They were really quite fascinating, the three of them. They had this symbiosis, this familiarity that John couldn't quite replicate. It was difficult to adore Sherlock in the special way Greg and Molly seemed to - all crinkled noses and happy laughter. John was content to stay quiet and listen to what they were saying without adding much to the conversation. They seemed happy enough.

He'd never seen Sherlock so in his element, besides when he was playing the violin. He'd never watched him speak with his friends, watch his lips twist up in that knowing way. The heaviness from the car had finally left his eyes, and his hands were growing more animated as he spoke. When he was was playing, the effect was entirely different - his hair bounced with rhythm, body swaying with unearthly grace. Now, he was clumsy, and drinking, and not caring that he was drinking.

"It's great that you came down here," Greg said, smile slipping. "You're one of my oldest friends. Couldn't move all the way to London without saying goodbye."

Molly's grip tightened on her boyfriend, but she didn't forget her smile. "Really great," she added.

John finally interjected in the silence. "Sorry to hear that."

"Nah." Greg poured himself more wine. "I'm the Detective Inspector. If I was gonna be shipped off, Military Intelligence is my best bet."

John gulped down a lump in his throat. The sight of James, heavy lidded, drunk and tired, hanging onto John by his fingertips - it popped into John's mind's eye without preamble. With some measure of horror, John realized they hadn't spoken a word to each other since that day. Maybe he'd been subconsciously avoiding the confrontation.

Maybe that was why he was here, now.

"All in all," Greg added cheerily when the silence wasn't filled, "it's just an honor to serve my country."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't tell me you buy into that nationalist garbage, Lestrade."

"No," Lestrade replied, his voice dropping a couple beats, "I'm just not an insufferable killjoy."

John broke in, just so they'd stop fucking talking about the war. "So how did you and" - he shot Sherlock a knowing look - "Insufferable Killjoy meet?"

"Well," Greg said, wrapping his arm around Molly, "we all went to Uni together. I've known Sherlock since college, which is why it's so annoying that he still forgets my name."

"George," Sherlock protested. "See? Don't be ridiculous-"

"Greg," he corrected, moving on with unflinching momentum. "I met Molly... when was it?"

"Beginning of last year?" she offered.

"Yeah, that." He drank a bit more, poured Sherlock another glass and filled John's to the brim without asking. John took the glass despite his better judgement.

"How exactly did you and Sherlock meet?" John asked. He sipped at the wine; it tasted deadly sweet, rich with the sour acridity of fermented grapes. He could feel the alcohol lagging his system already, halting his speech, making Sherlock hazed and smudgy. It occurred to John that he'd never drawn Sherlock out before, never painted him. He was definitely fit to be painted - long, pale neck, ebony hair, electric cyan eyes...

"Jesus." Greg paused to think. "I don't even bloody remember. Do you, Sherlock?"

"Probably got stuck with you for some science project that you absolutely had no depth in," Sherlock said. John wasn't even listening anymore. Beyond himself, a voice was telling him that he was looking at Sherlock like he loved him, like he wanted to take him apart and put him together again. He finally stopped gazing at Sherlock when Molly's eyes flickered to John's unmoving form.

Greg allowed a chuckle. "I always was terrible at chemistry."

"Biology, too."

"Hey," Greg bit. "I was okay at biology."

"Your average was a C."

"Anyway," Greg enthused, looking back to John, who had to snap to attention and pretend he was looking through Sherlock rather than at him. "Sherlock and I used to come here after really bad weeks and get pissed."

"Thought you were a detective," John replied.

"I am. I'm a good detective, too." Greg sipped his wine, wiped his mouth with the back of a sun worn, leathery hand. "But I also realize that what two consenting adults do in their spare time isn't anyone's business. Half the cops worth a damn don't really care; they're too busy arresting actual criminals. And most of the queers are really nice people, spare Irene Adler. She's evil. Sherlock basks in it; she's the only person that understands his sadistic tendencies-"

He was broken off by a thud to his chest, Molly's elbow digging into his ribs. "Ow!" he yelped.

"Don't make Sherlock look bad in front of his date," she hissed. By he time she looked back at them, she could see the flush of John's cheeks, Sherlock's eyes averted to the jazz bassist's foot. She paused, unnerved, and out of pure curiosity, asked, "How long have you known each other?"

"Four months," Sherlock responded instantly, surprising John from his silence.

"And how long have you been involved?" she continued.

They exchanged a blank look, urging the other to respond to a question they didn't quite know the answer to. John adjusted his reply to fit what Sherlock probably was going to say.

"Four months," Sherlock said at the same time John answered, "We're not a couple." And then they were looking at each other again - because... because John thought-?

Greg snorted. "It's that kind of relationship, huh?"

"Greg," Molly giggled. "I know you're drunk, but be couth."

"He's right," Sherlock said, his smile thinning, his body language becoming more tight, less open to John. He sat back in his chair and let Sherlock take the reigns: fast talking, explaining away all the things that weren't quite right between them.

"What are you, then?" Greg asked, directed at John, but Sherlock seamlessly intercepted the question. All he replied was, "Unorthodox."

Greg shrugged at the answer, drinking down another half glass. His words were slurring now, his accent becoming a strong, indiscernible mess. "Guess it's the only thing that makes sense, huh?"

"You're one to talk," Sherlock said. "Your last relationship wasn't exactly picturesque."

"She was a complicated person," Greg said to John more than to Sherlock.

"She was cheating on him," Sherlock stressed.

Greg rolled his eyes heavily, using physical effort. "You need to learn to shut your sodding mouth, Sherlock. Anyone ever told you that?"

John took this opportunity to interject: "I do." When nobody spoke, and the words sunk into his ears, sounding overeager and childlike, he added, "All the bloody time. I think he keeps talking when I'm not around."

Greg left out a soft, drunken chuckle. "John's got you down, Sherlock. And only after four months, huh?" To Molly: "Took me bloody years."

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly."

"What about that nervous tic he does?" Greg said to John. "The thing where he goes like this with his hands" - he gestured, putting down his glass to steeple his hands at his lips - "looks like he's fucking praying."

"Sometimes he perches on the couch. Like a bloody hawk."

"Are you done referring to me in the third person, yet?" Sherlock hissed.

"Has he done the nose twitch yet?" Greg asked, his glee barely hidden. "That's only when he's deeply appalled by something. Like Donovan's taste in men."

"I'm deeply appalled by you," Sherlock sneered. Greg just laughed heartily, pouring Sherlock some more wine.

"You all must be close," John murmured to no one and everyone.

Molly laughed. And then, with a little hesitation: "I'm guessing you are?"

For the first time ever, there was a lag in the conversation. John smiled a little defensively, searching Greg and Molly's eyes for the right answer. As the silence drew out, long and questioning between them, John surmised that there was no right answer to that question - at least, no right answer that made sense. He tilted his head, pretended it was a statement even though it was inflected like an inquiry, and grinned. "Cheers."

***

John was now apparently designated driver, elected by mandate rather than choice. Because Sherlock and Greg and Molly were so stupid and out of their minds that they were holding hands, all three of them, in this weird, drunken sex circle. Sherlock was so drunk that he was actually babbling: "I don't know how you got me to do this, I don't know, I don't know."

"Let's dance," Molly giggled, slurring, swaying into Sherlock's chest.

"We can't dance, all three of us," Greg said, speaking as if this was some magnificent revelation. He'd drank the most but was the most sober out of the trio, which wasn't saying much at all.

"Why's that?" Molly mumbled. She pressed into Sherlock's chest and promptly tipped over, tripping in some kind of rhythm. The jazz band had an uptick in tempo, and Molly pulled Greg in. "Take his hand," she said. "Go on."

"Molly, sweetheart-"

He was interrupted by Sherlock, who willingly grabbed Greg's hand and began stepping to the beat. "One, two, three, one two, three - come on, Greg, don't lag," Sherlock said, and Greg pursed his lips but started dancing, too. Molly reached out for John.

"No, I'm-"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Molly implored, "I need a partner!" And then she reached forward and pulled him into the fray anyway, and they were spinning, dancing, and John couldn't really feel anything except the music in his blood. He kept stepping on Molly's feet as they twisted around on the floor, passing the couples that were lost in the music, but she didn't care all that much. John was panting with breath from the music, the drum solo rolling around and the trumpet blasting with energy. Molly's eyes were closed, her palms sweaty, and she was tipping over with the intoxication of wine and music. "I love this song," she said, letting go of John completely and swaying to music alone. She'd hiked her dress up to above her knees and was lost in it, body moving of its own accord.

John turned away from her, looking over the people on tiptoes to try and locate his friends. He was out of breath when he pushed through the crowd of people to find Greg and Sherlock sitting against the pit, sipping wine. They were definitely Not Dancing. John threw an explanatory finger back. "Molly's..."

"I know," Greg replied. "She does that a lot."

"Why aren't you two...?" John asked, looking between the two of them.

"Dancing?" Sherlock asked, voice tense and frustrated. "He can't dance."

"He's right, John," Greg lamented. "He had his go at me for three minutes, but it was too much for his delicate sensibilities."

"It isn't my fault that you wouldn't know rhythm if it was slapping you across the face with a fish," Sherlock retorted in a slurring, petulant voice.

"You know what I think?" Greg asked no one, as if he was musing aloud. "I think that Sherlock should go up and play with the band."

Sherlock downed the rest of his wine glass. He shook his head at the ceiling, eyes drifting skyward, seemingly asking God what he did to deserve this.

John shrugged at him. "Why not?"

"Because," Sherlock rumbled. "Greg's an idiot and I respect myself too much."

"That's a lie," Greg laughed. "Go on. I know you want to, you insufferable, cocky show-off. And the jazz band loves it whenever you play with them."

"The last time was half a year ago," he protested.

Greg went cold sober and earnest, and John could feel himself cringing in sympathy for Sherlock. Greg said, "We've all missed you, Sherlock." And John knew right then that Sherlock couldn't handle that kind of emotional manipulation.

Sherlock looked to John for some kind of confirmation, searching his eyes for an excuse not to go up on stage. John smiled at him shamelessly. "They're almost done switching songs," he said, nudging his head up towards the stage. "Go on, we'll cheer for you."

Sherlock nodded quickly, handed his glass off to Lestrade, and began the climb up the stairs to the stage. John watched his entire demeanor change as he walked to the sax player and leaned down to whisper in his ear. The man nodded a couple of times, smiling and wiping sweat from his dark forehead. Sherlock pointed directly at John, and something in John's chest compressed into this pure, dense alloy. The saxophone player seemed to nod in agreement, and then he was turning to the band and saying, "Change of plans."

"Thank you," Sherlock said to the man. He crossed the stage, disappearing behind some curtains on the far left. Greg and John watched quietly, waiting. Moments later, he erupted out of the backstage carrying a violin. John stopped breathing. He was at the microphone, he was standing in front of them all, and John didn't know where to look. He wasn't buzzed enough to forget to be mortified.

"Attention," Sherlock began. "Hello."

The people in question turned slowly to look at the man standing on stage. The murmuring in the hall cut short as all eyes fixed on him, standing there like he wanted to stop traffic. Even drunk and disoriented, he looked like sex.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, you've probably heard of me," he explained, "because I'm pretty famous. I dedicate this song to... well, John Watson." Sherlock paused, breaking eye contact with the audience to lock eyes with John. His ears started to burn.

"John," Sherlock murmured into the microphone. The intensity of his gaze only strengthened as the silence drew on. John could hear whispers; he could hear silence, too. His body was hot and disjointed and unknown. He didn't move. The only thing twitching across his face was an incredulous smile, almost too faint. "Yes, you, in the ridiculous jumper."

John finally cracked a real smile, his eyes immediately attaching themselves to the floor. Off on one of the sides, Greg was grinning coyly into a draft of cold beer, drinking deeply between chuckles. John looked everywhere except for the crowd that was watching him, except for the intoxicated man standing on a stage, slurring his way through an indulgent speech about how popular he was. Typical.

"As sentimental and naïve as you may be," Sherlock said, looking down at John across a river of featureless faces, "the warmth and constancy of your friendship - a friendship that I did not originally want, nor need, nor deserve - was a blessing in disguise." He paused. "Lots of disguise."

John finally found it in himself to look up from the floor. He didn't get it. How Sherlock could be a mortal manifestation of Hades one second and look like this the next: solemn, but happy, with a subtle admiration in his eyes.

Sherlock placed his violin on his shoulder. "Thank you," he said, "for being the most interesting thing to happen to me since 1938."

And then he, and the band, began to play. The singer sashayed up front, in her long, sequined gown, swaying to Sherlock's violin. All eyes were on him as he played the melody, his eyes closed, the drum tapping out a languid rhythm for him to play to.

He looked stunning. His dress pants crisp and pitch black, chocolate hair perfectly coiffed to the side, his steps even and coaxing. One of his suspenders had slipped off, and John couldn't help but admire the strain of his muscles against his dress shirt. He resembled a movie star; it was almost surreal to be watching him. And the crowd - the crowd was singing, starting to climb onto the floor, spinning in joyful circles around John and Greg.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. John tore his eyes away from Sherlock to see Molly behind him. "Ask him to dance," she said.

John looked around, checking his surroundings to see if anyone was listening. He reflexively leaned in to whisper, only to remember where they were. John pursed his lips at her. "I'm... Sherlock doesn't-"

"He really, really fancies you."

John stepped back with one foot, recovering the distance between them. He said nothing.

"He's never looked that way at anyone. Not even Victor."

John shook his head, once. "They - he and Victor were serious?"

Molly sat back against the back of a chair. She was drunk, but her eyes cleared up marginally, and she gave a severe nod. "I always had a crush on Sherlock," she said.

John blinked in expectation, his brow furrowing. He wasn't quite sure how that was relevant.

"I mean - no" - she stammered, realizing her blunder - "not now. When I didn't know him." She smiled at John in a way that was utterly innocent, and John found it in himself to relax a bit. "We were in his chemistry class together. And he was dating this boy Victor, and - I mean, no one knew - except Greg." She swallowed at the floor. "He said he was bad."

"Bad?" John asked, his curiosity sincerely piqued.

"Victor got in on a scholarship when he was sixteen. A real intellectual, the only person we knew that challenged Sherlock mentally. He had a really weird family, though, really stressful, and they were about to go bankrupt. He was on the drug scene, too. They both were, but he only made Sherlock that much worse, and Greg - Greg always didn't know what to do."

John looked at Greg, who was drinking way too much on the sidelines. "Yeah," John murmured. "Sherlock mentioned him." After two refrains, the music slowed down a bit. Molly stilled, making her cherry red lipstick all the more visible. They were silent until John said, the words troubled on his lips, "Sherlock's... boyfriend?"

"Yeah. Sherlock left Oxford after they broke up."

"Why's that?"

Molly frowned, and couldn't keep the hint of restrained rage out of her voice. "Victor... he, uh, told Sherlock's father that he was... sleeping with his teacher."

"Jesus, you mean that he's the same one that-?"

Molly looked grim.

"I saw him today," John growled. "Should've punched his fucking teeth in."

"Greg did," Molly whispered, obviously bitter, "when he found out. You should've seen Sherlock afterwards. We were surprised that didn't ruin his career; he didn't talk to anyone except Irene, and sometimes Greg, and he hardly - he hardly ate." She looked up at John. "He eats, now, right?"

"Molly," John placated. "I'm not really Sherlock's anything."

"I don't" - she took a shuddering breath - "I don't think that's true," Molly said. She began picking at her shirt, eyes skirting around John's, looking like she wanted the floor to swallow her. "You didn't know Sherlock, not when he was... when he had that problem," she explained. "His mom died right after. Irene Adler was the only one who knew how to get him to do anything. How to even get him to get up in the mornings."

John grew quiet. Behind them both, a song ended, and Greg could be seen stalking up behind Molly.

"Ask him to dance," she encouraged, a smile curling onto her lips. "He's looking at you."

Not to John's surprise, when he turned back to look at the stage, another song had already begun. Sherlock wasn't playing, however - he was descending the stairs to the stage with a smile in his eye, still lacking that precision he had when he was sober. The violin he borrowed was propped on a music stand on stage, but John ignored it so he could drink in the sight of Sherlock: his shirt was slightly open, suspenders draped on his hips, his body graceful and gorgeous and obscure in the dim lighting. He stopped a couple of feet away from John, looking expectant but saying nothing at all.

John smiled at him and extended his hand, palm up. "A dance?"

Sherlock took it. In a tone that was mischievous and sultry: "How could I turn down such a tempting offer, Dr. Watson?"

"You don't need to be so bloody dramatic," John laughed. Sherlock's hands, cool and soft, guided John into his chest with painless accuracy. The song was slow, but not slow enough to require them to sway; they actually took steps across the floor, and John tried his best not to hurt Sherlock's feet. John pressed closer, out of pure indulgence.

"This is amazing, Sherlock," John said. "Really."

"I'm glad you're enjoying it." This close, he could feel Sherlock's baritone vibrate into his chest. "Irene hasn't come over, so she has no opportunity to ruin the evening."

John snorted, gripping onto Sherlock tighter. "I've never done this before," he said.

"Danced?"

"'Course I've danced," John said, "But only with women."

"This is a queer bar."

"No, but" - John stopped moving, his eyebrows pressed together - "do you think..."

Sherlock stopped dancing and stepped back, his hand still pressed into John's shoulder, grounding him to the floor. John met his eyes, brows still creased. He was thoroughly confused. Sherlock was acting too warm, too kind, and John feared that it was because of drunkenness and not necessarily genuineness. "Why did you say we've been together for four months?"

Sherlock cocked his head, looking equally as confused. "Why did you say we weren't a couple?"

"I thought," John said, "I thought we weren't. I mean, this date is fun and all, but... you're not my boyfriend." The worst thing about this whole conversation was the fact that John said the last sentence like it was a question, like he wanted Sherlock to answer. He let go of John completely, obviously flabbergasted. Drunk Sherlock was much more forth giving on his emotions - to the point of comedy.

"Are you?" John asked, eyebrows shooting up. "Because, if we were, you would have told me that Victor was serious, for you."

"John," Sherlock whined, "shut up and dance."

"Are we boyfriends?" John demanded suddenly. "Or is this just fun for you?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock slurred, way too loud.

"You should figure it out," John bit, and then he started walking for the exit, even as the song played. Sherlock's hand skimmed his, but he pushed past it, angry.

He had Victor. He had his goddamn secrets, and his teacher that he fucked on the side, like John was doing to Claire - God. God, God, God.

"Fuck," John said, as he broke into a jog, opening one of the bathrooms. Two men were making out on one of the walls, so John just closed the door and disappeared into an employee hallway. It was empty, the music from the bar drilling holes in the wall, in John's ears. He closed his eyes and focused on the sounds of his own breath.

The worst part wasn't that he knew what Sherlock was capable of, because he always had. The moment they met, he saw the fire in his eyes, the toxicity in his smile, and he knew that this man would chew him up and spit him out like a stick of gum. It didn't matter to him, when they first began. It didn't matter that he was a drug addict that had allegedly fucked every woman at every party that John had ever been to. It didn't matter; because he was gorgeous and he could play a violin like no one else John knew. He didn't care that he was nothing to Sherlock. But now?

Sherlock took him on a date. And made him happy. And he knew it would never look good on paper but Sherlock's eyes softened, sometimes, right after they'd fucked each other's brains out - he knew that John would listen to anything he ever had to say.

The worst part wasn't that:

He was here, in Oxford, while his fiancee was crying her eyes out over a man who'd never be able to love her. That Mycroft knew exactly why he couldn't end it with her - because this was more fun than John'd had in a long time. That he was a terrible person and he knew it with every bone in his body and still, he was expecting some divine redemption in the form of Sherlock's attention, his adoration, his love, even as he exploited Sherlock to Moriarty for his personal safety.

The worst thing wasn't that Sherlock fucked his teacher in lieu of his underage boyfriend - an eerie parallel that John couldn't quite wrap his head around. It wasn't the fact that Sherlock wasn't ever going to tell him this; that John tricked himself into believing that they were emotionally healthy, that they could make it work with communication and the power of sex. That everything - Moriarty, the law, the war, Claire - it would all come crashing down upon their heads.

Maybe the worst part was that John wanted to fall in love with Sherlock, so badly. Maybe he didn't care about anything. Maybe that was the worst part - that he knew exactly how the story was going to end, but he played the part, anyway.

***

"John," came a soft voice from one of the doors. John had slid to the floor in the time he disappeared from the main room, staring at the wall with no intent to ever leave. (An employee had given him a weird look as they'd stepped over his legs.)

"John."

"Who is it?" John slurred, although he was stone cold sober. He knew who it was, too, unfortunately. With all the willpower he could muster, he wiped his face with his hands and blinked away all the confusion, the anger.

Sherlock walked over, teetering, but successfully sat down on the floor next to him. "I don't know why you're angry," Sherlock started, "but I got you a gift." Sherlock presented it; it was the thin white box that John had seen him slipping into his coat at the beginning of their journey. "I wanted to give this to you," he slurred. "It's good. I listened to you when you told me what you wanted for Christmas, although it was tedious and time consuming."

"It's November."

"Not the point," Sherlock countered. "Now, open it."

John pried the lid open, reluctant but also anticipatory. Inside was a paintbrush. Thin, gorgeous, the handle carved in exquisite detail. It was a pattern of curling vines and budding flowers. John ran his fingers over the bristles, which were soft and lax, easy to manipulate on a canvas. It seemed to have gold trim, and the wood was furnished beautifully.

"This is amazing," John said.

"Good." Sherlock nodded. "I'm glad."

John felt the intricate grooves under his fingertips. "Thank you."

Sherlock was quiet, staring at John. He smelled like booze and sweat and somehow, John didn't even care enough to notice. His eyes were fixed on the wall but he could taste him in the air, feel him surrounding them both in a bubble not penetrated by sound.

"It's okay," John breathed, suddenly, in reference to what happened before. "You don't need to explain anything to me," even though he did, he did, he did.

"It isn't okay," Sherlock whispered, in a voice too quiet, too incomprehensible. He didn't follow up, just waited for John to tell him something that wouldn't slit another wound into his skin.

"It's okay," John said again, because it was the easiest thing to say. "It's all fine."

"I often forget what you mean to me," Sherlock blurted out, suddenly.

John fixed him with an incredulous look. He was under the impression that Sherlock didn't even know how to put those words together to make a full sentence. But Sherlock continued, against all understanding.

"Today was an attempt to show you that. I don't know why you're angry - but I - I apologize," Sherlock stressed, "for taking you to Oxford, for meeting Victor, for my brother."

"I'm not angry."

Sherlock's brows crumpled, skeptical. He leaned in and gently pressed his lips to John's cheekbone, his temple. "'M sorry," he whispered. "Sorry."

***

Sherlock slept in the car, this time. Night clung to the edges of John's vision, and he always got a bit nervous on sharp turns, but the snow that had landed on the highway had been melted by rock salt and the tracks of cars. On the radio, the songs that played in the bar also played - mellow saxes overlaid a slow, easy drum. If John weren't so nervous about driving a Bugatti through a snowstorm, he would be watching Sherlock right then, eyes locating the birthmarks on his neck, his cheeks.

Instead he watched road signs.

When they arrived at Sherlock's home, Mrs. Hudson was there to receive them both. She sent Sherlock upstairs - he was blackout tired and apparently didn't even register John's presence.

"Did you have a nice time?" she asked John, placing a cup of tea on the kitchen bar for John to drink. It was hot and had lemon in it, rather than milk. John disliked the tea but sipped at it anyway.

"Oh," John exhaled, lost in his previous thoughts, "yeah. Yeah. I met, uh, Molly. And her boyfriend."

"Greg?" Mrs. Hudson supplied.

John smiled and sipped his tea.

"He's a sweetheart."

"Quite a bloke, yeah."

When Mrs. Hudson made no motion to leave, John asked somewhat awkwardly, "What time is it? It feels late."

"Oh, about two in the morning, dear," she answered, leaning back on a counter.

John placed his cup in his saucer for a moment. "Mrs. Hudson, you should be in bed."

She smiled at him sweetly. "Oh, John. No, I had to make sure my boy didn't stay up until all hours. He has a party to host tomorrow."

"Yeah. He told me about it." John paused; he gave Mrs. Hudson a confused look. "How old is Sherlock?"

"Twenty-two," she replied.

"You take care of him?"

"When Violet was abroad, yes. And when he moved here, so did I," she said, smiling wistfully. "He's a very kind boy. He always was. You wouldn't know it, just looking at him, but he has his mother's kindness."

"He seems like he was a handful," John joked, finishing off his tea. He stood up to place the cup and saucer in the sink, looking over at Mrs. Hudson from across the room.

"Oh, definitely," she whispered intensely. "Very brash and messy and impatient, even as a child."

"Hm," John murmured, to signal he was listening.

"I worry about him often, but he's a free spirit. No one could ever take that away from him, and I'm certainly not going to try."

From there, the conversation fizzled out - she adjusted her skirt and smiled at John, waiting for him to say something so she could go to bed. "Well." He nodded politely at her. "I should... I best be off."

"Certainly not," she insisted indignantly, "it's drearily cold out there and you are not taking a bus this late at night. There's a guest bedroom upstairs, on the last left."

"I couldn't-"

"You will," she stated, physically moving toward John as to push him towards the stairs.

Did she know how much he'd been longing to stay here? When John finally collapsed on the guest bed, and the warmth enveloped him completely, and all he could hear in the house was the breath and shift of the wind outside, and all he could see was impenetrable darkness, he thought about the way all the people that Sherlock loved spoke about him. There was a light in their eyes, a charisma in the way they tried to articulate Sherlock's essence. John had never had the chance to speak about him to others - he probably never would - but he imagined he would sound like a schoolboy, annoyed and petty but secretly scared of his own emotion.

Everyone who loved him loved him with a fierceness that defied logic. Certainly, Sherlock would say that. There was no logic to his friends' love, no logic to this suicide mission that was carved in John's future.

He wasn't going to get out of this alive. God, every moment he spent staring into the fathomless dark - the unearthly, endless winter night - he knew that he couldn't.