(no subject)
Title: "On the Shores of Delos"
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Word Count: c. 5,400
Warnings: Language; Mentions of Drug Use; Asexuality Issues
Spoilers: None
Beta: canonisrelative
Summary: John had expected that the end, should it ever come, would be of monstrous proportions. An unending row, perhaps. Or a secret lover or another game with the world’s most dangerous criminal. He hadn't expected this.
Notes: Takes place in the “Winter’s Child” ‘verse, some years after "Caprice" and “Fatherly Wisdom.”
Many thanks to Canon for her suggestions, patience, and guidance.
John had expected that the end, should it ever come, would be of monstrous proportions. An unending row, perhaps. Or a secret lover or another game with the world’s most dangerous criminal. And it would happen at the height of a storm, one strong enough to bring the city to its knees, for how could the rest of the world continue if he and Sherlock could not?
But John hadn’t counted on the innocuous note from Alice, their landlady since Mrs Hudson passed away, on that Tuesday afternoon, nor the state of the flat when he came home after a long day at the surgery.
“Brainwork keep you busy, then?” he sighed as he shouldered his way into the flat and shut the door with a kick, peeling off his jacket as he did so. Boxes were stacked haphazardly throughout the living room, appearing to contain, from a cursory glance, files and folders and books. John was sharply reminded of one of their first cases together and roughly pushed the thought from his mind, fighting the involuntary swell of excitement that accompanied it.
Happier times.
Sherlock, stooped over a box in the far corner of the room, only grunted in response. His mauve dressing gown was hanging off of one shoulder, and underneath he wore the same gray cotton tee and pajama bottoms he had worn to bed the night before.
“Alice says we’re behind on the rent,” John continued, crumpling the note he had found on their door and tossing it in the wastepaper basket as he made his way into the kitchen. “I thought you were going to pay her on Monday.”
Sherlock flopped onto the sofa. He closed his eyes and waved a hand vaguely in John’s direction. “I expect I’ll be paid for the Mortimer case by the end of the week, once the paperwork clears.”
The unspoken bit - she’ll get her money then - sat heavily in the air between them.
“Yes, but she was expecting the rent -”
“And she will get the rent, John, when I bloody well feel like it,” Sherlock snarled, springing to his feet and pacing over to his husband. “Honestly, it’s hardly as though we’re going to skip out on it. We were tenants here long before she came along, and we’ve never missed a payment. I think she can live without it for a few days!”
“For the love of God, Sherlock, what’s got into you?” John hissed. He reached out and snagged Sherlock’s elbow before the other man could whirl away. “You’ve been a twat for weeks, you really have. And now you can’t even be bothered to drag yourself -”
“Sod off, John!” Sherlock fired back, yanking his arm from John’s grip in alarm and moving away. John’s eyes widened, because he knew that stance - stiff shoulders, held in a straight line. Long sleeves, even though it was sweltering outside. The hard set of Sherlock’s jaw, and the way his eyes sat in hollows in his face.
“Fucking hell,” John whispered as realization washed over him in a cold, dreadful wave, “you’re using again, aren’t you?”
Sherlock’s lips parted in astonishment. “Oh, don’t be absurd! I’m not -”
“You are. Oh, dear God.” John collapsed onto the sofa and dropped his face into his hands, a weak laugh escaping his lips. “God - that’s why you won’t let me touch you... touch your arm. Fuck, Sherlock, what the hell are you thinking?”
“John -”
They were interrupted by the slam of a door, and Calvin stormed through the kitchen, tugging his jacket on over his shoulders. John and Sherlock both froze, and John ventured, “Calvin, where are you -”
“Out,” the teen snapped, and vanished down the stairs. There came the sound of traffic, and then the downstairs door shut with a bang.
John turned, wide-eyed, to Sherlock. “Did you know he was home?”
Sherlock shook his head mutely.
-----
Lestrade heard the scrape of his locks being picked and the sound of the door to his flat opening and closing softly. He shook his head. He was used to the sound by now. He was so accustomed to it, in fact, that when someone actually bothered to use a key, it startled him. He knew it was going to get him into trouble one of these days - someday someone would try to break in and he would ignore it, thinking it to be Sherlock. And the dog was of no help, as Toby greeted everyone who stepped through the flat like an old friend.
“Out here, Sherlock,” Lestrade called behind him through the open window. A moment later, the door to the balcony slid open.
“Wrong Holmes,” an amused voice told him, and he glanced around.
“Calvin?” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
Calvin’s face darkened as he closed the door behind him and knelt down to give Toby a pat on the head. The dog rolled over and offered up his belly for the same treatment. After a moment, Calvin straightened and went over to join his godfather by the railing. He hunched his shoulders, digging his hands into his pockets. His eyes flicked to the cigarette Lestrade held between his fingers, and he said, “You were supposed to have quit. Papa will kill you.”
Lestrade snorted and brought the cigarette to his mouth. “You think he doesn’t already know? Can’t keep anything from either of your parents.”
Calvin snorted. “Yeah, s’pose you’re right.”
And then suddenly clever hands were lifting his packet of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. Calvin lit a cigarette, took a drag, exhaled, and chanced a sidelong look at Lestrade.
“Not gonna say anything?” he challenged finally.
“Like I said,” Lestrade said, holding out his hand for the items; Calvin returned them reluctantly, “can’t keep anything from your dads. I’m sure they already know, and I’m not going to waste my breath on advice you won’t listen to.”
“You had a stroke and you still smoke,” Calvin said, still defensive. “You’re not supposed to. I think I’m allowed one once in a while.”
“Sunshine, I’m pushing seventy,” Lestrade pointed out. “I’m allowed a few vices, even if they do send me to an early grave. Not that I’m gunning for that,” he added hastily, because that had always been a sore spot of Calvin’s. “And you’re stalling. If I truly believed that you came all the way over here to discuss my smoking habits, I’d be a piss-poor detective. Do your parents know where you are?”
“They’re fighting,” Calvin said finally. “Again. I just left.”
“Ah,” Lestrade said, digging his mobile out of his pocket and tapping out a quick text - Cal with me. He sent it to both Sherlock’s and John’s mobiles, not expecting that they would see it anytime soon, and pocketed it once again. “I’m sorry. Has this been happening often?”
Calvin nodded slowly. He smoked for a few moments in silence, and then said, “Did Dad do drugs?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Take that as a yes, then,” Calvin grumbled. “Because Papa said something about him using again. I dunno what else he could’ve meant by that.”
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of traffic on the street below and Toby’s heavy breathing.
“D’you remember the trip he went on to Russia?” Lestrade asked finally. “Years ago. You were... About seven or eight, I s’pose.”
“The one where he nearly died.” Calvin finished his cigarette and ground it out on the railing. “They’ve never said as much, but I can guess that’s what happened. Papa thinks I don’t remember it.”
“Then you’ll also remember that he tried to stop after that incident - tried to stop the work, tried to find a somewhat normal job. At least, one that didn’t involve him taking so many risks.” Lestrade finished his cigarette, collected both the remains, and put them in the ashtray sitting by his elbow. “That nearly killed him, too.”
“He started doing drugs,” Calvin said, dully.
“Not started, no, but those details are between you and your dad. He had a slip-up,” Lestrade said. “We dealt with it, your papa and I, and he’s been fine ever since.”
But Lestrade felt a pang then, because he hadn’t been around lately - not as often as he would have liked. He’d been called in as a consult for a string of murders that were eerily similar to the Hampton case, which had occurred nearly fifteen years ago - so similar, in fact, that it next to impossible that these new murders could be the work of a copycat. Which meant they had gotten the wrong man the first time.
It hadn’t been the easiest two weeks, and he hadn’t seen his godson or Sherlock and John during all of that time. Who knows what might have triggered Sherlock - it could have been anything, really. And Lestrade knew how hard Sherlock worked to keep himself in line; to keep the addiction at bay.
He knew the feeling.
“Is Papa gonna leave him?”
“Hm?” Lestrade broke out of his thoughts. “What’s that?”
“Papa. Is he gonna leave Dad?”
“Why would you say that?” Lestrade asked, momentarily surprised that his godson would jump to that conclusion.
But he shouldn’t have been, really. Calvin was already sixteen, seventeen in less than half a year, and far from ignorant of the dynamics in his parents’ relationship. They forgot that sometimes - all of them did - but Calvin wasn’t as sheltered as sometimes they believed him to be. Whispered conversations in the kitchen, tense nights spent in separate rooms, the way Sherlock shut down as a defense mechanism, the way Sherlock treated each argument like it was the end of the world simply because he couldn’t understand that it wasn’t - Calvin saw all of this. He lived with it.
“‘Cos they fight,” Calvin said quietly. “All the time. And... I can’t tell if they always have and I just didn’t notice, or... or if this is different.”
And Lestrade found that he couldn’t lie and say that everything would be all right, because eight years had passed since the day he’d been standing in his office with an apoplectic John and a Sherlock in the beginning stages of withdrawal, listening as John told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that if a slip-up like that ever occurred again, he’d be handing him divorce papers.
“I couldn’t say, Cal,” Lestrade said finally, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders, watching as his jaw tightened. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. We don’t even know if he’s using again for sure - you just heard part of a conversation. All right?”
“Will you talk to them?” Calvin bit out finally, desperately trying to keep his voice level. “They listen to you. I don’t - I don’t want him to leave.”
Dammit, Lestrade thought as he pulled Calvin into a tight hug. Toby stirred finally and padded over to them, nudging their knees with his nose, jealous that he wasn’t being included.
They stood there for some moments, Lestrade marveling at how wrecked Calvin must be inside to allow this outward affection and for so long. He hadn’t allowed anyone to hug him like this since he turned thirteen, and he’d always been a terribly affectionate child. The distance had hurt Sherlock, who had grown used to being the one Calvin’s affections were bestowed upon, but such a thing was to be expected as Calvin grew older.
“He’s not going to leave you,” Lestrade said quietly into Calvin’s fine hair. “Whatever happens, that I can promise. You’re his whole world.”
“Then why the drugs?” Calvin said bitterly. “Why aren’t we enough?”
“It’s an addiction. He’ll be fighting it for the rest of his life. That’s not an excuse, but you have to understand that none of this is easy for him. He fights, every day.” Lestrade gave him a final squeeze and released him. “Do you want to stay here tonight? Guest bedroom’s all yours.”
Calvin brightened hesitantly. “You sure -?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Lestrade said with a laugh. “It’s hardly a chore. And I’m heading out to the Yard tomorrow morning to help with a case. I’ll drop you off at Baker Street on the way.”
“Yeah?” Calvin allowed a small smile. “All right, then. Thanks.”
Lestrade gave him a swift smile and then lit another cigarette, casting around for another topic that might take Calvin’s mind off the state of his parents’ marriage. After a moment, he ventured, “How’re things with Skye?”
The smile quickly dropped from Calvin’s face, and Lestrade knew that he had miscalculated. Calvin shrugged morosely. “Think that’s finally over with. Seems like that’s all any of us are good at, yeah? Failed relationships.”
Lestrade hummed and took a drag on his cigarette. “Why say failed?”
Cal blinked. “Cos... we’re not together. Didn’t work out.”
“Interesting, innit?” Lestrade mused. “How relationships are considered failures unless they last a lifetime.”
“Think you’ve had too much time to yourself, Uncle Greg,” Cal muttered, but Lestrade could see that he was intrigued.
“Would you call my time with Liam wasted because we aren’t still together?”
“Well - no...”
“And why not?”
“Dunno... cos I liked him, I s’pose,” Calvin muttered. Lestrade grinned, and knocked his shoulder against Calvin’s.
“Me, too, bud.” Lestrade took another pull on his cigarette. “So why consider it a failure, then?” He shrugged. “Things ran their course. We were together for five years, and I don’t regret a moment. It ended as naturally as these things can. We still talk; he visits when he’s in town. I’d call that a success, overall.”
Calvin frowned. “Why are you telling me this? You never tell me about your life.”
Lestrade shrugged. “Just something to think about.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing and reached out to ruffle Calvin’s hair. “C’mon, let’s go inside. We can watch a movie and order takeaway.” He resisted adding, like when you were little and instead said, “Just like old times. Only you can’t expect me to build a fort on the floor with you anymore. I don’t think my knees can take it.”
“I think I can handle the disappointment. C’mon, Toby!” Calvin grabbed one of the dog’s discarded toys and hurried back into the flat; Toby loped after him. Lestrade followed, shaking his head and laughing even as the old worry tugged at the back of his mind.
Hell, Sherlock, don’t mess this up.
-----
"Well, that's just bloody fantastic," John snarled, his harsh tone breaking into Sherlock's thoughts, penetrating Calvin's reverberating Out that had been echoing through his skull. "You're using again, Cal's gone off to God-knows-where -"
“Enough,” Sherlock snapped. He strolled over to John, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he went, and presented the insides of his elbows. “He’s gone to Lestrade’s, you know that as well as I. And, as you can see, I’m not using.”
John paused, wetting his lips. Sherlock’s arms were clean, save for the scars that dated to the years before Baker Street. He said softly, “Let me see your pupils.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes but obliged. John glanced at them and then spun away abruptly. He dropped onto the sofa and passed a hand over his eyes.
“But why - you’ve been locked up in Bart’s for days, Sherlock. Avoiding me. Avoiding Cal. And when you are home, it’s like - it’s like it was the last time that this... that that...”
He trailed off, his mortification and confusion rendering him mostly speechless. Sherlock brought a hand to the inside of his left elbow and rubbed it absently; an old habit. He could not recall where he had picked it up, nor what purpose it served, but found that he performed the gesture in moments of great unease.
“I’m finding it difficult to focus on my cases while in the flat,” he admitted finally. “I am... less distracted at the lab.”
“You’ve never had an issue working here before.”
“No,” Sherlock conceded. “I have given the matter some thought, and can only conclude that it has come to the point where this flat has too many associations for me. It’s highly distracting. I can’t properly access the information on my hard drive that I need.”
It was a moment before John said, “Memories.”
Sherlock nodded. “Precisely.”
“So... you can’t work here because there are too many memories.” John frowned. “Sorry. I don’t think I follow.”
“I anticipated as much.” Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I am unsure as to why, precisely, they are an issue at this moment. The memories have always been there. We have been in this flat for nearly twenty years now, and until this point I have been successful in keeping errant thoughts away from my work. Only now they are proving most persistent.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Hardly surprising,” Sherlock said irritably, but at John’s withering look he sighed. He pointed at the bookshelf and said, “That book right there - the third from the right on the top shelf - that’s the first book Lestrade ever read aloud to Cal. They sat together on the sofa, do you remember?”
“Yes,” John said, a fond look crossing his features, no doubt remembering how Cal had only just started sitting up on his own, and how happily he had perched on his godfather’s lap while Lestrade read to him.
“And here,” Sherlock indicated a spot in front of the table, “he took his first steps for Lestrade. And they used to play with his trains in the kitchen, before Calvin decided that he was too old for such toys. Then there was the time -”
“Hey,” John said quickly, getting swiftly to his feet and crossing the room to Sherlock’s side. He put his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and said, “Easy,” because Sherlock was rapidly talking himself out of breath.
“I can’t take it easy, John,” Sherlock bit back.
“Is that what this has all been about?” John asked gently. “Greg?”
Sherlock said nothing, which John correctly took for affirmation. He rubbed a slow circle into Sherlock’s back and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
You weren’t meant to. Sherlock rested his hand over John's heart, feeling it beat steadily beneath his palm, and ducked his head to rest his forehead against John's.
“He’s doing well, all things considered,” John tried to reassure. “I know it’s hard, having things change. Watching Greg...” John trailed off, and Sherlock filled in the gaps.
Grow old. Become ill. Fade.
“But he’s fine for the moment,” John went on. “Focus on that, yeah?”
Sherlock closed his eyes. It's not enough. All the frantic energy he'd been holding in check was threatening to shake him apart. He needed a distraction; something that would bring swift order to the chaos.
He caught John’s hand in his own, bringing calloused fingers to warm lips. “Come. Let’s go to bed.”
This he could handle, Sherlock mused as he bent for a kiss and John’s lips parted under his own out of surprise. This had a set number of rules and outcomes. It was routine; order; tradition. This was a known entity. He would slide his fingers under John’s jumper (he did), and they would break apart long enough for Sherlock to pull it off over John’s head (they did). John would move his hands to the front of Sherlock’s shirt, where deft fingers would flick the buttons through their holes and -
He didn’t.
Sherlock froze as John pushed him gently away. His gaze was an odd mix of concerned and suspicious. He dragged a tongue across dry lips, and then finally asked, “What are you doing?”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “It’s been approximately two weeks since -”
John waved a hand vaguely through the air, silencing him with an odd smile. “Yeah, I’m aware. I guess I should have said why. Why are you doing this?”
“I believe I just gave you an explanation.”
“An explanation, yes.” John laced their fingers together, and then said, quietly, “There’s something else going on here, isn’t there? Greg’s health isn’t the only thing making you irritable.” John drew a deep breath, and then asked, “Sherlock, does this still work for you?”
Sherlock blinked at the unexpected question. “So long as it does for you.”
“No,” John said, shaking his head vehemently. “No, that’s not what I asked. Put me aside - does this work for you?”
“How can I put you aside, John?” Sherlock asked with a huff of disbelief. “That’s not possible.”
“It is. You are your own person.” John took his hands. “I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you still want this. That you still get some enjoyment out of it, even though it’s not sexual.”
Sherlock tried to pull his hands away; John held fast. “I am fine, John. Stop being ridiculous.”
“You aren’t,” John insisted. “And I’m not being ridiculous. Stop treating this as though your feelings are irrelevant.”
“I’m -” Sherlock wet his lips for a moment, thinking. “John, while I appreciate the concern, I realize that I - that this situation - is most unusual. To put it lightly. You have been more than accommodating, but there is no one who can understand... No one who can realize...” Sherlock trailed off, at a loss for words.
John swore under his breath. “Christ, Sherlock, have you... Have you been going along all these years, thinking you were alone? That no one understood you?”
“John.” Sherlock’s smile was indulging. “You know very well that you don’t understand this.”
“I can put myself in your position. Doing something for the gratification of a sexual partner; something that they would enjoy but I wouldn’t necessarily. Sometimes it’s fine; other times, it’s not an experience I care to repeat.” John brushed his thumb against Sherlock’s. “And times change; people change. I know my preferences over the years have shifted; it’s not unheard of to think yours might have, as well.”
“I don’t know what you want -”
“You do,” John pressed. “You know very well what I’m asking. Do you want to keep having sex - to keep providing me with sexual release?”
Sherlock considered him for what felt like an hour; in actuality, only moments passed while he processed this question.
“Where,” he asked finally, “are you going with this, John?”
“I’m saying,” John said softly, dropping his gaze to their joined hands, “that the thought - the idea - that you’ve been doing... that you’ve ever, even once, done something that you didn’t want makes me ill, Sherlock. We haven’t discussed any of this in years. I assumed... I dunno what I was thinking, actually. It just never occurred to me to check in with you and make sure you were still comfortable.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Sherlock said. “You should not be under the impression that I have been doing something for years that I didn’t want to. I wanted it, John. Not for the same reasons you did, no, but I did want it. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
Sherlock paused, and then said quietly, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me the truth,” John said earnestly. “And I want you to know, whatever happens - I’m not going anywhere. No matter what it is you say. ‘Cause this, this is more important than sex. It always has been and I’m - I’m sorry if I’ve ever led you to believe otherwise.”
“You didn’t,” Sherlock insisted, a frown cutting through his features. “I don’t understand. You have done nothing wrong.” He hesitated a moment, and then added, “I trust I haven’t... led you to believe otherwise?”
“No,” John assured. “But you’re still avoiding the question. Do you want to keep doing this?”
Sherlock could feel the world narrow, until his heart was sounding in his ears and cold flooded his veins. The answer he wanted to give stuck in his throat, and everything faded at the periphery until there was only John.
“No.” The word shocked him into silence, because it hadn’t been the one he wanted to say. But then John’s hand was on his hip, and a moment later he was in Sherlock’s arms.
“Then we won’t,” John whispered against his shoulder. “I won’t. I promise you this, Sherlock. No more. Not until you feel like it again - if you feel like it.”
Sherlock’s sharp inward draw of breath was shaky; he could feel it stutter and stop in his chest. “I trust... I trust that you will not feel that this is a reflection on you, John.”
“What do you mean?”
“I may not understand this... this drive, but I don’t believe you are wrong for having it. For needing it. I just -”
“I know,” John said, smoothing a hand over Sherlock’s back. “It just doesn’t work the same way for you.”
“It’s not a judgment on you,” Sherlock insisted. “And... if you like, you may seek out other sexual partners as needed.”
“Sherlock,” John said through half a laugh. He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s chest, quiet for a moment. Then, at last, he said, “You saved me, you know. I survived that wound, but I wasn’t alive. I’d forgotten how to be alive. And then you came along, and you were brilliant. You were mad and dangerous and I loved every second I spent dashing about after you. You showed me how to live again. And you haven’t stopped since.”
John pulled back far enough to look Sherlock in the face without having to release him. Sherlock didn’t dare look him in the eyes, instead casting his gaze to the floor, but when John spoke again his voice was full of warmth.
“We can discuss... alternatives at a later time,” he decided. “But right now, I’m happy with the way things are. There’s nothing wrong with me, or you, or with this. There never has been. It’s all fine.”
-----
Cal fell asleep on the sofa, and long before Lestrade was ready to call it a night. But gone, long gone, were the days when Lestrade could lift him easily and carry him into the spare bedroom, and so he draped a blanket over the boy’s still form before retreating to his own room, Toby on his heels.
Cal spending the night. I’ll have him back at Baker Street tomorrow morning.
The reply he received was from John.
We owe you one.
And then, a moment later:
We don’t know how much he overheard, but it was a huge misunderstanding. So tell him not to worry.
Same goes for you.
And get some rest. It’s late.
Lestrade laughed out loud at the last one, startling Toby, and sent John a few choice words outlining just what he thought about that.
And then, after a moment of hesitation, he typed out another message.
He’s all right, though?
The answer was almost immediate.
Yeah. More than, in fact. I promise.
As are we.
We’re fine.
Lestrade could almost feel John’s grin through the mobile.
-----
“I think it’s time,” John said later. They had retreated to the roof, for it was a clear night and Sherlock had been feeling acutely the confines of the flat.
Sherlock turned a questioning eye on him.
“For what, precisely?”
“You know for what.”
Sherlock nodded slowly. Time to move to the country.
It was something they hadn’t discussed since Lestrade’s stroke.
Sherlock looked out over the rooftops and the streets below their vantage point, watching the lights of a thousand cars that thrummed through the city, feeling London vibrate, awake and so very alive, through his bones.
“Because I’ve stopped taking cases?”
“You haven’t taken on anything new in close to a year,” John said quietly. “And don’t go on about the Mortimer case, you know that doesn’t count. Cal will be off at Uni next autumn, and Greg’s not the only one feeling his years lately.” He sighed through his nose. “Those stairs aren’t getting any kinder on my leg, I’ll tell you that.”
“I can’t,” was all Sherlock said.
And because John was John - because he was an ordinary man with the extraordinary ability to take Sherlock by surprise, even after all these years - he knew that Sherlock’s qualm wasn’t with the move itself.
“You and I both know you’d never leave London without Greg,” he said gently. “Just ask him, yeah? Can’t hurt.”
“I won’t.” Sherlock gritted his teeth, his molars grinding uncomfortably against one another. “I can’t - I won’t ask that of him, John!” And then, softer, “Please don’t make me ask him that.”
John snorted, and his hand moved to rest between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “When have I ever been able to make you do a thing you didn’t want to?”
“He’d hate it.”
“He might not.”
Sherlock swallowed. “And what about Cal?”
"Cal will be done with school by this time next year, and if we somehow manage to find something before then, we can call in a favour from Mycroft so he can finish out the year at his school. And then Cal would get to see Greg every day, at least for a while.” John propped his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Because it’s a bit foolish to pretend he’s ever had anything less than three parents all of these years, isn’t it?”
For a moment there was nothing more than the rumble of traffic on the street below and the whine of a plane flying overhead. Then Sherlock nudged him with his elbow and said, “It’s late. And there are far better pillows than my shoulder inside.”
“Matter of opinion,” John said with a groggy smile, but when Sherlock moved to get up John stopped him with a hand on his thigh. “Will you ask him?”
Sherlock said nothing for a moment, and then he drew a shuddering breath. His words wavered dangerously as he said, “He’ll never forgive us, John.”
John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s jaw for a moment. He said softly, “He’ll do it if you ask, just as he always has.”
“Does that mean I should?” Sherlock turned his head, and pressed a kiss to John’s hairline.
“You’re everything to that man. He’d forgive a lot, for you.” John straightened his back, cracking his spine. He pushed himself to his feet, and then turned a questioning eye on Sherlock. “Come to bed?”
Sherlock turned his face to the sky. His well-trained eye - expert in this field only because of Lestrade - picked out Antares first.
Red supergiant. Heart of the scorpion.
“Scorpius,” he murmured, and John followed his gaze without questioning his words.
The rest of the constellation spread out from this brilliant central star, a sprawling arachnid that sat low in the sky, near the horizon.
“The slayer of Orion,” Sherlock continued tonelessly, “in Greek mythology. In one version of the story, he fled to the island of Delos to see his lover Artmeis and to escape the attack of a scorpion. As he did so, however, the god Apollo, in a fit of jealousy, decided that he wanted to punish Artemis. She was a skilled hunter, and so he appeared to her, offering a challenge: shoot the black dot that was approaching the island in the water. She accepted his challenge and won, unknowingly killing her lover in the process.”
John nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving the sky. “Sussex isn’t a punishment.”
“And Lestrade isn’t my lover,” Sherlock said, dropping his gaze to the ground. “It feels like a betrayal, all the same.”
“But it’s not.” John braced his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, and bent at the waist to place a kiss on the top of his head. “Trust me, just this once.”
Sherlock twisted around, capturing John’s lips in a brief kiss. “I always trust you.”
John gave a sad smile. “Not always, no. You don’t. But that’s all right, because you’ve trusted me when it most matters. So I ask that you do it again. Just one more time.”
Sherlock waited until John’s footsteps had faded up the stairs to their room, and the bedroom door clicked shut in his wake. Then he raised his eyes to Scorpius once more - the catalyst; the crux of the problem.
The slayer of gods.
The being that forever severed a deep-meaningful-lasting connection between two people.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the stars, and hoped that Lestrade would forgive him.
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Final Notes: Part of Calvin and Lestrade’s conversation was influenced by Dan Savage’s The Commitment.
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