Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned."
- Christopher Marlowe 'The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus'

Speculation ran rife through the crime scene, just as it had every time Sherlock had been called to assist for the last eleven weeks. It had been present before that, of course, the leers and whispers: Think they're shagging? As if what he and John did together made any difference to whether a case was solved.

However, since the events surrounding the demon Moriarty, suspicions had changed. Perhaps it was because that first question had been answered. Even Lestrade's team were not stupid enough to mistake what Sherlock and John now shared for something as tenuous as friendship. They were not blatant in their behaviour – at least, no more than most couples breaching that new frontier of physical intimacy – but it was still obvious to anyone who cared to look.

Now, the unspoken question that lingered like rime in the air was What did they do? It did not matter if the cooperation between John and Sherlock's souls, fully-fledged and breath-taking in its potential, normally remained hidden from physical sight; others could still sense its presence in the harmony of their interactions. Perhaps they did not know the precise nature of the alteration, but their curiosity was nothing short of distracting.

More than once, it was tempting to explain, if only so he could concentrate on the case, but Sherlock kept his silence. After all, he had no illusions about how Anderson and the others would view their situation: an unknown and a threat – something to be disdained. Sherlock had no hope that people of such limited intelligence and narrow scope could begin to comprehend that, rather than an alien presence, the bond had become natural to him. Already he struggled to remember life before: cold and isolated, not incomplete yet somehow suffering from an unrecognised absence.

John's agreement strafed shyly across Sherlock's senses, bringing him out of the mire of his considerations. They could not precisely read each other's thoughts, not like letters from a page, but if he did not deliberately shield his musings, then John was able observe themes and emotions if he chose to do so. It was one of the many aspects he doubted that other people would grasp. They would see such abilities as an intrusion, but there was nothing passive about what he and John could do.

Except in the most emotional moments, everything they shared and combined – from sentiment to the spells they wrought – was done by choice; they had to want it to happen. While the tether had been forming, that had not been the case, but with every passing day it strengthened, and he and John had immersed themselves in its study, teaching themselves through trial and error the mastery of their own control. The only exception was their wards, the heat-and-light blend of which could only be separated through conscious effort.

For thoughts to be communicated to one another – as images, sometimes indistinct and others vivid – one of them had to transmit them, and the other had to be a willing receiver. At first, Sherlock had not understood the need to close off the connection in any manner. He left it open by default, whereas John had a tendency to keep it at least partly sealed.

It did not take long for John to prove his point and demonstrate how distracting it could be. Sherlock had spent the duration of one crime scene, a couple of months ago, struggling against a raging erection after John pushed various filthy, creative and undeniably enticing scenarios into Sherlock's receptive mind. Now, his cheeks threatened to darken at the memory, and he tried not to grin as he recalled how swiftly he and John had put the one involving the kitchen table into practice.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock blinked, forcing himself to focus on the headless corpse in front of him. Being distracted by his unrelated musings was unprofessional, and besides, he could detect the hot ember of John's amusement haloed by sparks of lazy arousal from where he stood across the room.

With a frown, Sherlock narrowed the field of his thoughts, gleaning all he could. Facts and intricacies had already been observed and recorded, and now they lined up for his inspection. The windowless room had been locked. There was no evidence of summoning, nor any method of egress magical or benign, yet there was no sign of the missing body-part.

'His head must still be here.' Sherlock glanced at Anderson, who was pressed to the wall by the door, watching John with a wary, bitter gaze. Ever since grabbing Sherlock's sprite and facing John's unpredictable wrath as a result, the Forensics' Lead had been refreshingly obedient, even if he did mutter unflattering character assessments under his breath. 'You've checked for illusions?'

'Twice,' Donovan cut in, folding her arms and lifting her chin in challenge. 'If you don't believe us, why don't you take a look yourself? Or are you still struggling with that?' Her lips curled, her gaze slicing pointedly downwards over Sherlock's frame as if criticising not just his magical potency, but his physical capabilities as well.

'There's no indication of anything happening in here for weeks,' Lestrade interrupted, perhaps trying to prevent any bickering. 'No spells we can detect, not even any wards.'

'Wrong.' Sherlock examined the remains: a business-man at first glance, but the cut of his suit was poor. The tie around the bloody stump of his neck was knotted by a clumsy hand, and the buttons at his cuffs had not been fastened.

He hunkered down, sensing John shift closer to his side as he leaned in to examine the wound. 'Cauterisation implies a magical blade, though the damage is strange; the ill-fitting clothes aren't his, and his fingertips have been burned. I suspect someone's trying to manipulate the corpse's identity – an individual who does not have the abilities to glamour a body.'

'That doesn't narrow it down much,' Lestrade pointed out. A valid statement. Dead flesh only accepted necromantic magics with any ease. Anything else slipped off unless the caster was of exceptional strength.

'So someone's doing it the non-magic way, but why leave a body behind at all?' John asked. 'A quick bit of petrol and some arson, and we would have nothing left to identify.'

'If someone is trying to falsify their own demise, they may want access to their assets quickly. With merely a missing person's report, there's a statutory waiting period of –'

'Eighteen months,' Anderson provided grudgingly, 'but for all you know, it's straight-forward murder and they just didn't have time to torch the place.' He cast a disparaging glance around the run-down house, barely holding together under its own structural integrity. 'Shame; it would have been an improvement.'

Sherlock frowned down at the evidence. He knew Anderson was wrong, but he was not entirely convinced of his own conclusion. He was missing a facet: something unseen but none-the-less integral to the mystery.

A rough chafe of wrongness scraped across his senses, agonisingly subtle. If it weren't for the abilities his bond with John bestowed, it would probably have slipped his notice entirely. Instead, he stiffened, his breath catching in his throat as he caught a mental glimpse of umber and tasted burnt toast: John's worried confusion broadcast for him to discern.

'Feel that?' John closed the narrow distance between them as Sherlock straightened up, searching the room with both levels of vision. To his standard eyes, there was nothing but cracked plaster and dilapidated wallpaper, blood and a body. To his higher senses there was the myriad of wards from Lestrade's men, the intensity of their power and John's shadowy heat, sylph-like and tempting at his side. 'What is it?'

'What's what?' Donovan demanded. 'There's nothing here!'

No, there wasn't. To Lestrade's team, their instruments, and all the spells at their disposal, the room was clean, and Sherlock's skin prickled with unease as he considered the handful of magics and creatures alike that could hide themselves so thoroughly. Ignoring the headache threatening to set up its percussion in his skull, he narrowed his eyes, straining to detect the threat.

The spell melted into his vision, seething with increasing violence as the charge gathered. Realisations shattered through Sherlock's awareness, pin-wheeling in a mess of panic and breathless knowledge that time was not on their side. In less than a minute, the street would be decimated, a battlefield of charred bodies. Even if they ran, they wouldn't escape the blast.

There was no time for poise as he shoved an idea in John's direction, desperate with survival's greed. Much like facing a bomb with three-seconds left on the clock and not knowing which wire to cut, this was a situation where there was nothing to lose. If it worked, they would be safe. If not...

Well, at least their deaths would be quick.

'Back!' John ordered, his harsh tone jolting the baffled Yarders into disorganised retreat as, deliberately, Sherlock hauled their entwined wards apart. It was like trying to unravel a tapestry by pulling one thread, arduous and uncomfortable, but as John applied an equal level of pressure in the opposite direction, they separated. Sherlock was swathed in the brash blue light of his protections while John's haze, little more than shadows on the periphery of Sherlock’s sight, surrounded everyone else in the room, leaving Sherlock beyond their boundary.

His shields bowed and twisted, leaving him exposed to the air as they curved around the crackling distortion, turning angry red as the discharges spat and hissed. Burns lashed across his out-stretched palms, but he forced himself through the pain, hating that he could not protect John from the shared agony. All he could do was fight against the heavy, sickening thrum of panic that surged back and forth between them, amplified by symmetry, and hope that they were strong enough for this to work.

A heartbeat later, the detonation exploded in a burst of searing light. His shields screamed – the noise like a human cry as a pulse thumped through the room, making the walls creak and flex with its passing. Loose plaster rained down, turning the air thick with its clouds.

Yet it was fire without heat. The spell was contained in the taut sphere of Sherlock's wards, acid violet petals of fatality withering only to bloom again, captured but far from neutralised. He had to keep it there. If he let it go now, he would have earned them a pitiful reprieve and nothing more. John and the police were still there – as were the other residents of this run-down city street.

Not that Sherlock held it back for them. Even people he knew, like Lestrade, barely permeated his considerations. No, he was keeping this from John and himself. They already knew that an injury to one was replicated in the other. Death would be no different. When they went, whenever that was, it would be together.

That thought did not bother Sherlock. It seemed right. After all, what would life be without John in it? However, he was damned if it was going to be today.

His muscles tensed, his physical body representing the magical strain of trying to hold back the energy that longed to eradicate them all. John's presence caressed his mind, reading the situation and, a split second later, the velvet heat of his shields fell away: a parting cloak. Yet Sherlock was not wrapped in their furls. Instead, John's magic tugged at the air. It was the lightest sensation, like someone tipping the balance of an invisible scale, and immediately, the web that wove them together and the solid line of their intrinsic connection dropped into view: a golden beam that throbbed with the strength Sherlock was channelling towards containment.

It should not matter whether it was visible or not. The plane of its occupation had no impact on what it could offer, but that knowledge faltered as a sudden surge swamped through him. His muscles loosened, gathering the strength not only to hold the exploding spell at bay but to push against it, plucking apart the knot of destructive force into harmless eddies of light. It was still a constant battle, but now the effort was something he could endure.

The moment John stumbled into Sherlock's back, his shaking hands splaying across Sherlock's ribs and his breath ghosting over the nape of his neck, it became easy. Heat pulsed through them, caught and carried by the capillary system of the web as it drove ever inwards to the interface of Sherlock's shields, where it methodically broke apart the spell that would have ripped them all to shreds.

A slip of concentration would still kill them. A breach in Sherlock's cage of wards would be their undoing, but hope's gleaming bead was growing into a sun of certainty. Another minute...

Anderson gave an inarticulate shout of alarm, his words stumbling over each other as his footsteps beat a staggering retreat towards the door. 'Body! The – the body –!'

'Sherlock?' Lestrade's yell was edged with panic, and Sherlock clamped his jaw together, not daring to split his concentration to glance over his shoulder. Not that it mattered. He could guess what was happening to the corpse, and at the moment, there was nothing he could do. If he stopped, the only thing to survive would be what had yet to emerge from the remains on the floor.

'Draw a circle around it. Something with chemical salts.'

'Like what?' Donovan asked, her voice thin and furious under her fear.

'Anything! Piss on it if you have to; just keep it contained!'

Perhaps it was the crass suggestion that jolted them into action, but gradually Sherlock heard a powdery whisper and the thud of footsteps, percussive beneath the oozing, organic sounds beginning to emanate from the meat of the body. Anderson was swearing under his breath: a whispering litany of revulsion that ended in a squeak as a fleshy rip cut through the air. Donovan retched as the stench rolled outwards, and Sherlock forced himself not to react as he blinked sweat from his eyes.

'It can't hurt you as long as the circle's complete,' he gritted, wincing as Donovan heaved again. 'For God's sake, don't throw up on the salt. You'll let it out.'

'What the hell is it?' Lestrade spat, his voice muffled. Sleeve over his nose and mouth, probably.

'Busy!' Sherlock snapped, trying to ignore the way his arms were shaking and the constant tremors of John's body against his spine. They were so close, but this was the hardest part: the core of the magic was where it was strongest, and it was like trying to close a door on a room full of water. His fingertips were bleeding, his knuckles were cramped and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth, but finally the resistance was gone, leaving his wards to wobble and pop like a bubble's broken film around the few harmless stars that remained.

John sagged against him and Sherlock locked his knees, doing his best not to collapse. He sucked in a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The fragrance of fresh decay caught in his nose and coated his tongue, reminding him pointedly that the problem was only half-solved.

'You all right?' he croaked, groping behind himself to touch John's arm as those fingers dug into his ribs with the last of their strength.

'Been better,' John mumbled at last. 'You stupid git. You had no idea if that would work, did you?'

'I never claimed I did.'

'I can't believe you told them to piss on it!' The laugh that bubbled in John's throat sounded half-hysterical, but it was preferable to silence.

Sherlock chuckled in response, turning to examine the situation. His lips gave an involuntary twist of disgust at the creature in the circle. It was rooting around in its visceral nest, gorging itself on its first meal. It looked vaguely reminiscent of a slug with teeth, but the viscous trails emanating from its boneless body were leaving pitted marks in the floorboards. So far, it had not noticed that it was trapped in a salty circumference – too content on making the most of the narrow window in which it could digest the uncooked meat.

'An Abrogate spawn,' Sherlock explained. Lestrade recognised the name. It was obvious by the way his face turned pale and he scrabbled for his mobile, fingers clumsy as he dialled for disposal. Everyone else, however, maintained their blank, uninformed stares. 'Unusual.'

'Revolting,' John corrected, ignoring the still-visible gleam of the web's filaments around them and the ribbon of the bond that coiled over his wrist. 'What exactly just happened?'

Sherlock lifted a shaking hand to his temple, rubbing at the ache there. 'The corpse was that of a summoner, I imagine. An Abrogate tempted him in and used his body as a living incubator for its offspring. An enzyme released by the embryo attacks the brain and impacts on cognitive process. Zombification of a sort. He probably disguised himself and possibly removed his own fingerprints so that he would not be disturbed before the job was done.'

'What about his head?' Donovan asked, the back of her hand pressed shakily to her mouth.

'After three days, the spawn is ready to mature. Two hours prior to that, the enzyme in the cranium breaks down brain-matter and bone. It's an exceedingly precise chemical reaction.'

'His head dissolved?' John asked, his lips twisting as the rooting creature lifted its snout, its body trembling and covered in gore, before resuming its feeding.

'Releasing a cocktail of fumes as it did so. The chemicals in the vapour triggered the creation of a highly explosive spell, the detonation of which would cook everything organic within a certain distance.' He gestured to the scorched portion of the wall where the magic had found ignition. 'The spawn can only digest raw food within the first hour of its life. After that, it needs a source of cooked protein.'

'Us.' Anderson had wedged himself into the corner of the room, not only distant from the creature, but from the glow of Sherlock and John's magic. 'Then there's you, and this.' He gestured to the insubstantial mesh with a juddering hand, snatching it back as he passed through one of the cobweb-fine tendrils with no effect. 'That's a monster, but what the hell are you?'

'They're the mages that just saved your bloody skin,' Lestrade snapped, disconnecting his call with a brutal punch of his thumb. '“Abrogate” is the proper name for a World-Eater.'

That had the desired effect, and Sherlock rolled his eyes wearily at the moniker. It was a trite example of hyperbole embodying the demon's voracious appetite. 'It would not have eaten the entire planet,' he muttered, giving Lestrade a disapproving glare.

'Just most of London,' the DI retorted, but despite the stress lining his face, there was something warm beneath it: respect and approval that became more deeply entrenched as his gaze lingered on the golden cord still thrumming between John's hand and Sherlock's chest. 'I'm guessing if it wasn't for that, the two of you wouldn't have been able to contain the spell?'

'We wouldn't have known it was there.' Sherlock did not bother to soften the honesty of his response, relishing the grim satisfaction of seeing Anderson pale further and Donovan purse her lips. Their thanks was not something he required, nor had the patience to wait for. He carefully eased himself away from John, making sure he had the strength to hold himself up before turning towards the door. 'Disposal will deal with the spawn. If that's all, Lestrade?'

The DI chewed his lip, looking like he wanted them to stay. They still needed to identify the body and make sure the summoner had not left anything untoward in his lodgings, but clearly the image he and John presented was enough to sway his judgement in their favour. 'Go home before you keel over,' he ordered, frowning as a drop of blood fell from Sherlock's fingertips. 'Unless hospital's better?'

'It's superficial.' Sherlock ignored John's tired huff, gently guiding him towards the door and trying not to lean against his shorter, sturdier frame. His thigh muscles were shaking as if he had run a marathon, and his limbs seemed too light. 'We'll manage.'

The look Lestrade gave him suggested he was not fooled for a moment, but Sherlock disregarded it, wobbling out of the door just as the squeal of tyres and shouted orders announced the arrival of the disposal squad. They would destroy the demon – so much less complex than the likes of Moriarty. A quick burst of cold would shrivel it to a husk and extinguish its brief effort at life. They would also be there with Lestrade to ensure the adult that had implanted the spawn had not escaped its own plane. Unlikely. Abrogates were not the most subtle of creatures. It would have made itself known by now if it were stalking London's streets.

'Are you sure you're all right?' John asked, reaching out to take Sherlock's right hand in his, examining his sliced fingertips as if they were not precise copies of those breaching his own sensitive skin.

'You tell me.' Sherlock wrapped his other hand around the ribbon of the bond, appreciating its heat, strong yet vulnerable, not erotic in this moment but comforting. 'Shared injuries, remember?'

John's lips pursed, and Sherlock watched the evidence of their link fade discreetly from sight. 'Not one of my favourite effects of what's happened to us.'

Sherlock restrained a sigh, taking John's hands in his and reaching for the healing spells John had taught him in such meticulous detail. He had never bothered with such things before. Bandages did the trick and the body mended itself in time, but if nothing else taxi drivers disapproved of blood on the upholstery, and he didn't have the strength to walk back to Baker Street.

A weak protest about their exhaustion died on John's lips as the balm of magic washed over them, sealing up split skin and easing away aches. It was like being filled with warm honey, replenished from the soul outward, and Sherlock was happy to bear the additional strain if it wiped away the lines from John's face.

John leaned in, his head bent a fraction to fit in beneath Sherlock's jaw, and his murmured thanks hushed across the skin at Sherlock's pulse. 'We need to rest,' he said softly, pulling back to look up but not bothering to remove his hands from where they were both locked in Sherlock's grasp. 'As in sleep, not just lie on the sofa and pretend your mind isn't going a-mile-a-minute.'

Sherlock gave a reluctant nod as he flagged down a taxi. He was fairly sure that he had slept more in the past three months than he had all year, but he could not bring himself to begrudge the rest. It was necessary. He and John had undergone an experience of intense magical growth, and the physical demands were undeniable. Besides, sleep was no longer the black, useless oblivion of downtime. While his body rested, his being retreated to their realm, aware and autonomous, allowing him to hold John in his arms and puzzle through a case, or share whispered words of conversation that lingered on in their memories once they woke.

Climbing into the back of the cab, John settled at his side, still weak and shaking, but at least no longer bleeding in sympathy to Sherlock's wounds. There was a time when he would have resented being so caught up in another person – their well-being taking such obvious priority over everything else – but this was John. Even before they had been opened up to each other so completely, he had been the same; his attention helplessly captured by this man's presence.

The difference now, beyond the intimacy, was that every boundary that stood in his way had been eradicated. The bond rendered them void, leaving him and John to make their own rules about what lines they would and would not cross. It had been an ongoing process, carving out those frontiers between each other.

They may not have chosen what had happened to them, but at least they were able to influence how its changes shaped them.

'You're broadcasting,' John murmured, a faint smile on his lips.

'And you're listening,' Sherlock pointed out, knowing he had caught John in that little truth. He could mentally transmit all the thoughts he wanted, but if John was not looking for the information, he wouldn't see it.

'I'm just checking you're all right. That – whatever that was...' He trailed off, gesturing weakly over his shoulder at the distant house and the demon spawn within its walls. 'It could have killed us.'

'Without the bond, it would have.' Sherlock winced as John flinched, tasting the flavour of his fear: brackish water and rusty iron. He almost apologised, but John would not appreciate it. Instead, he explained, 'Even if I had been able to detect the spell before it discharged, the injuries sustained trying to contain it would have finished me off, I imagine, shortly before the rest of you succumbed.'

John stretched out his hands, flexing his fingers as he examined the newly healed flesh. 'You said they were superficial.'

'They were, because the wounds were shared between us.' At his side, John's shoulders slumped. 'If you'd let me experiment...'

'No.' The harshness of that single word filled the cab, amplifying Sherlock's headache. John's hand squeezed his, more in emphasis than apology. 'Some things aren't meant to be tested, Sherlock. I don't care how useful the data would be.'

'But an unproven theory is dangerous. If I am correct, then the severity of any injury is decreased by our connection. We should sustain each other through trauma that could otherwise be fatal. We would both be hurt, but it would be a burden shared.'

'One which could kill us both.' John shook his head sharply, and Sherlock could feel how distant he was becoming, complete shut-down as he closed the topic of conversation. 'I'm not letting you deliberately do yourself serious harm just to see if you're right.'

Sherlock turned towards the window, allowing the rest of the car journey to pass in silence, not just vocal, but mental as well. With practice, it had become easy to shut each other out. In theory, it gave the two of them privacy and individuality. In reality, it simply allowed them both to sulk – a reminder of what life had been like when John's thoughts were a mystery and Sherlock's were always his own.

Finally, the cab pulled up at Baker Street, and Sherlock left John to pay as he nudged his way inside and climbed the stairs to the flat. Reluctantly, he could acknowledge John's concerns. Ever since they had realised – in the course of solving a case – that physical wounds inflicted on one of them appeared on the other, Sherlock's theories had taken a more macabre path.

Bound souls meant linked lives, and while he could consider the thought of his own death at arm's length, the possibility of John's was like a splintered stake to the heart. It made him want to hide them both away somewhere, secure and concealed from every threat, but they both knew that would be a half-existence. Sherlock would perish from boredom and John would fade in the monotony.

Peeling off his coat and scarf, he stumbled doggedly towards their bed, shedding clothes as he did so. The covers welcomed him with a soft sigh, and he slotted into place on the half that had become irrevocably his side. However, the mattress was as wide as a mile until John nudged him over, invading Sherlock's territory to shuffle in behind him and wrap strong arms around his naked waist. The angle of John's nose rested between Sherlock's shoulder-blades and the bare curve of his body cradled him, intimate, even if the current mood in the bedroom was more petulant than aroused.

'Go to sleep,' John urged, and Sherlock felt the tentative opening of the bond once more – muted and subtle – but undeniably comforting. 'Please?'

With a grunt, Sherlock forced himself to relax. He knew that John thought he was being pedantic, wishing to quantify the changes they experienced for the sake of science, but the true reason was far more practical and laced with edges of silken sentiment. John mattered to him more than anyone else, and the more he knew about what they could do, the better his chances were of keeping them both safe.

That said, if John would not let him push the boundary of his understanding in that particular direction, then so be it. He was a genius, after all, and he would find another way to cement his theories into fact; one which did not make John's mood taste of bitter chocolate and uncertainty.

In the end, what mattered was this: he and John in balance and unison, happier than either of them ever believed they could be. He knew their equilibrium would be disturbed now and then – set to waver through thoughtlessness, but he would do his best to keep what they had found.

Behind him, John began to relax, slipping into the depths of sleep and leaving Sherlock wrapped within the protection of his arms. It made him feel precious and safe, admired and wanted, and Sherlock smiled as he shut his eyes, allowing slumber to finally claim him.

******

It was the wrong Afghanistan. John knew it as soon as the dream swam into focus. This was not the crystalline definition of their realm, but smoke-smudged lines and the brash smell of warfare. His heart thudded, bringing with it the vortex of fear and familiarity. Nightmare. He hadn't suffered one for months, not since before Sherlock had first stumbled into Moriarty's presence, but there was no denying its existence as he sank into its grasp.

His helmet banded his head, itching where the sweat prickled along his brow. His pack dragged at his shoulders as his hands shifted on the gun in his grip, an automatic, rather than his pistol. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet. No birds sang, and only the sough of the wind stirring through the coarse dust in his path applied any definition to the peace. In front of him, the road was a sandy, serpentine stretch, narrow and confined. His feet paced, locked in the old rhythm of patrol.

The explosion was a tsunami of sound that had John hunching away, hands lifted to shield himself as the screams cut across his consciousness. He lunged towards the scene, fighting his instinct to flee as he slid in sand turned to mud by the crimson splash of gore.

His weapon was up and ready, waiting for the snap of sniper fire to pick off the survivors as he began to prioritise, picking out the dead and dying from the could-be-saved. His gaze skipped and jumped from the landscape to the bodies, recognising the indistinct features of old members of his unit before he saw a soldier who did not belong.

John's world fell still, his fingers nerveless around the metal in his hand. Men were groaning around him, calling out for help, but he was held transfixed by the familiar sprawl of the body, graceless now. Even without seeing his face, John knew it was Sherlock.

His knees gave, bruising as they smacked into the unforgiving earth. Shaking hands caught in the fabric of desert fatigues – not Sherlock's style at all – pale but for the gruesome stain across his stomach.

He was beyond saving. The doctor in John knew that even as he pressed his palms to the injury, trying to push Sherlock's flowing life back into him where it belonged. A dozen useless ideas whirled through his head, and John's throat constricted as his voice cracked between his lips. 'Stay with me. You said you'd stay with me!'

Desperately, he tried to tear himself free from the rut of the war, cognisant enough to think of magic and sprites, but there was no golden gleam in the desert air and no connection to the man lying on the arid earth. John reached out, seeking, but there was nothing to be found. It was gone. Broken. Or perhaps it had never existed at all: a fantasy and nothing more.

All he could sense was the thready drum of Sherlock's pulse as, at last, it fell still beneath his touch.

An inhuman cry snatched at John's chest, hurting like a blade between his ribs as he looked around, frantic for someone to help him. Yet the harried road was empty, marked only by the rusty splashes of passed life, days old, and the determined crawl of the flies. His gun and pack were gone, and his helmet straps swayed loose beneath his jaw, harsh pendulums measuring out the staggered pace of each unsteady breath.

Icy agony yawned in his heart, desolate and wild as the loneliness closed around him like a vice. Despair sank through him, catching tight claws in his guts until he could only curve his arms over his stomach, hunched as if he were the one whose insides had been ripped free. Sand bit at his face and stuck to the sweat on his skin, filling his mouth with grit as tearless sobs burned his throat.

Sherlock was gone, and John had been left behind.

Warm fingers touched the back of his neck, familiar calluses trailing over the notches of his spine and gripping tight. The other hand smoothed down his arm, capturing his wrist and hauling him back to sit on his heels, his body heaving and his eyes screwed up tight, because it was a phantom – a memory. Sherlock was dead.

'No, I'm not. John, look at me!'

Dry palms cupped his face, thumbs pressing to the hidden ridges of his cheekbones and painting frantic lines across his brow. They felt so solid, more so than the chafe of his uniform against his skin, and at last John dragged open his lashes, his eyes stinging from unshed tears as he met Sherlock's earnest, frightened gaze.

'It's a bad dream,' he explained, his hands flexing around John's head in emphasis. 'You need to wake up.'

His mind slipped and slithered, torn between the body that had been on the ground in front of him – visceral heartbreak – and the illusion with him now, showing him the way out. One was real, the other not, but it took all his focus to recall which was which.

Gradually, he began to see the flaws, true memory flooding in to fill the outlines of his torment. The war was over, and Sherlock had never been there in the first place. This was a trick of his own creation. England was his home now – Baker Street with Sherlock at his side – and he fought a different kind of battle. One he knew how to win.

A gasp of air swelled in his chest, filling his nose with the smell of Sherlock's skin and laundry detergent as his eyes shot open. Silver twilight filled the bedroom, seeping in like an unwelcome phantom through the window and casting the topography of Sherlock's silhouette into relief. He had moved over while John was asleep and now lay facing him, but it was not the dormant calm of a resting body. Instead, both of Sherlock's hands were clasped around John's wrists, solid manacles as he spread John's hands across the beat of his heart: a rapid, wakeful thud. The light of the bond gleamed through the gaps between his fingers, sun-bright and reflected in the pale sky of Sherlock's eyes.

The noise in his throat was agonised, and he pretended the salty wetness on his face was sweat rather than tears as Sherlock gently tugged him closer, wrapping him in the lithe strength of his arms. The embrace was cautious, as if Sherlock was afraid to cage him in but couldn't hold back the urge to offer comfort. John mashed his forehead gratefully into Sherlock's collarbone, wishing the treacherous shaking of his body would subside.

There were no requests to talk about it, to drag it out in the open and hash out the details. Sherlock did not attempt to shush John with softly whispered words; perhaps he knew that any assurances would be lies. It did not matter that it wasn't real. To John, it may as well have been. The tacky echo of Sherlock's blood lingered on his hands, and though the man himself was right here, a naked stretch half-entwined around him, John could not shake the memory of a pallid face and white lips, eyes already closed against death's swift approach.

'I'm sorry.'

The hush of Sherlock's apology curled in John's ear, shattering apart the panting rhythm of his not-quite sobs and letting him take one deep breath of air. It gorged his lungs to bursting point, and he focussed on the pain, forcing his body to acknowledge its limits as he tried to free himself from the vale of its dreams.

'What for?' he managed, his words muffled by the press of Sherlock's clavicle against his mouth. 'I'm the one who woke you.'

Slowly, he became aware that Sherlock was tense and quiet, his body wire-taut. John knew he was often violent during these episodes, prone to lashing out at people who tried to wake him, but Sherlock's behaviour was not one of someone under threat. Instead...

John hesitated, reaching out along the bond and relishing in its presence as he carefully sifted for anything that Sherlock might be leaving on display. However, there was nothing to find. Sherlock's mood was icy and opaque, and John's shoulders rounded at the exclusion. 'Sherlock, what's wrong?'

Long fingers tightened around his body, and Sherlock dropped his head, talking into John's hair while effectively stopping him from pulling back and looking up into his face. 'You don't realise, do you?'

'Realise what?' John demanded, all fear crumbling under the sheer weight of his concern. He could not see much or sense anything but the gentle background hum of the link between them, but every clue he could gather was adding up to genuine guilt: something Sherlock rarely displayed. 'What did you do?'

A shaky breath whispered in the air. 'You weren't in our realm. That's not unusual. Sometimes if you're very tired you slip past it and go somewhere deeper. I assume I do as well, on occasion, but –' A complicated movement of his shoulders suggested a shrug, and John held his tongue as he waited for more. 'I wanted to be with you, so I went looking.'

John frowned, the sweep of his fingers across Sherlock's chest falling still as he considered those words. “Looking” had taken on a nebulous meaning for both of them – something no longer intrinsically tied to the sense of sight. When John used their magic to try and read Sherlock's mood, they called it that, though there was nothing physical to see.

Gradually, his tired, shell-shocked brain began to move ahead, his suspicions growing as Sherlock's silence lengthened. When he had felt Sherlock's hands on him back on that dusty road, he had assumed it was a trick of his mind – something conjured up in response to Sherlock calling him from the waking world. Now...

'You were there. Really there.' John pulled back, fighting against the automatic tightening of Sherlock's arms until he could tear himself free and sit up, staring down into Sherlock's face. 'You were actually in my head?'

It shouldn't surprise him. Their connection had shaken aside so many certainties about what was and wasn't possible, but that did not stop the growing curl of horror in the pit of John's stomach. It was the last straw, the final step over a fading line, and John swallowed the hard, hateful spite of the thought that nothing, not even his inner-most fears, were truly secret from Sherlock.

Not that they ever had been. Even without magic, he still deduced everything, adding together the sum of minutiae to paint a picture of John's existence. Yet knowing was different from seeing. Being aware of the nightmares was different from experiencing them, and John was not sure what scared him more: that Sherlock wouldn't understand the root of his terror, or that he would share it.

'You're upset.' Sherlock had not moved from where he lay, his dark hair a riot against the pillow and his skin as pale as the sheets which formed their nest.

'Good deduction.' With a shake of his head, John pitched back the covers, reaching for his clothes and throwing them on. It was the middle of the night, too dark and cold to give into his instincts and just walk until the mess of his emotions was something he could identify. Still, he couldn't stay here. He craved some space, the rare commodity of some actual god-damn distance, even if he only went as far as the next room.

'Don't,' he ordered, sensing that Sherlock was about to speak. 'I mean it. Just – just leave me alone.'

He didn't wait for an answer as he pulled open the bedroom door, his bare feet whispering across the carpet as he stepped over the threshold and shut Sherlock firmly within those four walls. It would do nothing to stop him, of course. John had grown used to the warm honey sensation of their souls brushing against one another and braced himself for that intrusion, but he remained cold and untouched: honestly alone.

Scrubbing his hands across his face, he moved towards the kettle, going through the motions of making tea as his thoughts whirled. Most of the time, he was happy with the bond and the gifts it bestowed. Working together, he and Sherlock had ironed out most of the creases. They could bear long distances apart with nothing more than the usual heavy heart that separation could bring. Compulsion still slipped through occasionally, but it went both ways and they had realised how to fight it. They had adapted to the changes in their lives, knocking off the rough edges until they fit one another perfectly.

It was just that, sometimes, the golden vine that entwined them would grow another thorn. Something would happen to throw it all into doubt, and John found himself fighting for the last of the few boundaries he had left. It did not help that Sherlock had the advantage of massive intelligence and years of broad study in magic. John was a brilliant healer, but when it came to the rest of it – skills Sherlock had known all his life – he was miles behind. Sherlock adapted and took almost everything in his stride, but John always found himself trying desperately to hang on to the facets that made him who he was; John Watson, rather than just a subset of Sherlock Holmes.

A treacherous voice whispered that, even before all this began, he had been more than halfway there. Sherlock led and John followed, his own quiet qualities almost hidden by the gleam of his lover's brilliance. Most of the time, he could live with that. Recognition was never something John had craved, and appreciation found him in the words of patients and Sherlock's stammered thanks when a steady hand on the Browning was the best answer to the situation.

This, though, was different. It was not an eclipse, but an invasion. What had started off as cooperative symbiosis had evolved to the point where John was not sure where Sherlock's abilities came to an end and his began. How much of him would be left in six months – a year? Anything?

Earlier that day, he had felt Sherlock's emotions regarding their unique circumstances: gratitude and subtle amazement, coupled with the firm knowledge that other people wouldn't understand. At the time, John had agreed. It had been a struggle to get to that point of easy, happy acceptance, but they had succeeded.

Now, the misgivings had returned, leaving him miserable and uncertain. Perhaps if it was equitable, he would be more confident, but Sherlock was overwhelming in every aspect. He was always the one finding new limits and uses for their connection and sweeping John along in his rip-tide. It was never the other way around, and it was that lack of control that shook John down to his core.

Could he live like this, always wondering if today would be the day he truly lost himself – overwhelmed by Sherlock's presence and tied up so intricately in his existence?

By the time John's third cup of tea was growing cool in the cradle of his palms, he was still no closer to finding an answer. Instead he was bogged down in a black quagmire. The night beyond the windowpane reflected his mood, the array of city lights barely making an impact as he rested his forehead against the cold barrier of the glass and let himself be lost.

A quiet purr of sound caught his attention, and he shifted his focus to see one of Sherlock's sprites struggle from beneath the bedroom door, freeing itself with a rush to hover in the air. It kept its distance, a flickering star that John could ignore if he chose, but that seemed like a punishment. Logically, he knew that none of this was Sherlock's fault – not really – and even in his most petty moments, John tried to confront problems rather than avoid them.

'Come here.' He gave a weak smile as the orb zipped to his side, mashing itself into his palm like a grateful puppy, all fawning joy and relief. At the same time, the bond changed, its muted calm becoming resonant with sentiment. John had not noticed how much Sherlock was holding back. For once, he had respected John's demands. Normally, he didn't bother with that kind of restraint, and something complicated clenched beneath John's ribs as he headed back towards the bedroom door.

The hinges squeaked quietly as he nudged it aside, freezing on the boundary of the room as he tried to make sense of what he could see. Where there had been the pallid, sallow light of a city's night-time, there were now dozens of sprites. They sparkled like fireflies, some resting on the sheets and casting white haloes through the cotton while others wandered around the lampshade and poked themselves into the darker corners of Sherlock's room. One seemed to have got itself stuck in an Erlenmeyer flask, and another shone from the nest it had made in John's boot.

Sherlock was watching him, a creature of moonlight amidst the beaded sunshine of his emanations. His eyes were open and unblinking, one eyebrow lifted a fraction as if he were waiting for John to speak. A gentle skim across their tether allowed John to gather what Sherlock wanted him to know. The scent of cut grass and emerald green assailed him: genuine apology and remorse.

'I'm sorry.' The deep words curved through the air of the room, soft and repentant as the sheets whispered in harmony to the shrug of his shoulders. He sounded as if he wanted to say more, but instead the silence reclaimed its throne, and John put his empty mug down on the bedside table before perching on the edge of the mattress.

He rubbed his thumb over the one that had sought him out, watching Sherlock relax helplessly out of the corner of his eye, boneless to John's ministrations. 'I know.' His voice caught in his throat, locked up around the explanation of his fears. When he managed to force some words out, they sounded strangled and thin, meagre in the rippling light and shadow of the room. 'Sometimes I worry about how deeply you can get inside my head. The bond's one thing, but turning up in my nightmares...'

'I was there anyway.'

A shudder quivered through John at the memory, and he shook his head. 'As a character – a product of my own mind rather than an intruder in it. It's just – I wonder when it's going to stop – if it's going to stop – or if you're just going to consume me.' He bit his lip, hating the small part of him that wondered if such an obliteration would be so bad. 'I thought we'd found our balance and then this happens and I just –' His words trailed off with a fitful shake of his head.

Sherlock shifted, propping himself up on his elbows and turning on the bedside lamp before crooking his finger at empty air. The luminous motes responded instantly, giving up their meanderings to return to him. Those that passed John slowed down, their notes taking on a pining edge before they reluctantly obeyed Sherlock's command. It was always gratifying to see such affection on obvious display, and John smiled as he watched the last straggler, which had finally freed itself from the flask, fade into Sherlock's skin with an aureate glow.

Now there was only the one left in his hand, caught happily in the cage of his fingers, and John realised with a guilty start that he had actively restrained it, not wanting the vivid, honest fragment to leave. Anyone else would probably have received burns for their efforts, but Sherlock seemed indifferent as he leaned on the headboard, unashamedly naked as he tugged at John's shoulder. After a few moments of confusion, John settled his back against Sherlock's chest, feeling ridiculous in his jumper and jeans while Sherlock's pale, bare skin surrounded him.

'If I thought what we shared would somehow diminish you, do you believe I'd allow it to continue?' Sherlock asked, his hands brushing over John's shoulders, fingers catching in the loose weave of the wool before disentangling to move onwards.

'Would you have any choice?' John replied, breathing out a gusty sigh. 'The bond's permanent. You said so yourself.'

'An intuition, rather than a known fact.'

John hesitated, watching as the sprite that hovered in front of them seemed to grow dim – dull and dejected as if overshadowed. The sight had him reaching out, one hand tightening around Sherlock's wrist as the other nudged the star closer. Its warmth nuzzled into the crook of his neck as it had done during Sherlock's recovery, and some of the dark worry wrapped up in John's guts loosened its grip. For all that he might seem like nothing but a passenger to the glorious whirl of Sherlock and the magic, this was all it took to remind him that he was not just useful, but essential to the man behind him.

'I was wrong.' Sherlock shifted, reaching into the bedside table, pulling out a bulging file and dropping it into John's lap. 'Moran made that clear with his efforts. If it can be destroyed by malice, probably taking us with it, then it is logical to assume there would be other ways to reverse the process.' His arms tightened around John's body. 'I asked Mycroft to look into it. He brought that over earlier today. I was going to show you once I'd had time to examine it properly.'

John's thoughts fell silent, blanked out by the surprise of what lay in his grasp. He had never thought to question Sherlock's initial assumption that what had happened to them could not be undone. Now he was being told there could be a way to reverse it – to free himself from the gossamer web he and Sherlock had woven.

Relief felt like the appropriate emotion, but John was instead suffused with repulsion. It did not come from Sherlock, whose thoughts were dark and quietly mournful, but stemmed from somewhere deep and instinctive that he had learned to listen to on the battlefield. He knew that, if he went through with breaking their connection, he would regret it for the rest of his days.

Taking a deep breath, John rested his hand on the plain, manila folder, staring at the splay of his fingers before he allowed his internal focus to change. He did not look forward, but back towards the truth that Sherlock had left out in the open for him to see.

'You don't want to reverse it.' John shifted, turning around to sit, cross-legged and awkward, between the spread of Sherlock's legs. It gave him a good view of that bare chest and stomach, down lower to the dark curls at the juncture of his thighs, and even in a moment of seriousness, John was helpless but to admire the sight. Only when Sherlock pulled a pillow into his lap did he blink, meeting Sherlock's weak half-grin with one of his own: acknowledged attraction.

'You hate the idea, but you're still showing this to me. Why?' When Sherlock did not answer, John continued. 'You could have hidden it. Burnt the file and pretended it never happened. Instead, you looked for the information. You asked your brother for help, and I know you'd rather go to Anderson than Mycroft.'

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, his mercurial eyes narrowing as he took in the expression on John's face. 'This is far from the first time you have responded unfavourably towards something our situation has enabled within us. You resent it. I thought that if you had a choice, you might feel as if you were in control.' His shoulders slumped as his gaze fell away. 'It's an option, that's all.'

John tapped his thumb on the folder, watching the subtle shift of emotions across Sherlock's features. Cautiously, he looked for any tells, both physically and over their bond, that Sherlock was manipulating the truth of the matter, casting it in a favourable light to work in his own benefit, but there was nothing selfish for John to find. Sherlock did not want to sever what they had, but he was giving John the choice. Not because it would be right in the eyes of a moral society, but because he knew it was best for John.

Sherlock would not work against his own interests for anyone else.

With a sigh, he shifted, dropping the file over the edge of the bed before straightening up and gathering Sherlock's hands in his. 'Thank you,' he managed, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes and curving his mouth as he felt the tropical wash of relief from Sherlock. Had he really thought John would grab it with both hands? Had his moments of bitter uncertainty been so obvious? 'It helps. Not just the possibility, but the fact that you told me about it.' John bit his lip, shaking his head as he looked blindly down at the mattress. 'I wish it was as easy for me to deal with the changes as it is for you. You act like it's not affecting who you are.'

'It's not.' Sherlock lifted his chin, unease replaced by confidence as he quickly spoke. 'It affects what we can do and how we can interact with each other, but how we respond and behave is still unique to ourselves. Do you honestly think that you would have acted any differently to me intruding on something so private if we weren't bound?'

'It wouldn't have happened in the first place,' John pointed out, nodding his acknowledgement at the frustrated wave of Sherlock's hand. 'All right, I get your point, it's just...' He shrugged, not knowing how to put it into words. All he could do was nudge the twisted knot of concern in Sherlock's direction, hoping he could glean John's fear of changing beyond all recognition – losing parts of himself without noticing their absence until it was too late.

Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John's wrists, stroking down over the bowl of his lax palms. However, his expression was one of intense thought, highlighted by the glow of the sprite that hovered between them, equidistant.

'Will you let me show you something?'

John raised an eyebrow. It was unlike Sherlock to ask for permission. Normally, he simply demanded John stay still so he could test out whatever idea had crossed his mind, whether it was an experiment in the name of magic or murder. Now he sat there, waiting for a response.

It was the decision of a moment. Even uncertain about the bond and its constant evolution, John still trusted Sherlock, probably more than he should. Besides, he could sense a bright, hopeful heat that suggested Sherlock had found the answer John craved.

'You're not going to –' He gestured towards the file on the floor, smiling as Sherlock gave an adamant shake of his head.

'I have no intention of breaking the bond unless you demand it. It occurred to me that you're accustomed to seeing my soul and the cords that tether us together with your own eyes. It gives you a concrete appreciation of their strength. You don't need to believe in them, because you have evidence that they exist.' He shrugged. 'The only proof you have of your own soul used to be the healing spells. Now that your power is fed by both of us, you've lost even that reassurance.'

'If you say so,' John replied. He knew he had a soul, but he could see Sherlock's point. Wasn't that what his fears came down to, in the end? That everything which comprised his existence would be scooped out and replaced? 'So what are you going to do?'

With quiet care, Sherlock pulled on their connection – not a vicious yank but a gentle twist – as if he were tuning a violin string to the perfect pitch. Magic began to vibrate along its length like water flowing through a channel, and a rash of goose-pimples broke out across John's skin. He wet his lips, his eyes sliding shut instinctively as he focussed on what he could feel: Sherlock's confidence and the tease of heat as magic curled under his ribs, down through his body to something beyond his physical reach.

It was as if a captive force had been released. An immense rush raced through him, leaving his blood surging in its wake. The sensation of wings unfurling, not from his skin but through his frame, suffused him. Yet when he opened his eyes, he was still the same. Nothing had sprouted from his back, no matter what it felt like. The only thing that had changed was that now a swirl of inky smoke wobbled drunkenly in front of him, coiling and twisting outwards only to fall in on itself once more.

Perhaps it should have looked sinister, but as John watched it began to change shape. At first, it looked like the down of blackbird before it developed the fragile wings of a moth, all harmlessness and erratic flight.

Cautiously, John reached out for it, blinking in surprise as the creature alighted on his skin and dispersed back into his body. It left a sooty smudge in its wake that lingered after he ran his fingers over it.

'Was that –?'

'Everyone could make sprites if they took the time to learn how,' Sherlock explained. 'Can you do it by yourself?'

There was no question of whether he would try again. People like Donovan found the idea repulsive, and John had always wondered if it hurt, excising pieces of your being and setting them loose to the world. He had never realised it could be like that – like stepping out of a cramped space into an open landscape of endless horizons.

Like freedom.

Quickly, he tried to emulate what Sherlock had done, cupping his hands in front of himself as he envisioned the snow-soft thrill. For long moments, there was nothing but the natural rhythms of his body, organic and solid, but finally the power engaged, allowing warmth to unfurl between his hands.

He stared, watching it shift and change – mutable and so very different from Sherlock's light. 'It's nothing like yours.'

'No one person's the same. Why would their souls be similar?' Sherlock's hand twitched like he wanted to reach out and touch, but he held himself in check. 'Mine have always been stars. The fact that I normally visualise the auras of other people as incandescence is just a coincidence.'

'Except me.' John smiled, remembering Sherlock's tentative explanation that where everyone else would gleam with different hues of illumination, John's magic was more a presence of heat. 'It looks so fragile.' He watched as Sherlock's counterpart edged closer, its golden shine turning the darkness of John's representation to the colour of a starling's wing: green, blue and purple all caught up on a backdrop of black.

Sherlock's response was a smile, one that grew as John watched the two sprites – different but made of the same ethereal substance – circle each other, releasing tiny sparks whenever they touched. Yet for all that they were lost in their waltzing, happy orbits, John soon realised that the two did not blend. They enhanced each other, seemingly magnifying their strength, but there was never a moment when one over-ruled the other. They fell into a natural symmetry of darkness and light – hopelessly attracted, but never lost.

'I think I'm beginning to understand what you mean,' he murmured, looking beyond the two to the play of shadows across Sherlock's face. 'You wanted me to see how resilient it is. The light of yours should destroy mine, but it doesn't.'

Sherlock's smirk was satisfied, no doubt pleased that John had got the point of the demonstration with so little effort. 'Or the darkness of yours should extinguish mine. In theory it could work both ways.' He shook his head. 'Your soul is a valuable commodity. Mages and demons alike can try to steal it or trade it, bind it or devour it, but it can't be changed by someone else's influence. It's a constant. This –' He gestured to the moth-like shape, smiling as it drifted closer to his fingers as if magnetised. '– is the basis of what we have, not the other way around.'

John pursed his lips, following Sherlock's logic. 'You mean even if it's depleted or bound, it's still a soul?'

'It's still the soul of you. Even if you don't own it anymore, it cannot become the soul of the new owner. It doesn't work that way. That's why selling it is so meaningful. You're offering the cornerstone of your own being.' Sherlock reached out, brushing his thumb gently across the back of John's hand. 'It's only useful to anyone else as an energy source, but to you it's everything, and nothing can change that. Think of what we share like a bridge across a river between two separate nations. The cultures may mix and enrich one another, but in the end, it doesn't fundamentally alter the land on either side.' Sherlock cocked his head, his eyes full of wary hope. 'Do you understand?'

Silently, John wondered if he could ever comprehend all that Sherlock saw, not just in the world around him, laid bare to his observations, but his comprehension of the energy that wove itself invisibly through everything. Still, in front of him, he had the demonstration that he needed. It did not remove the sting of finding Sherlock in his nightmares or the shivering shock of the bond changing their boundaries once more, but it gave him the reassurance he so sorely needed.

With a nod of his head, he reached out for his sprite, watching it flutter around his hand before the moth's form dissolved, leaving smoke trails to drift through the air. They coiled and twisted around the orb of Sherlock's soul, enfolding it in darkness but never snuffing out the light. As soon as Sherlock reached out, it lunged towards him, looping around his finger like a wedding band before curling up, kitten-like, in the cradle of his palm.

A gasp escaped John's lips, called forth by Sherlock's touch against the raw interface of something so quintessentially his. The tension fled from his muscles, leaving his body full of brimming warmth and lost in contented surrender. He should have known it would feel like this from watching Sherlock's response to John's attentions during his recovery, but somehow John had never equated that back to himself.

When caressing the shimmering, misty rope that linked them, a wide spectrum of emotion could be evoked, and it always went both ways. It could be comforting or thrilling, electrified and arousing, but while it was more intense, it was not nearly as intimate. Sherlock touching his soul was not about sex, though that burn lingered in the pit of John's belly. It was acceptance and understanding, sacrifice and compromise. It was a promise to cherish rather than change, and to flex with the challenges rather than stiffen and shatter.

It was a naked truth translated through the media of the vapour in Sherlock's grasp, similar to when he had shown John how he felt all those weeks ago, pushing all those impressions of unspoken love to the front of his mind where they could be seen. Yet somehow, this was a thousand-times more explicit. John's breath hitched in his chest as he swayed near, barely noticing Sherlock close the distance and press their brows together, not kissing, not quite, but sharing every breath.

'I love you.'

John was so lost he almost did not hear the words Sherlock whispered – a vocal acknowledgement of all that he could feel. It was more than he had ever expected to receive from this seemingly cold, aloof man, who saw everything with such a dispassionate gaze. It made him wonder, had Moriarty never initiated the débâcle with Sherlock's soul, whether he would have known how deep that vein of sentiment ran through Sherlock's being, well-hidden from everyone but those who knew where to look for its gleam.

John's hand shook as he reached for Sherlock's sprite again, letting it nestle against him and complete the loop: not a linear conduit but a circuit. It was almost overwhelming, and he heard Sherlock's shuddering indrawn breath as he softly murmured his reply. 'I know.' Normally, the words would be awkward on his tongue and lips, but now they followed with beautiful ease. 'I love you too.'

The audible confirmation should have been unnecessary, but to hear it out loud still made John's heart swell. Perhaps it was because he knew that, while he had never been able to show Sherlock so plainly how he felt before, or see the emotion himself, the words were something that had always been possible. They were his and his alone. Magic wasn't needed to put them on display any more than it was required for love to grow between them.

Sentiment had come first, unspoken and unacknowledged, and while John knew that the connection they shared would continue to change, the way they felt about each other was both the core of it and somehow more.

Perhaps he could not control what the bond would do and where it would take them in future, but as Sherlock bent his head to kiss him again, John knew that their relationship was another matter. It was not a product of the magic between them or Moriarty's meddling, but something born in the real world without the touch of any spells, and for that it was all the more precious.

It would never be easy. The power they shared was sure to test them both and what they had as much as it would enable a deeper understanding, but he knew it would be worth the effort. He would fight to his last breath for the years of their future: happiness and danger, love and contentment. He would battle through every argument and compromise, content in the knowledge that Sherlock would do the same.

They were in this together, and John would not have it any other way.