Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1151017.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Mummy_(Sherlock), Mrs._Hudson, Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Gods_&_Goddesses, Magic, POV_Third_Person, Teenlock,
      John_is_Amazing, Sherlock_is_possessive
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-24 Completed: 2014-12-09 Chapters: 19/19 Words: 86704
****** The Life that is Waiting for You ******
by a_forgotten_note
Summary
     "There, among the honeycomb pallor of his skin, lay marking that hold
     their own kind of sunshine glow. V-shaped tattoos of sunflower gold
     map John's collarbone, leaving room for curling spinning designs that
     race along his abdomen and arms in intricate patterns that melt into
     his flesh - part of him in every way."
     ---
     Sherlock is sure that Mycroft has something sinister planned when he
     takes his younger brother to the country for Summer break; Mycroft
     never wants to leave London. However, change can't be so bad when
     there's a dark, abandoned house resting atop the hill just behind the
     Summer Estate, ready to be investigated.
     When Sherlock decides staying inside all Summer is a bit excessive,
     he decides to explore the old house; but when he meets a boy that
     doesn't like to obey the strict rules that Sherlock has come to learn
     about the world, will he accept what the boy claims to be true, or
     reject him?
***** Prologue *****
                Among and endless sea of jade beaded grass and sleepy cerulean
dew stands a lone woman, a cascade of love-struck stars admiring her willow
frame and gleaming silver eyes. She is waiting; searching; praying for someone
to deliver her child into safety. Some may think this a feeble hope; there is
no time for this woman to speak her final words of love to her son, and the
pulse of her heart grows weak with every waking moment. Her eyes monitor the
journey of the stars on their charted path across the coal black skies,
unfeeling and sure in their guaranteed trek while she is making her own way
into Pluto’s fiery den. Cold and forgotten to the world she left to seek her
own hearts’ desire, the woman turns to eyes to the ground and allows a mournful
scowl to cross her lips.
                Beyond the reach of the woman, a boy stands with his flaxen
hair ruffled with the silver wind in an obsidian night, hoping to find the
woman is not to leave him. The trees are roaring a complaint that echo in the
child’s ears, and he closes his eyes in empathetic sorrow; this woman is not to
survive the night, and it seems the world about her is determined to voice its
sorrow through the gentle expression of agitated, swaying movements of the
grass as well as the tops of the oak trees, and breathy sounds of deep,
rumbling sighs. Eyes of lapis lazuli open to spy the woman amidst the rage of
the world, hiding her own regret with steely determination in her eyes and
holding a ring of forged silver in her porcelain palm.
“He’ll grow, in due time.” She muses, lifting her star dusted eyes and
clutching the ring in her hand close to her chest; small and breakable, this
ring will keep the young boy behind her safe. As he comes to stand next to her,
she absently brushes a strand of gold spun hair from his face, admiring the
glow of his sun crested cheeks before kneeling beside him and slipping the
small ring onto his left hand so it sat snuggly on his thumb; the only finger
big enough to hold it. Not a mask, but something just as good. A face that
mirrors his own without the truthful glow of his true form; a shadow of what he
really is to deter the world from suspecting something other than normality for
the boy. “And when he grows, you will be there for him. He is my heir; he will
inherit a great gift, and with that inheritance, comes you as well.”
                Fragments of misty disconcertion linger in the boys’ eyes,
clouding over their natural blue glow and sending them into a lower, stormier
hue. Silence settles over the entirety of the space around them, but the boy
makes no move to acknowledge it; he’s eyeing the woman before him with a lonely
gaze, wondering if there is truth in her words, or if this is a teasing bit of
kindness to give him the sense that he won’t be completely alone when she is
gone. Heartbreak is not a feeling to take lightly, and the boy knows that it
will settle in when the woman is gone; she has never told him a lie, and so he
will belong to someone new. He will belong to a boy; a mere child that knows
nothing of his mothers’ true form, nor does he know her real name. This
feeling; the feeling of being left alone, and leaving all together, it must be
torture for the woman, but this feeling is not sadness, and it is not joy. It
is merely hollow.
“He will return to this place; it is fate that draws him here, along with his
brother. You will wait for him, little one. My Claimed, I look to you to keep
him, and guard him when he comes to you.”
                Even if the boy chose to argue, the argument would go unheard;
chilled finality held an icy undertone to the woman’s words, and the boy has no
heart to disobey. Graceless tears make a home among his golden cheeks, hidden
by the disguise given to him by the woman. As she stands, earthy tones cry out
in their own solemn choir; trees burn with fiery fear, smoking their own hazy
cloud of cool summer fog, reaching across the meadow to share their grief with
the boy as the woman stands proud and tall. She is beautiful, but if beauty
could surpass the laws of death and cruelty, no one in the world would die. And
so, the woman looks to the stars once more, bearing her soul to the cloudless
sky and listening to the shimmering voices of a thousand spirits once living,
now long dead. Endless roads are waiting for her to travel them, all for a son
that will not understand for years to come.
                The boy watches on, hearing the trees continue their song as he
bows his head; the woman is gone.
***** The Holmes Estate *****
“Don’t pout, Sherlock. It’s not a very becoming expression on your face.”
Mycroft shifted his right hand from the steering wheel to flick the turning
signal quickly before allowing his smooth black car to purr around a right turn
before replacing it properly with a light hold. His brother continued to scowl
at the window, glaring at the small bits of sunshine that made their home in
the overweight grey clouds, swollen with rain and promising to dampen
Sherlock’s attitude further than the already low scale it was on. It was too
late for Sherlock to object to leaving London; they had already been driving
for twenty minutes, and Mycroft showed no signs of turning around, no matter
how much his younger brother grumbled and groaned about leaving the city.
“I’ll pout if I want, Mycroft. Keep your eyes on the road.”
                Without a response from his older brother, Sherlock resorted to
rolling down his window to drown out the overwhelming sound of Mycroft’s
smugness. Hot, dry air knotted itself in Sherlock’s hair as he leaned
luxuriously out of the window at an angle where the frame of the car dug into
his side and his head rested back against the top of the door. It wasn’t enough
to be in danger of falling out of the car head-first, but enough to make
Mycroft uncomfortable; bothering Mycroft was an activity that Sherlock could
fully enjoy, aside from setting his brothers’ drapes on fire. Mycroft didn’t
like anything to be dangerous; he liked things to be under control and
predictable; Sherlock supposed that it’s one of the reasons he grew up wanting
to be different and unpredictable. He had looked up to Mycroft in the past, but
when his brother began to look up to Father rather than Mummy, Sherlock decided
he was going to be someone different than his rule following brother.
                In that spirit, Sherlock allowed his thoughts to linger over
his mother; she was a kind woman, as he remembered; tall and graceful, full of
knowledge and never-ending compassion. Yes, Sherlock loved his mother, but she
left the world much too soon for him to tell her that. He wanted to love her so
much more, and now, he didn’t have the choice to tell her that. Shaking his
head to rid it of those dark thoughts, Sherlock turned his mind towards
lighter, kinder memories of his mother; long days in the forest of the Holmes
Summer Estate, taking Mummy’s hand and pulling her through the trees and giving
her steadfast warnings of the ‘Evil Spiders’ and ‘Dark Sand-men’ lingering in
their depths.  She would always smile, Sherlock recalled; a glowing, pleased
expression that seemed to cause the forest around them to relax and sigh
contendedly around them; but that, of course, isn’t possible.
                As the clouds above the car began to send out warning rumbles
of thunder, meaning the imminent oncoming rain, Sherlock settled back into his
seat with a huff, picking at his safety belt and watching the occasional house
slide past the windshield before the car rocketed past them in pursuit of a
different home. Mycroft didn’t comment Sherlock’s behavior again as they drove
on, merely reaching over to press down a button to seal his window as the warm
summer rain dropped quickly from the heavens. The summer estate was located on
the edge of a small town, Mycroft had told Sherlock earlier, and the younger
Holmes watched distastefully as the borders of a town came into view through
the slick wall of rain covering his vision through the window.
                Rows of extremely ordinary houses paved the road to the estate,
dotted by the occasional pedestrian roaming about the town or dining at an
outside restaurant beneath a sheltered canopy. It was a quiet town, Sherlock
noted; he hated quiet towns. In quiet towns, there was nothing to distract him.
Mummy understood that very well, she knew to always keep Sherlock moving,
always thinking, never stopping to let boredom or dark thoughts linger; now,
Mummy was gone, and Sherlock was going to be stuck in the sleepy little town
for the summer. Trying to evade thinking about his mother, already gone for
several years, Sherlock made a note of the turns Mycroft made through the town;
a left turn next to a pathetically small library, passing a butcher shop that
hardly looks operational, and a slight right turn onto a hill that slowly
slanted the car upward. The car didn’t travel too far up the hill; only moving
about ten feet onto the inclined plane before turning into a driveway that was
tucked between to large oak trees.
“Try not to be too rude to the Landlady, Sherlock.” Mycroft cautioned his
sibling as they pulled up in front of the house, sending a small warning glance
to his brother from the corner of his eye. “You don’t want to anger the only
person who will be your only companion besides me, now would you?”
“Good god, Mycroft,” Sherlock rolled his eyes as the car was shifted into park
and an elderly man slipped from a side door of the estate to unpack the bags
from the boot of the car and lug them inside.  “You make me sound like a
teenage invalid.”
“For good reason, I assure you.”
                The elder Holmes smirked as he slunk out of the car, leaving
Sherlock to fume and fester for a moment before following suit. The estate was
just a large as Sherlock always remembered it; two floors and seemingly endless
in both directions; painted a fading robins’ egg blue in the past, the paint
had slowly faded to a forlorn grey that reflects the storm clouds that
currently resided in the sky above the home. Sherlock stomped toward the house,
defiantly taking his time to get sopping wet in the rain and make Mycroft seem
like a horrible example; this tactic proved worthless when an elderly woman
fluttered her hands in a beckoning motion to the teen, twittering about
catching a cold to Mycroft.
“Come in; come in, the both of you!” Sherlock mused that she must be the
landlady – Mrs. Hudson; Mycroft had called her on the phone yesterday – as he
stepped through a heavy wooden door and pushes it shut for the woman who
insisted on taking his jacket and hanging it up on an ornamental coat hanger to
his right. “You almost beat the rain; such a shame you couldn’t get a look at
the grounds while it was still so nice outside, Sherlock.”
                With a start, Sherlock looked to his brother for an
explanation; there was no memory that the younger Holmes had of this woman; no,
Sherlock couldn’t remember meeting this woman before. However, Mycroft made no
move to explain the woman, merely peeling off his own jacket and handing it to
Mrs. Hudson before raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson smiled – a
motherly expression Sherlock wasn’t used to seeing on strangers – and pat his
rain dampened shoulder soothingly.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about not remembering me,” Sherlock nodded slowly
as she delicately hung Mycroft’s coat up; she was small, but demanded the
attention of both men as she stood before them with her hands clasped together.
“The last time I saw you, Sherlock, you were just a little thing.”
                Mrs. Hudson fluttered her fingers over her lips again, blinking
quickly as if she had said something exceptionally personal while Sherlock sent
a disbelieving glance to his brother. Mycroft merely put his hands into the
pockets of his trousers and gave a thin, fake smile to the woman; ever the
polite man that Sherlock knew he really was not. It isn’t long before Mrs.
Hudson smiled at Sherlock again and took his right hand in her own; Sherlock
allowed himself to be taken, as long as Mrs. Hudson would be talking to Mycroft
and not to him.
“How about I show you to a room? We definitely have plenty to spare.”
                Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson shared a quick, mutual laugh as
Sherlock merely watched on, busying himself with the architecture of the
estate, rather than social niceties. Pillars of ancient Rome supported the
corners of the entrance, bracing along the sides of the building as they walked
on through hallways; Sherlock admired the alabaster paneling of the pillars
before taking in the paintings that pepper the walls. Sherlock knew of these
paintings; many were historical interpretations of Gods and Goddesses, both
Roman and Greek, some were depictions of the family; Father in his study,
Mycroft practicing the cello while Sherlock played the violin with him, Mummy
herself painting away at her easel in the garden, content and peaceful as she
was. All of the images were painted by Sherlock’s own mother; he still
remembers modeling for portraits, seated atop a stool and impatient to see what
she would do.
                His mother was always mischievous, peeking around her canvas to
smile at him, only to duck back behind the hemp to continue dabbing at the
material with the liquid rainbow on her palette. The last painting she had done
was of him and Mycroft, though he did not recall posing for such an image; as
they walk past the painting on his left, he regard the portrayal with the ghost
of a smile on his lips: He and Mycroft were seated beneath their mother’s
favorite willow tree, looking down at a book in Mycroft’s lap with smiles that
shone with mutual enthrallment. Mummy had been very proud of that picture,
signing it with the entire family in the room happily: Danabell Holmes.
                When Mycroft’s phone interrupted Sherlock’s musing, the younger
Holmes glared at his sibling, watching with a disapproving scowl as the entire
group drew to a halt so Mycroft could pluck his mobile from his pocket and
discover his caller. A faint twitch crossed Mycroft’s expression, unnoticeable
to most, but obvious to his brother; someone has done something that he didn’t
like, pushing his predictable and controllable thoughts into the guardrail on
the highway of his mind.
“Please excuse me; I need to take this.”
                Mycroft strode away, holding the mobile to his ear and already
muttering in sharp, clipped tones that were sure to be inflicting pain on the
receivers’ ear. Mrs. Hudson pat Sherlock’s arm as if he was in need of comfort,
saying something along the lines of ‘he’ll be back soon’ before continuing down
the hall with the young Holmes. She seemed to understand that Sherlock was not
the chatting type, and held her tongue when Sherlock slowed his gate to regard
another painting of Mycroft and himself before resuming as fluidly as he had
slowed. When they reach the end of a hall that was concluded by a ceiling high
window, Mrs. Hudson gripped Sherlock’s arm just a bit tighter, whispering to
him as if he’d fall through the floor if she spoke too loudly.
“That room there,” She gestured to the door furthest to the right, and Sherlock
narrowed his eyes at the door; nothing to recall. “That used to be your
favorite room. You’d always go there if you wanted to be alone; I had Lance
bring your things to that room already, but if you don’t want to stay there,
I’d understand.”
“Well, I’d like to see the inside before you go and decide that I don’t want to
stay there.”
Mrs. Hudson smiled at Sherlock warmly as if he was the most charming thing
since Mycroft learned to speak French, pulling him to the door and opening it
in one swift flick of her wrist. Small flecks of dust hover in the air as they
stepped inside, dancing with their movements and clinging to their clothing as
they crossed the threshold. Mrs. Hudson released Sherlock and allowed him to
move into the room alone, looking around the room with a vague expression.
Covered in a thick layer of dust, and cloudy with the air of ages, the room was
not what Sherlock really expected; the bed was close to the window, nearly
making it a window seat whereas his bed in London was far from the window. A
bookshelf was cradled against the far wall, empty except for a spider web that
spun a lazy trap for nonexistent insects in the bedroom.
Why would anyone want such a neglected room? Sherlock pursed his lips and
turned in a grand circle in his place, seeing no other childhood furniture
present in the space; no rocking horse that he enjoyed in his past visits as a
child, no toys that he remembered leaving behind; it was as if everything from
his last visit was swept out along with all other remnants of his childhood in
the house, leaving only the bed the empty bookshelf in their rightful place by
the window. Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock wandered to the window,
pressing his knees into the soft mattress of the bed and sending up another
layer of dust motes into the air in the process. A skeleton key rested on the
windowsill, cloaked in dust and undisturbed, just as the rest of the room was;
even though it was his room, Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to steal the
key quite yet. Not yet.
The glass was hazy with dust and dirt, but a cloudy silhouette  was visible
through the grime; pulling at the cuff of his sleeve, Sherlock used it to wipe
away just enough of the dirt to see exactly why he had his bed next to this
particular window all those years ago; he could always change his shirt anyway.
Though there was dirt caked to the other side of the glass, Sherlock could
still spot the outline of another large house, just on the edge of the estate.
Leaning back on the bed, Sherlock scowled at the shape; why would another house
sit so close to the estate, and much more, how did he see it every night before
he went to bed as a child and not remember it to that day?
“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock heard the landlady more than he saw her approach, her
small flats clicking on the smooth wooden floors as she lingered around the
edge of the bed. He gestured to the shape of the house through the glass with a
loose shake of his wrist. “What is this?”
“That is another house your dear mother had built,” There was something else
lingering on the edge of her tongue, but she made no move to voice it as she
continued. “She said she needed it for something, but never had anything put
inside; people say it’s empty for years.”
                Sherlock frowned again at the house that lay easily fifty feet
away from him; why would his mother order something so useless to be built?
Mummy was not a woman to buy frivolous things if she didn’t need them for a
good, solid reason. Turning to face Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock shook his head with
an exasperated expression, waving a hand dismissively at the building.
“’Empty for years’, you say. Why not tear it down, then? There’s no reason to
keep a building without any use.”
Mrs. Hudson was quick to shake her head, holding up a hand as if to block his
verbal reasoning with a physical restraint. Sherlock’s frown slowly slid down
into a glare; Mycroft did the same thing to him when he tried to tell Sherlock
that his chemistry set was pointless.
“No; people ‘say’ that it’s empty. That doesn’t mean that it is.”
“Well,” Sherlock stood with a flourish, brushing the dust from his trousers and
trying to get past the landlady’s feeble defense. “Has anyone gone inside or
come out of the building all these years?”
                This argument seemed to break up the small illusion of
steadfast sureness in Mrs. Hudson’s stature, and she fumbled for a way to
defend the house all over again. Sherlock gave her a look that was commonly
associated with ‘I don’t quite understand why you don’t think logically’,
stationing his fisted hands on his hips and letting out an annoyed sigh. Tired,
aged blue eyes sought out answers on the floor for a moment before closing;
Mrs. Hudson had something to say, but Sherlock could only imagine what it was.
When she lifted her eyes to his, her confidence seemed rebuilt and unshakable
once more.
“No; no one goes in, and no one comes out.” Sherlock sputtered for a moment,
not believing her naivety before receiving another silencing hand from Mrs.
Hudson that he’s sure he’d receive more often than not when he spoke to her.
“However, that doesn’t mean someone isn’t inside.”
                Narrowing his eyes at the kind woman before him, Sherlock
struggled to accept the idea that she could be talking about something other
than a corpse. A corpse would definitely be interesting; it could be decaying
at an extremely slow rate; Sherlock could use the bones in experiments; he
could use them to scare Mycroft. Ideas fluttered through Sherlock’s mind before
Mrs. Hudson turned back to the window with the shadow of a smile on her lips.
“And if someone’s inside, maybe it’s because they’re waiting for someone.” As
Sherlock turned his gaze back to the landlady, she shook her head as if to
ruffle her thoughts back into place before leaning forward and patting
Sherlock’s arm. “Oh, just listen to me going on about that house while I should
be getting you and your brother a cup of tea. We turned right from the entrance
to go down this hall, so just go down the opposite way to find the kitchen;
double doors, you can’t miss it.”
                Scurrying out of the room, Mrs. Hudson conducted a new wave of
dust swirling up into the air while she hummed a bright, upbeat tune that
contrasted sharply with the cryptic words she had just said. Eyeing the hall
for a moment after she had gone, waiting for her to come stumbling back in
ranting about ghosts or goblins; something so completely idiotic, it strained
on Sherlock’s senses just to think about, but she didn’t return, and soon the
sound of her humming was too quiet for Sherlock to hear anymore. Fragments of
crystalline intrigue prodded at Sherlock’s mind despite the farfetched idea of
extraterrestrial beings lingering within the confines of the building; no, it
was most likely just a silly thing Mrs. Hudson said just to make Sherlock
paranoid; a joke, probably. Yet, this didn’t stop Sherlock from taking the key
from the windowsill and slipping it into his pocket.
                The hallway was longer than he remembered and his thick leather
shoes clap against the heavy red carpet floor as he moved with quick confidence
toward the kitchen; if Mycroft caught him, he’d never get out and to the
mysterious house. Hearing the sound of his brothers’ voice emanating from a
nearby room, Sherlock quieted his steps and snuck smoothly past the door to
ensure his safety before resuming his fast-pace stride toward Mrs. Hudson. His
coat was waiting for him on the hanger, and he pulled it down quickly, his
thoughts spinning in many different directions; what if there really was a
corpse in the house on the edge of the estate? Excitement spurred Sherlock on,
and he pushed open the double doors of the kitchen with a light shove,
immediately catching sight of Mrs. Hudson past a large wood table working away
at a stove. She turned, obviously surprised by the abrupt entrance.
“Oh, Sherlock,”
“Is there a side door I can use?” Mrs. Hudson’s body seemed to lock for a
moment, stilling all signs of movement, and Sherlock contemplated turning
around and storming out the front door to face the rain even longer if it means
avoiding the woman’s strange moods. The momentary shock was gone within a
moment, quickly replaced by a smile as Sherlock attempted to explain himself.
“I know it’s raining, I just wanted to go outside for a breath of fresh air
and,”
“Right there, dear.” She pointed to a door off to Sherlock’s left with a
cherubic smile. “There’s a torch in the drawer by the door; be home before
dinner.”
                Sherlock made a mental note that if anyone ever tried to say
that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t a saint, he would personally find them and show them
the full extent of a Holmes’ wrath. Giving Mrs. Hudson an honest smile that he
rarely presented to anyone, Sherlock whirled to the left, spotting a green door
facing the same direction as the house behind the estate. Delving into the
implicated drawer and pulling out a torch, Sherlock slipped out the door with a
quick farewell to the landlady he’d newly come to respect.
                The rain hadn’t worsened since he and Mycroft had arrived, but
it hadn’t made any move to lighten; the clouds above the estate were still
heavy with copious amounts of rain, and Sherlock was devoted to avoiding it as
much as possible. Tucking the torch into his pocket, Sherlock ducked his head
and sprinted through the slick, emerald grass that mapped the entirety of the
yard to the tree line that marked the edge of the estate and the beginning of
the next property. Technically, Sherlock smiled, it was still his property
because it was his mothers’, and he was his mothers’ son. As he passed the thin
line of elm trees, Sherlock peered up at the strange house; dark and eerily
ready to be explored.
                Sherlock smiled victoriously, proud that he was having a fine
time while his brother was busy speaking with useless employees. Pulling the
torch out of his pocket as he neared the front door, he wondered exactly what
he find inside; it could be a dumping ground for bodies, piled up in the
basement and the floor still stained a thick russet by the blood. There could
be the remains of a terrorist plot against the British government, smothered by
an unknown source while the Holmes family saved the nation from a severe
downfall; Sherlock’s heart leapt at that idea. Standing on the stoop of the
house, Sherlock took a breath, assessing the heavy brass knockers on the door
before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the skeleton key he retrieved
from his new room and crouching down before the lock to see if it matches; the
torch lit up the lock and key, shining over the perfect match and causing
Sherlock’s smile to grow; he was definitely hoping for at least a double
homicide.
***** Secret House *****
                As a young boy, Sherlock knew very well that being afraid of
the dark was not very conducive to learning about things at night, using this
flicker of thought to his advantage, Sherlock made sure that he never let the
ideas of vampires or zombies stain his image of the night. He understood that
he had an imagination, and his dreams would always be terrorized with the fear
that he’d never allow to come crawl into his reality with blood stains and
missing limbs, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant that
he wouldn’t be afraid of the dark while he was awake. Dreams were different
than reality to him; they always felt real, but that his mother had assured him
that dreams could never hurt him.
                Turning the key in the lock of his new mystery play-house,
Sherlock heard the dull, metallic thud of the tumbler before the bolts slid and
allowed the door to be opened. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, nor was he afraid
of the lightening that illuminated the backdrop of the world around him as he
stood up straight and slid his hand over the obsidian wood of the door,
pressing forward with almost the entirety of his weight before using both hands
and flattening his palms against the surface of the door until it gave a mighty
sigh, giving into his pressure and opening inward.
                Predictably like any other ‘haunted house’, the interior is
dark and lifeless, gleaming only when the light of Sherlock’s torch passes over
it, illuminating the space only big enough to encompass the circumference of
light emanating from him before moving away and looking at something else. The
entryway is wide and open with no furnishings to hinder his exploration; empty,
like his bedroom. Two flights of stairs bracket the entry way, adorned with
cobwebs that hung onto the banisters and swayed with the suggestion of wind
that came from the open door. It was the vision of abandoned, and yet, the
floors and walls were clean; void of any type of dust or dirt, no droppings
from mice or bats, it was simply too clean to be empty. The brontide of the
summer storm kicked Sherlock’s heart into a higher gear, and he loved the rush
of adrenaline that surged forward in its wake.
                Stepping into the house, Sherlock swept the light of his torch
over the large room in front of him; it was clean enough to note that the walls
weren’t covered in a thick layer of dust, but the light of his torch caught the
subtle trails of dust specs floating about the air in their wobbling patterns
of flight, catching the light only to disappear from sight as he turned away.
Windows hung low over the banister of the second floor, tall and wide as they
let in the small crepuscular rays of light that struggled to push their way
through the stormy clouds that still let out a steady wall of rain. Sherlock
moved the beam over light over the interfenestration of the windows, moving
over each panel before squinting against the whip-crack of thunder, followed by
the streak of a stark lightning bolt across the dark canvas of the sky.
“It’s rude, you know,” Sherlock jumped at the sound of a voice; too close, to
real. Not his imagination; it was a person. He spun on his heel, losing his
good footing and catching only the small glint of a white shirt against the
beige interior of the house with his torch before righting himself and backing
up a few cautious steps. A young boy, about his age, stood at the foot of the
stairs stationed at his right, lax and calm as if he had every right to be
standing there. “Coming into someone’s house uninvited.”
                Sherlock’s jaw went slack as he digested the boys’ words and
monitored his appearance; he was standing with the controlled posture of a
soldier at parade rest, holding his hands behind his back with a raised chin as
his feet stood as still as stone, shoulder width apart. The nelipot on the
stairs was quiet after he had accused Sherlock of being rude, staining the air
in the room an unbearable shade of pale ignorant annoyance as he watched
Sherlock through heavy eyelids. His skin was tanned, making him seem as if he
was a shockingly honeycomb hue against the stark white pallor of his white
trousers – a simple garment that was fluid enough to look as if it hadn’t been
sewn together, merely allowing the fabric to meld itself together and fall over
the strangers’ legs – and a white short sleeved shirt that seemed to be made
out of the same material. Sherlock swallowed; he hadn’t seen the stranger on
the stairs when he first swept the light over them, nor had he heard the boy
walk down them; surely, he would have noticed something like that.
“I do have a key,” Sherlock mumbled, licking his lips when the stranger blinked
his blue eyes; almost too blue to be real. They were a striking, electric blue
of lapis lazuli that inundated the small specs of pupil that Sherlock could see
from fifteen feet away. “My family owns this property; you shouldn’t be here.”
                Sherlock knew he had every right to tell the boy such, but he
didn’t feel his heart behind the statement; he felt increasingly uneasy, like
the floor had just buckled beneath his feet and he couldn’t quite decide if he
wanted to stay where he was or run for his life. The boy pursed his lips as if
deep in thought, dropping his piercing blue gaze to the floor before looking
back up through his cinereous eyelashes and smiling coyly.
“There’s only one key to this house; did I misplace it?”
                 Allowing his lips to kick up into a smile, Sherlock shifted
his weight back and forth between his feet, feeling his unease slide back onto
a more controllable level of panic. The boy was teasing and gave off a kind and
easygoing air, although his stark white clothing inspired thoughts of a mental
institution and a straightjacket with those blue eyes darting about, wildly
searching for something in the room whilst the world ignored his ramblings.
“Well, I should think so. The key was in my bedroom.” Sherlock repositioned the
torch so that he almost looked like he was holding a gun to the stranger before
continuing, confirming that his feet were square on the ground while the boy
watched, motionless. “Who are you?”
                Giving Sherlock a heart-stopping smile, the boy seemed to gleam
with his own sort of conducted light, giving off an ochroleucous glow from his
warm colored skin. Sherlock blinked at him, writing it of as a reflection of
the torch in his hand as thunder rumbles ominously around the house and echoing
in the open door that let in its own dim light from outside.
“Me? I’m...” The stranger thought for a moment, as if his name wasn’t something
he often thought about in his time in the house that very clearly didn’t belong
to him. “John. John Watson.”
                Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock shuffled his feet once more; the
georgette trail of his name left much to be desired, leaving the young Holmes
to narrow his eyes in conclusion. The clouds outside grumble their own
disapproval, rumbling in low harmony with the pattering rain.
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I remember, now. Who are you?”
                Looking to the front door for a moment, Sherlock considers
giving the stranger his name or merely leaving the house with the excuse that
he was seeing things; this blonde appeared out of nowhere and was acting
strangely. Giving the image that Sherlock had captured of the stranger a hard
look in his mind, glaring at the heavy door with a frown that could split rock;
the rain still fell, and the house was quiet say for the sound of Sherlock’s
breathing and the empty drip of forlorn drops of rain clinging to the
overhanging shelter above the door. Turning back to the stranger, Sherlock
realized a bit too late: John wasn’t on the stairs anymore.
                Spinning in a large circle with his torch held out like a
weapon, Sherlock searching frantically for the boy, praying the behind him
somewhere wasn’t a crazed blonde maniac holding a hatchet, waiting for the
light of the torch to fall on him. Not on the stairs, not up the stairs, not in
front of the window; the young Holmes began to wonder if he had just let a
murderer out into the world by Mrs. Hudson’s vague suggestion. Perhaps he was
her illegitimate son, placed in this house when he started ripping people
apart? Sherlock shook his head; no, Mrs. Hudson wasn’t that kind of woman. She
was warm and motherly, not the type to go and house young murderers.
                Sherlock sucked in deep breaths to calm himself when he
realized that the stranger must’ve moved – silently, secretly – away from the
stairs, and was currently somewhere other than the shaky circle that Sherlock
had illuminated in his search. Slowing down his jerking turns and desperate
switch of his direction of torch-pointing, Sherlock swallowed as he turned back
to the front door; there was John, leaning back against the wall aside the door
as if he’d been standing there the entire time the curly haired teen had been
looking for him. Sherlock shouted in alarm, stumbling back a few steps hearing
a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning emphasize his shocked surprise as
the strangers’ eyes widened in astonishment.
“I scared you, didn’t I? I’m sorry,” John took a few steps toward Sherlock, but
rethought it when the young Holmes eyed him cautiously with breaths that
could’ve been easily mistaken for hyperventilation. He held his hands in front
of him in an ‘I’m harmless’ gesture that didn’t console Sherlock, and tried to
give him another warm smile; Sherlock didn’t let himself be pulled in. “I’m
sorry; please, don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you; do you really think
I’d hurt you?”
“Would you?”
                The young detective frowned at the stranger as he gave a
negative shake of his head, still holding his smile all the while. He didn’t
want to trust the blonde, but his smile was contagiously chipping away at his
restraint; his movement was impossible for Sherlock to miss. He would’ve heard
John move, or at least cast a bit of light over him when he went to stand next
to the doorway. Pulling his soiled composure together, Sherlock swallowed all
ideas of running; with the way the stranger moved, he would probably catch him.
“You’re Sherlock, aren’t you? Sherlock Holmes? Please say that you are.” John
moved forward again, seemingly ignorant to the fact that Sherlock was still
spooked by the idea of his invisible movements. Stumbling backward until his
back hit the railing of the stairs uncomfortably and caused his spine to arch
forward in a surprised jolt, Sherlock kept a firm beam of light on the boy,
making sure that he never disappeared from sight as he advanced. “I’m not going
to hurt you.”
“Said the lion to the lamb.”
                Sherlock hissed, pressing his palm to the wall behind him and
creeping back until he was almost standing in front of the door that was
sheltered beneath the stairs. The blonde boy paused, pivoting his head to the
side and letting out a small puff of laughter, as if what Sherlock had said was
somehow humorous.
“Is that what you think I am?” John smirked a bit, sending Sherlock’s mind
reeling down dark paths that included be bludgeoned to death with his own
torch. “I think you’ve got things a bit backward; you are the lion, and I am
the lamb. I won’t hurt you.”
                Biting his lip, Sherlock presented the stranger with a glare
that was sure to make those impossibly blue eyes flinch away, looking anywhere
but at him; his efforts proved in vain when John smiled kindly, as if Sherlock
had said something sweet through his glare. Sherlock wondered if this boy
suffered from agerasia; seemingly young but secretly an older man just waiting
for an unsuspecting child to come wandering into the house out of curiosity;
Sherlock blinked hard, opening his eyes to watch John carefully. No, that
wasn’t the case. He really was young. Strangely young enough to be Sherlock’s
age, without a care in the world that he’d been in this house alone for god
knows how many years. Attempting to keep his hand holding the torch steady,
Sherlock sucked in a deep breath.
“What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?”
                John’s smile seemed to grow, casting his eerie glow about the
room once more; as if a flicker of lightening had struck the house and its
presence still lingered in a faint promise of light. Sherlock watched the glow,
observing that it only appeared over John’s skin – a pale, translucent yellow
glow that reminded him of honey – and was smothered by the covering of his
plain white clothing.
“I know that he’s the son of Danabell Holmes.” He took a breath, obviously
holding another stretch of words from pouring out of him and instead handing
Sherlock small, tailored facts. “I know that he should be coming back here. I
know that I’m waiting for him.”
                Sherlock felt a tug of fear below his ribs, as if a hook was
caught under his diaphragm and was pulling up, causing small startled breaths
from him as his hand shook noticeably. John didn’t advance – much to Sherlock’s
trembling relief – but he didn’t move away; he understood that he was supposed
to stay firmly placed in front of Sherlock, where he could be seen, and
monitored.
“Why?” The word seemed frightfully desperate against Sherlock’s lips, and as
soon as he said it, he began to calculate how fast he would be able to knock
John to the floor and push his was out the door; not fast enough. It would take
at least three seconds to tackle the blonde to the floor, and with those three
seconds, John would easily move to keep him from escaping. Sherlock swallowed
once more. “Why are you waiting for him?”
“To show him something.”
                The answer was quick, punctuated by a strike of lightning that
shone through the overhead windows and set the room a bright albicant color
before settling back into the atrous darkness that Sherlock – as a child – had
learned to tolerate. Sherlock didn’t like guessing games, nor did he like the
fact that John was being coy with his answers; he was a man of science, and
enjoyed knowing exactly who – and what – he was up against.
“Show him what?”
He wondered aloud, wanting there to be no secrets hanging in the static air
between him and the possible madman. John smiled, setting off another chain
reaction across the space eclosed in the house that made Sherlock shift where
he stood and his hand holding the torch to quiver uncomfortably; untrusting.
“Something mysterious. He likes mysteries. Danabell told me so.”
                Sherlock was a logical boy, full of knowledge that he’d come to
learn by following his mother or brother and seamlessly soaking up each tidbit
of information they dropped amid their conversation, retaining each fact and
quickly learning by osmosis. Yet, he was always reckless in the ways of running
off to London during the middle of his classes at Eton – earning himself a
private tutor that was now on paid vacation for the summer – or stealing away
to Scotland Yard to filch a cold case file for his own amusement – granting
himself a special ban from the Yard until he was twenty years old from the
young Detective Inspector Lestrade – or even lifting Mycroft’s mobile from his
jacket pocket just to scroll through the contacts when he was bored – earning
himself a lengthy talking to from his brother.
Even with his knowledge and reckless nature, Sherlock couldn’t help the fact
that he felt oddly caught between the dark claws of the earth and the warmer,
softer hand of John Watson. He said that his mother had told him things about
him; what kind of things? What would his mother say to a complete stranger
about her son? Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock pushed away from the wall to
give John the presentation of his open stance, even though his guard was up; he
wanted to see what he’d do.
“I am Sherlock Holmes.”
“I know. You have Danabell’s eyes; they’re a one of a kind sort of color, I
think.” John nodded to himself, almost agreeing with his own mundane statement
before shuffling his left foot back and forth shyly before motioning to
Sherlock’s dark curls. “And her hair, I don’t think any random squatter would
come into this house, with a key no less, and not be one of the Holmes’ family
members.”
                There was a pause, light and easy in comparison to the heady,
rushing adrenaline Sherlock had been experiencing when plotting an escape route
out of the house. John stood his place, resuming his neutral stance as a
soldier at rest while Sherlock drummed his fingers across the throat of the
torch, waiting; he wasn’t precisely sure what he was waiting for, but when it
came, he knew he’d be ready to bash it over the head with chrome coated metal
if it advanced toward him. Though he tensed when John leaned forward, he found
himself inclining toward the blonde with a vague sort of curiosity; a
suggestive, contagious sort of interest that seeped into his hair and dripped
through his muscles in a smooth sweep of brainless trust. John’s presence was
the sun over the surface of a bed while Sherlock was a cat, drenched from the
rain and eager to lie down and rest; warm and addictive, his presence was
quickly becoming a dangerous combination of thoughts in Sherlock’s mind,
causing his giddy whirl of sparking interest overshadow the fact that John was
a stranger, and therefore, still dangerous. John smiled.
“Do you want to see it?”
“What?”
                John leaned back, rocking back on his heels with a ringing peel
of laughter that echoed off of the hollow wood in the house, causing his
expression to lift and his eyes to crinkle with a smile that seemed to almost
burst at the seams. Sherlock found himself insulted by the reaction to his
question, but was too busy watching the blonde giggle to himself to say
anything; he was so bright. Filled with everything light and warm, John was
almost the living embodiment of the very idea of warmth. Only laughing for a
few seconds, the stranger was quickly watching Sherlock with his crooked smile
once more, raising his eyebrows and indicating to the door behind him with the
limp gesture of his left hand.
“This way.” Turning to watch the door, Sherlock let his eyes flutter shut; he’d
turned his back to the stranger in the house. The stranger that had been there
for god knows how long, moving too quickly to be possible, and wearing crisp
white clothing straight from a mental health institution. Holding his breath,
Sherlock waited for the blow to the middle of his back, momentarily
immobilizing him with a quick slam to his vertebra that wracked his nerves, or
a restraining hand across his mouth that held in each pleading call to Mycroft
or Mrs. Hudson; but, it never came. “Are you coming?”
                Opening his eyes to the door which now stood open with John
just beside its frame with a smug, waiting smile, Sherlock eyed John in all his
strangely warm glory, pursing his lips before striding forward and holding the
flashlight close to John’s face. The blonde’s eyes widened before scrunching
shut with a breathy laugh; his breath fluttered across Sherlock’s cheeks – only
a liberal five inches away – and gave him an inhale that smelled strongly of
tea and peppermint. Sherlock squinted at the stranger that merely held his eyes
closed peacefully as he was backed against the doorway, smiling as usual; the
young Holmes remembered something about peppermint, just beyond his reach.
Taking a few moments to see if John would stab him – he didn’t – or if John
would open his eyes again and give him one more glance at his startling blue
eyes in the pupil-shrinking light of his torch – he wouldn’t – Sherlock took a
step back and let John go through the doorway first, waving him forward with
his arm.
“Lead the way.”
                John walked calmly through the door, looking back only once to
make sure that Sherlock was going to follow him as he moved forward through the
unwelcoming hallway. The walls were a deep, sheltering purple color, encasing
them in a cozy aubergine environment while John turned past three corners –
Sherlock carefully documented the fact that these turns were a left, right,
then another sharp left turn – before slowing his pace as they drew near to a
dead-ended hallway. At the end of the hallway, Sherlock noted, was a copper
colored door, contrasting messily with the walls with his auburn hue and
snatching the young detectives attention from anything around him as he watched
it. John stopped in front of the door, turning to Sherlock and watching him
expectantly while the door stood clashing with the dark heliotrope walls.
Seeming to have forgotten how to speak, Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the
blonde, waving his torch at the door in a vague question of ‘you want me to
open it?’ before simply moving forward and zeroing in on the door with the
light in his hand. John’s presence disappeared when the light wasn’t on him, as
if his very life depended on having some sort of beacon to hold him to the
material plane or he’d simply vanish. Well, he did vanish, Sherlock thought
with a grimace, turning the brass doorknob with a rattling squeak that caused
him to wince and glare at the door until it opened compliantly and without
fuss.
                Inside, where he suspected a pile of bodies or at least a mound
of storage boxes filled with a case file that no one had been able to solve for
years, was nothing but a three-legged round table with a thick book sitting
regally atop its surface. Pivoting the angle of his light, Sherlock swept the
beam across the room, picking up only the flecks of dust suspended in the air
and the occasional wriggle of a spiders’ web being strung; John had
materialized in the far right corner of the ‘mystery room’, watching quietly as
Sherlock jumped in his place before settling down and holding the torch to him
while he moved further over the threshold.
“This is it?”
                Sherlock gave a wide wave to the interior of the room,
obviously not impressed by one book waiting on a table for him. He readied
himself for the ominous slam of a door, being locked in while John prowled
forward; John stayed where he was, studying Sherlock with a guarded expression
instead of his more natural looking smile. When John moved toward the middle of
the room – where the book lay – Sherlock backed himself into the far corner,
presenting the torch like a gun once more before the blonde stopped his
advances at the table. Reaching out to press the tips of his fingers to the
cover of the tome with a forlorn expression, John spoke quietly and quickly.
“Your mother was a good woman, Sherlock.” The young Holmes pursed his lips,
waiting for a ‘but’ or ‘better when she’s dead’, but John hurried on with his
statement with fervent honesty. “She helped me once, when I was really little…
I owe my life to her, and I told her that I’d happily repay my debt to her any
way I could. So, I became what we call a ‘Claimed’, owned by a Deity; in my
case, your mother.”
                This was pushing the boundaries of what Sherlock classified as
‘clinically insane’ and sweeping over the borders of ‘I’m stalking your family
and making up a fake life with them in it’, taking the prize for the most
mentally unstable person Sherlock had ever met, topping even a boy named Philip
Anderson in Sherlock’s old class – he thought he could actually beat Sherlock’s
score of not missing a single question on a pop quiz, and Sherlock had stood up
and yelled the answers at the top of his lungs to the rest of the class so they
could ‘know how it felt to have someone like Anderson breathing down their
necks’. So, shuffling his feet toward John, Sherlock slowly moved forward to
study the mental patient in his element while he spoke.
“This book… this book says everything you should need to know about your
mother, and how she came to be here. It might help you understand my role in
all of this.” John looked up to catch Sherlock in his attempt to move as close
as possible without being noticed; he had gotten as close as two feet away from
John before the blonde had noticed him. The blue eyed boy smiled, looking down
to the book beneath his hand before continuing. “You must be wondering how I
move so quickly,” John looked almost pleased with himself, patting the cover of
the book with his tanned palm. “That would be written in the book. Then again,
you don’t have to take it, though I’d like you to. It’s up to you whether or
not you want to accept this.”
Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow, looking down at the book before preparing
to sprint out of the door, no matter how fast John was. He was determined to
run. John’s eyes flicked up again, capturing Sherlock with a humming sense of
importance while he gave his last statement.
“If you don’t want to accept the fact that your mother was not what she seemed,
I understand. You can leave, and never come back; I’d understand. But, if you
leave without this book, I won’t be here if you come back.”
“You’d leave if I didn’t take this book?”
                John nodded solemnly, not taking his hand from the book as
Sherlock loosened his grip on his torch, angled his body toward the book, and
began the trek back to the front entrance of the Secret House, perfectly framed
in his mind. Catching him with the glint of his mothers’ somewhat wondrous
behavior; the way she would wish the rain away and the skies would clear, the
way her singing would bring the sweetest dreams, and the way her arms were the
most welcome of any embrace he’d ever shared; Sherlock knew he’d regret it if
he turned around and picked up that book. Turning on his heel and flashing the
light of the torch over the now vacant room, Sherlock plucked the book, dusty
with years of neglect say for the imprint of a hand pressed through the layer
of dirt, off of the table and raced out of the room, through the twisting turns
of the underbelly of the house, and out the large doors, closing them in his
wake while he tried to push the idea of John’s voice calling to him as he
closed the doors.
“I’ll see you soon, Sherlock."
***** Her Diary *****
            If books could speak, they would only make sounds of the hush
whispers and hums of memories that have passed their pages. Sitting flat upon a
table or atop a person’s thigh, suspended in mid-air by trusting hands, the
pages would record each hush caress and sweep of fingers over the paper,
bringing the sensations to life only in the berth of their width, seemingly
growing larger as more people read them. In Sherlock's hands, the leather bound
book was ordinary in the extreme, only speaking to him in the velvet tones of
his mothers' loving alto voice, and the pages were thin from lonely days spent
in the underbelly of the Strange House.
            When he'd come home, he'd marched through the kitchen, scurried
past Myroft in the drawing room – still speaking with his subordinate – and
shut himself in his room. Thinking it no big deal, he had tossed the book onto
the thick, clean quilt Mrs. Hudson had no doubt brought to replace the dust-
filled comforter that had once inhabited the space. For the time being,
Sherlock was determined not to rip the book open and decipher what kind of mad
secret lay in its depths; no, he was a calm, reasonable boy. He knew that much.
So, with a sour expression, he peeled off his coat which had surely brought
almost all of the rain from the sky inside the house with it, and cautiously
hung it in the closet on the far left side of the room, studiously ignoring the
book on his bed until the garment was seated happily on a metal hanger. The
hanger made a sad clinking sound when it was cast on the empty rail amongst
several other hangers, swiveling in place and causing the others to follow suit
and bring up a chorus of metallic chimes, but Sherlock merely turned away and
peeled off his trousers in pursuit of dry clothing.
            With clean black trousers warming his rain dampened legs and cozy
socks covering his cold toes, the teen padded across his new room to settle
atop the blankets with a guarded expression. From all angles, it seemed like an
encyclopedia of some sorts; holding secrets that John had deemed important
enough to stay in the Strange House for who knows how long, and important
enough for his mother to know about. Sherlock scowled; John said his mother had
helped him once, long ago; how would she have helped the blonde? He seemed like
a fine mental patient, and surely his mother didn't go around to mental health
institutions to break out patients in her spare time. Each spare moment
Danabell had was spent with her children, not for anyone else or with anyone
else; Father would go off on strange trips with strange women, but mother would
always be there, holding her sons close as if they would fall apart without
her.
            Sherlock hadn't really understood the adult world when he was three
years old; he was still struggling to grip the concept of advanced calculus –
Mycroft had teased him with equations that only the older boy could solve – and
wasn't interested in words such as 'affair' and 'infidelity'. Mummy would
merely kneel in front of him and Mycroft after Father left, pulling them into
her arms and whispering to them in cracked, broken tones that made Sherlock and
Mycroft's dislike for their Father grow every day.
“Father is just very, very busy, my loves,” She would hum into their hair,
kissing each of their heads in turn before finishing her thoughts. “But Mummy
will love you twice as much to make up for his love.”
            So, with all of her time consumed with consoling her sons and
herself alike, how would she have had time to help John amidst the family
drama? Sherlock brought his legs up onto the bed to sit cross-legged in front
of the book, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his right palm.
His mother was a smart woman; a caring woman, most would say. How would she
have time to worry about the boy in the Strange House, and have her sons know
nothing about it? This was a thought that made Sherlock’s stomach churn
uncomfortably, as if his mother had been living a double life, and he’d not
known about it.
            Pursing his lips, Sherlock swept his fingers over the leather cover
of the book, supple and smooth despite its ignored and uncared for state in the
cellar of the other house. Turning it on its side, he made a note of the fact
that there was no lettering on the spine to indicate what was held inside of
the pages, or what the words on the inside might say. Placing it back in its
rightful position on its back, the young Holmes boy smoothed the side of his
thumb down the crease of the space where the spine met the cover, worn with
time and obviously looked into often, but not used so much as to expand the
pages with knowledge passed down from time. It was a book well loved, but only
by one person; his mother? Sherlock’s hope flared in his chest, sinful and
dangerous in its purity; his mother left him something. Something that Mycroft
obviously wasn’t important enough to tell. Igniting his curiosity anew,
Sherlock reached to pull the cover open, jumping at the sound of a whip crack
of thunder. He looked to the right, where his window had been cleaned from the
inside – Mrs. Hudson’s doing, surely – and the rain was washing away whatever
residue dared to stay, no longer obscuring his view of the Strange House.
            The doors stood closed, held shut by John’s possibly demented hands
while Sherlock’s heart pounded at the thought of the book in front of him.
Dropping his gaze back to the book, the curly haired teen ran his tongue over
his bottom lip, catching the skin of his lip between his teeth for a moment as
he thought; perhaps what his mother did to help John was in the book as well.
He said that the secret to his quick movements was inside the book, so why not
tell a few others? No one in their right mind would have a book three inches
thick in their lap and only write one secret inside of it; no, everyone would
spill their secrets across the page in damning ink, too vain to use graphite
while they were scribing their own fortunes and misfortunes with the much more
permanent and regal turn of an ink pen.
            With a flicker of lightning outside the house, Sherlock slipped his
forefinger under the thick cover of the book and pushed it back to reveal the
first page.       Light script lined the top right corner of the first page,
summing up every hope in the detectives mind with small, punctuated dots and
sweeping arcs along each rounded letter.
-- Property of Danabell Holmes
            Like the stars shivering in the sky, their beauty tragically sound,
Sherlock’s lips trembled at the sight; his mother had owned this book. Her
writing, so uniquely her own it could be a font found in any calligraphy kit,
was scrawled over the top of the page effortlessly. Biting his bottom lip with
a smile, Sherlock pressed his fingertips over the impression of his mother’s
name, passing the pads of his fingers over the slight indentation that the pen
made on the surface of the paper, only to catch the corner of the page under
his hand and turn it ever so delicately to the next page.
Mycroft looks more and more like his father every day.
            Sitting back and knitting his brows in thought, Sherlock blinked
hard; the beginning was so abrupt, he hadn’t expected it. But, there it was, in
black and white; Mycroft’s name was the first thing written in the book. A
frown clouded the normally indifferent plane of the teens’ face, but he ruffled
himself back into place with a simple conclusion: he must’ve not been born when
the book had first been written in. Nodding to himself as if to confirm his own
skeptic thought, Sherlock turned his eyes back to the page.
Mycroft looks more and more like his father every day. He’s begun to speak now,
using clear tone and excellent diction. I think that it’s because he wants his
father to notice him.
Sherlock scoffed at that; their father never noticed anything if it didn’t have
to do with his work or the other women he involved himself with. Skimming his
eyes over the page, the enjoyment of Mycroft’s ignored time with Father
withered into something oft compared with contempt; Sherlock knew his brother
was a pompous windbag, but even he wasn’t deserving of such treatment. There
were things on this page that he never knew Mycroft felt, things he never knew
that Mycroft said, and things he’d never dared assume Mycroft experienced.
He tried to build a castle with the building blocks I’d ordered for him today.
We were in the garden, and I was painting. Mycroft enjoys playing with his
blocks, he says it helps him think; I can only imagine what must go on in that
racing mind of his. But, his father came onto the terrace and began to shout
about the mess he’d made. Mycroft cried today; it was the first time I’ve ever
seen him cry.
            This statement made Sherlock pause; babies cried all the time.
There were countless of books and television shows that depicted the parents of
a child waking in the middle of the night to console a screaming child. How
could this have been the first time his mother had ever seen his brother cry?
Placing his fingers under the line that he was reading, he traced out the line
of thought that had fallen from his mothers’ mind into the book.
            I took him back to his room, and rocked back and forth in his
favorite rocking chair. He was quiet, but I have a feeling that it was more out
of fear than contentment. I hope his temperament is different from his
fathers’. A young boy like him shouldn’t try to live up to a father like that.
I told him so, but he didn’t look at me. He said he liked my hair, and asked if
his little brother would have hair like mine. I told him yes, and I hope it’s
true.
            I hope that my son looks nothing like his father. Mycroft is cursed
by his father’s appearance, and I pray to my brothers and sisters that my own
child might not be burdened by such a heavy cross.
           It made sense, Sherlock realized; all of the times that he’d been
playing with Mycroft and his mother would watch them with an oddly forlorn
gaze. Why Mycroft always held himself at bay with his feelings towards their
mother; it all made sense, now that he thought about it. Not a thing had been
passed down from Danabell’s appearance to Mycroft while everything seemed to
have been cut and pasted into Sherlock. He didn’t look anything like their
mother, but at the same time, he had watery green eyes that didn’t belong to
their mothers’ stormy grey or their fathers’ nondescript muddy brown.
            Even though he isn’t truly my son, I vow here and now that he will
be loved like he is my own, given that his father, Henry, will do nothing to
care for him. I will love him more than his true mother and father combined; he
will be my son, and I will bless him with dreams sweet enough to taste. As his
mother, it is the least I can do.
           Blurred lines made up the journey down the hallway and past Mycroft
in the drawing room – quiet and calm now that his minions had stopped meddling
in affairs that ought not be meddled in. How could Mycroft, his own brother –
half-brother, Sherlock corrected himself – not tell him that their mother
wasn’t their mother? It explained the distant, cool exterior that Mycroft had
always graced him with, but it all seemed too farfetched. Pushing the kitchen
doors open, the detective noticed Mrs. Hudson busying herself with a broth of
some sort on the stove. When he slammed the book down on the counter to her
right, she gasped, jumping in place and holding a hand over her heart; he only
felt remorseful for a moment, and his frustration was renewed as she turned to
look at him with a socked expression, as if she wasn’t to blame.
“Sherlock! You could at least,”
“How did you know?” He demanded. The landlady pursed her lips in a thin line,
shaking her head to a fro slowly as if to calm the fiery teen. Giving a wild
gesture to the side door, he tried once more to gain some sort of sense out of
the woman. “How did you know that he was there? Who is he? How did he get this
book?”
            Mrs. Hudson seemed to become more shaken up with the extra
questions, and she made no move to answer as the young Holmes scowled and drew
in deep breaths to calm himself. It was outrageous, the idea of something like
this being true; it made all the sense in the world, but how could he have not
seen it? Looking back, it was obvious, but how could he have not seen it in the
first place? Pushing the heel of his hand through his hair, Sherlock glared at
the leather book with burning eyes, hoping that it would burst to flames and be
nothing but a lie made of smoky ashes.
            The hands of the landlady, thin and delicate with age, moved from
the handle of the stirring spoon above the pot on the stove to drum her fingers
on the cover of the closed book. Raising his eyebrows in an agitated manner,
Sherlock planted his right palm atop the linoleum kitchen counter and leaned
his weight into it, cocking his head to the side as if to ask ‘what now?’ to
the shaken woman.
“Your mother told me to visit that house every month, just to check up on it.”
Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a smile that suggested that he was somehow being
childish. “I met John on my first visit after her passing. He must’ve
frightened you, because I know that he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
            Gritting his teeth, Sherlock pulled open the book once more,
flipping past the first three pages that he had read and moving his eyes down
the third paragraph on the page. His name wasn’t anywhere on the page, so he
simply resorted to flipping past pages until he saw the lovely curve of his
mother penmanship over his name. Like Mycroft, his name seemed like an
introduction to a small anecdote.
Sherlock and I were allowed home from the hospital today, and it seems that he
dreams just like me. No doubt that with time, he’ll grow to be able to control
such innocent dreams. When he’s awake, he’s capable of knowing the difference
between Mycroft and his father. It’s obvious with the way he smiles at his
older brother.
            Mrs. Hudson was saying something, mumbling about how Sherlock
shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but the young Holmes was busy turning the
thick linen pages. There was a small telling of Sherlock’s first words, how he
asked to be read a novel for bedtime instead of picture books using
multisyllabic words and an innocent smile. Another three pages described
Sherlock playing with Mycroft in the forest behind the Summer Estate for
several weeks, each account punctuated with dates to accompany paragraphs with
days. Scanning the pages again, this time for John’s name, Sherlock absorbed as
much of his mothers’ memories as he could; the diary seemed to only recall days
at the Summer Estate, giving it a good reason to stay on the grounds. Pausing
at the sight of John, Sherlock held his breath and backtracked up the page to
start at the beginning of John’s story, finally noting that Mrs. Hudson was no
longer speaking, but waiting to hear what the detective was searching for.
I searched the forest behind the Estate for a Dream that escaped Sherlock’s
nightmares today. It was a man, strange and dart; fitting for a young child’s
fearful dream. But, he shouldn’t have been brought into the world, not while
Sherlock is so young. To keep his power under control, I’ve been working with
the idea of allowing Mycroft to tutor him on scientific theories; with a
heightened understanding of science, the idea of Gods and Goddesses will soon
fade from his mind. Perhaps even his dreams will become nothing more than just
imagination.
 I found the dream terrorizing the Sentries I have stationed around the borders
of the grounds, but there was one extra Sentry that I have no recollection of
Claiming. It seems he was only recently brought into the world, young and
unsure of what to do in the face of a threat such as a rogue dream.
Keeping the dream away from the boy, I made sure that the man served his way
back to the scattered dreams that he came from. The boy is now in my debt, and
takes his role as a Claimed Sentry very seriously; he’s never had a human name
before. I know that he’s a Sol Vigilis, and his kind can be very rare in this
country. I’ll keep an eye on him for now, but I feel that he will do very well
as a Sentry for Sherlock one day; I named him John.
            Closing the book without batting an eyelash at the discovery,
Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a tight-lipped smile. It was impossible. His mother
wrote about dreams coming to life, guards posted at the edge of the Estate, and
John being one of those guards no less. It was blatant insanity, but he knew
that his mother wasn’t insane. Sherlock swallowed a thick mouthful of oily
saliva, struggling not to feel nauseous at the idea of his mother being an
escaped mental patient that had stolen Mycroft from his real mother. His lips
twitched uncomfortably around his smile, and he swept the book off of the
counter, tucking it beneath his arm as he headed for the door with quick,
efficient steps.
“Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”
            The landlady sighed; it was quiet enough to assume she wasn’t
upset, but loud enough for Sherlock to note the dark undertone of her voice
creeping in to voice its disapproval. His pace didn’t slow as he picked past
the door and made his way down the hall, pursued by the nervous echo of Mrs.
Hudson’s lilting soprano emanating from the kitchen doorway.
“You haven’t even had dinner, Sherlock.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
 
+++++
 
“Good morning, Sherlock.”
            Mycroft’s smudgy tones greeted Sherlock as he picked his way back
into the kitchen the next morning, heavy limbed with late reading well through
the midnight hour and the leather-bound diary in hand. He grumbled a half-
hearted insult in return, but he couldn’t feel the victorious weight of it on
his tongue; he needed to see John again. He wanted the ‘Sentry’ to prove that
he was in fact what his mother called him. Shuffling past Mycroft, who was
situated at the head of the table in the kitchen with his newspaper held up
like a shield before his face as if to block any more of Sherlock’s weight
jokes, Sherlock settled the book on the kitchen countertop as he reached for a
coffee mug on the shelf above the coffee maker.
            Mrs. Hudson eyed him inconspicuously from over the ridge of her
teacup, and he sent her a gravely ‘good morning’ while she smiled and nodded
slightly. Blinking hard, Sherlock blindly poured himself a cup of coffee; in
the diary, his mother had written seventy-four pages before cutting off the day
before she died. Moving back to the beginning, he had read each day’s story,
spread out over eight summers; one before he was born, and the rest describing
each warm season he spent with his mother and brother in the Estate. As the
entries went on, they shared more space with John rather than focus solely on
Sherlock and Mycroft alone. According to his mother, John was some sort of
magical protection against ‘higher powers’; his mother was supposed to be a
Goddess herself, but she only spoke of dreams, and Sherlock had been Googling
different Gods, Roman and Greek alike only to find that there was a God that
rode a chariot to bring the night, and therefore, dreams. His mother, a Goddess
of dreams, and John, the Sol Vigilis, were nowhere to be found in historic
lore.
            Swallowing the coffee that had cooled long before he had even
entered the kitchen, Sherlock held the cup in his left hand while he smoothed
his right hand down the front of his dark cerulean shirt, finding that in his
daze he’d forgotten to button in one spot. He flicked the button through its
designated hole, Sherlock swallowed mouthful after mouthful of coffee, pouring
himself another cup as Mrs. Hudson watched him with raised eyebrows.
“Isn’t it a bit early for you to be drinking all of that coffee? You’ll need to
save it if you’re going to make it last all week until Mrs. Hudson goes
shopping.”
            Sherlock licked his lips as a stray bead of coffee dribbled down
his chin, escaping over the rim of his mug and spilling down over the crest of
his lips in pursuit of his shirt collar. Swiping his thumb over the bead of
coffee to catch it, he set down his mug and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt
sleeves whilst snapping at his brother.
“Don’t you have a government to run Mycroft? No doubt there’s someone else
whose life you could be ruining right now.”
“And aren’t you lucky that I have nowhere else to be?”
            Rolling his eyes, Sherlock wondered if this is what his mother
predicted when she brought Mycroft home whilst she was pregnant with another
child. Perhaps she envisioned them getting along better, considering they both
had a compassionate mother to guide them in the arts of loving each other. Then
again, Sherlock thought with a smile, she would merely laugh when they would
make fun of each other, holding them close when insults became too sharp and
giving a gentle warning of ‘that’s enough, boys’ before the fight was halted,
and the topic changed. Biting at the corners of his smile, Sherlock slid the
book off of the corner and advanced toward the side door, thankful that it
wasn’t raining this morning; his coat was still heavy with weight of last
nights’ rain.
“Piss off, Mycroft.”
            There was a loud squawk of Mrs. Hudson’s protest to his language
and the loud flutter of thin paper as Mycroft pulled the newspaper taut in
front of his face again – a useless shield against his younger brother once
more – while Sherlock shut the door, and he quickly carried on across the lush,
dew kissed grass of the grounds before the landlady could think to order him
back to apologize to his brother; half-brother, he corrected himself. Ducking
below the sleepy branches of a tree that marked the end of the Summer Estate
and the beginning of the Strange House, Sherlock tapped his thumb against the
cover of the book in his hand absently. Would John be there still, or would he
be gone in fear that Sherlock wouldn’t return?
            From what Danabell had written about the Sentry, John was a
dependable young man, even when he was nothing but a young child. She often
wrote that she hoped he would help Sherlock one day, and that he would work to
become a valuable teacher for her youngest son. This thought made butterflies
take up flight in his stomach; if his mother wasn’t mad, which he was quite
sure that she wasn’t, what kind of things could John teach him about his
mother? What could someone like John, a Sentry never heard of before, tell him
about the side of his mother he never knew?
            Reaching the front door of the Strange House, Sherlock felt a
leaden hammer of realization slam into his gut; the key to the house was still
in his coat pocket. Giving the handle of the door an experimental tug, his
heart dropped at the sensation of the door catching on a thick deadbolt:
locked. Sherlock sighed; he didn’t want to go back to the house and face Mrs.
Hudson scolding him, but he didn’t want to just sit outside the house and hope
that John would see him through one of the windows. Swinging the book back and
forth along his side, Sherlock paced in front of the door for a moment; John
said he’d leave if he didn’t take the book, but he’d taken the book, therefore,
John would have to be there. It was only logical. If only everything in his
mothers’ diary could follow the laws of logic as well. Sucking in a breath of
crisp morning air, Sherlock reached forward and gripped the brass knocker that
was nestled against the heavy wooden door, lifting it only an inch before
pushing it down to clatter against the entrance with a hollow scraping sound.
            Not even the trees were allowed to bend with the wind before there
was a sound echoing from inside the house; Sherlock knew how to deduce such
sounds. Thuds that resembled walking down stairs but not enough to indicate
that John had been upstairs; he had been sitting on the stairs, waiting for
something; most likely waiting for Sherlock. Leaning toward the door, Sherlock
could hear easy footsteps, slow and paced as if John half expected that it
wasn’t Sherlock, but a child from the town just here to play a prank or
fundraise for a school activity. Easing back to stand up straight, Sherlock
heard the dull, resonant tone of the bolt being turned, and the latch unhooked.
Opening the door only a few inches, John allowed the detective to see only a
few inches of his sun kissed skin; it was enough to see his reaction.
            John looked up at him with his electric blue eyes, seemingly
bewildered at the fact that he had come back the next day. Sherlock allowed
himself to be caught up in those eyes, watchet painted circles of awed wonder;
marveling at the sight of the young Holmes with open, unabashed enthrallment.
Pushing the door open further, John pushed his tanned fingers through his
flaxen hair, taking a deep breath as he looked Sherlock up and down as if to
examine the boy.
“You came back.”
            It was a statement, Sherlock knew; but it was almost a breathless,
disbelieving realization that tumbled from the blondes’ lips, having less to do
with stating the obvious and more to do with assuring that he himself
understood that Sherlock was indeed standing before him. Giving the ‘Sentry’ a
stiff nod, Sherlock gave a questioning gesture to the inside of the Strange
House, slipping inside when John moved out of the way. It was just as empty as
he had left it the day before; no furniture, no lights, and no one besides the
two teens inhabiting the interior. John left the door ajar, allowing the
slightly fogged sunlight of eight o’clock spill through the doorway into the
entrance of the house, illuminating Sherlock in his brooding glory.
            Watching John carefully, Sherlock lifted the book from his side to
hold it out for him to see, raising his eyebrows as John looked from him to the
book and back to him; he had no idea what Sherlock wanted. The blonde bit his
bottom lip, raising his eyebrows as well as a slight indication that he was
waiting for something to happen; Sherlock sighed.
“What is this?”
            John’s lips parted around a reply quickly, but he stopped himself
halfway through creating the sound, halting the words in his throat with a
puzzled glance. He took in a deep breath, crossed his white clad arms over his
chest – the same white clothing from yesterday; Sherlock doubted he owned
anything else – and pursed his lips before giving a slow answer.
“It’s… well, it’s a book?”
“Yes, I know that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, shaking the book to and fro
before bringing it close to himself so that he could indicate pointedly to the
cover. “I want to know what it means.” John’s eyebrows drew down into a
thoughtful frown, and his eyes fell to the floor before lifting back up slowly
to watch the young Holmes. “This is my mothers’ writing, and I know that; but I
want to know if it’s true. Is it a diary of real events and stories, or is it
fiction? I want to know what it is.”
            With a breath, John gave Sherlock a blank stare before looking
away, nodding for a moment while he searched for the right thing to say. He
watched the smooth floorboards beneath his feet as if they’d tell him what to
say, but nothing magical or supernatural occurred; he merely lifted his gaze to
Sherlock’s eyes and nodded again.
“It’s true... that was your mothers’ diary.” John moved forward to reach out to
the Holmes boy; Sherlock didn’t back away now. He trusted his mothers’ judgment
of the blonde, and when he placed his hand atop the book cover, Sherlock could
have almost felt the sentiment leaking out of the Sentry. “Everything she wrote
is true. She wasn’t a liar; she liked things that were real, not things that
gave false truths.”
            Sherlock shook his head, pulling the book out from underneath
John’s hand and flicking it open to show what he was thinking. He pointed out
the word ‘dream’ several times, letting the pages flutter through his fingers
as he made his point.
“She kept writing about dreams; dreams aren’t real. They’re imagination.”
“Are thoughts real?” John countered, holding out a hand to stop the page turns,
and indicating to his head with his index finger. “If dreams aren’t real,
neither are thoughts. They’re both created with the mind and soul alike,
brought to life by our hearts. Dreams are emotions that are depicted with
images instead of physical stimulations; you can’t reach out and touch them,
some people can’t even remember them when they wake up, but you can feel it.
They are very real.”
            Licking his lips, Sherlock turned away from John, wresting the book
from his golden hands and huffing defiantly. He wanted proof; physical evidence
that showed his mother wasn’t insane, and that everything written in her diary
was true. He wanted to believe John, and more than anything, he wanted to
believe his mother. Turning his gaze back onto John, he lifted his chin to an
angle that suggested confidence and arrogance; the blonde didn’t react beyond
giving him one of his signature smiles.
“In the book, she said you’re a Sol Vigilis; what does that mean?”
            John nodded fervently, a smile blooming over his face as if this
was one of his favorite things to talk about. Sherlock blinked a few times,
digesting the reaction displayed before him with avid interest.  John wanted to
prove himself, and Sherlock was eager to know what that meant. Using his hands,
John figurative split the title into two parts.
“It’s derived from Latin; Sol, meaning the sun, and Vigilis, meaning sentry.”
“So,” Sherlock made a ‘hurry up’ gesture with a flick of his wrist before
guessing at what John was supposed to be explaining. “You guard the sun?”
            John’s laughter lit up the room more than the light from outside
did, and the otherworldly glow he had produced last night returned full-force.
Xanthic tones of light yellow pitched themselves across the walls and set the
room in a kinder tone of enlightenment; Sherlock watched with his mouth agape,
unbothered by the fact that he was being rude. This was not his imagination;
John was certainly something else.
“No, Sentries protect the Gods, or in my case, a Deity. That would be you.”
John pointed at Sherlock as if to further assure the Holmes that he was indeed
important. “Being a Sol Sentry just describes what kind of Sentry I am, just
like how medical professionals are split into categories like doctors and
nurses, and then into smaller subcategories like a cardiothoracic surgeon or a
nurse practitioner.”
            Sherlock swallowed around the information, not listening as John
went on to mutter about different people in the medical staff while he thought.
He moved to the staircase situated on the right side of the entrance, sitting
down on the third step and placing the book next to himself before steepling
his fingers in front of his lips. John padded over to stand next to the
railing, scrunching up his bare toes against the smooth wood floor before
relaxing them again as he watched Sherlock quietly.
“My mother is a Goddess.”
John nodded slowly, murmuring a hardly audible: “Yes.”
“That means I would be… I’m half-god. A demigod, some would say.”
Giving Sherlock another nod, John licked his lips before giving a loose shrug,
as if the whole thing didn’t really matter, and this conversation was just a
means to an end.
“Well, we don’t really use the term ‘demigod’. You would be called a Deity;
almost a god, but not quite.”
            Nodding to himself now, Sherlock closed his eyes and took slow,
calculated breaths; John had glowed like a radioactive science experiment, and
moved faster than he could imagine. Obviously abnormal. His mother had written
about him being different, and that Sherlock himself was different; a boy with
powers beyond what a normal ‘Deity’ should be capable of. She wrote that he was
her only true son, and John was left in this house to teach him things about
becoming his mothers’ son to the fullest extent. If what she wrote about John
was true, then the rest of it should have been, as well. Opening his eyes,
Sherlock settled a sharp gaze on John shattering an illusion of frustration and
replacing it with silken and tense interest.
“You are supposed to teach me; show me how to be a Deity.”
            Crouching down to kneel on the first step of the staircase, John
looked up at Sherlock with a smile full of earnest excitement; this was what
he’d been waiting for. He had been waiting for Sherlock to come through the
door and demand to be taught, he had been waiting alone for Danabell’s son to
need his protection and give him something to consume his time. Sherlock had
been waiting as well, building a castle of boredom and disinterest out of
crystallized sugar water; sharp to the touch but unsatisfyingly breakable. John
had marched into his mind and kicked the castle in, shattering it into
thousands of beautiful, starburst fragments of sweet emotion, waiting to be
built into something new and fantastic.
“I’ve been waiting for ten years to teach you.”
***** Learning *****
Early evening stained the sky an embarrassed pink, covering a once blue canvas
in thick running visions of orange and red, reaching down to the edge of the
painting; the edge of the world, it would seem. Sherlock sat on the steps of
the Strange House, having been ordered home by John over four hours ago, he
couldn’t bring himself to leave, and walk the thirty meters back to the Summer
Estate. Not yet; not when he had so much to learn, and countless years to catch
up on.
John wanted him to go home and rest; Sherlock had let out a long yawn just as
John was about to explain how to fill up his senses and release his power. John
had smiled in a kind way; a peaceful way; a way that held no malice, but
instead held a stretch of regret. ‘Being tired won’t do you any good,’ he had
scolded, wrapping his arms about his torso as if to hold himself together while
he spoke through a thin smile. ‘Come back tomorrow, when you’ve actually slept
the whole night through’. Sherlock pursed his lips, and casted a mournful
glance over his shoulder at the solid oak doors. He had thought more than once
about turning around and merely striding into the entrance with demands to be
taught, tired or awake, but these ideas soon withered beneath doubt; what if he
couldn’t access the strength he needed with a sleep addled mind?
Turning away from the door, Sherlock monitored the setting sun with sluggish
thoughts of going back home. Home; back to Mycroft and his piercing gaze that
left him bristling, back to Mrs. Hudson and her fretful hums which caused him
to flinch and rethink his actions. The Deity could stubbornly choose to remain.
Here, at the Strange House with John in all his curiosity invoking wonder;
John, the only person who had ever bothered to watch Sherlock as he moved and
listen as he spoke; John who smiled at him despite his distrust, and grew
concerned over his health when he never bothered to care about it. No one had
bothered to do that after Mummy died, not even his father. John was different;
not quite a friend, but more than an acquaintance. A companion that hadn’t
quite been with him long enough to become closer; but time would change that
wouldn’t it? They would become close if enough time passed; if he allowed it to
pass. John would become one of the only people he could call a friend, and he
would be proud if John called him a friend as well. But, what if John only
wanted to appease his mothers’ last wish, and didn’t care about Sherlock at
all?
Sucking in a short breath, Sherlock’s eyes widened at a tugging sensation just
beneath his ribcage; like a fisherman had cast a line and the hook, larger than
it should be, caught between his lungs and jerked up as the hook grabbed ahold
of him. His hand flew to his breast, grasping at the fabric of his shirt as if
to somehow soothe the discomfort, but the sensation had already been assuaged.
Hoping the panic of his heart racing and his throat constricting were only a
figment of his imagination, Sherlock swallowed a gasp and stood up from the
step. Thinking about John had gotten him all worked up; Mummy had always said
that if he let himself get too caught up in a troublesome thought, he heart
would react in kind. Three breaths followed that thought, each one longer than
the last as his body struggled to make up for its misbehavior and calm his
stuttering heart with heavy doses of oxygen and reduced amounts of movement.
Deciding then and there that John would not allow him back into the Strange
 House, Sherlock stuffed his hands into the smooth pockets of his black jeans
and began the short trek back to the Estate. It seemed much simpler now that he
wasn’t quite so desperate to be taught, and more desperate to get away from the
cause of his heart palpitations. Surely, John had done something within the
confines of the Strange House; something strange and impossible to give
Sherlock the final push to go home. Yes, that was how it happened.
“Sherlock, there you are.”
Mrs. Hudson stated the obvious as Sherlock shut the green side door in his
wake, sliding the soles of his shoes against the doormat to remove minute
traces of the grass on its surface. She was busy at the sink, dipping her hands
beneath soapy dishwater to scrub at the remnants of lunch and possibly dinner.
He had been gone a while; perhaps he should eat something. Taking a deep
breath, Sherlock caught hints of spices in his nostrils, and narrowing his eyes
he could spot red sauce caught on the landlady’s wrist. Some kind of pasta,
then. Sherlock scowled at the hardwood floors; his mother had made the best
pasta when he was younger, and he didn’t feel like eating Mrs. Hudson’s; it
wouldn’t be as good.
“Come here, and help me with the dishes?”
She asked it as a question, but Sherlock was sure there was an underlying tone
of order beneath it, daring him to defy her. Pushing his coat off of his
shoulders, Sherlock set it atop the island that stood amid the center of the
kitchen, and rolled up the sleeves of his navy blue shirt and snagged a towel
from the drying rack where the wet dishes were being stowed. Plucking a clean
bowl from the plastic rack, Sherlock worked the towel over the small drops of
water as Mrs. Hudson carried on scrubbing at a large metal pot that no doubt
had been used to boil the pasta. Biting his lip, Sherlock waited for a few long
minutes for Mrs. Hudson to say something, anything, to fill up the silence that
was currently settling a thick blanket of tension over their heads.
"Mrs. Hudson," The landlady hummed out a questioning tone, and Sherlock took
this as an invitation to continue. "I want to apologize for my outburst last
evening."
She hummed again, making Sherlock cringe internally at her cold shoulder. He’d
only been at the Summer Estate a grand total of two days, and he already knew
that the landlady was normally much more sociable that she was letting on. if
he wanted to continue with his little escapades to the Strange House, he’d need
her on his side, and at the moment, his chances of scooting away with her help
were slim at best. Setting the dry bowl on the smooth countertop and reaching
for a new dish to dry, he tried once more.
"I'm sorry I missed lunch.” The sloshing of water in the sink answered him.
"I'm sure it was very good."
Mrs. Hudson sniffed, tilting up her chin at the week attempt to compliment her
with vague disappointment. A smile lingered on those lips though, so Sherlock
didn’t dare count it as a failure to sooth her frayed patience.
“Of course it was good,” She boasted, presenting him with another dish when he
had finished with the one in his hands. “I made it.”
“Of course.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes with a hint of a smile sure to put the woman at ease,
hearing Mrs. Hudson giggle to herself for a moment before she resumed her
scrubbing. Deeming himself cleared of any wrongdoing, Sherlock nodded to
himself, letting his mind wander to more relevant topics while the landlady
spoke in lazy circles about the evening that he'd missed. He wanted to go back
and see what John meant by clearing his senses of distractions to be able to
focus; Mycroft had been looking for him -- obviously his brother had been just
distracted enough by his disappearance to tuck his chair into the table
crooked. He wanted to know more about how John stayed in the Strange House
after his mother died; the pasta sauce Mrs. Hudson made had been burned on the
bottom of the pan -- clearly, since the kitchen still smelled faintly of
overcooked tomatoes. He wanted to go into his room and re-read his mother's’
old diary and search for clues that may tell him how to achieve whatever clear
senses John didn’t finish explaining within the time he was still inside the
Strange House; Mrs. Hudson was mumbling now, too quiet to hear under the
unbearable silence of what he didn’t know.
“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock huffed, noting how the woman paused her monologue to
give the teen a sideways glance over the silvery dishwater. “Do you know how
long John has been in that house? Has he really been there for ten years?”
Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips, pulling the stopper from the bottom of the sink
and watching the bubbly water recede into the drain with a vague expression.
Her brow creased, as if recalling the years was a difficult task that she
should have been allowed time to prepare for, then smoothed with the expulsion
of air from her lungs in a sigh.
“I haven’t quite figured that out myself; the house was built about twelve… no,
thirteen years ago, by your mother’s request. I suppose John could’ve been
there that whole time, waiting after your  mother passed on.” Mrs. Hudson never
looked at Sherlock, regarding the white wall of the kitchen in front of her
with a far-off look. “John opened the door to the house only a few times, that
poor thing…” She paused, and Sherlock saw it -- a glimmer, perhaps even a full
flicker -- of sentiment linger in her bright irises before she turned to
Sherlock with a more solid look of inquisition. “But, I’m glad he let you in.
He won’t be alone anymore; neither of you will.”
Sherlock sniffed, handing Mrs. Hudson the dish towel to dry her hands while his
nose wrinkled in distaste; he wasn’t alone. He always had Mycroft, and that
meant he wasn’t allowed to be alone. He never felt particularly lonely, like an
average person like John might feel -- perhaps Sentries felt differently? -
- and he had no problem with being left alone with his thoughts.
“I like being alone,” He stated, as if to solidify the fact that he didn’t
mind. Mrs. Hudson cast him a curved smile with her eyes glittering with the
promise of gossip. “I don’t mind being alone. I’m not like John.”
“Oh no, dear.” Mrs. Hudson moved to the refrigerator and poured a glass of
milk, cutting up her thought and making the young Holmes wait for her to
finish. She handed him the glass, and he took a mild sip, enjoying the creamy
taste on his tongue before she finished smugly. “No one is like John.”
Humming to himself, Sherlock nodded with a roll of his eyes; of course no one
was like John. He wasn’t even human, to begin with. Taking slow sips of the
milk placed before him, Sherlock thought of the light that John seemed to emit
whenever he was happy or excited; when he’d first come to the Strange House,
the eerie shine had seemed like an otherworldly expression, but in Mummy’s
diary, it was a natural function for John. There were passages -- brief
passages, much to Sherlock’s dismay the previous night -- that spoke of the
light as a reflection of John’s soul itself.
“I’m going to my room.”
Mrs. Hudson’s smile changed into something a bit softer, and her hands
fluttered over the countertop for a moment, looking for a good deed to do while
Sherlock left. As he took another sip of milk and brought the cup with him, he
picked his coat up off of the kitchen island and headed for the hallway,
hearing her call to him through the kitchen door.
“Would you like me to bring something for you to eat?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Taking small swallows of milk, Sherlock padded back to his room slowly, taking
his time with his trek and admiring his mother’s paintings that hung proudly
about the estate. Flicking that lightswitch in his room, Sherlock made sure
that his coat was placed on a hanger once more, and his cup was lightly set
atop the sill of the window next to his bed. Night was quickly advancing, and
Sherlock found himself settling atop his blankets and flipping open the diary
that he’d left there hours before, weary of a night without sleep but raring to
feel the sensation of effortless strength that his mother spoke of, creating
dreams and destroying them easily.
He returned to the paragraphs that told of John’s light and strength, not
wanting to wait until the next morning for facts from the Sentry himself and
favoring the easier method of collecting his own clues. Sherlock had a sharp
memory, and could remember the pages that held John’s little secrets with a
flicker of his eyes from one page to the next.
John rises and falls with the sun, I’ve noticed.
    Sherlock pursed his lips, and decided to ask John about that later; did he
gain his strength from the sun? Is that why the house always seemed so lost in
the night; he’d noticed the grim air exerted by the building when he’d first
gone there, but now with John’s bubbly personality inside, he couldn’t help but
want more solid facts. If he gained his energy from the sun, how did the rainy
days affect him? Given the fact that he’d been excited enough with Sherlock
being in the Strange House, the idea of John’s energy or mood failing with a
cloud covered sun seemed a bit farfetched. He returned to the text.
He’s just a child, and I understand that his heart is soaring with the wonders
he sees each day. John reminds me of Sherlock in this way. I only hope that
John can help Sherlock in a way that I can’t, showing him what I’m required by
oath to keep hidden.
Another interesting point Sherlock wanted to bring up. Sherlock bit his lip,
admiring the crackle of sharp fire in his mind, sure and heady in its wonder;
there was so much left to the imagination, and so much that could be nailed
down to scientific fact. John could answer so many questions, but he had shooed
the curly haired teen out of the Strange House before any could be properly
asked or answered. Sherlock turned to a new page.
John has been shining brighter now that I tell him stories of my sons. I wish
he could see it, my family. I wish I could show him. But for now, I know that
it’s best to let him marvel at the stories of two young boys playing in the
grassy yard and climbing trees when I’ve told them not to. Perhaps it’s best to
let John imagine that kind of joy in his dreams, instead of condemning him to
possible disappointment when I tell him once more that my sons can know nothing
of his true nature. For now, I’ll let him shine with the joy of a thousand
happy dreams, and maybe that --
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up from the pages, and he sat up straighter on his bed
when he noted the ramrod unmoving figure of his brother in the doorway. His
fingers slipped over the blankets that warmed up with his body heat to sit atop
the page he was reading while his thumb pushed the cover up and over his hand,
partially hiding the contents from Mycroft. The skin of his fingers was
pinched, but he made no move to remove them; he was busy watching his brother
who slunk into his room slowly, knowing that he was unwanted. Their eyes
exchanged blows like two fencers striking at each other with their tin foils,
parrying and blocking in turn, only to blink and reset the game. Mycroft’s foil
was the first to guard as he spoke.
“We missed you at lunch.” Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked as his brother mildly
glanced at the dark coat in his closet, heavy with the rain of last night and
warm with the light of the setting sun that he sat through, before returning in
a parry of his foil as Sherlock took a step back in defense. “And dinner.”
“Well,” Sherlock’s foil swept to the side, and so did his body, leaning to the
right and keeping his eyes on Mycroft’s until he sat straight with a thoughtful
sigh. “I was busy.”
The duel continued with the exasperated smile of his brother, ringing with
agitation and ruffled feathers until his brother cocked his head to the side
and mildly swept his hands into the pockets of his neatly pressed suit. His
foil was raised and poised to strike, and Sherlock pivoted his own foil,
feeling fight or flight senses send out a trembling alarm in his mind as he
did; dangerous and in danger at the same time.
“Too busy to come home?” The strike Sherlock had been waiting for came, quick
and sharp in the form of a foil shaped question: “Whatever were you doing to
make you so busy, I wonder?”
Raising a prepared foil in defense, Sherlock felt his mind engage in the fight,
set on defending the secret of Mummy’s diary and John’s existence rather than
himself. He guarded from the blow with an easy lie, and parried with his own
retort.
“I was taking a walk. Mrs. Hudson has offered to bring me something to eat.”
“Walking?”
Sherlock nodded slowly, knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t buy it; he didn’t have
to. He just didn’t need to know where Sherlock had walked to or who he spoke
with; Mycroft wasn’t really worth a good lie at the moment. If he needed to, he
would lie about John with ten times more vigor; he just wasn’t interested at
the moment. His brothers’ eyebrows descended on his expression like a rain
cloud over London, and Sherlock watched him press his lips together hard enough
that all of the color disappeared from them while he crossed his arms over his
chest.
“For hours?”
“Of course.”
“Impossible.”
Raising his eyebrows to inspire mock surprise, Sherlock leaned forward to
inspire a let down of his guard. Mycroft didn’t fall for it, nor did he rush in
to take advantage of it; not so quickly, it seemed.
“Is it?”
“Yoo-hoo, boys!”
Mrs. Hudson tiptoed into the room with a plate of biscuits with a small bowl of
honey on the side of the plate, glancing meaningfully from Mycroft to Sherlock
as both fell silent. She gave Sherlock a comment about how leaning forward like
he was would ruin his posture, and he slowly sat up, smiling slyly at his
brother while she handed him the plate. Turning to the side for only a moment,
Sherlock set the plate next to the book so that he could eat while he read
before dragging Mrs. Hudson into the predicament.
“Is it impossible that I’ve been out for a walk, Mrs. Hudson?”
The landlady looked at him from the bedroom doorway, surprised by the sudden
question and about to answer before Mycroft intercepted the attempt. He held
his foil, sharpened anew by flaring impatience into a steel lance, to
Sherlock’s face while the younger Holmes sat back innocently.
“You would be bored to tears, Sherlock. You couldn’t have been out for a walk
for so long.”
“Well,” Sherlock plucked a biscuit from the plate with his hand that wasn’t
holding his place in the diary and dipped the round edge in the honey, letting
it drip before bringing it up to his lips. “What do you think I was doing,
Mycroft?”
He took a bite out of the biscuit, and Mrs. Hudson let out a sigh as she shook
her head, disapproving, but smiling all the same. Mycroft’s lips were a line,
tight and sealed as he glared for a moment before turning and leaving the room
as easily as he had entered it. Mrs. Hudson followed, ordering Sherlock not to
spill honey on the blankets as she closed his door behind herself. Letting the
book fall open again, Sherlock dipped the sweet biscuit into the impossibly
sugary honey and pushing more of the bread into his mouth as he finished the
final sentence of the paragraph he’d been reading.
For now, I’ll let him shine with the joy of a thousand happy dreams, and maybe
that will be enough. At least until he’s able to walk side by side with my son,
without a mask and without fear.
 
+++++
 
“Clear your thoughts, Sherlock. Stop trying to cut it down and decipher a
meaning to it.”
Sherlock began to notice -- after two days of being told the same hint which
had just delivered once more -- that John liked to smile when he was tired. It
wasn’t a smile that was presented to the world when being serious was just too
much, it was simply a grin that held the weight of the world. Not that it
mattered to Sherlock if John was tired or not, he was simply one to notice
things like that, habits, quirks, patterns; Sherlock noticed it all.
This evening marked their third ‘teaching’ day, and with Sherlock’s deduction
skills, he noted that when the sun began to fall, so did John’s stamina; in an
odd way, it made sense to Sherlock. John was a Sol Sentry, therefore, Sherlock
concluded that he must gain power from sunlight. The blonde was currently
seated in a lax position against the stairs, resting his elbows back against
the stair behind him, and his legs stretched out along the floor in his crisp
white trousers, crossed at the ankle and swaying with the swing of his bare
feet back and forth. His blue eyes traced Sherlock’s outline, taking in the
tense muscles of the Holmes’ shoulders and the hard line of his legs as he
stood at attention in the middle of the entryway.
“Relax, Sherlock.” Glancing at the upstairs window, Sherlock noted that the sky
was being sprayed a flattering pink by a flustered sun, and John yawned. “It’ll
come to you naturally.”
“John, do you draw your energy from the sun?”
A startled laugh burst from John’s lips, and the tension in Sherlock’s
shoulders lifted as if swept away by the sound, as if the very vibration of
laughter in the still summer air was enough to frighten away all work that may
have been done. John’s sunny glow echoed around the room, tinting the red
sunlight on the walls a friendlier orange. Lifting a quizzical eyebrow,
Sherlock allowed his lips to kick up at the side in interest, wanting to seem
good humored to John -- though he didn’t understand why he wanted to seem good
humored. Probably an inlaid sense of social obligation that he hadn’t quite
picked up on until spending time with John, if that made any sense -- he knew
it didn’t.
“I… ha! No, no, I don’t.” Carding his fingers through his short blonde hair,
John licked his lips, sending another round of his glow about the room in a
running spin of heady happiness. “Though I suppose I’ve just gotten used to
sleeping the time away without anything to do, I might be a bit inclined to go
to sleep earlier.” The gaze that seemed to linger too much on the past settled
on something far away, beyond the walls of the Strange House and too far for
Sherlock to see. Evanescent thoughts skittered through the cerulean blue of
John’s eyes, broken up with the hard blink of his eyes and pushed away with the
shake of his head. “I’ll try to stay up later, if that’s what you want. It’s
your power that we need to learn, after all.”
Sherlock shrugged, crouching down to let his outstretched fingers balance his
weight against the ground while John’s feet continued their previous swaying,
ticking back and forth like a metronome keeping time to a song that Sherlock
couldn’t quite hear. He gave up on trying to make his racing mind settle down
and instead settled down on the floor, letting his hands fall into his lap
while he admired the sun reflecting off of John’s face; it wasn’t his face that
caught his eye, but the colors that slid of the skin there from the newly
uncovered windows -- uncovered by Sherlock’s request. Slow reds and fleeting
yellows melted together to create a sleepy orange there, entertaining Sherlock
whilst he stared.
John was someone he’d be interested in calling a friend. That thought nearly
threatened to pause Sherlock’s thoughts that never wanted to stop, tripping
over each detail of the sentence like a writing program that has loaded too
many words and fonts to focus on the actual substance in the document. Sherlock
knew that he’d never wanted friends -- he still qualified himself fine without
them -- but with John, things were a bit less boring. John filled the vast
emptiness that was the Summer Estate with light and curiosity, happy to spend
time with Sherlock even if he was tired. Smiling at this information and
promising to return to it soon, the young Deity turned his face up to look at
John, who was still shining with upheld tranquility, and requested his
assistance.
“John, show me how you do that.”
The blonde looked up from the smooth floorboards that he’d been regarding
quietly and smiled quaintly. Sherlock could almost feel the confused fatigue
linger in the air, put there by his own witty hand. He returned the smile with
a smug twist; John liked it when he did that. It made his smile wider; more
genuine.
“How I do what, Sherlock?”
“Show me how you glow like that, John. I want to see how you do it.”
This only seemed to confuse the Sentry even more, and Sherlock watched in
bemused comfort at how John looked up to the ceiling, licked his lips, and then
returned his gaze to Sherlock’s own eyes. The young Holmes was sure that it was
like learning to ride a bike. He learned by watching Mycroft do it flawlessly;
Sherlock just had to keep watching to get down every detail in his mind until
it worked for him.
“You want me to… I’m sorry, I don’t really…”
“I want you to show me how it works, John. How you bring out that light of
yours. That’s your power. If I see how you do it, then I’ll learn by proxy.”
“Ah.” John’s mouth turned down into a frown and he repeated himself. “Ah,
alright. I think that makes sense. But it’s different for me, you know. I’m a
Sentry, you’re a Deity… things may not happen the way you want them to, you
know.”
“I know that. Just show me.”
It was quick; faster than Sherlock would’ve liked. John stood, and closed his
eyes, erasing all of the light that had previously swathed him in warmth and
leaving nothing but cool, dim light from the windows in its wake. There, amidst
the calm and the quiet, came the light once more, radiating from each pore of
John’s skin, every cell of his being, glowing. He was alight from the inside,
just as his mother wrote. The sunlight from which John was born was in his very
soul, and he was more than happy to show it to the world. His eyes opened once
more to see an awestruck Deity sitting on the floor before him, his cupid bow
shaped lips curving into a smile he would someday call ‘reckless’.
“Show me again.”
***** Learn to Forgive and Forget *****
           The palms of Sherlock’s hands had done many things in the past; they
had held Mummy’s hands, cuffed through his hair when he couldn’t quite think
straight, and pushed Mycroft over in the sandbox as a child. With his hands, he
held a French novel and read it aloud to his mother, wrote music for the violin
and cello with Mycroft, and slapped Phillip Anderson in the middle of their
Chemistry class. His fingers picked apart a remote control car when he was six,
and read his late mothers diary at the age of seventeen. Even though he could
do amazing things with the hands that guided him through his life with scolding
fingers and spiteful jabs, he couldn’t manage to understand John’s
instructions.
       He sat on the stairs of the Strange House, glaring down at his palms
while John wandered around the second floor, pulling open the curtains that
hung in front of the large windows and tying them back so that the early
afternoon sunlight could grace the entirety of the entryway. Huffing for the
umpteenth time in the past hour, Sherlock leaned back against the stairs,
pressing his back uncomfortably against the edges of the steps and holding his
hands up in the air.
“John, show me again.”
       Hearing the muffled resonance of John’s shimmering laughter, Sherlock’s
mouth refused to remain a scowl, and tilted up at the edges to reveal a shadowy
smile. It didn’t matter how frustrated he was with his learning; John’s laugh
could always lighten the heavy mood that he presented to the world. It had been
a week of John telling him to look inside himself for whatever power he could,
then two more days of him trying to explain how it was done: that neither
science nor logic had anything to do with it. John’s bare feet padded along the
stretch of windows on the second floor, calling out from somewhere down the
hall as he tied back another curtain.
“I’ll show you if you want, but it won’t really help you.”
       Pressing the heels of his hands to his closed eyes, Sherlock pursed his
lips at John’s statement; he had made John repeat the process of showing his
power several times over the first three days of teaching, but in the end, John
insisted that Sentries and Deities were very different. Frowning slightly,
Sherlock allowed his amusement with John’s laughter to fade into ignorant
displeasure. John would close his eyes and shine with his ethereal glow as
easily as breathing, but he said it wasn’t easy to explain how he did it; he
said it was just a normal bodily function for him, growing up knowing how to do
it as it was coded into his natural instincts, and being asked how it worked
was like asking why someone blinked or why they took their next breath.
“Just show me again, John.”
       The telltale sound of John’s light steps echoed along the hallway before
Sherlock felt the stairs shake beneath the weight of his steps as he carefully
padded around the brooding Deity and coming to a stop at the foot of the
stairs. John always complied with Sherlock’s selfish requests, regardless to
whether he was busy doing something, or if he wasn’t exactly comfortable with
doing what he asked. The blonde often explained it as a Sentry’s duty; his job
was to help Sherlock with whatever he needed, be it protecting him from danger
or following each order he was given. John told him that Gods and Deities were
like royalty whereas Sentries were the common folk and helpers; as a Claimed
Sentry – John said it was being owned by a God or Goddess because they were
indebted to them – it was John’s job to help Sherlock learn how to use his
abilities in any way he possibly could.
“Are you watching?”
       Sitting up to admire John’s power, Sherlock stationed his palms atop his
knees and leaned forward to watch John carefully. Honestly, he could describe
in perfect detail exactly what John looked like right before he showed his
reaction through light. His eyebrows, so blonde they were almost invisible,
lifted just about a centimeter – relaxation through proxy it would seem –
before his lips would part around a steadying exhale. In succession to these
movements, Sherlock knew that John’s hands would relax as well, letting his
fingers unclench from a fist into a lax brush of his fingertips against his
white clothed thigh. John’s light, warm and kind, filled the room with more
strength than the suns’ light that streamed through the window.
In that moment, John would take in a breath, and his eyelashes would flutter in
a subconscious vibrato of silent thought; Sherlock knew that this only happened
when John was truly interested in helping. When he was tired, John’s entire
face would go slack, and it seemed almost dead on his feet before he opened up
his eyes to watch Sherlock. No, John was interested now; his breathing was
easy, and not deep enough to indicate that he was lulled into fatigue by his
actions, and when he opened his eyes to see his Deity, Sherlock was ready and
waiting to catch those aquamarine colored irises that were tainted into a false
virescent hue by the gold light of his power. Sighing, Sherlock sat back; he
had already tried to relax like John, and the only thing that changed was that
he was merely more irritated than before he started.
“I still can’t do it.”
       John laughed, moving to settled down next to Sherlock on the stairs with
an easy smile pasted on his face. He didn’t make the light disappear; he said
it was more comfortable for him –pretending to be a human wracked his nerves,
he told Sherlock, and this was a form of tension relief that allowed him to
lift the mask for at least a moment. Then again, Sherlock didn’t mind the light
either; it gave off a warmth that soaked through his cold exterior and nestled
in his bones, latching onto the marrow of each limb and bathing him in an easy,
comfortable heat.
“You don’t even know what you’re trying to do.”
       Sherlock was frustrated; not in a way that he could find interesting and
fascinating to student, but in a way that normally caused him to lash out. John
had been patient for the past week, and constantly apologized when his Deity
passed the line that divided frustration and anger within a time frame of very
few seconds, no matter what it was Sherlock blamed him for. The young Holmes
lifted his hands and frowned at it palms once more; as per the norm for the
past several days, nothing happened. Forcing himself to relax, Sherlock closed
his eyes and took several breaths, trying to tackle his muscles into submission
while John sat by, obligation by his Deity’s subjugation to stay put and watch.
Sherlock huffed and opened his eyes.
“It’s not working.”
       John smiled, sitting back against the stairs and opening his hands in a
vague helpless gesture toward Sherlock. The Sentry could offer little other
condolences besides the gesture, given that Sherlock wasn’t a very physical
person, and a pat on the back would probably be overstepping some sort of
boundary that the two boys had never clearly defined.
“That’s not how it works. You can’t just… will it to happen.”
“Then what? Tell me what to do.” Sherlock pivoted on his place on the step,
holding to his hands to John to try and pressure the Sentry into giving him
some sort of clue. “What do I need to see? What do I need to feel?”
       The blonde frowned, looking up at the ceiling for an answer before
biting his lip and shying away from Sherlock’s annoyed glare, opting to watch
the floor. His tanned palms were shown to the curly haired teen once more in
another inexplicit showing of his uncertainty.
“I’m sorry. I’m just not sure how to… express it.”
“You’re supposed to be able to.” Sherlock stood with a growl, brushing off
John’s repetition of ‘I’m sorry’ before pacing across the entryway in short,
pointed steps. “You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you? You’ve been waiting to
show me these things, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” John looked to the floor, uncomfortable with the way the conversation
had turned. “But,”
“No, you’re supposed to be able to show me, and yet you’re sitting here being
completely useless!”
       While Sherlock was glaring at him, John sighed, scrubbing his hand over
his face in a tired manner, obviously not wanting to argue, although arguing
was the only thing Sherlock wanted to do. John light was fading slowly
throughout Sherlock’s shouting; he had told Sherlock that he wasn’t willing to
fight with his Deity, and violence was only displayed when Sherlock was in
danger.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that; just tell me what to do.”
“I can’t, Sherlock. It’s not that simple!”
“John, just,” Sherlock grit his teeth, glaring for a moment before letting a
flare of insults fly out of his mouth as if he was fighting with Mycroft. “Why
can’t you do anything I ask you? I thought you were supposed to be my Claimed,
but I suppose you must’ve bowed down to my mother and ignored your ‘oath’. You
can’t even do the one thing she asked you to do! What use are you to me?”
       The subtle glow of his light finally disappeared, and his chin dipped
down in a troubled display of his giving up. John was quiet for a moment,
swallowing his real response with his go-to statement, settling into a dark
mood and not allowing a single word to slip out of place.
“I’m sorry.”
       Using his arms as battering rams, Sherlock slammed his palms – useless
as they were – against the hot walls of the house, heated not only by the sun,
but undoubtedly by John’s own agitation. The movement produced a satisfying
sound much like a percussion player ringing a note off of a timpani. John
jumped, and Sherlock felt the room grow uncomfortably hot before relaxing into
a normal temperature with a shaky sigh from John. They stayed like that for a
moment, staring at each other with liquid heat bubbling between them until
Sherlock turned in a tight circle and marched out of the wide open front doors.
“I’m going home.”
       He didn’t stop, nor did he turn back to hear or see the heavy doors
swing shut behind him with John’s power, he merely stared at the grass being
crushed beneath his feet as he walked. It was unacceptable, the idea of not
understanding a power he should’ve claimed easily as a young child. Ducking
under the low-hanging branches of the trees just beyond the side door of the
Estate and wrenching the door open with enough force to make himself stumble,
Sherlock threw himself into the kitchen and sat down in the nearest chair with
a huff.
       Mrs. Hudson yelped something about slamming the door like he had, but
Sherlock was uninterested. He wanted to be angry, to yell and stomp and slam.
Not only that, but he wanted to understand exactly why John couldn’t – or
wouldn’t – explain what was going on with him. When John showed Sherlock his
own power, he made sure to slow the entire process down, given that the first
night they met, John could easily bring that light up within a fraction of a
second. It was clear that he wanted to help Sherlock, but he couldn’t just give
him the answers, given that Sherlock’s power didn’t have anything to do with
light; he was a Deity of dreams. John was merely trying to help Sherlock; and
he’d turned it around. It was different from when Mycroft was angering
Sherlock; when Sherlock yelled at Mycroft, he never felt bad about it because
he brother was fully deserving of anything he said. Now, the anger he felt had
begun to boil down to his own petty urge to lash out due to his own
incompetence.
       As beautiful as cut glass, clean and pure in its composition, Sherlock
felt like John’s actions were crystalline shards of such glass. Fracturing all
inconsequential thought and heating it with the power of his sun to melt it
together. John’s sun was nestled deep inside his chest where Sherlock couldn’t
quite reach out to touch it; and he wanted to see it, to hold its flavescent
splendor in his own hands and know that he was in control. But, he wasn’t in
control, no matter how much he wanted to believe that he was; Sherlock sighed.
He said such horrible things to him.
“Horrible.”
       He said aloud, as if to confirm that he’d done something wrong by
speaking to John in such a manner. Mrs. Hudson merely watched him through the
thin line of her eyelashes, peering at him while she stirred a batch of brownie
batter, leisurely holding the bowl in the crook of her right arm as she did.
Sherlock dropped his head to the countertop, hearing a satisfying crack as his
skull made contact with the linoleum. It was grounding, in a way; a sharp
strike of pain to assure that he was really in the Summer Estate, feeling like
his feet were stuck in a boy of untraveled wastelands full of emotions he’d
never bothered to feel, just because he’d never felt bad for insulting someone.
       John was different; he was a new feeling, a strange cocktail of emotion
that Sherlock never knew he’d come to be addicted to with only a week of time
shared between them. He was something that Sherlock didn’t want to lose, even
if that meant losing his defensive silver-tongue and instead just allowing John
to see his failures along with his fair share of disappointment.
“I should apologize,” Sherlock murmured to the kitchen counter, feeling the
last drop of anger fall from his mind as he admitted his guilt. “I need to
apologize.”
“That might do you some good, dear.”
       Mrs. Hudson hummed from her place across the kitchen looking down into
the mixing bowl to monitor the batter. Rolling his eyes in a manner he hoped
seemed defiant, Sherlock closed his eyes against his blurry vision of the
countertop. It had only been eight days that they had known each other, and
Sherlock already felt the sticky sensation of sentiment working its way into
his heart. The young Holmes easily believed the fact that John was not a human,
and he himself was capable of being something more, but he couldn’t believe
that he was already feeling syrupy sweet emotions for John. He didn’t need
friends, and he didn’t pride himself with being a good friend either; Sherlock
bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste the thick influence of copper.
He should apologize.
“I should… go back,” Sherlock stood up straight, looking to Mrs. Hudson who was
still working beating away at her brownie batter. She gave him a concerned
glance, as if she pitied him for not realizing how idiotic it was to attack
John with hurtful words before he said them; his stomach roiled at the sight,
and he pondered the idea of John not forgiving him. It was John’s job to teach
Sherlock, but it wasn’t his job to be kind about it. He shook his head as if to
push the ideas of John not being his friend, running the tip of his tongue over
his teeth before restating his intentions again. “I’m going back.”
“And where is it that you’re going back to, Sherlock?”
       Making note of how Mycroft sounded like he’d added ten stone to his ego
– let alone to his waistband due to Mrs. Hudson’s love of baking – Sherlock
rolled his eyes. His half-brother had been overly curious about where Sherlock
had been disappearing to for the past week, asking him where he’d be going and
what he’d been up to; Mycroft was being more of a brother than he’d been for
the past ten years. Glaring over his shoulder at his older brother, Sherlock
curled his lips around one of his more pleasant replies.
“Outside, Mycroft. To run and play like the child that I am; is that a
problem?”
       Straightening his coal colored suit jacket with his left hand, Mycroft
smoothed his right hand over his russet hair, keeping his appearance perfect
despite the agitated glint in his eye that suggested he wasn’t particularly in
the mood to deal with Sherlock’s attitude. Before the ginger haired man could
catch him with a flare of his righteous curiosity, Sherlock smoothed the front
of his thin green shirt and made his way to the side-door, slipping out into
the sunlight with a casual 'goodbye' to Mrs. Hudson.
       Sherlock took quick, calculated steps when he began his escape back to
the Strange House, and to John. He moved was his normal pace, long strides with
hardly any movement in his body wasted; it wasn't quite so when he was with
John. When he was with John, time seemed to pass them by too quickly, sliding
through the air when Sherlock would take a deep breath, and skipping minutes
into hours when he shifted his feet over the hardwood floor. Everything seemed
to take a slower pace with John, making even his heart slow from its normal
quick rhythm when he was learning something interesting into a calmer, more
contained thud of blood whispering through his veins on its own time. It drove
him insane, this slow-paced world of John that had no place in the fast-paced
reality that Sherlock knew existed somewhere beyond the walls of the Strange
House. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to walk away from it completely.
       Part of Sherlock wanted to bring John back to the Summer Estate to see
if something strange and unthinkable would happen; would he let Mycroft see his
sunshine pallor? Would he slow down time with the slow blink of his crystalline
blue eyes, and bring Sherlock up from his racing sprint along the surface of
the earth to enter a more tranquil plane, breathing the air form a higher
place? Sherlock liked to think that John could make it possible, if he didn't
hate the hot tempered boy yet. He knew he wasn't likeable, and it had never
really bothered him before; it was strange, this 'having friends' business. So
much strange work that Sherlock's mind wasn't used to; it broke up thoughts
into fractals of unstudied pondering that left him lying in his bed long after
he told himself to sleep, thinking of strange things – like John. John and all
of his frustratingly captivating innocence and capturing mannerisms.
       There was no time to think on that though, Sherlock decided, raising his
fist to pound on the surface of the Strange House three times. The Deity could
almost hear the hesitance to open the door on the other side, hidden beneath
the soft treading of feet that he' become used to hearing every morning of his
summer leave from school; John's feet, having their own special beat that was
never out of place. Until now. Now that he'd said such things, Sherlock knew
that John must want to hold a grudge; Mycroft always held grudges when he spoke
too far out of line.
       But – much to Sherlock's surprise – the door of the Strange House opened
to reveal a disgruntled John. This was a John that Sherlock had never seen
before; he had seen John as a tired young man, yawning and rubbing at his eyes
while Sherlock sat down on the stairs and watched him pull the curtains open
with a sweet, sleepy disposition clear on his face in the form of a smile. He
had seen John awake and excited, fueled by some bright, happy day that echoed
in his personality, waving his hands in excited gestures when Sherlock brought
up stories about John in his mother's diary. He had even seen John fall asleep,
leaning against the railing of the stairs with his head tilted back and his
lips parted around each long, peaceful breath. Never before had Sherlock seen
John angry, but he couldn't quite think of what to say.
       What would one say at a time like this? He never put much stock in the
use of social niceties; he knew that he should apologize to keep John as his
friend, but he would not apologize for being angry. He had every right to be
upset.
“I'm not going to apologize for how I acted.”
       John's lips were pressed into a tight line, and his jaw worked a bit
before he merely clenched it shut and gave the curly haired teen a sharp stare
from underneath honey colored eyelashes. Prickly tension lingered in the air
between them for a moment, and Sherlock wondered if John didn't quite grasp
what he was saying; he was a fairly simple young man, so Sherlock didn't put it
past him not to understand. Taking a breath, Sherlock smoothed out his
expression and gestured quietly to the space that John took up in the open
door.
“May I come in?”
       Stepping back to allow the young Holmes inside, John let out a quick
comment that brought out the fact that he was more of a passive-aggressive
attacker when it came to verbal arguments. Sherlock made sure to remember that
for the next time he became upset; he didn't want to fight with John like this
anymore.
“I am obligated by oath to let you in, Sherlock.”
       Glancing at John with open confusion, Sherlock let his eyebrows knit
together in questioning wonder. John merely lifted his own eyebrows, keeping
their gazes locked for a moment before letting his eyes fall to the floor;
ashamed or embarrassed, Sherlock couldn't quite tell. Too many unknown
variables and not enough peace in the room to ask the correct questions.
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock tried to deduct something about John that he could
use to appease whatever anger he had already raised from the depths of his
normally calm disposition to shout at him in the form of stony silence. There
were many things to notice , but at the same time, there was nothing he could
do to fix it.
       John’s body language – arms crossed over his chest and his body held at
an angle to avoid direct view of the most exposed area of the body aside from
the head: the heart – showed that he felt mistrust and anxiety. His eyes echoed
a refrain of the stance, scowling without changing his visage, reprimanding
Sherlock with his opal vision whilst holding his chin down to show submission.
Sherlock wanted to fix it, but his pride was tripping him and causing his mind
to tremble at the treat of an earthquake; he’d never bowed his head when he was
wrong, he’d merely carried on with his normal air of ignorance.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Sherlock pursed his lips and sighed. He
had every right to be upset before; he wasn’t very adept with taking things
slowly. He wanted to understand things quickly, to grasp the concept of
whatever he was learning and keep the basics of it in the back of his Mind
Palace, ready to be distributed at a relevant time. Looking about the entryway
with wandering thoughts, Sherlock sighed heavily.
“I don’t do well with idle time, John.”
The Sentry brought up his chin, obviously interested in this development, and
gave Sherlock a gentle quirk of a nearly invisible blonde eyebrow. His hunched
shoulders lifted just a handful of degrees, but it was enough for the young
Holmes to feel as if the awkward truth that had spilled from his lips was
making a positive difference.
“What’s wrong with idle time?”
“It’s,” Sherlock looked up to the ceiling, waiting for a simple description to
flutter down from the rafters and fall to the ground in front of his shoes -
- it didn’t -- and John merely gained a smile on his face, wry and small. “It’s
boring. I like to learn things right away, and I’ve been sitting here for ten
days, John.” Taking the time that he had been wasting into stock, Sherlock took
a breath and shook his head in a disbelieving manner. “Ten days, John; ten days
of nothing. Ten days of nothing but… waiting.”
John shrugged nonchalantly, as if the problems of his Deity were nothing of
consequence and Sherlock was dramatizing his obsessive compulsive need to learn
quickly. His bare feet tapped the floor as he meandered over to the staircase,
sitting down as if he had all the time in the world, when in reality, Sherlock
was only three minutes from lighting himself on fire and calling it finished.
The Sentry took his time with settling down on the bottom step of the
staircase, watching Sherlock with a smile that held no humor, nor any malice.
“Maybe that’s what you’re missing.”
“Waiting?” Sherlock snorted, shaking his head in disapproval. “I don’t think
so.”
It would’ve been easy to mistake John’s following silence as an angry,
nonverbal retort; but Sherlock didn’t like to think of John that way. John’s
frustration was normally expressed calmly and passively, but he wasn’t someone
to purposefully lead Sherlock down an opposite path to prove that he was right
in a situation. Sherlock was too smart for that, and John wasn’t smart enough.
John shrugged again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his
chin in his palm; the vision of a normal boy in repose. A flash of gold caught
Sherlock’s eye, and he watched John’s empty hand fidget with a ring on his
index finger; a topic that he’d bring up when John’s anger was pacified.
“The idle time.” John hummed to the open air in front of him, watching the
front door sway open wider with the invisible hand of a breeze moving it
further. “Maybe you just need to learn to relax; you obviously haven’t been
relaxing for the past ten days, and that’s how I learned how to bring out my
own strength.”
Taking his chances, Sherlock moved over to the stairs slowly and sat down next
to John, feeling just as hopeless as before. He knew so much about John; small
quirks and tells that no one else would ever know, but he just couldn’t find
the reason that he wanted to change him from the cold John that was being
presented to him back into the John that laughed at his stubbornness and smiled
at his sarcasm.
“I can’t just sit and do nothing, John. I need to know what to do.” He took a
breath; the last time he’d apologized to someone and actually meant it was when
he knocked over one of his fathers’ crystal tumblers that he used for brandy.
He’d apologized to people before, to please the masses -- and to get out of a
certain few sticky situations -- but Sherlock knew that with John, he’d have to
be honest. “I will say that I’m sorry for what I said about you. Those things…
they’re not true. I won’t apologize for being angry though.”
Sherlock could feel the warmth radiating from John’s sunmade skin, and a smile
threatened to cover his lips as John made a thoughtful hum in response, but he
stopped it with a sharp bite of his canine teeth into his cheek. Leaning back
against the staircase, Sherlock decided that he didn’t want to fight with John
ever again. It was a definite fact that he liked to push limits, but he didn’t
want to push John’s anger over the edge to the point of him never smiling
again; no, he wouldn’t do that.
“I had every right to be mad.”
“Of course you did.” John nodded, not taking his eyes off of the doorway;
Sherlock noted how his eyes crinkled when he was hiding a smile; priceless.
“You must’ve been frustrated.”
Humming affirmatively, Sherlock watched the shimmering light that was John’s
own soul igniting the afternoon sunlight in the room a fiery warm glow that
showed his forgiveness without having to say it aloud. Sherlock didn’t fight
the smile that wanted to appear now, letting his lips turn up in a vague
suggestion of happiness that overshadowed any nervousness that may have been a
leftover effect of asking for forgiveness.
“John?”
“Yes, Sherlock.”
The Sentry sent him a sideways glance, tilting his head at a coy angle that
made Sherlock feel a bit like his knees were made of gelatin. He blinked; that
was interesting. He’d have to store that away in his mind and return to that
sensation later. In the mean time, he felt his lips kick up at the side as he
settled in for another long afternoon of trying to learn how to understand
himself all over again. He bumped John’s shoulder with his own, feeling the
excess heat of the Sentry’s skin through the thin fabric of his white shirt,
and feeling it once more when John leaned over and bumped his shoulder in
return. And that was it. Friends again, as if nothing had happened between
them. Sherlock wanted it to always be that way.
Turning to John, he let out a low laugh that had John following suit, and both
of them were laughing at their own ridiculous argument -- that Sherlock would
admit that he started -- and seeing how the idiotic grumble of petty came to an
end -- John would insist that he won. For once in his miserably boring life,
Sherlock was happy to give in just this once; he would hate to lose someone as
interesting as John. And Sherlock told him so, in the closest words he could:
“Thank you.”
***** Dream with Me *****
“Take something to eat. Wait, Sherlock.”
Mrs. Hudson called to him as he leaned heavily on the side door one morning,
eager to get away before Mycroft woke and interrogated him; if he wasn’t
already awake. She eyed him with scolding hazel irises, monitoring him until he
rolled his eyes, and shuffled back to the island in the middle of the kitchen
and plucked an apple from the fruit bowl there. Continuing to watch him as he
took a bite of the fruit, Mrs. Hudson wiped the back of her hands on a dish
towel she always had prestigiously draped over her shoulder, smiling a bit to
herself as Sherlock took even, calculated bites; like a man that was storing up
food for later use or deprivation.
“Now, one more thing before you go. I want you to do something for me while
you’re out,”
Sherlock fluttered his hands in front of him, carefully setting down the apple
on the counter and then chewing quickly and swallowing the last remnants of
apple in his mouth so that he could reply quickly.
“No, no! I have important things to do with John, today. I feel like I’m on the
brink of a major breakthrough Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock smiled, stepping up close
to the landlady to express his barely contained excitement. “I can almost feel
it.”
Feeling a surge of her motherly pride bubbling up inside of her, Mrs. Hudson
took up her hand to brush one of the unruly curls from Sherlock’s forehead with
a smile.
“That’s wonderful, dear. I only want to ask for one thing; invite John home for
lunch, please.”
“Sure, fine. He won’t come down though. He’s told me more than once that he’s
obligated to stay at that house, and he never gets hungry.”
Mrs. Hudson nodded quietly, pursing her lips and patting her palms together to
fill up the uneasy silence that ensued Sherlock’s words. Sherlock could nearly
feel the tension in the air that filled his room the first day he had arrived
at the Summer Estate, with Mrs. Hudson telling him that the Strange House was
filled with unimaginable people and things; he could almost draw a connection
between the two things, but he was also very anxious to leave before his half-
brother could have the chance to wake and come into the kitchen, searching for
more of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking to devour.
“Well, maybe he might be a bit lonely up there, all alone until you go to see
him every day.”
Sherlock nodded, bringing the apple off of the counter and crunching another
bite into his mouth as he swung the side door open.
“I’ve tried Mrs. Hudson. He won’t listen to me.”
And that fact, more than the fact that he couldn’t grasp his own strength, more
than the fact that he didn’t want to tell Mycroft that he knew they were only
half-brothers, and even more than the fact that he wanted to understand how to
see his mother, bothered him. John would insist that he needed to return to his
home to receive the normal human contact that he’d lived with his entire life;
it was like he and John were best friends, but he didn’t understand the
simplest thing about Sherlock’s personality. He didn’t want human contact -
- though he couldn’t go a day without seeing John at least once, even though
his excursions sometimes only lasted a few hours to end with him storming away
and returning the next day with a sour face.
John would always welcome him back with a smile and a wide wave of his arm to
gesture to the inside of the house. Sherlock was sure it was the biggest
‘welcome home’ he’d ever received from someone outside of his family. No one
else could stand him, so what was the point of John telling him that he needed
human contact? None, really. John was the one who needed to come out of that
ungodly and seemly house. Rapping his knuckles against the large front doors,
Sherlock rocked back on his heels and wondered why John was so partial to
staying in the house.
It could be the fact that he was anxious to go anywhere besides the small space
that he knew; Sherlock didn’t like that idea -- it made John seem like a
coward. Shaking his head, Sherlock brushed that thought away; John had been out
in the forest when his mother found him, as dictated by the diary and testified
by John himself when Sherlock asked. Perhaps he was nervous about what other
human beings would think of him; again, this made John seem like a mouse in
comparison to the guardian that he was truly meant to be. Given Mrs. Hudson’s
constant asking about John, Sherlock knew that he and the landlady had met
before, if only chastely, to chat or even have a meal. No, John was not a
ninny, and there was no reason to think that he was; Sherlock was sure he had
his reasons.
Swinging the door open, John met Sherlock with a bold statement; his eyes
glittered with newly ignited enlightenment.
“I think we were looking at this the wrong way.”
He announced, stepping back into the house with the door standing open for
Sherlock on his way. Sherlock entered, feeling more than a bit lost in the
bright light that surrounded John -- a bit harsher than normal -- but it wasn’t
a bad thing; John was excited, and Sherlock wanted to revel in that. Moving
around the entryway until he was sitting on the steps while John pulled the
heavy curtains over the windows back, Sherlock interjected Mrs. Hudson’s
request before he listened to John’s realization.
“Mrs. Hudson wants me to invite you home for lunch.”
John’s movements paused before he shook his head with a sorry expression; John
never did want to go back with him. Letting the rejection roll off of him in a
wave, Sherlock took the news in his stride, turning the apple in his hand over
in his fingers and smiling as his Sentry continued to open the curtains
gleefully.
“I’m alright; but what I figured out is something important. We were doing
things the way I learned to do them, and that may be where we’ve been going
wrong.” He smiled, lighting up the room with the warm heat of a summer sun in
his expression; Sherlock squinted against the light, glad to return the smile
as John bounced up the stairs and out of sight to push open the rest of the
curtains. “Deities must be different, otherwise the exercises would have worked
before.”
“Impressive, John.” Sherlock announced up the stairs, hearing a slight stutter
of the Sentry’s steps at the given compliment, resuming their normal pace
within a moment. “How, pray tell, are you going to change the method you’ve
been teaching? We’ve been trying to find my strength for three weeks, now.”
Wincing at that admittance, Sherlock heard the shuffle of John’s feet against
the top of the stairs; a quiet sound to precede his descent to sit next to
Sherlock. Albicant light around John was reflected off of the glass in the
window panes, causing a glare to be cast along the length of the floor in the
Strange House; Sherlock could see that John was proud of the praise that he was
just allowed, and if that was the result, the hair haired teen would happily
praise him more.
“Learning to relax and see inside yourself is helpful for finding any strength,
but I think that we need to be looking for something other than raw emotion or
strength.” John’s eyes burned with a hidden emotion that Sherlock wasn’t sure
that he was able to define. “You need to be looking for dreams. Not strength.”
Raising his eyebrows, Sherlock’s chin dipped down in thought before he watched
John with his lips pursed in deep thought. “Dreams? How exactly am I supposed
to look for dreams? Am I supposed to remember them, or recall them?”
John laughed; it was a tension relieving action, a great release of oxygen that
was turning stale in his lungs while he had been waiting for Sherlock. Sherlock
wanted to be angry at him for laughing. He was sure that he really wanted to be
furious; but, deep within a unexplored crevice in himself, previously thought
to be empty, he had found an unseemly pleasure in making John happy.
“Why don’t we start with something that your mother used to call ‘simple’. She
would go on and on about the dreams I would think about often, something
like...”
“Mind reading?”
“Yes, yes.” John hummed, licking his lips before cuffing a hand through his
short hair bashfully while he thought. “something like that, only your mother
could read the dreams that I thought of often, and tell me whether or not she
believed they could come true.”
Sherlock nodded, lacing his fingers together around the half-eaten apple that
was still nestled in the palm of his right hand. The easy manner in which John
spoke gave him a sense of security that he’d never felt when he was around
Mycroft or near the other boys at school; he could make a mistake, and no one
would mind. John would still be there, willing to accept him.
“Alright, you’re the teacher. How do I start?”
John blinked and looked to the ceiling as he licked his lips, thinking about
the process of starting a real first lesson. His smile was still present, and
Sherlock felt his lips curl around a smile in response; it was so easy to smile
at John, even when he wasn’t looking. Part of Sherlock wondered why that was,
but a larger part of him, a part that was less logical and more enticed by the
idea of getting lost in heady experiments and forgetting to eat every day, told
him to ignore the reasons and to just continue on his beaten path. So, that’s
what Sherlock did.
“I’ll think of a dream,” John said, spreading his fingers as he held his palms
out to Sherlock, miming something like a calm explosion of thought. “and you
will try to bend your thoughts around my own to see the dream. Does that make
sense?”
Sherlock was almost positive that the whole exchange was more complicated than
John let on, but he nodded eagerly in return. It was an interesting thing to
Sherlock; the theory that magic was real and Gods and Goddesses could roam the
Earth freely; it wasn’t something that he, a boy of seventeen and an avid
scholar of science, would put much stock into to begin with. No, he never did
believe in such things, but John was here, and John was nearly the embodiment
of light itself. THat was enough to ensure Sherlock’s hope that everything John
had told him, and everything the diary had promised him, was real.
“Fine. Yes, that sounds fine. Just…” Sherlock caught John glancing down at the
apple in his hand, and he held it out for the Sentry with a smile. John took
it, not minding the fact that it was already semi eaten, and continued to eat
the remaining parts of it. “Just tell me when to start trying. Is there a
certain thing I should be thinking of, or some sort of… boundary that I’m
supposed to push?”
There was a crunch as John struggled to munch through a mouthful of apple, and
Sherlock pursed his lips agitatedly as he was forced to wait for an answer.
John’s luminous response was a bashful smile before he covered his mouth with
the back of his empty hand while he spoke.
“No boundary, Sherlock.” He swallowed and tapped his index finger against the
red skin of the fruit in his hand, licking his lips once again before catching
Sherlock’s gaze again. “Let’s give it a shot. It can’t be too difficult,
considering the fact that we’ve been working on controlling your senses through
a calm, relaxed environment.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded, “Of course. This house is definitely
relaxing.”
With a flick of John’s wrist, he gave a dismissive wave to Sherlock’s sarcasm,
smiling through another bite of fruit. Oddly intimate and comforting, John’s
empty hand landed atop Sherlock’s knee, braced there for a moment before John
used the hand as an anchor to push himself off of the stair he presided.
Standing tall over Sherlock despite his inferior height, John nodded to
himself, swallowing the last of the apple and shaking the core back and forth
like a pendulum before Sherlock’s eyes; a strange metronome that kept an
unmarked time.
“Up you get, Sherlock.” John ordered as Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow.
“Time to see if your mother’s idea of ‘easy’ is the same as yours.”
The aurulent light of John’s skin still reflected a glare on the glass windows,
and a sharp beam of light caught in Sherlock’s stormy eyes, causing him to
squint and look away while he stood. He was calm, but in a way that buzzed with
three weeks of lost excitement; relaxed aggression rattled about in his
stationary form as he waited for instruction. He was ready; ready for the
wasted time of the past few weeks to be forgotten, and ready to begin anew with
new tactics of learning with John; he was ready, but doubtful all the same.
As a knowledgeable young man -- being such a young man was something Sherlock
privately prided himself in being -- he knew that there was a certain ratio of
his biological makeup that did not condone the use of magic, nor the seeing or
reciting of a dream outside of his own mind. His fathers’ DNA still made up his
person, and he couldn’t shake the dangerous thought of this genetic weakness
causing his failure to take after his mother in the ways of her power and
leaving him with nothing but her dark curly hair and stormy eyes.
“We’ll try something simple at first; I’ll just think of one dream, alright?
I’ll focus on this one dream, and you do the exercises that we’ve been working
on; does that sound right to you?”
Pasting on a cocky smile that made John’s own lips to twist into an amused grin
and his light to shimmer, Sherlock planted his feet shoulder width apart and
began to take longer, relaxed breaths.
“Just do it, John,” Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling his limbs grow a bit
heavy with the loss of his concentration on physical senses and the expansion
of his mental awareness. “You know I hate waiting; I’m impatient. Let’s start.”
 
+++++
 
Sweating wasn’t something Sherlock found pleasant; it was a bodily function he
could do without. Although it showed the physical tells of a job well done in
most situations, it sat heavily on his face, arms, and legs in salty drops of
exertion and lingered until the weight of gravity dragged it further down his
skin. Though he had been forced to run, jump, and push in his school yard
scuffles as a child, he would always detest the aspect of sweating, no matter
where the condensation lingered.
With his lips pursed and his head aching with a throbbing migraine, Sherlock
felt the heady rush of dizziness in his light limbs while he forced his
thoughts into submission while John sat patiently in front of him on the
stairs; he was sweating profusely. It was a kind of sweat that came through
constant devotion to his task, only building at his temples and dampening the
heavy curl of his dark hair over his forehead. He had been focusing for hours
with John, trying to pinpoint the feeling of relaxation while engaging his
senses around his Sentry.
At first, Sherlock had thought that he wasn’t truly meant to learn his mothers’
real skills, only inheriting his useless fathers’ idiocy as he couldn’t see or
hear any dreams that John would announce he was envisioning. John would shake
his head and smile, patting Sherlock’s shoulder in a small friendly gesture
that made Sherlock feel heavy with failure; ‘It’s alright,’ John had said, ‘you
just need to practice a bit more.’ With John’s easy smile and gentle
encouragements on his side, Sherlock continued with steeled determination.
Then came the flickers of images: stand still captures of thoughts and recorded
sounds in John’s mind that came flooding into Sherlock’s head too fast for him
to process. It was a rush of drugs that he had been schooled to give up; a
headache so jarring that it sent multicolored lightning bolts across his
vision; it was a missed step on a flight of stairs that he hadn’t expected and
his foot fell through open air while his body tumbled helplessly after. His
eyes, previously closed, had snapped open as the floor beneath him lurched and
tilted at an unnatural angle. His Sentry caught him, holding him up and waving
a hand back and forth in front of his face in a weak attempt to fan him.
Sitting up after a ‘short’ twenty minute rest of his head between his knees and
John’s warm palm smoothing the fabric covering his back, he felt more in
control; breathing deeply as he sat cross-legged on the floor with his eyes
closed. Through John’s dreams and memories he saw his mother standing tall
among the Strange House, giving instructions in a voice Sherlock swore he would
never hear again. With John’s eyes, he saw the Sentry’s that hid in the forest,
blending into the trees, melting with the rain, and disappearing into the wind
when they were dismissed by the Dream Goddess. Sherlock watched as his mother
scolded John for wanting to leave the house sweetly, patting his head and
closing the door to go back to the Summer Estate, leaving John for another long
day. It made Sherlock’s stomach twist; not only for the fact that his head was
throbbing enough to make him nauseous, but for the fact that John had
constantly been separated from not only his mother and humans, but from his own
kind.
Feeling a warm hand brush across his temple, Sherlock’s thoughts stuttered,
jolting awake the physical senses that had been set on standby while his own
conscious mingled with John’s. With John’s sun warmed fingers drying the
perspiration that had collected in his hair, Sherlock felt lighter, and just a
bit rewarded for five hours of hard work.
“Sherlock,” John’s voice was low and calling, as if he thought Sherlock had
fallen asleep. “it’s late; you should be going home, now. You’ve done enough
for one day.”
“Enough?” Sherlock opened his eyes with a breathless smile, seeing the dark
rings of fatigue under John’s eyes that crinkled with a tired grin. “I’ve done
amazing, John! I am on the edge of understanding how to control this; I need to
stay.”
“Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow. You’re tired, and you need to sleep.”
Sherlock shook his head and stood up to protest, only to feel his legs buckle
and give away beneath him while his head spun and his stomach churned. John
stood to gather up his Deity in his arms, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders in his
warm hands and holding him up, as if the dark haired teen would drown in his
own dreams if he let him go. Sherlock let himself be caught, and allowed
himself to be held; it wasn’t often that someone coddled him, but it was less
often that anyone would want to do anything of the sort in the first place. If
it was John, Sherlock assured himself, it was fine. It was alright to be held -
- if it was John, of course -- because John would only hold him for the most
logical purposes. Unless John wanted to hold him for any other reason, although
Sherlock didn’t quite know what he thought of that. Sherlock closed his eyes
against the thought and turned his head where it sat on John’s shoulder so that
his cheek brushed against John’s sunflower petal hair.
“Put me down. Let me sit, John. Just for a moment.”
Sherlock ordered, feeling John’s capable hands slide down his back to rest on
his hips while he lowered the taller teen back down to the floor. Shifting
himself so that his back was leaning against the wall that framed the
staircase, Sherlock tilted his head back and closed his eyes with a thoughtful
sigh. He heard the soft shuffle of John’s bare soles against the smooth
hardwood floors, scuffing against three of the stairs until the Sentry was
seated on a step, and slowly, laying back against the step. Sherlock wouldn’t
dare to pull away as he felt John’s hair brush his own; it was a strangely
comforting feeling to know that John was tired as well; perhaps for being quiet
and still for so many long hours.
John liked to talk to him -- Sherlock didn’t mind listening, and he enjoyed the
fact that could watch John’s emotion filled face for the social cues that told
him when to smile and nod -- and the idea of holding his words inside, say for
the announcement every thirty minutes that he was changing the dream, must have
been difficult. So, sitting against the steps with the crowns of their hair
touching, jet black mingling with sunlight gold, Sherlock didn’t mind the idea
of being near John. Then again, he never did; this was a topic that Sherlock
enjoyed avoiding just as much as he liked to linger on it, the only problem was
that he only seemed to linger on John’s sugary smile and the way he leaned
against him in the afternoons at inappropriate times, like when he was getting
ready for bed or when he was stepping into the shower. Sherlock could see John
as if he was right in front of him, recalling sparks of tingling memories and
oddly stirring altercations with him whilst he was trying to focus on reading
or eating a meal.
While he ate, could almost see John at the table with him, leaning forward and
gripping his shoulders to look at him clearly, smiling at him and glancing up
at him coyly through his honey color lashes. Sherlock had held a glass of milk
to his lips for almost three minutes thinking of John in such a manner,
debating the pros and cons of imagining John or himself saying something -
- anything, for that matter -- to further the intimacy between their teaching
sessions. But, just as his thoughts would meander over this topic, he
rationalized that John was not the same as him, and normal boys -- even though
Sherlock knew he was anything but normal -- would never think of each other in
such a way.
Changing his line of thought from the delicate subject of John’s capturing eyes
and alluring smile, Sherlock roamed over his memory of John’s dreams. Most of
the dreams recalled memories of his mother speaking to him, holding his hand
and leading him somewhere, or simply sitting with him. Feeling an uncomfortable
mass building up in his throat, Sherlock opened his eyes and felt his
expression twist into a scowl; there was no way that John would… no, he would
never think such a thing. Covering his eyes with his right palm, Sherlock took
the risk of asking John himself and deleting all chance of not knowing.
“John?”
Two yawns echoed through the entryway before the Sentry answered, John’s first,
and Sherlock’s in response. “Yes, Sherlock.”
“Did you love my mother?”
There was a pause that would have made Sherlock uneasy if it weren’t for the
sudden drop in temperature in the Strange House. John didn’t like hiding who he
was, and that meant concealing his true form, as he told Sherlock, with the
charm his mother had given him: the ring that was currently sitting
prestigiously on his right ring finger. Even with the knowledge that John
disliked hiding his light, not to mention who he really was  -- even though he
refused to show Sherlock his true form, no matter how many threats were lobbed
in his direction -- the temperature dropped with the disappearance of John’s
light, as well as his heat.
“I didn’t… dislike her.” John spoke carefully, and Sherlock’s hand slipped from
his face to rest atop his thigh next to his other hand. “I loved her the way a
son would love his mother, but…”
“But she left you alone.”
Sherlock finished, hearing a disgruntled grumble from John that was most likely
meant to be a denial. There was too much sentiment lingering in the recesses of
John’s thoughts, and not a clear enough image of a dream for Sherlock to
decipher, and therefore, no way for him to understand who or what John was
thinking of in that moment. The Deity was sure that it shouldn’t have been so
difficult to discern John’s feelings given the fact that John was a simple
person, even if he was a Sentry and not a normal young man. This attribute was
quite trivial, he possessed qualities of a human boy that shone through in his
desire for attention and preening when he was praised. It echoed in the
sentimental way he would croon Sherlock’s name or hum in disappointment when
Sherlock refused to listen. Moreover, John’s need for physical intimacy gave
away to the most human of instincts, to be near someone like himself.
But, even with all of these similarities and parallels drawn between John and
the human race, Sherlock could not, not matter how hard he tried, understand
exactly what John felt about his mother. He had information that pulled him in
one direction: John’s absolute and undivided devotion to his mother and his
constant dreams of her urged him to consider the possibility of John’s possible
love for her. However, the way John had described his feelings toward Danabell
shook the foundation of that idea, shattering the premise of Sherlock’s logical
findings and forcing him to question what he thought he knew.
“Do you hate her for leaving you alone?”
“No.” John’s voice was guarded, and used in a way that suggested offence.
Sherlock held his breath and waited for any other information John was willing
to give. “No, I don’t hate her.”
“But,” Sherlock heard John sigh heavily, “she left you. You enjoy
companionship; you must have been lonely.”
There was uncomfortable shifting against the stairs, and John mumbled something
under his breath. Craning his neck back, Sherlock tried to catch the words, but
they had already died and found a new home among the still air that was growing
thick with tension between them. Sherlock sensed that his chance for ask John
questions was drawing to a close.
“What?” John didn’t repeat himself, and Sherlock wanted to know more about
John’s point of view. He wanted to know what John saw, and why he saw it that
way. “What was that, John?”
“I’m not lonely, Sherlock.”
“Of course; because I’m here, now.” Sherlock wiped the back of his hand across
his forehead when John’s attitude increased just a bit to heighten the
temperature. “I just want to know why you always dream of my mother when you
didn’t enjoy being abandoned.”
The shriek of the stairs gave away John’s movement, telling Sherlock that he’d
sat up and was well on his way to saying goodbye to Sherlock for the day.
“I was not abandoned.”
“My mother left you in this house, all alone, for ten years, John. Yes, you
aren’t a human and don’t necessarily require the same nourishment, but that
doesn’t mean that you weren’t left alone to hold out for some sort of
‘miracle’.”
“I was not abandoned, Sherlock.” Blinking slowly, Sherlock was not surprised to
see John standing before him with his hands on his hips and his expression
pinched into an unfriendly scowl. “Your mother told me that she was leaving; I
watched her go. Ten years ago, when I was still considered a child, she said
goodbye, and I watched her leave. I was not abandoned. I was not left to fend
for myself. She prepared me for,”
“For what? Waiting for me? You waited for ten years, John.”
“That’s not,”
“Ten years, John. You were left alone by my mother. Where Mycroft and I were
cared for, you were alone. I’m not saying that I think any less of my mother;
true, I don’t condone her decision to leave you, but I do not blame her for
choosing to leave my father, I’m merely saying that I understand why you
wouldn’t care for her.”
John’s heat was filling the entryway and causing an unbearable amount of
humidity to gather up in the space around them, thickening the air and making
sweat bead along Sherlock’s brow anew. It wasn’t shocking for Sherlock, this
heat that gave away John’s harsh emotions, nor the gentle gold glimmer of his
light that sharpened into a teacup white, giving away his frustration. Even
though the heat had surpassed the limit of joy and entered the area of
irritated and mildly upset, Sherlock wasn’t afraid; John would never hurt him.
“I’m not lonely anymore, Sherlock. It’s… all of it is in the past, and I don’t
care anymore. She is a goddess, and she ordered me to stay here. I will follow
the orders of someone who outranks me any day.”
“So that makes the abandonment better?”
“No,” John’s thoughts stumbled, and his eyes widened in disbelief before he
leaned forward over Sherlock and shook his head fervently. “No! I was not,”
“She left you, John.”
She didn’t…”
“My mother left you to say goodbye to her real children.”
John licked his lips, and Sherlock watched the movement with interest. “That’s
enough of that, Sherlock.”
“You were never her real child; is that why you didn’t like her?”
“I never said...” John let out a huff of indignant laughter staring off into
the corner behind Sherlock with agitated interest. “I didn’t say that. I never
said that, Sherlock.”
“Did you wish she was your mother? Is that why you always dream of her? In hope
that she’ll return one day and apologize? She won’t, John. If she could come
back, she would have already. My mother would have most likely come to me: her
real son.”
John’s expression darkened to something that sent cold sparks down Sherlock’s
spine; it was not anger, but sadness. though the heat never left, the light
did, leaving Sherlock in a darkened room with a distraught John. A haunting
presence of despair and disappointment that mapped over John’s entire visage.
It reminded Sherlock of the argument they had two weeks ago, and for a split
moment, his stomach wrenched; what if John didn’t forgive him this time?
“Why are we talking about this?” John looked to Sherlock for a moment and
caught his eyes, presenting his tired smile that never ceased to appear
whenever he was trying to ignore his fatigue, anger, or sadness. “Why… how did
we start talking about this? Why aren’t you celebrating the fact that you saw
my dreams?” Sherlock blinked, wondering if he could pull an excuse out of his
sleeve; lying seemed wrong when it came to John. The blonde sighed through his
melancholy smile, shaking his head. “Why are we talking about this?”
Biting his lip, Sherlock looked about the room for the reason his heart was
pounding; surely there was some sort of gas leak in the house that was making
his headache worsen and his lungs to burn for air. Perhaps it had to do with
the fact he was imagining John when he was alone, or maybe it was just the itch
of formerly unexperienced guilt that only seemed to surface when John was
upset.
“John,” His throat was too tight, as if the words were choking him as he tried
to throw them from his airway. “John, almost every dream you had involved my
mother. In the other dreams you were all alone in the dark; I just wanted to
know what made you dream of her, whether or not you were afraid of her, or…”
Sherlock met John’s forlorn eyes, not daring to look at his downcast smile
while he finished his thought, “...or if you were merely waiting all this time,
for her.”
John never minded that Sherlock found no boundaries when it came to personal
space, but John also knew that Sherlock didn't’ care for unnecessary contact.
Sherlock normally didn’t find any solace in a hug; but, he knew that John was
different from anything he had ever experienced. There was no person aside from
his mother that could hold him and make him feel comforted; if John were to
try, Sherlock would be interested in the psychological effects. Even Mycroft
couldn’t -- and never wanted to -- comfort Sherlock with a brotherly embrace.
He had never needed one in the past, when his father had announced that his
mother would not be coming home, and he never asked for one since; but, as John
knelt before Sherlock and bent forward to take Sherlock’s shoulders in his
hands and pull him forward, Sherlock made no move to refuse.
He let his head fall forward onto John’s shoulder, wondering where he should
put his hands while John pressed his hands against his shoulder blades and held
him close.Sherlock decided that his hands were fine where they were in his lap,
although his stomach felt strange; twisted and knotted in strange ways that
made him feel nervous. Sherlock didn’t exactly hug people often, although
hugging John was something that Sherlock felt was enjoyable. He could imagine
hugging John every day, waking up to roll over in his bed to turn his nose into
John’s hair; Sherlock’s breath caught. Those kinds of thoughts did not come to
him; he was often told that he was not the kind of person who would ever want
something like that. But, if he wanted John, would that be wrong?
“You are ridiculous.” John hummed into his curls, patting his back as if he
were a sniveling child. “You are just… so strange. I’ve been waiting for you,
Sherlock; not your mother.”
John’s voice was soothing, and he focused on that instead of his scrambled
thoughts while he inhaled the peppermint scent that seemed to be John’s alone.
No matter how many times he told himself that several people might smell like
peppermint, the sentimental hallways in his mind palace seemed to have been
opened, and John’s scent was forever his own, and no one else’s.
“I just thought,” Sherlock felt John release him and sit back, settling down on
the floor in front of him with a calmer smile that reflected a lightening mood
and release of irritation fueled tension. Smiling in return, Sherlock shrugged
off his confused thoughts with a dismissive wave of his hand in John’s
direction. “I was just worried that you might,”
“Oh, diddums.” John crooned, shaking his head with a soft giggle. Sherlock
struggled with himself, but couldn’t force an angry glare to save his life, and
ended up merely rolling his eyes in response. “It’s late, Sherlock; you need to
go home, eat something, and go to bed.”
“Yes, yes. I’m going.”
Sherlock stood slowly, feeling the weight of his limbs grow normal beneath the
scrutiny of gravity and his head resumed a manageable ache that would be taken
care of with a few paracetamol when he was safely back inside the Summer
Estate. John followed him quietly to the door, padding along until Sherlock was
leaning against the doorframe with a crooked smile, glancing up at a late
afternoon sky with soft white clouds milling through the air in no rush. John
leaned on the side opposite Sherlock, looking up with him to watch the clouds
mosey onward, congratulating his Deity with a smile that didn’t seem to want to
leave his lips.
“Well done today, Sherlock. You’ve taken a huge step forward; I only wish that
we’d thought of this earlier. Although, I could have done without your
interrogation.”
“Me too,” Sherlock nodded with a tight lipped grin, slipping out of the doorway
and starting on the trek back to the Summer Estate with his hands in his
pockets and his heart in his throat. “I could have done without it, too. See
you tomorrow, John.”
“See you tomorrow, Sherlock. Have a good night.”
 
 
 
***** Come Home (Part 1) *****
I've tried more than once to cure this fear, but it seems that even the love of
a goddess cannot heal the wounds of a broken heart, no matter how hard I may
try.
Sherlock had more than several reasons to be leaf through the pages of his late
mother's diary, but as he sat inside the Strange House with John next to him,
he knew that the only reason he held it was to avoid the long dredge of
boredom. Tapping along a page that described Mycroft's sleeping patterns and
the variations of his dreams -- most of which described his own death, which
concerned his mother -- The dark haired teen mildly monitored John as he
braided together the frayed strings of his worn school jumper.
"John," Sherlock flipped through the diary, landing on one of his favorite
pages: the one that described John's dreams about the sun. "Do you like
dreaming of the sun?"
John hummed something quietly and smoothed his hand over the strings he'd
pulled from the cuff of Sherlock's sleeve. It was early afternoon, and a shy
sun was peeking out from behind heavy rainclouds. Sherlock looked at a stray
beam of sunlight that slipped in through the open window as John thought,
watching it slide across the floor until the clouds snuffed out the light and
blocked out the sun. 
"I suppose so. It's the closest thing to the gods, in accordance to the sky,
so..." John shrugged next to Sherlock, licking his lips and turning to catch
his Deity's eye with a smile. "It's a nice experience, in a way. A dream of
when I was created."
This sparked Sherlock's interest; they had taken a few minutes to rest after
Sherlock had lost his footing during their exercise of Sherlock reading dreams.
John would insist that Sherlock had become too dizzy to continue, telling
Sherlock that he shouldn't try push himself when it came to stretching his own
consciousness around someone else's. 'It could be dangerous, Sherlock.' He had
said with a smile, setting him down on the staircase and plucking at the loose
strings on his sleeve. Feeling his lips curl around a smile, Sherlock pinched
the corner of a page in the diary, and nonchalantly pushed it over, paper over
binding until there was nothing to see. Blank pages; his mother's absence
leaving him with nothing to see. 
"Your creation?" Sherlock wondered aloud. "You weren't born? Explain it; I want
to understand it."
At this command, John's smile seemed to drift farther than where he was with
Sherlock as he turned to look out the window with a carefully guarded
expression. His fingers fidgeted with the ring on his right hand, catching the
sun in the metal and casting it across the floor with a turn of his wrist.
"Every coming of a new season," John licked his lips and nodded to himself, as
if to guarantee that he was saying the right things. "The Gods grant the earth
a certain well of life; some parts of the earth, or gods that govern over
different patterns of weather, use this to change the patterns in their favor.
Other places have no gods to govern their weather, and no desire to change it;
this is when Sentries are born. They are born of the earth, wherever the excess
of life may be."
John smiled at the floor before blinking away the lost look in his eyes and
glancing at Sherlock with a casual quirk if his eyebrows and a shrug.
"Most Sentries are born in forests, where humans can't contaminate or interrupt
the process of a Sentry gaining life. That is to say, most Sentries are born
fairly easily. The earth merely discharges the extra life it was granted, and
the resulting Sentry guards whatever it was born of; Earth Sentries, Tree
Sentries, and Wind Sentries are the most common by the records of the Gods.”
Sherlock found the topic amusing, but fascinating at the same time. Shutting
his mother's diary and turning his body to face John, the dark haired teen
watched his blue eyes expectantly. John laughed in response, propping his elbow
atop his knee and resting his chin in his palm.
"There are probably many more Unclaimed Sentries than there are Claimed, but
that's all well and done. Towards the empty mid-centuries of our lives, we
being to look for danger, and in turn, we look to give our loyalty to a God or
Goddess." John's smile melted into something more thoughtful and melancholic.
"Some Sentries don't make it that far, having their lifesource destroyed or
being killed themselves through unlucky happenstance. But, like Deities and
Gods, Sentries are not mortal; this doesn't mean we're as important," John
chuckled, "no, this just means that we're not human, and therefore do not obeys
the laws of their life."
Sherlock scowled; he thought that John was extremely important. More important
than Mrs. Hudson, and definitely more important than Mycroft, John was a
creature of interest that never seemed to fail to gain his attention. However,
the idea of John ceasing to exist because of a lost lifesource made Sherlock
uneasy. Pressing the pads of his fingers together and steepling his hands
beneath his chin, the Deity gave John a look that depicted hesitant interest.
"How would one destroy a lifesource?"
            Leaning back, John licked his lips and tapped the palms of his
hands on the tops of his knees, tiptoeing around the idea of telling Sherlock
the easiest way for him to die. It was a tense subject, Sherlock knew, but that
didn’t stop him from wanting the facts; his mother had taught him for a young
age to explore every possibility of something, and until every possibility was
ruled out, anything was possible.
“As I said, most Sentries are born of the earth, air, or trees; this means
their lives around rooted to that place where the air was pure enough to give
them life, or the earth and trees were well enough to do the same. If you
destroy that place, pollute the air, cut down the tree, and upheave the earth
enough to kill the nutrients and life within it, the Sentry will die with it.”
            Sherlock’s long fingers tapped the cover of his book, absorbing the
knowledge quickly and storing it away for future use while he watched John
carefully.
“But, you were born a ‘Sun Sentry’.”
John nodded. “That’s true.”
“This means you were born from the Sun, yes?”
“That’s what the name implies, isn’t it?”
            Scowling again, Sherlock took up his mother’s diary, which he had
taken from his room after he noticed Mycroft poking around in his things, and
hid it in the Strange House and turning through a few pages with a sharp eye.
Landing on a page that he'd skimmed over before, Sherlock stabbed the parchment
with his index finger and read aloud:
“‘John enjoys dodging questions that he doesn’t like to answer,’ ” Sherlock
gave the Sentry a knowing quirk of his eyebrow, running the tip of his tongue
over his teeth as the blonde looked up to the ceiling and shook his head with a
smile colored sigh. “‘he reminds me of my own sons in this way, always wanting
to keep secrets even if he knows that I will discover them eventually.’”
            Pushing the cover back until it hit the paper with a sorrowful
slap, Sherlock drilled a skillful glare into the middle of John’s forehead. He
had used this stare on John more than once when he wanted something, like it he
wanted to see John deploy his light, or if he wanted John to tell him something
about when he was younger. The blonde’s smile threatened to crack his cheeks in
half while he gazed meaninglessly toward the ceiling, as if it might save him
from Sherlock’s stare. It was a smile that made Sherlock envious.
He had been jealous before when Phillip Anderson had brought a new chemistry
set to class, Sherlock had knocked it off of the desks and onto the floor -
- much to his mother’s discretion. A girl in his classroom, Sally Donovan, had
gotten a new coat that flared out about her knees almost exactly the same way
his own coat did, and he set fire to it whilst no one was looking-- much to his
own enjoyment. There were more examples of jealousy that came to Sherlock’s
mind, but they all seemed irrelevant when it came to being jealous of John’s
smile.          
            The smile that adorned his face seemed to light the room with the
same glow that was John’s own, outranking every other task that was at hand and
gaining all importance when Sherlock wasn’t use to giving his attention away. A
smile like John’s was one that Sherlock had never seen before, and he had
always had a knack for noticing small things and qualities that defined people.
But, Sherlock was always happy to admit that he was ready for a challenge.
“Well, aren’t we being snarky this afternoon?” John pat his palm atop his white
cloth covered thigh, tilting his head and rolling his eyes at Sherlock. “Maybe
you’re in a bad mood because you haven’t eaten; we’ve been doing well with our
exercises today. Go home and rest for a bit.”
            Heaving a sigh that echoed off of the Strange House’s walls,
Sherlock rolled his shoulders back, hearing a satisfying crack before he gave a
droll response.
“I might be angry because you have been making me eat more in one week than I
normally eat in a total of three months.” Pushing his fingers through his hair,
Sherlock glared at John. “What have you done to me?” The words felt wrong as
soon as they left Sherlock’s mouth, and he’d never regretted saying something
so quickly, say for the first big argument he had with John. John opened his
mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a flustered Sherlock. “I might eat
today if you come with me.”
John licked his lips as his eyebrows turned down into a frown. Sherlock could
imagine that John was sifting through his past conversations with his Deity,
searching for an excuse not to leave the house that he hadn’t used in the past.
Judging from the light tremor in his hands when he rubbed his palms together
and the way his eyes focused strongly on the front door, Sherlock concluded
that John couldn’t find a good reason.
            Hoping to push John into submission, Sherlock tried to think back
to the useless sociology classes that he had taken; he had to make this seem
logical to a young man like John. If he could make John feel guilty or
responsible for something, the Deity could use it to his own advantage.
“John, if you don’t come with me today, I might as well not go.” John’s blue
eyes shattered with frantic worry, rattling Sherlock’s thoughts as John turned
to him sharply. “Mycroft is getting nosy, what with all of my excursions away
from the Summer Estate, and,”
John leaned forward, shaking his head fervently. “You haven’t technically left.
This is part of the Summer Estate.”
“I understand that.” Sherlock said slowly, struggling to keep seven snide
remarks to himself while John was in his fragile, shaken state. “But, I’m not
in the house. Putting it simply, I can’t quite tell him the truth, or,
logically, he’ll think I’ve gone absolutely insane.” Sherlock folded his hands
together and bit back his smile as John’s resolve began to crack. “I need to
have a reason, and proof to back it up since Mycroft won’t back off of my
excuses.”
            Pursing his lips, John drilled a painful glare into the doorframe
as he thought. Sherlock rolled his eyes; if anything in this house was
predictable, it was John’s ability to dodge the invitations to come to the
Summer Estate. With or without his sociology classes, Sherlock doubted that he
could understand John’s personable, jittery nature without the aid of a normal,
non-sociopathic human. Mycroft, the privacy invading beetle that he was, was
out of the question. Then, Sherlock thought to himself, Mrs. Hudson ought to do
the trick. She knew about John first, and had been worried about his reclusive
tendencies for the past ten years.
“Well.” Sherlock slapped his palms atop his knees and stood, stretching his
arms up above his head in a final manner. “If you aren’t willing to keep your
Deity out of trouble, I guess that’s your choice isn’t it?”
John worried his lower lip while he nodded, melting the discomfort in his
expression into his easy smile. Sherlock frowned and moved through the doorway,
hearing the latch click and the lock catch behind him as he headed toward the
Summer Estate.
The thin forest the wrapped itself around the Estate was humming with life,
giving Sherlock a reason to pause and watch the leaves rustle happily. With
John’s explanation of the life sources that were commonplace in the world,
Sherlock wondered how many Sentries had once lived in the forest of the Summer
Estate, and how many had been killed by a thoughtless gardener pulling away and
poisoning plants, or a city worker cutting down an old tree.
Sherlock liked dark topics; ones that explained how a man could die due to too
much of a certain drug or alcohol, or how to identify the cause of death if a
person had been strangled or suffocated; but when the topic was something that
involved John’s entire species, it made him feel as if the ground was out of
balance. He was tilting much farther than the small hill he was on should have
inclined; he was being dragged down to the earth with several unfavorable
possibilities of John’s death. Although, if John was born from the sun, it was
entirely unlikely that his life source could be destroyed.
Nodding to himself, Sherlock decided that John was not going to die any time
soon, and that he needed to worry on more important things at the moment.
Stepping into the Summer Estate kitchen, Sherlock was surprised to see Mrs.
Hudson at the dining table with a cup of tea in her left hand and a horrendous
looking book that was entitled ‘The Gardeners Exploits’ in her right. Setting
her cup down, Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows at the teen in front of her with
a smile.
“You’re back early. Did John push you out of the house again, dear?”
            Huffing unhappily, Sherlock shrugged loosely enough for Mrs. Hudson
to watch him with skeptical eyes as he made a round through the kitchen.
Whether or not he told Mrs. Hudson, it was a well-known fact that he was a
professional sulker. Every other day he would lounge about the kitchen with a
scowl on his face, grumbling about something John had either said or done.
Martha Hudson was not a fool, especially when it came to the blunt topic of
Sherlock and his attitude. Plucking her bookmark from its place on the dining
table and sliding it between the pages she was reading, she sat back in her
chair and eyed Sherlock as he tapped his fingers along the surface of the
counter.
“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, smoothing her hair behind her ear as
Sherlock hummed hollowly in response. “Are you and John having a bit of a
tiff?”
“No.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “We are not.”
            The housekeeper took a deep breath, pursing her lips while Sherlock
glared at the empty sink. With a lighter heart than that of the one resting in
Sherlock’s chest, Mrs. Hudson was a woman who found joy in caring for his heavy
heart. Brushing off the top of her lavender colored skirt, Mrs. Hudson stood
and headed for the refrigerator.
“Then, there must be something wrong.” Sherlock watched the older woman take
out sliced pieces of ham and cheese before setting them on the counter. “Don’t
try to deny it; I know you think that you’re a genius,”
“I am.”
“Yes, well… the point is, even if I’m not a genius, I know that you’re really
bothered by something. So, let’s hear it. What happened with you and John?”
            Sherlock frowned, turning over the idea of simply asking Mrs.
Hudson for the secret to getting John to leave the Strange House and coming
back to the Summer Estate. If he were to ask, she would go into a predictable
question of his methods and reasons to asking, which would merely be tedious.
He just wanted to know how to give John the most logical reasoning for him to
stay at the Summer Estate without the Sentry trying to make up another random
rationalization to stay.
“He’s being… difficult. Which is stupid. I’m the smart one, and he should know
that I know best.”
“Oh, of course. You ‘know best’.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes when Mrs. Hudson draws quotation marks in the air
sarcastically before returning her attention to the bread she was no doubt
using make sandwiches for the Deity and his Sentry. She glanced up at him, just
to monitor his progression around the kitchen slowly before he fell gracelessly
into a chair around the dining table.
“He should just come here.” Sherlock huffed with a flick of his wrist to
indicate the Summer Estate in all its glory. “I don’t know why he’s being
so...”
“Difficult.” Sherlock snorted at her finishing his sentence, but made no move
to disagree. Mrs. Hudson sighed, placing two pieces of cheese on the bread in
front of her before reaching for the ham. “Have you ever thought of appealing
to his more human side?” Mrs. Hudson paused to give him a look that held humor
in her blue irises. “Of course, if you know how to do such a thing.” Sherlock
glared at the table while he tapped his feet on the wooden floors, obviously
agitated and eager to do something; Martha sighed. “Why don’t you make it clear
that you want him here, and that him being here is good for him? It’s not good
for him to be locked up in that house all alone; he needs companionship just as
much as you do.”
            Sherlock groaned, throwing his hands up in the air in a display of
despair before dropping them to cover his eyes.
“I’ve tried all of that.”
“Really?” Mrs. Hudson finished making the first sandwich and moved on to the
next. “Have you tried using your knowledge of his loneliness?”
“Yes, I did that last week.” Sherlock slid his hands back to massage his
temples.
“Did you try to guilt him into it?”
“Yes, yes…” He began to dig his fingernails into his skin as Mrs. Hudson neatly
tucked the sandwiches onto a plate.
“Did you say something clever about Mycroft?”
“Yes! Today! I’ve tried everything, and nothing will work.” He growled as his
head started to throb from his sharp fingernails.
“Did you try to order him?”
“Yes,” Sherlock sat up, and turned in his chair to stare at the older woman.
“No. No, I haven’t.”
            With a smile, Mrs. Hudson took the plates up from the counter and
brought them to rest on the surface of the dinner table. Sherlock sat
expectantly, waiting for the key to ordering John into something without
tripping some switch that would make him angry or upset. Smoothing down her
skirt once more, the landlady sat down in her chair and picked up her book.
“You’re some sort of demi-god, aren’t you? Use that to your advantage; from
what your mother told me, John is supposed to listen to your every…”
“Yes; thank you. Thank you!”
            Bolting up from his chair, Sherlock ignored the sandwich in favor
of returning to the Strange House. The side door swung open in a wide arc,
hitting the wall behind it with a solid crack before bouncing forward again in
Sherlock’s wake. As he left, Mrs. Hudson opened her book and began from where
she left off.
“Don’t mention it, dear.”
            Sherlock could hear the silence breaking apart as he stepped
quickly into the Strange House; John’s breath caught as he jumped up from his
place on the steps, and the air crackled with sound as dust was swept up and
moved by the newly opened door. The Deity felt as if he’d already won; like
he’d gained something incredibly powerful in comparison to John’s weak
defenses, and he could finally defeat John in their delicate battle of wits.
“John,” He huffed; he had run from the house, and was out of breath. Taking
slow gulps of air, Sherlock regarded the way John watched him carefully with
his arms outstretched, ready to catch him if need be. “John, I order you.”
John’s jaw dropped, and he took quick steps forward with his hands coming up to
Sherlock’s face, as if to stop him from revealing his order; Sherlock didn’t
give him the chance, ducking away from John’s searching fingers and letting the
words drip from his mouth like honey. “I order you to come stay at the Summer
Estate.”
            With that, the broken silence mended the torn seams and righted
itself into completion once more, leaving the once noisy Strange House with an
unnerving kind of quiet. It was unimportant now, the vast majority of John’s
past excuses; none of them mattered anymore. It was an order from a higher
commanding officer, and John was a compliant soldier ready to listen and obey.
John’s expression crumbled into something Sherlock could easily associate with
confused frustration.
“Order?” Sherlock nodded, and John made a face. “Sherlock, orders are serious
things. An order mustn’t be taken lightly, and you know I won’t, but… if you
order me to, I will come to the Summer Estate.”
            Yes, this was what Sherlock had wanted all along; for John to stop
dodging the idea of longer lesson times in simpler, homier settings. At least,
Sherlock assumed that was what he wanted; there were all sorts of things he
wanted to do with John. He wanted to wake up and know that John was there in
the house with him, he wanted to sit down at the breakfast table with him, and
share stupid social interactions with him in the hallway like Mrs. Hudson had
with the groundskeeper. Surely, lessons and experiments could be fit in the
grand scheme of things in some way or another.
“I know it’s a serious thing. That’s why I’m ordering you.”
John sighed, lifting his shoulders in a vague attempt to try and fight him,
then dropped them in defeat. Sherlock had won this round with his superior
breeding.
“Fine. I will stay in the Summer Estate until you instruct me otherwise.”
            There was a smile on Sherlock’s face, he was almost sure of it, but
he couldn’t quite acknowledge it as John promptly turned and marched his bare
feet out of the Strange House and into the long grass of the property.
“John?” Sherlock followed at a brisk pace, ducking under low hanging tree
branches as John continued down the hill toward the Summer Estate without
pause.  “John, you can’t be mad at me. This is for your own good, you know.
Trust me, I’m a genius. I know these things.”
“Of course, Sherlock.”
“John.” They were almost to the kitchen door, and Sherlock felt the logical,
realistic side of his brain trip and spring into action alongside the
headstrong, wild side of his brain: Mycroft didn’t know who John was, yet.
“John, I need time to plan out how you’ll stay here. I need to,”
“I don’t have a choice, Sherlock. I’m following the order of a Deity, just as a
Sentry should.”
            John reached for the doorknob and Sherlock swatted his hand away,
feeling the heated agitation of John’s mood through his burning skin. The
blonde raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock felt his mind racing away from
John’s reaction to focus on other things. More important things, he assured
himself.
“I… I only need a moment.” Something will have had to happen to John’s parents,
otherwise he wouldn’t be coming to stay with Sherlock. Both of them couldn’t
have died, because John would have been taken in by other family or shoved into
a foster home or orphanage; a neglecting father or mother, perhaps? “Just let
me think, John.”
“You don’t understand, Sherlock. I have to go inside soon, or the oath I made
to your mother will become warped and worn; the Claim she put on me will no
longer be viable.”
            John started to open the door, but Sherlock slammed it shut by
leaning all of his weight against it. An abusive father and a dead or runaway
mother should do the trick; they would have met somewhere believable, somewhere
that Sherlock would actually be willing to go; a library would be simple
enough. But how would Mycroft react to Sherlock extending an invitation for
John to stay there, and what if he rejected the thought of John staying?
“Sherlock,”
“Let me finish!”
“Think while we’re inside; there’s no time left to dilly-dally.”
            With that, John used Sherlock’s weight against him, hooking his
left foot behind Sherlock’s right foot and pulling it forward to throw him off
balance. With a solid hand against his chest, John held Sherlock up while he
opened the door, revealing a wide-eyed Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock stumbled away from
John, pushing the Sentry back only to have him step closer again to put himself
over the threshold of the house.
“My, my… no time left to dilly-dally, is there?” Sherlock glared at the table –
at Mycroft – while John thinned his lips and dropped his gaze to Sherlock’s
shoes. “Why is that?” Mycroft leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table,
clasping his hands together and giving Sherlock a well-worn smile. “I wonder…”
***** Come Home (Part 2) *****
            With a hard glare at Mycroft, Sherlock assessed the different ways
that the conversation could go; John would flounder beneath the weight of his
brother’s words, but would no doubt struggle against the older Holmes if it
meant keeping to Sherlock’s order. Pushing the door shut behind him, Sherlock
did not trust Mycroft enough to look away, holding his slippery person in his
chair with nothing but his penetrating stare.
            Mycroft sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile, as if
he’d caught Sherlock with his hand in the cookie jar. Sherlock hated that look;
as if he had any right to look at him that way. Mycroft had looked at him like
that ever since they were children; when Sherlock would dip his hands into
Mummy’s liquid paints and throw them down on the floor out of boredom: Mycroft
would find him, and give him that smug expression. When Sherlock had tried to
climb a tree to reach a dead bird that was caught on a high hanging branch and
fallen, resulting in a cracked rib and a dislocated shoulder: Mycroft told
Mummy, and while Sherlock was being loaded into the car by his Father’s rough
hands, Mycroft would smile ever so slightly, just so Sherlock would know that
he’d done something idiotically wrong. When Sherlock had tried to use some of
the cleaning chemicals to erase a stain he had put on the carpet only to mix
the wrong two together and give the carpet acidic burns: Mycroft stood in the
door with his arms folded superiorly over his chest, watching him with that
condescending quirk of his eyebrow.
            Sherlock hated that look.
“So, brother dear,” Mycroft said slowly, as if his words were made of honey and
deserved to take their time in being delivered. Sherlock ground his teeth
together with a sour expression; he was only his half-brother. Not that he’d
tell Mycroft; Mycroft already knew. “Who might the young man behind you be?”
            Tucking his hands away in his pockets, Sherlock rolled his
shoulders back to hear the pleasant click of his joints popping as he wandered
about the kitchen. John stayed by the door, demure and very human in the
presence of Sherlock’s half-relative. Whether or not Mycroft wanted an answer,
Sherlock didn’t feel like answering; the longer he sat and ignored his brother,
the more he could think of John’s story. The elder Holmes didn’t give Sherlock
that chance though, speaking up just enough to make the demand sound louder,
just in case John couldn’t quite hear him.
“What is your name, and why are you in my house?”
“Our house.” Sherlock corrected just before John could let the question sink
into his brain. “It’s our house, Mycroft.”
Mycroft gave him a thin smile, his eyes reflecting a dangerous type of
annoyance.
“You are not old enough to claim your part of the deed, Sherlock. Until then,”
The russet haired Holmes turned his steeled gaze back to John. “What is your
name, and why are you in my house?”
“My name is John, Mr. Holmes… John Hamish Watson.”
The Sentry answered without missing a beat. Sherlock bit the inside of his
cheek, wondering where John had thought of his middle and last names. Mycroft,
however, took the name with ease as he sat forward in his chair once more,
resting his folded hands atop the surface of the table while Mrs. Hudson
shifted nervously in her chair next to him.
“A pleasure, Mr. Watson. I am Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft Holmes. What
brings you to my house, this afternoon?”
            John glanced in Sherlock’s direction, and the Deity inwardly
winced; looking to Sherlock was a sign of weakness, or a sign that he was doing
something wrong. Sherlock let his stare fall through John’s crystalline blue
eyes without a hitch in his breath or a falter in his posture. The Sentry
looked back to Mycroft, then let his eyes fall down to the floor, where they
had been when Mycroft had first spoke. Sherlock blinked; John had a plan.
“I… it’s a long story, Mr. Holmes.” Good lord, John had made a plan in advance.
“You see, my father is… well, after my mum died…” John had known that Sherlock
would con him or trick him or order him into the Summer Estate; he’d been
ready. “He just wasn’t the same. I used to spend a lot of my time outside and
around town, just to get out of the house, you know? That’s how I met Sherlock…
he was walking around the town, and I just happened to bump into him. Just by
chance, actually.” Sherlock’s lips curled up into a smile despite himself; John
had known, all along. He was keeping his contract with Sherlock’s mother, using
all of his extra time in the Strange House to plan for this moment. “It was
just lucky that we met.”
“Is it, now?”
            Mycroft brought the palms of his hands together in front of his
face, holding the tips of his fingers to his lips much like Sherlock liked to
when he was thinking. Mycroft’s face was a tricky setup of invitations; if John
said something slightly strange, the older Holmes would pounce on it, no doubt.
Sherlock wished that he could tell John this, just to warn him to pick his
words carefully. John nodded at Mycroft, lifting a hand to smooth the front of
his gleaming white shirt before returning it to his side as he lifted his eyes
to regard the older Holmes evenly.
“Yes, sir. Your brother is a very unique person.” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at
that remark, and John went on without a break in tone. “He walked with me for
several days, just filling up the time with silly things.” Sherlock hardly
thought that what they had practiced in the Strange House was ‘silly’, but this
was John’s story, and Sherlock wasn’t about to interrupt. “Before I knew it, we
were friends. Strange how that happens sometimes; you think you don’t really
know someone, and then you feel like you’ve know them since Primary School.”
The Dream Deity was certain that John hadn’t even attended Primary School, but
again, he didn’t dare interrupt as Mycroft gave an affirmative hum. John’s
story took on a heavier setting as the Sentry’s blue eyes darkened with
something that Sherlock assumed was guilt or regret. In this case, Sherlock
wanted to say that it was guilt over lying to Mycroft, but he didn’t step in;
John still had more of his story.
“My dad’s been drinking a lot more, now. It’s gotten to the point that he gets
mad when I come into the house, and I just,”
“Why?”
John blinked, and Sherlock locked his jaw to keep from snapping at his brother.
“I’m… sorry? What do you mean?”
“Why does your father become angry when you step into the house?”
Licking his lips, John smiled bashfully. “I look a lot like my mum.” Sherlock
exhaled slowly; John really did have a plan, but Mycroft wasn’t going to let it
go very far. “He was mad that she left us… she just got sick, and couldn’t get
better. My dad never did really accept it.”
“I see.” Mycroft flattened his palms against the table and gave Sherlock a
sharp look before glancing at John from underneath his drawn down eyebrows.
“And you thought the remedy to an alcoholic father was to run away to a
strangers’ home to hide?”
            There is was, the ace up Mycroft’s sleeve; condescension. It was
Mycroft’s best quality when it was good for Sherlock – like if he needed it to
get out of trouble in school – but otherwise, he hated his brother for it.
John’s eyelids fluttered shut, and he turned his face to the wall, as if he
could pretend that Mycroft hadn’t said anything, but Sherlock could see the
underlying tension in John’s frame. He could see the golden skin was tight over
muscles in his forearms and his hands were in anxious fists; if John wanted to
punch Mycroft and be done with it, Sherlock wouldn’t hold him back.
“I just thought,”
“You just thought? In my opinion, Mr. Watson, you didn’t think that move
through. Much less, your story. When you opened that door, you said there was
no time to dilly-dally. Why is that? Is it because you’re running from
something a little more serious than an angry father?”
            John sighed; it was a cream colored sigh, sweetened with his faulty
sunshine smile and a slight shake of his head. It was a sigh that made John
look as if he had already won the argument; shaking his head the way he did, as
if Mycroft had made a terribly wrong observation, and it was funny in the way
that an infant would mistake a circle for a square. With his eyes still on the
wall, John’s spoke quickly and quietly.
“You know what it is, Mr. Holmes, to be forgotten.” Mycroft sputtered for a
second before John quickly continued. “Sherlock told me about how your father
was cruel to you in his own way; it may not be the same thing, but I can
relate.” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Being forgotten by someone you want to know
badly as your own family… it’s a sad thing. It’s sad, but… not as sad as other
things. It’s why we stand up, and why we walk away. It’s why you’re so logical,
it’s why Sherlock is so feisty; you don’t want to be like him, squandering away
your time on something that really isn’t worthwhile.”
John let out a huff of air before licking his bottom lip with a smile. It was a
side of John that Sherlock had seen in John’s dreams; a sad, logical side that
knew that Danabell didn’t love him as much as she loved Sherlock or Mycroft. It
was the side of John that wanted to be seen and loved like a son, but never
was. Mrs. Hudson sniffled and Mycroft’s scowl deepened.
“I can leave, Mr. Holmes, but do you really want that? I know that you’re a
smart man, and I’m sure you have all sorts of reasons that you could throw me
out this instant, but you haven’t. It’s because you know that when I said
‘there’s no time to dilly-dally’, I said it for a good reason. You know I did.”
John was on a roll, smiling through a broken speech that he had obviously been
prepared to tell someone for years, but never found the time. “I have no time
left to waste in that house. I have no time left to pretend to be noticed and
needed there. Living alone in a world where you thought you were surrounded by
love… it’s a frightening way to live, Mr. Holmes.” John’s breath caught, but he
didn’t stop, he merely smiled through all of his words just like he always did
with me. Sherlock felt smile grow for some reason; was it for his pride in
John, or in his honesty? “Even though I was afraid to leave that whole life
behind, Sherlock pushed me into leaving; so, I think I’m ready now.”
John drew in a cleansing breath, his eyes wide with release as he smiled at
Sherlock, rather than at Mycroft.
“I’m so ready to leave that house, Mr. Holmes. I’m so ready to live on my own
time, instead of on my father’s borrowed time; I’m here where Sherlock said I
could be, where Sherlock said I could live. I’m here to live in my own way, on
my own time. Rather than be alone, I’ll have my first true friend by my side,
Mr. Holmes.” John turned his smile on Mycroft, who was working his jaw sulkily
in his chair. “I’m so ready to live, Mr. Holmes, and I’d like to live here, if
that’s alright with you, of course.”
            If Sherlock had ever seen his half-brother glare at anyone like he
had glared at John in that moment, he would’ve assumed that the person was
about to be taken away by a special branch of the British government to be
‘studied’ for the rest of their days. John, however, was as lucky as they come,
and Mycroft made no move to take his cellphone from his pocket to call the
armed forces to take John away.
“Well,” Mycroft glanced at Mrs. Hudson for a moment before smoothing his
already smooth hair with a sweep of his hand. “It seems my brother has already
extended an invitation for you to stay, hasn’t he?”
            Smirking with his crooked smile, Sherlock allowed Mycroft to burn
his stare into him. It wasn’t often that Sherlock offered to give people
things, and when he did, it was to offer advice that people didn’t want, like
how to get their parents to stop cheating on each other with the same man, or
that they shouldn’t reproduce because their genes would contaminate the gene
pool. John was different, though; if it meant helping John, Sherlock felt
almost sure that he’d do anything.
“Yes, it seems I have.”
            Grinding his teeth together, Mycroft looked to Mrs. Hudson for a
logical refusal, but she didn’t give one. She merely smiled and fluttered her
hand over her lips as she looked between Sherlock and John. It was too late for
Mycroft to attempt to recruit the kind woman for his cause; John had won her
over years earlier and ensured her allegiance in this moment. Mycroft sighed
crossly as he stood up.
“Very well. How long will you be staying with us, Mr. Watson?”
“Just for the summer.” Sherlock intercepted, glancing at John before
continuing. “If he needs to stay somewhere longer… we’ll figure it out as we
go.”
“Yes. You always were good at making up things as you go… like excuses.”
Mycroft sneered, watching Sherlock’s stony smile carefully before moving to the
door. “I’d like a cup of coffee in the drawing room, Mrs. Hudson.”
“I’m not your waitress, dear.”
The housekeeper called after him, though she stood up to retrieve a cup for the
older Holmes. John and Sherlock looked to each other for a moment before John’s
smile cracked open wide in a bout of breathless laughter. Sherlock’s laugh
followed, lower in pitch and setting John’s laughter on a higher scale of
importance in the room, as if he lit up the air with his laughter, just by
being who he was.
It was perfect, having John so close. Sherlock would wake up, and John would be
right there, not so far away, and not nearly as alone. The Deity was sure that
their friendship would only grow stronger, and more trusting as time went on,
giving the new living arrangements a large role in that growth. They would no
doubt grow closer because of it, being so close every morning, every night;
waking up and going to sleep knowing they were a hallway; a room; a door away.
Closer and closer, until no space would be left… Sherlock blinked through a
huff of laughter, giving John a quick once over; why did he think these things
about John? Closer and closer; Sherlock wondered if John ever thought the same
things; most likely not, since John was more attuned to the socially and
sentimentally correct.
“So, boys.” Mrs. Hudson set Mycroft’s ready cup of coffee to the side of the
counter, giving the teens a smile and raised eyebrow. “Who’s hungry?”
            John and Sherlock – neither of them knowing why – looked at each
other, and seeing the other’s flushed cheeks, started to laugh all over again.
 
+++++
 
“Mrs. Hudson said that this used to be my Father’s study.”
            Sherlock muttered with a smile as he and John spread themselves out
on the carpeted floor with his mother’s diary and several blankets laid out
underneath them. John hummed quietly, glancing out at the window to see the
glass panes covered in large drops of rain. They had been holed up in the study
almost the entire afternoon, talking about his mother’s diary and different
stories that Sherlock could still remember.
“I’m glad I’m allowed to stay here, but…” John looked forlornly at the window
seat that was covered in a sheet and done up like a cocoon of down blankets; a
makeshift bed. “Your brother went to the extremes to keeping me as far away
from you as possible.”
            Sherlock scoffed, turning a page in his mother’s diary to see the
first blank piece of parchment; nothingness all written out on the page for him
to wonder what could’ve come next. Shrugging, Sherlock rolled onto his back and
folded his hands beneath his head.
“You’re on the other side of the house, right next to the kitchen.” He stated
tersely. “You are as far as you could possibly be from my bedroom; but I’m not
going to stay in my own bedroom all day long. I’d hang myself if I had nothing
to do all day.” John chuckled. “It would be so boring without you.”
            From his lax position on the floor, Sherlock could see the way John
stretched his arms above his head and twisted his torso to and fro. It was odd
to see his Sentry stretching out like a cat in the sun, but it wasn’t odd to
notice that subtle way John’s skin glowed against the orange flames of the
fireplace before them. The flames reflected John’s light, licking at the
shadows that would attempt to eat away at John’s light and burning them away as
more would appear in their wake. Sherlock smiled; it was so easy to sit with
John. He didn’t want to say anything to break up the silence, and John seemed
to echo that air, eyeing the fire with minute interest before lying himself
back down onto the blankets next to Sherlock and closing his eyes.
            John’s warmth traveled through the blankets as he laid his golden
crown of hair down, closing his eyes against the late evening and Sherlock
both. Sherlock could feel the heat soaking through the quilt on which he
currently resided, making him feel smothered and bothered. He rolled onto his
side, propping his chin in his palm as his elbow acted as an anchor to the
ground. John was laid out across the blankets on his front with his arms folded
as a pillow beneath his head, the depiction of a Sentry in repose. The glow of
his skin never left, even after his awareness had faded down to nothing but his
body’s instinct to sleep while he could.
“It’s easy isn’t it?” The Deity murmured, watching as John’s eye cracked open
to see Sherlock look at the hand that wasn’t holding him up. “You don’t even
think about it.”
            John sighed into the blankets, letting his blue eyes flutter shut
before turning his face into the fabric beneath him and yawning. Sherlock
watched as John’s lips parted around the deep breath, memorizing the way his
hands curled and fisted in the blankets and the way his shouldered flexed under
the bland white shirt he wore before John melted back into his lightly tired
pose. His face turned back to regard Sherlock with an easy smile, his blue eyes
tinted a strange combination of fire and ice by the flames that were mirrored
in his irises.
“I was born believing in it. I didn’t have to look into myself to believe; it
was always just… there.” John yawned once more, covering his mouth with the
back of one honey colored hand before letting it drop back to the blankets with
another smile. “You taught yourself what I was born understanding; that takes a
lot of patience and skill.”
Watching John from underneath his brunneous fan of eyelashes, Sherlock observed
as John’s eyelids drooped under his gaze, each blink coming slower as the fire
crackled pleasantly in front of them. Not before long, John’s blinking stopped
altogether and Sherlock was left with an open hand hanging in the air with
nothing to do. Looking from his hand to John’s face, Sherlock debated reaching
forward and finding the ring on John’s left hand that hid who he really was,
or, what he really was. Rethinking this idea, Sherlock tucked his hand close to
his chest, and let himself lie down on the blankets.
John was breathing deeply, as if the smell of the Holmes Estate was so
pleasing, he needed to absorb it into his dreams; Sherlock wondered if such a
thing was possible. If it were, Sherlock would absorb the peppermint smell of
John’s breath; strange as it may have sounded to the everyday stranger,
Sherlock knew that the smell of peppermint, however common it may be, was
something special when it came to John. Shifting forward on the blanket covered
floor, Sherlock closed his eyes as he came to a rest a mere two inches from
John’s face, feeling the warmth, minty scent of John’s every breath haunt his
dreams.
++++
From past experiences, Sherlock knew that dreams came to him often, and most of
them left his memory quickly in the morning. Such dreams created the fleeting
wish that sometime, somehow, one would slip into his mind and grip his
consciousness, holding on as a true memory until even after he woke. Even
though he wished for a dream that would linger in his mind, Sherlock didn’t
think that a dream so vivid would linger quite so long. The dream was not a
horrible fantasy, but a sickly twist on life that he wasn’t exactly sure he
would endorse or not; and yet, it was a dream he would never deny dreaming
twice.
It was warm. Almost too hot to be bearable, there in a bed while he was tangled
in the sheets that were highlighted by the silky illumination of a fire. The
flame that lit the room was nowhere to be found, hidden beneath layers of flesh
and bone, nestled deep within Sherlock himself, and the person accompanying him
in the tangle of limbs.
Hands – much too hot to be comfortable – were clasped around his wrists,
sliding up his arms and gliding over his shoulders. Lips – parted around each
startlingly warm, peppermint scented breath in tandem with his own – were held
over his own mouth, choking on air as if there was too much moisture in the
room to get a proper lungful of oxygen. Legs – twisted with his own legs and
slick with sweat – trembled as the weight of a strange body was held on top of
him. The hands on his shoulders spread out their fingers, ticking up the inches
of Sherlock’s neck and holding the sides of his face so that he couldn’t pull
away. Sherlock felt his body shaking with expectation, his arms rushing up to
dig his fingernails into the warm – strangely warm – skin above him. It was the
only way he could imagine it happening; the only physical contact he could live
with, with the only person he could feel so drawn to in his life. Above him,
the impossibly blue eyes above him fluttered shut as their bodies rocked
against each other.
“John…”
 
+++++
 
Sitting up quickly, Sherlock felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his
face while his breath came to him in shallow gasps. The room was dark – the
fire long dead through the night and now sitting in a sad display of ashes –
say for the flickers of lightning that bathed the room in split second
illumination before disappearing again as the rain fell in steadily against the
glass of his window. Feeling much too hot, Sherlock looked about the room for
some sort of rag he could use to wipe his brow, but only found the blankets on
the ground tangled up beneath him and around John. He lifted the corner of one,
and swiped it across his face.
It was not the first time he had dreamt of John in such a state; it had been
happening for the past several nights, and, he would wake up with sticky bed
sheets that made his cheeks burn with shame. Looking down at his trousers,
Sherlock found comfort in the fact that this dream had only left him feeling
painfully aroused and no more; John was still asleep and content on the floor,
oblivious to the scandalous activities he had just been involved in during
Sherlock’s dream. Sherlock watched him carefully, minding the rumbling of
thunder and anticipating the lightning that would highlight his sleeping face.
With the strike of lighting connecting with the ground, Sherlock could see
John’s serene expression against the blankets, and his eyelids fluttering
through a dream as he slept. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to see what John
was dreaming of; it was too much after his own dream to go and link their minds
together as one. Feeling a wave of heat roll over his skin once more, Sherlock
fell back against the blankets once more, turning away from John and biting his
lower lip spotting his mother’s diary just in front of him. Scooting closer to
read it slowly by the light of sporadic lightning, Sherlock smiled.
Dreams are strange. They show us what we want, even if we don’t know that we
want it, and they show us what we fear, even if we didn’t know that we were
afraid of it. Even as the Goddess of Dreams, I can say that dreams are very
strange, and, when well placed, beautifully accurate.
***** To the City *****
                Morning was overshadowed by the heaviness of rain in the sky,
giving the illusion that there was no such thing as a warm and sunny summer day
at the Holmes Summer Estate. Sherlock sat in John’s window-seat made bed,
watching the widow continue to keep out the rain that seemed to want to enter
the home. It had been a long, aching night; after his dream, he struggled to
sleep peacefully, much too afraid that he would wake up to find his trousers
covered with evidence. It was odd to him, this type of fretful, fitful
worrying; it seemed so mundane, and simply too normal. Then again, Sherlock had
never had a dream like the ones he had with John before; perhaps John was
changing him.
                These thoughts of change and worry had been circling for quite
some time, and even though the sky had hardly changed since he and John had
gone to sleep at night, Sherlock know it was morning. Giving John a sidelong
glance, Sherlock noted that the Sentry had rolled over once more; that made
seven times that John had moved over in his sleep. Four times he had moved over
to where Sherlock had previously been located, and three to mark the times he
had rolled back to his beginning position. Needless to say, Sherlock hadn’t
slept, and had been watching John to see if he woke like Sherlock had – he
hadn’t. Maybe something was wrong with him.
                Shaking his head to rid it of those thoughts, Sherlock slipped
from the window seat and stepped over John’s legs en route to the door. He had
gotten dressed hours ago whilst looking for something to do, and watching John
had become a worthy use of time as he waited for John to wake up and give him
something to do. The Sentry mumbled something incoherent in his sleep – for the
thirteenth time – and Sherlock didn’t want to try to hear him clearly, opening
the door and turning around the corner to enter the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was
wide awake and at the table, sipping a cup of tea as she read a new book,
another horrendous publication by the title ‘Peach Flavoured Sunset’ with
several reviews from women adorning the back.
“Good morning, dear.”
                Sherlock grunted a short response, moving to the coffee pot and
pouring himself a mug before listening to the sound of rain pelting the roof of
the Summer Estate. The landlady asked him how he slept and he felt his ears
burn as he took a sip of lukewarm coffee with a shrug. There was the rustling
of paper for a moment before the questions were silenced and Mrs. Hudson
returned to her book. Sherlock noted that his palms were clammy; perhaps it was
the question of bringing up his dreams. Yes, being the son of the Goddess of
Dreams was setting him on edge. Surely, it had nothing to do with the fact that
his dream included a very promiscuous version of John in it; no, that wasn’t
it. At least, that’s what Sherlock thought to himself as he smiled wryly into
the rim of his cup. That wasn’t it…
                Sherlock felt the door to the kitchen open more than he heard
it; the unmistakable warmth that radiated off of John wasn’t feverish with
anger or irritation, but a calm kind of heat that he had felt many times when
he visited John early in the morning. Steeling his calm demeanor, Sherlock
turned and leaned back casually against the countertop as he watched John.
John, in all his just woken up glory, looked straight to Sherlock – ignoring
the perfectly friendly woman at the table – and smiled.
                His blonde hair was mussed just enough to be endearing and
childish, framing his warm face that didn’t hold a hint of light. John had
gotten used to suppressing it, Sherlock guessed, when Mrs. Hudson couldn’t
quite understand the concept of a glowing Sentry at first; then, there was the
added threat of Mycroft discovering his ability. Sherlock smiled in return,
watching with bated breath as John squinted with a crumpled expression, then
scrunched his eyes shut around a yawn, stretching his arms up to wake up his
tired joints and muscles. As he lifted his golden arms, Sherlock could see a
small rectangle strip of John’s torso, just as golden as the rest of his skin,
say for the sparse trail of even lighter hair leading down… Sherlock closed his
eyes and brought his cup up to his lips, taking a drink.
“Good morning, dear.” Mrs. Hudson chimed, earning a sweet response from John as
he pulled out a chair and took a seat at one side of the table. Sherlock wasn’t
paying attention, but if he had been, he was sure that John had said something
absolutely charming about the rain or some such nonsense. “And how did you
sleep, dear? Were you warm enough? Did you have enough blankets?”
“He had all of the blankets, Mrs. Hudson.”
                Sherlock deadpanned, leaving John to chuckle nervously and
agree with his Deity. The landlady asked a few more questions, none of which
interested Sherlock until she set her book aside and leaned forward to tug at
the sleeve of John’s white shirt.
“John… aren’t these the clothes you wore yesterday?” She gave Sherlock a sharp
look and his brows knotted together in confusion; how was that his fault? “Why
didn’t you lend him some pajamas, Sherlock?”
                Shrugging loosely, Sherlock came to sit next to John across the
table from Mrs. Hudson, looking him up and down at the table before deeming him
fine in what he was wearing. He had seen John in those clothes for more than a
month, so the idea of him wearing them was fine. It wasn’t like John smelled
bad, or he needed a shower; John always smelled like freshly mowed grass and
looked like he bathed regularly, even if the Strange House didn’t have working
water pipes or even a bathtub or shower for John to use.
“He said he didn’t want them, so logically, I didn’t give him any.”
                Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips against the snarky comment,
standing up from her chair and moving around the table to wander to the
refrigerator. John looked at Sherlock and shrugged as if to say ‘I don’t care
either way’.
“Tea, John?”
Mrs. Hudson called, retrieving butter from the refrigerator and setting it next
to the bread on the counter. Sherlock tilted his mug to and fro as John smiled
at him, their eyes not leaving the others’.
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
“Toast with it, yes?”
“I’d love to have some. Thank you.”
                Sherlock let his mug sit on the table alone, bringing up his
elbow to rest it against the table while his chin was propped in his palm,
watching John carefully. The Sentry smiled wider and cocked his head to the
side ever so slightly, just enough for Sherlock to see him acting coy. Why was
that? John didn’t know about the dream Sherlock had. Did he? Thinning his lips,
Sherlock arched one thoughtful eyebrow while John sat quietly. It was like the
night they first met: Sherlock studying John to know who and what he was while
John merely smiled and allowed the investigation to carry through.
                Turning in his chair to face his entire body toward John,
Sherlock let his mind wander through all he knew about John; there was too much
information in his Mind Palace not being put into the correct places. He felt
as if everything was in disarray, caught up in John’s whirlwind laughter and
burning in the brightness of his smile. Acidic and sweet to the extreme, John’s
words dripped through the information at his disposal, disintegrating what he
thought was irrelevant and creating new, better information about John that was
important in the highest.
                Running the edge of his tongue over the front of his teeth,
Sherlock watched the tabletop as John took his tea from Mrs. Hudson with a
polite ‘thank you’ and began to drink it with slow, easy sips. There was so
much that he’d thought about saying to John, but none of it seemed important as
the Sentry watched him with innocent curiosity. There were lessons he wanted to
resume, and boundaries he wanted to push; just how close could he get to his
dream without actually getting away with it? Sherlock felt his lips twist into
a smile. Could he get away with it? John might not want that sort of thing; if
there was anything Sherlock knew about John, it was that he was a boy of simple
minded thoughts and not Sherlock’s own racing agenda.
                If John wanted anything, it was probably another Sentry like
himself since he was so keen on telling Sherlock that he was under oath to help
him and follow his order. The smile on Sherlock’s face faded; it made sense
that John would want another Sentry, and most likely a girl. When Sherlock had
learned all that he possibly could, would John just leave him, then? Would John
even care that Sherlock wanted him to stay after their oath had become null and
void?
“Maybe we should go shopping in the city.”
                Sherlock blinked up at Mrs. Hudson who sat in her chair with a
passive expression on her face. Shopping? Sherlock himself hated shopping;
there were too many data points to take in, let alone the endless rows of
aisles that held nothing that he wanted. If there was something of value to be
obtained – like a new electron transmission microscope – he would go and
purchase it through the miracle of the worldwide web. He had no need for
shopping, but John… Sherlock watched in fascination as John’s eyes grew wide
and the temperature in the room kicked up a few degrees.
“The city?” He said, wetting his lips with his tongue with a smile. “You would
go into the city?”
                Mrs. Hudson smiled, moving back to the table and setting John’s
toast, slathered in some sort of jam, in front of him, followed by a steaming
cup of tea. John thanked her and took a bite of the toast before turning back
to Sherlock with a smile, claiming it was delicious. Sherlock nodded absently;
John would always turn back to him, as if Mrs. Hudson had nothing to do with
the conversation. Sherlock wasn’t even saying anything. John merely turned
toward him with those impossibly blue eyes and waited for something incredible
to happen; as if Sherlock was a magnetic field and John was a fork, the blonde
was drawn to him. How forceful that draw was… Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted
to know.
“Have you never been in the city, John?”
The Sentry shook his head, looking to the landlady with such a hopeful
expression it made Sherlock cringe. John wanted to get out of the house, badly;
he just never wanted to violate his contract.
“I was never allowed to leave that house, and now Sherlock has ordered me to
stay here.” John turned his hopeful eyes on Sherlock, and the Deity deflated
under the power of his own order. “Do… do you think that if you go to the city,
if it’s alright with you, maybe I… I could come along?” John leaned forward,
toward Sherlock and the Deity leaned back, the heat in the room was bumped up
to a level that almost bordered uncomfortable, and Sherlock felt a bead of
sweat forming on his brow. “I’ll be good, I promise! I am very well behaved;
you know me. I’ll be quiet and I won’t get in the way, I’ll just be there for
the experience. I won’t ask for anything.”
“The whole reason we’d be going is to get you some decent clothes, dear.”
                Mrs. Hudson puffed from across the table, fanning herself with
her novel and complaining about the heat with a cross expression. John bowed
his head with flushed cheeks before continuing with a calmer tone and a
soothing loss of extreme heat in the room.
“I don’t need anything. I’m fine with what I’m wearing. But Sherlock, if you
maybe want to get something in the city, I still… if I could come with you,
that would be,”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I was you, Mr. Watson.”
                Sherlock glared at his older brother as he stepped into the
kitchen in a crisp and freshly pressed suit. Mycroft’s fingers smoothed the
front of his unwrinkled suit before stepping forward and taking up a cup of tea
Mrs. Hudson no doubt had put on the counter for him. As he took a long drink,
Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye, taking in the way John
fiddled with the golden band on his ring finger and how he dropped his gaze to
the floor. Mycroft spoke again.
“Sherlock hates to go shopping; he says it’s a waste of time. Perhaps it’d be
best for Mrs. Hudson to merely run her errands on her own; besides, the fresh
air of the countryside is good for the both of you.”
                Taking another sip of tea, Mycroft arched an eyebrow at his
half-brother when he glared at him long and hard enough to make his swollen
head burst like an untimely blister. John shrugged sadly, as if his excitement
was just a farce and he really didn’t care. He took up the toast on his plate
and took a few small, calculated bites before setting the food down and
refusing to pick it up once more. Sherlock felt his jaw working uselessly, his
teeth gnashing together while he thought; he wanted to spend time with John,
but he wanted to learn. He could learn while they were in the city, couldn’t
he? John most likely wouldn’t mind, especially if no one saw them; he just
wanted to get away from Mycroft’s prying eyes and Mrs. Hudson’s worried gaze.
“Actually,” John perked up at the sound of his Deity’s voice, glancing at him
with those lost blue eyes; Sherlock glanced at Mrs. Hudson with the smoothest
smile he could muster. “I wouldn’t mind going into the city. All this fresh air
has been giving me a headache.” He glanced at Mycroft, who scowled. John was
holding back that luster of his, and Sherlock was almost sure that the smile on
his lips would crack his face in half. “We should go, since John hasn’t been;
it would be interesting.”
                With that, Mrs. Hudson was cleaning up the kitchen and telling
the boys to get ready with whatever they’d need: wallets, good shoes – John
would have to borrow a pair of Sherlock’s shoes, two sizes too big for him –
and an umbrella for the possibility of rain.
In John’s room, John fumbled with whatever Sherlock threw his way. A jacket, a
pair of shoes Sherlock knew wouldn’t fit him, a different jacket if the
previous one didn’t fit.
“Sherlock,” John said in a warning tone, causing the Deity to look up from the
bag he had hauled from his own room to regard him carefully. “I can’t leave the
Estate. You gave your order. Will you change it, or…?”
“Right. Of course.” Clearing his throat and standing up straight, Sherlock
raised his eyebrows as John did the same, standing up straight and holding his
hands behind his back; a soldier at parade rest. “I order you to stay by my
side, in and outside the Holmes Summer Estate. Do you understand?”
“I understand. I’ll stay by your side, in or outside the Summer Estate, until
you instruct me otherwise.”
With his new claim to freedom, John smiled and started to sift through the
jackets that Sherlock had given him, thrusting his arm through one of the
sleeves and watching as it drooped over the line of his knuckles. Mycroft
interrupted the process, stepping into the safe haven that was John’s room and
telling Sherlock that he was being ridiculous and getting Mrs. Hudson’s way.
“I’m not in the way,” Sherlock responded, telling John to put on the other
jacket. “She’s offering to take us. I bet she wants to get away from you just
as much as we do.”
                Taking John’s wrist – or the fabric of his other jacket because
the sleeves were too still long on John and fell over his knuckles – and tugged
him to the doorway, side-stepping Mycroft and towing the blonde to the front
door. Mycroft fallowed him with harried steps, most likely trying to think of
what he could say to stop Sherlock when he knew there was nothing he could say.
Waving an arm to the house as he stepped out the front door for the first time
since coming to the Summer Estate, Sherlock called behind to Mycroft:
“So long, try your best not to cry in my absence!”
                In the car, Sherlock had tucked John in the backseat behind
Mrs. Hudson, allowing the Sentry to inspect each and every bit of the car with
wide eyes and obvious observation. He didn’t want to sit in the front seat;
John would’ve leaned forward to say something to him, his warm breath brushing
over the shell of his ear and down his neck. No, Sherlock sat next to John in
the backseat, quietly listening to John question every aspect of the car with a
small smile.
“What is this made of?”
                He pat the seat underneath him with a wonder-filled tone, not
even noticing that Mrs. Hudson was pulling out of the driveway. Sherlock raised
his eyebrows.
“Synthetic leather, John.” The Sentry turned his eyes up to him while his
golden eyebrows knitted together in a confused manner. Sherlock sighed, playing
with his safety belt. “It’s a fabric that was made to resemble leather, but it
isn’t. It’s mainly made of plastic and nylon.”
                John’s lips parted in a dramatic ‘oh’, but Sherlock was
positive that John still had no clue what he was talking about. After a few
more questions on what things were, John turned to the window, admiring the way
the world moved past them, exclaiming that it was amazing. Mrs. Hudson giggled
just a bit while Sherlock rolled his eyes with a soft smile; John didn’t really
know anything about the world outside the Strange House. It was good for him to
learn.
                Sherlock didn’t like idle chat; it was a nuisance in his mind.
He let Mrs. Hudson tell John about the different fields of tall grass that they
passed, giving him stories of young children that used to play in those fields
all of the time. Sherlock merely sat and fished his phone out of his pocket,
scrolling through his brother’s email for interesting things to look at while
John smiled and nodded at Mrs. Hudson’s fond memories. It was different when
John spoke; when John spoke, he immediately gained Sherlock’s attention,
granting the Sentry all of his piercing intellect and narrowing it down on the
sound of his words and the shape of his lips around words. It was quite a
pastime, listening to John speak. Sherlock adored John’s way of speaking; he
didn’t waste time with frivolous socially niceties when it came to a story,
like others did. He merely told the story with his own words, not paraphrased
jibber jabber that annoyed him to no end. So, when John spoke up, Sherlock
lifted his gaze from his phone to watch his honey colored lips part around the
beginning of his story.
“I was born in a field like that, I think.” Mrs. Hudson made a confused humming
sound, glancing at John in the rearview mirror before returning her eyes to the
road. “I don’t remember all that well, but… I think I was born in a field that
was somewhat like that one. The sun was so bright that day; I remember that.”
John laughed and turned to Sherlock with humor glittering in his eyes. “I
suppose I’d have to remember that, considering I was born from the sun.”
“That sounds a bit lonely, John.” Mrs. Hudson mused, flicking the turning
signal and slowing when she came to her turn. “Being all alone in a field like
that.”
John shrugged, and slid along the seat a bit when the car turned, laughing at
the force of inertia, not that he knew what that was. Mrs. Hudson glanced at
him in the mirror again, but smiled this time. Sherlock smiled too, watching
John shift his body back into his seat comfortably before he slipped his
smaller feet out of Sherlock’s shoes and kicked them under the seat: banished
until he absolutely had to wear them.
The rest of the car ride, much to Sherlock’s dismay, was filled with Mrs.
Hudson’s gossip. The neighbors were up to something again, with that ‘thing’ in
their lawn. A girl she went to school with was having an affair with someone,
and she was dying to know who it was for the sake of more gossiping. More than
once, Sherlock would cover his ears and curl in on himself in hopes that his
brain cells would stay intact through the idiotic one-sided conversation. When
he did this, John’s warm palm would slide over his shoulder, the sun warmed
fingers would just brush over the hairs at the nape of his neck, and then the
hand would retreat back to John’s lap. He would sit up and glare out the window
until Mrs. Hudson insisted that the gardener, Lance, and had told her a
completely legitimate story; Sherlock would then resume his sulking with his
hands over his ears and his head between his knees.
John would reach across the seats to pat his back, his hand brushing smooth
waves into the tight line of his shoulders before his hand would disappear and
the muffled conversation was brought to light again. John was trying to soothe
him, but Sherlock could only think of his dream; those warm hands had been
other places, sliding over other things; Sherlock smiled and didn’t take his
hands from his ears, hearing John say his name in that wanton tone over and
over. And then John’s hand was back, smoothing over his shoulder blades and
scraping against his wool coat before gripping his shoulder and tugging
lightly. Sitting up slightly, Sherlock removed his hands from his ears to look
up at John, seeing tall buildings slip past the window as he did so.
“Sherlock, it’s the city.” He said with such awe inspired amazement Sherlock
smiled. They must have been driving for over an hour, but his excitement hadn’t
faded. His electrifying blue eyes were fixed on one building, and when it was
out of sight, he found another to admire. “Everything is so… big. How do you
see all of this in one day?”
“You don’t go into every building, John. We won’t even have to go into several
of them. We might just go to one store and find you some decent pajamas,”
“And at least two new shirts and a few new pairs of trousers,” Mrs. Hudson
added.
“And my own shoes, if that’s alright.”
John mumbled, looking down at Sherlock’s shoes that were tucked beneath Mrs.
Hudson’s chair. Sherlock sighed and waved away the additions with a flick of
his wrist.
“Yes, fine; shirts and trousers and whatnot.”
“Shoes.”
“Yes, John. Shoes. All of these things can easily be found in one store. We
don’t have to see the whole city when we can just go into one building.” When
John nodded slowly with that fake smile of his, Sherlock folded and watched
Mrs. Hudson smile at the steering wheel. “Or, we might have to look around for
something you want. All the unknown variables, and such.”
                The landlady chose to leave the car in a parking structure –
being paid by the Holmes family, she was given plenty of money to pay for the
frivolous expense of paying for a pleasant place to park – and she gave
Sherlock the very important job of remembering where the car was parked. John
smiled at Sherlock when he began to go off about how it was a stupid thing to
ask him to memorize it when he would easily remember things that he notices,
and reached out a hand to tap his shoulder lightly.
“I think she gets it, Sherlock. She’s not even listening anymore.”
“Well, it was for the benefit of both of you.”
                Sherlock grumbled as Mrs. Hudson walked them to the lift and
began to go on about something Sherlock’s mother had told her. IT was something
about a very impressive market filled with all sorts of people and strange
things.
“I’ve just been dying to go there, but I never could find it.” She fluttered
her hands about her hair as if there was someone very important in the lift
that she had to impress. The bell signaling the opening of the lift doors rang,
and the company shuffled inside as Mrs. Hudson went on. “Your mother told me
that it was a market unlike any other right inside this strip of stores; but I
never found it.”
She repeated her defeat and deflated a bit at the failure. It interested
Sherlock, and the idea of not being able to find it intrigued him even more;
perhaps it was a place that only Sentries, Gods, and their descendants could
find. He turned to John to ask him if he could somehow find this strange place,
but Mrs. Hudson interrupted him when the lift dinged their arrival and she
shooed them out of the small enclosure.
“Alright, boys! Here we go, into the great unknown. John, you’ll want to stay
close, dear.” John nodded and stepped closer to Sherlock as they entered the
shopping complex, letting their arms brush against one another as they walked.
Mrs. Hudson let them to a store called Kirkland Outfitters, spotting a
mannequin in ‘darling’ clothes and taking John’s hand to lead him inside while
Sherlock stayed back by the entrance. “Now, John, you just look around and tell
me what you like and we’ll see what sizes they have.”
                Watching Mrs. Hudson walk toward a rack of shirts, John
scurried back to Sherlock with a horrified expression. Pushing the fabric that
covered his knuckles back only to have it fall back against his hands – a tide
that simply couldn’t be kept out at sea – John gave a flustered apology.
“I’m sorry.”
Sherlock blinked and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to be right by my side,
John.”
“That’s what your order implied.”
                John mumbled up to him, pushing the sleeves back again.
Sherlock sighed heavily and stepped into the store, coming to a stop next to
Mrs. Hudson and giving her a thin smile when she asked him his he wanted
anything.
“No, I don’t want anything. At least, nothing from this store. John,” The
Sentry next to him smiled up at him with a trusting expression and Sherlock
felt the tips of his ears burn as he waved him toward a shelf of what seemed to
be blue jeans. “You can go look over there if you want.”
                Biting his lower lip and twining his fingers together, John’s
smile was impossible to miss as he turned back to Sherlock with a light flush.
Mrs. Hudson hid a snicker behind a delicate hand while Sherlock shoved his
hands into his pockets and sighed. John mumbled his question quickly, only to
be cut off by Sherlock’s response.
“Will you… I mean, I don’t have to look at those things if you don’t,”
“I’m coming.”
                Sherlock grunted, shuffling forward with John trailing close
behind. When Sherlock presented John to the rack of trousers, the Sentry’s eyes
were sparkling with interest. Perhaps he really did want to wear something else
besides the clothing that his mother dreamed up for him, and he just didn’t
know what he wanted. Now he had an entire shopping mall to play with. Sherlock
rocked back on his heels and watched John inspect the different kinds of washes
with distant interest.
“Good morning,” A sale associate greeted politely; Sherlock gave him a once
over, understanding that he was the owner of the store and took his business
seriously, opting to work there instead of leaving all of the work for his
subordinates. Sherlock could respect that. “I’m Arthur Kirkland. Anything I can
help you find, today?”
                Arthur wore a sharp enough looking outfit; with a dark green
jumper and grey slacks, he was a stand up young man with ruffled blonde hair
that would have reminded Sherlock of John if it weren’t quite so messy. John
looked to Sherlock with wide eyes instead of answering the clerk, choosing
instead to turn his eyes down to the ground. Sherlock put on the politest smile
he could and spoke for the Sentry, who obviously thought he was too low on the
food-chain to speak to strangers without Sherlock’s consent.
“My friend is looking for some new clothes, but he’s never really gone shopping
before.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question the statement. “So, what you’re
saying is, you don’t really know what you’re looking for.”
                John glanced up at the older man and nodded, albeit shyly, with
his sunshine smile. Arthur’s lips kicked up to the side in response, bringing
his hands out of his pockets to fold his arms over his chest as he thought. He
resembled a bird in some ways, Sherlock imagined; his blonde hair sticking out
in strange ways that couldn’t have been natural, like a new born baby chick;
eyes like slivers of cut jade or a leaf freshly moistened with morning dew.
Though these aspects of the man were sure to be aesthetically pleasing,
Sherlock could only imagine one person’s blonde hair and their fetching eyes to
be captivating: John.
“Well, I’m not much of an expert on trending fashion, as you can see.” John
glance at his jumper with a glint of interest before the man continued. “I
wouldn’t know what to put on you.” With a fascinated tilt of his head to the
side, Sherlock watched as John’s cheeks flared a brilliant pink while Arthur
hummed and tapped his chin with his index finger. “Wait here. I’m going to get
my wife, and we’ll see she can do with you.”
“Oh, fantastic.” Sherlock grumbled as the man walked away, gesturing after him
with a flourish of his arm and a roll of his eyes. “Hear that, John? He’s
getting his wife. Perfect. Just what we need. Another person to tell us the
obvious; the fact that you need a pair of trousers and a new shirt.”
                John shrugged, eyeing the shelf of blue jeans next to him with
a disconcerted glance before flashing Sherlock a bewilderingly pleasant smile.
Sherlock thought about smiling in response, but decided against it, opting to
put his hands back into the pockets of his long black coat – the one Mycroft
had gotten him last Christmas – and huff disagreeably.
“He’s just trying to help, Sherlock.”
“Whatever.” Sherlock muttered, looking to the back of the store where Arthur
was speaking to a young woman, presumably his wife, before giving his attention
back to John. “John, Mrs. Hudson said something about a market my mother told
her about… would you happen to know what kind of market it is? Or even better,
do you know how we can find it?”
John bit his lower lip and scowled at the floor while he thought. Looking back
to Sherlock after only a moment, the Sentry gave a pensive nod.
“I think I know how to find it. Some of the other Sentries used to tell me
stories about some kind of market when I was allowed to play in the forest.
They told me,”
“John.”
                Sherlock’s tone was a warning one, and just as he spoke,
Arthur’s wife came strolling out from behind the counter with her tight blue
jeans and form fitting red shirt. Blonde hair cut into a flattering bob adorned
her head, bouncing a bit with every bright-eyed step she took. Those bright
blue eyes immediately fixed themselves on John, and a smooth smile with
straight teeth made an appearance. Sherlock hummed; she wasn’t with Arthur for
his obvious connections with the store, but it seemed unlikely for the two of
them to meet just by lucky happenstance. Thinking on this, Sherlock leaned back
and watched her introduce herself.
“Hi boys, my name is Amelia. Arthur said you might need a little bit of my
help.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow: an American. Arthur and she could have met
while she was in England for schooling. Yes, a likely excuse, Sherlock
supposed. She looked John up and down with a sour expression. “Oh. Is that what
you wear… every day?”
                John looked at himself and made a flustered noise, some sort of
sound between a grunt and a cough that made Sherlock shift where he stood and
take a deep breath. And then John smoothed the front of the jacket he wore
quickly. He could’ve been bothered by the fact that she could be insulting
Sherlock’s jacket, and he merely wanted to protect his Deity, but Sherlock had
a feeling it he was more worried about Sherlock being embarrassed to be with
him. Though, that was impossible. He would never be embarrassed to be with
John, whether or not he wore Sherlock’s old two-sizes-too-big shoes.
“I… I don’t think that there’s anything wrong with what I have.”
“Honey,” Amelia leaned forward and patted John’s arm as if he was a small child
that needed to be taught a very obvious lesson. “your shoes are at least a size
and a half too big, and you are drowning in that coat.” While John’s cheeks and
ears flared a flattering crimson – Sherlock noted that the air around him was
growing a bit warm – Amelia smiled and gave him another tap on the arm with her
delicate hand. “Don’t look like that, it’s going to be fine! You just need a
few pointers when it comes to shopping for clothes.”
                Swallowing a bout of sarcastic responses, Sherlock followed
John and Amelia around the store, watching as she squinted at John before
handing him a few pairs of trousers and moving on to the next shelf. When the
bubbly American told John to try on the clothes, Sherlock bit the inside of his
cheek when John reached for the elastic band of his trousers, stopping the
Sentry with a solid hand and a flustered tongue, reassuring him that he was
supposed to go into a dressing room. It was ridiculous, Sherlock thought, the
way John took things so literally. Remaining glued to his side because of his
order and nearly stripping when Amelia told him to try on the samples of
clothing. John stepped out from behind the curtain and stared at Sherlock
blankly, asking him if the clothing was alright.
“How does it feel?”
                Sherlock sighed with a bored expression, watching as Mrs.
Hudson cooed and told him he looked adorable. Her hands clapped together as if
John had learned an amazing trick by putting on a pair of light blue jeans and
a black and white striped shirt; Sherlock shrugged. He was still the same
captivating person, no matter what he wore. He didn’t care what John was
dressed in, much less, he didn’t care if Mrs. Hudson thought he was adorable.
The brown running shoes – fitting John’s feet perfectly – squeaked against the
hardwood floor as John twisted his ankle in thought. He blinked and looked down
at the shirt, brushing the tips of his fingers against his chest and frowned.
“It doesn’t feel the same,” He hummed, looking back to Sherlock with a light
smile. “But I think that’s alright. The old shirt was meant to be a little
stifling.”
Amelia sniffed haughtily, as if John’s comment was an insult to her taste in
fashion. Pushing the heel of her hand through her hair, the American gave John
a quick onceover before nodding stiffly in approval.
“It looks fine on you. Do you want to try anything else?”
John blinked spastically. “No. No, thank you. I don’t need anything else.”
Amelia nodded.
                Pulling the curtain shut and shielding himself from the sickly
pallor of the store’s lights, John disappeared back into the dressing room as
Amelia took his clothes when he pushed them out at her, and slipped behind the
register and gave Mrs. Hudson her grand total. While the landlady plucked a
plastic card out of her wallet, one that Mycroft no doubt gave her for
groceries and other household necessities, Sherlock leaned back against the
side of the dressing room with a passive expression.
“John. Do you know how to find that market?”
“What?” John’s voice sounded hollow from inside the small rectangular space,
but Sherlock could still hear the underlying tone of John’s uncertainty. “Oh,
right. Sorry. I forgot for a moment.”
 Sherlock heard the symphony of rustling fabrics: John’s arms through his white
shirt, his fingers dragging along the cloth as he pulls it down over himself;
John’s legs pushing down into his trousers, pulling the article of clothing up
and around his waist with a snap of elastic; John’s sigh as he forces his
normally bare feet back into Sherlock’s old shoes. Sherlock wondered if he’d be
able to hear all of these things every day. Hearing his Sentry, his friend, his
roommate, getting ready for a day; it seemed almost domestic.
                As John stepped out of the dressing room with Sherlock’s jacket
in hand, Mrs. Hudson approached them with a plastic bag filled with John’s new
clothes.
“I didn’t think we’d be done this early,” She confessed with an airy laugh.
“Where should we go next, boys?”
“John is going to show me my mother’s market.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly,
causing John to sputter and look back and forth between his Deity and the
landlady. “I’d like the two of us to go alone, Mrs. Hudson. Would you be
willing to wait for us?”
                With Mrs. Hudson’s insistence that they keep her updated on
their whereabouts every hour, the group stepped out of the shop, and swapped
out John’s shoes with ones that better suited him.
“We’ll stay in touch, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock assured her as John pulled the
laces of his new shoes taut before quickly tying them and standing straight.
“We won’t be too long, anyway.”
Giving the dark haired teen a hard look that showed she didn’t believe that he
wouldn’t be long, the older woman excused herself to go to the bookstore, keen
on getting a copy of the newest book in the ‘Fonder than Newlyweds’ series.
Sherlock, however, was not listening as she twittered about one detail as she
slowly wandered away; he was regarding the way John looked to and fro around
the lines of stores with a crumpled expression.
“John?” Sherlock questioned. John hummed in response, his eyebrows drawing down
into a frown while he thought. “John, do you know where to look?”
                With a nod of his head, John took Sherlock’s wrist and tugged
him forward as he began to walk, seemingly without direction through the thin
crowds. Sherlock allowed himself to be lead for a moment before slipping his
own hand into John’s, feeling his warm palm against his fingers and thinning
his lips. It was intimate, Sherlock thought, holding hands like this as they
passed a group of young girls. A few of them saw their connected hands and
giggled, leaning toward each other and glancing at them as John kept up his
surefire pace toward the far edge of the mall.
                Using his longer legs to his advantage, Sherlock let his
thoughts move along quickly with his and John’s feet; he liked this feeling.
The feeling of John leading him toward something he dearly wanted; something
that would lead him closer to his mother, to understand her even after she was
gone from a world that missed her dearly. He liked the feeling of John’s hand
in his, leading him forward, even if they were side by side; Sherlock winced
and ducked his chin at the thought. It wasn’t normal. He hadn’t felt like this
before, not like a teenager, not like a boy, not like… a person.
“Here,” John said, tugging Sherlock into a small nook between two shops,
pointing at the walls that were painted a sticky, wet-tar black. “Here it is.”
                Sherlock raised a disbelieving eyebrow, watching the walls with
an almost bored expression as John dropped his hand. Even after John’s skin was
gone, the warmth lingered in Sherlock’s fingers, and he stepped forward to
closely inspect the acclaimed market. Specs of chipped paint, covered by
several more layers of black coloring, sat before Sherlock.
“Are you sure?”
                John smiled at Sherlock before giving the walls an appraising
glance. He looked like he was reminiscing about something that was said long
ago, but never made a move to restate the words. He looked like he was seeing
something that he had seen once before, but never spoke any words to make a
claim that it was true. He looked like he knew something secret, something that
Sherlock was desperate to realize, but he didn’t want to reveal the truth just
yet.
John lifted his hand and placed it on the wall next to Sherlock, his chest
brushing against Sherlock’s shoulder. The Deity watched his hand rather than
his expression, knowing that he would only get caught in those blue eyes and
suffocate beneath the weight of them. John would see the glint of interest in
his eyes, and hollow scent of seduction on his lips; it wasn’t right. Not when
John didn’t want him in return. Sherlock watched John’s warm hand as it gave
its subtle glow, casting a glance to the opening of the nook only to see that
it was gone. Black walls swallowed up the space around them, leaving only
John’s light to keep them from disintegrating into the nothingness.
“It’s like when you see my dreams, Sherlock.” John hummed into the side of
Sherlock’s neck, causing the taller teen to clench his trembling hands into
fists to avoid the pleasurable shiver that threatened to crawl its way up his
spine. “You expand your consciousness until there isn’t any room for it to
grow, feeling the world move around you in ways you can’t quite explain. I grew
up feeling this, I grew knowing how to feel the magic around me, and how to
know the difference between what is a lie, and what is reality.”
Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of thick saliva, watching in fascination as the
light never seemed to eat away at himself or John, as if not only John was
filled with light, but he was as well. Was this the kind of magic that John
spoke of? The light of his mother’s soul connected with his, or the light of
her magic. Which one kept him from disappearing? Was it something of his own,
or was it something coded deep within the structure of his DNA?
“To some who don’t know how to see or feel such things, this looks like a
wall.” John stated, pushing the hand he had against the wall slightly, and
breaking away a thin, rectangle shaped outline in the blackness that shone a
hot platinum. “But not to us.” John smiled, pushing his hand forward and in
turn stepped closer to Sherlock, their hands brushing once more as the
blackness melted beneath the heat of the light, revealing a doorway. “To us,
this wall is an open door.”
***** Give Me Away *****
                White noise, white noise; Mummy had taught Sherlock how to
ignore it. How to tune it out and pretend that it wasn’t there. She had told
Sherlock that she was also attuned to hearing and seeing things that people
normally didn’t notice, telling him with a smile that if the focused on
something else, the noise would be less abrasive. White noise: shouting,
rustling, running; a woman dropped her purse while a younger man with strange
tattoos covering face and bare arms picks it up with a smile and hands it back
to her. Young children with similar markings are following a man as he steps
lightly through the flowing crowds in the area, their high-pitched voices lost
beneath the din of one thousand voices around them.
                Sherlock’s breath caught, and his eyes traveled up to catch a
glimpse of the ceiling, at least twenty meters above them and resembling the
cover  of a circus tent. Multicolored fabric dripped from the ceiling and down
to corners of the space, spanning a rough kilometer or two in Sherlock’s
estimation; in short, the space was enormous. With multicolor clothing swarming
about and over the top calls to customers being howled, Sherlock could’ve
imagined it being some sort of cult if it weren’t for the dozens of other
people that Sherlock noticed had tattoos covering their skin in ornate
patterns. Sherlock blinked; Sentries, or Gods? He didn’t know the difference in
appearance.
“John,” Sherlock breathed, stepping through the doorway and immediately
recoiling from the sight of an entirely different reality. “John, what is
this?”
“The market, I assume.”
                The Sentry’s voice almost held a smile, holding a solid hand to
the small of his Deity’s back and keeping him from stumbling back into the
normal strip of shops and falling out of the place he had been desperate to
find. Sherlock snorted condescendingly; a sound that would have been derisive
if it weren’t for the uneasy quiver of his hands. There were so many sounds and
lights and colors; fire tamers in the far left, and a girl that was spinning
glass with the tips of her fingers to his right; people hawking for trinkets
and good-luck charms, and a man that was offering trades for something Sherlock
couldn’t quite hear; on top of all of that, Sherlock was merely confused about
the space itself. There was so much of it, so much that it couldn’t possibly
fit inside the mall without being inconspicuous. So, how was it there and not
being noticed? There weren’t oversized tarps covering the outside of the
shopping center, so where were they? Turning around to speak to John, Sherlock
narrowed his eyes and forced himself to focus on John’s nervous stare.
“John, are we even in England?”
The Sentry turned his eyes to the floor, not worthy of Sherlock’s stare, before
he spoke quietly. It was an action that didn’t put Sherlock any further at
ease; he was distracted by the array of actions, the mysteries of the market,
the strangeness of it all; Sherlock almost walked away without an answer with
full intent on exploring every part of it in detail with John no doubt
following on his heels.
“Well, we are,” John shrugged, holding his hands out in a helpless gesture.
“but we’re not.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John, though his eyes still
regarded the ground, hurried to continue as if he could feel the sarcastic look
without having to lift his eyes. “It’s a sort of place between places; not here
and not there.”
“So, we’re nowhere.” Sherlock deadpanned, watching John’s fragile composure
threaten to shatter beneath the weight of his words. Sherlock sighed, stuffing
his hands into his pockets and turning back to the market with an openly
curious expression; his lips quirked up at the side in preparation for a smile,
and he heard John let out a breath. “You’ll explain what you know, won’t you,
John?”
“What? I mean, yes. Yes, I’ll tell you what I know, if it’ll help.”
                Nodding to himself, Sherlock delved into the market, heading
past the girl who was spinning glass – the same strange tattoos and markings
covering her caramel colored skin – and wandering with idle purpose toward some
of the tables. John would point out a necklace every so often, saying that it
would increase a certain kind of skill for certain kinds of Sentries. Sherlock
asked why this was, and John laughed lightly. “Just because, Sherlock.”
Sherlock would frown and glare at the jewels with meagre frustration. “Just
because magic is everywhere, and we draw it from all kinds of things.”
“See anything you like?”
                A young girl with chocolate colored skin said from across the
counter, snagging Sherlock’s attention from the trinket covered tabletop and
causing him to look up at her smile. Her yellow irises were captivating, and
would surely be alluring to anyone else, but in Sherlock’s mind, her golden
couldn’t compare with John’s electrifying blue. The girl pulled her jet black
hair over her shoulder, revealing an intricately braided weave that rolled
smoothly over her collarbone and settled neatly in the crook of her arm.
“Or maybe, something you need?”
                She asked innocently, fiddling with the split ends of her hair
as Sherlock returned his gaze to the necklaces and talismans on the table.
Perhaps he should get something for John, who was watching him quietly as he
stood just a breath away from him, holding his hands behind his back and not
reaching out to experimentally touch the things like Sherlock did. If he drew
power from all sorts of things, maybe there was something that would make it
impossible for John to hide who he was, ring or no ring. Just as he was going
to ask for something like that, Sherlock felt a glimmer of curiousity, and
changed his request.
“Dreams.” He said, hoping that the talisman would reveal to him a dream that
wouldn’t embarrass him in the middle of the night. “Something that gives good
dreams.”
As if this was a common demand, the yellow-eyed girl nodded thoughtfully and
retreated under the table while John leaned into Sherlock’s shoulder and
worried.
“Good dreams? Have you not be sleeping well?”
                Rolling his eyes, Sherlock imagined John as a caring friend and
colleague, and even more, a worried caretaker that would not let even the
smallest ailment slip. John may as well have been a doctor that wanted to treat
his every illness and soothe his every pain; Sherlock was almost positive that
he’d trust him to do so.
“I’m fine. Just a little trouble with the dreams I’ve been having lately.”
“Is there anything I can,”
“No, I’m quite sure there isn’t anything you can do, John.”
                Just as Sherlock stated this, the girl emerged from her hiding
place beneath the table and held out a simple circle of silver on a thin chain.
“This,” She said with a voice like silk, “will help with your dreams. It is a
charm that will bring out the softest and more easy-going dreams; blessed by
the Goddess of Dreams herself.”
Giving the medallion a skeptical glance, Sherlock took the chain and held up
the charm to that he could look at it clearly. It was a simple disc of silver
with three indentations along the circumference, and no other marking; the
circle of silver was hardly larger than his thumbnail, but Sherlock looked at
the girl and asked for a price. When he had given her a sufficient amount of
bank notes – courtesy of his secret reserve, taken from Mycroft’s secret
reserve – he stowed the necklace away in his pocket and turned back to the
crowds with John in his wake, intent on observing the people around them.
                Sherlock noted that the people with markings were almost always
traveling in groups, and even when they weren’t, they were accompanied by one
person without them. Letting a small boy with markings slide past him to catch
up to a teenage girl without markings, Sherlock let himself take down a list of
questions that he needed to ask in order to full understand the things that
weren’t painfully obvious.
                John was quiet when they passed by other people without the
markings. He never made eye contact with the owners of booths or tables, and
apologizing profusely when he bumped shoulders with strangers; it made Sherlock
aware of the fact that John wasn’t telling him something important. Eyeing a
long table that held mountains of books that each held varying amounts of pages
as well as dust, Sherlock turned around to face John, intent on asking him just
why he had been so quiet, only to discover the blonde being prodded by a
stranger.
Feeling a headstrong urge to pull John away from the man – he was obviously one
of the shop keepers, though Sherlock hadn’t seen him yet. With a ridiculous top
hat and an oversized brown jumper, the young man was as outlandish and out of
place as the market they were currently walking through. He was a fly amid a
nest of bees, similar to the people around them, but not quite enough to fool
Sherlock into trusting him. He didn’t trust anyone easily, and it had taken
quite a bit of thought to trust John. The man – the fly amid the bees –
Sherlock knew that he was someone he should keep a close eye on. Glaring at the
stranger as he leaned towards John’s face and squinted at him, Sherlock noted
that John merely watched the ground and bowed his head.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Sherlock snapped, taking a hardly calm step toward the odd exchange and
gripping John’s wrist. Giving the Sentry a good tug, he pulled John forward and
away from the man’s eyes and into his burning chest; burning with anger, or
something more? Sherlock couldn’t quite tell. The man raised his hands in
surrender, giving Sherlock a sideways grin that didn’t quite reach his cunning
brown eyes.
“Easy now, mate. Just checking out the merchandise.”
Sherlock’s grip on John’s warm wrist grew tighter while the blonde looked up to
him broken up confusion.
“He is not merchandise. Are you really that stupid to assume that he’s for
sale?” Sherlock’s silver eyes narrowed as John gave him a small smile that he
could see out of his peripheral vision. “Do the entire market a favor and go
somewhere where your intelligence won’t make the rest of the world weep.”
The man laughed, tipping his hat to Sherlock as if he’d given the man a genuine
compliment and revealing a head of horribly disarrayed red hair.
“Not for sale, but maybe for trade.” Sherlock hesitated when he thought of
hitting the man as he leaned toward the pair and smiled wryly once more. “I can
tell he’s a Sentry from that behavior of his. I mean, that’s a fine looking
Sentry you’ve got, but I can tell you’re a man that likes a little more
excitement.”
Sherlock’s eyes slid from John’s startled blue irises to the stranger’s amused
muddy brown gaze.
“Excitement?”
“Joseph is the name,” The young man stuck out his hand, and Sherlock refused to
take it while John’s wrist slid out of his grip and the blonde slipped around
his side to stand behind him. “Trading and supplying Sentries is my game.”
“Trading and supplying.”
                Sherlock repeated blandly with a bored expression and the quirk
of an eyebrow. He felt John tug on his sleeve, but he was too interested in the
mystery of trading Sentries to mind it. Joseph nodded smoothly, indicating to a
corner of the market where several people with markings were gathered before
walking in the direction of the corner. With a defined purpose of solving the
mystery of trading and supplying Sentries, Sherlock followed behind the man
easily. John tapped his shoulder once more, and Sherlock finally gave the
shorter teen a sideways glance.
“Sherlock,” He whispered as well as he could over the noise of the market,
leaning close to his shoulder and breathing his name against his neck as they
walked. Sherlock licked his lips. “I’m not sure if you want to trust him. He’s
one of the sons of Mendaci, the God of Trades; he might try to fool you into a
deal.”
Sherlock registered the Gods’ name into memory before pursing his lips and
refocusing his gaze on Joseph’s back. “What makes you think I trust him?”
                With a muttered, shallow response from John, Sherlock watched
as they took a turn around the edge of a small tent that held a wall of painted
masks and odd hats, catching the strong scent of perfume as they walked toward
the large group of marked people. The scent was as strong as an entire store
filled with various kinds of perfume or simply the wreak of rotten eggs; it may
as well have been the latter. Even though Sherlock could easily identify the
most predominant smells as lavender and rose, his eyes watered at the strength,
and he stumbled back and pushed himself back into John’s waiting arms while he
covered his noise with the back of his hand.
“Strong, ain’t it?” Joseph grinned at Sherlock’s response as if it was a normal
occurrence in the corner; and due to the slight wrinkle in his nose, Sherlock
supposed it was. “What you smell is the girls and their Unclaimed Scent. I’m
guessing you’ve never been to a trading center for Sentries, huh?”
Struggling to straighten himself out and remove his hand from his face,
Sherlock allowed John to grip his upper arms and hold on, his warmth leaking
through his coat sleeve and holding him to the ground steadily. John’s hands
kept his him from turning and sprinting away from the corner, even though he
couldn’t tell why he wanted to do so. The smell was one thing, but there was an
underlying feeling that something was very wrong; a magnetic pulse and a faint
static electricity that sent him just a bit off balance.
As he stood with his back pressed to John’s chest, Sherlock’s eyebrows were
drawn down into a frown; the smell was coming from the girls? Or was the entire
group of people that sent strange impulses to turn away down his spine? When
Joseph began to walk forward, into the mass of the marked people, Sherlock felt
John’s hands slip away until only one hand remained holding onto the cuff of
his sleeve.
“Right this way. You look like someone who likes to run around quite a bit, and
that Sentry you have right now,” Joseph gave John a skeptical glance as he led
the two of them forward. “It seems like he’s more of the stationary type.”
Sherlock heard John grumble something about Joseph being a ‘stationary type’
under his breath, and let his lips turn up into a smile as the top hat wearing
fool led him to a group of three girls. “I think you’ll like these girls. All
of them are Ventus Sentries, or Wind Sentries; light on their feet and always
ready for a face pace environment.” Joseph winked. “Very fast.”
Sherlock gave the three girls a quick glance. Their markings were a pale blue,
almost light enough to be translucent against their skin as they sat quietly in
front of him. Sherlock blinked; they were Sentries, and all of them had the
markings. Markings were a sign that someone was a Sentry, and the ring that
John wore was hiding who he really was. The ring was hiding his markings. John
with those markings; Sherlock imagined that it would be beautiful. Taking a
deep breath, Sherlock pretended to be interested in the girls to fight off the
urge to rip the ring off of John’s hand to see the markings underneath the
disguise.
One had platinum blonde hair while the other two had blonde hair that almost
matched John’s own blonde head of hair, all three had pale, porcelain skin.
Long and flowing like the wind that they were born from, Sherlock saw that if
they stood up from the crates they sat atop of, the locks would easily reach
their knees. All three of the girls smiled invitingly, leaning into one another
and whispering something in the others’ ear and giggling to themselves before
turning back to Sherlock with flushed cheeks. Sherlock wasn’t interested.
Looking to Joseph – Sherlock noted that he was watching him closely to monitor
his reaction – the Deity raised an eyebrow and asked the question that was
beginning to fester in the back of his mind.
“And you want me to give my Sentry to you in exchange for one of these girls?
It sounds like slavery, to me.”
There was a short pause, then Joseph began to laugh loudly, causing the three
girls to look away in shy embarrassment. Close behind him, John shuffled his
foot awkwardly and looked around the groups of Sentries, licking his lips and
distracting Sherlock for only a moment before Joseph spoke again.
“You really are new to this. This isn’t slavery, it’s a… business deal.”
Sherlock wasn’t convinced, raising an eyebrow and putting his hands into his
pockets. Joseph hurried to explain himself. “What I mean is, Sentries come here
to be Claimed.” The Trader motioned vaguely to the small clusters of Sentries
in the corner. “After a while, I hear that some Sentries get bored of sticking
to one place for too long, so they come to markets like this to be picked out
and taken somewhere new where they can be used.”
“Used?”
Sherlock repeated with a sarcastic tone, causing Joseph to sputter and reword
his earlier statement in vain. His brown eyes darted about the room whist no
one made a move to help him recover himself.
“It’s like getting a job or picking up a hobby, mate. Think of it like that.
Trading and supplying; it’s all part of the deal. Trade one contract for a new
one, or pay a small fee for a nice new contract.” When Sherlock wasn’t swayed
by the new information, Joseph became visibly flustered, taking up his hat to
scrub his fingers through his ratty red hair and replacing it atop his head
before he gave a shaky grin and spoke again. “Let me show you a few more.”
                With John in tow, Sherlock allowed himself to be led away from
the Wind Sentries, past a group of Sentries that were discussing the values of
vegetables versus fruits, and to a group of limber looking young Sentries. The
group was large in size, with a variations of gender and skin color, but the
markings were all the same; a deep black that could have easily been mistaken
for tattoos.
“These are the Terra Sentries, or the Earth Sentries. All of ‘em are strong and
able to hold their own in a fight or keep you out of trouble.” Joseph said
loudly, causing most of the Earth Sentries in front of them to quiet down and
give Sherlock a questioning look. “They’re all good to have and good to keep.
Very loyal, I assure you.”
“My Sentry is already very loyal.” John’s sunlight filled smile glowed happily
next to Sherlock as he continued to speak proudly. “He’s vowed to never leave
my side.”
Joseph scoffed. “Any Sentry can vow that. It’s a basic principles thing;
Deities and Gods give the orders, and the peasants make ‘em happy. It’s their
job.”
                When Sherlock didn’t turn to examine the new Sentries in front
of him, Joseph rolled his eyes and turned in his heel to lead him forward to
the next group. Sherlock could see the glow of John’s pleasant happiness
cutting through the agitated heat that came from Joseph’s careless words, and
smiled at the thought of John letting his true nature come through just a bit.
He wanted to make him take off the ring. He wanted to see if John’s markings
were the fiery color of the sun, or if they simply shone a hot white or even an
even hotter blue.
“Fine,” Joseph said flatly, jerking Sherlock back to attention while he stopped
in front of a new group of Sentries with John still glowing at his side. “Maybe
you likethe stationary type; I thought you were more of an adventurous type,”
“I can be.”
“Yeah, but you don’t like the ones that were made for more adventure and moving
around.”
Sherlock gave Joseph a grim smile. “Who are you to define what a person is made
for?”
“Wha’?” Sherlock winced at the lack of annunciation, but continued to smile
sickly at the bland-faced Trader. “Come off it, mate. They’re not people.
They’re Sentries.”
                Gnashing his teeth together and slipping his hand into John’s
to restrain himself when Joseph turned away, Sherlock wished he could
understand how to make his dreams a tangible reality; that way, he couldn’t be
blamed when a copy of Joseph shot him in the face with a rifle. Sherlock could
use his dreams to get away with murder; would it be alright to do that? Feeling
John grip his hand tightly, Sherlock turned to see a thin lipped smile pasted
over his normally sweetly smiling mouth. Keeping their hands firmly together
even after Joseph turned to face them again – he had been telling some of the
younger Sentries to quiet down – Sherlock raised his eyebrows when Joseph gave
them a perplexed look.
“Uh, this,” Joseph opened his mouth to say something, then rethought it and
went in another direction, smiling and introducing the group in front of them.
“These are theFlosculi Sentries. Flower Sentries. I’ll bet you like them.”
Sherlock watched as Joseph signaled for a male Sentry to come closer, putting a
hand on the light brown haired man’s shoulder with a smile. His marking were a
deep pink, just like all of the other Sentries in his group, and it made
Sherlock want to know what color John’s markings were. “What do you think? Nice
to look at, right?” Another wink from the Trader, and John sighed through his
nose at the sight. Sherlock couldn’t agree more. “Flosculi are good for
company. Very good companions, I hear; now, what kind of Sentry do you have? I
can’t see his markings.”
Raising his chin proudly, Sherlock announced John’s title clearly. “He’s a Sol
Sentry.”
                Several of the Flosculi Sentries leaned toward each other to
whisper in the others’ ear at the title, each of them wearing similar excited
and impressed faces. Joseph’s hand slipped from the brunette’s shoulder, and he
smiled an impossibly happy smile, as if Sherlock had somehow managed to give
John away in the process of revealing his identity. He held onto John’s hand
tighter, feeling his fingers slick with sweat after being in contact with
John’s warm palms for so long, but it didn’t stop him from clinging to John in
hopes that the Trader hadn’t somehow tricked him like John clued that he might.
“A Sol Sentry, here in England.” Joseph sounded immensely ecstatic about the
idea, and he took a step closer to the pair. Sherlock was in his right mind to
run, already having the fundamental feeling that being around of the strange
Sentries was something wrong; almost filthyin nature. “That’s quite rare. I’ll
tell you what: if you let me have that contract of yours, I’ll let you have
your pick of three other Sentries. Any kind you want. Any of them.”
                There was a fluctuation in the pressure of Sherlock and John’s
interlocked hands, but Sherlock was quite to tighten his grip while John
momentarily panicked. John was not just his mother’s Sentry; John was his
Sentry. He was Sherlock’s only friend. The only person Sherlock wanted near
him, and the only person Sherlock had wanted in his bed; John was important,
and no amount of bargaining would incline Sherlock to give him away like a
common item.
“You cannot buy John from me, not with a thousand Sentries. He is not a thing,
and neither are they; they are not John, and they will never be equal to his
worth.” Sherlock’s voice came out as a threatening hiss as he went on coldly.
“And you cannot treat him the way you do with your other things. He may just be
a Sentry to you, but he is a person to me. He is my friend.”
Joseph raised his eyebrows and leaned back from Sherlock’s angry stare.
“You sure he isn’t more than that?”
Stepping forward and crowding Joseph’s personal space, Sherlock narrowed his
eyes and growled in a voice that Mycroft had taught him after many years of
scolding.
“Piss off.”
                Pulling John along behind him none too gently, Sherlock stormed
his way back to the wall where they had entered and gave John a flippant wave
of his hand as an indication to open the wall and lead them home. John pushed
open the wall once more, and with two steps, they were back in the blackness
that was the sealed off entryway to the market; hiding itself from the prying
eyes of normal humans, no doubt. When the darkness melted away, Sherlock pulled
John out of the opening and called Mrs. Hudson. It was time to go home.
“Did you boys have fun?”
                Mrs. Hudson looked in the rearview mirror as she asked, quickly
returning her eyes to the parking structure as a large van attempted to pull
out in front of her. Sherlock grunted noncommittally, glaring out the window as
he fiddled with the charm in his coat pocket. John said something that was
probably sweet about how Mrs. Hudson had bought him new clothes, but Sherlock
didn’t catch it as he glared. He was confused. Being confused was not a thing
Sherlock liked to be. Being confused was for idiots like Joseph and Phillip
Anderson, not Sherlock Holmes.
                When Joseph asked him if he wasn’t sure John was something more
than a friend, Sherlock had momentarily reconsidered the idea; could John be
more than a friend? Did John want to be more than just his friend? He could
guess from the normal behaviors he observed at Eton, boys did not want to share
a bed together when they were friends. They spoke about girls and games, not
dreams and memories. Sherlock could almost imagine the idea of John being more
than a friend, but the thoughts and dreams of John being more blended together
into a hot mess that made his stomach twist and the tips of his ears burn red
with excitement.
                They were on the road back to the Summer Estate that was lined
with more green fields of tall grass when John spoke again. Sherlock could see
the reflection of his pensive expression in the glass of the window, but he
made no move to acknowledge it as the blonde spoke.
“I’m glad you didn’t trade me away, Sherlock.” His voice was quiet in the car,
and Mrs. Hudson made no move to interrupt, lest she miss the juicy details of
John being traded away. “I’d miss you.”
                Sherlock huffed and turned over the small medallion in his
pocket for the umpteenth time, considering lying and saying that he had weighed
the pros and cons of giving John to the Trader. But, John was his friend. He
wanted John to be more than his friend. And John had always valued the truth.
So, turning to John and catching his thoughtful aqua eyes, Sherlock gave John
just what he wanted to hear: the truth.
“I wouldn’t let you miss me.” Mrs. Hudson hummed at the steering wheel, but
didn’t move her eyes from the road as Sherlock finished. “You will never leave
my side. It’s what I’ve ordered.”
                Nodding officially, Sherlock turned back to the window to
admire John’s responding smile as it lit up the backseat and made him squint at
the glare on the glass.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
***** Simplistic Beauty *****
                Hiding away his favourite things was a habit that defined
Sherlock throughout his young life; his books went into a certain drawer in his
dresser; his experiments were stowed away underneath his bed and not to be
touched be strangers; even his mother was tucked away into a far corner of the
Holmes Summer Estate, Sherlock could recall. He took her to the outside garden
and hid with her behind the rose bushes and kept her far away from Father and
Mycroft alike. Not to be touched. His favourite things were taken away and kept
from those who didn’t deserve to touch them.
                Now, as he was older and much wiser, Sherlock knew that it was
futile to hide his favourite things. Mycroft would easily see through the
blockades and indifference and protective lies, and dig through things that
weren’t his until he found the source of Sherlock’s odd behaviour – even if
there was no odd behaviour. They had hounds that sniffed out Sherlock’s drug
habits two years ago, and he hadn’t dared to return to the activity in fear
that Mycroft would follow through with his designated punishment of sending
Sherlock to live with their father.
                Even though he knew hiding away his favourite things from
Mycroft was a fruitless labour, and hiding certain things was truly childish
and unbecoming, Sherlock had no qualms with hiding John away. As Mrs. Hudson
parked the car in front of the Summer Estate, she made an idle note of the
obvious fact that it had begun to rain. With a pinched expression from the
landlady and a sympathetic hum from John, Sherlock pushed himself out of the
car and waited for John to grab his bag of new clothing and trotting easily to
the front door. He knew that the Sentry would follow him, true to his vow,
leaving Mrs. Hudson to bother with her umbrella a mere ten feet from the front
door.
“We’re going to my room, John.”
                Sherlock said lowly, gaining a warm blast of John’s content
warmth against his right shoulder as he opened the front door. Spider webs of
thin thought had strewn themselves across Sherlock’s Mind Palace, leaving it
messy and dripping with the translucent strings. Cobwebs everywhere, dangling
and distracting; Sherlock had to organize. He had to think. He needed John to
be there, to get rid of the cobwebs, and somehow take every piece of the web
down, or fold it somehow. John’s sunlight hands would be able to take apart the
web bit by bit, Sherlock thought as he sauntered down the hall towards his room
with John in tow.
John would take the first string and begin to wind it up with explanations and
demonstrations; he would roll up the cobwebs in his Mind Palace in a neat ball.
Like yarn. Like twine. Like thread. John would tell him stories, John would
show him sunlight, and John would do anything he wanted, because they had
become something more than a Deity and a Sentry. Like magic. Like friendship.
Like partners. John, Sherlock knew, would let him see his true form if he
ordered it, and Sherlock was also sure that John wanted to be seen for who he
really was. Like truth. Like reality.
Not a mask.
“Go inside.” Sherlock said crisply as he held open his bedroom door. John
complied easily, giving the taller teen a cautious look as Sherlock closed the
door behind them. “Put that down.”
                Even if Sherlock was being terse with his commands, John pursed
his lips and set down his bag of new clothes down next to the door obediently.
Not bothering to explain himself, Sherlock took John’s arm and pulled him
towards the bed, all the while ignoring the strangled noise of protest that
came from John’s startled lips. He was determined, and John was always willing
to make him happy, if he could.
“Sit.” John tripped over his own feet as he fell sideways onto the blankets
while Sherlock situated himself atop the covers smoothly. “Now, I have
questions. I expect straight answers.”
John smiled nervously as he sat on the bed, his legs hanging over the edge just
like Sherlock’s – like equals Sherlock imagined – and eyed the Deity warily.
“As opposed to bent answers?”
“Whatever.” Sherlock waved the suggestion away. “Now, tell me about the people
who were marked; why are Sentry’s marked like that? Is it some sort of ritual,
or…”
“No, no.” John’s smile melted down into something familiar as he shook his
head. “Nothing like that… it’s natural.”
A quirked eyebrow from Sherlock. “Natural?”
“Yes, if you can see it that way. I guess for someone like you,” Sherlock
grimaced, and John reached over to pat his knee in a comforting manner. “It
would seem a bit odd, but for anyone else, the Markings of a Sentry are
natural. Like our powers and strengths, Markings are just another thing that
ties us to the higher plain, just below Gods and Goddesses.”
Nodding, Sherlock shifted closer to John and leaned towards him. “But how does
it work?”
“Work?” John blinked spastically, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why does it happen? How is it done? How is it natural if there are
different patterns and colours for different Sentries? What does it mean?”
                John held his hands up in surrender, as if the questions were
some sort of invasive interrogation that somehow made him nervous. The gesture
wasn’t a bothered one, though; it merely sat on the border of thoughtfulness
and amusement with John’s sunlight smile.
“One at a time, Sherlock.” The Deity rolled his eyes, and John was quick to
catch up with the questions, idly turning the ring on his right hand ring
finger; Sherlock noticed, and his own hands itched to simply reach over and
tear the ring off of John’s hand, just to see what John was hiding beneath his
feeble mask. “Why does it happen? Well, I guess it happens because we are the
way that we are. And before you go telling me that’s not an answer, it is. It’s
the best one I can give you.
                “You see it’s… really, It’s a lot to do with the Gods’ life and
energy that we’re given; it changes things within us, and because of that,
we’re not quite like anything else, on Earth, or in the Heavens.” John smiled
at his hands as he went on. “Our Markings are an identifying trait; it sets us
apart from others, and give us a place in our society. There are different
Sentries that are stronger than others, but that doesn’t matter much when you
get right down to it. I mean, we aren’t given a choice on who we can be, we
just get lucky enough that our contracts and oaths are given to good Gods or
Deities.” Shrugging loosely, John turned his gaze back to Sherlock with a
smile. “I guess I got pretty lucky in that case.
                “As for how it’s done, it’s simply natural. It happens when
we’re born; it’s like how a baby is developed over a series of months – bones,
organs, skin and the rest – we are very much the same in that case, except
we’re formed instantly with the Markings carved into our very souls by the life
and places we were born.”
Sherlock’s interest sparked at the idea of the curving designs being carved
into John’s skin, but there was an irrational sense of nervousness that made
him voice his opinion without really thinking about it.
“Carved into your soul. Would that hurt?”
John pursed his lips and shrugged again, twisting the ring on his finger
slowly.
“I’m not sure. Do you think it hurts when people get freckles?” Sherlock glared
at John and the Sentry let out a glowing laugh that stained the room a kind
shade of sunlight. “Sherlock, you know I’m joking, don’t you? Gods, that
expression; you’re either about to hit me or eat me, I can’t quite tell which.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched with a smile. “Both, if you’re lucky.” John laughed
again.
“I don’t know if I’d like to be devoured today. I’d rather be eaten when the
sun is actually shining outside, thank you.”
                With that, John looked over his shoulder wistfully to watch the
rain pattered sadly against the windowpane. The expression on John’s face was
one that made almost hinted at something that could easily been associated with
loneliness; odd enough, it made Sherlock upset. As if the idea of John being
lonely was one that truly bothered Sherlock on a level that the brunette
couldn’t quite understand; as if he wanted to be the reason John never felt
lonely again. Clearing his throat, Sherlock taped the tops of his knees with
his palms.
“Duly noted. Now then. Why did all of the Sentries Markings look different? I
thought it was something that varied by type of Sentry because the Wind
Sentries all had the sweeping kind of marks. Then I saw that the Earth Sentries
had various kinds of marks, from lines to strange star shapes. Why is that?”
                Retraining his eyes on Sherlock, John shifted on the bed so
that they were sitting closer together, as if the further the conversation
went, the more personal it was. The more personal the conversation was, the
closer the two of them were. Sherlock felt his stomach twist nervously; if they
continued to get closer, eventually there would be no space left. He had seen
other boys at his school pressed together in an odd tangle of limbs behind the
back wall of the dorms. Never, Sherlock had once thought, would he want such a
thing. And then there was John.
                John next to him on the blankets; John sleeping next to him in
his father’s old study; John in the Strange House; John with him in the city.
All of it was different from everything Sherlock had ever experienced. What
Sherlock wanted was something he’d never thoughts he’d want; it was something
that would’ve gotten in the way of his experiments and his more important
hobbies. Now John was simply in his mind no matter what he did. Not that it
truly bothered him.
“Why… I think it’s just a matter of different people having their own
personalities. I mean, I’ve never met a Sentry who had a twin, but I suppose if
they were identical, their Markings might be the same as well.” John puzzled on
this for a moment longer before blinking hard and giving Sherlock a slightly
embarrassed smile. “I’m not quite sure how to explain it. And, I think I’ve
just confused myself trying to… is there anything else I can tell you?”
                Giving the matter serious consideration, Sherlock thought of
asking John why the Trader had been so forward as to approach the two of them
in the market, but simply opted to ask the question he’d been wanting to ask
since the first day John had begun to teach him.
“Why do you use that ring, John? I could understand if you were always with
normal human beings, they would think so many tattoos would be strange, but…
they just look like tattoos. What makes you different from the others?”
John licked his lips and shook his head with a smile.
“I knew that was coming. I just knew… Sherlock.” The Sentry gave his Deity a
long look before continuing. “Your mother ordered me to keep this ring on my
finger to keep who I am a secret.”
“I order you to take it off.”
John raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed with flushed cheeks. “Be a
little more specific, please.”
“John, I order you to take off the ring and show me your Markings.”
                The flush on John’s cheeks didn’t leave, but his eyes moved
back to catch Sherlock’s with a nervous glint in them. His left hand moved over
his right and pulled a bit at the ring before lowering his eyes to the floor
and repeating Sherlock’s order as he normally did.
“I understand. I will take off the ring, and show you my… my Markings until you
instruct me otherwise.” John licked his lips again and looked back up to
Sherlock. “Just… close your eyes for a minute?” Lifting a speculative eyebrow,
Sherlock gave John a sidelong stare that was sure to convey his confusion at
the request, but complied after a moment, letting his eyes shut quickly. “It’s
just… I don’t want to upset you Sherlock. Maybe you just need to think about
what a simple person I am. Simplicity is my specialty, if you can imagine
it. My Markings aren’t much to look at in comparison to the others’. Really, I…
I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You won’t, John.” Sherlock felt the mattress dip next to him as John stood and
walked around to stand in front of him pensively. “You’ll never disappoint me.
Let me see.”
A pause, then there was the sound of the ring falling to the floor with a sad
‘clink’ as it was abandoned and forgotten. Sherlock took a breath, and heard
John mimic the action as they both prepared themselves for what the Deity had
ordered.
“Alright. Alright, you can look.”
                Opening his eyes, Sherlock was met with a sight that he hadn’t
expected; it wasn’t like a tattoo or birthmark. No, it was more than that. It
was pure sunlight itself, bath John in more radiance than Sherlock had thought
was possible as he stood before him.
                There, among the honeycomb pallor of his skin, lay Markings
that held their own kind of sunshine glow. V-shaped slivers of sunflower gold
mapped John’s collarbone, leaving room for curling, spinning designs along his
abdomen and arms. Kind, flowering shapes reached around the line of John’s
hair, curving about his cheeks and sweeping to frame his eyes, still their
natural robin-egg blue. It was the suns warmth and the suns glow, all mapped
out for Sherlock too see – a part of John in every way.
“Beautiful.” Sherlock breathed, reaching out and tracing a finger over the
unnatural colours resting on John’s arm. His fascination was clear, and John
made no move to stop the Markings from broadcasting his pride in the form of a
more noticeable gleam.
“Not really.” John smiled at Sherlock as he raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
“I’m… really, the designs of my Markings are exceptionally ordinary. It’s the
light that makes them different.”
                With that, John took a step back, and took a cleansing breath,
as if something incredible was about to happen. As John’s hands – graced with
spinning as well as jolting patterns along the tops of his fingers – grasped
the hem of his shirt and pulled up, Sherlock blinked stupidly and leaned back.
“What are you doing?”
                Pulling the shirt over his head and letting it fall to the
floor, John let Sherlock sit in awe as the bare skin was exposed. More of the
designs were etched into John’s skin, as if he was a canvas for some sort of
abstract calligraphy. The marking glowed without John’s happy emotion, simply
letting him be the sunlight he was born to be without having to have a reason
to be such. Sherlock looked over every strong part of John’s arms, following
the trail of Markings over his chest and down the taut skin of his chest and
abdomen, he swallowed as several patterns interlaced and crossed to dip down
beneath the elastic of John’s trousers.
“I’m showing you my Markings. You wanted… to see my Markings, so, I’m showing
you.”
                Being flustered was not a feeling Sherlock enjoyed, and when
John hooked his thumbs under the band of his trousers in an obvious show that
he was about to pull them down, the brunette felt his face burn as he shook his
head vigorously.
“No!” He glanced to the door and realized that Mycroft could possibly hear him.
“No. John, stop. You don’t have to undress to show me. I’ve seen enough, for
now.”
“But, you’ve already ordered me.” John sputtered, gripping the tops of his
trousers as if he was fighting the urge to simply strip and have it done with.
“I can’t just… disobey, Sherlock.”
                Sherlock felt much too warm as he thought of John pulling down
his trousers and revealing… what? Was that really what Sherlock wanted? As John
let his trousers start to come down, Sherlock felt his breath catch, and he
jolted forward to catch John’s hands. Kneeling in front of the Sentry and
pulling the trousers back up, Sherlock gave a strangled order as the law of
motion declared that his body would continue forward, and his forehead would be
pressed to John’s stomach as a result.
“I order you to stop!”
John gasped at the sudden movement, but removed one hand from the waistband of
his trousers to settle in Sherlock’s hair. The brunette tried to fight the
strange ripple of pleasure that surged through him at their proximity and
John’s actions. He could feel John’s shaking breathes as the Markings on his
skin glowed a burning luteous shade, echoing the warmth Sherlock felt against
his face as his mouth brushed hotly against the white elastic that held John’s
trousers up.
“Stop what?
“Stop taking off your clothes. I order you…” Sherlock felt John’s hands shake
as they settled atop his shoulders as if to brace himself. Sherlock raised his
head and saw John looking down at him: shallow breaths, pupil dilation, and the
hazy cloud of something in his eyes; John was aroused. Feeling himself grip
John’s hips just a bit tighter, Sherlock finished his sentence. “… to stop.”
***** No Paperwork Necessary *****
“Right then.” Sherlock stood up quickly, watching as John blinked rapidly and
nodded unevenly. “I’m just… John, sit there.”
He pointed at the bed and watched as John obediently sat with a horrified
expression; he knew that he’d given himself away. Sherlock ignored this and
began to pace, debating the pros and cons of simply pushing John down onto the
bed, having his own way, and solving the mystery of his stirring feelings. On
one hand, John had been aroused by Sherlock’s close proximity, but on the
other, it could’ve had something to do with the inappropriateness of a Deity
kneeling before a lower form. Sherlock didn’t want to think on politics, not
when his stomach was making itself into a strange churning mechanism and his
brain felt as if he’d shot up a dose of pure cocaine; all adrenaline and pure
fascination witheverything.
“I’m going to get something to drink. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t let Mycroft into
my room. Don’t let him see…” John glanced up and feebly tried to hide his
exposed chest behind his arms. “…all of that. I’ll be back in a moment.”
                Not stopping to breathe, Sherlock turned and promptly slipped
out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him and making haste in his pursuit
to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson would know what to do; she was a woman who knew
what to do in strange sentimental and social situations such as these, didn’t
she? Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek; John had looked down at him with a
look that the Deity had not be expecting. He had suspect that for some time
that John was getting closer to him and eliminating the space between them with
careful glances and nonchalant touches to his hands or shoulders. But the look
in his eyes had thrown the brunette for a loop.
                It was a look that showed Sherlock that he didn’t want there to
be any space between them at all. Nothing to stop them from touching anything,
everything; or perhaps Sherlock was just seeing the reflection of something he
wanted in John’s eyes. Which was right?
“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said as he entered the kitchen, immediately catching a
stiff stare from Mycroft, who was leaning against the counter. The teen froze
mid-pace and glared at his half-brother. “Ah. Mycroft. Wonderful; it just so
happens that I didn’t want to see you.”
“What a coincidence, because I’m set on ruining your afternoon.” The older
Holmes remarked snidely, lifting his coffee cup to his lips and taking a slow
drink as Sherlock’s skin crawled uncomfortably, all previous warmth from John
having left in the man’s presence. “How was the city? I assume you and John had
quite a time, what with you stowing him away in your room as soon as you got
home.”
                Sherlock looked to Mrs. Hudson, who was currently sitting at
the table with her book held defensively in front of her face, refusing to meet
Sherlock’s gaze. She had been the one to tell Mycroft that they had been shut
up in Sherlock’s room; Sherlock frowned.
“You came into the kitchen for Mrs. Hudson.” Mycroft noted smoothly as he set
his cup down on the counter behind him with a thinly arched eyebrow. “What did
you need? Biscuits? Tea? Something to help you with…” Mycroft looked Sherlock
up and down, no doubt seeing all of the lines and wrinkles in his clothing that
hinted to his kneeling and his reaching up for something unknown. “Whatever it
is you’re doing in your bedroom?” With John, Mycroft said with a tilt of his
head.
                Not wanting to speak nor reveal what he was really doing with
John, Sherlock locked his jaw and glared at the surface of the table. He moved
to sit next to Mrs. Hudson, who glanced at him bashfully as she set down her
book and gave him a murmured apology; it didn’t matter. He wanted to know what
to do next. He didn’t like not knowing what to do next. He liked to know
everything that he wanted to know, and John was not a subject that he was an
expert on, no matter how much he wanted to be. Mycroft rounded the kitchen,
putting his hands in the pockets of his trousers as he walked and talked to no
one in particular.
“John seems to have come from nowhere. He is an interesting young man, isn’t
he? John Hamish Watson.” Sherlock grit his teeth and looked up to see Mycroft
watching him carefully. “He’s not registered to any police department, schools,
or even hospitals. Fascinating. Nowhere in the world is there a John Watson
that fits the description of the one currently residing in my house.” Mycroft’s
lips turned up into a knowing smile as Sherlock lowered his eyes to the table
and glared at the wooden surface. “According to the paperwork, the John Watson
in my house doesn’t exist.”
“Well, obviously, he exists, Mycroft. He’s here in the hose.” Sherlock shrugged
nonchalantly, having nothing else that he wanted to say. “Your paperwork must
be wrong.”
Mycroft narrowed his eyes and his grin turned into something more reptile than
human; all sharp eyes and teeth. Mrs. Hudson shifted in her seat, looking back
and forth between the brothers uneasily.
“My paperwork is not the thing that is wrong in this house.”
“It doesn’t matter, John is John. Who cares?”
“I care, Sherlock.”
                Turning up his eyes to eye his brother sharply, Sherlock curled
his hands into fists and took a deep breath. Paperwork shouldn’t have been the
reason for John to have to leave this house; he was something beyond Mycroft’s
comprehension, and that didn’t make him a criminal.
“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock repeated, watching Mycroft lean back against one
of the kitchen counters slowly. He wished that he knew how to create tangible
dreams; a good strike of lightning would set Mycroft in his place, or perhaps
giving him a large cake would distract him long enough for Sherlock to take
John and stow him away someplace else. “It shouldn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters, Sherlock. There is an undocumented young man living in
the Summer Estate. He is in no public record whatsoever. The John Watson
currently under this roof has never been seen by anyone on seven continents
around the world. Though his name may be common, his face is nowhere in public
registrations.” Mycroft leaned away from the counter and crossed his arms over
his chest. “Sherlock, I know that you think he’s interesting, but he’s not
real. He’s not John Watson. He can’t be.”
                Sherlock could say that Mummy’s diary claimed differently: that
John was who he said he was simply for the fact that Mummy gave him that name.
He could come clean with the truth, and drag John away from his bedroom to give
Mycroft the glowing proof of what he said. Even though he could really tell
Mycroft that he knew they were only half-brothers, and their mother was a
Goddess, and that Mrs. Hudson was trusted with the family secret long ago,
Sherlock knew that it wouldn’t matter; John was simply something that Mycroft
couldn’t manipulate.
                John was loyal to Sherlock or his mother, and no one else.
Mycroft couldn’t bribe or sway his devotion away, he could merely sit back and
watch as the boys grew closer with time. Not even a whole day had gone by with
John in the house, and already Mycroft was fighting the decision with all of
his might, digging into population and security data and trying to push John
out of the house by force. Sherlock wouldn’t have it, and neither would John.
Sherlock didn’t want John to leave for many reasons – some of which he was
avoiding, just as he avoided that situation he had currently left for John to
ponder alone. John didn’t want to leave for the fact that he had been ordered
not to – though Sherlock wouldn’t deny being a little bit glad when he saw that
look in John’s eye when they sat together. He knew that John didn’t want to go
because he had found something of a friend in the boisterous Holmes.
                Sherlock didn’t want him to leave, either. He didn’t want
Mycroft snooping anymore, even though he knew the ginger headed Holmes would
never cease his attempts to push John away. He didn’t want Mrs. Hudson looking
at him pitifully as he sat at table, working his jaw and blinking at his
brothers’ shoes in a frustrated manner. He wanted to go back to John. John
always knew how to make things better with a soft glow or a gentle smile; would
John still smile for him, after he had left the Sentry alone in his room? He
didn’t know. Sherlock didn’t like not knowing things.
“I don’t have time for this.”
                Sherlock decided aloud, pushing away from the table only to be
caught up in Mycroft’s cutting answer. Cutting answer; what a fitting phrase.
The answer did cut down into Sherlock’s skin, grasping and holding fast with
small fibres that refused to release him. It was a branch that snagged in his
hair when he was walking in the woods, or a bur that stuck to the leg of his
trousers: there and simply not ignorable as he went on his way.
“When will you have time to tell me the truth, Sherlock?”
The Deity took calming breaths before he answered. “Never.” He walked around
the table to stand in front of his brother, eye to eye as he spoke. “I will
never have time to tell you the truth, you insufferable halfwit. You don’t
understand when the truth is staring you in the face, so why should I take time
out of my life to show you what it is? Truth doesn’t need documents or
paperwork, Mycroft. You of all people know that. You go around this blasted
country making things ‘right’ all the time with your ‘truth’.” Sherlock threw
air quotes into the context just to make Mycroft scowl. “John is who he says he
is, and he does not need papers to prove it. I know it’s true.”
“You will never convince me without proof.”
                Mycroft said blandly, watching his brother with the traces of a
scowl still on his face. Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out through his
nose, imagining Mycroft’s eyes burning in their sockets as he glared. He was
angry. He was frustrated. He wanted John to make it all go away; he could order
John to make Mycroft disappear. He doubted that the body would be found if he
did order such a thing. But, Mummy loved Mycroft, and Sherlock didn’t want to
be the one to explain why Mycroft’s body was distributed among several
different kinds of wood chipping companies.
No, what he wanted was for John to make things better. He wanted to be
distracted in the most simplistic ways, and John had said himself that he was a
simplistic person. Sherlock wanted to map out each line and curve of John’s
body with his fingers so that he could store it away in his Mind Palace for
future reference. He wanted to see what made John squirm or gasp, and he wanted
to see John look at him the way he did in his twisted dreams. Sherlock took a
step back from Mycroft, reigning in his imagination and turning his face to the
wall in hopes of hiding the no doubt obvious dilation of his pupils.
“Mummy would’ve believed me.”
                Not bothering to listen as Mycroft began to sputter at the
mention of their mother, Sherlock turned on his heel and gave up on asking for
Mrs. Hudson’s advice. Direct attack was the only option that Sherlock wanted to
think about. He didn’t want to sit and think about what he was going to do; he
was all action and thinking on his feet. Planning too far ahead opened up too
many channels for failure, and Sherlock didn’t want to think about failure. As
he left the kitchen, Sherlock decided that it was too late to turn back, and
whatever he did was going to be saw through to the end, no breaks in between
and no pause for judgement. John had looked at him almost expectantly, and
Sherlock was not going to walk away a second time.
“John,” Sherlock said as he stepped into his bedroom quickly, shutting the door
behind himself. “You don’t need paperwork.”
John stood from the bed, still shirtless and still glowing with his natural
Markings, before licking his lips and narrowing his eyes. Sherlock let his eyes
scan over the exposed tan skin quickly before refocusing on the blondes’ eyes
as he spoke.
“What?”
                Stepping further into the room, Sherlock caught John’s biceps
and pulled John’s face close to his own, as if the proximity would somehow make
the message clearer. He wanted John to know that he didn’t need proof; Sherlock
believed everything John had told him, from his mother being a Goddess to the
fact that John was made from the Suns’ energy. Sherlock trusted him, and that
in and of itself was an achievement.
“You don’t need paperwork. I know that you are who you are. Do you understand?”
“No.” John blinked, his nose almost touching Sherlock’s as his Markings glowed
a hot white. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What are you saying?”
Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, pushing John away and hearing the Sentry
yelp as his legs caught on the edge of the bed and sent him sprawling back over
the mattress. Sherlock took the chance and kicked off his shoes before crawling
onto the bed and looming over John. The Sentry gasped and held his breath, as
if he thought Sherlock was going to say something vastly incredible that would
somehow steal away his ability to breathe if he didn’t store away oxygen in
advance.
“You are John.” Sherlock said slowly, over annunciating his words and causing
the blonde to roll his eyes and sigh dramatically. “But that’s not just a name,
it’s who you are. You are John, and I will see you as nobody else, even if you
claim to be someone else. Now do you understand?”
John made a face. “I think you made it worse.”
                Sherlock didn’t care about making his point clear, anymore.
Words were getting him nowhere with the blue eyed creature, so his only logical
option left was to show him with body language. Closing his eyes, Sherlock
dipped his head down and pressed his lips against John’s for only a moment,
feeling the oddly warm sensation of John’s slightly chapped lips against his,
and the pull of John’s frantic hands as they sought out his shoulders. John
held him there, his heated hands gripping the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt
desperately as he did. But, it was only a moment, and Sherlock pulled his head
back to admire the stunned expression on John’s face.
“I trust you, John.” The teen said quietly, watching as John’s wide eyes
blinked rapidly, as if he was just adjusting to the situation and replacing his
frightened pale cheeks with flushed ones as he settled into his emotions. “I
trust you to tell me the truth. Do you understand me now?”
John licked his lips and closed his eyes briefly before they fluttered open
again.
“Not sure. Maybe you should tell me again.”
                And that’s just what Sherlock did. He took John’s lower lip
between his own and kissed, moved down and kissed his chin, his cheek, his
ears; anything he could reach. Which was everything, because John was happily
spread out before him like butter on hot toast. Tension caught in his muscles
as his left arm kept him propped up over John and his right hand was given
access to the smooth plane of John’s chest, moving across and sweeping over
each Marking. Sherlock was happy to have the ability to touch John without
having to force himself forward – John was reciprocating each caress of his
lips with delighted gasps and open mouthed kisses to his jaw – but he was still
unsatisfied.
                There wasn’t enough of him to map out every line soon enough;
there was too much of John to explore and not enough time to get it all done.
Sherlock pulled himself back and looked down at his Sentry, seeing the flexed
muscles of his abdomen and the dip of his chest when he took a breath,
everything above and everything below; it all had to be seen. There were
Markings hidden underneath the waistband of John’s trousers that he wanted
access to, not because it was ordered, but because John wanted him to see them.
Sherlock could feel the Markings that spiralled over John’s skin, hot and
tingling beneath his fingertips as he traced one across John’s shoulder. John
licked his lips and gave Sherlock a nervous stare as the Deity scrutinized him.
“What’s wrong?”
Sherlock pursed his lips and hummed thoughtfully. “I want to do things, but
there are so many things I want to do, I can’t decide where to start.”
                Squirming uncomfortably under Sherlock’s searching eyes, John
sat up and gave the teen a serious look. It was an odd look, to Sherlock; it
was a look that demanded attention. John was normally happy to receive orders
and not being the one handing them out. Sherlock watched him warily, still
holding himself up with his left hand stationed heavily atop the blankets.
“Well… why do you want to do those things?”
“Why? Because I want to.” John didn’t seem impressed with that answer, and
Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried different answers, each one just as true as
the last. “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to do those things
with. Because you’re fascinating. Because I want to know everything about you.”
John looked at his hands in his lap while Sherlock sat down on the back next to
him.
“What happens if I’m not fascinating anymore?” John said quietly, making
Sherlock frown. “Will you still want to do those things? Will you still want to
spend time with me?”
“John,” Sherlock’s voice rang out sternly in the room, gaining the Sentry’s
attention and bringing his eyes up from his hands to watch Sherlock. “You are
my best friend. My only friend. You will always be, and will never stop being
fascinating. People change, John. It’s a scientific fact. And when you change,
I want to be there to see it.” John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock
leaned forward and kissed him again, swallowing up the words before leaning
back again. “I want to do so many things, and know everything about you; don’t
change yet. Don’t even think about changing, yet.”
John’s cheeks, already lit up in a blush, turned a shade darker and stained the
skin over his cheekbones a light scarlet while his Markings seemed to shimmer
and pulse.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.” Sherlock lied. What if he did something wrong? He’d never
touched anyone the way he wanted to touch John. “I’m a genius. Don’t you trust
me?”
                John didn’t answer, he merely smiled and shrugged loosely, as
if the weighted topic had somehow morphed into a light-hearted chat between the
two of them. Sherlock smiled as well, glad that his overconfidence had
successfully fooled John; it didn’t take much to fool John, though. After all,
John was a simple young man. And when John cautiously moved closer to hold his
lips just a breath away from Sherlock’s, the curly hair teen made no move to
erase the smile; John kissed him. It felt different from the way he had kissed
John earlier, when their lips had been relaxed; now there were smiles to add
into the equation.
                Lips curved around elation unspoken, and hands trembling to map
out curves previously unexplored; it was a strange feeling for Sherlock. Not a
feeling he disagreed with, but a feeling that he stored away into his Mind
Palace for deeper thought later. His stomach twisted into pleasant knots when
John pulled away only to press their lips together again, his warm hands coming
up to cup the sides of his face. If Sherlock hadn’t known that John had been
locked away in the Strange House all of his life, he would’ve thought that he’d
done this before. Sherlock’s fingers chased over the line of John’s collarbone
and down his chest, tracing different Markings when they crossed his path.
                When John moaned at the contact, Sherlock felt his eyelids
flutter open with the lazy desire to see John’s expression. He wasn’t granted
such a luxury because John’s head had ducked away, and his face was hidden in
the junction between Sherlock’s neck and his shoulder. Sherlock took deep
breaths, feeling his mind race during the brief intermission.
“What does it feel like?”
John huffed hotly against his neck, and Sherlock could feel John’s lips curl
into a smile.
“What?”
“I want to know,” Sherlock pushed John back and heard a rush of oxygen leave
John’s heated lips as he fell back quietly against the mattress. Scrambling to
hover over John with excitement burning in his eyes, Sherlock held himself up
on his right hand this time as his left hand smoothed over countless spirals of
glowing Markings. “What does it feel like? Is it different from other skin? Is
it sensitive? I want to know what’s different.”
                John laughed, his eyes scrunching closed and his hands coming
up to cover them as if he couldn’t stand the idea of opening his eyes at the
moment. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the different Markings on John’s chest
and looking down at the waistband of John’s trousers before catching a glint of
gold on the floor; the ring his mother had given John. Sherlock brought his
face close to John’s in hopes that urgency would be delivered through the
movement.
“Do the Markings still feel sensitive when you’re wearing the ring, John? John,
pay attention.” The Sentry’s mouth shaped around words, but none escape his
lips as more laughter ensued; Sherlock scowled. “Take me seriously.”
“I trying, I swear!” John giggled, his hands lifting from his eyes to bathe
Sherlock in an azure eyed gaze as his golden hands brushed at the hair that
swept over Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re so excited. I can’t help but laugh,
Sherlock. You looked so startled.”
Sherlock arched a doubtful eyebrow. “I was notstartled.”
“Yeah, you were.” John licked his lips, his tongue nearly catching on
Sherlock’s own lips and earning himself a feverish kiss from the Deity.
Sherlock pulled away a few moments later; the two of them were gasping and
staring at each other before they both started smiling. “It’s a little
different,” John finally murmured through his smile. “Not very sensitive, but
more… intimate, I suppose. If that makes sense. The ring dulled all of those
senses, like putting a bandage over a burn to keep it from stinging. Except,
it’s not painful at all… I don’t think I’m making sense anymore.”
                Sherlock opened his mouth to question the idea of the ring
dulling his senses, but there was the incessant rap of knuckles against the
wood doorframe. The raring excitement that boiled in Sherlock’s blood became a
low effervescing thrum as he and John looked to the door; Mycroft.
“Go away, Mycroft.”
                His brother would have never knocked if he hadn’t heard the
conversation going on inside the room; he had most likely been eavesdropping.
Reaching over the side of the bed and wincing at the sound of the creaking
bedsprings, Sherlock took the ring up off of the floor and whispered a rushed
order in John’s ear.
“I order you to wear this ring when Mycroft is near; it doesn’t matter if you
don’t wear it with me or Mrs. Hudson.”
                John didn’t repeat the order this time, opting to slip the ring
onto his finger and not silently. Sherlock watched in quiet captivation as the
Sentry closed his eyes and looked almost uncomfortable when his Markings ceased
to glow and seemingly recede into his skin until they were no longer visible.
“We need to talk, Sherlock.”
Sherlock let himself settle down atop John, pausing for only a moment to give
John a questioning glance when his thigh pressed against the warm, hard ridge
between John’s legs. The blonde made a flustered noise and turned his head away
from the door, giving the windowpane an embarrassed glare. Sherlock smiled
around his response.
“I’m busy at the moment.”
“And that is the reason why we should talk.” Mycroft grumbled loudly to the
door as Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s chin – John didn’t turn away from the
window. “I’m coming in, Sherlock.”
                Giving out a strangled refusal, John covered his face with his
hands as Mycroft opened the door and stood in the doorway with a frozen
expression. Sherlock gave him a pointed look and raised an eyebrow before
shifting on top of John, feeling the stiffness of John’s arousal wane in
Mycroft’s presence.
“I said I’m busy. Come back later.”
Mycroft blinked and ruffled himself back into composure, as if seeing his
brother willingly lay on top of another boy had rustled his feathers and he had
puffed too far out to ignore. His hand still rested on the doorknob, tapping
out Beethoven’s fifth as he spoke.
“Sherlock, I know you think that you know what you’re doing,”
“Of course I do.” Sherlock turned his face back to John’s, watching as the
blonde peeked up at him through his tanned fingers with a shy smile.
“No. No, you don’t, Sherlock. What you’re doing,” Mycroft licked his lips and
pivoted his weight from his left foot to his right foot uncomfortably. “You
haven’t really thought it through.”
“Are you trying to talk to me about sex, Mycroft? I think I learned everything
I needed to know in Health Education classes.”
John smiled wider and Sherlock responded in kind, not lifting himself away from
the Sentry in hopes that the closeness of the two would frighten Mycroft away.
It didn’t. The older Holmes rolled his eyes and put one hand on his hip with an
unimpressed expression.
“You were sent to the Deans’ office almost every day of those classes because
you would tell the teacher he was illiterate.”
“He was.” Sherlock retorted quickly, reaching up his right hand to push John’s
fingers from his mouth; if Mycroft wouldn’t squirm because of close proximity,
he would just sweat him out. Kissing John was a pleasurable experience, so it
didn’t seem like a chore as Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s; he was
committing intimate acts with John and getting rid of his half- brother in one
simple action. What more could a Deity want? Sherlock pulled back for a breath,
spitting out another sharp: “Get out, Mycroft” before ducking his head back
down and taking John’s lips again.
“Listen to me, Sherlock. Get off of him, now.”
Growling, Sherlock sat up and held John down with a firm hand atop his chest.
“I’m not doing drugs, Mycroft.”
“I see that.”
“I’m not mixing anything dangerously acidic with anything flammable, and I’m
not going through the files in your computer like I did last summer.” Mycroft’s
patience was on the verge of disintegrating, and Sherlock was quick to finish.
“Why can’t I do something that is neither a harmful to myself or the British
government without you telling me to stop?”
“Sherlock,”
“Do you want me to go through your files, instead?”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, and Sherlock knew that he’d won.
“No, I don’t.” Sherlock looked down at John with a smug smile, and John shook
his head with an even bigger smile. Mycroft gave in, turning on his heel and
pulling the door shut, only to leave with a hint of sarcastic advice. “Try not
to make a mess. Remember, Mrs. Hudson will be doing your laundry, in the end.”
                For the first time in his life with Mycroft, Sherlock felt
smothered in something that was frighteningly similar to sentiment. It was as
if Mycroft cared about him, but Sherlock was sure that it couldn’t be so; that
couldn’t be the case. No, Mycroft cared about his job, his father, and his
secrets – most of which weren’t secrets to Sherlock for long. Not that he
needed Mycroft’s secrets.
                No. All that Sherlock needed was to turn back to John, which he
did. All Sherlock needed was to feel John’s fingers carding through is hair,
and the brush of lips against his own, which was readily given to him.  All
Sherlock needed was to find John’s left hand and pull the ring away, feeling
the Markings along John’s skin and listen with anticipation as the Sentry
shivered and panted beneath him, which was simply done with a flick of his
wrist.
All Sherlock really wanted was to tug away John’s trousers and see the Markings
that had almost been presented to him earlier. So, tucking his hand under the
band of John’s clean white trousers and pants, Sherlock gave the blonde a
sparing glance. The Sentry smiled and lifted his hips just enough to give
Sherlock the room he needed.
And then John’s trousers were thrown across the room.
***** Dream vs Reality *****
“What about here?”
Sherlock lifted his chin from where it rested atop John’s knee to watch John as
he squirmed and laughed harder than before. Contrary to his former beliefs, his
exploration of John’s body was proving to be more frustrating that relieving;
every time he would brush his fingers over the curve of John’s hips, the blonde
would gasp and start to giggle. No matter how many times he asked why John
would laugh, John would only respond with something unintelligent and
flustered. Sherlock felt his own cock sitting stiffly in his trousers, and more
than once he took John’s hand pressed his palm to the heavy organ, but just as
John would start to smile, Sherlock would rolled his eyes and watch as John
started to laugh all over again.
This fact didn’t deter the Deity as he moved his hand down John’s thigh,
tracing different curls of Markings as he went. Unspoken words were lingering
in the air, and it wasn’t just John’s laughter that kept them from being
spoken; it was Sherlock’s inability to find the correct words to describe what
he was feeling. It couldn’t be love. Love was an indescribable feeling, and no
one person could express it as easily as saying it. Sherlock wanted to love
John, but he wasn’t sure if he really felt the intense feelings of affection
that were supposed to be present for the emotion to be considered real.
The internal debate of whether or not he loved John was starting to irritate
Sherlock, and Mycroft’s earlier words rang true in his mind: You haven’t really
thought it through. He was thinking too much on the subject, and was
distracting himself from the task at hand: learning everything about John’s
body. He wanted to be in love with John, but he wasn’t sure if there was more
that he needed to do to prove his feelings were true. Bracing his left hand on
John’s knee Sherlock moved his right hand back up John’s thigh and brushed his
fingers across the Marking that led to John’s cock, straining and waiting for
him. John started to laugh again.
“No, not… Sherlock!” John gasped and pushed Sherlock away and sent the Deity
rolling across the mattress until he hit the wall. Sitting up quickly, John was
still laughing as he leaned over Sherlock and brushed his hair from his sweat
slicked forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I… ha! That’s what I was… maybe we
should try this a different way? That is, if you…” John bit his lower lip and
snorted as he tried to hold down another laugh. “If you still want to. I
haven’t really been helping.”
Sherlock sighed and glared up at the ceiling.
“’Intimate’, you said.” He said lowly, his body telling him to give up on the
idea of talking to John as the blondes hand sat easily on his hip, thoroughly
distracting him. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, blinking a few times and
regaining his train of thought. “These Markings seem to be more ticklish than
they’re ‘intimate’, John.”
“I’m sorry.” John moved himself so that he was draped halfway over Sherlock.
With one leg settled between Sherlock’s and a warm hand lying atop Sherlock’s
wrinkled purple shirt. “I haven’t had much experience with this. I’ll be
serious.” John tried to smother his smile as Sherlock turned his glare on him.
“I promise.”
“Promises are meant to be broken. Say something else.”
                Confused for only a beat, John held himself frozen before his
expression cracked open in a wide smile. Golden laughter was pressed into
Sherlock's neck, hot and moist against his skin, and he couldn't contain his
own lower pitched echo of the sound. It created an odd harmony in a minor key
that reminded Sherlock of an orchestra when the conductor was trying to make an
audience hold their breath for the next note in the piece, pausing only for a
moment to change the key.
“Would it change anything if I said that you’re beautiful, Sherlock?”
Pursing his lips for a moment, Sherlock blinked slowly.
“Not really.”
John made a face and Sherlock brought his hands up from the sides of the
pillows where they lay and caught his long fingers in John's hair, pushing the
flaxen crown back to gain a sideways glance at John's tension relieved face,
flooded with a shining smile that could rattle the stars if he so wished it.
                He pressed his lips over that smile, wanting to swallow it up
and take it into his heart, to drink up the laughter that was too sweet to be
heard by anyone else. Sherlock mapped out the contours of John's shoulders –
careful of the Markings – and slid his palms over the strong, muscular biceps
that held John over him and across his pectorals that were alight with
glittering markings that didn't cease to shine as Sherlock sent his fingertips
down John’s chest and smoothed down his abdomen. Each muscle flexed and
clenched beneath his attention, and John pulled away from his mouth, hissing
around an inhale and flattening himself down against Sherlock in retribution.
                The fire in his belly didn't ebb with this action; no, Sherlock
could feel it building intensity, like a coil being tightened just before it
snaps. Sherlock let out a lungful of air that came out as a pleased sigh at the
sensation, and John smiled.
“You're so...” Impossibly blue eyes searched the dark haired teens face, and
Sherlock felt his cheeks burn under the scrutiny. “Different. You know that?”
                John bent his leg at the knee, pushing his thigh up against
Sherlock's quickly hardening cock and making Sherlock gasp and shudder.
Laughter ensued this action, but not from John, from Sherlock himself. Sherlock
didn't quite know what was so funny, but he did know that he was in bed with
the only person he could imagine touching him. No one else seemed right in this
way; only John could be so close. Only John could come to him and kiss him.
Each curve of his muscles and every edge of bone was Sherlock's to keep, to
cherish and to explore. The new freedom brought another vertiginous round of
bubbly laughter, and Sherlock's hands escaped the trap of John's chest to clasp
the sides of John's face, holding his face close while he laughed at the
excited whirl of endorphins and adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream.
“Different,” Sherlock managed through a breathless bout of giggles, slipping
his hands to the back of John's neck and down his sun kissed back. “I'm
different. Oh,” John kissed him, and Sherlock smiled into his lips, hoping to
return the smile that he'd stolen only moments ago. “Oh, John. Have you only
just realized that?”
“No. I knew it the moment you walked into that house.”
                John murmured to his lips, all closed eyes and secret whispers
that made Sherlock feel smothered in an emotion that he didn't know if he could
handle. He felt his heart jumping up to be caught in his throat; too close, too
far: too much. Sherlock strained his neck up to catch John again, to breathe in
the sweet scent of his breath and finally relax into the overwhelming heat of
his sunny embrace. He needed to stop his mind from roaming over the sensitive
areas that controlled the urge to simply bury John in his own scent and pace
him with words that were sure to keep Sherlock in control. No, that wasn't
right, Sherlock assured himself; it had to be more than that. It needed to be
real.
                Settling his palms against John's hips, Sherlock allowed
himself to enjoy each sweep of John's lips over his, parting only enough to
feel the brush of his tongue – too hot to be a normal tongue – over his lower
lip. John's breath came to him in heavy gasps, and Sherlock found his own lungs
reacting in tandem with him, inhaling only to have his breath forcefully taken
away in a kiss. The thigh resting between Sherlock's own slid up, pushing
against the hard ridge there and causing Sherlock to grunt. The sound slowly
descended into the low pitch of a moan. Sherlock's eyes opened; he'd never made
a sound like that before. John pulled back a bit, tilting his head to the side
and smiling again, repeating the movement of his leg as if it was Sherlock’s
turn to be the experiment, and John couldn't wait to see what would happen if
he pushed a little harder, moved a bit faster, and kissed him for just a bit
longer.
Sherlock gasped, feeling the muscles in his neck clench as molten fire
threatened to boil over in the pit of his stomach. Retaliating, Sherlock shoved
a hand into John's shoulder, pushing him up and away so that he could have
access to him. John moved willingly, only to have a warning on the tip of his
tongue, but not fast enough as Sherlock's dexterous fingers worked their way
around John, and the Sentry's muscles seized up with tension.
“Sherlock, don't...!”
                It was shocking, like dipping his hand into boiling water when
he expected icy liquid waiting for him. Like standing out in the cold for much
too long and running inside, where the heat is too much and his skin festered
and stung bitterly. He wrenched his hands away from John's cock, pressing the
burning skin of his palm against John's clenched stomach and feeling the sharp
inhales of breath through the movement of his diaphragm. His eyes were glued to
the markings that covered John's skin, glowing a heated platinum, like a flame
that had gained a few degrees in temperature.
“I should've...” John swallowed, licked his lips, and struggled to compose
himself while Sherlock monitored his breathing, slowing at a disappointing
rate; would he not want to be touched anymore? “I should've warned you about
that, earlier.”
“What good would it have done, John?” Sherlock shrugged, flexing his sore
fingers and shifting on the bed so that he could sit up fully in front of John,
sharing the same air as he pushed himself into relaxation. He didn't want to
stop yet; there was definitely a limit to what he could do in one night, but he
didn't want to be finished quite so soon. “I would've tried it anyway.”
                John let out a humourless laugh, setting him back on the scale
of calm a few notches, and making him take more deep breaths to relax all over
again. He sat back on his heels, placing his fists on his knees, clenched so
tight that his knuckles where stained an unbecoming shade of white. His
markings still held a burning pallor, and showed no sign of changing their
shade in the near future.
“You and your silly experiments. How many tries does it take to figure out that
the sun is hot?”
                Sherlock leaned forward and took John's lips again, hoping to
bypass the situation entirely – he didn't like it when John didn't smile – but
the Sentry didn't want to be ignored, turning away after only a few seconds of
their lips being locked. John looked, in Sherlock's eyes, disappointed in
himself.
“John?” The Sentry turned back to him and presented a tired smile that hardly
matched the excited pulse of his glowing markings. “John, can't I... am I
supposed to,” Clenching his teeth, Sherlock gave out a heavy exhale that made
his lungs hurt. “Maybe it's like hot bath water.”
                John lifted a sceptical eyebrow, but his hands relaxed just
enough to gain their normal tanned skin tone once more.
“Hot bath water.”
“Yes.” Sherlock pushed John back, feeling the blonde grow nervous as he fell
back against the bed and unfolded his legs so that he was lying upside down on
the mattress. “You don't just jump into the bath water when it's hot,” He
reasoned, easing himself over John so that his thigh rested between John's; he
could feel the heated bulge through the thin cotton of his own trousers easily,
and he moved his leg at an excruciatingly slow pace along the ridge of John's
erection, drawing out a long, breathy moan that he would treasure to know that
he brought on. “You go slowly to make sure you don't get burned.”
“Oh, Gods. You're horrible. Terrible.”
                Letting out a huff of laughter, Sherlock returned the
attentions he was so happily delivered from John tenfold. He showering him with
kisses not only to his lips, but to the markings that curved over his cheeks –
which made John smile and giggle just a bit – and outlined his eyes – which
made John sigh and bite his lower lip. Following the glowing path down to his
neck, Sherlock rocked his pelvis forward against John's hip, feeling the heady
rush of his blood flowing down to his own arousal while John sucked in a deep
breath as is own body tensed.
“Sherlock.”
                He warned in a low voice that made the boiling fire in
Sherlock's stomach lurch and the coil to tighten. They hadn't done anything
yet; only relishing the fact that they were close, touching, balancing
somewhere on the precipice of 'I'm falling for you' and 'I've fallen so far I
can't see the edge anymore'. Reaching up a hand that wasn't braced on John’s
hip, Sherlock fumbled blindly for John's own hand, feeling the warm fingers
grip his own and fall back against the mattress as he kissed along John's neck.
Lifting his head only a fraction, he could see their hands locked together and
their fingers laced so tightly, Sherlock was sure that they'd never come apart.
“John,” Sherlock breathed, turning his face to see John's closed eyes and his
flushed cheeks. “John, I don't want to let go.”
                Something swam through John's eyes when he opened them; in
anyone else's eyes, it would've be labelled as pity, but it was strange in
John's eyes. He was drowning in John, but he could breathe just fine. He was
being smothered in affection, but he was overpowering the strength that John
possessed as easily as kissing him. He wasn't being pitied, he was being so
completely and utterly loved, he felt his chest tighten with emotions that he
didn't think still existed.
“Then don’t.”
                Sherlock descended on him again, kissing him until he was sure
that John could never frown again, gripping his hand until he was sure that
John would never want to let go, and pressing his body so close until he was
sure that they'd become one body. It was much too hot, but Sherlock couldn't
bring himself to care; he took John's empty hand and brought it to the front of
his trousers, feeling those hot fingers immediately push down underneath the
fabric to cup and press against him. Glorious pressure overwhelmed him for only
a moment before he reigned in on all of the sense that he had left, he let his
own hand slide down slowly to wrap his already burning hand around John’s
impossibly hot member. He stroked and pulled, listening as John gasped and
groaned while he answered with breathy moans. These were sounds he never
thought he’d make, but John was under him, using one hand to hold one of
Sherlock’s and using the other to pull Sherlock toward the edge of orgasm.
While John pulled at his trousers and eventually gave a gruff order to remove
them, Sherlock shimmied out of the article of clothing, letting go of John’s
hand for only a moment to use his both hands in the process of pulling himself
out of his trousers and pants. John said something soothing, something about
not rushing into things, but Sherlock already knew he was rushing; he was
running into the flames of the sun without a second thought. He was happily
greeting the sting and burn of one thousand fireplaces, and gladly accepting
the molten fire that was John’s kiss; Sherlock was sure that there was no
better definition of ‘rushing into things’, but he didn’t give it much thought
as he rolled back on top of John and watched as John’s glowing hands came up to
unbutton his shirt.
Fragile strings of resilient thought found some way to linger in Sherlock’s
mind as John’s hand wrapped around him once more; too many things to say and
not enough time to say them. There were questions that built up behind his
teeth, but he didn’t get a chance to voice them as John murmured something
softly against his neck before he pressed a kiss to the skin there. John’s
hands led their own exploration over his chest, scaling the mountains of his
shoulders and dipping down into the valley of his shoulder blades to travel
down to his lower back. John’s hands were everywhere; distracting in the most
pleasant way Sherlock could imagine. Fingers in his hair travel down to his
hips, to his thighs, his cock; John was working some sort of strange magic that
Sherlock didn’t understand; and it was perfect.
Trying to distract himself from his own nudity, the Deity lingered on the idea
of actually being pulled into the act of sexual release. Sherlock knew that his
climax wouldn’t be a cliff or a crash; it would be like drowning in the most
pleasurable way. Sherlock wanted to think that it would be like stepping into
the bath and being overrun by the warmth and silken feeling of liquid heat
surrounding him: finally relaxed and able to tell John what he really felt in
the heat of it all. John was heat: the personification of the sun. Sherlock
wanted to imagine that it would be as simple as all of that while he held his
parted lips above John's to inhale each strand of strange curses he would never
understand, listening until John could only sing his praises through breathless
whispers.
“Sherlock, Sherlock...” John washed out the used up oxygen from his mouth with
a heavy, peppermint exhale that made him shudder and buck into the warm, ready
hand over his erection. “You perfect, perfect man... oh, Gods, Sherlock. Look
at me?”
                Opening his eyes to catch John's eyes, he saw something much
too real, much to raw to be true; Sherlock saw John's opalescent eyes staring
down into the core of what he was, seeing a reflection of himself in his own
irises and knowing that his reflection was truly imprinted on his soul. Seeing
that glint in John's eye, the spark of realization that Sherlock had fallen so
hard for him he couldn't catch his breath yet, set the liquid fire in
Sherlock's belly over the edge, and the coil snapped.
                He was in love with John, and he hadn’t even realized it.
                It was a painful ecstasy, tearing through Sherlock to his bones
as he peaked at his climax, tripping over the edge gracelessly and dragging
John with him as he went. He felt his eyes screw themselves shut, and his jaw
dropped around a shout – did he say John's name? – but he couldn't quite feel
it. Flares of white exploded behind his eyelids wracking his body with waves of
desperate pleasure, and he felt the stream of John's own burning hot seed
against the palm of his hand as his frayed nerves tried to recover. Removing
his hand from John’s cock – the heel of his hand was already gaining the bright
red flare of a first degree burn – Sherlock let his body fall forward against
John, hearing the tell-tale 'whoosh' of air from the blondes' lungs as he fell.
                He felt satisfied in a way that he never knew that he hadn’t
been before; more than a dream could’ve ever sated him and more than
imagination could possibly achieve. John’s breath was deep and heavy, and
Sherlock squirmed down so that his ear could lie over John’s thudding heart.
Even and precise, John’s foreign, fiery heart pounded out the same rhythm that
he’d felt in his own chest since he was born. Sherlock reasoned that even
though everyone’s hearts must beat the same, John’s and his were different,
stepping up on a scale of relevance in the world until they were breathing the
air from a higher place; somewhere it was just the two of them, their hearts
drumming out the same tempo and conducting their own kind of symphony. Sherlock
liked to imagine that it was something like that.
                His head rose and fell with John’s breath, slowing until the
breaths evened out into something deeper, and more tranquil. For what seemed
like a long time, neither of them spoke, keeping their locked hands together
and listening to the absolute and kind sound of silence between them. Minutes
passed, and Sherlock could hear the rain still pattering across the windowpane,
dancing over the glass of his window and sure to cool off the fogged glass into
something more manageable – and more explainable should Mrs. Hudson come
knocking – whilst he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of sweat on John’s
warm chest.
“John,” He whispered to the calm body beneath him, feeling hot fingers squeeze
his own clammy hand in response. “Stay with me tonight?”
“Is that an order?”
                Sherlock only had to think for a moment, deciding when he heard
the tension in the Sentry’s voice, and murmuring his answer in a hushed tone
that only they could hear.
“No. It’s more of a request.”
                John didn’t move, opting to merely hum and brush his thumb back
and forth over Sherlock’s hand, cradled preciously in his own palm while he let
fatigue begin to drag him down. Feeling the sting of his right palm, Sherlock
tilted his wrist so that the side of his hand just whispered against the warm
flesh of John’s glowing cheek. The tender skin of his hand was met with John’s
nearly unbearably hot lips, making Sherlock’s hand sting and his eyes water;
the tears weren’t for his hand, but for something that he couldn’t quite name
out loud. Something that he’d only experienced when he was very young, and even
with his vast memory and knowledge, he couldn’t quite recall it.
“I love you.”
                He said to John’s bare chest, feeling John’s thumb stop its
movement along the back of his hand for a moment. Sentiment was sticky on
Sherlock’s tongue, like honey or maple syrup, but he couldn’t imagine the words
coming out of his lips any other way. The movement resumed quickly, accompanied
by the sound of a heavy exhale through John’s nose.
“I know.” Sherlock blinked; how could John know if Sherlock had been struggling
with the idea of love the entire time? Almost four weeks spent together and
over one hundred hormones raging at him, and he hadn’t realized the truth until
John forced him to face the facts; how could John have possibly known? “I love
you too.”
                So that was it. John knew because he understood what love was;
he knew the warning signs and the hesitant gaps between physical exchanges.
John knew from looking out the window of the Strange House to see other
Sentries with each other. He knew from Sherlock’s mother talking about her
husband with that far-off, warm hearted gaze. John knew because he must’ve
known that he loved Sherlock much earlier than Sherlock had realized his own
emotions. Sherlock smiled; it was the only logical reasoning that he wanted to
follow.
                And with that though, Sherlock closed his eyes and let his body
drag him toward the oblivion of sleep, gladly answering the call of his own
body’s command for respite.
+++++
There was a smile that gleamed behind Sherlock’s eyelids as he slept; crooked
and lethal, it was there and immoveable. Irreplaceable in all of the wrong
ways; it was scarring. It was a disembodied smile, glinting in the murky haze
of a one fog filled evening; ten streetlights; one hundred drops of blood; one
thousand shots of gunfire: the smile was death incarnate. It shaped around
words, cruel things that cut like knives and hateful things that made
Sherlock’s chest ache; the words were spoken aloud, and easily heard, but
Sherlock didn’t register the sounds.
There were gunshots. Gunshots that rang off of the brick walls of the city and
shattered windows in the surrounding shops. It was late, it was dark; no one
saw it. Death hung in the air, and Sherlock felt horribly out of place; as if
he was real but not quite, alive but only just; physically locked in place, but
only in his imagination. It had to be a dream.
While Sherlock tried to turn his head to see the three bodies that had hit the
ground upon contact with the bullets, the smile loosened and turned into
something ugly, something sinister: the lips parted around sharp, tacky
laughter that stuck to Sherlock’s ears like wet tar but chilled him to the bone
as it swept over him like slick petrol. Death incarnate, death incarnate; was
there no other explanation for the thing that loomed behind Sherlock’s eyes? No
real understanding of what he was seeing, and why the blood in the gutter felt
as if it was staining his hands an impossible shade of red? The thing that was
hiding behind Sherlock’s eyes, the thing that was visible only in the corner of
his eye, ready to disappear the moment he turned to look at it head on:
nightmare.
Horrifyingly real and despairingly honest, nightmares showed Sherlock what he
feared most of all in the world: his inability to stop the deaths of innocent
people, perhaps? No. Though that was a just cause, he was truly more afraid of
not being able to find the perpetrator. He was afraid of the idea that he would
never be able to solve the simple mystery of ‘who was the killer’, especially
when it was obvious. It was there, pasted to the back of his eyelids when he
blinked – black dress shirt, pale skin – only to have it disappear from his
mind when he opened his eyes to scan the dark streets and catch his eyes on the
crimson coloured fear that stuck to the edges of the kerb.
Death incarnate, nightmare, gunshots. Sherlock felt himself blink, as if he
needed to while he was dreaming, and saw the smile behind his eyelids once
more; sick, hollow laughter. When he opened his eyes once more, he saw the
barrel of a gun pointed at his face, ready to shoot and ready to kill. Sherlock
blinked again, waiting for the dream to melt away to the relief of reality, but
it never did, it only led to the icy feeling of fear as he opened his eyes to
the spark of a gun, and the sound of gunfire registered in his ears.
+++++
                Sherlock Holmes didn’t shout when alarmed, nor did he scream.
He prided himself in being able to repress such flabbergasting reactions; he
would gasp when he was surprised, and would easily go off on reasons why people
shouldn’t surprise him when it happened, but he didn’t scream. He didn’t cower
in corners when he was afraid of the dark as a child, he would go to Mummy and
demand that she tell him that there was nothing to be afraid of, which she did,
no matter how many dozens of times he would get out of bed and tell her to say
it once more. Sherlock Holmes was not a screamer, and not a fearful child.
                But when he woke from his dream, Sherlock shot straight up in
bed and let out a blood curdling scream that no doubt woke the entirety of
England from sleep. Next to him, John was jolted awake by the sound, and was
soon sitting up with his Deity, brushing his warm hands over Sherlock’s clammy
skin and attempting to calm the trembling teen. His Markings shimmered an
agitated bright yellow, as if the idea of Sherlock being hurt or in danger had
set him on edge.
“Sherlock!” He shouted the name, causing Sherlock to blink and take a breath
in; had he not stopped screaming? Sherlock couldn’t even remember. Which was
strange, because he tended to remember everything of consequence, and an action
such as yowling like a wounded cat in the middle of the night seemed to be of
consequence. “Sherlock, what is it? What’s wrong? What happened?”
                Footsteps were heard thudding down the hall, and John quickly
shifted on the bed to scramble for the ring on the floor, taking it up from
where Sherlock had set it before pushing it onto his finger and pulling the
ignored blankets over their legs. John’s light disappeared from the room,
leaving the two in the dark, causing Sherlock’s paranoia to collapse in on him
and making him look around the room while he took shallow breaths; it could be
here. It could be anywhere.
                The smile that sat behind his eyes and killed for no reason;
the thing that had no motive and any motive it could get its hands on; the
thing that wanted to have Sherlock watch the crimes and just kill Sherlock to
get it over with. Sherlock swallowed and registered the fact that he was
shaking; his hands and his legs shook with tremors and his teeth chattered
until he clenched his jaw painfully.
“Sherlock,” John tried again as the bedroom door opened, revealing a
dishevelled Mycroft and a horrified Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock stared wide-eyed at
the blanket that John had thrown over them in an attempt to hide their lack of
clothing, watching how the light from the hallway casted shadows over them just
like the shadows that had hidden the dead bodies in his dreams. “Sherlock, what
is it? A nightmare? Do you need me to do anything?”
“Oh, my.”
Mrs. Hudson said in a scandalized tone, looking at the two boys with a hand
fluttering over her lips. Mycroft scowled and took three pointed steps into the
room.
“Sherlock, say something.” Sherlock didn’t speak as he took deep breaths
through his nose, and his eyes monitored the way John’s hands came to cover his
atop the blanket. “Tell us what happened. Why were you screaming?”
                Rain fell outside, filling the quiet room with the tension
filled sound of raindrops pattering lightly against the window. Sherlock sat in
idle shock; how could he tell Mycroft that it was simply a dream when he didn’t
know if that’s all it was? Perhaps it was some sort of twisted dream that
Sherlock had created on a whim. After he had seen something so pleasantly good
with John and his subconscious had decided that he needed to see something so
freakishly frightening, the balance of good and bad would be restored. Or, it
could have been a dream – or nightmare, for that matter – that Sherlock had
made a reality without realizing it, and it was truly wandering through the
cities of England, leaving a trail of nightmarish deaths in its wake.
John’s warm fingers squeezed Sherlock’s clenched fists, and the he leaned
toward his Deity with a concerned expression. “Sherlock?” He tried, licking his
lips and tapping his thumb on the back of Sherlock’s hand softly. “Are you
alright?”
Sherlock blinked hard, seeing the familiar emptiness of nothing behind his
eyelids, and sighed while he opened his eyes.
“I’m fine. It was just a nightmare,” He gave John a sideways glance. “Right,
John?”
John’s brows came down into a frown, and his lips parted around a confused
question, but it was never voiced as Mycroft scoffed.
“A nightmare? Sherlock,” Mycroft busied himself with retying his dressing gown
more securely about himself while the black silk caught on the sallow light
that streamed into the room from the hallway. “You haven’t had a nightmare for
years, and you would never scream when you did have them. What was really going
on in here?”
“Well, I said it was a nightmare. That’s all it was.” Sherlock asserted, still
watching John for reassurance while the Sentry smiled uneasily.
“And I said that I don’t believe that. Was your nightmare about your being
deaf, Sherlock?”
“I said it was a nightmare. I’m fine.” Sherlock insisted, lying back down and
feeling John pull the blankets to cover him completely as he went. “Go back to
bed. Everything’s fine.”
Mycroft made a face as he pulled the sash of his dressing gown taut.
“Sherlock,”
“Oh, let the boys sleep, Mycroft.” Mrs. Hudson said softly, catching the three
males in the room by surprise as she spoke up. She crossed her arms over her
chest and raised her shoulders in a shrug while the elder Holmes turned to her
with a glare. “Obviously, he doesn’t want to talk. And you,” She gave Sherlock
a pointed look. “You need to tell us in the morning. If something is wrong,”
Her look was moved to John, who proceeded to avert his eyes to the top of
Sherlock’s hair. “You need to tell us. Do you understand?”
“Yes, we understand.” Sherlock placed a solid hand on John’s upper arm and
dragged him down to lie flat on the bed with him. “Now take Mycroft and go
away. Far away. Go somewhere where I’ll never have to deal with him again.”
                After Mrs. Hudson had shooed Mycroft out the door with several
waves of her hands and the door to his bedroom was shut tight, Sherlock was
left in the dark with John. He could feel John’s warm, bare chest beneath his
fingertips, and John’s hot breath washed over his face in smooth, even bouts of
peppermint scented air, but Sherlock felt fear settled deep into his bones
again. It was late, it was dark; no one would see it. Just like his dream, his
nightmare, his fear… Sherlock rolled John back to lay on top of him, pinning
him to the mattress and soaking in all of the warmth that he could.
“John, take off the ring.” John did. Light filled the room once more, glowing
just subtly enough to relax Sherlock, but not quite enough to keep him from
sleeping. The Sentry beneath him was quiet and waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to
tell him what was wrong, or waiting for Sherlock to tell him to put the ring
on; either one could be an uncomfortable topic for each young man. When
Sherlock finally spoke, it was in hushed tones. “How do I tell the difference
between dreams and reality?”
The blonde brought up his hands to trail lightly over Sherlock’s shoulder
blades while he sighed: pleasantly distracting. Sherlock closed his eyes.
“Well… you don’t. That’s why Danabell never had children before you.” John took
a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The Goddess of Dreams and a Deity of
Dreams; both have the power to make their dreams a reality. You might not quite
understand how, but you may have already done it. I think your mother wrote
about it in her diary, didn’t she? She caught an escaped nightmare that you had
when you were little.”
                Sherlock felt sick to his stomach; the thing that had killed
without reason and laughed at the idea of motive was hiscreation? It was a
cruel twist, a sick joke; Sherlock wished that his mother was there to tell him
how to make it go away without fear. While Sherlock forced his eyes open to
stare wide-eyed at the watery windowpane, John summed up the conversation with
one last statement before he fell asleep, leaving Sherlock to silently fret
over the fact that he created a monster.
“You can’t tell the difference between a dream and reality, Sherlock, even if
you wake up. You’ll just have to close your eyes and pray that it disappears in
the morning.”
***** What nobody else Sees *****
“You look tired.” John noted amicably as he sat down at the table next to
Sherlock. The morning light slid through the window over the sink and sank into
John’s pours as he smiled empathetically at his Deity. Sherlock folded his arms
on the table and buried his face in them. “Do you want me to do anything?”
“Yes. Make it so I’m not tired anymore. Do that.”
John licked his lips and smiled at Mrs. Hudson as she stirred another spoonful
of sugar into Sherlock’s fresh cup of tea.
“Afraid I don’t know how to do that. Sherlock, maybe if you told me what was
happening in your dreams, you wouldn’t be so,”
“I haven’t slept in thirteen days. Thirteen days, John.” Mrs. Hudson set a cup
of tea in front of Sherlock, and he sat up to push it away from himself.
“Normally, I wouldn’t care, but it’s beginning to affect my brains’
performance. I just feel… heavy.”
Sherlock put his head back down onto the table, as if to prove a point while
John reached over a warm hand to smooth through his wild curls. Mrs. Hudson
took a sip of her own morning tea quietly, murmuring something about lavender
and its ability to help soothe some people to sleep. While Sherlock sulked,
John listened to the landlady attentively, smiling and humming when she would
leave space for response. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his mind wander as
John’s heated fingers slid down to the nape of his neck and brushed at the
long, curly hairs that had nested there.
He was simply too tired.
Thirteen longs nights had been spent with John, and the first seven were
overflowing with heat and trembling with excitement; too many things to explore
and too many things that had to be explained. John would kiss Sherlock with his
sunshine warmed lips, and the brunette would close his eyes and drink in the
strange all-encompassing feeling of John’s affection. Three more nights had
been filled with soft exploration and sickly sweet things being uttered from
John’s lips. Sherlock didn’t always know how to translate his new and shining
feelings for the Sentry, and more often than not, resorted to merely restate
the fact that he loved John.  Two nights had been quiet; feather light touches
over skin – Deity and Sentry alike – and cautious statements about the late
hour. Sherlock would let John explore, on those days; he laid back and let
John’s warm fingers graze over the outlines of his skin from sweeping curves to
blunt edges: uneasy bliss. The last night had been silent, with no hope of a
sensual touch or light-hearted words. Both teens knew that the nightmares would
interrupt their rest later in the night, and Sherlock merely resorted to
tucking himself into John’s strong arms and focusing on the glow of John’s
markings until sleep dragged him under.
No matter how much Sherlock wanted to pretend that it never happened, every
night for the past thirteen days he had wrenched himself from sleep with
gasping, heaving breaths. John had been there, cradling Sherlock’s head in his
glowing hands and telling him that he was safe, no matter what happened in his
dreams. Sherlock wanted to believe him, but with the murder that lingered
behind his tired eyes, Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe in reality,
or catch the criminal in his dreams.
“Have you tried counting sheep?”
                Mrs. Hudson said with a bright lilt in her voice, as if her
suggestion was nothing less than pure gold to the boys sitting at the table.
Sherlock lifted his head, only to give Mrs. Hudson a dark look through his
stormy eyes, and placed his head back down atop his arms. John sighed and
started to pull his fingers through Sherlock hair slowly; it was feeling that
Sherlock had no problem admitting was absolutely wonderful when he was tired.
“I don’t think he’d want that, Mrs. Hudson.” John murmured to the landlady
quietly, as if Sherlock was asleep at that very moment. “It’s just a bad dream.
I don’t think that falling asleep is the problem, Mrs. Hudson.”
                Sherlock made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat
while John’s warm hand pat the top of his head softly. There were small slivers
of fatigue still stuck in Sherlock’s mind, but none of them really registered
as truth as he blinked slowly. He could only see the dark navy blue blur of his
shirt sleeve as his eyelashes slid against the fabric with soft, hushed noises;
like a slow beat of a butterfly’s wings. It was almost soothing, but Sherlock
really wanted to sleep in a bed with John; it was most comfortable that way. In
his bedroom, John would remove the ring on his finger, and show his warm
markings to the world. In his bedroom, John would lie back on the bed and let
Sherlock bury himself in his arms, never to be released. In his bedroom, he was
safe in John’s arms.
Sherlock had always been averse to sleep; it got in the way of whatever it was
that he wanted to achieve while his thoughts were still racing and able to be
used. However, the nightmares he had been enduring he frequently kept him from
such a luxury as resting his body as well as his mind.
                All day, all night: racing thoughts with nowhere to go. He
would lie down to sleep, only to be locked in his own head with nothing to do
but run from a man that only existed – hopefully – in his mind. If it were any
other time, he would be overjoyed to be held in his own mind; it was a safe
hold for all of his logical thinking. It was a place that he could store away
everything that he needed to think about, and things that needed to be done;
his ultimate goal was to learn everything he possibly could about his own
strength: the strength granted to him by his mother. He wanted to be able to
see her again, if it were possible; but that was not noted in her diary of
things that were possible to be done.
                But, there were more important things pressing at the back of
his mind. Dreams that couldn’t be chased away with a knowing glance or ignorant
wave; nightmares clung to the back of his eyelids, staining his thoughts a
permanent shade of alarm. Words had always formed, the only words he could
think of: John, help me. He could see it even as he sat his head down on his
arms at the table; the black shirt that soaked up all of the night’s light, and
the smile that reflected it. Death incarnate; gunshots; death in the streets.
He was afraid. He could feel it even at the table, it followed him wherever he
went through the Summer Estate.
                Outside in the garden when he would drag John away from his
father’s old study to watch John close his eyes and smile at the feeling of
occasional sunlight; he would blink, and it would be there. With Mrs. Hudson as
she folded a blanket in the drawing room, telling the boys a story about
Danabell Holmes; Sherlock would yawn, and it would be there. He would close his
eyes, just for a moment, and be jerked awake by something. Anything. A shout of
fear, a woman’s scream, a gunshot, a simple plea for mercy… laughter.
“Sherlock, sit up. You’re a despicable display of manners; didn’t Mummy teach
you better?”
                Opening his eyes and sitting up quickly, Sherlock gave the
kitchen table a hard look as Mycroft strutted through the kitchen; how had he
not heard the pompous man come into the room? John’s hand was no longer on his
neck – when had it left? – and was currently resting rather comfortably around
a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson hummed a greeting while John gave Sherlock a cautious
glance. Sherlock responded with a delayed blink and mumbled statement about
being tired. Mycroft took the grumbled statement in his stride, pouring himself
a cup of coffee and wandering languidly about the kitchen while he spoke.
“Tired? Perhaps if you were getting sleep at night, that wouldn’t be a
problem.”
“Mycroft!”
Mrs. Hudson gasped, holding a hand to the front of her violet blouse as if she
had been personally offended. The elder Holmes rolled his eyes with a pinched
expression, bringing his cup up to his lips and taking a slow drink. Sherlock
watched as John licked his lips and held back the denial that was no doubt
itching to escape; they hadn’t truly gotten physical for the past three days.
Well, six days, if you included a few of the ones where Sherlock’s need for
respite had overpowered his need to explore, resulting in a kiss that turned
into rather amusing – in John’s eyes – snoring.
“Shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock drawled, feeling his eyes scrunch tight as he
swallowed a yawn, only letting out a long exhale in his wake. “I think you are
the one that didn’t retain any of Mummy’s manners. Honestly; talking about such
vulgar things at the breakfast table.”
                There was a pregnant silence that followed Sherlock’s words,
and the dark-haired teen soon found himself feeling unusually awkward. What had
he said? What had he done? Mycroft didn’t raise his cup to his lips to take
another sip, in fact, he set the cup on the counter and gave his brother a
long, concerned glance. Mrs. Hudson pursed her thin lips and knitted her
greying eyebrows together, not saying a word. So, Sherlock looked to John with
a questioning stare; it must’ve been frantic, because a curl of hair swept over
his forehead and into his eyes as he turned in his head. John gave a sad,
knowing kind of smile; the kind of smile he gave Sherlock when the Deity became
pushy with their lessons, or said something to John that he shouldn’t have.
That smile made Sherlock feel sick to his stomach.
“Sherlock, it’s past noon.”
                Ah, the golden words that sent Sherlock’s head spinning. Why
John’s hand hadn’t been on his neck, why he hadn’t heard Mycroft come into the
kitchen, why the tea in front of him was gone, why the room was brighter
without John’s markings to enlighten them: he had fallen asleep at the table.
Feeling his eyes grow wide, Sherlock worried his lower lip, feeling it chapped
and sore beneath the sharp attention of his teeth; he didn’t care. He hadn’t
fallen asleep at a table since he was six years old. He could remember. Mycroft
had told Mummy, and she had scolded him for falling asleep while their Father’s
mother had been in attendance at the dinner; Sherlock didn’t care for his
Grandmother. She and her son were very alike.
“Noon?” Sherlock said, gaining another three beats of quiet in the Holmes
Estate; an odd affair for the young man. He was used to Mycroft’s boasting and
preening; never his absolute silence. Even Mrs. Hudson was a chattering
songbird; where had her liveliness gone? John’s lips were sealed tight until he
was sure that Sherlock wanted him to speak: not out of the ordinary. “Are you
sure?”
“Why would be not be sure, Sherlock?”
                Mycroft said with a haughty huff, finally taking up his cup
again to swallow another mouthful. Sherlock ignored him in favour of John; the
Sentry nodded twice, affirming Sherlock’s discomforts and making the young man
feel worse. Sherlock was tired, so tired; and even at the table, his dreams had
not been safe. He had closed his eyes for only a moment, and there was that
black shirt stealing away his thoughts. There was that sickly sweet giggling
that made his ears hurt and his eyes water. There was that smile; two rows of
straight teeth, sharp canines and smooth white enamel. It had captured his
thoughts without his notice; it concerned him.
“Whatever. John, are dreams important?”
                Mycroft made a noise akin to choking as he sat down at the
table across from Sherlock and next to Mrs. Hudson, pulling his iPhone from his
pocket and tapping the screen several times. John gave the older Holmes a
glance before nodding attentively; Sherlock nodded once in return. John needed
to pay attention, and not worry about his idiotic brother running the bloody
country.
“Good. Fine.” Mrs. Hudson shuffled away from her seat and asked Sherlock if he
wanted a cup of tea while he gave her a dismissive wave.  “Milk. I’d like milk.
John, is there no way that we can… how can I put this in a way that you’ll
understand…” John made a face and Sherlock felt his lips twitch into an almost
smile. “Is there any way that I can notdream?”
Mycroft set down his phone on the table “What are you going on about?”
Sherlock ignored him, giving John a long look. “John. Can I find a way so that
I don’t dream?”
“Is it… Sherlock, you can’t just deny something you were meant to do. Is it
really that bad?”
                A frustrated noise came out of Sherlock’s throat, and he
couldn’t find it in himself to bed surprised by it; he was just too tired.
Mycroft sat back in his chair while Sherlock shifted forward, leaning over the
table and raking his fingers through his hair as if he could somehow weed out
the tired black shirt and worn out laughter. There was a ceramic clink that
resonated through the stagnant air in the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson set a glass of
milk in front of Sherlock, only to have the teen push the cup away with a
sickened glare. He was too tired. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t in the mood for
seeing John’s sweeter dreams, and he didn’t want to acknowledge the prying
glint in Mycroft’s eyes. He wanted wrap himself in John’s embrace and simply
sleep.
“Not thirsty, dear?”
                Mrs. Hudson hummed as she placed a kind hand on Sherlock’s
shoulder; an attempt at sheltering the young man from whatever was threatening
to crush him beneath the weight of one thousand broken dreams. Sherlock avoided
Mycroft’s stare as he shook his head in a tired manner, taking up John’s hand
and simply standing up.
“No, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not…” Sherlock sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.
John’s fingers squeezed his empathetically. “Not thirsty, or hungry. Just
tired.” He gave John a look that was sure to convey his feelings, seeing the
wince in John’s expression when he caught sight of the bags under Sherlock’s
eyes.  “I’m just tired.”
                They retreated to Sherlock’s room eight times that day.
                There were moments of complete clarity in the room; beautiful
moments of nothing but the heavy sound of John’s heart beneath Sherlock’s ear,
and the gentle, easy pull of John’s fingers pulling lazily through Sherlock’s
dark hair. Those moments were dyed a happy colour, and Sherlock found himself
wishing that the colour was permanent hue, for every time he would close his
eyes – only for a moment it would seem – he would be ripped away from sleep
with trembling hands and a sob on his lips.
                For the longest time, Sherlock was sure that he didn’t cry when
he was frightened. Entire years, gaps in his life, were filled with the
reassurance that he would only cry when he thought of Mummy’s leaving. These
thoughts were banished twelve nights ago when Sherlock had woken up with salty
tears making hasty tracks down his flushed cheeks while he gasped for air. John
had been there, brushing his fingers over those rose tinted cheeks and
whispering to those trembling lips; he had never once been afraid. He was an
anchor to reality that Sherlock desperately craved.
                There were also moments of complete disarray in the room;
shattered, frightened moments that Sherlock hated to live in the most. The rush
of air through his lungs as he tore himself from the claws of sleep with a
strangled, horrified breath The frantic searching for John’s presence for the
reassurance that he was in fact awake. The occasional damp heat of tears on his
cheeks until John sat up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and
pulled the Holmes in close.
He kissed Sherlock’s hair, his cheeks, and the damp skin beneath his eyes where
trails of tears threatened to make a reappearance, whispering sweet words of
comfort as a warm Sentry only could. Cupping his Deity’s face in his palms,
John pressed another kiss to his forehead, feeling Sherlock’s tremors calm
slightly as the chattering of his teeth became less noticeable, as if he was
forgetting that he had been cold.
“It’s alright,” He murmured, allowing Sherlock to turn his head down to the
recess of space between his neck and shoulder, burying himself there and
forcing himself to accept the fact that he was truly awake. “It’s okay,
Sherlock. I’m here.”
                Seven times Sherlock woke up. Seven times John calmed his
fears. Gentle hands through his hair, over his cheeks and down his arms. Soft
kisses were delivered to his lips when he wanted them, and soothing words were
spoken when he asked for them.
 Seven times they wandered to the kitchen to get a calming cuppa. Seven times
Mycroft was waiting for them. Mrs. Hudson was there in her violet blouse,
looking over Sherlock in a soft, motherly kind of way that made Sherlock
nervous, and Mycroft always questioned when they were doing every time they
went back to Sherlock’s room. Not that he really wanted to know.
                Eight times they wandered back to Sherlock’s bedroom, and on
that eighth time, Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to stay awake as John
murmured something about the sun setting.
                Hours wore on, and Sherlock slept, dreamt, heard the gunshots,
listened to the laughter, and felt his throat catch around every breath; death
incarnate. No escape.
Sherlock sat up for the eighth time that day, and screamed for John.
***** A criminal by proxy *****
"John."
Sherlock said quietly, turning over the pages in his mother's diary slowly as
he spoke. His lips moved around John's name in an almost melancholic manner
that late morning; sleepless nights hung down heavily on the two of them,
leaving behind an increasing sense of uneasiness. With the increasing number of
deaths in Sherlock's dreams, the discovery of the morning newspaper was
shocking to say the least.
John had looked over it simply by chance, merely happening to sit down at the
table as Mycroft stood up, leaving the wavy folds of paper behind. He had asked
if it was alright for him to look -- Sherlock's mother had taught him to read,
little by little -- and Mrs. Hudson twittered away at how good it was for John
to want to practice his worn out reading skill. With John busying himself with
the paper and Mrs. Hudson pulling a fresh batch of scones from the oven,
Sherlock had resorted to leaning over and placing his head on John's shoulder
in preparation for thinking about the long string of theories behind his
nightmares.
And there it was. Written in black and white in front of him as John stared at
the paper in confusion; he'd never seen the words 'Multiple Homicide' and
'Authorities Baffled' use together in bold print at the head of a document.
There it was.
The sights of his nightmares in small pictures of blood stained kerbs and
bricks walls peppered with holes: gunshots, death incarnate, and laughter. It
was real.
Sherlock had torn the paper from John's lax grip to look over the number of
murders, marching up several places with recollections in his head and feeling
slightly sin at the sight of: Culprit is still At Large.
It was horrible; beyond undesirable. It was unthinkable to be the killer, and
yet, there Sherlock's was every night, watching over the murders like some sort
of consultant. So that was what he really was, now.
A criminal by proxy: A consulting criminal.
He was a Dream Deity trapped into being a murderous teenager; how had it
happened? How had he created such a monster in his dreams, and how did it come
to life? Did he even possess enough strength to bring such a thin to life? Did
he have enough to destroy it?
His mother had written many things about the act of 'banishing' escaped dreams,
but never elaborated. Throwing the paper down onto the paper, Sherlock had
ignored Mrs. Hudson's barrage of questions in favour of taking John's hand and
pulling him from the kitchen.
They had trudged to Sherlock's room in silence; John hadn't asked any questions
about Sherlock's dreams after the Deity had snapped at him about the
interrogation. Leaving John I. The doorway, Sherlock reached under the mattress
and snatched his mother's diary before grasping John's warm hand and tugging
him all the way out the front doors and around the outside of the house and
into the safety of the garden.
Now they sat on wiry chairs of melded copper and iron. Sherlock sat looking at
his mother's diary, once, twice, three times before he realized that she never
wrote down how to banish a dream. John looked at the small garden, idly
admiring small rows of ferns and the broad leaves of hostas that were bunched
together in small clusters.
"John." Sherlock said again, bringing the Sentry's attention from the flowers
and back to his solemn stare. "John, I don't know how it happened, and that
frustrates me. I want to know how everything works, and this..." He gestured to
his mother's diary with a sour expression. "This is no help to me. How could
this happen?"
John sat quietly, worrying his lower lip and regarding the diary with a mildly
irritated expression. He looked as if he was holding back words that he
desperately wanted to voice, and no doubt they were words that wouldn't answer
Sherlock's question. So he sat. He didn't speak, and he didn't shift in his
seat. The late summer wind moved around them slowly, as if it were in no hurry
to push stale oxygen away from them.
The two sat in an unsociable silence, each one waiting for the other to break
it while the clouds over their heads gathered together in preparation to drop
heavy layers of rain on their sunny day. The Summer Estate had never seemed so
vast to Sherlock; the freshly cut grass gave off its crisp aroma while the
trees swayed in an odd repartition of dance. If he was more sentimental, he
would say that the lawn seemed to stretch on forever, mapping out the space
between humans and Gods with each meter of grass and each breath of air. If he
were not so focused on the Sentry sitting before him, he might've noticed the
shapes that hovered protectively between the branches and over the small
clusters of leaves below the trees; watching over him, just as they were
ordered by their Goddess.
John chose to lean forward at that moment, placing a hand over the cover of the
diary and looking at Sherlock with a stare that held more frustration than
Mycroft's glare when Sherlock would set something on fire out of sheer boredom.
"I can't tell you anything," John said lowly, causing Sherlock to lean forward
to catch his words. "Because you haven't told me anything."
                The Deity work his jaw, turning his face away from John’s and
choosing to look at the smooth lines of flowers that Mrs. Hudson had no doubt
planted in the garden. He felt trapped; more trapped than he had felt when he
was stuck in his head with his nightmare. He was drowned in emotions that he’d
rather not experience while speaking to John: anger, discomfort, anxiety. So
much anxiety. It was surely unhealthy to be so worried about not telling John
something that he’d wanted to keep to himself.
                What he really wanted to do was understand how to stop the
nightmare from damaging reality further than it already had. It was a heavy
feeling; a feeling that weighed down on Sherlock’s shoulders and made him want
to bury himself down under the canopy leaves of the hostas. John leaned back in
his chair, giving the dark haired teen a long look before actually parting his
lips around another pile of speech.
“You haven’t been talking to me.” John nodded to himself, as if agreeing with
what he’d just said while he tapped his jean clothed thigh lightly. “Which is
fine. Honestly. Fine. Not like I care about you wanting quiet every now and
then, it’s just the fact that,” The blonde took in a deep breath and Sherlock
gave him a careful glance. “You’ve been having these dreams for… quite some
time. Not that having the dreams is an issue, but if you think that the things
in the paper have anything to do with what’s going on in your dreams, then we
should,”
“John.” Sherlock said lowly, staring at the neatly aligned trees at the edge of
the yard.
“Hold on, let me finish. I think we should definitely do something about it. If
you just tell me what happening, maybe I could help. If it’s an escaped,”
“John.”
Sherlock said again, brushing a curl of dark hair from his eyes as a breeze
ruffled the air around them slowly. He had seen something move in the trees;
several different interpretations of ‘something’. Small and big, quick and
slow; in the branches, in the underbrush, in the line of the trees. Sherlock
could see his mother’s Sentries.
John blinked at his Deity as he halted his words, giving the scowling teen a
concerned look before he followed Sherlock’s gaze to the forest.
“What?”
“Stop talking.”
                John made a face as Sherlock pushed back his metal framed chair
and stood up, eager to move toward the forest. He had to see the Sentries. They
might know what to do in the case of an escaped dream. Moreover, they might be
able to tell Sherlock more about his mother than the diary or even John knew.
“John, are the Sentries in the forest my mother’s?”
The blonde glanced at the trees. “They should be.”
“Why would they still be here?”
John’s gaze moved to the cobblestone under their shoes. “I… honestly, I don’t
know. Maybe she gave them an order to stay, like me. Or maybe they just didn’t
want to leave.” Sherlock gave John a sparing glance, and the Sentry shrugged
loosely. “Really, I can’t speak for them.”
Sherlock smiled at John, and looked back at the forest once more before turning
back to John.
“Can I go see them?”
“I think you’ve got this backwards.” John smiled with Sherlock, giving him a
pat on the arm. “You are the Deity, and I am the Sentry. You don’t have to ask
me for permission.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow while John hesitated. “Well,
unless it’s dangerous; and I would know if it was dangerous. Then, I would have
a thing or two to say.”
“Fine. Then I’m going to see them.”
                Sherlock said with a nod, stepping between the hostas and
minding the small flowers around them as he sought out the forest and the
Sentries hidden inside of it. John scurried along behind him, moving past the
small garden and trotting along with Sherlock’s longer strides as the Deity
advanced on the forest front. For the first time in thirteen days, he felt as
if he was going to stumble on a revelation; he wouldn’t have to tell anyone the
things he had seen, and he wouldn’t have to see John’s disappointment at his
lack of strength in his dreams. It was what he’d be hoping for, all bundled up
in a nice package.
“I need to talk to one of you.”
Sherlock said loudly as he came to a stop at the edge of the trees. His shoes
slipped against the cut blades of grass, and his breath echoed hotly in the
humid air around him as he waited. The forest was still; unmoving and
unresponsive. Next to him, John was quiet and vigilant, watching his Deity with
cautious opalescent eyes. As long seconds turned into minutes, Sherlock took a
deep breath and pushed his hands into his trousers pockets.
“It only needs to be one.”
                He said, as if to solidify the fact that he wasn’t asking for
every one of the Sentries to wander out of the forest to speak with him. John
shifted where he stood almost uncomfortably as Sherlock glared at the trees;
nothing was happening. There was no shape that was human, human or otherwise,
that was moving in the forest. Only the subtle sound of John and his breathing
was enough to tell Sherlock that time was passing. Time that his nightmare
could potentially be using to kill random people for sport.
“I only need one Sentry, and that’s all.” Sherlock said solidly, taking a half-
step forward and looking forward into the forest. Nothing happened. John stayed
where he was, letting his Deity voice what he wanted and not bothering to get
in the way. “Just one.” Several minutes had already passed when Sherlock gave
one last desperate attempt. “Please. Just one.” He took a shuddering breath –
shaking with frustration or anxiety, he couldn’t tell – while John bit his
lower lip. “Please.”
“Why?” Sherlock glanced to his wright to see a tan-skinned girl leaning
languidly against a nearby tree. Her hair was a dull russet colour, tied back
in a messy bun and easily letting several strands fall into her eyes. “Wha’ do
you need from us?” Sherlock blinked in surprise as she continued. "You’re no’
hurt, you’re no’ in any danger. So, wha’ could you wan’?”
                Wincing at the heavy accent that tainted the girls’ words,
Sherlock licked his lips and thought about what she had said. John hadn’t ever
been so disrespectful. He could be temperamental and quiet, and more often than
not, he was hard to understand; but his intentions were mainly good. It was
just a matter of personality, Sherlock assured himself as he said what he
wanted.
“You knew my mother.” The girl nodded. “You were her Sentry.” Another nod.
“Then, you must have known her method of doing things. You must have seen her
work,” Sherlock searched for the correct words with a wild flourish of his
hands. “You must have seen her create dreams, or make them a reality, right?”
The girl nodded again, pushing a long, dirty lock of red hair from her eyes as
she did.
“Aye. I did, sir.”
Sherlock’s curiosity sparked. “For how long? How long did you know her?”
The Sentry took a deep breath and looked up to the sky, as if the topic of
conversation needed to be thought over carefully. She stepped away from the
shade of the trees, allowing the partially covered light of the sun to hit her
skin and show off her black Markings. They were sharp, like jagged thorns all
long her arms and scattered along her hairline, hidden under the folds of dirty
brown clothes that hadn’t been cleaned for a relevant amount of time. Now that
Sherlock could accurately look her over, he could see that her skin wasn’t
tanned at all; it was dusted over with dirt and fine splotches of mud. The teen
could see that she truly had fare coloured skin under all of the grime, as
shown around her eyes, where no dirt had dared to be strewn.
“A good… ten years, I’d say.” She said fairly slowly. It was as if her words
were mad of molasses and she had to take her time to say them. “Good woman,
you’re mother. Ne’er took any shit from the Gods, if you know wha’ I mean. My
kind a’ woman.”
Sherlock’s thought process paused on the way to his nightmare; ten years?
Before he was born, before his parents were even married, she’d known this
Sentry. Sherlock took a step toward her, eager to ask all that he could and
learn as much as he could handle.
“Ten years?” His thoughts raced as he went over everything he’d ever wanted to
know about his mother after she’d left. “New question. Why did she marry my
father?”
                The woman in front of him blinked slowly; like a cow that was
chewing curd, taking its time to break down every bit of starch before
swallowing. She pursed her lips, as if she was about to say something, but
decided against it, pivoting her weight from her right foot to her left. John
was waiting quietly to be acknowledged, to be needed, to be wanted; he had been
waiting for years before Sherlock had come to the Strange House, and he knew
that he could handle a few more minutes of being ignored. If Sherlock was
content with the information he gained from the exchange, John was happy to sit
back and let the conversation follow through.
                Before the woman had any chance to let her syrup thick words
flow slowly from her mouth, another Sentry stepped out from behind a tree to
the left. He was tall, Sherlock could see; with broad shoulders and strong
arms, the man seemed to be a formidable force. He crossed his arms over his
chest, showing off his own brand of inky black Markings.
“He said he loved her.” The male Sentry said hollowly, as if the subject was
the most unpleasant one he’d ever had to speak about in his life. “I think
that’s all she needed to her. Your mum was… a simple woman. She didn’t need
much.”
“What?” Sherlock baulked, looking franticly – if not angrily – from the
stranger to John. “Why?”
John raised his hands tentatively, as if to stop Sherlock from doing something
preposterous.
“Sherlock,”
“Quiet.” He snapped in John’s direction. “Why would she only need to hear that?
My mother was brilliant, she was a genius!” The large Sentry didn’t flinch at
Sherlock’s sharp tone, and merely raised his chin when Sherlock finished his
thoughts. “Why would she marry him? He’s a liar, a coward, and an idiot. She
couldn’t have possibly,”
“Sherlock, just,”
“Shut up, John!” Sherlock barked at him, watching the blonde duck his head and
stare disagreeably at the freshly cut grass. The Deity winced at his own use of
words, and stepped toward John to take his warm hand in his own. “I’m… I just
want to know. Why would she marry a man that said he loved her? Did she really
love him?”
“Of course she did.” The female Sentry said, scratching at her dirty scalp
while John squeezed Sherlock’s fingers. “He was a charmer. Your mum said so.
All the time.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “So she married my father because he was charming?”
The tall Sentry sighed and shook his head, leaning back against the tree he had
stepped out from behind easily. He was uncomfortable with the storytelling; it
was obvious in the way this his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched at the
mention of Sherlock’s father. The woman shrugged loosely and proceeded to flop
to the ground, sitting at the base of a tree and yanking her fingers through
her knotted flaming hair.
“I think it was more of the fact that he was charming toward her, more than
just being charming.” Sherlock glanced up at a girl who stood between the other
Sentries; her Markings were a pale blue, just like the Ventus Sentries he had
seen in the market with John. She nodded to herself, as if agreeing with the
statement while she stood uneasily in front of the young Deity. “I mean, think
about it. She’s the Goddess of Dreams; in charge of brining dreams as well as
nightmares.” The Vetnus Sentry shrugged loosely and motioned to Sherlock as if
she really wanted his opinion on the matter. “Would you fall in love with a
woman who brought fear in the night? The woman who balances out the sweetest
dreams with sick horrors? I don’t know many who would.”
Sherlock huffed and holding onto John’s hand loosely as he spoke. Hearing about
it like that, it sounded as if his mother was truly a force to be reckoned
with, rather than the gentle spirit he’d known her to be when he was young. She
illuminated fears, brought on paranoia, and kept people awake for centuries
with nightmares. It seemed so unlike the woman he’d known as a child.
“Why would she give out nightmares?”
“Because that’s who she is.” The tall Sentry said loudly, as if it were an
obvious fact. He leaned forward, as if he was going to shake some sense into
Sherlock, but thought against it, choosing to lean back again as he spoke. “She
is the Goddess of Dreams; be it good, or bad. Nightmares are given as signals
of what to be aware of or what to embrace. Your mother knew that better than
anyone.”
Sherlock shook his head, trying to rid it of useless information.
“So she married a random man because he loved her… in spite of who she is. Is
that what you’re trying to say?”
“Some girls just wan’ to be loved, handsome.” The red hair Sentry muttered from
her spot at the base of the tree, having gone back to pulling her fingers
through her tangled hair. “Your mum just happened to be one of ‘em. She didn’t
need no better reason.”
                The three strange Sentries grumbled their agreement with the
statement, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought of his mother being so
dim. She was a brilliant woman; she taught Sherlock to look at every aspect of
the room, register sounds from far away in his mind, and to remember everything
he could about what he experienced in everyday life. She taught him to be one
of the brightest minds in his school, and here he was, being told that she was
a love sick young woman who swooned at the promise of courtship.
                It was embarrassing. His mother was not that kind of woman; or
was she? Sherlock let go of John’s hand to push his fingers through his hair,
mussing it and leaving his thoughts thoroughly scattered. What had he really
wanted to talk about, besides his mother’s strange, undying love for her moron
of a husband? Her stupid, cheating, undignified excuse of a husband. Sherlock
squinted at the red haired Sentry as she pinched her thumb and forefinger
together in the air, resulting in a small anthill at her feet. What had he come
to them to say?
“You, all of you, you’ve seen her do it. You’ve seen her create dreams.”
Sherlock said breathlessly, feeling John place a warm hand on his shoulder
while he continued. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?”
The Ventus Sentry bobbed her head in a nod enthusiastically, taking a step
forward and gladly proclaiming that she was one of the first Sentries to be
Claimed by Danabell. Sherlock gave her an appraising look, licking his lips and
voicing the request that he hoped would save him – and possible countless
others – from his nightmare.
“Then, you must’ve seen her get rid of dreams that she made into a reality.”
Sherlock took another breath, and John’s hand on his shoulder gripped tightly,
as if to push him forward. “I need you to tell me everything you know about
purging those dreams.”
***** Trial by Fire and Ice *****
                Sherlock sat down on the grass, feeling more than a bit light
headed after the Ventus Sentry told him the truth. There was no way to reverse
what he’d done. He was stuck with the overwhelming knowledge that he was the
true cause of several deaths. He was the reason that there was a murderer on
the loose and the reason that they couldn’t be tracked down or hunted. Sherlock
was trapped in his mind. Over and over, he could feel those thoughts of the
nightmare man’s dark shirt and light laughter overtaking every moment, every
move, every breath… that man was there, locked away and yet free as reality,
tainting the true world a sickly shade of deceit. It was there, encircling him
and leaving him no escape. He could hear it, shouting, snickering, and
breathing down his neck.
                The nightmare was always there now. It lurked even when he
tried to escape from it with John, trying to use John’s warm light to keep him
awake. Even if Sherlock struggled to stay awake, he couldn’t evade sleep
forever. If it was impossible for every other man, it was impossible for him.
Whether Sherlock liked it or not, it was soothing to know John was there, ready
to fight for him, ready to protect him, and ready to keep him safe. Much too
soothing.
After too many long hours without respite, caution would be thrown to the wind,
and Sherlock would let his eyes flutter shut. John’s breathing was a lullaby,
and his arms were the only comfort that the Deity could ever wish for. Sherlock
would sleep, and the nightmare man would be there. Hewould be there. There was
no way to escape him, and now Sherlock sat on the ground, feeling something
that he’d never truly felt before: defeat.
John knelt down behind Sherlock, settling his warm hands on the teen’s
shoulders and giving him a comforting squeeze.
“Sherlock, I’m sure that if you just --”
“What?” Sherlock huffed breathlessly, feeling his wide eyes blink slowly. “If I
just… what, John? If I close my eyes and hope, it’ll go away? If I tell it to
just disappear, it will just disappear?” He gave a humourless laugh, and John
pat his shoulders nervously. “I don’t know if that’s how it works, John.”
                Once, Sherlock’s life had been so predictable. Boring. More
than once, he was left on his own with the simple mission of finding his own
adventure. It was always so boring, so typical, so… tedious. Now, he sat in
front of strangers with John patting his shoulders. No ordinary strangers,
Sherlock thought to himself. These strangers were magical. With their spinning
Markings that sat like tattoos on their arms, and their hidden abilities to
twist nature to their will. Life wasn’t simple anymore. Sherlock wasn’t going
through his days with ignorable people and boring tasks; he was living some
sort of bedtime story reality where nothing was ignorable.
                There were things to be seen that no one else in the world
would be able to accomplish even in their wildest dreams. The tedium had
vanished. It had been swept away with John’s sweet, sunshine-filled smile, and
a new life that was completely out of the ordinary was set in front of him like
a change in course. Steered away from normality and into the depths of
something that Sherlock wanted to explore to no end, Sherlock was living proof
that magic existed. It was something that he never would have accepted before,
and now here he was, in front of four magical, fantastical beings. One of which
he was in love with. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love. He wasn’t supposed to
be distracted by sentimental.
                Sherlock knew from a young age that he wanted to solve puzzles
and riddles, and being a detective would have its fair share of puzzles. But,
there wasn’t any fun in that. Why not pick and choose the cases he wanted? He
was a genius, and his brilliance was fit for only the most interesting cases
that could be found. A consulting detective then. Brought onto a case when no
one else could so the puzzle or riddle, he would be the only smart person in a
sea of idiots. He wouldn’t have time for nonsense, tomfoolery, or simple cases.
Sherlock liked that I idea. And yet, he couldn’t fight the fact that his plans
had changed. Life had strayed far from its original course.
So, there he stayed, with his only love and three profoundly magical strangers
in front of him, waiting for him to do something. It was only logical for the
Sentries to expect something of him because he was the Deity, but there was one
dilemma that he couldn’t ignore. Sherlock realized that there had been a fatal
flaw in their design.
It was a flaw that any normal person could see. A flaw that not even he chose
to acknowledge: he never really knew what he was doing. Breathing? Thinking?
These were things he had done in the past. He had only been hypothesizing and
taking down mental notes on the unknown, pushing limits he hadn’t recognized
and never really thought were real. But he had seen John’s dreams, crisp and
clear in his own mind as if he had dreamed them himself. He had seen many
things, but he never knew how he saw them. There was no science or logic behind
it, and now he was trapped in the uncomfortable fact that he was undoubtedly
caught between his nightmare and a hard place.
He didn’t know how it came to life and he didn’t know how to kill it. It was an
undistinguishable flame, a raging hurricane that never ran out of strength, and
a tornado that never felt the need to disperse. Sherlock knew that he had to
stop whatever it was – or, whoever it was – that was terrorizing the
inhabitants of London, but what could he do? What is a creation to a creator
that doesn’t understand it? And what is a criminal to a detective when the
detective has no hopes of ever catching them?
“You know,” the fiery headed girl crawled forward across the grass until she
was stationed in front of Sherlock with a frown. “You could always wai’ for ‘im
to come to you. You said it was a man, yeah? Jus’ wai’.”
“Wait?” Sherlock said breathlessly, squinting indignantly at the dirt-covered
Sentry. “Wait for the man that holds a gun to my face every night? I see.” He
leaned back against John and felt warm arms immediately embrace his shoulders,
wrapping around his neck like a loose scarf. “You want me to wait. How
precious. So, while my nightmare slaughters people, you want me to sit on my
hands and wait for death to come knocking at my door. That’s rich. Really,
brilliant.”
                The girl raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips as if the
entire conversation was a waste of time; in all truth, it was a waste of time.
Sherlock could have been… what? What could he have been doing, if not asking
for assistance? There was nothing else. No clue left in the diary, no evidence
left in the Summer Estate, and nothing besides sparsely placed furniture in the
Strange House. What should he be doing, if not trying to fix what he’d so badly
broken? He had shattered some sort of thin line between fantasy and reality
more than once – sharing his bed with John, seeing John’s dreams, seeing his
own nightmare – it was all lined up, waiting to be judged while he struggled
with the decision of “what to do next.”
                The other strange Sentries stood at uneasy attention,  and the
red haired girl brought up a hand to shield her eyes as she tipped her head
back to look at the sky.
“I’m jus’ thinkin’,” she said blandly, idly running her tongue over her teeth
while Sherlock turned a sharp glare on her. After she’d given the sky a good
long look, she lowered her gaze back to the young Deity and narrowed her eyes.
“Or, do you have a be’er idea?”
                Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, anything, that
might give them the impression that he knew what he was doing. He parted his
lips around some reply that might save him from the oncoming guilt and
frustration of causing dozens of deaths. His tongue was ready to spill so many
different reasons for his misuse of dreams, but none came. No words fell from
his mouth, and judging by the blunt look of pity on the red haired Sentry’s
face, she hadn’t been expecting him to say anything.
“You don’t have to try to do anything, Sherlock.” John whispered lowly behind
him, sounding almost depressed as he spoke. “It’s just a dream. It can’t hurt
you.”
                Feeling his eyes grow wide once more, Sherlock stood up
quickly, turning around and watching as John fell back onto the grass without
him to be an anchor. A normal dream was one thing, but this was a nightmare. A
nightmare that had become a reality. A nightmare that made him feel emotions
that Sherlock was sure he’d stored away when he was very young: fear, anxiety,
paranoia. These things were real now: lingering in the back of his mind, played
out as subtext every moment he closed his eyes, overcoming every feeling until
there was no rationality left…
“Just a dream? John, this is more than a dream. It’s… it’s a living thing! It’s
killing people; it can’t be caught. It has no motive. It’s the perfect
murderer, John. And I made it!” Sherlock gestured to himself frantically,
watching as John’s normally smiling lips were stained a seemingly permanent
shade of disappointment. While the Sentries around them exchanged nervous
glances, taking a step back from the Deity as a precaution, Sherlock continued,
pacing across the grass and growling out his frustrations. “I can’t think with
this… this thingrunning about, causing all of these deaths, waking me up in the
middle of the night. It’s too much, and I don’t have enough time to sort it
out!”
John looked to the sky with a shaky breath. “Sherlock --”
“No, John! You can’t stop me this time. I don’t want to hear any more, do you
understand? You don’t know what this is like!” Sherlock stepped toward John,
holding his own head and pulling on his curls until he was sure the hair would
be ripped from his scalp. “My thoughts are in ruins! He’s destroying
everything, and I can’t do anything!” John blinked rapidly, reaching up his
hands to somehow relieve the pain until Sherlock turned away from him. “You
don’t understand. I can’t just ignore this. I can’t ignore the things I see
when I close my eyes, John. He’s always there! Blood on the pavement, gunshots…
it’s all there! You don’t hear the screams at night John. You don’t have to
listen to them, over and over until you feel like you’re going insane.”
John swallowed nervously and looked to the Sentries behind the curly haired
teen for some kind of assistance, only to see that they’d averted their eyes to
the ground. Sherlock went on, grasping the front of John’s shirt and pulling
him forward until he stood on the tips of his toes in front of the desperate
Deity. John’s blue eyes were wide with surprise; he’d never seen Sherlock so
afraid of something. Sherlock was almost always selfish and blunt – always
difficult to understand – but his intentions were to ultimately meet a logical
goal or standard. Now, there was no goal, there was no standard, and there was
no logic at their disposal. Fear was a fine veil over everything, leaving the
Sol Sentry to witness ultimate destruction of Sherlock Holmes, starting with
his sanity.
“You don’t hear it, John. It doesn’t echo in your mind, and you don’t see those
faces.” Sherlock’s expression twisted into a grimace while John stood in front
of him with a visage that screamed for some sort of respite. “The faces… you
don’t watch them die, John. But I do. I see everything! From the gunshot and
knives to the poison and rope; I see it. All of it! I can’t escape this until I
get rid of that nightmare, and you telling me that the dream can’t hurt me
doesn’t help. These little platitudes you’re offering don’t help, John! Even if
you say those things, it doesn’t stop those screams from echoing in my mind
every hour, every minute,” Sherlock took a breath and realized just how
desperate he sounded, and how terrified John looked. Sherlock blinked. “Every
second.”
                John’s hands were steady as he placed them on Sherlock’s
shoulders, holding the Deity in place while he gave him a hard look. There was
sense in him yet, John was sure. He just wasn’t certain that Sherlock would
listen to him, especially when John could only tell him the unhelpful truth.
“It’s a dream, Sherlock. You need to --”
“John.” Sherlock cut him off once more, letting go of John’s shirt and looking
up at the sky that the red haired Sentry had admired only moments before.
“John, what is that?”
                When John turned around to see what had caught the Deity’s
attention, he was greeted with the sight of a sky that was filled with coal and
trembled with fire. It was unexpected and uncalled for: the sight of the sky
being purged of light and the clouds being filled with ash. A solar eclipse?
Sherlock watched with his lips parted in eternal awe and confusion; it would
have been discussed at the table by Mrs. Hudson if such a thing had been
forecasted.
                He took John’s hand and pulled him forward to look at a sky
that was bending beneath the weight of one thousand solar eclipses. It was
unreal to the extreme, but there all the same. He couldn’t quite tell: dream,
or reality? When he turned around to ask the other Sentries what they thought
of the sight, he was met with the empty forest front that was void of any other
Sentry besides John.
                As if in a dream, things around him weren’t quite making sense.
But he was there, he could feel things in a way he never could when a nightmare
struck him in the dead of night. He could feel the reality of the wind against
his cheeks, he could hear the distinct sound of John’s breath, and he could
almost taste the stale tang of milk from the mornings’ breakfast on his teeth.
                If it wasn’t a dream, then it had to be a reality; but, if it
was reality, where had the other Sentries gone, and why was there a solar
eclipse? Sherlock scowled and turned back to face John, taking in his
distraught expression. He didn’t like not knowing things. With a hard blink, he
tried to think on what was occurring to somehow manage a logical reasoning for
the occurrence, but there was no such answer locked away in his Mind Palace. He
didn’t care about outer space, so there was nothing stored away for future
reference in his brain. What could he do besides wonder what was happening to
the word around him?
It was like watching the world crumble beneath his feet. Was this was the
people of Italy experienced in Pompeii so long ago? The sky turning into dark
clouds of ash, and the ones that you know falling away into nothingness… it
seemed like a skewed view on reality. Like looking through a carnival glass and
seeing the real shapes and lines of reality contorted into strange alien shapes
of ominous scenery and dark skies.
After he gave the sky one last considering glance, Sherlock turned his eyes to
John, monitoring the way the Sentry looked back and forth agitatedly, as if he
was waiting for something to jump out at them. Sherlock narrowed his eyes,
feeling his face scrunch up in confusion as John fidgeted nervously. Was there
something happening around them that Sherlock couldn’t understand, or was John
just on edge because of the other Sentries disappearing?
“John, what’s going on?”
                The blonde’s snapped back to attention, righting his slightly
defensive stature and gluing his gaze to Sherlock’s. With a careful eye,
Sherlock could still easily see the uneasiness in the shorter man’s frame, and
it wasn’t difficult to discern the signals of fight of flight in John’s fisted
hands and steady eyes.
“I don’t know.” John said slowly. He licked his lips and looked over Sherlock’s
shoulder for an unknown thing before meeting Sherlock’s stare again. “I
honestly don’t know.”
                When Sherlock opened his mouth to respond with something sharp-
witted, he felt the air around him thin out. It was as if winter had come a few
months early and brought the bitter air with it, burning Sherlock’s throat when
he took a breath and fracturing the blood vessels in his lungs when he tried to
exhale. The result was a choking gasp and a steamy exhale, as if Sherlock had
deposited some sort of acidic compound deep in his chest, and breathing was
some sort of fumigating technique. John’s eyes went wide, and he stepped
forward with his hands outstretched while Sherlock held a hand to his chest and
struggled to inhale the stinging air.
“Sherlock,” John’s hands brushed over Sherlock’s forehead, moving aside his
thick curls to get a good look at his eyes: wide with surprise as he choked on
frozen air. “Sherlock, tell me… tell me what hurts, and I’ll… I’ll fix it. I’ll
fix it, I swear to the Gods. Sherlock, please.”
                Sherlock was sure he was dying. Years of researching the human
body and all of its components had given Sherlock insight into what would occur
if he were to be dying. His throat could swell, his organs could fail, his
brain could cease to function, and he would know exactly why it was happening.
But whatever was happening to him had nothing to do with the human limits of
nature; this was something Sherlock could only understand in his new life.
                The air was frozen, getting caught in his throat with each
surprised gasp, only to be too cold to hold in his lungs for too long. It was
as if Sherlock’s very lungs were freezing in brumal air, and he couldn’t quite
recover from whatever shock had its grip on him. John mumbled questions as his
warm hands swept along his cheeks and over his ears, but Sherlock couldn’t find
the strength to answer, only blinking rapidly as he gasped around every
shocking breath.
“Trial by freezing… or trial by fire, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped to the left, seeing the man who had infiltrated his
dreams for two long weeks. The nightmare man had found him, just as the red-
haired sentry had predicted. The man that stood tall among the falling bodies
in Sherlock’s dreams stood waiting in the freshly cut grass of the Summer
Estate. With his black shirt and pale skin, he was everything Sherlock
remembered from his nightmares. There was that light shadow of sleep
deprivation beneath his dark eyes and madness linger in his sly smile. With his
hands in his trouser pockets and a loose posture, the nightmare man’s smile
spread wider as he spoke.
“You’ve let me get away with so much, Mr. Holmes. A punishment is surely
warranted.” Sherlock blinked hard as John stepped in front of him in a quick
defensive move. The stranger made no move to step forward, nor did he try back
away, he simply finished his thoughts with his slight Irish lilt. “If you don’t
want to freeze, I’d be happy to burn you.”
***** Time to Wake Up *****
                Danger rung off of the trees and each breath that came to
Sherlock’s lips seemed to send the message back. The nightmare was real. The
slick young man stood calmly, hands pocketed, in the freshly cut grass of the
Summer Estate. It was as if Sherlock had known him for years but couldn’t quite
recall where they had met, like a distant relative or an old schoolmate.
Sherlock gasped around the cold air that threatened to freeze his lungs as the
nightmare man stood calmly in front of him with his lips curled around a smile.
“Mr. Holmes,” the nightmare said with a languid shrug of his shoulders, looking
at Sherlock with dark eyes that narrowed in dangerous interest. “I do believe
we need to have a nice, long, heart-to-heart chat.”
“No.” John said instantly, not giving Sherlock the chance to spit something
sharp at the stranger through his frozen breaths. “That’s not happening.”
                The nightmare’s easy-going attitude melted away at John’s
words, and his dark eyes settled on John with a sharpness that made the
treetops rustle restlessly and the branches to shudder nervously. He took
several steps forward, closing the relatively short gap between himself and
Sherlock while his glare remained glued to John. Sherlock coughed hard in alarm
as his mind began to cloud over from a lack of proper oxygen. Though neither
John nor the stranger showed any signs of being cold, Sherlock shivered against
the frozen air that caught in his lungs. The air around him was cold enough to
make him shudder uncomfortably and involuntarily. John eyed him warily, and the
nightmare smiled at him.
“I’m sorry, but when did you get an envoy, Mr. Holmes?” He pointed nonchalantly
to John with a thin finger. “I mean, it’s cute. Very cute. I can see why you
like him.” John scowled disagreeably and Sherlock scrunched his eyes closed
while he coughed into his hand, trying desperately to increase airflow. “I
think you should call off your little guard dog before I get rid of him for
you. Snap his neck, maybe.” He smiled at Sherlock while the Deity huffed
heavily. “Then we can talk properly, like big boys. If you’re still alive by
that point, I mean.”
                If it weren’t for the overcoming dizziness in Sherlock’s brain,
the Deity would’ve glared at his nightmare. John’s normally calm hands
tightened into fists, and Sherlock watched as the blonde stepped closer to him.
As if John had become a brick wall, the Sentry was the only thing that kept the
nightmare from merely reaching out a hand and strangling the Deity that was
already suffering from hypothermia, thanks to the stranger.
“I’m not dead… yet.” Sherlock said through chattering teeth. His breath felt
hot on his cold lips, and his eyelids felt heavy. Hypothermia was not a
comfortable way to go. “Don’t write me off quite yet, Mr…”
“Moriarty,” the nightmare said with a smile, bowing deeply with a flourish of
his right hand to the side. “James Moriarty. You’d think that you would know my
name.” James laughed for just a moment before he caught Sherlock’s dazed eyes.
“After all, you created me.”
“Sherlock, don’t listen to him,” John said quickly, spreading his arms out to
his sides as if to block James from moving any closer. The nightmare responded
by stepping closer to John and snarling in a way that Sherlock knew was meant
to be frightening. Sherlock doubted the loyal Sentry would be shaken. With his
another wracking cough into his hand, Sherlock tried to flex his fingers, only
to feel that Moriarty’s nightmarish cold had made him lose the feeling in the
appendages. Instead, his hands shook as their normal pale appearance began to
turn an alarming shade of light blue.
“You think you have aplace here, don’t you?” Moriarty whispered to John.
Sherlock gave the nightmare a sidelong glance before squinting at John’s stony
expression. James smiled. “That’s so precious. You think you matter in this
conversation.” The nightmare backed up a few paces with a hollow chuckle.
“Don’t get me wrong, this is a very cute appearance, but it’s not very
flattering for a Sentry of your stupidity.”
John parted his lips around a reply, and Sherlock huffed around a struggling
breath. With a start, John turned to stare at Sherlock’s shaking frame. His
warm hands rushed up to catch Sherlock’s cheeks, his hair, and his shoulders.
It was as if John thought he could somehow stop the cold that Moriarty brought
into Sherlock’s body with a gentle touch of his warm hands. When John turned
back to the nightmare with a glare that was sure to frighten even Death into
hiding, James held up a hand. The Sentry’s eyes blinked blurrily as Moriarty
wagged his finger to and fro, as if John was a child being punished for
interrupting something important.
“Hold on, now. The grown-ups are talking.”
                Moriarty’s eyes slid to Sherlock, and his thin lips curled into
a smile that made Sherlock already foggy mind tilt and shift. Just for a
moment, Sherlock let his eyes close. For only a moment, he was completely
oblivious to the world around him. He was on the ground. John was saying things
in his ear, and Sherlock felt John’s warm breath washing over his frigid skin.
Sherlock’s eyes struggled to open while John began to shout cloudy, hasty
words.
                With his cold cheek pressed to the warm grass, Sherlock heard
words like ‘frozen’ and ‘heartless’ through his clouded ears. It was as if he’d
held himself under the water in the bathtub for much too long, and Mycroft was
calling from him to get out of the tub immediately. It was all blurry and far
away, but he could recognize the agitated tepidness in John’s words and the
cool, indifferent lilt in Moriarty’s replies, too far away to be audible in his
state. Death by hypothermia was supposed to be slow, Sherlock thought to
himself as he blinked slowly and his eyelashes stuck together. It was supposed
to take time, according to his many experiments on small rodents and
researching in his schools’ library.
                Death was supposed to be slow for him, and that’s exactly what
he felt. His heart rate slowed, and his every breath was a Sherlock tried to
open his eyes, catching only a glimpse grey through his dark, heavy eyelashes.
Everything was numb, as if the very idea of moving was a sin in the face of
death; in Sherlock’s eyes, death seemed sweeter than living a life without
being able to move. It was a welcome thought. A disturbing thought but welcome
all the better.
                Breath moved through Sherlock’s parted lips in a shallow
whisper, and the young Deity began to question just how many breaths he had
left. Too many to count, or too little to cherish? Relaxing against the soft
grass, Sherlock let his eyes stay closed. Even if he opened them, the sight of
John’s frantic hands would be all that he’d see through the haze of numbness.
Death was slow, and apparently, death was silent.
                Heat. Against his cheek, along his arm, warmth radiating over
the smooth place of his forehead and down his neck. It fell over him in a wave,
as if someone had draped an electric blanket over him. Sherlock made a
questioning noise in the back of his throat, and inhaled the scent of
peppermint as another rush of heat washed over his cheeks. Then there was the
feeling of thousands of needles stabbing him as the numbness in his limbs began
to fade. They jabbed into his flesh and made him shiver against the warmth that
was holding him down. Sherlock squirmed and there was a loss of warmth around
his legs. Another surge of heat fell over his eyes, as if the eclipsed sun had
come out from hiding to grace him with warm sunlight.
“You know this is pointless,” Moriarty called from a distance, sounding tired
and exasperated. “If you want him to be warm, I can set him on fire. Either
way, he’s not getting away from me alive. You know that, don’t you?”
                Prying his eyes open, Sherlock caught a glimpse of John’s cheek
before the Sentry turned to no doubt glare at the nightmare. James stood back
with a look of distaste written across his face with downturned eyebrows and
puckered lips. Blinking tiredly, Sherlock noted that John was hovering over him
and his Markings were exposed, revealing the honey-coloured light that was
keeping Sherlock warm, despite Moriarty’s attempts to freeze him. John looked
back to Sherlock, smiling ever so slightly before taking a deep breath and
giving out a heavy exhale that warmed Sherlock’s cheeks. Peppermint. A scent
commonly used in toothpaste and sweets, but undeniably John’s, covered
Sherlock’s face and encased him in the subtle feeling that he was protected.
“John,” he said quietly against the rush of John’s breath. John sat back and
watched Sherlock’s expression carefully. “If you keep doing that, I’ll start
sweating.”
“Hear that, Johnny-Boy? He doesn’t want you to help him,” James said with
laughter in his words, watching John scowl as he helped Sherlock sit up. With a
shiver, Sherlock gave his nightmare a pointed look as he searched for a weapon.
In every murder, James would take the offending weapon of choice from his
pocket, be it a switch-blade or even his own two hands. A smile slid onto
Moriarty’s face. “I think… Mr. Holmes, deep down… I think you want to die.”
                Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching as Moriarty shifted his
weight from his right foot to his left, taking his time with his words.
“I think,” he said again with slow over-annunciation through his Irish lilt,
“that you want to end whatever has been happening between the two of you.”
James pointed a line between Sherlock and John with a smile. “You got bored.
Don’t worry, a man of your genius is bound to get bored of everything he has
now and again. So you made me. You invented something to keep you occupied.”
James’ shoulders picked up in a shrug while he pushed his hands back into his
pockets. “I’ve got to admit. It’s been fun. Well, it’s been fun for me… not so
much for our victims. There’s a lot of bad blood on that front.”
                Moriarty laughed a bit while Sherlock took John’s hand and held
it tight. He hadn’t been bored of John. He would never grow bored of John.
People changed every day, and he wanted to be there to see every change that
occurred with John. There was no one else he wanted to do such things with, and
as his own invention, Moriarty should’ve known that. With another shrug, James
shook his head.
“And then you just had to go and… and ruin the game. You went looking for
anout. Running to your Mummy’s old Sentries for help?” James sighed heavily and
his smile drooped. “I expected so much more from you. I mean, I could’ve given
you what you wanted. You want to solve puzzles, and I want to keep going with
my… what did you call it? Ah, yes. My ‘consulting criminal’ business.” Moriarty
nodded almost fondly before his eyes caught Sherlock’s and held him with a
sharp stare. “We could’ve worked off of each other, Sherlock. We could have
been great.”
“Sherlock is already great without you,” John said quickly as he pulled
Sherlock up and held the unsteady Deity to his shoulder. His Markings glowed an
agitated eburnean colour, and his blue eyes glinted in the sallow light of the
solar eclipse. “He doesn’t need a nightmare to be amazing. He’s perfectly fine
the way he is now.”
“He doesn’t want to be perfectly fine!” Moriarty shouted, taking his hands out
of his pockets and waving them at Sherlock pointedly. “He wants to be the best!
And you,” he pointed at John and narrowed his eyes. “You are not what he needs.
He needs me. He needs an enemy. For every hero, there must be a villain.”
“Can’t I speak for myself?” Sherlock intervened, feeling John slip a hand
around his wrist, as if to stop him from doing something stupid. The Deity
liked to think of himself as more intelligent than that of the normal
teenagers, and did not feel a strong urge to move forward and be ever closer to
the murderer in front of him. “Contrary to popular belief, I am quite capable.”
Sherlock raised his chin a bit, looking down at James over his nose. “And here
I was, thinking that it annoyed you when people speak for me. You don’t have
much trouble doing it. Hypocrisy must be a solid factor in my nightmares,
especially if it’s so important to you.”
                The moment of pause between the exchange of words was like a
moment for breathing fresh air. It was a brief respite from the twists and
turns that Sherlock’s normal dreams had begun to take, and there was a moment
that Sherlock could believe that Moriarty wasn’t truly a nightmare, but just
another person he’d met on the street. If only it was that simple, Sherlock
wouldn’t be stuck with the reality that he was responsible for so many deaths.
James raised his eyebrows and pushed his hands into his pockets once more while
he spoke.
“You’re right. You do have several people speaking for you.” James gave John a
sharp look while the Sentry moved to stand at an angle in front of Sherlock.
The nightmare sighed and shook his head as he pulled a browning out of his
pocket. “It would be easier to have your attention if there was only one of
us.” Moriarty’s lips turned up into a smile as he looked to Sherlock for some
sort of agreement. The Deity’s eyes went wide as Moriarty cocked the gun,
flicking his finger against the safety. “Wouldn’t it?”
Sherlock reached up a hand stupidly, as if that could somehow halt Moriarty’s
movements. “Stop --”
                Sherlock flinched as the gun went off, bringing his hands to
hide his face instinctually. That meant he didn’t get the chance to see the
force of the gunshot push Moriarty’s body back, causing a slight shift in his
tense stance. He didn’t get to see the way John stumbled back in shock, and he
didn’t get to see the way John’s scrunched shut as he braced himself. The sound
was quick and loud, like a shot of thunder that rumbled through the sky and
shook the earth beneath Sherlock’s feet. When Sherlock realized that he was
unharmed, the earth might as well have fallen out from under his feet. It would
have been a more blissful experience than the one that was waiting for him when
he saw the results of the gunshot.
It was quick, Sherlock realized as he opened his eyes. Death was quick. He knew
from experience. Many noises led up to its great upcoming – talking to James,
the movement of the trees, the gunshot – but ultimately, death itself tended to
come quietly and quickly. It gave no audible presence while it came and stole
away whatever was injured, and it left without consent. Death was silent, death
was swift. There was no chance to scream, and there was no opportunity for
Sherlock to properly command the cessation of James’ movements.
Sherlock watched John in a shocked daze, feeling his heart ache as John’s lips
remained parted around a shocked ‘oh’. A bullet hole rested in John’s left
shoulder, just above his collarbone. When Sherlock parted his lips around a
harried exhale, John’s legs seemed to collapse beneath him, and the Sentry
fell. It was all much too quick. Sherlock had blinked, and John was gone. The
blue eyes that Sherlock loved rolled back, strong legs that had led him through
the Strange House and the Summer Estate buckled, and let the blonde fall onto
the grass in a graceless heap.
Taking only a second to breathe in the thick scent of fear, Sherlock dropped to
his knees and pushed John back so that he could see his face. John’s blue eyes
were glazed and heavy as Sherlock brushed blonde hairs from his forehead.
Looking down at John’s shoulder, Sherlock saw the blood seeping through his
striped shirt, and immediately brought his hands to rest over the wound,
pressing down in a desperate attempt to keep the blood inside John’s body. The
Sentry responded with a hoarse shout, closing his eyes and turning his head
away from Sherlock, squirming under the hands that brought him more pain.
It was as if the idea of living was some sort of disservice to John, and
Sherlock’s shaky recollection of first-aid was harming him more that it was
helping him. John’s Markings flickered like dying lights, behaving like the
wound was somehow putting out the flame that rested in John’s very soul.
Somehow, the wound that opened up John’s skin was smothering the fire in his
chest, and there was no way Sherlock could save the Sentry without showing
humans what John really was. But, Sherlock didn’t have time to think about such
frivolous things. There were no bandages at his immediate disposal, and John
was losing blood.
“Impressive.” Moriarty said with a low-pitched whistle. He tipped the gun over
in his hands, turning it over and spinning it on his finger as if it was a
child’s toy. “He’s the Sentry, and you’re the Deity. If I didn’t know any
better, I would think that hewas supposed to worry about you. Not vice versa.”
Sherlock ignored him, bending over John’s face and pressing all of his weight
down onto John’s blood slicked shoulder. The Sentry parted his lips around a
shout, but the sound wasn’t projected as Sherlock breathed heavily.
“John. John, don’t…” Sherlock blinked hard as John’s face scrunched up in pain,
holding his unsteady hands down against the wound as John’s breathing became
heavy. “Don’t die. Don’t leave. You can’t leave. I need you to stay here.”
Looking about the yard uneasily, Sherlock searched for any sight of Mrs. Hudson
in the windows of the Summer Estate, only seeing the dark glass that reflected
the sad light of the solar eclipse. No one could help. Sherlock breathed out
frantically, leaning over John again and feeling his hands slip against hot,
wet blood. His hands pushed into the grass, and he looked down at them with a
horrified expression as he caught sight of the grass and dirt that covered
them. John groaned.
“John, tell me what to do.” Sherlock said urgently, looking down at John’s face
that was contorted in pain. “You have to tell me what to do because I…” John’s
eyes opened to peer up at Sherlock tiredly, and the Deity felt his face grow
warm with frantic embarrassment. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, John.”
With a soft exhale, John breathed out the words, “Just wake up. It’s a dream,
Sherlock.” Sherlock shook his head slowly, not quite understanding. “It can’t
hurt you if you wake up, you know…” John let out a rough breath, and Moriarty
scoffed from his place across the lawn. “You just need to wake up, and live…
reality.”
“There’s no such thing as reality for you, Sherlock,” Moriarty said with a
smile on his lips, continuing to turn the browning over in his hands. “You’re a
Deity of Dreams. Reality will always be compromised by the dreams you bring to
life. There’s no such thing as reality.”
                Looking to James for a moment, Sherlock narrowed his eyes
sceptically. If there was no reality, how did John know that this was a dream?
Did John know something that he didn’t know? John did know more about the life
that Sherlock hadn’t been able to explore in the first part of his life, and it
was only a matter of knowing how to help John.
“John, I don’t know how.” Sherlock glanced down at his dirty hands, choosing
instead to press his forearms against John’s shoulder and leaning his weight
into the action while John made a low gargling noise. “How do I wake up from a
dream that isn’t a dream?”
John gritted his teeth as Sherlock pushed his arms down harder, soaking the
cream coloured fabric of his button up shirt a sad cramoisy shade of red.
“It isa dream, Sherlock. Don’t listen to him.” John’s lungs contracted around a
huff of air, and small flecks of blood dotted the surface of his lips as he
fought to finish his thoughts. “You have to wake up, and live the life that is
waiting for you. This isn’t real. He can’t hurt you.”
                Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sight of blood on John’s lips.
Blood from his mouth could mean that a vein in his lung was damaged, or a vital
artery in his heart had been hit by the bullet. Blinking rapidly and leaning
down a bit, Sherlock stared down at John’s parted lips and watched as John
sucked in one shallow breath after another.
“How?How?” Sherlock licked his lips as John’s eyes fluttered shut. “John, don’t
close your eyes! You need to tell me how to wake up from this.” Sherlock lifted
his dirty hands to John’s cheeks, pressing his thumbs into the ridges of John’s
cheek bones and hollering to the unconscious and quite possibly dead Sentry.
“John! You need to tell me how to wake up!”
                The grass gave off hushed warnings as Moriarty moved toward
Sherlock, whispering the same sound of danger that lingered in the treetops and
branches of the forest beyond them. John had left instructions for Sherlock,
and the Deity wanted nothing more than to believe that the only person he had
ever chosen to care for was not truly dead. According to John, nothing around
him was real. John wasn’t dead. His heart hadn’t stopped beating, and the
fading of his Markings was merely a speculation in his dreams. It was all a
dream.
                James came to a stop next to Sherlock, taking a deep breath and
sighing lightly when the Deity didn’t look up from John’s still face. The only
person Sherlock had ever loved was gone. Lying on the grass in a motionless
pile, John was not glowing, and his skin didn’t hold its natural warmth. A
chill settled in the air without John’s warmth, and Sherlock didn’t move from
his place over John, holding his hands to the clotting blood and pushing down
on the unmoving body beneath him. He didn’t want to accept it. Death was not
something that could occur to John. Not his John. John was supposed to go on
living forever, being wonderfully incredible and stupidly optimistic with every
coming morning. Something like a bullet was not supposed to end John’s life.
Nothing was supposed to end it. John was supposed to live.
                “John,” Sherlock murmured to the hushed body beneath him,
moving his soiled hands so they sat heavily atop John’s shoulders, shaking him
slowly as if the Sentry could be woken from his state. “John, I don’t know,”
next to him, Moriarty snorted derisively at the repeated confession, but
Sherlock merely grit his teeth and shook John once more. “I don’t know how to
wake up from this.”
“Sherlock,”
The Deity turned up his head at the sound of a female voice. Not Mrs. Hudson’s.
It was much to light and smooth to be the landlady’s voice. It wasn’t either of
the two female Sentries that Sherlock had spoken too earlier. They had both
carried their voices in different register, one with a heavy accent, and the
other with a paper thin voice that could barely be heard. Sherlock blinked, and
looked up at Moriarty, seeing an expression of complete disgust on the
nightmare’s face. When the voice called for Sherlock once more, the teen closed
his eyes and pressed his face down into John’s still chest.
“Shut up,” he demanded feebly, curling his fingers around the curve of John’s
shoulders and soaking in the last bit of warmth that lingered around the skin.
“I have to wake up… so, shut up. Stop trying to confuse me. I… I have to wake
up.”
There was a soft laugh that responded to Sherlock’s words. It was soft enough
to be associated with a young woman, but not quite foreign enough for Sherlock
to safely say that the voice belonged to a stranger. It was someone that he
knew, and as he lifted his head to find the source of the voice, Sherlock
realized that Moriarty was gone. The entire Summer Estate was gone, form the
grass under his feet to the large house that should have been to his right.
Nothing but a blank whiteness surrounded him, and Sherlock took short,
frightened breaths as he turned his head down to see that John had disappeared
as well.
“Stop it!” Sherlock shouted as he stood frantically, stumbling over his own
feet and turning around in a wide circle. Nothing but the vast emptiness of
eternity stretched out before him, and nothing was there to hold onto, not even
the memory of John could comfort him from the growing hysteria building in his
body. Sherlock felt hot tears welling in his eyes as he turned around to see
nothing but emptiness once more. “Stop. I need to wake up. I need to wake up
and find John,” Sherlock ignored the way tears made salty tracks down his
cheeks when he blinked. “I need to wake up. I have to… John,” Sherlock breathed
out and held his face in his hands, noting the lack of blood and dirt on them
as he did so. “I need John. I need to wake up.”
“Oh, darling…” the disembodied voice called to him softly, pausing Sherlock’s
racing thoughts and drawing his attention back to the immensity of nothing
around him. The familiarity was from so long ago, Sherlock had to dig back in
his memories to recall where he’d heard it before. It was a voice that calmed
him down when he had nightmares as a younger boy, the voice hat told him to
behave at the dinner table, and the voice that whispered goodnight to him.
Sherlock peered over his shoulder to stare at the graceful silhouette of his
mother in awe. “You already have.”
***** What was Waiting for Me *****
“Mummy.”
The two syllables that made up his mother’s title almost sounded reverent on
Sherlock’s lips. The act of speaking broke up the leaden feeling of dread in
Sherlock’s stomach, replacing it with quivering, frantic excitement. Sherlock
blinked, making sure his mother was still standing before him when he opened
his eyes. He was sure that it wasn’t possible to see his mother anymore, and
she was surely gone, just as she was ten years ago.
But there she stood. Among the blank canvas that was the world around them, she
stood with her long brown hair curling over her shoulders lovingly, just as
Sherlock recalled as a child. Danabell Holmes stood with squared, thin
shoulders that traced a smooth line down her arms and to her hands that were
clasped in front of her. A black dress sculpted the curves of her hips and
smooth lines of her legs, coming to a comfortable rest at her ankles. She stood
with the fluid grace of a Goddess, with her chin held high and her shoulders
held back. But there was a certain fluidness in the stance, letting through a
hint of the serene mother he had lost ten years ago. Relaxed, uncaring, and
unrushed.
Heat welled up in Sherlock’s chest, his eyes, his cheeks… it spread throughout
his body just as quickly as a chill settled over him. Hot and cold all at once.
Alive and dead. It was a numb, shocked feeling. Mummy was right in front of
him. Gone for so many years, and now she had come from whatever part of the
Heavens she governed to find him. After begging and pleading as a child for too
many long hours at her funeral, after long nights spent awake thinking of her
soothing voice, she was living and breathing, standing before him as if she’d
never left.
                He could laugh and cry all at once. Where had she gone for ten
years? Had she left a fake body in the coffin for her funeral, and left for the
heavens? Why had she left? Was she running toward something… or was she running
away from it? Could it be that she left to avoid the disapproval of higher
Gods? Or it could be something much more sentimental, like not being able to
deal with the pain of heartbreak when her husband began to cheat on her. He
wanted to know why she gave him the middle name “Sherlock,” and where the name
had come from. He wanted to know why she hadn’t found him much earlier, and
stopped him from doing so many stupid things. He wanted to hug her, and he
wanted to scream at her. Loneliness, aching, and happiness. These emotions… it
must be what an epiphany truly felt like. He wanted so very badly to ask her so
many things, and he wanted to tell her everything he could, but no words came
to him. He merely looked at her with tears in his eyes and his lips parted
around every shaking breath.
Her eyes regarded Sherlock warmly, as if her stormy eyes could somehow reflect
the long lost years that spread out between them fondly. It was a gaze that
hadn’t seen Sherlock in ten years, and it certainly wasn’t a gaze that Sherlock
thought he would see again in his lifetime.
“Mummy,” he muttered again, looking her up and down before stumbling forward to
embrace her – perhaps he should have been making sure that she was real and not
a hallucination, but he couldn’t think on that at the moment. It was Mummy.
“Mummy, you’re here.”
                Just before Sherlock could wrap his arms around the Goddess,
two hands clapped onto Sherlock’s shoulders and jerked him back. It was
startling. Enough so that it made Sherlock’s head snap back and his feet to
slip against the white surface that was “ground.” His hands came up defensively
and aggressively, solely determined to rid himself of whatever barrier was
keeping him from his mother and from salvation. Salvation from his nightmares,
or salvation from his insanity? Sherlock wondered if he could tell the
difference.
“Watch yourself.”
                Sherlock twisted his neck to look back to gaze at the source of
the new, gruff voice that held him in place just a few paces away from his
mother. The man behind him was just an inch taller than he was, with silver
hair that gleamed like the trail of a falling star. Just like the stardust
colour of his hair, the man’s blue eyes were worn with age, and watched
Sherlock with a distant kind of interest. Sherlock looked to his mother for an
explanation, and she merely gave him a tired smile.
“Sorry, love. He doesn’t take well to strangers.” Danabell raised her hand and
waved dismissively at the Sentry, resulting in Sherlock’s release. The teenager
shrugged off the older man and tucked himself into his mother’s arms quickly,
and she embraced him easily. “I’m sorry about him, darling. I’ve missed you.”
Sherlock pivoted his head to look over his shoulder again to peer at the man
that was standing at attention just a few steps away. “Who is he?”
Sherlock’s mother let her fingers card through Sherlock’s wild curls slowly as
she spoke, soothing away any remaining discomfort that could have possibly
lingered in her son’s mind.
“This is Gregory, a Sentry that I enlisted the help of almost seven years ago.”
Sherlock leaned back in his mother’s arms, and she presented him with a kiss to
his forehead before pulling him back into the warm hug. “He’s here to keep away
any kind of threat.”
                Sherlock snorted softly. “And I’m a threat?”
The Goddess hummed against Sherlock’s head where her cheek rested comfortably,
continuing to slide her fingers through his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and
allowed himself to be comforted. However, there was still a lingering sense of
displacement in his mind. Was he supposed to be here, or did he somehow take a
wrong turn on the way to reality?
“Where are we?” He murmured into his mother’s shoulder as she pat his back
softly. His eyes travelled up to look at the “sky,” only to see the colourless
canvas stretch on forever. It was white no matter where he looked, void of
colour and void of life. “What is this place?”
With a smile, Danabell stepped back and swept her arms out to the side to
somehow indicate to the massive amount of nothingness around them.
“This is my Palace,” she said with a broad sweep of her arms once more.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow sceptically, but watched as his mother turned on her
heel and sent the hem of her black dress fluttering as she looked up. “It’s
where I returned when I left the human word, down below. This place is perfect,
Sherlock. The world below the heavens is complicated and messy. You have to
understand how ridiculous it is down there.” Sherlock’s lips turned down at the
corners to expression his distaste for normality as his mother looked back at
him warmly. “But my Palace… my Palace is perfect. There is nothing out of reach
here.”
As if to prove a point, she reached out to her right and pulled a silver goblet
from thin air. Sherlock blinked hard, scrunching his eyes closed and forcing
himself to accept the idea that his mother had conjured the cup from nowhere.
Magic was held in the air around them, suspended by the presence of the ornate
cup in the Goddess of Dreams’ right hand. Shocked, Sherlock stumbled back a few
steps and found himself colliding with Gregory the Sentry, his blue eyes
glinting with disapproval and his lips twisted into a scowl. Sherlock shuffled
forward and away from the Sentry, avoiding the gaze that inspected for criminal
behaviour and turning back to his mother’s sleepy silver eyes.
“In my Palace, any ‘dream’ can be a reality. Anything can be achieved.”
                Anything can be achieved. Sherlock thought over the words for a
moment. All on his own, he had accomplished many things without the aid of a
special Palace. He had discovered the magic that had been passed down from his
mother, he had seen the dreams of another person, and John… John. He had almost
overlooked the terrifying death while in his mother’s Palace. He had almost
forgotten the hot, sticky blood on his hands and the tang of iron in the air.
He had almost forgotten the words John had sighed. How could he do something
like that? He loved John, didn’t he? Why would he forget someone who made such
a pivotal and wondrous change in his life? Sherlock looked up at his mother
with a stricken gaze, and she cocked her head to the side with a smooth smile.
“I need to go back,” he mumbled lowly, looking around once more at the vast
emptiness around him before returning his gaze to the Goddess. “I need to go…
you said I’ve woken up, so… I need to find John.”
“Find him?” Danabell said with an almost humorous lilt to her words, smothering
her smile beneath the completion of her question. “Have you lost him, darling?”
                Nodding his head, Sherlock tried to think about the fact that
he had in fact lost John in his own nightmare, and there was still the
underlying guilt that he had let the Sentry die. Even if it he had woken up
from the dream, it still happened, and he was the cause of John’s untimely
death. John’s death, if Sherlock had only had proper control of it, should’ve
been very different. If Sherlock could’ve had the last word, John’s death would
have come much, much later. It would have been at a time when John’s hair had
turned a storm cloud grey and teacup white with age. It would have been filled
with soft-spoken words and the subtle brush of his fingers over John’s cheek.
Sweet, soft, and unrushed. If Sherlock had only had proper control, John’s
dream-death would have never occurred.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed as he looked down at the white ground. “Yes, I… I’ve
lost him. I need to go back. I need to find him, and tell him –”
“Enough, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s mother said with a wave of her hand, tipping the
goblet over and pouring what looked to be gold paint onto the white floor. It
spread out in all directions, just as any liquid would, but with another wave
of Danabell’s hand, it began to bubble as if the floor had been set to boil.
“Why go back there to tell him whatever it is you need to tell him if you can
just tell him here?”
                With his lips parted around a protest that never appeared,
Sherlock watched as the effervescing golden paint began to fight the laws of
gravity, moulding itself upward. It casted itself into the shape of a person,
vague and unrealistic like a dripping gold mannequin, before the trembling
liquid reshaped itself again. It mapped out the curves of shoulders and the
light fall of hair across a golden forehead, and ran beads of paint over two
strong legs while different layers of the thin paint traced the hem of trousers
and cuffs of shirt sleeves.
                If an artist had appeared from the floor and sculpted a perfect
replica of John, Sherlock assumed that it would look something like the person
that stood before him. As the golden paint began to fade into the natural
colours that made up John, the gleaming white fabric of his shirt became
apparent, the long white legs of his trousers were visible, and a faint coral
coloured blush rested on the cheeks that Sherlock remembered kissing earlier
that morning. It was John.
                It stood like him, with the majority of its weight pressed onto
its left foot, just like John. It blinked like him, fluttering its eyelashes as
the eyes first opened, just like John did when he woke up in the morning. It
even breathed like him, parting its lips around a large inhale as it saw
Sherlock and smiled, just like John did when Sherlock walked into the room. It
was John.
“John,” Sherlock breathed as he looked at the young man in front of him with
wide eyes. He rushed forward and brushed his shaking fingers across the boy’s
cheeks, feeling real skin beneath his hands. With a smile, Sherlock let out a
breath and took John up in his arms, holding the blonde close and breathing in
the scent of freshly cut grass. “John, John…”
                Freshly cut grass. Sherlock leaned back and gave the Sentry in
his arms a regarded him carefully, watching the opalescent eyes blink at him
slowly and seeing the familiar thin lips curve around a smile. It was all very
much like John, from the shape of his eyebrows to the way he sighed softly
through his nose when Sherlock stared at him, but Sherlock know the truth. It
was John, but only to a fault. It wasn’t the John that Sherlock fell in love
with, and it wasn’t the one that had died beneath his hands that very day. It
wasn’t peppermint, it was a freshly mowed lawn. It wasn’t John’s scent.
“What did you do?” Sherlock asked incredulously, looking to his mother with an
expression of utmost urgency. “What did you do to John? Where is John? I want
the real one. Not this, this…” he waved feebly at the freshly sculpted John
with annoyed fervour. “This humanization of paint!”
Danabell Holmes shook her head to and fro while she fluttered her fingers in
the air nervously, showing that she didn’t have the right words to express
exactly what she had done. As if to punctuate that fact, she let out a low hiss
and shrugged smoothly.
“I’ve given you what you asked for, darling.” Danabell sighed at the perturbed
expression her son sent her way, and gave him the most empathetic smile she
could muster. “You’ve asked for John, and that’s what I’ve given you. I’ve only
ever wanted you to be happy, love,” she pursed her lips for a moment before
continuing. “And if this is what will make you happy, then I will give it to
you. No prayer for sweet dreams required.”
Sherlock shook his head fervently, taking the shoulders of the ‘John’ in front
of him and pushing him back and away. He didn’t want a substitute. There was no
possible substitute for John, no matter how close the copy. The one that stood
only a few steps away from him with a seemingly permanent smile on his face was
not, and never would be, the John that he had fallen in love with. There was an
original John somewhere, and the teenage Deity knew that it was the only John
he would ever want.
“No, I want John. The real John. The John that lied to Mycroft about who he is,
and the one that showed me the God’s and Deity’s market. I want the John that
gave me your diary, and the one that showed me how to understand my own power.
I don’t want this.” Sherlock waved at the copy-John dismissively once more,
ignoring the adoring smile that was sent his way. “I don’t want a replacement,
I want the real –”
“The real John is gone, child.” The Goddess said with a flat tone, shaking her
head in disapproval while she crossed her arms over her chest. “And you should
know that. It was all a dream, don’t you see?” She stepped past the copy-John
and held her arms out for Sherlock to embrace her, but when her son didn’t
move, she forced a nervous smile. “If it’s something certain about John that
I’ve missed, you can make a perfect copy, I’m sure. Making things here is
simple. You don’t have to be asleep, and it doesn’t have to be a nightmare or
dream… if it can be wished for in this Palace, it can be a reality.”
Sherlock shook his head at the idea with a cross expression. There would be no
replacing John, no matter how close the finite details were to the real person.
Sherlock could remember nervous tics and daily routines, and he could remember
the redeeming and ignorant factors of John’s personality, but there was
something Sherlock knew all too well: people change. If he only made a copy of
John, it wouldn’t be the same as having the same person by his side. He didn’t
want to know everything about the copy-John, from the expectant laughter and
watching him with a loving gaze wherever he went. He wanted the unexpected and
interesting tendencies of John’s sporadic affections littered over him in the
form of kisses on his cheeks, his forehead, his collar… he wanted the light
scolding from John’s lips when he didn’t finished his plate of food. He wanted
to hear John’s light berating when he stayed up until the sun rose high in the
sky and neglected sleep, and the he wanted the surprising feeling of John’s
hands on his shoulders, dragging him down to the covers of the bed to sleep
while he kicked and screamed.
He wanted the real John, with all of his unexpectedness and aberrations that
could change with a slight change in mood and setting. He didn’t want to have
the copy reacted in a way he would have to have programmed in him from the very
beginning, like computer software. He wanted John’s kindness and forgiveness,
and he wanted John’s fire and determination. He didn’t want guesswork and
predictability, he wanted the thrill of discovery when it came to John’s
everyday life, and the elation that came with every piece of treasure he could
discover along the way.
“I want the real John, Mummy.” Sherlock tried to express his urgency while his
mother looked to her right, shaking her head and gracing the floor with a
beautifully sad visage. “Mummy, I love you, you know I do, but I also love
John.” Danabell’s eyes snapped up to catch Sherlock’s gaze in great hurry,
gauging the truth in his words through the sincerity that swam in his eyes
while he continued. “I need the real one, not a copy.”
“Why need him at all?” Danabell questioned desperately as she stepped forward
to take Sherlock’s face in her hands. Her thumbs brushed over the line of his
cheekbones, and her palms came up to cup his chin as she looked over his
delicate features. “Oh, Sherlock. My poor, poor baby… He was just a Sentry. I’m
your mother. I’ve always been there. No matter what happened, I was always
here. I watched every moment you cried, and saw every moment you laughed. When
you dreamt, I was there to give you the sweetest dreams I could muster.”
Sherlock felt the familiar sting of tears in his eyes, but didn’t feel them as
they began to fall, he was busy watching the painfully warm expression on his
mother’s face. “I only wanted you to be happy. That’s all I want for you. You
want John? I’ll give him to you. I’ll give you one hundred Johns. I give you
one thousand Johns if you just ask for it. Anything you want.”
Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat, trying to think of one good reason not
to agree with his mother. None came to mind except for the soft, nagging voices
in the back of his mind, far away from any relevant thought that lingered in
his head. A voice that scolded him for not sleeping, a voice that reprimanded
him for setting the drapes on fire, and a voice that lectured him for going
outside in the rain without an umbrella. They were voices that had dictated his
life since his mother had gone back to the heavens, and voices that had always
held him in a flattering light.
                John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson… each voice was there for a reason,
and they were there even when his mother wasn’t. They were loyal, even in
Mycroft’s case where he knew that they were only half-brothers. Each one was
happy – if not begrudgingly willing – to stay with him as he grew into the
young man that he was that very day. He wanted to stay with his mother, but
there were so many people that he couldn’t just leave behind. First and
foremost, he couldn’t leave behind the real John.
                “Mummy, please.”
                Danabell shook her head with a stricken expression, pulling
Sherlock’s face closer with shaking hands as she watched her son’s will to stay
with her fade.
                “Don’t go. I’ve only just gotten you back, love. Stay –”
                “You think I want to go?” Sherlock hissed, pushing away his
mother’s shaking hands to wrap her up in a tight embrace. There was the
tightness of fear and disappointment in Sherlock’s chest, but he knew that he
couldn’t stay in a place designed for the Gods when there were people that
needed him on Earth. “You think I want to say goodbye, after all this time? I
can’t. I can’t leave you, and I can’t accept the fact that I’m losing you all
over again. I can’t, but I…” Sherlock closed his eyes as Danabell continued to
shake her head against his shoulder. “I have to, Mummy.”
                “But Sherlock,” the Goddess pulled away to indicate to the
grand, empty space that was her Palace once more, looking at her son with eyes
that glittered with tears. “This place is perfect. It’s perfect for us,
darling.” Sherlock blinked, and felt old, chilled tears on his cheeks grow warm
with fresh trails of salty sadness. Danabell tried to smile, but Sherlock only
saw a dejected expression on her beautiful face. “Here, we don’t have to lose
anything. Nothing will be out of reach for you, here. You don’t have to lose
me, or John,” she waved at the copy-John quickly before finishing. “All of the
ones we’ve lost… we’ll find them again. It’s safe here. If a nightmare comes to
hurt you, I’ll be here to wish it away. It’s safe, happy… secure. That’s all I
want for you.”
                Closing his eyes to avoid the watery sight of his mother’s
desperate actions, Sherlock let the words slide over him. They were sickly
sweet and compassionate. They were everything he’d ever wanted from her, loving
and devoted, but there was still the fact that his heart couldn’t completely
commit to the act of staying with her. She was his mother, and no matter how
much she may want to, she didn’t own Sherlock’s heart. John did. He couldn’t
just replace the person who held his heart, nor could he simply forget the
people that led him to that crucial moment when he met John. He would thank
Mycroft for dragging him to the Summer Estate, and thank Mrs. Hudson for giving
him the idea to explore the Strange House. And John… he needed to hold John,
and tell him that he would never let any nightmares near him ever again.
                “Mummy, I love you.” Sherlock said slowly, blinking several
times against the frustration tears that blurred his vision and focusing on the
sight of his mother’s downhearted expression. “I love you so much… and I will
always miss you. I always have. But,” he shook his head at the copy-John that
watched him with a questioning gaze before returning his tear-distorted eyes to
his mother. “You know that I’m not staying.”
                Danabell sighed and looked to the floor, swiping at her own
cheeks before reaching out and wiping away what tears she could on Sherlock’s
smooth cheeks.
                “How is it… that I always knew you’d say something like that?”
The Goddess smiled through the sadness that was clearly spelled out in her
eyes. “You were… you were always such a smart boy.” Her thin fingers swept up
into Sherlock’s hair, and smoothed down a few curls while her eyes looked far
away. “Such a smart boy.” Danabell blinked away whatever memory she had been
lingering on, and refocused her eyes on Sherlock. “I always knew that you would
say something like that… you’ve changed. But, everyone changes… including their
dreams.”
                Taking a moment to let out a huff, Sherlock looked to his feet
before he raised his eyes to meet his mother’s. Loneliness met him with a smile
on his mother’s face that held the force of ten long years behind it. His
mother may have had a Palace that could give her anything, including two
perfect copies of her son, but Sherlock and his mother would always know the
truth: no one could really be replaced. Pasting a smile onto his own lips,
Sherlock took Danabell’s hands in his own and squeezed her fingers.
“Don’t worry, Mummy,” he blinked, and two more fresh tears made their way down
his cheeks. This kind of sadness was one that Sherlock hadn’t experienced since
he was at his mother’s “funeral”. It was hollow and scarring, jarring his
senses and making his chest ache. He held her hands tighter as he gave her a
forced smile. “You won’t be alone. After all, you have Gregson.”
“Gregory, dear.”
Sherlock made a pinched expression and waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever.
It doesn’t matter.” Gregory the Sentry grunted something almost insulting, but
Sherlock paid it no mind as he took in his mother’s mildly amused smile. “As
long as he’s here with you, you’re not alone.”
Danabell nodded. “That’s true. So,” she sighed. “You’re leaving so soon… I
wish,” her left hand brushed a long curl from Sherlock’s forehead once more
before it dropped to take her son’s hands again. “I wish I could’ve made you
stay. This place is perfect for us.”
“I know. But,”
“But John isn’t here.”
The teen smiled at his mother’s deflated expression, watching her shake her
head as if Sherlock had said something ridiculous. She pursed her lips and
narrowed her stormy grey eyes, amusement and humour sparkling in them when she
spoke. “If only I had snatched up the real John when I’d had the chance.”
“Mummy,”
“Close your eyes, love,” Danabell reached up her hands to pull Sherlock’s head
down enough for her to press a kiss to his forehead. “So many people are
waiting for you. Mycroft will be worried, and Mrs. Hudson, too… close your
eyes, and go home to them.”
                When Sherlock closed his eyes, the world tilted beneath him. As
if the floor beneath him had temporarily forgotten which way it was supposed to
lay, it shivered and shifted quickly beneath him, sending him falling back and
down into nothingness. It was a shocking feeling of weightlessness that left
Sherlock’s stomach feeling as if it was disintegrating inside his body, and
every ounce of blood was being pulled to the surface of his skin to cause a
fever to burn across his skin. He stretched out his arms to catch himself as he
careened backward in his fevered state, and opened his eyes desperately to see
what exactly was happening to him.
                Nothing. There was empty blackness stretching out around him;
it was the exact opposite of his mother’s Palace. There was no white, and no
matter how long Sherlock reached up an arm and waved it in front of his eyes,
he couldn’t even see his fingers. He opened his mouth to shout, but when he
did, his back hit the springy surface of some sort of furniture, and his teeth
clicked together around his tongue. While his trembling hands came up to
gingerly feel along the bite on his tender tongue, he took shallow, sharp
breaths that rattled his body. What had happened?
“Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock, dear…” Mrs. Hudson’s voice came from his left side,
and Sherlock turned his head, feeling a pillow underneath his cheek as the
older woman passed a soft hand through his thick curls. “Was it a nightmare?
Nasty things. Especially with that fever of yours. I nearly jumped out of my
skin when you shouted like that.”
                Shouted? Sherlock blinked as his eyes began to adjust to the
darkness in the room, and he could begin to pick out the door of a closet and
the frame of a bookshelf. He was lying a bed, and to his right, there was a
large window that was currently being pounded with rain. It was his bedroom,
just as he had left it when he and John had gone outside that morning. He was
home.
                The door to his room was open just a sliver, letting in the
light of the brightly lit hallway and casting a warm glow into the farthest
corners of the room. Mrs. Hudson dipped a rag into a bucket just next to the
bed, ringing it out before swiping it over Sherlock’s forehead. The teen closed
his mouth and put his hand down on the blankets for a moment of quiet
contemplation. He could taste the warm metallic taste of blood from his tongue,
but it wasn’t a deep enough bite to cause him to truly worry. The rag across
the surface of his face felt strangely nice, and he could almost smell the tang
of salt in the air that came from sweat. Swallowing around a dry throat,
Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson’s pursed lips and troubled expression.
“Fever?” He questioned, scowling as he heard his own voice come out of his lips
as a hoarse whisper.
“Quite a fever. 38.4, to be exact.” Mrs. Hudson took the rag away, leaving
Sherlock’s face feeling itchy and hot before the rag was returned, freshly wet
down with cold water and pleasing against the feverish skin. “Mycroft had been
on the phone with the doctor for over an hour. I told you he was calling the
doctor just before you fell asleep, dear. Don’t you remember?”
Sherlock blinked. “No.” Before he fell asleep? He didn’t remember falling
asleep with Mrs. Hudson in the room. Where was John? He was supposed to wake up
and find John. “No, I don’t. Where’s… where’s John?”
Mrs. Hudson’s ministrations with the rag paused as the woman looked down at
Sherlock with a perplexed expression.
“John?”
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock swallowed as a cough threatened to rise up and
interrupt him. “Yes, John. John. You know him. From the house on the hill. The
Sentry that glows. He lives here now. Where is he?”
With a harried breath, Mrs. Hudson called over her shoulder to the open door.
                “Mycroft, tell that doctor to be quick! I think he’s gotten
worse!”
                Irritated with the older woman, Sherlock struggled to sit up in
his bed. His limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated, as if someone had taken away
all of the muscles and instead left him with appendages filled with lead.
“What are you doing? You know John. You knowhim,” Mrs. Hudson dropped the rag
into the bucket of water and brought her hands up to support Sherlock’s back.
Through a fever addled brain, Sherlock could tell that she was frowning with
clear signs of worry written across her face in the form of a creased brow and
trembling lips. Sherlock leaned away from her. “Where is he? What aren’t you
telling me? Where is John?”
When Sherlock made a move to fall out of bed, Mrs. Hudson held onto his
shoulders with shaking hands that dug into his skin. “Sherlock, you need to
calm down –”
The teen tried to shrug her off, only earning himself a tightened grip from the
woman as she held him close. “No, no I don’t need to calm down. I need John.
That’s why I came back, it’s why I… why are you looking at me like that?” Mrs.
Hudson had a flabbergasted expression on her face as the door opened wider,
revealing Mycroft in all his three-piece-suit glory. Sherlock looked to his
brother desperately, speaking out through the hoarseness that made his throat
sting. “Mycroft, do something. She’s gone insane.”
                Mycroft raised his hands up to show Sherlock his palms: a sign
of surrender. Sherlock squinted at the gesture, feeling Mrs. Hudson’s hands pat
his shoulders in an attempt to be comforting. There was nothing comforting
about this. He had left his mother to return to whatever “reality” he had left.
Had he taken some sort of misstep? A wrong thought or wish?
“Calm down, now.” Mycroft said evenly, stepping toward the bed with slow,
cautious steps.
“Just calm down. It was a nightmare, Sherlock. You’re alright, now. The doctor
should be here any minute, now. You’ll be fine.”
“No, I won’t be fine. Not until I get John.” Sherlock’s jaw dropped when
Mycroft’s brow creased in confusion. “John. John Watson. That John. The one
that lives here. The one from the house on the –”
“The house on the hill. He mentioned it already, Mycroft.” Mrs. Hudson hummed
from where she remained pressed to Sherlock’s side, holding him together as if
he’d fall apart without her. “Do you think he’s delusional?”
“It seems likely, with the fever he has.” Mycroft speculated, frowning at
Sherlock as the teen’s eyes went wide.
“Delusional? I am not delusional. You know John. Both of you. What’s wrongwith
the two of you? I just want John. Where is he? Why are you looking at me like
that?”
Mycroft sighed, smoothing a hand down the front of his vest and arching an
eyebrow. “We are looking at you because we don’t know who ‘John’ is. He’s most
likely someone from one of your nightmares, Sherlock. You were hallucinating.
It’s not real, now.”
Sherlock shook his head, giving his warm head an added dosage of dizziness.
“No, no, no. It’s real. I know it is. The house…” turning his head to look out
the window, Sherlock choked on his next words when he saw nothing beyond the
windowpane besides trees. There was no Strange House, not even any remnants or
left behind evidence that there was ever a building there in the first place.
It was as if it had been wiped from existence, erased and forgotten by all of
those around it. Except for Sherlock. He remembered something that was never
there. Or was it?
Turning his eyes back to Mycroft’s pitying stare, Sherlock wondered if the
Strange House had ever truly existed. Furthermore, had John? Fighting Mrs.
Hudson to get out of bed, Sherlock pushed away her hands. He needed evidence.
He needed proof. If John was not in the house with him, he had to know why and
how. Had his mother rearranged things so the nightmare had never occurred, or
had she simply erased everything to do with the nightmare?
“Let me up,” Sherlock grumbled, then coughed, and then swatted feebly at Mrs.
Hudson’s arms, feeling Mycroft place restraining hands on his wrists.  “No, let
me up! I need to see,”
“What? What would you need to see at this time of night?”
And now it was night? Sherlock had left the Summer Estate when it was only
afternoon. How much had changed after he saw his mother in the heavens?
Grimacing at his brother, Sherlock reached up and took a fistful of Mycroft’s
jacket, using him as an anchor as he pulled himself up into a standing
position. It was a shaky action at first, his knees quaked beneath him, and a
heavy wave of vertigo hit Sherlock head on, but Mycroft was quick to loop an
arm around his shoulders and hold him steady.
“I need to see the study.”
Mycroft huffed as Sherlock shuffled toward the door, dragging him along. “The
study?”
“Father’s study. I need to see… I need to see it.”
It was John’s room. If there really wasn’t a Strange House anymore, then John
would not have been inside it. Sherlock would’ve never found him, and in turn,
John would’ve never transformed the study into his own room. Trudging down the
hall with Mycroft’s shoulder acting as a support beam, Sherlock kept his eyes
on the door nearest the kitchen. Their father used to say that it was the best
place to put a study because he could always get snacks in the middle of the
night without being disturbed by anyone else in the house. But that was no
matter, now. Sherlock didn’t care what his father had to say about the study.
It was, and always would be, John’s room.
Mycroft’s unburdened left hand reached out to turn the doorknob, and with a
slight stick at the start, the door was opened. Shrugging away his brother’s
arm, Sherlock stepped over the threshold of the room to stare mournfully at the
barren interior. The fireplace sat dim and clean, with no evidence of his and
John’s late night fires. The window seat that was John’s bed was void of
blankets and not a single pillow adorned the floor. It was a straight-laced
study, furnished only by the desk that sat in the far right corner and the
table-tray that their father would use to wheel his several selections of fine
brandy to his desk when he was working late.
But the real point was the fact that it wasn’t John’s room. Not a single thing
that included John was there. Sherlock slumped against the doorframe,
rethinking everything that had occurred. He had met John, fallen in love,
narrowly escaped a nightmare, and met his Goddess of a mother. Where had all of
it gone? Had it been a dream, like Mycroft said?
“Sherlock, what did you expect to see?” Mycroft wondered aloud with a loose
gesture to the interior of the room, watching as his younger brother shrugged
sadly. Mycroft sighed. “You must have had a very realistic dream. That’s all it
was, Sherlock. Just a dream. Fevers will do that to people.” Sherlock didn’t
respond, and Mycroft shook his head. “The first day we came to the Estate you
didn’t even try to dry off after you came in from the rain. You’ve been in bed
with a fever for two days. Don’t you remember?”
No, Sherlock didn’t remember. All of the things that Mycroft mentioned never
happened to Sherlock, it was all different. It hadn’t been just two days. It
had been two long months with John at his side, teaching him, listening to him,
and loving him. It hadn’t been two days, but an entire lifetime and a half of
loving John. It had been what he didn’t know he wanted. With John, two months
was unforgettable. He couldn’t just forget loving John, and he couldn’t fathom
the idea of a life without John. He had shaped his life as a Deity around John,
and he couldn’t find a way to reshape it now that he was gone. Or, was he even
a Deity anymore?
The doorbell rang. It was a dull, heavy chime that made the walls feel hollow
and the house seem small. Mycroft murmured something about staying put to
Sherlock, but the teen paid him no heed as the older man turned and went to
answer the door. The doorbell was rung once more, held down for a longer amount
of time that made the chime drone on for an excessive amount of time.
Impatient, Sherlock could guess. Turning to his left where the corner that led
to the entryway stood. With shaking hands, he felt along the wall as he
wandered to the corner, hearing Mycroft thank someone for “coming on such short
notice” with his dulcet tones of indifference.
                Peering around the corner at the guest, Sherlock took in the
sight of a long face and brown hair that was swept over to make a noticeable
cowlick rather hard to ignore. The man had bright eyes that shone when he
smiled, and he shook off his tweed jacket that was dripping from the heavy rain
outside before straightening a blue bowtie.
“Yes, quite alright,” his smile never left as Mycroft shook his hand politely.
“I’m the doctor, and this is my nephew, John. Hope you don’t mind me bringing
him along. His parents are out of the country, I’m afraid.”
                Sherlock’s eyes widened at the mention of John’s name, and
stumbled around the corner to see the doctor and his nephew. And there he
stood. In all his short, blonde haired, blue eyed glory, there he stood. John.
The only person Sherlock ever wanted to love outside of his family. Sherlock’s
lips parted around John’s name, but a cough rose up to cut the statement off at
the root, leaving the teen with a stuttering cough.
                John’s eyes slid over to catch Sherlock leaning against the
corner, and his thin lips immediately turned up into a smile. “We had a little
trouble getting here,” he said to Mycroft, not turning away from Sherlock as he
held a bag of supplies out to his uncle. “But, it looks like that little slip
on the road was well worth it. I think we made it just in time.”
“Yes. Very good, John,” the doctor smiled at the blonde, clapping a hand on his
shoulder proudly while he looked to Mycroft with a broad smile. “He wants to be
a doctor, someday.”
                Mycroft said something unintelligible, and Sherlock watched as
John looked him up and down, assessing every fibre of his being until Sherlock
felt completely analysed. But Sherlock still needed proof that this was the
same John he had fallen in love with, and not an alternate one. Coughing into
his hand once more, Sherlock watched as John’s “uncle” took his bag of supplies
and insisted that John should help Sherlock back to bed while the doctor spoke
to Mycroft about the symptoms.
                John strode towards him with a sway in his step that exerted a
certain amount humour, as if seeing Sherlock sick was something amusing.
Sherlock frowned. John always worried about his health and safety, from lack of
sleep to lack of eating, John was there to badger him into good health. This
John seemed to almost enjoy the sight of Sherlock leaning dependently against
the wall. With a narrow-eyed gaze, Sherlock watched as John’s left hand came up
to brush his pyjama clothed arm.
“I didn’t think you’d take so long,” John murmured softly, and Sherlock’s eyes
widened at the statement. “I almost thought that you’d forgotten me,” John bit
his lower lip before looking back up to Sherlock with a trembling smile. “But
you came back.”
                Seeing the entryway light catch on something metallic, Sherlock
looked down at John’s hand to see the simply silver band that had become a
necessary item in the presence of humankind. The ring that Danabell had given
John years ago, and the ring that Sherlock had ordered to be taken away only
weeks ago. John’s ring. Or… was it? There were too many ways to question
reality, and not enough answers to assert it. Licking his lips, Sherlock took
John’s hand and began to take of the ring when John’s warm hands grabbed his
and pulled them away.
“Sherlock, you told me never to take it off when Mycroft was near me,” Sherlock
felt tears prick at his eyes as John looked up at him with watery eyes and a
questioning expression. If he remembered the order, it was the real John. The
real John that knew about the orders and the magic. It was the real John, just
in a different reality. A reality without Sherlock’s nightmare. “Unless you’ve
change your mind?”
“No,” Sherlock smiled as he leaned forward to wrap his arms around John’s
shoulders and held him close. He smelled of fresh rain and peppermint. He was
warm and close. He smiled and surprised him by stopping his hands. Surprising
and sweet. Just as he was supposed to be. “No, John. I… I don’t think I’d want
it any other way.”
 
END
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