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This was not how Sherlock had planned to spend the evening. The scent of chloroform – dilute, he had not been unconscious long – lingered in his nostrils. His back lay upon stone, dusty and frigid. Darkness pressed against his eyes. He only knew they were open because he could sense the air against his eyelashes when he blinked.
The urge to reach for the phone in his pocket, for the light of the screen if nothing else, trembled through his fingers, but someone lay on top of him, restricting any movement. The familiar scent of shampoo and aftershave confirmed his assumption that John was his companion. Logical, as they had both ghosted into the near-derelict crypt together in search of evidence that would solve their current case.
Instead, they had found the suspect waiting for them.
Sherlock huffed in frustration. Until John awoke, there was little he could garner from their surroundings. He had his suspicions, based on the overwhelming cold that crept into his bones and from the stillness of the air around him, but he was less than willing to face the most likely conclusion.
If nothing else, the idea of being sealed inside a sarcophagus was morbid at best, even if he did have John for company.
A muffled groan from the region of his collar caught his attention, and the solid weight on top of him began to stir. Before he had a chance to utter a word of reassurance, fingers jabbed hard into his ribs, forcing a grunt from his chest.
‘What the fuck?!’
‘John,’ he wheezed, trying not to cause further alarm. He should have known that he would be distressed upon waking. Any normal person would be, and John had the additional burden of a soldier’s instincts with which to contend. His first reaction, when faced with the unknown, was to lash out in self-defence. Unfortunately, if they were both confined within narrow stone walls, John was more likely to harm himself than do any significant damage to anyone else. ‘John, stop.’
‘Sherlock?’
The edge of breathless panic in John’s voice did not escape his notice. Nor did the fact that, as instructed, he stopped moving.
‘Yes. Are you all right? Are you hurt?’ He tried to move his hands again, but he was still pinned by John’s weight. The thick Belstaff did not help matters, tangling him in its depths.
‘No, I – I – There’s a horrible taste in my mouth, but that’s it.’ John sighed, some of the tension leaving his body as he made sense of the situation. ‘We got jumped, didn’t we?’
Sherlock hummed in rueful agreement. ‘Can you move? Are you restrained?’
‘No. No, but –’ Pallid confusion bloomed in John’s voice. ‘There’s barely enough room for one person in here, let alone two.’ He fell silent, and Sherlock could practically hear the cogs turning. ‘Oh, god. Where the hell are we?’
‘I don’t believe we have been removed from the crypt.’ Sherlock grimaced as John swore. He shared the sentiment. ‘Can you reach your phone?’
John sighed, his ribs swelling against Sherlock’s. He had yet to protest about the forced intimacy of their situation. If anything, he seemed resigned to it as inevitable. ‘It’s in my front pocket, but I can’t…’ He shifted, trying to find the room to move. ‘I can’t get my arms down to it.’ He patted Sherlock’s shoulders in emphasis. ‘The walls are too close.’
‘What about above you?’ Sherlock’s fingers shuddered with the urge to explore their surroundings – to be his eyes in this blind place – but his coat may as well have been manacles.
John groped around, trying to find somewhere to brace his hands. In the end, he wriggled upwards – distracting – and placed his palms either side of Sherlock’s head. His weight left Sherlock’s chest, but his warmth did not, and Sherlock winced as John grunted, colliding with the roof before he could fully straighten his arms.
‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Sherlock writhed, battling against the thick wool of the Belstaff until, at last, he found a fraction of freedom. Without hesitation, he dove into John’s pocket, ignoring his squawk of protest as he seized his prize.
‘What about your own bloody phone?’
‘Back pocket,’ Sherlock explained, wincing as the acid light of the phone’s torch flooded their confines. John cursed, his eyes screwed up tight before he squinted through sandy lashes.
‘Bugger,’ he grunted, lowering his weight to rest against Sherlock’s chest. He mumbled an apology, his lips a tempting flash of heat at Sherlock’s pulse, impossible to ignore. ‘What can you see?’
Sherlock cleared his throat, his left hand falling to John’s back in a quasi-embrace as he endeavoured to peer around. Not that there was anything of significance to observe. Blank, grey stone greeted him at every turn, pitted with age. He could touch the roof of their prison with ease, and the walls on each side were little more than a hair’s breadth from his shoulders.
Kicking down, he grimaced as something cracked like an eggshell. John pushed himself up, giving Sherlock a questioning look. ‘What was that?’
‘The tomb’s original occupant. Or what was left of them.’ That would also explain the hard ridges digging into his back: femurs, he suspected.
John met Sherlock’s eye, a weak chuckle escaping him as he shook his head. ‘Probably not the quiet afterlife they were hoping for. Any way we can get out of here and leave them in peace?’
Sherlock swallowed, his mind racing. ‘It’s unlikely the perpetrators carried us far from where we were ambushed. The crypt contains perhaps twenty sarcophagi. This one must be among the oldest, considering the state of the body’s decomposition.’
‘Thank god for small mercies,’ John muttered. ‘It’s bad enough without adding a rotting corpse to the mix.’
‘No burials have occurred here for more than a century, John. Even in a sealed tomb, any cadaver would be little but a skeleton by now. This one, though –’ He shifted, the femurs behind his back digging into his scapula. ‘Only the biggest bones remain. Everything else is dust.’
‘Okay,’ John said slowly, ‘and knowing that’s helping us get out how?’
‘The crypt is in a state of disrepair, exposed to the elements after the church was bombed during the war. Hopefully, we’re in the more damaged section. It might increase our chances of calling for help.’ He tapped the screen of John’s phone, scowling at the complete lack of reception. ‘We need to move.’
John huffed. ‘How do you plan to do that, exactly?’
‘Roll to your left.’
‘We’re going to get stuck,’ John warned, but he still did as he was told, dipping his weight to the side as Sherlock shuffled over as far as he could, twisting his body and banging his elbows until, at last, he and John lay, side-by-side and face-to-face.
He had hoped it would be less intimate than John draped over his chest. Clearly, he was wrong. Now their noses almost touched, each breath shared. Still, at least he could get to his own back pocket, where the sleek lines of his mobile nestled within the cloth. ‘Turn your torch off; save the battery.’
Inky darkness plunged around them, only to be lessened by the subtle light of Sherlock’s phone screen. It cast a blue pall over them both, adding to the chilly impression of their surroundings.
‘Any luck?’ A tight edge honed John’s voice, and Sherlock could feel him starting to shiver as the damp cold ate away at him. ‘Please tell me you can text someone. Greg, Mrs Hudson… Hell, even Mycroft.’
Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the notion of his brother coming to their rescue. Insufferable. No, better Lestrade, who would at least be well-meaning in his inevitable mockery.
He tracked his mobile back and forth, trying to get the message out. He and John used different networks, so there was a slim chance that where John’s phone failed, his would succeed.
A whisper of different air across his fingers caught his attention, and he directed the glow of his screen to the corner above their heads. There, the stone parted, revealing the impenetrable gloom of the crypt beyond. It was not, Sherlock noticed, due to crumbling or decay. The people who had put them in here had left the lid open a fraction.
Interesting.
‘Sherlock?’
‘I’m trying.’ He stretched up, pressing his phone to the gap. Like this, propped on one elbow and somewhat contorted, he could feel how the cold had already stiffened his muscles. Craning his neck, he squinted at the screen, watching the ghostly flicker of a single bar of reception dip in and out of existence.
Hurriedly, he dashed out a text, keeping it brief. If Lestrade wanted the details, he could have them when he and John were free. Jabbing his thumb into the send button, he sighed as the device shuddered its rejection. Two more attempts, and still, nothing.
Suddenly, the screen went blank, the battery drained by his desperate quest. A dozen choice words dashed through his head, but he kept them locked behind clenched teeth. Had his last attempt gone through?
‘So, it ran out of battery, did it?’ John sounded resigned, as if used to this unique brand of misfortune.
‘Give me yours.’
‘No signal, remember?’
‘Perhaps it is simply being blocked by the three-inch thick granite of the sarcophagus. Our captors generously left some ventilation. Just as well, as the air in here would not last through to the dawn.’ John’s fumbling hand dropped his phone into his grasp, and Sherlock repeated the process. John’s model, older by far, had plenty of battery power remaining. However, where Sherlock’s at least found a glimmer of reception, John’s mobile remained stubbornly blind to it.
‘We will have to pin our hopes on mine sending before the battery failed.’
‘Great,’ John grumbled, accepting his phone back. He stared down at it for a minute, almost wistful, before putting it into aeroplane mode and dimming the screen down to black. ‘I don’t suppose we can break out?’
‘Unlikely. Any method of pushing the lid off requires a position we cannot possibly achieve in such limited space. We’d need to lie on our backs and push with our feet to stand any chance of moving the slab and, depending on the level of ornamentation, the weight could well be too much. The chances of serious injury are high.’
‘There’s no point in shouting for help, either,’ John realised. ‘Most people aren’t stupid enough to wander around a deserted church at two in the morning.’
Curling his fingers into his palms, Sherlock shivered, goosebumps racing across his skin. Even in London, the temperature on a winter night could drop below freezing. He could not guess how long they had lain in the sepulchre’s embrace, but he could feel the cold sinking into him. The absolute darkness did not help matters, and it seemed John felt the same way.
‘Say something,’ he urged, poking Sherlock’s waist. ‘It’s creepy enough without us lying here in silence.’
Normally, Sherlock’s reticence did not cause concern, but he could see how these were exceptional circumstances. With no sight to aid them, their hearing became the primary sense, and the crypt was remarkably peaceful. Not even the sound of London’s traffic reached them. It was… eerie.
‘Did you bring your gun?’
‘No, which is probably just as well. I don’t think it would do us much good. Why do you ask?’
Sherlock hesitated, realising that John would perhaps find his practical turn of thought unacceptable. ‘No matter. It’s not relevant. There is enough air for both of us.’
John stiffened, broadcasting outrage loud and clear as he followed Sherlock’s train of thought. It had been nothing but an idle musing, but that fact would do little to calm John’s ire. At least, Sherlock supposed, they were no longer languishing in silence.
‘So, in this situation, which is hypothetical, thank god, who exactly would be taking the bullet?’ John demanded, clipped and harsh. ‘Me or you?’
If they were back in Baker Street, Sherlock would have muttered an excuse and flounced off. Alas, here, there was no escape. He could feel John bristling, and he reached out to offer a graceless pat of reassurance. ‘You would require less oxygen. With me no longer breathing, the air that remained would probably be adequate to guarantee your survival.’
He thought that would soothe John’s ruffled feathers: there was little he hated more than feeling unneeded. Instead, his answer seemed to make things worse.
‘No. Just no, Sherlock. That’s a load of crap from start to finish.’ John’s hand smacked into his chest, his fingers tightening on his collar as if to shake some sense into him. ‘You can take that idea and stuff it. It’s not an option. Not now, not ever, all right?’
Those words may be firm, but Sherlock could hear the swell of emotion beneath them. It shook the timbre of John’s voice – as if he would break into a thousand pieces, each as sharp and deadly as the last. That sound urged Sherlock not to argue.
‘All right.’
He heard the rush of John’s exhale: a sigh of relief that spoke volumes. It never ceased to amaze Sherlock how open and expressive John could be, at least when in his company. To others, he presented something else: a different John Watson. That was part of the reason why Sherlock hated it when John dated whatever insipid woman he’d located to satisfy his needs. It was like viewing a stranger with John’s face: a facsimile with neither depth nor passion.
Of course, there were other reasons he disliked John’s courting, but jealousy was not something to which Sherlock could comfortably admit. To do so would acknowledge he needed at least one other person: an alarming prospect at best.
‘You’re cold.’ John’s hand moved, fingers feeling their way up to Sherlock’s pulse, then along his jaw and over his cheekbone. ‘Really cold.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Bollocks you are. Lift up.’
An arm snaked under his head, cushioning his skull from the brumal bed of the sarcophagus. The rough rasp of a zip – John undoing his coat – made Sherlock frown. ‘Why is my comfort more important than yours?’
‘Because the only thing you’re wearing is a fancy shirt. I’ve got a lot more layers on than you. Besides, I’m not taking it off.’ John did not explain further, and Sherlock could only do as he was told. At John’s urging, he shuffled closer still, pressing flush to John’s wool-clad torso. One wing of the Belfast lay stuck beneath the twist of his body, but John tugged the other free, draping the edges of his coat over Sherlock’s hip before pulling the thick black wool over the top of them both.
Makeshift though the cocoon was, Sherlock could still feel the difference. John’s arm shielded his skull from the leaching chill of the stone, and a soft humidity seeped from John’s body.
‘Stick your hands up my jumper,’ he ordered. If he was embarrassed it didn’t bleed into his voice. ‘Even mild frostbite’s no fun, and I bet you’ve not got your gloves.’
Sherlock considered arguing, but John made a valid point. Extreme cold was not a necessary factor in hypothermia and associated conditions. ‘I don’t think we’ll be trapped long enough for that to be a concern.’
‘I bloody well hope not. Still, prepare for the worst and hope for the best, yeah?’ The arm that wasn’t pinned under Sherlock’s head slipped beneath the Belstaff, wrapping around his waist in a comforting band.
Several layers of clothes lay between their skin, but his flesh still hummed with awareness, indifferent to the discomfort of their situation. He tried to remember the last time anyone had touched him like this, but the memories were hazy at best. In general, few had ever taken the effort to get close, and he had not missed their dubious companionship.
He dipped his hand under John’s knitwear, smiling as he sensed the soft flannel of his shirt, as well as what was probably a t-shirt underneath. John often claimed the layers were all for the benefit of his shoulder, which ached in cold weather. Personally, Sherlock had his doubts. In his mind, they were a disguise: urban camouflage to make John look harmless to the casual observer.
Idiots, all of them. Even the transitory girlfriends, who he supposed saw John without clothes, did not seem to notice the power of him. Incomprehensible! Yet perhaps he could not blame them. After all, John put a lot of effort into appearing benign. Maybe if Sherlock were less astute, he would be like them, underestimating John – his passion and loyalty – at every turn.
‘Better?’
Sherlock hummed, trying not to let his hands wander. This was uncharted territory, and he itched to explore. Instead, he had to satisfy himself with the warmth beneath his palms and the occasional hard interruption of a button. ‘What about you?’
‘More embarrassed than anything.’ He carried on before Sherlock could question him. ‘Millie Wilson is a slip of a thing, but she still got the better of us.’
‘She had assistance. There were at least three others, by my count.’ He sighed, pressing his nose into the hollow of John’s throat as he continued to explain. ‘Besides, her name isn’t Millie Wilson. As we suspected, she has assumed that identity to further her fraudulent activities.’ He shifted, spanning John’s ribs in absent-minded curiosity, measuring their breadth without conscious thought. ‘Her work in the parish records office gave her excellent access to ready-made identities that no one would contest. I suspect the real Millie is in this crypt: one of its original occupants. For all we know, she’s our companion.’
He nudged the skull by his feet in emphasis, listening to the clatter of bones. ‘Of course, there’s no way to be certain, but I like to think that we can at least protect her good name.’
‘Won’t the fake Millie bugger off while she’s got the chance?’ John brushed his thumb back and forth over Sherlock’s waist, the hush of cloth beneath his skin an intimate whisper. ‘That’s what I’d do.’
‘Even with more than sixty million pounds hanging in the balance?’ Sherlock shook his head, sighing when he realised John could no more read his expression than he could see his hand in front of his own face. ‘Perhaps, to you, your freedom is more valuable, but that’s enough money to start a new life. For her, it is freedom, and more than worth the risk of capture. That, I suspect, is why we are in here. Our captivity buys her time to make the claim without adding to her law-breaking.’
‘How d’you mean? I’m pretty sure that drugging people and locking them away probably counts as kidnapping.’
‘Any defence lawyer would argue over her intent, and any charge in relation to our imprisonment would be dropped in favour of pursuing others against her.’ Sherlock grunted. He had to admit, he could admire this so-called Millie. She had it all thought out, though perhaps he was giving too much credit to her good fortune. ‘She took us completely by surprise. She could have either murdered us there and then or made sure we met an unpleasant end in this tomb by sealing it.’
‘You don’t think it was left open by accident?’ Suspicion lay heavy in John’s words. Clearly, he did not want to credit their culprit with such forethought or compassion.
‘Doubtful. If you ask me, Miss Wilson wants enough time to get the money and start afresh. Probably not on British shores. She hopes to be out of our reach, but she understands the risks. Adding murder to her crimes would be a step too far, exponentially increasing the length of her sentence, not to mention the influence it may have on a jury’s perception of her.’
John did not reply. If not for the steady ebb and flow of his breathing, Sherlock would barely know he was there. He could almost convince himself, here in the black, that his senses deceived him. That the yielding, cloth-shrouded flesh beneath his fingertips was nothing but a phantom of a desperate mind.
A lump of fear – illogical – caught in his throat. Though his deductions did not entirely rely upon his visual acuity, it was only in the absence of sight that he felt fallible. All senses could lie, he knew that well enough. With the right chemicals, you could make the brain spin a new, ghostly universe into being. Real but not. Here, encased in stone walls and blind to everything, how could he be certain of the truth?
He tried to think, to remember that John had entered the crypt at his side, but panic’s cloud drew its veil across his mind. His next breath strained in his chest, stabbing like a knife.
‘Sherlock?’
His grip tightened on John’s shirt, clinging in a way that would be humiliating if it were anyone else. He could feel John’s pulse in the crook of his neck, too fast, Sherlock realised, ashamed to have caused such alarm. Still, it was more evidence for his doubting mind: something to ease back the irrational edge of his uncertainty.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, his lips brushing the humid skin of John’s neck. Here, close to the core of him, the heat lingered. John felt alive and solid in this place of death. Sherlock, in contrast, was cold right through, as lifeless as the bones that shared their captivity. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, it’s – it’s fine.’ John’s hand rubbed up and down his back, his strokes broad and firm. ‘I’m here,’ he added. ‘Is it the tight space? I can move, if you want. I mean, not far, but maybe I can give you an inch or two?’
Sherlock shook his head, huffing in annoyance when he remembered John would not be able to discern the movement. ‘It’s not that. Claustrophobia has never been the problem. I –’ He cleared his throat, feeling like a child again, quivering in the night’s nadir. ‘It’s the dark.’
Mycroft had laughed: called him stupid. It had been a long time ago, but he doubted his brother’s reaction would differ after all these years. John, of course, responded with his usual compassion. He did not hesitate as he moved the arm from around Sherlock’s waist and dug once more in his pocket, pulling free his phone and waking it from its slumber. He did not turn the torch on, but the glow of the screen threw aside the shroud of shadows.
‘It won’t drain the battery. Not that quick, anyway,’ he promised. ‘You should have said. Everyone’s afraid of something.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Sherlock grumbled, frowning when John gave him a reproachful poke. Really, this was embarrassing enough without platitudes. ‘It is not, exactly, the dark. Rather, it’s not being able to see. It tends to leave me questioning what is real and what is not.’
‘Yeah, because that’s not a normal fear at all.’ Sherlock did not miss his sarcasm, and he pulled back to glance up, taking in John’s rueful smile. ‘Look, Harry can’t stand small spaces. I hate being drugged. In the end, it all boils down to the same thing. It makes us feel helpless.’
Sherlock pursed his lips. Perhaps John dismissed the nuances of a variety of phobias – of where keen human instinct gave way to individual issues and trauma – but essentially, he was correct in his summation.
‘The chloroform. Are you all right?’ How easy it was to forget his own distress when faced with John’s. Yet he had not observed any symptoms of undue alarm: not after that initial confusion upon emerging back into consciousness.
‘Yeah. I mean, I’m not thrilled about it, but…’ He shrugged. ‘It just reminds me of when I came ‘round after the surgery. All the ways in which my life had changed, and I had no say in it. Of course, that wasn’t really about the drugs. I lost control the moment the bullet hit my shoulder. The meds helped with the pain and infection; they didn’t rob me of anything.’
‘It is not a matter of logic.’ Sherlock stared at the phone screen, the numbers of its clock declaring the time as almost four in the morning. ‘That is what I find most frustrating. I know that reality doesn’t change just because I can’t see it – and yet…’
‘Exactly.’ John shifted, flexing his leg before settling once more, his nose on level with Sherlock’s brow. ‘Is the light helping?’
‘Yes.’
The tomb went ignored as Sherlock instead feasted upon the sight of John. He saw him every day, so often that the details of his existence were an open book should he ever care to glance John’s way. Yet there was so much he had never observed.
The angle of his jaw, the turn of his nose and the arch of his brows. The architecture of John’s face that served as the canvas for his emotions. None of it had changed, but at the same time, they were telling a new story. A soft smile traced brackets either side of John’s lips, not mocking or amused, but genuinely happy. Those blue eyes, almost navy in the indeterminate light, gazed upon Sherlock as if he were something remarkable.
Admiration eclipsed any annoyance at their situation that may have etched John’s features. Impatience should have pleated that brow, coupled with a desperation for rescue. Yet John looked content, as if there were no where he would rather be than at Sherlock’s side.
For once, he allowed himself to look deeper – to see the truth writ in every nuance of John’s expression. The flare of his pupils and the parting of his lips, the trip of his pulse and the compassion in his embrace.
To believe such subtle clues had appeared for the first time tonight would be a deception of the highest order. They had always been there, almost from the moment of their meeting.
Back then, he had written off the evidence as nothing more than lust. He had assumed that both John’s feelings and his own, answering intrigue would wither through neglect.
Even a genius could be wrong, especially about matters of the heart.
If anything, John’s regard seemed to have deepened, and Sherlock’s efforts to ignore his own emotions had done him little good. They were always waiting in the wings, ready to take centre-stage at the strangest moments.
Such as now.
His chest ached, his heart brittle and exposed. Part of him hated feeling this way: vulnerable to the extreme. In his younger years, he would have lashed out at John, pushing him away even as he put up walls between them. Somehow, he doubted John would take such a separation lying down. They had grown too close for that, their lives entwined to such an extent that it made them painful to pick apart.
Commitment did not always come in the form of vows and a ring upon the finger. Sometimes, it was unspoken: twisting streets and a limp forgotten – the bark of a gun and a cabbie dead.
A hundred silent promises leading to this moment, when the weight of possibility became too much to bear.
Sherlock tightened his jaw, dithering. There were better times for such dangerous confessions than when the pair of them were in the middle of a case. Better places that this. Perhaps he should wait until they were free once more, back in the familiar territory of the flat?
Except there, within those four walls of Baker Street, the temptation to maintain the status quo lay thick in the air. Their home was a tangible reminder of all that he stood to lose if John’s regard for him faded. Their relationship seemed immutable: impossible to change. Detective and doctor. Friends and no more.
Here, trapped as they were, a sense of freedom dawned within him. Stuck, with no ability to free themselves or pick up the strands of the case, it was as if they occupied an isolated bubble, unanchored from the realities of their daily existence. Perhaps the setting was neither comfortable nor salubrious, but this cold, quiet tomb offered an opportunity Sherlock had not realised he needed: time and space away from the invisible restraints of the Work.
‘John…’ His mouth ran dry and, perversely, he wondered if his courage would be easier to grasp if the glow of John’s phone did not unmask him so. Having made the decision to speak, he found himself incapable.
‘Mmmm?’
‘I … Do you…’ He trailed off, scowling down at John’s jumper rather than meeting his gaze. Why was this so difficult? Everywhere he looked people were falling in and out of each other’s hearts and lives and beds. Yet here he was, unable to speak of it. ‘Do you remember that night at Angelo’s?’
Too open a question, Sherlock realised. It was not as if they did not visit the restaurant on a semi-regular basis. They had been there only last week!
However, John was nothing if not a constant source of surprise. Sometimes he failed to follow the blatant path of a case, even when Sherlock lay the facts out at his feet. Others, like now, it seemed he knew exactly what Sherlock referred to. The knowledge hushed in the catch of his breath and the way his arm tightened around Sherlock’s waist.
‘The day we met?’ John cleared his throat. ‘Kind of hard to forget it, if I’m honest.’
‘Yes, well…’ Sherlock swallowed as doubt reared its monstrous head. There was still time to step back from the precipice; to look before he leapt, as he had done so many times before when the air turned tight with want. In truth, this was not even one of those hot, thick moments where potential bloomed between them. Whether that made it better or worse, he did not know.
‘What if, as it turns out, I return your interest?’
His own question surprised him, spoken from the heart before his mind had the chance to intercede. It thrummed against his ribs, thrilled to the point of terror by its audacity.
Helpless, he did not dare lift his head to check John’s reaction. A short while ago, he had been bleeding a cold sweat because he could not see. Now, he would rather blind himself for the rest of his days than observe indifference on John’s features.
The silence stretched: a ligature around his heart strings. Never had he wished so fervently for rescue. He would even welcome the sight of Mycroft’s smug face. This has been a mistake. He should not have spoken of it. At least in Baker Street they could find some distance from one another. What had he been thinking?
John tweaked a curl, not pulling, but with enough force to get Sherlock to grudgingly lift his head. He tried to avoid that gaze, unwilling to see pity or, worse, disgust, but there was nowhere else to look. They were too close, their noses almost brushing as John shuffled down, putting them on a more equal footing. No longer could Sherlock hide in John’s collar or pretend fascination with his jumper. The only way out of this mortifying situation was through it.
‘I didn’t actually say I was interested.’
Sherlock rolled his eyes, noting how cautious John sounded, like he was testing the waters. ‘Would you like me to list the ways your body made it clear?’ he demanded, frowning as John gave a slow, crooked smile. The cold light of the phone screen may give their prison an other-worldly hue, but he could still make out the flush heating John’s face. Embarrassment might have played its part, but that did not match the gleam in John’s eyes. He did not cringe or shuffle, but ducked his head in concession.
‘Fair enough. So, you – I –’ He squinted, pursing his lips as if he were biting back questions. He probably was. If their positions were reversed, Sherlock knew he’d have plenty. Yet, even if tempted to ferret out the whys and wherefores, John resisted the urge. Sherlock watched the clouds of puzzlement part, revealing a kind of hungry determination that made his heart skip a beat.
‘I would say it’s all fine. Whatever you want. You don’t – you don’t have to –’
He did not give John the chance to finish whatever ridiculous, chivalrous thing he was about to say. His hand, still splayed across John’s shirt-clad stomach, curled into a fist, clutching him near. The no-man’s-land of separation between them vanished; conquered at last.
John groaned, a quiet, needy noise that simmered through Sherlock’s blood and left him breathless. Their lips met and parted and met again, stealing each taste as though it were forbidden. Indeed, that’s what if felt like: a terrible, brilliant, wonderful risk. John’s body, strong and perfect next to his, full of promise and danger all at once.
Sherlock did not know if this – what they were starting – would go desperately wrong or explosively right, but he did know there was no going back. One way or another, they would find out where the future took them.
A huff of disbelieving laughter trembled between them as John broke away, his chest heaving. ‘People really will talk.’
‘Problem?’
‘God, no.’ He claimed Sherlock’s lips, and the last traces of his uncertainty dissipated. It could not survive beneath the brightness of John’s contagious joy. Lying in the remnants of someone’s final resting place could not be considered romantic in any way, yet he had never felt more loved. It was as if some final, indefinable part of their coexistence had slotted into place, turning a song into a symphony.
‘Oi, are you two in here?’
Lestrade’s voice, distorted by the echoing crypt, washed over them like ice water. Befuddled and aroused, Sherlock blinked, his mind blank for a precious few moments before the reality of their situation hit him anew. It seemed the rescue party had arrived – with frankly terrible timing.
John clutched the collar of the Belstaff, smothering a giggle. He looked torn between telling Greg where to find them and keeping silent, the better to prolong the interlude. Perhaps if they had been somewhere less morbid, he would have taken the latter choice. As it was, there was no escaping the macabre nature of their surroundings: hardly ideal for any kind of tryst.
‘We’re here! Get us out, will you?’
Sherlock steeled himself, knowing that Lestrade would not be able to resist a teasing jibe or two. It mattered not that he had no notion of what had passed between him and John. The fact that they were like this, practically sandwiched together, would no doubt be enough to cause the Yard entertainment for weeks.
‘Keep talking,’ Donovan advised. ‘We need to follow the sound of your voice.’
‘At the back,’ Sherlock instructed. He had no patience for them to deduce their location. They would be here all night. ‘Second from the right, I suspect.’
John’s admiring gaze brought a flash of heat to his cheeks, and he tried not to preen beneath the attention. A moment later, someone knocked on the lid of their sarcophagus, and the beam of a torch lit the world beyond their stone prison.
‘Need an ambulance?’ Lestrade asked. ‘You’re both talking, so I’m guessing there’s nothing urgent.’
‘We’re fine. Cramped and freezing our arses off, but that’s all. Can you get us out?’
‘Uh.’ Lestrade clicked his tongue against his teeth: a sure sign he was thinking about the problem at hand. ‘Yeah, I think so. Hang on.’
He called out, and Sherlock counted the footsteps of the other officers as they approached. There were a good half-dozen, by his estimate, all taking up a place around the boundary of their prison.
‘All right. On three!’
With a chorus of groans and the rasping scrape of stone-upon-stone, the lid began to shift. The trickle of fresh air that slithered through the gap became a torrent, swiftly followed by the harsh circle of Lestrade’s torch beam.
‘Comfy, are you?’ he asked, his concern melting away as a crooked grin curved his mouth. ‘Shall we leave you be?’
‘Like fuck you will,’ John grumbled, casting Sherlock a sly little wink before trying to get to his feet. Of course, after hours stuck in such cramped confines, neither one of them could be described as agile. With much swearing and complaining, as well as almost standing on Sherlock more than once, John managed to clamber out.
At least, with John free, there was a bit more space, and Sherlock could make his exit with a touch of grace. Still, cramp gnawed at his calves, and he clenched his teeth, his arousal ebbing beneath the onslaught of such sharp discomfort.
‘You all right?’ John asked, grabbing Lestrade’s torch with little ceremony and running the beam up and down Sherlock’s frame. Clearly, he did not believe Sherlock’s protests that he was unharmed.
‘Yes. Better than you, I suspect. Your leg can’t be doing you any favours after that.’ He cupped John’s elbow, steadying him. ‘Nor your shoulder.’
John smiled his thanks, acknowledging Sherlock’s words with a tilt of his head. ‘Nothing a warm bed won’t solve.’ A gleam in his eye suggested he did not intend to be alone between the sheets. If there were any better motivation for a prompt return to Baker Street, Sherlock had yet to discover it.
‘Millie Wilson is operating under a stolen identity in an attempt to claim the Scott-Stow inheritance,’ Sherlock explained, not giving Lestrade a chance to speak. ‘She is unlikely to flee the country without first claiming her prize. If you hurry, you should be able to catch her before the solicitor’s office opens in the morning. Morton and Greene’s on The Strand. I doubt she will give you much trouble, but she does have more than one accomplice.’
He began to steer John away, ignoring the exasperated tone in which Lestrade called his name. Despite his frequent protests to the contrary, the Detective Inspector and his men were more than capable of processing the scene and catching the culprit. ‘John and I will be at Baker Street, not to be disturbed,’ he called over his shoulder, smirking as John sniggered at his side.
Together, they staggered up the steps, stumbling out into the silver cusp of London’s daybreak. Frost limed the pavements, and the bare trees shivered beneath the pewter sky. Sherlock flipped up his collar and scanned the street for a cab, swearing when none made an appearance.
‘Come on,’ John urged, grabbing his hand. ‘It’s not far. Besides, I could do to stretch my legs.’
Sherlock allowed himself to be led, his fingers clasped in John’s: a subtle reminder of all that had changed in so little time. Yesterday, they had been friends and flatmates. Today? Today they were so much more.
Heat shot through Sherlock’s stomach, and he lengthened his stride as they passed the familiar frontages near Baker Street. It felt almost like a dream, as if kissing John had plunged him into a fairy-tale. Everything seemed light and dazzling, brimming with possibility. Logically, Sherlock knew that the world was the same as it had always been. No magical transformation had swept London clean: merely, he saw it through new eyes.
The black door of Baker Street loomed, and he reached into his pocket, grasping his keys even as inky feathers of doubt brushed across his mind. The sanctuary of home lay over the threshold, but so did the looming presence of the Work.
He had never had much success with other lovers. Few had the patience to weather the demands of each case that came his way, and they soon lost interest. Not that any of them had held his for more than a week or two. John may be different – intriguing and integral – but that did not mean that any deeper relationship would not suffer its challenges.
Still, they were ones Sherlock was happy to face, as long as John felt the same.
He manipulated the key, pushing the door aside before turning back. His hand still rested in John’s palm, and he squeezed in emphasis. ‘Are you sure about this?’ He tilted his head, trying to deduce something of John’s feelings. Yet rather than there being too little to go on, there was too much. Everywhere he looked, he could see admiration and respect, uncertainty and determination. ‘About us?’
John drew in a breath, pursing his lips. His gaze roved Sherlock’s face, seeking out God knew what as he gave the question sincere consideration. At last, after what felt like a breathless, agonising eternity, he gave his answer.
‘I’ve never been more sure of anything.’