Chapter Text
"Oh thank God," Emma says to the ceiling after several blissful minutes of true silence above.
Of course she can't get back to sleep now. Being awakened once was bad enough, but twice in a row - and the sounds - Well. She had rather gotten the idea that John was the unexpectedly noisy one, but that had just been something depending on the situation, which is understandable if you stop to think about it.
She probably shouldn't stop to think about it but she just likes to. Where's the harm? And - goodness. From the sounds of things... perhaps some kind of sound proofing might be called for. They might have had the decency to use John's room and spare a nice old lady all that amorous noise, but... the bed was a lot smaller up there, wasn't it. And two grown men and all, they had to need some room even when they were just sleeping. Which they are finally doing now, from the sound of it - the absence of sound of it.
Well, they ought to be tired by now, anyway!
Mrs Hudson thinks about getting up and letting the telly lull her back to sleep but it turns out she doesn't need to. She thinks of Christmas coming on, and the presents she is still deciding on; the special treats to be made, especially the potent rum balls everyone pretends to complain are too strong; she thinks of the new tenant and wonders what sort of interesting stories she might have to tell at the kitchen table if properly coaxed, and she thinks pleasurably of how she will complain to Mrs Turner about her boys keeping her up all hours of the night with their noisy sex.
***
In the week that followed, they did the flowers together two more times. (Sherlock called it 'the preparation' and John called it 'the flowers' and it didn't matter which thing they called it, mentioning it caused both of them to get a little excited just remembering what they did and thinking about what they might do next time.)
Sherlock would have gladly taken it every night, but John made them take at least a night off in between. If for no other reason, it was disruptive of sleep. Sherlock could have argued, but for whatever reason he chose not to.
They slept together now at night. In the downstairs bed. John's dressing gown found a place in the bedroom, and then some of his clothes.
It was good, actually. And if it made John self conscious - and it did - then it was a completely different kind of self consciousness than he had had before. This was almost enjoyable. In fact sometimes it really was.
It turned out it was not so bad to be teased about sex all the time when one was having sex. All. The. Time.
Even Sherlock laughed at him about it, but Sherlock could laugh all the way to the bedroom.
It was nice not to hold back... at all. It was nice not to have to be... Gentle? No, sometimes he still was. It was nice not to have to be a gentleman. All the whole long dance of wondering and longing and not being sure was over and there were new ways now of longing and they were fun.
It was nice to know exactly what he was doing, to feel it, and when they weren't doing the flowers, to read it in Sherlock's face and from his body the way any lovers did. It was nice, it was better than nice. It was everything.
When he ran into Sarah again at the shop it was very different from the last time. "Oh! John," she said, startled, and looked even more startled when he smiled at her.
"Sorry about the last time," he further disarmed her by saying. "Things were a little..." He shrugged.
"But things are better now?"
"Oh yes."
She seemed so wrong footed. She blinked at him as though he had only just come into focus. But she smiled.
He saw Jeanette once, too, in a book shop, when he was looking for something for Christmas for Harry. She was too embarrassed to talk to him, but he felt her watching him surreptitiously the whole time she was there. And not in an angry way.
"Suddenly I am attractive to girls," he said when he got home.
"What are you going to do about it?" said Sherlock, not looking up from the microscope.
"Well, enjoy it, for a start." Out of the corner of his eye John could see a flash of colour as Sherlock glanced aside from the viewpiece at him. And a flash of teeth in a smile. Sherlock did not need telepathy or even clever deductions to know who was number one. Enjoying the notice of girls at this point was like pulling rank at Baskerville, a fleeting, occasional sort of pleasure. It wasn't a problem. Sherlock even seemed to enjoy when John did it.
It wasn't like Sherlock's absurd jealousy of Grace Kelly, which it turned out was the reason John hadn't been allowed to look at her for more than a minute. Mid movie snogging had always been the intent, but apparently John had liked the look of her in that red dress a little too obviously much.
It didn't matter that it was a movie or even that she was long dead. Hitchcock festivals were out. She was only in two of the films, but they were the best two.
"Almost December. Mrs H will want a Christmas party," said John, putting down the papers and putting the milk away.
"She's never getting me in the antlers," Sherlock said to the microscope.
"I support that. Molly's got a new boyfriend, so, try not to - "
"Not to be a beast."
"Exactly, yeah."
Sherlock sighed as he adjusted his focus. "It depends on the boyfriend. Whether she likes him enough that it's safe to be nice to her."
Good point.
"And assuming it isn't Moriarty or anything," John pointed out, but though it was meant as a joke it fell rather flat.
He was dead but his name was still a cold thing, as though it served as his ghost now.
"He really is dead. I'm very sure."
"I was very sure about you," John said.
"There was manoeuvering room with me. You couldn't see everything, you were delayed reaching me. He shot himself while holding my hand, John. He blew out the back of his skull. He is dead."
"Okay. Right. I know. Sorry. Sorry I brought him up."
"Yes."
Sherlock did not tend to say reassuring things like 'It's alright', but 'Yes' was better than silence. Especially when he was looking through the microscope.
"What are you looking at?"
"Orchid pollen."
John smiled. Just the word orchid was a thing of warmth in and of itself by now.
***
The new tenant of 221C Baker Street moves in this weekend. Mrs Hudson is nervous and excited not just because of the income for Christmas, but because she is a little anxious about expanding her little family, what if it's a bad idea, what if the new girl doesn't like the upstairs neighbours or, worse, what if she should develop a passion for one of them? What a shame that would be. Emma thought she had been very clear that they were together but perhaps she had better make extra sure.
She keeps early hours, that's for sure. At least they're fast asleep above after another one of those strenuous nights. Emma has bought herself some ear plugs (they have them at Tesco) and has found them incredibly helpful. It felt odd at first to have something sticking in her ear, but the way voices, Sherlock's in particular, carry right through her ceiling, well. Something had to be done.
So she has had some sleep and can give the girl - what was her name, she wrote it down, Elly something? a genuine smile as she offers coffee. Allie, that's it, probably short for Allison.
She shouldn't call Allie a girl really, she's not young, must be in her thirties, but she sort of dresses like a girl, layers of thrift shop things and too much unicorn jewelry, and she could really do with a bit of makeup on. And her hair... But, as she shyly tells Emma, she's a computer sort of person and spends all of her time when she isn't working in a sort of fantasy place where she is a wizard. Hence, a single woman's willingness to live in a frankly musty basement. It is a good location, as Emma always tells anyone who might be interested. It just happens to be in the basement. It hardly ever floods. Allie assures her that the computers will be kept well above floor level.
"Computers?" Plural?
Oh yes, says Allie, for the work she does for a living, and then there is a river of technical talk all about it that Emma can't follow at all. But the wizard business sounds harmless enough. And isn't it nice nowadays that the girls can not only be good at computers, but even more, they can just be wizards, not witches or sorceresses or... or wizardesses. She waits for a break in the computer talk to say this to her new tenant.
"A van will be around at eight, I hope it's not too much noise too early for your tenants upstairs," Allie is saying, and Mrs Hudson rolls her eyes, "Oh, wake them up all you like, that's a decent hour, teach them what a decent hour is," and Allie laughs and says, "Oh, that bad?" and Emma says "I wouldn't say bad, but if you should hear human tom cats upstairs late at night, well, there are human tom cats upstairs." There, was that clear enough?
There is a pause.
"I'm not quite sure I follow?" Her eyebrows are raised so high they show over the glasses.
"I mean - well, I did tell you, didn't I, that they're a couple?"
"Oh yes," says Allie, "you did, but that doesn't necessarily mean - you know. Sometimes people make assumptions."
"I have had to buy ear plugs," Mrs Hudson says firmly.
"Oh! I see," and to Emma's horror the woman looks a little shocked after all. She shouldn't have assumed, just because Allie is younger doesn't mean she isn't - conservative. Or religious, maybe.
"Oh dear, maybe I shouldn't have said anything," and now she can see her happy Christmas dwindling away and isn't it a shame, live and let live is what Emma Hudson has always said. "They're very nice. They're like family to me," hoping to warn off any nasty sort of talk about decent people falling in love when it's nobody else's business.
"Oh!" Allie looks startled, "Oh, I didn't mean... oh I assure you it's okay, I'm not - it's not - it's not any problem. I just didn't understand what you meant before. And I was surprised."
Too subtle, Emma thinks sadly. She had been afraid of that.
But then there is a break in the conversation and she can get her remark about women wizards in before she forgets about it.
***
As soon as Sherlock wakes up, he knows there is someone downstairs with Mrs Hudson.
And he knows who it is.
What should he do about it?
He looks over at John, who sleeps the sleep of the exhausted beside him. A well earned sleep, too. Last night was - transcendent. Exquisite. The best experiment ever. He could compose a song about it, perhaps he will. A few notes are already gathering around one another in his head. A song that feels like John. He won't tell John what the song is about and he'll see if John can guess. He'll see how long it takes.
But there is a problem downstairs right now.
He gets up carefully. John will probably sleep for hours if nothing disturbs him, but it wouldn't do for him to wake up now. He gets dressed - no time to shower now, which is unfortunate, but emergencies are emergencies.
He could go upstairs for John's gun. It's one item that John has not moved down from his bedroom - not yet. But he's not sure he needs it, and he knows he doesn't really want it.
After a second considering, he goes without it. He puts on his coat, though. Even if one is not armed, the possibility that one might be is still useful.
Sherlock goes downstairs to 221A, descending into the smell of fresh coffee, and the air is such that the door to the street has been open this morning and he can hear Mrs Hudson saying, "oh there's one of them now," and then he is in the kitchen doorway. Sitting there at the table is an almost unrecognisable woman in a wallflower's costume of scarves and charms and chipped multicoloured nails and ridiculous horn rimmed glasses over top coloured contact lenses and two extra stone of weight and completely different hair. Almost unrecognisable.
"Well now," says Irene Adler, smiling, letting her empty hands show above the table, signalling herself unarmed. "Hullo neighbour."
Mrs Hudson starts to speak, but Sherlock cuts her off, never taking his eyes off the woman - The Woman - at the table.
"Hello." His voice is neutral. "We didn't expect to see you again."
"We...?" She raises her eyebrows, looks around as though for John. "If half of you still upstairs?"
Yes.
"Half of me thinks you're dead," Sherlock says levelly. "And will give the rest of me hell once he knows the truth."
"Sorry about that."
"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson says weakly, "have you and Allie met, then...?"
"Yes. Why are you here, 'Allie'?" She cannot seriously wish to live in that squalid hole in the ground, she'd had a townhouse with Picasso nudes on the wall of her boudoir and Persian silk rugs on the floor.
"I do need a place to live," she says. "I do have a business to run. I have to do things a little differently now, not so much face to face anymore you might say, but some things never change. And I missed London so much, you've no idea. This is a great location."
Mrs Hudson looks pleased.
"John will not want you here." John will be furious just knowing that she has been near here. His jealousy of her had been clear even back then, and it was not likely to improve with another revelation of faked death - a sore enough subject.
Also, she has been sitting here with Mrs Hudson, learning. Although he is certainly much more relaxed than he might have been, John will not like her taunting them. And she will do it just for fun.
"But I'm already here," Irene says, and Sherlock knows now that something bad is in progress and that she cannot or will not stop it.
"What is this about?" says Mrs Hudson sharply. Then, distracted by a sound outside, "Oh, that'll be the van with your things...?"
Sherlock stares at Irene Adler for an agonised instant. I helped you. I saved you. I should have let them cut off your head, I should have done it myself.
Then he turns and bolts for the stairs.
A nightmare of slowest motion.
John, he is shouting inside, but he doesn't dare shout because if the men she has brought are not already in the flat then they are entering it right now. The arriving van will not have brought them, it will be there to take them away. JOHN.
***
John was awakened by Sherlock's voice.
Yes.
He opened his eyes. Sherlock was not there and... Something was wrong. Sherlock was worried. And angry.
And how did John know that, in the light of day?
Something was wrong.
He rolled out of the bed, landed on his feet, listened. Silence in the flat but... a gathered, waiting kind of silence, a waiting for thunderstorm kind of tension. Where it was from he did not know. But it was a threat. Veiled, but a threat.
John ran - barefoot, naked - up the stairs to his old room where his gun was still in the bedside drawer. He had it in his hand when he heard things begin to happen downstairs.
And Sherlock shouting urgently in his head.
And the sound of the splintering of wood. A door being kicked or shouldered in?
And Mrs Hudson's voice raised in hysterical protest.
And another voice, a woman's voice, shouting instructions, and John knew that voice. Another fucking ghost.
A man came pounding up the stairs, strange man, armed and carrying, threat. John shot him. Aimed down the stairs as another one came running and found out what the first man found out: John was armed. And a terribly good shot.
John had to step over both men as he came down the stairs, someone else was coming and he was listening over his pounding heart and trying to quiet his breathing but the man now in his sights was Sherlock and John lowered the gun, eyes wide.
Their eyes met and locked. Woman. - Yes, behind me.
They didn't have to ask each other if they were all right. They could see and feel that they were all right. But there was still the Woman.
She had a gun too. He knew it before he saw her step out from behind Sherlock.
The gun in John's hand came up as though by itself at the sight of her. She smiled broadly.
"Some remarks just make themselves, don't they?" she murmured. She looked so different, but she sounded just the same. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Doctor Watson."
"The pleasure's all yours," growled John. She made a merry face, as though they were doing comedy improvisation and she liked his style.
"That's going a bit far, but it is still interesting to see you. Mrs Hudson told me the two of you have become quite the public nuisance lately, is that true?"
"Yes," said Sherlock, sparing John any need to answer or ignore the question.
She smiled at John, but it wasn't the sarcastic or triumphant sort of smile he would have expected. It was a sad smile.
"There's a third man," said Sherlock calmly. "With a hostage."
In the van.
"Kate," said Irene Adler, and John remembered her now, the Woman's woman, the pretty girl who had answered her door and who was roughed up by the CIA men.
"She is to you as John is to me." Sherlock's eyes were on John's as he spoke to her.
"Yes," she said.
"And who is it who has her," asked John, "is this some - time bomb of Moriarty's, if Sherlock survived after all?"
"Yes," she said. "Puppets of his. I work for them now. They'll kill her."
Sherlock said, "You should have asked me for help."
"I AM ASKING," she shouted. John's face flinched, but his hand remained rock steady.
"Then I'll need that," and Sherlock reached for her gun.
John was surprised when she gave it up, and even more surprised when Sherlock shot her.
Unlike John, Sherlock didn't shoot to kill. Irene lay bleeding on the floor in the hall, not far from where they concluded their date that day.
Sherlock shoved his gun hand into his coat pocket and ran down the stairs.
"Sherlock!" John was caught in an agony of indecision, no time to get clothes, a naked man wielding a gun on the street - but he actually started down anyway because it was Sherlock and there was danger and adrenaline.
But it was over before he got outside. The third man, hearing over a wire on Irene that she had been shot, had turned away from the bound woman on the floor of the van and started to open the door and then Sherlock had finished opening it and head butted his way inside to free the hostage.
And John, halfway down the stairs, gun in his hand, stark naked, met the eyes of Mrs Hudson as she peered fearfully out of her door.
"Can't you please go put something on?" she said in a stage whisper. "Honestly."
***
The Christmas party that year was both a success and a disaster.
A disaster, in that Mrs Hudson did not after all have the income she had counted on from a tenant downstairs and grumbled about it, often. And in that Molly's new beau was horrible and tried to pick a fight with Sherlock and ended up being shown downstairs by Lestrade and John.
A success, in that Sherlock played "Hello I Must Be Going" on the violin while they did so.
A disaster, in that Mrs Hudson ate at least two too many of her highly oversaturated rum balls and began to complain that she put up with an awful lot of naked shootings and sex noise and terrible smells and all she asked for Christmas was that Sherlock just put the sodding antlers on for one fucking song.
A success, in that when John tried to make peace and soothe the savagely drunk landlady by offering to wear the antlers, Sherlock marched across the room, snatched them away from John, slammed them onto his own head, and played "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" as fast as his fingers could play it.
A failure, in that mistletoe was bought but nobody remembered to put it up.
A success, in that the mistletoe was really not needed.