stairs. He didn’t even seem to be finding the turn on the first landing difficult to manoeuvre.

“Couch or chair?”

“Couch.”

That way Mrs Hudson wouldn’t linger.

Sherlock expected John to let him get to his feet before sitting on the couch. Instead, John managed to squat in front of the couch and settle Sherlock in a lying position. It was a relief, even if his body was trembling from the stress of the move.

A glass of water and painkillers appeared.

“Here.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks and quickly swallowed the pills and half the water. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the pain.

“I’m going to go take a shower,” John said as Sherlock felt the glass of water being removed from his hand. “Mrs Hudson should be up soon.”

“Ok.”

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” He opened his eyes. John was crouching next to the couch.

“You ok? Need anything?”

“I’m good. At least I will be when the painkillers kick in.”

John smiled. He looked tired, but his smile was honest. Likely he was also relieved to be home.

“How about Thai for dinner?”

“Is that Doctor’s orders?”

“More like too lazy to cook.”

“Thai sounds good.”

John gently squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder before getting up and disappearing into the bathroom. Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, his skin tingling where John had touched it. He listened to the sounds of the flat, Mrs Hudson puttering around in her kitchen, while the water ran down the hall. John was likely brushing his teeth before his shower. The muffled sound of the sink running came one last time before the shower tap started. He couldn’t hear John getting undressed, but it would give the water a reasonable amount of time to heat up before stepping in. As if on cue, the sound of the water shifted, indicating John had stepped in.

John, naked under steaming hot water, letting the heat soothe and relax his muscles before scrubbing himself clean--

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open when his cock stirred. Oh dear. This was not good. Not good at all. The last time he had gotten an erection John had been angry, not soft or caring or naked under a hot shower. Sherlock shivered. This was getting out of control. He never should have flirted back at Angelo’s, not to mention whatever had happened in that old car. He shouldn’t fantasize about John at all. Things needed to stay professional between them. Or friends, but just friends. This was for their safety and everyone else’s.

“Yoohoo.” Mrs Hudson called up the stairs as she came up.

Sherlock looked down, saw his hardening cock begging for attention through two layers of clothing and cringed. Thank God for the blanket on the backrest. He quickly grabbed it and covered himself as best he could before Mrs Hudson walked in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Oh my poor Sherlock. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got stabbed.”

“John told me about the incident, it must have been so scary. Good thing he was there to save you.”

“Save the world you mean.”

“That’s implied, dear.”

Sherlock looked away. “Did he tell you how?”

Had John told her which artifact he had used to save Sherlock? After all, Mrs Hudson had been working for the Warehouse longer than Sherlock, and she could empathise with artifacts. This meant the chances of her knowing how the tags worked were high, and telling John, even higher.

“Oh, you know me, I don’t want the gory details, too much excitement for my age. I just wanted to know if you were going to be ok. That’s all that matters, love. Now, how about a nice cuppa?”

Sherlock nodded and watched as she poured tea. From what he could tell, she wasn’t lying. She didn’t know about John’s recent sentimental developments. Feeling slightly relieved, Sherlock accepted the offered tea gratefully and almost listened to Mrs Hudson rattle on. He forgot about John in the shower, which made the sight of him stepping out of the bathroom barefoot in his bathrobe with wet hair startling. It was frustrating, since he had seen John in the same state many times, and only now was it eliciting such a strong response. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He knew Mrs Hudson was still talking but all Sherlock could focus on was the sound of John walking up to his room.

“Oh Sherlock, you must be so tired, and here I am babbling on. I’ll let you get some rest.” She leaned in, gave him a kiss on the forehead and stood. “Have a good night.” She paused on the landing to call up the stairs. “Good night John.”

“Good night Mrs Hudson. Thank you for the tea.” John called from his room.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, accompanied by the sound of Mrs Hudson making her way down the stairs. With a sigh, he rearranged his now soft cock. It seemed like his recovery would not be boring at all but rather bordering on dangerous, only not in the way he was used to. Which was in itself terrifying, considering it was mixed with the helplessness that came with needing someone to do everything for him. The result was Sherlock finding himself fighting a panic attack. Which, of course, was when John came back downstairs.

“Sherlock?”

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see John’s face, didn’t want his pity.

“Hey, it’s ok. I know today was a lot.”

John must have been crouching next to the couch. The smell of soap was strong but appeasing, as was his soft voice.

“Do you want to skip dinner and just go to bed?”

Sherlock nodded. He was hungry, but the appeal of hiding in his room was too great.

“Alright, let me go prep your room.”

As John disappeared once more, Sherlock tried to calm down. Inhale for four seconds, exhale for five. Inhale. Exhale. By the time John came back, Sherlock felt calm enough for the move. The humiliation of being carried earlier was gone; all that was left was gratefulness at John’s swiftness and experience as he scooped him off the couch and down the hall.

“You have to stand up so we can get you undressed.”

“No, I just want to--”

“I know, I know, but you’ll thank me tomorrow morning.”

“Fine.”

Having already been through the process of coordinating their movements, getting undressed was done much more efficiently. Soon enough Sherlock was down to only his pants with John gently tucking him in.

“There you go. I left you some water, painkillers, your phone and your laptop on the bedside table. Anything else you think you might need?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Well, just, um, shout or text if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded. John cleared his throat, took one last look around the room before heading out.

He door was left ajar. Sherlock could hear John walk to the sitting room and turn on the telly. Sherlock reached for his phone.

Thank you - SH

He faintly heard John huff a laugh.

You’re welcome

Goodnight John - SH

Goodnight Sherlock

Chapter Text

Pain, and a very pressing need to urinate, woke Sherlock the next morning.

“John.” He croaked as loud as his unused voice would let him. “John!”

The red armchair squeaked, followed by footsteps. John’s head appeared in the doorway. The bags under his eyes weren’t as dark as yesterday.

“Hey,” John greeted softly. “How do you--”

“I need to pee. Now.”

John took a step forward, his demeanor changing, ready for action. “I’ll go clear the bathroom.”

While John tidied the washroom, Sherlock painfully attempted to sit up. His first try failed, making him fall back onto the bed and breathe through clenched teeth. John came back before he could make a second attempt.

“Come on.” John leaned in, wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s back and helped him sit. Then John pushed back the covers and, with his hand on Sherlock’s thighs, guided his legs out of bed and onto the floor.

“Do you think you can stand just by holding my hands?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock really didn’t, and his need to relieve himself made him worry what might happen if he tried.

“Try later?” John thankfully offered.

Sherlock nodded. John leaned in and wrapped his arms around him.

“On three. One, two, three.”

Together, they worked to get Sherlock to his feet. Like the day before, blood rushed down to his wound, making it throb. Sherlock breathed through the pain, wished he wasn’t shaking so much, but was thankful to have John to hold on to as it subsided.

“Alright?” John’s voice was muffled against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied as he released his hold on John.

“You should walk, I don’t think I can carry you in there safely.”

Sherlock nodded and, holding John’s offered hand, took his first step. Sherlock was relieved to find the movement wasn’t too painful, as long as he didn’t try to raise his leg too high.

Winded just from walking from the bed, Sherlock was finally standing in front of the toilet.

“Do you think you can stand on your own?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right outside.”

As soon as John was out of the bathroom, Sherlock pulled his dick out of his pants and relieved himself. As humiliating, not to mention painful, as this all was, Sherlock could at least appreciate John’s efficiency and professionalism.  

“I’m done.” Sherlock announced as he finished tucking himself back into his pants.

As they slowly made their way back to the bedroom, Sherlock was please to see a fresh cup of tea on his bedside table. John helped him sit on the bed and lean against the headboard. Sherlock closed his eyes, attempting to control the tremble of pain in his body. He opened his eyes when he felt a weight on his thighs and found his laptop there.

“Anything else?”

Sherlock eyed the tea. John huffed a laugh and handed it to Sherlock.

He took his first sip and savoured the comforting taste. “Thank you.”

Sherlock could hear John puttering around the flat while he checked his emails. At first glance there wasn’t anything exciting in his inbox or on the Warehouse scanner. Nothing to keep him busy. As in not bored.

This wasn’t Sherlock’s first recovery. His time as a Warehouse Agent was sprinkled with various injuries that had left scratches and scars, visible or not. After all, most Warehouse Agents ended up dead or insane, and Sherlock wasn’t expecting to be an exception. But he was doing his best to last as long as humanly possible.

His wounds had never been serious enough to require constant care. Not like this. During his last leave of absence, which was years ago, Mrs. Hudson had kept him fed, and Mycroft had made sure Molly came around to check up on him every other day. Then every week, and so on. It had been horrible. Six months alone, without work, without--

The clanking of china snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts. The aroma of bacon, eggs and tea filled his nostrils. How did he not notice John was cooking? Before he could figure it out, Sherlock heard John’s soft footsteps. His laptop was replaced by a complete English breakfast.

Sherlock eyed the plate and looked at John with a raised eyebrow. “I know I need my strength to heal but...”

“Just eat as much as you can.”

Sherlock reached for a piece of toast and took a large bite out of it. There was a look in John’s eye, a brief glimmer of… was it hope? John blinked it away before walking out.   

Since his email was disappointing, Sherlock spent his morning sorting through the ‘Artifact Testing’ archives. It was a bit of a hassle because most of the paperwork was in dead languages and the translation program was taking forever. While he waited, Sherlock started a spreadsheet for John’s ability. Sherlock also read up on old Warehouse Agents that had similar abilities to John. It was often referred to as ‘Artifact Empathy’. Obviously, Mrs Hudson’s file was part of the group. Her ability was one of the reasons she tended to 221 Baker Street, as well as cared for the artifacts in the Warehouse. Sherlock knew he could ask her about it, or have her talk to John, but it increased the chances of the dog tags and their peculiar condition being discussed, a risk Sherlock was not ready to take.

It was almost noon when John walked into the bedroom with a medkit and the glove.

Sherlock didn’t look up from his spreadsheet. “Perfect timing. I just sent you a translation of a file on ‘Artifact Testing’ from Warehouse 3.”

John pulled up a chair next to Sherlock’s bed. “You giving me homework now?”

“Tell me, when did you first experience your ability?”

“Ah.” John sat. “What happens if I don’t answer? Do I get a bad grade?”

“You said we could talk about your ability after sleep and food.”

John scratched the back of his head. “I know, but--”

“It’s important to document this. I don’t see why you--”

“Fine, fine, forget I said anything.” John sighed and rubbed his face. “First time it happened? I’m not sure really. I think… yeah, the GPS. I think.”

Sherlock entered the information into the spreadsheet. “Describe the encounter.”

“Why? You were there,” John replied as he pulled the medkit closer and opened it.

Sherlock looked up and eyed John. Why was he being evasive?

“I mean when you communicated with it. How do you experience it? Are there any physical symptoms, mental, any tingling?”

“Like a Spidey sense?”

“A what?”

“Spidey sense. From Spiderman?”

Sherlock could deduce enough from the question and context to know John was referring to some type of fictional character that had an ability called Spidey sense that involved some kind of tingling. That didn’t stop Sherlock from blankly staring at John. He could see through his topic change tactic.

“Never mind,” John continued as he took out latex gloves from the medkit and put them on. “We had just gotten back to the Warehouse and found the GPS waiting for us. You asked me to do the initial analysis and I remember focusing on the artifact and…feeling lonely.”

Sherlock blinked a few times as John foraged through the medkit. He didn’t know John felt lonely. This would explain his evasiveness.

“You felt lonely?”

John looked up. “No, the GPS.”

Oh. Wait, what? “The GPS...felt lonely.” That made little sense to Sherlock.

“Yeah. It didn’t want to be in the Warehouse. It likes being around people.”

Intrigued, Sherlock entered the information into the spreadsheet and wondered if John also felt lonely. His train of thought came to a screeching halt when he heard John say, “Lift up your shirt.”

Sherlock looked up from the spreadsheet and saw John holding tongs and scissors.

Even though he could feel his cheeks heating, Sherlock huffed, put aside his laptop, pulled back the covers, and lift up his shirt.

“I didn’t realise Artifacts had emotions.”

“You’re the one who explained to me how they’re created through intense emotional events.”

“Yes, but they are still inanimate objects.”

John shifted to the end of his seat and inspected the stitches. “They interact with humans and influence them, how does that make them inanimate?”

“Fine, Artifacts have emotions. And you don’t need to touch one to communicate with it.”

“No, I don’t. It’s like…I can feel what they feel. I mean how they feel.”

“Yes, well, it is called ‘Artifact Empathy’ after all.”

When preparing for this discussion, Sherlock had not anticipated it to involve so many emotions. Having John leaning over his naked chest as they talked also made it difficult to keep his focus.

“What about the gloves? How did you know they would work?” Sherlock continued.

John gently pinched the first stitch with tongs, cut it, and gently pulled it out. It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had gotten stitches removed, but the sensation of a fine thread being tugged out of his healing skin remained odd and uncomfortable.  

“While you were unconscious,” John said as he discarded the stitch, “Molly mentioned how difficult a patient you were when bored, which frankly I was expecting, and how she wished we could use an Artifact to speed up your recovery. Then she mentioned something about the gloves and…” John shook his head and leaned in to remove the next stitch. “I don’t know, I just had a hunch.”

“You mean Molly told you about the gloves and you knew they would work?”

“No, not exactly. I asked her about them, she showed me a picture, I explained my idea to her and next thing I knew we were walking in the Warehouse looking for them.” John paused to cut the next stitch. “Once I got near them, I knew they would work.”

Sherlock tried not to move as the stitch slowly slipped out of his skin. “How?”

“I… I don’t--” John finished pulling out the stitch and discarded it. “I just knew.”

“You ‘felt’ it?”

“Pretty much,” John replied as he leaned in for the next stitch.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Sort of in the middle of something here.”

“I need precise information or else this process is useless,” Sherlock insisted.

“Sherlock, I’m trying to remove stitches, if you want me to be able to focus then wait until we’re done.”

“Please, you could stitch with your eyes closed. Removing them is a cinch, stop being obtuse.”

John leaned back and stared at Sherlock. “Four days ago I didn’t even know I had this ability, I’m not an expert.”

“I simply want a clear answer. ‘I just knew’ is not acceptable scientific proof.”

“God, and this is just day one,” John mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Look, Sherlock, I don’t know what you expect, but right now, I can’t give you anything better than ‘I felt something’.” John leaned in for the next stitch.

“I could send you a few articles on Artifact Empathy, perhaps the testimonies of the other Warehouse Agents who had the same ability will help you better understand what you’re going through. Maybe even expand your vocabulary--Ow!”

Sherlock stared at John while he discarded the thread he had just tugged out.

John glared at Sherlock before leaning in for the next one. “Sure, send the articles.”

Sherlock could hear the tension in John’s voice and decided to move on rather than insist on a better description than ‘I felt something’.

“What about the spiked mace?”

John looked up, seeming confused. “You mean that spiked steel baseball bat I used to stop the Warehouse from exploding?”

“A mace is much bigger and shorter than a baseball bat, but yes. How did you know it would absorb the energy and throw it back?”

“Ok, yeah, that one I had no idea.” John looked back down.

“What? Then how did you--?” Sherlock hissed as John pulled out the thread. “Ow.”

John discarded it. “Just two left.”

Sherlock suspected John was being spiteful now, but he needed to know. It seemed statistically unlikely that John would somehow find the mace in the middle of the catastrophe, not with all that tangential energy flying around.

“How did it happen with the mace?”

John wiped his forehead with his arm and sighed before leaning in for the last one. “I was standing in front of that ball of energy and thinking there just had to be something around me I could use. I guess the mace called out. Or projected? Anyway, when I took it in my hands I just…” John pulled the last stitch. “Let it guide me.”

Sherlock hissed and wrung the bedspread in his hands, trying not to move as the thread slipped out of his skin. His scar throbbed painfully and grew a dark angry red.

“Is that what happened with the dog tags too?”

Sherlock’s heartbeat spiked. Had those words really come out of his mouth? He could feel his heart in his throat. Idiot. The one thing he didn’t want to talk about. Sherlock tried to gage John’s reaction out of the corner of his eye before looking up.

John was frowning when he leaned back with the thread in his tongs. Sherlock attempted to look relaxed as he watched John discard the last stitch and put down his tools.

“Is this what you’ve decided to do so you don’t get bored? Study my ability?”

John was trying to sound calm but Sherlock could hear the tension underneath. Not good. This was not good at all, and somehow Sherlock still had no idea if it was because John knew about the tags. Better play it safe.

Sherlock tried to sound casual. “Amongst other things. As you say, I do hate to be bored.”

“Am I so boring to be around that you have to experiment on me to pass the time?”

Sherlock blinked at John, confused. “No, not at all. This is simply a good opportunity to further document the Warehouse database on--”

“Stop talking like I’m a bloody Artifact!”

Sherlock stared at John, who now had his eyes closed and was breathing slowly. What had just happened?

“John, I--”

“Shut up.”

The next moment, John stood, en picked up the medkit and left Sherlock’s room.

It was clear the healing session would wait as Sherlock listened to John put on his shoes and coat. When he heard the door slam shut, Sherlock cursed the deafening silence that followed and the stinging in his eyes.

They had been working together long enough to know it was no use texting John, even if Sherlock was dying to know where he was. When he was coming back. If he was coming back. He wouldn’t be the first not to.

They always leave….

The words echoed in Sherlock’s head as he stared at the ceiling. Words that had been haunting him for years. Words that reminded him it was only a matter of time before John came to his senses and saw he was better off far away from the Warehouse, from Artifacts, from him.

...They always leave you.

In the end the dog tags didn’t matter. Whatever had made John storm off was probably for the best. Work was the only thing that mattered. No matter what was going on, the Warehouse was the priority. For their safety, and the rest of the world’s.

That didn’t stop Sherlock from feeling like shit.

John had been gone for three hours and forty-one minutes when Sherlock’s bladder reached a critical point. It was no use waiting for John any longer. With a resolved sigh, Sherlock painfully started to slide his legs to the edge of the bed. At least he was already sitting up. Standing up, however, turned out to be much more difficult when unassisted.

Which resulted in Sherlock falling to the floor and unable to get up.

After a few deep breaths, Sherlock slammed his fist on the floor until he heard Mrs Hudson’s door open.

“Sherlock,” he heard her say as she made her way up the stairs, “what’s all that banging? I heard John leave earlier, when is he coming-- Oh Sherlock, are you alright?”

“I need to pee. Help me up.”

Mrs Hudson walked behind Sherlock, slid her hand behind his shoulders, and helped him into a sitting position. “Where’s John?”

“Not here.”

“You two had a domestic again?”

“Mrs Hudson, I am about to wet myself.”

“Right, sorry.”

Mrs Hudson did not have the same upper body strength as John, but helped Sherlock balance himself as he used only his legs to go from sitting to standing. The movement wasn’t a sharp pain like earlier, but rather a deep dull ache, not to mention the strain on his leg muscles that he will likely feel later. The important part was that he made it to the bathroom without incident.

The whole ordeal had been enough for Sherlock to prefer to lie down when he returned to his bed.

Without any prompting, Mrs Hudson made Sherlock tea and biscuits before leaving him with a promise to make sugar tarts (his favourite) tomorrow. He tried to reach for a biscuit and winced at the stretch. With a trembling breath, Sherlock closed his eyes and cursed everything.

It was dark when the front door woke Sherlock. He couldn't tell what time it was. His phone and computer had died out hours ago.

He recognized John’s footsteps as he ascended the stairs, but they were slower. Tired. He took off his coat and moved around the flat before his footsteps approached Sherlock’s room.

Their eyes met as John reached the doorway. His jaw was clenched and his hair a mess. Still angry. Sherlock looked down while John grabbed the chair and placed it next to Sherlock’s bed.

“John, I’m--”

“Shut up,” John replied softly as he sat and reached for the glove.

“But I--”

“Another word, and I leave without healing you.”

There was no bite to John’s voice. Just exhausted resolve. The soldier pushing his feelings aside to do his duty.

Insisting was not an option.

Sherlock pinched his lips and pulled up his shirt. John slipped on the glove, fanned out his fingers, and hovered a few inches over the wound. The Artifact started glowing, illuminating their faces in the dark room. Sherlock could see how much more comfortable John was with the glove’s effects compared to the day before. He also noticed the tingling in his wound, as if it could sense the tangential energy coming from the Artifact. Slowly, John lowered a single finger. The tingling shifted and became the same pulling sensation he had felt the first time. For less than a second, John touched Sherlock’s wound, then pulled away, the light emitting from the glove fading as he did.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room and see John bent over in his chair, panting, his gloved hand outstretched and safe.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” John croaked.

He straightened to a sitting position, removed the glove and bagged it. With a strangled moan, John stood and left the room. He returned with a glass of water and painkillers, handed them to Sherlock, and left without a word.

As horrible as Sherlock felt, he was grateful John had returned.

“I’m going to bed. Do you need a bathroom run?” John asked about an hour later.

Sherlock nodded and John to help him out of bed. Thankfully, the healing from earlier made the process a little less painful. But watching John go through the motions without the warmth he had shown this morning hurt more than the physical wound.

It was unclear how much time Sherlock spent staring at the ceiling before sleep came.

Chapter Text

The soft tapping of rain against the window woke Sherlock the next morning.

The cold light flooded his darkened room. He usually enjoyed rain. Today it made him feel trapped, helpless. Sherlock stared at the ceiling and cursed the weather. His laptop was in reach, but he knew it wouldn’t provide the level of stimulus he needed to distract himself.

It wouldn’t fix things with John.

Then again, Sherlock would need to know what John was upset about to be able to fix things. He had spent most of the night trying to look at it from every angle but couldn’t figure it out. John usually was angry about them not working together as a team, or Sherlock acting (supposedly) recklessly. But yesterday, all he did was ask a few questions about John’s ability. How did that amount to Sherlock treating John like an Artifact? How did it justify John storming out? Sherlock had dedicated his life to the Warehouse and caring for Artifacts; was John not aware of the importance they had in his eyes?

The creak of the upstairs floorboards made Sherlock look up. John was getting out of bed. There was a thump as feet landed on the floor, followed by the rumble of drawers. Next was the squeak of the door and heavy footsteps in the stairs. Sherlock counted every step, listened to the kettle fill, then footsteps approaching his room. He felt his heart race, unprepared to face John, and found himself relieved, yet disappointed, when the footsteps stopped at the bathroom.

John came to see Sherlock after making tea. He was as cold and distant as last night, barely even looking at Sherlock. He wanted to talk to John, but the fear of him leaving kept Sherlock silent. Instead he tried to read John, who was usually an open book. Apparently, his current state of anger had rendered John inscrutable. How was he supposed to figure out how to fix things with John if they couldn’t talk, and could only see him for five minutes at a time?

After getting his own trip to the bathroom and being left alone to eat breakfast, Sherlock attempted to work a bit, but ended up poking at his laptop distractedly, since every sound John made called his attention. Sherlock tried to make a game of it, guessing what John was doing. Reading the paper was easy. John always made such a racket when turning the pages. After that John was on his computer, since he sighed every now and then, which was likely due to his frustrating lack of technical knowledge. That and because John always went on his computer after reading the paper.

After lunch, Sherlock heard the crackling of the neutralizing bag coming from the sitting room. He started pushing back the covers and raising his shirt before John stepped into the room. Sherlock was going to make the most of the few minutes John was there. Thing was, John barely looked at him, and was too focused on the healing process to offer any insight on what was wrong. It was infuriating. He needed to observe John while he wasn’t caring for him.

It was late afternoon when Sherlock got sick of his guessing game, of trying not to be bored, of not knowing why John was angry. The color of his walls made him want to scream. He wanted to move to the sitting room, but was certain John would say no. He had barely said five words to Sherlock today, why would he want to be in the same room?

When evening came, Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson come up.

“Here you go, dear,” Sherlock heard her say to John.

“You didn’t have to,”

“It’s no trouble, dear, I made too much. I’ll bring this to Sherlock.”

Sherlock heard her heels coming towards his room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wasn’t in the mood for her fretting.

“How are you, Sherlock?”

He opened his eyes and saw Mrs Hudson. She was watching at him with a pitying look that made him want to tell her to leave.

“Fine.”

“Do you want to sit up to eat? Can you do that on your own?” She turned towards the door. “John, could you come help him sit up?”

Sherlock huffed and propped himself on his elbows. “I can do it.”

“You shouldn’t strain yourself, dear.”

“Coming,” John’s voice echoed in the corridor.

Sherlock clenched his teeth. He knew she was just trying to help, but involving John wasn’t helpful at all.

“Do you still have the tray?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want you to make a mess of your bed.”

“I got stabbed. I didn’t break my arm,” Sherlock said just as John came in.

“But do you have the tray?” Mrs Hudson insisted.

“I don’t need one.”

Mrs Hudson turned to John with the plate still in her hands. “Maybe he should eat on the couch. What do you think?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at her words, just before he locked eyes with John. Jaw clenched, tight lipped, hands on his hips: he seemed as annoyed as Sherlock with Mrs Hudson’s fussing. Sherlock didn’t want them to know how desperate he was to move to the sitting room, so he simply shrugged.

John sighed and walked over to the bed. Sherlock pushed back the covers and propped himself onto his elbows. With his hand behind Sherlock’s back, John helped him sit, then slide his legs onto the floor. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed through the strain of the move. John had his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him stable as he recovered. The warmth seeped through Sherlock’s t-shirt, helping him focus on something other than the pain.   

“Alright?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded. John leaned in and they wrapped their arms around each other.

“On three. One, two, three.”

The movement was becoming easier with practice. But rather than waiting for Sherlock’s pain to ease before stepping away like yesterday, John pulled out of Sherlock’s hold as soon as he was stable on his feet, offering his hands for support instead.

“Alright?”

Sherlock hated John’s tone. It was so flat, devoid of interest, like he was asking because it was part of his job, not because he cared. It made the prospect of walking all the way to the couch while holding John’s hands horrendous. It was either that or getting back into bed and dealing with Mrs Hudson, which was bound to end badly.

At least John didn’t have to carry him.

“Fine.” Sherlock took a step forward.

Mrs Hudson slipped out of the room to get out of their way. John was looking anywhere but at Sherlock, which was fine since Sherlock was doing the same.

“There you are, dear,” Mrs Hudson said once Sherlock was sitting on the couch. She handed him his dinner.

Sherlock took the plate and placed it on his thighs while he breathed through the pain.

“I’ll let you two eat.”

“Thanks again Mrs Hudson, I’ll bring back the plates later.”

“It can wait until tomorrow, dear,” she answered John before leaning in to kiss Sherlock on the head.

As annoying as she could be, Sherlock really loved Mrs Hudson. No matter how rude or mean he was to her, through the best and worst of times, she had always been there to care for him.

Sherlock looked up at her. “Thank you for dinner.”

She smiled. “It’s my pleasure dear,” and leaned in to cup his cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. She had done this so many times over the years, it had become comforting to Sherlock.

“Be good to John, now.”

Sherlock eyes snapped open, suddenly reminded that John was right there .

“I will,” Sherlock tried to answer as quietly as possible. Mrs Hudson smiled and patted his cheek softly before pulling away.

As she did, Sherlock glanced at John and saw him staring at the two of them, eyes wide. As soon as he noticed Sherlock watching him, John blinked away his stupor. Before Sherlock could figure out what had just happened, Mrs Hudson said her last goodbye and left. By the time Sherlock turned to John again, he had grabbed his plate from the coffee table and sat at the desk to eat.

Sherlock stared at the food on his lap and contained his frenzied thoughts. Even if the price was pain and discomfort, he was out of his room and able to observe John in peace. Rather than starting immediately, Sherlock kept his head down and slowly started picking at his dinner.

After a few bites, Sherlock looked up and saw John reading. What was he reading? Was that--? Sherlock strained his neck and recognized the manuscript, that detective story. Wasn’t he done reading it yet? It didn’t matter, the important part was that John was smiling. A small unconscious smile, but nevertheless, it was a smile. What was causing it? The story? The case? Sherlock should try to borrow the manuscript.

Besides reading and eating, John didn’t do much. But by the time he had eaten a third of his plate, he started fidgeting. He kept looking at... well, Sherlock wasn’t sure what John was looking at, but it was something on the wall behind him that made him frown. Normally, Sherlock would have ignored this behavior from John, but today Sherlock was on a mission for information.

“What?”

John looked at Sherlock for the first time since Mrs Hudson had left. “What?”

“You keep looking at the wall. What is it?”

John swallowed his bite and wiped his mouth. “The bookshelf.”

Sherlock frowned. “The bookshelf?”

John jutted his chin towards the wall. Sherlock turned his head and saw a bookshelf built into the wall that hadn’t been there before.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” John sounded incredulous. “That’s it? A bookshelf appeared and your reaction is ‘oh’?”

John was right, this was a big deal, but he had no idea why. Sherlock did. This meant the flat had started adapting to John. Which would normally be considered a good sign, but given the recent developments, it wasn’t. At least not to Sherlock.

“It’s nothing, just the flat changing.” Sherlock took another bite. It was not nothing, it was definitely something. Something John would be angry about if he thought Sherlock was withholding information.

“Why?”

“No idea.”

John crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Bollocks. Mrs Hudson told me the flat adapts to its inhabitants.”

Sherlock refrained from cursing loudly at Mrs Hudson. Of course she had told John.

“I’ve been here six months and nothing’s happened before,” John continued. “Why now?”

Sherlock had a theory. “I’m not sure.”

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What’s your theory?”

Sherlock picked at his plate as he thought of how to spin this without making things worse. The truth was, the flat was linked to the inhabitants and, like everything Warehouse-related, to their emotions. Based on recent events, more specifically the dog tags, Sherlock believed the flat was changing because of John’s recent sentimental developments. That didn’t mean John had chosen to stay for good, but it gave Sherlock hope. Assuming Sherlock could figure out what had upset him and how not to do it again.

“I think it’s because of your ability. Now that you’re aware of it, and spending a lot of time at home, the flat is reacting to you.”

John eyed the wall and nodded noncommittally. “I don’t understand why a bookshelf or why there, but I guess it makes sense.”

Sherlock was grateful to see John go back to reading.

“Sherlock.”

John’s soft voice and hand on his shoulder woke him. Sherlock blinked a few times and remembered he was on the couch. He had laid down after dinner and must have drifted off while observing John.

“Come on.”

Before he knew what was happening, John was taking Sherlock into his arms. Disoriented and scared of hurting himself, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck and held on tightly. Sherlock’s face ended up smushed against John’s neck. He felt so disoriented and foggy from sleep, that he didn’t turn away. Sherlock  pressed his nose against John’s neck and breathed him in. It was so comforting that Sherlock wondered why he hadn’t done it before. He even felt the weight on his chest loosen a tiny bit. He tried rubbing his nose lightly and heard John inhale sharply just as they reached the bedroom. Next thing he knew, Sherlock felt the bed beneath him and John tucking him in.

“I’m glad you came back.” Sherlock whispered.

He couldn’t see John’s eyes. With the angle of his head, they were hidden in shadow.

“Me too.”

“Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight Sherlock.”

Sherlock was asleep by the time John reached the top of the stairs.

Chapter Text

Day 4 of Sherlock’s recovery

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open the next morning.

Idiot.

What had gotten into him? How could he have snuggled John’s neck? For God’s sake, he wasn’t a teenager with raging hormones anymore.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Of course, that was when the floorboards creaked, signaling that John was getting out of bed. Sherlock wondered if he could buy more time by faking sleep. He wasn’t ready to face John, but according to Sherlock’s bladder, he needed to face him as soon as possible.

This was ridiculous., Sherlock needed to calm down. He hadn’t actually snuggled John, he had just moved his head a bit. Scratched an itch on the tip of his nose using John’s neck. There was nothing meaningful about that.

The sound of water running in the kitchen made Sherlock look towards the door. If it hadn’t been meaningful, then why was his heart beating in his throat?

Sherlock let out a breath when he heard the bathroom door open and close. He had at best three minutes to figure out what to do. If he acted like nothing had happened, then John would likely do the same. Things would go on as normal. Well, as normal as they could be. They hadn’t spoken much after discussing the flat changes last night. But the silence had been...not exactly comfortable since John was still being distant with Sherlock, but rather... neutral. The coldness had worn off a bit as the evening passed.

The toilet flushed. Sherlock braced himself. Act normal.

“Morning,” John said as he walked into the bedroom. He was wearing his bathrobe over a white t-shirt and gray pyjama bottoms.

“Morning.” Sherlock propped himself onto his elbows. Seeing John made him simultaneously less and more nervous. Maybe he had reverted back into a raging teenager.

“We have another new bookshelf.”

Sherlock tried not to tense. It wasn’t much of a surprise: once the flat started the transformation, it would take a while to complete the process. The last time the flat had changed was five years ago and Sherlock was so depressed then that he had been grateful to focus on something other than his guilt and loneliness. He had focused on the timing and speed of the transformations, took pictures of the entire flat and documented all the details. But back then, Sherlock didn’t ask himself what was causing them; he knew that he was. But now John was here. And for some reason the flat didn’t change when John first got here, so was it John or Sherlock causing the changes now? He needed more data.

“Oh? Where?”

“Same look as the one that appeared behind the couch, but on the other side.”

“Hm.”

Sherlock wanted to ask if it was there last night or if it had appeared overnight, but since he was acting like last night didn’t happen, it was best to stay silent. Time would confirm or disprove Sherlock’s theory.

With growing ease and easing pain, Sherlock got out of bed with John’s help. Only this morning he couldn’t stop glancing at John’s neck.

John took a step back once Sherlock was on his feet. “God, you need a bath.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, mortified.

John offered his hands to help him walk. “Just let me have tea first and I’ll run you a bath.”

Even though he was panicking inside, Sherlock started walking towards the bathroom. At least John wasn’t suggesting a sponge bath. But he still would need help in and out of the tub.

Naked.

John stepped out of the bathroom while Sherlock relieved himself. He eyed the bathtub in the mirror.

Today was going to be arduous.

“Maybe you should heal me first. To prevent infections.”

“There is no risk of infection at this stage, and if I use the gloves I’m going to need a few hours before I can risk helping you in and out of the tub safely. And this,” John waved his hand in Sherlock’s general direction, “can’t wait any longer. Now get undressed.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly. John was right, obviously, but Sherlock still preferred not to have to bathe in front of him. At least John had added bubbles, a small gesture that offered Sherlock the illusion of decency. Not that he was prudish; he didn’t mind his body and knew how to use it to his advantage. But his body couldn’t help him fix things with John, or make getting naked front of him any less awkward.

Resolved, Sherlock slipped his thumbs under the hem of his pants and pushed them down his hips, letting them fall to the floor. Ignoring the deep red flush blooming on his chest, Sherlock held onto John’s shoulders for balance and stepped out of the clothes.

As Sherlock hobbled closer to the bathtub, John started explaining the process. “Alright, hold me while you step in. It’s easier from the side than facing the tub, you won’t have to raise your knees as high. Once you're in the water, try to squat while keeping your back straight. As soon as you can, grab the rim to support yourself. I’ll be there to steady you and reduce the strain.”

Sherlock nodded, grabbed onto John’s shoulder while John supposed his, then took a deep breath, and raised his left leg. His knee brushed against John’s before bumping against the tub. The movement didn’t hurt as much as expected. But it still stung a bit when he tried to slide his foot over the edge. It landed heavily in the tub, the strain making him sway. John took a step closer to help stabilize him. Their eyes met. Sherlock was suddenly aware of just how close they were standing and just how naked he was.

“Alright?”

It took a moment for Sherlock to register what John had said.

He nodded.

John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock’s lips. Goosebumps flushed across Sherlock’s body.

“Is the water alright? Not too hot?”

“It’s fine.”

The water was fine, but Sherlock was not. He needed to get in the water sooner rather than later. He shifted his weight, raised his right leg and guided it over the rim. It went better than the left one had, but when Sherlock started to crouch, his abdominals cramped painfully. He tensed and lost his footing. John’s hold tightened under Sherlock’s arms, but the bath was too slippery. Sherlock’s foot slid and he started falling back. Taking a step into the tub, John broke Sherlock’s fall by wrapping an arm around his back, and the other to protect Sherlock’s head. Sherlock landed heavily, but overall intact, with John hunched over him, and half his body in the water.

“You ok?” John asked, a bit breathless.

“Yes.” Sherlock was also breathless due to the pain, but mostly due to John’s face being right there . “Nice catch.”

John huffed a laugh. “Thanks.”

He pulled back, his arm slipping out from under Sherlock, making Sherlock shiver in the hot water. When John straightened, Sherlock tried not to stare. His white t-shirt was drenched along the front. The pattern of the bubbles drew Sherlock’s eye to John’s stomach where he could see the faint outline of hair through his shirt.

As mesmerized as Sherlock was, the squelching sound when John walked from the tub to the toilet made everything ridiculous. By the time John was sitting on the toilet to pull off his soaked sock, Sherlock was laughing, well, as much as he could without hurting himself even more.

“Shut up.” John mumbled as he tried to dry himself with a towel, but quickly abandoned the idea and started laughing along with Sherlock.

“Well, I’m going to go change. Need anything before I go?” John said when their laughter died down.

“I’m okay.”

John nodded and stepped out, leaving the door ajar. Sherlock leaned back in the tub, closed his eyes and listened to John go up to his room. It was such a relief to laugh with John again. They hadn’t been this friendly since before his surgery. It was less than a week ago, but it felt like longer.

Now that he was in the water, Sherlock was glad John had insisted on the bath. Sherlock always did enjoy a good soak in the tub. There was something about hot water that made it easier to let himself sink into his mind while his body relaxed.

Problem was, Sherlock didn’t have work to think about. He couldn’t figure out who had sent them the coordinates and why until they went to said coordinates in South Dakota. The only thing on Sherlock’s mind was John, which was frustrating since he didn’t know what to do. No matter how he looked at the situation, which he had been doing for the last two days, Sherlock had no idea how to fix things with John.

In a frustrated huff, Sherlock reached for the soap and started scrubbing himself. This bath wasn’t turning out to be as relaxing as he’d expected.

Then again, John seemed to be calming down. Or moving past being compared to an artifact, which again, Sherlock did not understand since he himself had dedicated most of his life to the Warehouse and Artifacts. Perhaps that’s what he should explain to John. Captivating Sherlock’s interest as intensely as his work was quite a high compliment.

Which meant they needed to talk. Sherlock shuddered at the thought. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Apologizing never was his forte, but he needed to do this. He wouldn’t forgive himself if his silence resulted in John leaving for good.

As unpredictable as John was when it came to these types of discussions, Sherlock had learned one thing about him: it was best to talk after a meal. That might explain why they had managed a friendly chat last night.

John had seemed to be in a good mood earlier, maybe they could talk while Sherlock was in the tub. If John stormed out again, it would make getting out of the tub alone difficult, but better than just sitting in cold water until his return. Perhaps it would be easier if it seemed like they naturally eased into the subject. Sherlock could invite John to keep him company as he bathed. Sit next to the tub and talk, sort of like what he used to do with Jim. Sherlock sighed. Even though things had ended badly between them, Sherlock always enjoyed those moments: talking, or listening to Jim read aloud, or listening to music together. There was even a few times when Jim joined Sherlock in the bath. Maybe John could--

The soap slipped out of Sherlock’s hand and fell to the bottom of the tub with a dull thud.

Had Sherlock just compared John to Jim?

Not good. Not good at all. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t. How did Sherlock not notice that he had, dear God, feelings for John.

Well, that certainly explained his fixation on John, and the crushing weight on his chest since their argument. The same weight as all those years ago when Jim had left. Oh God, how could this happen. Sherlock scoffed. He knew how. Even if John was completely different from Jim, he was just as fascinating. How he was able to seem so boring, so ordinary to others, yet kept surprising Sherlock. Kept being on his mind.

Kept distracting him from his work.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tugged as his hair as the memories came back to him. Everything he had been pushing back, locking away. He didn’t want to remember how he had failed. How his fixation on Jim lead to destruction, pain and suffering.

You’re sorry? After everything you’ve put me through, that’s all you have to say? You’re sorry? You were right, I am an idiot for not knowing better, for not staying away from you. When you confided to me that you worked alone because no one could stand you. I should have known. Should have seen it as a warning, not a challenge. That I could somehow fix you, make you see there was more to life than work. Now I know why they all left. How they will always leave you. Because you just care about yourself, about your precious work, hell be damned to the rest of us or anyone that dares stand in your way. Sorry isn’t good enough. It won’t take back all the time I wasted with you.

Whatever relaxing effect the bath had was gone as Jim’s last words echoed in Sherlock’s head. He could even picture the bandages and the sling holding Jim’s broken arm, as well as his look of disgust. Just thinking of John saying something similar made Sherlock want to vomit.

This was why Sherlock had been careful with John at first. He didn’t want to let his guard down like he had with Jim. Now Sherlock knew to keep his distance, to protect himself and prevent any distractions from their work.

And yet here Sherlock was, a few months into their partnership, realising he had feelings for John he couldn’t indulge. Because no matter how Sherlock felt, crossing into a romantic relationship would mean showing John all those parts of himself he had been keeping hidden away. A romance meant John would leave, which meant distractions, which led to death and destruction.

Would the Warehouse be enough for John to stay? Would Sherlock be enough?

Me too.

That’s what John had said last night. Why would John say he was also glad to have come back? They hadn’t talked about it, so what had happened between storming out and the next evening? Oh God, was it the snuggling? No, that wasn’t significant enough. There must be something Sherlock didn’t know. Perhaps it was related to John’s ability? Questions flowed through Sherlock’s mind and the lack of answers was maddening.

Forgetting his current condition, Sherlock threw out his arms and arched his back. His wound stung and throbbed, ripping a painful shout from him. Sherlock gasped and hissed, barely noticing John barge into the bathroom.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Bad move,” Sherlock gasped, arms wrapped around his belly.

John put down the manuscript he was holding on the edge of the sink, then sat on the toilet while Sherlock breathed through the pain. John was now wearing a fresh t-shirt, dark blue with matching pyjama trousers. Sherlock was tempted to touch, but the pain was still too intense to move. The urge was so sudden, so strong, as if the acknowledgement of his feelings for John had released something in Sherlock he had also been trying to keep hidden.

Sherlock noticed the manuscript. A perfect distraction. “You still haven’t told me about the case,” he said through clenched teeth.

John frowned. Sherlock nodded towards the text. John eyed it before looking back at him.

“I’m fairly sure it’s not enough of a challenge to distract you from the pain.”

Sherlock struggled to laugh. That wasn’t what he was trying to distract himself from. “I’m willing to try.” He took a deep breath and gently leaned back in the tub. “What’s it called anyway?”

John looked away, biting his lip. That seemed like an odd reaction to the question.

“The Big Snag.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose in disgust. “That’s a terrible name.”

John scratched his stubble. “Perhaps, but I am enjoying the story.”

“So, what’s the case?”

“It’s not--” John looked down a moment. “It’s easier if you just read it.”

“Fine, read it to me.” Sherlock wondered if he was pushing it, but John didn’t seem put off. He was frowning, but he looked like he was trying not to smile.

“You want me to read to you?”

“No need to start from the beginning, I’m sure I’ll catch up.”

John eyed the manuscript and licked his lips. When he turned back to Sherlock, he had a look in his eye that made Sherlock’s heart beat faster.

“Maybe another time.”

Oh.

“But I am willing to wash your hair,” John added.

Sherlock frowned and raised his hands to his head. He had forgotten that he had just spent the last few minutes tugging at it. He tried patting it down, but that just made John smile.

“I think it needs a good scrubbing.”

John’s evasiveness about the book aside, John couldn’t mean anything intimate by the suggestion: surely he was just being a good caregiver. He knew that raising his arms over his head was still painful for Sherlock. What made Sherlock hesitate was the fact that he had an extremely sensitive scalp. Which rendered the suggestion unsound, dangerous even.

Like an idiot, Sherlock replied, “Alright.”

John nodded and slipped out of the bathroom. Sherlock could hear him rummaging in the kitchen and asked himself what he had just gotten himself into. He shouldn’t have said yes. He should have dealt with the pain.

God, I could do anything with you right now, look at you.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and pushed back the memory. Jim had done many things to Sherlock during their time together. Most of them Sherlock prefered to forget.

But he had never offered to wash his hair.

John came back with a chair and a pitcher. He set the chair next to the tub, facing Sherlock.

“Sit up and tilt your head back.”

Sherlock shifted forward in the tub. He placed both arms behind himself, flat on the bottom of the tub to hold himself up, then slowly tipped his head back. With one hand, John dipped the pitcher into the water, then used his other hand to shield Sherlock’s eyes while he poured the water over his curls.

On the second pass, some of the water made it past John’s hand, running down Sherlock’s forehead and into his eyes.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Sherlock didn’t expect John’s hand on the side of his face. John wiped the water off Sherlock’s eyes and cheeks with his thumb. Sherlock held so still he forgot to breathe.

“There you go.”

John’s voice was barely above a whisper. After so many days of being cold and distant, his touch was so gentle and caring that Sherlock felt starved. At least now he knew why.

John filled and poured the jar one last time before reaching across the tub for the shampoo. Sherlock shifted inside the tub to lean back.

“Can you tip your head forward?” John asked while he rubbed the shampoo in his hands.

Sherlock did as John asked, and was grateful to be looking down at the bubbles, or what was left of them, while John lathered his hair. It was better to keep his face hidden rather then let John see how terrible an idea this was. John’s fingers were doing things to his scalp that should be illegal. Sherlock had to actively fight against the urge to squirm and lean into John’s touch. Sherlock bit his lip hard, battling with the groan of pleasure that wanted to escape as John started massaging the base of his skull. Shivers ran up and down Sherlock’s spine. God, those hands. They had the strength and skill to kill and heal. Imagine what they could do with--

Sherlock’s cock stirred.

Shit. At least this time it was caused by physical contact, not just a fantasy of John in the shower. Sherlock opened his eyes and was grateful to see enough bubbles covering his groin. For now. This was such a bad idea. Sherlock could feel his cheeks flush, the heat spreading on his face and down his neck. Hopefully John would think it was the heat of the water and not the fact he had a growing erection hidden beneath the bubbles.

John’s hands slowed. “You ok?”

“Fine.”

Sherlock wasn’t fine at all. All he wanted to do was tell John not to stop, and wondering if it was possible to have an orgasm from a scalp massage. None of this was fine.

John’s hands started moving again. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. He could get through this. He had to.

It seemed like it was taking forever, and Sherlock felt guilty for enjoying it so much. His cock felt heavy, even underwater. His hands twitched, yearning to take himself in hand and follow John’s rhythm. Eventually, John’s hands moved from Sherlock’s hair down his neck, using the shampoo to slide on his skin and massage the tense muscles in the process. The movement was gentle yet firm. Sherlock leaned into the touch and swayed back into place, cursing himself silently.

“Time to rinse,” John announced softly as he pulled his hands away and rinsed them in the water.

Sherlock eyes widened as the bubbles moved. He shifted his legs to hide himself, then rearranged the bubbles while John reached for the pitcher.

Once the bubbles were in place, Sherlock hesitated before tipping his head back . The rinsing process was bound to reveal his current…situation. Sherlock knew John was a professional and wouldn’t mention anything. That didn’t mean he wanted John to know he got a boner from getting his hair washed.

Resigned, Sherlock tilted his head back. Like earlier, John filled the pitcher and placed his hand on Sherlock’s forehead to protect his eyes.

After three pitchers of water and Sherlock’s silent prayer that John had not noticed his erection, John wiped the water off Sherlock’s forehead, “I imagine you don’t just use shampoo.”

Oh God.

“The bottle next to where you found the shampoo. Same color, with ‘conditioner’ written on it. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

There was a low chuckle as John reached for the bottle. Sherlock looked down and saw his very visible cock in the water. He looked up and saw John solely focused on the bottle.

Oh no, John had seen his erection. Of course he saw, it was right there. Humiliated, Sherlock didn’t bother replacing the remaining bubbles, just leaned back against the tub, tipped his head forward and closed his eyes.

He should have skipped the conditioner. It could only make things worse. But everything inside Sherlock screamed to get as much of John’s touch as he could while he could.

Sherlock pinched his lips together when he felt John’s hands once more. John started by spreading the conditioner from the front to the back of Sherlock’s head. Then he threaded his fingers through the locks and massaged it in. Obviously, John was doing it all wrong, using it as if it were shampoo, but it didn’t matter. Sherlock wished he would never stop.

Inevitably, John pulled away and grabbed the pitcher to rinse. Sherlock didn’t bother checking his throbbing cock in the water, just tipped his head back. John rinsed his hair one last time, again taking the time to wipe Sherlock’s forehead afterwards.

“Do you want to get out or soak a bit more?”

Sherlock kept a straight face even though he found the question odd. Had John really refrained from looking at Sherlock’s groin the entire time?

“Soak.” After all, Sherlock needed a moment to take care of his now aching cock.

“Right. Be back in a few.”

John grabbed the chair and pitcher and manoeuvered out of the bathroom. The door was left wide open, but Sherlock didn’t care, he finally wrapped a hand around his length and squeezed. A hiss slipped past Sherlock’s lips. This wouldn’t take long. This was most likely a terrible idea, he could hear John rummaging in the kitchen, but it was the most efficient way of ridding himself of his erection and the mess.

Slowly, to prevent the water from splashing, he moved his hand up and down. Sherlock quickly covered his mouth with his other hand, holding back the moan of pleasure and relief that wanted to escape. As he pumped his fist over his cock, the hand over Sherlock’s mouth moved to the back of his head, carding his fingers through his hair. He imagined John’s hands instead of his and tugged his hair. Sherlock felt the shiver running down his back and his cock twitch in his hand. Just a bit more. He sped up his hand and in a strangled breath, Sherlock came, his sperm lost within the water and bubbles. Whether or not he had managed to stay silent didn’t matter anymore. All he wanted was to relax and enjoy the rush of hormones and the warmth of the water for as long as he could.

There was a soft knock on the door some time later. Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John leaning against the frame. How long had he been standing there watching him?

“Did you doze off?”

Sherlock rubbed his face and tried to sit up. “I think so.”

“You ready to get out?”

“Yes.”

John took off his socks and rolled up his pyjama trousers. “Just let me get a leg in.”

Sherlock shifted his legs to the side to leave John room. Once he his foot was stable in the water, John leaned in. He wrapped one arm around Sherlock and the other on the rim. Sherlock held onto the rim as well and with a brisk heave, they got Sherlock in a crouched position inside the tub.

“Now up. One, two, three.”

They worked together to get Sherlock to a standing position. Sherlock expected John to step out of the tub, but he didn’t. Soon enough, Sherlock understood why; his relaxed muscles weren’t prepared for the strain. Pain radiated from his belly and down his legs, making him wobble a bit.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Just very relaxed.”

John stepped out of the tub while keeping a hold on Sherlock. Once John was out, Sherlock tried to raise his leg to step over the rom if the tub, only he couldn’t lift it high enough. It caught on the edge of the tub. Before Sherlock could figure out what to do, John grabbed his knee and guided Sherlock’s leg up over the rim and onto the floor. Sherlock’s brain short-circuited briefly, his body shifted his weight on muscle memory alone. John repeated the process with Sherlock’s other leg.

Sherlock shivered from the cold tiles under his feet and the droplets of water sliding down his now clean skin. John reached for a towel, wrapped it around Sherlock and rubbed along his arms.  

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” John’s voice sounded comforting to Sherlock.

Slowly, they made their way to the bedroom. John thankfully didn’t bother dressing him; simply pulled back the covers, unwrapped the towel and helped Sherlock into bed.

Once Sherlock was tucked in, he looked up at John. Sherlock probably wouldn’t get a better occasion than this to try and breach the topic.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“About the other night,” Sherlock started, “I…” He didn’t what to say, still hadn’t found the right words.

John looked away. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

John turned to Sherlock and frowned. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. Better get to the point.

“I’m sorry.”

John looked down. “Don’t worry about it.” He took a step towards the door.

“I mean it, John, I’m sorry.” Seeing John’s obvious urge to leave made the words tumble out. “I didn’t mean to--I mean, I-I--” Sherlock sighed. “I wasn’t trying to insult you or make you feel like you were only as interesting as an artifact. You’re much more than that.”

John’s hands clenched. Sherlock paused to choose his words before he accidently admitted his feelings to John.

“You’re kind, loyal, patient, brave, wise, and I’m… not. Your self-sacrifice with the glove aside, I--I don’t deserve you. As a partner, as a flatmate, or even as a doctor. Even though you have every reason, every right to leave the Warehouse, I’m glad you came back.” Sherlock stopped when he heard the words out loud. He needed a moment to swallow down the lump in his throat. “So… thank you.”

John was looking at his own feet Sherlock during his speech. The silence was heavy between them, making Sherlock feel raw and exposed. He wanted John to leave so he could lick his wounds.

John wavered towards the door, then nodded to himself and looked Sherlock in the eye.

“You’re an obnoxious arsehole.”

Sherlock recoiled.

“Sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m doing here,” John continued. “But let me be very clear: if I ever leave the Warehouse, it will be against my will. You are stuck with me, whether you want to or not.”

John’s words weighed heavily on Sherlock’s chest. He was so relieved to hear John say the Warehouse was enough, even though Sherlock wished he was the reason John was staying. John was here for good, that’s what mattered.

“Now,” John continued, “how about an omelette for lunch?”

Sherlock nodded. He couldn’t speak right now.

“Good. Be right back.” John made his way out.

As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock felt his lip tremble and trapped it between his teeth. His breathing sped up as his eyes started to sting. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and cursed in his head as he felt tears roll down his cheeks. Why was he crying? He was thrilled that John was staying, so how--?

“Ah!” John’s shout echoed through the corridor into the bedroom.

Sherlock head snapped towards the door. “John?!”

“Sorry, it’s fine.”

Sherlock relaxed. “What is it?”

“Just a bit surprised to see our new fireplace mantel.” John added.

Sherlock let his head fall back and sighed. A new mantle. Definitely a pattern. Sherlock still couldn’t tell if it was John or himself causing the changes, but their relationship definitely had something to do with it.

Chapter Text

The next morning started off the same, Sherlock listening to the floor creak as John got out of bed and came downstairs. As they went through the motions of getting Sherlock out of bed and into the bathroom, Sherlock noticed he had reached the treacherous phase where he forgot he was wounded and was reminded by his body every time he tried to move to fast or too far. Curious to find his body’s new limits, Sherlock slowly raised an arm over his head. His process was cut short by a loud crash coming from the kitchen. Before he could ask John if everything was alright, Sherlock heard him say, “For fuck’s sake Mycroft, would it kill you to come in through the door?”

“Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You do remember I’m ex-special forces, right? 

“I do.”

“So you understand that one day I’ll be holding a gun when you appear out of thin air. That day I will not be held responsible if you get shot.”

“No need for threats, Agent Watson.”

“No need to pop in before coffee, sir .”

Sherlock chuckled as he finished and pulled up his pants. John knocked on the bathroom door moments later.

“Come in.”

John walked in, closed the door, and leaned against it, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “I imagine you heard you need to get dressed.”

“Hard to miss.” Sherlock raised his chin. “Let’s get it over with.”

“...Or I could shoot him.”

“God, yes.” 

John chuckled as he pushed off the door. “Don’t tempt me.”

Sherlock pushed aside all thoughts of tempting John and focused on the unpleasant task at hand.

“Pyjamas or...?” John asked once Sherlock was sitting on his bed.

“If he wanted me to be dressed properly he should have called.”

John smirked and fished out a t-shirt and bottoms from Sherlock’s drawers. 

“Think you put on the shirt yourself?” John asked as he kneeled in front of Sherlock and unfolded the bottoms.

Sherlock picked up the t-shirt laying next to him and decided to try. He slid his arms into the holes and gently raised them over his head and pulled down. He could feel the soreness in his muscles from the lack of activity, but managed to put on his t-shirt without any (intense) pain.

John smiled when he saw Sherlock’s head pop out of the collar. 

“Want to try standing up on your own?” John added, pushing up the pyjamas up Sherlock’s legs at the same time.

Sherlock grabbed onto the waist of pyjamas with one hand and placed the other on the bed. He tried giving himself momentum by rocking back, but all it did was make Sherlock fall forward into John’s arms.

“Ow.” 

The pain wasn’t that bad, but Sherlock felt weak that morning. Not in the physical sense, but rather that he wasn’t trying to straighten himself or move his head away from be against John’s chest.

“I think you need some help with your technique.” John sounded breathless, probably because he was holding Sherlock up.

John’s arms tightened his hold around Sherlock and heaved him up. It helped Sherlock get his feet back under him, but it took a moment for his balance to kick in so he could stand. Well, it was partly due to his balance, also not wanting to see Mycroft, but mostly Sherlock did not want to leave the warmth and comfort of John’s arms. 

“You alright?” 

Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled away from John. “Fine.”  

While holding only one of John’s hands, Sherlock walked out to the sitting room. Mycroft was waiting for them in Sherlock’s armchair. His eyes travelled over the pair as they slowly made their way to the couch. Sherlock ignored his brother and focused on settling on the couch as painlessly as he could. It worked surprisingly well, but Sherlock decided to play it up, closing his eyes and breathing heavily.

“How are you Sherlock?”

“I got stabbed.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “How is your recovery going?”

“Fine.” Sherlock replied through clenched teeth.

He knew Mycroft wasn’t here because he cared. They were stuck in the middle of their investigation of the GPS, had barely averted a Warehouse catastrophe and were using an artifact to heal Sherlock; the Council must be breathing down Mycroft’s neck for a status update.

“I assume you’re using Clara Barton's Glove on a daily basis?” Mycroft continued.

“We are.” John sat on the couch, much closer than Sherlock was expecting. 

“Any negative side effects?” 

John raised an eyebrow. “Besides sucking the life out of me, you mean?”

Mycroft’s lips formed the thin line that was meant as an apologetic smile, but Sherlock always thought he looked like he was smelling something foul.

John sipped his coffee. “No visible side effects for now.” 

“Good. Are we still on schedule?”

Sherlock frowned. Schedule? What schedule? 

“Yes, Sherlock should be cleared for work in about two weeks.”

What?! Two weeks! But that’s... Wait. Two weeks ? Not months? Wow, that is fast. Thank God for John and the glove.

“Good.” Mycroft eyed Sherlock briefly before turning to John. “Any issues with the painkillers?”

Sherlock tried not to visibly tense. Damn Mycroft and his meddling. Of course he knew about the Dog Tags; he was the Warehouse’s Caretaker, he had a metaphysical bond with the Warehouse. Bringing up drugs was meant to remind Sherlock what happened the last time he let his feelings distract him from his work. 

John sipped his coffee. “Nope.”

Sherlock visualised his older brother spontaneously combusting under the force of his glare.

“Good.” Mycroft’s smile grew minutely as he looked at Sherlock. “I’m glad.” 

“Wonderful,” Sherlock replied flatly. “Now you can disappear to whatever secret meeting you have scheduled.” 

Mycroft eyed Sherlock as if he was being patient with a child. He stood, buttoned his suit jacket and turned to John. “Keep me informed.” 

Sherlock stopped himself from frowning. John was updating Mycroft about him? Had he doing this before the injury? 

“What, no disappearing act? Am I actually going to see you walk out of a room for the first time?” John sipped his coffee.

Mycroft’s unamused face appeased Sherlock; clearly, if John was informing Mycroft of anything related to Sherlock, it was reluctantly. 

With a curt nod, Mycroft turned and left. They both let out a sigh of relief when the door closed behind him.

John put down his mug. “That was...”

“Unpleasant.” Sherlock finished.

“Could have been worse. I mean, he could’ve stayed for breakfast.”

Sherlock shuddered at the idea and John burst out laughing. Sherlock didn’t fight the urge to join him, even if it made his wound ache a bit. The day had started horribly, but their mutual hatred for Mycroft seemed to ease the remaining distance between them. Sherlock felt the knot in his chest untwist a bit. 

“Scrambled eggs sound good to you?” John asked once their laughter had died down.

Sherlock nodded and John smiled. It was the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. The one that made Sherlock’s heart skip a beat. He watched John move around in the kitchen. Well, the bit of counter and stove he could see from the couch. He had to imagine the rest. Sherlock had spent the last few days listening from his bed. It was nice to get to see John, even if only partially. 

He was wearing his pyjamas and bathrobe, barefoot with his hair still frumpled from sleep. Sherlock fantasized about walking up behind John, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Sherlock was thankful he couldn’t actually get up from the couch, but once he could move freely, it would become much harder to hold back.

Something caught his ear while John was out of sight. Sherlock listened carefully. Was... was John humming? Had he been humming every morning and Sherlock couldn’t hear from his bedroom, or was it just today? How could John be in a good mood after Mycroft’s visit?

John came out of the kitchen holding two plates of scrambled eggs and toast. He handed one to Sherlock before settling himself at the desk with the paper. They ate in comfortable silence. Sherlock found himself grateful not to be eating alone in his bedroom again, and found himself surveilling John while he read. 

By bite number five, a slight frown appeared between John’s eyebrows. Sherlock figured it was likely due to the article John was reading, but by the next bite of toast, his eyes had stopped moving on the page. Sherlock recognized the signs; John was thinking about something, and Sherlock was almost certain he knew what it was: Mycroft’s fault.

Sherlock could either wait until John asked, or he could get this over with. He hope he wouldn’t regret it.

“Something on your mind?” 

John blinked and looked up. “Hm?” 

“You’ve been staring at the same word for a while now.”

“Oh.” John leaned back in his chair and gave Sherlock a nervous smile. John looked at the door where Mycroft had left. “I was, uh, thinking about the note in your file about, um, drug dosages.”

Sherlock tried to swallow around the beating heart in his throat. John looked like he didn’t know how to hold himself. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. John couldn’t know that by broaching this subject, he was opening Pandora’s Box. Though not the one stored in the Warehouse, a metaphorical one.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. John’s offer was tempting.

Sherlock looked down and took a deep breath. “What do you want to know?”

John worried his lip a moment. “What did you use to take?” 

Sherlock tried not to flinch at the question. Straight to it then. 

“A seven percent solution of cocaine that I took at a perfectly timed dosage to be able to increase my mental capabilities. Nothing dangerous.”

John’s and nodded. “Nothing dangerous. Right.” John shook his head and leaned his elbows on his knees. “How long since the last time you used?”

“Isn’t that in my file?”

“You wouldn’t be evading the question if it was accurate.”

Sherlock looked away. He could hear the morning news on Mrs. Hudson’s telly through the floor.

“Five years.”

Five years, two months, eleven days, six hours and 43 minutes. 

John’s shoulders loosened. “Why did you start?”

Sherlock looked down at his half-eaten plate. He knew he couldn’t tell John everything, but he still wanted him to know.

“A few years ago I… my previous partner and I, we’d been chasing the GPS for weeks and getting increasingly irritated at our failures.” Sherlock signed as he remembered. “One day, I was doing maintenance in the Warehouse and,” Sherlock shook his head, “I was distracted.  A rookie mistake. All I could think about was… well, you know how it is with artifacts, you look away for a second and,” Sherlock mimicked an explosion with his hands. 

John nodded. 

“It was bad,” Sherlock continued. “It was--” Memories of fire and screaming echoed in his mind. “It was all my fault.” 

Sherlock realised he’d never actually talked about this, never tried to explain what had happened and how it had affected him. Sherlock closed his eyes and pushed through. 

“The explosion it… I lost everything that day. I couldn’t control myself, couldn’t stay focused and I… I lost my partner.” Sherlock took in a shaky breath. “I was brought to trial by the Council, and almost got banned from the Warehouse. They let me go back to work, which meant chasing the GPS alone, and I--” Sherlock bit his lip and looked down. “So I--I turned to cocaine. Only for a little while. It helped me make some progress, almost caught the GPS, but then it...it got out of hand. Then Mycroft found out. I was put on leave indefinitely. It took me six months to get clean and cleared for work.”

Sherlock decided to stop there. He started at the pattern of his pyjamas as he waited for John’s reaction. 

“I’m sorry about your partner. I know how rough that can be.” 

Sherlock nodded but didn’t look up. 

“If you ever feel like using again, you can come talk to me.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Cause if I find out you’re using again, I’ll find you and kick your arse.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

John cleared his throat. “More coffee?”

Sherlock nodded and watched John dissapeared into the kitchen.  He was relieved to have a moment to himself. Sherlock hadn't revisited those memories in years and felt unsettled. H e hadn't told John the whole story, it was best not to, but had told enough to make it clear why the work would always come first. 

Chapter Text

John sat on the coffee table facing the couch, knees brushing up against the cushions as he slipped the glove out of the neutralizing bag.

Sherlock didn’t know why, but John was in a good mood today. Not that he was complaining. On the contrary, Sherlock was thrilled to see John smiling. But he also had that fond look in his eye that gave Sherlock butterflies, which was rather not good since he was trying not to not think about how much he wanted to kiss John, and that face wasn’t helping. They had spent most of the morning in the sitting room together; John read the paper and his silly detective story, while Sherlock continued research on artifact testing. 

They would stop to talk now and then, making the whole ordeal rather domestic. The touching wasn’t helping either. After breakfast John convinced Sherlock to try and walk around the flat, claiming it would give his muscles a bit of a workout. It seemed to make John genuinely happy that Sherlock agree to a few arm exercises. It turned out to be worth it. Sherlock would do the movements, and John would correct his posture. One hand on the arm, the other either on his shoulder or waist.

After lunch John suggested they use the glove, so here Sherlock was, lying on the couch. He had his t-shirt raised up to his chest, watching John slip on the glove and desperately trying not to think about how it would be so easy to reach out and--

“How does it feel when you use the glove?” Sherlock blurted out, desperate for a distraction.

John eyed Sherlock suspiciously while he put on the glove. Admittedly, questioning John about his ability probably wasn’t the best idea.

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“It feels like it has a mind of its own.”

Sherlock turned, surprised John was answering. 

John looked down at his gloved hand and wiggled his fingers. “When I have it on it… well, it doesn’t exactly come to life, but I can sense it, as if we were connected. When I get close to your wound it...” John extended his gloved hand above the wound.

Sherlock felt the now familiar tingle across his newly scarred skin as the leather of the glove lit up faintly. “It starts glowing?” 

John glanced at Sherlock and smirked, but it looked strained. “Obviously,” John mocked. “When it does, it feels like it’s latching on, ready to suck the life out of me.” 

Sherlock noticed a tremble in John’s hand. “Are you holding it back?”

“Yeah, and It gets stronger the closer I get.” John pulled away and the glove went dark.

Sherlock tried to hide his worry. “So stopping once the healing starts--”

“Surprisingly difficult, yeah, but it’s not so much the physical strength that’s hard, it’s the rest that I--” 

“The rest?” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What rest? You never mentioned anything else.”

“I don’t know if it’s a side effect or because of my empathy, but I--I’m not sure how to explain this.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Clara Barton managed field hospitals during the American Civil War, right? So, the purpose of the glove is to heal.”

“And you sense its purpose.”

John nodded. “So when I pull away before you’re completely healed, I’m going against the artifact’s will.”

Sherlock stared at the glove. “Does that make it angry?” If it did, this could become problematic. 

John shook his head. “For now it’s only been guilt, remorse, sadness. But over time it might? We’ll have to wait and see.”

Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This explained why John had been so evasive when Sherlock questioned him about it. 

“Are you sensing the artifact’s emotions, or are you feeling them?”

John looked down. “Both.”

“We should stop.” Sherlock whispered.

“We don’t have to, I’m fine.”

“You are not fine or you would have told me about this.”

“I didn’t notice the first time, I was too focused on the pain.” John looked up, shoulders hunched. “But you’re right, I should have told you.”

Sherlock appreciated the sentiment, but it didn’t change the situation. “I don’t like what it’s doing to you.”

“I’ve been managing it just fine.”

“Artifact side-effects aren’t something you should be dealing with in the first place.”

“As you say, it’s part of the job.”

“What if it gets out of hand?”

“Then that would mean you would be fully healed and could take care of the situation.”

“John, you can’t just--Don’t you see the gravity of the situation? The risk to your life? What if you lose control of the artifact? Not physically but mentally. What happens then?”

“I know, I know and I’m sorry. Especially after all those speeches about teamwork and communication. I just didn’t want to worry you.”

At least John looked genuinely apologetic. The important thing now was that Sherlock was aware of the side-effects, and could hopefully do something to ease them. It was the least he could do for John.

“Fine. We keep using the glove, but as soon as you sense a change, you tell me about it. If it gets dangerous, we stop.”

“Deal.”

They smiled at each other, and for the first time, Sherlock felt like they had found their balance as a team. 

“You should sit on the couch.” Sherlock was surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth. Fueled by panic, he blurted out even more. “Because you need to recover after. And I’m in good enough shape to sit during the treatment.”

John seemed to ponder this for a moment, his brow furrowing before he tilted his head to the side and shrugged. He removed the glove, helped Sherlock sit up, and settled himself on the couch next to him. John slipped the glove back on and turned to Sherlock

“You ready?”

Sherlock lifted up his shirt and nodded. John outstretched his hand and soon enough, Sherlock felt his scar tingling. The glove glowed softly, become brighter and stronger as John lowered his arm. Sherlock braced himself, fingers digging into the cushions on either side of him. There was a bright flash when John’s finger made contact, then everything went dark. Sherlock blinked, waiting for his eyes to focus after being blinded by the light. Slowly, he saw John’s form appear, hunched, the glove held far away from them both. 

“You alright?”

John nodded. “You?”

Sherlock looked down at his wound. There was barely any redness left, just the soft pink of scarring skin. The recovery was far from over, most of the damage was inside, but it was still an amazing sight to see. 

Sherlock pulled down his t-shirt. “I’m fine.” 

With a heavy sigh, John reached for the neutralizing bag next to him, and pulled off the glove. Once the artifact was safely sealed, he tossed it onto the coffee table and sank into the couch. His arms were wrapped around his midriff, breath still laboured. Sherlock glanced at him and saw he had his eyes closed. It suddenly struck Sherlock how John looked like an addict in need of a fix. Just the thought brought back memories of his own recovery, of his own pain and emotional turmoil during that time. No wonder John needed hours to recuperate.

“How’s the guilt trip?”

John swallowed. “It’s in progress.” 

Sherlock could feel the weight of the words in John’s voice and wondered what he could do to help. He thought back to what had helped him during the worst of cocaine withdrawal symptoms. As much as he hated to admit it, it was Mrs Hudson’s daily visits, and Molly’s weekly ones. Even though all he wanted to do at the time was hide in a dark corner and never come out, those visits, the few minutes where he was forced to tell them how he was feeling, managed to ease his misery.

“Tell me.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me how it feels.”

John huffed. “Sherlock, I don’t want to answer research questions right now.”

“It’s not about research, it’s to help you.”

“How is an interrogation going to help me?”

“It’s not an interrogation, it’s therapy.”

“Therapy.”

“Yes.”

“You swear it’s not research?”

“I swear. I just want to help.”

“Fine.” John closed his eyes and sighed. “Right now I’m… tired.” John worried his lip. “And sad.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why sad?”

“Because I failed,” John whispered, words dripping with shame. 

Whether the culprit was a side effect or John’s empathy didn’t matter. It was no use trying to rationalise these emotions. Sherlock knew what John needed to hear right now.

“You didn’t fail. You healed me. Not as much as you wanted, but still. You did it, John.”

John crossed his arms tighter around himself. He looked exhausted, defeated. Sherlock had never seen John in such a vulnerable state, it was always hidden by a layer of anger. It made Sherlock uncomfortable. Not because he didn’t want to see John like this, he did, but this felt… intimate. Something that went beyond partners and friends. Sherlock felt like he was taking advantage of the situation, that he didn’t deserve to share this moment with John. 

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

John nodded and rubbed his face with his hands. When he lowered his arms, one covered his midriff, the other fell to the couch between them. His hand brushed against Sherlock’s in the process. With all their recent touching, Sherlock thought he would be used to it by now, but apparently he was still affected by unexpected physical contact with John. Or perhaps it was having an addicting effect: the more they touched, the more Sherlock wanted to touch. At least that would explain his urge to grab hold of John’s hand. To his surprise, Sherlock saw John’s fingers fan out on the cushion. Tentatively, Sherlock did the same and watched as his fingers inchedcloser to John’s. When they came in contact, John’s hand immediately moved to cover Sherlock’s with his own, holding it tightly. Sherlock stared at their joined hands while his heart attempted to escape his chest. He wasn’t sure if this was the best idea, but John let a slow breath out his lips and squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“Thank you,” John whispered. 

Sherlock squeezed back. “Anytime.”

“Sherlock?”

The hand on his shoulder had a stronger waking effect than his name. He must have fallen asleep while reading up on Clara Barton.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

John got Sherlock to his feet and helped him walk to the bedroom. Next was Sherlock’s new favourite part of the day: getting ready for bed. John pulled back the covers, helped Sherlock sit on the bed, then reached for the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt and gently pulled it over his head. With one hand on Sherlock’s back and the other under his legs, John laid him down. He pulled up the covers and rather than leaving, John sat on the edge of the bed.

“I was thinking,” John spoke softly in the dim light. “‘Maybe we could try a second healing session today.”

Sherlock frowned. This was an odd suggestion after the rather intense session they had shared earlier. “Why?”

“When we first tried this out, I said I would do it once a day, depending on how I could manage the side effects. That’s still true, but today, I--” John licked his lips. “In the past, when I would use the glove and then isolate myself afterward, it would take me hours to recover. Today, with your help, it took about half that time.”

“And you think you feel well enough to test a second heal.”

John nodded. 

“How do you know this isn’t part of the emotional backlash?”

“It’s a possibility, but we won’t know until we test it.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know if he could trust John right now, but more importantly, Sherlock didn’t know if he could trust himself. The prospect of another intimate moment with John was tempting, as was the impression he was taking advantage of the situation. But John was right, they couldn’t know until they tested it.

“Fine.”

While John stepped out to get the glove, Sherlock realised this was about to happen in his bed. He felt torn in half at the thought; as excited as he was, this was the last place he should be with John. The creak in the floorboards made Sherlock look to the door as John crossed its threshold. He walked around to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge. 

Sherlock watched, feeling conflicted and powerless as John took the artifact out of the bag and slipped it on. 

John shifted to face Sherlock. “Ready?”

Sherlock wasn’t, but he nodded anyway. He grabbed at the bedsheets when he felt the tingle in his wound, and closed his eyes. The touch came as a surprise, making Sherlock gasp before everything stopped abruptly. He opened his eyes and saw John sitting askew on the bed, doing his best to keep the glove away from them both. He was breathing hard, arm trembling under his body weight. Without thinking, Sherlock reached out and grabbed his other hand. John opened his eyes and stared at their hands. Sherlock held his breath, unsure if this was okay. As if they were weighed down by fatigue, John’s eyelids shut. Sherlock breathed out. 

They stayed like that for several breaths before John took off the glove. While he did, Sherlock pulled the bedspread up to his chest and waited with anticipation for John to lie down next to him.

His movements were slow, limp. John practically let himself fall onto his side of the bed. He shifted, grunting in the process, until he was on his back, knees bent, feet flat on the mattress. His hands covered his stomach, holding the residual pain of getting his life force sucked out of him.

Sherlock made himself stop staring and looked at the ceiling. He was supposed to help John cope with the side effects, not think about how close John was.

But John was lying right there . 

Sherlock glanced at John. He looked so sad, lost in the side effects.

“Tell me.” Sherlock whispered.

John shook his head and hugged himself tighter. Sherlock turned to lie on his side, grateful that he was experiencing little to no pain. The second healing session must have had quite an impact. He reached out to hold the closest of John’s hands. John immediately grabbed it and brought it up to his chest, holding it over his heart. 

“Tell me.” 

John took a shaky breath. “It’s harder. I knew it would be but I--” John choked back a sob and turned away.

Sherlock felt his heart break. All he wanted to do was help and he had no idea how. “What do you need?”

John didn’t respond. They stayed silent for what felt like ages. If John hadn’t had a death grip on his hand, Sherlock would have thought he had fallen asleep. Eventually, John looked up at the ceiling and rasped, “Can I hold you?”

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what John meant, but still answered, “Yes.”

John let go of Sherlock’s and slid his arm around his back, guiding him closer. Sherlock caught on and, with his heart in his throat, moved to lay his head on John’s chest. Their joined hands were an inch from his face, making Sherlock wonder how he had ended up there. 

It was, quite frankly, wonderful to be in John’s arms like this. So much so that Sherlock felt guilty for enjoying it. He was supposed to be caring for John, not letting himself indulge in sentiment. Sherlock tried to remain calm. At least what they were doing seemed to be working for John. Sherlock could feel his tension melting away. If only the urge to press himself against John from head to toe could stop. 

John turned his head towards Sherlock’s and murmured, “Thank you.” 

Sherlock could feel John’s lips move and felt goosebumps run down his neck and back. Without thinking, Sherlock shifted his head so his lips would press against John’s chest and answered, “Anything for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open when he realised what he had just said. Before he could tense up in panic, John let go of Sherlock’s hand and wrapped it around his back, pulling him closer with both arms. Sherlock followed John’s lead and found his entire body pressed up against John. This was heading into dangerous territory and Sherlock cursed how good it felt. 

It became even more alarming when John started rubbing his back, going from his shoulders to the dip of his waist. Sherlock fought the urge to squirm with all his might. He wanted to rub up against John like a cat. Which of course, was when, without any warning, John moved his leg. It brushed up much too close to Sherlock’s groin, giving it the unfortunate impression that it was being solicited. 

This train had severely derailed, and Sherlock, helpless, was panicking. He tried inching his hips away, but John only squeezed him closer. 

“You alright?”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and cursed every cell in human evolution that had led him to this moment. How was it the body was still unable to control its responses to unexpected stimuli?  And what was he supposed to answer? Technically, he was alright, just a little too alright. 

“Sherlock?”

John pulled back, which made his thigh graze across Sherlock’s now hard cock. A loud half-gasp, half-moan escaped Sherlock and echoed in the room.

They both went very still. The only movement was Sherlock’s hair getting ruffled by John’s uneven breathing. 

This was bad. So very bad. They were heading in a direction they could not go. There were very important reasons why they shouldn’t do this. Sherlock could not remember them right now, but that wasn’t the point. John wasn’t in his right mind; this was a side effect of the artifact. They needed to stop this immediately.

Sherlock needed to put a stop to this. He was about to pull away when John shifted and what was an unmistakable erection pressed against Sherlock’s belly. Whatever course of action Sherlock planned was lost in a wave of arousal.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry, I--”

“Let me help.” John punctuated his words by sliding one of his hands down Sherlock’s back, fingers catching in his waistband. “Please.” 

Sherlock’s eyes closed on their own as the scope of John’s offer washed over him. To make matters worse, John treacherously moved his thigh, deliberately brushing it along Sherlock’s cock. He wanted to say yes so, so badly. 

No, he needed to be clear-minded, which meant putting a stop to this.

“We can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because this is the side effects talking, not you.”

“So you don’t want me?”

Sherlock opened his mouth but he couldn’t think. Not if John kept rubbing his leg like that.

“Because I do. I’ve wanted you for a long time. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

Sherlock felt light-headed. This was exactly what he had been trying to prevent. He needed to stay away because he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. 

“John, we--we can’t.” Sherlock lost his words when John’s hand slid from his back to his head, brushing a few curls behind his ear. His fingers continued their trail down his neck, along his jaw and all the way to his chin. Gently, John tilted  Sherlock’s head up. He wasn’t ready to look at John, but he couldn’t turn away. So Sherlock let his head follow John’s lead, but didn’t meet his eye.

“I’m sure there are millions of reasons why Warehouse agents shouldn’t get involved, but I want you to put all that aside for now, look into my eyes, and tell me: do you want to stop?”

Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat and looked into John’s eyes. 

Did he want John to stop?

God, “No.” 

The next thing he knew, Sherlock was on his back and John was diving down to capture his lips in a kiss. It was all going so fast. A surprised sound came from somewhere inside Sherlock’s throat, answered by a pleading one from John. 

Sherlock kissed back, not quite believing this was really happening. He finally knew how John’s lips felt against his. Sherlock was so enthralled that he didn’t care about the ungodly sound that came out when John ground their hips together. This wasn’t going to last. It was too much too soon. Sherlock wanted to savour the moment, but he couldn’t slow down, couldn’t help the whimpers that escaped their lips at every thrust. It wasn’t enough and it was too much. Sherlock thrashed beneath him, desperately seeking what he needed, when there was a loud crash. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked around, confused. He was alone, on the couch, his laptop face down on the floor next to him. 

It was a dream.

His head fell back, dejected. Sherlock found himself on the verge of tears as the memories of the dream began to dissolve. He felt pathetic. Pathetic for believing it was true. For being weak and giving in to temptation.

Sherlock pick up his laptop and hissed at the stretch. The lack of pain should have been a sign he was dreaming. Angry tears stung in his eyes as he booted up his computer and pointedly ignored his waning erection.

Mrs. Hudson’s flat door opened. Sherlock sighed. He didn’t want to see her right now. Only it wasn’t her footsteps on the stairs, but John’s, which was simultaneously better and worse.

Shaking himself, Sherlock wiped his eyes and blinked at the Clara Barton research on his screen.

“Hey,” John said from the corridor, “I heard a crash--”

“Dropped my laptop.” 

“Ah.” John reached the doorframe. “Tea?” 

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock laid back down and closed his eyes, listening to John fill the kettle and put it to boil. 

“Crazy dream?” 

Sherlock eyes snapped open. John was leaning against the kitchen door frame. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Don’t remember. I didn’t realise you were there.”

“You were mumbling in your sleep when Mrs Hudson called me down.”

Sherlock tried to remember what he had said, but all he could think about was John saying Let me help . 

“Wh--what did I say?”

John shrugged. “Couldn’t really make it out.” The kettle clicked and he disappeared into the kitchen.

At least Sherlock hadn’t said anything incriminating during his sleep.

“Mrs. Hudson insisted on cooking tonight.” John called from the kitchen. “She said she’d be up in about an hour with boeuf bourguignon.”

Sherlock nodded to the ceiling. She would be a good distraction this evening. The alternative was to spend it alone in his room, which was not the best option at the moment.

John emerged from the kitchen holding two cups of tea. Sherlock found himself hoping that John would sit on the couch with him rather than his armchair as per usual. Sherlock kept his eyes on the screen while John set one cup on the coffee table, and tried to conceal his disappointment when John turned away. 

He should have known the shared intimacy from earlier wasn’t enough to change John’s routine. After all, he was a creature of habit. 

That didn’t stop Sherlock’s discontent. Why should he be plagued with a dream after helping John through the side effects of the glove, while John remained seemingly unaffected? Just sitting in his chair, sipping tea, reading that damn detective story with absolutely no clue that Sherlock was trying not to get up and sit on John’s lap to continue where they had left off in his dream. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As conflicted as he felt, he was grateful it had been a dream. Sad, but grateful. Because no matter how he felt about John, how much he wanted to be closer, they couldn’t. The glove may have unexpected side-effects, but that wasn’t an excuse. He wouldn’t let himself give into sentiment next time. 

Putting on his best neutral face, Sherlock continued his research, and tried not to remember how dream-John’s lips had felt.

Chapter Text

While John retrieved the glove, Sherlock scowled at the fireplace. He couldn’t understand why the flat would transform the mantle from a classic wood varnish to an unfinished two by six that was more a shelf. At least the mirror above had remained the same. For now.

John settled on the couch next to Sherlock. “I’m assuming renovations would be useless?”

“Yup.”

“Right, well, let’s hope we don’t end up with a water fountain instead of a tub.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Don’t give it ideas.”

John laughed. Sherlock noticed he had been doing that a lot since yesterday. They had spent last night with Mrs Hudson and, to Sherlock’s surprise, they’d had a pleasant evening. She had told stories about old Warehouse Agents and the artifact catastrophes they’d caused. She hadn’t had a chance to tell these stories in years and was milking them for all they were worth. Sherlock spent the evening watching Mrs Hudson be delighted as John laughed and gasped in all the right places. Sherlock knew all the stories, but seeing how much John was enjoying them, he couldn’t bear to stop her.

John’s good mood extended to this morning when they had spent the better part of it doing physical therapy. He had helped Sherlock stretch, guiding him into the correct positions. The movements were becoming easier, while the feel of John’s hands on Sherlock’s arms, legs, and back were becoming harder to ignore. His skin tingled at every touch and he felt the absence long after they were gone.

After stretching, they had done a few exercises to strengthen his core muscles. They had been painful and exhausting, but worth it to see John’s delighted smile when Sherlock had managed to get up from a chair on his own.

“By the way I--” John’s voice brought Sherlock back into the moment. He looked up and saw John fiddling with the glove that was now on his hand. “I wanted to thank you. For yesterday. When you…” his hand tightened into a fist. “I’m not sure if it’s because of you or...but it helped.”

Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat. He wasn’t expecting John to thank him for something that seemed like the least he could do. “I’m glad I could help.”

John opened his mouth and closed it again. He cleared his throat, shifted to face Sherlock, and looked up. “Ready?”

Sherlock nodded instead of asking John what he was about to say. The healing process had become rather intimate, so it was best not to broach the subject more than they already had, in case Sherlock said something he shouldn’t. Instead, he focused on John’s face. He wanted to be able to see John fight the artifact and intervene if necessary. Problem was, even if Sherlock was looking at John, the light emitting from the glove became too bright to keep his eyes open.

When the light was gone, Sherlock opened them again. John was slumped back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. His face was contorted in pain. Sherlock had previously assumed it was physical pain, but now that he knew it was also emotional, he could see how deep a toll the healings were taking on John. Could see the nuances. The sharp angle of his brow. The slight wheeze in his breathing, as holding back tears. The way his body trembled and twitched in the effort to hold his gloved hand away from them both.

Sherlock reached for the neutralizing bag, slipped it over the artifact, grabbed it and pulled it off John’s hand. Sherlock tossed it onto the coffee table and looked back at John. He hadn’t moved, except that his now glove-free hand was balled into a fist, just like the other. They rested on John’s thighs, tremoring sporadically.

“You okay?”

“No.”

The syllable sounded like a choked-back sob. It echoed deep in Sherlock’s chest. It was unfair. All he wanted to do was to comfort John, take him in his arms and tell him it was all going to be okay. But if he did, he would be tempted to kiss him, which would cause irreparable damage since Sherlock wouldn’t be able to stop. Just like in his dream.

Instead, he reached out and covered John’s fist with his hand.

It wasn’t enough, but Sherlock stayed very still. He closed his eyes focused on the warmth under his palm. Soon after, John’s fist released, and gently turned, fingers lacing with Sherlock’s before squeezing his hand tightly.

Sherlock had to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut to stop the wave of emotion that overcame him. A mix of relief that he was helping John with this simple gesture, and anger that he couldn’t offer more. Only now was not the time to have an emotional breakdown, not while he was supposed to help John through his artifact-induced one.

Shaking himself of his emotional turmoil, Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and felt him squeeze back. It wasn’t enough, but it would do.

Eventually John’s breathing slowed. His hand relaxed.

To his surprise, Sherlock succumbed to sleep shortly after John.

A curious weight on his thighs woke Sherlock. He opened his eyes when he felt something else on his chest. There he saw a little pink ferret nose smelling his face.

“Ah!”

John snapped awake, sitting on the edge of the couch, looking around for the threat. Scared by Sherlock’s shout, the ferret ran off the couch and disappeared behind the bookcase.

“Was that the—ow.” John groaned and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“The ferret, yes.”

“Finally. Bloody thing has been keeping me awake for months.” John stood and peered behind the bookcase.

“Must be hungry if he’s finally come out of his hiding place.”

John sighed and stretched his neck from side to side. “Really, Sherlock?”

“You would have caught him much faster if you hadn’t insisted on those ridiculous traps.”

“Your alternative was to starve him!”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, you want to hear it so badly? You were right. Now help me, would you? I need you to block this side.”

Together, they finally caught the ferret.

“This is perfect timing,” Sherlock said as he watched John struggle to keep his hold on the animal. “Tomorrow you can drop the ferret off at the Warehouse nursery, and I’ll pick up a few artifacts for our trip to South Dakota.”

“You’re not coming.” John spotted the cage under a pile of books behind the black armchair.  

“What? Why? I’m in great shape, you said it yourself this morning.” 

“You are better,” John pushed the books off the cage, “but you aren’t one hundred percent yet, not to go back to work.” John held the animal with one hand as he opened it.

“I’m not going to work. I’m picking up a few things from the Warehouse.”

John tucked the ferret in the cage and headed into the kitchen. “You shouldn’t be working while you’re recovering.” He came out with bowls of water and food. “But I know asking you not to work is like telling you to stop breathing.” John offered them to the grateful animal before turning to Sherlock. “So how about you make me a list and I’ll bring you the artifacts.”

Sherlock considered insisting, but he didn’t want to ruin John’s ongoing good mood.

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock grunted as he tried to reach for his violin case without getting up from the couch. This morning’s exercises proved he was perfectly capable of doing it, but after standing up several times, his muscles ached, demanding a rest. He checked the time again. It had been 17 minutes since John had left for the Warehouse, but it felt like hours. Sherlock hadn’t realised how much he relied on John’s presence to prevent him from getting bored out of his mind.

He poked at his computer but couldn’t get himself to focus. He thought about making enough of a racket so Mrs Hudson would come upstairs, but it seemed like too much effort.

After 38 minutes, Sherlock huffed and got himself up from the couch. He walked over to his coat to get the barometer and do a bit of maintenance while he waited for John’s return. Only it wasn’t there. Sherlock checked every pocket, then looked around the room and sighed. There were no other artifacts in the flat except the glove, which could only mean one thing: Mrs Hudson. Knowing her, she must have used Sherlock’s extended leave as the perfect time to bring everything back to the Warehouse.

Sherlock returned to the couch, gently eased himself back down before reaching for his Farnsworth. After a few rings, John’s face finally appeared on the screen.

“Is everything alright?” John asked, his voice barely perceptible amongst the squeaking of ferrets in the background.

“Fine, just wanted to add something to the list.”

“What? This thing is already long enough, how am I supposed to bring all of this back?”

“If you had bothered to read it attentively, you would have seen my note about that.”

Sherlock saw John roll his eyes. The list appeared in the screen moments after. John eyes squinted as he read, then he scoffed. “Seriously?” He turned to the screen. “Mary Poppins’s bag?”

“It’s quite practical.”

“How much can it carry anyway?”

“I have yet to reach its limit.”

“But you’ve tried?”

“Officially: no.”

John snorted and turned away to release the ferret into the enclose before he walked back into the Warehouse area.

“So, what did you want to add to the list?”

“The barometer.”

John feigned shock. “How could you forget the barometer?”

Sherlock smiled at the memory of their first meeting. “I didn’t, I thought it was in the flat.”

John climbed onto the Edison kart, propped the phone against the dash, and pulled out the artifact locator.

As he watched John enter Mary Poppins’ bag into the device, Sherlock was grateful that John wasn’t trying to hang up. He could probably tell Sherlock was bored to death.

“There we go.” John propped the locator next to his phone. He looked at Sherlock and grabbed the steering wheel. “Let’s go.”

The high-pitched whirring of the electric kart could be heard, as well as the directions coming from the locator, making Sherlock feel as if he were there with John.

“Here we are,” John announced after a minute of navigating the rows of the Warehouse. The kart came to a stop. John stepped out of frame a moment and returned with the bag. “Wow, it’s exactly like in the movie.”

“What movie?”

John slowly turned to the screen with wide eyes. A smile broke through Sherlock’s facade.

“Arse.” John breathed and reached for the locator and the list. “Alright, what’s next?” He frowned at the list. “I can pick up the neutralizer when I get back, the Tesla guns too--”

“Given your current location in the Warehouse, you should get Benjamin Franklin’s ring next.”

John looked up. “His ring? What does it do?”

“Back up flashlight.”

“What? That’s it? It’s just a flashlight?”

“Technically, it makes the wearer’s hand glow.”

John laughed. “That’s ridiculous. I never could have guessed that’s what it did.” John typed the artifact into the locator.

“Want to try and guess the downside?”

“Hm,” John licked his lips as he thought. “It makes you go blind over time?”

“Close. It slowly drains the user’s energy.”

John scoffed. “Of course it does,” he mumbled as he propped the locator next to the phone.

Sherlock watched John slip on neutralizing gloves before picking up the small wooden box that contained Benjamin Franklin’s ring.

“Can you sense it?”

John eyed the screen and pinched his lips. “A bit, yeah. The gloves are dampening it.”

Sherlock bit his tongue before he could say fascinating . He didn’t want John to get the wrong impression. He watched him unlatch Mary Poppins’ bag and with a childlike smile, opened it slowly. He looked inside, curious.

“It’s like I can’t see the bottom. How am I supposed to—”

“Just put the box inside. You’ll see.”

John looked at the screen. Sherlock nodded.

“Okay.”

John took a deep breath. He raised the ring box and slowly lowered it in. Sherlock watched John’s arm disappear inside the bag. When it reached his elbow, John made a  small sound of surprise, and pulled his arm out, hand now empty. He looked into the bag a moment, closed it, then opened it again.

Sherlock couldn’t describe how watching John discover new artifacts with such a childlike glee made him feel. If he had been there with John, he probably would have kissed him right there, tangential energy be damned. The urge was so intense that Sherlock tilted the camera away a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut and found himself wishing he could reach over and grab John’s hand. Guilt washed over him. He shouldn’t have that urge, shouldn’t want to hold John’s hand whenever he wanted, which was almost constantly now.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m here,” Sherlock replied. He left the camera aiming away, but he could see John on the screen.

“Alright, which artifact should I get next?”

“Easter Island Conch.”

John hummed. “Alright, let me guess: it summons stone statues?”

Sherlock was grateful for the distraction of the game. “Nope.”

“It creates a protective barrier?”

Sherlock shook his head and remembered John couldn’t see him. “Try again.”

“It can let you hear statues talking?”

Sherlock laughed, high pitched. John would mistake it for enthusiastic amusement, but it was relief. John couldn’t know this, but with just this small exchange, he had managed to calm Sherlock down greatly. It was soothing, even if it nourished his yearning for more.

“Objects can’t speak, John.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

Sherlock smiled and changed the angle of the camera to look straight at John. “The conch lets you breathe underwater.”

“Interesting,” John mused. “The coordinates are leading us to a desert climate, and you’re prepping in case we need to breathe underwater.”

“Obviously.”

John threw his head back and laughed. Even though Sherlock felt the weight of melancholy at holding back his feelings for John, he let the effects of his contagious laughter take over him.

With a gleeful look in his eye, John opened Mary Poppins’ Bag and gently put the Conch in. With a shake of his head, he closed it again, climbed back onto the kart and reached for the locator.

“What’s next?”

“Alfred Hitchcock’s metal pinwheel.”

John hummed as he entered the artifact into the locator. “I’m not sure which movie the pinwheel is from, but...alright, uh, my guess is that when you spin it, it emits screams of terror that knocks you out.”

Sherlock blinked, impressed. “That’s…almost exactly right.”

“Really?”

“The spinning pinwheel induces crippling vertigo that renders them unconscious.”

John laughed. “Vertigo, of course, I should have thought of that. What’s the downside?”

“The user will be attracted to morose or horrifying stories afterwards.”

John laughed harder, making Sherlock beam.  

John carefully placed the pinwheel box into Mary Poppins bag and settled into the driver’s seat. He looked at Sherlock through the screen as he reached for the locator.

“H.G. Wells’ grappling hook.”

“A grappling hook that… makes you travel in time?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “How would that even work?”

“Tangential energy?” John quipped back before frowning at the locator. “Why can’t I find it?”

Sherlock smiled. “Because the grappling hook isn’t an artifact. It’s in the armory, should be two rows down from where you are.”

John rolled his eyes and put down the locator. “Arse,” he mumbled as he drove. “Why is it in the Warehouse if it’s not an artifact?”

“Because she was a Warehouse agent. A great one from what I can tell from her file, and legacy.”

“She?”

“Helena.”

“Huh.” John pulled up to the armory and stepped out, bringing Sherlock with him. “What do you mean by legacy?”

It was John’s first time in this area of the Warehouse. Sherlock wished he could be there with him.

“You’ll see.”

John opened the door to the armory and walked in. Sherlock smiled as John looked around the room in awe. His eyes landed to the right, and his jaw dropped.

“Is that--?”

Sherlock smiled. He knew what John was looking at. “It is.”

John shook his head disbelievingly. “The Time Machine. It’s the bloody Time Machine.” A giggle bubbled out of him. He covered his mouth with his free hand as his eyes went wide. “Wells really did it.” John turned to look at Sherlock through the screen. His smile was radiating. “This is incredible.”

“It is, but it’s very dangerous and is prohibited from use.”

John giggled breathlessly. “I am not surprised to hear that.” The smile on his face made him look boyish.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“The grappling hook?”

John blinked. “Right, yeah, I just-- I read his—her—books when I was—” John shook his head. “I mean, it’s The Time Machine. Right there!”

Sherlock leaned back in the couch. “The grappling hook should be on your left.”

John looked to the left and his eyebrows raised minutely as he spotted it. The image on Sherlock’s Farnsworth shook as John walked over to it. He grabbed the grappling hook and walked towards the exit.

“Why is the Time Machine in the armory?”

Sherlock was pleased by John’s question.

“Arguably, it’s a weapon. But more importantly, it’s better if her quote-unquote artifacts are stored in proximity to one another.”

“No Warehouse catastrophes that way?”

Sherlock tapped the side of his nose with his index. John chuckled and took one last look around the room before heading out. Sherlock sighed quietly, enjoying the sparkle in John’s eyes.

“What’s next?”

“The Eclipse.”

“Oh, that sounds… Hm. It’s hard to guess when I have no idea what it looks like. Assuming it isn’t a reduced model of a planetary system.”

“Do you want a hint?”

“Depends how bored you are of listening to me think out loud.”

“You are far from boring, John.”

John smiled as he entered the artifact into the locator. “Alright then, the Eclipse… hm…it turns off all sources of light in its radius?”

“Not bad.”

“I’m close?”

Sherlock nodded.

“So, uh, not just lights then? All electronics?”

“Well done, John.”

“How long does it last?”

“Forty-two minutes and fifty-nine seconds. It’s quite useful for a break-in.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“Yeah, we don’t know why, but there’s a note in the file from the agents who bagged it. It said that it’s the exact runtime of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. Have you heard of it?”

John threw his head back and laughed.

“We’re here,” John announced.

Sherlock watched him look on either side, attempting to spot the Barometer in the shelves.

“Should be on your left at eye level. Well, my eye level.”

“Wanker,” John muttered as he got out of the kart. He disappeared from the frame and returned shortly with the artifact in hand.

“Barometer, check.” John slipped it into the bottomless bag and climbed into the driver’s seat.

His hands were on the steering wheel, but he wasn’t moving. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“John?”

John turned to the screen. “Can I ask you something?”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Of course.”

John’s thumb tapped against the wheel. “You said the first time we met you were planning to let me fall in the pit but when you deduced at me, you changed your mind. What did you see?”

Sherlock looked away. In hindsight, he better understood what he had been unable to explain last time they had talked about this. Sherlock didn’t believe in the concept, but if he did, meeting John would be the closest experience he had had to love at first sight. He had known from the moment he laid eyes on John he wanted to be with him. The feeling had only grown over time.

Obviously, he couldn’t say that to John, so he went with something safer.

“That you were smarter than you looked.”

John cocked an eyebrow. “Pretty damned smart, then.”

Sherlock smiled. “Pretty damned smart.”

John’s answering smile made Sherlock reach for a pillow since he couldn’t have John’s hand. This was starting to remind Sherlock of their dinner at Angelo’s, before they got sucked into the unfinished novel. They were having such a good time, the conversation flowed easily, and as the evening went on, likely fueled by the wine and John’s infectious laugh, well, it felt like a date. Not that they were currently on a date, but there hadn’t been a moment of silence since Sherlock had called, and he was enjoying being on the phone when he could have just texted John and—oh dear, Sherlock realised, they were flirting.

Before Sherlock could start worry about giving John the wrong impression, John spoke.

“Well, I have everything on the list, so I should be home in a few. Should I get some take-away on my way?”

“Chinese?”                              

“Perfect. See you soon.”

The call ended and Sherlock put aside his Farnsworth. His eyes drifted closed. This was getting out of hand. They were flirting without even realising it. Sherlock huffed and sat up. His eyes landed on the mirror above the mantle. It was no longer a rectangle with sandblasted edges, but oval with a terrible dark wood frame that looked like it hadn’t been dusted in years.

In a frustrated shout, Sherlock grabbed the nearest book and threw it at the mirror. It missed and dented the wall before falling to the floor, while Sherlock hissed in pain.

By the time John returned to the flat with the artifacts and food, Sherlock had managed to pull himself back together. Although he could have gone without John’s pointed eyebrow raise at the hole in the wall next to the mirror.

They ate while watching crap telly. They had been doing a lot of that lately, ever since Sherlock had discovered his commentary made John laugh.

Once the leftovers had been cleared, John grabbed the glove and settled next to Sherlock on the couch. They didn’t need to speak anymore. Sherlock lifted his t-shirt, and with a nod, John approached his gloved hand. It glowed brightly before being pulled away. John slumped back, gasping for breath.

Sherlock quickly slid the neutralizing bag over the artifact and pulled it off. Setting the bag aside, he turned to John. He had his eyes closed, a deep frown and beads of sweat at his temple. The wave of guilt hit Sherlock right on schedule. As the urge to help overtook him, he saw John’s hand move to the small space between them, silently asking for his. Happy to oblige, Sherlock reached out. Their fingers met and intertwined, trapped between their thighs.

Sherlock leaned back, looking from John’s face to their joined hands, and let himself bask in their daily moment of intimacy. He listened to John’s breathing and tried to guess the exact moment when he fell asleep.

He rubbed his thumb on the back of John’s hand and heard a soft sigh. Sherlock repeated the movement and John sighed again. Feeling adventurous, Sherlock gently squeezed John’s hand. He didn’t quite squeeze back, but his head somehow found its way against Sherlock’s shoulder.

He went very still. This felt like crossing a line. Then again, John was sleeping, there wasn’t much that could go wrong besides him waking up.

Sherlock turned his head and dipped down until his lips pressed against the top of John’s head. He let the smell of shampoo, cheap hair product, and sweat filled his nostrils before he pulled away.

With a last squeeze of John’s hand, Sherlock let his eyes close and fell asleep.

“Sherlock.”

It took a moment for his name to register.

“Sherlock, wake up.”

The painful hiss coming from John made Sherlock open his eyes. He blinked a few times before the blurry shapes turned into John rubbing his neck and twisting it this way and that.

“What time is it?”

“Almost midnight. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Even though Sherlock could have managed to get to bed on his own, John walked him to his room and tucked him in.

“Goodnight Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Chapter Text

It was only once Sherlock was standing next to his bed that he noticed he had gotten out on his own. He wobbled on his feet at the realisation, his arms spread wide to catch his balance, and was surprised to find there was practically no pain. He briefly considered going back to bed to wait for John. Sherlock was growing rather fond of John helping him out in the morning. Their routine to get Sherlock to his feet was like a sleepy hug from John. It was a rather nice way to start the day. However, Sherlock didn’t want to risk John thinking he needed to push back his return to work. As much as he was enjoying their time together at home, which in itself was quite the surprise, work was their priority.

With a resigned sigh, Sherlock slipped on his dressing gown, made coffee, and settled on the couch to prepare their trip.

He had just finished booking their plane tickets for the following evening when Sherlock heard  John’s door open. Heavy footsteps followed. Heavier than usual.

John walked into the sitting room rubbing his neck, hair sticking every which way. He stopped short when he saw Sherlock on the couch. 

“You’re up.” 

Sherlock smirked as he continued typing. “I even made coffee.”

John nodded and winced. He tilted his head left and right.

“You alright?”

“Bit stiff this morning,” John explained as he headed to the bathroom.

Sherlock wondered worriedly if John would ask for a neck rub. Hopefully not. He could tell John was the moaning type during a massage and Sherlock was not prepared to endure a painfully hard erection for an extended period of time, not to mention finding a way to leave discreetly to go masturbate furiously. 

Shaking the thought out of his head, Sherlock pushed his computer aside and grabbed Mary Poppins’ bag. 

With the morning paper under his arm, John settled in the red armchair and hummed happily after his first sip of coffee. 

Sherlock pulled out the barometer and found himself smiling as he settled it on the table. They had come so far since they had first met: from arguing constantly to enjoying each other’s company in silence. Sherlock was struck with the domesticity of it all and was surprised at how much he enjoyed it. 

It hadn’t been this way with Jim. They had been similar, never able to stay in place for too long, hating the quiet, hating being still. Admittedly, John enjoyed a good chase, but he also wanted to read the paper in peace in the morning, which meant Sherlock had to keep his experiments limited to afternoons and evenings. He had resisted at first, used to an erratic schedule, but now, well, Sherlock could no longer imagine the Warehouse without John. 

It should make him happy, but it only washed him in worry.

If losing Jim had plunged him into a year-long depression, what would happen if he lost John?

Sherlock shook his head. He shouldn’t be thinking about this as he prepared their next mission. He pulled out the pinwheel box and placed it next to the barometer on the coffee table.

“Aren’t you worried those will trigger each other?” John asked as he turned the page.

“As long as the pinwheel remains motionless, there shouldn’t be any issues.”

“Good to know. Anything else?”

“Our flight is at five o’clock.”

“Today?”

“Tomorrow.”

John nodded before sipping his coffee. “Do I need to pack anything specific?”

“Something to occupy you for a nine hour plane ride.”

John grimaced. “Right.”

“I got access to satellite imaging of the coordinates.”

“By got access, do you mean hack?”

“Depends. Hacking implies a challenge.”

John smirked. “So, what’s waiting for us in South Dakota?”

“It appears to be an abandoned factory.” Sherlock turned his computer towards John to show the aerial shot of the coordinates; a dark rectangular shape in the middle of the desert, with the fine line of a road leading up to the parking lot.

“Looks like a trap.”

“Obviously, but it will lead us closer to whoever sent us the coordinates.”

“So we just head over there and just try not to get caught?”

“With these to help us out.” Sherlock waved to the artifacts laid out on the coffee table and continued. “I’ve also taken care of the hotel reservations. The closest one I could find is almost an hour away.”

“The middle of nowhere. Yeah, definitely a trap.”

“We’ve gotten out of stickier situations before.”

“How can you be so confident? We have no idea who could have sent this. We don’t even know what they want.”

Sherlock looked away. He did have an idea of who it could be and what they were after. He just didn’t want to think it could be true. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Sherlock pinched his lips and locked eyes with John. “What if it’s Moran?”

John’s eyes darkened. “What could he want?”

“Besides vengeance, my best guess is access to artifacts, possibly the Warehouse itself.”

Whether he was aware of it or not, John’s demeanor changed. His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and the paper crinkled under his fingers. After spending an extended period of time with John the Doctor, suddenly seeing John the Soldier was staggering. 

“Then we’ll have to stop him, won’t we?”

To the untrained ear, John’s voice sounded calm. This wasn’t unusual, but John was a rather grumpy, easily irritable person which, more often than not, resulted in shouting. Admittedly, Sherlock had, on more than one occasion, purposefully made John angry. He quickly discovered that he had gone too far when the shouting stopped, replaced by a calm voice. That’s when he would go for the killing strike. Like a siren luring their unsuspecting victims. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of the calm voice often enough to feel a chill run down his back at the sound of it, dreading what was in store for Moran.

John returned to his paper, but Sherlock could tell he wasn’t reading. Hopefully this trip would be the end of it: they would catch Moran and John could finally move on. 

If only Sherlock was that optimistic, instead of thinking there was someone else behind Moran and this was merely the beginning of their troubles.

He watched John uselessly turn the page and weighed the benefits of telling John. Resigned, Sherlock reached for the next artifact and went back to work.

“Incredible. Six to eight months of recovery reduced to days,” John said as he watched Sherlock manage a third sit up before letting himself fall back down on the carpet with a grimace of pain. 

“I can barely do three,” he managed to say through clenched teeth.

John barked a laugh. “Yeah, cause you were stabbed nine days ago!”

Sherlock struggled to roll onto his side away from John. “You’re the one doing all the work with the glove.”

John helped him sit up. “We should bring the glove with us.”

Sherlock simultaneously enjoyed and cursed the tingling that came with John’s touch. “No.” 

“Why not? We’re going there blind, we need something that can-”

“You know the gloves can’t be separated for too long or they start acting out. I think you’ll agree that going to another country with an artifact that can cause typhoid fever isn’t the best idea.”

John tilted his head noncommittally and winced. He huffed and rubbed his neck as he stood. 

“Did you try putting heat on it?” Sherlock suggested as he got to his feet.

“Yeah. It helped a bit but--Oh, what about the dog tags?”

Sherlock almost tripped and fell flat on his face at the suggestion. He managed to catch himself and straighten. He looked up and saw John holding his arms up, ready to catch Sherlock’s fall. 

Technically, John’s idea was good. But if they brought the dog tags, Sherlock would have to disclose how it worked, which meant discussing why it had worked for John, and how it would also work for Sherlock. This discussion was the last thing he wanted. Because if John knew, he would leave and never come back. 

The thought of that outcome was so painful that Sherlock let himself imagine falling into John’s waiting arms and burying his face in his neck. He knew exactly how it would feel, and smell. Sherlock wondered what his skin would taste like. Finding himself lost in the fantasy, Sherlock licked his lips. Like an idiot, he caught John’s eye as he did. 

There was a hitch in his breath that made the skin on the back of Sherlock’s neck crawl. He had been exposed, and by the looks of it, it was affecting John. The sight was mesmerizing. Sherlock watched John’s pupils dilate, his shoulders drop, arms widening. In his peripheral vision, Sherlock could see his fingers twitching, almost ready to pounce. He felt a blush spread from his neck up to his cheeks, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to give John a signal so badly, but the terror of the consequences prevented him from moving. So he stood frozen, his eyes locked on John’s, trying to silently apologize. 

Somehow, John interpreted it differently. He lowered his arms to his side and took a step forward. They weren’t touching, but he was close enough that Sherlock could feel the heat coming from him. He knew he should take a step back, but he was scared that his body would move closer rather than further away from John. 

Gently, fingertips brushed the back of Sherlock’s hand. He twitched at the contact, but didn’t pull away. Slowly, John’s hand wrapped around Sherlock’s. The contact was soothing, showing just how much he had grown accustomed to John’s touch. Torn, Sherlock closed his eyes. How could something that felt so right have the potential to cause so much destruction?

“Woohoo boys!” Mrs Hudson’s voice echoed in the stairs. “Dinner’s ready!” 

Sherlock gasped and pulled away as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. John took a step back, clearing his throat. Keeping his eyes averted, Sherlock tried to act casual as he settled on the couch. He looked up just in time to see John head out to help Mrs Hudson.

With his face in his hands, Sherlock took a few deep breaths. He was starting to slip. Good thing their flight was tomorrow. Who knew what would happen with another week of healing sessions.

While they ate, Sherlock didn’t stop himself from imagining what might have happened if Mrs Hudson hadn’t interrupted them. Judging by the slight blush peeking above his collar and the fleeting glances, so was John.

Once their bellies were full and Mrs Hudson had retreated back to her flat for her evening herbal soothers, John pulled out the glove. As soon as he heard the crackling of the neutralizing bag, Sherlock closed his laptop and sat up. Only then did he notice John standing a few steps away, rubbing his neck and biting his lip nervously.

“Is everything alright?”

“Can we, um, do it in your bed?”

Sherlock’s mind went blank.

“My neck is killing me,” John continued, “and I know it’s because I keep falling asleep on the couch.”

Sherlock swallowed. It’s not that he didn’t want to, it’s that he wanted a bit too much. The problem was, Sherlock knew John was genuinely in pain, and that this wasn’t a gauche attempt at getting him ‘in bed’. 

“Of course.”

Sherlock could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise as they approached his room. His mind punctuated every step with images from his dream, lost in John’s embrace, and memories from earlier, just before Mrs Hudson interrupted them. Sherlock felt a blush spread from under his collar as he passed the threshold. He kept his eyes down as he sat on the bed, fearful of what they would reveal. 

John cleared his throat, made his way around and sat on the other side. 

Sherlock tried to act natural as he lay down but was convinced he failed miserably. All he could think about was how John was sitting right there and would soon be lying down. Next to Sherlock. In his bed. And then they would cuddle, which would inevitably lead to kissing, and by that point Sherlock might as well accept his defeat and--

The crackling of the neutralizing bag pulled Sherlock out of his head. He watched John take out the glove and slip it on. There was a brief moment when Sherlock could have sworn he saw John’s demeanor change, as if he had just connected with the artifact. 

John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock’s stomach. He moved to kneel next to Sherlock’s hip, knees facing the headboard, before pursing his lips and turning to press his knees against Sherlock’s hip. Once John seemed satisfied, Sherlock raised his shirt, closed his eyes and hoped the pulse drumming against his neck wasn’t too obvious. 

Sherlock remained still when he felt the tug in his gut just as the light flashed behind his eyelids. It was only when he felt the mattress bounce heavily next to him that Sherlock opened his eyes. John had fallen to his side. His knees were pressed against Sherlock’s thighs, shoulders hunched, his head half on the pillow. His gloved hand was awkwardly twisted behind his back, swaying as he gasped for breath.

“John,” Sherlock whispered as he dived towards him.

The sight made the ache his chest throb. It didn’t matter how afraid he was that too much intimacy might ruin their relationship. He shouldn’t let his fears keep him from being there for his friend. He gently slid his hands down John’s shoulder to his hang, gently removing the glove.

Despite the time it took to put the glove away, he was surprised to find John hadn’t moved, his arm was still twisted, swaying to the rhythm of his breathing. 

“John?”

There was no visible reaction. Unsure what to do, Sherlock guided John’s arm back into place and rubbed the strained muscles a moment. He then lay on his side and tried not to focus on how close their faces were.

“John?” 

John shook his head, his hair rubbing against the pillow. 

Sherlock frowned. 

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

John nodded once before turning away, muffling a sob in the duvet. Sherlock’s arm stretched out instantly, ready to pull John into his arms, but he stopped himself mid-movement. He didn’t want to take advantage of the situation. Holding John may be what he was wanted, but that didn’t mean it was what John needed. So instead of reenacting his dream, Sherlock reached for John’s hand. His fingers slid over the palm before wrapping around John’s hand and giving him a soft squeeze. John squeezed back as if he were holding on for dear life. 

Sherlock rested his head on his pillow and surveilled John, hoping for any sign that this was somehow helping him cope with the side-effects.

After a few minutes of seeing no visible changes, Sherlock closed his eyes. He thought of John’s sacrifice, of the care and support he had provided Sherlock since their first meeting. But more importantly, he thought of how John had changed his life for the better, even when Sherlock resisted it. 

He took it all and poured it into their point of contact, hoping it could somehow help John recover.

Sherlock had no idea how long they stayed like that, but it didn’t matter. This was enough. This was all they needed.

“Thank you.”

Even though John’s voice was barely above a whisper, Sherlock jumped. He meant to answer ‘anytime’, as he had done previously. A friendly yet neutral response. 

Instead, “Anything for you,” came out, which was more than friendly and far from neutral. 

With his heart beating in his throat, Sherlock waited excruciatingly long seconds for the sky to fall and end his miserable existence. He couldn’t believe what had just said. He already was holding hands with John in his bed, he didn’t need his bloody mouth to make things worse.

He was starting to wonder if John had even heard him when he felt his thumb rubbing the back of his hand. The sensation was soothing, but did nothing to reassure Sherlock. 

He couldn’t see much of John’s face. Most of it was hidden by the pillow, but he could see the tension in John’s brow lessen. His shoulders were also starting to relax. 

Sherlock couldn’t tell what John thought of his verbal slip, but the important part was that in spite of everything, John was recovering.

Too soon, John’s thumb slowed to a stop. Sherlock watched him until late into the night, and fell asleep to the sight of his hand in John’s.

Chapter Text

The light filtering through the drapes flickered across Sherlock’s face. He pulled the covers over his head, hiding from the bothersome morning sun. Burrowing into his pillow, Sherlock noticed he was lying on his side, which was a relief. Ever since the surgery, he had been sleeping on his back, or at least trying to. He usually slept on his side, and the first few nights had been woken up by the agonizing pain of trying to turn. Therefore waking up on his side made him feel safe, like a familiar sensation that he had been unconsciously searching for. 

With a smile on his lips, Sherlock shifted to rub his feet together. His left leg was stuck, as if there was something—

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. A leg. A leg was slung across his. John’s leg.

Suddenly Sherlock was aware of the arm wrapped around his chest, the face pressed between his shoulder blades, and—oh God—the morning wood pressed against his arse.

While his mind attempted to process the situation, Sherlock’s body tensed, including his own cock. He knew he should get out of bed immediately, but he was unable to move. Either his body was ignoring his brain, or said brain was unable to function properly when enveloped in John. 

It was unfair, how good it felt. It made extracting oneself from the warmth and comfort impossible. It would be so easy to tilt his hips just so and—

Sherlock bit his lip hard, using the pain to keep himself still. No matter how tempting it was to stop fighting his lust for John, the fear of losing him was overwhelming. If only extracting himself out of John’s embrace didn’t feel like severing a limb.

He tried to pull his legs out first. The movement did not go unnoticed. John’s leg slid off his, but his arm tightened its hold as he burrowed his face deeper into Sherlock’s back. There was also a firm thrust of John’s hips, nestling the length of his cock between Sherlock’s cheeks.

He needed to get out of bed. Now .

He grabbed John’s wrist and lifted his arm enough to roll out from under it. John stirred and mumbled something that sounded like “don’t”, but Sherlock kept going.

Free of John’s hold, Sherlock quickly shoved the covers aside. In his haste to roll out of bed, his foot caught in the sheets. The next thing he knew, Sherlock was sprawled on the floor.

John’s head appeared over the edge of the bed. 

“You alright?”

Twisting to hide his erection, Sherlock didn’t dare look at John. He simply answered, “Fine, I’m fine,” and scrambled to go hide in the bathroom.

With his face hidden in his hands, Sherlock leaned against the closed door. He could feel his heart drumming in his chest. He was mortified. Humiliated. Somehow, it did nothing to wilt the tent in his pants. 

After taking a few deep breaths, Sherlock tried to take a piss, which was pointless since his damn cock was too hard. He flushed anyway. He didn’t want John to think he’d run away, even if that was exactly he had done.

He turned on the shower. He hadn’t planned on one, but he also hadn’t planned on waking up in John’s arms with an erection so hard he couldn’t urinate. 

Sherlock carefully stepped under the hot water and reached for his cock. He wrapped his hand around it and shivered at how sensitive it felt. He needed to get this over with quickly, which should be easy. Just the memory of John’s cock pressed against his arse made own twitch as he thrust into his fist. 

If he had stayed in bed, maybe John’s hand would have travelled down his chest and cupped his hard dick while he thrust between Sherlock’s cheeks. He imagined John’s lips pressing between his shoulder blades while his hand slipped under his pants. The fantasy made Sherlock so aroused he felt lightheaded. He wished John would come join him in the shower, scold him for not staying in bed. Push Sherlock against the wall and wrap his hands around both their erections, thrusting while John admitted how much he had been longing to touch Sherlock like this, to—

With a hand over his mouth, Sherlock whimpered through his orgasm, barely managing to hold himself up. 

Basking under the almost too hot water, basking in a post orgasm hormone cocktail, Sherlock finally took a piss. 

As his bladder emptied, guilt seeped in. The intensity with which he desired John was frightening. Likely he should factor in the effects of wanting what he couldn’t have, but even then, the fantasies were…well, come to think of it, Sherlock had never had sexual fantasies before. About anyone, not even Jim. But that wasn’t the point. As long as they remained fantasies, everything would be okay. After today’s final healing session, there would no longer be any reason for touching or bedsharing. It should be a relief that this whole ordeal was coming to an end, so why didn’t it feel that way?

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock reached for the soap. He knew why. He didn’t want to end whatever their relationship had evolved into in the last ten days. The tenderness that came with John’s care was addictive, much more than the fantasy of being naked with him. Well, a little bit more. But the Warehouse came first, therefore a relationship other than professional was out of the question.

Sherlock wondered if it would make things easier to skip today’s healing session. He felt fine. Perfectly fine in fact. Ready to walk into a trap in the middle of nowhere in South Dakota. 

Perhaps one last healing session was for the best.

It was early afternoon when Sherlock heard John’s heavy footsteps in the stairwell. He was on the couch reviewing their itinerary and looked up in time to see John set his suitcase next to his on the landing. 

“We have to head to the airport in three hours, so we should probably...” John trailed off as he looked round the room.

Sherlock knew John was looking for the glove. It was in the kitchen, not on the coffee table where John had left it. Sherlock could no longer stand having it in his peripheral vision while he waited for John to finish packing. It felt like a nagging reminder of the end of their newfound intimacy. 

They had managed to spend the day acting as if they hadn’t woken up in bed together, which turned out to be manageable since the day was dedicated to packing. Sherlock spent most of it hidden in his room. It hadn’t stopped his heart from skipping a beat the few times John had walked towards said room. Every time he did it was to get something from the bathroom, plunging Sherlock into a mixture of relief and disappointment. Part of him wanted John to walk in and look at him like he had the day before, before they were interrupted by Mrs Hudson. Just the memory gave Sherlock goosebumps. Problem was, if it did happen again, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. No matter how much he wanted to, he needed to avoid putting himself in such a precarious situation.

John spotted the glove in the kitchen and Sherlock felt his insides twist. 

“How’s your neck?” 

Hopefully good enough to do this on the couch. The couch was safer than his bed. 

John tilted his head from one side to the other and grimaced. 

“It’s um...not as bad as yesterday.”

“So you want to…?” Sherlock pointed towards his room. 

John cleared his throat and nodded. “If you don’t mind.” 

Sherlock chose to answer by leading the way rather than laughing derisively at the depth and complexity of what his honest response would be.

The walk down the corridor felt like an out-of-body experience. He couldn’t fathom why he was doing exactly what he shouldn’t be doing. Dreading it almost as much as looking forward to it. 

Sherlock crossed the threshold and sat on the bed. He had made it earlier, telling himself he needed to erase the proof of their night together, but he knew deep down he had been preparing for this moment. 

Like the day before, he lay down while John made his way around the bed, then kneeled atop the bedspread. Sherlock closed his eyes when he felt John’s knees pressing into his hip, and hoped it wasn’t obvious his hands were shaking as he lifted up his shirt.

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded once and waited. Soon after, he felt the tug in his gut, only it wasn’t as strong as usual. The bright light flashed behind his eyelids and then… nothing. He opened his eyes. John was staring back at him with a surprised look on his face. He was still kneeling, his gloved finger still touching Sherlock’s scar. 

Only there was no scar.

“You—you’re healed.”

John pulled his hand away and sat back. They stared at each other with bewilderment.

“Are you ok?” Sherlock heard himself ask.

“I’m...fine.” John replied with a hint of surprise in his voice. “I mean, I feel like I just got back from a run, but I’m…great.” He looked down at the glove. “It’s...happy.” He looked up at Sherlock with a bright smile. “Wow this is weird, I just can’t help but be happy with it. It’s so grateful that I didn’t stop this time.”

Sherlock’s mind was racing. Besides the tug of war between relief and disappointment at not getting one last intimate moment with John, he wondered if this was why last night had been so difficult for John—he had stopped on the edge of fully healing Sherlock. What would have happened if he hadn’t? Would the emotional payoff had been enough to compensate for the physical toll? 

John looked at the glove and a giggle bubbled out of him. Sherlock sat up. Something was off. 

“What is it?”

“Hm?” John looked up with a blissful smile.

“What’s so funny?”

He tilted his head to the side. “I’m not sure.”

Sherlock tried his best to keep his face neutral.

“Take the glove off.”  

John’s smile didn’t falter when his hand closed into fist. “Why?”

“Because we’re done. Take the glove off .”

John blinked a few times, but his hand remained closed. 

“What you’re feeling right now is because of the glove. It feels good now, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to last. Remember the glove is meant to heal in one go, not in multiple short bursts. We don’t know what the consequences are of using it the way he did.”

Something feral flashed in John’s eyes. 

“John, take off the glove.”

John looked at his fist. “I—You’re right, I know you’re right, but I…” He closed his eyes. “You need to do it.”

“You sure?”

John shook his head. “No, but that’s probably the glove talking.”

Sherlock nodded and reached for the neutralizing bag. Gently, he slipped it over the artifact and waited for John to open his hand. 

“John?” Sherlock looked up and saw alarm in his eyes.

“I—I can’t, it won’t—”

“It’s alright.” Sherlock cradled John’s hand with his and did his best to speak calmly. “It’s going to be okay, John. You’re one of the few who can actually communicate with artifacts, and understand how they’re feeling. You’ve created a bond with the artifact and that’s alright. ” 

John’s arm seemed to relax a bit, feeling heavier in Sherlock’s hand, motivating him to keep going. 

“It wants to thank you for fulfilling its purpose, just like you should thank it for lending you its power.” Sherlock bit his lip. “And I want to thank you too. Both of you.” 

John’s fingers twitched. 

“Not just for healing me. For...everything.” Sherlock didn’t know where he was going with this, but it was helping John. “I still can’t quite believe you’d volunteer to sacrifice your own health for me. For the Warehouse. You’ve shown time and time again how honorable and virtuous you are. Much more than I could ever be.”

John’s fingers relaxed but not enough to release the glove.

“I don’t deserve you as a partner. Or as a doctor.”

Sherlock paused when John’s other hand covered his.

“Helping you through the side-effects is the least I can do.”

The neutralizing bag crinkled as gloved fingers wrapped around Sherlock’s other hand. Time seemed suspended as they sat on the bed, their joined hands saying more than they dared say aloud. 

With a last squeeze, Sherlock grabbed onto two of the glove’s fingers, and slipped it off. The bag’s neutralizing flash happened as soon as John’s hand was free. Sherlock sealed the bag before turning to John.

“Are you alright?”

John rubbed his hand with the other. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just...that was weird.”

“It’s over now.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant what I said: it’s the least I can do.”

John scratched the back of his head and nodded. The only thing Sherlock could think about was how easy it would be to lean in and—No, this was not the time to fantasize. He needed to get off the bed, but was worried that if he moved, it wouldn’t be away from John. 

“I believe congratulations are in order,” John announced.

Sherlock frowned, confused. It made John smile.

“You’re officially cleared for work.”

Sherlock laughed, relieved. It was finally over. He hadn’t given in, their relationship wasn’t  jeopardized, but more importantly: he could finally get back to work. 

John’s stomach growled. He covered it with his hand and checked the time. 

“We have a little under three hours before we head to the airport. Thai?”

Sherlock hummed his agreement. “Don’t forget the sauce this time.”

John rolled his eyes. “I keep telling you I didn’t forget. They did.” He slid off the bed to go find his phone.

Sherlock safely put away the artifact for the last time before joining John in the sitting room. He listened to him order, and failed to refrain from fantasizing about the creative ways he could have kept John in bed.

Chapter Text

After being trapped in the flat for ten days, being stuck in a plane for ten hours was like reopening Sherlock’s now-healed wound and pouring salt into it. If it weren’t for work, he would have turned around the moment they set foot in the airport. 

Apparently it was now common for people to stop anywhere to check their phones, even if it was in a bloody doorway, effectively blocking everyone’s path. There was even someone stopping to take a picture of the wet floor sign, who almost elbowed John in the face in doing so.

The winning prize for stupidity however went to the idiot doing a three hundred and sixty degree turn with a selfie stick without looking around first and hitting Sherlock in the back of the head with it. John insisted that breaking said stick was a bit overboard. The bump on the back of Sherlock’s head strongly disagreed. 

They did manage to make it to the customs line without any more bruising or breaking of things, but John’s fidgeting did nothing to help ease the already tense experience.

“Stop it,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Stop what?”

“Looking nervous.”

One would think a trained MI6 agent would know how to look inconspicuous.

“I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“Perhaps, but it’s enough to make that guard keep an eye on you.”

John sighed and looked in the opposite direction. “I just can’t believe you’re taking Mary Poppins’ bag as a carry on.”

Apparently MI6 training didn’t apply to artifacts.

“I’ve never had a problem before,” Sherlock reassured, making sure he seemed relaxed for the guard.

“What about the Tesla gun?”

“Most people think it’s a toy.”

“Seriously?”

Sherlock nodded and pulled out an official looking envelope. ”The government dispensation document helps too.”

John’s shoulders slumped as his face morphed into a mix of relief and irritation. Sherlock might have heard him mutter “arse” under his breath.

As they sat buckled in their seats, waiting for takeoff, Sherlock wanted to scream.

He wanted to crawl out of his skin with the overstimulation. The sound of constant chatter along with the incessant screaming of the child six seats over was annoying, but it was the smell that was making Sherlock teeter on the brink of insanity. The accumulation of body odor, unbrushed teeth, and—dear god did that woman pour her entire bottle of perfume down her front? It made Sherlock want to seal up his nose permanently, and he would have done it already if it weren’t for the gentle smell of soap and hair product coming from John.

This was exactly why Sherlock kept insisting the Warehouse get a private jet, but the council insisted that agents travel with commercial airlines to keep a low profile on Warehouse activities, even if it was risky to travel with artifacts. 

With a bit of delay, the plane finally took off. As soon as he could, Sherlock pulled out his laptop and the case file. He needed to focus on something other than his surroundings, because he knew that John would be angry if Sherlock told the man four seats ahead that his wife had been cheating on him for months, and was planning to leave him after this trip. 

Sherlock was reviewing the stack of satellite images he had printed for the trip when it started. John kept laughing. Not loudly, just a few small chuckles, but it was enough to get Sherlock’s attention. He turned to see what was so funny and rolled his eyes. What was it with John and that book?

“You’re reading that again?”

John turned the page and ignored the remark.

“Are you having trouble understanding the plot?” Sherlock taunted, but it only resulted in making John smile.

“What’s the story?”

“I told you already, it’s simpler if you read it.”

“Fine.” Sherlock reached for the book but John pulled it away.

“You can have it when I’m done.”

“You’ve read it already. Multiple times.”

“You’re the one who brought work as a distraction. If you wanted the book, you should have said something.”

Sherlock weighed the pros and cons of making a scene. He wasn’t actually irritated by John or the book, he just felt restless and longed for some type of outlet. 

“I can read you the summary,” John offered.

Sherlock hid how excited he was at the prospect of finally understanding what John had been reading for the past ten days. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap.

“Alright.”

John marked his page and flipped to the summary. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, eyes flickering to Sherlock before he started reading.

“ It was a night like any other, or at least it was until she walked in. My partner couldn’t take his eyes off her, but I knew better. She had trouble written all over her, and trouble we found when we took her case. I knew it was a bad idea, but we hadn’t gotten anything good in weeks. Something about a missing friend and —”

“Stop, please stop.” 

“But it was just getting to the good part.” 

“It’s horrendous.” Sherlock was about to start a long winded tirade explaining just how bad the writing was when he heard a disappointed “oh” from John.

Sherlock turned and saw a crestfallen look on John’s face.

“I really thought you’d enjoy it.” 

Sherlock blinked a few times, confused why John would think such a thing. Before he thought to ask, John was looking out the small window, his hands covering the closed book protectively.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted back to the satellite images sprawled over his tray table but his mind remained on the mystery to his left. Why would John think Sherlock would enjoy that story? Why wouldn’t he just explain it? Why was he acting like the book needed protecting? Was there something he didn’t want Sherlock to see? 

The string of questions was cut short by John’s heavy sigh. Sherlock watched him lean back and close his eyes. His hands were still on the book, fingers sprawled on the blank cover as if he was keeping it safe. 

Sherlock’s eyes roamed over John’s face. He could tell John was trying to hide his true emotions, which was silly since he was fully aware it was useless. Sherlock could see the sorrow hidden beneath his blank mask. He could see it, but he didn’t understand it. Why would it bother John if he didn’t like a silly detective novel? What was it about that book? Could it somehow be an artifact? Was it affecting John’s emotions like the gloves had? 

The mystery could easily be solved during this trip. Sherlock simply needed to get his hands on the book.

At hour six Sherlock’s stomach growled, reminding him of the cardboard they had been served earlier. He had spit out his first bite and refused to eat. John managed to swallow his first taste, but pushed aside the rest as well. 

Sherlock was exhausted from fighting off the constant input of useless data. He had reached his limit and could no longer concentrate on work while blocking everything out. 

He slammed his laptop closed, making a few people around them jump. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples, ignoring the offended murmur of the surrounding passengers.

“Lady with the green sweater.” John’s breath tickled Sherlock’s neck, the sensation causing the incessant buzzing of information to mute as if he had plunged his head into water.“Twenty quid says she’s a school teacher.” 

Sherlock smiled and recalled their last game of deductions, at Angelo’s. John had lost, obviously, but that wasn’t the point of the game. The point was to make John laugh. Sherlock had been hoping for a repeat game for a while now. A transatlantic flight wasn’t what he had in mind, but it was a most welcome distraction.

Sherlock looked the green-sweatered woman up and down then turned to John.

“You’re so bad at gambling.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you owe me twenty quid.”

“Do I now?” 

“Mhm.”

“Care to explain?”

Sherlock leaned closer to John’s ear. It was best if the other passengers didn’t hear. 

“At first glance her cardigan and blouse do scream teacher , but the shoes say otherwise. A teacher would not wear heels that high, nor would she wear an imitation leather skirt, which she’s clearly already regretting if her constant squirming is anything to go by.” Sherlock watched as John’s eyes flickered up and down the woman while he spoke. “I can’t blame her, it must be terribly uncomfortable for a ten hour plane ride.”

John’s eyes returned to Sherlock. “Secretary then?”

“Mm, more like executive assistant, on her way to meet up with her lover-slash-boss.”

John scoffed and nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his. “You’re making this up.”

“I’m not. Look, she keeps smiling at her phone.”

“Could be a boyfriend.”

Sherlock smiled as he leaned in closer to John’s ear. “Then she wouldn’t be so inclined to hide her screen.”

“Incredible.”

Sherlock flushed, the tingling sensation of delight spreading to the top of his head. There was nothing quite as exquisite as making John laugh, except perhaps witnessing it up close like this. Sherlock turned away, worried he might throw caution to the wind and just lean in and kiss John. 

There was a brief pause where Sherlock felt hyper aware of John’s presence, waiting for his next move, which consisted of clearing his throat and saying, “Him, with the turtleneck.”

Sherlock eyed the man. “Mm, boring. Even you could figure it out.”

John scoffed.

“Come on, give it a go.” 

John rolled his eyes but still looked the man up and down. 

“Fine.” He cleared his throat. “Turtleneck could be a couple of things. I tend to think of a philosophy professor, but he seems a bit too young, and those glasses are too stylish to be—wait, are those patches on his jacket? It’s like he wanted to dress up as a grad student going abroad to study, I don’t know, literature or something.”

“See, told you you would figure it out.”

“What? I was kidding! You can’t be serious, grad students don’t actually wear turtlenecks and patched jackets and bloody horn rimmed glasses.”

“A first year student trying to look the part does.”

“What do you think his major is?”

“Probably something ludicrous like philosophy of the dung beetle.”

“Do you think dung beetles would get him a ticket to the United States?”

“Perhaps a semester abroad?”

“Didn’t know there were dung beetles in America.”

“Over ninety species.”

“Are you making this up?”

“Of course not, dung beetles are quite fascinating—”

“No, stop, spare me the lecture.”

The game continued until John started yawning, and agreed to rest for the remainder of the flight. 

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep, but given the danger they were heading towards, he was willing to at least try. He closed his eyes and willed his body to relax.

It was unclear how much time had passed when Sherlock felt a familiar weight on his shoulder. Keeping his eyes closed, he leaned his head against John’s and relished the content sigh that it elicited. Without thinking, Sherlock turned enough to press his lips and bury his nose in John’s hair. Slowly, their breathing became one. Before long Sherlock found himself starting to relax, but it was the gentle smell of shampoo and hair product that finally managed to lull him into a restful sleep. 

A flight announcement woke Sherlock a few hours later, advising them to buckle in for the descent to their final destination. It was the only warning before a dropping sensation and lightheadedness that came with the sudden change in altitude. It was an abrasive awakening, but instantly forgotten as Sherlock became aware that he not only still had his nose buried in John’s hair, but was now holding his hand as if his life depended on it. 

Before he could figure out how to react, John’s hand squeezed his and started to let go. Sherlock felt himself panic as their fingers untangled. He didn’t want to let go. He didn’t think this would ever happen again.

“Seatbelts please.” 

The stewardess’ voice was half heard because the entirety of Sherlock’s focus was on John. Their fingers were untangled, but John’s hand and forearm remained draped over Sherlock’s. Slowly, John’s head left Sherlock’s shoulder and turned. The world around them dimmed the moment their eyes met. 

“Seatbelts please.” 

Sherlock knew it was possible to learn a lot about someone by the look in their eyes in the first moments of waking. To see them for who they are before it’s hidden, their true nature concealed to survive the cruel outside world. 

In the beginning, John’s habits were military-like. He wore his impenetrable armor constantly. He was ready for action as soon as he opened his eyes. It was obvious by the way his feet would hit the floor in the morning. His room was right above Sherlock’s, and more than once he was woken up by the hard thump of someone ready to run for his life. 

Once John had decided to stay, he seemed to let himself be at ease. The sound evolved from a thump to a gentle creaking. Sherlock imagined him sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window until he felt ready to put back on the armor he had removed he night before. At least that was Sherlock’s theory, given how much longer it was taking John to come down in the morning. 

A few days before the violin fiasco, Sherlock finally saw him without his armor. It was the morning after a difficult artifact retrieval, one that had left them both with a splitting headache that had lasted three days. Sherlock had heard the floor creak gently and proceeded to get out of bed to make much needed coffee. By the time he’d settled in the black armchair with his black-two-sugars, John had come down in his bathrobe over sweats and a t-shirt. It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had seen John in nightwear, given how many times he had barged into his room, but it was the first time John was in a common area in such a vulnerable state.

The memory still made Sherlock smile, but it was what followed that he truly cherished. John had been standing in the kitchen, no, leaning against the counter, holding the steaming mug with both hands. The morning light made his messy hair glow as he sipped coffee, his eyes closed while he savoured it. When he had turned to Sherlock and smiled, the image had seared itself into his brain. John had looked so genuinely happy then. His eyes were tired, but he had looked at Sherlock so fondly that he had had the urge to get up from his armchair to take John into his arms for the first time. 

The feeling had intensified over time, and now it was out of control. The last ten days with John had become much more intimate than he ever thought possible. It felt like a privilege, getting to see him before the weight of the world landed on his shoulders. Just like that first morning, John looked younger, happier, before the darkness settled in his eyes. But something had changed since the surgery. The look of genuine joy was still there, but there was something else. Sherlock figured it was some sort of fondness linked to John’s medical persona and had not questioned it any further.

Until now that is. What Sherlock saw in John’s eyes after waking up on the plane was impossible to ignore. It took his breath away. There was joy, and a bit of sleep, but it was all drowning in fire. Hot burning desire that was waiting to be unleash and consume Sherlock from the inside out.

“Seatbelts please.” 

He couldn’t look away. John was mesmerizing, intoxicating. Sherlock could feel his body heating up just from that look. Without warning, John squeezed his hand and held it in place while he leaned over their tangled arms. Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he watched John’s other hand reach for his hip. It brought their faces closer. Much closer. Close enough to convince Sherlock he was about to have a heart attack because John’s face was right there and his hand was brushing the outside of his hip and--

Oh. The seatbelt.

His confusion must have been obvious because John smiled then. His eyes were still full of heat but now there was also...hope? John looked down to Sherlock’s lips. Was he thinking of kissing him? Of finally closing the distance between them? Their eyes met once more and Sherlock got his answer.  

It was then Sherlock knew he was doomed. Because John was about to kiss him and he was going to kiss him back. It was no use fighting it anymore: he was deeply in love with John. He would follow him to the end of the world and back.

John shifted enough to use both his hands on the belt. When the straps pressed against Sherlock’s thighs, John broke eye contact to look down.

The buckle clicked. A gasp escaped Sherlock’s lips when the belt tightened over the erection he didn’t know he had. When their eyes met once more, the fire had consumed the last remains of sleep and doubt. Sherlock trembled, wound so tightly he feared a single touch of John’s lips would consume him. 

“Sir. Sir . ” 

Sherlock felt seething anger when John looked up at the stewardess. He wanted to elbow her with such force that she would fall to her knees and feel compelled to ask forgiveness for disturbing what was about to be their first kiss. 

“Seatbelt please.” 

If it weren’t for the return of John’s burning stare, Sherlock would have let her know how little he cared about his seatbelt. John looked apologetic, and squeezed his hand one last time before pulling away. Sherlock stared daggers at the stewardess while John buckled up. The moment had passed, lost. He had no way of knowing if it would ever return.

The descent felt both too long and not long enough. Sherlock didn’t want to leave the space where their first kiss almost happened, but he also couldn’t wait to get out of this flying torture tube. The landing went fine, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Holding his laptop bag a bit tighter than usual, Sherlock stood to get out of the plane.

“Um, Sherlock? You forgetting something?” 

With his heart fluttering in his chest, Sherlock turned. John was reaching inside the overhead compartment, exposing a sliver of skin above his belt. Sherlock caught himself licking his lips at the sight of it, until the view was blocked by the Mary Poppins’ bag.

Sherlock stared at the artifact he had almost left behind like a bloody rookie. His stomach dropped so hard he thought he would vomit. He was an idiot. How could he let himself get distracted by a silly kiss. He was doing everything he knew he shouldn’t be. 

Just like last time, he had messed everything up.

Ashamed, Sherlock took the bag and risked a glance at John. What he saw made him question everything that had just happened. John was smirking, as if he was proud of himself. Is that all this had been? A game? Was John toying with Sherlock? Try and see if he would be able to seduce him enough to make him forget priceless artifacts?

Sherlock burned with anger. He felt like a fool for being so easily manipulated. He thought he knew better after what had happened with Jim, that John was somehow different. That it would somehow work out. None of it mattered anymore. John’s behavior had been completely unprofessional. He knew how dangerous artifacts were, how the smallest mistake could—

With a huff, Sherlock turned away. He didn’t see the worried frown that smothered the fire in John’s eyes. All Sherlock saw was nameless backs of heads while they filed out of the plane at a torturously slow pace. He had plenty of time to bask in shame and anger while his heart pounded in his chest. He thought he had learned from experience, that he would be able to control himself and yet here he was, a fool on a plane desperate to be kissed who was now heading to a motel in the middle of nowhere to share a room with the man who seemed to be playing games with his heart.

This was getting out of hand. No, it was already out of hand. There was only one option left: put an end to it. John needed to go. For good. it would be better this way. This way everyone would remain safe.

No matter how much it hurt. 

The thought of it made Sherlock lightheaded. He held onto his bags like life preservers and followed the other passengers blindly through the airport. They would finish this mission, and then Sherlock would speak to Mycroft. John would be transferred back. They would never see each other again. It was for the best. At least that’s what he kept telling himself while he felt his insides twist painfully.

By the time they made it to customs, Sherlock had gathered himself enough seem jetlagged rather than emotionally devastated to the customs agent. John tried to catch Sherlock’s eye a few times but to no avail. Sherlock wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not so soon after deciding it was over.

John offered to get their car while Sherlock took care of luggage. He didn’t trust his voice, so Sherlock answered with a nod. There was a heavy sigh before John walked off. 

Sherlock watched him leave. He didn’t have the energy to fight off the tear that rolled down his cheek. He wished he had more time. Wished he could have kept his feelings under control longer. But he didn’t, and John had taken advantage of it. Just like Jim had. Sherlock felt like a fool for believing otherwise. 

After holding back the urge to murder a few people who did not understand the process of retrieving one’s luggage in a civil manner, Sherlock pushed his cart full of baggage towards the car rental area. He spotted John and wordlessly followed him to a black sedan. Even though Sherlock would rather drive, he was in no state to do so. He settled himself in the front passenger seat while John loaded the trunk. Sherlock took care of setting up the motel address in the GPS while John adjusted himself to driving on the left side of the car.

It was a long drive after a transatlantic flight, but the roads were mostly deserted. John was able to manage without any assistance other than the GPS, leaving Sherlock plenty of time to wallow in his misfortune.

It was almost midnight local time when they pulled into the motel parking lot. As they walked to the reception desk, Sherlock cursed himself for booking one room with two beds rather than two rooms. He debated whether or not it was worth changing the reservation, but didn’t want to go through the trouble of explaining the additional cost to Mycroft after telling him John needed to go.

The receptionist was a short man with a receding hairline and crisps scattered along his shirt. His attention was focused on the small television behind the counter. He barely took a look at them before taking Sherlock’s credit card and handing him a key.

Predictably, the room was awful. 

The door led them into a cramped room, filled with two double beds with bedside tables, a dresser with a TV on top facing the beds. The ridiculously small bathroom was located the furthest away from the door, past the table with two chairs. The wallpaper was faded and outdated, but didn’t look as disgusting as the ‘what used to be beige’ carpet.

Sherlock dropped his bags on the bed closest to the door and shuddered at the sound of squeaking metal coming from the bedframe. John left his bags on the floor and immediately started inspecting the lampshade closest to the door. 

“Are you sweeping the room?” The words were out of Sherlock’s mouth before he knew what he was doing. 

John paused his search, seeming just as surprised after hours of silence. “Yeah, don’t you normally do that?” John continued with the bedside drawer. 

Sherlock reached into his bag. “Yes, but—”

“Let me guess: you have an artifact for that?” Irritation stained John’s tone.

“No, a radio frequency tracker.” Sherlock pulled out the device and handed it to John.

“Oh.”

Sherlock could tell John held back his “thanks” and agreed he didn’t deserve it.

By the time John was finished, Sherlock had set up their workspace on the table and was putting up the satellite pictures and map of the area on the wall. 

“You planning to sleep at all?” John asked as he sorted through his luggage and pulled out his pyjamas.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally as he leveled the map. He heard John huff before the door to the bathroom opened and closed. Sherlock took a step back and admired his work on the wall before his eyes drifted to John’s bag. He could see the top of the novel sticking out of his clothes. Suddenly it became paramount that he understand John’s obsession with that book before he left. Just as he was about to move towards John’s bag, the bathroom door opened. John came out wearing an old gray t-shirt and soft dark blue pyjama trousers, the same thing he’d had on last night. The memory of their night together made it difficult for Sherlock to look away, but more pressingly, he had no idea how he was supposed to survive the next few days sharing a room with this man. 

For the time being, Sherlock opted to hide in the bathroom. It was ghastly. The ochre sink and toilet made it seem cheap and in dire need of renovation. Sherlock refrained from analysing what had caused the cracked tiles along the shower wall. He quickly changed and washed up a bit before heading to bed himself.

The room was dark when Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom. It was probably for the best. He didn’t need additional memories of what John looked like in bed. Sherlock cringed as he sat on the bed and the metal frame squeaked like a rusted hand water pump. After he managed to lie down, he tried to keep his fidgeting to a minimum, but the metal frame chirped at the slightest movement. Once he had found the least uncomfortable spot on the mattress, Sherlock stared at the shadows on the ceiling. It quickly became clear his night would be restless. He kept trying to understand how he had gotten himself into this mess. How he could have been duped so easily, seduced into thinking he had finally found a decent partner who had turned out to be as reckless as the last one. 

How despite everything, all he wanted to do was slip into John’s bed, confess his love and fall asleep in his warm embrace. 

Struggling against waves of anger, shame, and heartbreak that made him fight off angry tears, Sherlock focused on the sound of John’s breathing and hoped it would lull him to sleep.

Chapter Text

Even though he had fallen asleep angry, Sherlock woke up heavy-hearted when he opened his eyes and saw John sleeping peacefully. All Sherlock could think of was how it had felt to wake up in his arms and how, despite everything, he still found himself longing for it. For the kiss they almost shared. For things to be different.

When John blinked awake, Sherlock panicked and closed his eyes. A ball of shame formed in the pit of his stomach while he waited for the right time to pretend to wake up. It took a few seconds before he heard the squeak of John’s bed. Curious, Sherlock peeked and found him turned away. Sherlock was free to stare at the back of his head and feel rejected, which made little sense since he was the one pushing John away.

The shame grew the longer Sherlock stared. Enough to make him nauseous, forcing him to flee to the bathroom, dreadful decor be damned. He sat on the toilet, head in his hands, and tugged at his hair painfully. He needed something else to focus on besides every mistake he had ever made. 

Before he could actually pull out his hair, Sherlock took a shower. The hot water helped relax his tense muscles, but did little to calm his turmoil. Nevertheless, he had to work. They had a mission to complete. Somehow, Sherlock put himself together and exited the bathroom with his head held high. John was standing in front of the window, staring out at the parking lot. Without a word or a glance towards Sherlock, he picked up the pile of clothes on his bed and locked himself in the bathroom. 

It was almost ten am local time when they left the motel lot. Sherlock didn’t argue when John requested breakfast and coffee. They found a drive-through and even though Sherlock wasn’t hungry, he ordered something as well. Forcing himself to eat was easier than hearing another one of John’s speeches about post-surgery care. 

It took less than five minutes to exit town into the vast land that spanned as far as the eye could see. After the busy streets of London, the flat prairie landscape felt disorienting, especially after almost two hours of driving.

John had been giving the car’s GPS concerned glances for the last twenty minutes. Sherlock assumed he was either concerned about whether they were headed in the right direction, given how deserted the area was, or how far they were from potential backup. 

Either way, Sherlock wasn’t going to ask. 

He could barely look at John. The sight of him made the ball of shame grow, a constant reminder of his romantic feelings for John, for letting himself be distracted by them, and for ending up being manipulated because of them. Again. Like a fool. It was why John needed to go. It was for the best, even if the thought of it made the ball swell painfully.

“Is that it?”  John’s voice sounded hoarse, likely because he had barely spoken today.

Sherlock spotted what looked like an abandoned steel mill amongst the flat land and eyed the GPS on the dashboard. 

“Seems like it.”

It was past noon when they took a right turn on a road that led to their final destination. Sherlock slowed as they approached and parked a few hundred feet away. He turned off the motor and stared at the building. It felt surreal to finally be here. So much had happened since he had first tried to retrieve the GPS artifact all those years ago. From using it as a way to move on from Jim, to being what Sherlock and John had needed to finally become a team. It had also caused a Warehouse catastrophe that got Sherlock stabbed, but that was beside the point. The artifact had had a substantial impact on Sherlock’s life, both professionally and personally, and the building before him felt like the end of an era. And in a way it was. The location of their last mission together. Sherlock’s hands tightened around the steering wheel as the ball in the pit of his stomach swelled.

The sound of a door opening snapped Sherlock out of his spiralling thoughts. John had gotten out of the car. 

“Wha—?”

“Get the back, would you?” 

“Oh.” Sherlock found the latch on his left, pulled it, and heard the telltale click from the back. He checked the rearview mirror just in time to see John’s frown disappear behind the open boot.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a shaky deep breath, willing himself to calm down so he could focus. If this really was going to be their last mission, the least he could do was what John had been asking since their first day working together: be a good teammate. 

The thought of John with a pleased look in his eye after they had successfully completed their mission eased Sherlock’s grip on the steering wheel. He could do this. He wanted to. It was the least he could do after everything John had done for him.

Resolute, Sherlock stepped out. He silently accepted the bulletproof vest John handed him. He suited up, eyes averted from John’s head-to-toe black that reminded him of the day they met. Instead, Sherlock reached for Mary Poppins’ Bag and sorted through the artifacts. He slipped the barometer into his trouser pocket, as well as Benjamin Franklin’s ring and a flashlight. 

“Here,” Sherlock offered John the grappling hook. “I’ll take the pinwheel.”

The small smile and nod from John loosened the tension a bit. While he admired the tool, Sherlock tried to figure out where to place the pinwheel case on his own person. 

“Why didn’t you bring the riding crop?” 

Sherlock had been waiting for that question. “It hasn’t been field approved.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you.”

With the pinwheel case finally tucked away under his vest, Sherlock sustained eye contact with John for the first time that morning. He wanted to make sure John understood the gravity of what he was about to say, even if it made the ball in the pit of his stomach throb.

“While I agree that the riding crop could be useful, we don’t know what the side effects are.”

“They can’t be that bad.”

“No? The healing glove tried to control you after wearing it for less than a minute over ten days. Imagine what will happen if you are given the power to control people with the flick of a wrist? How long will it take for the crop’s power overtake you?”

John shifted his weight. “I get that, but what other dangerous artifacts does he have access to?” 

“You shouldn’t assume that Moran is—”

“Bollocks, you know it’s him in there.”

“Either way, there are safer ways to capture him, namely the pinwheel.” Sherlock tapped his own chest for emphasis. “Quite frankly I’ve become rather fond of Hitchcock over the years.” 

John crossed his arms. “How are we supposed to bring Moran back to London? We don’t even have a warrant.”

“We don’t need one. We have the bag.” 

John’s burst of laughter caught Sherlock off guard. He wasn’t trying to be funny, though admittedly the image of Moran tied up and stuffed into Mary Poppins’ bag was rather amusing.

Sherlock tried to hide the blush creeping up his neck by reaching for the Easter Island Conch.

John scoffed. “Really? You think we’re going to need to breathe underwater in there?” 

Sherlock eyed the artifact and tilted his head noncommittally “I guess it is a bit overkill.”

“I can take the Eclipse,” John offered as he pulled it out of the bag.

Sherlock took out the Tesla guns, handed one to John, and proceeded to double check everything before closing the boot. 

“Ready?”

John powered up his weapon, the high pitched sound lost in the open air, and turned to Sherlock. He wasn’t quite sure what it was in John’s demeanor, but as soon as their eyes met, he knew they were on the same page. That no matter what was going on, they were ready to face the danger together. Sherlock was tempted to voice the sentiment when John broke eye contact and turned towards their target.

“Ready.”

For what felt like the first and last time, they walked off as a team. 

The entire area was fenced, including the parking lot, although all it was fending off now was wildlife looking for a home. As they approached, Sherlock felt the relief of finally being in the field with the thrill of the impending chase. John, however, was on full alert. His eyes were roaming everywhere, Tesla at the ready. It was quite a contrast after dealing with Doctor John for so long. 

John signaled to the left. “We should do a walk around first.” 

He led the way along the fence while Sherlock took in the building’s state. The concrete had degraded over the years, but the structure seemed unaffected. The windows were either broken, boarded up, or dirty, only letting in a few rays of sunlight. Besides the main door, there were no other entry points except the shipping area in the back, which was sealed off. 

As they finished their tour, John looked over his shoulder.

“Looks like we’re going in through the front door. Unless you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Not this time.”

They made their way to the entrance and found the door ajar. John’s stance morphed at the sight of it. His feet dug into the ground, knees slightly bent. 

“Stand on that side, when I give you the signal, open the door. I’ll clear the room.”

Sherlock nodded and did as he was told. John stood with his back against the wall next to the door and gave the signal. Sherlock opened it and listened to the crunch of the ground as John penetrated the room, Tesla first.

“Clear.”

Sherlock followed him into the lobby, or what remained of it. There was barely any light coming in from the boarded up windows on either side of the door. Sherlock pulled out his flashlight and looked around. John did the same, illuminating the front desk, and the few chairs scattered in the small dust covered space. What remained of the paint on the walls was faded and chipped. There were three doors; one on the right, one on the left, and another facing them. 

“Do you hear that?”

Sherlock couldn’t hear anything, except— “The pulsing?”

John nodded. ”What do you think it is?”

“Too faint to tell.”

John nodded and looked around the room. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.”

“No need, that’s the one we want.” Sherlock aimed his light on the door facing the entrance.

“Is it now?”

“From what I recall of the floorplans,” he pointed to the door on the right, “that one leads to offices. They connect to the corridor that is behind this door,” Sherlock signaled to the one in the middle, “which leads to the manufacturing area.”

“What about—?” John pointed to the door on the left.

“It’s a closet.”

John pursed his lips, looked from one door to the other before turning to Sherlock.

“You think the trap is on the manufacturing floor.”

“That’s where I would set up.”

“Fine.”

John led the way to the door facing the entrance and found it ajar. 

He turned to Sherlock. “We're not even going to try to find another way in?” 

“Unless we make one ourselves, which will make a lot of noise, there is none.”

John shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. “I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“For what it’s worth, so do I.”

John nodded, took a deep breath and got into position against the wall next to the door.

“Ready?”

Sherlock did the same on the other side and grabbed the handle. “Ready.”

John gave the signal and Sherlock opened the door.

“Clear.”

Sherlock followed John down the dark corridor that smelled of of dust and mold. From what they could see with their flashlights, it was about twenty feet long with a door on the right about midway, and another at the end. Sherlock was so focused on trying to see everything that he didn’t notice the pulsing had changed, a bit louder but also faster, until they were halfway across.

“I imagine this is the door that leads to the offices?” John asked over his shoulder as they passed it.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered just loud enough for John to hear. 

They hadn’t spotted any cameras or microphones, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any.

As they neared the end of the corridor, they found the door open once more. It only took a quick glance at each other confirm the next step. Sherlock got into position and on John’s signal, opened the door. With his flashlight under his Tesla gun, John breached the entry.

“Clear.”

In the darkness the pulsing had grown so loud it was the only thing he could easily perceive, but it wasn’t coming from this room either. As they swept the space with their flashlights, it seemed like a break room. Along the left hand wall was an old round edged refrigerator, a worn down counter with a sink and gas stove. On the right was a row of metal lockers,with tables and chairs scattered around the room.

“There.” John’s flashlight was aimed at the other end. 

It took a moment for Sherlock to spot the outline. The darkness and dust faded the colors together. Nevertheless, there it was, the door that would lead them to the manufacturing floor.

John led the way across the room, and the aforementioned bad feeling intensified when they found it not only closed, but locked. Without a second thought, Sherlock stuck his flashlight in his mouth, pulled out his lockpicking kit and got to work. He had barely gotten his tools in position when there was a loud clunking coming from above. It sounded like something in the ventilation shaft, but he let John worry about it.

“What the hell is—?” 

The clanking stopped, and the silence that followed did not bode well. There was a dull thud, and the next thing Sherlock knew, John was grabbing the back of his bullet proof vest, shoving him onto the floor, and throwing himself on top of him. 

“Grenade!” 

Seconds stretched while Sherlock’s cheek pressed against the dusty floor, trapped under John’s weight, waiting for the explosion that never came. Cautiously, John’s shifted to his knees to get a better look.

“Is that a croquet ball?”

Sherlock tensed. A croquet ball? As in the—No. No. That couldn’t be. Could it?

Sherlock’s scrambled to see, his now dust covered hands making him slip. It didn’t help that John was still kneeling between his legs, which meant Sherlock landed right onto his lap as he sat up.

“Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine.”

Grateful John could not see him blush, Sherlock disentangled himself.

“Where is it?”

“There.”

With a quick sweep of his flashlight, John showed him the off-white ball with the fading red stripe, innocently laying on the floor in the middle of the room.

“No.”

The word fell weakly from Sherlock’s lips, while his mind tried to understand what an artifact he had retrieved years ago and tucked away in the Warehouse could possibly be doing in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota?

“I’m pretty sure that’s a croquet ball,” John argued.

Sherlock felt like the room was spinning when he turned to John. He couldn’t begin to explain how bad the presence of that artifact was. They didn’t have time anyway. One croquet ball meant another would follow and destroy everything in the room.

“We need better cover.” Sherlock scrambled to get his flashlight.

“Why? Oh, right, artifact. Wait, what does that thing do?”

“The steel lockers, we can push them off the wall and hide behind them,” Sherlock instructed as he dashed in their direction.

“Sherlock, what does—?”

He turned and looked John in the eye. “John, please trust me, we need to move now .”

John seemed taken aback by the gravity of Sherlock’s tone, but thankfully, didn’t insist any further. They made it to the lockers and together, tried to move the row. It quickly became obvious their fingers didn’t stand a chance against the weight of the steel.

John stepped back and looked around. “Maybe these could work?”

Sherlock turned to see John prying off a table leg, which was essentially a one inch steel pipe screwed onto a plywood. 

“Brilliant,” he whispered and quickly did the same. 

The pipe ripped a bit of the wood off, but the other end fit perfectly between the wall and the lockers.

“On three,” John ordered. “One, two, three.”

Even though it was difficult, the row of lockers slowly started moving away from the wall. Eventually there was enough space for John to squeeze in and push while Sherlock pulled. 

That’s when the clanging started up again.

“Don’t stop!” Sherlock said through clenched teeth, his forehead covered in sweat.

John screamed as he gave one last push, leaving enough space for both of them, just as the clanging stopped. 

“Hide!”

Sherlock’s voice was lost in a flurry of rapid banging coming from everywhere in the room. He quickly shoved John to squeeze behind the lockers, just as something hit the wall where Sherlock’s head had been.

“That was close.” 

“What the fuck is happening?” 

John was referring to the ongoing banging noises that were forcing them to shout as if they were on an active construction site. However shouting was unnecessary since they were currently pressed against one another from head to toe in order to fit into their precariously small hiding place.

“That is an artifact.”

“No shit.”

“More precisely Charles the Second’s Croquet Balls. When one ball hits the other, it is propelled by the anger and fury of a royal sore loser.”  

“So it turns into pinball machine that murders everyone in the room?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Right,” John flinched as the ball hit the lockers. The force of the impact squeezing them closer together. “There’s only one ball bouncing around, right?” 

“Yes. Although I’m uncertain what would happen if it hit the other.”

“So how do we stop it?”

“We can either wait for it to stop on its own or stop it ourselves.”

John was about to speak when the lockers took another hit.

“How long till it runs out of energy?”

“Not sure. Hours? Days?”

John groaned. “Why offer options when there are none?”

Sherlock tilted his head noncommittally. At least he tried. It mostly consisted of bumping it on the wall.

“So how do we stop it?”

Sherlock bit his lip as he remembered last time. 

Looking back now, Jim’s challenge had been ridiculously dangerous, which was why Sherlock had ended up with a broken arm. He had used a baseball bat to try to hit the artifact into a safe box, which had worked. Sort of. The ball first hit the edge of the safe, ricocheted off Sherlock’s arm before ending its course inside, trapped by Jim who was tasked with closing the door. It was a miracle that either of them had come out alive. And that still didn’t explain what it was doing out of the Warehouse.

“Sherlock?” 

“I’m—I’m not sure.” 

“Can’t we just use the barometer and stuff it into a neutralizing bag?”

Sherlock’s felt ridiculous for not thinking of the simple yet effective idea himself. It showed just how distracted he was.

“That…could work, but we should still trap it inside something in case it doesn’t.” 

“Like that old fridge?”

“Yes, perfect.”

It was good to know John was able to keep a clear head despite everything. Another thing Sherlock would miss when John was gone.

“Right then,” John said a bit chipper, “let’s do it.”

Sherlock pulled out the barometer as quickly as he could in the tight space, elbowing John in the ribs in the process.

“Ow.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock opened the device and paused. “We, um, we need to touch for this to work.”

John cleared his throat. “We kind of already are.”

“I mean skin contact.”

“Oh. Um, I think I can—” 

Sherlock felt a pressure against his back that slid to his side. He shifted to reach towards the pressure, bumping into John’s fingers. They grasped at one another as best they could with the odd angle. It was nothing like the hand holding they had been doing the last few days, but it still loosened the tension in the pit of his stomach.

“Remember, we only have forty seven seconds—” 

“I know—”

“—to get both croquet balls neutralized. There should be one ball under the vent, and the other will be floating around the room. It’s the latter that we need to get into the fridge before we run out of time and die by bludgeoning.”

“Meaning I bag the first one then come help you look for the other?”

“Exactly.” 

Sherlock was surprised to hear John laugh at that.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just nice to jump right back into this crazy job.”

John sounded amused, almost relieved. Admittedly, Sherlock felt the same. Despite the life-threatening situation, it was great to be back in the field, and even more so with John, as a team.

“It is.”

Without thinking, Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. As soon as he did he panicked, wondering what John would think of it. It was so unprofessional of Sherlock, in the middle of a crisis of all times. Before he had a chance to spiral any further, John squeezed back. Relieved, Sherlock started breathing again, and focused on the next step. 

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

With a light pressure on top of the device, Sherlock activated the barometer and everything went quiet. It caused John’s last squeeze before letting go to be that much more intense, as if the world had stopped turning so Sherlock could focus solely on the gesture and commit it to memory before they risked their lives once more. 

Actively ignoring the part of him that wanted to stay there with John, Sherlock quickly slid out of hiding and pulled out his flashlight.

Sherlock meticulously gridded the room with light with the shuffling sounds of John moving around in the background.

“Got it. Right where you said it would be,” John announced as he picked up the second ball under the vent.

“Good,” Sherlock said as he continued to sweep up and down as quickly as he could while counting down the thirty seven seconds they had left. 

There was a brief flash of blue when John dumped the artifact into the neutralizing bag that helped illuminate the room briefly, but Sherlock still couldn’t find the other ball. When he counted past twenty five, his flashlight shone across the door that led to the corridor and saw it was open. They had left it open. Sherlock took a few steps closer to get a better look and there it was. A red striped ball, hovering in the corridor just out of reach. 

“Found it! In the corridor.” Sherlock looked left and right.  “Chair, I need a chair.”

“Here.” 

Sherlock turned and saw John quickly grab a chair and make his way towards the corridor. Sherlock followed him, trying his best to light the way for the both of them. He let John into the corridor first and stepped onto the chair as soon as it was in place. 

“Fourteen seconds,” Sherlock warned.

“I’ll go prep the fridge,” John announced before running off.

Sherlock promptly bagged the artifact and hopped down, dashing through the corridor and straight to the fridge that John was holding open.

The last few seconds ticked down in his mind as Sherlock plopped the artifact onto the shelf.  John slammed the door closed and leaned against it for good measure. The movement was perfectly timed with the swooshing sound as time started up again. The deep pulsing from outside the room returned, feeling like the countdown to their impending doom. Sherlock looked from the fridge to John nervously.

“I think it worked,” John whispered.

Sherlock watched John push off and cautiously open the fridge door. The bagged croquet ball was exactly where Sherlock had left it. 

“It worked.”

“It worked!” John repeated with much more enthusiasm.

Sherlock wanted to be excited as well, but he couldn’t. All he saw was proof an artifact had been stolen from the Warehouse. Moving an item as dangerous as this would not have been kept a secret. There was a leak inside the Warehouse. How long had this been going on? How did Sherlock not know until now? In a huff, he grabbed the ball and slammed the fridge shut.

John frowned. “You alright?”

Of course Sherlock wasn’t alright. He took out his phone and texted Mycroft. They needed to do inventory immediately and find out what else was missing. 

Possible leak in the Warehouse. Found croquet balls. More details after mission is complete. -SH 

“You’ve caught these before, haven’t you?”

Sherlock’s head whipped up at John so fast he almost pulled a neck muscle. John couldn’t be behind this, could he?

“How did--?” 

“You didn’t even have to search the database to know what they were and how to survive.”

Sherlock had to admit John was getting good at this. Just not out loud.

“So they should be in the Warehouse, right?” John added.

Sherlock nodded just as his phone vibrated in his hand. 

Understood. Be careful. -MH

John grimaced. “Bit not good.”

“Not good at all,” Sherlock said grimly and tucked away his device. 

With a flick of his wrist, John pulled out his Tesla and charged it. “Let’s go.”

A mix of relief and dread enveloped Sherlock as he followed John to the other end of the room. Relief that John understood the gravity of the situation without requiring any further details. Dreading what they were going to find once they were back in London, and what was waiting for them behind the door.

Like before, Sherlock stuck his flashlight in his mouth, took out his lock picking kit and went to work. It took less than a minute for him to hear the clicking sound signaling his success. He stood, pulled the flashlight out of his mouth, put away his tools, grabbed his Tesla and got into position.

“Ready?” 

John clenched his jaw and nodded. 

Sherlock turned the handle and waited a beat before pulling it open. They were instantly assaulted by the loud pulsing as it spilled in from the new room. Seemingly unaffected, John aimed his Tesla and flashlight, pointing it left and right before walking through, Sherlock on his heels.

The few rays of sunlight filtering through the broken windows were enough to confirm they were on the manufacturing floor. A wide space with high ceilings, causing the pulsing to echo cacophonously. Sherlock was able to discern a melody, though not one he recognized. The beat and melody’s echoes overlapped one another, creating a sensation of chaos. There were pieces of old equipment and steel scraps scattered along dust covered the floor, enough to reveal a cleared path that most likely led to the awaiting trap. But from where they stood, they couldn’t see the end of it. John put away his flashlight, signaling Sherlock to do the same. The light would give away their location, if it hadn’t already.

With their Teslas leading the way, the sound of their footsteps was lost in the music as Sherlock followed John down the path. They walked passed a stacks of crates and the space d opened up to what looked like an industrial oven, used to melt the steel before reshaping it. A large pile of raw materials laid in front of it, fed by old rusted cranes on either side. The oven looked eerie in the low light, like a wide mouth ready to consume whatever it was fed. 

Carefully, they walked past the oven and after the furthest crane, the path took a right. John crouched behind it, waving for Sherlock to do the same. Hidden in darkness, they took a look at what was waiting around the corner.

The path led to what looked like the shipping and receiving area with sealed garage doors in the background. The wide open space was illuminated by various rays of sunlight filtering through the worn down roof. About thirty feet ahead was the largest beam of light, and there sat Moran, bobbing his head to the music. He was looking down at something, but whatever it was was hidden behind the small table in front of him. There seemed to be a few items atop that were too far away to discern. 

There was little cover around, and nothing remotely close to Moran. Best case scenario, by evading the light they could get closer before Moran noticed them, but there was no way to sneak up from behind.

Best face the problem head on, Sherlock thought. Perhaps the direct approach would appeal to Moran. Not that his opinion actually mattered, but if it helped them get out of this in one piece—

John pulled back and whispered, “I’ll take the path. You cover me.”

“No.” 

The word spilled out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop it. John raised an eyebrow, which Sherlock could normally deduce as either amused or don’t-argue-with-me, but given the low light, he couldn’t tell which one. The truth was, he simply didn’t want to leave John’s side. Only, Sherlock knew that wasn’t feasible if they wanted to survive Moran.

“I take the path. You cover me,” he countered. 

John shook his head. “Moran is my mess. We wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t—”

“Moran is here because some sick twisted mind brought him back to life, not because of you.”

“You’ve barely recovered from being stabbed.”

“I am perfectly capable of fighting Moran or you wouldn’t have cleared me for field work.”

“Sherlock, I—I need to face him,” John said through his teeth.

“As much as I appreciate your sense of honour,” Sherlock continued, “you’ve given me multiple lectures on teamwork. You’re the better shot, therefore we have a better chance of survival if you cover me.”

Even in the low light Sherlock could see John seething. His finger tapped the side of his Tesla a few times before shaking his head. 

“Fine. But if anything happens to you and we somehow still make it out alive, I will not let you hear the end of it.” 

John’s threat gave Sherlock an idea. Perhaps getting hurt again was the answer to keep him around longer without putting anyone in danger—

The music stopped suddenly. Sherlock peered around the crane and saw Moran fiddling with something on the table when a simple bass drum and a wild electric guitar filled the room. 

The next thing Sherlock knew John was grabbing his vest and pulling. Sherlock almost lost his footing, before being pushed against the crane and spoken to a bit too close for comfort. 

“Sherlock, I...” John paused and closed his eyes a moment. “Whatever you do, don’t let your guard down with him. Don’t trust him for a fucking second.”

“I won’t.” 

John’s jaw clenched, he tightened his grip on Sherlock’s vest. “I swear to God, if you do anything reckless and stupid out there—”

His words were cut short by Sherlock’s hand on his. 

“I won’t.”

John held Sherlock’s gaze a long moment before he nodded and let go. Instead he focused on checking his weapon.

Sherlock pulled out the pinwheel case from under his vest. He carefully took out the artifact, made sure the safety was on before slipping it into his back pocket. 

Satisfied with his plan, Sherlock eyed John. He was tense. Too tense. 

“John?”

He looked up only once he seemed satisfied with his Tesla gun.

Sherlock held his gaze a beat before saying, “I trust you.” 

It wasn’t what Sherlock really wanted to say, but it was the truth. It was obvious John wanted to look away, but he didn’t. He gave a small nod and clenched his jaw a few times before whispering back, “I trust you too.”

It was only the sense of imminent death that pulled Sherlock’s gaze away from John’s. 

After a deep breath, Sherlock stepped out from behind the crane and carefully made his way down the path, knowing John was watching his every move. 

As predicted, the low light and loud music kept Sherlock’s presence unnoticed for the first third of the way. Moran kept bobbing his head, looking down at the unseen object, seemingly unthreatened as Sherlock neared a ray of sunlight. Figuring he could get closer still, Sherlock side stepped to remain in the dark.  

The movement was cut short by Moran pointing a gun directly at him. Slowly, Moran looked up and smiled devilishly. Without lowering his gun hand, he put down his phone, and silenced the music.

“Don’t be shy now.”

Sherlock stepped into the sunlight, Tesla gun first. “Drop your weapon.”

Moran’s smile faded into an disappointed sneer. “Such a fucking pussy,” he shouted, his gruff voice echoing eerily. “You haven’t changed at all, Johnny. Still sending out your team to get killed instead of you.”

He was showing no signs of lowering his gun, and Sherlock couldn’t take a shot if he wanted to. It was safest to assume there was at least one artifact on Moran’s table, which meant he would need to step away for Sherlock to get a clear shot that would not accidently activate something.

“Watson’s not here.” Sherlock carefully took a step forward. He wanted a better look at what was on the table. “It’s just me.”

“Is that right?” 

It was obvious Moran didn’t believe him, but he was letting Sherlock come closer.

“Where did you get the croquet balls?”

Moran smiled. “Balls are the least of your worries right now.” With his free hand, he reached for what looked like an antique lantern. 

“What’s that?”

Moran turned the lantern to the left. “It’s a lie detector.”

“What do you mea—?”

There was a faint clicking sound before a beam of blue light shot straight out and landed on the floor beneath empty storage racks next to the garage doors. The ground began to shake, and just as the vibrations intensified, the ground beneath the shelves crumbled. A sinkhole appeared and grew to the size of a car, causing the structure to tumble inside, as well as a piece of the wall. Sun filtered through the dusty air, illuminating the destruction.

“No Johnny hiding there. Hm. Let’s try over here.”

Moran turned the lamp to the right this time and repeated the process. The hole was larger this time and took down a much larger part of the wall. Thankfully John was hidden behind Sherlock, meaning Moran probably wouldn’t aim in that direction anytime soon, but at this rate the whole building would crumble if Moran wasn’t careful. It also meant using the pinwheel was likely to make things worse if Moran used the lantern while under the effects of vertigo. 

The barometer, as always, was Sherlock’s best option ; he just needed a distraction to pull it out.

Moran aimed the lantern to Sherlock’s right, towards the oven. A bit too close to John’s hiding place for comfort, but exactly the kind of distraction he needed. With a flick of his finger, Moran activated the artifact. Blue light shot out, hitting just in front of the oven. The ground started shaking and a sinkhole appeared. Small at first, it grew, the circumference reaching the edge of the oven. The structure creaked loudly as it tilted, causing strain on the chimney. Sherlock watched as it unsealed, spreading dust and soot in waves. He covered his face with his free arm. Keeping an eye on Moran, Sherlock waited until he was hidden in the dust cloud to pull out the barometer and activate it. 

The room went quiet, and Sherlock quickly made his way through the cloud of dust and found Moran exactly where he last saw him; sitting in the chair. He was frozen in time, a devilish smile on his face and vengeance in his eyes. Resisting the urge to punch him, Sherlock took his gun and then quickly patted him down. He found three extra chargers, his two knives, and a glasses case. There was nothing special about it, just an old wood casing, which was why Sherlock assumed it was an artifact.

He quickly hid it on himself and left everything else on the table, along with the bluetooth speaker, the lantern, and a large white candlestick. At first glance there was nothing special about it, until Sherlock noticed it had a wick at both ends. He wanted to investigate further, but he was pressed for time. He pulled the table a safe distance away then went to stand a few feet in front of Moran. Sherlock set his Tesla to maximum, aimed and counted down the last few seconds in his head. 

After forty seven seconds of complete silence, the returning sounds of destruction were deafening as Sherlock pressed the trigger. An erratic beam of electricity shot out, hitting Moran in the chest before he could figure out what was happening. Sherlock watched as Moran spasmed from the high voltage coursing through his body. Once it was over, Moran slowly looked up at Sherlock and started laughing.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. How could Moran survive that shot? He should be on the floor unconscious, not still sitting on the chair.

Moran’s laughter died down. He looked Sherlock up and down.

“Is that all you got?”

Sherlock reached for the pinwheel but Moran was faster. He launched out of his seat, tackling Sherlock. The artifact went flying out of his hands as they landed heavily on the ground. He barely managed to get his arms up before Moran started pummeling him with punches to the face and chest. All Sherlock could do was wait for an opening. He needed to get free soon or John would be forced out of hiding. 

Next thing Sherlock knew, Moran was grabbing his wrists and pinning them down on either side of his head.

“Alright, enough fun,” Moran said with a devilish look in his eye. “Now you be a good boy and stay right here.”

Sherlock was about to talk back when Moran quickly released one wrist to punch him on the temple. The hit was hard enough to disorient Sherlock, making him unable to prevent Moran from getting up and kicking Sherlock with his steel toe boots. Moran managed to hit his side where the bullet proof vest offered the least protection. Sherlock gasped, trying desperately to breath through the pain in his ribs so he could get up and fight. As he shifted to look around for Moran, Sherlock saw him standing next to the table holding the double sided candle. 

Bit not good.

While Moran lit both ends, Sherlock scrambled to his knees, which was easier said than done on the dust covered floor. 

“Don’t worry, it shouldn’t hurt too much,” Moran said as he stepped closer.

“Stop!” John shouted from twenty feet away, his Tesla aimed at Moran.

“Sorry Johnny, you’re too late,” Moran said before he swung the candle, spattering Sherlock with hot wax. 

“No!” John’s voice echoed in the room.

The heat from the wax that landed on Sherlock’s face and clothes was tolerable, but the ripping sensation that throbbed in his brain and coursed through his body was not. He screamed and clutched his head, as if his hands could stop the sensation of being split in half from the inside. The pain soon became too much to bear. Already weak from his fight with Moran, Sherlock felt his body shut down and he slipped into darkness.