Fic: The Cuckoo's Lullaby (15/17)
Aug. 21st, 2014 09:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargTitle: The Cuckoo's Lullaby
Author:
swissmarg
Beta readers:ruth0007, 
dioscureantwins
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 85K when complete
Summary: Sequel to 'Cracks in the In-Between Places'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
See Chapter One for additional notes
Read Chapter 15 on AO3
"Sherlock! Thank God-" John stands back from the door to let him in. Outside, a car can be heard driving away into the night.
Sherlock pushes past him into the house. "Get your things."
He stops a few steps inside the entryway, the energy thrumming off him. He has heavy stubble on his cheeks and his eyes are bloodshot yet bright.
John is momentarily stunned, both by the sight of Sherlock and by the demand. "What's going on? Where have you been, what happened?"
"I do not have time for your questions," Sherlock bites out. "I need to get my son back, and I do not intend to let the same thing happen to you and Emily as happened to him while I'm doing that."
John's expression shifts from concern and confusion to anger. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means, John, that I clearly can't trust you to take care of one simple task - getting yourself, Emily, and Tristram to safety - so I'm going to have to do it for you."
John's nostrils flare and his fists clench as he makes a visible effort not to explode. "Tell me what you're talking about," he says. His voice is low, veering towards a threat.
"You let Irene take Tristram to force my compliance with Moriarty. I cannot let that happen again. Thus, you and Emily will be brought to a secure facility."
John's eyebrows shoot up, along with his hands. "Okay, whoa. First of all, I didn't let her do anything, she took him. You mean that wasn't what you intended?"
"Obviously not!" Sherlock cries, as if the mere thought were insulting. "I intended him to go with you. Thus my leaving his passport in your bag along with the letter giving you permission to take him across the border," he all but spits out.
John gapes. "You never- I tore the room apart hoping you'd done something exactly like that, but there was nothing. She must have got hold of it before me somehow." He grimaces and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead in realisation. "She was in the room alone with the kids all morning. That's why she needed me out..."
"The passport is immaterial. I know you got a duplicate from Mycroft. The point," Sherlock reiterates, exploding the p, "is that she walked off with him. When you went back to the hotel, I assumed the children were safe in your charge. What was it you said? When you're part of a team, you trust that everyone's doing what they're supposed to? That was your part."
John shakes his head, an incredulous almost-smile forming. "Nope. No. That's not fair. I did everything we agreed on. You never told me about your contingency plans." He thrusts a finger in Sherlock's direction. "If I'd known about the passport, I would have realised she was up to something right away. I would never have let my guard down like I did."
"And yet you did."
John stares at Sherlock, his mouth a thin line. He doesn't say anything for several seconds. "Yes, all right," he finally agrees. "I should never have left him alone with her. I accept that. You're right. But her taking him was one of the scenarios we discussed," he shoots back. "I thought, afterwards, when she sent me that text, that you and she had arranged it that way."
Sherlock is suddenly alert. "What text?"
John digs in his pocket for his phone. "Here." He hands it to Sherlock.
"'He's with me. Love to S. Next time let's do it properly,'" Sherlock reads. He raises his eyebrows at the screen. "Properly?"
"Yeah, I showed her the text you sent me, telling me to take the kids home." There's defiance in John's tone, but also embarrassment. "Told her that was our code word. That's all that means, so I'd know it was really from her. You know I wouldn't- I'm not even interested-" He stumbles over the words.
"John, stop. That's not what she meant." Sherlock drops the phone into his pocket absently, frowning into the middle distance as if his thoughts are already elsewhere.
"She didn't... It's not a code word?"
"Oh, yes, certainly. But it's also a message for me. Clever." His eyes are glittering now with the excitement of a new lead.
"Well, what does it mean? Do you think she took him to Moriarty?"
Sherlock looks at John again, and this time there's a gleam of triumph there. "No. I believe she's using Moriarty as much as he's using her. At least I hope so."
"Why's that?"
"Because it means we still have a chance."
They hold each other's eye for the space of several heartbeats, both hopeful and wary.
"We..." John says slowly then, as if checking whether he heard correctly.
Before Sherlock can respond, Harry appears at the top of the stairs in loose shorts and a sweatshirt. She's blinking and squinting against the light. "What's going on? Sherlock? What the hell, you're going to wake Emily," she hisses.
"Good," Sherlock says briskly. "Get her up, pack a bag for her."
"She's only just got back. She's not some ping-pong ball, you know," Harry says fiercely. "You can't keep dragging her from here to Timbuktu."
"That's a mixed metaphor, and a terrible one at that," Sherlock tells her. He doesn't look impressed by the content of her argument either.
"That's not the-" Harry snarls, but John interrupts her.
"Harry. Just do it." The order comes out perhaps more forcefully than he intended, as he adds in a softer tone, "Please. Pack her a bag."
Harry continues to glare at Sherlock. He meets her eye. "It's important," he says, his voice low and sober with no trace of taunt or scorn. "I'm aware of what it means for her. I wouldn't ask it otherwise."
Harry presses her lips together. She's clearly not happy about the situation, but she nods and goes back toward the bedrooms.
"Another safe house? What about Moriarty threatening the guards?" John asks.
"You're going to stay with Mycroft," Sherlock tells him. "Much as it pains me to fall back on his help in this, his team are the most incorruptible we're going to find."
"No, you're not separating us, and I'm coming with you," John says. His tone leaves no room for discussion.
"I've disrupted your lives enough already," Sherlock says, as if he's the one who's being inconvenienced. "I just need you to stay out of the way for a couple of days and then you'll be free to-"
"Will you just... " John looks pained. "Stop. Stop with that nonsense. I'm coming with you because I want to help you... get Tristram back, or whatever else you need, and because I..." He takes a step toward Sherlock but holds back before reaching him and puts his hands in his pockets. "You've been gone for three days, Sherlock," he says helplessly. "I didn't know if you were dead or..." His voice cracks and he stops and clears his throat. "Hell," he rasps, looking away. "Sorry."
"It's all right," Sherlock says softly. His eyes are wide and he's watching John as if he were a never-before-seen phenomenon. "The only reason... I believed you were safe," he says. "You and Emily and Tristram. I only left because I believed the three of you were safe. That it was the only way to keep you safe. You can't imagine my... When Moriarty taunted me with the picture of Irene and Tristram together..."
"You can't..." John shakes his head, still looking down. He takes several slow, deep breaths before looking up at Sherlock again. "Please," he says, more directive than entreaty. "Don't ... make my decisions for me. I understand, but... Sherlock..."
"Daddy? Aunt Harry said Sherlock was... Sherlock!" Emily runs down the stairs. Her hair is tangled from lying in bed, but she's dressed.
Sherlock and John step apart, having somehow drifted close enough that there's barely a hand's breadth of space between them. Emily weasels in between them and hugs Sherlock. Sherlock places a hand tentatively on her shoulder.
"I knew you'd come back. Tris said you always do." Emily throws her head back to look up at Sherlock, grinning. "Where is he? Did you leave him at home?"
"Tris is still with Irene, Em," John tells her gently.
Emily's smile falters. She looks back and forth between her father and Sherlock. "But he's coming back now, right?"
"Yes," Sherlock says firmly. "Tristram is coming back."
"Oh, it's you, John." Mrs Hudson is standing in her doorway when John comes in with a plastic shopping bag over his wrist. She steps out into the hall, concern written all over her face. "Any word?"
"I'm afraid not," John says as he closes and locks the outer door.
Mrs Hudson looks crestfallen. "Oh, dear. It's just awful, isn't it. What kind of mother keeps her child away from his father?" It's clear she doesn't think it's a very good one.
"Sherlock's working on it," John promises.
"And how is he?" She points up the stairs, adding in a whisper, "I didn't dare go in after the way he snapped yesterday."
"Yeah, sorry about that. And, he's doing about as you'd expect," John says with a sigh. "Any loud explosions while I was out?"
"Just a few small ones," Mrs Hudson says with a faint smile. "Your Emily was down for a while. Such a lovely girl."
John smiles too, although it looks equally strained. "Thank you. Well, I'd better get back."
"You'll let me know as soon as you hear something."
"Of course."
Upstairs, John goes into the kitchen and sets the shopping down on the table next to Sherlock's computer. Sherlock is hunched over it in exactly the same position he was in when John left that morning for work.
"Well, I wasn't kidnapped," John informs him cheerfully. "Although I almost wish I had been. It's funny, I don't remember the hospital being so dull."
"Hi, Daddy," Emily calls from the living room.
John steps away from Sherlock to peek around the divider. "Hi Ems, I'll be right there." He goes back to stand behind Sherlock. "He contact you yet?" John puts both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and rubs them a bit as he peers at the screen.
Sherlock grunts in appreciation and leans back a bit. "No, nothing. Which is good, as Mycroft's people haven't sent the algorithm yet. If this were a situation with North Korea, we'd all be eating kim-chee by now."
"All right then, there's nothing more to be done tonight. Come on, bedtime," John says. He squeezes Sherlock's shoulders one more time and lets go.
Sherlock continues to stare adamantly at the screen. "It's not even nine," he grouches.
"And you haven't slept in days," John says mildly. "Quite literally, I think. Certainly not since we got in last night. Come on, I don't think you've moved a muscle all day. Surprised you haven't keeled over with a thrombosis. And when was the last time you bathed?"
Sherlock lifts his head to glare at John. His eyes are pink around the edges, his cheeks are dark with stubble, and his curls lie flat against his skull. "He might send a message while I'm in the shower."
"I'll keep an eye on your phone. Come on, up." John claps Sherlock lightly on the back.
"He didn't finish his tea," Emily informs John as she comes into the kitchen from the living room, wearing the leggings and old shirt of her mother's that she sleeps in.
"Someone dropped an eyeball in it," Sherlock points out.
"I fished it back out!"
"It sounds like the two of you had a productive afternoon anyway," John says with the glimmer of a smile. "And the good news is, I still have a job. The bad news is, it's time for bed. Both of you. Come on." John puts his hand under Sherlock's elbow, nudging him up off his chair. Sherlock stands.
"You'll also need to watch for Mycroft's file to start uploading," he says, gesturing vaguely at the laptop, which is showing at least ten open windows.
"I'll take care of it. You go into the bathroom and do whatever you need to do." John pivots him around and gives him a little push. "Wash, brush, flush," he says, pointing down the hall.
"You too, Em," he says to Emily once Sherlock's disappeared into the bathroom. "Let's get you tucked in." He puts his arm around her shoulders and steers her out to the living room, where a pillow and duvet are spread on the couch. The lightweight curtains that used to adorn the windows have been replaced by heavy, dark drapes that are currently pulled tightly shut.
"He wouldn't eat any dinner either," Emily frets. "I brought up a plate from Mrs Hudson but he said to put it in the fridge."
John lifts the duvet for Emily to get under it, then sits down on the edge of the couch beside her. "You are doing a bang-up job of watching out for Sherlock. But the choices he makes aren't your fault or your responsibility. All right?" He rubs her leg through the cover.
"But she made pot pies!" Emily says earnestly.
John appears to reconsider the matter. "Beef or chicken?"
"Beef."
"That does sound serious. In the fridge, you said?"
Emily makes an affirmative sound.
John shrugs. "That's my dinner sorted then."
"Daddy!" Emily protests, but she's fighting a smile too.
John kisses her on the top of the head and stands up.
"Tris is going to be okay, isn't he?" Emily says, almost as if she's afraid to ask.
"Yeah," John assures her. "He's fine and he'll be back before you know it."
"Irene shouldn't have taken him like that," she insists.
"No, she shouldn't," John agrees. "But she did, and Sherlock and Mycroft are working really hard to get him back."
"And you too. You're going to help get him back."
John gives her a soft smile. "I'll do whatever I can, yeah. Which right now is monitoring Sherlock's messages. I'll be right in there." John points to the kitchen and starts to walk that way, but Emily speaks up again.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?" He stops and turns around.
"When Tris comes back... are we going to live here too?"
John appears to hesitate over his answer, then comes back and sits on the coffee table next to the couch. He takes a deep breath and folds his hands across his knees. He opens his mouth to say something but stops, and finally comes out with, "I don't know." He gives Emily an apologetic look. "It's not... Sherlock and I haven't talked about it. Everything's just sort of happened so fast, you know? Right now, Sherlock needs us to be here. When Tris is back, though... it's not really practical, is it? We can't have the two of you in that little room upstairs on a permanent basis, and there's no other space. And anyway, I don't know if that's even something Sherlock and Tris would want. What about you? How do you feel about it?"
"I don't mind sharing a room with Tris," Emily says gamely. "He's neater than Aunt Harry."
John chuckles. "Not really a high bar there."
"And I think..." Emily bites her lip and looks at him from under her lashes. "You'd miss Sherlock if we weren't here."
"Yeah, I would," John answers honestly. "Tris too. But that's not something to base living arrangements on. There are lots of other factors. It's one thing to have fun with sleepovers and playing games, but actually living together is different. Think about when we moved in with Harry and Clara. It's a lot different having to share a bathroom with someone than just getting together on Christmas and birthdays."
"Sherlock's an even worse bathroom hog than Aunt Harry," Emily declares wholeheartedly.
The squeal of the water pipes as the shower is turned on punctuates her statement.
John grins. "Yeah, I'm afraid he is. More hair products too. Did you see the shelf behind the toilet? The man could open a bloody salon."
Emily giggles.
Sherlock comes into the kitchen with a towel around his hips. He's shaved and his hair is wet and his skin is pink from the shower. John looks up from where he's sitting at the table with the computer. Sherlock's mobile is lying next to it.
"Anything?" Sherlock asks. He comes over and picks up the phone. He's standing so close John can feel the warmth from the hot water still radiating from his body.
"Couple messages, but nothing that looked like Moriarty. You have some of your contacts working on it too?"
"Of course. You don't imagine I wouldn't use every tool at my disposal. It would be a great advantage if we could at least figure out where Irene's keeping him."
"No, right." There's something stiff about the way John says it, but Sherlock is still looking through his messages and doesn't react.
A drop of water slowly makes its way from Sherlock's chest onto his abdomen, where it catches on a hair, glistening. John inhales sharply and pushes himself away from the table. "Why don't you go put something on," he says briskly. "Cold in here." He gets up and goes to the cupboards. "Cup of tea?"
"Is Emily asleep?" Sherlock asks.
John frowns at the non-sequitur. "Wh- Think so, yeah."
"Bring the laptop." Sherlock takes his phone and disappears back down the hall toward the bedroom.
John blinks a couple of times, his arms still raised to get cups down. Then he lowers them and goes the few steps into the living room to check on Emily. She appears to be sound asleep on the couch. John looks at the laptop on the table, then down the hall. He sighs a little and picks up the computer.
"Where do you want it?" John asks as he enters Sherlock's room.
Sherlock is just pulling up a pair of pyjama trousers, giving John a quick flash of his bare arse. The towel is a crumpled, damp pile on the floor.
"Leave it over there," Sherlock says, gesturing at the table under the window. It's piled high with magazines, a microscope, and what look like dried moss and fungus samples. John hesitates a bit before putting the computer on the chair.
Sherlock has put on a t-shirt in the meantime, and goes to sit cross-legged on the bed, tapping away at his phone.
"Anything else I can do?" John asks.
"Mm, no. I'll hear the alert if anything comes in."
John nods. He clenches and unclenches his hands and purses his lips before saying simply, "Right. Yeah, okay. Um... good night then." He executes an almost military turn and starts for the door.
Sherlock looks up abruptly. "Where are you going?" He seems a bit startled.
"Yeah, I er... thought I'd sit out in the living room, maybe read a little. Should probably get the field bed down from Tristram's room too..." John jerks his head toward the hall.
Sherlock frowns and looks back down at his phone. His fingers move more slowly than before. "You don't have to go."
"You'd ... like me to stay?" John asks carefully, shifting his weight back away from the door again.
"I don't really care if-" Sherlock begins. His voice is infused with typical impatience, but John cuts him off.
"No, Sherlock. No," he repeats, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Not like that. We've been through too much for you to start with that shite. Tell me honestly. I want to stay here," he says steadily. "With you. To sleep in the same bed as you. To be here for you, however you want me and need me to. I could stay up and watch your inboxes while you kip-" John waves his hand in the direction of the bed. "But that's what I want. If you'd rather be alone, that's fine. I understand and I don't have a problem with it. I can spend the night in the living room with Emily. She certainly won't complain about it," he adds, as if that's a vast understatement. "But you need to tell me what you want. What I can do for you."
Sherlock continues to stare at his phone, not saying anything for several moments. When he finally does speak, it's to the screen.
"Yes," he says. His voice comes out too low and he has to clear his throat before continuing. "What you said. What you want. That's what I want too."
John takes that in silently for a few seconds. Then he nods. "Okay. All right. I'll just go get my things."
When he returns, Sherlock's sitting on the edge of the far side of the bed with his back to the door. His phone is now on the nightstand.
John silently undresses down to his pants and undershirt. He turns on the bedside lamp and turns off the overhead one, then gets into bed, lying on his side facing Sherlock's back with his head propped up on one hand. Sherlock has remained perfectly still the whole time. His back is hunched, collapsed in on himself a bit, and his hands are gripping the side of the mattress as if he might topple over otherwise.
John takes a breath as if to speak, but then doesn't. The only sounds are Sherlock's intermittent, unsteady breaths, and traffic passing by out in the street. John clenches his hand in the sheet but other than that remains still as well.
"Can you turn the light off?" Sherlock finally says. His voice is low and thick, as if he's congested.
John twists around and turns the bedside lamp off. It is several more seconds before Sherlock finally moves, swinging his legs up onto the bed. He lies down on his back beside John, his body stiff. John stays where he is on his side, not moving. After a couple of minutes, his eyes adjust enough to the dim light coming in from the street that he can see the pale shape of Sherlock's face. It is clear from the faint glistening of the moisture in his eyes that they are open.
"I'm still here," John says softly.
Sherlock takes a sudden breath, as if the sound of John's voice has pulled him back from somewhere far away. He swallows twice, loud enough to be heard. Then he says, his voice tight with the effort of remaining steady, "I miss my son."
John slides his hand across the mattress until it bumps against Sherlock's arm. He feels down it to his hand and wraps his own hand around Sherlock's. Sherlock spreads his fingers so that John's can slot in between them. John squeezes his hand tightly, and Sherlock squeezes back just as tightly. Their knuckles press uncomfortably against each other but they don't let go.
Sherlock's breaths sound jerky and unsteady for a short while, until he finally takes a deep one and lets it out slowly. Another minute or so passes in silence, and then he whispers, "John?"
"Yeah, I'm right here," John answers softly. Their hands are still clasped.
Sherlock turns his head on the pillow to face John. "John," he says again.
"Yeah, Sherlock." John's voice is thick now too.
And then Sherlock rolls toward John, and John lets go of Sherlock's hand to sling his arm around his back, and their mouths find each other. There is a salty taste that neither of them mentions.
"He's fine, she's taking good care of him," John says between kisses. He pulls Sherlock against his chest and caresses his damp head, speaking against his cheek, tangy with the astringent taste of aftershave. "He's fine, and we're going to get him back."
"How can you- How can you be here, after what I did?" Sherlock's incredulity is clearly audible. "How can you still care?"
"God, you're such an idiot." John fists his hand in Sherlock's hair, pressing his head into the curve of Sherlock's neck. "Such a bloody idiot." He kisses the skin there, tasting the clean dampness and faint bitterness of soap still left from the shower.
Sherlock's arms wrap around John's back, clutching handfuls of his undershirt. They lie there holding each other, touching each other's skin and breathing each other's air until both of them are feeling more in control of their voices.
"We're going to get him back," John repeats.
Sherlock nods against the side of John's head. "Yes," he agrees.
"Because you have a plan, don't you?"
Sherlock doesn't answer for a good long while. Then he admits, "Yes."
John takes a deep breath and lets it out again. "I'd really, really like it you'd tell me what it is. I want to do something, Sherlock. Tris is-" John falls silent. "I miss him, too," he says, more quietly. His thumb rubs gentle circles on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock slowly relaxes his hold on John. John lets him go. "Sherlock?" he asks uncertainly when Sherlock sits up and crawls over John to get out of bed.
"Wait." Sherlock goes out of the room, but comes back less than a minute later. He turns on the bedside lamp and climbs back over John, settling next to him on his side.
"This came today." He hands John a scrap of paper. "One of my contacts passed it to Mrs Hudson when she was out at the shops, and she gave it to Emily. I don't know why she couldn't bring it to me herself," he gripes.
John smiles in amusement. "Yeah, you kind of scared her yesterday," he remarks before looking at the note.
"'Let's show him how it's done properly. I'll blow him while you take him from behind. Sound fun?'"
John nods, taking it in stride. "Yeah, um... Irene, I take it?"
"Obviously."
"Okay, I'm not..." John runs his tongue over his lower lip and laughs a bit. "I'm guessing this isn't what it sounds like, because it really, really sounds like... No, I'm not even going to venture who she's talking about here."
Sherlock looks at John curiously. "You think she means you. You're interested."
"No," John says immediately. "I'm... No," he repeats, as if the entire notion were ridiculous. "Does she mean me?" he asks anyway.
"She means Moriarty. Not like that," Sherlock says in response to John's expression. "I believe she means she'll distract him so I can gain access to his data."
John giggles helplessly. "I don't think I've ever heard it called that before."
After a beat, Sherlock starts to laugh too.
Author:
swissmargBeta readers:
ruth0007, Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 85K when complete
Summary: Sequel to 'Cracks in the In-Between Places'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
See Chapter One for additional notes
Read Chapter 15 on AO3
Chapter Fifteen
"Sherlock! Thank God-" John stands back from the door to let him in. Outside, a car can be heard driving away into the night.
Sherlock pushes past him into the house. "Get your things."
He stops a few steps inside the entryway, the energy thrumming off him. He has heavy stubble on his cheeks and his eyes are bloodshot yet bright.
John is momentarily stunned, both by the sight of Sherlock and by the demand. "What's going on? Where have you been, what happened?"
"I do not have time for your questions," Sherlock bites out. "I need to get my son back, and I do not intend to let the same thing happen to you and Emily as happened to him while I'm doing that."
John's expression shifts from concern and confusion to anger. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means, John, that I clearly can't trust you to take care of one simple task - getting yourself, Emily, and Tristram to safety - so I'm going to have to do it for you."
John's nostrils flare and his fists clench as he makes a visible effort not to explode. "Tell me what you're talking about," he says. His voice is low, veering towards a threat.
"You let Irene take Tristram to force my compliance with Moriarty. I cannot let that happen again. Thus, you and Emily will be brought to a secure facility."
John's eyebrows shoot up, along with his hands. "Okay, whoa. First of all, I didn't let her do anything, she took him. You mean that wasn't what you intended?"
"Obviously not!" Sherlock cries, as if the mere thought were insulting. "I intended him to go with you. Thus my leaving his passport in your bag along with the letter giving you permission to take him across the border," he all but spits out.
John gapes. "You never- I tore the room apart hoping you'd done something exactly like that, but there was nothing. She must have got hold of it before me somehow." He grimaces and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead in realisation. "She was in the room alone with the kids all morning. That's why she needed me out..."
"The passport is immaterial. I know you got a duplicate from Mycroft. The point," Sherlock reiterates, exploding the p, "is that she walked off with him. When you went back to the hotel, I assumed the children were safe in your charge. What was it you said? When you're part of a team, you trust that everyone's doing what they're supposed to? That was your part."
John shakes his head, an incredulous almost-smile forming. "Nope. No. That's not fair. I did everything we agreed on. You never told me about your contingency plans." He thrusts a finger in Sherlock's direction. "If I'd known about the passport, I would have realised she was up to something right away. I would never have let my guard down like I did."
"And yet you did."
John stares at Sherlock, his mouth a thin line. He doesn't say anything for several seconds. "Yes, all right," he finally agrees. "I should never have left him alone with her. I accept that. You're right. But her taking him was one of the scenarios we discussed," he shoots back. "I thought, afterwards, when she sent me that text, that you and she had arranged it that way."
Sherlock is suddenly alert. "What text?"
John digs in his pocket for his phone. "Here." He hands it to Sherlock.
"'He's with me. Love to S. Next time let's do it properly,'" Sherlock reads. He raises his eyebrows at the screen. "Properly?"
"Yeah, I showed her the text you sent me, telling me to take the kids home." There's defiance in John's tone, but also embarrassment. "Told her that was our code word. That's all that means, so I'd know it was really from her. You know I wouldn't- I'm not even interested-" He stumbles over the words.
"John, stop. That's not what she meant." Sherlock drops the phone into his pocket absently, frowning into the middle distance as if his thoughts are already elsewhere.
"She didn't... It's not a code word?"
"Oh, yes, certainly. But it's also a message for me. Clever." His eyes are glittering now with the excitement of a new lead.
"Well, what does it mean? Do you think she took him to Moriarty?"
Sherlock looks at John again, and this time there's a gleam of triumph there. "No. I believe she's using Moriarty as much as he's using her. At least I hope so."
"Why's that?"
"Because it means we still have a chance."
They hold each other's eye for the space of several heartbeats, both hopeful and wary.
"We..." John says slowly then, as if checking whether he heard correctly.
Before Sherlock can respond, Harry appears at the top of the stairs in loose shorts and a sweatshirt. She's blinking and squinting against the light. "What's going on? Sherlock? What the hell, you're going to wake Emily," she hisses.
"Good," Sherlock says briskly. "Get her up, pack a bag for her."
"She's only just got back. She's not some ping-pong ball, you know," Harry says fiercely. "You can't keep dragging her from here to Timbuktu."
"That's a mixed metaphor, and a terrible one at that," Sherlock tells her. He doesn't look impressed by the content of her argument either.
"That's not the-" Harry snarls, but John interrupts her.
"Harry. Just do it." The order comes out perhaps more forcefully than he intended, as he adds in a softer tone, "Please. Pack her a bag."
Harry continues to glare at Sherlock. He meets her eye. "It's important," he says, his voice low and sober with no trace of taunt or scorn. "I'm aware of what it means for her. I wouldn't ask it otherwise."
Harry presses her lips together. She's clearly not happy about the situation, but she nods and goes back toward the bedrooms.
"Another safe house? What about Moriarty threatening the guards?" John asks.
"You're going to stay with Mycroft," Sherlock tells him. "Much as it pains me to fall back on his help in this, his team are the most incorruptible we're going to find."
"No, you're not separating us, and I'm coming with you," John says. His tone leaves no room for discussion.
"I've disrupted your lives enough already," Sherlock says, as if he's the one who's being inconvenienced. "I just need you to stay out of the way for a couple of days and then you'll be free to-"
"Will you just... " John looks pained. "Stop. Stop with that nonsense. I'm coming with you because I want to help you... get Tristram back, or whatever else you need, and because I..." He takes a step toward Sherlock but holds back before reaching him and puts his hands in his pockets. "You've been gone for three days, Sherlock," he says helplessly. "I didn't know if you were dead or..." His voice cracks and he stops and clears his throat. "Hell," he rasps, looking away. "Sorry."
"It's all right," Sherlock says softly. His eyes are wide and he's watching John as if he were a never-before-seen phenomenon. "The only reason... I believed you were safe," he says. "You and Emily and Tristram. I only left because I believed the three of you were safe. That it was the only way to keep you safe. You can't imagine my... When Moriarty taunted me with the picture of Irene and Tristram together..."
"You can't..." John shakes his head, still looking down. He takes several slow, deep breaths before looking up at Sherlock again. "Please," he says, more directive than entreaty. "Don't ... make my decisions for me. I understand, but... Sherlock..."
"Daddy? Aunt Harry said Sherlock was... Sherlock!" Emily runs down the stairs. Her hair is tangled from lying in bed, but she's dressed.
Sherlock and John step apart, having somehow drifted close enough that there's barely a hand's breadth of space between them. Emily weasels in between them and hugs Sherlock. Sherlock places a hand tentatively on her shoulder.
"I knew you'd come back. Tris said you always do." Emily throws her head back to look up at Sherlock, grinning. "Where is he? Did you leave him at home?"
"Tris is still with Irene, Em," John tells her gently.
Emily's smile falters. She looks back and forth between her father and Sherlock. "But he's coming back now, right?"
"Yes," Sherlock says firmly. "Tristram is coming back."
&&&&&&
"Oh, it's you, John." Mrs Hudson is standing in her doorway when John comes in with a plastic shopping bag over his wrist. She steps out into the hall, concern written all over her face. "Any word?"
"I'm afraid not," John says as he closes and locks the outer door.
Mrs Hudson looks crestfallen. "Oh, dear. It's just awful, isn't it. What kind of mother keeps her child away from his father?" It's clear she doesn't think it's a very good one.
"Sherlock's working on it," John promises.
"And how is he?" She points up the stairs, adding in a whisper, "I didn't dare go in after the way he snapped yesterday."
"Yeah, sorry about that. And, he's doing about as you'd expect," John says with a sigh. "Any loud explosions while I was out?"
"Just a few small ones," Mrs Hudson says with a faint smile. "Your Emily was down for a while. Such a lovely girl."
John smiles too, although it looks equally strained. "Thank you. Well, I'd better get back."
"You'll let me know as soon as you hear something."
"Of course."
Upstairs, John goes into the kitchen and sets the shopping down on the table next to Sherlock's computer. Sherlock is hunched over it in exactly the same position he was in when John left that morning for work.
"Well, I wasn't kidnapped," John informs him cheerfully. "Although I almost wish I had been. It's funny, I don't remember the hospital being so dull."
"Hi, Daddy," Emily calls from the living room.
John steps away from Sherlock to peek around the divider. "Hi Ems, I'll be right there." He goes back to stand behind Sherlock. "He contact you yet?" John puts both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and rubs them a bit as he peers at the screen.
Sherlock grunts in appreciation and leans back a bit. "No, nothing. Which is good, as Mycroft's people haven't sent the algorithm yet. If this were a situation with North Korea, we'd all be eating kim-chee by now."
"All right then, there's nothing more to be done tonight. Come on, bedtime," John says. He squeezes Sherlock's shoulders one more time and lets go.
Sherlock continues to stare adamantly at the screen. "It's not even nine," he grouches.
"And you haven't slept in days," John says mildly. "Quite literally, I think. Certainly not since we got in last night. Come on, I don't think you've moved a muscle all day. Surprised you haven't keeled over with a thrombosis. And when was the last time you bathed?"
Sherlock lifts his head to glare at John. His eyes are pink around the edges, his cheeks are dark with stubble, and his curls lie flat against his skull. "He might send a message while I'm in the shower."
"I'll keep an eye on your phone. Come on, up." John claps Sherlock lightly on the back.
"He didn't finish his tea," Emily informs John as she comes into the kitchen from the living room, wearing the leggings and old shirt of her mother's that she sleeps in.
"Someone dropped an eyeball in it," Sherlock points out.
"I fished it back out!"
"It sounds like the two of you had a productive afternoon anyway," John says with the glimmer of a smile. "And the good news is, I still have a job. The bad news is, it's time for bed. Both of you. Come on." John puts his hand under Sherlock's elbow, nudging him up off his chair. Sherlock stands.
"You'll also need to watch for Mycroft's file to start uploading," he says, gesturing vaguely at the laptop, which is showing at least ten open windows.
"I'll take care of it. You go into the bathroom and do whatever you need to do." John pivots him around and gives him a little push. "Wash, brush, flush," he says, pointing down the hall.
"You too, Em," he says to Emily once Sherlock's disappeared into the bathroom. "Let's get you tucked in." He puts his arm around her shoulders and steers her out to the living room, where a pillow and duvet are spread on the couch. The lightweight curtains that used to adorn the windows have been replaced by heavy, dark drapes that are currently pulled tightly shut.
"He wouldn't eat any dinner either," Emily frets. "I brought up a plate from Mrs Hudson but he said to put it in the fridge."
John lifts the duvet for Emily to get under it, then sits down on the edge of the couch beside her. "You are doing a bang-up job of watching out for Sherlock. But the choices he makes aren't your fault or your responsibility. All right?" He rubs her leg through the cover.
"But she made pot pies!" Emily says earnestly.
John appears to reconsider the matter. "Beef or chicken?"
"Beef."
"That does sound serious. In the fridge, you said?"
Emily makes an affirmative sound.
John shrugs. "That's my dinner sorted then."
"Daddy!" Emily protests, but she's fighting a smile too.
John kisses her on the top of the head and stands up.
"Tris is going to be okay, isn't he?" Emily says, almost as if she's afraid to ask.
"Yeah," John assures her. "He's fine and he'll be back before you know it."
"Irene shouldn't have taken him like that," she insists.
"No, she shouldn't," John agrees. "But she did, and Sherlock and Mycroft are working really hard to get him back."
"And you too. You're going to help get him back."
John gives her a soft smile. "I'll do whatever I can, yeah. Which right now is monitoring Sherlock's messages. I'll be right in there." John points to the kitchen and starts to walk that way, but Emily speaks up again.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?" He stops and turns around.
"When Tris comes back... are we going to live here too?"
John appears to hesitate over his answer, then comes back and sits on the coffee table next to the couch. He takes a deep breath and folds his hands across his knees. He opens his mouth to say something but stops, and finally comes out with, "I don't know." He gives Emily an apologetic look. "It's not... Sherlock and I haven't talked about it. Everything's just sort of happened so fast, you know? Right now, Sherlock needs us to be here. When Tris is back, though... it's not really practical, is it? We can't have the two of you in that little room upstairs on a permanent basis, and there's no other space. And anyway, I don't know if that's even something Sherlock and Tris would want. What about you? How do you feel about it?"
"I don't mind sharing a room with Tris," Emily says gamely. "He's neater than Aunt Harry."
John chuckles. "Not really a high bar there."
"And I think..." Emily bites her lip and looks at him from under her lashes. "You'd miss Sherlock if we weren't here."
"Yeah, I would," John answers honestly. "Tris too. But that's not something to base living arrangements on. There are lots of other factors. It's one thing to have fun with sleepovers and playing games, but actually living together is different. Think about when we moved in with Harry and Clara. It's a lot different having to share a bathroom with someone than just getting together on Christmas and birthdays."
"Sherlock's an even worse bathroom hog than Aunt Harry," Emily declares wholeheartedly.
The squeal of the water pipes as the shower is turned on punctuates her statement.
John grins. "Yeah, I'm afraid he is. More hair products too. Did you see the shelf behind the toilet? The man could open a bloody salon."
Emily giggles.
&&&&&&
Sherlock comes into the kitchen with a towel around his hips. He's shaved and his hair is wet and his skin is pink from the shower. John looks up from where he's sitting at the table with the computer. Sherlock's mobile is lying next to it.
"Anything?" Sherlock asks. He comes over and picks up the phone. He's standing so close John can feel the warmth from the hot water still radiating from his body.
"Couple messages, but nothing that looked like Moriarty. You have some of your contacts working on it too?"
"Of course. You don't imagine I wouldn't use every tool at my disposal. It would be a great advantage if we could at least figure out where Irene's keeping him."
"No, right." There's something stiff about the way John says it, but Sherlock is still looking through his messages and doesn't react.
A drop of water slowly makes its way from Sherlock's chest onto his abdomen, where it catches on a hair, glistening. John inhales sharply and pushes himself away from the table. "Why don't you go put something on," he says briskly. "Cold in here." He gets up and goes to the cupboards. "Cup of tea?"
"Is Emily asleep?" Sherlock asks.
John frowns at the non-sequitur. "Wh- Think so, yeah."
"Bring the laptop." Sherlock takes his phone and disappears back down the hall toward the bedroom.
John blinks a couple of times, his arms still raised to get cups down. Then he lowers them and goes the few steps into the living room to check on Emily. She appears to be sound asleep on the couch. John looks at the laptop on the table, then down the hall. He sighs a little and picks up the computer.
"Where do you want it?" John asks as he enters Sherlock's room.
Sherlock is just pulling up a pair of pyjama trousers, giving John a quick flash of his bare arse. The towel is a crumpled, damp pile on the floor.
"Leave it over there," Sherlock says, gesturing at the table under the window. It's piled high with magazines, a microscope, and what look like dried moss and fungus samples. John hesitates a bit before putting the computer on the chair.
Sherlock has put on a t-shirt in the meantime, and goes to sit cross-legged on the bed, tapping away at his phone.
"Anything else I can do?" John asks.
"Mm, no. I'll hear the alert if anything comes in."
John nods. He clenches and unclenches his hands and purses his lips before saying simply, "Right. Yeah, okay. Um... good night then." He executes an almost military turn and starts for the door.
Sherlock looks up abruptly. "Where are you going?" He seems a bit startled.
"Yeah, I er... thought I'd sit out in the living room, maybe read a little. Should probably get the field bed down from Tristram's room too..." John jerks his head toward the hall.
Sherlock frowns and looks back down at his phone. His fingers move more slowly than before. "You don't have to go."
"You'd ... like me to stay?" John asks carefully, shifting his weight back away from the door again.
"I don't really care if-" Sherlock begins. His voice is infused with typical impatience, but John cuts him off.
"No, Sherlock. No," he repeats, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Not like that. We've been through too much for you to start with that shite. Tell me honestly. I want to stay here," he says steadily. "With you. To sleep in the same bed as you. To be here for you, however you want me and need me to. I could stay up and watch your inboxes while you kip-" John waves his hand in the direction of the bed. "But that's what I want. If you'd rather be alone, that's fine. I understand and I don't have a problem with it. I can spend the night in the living room with Emily. She certainly won't complain about it," he adds, as if that's a vast understatement. "But you need to tell me what you want. What I can do for you."
Sherlock continues to stare at his phone, not saying anything for several moments. When he finally does speak, it's to the screen.
"Yes," he says. His voice comes out too low and he has to clear his throat before continuing. "What you said. What you want. That's what I want too."
John takes that in silently for a few seconds. Then he nods. "Okay. All right. I'll just go get my things."
When he returns, Sherlock's sitting on the edge of the far side of the bed with his back to the door. His phone is now on the nightstand.
John silently undresses down to his pants and undershirt. He turns on the bedside lamp and turns off the overhead one, then gets into bed, lying on his side facing Sherlock's back with his head propped up on one hand. Sherlock has remained perfectly still the whole time. His back is hunched, collapsed in on himself a bit, and his hands are gripping the side of the mattress as if he might topple over otherwise.
John takes a breath as if to speak, but then doesn't. The only sounds are Sherlock's intermittent, unsteady breaths, and traffic passing by out in the street. John clenches his hand in the sheet but other than that remains still as well.
"Can you turn the light off?" Sherlock finally says. His voice is low and thick, as if he's congested.
John twists around and turns the bedside lamp off. It is several more seconds before Sherlock finally moves, swinging his legs up onto the bed. He lies down on his back beside John, his body stiff. John stays where he is on his side, not moving. After a couple of minutes, his eyes adjust enough to the dim light coming in from the street that he can see the pale shape of Sherlock's face. It is clear from the faint glistening of the moisture in his eyes that they are open.
"I'm still here," John says softly.
Sherlock takes a sudden breath, as if the sound of John's voice has pulled him back from somewhere far away. He swallows twice, loud enough to be heard. Then he says, his voice tight with the effort of remaining steady, "I miss my son."
John slides his hand across the mattress until it bumps against Sherlock's arm. He feels down it to his hand and wraps his own hand around Sherlock's. Sherlock spreads his fingers so that John's can slot in between them. John squeezes his hand tightly, and Sherlock squeezes back just as tightly. Their knuckles press uncomfortably against each other but they don't let go.
Sherlock's breaths sound jerky and unsteady for a short while, until he finally takes a deep one and lets it out slowly. Another minute or so passes in silence, and then he whispers, "John?"
"Yeah, I'm right here," John answers softly. Their hands are still clasped.
Sherlock turns his head on the pillow to face John. "John," he says again.
"Yeah, Sherlock." John's voice is thick now too.
And then Sherlock rolls toward John, and John lets go of Sherlock's hand to sling his arm around his back, and their mouths find each other. There is a salty taste that neither of them mentions.
"He's fine, she's taking good care of him," John says between kisses. He pulls Sherlock against his chest and caresses his damp head, speaking against his cheek, tangy with the astringent taste of aftershave. "He's fine, and we're going to get him back."
"How can you- How can you be here, after what I did?" Sherlock's incredulity is clearly audible. "How can you still care?"
"God, you're such an idiot." John fists his hand in Sherlock's hair, pressing his head into the curve of Sherlock's neck. "Such a bloody idiot." He kisses the skin there, tasting the clean dampness and faint bitterness of soap still left from the shower.
Sherlock's arms wrap around John's back, clutching handfuls of his undershirt. They lie there holding each other, touching each other's skin and breathing each other's air until both of them are feeling more in control of their voices.
"We're going to get him back," John repeats.
Sherlock nods against the side of John's head. "Yes," he agrees.
"Because you have a plan, don't you?"
Sherlock doesn't answer for a good long while. Then he admits, "Yes."
John takes a deep breath and lets it out again. "I'd really, really like it you'd tell me what it is. I want to do something, Sherlock. Tris is-" John falls silent. "I miss him, too," he says, more quietly. His thumb rubs gentle circles on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock slowly relaxes his hold on John. John lets him go. "Sherlock?" he asks uncertainly when Sherlock sits up and crawls over John to get out of bed.
"Wait." Sherlock goes out of the room, but comes back less than a minute later. He turns on the bedside lamp and climbs back over John, settling next to him on his side.
"This came today." He hands John a scrap of paper. "One of my contacts passed it to Mrs Hudson when she was out at the shops, and she gave it to Emily. I don't know why she couldn't bring it to me herself," he gripes.
John smiles in amusement. "Yeah, you kind of scared her yesterday," he remarks before looking at the note.
"'Let's show him how it's done properly. I'll blow him while you take him from behind. Sound fun?'"
John nods, taking it in stride. "Yeah, um... Irene, I take it?"
"Obviously."
"Okay, I'm not..." John runs his tongue over his lower lip and laughs a bit. "I'm guessing this isn't what it sounds like, because it really, really sounds like... No, I'm not even going to venture who she's talking about here."
Sherlock looks at John curiously. "You think she means you. You're interested."
"No," John says immediately. "I'm... No," he repeats, as if the entire notion were ridiculous. "Does she mean me?" he asks anyway.
"She means Moriarty. Not like that," Sherlock says in response to John's expression. "I believe she means she'll distract him so I can gain access to his data."
John giggles helplessly. "I don't think I've ever heard it called that before."
After a beat, Sherlock starts to laugh too.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-08-21 08:50 pm (UTC)It's somewhat astonishing seeing Sherlock being so "human", but John's certainly brought out that good side to him.
And they're both obviously worried by what's to come, even though they're masking it behind bravado (and giggling!).
no subject
Date: 2014-08-22 05:30 am (UTC)And yes, inappropriate laughter is one of their default releases in stressful situations.
Thank you as always for your thoughtful comment!