Archive of Our Own

"There was a time you made me believe
That I'd receive
Something that would hold
And wouldn't leave me cold.
And there was a line
You made me cross
So the two of us
Would have the strength to bear
The crosses we couldn't share.
But nothing hurts now
That didn't hurt before.
So I won't pretend
That it was the end of the world,
'Cause nothing hurts now."

~ "Nothing Hurts Now", Magnet

John took a deep breath. It was now or never. “Sherlock, I...I don't think I'll be able to come see you anymore.”

“Oh?” Sherlock looked at him, not with pain or bewilderment, but curiosity. “Has there been talk?”

John tried his best not to show surprise. Had Sherlock deduced his true motives in ending their nighttime visits? More than likely. Was he genuinely curious as to whether people were gossiping about them (considering the potential danger to himself), or was he offering John an easy way out? That was less simple to determine.

“I...well, yes, I think so.” John bit his lip before continuing. “I don't pay much attention to most of it, but I think the other templars have noticed I'm not always in bed at the usual time, and someone might have seen us talking in the hall. People have been beaten and sent to Aeonar on flimsier grounds. I don't care if anything happens to me, but I don't want to put you in danger. So...I think we should stop meeting like this, just until things quiet down.”

“All right,” Sherlock said calmly. “If you deem it best.” There was no emotion in his face or voice.

“Just give it a week or two,” John said, trying to sound lighthearted. “They'll find something new to talk about in no time.” If only it were that easy to get over his feelings for Sherlock.

Sherlock merely nodded. “Very well. Should the gossip die down and you deem it safe to return, you will know where I am.”

“Of course.” John smiled a little. “I wouldn't be much of a templar if I couldn't find a mage, right?”

Sherlock laughed, a sound John was growing to love more and more every time he heard it, especially when he was the cause. “You will always be able to find me, John.”

o~O~o

“Sherlock!”

Where was he?

“SHERLOCK!”

Metal boots pounded against stone as John raced through the second floor hall. His pace was matched by his pulse, heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs like a caged, desperate bird, barely hindered by his shield or sword.

He was hardly the only one. His running, panting, and shouts were drowned out by the screams ringing in his ears, the weapons clattering to stone, the slamming of doors echoing up and down the halls. As he ran, he felt a hundred hands, a thousand grasping fingers pulling within his head, his blood, his being, a thousand voices wordlessly crying in struggled chorus, rising with each new rending: Come to me...let me in...help me...

And each voice in turn was snuffed out, to be replaced with ten more. Even in his panic, John forced himself to focus on his task, to ignore the cries of the defeated and dying.

He'd already seen too many of them fall.

By the time he reached the first floor, most of his fellow templars had already passed him or taken shortcuts, desperate to reach the main entrance. He stood alone at the foot of the stairs, gulping air into his lungs, alert and listening for even the slightest –

Wait! What was that sound?

There was clearly movement in one of the apprentice quarters. Perhaps Sherlock had taken refuge in there, or foolishly stopped to recover his stash of experimental potions...

He wasted no time rushing through the doorway.

If he'd stopped to look around, the sight would have horrified him. Bodies of young men and women were scattered around broken and toppled furniture, their faces mangled and burned beyond recognition. Books and other personal items spilled from open cabinets like guts from a split belly. But John saw none of it, focusing only on the shadow emerging to curve around the corner...

“Sherlock?”

There was no answer. The shadow loomed further, twisting and flickering at a random whim, and John knew what he faced even before the shadow's caster finally appeared. The creature was not human, not demon, but a monster caught somewhere in-between, robes bound to its jagged suit of leathery skin as tightly as bark to a tree. The abomination stood as tall as John, flames wreathing its form of flowing lava and human flesh, and one baleful pinprick eye seemed to glare with ironic coldness.

John drew Oathkeeper, his beloved sword, and prepared his shield. The creature reared, raised its hands with an inhuman roar, and lashed out with twin streams of fire.

Time slowed for John. Lightning crackled down Oathkeeper's enchanted blade. He raised his shield, saw and felt the flames licking around the edges...

...and smashed it into the creature, stunning it, knocking it back for a few precious seconds...

…then swung Oathkeeper as naturally as an extension of his arm, slashing the creature across the throat...

...and pulled back just long enough to plunge the blade into the creature's heart.

The flames died away and a bright flash blinded John for an instant. When it had faded, the creature was a man once more, and for just an instant, pale blue eyes – shocked, clear, and wholly human – locked onto John's.

Then the spark of life dimmed and the man slumped to the ground.

John gasped, quickly sheathed Oathkeeper, then bent to turn over the crumpled body, lifting his visor for a better look.

It was a young man, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, with ash blond hair, a scorched and mutilated face, and a gaping wound across his throat. Definitely not Sherlock.

John gently closed the man's unseeing eyes, whispered a quick prayer, then leaped up to continue his search. Finding nothing, he raced to the next room. It was in much the same state as the other quarters, and just as poorly lit, the few torches bending and distorting each shadow.

A glint at the corner of his vision caught his attention. He whirled, ran in its direction, and quickly spotted the source.

A piece of dark blue fabric, long enough to be a scarf, lay at the foot of one of the beds, a few strands of lyrium barely shining in its material. It was charred and slit roughly down the middle, as if it had been torn violently from its wearer.

John hurried to the bed, dreading, fearing, worrying. As he came closer, what he saw sent his heart leaping into his mouth.

A pair of black boots was sticking out beside the bed...

“No, no!” A primal cry ripped from John's throat.

There was no mistaking who it was. He dropped to his knees beside Sherlock's prone body, unable to tear his eyes away from the burned and scarred face despite his growing horror. Sherlock's long arms were sprawled inelegantly at his sides, joints bent at unnatural angles. The once-observant and ever-changing eyes, now surrounded by bubbled and blistered skin, stared lifelessly at John, frozen in a cold blue. John yanked off a plate glove and grabbed for Sherlock's wrist. Despite the slowly receding warmth, no heartbeat echoed beneath the skin. He lowered his ear to Sherlock's lips; no whisper of breath could be heard or felt. No spark of mana called to his senses.

“Sherlock, no, please...wake up!” Frantically he tried to rouse the limp form; there was no response. “It's not safe here, you have to get up, please. I need you to wake up, Sherlock. Please, please, wake up –”

The partially ajar door was flung open, slammed against the wall. “Watson!”

John quickly rose and looked to see Greagoir's second-in-command at the door. “Knight-Captain Hadley?”

“Watson, what are you doing in here? Never mind, it doesn't matter now. Greagoir has ordered the templars to evacuate. We've lost control of the Tower. He's sending for the Right of Annulment as we speak!”

“The Right of Annulment?” John gasped. “But – but we can't just –”

“This is no time for debate, Watson. Get to the main doors immediately!”

“But –”

“That's an order, Watson!”

Defeated, John nodded, grabbed his glove and ran after Hadley. He had no choice. Duty came first, as always.

Even as he ran, he felt the bile beginning to rise, stomach churning with sickening worry.

He reached the doors moments before they were shut and barred. Only when he was outside did he lift his visor and give his sickness relief. He hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours; as he heaved, only clear acid splashed across the tiles.

Spitting, gasping, choking, tears of sickness mixing with the bitter liquid staining his lips, his thoughts whirled.

Sherlock, no. You're not dead. You can't be. You always have a plan. You wouldn't die like this. You're not safe. You need to wake up.

Please wake up...

o~O~o

Hours later, it was finally over.

The night had been difficult to endure, but at long last word came from Greagoir that Irving was safe, Uldred was dead, and the Right of Annulment had been called off. For the time being, the Tower was secure. No more would die.

John sagged against the blood-spattered bookshelf in the middle of the library, barely noticing the pre-dawn light slowly streaking through the windows. Finally granted a chance to rest, hours of tension were rushing from his body. Every muscle in his body was screaming in silent agony; he was aching in places he hadn't known it was possible to hurt. Still, the deepest pain wasn't one that could be healed or massaged away.

Sherlock, no. No. You can't be...

As relieved as he was for the safety of the remaining mages, a small, bitter part of his mind could not help questioning, What difference would the Right have made had it been authorized?

He quickly shook the thoughts from his mind, ashamed for even having them. Many mages had survived the onslaught, some in better condition than others. Too many innocents had already died.

There was already plenty of talk. The Warden had said little about the evils she had encountered, but the survivors were only too glad to fill in the blanks. Already there were stories about mages being possessed before others' very eyes, about their corpses returning to a ghastly life in the form of Arcane Horrors, about a monstrous sloth demon that would have imprisoned the Warden and her friends forever, and – most startling of all to John – the small but powerful dragonlings that had invaded the templar quarters. Quite a few of their belongings were now charred or piles of ash; luckily, John had always stored most of his in a metal box under his bed.

Unbidden, his offhand comment to Sherlock flashed into his mind. I don't need to worry about dragonlings bursting into my quarters. How long ago had that conversation happened?

A week ago I was talking to you. Just a week. And now you're...you're...

He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, determined not to finish the thought.

“Ser Watson?”

The voice addressing him was soft, quiet, female. He looked up.

A thin, petite woman, no more than twenty years old or so, was approaching him. She was obviously a mage, clad in blue-and-gold fur-shouldered robes that were tattered and bloodstained, clutching a twisted iron staff in her right hand. Her short hair plaits resembled shards of ebony, matted and askew over her pointed elven ears. A tattoo resembling a tree branch curved around the right side of her pale, tear-stained face. Her dove-grey eyes – swollen, red, and tired – looked at him with gentle, probing curiosity.

His own eyes widened in surprise.

“Arya? Arya Surana?”

The woman's rosy lips curved in a slight smile. She and John stared at each other for a moment.

Then, in unison: “You remember me?”

Their light chuckling broke some of the tension. Arya spoke first. “Of course I remember you, Ser Watson. You were one of the few who tried to be kind to us. And there was one day when you had to give my bunkmate forty lashes after she'd been caught wandering the halls past curfew...when you came out afterwards, you looked so sad. I'd never seen a templar look like that before. I never forgot it.”

John tried to return her smile. “Well, I wish I had such a nice memory of you. But I never really knew who you were until the day you left.”

“Oh? What do you...?” Her brow furrowed, then cleared in comprehension. “Oh. You were there when I came out of the basement with...the others.”

“You remember that?”

“I recall every detail of that day.” Her mouth pressed into a thin line momentarily, then relaxed.

“But I felt like I got to know you better afterwards,” John quickly added. “Everyone had stories to share about you after you left.” Including someone who didn't even know your name, he thought with a stab of pain, but quickly pushed that aside. “And almost all of them were about how polite and helpful you were, how hard you worked, how they all thought one day you'd do something great.” He smiled again, a more encouraging one this time. “They weren't wrong. This tower's still standing because of you.”

Arya smiled a little in return. “Thank you. I am doing good – maybe it didn't happen the way I would have liked, but that's the way it is. I've done so many things I never thought I'd have the chance to. I've seen places and people I've only read about in books. I travel with...some very special people.” She trailed off, her expression and tone growing surprisingly wistful. As she brushed a stray hair from her eyes, he caught a glimpse of the silver ring on her left hand, still slightly too large on her finger. “I really am one of the lucky ones.”

“You're a good person, Arya,” John said after a moment. “That is what makes you lucky.”

She looked at him gratefully. “That's kind of you to say, Ser Watson. Well, it was nice to see you. I can't stay long.” Her sadness was eclipsed by a look of concern. “I just came in here because I was looking for –”

As she spoke, footsteps echoed in the doorway, and she automatically turned her head to look, her next words falling away in a gasp. “Finn!”

“Arya!” Finn's cry of joy echoed off every wall.

Then, in chorus as they ran headlong toward each other: “I thought you were dead!”

The two friends collided in a tangle of limbs, robes, and staves in the middle of the library. John swallowed a lump in his throat as he saw Arya's small body begin to heave with sobs.

“I'm so glad you're safe. I'm so sorry I didn't try to write to you,” he heard her mumble. “I'm sorry you thought I was dead.”

“It's all right,” Finn said soothingly, rubbing her back. “I understand. And anyway, I found out in mid-Matrinalis that you were still alive.”

“What?” Arya pulled back to look at him, astonished. “How?”

Finn looked up, nodding in John's direction. “A friend of Ser Watson's who works for the Blackstone Irregulars found out. He then told me.”

Arya looked at John with reddening eyes, making no move to free herself from Finn's embrace. “Ser Watson...thank you. You are an extraordinary man.”

John blushed, smiled a little. “Thank you, Arya. But I'm not. I'm just glad I could do the right thing.”

He nodded, then left to give them some privacy. On his way out, he could just barely hear a few more snatches of conversation.

“It's all my fault. I should have saved them all. They shouldn't have died.” She was broken, defeated.

“Shh, don't talk like that. This is not your fault.” Finn continued to console her, every bit the loyal, devoted friend.

She responded through choked sobs, voice trembling like a plucked chord, with words that sank John's heart:

“It should have been me.”

o~O~o

Two days later, Arya and her friends were long gone, having taken only Senior Enchanter Wynne and the promise of an army against the Blight.

Bit by bit the Tower was being cleaned up, blood and remains gradually being scraped and washed from the walls and floors. Books and belongings were being restored to their rightful places. Most of the healers had barely slept, working themselves to near-exhaustion to ensure the few survivors would pull through. All the bodies had been moved to the basement for temporary cold storage. The long process of identification wasn't expected to begin for at least another day or so; many of those qualified were still in recovery.

John was still numb. By the time he had mustered up the nerve to return to the quarters where he had found Sherlock, the bodies had long since been cleared away, and he had no wish to go to the basement to see for himself. He didn't want to remember Sherlock that way.

There was no longer silence in the halls and classrooms. Lessons had been postponed indefinitely but that didn't mean the classrooms weren't being used. Many students were sleeping there, too afraid or traumatized to return to their quarters – and the bigger the groups they were gathered in, the easier it was for the templars to keep an eye on them. Were any of them mourning for Sherlock – the oddball, the outcast, the one who had stood out in every way imaginable and yet was steadfastly ignored?

Strangely enough, unlike most unpopular mages, Sherlock's social solitude had never seemed to bother him. Did he think being alone protected him somehow?

No, John agonized. I should have protected him. I'm a templar.

No, more than that...I was his friend.

It was my duty...

He shook his head. Some friend he was. He couldn't even pay his final respects.

Off-duty, he wandered aimlessly through the second floor. He did not want to eat, or pray, or read. Tired as he was, he did not want to sleep or sit in chapel. He wanted to walk, wanted to see where it had all happened. And so he meandered around, seeing things without observing, noting without learning, until he made his way to the senior mage quarters.

It wasn't until he saw Sherlock's bed, empty and neatly made, that he began to lose his composure. Even the burns and holes on the opposite wall were being cleaned up and filled in. As if none had ever slept there, none had ever stashed a vielle or a failed experiment beneath the covers. As if it had never been occupied at all.

He bit his lip, warmth pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Why didn't I just tell you? What's the worst you could have done? Rejected me? Told me not to come see you anymore?

“Something you need?”

John turned, startled. A mage in her early thirties, with light brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, was looking at him with a shy, apprehensive smile.

“Miss – Hooper?” he ventured, taking a quick look around. He quickly recognized her as Sherlock's “associate” and long-time admirer, but wanted to be cautious in case anyone was listening. No one else was in the quarters at the moment.

Molly Hooper nodded. “Yes, that's me. I wasn't expecting to see a templar here. Though I suppose you're not quite as busy as you once were. Lots of time to yourselves.” She flushed, realizing what she had said. “Sorry, Ser –?”

John shook his head absently. “Watson. And it's fine. I don't need anything, thank you. I just wanted to see how the cleanup was coming.”

She gave him a concerned look. “Is everything all right?”

“Y – no, not really,” John admitted. He gestured to the rows of pristine beds. “I – I still can't believe any of this. Hundreds of people are dead. But if you come up here, it looks like nothing's wrong.

“It's as if he – they –” The correction was quick and automatic, and if Molly noticed, she gave no indication “– never existed. How – how can they just clean up and put it away and brush it under the rug like it never happened? Like you were never here?”

Molly was speechless. Seeing her, John snorted. “Not expecting a templar to say that, were you?”

“Not really,” she admitted. She sighed, looking around. “So many people I grew up with are gone. So many of my friends...” She paused, inhaling deeply, then seemed to get ahold of herself. “I've lost people I loved before. My father died five years ago. I didn't even get to go to his funeral. But it was different, then. I barely remembered him. And he'd been sick for a long time. This – this just happened. I saw it. I saw so many of them become – those – things right in front of me, and I wondered if I'd be next. But either way, I didn't get to say goodbye.”

“I'm sorry,” John said quietly.

She met his eyes, gave him a half-smile. “I'm sure it's been just as hard for you. You've lost your friends too, haven't you? You want them to be remembered, just as I do. You just want one last goodbye.”

John nodded. They looked at each other for a long moment, not a mage and a templar, nor a prisoner and guard, but simply two people united in loss, who now knew grief as few others would, and now had seen their home of more than forty years between them nearly destroyed. They would recover, and they would rebuild, but neither would ever be the same.

In that moment, he made a decision.

“Miss Hooper –”

She shook her head. “Please, Ser Watson, call me Molly.”

“All right, Molly.” He made an effort to smile at her; using her surname had been more from formality than preference. “Would you mind coming downstairs with me, please?”

o~O~o

Even at the entrance to the basement, the cold was biting, despite John's massive armor. He listened to Molly's footsteps fade, then steadied himself and walked in. Carefully he made his way through, murmuring the required password at the statues and Sentinels that stood guard proudly, and they remained as cold and silent as the tomb their repository had become.

He didn't have far to walk before he spotted the first of the bodies. Trying to stay calm, he began his search.

Several minutes later, he'd found Sherlock. There was no mistaking the boots, the robes, the long arms and legs. The mage was in a side room just off the second set of stairs, lying on the floor amidst several others. John swallowed, then bent and began carefully moving the other bodies aside, clearing a small path to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, his gloved hands folded. John knelt at his side and tried not to focus on the burned and mangled features, making an effort to remember the first time he saw them: not classically handsome but peculiarly attractive in their own way, especially the arresting cheekbones and that mouth that curved like a fine bow. A face that, once seen, would never be forgotten, and somehow seemed to become more beautiful with every following glance. To him, at least.

He composed himself, prepared to speak. There were so many things he wanted – needed – to say. I'm sorry. I'm here for you, just as you always were for me. I love you.

“How could you?”

His first words were angry, practically spat out in their ferocity.

“How could you just die like this? You resisted for so many years – why now? What did they offer?” The words tumbled from his lips like water breaking over rocks, rushing to plummet down a cliff. “What was so much better that you just let them in, let them take everything, gave up your mind and body and soul? You shut out everyone else in this damn tower – even me, at times – and out of it, and then one night you just decided you'd let them have you. It's not fair! If I couldn't have you, why could they? What made them better than me? How could you just give yourself to them like that? Why does Finn still have his best friend and I don't? How could you just...leave me...?”

He broke off then, shaking, and he knew it wasn't from the cold. He took deep breaths, exhaled, watched his breath mist in front of him. Once he was calmer, he looked back at Sherlock. When he spoke, there was no more anger in his tone, only sadness.

“Why...why did it have to be you? You were strong, so strong...you always knew what to do. Nothing got by you. The first time we met, you told me all about Arya, and you – you knew, even then, that I didn't need the lyrium.” He gave a halfhearted, humorless laugh. “After a while I just got used to you knowing things you couldn't possibly be aware of. Didn't even question it.

“But...” He paused, breathing slowly, attempting to keep his voice steady. “There's one thing I don't think even you ever knew...how much you, and what we had, truly meant to me.”

His voice broke. “And now...you'll never know. And I'm so, so sorry for that.”

He did not speak for a few minutes, attempting to collect himself and failing, then deciding to go on. This wasn't going to get any easier.

“Sherlock, I –” He swallowed, stopped for a minute or two, then continued, his tone changed. “No. I can't. When my time comes – or maybe even sooner – I'll find you in the Fade. I'll tell you then. There's something else I want to tell you, instead.”

It was becoming harder to keep the tremor from his voice.

“You...you told me once...that you were only human. Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human...human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so...there. You believed that was your greatest weakness, but you had it backwards...it was your greatest strength. I was so alone...and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this...”

He let the tears fall then, trailing liquid fire down his face, tasting salt on his lips. A few splashed onto Sherlock's face; John hesitated only a moment, then reached out with a handkerchief and wiped them away, hardly registering the feel of the blisters beneath the cloth, only that of the prominent cheekbones, now just barely visible beneath the scars.

“Right. Um...” He trailed off, wiped his eyes, then went on, “Someone else will probably do this for you. And they won't even know it's the last thing you would want.” He smiled a little. “But maybe you won't mind so much if I do it.”

He closed his eyes and held his right arm over Sherlock's body.

“Maker, receive –” He stopped, choking slightly, held in the tears stinging his eyes, then took a deep breath before starting again.

“Maker, receive your son at your right hand, returned to you now as he was when first you gave him life. Forgive him his transgressions, as have we. And as you delivered blessed Andraste, your Bride and prophet, from the fires of the Imperium, so deliver the soul of this son of yours.”

The cold was seeping into his bones now, and his gradual shivering was becoming more and more pronounced. He couldn't stay much longer. Searching desperately for his final words, just the right ones to give his friend a proper goodbye, he was silent, still, till at last they came to his mind.

“Enjoy your freedom, Sherlock. You deserve it.”

And with that, he rose, turned, and with only one look back, walked away from Sherlock for the last time.

o~O~o

Another day, another duty. There was nearly no point to the templars keeping their prior routine now; there were neither enough guards nor people to guard. Still, Greagoir knew his men would need distraction from their anger and grief, and had managed to develop a skeleton roster, which was followed with clockwork precision, simply out of lack of anything else to focus on.

It helped John, somewhat. Routine was good. But other times...

John stood guard in the Senior Mage Quarters once again. It was late afternoon, and the usual quiet had fallen. Except this quiet was an empty quiet. One could have escaped the old quiet simply by stepping into a classroom or the quarters, knowing the lack of noise elsewhere was simply a veneer of propriety. But there was no noise in any of those places now. There was no one to make it. And so the new quiet covered nothing, held nothing back.

It was damn near overwhelming at times. John did his best to meditate, to think of other things, anything to keep his mind off...

Footsteps echoed around the corner. No clanking. A mage, then.

John relaxed, grateful for the distraction, moments before a pair of familiar black boots rounded the corner.

Wait. What...?

His jaw dropped as the boots' wearer came into view. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock – black robes, black boots, blue scarf, iron staff, and all – came towards him, the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly. His face and skin were completely clear of injury, his eyes wide and bright. “Ah, there you are, John.”

“Sherlock! You – you –” John choked on his words, quickly taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Forgive my saying so, but you're supposed to be dead!”

Sherlock chuckled. “Not dead, as you can see. I'm here, John.”

“But how? I saw your body, I commended you to the Maker! I will never forget those burns as long as I live! How on earth are you alive?”

“Are you unfamiliar with the state of unconsciousness known as a coma, John?”

“No, I do know about that,” John shot back, injecting perhaps a little more venom than necessary. “But wouldn't a healer have been able to detect life in you, or a templar your mana? They wouldn't have put you in the basement, they'd have brought you to the infirmary instead.”

“A simple oversight.” Sherlock shrugged. “Many of the healers were greatly weakened and overworked in the days following the attack, as were the templars. By the time I was discovered, my injuries were so great and the spark of life, as well as my mana, so weak they believed me to be dead. It was not until one of them went to the basement for supplies that the mistake was discovered. I've been in the infirmary recovering for the past few days.”

“You must have hated that,” John said breathlessly, still not quite believing what he was seeing or hearing.

Sherlock laughed it off. “It was not so difficult compared to the reason I was there.”

“Why? You're the worst patient in the world, even when you're healthy. You can barely stay in bed for six hours to sleep; how in Andraste's name did you manage being stuck in bed for days? You must have driven them all mad. And why aren't you berating them for their incompetence right now? Maker knows you love doing that.”

Sherlock laughed again, his smile unnaturally wide. “John, John, what does it matter?” He came closer, hands outstretched. “That's all in the past now. What matters is that I am here now, I am fine, and I know how you feel about me.”

“You – you do?”

“Yes.” Sherlock was far too close to him now; not that he had ever had a sense of personal space, but his toes were practically touching John's, his long fingers reaching out to lightly brush John's glove. “I've always known. It was so obvious, right from the beginning. And...I feel the same. I want to be with you, John, now and always.”

John should have been thrilled, but something in Sherlock's tone did not sound quite right. “Sherlock, this – this isn't like you.”

“You mean to tell me this isn't what you've always wanted?” Sherlock sounded surprised, even a little hurt. “You don't want to be with me?”

John took a few steps back, trying to put some space between them; Sherlock followed. He spoke firmly. “Sherlock, stop this. Stop it now. I don't know what's wrong with you or what kind of game you're playing, but this isn't what I...wanted...at all...” He froze, a shocking realization beginning to dawn.

“John?” Sherlock was looking at him curiously now, reaching for his hands again. “What's the matter? Don't you want this? Don't you want me?”

“Get away from me!” John cried, reaching for Oathkeeper. “You're not him! You're just a poor substitute! You could never hope to be him! Show yourself! The Maker compels you!”

“What does it matter?” said the man John no longer recognized, now pressing up against him. “I can be him. I can give you him. I can be anything you want me to be, anything you need me to be, so long as you just allow it. All you have to do is let me in, and he'll be yours once again...”

“No!” John pushed him away, horrified. “Not even he is worth your price! Nothing is! Do you hear me? You would never have had him, and you shall not have me!”

There was a moment's silence.

Then Sherlock's form began to writhe, contorting and twisting and bending as John watched in horror, and a savage scream tore through the crackling air as he finally collapsed to all fours at John's feet. He looked up, and once-bright eyes stared coldly, darkly into John's.

When he spoke again, the voice issuing from his lips was no longer the rich baritone John had always loved, but instead distinctly female, and far deeper and older than either of them...

“Foolish human...”

“No!”

John bolted upright with a startled cry. As his eyes flew open, the brightness of his dream gave way to the darkness of his quarters. He gasped in deep breaths, his heart racing. Slowly, he became aware of the blankets pulled up around his waist, of the few dim torches flickering around the room. He was safe in bed. None of what transpired had been real.

There was a sound at the doorway. Another templar's shadow crossed the threshold. “Watson? Is everything all right?”

“What? Oh. Yes, yes, I'm fine,” John replied vaguely, making no attempt to keep the exhaustion from his voice. “Just a bad dream. Sorry if I woke anyone else up.”

“No, it's fine, Watson. Maker grant you a more peaceful rest.”

“Indeed.” John fell back on the cold pillows, waiting for the quiet to resume. Gradually his heartbeat calmed and his breathing slowed, but his thoughts did not comply. How could that have happened? How could he have almost let it happen?

“Oh, Sherlock,” he murmured into the silence. “Was it always like this for you? What did they offer? How could you refuse?”

How could you deal with having their home inside your head? And did it really matter, as you're with them now?

No! He mustn't think like that. Sherlock had been strong enough to resist, for thirty-odd years. John vowed he would be as well.

I would do almost anything to have you back. But not that. Never that.

Mercifully, the nightmare happened only once. However, that night was only the first of another series of sleepless nights to come.

And on the few nights he was able to sleep, he spent precious hours walking the Fade, searching around every twisted tree and steep hill, calling for the man he loved, in hopes of finally telling him so.

There was never an answer.

o~O~o

The next few months ground by slowly, yet reflecting on them later, John realized that he recalled them in a blur.

Identification was a slow and difficult process. Most of the dead mages' and templars' faces were scarred, blistered, and disfigured, and other means to identify them – personal possessions, for example – often had to be relied on. The remains and personal effects of mages with living relatives – who had not disowned them, at least – were returned to their families. There weren't many of those. Most of the mages' families received only death notices. John and a fellow templar, Ser Stamford, were tasked with doing the same for their fallen brothers, traveling to notify their relatives and deliver their remains and possessions when possible.

It was not a pleasant task; the journeys were long, tiring and difficult, and occasionally plagued by wolves, spiders, and even darkspawn. Worse was arriving at their destination to deliver the terrible news; more than once he had to be prepared to catch a grieving parent – or rarely, a spouse or child – passing out in shock or falling into his arms with violent sobs, desperately seeking comfort. Still, it was a welcome distraction of sorts, and it gave him a valid excuse to leave the Tower. Staying there was sometimes too painful.

Even so, thoughts of Sherlock were always with him, to one degree or another. They would sneak up at the oddest times, catching him unprepared, even when doing something as simple as fixing an evening meal:

Wonder if he would like this soup?

Or relaxing in his tent after a long day:

That templar's wife was definitely cheating on him. Wouldn't you say, Sherlock?

Each thought was always accompanied by a dull ache in his chest and a fresh rush of grief. At first, anyway. Over time the grief eventually softened to sadness, then to resignation. Somehow it never quite transformed into acceptance.

He was grateful that, by some mercy of the Maker, he did not have to deliver Sherlock's body. Curious as he had always been about Sherlock's brother, he had no wish to meet him under these particular circumstances.

Finally, several weeks after the Tower had nearly been destroyed, all of the bodies and effects that could be returned had been delivered, and those who could not at least had names put to their faces. With this monumental task complete, the remaining mages and templars could now be laid to rest.

The funerals took place on a quiet, overcast day. Pyres were built, bodies were stacked on them. Irving and Greagoir gave short speeches in remembrance and Greagoir recited a few verses of the Chant of Light. At the Knight-Commander's insistence, the deceased were all commended to the Maker, as John had done with Sherlock, and the templars complied, though John was sure most of them did so for the mages with gritted teeth.

Then the Senior Enchanters stepped forward, raised their staves, and lit the pyres in steady bursts of flame. Had the occasion not been so somber, it might have been spectacular. John watched the smoke curl into the sky, seeming to brush the heavens, and murmured his own final prayers.

In the months following, the cleanup and restoration slowly continued, though lessons had since resumed and some semblance of order had returned to the Tower. John continued to perform his duties with his usual dedication, and though Sherlock was never far from his thoughts, his presence there eventually became less painful, as time softened the rougher edges of his memories. The news that slowly arrived from the outside – some from Lestrade's letters, some from other sources – grew ever more troubling, but he thought often of Arya. They only had a tower to restore, but she carried the weight of an entire country on her shoulders, a country that had locked her away since childhood simply for being as the Maker created her. She had persevered; so could they. She had saved hundreds of lives; he believed she could save thousands more.

That belief came to fruition on a cool Cloudreach night, when the army was at last summoned to Denerim. He and the other templars, as well as most of the other mages, stood proudly in an honor guard to see them off. When the last was gone and the guard slowly dispersed, John quickly made his way upstairs, rushing to his quarters just in time to see them from the far window.

He watched them go with bittersweet pride, till the last was out of sight.

o~O~o

Three days later, John woke to a sunny morning – and plenty of talk.

The whispers were small at first, like ripples at the water's edge; then, as the morning went on, the talk swelled and gathered like a rising tide. John sat alone at breakfast, eavesdropping on snatches of conversation.

“I heard that the army –”

“– survived! Can you believe it?”

“It rained arrows! Thousands and thousands –”

“– strong! Who would have guessed the darkspawn –”

“– on the roof! There they were, the last stand –”

After several minutes, he'd finally had enough. He quickly finished his breakfast, then went to the main entrance. A lone templar stood guard there, helmet firmly in place, stalwart and stolid as always.

“Bran?”

Bran turned to greet him, voice muffled through his helmet. “Good morning, John! How are you?”

“Fine.” John rushed through the usual pleasantries, eager to get to the point. “What's going on? What's everyone talking about this morning?”

Bran tilted his head. “You haven't heard?”

“I've heard plenty of things,” John said casually. “But I came to you to find out for sure.” He could count on straight-talking, no-nonsense Bran to give him the real story, with no dashes of rumor for spice.

“Oh, it's wonderful news!” Bran was animated now. “The Blight has ended! The Archdemon is dead!”

“It is?” John stared at his brother-in-arms for a moment as his words slowly sank in. “Oh, that's fantastic!” He couldn't stop the grin now spreading across his face. “How did the army fare?”

Bran laughed. “Of course that's the first thing you'd ask about. Quite well, as far as I've heard. There were some losses, of course, but most survived, including Wynne. Everyone's saying all the Warden's armies defended the city valiantly, ours included.”

He was quiet for a few moments, but John sensed he had something else to say. He was right.

“That's not all there is to know, though.” Bran was serious now.

“What do you mean?”

“Arya Surana died, too.”

John stared, hearing the words but not comprehending them. “I beg your pardon?”

“Arya's dead, John. She killed the Archdemon, and it evidently took her with it.”

John gasped. “What? Oh – oh, no. Oh, that's...” He stopped, unable to find further words. Bran nodded solemnly.

“What happened?” John finally asked.

Bran paused, thoughtful. “Obviously I wasn't there to witness it, but the stories have been trickling down. As far as I've been able to gather, she and her armies fought their way through Denerim, and another Grey Warden managed to wound the Archdemon, forcing it to land on the roof of Fort Drakon. She and her group made her way there, and after another long battle, she took her fabled sword, forged from a fallen star, and drove it into the Archdemon's skull, even as it tried to gasp its last.”

“And she died then?”

Bran nodded. “From my understanding, she was gravely injured, and her companions didn't fare much better. Our new king is himself bedridden for the time being, though he will recover. They say her robes alone were practically slashed to ribbons. Not much protection against an Old God. She never made it off that rooftop.”

“Oh.” John couldn't think of anything else to say, muted in shock. She'd never come back to the Tower, would never hear the cheers that greeted her name, see the smiles on the faces of those she'd forever left behind.

“She was so brave,” he finally managed to say.

“Indeed.” Bran was quiet again, contemplating. “I remember the day she left; I haven't thought about it much, but it's coming back now. She had so many questions about the outside world, so many things she wanted to know.” He grunted. “She didn't know then that she'd be exiled and finding out for herself.”

Though John couldn't see Bran's face, he could hear the slight smile leavening the gravity of his tone. “Who'd have thought she'd save us twice?”

John managed a weak smile in return, then excused himself. There was someone he needed to find.

The search didn't take long. He found Finn in his usual spot in the library. Only this time, Finn wasn't seated with his usual mess of books and parchment, quill in hand, eager eyes soaking up every morsel of information he could find. Now he was standing, hands clasped in front, eyes locked on the bookshelves circling the table.

“Finn?” he asked cautiously.

There was no answer, not even a nod. John began to approach him. It wasn't until John was nearly beside him that Finn began to speak.

“You know, Ser Watson, from the moment I learned how to read, I've always been able to rely on books. Books could tell me how to translate this rune, trace that lineage, detail that battle. They could take me to times and places I'd never see, open my eyes to knowledge I'd never dreamed of.”

He paused, taking a breath before going on. “And of course, when I need them the most, they don't hold the one thing I need to know.”

“Finn...” John tentatively drew closer.

Finn went on as if he had not heard. “There are many books in here that tell of the four prior Blights, of the brave and noble Wardens who gave their lives in the name of their cause.” He did not look at John, eyes still fixed firmly on the surrounding shelves, glancing up and down the thousands of titles they held, desperation in his gaze.

“But not one of them...” His voice began to crack. “Not one single book in this library can tell me why...why this time it had to be her.”

His head dropped into his hands then, heels pressed to his eyes as he began to shake. John felt a lump forming in his own throat.

“I'm so sorry,” was all he could say.

And it was his turn to wordlessly pull the other man into his arms, patting his shoulder, attempting comfort in shared loss. Finn did not resist, collapsing under the weight of his grief, his next, final words choked in sobs.

“Why her? Why now?”

That day, everyone else's joy was their sorrow.

o~O~o

Two weeks after the Blight ended, Arya's funeral was held. Afterwards, she was cremated, her ashes to be entombed at Weisshaupt. Only Irving, Greagoir, and Finn attended, with special permission granted in Finn's case; the ceremony was small and brief after the public viewing held in Denerim a week prior. Some accounts from attendants were later published and widely circulated.

For his part, John remained focused on his duties, but when time allowed, he let his thoughts wander to the heroine they were burying, to kernels of knowledge he was sure only her friends had, besides him. Perhaps in death she was reunited with her mother, who had been robbed of the gift of watching her only child grow up. He wondered if the father who had never even met her now knew what a noble and beautiful woman she had become. Would the elves of the Denerim alienage construct their own memorial to their lost child, for inspiration as well as remembrance? Had she learned the magic she had sought as a connection with her heritage, magic she would never have found in the confines of Kinloch Hold?

There was one other person who would have known these highly personal details, though John doubted that this man would have accorded them similar thoughts.

It might seem strange to have such thoughts about someone with whom he had only shared one short conversation, but such ponderings accompanied a hero's mystique. Who was the woman behind the deed? Where had she come from? Even if it weren't so, John always kept in mind that every person had a story, which they often told unwittingly through their gestures, their possessions, their manner.

How ironic that Sherlock, who was as uninterested in people as he was brilliant in observing them, would have reminded him so powerfully of that aspect of humanity.

What would he think of her now? She had not interested him in the least until she had rebelled to help a friend, risking everything to try to do what she thought was right. And she had ultimately been willing to sacrifice everything to that end. Would he admire her, in his own way? Would he feel any sort of gratitude for her gift?

Well, John thought with a sad smile, maybe at the gates of the Black City, she can ask him herself. And maybe someday I'll find them both there. And I'll tell her the story of how she brought him and me together.

There were many, many days when that time couldn't come soon enough.

o~O~o

Today, on the six-month anniversary of the Battle of Denerim, was the dedication ceremony for a memorial to Arya, as well as the brave mages who had been lost at the battle and the hundreds who'd died in the uprising. It had already been announced that the Tower was eventually going to be moved to a new site, and with support from the king, a new statue of Arya would be erected at that location. There was, however, no timeline on when this would happen, and it would likely be months or years before a new location could even be established, so no one would be packing their bags any time soon.

As the mages and templars filed outside, John was lost in thought. As he made his way near the front of the crowd, the better to see, he found himself standing next to a tall, brown-haired mage in immaculate robes.

They exchanged polite hellos, barely audible among the low murmurs of the crowd. John looked ahead at the memorial plaque which bore the names of the fallen mages and templars, and silently read each one, committing them all to memory.

“She always said she'd come back here when it was all over,” Finn murmured, breaking into John's thoughts. He gave John a sad smile. “This isn't exactly how either of us pictured it.”

John shook his head in sympathy. “I can't imagine how hard this has been for you.”

Finn tilted his head. “I'm sure you have a better idea than most. And by the way...thank you for that, Ser Watson. You don't know how much it's helped to know that someone here remembers her for who she was, not what she became.”

John nodded. “I understand.”

“She was just one life,” Finn said somberly. “Just one more sacrifice, one more fallen hero. One life for thousands untold. That's all she is to them.” He swallowed before going on. “She'll never just be that to me.”

“Or me,” John said quietly.

Finn looked at him gratefully. “Thank you, Ser Watson. Excuse me, I have to get to the front. They're expecting a speech.” So saying, he moved away to join the others.

The crowd was beginning to quiet; the ceremony would be starting shortly. John began to look around, taking in the sights and sounds of the thousands gathered, even managing to come up with a few deductions. He smiled a little, thinking of the thousands of minutiae Sherlock would be reciting right now if he were here.

As he turned for another look, he smacked straight into a woman who'd seemingly appeared from nowhere.

“Oh! Oh, I'm sorry – Ser Watson? You're not hurt, are you?”

“No, it's fine –” Recovering from the initial shock, John pulled back to see “– Molly?”

Molly Hooper had stumbled and was now on the ground, dwarfed and propped up by the dozens of people pressing in around her. She looked slightly dazed, but otherwise unhurt. “I'm sorry, I should have looked where I was going. I was separated from my friend, you see, and the last time we got separated it turned out she'd been accosted by a templar and she never quite forgave me – oh, sorry –”

“No harm done. Just make sure it doesn't happen again.” John kept his voice firm, for the benefit of whoever might be listening; as he glanced around, there were a few looks his way, but most people were still wrapped up in their own thoughts and conversations. He lowered his voice, tempered his tone. “Do you need help up?”

“If it's not too much trouble.” She held out a hand, and John quickly reached out and pulled her to her feet. She closed her other hand around his to stabilize herself, and John started momentarily as he felt something small pressed into his gloved palm.

“Thank you, Ser Watson. It won't happen again. I'm going to find my friend now.”

“You're welcome – wait, Molly?” John turned his glove over to find a small brown-wrapped parcel inside. Quickly, Molly reached out and closed his fingers around it, then looked around to be sure no one had seen. She smoothed her robes and met his eyes.

“Wait until you're alone,” she whispered, then quickly slipped back into the crowd.

Puzzled, John tucked the package away, then turned to the front just before the ceremony began. He listened to the speeches, recited the appropriate prayers, remained silent and solemn throughout, but curiosity continued to nag at his mind.

What had Molly given him?

o~O~o

It wasn't until bedtime that John finally had a chance to look at the strange parcel. With the rest of his brothers asleep, John sat on the edge of his bed and took out the package.

Breaking the wax seal and removing the wrapping revealed a small square box not much bigger than John's palm. He lifted the lid and found a folded piece of paper on top. Curious, he opened the paper to find a short note in a neat, feminine script.

Ser Watson,

I'm so sorry I couldn't get this to you sooner. Sherlock entrusted me with it right before Uldred's uprising, and the last night he was here he told me to wait until everything was more or less back in order before giving it to you. I tried my best, but us mages have been under even more scrutiny since then, and I couldn't find an opportunity until today. I only hope you weren't caused unnecessary pain.

May the Maker watch over you both.

Molly H.

John read the note three times, trying to grasp its meaning, before setting it down. For the first time, he looked into the box – and gasped.

A small glass vial filled with red fluid, secured in a bisected gold-plated circle, was nestled in velvet lining. Carefully, delicately, still not quite believing his eyes, John reached into the box and lifted the vial in its circle, revealing its attachment to a simple yet sturdy chain, just long enough to hang comfortably around his neck.

The vial was engraved with Tevinter script. John had to turn it a few ways to fully make out the inscription in the low light.

S. Holmes.

John's hands began to shake. He quickly set the vial down, afraid of dropping it. No. No. It couldn't be. How...? When...? Why...?

He peered at each letter, slowly reading them one at a time until his muddled mind could finally piece them all together again. No, there was no mistaking it – the vial bore Sherlock's name.

He gulped, pushing his many questions aside. Sherlock had given this to Molly, to give to him. That could only mean one thing. But it might be meaningless if Sherlock was really...

There was only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath, John closed his callused fingers around the vial and concentrated, recalling the method he'd had drilled into him so long ago. If Sherlock was alive, the blood would glow; if he was dead, it would not. The well-worn mnemonic was burned into his brain: “Light for life, dark for death.”

Light for life, dark for death. Light for life, dark for death...

He squeezed his eyes shut as his palm clenched around the vial, afraid of what he might see – or not see.

The vial seemed to grow warm in his hand – or was that just his nervousness?

After a long moment, he slowly forced his eyes to open, little by little, unfolding his fingers one by one.

Like the first rays of sunrise, a dim glow radiated from the vial, a pinprick of a beacon piercing the darkness.

A long-forgotten promise, made in a deep baritone, echoed in his mind.

You will always be able to find me, John.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered, staring at the light he was conducting. Fresh tears filled his eyes, quite different from the other tears he had shed for the mage over the past several months. “You maddening, wonderful, magnificent –”

He stopped, voice choked with emotion.

Sherlock was free!

Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he was there and doing it of his own volition, his own choice. He was alive, and hopefully safe, and he was waiting for John – me! John thought, ready to burst out laughing in his joy – to come find him.

Further questions flooded his mind – why hadn't he told John what his plans were? Why had he told Molly to wait? How, Maker, how had he faked his death so convincingly? – but John decided to set them aside. What did that matter now?

I'll ask you when I find you.

When I find you.

He said it aloud, quietly: “When I find you.” With sound, the words became real, clear, heavy with meaning. They were a promise, a guarantee – a vow.

He lifted the phylactery to his eyes, shaking it a little to watch the precious liquid slosh inside. There couldn't have been more than a few spoonfuls of blood. A small sacrifice, quickly replenished. Yet until now it had been a sacrifice of Sherlock's freedom by virtue of simply being himself. And now, he had – quite literally – placed his freedom in John's hands, trusting him with the protection that had always been his duty. Not since the day he had taken his vows had John ever felt so honored.

He released the spell and the glow faded. And he allowed himself to grieve one last time. For all the mages and templars who had been lost to the greed of one of their own; and for Arya, who had saved the rest, and sacrificed herself for far more.

Then it was time to let go. The dead deserved to rest. And Sherlock was not among them.

He slipped the necklace around his neck and tucked it under his shirt, put the box and note away, then fell back on the pillows with a wide smile. He did not have long to wait before the deepest and most peaceful sleep he had had in months came to claim him.

I'm going to find you, Sherlock. I don't know how or when, but I swear in the name of the Maker and His Bride, I won't let you down. I'll make myself worthy of your trust. If I have to tear down this tower brick by brick to get out, I'll do it. I'll cross Thedas back and forth till my feet wear down to stumps if that's what it takes.

I will find you.

And I will finally tell you – even though you already know.

“Ten years passed, and now
You'll flee
If you do that,
I'll be strong
To find you
I saw that day,
Lost my mind
Lord, I'm fine
Maybe in time
You'll want to be mine.”

~ “El Mañana”, Gorillaz