Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As the newest flower shop in Market Chipping, they drew more curiosity than actual paying customers.

It was no wonder that people didn’t want to buy flowers, if the talk in the streets and in the shop was anything to go by. The recent bombings along the coast near Market Chipping had everyone on edge, inside and outside of their castle. Sherlock continued his nightly disappearing act, which John could only assume was to guard their skies, though there was no news of more recent bombings in the papers.

Regardless, their newly formed collective attempted to focus on the flower business, with everyone assigned their own role. As Sherlock’s explicit instructions were that only John was allowed to switch the castle door to black-side down, John was by necessity in charge of collecting flowers from the field. Irene would then clip and tie the stems with thin rope, Sherlock would charm them not to wilt, and Mrs Hudson would sell them in the shop front, along with the herbs from her garden.

To everyone else’s amusement, and John’s annoyance, the painted sign hanging on the street outside of their shop read, ‘Watson’s Weeds.’

“It’s not even my shop,” John complained to the room at large. “It’s yours, Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson’s.”

“Well, we certainly can’t use my name, and Mrs Hudson is associated with the old Kingsbury property,” Sherlock claimed, sitting with his feet propped up on the worktable as he tied dandelion stems together. “The Queen’s guard is looking for me, and will follow any leads they have. You’re the only unknown, John.”

“I think it’s a sweet name,” Mrs Hudson said, pouring water into a series of coloured glass vases. “Though really Sherlock, you have chosen the worst time to open a shop in this town.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, petulant, while Mrs Hudson and Irene exchanged a look.

“Haven’t you noticed the people all trickling out,” Irene said, sitting in the window with one leg curled under her, arranging flowers in a vase. “Everyone expects this town to be the next target for a bombing. Anyone with half a brain is packing up.”

She wasn’t wrong; people dragging luggage behind them on their way to the train station was a regular sight, even from their own window.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving too, then?” John asked, turning to Sherlock, who was placing his finished flower crown onto their bulldog’s head.

“Yes, truly suicidal to stay,” Sherlock agreed, adjusting the crown’s circumference to better fit the dog’s head. “But I did just redo the castle, and I’m not about to change doors again now. Though even with renovations, somehow it’s still crowded.” This was followed by a pointed look at Irene.

Irene ignored it, and started on a new bundle of flowers. “Maybe it’s crowded in here because you didn’t make enough bedrooms for everyone.” Rubbing her chin, she added, “I can’t imagine why.”

“I didn’t have the energy,” Sherlock snapped, his feet dropping from the table onto the floor.

Irene hummed.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Sherlock griped, standing from his chair. “It would have solved almost all of my problems.”  

Sherlock left in a huff, disappearing down the hallway towards the bathroom. The sound of running water was heard soon after.

“What this bickering will accomplish, I have no idea,” Mrs Hudson said as she carried the prepared vases down the stairs, taking her leave of them as well.

Once the castle door had closed behind her, and John was confident the water running in the bathroom was loud enough, he turned in his chair towards Irene.

“Okay. What the hell happened between you two?” John asked, index finger extended in her direction. “Why does Sherlock frequently discuss plotting your murder?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” But then, not a moment later, she twisted at the waist, eyeing John with consideration. “You really don’t know much about spells, do you?”

John frowned. “You cursed him, too?” he guessed. “Sherlock so much as told me so, after he read the note you put in my pocket.” Sherlock did let him in on some things.

Irene gave a bow. “Guilty as charged.”

John felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. That confirmed it then. It wasn’t a coincidence that Mycroft had mentioned Sherlock’s heart being stolen on the same day he had intended to strip Irene of her powers. Irene was the culprit, the stealer of Sherlock’s heart.

“The thing about spells,” Irene continued, “is that a curse is always broken when the witch or wizard who casts it dies.”

“Oh.” That did explain the murder thing. “Rather trusting of you to live with us then, given the circumstances. If we killed you, we’d both be free.”

John hadn’t meant it as a threat, but it did end up sounding like one.

“What a safe house I’ve chosen,” Irene mused with a smile. “But then again, living with the wizard I cursed is truly the last place anyone would think to look for me. Neat solution, isn’t it?”

“Why did you—curse him?” John asked. He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘steal his heart’ just yet.

“Oh John, I’m sure you think I’m quite the monster. But you see, he hurt my Kate.” At John’s blank expression, Irene clarified, “My fire demon.”

“And why would he have hurt… Kate?” John asked, surprised to learn the fire demon had a name. “There would have been a reason.”

“So confident!” Irene cried. “But of course, you are right. As you know, I have… incriminating materials on the royal family. To retrieve them as a favour for his brother, Sherlock broke into my castle in Belgravia. A fire demon protects and oversees the home, so Sherlock had to use his magic against Kate to get inside, and I retaliated to retrieve my blackmail.” She paused, fiddling with the petal of one flower. “Though, I suppose you could say I went a bit too far with it.”  

“What did you do to him?” John asked, sick of vagueries. “And why do I get the impression that it was far worse than anything Sherlock did to Kate?”

“Easy now, temper, temper,” Irene murmured. “And that is a conundrum. Sherlock can’t tell you himself, because he’s cursed to silence. But he wouldn’t want me telling you either.”

“Tell me anyway,” John insisted. “And I swear, if you hurt him—”   

“I notice that you seem angrier about the curse I have on him than your own,” Irene pointed out, cutting him off at the knees. “Protective, are we?”

John felt his ears pink up, though he refused to back down. “I’m pissed off about that too, actually, but whatever’s between you and him is different—personal, somehow. I don’t know what else went on, but I can tell you really did a number on him.”

“Oh,” Irene said, eyes widening a fraction. She lifted one finger at him, nail gleaming with red polish. “You’re in love.”

John’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I—”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” Irene said, “but you are. And in such a short amount of time! He’s the one who really did a number on you, I’d say.”

John’s denial was on the tip of his tongue, incredulity already registering on his face, but—even before the words could form, John knew they would be a lie. He had resisted putting a name to this feeling, but once someone else had, he couldn’t dispute it. Or at least, not convincingly.

His righteous anger for Sherlock’s sake simmered. He had initiated this conversation thinking he was doing so in the interest of Sherlock’s happiness, but in the end, John had just wanted answers. And now, he was going to make sure he got them.

“Did you break his heart?” John asked, point blank. “Are you the one who stole it?”

Irene had the gall to laugh. “Oh, you poor man.”

“Your comment about Sherlock not making enough rooms,” John continued, undeterred. “Was it because Sherlock was hoping he wouldn’t be needing to make another?”

“Now you’re thinking,” Irene said, her amusement giving way to intrigue.

John barrelled ahead. “The implication being that I was supposed to take the room downstairs, so you two could... make up.”

“Oh no,” Irene said, voice hushed. “You really are jealous.”

John didn’t bother to deny it.

“And completely off. Hasn’t he told you? Women aren’t really—”

Irene was at once shaken from her precarious position in the windowsill, and anything else she had to say was overpowered by the sudden sound of sirens wailing through their walls, spilling in from Market Chipping.   

John rose to his feet. “Air raids,” he said, racing towards the stairs. “And Mrs Hudson is still outside!”

John ran through the courtyard toward the shop front, forgetting about Irene entirely. He met Mrs Hudson in the shop doorway, walking towards him carrying her flowers under her arm.

“Oh John, it’s starting,” she fretted, head tilting up towards the darkening sky. “The warships are on their way. We should get going, I think.”

The rest of Market Chipping was of the same mind; people were flooding into the streets in droves with their pre-packed rucksacks and luggage cases, anyone who hadn’t escaped town by train now forced to leave on foot.

“Come on,” John said, ushering Mrs Hudson back towards the door to the castle. Once they were in the safety of the entrance hall, John steered her towards her room on the first floor. “Mrs Hudson, do me a favour. Take one of your evening soothers, and rest in your room for a little while.”

“With pleasure!” Mrs Hudson said, patting John’s cheek. “Do me a favour though, will you John? Go talk some sense into him.”

After agreeing to try, and ensuring Mrs Hudson had returned to her room, John took the steps up to the second floor two at a time.

Sherlock hadn’t re-emerged, despite the sirens. Irene was still standing by the window, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. The bulldog at her feet whined, his flower crown drooping over his eyes.

“Sherlock!” John called down the hallway. “I know you can hear the sirens! Market Chipping is being bombed, this is not the time to be fussing with your vanity potions!”

At last, the door to the bathroom opened, and Sherlock rejoined them in the living room. His hair had been smoothed back with some kind of oil, his usual curls slicked against his head. John didn’t quite like the look of it.

“Then change the door to the moor, for heaven’s sake!” Sherlock cried. “Though, let me leave, first.”

“Leave? What, right now?” John asked, as the sirens continued over top of their conversation, illustrating the reason for John’s incredulity. “What are you going to do, stop the warships by yourself?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied, as if that were a given. “All of Market Chipping will be destroyed otherwise. Weren’t you the one who said that people were losing their lives, and I could do something to stop it?”

“If Market Chipping gets burned to the ground while the castle is tied to it, there’s no telling what might happen,” Irene contributed, far too relaxed for John’s liking.

“Sherlock,” John said, speaking slowly. “Listen to me. You need to do whatever you did with the Porthaven and Kingsbury doors. You have to untie the castle from Market Chipping.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” With that, Sherlock drew a dark coat John had never seen before over his shoulders. “This is where we’ve started afresh, and I intend to protect it.”

“Sherlock, you’re going to get yourself killed!” Then, attempting to lower his voice, John added, “At least—”

John paused. He’d been about to suggest that Sherlock take him along, even though that would be impossible, and not at all helpful. With each word forced out, John finished, “At least take Irene with you.”

“I’m flattered, John,” Irene teased. “But I’m not interested in risking my life for Market Chipping.”

“Shut up,” John said, and grasped Sherlock by the arm when he began gravitating towards the stairs. “Not so fast. Sherlock, you need help. You can’t just do this alone.”

“Alone is what I have right now,” Sherlock returned, pushing one stray lock of hair back against his head. Then, in a hushed angry voice, “It’s hard to make a home somewhere when the town is on fire .”

“Sherlock, now is not the time be a hero. Everyone’s evacuating, and with any luck no one will be harmed!”

“Unlikely that everyone will get out John, and besides, their homes will be lost, and—I’m not arguing about this any more!” Sherlock at once stopped resisting John’s grip on his arm, and instead took two steps closer.

Irene whistled at them. Sherlock glared at her for less than half a second, before his gaze whipped back on to John. “John, I’m sick of running away. And I have something worth protecting right now.”

“We’ve only had this damn storefront for a few days—” was all John managed in response, before Sherlock’s black coat had turned to wings. Sherlock twisted out of John’s reach and flew down the stairs, and out the castle door below.  

“Sherlock, wait!” John ran down the stairs after him, but when he pulled the door back open, the ground shook beneath his feet, sending him careening into the doorframe. “Sherlock!”

If bombs were being dropped close enough that John was knocked off his feet, they were far too close for comfort. To judge by the nose of a warship visible overhead, they were only growing nearer, and Sherlock of course had flown from view.

John’s attention shifted from the sky to the ground, where he spied black ooze around the corner of their courtyard; shortly after, henchmen wearing uniforms ambled towards the castle door on gelatinous legs.

“Yeah, I mean there’s only a war going on,” John said with a shrug. “And bombs falling on us. But, sure, hounding us right now must truly be the best use of your time.”

The henchmen didn’t appreciate his sarcasm, and only continued their advance towards the castle entrance. John closed the door at the last possible moment, just to hear the splat of them against the other side. Using the manual switch, John turned till green was visible in the keyhole. Opening the door onto the moor, the fire in Market Chipping could be seen even from their hill, with the dark oblong warship looming above it.

“There goes another shop, I guess,” John muttered. The living scarecrow was standing still several paces away, looking out over the hill, and in its own way, appeared tense.

Straining his eyes, John could just make out a small black figure in the sky, flying next to the warship. “Dammit Sherlock, you idiot.”

There were metal flaps opened along the bottom of the warship, and John waited with bated breath for another bomb to fall and for Sherlock to do something stupid—namely, get in their way and get himself killed.

But, at once, all the flaps shut closed. It was difficult to determine at a distance, but soon, it appeared as though the warship was being steered away from the town, and no more bombs fell from its underbelly.

It was Sherlock’s magic at work, John assumed, like the other day in the field. With the ship incapacitated, John watched the black dot in the sky over Market Chipping, now no longer flying close to the ship. John wondered if Sherlock was helping the townspeople who hadn’t evacuated, and the idea warmed him.

The warship grew closer, its new course set for the hillside, to the far east, towards—Belgravia. Sherlock’s plan became clear; he was going to sink the ship out in the wastes.

The castle door creaked on its hinges behind him and Irene appeared, stepping over the winding stairs. She was wearing John’s black jacket, with his seven league boots strung over her shoulder.

“Where the hell are you going?” John asked. “And why are you taking my things?”

“It’s raining out,” Irene said, stopping to pop the collar of John’s coat, and to slip the suede boots on over her feet.

“When you leave, will your protection spells go with you?” John asked, walking closer. “The henchmen are still in town at our door. Now isn’t exactly a great time. Are you listening to me?”

Irene abandoned the laces of the boots, and answered him by thrusting her pocketwatch out towards him. It was burning up in her hand, the gold metal turned to a reddish bronze colour.

“Nice watch,” John said. “Did you steal that too?”

Irene groaned. “I forgot, you don’t understand anything. I really have to go now, John.”

“Great!” John cried. “Perfect, now that he has decided to rely on you, now is when you want to get out my hair. Fantastic.”  

Irene rolled her eyes. “If you’ve ever consulted a map, you might know that the warship over there is at the moment heading straight towards Belgravia.”

Crossing his arms, “I had noticed that, actually.”

“Then you might also know that there’s nothing there but my castle,” Irene said, her eyes trained on the sky above them. “This is Sherlock’s revenge, I suppose.”

If possible, John’s annoyance with her only increased. “Now hold on, has it not occurred to you that if he sinks the ship in the wastes, no one needs to be hurt?”

“Not if they drop a bomb on my castle first! Look,” she said, opening the pocketwatch. Enclosed within, pressed against the clock face, was one lock of red hair. “As you already know, this watch is my protection, and draws its power from my fire demon. They’re linked, so I also know when she’s in danger. Do you understand? Kate is trapped inside the castle, too weak to go anywhere else, bound to the hearth!”

John followed Irene’s gaze to the sky, where he could see Sherlock circling above Market Chipping, and that the warship was almost past them, its course set towards the east.

John relented. “Go on then. But you’d better give me those boots back when you’re done with them.” Sherlock had made them for him, special, after all.

Irene took her first step, and zipped away. The black figure John knew to be Sherlock was still gliding above the smoke of Market Chipping, but then seemed to grow in size, drawing nearer but not towards the castle—Sherlock was flying after the warship.  

Wishing Sherlock had just stayed in Market Chipping, John watched as he approached the warship, and as winged wizard’s henchmen were released from the back of the ship. Sherlock flew high, spinning in a barrel roll, as the dark gargoyle-like creatures chased after him.

“What the hell is he doing?” John yelled, though the only one to hear him was the scarecrow. “He should just fall back if he’s already sent the ship to the wastes!”  

But Sherlock persisted towards Belgravia, in the same direction John assumed Irene had gone. Irene, who was wearing the coat and seven league boots that Sherlock had given him. Which meant John had no way of chasing after Sherlock.

While Sherlock was distracted by two of the henchmen, one snuck up behind him and Sherlock hit the side of the warship. John shouted his name, though his voice would never reach him. Sherlock clung to the side of the ship as his form distorted, growing larger in size and darker in plumage. All the henchmen were attacking him now, ramming him into the side of the ship, and perhaps becauses Sherlock was weakened, the flaps along the underbelly of the ship opened once more to drop its bombs.

“They’re going to kill him,” John said, his voice sore from all the shouting, “unless I...” John assessed the scarecrow to his right, recalling its hopping speed. Not fast enough.  

Next, his eyes slid to the castle’s metal legs, in their usual position, sticking up in the air.

“I need to go after Sherlock,” John told the scarecrow and, recalling how the castle had been renovated, thought he might just know how he would pull it off. “And I’m going to need directions to the Witch of Belgravia’s castle. You found me this one, didn’t you?”

The scarecrow bounced, which John understood as agreement to help, and took off back to the castle. “Hop up on the side like you always do and direct me!” John shouted over his shoulder. “This castle is going to move again, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

John raced up the stairs, past the barking bulldog, and dove for the fireplace. Not bothering with the poker, John shook the brick at the back till it fell loose, and reached into the space for the jar of dust.

As he drew the jar out past the grate, the castle shook beneath his feet. The tremor was slight, but John was certain that there had been shaking nonetheless.  

“That’s a good sign,” John said, his breath coming in short bursts. “I think.”

Only, now that he was staring at the jar, he didn’t know what came next. He crossed the room, and stuck his head out the window to find the scarecrow dutifully pointing towards Belgravia. The warship had continued on its course, too far away now for John to see if Sherlock was still being attacked, or if he had fallen, or if he was already—

“Move!” John yelled, shaking the jar with both hands. “If Sherlock can make up his own spells, then so can I! Move the damn castle!”

The castle lurched, and John laughed once, in disbelief. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m going to need a bit more than that though. Come on, move! Take me to Sherlock, you shoddy jar!”

A zing ran through his body, hot and exciting. It was like taking his first step in the seven league boots. John’s hands were warm where they held the jar, and at once the dust within, and John’s old clump of hair, started to glow silver in the low light.

“Yes!” John shouted, near breathless with relief. “Whatever the hell that was! More of it! Move!”

John began to feel like he was running a fever, but the castle’s legs outside fell down to the grassy moor with a soft thud. Breathing erratic and body burning up, with all his will power John gripped the jar and begged the legs to extend, to push themselves up, to walk—

And, so they did.

John kept his head out the window as they took their first step, and then another, on long, iron, bird-like feet. The scarecrow twisted its arms, helping guide him across the uneven ground, and John yelled out instructions to the legs, attempting to avoid the many hills and dips along their way.

When John thought, faster, we have to go faster, the jar in his hands only shone brighter, and faster they went.

The transition from the hillsides of Market Chipping to Belgravia was a smooth one, as patches of grass and bush grew fewer and far between, till everything around them was wasteland. Nothing was able to grow in Belgravia, the whole area a dark and barren place. As a result, the Witch of Belgravia’s castle, a small well to-do looking townhouse with gleaming white pillars, was spotted without difficulty from many leagues away.

With the castle’s legs racing towards Belgravia at top speed, John could at last see the warship again, though it wasn’t a pleasant sight. More henchmen had come, and were assaulting the large black creature that Sherlock had become, who was still hugging the side of the warship.

Helpless, John watched as Sherlock was assaulted from all sides, his immense size no match for their numbers. A swarm of them formed and bombarded him till his hold on the ship must have been lost, as shortly after the large black form plummeted from the sky.

Through the rushing wind, John heard his own voice shouting Sherlock’s name, futile as it was. The descent was painful to watch in its inevitability, and when Sherlock hit the ground, the impact formed a crater.

And then, a small figure wearing a black coat appeared by the lip of it.

“Hurry up!” John shouted, pushing the castle to its brink.

When they were at last close enough, the scarecrow jumped down off the side, and John ran down the stairs after it. Too worried for Sherlock, John hardly noticed when the castle came to a complete stop once he was out the door.  

Irene was waiting for him when he reached the indent in the wastes. She was looking between him and the warship, which was on its own descent from the sky.

“He mistook me for you, the fool,” was all she said when he approached. “He must be able to sense the boots.”

John brushed past her, sliding down the sides of the crater. In the center was a mound of feathers and scales, and John hoped that the slight movement he saw was breathing.

“The warship is still sinking, and I need to make sure it doesn’t hit my castle,” Irene called after him.

John didn’t turn back. His attention was fixed elsewhere. “Sherlock,” John said, once he had reached the bottom of the crater, “Sherlock, can you hear me? I know you’re in there somewhere.”

When John reached out to touch, Sherlock’s body began to slowly shrink in size, till he returned to the creature John was more familiar with seeing in the evening by the fire, though his face had never been so obscured by feathers. There were no further signs of life, or any further humanness returned.

John attempted to feel for his pulse, but when the scales beneath prevented him from finding a blood vessel, John began the arduous task of dragging Sherlock back to the castle. He hooked both arms beneath Sherlock’s armpits, Sherlock’s wings dragging in the dirt. Irene at least had the decency to have hung up his boots and his jacket on the scarecrow’s arms when she’d left, and the scarecrow tipped itself down till John’s jacket fell over his shoulders, protecting him from the rain.

John was panting by the time he got Sherlock through the door and, for what felt like the millionth time that day, he had no idea what he was going to do next. With the living scarecrow hopping outside, and the dog barking from the top of the steps, John made a split second decision. He closed the door to the castle, and using the manual switch at the door, turned it till the wheel upstairs chimed on black.  

John pulled Sherlock’s unconscious form back outside, and into the field of never-ending flowers. John only knew one spell where the caster could make up any verse they chose, and he figured they were near enough to a marsh to try for it.

“Maybe I can catch a star this time,” John told Sherlock, who continued to be more bundle of feathers and scales than man. “And I’ll make the second verse that you come back to yourself, you git.”

But much like that afternoon spent with Archie in the marsh near Market Chipping, no star came. There didn’t even seem to be any in the sky.

John couldn’t say how much time passed, but eventually he felt the ground shake, and to the east, the sky turned orange and black with smoke. The field was not so far from the wastes of Belgravia after all, and that must have been the warship crashing. A wind blew towards them shortly after, ruffling Sherlock’s feathers.

“A wind to advance an honest mind,” John recalled, “and a falling star. But where’s a bloody star when you need one?”

Forcing down the panic welling up inside of him, John pushed and pulled till he had Sherlock up in a sitting position. John kneeled down on one knee, and brushed the feathers covering Sherlock’s entire head back and off his face. His efforts eventually revealed Sherlock underneath, though the stoniness of Sherlock’s usually animated face unsettled John more than the bird-like features.

“Sherlock,” John said, and if his voice cracked, at least no one was there to hear it. “You can’t forget who you are. Are you listening to me? You’re not—whatever this is. You’re the most human—human being—I’ve ever met, and I am begging you to wake up and remember it.”

When Sherlock’s expression remained impassive, still as rock, John let loose a sound not unlike a sob. “Sherlock,” he pleaded, one more time. And then, in a fit of desperation, John grasped Sherlock’s cheeks in both hands and kissed his forehead.

John drew away immediately afterward, doubtful of whether Sherlock would appreciate being kissed while he was a catatonic bird creature.

But—where his lips had pressed, the toughened skin retreated, revealing Sherlock’s paleness beneath it. The feathers peeled back like a lizard shedding its skin, and soon, Sherlock’s entire face was visible without John needing to hold back feathers like unruly hair.

Something about the contact had worked, but the progression didn’t continue, and Sherlock’s open eyes were still lifeless. Clearly more needed to be done to encourage the transformation, and after a moment of deliberation, John decided he was willing to risk Sherlock’s censure if it could save him.

John kissed Sherlock’s bare forehead once more, and then when nothing happened, kissed his cheeks as well for good measure. Sherlock’s mouth was also uncovered, and John was familiar with enough fairy tales to wonder if perhaps he needed to kiss there too. With great care, reminding himself that this was to wake Sherlock up and nothing more, John leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

It was the lightest of touches, but Sherlock toppled over all the same, taking John down with him.

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, and then his hands reached out to clutch John by the face. Sherlock pulled till John’s lips met his again, though this time it was open-mouthed, and uncoordinated. When Sherlock released him, the first thing he said was, “John.”

Starting from his head and continuing down his body, Sherlock became a man once more, his wings retracting, his arms returning, and his legs extending, till they ended in shoe leather. John somehow managed to stay hovering over Sherlock throughout, and when the transformation was complete, Sherlock wrapped himself around John and drew him back in for another long, deep kiss. John let himself be kissed, and even had the wherewithal to kiss back, too shocked to do anything but respond with the full force of all his pent up feeling.   

Then, Sherlock’s head fell back onto the grass with a soft thud, his eyes shining in the low light as his deep voice rumbled, “John, my John. You remember.”

Overwhelmed by the affection in Sherlock’s voice and from just being kissed within an inch of his life, John took some time to process Sherlock’s phrasing. “Sorry, remember what?”

Sherlock’s face fell at once, and his arms dropped away, relinquishing their viselike grip on John’s torso. His expression was so devastated that John felt like he must have just made the gravest error of his life.

“But — you kissed me.”

“Yes,” John said, slowly. “Sorry if that’s not — ”

“You kissed me,” Sherlock repeated, his eyes shutting tight. “Why would you kiss me if you don’t remember?”

John, thinking he couldn’t make things any worse, blurted, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. John focused on breathing. “Let me try that again. I know that I love you. Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s not a problem!” Sherlock cried out, and to John’s continued confusion, sounded more frustrated than elated. “I love you more than my own soul!”

“Oh,” John said, dumbfounded. With wizards, that statement was likely not hyperbole.

John realized he was still leaning over Sherlock, and sat up, offering Sherlock a hand up off the ground. Several seconds later, John thought to ask, “For how long have you...?”

Sherlock sighed, and if they both loved each other, John didn’t understand why Sherlock looked so much like a man spurned.

“Approximately thirty years,” Sherlock replied. “You always asked for approximations rather than the exact, which I am inclined to prefer as well because the days aren’t exact enough and neither are the minutes, and once you get into seconds, one must consider the milliseconds—”

“Sherlock,” John said. “What do you mean ‘thirty years’?”

Sherlock blew air out his nose noisily. “I mean that our thirtieth anniversary is almost here!”

Then, Sherlock gasped, appearing almost as shocked as John felt. “I can speak about it! I’ve been waiting for you to remember for so long, but with the curse, I haven’t been able to speak about it before, but suddenly, I can—You must have broken part of the curse when you—but how—”  

“I don’t understand,” John interrupted, still held up on the thirty years part.  

Sherlock laughed once, the sound of it choked off at the end. “I would call you a silly man, only you’re not a man at all.” Sherlock paused, motioning to the dark sky above them. “You’re a star.”

John blinked. “A star.”

Sherlock nodded, and John shifted from his knees to sit down on the grass, shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. “Okay. Explain.”

“As a child,” Sherlock began, “I caught you one night on this very marsh, and swallowed you whole. I knew a spell about stars, and I used the second verse to keep you alive. We made a contract. Now, most would know you as a fire demon.”

“Fire demons are stars?” John attempted to connect the two separate concepts in his mind, and then apply them to himself. That last part was trickier than the first.

“You and Irene both have fire demons,” John managed, piecing it together. He supposed they had everything else in common, so why not that too?

“Well, I used to,” Sherlock said, eyes on John. “Irene cursed me, ‘to do to me what I had done to her’ , or so the spell went. I imagine she intended only to weaken you, like I had done to Kate, but the spell was so strong it took you away from me entirely.”

Sherlock paused, his head lowered as he tugged at a flower growing between them by its stem. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was hushed. “You forgot all about me, and the life we had lived together. Her henchmen came for you, gave you false memories. By the time I had any inkling of what had happened, you had already left the castle, and wandered into the nearest town.”

“False memories,” John said, parroting Sherlock’s words back to him for the third time. “You’re saying my entire life of memories—none of them are real?”

Sherlock twisted towards him then, and reached out for his arms, holding onto him fast. “Think, John. They don’t have the clarity or depth of real memories, do they? If you peel at the surface of them, what do you find underneath?”

John thought, and thought, and found that Sherlock was right, as he often was. John had never tested the edges of his memory; with a past that melancholy, it had been easier to push it from his mind. But now, after even a brief digging, the shroud was pulled back to reveal the shallowness of his own personal history.

Where had he been born? Where had he grown up? How had his parents and sister died? What did they even look like? How had he returned from overseas? He’d just stumbled into Market Chipping with a coin purse and the clothes on his back. How had he gotten there? He couldn’t—remember. He couldn’t remember any of it.

“Why did I think I was a healer?” John asked, picking through the haze in his mind. “More importantly, how was I even able to work as one?”

“You studied the healing arts,” Sherlock said, still gripping his arms. “When we were younger, you were horrified by how easily humans could be harmed. You always used to patch me up.”

When John refocused on Sherlock, he was wearing a soft smile, though his eyes were wet.

“I thought Market Chipping would have to be our new place,” Sherlock said, as they sat together in what must have been their old place. “I didn’t know if we could just start over, but then you—you kicked down my castle door and—”

John kissed him then, and Sherlock’s mouth opened under his, even as a tremor wracked through his body. Sherlock was shaking in his arms, and when John drew back, there were tear tracks on his cheeks. “You still don’t remember,” Sherlock said, voice wavering. “But you—you still—”   

John ran a thumb beneath one eye, still unbelieving, but beginning to.

“I love you,” John confirmed. “I don’t need memories for that. I get the feeling that there’s just no other way, for me.” John huffed a laugh at the truth of it. “I’d love you in any universe, whether I’m a man or a star, or apparently, a demon.”

Sherlock choked back a sob, and he shifted forward till he clung to John’s neck. John rubbed his back, fighting back his own tears, and thought he understood now why he had been able to move the castle. That must have been his job once. John wondered if he’d even needed the jar.

“What’s in the jar from the fireplace?” John asked, his palm still rubbing a small circle on Sherlock’s back. “When I touched it to move the castle, it looked just like starlight.”

Sherlock pulled back from where he had been buried in the crook of John’s neck and smiled, though it seemed to pain him.

“It’s you, John. Rather, it’s dust, collected after you left. Your skin particles were enough of you to hold the castle together, for a little while. Adding your hair to it when you first arrived helped.”

John remembered the night he had stormed into Sherlock’s castle, supposing this explained why Mrs Hudson hadn’t beaten him with her broom. “You didn’t tell me then, about all of this. Because you couldn’t,” John said.

“Yes. Most curses have the silence clause.”

“I can’t believe it,” John murmured. “All this time, you were the one who was cursed, not me.”

“Ye-s,” Sherlock said, drawing out the word. “Though, while the curse was intended for me, you were affected quite a lot by proxy.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing, just—Sherlock Holmes being cursed means John Watson is cursed. Of course.”

Sherlock’s smile grew, then wavered. “But if I can speak of my curse now, why can’t you remember? Why isn’t it fully broken?”

“I don’t even know why the curse was broken at all, in any part. All I did was kiss you. How do I get my memories back? Now that I know they’re missing, I’d quite like them returned to me.”

“Well, killing Irene is always on the table,” Sherlock said, and John laughed.

“We’re not killing Irene.”

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock muttered, and John was still laughing, sitting in a field, in the middle of the night. The same sort of night Sherlock would have caught him on, when they first met, which he would very much like to remember.

“What was Irene’s curse, exactly? You said that it did what you did to her, meaning harm your fire demon.” When Sherlock nodded, John forged ahead. “What if I wasn’t your fire demon any more? Or at least, not in the same way Kate is hers. You said you swallowed me, and made a contract with me. What did you offer me as part of the contract?”

Thinking of the experiments in Sherlock’s mixing bowls, and his brother’s words, John thought he knew the answer already.

Sherlock confirmed it by answering, “I gave you my heart, of course.”

“Do I—” John breathed out. “Do I still have it?”

Sherlock laid his hand over John’s chest, over his long healed scar, and whispered, “Yes. You do.”

“That’s what’s been aching in me,” John said, in realization, as his own heart broke for Sherlock’s. “What made me think I was cursed.”

Sherlock only nodded, hand still resting against John’s chest.

“It’s time to break our contract,” John said, and held Sherlock’s hand in place over his scar.

When Sherlock understood what John intended, he stiffened, his hand jerking back. “John, no! Our contract was forged to keep you alive. If you remove my heart, there is no telling what could happen!”

“Then cast another spell,” John insisted. “There was a wind earlier that has definitely advanced my mind, whether you consider it honest or not. And I count for the falling star part too, don’t I?”

“It doesn’t work like that!”

But John was determined. “Just say the words. I’m sure you’ll make up a lovely second verse,” John said, deciding to do the dirty work himself. Somehow, John found that he knew how.

John reached into himself, hand passing through his skin and bone like his body was nothing but a pool of water. Sherlock began to frantically murmur the spell, while gripping John by the arms, face contorted with worry.

Trusting that Sherlock would handle the magic part, John grabbed hold of the soft aching thing that beat in his chest, and pulled.

For all the trouble it had given him, it was smaller than John would have expected, more like a child’s heart than a grown man’s. Cupping it in his palms, John felt like he was holding a baby bird, recently fallen from its nest, that he would now be returning to its home.

“Well, I’m not dead,” John observed.

“Yes, John, I had noticed,” Sherlock snapped, though he appeared relieved all the same.

“And I think it’s long past time for me to return this to you.”

“But, it’s yours,” Sherlock protested, voice very near to a whine.

“That’s a metaphor, Sherlock,” John said, with great patience. “Your heart should not actually be physically outside of your body.”

John leaned over, and Sherlock held still as John lay Sherlock’s heart against the left side of his chest. As John’s hands pushed, and the heart slid back into place, Sherlock’s small heart grew in size. Though, perhaps more astonishing, was that when the heart was fully seated back in Sherlock’s chest, John remembered.

It seemed to John that the memories had always been there. The paths to reach them had been severed, but newly rebuilt, and John found them again with ease. All the bits and pieces, the details and the general, formed a larger picture in his mind, and instead of being overwhelming, John found it was all only comforting.

There was a little boy with curling black hair running out from a small cottage, and other stars falling, and sizzling into nothing in a pond. There was being caught, and the boy whispering those magic words, as a wind blew in from the east. He survived by consuming the boy’s heart, and lived in the small fireplace in the cottage, till he learned to take on a human form. There was choosing his name from the most common names in all of Ingary, wishing to blend in, and Sherlock scoffing; he’d always abhorred boring names. And, there was Sherlock deciding he wanted a castle, a moving castle, and John never denying him anything.

“Ow,” Sherlock moaned. John’s attention returned to the present, where he found Sherlock  lying flat on his back in the grass.

“John, what is this abominable weight on my chest,” Sherlock complained, barely able to sit up.

John smiled. “A heart’s a heavy burden.”

Sherlock groaned pitifully, so John leaned over and kissed him, knowing he had done so a thousand times before.

“Sherlock,” John said against his lips, “Sherlock, I remember.”

+

John didn’t know how long they talked, whether it was minutes or hours spent reminiscing on old times, comparing their shared memories. Sherlock became fixated on confirming that John’s memory had in fact been returned in full, which he did by testing John on all manner of trivia that only John could know. Under other circumstances, John might have complained about the long drilling, but of course he was eager to remember it all, even more eager still for his reward, as Sherlock gave him a kiss every time he was right.

Once their clothes were damp from the dewy grass and the chill of the night had set in, they returned to the castle with flushed cheeks and reddened lips.

At the sound of the door, Mrs Hudson poked her head out of her room down the landing, appearing to be quite soothed. “Oh, good,” she said when they came out past the foyer. “John, you talked some sense into him after all.”

“Mrs Hudson!” John called out, jogging down the hallway to her. “I have my old memories again!”

“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried, beaming at Sherlock over John’s shoulder, and with a whisper to John, “You have no idea how hard it’s been on him, and now that the castle can finally start moving again—”

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, and began to make his way up the stairs, without waiting for John.

“I’m just going to go on up after him,” John said, already drawing away, as he was reluctant to let Sherlock out of his sight.

“You do that dear,” Mrs Hudson said with a giggle. “I promise not to come up for a bit.”

Even though they had been together for almost John’s entire life—now that he could actually remember it!—John still found himself embarrassed by Mrs Hudson’s insinuation, though mostly because John hoped she was right.

However, John’s plan to continue kissing Sherlock senseless was thwarted when he reached the top of the stairs and found the Royal Wizard and a grey-haired man he had never seen before occupying their living room.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, voicing John’s exact thoughts.

“Gladstone called me,” Mycroft said. Sherlock and John both looked towards the stranger in the room, who was wearing a long coat, and a bright smile.

“Not me,” the man said. “My name’s Greg.”

“Gladstone is the dog,” Mycroft clarified.

“Oh,” John said, looking down at the bulldog, who was still wearing his flower crown and panting on their rug. “I guess we never gave him a name.”

“That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, Mycroft,” Sherlock pointed out, walking to the window to pick up the jar of dust from where John had left it, and storing it on a nearby shelf.

“I’ve come to collect the Captain of the Queen’s guard,” Mycroft said, motioning to the man self-identified as Greg. “As luck would have it, the wizard who cursed him was aboard the warship you just crashed into the wastes. As they are now dead, he is freed of his curse.”

“And I can’t say I’m sorry for it!” Greg said, and came over to clap John on the back. “Thanks John, for everything. Helping you out was the only entertainment I had for the longest time. I see the curse you two were dealing with has also been sorted out now, eh?”

John stared into his smiling face, and realized why his coat was familiar. “The living scarecrow? With the turnip head?”

In comparison to his entire human life being fabricated, the Captain of the Queen’s guard helping them hang out the laundry for the past month was nothing.

Greg inclined his head. “The one and only, though I can’t tell you how happy I am to not be any more!”

Sherlock leaned against the fireplace mantle, glaring daggers at his brother. “I suppose now with your Captain returned, your war can go on as planned, Mycroft.”

“As a matter of fact little brother, I believe Ingary’s image will be strengthened by the return of our Captain, and the destruction of the enemy’s ship. Perhaps one of my peace treaties will finally pass through.”

“Does this mean I can be pardoned?” Sherlock asked. “No more soldiers knocking on my door? I did return their leader.”

“Fine,” Mycroft said, though it seemed to grieve him. “And of course, now that your heart’s back in your chest, the henchmen won’t be after you any more. You can even have your old Kingsbury door back, if you like.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, clapping his hands together. “Archie will be delighted to learn we have a dog now.”

“Gladstone is my dog, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Might I have him back now, please?”

“Hmm, no,” Sherlock replied, his mouth round on the “o” as he bent down onto one knee to rub Gladstone’s ears. When John shot him a look, Sherlock relented with a pout. “Fine! You may have him for awhile again, if you must. But he likes being with us more, so you’d better give him back.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and motioned for Greg to pick up the dog. “Thank you so much for allowing me to have visitation rights with my own dog Sherlock, truly generous of you.”

“Yes, yes, you can knight me later,” Sherlock said, standing up from his crouch with a wave of his hand. “Now, can you both please leave my castle? John and I were going to have sex now.”

“ Really , Sherlock—”

“Right here in front of the fireplace I should think, and then after—”

The second “ Really , Sherlock” was even more scandalized than the first, if possible, and then Mycroft was down the castle stairs faster than John had ever seen him move. Greg waved at them as he followed suit, carrying the dog in his arms, though not without first winking in John’s direction.

The castle door slammed closed downstairs, and Sherlock turned to face the fireplace, leaning over its mantle once more. All of Sherlock’s earlier cavalier bluster about their sex life seemed to vanish, leaving only the nervous line of Sherlock’s back, and a quick glance at John over his shoulder.

“Um,” Sherlock began, blinking. “John, I should tell you that I only meant to annoy Mycroft, I didn’t mean to be—presumptuous, if you don’t—”

John closed the door to their floor, the first time it had ever been closed, and locked it. “Be as presumptuous as you like. I don’t mind.”

Sherlock stole another backward glance at John, but didn’t move from his spot in front of the fireplace. John crossed their living room, and reached out to rest his palm against Sherlock’s back, just like the one night Sherlock had slept in his bed.

“Come here,” John said, and Sherlock turned on a dime, wrapping his long arms around John and holding on tight. Sherlock’s coat had returned to its usual pink and grey pattern, and John rested his face against the collar’s yellow piping with a sigh, the memories of their life together still racing through his mind. With Sherlock’s head bent, John couldn’t resist running his hands through his hair, any sign of the earlier oil long gone.

“You used to wear it so severe when you were younger,” John said, still amazed that he could remember that, and more besides.

“Oh, Mycroft liked all his apprentices to have a tidy appearance,” Sherlock murmured. “I used to idolize him then, the twat. But you always told me you prefered it natural.”

“I haven’t changed my mind, there,” John said, running his fingers through the curled ends, and brushing the deep sweep from his forehead. “Though I wouldn’t mind it if you went ginger.”

Sherlock groaned, not at all amused, but didn’t pull away. Instead, when John only laughed and continued to touch his hair, Sherlock’s grip tightened till they were pressed front to front.

“I missed you.” Sherlock spoke into John’s shoulder, his voice muffled.

“I’ve been right here,” John returned, though he knew what Sherlock meant. “I missed you too, before I even knew you existed. But then, there you were.”

Sherlock choked on a laugh, pressed into John’s neck. “I didn’t know how to break the curse, and I didn’t know how to face you when you didn’t remember me. The soldiers getting into a row with you forced my hand.”

“What,” John said, tone teasing, “would you have just followed me around, not introducing yourself, forever?”

Sherlock drew back, and the fierceness of his expression suggested he had not appreciated being teased. “What was I to do? No spell I tried worked, and even after we met you didn’t remember, just as I’d feared. I convinced myself that it would have to be enough if you never did. That it would be all right if we could start all over, even if it was just as friends.”

John swallowed, feeling the significance of everything Sherlock had suffered, and all that Sherlock had been forced to contemplate. “That was never going to happen,” John said, rueful. “The ‘just friends’ bit, I mean. Seeing as I wanted you from the moment I first saw you in Market Chipping.”

Sherlock’s face crumpled, his earlier intensity transforming into soft, desperate openness. In a broken voice, he said, “Oh, John —” and then John was being pulled into a frantic kiss, Sherlock’s hands grasping his face as he attempted to give back as good as he got. Open-mouthed and breathless, with hands roaming and touching wherever they could, none of their earlier kisses on the marsh had been quite like this.

Then, as if his legs had given out beneath him, Sherlock fell to his knees in front of John and wrapped his arms around John’s waist.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered into his stomach. “I love you, I love you—”

John’s hand sunk back into Sherlock’s hair, petting him, and whispering those words back, attempting to soothe. Sherlock’s declarations were a continuous stream, growing in fervency, as his arms tightened around John’s middle till John could hardly breathe.   

When Sherlock pulled back, it was to fumble at John’s belt with shaking fingers.

“Sherlock,” John gasped, wrecked before Sherlock had even begun.

Even though John knew all they had shared before, he was still the same man who had stumbled into a castle unawares, and who still couldn’t believe that Sherlock would follow through on his bold claims—that he wanted John, right there on their living room floor, in front of the fireplace.  

And so, John was more than capable of being somewhat surprised when his trousers and pants were slipped down his hips, and was made especially so when Sherlock peppered him with kisses where groin met thigh, when Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s pelvic bone, and when he breathed John in.

“You used to stay in the hearth in my cottage,” Sherlock said, head turning towards the fireplace, his hair tickling John’s thigh. “A star that always burned brightest. You were small then, just a flickering flame, but so firey. Not much changed when you developed your human form.”

John let the jibe about his size slide with a quiet laugh, hand resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m glad I got a human form, all the same. I don’t think you’d be able to do this with an actual fire.”

“No,” Sherlock murmured, rubbing his cheek against John’s upper thigh. “I certainly wouldn’t have been able to do this.”

John should have been expecting it, but was caught off guard all the same when Sherlock took him into his mouth, starting at the head and working down inch by inch, his lips stretching wide, and his eyes shuttering closed in concentration. John had only been half-hard when Sherlock started, but was fully erect by the time Sherlock had slid down his entire length, till his nose touched John’s skin once more.

Sherlock held John there and paused, his grip on John’s hips almost desperate in its firmness. Sherlock was acting like he couldn’t help himself; like he had waited too long to mess about with foreplay; like he needed John in his mouth right then, no matter what, even if it was just to feel him again.

When Sherlock drew off only to swallow him back down, John moaned, unabashed. Sherlock demonstrated that he knew John inside and out; he knew it drove John mad when he dragged his tongue along his glans, when he took all of John into his mouth and swallowed around the head of his cock, how John liked one of his large hands to cup and hold his balls up, knew how he loved to feel one finger press against his perineum—and soon, it was all far too much.

“Sherlock, Sherlock.” With his hands still running through Sherlock’s hair, unable to stop, John gasped, “I can’t keep standing , my legs are going to give out — ”

Without further ado, Sherlock pulled back with a satisfied sound, and pushed on John’s hips, guiding John backward. The back of John’s legs found his armchair, which he sank into with relief. Sherlock crawled after him, and pounced on John again once he’d sat down, not letting him have even a second to gather himself.

Sherlock held the base of John’s cock in his hand, but rather than taking him into his mouth right away, he licked from root to tip, tonguing harder at the head. John’s legs spread wide, offering himself entirely to Sherlock’s slow attentions. When the teasing licks only continued, John looked down to see that wicked smile, and in a low, broken voice chided, “Sherlock, please.”

“Is this not what you like?” Sherlock asked, his expression the picture of false innocence.

“You know perfectly well what I like,” John muttered, though he was glad Sherlock’s earlier, almost alarming desperation had calmed to the confident teasing he saw before him.

“Perhaps I’ve forgotten,” Sherlock said, and words that would have only hours ago smarted, now were made glib and amusing. “Maybe I need you to—direct me?”

John didn’t need any more encouragement than that; he tipped Sherlock’s chin up with one finger, leading him back where John wanted him, and where Sherlock wanted to be taken. When Sherlock took him into his mouth once more, John knew just how Sherlock wanted him to hold his head in his hands, rubbing his thumbs against his temples, and how Sherlock wanted him to thrust his hips up, dragging his cock along the flat of Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock groaned around him, and let John tug and hold and push into him. John also knew to position his leg just so, sliding it in between Sherlock’s kneeling thighs, and against the hardness he found there.

Sherlock’s front plastered to his leg the moment it was offered, his moaning increasing and his head no longer passive in John’s hands. He drew John in, hollowing his cheeks, till John could only focus on chasing that heat, and allowing himself to be swallowed further down, as Sherlock’s throat worked his cock with the ease of the experienced.

There were stars beneath his eyelids when he came, a thought that almost made John laugh. When John returned to himself, Sherlock was still pressed against his leg, hard and wanting, his mouth back to John’s groin, nosing along his skin. In this one instance, he was patience personified, clutching John but holding quite still despite the state he must have been in.

John shifted forward in his chair, and Sherlock released him, sitting back on his heels. With his flushed cheeks and averted eyes, John thought Sherlock might also be experiencing the strangeness of this being familiar and yet new. His uncharacteristic shyness suggested embarrassment, or at least, the inability to ask John to touch him outright.

John lifted his foot, and pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder till he tipped back over onto the floor with a cry. Their roles now reversed, John slipped down from his chair and crawled across the floor to his conquest. Rather than attempt to sit back up, Sherlock stayed where he was, his pastel coat fanning out around him. “Beautiful,” John said, and Sherlock pulled him down.

John followed through on his earlier intention to kiss Sherlock senseless, while his hand drifted down to cup Sherlock through his clothes. When Sherlock whimpered into their kiss, John assumed he had moved in the right direction.

Except, when he tried to reach for Sherlock’s fly, Sherlock’s hand reached out to clamp down hard on his wrist, keeping John’s hand firmly where it was. John froze, not sure whether to go slower, or stop entirely. His confusion was cleared up not a moment later when Sherlock pressed the palm of John’s hand down right as he shifted his hips just slightly. John remembered, and got the picture.

John rubbed the heel of his hand down the hard length, and then with his fingers, stroked just the tip he could feel even through Sherlock’s trousers.

“Oh,” John said, kissing down his neck. “You want to come like this, don’t you? Sucking me off always got you so worked up, didn’t it? And now you want it like this, rutting up against my hand, with your fancy clothes all still on — ”

Sherlock’s answer was to moan without any reserve, while rocking up into John’s hand, his hips moving in tight circles. “Don’t be shy,” John encouraged, and Sherlock’s thrusts lost any of their control as he grinded up against the friction John offered.

When John nipped at his ear, and rubbed with particular ruthlessness along the hard line of his cock, Sherlock cried out, and shuddered in his arms. John could feel the growing wetness even through the layers of clothes, pleased as punch, and kissed Sherlock through his final tremors, his arms bracketing Sherlock’s flushed face.  

One more kiss, and then John laid down on his side next to Sherlock on the floor. John watched Sherlock’s chest heave, waiting for him to get his breath back.

“So,” John said, licking the corner of his lip and leaning on his hand. “Swallow many stars, do you?”

Sherlock’s head whipped towards him, mouth falling open. When Sherlock saw John’s smile, he hit him in the arm, hard. “John!”

But he was laughing, and John was too, so John counted it as a win.

John didn’t feel like getting up just yet and Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to either, so they stayed there, holding hands and lying on their backs by the fireplace, the same hearth that had once been John’s home. John was glad to have found his home again, even if he hadn’t realized he’d found it at the time.

“I think we might just live happily ever after,” John said, peering at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

“A happy ending?” Sherlock asked, leaning up on his arm with a flirty smile. “I think I just had one.”

And this time, it was John’s turn to punch him in the arm.

“But, speaking of happy endings,” John continued, lacing their fingers back together and attempting to be serious. “I was thinking I could move the castle again, like Mrs Hudson mentioned. You know, like I used to.”

“You needn’t bother, John.”

“But I insist.”

“Well, in that case,” Sherlock said, kissing John just beneath his right ear, “what are your thoughts on flying?”

And as always, John could deny Sherlock nothing.