Fic for trickybonmot: Ford (5/5)

[holmesticemods]

What have I done.

What have I done.

What have I done.

A resounding crack!, and we’re both flat on the floor. On instinct, I scrabble as close to the side wall as I can and sit up, pressing my back against the bit of wall framing the metal door. From this angle, I can see a chair with the back blown out and a huge, cracking rupture in the concrete of the back wall.

Another crack!, and Christ, we’re under attack.

Reach for my radio, but I’ve not got it. Shit. What, did I leave it at base like a bloody crowbag? Crack! Blood on the floor - fuck, he’s hit. Thru-and-thru? No, can’t see an exit wound. He’s scrambling over to me - left arm, bullet lodged in bice- no, brachialis muscle, where’s my kit, need my fucking kit, gotta stop the bleeding, he’s - Sherlock - is, no, he’s- he’s not- he’s not Sh-

Oh my god. Oh Jesus, what the fuck is going on.

“John,” he’s right in front of me, grabbing at me with his good arm, “come on-”

“Wha-” the fuck, what the fuck? Who are you? Who are you?

“John.”

I’m shaking, shaking hard. Core temperature dropping. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. Where am I? Slide my hand over my chest, where’s my radio? I’ve got to- I have to call base and- “I don’t-”

His hands are on my face, forcing me to look at him. Sherl- “The year is 2016,” he says, quick and firm, “you’re in a storage facility in Battersea, London, England, UK, and we have to get out of here. Come on, come on!” He’s standing up now, pulling me to my feet, but my knees are wobbly and weak. “Now, John, quickly!” More pops in the distance - gunshots, but far away, muffled. Inside a building somewhere? Or one of these, what are they, storage units? God, where the fuck-

My arm is pulled in front of me as I’m dragged out of the unit and into a wide, paved corridor, and I recognise this place. I’ve been here before, this is- this is-

Oh, god. Oh, my god.

Scott.

We’re at the gate now, and I don’t know how we got here from the unit. He’s flicking open the gate control panel, smoothing his fingers over the numbers before typing. *. 1. 2. 6. 8. 2. 4. 2. #.

The gate makes a low buzzing sound, and slides open slowly. Sher- Scott pulls me through the moment there’s enough space for us to fit, and drags me to the curb, just as two sleek, black town cars pull up. Little flags near the mirrors, no plates.

Mycroft.

What the ffff- “What’s-”

“We have to separate. Get in,” Scott says, pulling open a door and pushing me towards the leather-lined back seat.

I shake my head, “I-”

“We’re too big a target together,” he says, glaring at me. “Get in, John. I’ll be right behind you,” he assures, jerking his head toward the other car.

Right behind me? Where are we going? Hospital? He needs medical attention- “Y-you’re bleeding-”

He shakes his head vigorously. “It’s nothing, flesh wound, just get in-”

He pushes down on my head until my knees buckle, and I crumble down into the back seat. What the fuck is happening- wha- “Scott-”

He looks down at me, eyes sharp and jaw clenched. He looks like he’s deliberating, like there are a thousand different things he wants to say.

He shakes his head once. “I’m not Scott,” he whispers, and closes the door.

—

Well. This certainly could have gone better. I tip my head to the side, eying the shivering, wide-eyed man on my settee. I suppose it could have gone worse, as well.

I quirk a smile as he presses thick, shaking fingers against his temples. I pride myself on the accuracy of my very first deduction of John Watson: this man has most certainly been the making of my brother. And made him worse than ever.

Though, by the state of them both right now, I imagine that goes both ways.

I step fully into the room, pulling the heavy wooden door behind me until there’s only an inch of space between it and its frame. He looks up at me, eyes glazed but sharp, and I take several cautious strides across the room. I sit on the small sofa across from him, folding my legs. A sliver of Anthea’s face appears through the crack in the door, and I nod to grant her entry. She comes in silently, and John’s eyes don’t stray from me.

I nod once, circumspect. This should be interesting. “Hello, John.”

He’s panting slightly, eyes flickering over my face. “…Mycroft,” he responds at length.

A violent shiver shakes his body, and I look over at Anthea. “A blanket for Dr. Watson please, Anthea,” I murmur, then settle my eyes back on John. “He seems to be in shock.”

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head once, eyes squeezing tightly shut. “A-acute stress r-reaction,” he stammers out. “Goes hand in hand with-”

“Your PTSD, yes,” I cut in and hum. “I’m aware.”

He huffs out a tiny breath of laughter, eyes still closed. “’Course you are.”

I smile ruefully. While entanglements of a romantic nature have never held my interest, I do understand my brother’s… shall we say, infatuation with this man. Superficially, he’s ordinary in the extreme, his words and actions often trite and expected, but… The spirit of him, for lack of a better word, the mysterious science that makes him tick… He is remarkably unpredictable, at times. Impossible to anticipate with any sureness of accuracy. Perhaps not a worthy opponent, but an all too worthy ally. A better ally than my brother ever expected, perhaps better than he deserves.

I clear my throat as Anthea deposits a folded woolen blanket on John’s lap. “Is there anything else you need?” I inquire. “A beverage or snack? Perhaps you’d like the elevate your fe-”

“What,” he growls, balling his hands in the fabric of the blanket, “The fuck,” ah yes, the question du jour, “Is going on.” He glares up at me, eyes aflame.

I carefully weigh the wisdom of demystifying the situation to John now, against my brother’s potential rage at my doing so without his attendance. Hm. “Perhaps it would behoove us,” I begin, “to wait until you are feelin-”

“Tell. Me. Now.”

I subconsciously lean back at the pure malice in his voice. Ah, yes. That would be the other reason my brother is so obsessed with this man. Same reason he collected black widows in a shoe box the summer of ‘87. Our dear Sherlock, always so enamoured of danger.

I straighten my posture and suck in a breath, clicking my tongue. “We made a slight… miscalculation.”

His eyes flutter closed at my usage of the word we, and I know what his next question will be. “Is Sh-…” he interrupts himself with a deep, gasping breath. “Is Sherlock alive.”

It occurs to me that, for a man like John - interesting, yes, but still quintessentially normal - this situation could be quite… damaging. Four years ago, Sherlock seemed entirely prepared to accept the consequences of his decision. I am not so sure now.

“Yes, John,” I murmur at length. “Sherlock is alive.”

His lungs seem to collapse on the gust of air he blows out, and his shoulders slump forward.

“Moriarty gave him an ultimatum,” I continue, “on the roof of St. Bart’s. Either Sherlock jumped,” John flinches at the word, “or Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, and you…” I pause until he looks up at me, eyes glassy and defeated, “… would die.” His eyes clench tight again, and I purse my lips. “Fortunately, we had a contingency plan for such a circumstance,” I say, “and we were able to-”

“Where has he been,” John interrupts, voice barely above a whisper. He looks up at me, eyes imploring. “It’s been four years, Mycroft. Where has he been? Why didn’t he come back?”

Ah yes. Four years is quite a long time, isn’t it. I swallow thickly and dip my head. “Moriarty’s web was-” vast, endless, “-extensive. And even with him dead, the only way to quell the threat he posed to you, me, Sherlock, everyone, was to eliminate every element of his syndicate.”

John shakes his head incredulously. “So, what, Sherlock’s been-” he scoffs, “-clandestinely crime-fighting for four years?”

Would that it were quite that simple. “In a manner of speaking, yes,” I allow.

He breathes out a forlorn little laugh and nods. “‘Course he was,” he murmurs defeatedly.

Yes, this most definitely could have gone better. “He returned to London several weeks ago,” I explain, “with the intent of eliminating Moriarty’s last remaining alliance. His right hand man, as it were, one Colonel Sebastian Moran.” I shall so enjoy compressing his file.

John glances up at me, curiosity piqued. “He was here in London? Moran?”

I nod slowly. “Yes. Surveilling you,” I add, tone matter-of-fact.

“Me?” John repeats, brow furrowing in confusion. “Why?”

That, that right there, is the only reason I have allowed my brother’s silly infatuation to continue. Fool that John is, he doesn’t know his position, the power he has, the advantage he could very easily take of my brother. He could destroy Sherlock, if he wanted to, if he knew. But John, silly ordinary John, has not a clue.

I purse my lips. “Had you given any indication that you knew Sherlock’s whereabouts,” I begin, and notice his face slacken in realisation. I needn’t continue, but- “Moran very likely would have-”

“Extracted it, yeah,” John interrupts. “Got it.”

“Precisely,” I confirm. “Which brings me to my next point.” He looks up at me, and there’s a tinge of dread in his face that blossoms when I murmur, “… Scott Ford Williams.”

His eyes shift out of focus, and he sways slightly in his seat, flesh turning a sickly white. “Th-the…” he stammers and trails off before trying again, “The man I-” he sucks in a breath, clenching his jaw hard.

I take pity on him. “Scott Ford Williams is a schoolteacher from Dorset,” I clarify, staring meaningfully into his eyes.

His brow furrows, and I realise he does not understand. Unsurprising. “Is he-” he starts, voice wavering, “I- did I-”

Ah. It seems Sherlock was every bit as thorough as he claimed he’d be. More explanation necessary, then. “He’s on holiday,” I interject. “Been in New Zealand for the past month. At my behest,” I add. And my personal expense. Ugh.

John shakes his head, eyes fluttering. Yes, I suppose this would be rather difficult for him to grasp. “New Z- how- I don’t…” a thick swallow, “I don’t understand.”

I imagine you don’t, dear John. Hm. How to put it simply… Ah, yes. “Had Moran captured you,” I begin and lean forward in my seat, “he would have extracted any information you had on Sherlock.” He nods, and I tip my head in relief; that much, at least, is clear to him. “Similarly,” I continue, “had Moran captured Sherlock,” yes, there’s the dawning understanding now, “he would have extracted any information Sherlock had on-”

“You,” John whispers. I smile slightly; there’s that sliver of higher intelligence that sets him apart from his peers.

“Yes,” I confirm. “Sherlock has acquired a great deal of intelligence these past four years pertaining to myself and my role in this country’s national security.” Unfortunate, but necessary. “Had Moran come in to this data, the results would be… disastrous, I’m afraid.” An understatement to say the least. “So,” I continue, “we established a failsafe.”

John’s brow dips further, and his eyes flick side to side. “A failsafe,” he repeats.

“Yes.” I suck in a short breath. “Should Sherlock be captured, he would simply enter a particular room in his mind palace.” I lower my voice meaningfully. “A room, which contained only one thing.”

John stares at me blank-faced for a moment, and I understand his confusion; the rooms of Sherlock’s palace tend to contain innumerable things, most of them odd and of mysterious, if any, use. A room containing only one item, then, is odd, out of place, separate from the others…

I see the light of realisation in his eyes, and I believe he has come to the correct conclusion. Well done, Dr. Watson.

“Scott Ford Williams,” he whispers, and it sounds like a revelation. I suppose it is, actually.

“Yes,” I reply softly. I admit to some surprise at the immediacy of his understanding; it is a complex thing Sherlock has done, something very few people in the world could have managed. Though, I suppose John has always had the utmost belief in Sherlock’s abilities.

“Once Sherlock entered that room,” I continue, “once he became Scott Ford Williams, he would be useless to Moran, as he would possess none of Sherlock’s knowledge - on me or anything else of import.” John blinks rapidly and dips his head in a nod. I return the gesture and go on, “We selected Mr. Williams for one reason: he-”

“He looks like Sherlock,” John finishes.

“Exactly,” I nod. “While it is within my power to, shall we say, create a person like Scott Williams - forge a birth certificate, licenses, education and job history, et cetera - my interference does leave certain… markers.” An unfortunate state of affairs that I’m currently working to correct. “Markers that an agent as-” admittedly, “-intelligent and experienced as Colonel Moran would be able to identify.”

John nods and clarifies, “He would have known you created an alter-identity for Sherlock.”

“Correct.”

He nods again then pauses, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “And that’s why you chose a real person?” he asks.

“Mm,” I hum in affirmation. “If Moran were to check certain sources - anything from Facebook to birth records - there would be no evidence that I had tampered with them-”

“Because you hadn’t,” he interjects.

I nod, “Because I hadn’t, yes. Given that, Moran would be hard-pressed to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man he had captured wasn’t Scott Ford Williams.” John’s head tips back and he sucks in a breath. Yes, I suppose it is a lot to take in. “We had hoped,” I go on, “that this knowledge might save, or at least prolong, Scott’s - Sherlock’s - life. Moran may have been less likely to draw unwanted attention to himself by killing an innocent man,” I say, tilting my head to the side, “a man with a family and a social presence - people would be looking for him.”

John is nodding, the movement tiny, quick, and continuous. It’s possible he’s still in shock. I can’t imagine that this topic of conversation is doing anything other than exacerbating his state, but… well, he did demand to be told.

“And of course that,” I say, tucking my chin to my chest, “is where we miscalculated.”

The movement of John’s head halts, and he stares empty-eyed at the glass-top table between us. He’s silent and still for a long moment, then his eyes fall shut on a sigh. “Moran never captured Sherlock,” he whispers. “…I did.” Another unforeseen turn of events. A surprisingly fortunate situation for Sherlock, but an endlessly terrible one for John. “I-” he cuts himself off with a slight choking sound, then shakes his head. “I grabbed him from behind during a power outage at the tube station,” he finishes.

Movement in my peripheral vision has my eyes flicking to the door. A familiar silhouette is just barely visible through the crack. Impeccable timing, as always.

My eyes cut back to John, and I nod. “Yes,” I murmur, tone circumspect. “And unfortunately, in this particular circumstance, my brother’s excellent reflexes did him a disservice,” I say, pursing my lips. “From the moment you grabbed him, he was-”

“Scott Ford Williams,” John breathes out.

Another nod. “Yes,” I affirm.

The door several meters behind John opens slowly, silently, and my brother steps inside. I take a moment to study him. Aside from the truly appalling red hair, he looks much the same as always, only… Only that’s not quite true, is it? He’s thinner (ugh, of course he is), his cheekbones not simply pronounced, but sharp. His whole body looks frail, almost wispy, and he looks terribly strange in dark jeans and a blue button down - Scott’s clothes. His hands look strange too, the knuckles knobbier than usual, and his violin calluses gone entirely. There’s grime under his fingernails.

Oddest, though, are his eyes. Sunken in and slightly bloodshot, they’re wide and glassy and full of something I’ve never seen before, something for which I can hardly summon a name-

“At the storage facility-” John’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and my eyes flick back to him. Sherlock stands at the door, lips bitten, eyes glued to John’s back. “At the end,” John continues, “he was-” he shakes his head in bemusement, “I could swear he was- was himself again,” he says, looking up at me in bewilderment. “I- how did-”

“Vatican cameos.”

John’s head jerks to the side, eyes going wide. He doesn’t look over his shoulder, though I’m sure he knows what - or rather who - he will see. Four years since he’s heard Sherlock’s voice - well, not counting his time with Scott - but I hardly think he’s forgotten the sound of it.

Sherlock’s eyes are still settled, wide and unblinking, on John. He steps cautiously forward, making his way around the settee to stand next to the table between John and myself. John’s eyes finally - finally - flick up to Sherlock’s, and I feel a tension in my stomach as the room suddenly feels several degrees cooler.

Sherlock swallows audibly, sunken eyes riveted to John’s. “In the event that I - Scott - survived,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and oddly… uncertain? “… the only way for me to exit the room I created for him in my mind palace was with a.. a codeword. … A codeword only two people in the world know.”

John stares blankly at him, his expression closed off in a way that even I cannot read. “Vatican cameos,” he whispers.

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

John nods slowly, and slides the blanket off of his lap, setting it on the cushion next to him. He leans forward, pushing himself slowly to his feet. My eyes flick back and forth between them as John takes one, two, three steps toward Sherlock, until they’re barely a foot from one another.

Sherlock bites his lip for a second, then smiles awkwardly. “Rather fortuitous timing, that,” he says, faux-wryly. Oh my dear, dear brother. Did you think he would simply fall into your arms? “Well done, J-”

John punches him in the face.

The action is so quick and unexpected that I barely see him move. I suck in a breath, watching as Sherlock brings his hand to his face, tapping softly at the skin around his bloodied nose. I rise slowly, making a gesture to Anthea, who has appeared in the doorway. She nods and disappears.

Sherlock removes his hand from his face and, foolishly, reaches out toward John. He looks just as he did as a child - bloodied, bewildered, hurt, and so terribly confused as to why someone wouldn’t appreciate his insight.

“John-”

John punches him again.

Sherlock’s head jerks sharply to the side, and an arc of blood splatters the table and settee. Anthea reappears at the door, two large, hulking guards behind her. I glance at John and wonder briefly if these men will be able to subdue him.

John lands an open-handed slap to Sherlock’s face, then a hard punch to his chest, and I step out of the fray as the two guards attempt to tear John away. It’s a bit of a struggle, and one of the guards catches an elbow to the face in John’s wild aggression. The guard staunches his bleeding nose with one hand while pushing John backwards with the other.

“Get off, get off of me!” John yells, shrugging his way out of their grip. My body jerks in preparation to stand between him and my brother, but he doesn’t move toward Sherlock.

Instead, he raises his arm, pointing a shaking finger and staring Sherlock dead in the eye.

“Go to hell,” he growls, and drops his hand to his side.

Sherlock shakes his head and takes a halting step forward. “John, I-”

“Don’t,” John hisses, and the spectre of his sadness, his betrayal, his rage is truly terrifying. I feel myself flinch back. “You just,” he continues, eyes still boring into Sherlock’s. “You stay away from me. I ca- I just-” his respiration rate picks up, eyes losing focus, “I can’t- can’t-” he shakes his head spasmodically and sucks in a gasping breath, “Jesus Christ,” he breathes out, turns around, and walks straight out the side door.

“John, wait. Wait!” Sherlock calls, stepping after him. The guard with the bleeding nose blocks his way, and Sherlock glares at him, then looks over at me. “You can’t-”

“Let him go,” I interrupt, and his brow curls in incredulity.

“‘Let him g-‘? Moran is still-”

“Moran is dead,” I say calmly, and glance at Anthea. She nods her head and gestures at the guards to leave. She follows them to the door, then glances at me over her shoulder, a question in her eyes. I shake my head, no, and she nods once, walks out, and shuts the door behind her.

A godsend, that wom-

“Dead,” Sherlock whispers.

I glance over at him and - ugh, he’s getting blood everywhere. I huff out a sigh and gesture for him to sit. He clenches his jaw and walks gingerly to the settee, settling himself precisely where John sat. His eyes fall to the still folded wool blanket.

“Yes,” I confirm. “Moran is dead.” I await the compression of his file with glee.

“H-…” Sherlock shakes his head and peers up at me. “How?”

I step around the table and reclaim my seat on the sofa. “We were rather unsuccessful in finding your location after you were abducted,” I begin, crossing my legs. “We assumed Moran had captured you.” A fair assumption, at the time. “It wasn’t until John used your mobile to call to Anth- Anita,” I correct myself, “that we were able to triangulate your location.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, shaking his head again. “How is Moran dead?” he enunciates.

I sigh in exasperation and fold my arms over my chest. “A calculated risk on my part,” I say, matter-of-fact. “I had evidence to support the theory that Moran had planted bugs on my surveillance team.” Irritating, but ultimately beneficial. “I hypothesised then that, once we became aware of your location, so did he.” Sherlock’s head dips in realisation. “In which case,” I continue, “it wasn’t a matter of surveilling the storage facility, so much as surveilling all possible s-”

“Sniper holdouts overlooking the facility,” he interrupts.

“Precisely,” I nod, and it’s good to see he hasn’t lost his touch. I admit I was worried there, for a moment. “We were able to hone in on Moran’s position and neutralise him after he’d fired his third round.”

He huffs out a sardonic laugh and tilts his head to the side. “Would that be the bullet they just pulled out of my arm?” he asks derisively.

I raise my eyebrows, unimpressed. “Apologies.”

“John could have been killed,” he posits.

“John wasn’t the target.”

A growl. “I could have been killed.”

Tilt my head. “As I said, a calculated risk.”

He huffs out a breath and peers down at his hands. There’s blood caked onto his fingertips, drying a sickly brown. Grotesque.

“John,” he whispers. “I-.. I need to speak to John.”

I shake my head, leaning back against the sofa. “You need further medical attention,” I counter. While his injuries don’t look too severe, he’ll need to have his nose set, for one, and it’s possible John may have fractured one or two of his ribs with that last hit. Then of course, there’s the fact that- “You also need to give your statement for the record.”

“I need,” he bites out. “To speak. To John.”

I blow out a weary sigh and smile at him sadly. My silly sentimental brother, who understands absolutely nothing about sentiment.

“He needs time, Sherlock,” I murmur. He looks up at me, and I can barely distinguish the broken thirty-seven-year-old man before me from the bewildered nine-year-old boy that still lives inside of him.

I sigh again. My dear, silly, precious little brother. “Give him time.”

—

Perhaps the most interesting part of my (so-called) brilliant plan was that, in practice, it wouldn’t have actually worked.

Silly, really. I had allowed those four (long, grueling, exhausting, traumatising - delete) years to overrun the cool, sharp accuracy of my logic with useless, imprecise sentiment. Had I not been quite so eager to return to London (John) - had I taken a moment to think, for god’s sake - I would have realised that the idea I proposed to Mycroft - the illegal move, as it were - was not actually possible.

By the very nature of existing within my mind palace, the contents of that room - Scott Ford Williams - could never be entirely separate from me. There would always be echoes of me ringing through the air, coming in through the keyhole, seeping up through the floorboards.

And seep, I did.

Scott Ford Williams never suffered bouts of depersonalisation. Scott Ford Williams was never called by his second name. Scott Ford Williams never had a cat called Schrodinger. And Scott Ford Williams never loved John Watson.

Frankly, Scott Ford Williams is terribly boring.

It’s been twenty-three days since Sebastian Moran was killed. Forty-eight days since I returned to London. Sixty-six days since John became a widower. Three hundred and seventy-one days since he was married. Thirteen hundred days exactly since I stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s.

It’s been long enough. I raise my hand, knock on the door.

I hear a creak and a grumble as John rises from the sofa, and a soft patter as he walks barefoot across the floor. He’s in the sitting room. Now the hallway. Now the foyer. And…

The door swings open, and there is John. John. John.

He looks slightly better than the last time I saw him. He’s gained six pounds (gone up a belt-hole), taken some time off work (no antiseptic smell or latex residue between his fingers), taken more pride in his hygiene (not a hint of stubble), and-

And he’s closing the door.

I slide my foot over the threshold, grunting as it’s crushed between the door and frame, and push hard against the door until I feel John fall back.

I throw the door open and stride inside, crowding John backwards. He reaches up to push at my chest, and I grab his wrists, press them against the wall on either side of his head. I’d prepared for his anger, written a speech in the cab, rehearsed it aloud (to the bewilderment of the cabbie). It would answer all his questions, clearly and precisely, explain everything, recount where I’d been, what I’d done-

I’m kissing him.

God, his mouth. So expressive with his mouth - smiles and frowns and smirks and laughs and little moues of annoyance or exasperation - but this, this-

His held falls back against the wall with a dull thud, and I press my mouth harder against his. I’ve not done much of this, have very little practical experience, and I’m pressing my tongue too far in, but I don’t care, I don’t care, and he groans and I can feel it, feel it in every part of me, from my palate to my loins to the tips of my toes, I want to crawl inside of him, lay myself against his skeleton, connect his heart to mine with a Pirastro Tonica E-string-

He pulls his head sharply to the side, and our lips separate with a soft pop.

“Vatican cameos,” he whispers, pressing himself back against the wall.

I shake my head and rub my cheek against his. “I’m not Scott,” I whisper back, then cover his mouth with mine again.

He sighs, and I can taste his breath. “Sherlock,” he murmurs, muffled against my lips. “I can’t-”

I pull back, just slightly. “Can’t what,” I breathe out.

He shakes his head, then tips it forward until his forehead presses against my sternum. I bury my face in his hair.

“My entire life,” he whispers, “is… ruined. Sherlock.” He sucks in a thick, wet breath. “Everything is-”

No. No, not ruined. Just broken. “I’ll fix it,” I murmur against his scalp. “I’ve done it before.”

He gurgles a thick laugh, and sniffs. There’s a wet spot forming on my shirt, I can feel it sticking to my clavicle.

He lifts his head, peering up at me, and his eyes are shiny, glazed with defeat. “How am I supposed to forgive you for this?”

I rub the tip of my nose across his forehead, then lean slightly back to look into his eyes. “You don’t need to forgive me,” I whisper back. “I’m not apologising.”

His eyes squeeze tightly shut, and he chokes out a breath. “Jesus Chr-”

He tries to pull away, but I squeeze his wrists hard and lean my full weight against him. “Everything I have done,” I whisper urgently, “everything, has been to keep you alive.” Nothing I wouldn’t do, nothing. I would have jumped - even with nothing to catch me, with nothing to break my fall but cold, wet pavement - I would have jumped in an instant, if it meant you would live.

He’s looking up at me with an odd, hollow expression.

“Alive,” he repeats, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself. “Is that what I am?”

I kiss him again, softly now, giving him my breath as I’ve done these past four years, as I’ve always done, and he sags back against the wall.

Let go of his wrists, slide my hands up to twine my fingers with his. “… Yes.”

—

FIN

Comments

[ancientreader]

I commented on AO3 but I want to say here as well that this is an effing knockout. What an intelligent and painful reimagining of the hiatus and return.

[swissmarg]

Terrific fic! This had me going back and forth so many times on whether it was really Sherlock or not. I even suspected it wasn't really John at one point, that it was Moran posing as John. I especially liked Sherlock's plan, and how this diverged from canon. John's pain and frustration was so realistic, and Ford's confusion so convincing. The part with the baby was really sad though... But what a great surprise ending -- for everyone!

[biswholocked.livejournal.com]

Wow...what a rollercoaster of feels and plot twists! Fantastic job!

[dryadinthegrove]

What?? I thought I'd left a comment, but, um, I have to admit, halfway through Chapter 3 I went to chapter 5 and read the very end BECUASE I HAD TO KNOW WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN OKAY?

*shifty eyes*

That's just the way I roll when I get nervous about things...

...I'll get me coat. But I loved this. Loved. It.

[hiddenlacuna.livejournal.com]

I commented at AO3, but I wanted to leave another one here - STUNNING. this is a story that I know will stay with me for a while. I also kept thinking no it isn't - maybe it is - ok no it's not - it is! - no definitely not - but - oh shit - YESYESYESYESYESNOOOOOOOOO!


Fantastic.

[pipmer1.livejournal.com]

This is fantastic! So many twists and turns, leaving the reader breathless and wondering what is what and who is who. Like swissmarg, at one point I also suspected that John might actually be Moran, trying to get Ford to admit that he is actually Sherlock. Well done!