It wasn't that Sherlock exactly wasn't Sherlock. It was the little things. He was smiling at Claire, he wasn't sitting perfectly still; he ate all his chicken when the meals finally came, digging in with a ferocity John had never witnessed. He sipped daintily at his wine, and commented tastefully at every mundanity General Tabbot thought to say. It wasn't that he wasn't Sherlock, in his own ways.

He just wouldn't make eye contact with John. And whenever he could, he'd touch his new lady friend, eventually allowing his arm to slip across her shoulder. John learned that her name was Elizabeth, and she was very smart, and very pretty, and modeled when she wasn't in University for some high class magazine. Claire's father cocked his brow whenever she spoke. Elizabeth eventually fell into a comfortable place of only speaking when being spoken to, and it made John's skin itch - how easily Mr. Tabbot could silence those who went against his ideals - but he stayed quiet because this entire conversation was fake.

John could feel the repression in his core, from all the things that everyone at the table wasn't saying. Claire held his hand on he table when Mr. Tabbot started looking suspicious. In retaliation, Sherlock called Elizabeth "dear" seamlessly, even though it sounded sticky and viscous off his tongue. John glared at the table, Mr. Tabbot became suspicious, the cycle continued.

"So," John said, his voice dripping with thinly hidden malice. "Elizabeth."

Elizabeth startled, her back straightening and parting with Sherlock's touch to listen to what John had to say. "Yes, Dr. Watson?"

I'm so unbearably petty. John steeled his jaw and continued.

"How long have you and Mr. Holmes known each other?"

"Oh." She looked to him for an answer. "Um..."

"About half a year," Sherlock broke in wildly, talking to Claire as if she asked the question. "My father introduced us."

Mr. Tabbot decided to join in. "Sounds like something any logical father would do," he said, making a pointed pass at Claire. Claire's grip on John redoubled.

"We're not together, but," Elizabeth offered freely, "we've gone on a couple of dates."

"Oh?" John asked, his anger barely restrained. He was smiling (an expression James called his "Murder Smile"), unabashedly interrogating her. He didn't even glance at Sherlock to gauge his expression. "He's not too much of an arse, I hope."

"Do you know each other...?" Elizabeth puzzled, catching onto John's hostility.

John grinned, finally looking Sherlock directly in the face. At a first glance, Sherlock looked irritated, a second away from a gratuitous eye roll.

"Hardly." John smirked. "I met him once at that party, with Claire" - John licked his lips, slow - "remind me what it was, Mr. Holmes?"

"It was in August."

"What was the theme?" John asked, easily passing it off as innocent confusion.

"The theme was lust," he answered, clearly annoyed.

John glared at Sherlock. "We don't know each other."

"Oh. I thought-" Elizabeth swallowed her words. "Never mind."

Mr. Tabbot and Claire looked rather put off. They were making the same expression, and in that, you could see their similar facial structure and identical brow shape. Claire was the first to speak, leaning into John's ear. Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered: "We're not trying to start World War Three, John."

John gave her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze, and breathed in to clear away the boiling jealousy that was crowding his vision.

This entire conversation was a parody of reality. Sherlock was monogamously dating, now! What next, Christmas a month early?

"We're coworkers, speaking in the broadest definition," Sherlock said to everyone except John.

"So you're a musician, too?" Elizabeth asked John.

"God, no," he replied, sitting back in his seat. "Artist."

Across the table, Claire's father scoffed scornfully, stabbing at his corn. Claire looked at her hand, entwined with John's, and bit at her lip nervously. "Tell me about your music, Sherlock," General Tabbot finally said, a thin smile flickering uselessly across his lips.

"What aspect of my music?"

"Well," Mr. Tabbot began, "do you enjoy it?"

Sherlock grinned his most biting grin, usually only reserved for when John said something biting himself. Now, he was using it for this prick and his constant fucking questions. Nothing about him was subtle. "Immensely," Sherlock replied.

"If I may ask, how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-two years old," Sherlock replied cordially. "I go to Oxford University, at the moment."

"Oh? How did you arrive in Bristol?"

Sherlock didn't even flinch. He lied as seamlessly to Mr. Tabbot as he did to John, saying some easy, stock fact for Mr. Tabbot to eat and digest. "They commissioned me here. The Bristol Academy for Youths is one of the most important, influential fine art schools in our region, so they encouraged me to try my hand at teaching."

"An honorable thing, a teacher," Mr. Tabbot said. "I wanted Claire to aspire to that, but she's quite independent. Aren't you, Claire?"

Claire said nothing, smiling one of the tightest smiles John had ever seen her make, the hand that wasn't holding John's hand darting down instinctively to her side to grab a cigarette carton that didn't exist. Frustrated, she feigned a prettier smile, using all of her teeth.

"Anyway. I take it Bristol is doing you well."

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "Solo touring was fun, but arduous. Lots of late nights, cold boat trips, long drives. That sort of thing."

"Tell me about that."

"Well - I began my solo career at seventeen," Sherlock explained charmingly, "as you probably know. And then I travelled all over the world to play with the best composers and orchestras. It was quite a lot of fun, but once relations between Britain and other European countries began to deteriorate, it seemed wise to remain local."

"I actually came to one of his shows," Elizabeth broke in. She grabbed his hand, mirroring John and Claire, her thumb pressing into his knuckles. Knuckles that John had mapped and catalogued in his mind, hands that he'd touched before, felt beating against his palm.ul

John felt his face twist into distaste, side-eyeing Sherlock from across the table. Sherlock cleared his throat, uncomfortably shifting around in his chair once he saw the glare John was shooting him. It was passing, though. Within half a second, he'd tightened his smile and looked back at his date, squeezing her hand. "Yeah," he allowed. "Which one?"

"We went together," she laughed. "Surely, you remember?"

Sherlock stole a guilty glance at John, whose face was now full of heat, his ears pink with jealousy. John was holding onto Claire so hard he was sure he was causing her discomfort. Sherlock's pleasant smile slipped.

"Sherlock," Mr. Tabbot said, breaking open the awkward silence, "in reference to your practice - what do you think of tardiness?"

John clenched muscles he didn't even know he had. Claire made a mewling noise of protest, reminding John of his grip on her hand. He forced himself to relax his fists. Sherlock was pretending to be interested in this obviously biased conversation, mulling over his reply.

"Abhorrent," he finally said. It took all of John's willpower not to climb over the table and clout Sherlock on the head.

"Will you further your career?"

"Obviously."

"And if you were going to raise a family with" - General Tabbot casually gestured to Sherlock's date - "Elizabeth, here, and you had a stable career with a good income, would you jeopardize that by volunteering for the military?"

"Your nerve," John finally snapped, heated-

Claire's grip tightened on John, so that both their hands were dotted scarlet and white. She placated, "Father," but only got as far as the General would allow. He held up a finger, and she fell silent.

John was so fucking tired of him. His backhanded compliments and condescension, his obsessive, impulsive need to put down anyone that didn't meet up to his inscrutable standards. He was tired of his mouth, and was well past the point of caring about the repercussions of telling him so.

"That's a far-fetched hypothetical," Sherlock said, still retaining his warm exterior, against all odds, "but I think I would stay to support my family."

"Exactly," General Tabbot agreed, looking pointedly at John and Claire. "Claire, darling, would you grab Mr. Holmes and I drinks?"

"Hey," John started to yell, "you can't tell my fiancée to go fetch you 'drinks' like she's your lapdog, alright?"

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock said, looking at him as if he were a stranger, "I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"How the hell would you know?" John shouted.

"And how would you?" Sherlock replied, deadly quiet.

John swallowed. He made it so blatantly obvious. And John understood being careful. John understood not wanting to blow it, because "it" was important and "it" was serious and they wanted to keep "it" going. But by God, he didn't understand Sherlock flirting - right in front of him - he must have known, he must have - God, he was the most infuriating-

"Son?" someone called. And John didn't know whether or not he was going to lose his nerve in front of his father or the father of the King of England, so he just turned.

"Father," Sherlock greeted, at the same time General Tabbot said, "Siger, what a pleasant surprise!"

"Oh, dear," John heard Claire say under her breath.

"What?" John asked, leaning into her ear.

"Mr. Holmes is always asking my father for funds for donations."

"And?"

"He probably got his son to do the negotiation." She pursed her lips. "That's why they're sitting with us."

Sherlock never thought to tell him this, but he should just laugh and go along, because, For fuck's sake, that's what Sherlock does. "Oh."

"Gabriel," the older Holmes greeted, shaking his hand firmly. "How's it been?"

"Just meeting your son," General Tabbot said. "He's grown to be a strong young man."

"Thank you, Gabriel," Siger Holmes said. Looking down at John and Claire, offering his hand, he said, "Dr. and Mrs. Watson, I take it?"

"Um" - John mustered the remnants of a smile, shaking Siger's hand - "yes. Yes, that's us."

"Pleasure to meet you," Siger said in a smooth, rumbling purr, exactly the same as his son. He sat in his seat, right next to John.

Up close, not behind a grainy photograph in dim light, he looked too much like Sherlock. Even though they were father and son, the resemblance was uncanny - which was strange, because Sherlock's late mother looked like him, too. There was a fundamental difference between them, though - Violet's eyes were full of love, and passion. Sherlock had his father's eyes. Astoundingly pale blue, cynical slits.

His hair wasn't an ebony with light temples, like in Sherlock's photograph, hidden in his drawer. It was all gray, now, the passage of time not doing him any favors. He looked like Sherlock in the way he composed himself, like as a child Sherlock had taken note of all the things that his Father did and emulated himself to act like him. Mycroft, in comparison to them, was practically a stranger, so divorced from their attitudes and ideals that he hardly resembled his father. The only thing they had in common were their noses, and their smiles; simpering.

Not that Siger looked simpering - that was hardly the case - he looked like he was too consumed in himself to recognize humor. He was wholly intimidating. Actually - Sherlock hadn't spoken a word since he arrived.

He was staring at the tablecloth, like a bashful seven year old.

"Your wife had a head on her shoulders," Mr. Tabbot laughed. Sherlock tilted his chin up, looking warily at the man conversing with his father under hooded lids. "Taught men how to be men and women how to be women," Mr. Tabbot said. "None of this 'feminism' business."

Mr. Tabbot smiled, in the most cold, cut-throat way. "My wife had a head on her shoulders, indeed."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his face eerily blank. "My mother taught me how to be myself," he said, his voice low and uncertain. Siger looked at him, more inquisitive than concerned.

"Your mother's passing was very tragic," General Tabbot said in a voice that was probably supposed to be perceived as empathetic. "I was quite devastated."

"As was I," Siger said too steadily. "She was the best woman I have ever known."

"That's why women should never be involved in nasty affairs like these," General Tabbot said. "They're invaluable as caretakers, as mothers. They don't belong on the battlefield." He shook his head in remorse, stabbing his corn with his fork. "My wife was just the same."

John stole a glance at Claire with that comment, as did Sherlock. At a first glance, she looked fine, but her usually clear, sharp gray eyes - they were getting clammy.

"My mother was invaluable, period," Sherlock said, in a tight, loud voice. It was quickly gaining that ruthless, hard edge it did when he was about to say something biting, picking up speed and velocity. God, he looked angry. "She died preserving the freedom of this country - her casualty wasn't worth less because she was a woman going where her nose didn't belong, you imbecile."

Claire's father shot a helpless look towards Siger, but was disappointed to receive nothing but that flinty, cold stare. He looked back to Sherlock, and his anguish soon turned to irritation.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes-"

"No, excuse me." Sherlock stood, eyes cold and glassy. He smoothed over his suit with his hands, eyes fluttering closed, trying to stay composed and in check of his own emotion. "I need... a breath." Then he began to walk away, darting in between waiters and waitresses towards an exit which led to the courtyard.

John shared a knowing look with Siger, then looked heavenward in silent prayer.

"I'll go," he said, sighing as if it were a burden.

"John," Claire whispered, urging him back with her eyes.

"I'll just be a moment, darling," John said, sparing one last look at Claire's father. He was unbearably indignant, sharing quietly disgusted looks with Claire - nothing new. With that, John took off to follow after Sherlock.

He walked across the floor, ducking under two men carrying a platter of roast turkey. The layout was unfamiliar, the grandiosity slowly melting into a plain kitchen as he found himself accidentally going deeper into the building. Cooks were hurriedly boiling and cutting and garnishing away, and whoever wasn't was yelling orders at somebody who was. As someone walked past - probably a chef - John grabbed their arm to ask where the courtyard was.

"The bonfire's not for another twenty minutes, sir," the man said.

"Yeah." John nodded. "Just - where is it?"

"Uh, you have to go back, take two lefts, go down the stairs and you'll see the exit on your right."

"Thank you," John said, immediately breaking into a quickly paced walk. He took the first right into a hallway that was scarce for people, and then was about to pass the loos when he felt a tight grip on his arm, pulling him into a private alcove. John cried out in protest, only to see it was James. And he looked... angry.

More angry than John had ever seen him. His eyes, usually warm and inviting, were stirring with intense heat, challenging John to say something - but John didn't know what to say.

He didn't know what this look meant, or how to reasonably respond to it; he stood, silent, as James scrutinized John's features, combing through his expression. He finally took a step back and let go of John's arm.

"I haven't seen you" - James voice shook, anger spread thick - "in weeks."

John opened his mouth to apologize, but was quickly cut off by an angry, hurt James.

"What are you gonna tell me that I don't already know, huh, John?" he said, much louder than he probably intended to. Whenever he got like this, his American accent became more pronounced. "Nothing. That's what. You're gonna tell me shit."

John traced his movements with his eyes, watching James run a hand through his poorly groomed hair. He couldn't help but notice under eye circles, his skin a ghostly pallor, and prominent laughter lines being transformed into frown lines. Along his brow, his lips, there was the evidence of exhaustion. John wanted to ask if he was okay.

He couldn't; James kept on speaking. "I got around to chatting with Mark - he doesn't have much time, nowadays, but - he said that you didn't even come to the academy anymore. And then I thought you were home, with Claire, but I called her, and she said you were taking care of your sister. And then I called Harriet-"

"James," John placated-

"-but she said-"

"I'm-"

"-that she hadn't seen you since fucking September."

John swallowed down fear, the risk of confrontation finally manifesting in this moment. Maybe he avoided his friends because he knew that the next time he and they spoke, they'd be asking questions. And after those questions were answered? John didn't know what would happen, after that.

"You won't talk to me," James said, voice giving out a little, "you're not painting, you're unemployed, and to my knowledge you don't even have a place to stay. So what is it?"

John shook his head a little, disconnected from what was happening. "What's... what, James?"

"Your secret."

John stepped back, only to find a wall pressed up against him. "You have no clue what you're talking about," John said unconvincingly.

"I'm your best friend," James insisted, "and I know you, and I know when you're bluffing."

John's brows shot up, faking amusement. "Oh, really, now?" He was trying to defuse the conversation using humor. "Like when we play poker, right? Do you know when I'm bluffing then, too?"

"John," James warned. The air immediately sobered up. "Don't lie to me."

John went quiet. His smile slipped.

"Don't lie to me," James could say - God, as if it were that simple. As if those words hadn't already been picked apart from the inside out. How many times had John lied, now?

Probably more than he could count. Probably enough times for it to exceed the acceptable limit. Lies? John was drenched in them. And he felt terrible that James was better. And he was so selfish - selfish enough that he would tear away the last shred of secrecy that James held, and put it out in the open for everyone to marvel at. John took a deep breath; set his gaze.

"I saw your draft letter."

James's crystal blue eyes seemed to hollow out as he took a moment to parse through John's sentence. Once it sunk in - he staggered back, his shoulders hitting the wall.

He didn't speak, only taking in air and opening his mouth as if he couldn't breathe. John watched as he found himself at a complete and utter loss, trying to come up with any excuse better than silence. But then his gaze hardened again, and he turned into someone John hardly recognized as one of his best friends.

"How long?" was the first thing James thought to ask. His voice was short and cold.

"I've known for a while." John tilted his head and crossed his arms, watching with complete disassociation from the reality of what was happening. He didn't want to think about the ramifications this conversation could create, or how James felt. "It fell from your pocket while we were out drinking," John said.

"Who've you told?"

"No one." John's throat tightened as guilt, hot and syrupy, pooled at the base of his throat, "But we all have secrets, James."

James squinted at John, giving him a cynical stare. "You want me to stop asking questions," he bit in less of a question than a statement.

John was quiet. Despite his attempts to suppress his good conscience, it was bubbling to the surface. And he couldn't shake the shame he felt when James gave him that look, that poisonous glare.

"Okay," James said, voice slowing. "Okay."

John was silent as he looked at his friend. He didn't know what to say. James was glaring stubbornly at nothing, nowhere, obviously lost in his thoughts.

When he finally spoke, his voice was terse, firm. He made eye contact with John that was almost dangerously fierce. "I don't want Francis to find out." He was now mirroring John in stature and tone, finally coming to terms with the reality of John's knowledge. Half of his face was obscured with darkness. "Her whole family died in the Italian invasion. I'm the only family she has left."

"I know."

"Alright. Then we agree."

"We agree," John replied.

"...Alright." He shoved his hands into his tuxedo pockets and nodded, getting fidgety as he prepared to leave. John couldn't possibly glean what was going through his mind at the moment as he just unglued himself from the wall, worked out his shoulders and said, "I'll - uh, I'll see you," like nothing had happened. He looked devoid of all the traits that made him who he was, standing there, his body only half illuminated. James gave one last bitter nod and then walked away, towards the exit that led to the bonfire site outside.

Once he disappeared from sight, John rested the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes, exhausted. When he pressed his palms into his cheeks, he could feel the cool metal of his engagement ring. Taunting him.

The bathroom was colder than anywhere else in the venue. He splashed freezing water on his cheeks, letting it shock him out of his guilt. He'd been washing his face for a couple minutes after that encounter. The cold water dampening his skin felt oddly soothing, even as it made John's hands go numb.

Somewhere, deep down, he wanted James to just find out. To walk in on the tragic affair that was happening between he and Sherlock; John wouldn't even be able to deny it because it was so set in stone. And James would be angry, yeah. John could deal with angry. Could he deal with this, though? Could he knowingly let his friend lie to his girlfriend like John did to Claire, day in and day out, even if James's motivations were pure?

A loud chant was rising outside. He could hear it, even through the thick Victorian walls.

Straightening up, he gave himself a last once-over in the mirror. He needed to shave. And sleep. And become a better person.

When he finally walked outside, the cold, damp November air hit John hard, white frosted breath rising up in front of him as he tried to locate Claire through the swarm of hot bodies. The ground had frozen over; each footstep crunched the soil and dead grass underfoot as he approached the bonfire that was burning a life-size effigy of Guy Fawkes himself. When he was finally in close enough range to feel the heat on his face, he caught a spot of blonde hair, contrasted deeply in the stark lighting of the fire. She was alone. She looked like she belonged in a contemporary painting as the firelight flickered patterns into her golden hair, and she wrapped her coat around her more tightly. John could see the faintest tremble as he got close enough to touch her.

"Claire," he said, glancing her shoulder with his fingertips.

She turned to him; her eyes danced with bright firelight, and she smiled. "John." She looked back towards the brightness of the fire, burning hot and wildly as people cheered all around them. "Did you talk to Sherlock?"

John thought about lying, but surmised there would be no point. "No. I was going to, but I saw James."

"I could have figured," she replied, huddling deeper into her coat. "He's over by the firework station, sulking miserably with his new girlfriend."

That's Sherlock, John nearly stated with an irritated, bitter frown. He caught himself and instead asked, "Have you seen James?"

"Not recently," Claire said. "Last I saw him, he was sitting on one of the benches with Francis." She paused. "He looked upset."

John swallowed too loudly, praying that Claire wouldn't notice his guilt. "Do you have any idea what's going on with him?" John asked, trying to reassert his fragile innocence.

She gave him a speculative look. "You don't know?"

"No."

"I perceived you would."

John shook his head. "He hasn't said anything to me."

"Oh." She shared a look back at the empty bench where James had been sitting, then at the man burning in the fire. The Fawkes mask he was wearing had melted down to swirls of expression, his mouth bent into a frown, fire engulfing the effigy's clothes and leaving behind only straw and wood. "Great party, right?" she asked timidly.

"Yeah."

"Yes," she agreed, going deathly quiet, obviously debating whether or not to say something else. "John-"

As soon as she began to tell him what she wanted to say, John heard a hiss of a fuse from a few feet away; he looked back to where Sherlock was just to watch as a firework was shot into the air. There was a five second delay as it rose above them all, over the enormous lake that connected the party venues, and then it came to a standstill hundreds of feet above them. There was a searing light that formed above them, creating green light that reflected in the water below. And a quarter of a second later, the earth shaking, signature pop of a gunpowder shell exploding. "Hell," John said to himself, watching as the green spark diminished into glowing darkness. "Did you see that, Claire?"

"Yes," she whispered.

They watched a few more light off with varying shapes and colors until John's eye was caught by a certain somebody; there was James, by the water, with a woman on his shoulders. Francis wasn't even wearing a dress; some kind of cargo pants and giant jacket. And she'd cut off all her hair. It was fucking gone. And she was smiling at the sky as if it was full of answers to questions and all the love she'd ever had. She was happy. And fucking hell, here were he and Claire, quiet and fearful of talking, of knowing the truth. Francis was all wide-eyes, ripped jeans, and dark, dark skin. She was everything they told her not to be, and she was happier than all of them combined.

"John."

John looked at his fiancée, observing the ghostly pale skin with blue tinted freckles, gray hair. He couldn't even hide it, anymore; how much he didn't want to be here. He wanted to be back at home, back at seven AM, back to when Sherlock hadn't said things like: "We can't talk to each other."

And he was right there, a few feet away - he could walk over and kiss him, if he really wanted to - ruin and complete his life in a single moment. God, they could be glorious.

"John?"

"Yeah," John said, his eyes drifting back to Sherlock's silhouette, that was talking animatedly with his father.

"Are you alright?" she asked as Sherlock seemed to resign to his father's words, slumping. His father walked away, and he stayed there, staring at the space he left, staring at the last bits of his acceptance. Seeing Sherlock there - watching Elizabeth come up behind him and run her hand down his shoulders, his back, in useless comfort - it strengthened John's bitterness. His ruthless resolve, that could dissolve solid rock.

"I want to stay with you," John asserted firmly but quietly, still watching Sherlock and Elizabeth's shapes poke gaping holes in the darkness.

"John," Claire said from behind him. "We're not ready. I mean - if you have nowhere to stay-"

"I have a place," John said.

"Where?"

"Harriet." Sherlock was looking at the sky. His skin was pink, purple, blue. Beautiful, in all its torment. Everything surrounding him was pale and arbitrary and unnecessary. John couldn't cope. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Claire said, stressing the words perhaps a little too strongly. "I'm helping Allison, along with Mark and Francis, now that she's eight months pregnant. We're still waiting on the due date."

"Oh." The mention of Mark's second child was enough to turn John's head. "How is Allison?"

"Immobile, but alright." Claire smiled. "You'll have to visit Mark and Ali soon. They - he misses you."

"Says who?" John chuckled.

"Certainly not him," she laughed, stepping back a few feet to look at the sky, so she was right next to John, her shoulders brushing his. "But you can tell. Always."

Claire looked at the stars and the bright red fireworks, her face reflecting the light and then dying into cool blue moonlight again. Her breath, misted gray against the dark, lit up with bright color. When she smiled, teeth neon green, John palmed his fingers into hers.

They were thinner than he remembered. More delicate...

When John turned to look back at Sherlock, Sherlock was looking at him. His face was highly contrasted, only the unreal color from the fireworks creating enough definition for John to place his expression. Elizabeth was still talking at him, and she paid a half glance back to know where Sherlock was staring, only to begin speaking again. He watched, unblinking, their eye contact growing more intense as magentas and yellows and chemical blues washed the entire area in vibrancy.

An especially violent firework shook the ground - expanding too close to shore with too much white, snapping the contrast on Sherlock's face to complete illumination. Even across a sea of people, even now, among the noise, John could see the delicate line of his lips, and his hair messily splayed over his forehead. Somewhere, sometime a long ways from then, he could hear everyone around him exhale and clap and yell in absolute wonderment. John couldn't even breathe.

His eyes. God. Clear, knowing, ready. John wanted him like he wanted no one else.

"Did you see that one?" Claire asked, right there and far away simultaneously.

He's better, John thought. Better than the night sky. Miraculous, in his beauty.

"It was magnificent."

"He is," John whispered under his breath, low enough to be unintelligible, eyes locked on Sherlock.

"It's really quite wonderful that they allowed us to shoot off this year, given the Germans and all."

And did Sherlock think of him? At night, when no one else was awake? Did Sherlock know about all the things John tried to hide?

Because he was better than anything that John had ever thought to wish for. He'd become more than the gasoline tainted British dream boy with a glare that could crease you up like paper - now he was full of light, hot and important, demanding attention.

And John wanted him.

***

"I do love you, John," Claire affirmed. He couldn't see her anymore, even as the moon created stark white highlights in her eyes. He saw nothing but the reflection of darkness, and clung to nothing but the thought that after she finished he could be angry and unfulfilled without her constant watching. Everyone had gone inside, saying goodbyes and taking advantage of the food to fill themselves before the inevitable return to normality. "And I'm sorry for not believing you. About the job."

"I understand," John agreed. "And I'm sorry that I gave you reason to be suspicious."

"No, no," she said quietly. "No, it's alright."

"Talk to Mark for me?"

"I'll tell him he missed you at the party."

"Good," John said, nodding. "Thank you."

"...Are you coming inside?"

"No." John rolled back on the balls of his feet. "No, I think I'm going to stay out here for a few minutes and then go back to Harriet's."

"Oh." Her face crumpled a little. "That's fine. I suppose we'll chat later."

"Yeah," John said, looking towards the sycamore tree where he last saw Sherlock. "Goodnight, Claire."

"Goodnight." And with that, she leaned forward, and kissed him, hard, mouth slightly open, wrapping cold fingertips around John's face. John recognized the taste of lipstick and tried to pull away on impulse, only to realize that this was his fiancée and he needed to kiss her to maintain some shaky semblance that they were in love. He kissed her back, and put all of his frustration into the kiss, grabbing the back of her head and slotting her lips with his to make it easier.

When she parted to walk away, John felt cold. And as soon as she opened the door to walk inside the venue, John felt a harsh, predatory hand yank him backwards. His muscles immediately tensed up, subconsciously expecting another attack from Moriarty's henchmen, but was significantly more relieved to find it was Sherlock.

"Why aren't you going home with her," came a dark voice. The relief evaporated.

"Hey," John snapped, pulling out of Sherlock's iron grip. "She didn't take me back."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock bit.

"She said she wasn't ready. And since I am once again homeless, it's either the academy or your house, but you have to drive me either way."

"I should let you wait the hour and a half it takes for a bus to come," Sherlock said viciously. "Fucking hell."

"You're angry at me, Sherlock? I don't see why. I did everything you asked-"

"And yet you still failed."

John's gaze hardened. "Piss off." He started walking.

"Where the hell are you going?" Sherlock demanded at John's retreating form.

"The parking lot," John angrily called back without stopping.

"Why?"

"Because you're fucking driving me."