Chapter Nine: The things we said after you kissed me

'And I want to tell you everything,

The words I never got to say

The first time around…'

If my brother thought it bad form that I should disappear once more from his guardianship the moment I was rescued from my suicide mission, he had more grace than to reprimand me for it. It may have been my list (shockingly close to the bone, I'll admit), or perhaps a long overdue visitation of filial sentiment (much in the manner of Mr Scrooge this festive season) rearing its ugly head at long last - who can tell? Suffice to say, a curt nod rather than an armed guard was my greeting as I entered his ridiculously over-furnished office at The Diogenes Club the next day. Clearly wishing to waste no time, one of his lackeys had emailed all data regarding the Moriarty broadcast the evening before (complete with footnotes and observations added by Mycroft himself).

Big brother is concerned.

"Tea?" He nods to another lackey, stiff-backed and upper-lipped by the door, and so cheerful am I, I actually deign to accept. A momentary rise of an overarched brow telegraphs his surprise, but it barely lasts a moment before realisation (deduction is far too grand a term for such easy pickings) sets in.

"How charming," he murmurs, sickly smile ghosting across pursed lips.

"Meaning?" I am fully aware of his meaning, but enjoy his slightly derisive and laser-sharp dissection of me. He enjoys it so, and who am I to begrudge him? He let me back in, after all.

The tea arrives on a highly polished silver tray (Georgian, not hallmarked, polished daily by a left-handed Roman Catholic smoker) and steam from the aged but beautiful pot scrolls peacefully into the stillness between us. Three shortbreads artfully arranged across Crown Derby suggest another shall be joining us, but I bide my time, since happiness has curled about me (much as the steam) and softened the sharpness of the world into something more palatable.

"I did warn you," counters he, watching me without appearing to look up from the pot he is pouring from.

"So many times, I couldn't possibly narrow it down to a singular instance." I accept a tea cup as he volleys back. Oh, cat and mouse, how I have missed you lately.

"About getting involved, Sherlock." The eyebrow again. "Although I must admit, it rather suits you."

I take a sip. Annoyingly perfect.

"I did assume you had brought me back to tackle the 'M' Conspiracy, Mycroft. Are you making polite conversation?"

He smiles. Reptilian. Omniscient.

"Hardly. Quite impertinent, if truth be told. I take it you have barely glanced at the email sent last night? You look exhausted."

Truthfully, I skimmed it during the car journey over here, and precious little was new to me. I was, however, not about to stop our little back and forth, so reached across for a shortbread and bit into it, never leaving his gaze.

"Eating? Dear me, brother of mine, this is more serious than I had previously… anticipated," murmurs he, and I smile, vulpine through crumbs and sweetness. Then, as ever, Mycroft manages to surprise me, this time with the utterly unexpected blow of … sincerity.

"Go home. Eat, sleep, Sherlock. Be as the goldfish, and return tomorrow, refreshed and invigorated." He nods towards the door, sickly smile gone and a genuine, brotherly caste to his expression. "And give my regards to Doctor Hooper - " he lifts the plate of biscuits from the tray. "As well as the shortbread, with my compliments."

And I do.

~x~

I'm wearing your dressing gown. MH

How enchanting. Which one? SH

The green one. I may go as far to say that it is all I am wearing. MH

I see. SH

I may or may not be draped across your sofa in it. MH

The door is unlocked too. MH

Your recklessness both shocks and delights me. I am ten minutes away. SH

I need you to know bad things are going to happen in this dressing gown. MH

Molly Hooper, you also must know that bad things have already happened in that dressing gown. SH

Oh. MH

It's John's. SH

~x~

The physical longing for another is both delicious and distracting in equal measure.

I find myself suspended in an eternal and insatiable carapace of hunger and yearning, fuelled by itself and worsened rather than satiated by repetition. I am imprisoned and mocked by my desires and appetites, and find myself unashamed and freed in the same instance.

An infuriating juxtaposition of death blows to a man in the midst of the crime of his life.

However, I find these days that (rather than dulled) every single thought and action is heightened by an exquisite sensitivity. I am, for the first time, in step with the world, and see it bright and bounteous. Everything is clear, sharp and awaiting my dissection.

Daily, progress is made and people are being urged from their hidey holes (with spurious persuasion from certain quarters), and nightly I race back home, to be enveloped and devoured. There must be connections: so much; never enough.

"I must apologise," I am breathless, burning, moving, touching. "This is not how I expected to be."

She curls a hand around the back of my neck; cool, soothing, desirous. She laughs, breathless also.

"That you had any expectation at all is astonishing, my love." She draws my mouth down to hers and it is hopeless.

"I am both thirsty and drowning," I breathe after she kisses me, and the heat of her burns through my skin and her mouth is honey, dripping from the comb. We twist and turn across a churning sea of our own making.

"I love you," I breathe, soft like velvet into the darkness of her smile.

And I decide I know a siren when I see one.

~x~

Epilogue

'Over and over, the only truth,

Everything comes back to you.'

Three years later.

221C has absolutely no mobile reception. This is the only flaw in the perfect jewel that is Sherlock Holmes' basement-located, purpose built laboratory.

Every top quality magnetic stirrer, dry block heater and rotary evaporator; every homogeniser, vacuum and centrifuge that money could buy glitters resplendent in its subterranean cavern. No more kitchen sink dramas with acid, no more cocky medical students refusing to hand over his favoured Leitz, no irritating people getting in the way of science.

Well, perhaps one or two people.

Sherlock looms over his microscope. He has saved the best for last, since this slide is more than likely to have the composition of cells that would be the decider. He adjusts the overhead light (blue light, perfect for this task. Other types of lighting quality are also available) and remembers just in time to push his goggles back through his hair to see through the eyepiece. Both the coarse and fine adjusters had been recently calibrated and it was a true pleasure to use an instrument as well tuned as this one. Leaning forward, he is abruptly startled by a most un-finely tuned crackle of static, cutting through the calming hum of laboratory lighting.

But Sherlock does not frown in irritation, or even sigh, and he carefully lays down the slide and makes his way across the room towards the intercom.

"Hello. Who is this?"

(Crackle)

Sherlock taps the top of the wall-mounted device sharply, and the static settles down.

"Hallo!" A tinny yet brightly laced chirrup issues forth, and Sherlock finds he can do nothing but smile.

"Ah," he replies. "Good afternoon. And how are you today?"

"Good!" Sharp, staccato and to the point. Obviously. "I am good!"

Then:

"What are you doing?" comes the voice, so distorted as to sound alien and robotic, but Sherlock is enchanted (as well he might be).

"I am incredibly busy and doing extremely important things."

"Oh!"

"In fact, in my hand I have a set of microbes which hold a man's life in the balance."

"Ooh!"

"Indeed. Science will show us the way. I have always told you how reliable science can be in these matters."

"Yes!"

"Then I must go and see what it can tell me. I am sure you understand. I will see you very soon."

"Yes!"

Sherlock leans into the wall, his smile still evident and his bright, shiny new heart glowing stronger than any type of light he can think of.

"Goodbye then," he says.

"Bye bye Daddy," come the words right back at him. "See you later."

THE END