The watery dawn light filters through the curtains. It’s grey: it’s raining, and it taps at the window in a reassuring way. The sun rises, the rain falls: the things we do, our decisions and desires, the things we trigger and the things we let alone, won’t change that. It’s going to be a damp, cool, grey sort of day. That’s all right.
It’s early. Nothing’s blown up in the night, as far as I can tell. Maybe the failsafe doesn’t work anymore; it was years ago, after all. Maybe it died an ignoble death in the boiler. It could be all over, you might have finished all of this in the night, for all I know. While I was senseless and asleep, still warm and buzzing from your mouth and your fingers. Maybe you’ll tell me casually over breakfast later on this morning, as if it’s nothing. We’ll sit in the kitchen surrounded by phones and laptops: By the way, John, Moran visited in the night, I shot him between the eyes. Bit of a mess in the foyer, I’m afraid. More tea? I wouldn’t put it past you.
It’s quiet, it’s early, and you’re still sleeping. Well, I think you are. You’re not moving, anyway, and your breathing is slow and even. You’ve made my chest into your pillow for the second time. Your fingers are curled around my hip. It’s a delicate and acrobatic balance between physically awkward and dangerously suffocating, but you’ve managed to find the one point where it’s actually quite comfortable. I suppose the night makes it that. A bit of practice. Yeah, this is fine. Just fine. Terrific, actually.
Maybe this is how mornings are going to be from now on. You’ll cling to me in your sleep, you’ll hold on to me like you’re afraid I might drift away. But it’s not me who left, Sherlock. It was you. You had your reasons. But it was you, not me. I’ve always been the one to stay put. Mine are the feet anchored to the ground; yours have always been the ones that can push off at a moment’s notice. You’re the one who can hover over the rest of us if you want to, unseen. And you do. So often, that’s just what you do.
Light on his feet, they say. Well. I didn’t mean it like that.
Though I suppose that’s also true.
You never said.
I never asked.
It didn’t matter, and in the end I don’t think I wanted to know for sure. I liked the ambiguity of you, the open possibility that I might be able to kiss you one day and get away with it. You never confirmed or denied it, and I just assumed.
You didn’t prove me right or wrong until now.
But this doesn’t prove anything, does it. Not really.
It can’t prove anything about you if it doesn’t prove anything about me.
Of the two general categories of human being, yes, as a rule I prefer the female variety when it comes to sex and relationships. That’s true. That’s still true; I haven’t developed a general interest in blokes, or anything. No: if you turned away from me, if you left me, I wouldn’t seek out another man, I don’t think. Barring some sort of extraordinary circumstance, I don’t think so. Well: who knows. But between those two categories, men, women, yes: I’d say I prefer women. As a rule. But I prefer you above everyone else, in every capacity.
Does that make any sense? I suppose it doesn’t.
It’s strange.
I want you. Just like this. Soft and quiet and still; hard and fast and loud, too. Careless and thoughtless and clever, miles ahead of everyone else. Scared and lost, vicious and cunning, confused, scornful, oblivious. Amazing, brilliant, hopelessly rude to strangers. I prefer women, yes. There’s nothing feminine about you. But I prefer you above all of them. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but there it is.
I don’t care what labels people give me. I’ll take them. It doesn’t matter. I’d be very happy to stay with you like this until I die. That’s what I want: just you. For the rest of my life.
I should tell you that.
It’s a bit soon for that kind of talk, though, isn’t it? Well, yeah. It is and it isn’t. It’s too soon and ages too late. I can still count the number of times I’ve kissed you. But I should have told you the truth years ago. It’s been true all along; I knew it was. I knew.
Your eyes are open. I can feel your eyelashes brush against my chest. You’re awake. You’re awake and resting against me, fingers against my hip, your knee between my legs, the soft sole of your foot against my calf. You’re choosing to stay with me, just breathing. You don’t want to let go, and I don’t want you to.
We can just stay here like this, can’t we. We don’t need to say anything. We’re both making a choice; not just sex in the night, not just a wild, physical passion born out of panic and terror and the knowledge that we might both be dead soon. No. It’s this, too: a soft and quiet morning pressed so close together nothing can come between us. We’re choosing this as well. It’s all deliberate: there’s no mistaking that.
My fingers fit perfectly into the curved line of your spine, from your lower back to the base of your neck. Slow, slow: your smooth skin against my fingers feels warm and just barely familiar. I’ve kissed you just here, under your shoulder blade. Your skin is a patchwork of my memories now, and when I touch you I remember them all. Your fingers flex against my hip. Yes: we’ve made our choice. This is it, Sherlock. You’ve got me if you want me. And you do, don’t you. That’s a happy ending. Well, it would be, all else being equal, which it never is.
Your breathing is so slow and steady. You’re lulling me back to sleep with your fingers and your breath on my skin. The rain is a steady tapping sound against the windows. It’s early, it’s quiet. There’s no need to hurry, and nowhere in particular we need to go. There are a million words in this bed with us, and I can’t say any of them. Not yet. Eventually, maybe. Yes, eventually I’ll tell you everything, piece by piece.
We can stay here and doze until after the sun is higher in the sky and our stomachs start to rumble. Maybe this is what mornings are going to be like from now on. When you’re not in the middle of a case, staying up all night sifting through files or livers. The in-between times, they can be like this. It’s nice, it’s–
What the–
Jesus, what the hell is–
Oh my god.
We’re dead, we’re dead. He’s found us.
It’s a wall of noise: it’s the sound of the mouth of hell prying itself open.
Christ. Sherlock, hold on. Come here. Get down. Cover your head.
It’s violent: it comes in and throws us out of bed. It’s an explosion: the flat is blowing up. We’re under attack. It rips at my ears like knives. Sherlock: stay with me. It’s an invasion; the walls are crumbling and tearing. I don’t think I can breathe.
There’s light flashing behind my eyes. The bomb, Sherlock. It’s gone off, we’re in a warzone. Here, against the wall, stay down. Your lamp falls off your bedside table and crashes into the floor. Jesus Christ.
It feels like the whole world is tilting. It’s like an earthquake, but louder. I feel as if we’re falling forward into the street. The house is shaking: so am I. My ears are ringing. Glass is shattering somewhere close by: Jesus Christ, this is it. It’s over for us. Hold on, Sherlock. Don’t let go.
The failsafe: Moran must have detonated it, finally. At an ungodly hour of the morning, Jesus Christ. It must have been in the basement, it must have been. It would have blown out the foundations, the building will collapse. You missed some of them, Sherlock, you and whoever you were working with. The explosives Moriarty placed in here, just like in Mary’s flat, fucking MI5, can’t they at least keep a safehouse safe? Is that asking too much? They let Mary’s flat explode, and now 221b is in shreds as well. Bloody incompetent. If we survive this I’m going to have to write a very sternly-worded letter.
Wait. Hold on. Has it stopped?
Is that it? Creaking sounds, some glass falling. God.
Okay. Breathe.
Jesus Christ.
That was a lot more powerful than I expected.
Beeping, now: what’s all that beeping about? Oh: right, yeah, a car alarm. No, several of them. All the cars outside, or what’s left of them, rattling in their parking spots and screaming out their distress. It rattled the whole street, then. How bad was it? I guess we’ll see.
Glass is shattering into the pavement; broken windows for a few metres out at least, I reckon. Jesus. Jesus.
Sherlock? Are you all right? You look stunned. A bit surprised. Are you? You didn’t know it would be like that, did you. You’re still blinking the sleep out of your eyes. We weren’t quite ready for that, for all the waiting. Your heart is beating very fast, just like mine. Breathe, Sherlock. We’re alive.
“All right?” No obvious wounds. Your head is still whole, thank god. All your vertebrae are intact. No broken bones, no blood. You’re fine. Am I fine? Yes: yes, I’m fine too. We’re alive. We made it. Oh god: well that’s certainly something to celebrate.
“Yes.” Your voice is a little shaky. Mine must be a bit tenuous as well. “Fine. We’re fine.”
Yes. We are. All right, then. We stand up like kittens, clinging to each other, breathing hard. You use my shoulder to steady yourself. You look at me and I can’t even decipher the look on your face: fear, guilt, a question, possibly. Need, I think, for me. Desire. Concern. I don’t know. You stroke my neck. You’re alive, so am I. Still here, for another day, at least. It’s verification. It could have gone either way.
I haven’t got the words to respond to that just yet. Not yet. It would be a tragedy to lose you again too, Sherlock. I understand. But I don’t know what to say.
“Was that the boiler?” The task at hand: the bomb exploded. It felt as though it came from inside. There isn’t another bomb he can detonate in here, is there? I hope not. You would have told me if there were, right? Right? We might not survive another. The flat certainly won’t.
“No.” You raise an eyebrow. “It was the van, John. Just the van.”
You let go and I nearly fall forward. I was balanced against you, my knees feel a bit weak. No: I can do this. I don’t need a cane or anything, I hope. Not again. God. Inhale, exhale. The air smells like damp plaster. No: I’m fine. The bomb went off, and we survived. You’re picking through the debris of your broken lamp, and pull out a phone.
Your legs are long, pale, and thin; I can see the outlines of all your major muscles through your skin, all tight in your thighs and down to your bony knees. You’re thin but you’re strong. You are so carefully and deliberately constructed, I know you are: you need to be fast and powerful, you make a point of it. But you’re largely oblivious about the overall effect. You don’t see yourself as someone to be looked upon, stared at. You’re thin, you’re strong, and you’re dangerous. But you’re shaped like a dancer; carefully muscled, graceful, beautiful. You perch acrobatically on one knee, your scrotum tucked in against your thigh. You’re completely naked in front of me and absolutely unselfconscious about it.
As you should be, of course. As you should be. I am becoming very familiar with your naked body. I suppose I’ll only become more familiar with it, given time.
“It was the van out front, exactly as planned.” You’re checking texts. Exactly as planned, is it? Somehow I doubt that. Your thumbs fly across the tiny keys. You’re texting someone. Mycroft, probably. MI5. I don’t know. They’re watching, aren’t they? They’ll find Moran now, right? What do we need to do?
“Bit more violent than planned, wasn’t it?”
You shrug. “Perhaps.”
Yeah, perhaps indeed. You didn’t mean to rip Baker Street apart, did you. You’re distracted now; texting. Who are you talking to? What’s going on?
What bloody time is it? Jesus. Half five. Earlier than I thought it was, even. Bloody early.
Moran was looking for the perfect time. Half five is the perfect time for explosions, is it? Christ. There’s a smell of something acrid: smoke, some kind of chemical, the contents of the bomb, perhaps. Burning wallpaper. Is Mrs Hudson all right? My ears are ringing. It was the van, and her flat is on the other side of the building. She should be safe, shouldn’t she? I should get dressed and go find her.
“Should check on Mrs Hudson.” I need to put something on. Your dressing gown is hanging by the door, but mine is upstairs. Shit. “You think she’s all right?” You’re grinning at your phone instead of listening to me. Good news? “What is it?”
“Come on.” You look excited, like it’s Christmas morning and the present you’ve been waiting for all year is in the sitting room, all wrapped up in a bow. Honestly, Sherlock: have you remembered nothing about timing? You walk past the broken lamp and open the bedroom door. My heart is still racing. I’m shaking a little, I was half-asleep and a bomb went off, I was terrified, you shouldn’t be grinning at me like that. As if this is fun. I can’t help it; it makes me laugh. You make me laugh, with your absolutely ghoulish enthusiasm. I love you for it, I do. It’s wonderful.
All right, let’s go, then. Off to survey the damage.
The kitchen looks all right; a few plates fell from the worktop and smashed into the floor, but otherwise, everything looks relatively okay. The kitchen window is intact; one chair fell over, but it seems fine. Oh: one cupboard door opened up, some more smashed dishes, one bowl. Well, that’s all right. We can replace those.
You lean over the kitchen table and immediately start tapping at your laptop, one foot flat on the kitchen floor and one heel up, toes pressed into the tile. It puts your hip at a slight angle, and–
Oh, god.
Speaking of timing: I really shouldn’t consider that view with too much anticipation just yet. Given the circumstances. God, you’re shameless, aren’t you. I should get your dressing gown and just drape it over you for the sake of...well, of something. Preserving my imagination for a more appropriate moment, perhaps.
Now the sitting room–
Oh. Jesus.
No, that definitely wasn’t the boiler. Christ. The sitting room windows have shattered inwards, the window frames are torn. The furniture is overturned. There’s glass everywhere. There’s a taillight in the middle of the sitting room, and a twisted piece of the van’s bonnet between the two broken pieces of the coffee table. It blew to pieces, quite literally, and flew into the sitting room. I think there’s a bit of the motor sitting by the door, and a gouged bit of floor in front of it. The windows are just open gaps in the walls, now.
You spent hours standing in front of that window. If he’d detonated it earlier, you’d be dead. Absolutely. Jesus. That would have been the end of you.
And it would have been my job to pick your bloodied body up off the glass- and metal-strewn floor. What were you thinking?
And the number of times I walked past that van as if it was harmless. Everything’s a little more dangerous with you, isn’t it. That’s the price of admission, as well as part of the attraction.
The car alarms are ringing out a kind of manic symphony, and in the distance, someone is shouting. No: no, screaming. Fear, shock. Of course. It’s early in the morning, after all, and a bomb just went off in the middle of Baker Street. That’s bound to cause a bit of panic. What is it, another war? Terrorism? They don’t know. They weren’t prepared.
To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t either. My hands are still shaking a little. So are my knees. Jesus. That was close. Sirens: I can hear them, way off in the distance. They’re coming.
“Wait,” you say. “John, don’t even–” Don’t even what? “Just wait.” There’s a spinning set of lines on the laptop in the kitchen, dancing over a road map of London. It will pinpoint Moran’s location in a moment, won’t it. Then suddenly it stops. It focuses. “There.”
“You found him?” You did, didn’t you? You did.
You leap up, drop the phone into your hand, and charge into the sitting room. Jesus Christ, Sherlock, don’t do that, there’s glass everywhere!
“Sherlock!” You’re not listening to me. You’re focused now; there’s nothing else in the world as far as you’re concerned, I know. There’s only Moran, his finger still on a trigger somewhere, open and easy to pick off. And you want to be the one, you want to get him. You can see him now, practically, can’t you, you want to reach out and pin him down. Beat him, win. You have, haven’t you: you just won. Still: you shouldn’t be walking across the sitting room barefoot, it’s covered in glass. For god’s sake.
“Sherlock, the glass!” I should go find you your slippers, at least. What do you need in there, anyway? It’s a disaster area. Your bookshelves are knocked down, all your books are poured out all over the floor. There’s one intact teacup underneath my overturned chair.
It will be all right, though. We can put it back together. They’ll come in and fix the walls and the windows, we’ll move the furniture back, replace the coffee table. We’ll sweep up the glass and take the twisted metal away. Maybe we’ll keep that bit of the engine, as a souvenir; we can put it on the mantel next to the skull. I’ll put the chairs back where they were: facing each other in front of the fire, so I can watch your face while you read, while you think. Walls can come down, Moran can try to destroy us. The dead fingers of Moriarty can reach up from the boiler to strangle us both, but everything can all go back into its place again. As if it never happened. These walls are stronger than I thought they were.
You kneel down and shift some papers out of the way. The wind pushes what’s left of the curtains in. It’s cool. It’s still raining. We’re practically outside now. I think you just walked across half of the window pane. I’ll have to pick the glass out of your feet and your knees later, you know that. I’ll do it. Of course I will. And you’ll complain and I’ll tell you you should have known better.
You hold up your hand to me, wait. Wait. You’re staring at a phone, you’re holding your breath. What is it? MI5? Scotland Yard? Your brother? Moran himself, perhaps? What is it?
You smile. You look up at me. “They’ve got him.”
They? The police, I suppose. The army, maybe. They’ve got him. It’s over then. Isn’t it. That’s it: we don’t need a safehouse anymore. Do we. You can come back. We can both come back again.
“They’re bringing him in now, kicking and screaming, of course. He’s claiming they’ve got the wrong man.”
“You did it.” Because you did: you masterminded the entire thing. It was you from the very start: you played Moriarty’s game, you tricked him into offing himself. You tricked his network into thinking you were him. You tricked me so that I could be your silent and unimpeachable protector, your foolproof alibi. You rooted them out one by one without them suspecting you until the very end. You dangled me in front of Moran like the best possible bait and whetted his appetite. And you convinced him to trigger a failsafe that brought the force of a nation to his front door. You’re brilliant. You’re fantastic. Sherlock: you’re a genius.
“Yes. I did.” Never one for modesty. Well: there’s no place for it just now. Look what you’ve done: the place is in a shambles, but you got him. You put him in a corner and forced his hand, even without seeing him. Without coming close. Without him really knowing what you’d done.
“That’s amazing.” I want to write about this; it would make a great book. I wonder if I should revive my blog.
You’re grinning like a loon. It’s been too long since I’ve complimented your work. I’ve missed it; I’ve missed marvelling at it, at you. You’ve missed it too, obviously. Look at you. I want to kiss you. Come here.
“It’s going to make great telly. They found him in a room full of assault rifles.”
Great telly, sure: it will be all over the news before noon, won't it. Guns and Moran's face: that will be the first time I see it, after he's been safety arrested and locked away. It would make a good novel, too. I could write the whole story this time; the story of your death. Finally, I could write about that, now that it's entirely fictional. The things you said on the roof, the life you led in secret, the life I led too, I could explain about that. And then I could write about your triumphant resurrection.
"It would make a good scene in a book too, I think." A good long book, with some romance in it, maybe. Only a little, though. Some things are private. Some things are only for the two of us.
"It would." It will be wonderful to write about you while you're alive again and peering over my shoulder, correcting everything and questioning my judgment. It will be good. You should be written about, Sherlock. Everyone should know the truth about you. Not just the facts and the observations you make: but you, actually you, as you really are. The wonderful things you do, the things you’ve sacrificed, the ways you’ve made their world a better place. They should know the whole story. You don’t do it for them, I know: but they benefit from it. They should know you.
The sirens are getting closer now; the car alarms are beginning to grate on me, can we shut them off? I’ll get my gun and shoot the bloody things if I have to.
The door: the door of the flat is opening, oh god. Someone’s here. Sherlock, I should have got your dressing gown for you, you're completely–
"Sherlock!" It's Mrs Hudson. Oh no. And we're both– "John? Are you–" She pushes the door open and it hits the bit of motor ground into the floor. "Oh, my beautiful wood floors! Goodness, it wasn't supposed to cause all this damage, was it?" She's wearing her dressing gown, her hair is in curlers. She's got slippers on her feet. She's been knocked out of bed just like we were. She's fine. Not hurt at all. That's a relief. But still, we're–
"Well, I suppose a new floor would be nice, wouldn't– Oh.”
She gets an eyeful of you, standing there completely starkers, holding on to your phone with a look of pure delight on your face. “Oh, Sherlock, put some clothes on, would y–” She looks away from you, only to get an eyeful of me. Sorry, Mrs Hudson. “For goodness’ sake, boys!”
She looks back at you, and then at me, restricting herself to our faces only, and I can see she's worked the whole thing out. Well, I guess it's no secret anymore. Yes: I was in Sherlock’s bed with him when the bomb went off. We were both naked at the time. It’s true. Didn't you presume that’s the sort of thing we were getting up to? This is just confirmation of a long-held suspicion, isn’t it?
"Well.” She puts her hand on her hip and shakes her head at me. “I'm glad you're both all right, but perhaps you should get some clothes on before the police arrive."