Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At Baker Street 221 B. The flat had been partly renovated after the events at 'Sherrinford', but still needed a lot. Sherlock was living there alone. Well, Mrs. Hudson lived downstairs, but Sherlock lived alone upstairs. Managing.

John was managing too. After John had been hauled up from that well, after Sherlock and John had arrived back into London again and Rosie had been fetched from her day-care-family, John had tried to figure out what on Earth had happened. He felt that this whole Eurus-affair had been....'strange'... to put it mildly and now he just tried to find a balance in his life. Work and Rosie. Rosie being at her day-care-family, who was ready to take her with short notice, if John got called by the clinic on short notice....and in case Sherlock would call. But Sherlock never called. And the same day-care-family was sometimes a 'night-care-family' or right after Mary had died, they had been a 'week-care-family' too. Ready to take Rosie for a longer period of time...if necessary. As they had just done when John was blown up and had gone to that island. But right know John was...coping....managing.

And late at night John would be lying in his bed thinking everything all over again. A lot of almost sleepless nights. Thinking way back.....actually back to where he met Sherlock, and when Sherlock had to jump...and when John met Mary...or rather 'Rosemary', as it had turned out her name was. And John felt there...in the middle of the night, whilst Rosie was sound asleep in her bed, as if he was slowly waking up from a dream. A nightmare. And he didn't like that. Because what that 'waking-up' meant was that he could see himself from the outside point of view. How he had changed...from bad to worse. No wonder that Sherlock didn't want to see him any-more. John had brought Sherlock nothing but pain, suffering and loss. No...not the first month they had been together. Not then. John knew that he probably had saved Sherlock from taking that pill from that cabbie. But since?

John felt so ashamed. How could he have behaved like that and claiming to be 'Sherlock's best friend'?

Oh God. He had treated Sherlock as if Sherlock had been a child. Had yelled at him for the tiniest things..and felt so superior and 'saint-like' as he did that. John could feel his cheeks warming up, as he remembered all the occasions where he had told Sherlock to 'behave' as if Sherlock was a child. How he had teased him while others had listened to John's 'a bit not good'. How he had refused to notice all the tiny things Sherlock had done for him: ordering food, paying for almost everything, making tea, lifting up the police-tape every fucking time they visited a crime-scene. Always appreciating when John made a remark, that made Sherlock see something in a new light. And John had treated Sherlock like shit...and even allowed himself to fell so superior about 'being a saint living with that madman Sherlock Holmes'.

Well. Sherlock had drugged him at Baskerville, but had felt so guilty about it afterwards.....and no matter what Sherlock had done, it was nothing compared to what John had done to Sherlock. Nothing!

John had sworn that he would never be like his father. But when he got up in the morning after only a few hours of sleep and looked in the bath-room mirror, he saw his father looking back at him. His abusive, alcoholic and homophobic father, who even had had the nerve to blame everything wrong with his life on his wife...and on his children. And John felt so ashamed. Because it was what he had done...just that he had never blamed Mary, who had deserved that, but he had blamed Sherlock for everything instead.

Looking back he couldn't even understand how he had not been able to see how manipulative Mary had been since they met. Maybe she hadn't been in cahoot with Moriarty...or Eurus....but she had made John feel inferior, made him doubt his own opinions, had been questioning his abilities and so much more. All the classic tools that an abuser would use to gain control, except the bodily violence.....and John hadn't seen it. Not at all. And when he finally had reacted....he had reacted and lashed out against the person, who hadn't deserved it at all. John had hurt Sherlock so much, taking everything Sherlock had done for him for granted and never thanked him for...anything.

John had decided to find a therapist, a new one. He had asked Ella if there would be too much of a conflict if both him and Sherlock would be her clients, and she had hesitated for a few seconds and then said, 'Yes'...it could be a problem. And then John had asked, for the first time since all that with Eurus happened, if another therapist would take him in at all, because it apparently was very dangerous to be his therapist.

Ella had looked at John and said that she didn't understand, what he meant by that and John had looked at her and explained, that Eurus had killed his other therapist.

Then Ella had just looked at him....and asked who that therapist had been and as John explained that, Ella had smiled a bit sadly and had said, “I'm afraid that you might have been drugged to. Just like Sherlock. The mentioned therapist....you can't possible have made an appointment with her. She has been abroad for several months now, taking care of her ill sister. Whomever you have met in her clinic, it can't have been her.”

And John had just looked at her. Somehow he felt a relief that she at least had not been killed. But who had then told him, that she had been stuffed into a cupboard after she had been killed? Oh..yes..Eurus. Of course. And so much about her and what she had said and done had been a lie. So why not about the therapist too?

Then John had told that he ought to find another therapist. “I understand if there is a conflict. I might ask you if Sherlock was allright. And I suppose you cannot answer that.”

“I can. By why don't you ask him yourself?”, wanted Ella to know.

“I can't. I cannot face those two Holmes-brothers. I have let them down. Both of them. So terribly...and most of all Sherlock. Mycroft made me promise to look after Sherlock after he.....something happened on the plane with destination Zagreb. And I didn't....”

“Sherlock is not a child, John. He is a grown-up-man. He can take care of himself..”

“No! Yes....I mean. Of course he can. He is a grown-up. But he has been harmed so much...and he has to know that someone cares about him and.....”, explained John.

“And do you? Care about him? Have you shown that you care about him? By refusing to see him...again?”, wanted Ella to know.

And John couldn't honestly answer that question and then John had found another therapist.

It was a man this time and John told him more about his seeing people, who were not there, First Sherlock after he had jumped...

“I kept on seeing him. In the flat, playing his violin....sitting in his chair, Sitting by his microscope in the kitchen. That was the reason why I left the flat. I couldn't stand it. And then...after Mary died. I kept seeing her too...”

And then John told how he had kept on doing that until he had realised that he had a suspicion towards Mary and her motives. After seeing her DVD's and mostly after he had seen her last DVD together with Sherlock.

“In my flat. His flat was destroyed and he lived by his brother and that last DVD was awful... And after that Sherlock just left and I haven't heard from him since.....”

And then John told about his own anger and confusion and how ashamed he was, and gradually over the following weeks, talking with the therapist, John could finally admit that he might not be gay.....but that he had feelings for men too. Especially one man.......and now everything was ruined. And John deserved that!

The therapist had smiled at that and had asked, “How can you throw possibilities away, before you even have investigated them? Sherlock might be hurt...even because of your behaviour and actions and your wife's actions and attempts to kill him... again. But how can you know that he won't forgive you and that you are not harming him more, by staying away...again. Keeping Rosie away from him?”

And then John decided bravely to visit Sherlock. If Sherlock would accept to talk with him....

And as John finally wrote an SMS to Sherlock's number on his new phone (the old one was lost at Musgrave...in the well) and he got an answer back that he was welcome, but that the flat still needed some repair, John felt both anxious and relieved.

Chapter Text

The 17 steps to Sherlock's flat were tough to climb. The front door had been unlocked and as John had reached the 10 ^th step, he could hear Sherlock's voice through the open door, “I'm in the living room, please come in, John.”

And John didn't even bother to think how Sherlock could know that he would arrive at that precise point of time...or how Sherlock could know that it was him climbing the stairs.

John just said, “Hello...” and nothing more as he came into the living room. And there Sherlock was balancing the bison-skull on one arm trying to put back the headphones. The flat looked a lot better, with newly made walls, even if it was the same pattern of wallpaper. Even the rather spectacular one behind the sofa. John supposed that Sherlock had grown fond of that wallpaper somehow.

“Give me a hand, will you?” asked Sherlock and John helped him setting the headphones back again and putting the bison-skull back on the wall. John looked around. A lot of things were still not in place, and there were new pieces of furniture, but all in all the flat looked habitable now.

“How are you?”, asked John.

Sherlock looked at him for a few seconds, before he answered, “Do you really want to know or are you just being polite? I could lie and say that I'm fine...and then you could lie and say that you were fine too. What is obviously a lie since you do not sleep well.....and neither do I. But I manage.”

John smiled a bit sadly and confessed, “So do I. Manage that is. Sort of.”.... and continued, “Are you still living at Mycroft's house?” as he looked out into the kitchen, that apparently still was under repair.

“Hmm. What? Yes. It turned out that there was something seriously wrong with the plumbing. So Mrs. Hudson is at her sister's...since it involves her flat too. And the antique water-boiler is being replaced to....and the dampness in flat C is being taken care of...but why do you ask? I thought you were angry with me again...even if I fail to see what I did wrong this time...too.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. You haven't done anything wrong. Not this time either...it is just...it is me...” John stopped and took a deep breath, “It is me. I'm seeing a new therapist...and I'm beginning to figure out something about myself and....I've found out that I don't like what I see in the mirror in the morning. I'm seeing my dad. My abusive and alcoholic dad and......”

Sherlock suddenly had his whole attention on John and asked with worry, “Rosie?”, and it hurt John so much to see that Sherlock really must have missed Rosie and his first thought was concern for her.

“Oh God,,,no. She is fine. It is not her I've....It is you, Sherlock that I have been extremely abusive towards...and I just want to say I'm so, so sorry. Not that it helps, but.....”

Sherlock had moved to one of the cupboards that separated the living room from the kitchen and John wondered for a brief moment how those cupboards could have survived the explosion and now Sherlock returned with a glass of whisky in each hand.

“Here! Some Dutch courage, so you finally can get it said, the thing you came for.” and he made a gesture towards the two chairs in front of the fireplace. His own that had survived the explosion and a new reddish one, that replaced John's old one. The old one had been too damaged. John sat down and huffed, “Well. This might not be wise since I said 'alcoholic'...”

Sherlock frowned at him, “Hmm...you might have put your feet on the first metres on that path. But no...you are not 'alcoholic'. You use it as a bit unhealthy coping-mechanism, but you are not an alcoholic, even if your fear it...”

John looked at his glass and said, “Hm..I hope you are right....and you?”

Sherlock took a sip, “I am 'coping-mechanism-ning' too. Better for my kidneys than drugs. I think my liver is a bit more resilient than the kidneys for now. And I've picked up meditation again....and exercising. I run every morning in Regent's....But this is not about me. You said that you had come to say 'I'm sorry' to me. There is no need for that. I can perfectly understand....”

“Please, Sherlock. Let me speak. This is difficult for me and....and I need to say it. I can't ask you to forgive me, because it would be to much to ask. So please...let me speak and explain without interrupting?”

“I'm listening...”, said Sherlock. And John was so much reminded of the last time Sherlock had comforted him, even if John in no way had deserved that.

John drank the last of his drink and began, “I'm not breaking down like the last time where you were the one comforting me, even if I most certainly didn't deserve to be comforted. That breakdown... I had that yesterday at my therapist's. But it was necessary...a part of seeing who I am. I'm turning into my father...No. I have turned into my father. And I hate it. Last time we talked about such matters, I told you that I wanted to be different, but I had still not fully acknowledged, what I had done to you. So..here it comes: My father was an abuser and an alcoholic. I'm an abuser and close to being an alcoholic too. When he had a job it wasn’t that bad, but his words were 'the rule' in our house. Not something to be questioned. I don't remember it as being that bad when Harriet and I were young. But around my 15 ^th birthday, Harriet was 17 then, my father lost his job and began to drink together with the other unemployed men at the local pub. My mother managed to find a job, so we coped financially, but my father was a lazy sod and never lifted a finger in the house. So there she was, my mother, working on her job, and then having to do all the work in the house as well. We children tried to help. Well mostly me, as Harriet wasn't much at home and then father would come home...drunk...and everything my mother had done would be wrong and everything I had done would be wrong too. The food was wrong, the mending of the garden, our clothes...everything. He was just looking for an excuse to be violent. To 'let out some steam'...or should we use the right words: To beat up his wife and his son, because he was a cock, an arsehole and an abuser and the only one to blame for his miserable life was anyone but him in his own eyes!”

John nodded as Sherlock offered yet a few fingers of that whisky. This time with a few ice cubes to dilute it a bit.

And then John continued, “You can imagine how sorry for himself he felt as Harriet confessed that she had not found a bloke, with whom she now shared a flat, but a girl. And that they were sexual partners. My father gave her such a beating that she ended up at the hospital, but she refused to report it. It was not something you did in our neighbourhood. Only if it was very severe. And then she was forbidden to show herself at our house. Of course neither mother nor I obeyed that ban, and Harriet would come to visit us, when father was at the pub.

I left home as soon as I was able to and father was a bit proud that I had got a scholar-ship at Sandhurst and I was there when I learned that they had both been killed in a car-crash. I was 19 at that time...and a lieutenant.”

John paused and Sherlock felt that he could interrupt now: “I know, John, I know that you left to look after Harriet, who had ...not been in a good position...after your mother died....and you didn't finish your education. That is why you never became an actual army-doctor, with the rank of major.”

“Yeah..”, said John, “And I got the possibility to end my medical education at Bart's, but now as a GP. And later return to Sandhurst and become a captain...and a paramedic with trauma-surgery as a speciality. I suppose that I could not hide mine...a bit unusual career...for the 'British Government' aka Mycroft Holmes.”

Sherlock drank a sip of his whisky and said with a smirk, “Well...I suppose that the lacking year and a half on your CV...the year where you actually worked for MI6, would be difficult to hide from him too, since he was you boss at that time!”

John just looked at Sherlock, but said nothing. Those bloody Holmes-brothers....sometimes much too clever for their own good!

Sherlock looked at John and lifted his glass, “Don't worry. MI6 and MI5 is almost a family company: It is my mother's eldest sister, who was 'M'...the leader of both 'Intelligence'-branches...for a long time. How do you think that Mycroft got into so high positions at such a young age? Why do you think both of us got recruited as agents barely out of University? Aunt Marjorie knew exactly how skilled we were because she knew us and had an eye on us...”

And suddenly John understood, “Oh...active agents. That is the reason why your brother 'hates legwork'. It is not because he couldn't imagine doing it, sitting in safety behind his fine mahogany desk. It is because he had done to much of it...”

Again Sherlock smirked, “It took you long enough for you to see that version of my brother, and...well maybe he was hiding 'in plain sight'. You saw his ability with a sword. He is an excellent marksman too. For God's sake, John, he has a pilot certificate to helicopter. It requires actually quite some active flying-time every year to maintain that......and why do you think that my brother could so much as think about doing active legwork and get me out of Serbia, when I.....”, and Sherlock stopped talking and took a gulp of his whisky before he said, “I'm sorry I interrupted you. Please continue...”

John took a large gulp from his glass and turned it around in his hands, before he continued, “Well. Yes. I can't say I felt sad because of my father....but most certainly because of my mother. There might be excuses....no, not 'excuses'...'explanations' for my fathers behaviour, but that is not valid...not for beating anyone..”

John stopped and looked at Sherlock, “For me beating you. Yelling at you. Treating you as a child that needed to be corrected...”

And John lifted his hand as Sherlock was about to say something, “Please...let me say this. It is difficult enough as it is...” John took a deep breath before he continued, “I'll admit that I saved your life, shooting that cabbie. But I think that was about it. After that....I became more and more of an arse. Totally blind and not noticing at all the little things you did to make me feel better, while I kept on hurting you. I was so engulfed in my own....'saint-ness'... polishing my own halo, because I could live with that 'madman Sherlock Holmes'. I even called you that on my blog. And pointing out that we were most certainly not 'friends' but just 'colleagues' at a lot of opportunities. Shouting from every rooftop in London that i wasn't gay, as if was the worst thing you could ever be,And I know....I defended you, even punched a policeman in his face because of that....but there was always, always an underlying layer of 'you should be grateful, you berk, Sherlock, that I'm keeping up with you' . Always the assumption that everything I did was totally right, and what you did was wrong. And that I was a saint: I did 'everything' in this flat. I did the shopping. I cooked. I sometimes did the small amount of laundry, because most of it was sent out of the house to the professional laundry-company. I yelled at you so you would clean up 'the mess' on the kitchen-tables. And 'the mess' was usually your experiments that was your work, that gave most of the income to our mutual household. I might have earned enough money to the rent and the food and the cabs. But you paid for the rest. And you did the rest. The more invisible parts: taking care of insurance. Paying the other household expenses: internet-connection, heating, electricity, when things needed to be repaired and so on. You called the plumbers, the carpenters, the electricians.....and things were just mended when I returned from the clinic and thought you to have been lying on that bloody sofa since I left. And maybe you had sometimes, because you had stayed up most of the night, working or playing the violin, because I had a nightmare.....and I was so blind! I even asked Mrs. Hudson if you had ever cared about someone...and it was right under my own bloody nose!”

The two men sat in silence for a while and the John took a shaky breath and continued, “Oh no, don’t worry. I'm not having a break-down. I just need to sort out my thoughts. Well..”

And John continued to tell his point of view. His new point of view on their life together before Sherlock had to jump from the roof of St. Bart's.

“I called you a machine. Said you had no feelings....and then you jumped. I felt so devastated and I felt it was my fault. So you can say that I had a few months of clarity. Of seeing my self as the abuser, I had been. Chipping...constantly....small pieces of your self-esteem. Just the way abusers do.” John had looked at his own hands holding the glass.

John looked up, “I never even bothered to ask you why you jumped. I just beat you up and refused to see you afterwards....and never even asked. So...much too late, I finally ask: why did you jump?”

Sherlock looked at John for a moment and said, “I'm not going to interfere with your wrong assumptions about you and me. Not now. But I'll answer your question. I jumped because I had no choice. Things had got out of hand. Mycroft had played chess with the devil and lost.....and as the man, we knew then as Jim Moriarty, did shoot himself, my options were narrowed down to exactly...one. If certain persons didn't see me jump, you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have been shot by snipers. Or that was at least what would have appeared to have happened, then...”

John looked at Sherlock with open mouth, “We...we would have been shot? Jesus! But how...?”

Sherlock smirked, “How I survived? I landed in a net. The laundry-lorry had a concealed net that would cover the marked area on the pavement. I just needed to hit inside those markings. I was afraid that someone might have noticed that I jumped with my head facing the road and was lying on the pavement turned 90°, because I had only a few seconds to roll down from that net. Some of the people gathering around me had heavy sedation in syringes and sedated me...and as soon as your reactions had been noticed by your sniper, I was taken inside and Molly gave me an antidote. The man they had used to frame me for abduct the children...you do remember that the little girl screamed as she saw me...had been found dead in that warehouse and he looked enough like me that he, with a wig and lying down to conceal the difference in hight, could pass as my corpse. And then I did hide in Molly's flat until I had my disguise in place...and left England.”

“And you didn't return until more than two years later. And my gratefulness for you being alive was showed by beating you into a pulp! Jesus! I did beat a defenceless man into a pulp!” John was shouting now.

“You did not 'beat me into a pulp'. And I was not defenceless. Believe me, John, I've killed more skilled people than you in close combat, while I was away...”, shouted Sherlock back.

And then they stopped. Looked at each other and said, “I'm sorry....” at the same time.

And then they tried to talk at the same time too, both stopped and John managed to say, “You first...” a fraction of a second before Sherlock said it.

Sherlock sighed, “I...I never meant to tell you. How it was....being abroad. Travelling the world to bring down what I thought to be Moriarty's criminal organisation....”

“It wasn't Moriarty?”

“Not as a person. Not the man who shot himself on the roof. But as a criminal organisation, it did exist. Not as huge...not as organised, as I had expected. A lot of the work I did was actually MI6 jobs. I was good at it while I was younger, before everything crumbled, before...before I met you...What Moriarty was or is can wait. For now.” Now it was Sherlock's turn to look at his empty glass.

Sherlock looked up, “I was recruited while I was still in University, because aunt Marjorie, known as 'M', knew how good Mycroft had been. And everybody thought me to be like him. A bit slower, but like him. That was the reason why I never finished my education totally. Never graduated and still lack my last exam. I was tied to a chair in France and watched my fellow agent bleed to death at the time my final exam should have taken place...and afterwards I broke down and left the university. But believe me, John, if I had wanted to defend myself, I could have. Easily.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because I suddenly saw what my not trusting you totally and not bringing you in on my...and Mycroft's plans...had cost you. You had aged and looked...unhappy. And right there and then I decided to step back...and not scrutinize Mary too thoroughly. Because looking at her showed not more than I later learned that she would allow to show. A nurse. A woman with a few secrets. A strong woman. A woman that was the perfect fit for you...at the first glance. And then I accepted whatever you would have done to me, because I could read your grief and sorrow and loss...How much I had let you down.”

John just sat there. He really couldn't understand what Sherlock had told him. How could Sherlock...this real Sherlock, be so different from the Sherlock John had had in his mind? This real man was caring, understanding and......so much more than the two-dimensional figure John had constructed in his mind. And when had John begun to go so blind regarding Sherlock. That two-dimensional picture had crumpled during the last months events. But who was the real Sherlock?

Sherlock had just watched John and said, “Enough about me. I had promised you to listen. So that is what I do...listen. So go on..”

John just sat there. Looking at his empty glass, “I would like to have something to drink...and not whisky, please. Is there somewhere in that disaster of a kitchen a kettle and some tea?”

“We can go downstairs. Mrs. Hudson's kitchen is not as demolished as mine...”, said Sherlock.

Chapter Text

So now they were sitting at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table, drinking tea and eating some of her home made biscuits.

And John began to talk again, “It is as if I have been conditioned to...see you in a certain way. And not in a positive light...”

John remembered the things he'd told Mary back when he had just met her and they'd thought Sherlock was dead and John had told about Sherlock. It had been a long list of Sherlock's flaws and failures. Sherlock's inability to feel the pain of others, and his total disregard for John's feelings. Because seeing Sherlock like that had helped John coping. But none of it was true. John knew that now. Mary must have known that too.

And John took a sip of his tea and continued, “And that doesn't fit with who you are. It is as if I had suddenly turned 'Sherlock'-blind...if it makes any sense. I was abusive before....before you had to jump, but it got so much worse after you returned. And the only other factor has been 'Mary'. Seeing and feeling what happened at Sherrinford, I've got the idea that Mary reprogrammed me. But why? And how? What was the purpose? She had nothing to do with Eurus, so why? Or was it just me, being the arsehole I really was?”

Sherlock was silent for a few moments before he answered, “Mary was an abuser too. It is a bit funny, isn't it? When women are abusers, it just somehow runs unnoticed. No one expects that from a woman. But Mary questioned your perception of things, questioned your abilities and I'm sure that she in her own 'sweet' way did make you doubt my motives too. Just as I told you when 'Moriarty' was running his 'destroy-Sherlock-Holmes'-plans. When the idea is in your head, it keeps popping up. You can't un-think it again. Mary helped you make a certain mental picture of me...and she kept on doing that. I think was is a part of your violent reaction towards me.....a two occasions.“, said Sherlock.

“More than that. At least three where I did beat you.”, protested John.

“No... two. The one before we met Irene, I asked for that. Two times, John. Only two. As I returned, in the Landmark and in the morgue, at Culverton's hospital.”

John shook his head, “But that is not the only times, I've been an arse towards you. I've abandoned you. Left you utterly alone. Have told you to fuck off. I didn't bother to contact you after you returned from Serbia. I didn't contact you after my wedding. I pushed you away after Mary died, and accused you of causing her death and if it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson, I would have been too late to save you from Culverton. You risked your own life...more than once...because of me. Why Sherlock, why?”

“Was that a wrong thing to do?”

“Oh God no. It isn't ...it's just. Why do you think so much of me, when I most certainly do not deserve that? I'm not a good man, Sherlock. Bloody hell...I'm not even a decent one!”

“I have a feeling that we have had that discussion before, John. And that you were speaking to an invisible Mary at that time and saying that you tried to be the man, she saw in you. I hope that you have come to your senses and are aiming a bit higher than that!”

“What?”

“Oh for God's sake, John. 'Imaginary Mary' was just as unreal as the 'imaginary Sherlock' you had made in your head as I had to disappear. I was a 'machine', the cold calculating sociopath. And the Mary in your head...she was nice and sweet, wasn't she?”

“Yeah....it helped me cope...”

“But that was not who Mary was. She was anything but 'nice and sweet'. She was intelligent, calculating, extremely skilled even if you and I are better marksmen than her. She could outmanoeuvre almost every password on a computer...... and she was patronizing, just more hidden than Mycroft, and she was arrogant and abusive. Not 'nice and sweet'...and that was exactly why you fell in love with her!”

“What?! No...I fell in love with that sweet nurse Mary and....”

“You kept on loving her, even if she showed that she was not 'sweet nurse Mary'. She was haughty, intelligent and arrogant. Had not many friends. A lot actually came close to hating her. She got rather thin after having given birth to Rosie and she preferred to dress in a dark blue jacket and had curly hair. Does it remind you of someone? Hmm?”

John just looked at Sherlock with his mouth open.

“But...but how could you forgive her? Because you had, hadn't you?”, John wanted to know.

“I had.....because she had been given an impossible choice that night in Magnussen's office. And Mary had just to do some math. Magnussen had known she was pregnant, Janine probably came to say something, and Magnussen told Mary that he would keep her enemies away...at least until her daughter was old enough to cope without her mother. Magnussen hadn't known about Ajay. Magnussen just gloated about how unfortunate it would be if old enemies would turn up when Mary was in labour.....and how much you, John, would be in danger, when they turned up. The price for that limited peace was that she should shoot me!”

“Jesus...”

“And then it was a question of math, Just as when I jumped from the rooftop. I could risk my life then...or see my three friends die. Easy to choose. One life against three. And it was easy for Mary too. Three lives against one. That was why she couldn't just shoot me in my legs. It would have to look as if she tried to kill me, if she should convince Magnussen. But believe me John. If she had wanted me dead, she would have shot me in the head.”

John thought about what Sherlock just had said and then he shook his head, “No..you can't put it like that, Sherlock. Mary chose to shoot you. Her own life wasn't endangered by that choice. You, on the other hand, faced exile and injuries and death, by choosing to jump to save us, when you jumped from that roof. You were so heavily sedated lying on that pavement, that that alone would have endangered your life. For God's sake! I couldn't feel your pulse! You can't compare, Sherlock....you just fucking can't. And furthermore. You must stop risking your life like that....just casually throwing it away. Drugging your self to the verge of death to 'save me' and even on Sherrinford...choosing to shoot your self instead of me or Mycroft...”

“But there was no other choice! I couldn't kill Mycroft. He is my brother...and he has saved me a lot of times. Last in.....well, never mind, and I couldn't shoot you. No way....And besides. Not everything on that island and what happened there, were what they seemed to be. But more about that later....”

And Sherlock continued, “If you have finished your self-flagellation John, I have a few remarks. You tend to paint things in either black or white. And now you have decided that I'm all 'white' and a saint and you are all 'black' and a sinner. But life isn't like that. I thought we had established that. You are not your father. You might have beaten me.....but it was when you were under extreme emotional stress. And at the first occasion, at the Landmark, you must have felt that I mocked your grief. It was me who failed....the social awkward idiot, who tried to use humour to make things lighter and failed miserably doing so.

In the morgue you had just lost Mary and saw that I showed no regard for my own life...and I was hallucinating and threatening towards a man, that you still had to recognize as a serial-killer. So no wonder you snapped. And the physical harm you caused me was nothing compared to......”

And right there Sherlock stopped and looked actually a bit embarrassed and continued, “...never mind.”

John just looked at Sherlock. He had heard Sherlock's 'never mind' now two times and finally John understood.

The remarks Molly had made shortly after Sherlock had returned after having been away for more than 2 years. Sherlock's half sentences now and before, and his insomnia and his reactions,.....including his overdose on the plane to Zagreb after the shooting at Magnussen's Appledore and Sherlock totally loosing it in the morgue at Culverton's hospital and finally it all clicked into place in John's head.

“What an idiot and arse I have been, Sherlock. Please forgive me for being such an arse. But...you were caught in Serbia, weren't you? And they did....torture you? And Mycroft had to do something to get you back....”

John paused, “And...oh God...I made you fall on your back and made it so much worse...Oh please forgive me, Sherlock.” And John rose and went over to stand in front of Sherlock.

And John's eyes were filled with tears again and he grappled for Sherlock's hand and whispered, “I have almost lost you so many times...and I....I.....”

Sherlock gave John's hand a firm squeeze and said, “It is such a long time ago and they could have done so much worse. I was just being punished...not tortured for real. I should have known. But I was sleep-deprived, almost in-coherent because of famine and cold. But a dungeon? Iron-manacles? Whips? Rather old-fashioned. There are so much more efficient methods if you want informations. Water-boarding, chemicals...even the old-fashioned 'nail-removal' or 'finger-breaking' or electricity to the genitals. Nothing like that happened. I was beaten and felt pain....but if I had been severely wounded and if I had in reality had had broken ribs, I would have been wounded so badly by you, John, that I would have been in a hospital afterwards. Now it wasn't worse than I was almost functioning after a few days. Even if the wounds did scar, they were not much deeper than skin, hardly into muscle-tissue.“

John looked deeply worried, “May I have a look?”

Sherlock frowned but then he understood John's need for seeing that the damage hadn't been that bad, even if he had seen Sherlock walking around with no problems only shortly after, as they came in contact again...and Sherlock actually had dragged John out of the bonfire. Just as John might need to see that the damage, he had made on Sherlock in the morgue, would be almost gone by now.

Just....Sherlock now had two small scars on his face, because of John's violence. One by Sherlock's lower lip, and one by the left eyebrow.

Sherlock rose and began to undress. And then he turned towards John, who had just been standing there looking.

Sherlock did let his dressing-gown fall to the ground and let the shirt follow. John could now see the whole of Sherlock's back. The scars were now all healed into white lines, but John could easily imagine how they had looked freshly made. John had after all seen something like that several times in Afghanistan , when soldiers had returned after having been in the hands of their enemies.

“May I touch?”, asked John.

“Of course....they do not hurt any-more.”

But that implied that they had hurt, not only as fresh wounds, but as scars too. And John knew all to well how such scar tissue could be too sensitive to touch and be hurting even after they had healed, because of the nerve-damage.

One way to deal with the turmoil of feelings, that John now faced, was to get into soldier/doctor mode and John began to catalogue every scar by severity and tools used to inflict them. Trying to detach himself from his feelings. Seeing it as ' not Sherlock's back, but someone else's'

And Sherlock just answered in a low voice when John asked as he gently touched the different scars in turn:

“Cigarette burns?”

“Knifes?”

”A whip?”

”A cane?”

”A bludgeon?”.....To the latter the answer from Sherlock was: ”No.....a water pipe, actually.”

And Sherlock could only answer “Yeah” to everyone...John was nearly just as god as Sherlock at identifying wounds and scars.

And then John gently touched every scar again and said, “I'm sorry for not knowing. For making it worse and for abandoning you. Forcing you away...from me...and this last time from Rosie too. And that remark, “Anyone but you”.....And that note where I wrote that 'I regretted ever meeting you'....you must know. It was written while I was drunk.....I know....not an excuse. And the note? Did you ever read it?”

“Yeah...I did....and John. I have to be honest. I never expected you to want to see me again after that. And I felt so devastated...”

“No wonder...and that is why I'm so worried. Because that remark.....and that letter with those hurting words. That is not me, Sherlock. I can't.....and I couldn't recognize myself it those scattering words now. And I'm so ashamed that I could say and write something like that. It is as if I have finally awoken from a nightmare. And it doesn't make sense...”

Sherlock had dressed and turned towards John, “But it makes perfect sense. Now.....not then. But I've had time to think about a lot of things. And it is so utterly crazy......but it makes sense. It explains so much...even if I can't prove everything. Come upstairs. We can still sit in the living-room and there is something there you need to see.”

Chapter Text

So now they were again sitting in the living room in Sherlock's flat. They sat in silence. Sherlock thinking and John just waiting. Sherlock had asked John to wait a bit, because Sherlock had to sort out his thoughts, before he would be able to explain.

But John did not wait long, before Sherlock cleared his throat and began, “I just wondered if I should begin with 'Mary'....when she entered your life...or with the beginning?”

John thought for a moment and then said, “I think I would like you to begin with 'Mary'...”

“OK. Well...” began Sherlock and then, just as an afterthought and having apparently nothing to do with the subject 'Mary', Sherlock then asked, “Do you remember Baskerville?”

John snorted, “As if I could ever forget that you drugged me and scared the shit our of me!”

Sherlock looked a bit embarrassed, “Well, uhm, yes...I did, but I think that I've apologized a lot of times for that, haven't I?”

“Yeah...and who am I to blame anyone? So....why mention 'Baskerville'?

“Because there we discovered a gas, making people highly suggestive, easy to manipulate. Just use some specific words...and people's perception of reality is disturbed. And don't tell me that the scientists didn't investigate and develop further in that direction...and that brings me to 'Mary' among other things...”

Sherlock looked at John, who made a gesture, “Go on, please, Sherlock.”

“Did Mary ever, before you began seeing each other for real, by any chance give you something? A gift? Something to drink?”, wanted Sherlock to know.

And John frowned before he remembered, “Oh...she did. We did have this silly 'club' at the clinic, where we would buy something or just bring something, that we had never used...a gift perhaps, and then make a lottery. And each month, or maybe a bit more frequently if there were gifts enough, a winner would be chosen and would receive a 'gift'. Sometimes it would be all right and sometimes close to ridiculous. And 'Mary' had won this set of shaving foam, shaving balm and a deodorant and I was just leaving my office as those three giggling nurses came walking down the corridor. They were teasing 'Mary' and she had just said that she had no father, no brother and wasn't seeing anyone so she would give this gift to the next male she saw. And it happened to be me....and the brand I...I had begun to use, because....because I couldn't use my regular one. It reminded me too much of …..Baker Street.”, John took a deep breath.

“Just as I thought”, said Sherlock, “Something in daily contact with your skin. And oh so subtle. Not really drugging you. Just making you a bit easier to persuade....”

And John looked in horror at Sherlock, “Are you telling me that she drugged me with something like that devilish gas from Baskerville?!”

“A successor.....a new and improved version. And then she began her plan.....altering your view upon me. She must have known by then that I was still alive. Her boss must have told her...and told her to keep close to you.”

“Her boss.....Moriarty?”

“The real leader of the organisation, yes. The man who shot himself at the roof of St. Barts, no.”

“But Eurus told us at Sherrinford...”

“I better begin with the beginning now, if any of this is going to make any sense...”, said Sherlock.

And began:”... 'Jim Moriarty' was a mirage, a ghost, an idea. It would have been so utterly stupid to stand forward and show himself like he did stealing the crown-jewels and being in court...and in the media. Such a person operates from the shadows in the side-wings. Such a leader never steps forward out into the harsh lights on the stage. Never. Just sits in the middle of a web like a big fat spider. So.....'Jim Moriarty' as a person was brilliantly, I'll admit that, played by the unemployed actor Richard Brook. Richard was able to apear totally insane on a very subtle way. He even took care that he altered between using his left hand and right hand to confuse everybody. And the look on his face of utterly surprise as he shot himself, must have been because he had expected a prop and not a real gun..”

“Oh Jesus...how cruel...”, was John's remark and then John continued, “But if 'Moriarty' wasn't a real person, who killed Carl Powers then? Because it happened such a long time ago.....long before Richard Brook.”

Sherlock didn't answer right away, but remained still for several seconds, before he began to speak again, “.....'Moriarty' had nothing to do with the murder of Carl Powers. Didn't plan it or caused it. It was just used later as a part of a bigger plan. A plan that back-fired spectacularly. Think, John. You know the three main things in investigations: means, motive, opportunity!”

Sherlock paused and continued as John didn't say anything, “I suppose you don't have the sufficient data. Neither had I when I was first presented for the mystery.....if I had known everything...then....I.....I might have spared you and me for so much sorrow and agony. Or maybe it was already too late to do something about it from the moment we met...”

“I don't understand, Sherlock. Wasn't all this caused by Eurus?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No...only some of it. But let me tell you about the facts concerning Carl Powers. The facts that I have now. That I've learned by now.......and after what happened with Eurus, I got the last data. And....”

Here Sherlock stopped and apparently made a decision before he continued, “Well. 'Motive': Carl Powers was a bully. One of the worst, namely one operating from the side-wing. Having others to do his dirty jobs, so no one would believe that he was behind it......”

And John understood, “He bullied you, Sherlock, didn't he?”

“Not only me. A lot of others too. So that was the motive behind that murder. It wasn't innocent doings that the little Carl did in his spare-time. It was pure and simple tyranny and no one dared to say anything or do anything. And the grown-ups didn't notice or didn't know what to do about it. Carl made the school-days into a living night-mare for a lot of children.....including me.”

John nodded. He had an idea where Sherlock was heading. “And 'means'?”, John wanted to know.

And Sherlock answered, “You know that. Poison in his lotion. A poison that could have been made on a kitchen-table with just a minimum of knowledge of chemistry...”

And now Sherlock smirked, “Did you know, by the way, that we had a laboratory set up in our house by Mummy in order to encourage our curiosity regarding science?”

John shook his head, “No...I didn't know that.”

“Well...as I said. That poison could have been made on a kitchen table. And 'opportunity': well there were often events at our school where parents and elder siblings were invited...”

And finally John understood, “Are you telling me that your brother murdered Carl Powers?!”

Sherlock shook his head, “No...not intentionally. Mycroft wanted to give Carl a warning. But the poison was more efficient than expected and Carl drowned. Mycroft did steal the shoes to prevent the police to find out about the poison in the lotion. But no one...except from me of course, thought that Carl's death had an unnatural cause. And fortunately they didn't listen to me. Mycroft kept those shoes as a reminder of being more careful later on.”

“But Mycroft is a murderer then.....Did kill at the age of...nineteen. He must have been at Oxbridge then.”

“A murderer...yes. As are you...and me. As are a lot of other persons. Including our sweet not-your-housekeeper-Mrs-Hudson. She once killed one of Frank's enemies, because he threatened to shoot both of them. She is rather fierce with a frying pan.”

And John began to giggle as he vividly could imagine a younger Mrs. Hudson smacking a man so fiercely with a frying pan, that he would die.

“What a way to go...”, John laughed. And did not worry more about that. Yes...they were all murderers...one way or another. Who was he to judge? And John would have to admit that when he had heard how bad Sherlock had been bullied at school: beaten repeatedly and at one occasion almost raped, John wouldn't have hesitated scaring such a bully so much that he wouldn't have dared to touch Sherlock again. John could see the irony in that as he himself had beaten Sherlock into a pulp at more than one occasion. But it didn't alter his feelings towards others....and on the other hand it didn't lessen his own guilt. And then he turned serious and asked, “And all the rest that happened it was because of the real 'Moriarty'?”

“Yes.”

“From the beginning? The cabbie?”, asked John.

And Sherlock answered, “All the rest was orchestrated by partly Mycroft...and others....and on the order of the man, who had a firm grip around my brother's balls. Ordered by the real Moriarty. The man behind the criminal network. The man who threatened both Mycroft...and you and me...and Mary.”

“But who is he? Have I met him?” wanted John to know.

“Oh yes. He was the one who paid the cabbie. The one who put so many people into Semtex-vests. Who killed the old blind lady as she was going to tell that the man, who spoke to her, had a foreign accent. The one who threatened you and me at the pool, who forced me to leave England, put you in a bonfire and who in the end sort of killed Mary, since he wouldn't get of her back......even if she had worked for him for a long time...”

And finally John understood, “Carl August Magnussen?”

“Yes, Magnussen!”

“But why? What would there be in it for him? He had money enough as it was?”

“Why did Culverton kill? He did it just because he could without being discovered. Magnussen thrived at peoples powerlessness. Gloated over his own power. Why not extend that power? It was not the money....just the fact of knowing that he was the puppet-master and even my brother had to obey. To dance at Magnussen's orders. For a person like Magnussen it would have been better than sex. And besides: all those events ended in the media, which Magnussen controlled a large part of. He would gain more money, because of those events. Just by telling the stories in his newspapers and on telly. But he enjoyed demonstrating his power, just because he could. As he did, when he ordered Mycroft to send me out of England, did pee in our fireplace, licked Lady Smallwood's face, ordered Mary to kill me, put you in a bonfire and flicked your eye....Just because he could! I am so glad that he underestimated me and that I finally killed him. He felt so secure when he believed that he had outmanoeuvred me. He hadn't expected me to be willing to sacrifice my own life to protect you...and protect Mary and Mycroft. And because of the certainty, he didn't order his men to search us as we came to Appledore, because Magnussen couldn't wait to see my face as I discovered how I had miscalculated and there were no vaults under Appledore. And to be honest. I had expected the vaults to be there with a certainty of 65%.”

John nodded, “And then there were no vaults at all. Everything was inside his own head.”

Sherlock smiled, “Oh...the vaults were there all right. In the building beside his office-tower.”

“What?”

“Didn't you notice? In the lift? On the way up to Magnussen's office? There was a panel under the buttons. An extra set of buttons was hidden under that. There were two more stories under the level of the parking lot. Deep down in the underground of London. And it was the place were the vaults were hidden. Mycroft's people are still working their way through this disorganized mess. No computers, just piles and piles of information on old-fashioned card indexes. Strange items piled up. But in a matter that made sense to Magnussen. A bit like my Mind Palace...just with real items to make associations from. It is a goldmine of information, if they can figure out his system, and even without that it is still a gold mine. “

“Jesus....that...that good-for-nothing despicable son-of-a-bitch!”, said John.

“Just my words.”, said Sherlock.

“But I have a feeling that there was more, that you wanted to tell me?”, said John.

Sherlock nodded, “Oh yes. Quite a lot. But it is getting late and.....”

“And we should get a cab and be heading towards my flat...”

Now it was Sherlock's turn to say, “What?” with a baffled expression.

“For God's sake. We still need to talk. This flat is still partly inhabitable, but we can return tomorrow. You've just told me that Mycroft is exactly as shady and ominous as I thought him to be as I saw him the first time.....and I would like to have some more time to talk to you. Please, Sherlock? There is room enough for you in my flat. Even a spare mattress, and food in the fridge. And right now Rosie is at her day-care-family and I have no intention of picking her up so late. So...please?”

“OK...I'll grab some things and come with you.”, said Sherlock.

Chapter Text

As they arrived at John's flat, they discovered that the spare mattress, that Molly occasionally had used whilst she had taken care of Rosie, right after Mary had been shot and Sherlock had been pushed so cruelly away by John, was in no condition to be slept on. A vase had been knocked over unnoticed and the mattress was now rather mouldy. As Sherlock then suggested that he could sleep on the sofa, John had just shook his head and pointed out that they had shared a bed before being on cases out in the middle of nowhere and that they damned well could do that again!

And that was the reason why both Sherlock and John had the best night of sleep for a long time, just being able to hear the other person's breath.....and in the morning John woke up to a Sherlock, who had done his best to imitate an octopus and John was sure that Sherlock had grown some extra limbs during the night.

Sherlock excused as he woke up properly and John said that he didn't mind and that he had had the best sleep he had had for years actually! And then they didn't talk about it any-more as they ate breakfast. It was as if they both knew that they would have to have that talk....but not yet.

Sherlock didn't want to bring forward the subject because he didn't want to scare John away. If he could have John as a friend again, he wouldn't, couldn't...ought not to ask for...and didn't deserve... more than that.

And John? He knew exactly how much he had hurt Sherlock. How unfair he had treated that wonderful man, who had done so much for John. So incredible much...and Sherlock had only got abuse, neglect, shouting and violence, yes almost hate in return. So...if Sherlock could just accept John as a friend again, John wouldn't, couldn't, ought not to ask for more and most certainly didn't deserve more!

After breakfast John had called Rosie's day-care-family and told them that he would fetch Rosie this afternoon, if it was OK?

Sherlock had looked at John and just said, “It is maybe none of my business, but why do I have the feeling that that family has taken more care of Rosie than expected? That she has stayed by them far longer than...normal?”

John just smiled a sad smile, “You asked me sort of the same question when I told you about my violent tendencies. You are right . I am not in a state...sometimes....where Rosie would be in good hands staying by me.”

And John took a deep breath, “..I even considered letting them have her for a very long time....and …..and if I had died in that well, they would have adopted her...”

John's voice trailed off and he had again tears in his eyes, “I do love her Sherlock. With all my heart. But I'm not a good father.....and sometimes....being a single parent is just a bit too much...”

Sherlock looked at John and wondered if he did dare saying about John and Rosie and Baker Street. And then Sherlock made a decision, because he didn't dare hope for anything so he just said, “You are a good father John. You do have a lot of friends, who would be there to help you. Even me.....”

Sherlock just left his words there, hanging in the air. And John didn't say anything either, just smiled. A nice smile.

______________________

And then John and Sherlock took a cab back to Baker Street and was now sitting in the living room. A lot in the flat was still a mess and John had managed to persuade Sherlock to stay in John's flat until everything was properly in place again. So Sherlock had packed more of his belongings in a suitcase and it was waiting at the door, until Sherlock had had time to show John what he wanted to show him in the flat, and then they would return to John's flat after having picked up Rosie. Sherlock looked forward to that. He had missed Rosie.

“I really do not know where to begin, John. Something has to do with my childhood.....and something has to do with that island. And it is all mixed together......so.....”

John nodded, “Maybe you should begin with the events, that started with you and me meeting at Barts?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and just held on to his tea-mug, “Well. Before I met you there, I had been in a rough place. As I told you, I never managed to finish my education totally. Firstly because I was in France, being an agent and secondly, after I changed University from Camford to Oxbridge, because of the incidents with Victor Trevor.”

“But he was the boy who your sister drowned in that well?!”

“No John. Even if I did re-write some memories, I do still recall that I met Victor Trevor at Oxbridge and we at first learned to know eachother and became friends after his dog bit me. The 'boy' in the well was not real. I'm going to elaborate that later on. Just believe me, when I say that a lot of what happened on that island, didn't happen at all. Remember, John, both you and I have been drugged repeatedly and over a long time.”

“I see. I can wait for the explanations. Just continue...”, said John. Oh yes...the incidents at the island had been a nightmare and had not made any sense. If he had been drugged it could have been the reason for that nightmarish feeling.

“Well. As I said, I was in a rough place. To put it short: Victor and I had become friends after the dog incident. We even ended up sharing rooms at one of the colleges. Then that awful Christmas came where I was invited to Victor's home, and I deduced something very unfortunate about his father, that later caused him to loose his job and I was asked to get out of their house. Later, back at Oxbride, after we had all returned from the Christmas holidays at our families, I confessed my feelings for Victor....misguided by Victor's friendship and his mannerisms.....and to use Victor's words 'forced my freakish and unnatural love upon him'. I thought to read more in his behaviour than just a straight man being a bit feminine and to put it short: as we returned to Oxbridge after our Christmas holidays, separately, I was met with a locked door and a shouting Victor, who accused me of various crimes and refused to let me have my possessions. Then he barged out and punched me and kicked me and left me out there in the hall. I had returned before Victor and had just been to the lab to do some investigations and was now standing there, beaten and bloodied without coat, money, or anything. The things he said and accused me off and the beating, made me leave. I was totally devastated. This had just been the last straw and I disappeared in London, just as I did after France...”

Sherlock looked at John and admitted, “I used again...... Heroine to numb my mind. And cocaine to tolerate that life on the streets. Just like after France...and this time Mycroft found me after 27 days. Faster than the first time. I was sent to rehab, but continued to slip in and out of using the next couple of years. That is why I never finished the last exam...”

“And when we met?”

“I had been clean for two years and had just moved away from Montague Street. I didn't use again, trust me. Not even while I was 'away'. It was too dangerous and then I didn't use....not until....”

And there Sherlock stopped. He had not intended to pile more guilt on John's shoulders. But John just nodded and continued Sherlock's sentence, ”....not until your arse of a former flatmate had beaten the shit our of you and told you to fuck off and stay away., as you finally miraculously returned from your exile. And later that same arse blamed you for not contacting him...me. And yet....you got me out of that bonfire. You jumped of that blasted roof, because you thought I was in danger. And the same pattern repeated itself after my wedding.....and after you shot Magnussen and after Mary died. Jesus, Sherlock, how can you keep on forgiving me like that? I have been such an arse towards you.....and it is my fault every time you have relapsed and....”

Here John was interrupted by Sherlock, “As far as I know, you have never pressed that piston down or forced me to smoke, ingest or sniff any substances. It has been my own choice every time, John. I'm just to weak to cope without substances, when the world becomes too much.....”

“And now, Sherlock? After you almost killed yourself? Jesus......if Mrs. Hudson had not been such an angel...I.....I might not have seen that DVD and I would have come to late to save you from Culverton. How on Earth could you have such faith in me?”

John just shook his head and covered his eyes with his hand and almost whispered, “Sherlock. You are such a wonderful person...how can I ever be worthy of your friendship? I.....such an old grumpy, dangerous, alcoholic and broken soldier?”

John kept his eyes closed and leaned his head back on the back-rest of the chair. How was he supposed to confess his bi-sexuality and his deep love for Sherlock now? Such a fine love......showed to the subject of that love through abuse and violence....

And John got a bit startled as Sherlock had moved and he was now kneeling in front of John's chair. And had taken John's free hands into his own bigger ones, “You see, John, that is why our friendship can be what is was before I had to abandon you, before I had to jump. Your view upon me and on yourself. You do understand now that Mary changed that. With drugs and carefully planted words. She made you doubt yourself, doubt your own abilities and skill-set and she made you doubt me. She drugged me too. Made me see things that wasn't there. Her for example. I kept seeing her and she had made those DVD's to make sure that she would get her revenge in the end. I would have killed myself waiting in vain for you to come to my rescue, because I would have believed her insane explanation and suggestion to how to save you, by putting myself in danger. By almost getting myself killed. And you? You would have come to late to rescue me.......and would have been eaten up by a feeling of guilt. She almost managed to ruin both you and me, but we are stronger than that. Aren't we?”

And Sherlock had looked at John with so much love showed on his face...and John just bend down and kissed Sherlock while they were holding hands. Just a very careful and almost chaste kiss.

Then John straightened his back, but didn't let go of Sherlock's hands, “Was that OK?”, John wanted to know.

Sherlock smiled back. That genuine smile that made him look so much younger, “More than OK. But why?”

And right there John did the bravest thing he had ever done: he spoke the truth, “Because I love you. Have done that since we met. I chose Mary because I didn't dare to hope that I could have you. That you didn't feel that way. I've been so blind and I haven't seen your love. Can you forgive me?”

“Easily! I love you too...so much”, said Sherlock and somehow they were now both standing holding on to each other, a bit like when John broke down and Sherlock had comforted him. But this time they kissed and kissed. More and more heated. Their hands roaming all over each others bodies.....until Sherlock stopped.

John looked at him with worry in his eyes, “Too much?”

Sherlock smiled, “Actually 'not enough', but we are to old to make it out on the floor here in the living-room and even if my bedroom isn't far away, I doubt we have time before the plumbers arrive......and I'd rather not that they barge in on us....”

“You are not alarmed by sex?”

“John...for God's sake. I have lived on the streets, looking like I did, in my twenties. How did you think I managed to earn money for my drugs?”

And then Sherlock looked worried, “But now you are going to hate me, aren't you? For having been a 'rent-boy'?”

John shook his head, “No. That would be to have double standards wouldn't it? All the women I've been dating...and the men I have been in relation-ship with!”

Sherlock's eyes were on John immediately, “Sholto?”

“No...he was my superior. It could have got us demoted. No...some... others. Two. And it didn't last long. I wasn't joking when I said to Mike, that I would be difficult to find a flatmate for.”

And then John continued, “Blaming your for having had a past...it wouldn't be fair, since I've had one too. And if you had 'caught' something, had been infected, you would not have been standing here today, looking like you do and you wouldn't have been able to survive the attack on your kidneys and liver from the drug-cocktail you have been on...”

“I was tested regularly.....I still am. Some of the marks on my arm are from the lab drawing blood-samples. More-so because of the substances I meet and have met running around in London chasing criminals......and I was tested thoroughly after...after Serbia. Because I was....I was....”

And John understood, “You were raped?”

Sherlock just nodded, “Humiliated, but not physical damaged. Not there....”

John nodded, “But your back...”

“Yeah....my back took the lion's part.”

As John and Sherlock had had this conversation, they had moved towards the couch and was now sitting there, still holding hands, facing each other, sitting sideways with one leg bent each.

John was the one to speak first “So...since the bedroom is out of the question, even if I would very much like to kiss you all over and......”

And right here John just stopped and looked at Sherlock with surprise in his eyes, “That was easy!”

Sherlock frowned, “What was easy?”

John leaned forward to kiss Sherlock again, “To confess my love for you and hear you say it back. I had worried so much. Been afraid of spooking you away. Fearing that you would hate me for all the harm I've done to you. And now....it is just so easy....as if it has always been meant to be like that....”

Sherlock smiled back, “And here I was afraid that I might loose you as a friend after finally having you back again, if I confessed what I felt about you!”

John nodded, “That arse Victor Trevor! I somehow wished that it had really been him in the well. Treating you like that. What happened to him?”

“He moved back to the States and was later killed in a car-accident.”

And Sherlock hurried to say, as he could see the question in John's eyes, “Totally by coincidence, I can assure you. His father might have lost his job and Trevor finding it difficult to get a well-paid job. But Mycroft would not loose tax-payers money on following Victor and have 'coincidences' happening. What my brother did was just sending a few letters....that was all.”

John just shook his head and wondered why he was still alive after having beaten Sherlock so severely. Damaged him by his coldness. But maybe Mycroft had known that John had been drugged and had had his own agenda, that had harmed Sherlock as well?

“You wanted us to be here in the flat, because you had something to tell me, Sherlock.”, said John finally.

Chapter Text

Sherlock did let go of John's hands and pointed at the old red rug under the armchairs in front of the fireplace and asked, “What do you see, John?”

John frowned but answered, “An old red rug...why”

“Any old red rug?”

“No...the one that was in the flat, as we moved in so many years ago. But why...?”

Sherlock smiled, “Would you believe that it was an inflammable rug, John?”

And John looked at it, and shook his head - and finally he understood, “Oh......But it doesn't make any sense, Sherlock. Is it a 'new' old one, isn't it?...Just like my chair?”

“Nope. It is the very same. Look...it even have the destroyed rim where I tripped once. And yes...you are right. It doesn't make any sense. And yet...John. What happened here in the flat: the explosion and what happened afterwards, on the island, wasn't real. It was a fraud..and a twisted scenario and hallucinations. Dream-like...nightmarish. Remember, both you and I have been drugged for a long time.”

John was silent for a moment and then he asked, “I was never in that well?”

“Nope. Well...not for real. No real danger. You were in that well only at the end, just before you were rescued. The water-level was carefully measured and your feet weren't really shackled to the bottom. You were placed in that well whilst you were drugged. The bones was never in the real well together with you.”

“Are you telling me that I was never shot by the therapist or met that red-haired lady at the bus either?”, wanted John to know.

“Not for real...and my sister wasn't a dark maniac serial-killer either. We were never on Azkaban...or Shutter Island or Alcatraz or whatever we should call that island either. It was all a part of a plan. A set up. Smoke and mirrors.”

John shook his head. And looked at Sherlock, “Why do I have a feeling that this is going to take a while? And that we maybe should move to a nicer, warmer place with a functioning kitchen and maybe a place where we can sleep, when the tale is finished?”

Sherlock smiled and touched John's cheek, “It is going to be a long tedious tale. Of abuse and betrayal. Of someone trying to do his best, but failing miserably. Of two parents who were as blind as they could be and failed their children. Of a sister, who got so lost. Of two brothers trying to save her and each other and others. But you are right. Maybe we should leave Baker Street and go to your place. Prepare to fetch Rosie and order some food. Is it going to be a long story. But you needed to see Baker Street and the rug. Just look around now and remember how it did look after the 'explosion'. Because it didn't make sense either.”

_____________________________________

And then Sherlock and John left Baker Street as the plumbers arrived. Sherlock carrying his suitcase in one hand and holding on to John's hand with the other.....and in the cab they kissed. Just sweetly and tenderly. Nothing heated. It could wait.

_______________________

Much later, after Sherlock had played with Rosie, she had had her bath and was being feed and placed in her bed, John and Sherlock had had an early supper and they were in the bed again. John sitting against the headboard and Sherlock lying in his arms. They were not in the bed, because they wanted to have sex. It was not the right time for that yet. There were still 'too many skeletons in the cupboard', that needed to be dealt with, before they would try that. Kissing and snuggling was good and allowed though. They had tried sitting on the sofa in the living room, but had found it too uncomfortable and now Sherlock was leaning up against John and they were holding hands as Sherlock prepared to begin his story:

“I'm going to begin with Baker Street and what happened after we had pulled Mycroft's leg and forced him to come to us as a client. Tricking him into admitting, that HE had planned something and that I had a sister. I should have known, that he would outmanoeuvre me. This time too. He is the better one, the smart one after all....”

John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock hushed, “No...he is. At planning cunning intrigues. At fooling others, including me. At arranging and manipulating...and at not feeling so much. Maybe I should start there....”

And then Sherlock apparently changed subject as he asked John, “Do you know the book called 'Ender's Game'?”

“Yeah...why?”

“Because that book might somehow hold the key to understand what happened. Maybe I should begin there. In the 1950'ties..”

“ The book 'Ender's game was written in 1985, I think.”, said John.

“Yeah. I know but Orson Scott Card built his book on some real events, that happened here in England and in USA in the 40'ties and 50'ties. In the 30'ties both the Americans and the Russians...and other European countries, did experiment on making super-soldiers and super-leaders...”

John nodded, “Yeah. The Russians tried to mingle a chimpanzee with a human. Or at least it was what we were told. Maybe all those scientists should have stayed with plants just like Gregory Mendel.”

Sherlock nodded, “Yeah, But they didn't. I really do not know what they did in USA. There have been rumours about a super-soldier, made during WW2 and that that experiment failed. The Germans did try something too.....and then ...here in England someone made a decision that some of the brightest young men and woman ought to be a part of a governmental institution and they employed all the bright men and women they could find. First at Bletchley Park , where some of them managed to decrypt the German Enigma-machine during WW2 and later, in the 60'ties, at Baskerville too. Mummy and father were two of those young bright geniuses and the scientists hoped that some of them would start liking each other and....to say it bluntly....'breed'. I do not know if scientists did interfere with the genes actively. I just know that Mycroft was born in 1969. A genius, but with very little empathy. “

John nodded, “A 'Peter Wiggins'...I see...”

“And then a 'Valentine' was born...me. A genius too. But much too emotional, even if I, just as Valentine in the book, learned to hide it. To cope...”

John frowned, “But then Eurus should have been the end-goal. 'Ender'....the one with a brilliant mind and enough empathy to gain friends.”

Sherlock nodded and wrapped John's arms tighter around himself, “Well, I don't know if the scientists aimed after that. I just think they wanted geniuses in various' fields. Eurus might have been...I don't know? The best psychiatrist ever? She might have been. If everything had worked according to the scientist's plans. But you see, John, Mummy and father were not the only ones to have children. Others met and got married too...and had children. And some of the couples maintained close contact, even after the project was abandoned, shortly after Eurus had been born. Mummy and father kept especially close contact with a couple called Rudy and Marilyn. And they had had a son, who was one of the first in the project. Two years older than Mycroft. And maybe it is there this whole tragedy began...”

John nodded, “Then start there, Love. We have the whole night and tomorrow and the day after that and so on......all the time you and I need, don't we? There is no Moriarty, who wants to kill you and me. No Magnussen, no Culverton......and no murderous wife. Just you and me, Sherlock..”

“And Rosie....”

“Yeah...and Rosie. But she has no intention of killing us. At least I hope so....” and then John smiled and kissed Sherlock's curls and as Sherlock lifted his head, Sherlock's mouth too. Because they could and it was allowed.

And then Sherlock began:

“It happened the summer I was 8, Mycroft 15 and Eurus 7. Rudy's and Marilyn's son was 17....and somehow even worse than Mycroft. He was very handsome too: dark curly hair, bright eyes, handsome features and already then a body of a Greek God....”

John interrupted Sherlock, “You are describing yourself?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No.....I know that I had not exactly been hit with 'the ugly-stick', but he was the handsome version of me. The scientist's might have mixed genes...eggs and sperm, because Sherrinford and I.....”

“Sherrinford!?!”, almost shouted John.

“Yes, Sherrinford. There was a reason for Mycroft to name.....that hell, that Azcaban, after the evil spirit from my childhood....and Eurus'...”

“Please continue...”

“Well. Some people thought that it was Sherrinford and I, who were brothers and not Mycroft and I. Rudy was a distant relative of my father...a cousin twice removed. And Marilyn was my mother's cousin. So....that could have been the explanation for our outer likeness. But as I said: Sherrinford was cold and calculating and got away with a lot of things because he looked like an angel. No one had ever put a foot down against him for real and he got used to get what he wanted.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, “This is difficult. It was so traumatic that I deleted it from my mind....so if I cry or have to stop, bare with me.....”

John kissed Sherlock's head, “You do not have to do this, you know?”

“I want to! Sherrinford's ghost has haunted me for so many years. It is time to end it. So....”

Sherlock took a deep breath and wrapped John's arms tighter around him, “That summer.....we were at our house not far away from the coast. At least Mycroft didn't change that in making this ...hallucination.....The house was called 'Musgrave Mansion'. Not far away from that mansion was a mansion for rent. Rudy and Marilyn had rented that mansion for the summer. It was a fascinating house. Not 'Musgrave', but 'Houghton House'. It had been inhabited by a rather eccentric old man. And it was there all the false gravestones were placed. At least Mycroft got some of them right: people died before they were born, with the name 'Nemo' and so on. We were there a lot of the time. Playing. And John...you must remember that Eurus was only a bit more than a year my junior....and taking into consideration that girls often develop faster than boys, she appeared older than me. She was even taller. She and Mycroft was so much more alike. Better at controlling themselves. Better at managing. We were evaluated by professionals several times. I now realise that those scientists came from Baskerville, even if the project had been officially closed. Compared to Mycroft and even to my younger sister, I was tumbling around being busy playing pirate, with that narrow-minded obsession that small boys sometimes show...”

John interrupted, “Yeah....my obsession was the Rose-wars......and dinosaurs...”

Sherlock chuckled, “Oh...well. They are very close connected, I see that!”

John chuckled back, “Not at the same time, you berk!”

“Just teasing...”, Sherlock smiled and turned his head, so they could kiss and then he turned serious again:

“No wonder, they thought me to be 'an idiot'....or just 'not a genius'. I saw no reason to tell them that I could read and understand just as many languages as Eurus. That I totally understood the math she and Mycroft were solving. Why should I? Then I would have to study with her and Mycroft....and it was so much more fun to study bees and play pirate. There was this boy. From the village near by. He was just as obsessed as I with pirates, so we used to play together. Mycroft 'turned' that boy, Martin, into 'Victor Trevor' and 'drowned' him in the well. But none of it happened for real. When I tell you about what really happened, you will see the...'narrative' purpose. And Mycroft had disturbed memories too. We really had a dog, but Eurus didn't drown him in a well. 'Redbeard' just got ill and he was taken away. Father drove him to the vet and the dog was put down. I don't know why Mycroft could forget that very real dog. The explanation could be that Mycroft was traumatized by those events too, so he...to survive...had to delete something and did delete a bit too much.”

Sherlock lifted his head again and looked at John, who said, “Just continue...”

Sherlock had turned totally still as he continued, “I will not go into detail. Just say that our parents were busy with their investigations...their job. Even if it was summer, they still had some work to do. Not household....there were people for that. But science and research. When Mummy says she 'gave up everything for the children', she is not telling the whole truth. She still made research and worked. Just not as much as before and not in a job...... just free-lance. Mycroft and Sherrinford were put in charge of us younger siblings. Sherrinford had a younger brother, Augustin, who was only 2 at this time. A nanny looked after him.And he was never a part of the Baskerville-programme. And Mycroft was rather busy studying for his final exam. So Sherrinford had to look after Eurus and me......and he used the opportunity to....”

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. And from under his eyelids tears began to run down his cheeks. John just held him tighter and gave Sherlock's head a kiss.

Sherlock's voice did shake a bit as he continued, “He raped us, John......that monster raped us. Abused us. Threatened to kill our father, mother, Mycroft, my dog....if we didn't keep silent and obeyed him. So we did obey. Every day during that first week that summer, he would order either me or Eurus to...'assist' him. And we didn't dare to say a word. He was careful enough not to harm us physically. We never bled. And he never left any marks on us. I had the ability to escape into my own mind. Not yet a mind-palace, but never the less a safe place in my own mind......and he could use my body as he wished. I wasn't there......”

“Oh Sherlock...” said John and gave Sherlock a firm hug.

“Sherrinford lost interest in me rather fast. I think it was after the first week. And after 4 incidents. Two times where he used my mouth and two where he used my anus. I'm not sure about my memories here. But he continued with Eurus. I couldn't help her. I was too traumatized myself. I had trusted Sherrinford and he betrayed my trust like that.....and the rest of the people surrounding Eurus and me, didn't notice......until it was too late and Sherrinford had destroyed her and me. She had been....withdrawn...before. But during that summer, those 6 weeks, she became uncommunicative. She just began to draw disturbing pictures of burning houses and violence. It was not 'Musgrave', but 'Houghton House' that she did draw as a burning house. The two houses were very similar. And the boy, that she 'tortured' in those pictures, was not me, but Sherrinford. She just drew him smaller, more 'manageable' for her.....”

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

And Sherlock continued to tell about that horrible summer, sitting in the bed, late at night and leaned up against John:

Sherlock paused a bit before he continued, “Eurus somehow got me and Sherrinford mixed up in her damaged mind and she tried to hurt me. At one occasion she even slashed me with a knife. Not badly, but enough to make me bleed. And I didn't understand, because I had deleted what Sherrinford had done to me. My parents found the drawings and thought that curly-haired boy to be me and saw of course what Eurus did to me with that knife. And to pile more misery up, Redbeard, who was indeed a real dog, got ill and Father had to drive him to the vet and father returned empty-handed. I broke down. Refused to get out of bed. Refused to eat. Of course I reacted so extensively to Redbeard's death, because of what Sherrinford had done to me, but the grown-ups misunderstood.........and then 'Musgrave' caught fire. It wasn't Eurus.......but everybody thought so. I know now, as a grown up, that it must have been the old wiring. Knowing what I now know as a detective. Reading the clues. But Eurus was brought to an institution, because she tried to harm herself and everybody remembered when she had cut into her own arm to see the muscles. And of course Mycroft would remember her weird answer 'which one's pain?', because it didn't make sense. The doctors at the institution, she was brought to, couldn't find out what had happened, and Eurus refused to eat, drink and speak, and they harmed her even more by forcing her. To her own good, they thought, because she would have died from dehydration otherwise. But her weird behaviour did mask that she had been raped and abused. She curled in around herself, just like a see-anemone and just lately, as a grown up, she has begun to 'unfurl' and register the world around her. She is still not speaking though.'

John frowned and tried to understand, “But Sherlock, it doesn’t make any sense. If she still is so damaged, how could she pretend to be that woman on the bus, 'Faith' and the false therapist....and Eurus spoke at that island, even if it must have been a false island, a theatre-scenery. She talked to us. Taunted us.”

“Those three persons were not Eurus, John. They were 'Mary'....or rather, someone that 'Mary' had hired to harm you and me.”

“What?!”

“Those 3 persons were played by an actor. An actress. Just like 'Moriarty' was played by Richard Brook.”

“......and he died from playing Moriarty.”

“And so did Sian Brook.....later”

John frowned, “Same surname?”

Sherlock sighed, “Brother and sister. She should have learned from his history. But I believe that 'Mary' did tempt with a rather large sum of money....”

“But...but. Mary was dead at that time?!...I saw her die. And for no reason at all, I felt it was your fault. I'm so sorry that I was such an arsehole! And who was that Eurus, who spoke at the island?”

“Oh John. You were drugged up to you eyeballs. The Eurus on the island was an actress too. Hired by Mycroft. Looking very close to Sian Brook, but not her. You just disguise a somewhat young woman in ragged hair, no make-up and dressed in hospital clothing. That is what you see, then. Not the real person behind. And Mycroft had of course hired someone, who looked a bit like Eurus. More about that later, I promise and.... 'Mary' didn't die at the aquarium. Didn't you feel that something was.....a bit too.....Hollywood-like? Jumping in front of a bullet? Large spurts of blood? Time enough to talk and say the last words? You know, just as I, that there is no time for that because of the shock. I was in a worse state than Mary, in Magnussen's office....and yet I survived. She had time to talk...and yet she died...Make your own deductions, John.”

John shook his head, “But...does it mean that she is still alive? I don't want her to be alive. She is so dangerous!”

“She is no longer alive, believe me! But she didn't die that day...nor the day after. Actually first several week later. An she didn't plan to die. You must have seen her, but thought that she was the 'Mary' from your mind. Of course when she was near you, it was 'mind-Mary' or you would have grown suspicious. But seeing her from a distance, where she kept an eye on you...and me, it wouldn't alarm you as you would think she was just imaginary. And she was rather good at disguises too. You saw that, when we followed her to Morocco.”

John shook his head, “But what was the purpose? Why did she do that? Why hire an actress to play 'Faith' and that woman on the bus, and my therapist?”

Sherlock snuggled closer to John, “Most of all to harm me and a bit to harm you. Or rather to control you. But for all what it is worth, she must have loved you...the way she was capable of. She must genuinely have believed that you were everything, she needed and wanted. She could 'retire' and be 'a doctors wife'. She had made the decision to 'retire' long before the events at the embassy at Tbilisi. She had made a deal with Norbury and didn't mind one second that the ambassador and his wife, the whole staff and the other members of the A.G.R.A.-group would die. Her needs were more important than their lives, in her eyes. She was then later hired by Magnussen and was ironically hired by Mycroft too, to keep an eye on you. She carefully drugged you and planted words in you, that might trigger your anger. Let me give you an example: on the night I returned, she used the word 'confidante', A word seldom used in English...and together with her careful preparation of you, it made you see red again and attack me. She kept on poisoning your mind and had it not been for Magnussen's ill-timed attack on you and his putting you into the bonfire, we might not ever have talked again...”

John shook his head, “We would. I was attacked outside 221B Baker Street. On my way to talk to you!”

“Oh...”, said Sherlock, “I didn't know that....” He paused for a moment to think about this new information. And then Sherlock continued, “Not that it did alter much in Mary's shenanigans. She was still drugging you. That you had resilience to do something of your own, just show how much you still cared for me, despite her plans to make you feel otherwise. She still wanted to make sure that I was sad and broken. Still wanted to, to use the actor 'Moriarty's words “burn the heart out of me”....and she managed to do that. I started to use drugs again and almost killed myself. I didn't really want to live any more and just decided to make my life count one last time, by bringing down that creep Culverton.”

John shivered, “Yeah...she managed to tear us apart. But not for ever. Even if I still have nightmares about what would have happened if it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson. If she hadn't shown me that DVD, I would have come to late to save you from Culverton....and you tried to kill yourself in order to save me. How an utterly and totally nutty kind of advice...”

John shivered and hugged Sherlock even firmer, as he continued,  “She never would have understood....that even if I was so incredible angry with you. Even if she had drugged me into almost hating you.......I never really did. Not deep down. And if I had......

John had to stop and gulp some air...and had to work hard not to cry.....and even then tears ran down his cheeks, as he continued, “Oh God Sherlock. If I had killed you in my rage.....if I had come to late....I...I tried to stay away because I was so ashamed. And didn't feel worthy of you friendship. I felt so...wrong....and dirty and...unworthy......and if you had died and it had been my fault, I had decided that I didn't want to live any-more!”

Sherlock turned and reached with his free hand to wipe away John's tears but remained silent, as John continued, “I had made arrangements about Rosie......and I had still my old Sig.....

Sherlock smiled, “Then it was fortunate that we had Mrs. Hudson.....and that you came in time. Seeing it now, I can of course see the utter shitty-ness of Mary's advise. But I couldn't then. It seemed like a perfectly good advise about how to save you. And I would do anything to do that.....even die.....”

John smiled through tears, “And that would have been such a good idea.....And have kept me alive....about 5 minutes or until I could find a quiet place and stick that Sig into my mouth. Mary never understood my love for you. Hell....I didn't understand it myself, until it was almost to late!”

John closed his eyes for a moment, “Oh Sherlock. I love you so much.....so so much! And I came so close to loosing you!”

"But you didn't. And it was worth every pain to get here...now. You and me. Us!", said Sherlock.

And then they kissed again.

And then both John and Sherlock yawned...and agreed on that it was enough for tonight. There would still be a lot of time to tell more. Tomorrow.

Again they had a good night's sleep, tangled together. Feeling the other person close by. Feeling secure and loved. And Rosie cooperated and slept the whole night through.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was the first to wake up, despite John's ability to wake up early despite it going late the night before.

Sherlock didn't know for sure, but he believed that John would still wake up early, even having lived with Mary and being out of the army for such a long time. John had still had that habit living with Sherlock so many years ago. But now they hadn't slept in the same room for years...except recently. And that had been so different, because of the emotional turmoil.

But this morning Sherlock was the first to wake up. He had slept better than he did in his younger days.....and had slept even better lying next to John, but the tiny sounds from the baby-alarm, sounds that were not quite crying yet, did get through to Sherlock before John had registered them, and therefore Sherlock got up and went into Rosie's room.

Sherlock wondered if Rosie would accept him, because after all they had not seen each other for a long time, not since Mary got shot and John had refused to see Sherlock for several months. Long enough for Rosie to have forgotten Sherlock. She had been happy enough to see him the day before though.

She smiled as she saw him standing by her bed and she reached for him with her chubby little arms, as she said, “Mamm, mammm..”

“Oh...Watson. A bit early for breakfast, I believe, but we'll just have to keep quiet, so Dad don't wake up, okay?”, said Sherlock as he lifted Rosie out of her bed.

Oh. She had grown so fast. She wasn't that little helpless newborn, who had fitted perfectly against his chest, with her head in Sherlock's left hand, and her bum supported with his other hand, when she needed to burp. Or a bit later, when she was able to sit up in her baby-bouncer placed in John's old chair and being fed her bottle. Now she was almost able to walk and explore the world around her. Sherlock felt a sting in his eyes and a tightness in his chest. All those months where he hadn't seen little Rosie, after having been allowed to be so close to her. Looking after her. All those months would never come back again. Lost for Sherlock for ever. That had been a part of Mary's plan too. He could see that now, but hadn't been able to see it then.

When John woke up much later, Sherlock was in the kitchen feeding Rosie her milk-formula from a baby-beaker and her porridge from a plate, encouraging her to use a spoon herself which resulted in half the porridge in her mouth and the rest....almost everywhere, including quite a lot on Sherlock. He didn't seem to mind though, thought John as he watched them from the door.

John smiled fondly, “Let me take care of the rest, while you take a shower, even if it suits you with porridge in your hair.....”

But Sherlock protested, “Just let me finish. There is no need for you to get 'porridged' too. And I've missed this...”

John just nodded. He understood what Sherlock meant, “I'm so sorry, Sherlock. For taking Rosie away from you...like this. I'm so sorry...”

And suddenly John moved and hugged Sherlock firmly from behind... despite porridge and all.

“It was part of Mary's plan too, wasn't it?”, John asked. And then he hugged Sherlock again and sat sat down to look at the two people, he loved the most in the world.

Sherlock nodded as he continued to feed Rosie with the spoon. After all it was important that she got something to eat, even if it was educational for her to try on her own, “Yes. A part of her 'burning my heart out”.........

Sherlock stopped for a moment, even if Rosie protested a bit, before he continued, “Mary almost succeeded. But I can tell more about that, when Rosie has been cleaned up and you and I have time afterwards. I suppose Rosie is going to her day-care-family today as well?”

“She is. I was told that it was important to keep up her daily routine, especially after Mary first disappeared and then...well 'died' in quotation-marks would be the right word. And after that I wasn't ...in a good position to take care of her. And.....” John paused and he took a deep breath, before he confessed, as he had done the night before, “Sherlock....if Mary had managed to make me let you down so much that......If it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson.......if I had come to late to save you from Culverton, and you had died....I....I'm afraid that I would have killed myself. Out of guilt.....”

John stopped, unable to speak any-more, but Sherlock understood. And now it was his turn to give John a hug. They stood like that a few seconds, because that was all they had before Rosie protested and wanted their attention.

_____________________________

After everything and everybody had been cleaned and the grown-up humans had showered and eaten a small breakfast and everybody had been dressed, Rosie was put in her buggy and John went off with her to bring her to her day-care-family. Sherlock had frowned and asked where the car was and John had told about the group of young boys, who had made vandalism on several cars and stolen 3 in the neighbourhood.

“The two of the cars had been found again, but never ours. So I got the insurance money, but never bought a car. It had been Mary's car most of all before that. And after she had disappeared/died I didn't miss having one and was afraid too that I might drive whilst being not sober enough to do that...”, had John explained.

Sherlock had nodded and said, “And she must have planted that idea in you, because it would be easier to control you, when she knew your action-radius by bike.” And then Sherlock had added”, ... and the schedule for the buses in this area.”

John had smiled, “Yeah....and it wouldn't surprise me at all, if she had arranged for those boys to steal the cars and just had had an extra set of keys made for our car, and then had taken the car as she disappeared after she 'died'.”

_____________________________

Sherlock used the time before John would return to make arrangements for the flat. Standing outside, with Rosie in her buggy and ready to go, John had pointed out that since they were going to live together....at that point Sherlock had just looked at him and John had said, “Do you think for just a fraction of a second that I would let you go now? I want to marry you, live together with you, raise Rosie together with you....and for God's sake not here, where a lot of things still are....infested with memories of that......that woman. I would prefer Baker Street any day.”

And Sherlock had just looked at him, standing there with his mouth open and asked, “Are you proposing to me? Just here. Outside your flat? Standing here on the pavement?”

And then John had realised what he just had said and before he could back-pedal, Sherlock had given him a fierce hug and said, “Yes...yes a thousand times. I accept!”

And they had laughed and kissed and John had smiled and confessed that he had planned to do it properly later, the 'right way' with a ring and a rose and everything. Sherlock had smiled back and said that this...this way... was the right way....for them.

And then John had walked down the road with Rosie in her buggy and a freshness in his steps, as if John had been only twenty again. Sherlock could even hear John whistle.

Sherlock shook his head, “Well, so much for that theory!”, he said as he turned around and went back inside to make arrangements for Baker Street, so it could be more child-proof.

Chapter Text

As John returned about 45 minutes later, he was met with the delicious smell of bacon and fried eggs from the kitchen, as he entered through the front door.

And standing in the kitchen was Sherlock, in his old blue silk dressing gown, with bare feet and only in his dress-trousers apparently. No shirt.

“”Hmm, smells nice..”, said John as he entered the kitchen and he continued, “Didn't we eat breakfast before I left? And weren't you dressed as I left?”

Sherlock smiled back, “Obviously. But I discovered more porridge in my hair and decided to shower again. And the breakfast...Honestly John. Two mouthfuls of cereal can hardly deserve the name 'breakfast'. I found eggs and bacon and tomatoes in the fridge. Sorry...no sausages. And I've made coffee and tea.”

And Sherlock didn't mention what he had made besides breakfast. There was no reason to tell John yet. How thoroughly Sherlock had showered and cleaned himself with the enema, he had brought from Baker Street. Sometimes Sherlock's irregular eating-habits and his recent drug-use would disturb his digestion so much, that it could be necessary to use an enema. And now, with the plans Sherlock had for the next couple of hours, it could be very useful. After the bath and the cleaning, Sherlock had used another thing brought from Baker Street. A butt-plug. So he could be ready for John....and surprise him and seduce him at the same time. Because John had gone now several days without so much as a wank, so according to what Sherlock remembered about John when he lived in Baker Street 221B, John must soon be needing a sexual release. This morning John had not had time enough in the shower. Sherlock was sure about that. And John had not had time for himself, where he could have 'relieved himself'. Conclusion: John Watson had gone far too long without sex of any kind.

As they ate breakfast Sherlock wanted to know when John had promised to fetch Rosie again, if John had plans for the day? Errands? And John told that Rosie should be fetched later that afternoon and that he had planned to spend the time with Sherlock until then, since they hadn't finished....or rather, Sherlock hadn't finished telling everything yet...and that they would have to visit Baker Street again, maybe tomorrow? So they could find out what to do....about everything needed to make the place habitable for the 3 of them...if it was OK?

And Sherlock listened to what John had to say and at the same time he took care that his dressing-gown would open up in the front, so John could see Sherlock's bare chest. Sherlock knew that John was a 'nipples-man'......at least according to the porn on John's laptop, and Sherlock did his best to put his on display.

Since it didn't work as good as Sherlock had hoped, Sherlock decided to use a direct approach.

“John, may I ask you a question?”

“Yeah...what?”

“Is there a specific reason for you not to want to have sex with me yet?”

John just looked at Sherlock.

And Sherlock continued, “Because if it is still something like 'I'm not worthy' or anything similar to that, I'm sure that we did sort that out yesterday. And the butt-plug in my arse makes me a bit...No, not 'a bit'....but rather 'a lot' aroused, turned on and 'horny' and I had hoped that my state of not being decently dressed, almost dressed in a 'dishabillé' would have stirred just a minimum of interest?”

John could just sit there with his mouth open. “I...I...”

And Sherlock continued, “I am a sexual creature, John. And since we have established that we are more than 'just friends' and have declared that we love each other, I would very much like you to join me in bed and make sure that we finally, finally!...could have sex with each other.”

John supposed that he looked just as 'off-line' as Sherlock had done, when John had asked him to be his best man. But right now he couldn't seem to make a connection between his brain and his body and say much, except, “Oh God. Yes!” as he remained sitting on his chair.

Sherlock rose with his usual grace and went over bowed down so his mouth was close to John's ear.

“We are both 'clean' and I've just showered and taken an enema and I want to swallow your impressive length and girth down my throat and moan around you , so you moan in return. I want to taste you on my tongue. I want to swirl my tongue around your cock's head, dip my tongue into the slit and taste you. I want to be kneeling on the bed with my arse on display and you to take that butt plug out and stuff me totally full with your prick and......”

But then John finally came to his senses and didn't hear what Sherlock had planned more.......saying everything in that voice that was pure liquid velvet-like dark chocolate, like a jaguar's purring. A voice John was sure could make him come on the spot, if he listened to it much longer. So Sherlock's voice was muffled by a hard kiss, that soon turned into moans as the two men stumbled towards the bedroom.

In there John first yanked Sherlock's dressing gown of, pushed Sherlock down on the bed and ordered Sherlock to lie still, and yanked Sherlock's trousers off, whilst John managed to get rid of his own clothing almost at the same time.

And of course Sherlock had no pants on and John moaned even more as he saw that Sherlock was shaved, except from a little amount of well groomed hair above his cock. John first pinned Sherlock down, holding Sherlock's wrists together with one hand and caressing Sherlock's body with the other, mostly Sherlock's nipples in turn and then John did let his hand travel down Sherlock's flat stomach, towards Sherlock's cock. Sherlock was breathing heavily now and his eyes kept looking at John, who didn't let his eyes leave Sherlock's. Marvelling at how aroused Sherlock looked.

Then John began to lick down Sherlock's stomach and took a firm grip of Sherlock's cock and began to kiss the head. Sherlock's cock was so swollen, that the foreskin had retracted and revealed the head and there was already a drop of pre-come in the slit. John moaned again and swallowed the head in one swift motion. And then he continued and managed to swallow down the whole of Sherlock's length and Sherlock arched of the bed with a deep rumbling moan, “Joooohn!”

And John just remained in charge as he continued to suck and lick and tease Sherlock's cock whilst he was pinning Sherlock down with his strength, lying halfway over Sherlock's body.

Sherlock's cock was not quite as thick as John's own and not quite as long, but it was fitting perfectly to Sherlock's body type. It was John's impressive length and girth that was the exception and didn't fit neither his hight or any other part of his body, that usually was associated with how well-endowed a man would be. Sherlock's cock had a nice shape as well, a well formed head and a colour that made John's mouth water. Sherlock was the most handsome man John had ever seen...and that included Sherlock's cock too.

But if John had thought that he could remain in charge, he was wrong. Somehow Sherlock managed to reverse the roles and now it was Sherlock who had his mouth around John's cock. And John was even more surprised.....even if he hadn't too many functioning brain-cells left to recognize the feeling 'surprise'....when Sherlock swallowed John's cock totally, burring his nose in John's just as well-groomed turf of blond hair above his cock.

Had Sherlock no gag-reflex? Oh God...John had had many sex-partners...and some of them rather skilled, but no one had been able to swallow him totally. It took John so much by surprise and aroused him so much, that he had to grip the nearest thing, Sherlock's hair, to warn him that his orgasm was very close. As Sherlock felt the slight pain from John tugging at his hair, he moaned in arousal and the vibration from Sherlock's moan sent John over the edge and he came in thick spurts down Sherlock's throat. And here Sherlock surprised John even more, because he just swallowed the whole load.

As John came down from his bliss, he couldn't help giggle, “Oh God Sherlock. You made me come too early....just as if I was a 16 years old horny teenager. Oh you gorgeous man!”

At first, as John began to giggle, Sherlock had looked a bit hurt and then he began to giggle too.

But he soon stopped as John in one swift moment turned Sherlock around so he was lying on his stomach, held down by John's smaller frame. And even if John had just had an orgasm minutes before, his cock still showed some interest in the next things that John did.

Pinning Sherlock's arms over Sherlock's head with one hand...and it was only possible because Sherlock allowed that, John was very aware of that fact....John pushed one of the pillows under Sherlock's hips and began to lick his way down Sherlock back towards his crack. As John had to let go of Sherlock's hands, he ordered Sherlock to hold on to the remaining pillow and not move, and then John used both his hands to spread Sherlock's arse-cheeks and Sherlock yelped and asked, “Oh my God, John...what are you doing?”

John stopped a minute and almost growled, “I'm going to eat your arse, Sherlock. You told me that you are totally clean...and I'm going to use that fact and just eat you out...”

And then John removed the butt-plug and began to use his tongue to take Sherlock apart. Sherlock's hole was relaxed because of the butt-plug and the wetness from John's tongue and the remaining lube made it even more slack and soon John could lift his face and begin to fuck Sherlock in earnest with first two fingers and soon three. John found with practised ease Sherlock's prostate, but avoided stimulating it too much. After all John wanted to fuck Sherlock if he could make his cock cooperate and get filled again. John had no doubt that it would happen soon. The small, almost meowing sounds and the deep moans that John's administrations drew from Sherlock and Sherlock's surprising obedience, by just lying there and letting John decide what should happen and Sherlock's extremely delicious body and gorgeous buttocks and Sherlock's attempt to spread his legs even more to give John access. It all just aroused John more and more and soon he was erect again.

“John...please. I'm so close!”, moaned Sherlock and John was happy to be able to almost growl back, “I'm going to fill your greedy hole, Sherlock. Fill....your....greedy......hole.....totally......up...”

And John had positioned his now erect cock just outside Sherlock's hole and had just pushed his cock's head inside. And each word was punctuated with a hard trust from John, each one getting deeper and deeper into Sherlock's arse.

John liked to fuck women. He liked the tightness and the wetness...and he knew that only a few women would be able to take his whole length. So he was always careful. But as he felt the tightness, the warmth and the slipperiness of Sherlock's arse, and how he could continue and continue inside Sherlock, John almost came on the spot and only his iron-will stopped his imminent orgasm.

“John...harder. I'm so close!”, moaned Sherlock......and John trusted harder and harder. His hands gripping on to Sherlock's hips as he pounded and pounded into Sherlock's body.

Then John stopped for a few seconds and turned Sherlock around, by turning Sherlock's body and lifting his leg. John's cock was still deeply buried inside Sherlock and the extra sensation of John's cock turning inside Sherlock, made Sherlock moan again. Sherlock was all soft and pliant now and had his eyes closed. His untouched cock was almost purple and there was a steady dripping of pre-come oozing from the slit. And Sherlock had still his arms obediently lifted over his head and was holding on to the pillow.

“Sherlock, Love! Open your eyes. I want to see your face, when you come. “, said John and Sherlock opened his eyes. The pupils were so dilated that there was only a thin ring of Sherlock's normal blue-green irises to be seen.

“Get your arms around me. I want to feel you.”, ordered John and began to trust into Sherlock again. Hard, powerful trusts that did hit Sherlock's prostate every time and John enjoyed how Sherlock had been taken apart. Sherlock's face was pink and his neck and chest had the same colour. His hair was a mess and he looked like a fallen angel.

John could feel how his own orgasm was close and he ordered Sherlock to touch himself..

“Not...oh....not...” managed Sherlock to say, before he came in thick spurts and since John's trusts were stimulating Sherlock's prostate, Sherlock continued to come. His inner walls contracted rhythmically around John's cock and that was enough for John to be hit by the wave of his second orgasm.

_______________________________

Afterwards the two men were lying beside each other in the bed. John had managed to get the duvet over them and they were just slowly coming down from the high made by the orgasm-chemicals in their bodies.

John had turned so he could see Sherlock face. And he reached out and caressed Sherlock's cheek.

“That was amazing, Sherlock. The best sex I've ever had...”

Sherlock turned his head and looked at John, “Even in this bed? Even compared to sex with a woman?”

John smiled and took Sherlock's hand and kissed it, “Yes. In this bed...and everywhere. I love you, Sherlock. To make love to someone you love deeply...it makes the whole difference. I love all of you. Your incredible and fascinating mind....and then it doesn't ruin it at all that you have such a gorgeous body and face too....”

Sherlock turned his head away and looked out in the bedroom, “I'm not the gorgeous one here, John. I know that.....”

And then John understood that Sherlock thought that John teased him. But thank God he still kept his hand in John's even if he turned his head away.

“I'm serious, Sherlock. Look at me, Love....”

And Sherlock turned his head back and looked at John and John kissed each of Sherlock's fingers.

“When I first saw you....at Barts, you looked like a model. An angel.....and I knew that you were high above my range. And then you...politely... turned me down at Angelo's and I knew that you didn't want me that way. I know now, that I made the wrong deductions, but....”

Sherlock interrupted, “I panicked. I wanted you as a friend...so badly. And was afraid that I would push you away.....just like Victor.....if I admitted anything. And I had worn 'my armour', my defences for such a long time, and had been so hurt by so many, that I didn't dare lower my shields.....”

“I know...”, said John and kissed Sherlock's hand again.

And Sherlock continued, “I settled down in the firm conviction that I had read you the wrong way. Just like with Victor and that you were totally straight. You confirmed that by dating quite a lot of women. That we just were flatmates and nothing more....even if we protected each other. And then all that with Moriarty...well 'Magnussen-and-Mycroft-united' happened, even if my brother later regretted every move he had to make then. I had to jump to save your life. Or so it appeared then, and as I returned, I finally realised, what I really felt for you. Or rather....being away those two years made me realise my feelings for you.....and then I returned...”

Sherlock stopped and John continued, “And even if I had asked for miracles....that you somehow would have survived....I treated you like shit...”

“Because of Mary and her drugs. She was somehow still working for Magnussen or just on her own. Making preparations for her 'retirement'......marrying the 'nice doctor' and settling down. And still remembering to 'burn my heart out'...”

John nodded, “And I helped her. That is the worst part now. Knowing that I've hurt you so much and caused you so much pain. I'm still so terribly sorry...”

And John burrowed his head in the crock of Sherlock's neck as he kept on saying, “I'm so sorry....”

Sherlock just caressed John's head, “And so am I. For all the grief and sorrow I caused you by jumping in front of you. Making you believe that you had failed me.”

And then Sherlock pushed John's head so he could look him into his eyes, “But John, you do realise that if we had chosen another path. If we had confessed our feelings for each other earlier? Well as soon as Magnussen had hired 'Mary Morstan', choosing that path would have had us killed. We would have been dead now. As things turned out...this IS the best outcome. We have Rosie. Mary is dead and we have each other. It is what it is........to use your words. And what it is, is.....magnificent!”

“I agree. Being here now was worth every pain and heartbreak.....Oh God I love you so much, Sherlock.”

And then they kissed again. But stopped because they needed a shower badly and Sherlock wanted to have time enough to tell about 'Azkaban' before they would fetch Rosie.

Chapter Text

After the shower they dressed and was again sitting in the bed. Popped up against the headboard. Again Sherlock lying in John's arms. Feeling the security of John's arms being firm around him.

And that made Sherlock brave enough to ask, “You said, John, that you hadn't been with another men...like...you just had been with me. And it is no accusation. Just...how did you learn to give such an amazing blow-job if you had never....? And oh God......rimming. You took me totally apart and I would so much like to return the favour.... But you said that you had only been with men, 'mutually wanking' and 'rubbing' …..were the words you used about being with these men?”

John smiled, “It is funny. You are not jealous of all the women I've been with, but you are worried about the men?”

“Mary 'rubbed' Major Sholto 'in my face' at your wedding, making me realise that it wasn't that you didn't think of sex or deeper feelings with men. It was just that you didn't want ME and that just twisted the knife even more around in my heart. I don't know why...but it didn't bother me so much with the women....well a bit, but not that much as Mary's words about James Sholto.”

“Oh Sherlock. And that was just the point of her saying that. I was fond of Sholto and he of me and if circumstances had been different we might have.......But he was my superior and even if the army is a bit more open-minded about gay soldiers, it is still enough to be demoted if you fraternize with your inferiors. And I wouldn't risk that for James. No..the men, I was with in a somewhat more innocent way, were my equals....and that brings me to the story about how I learned to suppress my gag-reflex. It is an innocent story and it is about how that many years later gave me an exquisite experience too. The one that I've just tried on you today. Should I tell it before you tell about 'Azkaban?”

“Yes, please, John.”, said Sherlock and snuggled deeper into Johns embrace.

“Well. It happened when I was at Sandhurst. We had been to London and had seen one of those sword-swallowers in Soho. We had a pint-fuelled discussion with some guys from another company about how this was possible and one word took another and we made a wager about one of us being able to learn to do that in less that a month. Which is totally crazy, since it can take several years to learn! But we knew the mechanics and knew that the sword wasn't sharp at all....and to make a long story short: my company won. I was the best at suppressing my gag-reflex. The best at controlling the movements of my oesophagus and I did learn how to swallow a short sword in just a month. I had tried with cucumbers wrapped in condoms too. So I could learn how to suppress my gag-reflex that wasn't over-active in the first place. I've never gagged on my toothbrush. And that I had learned to swallow swords, did lead to the next event that happened years later in Afghanistan. There were those French soldiers and we had been at a marketplace in one of the friendlier villages. And there was this guy who could swallow a sword on that market-place. A lot of people yelled that he was cheating and I, stupidly enough, said that it wasn't cheating and that I could do it as well.”

John paused and Sherlock asked, “You do realise that it is not a safe thing to do?”

“Yeah...I know. But again, I knew exactly how to do it. And he was just performing with a short version. Not something that would have to enter the stomach. So we made a bet. I swallowed the sword. The villagers cheered at us and the place became one of our most safe places and the French captain, who had lost the bet, admitted his defeat and would give me my reward the next evening.”

“And?”

“He had told me to shower and take and enema. Of course I knew that the bet included a sexual favour, but the enema puzzled me a bit...and then he rimmed me. That is why I wanted to do it to you. It was...intense and overwhelming and I wanted you to have that experience as well.”

“And it was good. Extremely so....and I would like to return the favour. “, said Sherlock.

“Anything for you. And you just have to ask and I'll do it again.”

They both paused and kissed a bit and then they stopped. It was not time for that yet.

Sherlock had thought about something and now he had to ask John.

“Do you really find that I'm good looking, John?”, wanted Sherlock to know. And John now understood that the question didn't come from Sherlock fishing for compliments, but from Sherlock's deeply buried insecurity and self-loathing.

“You are, Sherlock. Model-material. Haven't you noticed that people can't take there eyes away from you? That you can achieve almost everything if you turn up your charm? Getting into the flat in the case of 'The Blind Banker '. Do you remember? And Janine?”

Sherlock looked confused, “But...but that was not my looks, but my acting skills, my words, that worked.”

John shook his head, “What do you see, when you look into the mirror then?”

“I see my curly mess of unruly hair. I see my stubby nose, that even is a bit 'off-kilter' because of a ball in my face, when I was 10. I see my strange pale eyes, that can't even decide which colour they are supposed to have. They are small and slanted. Cats' eyes. And they do sit too far away from each other. My eyebrows are OK, I suppose. Too prominent cheekbones and a weak chin. Not masculine at all and when I laugh and smile, I get very unflattering double-chins. And together all those things mentioned give my face a strange triangular shape. And my mouth....ridiculous. It would look nice on a woman. Ridiculous on a man. Put that together and I look like.... Sid from Ice-age. Like an alien. My body is OK I suppose. Acceptable, but long and gangly and now filled with unflattering scars......and I'm much too pale. Like.....skimmed-milk...or like the skin of a vampire.”

John took Sherlock's face into his hands, bowed his head and began to kiss every part he mentioned, “Your eyes. They are beautiful. Not small at all. They are like moon-stones and together with your cheekbones they make a stunning sight. A bit cat-like, maybe...a jaguar. Strong and fascinating. A face you cannot forget. Your nose.....just the right size and shape. Not a potato-lump like mine. More aristocratic and thank God not that long protruding version, that Mycroft sports!”

Sherlock smiled a bit at the last part and John continued, “Your chin is not rectangular....like....like one on an American cartoon hero. It is more refined....aristocratic. If you were an actor, you would play aristocratic roles. Never a peasant. There is something Hollywood-thirties-film-star-looks about you. Some time-less male beauty. Your mouth....well, before you had to jump and we lived together...and I have to admit even after that time. That mouth could give me a boner! Seeing you this morning with your lips around my cock....Oh God, Sherlock. It gives me a boner again. Feel!”

And Sherlock could feel a growing erection touching his back.

“Do you want me to...”

“No, Sherlock. It will go away again. As if I'm not used to hide or not react on the boners I got from you.....and your delicious body. Oh Jesus...I was so close to rip the sheet totally away from you at Buckingham Palace. It didn't leave much left to imagine. And even if we were in mortal danger in Irene's house, I still admired your buttocks as you fought that CIA-goon. And later as you were drugged, you yourself sported quite an erection because of that drug, she gave you.....

(Sherlock decided that he didn't want to tell John the real reason for that erection. It could wait)

“.......And I had the thought..” John continued, “....what would have happened if I had used the opportunity and had undressed you? But that would have been rape....so I didn't. But I thought about it. You looked so young and soft and lovable. I now know it was because you were drugged and your shields were down. And I just wanted you. And of course I 'knew' that you were not into such activities.....”

And then he bowed down and kissed Sherlock again,......”But you are...and very much so! Giving me the best sex I've ever had.”

Sherlock frowned, “But....but you must have had sex with Mary...and....”

“Obviously...since I had Rosie. And at a time after she was born, I doubted that she was mine after all. So she was tested and Rosie is mine. But you see, Sherlock. Mary could drug my mind into almost hating you. But somehow my body told the truth. Mary and I had sex on our honey-moon. But not much. And after? Only at a few occasions. Mary's excuse was nausea because of the pregnancy.....and mine? I really don't know. But I couldn't get it going, even if I liked her. And she was a pretty woman. I knew that I could risk having problems like erectile dysfunctions because of the through-out sepsis I experienced, because I was shot in Afghanistan, but I had not experienced it living in Baker Street with you. Of course I couldn't put two and two together and figure out that it was you, who caused that simmering arousal..”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock again and continued, “.....And then you jumped and left. And I didn't feel anything but that the world had turned grey. Then I met Mary and she somehow brought colours into my world again. Nothing like you. Just colours again. Then you returned and everything was so wrong. And then she shot you. And I was so much at the hospital watching over you......”

Sherlock continued, “And she came to the hospital and ordered me not to tell you. She had given me a chance by not shooting me in my head. But she still wanted me dead....just doing that so slowly that she would have time to make you hate me....”

John shook his head, “But why did she then encourage me to contact you again? She told me that she liked you...”

Sherlock smiled, “Maybe she used the old saying: 'keep your friends close and your.....”

John interrupted, “......your enemies even closer. Yeah...I can see that now. And she wanted to make sure that I wouldn't crumple totally, when you died.”

“She still wanted to become 'the doctor's wife' and she tried to push you into her mould. To make you her obedient...I'm sorry to say it....but the fitting word would be 'pet'.” , explained Sherlock.

“Yeah...I know. Just the words 'Moriarty' had been instructed to use as well.”, said John, “And as soon as she had me there, fitting into her mould, she lost interest in me. She had gotten what she thought she wanted, but at first given opportunity she bolted. Ajaj was just an excuse.”

Sherlock smiled, “For what it is worth, she loved you and Rosie the way, she was able to. She stayed long enough to give Rosie a safe....well, sort of safe birth and the first very important months. She managed to give Rosie the first important milk, even if she didn't continue to breast-feed her. She gave me a tiny sliver of a chance to survive in Magnussen's office, and thereby time for you to push me out of your life, so you could live without me. Or so she planned. She waited to kill me...or make me kill myself....until you could be on your own and....”

John huffed, “Some fine love. Drugging me up to my eyeballs. Letting me see her being shot. Even if it was as false as a death-scene in an opera. Letting me believe that I was going to get shot by that false therapist. Letting me take care of Rosie all by my own and making me hate you so much, that I blamed you for her death and kicked the shit out of you and abandoned you and would have let that creep Culverton kill you, if it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson. So honestly, Sherlock, coming to my senses again and being out of that drug-induced haze, that I apparently have been living in, since I met that blasted woman, it has made me sane again and what Mary showed...that was not 'love', Sherlock. That was extreme jealousy, possessiveness and abuse. Not love. Love is what you showed me, even if I was so blind, that I couldn't see it in front of my own bloody nose: stepping back and wanting to give me everything, even the wife and life, I thought I wanted and you 'dying inside' because I refused to see your love. That is to be able to forgive me for being an arse and beating you and give you another scars to your collection. That is being prepared to risk your own life to 'save' me. And I can never...never!.....pay you back. You do not alone have the biggest brain in England. You have the biggest heart, Sherlock. And I'm going to try so hard to prove myself worthy of such a love!”

Sherlock leaned back in John's embrace, “You show it to me now. Every hour. You do not need to do more than that. It is enough. I love you. You love me. That is just the way it is supposed to be.”

The two men were silent for a few seconds and then Sherlock said, “Well. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”. The tale of the hired actress and the bomb in Baker Street that was no bomb and the island, that was no island is going to be told. And...John....I can tell you the 'how' and only some of the 'why'. The rest is something you'll have to talk with Mycroft about. OK?”

“OK”

“Well. Let us start with 'Mary'. She had hired this actress, Sian Brook, to play the lady on the bus. To test if you were just as bored in your marriage as she was. If you started flirting, Mary would have an easier excuse to disappear later. By the way, you did send one of the messages to 'E' to me too, by mistake...”

“Oh. Which one?”

“The one with 'night-owl'. I answered..”

“Oh..I see. Continue, please.”

“Then the same actress played Culverton's daughter Faith in order to give me Faith's real note, so I would begin to investigate Culverton and get into his claws. And finally the actress played your new therapist, that you went to see after Mary's 'death'. Sian Brook had been told that it was all a part of a new show. Recorded with hidden cameras, and it was partly true....you and I were just so convenient drugged, that we wouldn't have noticed even if we had been looking directly into the cameras. A part of my encounter with Faith was something I had hallucinated, though. Mycroft showed me the footage...and I was just walking, talking to myself, some part of that night. Sian had been told that the reason for you and me looking a bit like 'John Watson' and 'Sherlock Holmes' was that we had been chosen for our likeness with those two famous persons and that we had been told to impersonate them for the show.”

Sherlock paused and John nodded, “I see, Sherlock. That explains a lot.”

Sherlock continued, “Sian had been told to shoot you at the appointment after ...well after the mortuary. Mary had expected you to do something violently...to me.....and knew you would at least visit the therapist one time after...whatever happened to me......”

Sherlock stopped. He could feel that John had tensed, as Sherlock mentioned the mortuary and he could hear on John's breathing, that John was close to crying.

Sherlock turned his head so he could look at John and lifted his right hand so he could touch John's face and John buried his head into Sherlock's curls. Suddenly overwhelmed by remorse, self-loathing and huge sadness....that he had done that to Sherlock. Beating and kicking him...and pushing him out of his life.

“I'm sorry...so, so sorry, Sherlock. For putting you through hell like that.....For believing that insane psychopathic woman for just a fraction of a second. For.....out of desperate loneliness and denial and anger and hurt to choose her over you. For believing that I loved her....”, John mumbled into Sherlock's curls.

“Schuss, John,“, soothed Sherlock, “We have been here before and we have sorted it out. You and I are forgiven for the pain and hurt and sorrow we have caused each other. I love you...you love me. Mary, who had staged a lot of this, is dead, Culverton in jail. Eurus has been taken care of. We are here...and Rosie too. We are safe...”

And finally Sherlock's words worked and John stopped shivering.

“I'm sorry..” John said, “I thought that.....”

“It was so easy to leave it all behind?”, asked Sherlock, “It is not. And it will return from time to time. Despite all therapists and their doings and advises. It is a process, John...and it takes time.”

And then they kissed and held close on to each other for a few minutes, before John nodded to indicate that he was ready and Sherlock continued, “Well. The false therapist. Sian was told that she would just shoot you with blanks, just the noise, but the gun was loaded with gelatine-bullets. Relatively harmless, if they just enter muscle-tissue. Potential damaging if they enter for example an eye. And Sian had been instructed to aim at you left eye. Thank God she was such a lousy shooter...and Mary didn't have fantasy enough to realise that people could be that bad at aiming, that Sian hit you in your shoulder and you just fell down....sedated. Then Mary hurried inside and killed Sian, because she knew too much...and Mary would probably have, but I'm not sure here, ended you as well. But since she was interrupted and since she might still have had feelings for you, she just disappeared. She was killed in France, by Mycroft's agents. The ban on shooting the woman, who had tried to kill me, well she had tried her best, if not in Magnussen's office, then with her insane advise to me later, that ban had been lifted the moment she was away from you and you wouldn't be harmed by her death. She was dead to you already, so the delayed punishment for murdering me could finally be executed.”

John nodded, “I see. Continue please, Sherlock...”

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

Sherlock continued, “Before Sian was killed, she dutifully followed the script Mary had made for her, including making hints to my real sister. Mary knew about...well not everything about my sister, but she knew that she existed and Mary knew her name and used that knowledge to scare you, before your were sedated.”

John nodded, “And it scared me......and then she shot me. It was as if I was not able to react, just passively watching everything that happened.....”

Sherlock nodded, “The explanation is of course that you were still drugged. And reacting on certain trigger-words. Or rather....'not reacting' because of them. That day I had just found Faith's note. I had realised that I hadn't hallucinated the meeting after all. I had investigated further and had seen the 'miss me' written in linseed oil and had finally realised that Mary had gotten the real Faith's note and used it to get me into Culverton's claws. I found out that Mary must still be alive and be potential dangerous to both you and me. I remembered the therapist and rushed there and found you unconscious, bleeding from a small wound on you shoulder. I found the dead body of Sian......and no Mary.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, “I was so scared that I would have been too slow and would have arrived to find your dead body...”

“No..I was fine, when I woke up a bit later. But were had you gone, Sherlock? I was alone?”

“Out to search for Mary. Remember...I was still drugged, if only a bit and therefore still prone to believe things, that wasn't there.”

John nodded, “I don't know about you. But I could use something to drink and eat before we continue. And I need the loo.”

___________________________

After a cup of tea and some toast, Sherlock and John continued their conversation, again lying on the bed. Holding hands and being close to each other. The talk had stirred up bad memories and they needed too feel each other. Feel that the other one was there...and alive.

“Give me a push, will you? If I fall asleep..”, said John.

“Am I such a bad narrator? “, wanted Sherlock to know.

“No! It's just...your voice is so pleasant to listen to and it makes me so relaxed...”, explained John.

Sherlock chuckled before he continued, “OK. Let me hope then that the story would be exiting enough to keep you awake: So...you and I had decided to do something to make Mycroft admit that he needed our help. His armour was just as impenetrable as the defence around the crown-jewels or the defence around the gold in Bank of England, but as you know they can be outmanoeuvred.......as you and I did towards Mycroft's defences. With bleeding portraits, ghost-girls and clowns. An homage to Mycroft's love for horror-films. I know that we were cruel......and it was my little and petty revenge. And Mycroft took his toll on both of us later...”

John shook his head, “Oh Jesus...did he do that! Saw, James Bond, the Omen, Silence of the lambs....they were there, all of them. Making us feel like we were in a living nightmare.”

“But it had a purpose. Just like our cruel prank. But that is Mycroft's story to tell. He knows it better than me. The 'why'.....”

John looked at Sherlock, “But you know the 'how'?”

Sherlock nodded, “Most of it..”

“Then begin. Because I can't make any bloody sense of any of it!”

“OK. Mycroft arrived at Baker Street and we talked. He told me and you about Eurus. Memories that I had repressed. Mycroft's memories were disturbed too, because he had almost forgotten about the real dog. And in his...planning out the events on the set 'Sherrinford/Azkaban/Shutter Island...... he traded the real dog for 'Victor Trevor', my enemy from University and mixed him with the boy from the village. It served its purpose, but wasn't the truth. As most of what happened on that set wasn't....”

“Continue, please...”

“We were here at Baker Street and Mycroft had made sure that you and I were still drugged. Not much. Just enough to make us more suggestive, more prone to believe whatever he would tell us. Notice that he had chosen specific words and used his words carefully, making us believe that the people at Speedy's could be in danger...or Mrs. Hudson downstairs. He had a cylinder with that gas in his pocket and released it just before the drone came flying.”

“But...but why wasn't he affected?”

“He has a big nose......and he had filters in that big trunk of his.....”

“But he spoke...”, protested John.

“Inhale through your nose, exhale and speak through your mouth.....easy enough with a bit of training. So...when he had planted the idea about a huge explosion in our heads, the 'grenade' went off. Releasing a searing white light and a sedative gas.....”

John nodded, “The 'explosion'...I see. Leaving the flat unharmed. Even the rug. And in reality we didn't jump anywhere. Just slumped down on the floor.”

“It didn't fit, did it John? Jumping through the windows before the explosion? We would have been injured by the window-frames and the glass. It is only in film that you can jump unharmed through a window. Actually, glass is relatively solid. And jumping as the explosion would have blown the windows out? In that case we would have been injured by the explosion. Burned at least on our backside and have been harmed by landing on the street from the first floor. Lacking hair, burned clothes and burn-wounds and broken limbs. But we just slumped down on the floor, Mrs Hudson was sedated too and found herself in an ambulance and was told that Baker Street had been partly ruined. At least my flat and she was send to her sister's to live for a while. She 'bought' it too, thanks to the sedation and a small amount of drugs to her too.”

John frowned, “No side effects?”

“No she is perfectly fine. I think that Mycroft wanted just a small revenge for her remark: 'get our of my house, you reptile'. They have sorted their....disagreement...out by now. Especially because Mycroft is paying for everything made and mended here in Baker Street.”

“Good! Because without Mrs. Hudson, you would have been dead by now....”

“Mycroft knows....believe me. He knows how much he owes her.”, said Sherlock.

And he continued to tell about how the whole affair had been staged. How he and John had been put on the street after the windows had been pushed out by a forceful air-canon. How a team had entered the flat and begun to 'destroy' things.

“Selected books were burned and put on the floor. But a real explosion would have torn them apart. The windows were ruined, but the glass-walls to the kitchen unharmed. My violin was unharmed, but the case sodded. The couch survived, but the wall-paper was ruined. My very sturdy coffee-table was ruined, but the glass-cupboard was intact. My leather-chair was just covered in sod, but your chair was burned. It made no sense!”

Sherlock continued to tell how he and John had been drugged and flown to the boat, that was just lying in the middle of the harbour of London, with ships surrounding it and they had been emitting smoke, so it seemed as if the boat was on open sea.

“But why a boat? Why not fly directly to the island?”, wanted John to know and then he had paused and answered the question himself, “.......oh. Now I see. To make us believe that that island was far more isolated and not offering any possibility of us being able to escape...”

“Exactly..”, said Sherlock, “and everything was carefully and meretriciously made and sorted out, for the biggest outcome. But is is still Mycroft's job to tell the 'why,' as I do not know everything.”

“So there was a reason for everything that happened? Every insane event? And in reality no one died?”, wanted John to know.

“It was all actors and film-sets, huge screens, artificial beaches and caves. Attack on our senses with smell: salt-water and concrete, touch and sound: seagulls and the sound of waves. You put down in cold water in that well. Drugs to make us unaware of cameras and actors.....”

“And the purpose of all this insanity?”

“Is Mycroft's job to tell. I do not have all the data....and might have misunderstood something. You should call him, John, and make an appointment this afternoon. I'll fetch Rosie and make dinner and it will be ready when you return....”

“But you do know?”

“Not all of it. My role, yes. But not Eurus', or Mycroft's or yours. Mycroft wanted to tell you himself..”

John shook his head, “It is going to be one hell of a bloody good explanation for what he had put us through, if he thinks that I'm not going to let him pay for this in some way!”

Sherlock smiled and lifted his hand and caressed John's face, “I'm sure that you are going to be satisfied........”

John smiled back, “There is still some time left before I'll have to call him. You said 'satisfied'......did that have another meaning too?”

Sherlock bend forward and kissed John, “I think I'm ready for another round...what about you?”

“Oh God, Sherlock Holmes. You do nothing by halves, do you? Shagging like a rabbit?”

“I would prefer to be the receiving part, John...” said Sherlock in that voice that was pure velvet and had a direct connection to John's groin.

“So much for shower...”, murmured John before he kissed Sherlock back. Mycroft and his explanations could wait.

Chapter Text

They hurried to undress and then Sherlock almost flipped John upside down on the mattress and began to use his ...oh God... much to sinful mouth all over John's body. Small kisses, starting from John's knees. Sherlock carefully avoided John's groin and continued until he ended on John's neck. Exactly on the point just under John's jaw, that John, to his own surprise, had found out to be an erogenous zone. At least when Sherlock kissed and licked there.

“Oh God. Your wicked mouth!”, moaned John and he continued, breathless, “It should be labelled 'dangerous' and I...Oh God....thought that I......oh sweet Jesus....should be be the one that delivered!”

“Oh...but you are, John..”, said Sherlock and looked at John with a wicked grin, “You are delivering such nice and sinful noises!”

Now John had enough of it and turned Sherlock around so now it was Sherlock turn to be lying on his back.....and now it was John's turn to nip and lick and kiss all over Sherlock's body as well. First John paid attention to Sherlock's nipples. John licked and nipped and pinched, making both of them into little wet hard buds. The sounds Sherlock made had a direct connection to John's groin as John just marvelled at how sensitive Sherlock's nipples were. Then John continued down over Sherlock's stomach. Licked into the navel and then John paid especially attention to Sherlock's balls and avoided Sherlock's cock totally, even if he could see that Sherlock was desperate for John to use his sword-swallower talents on him.

“I like it and find it very arousing, that you are shaved, that your balls are so hairless and the rest of your groin, including your arse, too..”, said John almost conversationally as he continued to take Sherlock apart, taking Sherlock's balls into his mouth and sucking on them. Just with a tiny touch of teeth.

“No...not shaved....wax!”, panted Sherlock and that made John stop for a few seconds and now he used his fingers to fondle Sherlock's balls, and caressed the area behind them, close to Sherlock's hole, but not touching yet. Doing the fondling with his fingers, so he had his mouth free to talking, “Are you saying that you go to a clinic and lie down there, arse in the air and let others see your private parts, when you get waxed?”

“Please John. Please.....stick your fingers in me. There is lube under the pillow. Fuck me with them or prepare me for your thick cock. Just do something! The Brazilian lady, who waxes me, is old and has no interest in my body what so eveeeeer......”

The last part was moaned as John finally took mercy and stuck one lubed finger up Sherlock's arse and finally put his mouth around Sherlock's leaking cock-head. That John had Sherlock's balls in his mouth and by that close to his teeth and potentially was able to hurt Sherlock...well that spiked Sherlock arousal. Sherlock liked it very much when John was in charge....so very much. And the easiest way to make John go into that dominant mode, was to start out rather dominant himself. John would accept that for a short time and then he would take charge....just as Sherlock wanted it. And now Sherlock just surrendered and let John do what ever he wanted to. Except....Sherlock could always beg. And he did now, “John...Jooohn. Please. I'm ready.....please!”

And John didn't mind a begging detective either.

“On your hands and knees, Sherlock..”, John ordered and almost lost it as Sherlock was on his knees, but not on his hands, as he was lying on his shoulders, had arched his back and had put his arse on display like that. Sherlock had even a firm grip around his buttocks and had spread them with his strong fingers.

John could see how Sherlock's rather relaxed hole almost pulsed.

“Please. Please. Take me. Hard!”, panted Sherlock and it was only John's iron will that prevented him from coming by the sight of such a willing Sherlock.

“Oh dear Lord...” moaned John as he pushed inside Sherlock in one gliding motion.

And then John just stopped for a moment, in order not to come on the spot. And then Sherlock begged, “Continue, John. Hard. I need you. I need to be filled with your big fat gorgeous cock.”

And John began to move in and out and looked down and saw how his cock disappeared into Sherlock's willing body and Sherlock begged, “Harder! Harder....I'm not made of glass!”

And John did let go of every control. Something that he rarely allowed himself to do and he took a firm grip around Sherlock's hips (and they would bruise afterwards, because Sherlock was so pale) and pounded and pounded into that willing body. Totally loosing himself...and even more so because Sherlock showed so much that he wanted it that way. 15 hard trusts where Sherlock moaned louder and louder ….and John came so hard that his vision blurred and he saw stars and first a bit later did he discover that Sherlock had come too. Untouched.

__________________________

After that very nice round of sex, involving Sherlock as 'the receiving part' and John more than happy to 'deliver', both men were now lying in the bed. John on his back and Sherlock cuddled on his side close to John and with his head on John's good shoulder.

They were covered in sweat and semen and knew that they would have to take a quick shower...again, before they would carry on with their 'duties' for the rest of the day. And then they would meet again here in John's flat.

Oh God, John hoped so much that Baker Street soon would be habitable again. Not that this flat wasn't nice...and bright...and everything. And it had been John's before he met 'Mary' and he had thought it just to be a place to survive even then. Needing so badly to be away from Baker Street 221B, if he shouldn't go totally mad, because John kept seeing and hearing Sherlock.

But now? Where ever he looked, there were things that reminded him of that woman. Some pictures and throw-pillows and paint and wall-paper on the walls, where she...oh so sweetly...had pointed out that the colours didn't match that well. She had laughed a bit and said “bachelor-style isn't really me, dear, but you have managed well...most of the places..”

John hated the fact that she had been able to 'cut him down' with a few words and at the same time, if he did let himself get a bit hurt by it, she could say “Oh dear Lord. I didn't say it to offend you!”...indicating that not alone his doings, but his feeling were all wrong.

John sighed. Even if Baker Street wasn't as 'streamlined' as this flat and not so fresh-painted (but now it would be) and maybe not so fitting for an infant, it was 'home'. Just so much more 'home' than this bigger flat, with a bigger bathroom and bigger kitchen, had never been.

“John. You are thinking so loud that I can hear it..”, Sherlock's voice said.

“Mmmm. I was just thinking how happy I'll be when I leave this flat. When I lock the door and never have to look back again. This is the place where I thought the thoughts and wrote the hurtful words that caused you so much pain and nearly killed you. Well..not me alone, I'll admit that. 'Mary' made her part of the job as well.”

John turned towards Sherlock and reached out with his other hand to touch those beautiful features of the man he finally had allowed himself to love and allowed himself to show that he loved, and John continued, “And here we are. You and me...finally together and I'm giddy as a teenager. Horny as one too. You just have to speak to me in that voice and my refractory period becomes that of a teenager. You just have to look at me like you sometimes do.....and I'm ready for another round. It is going to be quite a problem on crime-scenes, you know!”

And Sherlock began to chuckle, “ Oh...even more inappropriate...if we did some snogging and even shagging. It was even inappropriate enough when we were giggling at crime-scenes!”

And John threw his head back towards the headboard of the bed and howled of laughter as he imagined how Lestrade and Donovan would look at them.

After they had dried their eyes and had stopped laughing, even if it was hard, because every time they looked at each other, they would start again, they took the must needed shower and Sherlock headed towards Baker Street as John hailed a cab to get to the Diogenes' Club.

As John had called Mycroft, Mycroft had suggested that they should meet there. Around 4 PM.

“You know the way to the guest-rooms and I'll give notice that you will arrive...”, had Mycroft said.

__________________________

John was shown into one of the guest-rooms where Mycroft was waiting for him. And there, on a trolley, was something that John had not seen for a very long time: a very traditional English Afternoon Tea, including finger-sandwiches with ham and cucumber and salmon. Warm scones with clotted cream. A big variety of cakes and pastries. Everything......including 4 varieties of tea.

“Oh my good. How very English. The epitome of English-ness. For centuries. Millenniums”, said John a bit mockingly.

But Mycroft just smiled and asked, “Is it? Tea is originated from China. The concept of baking bread, yes baking at all, from the Middle-East. Invented about 8000 years ago between the rivers Euphrates and Tigris. Cucumbers originated from¨South Asia.....Oh yes. Very 'English' indeed!”

And John couldn't help laughing a bit. Mycroft could really sound just like Wikipedia.

John sat down and looked at Mycroft, “You know why I am here?”, he asked.

“Yes, I do, John. But you said that you had something you wanted to say to me first?”

John took a deep breath, “I'll ask you to listen to me before you say something. OK?”

Mycroft very uncharacteristically just nodded and John continued, “I love Sherlock. And he loves me in return. I know with all my being that I do not deserve a love like his. He is the best and kindest human being I've ever met. Not at first glance and not judged by the first impression, but I should have seen it sooner. Even before he had to jump off that blasted roof. I've hurt him repeatedly and I've caused him so much pain...and yet he is able to forgive me. And that is a bloody miracle..”

John stopped and looked directly at Mycroft, “To speak metaphorically: Sherlock has on of the biggest brains in...all of Europe...even in all the world, I think, and I know that you two do compete in that area. Sherlock always says that you claim to 'be the smartest one'. Well...I disagree...most of the time. But more about that later. But not alone that...Sherlock has the biggest heart too, since he can forgive, what I've done to him. I love him and I'll try my best the rest of my life to show him that. To show myself worthy of his love...”

John stopped here and looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and said, “Well. That makes two of us. Two persons that Sherlock loves and whom he has forgiven against all odds. You are not the only one to have done harm to Sherlock. I think that I am even guiltier.”, and then Mycroft paused and looked at John before he continued, “You are aware that if we should decide, that we are unworthy of his love and therefore leave him. That would cause him even more damage?”

John nodded, “That is why I proposed to him this morning and......”

Mycroft nodded, “I know....”

John stopped at squinted at Mycroft before he said, “You and your blasted secret cameras!”

Mycroft smiled a bit, “Well it is hard to avoid seeing and hearing that you proposed and that he accepted, when you did it all in front of your flat...outside and just in front of those cameras. And they are still there because they could still be necessary. Your safety...all 3 of you...is still a concern of mine.”

John just nodded...a bit surprised that Mycroft was concerned about Rosie too.

And then he had a terrible thought, “Hmm. Are there cameras inside too?”

Mycroft smirked, “There are. Mostly because they haven't been removed since.....well since you moved away form Baker Street and, to speak the truth, were suicidal. And I can assure you that....hmm....tapes with certain activities are just for a very few eyes. Mine. No reason for others to.....watch.”

John just looked a Mycroft and had to remind himself that it was the man who had agreed on being killed by Sherlock, as Eurus had asked Sherlock to chose between Mycroft and John.

John took a deep breath, “You...you are the most annoying, obnoxious, irritating, busybody arse-hole of a big brother and only the fact and something that I have to remind myself of, that you offered to die to save me at that blasted false island, prevents me from punching you on your big, much to big nose, right now!”

Mycroft at least had the decency to blush a bit and he hurried to explain, “We...I...only make sure that it is just you two.....three when Rosie is home...that are in the flat. After that I can assure you that the cameras and the sound are turned down.”

John could only shake his head. That Mycroft could honestly believe that that would be assuring!

And then John got an idea, “Well. I suppose that you'll have to do with second-hand experiences, since you have no partner. And your brother is quite a sight, isn't he!”

And he had the pleasure of seeing Mycroft blush a bit as they, like English gentlemen, didn't talk more about that topic and just sipped some tea.

________________________

Mycroft sighed and fidgeted a bit with his napkin. To anyone else he would have seemed fully composed. But not to John. John was very adept at 'reading' one Holmes-brother and found it not difficult to 'read' Mycroft either, most of the time. But Mycroft had changed now and was even easer to 'read' by now...at least for John.

“I will of course arrange for the removal of the cameras and the microphones.”, said Mycroft and looked at John.

“Don't bother. I might be a bit of an exhibitionist, after all...and I have done nothing that I'm ashamed of. Not now. Not with Sherlock.”, said John and then he continued with a smirk, “And if it is the only thing that you'll ever come close to ...anything. Then be my guest!”

Mycroft smiled a bit, “Well...not that is any of your business. But I do manage.”

And then they didn't talk more about that topic.

John did drink some more tea and then he looked at Mycroft and said, “You do not mind that I proposed and he said yes?”

“No....just that you to possess enormous power over my brother. You do realise that? That you could be the best thing...and the worst thing, happening to him?”

John nodded, “As he could be to me. Mycroft...if...if Culverton had managed to kill Sherlock. If I had come to late. I...I am not sure that my feeling of responsibility for Rosie could have prevented me from using my gun. Just as you said...that I was suicidal as Sherlock jumped. An now....feeling that it was my fault even more... I would have.....”

John paused a bit before he continued, “I know that I've hurt him so much. Beyond all reasonable limits. I've pushed him away. Neglected him. Abandoned him. An explanation, not an excuse, take that in mind!....was that Mary had drugged me. But if her ideas hadn't found just a tiny bit of hatred and negativity against Sherlock to put their claws into, they wouldn't have been able to take root in me. I can't express how ashamed I am, Mycroft. I had the finest gem-stone in my hand and I choose to throw it away. And yet....Sherlock loves me. And as you said: I would harm him even more by not accepting his love. So I do...happily, even if I in no way deserve such a gift. I just love him more and more. And I'm so happy that he would accept to marry me and that brings me to the next reason for me to contact you..”

“And that is?” , wanted Mycroft to know.

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

From the previous chapter:

John said, “.... And I'm so happy that he would accept to marry me and that brings me to the next reason for me to contact you..”

“And that is?”, wanted Mycroft to know.

John looked at Mycroft for a few seconds before he answered, “I'm going to marry Sherlock because that is, thank God, a possibility here in our country. But it doesn't give Sherlock legal rights regarding Rosie. In the eyes of the law, Rosie is still only mine, even if Sherlock and I get married. And that is unacceptable. I want you to use your influence to make it possible for Sherlock to adopt Rosie! And I know there could be problems regarding that, because of Sherlock's past, which is totally insane, because he is going to be so much a better parent than Mary would ever have been ...better than I would ever be.”

Mycroft smirked and arched his eyebrow, “Are you really asking me to sort of..... bend the law...in your and Sherlock's favour?”

John smiled, “Oh shut up, Mycroft. As if you have never done that before. You are almost as amorally adapted as any other high ranking politician... even as Magnussen was. Just, you do it for England, for the better good....for people living here in this country. And not for yourself. That is the difference. So yes...break the law to give Sherlock this.”

Mycroft nodded, “I appreciate that you would do this for Sherlock and I am a bit surprised, I'll have to admit that. Even if I disagree about you not being a good parent. But consider it done. And about the wedding. May I suggest something?”

“I'm listening..”

“Have you thought about, discussed, how you want it to be celebrated?”

John laughed, “I only proposed this morning and we have...hm...been 'busy' since and have not discussed anything yet. But it is totally up to Sherlock. If he wants to be married hanging in a parachute, it is fine with me. Or whilst diving in the Pacific Ocean. Anything he wants. As long as it would not remind us of my marriage to Mary. It was a wonderful wedding. Planned meretriciously in every little detail. Including hiring professional guests, so the few, we were able to invite not would sit each in their corner shouting to each other in an almost empty room. But...I married the wrong person. And I hope that I will never see that specific shade of yellow from that room ever again. So...whatever Sherlock wants.”

“Then allow me to come with a suggestion. Since it is unlikely that I will ever marry.....”

And here John interrupted as he pointed at Mycroft's hand with the ring, “Again.....”

Mycroft stopped talking and looked with an arched eyebrow at John...and John thought to himself, that Mycroft must really have rehearsed that movement in front of a mirror for a long time to make it that perfect.

“I beg your pardon?”, said Mycroft.

John pointed at Mycroft's hand again, “Marry again. You have used reversed psychology wearing that ring openly. People would go: “...oh...but that is a wedding-ring. But it is Mycroft Holmes and he has never been married, so it can't be a wedding-ring and must therefore be something else. And Mycroft Holmes would never show such a sign of sentiment openly.” But it is a wedding ring and it has been taken good care of. Has been cleaned and polished recently. So it is very much holding a sentimental value. You see, Mycroft, your brother's methods do rub off on me from time to time.”

Mycroft nodded, “I see that, and you are right. I was married.”

“But not for long?”

Mycroft shook his head, “No....only a month.”

He looked out into the air as if he could see something there and explained...and as he did that, his features softened and he looked so much younger, “I was in France. At Sorbonne. There had been trouble with some Tunisian potential terrorists and I was put on the case...”

“MI6 job?”, John interrupted.

“Oh...yes of course. I was at university then, and took a semester off to study in France. It would be no problem, as I spoke.. and speak... French fluently. And I was put on Gabrielle, because her brother had been known to associate with some of the suspected Tunisian students. It turned out that it was a misunderstanding, and it was more about reading the same author and liking to be on the same café than anything else. I had known Gabrielle for one month before I was introduced to her parents and we got married after two months..”

Mycroft sighed and touched the ring, “She was beautiful. Looked like you could have imagined Nefertiti would be looking as a living, breathing woman. She was smart and very well educated already. She could speak almost as many languages as I could, and we liked a lot of the same things: chess, classical music, classical literature, but horror films and science-fiction as well. One woman out of...billions. We got married fast because otherwise she would have had to return to Tunisia. And then it happened. The attack, and even if I tried to cover her with my own body....she got shot...and died in my arms.”

Mycroft paused and then he made an effort and pulled himself together. John could almost hear the 'click' as the armour went back on.

And John suddenly remembered, “Oh my God. The 'Sorbonne-shooting'. That was it, wasn't it? We were taught about it, when I started working for MI6.”

Mycroft just nodded.

John looked around and saw the bar-trolley. He went over and looked at the selection of alcoholic beverages before he chose two glasses and poured some fine cognac into them and then he returned to his chair, offering Mycroft one glass.

“Here...and I suppose it was after that that you invented your mantras?”

“Mantras?”

And John mentioned, “Love is a dangerous disadvantage ”.....and “sentiment is a chemical defect found in the loosing side” and...let me see...oh yes: ”caring is not an advantage..” and "all lives end, all hearts are broken".......did I forget any?”

Mycroft shook his head, “I..managed to live through my private version of a hellish nightmare by following those advises and I found it necessary to teach Sherlock this. So he would be able to control his feelings better. He was a very emotional child and......and I didn't want to loose him to 'the madness' too. He had to learn to control his feelings or he...he might end up as Eurus. It was even the professional advises we got from the doctors. So yes, as I had taught myself, I taught Sherlock to shield himself. To detach himself from his feelings. To appear cold and aloof....”

Mycroft paused and continued, “....and like that I gave him no other choice than to use drugs to numb his mind, when reality caught up on him and he couldn't push things away and bury them any more. I thought us to be similar and I was wrong.”

Mycroft looked directly at John, “I know that I've harmed him so much. But at least he is still alive and on the sane side of his mind. He has survived....even if 'barely' sometimes. So the outcome could have been so much worse. Not that that is an excuse on my side. Just a statement.”

The two men didn't say anything for a few moments, sipping to their cognac and then John spoke, “Well...who would have thought that the global warming would be so severe!”

Mycroft just looked at him, totally lost at what John would be thinking about.

John smiled and lifted his glass in a salute, “Since it is able to melt 'The Ice-man'. You have changed, Mycroft. One might even think that you have become 'human', too.”

Mycroft smiled back. A smile...but a little sad one, “Yes I have. My armour did melt. And I'm not sure that this hermit-crab can live outside its shell.”

He looked down at his ring again, “I allowed myself then, in France, to believe that I, just for a moment, could be so close to another person. To lower my shields and it had catastrophic consequences. The shooting happened because I wasn't aware enough. Because I failed to read the signs. Because I allowed myself to be distracted by my love for Gabrielle. So...the ring here on my finger is a constant reminder, that I cannot allow myself to...indulge.”

Mycroft looked up at John again, “I'm not talking about the physical aspect. I manage in that area. I am a man and I have urges after all. But I can never allow myself to love that deeply again.”

John looked at Mycroft with his eyes half closed and a frown, “That is utterly bullshit, Mycroft. It wasn't your fault. Oh dear God, what were you then, 19? 20? It was in no way your responsibility. Others around you should have seen it too or maybe it was just impossible to see at all. To predict. Just like 9/11 in New York. Jesus, Mycroft. Has anyone ever told you that you ought to see a therapist? Just like the thing with your sister and everything that happened then. It can in no way have been your responsibility. Despite you being a genius. For God's sake, Mycroft...where were the adults around you? Apart from Uncle Rudy? I'm not blaming your parents, because it is easy to imagine the place they were in mentally...and I suppose they broke down. But Uncle Rudy? How could he put that burden on you....for fuck's sake. You were a child yourself!”

And John had to drink the rest of his cognac to calm down. No wonder Mycroft had always been so...peculiar. How could he have been normal, whatever that would be. How could he have been that with such a shitty childhood?

John looked at Mycroft, “I'm sorry. Not my business. But I can understand your...meddling, your watching-Sherlock's-every-step, your concern. You were not allowed to be a child for long. I should have seen it for what it was...”

Mycroft nodded, “Being an 'adult-child'. Taking responsibility much too soon. It sounds familiar to you too, doesn't it, John?”

John just nodded. Remembering his own childhood. “Yeah. It sucks, right? But your parents? They seemed so ...normal.”

Now it was Mycroft's turn to nod, “They are. Now. But they were not then...and it still stains our relationship. I just let it pass when my mother seems to have forgotten how it was. No reason to stir up bad memories. I just keep silent. Just like you do when it comes to Harry.”

And now Mycroft rose to get another drink. As he stood there and wordlessly lifted the fine cognac again and John just nodded, Mycroft continued, “There are old wounds and old doings that are best left alone, after they had been, sort of, cured.....and it has something, or rather 'everything' to with what happened on that false island.”

As he returned with the generously filled glass, he pointed at it and said, “Terrible coping-mechanism. But better than drugs...”

“Not for your liver. “, said John as he sipped and savoured the fine taste and the warmth from the exquisite cognac.

“No...but for your mental health.”, said Mycroft and smiled. This time a genuine one.

“So...you wanted to suggest something, as I interrupted?”, said John.

“Oh yes..”, said Mycroft as he sat down, after he had, as the true gentleman he was, tugged at the legs of his trousers to avoid ruining them, “....since it is unlikely that I would marry, again, and Eurus...well not her either, then I think that my parents, and of course I too, would be more than happy to arrange the wedding. We are squires after all. And the estate...”

John frowned, “Musgrave?”

“Oh God, no. Musgrave, the real building, is totally ruined. A house, partly burned and then left alone, would really crumble into a pile of debris. The Musgrave from the..hmm..events...was not that ruined. For an artistic effect. No I'm talking about the Holmes' Estate. The big house you saw, when you visited my parents. They have chosen to live in 'The Shooter's House' and the Estate is permanently rented by a hotel. But we do still have some rights and the hotel could be a suitable setting for a marriage.”

John looked at Mycroft, “Squires. I see. So why the bloody hell did Sherlock need a flatmate and I needed to get a job to earn money?”

Mycroft smiled, “You do remember, that I offered you money?”

“To bloody spy on Sherlock. And I would have disappeared 'discreetly' if I had accepted, wouldn't I?”

“No. But you would not have remained as Sherlock's flatmate. I thought that you two would have figured it out sooner. But I suppose that my...untimely and ill-fitting and disastrous plans with Magnussen ruined everything?”

John closed his eyes and had to remind himself that even if Mycroft had ruined everything then, he had paid a terrible price as well.

“Yeah...you did, you bloody moron. You did!”

Mycroft nodded, “Well. Back to the reason for 'flatmate'. Sherlock needed a flatmate. Not for financial reasons. But for...mental reasons. And you needed the job as well.”

“I did? Such a boring tedious job, I really needed that?”, said John sarcastically.

“Don't be angry, John. Think back, and remember how Sherlock was then. You needed to get out of the flat and needed the feeling of being useful. Even if it was just as a GP. Sherlock provided the danger and the GP job provided the 'every-day'. And you needed both aspects.”

John thought for a moment and then he nodded, “Yeah...I suppose you are right. Damn it!”

“Sherlock didn't have access to Grand-Maman's heritage. The French lawyers were very strict. Sherlock never finished his education....”

“Because he bloody worked for MI6!”

“Yes. But we couldn't tell them that. And his breakdown and drug-use didn't help either. But the money was freed as he 'died' and was of course returned to him again, as he returned from his 2 years away.”

“So...he does not have financial troubles now?”

Mycroft smirked, “I thought it was the reason to marry him?”

John smiled back, “You do know, just as well as I do, that I've inherited all the money belonging to 'Mary Morstan'...or 'Mary Watson' or whatever her real name was. Only very few words out of that woman's mouth were the truth after all. All the nice money on the, oh so discrete, Swiss bank accounts. And don't tell me that you had nothing to do with that. It would otherwise have taken years to sort it out. And the mess with my army-pension. You mended that after Sherlock.....after Sherlock had to jump. So..Sherlock could be poor as a church mouse and I would still marry him..”

Mycroft smiled again, “I know you would. But it would not harm to have money for renovating the flat, for going on holiday, for throttle a bit down on the cases and for Rosie's education, would it?”

“No..and it is nice not to worry about the money, like I used to do...Sometimes lying awake in the night”, said John a bit sourly.

“John. You would never had accepted any financial help. Getting paid for the cases were all right, because it was your work too. But you would never had accepted if I had paid for anything. I did manage to help you both a bit, but you had your pride, both of you, and I accepted that..”, said Mycroft.

And John nodded, because Mycroft was right, damn it!

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

Both men looked up as a new trolley was brought in. Fresh tea and fresh sandwiches.

“How much do they think that two men can eat?...And what a waste of food if they just throw the other load out..”, protested John.

“Not waisted. Refrigerated and given to the homeless. I just noticed that you didn't eat much and thought about ordering different sandwiches..”, explained Mycroft.

And John took happily a tuna-sandwich. His favourite.

“I was too busy talking to remember eating as well, “ said John, “...but know it is your turn to talk and I'll just eat.”

“Well. A bit more about the wedding then. If you would ask Sherlock if he would think about it?”

“OK. But no pressure from you or your parents. It is going to be as Sherlock wants it. Not as he thinks I want it...or as you want it. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly. Another question. You are a Watson.....and your grand-uncle had a piece of land in Scotland, if I am correctly informed?”

“He had. But that part of the family, my mother's part, was the 'poor ones'. My father and my mother were related. Cousins 6 times removed, I think, and they hadn't any pieces of property either. I think that branch of the Watson-family-tree lost everything centuries ago, except from that tiny farm that belonged to my mother's uncle. Why?”

Mycroft explained, “We, the 'Holmes'-family were originated from the 'Home-clan'. About 150 years ago. And we were the poor branch as well. But now it has turned out that my mother now is the sole heir of some property in the Highland. Time and fate has given the 'poor' family-branch some of the land back. Our ancestor in our part of the 'Home'-family was thrown out, dismissed, disinherited as he married a French girl. The daughter of the French painter Vernet. She died early and our ancestor married a member of the 'Holmes'-branch. The squires. He inherited the title, and the name, as he was seen as aristocracy being form the Scottish version of the 'Holmes'. It was rather complicated but of almost no importance, since it only took a few years before it didn't matter if you were aristocracy or not in politics. First World War did change a lot. My point is...since you would like the wedding to be rather different from the one with Mary....and both you and Sherlock are entitled to wear the tartan of your clan. It could be your wedding attire. That would be different, wouldn't it? Being wed in kilts?”

John could just look at Mycroft and then he smiled, “Yes...that would be brilliant. I'll ask Sherlock.”

And John kept his thoughts to himself....but oh. Sherlock in a kilt. He would be devastatingly handsome!

Mycroft cleared his throat, “Well, you wanted to know more about what happened on that false island.”

John nodded, “Yes....because it made no bloody sense to me. Sherlock has explained a lot of the 'how' but said that you ought to explain the bloody 'why'. So why...Mycroft...why put me and Sherlock through that freaking nightmare? Except of course as revenge for the prank we made on you.”

Mycroft smiled, “Only a tiny bit was added because of that. This...scenario...had been planned for a long time. So, let me see. Yes: My sister has still some remarkable mental talents, despite her broken mind. One of them is to solve riddles and spot patterns, just like Sherlock. I didn't lie when I said that I had used her abilities to find patterns on the internet. To find potential terrorists. One of her other talents is that she is immediately capable of spotting if people around her are not 100% genuine about what they say and do. About how they act around her. She is almost uncommunicative, almost totally absorbed in her own mind, and yet she sometimes crosses the border and communicate: through her music, through sentences written down on pieces of paper, through drawings and by singing. A lot of the material, she had given over the years, was used, when this scenario was planned. She was told that her brothers and some friends would be filmed in scenes and there would be actors too and it would be a false scenery, but that her brothers would be in a sort of story, that should help her. It was all about healing: first and foremost Eurus, but Sherlock and me...and you as well. Even Molly. Another very important aspect was that Eurus should learn that Sherlock, despite looking so much like Sherrinford, is not Sherrinford at all. That Sherlock has aged has helped, but unfortunately Eurus would still scream and 'close down' every time she saw a picture of Sherlock. These scenarios was made to make her see the real Sherlock.”

John frowned, “It still doesn't make any sense to me..”

Mycroft thought for a moment, with his hands close to his lips, in a pose very similar to the one Sherlock used and suddenly John could see the similarities between the two brothers so much more.

“Let me begin with a question..”, said Mycroft finally, “....have you had nightmares about water since the events?”

“What the heck..? No....but they are infrequent any way, so what...?”, wanted John to know.

And he was interrupted by Mycroft, “You have been haunted by nightmares about drowning since your childhood. It is not in your official papers, but as you know....I have my methods. It would be wise of you to allow me to explain.”

John nodded.

Mycroft continued and as he did that, John could remember everything, “You were 6 years old and your family:you, Harry, your father and your mother, were visiting your mothers uncle in Scotland. You were outside playing on the ground of the farm. You fell down in a well. Thank God it wasn't that deep and you were not injured as you landed. But the water was cold and did reach almost to your neck. You yelled and yelled and no one heard you. You used that stubbornness, that later in your life helped you so much, to manage and you kept on standing there in the cold water for hours. Keeping yourself alive. When they finally found you, you were in the first states of hypothermia and had lost track of how long you had been there. Harry, who had been in charge of you, didn't dare to tell that it had taken her 3 hours to find out that you had disappeared. She had been busy playing with another girl. The adults around you were not responsible....letting a nine year old sister look after her brother, and their bad conscience made them downplay what had happened as well. So no records were made and the local doctor in the village, who treated you for the effects of the cold water, didn't know better than you had been down there for less than half an hour. You had been there for four hours.”

John spoke in a very low voice, “Then how do you know? It was like a dream and I thought for many years, that it had just been a nightmare.”

“The doctor had made a note in the journal on an extra piece of paper. It was never written into the journal, and later not transferred to the digital version. On that note he had written, that he had made investigations later and found out that you must have been in that well for hours. But since you survived...apparently without damage, he just left it out.”

John nodded and accepted gladly the glass with just a bit of cognac in it, that Mycroft had risen to get for John.

And Mycroft continued, “And later in Afghanistan you were caught and...”

Here John interrupted him and said, “How the fucking hell do you know about that? It was never in my papers?!”

“I know, because even if it wasn't in your papers, it was still written down. By your enemies. And Sherlock noticed something when you were in Morocco and Ajaj turned up. As Ajaj told how 'he had been tortured not for information, but just for fun...' Sherlock noticed how you reacted and I investigated and found out what had happened to you. What had happened wasn't anything that would leave traces...so my best guess, based on your reactions, is that they didn't 'water-board' you...but something similar.”

“My reactions?”

“You preferred showers...and when you used the bathtub it would be in very hot water and surrounded by scented candles, to make the experience so different from what happened in Afghanistan as possible.”

John nodded, made a decision and took a deep breath, before he started, “They did put me in a tub with cold water. It gave me flash-backs and when I started shivering and began crying, they would hold my head under water. Not long enough for me to drown, but long enough for me to fight like a madman. They didn't harm me more than that...because I was a doctor and like that useful even to them. That 'treatment' was just a 'joke' to them. They never intended to kill me and laughed of the weak pathetic man, that broke down because of some water. If they had found out that I was a Captain as well, they would have tortured me for real...so I accepted the humiliation to stay a live. Even if it meant that I did wet myself and I cried lying on the floor afterwards...”

John did hide his head in his hands and felt very embarrassed.....and then he felt a hand on his arm. And he looked up and saw Mycroft looking at him and Mycroft said, “To call yourself 'pathetic and weak' is a big misunderstanding. I hope that you can see it now. You kept yourself alive even if it meant humiliation and, no matter if you downplay what they did to you in that tub, real torture. That is not being weak. That is being incredible strong.”

And suddenly John saw it in Mycroft's eyes to, “Hmm. You've been there too, haven't you?” wanted John to know, “Being tortured? Your nice three-piece-suit...it hides scars as well, doesn't it?”

Mycroft straightened his back and did let his hands flatten the front of his vest, “Yes. There are scars hidden here...as there are on a lot of people. Physical evidence of my previous jobs...but not as bad as yours...or Sherlock's. So....shall I continue?”

John just nodded and accepted that there would be no more mentioning of that topic. Not for know.

Mycroft sat down again and continued, “ Being in that well and discovering that you would not drown. That was your part in the events. At least most of it. Of course you had to experience not being able to kill an innocent man and watch how I would prefer to die, than to watch Sherlock shoot you and.....”

Here Mycroft was interrupted by John, as he said with a frown “Hold on, Mycroft...You said that you had planned this a long time ago. And you said that Eurus would be able to recognize 'acting' if you and Sherlock and I did that. And in that case it wouldn't help. But how could you bloody not know what would happen, if you had planned it?”

Mycroft just looked at John and in the moment where Mycroft had decided to open his mouth to explain, John suddenly saw the explanation and asked, “No..no..you didn't! Did you? That blasted stuff? That damned drug. TD-12?”

Mycroft nodded, “That 'blasted' drug that can be a blessing too. Just like a scalpel can be. Used with care it can heal. Used recklessly it can kill. Let me ask: what is the worst aspect of torture, if your body is able to heal afterwards?”

John thought for a moment before he answered, “The mental aspect. That you discover that humans can be so cruel. That you are in the hands of someone, who can be nice to their own, but doesn't even recognize you as a human being. That you are just a thing in their eyes.”

Mycroft nodded, “And you learn to cope afterwards. Learn to live with it.....learn to work with your own mind to adapt, because those who are not able to do that...”

“They often commit suicide, even if the bodily damage is manageable ...”

Mycroft nodded again and continued, “If TD-12 can be administered in time, before those memories settle down in people's long-term memory, then people would of course know that thy have been tortured, but they will have forgotten what happened. And then they would avoid the worst aspect of the torture, namely the mental one.”

And John could see it. Of course TD-12 could be useful that way.

“OK. You accepted being given TD-12 so you would be as blank as Sherlock and me to what would happen.....”

And then John stopped talking and looked directly at Mycroft, “So...that you almost vomited as the governor shot himself,....well that must have been theatrical tricks and fake blood and fake brain-matter,.....it was a genuine reaction. And when Sherlock had to choose between you and me......you....”

And here John stopped talking, rose and went over to Mycroft and stood in in front of him before he continued, “.....and here I've got you wrong all those years. I sometimes even hated you....and recently even more because I found out about you and Magnussen. And then I saw something that reminded of a heart when you mocked me and tore me to pieces in order to make it easier for Sherlock to choose between you and me. And then I learned that you had planned it all and my contempt and anger returned. And now...”

John touched Mycroft's hand with the ring as he continued, “And now I've learned that the scientists must have had another purpose than big brains, when they tampered with your and Sherlock's genes..”

Mycroft looked up at John with a confused frown and John suddenly did understand how Sherlock and Mycroft could have whole conversations without words....and John continued, “Because behind your armour, that have been even thicker than Sherlock's and even more convincing that his too, is another big heart. A living and loving and caring man, that much too soon, as a 13 year old child, had to take the responsibility, that his parents were unable to take. Had to bury his kindness and empathy deep down, maybe even so deep down that he couldn't find it himself. Oh Mycroft.....allow yourself to love again and accept my deepest apology for believing that you were the biggest arsehole, the shittiest big brother and most arrogant and obnoxious posh prick, that I had ever met.”

John turned around and sat down in his chair, “...I'm sorry. That is not my business. But let me tell you.....that even if you are such a tall git and I'm already hopelessly in love with Sherlock....” John stopped and looked at Mycroft with a smirk, before he continued, “....let me tell you, that if I met you now, outside your shell, and you made an approach at me, I wouldn't turn you down!”

Mycroft looked at John a few seconds before he took a sip of his cognac, “So much for 'I'm not gay'?”

John smiled back, “Sherlock turned me down as I made an approach at Angelo's. I now understand it was because of what happened in his childhood, and because of what happened with Sebastian and Trevor. Not that I know much...and if Sherlock never want to tell me, I'm fine with that. So in the beginning we both back-pedalled us into each our corner, and didn't dare to say anything. Terrified that we would loose our best friend. Each other. And then, suddenly it was to late and the chance never came back. Maybe we should be grateful that things turned out as it did, or else we would both have been dead. When I first saw Sherlock I thought him to be so much above my level: gorgeous and posh and I was busy protecting myself. And I could pretend being heterosexual, just as I did as a young man and in the army. A Sherlock in full armour appeared just as warm and caring as a marble-statue......and your armour was just as effective, Mycroft Holmes. I did even buy that you were a cold-hearted manipulative sociopath. But now....being out of your shell, you are so much different..”

John took a sip of his cognac and looked at Mycroft, “Why don't you allow yourself a relationship and love again?”

Mycroft lifted his eyebrow, “I manage, thank you!”

Now it was John's turn to smirk, “Well...she is a widow...so maybe after all..”

Mycroft just sat with his mouth open as John, oh so innocently, continued, “But then again. Lady Smallwood might prefer to continue as usual.” And John had the pleasure to see just a hint of red on Mycroft's cheeks.

Then Mycroft collected himself and said, “Oh yes, of course would Sherlock notice. And yes, Elisabeth would prefer that we just continue to...'see'... each other on the usual terms. Back to your question.”...and now Mycroft smirked, “.....unfortunately there is only one John Hamish Watson in the world. The only man who could be able to put up with a Holmes-brother. So who would be interested in me? Hmm? I'm not even in possession of my brother's gorgeous body-type, but is blessed with that big snout of mine, a balding head and that very unflattering body-type called apple: thin legs and a fat belly.”

John just shook his head, “What is wrong with you too? What the hell do you two see, when you look into a mirror? Sherlock thinks he is ugly...and so do you. You might not be as gorgeous as Sherlock, but you are a very handsome man, Mycroft, and I know at least one man, who has put up with both of you for years and who often ogles you nice behind...and who would like so much more to get to know you better, if he just dared hope that you would be just a little bit interested. For God's sake, Mycroft. Are you totally blind?”

And then Mycroft finally realised, about whom John was talking, “But...but Lestrade is straight?”, protested Mycroft confused.

“Oh for God's sake, you moron. Have you forgotten that the Kinsey scale is not an absolute? And judged by the way Greg ogles your behind, how he looks at you, when you do not notice, he is most certainly not uninterested. And by the way...if you have wondered why Greg has been a bit more around you lately, it is because Sherlock asked him to look a after you. You were not unaffected by the events either...and maybe affected a bit more than you had expected...”

Mycroft sat in silence for a few moments, “You have given me something to think about....in private. So right now I would prefer to tell more about the reasons for the events on the fake island if it is suitable?”

John respected that Mycroft didn't want to discuss his emotional life and was satisfied that he had planted the idea in Mycroft's head. It was up to Mycroft to make the first approach anyway.

“Yeah...go on. Try to make sense of that mess, thank you..”, said John.

Chapter Text

And Mycroft continued to tell how it was all planed and what the wanted outcome should have been and in fact had become...most of it:

He began with a deep breath and another sip of his cognac, “Well. I think I have covered for the effect of the events on you, John. Most of it. But to sum it up again: you had to discover that you could survive being in a well. That you were unable to shoot an innocent man. That you were clever and competent...since you as the only one discovered that the governor was compromised and that Sherlock's love for you was so deep that he smashed the coffin, that most of all represented your death and not so much Molly's. You had to discover that your skill-set as a soldier still was valuable to Sherlock and that he would prefer to die rather than harm you....and my small contribution: that I acknowledged your importance to Sherlock too. And that I would rather let him kill me , than kill you, because the latter would surely destroy him...”

Mycroft's voice trailed off and he looked at John, before he continued, “I've done both of you so much damage. I felt there and then that I owed you. I still do, John!”

John nodded and said, “And Sherlock has proven several times that he is willing to risk his freedom and his life to protect you and me. So, to put it short. That is what heroes are made of: willingness to die whilst protecting others. It is a label put on me, and maybe it did fit once. Not any more. You risked your life going to Serbia to get Sherlock out. He shot Magnussen to protect me and Mary and our unborn child....and to protect you. And Sherlock was ready to risk his life again to get me out of my misplaced grief for Mary, by drugging himself out of his wits and lay himself in Culverton's hands. And I didn't even deserve his trust in me. So...when the scientists tampered with you, they made big brains, big hearts and a lot of courage. It is something I find it a bit difficult to live up to, but by God I'm going to try!”

Mycroft could just shake his head, “I'm not a hero, John. Just a man who tried to correct the wrongdoings, he had done before.”

John paused for a moment before he said, “You risked your life getting Sherlock out of Serbia, even if Sherlock accused you of enjoying seeing him being beaten,...and such bravery and cruelty...it doesn't fit together. You are a very complicated man, Mycroft, but that didn't make sense. You are so powerful that you, by putting a pen to a piece of paper, can start a war and condemn a lot of soldiers to risk their lives. And yet you dry-heaved as the governor apparently shot himself. Why?”

Mycroft protested, “You have several roles yourself, John. That duality is in you as well. 'Doctor' and 'soldier'. 'Healer' and 'killer'. So why are you so puzzled by finding such a duality in others, too? Deep down I think that is what attracted you to Sherlock...and later 'Mary' despite her drugging of you. Duality. Yin and yang. The biggest difference is that you wear the cuddly and nice and big-hearted doctor on the outside and the dark, cruel killer hidden inside. Sherlock did the opposite: cruel and aloof on the outside and his big heart hidden deep inside him.”

John frowned, “But if I'm so 'dark', why are you not worried about my relationship with Sherlock?”

“Now you are trying to be an idiot on purpose, John. Because there is this darkness in Sherlock as well. You two do fit together. Both seeing the battlefield, where others see peaceful London. You have killed in cold blood. So have Sherlock, and I. And we have paid a price for it...and would do it again if it would be necessary.”

John nodded. Mycroft was right, and John felt that he could be allowed to show a bit more of his dark side being with Sherlock. And Sherlock was right, too. He wasn't made of glass.

“May I ask you something, Mycroft?”, wanted John to know.

Mycroft nodded, “Yes?”

“I know I'm not one to ask, since I've beaten Sherlock as well. Hurt him physically and mentally, I know that. But how could you watch him being tortured.....and even enjoying it? And how the hell did you want to risk the 'British Government' by extracting him yourself. What if they had caught you? With all that information that you possessed?”

Mycroft shook his head, “I risked my life, yes. For several reasons: first...I was the one to blame for him getting in that deep in the first place. And Sherlock got caught because of a leak that I hadn't discovered. So...'mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa'......”

John frowned, “You are not a Catholic.....”

“No, but it doesn't mean that I do not acknowledge my guilt. Just not towards a deity. Second reason for going in, was that I was the only one with the required skill-set. There could have been another person with similar skill-set...but he was tethered to a wall with iron manacles in Serbia !”

John frowned, “But to come to rescue by barging in and attacking everything moving, surely there could have been others..”

“And since it was a question of discretely easing a secret agent inside the organisation to ensure the biggest likelihood of getting Sherlock out in one piece and alive, there was only this option. 'Barging in' would have put a high risk on people killing Sherlock, if they thought that they had been discovered. I risked my life, but I did in no way risking to give away secrets. You know John, the 'secret tooth'.....”

Mycroft smiled and John said, “Oh..yes. And people think it is just in James Bond movies that people have a false poisonous tooth. OK, that explains the 'not-risking-giving-away-secrets'...and I suppose that you had a pill for Sherlock too, if you had gotten caught. To give him an easy way out. But how could you watch it?”

“Because 'I' didn't watch anything. I was not Sherlock's brother at that time. John, you have seen Sherlock acting, being somebody else. Being the sociopath altogether. You've heard that we did act in plays as children while being at boarding school. And we were remarkably good at it. That skill-set made it possible for Sherlock to survive his more than two years away. He wouldn't have lasted one week being 'Sherlock Holmes'. Even in Eastern Europe they had heard about that London detective. So he was of course other persons. He can even act 'badly' and pretend to be Sherlock-Holmes-who-cannot-act. We are rather good at being somebody different. Let me show you. Close your eyes for a few seconds...and one thing more: I don't suppose you speak Serbian, so I'll do it in English. And imagine that Sherlock is somewhere over to the left. You'll be one of the guards.”

John nodded and closed his eyes...and when he opened them again, he wasn't looking at Mycroft Holmes any more. In his place was another man sitting. He had the same hair and clothes.... and nose, but his facial expressions were different. His whole demeanour was of another person. And as he spoke, Mycroft's pleasant and well modulated voice had been altered to a sharp and unpleasant drawl. With an Eastern European accent.

“Have they never taught you anything, you morons?, said that stranger, gesturing towards the imaginary Sherlock.

And he continued, “Beat a man too heavily and too fast and you might either kill him or send him into unconsciousness. Or get him to the point where pain and pleasure get mixed. Finesse! Use finesse. Take it slow. Savour it. So...bring me a bottle of wine, a glass and something to sit on. Give the prisoner something to drink. Give him time to 'land' again so the next blows would hurt again. Dear God. Are you amateurs? And then.....let me guide you. The other way, you'll never get the informations you want. Maybe I should even get him out of here and back to our superiors...and other methods. Chemicals....This way you'll only kill him without getting any information.”

The man took a deep breath and John could see how he became Mycroft again.

“You see?", Mycroft said, “That person. That creepy slimy version of a corrupt Serbian officer. That was the person, who was in that cellar and who could watch that prisoner being beaten without flinching. I had buried myself deep inside that person. Even if I did try to give Sherlock a break. And talking about the mental effects of torture: I wanted to give Sherlock that....that he could talk the 'goon' out of the room, so it would only be him and me. Like that he would have a victory. And he had noticed me, I knew that. He had recognized me and I wanted to give him that victory. That he later made it into that he had gotten himself out....I didn't want to contradict that, because somehow he was right. And it was amazing that he, despite the condition he was in, was still able to deduce so much.”

John was sitting with his mouth open, “That...that was brilliant. You made me shiver! You were that slimy officer through and through. Oh my. Maybe you should have chosen another career, both of you! Should have been actors. Oh my...”

Mycroft nodded, “Well. Being in diplomacy does require acting skill-sets as well. As does being a detective. So...did that explain your question? And would you allow me to tell more about the reasons for the events on that fake island?”

John nodded, “Yeah..I'm still curious. So what was in it for you?”

Mycroft huffed, “Oh yes. Choose the least significant person first. Well. I had to learn that I could be weak and vulnerable and not in charge...and that would not release Armageddon. That I could be me and not 'The British Government' and I would still be able to cope.”

Mycroft paused a few seconds and looked out into the air, “That Sherlock did chose to sacrifice himself and kill himself....that was not the expected outcome of that scenario. From that point the staff had to improvise a bit..”

John frowned, “What did you expect?”

“That Sherlock would throw the gun on the floor. Refusing to 'play the game' any-more. And then we would have been sedated and it would have continued as it did. Most of it. You in the well. Sherlock in that fake cell in front of that fake 'Musgrave' and I would still have ended up in Eurus' false room.”

John was silent for a few seconds and then he spoke, “So...you hadn't planned on sacrificing your self to save me?”

Mycroft shook his head, “No...that was not planned. Neither was it planned that Sherlock would shoot himself. That he did that...well that became the breaking point regarding Eurus. When she saw that part of the recording, she finally realised that Sherlock was not Sherrinford. The first crack in that mental image was when Sherlock told Molly, that he loved her.”

“You said that Molly was a part in the planning too?”

Mycroft smiled a bit, “After the fall form the rooftop at Bart's Molly was very valuable in keeping it as a secret that Sherlock had survived. And please remember, John, that that secrecy was vital for Magnussen's allowance for you staying alive...”

John interrupted, “Some fine 'staying alive'. It broke me, Mycroft. Even if I didn't want to acknowledge, why it broke me so much. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson managed all right. But I went straight back into my depression. And refused vehemently, despite Ella's effort, to see why it broke me. Incredible that I could be so blind! And that I kept on denying my love for Sherlock....and then Mary came into the picture and everything got rather muddled.”

Mycroft just looked at him and then he said, “Well, conditioning since childhood, it tends to stay rather persistently in the adult as well. And you very seldom allowed yourself to admit love for a person. Not even for women....so why should you allow yourself to do that regarding Sherlock?”

John didn't answer. Because Mycroft was right. It had been a habit for so many years to tamp down any attraction he felt for a man, because it had been easier just to pretend he was straight. That other 'tendency' and 'it -is-just-a- phase' had been beaten out of him by his father at the two occasions, where John had slipped and his father had noticed.

Mycroft looked at John and said, “Your father is not here any more. Your homophobic priest died many years ago. Your mother, who would cry and beg you not to be as 'doomed-and-go-straight-to-hell' as your sister, is dead. I'm sorry, John. But all the ghosts from your past....they are not there any more to haunt you. You are allowed to be, who you are. Not who you are supposed to be...and maybe, even if it is not my business, maybe you and Harriet can find a way to reconcile.”

John looked up and squinted, “What the hell do you know about Harry?” And then he understood, “Oh you...you meddler. You was the one who paid for her rehab! I wondered who had paid for that...or how she could have gotten herself into that expensive rehab-centre. I would have paid as soon as I had the money...but Harriet was already there. Thank you, Mycroft, despite your meddling.”

“Put the 'thank you' where it belongs. Thank Sherlock. He was the one who found her. You see. I might rule Britain from the top, together with a few others...and I have a lot of agents available. But Sherlock can do almost the same thing. From the bottom of society. The 'home-less-network' is not just a word. It is a real organisation in several big cities in the Western world. Not every person on the street is a junkie or a mental ill person. Some of them live in the streets of their own free will, because they do not fit into the existing society...”

And now John interrupted, “Oh...the 'Home-society'. It is you! Not 'home' as in a house, but 'Home' as your old family name. I should have seen that. You pay for it, you and Sherlock, don't you? Sherlock 'Shezza' Holmes. They trust him. And there are always old oil-barrels and things to burn in them. Always surprisingly fresh food in the containers. Always a place under bridges, where the police do not come too often. Of course!”

Mycroft just smiled.

John pointed at his half-eaten tuna-sandwich, “Well. So much for not talking. I didn't finish my sandwich..”

“Do you want any thing else?”, wanted Mycroft to know.

John shook his head, “No...not to eat. But please tell me more about Sherlock's role. Molly's as well and Eurus'.”

Mycroft nodded, “Very well, Molly. She had to learn that Sherlock does love her. But not in a sexual way. More, and pardon the choice of word, as a sister. Molly is important to Sherlock. But she had to learn, that he can never be what she dreamed about. She had been pinning sadly for him since they met. Almost as bad as Sherlock pinned for you, John. So....she was never in her kitchen and never in danger. She was standing just outside the set, wearing headphones, and forced Sherlock to say that he loved her. Eurus...not the actress, but our real sister, heard and saw Sherlock's honesty. And that was the first crack in the picture Eurus had about Sherlock being Sherrinford. And it did help Molly. She should have known, that that was the way Sherlock loved her. He had shown her before, trusting her with the secret that he was alive, yes even before that, since he did trust her to administer the anti-dote after his heavy sedation on the pavement after the jump. And again after he returned, where he asked her to come with him on a case. And when he had gone out of his wits on drugs, after 'Mary's fatal advices. Sherlock cares a lot about Molly. But more like a sister and close friend. Just like Lestrade is a very close friend and one of the few persons, that Sherlock trusts.”

“I see, “ said John, “....and what was in it for Sherlock?”

“Sherlock had to learn that his brain was as sharp as ever, despite that he had used drugs. He was scared that he had damaged his abilities. He needed that victory that I was never able to solve Eurus' 'Musgrave ritual', but that he could do it. Eurus had, through the years, painstakingly drawn every single one of the fake gravestones, that she and Sherlock had been so fascinated about as children. And it showed both her and Sherlock's eidetic memory that he too could remember them correctly and without failures and she could draw them correctly after they had seen those gravestones only a few times in their childhood. When we made those plans for these scenarios, we made one or two mistakes reconstructing them. I knew they somehow were very important and a key to Eurus' mind. What other explanation would there be for her drawing them in every detail? But I would never had dreamt about a connection between them and her song. You see, John. I always claim to be the 'cleverest one'. And I am better at organizing and planning. But I need data to be able to 'connect the dots'. Sherlock can, so to speak, 'see' the invisible dots. Can seemingly out of nowhere find connections....and when he has tuned his mind and his senses up to a higher level, he notices everybody and everything and can apparently do magic. As he did when he predicted where you would be, and summoned Molly to the 'false' therapist's house and when he had put that recording devise in your cane..”

John could only shake his head, “Yeah...I still do not understand how he did that. And despite the tracking devise in the A.G.R.A memory stick, he still had to be close to Mary's locations to track it. He would not be able to track it in Morocco or Northern Sweden, sitting in London.”

Mycroft smiled, “Oh...tracking Mary wasn't that difficult. Sherlock just had to know her old contacts and be near them. She didn't choose her destinations by 'random rolls of a dice'. The only thing the dice 'decided' was in which order, she would contact her network. But she bought Sherlock's explanation. She wasn't always able to look through his explanations and acting. Not always.”

John nodded. He hadn't been able to either. And that was why he sometimes had doubted Sherlock's motives. Was Sherlock honest or was he just acting? But now John knew the depth of Sherlock's feelings and Sherlock was as open as never before towards John.

John said, “OK. I see that Sherlock got his self-confidence back. And that he again proved how much of a hero he is, still willing to die to save others. And that his mind was as sharp as ever solving that impossible riddle about Musgrave and even the three 'Carridebs'. But Mycroft,you almost broke him! And why this cruel game about those three dangling men, when they did die anyway? Or sort of. They were actors and got caught by something...a net or whatever. But it was a cruel game!”

Mycroft smiled, “That was a small tribute to a story that Sherlock loved as a child.”

John shook his head, “I don't understand..”

“Well. And maybe Sherlock didn't either...or it was something that was deleted when Sherlock deleted what happened when Sherrinford....”

Here Mycroft paused and allowed himself to show his feelings, “...when Sherrinford ruined so many lives! Including his own.”

“What happened to him?”, wanted John to know.

Mycroft shook his head, “Honestly I do not know. And with the forces at mine and Sherlock's disposal, it should be impossible for Sherrinford to hide...if he is still alive. There are places here on Earth, where he could hide, without our knowledge. But they would not be pleasant places for a white man, compared to the life he would have had here in England. He would stick out and be even more vulnerable, that the people he would hide amongst. If he would be just a bit high up in society and not living in the gutters, we would have been able to trace him. So...his over-developed libido and his firm believe, that he was untouchable and could do what ever he fancied, it ruined Eurus' life, Sherlock's life, his brother's life, the lives of his parents and that of my parents too.....just to count a few. If he is still alive somewhere, I wish from the bottom of my soul, that he'll suffer..”

Mycroft paused.

John nodded, “What happened to Rudy and Marilyn and ...was the name Augustin?”

Mycroft nodded, “Yes. Augustin was the name of Sherrinford's baby brother. Rudy did keep his job in the government and they moved to a small place just outside London. Augustin died in a car-crash at the age of seven and Marilyn never recovered after that. They still closed their eyes for the possibility that Sherrinford had had anything to do with how Eurus changed...and how Sherlock changed too. To them, yes even to our parents 'something strange' happened and Sherrinford ran away from home and was never found....”

John nodded. He knew too well too, how adults, who should have taken responsibility, did choose to close their eyes and pretend that nothing serious had happened.

“And the adults left it to a 13 year boy to figure out what should happen.....”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, they did. And I just followed Rudy's advise. What else could I do?....And Eurus seemed to have snapped and turned dangerous. Hurting Sherlock, putting the house on fire. What was I to believe?”

John nodded again and said, “And then finally you tried to...not not 'cure' her, because it couldn't be done, but...”

“But we could make her life a bit more bearable”, continued Mycroft, “... And it worked. She now accepts visits. She can be in rooms, that are not stripped from anything that the most necessary. She can be outside in the nature and listen to music. She can eat normally and she reacts positively to other people without screaming and curling herself into a ball, as she did a lot of times, when the world became too much. And she communicates. Through art and music and sometimes words. She is so much better.....”

John smiled and said, “The three Carridebs?”

Mycroft smiled back, “Was a pirate story that Sherlock loved. A children's book with the most beautiful detailed drawings. A bit like 'Where is Wally'. A story about a pirate-captain who was sure that two brothers, the Carridebs brothers, were planning to murder him. Through-out the book you had to find clues, that could point in one direction or another. And in the end it was the cook, who was a distant relative to the two brothers, who tried to murder the captain. And if you looked close enough, you could find all the clues from the first pages...if you were careful enough. Sherlock loved that book and kept on finding new details in the drawings.”

“I see..”, said John and decided that he would try to find that book and surprise Sherlock.

“But, Mycroft....How could you know, that Sherlock would solve that Musgrave Riddle and find the actress in Eurus 'old room' or the girl on the plane. How could you have known that? It doesn't make sense!”

“Because we had planned different scenarios. And as soon as Sherlock had solved the riddle, Sherlock thought that he rushed to her room in order to save you in time. But in reality a lot more time passed...”

And finally John understood, “You were not the only one given TD-12, were you?”

“No. That drug gave everybody time to sedate you again and arrange the sets. You were never in real danger John. The well was a set and in reality you were standing on ground-level. The cameras were hidden in the false stone wall and the water would never be able to reach higher than your neck. The false bones were first dog-bones and then, after a pause, fake children-bones. A reminder about Sherlock's cruel 'friend' from university.”

John nodded again, “And you forgot...or deleted ...that you had had a real dog, didn't you?”

“My memories of that summer are a bit muddled too, John. And remember....at that time I wasn't at home much as I was at boarding school. I have spoken with my parents lately and they confirm that yes, we did have a dog.”

Mycroft smiled, “I just wonder how I could forget that, because know I do remember all the red fur that ended on my school-uniform.”

“Hm....I just can't help wonder. Why did you make Eurus into such an...an omnipotent murderous mind-bending manipulator?”

Mycroft didn't answer that question right away. He just fidgeted with his napkin a bit before he asked, “Just humour me and please answer my question: have you never as a child , dreamed that you could do magic? Make the vase unbroken again. Or the window? That you could wave your hand and make people do as you wanted? And later....as an adult and a captain marvelled a bit the first time you barked and order and people obeyed?”

John just nodded and Mycroft continued, “And then you realised how much responsibility so much power asked of you?”

John nodded again and said, “Yes...but what has this...”

And was interrupted by Mycroft, “I'm sorry to interrupt, but you wanted to know. So, I made Eurus into this omnipotent monster for two reasons. First: because Eurus could need, just for once and by proxy, to be the one above it all. To be totally in charge and able to manipulate and hurt everybody. To be the one who had worked with 'Moriarty' and who had made a whole country shiver. And then second reason: to show her what would happen to everybody around her, if she had such powers....”

John nodded as he finally saw, “And you were somehow afraid that there would be just a sliver of truth in her abilities to manipulate people around her?”

Mycroft nodded, “Yes....You have seen and heard Sherlock's ability to cut people down, if it was necessary. Because he can read them and see their weak spots. Just like Magnussen did...and I can do, if it becomes necessary to protect England. Then imagine that that power is even bigger. That Eurus is even better at finding the weak spots and poke and poke at them until people break down. She is of course not in an institution similar to the false place. She is placed in much nicer surroundings, but she is rather isolated, because she does in fact affect people around her. Not by mind-control, but by knowing to say just the right thing. Or in this case the wrong things. Or just draw it or write sentences down. I wanted to mirror her power, rather exaggerated, and then show her what would happen if she didn't control it. And it worked. She is better now and express gratitude when Sherlock comes and communicates through music with her. They even talk a bit together and she loves when Sherlock reads for her. Of course we have to be careful about which books he reads. But it could not be done before. She is happier now.....and that will have to do. Maybe her mind would have snapped even if Sherrinford hadn't harmed her. Maybe. We will never know....”

John and Mycroft talked a bit more. But John felt that he had got the answers fitting to almost all his questions, even if he had a feeling, that he had missed something. Something about Sherlock. But maybe it was just memories that hadn't been deleted totally and wanted to make themselves known.

______________________________

As John returned to his flat, he was greeted by a very happy Rosie, who had discovered some new food, that could be eaten with fingers and a Sherlock, who was preparing dinner.

Sherlock turned and looked at John, “It look a bit longer than expected, didn't it? Mycroft called and told you would be delayed a bit.”

John went to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him. Savouring the wonderful smell of 'Sherlock'. His aftershave, his shampoo and under that, the wonderful rich and nice scent of Sherlock himself.

“Hmm. You smell wonderfully...and so does the food. And yes...your brother had quite a lot to tell. And he has changed...a lot.”

“Yeah...I know. He could almost pass for a human being now.”, smirked Sherlock.

“Oh shut up. He really tried to repent and he was just a child himself, when all that with Eurus began. He was not to blame....but oh God, the grown-ups around you. They were almost as shitty as my parents. About Mycroft, I think that I have stopped wanting to hit him at any given moment by now. Sherlock, Mycroft was just as much a victim as you....or Eurus. Just not as bad...if you can compare suffering. And I know that he painted himself into a corner regarding Magnussen and had to work hard to make damage control afterwards. I know we suffered because of Mycroft's miscalculations, but he was not the dark villain that I first thought him to be.”

“Hmm. Yes you are right. It is just a bad habit to feel that he is to blame for everything, when it is only all that crap with Magnussen/Moriarty that we can blame him...and it was not his fault all of it. My brother isn't omnipotent, but he did a lot of damage.”

John nodded, “Oh yes. He is going to owe us so much because of that. So much.”

Sherlock smiled, “And he knows. Oh yes...he knows. And to change the topic. Did you manage to tell about Greg?”

John frowned, “I did. And he took very well to the idea, even if he was very surprised. I don't know what had happened to you two. But he thinks he is ugly too. And he might not be as gorgeous as you, but he is still a very handsome man....”

And right there John stopped, because Sherlock was blushing and had stopped stirring in the pot.

And John laughed and kissed him again, “You are, Sherlock. Gorgeous. My gorgeous and brilliant soon to be husband!”

And Sherlock blushed even more and kissed John back. 

Chapter Text

And then, 2 weeks later, Baker Street 221B was again their mutual home. This time for the three of them. But of course there were other changes than them being two men and a toddler. Sherlock's former bed room was now 'John and Sherlock's' bedroom. John's old bedroom upstairs had been re-decorated into Rosie's room and she was safe and happy up there with a baby-monitor in case they wouldn't hear her in the first place. The stairs were secured with baby gates, so Rosie couldn't get hurt falling down the stairs when she would crawl and later walk. And Sherlock's laboratory were now downstairs in the renovated Baker Street 221C. And some of the furniture had been changed as well. Some of it because it had been beyond repair and some of it because it ought to be more child-proof.

Other things seemed almost unchanged: the wallpaper with the yellow smiling face and bullet holes. The books on the shelves. The skull on the mantel piece. The mirror on the wall above the fireplace...even if some of them were brand new. The kitchen looked itself, but in reality it was brand new too and different now, because it wasn't a lab any more and a new high-chair was standing at the table. And everywhere in the flat was to be seen, that a toddler lived here now: play-pen, toys and stuffed animals. In the fridge were baby-food and on the book shelves were now children's books amongst military history books and books about apiculture and crimes and science.

And John could almost hear the 'click' as he and Sherlock and Rosie settled down in their new home at Baker Street. This place that had always been more 'home' to John than any other place in the world...and it had taken him so long to find out that it was not the flat itself, but a certain tall curly-haired very handsome detective, that had made that place into a home, despite human parts in the fridge and a certain laziness regarding buying milk and jam.

And now John and Sherlock were close. So close as John could ever have dreamt about being with another human being. Falling asleep together and waking up tangled together in the middle of the bed. As if they couldn't get enough of each other and needed to touch and get touched in return. In his marriage and in their mutual bed, he and Mary had nicely kept themselves on each their side of the bed. Barely never touching during the night.

And...oh God...the sex. Sherlock was the most amazing sex-partner, that John had ever had. Caring and adventurous. Sweet and sometimes demanding. And always very responsive to John's touches. Sherlock could on the other hand 'play' John's body just as virtuously as he could play his violin, so skilfully done that John saw stars and had the most amazing orgasms, he had ever had in his whole life. John had laughed a bit when people had talked about 'blessing out' because of an orgasm. Or 'seeing fireworks'. Because having orgasms had been nice and somewhat fulfilling, but nothing close to what people would describe as 'fireworks' and 'blessing out'.

But with Sherlock......it was exactly like that. And John found that he was as horny, as if he had been 16 years old. Sherlock just had to look at him in a certain way, and it went straight to John's groin.

That had caused them to finish each other off in back alleys and on toilets a few times after having left crime-scenes, because they couldn't wait to get their hands and other body-parts on and in each other.. and frankly John couldn't bother if Mycroft could watch them on his hidden cameras. In fact the very idea of that was rather arousing.

And John wouldn't have imagined before, how much he would enjoy being the receiving part. It had, at the two occasions where there had been penetrative sex, been John, who fucked the other man. Otherwise it had been mutual wank or just grinding again each other and that was that. But Sherlock knew exactly how to use his mouth, his long and elegant fingers and his cock. Where to put them/it and how to do it to wring as much pleasure out of John's body as possible. Sherlock was so good at reading John's signals, that he was even better at that than John himself.

John would never had thought that he would be on his hands and knees begging to have Sherlock's cock stuffed up his arse. He would have forsworn that he would have enjoyed having another man's fingers up his arse and be able to come just from that. On the other hand, Sherlock was so responsive, that he reacted positively to everything John did, and John did use his big knowledge of human anatomy and his big experience together with women to please Sherlock as well.

Like that several months passed. John had accepted to be a temporary at the clinic as Sarah had begged him. “We do miss your skill-set, John. So much. And you of course. And we'll accept if you can't come and just notify at short notice and even if you have to leave earlier. Just come if convenient. Please?”

Rosie would be of at her day-care-family almost every day. They would be able to take her with short notice and if it was very urgent, Mrs Hudson would get up in the middle of the night and take care of her until one of the parents from the day-care-family would turn up to fetch Rosie. Sherlock and John were very picky about which cases they would take. 'Playing it safe' as John would say. That didn't mean that they weren't called to a crime scene with short notice, but it meant that the cases weren't as dangerous any more. Or at least 'appeared' not to be dangerous. But after 'Moriarty'/ Magnussen/ Mary were gone and Culverton behind bars and with Mycroft being very careful, other villains seemed almost tame. No semtex-vests strapped on innocent people. No flats blown to debris. No one blackmailed politicians into suicide. No suspicious deaths at hospitals. Just people being murdered for all the 'normal' reasons: jealousy, greed and pure evilness. But for the moment there were no mad serial killers and no megalomaniac media-magnates.....and no Mycroft to fuck everything up in his own way, because Mycroft kept a very low profile...at least in John's and Sherlock's life.

But as the day, where Sherlock was supposed to sign the papers, that would make him into Rosie's legal father, did come closer, John could feel that something was on Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock seemed...distant... and the night before, as they were lying in bed after a nice round of very satisfying sex, Sherlock had finally confessed:

“I...I do not know how to say this, John, but would you please listen to me and then listen again, before you do something hastily?”

John nodded...and as he realised it was a bit to dark for that, he reached for the night-lamp and Sherlock voice just said, “Don't...it is easier when it is dark. And.....I'm afraid you will hate me afterwards and leave me. That is why I've kept my mouth shut. I've wanted this: you, me, Rosie...for such a long time. I wanted this so desperately that I didn't dare to tell you. So I have kept it as a secret. I find it very difficult to imagine a life without you two in it, but if it is what you would want after I've told you...these two things, I'll of course accept it and find another place to live and...”

John interrupted him with a kiss, “Calm down Sherlock. I doubt that you could ever do or say anything that would make me give up what we have now. Sherlock, I'm so besotted with you, I'm so in love with you. I know I have a terrible temper and I might leave this room to cool down...or maybe even the flat. But I would always return. I promise...”

Sherlock began to giggle a bit and John, who was a bit hurt as Sherlock apparently didn't take him seriously, said, “What?!”

“You would find it difficult to return, John, as you would be arrested immediately. You are totally starkers!”

And John finally understood that this was Sherlock's attempt to lighten the mood, “Yeah...I suppose I'll have to just stomp out in the kitchen a make a cup of tea then. But I doubt it would be necessary. So...spit it out, Sherlock. Please!”

John could hear that Sherlock took a deep breath and said, “Tomorrow....that is if you would still allow me to do that after I've confessed this, ...tomorrow, when I put the pen to the paper that would make me into Rosie's father......she will not be the first child that I'm the father of!”

And then Sherlock paused and waited and John asked, “You have another child?”

“Yeah. A son.”

“How old is he? “, wanted John to know.

“Almost 5 years old.”, said Sherlock and paused to allow John to do the maths.

“I see.”, said John, and then he paused and continued after a few seconds, “I see. So...I was right. You and Irene did....You had...”

“No...not really. Well obviously, since she got pregnant. But I'm as gay as it gets and so is she. She lives in Berlin with her wife...Kate...and has done that for long time. Everybody around them just assume that they had help from a donor.”

Sherlock stopped and then he asked, “Are you very cross with me, John?”

John turned on the night-lamp and looked at Sherlock with a fond smile, “No...in no way. How could I be that? I...I think that I'm glad that there somewhere out there is a child with your genes walking around. No, I'm not mad. Well, maybe a little because I've never seen him and I would like to. But...”

“But I was never in a good position to invite them here. I had to...to leave, remember? And after that things got rather muddled...”

John nodded, “Did she get any help. I mean...financially? Oh God...and here I thought that I should protect you from getting to know that she was dead. You must have found that very amusing.”

Sherlock smiled a little sad smile, “No. I actually found it rather touching. I couldn't help them. And...well. Mycroft was never going to have a child of his own, so he sort of inherited my obligations towards Hamish...”

“Hamish?!”

Sherlock smiled, “Yes. Irene liked the name....and so did I. It is just you, John, because you did connect it with the events happening at your mothers' uncle's house. It is actually a very nice name. 'William Hamish Adler' is the whole of it. So... there are a bit of me, a bit of you and a bit of Irene in that name.”

“But not Kate?”

“Obviously...since she is 'Mrs Adler'...or rather 'Frau Kate Adler' now. Well. At a point I suppose that Mycroft would like to adopt Hamish, so he can have an heir...and..”

”I thought Mycroft and Irene were enemies?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Not any more. Who do you think helped her get away and get a new life in Berlin? Who do you think told me that she was in danger in Karachi? No...Hamish and Kate and Irene have lately visited Mycroft and my parents. I know he is my son.....but I've never been there for him, so I'm fine with the arrangements as they are now. He knows I'm his father, but he is closer to Mycroft. How funny that might sound, but Mycroft adores Hamish...at least since Hamish did beat Mycroft in chess at the age of 4.”

John nodded and touched Sherlock's face gently, “And you are not mad at Mycroft for having pushed you away from Hamish?”

“No...because I couldn't be there for him. And it did pain Mycroft that it took him so long to get into a position, where he could outmanoeuvre Magnussen and get me back to England. Mycroft had thought it to be just half a year, maximum. But in reality Magnussen just let Mycroft believe that he had been outmanoeuvred. Magnussen made my brother dance. The only miscalculation Magnussen made...well the three miscalculations to tell the truth, was to underestimate Mary, to underestimate my ability to survive....even if it was a miracle...and to underestimate my willingness to die again, to save you and Mary and Mycroft. That did cost him his life in the end. His 'hubris' was punished...”

John smiled, “I can understand why you were afraid that I would get mad at you, because of this. But Sherlock, even if I have inherited my father's abusive and alcoholic tendencies, I'll fight them every inch of the way. I'll never hurt you....not again. I promise.”

And then they kissed..gently.

Sherlock pushed himself away, “You are not going to....?”

“To ask where and when? No. I'll listen if you want to tell me. But only if you want to.”

Sherlock nodded and then he began:

 “It was at the end of January 2011, I was in Pakistan for another reason, doing a MI6 job for Mycroft, when I was told that Irene had been captured by a bunch of 'cave-men'....Separatists, who in reality were just troublemakers for the sake of trouble. And since Irene had committed the unforgivable crime of being western and a woman and being intelligent, she had been caught and the cave-men first thought that they could get a lot of money for her and as they found out that they couldn't, they decided to kill her and send her head to the nearest Embassy. Because since Irene was a European woman, they would grant her the 'mercy' of decapitating her instead of stoning her. How they even in their wildest dreams could think that anybody would support them after that, that is more than I can get my head around. But instead of barging in and maybe cause a diplomatic crisis, I was told to find her. And there she was, in a village near Karachi. A village where those separatists did hide. Not even the Pakistani Government was fond of them and would rather that they disappeared back into the Afghan mountains again. I was disguised as one of them. False beard and everything and I had been together with them for more than a week, before I found the house where Irene was held captured. I know of course, that I would never be able to pass for a Pakistani, even if I speak more than 5 dialects fluently, but they must have thought me to be a convert.

And then I was chosen to decapitate 'that despicable woman'. We drove in two cars, to a remote house, and she was ordered to kneel in the sand. She was allowed to send one last message......and my phone in my clothes made an alert. That was the moment I told her to run, but instead she fought the 6 men together with me. She could be quite a bad-ass-lady. And when we had finished, all 6 men were dead.”

Sherlock paused and then he smiled, “And I was such an idiot. I said, 'I hope you don't think that this means I am in any way interested in you?”

And her answer to that was to point the gun at me, order me to undress and thus she left me, almost naked, surrounded by six very dead separatists. She took my car-keys, my car, my false beard and my clothing..”

“Jesus..”, said John and Sherlock nodded and continued, “I dressed the best I could in her clothing, but it was way too short and I had to find something not so filled with blood and holes from the dead men to wear as well. And then I found a pair of ill-fitting sandals that I squeezed by big feet into and then I left the house and started walking towards Karachi. It was moon-light so I could see the road. I walked in...it must have been several hours and I got blisters that turned into blood-blisters that turned into bleeding wounds. But I had to reach Karachi before the daylight and the heat came. And before someone would discover the 6 dead men and start asking questions to strangers walking alone. Especially a tall female stranger, who wasn't female at all..”

John nodded. He could see the problem and the danger Sherlock had been in.

“And then.....after almost two hours I could see a car approaching. I could recognize my car...and I could do nothing. I just stood there...expecting Irene to shoot me. I wasn't afraid, just a bit angry that she would thank me like that. Then she told me that I was an idiot and that Karachi was the wrong direction right now. There were riots right now and she was on her way to Islamabad. She had expected me to be intelligent enough to walk away from the house with the dead men, but she hadn't expected it to take so long to find her hotel and mine and get our stuff into the car and herself and the car safely out of Karachi again. She hadn't of course been able to get into her hotel room, as it had been occupied by other guests since she was abducted, but she had hidden an emergency-bag in one of the broom-closets. Then we had a discussion about whether it would be safer hiding amongst the 20 million people in Karachi or the only 500.000 people in Islamabad. We did decide for Islamabad though, more-so because Irene had made reservations for hotel rooms and because my ticket back to England would be more useful with the company that would fly from one of the airports in Islamabad. And Irene's ticket to Berlin was from an airport in Islamabad as well. It turned out that it was a wise decision...or maybe not”

And here Sherlock was interrupted by John, “You were there? In Pakistan? 5 years ago, under 'The Riots'?”

“The very same....So. We took turns driving. First we changed back to more Western clothing. Irene had to borrow some of my clothing as there were not much in her emergency bag and we tore the male dress and the female dress to pieces and got rid of them through the windows. Thank God it was a special car and with extra fuel-tanks, so we wouldn't have to get fuel on our 20 hours drive. Irene had got extra water and some food...and most important a first-aid kit. My feet did swell and she felt rather guilty about them, so she took the first hours driving. The only part of the foreign clothing, that we kept, were the veils. It would be a warm day, driving all the time and we would be less noticeable wearing those. We did drive each a few hours, then we would wake up the other and try to get some sleep in the back-seat. And we managed to drive almost unnoticed for almost 20 hours, while people were fighting in small groups all over Pakistan. That was the scenario that Mycroft and others had hoped to prevent...and their interfering did help. It shrunk the riot-time down to about 56 hours, because of strategically placed agents, but they had of course hoped that it could have been prevented totally. And then, just before we reached the outskirts of Islamabad, we spotted a road-block. Thank God before they spotted us, and we made plans....”

And Sherlock remembered how it had been:

They were hiding in the car after they had spotted the road-block and Irene whispered, “Sherlock, give me your head-cloth and mine as well and then one of you white T-shirts. We'll have to appear totally Western in a few minutes....And protect our belongings.”

Irene tore the T-shirt into small squared pieces and Sherlock understood what she would do. He took off his shoes and one of the bandages. The wound was still bleeding and Irene smiled. Yes of course Sherlock had known what she was doing. She carefully put Sherlock's blood on the pieces of white cotton. Now it looked very much like menstrual pads. And that would make every man in this area jump backwards in disgust. Brilliant!

They put their head-cloths into one of the bags as well as their plane-tickets, money and passports and then the carefully wrapped pieces of the prepared T-shirt-squares on top of it. Irene let her hair fall down and Sherlock got in behind the wheel.

“Oh by the way”, said Sherlock, “We are husband and wife. I've lived in Karachi for more than 4 years and my big brother, who owns the bakery, just left a month ago and left it to me to sort out things. You are from England and do only speak a little Urdu. I speak Urdu, Pashto and Dari because my customers spoke that. When the riots began, I was away from Karachi and you got into the car to save me, because you are a good wife and all our friends had left. You found me walking on the road and we are now trying to get to friends in Islamabad. I had all the money form the sale of the bakery on me and I was robbed. They took everything and we have been stopped by another road-block only 20 kilometres away form here, where they took our rings, money, passports and your jewellery....Is that clear?”

Irene just smirked at Sherlock and the only thing she said was. “....a good wife..?”

“Obviously. Or else you would just have left me to die and get your self into safety and just let your poor husband walk his feet into bloody lumps...”

Irene looked out of the front window, “Hmm...I deserved that, I think. Drive!”

They were stopped and Sherlock was ordered out of the car. They began to beat him, when they couldn't find money...or cigarettes.....or anything of value and the look of disgust on their faces when they found the 'menstrual pads' would have made Sherlock laugh if he had dared. The plan worked and their passports, plane tickets and the small amount of money hidden under those 'disgusting items', stayed unnoticed.

They were allowed to leave and it was Sherlock's bloody feet that in the end convinced the men, that their story was the truth.

In Islamabad they parked the car in the parking garage under the hotel and they went to the reception. There had been a mistake and since Irene hadn't turned up in time, their big room had been given to someone else and they were given a much smaller room. At that point they didn't care if they had been given the broom-closet, as long as there would be a bed and a shower. And finally they could sleep in a real bed and get a real shower.

First Sherlock was told to undress and lie on the bed face down. Irene wanted to have a look at his feet and see how bad the beating had been. She began to feel guilty when she saw how bad his feet were.

“Why didn't you let me drive the whole way? Your feet must have been extremely uncomfortable...”

Sherlock had turned and looked at her, “And you had just been abducted and beaten as well. Don't think that I didn't notice the bruises on you. So...we both needed rest...and pain-killers made it possible for me to ignore the pain well enough to be able to drive. As long as I shouldn't use my feet for walking.”

After they had showered in the surprisingly big bathroom, they shared the bed. Agreeing that the bed would have to do, even if it wasn't quite big enough for both of them.

Sherlock had smirked, “After all...we are married!”

And they fell asleep.

_______________________

Sherlock woke first and noticed and then he woke Irene, “The riot is here as well. There are gunshots and screams. Listen!”

And Irene could hear it too, “Is it safe to get out of here? Or should we stay put?”

“Safer to stay, I think, but not here....better in the bathroom. There are no windows and the tiles on the wall would be able to slow down the bullets.”

So they carried the mattress out in the bathroom and put the bed-frame up against the door and now they just had to wait. In the dark, as the electricity of course had vanished. And the noise and the gunshots came closer and they could hear the window in their room getting broken and they could hear a bullet hit the door to the bedroom.

“Irene...I'm sorry, But I'm not sure that we'll survive this night...”, said Sherlock, “If they start using more heavy equipment, this place is not safe either...”

“I know...and it is not your fault. I'm sorry for being such an arse-hole. You deserved better....” and then Irene continued, “It is strange, Sherlock, I look a a male body and it doesn't affect me. I know of course what to do. How to wring pleasure out of a man's penis, his testicles and his nipples...and his buttocks, and his anus as well. How to turn pain into pleasure if people are wired that way. But now it might be time to admit something: you affected me. I know it was partly the drug that I gave you, but the way you reacted when I did beat you with the riding crop......And here I called you a virgin. But it is not the first time you have been on the receiving end of a crop, is it? And by the way..You can just tell me to shut up and mind my own business..”

“I was affected, “ Sherlock's deep voice was close to her ear, “And so were you! You found my reaction arousing...and it did disturb you. Because that had never happened with a man before. And then you changed the code on your telephone. You were affected by the way I protected you and John. You were affected by my intelligence as well, and how can I tell that? Because you affected me the same way! I have been sexually with one woman in my life. I was very young and a late bloomer and somehow you might say that she seduced me. We had...two...encounters....'shags' if I should use a blunt word and they showed me perfectly clear that I'm into men's bodies. With one exception. When you were hoovering over me and I was on the floor and you caressed me with the riding crop, I got aroused. I've had...bad experiences...with masochism. He abused me...would disobey safe-words, but right there right on that floor, you would have given me an orgasm if you had continued. I wanted to submit! I wanted the pain.....”

 Sherlock stopped because Irene was whispering in his ear, “And you had looked at my body well enough to get my measurements totally right!”

 “For scientific reasons only!”, protested Sherlock.

And right there another explosion was to be heard. To close to the hotel and they could here the pat-pat-pat from bullets hitting the wall in their room. They might have been dead, if they hadn't taken cover in the bathroom....”

Sherlock had nearly finished telling about what had happened, but continued with the last part, “There in the darkness were just two people believing that every moment could be their last, John. Two people clinging to each other. Two people seeking a bit of comfort. And we ended up kissing. And the kissing got into something more heated. To make a long story short: we ended up having sex. It is not impossible for me to sustain an erection being with a woman, John.....and Irene was very skilled.”

"You don't have to excuse anything, Sherlock.", said John, "Hell, who am I to accuse you of anything about having sex with others! Please...go on."

Sherlock paused and looked at John, “Yeah, it is tempting to seek comfort when you believe that you would not survive the night. Finally as the shooting and the explosions stopped, Irene and I fell into a slumber and didn't wake until it was dawn.....”

John frowned, “That hotel, Sherlock, that hotel in Islamabad, was that by any chance Hotel Continental?..”

Sherlock nodded, “The very same.”

John nodded, “And you survived being in that area. That was some miracle. I think I can recall that more than 50 people were killed and a lot more were wounded...”

Sherlock nodded again, “Yeah...and we would have been too, if we hadn't been hiding in the bathroom. We drank some water and ate some of the protein-bars and then we got out of the bathroom and into our room. There were big holes in the wall just above where our bed had been standing. We gathered our things and walked down the stairs. There weren't anybody to be seen in the hotel, but a lot of debris, holes in the walls, missing windows and blood on the floor. If Irene had got the original room close to the façade, I'm not sure we would have survived even if we had been hiding in the bathroom....and if we had stayed in the bed, I think we would at least have been wounded. We found the car, totally unharmed, in the parking garage and drove towards the airport where I shamelessly used Mycroft's name to get Irene and I on-board one of the planes to Istanbul. In Istanbul Irene and I parted. She was heading for Berlin where Kate would be waiting and I was heading towards London.”

“Where you returned and pretended that nothing had happened.” John shook his head and continued, “Why the fuck didn't you say anything? And your feet must have been killing you...and I, blind as always, didn't notice a damned thing!”

Sherlock smiled, “My feet weren't that bad. They were healed perfectly when we walked the moors around Baskerville. I was fine, John. Really..”

There was another pause and Sherlock waited for John to discover what Sherlock had told, about himself and his sexual desires. Sherlock just waited for John to say something about 'he abused me' and Sherlock's confessions to Irene.

“So..., said John finally, “You are a masochist?”

Sherlock nodded, “More a 'switch', I think. It is not always I have that need. Most of the time I'm more than happy with 'vanilla flavour'.

John smiled back, “I think I need to hear more about that, Love. Was that the second secret?”

Sherlock frowned, “Yeah...how did you know that?”

John smiled back and caressed Sherlock's face, “Love, I was the one who got a very drugged Sherlock back to Baker Street. I was the one who got you into bed and I saw the welts on your arms and I saw the erection, that you sported. Then...back then...I think I did explain that with it being the drug having caused that. But it wasn't. Was it?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No...not totally. You are not repulsed over the fact that I'm even more of a freak, than you first did know? Adding sexual kinks to the list?”

John smiled back, very fondly, “Sherlock. Being a masochist is not 'being a freak'. 'Normality', sexually seen, is something that often pushes the limits laid down. What you and I are doing, is deadly dangerous in other parts of the world. Hell...Alan Turing and Oscar Wilde were accused of 'gross indecency'....just to mention a few. And now only a few lifts an eyebrow over that. And sadism and masochism....As long as it is between two grown-ups and is sane, safe and consensual, I'm fine with it.”

Sherlock looked at John for a few moments before he dared to ask, “Even if I would ask you to 'hurt' me?”

 (to be continued)

Chapter Text

John looked at Sherlock for a while and he could see the growing anxiety in Sherlock's eyes and kept Sherlock's hand steady in his, stroking Sherlock's hand with his thumb, before he finally spoke, “I did not hesitate to make you nervous, Sherlock. But because I had to think. I made a promise to myself about never hurting you....but..”

And John lifted his other hand to stop Sherlock from saying anything, “......but I might exactly be hurting you, if I didn't take care of your needs. So, before I say 'yes' or 'no' to this, I need to hear why you need it, since it apparently isn't sexual...or at least not sexual alone. So talk to me. Or rather ”talk to me later”. It is getting rather late and we have a lot to do tomorrow. That is ...later today, since it is past midnight. I promise that I'll listen, Sherlock, but right now we need to rest.”

Sherlock nodded, “I agree. Tomorrow. After we have signed. That is, If you would still allow me?”

John hugged Sherlock, “Of course I will, Love. Of course!”

________________________

And John kept his promise. It wasn't easy to keep it as the day got rather busy. But after they had signed the papers, that officially made Sherlock into Rosie's other parent, and after they had celebration-lunch and had done several errands separately, they finally fetched Rosie and made dinner. Then Rosie had her bath, which included a lot of water-splashing and a very daring history from Sherlock's side about 'rubber-duck, the pirate'. Then Rosie was put to bed and John and Sherlock were finally sitting in the bed again. Rosie was sound asleep upstairs and they could hear her steady breath over the monitor.

Again Sherlock was lying in John's arms. Both men in pyjamas and ready to talk for hours if necessary.

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, “There are more things in it than just this confession of me being an occasional masochist. So I'll have to begin another place. You must have noticed that my senses of scent, smell and touch...and vision... sometimes are on a different level than most people's?”

John nodded. Yes he did remember having noticed that. Sometimes Sherlock would sniff to things as if he was a dog. And he would notice details that others never saw. And he would wear his T-shirt inside out because the hems would irritate his skin.

“It is not something that comes for free, John, and Mycroft has never understood the level of that....nor the means I've used to get into that state of mind.”

John just frowned and didn't say anything and Sherlock continued, “I was in Tibet after I had finished high-school. Before I started at the University. I was there for 6 months, teaching English in a monastery, like a lot of other young English people often do. We have an agreement between several English schools and several monasteries. In Northern India and Tibet and Nepal. I wasn't the only young English person in that monastery and we were not only teaching English, but were taught several things in return. Meditation was one of them. That is ..if we were interested.

In the 3 ^rd week we were there, a lot of artefacts were stolen and one of the younger monks was found dead one morning, his hands clutching to one of the rare and expensive books. Inside the library. With a locked door. Problem solved....he had been the thief and had regretted his thefts and had taken poison. Easy-peasy. Just...it was so wrong on so many levels. And I went to the abbot to try to tell him about my thoughts. I had totally forgotten, that he could only speak to us through an interpreter, and that was out of the question as I suspected the culprits to be exactly those three interpreters. As I showed my frustration by speaking out loud in several languages, not expecting the old man to understand one single one of them, he addressed me in the most correct and refined Oxford-English. He had studied there when he was a young man, but he had chosen to speak his own language only!

Then I told him about my dreams of becoming a detective and how I tried to notice things and tried to make sense of my observations. And I told about my suspicions. He did listen to me and the murderers were caught. After the police had been there and taken those three men away, I was called to the abbot and he asked if I was interested in being taught something that could be useful in my job as a detective....and something that would be useful to help my troubled mind as well. He had said, “Young William. There is a darkness in you. Some unanswered questions. What do they call it? Oh yes. A 'Pandora's box'....Keep the lid on that box closed, William. Its contents will only ruin you now. Break you. Later, when you have matured, its contents will be revealed....”,

“But how did he know?”, wanted John to know.

Sherlock shook his head, “I don't know. I'm a man of science, John, but even in science there are mysteries. The famous lab-rat experiment, that somehow indicates that the rats in labs all over the world apparently communicates on a level we do not understand. The only explanation of why the rats in unconnected labs learn those identical labyrinths faster and faster. Or the 'spin' on subatomic particles that gets altered, if you alter one of them and even if the particles are no longer in the same country. There are still so many things, that we do not understand. Especially about our minds. Sometimes you just have to say..”

And now Sherlock looked at John and smirked, “It is what it is!”

John pushed him a bit and smiled, “You berk! Well...go on. Tell me more..”

“Well. I was taught how to reach a level of higher awareness. It can be achieved though various methods, and it is different to each person, which way is most efficient. The means can be meditation, music, light, scents......”

Sherlock stopped and looked at John, “......and drugs. Carefully measured amounts. Not enough to affect you significantly. Most certainly not enough to make you high in any way at all. Just enough to spark the process. There is no logical reason to take 'uppers' and 'downers' at the same time, except from using them to spark this trance-state in a trained mind....but my brother never understood.”

John nodded, “Continue, please..”

Sherlock nodded, “You know that feeling too, don't you John? When you were a sniper and had your target in the sight. Everything narrows down. There are only you and him in the world. Or...when you were a captain and you were on patrol. Because it was your responsibility to keep your men safe, you would notice everything: a glint behind a dune, that could indicate a sniper. A wrong movement caught in the corner of your eye: An indication of an incoming attack.”

John nodded, “Yeah...I see what you mean...”

Sherlock continued, “As the time went by and I knew how to do it, those means were not necessary for that part. I can easily, with only a small effort, reach that level now. But I need aids to get to the next part of the process...”

John looked again. He had an idea now, where Sherlock was heading, “Please continue, Sherlock.”

“Everything I've seen and noticed, even subconsciously, is stored with my mnemonic technique, in my Mind-palace. And Mycroft was of course right when he said...on the plane....that I couldn't use my Mind-palace the way you thought I did, John. Because the next part, where I process everything that I've noticed and stored, is not 'being in my 'Mind-palace', but is being in a sort of trance. I can be in it for hours...yeah even days under extreme circumstances. I don't need food or water. My bodily processes are slowed down, but my brain is extremely active...”

John frowned, “Like...those Indian fakirs?”

Sherlock shook his head, “No and yes...because they are not the only ones, who can do that. The monks in Tibet are capable of doing that too. And I was taught to enter that state of mind and body too. The trance enables me to process my observations, to sort them out, to run several scenarios and find the most logical answer..”

“Wow..”

Sherlock just looked at John and continued with a smirk, “If only the normal lotus position had been the one working best for me, then people might have accepted, what I was doing and seen it for what it was. But my best positions were either prone on my back with my finger-tips touching each other under my chin.....or a foetus-position on a soft surface. The sofa would do just fine...and preferably dressed in something were little constricting. Like an old pair of pyjama bottoms and an old threadbare T-shirt! I think you 'bought' my family's and Mycroft's words for it, calling it: 'sulking on the sofa'!”

And finally John understood and touched Sherlock's face gently, “Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry, Love. I'm so so sorry. I should have known better. For God's sake. I've meditated myself. I should never have bought Mycroft's false description. But why didn't you defend yourself? Told us..me...them..what you were doing?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I've tried. But in vain. And then I just stopped explaining. As long as I was allowed to do it without interruptions, everybody around me could call it what they wanted. I didn't care!”

John nodded, “I'm still sorry. Oh, now I understand why Mycroft accused you of 'being high before you entered the plane'. You had taken a small amount, but how could you know that about Moriarty on the screens?”

“I hadn't, John. I was given the drugs on the tarmac. I was not high when you and I spoke, not at all. But Mary provided me.....”

John frowned again, “Mary gave you the drugs?”

Sherlock nodded, “For everything that it's worth, John, and even more because she wanted me to leave England, so she could have you for herself; Mary understood perfectly, what kind of mission I was heading towards. And even if you were as blind as a mole, Mary wasn't and she knew that I had been tortured in Serbia. She was thankful, that I had removed Magnussen and she wanted to help me, sort of. So yes...Mary gave me the drugs, that I could have used to commit suicide. I had no intention of being alive when the plane landed in Zagreb. But from the moment the footage of 'Moriarty' showed up on the screens, I had plenty of time to inject a very small amount of drugs and enter the meditative trance. I told you that I had been deep in my mind to figure out the mystery. I was there for months even...even if it in reality had only been, what? 20 minutes the most? I did figure out that 'Moriarty' couldn't be alive, that that was irrelevant as 'Moriarty' was not a single person but a 'gathering', a 'union' of several people. That Mycroft and Mary had secrets together and that there were some hidden agendas buried deep in events, I didn't quite understand.”

Sherlock took a deep breath in order to continue, but John interrupted, “I still can't get my head around why you didn't wait for....or expected your brother to figure out something...as he did. Did you really believe, that he would send you away to your death?”

Sherlock nodded, “John, it was a mercy seen through his eyes. Do you remember what he said? “Locking you up with your own worst enemy”. Mycroft genuinely believed that being in prison would be the worst for me.....and I'm afraid, that I'll have to agree. And John, I had nothing to fight for. No reason to fight like hell and hold on to life with the tip of my fingers. And Mycroft wasn't sure that this false Moriarty-threat would be enough to convince...hmm...certain powerful people in the government and even 'higher' in society.. to let me go free, even if they would benefit so much from Magnussen being dead..”

“Well..”, mumbled John, “I think he could have mentioned that you prevented the Parliament and the Queen from being blown to millions of pieces so many years ago. That should count for something, shouldn't it?”

“And that was in fact that very thing that made them pardon me and allow him to fabricate false footages.”, said Sherlock.

“That would only be fair. But then I still don't get why in the bloody red and furious hell your arse of a bother didn't bother to tell you, that you were off the hook?!”

Sherlock smiled, “Because he wasn't sure until the last minutes and didn't want to give me false hope. And because he honestly thought to have at least 14 days to extract me from Serbia. Didn't you notice, how scared he was, when he saw that list? Right there he knew that he had been minutes away from...well actually....killing me?”

“And you would have taken all of it? Everything on that list?”

“Before landing in Zagreb, yes. John. We have talked about this before....I had nothing to return to. You had Mary, and she did fit so nicely to your dark side as well. You had a daughter coming. You decided yourself to forgive Mary. I admit...it was prompted by me. Because what did I have that could compete with Mary? You had stated it so often: “I'm not gay”. And I was. I saw that the first night after I returned: Your distance towards me. Close to hatred. And Mary was everything you had dreamt about since you returned from Afghanistan. I had even sensed the danger in her and she fitted so nicely to you: the sweet and cuddly on the outside together with the darkness inside as well. How could I compete with that? So, I took a step backwards and accepted that the only thing that had kept me going for more than two years away: my dream of seeing you again and pick up our life together...that was just a silly dream. And without that...I would not fight so desperately to stay alive...not again.”

John gave him a fierce hug, “And then I was just such an arse, because I was drugged...and you were the most amazing and self-sacrificing friend that I....Oh God, Sherlock...we have been so close to loosing each other. And I still don't deserve that you forgave me like that. You are such an extraordinary human being, Sherlock. Oh God...I love you so much!”

And then they kissed a bit, before Sherlock stopped and said, “Do you still want to hear the rest? Because you can't keep on blaming yourself, John. Let it go. It happened....and it will not happen again. I have truly and wholeheartedly forgiven you. Now forgive yourself, John, or it might eat you up.”

“Yes...yes of course. But I can't still get my head around it. How can you be so forgiving? ”

Sherlock paused a bit before he said, “Do you forgive the sniper that shot you in Afghanistan?”

John paused a moment, before he answered, “It was war. It was to be expected. If I had had a chance, I might have shot him first.”

“OK. What about your father and mother. Do you forgive them...or at least understand why they were as they were?. And Harry....for not being as strong as you?”

“Yeah...I suppose I do. Even more because my father and mother aren't here any-more and can't harm me. And Harry? Who am I to blame her for being weak?”

Sherlock nodded, “While I was in Tibet the first time, the abbot told me something very important and he told me to remember his saying, as I visited them again while I was...away. He said, “ The first victim, if you are hell-bent on revenge, is you. You'll loose yourself in that rage...and might never be able to find yourself again. ” and then he explained further: “ That doesn't mean that you should tolerate abuse or are not allowed to defend yourself if others are harming you. Even to that extreme that you might have to kill to defend yourself. But as soon as the danger is gone, as soon as the one who harmed you no longer is a threat, then let go. Forgive...”

And I've tried to live according to that ever since. Yes, I didn't forgive Magnussen, because he was a threat and a growing one. He would never have stopped and had already overstepped the line where he would hurt or even kill people. If Mary and I had arrived just a bit later to that Guy-Fawkes-fire, you would have either gotten severely burned or killed. And it was utterly bullshit, that he had people standing by, because they should have intervened before. This was Magnussen's way of showing Mary, what he was capable of...and she understood. That is why she tried to kill Magnussen and had to kill me instead. Magnussen had the upper hand all the way. Towards Mary, towards Lady Elisabeth, towards Mycroft and God knows who else in the government. No..given the chance, I would kill him again, even if it would cost me my life. But people who are no longer a threat? I do not find it difficult to forgive, because he was right, the abbot. Because it will eat you up to be so focused on revenge. It is not worth it! Look at Ajaj.”

John could only shake his head. Sherlock was amazing, he truly was, “So that is why you can forgive Mycroft...and your parents...and me?”

“Yes..yes of course!”, said Sherlock.

“And Sherrinford. If he was here in this moment?”, wanted John to know.

Sherlock paused and then he nodded, “Even Sherrinford. But only if he didn't represent a threat any more. I've searched for him......but I've never devoted my life to find him. If he is somewhere, out of reach, I think I can live with that thought. Because, as I've told you, if he is remotely near a position in society, where he'll manage to live a somewhat decent life, we would have found him. Since we can't, there are only a few possibilities left: he is dead or he lives in a country out of our reach: North Korea or Myanmar. Or he is at the bottom of society.....totally bottom. Not even as a 'homeless' he would be able to hide for so long. So, I've just made up my mind about that. If I ever find him....fine. If not...fine too. Not worth ruining my life over. He can't harm me any more.”

John smiled, “You truly are amazing.”

Sherlock smiled back, “And so are you! So....Should I tell more?”, asked Sherlock.

“Well. Yes of course..” answered John, and Sherlock continued, “So...next step in the process is that I have at least tried to process all my informations and have tried to make sense of it. I have run scenarios in my head and have found the possible solution. I'm not always right, I know that, and I make mistakes, but a lot of times I've found at least some sort of 'red thread' and....

John kissed him on the top of his curly head and murmured, “And then you have solved so much more than you have missed. So much more...you are amazing and no one could have done it better, Sherlock. No one.....I can hear a tone of self-loathing here in your explanation. But as you said to me..'let it go', because there is no one on this planet, who could have done it better. You have prevented so much damage, murders, crimes that....that they, God-dammit, should make you a bloody statue on Trafalgar!”

Sherlock turned his head, “Oh ...Heaven forbid that!”

And they both laughed.

Sherlock turned his head back again, John gave him a hug and Sherlock continued, “And then when the case was solved I would return to the flat. Before I met you, I would be on my own. When we lived together it would often be to a flat, where you would be too and after I had to ...leave, I would again return to an empty flat. And now several scenarios could play out. Depending on how much I've pushed my body, how long I've gone on sparse food and sleep.....”

Sherlock paused and looked at John.

John nodded. He had an idea where Sherlock was heading, “Go on, Sherlock.”

“Sometimes I would just 'crash': sleep for hours and eat like a starving man. Which I actually would be. And then, it was it. I returned to the 'normal setting'...or at least normal for me. Just....the abbot had warned me. He had said, “This gift comes with a price. It is easier to enter the state of 'hyper-awareness' than to leave it”. And he was right. Sometimes my mind would stay on a higher level than normal. It would not be as extreme as when being on a case, but that hyper-awareness would grate on my mind. I couldn’t 'stay' in my body...everything did itch. Light was to bright. Sounds too loud. One of the things that worked was...”

And then Sherlock paused, sighed and said, “....drugs. Carefully measured. But at 5 occasions, I used far too much. I admit, that I, at those 5 occasions, was emotionally compromised and therefore not in control. It was at university after Sebastian and after Victor...I'm going to tell you more about that later. Then again after that event in France that caused me to miss my final exams. Then a long pause, where you and I were together and.....and then after I returned and you rejected me. That episode wasn't that bad...and I came to my senses myself. Then you got married and I became 'Shezza' again for a few days. And then again after...after Mary died. This time I didn't care if I lived or died...and yet. In the moment Culverton almost succeeded in choking me, I wanted to live after all. Despite that I did use more than I initially had expected myself. You could compare it to when people drink two to five glasses of red wine too much. My drug-use...except from those 5 occasions, can be compared to people drinking a glass of wine. That doesn't make you an alcoholic. It was totally unnecessary the two times Mycroft had me sent to a rehabilitation-centre. But I accepted it, because such places were just what my mind needed: peace and quiet and regular meals and time for me to meditate. The doctors were always amazed how quickly I recovered.....but that was because I wasn't an addict.”

John hugged Sherlock again, “Except for the last time!”

“Yeah. Except from the last time. Prompted by Mary's drugs and her suggestions. And your rejection of me. I just wanted my death to count, bringing down a serial killer at the same time. But then I discovered something. I found out that given a choice, I would prefer to live....even without you and Rosie. Because I had other friends as well. I'm still not afraid of dying, but as Culverton nearly killed me, I found out that I would like to survive...That my abilities and troubled mind was a gift and not a curse.”

“And there I came almost too late. I would never have forgiven myself Sherlock, for being such an arse...”

Sherlock smiled and touched John's face. That soft smile that nearly made John want to cry. That smile that made Sherlock look so young and soft and vulnerable, “But it was the drugs. Never forget that. It wasn't 'John Hamish Watson', but just a drugged shadow of a man. And yet. Your love was so strong that it overcame Mary's drugs and her subliminal messages. A nearly impossible task. You and I did beat her in her insane game....just as we overcame Moriarty/ Magnussen. Even my brother's ill-planned schemes. We are here John. You and me and Rosie. And we are fine. I ...oh wonders over wonder...became Rosie's father today. We are going to get married. How can I wish for more? Those who tried to harm us are either not able to do that any-more ...or are dead. We won!”

“Yeah...we won.”, said John and kissed Sherlock again, because how could he resist those lips? That face?

“Well..”, said Sherlock and snuggled closer into John's arms, “I better get on with my narrative, before the night turns into morning. Or I'll never get to the important part: Why I might need you to hurt me. So..if nothing is done, I have the risk of reaching the same state as when my mind haven't had anything to occupy it. I get 'bored' . And believe me, there is nothing more that I could wish for than being able to get out of that...apathy, that can turn into almost mania. But I can't...not on my own. And it can turn into mania almost without warning: I'm like an engine running on its own engine-oil. A rocket trapped on the launch-pad. Tearing itself apart. You have seen me like that, John. A blue-arsed fly in a bottle.....”

John nodded and said, “Oh yes...I do remember.”

And Sherlock continued, “There are methods though, to 'reset' my mind. One is, as I mentioned, small amounts of drugs. Nicotine can do it as well, but in rather large amounts. We are talking about chain-smoking a whole package, or applying 3-5 of the strong nicotine patches. Unhealthy..yes I know. But better than shooting the walls or going out to initiate a fight on a bar, just to be grounded in my body again.”

John blushed a bit at the last remark, because it had been a coping mechanism for him too....starting a fight in a bar.

And Sherlock smirked, because he knew that too and continued, “You were not the only one who did that to 'get back into your own body', John”

Then he paused and said, “When I tell you the next things, then please remember that my brother offered to die to protect you.”

John didn't say anything, just nodded and Sherlock continued, “And if drugs are out of the question, and nicotine doesn't work.....and it doesn't work to exercise....if running or Ashtanga-yoga don't give the wanted result. If meditation is....”

Here Sherlock was interrupted by John, “Ashtanga.....I see. No wonder you can keep so fit. I've always wondered how you could do that, without exercising......and now I understand that you did exercise.”

Sherlock smiled, “Well..I don't do that much. I just think that I have lucky genes. More than Mycroft, because he had to exercise a lot in order not to get so chubby again as he was in his early teenage years. I just...look like I do, I suppose. And then the Bartitsu: The Gentleman's Martial Art of course. Sometimes Mycroft and I would rehearse together.”

John frowned and then he smiled, “Oh..I see. Almost some 'Kingsman' stuff.”

“No not quite. Just an art of defence that can be done wearing a suit. And then I box a bit and then of course my fencing..”

“Yeah...how could I forget that? You won the first place at the 'Camford' sports society in 1996. I suppose it was all those skills that made you win the fight against Ajaj. Amazing...and here I had thought for so many years that you were 'all brainy matter' and no 'body'....I suppose that even I would loose an unarmed combat fight with you?”

Sherlock smiled, “No..I'm not sure. The key-word is 'unarmed'.....

They smiled at each other again and then Sherlock said, “Well...back to what didn't work, and a travel in time back to my teenage-years.”

Sherlock paused, “This is difficult. I've never told anyone before. And it can so easily be misunderstood.”

John hugged Sherlock and kissed his head, “I suppose it has something to do with Mycroft. I promise that I'll remember that he really did offer to die to save me. So go on. Spit it out.“

“OK. Well...this happened when I was 16. I was home for my summer holiday. Mycroft was 23 and was living at our parental home again, for a short notice. He had finished his education at Oxbridge. Was only lacking his last exams and had cleared his rooms at the university and was waiting for his flat to be available. He was really going to 'occupy a minor position in the government' then. But as you might have guessed it would not be for long. Aunt Marjorie had plans for him, but he would still have to make a few years of 'legwork' before she would finally accept, that even if he was one of her best agents in the field, Mycroft would be so much more of use here in England. At that point I was chosen to take his place. They thought us to be so similar in every way, because he had taught me well and everybody did believe, including me, that I could detach myself from my feelings. It turned out to be a mistake. Well, back to the summer when I was 16. And discovered something surprising about myself...and Mycroft as well.

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

From chapter 17:

Sherlock explained, “This happened when I was 16. I was home for my summer holiday. Mycroft was 23 and was living at our parental home again, for a short notice. He had almost finished his education at Oxbridge. Was only lacking his last exam and had cleared his rooms at the university and was waiting for his flat to be available.....”

It had been extremely hot for several days now and Sherlock didn't bother to wear anything but soft thin pyjama-trousers and T-shirts. Even Mycroft had chosen to wear the coolest linen-trousers and short-sleeved button-downs he had in his wardrobe.

Their parents would still be away a few days more and it suited Sherlock and Mycroft fine. Sherlock had pointed out that he was old enough to be alone, but found that it was all right to have Mycroft in the house as well. Not that they spoke much with each other, but knowing that there was another person in the house, was somehow.....nice. Even if Sherlock rather would have eaten a hedgehog raw, than admitting that.

But right now Sherlock would have preferred to be totally on his own in an empty house. He was getting sort of desperate and found it increasingly difficult to hide his condition from Mycroft. Sherlock had been absorbed by several experiments and one involving sitting outside in the shades of the willow-tree watching the bees for hours. It had somehow been a bit like sleeping and Sherlock had lost every track of time.....and now he was in a state of mind where he took everything in, noticed everything: every scent, every touch, every smell. He had experienced states like that as a child too, and had found out that rolling himself into a heavy quilt would help. But this time nothing did help. He had tried running, smoking, swimming....even wanking. But as always it wasn't worth the effort, the wanking. The orgasm was close to a 'sneeze'....at that was what it was, unsatisfying....

Sherlock hadn't slept for 3 days. Had just twisted and turned in his bed and had maybe dozed off for a few minutes and then been lying awake for hours afterwards.

As Sherlock was pacing up and down the floor of his room, Mycroft entered, hiding something behind his back.

“Get out!”, Sherlock snarled.

But Mycroft remained and sat down on Sherlock's bed, “How improbable it might sound, I'm not here to gloat, Sherlock. I've noticed that you haven't slept, that you have smoked 3 packages of cigarettes, that you haven't eaten much, that you have been running and exercising....and...”

Sherlock sighed, lifted his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes, “Yeah...just say it. 'Wanking' as well....not that any of it is your business! So get out!”

“You and I are similar in many ways, Sherlock, and not so similar in others....”

Here Mycroft was interrupted by Sherlock, “Oh God. Here we go again. Yes for God's sake, Mycroft, I know that 'you are the smarter one'. So kindly be so 'smart' to fuck out of my room!”

Mycroft stayed put on the bed and said, “It would be very unwise to throw me out when I'm offering you an experiment that might or might not be able to help you.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing. The trigger-word here was 'experiment' and he asked, “Experiment?”

Mycroft showed what he had hidden behind his back...a cane.

Sherlock laughed when he saw that, ”The experiment is to what....hit me?”

Mycroft just lifted his eyebrow, “I thought that it would be obvious? That is...if you are just a little bit like me, it might help. Listen Sherlock....”

But Sherlock interrupted him, “I'm not a naughty schoolboy from the 1950-ties or whenever they stopped using corporal punishment in schools. How on Earth did you expect that to help me?!”

Mycroft still remained calm and just said, “Because it helped me, when I was in a similar state as you are in now. Where your mind can't slow down. Where thoughts are whirling around to no end. Where you can't sleep, eat or be in your own body. Believe me Sherlock, I've been in your place.”

“I don't believe you!”

And Mycroft rose and turned his back to Sherlock. Unbuttoned his trousers, pushed them and his pants down and lifted his shirt-tails and exposed his buttocks. Sherlock had slumped down on the bed. Stunned at Mycroft's doings. That Mycroft did that...showed his own vulnerability...it was something he had never done before...and even more so because across those pale and a bit freckled, but very nice rounded buttocks, were slightly red welts after a cane. The skin hadn't been broken, but the blows must have been not too light, because under the welts were light bruisings to be seen.

Mycroft smirked as he turned around, still with his crotch uncovered and Sherlock noticed...sort of absent-minded, that his brother preferred to shave his genitals, just as Sherlock had begun to do. Sherlock liked the smooth feeling against his silken boxer briefs.

“Well...”, said Mycroft as he put everything into place again, “I must remember that this was a method to silence my brother. Even though it would be rather inappropriate at a lot of occasions. As you see, Sherlock, it wasn't just on a whim that I talked about what a caning could do to minds like ours and....”

Sherlock interrupted him, “Who did that to you?”

And Mycroft understood the question behind it. Because what Sherlock really meant was: ”Whom did you allow to gather black-mailing material against you?”

“Don't worry, Sherlock, There are certain.... clubs in London, where gentlemen with a certain...preference for pain, can pay persons for ...certain services...”

“Oh for God's sake Mycroft. Drop those woolly words, and use the right ones instead: there are clubs in London. Exclusive clubs where a masochist can get a good flogging or caning or cropping, if he pays enough for it and pays professionals to keep silent as well. So..you are a masochist?”

“A 'switch' actually. Occasionally masochist and occasionally, well not quite 'sadist' but at least 'dominant'. I like very much to be in charge most of the time....as do you. But there will come a time for you too, where putting down responsibility can be a blessing....Where submission can quiet your mind.”

Here Mycroft was interrupted again, as Sherlock said “So...you like to submit as well. You do realise that the loyalty of those professionals only do reach as far as to 'who pays the most'?”

Mycroft nodded, “I'm aware of that. That is one of the reasons, why I limit my visits. I do not often indulge to my needs in that area. But I do have powerful friends and that should keep those people on a short leash.”

Sherlock squinted and looked suddenly so much more mature than his 16 years, “Mycroft. You can't allow yourself to be vulnerable like that. If you really think that that can help me as well, we'll have to help each other. Not involving others. It is too dangerous for you.....at least if you aim for the position in society, that I think that you are aiming for.”

Mycroft nodded, “I'll accept your offer. It is just, sometimes I will ejaculate. That makes it into a 'sexual relationship' Some might see this as an incestuous relationship. I am your brother and you are so much younger than me. What we will be doing will not be within the range of normality.”

“When have we ever cared about 'normal'? I'm fine with it, if it can help me. And actually: incest is only a problem if I get pregnant and if both parties are not accepting it. And if one of the persons is so much younger that the older part can take advantage. But I am 16, and I can't get pregnant and Mycroft, I'm desperate. There are ants crawling under my skin and thoughts I cannot stop, in my mind. I haven't slept for 3 days and nothing I've tried had helped. If that caning can help, I'm willing to give it a try. Where do you want me?” And Sherlock was already pushing down his pyjama-bottoms. Of course he wasn't wearing any pants.

Mycroft had to take a deep breath. Oh God...it wasn't fair that Sherlock would have such a nice body. He was his brother for God's sake!

“Put a pillow under your knees and kneel by the bed. Bend forward and put your hands and arms on the bed and take a good grip on the bed-linen. The first two blows might sting awfully, but then I hope that your weird brain and body would kick in and you will feel that your brain stills. 'White noise' is a word used about that feeling. After that, we'll have to see...”

_______________________

Sherlock snuggled closer to John and explained further on what had happened that day when he was 16.

Sherlock told, “The first blow did hurt like hell and I had moved my hands to my buttocks to rub them. Mycroft ordered me to put my hands back on the bed....and to my own surprise, I just obeyed. The second blow did hurt, but there was a pleasant buzz after that. The third blow gave me an erection and Mycroft told me to stoke myself. He continued with a series of small....taps...would be the right word, and then forceful blows..”

Sherlock turned his head and looked at John, “Mycroft gave me 10 rather hard blows. Each one felt more and more pleasurable and a buzzing feeling did build in my body. At blow number ten, I came all over my bed in the most forceful orgasm, I had ever experienced. Everything went white...and when I came to my senses, I was lying on my stomach on my bed and Mycroft was rubbing Arnica-cream into my sore buttocks. He told me, that he would always do that after a 'session' as he called it, but if I didn't have sexual release during the caning, or the flogging or the cropping, I would have to deal with it on my own.“It is weird enough as it is, Sherlock.”, had Mycroft said, and during the years, where we helped each other, it was just an unspoken thing. We would just turn around and leave as soon as the blows had been given. And then we would return a bit later to give after-care. We always aimed after not breaking the skin. Mostly Caning, sometimes cropping and sometimes a whip. So pain...most certainly, but not too much damage. And yes, I know, that despite not witnessing the other one ejaculate, and even if we never fucked, it is still sex and still incestuous.”

And then Sherlock stopped talking and just looked at John.

John smiled and gave Sherlock a hug, “And now you want to ask me, if I would help you if your mind runs wild again?”

“Exactly.”. Then Sherlock frowned, “You are not appealed? That Mycroft and I caned each other? That we actually had sex?”

John shook his head, “If the way you behaved is anything to go by, I would find it rather nightmarish to know that your brother could go on a frenzy, like you did. If your caning of him...or flogging or cropping...well even if you had fucked, I have a feeling that the world would be a much more unsafe place, if you hadn't. No...I'm not appealed.”

John paused to think before he continued, “I've always seen your brother as a very complicated man. When we first met, I thought your brother and you to be rather alike. Cold, calculating and aloof. But with your brother as the total ice-man and you very close to having no feelings too. Not one single warm thought towards others. Then.....I came to learn that he cared for you in his own way. A bit to 'big-brother-ly' and that not always in a good way. Later I rather saw the differences between you. And after we made that prank on him...Oh God, how did you persuade me to do that? There must have been some of that Mary-drug left in my system. Well after that prank and his 'revenge' on that false island set-up, and after he and I talked recently, my perception of him has altered again. He is not as cold and calculating, as he would like to appear. He is almost as soft under his armour as you are. I don't think that you and him can be put in a box labelled 'normal' and I begin to believe that they really tampered with your genes, then...way back at Baskerville. And who am I to judge?”

John paused again and continued after he had kissed Sherlock's hair, “Even if I would like Greg to take that responsibility, when they get together. But if Greg can't? Then I'll accept that...Hell, I'll think that I might even offer to wield that cane. Sometimes your brother does deserve that! He can really bring up the worst in me.”

Sherlock smiled, “Well if Greg do not want to, Mycroft can rely on the other person, who lately made sure, that he did pay for his mistakes.”

“Whom?”

“Lady Alicia Elisabeth Smallwood.....and oh...did she make him pay!”

“She caned him?”

“She forced him to submit and...well she had an advanced sex-life with her husband. I think she demanded some...repentance....from my brother. And he is not a coward, so if she thought he could pay for his mistake regarding arresting her and humiliating her, he would accept.”

“So...they are sex-partners?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I'm not quite sure. But they like and admire each other. It was her who gave Mycroft his powerful position. She is older than him and had already a solid career, when he was still in his real 'minor position'. Somehow I think that they would have thought about getting married, if it wouldn't have meant that one of them should give up their position in the government. And they do not want to do that. Having sex together? They are almost on the same power-level, and even if Lady Elisabeth would admit that Mycroft's mistake was understandable, she would still ask him to 'pay' and they can't harm each other with their knowledge. They just have to be discrete. So...if Greg can't, there are both you and me and her to deliver the blows.”

John nodded and thought for a few seconds, before he continued, “I see. But pardon me for asking, but why didn't Mycroft help you when you were going out of your mind, when I forced you to quit smoking? When you were almost killing yourself because you had taken too many drugs in the Culverton case? And all the other times where you were running wild?”

“Because our arrangement stopped the moment you moved in together with me at Baker Street. That is, Mycroft 'helping' me stopped. The other way round was and is still a deal. Not that it had been effectuated that often.”

“How often then...and you can just tell me that it is none of my business..”

“3-5 times a year. And of course, during my more than 2 years away, travelling around in the world, he had to go to the clubs again. He didn't know Lady Smallwood like that then...and her husband was still alive. Mycroft would go to the clubs, too, if I was too pissed off on him. It is not very wise to give your pissed-off brother a riding crop in his hands and then ask for a beating. I would refuse, if he called, if I was too mad at him. Or...if he insisted, because he was desperate enough, then he would only have put out the softer implements. And.....I would always go softer on him after the fist rage-fuelled blows. It is just like wolves: Bare your stomach and your throat, surrender and submit, and the other wolf is unable to hurt the first one. And.....since our arrangement had stopped regarding me, I went to those clubs again, when I had the need.”

“While we were living together, you and I?”

“Yeah...there was no reason to show you how much of a freak I was, by asking you to hurt me. And it only happened 2 times. That I had to go to the clubs. And I found means on my own to achieve an orgasm caused by pain, so I could reset my mind.. And it wasn't necessary at all while I was away. I think I was too busy to keep myself alive to enter that state of mind.”

John hugged Sherlock and said, “One day you must tell me, what you did, while you were away. If you want to, of course. It must have been terrible...”

Sherlock shook his head, “Not all the time. There were peaceful periods as well. A night in Cairo. A week in Sweden. A month in a cabin in Norway. 2 weeks in Bergen. Two months in Oslo...”

“That is a lot of 'Norway'?”

“I was different persons those almost 2 and a half year, John. I couldn't travel as Sherlock Holmes, could I? I was 'Björn Sigerson', a somewhat dubious person from Norway, ready to work for the highest payer, most of the time. But I was 'Roberto Datolli', a chef that worked for the 'Cosa Nostra', and 'Johann Mueller', a German free-lance computer-expert, too, just to mention a few. I wasn't running for my life all the time. It was just near the end of those two and a half year, that things got muddled and I was caught.”

“And tortured..But you must have been wounded before that, because not all your scars are from Serbia..”

Sherlock was quiet for a few second before the said, “Sometimes, getting caught, was the easiest way to obtain information.....”

And John understood...even the things Sherlock didn't say, “Jesus...Sherlock. It is a God damned miracle that you returned to London.”

“One day I might tell you more, John, but not right now. Is that OK?”

“More than OK, Love...I just wondered. You mentioned something about you would find other means to 'reset'. What did you do?”

“It wasn't as efficient as asking Mycroft, but it worked. Here, let me show you..”

And Sherlock did leap out of bed and went to his wardrobe, lifted the secret bottom and revealed a low box, that had fitted perfectly into the bottom of the wardrobe.

He brought it back to the bed and placed it between him and John. He didn't open it though, but just looked at it thoughtfully. Then he looked at John, “How much do you know about BDSM?”

“I once had a girl-friend, who would like to explore that a bit. But it was just the softest stuff,...and I couldn't make myself do it wholeheartedly. Mostly because she wasn't honest about it and then I know as much as any doctor should know. I've met some people in my practice, where I came close to putting my pen on the papers to report abuse. One of the wounded men stopped me and said, “Doctor Watson. I asked for this. Not as in 'I behaved in a way, so I deserved this', but I literally asked for it. I like it. I'm a masochist and I get off on pain. My partner accepts to do this for me occasionally, because he knows how much I like it. What happened here was not intended, but we were using a new flogger and it had been labelled wrongly and was much harder than anticipated. Believe me, Roger was so devastated when he found out what it had done to my back.”...So yes Sherlock, I do know about it. Even more so because while I was studying at Bart's, I've aided a colleague, who was working in those mentioned clubs. We went there if something had been a bit rougher than intended. But in the beginning I couldn't understand, why people could enjoy that. I've been beaten by my father a bit to much to understand how pain and submission could be something, that people could want. But the people there in the clubs taught me otherwise. Not that I ever saw sessions, but I spoke with people. So yes. I do understand that the submission is a gift and should be treated accordingly. And that is were I'm a bit concerned, Sherlock. The doctor in me is screaming: welts and bruises and wounds are tissue-damage, whatever you call it. It is blood-vessels being crushed, cells destroyed, scar-tissue being formed...”

John lifted his hand as Sherlock was gong to say something, “On the other hand, Sherlock. The dark side inside me is saying, ”Yes....'Yes...Oh God yes!” The thought of having you on your knees. Bound and MINE. Marked by me so everyone can see that you belong to me! That thought is very arousing! Look!”

And Sherlock could see John's growing erection and made a sound deep in his throat before he said, ”Oh. That..that sounds acceptable..”

And Sherlock pointed at his own crotch, where John could see Sherlock's growing erection too.

John bent forward and whispered in Sherlock's ear, “You are not afraid of that dark side of me? That side that is an army doctor...who can break every bone in your body, whilst naming them! I am a dangerous man!”

That made Sherlock jolt away, and John looked at him, “Did..did I say something wrong, Love?”

Sherlock looked at John with big eyes and asked, “Would you please repeat, what you just said?”

“That I'm a dangerous man?” answered John a bit worried and a bit confused.

“No..no the other thing you said.”

“....'I am an army doctor who can break every bone in your body, whilst naming them'...was that it? But Sherlock, Love …it is just an old saying and...”

Sherlock turned around and put himself in John's arms again, “It is not that I'm afraid of you in any way, John. It is just....those words were exactly the same words that the 'John Watson' from my Victorian dream on the plane said to me. We had an argument and he told me that I was an unprincipled drug-addict and then he said those exact words about being an army doctor, who could break every bone whilst naming them. I know that that John was someone my mind had made up. And yet. He had such a nice moustache....and were did that come from...and those words?”

“You never liked my moustache?”

Sherlock laughed and turned so he could kiss John, “That pathetic 'caterpillar'-thing sitting on your upper lip? That could hardly deserve the name 'moustache'. No, the other Watson had a nice big Victorian manly moustache, that would look ridiculous on a modern face, so don't get any good ideas. I still prefer my doctors clean-shaven..”

“I wasn't sure that you referred only to my face then, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked, “I wasn't!..”

They both laughed. Knowing that they had put all the misunderstandings, that had haunted them for so many years, aside and that they were safe in each others company. Safe in their love for each other.

“I just wonder where those words came from, “, said Sherlock.

“Well it is an old saying..”, explained John.

“Well. Then say it!”

“All right. It goes like this: “what is the difference between a doctor, a soldier and an army-doctor?” And the answer is: “Well, the doctor can name every bone in your body. The soldier can break every one of them and the army-doctor and break every bone in your body whilst naming them.”. It is a very old saying from the Victorian times, where army-doctors were not regarded as 'real doctors'. Seen with modern eyes an army doctor would be a better surgeon than a normal doctor, but both of them would be a catastrophe in a modern hospital now a days. At least they had left the idea about healing people with blood-letting and enemas. But seen with modern eyes the doctors had very few means to heal people and had to rely on people's own abilities to heal. We have travelled a long way since then.”

Sherlock nodded, “It is just a bit weird, that I did put those words in my dream. But I must have heard them somewhere. It could be a coincidence, but you know my view on coincidences. Well, would you like to see what's in that box?”

John nodded and Sherlock moved so he could open the lid and he showed John the contents. There were several nipple-clamps. Some connected with a chain. Small floggers, a riding crop and several small leather straps.

“Do you know what they are designed for, John?”

John nodded and pointed, “The nipple-clamps for the nipples, obviously. The chain is to weigh them down so they tug a bit at the nipples. The small floggers....for your backside? And the small leather straps? Maybe around your balls?”

Sherlock smiled, “You didn't lie, when you said that you knew a bit. So...I would go to my bed-room, even if you were in the flat. As I did, when I had that frenzy, when you tried to make me stop smoking....”

John interrupted, “Maybe I would have accepted that you smoked, if it could have helped you...”

“It is fine, John. It is rather hazardous for the lungs, after all. And this...”

And Sherlock pointed at the box, “....is so much more efficient, when I learned to use it the right way.”

John looked at the contents and asked, “Is this something that you'll like to introduce to our everyday sex-life too, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at John, “Maybe....would you like it, too?”

“It is not about me, but about you. I can find the 'captain Watson' in me if you want to submit. But we'll have to agree beforehand. Safe-words and so on. Talk about what you'll want me to do?”

“What if I sometimes want whatever you want?”

“Then we'll have to talk about that too.”

“Fine. I do trust you John. You'll never not obey a safe-word, so I think we can use the usual 'green', 'yellow' and 'red'...”

Suddenly John understood, “Sherlock. That Sebastian...did he ever disobey a safe-word?”

Sherlock nodded and sighed, “It is a long story and a pathetic one too. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

John nodded and Sherlock snuggled back into John's arms. It was easier to talk about difficult topics sitting like that, “Well. I came to the university early as I finished school early. And to top it up I was a 'late bloomer' too. I had of course my agreement with Mycroft, but that was not sex.....at least not in my mind. In my first year I attended a small music group. I played violin, a female teacher cello and another elderly man played the viola da gamba.

And to make a long story short: The teacher, who was a tall beautiful woman in her forties, seduced me. She was the first person that I had intercourse with and that was...what it was. Nice enough, but not mind-blowing. She could be mistaken for a boy with her boyish figure and short dark hair and I found out that if she did ride me, turned around so I could only see her back, well it turned me on so much more. After we had sex two times, she had smiled and kissed me and said that it had been nice, but that she wasn't looking for something steady...and that she was my teacher. Sort of...and that we should continue just to play together in our little classical trio. The the elderly man moved to another town and...Sebastian took his place. He was tall and dark and very handsome...and I was fascinated. He studied chemistry as well and before I had thought more deeply about anything, he had arranged that we shared rooms at one of the colleges. I never told him that I could have chosen any college and any room. Mycroft would have helped me, but it was intentional that I lived by that elderly woman just outside the campus area. She was a relative and it was nice an quiet by her. I didn't need the noise and all the people. But I was swept away by finally having a friend. It might sound awkward, but I was even more socially inept than I was when you and I met. I don't really know how he came behind my 'defences', but he did. I did help Sebastian with his chemistry and to put it short, we became friends and then lovers."

Sherlock paused and then he continued, "And everything was fine until he discovered my occasional need for pain. After that, it went downhill fast. He would decide everything and would force me and tell me that I would need to submit and get fucked and slapped and give him blow-jobs, even if I didn't really want to...and then I would safe-word out. It was like that for a month and then I finally put my foot down and fought him. He was taller than me, but I won. Then he had the nerve to call the police and tell them that I had been the attacker. But it only took one call to Mycroft and aunt Marjorie and showing the authorities a videotape, that I had secretly recorded, before Sebastian was expelled, even if he was the son of one of the ministers in the government. He had not known that I was Mycroft's brother. If he had known that, he might have been a bit more careful. It turned out that I was not the only one who had been abused, even if his abuse of me had been the worst...”

“Jesus..”, said John, and continued, “Where did he end up? At the bottom of Thames?”

Sherlock smiled, “No...in Brighton. In a very low-paid job with no promotion-possibilities. He is married to a very boring woman and have no children and too much debt. Much better than the bottom of Thames.”

And they both giggled.

And smiled at each other...and kissed.

Then John made a gesture towards the box, “Do you want to....erhhm.....That is, I've thought about: if I'm going to use some of that on you. Well, shouldn't I sort of find out what works, what to do to you, before I really have to find out in a hurry?”

Sherlock smiled, “Well, we do have two erections, that need to be done something about. And yes...it would be smart to now something beforehand. I suppose you want me to show you?”

John nodded and swallowed, because the thought did arouse him, “But only if you are in the mood..”

“With you near by? Always!”

And then Sherlock looked at John and asked, “Or...would you like to be the one in charge?”

John did like the thought, but said, “Very much...but only if I'm allowed to ask...and you promise to use the safe-words.”

“I promise..”, said Sherlock and continued, “There is another box.”

And he fetched it and opened it and showed that there was a variety of butt-plugs in it. John began to laugh a bit, “Oh God. Do you know what that reminds me of?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Well, we did talk about Victorian times. And apparently a 'Doctor Young' had very much success in those days selling 'rectal dilators', that could cure almost everything. Especially constipation. Some of the sets were quite big...and they were not 'rectal dilators'...just butt-plugs, for God's sake.”

“Well..” said Sherlock and smiled, “Then it is fine that you really not are a doctor from Victorian times. They were sometimes asked to perform 'treatments for hysteria' on ladies. That was 'giving them an orgasm'. For God's sake, couldn't they just have taught their husbands to give them a good sex-life?”

“They were actually rather kinky back then. Maybe it was easier to ask their doctor.” said John and almost lost his breath as Sherlock undressed and laid back on the bed totally naked with his legs slightly bend and spread out.....so John had full access to his body and said with a smirk, “Well I'm asking my doctor now!”

John smiled as he crawled nearer to straddle Sherlock's body, “I'm all right with a bit of role-play as a captain. You and your raving military kink, Sherlock. Don't you know that I've seen those military magazines of yours, those with 'hot soldiers'? And that you got a 'chubby' as I pulled rank at Baskerville. But....and here is my limit: no medical kinks please. It is bad enough that I sometimes have those weird male patients, who insists on prostate-examinations.”

Sherlock chuckled, “You a pulling my leg, John. Aren't you? They don't, do they?”

John smiled again, “Oh yes. And the clinics warn each other about those men. I'm speaking the truth. Some people are kinky as hell, believe me. But I have no intention of resuming old Victorian medical practice. They can buy their own devises. We have shops for that now. 'Rectal dilators'.....my arse!”

Sherlock laughed, “That was what they were meant for, weren't they?”

And then they started kissing.

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

After some more kissing, John quickly took off his pyjamas and they continued kissing. John paid Sherlock's nipples a lot of attention: licked and sucked and Sherlock moaned and arched of the bed, but as John did reach for the 'softer' versions of the nipple-clamps, his eyes caught a glimpse of Sherlock's two scars on his chest. The one Mary's bullet had made and the other one from the required surgery afterwards as Sherlock after all didn't die on the operating table, and John stopped, suddenly overwhelmed by sad thoughts.

Sherlock had been prepared to sacrifice himself for John so many times. Had done so much for other people and the 'thank-you' from other had been bullying, scolding, mocking, harsh words ('Freak') and 'we hated him', slapping (even from Molly) and so much worse: kicking and right out violence from John ...and John could feel tears forming in his eyes.

Sherlock could of course feel the change in John and looked worriedly at him, “Did I do something wrong?”, he asked.

“Oh God, no, Sherlock. It is just silly old sentimental me...” and John kissed the two scars and Sherlock understood immediately.

John put his head down on Sherlock's chest and took a firm grip around Sherlock's torso. Sherlock's right hand moved and ended up resting on John's back.

“I've almost lost you so many times, Sherlock, that I do not understand how we could end up here....and I'm sorry for being such a mood-killer and...”

Sherlock kissed John's hair, “I told you that Ella said that bad memories would resurface from time to time.” And then Sherlock smirked, “Even if I hadn't imagined it happening during sex.....”

John turned his head so he could look into Sherlock's wonderful eyes, “Oh God. I love you so much....and sex with you is the most fantastic sex, I've ever had....and now I've ruined it...”

Sherlock smiled and said, “No...not ruined. Just delayed a bit. Let us just talk for a few moments...and then figure out if we should sleep..or continue. I'll like to hear a bit more about those kinky Victorians.”

John smiled and they both sat up against the headboard again. Not it was John's turn to be in Sherlock's arms. And sitting together totally naked was rather nice and arousing in a very slow and simmering way. Sherlock understood John's thoughts and said, “It is nice...and we are in no hurry. If Rosie wakes up early, we can just get her to her day-care-family and go to bed again. Even if a case should turn up, we can wait until we have slept..”

John smiled, “And if it is urgent, we can drink a lot of coffee. We have done that before. So...kinky and strange Victorians, it is. Well... Did you know that a Victorian gentleman was supposed to keep on his jacket while in company with ladies? The shirt was regarded as underwear and the jacket would conceal the...odour..or rather 'stench' from the men. They didn't wash often, it was not easy to get clothes properly clean and the deodorants hadn't been invented yet. Hell....my father didn't even use one.”

Sherlock nodded, “I read once that scientists did believe that we survived our early years as Homo Sapience only because we would emit such an obnoxious smell, that no decent predator would eat us.”

John chuckled, “Yeah. I could believe that. And the Victorians had the strangest ideas about 'contamination'. They invented iron beds that could be detached so they could be cleaned thoroughly, so all the 'bug-eggs' could be removed. There was even a law against having beds hanging out of the windows, so people must have done that in order to dry them. And at the same time they didn't wash often and had chamber pots under their beds. And that brings me to the next weird thing about Victorians and the lower parts of the anatomy. All the terrible things they did...the doctors and the governesses...in order to prevent masturbation. Sometimes they were punishing the young men so severely, that they ruined the young men's genitals or gave them mental traumas, and made it impossible for them to perform sex later on. We once followed a lecture about that...about various times' views upon masturbation, and some of the means they used to prevent masturbation came close to …...not 'not close to'. It was torture... Flogging them. Caning them..”

“If some of the young men were a bit like me, John, some of them must have liked it..”

“And that were maybe the few, who were able to have sex afterwards. And what they...society and the doctors, did to men like you and me. Gay men. Abhorrent! Prison... Behaviouristic treatments....nauseating injections together with pictures of young naked men. In order to 'reverse' those inappropriate thoughts. And it worked...unfortunately. As did my father's beating of me. I didn't dare to admit my 'improper thoughts' about young men. I was so much in denial, Sherlock and I've hurt you so much. I'm so sorry...”

Sherlock touched John's face gently, “But now we are allowed to show our love and we are here...and alive. How can we wish for more?”

John began to giggle, “Listen to us two. We would scare others half way to Timbuktu, with that kind of pillow-talk...and you don't mind and neither do I. But maybe I should find something a bit more arousing from those ancient times: so....not only did the women ask their doctors to help them to orgasms. The men could ask for something similar.”

Sherlock frowned, “Are you telling me that a doctor would jerk off another man?”

John smiled, “No. But it was very important to get rid of different bodily secretions. To stay healthy. Not as in enemas and blood-letting, but as in prostate-massage...”

Sherlock frowned and John explained, “There were special doctors for that. Specialists....and even now a days it is often performed by doctors in Asia. There were devises to put up in the arses until the prostate gland could be touched through the 'wall' and then it was massaged through gentle movements. Or it could be performed with the fingers. The massage did milk the secretion out of the gland and out through the cock. There were special medical couches where the men could lie, face down, with their knees bent. And it was very decent, only the necessary parts of the body were exposed, only the buttocks and the anus in between. And they were not totally wrong with their ideas about the prostate massage. It could prevent some diseases..”

Sherlock frowned, “Decent!? With another man's finger up your arse? And what was in it for the men?”

And now John smiled widely, “The men would often have an orgasm. A special orgasm. Very intense, but very different from a 'normal' one...”

And then John paused and Sherlock smiled and John began to chuckle, “I don't have to be a genius to figure out your thoughts right now, Sherlock Holmes. You want me to perform that on you..right now.”

Sherlock smiled back and it didn't take Sherlock long to be on his hands and knees, “We better try to replicate that ancient treatment. For science, of course!”

And John didn't mind. He carefully coated his fingers with lube and pushed them inside Sherlock's waiting hole. First one finger, moving in and out. John looked at his finger disappearing into Sherlock's body and it aroused him, thinking about another part of his anatomy filling Sherlock's hole and moving in and out. That was the best part of fucking Sherlock....seeing how he took John's cock deep into his body.....and then John added two fingers, scissoring them a bit and Sherlock moaned. And then John bend his fingers ever so slightly until he found the point. And almost conversationally John told Sherlock about the devises that could be bought to achieve the same thing.

“Curved plugs or curved dildos so they would hit and stimulate both the prostate and the perineum and the balls at the same time and devises with electrical stimulation...”, explained John and as Sherlock tensed a bit John understood immediately and hurried to explain, “Oh God Sherlock, nothing like that! Just gentle...Oh God I would never use anything on you that would even remind the sightliest to torture instruments. Sorry!”

“It is all right. Just bad memories...”

“How does it feel?”, wanted John to know as he continued to massage the gland ever so carefully.

“Weird...and nice at the same time. Confusing...but please don't stop. “, said Sherlock and shifted a bit so John's fingers went deeper into Sherlock's body.

“No...nothing of that. I have to hit that exact spot, so stay still, Sherlock!”, ordered John and Sherlock tried to remain still.

And then Sherlock felt it....the fluid oozing out of his cock and the strange tingling in his body and it did build...the buzzing....and the strange feeling. As if he was floating and almost moving out of his own body. Sweat began to form all over his body and he panted, “Oh God...please don't stop!”

John continued to stroke the gland ever so lightly and then with more and more pressure. Sherlock moaned and John felt the pride and the power running through his own body: that he was able, with that little point of contact inside Sherlock's body, to take Sherlock apart like that.

"Reach and touch the moisture, Sherlock. Feel how sticky and different it feels."

And Sherlock obediently reached for his cock and felt the moisture that was almost dripping out of the slit.

Over the next minutes John continued to massage the gland. Altering with moving his fingers slightly out and into Sherlock's body again. And noticed how the moisture-flow out of Sherlocks slit increased into a steady stream.

And then the tingling increased in Sherlock. The strange feeling continued to build and build and..... a forceful shudder rippled through Sherlock's body and he slumped down on the mattress. Almost boneless.

“Oh John...that was...that was intense. The most intense orgasm I've had for a long time!”, said Sherlock breathlessly.

John smiled a bit wickedly and pointed at Sherlock's still erect cock, “But you didn't ejaculate and you still have an erection!”

And Sherlock looked at his still erect cock, “You told me that that could happen....It feels weird...but I came. And yet...no tiredness. So, a prostate orgasm doesn't produce the same chemicals: oxytocin, prolactin and endorphins?”

John nodded, “Oxytocin and endorphins, most certainly. But not so much prolactin . At least that is what studies say. It might be different from person to person..”

Sherlock laughed, “Listen to our pillow-talk again. Well it would be a shame to waist my open and oh so ready hole and my erection...and you still have one. So...would you mind, John Watson, to put your cock into me...preferably right now and very fast and hard!” The last part was said in that deep voice of Sherlock's that someday might make John ejaculate immediately.

And Sherlock was on his knees and hands again, presenting himself so shamelessly that John had to squeeze the base of his own cock to prevent himself from coming on the spot .

After a few seconds John managed to say, “No...if I'm going to fuck you....and I'm very willing to put my cock into your utterly delicious hole, then you'll have to ride me. Your gland is over-sensitive right now and you'll have to be in charge!”

And with those words, John laid down. His proud and large erection was jutting up from his body, and now it was Sherlock's turn to take a few and steadying breaths, before he slowly lowered himself down on John. Allowing himself to feel how John's impressive girth and length filled him slowly.

Oh...the stretch and the burn. Not much, as Sherlock had been thoroughly prepared, but enough for Sherlock's mind to narrow down to the point where he and John were connected...and John had been right...of course...that Sherlock's prostate was sensitive and that it would be wise if Sherlock controlled where and when and how hard John's cock should hit that sweet spot.

As Sherlock angled his body and groaned at the sensation, John again had to control himself, in order not to slam his cock up into Sherlock's body in a hard and almost cruel way. So John did let go of all control and allowed Sherlock to decide.

It didn't take long before Sherlock threw everything over board and used his strong thighs to move him up and down and as he groaned, “Take charge, captain. Use your strength!” , John lost his iron-grip around his arousal, gripped Sherlock's thighs hard...oh that would bruise...and slammed his pelvis hard up against Sherlock. And then in one swift motion, John switched their positions, pushed Sherlock's legs and did bend him almost in half and pushed and pushed hard and even harder into that willing body of Sherlock's and as the last thing, John bent down and did bite into that delicious white neck...and with a shudder and a shout both men came.

Afterwards John got up to get a flannel just to clean them a bit, and then they just cuddled in each others arms. John lying on his back and Sherlock with his head on John's chest. Just the way John liked it the most: like that he had Sherlock's delicious scent just under his nose and Sherlock could listen to John's heartbeat.

“Talking about those a bit kinky medical procedures....it made me think, Sherlock. I've got some ideas now, how to get you out of your mind and down into your body....without causing any harm.”

Sherlock smiled and turned his head, “It sounds very interesting. But you do realise that there is something very arousing about the thought of a riding-crop used on a willing human and not a horse?”

John chuckled, “Yeah...you were testing me and Molly that day. You with your: “I forgot my riding-crop in the mortuary..”

Sherlock laid down again and snuggled closer to John, “Well...it did work. Neither of you looked appealed...”

“No...and I wouldn't mind using it on you...from time to time. And very carefully. Just welts and no wounds. If you'll need it that desperately....”

And like that,  just knowing how much they would do for each other, they fell asleep.

Chapter Text

From https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/63351.html

(From 'The Lying Detective: Lady Smallwood and Mycroft are in the surveillance-room, watching Sherlock walking the streets with False Faith (?))

At MI5, or wherever it is, Mycroft walks into the surveillance room, a grim look on his face. Lady Smallwood is standing behind the computer desks.
LADY SMALLWOOD: We can keep tabs. You didn’t have to come in.
MYCROFT: I was talking to the prime minister.
LADY SMALLWOOD: Oh, I see.
(Mycroft looks at the screens, and particularly at a camera watching Sherlock walking along a road.)
MYCROFT: What’s he doing? Why’s he just wandering about like a fool?
LADY SMALLWOOD: She died, Mycroft. He’s probably still in shock.
MYCROFT: Everybody dies. It’s the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?LADY SMALLWOOD (turning to him (Mycroft)): You sound cross. Am I going to be taken away by security again?
MYCROFT: I have, I think, apologised extensively.
LADY SMALLWOOD: You haven’t made it up to me.
MYCROFT: And how am I supposed to do that?

___________

From The Lying Detective: after Culverton and after 'The Hug' ™

MYCROFT: So, you’re off now?
(In his Diogenes office, both he and Lady Smallwood are putting on their coats. Your transcriber’s eyes raise for a moment, but then she realises that this is Mycroft bloody Holmes and there’s no chance that they’ve been up to what she momentarily thought they might have been.)
MYCROFT: I won’t see you for a week?
LADY SMALLWOOD (looking into the mirror on the wall as she adjusts her coat around her): Just spending it at home ... unless she calls.
(She turns away from the mirror.)
MYCROFT: The P.M.
[Prime Minister.]
LADY SMALLWOOD (holding out a business card to him): Here.
MYCROFT (taking it): What’s this?
LADY SMALLWOOD: My number.
MYCROFT: I already have your number.
LADY SMALLWOOD: My private number.
MYCROFT: Why would I need that?
LADY SMALLWOOD (blinking innocently): I don’t know. Maybe you’d like a drink some time.

MYCROFT (frowning): Of what?
LADY SMALLWOOD: Up to you. (She smiles at him.) Call me.
( She turns and leaves the room. Mycroft turns to follow, looking at the card, then chuckles, turns back and drops the card onto an open notebook on his desk. A close-up shows that the card reads LADY ALICIA SMALLWOOD [which immediately sent your transcriber into hysterics and prompted her to post this set of screencaps on Tumblr which, in less than a week, received more than 4000 Likes and Reblogs!]. Under her name, too out-of-focus to see clearly, are her email address and a telephone number. Mycroft turns and starts to walk away, then he stops, looking thoughtful, and turns back.)

(A big 'thank you' to 'arianedevere' for her transcripts)

This happened right after what happened in her transcripts (and before the events on Sherrinford Island and before the rest of the events in my story)

Mycroft sat in his car for a while. Thinking.. and then he tapped the window to the chauffeur and mentioned Lady Smallwood's address. Then he found her business card and his telephone and wrote a SMS and hit send. After a few seconds came the reply. Mycroft nodded and it could be seen in his set of his jaw, that he made a decision.

On the way he asked the chauffeur to stop at a florist and he went out to get a bouquet of roses. Not white, that would symbolise 'innocence'. Not red for 'passion and love'. But peach for 'modesty'.

At the address Mycroft got out and told the chauffeur that he had the rest of the day off and that he would be called, when he was needed again and then Mycroft walked up to the door and rang the bell. As Mycroft was standing at the door of lady Smallwood's house with the bouquet in his hands, he thought about it all again and took a deep breath. He could do it! He had to. He owed her.

____________________________

Mycroft was shown into one of the sitting rooms after he had handed over the bouquet to the servant, who had opened the front door.

Lady Smallwood came shortly after, carrying the bouquet in a vase. She put in on a table and went to the bar and took two glasses of sherry and offered one to Mycroft, who nodded and took it with a 'thank you'.

“Thanks, and the same to you, Mycroft.....Hmm: 'peach' for modesty?”

He nodded, “I feel rather modest right now, Lady Smallwood.”, said Mycroft.

“What happened to 'Elizabeth'...?”, wanted lady Smallwood to know.

Mycroft looked her directly in her eyes and said solemnly, “I think that I'll have to work harder to earn that privilege again?”

She looked at him for a few seconds and then she said, “Yes, you do. But you have done penance today. I had expected another outcome of today's secret meeting at the Diogenes'. Don't insult my intelligence by claiming that you had nothing to do with Sir Edwin changing his mind regarding me. I know that you told him, that if he forced me to resign, he would loose you too. So...you have mended some of the damage, you have caused me. But not the rest of it: the humiliation, the betrayal of my trust in you...and the loss of your trust in me. So, the question is: how hard are you prepared to work? And are you and I 'on the same page'?”

Mycroft paused a bit before he said, with a smirk, “You do like that I'm uncomfortable talking about this, don't you?”

She smiled, “Very much!”

Mycroft made a decision, and said, a bit stuttering, because this was very private matters, “Very well. There are...certain clubs here in London, where.. certain gentlemen, mostly gentlemen, not so often women, can ask for....certain... corporal favours. Sometimes delivered with a very firm hand. Very! Or with....implements....”

Mycroft stopped and looked at Lady Smallwood. He hoped so much that he had understood her insinuations the right way.

“Are you such a gentleman?”, wanted Lady Smallwood to know.

And now Mycroft made up his mind. To hell with all the 'woolly words' as Sherlock would have said.

“I sometimes submit and I enjoy pain. As a mean to still my mind. I am what you would call a switch. Both sadistic tendencies, because I like to dominate, but most certainly masochistic tendencies too.”

Mycroft stopped and looked at Lady Smallwood before he continued, “And you haven't had the opportunity to attend those clubs for a long time and haven't had the possibility to have your needs in that area fulfilled since your husband died. I know, I owe you....greatly.....and.....and I'm prepared to be at your service. Totally. With only a few conditions....even if I'm not in any position, where I can put up conditions. I am fully aware of that, believe me.”

And then Mycroft stopped and looked at Lady Smallwood, who just nodded, “Continue!”

He took a deep breath and continued, “I know that Sherlock made the deduction about the 'English woman' , who had betrayed AGRA. And made it wrong. But it was I who made the decision to have you arrested and interrogated. Me, not him. I betrayed our friendship and I betrayed our trust in each other. So please....don't let my brother pay for my mistakes...He had paid enough for my underestimation of Magnussen/Moriarty and my underestimation of 'Mary Morstan'.”

Lady Smallwood looked at Mycroft and touched his hand, “Mycroft. Sherlock had paid enough for our mistakes. Not yours... our . Don't take that blame on yourself. It was you and Sir Edwin and I, who underestimated what Magnussen was. Us that believed that he was just what he pretended to be: a media-magnate and nothing more. Not a criminal mastermind. And our mistakes forced Sherlock to jump of that roof, risking to be killed because of that heavy sedation, that should make him look dead. It made John Watson almost kill himself out of grief and misplaced guilt. Sherlock almost died several times during those two years away, even if he showed remarkably skills. Sherlock was indeed one of our best agents in the field.”

Lady Smallwood paused a bit before she continued, “We all underestimated 'Mary Morstan' and first genuinely believed her false identity and then her good intentions. We didn't see that she drugged both John and Sherlock right under our noses...and us not seeing that, made her kill Sherlock. I've seen his medical journal and I cannot understand how your brother survived. Our jointed underestimation of Magnussen did cost my weak husband his life. He could just have waited and the 'storm would have passed'. In a year or two nobody would have remembered how my dear Edmund had been fooled. But he couldn't live with that humiliation, because he was a weak person, who really needed my firm guidance, indeed. And then Sherlock paid for our underestimation of Magnussen and was prepared to be shot immediately, as he shot Magnussen to protect Mary, John and most of all you and me.......and it took you far too long to get the pardon through and Sherlock almost died on that plane to Zagreb. No, Mycroft...I would not dream of making your brother pay. He had paid enough!”

Mycroft nodded....relieved.

“And you had something more? I think it is important to know that we are on the same page in the BDSM-book”, smirked Lady Smallwood.

Mycroft nodded, relieved that they understood each other, “I have a few 'hard limits'. I've been tortured for real...”

She looked at him, “That is not in your papers!”

He smiled, “Not everything is 'in the papers'. Not your....firm hand...on your husband. Not my masochistic tendencies. You and I made sure of that, didn't we?”

And she smiled.

Mycroft continued, “Well. Again: I've been tortured for real, so I react badly to things that I, by mistake, have been exposed to in the clubs...”

Here Mycroft was interrupted by Lady Smallwood, “How have you managed to avoid being mentioned in the files of those clubs? Not even you can avoid that?”

“Because I haven't attended those clubs for years, then only briefly, and then, after Sherlock returned, not at all...”

And Lady Smallwood understood immediately, “You and Sherlock....”

“Have similar, but not identical minds. We both use submission and pain to quiet our minds. Or in Sherlock's case...he had used drugs too. And yes....we have helped each other. No sex involved though. Not directly. If the pain and the submission give an orgasm, or the need for one, we deal with it on our own, before the other one return later to perform after-care.....if that can be an excuse for being in an almost incestuous relation-ship...”

Now lady Smallwood laughed, “So that is the reason behind your eternal banter...I see. A disguise..”

Mycroft didn't answer, just smiled and then he continued, “So....no blindfolds and no restrains. I was tortured at several occasions, bound to a chair, blindfolded and gagged with a dirty piece of cloth. So no gagging either. Not too hard stress-positions, as I'm not twenty any-more and I'll have to function already tomorrow afternoon. And regarding ...bodily fluids. Only sweat, semen, vaginal juices, saliva. Please not other bodily fluids...or not so fluid items. I'm not for 'golden showers' or 'scat'. And please don't make me bleed. Welts and bruises are OK, but I do not like to ruin my clothes and I have a meeting tomorrow. So my face and my hands should please be avoided too..”

He paused and looked at her, “I know, saying that I am at your disposal and at your service and then putting up so many conditions....that is awful. I'm sorry.”

Lady Smallwood smiled again and said, “Those are fair conditions and so much within my own limits. So there are no problems here. And I suppose that we'll use the usual 'green', 'yellow' and 'red' as safe-words? And if I cross a limit of yours, you are allowed to use them...and you'll answer truthfully if I ask, is that understood?”

“Yes, Ma'am”

Lady Smallwood smiled. Mycroft Holmes was already on his way to submission, she could hear that. She rose and Mycroft, as the gentleman he was and as he had been brought up to be, rose too.

“Very well. Come with me. We are going to another part of the house. There is a small room. You will undress and put on the ...implement....I have found for you. It is to make sure that you don't enjoy your punishment too much..”

Mycroft didn't say anything, just looked at her.

“It is a devise, making sure that I'm the one in charge of your orgasms. With that on you are not able to ejaculate. Not able to have an erection...”, Lady Smallwood explained.

“Oh, I see.”, said Mycroft and followed her.

She touched his arm as they came to that part of the house, “This is where it is going to happen. As I received your message, I made sure everything was ready. There is a small room. You will undress and use the gloves and the antiseptic gel and then you will put on the cock-cage. Then you'll enter the other room through the other door and kneel on the mat there with your hands behind your head and wait for your orders.”

“Yes, ma'am”

______________________

Lady Smallwood left Mycroft and went to her own room to change her clothing. It had been awhile, but she could still fit into the black leather outfit. And it did help her to get into the right state of mind as well.

When she entered the big room, Mycroft was obediently kneeling on the mat. Hands behind his head. But the cock-cage was lying on the mat beside him. She took a moment to admire his body. And it was a part of Mycroft's punishment to make him wait. He would hate it.

She smiled a bit as she realised how skilled Mycroft's tailor was. It had to be the same skilled tailor that Sherlock used. Or that Mycroft paid for Sherlock to have his suits and shirts made as well. In Sherlock's case the tailor managed to make Sherlock look almost thin and fragile, when Lady Smallwood knew for certain that Sherlock could have been the living model for Michelangelo's marble-statue 'David'. Sherlock was incredible strong with the athletic build of an acrobat or a dancer. All long and lean muscles.

In Mycroft's case the tailor had made a double bluff: making the suits in a way so Mycroft appeared to be a middle-aged man, weak and a bit to round-around-the-middle, with almost no muscle-tone and the suit had given the impression that his tailor had managed, but not totally succeeded in making the man look better, dressed in that suit. In reality Mycroft could almost, but not totally, match Sherlock in strength. Mycroft was a bit soft around the middle, though, but he was closer to fifty than forty after all. The suits, he wore, made him look so much more un-fit and gave, at the same time, an expression of a man who made his best effort to look good. Behind that suit Mycroft was in fact incredible fit. With a lot of muscles, long and lean like Sherlock. Nice buttocks, that showed that he had strong muscles there too and nicely shaped nipples. All in all he was a very handsome man.

And then she took a closer look at Mycroft's 'package'. No wonder that the cock-cage didn't fit. Mycroft was certainly above average even if he wasn't as well-hung as John Watson. John could almost match every porn-star, Lady Smallwood had ever seen. At least if they had not been fitted with artificial silicone-cocks. No wonder that John always had that air of self-confidence around him. He would always be 'the biggest cock in the shower-room'. And she did feel a bit ashamed that she had looked at John H Watson's medical files, which included naked pictures of the man, just before he had had that shoulder surgery and the surgery on his thigh. His limp wasn't totally psychosomatic. She had never found out who had taken those pictures. And they had been a violation of the man's privacy. As were the ones that someone had taken while John had been showering, his eyes filled with soap, so he hadn't known he had been photographed. No one but her knew that those photos still existed. She had made sure that those photos were removed, but she had saved them on her own private hard-disc. She had always had a keen eye for male beauty.

As she went to Mycroft's front, he looked up and then he bowed his head, “I'm sorry ma'am, but I couldn't make it fit.”

Lady Smallwood looked at Mycroft's groin again and went to the cupboard to fetch a new cage. Now she was glad that she had bought more than one size. She took the biggest version and ordered Mycroft to stand on his feet with his legs spread.

As she put on the sterile gloves and squeezed some of the anti-septic gel on her fingers and on the sound of the cage, she noticed that Mycroft was.....not shaved, because his balls and groin-area were too soft and smooth, so 'waxed' it had to be and that he was waxed, a man at his age, was a bit unusual. But she liked it very much. And then she noticed something more, as she did fit the cage into place: dragging Mycroft's balls down, so he couldn't have an orgasm, or at least only a painful one. Adjusted the part that went around the root of the cock to prevent the blood to enter and thus preventing an erection and finally the 'sound'-part that should feel uncomfortable. And she noticed that Mycroft's pubic-hair and the rest of the hair on his body, were auburn, almost ginger and not dark brown as the hair on his head would suggest.

Mycroft hissed a bit as she stretched his slit to make the sound slide into his urethra and finally she fitted all the pieces tight together.

“You have never had a sound in you?”, she asked.

“No, Ma'am”

“Well, now you have. How does it feel? And colour?”

“Weird, Ma'am....and green. It doesn't hurt. It is just weird, ma'am.”

Lady Smallwood had to admit that she would have expected more fight from Mycroft. But he was just soft and pliant and obedient. A bit of a surprise.

Then she took some restraints, made of soft padded leather and looked at Mycroft, “These are soft and you can get out of their fastening immediately if you yank hard on them. I would prefer if you wear them. It makes it easier for you to obey me. They serve as a reminder. I'll take them of if you still find them triggering after your have tried to have them fastened.”

And she led him to the padded buck and ordered him to bend forward and lie down on his stomach. Then she fastened the cuffs around his wrists and fastened them to the buck and then she ordered him to yank them free. He did that with almost no effort and she just looked at him and he answered, “Green, I think, Ma'am. For now.”

He was already slurring a bit.

“I'm going to cane you.”, she said and could see that he swallowed and then he just nodded and closed his eyes.

She continued, “I'll give you 8. And you will thank me after each of them and politely ask for another. They are your punishment for believing that I could betray my country. After that you will get flogged and cropped until I have decided that you have made penance for betraying my trust and for believing that I could betray your trust, but that will be just for today. You will not be off the hook, just by this. You deserve more punishment for what you did to me. Later on, on another day, and another day again, you will receive the rest of your caning. One hit for each hour from the point of time when I was arrested until I was released again and my name was cleared. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma'am!”

And then she lifted the cane and let it hit his buttocks.

She could hear that he inhaled before he said, “Thank you, Ma'am. May I have another, please?”

He said that obediently for each of the hits with the cane. It made nice welts on his buttocks and it touched her deeply inside....the place where she enjoyed to be a sadist, to bend people according to her will. And it touched her too, that he endured his punishment so bravely. Her husband would have trashed around and yelled at her, before he would submit, but Mycroft was the perfect sub. Almost too perfect.

After the caning that had left Mycroft with eight precise welts on his buttocks, he was led to the St. Andreas Cross where he was secured with his cuffs. Lady Smallwood didn't want to use those for his ankles. Not for now.

And she began to flog him. It was one of the heavier versions, and it would bite, but not break the skin. Just hurt. And after she had made sure that his back and his thighs were nice and read and hurting....and she knew that it would mostly be pain and no 'reward' since she had prevented his erection and orgasm, she took the riding-crop and began the last part of his punishment for that day.

She begun to have that odd feeling that everything was right and in order and that she had this perfect sub and he should just obey and accept what she did to him. That feeling was known as 'top-space' and it wasn't always that she would reach that.......The world narrowed down to her, the riding crop and that perfect sub in front of her, who grunted a bit at every blow. And courageously accepted the punishment, she decided for him to receive. Time stopped. The universe didn't exist. And as she continued cropping that obedient body in front of her, the tingling did build in her body and....she had an orgasm...

When she came to her senses, she looked at Mycroft. He was shivering. Obediently holding his hands up above his head. He must be thankful for the cuffs as they helped him maintain the ordered position. But she had gone too far.....she had gone lost in her own pleasure. After all, this was a punishment and not about giving the sub his pleasure and allowing him to enter sub-space. But......Mycroft was bleeding. There were places where the cropping-lines had crossed, and blood was dripping down his body. She had betrayed his trust in her....

She went to his side and touched his wrist gently. Released first his right wrist and then his left. He was 'gone', but as she looked into his eyes, that were glazed, she could see, that he was not in sub-space. He was not 'flying' or 'floating', but on his way to a sub-drop. That had not been her intention.

She guided him to the couch and guided him down, so he was lying on his back. It would hurt, lying on his back, but she had to get that cage of. It had been a mistake to use that. Mycroft must have set his mind to be obedient and he would have been that without the cage anyway.

As soon as she removed it...and Mycroft gave a hiss again as the sound did slide out of his urethra, his cock began to swell. And Lady Smallwood could see that not only was Mycroft a 'shower', that is a man whose cock is impressive even in flaccid condition, but he was a 'grower' as well. As soon as his erection had appeared, Lady Smallwood could see that Mycroft Holmes possessed a rather impressive male organ. Not in the league of a John Watson, but certainly above average. And with a very nice shape. A bit curved and with that slightly 'mushroom'-shaped head that could drive both men and woman wild as they were fucked.

She pressed Mycroft's erection up against his stomach and pushed him gently so he now was lying on his stomach without getting his cock trapped the wrong way by his body-weight.

She pulled the blanket up over him and left for a few seconds, so she could get out of the outfit and she returned after a very few moments, only dressed in her black silk dressing-gown, with a jar of cream She removed the blanket and began to apply it on Mycroft's welts and carefully on his wounds. It would speed the healing-process and would soothe the pain as well.

Lady Smallwood discovered that Mycroft was looking at her and he had a smirk, “Doesn’t it destroy the purpose of a punishment, if you soothe the pain afterwards?”, he asked.

Thank God, the 'drop' had been prevented. She smiled, “Welcome back. And have you never heard of 'after-care'?”

He smiled again, “Not when the pain is supposed to be a punishment.”

She frowned, “Have you never been punished as a child?”

“Not corporally...no. It would be an 'Arctic climate' and isolation until my mother had decided that we had learned the lesson. But a spanking...never.”

“To have to wait until the grown-up has decided that it is enough, is rather cruel.....even more cruel than a spanking. Because as soon as the punishment is delivered, you are forgiven. That is the point. Just like being a Catholic.”

He smiled again, “So I'm forgiven?”

She shook her head, “Not yet.”

Mycroft turned his head and looked out in the room, resting his head on his hands, “No..I see. I honestly didn't think you would let me off the hook that easily...and I had feared so much more.”

Lady Smallwood asked, “What did you expect, then?”

Mycroft turned a bit, lying on his side, since she had finished applying the cream, “I feared something like: I would be naked, wearing a heavy butt-plug and with stripes from a whip on my buttocks and thighs and back. Wearing a 'humbler' and crawling on my hands and knees on a leash. And crawling in the corridors of Whitehall while everybody watched. And the worst part is that I would deserve every part of that punishment, because I betrayed your trust and had you humiliated so extensively.”

She smiled back, “You have the welts and the stripes.......and I have betrayed your trust today as well...”

Mycroft frowned, “How?”

“You are bleeding. That was one of the conditions, we agreed on. No blood, no wounds...”

Mycroft closed his eyes in order to feel how his body was and then he opened them again and lifted the blanket, “You removed the cage.....and the wounds can't be that bad. They don't feel that bad.”

“It is because of the cream. You will need dressing strips. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have.....”

To Lady Smallwood's surprise she was suddenly lying on the couch as well and in Mycroft's arms. That man was incredible strong... and he looked at her, “I hope this is OK. But you haven't harmed me more than I deserved. You have lived with a terrible tension for a long time: Magnussen, the parliament-bomb, Moriarty, your husband, Sherlock on his way to Serbia and my false accusations. Then Norbury turned out to be a traitor....like a fox right in the middle of our 'chicken run'. And what else might she have betrayed? If you should not be allowed to let go....then I don't know who should. I'm fine....honestly.”

....and it was first as Mycroft said that, that Lady Smallwood discovered that her cheeks were wet.

She sighed, “Well, you are really a switch. There is nothing submissive about you now!”

Mycroft sat up on the couch and so did Lady Smallwood. He looked at her and said, “I did disappoint you before, didn't I?”

She shook her head, “No...not 'disappoint'....more 'surprise', I think. My husband, who was so much a softy.....Even he would have put up more fight against me. That is what I enjoy. To bend people according to my will. Using my power as a dominatrix or my intelligence. You are usually the same way. Enjoying manipulating people, using your intelligence and sometimes gently...and sometimes more.....devastatingly, if necessary. And between me and you: Lord Edwin is not really a match for you and me in that area, not intelligence-wise, even if he does process a lot of power like you and me. And I know that I can not match your intelligence, even if I am a member of Mensa. But now....today. You were obedient from the moment you came. I didn't want a 'slave', Mycroft. I wanted you. And I realise that the fight inside you, the mental fight you had to fight to get here, to accept whatever I would do. That did happen in the car on its way to my house, didn't it?”

Mycroft nodded, “Partly.....and from the moment I realised, that I still owed you. Sometimes I'm just as much an idiot as my brother....but please don't tell him.....regarding human behaviour. I can analyse it and use it, but not always understand it...not emotionally. That is why I sometimes find people's actions to be so...illogical and stupid. I think the scientists at Baskerville did forget something, when they fiddled with our genes.”

Lady Smallwood smiled and pointed at his body, “Well, I think the outcome is rather gorgeous!”

Mycroft frowned and looked down and saw his still erect cock and reached for the blanket..

“Don't!”, said Lady Smallwood, “You are really, oh what is the word...'eye-candy'. Come!” and she reached for him and pointed down at the couch. It was big and more than sufficient for both of them.

They were lying down again. And she said, “I really betrayed your trust in me. I forgot that your submission was a gift to me and I took it as a claim. I was a bad 'dom'.....and I hope you can forgive me. And of course, the rest of your punishment is over. You betrayed me....I betrayed you.”

And then she smiled again, “And it is 'Elizabeth' again.”

“Well, Elizabeth...”

And he rolled his shoulders, “....I'm not that hurt.... bodily. Are you serious? About my punishment? Because I think I got off the hook rather easily.”

“Don't you want it to be over? Did you like what I did to you?”

Mycroft smiled and pointed at his erection, “Does it honestly look as if I'm not enjoying myself? The only thing that was a real punishment in all this, was the cage. And it was a weird and nevertheless interesting feeling to have that sound in.”

He paused and studied her face, “You are interested in having sex with me. You do not only want my obedience and submission, You want me ....”

She smiled and began to touch him, “I want you. This you. This strong and yet caring man. The real Mycroft. You are better at this 'hiding your real self' than your brother....and he is rather good at it too. To hide the real 'Sherlock' and 'Mycroft' behind your walls of defence. Him hiding behind his 'sociopath-mask' and you hiding behind your 'Ice-man' demeanour. You are such an amazing man, Mycroft Holmes, and I should have married you the first time I saw you...even if I would have been accused of 'robbing a cradle'. I am painfully aware that I'm 16 years older than you.....but I made the mistake of my life marrying that husband of mine.”

“I couldn't have given you the title, the money or the position then.”

“I know. You were...what? 18?”...and then she smirked, “And had a different hair-colour. And the next time I saw you, you had changed....not only the colour of your hair, but you seemed cold, distant.”

She pointed at Mycroft's crotch, “You are not naturally dark-haired. You are almost ginger. Your pubic hair gives you away...and so do your fair skin and your freckles. Why do you dye your hair?”

Mycroft paused a bit before he answered, “I was 16 when you saw me the first time. A chubby, almost fat and unhappy teenager, visiting aunt Marjorie, 'M', the leader of 'the secret intelligence'. My mother had not done anything about it. About my over-eating and my unhappiness.....”

Mycroft paused again and continued, “I could blame my parents for a lot of things. For not taking enough care of me...and Sherlock ...and Eurus..”

“How is Eurus? Have you been in contact with her institution lately?”

“She is still uncommunicative..but I have plans in the foreseeable future, together with psychologists, psychiatrists and behavioural therapists, to do ...something. It would involve John and Sherlock as well. And hopefully it will heal some of all the wounds that we all have. Mental wounds. But I can't say more about it for now...so: my parents. I've come to realise that they have been just as much victims of the 'Baskerville projects' as we have been. Sherlock, Eurus and I. Not everything that was done in the '30ties and '40ties and '50ties were recorded. And God knows what was done to those people, including my parents. So...I just accept and live with their flaws and failures. Accept that my mother scolds me unjustly.....and accept that Mrs. Hudson is more Sherlock's mother than Mummy would ever be able to be. You can't ask an elephant to walk the tightrope. You can't ask my mother to have deep feelings. My parents do their best. But it took me years to accept that....and Sherlock is still starving for especially Mummy's love, which she can't really give him....”

Lady Smallwood looked at Mycroft, “Should we close down the facilities?”

“No....they will just go 'underground', more than they already are. You do realise that they work together with facilities and USA, in Brazil, in China, in India, in Australia and in Germany? Even in Russia...I'm not quite sure that Trump or Putin know anything about that cooperation across the borders. Or rather 'under the borders'. Science-people have never respected political borders. And they still have this idea about creating the perfect human species.”

She smiled at him, “I think they managed rather nicely with you and Sherlock.”

He looked at her with a frown, “Sherlock..yes. His mind is more amazing than mine. He could do my job, but I could never do his. He can heighten his senses and notice everything and connect the invisible dots. I can't. I've been a shitty big brother, because I've let my envy shine through and made him believe that he was not worthy of love and care and my admiration. My 'excuse' was that I was damaged too, but not as bad as he was. It took me years to find out what had happened to him and Eurus....and then it was too late. And I've always envied him his body. I have to work hard to look as I do. He is just that way, with only a little exercise.”

Lady Smallwood smiled, “I admit that your brother could have been the living model for a Greek God or Michelangelo's 'David'...except that that statue does have a very small penis and Sherlock's face is so much more beautiful. But that is the problem, isn't it?. He is too much: too intelligent, too pretty, too handsome, too gorgeous and that make people hate him and push him away. Everybody would assume that he, being model-gorgeous, would be out of any person's league. It is better now...as he has aged. He doesn't quite look like an angel or a elven-prince any more. He looks more.....obtainable. You...on the other hand...are a very handsome man, Mycroft Holmes, and the only reason why a lot of people haven't already proposed to you, is that you emit so much coldness as if you were the whole Antarctic Continent. I've looked behind that defence a long time ago......but I was married. And you have still not answered my question: why did you dye your hair? And what was that with 'M'?”

”I dyed my hair because people tend to take dark-haired people more seriously and perceive them as older. And I wanted to look older. And aunt Marjorie saw how unhappy I was and took me under her wings. Trained me, put me on a diet and made me into an agent, while I was at University......and that lead to the catastrophe that made me build my defences even higher.”

Mycroft lifted his hand, “I'm even hiding it in plain sight...and no one asks about it. I was married.”

Lady Smallwood frowned, “I didn't know..”

“Nobody knows. I was undercover in France. At the Sorbonne University. Under a false name...or not so false. They are my names after all: Mycroft Joseph Vernet Holmes. I'm named 'Joseph Vernet' after one of my ancestors. So...I used my names 'Joseph Vernet'. I speak French fluently and pretended to be a student at Sorbonne. I was put on a group of Tunisian students, as they were under suspicion of planning terrorism. I married the sister of one of the students. She was intelligent and very beautiful.....and I had to marry her to keep her in France. I allowed myself to love and be loved....and therefore I failed to notice what I should have noticed. And.....”

Mycroft was interrupted by Lady Smallwood, “Oh my God. The 'Sorbonne-shooting'. Oh dear.....but none of it was your fault, Mycroft. Honestly..it wasn't.”

“I felt that it was. She died in my arms, Elizabeth and I...I decided that I would never allow myself to be that vulnerable again. So that is why I changed...”

She smiled at him, “And if I proposed?”

He smiled back, “I would say 'no'. Because you and I can't allow ourselves to give up our positions in the government. You know that. Our successors are not in place yet......and to leave Great Britain in the hands of only Sir Edwin. No....and we would not be allowed to maintain our positions as a married couple.”

She made a gesture around in the room and towards him, “And this?”

“Is not out of the question. We'll just have to be discrete. I would like it to continue...You are better at it than Sherlock. And he is rather good at it.”

“Do you want more?”

He now had a dangerous glint in his eyes, “Oh yes...so much more. I'm not finished with you yet!”

And then Mycroft kissed her, pushed his tongue in her moth and she did let him. She was still an attractive woman, who visited the gym regularly. She looked younger than her age...and he looked older. She was mostly a sadist and he often needed to submit and enjoyed pain. They did fit together.....but never as a married couple.

He moved his hand down to her clitoris and cunt...and oh yes...she was wet and ready. He moved his head further down. Kissing her breasts and sucked at her right nipple and pinched the left lightly. Oh yes....he could remember how to make a woman wild and aroused. And then his mouth and tongue found her clitoris.....Mycroft sucked and nipped at it and pushed one finger into the tight heat of her vagina...her cunt. Crocked his finger a bit and wondered if she had the same spot, as only a few women had. That his wife had had. The only other woman he had been with. The G-spot. As Elizabeth arched of the couch and moaned, Mycroft smiled...oh yes. She had!

And then he continued rubbing that spot inside her and was rewarded with a flow of moisture. And as he continued to such and lick and move his fingers in and out of her vagina, she came with a 'Oh God!” and there were so much more moisture running out of her.

“Oh...I'm so sorry”, she almost sobbed.

“Whatever for?”

“My husband always accused me of peeing, when I did that.”

Mycroft looked her into her eyes and licked the moisture of his fingers....slowly...

“Would I do that, if it was pee? We have established that your late husband was an idiot, Elizabeth. An idiot who couldn't recognize female ejaculation.” and he bowed down and began to lick her again. Gently, because he knew she would be sensitive.

“Stop and come up here....I want you to fuck me. Hard...I have thought about how it would be to have that big fat cock of yours inside me, since I saw how it was shaped. So fuck me, Mycroft Holmes!”

“Is that an order, Ma'am?”

“You bet it is!”

____________________________

After they both had orgasmed...almost simultaneously, they were lying on the couch under the blanket again. Mycroft on his back, because he was fine and the pain not that bad, and Elizabeth with her head on his shoulder.

“I know it is a bit late...but we didn't use a condom.”, said Mycroft.

Elizabeth giggled, “Yes a bit late, indeed. Bur you are 'clean' and so am I. And the risk of me getting pregnant is below zero. I am well on the other side of my menopause. So no risk there.....and before you ask how I can be that 'young' down there....local hormonal treatment. You didn't spot the ring inside me, did you?”

Mycroft frowned, “No..”

“The blessings of modern science. A ring...emitting hormones enough to keep everything fresh and moist. And no risk of breast-cancer.”

And she turned and looked at him, and caressed his cheek, “I really should have married you. This was the best sex, I've ever had.”

“And as I said, I'm just a squire and not a lord. I could not have given you that position in society, that later brought you to our 'secret cabinet'.”

“No...but you could be a lord now, if you would just accept that knighthood, that has been waiting for you for years. And you know just as well as I do, that it is not an empty title and a piece of metal. There is a piece of land waiting for you as well. She is not getting younger...and you were a fool, when you didn't ask her, as you tried to get Sherlock that pardon. The politicians might be idiots. Unthankful idiots, who forgot who saved them all from being blown to confetti-pieces that November. But the Queen didn't forget. And she hates to be ungrateful. She knew exactly whom she should thank for still being alive.....So, Mycroft Holmes. Couldn't you please reconsider that knighthood again, and persuade John and Sherlock to accept theirs too?”

Mycroft frowned, “She would have given Sherlock the pardon?”

Lady Elizabeth sighed, “Of course she would. You forget what kind of Lady she was and still is. Haven't you heard about her famous 'small trips in a Jeep around Balmoral'?”

Mycroft laughed, “Oh yes...and especially men who claimed that women couldn't drive, were invited....and needed clean underwear afterwards. I was too young to ever have been invited. But Elizabeth, I'll promise to think about it, but only if John and Sherlock accept.”

“Fine...she is not getting younger...and I think she wants it settled before everything is too late.”

And then Elizabeth paused, “You do know that that piece of land, she wants to give Sherlock is between that ridiculous little 'posts-stamp' of a farm, that John has inherited and a piece of the old 'Homes'-estate?”

Mycroft frowned, “No, I didn't know that. I'll think about it.”

And he continued, “So...what now?

“It depends.....Something to eat? A bit of sleep? Get dressed and move up to the living room and pretend that we didn't have sex?”

He smiled at her, “Right now I'm fine, even if I am a bit drowsy...endorphins I presume. So maybe something to eat and then a bit of sleep. Just here...with you? And then I would like to see what you have in the cupboards, even if you say that my punishment is over.”

“You are a very wicked man, Mycroft Holmes...”

“Who sometimes need a firm hand and to be reminded that he is human..and has a body and not only a mind.”

________________________

Before he called his chauffeur and was fetched and arrived at his office and later at the meeting the next day, he had had something to eat and a shower and Lady Smallwood had indeed showed him more of the contents of the cupboards and she had made him 'float', not adding to his light injuries, but he left her with a pleasant buzzing in his body and a slight soreness around his nipples and his arsehole and his cock...or rather inside his cock:

After they had eaten a light meal and Elizabeth made sure that Mycroft got a lot of protein, they slept on the couch. It was soft enough and big enough.

And then Mycroft had been awakened with a hand on his shoulder and as he opened his eyes, he saw Elizabeth standing beside the couch. In her black silk dressing gown and only a little else, and a part of Mycroft was so much more awake, than the rest of him by that sight.

She laughed and touched his erection with the tip of her riding crop and Mycroft moaned and there was already a drop of pre-come in the slit.

“Oh so eager...and almost like a Pavlovian dog.”, she smirked.

And Mycroft hurried down from the couch and did kneel before her and looked up, “As I said, Ma'am. I'm still yours...”

And then he got up on his feet and towered over her with his almost 6 feet and 2 inches, “But that depends... if you want me to be obedient or.....”

She turned around and pointed at the cupboards, “It depends.... if you are curious enough about the contents of these cupboards. There are immense pleasure inside those...for a masochist..”

She turned around again and opened her black silk dressing gown and did let it fall on the floor. She wore some of her black leather outfit from before, but her groin was naked except from a line of black pearls that went from her leather corsage down between her legs and up between her buttocks.

“Or....I can remove this outfit and we can have normal sex.”

Mycroft swallowed and knelt again, “I think...I think I'm all yours, Ma'am.”

First he was sent to the toilet and she had ordered him to take an enema. He had done it before and he had never felt that it was unpleasant. And Elizabeth gave him privacy to do it on his own. Then he showered and felt ready for whatever she had planned. There was still a lot of the day left...or rather the evening, and Mycroft knew that he would sleep well afterwards.

She wasn't in the room as he came back and he just knelt on the mat. Feeling how he entered deeper into the submission. It was easy this time. Maybe because his back and buttocks still throbbed a bit. But not bad....just a reminder that he had a body.

When she came in, she showed him to something that looked a bit like a doctors examination-couch, with leg-rests and a carved out area so there was easier access to the groin of the person lying there.

Mycroft was told to lie down and his legs were put in the leg-rests.

“This is normally the time where I would use restrains on my husband to keep him in place....but I'll avoid them with you. Just stay in place. Can I relay on your obedience, Mycroft?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Lady Smallwood pushed Mycroft a bit around, until he was positioned the right way. He just followed her directions.

Then she went to one of the cupboards and returned with a set of nipple-clamps with a heavy chain between them as she said, “It is strange that you and Sherlock never considered to use 'softer' means to achieve pain. This will hurt, but not cause any damage as will the rest of the things I intend to use on you: pain...most certainly...but no real harm. And that is a better way to still your mind, than something that do harm. I can see the appeal in that too, though. The threat and the pain, that last longer. But it is more dangerous and more damaging....and if this works just as well....”

And then she looked sternly at him, “You are not allowed to come, before I allow it. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ma'am!”

Ad then she put first one clamp on Mycroft's left nipple and then on his right. He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths...and whimpered a bit as she let the chain fall down on his stomach.

“I will advice you to lie very still. The slightest movement will make the chain shift....and abuse your nipples!”

Mycroft was breathing...in and out....to soothe the pain. It was not unbearable, but it was intense. Filled his mind with white noise. And then the pain faded a bit.

Then he was told to open his eyes and Elizabeth had something in her hand. Mycroft eyes widened as he saw what it was: a rather big rubber butt-plug....and the top was vibrating and sort of twisting around and the base grew bigger and smaller and it was ….'humming'. But even the smallest version of the base was at the size of Elizabeth's wrist. There was no way that it could fit into his arse.....and he wanted it there.... desperately!

She must have seen his hunger because she smiled, “Now you want it, don't you?”

Mycroft's mouth was dry and he moved a bit and the chain shifted....and he moaned...

She smiled again and said, “Well, I better prepare you then, because there is no way that it will fit in you now. But you want it, want to feel how it fills you up......”

Mycroft actually whimpered and his cock was stiffer than ever and the pre-come was dribbling. He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. His hands were gripping firmly at the handles. Maybe he should ask for restraints after all. He fought so hard to come back from the rim of orgasm. There was no way, he would let her have that victory, that he could come untouched without permission.

He felt something at his arse-hole and as he looked down, he noticed that Elizabeth was wearing long black rubber gloves, instead of the leather versions she had on before. He closed his eyes again and did let the sensation wash over him as she put one finger and then two fingers inside him. The stretch...the slight burn. It was heaven, because he knew she wouldn't hurt him. Not tear him.

Three fingers! Pumping in and out of him and now four and......her whole hand was inside him...Oh God....it was so intense! She had stilled her hand and now she asked, “Colour?”

“Green! Oh God! Green! Ma'am!. Please...”

And he didn't even know what he begged for and then he felt how she stretched him even more as the butt-plug was pushed inside.....and now he understood the purpose of the twisting and turning top. It would massage his prostate. He opened his eyes and saw the moisture dripping out of him.....she was milking him!

And that was actually a mercy....because now it was easier to avoid a threatening orgasm. Mycroft caught his breath and watched as she went over to the cupboards again and brought back a black leather-case. She opened it and it was filled with long thin steel objects of various sizes and shapes. Sounds!

She looked at him and asked, “Colour, Mycroft? Do you still want to try them?”

He wanted...everything...so he just nodded and she changed to nitril-gloves. And turned the butt-plug down a bit.

“I'll let you catch your breath, before I ask again: do you want to try them?”

Mycroft took a deep breath, “I trust you, Elizabeth and I want to try this. Maybe....maybe turn the butt-plug off a bit. I was so close to coming.....and I want to try those sounds. It was a weird, but interesting feeling earlier. So yes...please...”

Elizabeth turned the butt-plug off, but did let it remain inside Mycroft and she pushed it a bit.

“Do you know what you do to me, lying there....moaning? I'm tempted to keep you here as a fuck-toy. As a slave...tethered to the wall. You are so god-damned handsome and should never be allowed to wear clothes! Oh God...I should have married you!"

And those words made Mycroft laugh and despite his sore nipples and that butt-plug stretching his arse, he was now a bit longer away from the threatening orgasm and he smiled at her.

She squeezed some of the gel on the tip of his cock and said, “We'll take it slowly.....and I make sure that you give your consent, before I continue. It is going to be intense and if you come...you are forgiven and I'll only punish you a little afterwards!”

And then she pushed the tip of the sound inside his cock. It was....weird again.....but at the same time...good. She turned on the butt-plug again but on a lower setting and Mycroft just closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensations. So stupid that he and Sherlock had not thought about something like that. Mycroft's body was 'buzzing'...he was floating.

Then he was ordered to open his eyes and Elizabeth was putting a bigger sound into his cock. It did burn a bit, but it felt nice and weird at the same time. And the sight of the sound disappearing into his cock, made him moan.  This sound was longer and suddenly he could feel how it came closer to his prostate, that was being massaged from the other side. And as Elizabeth stuck another bigger sound, ridged this time and moved it in and out...and the sight of that ...thing...moving in and out if his cock... and the butt-plug was turned up, the buzzing grew and grew and a strange feeling did build and build...until Mycroft came with a shout.

And as he came to his senses, Elisabeth told him that it had been a 'dry' orgasm. A prostate orgasm and she continued to milk him like that three times. It was like climbing a mountain, getting higher and higher up and.........and then she turned the butt-plug up on the highest setting and as Mycroft almost arched of the couch, she took a firm grip around the chain between the nipple-clamps and tore it of his nipples......and Mycroft came and came. The world turned white and he lost every track of time and existence.....

When he came to his senses the butt-plug had been removed. Ice-packs had been placed on his nipples and on his arsehole, his legs had been moved and the lower part of the couch had been lifted. He was lying rather comfortable on the top of the couch now.

And Elizabeth was kissing him, “Welcome back”, she said.

He smiled, “What about you?”

She laughed, “I came when you came, I only had to touch myself a few strokes, before I had an orgasm too. As I said: I want to keep you here...tethered to the wall.”

He had slept in her guest room during the night and had had the best sleep for ages and they had agreed on calling each other when the need arose.

Before he left her, they had been in the living room and she had tried to persuade him to accept that knighthood again. And then she had said, “I do like what we have here....sexually. And we are both professional enough to not let it show, when we meet later today. But Mycroft, you should really consider finding a partner. And I know you would be a wonderful and caring, albeit very busy and workaholic partner. But you would have to tell him about us...and your needs.”

“Him?”

She smiled, “Yeah...I know. The Kinsey-scale is not an absolute. But your wife and I are the exceptions. You are a bit 'bi', but most of all gay.....and that man would be a better partner for you. You know exactly who I mean...”

“Unfortunately, that man is not gay. He has been married for many years...and there is no way he could be interested in me...that way. So...shouldn't we, you and I, just continue this...'partnership'?”

She smiled again, “You could be surprised.”

He rose and she could see how his shields went back on, “I'm Mycroft Holmes. I'm never wrong, Lady Elizabeth..”

And then she noticed the glint in his eyes and laughed.

And they had talked a bit more about means to occupy Mycroft's mind, without causing too much harm.

Lady Elizabeth had smiled as she told Mycroft how hungry he had looked, as she had shown him the large butt-plug.

He had smiled back, “I think it is a masculine treat. To go to the extremes. If men find out about the pleasures of stuffing things up their arse, some of them are not satisfied before the Eiffel-tower is up there.....and the same with the sounds. Some are not satisfied before they can get a whole metro-train in there...”

He stopped and looked at her, “That is why Sherlock and I always had talked about how much and with what, when we needed the pain. Maybe it was not wise to wait until we were almost desperate, before we called each other. Maybe you and I should....”

“Should engage in this...as prophylactic measures?"

Mycroft smiled back. “Exactly. Once a month maybe?”

She smiled, “Oh yes. And there are still a lot more in those cupboards!”

Chapter Text

Lady Smallwood and Mycroft still agreed that marrying each other would be an unwise decision. Just.....Lady Smallwood wasn't totally sure that it would be 'unwise' after all. She found that she fell more and more in love with the real man behind that bespoke 3-piece suit. But the age-gap of 16 years made her keep silent. And she sort of hoped that Greg, when he finally found out about Mycroft's feelings about him and would finally tell Mycroft that he felt the same way...well, she hoped that Greg could not fulfil all Mycroft's needs and that she would still be needed. And that Greg would be open-minded enough to understand.

___________________

But back to the day after Mycroft had submitted to her. The meeting had been successful and Lady Smallwood had been very concentrated and first after the meeting had ended, she had looked at Mycroft and had said, “Can I have a few words in private with you, Mycroft Holmes?”

And as he nodded and they left, she had said, “I'm dying for a cigarette!”

“They are going to kill you one day”, had Mycroft said as the went outside on the patio.

“Actually..it is none of your business, “ said Lady Smallwood and handed him one and as soon he had lit his own, he smiled at her, “Decoy?”

“No one would be able to read our lips like that and outside here it should be safe enough, so.....how are you? I'll have to admit that I couldn't see one single trace on you that you could be in pain. After all you are bruised and I made you bleed. And not a flinch has given you away. I'm impressed.“

Mycroft smiled at her, a seldom warmth in his eyes, “Please don't worry. I'm fine. I've had worse, before...because I waited too long before I allowed myself to...indulge.”

She smiled at him, “And that makes me admire you even more, Mycroft. Your resilience.”

And she took a drag of the cigarette and asked him, “Have you thought more about my advise?”

He smiled, “Which of them, if I may ask? Go shopping in a sex-shop? Finding a partner? The piercings? Not marrying you?”

She smiled, “The first..and the other three, I guess too. But mostly the first...and the last.”

He took a drag of his cigarette too and leaned against the balustrade, looking out over the city, before he answered, “Well...'not marrying you'....you are right, it is a bit to late for doing that...... and...”

“And...”, interrupted Lady Smallwood, “I and your wife, we are and were the exceptions. You have kept the cards close to your body......and I know the view upon gay men, especially in politics. Or rather 'the view that has been'. We have younger politicians, who openly admit that they are gay. We have famous actors....even married ones. So that would not be a problem....”

Mycroft turned and faced her, “No...maybe not. But Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade has been a married man for decades and has no interest whatsoever in me. As a brother to Sherlock and as an allied in keeping my brother safe, yes. But in no way as a partner. He isn't turned that way. And for the two remaining questions or advises: I'll give it a thought, but right now I'm busy. Sherlock is not in a good place, even if he is recovering and I have to find out, what is going on. And I have to make further plans regarding my sister. We will not see each other for a while, Elizabeth.”

“And that is why you should consider visiting that sex-shop. Like that you can relieve some of the stress, before you get desperate. You know by now, what would work....and that without damage. Just take care, right?”

And then she kissed her finger and touched his cheek. It was to dangerous to kiss him directly, even if she wanted it so badly.

And then she turned around and left.

____________________

On the way home from the meeting and with a surprisingly free afternoon and evening, because of two meetings cancelled, Mycroft decided to follow one of her suggestions and asked the chauffeur to drive him to a very special address, given to him by Lady Smallwood together with a business-card to the establishment.

The façade of the shop was very discreet and first as Mycroft had given Lady Smallwood's card to the concierge, he was allowed inside. Not something Mycroft Holmes was used to. And there he was greeted by a very polite and handsome young man, almost androgynous looking, with light skin and dark brown curly hair and surprisingly green eyes. The young man told him that he had special order from Lady Smallwood to help Mycroft finding exactly what he needed.

And then the young man looked up and down at Mycroft with a smirk that could have matched the smirk that Sherlock and Mycroft mastered to perfection: “My compliments to your tailor!”

Mycroft just frowned at him and the young man explained, “I almost bought it at the first glance. That you are a middle-aged man, who is not so fit at all. A bit too round around the middle. No muscles. Bodily weak. A fact that your tailor at the first glance not quite had been able to disguise...”

And then the young man laughed, “....but I'll let you buy anything in this shop for free, if there isn't a very fit and strong body concealed under that exquisite 3-piece suit.”

And Mycroft just nodded, “You are very observant...” and Mycroft wondered if that young man couldn't be of better use in MI6 or MI5.

The young man now introduced himself as 'Leuris' and he laughed a bit as he saw Mycroft's confusion, even if Mycroft was polite enough not to show it. But the young man did notice anyway.

“That didn't help, did it? You still can't figure out what my gender is, can you?”

Mycroft decided to be honest, “No...I have to admit that you do puzzle me. But that is the idea, isn't it?”

The young man smiled, “Exactly!”

And then the young man told about this special shop and that Mycroft would have to be interviewed and then Mycroft was shown to a private room, where 'his needs could be discussed' as the young man said. He continued to tell a bit more about the shop and that it had a policy of utmost discretion, but Mycroft had spotted that, since there had been that level of security. He had even spotted several hidden cameras.

They sat down on a couch and the young man found a spreadsheet, but then he hesitated, “There is something on your mind?”

Mycroft nodded, “There is. I am a very observant man and I'm usually very good at reading people. So....since I have difficulties....I just wondered. Would you consider working for the government? To confuse people like that could be very useful, working in that area.”

The young man smiled, “Now I'm curious...what can you read about me?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and began, “You are not from England, even if your language is close to perfect. But it is not your first language. You have a problem with your left leg, an injury maybe?Your skin-tone is not quite Caucasian, even if you are rather pale, but that exact skin-tone indicates that there have been dark-skinned ancestors. Your eyes are green, and they should have been brown, if they should fit to your colour of hair and the texture too. So...based on my guess of your....condition....my best guess is that you are from the Caribbean area, where a lot of human varieties are mixed through generations. Most likely from the Dominican Republic. That would fit with your only very faint accent.....”

“My condition?”

“Oh...I'm sorry. It is not my business. And I'm very impolite...”, and Mycroft did blush a bit.

“No..No. It's fine. Go on.”

"Well, at first glance I thought you to be the bearer of '5-alpha-reductase deficiency' or more common: to be a güevedoce or in English "testicles at age twelve”, but looking at you once more I now do believe that you are one of natures rare phenomenons: a true two-gender, a hermaphrodite. And I'm sorry....but you asked me to continue. It is really not my business.”, said Mycroft.

The young 'man' smiled, “I think you are the first person, who got me right after having known me so shortly. Yes...I am a hermaphrodite. And my country and my heritage is right too. I come form a small village, not Las Salinas though, and it was thought for a long time that I was one of those güevedoces.”

'He' smiled a bit sadly and lifted the leg of his trousers a bit and revealed that his left leg was a prosthesis , “It wasn't the only thing wrong with me: I had a defect lower left leg and foot and it was amputated when I was 7. My thigh and knee is OK, but the rest was useless. And another thing: I was so much paler than the rest of the children in the village and could get sunburned easily and.....”

'He' lifted his head, “I was too smart for them. My grandfathers on both sides were hippies, who in the sixties travelled around the world and ended in my village and worked as teachers. They married local women and I suppose there must have been 'gringos' in my family-tree before, since I got so pale. When I didn't turn into a boy at the age of around 12, I was brought to a hospital, where a doctor from England got interested in me. Mostly because he discovered how intelligent I was. I had thought myself several languages by reading books in both my grandfather's 'library'...that was a strange collection of books from all over the world. And by using the internet. We weren't that primitive, that we didn't have computers and net-connection. And to make a long story short, the doctor brought me here to England so I could attend school here and be examined. Not that I had any physical problems, he was just curious....and a gentleman. His interest in me was purely scientific, despite what people said. He died 5 years ago and I had to find my way here in this society. I had no wish to return to my village.”

'He' looked at Mycroft, “Do you want to know more?”

“Yes, please. You have sparked my curiosity”, said Mycroft.

“Well, I have two XX chromosomes and a fragment of a Y sitting on one of the X's. That should make me into a 'Klinefelter', but it hasn't. I produce both testosterone and oestrogen, but I'm sterile. And I have very small breasts and both a vagina and a small penis. Smaller penises have been seen on 'real' men, but my testicles are very small ...and because of that I ended up here in the sex-industry. One of the more creepy colleagues of my beneficiary suggested that, but thank god I ended here instead of in a brothel. So....should we find out about your needs?”

Mycroft frowned, “No...not quite yet. First...which pronoun should I use about you? I don't want you to feel uncomfortable and second, you never answered my question.....and I never thought that you should be out in the field as an active agent. More a behind-the-desk-job...”

“Oh...'he' is fine. I'm feeling as a 'he' today, but it can change.”

And then Mycroft continued the conversation in French, in Russian, in German and in Spanish.....and the young man answered back in almost perfect versions of each language.

Then the young man continued, but this time in Japanese and Canton-Chinese and Mycroft answered . First as Leuris spoke his version of the language from his small village, a mix of ancient Indian language and Spanish, Mycroft laughed and lifted his hands, “I give up. I can't speak that version of Spanish” and then he said something that Leuris didn't quite understand, and he asked, “It..its Serbian, right? I know a bit of Slovene and there are similarities...”

Mycroft smiled, “You are quite skilled. Are you sure that this is the best place for you? And this is not a creepy version of 'what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this', I promise.”

Leuris smiled, “You can't imagine how many people, even here, who want to know how I am in bed. But I'm asexual.....I have never been attracted to anyone, male or female, and I think I have had less than 5 orgasms in my life. I don't know why you are so much easier to talk to, but you are...”

Mycroft smiled again, “Maybe I'm just delaying that I have to undress and find out what I'll like?”

Leuris smiled, “It is easier to find what you need that way, and I'll have to take measurements. I suppose I was put on this job, because I'll never show signs of arousal and make people uncomfortable that way...”

_________________________

And then they found out which items Mycroft would like to buy. And Leuris was right. Being totally naked to have those measurements taken, didn't feel that awkward, because Leuris was very professional and as Mycroft had put on his pants and trousers again, he was asked to leave his upper body naked.

“You'll have to try those nipple-clamps on to find out what type you might like.”, had Leuris said and together they found the rest of the items Mycroft wanted.

Mycroft appreciated that Leuris was so professional, that he didn't lift an eyebrow at the welts and bruises on Mycroft's body. His only comment had been, “I knew I was right about that fit body of yours.”

Leuris promised to think about Mycroft's offer on paying for Leuris' education on a boarding school for very gifted young people and Mycroft's promise to pay for Leuris' flat, since he would have no income.

Mycroft said, “You are very skilled at your job here, but you are sometimes being harassed, and you should not have to put up with that. High intelligence is not so common amongst people in the government......and both Lady Smallwood and I would have to find an apprentice at some time in the future. I can't promise you anything for certain, but I think that your talents are waisted here and I'll like to help you......and please don't misunderstand my intentions. They are strictly professional...”

Leuris smiled, “It is always a pleasure to meet a real gentleman. And you could be surprised how many of the 'gentlemen' coming here who have tried to persuade me into something, that I have no interest in. I'll give it a thought. Is that acceptable?”

Mycroft smiled back, “More than.....and thank you for your help and professionalism.”

__________________________

Of course  Leuris did accept Mycroft's offer and became Lady Smallwood's apprentice. But that is another story.

________________________

That evening Mycroft took a shower and an enema, before he looked at his purchases. He thought for a moment about the suggestion both Lady Elisabeth and Leuris had brought up: that he should have his nipples pierced, and maybe even having a 'Prince Albert' done. Leuris had shown pictures and videos of people with those piercings and what they could use them for, if they were chasing the bliss from sensations bordering on pain. Just a thing if Mycroft wanted to distract his mind. The problem was that the healing-time could be problematic and Mycroft knew that he wouldn't have much private time the next couple of months.

So...with those thoughts pushed aside, Mycroft was now sitting in his bed, looking at the things he had bought.

First he put in the butt-plug. Not the absurdly big one Lady Smallwood had used on him, but still a version that would 'pulse' in size. His hole was still rather relaxed from what she had done to him, so it was easy to put it in. And then he found the remote and chose a programme. Then he took one of the set of nipple-clamps. A set connected with a chain, that could move a bit and give more sensation. They did bite....and Mycroft hissed a bit at the pain. He leaned back against the headboard and imagined that it was someone else that had put those clamps on him and right now was fingering his arsehole.

Mycroft opened his eyes and smiled a bit at the look of his very erect cock. This could be over very fast if he didn't take precautions, so he found the padded leather-strap, that could force his balls a bit down and prolong or delay his orgasm. He did spread his legs and tugged a bit at his balls and slipped the strap on.

He closed his eyes again and let the sensations wash over him. He chose one of the silicone 'sleeves', designed for masturbation. All of them were clear and looked most of all like sea-cucumbers. He had been shown how he could use one of them upside down, so the ridges and tiny spikes would affect the head of his cock.

“For deeper sensation', had Leuris explained. And he had suggested that Mycroft bought the 'multi-purpose -sleeve' as well. He had explained, “It is a bit ridged for a deeper sensation for you, but it made such a way that it works like a condom and for anal play it is rather useful if your partner haven't had time for an enema and you want to avoid...'messiness'. You just have to prepare your partner, as it is rather big and just can't be put inside the arse without preparation.”

Mycroft bought it, because maybe someday he could find a partner again..

He moved the 'sleeve' up and down a bit en enjoyed the feeling. It was so much better than a hand.

And now it was time for the bit unromantic part: nitrile-gloves and antiseptic cream and he chose the 3rd sound in the sound-set, he had bought. He looked in fascination as it went easily down his erect cock. He moved it up and down a bit before he carefully followed the urethra until he could feel the sound on the underside of his cock. He left it there...and took it slowly out again. Gasping at the sensation. Then he chose a bigger version and enjoyed the way it looked as it disappeared down his cock. And how it felt as it moved inside him. He would never had thought that this was a thing for him....but it was.

He had stretched himself enough for the next version to go inside. This version had ridges and was much longer, curved and was made of softer material.....and had a remote. He carefully nudged it even further down and gasped as it reached his prostate. He just left it there...buzzing a bit.

And now for the last item. A prostate-massager looking like a tilted 'U'. One part eased up his anus and pressing at the side of his rectum-wall, where the prostate was located behind, and the other part affecting the prostate by pressing at the perineum, with a slightly ridged part. The last part would press gently against his balls. That was the reason for the carefully made measurements. Not all men had the same measurements between those three spots. Just to have it sitting there was very arousing and Mycroft could see and feel that the moisture from the prostate was oozing out through the hollow tube of the rubber-sound. A buzzing was building slowly in his body......and he was distant. Floating....his nipples did hurt a bit, but he couldn't care less.

He whimpered a bit as he closed his eyes and imagined that another person was doing this to him. He moved his hands away from his body and had now the remote to the massager in one hand and the remote to the rubber-sound in the other and slowly he turned up the effect on both.

Oh God! White hot pleasure ran through his body and he lost track of time......and then he did let go of the remote to the sound, took a firm grip around the chain and turned the massager up one more notch and yanked the nipple-clamps away from his nipples. And Mycroft arched of the bed with a shout.

The orgasm did surprise him with its intensity and length...and when he came to his senses, he had lost track of time. The programmes in the devises had shut down the buzzing and he just laid there, blissed-out, before he eased the sound and the massager out and first then came he to think of the leather-strap around his balls. That must have been the reason for the extra intense orgasm.

He stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom and cleaned himself with a wet flannel. The rest of the cleaning could wait till the morning.

That night Mycroft had the best sleep in decades.

Chapter Text

And now the rest of the events in the 'Lying Detective' happened: John was visiting the false therapist and got tranquillized and Sherlock discovered Faith's real letter under his chair.

And the events in 'The Final Problem' did unfold: John and Sherlock were scaring Mycroft with burning movies, locked doors, bleeding portraits, running girls and a clown. Sherlock's flat 'exploded' and all the false events on 'Sherrinford Island' happened and I'll pick up the story, only a few hours after they were flown back from the false Musgrave Estate, after John had been freed from the false well and 'Eurus' had been taken away.

Mycroft had been freed from the false holding cell and had been told how it had all been 'smoke and mirrors' and false set-ups. To his own surprise he had cried. He had been talking to psychiatrists too and had been given the reports, he himself had made: about the boy Sherrinford. About what had happened that summer. Based mostly on scraps of sentences that Eurus, the real Eurus, had made through the years, her drawings and her rather disturbing 'stories' scribbled down on pieces of paper or in notebooks. And based on some investigations Mycroft had had made. Not recently....Mycroft had known about this for more than a year, but everything the doctors at Eurus' facility had made in order to make her feel better, hadn't worked, which wasn't odd seen in the light of them knowing now, that she had been raped and abused at the age of 6 and then all the experts had come up with the idea to make all the false events on the 'Sherrinford' island as a film, so Eurus could finally have a chance to heal just a little bit.

Well, not all of the events were for her, for some of the events were meant to heal Mycroft, some to heal Sherlock and some to heal John. Mycroft had asked the actor, who had played 'Moriarty' to make some more scenes long time ago. More than 5 years ago, before the man had shot himself on the roof of Barts and very clever and creative web-artists had copy-pasted the recordings with 'Moriarty' into some of the scenes on 'Sherrinford' and those scenes had been used in the whole plan. Mostly because Mycroft knew that that actor had managed to scare Sherlock and Sherlock would have to get rid of that ghost forever.

All the scenes had been meticulously written down in spread sheets and with descriptions of what the effects would be. There was even a spread sheet for Molly. Why she should hear that Sherlock loved her, but as a sister and friend. And it had helped. Molly had finally accepted that Sherlock could never be a partner for her. He would rip out his heart to protect her, but he could never be in love with her. And that was a closure for Molly as well.

__________________

Mycroft nodded to his chauffeur and greeted his butler as he opened the door to Mycroft's mansion. And then Mycroft took of his jacket and rolled up his shirt-sleeves and went to his kitchen and found a sandwich in the fridge. Then he went to one of his living rooms and turned on the telly and sat down on the sofa. All the reports were lying in front of him and he had planned to read all of them once more, before he would go to bed. He had left a message for Sherlock that he was welcome to stay in Mycroft's house as long as his flat in Baker Street still was in repair.

Mycroft looked with disgust on the sandwich and put it back on the plate untouched. Then he laid down on the sofa to think everything all over again. He had had time to read the whole manuscript in the helicopter and had time to call Greg and tell him that the arrested woman had just been an actor.....and she had been released as soon as Greg had called the chief of the team of psychiatrists, behaviourists, psychologists, directors and other actors, that had made this huge effort to make a film, that could reach Eurus. In the dark, the police and Greg and even Sherlock and John (but of course they had still been drugged) hadn't noticed that the Musgrave Hall and the surroundings had been film-sets. Well, not the house. It had been real enough and had been chosen because it looked so much like Musgrave, and it had been altered, so it could fit to the ruined-Musgrave-story. The real Musgrave was just a real ruin by now. No house, left half burned down, would look a bit like a house after so many years. It was now just a pile of debris.

John and Sherlock had been taken to a private clinic to be checked for residues of the drugs and effects of the rest of the events, as had Mycroft, and both John and Sherlock would be kept there a little longer to talk with psychiatrists. Without giving away that it had all been false events. That was Mycroft's job to tell. Later.

John and Sherlock had talked to the psychiatrists separately, because there was apparently a huge gap between them by now. Mycroft wondered it he had ruined Sherlock's and John's chances of ever finding a path towards each other again. Even if John had been there on the false island and had told Sherlock that they had to be 'soldiers', there had been a distance, close to being not 'friends', but almost 'enemies'. And that puzzled Mycroft, because John and Sherlock had worked together on pranking him. Something must have happened between that cooperation and the false explosion at Baker Street. Or maybe that cooperation had been the only thing that connected them, despite Sherlock's, “That is why he stays!!”

Mycroft didn't have the same abilities to go deep into his 'Mind-palace', but he had an amazing brain after all and he closed his eyes to think all of the events all over once more.....

_______________________

When Mycroft woke again several hours later, Sherlock was sitting in one of the chairs and was reading the newest of the reports, the one which in detail told the 'how' and the 'when' and the 'why' about all the events had been played out on the film-set 'false-Sherrinford' and other places as well. Including how Sherlock and John had been drugged at Baker Street and how the false explosion had 'ruined' Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was awake with a sharp glint from his eyes, but he didn't say anything, just continued reading the last pages and then he put the report down on the table. All the other reports had been moved, so he had apparently read them all.

“How long have you been here?”, wanted Mycroft to know, not quite being able to deduce the right amount of time, Sherlock had been sitting there.

“You are loosing your ability to deduce that? I've been here long enough to eat your sandwich and read all the reports,“ was Sherlock's answer.

Mycroft sat up and looked at Sherlock and asked, “How come, I'm still alive then?”

Sherlock frowned, “Why you....?” Then he paused for a few seconds...and then he pointed at the stack of reports, and took a deep breath, “I'll admit that while I was reading this, I wondered why I was still alive, when my brother apparently despised and hated me so much, that he had almost zero regard for my safety. And had cooperated with one of the most despicable villains, who had ever lived, to ruin my life....and kill others..”

Sherlock lifted his hand to indicate that Mycroft should remain silent, “.......and then I continued reading and...there was another 'you' that apparently would do a lot for me in order to...sort of...keeping me safe. I have to admit: I'm puzzled. And to answer your question: I'm not the one who represents a danger to you...you are....to me.”

And then he looked down at the last report lying on the table and said, “Sometimes I do think about why people.....You, John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, our parents......yell so much at me, when I'm self-destructive. And why you all then, on the other hand, add so much fuel to the fire that burns me? Why do you want me to continue to exist when I'm such a failure, when I disappoint you so much? When I have no good qualities, except from that single one: solving crimes. And at that I'm even no good: I'm too slow and desperate and naïve and too lonely and....and a hopeless addict.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with an abyss of hurt and sadness in his eyes, “You all seem to think, that I do not have feelings and sometimes even accuse me of that. When it is in fact the opposite: my feelings run deep and that I do not always show them, doesn't indicate that I do not feel them.....Just that I choose not to show the world, how vulnerable I am. So, now you can rant about 'sentiment' and 'love' and 'chemical effect'. All the things you have said to feel superior. Hurray, Mycroft, you have won: Yes...you are the smartest one....and yes you were right. Satisfied?!”

Mycroft shook his head, “No...I'm not satisfied. Because I am not the smartest one and I was so terrible wrong...”

And then he rose and went over to Sherlock and knelt down on the carpet in front of Sherlock, who just looked at him with confusion painted all over his face.

“Sherlock, brother mine.....”, and here Mycroft stopped overwhelmed with feelings and then he looked at Sherlock again, “I've been so wrong and I've caused you so much pain and for that I'm truly sorry. Not that it helps much but.....Sherlock. I do love you and there is not anything that I regret more than all the harm, I've caused you. And I can't ask you to forgive me, because I do not deserve that...And I've arranged for a hotel-suite for you, while your flat is being repaired...”

”You do not want me here?”, wanted Sherlock to know.

“Oh...but I do. I just thought that you wouldn't want to be near me, after having read all the reports and...”

Sherlock stopped him, “I do not like that you are sitting like that...on the floor. Please. We can both sit on the couch...”

And there sitting on the couch, Mycroft continued, “Sherlock, you must understand that you are highly suggestive right now. Because of the drugs that you and John had been given, so you wouldn't notice that it was all smoke and mirrors on that false island. So...reading those reports: reading one...and then it is the truth and then you read the other and then that content is the truth. But you are not alone affected by those drugs, that are still in my system too, because I had to believe that everything happening on that island was the truth as well, or else it would have no effect on Eurus, but you are still highly affected by the drugs, that Mary had given to you ever since you returned from Serbia. John was easier for her to drug: she could put it in his food or his tea, but you were more difficult. It had to be very small amounts, but constantly. Something that you touched almost every day......”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with a sudden understanding in his eyes, “That is the reason why you had to burn my flat? To get rid of the drugs?”

Mycroft nodded, “Could you imagine if the press got their teeth in the fact that such a drug does exist? Can you imagine the turmoil? Now it is easier to claim that your flat need a thorough cleaning because of sod and fire...”

And suddenly Sherlock could see the further complications, “Oh dear Lord....has the British Government used it?”

Mycroft shook his head, “Not the British....no...”

Sherlock nodded, “I see. Well that explains the election in the United States, I suppose..”

Mycroft looked serious, “And why Putin did try to intervene. A lot can be said about that man and his view upon human rights, but he has no interest in having a moron as president in the United States.....and Pence is even worse. An intelligent idiot...the worst kind. But it takes time to prove the fraud and we can't regrettably not intervene. Not yet.”

“I see. And my flat? My bedroom wasn't destroyed..”

“No, But the cleaning is very profound. Your Stradivarius has been sent to a specialist and all your belongings are being replaced if the cleaners can track the drug and the items can't be cleaned.. That means that John's chair has to go and strangely enough both your coffee-table and your dining-table. Your chair and the couch can be cleaned and....I'm sorry Sherlock, but do you remember Umberto Eco's “The name of the Rose”?”

Sherlock frowned, “Oh, I do...the poison was in the book and if they licked their fingers.....”

Mycroft nodded and said, “ The majority of Mary's poison was on paper...that is on your books and your music sheets...”

“Oh...”

“I have of course strived after finding exact copies...and if that was impossible, I have had them cleaned, but it would be with traces..”

“But not my music-sheets with my own compositions...”

“No. But photos were made so you can recreate them.....I'm sorry Sherlock. But they were the most contaminated..”

Sherlock nodded and then a faint blush was to be seen on his cheeks as he said, “My bedroom...thoroughly?”

Mycroft smiled a genuine smile, “Sherlock. They are professionals and my people and unless you still have drugs under the floorboards, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I can assure you that they will not lift an eyebrow at finding butt-plugs or riding crops or canes..”

Sherlock smirked, “And your DNA on all of it!”

“Which they will not test for. It is not necessary. They will just scan for the suggestive-drug..”

Now Sherlock smirked again, “And you are sure of that?”

And Sherlock had the pleasure of seeing Mycroft paling a bit before he found his phone and tapped a message.

Then Mycroft cleared his throat, “Do you want more knowledge than the contents in those reports?”

Sherlock turned serious and nodded, “Why....why are you the way you are towards me? Do you hate me? Or love me? I'm just so confused.....and it might be the drugs, but I can't see how things are for real. Please...”

Mycroft nodded and took Sherlock's hand, “I love you! Even if I have been a shitty big brother to you. But sometimes events forced me to....make damage-control. And use you. I have sometimes tried to push you away from me for....reasons. But I do love you. I better start with the beginning then. Not mine. Yours: many years ago a 7 year old boy was asked to sit on the sofa and a little wailing bundle was placed in his lap and in his hands. You, Sherlock. And we looked at each other and as it sometimes is with newborns, they have a depth in their eyes, as if the real age of their souls does shine through and at that exact moment even the most hard-core scientists believe in souls and re-incarnation. And you looked at me and stopped crying and from that time I swore that I would protect you and teach you 'All The Important Things'. A year after that, another bundle was place in my hands and I looked at another newborn. But I never felt the same connection. Eurus was....different. She appeared so much smarter than you. She was happy making the math and learning languages. She went off the scale when we were tested. She drew the most talented drawings way beyond her age and wrote stories. You did that too, do you remember? You wrote fantastic stories in notebooks about pirates. And they were well written, with a start, a middle and an ending. But Eurus' stories were weird. A child's version of Steven King, Edgar Allan Poe and Lovecraft combined. No beginnings and no ends, just disturbing Gothic stories. And after...everything... she continued writing, but it wasn't easy to read as she would mix the languages, so you would have to be able to read more than 20 languages to read them. We based a lot of the scenarios on 'false-Sherrinford' on those stories. And it was by reading one of her earlier stories that I, about a year ago, found out that Sherrinford had raped her....”

Mycroft paused and covered his eyes with his hand, “It was my fault.....” and Sherlock saw to his horror that Mycroft actually sobbed. Mycroft had really let his shields down.

Mycroft just indicated with his hand that Sherlock should give him more time and then he looked up again, “I was asked to look after you and Eurus, too, but I valued my exam higher. And Sherrinford said that he didn't mind looking after you. And then he......”

Sherlock frowned, because suddenly some faint memories finally made sense, “He raped me too, Mycroft!”

“What?!”

And then Sherlock told about what he had remembered...and repressed for so many years. And as he told, he remembered more and more and then he stopped and said, “But that can in no way have been your fault, Mycroft. You were what, 14?.....And were were our parents in all that? And don't tell me that Rudy and Marilyn hadn't got the faintest clue, that Sherrinford was the real 'Peter Wiggins'...”

Mycroft frowned, “Peter Wiggins....the real psychopath. Well it could fit on Sherrinford....But oh God, Sherlock. I feel even more guilty now, and I should have seen it in Eurus' stories. It makes so much more sense now...I'm so so sorry...so sorry...”

And Mycroft did hide his head in his hands and began silently to cry again.

Sherlock moved and gave Mycroft a hug and allowed him to rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder and moved his hands in soothing circles on Mycroft's back, as he said, “And I might regret it tomorrow...but right now I can only say that I can forgive you.”

Then Mycroft pulled himself together and said, “I don't deserve that ….and I'm so sorry..”

Sherlock smiled, “For being human? For finally letting yourself show emotions? For finally being out of that hellish constricting shell of yours?

Mycroft smiled a genuine smile, but a worried smile non the less, “All of that, I suppose. How can you be such a good person, Sherlock? You are amazing....how can you forgive me for such a failure? All my failures?”

Sherlock paused a bit before he said something, “Do you remember when I was away...in Tibet?”

“Yes, I do..”

“The abbot in that monastery did teach me something very important: that the first victim, if you are hell-bent on revenge, would be your self...”

Mycroft nodded, “I understand. And if Sherrinford was in this room right now?”

“I don't know. If he didn't represent a danger to me anymore? When he ruined Eurus and me.....and our families. He did ruin himself too, didn't he? I would like him to know the terrible consequences his actions had. But killing him? Would it give us an intact Eurus? An undamaged me? I hate him with all my heart, but I don't want to use my life finding him, so I could have my revenge.....And by the way. I'm happy that 'Moriarty' was just one hell of an actor, because now I can finally get him out of my head. He did scare the living shit out of me!”

“That was why you had to experience those scenes.....”

“Yeah...I see that. Have you ever tried to find Sherrinford?”

“I have...and so have you.”

“I?”

“Yeah....those two years away. Some of the jobs were MI6....and searching for Sherrinford. I have searched for him from the top of society and you have from the bottom...and he is nowhere to be found..”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, “There are a few totally closed countries. He might have hidden in them. And there is a bottom below the 'bottom of society'. If he is there...was there...we can't find him. And shouldn't we just leave it there? He ruined himself and his father and mother too, and finding him will not mend Eurus nor me...”

And then Sherlock smiled at Mycroft, “I've missed you!”

Mycroft frowned, “I've been here all the time. Sometimes so close that I've almost suffocated you.....so what do you mean?”

Sherlock smiled, “This 'you'. This Mycroft, who I adored. My big brother who told me 'All The Important Stuff'...even if he thought me to be an idiot compared to Eurus. The Mycroft who showed me how to use a microscope and told me stories about pirates and looked in 'The Three Carridebs'-book with me to find the clues. That 'Mycroft'.”

Sherlock paused and continued, “The 'Mycroft' I saw glimpse of at a few occasions: the one who sat beside me after I overdosed after Victor and Sebastian. The one who risked his own life to get me out of Serbia. The one who sat by my bed in hospital after I was shot, even if you couldn't touch my murderer. The one who shouted in fear after I shot Magnussen and the one who got so scared on the plane after it had landed again, because you realised, that you had almost been too late. The one who volunteered to die to save John....that 'Mycroft'. And then I do not understand the other version: he who always was so sarcastic and did hurt me with his words...and actions. And I'm not talking about the caning and flogging and cropping, because it was taking care of me too. But why this conflicted you?”

Mycroft sighed, “Because I sometimes genuinely believed that it was for your own good. I felt that I did harm you more, than I did you any good..and to be honest: because I envied you.”

“Envied me?! What on Earth for?”

“For your mind, which is capable of doing something I can't. Eurus can do it too: connecting the invisible dots. See patterns where no one else can. You could do my job, if you wanted, Sherlock. I'll never be able to do yours. And.....not alone did you have an amazing mind, you were so skilled as a violinist, that you could have chosen a careerer in that area too, and you have a look that make men and woman turn their heads...”

Sherlock just sat there...blinking. That Mycroft could say something like that. Sherlock would never had thought that Mycroft envied him? Weird.....when it was the other way around!

Sherlock told Mycroft how he didn't understand that and that he had always envied Mycroft and then they continued talking about the reports. How Mycroft....and he did not try in any way to hide how he had misjudged and underestimated Magnussen....how he had made Sherlock pay for this misjudgement. How he had manipulated and used him, because Sherlock had abilities that no one else had, beside Mycroft.

They talked and talked and at a point Mycroft asked one of his employees to get them something to eat and it was brought in only 15 minutes later: Take-away from a small and very exclusive little French restaurant.

Finally they were open towards each other and didn't hide their feelings. They hugged and cried a bit......and Mycroft had a nagging thought in the back of his head, that Sherlock would regret this openness and softness in the morning, when the drugs would wear off...and hate Mycroft for it. But he said to himself that it would be worth it...and he was prepared to 'pay' for it, any way that Sherlock would ask him to do. He owed Sherlock that. To have witnessed how Sherlock would be prepared to die...again...to save both John and Mycroft, that had shaken Mycroft to the core.

They finally said goodnight to each other and Sherlock headed for one of the guest rooms, carrying the bag that some of Mycroft's employees had brought from Baker Street, and Mycroft dressed in his pyjamas and went to bed. He was not able to sleep right away. But that was not something new, so he prepared for another sleepless night. Tonight was not a night where he could use his 'toys' to stop his mind from whirling...not tonight, and maybe it was a good idea to read the reports one time more in order to see if there were more to be done.....maybe even about John. Because that man wasn't in a good place either. Better keep an eye on him, because Sherlock would not forgive Mycroft for not keeping an eye on John, even if they had drifted apart.

So Mycroft got up and went down into the living-room to fetch the reports....and when he returned, Sherlock was standing in his bedroom, dressed in his dressing-gown, holding the cane in his hand.

Mycroft made a decision: if Sherlock wanted to punish him for all his wrong-doings by caning him, Mycroft would accept it.

But as Mycroft closed the door to the bedroom, Sherlock let his dressing-gown fall to the floor. Oh God....he was naked.....and Sherlock knelt down and held the cane for Mycroft to take.

“Please, brother. I can't sleep. The thoughts are whirling in my mind. Ants are crawling under my skin. Please Myke. I need to submit.....I need the pain.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, “I...I can't Sherlock. I'm sorry. The current state I'm in will prevent me from controlling myself and I can't give you.....”

Sherlock looked at him.....Oh God, having a kneeling Sherlock, who was looking up at him through his eyelashes like that......It was suddenly a flashback to a very young Sherlock, kneeling exactly the same way.

Mycroft fell down on his knees and hugged Sherlock, “I can't help you....I will not be able to control myself....”

And Sherlock pushed himself a bit away from Mycroft and looked at him for a few seconds, scanned him with his laser-focus and then he said, as he did read something in Mycroft's face, “Oh....that was why you pushed me away and told me to wait to ask for pain, until I couldn't tolerate it any-more. That was the reason for your acerbic remarks and your arrogance and patronisation. The reason for separating us after the caning and letting us deal with the erections our selves. How long....how long have you wanted me the whole way? To have sex with me?”

And Mycroft bowed his head in shame, “Since I caned you the first time....”

“Come....your bed. We're too old to be on the knees for too long.”, said Sherlock hand lead Mycroft to the bed.

Mycroft laid down and looked up at the ceiling, taking care that only their hands did touch, “I'm such a pervert, Sherl. Wanting to fuck my own brother....as if it wasn't bad enough that we had to help each other the other way.”

He turned so he could look Sherlock in the eyes, “Getting to know what Sherrinford did to you, I'm happy that I never gave in to those urges and …..”

Sherlock smiled a bit sadly and touched Mycroft's cheek, “And you are an idiot, Myke.”

And then Sherlock hugged him, “I almost lost you today. When I woke up and John was in the well and I didn't know where you were...I..I thought you had been murdered! No matter that it was a false set-up. I thought Eurus had killed you!”

“And I thought that I had lost you! Not only yesterday, but so many other times as well and...”, said Mycroft, took a deep breath and continued, “TD-12 took my knowledge about what would happen away, and it was just as real for me.......and then you put that gun under your own chin and.....”

Mycroft took another deep breath and continued, “Knowing that it was all my fault. That I was to blame for your addiction, your overdosing, your misery.....and to watch you in mortal danger...in Serbia, in the hospital bed, after Mary shot you, you kneeling on the ground after you had shot Magnussen, on the plane......and I couldn't touch 'Mary' because of Magnussen. Knowing that I was to blame, it was almost unbearable, and the only way I could cope was to push you away. To keep you on the other side of my ice-shield. Because if I let my shield down and allowed my self to feel, I would have....

Mycroft swallowed and Sherlock hugged him again and said, “But we are here, alive..And I have my real Myke back again. Your armour had melted..”

And then he leaned in so he could say his words directly to Mycroft's ear, “Listen. Let me tell you what I dreamed about that first time after you had caned me.....and all the other times: I would still be kneeling in front of the bed, blissed-out from my orgasm and then I would feel it. You...kneeling behind me. Still dressed in your bespoke trousers that would show your strong thighs and nice behind and that white shirt, that would not hide your strong chest and muscular arms and you would be massaging my sore buttocks.....ordering me to keep my hands in front of me and not allow me to touch my cock. It wouldn't take long before I was erect again. You would move your thumbs towards my hole and would be spreading my arse-cheeks so wide that you could see how my hole would be stretched so your thumbs could get a bit deeper in. You would take the lube from under my pillow and put it on your thumbs and press them deeper inside my hole, stretching me. And I would moan of pleasure. When you had stretched me a bit more you would then put lube on your delicious long fingers and first put one up into me. The whole way.....and then another. And then you would finger-fuck me. Slowly at first and then with three fingers. Stretching me even more. And I would moan of pleasure, both because of the slight pain in my buttocks, and because you would find my prostate.........And then you would remove your fingers and put lube on your cock and you would just pop the head in and I would beg you and then you would push in the whole way and rest your front on my back....and I would feel the fabric of your trousers on my sensitive buttocks. And I would beg you to fuck me. Hard! I would be naked and at your mercy and you would be fully dressed. I would be able to feel the roughness of the fabric of your trousers on my sore behind....and I would know that the lube from my arse would ruin them...or at least have the cleaners to lift an eyebrow. Every thrust would send hot pleasure through my body. Both because my buttocks would be sore under your firm grip and your cock would fill me. Stretch me. And then just as much because you would be in charge and order me what to do. Ordering me to keep my hands on the bed.”

Sherlock paused and laid down on his back, “I would have this fantasy after you had left and had given me after-care, and I would find my bottle of lubricant and put my fingers up my own arse....and I would have a second orgasm. So Myke, that is why you are an idiot.....when we could have had this!”

Mycroft had listened to Sherlock's dark chocolate voice and never had he got an erection so fast....not that he could remember, and as Sherlock had told his fantasy directly in Mycroft's ear, Mycroft had made a sound deep in his throat.

And then Sherlock had stopped talking and Mycroft got a bit of his higher brain-functions back, “John...what about John...you have John. You can't.... I can't....”

Sherlock got a hard glint in his eyes, “I do not 'have' John. I think we are just as far away from each other as we were after Mary died. John told me, earlier, after we left 'Sherrinford', that he needed a pause and then he almost fled from me. So no.....I don't think we....”

And then he stopped talking and Mycroft said, “He is still drugged. I'll keep an eye on him. And if you can forgive me, then you can forgive John as well. All of us.....if you can't, it is understandable. But you must give him time...”

And then he turned and guided Sherlock's hand towards his erection and said, “I've never got an erection so fast. If you had continued talking...I would have come. But......Sherlock...This is wrong on so many levels and...”

Sherlock frowned, “Why is it wrong that we give each other, what we need right now? To still our over-working minds? To feel that we are alive after we thought to have lost each other? I know that we can't have this forever. This...this is a bubble in time...outside 'time'...and I want to have this as a memory. We've had so much between us, and you and I need to be healed in that area too. Please Myke....I can never have you for real, so please let me have this memory. These few days. Call in an tell them that you need a leave...and fuck me on every furniture you own in this house. Make me sore so I can feel that I'm alive. Make me scream of pleasure. Cane me. Flog me......and then give your staff a huge rise of wages and ask them to be deaf and blind!”

Mycroft swallowed and nodded and then he said, “I have...toys so you wouldn't need a cane. It is tissue-damage and....”

Sherlock looked at him, “We almost died today. Even if we were not in danger, it doesn't alter the feeling. I want the pain....and to hell with the tissue-damage. I want to feel it tomorrow as well. To feel that I'm alive. Don't you want it?”

And Mycroft lost the rest of his control and moaned, “Oh God Sherlock. I want all of that: doing it to you. Want you to do it to me. All of it!”

And then Sherlock moved fast and was out of the bed, kneeling on the floor with his upper body on the bed, looking at Mycroft with so much lust in his eyes, “Then do it! Cane me....and fuck me.”

Mycroft reached his hand out towards Sherlock, “Come. I have a special room for such activities..”

And then he smiled as he saw Sherlock's pupils dilate....and Mycroft felt the calmness wash over him. His own need could wait, he needed the submission too. But first Sherlock's needs. They were the most important right now.

Chapter Text

As they walked down the corridor towards Mycroft's 'playroom', as Mycroft called it, with Sherlock walking in the front, Mycroft couldn't help admiring the gorgeousness of Sherlock's naked body. Sherlock hadn't bothered putting on the dressing-gown again and was just walking, holding the cane in his hand.

Mycroft could almost see the restless, vibrant and impatient energy rippling under Sherlock's skin, and knew that Sherlock's need for pain and submission would only grow, but Mycroft allowed himself the time to look at Sherlock's body, as they walked. Admiring the elegance of his movements and his long and yet muscular legs, the legs of a dancer or an acrobat. Leading up to that beautifully rounded and lush arse. Two perfect globes, with muscles that showed exactly how strong Sherlock was. His slim hips.....not those of a young boy any more, but those of a full-grown beautiful man. Mycroft admired Sherlock's slim waist and broad shoulders, his long neck and that rich tussled bundle of black and burgundy curls on top of it all. And that little extra nape-curl that Mycroft wanted so much to touch. And all that mouthwatering muscular athletic beauty was covered in pale skin, that looked as fragile as porcelain, but was resilient and strong. Otherwise that treatment in Serbia would have left uglier scars. Now they were only faint white lines most of the places. Of course the plastic surgeons in Berlin had done a remarkable job, but even they had been a bit amazed how well Sherlock had healed.

Sherlock stopped at the door and looked back at Mycroft and smiled, “I could almost feel that you ogled my arse.”

Mycroft smiled back, “No wonder. It is a very nice arse.”

Sherlock turned away, “Don't tease me, Mycroft..”

Mycroft frowned, “I'm not teasing, Sherlock. I mean it. You have such a perfect body and....”

He lifted his hand to stop Sherlock from saying anything, “....and after you have finished growing up, your body has turned into a work of art.”

Sherlock shook his head with the hand on the door-handle, “I know what I look like. It is just transport after all. Too long legs, too thin, my neck too long, my face weird and almost triangular...it was no wonder they called me the 'praying mantis' and 'alien' in school.”

Now it was Mycroft's turn to shake his head, “They were envious. You are model material. Your face is gorgeous and your body could have been the living model for a statue of a Greek God. I, on the other hand, looked like my nick-name: 'Blimp' or 'Graf Zeppelin'. I was obese...until aunt Marjorie got me under her wings and thought me to exercise, to fight and eat healthier. I just wonder why our parents never bothered to teach me and thought me able to figure it out on my own. I was just so unhappy and troubled.”

Sherlock smiled, “And so was I, but I didn't mind that you were chubby. It felt more...safe like that. Maybe because it was so different from the way Sherrinford looked.”

He smiled again, “Not that I do mind, that you are as handsome, as you are now. But you were handsome and fascinating as chubby Mycroft too. It was more your mind than your body, that I appreciated....'Sapio-sexual', you know.”

And then he opened the door. Mycroft decided not to say more about their looks for now. And somehow it was true, what Sherlock said, that it mostly was their minds that fascinated the other. The body was transport after all.

“Deduce...use a bit of your brain-activity to deduce about this room.”, said Mycroft, as he switched on the light.

Sherlock frowned as he studied the rather large room. It was well lit and with dark panelling on the walls. A lot of items were placed all over the room. A bit like in an exercising room, but the 'implements' were of a different kind. And they were all covered with see-through plastic-sheets. There were a lot of cupboards too.

Sherlock looked around, “It was originally made for other physical purposes. An adjoining bathroom with showers too. So a gym...and you altered it, as you bought the house. You didn't finish the alteration, though...”

And Sherlock pointed at a section of the room, where things still were piled up against the wall.

Sherlock looked around. It was the wet dream for everybody more into the advanced sex-life: bucks, two St. Andrea's crosses, couches, two huge beds and different frames and a hammock. And against the walls were cupboards filled with various items for sex: plugs, vibrators, floggers, canes....everything. All of 'the machinery' with covers of see-through plastic and covered with a thin layer of dust. Except for one cupboard.

Sherlock pointed at it and said, “This is the only thing you have used. And the room was finished as you were 32. You had your position then and earned quite a sum of money. And had Grand-maman's money.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with a sudden understanding, “...oh...you build it because you thought it should be for you and me... And then everything went wrong with me and Victor and Sebastian. And my last assignment in France.”

Sherlock paused and did reach for Mycroft's hand , “And after that...things went down the sewer, didn't they?”

Mycroft took a step closer to Sherlock and touched his face and kissed him gently, “They did....but now we are here. And alive...I love you so much.”

He took a deep breath at Sherlock's neck, “Hmmmm. I love your scent....”

And he licked at Sherlock's neck, just under Sherlock's ear. He knew it was something that could make Sherlock moan.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then he chuckled, “Do you remember what happened when you were in my flat...and I was Shezza?”

Mycroft smiled, “You were affected by drugs...or you wouldn't have risked exposing us like that. I have never got an erection so fast. Your strength, the pain in my arm.....your scent. Unmasked, because you hadn't showered for days. You almost made me drop to my knees...”

Sherlock chuckled, “And John was as blind as ever. He thought your moan was because of the pain. What did you do, when you got down in your car?”

“I only stroked myself a few times on the outside of my pants.....and came...”, admitted Mycroft.

Now Sherlock moved so he had his mouth close to Mycroft's ear, “Here is my plan: I go in the bathroom here and I take an enema. You return to your bedroom. You find a nice pair of your bespoke trousers.....older ones if you want to keep them as a token of memory...or newer ones, if you want your cleaners to arch an eyebrow. No pants! And a nice white crisp shirt. And a tie...I want that tie around my cock and my balls and up between my arse-cheeks. I want it filled with my scent....and when you are wearing it, sitting at one of your meetings, you can touch it...and discretely move your fingers close to your nose....and smell me! No one else have our heightened sense of smell. Just you and I and...”

“And if you don't stop talking, I might come already. Oh God....that sinful voice of yours!”, panted Mycroft. And he turned around, adjusted the 'tent' in his pyjama-trousers and obediently walked towards his bedroom to do as Sherlock had told him. And to find a riding crop in the wardrobe. Even if Sherlock had brought the cane, Mycroft would prefer to use the crop on Sherlock.

When Mycroft returned, he could hear that Sherlock was in the bathroom and as Sherlock returned to the bigger room, Mycroft had already thought about a few other items in the cupboards for Sherlock. And removed the plastic sheets from the 'machinery'.

Sherlock smiled and pointed at the adjustable St. Andreas cross, “I want this!”

“No....it is not a good idea, Sherlock. It is real restraints...and after Serbia..”

“Don't be an idiot, Mycroft. I've been restrained by criminals since...and I had no panic attacks. I'll be fine. Please?”

Mycroft frowned at bit, “Have you ever heard the term 'topping form the bottom'?

Sherlock was now standing in front of the cross and had reached his arms up, being ready to be restrained, and turned his head and smiled, “Isn't it what I'm always doing?”

Mycroft could hear that Sherlock tried for playfulness, but he could hear the tension in Sherlock's voice after all too, and decided that he would give Sherlock, what he wanted....or at least close to his asks.

Mycroft went over to the machinery and adjusted the cross, so it was now more horizontal and with the upper 'arms' turned a bit downwards, to prevent strain on the shoulders. The lower part was bend in more sections, so Sherlock would be almost kneeling. Now it reminded more of a whipping-buck.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and said with a firmness in his voice, “Enter, Sherlock. I will restrain you, but not in the position with too much tension on your shoulders. Not for too long.....and I choose the crop instead of the cane. You asked for submission. So I'm in charge and I decide. Let go Sherlock. I've got you...”

And Mycroft could see some of the tension leave Sherlock as he obediently crawled up on the padded cross and positioned himself on it. It fit perfectly to his measurements, but of course it did. It was custom-made to fit him...and Mycroft. That a bit more than half an inch in difference of hight between the two brothers, didn't matter.

Mycroft closed the restraints around Sherlock's wrists and ankles. And the one around Sherlock's middle too.

“Colour?”, he wanted to know.

“Green...sir”

Good. Sherlock was on his way to sub-space. It would be fine.

Mycroft adjusted the cross a bit more, so Sherlock's legs were spread a bit more out. Sherlock's cock was almost fully erect and was pointing upwards, flat against his stomach...and his balls were hanging low and very accessible between his legs. Mycroft went to the cupboard and found a butt-plug and a 'parachute'. He had seen Sherlock's eyes dilate a bit as he looked at these two items in the cupboard.

He closed the 'parachute' around Sherlock's balls and attached the weights to it. Not to much, just enough to create a pleasant feeling of stretching...and it would prevent Sherlock from coming too fast.

Sherlock just sighed.

Mycroft went to the cupboard again and found the other thing he had noticed that Sherlock had liked: a set of nipple-clamps with a chain. One of Mycroft's favourites as well. Mycroft did reach under the cross and attached the clamps to Sherlock's nipples and let the heavy chain hang towards the floor. Sherlock hissed a bit, but didn't say anything and Mycroft could tell that Sherlock did sink deeper into sub-space.

Time for the next step. Mycroft had remembered his tie, so he took it out of his pocket and wound it around Sherlock's balls above the parachute and up around Sherlock's very erect cock and then Mycroft lifted the riding-crop and let it fall on Sherlock's buttocks. First on the right side....then on the left. Not too harsh, almost just using the 'leather-tongue', giving Sherlock sensations close to a spanking.

Sherlock didn't say anything, just sighed and Mycroft could see even more tension leave Sherlock.

After ten strokes on each side, Sherlock's buttocks were red and warm and Mycroft put the crop away and pushed a padded low stool close to the cross. He knelt on it, behind Sherlock, and grappled those a bit sore buttocks and spread them out so Sherlock's hole got more accessible, Mycroft bowed a bit forward and licked a long broad stripe from Sherlock's balls up over his hole and back again. Sherlock gasped at the sensation. Mycroft rose and adjusted the cross even more and Sherlock's legs were even more spread out, so much that Mycroft didn't have to spread the arse-cheeks and Mycroft began in earnest to fuck Sherlock with his tongue. Sherlock moaned and panted and tried to push his arse further back into Mycroft's face, but he couldn't move because of the restraints, and finally he just accepted, that he couldn't move and stopped trashing around.

Mycroft had thought about rimming Sherlock, since Sherlock had said that he would take an enema. And Sherlock did just taste of the sandal-wood soap used for the enema, and 'Sherlock'. Not repulsive at all. Just delicious. Mycroft almost lost himself in the small almost mewing sounds, that Sherlock made and he had to reach down and adjust himself in his trousers. Maybe he should try to see if he could make Sherlock...and himself....come by just doing that another day? Later?

After he had made Sherlock nice and wet and ready, Mycroft rose and found the butt-plug he had taken from the cupboard and nudged it inside Sherlock's now more slack hole. Mycroft was sure that he would have been able to make Sherlock come by rimming him, but that was not the goal today. The main goal was to make Sherlock's feel his body and to make white noise in that big brain of his.

Mycroft took a few steps back and looked at Sherlock. Deduced him and decided for the cane after all. Mycroft had been in that place in his own mind, where everything was in place and good and in order. Where he himself was sort of floating, not because of endorphins, but just because he was in charge and knew exactly what to do. In 'top-space'.....and as a good 'Dom' he knew it was more about Sherlock than about his own needs. It did surprise him a bit, though, that neither of them felt a need to talk. But it was not necessary. Sherlock was easy enough to read.

Mycroft reached for the cane and adjusted the cross to a more up-right position. Almost 45 degrees. And with Sherlock's leg straight now. His feet could touch the ground by now. The cross was not totally upright as it would put too much strain on Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock had closed his eyes and just sighed and let out a little moan as the alteration in position did tug at the parachute and the nipple-clamps. Mycroft looked a bit at Sherlock and went over to the cupboard to get some weights for the chain between the clamps and put them on. Noticing how the tissue around Sherlock's lovely nipples did stretch a bit more. Sherlock's head was turned a bit upwards and he had a look of bliss on his face. He looked like an angel.

Mycroft lifted the cane and let it fall, not too gently on Sherlock's sore buttocks. Sherlock opened his eyes and yelped, “Oh God...yes! Myke! More!”

And Mycroft continued. He was very careful that he didn't break the skin, but the cane would leave welts and probably bruises as well. At a point he did stop and removed the parachute. He wasn't even sure that Sherlock noticed, and after 4 quick blows and with almost no pause in between, Mycroft did reach for the chain between the nipple-clamps, wound it around his hand and gave Sherlock the final hit, as he tore the clamps of Sherlock's nipples.

Sherlock screamed and almost tore himself out of the restrains as he came...and came...and came. Long thick spurts erupted from his cock. It had grown more and more erect and at a point the foreskin had totally given up covering the almost purple head. Mycroft had been very temped to put his mouth on that delicious sight, but he controlled himself. After the last weaker spurt, Sherlock slumped down with a lot of his weight held up by the restraints.

Mycroft loosened the restrains, removed his soiled tie and helped Sherlock to lie down on one of the beds. Mycroft curled himself around Sherlock's body. Not bothered by his own erection. It could wait.

When Sherlock came to his senses, he turned a bit and smiled, “Thank you, brother mine. It was just what I needed.”

Mycroft smirked, “That was what I saw..”

Sherlock began to grind against Mycroft's groin and gasped as the fabric did slide over his sore buttocks.

“I think this was just the first part of my fantasy. Are you amenable for the next?”, asked Sherlock's and now it was Mycroft's turn to moan a bit as he answered, “So very much..”

It had taken quite a lot of Mycroft's willpower not to put his cock into that very ready an accessible hole of Sherlock's, after he had rimmed him. And now it took all his willpower not to come on the spot as Sherlock went down on his knees, beside the bed, on the padded rug, with his upper body on the bed and turned his head, “Now fuck me, Myke....fuck me hard. So hard that I see stars!” and Sherlock had taken his arse cheeks and spread them, so the end of the butt-plug was very visible.

Mycroft feel down on his knees beside the bed and took out the butt-plug.....not so gently, because he was close to loosing his control and finally...finally he opened the fly in his trousers, took his ridiculously erect cock out and buried his cock ball-deep into his brother's waiting hole in one movement.... and rested his upper body on Sherlock's back. He moved his hands to Sherlock's sore nipples and caressed them, gently, because he knew that they would be over-sensitive right now. And then they just stayed there. The naked Sherlock and the clothed Mycroft. And even if the sub/dom dynamic would normally tell otherwise, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock doubted that it was Sherlock, who held the power right now.

And then Mycroft began to move. He made sure that his trusts were angled so his cock would hit Sherlock's prostate almost every time. And of course it had an effect: Sherlock became semi-hard and after only 10 minutes, he was hard again. Mycroft finally allowed himself to loose control and made deeper and deeper trusts into Sherlock, who just moaned and arched his back and asked for more. Mycroft took a firm grip at Sherlock's hips and knew that it would bruise and he used Sherlock as he saw fit. Now it was about him.....and Sherlock just did let him, because that was a part of his fantasy as well. To be fucked...hard.....by his aroused brother, who finally let himself loose control.

And Mycroft could feel the tension build and build.

“Touch yourself, Sherlock!”

And as Sherlock actually felt Mycroft's hot semen inside, he tippled over the edge himself and he had his second orgasm.

Afterwards Mycroft undressed and now Sherlock was the big spoon and they enjoyed a moment of peace and bliss.

“You'll need after-care...and I still fell that I've forced you to be unfaithful towards John”, said Mycroft.

“Nonsense....well, not the after-care. But John. We have never...you know he isn't gay...and I'm not sure that he'll ever want to see me again. I miss Rosie so much, but think of what John accused me of? And now his self loathing and denial would send him even further away. No, Mycroft...that ship has sailed.”

Mycroft turned his head, “I'm not so sure. Would you take him back, if he returned?”

Sherlock nodded, “In a heartbeat. But only if he had sort of sorted himself out. I would not be able to go through a 'swing-door-relationship' again. If he chooses me, then it will be for good. As a friend. I'm aware of that. Never as a lover. But just as a friend would be fine enough. It is not that my urges in that area are that strong.”

“Well. You could fool me Sherlock Holmes, but tell me if I'm wrong. Is it not your cock, a rather erect specimen, that by know is trying to poke a hole in me?”

Sherlock did slide under the duvet and found Mycroft's half erection with his mouth and said, before he did put his mouth around Mycroft's cock, “Bad pun....And now it is your turn to have your dream fulfilled, I believe!”

Mycroft shook his head, “I've just fulfilled my dream as well, well apart from that I would have liked to fuck you right after I had rimmed you....and I would like to, tomorrow maybe, to see if I can make you come from that alone. But now. Just lazy sex I think. I would like to ride you. I'll just need an enema...or we could use a 'sleeve'.

And then Sherlock of course wanted to be shown the sleeve. The one that could be used as a butt-plug as well. Mycroft asked to be caned as well, but only a few blows. Just enough to make him 'float' a bit, but not enter sub-space. Then Sherlock had to prepare Mycroft thoroughly, before the sleeve could fit. First one of his long and dexterous fingers, then two...then three. Mycroft moaned shamelessly. The sleeve was put in and then Mycroft rode Sherlock. Sherlock enjoyed the small knobs inside the sleeve and he enjoyed even more to see how Mycroft lost himself in the sensations: first Sherlock's cock up his arse, and that feeling more intense because of the sleeve...and the tug of the nipple-clamps with the chain in between. Every bounce up and down made Mycroft's nipples hurt a bit. It was exquisite! And just as Sherlock, Mycroft came as Sherlock tugged harshly at the clamps. To see Mycroft so lost in sensations and coming in thick spurts gave Sherlock his third orgasm. Not so big...there was not so much left in him.

After they had showered and applied Arnica-cream on each-other's buttocks and nipples, they dressed in pyjamas and went to bed together in Mycroft's bed. They had thought about sleeping naked, as both Mycroft and Sherlock sometimes did, but gave it a second thought because of the Arnica-cream. And then they were finally able to fall asleep. Curled up together as they hadn't done since Mycroft was 12 and Sherlock 5.

________________________

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

Mycroft and Sherlock continued having sex the next couple of weeks, as Baker Street was renovated. Quite a lot of sex, but slowly turning more and more 'vanilla', and the frequency going down as well and gradually the world outside their 'cocoon of time' crept closer and closer and they knew, that they would have to end this and separate. Their hunger towards each other was getting sated and their need for pain and submission was fading as well.

Baker Street was almost redecorated. The last day that Sherlock would be full-time in Mycroft's house, was coming closer. One of the last mornings they were eating breakfast and Mycroft looked at Sherlock and said, “I have one last fantasy, that I'll need your help to fulfil.”

Sherlock smiled and made a gesture round in the kitchen as to indicate the whole house, “More? I think we did manage to have sex on almost every furniture in your house. I have ruined 8 pair of your trousers with lube and semen and you have a nice collection of ties with my scent, in sealed containers....and a promise that I'll be happy to make more. I've had 3 of your fingers and several toys up my arse.....which by the way was....awesome....and I've had my fingers and toys up yours as well. And you have shown me, that you could make me come only by rimming me. I've been caned and cropped and flogged and you have too....We still have faint marks on our buttocks and backs, so what can be left to try?”

Mycroft smiled and put his paper down on the table, “When you leave, I'll be sexually abstinent...for quite a while. And I'm still on leave for at least 2 weeks more. Unless of course a crisis emerges and in that case, I'll be working from here. So...I want you to pierce me.”

Sherlock frowned, but understood immediately why Mycroft didn't want to go to a professional. It would be too risky being potential blackmailing material, so he just asked, “Where?”

Mycroft rose and went to a drawer and found pictures as well as 3 sterile piercing-sets. Complete with needles and jewellery.

“One in each nipple, and a Prince Albert. Sherlock...it is something I've dreamt about since I was a teenager. And now I will not postpone it any-more. Please?”

“Well, of course I'll do it. Just give me some time, and I'll research, so I can do it safely..” was Sherlock's answer.

It took him almost an hour and then he found Mycroft in his study.

“You are aware of the risks, so I'm not going to talk about that. I've seen that you have chosen the jewellery carefully and everything is there in the packages to ensure utmost sterility. So...I have no doubt that you are sure about that. And by the way: I've 'ruined' 3 of your 'natural looking' dildos' in order to rehearse. The question is: why me? Why not call a professional piercer and pay him enough for privacy?”

Mycroft smiled, “Because I want it performed during sex. That is my fantasy.”

“Oh..”, said Sherlock and then he smiled, “I knew you were such a pervert.”

“Says the man, who asked his brother to cane him and fuck him afterwards?”

_____________________

Being a chemist Sherlock of course new everything about contamination, so it turned out a bit more un-sexy to perform the piercings, that Mycroft actually had fantasised about. There had not been so many anti-septic wipes and nitrile-gloves in his fantasy.

But he was naked with a vibrating prostate-massager up his arse and he was positioned on one of the couches in the 'play-room'. He was even restrained, so he couldn't move too much around and Sherlock had brought him to the brink of orgasm 3 times....and then stopped again. Mycroft was sweating and filled with tight coiled arousal. So much that he hadn't even noticed that Sherlock had cleaned his nipples and attached the two forceps.

“Open your eyes, Myke”, said Sherlock and kissed him and then Mycroft was told to touch his very much neglected erection.

What a relief to be allowed to touch and Mycroft began in earnest to move his hand faster and faster and Sherlock was watching him. Wearing new gloves.....no he could never have a kink with those. That smell was too much 'hospital' or 'stich-yourself-up-while-on-the-run' (He had been forced to do that a few times in his more than two years away)

As Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was close, he just bent down and whispered in Mycroft's ear.

“Come for me!”

And Mycroft closed his eyes, arched of the couch and white spurts erupted from his cock. That was the moment where Sherlock swiftly did put first a needle through Mycroft's left nipple and then the right. That pain prolonged Mycroft's orgasm...and he lost consciousness for a few seconds.

When he came to his senses, he saw a smiling Sherlock.

“Did you forget..?”, Mycroft asked with a frown.

“Look down!”

And Mycroft looked at his nipples. In each of them was a needle put right through, but the strange part was that they almost didn't hurt. Just a faint throbbing. And almost no blood.

Mycroft began to giggle and said, “Oh God. That was intense. I'm almost tempted to ask you to take the needles out, let the wounds heal and have it done again.”

He sat up, because Sherlock had removed the restraints and looked at his pierced nipples again, “I can understand, why people can get addicted to this..”

“Just you wait till I'll drag the bars through the wounds.”, said Sherlock. But Mycroft didn't think that was bad either and he looked at the pierced nipples in one of the mirrors, before they were bandaged.

Then he turned towards Sherlock, “I want the Prince Albert this afternoon. And close to the same way. Restrain me, 'edge' me and then pierce me.”

Sherlock smiled and teased, “Who is bossy now?”

______________________

They had a discussion if it would be best to do the piercing with a flaccid cock or with an erect one. The experts did disagree. Mycroft proved a point with his, “If I want it whilst experiencing sexual arousal, it would be a bit difficult with a flaccid cock, don't you think?”

And again the prostate-massager was used. This time together with a 'parachute' attached around Mycroft's balls and with a cord and a spring to make an even drag. The idea was to give as many bodily sensations as possible and Sherlock 'edged' Mycroft repeatedly. He was prevented from coming, at least some of the way, by the even drag of his balls away from his body. Making it difficult for his body to drag the ball upwards just before the orgasm. This time Mycroft was blindfolded as well.

He had moaned a bit as Sherlock did slide the one arm of the forceps into Mycroft's urethra. It was rather thick and the ring-shaped end did stretch the opening rather much. Mycroft hurried to assure Sherlock that it felt good. Right there Mycroft briefly wondered why he had kept 'sounds' as a secret...or at least not mentioned them for Sherlock. They had tried quite a lot of the other toys in the cupboards........and then Mycroft forgot all about it as Sherlock again brought him to the edge with his skilled hands.

Sherlock looked at the steel disappearing into Mycroft's cock and thought about his moan. Maybe something to explore? Inserting things in the urethra? And then he concentrated on bringing Mycroft closer to his orgasm. Sherlock had loosened the 'parachute' from the cord and had opened the buttons. Mycroft's balls were now withdrawn up against his body and the prostate-massager had been turned up. Mycroft was so close.....and in the few seconds before the orgasm would hit, Sherlock's nitrile-clad fingers pushed the needle in through the stretched urethra, tilted the needle a bit and forced it down through the eye and through the tissue and out through the other eye. Mycroft had decided to have the 'exit' to the right of the frenulum. It would fit with the side of his trousers, where his cock would be normally...and Mycroft smiled as he remembered how he had been asked by his tailor, “ Which side do you dress on?”...and of course it was an important question in order to make the trousers fitting better.

“I do intend to keep my foreskin. There is so much sensation lost by a circumcision.”, had Mycroft said.

Sherlock had nodded as he had agreed, “But it'll limit the size of the PA jewellery.”

“Since I have no intention of inserting a..a lifebuoy through the piercing, I think that the already bought jewellery is of the right size.”, had Mycroft answered and had given it a brief thought why people would insert such big rings. The answer could be: because they could? Just like taking the challenge of getting a big butt-plug up ones arse? Extreme sensation? And who was he to judge others, when he had tried bigger and bigger sounds.

_______________________

After the piercing Mycroft was looking in the mirror at the ring through his cock and then he turned and smiled at Sherlock, “Thank you. I couldn't have requested a similar service at a piercing-saloon. And...what about you? Do you still have unfilled fantasies? Do you want piercings too?”

And then Mycroft looked closer at Sherlock, suddenly in deducing-mode, “You are pierced. Aren't you?”

Sherlock nodded, “My right earlobe and my nipples. But I haven't worn jewellery in the holes for many years. I think the holes are closed, healed. They did fit with my disguise as 'Björn Siegerson', but I removed them at a point. It was too dangerous to flash piercings....and now? I don't know....maybe I'll find out if the holes are still there, later.”

______________________

And then Sherlock moved out of Mycroft's house and back in his Baker Street flat. Or at least partly. He slept in the bedroom and used Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. It was time to get things more sorted in the flat.

On his way out of Mycroft's house, standing in the hall and carrying his bags, Sherlock turned towards Mycroft and said with a smirk, “I love this version of you, but I have to admit that I sort of miss our banter. Our crossing swords, mentally.”

And he could see as Mycroft Holmes turned into the arrogant 'Iceman' as Mycroft said, “Oh. I would have anticipated that all the drugs would have reduced your mental capacity to the level of....goldfish.”

“Oh, on the contrary....I would have anticipated that all the sexual encounters between you and me would have caused the... impossible in real life, but metaphorical so very true...big brain of yours to be fucked out of your ears!”

Mycroft's ice-man-demeanour did slip for a few seconds as he smiled genuinely and said, “I see no reason why we can't continue this aspect of our brotherly life...and people might get frightened if we didn't.”

And they both continued smiling as Sherlock went through the door and entered the cab.

____________________

Chapter Text

Rosie showed the mercy to sleep the whole night through and as Sherlock and John finally woke in each-other’s arms, it was not to a crying Rosie, but just to a Rosie, who apparently was telling both 'Bee' and 'Elbant' an important story. At least it was what they could make out from her nonsense-words through the baby-monitor.

As John prepared to get out of bed, Sherlock reached his hand out and said, “I do have another confession as well.....and you might hate both me and Mycroft for it....”

John smiled and sat up and touched Sherlock's face and gave him a kiss, “If it is that you and Mycroft turned your 'relation-ship' up a notch the days right after 'Sherrinford'.....then don't worry. Mycroft told me...and sort of expected me to flip out and hit him hard. He said, it was his fault, and he tried to explain your behaviour by saying that you were still highly suggestive and that he might have said something, that could make you want this....”

Sherlock shook his head, “No...he wasn't to blame. I just outlived a fantasy that I've had since I was a teenager and he caned me the first time....And then we did search comfort by each other after we thought we had lost each other for ever...”

John smiled again, “And after you thought you had lost me too. And a fantasy.....who says that you cant persuade your own mind? Hmm? The question is: do you still want to marry bitter, old, grumpy me?”

Sherlock sat up too and took John's face between his hands and began to kiss him on his forehead, his cheeks and finally his mouth....and then he said, “I do...I do...I do. I fully capable of loving more than one person, John. And no...I don't want to marry Mycroft. I don't want to have sex with him, not any-more. Not when I have you. With him it was a time-bubble. A thing that needed to be done in order to heal us both.”

John smirked, “Do you know what is a bit funny? I used to tamp down my arousal towards you by imagining Mycroft stripping. He would end up standing only in his socks and garters. With his big fat white dough-like belly and his micro-penis and his tight-squeezed arse.....”

Sherlock frowned, “He doesn't look like that...”

John laughed, “I know...but it helped. And I did buy his tailor's illusion. Your tailor's illusions....who made you look thin and fragile and him fat and weak. I even imagined that your brother would use a abdominal belt to keep his fat belly in..”

Sherlock scanned John's face and said slowly, “You actually think about how my brother look without clothes on.......and...”

John smiled again, “And I'm a full-blown pervert, Sherlock, because hearing that your brother can be submissive....I wouldn't mind having him bent over something and, despite my aversion against tissue-damage, I think I wouldn't mind to give him a good spanking, even if he might like it! The man I talked to earlier today, the real Mycroft, without his armour, I kind of liked him.....and I never thought that I could say that about your brother.”

He kissed Sherlock and then he continued, “To see you two fucking each other....it could be rather hot too. As long as I'm sure that you marry me....and that you'll not hide for me if he need your 'help' and that I'll be invited too.”

As Sherlock just looked at him, John continued, “I can't blame you for being with Mycroft after 'Sherrinford', can I? I had pushed you away again.....and even if you didn't say anything, when I finally had gathered my courage and visited Baker Street, you thought you had lost me after the 'Sherrinford-island', didn't you?”

Sherlock nodded and said, “I had tried to kill myself in front of your eyes, again. I came almost too late to save your in the well and I...panicked and didn't manage to say anything more clever than 'please try not to drown' while I desperately tried to figure out where Eurus was, so she could tell me where you were..in time. I...I couldn't just search for you randomly, but I didn't manage to tell you that. Just my stupid, “try not to drown”. I thought that was the reason why you fled and never wanted to see me any-more...”

John hugged him, “And the real reason was, that I was so ashamed of myself. I had only done so little to try to save us all on that island. I honestly thought, that I would damage you more by being near you, than removing myself from your life. I was such an idiot!”

“My idiot”, said Sherlock with so much warmth in his voice that it sounded like the endearment it was, “I'll leave Mycroft to Greg....now I have you.”

“Has he asked him yet?”

“I'm not sure. Greg promised to look after him. After I left Mycroft's house....”

John smirked.

“What?”

“That you could never remember Greg's name. What was that about?”

Sherlock smiled back, “Well. It was when we first met. He insisted on calling me 'William', even if I insisted that my name was Sherlock. Too much unpleasant mental 'luggage' was connected to that name 'William', but I couldn't tell him. So...I decided that I would call him every variation of male English names starting with 'G' until he called me 'Sherlock'. He did that finally, but then it had become a joke and I just continued, until I realised how stupid it was, and stopped.”

John smiled back and kissed Sherlock, “I'm sure he'll appreciate to have his real name back. And if he does not come out of the bush regarding Mycroft, then I'll have to push him a bit. Mycroft will, if he is a bit like you, never believe that Greg could be interested. In that area Mycroft is just as must an idiot as you were, Sherlock. So..you are sometimes an idiot too. My idiot!”

______________________

Later that day John and Sherlock went shopping. John did feel a bit awkward as they had gotten into the cab and Sherlock had mentioned the address. The address of the very posh and advanced and selective sex-shop, that Lady Elisabeth had introduced Mycroft to. This time it was the more 'public' part of the shop though. But when they arrived at the place and John saw the kind of people that went shopping in that advanced sex-toy-shop: normally looking people, married couples, young and not so young, John relaxed and asked Sherlock if it was all right if he bought something, that could remain a secret?

Sherlock smiled and said that he planned to do that too and then they separated and didn't meet until they took the cab back home again. Each of them loaded with a lot of shopping bags.

One of Sherlock's surprises was men's lingerie and John liked that very much. To see Sherlock's long lean and yet muscular legs wrapped in those delicate silk stockings and then a girdle and nothing else and then lying on his stomach on the bed with a pillow under his hips and arching his back and spreading his legs and arse-cheeks so John could see the tip of the butt plug that Sherlock had prepared himself with, then it was just John's iron-will that prevented him from coming on the spot or to throw himself over Sherlock, take the plug out and replace it hard and hungrily with his own cock.

John's surprises weren't revealed right away. Not all of them. He had bought a vibrating butt plug that he did show right away, but a lot remained a secret until after their wedding. They didn't become necessary before after that, and John would like to be able to surprise Sherlock from time to time.

____________________

Two days after John and Rosie had moved in with Sherlock at Baker Street, Mycroft had asked Greg to come to a meeting at the Diogenes' in on of the private rooms and Greg had of course asked how he was after the events. Greg knew of course now, that it had all been at set-up, but he had been told that Mycroft hadn't known at the time of the events happening and that Mycroft Holmes had been affected. Just like John and Sherlock. Yes even Molly, who had refused to tell Greg more.

“You'll have to wait until Mycroft or Sherlock tell you more. It is not my job.”, had Molly said.

So, Greg expected to learn more, but was rather surprised as he had been handed all the reports with a: “Please read it all. It will explain so much” from Mycroft.

And Greg did read, and cursed, and read, and got up and stomped around and asked if he could smoke and smoked 5 cigarettes as he continued reading about Magnussen, the false 'Moriarty', the things Magnussen had orchestrated 'behind the scene' and how the British government had been powerless. Then he read about Mycroft's role in it all and then the more personal stuff: That it had been Mary, who had shot and, from Greg's point of view, killed Sherlock and how Mycroft had been powerless in that, because of the fear of what Mary could do to John and Sherlock. And because Magnussen, despite everything, still wanted her to work for him. Then about the real Eurus and what Sherrinford had done so many years ago. The only part left out was what Sherrinford had done to Sherlock. But that was the only thing left out, as it hadn't been in those reports Mycroft had read...and that Sherlock had read too.

Finally Greg did put the last report on the table, took a deep breath and looked at Mycroft, “What am I supposed to do with this knowledge?”

Mycroft looked at him for a few seconds and then he said, “I'm sick and tired of having secrets hidden for persons, I regard as....friends. Maybe I'm wrong in assuming that you are a friend...?”

Greg shook his head, “No...you are a friend. And I've been worried about you. I've heard a bit about the explosion and that you were severely wounded....and reading those reports now have taught me that you were not wounded at all, not physically. And then, by reading those very same reports, I learn that...”

And Greg swallowed, “That you have risked your life more than one time, and was prepared to die to protect others. Now you have asked me to come here today. 'Asked'...not demanded.....and you have changed. I don't know what to believe any more. I...I thought you to be the epitome of 'sitting on a high horse' morally seen....”

“And now you have learned that I'm just a human being as well and with a somewhat dubious moral.”, said Mycroft and continued, “...if you want to press charges against me or have someone to do that, I'll understand and...”

Greg interrupted him, “Would this knowledge that you had about Magnussen being 'Moriarty' have made it possible for me or others to have persecuted Magnussen? Would that knowledge have made it possible for the law to stop him or his allies in the criminal world?”

Mycroft paused and then he said, “No...he was practically untouchable. We had tried, but in vain.”

Greg nodded, “Then you can't be accused of having withheld important informations, if we couldn't have found solid proof against him. In my eyes you and Lady Elisabeth did try to make damage-control and limit the man in his evil shenanigans. And the only person, who did stop him and had been able to do so, was Sherlock, because he was prepared to pay with his life. I come to think of: That bomb, under the Parliament, was that real? When we came running along those abandoned tracks, Sherlock just told us, that he had prevented the explosion.”

Mycroft nodded, “The men who removed the explosives, said that they were real enough, as was the bomb, which would have started the whole explosion. Magnussen was 'playing' us....used us all: me, Lady Elisabeth, Sherlock, John...hell...the whole of London. He regarded us all as his own set of chess-pieces. He had been prepared to kill all those bomb-victims, if Sherlock didn't solve the riddles in time...and Magnussen did kill that old lady. Magnussen was even prepared to sacrifice his own allies in his European criminal network. They too were nothing more than chess pieces to him. He wanted Sherlock out of England...and Magnussen didn't mind that Sherlock did hunt down some of his allies. I believe he thought, that if Sherlock could get to them, they didn't deserve to have those positions. Even the last one, Baron Maupertuis, was challenged by Magnussen. Sherlock's cover had been blown for several weeks and Sherlock had been hiding in the woods. Maupertuis' men found him and somehow they knew he was important, and tried to beat the answers out of Sherlock. Tortured him...... albeit not with chemicals and broken limbs. Just beating...pain and humiliation. Thirst and sleep deprivation. On the other hand Magnussen did let me know where Sherlock was and gave me an opportunity to save him. For Magnussen it was just a game: could Maupertuis figure out in time who Sherlock was? Could I get Sherlock out in time...and back to London before Lord Moran blew the Parliament and the people in it up in the air as bloodied pieces of confetti? And would Sherlock be able to deduce it all in time to stop the bomb? The only tiny opportunity for success that Magnussen granted us all, was that there was an off-switch on the bomb. A damned off-switch!”

“Jesus!..”, said Greg.

Mycroft took a deep breath, “Sherlock managed to stop the bomb about 20 seconds before it would have exploded. When Sherlock discovered the empty wagon, well, empty besides several hundreds of kilos of hidden explosives...and a bomb, there was not even time enough for him or John to escape. Sherlock later told me that he didn't even know if the bomb had been a booby-trap and if it would have exploded, as he tried to switch it off.”

Mycroft looked out in the air and continued, “When I, in vain, asked the government to accept a pardon for Sherlock, until we had discovered the depths of Magnussen's evil plans, they would not give it to him. I...I got almost no sleep from the time that our plans against Magnussen backfired and until Sherlock was forced to accept the assignment in Serbia. But I forgot to ask the very person, who would have granted Sherlock pardon, no questions asked, as she had been in the building that evening, where Sherlock saved all their ungrateful arses..”

Greg nodded, “You forgot to ask the Queen..”

“Yes....and later, as the full extent of Magnussen's megalomaniac ideas had been revealed, there was of course no problem in granting Sherlock the pardon. I just did not have enough time....”

Greg nodded and pointed at the stack of reports, “I can read a lot about how you got Sherlock out of Serbia. And I understand that you risked your own life doing so....I just can't understand: Did you actually see Sherlock being beaten?”

Mycroft nodded, but didn't say anything.

Greg nodded again, “That must have been hard....” and that was not totally the remark, that Mycroft had expected and Greg continued, “How did you hide your feelings?”

Oh yes. Greg had never bought the animosity between Sherlock and Mycroft for real. He had known both of them for too long.

“I wasn't Mycroft Holmes. His brother. I was someone else. Let me show you, just as I showed John”, said Mycroft and his whole facial and bodily expression did alter right in front of Greg's eyes and suddenly it was another man sitting there in front of him. And Mycroft made the same 'performance' as he had done in front of John.

“Wow...” was the only thing Greg said and then he pointed at the reports again, “But don't tell me that you and Sherlock had planned to shoot Magnussen that Christmas. I can understand the reason for doing it. It doesn't just look like something well prepared...”

Mycroft shook his head and said, “No...it was the last resort. And not a plan that I would have approved of. It was to risky. But Magnussen new about the first layer of our plans and had planned to gloat, as Sherlock would be so disappointed to find out that there were no vaults under Appledore. Sherlock had suspected the vaults to be either under Appledore, or under the office-building next to Magnussen's building in London City. He was supposed to send me a code, when he had confirmation of the vaults being under the office-building. As soon as he had sent the code, we did cut off the energy supply to the building, cut it off the internet-connections and 'jammed' the possibility of sending anything via blue-tooth. Actually...we jammed the whole centre of London...”

Greg nodded. He had had a suspicion that that break-down that Christmas of almost every internet-connection in the central London, had not been an accident, but been on purpose.

Mycroft continued, “If Magnussen hadn't been so coy and confident about his abilities to threaten us all with the information he could distribute electronically, if he had just used plain 'snail-mail' and CD's as Mary later did, then I'm not sure we could have prevented his revenge. But as it turned out? He didn't have a chance to send anything out. All his threats were empty. But only because Sherlock decided that he would sacrifice his own life to end Magnussen. Sherlock hadn't told me, that he, if he found that the vaults were not under Appledore and all the agents waiting in vain for his code to be sent to enter Appledore and retrieve the informations, ...if there were no vaults there...and they would be in London, Sherlock had decided that he would kill Magnussen. Sherlock knew of course that we would 'jam' the office-building, but as he discovered that Magnussen had been the man behind putting John in the bonfire, Magnussen gave a bit more away than he had intended. Sherlock now knew that Magnussen had been a lot more involved in the criminal world and as Magnussen then told that he, just like Sherlock, had so many more informations stored in his head, Sherlock made the hard decision to shoot Magnussen. He later told me that he had expected to be shot by Magnussen guards.....or by my men. As he dropped down on his knees and shouted to John that he should stay away, he had expected to feel the bullets hit him.....”

Mycroft took a deep breath and then he continued, “Sherlock knew of course at that time, that Magnussen could threaten the whole political stability in the Western World. Magnussen had grown too big and too powerful and had become too greedy. Magnussen just didn't imagine that anyone would be willing to sacrifice himself like that, and most of all not Sherlock Holmes. That was why neither John nor Sherlock were searched very thoroughly and why John did manage to smuggle his SIG into Appledore. And that 'hubris' made Magnussen loose his life in the end....”

Greg just listened as Mycroft continued to tell a bit more about the 'Moriarty-broadcast' , that Mycroft of course had made to prevent Sherlock from leaving England until Mycroft had had more time to convince people, why Sherlock should have a pardon. There was no doubt about that pardon, as everything about Magnussen was revealed, but it was not until almost February, before everything could be proved and after that Mycroft continued, “You have read all the reports by now. Is there anything more, that you want to know?”

Greg smiled a genuine smiled, “What do you think of football?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Football....and beer?”

Mycroft frowned but answered, “I fail to see the purpose of all those men running about on some grass, chasing a ball.....and I prefer wine.”

Greg got up on his feet, “Then it will be your punishment for keeping me in the dark: You'll come to my place this evening. You will watch football with me and drink beer and behave. Is that clear?”

Mycroft nodded with a little smile, “Understood, inspector detective Lestrade. May I bring the chips?”

__________________________

And things settled down a bit. Both for John and Sherlock. And for Mycroft and Greg, who finally ended up confessing their love for each other. Mycroft and Greg did need a little push though to go from 'friends' to 'lovers'

And John and Sherlock, as well as Mycroft, did finally accept their GBE's from the Queen. They were given the knighthood during more private circumstances, because of security issues. Actually in the same room in Buckingham Palace, where Sherlock had been dressed in only a sheet and the Queen had the pleasure of seeing Sherlock Holmes blush a bit, as she mentioned that it was nice to see, that he did know how to dress a bit more decently, than as an ancient Roman citizen. The Queen didn't mention though, that she had looked a bit more than a few times at the security footage, and mostly on the parts, where Sherlock almost lost his sheet. He was such a handsome man, found the Queen.

The wedding was celebrated the next summer after John and Sherlock lived together in Baker Street again. Rosie, who now was a bit more than two and a half years old, was bridesmaid and Hamish was the 'ring-bearer'. Hamish was often at Baker Street, even if he regarded Mycroft a bit more as a father, than he did Sherlock. Mycroft had at that time adopted Hamish, so he was now legally Mycroft's heir. Hamish knew of course the Sherlock was his biological father.....and he had sometimes said, with a smirk that was so much Sherlock, that he would have trouble 'stepping out of the line' and do something foolish and 'teenage-like' when he got old enough, because he had too many intelligent parents.

Hamish was very intelligent and had been attending a school for very gifted children in Berlin, even if he was only 5....and that had caused him a bit of trouble, as he had gotten a new teacher, right after he had returned to Berlin after the weddings, together with Irene, his mother.

Here is the story about that:

„Hallo. Mein name ist William Hamish Adler H*****. Ich bin 5 Jahre alt und das hier ist meine Aufsatz. Ich soll etwas über meiner Familie erzählen. Ich darf nicht meinen letzten Nachname schreiben. Das ist ein Geheimnis. Meine biologishen Eltern leben nicht zusammen aber sie lieben trotzdem einander und ich wohne hier in Berlin mit meiner Mutter und ihrer Frau. Sie ist meine andere Mutter. Ich weiss...es ist ein bisschen kompliziert.

Mein Vater ist sehr berühmt aber weil er manchmal für die Englische Regierung arbeitet und weil er viele Feinde hat, darf niemand von mir wissen….. „

(We’ll translate into English and continue:)

“Hello. I’m William Hamish Adler H******. I’m 5 years old and this is my essay. I’m supposed to tell something about my family. I’m not allowed to write my last surname. That is a secret. My biological parents do not live together, but they love each other despite of that and I live here in Berlin with my mother and her wife. She is my other mother. I know...it is rather complicated.

My father is famous, but because he sometimes works for the English Government and because he has a lot of enemies, nobody must know about me.

When my father is going to retire, he has promised my mother and me that we can come to England and live with them for a while. And then I have been adopted by my father's brother, because he would need an heir. I call him 'Papa M'.

First about me: I’m rather tall for my age: 135 cm and rather thin: 25 kg. I have dark brown curled hair, a few freckles and I’m rather pale. My eyes are 3 different colours: grey, blue and green.

My one mother (Mutti) is beautiful, with long dark hair, but my first mother, she who gave birth to me, is even more beautiful. She is rather pale and has “chestnut” hair. That is a sort of red-brownish colour. She works as a consultant. She is of course taller than me.

My 'Dad', who lives together with my father in a flat in London, says that I have my father’s eyes. But then my father just snorts and says it is the utmost rubbish saying that, as he still has got his own! Then my 'Dad' just laughs. My 'Dad' and my father live together and they have a little daughter 'Rosie'. She is very sweet and nice. Dad and father have loved each other for a long time but they haven't lived together until recently and didn’t have a wedding and a party until last month.
Sometimes my 'Dad' and my father work together and sometimes they don’t. I do not live with them regularly. But I have visited them. I have visited my adoptive father long before that. My father had to get away from London to protect a lot of people and he worked hard for two years and almost died and couldn't help my mother, when she was pregnant. My adoptive father, who is very powerful and rich, did help my mother then. When we live there, in my Papa M's house, my mother and I live in each our bedrooms upstairs. My Mutti stays in Berlin. My 'Dad' and my father live another place in London. In a house that is not as big as papa M's house. But it is old and very cosy. There is a nice old lady, who lives at the ground floor. She is very nice and often makes cookies. And then I play with Rosie. I'm not supposed to mention the name of the street either.

When I’m in London my father teaches me to play a violin. I’m rather good at it now and father is very proud of me. He says that when I have learned to play as good as him, I’ll get his violin. It is a very special violin. It’s called a “Stradivarius”. My violin is a violin made for children, because my hands are not big enough yet. My father has large hands with long fingers and when you touch them you can tell that he plays a violin a lot because he has calluses on the fingers of his left hand.

My father is tall and dark. He’s got black hair with just a very few grey hairs at his temples. He doesn’t like when my 'Dad' mentions them. He is rather thin too, like me, but he has lot of muscles. He is pale and he has got a lot of scars, mostly on his back. 'Dad' has a scar on his shoulder and my Papa M has a lot of scars too. They have all three done a lot for England and now they are “sirs” . I’ve investigated what it means and it means that the Queen had rewarded them.

My Papa M is taller than my father and just as thin, but he is older and his hair is thinning. He has a rather big nose, but he is very handsome too.

My 'Dad' is shorter than my father and has blond and grey hair. He gets rather tanned in the summer and his teeth are very white. His eyes have wrinkles, when he laughs and he is very good at telling bedtime stories, when I can’t sleep. Or when Rosie can't sleep. And he has got very soft hands. I can’t tell what job he has. Not because I do not know, but I’m not allowed. Rosie is just a little girl, but very smart and she looks a lot like 'Dad'. Even if she looks a lot like my father, when she thinks and plays chess. Yes, she can play chess, even if she is not that old.

I have my Granny and my Granddad too. They live out in the country-side. They like very much when we visit them. But we don’t stay for long because it is a bit boring to visit them.
Sometimes my mother is there too. But not always. And then I just stay by father and 'Dad' or by my Papa M. I’m not allowed to mention his name either. In the beginning I didn’t think he liked me, but then I did beat him in chess and now he likes me. Even more because I was the reason for his wedding last month too.
My father has taught me how to notice a lot of things. Like his hands. He calls it to “observe” instead of just “seeing.”

And I observed my uncle's best friend, Mr. G, when he was visiting my uncle and I asked him why they didn’t marry. Papa M just looked at me very coldly and asked me very politely, why I thought it would be a good idea. When he does that, I have observed that people get very afraid and stop asking questions, but I’m not afraid of him and I answered: “Because your pupils are dilated and your heartbeat goes up and so does his when you are near each other. You both try to disguise it but the signs are there. Doesn’t it mean that you are in love?” And then my uncle just stared at me, put his hand over his eyes and sighed: “Oh my god. You are so much your father’s son.”

Well of course I am. But I think my uncle meant that I’m very much like my father. I’m not sure it was a praise. My father and my Papa M disagree a lot sometimes. And then my 'Dad' and my Papa M's friend tell them to behave in very quiet voices. But they both look at them and behave.

About the wedding: It was a wonderful wedding last month and I had to wear a very formal suit. Before it was decided that it should be a double-wedding, my Papa M tried to explain to me why it was necessary to wear such rather unpleasant clothing but my 'Dad' was better at explaining and told my Papa M that he should buy a really nice one for himself and for G because it would be handy later on. And then my Papa M and Mr. G made a big surprise because they wanted to get married in the church too. Father and 'Dad' were in Scottish kilts, because they are descendants from two famous Scottish clans (I'm not allowed to mention them either, because if I did, you could figure out what my father's name is , and my 'Dad's) and Papa M and G were in morning suits. They were all very handsome.

Because they are all men, it was not allowed to be a wedding in a church before, but now it was. So they decided to make it a two-couple-wedding. The invitations were sent in spring and they planned the wedding to happen in this summer .

Papa M and Mr. G and father and 'Dad' would be married in the church near Granddad and Granny’s house. I know, it is still very confusing. I have now 4 fathers and 2 mothers.

There was a big party afterwards. It was at a castle and there were more than 200 guests. My mother and Mutti were there too and I asked mother if she was sad, but she said 'no' and after my father and my 'Dad' had danced the waltz, and my Papa M and Mr. G, who is now Mr. H, had danced too, she danced with my father. They were really good dancers and that was Papa M and G too.

Later my uncle found me and said, that we needed to talk. He told me, that he now would have his own children, because they would adopt, but I'll still be his heir, but not the only one, and that he would have to alter his will, since I would not be the only heir any more. He then asked me if I understood and I nodded and said: “I could just have kept my mouth shot, uncle!” And then he looked at me for a while and said that he was sorry for underestimating me and I told him that it was a rather common mistake to do that about me. Then he just looked at me and said, that he would never do that again.

I can’t tell more about the wedding, because I was ordered to bed. Rosie was already asleep. Having 6 parents of which 2 of them are geniuses and the rest are very observant people, doesn’t make it easy to delude them and besides I was tired too.

That was a bit about me and my complicated family.

William Hamish Adler H*****.”
_________________________________

“To the headmaster M. Schmidt
As you can see, this is what I got from Hamish. I haven’t talked to him yet, but I’m deeply concerned. I know he lives with a single parent, his mother, and I know that such children make up fantasies about their father, when they do not have one. But this is more troublesome. His “father” is a hero, famous, rich and is a part of a famous rich family, and Hamish fantasies about a Stradivarius too. Have you considered that he maybe should have some help? And who wrote this essay? I doubt that a 5 year old boy could have written this without help.

Best regards from Amanda Heisst”
___________________

“Dear Fraülein Heisst

As I have more information available than you, I can assure you that Hamish is fully capable of writing an essay like that and that every single word is the truth. He would even be able to write the essay in German (as he has done), or in English, French, Russian or Italian. Maybe even more languages. He is speaking the truth. And his mother is not a 'single parent'. She is indeed married. Her wife is just often abroad. His parents, all of them, have refused to have him tested, but if he was tested, he would be off scale. He is capable of a lot more, than he shows, but let him just pretend that he is just a bright little boy instead of a genius. And therefore just give him his essay back and don’t ask him to read it out loud in front of the others. If you want to reward him somehow, then ask him to bring his violin.

Best regards
Headmaster M. Schmidt”

Chapter Text

During the dinner after the ceremony in the church close to the old Holmes Estate, John found it very difficult to keep his eyes from Sherlock. John had known that Sherlock would be devastatingly handsome in the full Scottish attire, but not that handsome, that gorgeous and that mind-blowing beautiful.

They had decided that it would be Greg and John, who would be waiting at the altar, and Mycroft and Sherlock walking up to them. And seeing Sherlock's happy face had brought tears forward in John's eyes...and a sidewards glance at Greg had shown him in the similar state. Mycroft had lowered his shields and was showing the real Mycroft, not the 'Ice-man', and even John had to admit that Mycroft was almost as handsome as Sherlock, as the two brothers walked side by side with their father in between them, towards their coming husbands. And with their father in the middle, it was easier to see the similarities between the two brothers, even if Sherlock did take a bit more after his mother, than Mycroft did.

During the very delicious dinner, and this time the whole dinner progressed according to the planned schedule, without a murder to be solved, Sherlock had leaned towards John and had whispered , with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I know that it is not uncommon to 'go commando' under a kilt, but I'm not, though, even if my underwear could be called a bit inappropriate. I'm wearing a new set of those see-through dark blue lace pants, that you are so fond of. And I've borrowed a cock-ring in case my fine and antique sporran couldn’t keep everything in place......you know 'something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.”

John's smile was filled with just as much mischief, as he whispered back into Sherlock's ear, “But I am....I am a military man. So I am 'going commando'. You have to be a bit careful not to 'dip' me too much when we dance.....and besides: I've taken care of 'old and new, borrowed and blue' as well. But you'll have to deduce that. Only that the 'blue' and 'borrowed', is one of Mycroft's.”

And now Sherlock had to swallow a lump in his throat and tamp down his arousal, because he knew exactly which blue item, John had borrowed. And 'old' and 'new' wasn't that difficult: 'old' was the sporran and 'new' was the rest of John's outfit. Bespoke...every bit of it. And John was looking so incredible handsome in it. As Sherlock had walked towards his husband to be, he hadn't noticed anybody else. Just John...And oh...did he have plans for their wedding night!

And Sherlock and John enjoyed the rest of the dinner and both tried to tamp down their hunger for each other.

Harry, now 2 years sober and in relationship with Clara again, delivered the 'Best man's speech'. Not as long as Sherlock's speech at Mary's and John's marriage and not preventing a murder whilst doing it. But beautiful made and spoken. And Sherlock's and Mycroft's father held another speech. Not long, but from the depth of his heart, expressing how proud he was of the fine husbands his sons had found to share their life with. Something that both he and his wife sort of had lost hope about ever happening.

Then the waltz. Sherlock had a surprise for the guests and Mycroft and Greg as well and John had approved: Sherlock played for Greg and Mycroft first. A new composition from his own hand and it was and filled with joy and happiness and not filled with bitter-sweet feelings as it had been at John and Mary's wedding. A lot of people had to whisk a tear away from their eyes. At least some of those present, who had been at John and Mary's wedding as well.

And then Mycroft did surprise Sherlock (John had been in on it) as David Garrett turned up in order to play the waltz for John and Sherlock. Sherlock had a moment of panic as he saw, who would have heard him play: one of the greatest violinist in the world, but Garrett had whispered into Sherlock's ear, just before John and Sherlock were about to dance, “Your composition was amazing, Sherlock Holmes, and your performance too. I'm glad you are not a violin-player, but have chosen to be a detective, otherwise the competition against you would be hard!”

And Sherlock had looked at him with his laser-sharp eyes and had seen nothing but honesty and admiration and that was one of the reasons, why Sherlock had a slight pink hue on his cheek-bones, as he danced with John.

After the waltz Sherlock had a chance to talk to David Garrett and even if Sherlock would have loved to talk a lot more, he had gathered so much knowledge about social behaviour, that he knew he couldn't let John wait. David Garrett had told that Mycroft had hired him to play at John's and Sherlock's waltz and at Mycroft's and Greg's as well, but had told Garrett that Sherlock might have a surprise and maybe would play for Mycroft and Greg.

“I was standing outside and was listening to you playing. You are incredible skilled and talented, Sherlock Holmes and it wouldn't take much before you would be between the top twenty violinists in the world.”, had David finally said.

Sherlock had smiled a genuine smile and bowed his head and had said, “I'm flattered. I do think, that I prefer to be the one and only consulting detective, though.”

This time Sherlock didn't leave the party early.....and yet. At a point, before the midnight snack, the guests sort of forced both John and Sherlock and Mycroft and Greg to leave by saying, “For God's sake. Leave! You can hardly look away from each other. Leave!”

And they left. To the two big suite of rooms, that the hotel had provided. Not close to each other and a bit away from the guests as well. After all, they had the whole hotel for themselves, for them and their guests. No other visitors.

First we'll follow Greg and Mycroft:

As they opened the door to the suite, Greg first kissed Mycroft hard. And then they hugged. Greg could feel the tension in Mycroft's body and said, “Come, let us just sit down and talk. Do you need submission tonight?”

Mycroft turned and looked at Greg, “It is our wedding night. I can't ask this of you....I can't.”

Greg took Mycroft's hand, the one with the new platinum ring on it, “You can. And besides. If the 'wedding night' is looked upon as the night, where the newly wed are supposed to have sex for the first time...then we sort of 'jumped the gun' almost 6 months ago, right after Hamish did prove so much that he is Sherlock's son and told us that we were in love, didn't we?”

Mycroft smiled, “Oh yes...we did. And it was exquisite!”

It had been. But it had not been the first time, they were together. The first time they had done something together and outside work, had been as Mycroft had obediently turned up at Greg's doorstep with a bag full of the best chips available from Fortnum & Mason and had stoically prepared himself for a football match. It was one of the best matches of the year though, top-teams: Liverpool against Chelsea. And afterwards Mycroft had just frowned a bit and had said, “I'm a bit surprised. I realise that top-football is more like chess than 22 men running around in vain on grass, chasing a ball. But having said that, I am a bit surprised that.....”

And then he had given the most thorough and precise analyses of the game and the strategy that Greg had ever heard. And Mycroft had pin-pointed the 10 times, where the strategy had failed and had said, “But if both parties had that strategy, why didn't they follow it?”

And Greg had laughed and had wanted so much to kiss Mycroft as he said, “Because they are humans and make mistakes....Oh God I should bring you to the pub with me some other time and you would blow the minds of my football mates away. That is sometimes the best about football: discussing it afterwards and it is so amazing how clever everybody can be. The difference is that you are clever, Mycroft Holmes. This is the best analyses of a football match, I've ever heard . Brilliant!”

And Mycroft had gone to the pub together with Greg after several other football matches. Not as 'Mycroft Holmes' though. He went as 'Joseph Vernet', using his other names. Dressed in jeans and a sweater. And somehow he had managed to find some spare time. It was as if the madness in the world had slowed down a bit and he was able to keep a few evenings and even occasional weekends free.

And Greg and he became friends. Enjoying each others company. Greg enjoyed Mycroft's company, even more so because he had been lonely after the divorce. To his own surprise the divorce had gone smoothly......and Greg had a little nagging feeling that Mycroft had had a helping hand there. Compared to the coldness and sometimes almost hostility his previous wife had demonstrated, they could now talk 'as adults'. Maybe it had just been his wife's way of coping with her guilt? Pushing him away like that? After all, she had been the unfaithful one.

Mycroft introduced Greg to classical concertos, opera and theatre. They saw several plays, amongst others 'Richard III' in a modern version and Greg showed Mycroft the pleasures of watching pop-corn films and Mycroft did surprise Greg with his big collection of 'Film Noir' and old American thrillers.

Greg learned to appreciate not alone 'good wine', but 'excellent wine' as well. And he found out why strawberries and champagne was such a good combination and Mycroft did learn something new about good and excellent beer. Greg saw it as his task to teach Mycroft about some of the best beers from abroad.

Their friendship developed during the next several months and then Hamish had asked his question and they had looked at each other and had realised that sometimes you do need to hear the truth 'from the mouth of babes'. Yes...their friendship had developed into something more.

The next evening they kissed and Greg had said, “Life is too short to wait for ever. I love you...and I've wanted to kiss you a lot of times. We could wait an eternity and still not get to the sex. So let me be blunt: I want to have sex with you, Mycroft Holmes. And I don't give a fucking shit if you don't hide a gorgeous body behind that 3-piece-suit. I don't give a fuck if you are a bit overweight. I'm not twenty either and it is you I like and want to kiss...and having sex with, even if it is a long time ago, since I was together with a bloke the last time, and that even not......doing so much.”

Mycroft had looked at him and had said, “I want the same, but.....I have so many skeletons in my cupboards. More than was written in those reports. So much more. And I have enjoyed your company, extremely, but I can't continue if I keep secrets from you....and those secrets will be a burden to you. So are you sure?”

Greg had just nodded and then Mycroft had confessed that he had killed Carl Powers. It had not been his intention, he had just planned to ruin Carl's chances of winning. And Greg could then tell Mycroft that Carl had been a cause of 3 suicides and that Greg frankly didn't care what had happened to that bully. Then Mycroft said, “I've been tortured for real, so I have scars.....and I'm pierced.....and I haven't even told you everything yet...”

But Greg had kissed him and asked if he could undress Mycroft, and Mycroft had undressed Greg too.....and that whole 'strip-tease' had been a declaration of love until Greg gently had pushed the now naked Mycroft down on his bed...and they had made love for the first time. Just caressing and kissing and rubbing against each other.

Greg had found Mycroft's piercings surprising and exiting and a bit arousing and had confessed that he had a hole through his left earlobe, from his 'wilder time' being at high-school. He had kissed Mycroft's scars and shown that he had some too. And he had marvelled at how sensitive Mycroft's nipples had been and had sucked and licked and had done the same thing to Mycroft's 'Prince Albert' piercing.

They had had sex a few times, before Mycroft had confessed that he was a masochist...and occasionally a sadist as well and Greg had just wanted to know, what Mycroft would need from him. And as it turned out that the 'sadism' mostly was Mycroft's need for being totally in control and nothing more, Greg had happily agreed....and he had accepted Mycroft's masochistic needs as well, because he found that he could do to Mycroft, whatever Mycroft needed and Greg could even enjoy being so much in control and even hurt Mycroft physically with whips and floggers, crops and canes because Mycroft so obviously enjoyed it and even could achieve an orgasm through those means. To see Mycroft like that, it aroused Greg as well, even if he found it strange to find that streak in himself. And on the other hand, Greg was surprised that he had to admit that fucking a man's arse was just as good, if not better, than fucking a woman's vagina.

Mycroft had smiled as Greg had confessed that he liked it better and that he even enjoyed to have Mycroft's cock up his arse and Mycroft had said, with a smirk,, “It is a bit funny. If God had not intended men to have sex with eachother, why he did position the male G-spot exactly where a cock's head would touch, when a man would put his cock up another man's arse?”

And then Mycroft confessed the last part of his 'freakishness' as he called it: that he and Sherlock had helped eachother through the years and what they had done (not in detail, though) right after the events on the false Sherrinford island. And a bit to Mycroft's surprise, Greg had just accepted it.

He had said, “You two are unique. I think I'll never be able to understand how your brains work. If you could finally heal and Sherlock be able to forgive you by doing what you did, I'm not the one to complain. And if the direct result is, that you finally got rid of that constricting and destructive ice-armour of yours, well, then I'm fine with it.”

And then one weekend, where Mycroft had managed to get away from London Saturday afternoon till Sunday evening and they were in a small hotel near the sea, he had knelt down in an old-fashioned way and proposed during dinner. Greg had smiled and had shown that he had a small box with a ring as well and they had both been kneeling on the floor and hugged each other and people had cheered around them. They had been a bit nervous about doing it publicly in a sleepy seaside town, where people might have looked with a frown, or even worse, on two gay men. But they hadn't needed worrying. Their love for each other was so obvious that people just felt happy on their behalf. And now Mycroft had to include his and Greg's wedding into the planning of Sherlock's and John's wedding too.

___________________________

Greg smiled and kissed him, “I can see the tension in you. You can claim that it is otherwise as much as you would like, but you took the fair share of the burden of planning this wedding, even if you claim that your parents did the work. I know you....and you have worried so much, that Sherlock would be hurt because of David Garrett...”

“It's just...I was so afraid that Sherlock would have so many bad memories resurfacing, that I didn't expect him to write something....and then I spoiled everything by inviting David Garrett....”, said Mycroft with an uncharacteristic softness and worry in his voice. Something that showed Greg more than anything, how tired Mycroft was.

“You didn't. David praised Sherlock's performance, and why shouldn't he? Sherlock is a great violin-player. You have invited me to so many excellent concerts, with excellent musicians, so I do have something to compare with. And Sherlock is damned good!”, said Greg and kissed Mycroft again and he continued after the kiss, “And on top on all this wedding planning, you had to work on the crisis in North Korea. The one in Brazil. The terror in France, and in Italy. I can see the tension in you. I can hear it in your voice. Allow me to take care of you, Love. Give you what you need.”

That Mycroft gave in and said, “Thank you”, just showed Greg how much Mycroft needed the submission, to let everything fall out of his own hands, to let Greg catch him.

Greg began to undress Mycroft and gasped as he saw what Mycroft had been wearing the whole day. Or rather 'not wearing'. Mycroft had no pants on, but he had been wearing a cock-ring around the base of his cock and balls at the same time, and a 'wand' through his Prince Albert piercing and down into his urethra. And it had been tethered to his leg with a blue garter.

Mycroft whispered, 'Something old'...that is my tie-pin, that belonged to my Grandfather. 'Something new'...that is the 'sound'. Oh God, this morning when I put it in......The thought of you finding out, it made me so aroused. And the 'borrowed' is my tie. That belongs to my father...just like yours...and the 'blue', well, you found that.”

“My utterly mad-man.”, whispered Greg as he removed the items. First loosening the eye-let on the 'sound' from the garter, then easing Mycroft's cock and balls out of the ring. Then removing the sound. Kissing the cock-head and sticking his tongue into the a bit gaping slit. The sound had stretched it a bit and Mycroft moaned.

“I wanted to be able to control my urges.....and I wanted to think about, what you would say, when you saw it, “, whispered Mycroft and then he looked at Greg with so much love in his eyes, “Keep your shirt and trousers on....I want to ruin them!”

And Greg knew exactly with what body-fluids, Mycroft wanted to ruin that shirt and trousers.

He went over to their bags and retrieved the things, he had brought in case Mycroft would need pain and submission and found the manacles, the blindfold and the riding crop. He would have preferred a cane, but it was too long to fit in the bag.

Mycroft was lying on his back and looked at Greg, “You will find a cane in the wardrobe.”, he said and Greg just shook his head. Mycroft's abilities to almost read his mind and to have things prepared never stopped to amaze him.

“Bathroom, Myke. I have plans for you!” Greg said with a rough voice that told about his own arousal.

In the bathroom Mycroft obediently lied down on his back on the three white fluffy towels that Greg had placed on the floor and Greg prepared the enema. It was meant as a cleaning-procedure and not as a 'punishment', even if it was a effective method to ground Mycroft in his body, if he was on all fours and fighting the urge to let the water out again. Especially if the water was cold. It wasn't tonight, and it made it easier.

Greg and Mycroft were a bit lost in their thoughts while they waited for the water to work. Greg planned how he would help Mycroft, without altering his own plans for the night too much. Mycroft would be pleased to hear that Greg's plans had not been altered just to take care of Mycroft's needs. But now it was not the time to tell Mycroft. Now was the time to allow Mycroft to relax.

And Greg got an idea. He left Mycroft for a few seconds and returned with something hidden behind his back and as soon as Mycroft had relieved himself on the loo, Greg told him to kneel down on the towels again. Greg went to stand in front of Mycroft and asked him to look up.

And the Greg opened the gift and showed Mycroft what was inside. It was a black leather-collar of the finest leather. There were buckles for closing and D-rings for attaching chains if necessary.

“Mycroft, this was intended as a gift for you in the morning. But I'll give it to you now. I know than when your need for submission is the most urgent, you have difficulties finding the words to ask for it. Now you don't have to ask. You just put this collar around your neck, and I'll know what you are asking for. Will you accept this, Love.... my beloved husband?”

Mycroft had tears in his eyes as he lifted his head, so Greg could put it around his neck and the only thing he could say was , “Thank you, Greg. I love you!”

______________________

Back in the bedroom again after Mycroft had cleaned himself, he obediently lied down on the bed, face down, blindfolded, and stretched his arms out and above his head. Greg did put the leather-manacles around Mycroft's wrists and attached them to the ribbons that he just put under the mattress. There were of course no rings on the bed for such purposes in this hotel. Not like at home in their own house....in every bed, so they could use them if needed and not just in the play-room. Mycroft's ankles were not bound. He just wore a pair of weighted manacles. The feeling of the weight was enough to ground him.

Greg found the cane in the wardrobe and went over to the bed. He could see that Mycroft had partly surrendered and that he tried to be patient, but the nervous energy was still present.

And then Greg let the cane fall on Mycroft's buttocks with a loud crack. Taking very much care not to break the skin, but with enough force to make welts. That was what Mycroft needed right now: the sharp pain and the knowledge that there would be pain tomorrow too.

“Thank you , Sir. May I have another?”, said Mycroft.

And Greg gave him another...and another. At number four Mycroft moaned and began to rut against the sheet.

“Don't!”, said Greg and touched one of the welts with the tip of the cane as a warning. And Mycroft stilled.

________________________

Greg stopped after 10 stokes. Mycroft was panting by now and was covered with a thin layer of sweat and Greg was sure that if he did slide his hand under Mycroft's stomach, he would find a leaking and very erect, almost purple, cock.

Greg knelt behind Mycroft and ordered him to move his legs. Greg positioned a pillow under Mycroft's hips and pushed Mycroft's legs forward and out. Lying like that Mycroft presented and showed his hole and Greg took a firm grip around those sore buttocks and licked a broad stripe from Mycroft's balls and all the way up to his back.

Mycroft moaned even more and said, “Please, Sir. Let me come, please!”

Greg shook his head, “No...not yet. Not before I allow it!”

And then he began to loosen Mycroft's hole. He had used a rather big nozzle for the enema, so Mycroft had been loosened a bit and now Greg finished the job with his tongue. He was still amazed that he could take Mycroft so much apart just by doing this to him.

“Turn around” Greg ordered and Mycroft just crossed his arms and turned. Greg noticed that Mycroft was soft and pliant by now. It had been easy to bring Mycroft 'under' this time. To get him into sub-space. Maybe it was so much easier just because of the collar?

There was a blush all over Mycroft's upper body and his cock was leaking. Greg removed the blindfold and the manacles. They were not necessary any-more. Not when Mycroft had reached that state of mind. Not totally sub-space, but something similar. Greg found the bottle with lube and slicked his fingers on his right hand. With his left hand he took a firm grip around Mycroft's cock and Greg couldn't help pushing his tongue down the slit and suck a bit while he had 3 fingers up Mycroft's arse, carefully avoiding Mycroft's prostate. And then Greg finally got his own straining erection freed from his trousers and pants and he just stopped with his cock-head outside Mycroft's entrance. Waited until Mycroft gave a tiny little nod....and then Greg pushed in in one long gliding motion.

Mycroft moaned and arched his back and Greg set up a rather fast pace as he pushed into Mycroft in long deep fast trusts. He had a firm grip around Mycroft's hips and had bend Mycroft almost in half, all to well knowing that those welts on Mycroft's buttocks would be stretched and hurt.

Then he reached for Mycroft's left nipple and pinched it hard and finally Mycroft came....in long thick spurts that landed on Mycroft and on Greg's shirt and trousers. The rhythmical contractions of Mycroft's inner walls forced Greg over the edge as well and he emptied himself deep inside Mycroft.

_______________________

When they had 'landed' again, Greg rose to get a flannel to clean them up a bit. He undressed and was glad that Mycroft had very discrete cleaners. His trousers were stained with semen and lube and his shirt was stained with semen, just as Mycroft had promised. Then he reached out to unbuckle Mycroft's collar. And saw that his eyes were clear again.

“Okay?”, Greg asked and what he really meant was 'are you still in need for submission or was what I gave you enough?'

Mycroft lifted his chin to indicate that Greg could remove it and said, “Thank you for your gift. I suppose Leuris helped you?”

Greg nodded, “He did....or rather 'she' did. She feels more like a 'she' lately....It is a bit confusing, but she takes it nicely if I don't get it right. I am still amazed, that she insist on working whilst studying. She is so busy.”

Mycroft smiled, “She only helps very valued customers...and she insisted on making at least a bit of money on her own, even if it is not necessary.”

Greg nodded and said, ““Turn over, Love”, and he winced a bit as he saw the welts on Mycroft's buttocks. Not too bad, though. Not breaking the skin. But they would hurt and it was tissue-damage even if the skin was not broken and there was no blood. Welts were tissue damage.

“Don't”, said Mycroft and reached for Greg's hand, “That was exactly what I needed. And I'm still sorry that I ruined our wedding-night because of my freakish needs.”

Greg bend down and began to apply the Arnica-cream, “You didn't. I got everything I planned...well except from the caning. I love to rim you. The way I can take you apart like that...”

Mycroft turned his head and smiled as Greg continued to massage his buttocks. The pain was fading into a dull throbbing, that helped Mycroft being grounded in his body. Made him fell alive and he said, “The power of it. The feeling of being in control. That everything is in it's right place. The thrill of having someone who would obey you.....there is a name for it. It is called 'top-space'....so Mr. Gregory Holmes-Lestrade. It turned out that you are a sadist and a 'dom' after all!”

Greg positioned himself behind Mycroft as 'the big spoon' and hugged him, after helping him into a pair of silken boxers, to prevent too much of the cream to be smeared on the sheets, “But I only like it because you are enjoying it.” , he said.

Mycroft snuggled closer to Greg and explained, “And that is the true version of a 'sadist' and a 'dom'. The stuff in films or in 'Fifty Shades of Grey'. It is so wrong on so many levels...they are not sadists or 'doms'. They are abusers. Being a true sadist and a 'dom' is taking care of your 'sub's needs. Like you have done for me tonight. I give myself as a gift to you, as the collar indicates, and you accept my submission as the gift it is. That is what it is about....more than the pain...and the restraints. The 'punishments' is when I fail to fulfil what I myself have committed to, voluntarily. Safe, sane and consensual.....and that is why there are safe-words, if one of us should be in a wrong place, mentally.”

“My clever husband”, murmured Greg. And kissed Mycroft. And like that they fell asleep.

______________________

They woke early, Mycroft as the first and he hissed a bit, as he went for the loo. In there he looked at his buttocks in the big mirror and reached behind his back to touch the welts. They were red an swollen, but already fading a bit. They would turn into bruises at a point, but not that bad.

Greg came stumbling out and looked at the welts too, “I'll apply some more cream, if you want it.” he said and Mycroft was glad that Greg didn't apologize. There was no need for that.

Both men were lying in the bed again as Mycroft pushed an envelope towards Greg.

“My morning gift, Love.”, he said.

Greg frowned and then he looked at the contents before he looked at Mycroft, “I have to admit that I have from time to time had a suspicion that both you and Sherlock were magicians.”

He tapped at the piece of paper, that had been in the envelope and continued, “And now I have solid proof. How did you manage to persuade my former wife to accept that?”

Mycroft sat up a bit and winced again. Oh yes...those sore buttock were going to give much pleasure. He smiled and said, “She contacted me and asked for a meeting and I agreed. I thought that she would be mad at me because of my suggestion of adopting your girls, in order to give them the best possibilities regarding educations and things outside school, like sports and holidays. But as she turned up, her purpose was to tell me, that she understood that that ask didn't come from a wish of taking Sophia and Elizabeth away from her, but from a wish to give them the best future possible. And she admitted that the reason for your divorce, was her infidelity..”

Greg interrupted, “You did interfere there, didn't you? It went so very smoothly......and she didn't ask for more than her share. Actually a bit less.....”

Mycroft did blush a bit and cleared his throat, “I didn't threaten her. I just told her what I would have been capable of: ruining the careerer of her husband-to-be. Telling the court exactly how many times she had had an affair. And that could be enough to question her ability as a parent.....I'm sorry Greg, but she started many years ago....”

“I know. I just closed my eyes....and I did neglect her. The little extra time I had, I used that mostly on my daughters.”

Mycroft nodded, “I just told her that I wouldn't do that to her, because you still loved her, cared for her as you had done your whole marriage. You worked your...behind...off, to make London a safer place for her and your daughters, and she told me that she had finally realised that. She said, that she did know now, but she had refused to see it then. And then there was the thrill of having an affair. She knew, she was to blame and said that you deserved to be happy. And she didn't want to be greedy and unreasonable. She just wanted enough to make a safe future for your girls..”

Mycroft pointed at the letter, “That is why I, the second time I spoke with her, suggested to pay for their school, or getting them on an even better school and later pay for their higher education, and she agreed. Maybe because I was totally honest with her and said, that if you at a point would decide that it would be easier to live with her, to re-marry her, I would accept that. I told her that I would do anything to make you happy, Greg. And then she had looked at me and said that that was the reason why I would be a better spouse, than she would ever be....and then she accepted that I...we....would pay for Sophia's and Elisabeth's education. And that was the reason why she accepted, that they should be given the possibility of choosing schools, that could suit their talents even better. So yes, this is the piece of paper that, with your former wife's signature, has promoted me to their legal guardian if anything should happen to her. It is not adoption, but very close and yes...it is her signature that gives us permission to choose other schools for Sophia and Elisabeth.”

Mycroft paused and hugged Greg, “And I spoke the truth to Anne. I would do anything to make you happy. Even accept if you would leave me...”

Greg kissed Mycroft back and said, “For a genius you can sometimes be so incredible stupid. Being with you, loving you...is the best thing that had ever happened to me...and I'll never leave you. Never!”

Chapter Text

As Mycroft and Greg turned left on the top of the stairs, Sherlock and John turned right towards their suite.

Before they could reach the door, John pushed Sherlock up against the wall, forced him a bit down and kissed him and licked at the precise spot on his neck close to his ear, that precise spot that always made Sherlock go weak.

“John!”, panted Sherlock and grappled for John's head and returned the kiss. Hard and messily, because Sherlock had longed for John, his strength, his scent...since this morning. Since they met, actually.

And then John took Sherlock's hand and opened the door, dragged him inside and again he pushed Sherlock up against the wall and almost growled in Sherlock's ear, as he did bite lightly at Sherlock's earlobe, “Oh God...the things I want to do to you, husband!”

But Sherlock showed his strength by not just giving in and let John totally decide, because he kissed back, licked that spot on John's neck that made John's knees buckle and whispered, “I want you to do your worst! Ruin my fine kilt...and my shirt. Give the cleaners something to think about and...Oh God...the things I want to do to you......captain!”

__________________________

But first the a-romantic part, that Sherlock always insisted on: undressing and going to the bathroom first. As Sherlock used to explain, “I do not mind sweat...or semen...or, knowing that we both are 'clean', a bit of blood, if that should happen. But I do mind urine and faeces. And despite the joke about God creating a man's intestines and prostate gland so they do fit to another man's cock, I can't be comfortable in having your cock up my arse, or even 'worse': you licking me, taking me apart with your wicked tongue, fucking my arsehole with it, so I see moon and stars, if I didn't know I was totally clean. It is just.....”

And John did understand and knew it had something to do with Sebastian. John had only asked once, if that was the case and Sherlock had just nodded. And John had respected that Sherlock didn't want to tell about it. John just said, “One day I think I would like to find that arsehole and give him the beating, he deserves!”

And that did take the tension away and Sherlock had smiled and said, “I think that his miserable life that he is living now, actually is punishment enough...”

_______________________

So...bathroom and enema first. John had removed the blue butt-plug, that he had borrowed from Mycroft and Sherlock had laughed as he saw it.....oh yes. Definitely something 'borrowed and blue'.

“And you call me a 'madman'?” had Sherlock asked as he prepared an enema for both of them.

__________________________

After the cleaning process Sherlock was asked to redress. In his kilt and a new fresh white shirt. Nothing else. No sporran. No socks, no brogues and most important: no pants. John planned to ruin the blue pair of lace-pants some other day. So they were put aside in the suitcase. The shirt was the one, that John liked the most, apart form the purple one and the dark blue one. This white shirt (or rather: a similar one to the old one, which had been ruined at a point and by the way not could have fitted Sherlock any more) was of course, like Sherlock's other shirts, bespoke and even if Sherlock couldn't be called 'buffy' in any way, then he had gained some muscle and just a tiny bit of body-fat, since John and him had been living together again. And since the shirt was made of silk, it was almost transparent and almost clung to Sherlock's body. Showing every exquisite line of his body and his gained muscles, as Sherlock was standing in the door between the living-suite and the bedroom.

Sherlock was waiting a bit impatiently while John was finding the things, he would need and while John was putting on the 'things' Sherlock had asked him to wear. And Sherlock had smirked a bit as he gave John the bag and John had laughed, as he saw the contents.

“I want you, John, to wear these garments, together with your kilt. According to the picture included. And notice: just your kilt and socks. Nothing else...apart from these items.”, had Sherlock said.

“You and your military kink, Love”, had John said and had looked at his old uniform-shirt and his army boots in the bag. The shirt had been washed and ironed and the boots had been cleaned and restored and mended and were almost looking like new.....and his dog-tags were in there too. How had Sherlock managed to smuggle that out of his wardrobe?

And John had felt a bit...hesitating....because he wasn't as fit as he had been as a soldier on that photo, in the bag. He had been photographed, as he was on his way to his private quarters and he hadn't bothered to button his shirt. So there he was: tanned, showing his muscular chest and in fatigues and army-boots. It had been taken two days before he had gotten shot and was the last photo of him in uniform. Or rather...partly out of it.

John had looked at the man on the photo a bit melancholy and Sherlock had kissed him and said, “I think you are even more handsome, now. You do glow now, husband!”

And Sherlock was right. Looking in the mirror, dressed in the kilt, socks, boots and with his shirt loose and open, showing his chest and the dog-tags, John realised that he had nothing to be ashamed of. He was still rather fit and he had started exercising again. He had gone a bit softer around the middle, but not much......and then of course there was his collection of added scars. Most prominent was the one on his shoulder. But Sherlock hadn't been unharmed by life either. His back carried a lot of scars, even if the plastic surgeons in Berlin had made a fantastic job. And then there were those two, that John had put in Sherlock's face. At his lower lip and at his eyebrow. Something that John would never let himself totally forget. Especially if Sherlock had 'one of those days', then John would remind himself, that Sherlock did deserve all the patience, that John could muster....and even more.

Sherlock always kissed John's scar and said, “It brought you into my life. And even if we had to take a lot of detours, we ended up here. Together! And that is the most important part of it all.”

_________________________

John had to stop for a moment and look at Sherlock one more time. Sherlock had turned and had his back towards John. He stood almost as a silhouette against the brighter light from the living-suite. His hair was perfect: just the length that John liked the most and with that little nape-curl that had been a torment, when John had not yet admitted his feelings for Sherlock. Not to himself...and not to Sherlock. But that hair almost 'begged' for being tussled and that nape-curl 'asked' to be wound around John's finger, followed by a kiss and a lick to that long neck.

The rest of Sherlock's body was just so...perfect...as he was standing there. Arms crossed. A bit lost in his own thoughts, apparently. From that nape-curl, over those broad shoulders, over the curve of his back, that showed his strength and down to that plush arse, that the fine wool of the kilt couldn't hide. An arse that could drive John mad with lust.....and John realised now that he was now totally erect under his kilt. It tented over his cock and the fine woollen fabric felt amazing against his exposed cock-head. The only thing that prevented the kilt from sliding apart in the front and show his erection, was the extra fabric and John would only have to move a bit before that fabric wouldn't be enough.

John moaned a bit in the back of his throat and arranged the kilt a bit better, before his gaze was continuing down over that arse of Sherlock's, to the part of those impossible long legs, that was shown under the hem of Sherlock's kilt. Those long legs that made Sherlock move so elegantly. Jumping over fences and tables as if they were nothing. John knew now that Sherlock in fact did exercise, but not that much. Not enough to explain the almost effortless way that Sherlock could run and jump like he did. Right now all those things put together made Sherlock look like an.....an angel....and John lost his breath for a short moment. Overwhelmed by happiness.....”He is mine!”, John thought, “That incredibly handsome and gorgeous man is my husband!”

But it was not only Sherlock's gorgeous body, that could impress John. It was the incredible mind under those beautiful curls and behind those laser-sharp eyes, that was now focused on John, too. Sherlock gave a little gasp and opened his mouth a bit so his front teeth became visible.....and then John could see a faint pink hue on Sherlock's cheeks and how Sherlock's eyes suddenly became darker, as his pupils dilated.

And the little darkness inside John appreciated when that gorgeous body and mind was submissive and obeyed John. And John did remember, that that submission was a gift from Sherlock to John and should be treated accordingly. Just as when John, albeit seldom, did submit to Sherlock, because sometimes John could need to loose control as well, let himself 'fall' and get 'caught' by Sherlock.

Strangely enough there could be a freedom in letting another, that you trusted totally and even with your life, make all the decisions. But that part of their relationship was always inside the walls of their apartment. And John didn't have qualms about Sherlock bossing him around a bit, while they were on a case. It had taken a lot of time before John had realised that Sherlock didn't boss John around, when it came to subjects, where John had knowledge and Sherlock not. But John had been blind in that area too, and had had the wrong feeling that Sherlock didn't appreciate John's knowledge.

John lifted his arms out and turned around and said, “Well. Was that what you imagined?”

And suddenly John had his arms full of a very happy detective husband, “Oh John! Perfect....just like I...”

And then Sherlock didn't say anything more, because he was kissing his way down from John's neck and to his nipples and suddenly Sherlock had folded his body down on the floor and was kneeling in from of John and had his hands on the hem of John's kilt and looked up at John through his eyelashes and asked, “Permission to suck your cock......Captain!” with that voice that one day might make John to come on the spot.

John stood at ease, with his hands behind his back and looking out in the living-suite and said, “Permission granted.....soldier.” Oh, yes. He liked role-play just as much as Sherlock did. As long as it wasn't too much 'doctor-patient'.

And Sherlock ducked under the kilt and moaned as he took John down in one swift gliding motion. An action that made John's knees buckle a bit.

And then both men were a bit lost in their arousal. John did cast his eyes down and noticed that Sherlock's kilt wasn't totally closed in the front and Sherlock's erection was on it way out between the layers of the opening in front of the kilt. Even more so because the kilt had been a bit 'off-kilter' as Sherlock had knelt on the floor.

Not to be able to see Sherlock, but just to hear him and feel him, added another layer of pleasure to the blow-job and John felt, that he was close and as he didn't want it to be over so quickly, he padded the bump on his kilt, that would be Sherlock's head and warned, “Sherlock....I'm going to...”

And then Sherlock 'emerged' from under John's kilt. And he looked so adorable that John fell down on his knees as well to give Sherlock a sloppy kiss....that tasted a tiny bit of himself....and

hugged him, “It was incredible.....but I don't want it to be over so soon. I have plans for you as well...”

And Sherlock smirked. “You should never be allowed to wear anything but a kilt. The accessibility...oh God. I haven't thought about anything else the whole day!”

“Neither have I..” almost growled John and reached down and lifted Sherlock's kilt, so he could grapple two handfuls of the gorgeous and very naked arse of Sherlock's.

“”Living-suite, now! Bend over the sofa!”, ordered John and Sherlock hurried to obey. Now John was on his knees behind Sherlock and crawled under the kilt, and there in the dimness he grappled Sherlock's arse-cheeks and said, “Spread your legs, soldier!”

And Sherlock whimpered because he knew what John wanted to do and the thought sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. John took a firmer grip on Sherlock's arse cheeks, spread them out and stuck his tongue out to taste and lick at the furled hole between them. Sherlock was a bit relaxed already after the enema and it made it easier for John to put his tongue inside. John licked and sucked and Sherlock moaned and lost himself totally as John took Sherlock totally apart by those actions. John enjoyed the power of being able to take Sherlock so much apart by just doing something to such a small part of Sherlock.

At a point Sherlock panted, “Oh God, John...stop!....I'm going to......”

And John stopped and emerged from under the kilt. “You should always wear a kilt too, Sherlock. I had to control myself not to do this to you just before and during and after the dinner. Turn around and lie down on the sofa, but don't touch! Arms over your head.”

And Sherlock obeyed. Crawled over the back of the sofa and positioned himself as John had ordered.

John took off his shirt. It was too much in its way and he lifted his dog-tags over his head and gave them to Sherlock, “Hold on to them and imagine that you are tethered to the sofa. Don't move!”

And Sherlock obediently held his hands above his head and closed his eyes...a bit lost in pleasure as John opened Sherlock's white shirt, and let his hands wander over Sherlock's pectorals and caressed his nipples with his thumbs. Sherlock moaned.

Then John bent down to suck at the left one...and felt something against his lips. He lifted his head and looked again and then he asked, “My God, Sherlock. Are you pierced?”

Sherlock needed a moment to collect himself, “Mmmm...what? Oh yes. Since university. It was a dare...a challenge. I thought that the holes had closed long ago, but as I …well, I did....I pierced Mycroft's nipples and just came to think of my own. The holes were still there., even if they had contracted. And that is why I have bars in instead of rings. Rings would be to thin and to dangerous.....risking tearing...”

John remembered how he had yanked nipple-clamps from Sherlock's nipples. If on of the tiny 'claws' had been caught in the tissue! Oh God....he would have destroyed the tissue!

And Sherlock now showed his mind-reading abilities again as he said, “Oh...don't worry, John. First and foremost: the holes were very tiny. Almost closed before I put the bars through...very carefully. And the clamps do 'bite' upside-down.....and the holes are from side to side. So no risk...so please.. Continue to take me apart...captain!”

And John obeyed and continued fondling with Sherlock's nipples as he mumbled something about 'topping from the bottom' and sucked and did bite a bit and used his mouth and tongue to drag in the small bars through Sherlock's nipples.....and Sherlock moaned and almost arched of the sofa. His nipples were always so sensitive.

John continued with his mouth down over Sherlock's stomach until he reached the waistband of the kilt. He used his hands to push the fabric aside and Sherlock's proud erection was now to be seen between the layers.

“So much easier..”, said John before he bend a bit more down and used his sword-swallower talents to swallow Sherlock's length totally. Sherlock was now covered with a thin layer of sweat and his hips trusted involuntarily forward in small movements. He was almost humming. Totally lost in pleasure and as John lifted his head at a point, just to get some air...and to give Sherlock a pause, John smiled as he saw how Sherlock obediently still had his hands over his head, clutching to John's dog-tags and his long fingers moved in tiny movements. They were almost kneading, as if Sherlock had been a big cat.

Then John bent down and sucked and licked in earnest and used a tiny bit of teeth, especially on the frenulum and reached up with his hands to pinch and twist the bars in Sherlock's very erect and still wet nipples.....and with a shout and arching of the sofa, Sherlock came. John moved his head away. He wanted the semen to land on Sherlock's stomach, shirt and kilt. It was what Sherlock had asked for.

_______________________________

John had come so close to an orgasm himself as he saw Sherlock's white spurts and heard him moan, so he had to take a firm grip around his own erection, just to catch his breath.

And now Sherlock looked at him under hooded eyes, “Wouldn't it be a shame not to get to use that throughout hard work your tongue did on my arse?”

And he got up on his feet and removed the now stained shirt and kilt and went to the back of the upholstered sofa and laid down over the back-rest. With his legs spread out and not at all caring about smearing the rest of his semen on the fabric of the sofa.

“Come on....captain! Fuck me!”

And John didn't need more encouragement than that. Seeing Sherlock in all his glorious nakedness and spread out for him like that. It took all John's willpower not to come on the spot.

____________________________

 Afterwards they were both lying on their backs in the huge bed, holding hands and looking sappyly at each other.

“I can't believe that we finally are here, Sherlock.”, said John and kissed Sherlock's long elegant ring-clad ring-finger......and moved his other hand so it was beside Sherlock's. Comparing their rings. Squeezing Sherlock's hand a bit, “Oh God, Sherlock. I love you so much.....and...”

“If you are going to say that you do not deserve this happiness, I'm fetching the riding-crop, that is in one of you bags...and I'll hit you with it! You and I deserve each other......through thick and thin and being both good and evil both of us. In short: we are humans, John. With flaws and failures and the only thing I can promise, as I did today, is to be there for you in the best possible way. But I can't promise, that I will never make you sad, that I'll never hurt you. But I can promise that I'll never do it on purpose. Never. I'll repeat my words: you make me a better man. You make me whole. Without you, I'm just a shell, a hollow shell. We fit together, you and I, like jig-saw pieces. My Yin to your Yang and the other way around. Black and white. Holmes and Watson....”

John kissed him, “You are such a sappy poet....but such a good one too. You are right. We do fit together.....”

And now Sherlock smirked, “In more than one way! Your cock up my arse....it fits. Oh God, how it fits!”

John slapped him on his arm, “Yeah...and your cock down my throat.....It fits too!”

And then they kissed again and agreed on that they did need some sleep.

Again they slept tangled together with Sherlock draped on John like a Sherlock-shaped blanket. And even if John would have said many years ago, that there was no way he could sleep so close to another person without feeling suffocated, he didn't mind at all when it was Sherlock. Not one tiny bit.

Chapter Text

After the wedding and over the next couple of years, things settled down for the two married couples.

John and Sherlock lived in the renovated 221B Baker Street...and 221C. They were solving cases, but not too dangerous ones. Rosie was sometimes at her day-care-family and as she got a bit older, at a kindergarten for special gifted children as well. Mrs. Hudson loved to look after her, and Molly loved it too. And Rosie loved those two women in return, nearly as much as she loved her 'Daddy' and 'Papa'.

Rosie didn't know that some of the nice people, who came and saw her play with the others and talked to her and gave her games to play, were skilled people, who looked for signs of 'tilted' development. After all, her mother had proved to be a dangerous psychopath, who had drugged and killed to get her way and who had been cold and calculating to an extent where she had left her friends to die, attempted to kill a friend, who just wanted to help her and had drugged her husband and aforementioned friend up to their eyeballs and had left her newborn daughter to others in order to travel around the world. Not to protect her 'dear ones' as she had claimed, but to re-activate her criminal organisation.

But no one had a reason to fear for Rosie's development. She had her temper tantrums like every toddler and showed a strong will and stubbornness, but she could be sweet and caring as well......even if Sherlock and John had nightmares about a toddler so smart, that she could delude them and the scientists.

In the daylight, where such thoughts proved themselves as stupid as they were, Rosie showed no signs of psychopathy, only signs of her high intelligence. She could read and do math before she was 4 and her mental development was far ahead of her psychical abilities and looks, which caused a lot of frustration on her side. Sherlock had been in a similar situation as a child and Mycroft too, so they had solutions.......and when Hamish visited, mostly around the big holidays in summer and around Christmas, he and Rosie enjoyed each other's company and made elaborate plays with dolls, Lego and toys. Rosie was intelligent, very intelligent, but she was a sweet and caring little girl as well.

___________________________

John and Sherlock were careful about which cases they would take in. And even if there were adrenaline-causing chases after dubious persons and encounters with dangerous criminals, it was almost nothing compared to what they had experienced previously, before Sherlock had to jump because of Moriarty...or rather because of Magnussen. It didn't mean though that Sherlock didn't have to use his amazing mind to its full capacity to solve cases. And that meant too, that Sherlock would push both mind and body a bit too far sometimes. And then he would find it difficult to return to normal again, just as he had told John, when he had confessed that he sometimes needed pain to 'get back into his body' and still his roaring mind.

And John had to use his skills to 'ground Sherlock in his body' at a few occasions where he would use pain and sex or other means to stop Sherlock's brain from spiralling out into the outer space. Apart from that they just had a very nice and a lot of times just almost vanilla-flavoured sex-life.

___________________________

The worst case happened about 6 months after their marriage. It started out as something one might have thought to be the usual case of a young person running away from home. But at the point where Sherlock was called by the 'Yard', more than 5 young people had gone missing. All from the same school or the schools nearby. The first young boy had gone missing over 3 months ago. None of them had returned to their families. And even Sherlock's vast network of homeless people, who normally could keep an eye on such youngsters, and give words to Sherlock where the young people could be found. Not even that network could find any traces of those young boys.

When Sherlock finally had put the evidence together and found out that the cases were connected and a serial-killer and rapist was on the loose, yet another teenager had disappeared. Sherlock had worked night and day. Only slept when it couldn't be avoided, out of sheer exhaustion and he lived on coffee and sugared tee for 7 days......and finally he had a break-through.

The boy was rescued. Not unharmed......the doctors would probably not be able to save his foot, which had been tethered to a wall with a much too tight manacle. And he had been raped. But he was alive unlike the rest of the children, who had been found buried in the soil of the garden behind the killer's house. Unfortunately the killer himself had vanished.

______________________

John could see that Sherlock was on the road to a break down, as they finally could return to Baker Street. Rosie was still at Molly's. She missed her Daddy and Papa, but she had adapted to being with others from an early age. And the thought did pain John.....because it reminded him about how things had been, even before Mary died. That Rosie had been left in the care of others, as John and Sherlock tried to find Mary, and later as John didn't feel that he could take proper care of her. It made it easier to solve cases, and Rosie wasn't harmed, but John still didn't like that it was necessary. Today he was thankful, though, that Rosie wasn't in the house. And as they passed Mrs. Hudson's door, she had just peeked out and looked at John with unspoken questions in her eyes and he had just nodded, as Sherlock stumped up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson just gave John a nod and went to find her earphones. It was either that or leaving the house.

In the living room Sherlock was pacing the floor. Still dressed in his coat and tugging at his hair, muttering, “Stupid...stupid. Useless...you are so utterly useless, Sherlock. Too late. Always too late! You are such a useless stupid little boy!!”

John watched him for a few seconds and recognized the signs and then he barked, in full 'Captain-Watson-mode', “Enough! Stop! Go to the bedroom! It is an order!”

It worked...partly. For Sherlock stopped for a few seconds. Then he snarled, “Oh for God's sake, John. Not now! I have to think! Even your limited brain functions must have discovered that we only saved the boy.....and that even not in time. But we didn't catch the killer!...I.Have.To.Think!!”

John went over to Sherlock and in one swift motion he had caught Sherlock's arm and forced him up against the wall. Not unlike the movement Sherlock had made when he was Shezza, after John's and Mary's marriage, and had surprised Mycroft (and aroused him at the same time), as he had pushed him up against the door in the kitchen.

John put his mouth close to Sherlock's ear and almost growled, “Enough! Sherlock! You are running on fumes. Soon your brain will whirl out into cosmos, if you are not stopped. And in that condition you are not able to use that amazing brain of yours. You need a break. So....do you want to safe-word out?”

Sherlock had stilled and John had prepared for fighting back. Sherlock was incredible strong and John knew that what he was doing, was only possible, because Sherlock allowed it. But Sherlock didn't fight back. He just took a deep breath. John could feel the nervous energy in Sherlock's body. Sherlock was trembling ever so slightly and John knew that Sherlock was fighting his own impulse to 'safe-word out'.

John did let go of Sherlock's hand and took a step backwards, “Safe-word now...or obey me! Go to the bedroom and undress.”

John paused a few seconds before he continued, “I want you naked and kneeling beside the bed.....and I'll give you a choice. Choose the cane or the riding-crop!”

Sherlock's attention was directed at John within a fraction of a second and John could see how Sherlock's pupil's dilated and how his cheeks blushed. Sherlock had often asked for the real pain and John would refuse almost most of the time...and Sherlock had to admit that the other things John did worked nearly just as well. But there was something about the cane and the riding-crop. Even more so because they would leave marks that Sherlock would be able to feel for days...and he liked that.

John couldn't help smiling as he saw how fast Sherlock had got rid of his coat and how Sherlock almost ran towards the bedroom.

There wouldn't be time for an enema and John had planned exactly what he would do and he remembered the first time he had introduced the 'tools' to Sherlock:

It had been a few days after their wedding. Sherlock had been down in 221C in the laboratory. Rosie was at her daycare family and John had been at his former clinic, only working there a few hours because one of the doctors had to go home sick. And John had remembered the conversation he and Sherlock had had and John had brought something from the clinic's collection of old medical instruments. Coming home and not finding Sherlock in the flat, John had fetched some of the items, he had bought, when they visited the sex-shop and left them in the bedroom, before he went down the stairs to find Sherlock.

As he entered the laboratory, he stopped and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was sitting totally absorbed by his experiment and the light from the microscope had enhanced Sherlock's handsome facial features. Suddenly John remembered the first time he had seen that incredible handsome man. John smiled...a little sad smile. Because they had lost so much. So much time and so many possibilities, because John Watson had been too much of a coward to admit his own feelings. And Sherlock had been harmed by so many people, that he didn't dare to believe that he could deserve something good. And that thought made John a bit sad too. And angry.

Sherlock had become aware of John's presence and had looked up and smiled and just said, “John...” and had stopped working.

John had smiled back and came to the table and put down the thing he had been hiding behind his back, and had said, “Deduce that, Love. What have I brought? And do examine it from the outside. Don't open it... No cheating!”

Sherlock took the worn leather-case in his long elegant hands. Turned it around. Looked at it again and squinted as he tried to read the almost invisible Company-mark on the case.

Then he took a deep breath and began, “This is an old medical relict from your clinic. By the look at it, it must be from the Victorian times. It has the same smell as you sometimes have: a unique mixture of all the smells of your clinic. I recall that you had a cupboard with old medical instruments there...in the corridor towards your room. And I can see traces of the gold-letters, saying 'H****son's U***** Di******. So, another version of Dr. Young's rectal Dilators?”, Sherlock asked with a smirk.

John pointed at the case and said, “Close....but no cigar. Dilators all right. But not 'rectal'.......They are 'urethral dilators'. You can open it now.”

Sherlock opened the box and looked at the light curved steel-rods lying side by side. From the thinnest measuring only 2 mm as the still readable label said, to the last that measured 8 mm.

John pointed at them and said, “That is only the top layer. The next layer contains dilators up to 22 mm and the device that requires such a dilation.”

And Sherlock looked at the bottom layer and lifted the device, that looked like some medieval torture-instrument, out of the box. He turned the fine screws and saw how the device worked and then he nodded, “I see. A device to remove bladder stones through the dilated urethra. The only relative safe possibility before decent anaesthetization and before open surgery could be performed under sterile conditions.”

Sherlock looked at the bladder stone crushing devise and winced a bit, “It must still have been dangerous and painful though...”

John took it and nodded, “It was. But it was either this or a very risky operation or a certain death. And the urethra would over time shrink back to a more normal size. People now a days still use dilators.....mostly men. If they form scar tissue easily, an operation is often not a possibility and if they still want to urinate out through the penis and not through a permanent catheter, they would have to push aside the scar tissue, when they have to pee.”

John took one of the rods and continued, “Do you remember the case with 'The neighbour of the blue man'? Molly had noticed that the corpse had a bit strange looking penis?”

Sherlock nodded and continued, “She told us that his urethra was dilated...absurdly wide.....so a finger could get inside....and the poison had been forced down that dilated urethra and into the bladder.”

John nodded again, “Some people find it pleasurable to stimulate and stretch the urethra.....and...”

Sherlock smiled again and said, “And some people can't seem to stop before they've got the whole Big-Ben down there...”

John laughed, “That is why I would never use such thick rods as those on the lower layer on you....”

“But the others?”, asked Sherlock with a sudden interest.

“Only if you want it. It is not painful. Just an extreme sensation.”, said John.

“That would work on me when I'm spiralling out into outer space.....”

“Exactly!”

And then they had returned upstairs to find out if 'sounding' was something Sherlock liked. And he did.

Sherlock had taken an enema first...as he always insisted on doing and since John had imagined some rimming to prepare Sherlock, he didn't mind at all that Sherlock was so fastidious about his personal hygiene before sex.

And then they had started. They didn't use the ancient rods. John was afraid that they couldn't get sterilized well enough and he had bought a new and better set at the sex-shop. Not so extreme in sizes and without the bladder-stone crushing devise. But with a few extra items added: a longer silicone rod with the possibility of electric stimulation of the prostate from the inside and rods with shapes and curves for more intense sensations.

John was still in T-shirt and pants and Sherlock was naked on his stomach, arching his back and putting his arse on display and John had been doing his favourite past-time by taking Sherlock totally apart by just that single touch-point on Sherlock's body. That most intimate place, normally hidden between the arse-cheeks of that wonderful lush arse, that John appreciated being hidden in clothing most of the day. John felt that he was a Pavlovian dog regarding Sherlock's arse. John had always been more an arse-man than a breast-man. Always appreciated the beauty of a female behind, but Sherlock's arse? It could turn John on on the spot. Sometimes  during cases Sherlock would be bending over to look at something on the ground and that movement would reveal the plushness of that arse......and John was thankful that Sherlock most of the time, at crime-scenes, was dressed in his coat and that it would hide that delicious curve of Sherlock's very nice behind.

And John was actually humming and almost coming as he slowly fucked Sherlock with his tongue. The sounds that Sherlock made! John stopped in time though....just before the all tells of Sherlock's orgasm were there and Sherlock was asked to turn around and sit up against the padded headboard of their bed. They had replaced the otherwise very nice and sturdy bed in Sherlock's bedroom shortly after they had confessed their love for each other and this new one had a padded headboard and some other features that might come in handy, if they wanted to do more than just 'vanilla-sex'.

Sherlock had been sitting there, up against the headboard and with the heavy weighted manacles on. Sherlock could move, if he wanted, but they were a sort of a restrain and a reminder of the necessity of staying still.....and John had put on a pair of nitrile gloves as he told that this specific part of a sexual play would require some very un-sexy precautions to avoid infections.

Sherlock had been covered with a thin layer of sweat and was breathing a bit heavily, as John had taken Sherlock's erection in one hand and had applied some antiseptic gel on the rod and on the head of Sherlock's cock and then he had begun to ease the first rod down into Sherlock's urethra. Sherlock had looked in fascination and had moaned as the full sensation washed over him.

John had moved the rod a bit in and out and Sherlock had closed his eyes and had whispered, “More! The next one, please!”

And he had moaned even more at the slight sensation of stretch as the next rod did slide into his urethra. And the next size....

Then John had taken a devise from the sex-shop.....a 'stretcher' and had placed it on Sherlock's cock. Just around and below the cock-head and the two tiny 'arms' were put down the slit. And then John turned the screw just a tiny bit and Sherlock moaned and arched of the bed and came with a thick spurt of semen, covering John's nitrile-clad hands and the 'torture-devise' in an orgasm so forceful and sudden, that it had surprised both of them.

As Sherlock came to his senses he just smiled at John and said, “I think it was a 'yes'....and now: get those pants off and fuck me! We still have 4 hours to spend before we need to fetch Rosie and I would like to try some more of those rods.”

And they had tried the rest of the things John had bought, including the E-stim-device and they had agreed on that even if it was a bit un-sexy with the nitrile-gloves, the anti-septic cream and the loss of spontaneity, 'sounding' was definitely something that could be included in their sex-life.

____________________

John entered the bedroom. He had only been lost in memories for a few seconds and then he stopped and looked at his incredible handsome husband, who obediently was kneeling on the mat beside their bed. Once again John had the thought that Sherlock never should be allowed to wear clothes. His body was a work of art. Long lithe and yet muscular legs, a muscular and lush arse, slim waist and broad shoulders. There was no question about Sherlock being a man one hundred percent, but it was a very....well it was as if the word 'handsome' wasn't good enough....so 'a very beautiful' body would be a more correct description. Like an elegant and strong horse: all elegant fluid movements and hidden strength. Sherlock was a Greek God in living flesh. Michelangelo's marble David made of flesh and blood and right now this incredible handsome husband of his was kneeling on the mat in front of the bed. On the bed was the remaining weighted leather-manacle. Sherlock had attached the two around his ankles and the one around the left wrist. It was the way they did it: John was supposed to put the last one on Sherlock. To show that he would take care of Sherlock and to make Sherlock enter the state of mind, he needed. And on the bed was both the cane and the riding crop.

John touched Sherlock's shoulder and asked, “Both?”...and he could feel that Sherlock was trembling ever so slightly because of the effort of controlling both mind and body.

“Yes John....please?”

“It is 'sir' and very well.”, was John's answer as he suddenly realised that it maybe was cruel not always to give Sherlock what he really needed: real pain and the throbbing the following hours and days as a reminder. Sherlock had accepted John's reluctance....And just giving Sherlock bodily sensations instead of real pain, was maybe like giving people apples when they in reality needed a steak.

John closed the manacle around Sherlock's right wrist and said, “I'll give you 6 with the cane.....and you will thank me after each one!”

“Yes, sir!”, was Sherlock's answer.

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

(Continued from chapter 28)

“Bend forward and rest your upper body on the bed.”, said John and prepared himself mentally for giving Sherlock the first blow with the cane. And John didn't hit gently. He did aim for pain, but not for breaking the skin.

Sherlock yelped at the fist hit and tried to breath through the pain.....and remembered to say, “Thank you sir. May I have another?”

Then the second blow came......and the third. John could see how the welts formed and he was careful that they wouldn't cross each other. Sherlock dutifully thanked John after each of them.

Already after the third blow, Sherlock felt that his mind stilled a bit and narrowed down to 'hurt!'...'pain!' and the wild thoughts that he had fought so hard to control finally faded. But...only faded. They didn't disappear.

John could see that Sherlock was still in need for more sensations after the sixth blow even if Sherlock's fists weren't so clenched anymore and Sherlock had stopped trembling. John took the riding-crop and made the 'tongue' travel over the welts on Sherlock's arse.

“Colour?”, John barked.

Sherlock took a deep breath, “Green...sir!”

And John used the riding-crop on Sherlock's thighs and upper back. Sherlock's arse was 'decorated' nicely enough and didn't need more. The riding-crop did only leave red marks, as John was careful not to hit too hard. He had plans for other bodily sensations and the 6 welts on Sherlock's arse would throb and hurt for days. And bruise.

After giving 8 blows with the riding-crop on the thighs and three more on the back, carefully avoiding the scar that Sherlock still had on his right shoulder, John ordered Sherlock to spread his legs and John eased the small buzzing butt-plug wrapped in a condom up into Sherlock's arse.

“Easy, Sherlock. I've got you and the buzzer is covered with a condom. I know how you feel about not being clean enough”, said John as he felt how Sherlock tensed a bit and Sherlock relaxed visibly after that.

Then Sherlock was ordered to sit up up against the padded headboard. John could see that Sherlock needed more....as John had expected.

John found a pair of nipple clamps connected with a rather heavy chain and attached them to Sherlock's nipples after having removed the tiny bars, that Sherlock always wore. Sherlock hissed at the pain but didn't say anything. Sherlock had closed his eyes and his legs were bend at the knees and weighted down with the manacles. His hands were lying passively beside him, resting on the sheet. But John could see that they were still tense. Even the pain from the caning and the cropping and now from the nipple-clamps hadn't brought Sherlock peace. He was still fighting his roaring mind and John could see that Sherlock was trembling with the effort of fighting his mind.

John did put on the nitrile-gloves and covered Sherlock's very erect cock with the antiseptic gel and then he began to ease one of the sounds down Sherlock's urethra.

At that extra sensation, Sherlock did throw his head back with his eyes closed and begun to moan deep in his throat and he continued doing that as John sounded him with thicker and thicker sounds. Finally John took the E-stim sound and eased it down the slit.....and turned it on and Sherlock arched of the bed with a shout. But he didn't come. Sherlock was covered in sweat and John had seldom seen Sherlock's cock so engorged and almost purple.....but still Sherlock didn't have an orgasm.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was no where near subspace.....not at all. He had pushed his mind far far too much during that case and John regretted deeply, that he hadn't forced Sherlock to take a break before.

“Please, John......more pain! Please!”, begged Sherlock.

John eased the devise out again and looked at the sweating and panting Sherlock, who was sitting against the headboard with his eyes closed. All the things that John had done and Sherlock's reactions and moaning had turned John so much on....and right now he threw every principle overboard....and undressed. He intended to fuck Sherlock into oblivion and hoped with that still functioning rational part of his brain, that that could work. John was so aroused and he was angry. At himself for letting Sherlock continue towards a breakdown and pushing himself far to far, and at Sherlock's body, that wouldn't give in and take control over Sherlock's mind. And god-damnit if John Watson couldn't be man and soldier and doctor enough to make that body of Sherlock's obey!

John had kept the nitril-gloves on, as he bend down to whisper in Sherlock's ear, “Don't worry, Love. I'm going to stretch you and fuck you into the mattress and I'll be wearing a condom. But you haven't been eating for days, so I'll doubt that there would be anything messy inside that lovely arse of yours.”

And then he ordered Sherlock to kneel on hands and knees on the bed, and John covered the gloves with a copious amount of lube and stuck first one finger and right after that two fingers up Sherlock's arse. First to get the buzzing butt-plug out and then to stretch Sherlock's hole. Not to gently, but very efficiently and fast. That Sherlock's didn't mind that a bit rough treatment, could be heard at his moaning and could be seen on his cock, that was actually beginning to leak a bit. More so because John did aim for Sherlock's prostate and was using the fingers on his right hand to follow the welts on Sherlock's sore buttocks. The sensations from the prostate stimulation and the pain brought Sherlock closer to an orgasm. But his mind was not quiet yet. As soon as the bodily sensations faded, Sherlock's mind had begun to 'whirl' again.

“You like that, don't you? A bit too rough.....”, growled John as he spread his fingers to stretch Sherlock's rim and prepare Sherlock for his cock. A bit too fast and not gently at all.

“John.....please. Fuck me!”, moaned Sherlock, because finally his mind was concentrated on anything but the case. It was finally filled with 'John'....'John'...because strong John had got him and would take care of him and finally Sherlock's mind began to give in and stopped whirling.

John only stopped for a moment as he pushed the head of his condom covered cock against Sherlock's hole...and then he continued in, in one long gliding moment. Stretching Sherlock the last part with the size of his cock. Sherlock was tight, but John had prepared him well enough, even if it hadn't been a gentle preparation, and Sherlock's body accepted the intrusion with only a slight feeling of stretch and burn and then John started moving his cock in and out of Sherlock.

Sherlock moaned obscenely and right there and then John didn't care if it was of a bit of pain or if was of lust. As long as Sherlock didn't say his safe-word, John intended to take his pleasure as well! Sherlock moaned again and this time it was definitely of lust and that sound went directly to John's balls and to the more primitive parts of John's mind, that was filled with only 'Sherlock'....'Sherlock' and John increased the speed. Grappled at Sherlock's hips and pounded and pounded...loosing himself in the utterly delicious sensation of Sherlock's arse around his cock and as he felt that Sherlock was close, he bent a bit forward and got hold of the chain between the nipple-clamps, paused..... and tore it of Sherlock's sore nipples. Sherlock bucked and moaned even more and came in thick spurts and the contractions of his inner walls around John's cock made John shudder and come as well. So hard that he saw stars and moons.

As John came to his senses they were both lying on their sides. John's cock was still buried deep inside Sherlock and he could feel that Sherlock's inner walls was clenching and un-clenching around his cock. The rest of Sherlock's body was still trembling and small spurts of semen was still coming out of Sherlock's cock and as John did reach down and touched Sherlock's still rigid cock, one last big spurt left the slit and Sherlock moaned once more and shuddered. Then he was still for a few moments and turned his head so he could look at John, but remained lying on his side. He opened his eyes and smiled at John, “Thank you!”, he said and John bent down and kissed him and said, “You are welcome...” as he removed his now almost flaccid cock from Sherlock's hole. John looked down and was content to see that there was no blood and no signs of him being to hard on Sherlock's anus. It was just a bit swollen after their rigorous sex.

Sherlock turned a bit and was now lying on his stomach and he turned his head and said, “It was hard. My mind wouldn't stop this time. It has never been that difficult to shut it down before.”

John kissed him and said, “You are not getting any younger and this time you have pushed yourself far longer than I've ever seen before. Except from.....”

“Except from when I was drugging myself into a double kidney failure and a certain death.....I know.”, said Sherlock and continued as he yawned, “My God...I'm exhausted... I love you and would like to cuddle as we always do, but I'm so tired, that I might fall asleep immediately!”

And the he put his head down on his arms and closed his eyes. John smiled and kissed him and dressed in his pants, vest and morning robe and then he went to the bathroom to fetch a damp flannel and the Arnica-cream....and some painkillers. He would prefer, if he could get those pills into Sherlock before he was too deep into his sleep. And Sherlock would need food as well, but right now sleep was more important.

Sherlock dutifully swallowed the two pills and then he laid down again. John pushed Sherlock a bit around so he could reach and after John had dried off the semen on Sherlock's stomach and chest, John began to apply the Arnica-cream on Sherlock's nipples, back, thighs and buttocks.

As John began to apply the cream on the welts on Sherlock's buttocks, a surprisingly strong hand grappled for his wrist and Sherlock said, “Stop, John. I'm going to need the pain. So don't ease it away...”

John just continued putting on the cream as he explained, “This is going to hurt like hell for many days. I wasn't gentle and after....well... I fucked you hard, I managed to break your skin a few places and give you some extra bruises on your hip. Believe me, Sherlock, even with the cream and the painkillers, you will have a lot of pain to concentrate on!”

“Good!”, said Sherlock and laid his head down on his arms again. Now John wanted to check one more time, that Sherlock hadn't been harmed by the rather harsh intrusion of John's not exactly small cock and Sherlock, who was now almost asleep, was asked to spread his legs so John could see if any harm was visible.

As he did spread Sherlock's arse-cheeks, to check on Sherlock's entrance, both with eyes and very carefully with one lubed finger, Sherlock moaned a bit and chuckled and said sleepily, “Please do remember that I'm not clean! And I'm fine. No harm done...there...no pain..”

John chuckled, “Just looking. Not licking....even if I would like that very much. You have such a nice arse, Sherlock. But I'm going to eat some food, before I 'eat' you...and right now you need to rest and sleep. And I'll have to fetch Rosie. I'll leave the phone here, while I fetch Rosie. If you should wake up and......”

And John discovered that Sherlock breath was even and he was sound asleep. John smiled and gave himself time to admire Sherlock's body again. Sherlock didn't look like a man in his forties. His face would give away that he wasn't in his twenties any-more, but not his body. In fact he looked better than John could ever remember. Sherlock had gained more muscles and a bit of body fat and that arse of his! Two beautifully rounded globes that showed that Sherlock's had strong muscles there too. And John knew that to him heaven was to be found between those two globes. No matter what part of his body, he would put in there. Tongue or cock. Both could work taking Sherlock apart and John loved that.

John chuckled as he looked down at his pants-clad cock, who had moved a bit in interest as John thought about Sherlock’s delicious body.

“Hey...you'll have to wait a bit before you can get into action again. Sherlock need to rest and eat...and then maybe...”, said John. And shook his head. He must be tired too, talking to his cock.

Chapter Text

John would have liked to curl up next to Sherlock to get some sleep himself too, but there were things to be done so John dressed and went to the kitchen to fetch the grocery-list. They were short of almost everything and if it hadn't been for Mrs. Hudson and sometimes Molly, they wouldn't have been 'short' but 'totally without' almost everything.

Then John opened the door to the landing and there was Mrs. Hudson standing with a tray with two cooking pots on it.

John hurried to take the tray as it looked heavy and looked at her and said, “You better come in.”

In the kitchen he looked at her again and said, “How long have you been standing there?”

She smiled with mirth in her eyes, “This third time?.....Not for that long.”

And then John realised that she must have heard them having sex and he blushed a bit.

“Oh John. Sweetie...don't worry. I was just so worried. Sherlock had really painted himself into a corner this time...too and....

John smiled at her, “And this time there wasn't one hell of a lady in her red Aston Martin and with a pair of handcuffs to save him....”

“Oh nonsense, John. You saved him back then, even if you had been drugged up to your eyeballs by the wife of yours in order to make you hate him. And you helped him today. I could hear that. But John, he needs you. Stay here and I'll fetch Rosie. I'll just take the car-seat in your car. She loves 'Nan's red car and I can keep her downstairs as long as needed if Sherlock and you would need.....”

John smiled and blushed a bit more. Yes, Sherlock might need another round of sex, but John was English enough not to want to discuss his sex life with his not-your-housekeeper-landlady.

She pointed at the two cooking pots, “I've made a soup for Sherlock. He hasn't eaten for days, and he'll have to start slowly, and for you there is a nice lamb-casserole. I can bring you more, if Rosie is going to have her supper up here. Or I'll just keep her downstairs. And you, Mr. John Hamish Watson-Holmes. Off to bed with you too. Cuddle up next to your husband. You haven't slept for a long time either!”

And Mrs. Hudson went to fetch Rosie and intended to keep her downstairs with the telly on, in case her fathers didn't need to sleep any more, but would like to participate in other activities....with each other.

John went back into the bedroom and undressed and was on his way under the duvet to curl up beside Sherlock as his phone rang. It was Mycroft, who asked with a tone of worry in his voice, “How are you, both of you?”

John sighed at bit. Somehow it was a bit weird to get used to that other version of Mycroft, the caring and in no way nosy person.

“Sherlock is....we are fine. Now. But it was a long road and.....”, said John.

“And you are not the only one feeling guilty about letting him run on fumes for too long...”, said Mycroft and with that remark he was adding to John's increasing worry that the scientist at Baskerville had build mind-reading abilities into the Holmes offspring.

“Oh John...I'm not reading your mind. I don't have to be a genius to know that you are thinking, what Greg and I are thinking as well. That we all have let Sherlock down by not stopping him on his way to a break-down a bit sooner.”

John nodded, even if he knew that Mycroft couldn't see that (or could he? Were there still cameras in the flat? Just for protection, of course), “You are right, Mycroft. But if Sherlock hadn't pushed himself so hard, we would have been too late to save the boy. As it is, the police came in the last second....and if the boy had died, Sherlock would have been in a worse state now. You know how guilty he feels.....”

“I know. And how are you, John?”, wanted Mycroft to know.

John sighed, “I had to be a sadist and really hurt him, before his mind would still. I hate that version of myself. I enjoyed it too much: caning him, cropping him, fucking him...and I hate, that I felt like that. That I enjoyed it that much!”

“Now you listen very carefully to me...and if you don't believe me, then I'll give my phone to Greg and he can talk some sense in to you head, John Hamish Watson-Holmes. You wouldn't enjoy it if Sherlock didn't need it. You gave him exactly what he needed. Without you, he would be lost. What is a few welts and a bit of pain against the loss of his mental health? Think about that, John. And stop feeling guilty. You harmed him in the past, when you were drugged up to your eyeballs and yet, that woman didn't manage to ruin the love you had for Sherlock. The little harm you have done to him today was done out of love and care. We are freaks, Sherlock and I...and we sometimes have to pay a terrible price for our minds' abilities. But don't you doubt for one second that Sherlock would be able to stop you, despite your combat-training. And you know that. So do you want Greg to talk some sense into you or are you going to believe me, when I say that you have nothing to be ashamed of?”

John laughed, “No...I believe you. And thank you, Mycroft, for reminding me. I just tend to forget that Sherlock is fully capable of defending himself. Even against me. Maybe it is because I'm tired to...”

“Then I'll bid you a 'good-night' even if it still day outside and give my love to Sherlock, when he wakes up. Tell him that a lot of people are put on the look-out for that serial-killer and he would literally have to rip off his face for the face-recognizing soft-ware not to recognize him. We'll find him!”

“I will. And thank you again, Mycroft.“ and then John went to lie down beside his sleeping husband.

_______________________

“How were they?”, wanted Greg to know.

“Fine...now. But Sherlock couldn't shut down before John had been harsh on him. John had caned and cropped him...and that wasn't even enough..”, explained Mycroft.

“We've all let Sherlock down....but without that Herculean effort of his....”

“The police would have reached the boy too late, I know. It is just, Greg. It is so hopeless. All the hard work Sherlock did when he was away. All the criminals, that were removed: killed or put in jail. And now....the void they left has been filled with other criminals, doing the same thing, making the same crimes. It is as if all the work had been in vain. Just like my job: keeping Great Britain above the water. Preventing wars and if they can't be prevented then at lest diminishing the damage. But it is as if humanity is hell bend on destroying itself. Greedy business-men ruling the world or just megalomaniac Russian and American leaders thinking that the world is their playground. There are so many signs: so many countries politically turning towards fascism, dividing the world in 'them' and 'us'. People loosing their civil rights all over the world...All the climate changes and no one is doing anything about it. Russia turning towards a dictatorship and the United States as well, controlling the press and oppressing opponents. I feel that I'm sitting on a powder-keg and people around me keep on putting black powder into it. Just like some people must have felt towards WW1. Seeing things happen, and not being able to do something. It is terrible. I might have a lot of power, Greg, ruling England from above...and Sherlock keeping an eye on society from the bottom of it all with his homeless network. Even Eurus tells me, in the way she is capable of, that something is cooking. And I can't do much about it. And I have a terrible feeling that some of it has something to do with that blasted Baskerville Facility and similar facilities all over the world. I know, I can thank the scientists from Baskerville for my existence, but I don't believe for a second that they have stopped investigating in human gene alteration. It is just buried deep within the organisation. Close it down and it will just go even more unnoticed. It is as if humans want to destroy themselves. If we do not learn to work together instead of against eachother, we will not be here in a civilized society in a 100 years. The rats and the cockroaches will inherit Earth after us.”

Mycroft sighed and covered his eyes with his hands, as he continued, “And if I feel like that, being one of the most powerful men in the Western world, how do other people then feel? And maybe that is the biggest danger: the feeling of hopelessness. Because then the darks side will win, because no one on 'the side of the angels' would know what to do.”

Greg kissed him, “They will do, what they have always done: carry on. Doing the little difference they can do and one day, when the clouds disappear and the sun starts shining again, they will see that it was enough to conquer the darkness. Look at Germany. Look at Europe. No one would have believed that it could rise like that again after WW2...”

Mycroft shook his head, “But they didn't have atom-bombs then. There are enough bombs here on Earth to pulverise the planet and make it into a radioactive inhabitable desert, where only the cockroaches can live...”

Greg nodded, “And thank God for the computers that showed the leaders that there could be no winners, if just a single of those bombs were dropped. The business-men, the greedy 'grasshoppers' of the financial world, they know, that money is worth nothing if they are sitting on a pile of radioactive debris. Despite everything, despite deforestation and plastic-islands in the pacific ocean and pollution and children working in cobalt-mines to find metal for our cell-phones. Despite all that, no business-men would allow Putin or Trump or other leaders in the world, to release one single bomb. They would loose to much money. Believe me...if someone was to press the red button, they would find that someone had been paid for disconnecting the wires and jamming the radio-signals.”

Mycroft kissed Greg and said, “That is the curse of a too big brain. I see all the dark things and forget to live. I pray to the God that I do not believe in, that you are right...and Greg..Take me upstairs and take me apart, before I go insane with worry....”

“My pleasure, husband. But if you worry so much, then you can find a way to at least prevent the biggest disasters...”

Mycroft frowned. “How?”

Greg smiled, “Remember history lessons? How civilisation had to start from scratch after the library in Alexandria burned down? Or how civilisation after all managed to keep just a minimum of knowledge after the Roman Empire broke down, because the monks thought books to be sacred even if they were written about forbidden topics? And they kept the books in the monasteries. Keeping a lot of knowledge to be found, when humans were ready again. Modern computers are a terrible way to store things. Find a way to save knowledge, Mycroft. Find a way to communicate without satellites, find a way to protect yourself and our family if or when the war comes. A way for a lot of families...and we'll rise again, when the sun shines again. And now...bathroom and enema before I take you apart.”

Mycroft smiled, “Yes, sir!”

Chapter Text

Mycroft did take Greg's advice to his heart and began to plan how to save knowledge and secure communication-lines if, or when, satellites would drop from the sky and telephone masts fall to the ground. Thank God it took a very long time before his precautions showed themselves necessary. In fact...both Mycroft and Greg had passed away in an old age, before it became necessary to use those means. Mycroft sometimes felt a bit guilty about investing money so he could fund his plans. He felt that he ought to use the money for other things, but Greg encouraged him to continue and he worked hard until he retired and after that too. He never saw the result of his hard work, because actions he had made and that Greg and John....and Sherlock......had been a part of, did apparently postpone the impending catastrophe. The world didn't really see a throughout war like WW1 Or WW2 until almost 100 years after Sherlock Holmes had been born.

But let us return to the present:

After their honey-moon...or as Sherlock would say it 'their sex-holiday', both John, Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft returned from Italy. And days turned into weeks, and weeks into months as Greg and Mycroft were trying to get a married life to function between too many hours of work and too little time together. But they had known the conditions beforehand and didn't blame one another, even if they sometimes didn't see each other for several days.

______________________

Mycroft and Greg had been married for 7 months and had finally time eating breakfast together and having at least half a Sunday free, with no international crises or hopefully no murders on the schedule.

Mycroft had put his paper down and had said, “This is close to unacceptable. Having so little time together...” and then he had paused and looked at Greg and asked, “What would you say to become a father?”

Greg, who had only listened with half an ear to Mycroft, as he was busy reading the news in his own newspaper, looked up with alarm and a few seconds later, with a smirk, “Oh my God, Mycroft. Are you pregnant?”

Mycroft looked at Greg with his eyebrow lifted and just a tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth and Greg thought that the scientists at Baskerville must have had 'Vulcan' genes to their disposal (Even if the Vulcans were just a fictional race) when they made those Holmes-brothers, because they could be just as difficult to read as that green Alien 'Spock' in Star Trek.

And then Mycroft said, “As I recall it, I have been, as the expression goes, 'topping' in more than 70 % of the time where we had penetrative sex...”

And right there Greg got a bit distracted, because having sex with Mycroft was exceptionally good and last night had been extraordinary and Greg felt the first tendril of arousal and looked at Mycroft who had just continued, “....And if you could get your brain back on track again and listen to me? Then the statistic would......Oh God why am I even saying this, because of course I'm not pregnant. Don't look at me like that, Greg. Or I might never get this said and I'm afraid that you are going to be mad at me...”

Greg reached for Mycroft's hand and smiled and said, “You do realise that you'll have to be 'Jack the Ripper' incarnated or something worse, for me to get mad at you?”

Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand and said with a sigh, “I think that what I'm going to tell you could be a valid reason. So...here it comes: You do know that 'The Homes Foundation' does support a lot of homeless people around the world. In the United States, several countries in South America, in Europe and Australia. We are not that much present in Asia, but we do support some foster-homes in India. The country is rich enough to take care of its own people. They just choose not to.....and that can be said about Great Britain too, unfortunately. Well, back to the foster-homes. We support three: one in Delhi, one in Kolkata and one in Mumbai. Helping street-children, orphans, to get an education and a future. If they show remarkable talents, we might even pay for extra education, even university...”

Mycroft paused and rose and fetched an envelope, but didn't give it to Greg yet, as he continued, “Sometimes....if the children are not that old, when they are found on the streets or brought to the foster-homes, they get adopted. Just the boys...very seldom the girls, because unfortunately the Indian culture favourites boys. And one thing more: they favourite fair skin. That makes it even less understandable why Eshan and Rohan never got adopted.”

Mycroft opened the envelope and pushed several photographs against Greg. It showed two dark haired boys, apparently brothers and in various ages. And with dark hair, fair skin and dark green eyes.

Mycroft pointed at the photo, that apparently was the newest one, “This is taken less than two months ago. Rohan is the eldest, 14 and Eshan is the youngest,12 and...”

Greg interrupted him, “And you want to adopt them? And bring them here to England?”

Now Mycroft blushed a bit and said, “Here comes the part that you might get mad at me for. No..I haven't adopted them, but I'd like to and they are already here in England....”

“Now I see...”, interrupted Greg, “That was the reason for you saying what you did to Hamish at our wedding..”

“Exactly....and..” Mycroft sighed and did reach for Greg's hand again, looked at their hands holding each other before he lifted his face and looked at Greg, “It is not that I did distrust you in any way. Please believe me. It is just. You had your daughters...and to force my dreams upon you like that...I..”

Greg felt a wave of warmth and love against his husband, who so seldom was lost for words. Who so seldom lost his eloquence. He squeezed Mycroft's hand lightly and said, “So. Spit it out. What was it that you wanted to spare me? Which secrets didn't you want to burden me with?

Mycroft smiled, of course he should have known that Greg would trust him. He blew out a breath he hadn't been aware, that he had held and explained, “They are brothers and had a 'normal' life with a father and mother until Rohan was 9 and Eshan 7. They were not rich, but not poor either. Lower middle-class. They lived in a flat in the southern part of Delhi. The boys attended a good private school and their father had a good job in a shop. They had a small amount of savings, but they had expenses too. They did use money on Rohan, because he was born with club-feet and had to undergo treatments, surgery and had to use special shoes. And of course the private school wasn't cheap either. And then when Rohan was 9...five years ago, the father got hit by a car. He lost his job and the family used their savings on hospitals and treatments for the father. He died when Rohan was 10. They had to move in at the father's brother. He provided roof and food, but refused to pay for school, even if he had the money and his own children attended a very good private school. So Rohan and Eshan went to the poorer and less adequate public school. And the uncle refused to pay for more treatments for Rohan, so his feet got worse. It was so stupid, because if he had got that relatively cheap corrective surgery at that time, he would have had totally functioning feet by now. Instead it got worse, especially the right one and Rohan had to cut the toes open of his boots as he outgrew them, because the uncle wouldn't pay. To make a long story short: their mother died shortly after.....and the uncle now claimed the Rohan and Eshan weren't his brothers sons after all and that he wouldn't pay for anything for them any-more. They left his house and moved into the slum and tried to find a job. One year later they were found by my foster home. At that point Rohan was 11 and Eshan was 9. They were ill, malnourished and Eshan had such a bad infection in his left foot that the doctors had to amputate. Rohan's right foot was a mess. He had worked hard to be able to buy food and shelter and had attempted to walk on the foot without those special boots and the foot had turned more and more inwards..and the treatments he had got, as he was still living with his parents, had left scar tissue and areas with bad blood-supply. Walking on bare feet had not done anything good to that foot. The left foot was not that bad though. Then it was discovered how brilliant those boys actually were....and being handicapped it would be essential that they would get an education so they wouldn't have to do manual work..”

Mycroft paused and Greg wanted to know, “But why? Not that I do mind....but why bring them here? If you can pay, they can have very good educations in India as well?”

“Because they are not only 'clever'. They are 'brilliant'. They were tested about 6 months ago and their score was so hight that the teaches thought they had cheated. And Rohan's foot got worse. Surgeons in India, paid by the foster home, had tried to save his foot and asked for help and now he is here in England in order for the best surgeons to try and.....I would so much like to visit those two boys and see how they manage.”, said Mycroft.

And finally Greg understood, “Hamish isn't old enough. You want them to take your place, just like Leuris is going to be Lady Elisabeth's successor. That is the reason, isn't it?”

Mycroft nodded, “Hamish is very promising...Rosie too. But I'll be too old when they can take my place...and I'll like to be able to retire before I'm 65. I do not intend to work myself into my grave. And those two boys have touched my heart as well. If they do not want a political career, I'll accept that. It is just....you'll understand when you meet them, Greg. I've known them and their story for two years know...and they...they have touched my heart. I know, that I can't save everyone. But I can at least give those two boys a better future..”

Greg frowned, “But here...in England..away from their own culture and country and language?”

Mycroft smiled, “...'Culture'. Well not that much. It is after all easier for them to be Christian here. I know there are more than 28 million Christians in India, but it was not easy for them and their family, especially since there were not many Christian people in their part of the city and the animosity of the uncle was based on the fact that they were not following the Hindu religion. And 'language'? Both Rohan and Eshan are fluent in English, as they are in many of the languages spoken in India: Bengali, Odia, Punjabi, just to mention a few. Then they speak Iranian, French and German and many more. All in all more than 20 languages. They've picked them up from the other children and the foreign workers at the foster home and wherever they found someone, who spoke another language. So...no language will not be a barrier. And it easier to be handicapped here in England after all. Look at Leuris....she/he is not handicapped, but just happens to have a prosthetic foot.”

Greg nodded and rose, “I see. When are we leaving?”

Mycroft frowned, “Whereto?”

“The hospital...I would like to see my sons!”

Mycroft rose and kissed Greg, “You do know that I love you so incredible much, don't you?”

___________________________

When they arrived, Leuris were already there and was in a deep conversation with Eshan and apparently showed him the different prosthetic feet, she had.

Rohan smiled as Mycroft came in, and smiled again as Mycroft introduced Greg. And then he looked a bit sad and said, “I've made my decision, Mr. Holmes. I've seen the X-rays and the scans and the deterioration of the bone-mass in my right foot is increasing. The problems originated all the way back to the surgery I had as a little boy. I was given the wrong treatment....the treatment my parents could afford. And it wasn't good enough. All the operations have destroyed the veins and as I grew, my bone-matter didn't get nourishment enough. It got worse as we starved after our uncle threw us out from his house. I've lived with a hurting foot for so many years, and I know the risk of phantom-pain in case of an amputation, but I see no reason for the doctors to mend this mess...”

And he lifted the duvet and showed his foot. Greg looked at it and Rohan was impressed that Greg didn't flinch but just said, “I see what you mean....” and pointed at Leuris and Eshan and said, “With the right prosthetic limbs, you will be managing better than walking on that mess that your right foot is right now.”

Then he looked at Rohan with his warm brown eyes and smiled, “You don't have to pretend. Just call him 'Mycroft' or Papa...and I'll be happy to call you my son as well! I suppose that my husband has already made sure that the adoptions-papers are ready to be signed.”

_______________________________

Rohan and Eshan had to stay at the hospital for a few more days before they could make the last recovery in Mycroft's and Greg's house and that was why Mycroft and Greg were lying in their bed later that night, having time to discuss the future of those boys. Apparently both murderers and politicians had decided to go on holiday, because nothing did disturb Mycroft and Greg the next couple of days. And then the paper-work was finished and those two boys were finally adopted by Greg and Mycroft.

And that was how those 3 young people: Leuris, Rohan and Eshan became a part of the strange Holmes-Watson-Lestrade-Adler family. Not necessarily genetic connected, but connected by the care and the love they had for each other. Leuris became Lady Elisabeth's apprentice but felt more like a part of the Holmes-Lestrade family and usually joked with the fact that the younger members had formed 'The-one-legged-club-of-megalomaniac-Holmes-youngsters'.

Lestrade daughters were a part of that too. Not the one-legged part, but they were a part of the bunch of young people, who were attending the summer-holidays at the restored Musgrave near the coast and celebrated Christmas in Scotland at the restored big mansion on the united land of the Holmes-clan and the Watson-clan. Not that there were not other big houses on the rather big piece of land. There were even two ruins of castles of former glory and other big houses. But the 'Oak-Tree-Mansion' was the biggest and the only one with room for everybody if necessary.

John and Sherlock had worried a bit that Rosie might feel a bit lonely surrounded by 'cousins' and 'semi-cousins' so much older than her, but they had no reason to worry. First and foremost Hamish was there...and Lestrade's daughters, Sophia and Elizabeth, who were 11 and 13 years Rosie's senior, didn't mind playing with her. Neither did Rohan and Eshan, who were almost of the same age as Lestrade's daughters. The grown ups had tried to invite girls from the nearby village to come and play with Rosie, but she preferred her older 'cousins'. They were a better match for her intelligence after all.

And as she pointed out as she got a bit older, “This is holiday. If I'm not surrounded by boys and girls of my own age, I'll just have to cope, wouldn't I? It is always said that 'a bit of boredom never hurts an intelligent soul'. I like my cousins. We have a lot of fun, but I'm fully capable of entertaining myself if necessary. There is a huge library...and I'm fully capable of reading. Even in more than one language. There are computers and game-pads. Board-games...chess. How can I be bored?”

______________________

And life continued: Rosie attended the same school as Hamish when she was 9. She had impatiently awaited until she would be old enough. She had visited the school so often and it was so inspiring and giving and even if she would be one of the youngest, she would in no way be the less intelligent. She would finally be able to 'stretch her wings' and use her full potential, being at that school . And John and Sherlock could see how she enjoyed her stay and Hamish could report that Rosie had shown no signs of homesickness.

Somehow both John and Sherlock found it a bit unsettling that their little baby-girl had grown to be so independent so fast and wondered again if they were getting a bit to old for active crime-solving and that it was maybe time for leaving London and settle down in Sussex. Yes....they were just 45 and 49, but they were not getting any younger and their hard life did show from time to time in pain on various places. Sherlock's shoulders would now pay for the torture in Serbia and his knee, that had been damaged during his 'time away', would make itself shown, when the weather changed. John's shoulder would hurt sometimes and so would his leg. After all, the limp hadn't been totally in his mind. The through-out sepsis after the wound in his shoulder, had settled down in his femur and had done some damage and even if nothing was to be seen on scans and x-rays, his leg did hurt from time to time.

And Mrs. Hudson had finally given in and admitted that she could use some help with the house. She had turned 89 after all and her grand-niece, Miss Sissons, came to live with her and help her. She was just as much 'not-your-housekeeper' as Mrs. Hudson and baked and cooked just as nicely as Mrs. Hudson. But she didn't drive the Aston Martin half as skilled as Mrs. Hudson and she had never been an exotic dancer. But it turned out that she could be just as bad-ass lady as her grand-aunt.

______________________

And then it happened. Rosie was 10 and Hamish 14, when it happened. The event that John later would refer to as 'Sherlock's last case'. Something that would still puzzle him and scare him many years after and always would bring tears in his eyes, when he thought too much about it.

Chapter Text

That year, year 2025, had started all right. And then in March, shortly after Rosie's 10^th birthday, it went downhill.

Mrs. Hudson had complained about her hip, but as she had done that for years now, neither she or others thought much of it. After all, Mrs. Hudson had celebrated her 90th birthday in flying colours. Danced with all her male guests, including Mycroft and Greg. But to put it short: Martha Hudson, nee Sissons and surrogate-mother for Sherlock, and Rosie's and Hamish' “Nan”, never got to celebrate her 91^st birthday, as she died quietly in her sleep, after she had come home from the hospital after she had fallen in her kitchen, because of the tumour in her hip. It wasn't cancer, but the operation did strain her old body.

A lot of people were of course devastated, but she had managed to smile and say to Sherlock, as the ambulance had taken her to the hospital, “I'm old, Sherlock. If it is time, I'll accept it. And you will have to do that too, Love. If there is 'another side' I'll wait for you, promise!”

Her grand-niece, Marie Sissons, just carried on Mrs. Hudson's 'duties' and even accepted to be called 'Mrs. Hudson' by mistake. She did look an awful lot like a younger version of her aunt.

Sherlock and John had throttled down the more dangerous cases and weren't doing so much of the actual legwork any-more. Sally Donovan was now DI and Greg had talked about retiring when he turned 60 in a year. After all, Greg was 5 years older than Mycroft, even if he didn't appear to be so.

Leuris had taken over Lady Elisabeth's job and was doing a very good job. And Rohan was at the last year at university and Eshan at the second last year.....and both of them wanted to follow Mycroft's footsteps into politics, but just like him, mostly behind the scenes. And no....they hadn't been hired by a 'shady' aunt to be field-agents for MI5 and MI6, even if both Mycroft, John and Sherlock saw to that all the youngsters learned to defend themselves. So...sometimes the summer holidays did turn into some sort of boot-camps, where they learned martial arts and how to survive outside the cities. All of it taught by teachers brought in...or by John or Sherlock or other grown ups. In one of the villages nearby was a man, who could teach them all sorts of survival things......and all the young people and children loved it. Rosie and Hamish had out-door-activities at their boarding school, but all the others were so busy with school and education, that they normally had little time for such activities.

________________________________

The whole catastrophic event had started innocently enough: Mycroft and Greg had been invited to dinner and afterwards John had been sitting in the sofa in the living room at Baker Street together with Greg and each holding a beer, watching a football match on the telly and both had been listening with half an ear to Sherlock's and Mycroft's conversation. They were sitting at the dinner table. Looking through a lot of papers.

“Believe me, Sherlock. It is just a meeting. Nothing dangerous and it could even be a bit interesting, even if you do not care so much about politics”, had Mycroft said.

And then Sherlock had wanted to know why on Earth he should be attending a political meeting and of all places in Bulgaria?

Mycroft had explained that a lot of the leaders of the world would meet there and that it was staged by the UN.

“And I want you to be with me, Sherlock, because something is simmering and I need your keen eye and amazing ability to connect the invisible dots. I can connect dots as well but I need data....but you can see patterns without sufficient data.....and I need that ability.”

Mycroft had pushed a piece of paper towards Sherlock, “Here is a transcript of the mail from the leader of “Eurus' Writer's Association”. They still struggle a bit with the translations of her last books, because she still find it difficult to understand that people can't understand more than 20 languages. But the man, the leader, has told me that her works over the years had gone less Gothic....less Lovecraftian. More towards Ray Bradbury, if you know what I mean...”

Sherlock had nodded. John had made sure that he was now well educated in science fiction and modern music, and that knowledge had helped in a few cases.

Mycroft had continued, “Until a few months ago. Her writing in the last two novels felt....different. Darker. As a warning. And you know, that her ability to see invisible patterns is even better than yours. Something is on its way. Did you feel that something was amiss last time you visited Eurus?”

Sherlock had shook his head, “No. She wanted to play a new piece I had written. And then we walked in the park, and talked about a lot of things...as we always do.”

Then Sherlock had hesitated, before he had continued, “......there was something, though. She said that the world was changing and that every step should be taken with caution. But she had said that before, so I didn't pay so much attention. Should I have?”

Mycroft had smiled, “I'm not sure. I see vague outlines of patterns as well. But nothing substantial yet. Not anything I can put a finger on....”

He had sighed, “I suppose a lot of people felt like that before WW1. You are aware that we have evidence that some agents prevented the WW1 breaking out as early as in the 1880ties?”

It had caught John's interest and he had walked over to the table together with Greg, who had said, “No...I've never heard about that. What happened?”

It had been Sherlock, who had answered, “Two undercover agents caught some information about a professor in Germany, who had invented new sorts of weapons and was wise enough to sell them to all the different countries. And then the professor had planned different acts of terror and murder to 'ignite the powder-keg' and start the Great War. But he was stopped and one of the agents died whilst killing the professor. It was something with a waterfall, as I recall. The factory, where the weapons were made, were blown to pieces and nothing was left....not even drawings or plans.....and the tension in the world did loosen up a bit...and the 'War to end all wars' didn't happen until 1914, as you all know..”

Mycroft had nodded and had said, “And right now I feel as if I'm watching people rolling that powder-keg into place and as if they are beginning to fill it with black powder: North Korea. The tension in China. As always the Middle-East. People loosing their civil rights all over the world...even here in Europe. Politically turning even more towards the ultra-right. Brexit didn't do Great Britain anything good and since than the EU had been weakened. And voices talking about separating Scotland from England...they are still there. But it is still a feeling of uneasiness. I do not have solid proof...”

“A gut-feeling, then?” had Sherlock wanted to know.

Mycroft had nodded, “And you know very well that a 'gut-feeling' can be you subconscious mind putting things together. And that, together with that mail, makes me realise, that I need more data.”

Mycroft had turned towards John and Greg, “And I need you two as well.”

John had turned his attention towards Mycroft and had wanted to know, “In Bulgaria as well?”

Mycroft had smiled, “You were listening after all. No...not in Bulgaria. Here in England. You, John, are going to attend the 'The Afghani Veteran meeting, founded in 2000' in Birmingham and Greg is going to the 'Yearly assembly of retired London police-officers'.”

John had shook his head, “I'm not invited. I never made it to more than Captain and......”

Mycroft had smiled, “And that was clearly a mistake, that I have rectified. Bill Murray is attending as well. And a lot of your old colleagues from Helmand and Kandahar. Of course you should be there for their 20^th anniversary.”

John had frowned, “It is not that long ago that I had to leave the army....”

“No...but is is that long ago that the first officers founded that organisation....and forgot the most important members. Those who survived the battlefields and was not just sitting behind their desks..”, had Mycroft said.

John had looked a bit angry as he had said, “Not all high ranking officers were like that! Major Sholto...”

Mycroft had nodded, “I know. And he paid a terrible price for that...” And then he had continued, “But I need you there. To observe.....”

“I'm not Sherlock or you. I can't do, what you can do...”

“No. But you know the system from the inside. Just listen. You'll notice, if something is amiss. And the same goes for you, Greg.”, had Mycroft continued, “You are not retired yet, but you have talked about it for at least a few months by now. I have arranged for you and some others close to retirement, to attend that meeting for retired police-officers as well.”

Greg had just looked at him and Mycroft had cleared his throat, “That is...if you both want to help? Please?”

Both John and Greg had smiled...and Sherlock too. Of course they would help.

Rosie was at her boarding-school and Sherlock and John expected to be back in London within a few days. Nothing more than a week the most. Greg stayed in London and Sherlock and Mycroft had left London, heading towards Sofia in Bulgaria. Not as 'Mycroft Holmes' and 'Sherlock Holmes'. But as 'Joseph Vernet' and 'William Scott', the prime-minister's secretary and the foreign-ministers secretary. Of course with the knowledge and blessing from the prime-minister and the foreign-minister. And with 'real' papers and back-ground stories, that could manage a closer inspection.

The first two days of the meeting had gone smoothly and Sherlock had observed and noticed and he and Mycroft had discussed and talked and written clues down. But it was still just vague outlines. Nothing substantial. Not until the third day.

It had happened in the corridor leading up to one of the big assembly halls. A gas-attack and a lot of people screaming and Mycroft and Sherlock had, despite their combat-skills, been drugged by the gas as well and had lost consciousness. And when they awoke, they were cuffed with duct-tape and blindfolded and in a moving car and even Sherlock's amazing sense of direction didn't get a grasp on there whereabouts.

The car had stopped and then they were carried down into a cellar-room in a apparently big house. And dumped down on a mattress. And left. They could hear the men stomp up the stairs and close and lock the door.

They got easily enough out of the duct-tape. It is after all just a question of technique. And with their hands freed and without blindfolds, they were sitting there on the floor on a filthy mattress and waiting for the drugs to wear off. Leaning up against each other and trying to figure out, why they had been abducted, when there were so many more important persons present in that hall and to that meeting.

The only sane explanation was that they did resemble...vaguely.....the French foreign-minister and the Canadian Prime-minister and the threats in awful French, that had been thrown in their direction in the car, did indicate that the goons did believe them to be exactly those two persons. Of course the press would reveal that those two persons were safe and that two British secretaries had been abducted......and then what? They would have to stick to their cover story....no matter what. If the goons found out who they really were, they would be an even better prey, even better hostages.

As the drugs wore off, they could both feel their injuries. Both had been bruised and battered since the goons had been hard on them. And then they began to look around in their 'prison'. It was in a cellar, but the room was rather big. The room had only small windows. No escape possibility there, and it was apparently some sort of storing place. The tables against the wall with the small windows were covered with lots of boxes and bookshelves were filled with all that sort of junk, that people put down in cellars. Nothing that could be used as weapons though. Damp cardboard and old shoes doesn't really work as lethal weapons.

There was an old toilet in the corner closest to another door. One of those toilets with a high tank and wooden seat. That might have been the reason for putting them in this particular part of the cellar. It didn't seem too well planned out, though. Even if the door down to the cellar was of sturdy oak and the windows too small to be used as an escape route. But there were other doors in the room and with Sherlock's skills in picking locks, they would have access to much more....and even things they could use as weapons.

But yet again: if they had been those persons that their abductors had thought them to be, or even those secretaries, then they wouldn't have the skill-set that could help them now.

And Mycroft whispered, “No matter what. Even if they torture us, they must not learn who we are. And I have a terrible feeling that something big is on its way. The revelation, that might explain all our observations and deductions. One simple explanation. And we might be able to do something......even if we have to endure torture and have to stay alive.....I'm sorry Sherlock. No easy way out of this.”

Sherlock squeezed Mycroft's hand and said, “I heard their conversation in Bulgarian. They talked about 'grappling the chance' and 'Our leaders will be satisfied' and then something that didn't make sense...'”The twenty will arrive'...the twenty what?”

Mycroft sighed, “There have been rumours about a secret organisation ruling the world behind the scenes. That they should have been doing that since the Renaissance. Originated in Venice. Twenty people chosen, working together across borders and making sure that the world is not in balance, because that would ruin their hidden empire.”

Sherlock nodded, “I see. So the some of the conspiracy theories were not totally wrong. I just thought that the name was 'Illuminati' or 'Freemasons' or some of the other secret organisations.”

“And what would be more wise than to hide behind those? Things are not so secret any more if you have a name, are they?”

Sherlock rose, wincing a bit, and started looking around in the cellar room, “If they are coming here, in this house, we might work on a plan to eliminate them.”

He turned towards Mycroft, “Even if we die doing that. We'll just have to keep us self alive until our plan can work.”

Mycroft got to his feet too, and supported himself against the wall, “And brother mine, do you have a plan?”

Sherlock was already standing at the next door, trying to pick the lock with a piece of steel wire and as he turned around, Mycroft could see Sherlock's predatory smile, “Oh I do. I just need to have the luck that this.....”

And the door swung open and revealed mixture between a garage and a carpenters workshop.

“...is a garage with a lot of exiting chemicals......and now I just need a way to heat things.”

He turned towards Mycroft, “And now we just need to figure out how much we can reveal, so they want to keep us alive and not killing us right away, because we were the wrong persons.”

Sherlock walked into the garage and pointed with triumph at an old hotplate with a gluepot on, “A way of heating up things and.....”

He pointed at something in the corner: the water installation and the big heater right beside it and smiled, “......and the beginning of their death!”

He turned towards Mycroft and there was a glint in his eyes. A glint that some people might have seen as their last sight, before they were killed, and for the first time, Mycroft realised that Sherlock might indeed be more dangerous than Mycroft himself. And thank God for that...

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

Mycroft was sitting on the mattress in the cellar-room. He was leaning up against the wall and Sherlock was lying on his coat and with his head in Mycroft's lap. Outside the sun was rising and it was getting a bit brighter in the dark cellar room. Mycroft had kept vigil over Sherlock the whole night and had listened for signs of life outside their room. It was now their seventh day of imprisonment. And they had had to use every ounce of their bodily and mental strength to survive until now.

Survive.....well. Only barely when it came to Sherlock. And their chances of getting found in time were diminishing. And his own chance of survival would get slimmer as the time passed. He could get out of the house...and then what? Not knowing where they were and probably not able to drive a car with his injuries, not to mention that he wouldn't leave Sherlock. Not as long as he was still........

Mycroft looked at his brother. The ….things....they had done to him. So much worse than Serbia. And that had been bad enough. Mycroft shifted a bit. His whole body was sore, with multiple welts and wounds and his right foot did hurt badly. Not unbearably, because the tourniquet around his leg, just under the knee, prevented that he would loose too much blood and numbed the leg a bit as well. Mycroft knew too well that such a tourniquet had to be removed from time to time in order to prevent gangrene. But he might risk 'crushing-syndrome' if he allowed the blood to flow back into his body from the injuries on his foot and lower leg. Better loosing a leg than loosing a life.

Sherlock moaned a bit and opened his eyes. Mycroft smiled, “Hey brother mine. Hang on a bit longer and they will come to our rescue.”

Sherlock smiled back and spoke with a very low and tired voice, “Oh Myke. I'm to old to get lied to. And even if they came barging in with a fully equipped operating theatre, I'm afraid it would be to late... for me...”

He closed his eyes in pain, “What they did to me yesterday evening....they must have ripped something inside me. I'm loosing blood, Myke.....and I'm so tired.....and cold...”

He closed his eyes again and Mycroft could feel how weak Sherlock's pulse was. And he was so devastatingly pale...

Mycroft bowed his head and kissed Sherlock's hair and moved himself a bit so Sherlock could lie more comfortably, “Do you want my coat?”

Sherlock answered without opening his eyes, “No....you need it more than I do. You have a chance...I don't...And we did agree on going through this, even if it would kill us....

Mycroft didn't try to speak, because the sudden lump in his throat would make it difficult, so he just nodded and then, after a short pause, he said, “And you did offer yourself on purpose....to save me.” Mycroft closed his eyes and a tear ran down his cheek, “That was....worse than Serbia. I know you think that I am more important and that's why you sacrificed yourself, but....”

“I did. You can use the knowledge we've retrieved here. I can't. You are more important than me..so don't waste it. Just accept it. You offered to die to save me and John in your planned scenario on that island. You had forgotten that it was planned and therefore it was an act of true self-sacrifice. So you did it too.....Just accept it, brother dear."

Mycroft smiled a sad smile and caressed Sherlock's head, “At least we got our revenge. They must be dead by now. Every single one of them.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, “How do you know?”

Mycroft smiled, a predatory smile, just as dangerous looking as Sherlock's had been, “Because we are sitting close to their water-supply and the tank with hot water. And I haven't heard water being used since last night. No one had used the loos during the night. And the staff usually starts making breakfast by now: tapping water for coffee and tee. Tapping water for making bread and boiling eggs. And there hasn't been used a drop of water since last night. I even checked the water meter. The little wheel hasn't moved and the numbers are the same. We managed. You managed....my brilliant genius of a brother...”

Sherlock smiled, a weak smile and said, “Rat-poison. Who would have known that I could cook that from the things in the garage? Too stupid to put us down here......with all that stuff available.....”

And Mycroft remembered how Sherlock the first night had searched the damp cardboard boxes on the shelves and had found old-fashioned shoe-polish and four rolls of green Victorian wallpaper, that he had lifted in triumph. Mycroft had wanted to know why that wallpaper was so important and had hardly believed his own ears, as Sherlock told about how poisonous those bright-coloured Victorian wallpapers had been and how they probably had killed Napoleon with arsenic poisoning on Elba. And from those rolls of wallpaper and some components from the shoe-polish and a few other items from the garage, Sherlock had heated and boiled and condensed and filtered stuff until he, with gloves on his hands, could show Mycroft 8 bottles of a clear fluid, that could kill their torturers and abductors.....and unfortunately the staff, that cooked for all the people as well. Not for Sherlock and Mycroft, though. They had been given old army rations and a few bottles of water had been thrown down the staircase and they had been told that they could drink the water from the loo, if they needed more. The bandages that they needed for their injuries after having been beaten with electric wires and belts, they had made them from pieces of cloth, that they found in the boxes. And their torturers apparently didn't mind, even if they did throw them away in disgust, when they started all over again on Mycroft and Sherlock.

That night they had carefully disconnected the water-supply from the pipes coming into the house and had carefully, with gloved hands and cloth-masks over their mouth and dressed in some old rags found in the boxes, poured the clear liquid into the pipes and connected the pipes to the incoming water-supply again. Hoping that no one would notice the momentarily stop in the water-flow. Of course they had tapped as much uncontaminated water as possible in all available clean containers for themselves. The water from the high tank on the loo could clean the loo, if they were just careful about not touching it with any naked part of their body. So they did pee and shit in a container, before flushing it out in the loo.

Sherlock lifted his head a bit and looked at the almost empty bottles standing on the table under the window, “If...no...when you get rescued, then tell them to treat those bottles with utmost care. Just a drop of that poison on their hands could kill them....even if it took four days with it in the water-supply to kill a house full of people.....” and Sherlock's voice trailed off and he closed his eyes again.

Sherlock's voice was barely more than a whisper, “I'm so cold, Myke....Will you tell Hamish and Rosie and …...John that I tried to...... come back to them? I love them so much......and I tried.....I love you too.....

Sherlock closed his eyes and Mycroft just said, “I'll tell them. I promise. I'll tell them.......and I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much....”

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes and gave Mycroft's hand a squeeze and the two brothers just sat and lied there in that cellar-room. The only two persons alive in that big house. In all the bedrooms were dead people. And the twenty secret leaders, that had planned the meeting, but most certainly not the abduction of two top politicians, were lying in their beds, just as dead as the incompetent group of Bulgarian people, that had thought it be a good idea to attack and abduct two high ranking politicians.

'The Twenty' had been relieved as they had found out that the two persons in the cellar had just been secretaries and as such.....had been 'disposable' and had told the Bulgarian group that they could do whatever they wanted to do to them. Maybe even get some governmental secrets out of them? And then of course kill them afterwards. No one were supposed to know about that meeting in the house. Those words should have sent that Bulgarian group on the run, because those exact words should have told them, that they wouldn't leave the house alive either. 'The twenty' had their own people and always made sure that no one outside their own 'army' ever would be able to tell anything.

Nothing had happened the first day. Not really. Mycroft and Sherlock had been brought up into the house and they had been interrogated. And they had told that they were Joseph Vernet and William Scott and not two top politicians. They had been bound to chairs and slapped. But nothing worse and then they had been thrown into that cellar room again and left. That was when Sherlock started 'cooking something together' with Mycroft as a watch, if anyone should come down in the cellar. But they were busy upstairs because 'The Twenty' had arrived.

The next evening the leader of the group had fetched Sherlock and Mycroft in the cellar and had begun to torture them. Bound them to chairs and slapped them, burned them with cigarettes and then forced them against the wall and beaten them with his belt. That was the second evening....and then they were thrown down into the cellar again.

The third evening, and it was always happening in the evening, the leader had found a perverted glee in breaking Mycroft's toes and the next evening almost all the bones in Mycroft's right foot, by stomping on it repeatedly. Mycroft had screamed, but had not given his identity away. It would just make things worse. He had been sitting there, moaning, bound to the chair, almost naked. Just wearing his trousers and he had been covered with a thin layer of sweat and with his head hanging. Sherlock could see that he wasn't in such a bad state as his body language would indicate, but it was bad enough.

As they were going to continue with Mycroft's left foot, Sherlock had caught their attention. He had been beaten too and burned with cigarettes. But not as bad as Mycroft. And he and Mycroft had realised already the first evening, that those men were just brutes and didn't know a thing about torture. It was 'just' violence and beating. No chemicals....no sleep deprivation and even if Mycroft's foot did hurt like hell, it was something that he could tolerate enough to not give secrets away. To those goons they were still those two English secretaries, who had just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. But even a tough man as Mycroft Holmes would have his breaking point and Sherlock had decided to do something.

Mycroft had seen the change in Sherlock's behaviour and had seen the hungry look in the eyes of many of the men. Mycroft had never understood how Sherlock could do that: draw the attention of almost every man and woman in a room, but now he saw the effect.......Both he and Sherlock were just clad in their trousers. Their shoes and socks had been removed the first day. A way to humiliate people to let them walk barefoot and their jackets and shirt had been removed when they were being beaten with the electric wires and the belts. And the goons had of course noticed how well build Sherlock was. But not until he subtly changed his behaviour did they see him as a sexual object........and the result was that all 8 men in the group raped Sherlock and stopped torturing Mycroft.

As they were thrown down into the cellar again, Sherlock assured Mycroft that he wasn't more hurt, than he would be able to heal. And the next two evenings it was just Sherlock, who were fetched to 'entertain' the group of brutes.

And then, last night, Sherlock had been pale and had moaned of pain as he crawled down the stairs and he had told Mycroft that they had used tools this time as they raped him. That they must have ripped a hole inside of him....and during the night he had gone weaker and weaker.

___________________________

Sherlock opened his eyes wide, grappled hard at Mycroft's hand and whimpered, “Oh God.....it hurts so much...I.....

And Mycroft could have sworn that he heard something burst inside Sherlock. Sherlock gasped a pain-filled, “Oh..!” and went slack in Mycroft's arms and a lot of half-coagulated blood ran out of his body as his muscles lost their tension.......

Mycroft cried as he cradled the body of his dead brother in his arms. Rocking back and forth and telling Sherlock over and over again, how much he loved him.

Finally he sat back against the wall and closed his eyes. Absently caressing the hair of his dead brother and slowly Mycroft Holmes surrendered to the exhaustion and fell asleep.

______________________________________

That was what made Greg stop dead on his track as he came running down the stairs 5 hours later: the two Holmes-brothers, one sitting up against the wall and one lying on the mattress. There was so much blood and both brothers were deadly pale....and it took Greg a few seconds to realise that Mycroft was breathing...but Sherlock wasn't.

Greg hurried down and ran to Mycroft and looked for a few seconds at the bloody lump, where Mycroft's right foot had been and then he gently put his hands on Mycroft's arms, as he said, “Hello, Love. It is me.”

He knew better than to touch Mycroft harder than just gently, almost not touching, because Mycroft had more than once lashed out. After all, Mycroft had been a trained agent, but Mycroft was still so exhausted that he just opened his eyes and looked at Greg and asked, “Am I dreaming or are you really here, Love?”

Greg moved his hands to Mycroft's face and kissed him, not caring about the blood, “I'm here. We found your papers in the hotel room. Your notes and your computers, but since John and I not are 'The Holmes-brothers', it took us some time to figure out about 'The Twenty' and where they were.”

“Then you managed more than we did. We were just abducted to this place here......”, said Mycroft.

Greg smiled, “And the kidnapping of two secretaries and eyewitnesses explanations of the whereabouts of a certain car did most of the job....”

He was interrupted by Mycroft, who looked at him with horror in his eyes, “Oh God...the water. Don't touch any of the water...it is...”

Greg smiled again, “Don't worry. John warned us, after we had seen all the corpses and discovered that it wasn't gas.”

Mycroft nodded and he had tears in his eyes, “John is....Sherlock is....My brother died to protect me and....”

And then Mycroft hugged Greg violently and buried his head at Greg’s shoulder as he cried and explained what had happened to him and Sherlock.

As John came down the stairs a bit later, he saw immediately that Sherlock was dead and then he continued down the stairs. He just knelt beside Sherlock's dead body. And just as he had whimpered at Mary's dead body, he made an almost animalistic sound of grief as he took Sherlock's dead and stiff body in his arms. And just sat there, rocking back and forth....

Mycroft and Greg did just let John have that moment......and finally John looked around and noticed Mycroft's foot. He kept the dead Sherlock in his arms, but managed to say, “Greg...call the paramedics...now! Or we might loose the other brother too.”

And then they saw how John took on his doctor and soldier personality....and his captain personality, as he began to examine Mycroft's foot and the tourniquet, “You do realise that you will loose your lower leg and foot, Mycroft?”, he said.

Mycroft nodded, “And I would gladly have given my other leg if that could have saved Sherlock. You must know, John, that his last thoughts were about you and Rosie and Hamish.....and”, said Mycroft and swallowed as tears welled up in his eyes again, “....and that I would have accepted death, if that could have saved him...”

“I know..”, said John, “I saw that on the false island. Now get on that stretcher and allow them to carry you upstairs.”

Mycroft prepared to get on his, well, not 'feet' as there not much left of his right foot any-more. Greg supported him towards the stretcher, that the paramedics had brought. John stopped them and said to the paramedics, “I'll have to perform....or you'll have to perform an emergency amputation, when he gets upstairs. You do realise that, Mycroft? The tourniquet doesn't totally prevent the crushing-syndrome and every minute that your leg is still attached to your body will jeopardize your health...”

Mycroft nodded, “I know...and I would prefer you doing it, John. That is if you'll accept to do it?”

“I will. Just give me a few moments..”

And he knelt down beside Sherlock's dead body and caressed his pale face, “I'm so sorry, Love, for not finding you in time. This time it was me letting you down. I'm so sorry......”

And then something strange happened. It was as if the wall in the other end of the room turned transparent and an...appearance stepped out of it. The world froze....Mycroft and Greg had stopped in the middle of a movement and the paramedics were frozen in the middle of their movements too.

The appearance came closer and the glow diminished a bit, so John could see the facial features of that being....and he discovered that he was looking at himself. But as always when you look at yourself and not in a mirror, the picture is somehow a bit wrong to your own eye.

“What the heck!?”, said John.

(to be continued)

Chapter Text

“What the heck!?”, said John.

The creature smiled and said, “Well, that was one of your milder swearwords, John Watson.”

John shook his had and muttered to himself, “That's it. I've gone totally bonkers. Seeing things...”

He lifted his head, “This is impossible...you are not here. You do not exist!”

The appearance came closer and sat down on the floor beside John and the dead Sherlock, and said, “Do not exist', you say! I did last time, I looked in a mirror!”

“But...but...what are you?!”, stuttered John.

“My, my......I would have thought that you with your upbringing would have known, what I am”, said the appearance and continued, “But maybe I should have remembered the ..'attributes'...” and suddenly there were a pair of glowing wings sticking out from his back.

John nodded, “An 'angel'...I see. But why the heck do you look like me?!”

The angel frowned , “Why not? My true appearance would scare the shit out of you and....”

And John, who honestly thought that he was dreaming and couldn't be arsed to fear the angel, interrupted, “Yeah...I know. First thing you've always said is 'Fear not..”. No what I mean is why don't you look like the real saint here....and why have you chosen old grumpy me as a template?”

The angel looked down at Sherlock and then back at John and said, “I'm afraid that it would have scared you even more..”

John nodded and said, “Well...maybe. You've come to take him away? But why? Doesn't it count.....all the good deeds he had done? All the lives he had saved? Why did he have to die now?”

The angel looked at John and said, “It is all a question of balance. One life saved here, and another will have to go. All the lives he had saved is in the wrong column, so to speak. They don't grant him more life.....on the contrary..”

John frowned, “I see. But that is not fair! Then a serial killer would have so many more lives to live!”

The angel smiled, “Well it doesn't quite work like that. But Sherlock did volunteer to die today. He owed us.”

John frowned, “Owed you? For what?”

“For sawing a soldier in Afghanistan many years ago. You see. Some people...in their dying moment. If they are believers, and you never stopped believing, John Watson, even if you thought that you were never heard....some people pray that intensively, that their prayers go right through. Without all the paperwork. And since your 4^th dimension, 'Time', doesn't mean a thing to us more advanced beings....”

“Well, thank you very much..!”, interrupted John, but the angel just continued, “In our eyes you humans have still a long road to travel, before you'll reach a higher level. You have just climbed down from the trees in the jungle, John Watson. Not technologically seen.....in that area you are quite impressive, but in the mental area you still lack a lot.”

John paused, then he sighed and nodded and said, “Yeah...you are right. Regarding stupidity and wars and evil deeds, we still have a long road to travel before we stop being so cruel.”

He reached out and touched Sherlock's face, “Look what it brought him. And I've been cruel towards him too. That he was able to forgive us all, was a bloody miracle..”

The angel shook his head, “Or a clear decision from his side.”

“Then why did he have to die?!...If...if he was such a good person?”, wanted John to know.

“As I told you: he volunteered...to save you. He was in a bad place as a young man and at one point he..sort of pushed the border between life and death. That was the time I was put on him. To prevent him from killing himself. I showed him the life he could have , if he just kept on living. I showed him you and him sitting in front of the fire in Baker Street... and told him that in order to achieve that , he would have to survive and save you out in the future, from dying from that gunshot wound in Afghanistan.”

John shook his head, “I don't get it! Why did you have to interfere like that?”

And the angel tried to explain about how every living thing in the whole Universe was important...and how intelligent life had its own even more important role in it all.

“And you humans are not the only intelligent beings, John, but you are sort of isolated right now, because you'll have to develop more, before a knowledge about others will not destroy you...”, explained the angel and continued to tell about how all lives, all intelligent life-forms, together made 'the fabric of life' where every existence was a thread and how they all together were woven, intertwined and interacted with one another. All according to a bigger plan, made by the Creator of the Universe.Even we angels have a hierarchy and only some of us are allowed to know just some of the parts of the 'Big Plan'. I'm just on a lower level and do not know that much.”, explained the angel and continued, “And Sherlock would have to be at certain point in his life, if not a part of the fabric...albeit a small part of it...would be destroyed.. And that should be prevented. Even more because it could have an even bigger affect later on. It is always a question of maximum effect with minimums of deeds.”

John had listened and he was a bit angry by now, and he almost yelled, “...'So the end justifies the means'? What fucking bullshit is that? Sherlock had to go through his miserable life with rape, betrayal, neglect, heartbreak and loss....just to prevent a ...a hole in a bloody imaginary piece of fucking cloth?! And you lied to him...at least by omission, by dangling a 'what might happen' in front of his eyes and not telling all the terrible things that would happen in between?“

John hadn't finished yet and he continued, “What sort of shitty God will do something as horrific as that?! Do you know what this man had been through?”

And then John paused and he squinted his eyes and smiled his 'dangerous' smile, “Oh...I see. There are of course 'dark angels' as well. They obey another master. You are one of the cursed angels.....not serving God, but the Temptator....the Devil himself.”

“I'm not!”, said the angel rather offended, “Your religions have all a part of the truth.....but the 'Devil' does not exist as a person, a being...”

John still smiled his predatory smile, “And that is one of his biggest achievements. To make people believe that he doesn’t exist!”

The angel slumped down on the floor and just looked at John. Then he shook his head and said, “Against stupidity even the angles struggle in vain..”......

He sighed and looked at John, “Look. I know it might sound like a shitty advice that I gave to Sherlock. And he has paid a terrible price. But if you knew the importance of his life......of your life. I..I can't tell you. I'm not allowed. But your life.....his life. It was very important. Even if he had to die now. You can't imagine how important it was. And that about God and the Devil....God is the creator of the Universe. God created it out of Chaos. 'Chaos' is the opposite of what God created. 'Chaos' is not a sentient being like you, me...like God. It just is. If the Universe wasn't maintained all the time....if the 'fabric of life got too destroyed. Then the Universe would go back to it's original state: chaos again. God has the power to prevent that. But even God have to obey the rules that was put into the universe. If the rules are neglected, the Universe falls apart. That's why not everyone, who prays, can be saved. That children sometimes die. That stars explodes and worlds are destroyed. That volcanoes erupt...all that is within the rules and the rules can only be bend that much. One of the things that were allowed was that you got saved in Afghanistan, but another life had to be cut short to be within the borders of the rules...and now I've even told you much more, than I'm allowed to. No...I'm not evil. But I'm not indefinitely good either....Even on my level we are just, who we are. We all strive for being better, to reach the next level. In that area we are not that different from you humans. It is just....not all of you are trying. Not all of you...”

John looked at him and finally he believed him, and yet...”No...I'll still call it 'bullshit' when it smells like one and looks like one! If I had died in Afghanistan, Sherlock would have died as that bloody cabbie challenged him to take that blasted pill. If I hadn't shot that cabbie, Sherlock would have died...and he would have been able to give the rest of his life to me..”

The angel got back on his feet and shook his head, “The cabbie would have died within seconds after he challenged Sherlock. You gunshot-wound actually postponed his death, as it took some of the pressure away. The cabbie's aneurysm was seeping, as he spoke to Sherlock. Sherlock would never had reached the point in time, where he would have taken that pill. The cabbie would have been dead before that could happen..”

John looked in shock at the angel. He had always believed that no matter how much he had damaged or hurt Sherlock, he knew that he had prevented Sherlock's death. Now he had learned that it had been in vain. And then, out of desperation, John got an idea.

“If lives can be exchanged...can't I.... I mean, I can't say that I wanted to die in Afghanistan and never meet Sherlock, because then I would take Rosie’s life away. But...the rest of my life. From now on. Can't I give that back to Sherlock, so he can live?”

The angel looked at him and said, “Would you do that?”

John smiled, “In a heartbeat. Always. I love him and he deserves so much more than I'll ever be able to give him. So..?”

And now John had the same feeling as he had had in the pool-room as he and Sherlock had been ignored by 'Moriarty'., or rather the actor playing that villain, who in reality had been Magnussen, because the attention of the angel was directed at his ...ear?! And the angel was talking to someone. And he lifted his hand and said, “Just a minute....”

And first now John noticed that the angel was wearing a bloody ear-piece!

John sputtered and pointed at the piece of technology, “What the bloody hell is that? A fucking ear-piece?!”

The angel looked at him and had his attention at John for a few seconds, “What? No..well yes it is. Your technology is quite amazing. It doesn't function the same way. But the idea is the same..” and then he continued his conversation and ignored John as he turned his back towards John and almost yelled, “........And you tell me now? I've shown myself and told him more than he ought to know...and Sherlock is long gone. How am I supposed to.... No way....forget it! No I'm not going to.....Forget it! You can......But.....Yes of course. But I tell you one thing! You do all the paper work and you owe me. I don't care...you do. I didn't make the mistake. You did!”

And then the angel looked at John and said, “Superiors!...Trying to make me clean their mess. You know how it is, don't you?”

And John caught himself in nodding. He had known about that too, being a captain.

Then he frowned, “I thought that.....”

The angel smiled, “Fluffy clouds, white dresses, harps and eternal peace?”

John found that he actually liked the angel and he smiled back, “Yeah...something like that. Maybe I just hoped that all the insane trouble down here on Earth somehow would have been solved...”

“Some of it. We don't kill each other. We don't rob. But there are still hard work sometimes and higher ranking people, who tries to make you do their cleaning. I'm supposed to show you something and to repair a huge mistake, that someone..... not me!...has made.”

And he reached for John's hand and touched John's eyes and pointed at Mycroft and Greg, who were frozen in time. And John saw how they both glowed with a warm shimmer.

The angel smiled, “That is their love for each other. So beautiful..”

John frowned, “You angels...or God.....you don't disapprove of two men....”

“Oh dearest. No...gender is irrelevant. It only means something on your lower level. God doesn't have a specific gender, even if you prefer to use 'Him'. And I don't either.....”

Suddenly John got a bit angry again, “And you can get arsed to find just a tiny fraction of a second to make people understand how wrong they are, accusing people of horrific sins if they happen to love a person of the same gender?! People here on Earth get killed, put into jail. They get tortured, flogged and persecuted and put through horrendous 'treatments' to be 'cured'...and then you just tell me that it is irrelevant!?!”

The angel just looked at John, “And that treatment of 'different people' just shows how far you still are from reaching a higher level...”

And now John understood, “It is a test.....”

“Exactly”, and then the angel sort of dragged John out of his own body and turned him so he could see himself kneeling beside the dead Sherlock.

“Look!”

And John looked and saw that his and Sherlock's love for each other did shine just as bright as the sun.

“That is why they realised that it was a mistake. You'll be allowed to get...well in your case it is no longer a 'second chance'...it is more a '12^th'. You will not remember everything, but enough to be warned. Use it well.”

________________________________-

And John woke up in Baker Street, sitting on the sofa, with a beer in his hand, sitting next to Greg and there were Sherlock and Mycroft sitting at the table, discussing the upcoming meeting in Bulgaria.

John shook his head. Had he just had a weird dream? Greg was smiling at him, “You just dozed of a bit, didn't you?”

John rubbed his neck and smiled, “Yeah...I suppose I did..” and rose.

And he went over to the table and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and looked at Mycroft, who just said as an answer to Sherlock, “I'm not sure. I see vague outlines of patterns as well. But nothing substantial yet. Not anything I can put a finger on....”

Mycroft sighed and continued, “I suppose a lot of people felt like that before WW1. You are aware that we have evidence that some agents prevented the WW1 breaking out as early as in the 1880ties?”

John listened and said, with an uneasy feeling of deja vu, “No...I've never heard about that. What happened?”

Sherlock answered, “Two undercover agents caught some information about a professor in Germany, who had invented new sorts of weapons and was wise enough to sell them to all the different countries. And then the professor had planned different acts of terror and murder to 'ignite the powder-keg' and start the Great War. But he was stopped and one of the agents died whilst killing the professor. It was something with a waterfall, as I recall. The factory, where the weapons were made, were blown to pieces and nothing was left....not even drawings or plans.....and the tension in the world did loosen up a bit...and the 'War to end all wars' didn't happen until 1914, as you all know..”

Mycroft nodded and said, “And right now I feel as if I'm watching people rolling that powder-keg into place and as if they are beginning to fill it with black powder: North Korea. The tension in China. As always the Middle-East. People loosing their civil rights all over the world...even here in Europe. Politically turning even more towards the ultra-right. Brexit didn't do Great Britain anything good and since than the EU had been weakened. And voices talking about separating Scotland from England...they are still there. But it is still a feeling of uneasiness. I do not have solid proof...”

“A gut-feeling, then?” Sherlock wanted to know.

Mycroft nodded, “And you know very well that a 'gut-feeling' can be you subconscious mind putting things together. And that, together with that mail, makes me realise, that I need more data.”

Mycroft turned towards John and Greg, “And I need you two as well.”

The feeling of deja vu grew stronger and John turned his attention towards Mycroft and wanted to know, “In Bulgaria as well?”

Mycroft smiled, “You were listening after all. No...not in Bulgaria. Here in England. You, John, are going to attend the 'The Afghani Veteran meeting, founded in 2000' in Birmingham and Greg is going to the 'Yearly assembly of retired London police-officers'.”

John shook his head, “I'm not invited. I never made it to more than Captain and......”

Mycroft smiled, “And that was clearly a mistake, that I have rectified. Bill Murray is attending as well. And a lot of your old colleagues from Helmand and Kandahar. Of course you should be there for their 20^th anniversary.”

John frowned, “It is not that long ago that I had to leave the army....”

“No...but is is that long ago that the first officers founded that organisation....and forgot the most important members. Those who survived the battlefields and was not just sitting behind their desks..”, Mycroft said.

John looked a bit angry as he had said, “Not all high ranking officers were like that! Major Sholto...”

Mycroft nodded, “I know. And he paid a terrible price for that...” And then he continued, “But I need you there. To observe.....”

“I'm not Sherlock or you. I can't do, what you can do...”

“No. But you know the system from the inside. Just listen. And record if something interesting can be heard. You'll notice, if something is amiss. And the same goes for you, Greg.”, Mycroft continued, “You are not retired yet, but you have talked about it for at least a few months by now. I have arranged for you and some others close to retirement, to attend that meeting for retired police-officers as well.”

Greg just looked at him and Mycroft had cleared his throat, “That is...if you both want to help? Please?”

Both John and Greg smiled...and Sherlock too. Of course they would help. And then John had to say, “I'm sorry, Mycroft. But the term 'it is practically harmless' and 'what could possibly go wrong' are sometimes famous last words. I have a gut-feeling about this. And it is Bulgaria after all. Not so far away from Serbia. What if?”

Sherlock nodded, “John's gut-feeling has saved him a few times in Afghanistan...and here in England as well. Maybe we should make precautions as well?”

“But I need Greg and John here in England.“, protested Mycroft.

“That doesn’t mean that you can't be careful and have tracking devises on and in you and that we can't have a SWAT-team standing by.” was John's reply.

___________________________-

That was the reason why Mycroft and Sherlock were rescued already on the first evening of their abduction, before they were harmed severely.

As John and Greg, who had insisted on accompanying the SWAT-team to the house, whereto those two 'English secretaries' had been abducted, came running down the stairs to the cellar, John had to stop for a few seconds, because he had that terrible feeling of deja-vu again and it was as if he saw two versions of Sherlock and Mycroft: One terrible wounded Mycroft and a dead Sherlock, and then those two almost unharmed versions of the two brothers.

Sherlock saw him and jumped to his feet and gave John a bear-hug.

“Thank God for your gut-feeling. John!”

And John cried a bit and kissed Sherlock, even if his lip had a split and he was a bit bruised and battered.

____________________________-

Mycroft, who again was 'Mycroft Holmes' with all the power he possessed, made arrangements for agents staying at the house and pretending to be those Bulgarians, that 'The Twenty' had hired. Having time to look through the papers and the links, Mycroft and Sherlock had found just before they were abducted, Sherlock and Mycroft had found enough information about that secret organisation that it, combined with evidence found in the house, could be handed to Interpol, CIA and MI6. Two agents, with a superfluous resemblance to Sherlock and Mycroft, or rather 'Joseph Vernet' and 'William Scott', were placed in the cellar and everything in the house was left untouched, so 'The Twenty' wouldn't notice a thing before the trap closed around them.

“We can never totally stop such an organisation.”, said Mycroft, “Not one which has existed since the Renaissance. But we can 'clip their wings'. Just as Sherlock did to Magnussen's organisation. We can prevent them from being strong and efficient for a long time....and that might be enough to prevent the next war for many years.”

Mycroft looked thoughtful for a moment and then he said, “I'm not sure it was totally a good idea, then. Back in the beginning of the 20^th century. Maybe the postponing gave the countries time to invent even more horrendous weapons? Is that what we are doing? When I say 'not on my watch'. Making it worse?”

Sherlock smiled at his big brother, “Sometimes you can be such an idiot, Myke. Of course it is better to 'postpone' or maybe even prevent. It is not a given thing or a law, that we should have a war. This....this what we are doing or have done...this is a...a 'vaccination'. The disease might come...or it might not. But at least it will not be as severe.”

________________________________-

Mycroft and Sherlock had to go to a hospital to get checked, but it was back in London. They had left Bulgaria as soon as possible and had returned to London. John had phoned Rosie to tell her that they were all safe and sound and back in London and that they would visit her in the weekend.

In the dark, in their own bed in Baker Street, John couldn't sleep and Sherlock could hear him twist and turn and wanted to know what was wrong?

John took a deep breath and reached out for Sherlock and Sherlock placed himself in his favourite position with his head on John's chest.

“Did you notice that I stopped on the stairs to the cellar, as Greg and I found you yesterday?”, wanted John to know.

“Hmm. Yes I noticed.”

And then John continued to tell about his feeling of deja vu. Of how he just knew how that cellar would look like. How he had known about 'The Twenty' even before they had all the evidence.

“You died in that cellar, Sherlock. And it can't have been a fucking dream, Sherlock, because since when have there been smell and scent and touch in dreams? I could feel the coldnes of your dead body and smell all the blood....”

John hugged Sherlock fiercely and then he took a deep breath and continued to tell about meeting that angel.

“He had a fucking ear-piece, Sherlock. How on earth could I have dreamt something so insane?”

They talked and talked and John told everything he could remember and Sherlock did remember the weird drug-induced dream he had had as a young man, believing he had seen an angel coming out of the wall.

And then Sherlock frowned and said, "That is why I thought I had seen you before, when we met at Bart's!"

John smiled, "So you knew that about me beforehand?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No...no. I deduced that. But somehow I knew that I could trust you."

John kissed him and said, "I didn't deserve that trust in me. I've harmed you so much."

Sherlock smiled back and said, "I think we have had that discussion a long time ago. You deserved every ounce of trust I had in you. Every ounce!"

They still had a lot of questions and then they hugged and kissed, making sure that the other person was there and finally both John and Sherlock were able to fall asleep.

________________________

The next months were busy, working together with Mycroft and a whole department of 'Secret Intelligence'. They were all trying to find traces after 'The Twenty' and it was so much more easy now, because they sort of knew where to look. It was of course mostly Sherlock and Mycroft, who looked through the internet and through piles of out-prints, but John had an keen eye and he had found and recorded suspicious chatters between retired officers, as he had attended the meeting for veterans. Greg had listened carefully at his meeting for retired police-officers, but hadn't recorded anything more suspicious than talks about bribery. So John had been put on military sources and was able to find 'wrong patterns' as he called it.

Finally after three months of hard work, there was enough evidence to put those people, who had arrived at the Bulgarian house, without knowing that every person in that house were secret agents, in jail. High security jails, with no contact to the outside world what so ever. Of course it had stirred diplomatic crises and a lot of letters with diplomatic regrets and nice diplomatic words, which in reality could be boiled down to 'no..we are not going to release them, no matter what you say. But they are treated nicely.' was sent to the governments in their countries. Well, not Great Britain, as Mycroft and Leuris had informed the Prime minister of the true nature of those arrested people from the house in Bulgaria. And it was of course noticed how the protest were written and which persons, who protested the most. And they were investigated even more thoroughly, and some of those persons suddenly found themselves in a high security jail. Not all countries were allowed to contain their high-risk-prisoners, because their governmental and public structures had been too corrupted by 'The Twenty'. But other countries were more than willing to 'invite' the prisoners to a permanent stay. And they turned their deaf ear to organisations, who claimed that the treatment of those prisoners was inhuman and cruel. The world would learn the truth...later.

Finally John and Sherlock had done their part of the job and they could go home to Baker Street and a bit to their surprise find themselves in that situation, that they didn't know what to do the next day. Not that they hadn't had an occasional weekend free to visit Rosie and Hamish, but they both felt that hadn't had a single break since Sherlock left for Bulgaria.

The next morning while they were eating breakfast, Sherlock pushed an envelope towards John.

John looked up and saw an expression of uncertainty on Sherlock's face.

“What is it?”

“Er..uhm. Something that you might like...or not. Because I've done something without your knowledge.”

Sherlock had a faint blush on his cheeks and suddenly he looked so young.

John opened the envelope and saw a picture of a very nice house surrounded by a lot of trees.

“What is this?”

“Our new home....if you are amenable. Maybe it is time to retire? It is such a nice house and there will be place for bees and you can write and I know we are not that old, only 47 and 51 and....”

John rose and went over to Sherlock, “I love the idea. Stop babbling, Love. Yes I would like to retire in that wonderful house with you.”

Sherlock looked up, “It is OK with no more cases? You will not miss running around, chasing criminals? You don't think.......”

John smiled and cupped Sherlock's face and kissed Sherlock so thoroughly that Sherlock totally forgot what he was going to ask.

As John finally did let go of Sherlock's mouth, he kept his hands around Sherlock's beloved face and said, “Sherlock...I genuinely believe that I saw that angel. And that we've got a.....I don't know...a 12^th?....a 14^th chance? There is no way that I'm going to loose you again. No adrenaline rush, no triumph over criminals is worth that. I want to grow old with you...and frankly: Baker Street lost a lot of its appeal, when Martha died. So yes....let us move to Sussex and grow old together.”

And so they did. They kept the flat in Baker Street. It was Sherlock's house after all as he had inherited it after Mrs. Hudson and it would sometimes be nice to have a place of their own to sleep in, when they visited London.

And time went by. Greg did retire the following year, in 2026 and Mycroft in 2031, as he turned 60. After that Mycroft did still work on his plan to secure knowledge. On secret hidden computers and sometimes on microfilm. He sometimes told Greg that he felt guilty, because he would use money that he had earned by investing in various projects and maybe he ought to use some of those money on helping other organisations instead?

Greg had smiled and kissed him and said that using the money on securing the future of humanity could never be called a waste. So Mycroft did continue to gather knowledge and make precautions, that at least would make his own extended family a bit more safe, when the war would come. But even if he could see the 'patterns' and Eurus could see them too, they never fully formed into a war. There were diplomatic crisis and 'encounters' and a lot of tension and terrorism, but never enough to be called a war.

Sherlock and John were happy in Sussex. Sherlock finally had the place for his bees and made thorough studies and even managed to save the brown bee from the virus that had threatened that species of bee all over Europe. At least in apiculture the name 'Sherlock Holmes' was more known for books about bees and for saving the brown bee, that for being a consultant detective.

And John started writing books about their adventures. He did change a lot of the names and places, so if people tried to make the stories fit with old saved screen-shots from his long deceased blog, nothing would fit, and John sometimes allowed himself some poetic licence. His books got rather famous, even if a lot of the younger fans thought it all to be invented and not based on real events and they got rather surprised, when they learned that 'John H. Watson' and 'Sherlock Holmes' were two real living breathing persons.

Chapter Text

And time passed and the world slowly changed. Rohan and Eshan did rule the country 'behind the curtains' together with Leuris. Nearly as skilled as Mycroft and Lady Elisabeth had done. Maybe it wasn't fair to compare as the world had got more complicated and still suffered from the void that the removal of 'The Twenty' had made. It might have prevented a war, but for more than a decade it made the world less 'manageable'.

Hamish left school and began at University and Rosie left the school 2 years later to attend the same University. She was one of the youngest to attend ever. Only 16. Hamish wanted to study medicine and so did Rosie, but they studied two different areas. Hamish studied genetics, most of all how to cure defects in the genome and Rosie was more interested in fighting diseases directly with advanced medicine. And sometimes their areas would meet when investigations were made about how to strengthen the human immune system.

And it wasn't really a surprise as they decided to get married. And there were no laws against that. Genetically they were not siblings and they were not that either in the eyes of the law, since Hamish on paper was Mycroft's son. Hamish had explained that he would have so much trouble finding a wife that could match him intellectually seen, and Rosie's argument was the same.

“We have never lived together...only in the holidays.....so we are more like cousins...and that is legal.”, had Rosie said. And she was right...of course she was.

Rohan and Eshan did marry too....and to no one but Greg's daughters. It gave some legal problems though, since Greg was of course father to his daughters, but adoptive father to Rohan and Eshan as well. Leuris never married, but remained a part of that extended Holmes-Watson-Lestrade-Adler-family that included the retired Lady Elizabeth too. She had become some sort of mother for Leuris and it was just natural to regard her as one of the family.

And the world turned around the sun a lot of times and Rosie and Hamish got children and so did Rohan and Elisabeth, and Sophie and Eshan, and like that the extended family grew. And there was still room for everyone in the summer holidays and around Christmas in the houses and mansions in Scotland.

People grew older and the eldest turned more fragile. Lady Elisabeth was the first to die. Mycroft and Greg was at the hospital, when she got the message that the doctors couldn't do more for her and she was brought 'home' to the 'Oak-Tree-Mansion' in Scotland. She died in 2040 at the impressive age of 85 years.

It was as if her death had been the beginning of the disaster. The countries in the world that apparently in the 2040s had found a balance of power and a way to diminish starvation and wars, seemed to loose every will to make peaceful solutions....and despite Leuris' and Rohan's and Eshan's united efforts, Great Britain soon became isolated together with Western Europe. It was as if the rest of the countries in the world had decided “each on his own”.

The every-day-people wouldn't notice that much. Just that there were not so many things from foreign countries to be found on the shelves in the stores, but the change had been so subtly and over so many years, that it was hardly noticeable. Only to old people, who could remember different times. And the technological developments slowed down. Maybe it was good...or maybe it was bad, but at least the ecological impact did diminish. Maybe a further technological development could have increased that positive development and reduced ecological impacts? But it was as if humans took a step backwards technologically seen. At least in some areas. It later turned out that research and developments had progressed vastly in other areas. But that happened outside common peoples knowledge and in some countries without the governments knowing anything about those developments either.

Hamish had found the job from his dreams and was deeply involved in genetic research and Rosie was busy in her field....and down in Sussex Sherlock and John just grew a little bit older every day. Sherlock kept his hair but it was a bit shorter than in his youth and with a lot of grey streaks. And John kept his hair on his head as well, but it was all grey now. Sherlock found that John was as beautiful as ever, despite wrinkles and grey hair and John could still lose his breath over Sherlock's beauty. And the villagers just admired their love for each other and they laughed a bit, but fondly, at how those two men were so deeply in love still at their age....that was in their 60s, in their 70s and even in their 80's.

As Sherlock had pointed out, “The eldest father in the world was after all 96!”. But their physical lovemaking did of course diminish with growing age and as John's heart eventually showed signs of the throughout sepsis, that had almost killed John after Afghanistan and he needed a pace-maker, their 'lovemaking' was often just cuddling and holding hands. The urge, that at sometimes had been a roaring fire, when they finally had admitted their love for each other, did lessen down to....glowing embers.

And even if their tempers...mostly John's....did clash, they never went to bed as 'enemies'. They always found a way to make peace and both hated the nights where they couldn't sleep in the same bed and feel and touch the other. Maybe it was silly, or maybe it was born of all the things they had been through, but they could still both wake up in the night and need to hear the other ones breath and need to touch and feel that the other one was still warm and alive. They seldom spoke about it though.

One might have expected that Greg was the next in line. After all he was 6 years older than Mycroft and he had to have a pace-maker too. But it was Greg, who phoned Sherlock one morning in February 2060 to tell him that his brother had died peacefully in his sleep at the age of 89 years. Both Greg and Mycroft had managed to stay in their own home. They were rich enough to pay for help, even if Mycroft, with Greg's blessing, had used a lot of money on his 'save knowledge' project.

Mycroft had even secured communication-lines. The internet wasn't totally stable, but still functioning and people had gone used to that. Again, it had happened so slowly that no one thought much about it. A lot of things just returned to the way it had been before year 2000. Banks did again open offices in small cities, yes even in villages, and old-fashioned money were still in use. And paying with the mobile phone continued working....and only old people could tell about a time where money almost wasn't there and everything could be paid with a plastic card. Cell phones still worked and no one thought about that it was no longer private enterprises that ran those services, but the Military. No one cared as long as it worked.

Mycroft had made sure that the old-fashioned telephone-net with the copper cables buried in the ground and the 'new' fibre-optical versions buried beside it, were not removed. Somehow people had forgotten about them and those cables proved themselves very valuable later on, as the world changed even more.

And as it is often seen with old married couples, Greg lost his will to live and died 2 months after Mycroft. All his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren did agree that it was for the best, even if they missed them terribly. And they had to find comfort in their 'Uncles' in Sussex. John and Sherlock were still there, for them and for their own children and their own children and their own great-grandchildren. And the world hadn't gone that crazy, yet, that they could not visit each other. The trains were still fully functional and cars were still in use, even if it sometimes could be difficult to get fuel for them.

Through the following years Hamish, Rosie and the Holmes-Lestrade-branch of the family did try to hide how much the world had changed for those two old men living peacefully in their cottage in Sussex, away from all the turmoil and difficulties in the rest of the world. And they thought that they had managed.

Of course both Sherlock and John noticed that the younger part of the family not had the possibility to visit that often...especially as the situation all over the world got worse. And John and Sherlock, who had been so fond of computers and cell-phones and all the information they could find on the internet, they did notice too...of course....that things didn't work so well any-more. Not the internet and not the communication-net based on satellites. But Sherlock and John were old and found pleasure in small things: that they had eachother, that the bee-hives flourished, that the garden bloomed, that there were friends and neighbours to talk to and all the necessary groceries to be bought in the supermarket. Newspapers were again printed on paper and there were plenty of books on the shelves in the library and at home. And they had money to pay for help as well, when they needed it.

_________________________

But of course both Hamish and Rosie should have known better. After all it was still 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'John Watson' that they had tried to hide something for. Something that they had never succeeded with as children, and they didn't succeed doing that as middle-aged persons either.

Chapter Text

Hamish found out exactly how much his father, Sherlock, and his dad, John, had known about the situation in the world that morning in 2068, as he received a video-phone-call from Sherlock. Hamish was 57 at that time. Sherlock was 90. A lot of the family had managed to get to Sussex in January to celebrate Sherlock, but they had never mentioned to him how difficult it had been.

They thought that he still believed them to live in London, but as Hamish talked to his father Sherlock that June-morning, Hamish realised that Sherlock had known for a long time that they had all moved to live in Scotland. In the beginning just for the summer, but since 2067 on a permanent base. London was not a good place to live any-more. Too many things didn't function any longer and a minimum of functioning subways and electricity and public services should work, if people should be able to live and work there.

There were still people there. But life would be so much better and easier outside the big cities. The same pattern could be seen all over the world and the point, that had been reached in 2007, where more than 50 % of the world's population lived in cities had now changed again and only 20% stayed in the cities now. And as it got more difficult, but not yet impossible, to get fuel for the machinery, a lot of people were needed in the country for manual labour. And people usually found out that they liked that simple life more than they would have thought.

_________________________________

Sherlock had woken up that June-morning to find that John had passed away in his sleep. It wasn't totally unexpected, because John had been ill for a while, and the evening before, he had said to Sherlock that he felt 'something was not good and he didn't feel well'.

John had looked sternly at Sherlock and had said, “But don't feel obliged to do what we talked about so many years ago, Love. You don't have to.”

And Sherlock had kissed him and said, “Don't be an idiot, John. It is not an obligation. It is a privilege. And why should I want to continue to live, when my conductor of light is gone?”

And then they had kissed some more and actually said goodbye without using that exact word. Then they had cuddled and had fallen asleep.

_________________________

They had begun that conversation about 'not leaving eachother' many years ago. Actually as they moved to Sussex. It had been one of their first early summer mornings, where everything had been perfect: the sun relatively warm, the smell of flowers strong and the view over the garden and the fields flawless... and they had been sitting outside eating breakfast. John had sighed contently and had said, “This is Paradise.”

Sherlock had taken his hand and said, “That would imply that we would live forever...which we don't..”

John had smiled back, “I'm afraid that you would grow tired of me, if we lived forever...”

Sherlock had answered, “I was afraid that you would grow tired of me.” And had given John's hand a squeeze.

And suddenly the mood grew a bit darker as John remembered, “Sherlock I...I've come so close to loosing you so many times...and that last time....I..”

Sherlock had nodded, understanding, “Bulgarian nightmares?”

John had shaken his head, “No...not 'nightmares'. I know how nightmares are. This was different and I don't know if my memories should have been deleted and they weren't deleted totally by mistake, but this is real memories, Sherlock, the real stuff. You were cold and stiff and dead.....and Mycroft's leg was......” John shuddered, “ Mycroft's leg did smell. So did the cellar-room. Of blood and.....”

John had taken a deep breath and closed his eyes, and then he had continued, “......I just felt numb inside and ...and I would have followed you, if it hadn't been for Rosie. I would have returned to her in England, but as a hollow shell of a man. That is why I offered to trade my life for yours....”

Sherlock had risen and had gone to John and had kissed him, “I know, and I would gladly have given my life again....for you, so you could live after having been shot. Even if that pill from that cabbie wouldn't have killed me, I would have died so many other times, if you hadn't been there....”

John protested, “I might have saved you a few times. But I've jeopardized your life so many more times: indirectly forcing you to jump and travel around the world...alone and in constant danger, beating you in to a pulp, leaving you when you needed me the most, Mary shooting you, Culverton almost killing you. Do I need to continue? And yet....you keep giving me life and......”

John had gotten up on his feet and had hugged Sherlock fiercely as he had said, with tears in his eyes, “I hope that the angels are listening, because I pray with all my heart that we'll finally be allowed a lot of time together and that we, near the end.....”

John had swallowed and tried to say something through a lump in his throat, “If we are allowed to be old and our children will be grown-ups and not needing us any-more, I hope that we will not have to live long without each other. That we can find a way to...”

Sherlock had looked at John and had asked, “Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”

__________________

And John had suggested exactly that. Sherlock had used his impressive skills as a chemist and had made several vials filled with a clear liquid.

Sherlock had explained, “They will...over time....loose their strength....so we'll have to use more than one. It is painless and will just stop your heart.”

John had kissed him and said, “Have I ever told you how happy I am that you are not a criminal?”

And the syringes and the small glass vials remained untouched for decades in their little box hidden under the floorboards in their bedroom.

__________________________

When John had heard about Greg's death only two months after Mycroft's...and only a few days after they had visited him, he had looked at Sherlock and Sherlock had shaken his head and answered John's unspoken question, “No, John. It wasn't necessary. I have a suspicion though...Do you remember the 'Thomson case'? That we solved 5 years after we arrived here in Sussex?”

And John remembered. The police-constable in their small village had asked Sherlock for help, even if he of course knew that Sherlock had retired years ago. But Sherlock had helped...and it turned out that the old man, Mr. Thomson, hadn't died just because his pacemaker had failed. It had been made to fail by a very strong magnetic field...and a jamming of the monitor on the wall that reported everything to the nearest Hospital. One of the few scientific and technological developments that had been made.

“Greg knew about that case, even if he was retired. It was all over the country then, in all the newspapers, because that nurse had killed so many other old people. And don't tell me that Greg hadn't read about that method. I do think , though...”, had Sherlock continued,”....that he died of 'broken-heart-syndrome', the takotsubo cardiomyopathy' . You know, where the heart is severely affected by grief. You saw him at the funeral...”

And John had seen how Greg had pulled himself together, but he had suddenly looked much older than his age.

“I saw him. He was grey and hollow. He had lost his other half. There was only a hollow shell left.”, said John. And then he continued, “It is a bit strange though. There was a time where I could have imagined him and Molly as a couple. And now I feel guilty because she helped me so much after Mary, and now I don't even now where she is in the world or how she is...”

Sherlock smiled, “She was one of my best friends...and you know perfectly well where she is and how she is. Why on Earth should we have gotten Christmas cards from her almost every year otherwise?”

John smiled back, “Oh...I must sort of have forgotten that 'Molly Hooper' became 'Melissa Hundly Johnson' as she married that guy from New Zealand....What was his full name again?”

“Giuseppe Mordecai Hundley Johnson”, said Sherlock and John chuckled, “And she even managed to find a guy with stranger names than yours.”

Sherlock frowned, “What is wrong with my names?”

“Nothing. Love. Nothing...'says the man with the middle-name 'Hamish'...”, said John and Sherlock smiled back, “Well that is our heritage from Scotland after all...'Sherlock' and 'Hamish'...”

John shook his head, “How could I forget that 'Molly' was 'Melissa'...”

Sherlock said, “Well her real name was 'Melissa' after all, and in her new family there were too many 'Mollies'. That is why she changed her name.”

Sherlock sighed, “She was such a good friend. And she helped me when no one else could....or would. I know she had a crush on me and that I sometimes was almost cruel towards her. But I didn't know what to say or do.....and at that false island, as they had to improvise, I would have said anything to her to make her survive. And she knew that. Or she learned that about me. I still don't quite understand why and how all the things, that happened there on that false island, was supposed to work.”

Sherlock paused, “I hope she is safe now. We haven't heard so much from that part of the world for a long time. But things shouldn't be so bad in that part of the world as far as I have knowledge...and now we can't get so much information through any-more..”

John nodded, “Well...lets hope she and her family are safe. There is not much we can do.....not even for our own family. And things are getting worse, aren't they? I'm somehow glad that Mycroft is not going to experience this...”

“So am I...” , was Sherlock's reply

_________________________________

In Sussex, that June-morning, Sherlock had video-phoned his son to tell him that John had died...and Hamish knew that Sherlock was going to end his own life. And Sherlock told that he and John had known that the rest of them was living in Scotland now.

“It was a relief to know that you all are relatively safe...” had Sherlock said and had continued, “...and I'm so glad that we managed to convey our part of the land to you and Rosie and that Rohan and Eshan and Sophie and Elisabeth got Mycroft's part in time, before it was too late. I know you can still loose it, but at least it is written in the protocols, both the psychical ones and on the net and you have the deed. It is just....Please don't try to come down here to our funeral. You might not be able to get back to Scotland. Or at least only a very few of you. It is getting worse as far as my informations reveal..”

Hamish had nodded, “I'll see what I can do, and I promise that I'll only travel if it is safe enough. And father....I do understand what you are going to do. And I respect your decision. I would just wish for you to be here...in safety...with the rest of us.”

Sherlock had smiled, “I'm 90.....and John and I knew that we might not see you all ever again, if we stayed down here. And my birthday would probably be the last time. But this is our home....my home. And my 'appointment in Samara' is long overdue......very long. The 'grim reaper' has waited patiently for me....but now it is time and I'm not afraid. Just....if you somehow would be able to come down here, I've hidden something meant for you...and Rosie. In a safe place in our big garden. If the house is not there any-more, the box buried in the ground near the old oak and should still be there. There are photos, John's diaries and a few notes written by me. My 5 books of apiculture and all John's stories about him and me. And some deeds of property in Scotland. A bit more land close to your estates and.......gold. I've bought a lot of gold...withdrawn a lot of my money from the bank and bought gold. I hope it will still hold the value.....that is what I can do for you, my son. And for Rosie, my daughter. Our house here...I'm going to give it to the young doctor here. I hope you can accept that. But the box is yours.....”

Hamish couldn't say anything. He just looked at his father for a few seconds and then he said, “You must have planned this for a long time. It can't have been easy to buy that much gold in a short time....”

Sherlock had nodded, “I started more than 25 years ago. But it wasn't totally my own ability to see patterns that started that. Eurus...your aunt...she did see things, patterns and risks, long before that. Her last stories were meant for Mycroft and me and were never published. She saw 'patterns' and predicted a lot what is happening now. It is just....she believed it to happen much earlier that it did, so maybe Mycroft and Greg and John and I...our actions might have prevented this from happening for a long time. Maybe it was a good thing and maybe it wasn't. But now my brother isn't here any-more and I'm too old to do anything. Give my love to all, Hamish, especially Rosie....and don't be sad. It would be worse for me to continue. I'm tired and it is time..”

Hamish smiled, “Goodbye father and I'll give your love to everybody....”

“Take care and stay safe. I know you have made precautions and you are up North. It would help as well. I love you all...”

“Love you, father!”

“Love you too, son”

And then Sherlock had disconnected.

______________________________________

Sherlock looked around in John's and his house. Everything was neat and in order. Not like the clutter and chaos in Baker Street. It had reflected the state of his mind. But this place reflected his mind too. Calm and order and only clutter and chaos a few places: his work-table and his bookcases. But is was allowed clutter-places.

Sherlock had opened the bedroom window, with the fly-veil secured in front of the window. Even if the bedroom faced north and was shadowed by big trees, it could get warm. He had washed John and given him his nicest suit on. Not with ease...he had to cut it with a pair of scissors a few places and didn't bother with clean underwear. it was clean enough as it was. He had placed John on his back, closed his eyes and had fetched some flowers in the garden and had placed them in John's hands....and had said, “You...John Hamish Watson-Holmes. You wait for me on the other side. I'll be there in a few hours. So wait for me.” Hoping that it was the truth...that there was an after-life. And that he wouldn't be punished for killing himself.

And then he had walked downstairs to make four phone-calls. First Hamish and then the priest. Sherlock had made the arrangements...not that there was much to alter in the arrangements they had made several months ago, as John's health had faltered. The young priest had asked if he should come over. If Sherlock needed anything?

Sherlock had huffed and said, “Only an absolution in advance....”

“This is not the Catholic Church.......but I think I can say that God will probably understand.”

Sherlock had smiled and said, “I'm rather sure he will.”..... and the young priest had suddenly the feeling that Sherlock knew something that he didn't.

The next call was to the DI. Sherlock was honest and told that he intended to commit suicide and there would be nothing suspicious about his death.

“After all. All my old enemies are dead and gone such a long time ago that they can't reach me now.”, had Sherlock said.

And the last call was to the young doctor Sanderson. To tell him that John had died and Sherlock intended to follow him....and that the house now, with deed and everything, belonged to him. The doctor didn't try to persuade Sherlock from committing suicide, just like the priest and the DI hadn't tried. Actually, they had had that conversation years ago.....and even if it was 'in contradiction to their jobs', so to speak, they could fully understand Sherlock's actions.

With everything in place Sherlock went upstairs to their bedroom. Knelt down on the floor and found the little box hidden under one of the floorboards. He got back on his feet with some trouble. After all he wasn't twenty any-more. He opened the box and found the syringe and the vials.

Then he took a bath, washed his hair, did put product in it. Then he dressed in his nicest suit, apart from the jacket. Others would dress him in that, and then Sherlock sat down on the bed and took the tourniquet out of the box and with movements his body hadn’t forgotten even after more than 60 years, he put it around his left upper arm, making the veins more visible. It had been so many years ago, since he had done this the last time. He filled the syringe with 8 of the vials. He wasn't sure about the strength any-more and most certainly didn't intend to wake up again.

He looked at the syringe and said, “Well old enemy...today you are a friend. Do your job.”

And then he shook his head because why did he talk to a lifeless item? He found a nice vein, held the needle it against his arm and then he exhaled, lifted his chin and with an almost invisible nod...so much like the one John had used, when he had to do something unpleasant, but still ‘soldiered on’, Sherlock did slide the needle in.

Sherlock paused and the he pressed the piston and saw the liquid disappear into his vein. He felt the poison, a taste of metal and garlic in his mouth...and then...nothing. He new he would have time to lie down and he removed the tourniquet and placed the syringe on the floor next to his goodbye-letter. Placed himself close to John and covered John's cold hands with his left hand.....And then his vision started to blur.

______________________________

At first he thought that the poison hadn't worked, because he opened his eyes and there was sunshine......but the bed next to him was empty and since when had the landscape been on the first floor? O ne of the walls of their bedroom had disappeared and was now a wall of golden light and in the middle of that was a very young John, in fatigues and a T-shirt...shining almost as golden as the light around him. He came closer and reached for Sherlock and smiled.

Sherlock smiled back, “You waited!”

“You told me to”, said John.

And Sherlock couldn’t help being Sherlock, “You were dead, when I asked.”

And John smiled even more, “Dead..yes. But still present. I heard you. Come!”

And Sherlock got up from the bed and went over to John and took his hand, “Let me look at you...Oh my...you are so young!”

John smiled again and said, “So are you now.” And he turned Sherlock around so he could see the old white-haired man lying in the bed next to a grey-haired John.

“You just leave your body behind and then you are not old anymore!”, John explained.

Sherlock looked at their intertwined hands......yes his hand was a young man’s hand too. Just like John’s. Sherlock’ brow furrowed in confusion when he looked at John again, “Weren’t you wearing fatigues and a T-shirt just a moment ago?” he asked.

“Yeah...I did. Waiting for you I imagined myself as a soldier again. But now you are here it seemed more suitable to look like I was, when we first met.” And John was in his clothes from when they had their first case: his chequered button down, his pair of jeans and his oatmeal-coloured woollen jumper.

“You are dressed like that too.”, he smiled and Sherlock looked down. He was wearing his clothes from that time too. The black bespoke suit, the white shirt, the blue scarf...and his Belstaff.

“What are the rules?”, demanded Sherlock to know as they walked through the wall of golden sunlight and into a foreign landscape, that looked a bit like the landscape around their village in Southern England. The golden sunlight was all over the place.

John stopped for a moment, “The rules? Well, this is a limbo, an in-between. You stay here as long as you need, if you have some unfinished business...”

“The explanation of ghosts?” wanted Sherlock to know.

“Yeah...something like that.”

Sherlock thought for a moment and then he said, “No...everything is settled and accounted for. No unfinished businesses.”

“Well in that case...someone has been waiting for you, Sherlock.”

And at an agora....somehow looking like an old Roman place, with pillars of marble and tiles of marble too, some people were standing, looking towards John and Sherlock and they were greeted by them all: Greg, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock's parents, Eurus and Lady Elizabeth amongst others.

Mycroft and Sherlock walked a bit away from the others and talked for a few minutes and then they returned.

Mycroft spoke, “Sherlock wanted to know if we would wait for the younger generations ...but we are not going to wait any more. It is time to move on. We just waited for you, Sherlock...and you and John were so obstinate to be rather old men before you died!”

Sherlock smiled at his brother, “You didn't beat me there. I got a bit older than you. But Greg did beat us all.”

Greg smiled back, “Yeah..I did beat you, didn’t I.”

John looked around: “If everybody is ready?” and they all held hands as the light around them grew stronger....

__________________________

Hamish was sitting, looking at the phone's empty and black screen as Rosie returned from her visit in the village. She just did cast one glance at him and just said, “Sherlock?”

Hamish nodded, “John died earlier this morning and Sherlock called me.”

And Rosie went over, removed the silent speaker from his hand and switched off the screen.

“At least you were lucky to be able to see him. The day before yesterday, as I spoke to Daddy, the connection did fail from time to time. Most of the time we had only sound.”

Hamish looked at her with a frown, “I didn't know John had called?”

“He did. He didn't feel well. Hadn't for a while and was afraid that Sherlock, quote *would do something stupid, if anything would happen to me* unquote. I just asked him what he would do if anything happened to Sherlock and he just went silent...and then he thanked me. And said goodbye. Told me that he loved me and said that we shouldn't come to their funeral as 'the world had gone crazy'. And here I thought that we had managed to hide for them exactly how crazy the world had gone.”

Hamish rose and gave her a hug, “We never managed to delude them as children. Why should we have been able to delude them now?”

Rosie did hide her head against his chest, “It is rather stupid. I'm a grandmother myself....and still I cry because I've lost my Daddy and Papa Sherlock. No one could have wished for better parents......But for God's sake. Daddy was 92 and Papa had just turned 90. They were both old and tired and would never be able to continue without the other. So why am I crying?”

Hamish gave her a hug and had tears in his own eyes, “Because they were the finest and best men in the world...and gave us so much. The best parents you could wish for. And because we loved them.”

Rosie dried her eyes and looked at Hamish, who looked so much like Sherlock, “You and I are crazy. Sherlock isn't even dead yet.”

Hamish hugged her, “No...but he will be. In a very few hours...and we can't even go to the funeral....at least I don't think so.”

Rosie nodded, “We might be able to. There are military trucks on their way to Eastbourne. I just talked to the chauffeur. He was visiting his aunt in the village. They are leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“But why Eastbourne?”

“Secret military base. They are abandoning it and want to remove the material, before they return to Perth. From there it shouldn't be difficult to get here. Either by bus or someone could fetch you. We still have a lot of fuel.“

“Abandoning....it is getting bad sooner than expected then?”

“I'm afraid so.”

_____________________________

So that was why Hamish, but not Rosie, was standing at the churchyard in the small village East Dean, not that far from Eastbourne. It wasn't as small as it had been when John and Sherlock moved to live there. Just like a lot of other rural places, people had moved to live there after they had left the big cities and it was now a flourishing village of 3000 inhabitants, and with schools, pubs, library and more than one church.

Hamish was standing next to the doctor as the priest performed the rituals. And a lot of other people were there too. Surprisingly many. Hamish had feared that it would have been a lonely affair to say good-bye to his father and his husband. But of course those two old men had made a lot of friends. Especially the priest and the doctor....and the police-constable, who now was DI. The doctor and the priest were the grandsons of the old doctor and the old priest and had just sort of inherited the friendship that their grandfathers had made, as John and Sherlock moved to the village.

And then it was finished. People were still standing there, talking in small groups and then they started walking away towards the nearest inn. Sherlock had made sure, in advance, that they could meet and talk afterwards and have a beer or some coffee.

Hamish and the doctor stayed a bit.

Hamish looked at the double grave and said, “It should be raining.”

The doctor smiled, “Because heaven should mourn as well?” and then he continued, “I do hope that it is all-right that Sherlock sort of gave me the house? I did try to refuse, but Sherlock said that you would understand.”

Hamish looked at him, “I don't need the house and I do understand, but I wouldn't stay here, if I were you. It is the South-coast of England. A bit too close to the continent after my liking. And the military is abandoning their base in Eastbourne. That is not just for fun. There is not room for the whole village, but.....”

He turned towards the young doctor, “Pack your necessities and come with me...to Scotland. We have room for a lot of people. And we have jobs and houses. Not for the whole village, but most certainly for my father's closest friends.”

“You think it is going to be that bad?”

“I do...Remember that my cousins are 'The British Government' and even if it is difficult getting information through by now, it is beginning: in Asia, in Eastern Europe, in North America and South America. The 'encounters' are increasing to a level I would call 'war'.......and we just get the news about 10 percent of what is really happening out there.”

“Too much knowledge can be a burden, you know. And if you worry in advance, then you'll have doubled the trouble. Maybe..... when it is not necessary?”

Hamish smiled, “I wonder if they had the same conversation when Vesuvius started rumbling?”

The doctor smiled, “In year 79? Or now? Where the people in Naples have held their breath for more than 2000 years? And Vesuvius is still just rumbling.”

“And have eruptions, but not as big as in 79, but still kills people. And I'm not talking about a force of nature. I'm talking about conscious decisions made by humans....and deeds done years ago that now lead to disaster.”

As they had talked they had arrived at the inn and they sat down together with the priest and the DI.

They talked a bit more about Sherlock and John and then Hamish hesitated a bit, considering how much he should tell the young doctor and his two friends, “There are rumours, about....”

He stopped again before he continued, “....about people not being people. About super-soldiers....”

The doctor looked at him and then he slowly said, “We once feared that we would make robots, that could take over the world. Defeat us humans...if they became too clever. Asimov's 4 robotic rules were build into robots for the same reason. ….....and I've read the 'Lancet' as well about 'development in enhancing the human body', until we suddenly couldn't read more about that. Did they continue that work? Without the government's knowledge? Building 'super-humans' instead of 'super-robots'?”

“I'm afraid that it is the case. Remember: the idea of making stronger weapons and hereby soldiers, than your enemy......that thought isn't new. If Hitler had had more resilient soldiers he wouldn't have lost Stalingrad and might have won the war..”

“Unless comrade Stalin had made super-soldiers as well. And he tried... “interrupted the DI.

“And that is the stagnation-situation right now in so many countries, as far as my information goes. Super-soldiers against super-soldiers. The third World War is happening right now......it is just in 'encounters' and small attacks...and letters send between diplomats. Secret attacks on key-positions. Attacks that can be denied on both sides, so the public actually do not know anything. Just.....private organisations is now military organisations...like the internet, like a lot of our means of communication. And it had been like that for years. But now the military is abandoning their bases near the cost. Shouldn't it be regarded as a warning?

The three young men looked at him, suddenly understanding the gravity of all the small pieces of evidence they had gathered after all.

The young doctor Sanderson looked at Hamish and said, “How much time do we have?”

_____________________________

The next day there were 20 extra passengers on the military trucks heading for Perth. The captain in charge of the transport had accepted it. Mostly because Hamish was 'Sherlock Holmes' and John Watson's son' and Sherlock had helped his father a few times...and there were room enough on the trucks.

And of course Hamish had remembered his fathers' box and a few other personal items from his and John's house. If someone thought the two suitcases and the box to be unusual heavy, no one mentioned it.

And the three young families did settle down in the village in Scotland. All of them welcomed. Doctors and nurses were always in demand and teachers as well. And the elderly priest did appreciate the younger priest too.

They thought for almost a year that they had overreacted...and then they didn't think that any-more. As things rapidly grew worse...so much worse.

Chapter Text

First a bit back-ground information:

I have altered the time-line in the Star Trek universe, to make it fit with Sherlock's time-line:

Sherlock was born in 1978 and died in 2068.

Hamish did work for the Baskerville Facilities shortly around 2048-2052 and Khan was made in India in 2050. There were facilities all over the world (more about that is explained in 'The Truth?') and Baskerville did cooperate with facilities in Germany and India.

The political situation in the world had grown tense and a lot of countries were on the verge of war. Just...it really never came to that big confrontation. Just 'encounters' and small attacks and acts of governmental supported terror directed at goals on the territories of other countries. The relationship between Japan and China was...strained and complicated. Especially after North Korea did collapse in 2030 after their 4^th 'Dear Leader' had died and South Korea, supported by Japan, aimed for taking over the country, but was stopped by China.

In South America, Argentina and Brazil were not on good terms. Bolivia and Paraguay were caught in the middle of that animosity. Columbia was fighting Peru and Venezuela over access to fields with potential of growing opium-poppies.

USA had taken some time to recover from Trump, then recover from Pence and then recover from the next fatal president Hamilton, and then president Smith, so not until the year 2028 did USA find its feet again and did participate seriously in foreign politics. As it turned out it was a bit too late. Russia had 'suffered' under Putin's 'iron fist' and his successor Bylinkin's similar inability to accept public rights until 2025, and at that point other countries had tried to seize world-power in the absence of the two biggest actors on the world-stage. Germany and France had proven themselves surprisingly strong, together with the European Union, and together with Australia, India, Thailand and Japan they had become the new big voices in the world.

Great Britain leaving EU had led to the isolation, that had harmed Great Britain's influence in the world greatly. As time went by, the power-balance tilted more to the East and Western Europe got rather isolated. Including EU and Germany and France. Even more so because the military slowly took over so many of the private companies that provided knowledge. It was only the military that had the resources to launch rockets with satellites up into orbit and thus maintained international connections and communication-means. And only the military had the finances to build the server-facilities used by the internet. It was not only in Europe that things were just like that . It was like that all over the world. And looked upon that development in the political climate, with eyes from year 2020, one could just say that even if the countries still called themselves by the same old names and even if they still had 'democratic elected governments', they were most certainly more correctly labelled 'military dictatorships'. In North America and in South America the situation was the same. In Asia and Indonesia. Even in Great Britain too.

The only continents, that didn't follow that pattern was Australia and the biggest part of Africa. The countries north of Sahara followed that pattern though. The countries there had been military dictatorships for a long time. But South of Sahara the countries were almost left on their own to deal with their own problems. As it turned out it was a blessing. But not for the first years. There were countries where more than half of the population were under 15. Not even rich countries in the rest of the world would have been able to give such a vast group of young people a promise of a bright future with educations and jobs. That made a desperate bunch of young people, who were ready to do anything for a bit brighter future. Para-military groups emerged. Both young men and women were recruited and they were ready to work for everybody, who could pay a decent, or even a not so decent salary. With no regard for former borders. In those military groups a friendship across gender and ethnic groups did grow. The foundation for future cooperation, that would be very much needed.

And again the countries of Middle and Southern Africa were haunted by diseases. Ebola, SARS and AIDS did still take there toll and then another disease emerged, one that had, like those 'old' diseases, crossed the barriers between species,......and it was only a label from ancient times that would fit that new disease. The plague. Not the old one from the medieval age, but a new one. Contagious through touch. A virus. And the rest of the world did isolate the part of Africa south of Sahara totally. With the help of military means. At least they could agree on that and then that part of Africa was left to deal with its problems on its own. The rest of the world was too busy with their own problems to worry about the African continent.

The disease took away half of the population during the next ten years, but it removed the corrupt top in a lot of countries as well: in Sudan, Nigeria, Tanzania, Zambia, Kenya, Malawi and a lot of other countries......all the countries where corrupt incompetent leaders had made their own people starve and prevented development in order to fill their secret bank-accounts in Switzerland.

And one thing more: the disease was unfair. It did affect men more than woman and except from infants, it did hit harder on grown ups than on children and just like AIDS had done, it left villages and cities with grandmothers, a few mothers and children and not so many men.

It was chaotic for a while and then the African women showed their strength and their compassion. They could have continued to look at their differences. After all they were from different countries and spoke different languages, there were great differences in wealth and education, and some of them were even white, but they began working together together with the young survivors from those para-military groups and slowly, gradually an united African Union emerged from the ashes of the roaring fire, that the disease and the 'war' had been. And as a lot of people had said for a long time: Africa was a rich continent with wast resources and able to sustain its own population with ease, as long as international companies and corrupt leaders didn't suck every drop of life-blood out of it. But the rest of the world didn't know about the struggle and didn't care. They were buried too deeply in their own problems.

The situation between the different countries in the world grew more and more tense towards 2067 and the soldiers from the different facilities all over the world were ordered to fight against their enemies...and they were the augmented soldiers from other countries. It didn't take long before they found out that their enemies were not the other soldiers looking so much like them, but rather their creators and thus the Eugenic wars happened in 2069-2070. After that the Augments seized the power all over the world in a very well-coordinated attack, that only lasted a few hours. After all, humans had made it easier for them: 'control the military and you control the country'.

The Augments had been made differently in the different facilities all over the world and that showed in the way they administered their power afterwards. Some of them did fit very well to the description, that all of them later got as a label, after humans had gotten their power back. The Augments were accused of cruelty, exaggerated ambition, lack of empathy and megalomania. But how could they be different? In so many aspects they were just human after all. Their worst traits had been seen in human history as well. Nothing new under the sun there.

If they had been able to cooperate, they might have kept the power and they wouldn't have been defeated in 2076, but humans did hide in mountains and desserts and forests and found an unexpected allied in the African Union. An allied with resources and a will to help. And and allied that could offer shelter for those, who managed to flee.

If just the rest of the Augments had been like Khan Noonien Singh, humans and Augments might have been able to find a peaceful solution. After all: the people under his reign in Central Asia, Middle East and India did accept him as their leader and he was a good leader, who accepted humans as equal leaders beside Augments in his governments and vassal-states. There were no riots and no genocides in his empire. People were killed or put into prison, but it was never unjust.

In the rest of the world the situation was different:

The first to walk their own way was Ashaf Ferris from Brazil and George Blume from USA. First they joined forces and kept the rest of the other Augments away. In Europe John Ericsson decided to be on his own too. Bernhard Malkowitch ruled Russia and didn't want to cooperate. Later he threatened to start a war if the Chinese wouldn't join him. He wanted more resources.

The lunatic Augments from Iran and later the far too stupid augments from China did threaten the stability too. The scientists in Iran nearly only emphasized aggressiveness and had only made young men. They were terrible soldiers and actually most of them died fighting each other....after they had killed their creators and a lot of the humans in their area. At least the augments in China knew that they were not intelligent enough to rule by themselves and they had asked Khan.

Ferris' reign in South America...or 'Ferris-land' as it was called, got even worse. People starved to death while her augments lived in luxury. Or humans were forced to work themselves to their death in her mines, on her plantations or in the factories. But it was just the way humans had treated each other through history.

In Eastern Asia, apart from China, Cheng did rule sternly and humans had no rights in his empire. Verity did rule the South East Asia, apart from Australia, who had managed to keep themselves out of a lot of this, and Verity was of course not satisfied with her 'small' part of the world.

John Ericson did rule Europe, including Great Britain, but people had disappeared up in the Norwegian, Finnish and Swedish mountains way up north. In Great Britain they had disappeared from the big cities and had just vanished up north or out onto the moors and Eric saw no reason to search for and find those 'mountain-apes'. They would die when the winter came, he was sure of that. Even in Denmark, which had no mountains, Eric thought that controlling the big cities would be enough. But there were remote farms and unnoticed villages and just like under WW2 people just bowed their heads and pretended to obey while they in the middle of the night organized resistance.

In Russia Bernhard did rule...not so much worse than Stalin and Putin had done. The difference was that it was Augments, who now had all the privileges instead of the inner circle of the Communist Party.

And then the Augments began to fight each other for earnest. Ferris wanted North America..and she killed George and ruled both North and South America. Not in a wise way. She expected to be treated as an Egyptian goddess and drew all resources to her own people and followers. There would have been enough resources for everybody, if she had distributed everything close to equal....but the result was hunger-death in one place and superfluity in another. Bernhard wanted Europe, Cheng wanted China and Verity just wanted more. The only one, who tried to talk some sense into their heads was Khan and even his intellect hadn't expected them to be so stupidly ambitious, that they would rather loose everything, than allowing the others to rule. And all of them had sort of forgotten Africa.

The war between the different Augments did drain a lot of resources and the human soldiers were understandably reluctant to fight a war that wasn't theirs and then they fought back. How they managed to communicate and organize their attacks was never discovered by the Augments, despite their intelligence. They were children of modern times and had never been taught about copper-cables in the ground or even fibre-optic cables. And they didn't know about Morse-signals....or if they knew, they would never have given it a thought that humans were still able to use them. So an invention made in 1837 did aid to the defeating of the Augments.

Kahn had first given up China to prevent a devastating war, but it wasn't enough and soon Augments and humans were fighting all over the world. Augments against Augments in the first place and then they discovered how stupid it had been to believe that their iron-grip around the soldiers' families at home would be enough to make those soldiers obey and they soon found themselves at the wrong end of the weapons of the human soldiers. If the Augments had worked together instead of against each other, humans would never have had a chance. But now they had and they used it and Khan saw how his empire crumbled and realised, that he had to flee and Khan fled in his sleeper-ship 'Botany Bay' in 2076. Launched from the last crumbling remnants of his Empire....and the last of his loyal followers, humans alongside Augments, did fight and die to give their fellow humans and Augments in the sleeper-ship a chance to escape.

Humans now thought they had caught and condemned every Augment, but of course they hadn't. Just like they themselves had hidden in caves and remote villages and forests, Augments did the same thing. They were not the highest ranking Augments and not always enhanced as soldiers...so they managed to hide. And were just 'humans'. And became a part of the human gene-pool.

_________________________

But now a bit back in time. To 2068 where Hamish' diary begins.

Imagine an old book, red and leather-bound.....and the first pages were printed on a printer and later glued into the book. The rest of the book is written by hand.

Pitlochry, year 2068, July the 31^{th ,}

I found this old book, and decided to write a diary. Maybe someone is going to read it out in the future. I hope it is going to be us: Homo Sapiens Sapiens. If not...then don't bother reading!

The newcomers, that came from Sussex, have settled down here in the village and are doing nicely and I am not quite so busy any-more. Yesterday those 3 young men came to me and told that they had a confession and I promised to listen.

They were in their 30s and 'had not even been born as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson came to their village' as they said. But first their grandfathers and then their fathers had become close friends with Sherlock and John. And those young men told how they had read those adventure books about the famous detective and his friend a long time ago, before they realised that the persons in the books were living right in their village. And now their confession. A thing, that they had done, that had been against their duties as a priest, as a police-officer and as a doctor as they said, but not against their duties as close friends, despite the gap in age. And then they confessed that they had known about and accepted and had hidden that my father had committed suicide.

I told them that I knew what he had done and that I had accepted it too. I told them that my fathers relationship with John had been of an unusual quality and that my father, in his own words, “Had postponed his appointment in Samarra so many times that Death apparently had forgotten me'. They left me relieved that I knew about and understood my fathers suicide and didn't blame them for not interfering.

And their confession made me think about a confession I have to make too. I would like to write something down when I can still remember it and as long as my computer works. If anyone is going to read this out in the future, if there is going to be a future, I better introduce myself:

My name is William Hamish Adler-Holmes. I am the biological son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. Adoptive son of Mycroft Holmes and I have just been to the funeral of my father. Yes....that 'Sherlock Holmes'. He lived and died in Sussex together with his husband through many years, John H. Watson-Holmes. Yes, that 'Doctor Watson'...from the books. And now it gets a bit complicated. My mother was Irene Adler. Yes...that 'Irene Adler' from the books, even if John didn't stick totally to the truth writing about his and Sherlock's adventures. My early childhood was spent in Berlin, where my mother lived with her wife, Katie, and when I was very young, I was adopted by Mycroft Holmes, because my father was abroad as my mother needed him the most. And Mycroft Holmes needed an heir. That was the time where Sherlock had to pretend being dead to save his friends and where he fought criminals all over the world. They were a part of a vast criminal network and my father managed to disturb them so much that it took quite a time for that organisation to recover. In reality it never did. Sherlock was almost killed near the end, but managed to return. I don't know so much about what happened and if you think that it is the truth written in the books about 'Sherlock Holmes and John Watson', then you are wrong.

Shortly after Sherlock managed to return, John Watson married Mary Morstan and they had a daughter, Rosamund Watson. Mary died, as Rosie was still a baby, but it turned out that her first 'death' had been false and she disappeared for a while, before she died for real.

Papa Mycroft later married Greg Lestrade and they adopted to boys. They are my elder brothers and together with Leuris, they were, until some years ago, 'The British Government'. That is until the military got too much power and even they couldn't prevent it.

I remembered that they had made a remark about that they should have chosen a military career, and Mycroft Holmes, who was still alive at that point, more than 15 years ago, even if he was indeed rather old, had just looked at their feet (they had all three lost a foot and all of them had a prosthetic foot) with his eyebrow lifted and they had all laughed and he had lectured them about how they could continue to control whatever they wanted to control, just more unseen than before. There was still a 'democratic elected government' at that time. But it held no real power and the civil servants were just as much just marionettes in the hands of the generals and officers as the government was.

But that was more than 15 years ago and even if they tried to keep control, it had been increasingly difficult until they official retired/were fired 5 years ago. At that point they decided that they could do more for people being up here in Scotland and secretly continue Mycroft Holmes work of preserving knowledge and 'wait for the storm to pass'. Whether 'the storm' would be a third World War or something different. And here we are. Holding our breath and waiting for the world to fall apart. The knowledge that we can gather from our allies all over the world, secretly send in coded messages about cook-book-recipes and pictures of cats and thus go unnoticed by the military, tells us that the tension is growing and that we are on the verge of a war. The rumours about facilities all over the world that should have made invincible super-soldiers tailor-made for this new sort of war, the guerilla-war, are unfortunately not just rumours. They are the truth. And how do I know? Because I have worked for such a facility more than 20 years ago. But more about that later. I'll stop for today.

(the rest is written by hand)

Near Pitlochry, Year 2069. August the 20^th

I hadn't imagined that it would happen so soon. But as you can see, my dear potential reader, something must have happened since I'm not writing on a computer. We do have electricity, but why use it on writing, when that can be done by hand? Even if I will have to. I'll just have to adjust to not being able to correct my mistakes.

What has happened since I wrote in my book the last time? Well, the world fell apart and the super-soldiers, called Augments, seized power all over the world. How humans could be so stupid as to make super soldiers and then not to ensure their loyalty by treating them extremely well, but had chosen to treat them as slaves, well at least history should have told them, that given a chance, such slaves will of course rebel against such horrendous treatments. Until a few days ago we had still contact with people in Europe, but now we are preparing to 'disappear' and keep that contact down to a minimum. At least until we know if we can do it unnoticed. We left the village a few days ago and disappeared into the National Park. There are houses and even old castles situated in the park and we have prepared them for hiding a long time ago. They are shielded and look most of all like inhabitable ruins. We have stashed food for a long time and we have been able to lay our hands on weapons and ammunition. Sheep helps us to hide as well, since no one...at least we hope so...would expect that only a few insignificant herds would be able to sustain life up here amongst so many apparently free-living and gone-astray sheep up here in the Northern part of the British island. A lot of places like that have been prepared through out the years as we waited/prepared for the war, but we still did uphold hope that it wouldn't come. Not that the whole British population can be hidden like that, and that is a tragedy, because just like it is happening all over the world some is going to die in this weird war, in order for the rest of us to go unnoticed. If we survive this and would be able to defeat the Augments, we will have to live with that burden, that not everyone could be saved.

I'm rambling. And I haven't even come a tiny bit near my confession. Well. That will have to wait...

Cairngorms National Park, December 1 ^st , 2069

Well, this is not so much a diary, as I suppose you'll have to write it such a book regularly. But never mind. We have been busy up here. Hiding. John Ericson and his henchmen are now officially ruling Great Britain and Europe, as far as my knowledge goes. But he still needs food and allows people to stay on their farms and work in the factories. I suppose it is a bit like in 'ye good ol' times' where the aristocracy lived in luxury and the commoner had to pay tribute to the Lords and Ladies. The free people of Great Britain have once more become serfs and 'copyholders' (as in tenants of their own land)...almost slaves. But  John is not stupid and know that he would have to refrain from killing people, if he wants food for his own people as well. He might have been a bit surprised that Great Britain’s population weren't as big, as he had anticipated. After all, more than one million people managed to disappear up in the Highlands and out into the moors. And we'll manage and survive....for years if necessary.

And now Rosie, my wife...and yes she is Sherlock's and John's daughter, but not related to me nor by law, neither by genetics...and by the way it is none of your business. How could I elsewhere have found a wife that could match me intellectually? She is a genius too and she is going to kill me if I don't attend supper. Up here you'll have to be extremely fond of sheep. It is amazing how they can thrive and become so many on so meagre land-pieces. So...now she called for the third time: I better obey!

Cairngorms National Park, December 31 ^st , 2069

Sometimes we don't have an idle moment. And this December some of the Augments came a bit to close to our old village and we've got 200 new refugees. It is a bit crowded now and we'll have to build more shelters into the old ruins scattered around in the landscape of this vast national park. We'll just have to be careful with the smoke and use the solar-cells and the batteries even more. We have look-outs now, if the Augments should come close. But now I'll have a few moments on my own before we'll celebrate a new and hopefully better year to come. I don't have much information from all over the world. We still have the means of communications through the old copper-wires, but people are careful and we are just sort of waiting. There have been rumours about animosity amongst the Augment leaders, but even they can't have so many human genes that they can act so stupidly, can they? Well I know at least one of the leaders to be extremely intelligent and I had thought about leaving England and flee to his empire. But it is too far away and it is just a stupid dream. I 'm sure though that he would welcome me. …...or maybe not.

Here is my confession: I've worked for the Baskerville Facility. Four years from 2048-2052......without really questioning what we/they did. Being just as stupid as a genius can be and only being engulfed in my own little precious projects without lifting my head from my own work-bench or lab-table and look around to see what was done. I have three educations: I'm a doctor in medicine. A graduated engineer with speciality in nano-technology and a biologist with speciality in meristem propagation and gene-manipulation in plants. And one might expect that a man with my level of intelligence could be a little brighter than the average idiot and discover what was right under his nose. But I didn't. Well...to some extent I did. I found a way to discover things in old files, that I wasn't supposed to find out about. About my grandparents, who apparently had been involved in experiments at this very same facility too. I've never looked upon them as 'damaged'. To me they were just 'grandma' and 'grandpa'.....but looking back with adult eyes I can see it now. Most evident in my grandmother. She could really be two persons: A cold calculating version. And a softer version too. People outside our family would say that Mycroft had taken after his mother....at least the cold calculating personality. But grandpa could be those two versions too. He was just better at hiding it. Finding those hidden files about the experiments made in the 1950s and 1960s made me understand my grandparents better and their deep grounded hunger for being just a normal old couple. Even to the level, where that hunger made them seem cold and callous. As when they didn't question the fate of Eurus or discovered how damaged Mycroft and Sherlock had been. Siger and Violet had been so damaged themselves that they during my father's and my uncle’s childhood just managed to keep everything together in their own minds. Having no extra capacity for their own children. They got a lot better as time passed and they were the best grandparents you could wish for. But...there was always a distance and they were very private persons, but as a child, even a very brilliant one, you never questions such things, just accepts them.

And I found other disturbing evidence later on, concerning Siger's and Violet's children.

It began with an investigation of my own genome. I found unusual traits and decided to investigate my father's and my uncles genome too. I took blood-samples without asking. It wasn't difficult as Sherlock still performed experiments and had discipline enough to label his test-tubes. I found even more unusual genome traits in both Sherlock's and Mycroft's genome and I had the luck to get my hands on some of Eurus' too. The genomes had mostly altered versions regarding the immune system, healing abilities, muscle strength and intelligence. Not that unusual that they couldn't be found in other humans, but not all of them congregated in one...or rather three persons. Most prominent in my biological father. But scientist didn't know how to pamper with genes then, in the 70's, did they?

I had felt a thrill and then a shiver down my spine as I found evidence about how it had been done. 'Trial and error'.....'trial and error' and had nightmares about how many foetuses that had never been functional and had never survived.

I knew that my own work with plants and with nano-technology that could deliver medicine very precisely in the human body or repair damages...well I knew how wrong the experiments could go. But for God's sake.....plants don't have a brain and cell-cultures don't either. We didn't try our nano-robots on living creatures before they had been thoroughly tested on cell-cultures. After that we tested on lab-rats....real rats and not abused humans!

And here my naivety did set in. I thought that my investigations had gone unnoticed and that I had been able to destroy every sample I had from my family and I never dreamed of people using my unfinished nano-robots and designed genes used to enhance the human immune system...I had never given it a thought that my leaders would give my results away and use them in unethical ways on the other side of the world. In India.

I had just stopped working for the facility in 2052, as I heard rumours about the facility in India, but I didn't manage to travel there until the company, I worked for at that time, did send me there. This time it was in the capacity as a biologist and in order to make better crops. Especially better rice. An enhanced version of 'golden rice' with even more resistance against a virus that had threatened that new version of rice. And a wheat that would be more resilient to frost and thus being the ideal crop in the northern and mountain-rich region of India.

I travelled secretly to the facility near Chadigar. I knew it would be there and I wanted to know if the rumours about enhanced people were true.

I had managed to get through the first two fences with my old access-card from Baskerville. There were some buildings behind a fence and some sports areas closest to the fence where I was standing. Some children were occupied in playing some sort of game. And there I saw him. Khan Noonien Singh. They were outside the houses and there were no adults near them. He can't have been more than 5 years old. And he was the spitting image of my father at that age. Apart from very small differences. Khan's hair weren't as curly and he was more muscular. But apart from that? If I had put a young version of my father beside him, you could have believed them to be identical twins, because even such twins can be a bit different. And he was already a born leader then. I could see that through his interactions with the other children. He wasn't the eldest, but as they discovered me, they had all looked at Khan and had expected him to react. He came over to the fence and told me that I would have to leave....or they would get punished...and maybe I would too. I told him that I worked for Baskerville...a facility similar to this one....and that it was very unlikely that I would get punished.

Looking at him even closer, the resemblance to my father was even bigger. They had the same rare eye-colour and the same bone-structure in the face. Now I had no doubt left. It wasn't only a superficial resemblance. That boy had so many of my father's genes in him, that he was indeed him. The Baskerville facility had used my fathers DNA to make Khan Noonien Singh...and it was my fault! I had brought my father's DNA to that blasted facility and they had used as a base for this augmented child.

I had turned to leave and then I turned back again to look at the boy and had said, “No matter what they are going to tell you. You must know that your genes are based on one of the wisest and best men in the world. Remember that....and that you are worthy of love.”

And then I left. I didn't want him to be punished because of me.

Writing this down I'm realising something. Maybe it wasn't my fault at all. Maybe the scientists had stashed Sherlock's and Mycroft's and Eurus' genetic material from when they had tempered with their genes way back in the 70's? And then it wasn't my fault that Sherlock was recreated as Khan Noonien Singh? Just....it might have been my fault after all......and knowing what that boy had to endure. I'm writing this now even if he is never going to read this: Please forgive me, Khan Noonien Singh, because if you are just a bit like my father inside as on the outside, you must have suffered immensely in the hands of those scientists. So please forgive me...and forgive us.

(This last pages are printed from a computer and glued into the book)

Sussex, East Dean, April 5^th, 2078

Oh my. I had forgotten about this book. Or rather...I had thought it to be lost. I'll just write a brief update about what have happened the last nine years. If anyone is actually going to read these ramblings of mine.

By now...in 2078, the Eugenic wars have ended two years ago and we humans won. Even Khan's empire crumpled and no one knows about his fate. His palace in India was destroyed and burned down, and maybe his remnants are buried under those debris. A shame actually. If one man could have been a worthy world-leader, it would have been him. But of course my view upon him is a bit biased. But on the other hand, if he was just a bit like my father on the inside....just as much as he was him on the outside, he must have been in a terrible state of mind. Even on the verge of a break-down, because not alone had my father on e of the biggest brains in Great Britain, he had the biggest heart as well. And I don't believe that the scientists could remove that from my father's genes.

If this book is going to survive out into the future, I have attached micro-films, with a lot of evidence about Baskerville, my role in the investigations there and pictures of Sherlock Holmes and Khan. The photos of Khan are a bit blurred as they are from the media. I've attached microfilm containing my DNA-chart and those of Sherlock, Mycroft and Eurus' Holmes. Maybe some scientists out in the future can use them. And if there should still be remnants of those Baskerville-like facilities left out in the future, I've gathered as much evidence as possible against them. I have this naïve hope that what they did can't even be legal in the future and maybe I can give a small contribution to their down-fall. And maybe make a little attempt of making amends like that.

Well. Back to the present. We are rebuilding the world by now. A lot of people have died and a lot are still going to die, before we have mended all the failures. Before we can bring food to the starving and doctors and medicine to the ill. And who would have imagined that the help would come from two continents, who could easily have said to us 'help yourself' as we have done to them in the past. Who could have imagined that 'The United Nations of Africa' and Australia would bother to help us? But they do.....and my family could give our small and yet big contribution to the rebuilding of the world. A lot of the leaders in the world....and this time there are more woman than men in that council...were thrilled as I could tell them about the 'keep-our-knowledge-intact' that Mycroft Holmes and his family had upheld in more than 40 years. It could have been similar to someone saying in ancient times, as the library in Alexandria had burned down, that a small branch in a remote village, still had a lot of the books intact.

My estimate is that we have managed to save about 10% of the knowledge. On ancient computers , that are still in working condition, some of it in written and printed books and even more on microfilm. Hundreds of thousands of people are reading through the material and putting it on private servers. Governmental companies are launching rockets with satellites out into orbit and communication-lines are being restored and rebuild. And we still use Morse until the other means of communication are up and working. The only thing about the restored knowledge is that it is in English. A language that everybody will have to learn now. Even the French. And they are forced to do that, because that is now the official language in the world. That became the mutual language in 'The United Nations of Africa' and the Australians speak a sort of English anyway. Even the remaining Muslims will have to accept that. There are not many left. Their augmented soldiers did almost succeed in killing 'everything moving' in the former countries in Northern Africa and in those countries in the Middle East, that weren't a part of Khan's empire.

And we have found a treasure on the net. A fragmented book, but we have managed to put most of it together. It was written by a brilliant man...and only God knows how many years ago. It must be old. It is called 'Pax Romana II'...and it describes in detail how organisations ought to be build and what to avoid. It lists ups and downs of every way humans can rule. It is brilliant and we, and yes...I and Rohan and Eshan and Leuris are going to be included as well, are going to use it as a template, when we get ready to make a united government for all of Earth. Not yet...we are not ready for that yet. But it will come and we'll get stronger because of that. I just wish that we, humans and Augments, had been wise enough to recognize the man who could have followed this ancient book and who could have been able to be the head of our mutual government for the whole of our planet. Khan could have gotten the best out of that book and could have been an excellent leader for us all. After all....his 'brother' did manage to rule Great Britain excellently for many years and Sherlock did rule England from the bottom with his homeless network for many years as well. And if the scientist had even enhanced that talent just a little bit in Khan, he could indeed have been the best ruler, that the world could have experienced.

I'll stop now. I'll put this book in the box my father had made for me and that I fetched after Sherlock’s funeral. Without the gold though. There were more things in that box apart from the gold. Things that my descendants maybe would like to see and to have. So...good-bye from me. Good-bye from Hamish Adler-Holmes, son of the best and wisest man, and the best, and only, consulting detective William Sherlock Scott Holmes.