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Fic: Magic Trick

slashers
Fandom: Sherlock
Title: Magic Trick
Pairing: Eventual John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Post the Great Hiatus; John and Sherlock travel the world together and sort-of-but-not-really attempt to resolve their Issues.
Warnings: Euhm, emotional constipation?
SPOILERS: all through The Reichenbach Fall
Author's Note: I know I should have been writing Days of Legend AND I HAVE! I promise! But then I was thumbing through the kink meme and I couldn't resist this prompt.



Magic Trick

Here is John Watson, now you see him, now you don’t.

Three years After Sherlock, John doesn’t come home. There’s no one waiting for him; 221B is forever empty and John hasn’t been staying there for years anyway. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t expecting him and the surgery he works at doesn’t call anyone either because administration receives a letter of resignation the following morning. There are no loose ends, no friends, no girlfriends, no colleagues, no one to ask where John Watson went. In the morning, John wakes up, groggy and sore and apparently asleep in a private compartment on a moving train. He slowly sits up, rubs the sleep out of one eye with a fist and blinks at the man sitting opposite him.

Here is Sherlock Holmes, now you see him, now you don’t.

There had been a telephone call, with John staring up into the sky at the edge of a roof. There had been words and John cannot remember them now, has consciously tried to forget them, tried to forget that Sherlock had been lying to him in their last moments together. There was a body on the ground, wearing the coat and the scarf and with blood like crimson ribbons across pale cheeks and soaking into the jet black curls. The funeral had been closed casket and John had seen it being lowered into the ground. Forever and ever he would remember that; a brown, mahogany casket with white flowers on top, the body of his best friend inside, disappearing into the earth.

They arrive in Paris, two hours spent in silence staring at each other or staring out the window. They go to a small hotel, Sherlock leading the way. There’s a suitcase packed with John’s things and a small hold all for Sherlock. They check in and go to their room, but don’t unpack. John leans out the window and just breaths in the crisp, cold air. It’s close to winter now and the nights’ bite is getting sharper and sharper. John turns back to the room. Sherlock is sitting at the edge of the double bed. John doesn’t know why Sherlock ordered a double. Sherlock looks at him, just looks.

“You’re very quiet.”

Sherlock leans forwards, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed together, tapping against the edge of his mouth. “Thinking.”

It’s getting dark outside. John brushes his teeth, changes into sweatpants and t-shirt, goes to the toilet, climbs into the bed, turns out the light. Sherlock doesn’t move.

The next morning, John’s things are strewn about the room. Sherlock is crouching in one of the armchairs, a jumper in his lap. He’s holding onto a square of paper, the creased folds clearly having been folded and unfolded many times. John frowns . “Did you get that out of my wallet?”

Sherlock looks up, eyes sharp, hungry. “Why do you keep this in your wallet?”

John flushes, red and angry and embarrassed, but mostly angry. “You can’t just go through my stuff!”

“I’ve always gone through your stuff.”

“Not in the last three years, you haven’t!”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just looks back down, at the picture of Sherlock wearing that ridiculous hat. He carefully folds it and puts in back in John’s wallet.

---- ---

They take the Eurostar to Belgium, still in strained silence and then John yells at him in a hotel in Brussels. Sherlock is silent at the onslaught, too silent and too still and John stops his tirade because he just can’t go on. He spends a half an hour in the bathroom desperately choking back tears. They take a train to Antwerp where they spend two days wandering the Meir and visiting the Zoo, and then go on to Koln in Germany. There, in a hotel room that a run- down army doctor and a dead man shouldn’t be able to afford, John opens his eyes.

Sherlock is thin, almost painfully so. He was never on the heavy side, but he had wiry muscles covering him from head to toe, clean and sharp, elegant lines. Now, the lines are bumpy with the ribs John can count. His hair is scraggly and uncared for and too long, far too long. He has a scar on his upper lip that he hadn’t Before. They’re in a double room again, dominated by a big bed in the middle and this time John makes Sherlock lie down so they can sleep curled around each other. In the dark, Sherlock’s grip on his wrist is painful but John doesn’t say anything.

The next morning John drags Sherlock to a hairdresser and demands that Sherlock gets his hair done properly in hackled German. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and repeats John’s request in grammatically perfect Dusseldorf-accented German. Somehow, John feels better for hating Sherlock just a little.

John hangs around, staring out the window, watching people pass, going on with their regular lives and wondering what happened to his regular life, or his ability to have one for that matter. It would be easy to blame it all on Sherlock, to say that Sherlock changed him forever with that chance meeting at Barts, which is true. But it was John who enlisted and went to Afghanistan looking for something beyond a surgery and nine to five, looking for a cause to believe in.

When he comes back to himself, Sherlock is standing in front of him: too skinny, too wrung out, wearing black jeans and a black hoody, but at least his hair is his own again, framing that hungry face. They go wander the street.

“Tell me about her,” John says and points at a young woman looking intently at a window display.

Sherlock looks and looks away. “She’s too young for you.”

John frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock slips his hand in the pockets of the hoody. “She’s a student; the shape of her bag shows that she’s carrying a lot of books around, while her haircut is cheap and nearly completely grown out. Her jewelry is self-made, but her clothes are all brand new. She probably has to work part-time to pay her way through college, but she’s recently inherited some funds; hence the new clothes and the old-fashioned brooch she’s wearing: clearly a family heirloom, recently acquired because it doesn’t match any of the other jewelry she’s wearing.”

“Brilliant,” John says, because it is, after all these years. Sherlock nods and doesn’t say anything, but his shoulder bumps against John’s.

They walk back to the hotel where John has Sherlock order room service for him and Sherlock watches him eat every bite of it.

“You’ve lost weight.” Sherlock says.

John looks away from his plate. “So have you.”

Sherlock shrugs and looks disdainfully at the bowl of soup John slides at him. His lip curls almost into a sneer and with a sigh John puts his utensils down. Sherlock looks at him, pale eyes cold, so cold and hungry. Sherlock never used to look like that, but John is firm, steadfast. Eventually, Sherlock picks up his spoon and eats the soup. John picks up his own utensils to finish his steak.

---- ---

They rent a car and Sherlock drives them through Bonn and Erfurt before settling on Dresden. They spend one night there and John manages to get Sherlock to admit that he has no plans for them, whatsoever. John rolls his eyes, makes Sherlock drive them back to Koln to bring back the car.

“Where did you go? After you left me?” John asks.

Sherlock is quiet and then: “New York; Mycroft told me Moriarty had a few low operations there: mostly bribing a few politicians, but they would lead me to other places.”

John nods and uses his laptop and the hotel’s free Wifi to arrange for tickets to New York. “So, Mycroft knew?”

“Yes.”

John doesn’t look up from the laptop and his two-fingered typing is harder and angrier than usual. He doesn’t say anything.

They’re actually on the plane when John asks; “who else knew?”

Sherlock is idly flipping through the pages of a science magazine and making scoffing noises. He stops. “Molly.”

John turns to look at him. “You told Molly, but you didn’t tell me?”

“I needed her help.” Sherlock says and starts flipping the pages again, quickly and ripping the paper in some places.

“But you didn’t need mine.” John says and when Sherlock looks at him, John is leaning back against the seat, his eyes closed, jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists in his lap.

--- ---- ----

They tour New York listlessly, the air sour with all things left unsaid. It’s cold and they stand in front of government buildings and John makes Sherlock recite all the names of the politicians involved with Moriarty and what secrets they had and what Sherlock needed from them.

“Do you want to see something on Broadway?” Sherlock offers and John sees an apology in the way Sherlock sweeps his hand across a poster, casually nonchalant but suspicious in its execution.

John snorts, but they go see a new murder-mystery musical and Sherlock snarks so loudly, they get kicked out.

“It has to be the son-in-law. Did you see the roses he gave to his wife?”

John shrugs. “I think the butler did it.”

Sherlock glares at him. “Your sense of humour never fails to astonish me, John.”

John sticks his hand out for a yellow cab. “You’d miss me, if I were gone.”

They get in the cab and Sherlock’s hand is on John’s knee when he says. “I did.”

At the hotel John says: “You could have told me, any day of those three years, you could have told me. But you didn’t.”

Sherlock takes off his hoody with angry jerks and John has never seen him without his fluid grace. The shirt underneath is thin and nearly completely see-through with how many times it’s been washed. “I couldn’t risk it.”

John snorts and changes into his PJs. “Couldn’t risk it? What? Couldn’t risk me blabbing your secret to anyone?”

Sherlock stops, his t-shirt in his hands. “John, I trust you with my life.”

John goes into the bathroom. “But not with your death.” He slams the door.

They both get into the bed and in the dark, Sherlock grips John’s wrist and says. “I trust you with my life, but not with yours.”

--------- ----------

They stay in New York for almost three weeks because John goes sight-seeing and then sends a card to his sister and to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock follows him everywhere and he never says he’s bored and he deliberately ignores police tape when he sees it and doesn’t even try to get involved in anything. Eventually, New York led Sherlock to Washington and that’s where they go next.

“There was an incident, in the president’s office.” Sherlock says when John snaps a picture of the White House with his phone. He explains in more detail while John eats what the diner describes as “The Full American Breakfast Experience!”

Sherlock sips his coffee and deigns to eat whatever John slides in his direction.

They wander around the shopping district and John buys a ridiculous figurine that Sherlock promptly destroys on their return to the hotel room. The next day, John buys a suitcase and drags Sherlock to a designer store whose name John can’t pronounce. “I don’t recognize you when you stand next to me.” He says and sticks around until they have Sherlock’s measurements and Sherlock has written down his preferences and then they leave.

“I miss your coat and your scarf.” John says. “Mycroft kept them. Did he pass them on to you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I was in Castuera in Spain when my hotel room was robbed by a part of Moriarty’s organization. I escaped in my pajamas and my robe. I couldn’t risk going back.”

By the time Sherlock’s clothes are ready, it’s beginning to snow. They fly to Seattle, where Sherlock buys a car and they drive through Washington, Oregon and California. The days blur into each other until John can’t remember how long they’ve been on the road. They don’t speak while Sherlock drives and at night, they share a bed in dingy motel rooms in silence. When they get to Sacramento they get a nice hotel room and John soaks in the bath for hours. When he comes back out he finds Sherlock sitting on the floor besides the bathroom door, reading a newspaper and making notes with a red pen in the margins.

“Did you think I was going to climb out the bathroom window?” John asks. He stops smiling when Sherlock looks up at him, his bright eyes cold, so cold.

John is dressed in nothing but a robe and Sherlock is wearing fitted trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His arms are still too thin and the cheekbones on his face are still too sharp and John feels pudgy and soft in comparison. He walks away and Sherlock gets up.

“I didn’t think you’d be happy.” Sherlock says and John turns to look at him. “But I had, at the very least, anticipated that you would be relieved that I wasn’t dead.”

“I am.” John says, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“You’re angry. You’ve been angry for weeks.”

“Of course I’m angry!” John snaps and puts down the towel he’d been using to dry his hair. “I’m angry and relieved and absolutely furious with you.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

“You left me! You let me think you were dead for three years! Three years, Sherlock! And I-” He chokes on the words. It’s getting harder to breathe. “I mourned you for ages and I couldn’t – nothing was-” he stops because there’s a hot ball of anger and sorrow and Oh My God, Sherlock stuck in his throat. There are tears in his eyes and he grits his teeth and snarls. “You were my best friend, my very best friend and you didn’t even tell me that you were alive!”

“It was for your own safety.”

“Don’t you give me that.” John says, trying to breathe past all the hurt and wondering if this is what an asthma attack feels like. “I was a soldier.”

“John,” Sherlock steps forward, his face is smooth, but John can see the hunger lurking in his eyes, and something else too; like a spark of anger. “He was going to kill you. He had people in place to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, ordered to kill unless I jumped. I had no choice. I had to make it look real.”

“Three years!” John shouts, because that’s all that really matters. It was three years, not a week or a month or a year, but three, three agonizing years without Sherlock, without 221B, without cases and chases and why does it have two fronts?

He doesn’t even know he’s crying until he sees the look of total and utter panic on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s arms reach out and then stop, his fingers twitching, unsure and his eyes dart around, as if looking for something, anything and then he’s gently pulling John closer by the ends of John’s sleeves until John is standing in the circle of his arms. John’s face is pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder and his tears are seeping into the shirt and ruining the fabric. He catches a whiff of Sherlock’s scent, and then he’s sobbing in earnest, his whole body shaking. He holds Sherlock to him and weeps the way he didn’t at Sherlock’s funeral and his grave and in his therapists’ office and all the days after when he was forever empty.

“The world made no sense without you.” John sobs, his fingers gripping the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt so tightly it might rip. Sherlock makes a noise in the back of the throat and John doesn’t know what that means.

They curl up in the bed together, Sherlock’s grip hard around his wrist, bruising for certain. John simply breathes with his eyes closed until sleep finally comes to him.

--- ---
They drive through California at a lazy pace, the urgency of their previous wanderings having faded in that hotel room. They stop when they feel like it or when they get to a town Sherlock spent any time in After. Sherlock carefully guides him through it all; the people, the deductions, the fights and the ultimate victory; arrests or deaths or simply terrified into obedience. John listens and tries to imagine it, but he can’t because it’s obvious that he wasn’t there, that there wasn’t anyone there to make Sherlock eat or sleep because Sherlock’s narrative is a race, a feverish dream, a frantic run.

“I was hurrying back.” Sherlock says, suddenly, in the silence of the car.

John looks at him. “Did you ever come back during those three years?”

“Only when I had to, when the trail ran cold or when I was too injured to go on or when my funds ran out.”

“Where did you go?”

Sherlock hesitates. “To Molly.”

John looks out the window. “She never said.”

“I asked her not to.”

John nods. “Were you ever tempted, to come see me? To admit that you were still alive? To let me help you?”

Sherlock’s grip around the steering wheel tightens and he doesn’t answer.

--- ---- ---

They drive along the 99 for a few hours and stop briefly in Bakersfield because Sherlock’s sense of humour isn’t nearly as sophisticated as he likes to pretend it is. They stop in Glendale because it was far away yet close enough to Los Angeles for Sherlock’s investigation. It’s much warmer than it was in Washington and they sell their car so they can buy one with an open roof. Sherlock buys a pair of expensive aviators and wears them constantly.

“You’re kidding. First the cheekbones and the collar and now these?”

But Sherlock just raises an eyebrow over the rim of the dark glasses and ignores him so John tricks him into eating a full meal. When they go to bed that night he notices, with satisfaction, that Sherlock is slowly filling out again. The ribs are starting to disappear underneath a layer of muscle and he looks less like a skeleton and more like the slim, wiry devil he used to be. John goes running in the mornings, when it’s still cool and pulls laps in the hotel’s pool. Sherlock accompanies him on his runs and sits in a lounge chair by the pool, reading from a thick book on the rate of DNA degradation in fingerprints and environmental effects. John lets him rant all about it during dinner because Sherlock will eat a full plate out of habit if he isn’t paying attention.

That night, John watches TV from the bed and allows the movie to slowly lull him to sleep. He wakes up briefly in the middle of the night when the TV is switched off and Sherlock slides in next to him, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He mumbles something, turns in Sherlock’s direction and feels Sherlock’s breath on his face “I missed you” but he doesn’t remember it in the morning.

They leave for Laguna Niguel- with a brief detour into Anaheim where Sherlock has to meet an informant- on a Wednesday and spend their time holed up in a little safe house down the street from the vet’s office because Sherlock was forced to retreat to after chasing Moriarty’s network to Costa Mesa. After that they drive through Oceanside straight on to San Diego where they spend several days tracking Sherlock’s footsteps when he brought down part of Moriarty’s human smuggling operation.

“He brought over people from Mexico, and divided them into groups. Some, he took straight into the Midwest and then brought them over to Europe to be sold. Others, he brought here for illegal prostitution and for others he actually did what he promised; brought them to America, gave them the proper papers and let them live in peace so they would ensure good publicity for his business, giving him more victims.”

John listens patiently and Sherlock gets them the exact room in the exact hotel he stayed at when he was tracking Moriarty. John goes over the room with an intensity that frightens him and so he doesn’t think about it. Instead he sinks down in the bathtub until he can’t hear Sherlock’s voice through the door and the water. He comes back up.

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice is loud, too loud to simply want to be heard beyond the door and John says; “yes?”

“I needed Molly’s help to fake my death and I stayed with her in England because I couldn’t bear to stay with Mycroft and it wasn’t safe to stay at a hotel.”

John towels off and pulls on a robe. He opens the door and finds Sherlock sitting on the floor next to it, like always.

“Do you want to go out or stay in for dinner?”

They go out and in the safety of the restaurant, John says; “You and Molly must be close friends.”

Sherlock looks at him, cold and thoughtful. “Yes, you could say that.”

John nods and looks out the window.

“John,” and John really hates the way Sherlock says his name, with that breathy h, like a damsel in distress. “You are my best friend.”

It’s silly how relieved John is by that.

----- ---

They stay for two more weeks after that, sight-seeing and going to museums with Sherlock making spiteful comments about the people around them. They run into two men holding hands and Sherlock goes stiff, looks deliberately away and doesn’t say anything. John pretends not to notice. They cross the border into Mexico and keep driving until they reach a small town with a tiny bed and breakfast that doesn’t even have a name. After that they keep going until they reach Basaseachi Falls. They stay there for a while, the sweat gluing John’s t-shirt to his back while Sherlock attempts to look cool as ever, while droplets off sweat are gathering at his hairline.

They take their time in Mexico, as Sherlock had to take his investigation in Mexico more slowly. It was more difficult for him to pass unnoticed, with his pale skin and tendency to burn. The network had been aware that someone was infiltrating their territory and they were on the look-out. It was difficult for Sherlock to maintain a cover and a disguise in the heat for so long. They end up driving around, finding little hamlets while the dust creeps in every crevice. They take a ferry to San José del Cabo and then take one back and drive to Mazatlán. They stay in Puerto Vallarta for three weeks and rent a small beach house. They go to the market and Sherlock cooks because “it’s chemistry for the hungry, John” and John goes for runs on the beach in the morning. He’s filling out again, leaving behind the emptiness and growing a tan and Sherlock seems more satisfied every time John comes back from a run, sweaty and taking of his shirt for a quick shower.

“I haven’t been this fit since Afghanistan,” John says.

Sherlock hums over the stove. John looks at him, at the sweat gathered in the fabric between Sherlock’s shoulderblades, the back of that beautiful, curly head. He wants to ask “did you think of me at all? Did you wonder?” But he doesn’t, instead, he asks an even more stupid question.

“Did Irene Adler know?”

He feels like biting his tongue the minute the words come out, but too late, far too late. Sherlock turns around. “She’s in America, hidden away with her secret identity. How could she possibly know?”

John frowns at him. “Mycroft said she died in Karachi, right around the time that you disappeared for a so-called case in Murmansk, while your phone bill came back with numbers from Karachi.”

Sherlock doesn’t even blink. “Were you snooping around my phonebill?”

“You asked me to pay it.”

Sherlock is very, very still. He turns back to the stove. “You wouldn’t have approved.”

“Like that would have stopped you.” John leaves, walks into town and drinks the god awful coffee just so he can sit at the café and simply look at the people passing by without having to think. He makes sure to get back before dark, because Sherlock will worry. There are leftovers for him and John eats them, does the dishes and then curls up in the big double bed with Sherlock.

In the dark Sherlock says; “she doesn’t know. She might suspect, but she used to work with Moriarty and I couldn’t trust her not to let something slip to people who might be involved with the network.”

And then, soft, almost like a whisper. “You thought I was in love with her. I didn’t want you to think any less of me.”

In the dark, John bites his lip and slips his arms around Sherlock’s waist and holds him close.

-----

They follow the coast to Acapulco and contemplate the possibility to keep going, but Sherlock’s journey had veered off at that point. He’d come back to the Americas later, but after Acapulco came Mexico City and Bali and so that’s what they do. They sell the car, buy a plane ticket and land in Denpasar, Indonesia. They run across the whole island of Bali; from Sawang to Pujung to Melaya to Tenganan and back around again. John’s nearly dizzy with it and he loses track of time. He sends a postcard to Mrs. Hudson.

“Does she know?” John asks and he wonders why he didn’t ask the minute he saw Sherlock again, After.

Sherlock nods and pushes his aviators higher up his nose where they are slipping down in the sweat gathered there. “Yes, I spoke with her before you came home.”

“Before you kidnapped me.”

“You don’t mind being kidnapped.” Sherlock dismisses him.

“Does that mean I have Stockholm Syndrome?”

Sherlock takes off his aviators just to glare at him.

--- ---- ---

Sherlock doesn’t tell John where they’re going when they trade in their suitcases for huge backpacks, but they end up in Malaysia in the middle of the jungle. Sherlock’s still wearing his slacks and his shirts, but John has changed into more practical khaki pants and a wife beater as they make their way through until they come across a run-down shack. There’s running water nearby, but no electricity and the single room has an old-fashioned wood-stove and a double bed.

“Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s second in command, spotted me as I left Jakarta. I hid out here for months, until I was sure the attention must have shifted to other areas in the world.”

John drops his backpack and swats at a fly. “So, Moran knew you were alive?”

Sherlock drops his own pack and uses his forearm to wipe sweat from his brow. “He certainly suspected. There were sightings of me, or people who could be me, but officially I was dead and there was a grave and he was the sniper ready to kill you, to take you out, he’d seen me fall of the roof.”

John nods and sits down, looks around. “I don’t even want to think about how many poisonous things are hiding out here.”

“You’ll be fine.” Sherlock says.

The days start sliding by, one after the other and it’s hard for John to keep track. Sherlock has an arrangement with a village two days travel from the shack and they send a donkey back and forth, carrying food and sun block on its back. There’s enough running water to wash and John does so, frequently, because there isn’t a time when he’s not sweating. Sherlock bathes frequently too, but less for the sweat and more for the layers and layers of skin he’s shedding everywhere. Sherlock scowls and scratches at the tiny flakes of skin peeling of his bright red nose.

John laughs. “You peel like an onion.”

Sherlock snipes at him but it’s half-hearted because the heat is unbearable and sometimes all John has the energy for is lie on their bed in nothing but his pants and sleep or think. Sherlock watches him.

“You keep doing that.” John says.

“I haven’t seen you for three years.” Sherlock says and his fingers curl around John’s wrist. His hair is damp with sweat and his eyes are cold. He looks like a stranger.

“Whose fault is that?” John asks and there is a little bit more bite to it than he wanted.

Sherlock’s face curls into a snarl but then settles into something soft, embarrassed. “I couldn’t, John, you were … a distraction.”

John frowns. “You once said I inspired brilliance in you.”

Sherlock goes red and John would say he blushed but that’s not something Sherlock Holmes does. He lifts John’s wrists. “You’re getting better.” He raises his other hand and curls his fingers until they form a circle, smaller than the one around John’s wrist. “You were so thin, at first. You hadn’t been taken care of yourself.”

“Hypocrite,” John says. But there’s no real heat, almost laughter in his voice. He turns until he’s lying on his side and presses the hand not captured by Sherlock on his abs. “I could count your ribs.”

Sherlock shrugs. “You weren’t there.” There’s something rough in his voice when he says it and his eyes are so cold.

He traces the muscles in Sherlock’s abdomen, over his ribs, to his pectorals, his collarbones, Adam’s apple, chin, cheek, cheekbone, forehead until he pets Sherlock’s hair. He doesn’t say “you left me” even though a part of him wants to. He doesn’t say anything.

“John,” Sherlock says, and lets go of John’s wrist to cup his cheek. “I missed you.”

There’s something hot and watery in Sherlock’s voice and his eyes are changing, his whole face sharpens into hunger and he says, “I was a fool. I was stupid.” Then he kisses John, nips at John’s mouth until John opens for him and they kiss deeply.

Sherlock pushes him back and climbs on top of him, lying between John’s legs until they’re cock to cock and then he pushes and oh God, something in John’s brain finally clicks because this is Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock and he grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s hair to pull him closer and he presses his other hand against the naked skin of Sherlock’s back. His hips buck up and Sherlock grinds down against him, hisses underneath his breath. “Yes, John, oh John.”

Sherlock’s hands are everywhere, petting down his sides, tracing muscle and the soft skin of John’s belly and then up, over his broad shoulders, cupping his face, stroking his hair and then down, down, until he cups John’s ass and pulls him closer, pulls him up so they can rut against each other, desperate and too fast for this heat, but too much time has passed, too much time and slow got left behind in earth of England and there’s only now, now, now, now

John comes with a shout against Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock moans his name, grinds down deeper against the wetness in John’s pants and squeezes his arse and mumbles “I made you come, John, I made you come” like Sherlock can’t believe it’s true until his spine stiffens and he comes, silently, biting his bottom lip savagely, his whole body bowing like he might snap. John holds him, murmurs his name and cradles him close. Sherlock leans his forehead against John’s shoulder and says, “I couldn’t let them burn the heart out of me.”

John kisses the top of his head, kisses those dark curls. “I love you, you mad man.”

They stay like that for a long time, until they have to wash in the stream. They hold each other in the night and in the morning, John slips his cock between Sherlock’s clenched thighs and then comes all over them. Sherlock is shaking and so John slips lower, his face and shoulders pressed against his own cum when he swallows Sherlock down. They make love any way they can without condoms and lube and only go back to the civilized world when Sherlock starts getting restless. John looks at him and cannot express how relieved he is to see that manic energy coming back to Sherlock’s eyes.

They reach Kelang, trek to Kuala Lumpur and take an airplane to Hong Kong and catch a flight to somewhere in Alaska, but John is half asleep by then and doesn’t really know, and they catch a flight to Toronto and from there to Daneborg.

On the plane, John raises his eyebrows. “Greenland? Really?”

Sherlock gives him a look somewhere between exasperation and fond. “Of course, John, no one would expect criminal masterminds to have hide outs in Greenland.”

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, now you see them, now you don’t.

At the hotel, a package from Mycroft is waiting for them. Inside is the Belstaff coat and a blue scarf.

The End


A/N: I've never written Sherlock and John before, so I hope they're not too OOC. Also, the time frame probably makes no sense, but I can only do so much with maps found on the internet. Google maps is a pain.

Comments

ununpentium
Feb. 1st, 2012 10:33 am (UTC)
Wow, this was beautiful.
swift_tales
Feb. 5th, 2012 10:35 am (UTC)
Thank you ^^

Also: UNF to your icon

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