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Why Do We Fall?	By : darkangel1210 Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1530 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Why Do We Fall?
Sequel to 'SoaA': Sherlock and John thought it was all over, The Final Problem, until Sherlock starts having strange visions that he can't explain. Their investigation into them reveals that Moriarty has left them a gift but it isn't what they were expecting. A gift where the lines of right and wrong blur, morals and ethics are chains, and when a new danger arises to threaten them they are faced with a decision; to preserve or destroy. If only it were that simple.
A/N: I'd like to say a big thank you again to the reviewers of SoaA - if I could give you biscuits I would but I'll have to make do with swamping you with my endless gratitude! :-)
I hope you enjoy this part and thank you for your patience while I've been rewriting this.
Part One
It took all of two minutes for Sherlock to decide that, actually, the living room floor was far too cramped a space for what had been fairly strenuous physical activity between two grown men, and it certainly wasn't the most comfortable place one could find oneself in post-coital slumber. Neither of these points seemed to deter the man who was currently fast asleep on his shoulder, oblivious to the outside world with his arms and legs wrapped securely around Sherlock's body to prevent him from moving. Lying there on the floor, completely bare of clothing with the warmth of John's body pressed against his right side, Sherlock also came to the decision that, although none of his previous thoughts had been nullified in any way, there wasn't a single place on Earth where he would rather be.
It had only been a few hours since his laptop had entered its hibernation state, the playlist he'd added to iTunes having long gone silent, the closing violins of 'This Bitter Earth' lost in those intense moments where Sherlock's memory had been both the sharpest it had ever been and also the foggiest. He remembered John's breakdown clearly; the tears splashing on his neck where John had pressed his face into the groove of Sherlock's shoulder; the trembling of John's body as Sherlock had held him close when all the strength John possessed had drained from him. The whispered words from John that he'd so badly needed to hear for over two and half years, remembering with perfect clarity the shapes John's lips had made against his own when John had spoken the words.
'I have been forgiven.'
Sherlock could scarcely believe it, even now, after everything that had happened between them in the last few hours. John had accepted his apology for the deceit that he'd been forced to commit. Granted, the deception had been necessary for it had saved John's life, but Sherlock had correctly assumed that the cost of faking his suicide to the people he loved would be too great a burden and, by the time he'd come to that conclusion, he was already far too immersed in Moriarty's web to untangle himself from it. John's drawings in the oak box were proof enough of that assumption and something that Sherlock would need to discuss with him when the appropriate time presented itself. For now, he was content with the crick in his neck and the aches in the small of his back and his shoulders, thinking that perhaps they could have put a bit more effort in to make it to a bed, but really too comfortable in every other sense to want to move just yet. They weren't cold despite the December temperatures, having stoked the fireplace when a natural break appeared between their activities, the carpet also providing a little cushioning against the wooden floor (which would have played havoc with their bodies given the length of time they'd been lying on it if the fabric hadn't been there), and making the after-glow much more pleasant. John seemed ok with the position at least, and Sherlock had had the forethought to grab the union jack pillow from John's chair so he would have something to rest his head on when John had pressed down on top of him earlier…
From his angle on the floor, Sherlock could see the pictures John had drawn of him on the wall and he had been looking at them while he waited for John to wake up. He hadn't been studying them; that activity demanded a certain level of concentration whereupon the minute differences in the drawings would have been noted and compared to the one just next to it, or, indeed, to the drawings that were in John's bedroom upstairs, assessing how they reflected the firelight and how that varied to the sunlight that he'd seen them in earlier that day, and Sherlock could admit that he didn't possess that focus just now. He merely looking at them, absorbing them for the artwork that they were and not aiming to praise or denounce any particular part of them. His mind was engrossed with more pressing matters.
John was naked beside him; that thought on its own was very important and demanded his immediate attention. The retired army doctor, serial dater and self-proclaimed heterosexual had not a stitch on his body and was pressed full-length against Sherlock, who was also naked, and seemed perfectly content with the situation judging by how quickly he'd fallen asleep after his exhaustion prevented them from continuing. Sherlock directed his thoughts to the way they were lying together, wanting to memorise every moment that he could of this outwardly fragile peace; he was on his back with the front of John's body turned into his right side, John having placed his right arm over Sherlock's chest, his left arm stretched out behind his back to provide stability, the same purpose used for his right leg where it was lifted up and over Sherlock's hips with his left stretched out and touching Sherlock's right leg. A very intimate position, overall, and more than apt at displaying the familiarity that two people could have together; this understanding being shown by the close proximity that Sherlock was unfamiliar with, and therefore should have felt intrusive, yet somehow felt warm and innocent of intent.
Briefly, he glanced down at where John's head was pillowed on his shoulder, watched the way John's eyes moved beneath his eyelids as they followed the vision of his dreams, his breathing easy and measured in his chest. The sight was something that he knew he would never tire of looking at, however Sherlock knew by looking the clock on the wall that John had been asleep for twenty-two minutes, fifteen seconds and, based on his own body's aches, he calculated that it would be roughly another three minutes at the most before John's subconscious would make him shift in his sleep, just enough to ease the tension and numbness at the points of pressure in his body.
So Sherlock stayed still lest he disturb his… what? Flatmate? Partner? Was this just some tryst between them that would be forgotten about when dawn's light shone through their street-side windows, or were they something more now? Given the evidence before him, Sherlock decided that this couldn't be just some fling. John, where he'd had the opportunity to sleep at a date's house, had always pressed ahead with a relationship and tried to make it work despite Sherlock's interference with cases and requests for assistance, something which had caused the demise of those relationships when John wasn't able to manage the demands placed upon him by Sherlock and the woman he'd been dating at the time. If Sherlock took those instances as an indication of John's natural behaviour when pursuing a mate, then that would mean that John had effectively made the decision to spend the night with him and that John would, habitually, be seeking a relationship with Sherlock in a possible future together.
Before Sherlock had met John, he had often dismissed the idea of relationships as messy, emotional things that played people as skilfully as he played his violin. He'd considered the reasons why people pursued them so ardently, that the emotions one felt during the course of that relationship were a positive influence, not a negative one, but had never been consumed with the need that would drive him towards finding a companion, never thought that, one day, the subject he had studied so vigorously would suddenly turn on him, refusing him the right to deny his natural existence as a human being first and transport second.
Companion…
'A person or animal with whom one spends a lot of time or with whom one travels. A person who shares the experiences of another, especially when these are unpleasant or unwelcome.'
An interesting word to attribute to his John, for the experiences they'd had together would certainly be labelled as unpleasant or unwelcome by people who were strictly bystanders, on the outside looking in if given the opportunity to do so. Fortunately, a majority of their most dangerous work had taken place outside of the public eye and was not in the rumour mill for speculation which just left the labels that they had for themselves, ones that they wanted to be known by together rather than the other way around.
'"I'd be lost without my blogger."'
Words which were as true now as they were when he'd first said them and now with more meaning given the history which lay between them. Two and a half years of separation had driven home the point of why Sherlock had taken John on as a flatmate to start with, requiring more than a wall (or a skull) to rebound his ideas off of. He had needed another person who had enough common sense in their brain to take his thoughts, his theories, and come to their own conclusions because every once in a while Sherlock required another's intuition to deduce the facts which, for one reason or another, had chosen to remain elusive. It had been John's decision to aid his own therapy by publicising their adventures on the Internet, creating his own label and one that had been more than appropriate at the time, given how quickly Sherlock had started calling him it and how John had taken it on-board, eager with anticipation when he was officially something more than another idiot in the world of the great Sherlock Holmes.
Blogger, however, was not a word that Sherlock would use to describe John now, not when the man was lying naked beside him, his entire being so completely trusting and loyal almost to a fault that it had saved Sherlock's life as well as putting John's own in danger on more than one occasion. Not that John had complained too loudly on the second count. He had been seeking it, truth be told, subconsciously trying to detect the subtle undercurrent of threat which lurked in the dark corners and alleys of London's streets; he just hadn't known it until Sherlock had shown him, in a twenty-four hour span, just what excitement there was to be had in a thriving metropolis, which, despite outward appearances, could be just as dangerous as Afghanistan's front line. You just had to know where to look.
Now though… Now, the very thought of John's life being in any danger sent a pang through Sherlock's stomach, a sinking feeling that abruptly made his breath catch in his throat though he was careful to keep the rest of his body still as the reaction sent a wave through his nervous system, mindful of where his hands were on John's body. He had one hand buried in John's hair, cupping the back of his skull, the occipital bone, with his fingers gently stroking through the strands which John had neglected to keep trimmed just recently, the longest hairs now reaching to just past his ear-lobes and making it easier for Sherlock's fingers to glide through them. His other hand, his left, was curled around the hand John had placed on his chest which had been placed directly over his heart, as though John was making sure Sherlock was still alive by feeling the rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump beneath his fingertips. Both were places on John's body that were sensitive to touch and therefore would have felt the slight tensing of Sherlock's hands had he not stopped himself from completing the action in time.
Even with the strange feeling that had settled deep in his gut, making his emotions flutter like the nervous twitch of a butterfly's wings, his logical mind knew that it was merely a chemical reaction by his body to signal his distress at the thought of John coming to harm. Reason dictated that, as he'd had numerous experiences with chemicals before, it should be a simple matter to introduce other agents to the reactions his body was having and therefore decrease, if not abolish, the awkward feeling altogether. In practice, however, this theory was encountering problems; if he imagined John smiling or laughing, his emotional state reminded him that, if John was fatally injured, he would never see that smile or hear that laugh ever again. When Sherlock brought the images of their physical union to the forefront of his mind, again those feelings prodded at him, repeating that he would never feel John's body against his own, flush with exertion, and would never again experience the urgent heat in his groin which had demanded appeasement with a ferocity that had shaken him down to his core.
After several attempts to quell the anxiety that his thoughts had inflicted on him, and finding himself hopelessly useless at it, the primal part of his brain decided to take over, shifting his body underneath John's weight and rolling them both until they lay on their sides facing each other, much to John's disgruntlement at being forced from a position that he was clearly comfortable in.
"Wha… Sherl-umph!"
They were the only sounds to leave John's mouth when Sherlock finally pressed his lips to John's own, stopping the question in its tracks as he slid his arms around John's torso, tightening his hold until they were flush against each other from chest to thigh, legs tangled between them in as much the same way as Sherlock was attempting to mimic with the rhythmic thrusting of his tongue into John's mouth.
And oh, that was so much better, feeling John alive in his hands, responsive to his touch and hearing John voice his pleasure at Sherlock's method of awakening him. Little moans vibrated in John's throat before being passed onto Sherlock between their joined mouths, seeking Sherlock's own murmurs of desire in this intimate dance that Sherlock was becoming marvellously adept in, given his very limited experience in the area and a small fact that John had taken great delight in once he had divulged it.
It would be wrong to say that he hadn't had any experience at all in carnal affairs; hypothesises were nothing if they didn't have the proof required to back them up and his own ideas of what sex could be like, taking into account the hormones released during such an exercise and so on, wouldn't have meant a thing if he couldn't experience the outcome first hand. Mycroft had underestimated him wholeheartedly during the Baskerville case because, quite rightly, Sherlock had stated that sex didn't bother him and it really didn't. Despite that, he'd only had two experiences regarding sex in his adult life, once with a woman and once with a man, because the hypothesis required testing from both genders and Sherlock himself had never been gender specific. Orgasm was orgasm at the end of it all and the focus hadn't been on the physical properties of his completion. He knew what happened to a man's body when he ejaculated; there was hardly any notable difference between the male mechanics of the human race so that wasn't the issue. The strength of his climax, however, had had some experimentation involved with his experiences of sexual encounters amounting to the following; a hand-job and a blow-job from the man, duly reciprocated in the case of the hand-job, and the same from the woman, not taking into account his own forays into masturbation which had ended as soon as he'd gathered all the data he could reasonably collect from it.
He knew that these experiences were often a regular occurrence between London's general population with establishments throughout the city offering far more than just a sneaky suck in a glory-hole bar, but he had made the decision that there was only so far he was willing to go with someone who was there purely for scientific study. His mother had taught him better than that and, even though he had regarded the tradition of saving one's virginity for their eventual marriage with indifference, some of his mother's sensibilities had been drummed into him. This particular one meant that he would at least have to wait to find the right individual before sharing any more of himself with them, more than that person would be willing to take care of in any regard, so he would need to be careful in any future ventures.
"Hearts are fragile, Sherlock, so don't be so quick to throw your own at the first person who gives you more than an appreciative look."
Right now, with John in his arms and the both of them focussed on kissing each other absolutely senseless, he realised that there had been some truth to his mother's words. There wasn't anyone else on the planet who he wanted to share this with, all this warmth and bare flesh and fluids and moans and sensations. When he had finally given himself to John after John's breakdown, when he'd been right at his very peak, the whole experience had nearly brought tears to his eyes, it had been so overwhelming. His body flushed hot with the memory of John's hand on their shafts as he had stroked them both together through Sherlock's climax, driven them both forward until John had reached his own orgasm, somehow still aware enough to keep his hand moving on them although their bodies had shaken and trembled with the contractions coursing through them, leaving behind a tingling in Sherlock's limbs that had taken a while to fade with their panting loud in the room while they recovered. No words had been spoken between them during that brief lull, although Sherlock's shirt had been used to wipe them both clean with smooth, gentle strokes on sensitive flesh, causing small aftershocks in their bodies when the soft fabric teased at already sore nerve-endings. He remembered pulling John down to him after the shirt had been put to one side, sliding his hands across all those secret and hidden places which had never been his to witness before and had been suddenly granted access to, an access that he had taken full advantage of and under which John had been very happy to oblige.
He thought it interesting to note that, contrary to what he believed would happen between them when they'd both ended up on the living room floor for the first time, John had correctly guessed that Sherlock was still, by a large percentage, a virgin and had decided to keep him that way for another time. 'Another time' hadn't been given any specifics, nothing that Sherlock could take away and store for later retrieval; he could only assume that it was John's own moral judgement that was stalling what he hoped would be an inevitability between them but, given his experience, he felt that it was best if he didn't say anything for the time being. John was clearly waiting for something, something which either of them had yet to provide. Maybe it was a sense of stability, or perhaps John wanted to wait until the first night of passion had passed and, once they were both a little clearer in their minds, they could make an informed decision as to what was going to happen. There hadn't been any discussion of who was going to do what; whether anal sex would be involved or if it was too soon for that, but Sherlock understood that sharing any form of physical bond with John was, at the very least, a step up from that they'd been before and therefore was to be viewed as progress.
Sherlock gentled the kiss, taking John's bottom lip between his teeth for an instant to lightly tug at it before swiping his tongue along its length, John whimpering at the loss of the feeling when Sherlock released him. At some point during the kiss the both of them had closed their eyes, so when Sherlock opened his to gaze at John, he saw that the other man had yet to open his own, a look of bliss on his face before his eyes blinked open, the pupil focussing to the light in the room as John returned Sherlock's gaze. When John's eyes had adjusted, and he could see Sherlock clearly in the firelight, he smiled; a full-blown one that reached his eyes and suffused Sherlock's entire body with a light, almost weightless feeling. The last time he'd seen John smile like that had been before Moriarty's influence on their lives, when the thrill of the chase and being together had been enough to bring it out in all its glory. It was very good to see it again.
"Well, that's the best wake-up call I've had in a while," John said, bringing his right hand up to stroke along Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock tightened his hold on John's body as he lifted his own hand up and placed it on top of John's, keeping their hands against his face as he absorbed everything he could of the man in front of him. "I needed it," he replied, unwilling to divulge his reasons for the rather passionate exchange between them just yet.
John chuckled, a light sound, his smile somehow becoming brighter with the noise that the laughter produced. "Feel free to wake me up anytime you like if it's going to be like that."
"Even if it's for a case at three in the morning?"
"Yes, even for a case at three in the morning."
Sherlock had his doubts that John would be ok with being woken up in that fashion only to be dragged out of bed for a case that would likely be solved within the first five minutes of them being there, if the case turned out to be exceptionally dull, but he would hold John to his agreement as it meant the other man was more than happy for their elevated status from best friends to continue. The realisation chased away some of the niggling worries that Sherlock had had about their future together and it was enough for him to park the other, more stubborn concerns that he had, allowing his own smile to form so that John would see it.
It was a natural reaction at that point to pull each other back into another kiss, perhaps leading onto more if John were so inclined (and by the twitching against his thigh, Sherlock deduced that it would be a very welcome course of action indeed), but before their lips could meet John's mobile phone rang, the noise of the jingle John had chosen as his ringtone a loud and unwanted sound in the room. Both of them winced, and then laughed together when they saw the other had made the same action, before John separated himself from Sherlock's hold to retrieve his mobile which was on the desk next to Sherlock's laptop. Sherlock remained on the floor, watching John's body as the flames in the hearth flickered the light onto John's skin, his muscles shifting with his movements as he looked at who was calling him before accepting it.
"Hello, Greg! How are you? Yes, I'm fine, why?" John paused, listening to Lestrade's response. "Oh, was that tonight? Damn I'm sorry, I completely forgot." Another pause. "Are you still there? What time is it? Bugger. Well, I really can't come down now, I've… No, I'm not with a woman!" John paused again; rolling his eyes at Sherlock in what Sherlock assumed was tolerance at Lestrade's gentle ribbing of his doctor. "What? You want to come here? To the flat?"
John threw Sherlock a look of what he was meant to assume was worry, considering Sherlock's currently deceased status which had yet to be rectified and the fact that they hadn't gotten around to discussing when Sherlock would reveal himself to the people in their lives beyond Mrs Hudson. Seeing his partner's predicament and knowing that Lestrade would eventually come to the flat anyway to make sure John was all right, he nodded his agreement, a quick jerk of his head to show that it was ok and Lestrade could come round.
Sherlock's assent at Lestrade's arrival didn't quell the anxious look on John's face like he thought it would though, although the other man was careful not to let that concern filter through into his voice. "No, no, I'm fine with it. So when can I expect you? Ok, can you come round at half ten? That's not too late, is it?" John flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall, seeing that the time was at a quarter to ten, plenty of time for the both of them to have a quick shower and ready themselves for what was bound to be an interesting evening. "Ok, no worries. I'll see you then."
John hung up and looked down at his phone for a moment before placing it on the desk again and looking down at where Sherlock was still gloriously splayed across the floor. "It looks like we're going to have to cut this one short, love," he said softly, walking over to him and kneeling down. "As much as I loathe seeing a stitch of clothing on your body, Lestrade will have a fit if he walks into the flat and finds us like this."
Sherlock smiled; his imagination more than adequate at guessing exactly what Lestrade's reaction would be. "He suspected our relationship was like this long before Moriarty's involvement, John. I don't think he would be surprised in the slightest."
"Well I'd much rather not give the Yard any more food for fodder than I have to." John stood up, reaching a hand out towards Sherlock in a clear attempt to get him on his feet. "Come on, you. Time for a shower."

It was just after a quarter past ten in the evening and the flat found both Sherlock and John sitting in their respective chairs in the living room with John nursing a cup of tea, Sherlock having decided to skip one of his own beverages and choosing to take a sip of John's when the other man offered it to him. Despite the growing tension on John's part with the anticipation of Lestrade's arrival, the atmosphere of the apartment had a very homely feel to it; they'd finished clearing up the mess that had been inspired by Sherlock's musical re-enactment of the Fall, finding the clothes that had been hastily torn off of their bodies when their desire for one another had overwhelmed the patience required to remove them, and had moved the furniture back to its rightful place from where it had been pushed out of the way to make room for them on the floor. Everything felt as though it had gone back to normal, but Sherlock knew that it was mostly a façade. He had a pretty good idea of what would happen once Lestrade reached the flat and saw him there, very much alive and in good health despite the reports of his demise at Bart's, but it was out of his hands for now. He couldn't very well act on something that hadn't happened yet, but it didn't hurt to be prepared for what would be the most probable outcome of his meeting with the DI.
His mind recalled the shower that both John and he had partaken in shortly after John's phone call with Lestrade, and took pleasure in the fact that it had been a welcome source of relaxation on muscles that had grown tense from the length of time that Sherlock had been lying on the living room floor. The feeling of the water flowing over his body, through his hair and across his skin still danced across his nerves in sensorial memory, although he had been a little disappointed that John hadn't joined him in the cubicle that was quite big enough for two people. The other man had denied Sherlock's statement that John didn't want to help him wash his back, instead replying that if he did get into the shower with a hot, wet and soapy Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade would have to wait for another half hour at least before they emerged from the bathroom.
Behind where Sherlock's hands were steepled in front of his face, his elbows on the arm rests of his chair, a small smile graced his lips at the memory. To all outward appearances, John was still very much enamoured with Sherlock and his transport, enough that he had to adhere to strict discipline when the situation called for it lest they both slip into the sinfully bad habit of falling into bed together and not leaving until food, water and natural bodily functions demanded a respite. The thought made him ridiculously happy and, while his annoyance at having their fun cut short was still burning in the back of his mind, the burn was that of an ember, the tinder having failed to catch since his annoyance had come from a source that had been short-lived, especially when faced with John's good humour at the situation.
They were now both dressed in a more respectable fashion; they had clothes on, for a start, with Sherlock in his usual Spencer-Hart attire and John in his casual, but extremely favoured by Sherlock, jumper and jeans. There wasn't any further evidence in the flat of their fervent exchanges prior to Lestrade's phone call but it didn't stop John from glancing around the flat occasionally, constantly checking that all indications of their new relationship were properly hidden until the time was right for them to reveal it.
Sherlock reminded himself that John wasn't checking because he was ashamed of it, what they had done; it was more because they would have enough trouble on their plates with the current state of affairs over Sherlock's revival and John had been adamant that he wanted to wait until things had quietened down before stirring things up all over again. His words, not Sherlock's, but the logic behind it was sound. John had had enough trouble with the Press to last a lifetime after Sherlock had jumped, so it made perfect sense that he wanted to keep something as personal as a relationship discreet. To John, relationships were between two people and were therefore a private matter, hence his complete irritation whenever Sherlock had chosen to get involved in any of his previous ones with women.
As for Sherlock, he was fighting the impulse in his blood to announce his new bond with John from the rooftop of their building, claiming John as his own in a more public and permanent way than the already fading bite marks that he'd left on the tender skin on the inside of John's thighs, made there and not on his neck at John's request, which would have been much more prominent and delicious to gaze upon. The marks would need to be replaced, of course, but Sherlock couldn't drown out the excitement he felt at this turn of events, having always hoped for it and now it was here. Even the sound of the doorbell at the bottom of the stairs didn't halt the fire in his veins, watching from above his fingers as John disappeared out the door, listening to his footsteps as they echoed down the staircase and hearing the distinct click of the front door being opened, both Lestrade's and John's voices filtering through the walls to where he was patiently waiting.
He couldn't, however, deny the feeling of hesitance that crept into his body when Lestrade began to follow John up the stairs, asking how John was faring and whether he'd been on any dates with any gorgeous women recently, the latter of which John heartily denounced before stopping the two of them outside of the entrance to the flat.
"Greg, I wasn't completely honest with you earlier when I told you that I didn't have someone with me," John said.
"I knew it!" Lestrade's voice was triumphant and a little slurred; he'd been at The Six Bells on the High Street and had had four pints of stout before toasting himself with a shot of vodka and leaving the establishment, a usual haunt for the detective and one that John had frequented with Lestrade when he'd been in one of his better moods. Lestrade had caught a cab over to Baker Street after phoning John, hence his rather speedy arrival; in his current condition, walking from the pub to their address would have taken more than a few hours. "Who is the lucky girl? Is she still here?" Lestrade asked.
"Wait, Greg, just listen to me, ok, I need to tell you something. There is someone inside that you haven't seen for a long time and it looks like they're going to be around for a while, so I need you to keep a clear head on this one for me."
There was a pause; evidently Greg had been thinking over John's words because his reply was laced with concern and he sounded like he was starting to sober up. "John, what are you talking about? Who is in your flat?"
Sherlock pushed himself up from his seat and walked to the middle of the living room, his instinct prompting him to make the move when his gut told him that John's news wasn't going to be taken well and to walk away from any objects that could cause him or Lestrade injury in case a tussle ensued. He hoped that it wouldn't come to that, but Lestrade's drinking was a factor that he hadn't considered when giving the other man the news of his plan to outwit Moriarty and it introduced another set of variables that he and John would need to take responsibility for if Lestrade wasn't in his right frame of mind.
"It's probably better if I show you. You won't believe it otherwise." John preceded Lestrade into the flat, his eyes seeking out his partner and nodding once when he saw the new position Sherlock had taken, his eyes showing his approval at Sherlock's forethought as the soldier in John calculated the same outcomes that Sherlock had come to himself.
Lestrade came in soon after, in the process of taking his coat off and hanging it up on the hook next to the door, brushing the flecks of snow off of it before turning around and looking for the person that John had been warning him about. Silence took over the flat as Lestrade's eyes met Sherlock's own, his mouth falling open when he realised who was standing in front of him, his disbelief apparent when he shut his eyes for a moment and then reopened them, checking that his eyes hadn't suddenly stopped working. "Ok, I've been drugged." Lestrade turned to John, pointing at the entrance to the flat. "There was a dodgy bloke looking at me funny while I was at The Six Bells, I knew it! I swear he paid the barman to slip something into my vodka!"
"Greg, calm down." John had his hands held out towards Lestrade in a placating manner. "You've not been drugged and you're not drunk."
"Then why am I seeing a dead man in your flat!" Lestrade pointed at Sherlock, his eyes blazing in his sockets. "Sherlock Holmes is dead, John, and having another man dress up like him to appease your grief is not going to do you any favours! Who the hell is this guy anyway?"
The last was directed at Sherlock who hadn't moved throughout the whole exchange, waiting to see which direction Lestrade's emotions would take now. Disbelief was still strong, but Sherlock wasn't counting on that one to leave anytime soon. Anger was a close second and relief was obviously a long way off. No, something else would need to be done if Lestrade was going to be convinced of his very real existence and he knew only one way of doing so.
He held a hand up to stop the two men talking, directing their attention from each other until they were focussed on him, and made a show of looking Lestrade up and down, taking in all the details of his attire before he began to speak. "You've recently remarried; your previous wife was cheating on you with your son's football coach and you divorced her at the end of two-thousand and twelve. Your new wife is a piano teacher and you've both recently come into some money, I estimate between ten or eleven thousand pounds. You've not lost a family member who left you that sort of money in their Will, so this was possibly from the lucky ticket that she bought two months after your wedding. You've used the money to do renovations on your house; you had to add an extension to the property for…" He paused and glanced over Lestrade's form again, looking for the clue. "Ah, so your wife is pregnant … and she's having a girl. I believe congratulations are in order, Lestrade."
The shock that appeared on Lestrade's face was a look that Sherlock didn't think he would ever get tired of seeing, but his satisfaction at having caused it was short-lived. He really should have seen it coming, had even taken measures in case it did happen, but when Lestrade's fist connected with the soft tissue underneath the right side of his jaw (which was powerful enough, incidentally, to quite literally knock him off his feet), the only thought he had at that point was, 'Idiot,' before his head hit the floor and sent him into unconsciousness.

It felt like he was dreaming. He couldn't really say for sure if that was what was actually happening to him because he'd never been in a put into a position where he did remember any of his dreams. Sleep, what little he had of it, was deep enough that he could never recall precisely when he drifted off and only became aware of his surroundings again once he'd woken up. Anything else that lay between those two points clearly wasn't worth remembering; otherwise he would have stored the data in his MindPalace and would have likely been forced to delete it the very next morning.
Sherlock gave himself a mental shake, willing his concentration back into focus. Lestrade must have hit him harder than he thought; his mind was a jumble of incoherency that whirled around his brain in a circling motion, making him feel dizzy and forcing a groan from his throat when the sensation caused a rolling in his gut that usually preceded nausea and vomiting. He raised his hands to his face, rubbing at his closed eyes and using the action to help centre himself before finally opening them and taking in his environment.
He was no longer in the flat; that much was obvious at least. He was lying down on a hard surface and when he reached a hand down to touch the floor he realised it was made of metal. Steel, to be exact, the surface ribbed with little bumps that served as grips for the soles of a person's shoes in an aid to prevent them from slipping on it. There wasn't the much softer carpet that should have been in the living room, nor were there any sounds of the fire in the hearth or of the warmth which should have been emanating from its centre. In fact, the air around him was cold, almost bitter, with his breath fanning out in front of him when he exhaled which also told him that, if he could see his own breath, there was enough light in the room for him to be able to see beyond his natural lung capacity.
Sherlock kept his head on the floor for a moment longer, letting his eyes adjust to the minimal light that there was and reaching out with his other senses to gather as much data as possible. The light wasn't from a steady source and the bulb itself was above his head on the right hand side. It was flickering slightly, not too often to cause a huge disturbance, but an annoyance nonetheless. He rolled over to his left in an effort block out some of the interference from the flickering, using his hands to push himself up to a half-sitting position so that he was resting on his elbows, and continued to look around the area for any clues that would tell him exactly where his mind had placed him.
He was on a platform in a corner of a room which was just slightly larger than his own bedroom but with a much higher ceiling. The light above his head was the only light that was on in the room, which left a large proportion of the area in a darkness that was only alleviated briefly when the flickering cast shadows on nearby surfaces, the likes of which he'd only ever seen before when he'd been in exile.
The room was deserted and, once he managed to get a proper look, Sherlock saw that it was also a complete mess; not the ordered mess of his flat, the organised chaos where he knew exactly where everything was, but a mess which had all the signs of someone frantically searching for something to keep or destroy. He didn't have enough information to decipher exactly what it was that that person was trying to achieve, or whether there had been more than one individual at work that had caused the disarray, but it did make him wonder exactly what it was that had been so important.
Gingerly, Sherlock tested the muscles in his legs and was relieved to find them in working order, pushing himself up onto his knees before slowly rising to a standing position, reaching out with his left hand to clasp at the barrier of the platform to steady himself against any leftover disorientation. Once he had regained his focus, he walked to the edge of the platform where five steps were leading down into the room below, his shoes clanking on the metal beneath him as he descended.
There were only six desks in the room below the platform, their drawers open and their contents scattered across the floor; notepads, pens, pencils, treasury tags, individual sheets of white copier paper, staplers, staple removers; almost anything a person could ask for or require in an office and not something that should have just been left out at the end of a working day. The computers were switched off and there wasn't any sign of personal memorabilia from any of the staff members surrounding the monitors or on the desks themselves, a normal sight to be had in almost any workplace and something that caught Sherlock's attention more than the state of the room itself.
No trinkets in a workplace meant that there usually wasn't any tolerance for mixing business with pleasure and, more often than not, it meant that the work itself left a lot to be desired as a career choice.
Sherlock walked to the other side of the room, fishing out his mobile from his pocket and switching on the screen to provide him with an impromptu torch, using the screen's light to search for another light source which would give him a better vantage of where he was, finally locating some switches in the far left corner. He flicked them up, one at a time, and with each click the lights overhead came to life, banishing the shadows and allowing him to see all of the room without hindrance. It was indeed larger than his bedroom; it was larger than the flat in fact, and appeared to be only an area of study. The walls themselves were grey in colour and they had lighter square patches on them which differed from the main colour, the darker area around them showing the areas where posters and charts had once been but had now been removed. When he checked the stationary, there weren't any logos or designs which hinted at what company had used the building and, when he tried to switch on the monitor for a computer, it was out of power.
Undeterred, he continued to analyse his surroundings, pocketing his mobile as he did so and searching every corner of the room. It was during his search that he heard another sound, one that he had not made himself and he realised with a dawning unease that the noise was coming from behind him. Sherlock stopped, forcing himself to keep calm despite his nerves and listened intently to the noise, detecting the rhythmic inhale and exhale of another person's breathing. The breaths were not elevated, nor were they slow. They were measured, not too deep, and judging from the lack of any other sounds, the other person hadn't made any motion towards Sherlock even though they were able to see him clearly.
Slowly, so as not to cause any alarm, Sherlock turned around until he was looking behind him and was more than a little surprised at what he saw. There was another person behind him, but they weren't anything like what he had been expecting to see. Maybe a man with a gun aimed at his head, or a staff member who had been left behind in the confusion, but certainly not the man he saw in front of him now.
He couldn't have been older than nineteen at the most, yet that wasn't the detail which struck Sherlock the hardest. The eyes that met Sherlock's own were calm; there wasn't any muscle tension around the eye sockets, nor was there any in the man's overall posture. Outwardly, he wasn't showing signs of distress in any form and it allowed Sherlock a minute to absorb the appearance of the other, a quick appraisal that lasted only a few seconds. Small details filtered through, such as the colour of the man's hair which was a light brown, the way his hair had been cut in messy bangs that fell into his eyes which were a bright blue, not quite light enough for an ice blue, but not far off either. Physically, the muscle definition on the man's body was admirable; he was lean in his figure and was in good shape, like he'd been going to a gym regularly and showing all the characteristics of someone who kept themselves in excellent health despite his skin pallor which was almost white, although this may have been down to the lighting of the room. But it wasn't these facts, these details that concerned Sherlock the most. It was the fact that the younger man was almost bare of clothing.
He had a pair of white boxer-briefs on to cover his genitals, but other than that there wasn't any other article of fabric on his person and the temperature in the room couldn't have been more than five degrees at its warmest. When he noticed the trembling that suffused the figure in front of him, he acted on an impulse and removed his suit jacket, walking towards the other man while keeping his movements slow and steady though the man didn't show any nervousness as the distance closed between them. When he was close enough, Sherlock wrapped the man in his jacket, taking hold of his hands and pushing them through the sleeves until his upper torso was covered by the material, his skin cool to the touch but hopefully to become warmer now as the residual heat from Sherlock's own body was passed on through the jacket.
The young man's eyes never left Sherlock's all the while Sherlock was dressing him and it was only when he'd finished that he began to move. It was almost discernible at first, but gradually he began to move closer to Sherlock, lifting his right hand up towards Sherlock's face and stopping just short of touching him. Sherlock didn't move away from the close proximity, allowing it for the moment while the other man was gaining his bearings. He wondered if the man was a mute, or whether he had any cognitive function whatsoever because, up until this point, he hadn't shown any signs that Sherlock existed at all even though they'd been looking at each for the last five minutes or so.
Gently, the man's fingers lowered to Sherlock's face, the pressure light, drifting his index finger down Sherlock's cheek before coming to rest on a spot below his jaw, and it was then that Sherlock realised he had placed his finger over the bruise which was forming from Lestrade's blow to him earlier, but he wasn't pressing down on it. His eyes reflected concern over the injury, his brows furrowing slightly and leaning his head closer to Sherlock's neck to inspect the wound. Before long, the man's eyes met Sherlock's again and the hand which was by Sherlock's neck slid around to the back of his head, fingers sliding through his curls and lightly tugging them, his face reflecting his surprise at the feel of the strands springing back into shape underneath his fingertips.
Sherlock allowed the exploration for another breath before reaching up and pulling the man's hand from his neck, keeping their hands joined together between them when a panicked expression flitted across the man's face. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked with his voice soft. "Do you know where we are?"
Although Sherlock knew the man had heard the words, for there wasn't any other sounds in the room beside the ones they made themselves, he didn't go to answer the questions, instead keeping his gaze fixed on their joined hands with a look of cautious wonder on his face. The trembling that Sherlock had spotted previously was slowly fading from the hand clasped in his own and as the silence stretched between them, a feeling of mild relaxation began to fill his very being, its source unknown. "What's your name?" Sherlock tried again.
As before there was no answer to his question but the young man lifted his eyes to Sherlock's again, his look intense, sharpening the colour of his eyes to a deeper hue. His mouth firmed into a line, determination settling in his features, before he raised his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck again and pulled him down until their foreheads were pressed against each other, the man's other hand reaching around Sherlock's waist and tugging until their bodies were also together. Sherlock's first instinct was to shove the other man away from him but he stopped the action, forcing himself to take notice of the situation here. There wasn't anything remotely sexual about this position; it seemed that this person was merely seeking comfort, though for what reason he couldn't be sure and he was reluctant to deprive the man of it. That and the breaths of the other had become more laboured till they were now halted, gasping, and his body trembled again but for an entirely different reason.
Sherlock didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around the shorter man, pulling him as close as their current position would allow as the breathing turned into small sobs, his tears running down his cheeks and onto his collar bones which hadn't been covered by the jacket. "It's ok," he soothed him, gently rubbing a hand up and down the man's back, a decision forming and taking shape inside his mind. "I'm going to get you out of here, ok. We'll leave this place and go back to Baker Street. My partner is a doctor, he can help you."
He wasn't sure if the other man understood any of his words, but the meaning behind them must have been recognized because the hand that had been wrapped around his waist came up and cupped Sherlock's right cheek temporarily before sliding around to join the hand was already around his neck, the fingers linking together and becoming a solid, firm pressure on the back of his skull. No, wait, that wasn't right. The pressure wasn't at the back of his skull; it wasn't anywhere near the hands that were on his neck. It was coming from the front, where their foreheads were still pressed together, and it was building. A gradual build, becoming more pronounced as time passed and as it built so did the sensation of calm that he'd sensed earlier.
"What… What's happening?" A whisper between them, but unreturned as the pressure suddenly spiked and Sherlock winced at the feeling as his hands reached up and clasped at the forearms of the other man, seeking stability when his whole body began to shake. "What are you doing to me?"
The man's hands eventually released their hold on the back of his neck, his fingers leaving lingering warmth after them as they retreated from Sherlock's form and came to rest of the lapels of his shirt. "Do you promise?"
The first words Sherlock had heard from him since they met; the tone of the young man's voice lighter than his own and still retaining its youthfulness, and full of a desperate hope that made him unable to deny them. "I promise."
A single sob escaped the throat of the other man with his words, his expression one of pain and relief, and he opened his eyes again to look at Sherlock. "I'm holding you to that."
Before Sherlock could find the words to respond, the other man had placed one hand on the side of his head, murmuring,"I'm sorry for this," before bringing his other hand up and striking against Sherlock's temple with the heel of it, and then all Sherlock knew was blessed darkness.
To be continued
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