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flawedamythystTitle: Skeletons: Chapter Six
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 10,779 words this chapter (60,024 total.)
Summary: Sherlock's refusal to talk about his past hides far more skeletons than John could ever have guessed at.
Halloween-esque AU. Actually a fusion with another (well-known) fandom, but I feel that knowing which in advance spoils some of the story, so putting it behind a cut: The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't feel it's necessary to have knowledge of that fandom to read this fic.
It should be noted that I have ignored some aspects of canon, particularly S2 canon.
Masterpost: HERE
| Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |
****
They took the bread to a small lake, where John sat down on the grass and Sherlock sprawled against him.
“Next time, I'm having a massive dinner before I come,” said John after he'd polished off the bread. It had been really rather unsatisfying given how hungry he was and had contained far too much pumpkin, but at least nothing about it had tasted like it might be human flesh.
“Order everything on the menu at Bombay Express, and bring the leftovers with you,” suggested Sherlock. “I should imagine I'll be ready to kill at the sight of pumpkin by then.”
“You said you didn't need to eat,” John reminded him, watching as a duck swam across the lake towards them and wondering if it wanted some of the crumbs left from the bread. Was it okay for ducks to eat pumpkin?
“I don't need to do a lot of things,” said Sherlock, picking up a stone and throwing it at the duck.
He missed, but it hissed at him in response, revealing a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. John flinched in surprise. “Christ!”
Sherlock glanced at him. “Don't assume anything here is safe.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John. “Jesus. No wonder most people are dead here.”
“Most people are dead everywhere,” said Sherlock. “It's just that here they stick around.” He turned in order to put his head in John's lap, and John took his chance to stroke a hand through his hair. They'd never really had lazy days like this back in London. There had always been something to do, whether it was a case or an experiment, or an attempt to distract Sherlock from the fact that there was neither a case nor an experiment. John rather liked being able to just sit and talk with Sherlock, even if it wasn't as exciting as the things they'd used to do in London.
Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't much rather be at Baker Street, trying to keep Sherlock from doing something dangerously reckless. However much he tried to focus on the moment, he could feel the silent countdown ticking away, bringing them ever closer to sundown and separation. The fact that Sherlock was apparently content to not actually be doing anything was enough on its own to signal just how wrong things were. He must find Halloween incredibly boring if he wasn't dragging John off to show him something, or getting him involved in something that was far too much fun to be a good idea.
When they could no longer deny that the sun had started its inevitable descent downward, Sherlock let out a frustrated huff and sat up. “This is just-” he said, then broke off, his hands clenching into fists. “There should be something we can do,” he said.
“Is there?” asked John.
“No,” gritted out Sherlock. “Not without risking losing even the chance of seeing each other for two days a year.”
John nodded and gazed off across the lake. He could see a tree with several skeletons hanging from its branches by nooses, apparently all having an argument with each other. Probably best not to ask.
Sherlock groaned and collapsed back onto John's lap with enough force to make John wince. “It's all just so frustrating.”
John looked at the sun again, mentally measuring the distance it had left to travel. He wasn't sure he could stand to just sit here and watch it get lower and lower as their time ran out. “Right,” he said decisively. “Come on, then.” He pushed Sherlock off his lap and stood up.
“Where are we going?” asked Sherlock, staying slumped on the grass where John's shove had left him.
“I don't care,” said John. “Show me more of this place, or just lead me in a big circle, anything, but if we stay sitting here, just waiting, we're both going to go nuts.”
Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then nodded and leapt nimbly to his feet. “We did always did a lot of walking together,” he said.
“And running,” said John. “Don't forget the running.”
Sherlock grinned. “How could I forget your valiant attempts to keep up with my stride with your little legs?”
“Piss off,” said John, taking Sherlock's hand as they started walking.
Sherlock lead him back to the graveyard, but they crossed it in a different direction to the one that lead to the graves of Sherlock's father and Lucrezia's other husbands. As they passed a small, kennel-shaped grave, there was a faint whooshing noise and what had to be the ghost of a dog appeared. John stopped in surprise.
“Piss off, Zero,” said Sherlock. “You're not coming with us.”
The ghost flapped around him in a tight circle, apparently as overjoyed at the prospect of a walk as living dogs were. He stopped at Sherlock's feet, looking up at him beseechingly.
“Go away,” said Sherlock.
“Oh, let him come,” said John.
Sherlock shot him a dark look. “Dog-lovers,” he muttered, but he didn't try and stop Zero from following them as they crossed the rest of the graveyard, then walked over the weirdest bit of landscape John had ever seen – a furled tendril of land which further confused him by moving under their feet, unravelling so that they could walk down into a field filled with pumpkins.
“Christ,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as the thing curled itself up again.
“I told you they grow a lot here,” said Sherlock, apparently oblivious to the real reason for John's surprise. “All year round, as well – no respite from the damned things, even in the middle of winter.”
There was a scarecrow in the middle of the field with a pumpkin for a head. At Sherlock's words, it swivelled towards them and glared at him. “Piss off,” it said. “No one expects you lot to only be around for one season a year, why do you do the same for us?”
Zero darted over to sniff at it, but Sherlock just ignored it in a haughty way that said he wasn't stooping to speaking to fruit.
“Come on,” he said to John, who had slowed to stare at the scarecrow. They crossed over a thin, narrow bridge into the woods that surrounded Halloween. “Hardly anyone comes out this way,” he added.
John looked around. “Can't imagine why not,” he said. The trees were a pale colour and completely leafless, and there was no undergrowth to speak of to hide just how black the soil was. He remembered Sherlock saying, what seemed like a very long time ago now, that Sherrinford used to take him on walks through the woods. “Is this where your brother used to bring you?” he asked.
Sherlock nodded. “I liked being able to get away from everyone,” he said.
John looked around again, this time picturing two brothers wandering between the trees, the smaller one asking a constant stream of questions. He'd never really been able to picture Sherlock's childhood when he'd been back home, but it was all too easy to imagine here.
“I still come out here a lot for that reason,” added Sherlock.
“It's peaceful,” allowed John. Peaceful like a corpse, but that was probably the best you could get in Halloween.
They wandered aimlessly for a while. They saw the skeletons of some reindeer off in the distance, which Zero rushed over to investigate but Sherlock dismissed with a shrug when John asked about them.
“One of Doctor Finklestein's experiments,” he said. “He does some very odd things in the name of science.”
“This from you?” asked John in disbelief.
“My experiments are to gather data for my work,” said Sherlock. “He's just got a thing about creating life. That sort of thing doesn't end well. Apart from anything else, it's a lot harder to get rid of it afterwards. Most of the population growth in Halloween is his fault.”
They went a bit further and John became slowly aware that Sherlock was taking him somewhere specific. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“There's only one thing worth seeing in these woods,” said Sherlock. “I thought we might as well see it while we're here. It's just a bit further.”
John glanced at the sun. “Only a bit further?” he said. He was distracted from Sherlock's reply by Zero, who came and pressed an icily cold nose against his leg and gave him a pleading look that John recognised immediately, despite the differences between Zero's face and that of a living dog. He glanced around until he'd spotted a stick, then picked it up and threw it off into the woods. Zero immediately dashed after it, and Sherlock made an aggravated noise that John ignored as Zero came rushing back with it. What was the point of taking a dog on a walk if you didn't play with it?
Their destination wasn't 'just a bit further'. The sun was dipping towards the horizon before they got there and John glanced at it, thinking about Father Christmas's admonishment not to hide from him.
“Should we be getting back?” he asked.
“No point. He can come and get you wherever you are,” said Sherlock. “Besides, we're here.”
They stepped into a clearing that was surrounded by a ring of trees that were considerably larger and older than the others in the wood. Each tree had a door in it, all of them different shapes and colours.
“These are the entrances to the other holidays,” said Sherlock.
John looked around. They were between a tree with a Christmas tree-shaped door and one with a clock pointing to midnight, and further on he could see a heart, a shamrock, a jester's hat, an Easter egg, a St George's cross, a maypole and a bonfire. They were all brightly-coloured enough to almost seem to be glowing.
“So we could just open a door and go to any of them?” he asked.
“If we wanted to cause rather a fuss, yes,” said Sherlock. “I should imagine the other holiday worlds are as dull as this one, though. They're all so monomaniacal.” He gestured off to their left. “If you head that way, there are other circles for other cultures – Halloween is in a few, in one form or another. The American one is probably where our biggest tree is, but I thought you'd be more interested in this circle.”
John looked around again, noticing that although the trees were all bigger than normal trees, they weren't all the same size. Christmas's was by far the biggest, while May Day's was only slightly bigger than the normal trees behind it. He walked over to rest his palm on the Christmas tree door. It was warm and faintly thrumming under his palm.
“I am,” he said. “Thanks for bringing me. It still seems so weird that these places actually exist, despite having spent the day in one of them.”
“Your world seemed rather strange to me, the first time I went there,” said Sherlock. He looked around at the doors and scowled. “They're the ones keeping us apart. Before there was a council, I could have done as I pleased, and stayed in London with you always.”
He sounded miserable and frustrated, and John immediately went back to him, putting one hand to his face and taking Sherlock's hand with the other. There was no platitude to offer though, nothing that could make this horrible situation any better.
Sherlock clutched at John's hand. “It's getting dark,” he pointed out, completely unnecessarily. John was completely aware of how close to sunset they were.
“I know,” said John, feeling just as miserable as Sherlock looked. Their day was nearly over, and it was going to be ten months before their next one.
“It's so unfair,” said Sherlock. “You're the one person anywhere, in any world, that I actually want to be around, and I'm not allowed to be. For stupid reasons! Because Jack had a bad idea decades ago! Two days a year is not enough, John.”
“I know,” said John again, trying to swallow back the emotion rising up in his throat. “Sherlock, I know. I don't- I can't stand it either.” He took a breath. “We weren't expecting today, though. We're one up on where we were yesterday. And maybe- I don't know. I don't know how it works, but couldn't we persuade Cupid or whoever to let us have Valentine's together? I do love you, after all, and you said you-”
“You do?” interrupted Sherlock.
John stared at him. How could he not know that? “Of course I do.”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “You've never said it.”
“I never thought I'd need to,” said John. “You observe everything.”
Sherlock pulled him in and kissed him deeply. “Not everything,” he said. “Some things need words.” He paused, then added in a bit of a rush, “I love you, too. I know I said it before, but- it hasn't changed. I can't imagine it ever will.”
John pushed his fingers up into Sherlock's hair, keeping their faces only inches apart. “Well, then, maybe we should try asking Cupid,” he said. “However ridiculous that seems to say.”
“The ruler of St. Valentine's is not Cupid,” said Sherlock. “It's St. Valentine. There are lots of cupids and they're all intensely annoying, but St. Valentine is a bit more rational. He might well agree to let us meet, but it might have to be in his domain.”
“I don't care where it is,” said John. “That would give us three days, that's-”
Sherlock's face transformed into pure realisation in a way that John instantly recognised, and which usually signified that a case was all over bar the final showdown. “Stop talking,” he commanded, holding up a hand.
John stopped talking.
“Three of them on our side,” said Sherlock, stepping away from John in order to spin around in the centre of the clearing, looking at the doors again. “You said Father Christmas mentioned doing this for us again next year – that's a commitment. He thinks we should be together. Jack said he wished he didn't have to follow the rules. St. Valentine's would be on the side of love – he is ridiculously sentimental that way. I bet we could get St. George as well – well, you could. He has a soft spot for soldiers, and you were a scout as well, weren't you? He'll love you. That gives us four. We only need two more to get a majority, and then- John! We can get them to change the law!”
“We can?” asked John, looking around at the doors again. All they had to do was get a majority vote? Well, okay, that might not be as easy as it sounded, but he had enough confidence in Sherlock's ability to manipulate to admit it wasn't completely inconceivable that he'd be able to do it.
“It isn't a certainty,” allowed Sherlock, “but it's worth a chance.” He spun again, then stopped at May Day's door. “Queen May might go for us. She has a soft spot for lovers, although she tends to prefer the physical act to the emotional. I suppose I could try having sex with you if that was what it took.”
“How flattering,” said John. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that – he wasn't sure he'd be able to stomach having sex with someone who was forcing themselves to do it to please some obscure holiday ruler.
Sherlock ignored him.
“The others- there must be one more. We must be able to make there be one more – the Easter Bunny, maybe. I am dead, after all; it would be a resurrection.”
“Bit longer than three days,” said John. “And I'm not really sure you should be comparing yourself to Jesus.”
Sherlock ignored that as well. “We need Jack,” he said, looking around again. “He can call the council for us. Zero!”
The ghost dog came whooshing out from between the trees, settled at Sherlock's feet and gazed up at him with overwhelming joy at having been acknowledged.
“Get Jack,” said Sherlock. “Bring him here. It's extremely important.”
Zero turned in a tight circle of excitement, then disappeared back in the direction of town.
“How handy to have him along with us,” observed John. It had been nice having a dog with them as they walked, and John had rather enjoyed throwing sticks for him, and seeing his mounting excitement at the game. Perhaps...
“You're not getting a dog,” said Sherlock, interrupting his thoughts as if he could hear them.
“Why not?” asked John. “It would be good company.”
“I'm good company,” said Sherlock. He stepped back to John, catching up his hands. “And this is going to work. We'll persuade them to let me come home with you. You won't need a dog.”
He sounded as if he was going to try and make it happen by sheer willpower. John thought to himself that if anyone could manage that, Sherlock could.
****
Jack turned up quarter of an hour later with Zero gambolling around his feet and occasionally barking excitedly. He was accompanied by a woman wearing a patchwork dress who had stitching running across her skin. John tried to remind himself that it was impolite to stare, but couldn't stop himself from trying to work out just what the stitching was holding together – they looked a lot rougher than any sutures he had ever seen.
“All right, Zero! All right,” said Jack, fending away Zero's enthusiasm.
“Hello, Sherlock,” said the woman, cheerfully. “Oh! And this must be your John. Jack said he was here.” She held out a hand to John, who wasn't sure how to take being referred to as if he was Sherlock's possession, but he shook her hand anyway. It was made of material as if she was giant, living ragdoll, but it was as warm as flesh would be.
“Sally,” said Sherlock in acknowledgement before turning briskly to Jack. “We need you to call the council.”
“What?” asked Jack. “Why?”
“We want to petition them to make an exception to the law for me,” said Sherlock. “I think we can get the majority voting for us.”
Jack sighed. “Sherlock, you can't-”
“Yes, I can,” interrupted Sherlock. “And even if I can't, it's worth trying. I can't stay here like this, Jack. You know I can't.”
“The council are still annoyed with me,” Jack said. “They have long memories. Why should I risk upsetting them further? It's Christmas Day! Father Christmas will-”
“He's already on our side,” interrupted Sherlock. “John wouldn't be here if he wasn't. And you'll vote for us, we can get St. Valentine, St. George, possibly Lady May and the Easter Bunny-”
“Sherlock,” started Jack with exasperation.
“Jack,” said Sally. “Give them this chance. You know what it's like to be finding everything here tedious.”
Jack looked at her for a long moment, and there was a moment of silent communication between them that spoke of a long-held and deep affection between them. John found himself wondering if he and Sherlock would ever have long enough together to be able to manage that. He really hoped they would.
“And what it's like to find someone who can break through that tedium,” said Jack finally. “Okay, fine, I'll do it.”
“Get on with it then,” said Sherlock with his usual level of graciousness. He stepped back and gestured at a tree stump in the centre of the clearing.
Jack strode over to it, placed his hand palm down on the centre of it and said in a loud, clear voice, “Halloween calling the council.”
The tree stump started to glow a faint gold colour. After a few seconds, all the doors began to glow the same colour, throbbing slightly as the light grew. There was a faint humming noise, then the doors all bulged outwards for a moment as the tree stump exploded with light. John took a step back, blinking the black spots left on his vision away as the humming and the lights all abruptly ceased.
There was a hushed silence for a moment, then the door marked with the St. George's cross burst open, revealing a knight in full armour. “What ho!” he called as he stepped through, ducking his lance to get it through. “Pumpkin King, it is good to see you once more!”
“Hello, George,” said Jack.
“Father Christmas is going to be grumpy about this,” said a man dressed as a medieval jester as he came through the door that was the same shape as his hat. He sounded rather pleased about the prospect.
“Yes, it's a bit much to interrupt him with an unscheduled meeting when he's trying to work,” said a man who could only have been Guy Fawkes, shutting the bonfire door behind himself.
If John hadn't already spent most of the day feeling as if he was caught in a particularly surreal dream, the arrival of the council would have definitely pushed him to wondering just what he'd eaten the night before to prompt this. The existence of a man-sized rabbit in a pink sash alone was enough to make him wonder how on earth his life had reached this stage.
Sherlock rested his hand on the small of John's back and John glanced at him. “Every time I think I've got a handle on just how crazy the situations you lead me into are, you manage to top them,” he said to him in an undertone.
“I am somewhat of an over-achiever,” acknowledged Sherlock.
Father Christmas was the last to arrive, and he came down in his sleigh rather than through his door, landing in the centre of the clearing and missing all the surrounding trees with an impressive level of expertise.
“Jack!” he said. “I am trying to work! This better be important.”
“Told you he'd be pissed off,” said the jester, doing a little dance on the spot that made his bells jingle.
“Shut up, Fool,” said Guy Fawkes.
“My apologies,” said Jack to Father Christmas. “Although, it is partially your fault we are here. I was persuaded to call the council on someone else's behalf.” He gestured at Sherlock and John, and everyone turned to look at them. John cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to look like the kind of person you'd want to do a favour for.
Father Christmas sighed. “I thought I told you not to play any games with me,” he said to John. “This is a very busy day for me, you know.”
“Most of your work was done by dawn, and you were almost certainly on your way here to pick up John anyway,” said Sherlock, gesturing over at where the sun was setting, out-of-sight behind the trees. “Stop complaining.”
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's words didn't seem to do much to make Father Christmas less annoyed. This plan was going to go nowhere fast if they couldn't even keep their current allies happy. John cleared his throat. “I'm sorry if we're keeping you from anything,” he said, “but we're hoping to save you hassle in the long run.”
Father Christmas looked partially mollified. He climbed down from his sleigh with a sigh. “All right, go on then,” he said.
“I wasn't aware that non-council members could present to the council,” said the elderly man who had come through the clock-shaped door. “Are we really expected to come running for just anyone? Especially anyones who have already caused us problems?”
The only woman on the council, who was dressed in a long, white shift and covered in garlands of flowers, tipped her head to one side. “Oh, he's one of the Holmeses, isn't he?” she said. “He has led us in a merry dance for a good many years.” She must be the Queen May that Sherlock had mentioned earlier.
“This council has made laws that have had a significant impact on my life,” said Sherlock. “I demand the right to present my case here.”
“What he means,” put in John quickly, in the spirit of diplomacy, “is that surely any governing body should be prepared to hear feedback from the people who are affected by the laws it makes?”
“He has a point,” said Guy Fawkes. “If King James had been more ready to hear criticisms, perhaps I would not be here now.”
“Ah, do be quiet now, Guy,” said the man who had come through the shamrock door in a thick Irish accent. John assumed he was St. Patrick, although he seemed to be drunk which didn't seem that saintly. “We've all heard that complaint more times than there are potatoes in Ireland.”
“I say we let them speak!” said St. George in a booming voice. “It is what honour commands of us!”
“Oh, very well, then,” said the old man. “But be quick. I only have a week of life left, and there's a lot to do before I hand over to 2012.”
“I shall be as brief as possible,” said Sherlock. “We merely wish to protest the law that keeps us apart, and ask for an exception. As Jack will tell you, I don't participate in the work of Halloween, and haven't for a very long time. I can't imagine that I ever will, so the reasoning behind the law is irrelevant to me. I won't be meddling in anyone else's holiday – in fact, whilst in the world I didn't celebrate any holiday at all, in any way.”
“Because you were hiding from us,” put in Father Christmas.
“I wouldn't have done so anyway,” said Sherlock. “If I'm not interested in my own holiday, why should I be interested in any of yours? All I want is to be able to live and work as I have been doing all these years, years in which nothing I have done has had any impact, negative or otherwise, on any of you.”
“Not true,” said the Easter Bunny. John had just about got used to the existence of a giant rabbit, but hearing him actually talk made him start. “You have prevented John Watson from celebrating our holidays.”
“Ooh, that's true,” said the Fool. “He used to play some lovely tricks, you know.” He looked at John. “Do you remember sending your sister the letter pretending to be from the bus company, telling her she was banned for life from all their buses? I liked that one.”
John blinked. That had been the April Fool's Day when he was twelve and Harry had been fourteen. She'd been convinced by it for nearly five hours, during which time she'd indulged in some really impressive histrionics. When she'd found out it was just a joke, she hadn't spoken to John for a week.
“Ah, thanks,” he said.
“If I don't need to hide from you, he can celebrate all he likes,” said Sherlock. “I'll even let him decorate the flat.”
“I can't imagine I'll bother if I'm living there alone, though,” added John. “Holidays without the person you care about seem rather pointless.”
There was a sigh from Queen May. “That much is true,” she said. “It is wrong to keep lovers apart.”
“Are they really lovers?” asked the old man. “Halloween isn't really noted for its capacity for love.”
“They are,” said Jack. “I've seen them together, and apart, and it's enough to know that they truly care for each other.”
“Me too,” said Sally, who John had forgotten was there, keeping well back in the trees. “I've seen how Sherlock suffers without John.”
“I'm not prepared to believe either of you on this one,” said the old man. “I'm still not convinced that this isn't the start of some ploy of yours to take over someone else's holiday.”
Jack let out a long sigh. “That was one time! Honestly, can't you let it go? You years always get so suspicious and paranoid at this time of year, 2011.”
“I can vouch for them,” said a man who had remained silent so far. He was dressed in a pale pink toga which had flowers and hearts embroidered up the side, and he was carrying a bow and a quiver. “I can feel the love flowing between them, and it is true and strong. They should be allowed to spend their lives together.”
Oh god, had his relationship with Sherlock just been given a ringing endorsement by St. Valentine? John added that to the list of things he hadn't ever considered possible but that Sherlock had brought into his life, then spoke up to confirm it. No point in being a typical reticent man about his feelings if letting the truth out would aid their cause.
“I love Sherlock,” he said, trying to put every bit of certainty he felt about that statement into his voice. Sherlock twitched, and John remembered his surprise when he'd said the same thing earlier. He put his arm around Sherlock's waist. “The last few months without him have been awful.” The ring of council members looked interested, but not as if they were being inspired to help them. John cast around for something more to add that might help. “If you allow him to come home with me, I'll celebrate all your holidays as much as you want. I'll go all the way with them – decorations, cards, parties, presents, whatever. I'll do it all, for the rest of my life.”
That seemed to have some impact on the council members. Clearly, bribery was the way forward.
Father Christmas shifted and said, “You both will.”
“What?” asked Sherlock.
“If we vote to allow you to be an exception to the law, you will celebrate with John,” said Father Christmas. “With as much enthusiasm as you can. And without bringing any Halloween elements into it.”
Sherlock looked completely taken aback, but after a moment he nodded. “If that's what it takes.”
“I still don't like it,” said 2011. “If we let one person be an exception, what's to stop others wanting the same?”
“Apart from the Holmes brothers, I can't think of anyone else who would ever want to leave Halloween,” said Jack. “Is your realm really so unhappy that your people want to desert it?”
2011 directed a glare at him. “Of course not! No one has ever even thought about leaving.”
“I think we can safely say that the Holmes brothers are the complete exception on that one,” said Father Christmas.
“It is puzzling,” said the Easter Bunny. “Visiting the world for a day is nice, but I can't imagine wanting to live there.”
“Not with their attitudes to punishing lawbreakers,” said Guy Fawkes darkly. “I mean, really – surely you only need to either hang or draw or quarter someone? All three is just excessive! And don't get me started on the yearly effigy burning – that's just rubbing salt in the wounds!”
“So you always say,” said St. Patrick. “Endlessly. Might I point out that you avoided all three by jumping from the scaffold?”
Guy Fawkes scowled. “No one remembers that these days. You know that what is assumed about us is what becomes truth – you hardly started off with a drinking problem.”
“It's not a problem, it's just celebration!” snapped back St. Patrick. “The real problem here is your chip about a mutilation that never happened!”
“I was tortured for days!” exclaimed Guy Fawkes.
Things looked as if they were about to descend into an argument that would derail this whole thing entirely. John cleared his throat. “Ah, you know we don't actually do any torture or mutilation any more, right? We don't have any form of capital punishment.”
Guy Fawkes glowered at him. “It was enough that you did once,” he said. “And it's not as if you don't still burn me every year.”
“And if they didn't, your realm would be as diminished as mine is now that maypoles are out of fashion,” said Queen May. “Don't complain about the ways in which you are celebrated unless you wish your holiday to go the way of Lammas.”
There was a general shudder from the group, and one or two of them glanced at a dead tree that John hadn't noticed before.
“Enough talk,” said Father Christmas. “Time for the vote. I vote to allow Sherlock Holmes to return to the other world with John Watson. People should be allowed to take comfort in the presence of those they care for, after all. Good will towards all.”
“I vote the same,” said Jack. “I'm rather sick of Sherlock's endless pining.”
“And I vote against it,” said 2011. “Laws are laws, and there should not be exceptions. Besides, I'm not interested in furthering Jack's plans for conquest.”
“I don't have any!” protested Jack, but was ignored.
“I vote for them. Lovers shouldn't be divided,” said St. Valentine.
Queen May nodded her agreement. “They are rather sweet together.”
John grimaced at being thought sweet, but didn't complain. If it got him one step closer to having Sherlock back, he'd take sweet. Hell, he'd even take cute, if he had to.
The Fool scoffed. “We all know you're just so desperate for celebrants that you'd agree to anything if someone promised you a dance and a bunch of flowers.” He looked at John and Sherlock, tipping his head to one side while his body moved the other, then did a sudden back flip that made John blink. “I'm voting against it,” he said once he'd righted himself. “Where's the fun in just giving people what they want?”
“Thou art far too contrary, friend Fool! These are good men,” said St. George. “Together they right many injustices. I vote for the proposal.”
The Easter Bunny gave a little hop, as if thinking. “I vote no,” he said eventually. “People should stay where they're from, just as rabbits stay in burrows and eggs stay in baskets.”
“I also vote no,” said Guy Fawkes. “However indirectly, they work for the Crown.”
“Oh, come on,” said Sherlock. “Do you really still hold that much of a grudge?”
Guy Fawkes glared at him. “When you've had your entrails pulled out of your still-living body, then you can judge the longevity of my grudge,” he said.
“That never happened to you!” protested Sherlock.
“It feels like it did! That's enough,” said Guy Fawkes.
“Right, that's four votes against, and five for,” said Father Christmas before another argument could ensue. “A clear majority is needed to change any law, so it all comes down to you, Paddy. For or against?”
St. Patrick had produced a pint of Guinness from somewhere and was swaying slightly on his feet, but he was still sober enough to give John an assessing look. “You're English,” he said.
Oh God, they were going to lose their chance to be together because of centuries of cultural animosity. John mentally went his family tree with as much speed as he could. “My Great-Grandfather came from Cork,” he remembered.
“Ah!” said St. Patrick, his eyes lighting up. “You'll wear the green on my day, then?”
John nodded firmly. That wasn't exactly a difficult compromise to make. “And drink as much Guinness as I can,” he said. “And so will Sherlock.” He'd even support Ireland in the Six Nations if it came to it, though he wasn't going to suggest that unless there was no other choice.
Sherlock scowled. “I hate Guinness,” he muttered.
“Come now, 'tis the nectar of the Gods. If you wish, though, whiskey will do,” said St. Patrick. “As long as it's Irish, of course. Drink Scotch and I shall send the leprechauns after you – and don't even dare to think about American whisky. I'll put snakes in your bed.”
Sherlock made a face. “I think I can safely promise never to drink American whisky,” he said. “I do have standards, you know.”
St. Patrick nodded, then looked at Father Christmas. “I vote for them, then.”
Sherlock relaxed in a way that made John realise just how tense he had been and turned to John with a beaming grin, grabbing for his hand and squeezing it as Father Christmas said, “Right then. That's four against, and six for. Sherlock Holmes will be allowed to make his home wherever he pleases, on the condition that he doesn't spread Halloween to other times of the year, and that he and John Watson celebrate each holiday to the fullest extent possible.”
John clutched back at Sherlock's hand and then, when that wasn't enough to demonstrate his emotions, reached for his neck and pulled him down into a kiss.
“Oh, aren't they lovely?” said St. Valentine.
Sherlock pulled away and made a face that John could sympathise with, but mercifully didn't say anything that might make St. Valentine change his mind about voting for them.
“I'll give you both a ride back to London, then,” said Father Christmas. “Come on.” He started to climb back into his sleigh and John went to follow, but Sherlock didn't move, keeping John tethered to his side with his arm.
“What about my brothers?” he asked. “Does this decision extend to them?”
“Do not ask for too much,” said 2011. “If they wish an exception to the law to be made for them, they will need to make their own cases to the council. Until then, we shall continue our attempts to return them to their proper place.”
Sherlock nodded as if that had been what he expected. “And I expect they'll continue to easily evade you,” he said. “Come on, John. Let's go and give Mrs. Hudson a surprise for Christmas.”
They got into Father Christmas's sleigh, which was rather tight squeeze with all three of them in it. Not that John particularly minded having to press close against Sherlock, one arm wrapped around him so that they'd fit better.
“I'll need to pick up a few things from my cottage,” said Sherlock.
Father Christmas let out a sigh. “I'm not actually a taxi service,” he said, but when he picked up the reins, he said, “Sherlock's cottage!” to the reindeer, before starting them off with a, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
They landed in the lane outside Sherlock's cottage. “Wait here. I won't be long,” said Sherlock and slipped out of the sleigh. He was back within five minutes, carrying his violin case and an enormous black bag.
“That's not a few things!” protested Father Christmas.
“It is only two things, in fact,” said Sherlock, slinging the bag into the back of the sleigh, which was now empty of presents. It made an odd clattering noise as it landed, and John wondered what the hell was in it, but decided against asking. He'd learnt that sometimes ignorance was bliss with Sherlock.
Sherlock climbed back in, holding the violin carefully on his lap, and they took off again.
As they soared through the sky, Father Christmas muttering to his reindeer about being taken advantage of, John looked at the violin case with a frown, thinking of the last time he'd seen it. “Mycroft took that,” he said.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “He got it for me so that I could have it while I was working on bringing down Moran. When Jack dragged me off, I made him go and fetch it from the hotel I was staying in.”
“And it was the only thing you took when you left Halloween the first time,” said John, remembering the story.
Sherlock shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I like having it with me,” he said. “It helps prevent boredom.”
“And boredom is the greatest possible evil,” said John with a grin, remembering Sherlock's many rants against it. He was likely to hear many more now. He couldn't wait.
Sherlock hesitated. “I would have said that six months or a year ago,” he said, slowly. “Now, though, I know that boredom is nothing compared to having to be without you.”
John blinked at the unexpected sentimentality, then tightened his arm around Sherlock. “You'll never have to worry about that happening again,” he vowed.
Sherlock stared at him intently as if trying to gauge the truth of the statement, which seemed ridiculous because John had never meant anything more in his life. After a moment, Sherlock's face creased into a tiny smile.
“Good,” he said, leaning into John and resting his forehead against his. “That's very good.”
****
Baker Street was deserted when Father Christmas landed the sleigh, even though it was only early evening. John thought that having the ability to clear people out of an area like that might well be the best thing he'd ever seen. It would definitely make getting the tube at rush hour a lot less stressful.
“Right, get out,” said Father Christmas. “I want to get home – Mrs. Claus will be wondering where I've got to.”
“Thank you very much for everything,” said John as he climbed out.
Father Christmas waved that away. “Giving people things is my whole purpose.”
“Well, thank you anyway,” said John. “It means a lot to us.”
“Just make sure you're good next year, then,” said Father Christmas. “And have a proper Christmas! None of this sitting alone with a couple of cards on the mantelpiece – it almost wasn't enough to give me an in, you know.”
“We'll do it properly next year,” promised John. “We'll have a party or something.”
“We will?” asked Sherlock, pulling his bag out of the back of the sleigh.
“Yes,” said John firmly. “I'll get a Christmas jumper. You can wear reindeer antlers or something.”
Sherlock looked horrified. “I will not. You can celebrate Christmas and still retain some dignity, you know.”
“Of course you can. It's not as fun, though,” said Father Christmas. “Perhaps I'll see you next year, then.”
He pulled the reins and the reindeer started moving, soaring up into the sky with the sound of Father Christmas's “Ho! Ho! Ho!” echoing across the rooftops.
“Right,” said John, turning towards the door of 221. “Time for a cup of tea, I think.”
“Yes!” said Sherlock, sounding more excited than John had ever heard him sound at the prospect of food or drink. “Tea completely free of pumpkins, and made by you. Fantastic.”
John made tea, and Sherlock drank it with an enthusiasm that John suspected wouldn't last long, then they sat on the sofa together and pretended they were watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special, while actually just getting as close to each other as they could, entangling their limbs and indulging in long, slow kisses that felt as if they could go on forever. It was almost as if Sherlock had never been away, as if the last few months were nothing but a bad dream. After all, where else could he have been when he fitted so perfectly here, stretched out over John with one hand resting on his side, underneath his jumper?
“When's Mrs. Hudson back?” asked Sherlock as the credits rolled on Doctor Who. John presumed that The Doctor had defeated the alien menace, but he really couldn't have said how.
“She's at her sister's until tomorrow afternoon,” said John. “Rather late, probably, if they get started on the sherry over lunch.”
“So we have another day to ourselves,” said Sherlock.
“Yes,” agreed John, smoothing his hand down the length of Sherlock's spine. A thought occurred to him. “How are you going to explain your resurrection?”
“I'm not,” Sherlock said. “I'll just imply it was faked, make vague references to help from Mycroft and my homeless network, and leave it at that. People will make up their own theories to explain it.”
“You're going to ignore all their questions and just look mysterious, aren't you?” said John.
Sherlock grinned at him. “Of course I am,” he said. “You know me too well.” He was silent for a moment, then added, in a more serious tone, “You do know me now, John. You know all those things you wanted before – about my family and where I grew up and all that. You know all my secrets.”
“All your secrets?” asked John sceptically.
Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “You know all the important ones. It doesn't get much bigger than 'I'm from a holiday world', you know.”
“No,” agreed John. He thought about that for a moment, about finally having all the pieces to the puzzle that was Sherlock. Even with them all laid out before him, he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever fully understand him. That was okay, though – he understood more than anyone else, and enough to know that he loved him, and was loved by him. “I'm honoured,” he said eventually.
Sherlock snorted. “It wasn't exactly my choice,” he pointed out.
“I'm honoured anyway,” said John. “You could have just looked mysterious and made vague allusions to Mycroft and your homeless network, after all.”
“You wouldn't have believed me,” said Sherlock. “You're not an idiot.”
John laughed. “That's not what you usually say.”
“I'm feeling rather generous today,” said Sherlock.
“Can't imagine why,” said John, then kissed him again. He felt almost giddy, suffused with happiness and the knowledge that they had the rest of their lives to lie together like this. Well, when they weren't chasing around after criminals. God, his life was going to get interesting again. He couldn't wait.
****
Mrs. Hudson took the news of Sherlock's return rather well, considering. She had to have a sit down, then she berated him for a while, but after that she brought him a cup of tea and a plate of mince pies, and ruffled his hair.
“Oh, you're cold,” she said, and Sherlock twitched away from her hand. “And so pale, too!” she continued. “You've not been taking care of yourself, have you? We'll have to work on feeding you up, won't we, John?”
“Ah, yes,” said John. Sherlock was not noticeably dead, not in the way a real corpse would be, but he was pale in an unhealthy-looking manner, and his skin never quite seemed to warm up. He wondered if that was going to cause problems for them.
“I'm fine,” said Sherlock testily. “I've always been pale. Stop fussing.”
Mrs. Hudson tutted but left it at that for the moment.
After she'd gone, John took the chance to ask, “What are you going to do if someone does notice you're, you know. Less alive than you were?”
“Mock them,” said Sherlock. “Come on, John, do you seriously think anyone is actually going to be observant enough to tell whether or not I have a pulse? Even if they do, they'll rationalise it away – I'm walking and talking, therefore I can't be dead. People don't like to see the impossible.”
Mycroft and Sherrinford came over the day after Boxing Day. Mycroft clearly knew that something had happened, or he wouldn't have come around so soon after Christmas (John wondered what his surveillance equipment had shown of Father Christmas's visit, and then thought that Father Christmas must have some way of foiling CCTV, or he would be less of a myth and more of a provable fact), but he still looked as surprised as John had ever seen him when he saw Sherlock.
“You escaped again?” he said.
“No, look properly, Mycroft,” said Sherrinford from his position cradled in the crook of Mycroft's arm. “He was let go.”
“We negotiated with the council,” said Sherlock. “They were rather reasonable about the whole thing.”
That was not how John would have described it, but he didn't quibble.
“So we no longer have to hide?” said Mycroft.
“Ah, no,” said Sherlock. “I no longer have to hide. You two will have to go and negotiate your own freedom.”
Mycroft made a face. “I'm not debasing myself like that. Besides, Guy Fawkes has a great deal of animosity towards me – I'm not sure it would be a good idea to be in the same place as him. Being dead would make my yearly medical examinations at work rather tricky.”
“It's not as if they've ever looked for us with any particular zeal,” said Sherrinford. “I think most of them are content to just make sure we keep quiet and out of their way.”
“Not in my case any more,” said Sherlock. “They want us to celebrate everything.” He made a face.
There was a tiny pause as that sank in, then both Mycroft and Sherrinford began to laugh. John had never heard Mycroft laugh before, and certainly not so hard that his face went red. It was incredibly disconcerting.
Sherlock huffed and looked affronted. “Yes, all right,” he said tetchily. “That's enough of that.”
Mycroft calmed enough to say, “All of them? Even May Day?”
“Oh god, are you going to put a maypole up in here?” asked Sherrinford. “Please, please take pictures, John. I'll pay thousands for them.”
“You don't have thousands,” Sherlock pointed out. “You don't have any money at all.”
“I do,” said Mycroft. “I would be happy to give you hundreds of thousands for such pictures, John.”
“There will be no pictures,” said Sherlock. “And no maypole either. I'm sure we can find a way to celebrate that will be more dignified.”
“You could always dance around John's maypole,” said Sherrinford lasciviously. John was reasonably sure he'd have winked, if he had eyelids. The double entendre caught him off-guard, and he felt his ears go faintly pink.
“Not happening,” said Sherlock with a black look. “Which is probably for the best, as it would count as necrophilia at this point.”
John blanched. Oh god, that was true. Well, there was even more reason not to mind being celibate for the rest of his life. As much as he didn't really mind the changes death had worked on Sherlock's body, he didn't fancy having sex with someone colder than normal and lacking a heartbeat.
“You know, I brought you a present back,” continued Sherlock to Sherrinford, “but I'm beginning to think I might just keep it.”
“A present?” asked Sherrinford. “Fine, I'll stop teasing. Where is it? What is it?”
“Isn't it a bit close to Christmas for presents?” asked Mycroft.
“Not for me,” said Sherlock. “Besides, it's not so much a present as returning to you something that was already yours. Let me get it.” He went into his room and came back with the black bag he had brought back from Halloween.
“I've had a lot more experience of finding things now,” he said as he unzipped the bag. “Mummy thinks she's good at hiding things, but compared to some of the criminals I've faced, she's an amateur. I doubt she even knows it's gone yet.” He took hold of something inside the bag and pulled it out, standing as he did so to allow it to unfold and settle into place.
It was a complete skeleton, all carefully joined together and lacking only the skull. John stared at it in surprise, then glanced at Sherrinford. It was almost impossible to tell an expression on his skull, but there was an air about him that said he was just as gobsmacked as John, if not more so. Mycroft certainly looked surprised.
“My body!” exclaimed Sherrinford.
“What's left of it,” corrected Sherlock.
“Put me on it,” demanded Sherrinford. “Come on, put me on it now.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock. “John, if you could just hold it up for a minute.”
“Right, of course,” said John, moving forward to take hold of the collarbones and keep the skeleton upright while Sherlock picked up Sherrinford. He flipped him over and examined his underside for a minute, then turned him back the right way up again.
“Are you going to be able to connect yourself, or should I use some wire?” he asked.
“I think I can do it myself,” said Sherrinford. “I can sort of feel it, you know. I think-”
The skeleton's left arm twitched, and John nearly dropped it in surprise.
“Yes!” said Sherrinford with triumph. “It's there. You can just put me on top.”
Sherlock did so, carefully lining the skull and the spine up. They clicked into place together, and then Sherrinford let out a low, “Oh,” and the whole skeleton gave a wriggle. “Let go,” he commanded.
John gingerly let go and stepped back, half-expecting the whole thing to just crumple to the floor, but it stayed up. Sherrinford stayed up. He tilted his skull from one side to the other, then brought his arms up and rotated his wrists.
“I'm back!” he said, and looked at Sherlock. “Look, Sherlock, I'm back!” He bent his knees, then carefully took a step or two before bursting out into laughter. “I can walk again! I can move!” He took off around the room in a spinning dance of delight that reminded John of the way Sherlock reacted to the news of a serial killer. “I don't have to just stay where I'm put any more! This is brilliant. Sherlock, thank you. Thank you so much.”
Sherlock shrugged. “It gave me something to do while I was there,” he said as if it was nothing, but John could see how pleased he was at Sherrinford's reaction.
“I'll be able to do things by myself again,” realised Sherrinford. “Enough clothes, and a big scarf or something, and I'll be able to go out. Mycroft! We can go to the Tate without everyone thinking you're a pretentious weirdo artist-type.”
“I rather enjoyed them thinking that,” said Mycroft, but he sounded just as happy as his two brothers were. He looked at Sherlock. “This was well done, Sherlock. Thank you.”
Sherlock sniffed at him. “I didn't do it for you,” he said.
Sherrinford crouched down by the bookcase, then sprang to his feet in one motion. “Brilliant!” he said, then reached out and picked up a book. “Look! I can pick things up. I'll be able to read again without someone else turning the pages.” He flicked through the book, then put it back, just as there was the creak of a footstep on the floor outside.
“Sherrinford!” hissed Mycroft. Sherrinford instantly froze against the wall, leaning back against it as if he'd been propped there.
The door opened and Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tray. “I've brought you some tea up,” she said. “Not that I'm your housekeeper, Sherlock, but I thought Mycroft might need some tea after the last few months. And a scone or two - I made far too many, you'll be doing me a favour of you eat them.” She caught sight of Sherrinford. “Oh! Sherlock! When did that arrive?”
“Very recently,” said Sherlock.
“Oh dear!” she said. “You do have the oddest taste in interior design.”
“You can hardly talk,” said Sherlock. “You have doilies.”
“I can make you one to go under your skull if you like,” she said, glancing around. “Oh, it's gone.”
“There is no need for any doilies in this flat,” said Sherlock, with a firmness that immediately made John plot to put doilies under everything next time Sherlock was being annoying.
“I'm sure there's no need for skeletons either,” said Mrs. Hudson. “At least it's clean, I suppose. It's the things that are still rotting that I really object to. Well, I'm sure you've got a lot to talk about. And apologise for,” she said, giving Sherlock a meaningful look.
“Mycroft knew I was alive, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock.
“Did he?” said Mrs. Hudson, and she turned her look on Mycroft. “You could have said something!”
“That would rather have spoilt the plan,” pointed out Mycroft.
Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “Perhaps you don't deserve tea and scones after all. I've a good mind to take them away again.”
“John deserves them,” said Sherlock.
“That's true,” said Mrs. Hudson. She gave John the kind of look you'd give a small puppy who'd lost his favourite squeaky toy. “You poor dear. Honestly, Sherlock, I hope you realise just how lucky you are that he's so forgiving.”
“Of course I do,” said Sherlock.
“I'm not that forgiving,” said John. “You're going to pay me – and Mrs. Hudson – back by keeping rotting flesh out of the flat.”
Sherlock scowled. “That will considerably hinder the cause of forensic science.”
“That's better than hindering my ability to cook in an environment that won't give me food poisoning,” replied John.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Well, enjoy the scones, John. I'll be back for the tray in a bit.” She bustled back out again and Sherrinford straightened up from the wall.
“She's such a dear,” he said fondly. “Do you know, she used to come up and dust me when you were away for a few days, Sherlock?”
“Did she?” asked Sherlock. “Well, she won't need to do that any more. You can dust yourself.”
“And you'll hardly fit on the mantelpiece now,” said Mycroft.
Sherlock looked Sherrinford up and down as if he'd only just realised that a skeleton took up a lot more space than a skull. “You can have John's room.”
Wait, he could what? “Hang on,” said John, “don't I get a say in that?”
“Having two rooms between us is really just greedy,” said Sherlock. “It's not as if we use them both at the same time.”
That was true, but John still felt he should protest. It was his room, damn it. He'd decide if, and when, he was going to give it up. “Don't you think I need at least one place in this flat that isn't completely taken over with your junk?” he asked.
Sherlock tipped his head to one side and regarded him for a long moment. “No,” he said eventually. “I think if you wanted somewhere that didn't have me in it, you wouldn't have left all my things spread out everywhere while I was gone.”
John opened his mouth to deny that, then realised he couldn't. He liked having all the reminders around him that Sherlock was actually here with him. He sighed and rubbed at his face. He'd only been up to his room once since Sherlock had come home, and that had just been to fetch some clean clothes. He'd been barely using it even before that – he couldn't remember the last time he slept in the bed up there rather than in Sherlock's. “Oh, fine then,” he said. “Sherrinford can have my room.”
“Very kind of you, thank you,” said Sherrinford. “I won't always be here, of course – you'll still be able to use it when I'm at Mycroft's.”
“If you wished,” said Mycroft, “I could provide you with your own flat.”
Sherrinford's skull jerked around so that he could stare at him. “Where I'd be alone? Why would I want that? I might as well be in a grave.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft,” said Sherlock.
Mycroft held both his hands up defensively. “I was merely making the offer,” he said. “It will remain open, if you change your mind.”
“Why would I?” asked Sherrinford, and John quietly resigned himself to living with both his boyfriend and his boyfriend's skeletal brother for the foreseeable future. Well, at least he wouldn't be alone – he'd had quite enough of that.
Sherrinford did at least go home with Mycroft that day, saying that he didn't really want to live with a newly reunited couple, and that he'd stay with Mycroft until there were less adoring looks and constant fondling. Sherlock scowled and claimed not to know what he meant while John tried to carefully slide his knee out from underneath Sherlock's hand. Sherlock just gripped at it tighter, and John gave up, meeting Mycroft's amused look with as much defiance as he could. He wasn't going to apologise for being relieved that Sherlock was back, or be embarrassed that Sherlock was clearly just as happy to be back with him.
****
On New Year's Eve, they spent the evening at Angelo's while he plied them with an incredible amount of champagne – most of which John drank – and exclaimed at great length about how good it was to see Sherlock alive. They went down to the Thames for midnight and watched the fireworks over the Eye with what felt like the whole of the rest of London.
John glanced at Sherlock's faint frown of concentration as a shower of blue sparks cascaded across the sky and slipped his hand into Sherlock's, squeezing it to get his attention.
“You are absolutely not allowed to make fireworks in the flat,” he said, because he knew that look, and some things stood to be repeated.
“Of course not,” said Sherlock, eyes fixed on a series of bright green flowers bursting overhead. “I'll make them at Mycroft's.”
John laughed. “Well, if you must,” he said. Mycroft probably had an extremely expensive fire alarm, after all, and possibly even sprinklers. “Just let me know in advance so that I can alert the fire brigade.”
Sherlock pulled his gaze away from the fireworks and fixed it on John's face instead with a look that made John's breath catch in his throat. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the heady rush of realising just how much Sherlock cared for him.
Sherlock didn't bother saying anything, he just leaned in to John and pressed their lips together. They kissed while the fireworks continued to explode overhead, and it should have felt like the ending of a bad romance film, but instead it felt like a beginning.
“Kissing the person you mean to spend the rest of the year with,” said Sherlock against John's lips. “I almost forgot.”
“Not just this year, I hope,” said John, pulling Sherlock closer, until their bodies were pressed as close together as their lips.
“Every year,” said Sherlock. “I'll be kissing you at this time every year.”
“Good,” said John, and pulled Sherlock down into another kiss.
****
THE END
*
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 10,779 words this chapter (60,024 total.)
Summary: Sherlock's refusal to talk about his past hides far more skeletons than John could ever have guessed at.
Halloween-esque AU. Actually a fusion with another (well-known) fandom, but I feel that knowing which in advance spoils some of the story, so putting it behind a cut: The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't feel it's necessary to have knowledge of that fandom to read this fic.
It should be noted that I have ignored some aspects of canon, particularly S2 canon.
Masterpost: HERE
| Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |
They took the bread to a small lake, where John sat down on the grass and Sherlock sprawled against him.
“Next time, I'm having a massive dinner before I come,” said John after he'd polished off the bread. It had been really rather unsatisfying given how hungry he was and had contained far too much pumpkin, but at least nothing about it had tasted like it might be human flesh.
“Order everything on the menu at Bombay Express, and bring the leftovers with you,” suggested Sherlock. “I should imagine I'll be ready to kill at the sight of pumpkin by then.”
“You said you didn't need to eat,” John reminded him, watching as a duck swam across the lake towards them and wondering if it wanted some of the crumbs left from the bread. Was it okay for ducks to eat pumpkin?
“I don't need to do a lot of things,” said Sherlock, picking up a stone and throwing it at the duck.
He missed, but it hissed at him in response, revealing a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. John flinched in surprise. “Christ!”
Sherlock glanced at him. “Don't assume anything here is safe.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John. “Jesus. No wonder most people are dead here.”
“Most people are dead everywhere,” said Sherlock. “It's just that here they stick around.” He turned in order to put his head in John's lap, and John took his chance to stroke a hand through his hair. They'd never really had lazy days like this back in London. There had always been something to do, whether it was a case or an experiment, or an attempt to distract Sherlock from the fact that there was neither a case nor an experiment. John rather liked being able to just sit and talk with Sherlock, even if it wasn't as exciting as the things they'd used to do in London.
Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't much rather be at Baker Street, trying to keep Sherlock from doing something dangerously reckless. However much he tried to focus on the moment, he could feel the silent countdown ticking away, bringing them ever closer to sundown and separation. The fact that Sherlock was apparently content to not actually be doing anything was enough on its own to signal just how wrong things were. He must find Halloween incredibly boring if he wasn't dragging John off to show him something, or getting him involved in something that was far too much fun to be a good idea.
When they could no longer deny that the sun had started its inevitable descent downward, Sherlock let out a frustrated huff and sat up. “This is just-” he said, then broke off, his hands clenching into fists. “There should be something we can do,” he said.
“Is there?” asked John.
“No,” gritted out Sherlock. “Not without risking losing even the chance of seeing each other for two days a year.”
John nodded and gazed off across the lake. He could see a tree with several skeletons hanging from its branches by nooses, apparently all having an argument with each other. Probably best not to ask.
Sherlock groaned and collapsed back onto John's lap with enough force to make John wince. “It's all just so frustrating.”
John looked at the sun again, mentally measuring the distance it had left to travel. He wasn't sure he could stand to just sit here and watch it get lower and lower as their time ran out. “Right,” he said decisively. “Come on, then.” He pushed Sherlock off his lap and stood up.
“Where are we going?” asked Sherlock, staying slumped on the grass where John's shove had left him.
“I don't care,” said John. “Show me more of this place, or just lead me in a big circle, anything, but if we stay sitting here, just waiting, we're both going to go nuts.”
Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then nodded and leapt nimbly to his feet. “We did always did a lot of walking together,” he said.
“And running,” said John. “Don't forget the running.”
Sherlock grinned. “How could I forget your valiant attempts to keep up with my stride with your little legs?”
“Piss off,” said John, taking Sherlock's hand as they started walking.
Sherlock lead him back to the graveyard, but they crossed it in a different direction to the one that lead to the graves of Sherlock's father and Lucrezia's other husbands. As they passed a small, kennel-shaped grave, there was a faint whooshing noise and what had to be the ghost of a dog appeared. John stopped in surprise.
“Piss off, Zero,” said Sherlock. “You're not coming with us.”
The ghost flapped around him in a tight circle, apparently as overjoyed at the prospect of a walk as living dogs were. He stopped at Sherlock's feet, looking up at him beseechingly.
“Go away,” said Sherlock.
“Oh, let him come,” said John.
Sherlock shot him a dark look. “Dog-lovers,” he muttered, but he didn't try and stop Zero from following them as they crossed the rest of the graveyard, then walked over the weirdest bit of landscape John had ever seen – a furled tendril of land which further confused him by moving under their feet, unravelling so that they could walk down into a field filled with pumpkins.
“Christ,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as the thing curled itself up again.
“I told you they grow a lot here,” said Sherlock, apparently oblivious to the real reason for John's surprise. “All year round, as well – no respite from the damned things, even in the middle of winter.”
There was a scarecrow in the middle of the field with a pumpkin for a head. At Sherlock's words, it swivelled towards them and glared at him. “Piss off,” it said. “No one expects you lot to only be around for one season a year, why do you do the same for us?”
Zero darted over to sniff at it, but Sherlock just ignored it in a haughty way that said he wasn't stooping to speaking to fruit.
“Come on,” he said to John, who had slowed to stare at the scarecrow. They crossed over a thin, narrow bridge into the woods that surrounded Halloween. “Hardly anyone comes out this way,” he added.
John looked around. “Can't imagine why not,” he said. The trees were a pale colour and completely leafless, and there was no undergrowth to speak of to hide just how black the soil was. He remembered Sherlock saying, what seemed like a very long time ago now, that Sherrinford used to take him on walks through the woods. “Is this where your brother used to bring you?” he asked.
Sherlock nodded. “I liked being able to get away from everyone,” he said.
John looked around again, this time picturing two brothers wandering between the trees, the smaller one asking a constant stream of questions. He'd never really been able to picture Sherlock's childhood when he'd been back home, but it was all too easy to imagine here.
“I still come out here a lot for that reason,” added Sherlock.
“It's peaceful,” allowed John. Peaceful like a corpse, but that was probably the best you could get in Halloween.
They wandered aimlessly for a while. They saw the skeletons of some reindeer off in the distance, which Zero rushed over to investigate but Sherlock dismissed with a shrug when John asked about them.
“One of Doctor Finklestein's experiments,” he said. “He does some very odd things in the name of science.”
“This from you?” asked John in disbelief.
“My experiments are to gather data for my work,” said Sherlock. “He's just got a thing about creating life. That sort of thing doesn't end well. Apart from anything else, it's a lot harder to get rid of it afterwards. Most of the population growth in Halloween is his fault.”
They went a bit further and John became slowly aware that Sherlock was taking him somewhere specific. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“There's only one thing worth seeing in these woods,” said Sherlock. “I thought we might as well see it while we're here. It's just a bit further.”
John glanced at the sun. “Only a bit further?” he said. He was distracted from Sherlock's reply by Zero, who came and pressed an icily cold nose against his leg and gave him a pleading look that John recognised immediately, despite the differences between Zero's face and that of a living dog. He glanced around until he'd spotted a stick, then picked it up and threw it off into the woods. Zero immediately dashed after it, and Sherlock made an aggravated noise that John ignored as Zero came rushing back with it. What was the point of taking a dog on a walk if you didn't play with it?
Their destination wasn't 'just a bit further'. The sun was dipping towards the horizon before they got there and John glanced at it, thinking about Father Christmas's admonishment not to hide from him.
“Should we be getting back?” he asked.
“No point. He can come and get you wherever you are,” said Sherlock. “Besides, we're here.”
They stepped into a clearing that was surrounded by a ring of trees that were considerably larger and older than the others in the wood. Each tree had a door in it, all of them different shapes and colours.
“These are the entrances to the other holidays,” said Sherlock.
John looked around. They were between a tree with a Christmas tree-shaped door and one with a clock pointing to midnight, and further on he could see a heart, a shamrock, a jester's hat, an Easter egg, a St George's cross, a maypole and a bonfire. They were all brightly-coloured enough to almost seem to be glowing.
“So we could just open a door and go to any of them?” he asked.
“If we wanted to cause rather a fuss, yes,” said Sherlock. “I should imagine the other holiday worlds are as dull as this one, though. They're all so monomaniacal.” He gestured off to their left. “If you head that way, there are other circles for other cultures – Halloween is in a few, in one form or another. The American one is probably where our biggest tree is, but I thought you'd be more interested in this circle.”
John looked around again, noticing that although the trees were all bigger than normal trees, they weren't all the same size. Christmas's was by far the biggest, while May Day's was only slightly bigger than the normal trees behind it. He walked over to rest his palm on the Christmas tree door. It was warm and faintly thrumming under his palm.
“I am,” he said. “Thanks for bringing me. It still seems so weird that these places actually exist, despite having spent the day in one of them.”
“Your world seemed rather strange to me, the first time I went there,” said Sherlock. He looked around at the doors and scowled. “They're the ones keeping us apart. Before there was a council, I could have done as I pleased, and stayed in London with you always.”
He sounded miserable and frustrated, and John immediately went back to him, putting one hand to his face and taking Sherlock's hand with the other. There was no platitude to offer though, nothing that could make this horrible situation any better.
Sherlock clutched at John's hand. “It's getting dark,” he pointed out, completely unnecessarily. John was completely aware of how close to sunset they were.
“I know,” said John, feeling just as miserable as Sherlock looked. Their day was nearly over, and it was going to be ten months before their next one.
“It's so unfair,” said Sherlock. “You're the one person anywhere, in any world, that I actually want to be around, and I'm not allowed to be. For stupid reasons! Because Jack had a bad idea decades ago! Two days a year is not enough, John.”
“I know,” said John again, trying to swallow back the emotion rising up in his throat. “Sherlock, I know. I don't- I can't stand it either.” He took a breath. “We weren't expecting today, though. We're one up on where we were yesterday. And maybe- I don't know. I don't know how it works, but couldn't we persuade Cupid or whoever to let us have Valentine's together? I do love you, after all, and you said you-”
“You do?” interrupted Sherlock.
John stared at him. How could he not know that? “Of course I do.”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “You've never said it.”
“I never thought I'd need to,” said John. “You observe everything.”
Sherlock pulled him in and kissed him deeply. “Not everything,” he said. “Some things need words.” He paused, then added in a bit of a rush, “I love you, too. I know I said it before, but- it hasn't changed. I can't imagine it ever will.”
John pushed his fingers up into Sherlock's hair, keeping their faces only inches apart. “Well, then, maybe we should try asking Cupid,” he said. “However ridiculous that seems to say.”
“The ruler of St. Valentine's is not Cupid,” said Sherlock. “It's St. Valentine. There are lots of cupids and they're all intensely annoying, but St. Valentine is a bit more rational. He might well agree to let us meet, but it might have to be in his domain.”
“I don't care where it is,” said John. “That would give us three days, that's-”
Sherlock's face transformed into pure realisation in a way that John instantly recognised, and which usually signified that a case was all over bar the final showdown. “Stop talking,” he commanded, holding up a hand.
John stopped talking.
“Three of them on our side,” said Sherlock, stepping away from John in order to spin around in the centre of the clearing, looking at the doors again. “You said Father Christmas mentioned doing this for us again next year – that's a commitment. He thinks we should be together. Jack said he wished he didn't have to follow the rules. St. Valentine's would be on the side of love – he is ridiculously sentimental that way. I bet we could get St. George as well – well, you could. He has a soft spot for soldiers, and you were a scout as well, weren't you? He'll love you. That gives us four. We only need two more to get a majority, and then- John! We can get them to change the law!”
“We can?” asked John, looking around at the doors again. All they had to do was get a majority vote? Well, okay, that might not be as easy as it sounded, but he had enough confidence in Sherlock's ability to manipulate to admit it wasn't completely inconceivable that he'd be able to do it.
“It isn't a certainty,” allowed Sherlock, “but it's worth a chance.” He spun again, then stopped at May Day's door. “Queen May might go for us. She has a soft spot for lovers, although she tends to prefer the physical act to the emotional. I suppose I could try having sex with you if that was what it took.”
“How flattering,” said John. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that – he wasn't sure he'd be able to stomach having sex with someone who was forcing themselves to do it to please some obscure holiday ruler.
Sherlock ignored him.
“The others- there must be one more. We must be able to make there be one more – the Easter Bunny, maybe. I am dead, after all; it would be a resurrection.”
“Bit longer than three days,” said John. “And I'm not really sure you should be comparing yourself to Jesus.”
Sherlock ignored that as well. “We need Jack,” he said, looking around again. “He can call the council for us. Zero!”
The ghost dog came whooshing out from between the trees, settled at Sherlock's feet and gazed up at him with overwhelming joy at having been acknowledged.
“Get Jack,” said Sherlock. “Bring him here. It's extremely important.”
Zero turned in a tight circle of excitement, then disappeared back in the direction of town.
“How handy to have him along with us,” observed John. It had been nice having a dog with them as they walked, and John had rather enjoyed throwing sticks for him, and seeing his mounting excitement at the game. Perhaps...
“You're not getting a dog,” said Sherlock, interrupting his thoughts as if he could hear them.
“Why not?” asked John. “It would be good company.”
“I'm good company,” said Sherlock. He stepped back to John, catching up his hands. “And this is going to work. We'll persuade them to let me come home with you. You won't need a dog.”
He sounded as if he was going to try and make it happen by sheer willpower. John thought to himself that if anyone could manage that, Sherlock could.
Jack turned up quarter of an hour later with Zero gambolling around his feet and occasionally barking excitedly. He was accompanied by a woman wearing a patchwork dress who had stitching running across her skin. John tried to remind himself that it was impolite to stare, but couldn't stop himself from trying to work out just what the stitching was holding together – they looked a lot rougher than any sutures he had ever seen.
“All right, Zero! All right,” said Jack, fending away Zero's enthusiasm.
“Hello, Sherlock,” said the woman, cheerfully. “Oh! And this must be your John. Jack said he was here.” She held out a hand to John, who wasn't sure how to take being referred to as if he was Sherlock's possession, but he shook her hand anyway. It was made of material as if she was giant, living ragdoll, but it was as warm as flesh would be.
“Sally,” said Sherlock in acknowledgement before turning briskly to Jack. “We need you to call the council.”
“What?” asked Jack. “Why?”
“We want to petition them to make an exception to the law for me,” said Sherlock. “I think we can get the majority voting for us.”
Jack sighed. “Sherlock, you can't-”
“Yes, I can,” interrupted Sherlock. “And even if I can't, it's worth trying. I can't stay here like this, Jack. You know I can't.”
“The council are still annoyed with me,” Jack said. “They have long memories. Why should I risk upsetting them further? It's Christmas Day! Father Christmas will-”
“He's already on our side,” interrupted Sherlock. “John wouldn't be here if he wasn't. And you'll vote for us, we can get St. Valentine, St. George, possibly Lady May and the Easter Bunny-”
“Sherlock,” started Jack with exasperation.
“Jack,” said Sally. “Give them this chance. You know what it's like to be finding everything here tedious.”
Jack looked at her for a long moment, and there was a moment of silent communication between them that spoke of a long-held and deep affection between them. John found himself wondering if he and Sherlock would ever have long enough together to be able to manage that. He really hoped they would.
“And what it's like to find someone who can break through that tedium,” said Jack finally. “Okay, fine, I'll do it.”
“Get on with it then,” said Sherlock with his usual level of graciousness. He stepped back and gestured at a tree stump in the centre of the clearing.
Jack strode over to it, placed his hand palm down on the centre of it and said in a loud, clear voice, “Halloween calling the council.”
The tree stump started to glow a faint gold colour. After a few seconds, all the doors began to glow the same colour, throbbing slightly as the light grew. There was a faint humming noise, then the doors all bulged outwards for a moment as the tree stump exploded with light. John took a step back, blinking the black spots left on his vision away as the humming and the lights all abruptly ceased.
There was a hushed silence for a moment, then the door marked with the St. George's cross burst open, revealing a knight in full armour. “What ho!” he called as he stepped through, ducking his lance to get it through. “Pumpkin King, it is good to see you once more!”
“Hello, George,” said Jack.
“Father Christmas is going to be grumpy about this,” said a man dressed as a medieval jester as he came through the door that was the same shape as his hat. He sounded rather pleased about the prospect.
“Yes, it's a bit much to interrupt him with an unscheduled meeting when he's trying to work,” said a man who could only have been Guy Fawkes, shutting the bonfire door behind himself.
If John hadn't already spent most of the day feeling as if he was caught in a particularly surreal dream, the arrival of the council would have definitely pushed him to wondering just what he'd eaten the night before to prompt this. The existence of a man-sized rabbit in a pink sash alone was enough to make him wonder how on earth his life had reached this stage.
Sherlock rested his hand on the small of John's back and John glanced at him. “Every time I think I've got a handle on just how crazy the situations you lead me into are, you manage to top them,” he said to him in an undertone.
“I am somewhat of an over-achiever,” acknowledged Sherlock.
Father Christmas was the last to arrive, and he came down in his sleigh rather than through his door, landing in the centre of the clearing and missing all the surrounding trees with an impressive level of expertise.
“Jack!” he said. “I am trying to work! This better be important.”
“Told you he'd be pissed off,” said the jester, doing a little dance on the spot that made his bells jingle.
“Shut up, Fool,” said Guy Fawkes.
“My apologies,” said Jack to Father Christmas. “Although, it is partially your fault we are here. I was persuaded to call the council on someone else's behalf.” He gestured at Sherlock and John, and everyone turned to look at them. John cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to look like the kind of person you'd want to do a favour for.
Father Christmas sighed. “I thought I told you not to play any games with me,” he said to John. “This is a very busy day for me, you know.”
“Most of your work was done by dawn, and you were almost certainly on your way here to pick up John anyway,” said Sherlock, gesturing over at where the sun was setting, out-of-sight behind the trees. “Stop complaining.”
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's words didn't seem to do much to make Father Christmas less annoyed. This plan was going to go nowhere fast if they couldn't even keep their current allies happy. John cleared his throat. “I'm sorry if we're keeping you from anything,” he said, “but we're hoping to save you hassle in the long run.”
Father Christmas looked partially mollified. He climbed down from his sleigh with a sigh. “All right, go on then,” he said.
“I wasn't aware that non-council members could present to the council,” said the elderly man who had come through the clock-shaped door. “Are we really expected to come running for just anyone? Especially anyones who have already caused us problems?”
The only woman on the council, who was dressed in a long, white shift and covered in garlands of flowers, tipped her head to one side. “Oh, he's one of the Holmeses, isn't he?” she said. “He has led us in a merry dance for a good many years.” She must be the Queen May that Sherlock had mentioned earlier.
“This council has made laws that have had a significant impact on my life,” said Sherlock. “I demand the right to present my case here.”
“What he means,” put in John quickly, in the spirit of diplomacy, “is that surely any governing body should be prepared to hear feedback from the people who are affected by the laws it makes?”
“He has a point,” said Guy Fawkes. “If King James had been more ready to hear criticisms, perhaps I would not be here now.”
“Ah, do be quiet now, Guy,” said the man who had come through the shamrock door in a thick Irish accent. John assumed he was St. Patrick, although he seemed to be drunk which didn't seem that saintly. “We've all heard that complaint more times than there are potatoes in Ireland.”
“I say we let them speak!” said St. George in a booming voice. “It is what honour commands of us!”
“Oh, very well, then,” said the old man. “But be quick. I only have a week of life left, and there's a lot to do before I hand over to 2012.”
“I shall be as brief as possible,” said Sherlock. “We merely wish to protest the law that keeps us apart, and ask for an exception. As Jack will tell you, I don't participate in the work of Halloween, and haven't for a very long time. I can't imagine that I ever will, so the reasoning behind the law is irrelevant to me. I won't be meddling in anyone else's holiday – in fact, whilst in the world I didn't celebrate any holiday at all, in any way.”
“Because you were hiding from us,” put in Father Christmas.
“I wouldn't have done so anyway,” said Sherlock. “If I'm not interested in my own holiday, why should I be interested in any of yours? All I want is to be able to live and work as I have been doing all these years, years in which nothing I have done has had any impact, negative or otherwise, on any of you.”
“Not true,” said the Easter Bunny. John had just about got used to the existence of a giant rabbit, but hearing him actually talk made him start. “You have prevented John Watson from celebrating our holidays.”
“Ooh, that's true,” said the Fool. “He used to play some lovely tricks, you know.” He looked at John. “Do you remember sending your sister the letter pretending to be from the bus company, telling her she was banned for life from all their buses? I liked that one.”
John blinked. That had been the April Fool's Day when he was twelve and Harry had been fourteen. She'd been convinced by it for nearly five hours, during which time she'd indulged in some really impressive histrionics. When she'd found out it was just a joke, she hadn't spoken to John for a week.
“Ah, thanks,” he said.
“If I don't need to hide from you, he can celebrate all he likes,” said Sherlock. “I'll even let him decorate the flat.”
“I can't imagine I'll bother if I'm living there alone, though,” added John. “Holidays without the person you care about seem rather pointless.”
There was a sigh from Queen May. “That much is true,” she said. “It is wrong to keep lovers apart.”
“Are they really lovers?” asked the old man. “Halloween isn't really noted for its capacity for love.”
“They are,” said Jack. “I've seen them together, and apart, and it's enough to know that they truly care for each other.”
“Me too,” said Sally, who John had forgotten was there, keeping well back in the trees. “I've seen how Sherlock suffers without John.”
“I'm not prepared to believe either of you on this one,” said the old man. “I'm still not convinced that this isn't the start of some ploy of yours to take over someone else's holiday.”
Jack let out a long sigh. “That was one time! Honestly, can't you let it go? You years always get so suspicious and paranoid at this time of year, 2011.”
“I can vouch for them,” said a man who had remained silent so far. He was dressed in a pale pink toga which had flowers and hearts embroidered up the side, and he was carrying a bow and a quiver. “I can feel the love flowing between them, and it is true and strong. They should be allowed to spend their lives together.”
Oh god, had his relationship with Sherlock just been given a ringing endorsement by St. Valentine? John added that to the list of things he hadn't ever considered possible but that Sherlock had brought into his life, then spoke up to confirm it. No point in being a typical reticent man about his feelings if letting the truth out would aid their cause.
“I love Sherlock,” he said, trying to put every bit of certainty he felt about that statement into his voice. Sherlock twitched, and John remembered his surprise when he'd said the same thing earlier. He put his arm around Sherlock's waist. “The last few months without him have been awful.” The ring of council members looked interested, but not as if they were being inspired to help them. John cast around for something more to add that might help. “If you allow him to come home with me, I'll celebrate all your holidays as much as you want. I'll go all the way with them – decorations, cards, parties, presents, whatever. I'll do it all, for the rest of my life.”
That seemed to have some impact on the council members. Clearly, bribery was the way forward.
Father Christmas shifted and said, “You both will.”
“What?” asked Sherlock.
“If we vote to allow you to be an exception to the law, you will celebrate with John,” said Father Christmas. “With as much enthusiasm as you can. And without bringing any Halloween elements into it.”
Sherlock looked completely taken aback, but after a moment he nodded. “If that's what it takes.”
“I still don't like it,” said 2011. “If we let one person be an exception, what's to stop others wanting the same?”
“Apart from the Holmes brothers, I can't think of anyone else who would ever want to leave Halloween,” said Jack. “Is your realm really so unhappy that your people want to desert it?”
2011 directed a glare at him. “Of course not! No one has ever even thought about leaving.”
“I think we can safely say that the Holmes brothers are the complete exception on that one,” said Father Christmas.
“It is puzzling,” said the Easter Bunny. “Visiting the world for a day is nice, but I can't imagine wanting to live there.”
“Not with their attitudes to punishing lawbreakers,” said Guy Fawkes darkly. “I mean, really – surely you only need to either hang or draw or quarter someone? All three is just excessive! And don't get me started on the yearly effigy burning – that's just rubbing salt in the wounds!”
“So you always say,” said St. Patrick. “Endlessly. Might I point out that you avoided all three by jumping from the scaffold?”
Guy Fawkes scowled. “No one remembers that these days. You know that what is assumed about us is what becomes truth – you hardly started off with a drinking problem.”
“It's not a problem, it's just celebration!” snapped back St. Patrick. “The real problem here is your chip about a mutilation that never happened!”
“I was tortured for days!” exclaimed Guy Fawkes.
Things looked as if they were about to descend into an argument that would derail this whole thing entirely. John cleared his throat. “Ah, you know we don't actually do any torture or mutilation any more, right? We don't have any form of capital punishment.”
Guy Fawkes glowered at him. “It was enough that you did once,” he said. “And it's not as if you don't still burn me every year.”
“And if they didn't, your realm would be as diminished as mine is now that maypoles are out of fashion,” said Queen May. “Don't complain about the ways in which you are celebrated unless you wish your holiday to go the way of Lammas.”
There was a general shudder from the group, and one or two of them glanced at a dead tree that John hadn't noticed before.
“Enough talk,” said Father Christmas. “Time for the vote. I vote to allow Sherlock Holmes to return to the other world with John Watson. People should be allowed to take comfort in the presence of those they care for, after all. Good will towards all.”
“I vote the same,” said Jack. “I'm rather sick of Sherlock's endless pining.”
“And I vote against it,” said 2011. “Laws are laws, and there should not be exceptions. Besides, I'm not interested in furthering Jack's plans for conquest.”
“I don't have any!” protested Jack, but was ignored.
“I vote for them. Lovers shouldn't be divided,” said St. Valentine.
Queen May nodded her agreement. “They are rather sweet together.”
John grimaced at being thought sweet, but didn't complain. If it got him one step closer to having Sherlock back, he'd take sweet. Hell, he'd even take cute, if he had to.
The Fool scoffed. “We all know you're just so desperate for celebrants that you'd agree to anything if someone promised you a dance and a bunch of flowers.” He looked at John and Sherlock, tipping his head to one side while his body moved the other, then did a sudden back flip that made John blink. “I'm voting against it,” he said once he'd righted himself. “Where's the fun in just giving people what they want?”
“Thou art far too contrary, friend Fool! These are good men,” said St. George. “Together they right many injustices. I vote for the proposal.”
The Easter Bunny gave a little hop, as if thinking. “I vote no,” he said eventually. “People should stay where they're from, just as rabbits stay in burrows and eggs stay in baskets.”
“I also vote no,” said Guy Fawkes. “However indirectly, they work for the Crown.”
“Oh, come on,” said Sherlock. “Do you really still hold that much of a grudge?”
Guy Fawkes glared at him. “When you've had your entrails pulled out of your still-living body, then you can judge the longevity of my grudge,” he said.
“That never happened to you!” protested Sherlock.
“It feels like it did! That's enough,” said Guy Fawkes.
“Right, that's four votes against, and five for,” said Father Christmas before another argument could ensue. “A clear majority is needed to change any law, so it all comes down to you, Paddy. For or against?”
St. Patrick had produced a pint of Guinness from somewhere and was swaying slightly on his feet, but he was still sober enough to give John an assessing look. “You're English,” he said.
Oh God, they were going to lose their chance to be together because of centuries of cultural animosity. John mentally went his family tree with as much speed as he could. “My Great-Grandfather came from Cork,” he remembered.
“Ah!” said St. Patrick, his eyes lighting up. “You'll wear the green on my day, then?”
John nodded firmly. That wasn't exactly a difficult compromise to make. “And drink as much Guinness as I can,” he said. “And so will Sherlock.” He'd even support Ireland in the Six Nations if it came to it, though he wasn't going to suggest that unless there was no other choice.
Sherlock scowled. “I hate Guinness,” he muttered.
“Come now, 'tis the nectar of the Gods. If you wish, though, whiskey will do,” said St. Patrick. “As long as it's Irish, of course. Drink Scotch and I shall send the leprechauns after you – and don't even dare to think about American whisky. I'll put snakes in your bed.”
Sherlock made a face. “I think I can safely promise never to drink American whisky,” he said. “I do have standards, you know.”
St. Patrick nodded, then looked at Father Christmas. “I vote for them, then.”
Sherlock relaxed in a way that made John realise just how tense he had been and turned to John with a beaming grin, grabbing for his hand and squeezing it as Father Christmas said, “Right then. That's four against, and six for. Sherlock Holmes will be allowed to make his home wherever he pleases, on the condition that he doesn't spread Halloween to other times of the year, and that he and John Watson celebrate each holiday to the fullest extent possible.”
John clutched back at Sherlock's hand and then, when that wasn't enough to demonstrate his emotions, reached for his neck and pulled him down into a kiss.
“Oh, aren't they lovely?” said St. Valentine.
Sherlock pulled away and made a face that John could sympathise with, but mercifully didn't say anything that might make St. Valentine change his mind about voting for them.
“I'll give you both a ride back to London, then,” said Father Christmas. “Come on.” He started to climb back into his sleigh and John went to follow, but Sherlock didn't move, keeping John tethered to his side with his arm.
“What about my brothers?” he asked. “Does this decision extend to them?”
“Do not ask for too much,” said 2011. “If they wish an exception to the law to be made for them, they will need to make their own cases to the council. Until then, we shall continue our attempts to return them to their proper place.”
Sherlock nodded as if that had been what he expected. “And I expect they'll continue to easily evade you,” he said. “Come on, John. Let's go and give Mrs. Hudson a surprise for Christmas.”
They got into Father Christmas's sleigh, which was rather tight squeeze with all three of them in it. Not that John particularly minded having to press close against Sherlock, one arm wrapped around him so that they'd fit better.
“I'll need to pick up a few things from my cottage,” said Sherlock.
Father Christmas let out a sigh. “I'm not actually a taxi service,” he said, but when he picked up the reins, he said, “Sherlock's cottage!” to the reindeer, before starting them off with a, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
They landed in the lane outside Sherlock's cottage. “Wait here. I won't be long,” said Sherlock and slipped out of the sleigh. He was back within five minutes, carrying his violin case and an enormous black bag.
“That's not a few things!” protested Father Christmas.
“It is only two things, in fact,” said Sherlock, slinging the bag into the back of the sleigh, which was now empty of presents. It made an odd clattering noise as it landed, and John wondered what the hell was in it, but decided against asking. He'd learnt that sometimes ignorance was bliss with Sherlock.
Sherlock climbed back in, holding the violin carefully on his lap, and they took off again.
As they soared through the sky, Father Christmas muttering to his reindeer about being taken advantage of, John looked at the violin case with a frown, thinking of the last time he'd seen it. “Mycroft took that,” he said.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “He got it for me so that I could have it while I was working on bringing down Moran. When Jack dragged me off, I made him go and fetch it from the hotel I was staying in.”
“And it was the only thing you took when you left Halloween the first time,” said John, remembering the story.
Sherlock shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I like having it with me,” he said. “It helps prevent boredom.”
“And boredom is the greatest possible evil,” said John with a grin, remembering Sherlock's many rants against it. He was likely to hear many more now. He couldn't wait.
Sherlock hesitated. “I would have said that six months or a year ago,” he said, slowly. “Now, though, I know that boredom is nothing compared to having to be without you.”
John blinked at the unexpected sentimentality, then tightened his arm around Sherlock. “You'll never have to worry about that happening again,” he vowed.
Sherlock stared at him intently as if trying to gauge the truth of the statement, which seemed ridiculous because John had never meant anything more in his life. After a moment, Sherlock's face creased into a tiny smile.
“Good,” he said, leaning into John and resting his forehead against his. “That's very good.”
Baker Street was deserted when Father Christmas landed the sleigh, even though it was only early evening. John thought that having the ability to clear people out of an area like that might well be the best thing he'd ever seen. It would definitely make getting the tube at rush hour a lot less stressful.
“Right, get out,” said Father Christmas. “I want to get home – Mrs. Claus will be wondering where I've got to.”
“Thank you very much for everything,” said John as he climbed out.
Father Christmas waved that away. “Giving people things is my whole purpose.”
“Well, thank you anyway,” said John. “It means a lot to us.”
“Just make sure you're good next year, then,” said Father Christmas. “And have a proper Christmas! None of this sitting alone with a couple of cards on the mantelpiece – it almost wasn't enough to give me an in, you know.”
“We'll do it properly next year,” promised John. “We'll have a party or something.”
“We will?” asked Sherlock, pulling his bag out of the back of the sleigh.
“Yes,” said John firmly. “I'll get a Christmas jumper. You can wear reindeer antlers or something.”
Sherlock looked horrified. “I will not. You can celebrate Christmas and still retain some dignity, you know.”
“Of course you can. It's not as fun, though,” said Father Christmas. “Perhaps I'll see you next year, then.”
He pulled the reins and the reindeer started moving, soaring up into the sky with the sound of Father Christmas's “Ho! Ho! Ho!” echoing across the rooftops.
“Right,” said John, turning towards the door of 221. “Time for a cup of tea, I think.”
“Yes!” said Sherlock, sounding more excited than John had ever heard him sound at the prospect of food or drink. “Tea completely free of pumpkins, and made by you. Fantastic.”
John made tea, and Sherlock drank it with an enthusiasm that John suspected wouldn't last long, then they sat on the sofa together and pretended they were watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special, while actually just getting as close to each other as they could, entangling their limbs and indulging in long, slow kisses that felt as if they could go on forever. It was almost as if Sherlock had never been away, as if the last few months were nothing but a bad dream. After all, where else could he have been when he fitted so perfectly here, stretched out over John with one hand resting on his side, underneath his jumper?
“When's Mrs. Hudson back?” asked Sherlock as the credits rolled on Doctor Who. John presumed that The Doctor had defeated the alien menace, but he really couldn't have said how.
“She's at her sister's until tomorrow afternoon,” said John. “Rather late, probably, if they get started on the sherry over lunch.”
“So we have another day to ourselves,” said Sherlock.
“Yes,” agreed John, smoothing his hand down the length of Sherlock's spine. A thought occurred to him. “How are you going to explain your resurrection?”
“I'm not,” Sherlock said. “I'll just imply it was faked, make vague references to help from Mycroft and my homeless network, and leave it at that. People will make up their own theories to explain it.”
“You're going to ignore all their questions and just look mysterious, aren't you?” said John.
Sherlock grinned at him. “Of course I am,” he said. “You know me too well.” He was silent for a moment, then added, in a more serious tone, “You do know me now, John. You know all those things you wanted before – about my family and where I grew up and all that. You know all my secrets.”
“All your secrets?” asked John sceptically.
Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “You know all the important ones. It doesn't get much bigger than 'I'm from a holiday world', you know.”
“No,” agreed John. He thought about that for a moment, about finally having all the pieces to the puzzle that was Sherlock. Even with them all laid out before him, he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever fully understand him. That was okay, though – he understood more than anyone else, and enough to know that he loved him, and was loved by him. “I'm honoured,” he said eventually.
Sherlock snorted. “It wasn't exactly my choice,” he pointed out.
“I'm honoured anyway,” said John. “You could have just looked mysterious and made vague allusions to Mycroft and your homeless network, after all.”
“You wouldn't have believed me,” said Sherlock. “You're not an idiot.”
John laughed. “That's not what you usually say.”
“I'm feeling rather generous today,” said Sherlock.
“Can't imagine why,” said John, then kissed him again. He felt almost giddy, suffused with happiness and the knowledge that they had the rest of their lives to lie together like this. Well, when they weren't chasing around after criminals. God, his life was going to get interesting again. He couldn't wait.
Mrs. Hudson took the news of Sherlock's return rather well, considering. She had to have a sit down, then she berated him for a while, but after that she brought him a cup of tea and a plate of mince pies, and ruffled his hair.
“Oh, you're cold,” she said, and Sherlock twitched away from her hand. “And so pale, too!” she continued. “You've not been taking care of yourself, have you? We'll have to work on feeding you up, won't we, John?”
“Ah, yes,” said John. Sherlock was not noticeably dead, not in the way a real corpse would be, but he was pale in an unhealthy-looking manner, and his skin never quite seemed to warm up. He wondered if that was going to cause problems for them.
“I'm fine,” said Sherlock testily. “I've always been pale. Stop fussing.”
Mrs. Hudson tutted but left it at that for the moment.
After she'd gone, John took the chance to ask, “What are you going to do if someone does notice you're, you know. Less alive than you were?”
“Mock them,” said Sherlock. “Come on, John, do you seriously think anyone is actually going to be observant enough to tell whether or not I have a pulse? Even if they do, they'll rationalise it away – I'm walking and talking, therefore I can't be dead. People don't like to see the impossible.”
Mycroft and Sherrinford came over the day after Boxing Day. Mycroft clearly knew that something had happened, or he wouldn't have come around so soon after Christmas (John wondered what his surveillance equipment had shown of Father Christmas's visit, and then thought that Father Christmas must have some way of foiling CCTV, or he would be less of a myth and more of a provable fact), but he still looked as surprised as John had ever seen him when he saw Sherlock.
“You escaped again?” he said.
“No, look properly, Mycroft,” said Sherrinford from his position cradled in the crook of Mycroft's arm. “He was let go.”
“We negotiated with the council,” said Sherlock. “They were rather reasonable about the whole thing.”
That was not how John would have described it, but he didn't quibble.
“So we no longer have to hide?” said Mycroft.
“Ah, no,” said Sherlock. “I no longer have to hide. You two will have to go and negotiate your own freedom.”
Mycroft made a face. “I'm not debasing myself like that. Besides, Guy Fawkes has a great deal of animosity towards me – I'm not sure it would be a good idea to be in the same place as him. Being dead would make my yearly medical examinations at work rather tricky.”
“It's not as if they've ever looked for us with any particular zeal,” said Sherrinford. “I think most of them are content to just make sure we keep quiet and out of their way.”
“Not in my case any more,” said Sherlock. “They want us to celebrate everything.” He made a face.
There was a tiny pause as that sank in, then both Mycroft and Sherrinford began to laugh. John had never heard Mycroft laugh before, and certainly not so hard that his face went red. It was incredibly disconcerting.
Sherlock huffed and looked affronted. “Yes, all right,” he said tetchily. “That's enough of that.”
Mycroft calmed enough to say, “All of them? Even May Day?”
“Oh god, are you going to put a maypole up in here?” asked Sherrinford. “Please, please take pictures, John. I'll pay thousands for them.”
“You don't have thousands,” Sherlock pointed out. “You don't have any money at all.”
“I do,” said Mycroft. “I would be happy to give you hundreds of thousands for such pictures, John.”
“There will be no pictures,” said Sherlock. “And no maypole either. I'm sure we can find a way to celebrate that will be more dignified.”
“You could always dance around John's maypole,” said Sherrinford lasciviously. John was reasonably sure he'd have winked, if he had eyelids. The double entendre caught him off-guard, and he felt his ears go faintly pink.
“Not happening,” said Sherlock with a black look. “Which is probably for the best, as it would count as necrophilia at this point.”
John blanched. Oh god, that was true. Well, there was even more reason not to mind being celibate for the rest of his life. As much as he didn't really mind the changes death had worked on Sherlock's body, he didn't fancy having sex with someone colder than normal and lacking a heartbeat.
“You know, I brought you a present back,” continued Sherlock to Sherrinford, “but I'm beginning to think I might just keep it.”
“A present?” asked Sherrinford. “Fine, I'll stop teasing. Where is it? What is it?”
“Isn't it a bit close to Christmas for presents?” asked Mycroft.
“Not for me,” said Sherlock. “Besides, it's not so much a present as returning to you something that was already yours. Let me get it.” He went into his room and came back with the black bag he had brought back from Halloween.
“I've had a lot more experience of finding things now,” he said as he unzipped the bag. “Mummy thinks she's good at hiding things, but compared to some of the criminals I've faced, she's an amateur. I doubt she even knows it's gone yet.” He took hold of something inside the bag and pulled it out, standing as he did so to allow it to unfold and settle into place.
It was a complete skeleton, all carefully joined together and lacking only the skull. John stared at it in surprise, then glanced at Sherrinford. It was almost impossible to tell an expression on his skull, but there was an air about him that said he was just as gobsmacked as John, if not more so. Mycroft certainly looked surprised.
“My body!” exclaimed Sherrinford.
“What's left of it,” corrected Sherlock.
“Put me on it,” demanded Sherrinford. “Come on, put me on it now.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock. “John, if you could just hold it up for a minute.”
“Right, of course,” said John, moving forward to take hold of the collarbones and keep the skeleton upright while Sherlock picked up Sherrinford. He flipped him over and examined his underside for a minute, then turned him back the right way up again.
“Are you going to be able to connect yourself, or should I use some wire?” he asked.
“I think I can do it myself,” said Sherrinford. “I can sort of feel it, you know. I think-”
The skeleton's left arm twitched, and John nearly dropped it in surprise.
“Yes!” said Sherrinford with triumph. “It's there. You can just put me on top.”
Sherlock did so, carefully lining the skull and the spine up. They clicked into place together, and then Sherrinford let out a low, “Oh,” and the whole skeleton gave a wriggle. “Let go,” he commanded.
John gingerly let go and stepped back, half-expecting the whole thing to just crumple to the floor, but it stayed up. Sherrinford stayed up. He tilted his skull from one side to the other, then brought his arms up and rotated his wrists.
“I'm back!” he said, and looked at Sherlock. “Look, Sherlock, I'm back!” He bent his knees, then carefully took a step or two before bursting out into laughter. “I can walk again! I can move!” He took off around the room in a spinning dance of delight that reminded John of the way Sherlock reacted to the news of a serial killer. “I don't have to just stay where I'm put any more! This is brilliant. Sherlock, thank you. Thank you so much.”
Sherlock shrugged. “It gave me something to do while I was there,” he said as if it was nothing, but John could see how pleased he was at Sherrinford's reaction.
“I'll be able to do things by myself again,” realised Sherrinford. “Enough clothes, and a big scarf or something, and I'll be able to go out. Mycroft! We can go to the Tate without everyone thinking you're a pretentious weirdo artist-type.”
“I rather enjoyed them thinking that,” said Mycroft, but he sounded just as happy as his two brothers were. He looked at Sherlock. “This was well done, Sherlock. Thank you.”
Sherlock sniffed at him. “I didn't do it for you,” he said.
Sherrinford crouched down by the bookcase, then sprang to his feet in one motion. “Brilliant!” he said, then reached out and picked up a book. “Look! I can pick things up. I'll be able to read again without someone else turning the pages.” He flicked through the book, then put it back, just as there was the creak of a footstep on the floor outside.
“Sherrinford!” hissed Mycroft. Sherrinford instantly froze against the wall, leaning back against it as if he'd been propped there.
The door opened and Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tray. “I've brought you some tea up,” she said. “Not that I'm your housekeeper, Sherlock, but I thought Mycroft might need some tea after the last few months. And a scone or two - I made far too many, you'll be doing me a favour of you eat them.” She caught sight of Sherrinford. “Oh! Sherlock! When did that arrive?”
“Very recently,” said Sherlock.
“Oh dear!” she said. “You do have the oddest taste in interior design.”
“You can hardly talk,” said Sherlock. “You have doilies.”
“I can make you one to go under your skull if you like,” she said, glancing around. “Oh, it's gone.”
“There is no need for any doilies in this flat,” said Sherlock, with a firmness that immediately made John plot to put doilies under everything next time Sherlock was being annoying.
“I'm sure there's no need for skeletons either,” said Mrs. Hudson. “At least it's clean, I suppose. It's the things that are still rotting that I really object to. Well, I'm sure you've got a lot to talk about. And apologise for,” she said, giving Sherlock a meaningful look.
“Mycroft knew I was alive, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock.
“Did he?” said Mrs. Hudson, and she turned her look on Mycroft. “You could have said something!”
“That would rather have spoilt the plan,” pointed out Mycroft.
Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “Perhaps you don't deserve tea and scones after all. I've a good mind to take them away again.”
“John deserves them,” said Sherlock.
“That's true,” said Mrs. Hudson. She gave John the kind of look you'd give a small puppy who'd lost his favourite squeaky toy. “You poor dear. Honestly, Sherlock, I hope you realise just how lucky you are that he's so forgiving.”
“Of course I do,” said Sherlock.
“I'm not that forgiving,” said John. “You're going to pay me – and Mrs. Hudson – back by keeping rotting flesh out of the flat.”
Sherlock scowled. “That will considerably hinder the cause of forensic science.”
“That's better than hindering my ability to cook in an environment that won't give me food poisoning,” replied John.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Well, enjoy the scones, John. I'll be back for the tray in a bit.” She bustled back out again and Sherrinford straightened up from the wall.
“She's such a dear,” he said fondly. “Do you know, she used to come up and dust me when you were away for a few days, Sherlock?”
“Did she?” asked Sherlock. “Well, she won't need to do that any more. You can dust yourself.”
“And you'll hardly fit on the mantelpiece now,” said Mycroft.
Sherlock looked Sherrinford up and down as if he'd only just realised that a skeleton took up a lot more space than a skull. “You can have John's room.”
Wait, he could what? “Hang on,” said John, “don't I get a say in that?”
“Having two rooms between us is really just greedy,” said Sherlock. “It's not as if we use them both at the same time.”
That was true, but John still felt he should protest. It was his room, damn it. He'd decide if, and when, he was going to give it up. “Don't you think I need at least one place in this flat that isn't completely taken over with your junk?” he asked.
Sherlock tipped his head to one side and regarded him for a long moment. “No,” he said eventually. “I think if you wanted somewhere that didn't have me in it, you wouldn't have left all my things spread out everywhere while I was gone.”
John opened his mouth to deny that, then realised he couldn't. He liked having all the reminders around him that Sherlock was actually here with him. He sighed and rubbed at his face. He'd only been up to his room once since Sherlock had come home, and that had just been to fetch some clean clothes. He'd been barely using it even before that – he couldn't remember the last time he slept in the bed up there rather than in Sherlock's. “Oh, fine then,” he said. “Sherrinford can have my room.”
“Very kind of you, thank you,” said Sherrinford. “I won't always be here, of course – you'll still be able to use it when I'm at Mycroft's.”
“If you wished,” said Mycroft, “I could provide you with your own flat.”
Sherrinford's skull jerked around so that he could stare at him. “Where I'd be alone? Why would I want that? I might as well be in a grave.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft,” said Sherlock.
Mycroft held both his hands up defensively. “I was merely making the offer,” he said. “It will remain open, if you change your mind.”
“Why would I?” asked Sherrinford, and John quietly resigned himself to living with both his boyfriend and his boyfriend's skeletal brother for the foreseeable future. Well, at least he wouldn't be alone – he'd had quite enough of that.
Sherrinford did at least go home with Mycroft that day, saying that he didn't really want to live with a newly reunited couple, and that he'd stay with Mycroft until there were less adoring looks and constant fondling. Sherlock scowled and claimed not to know what he meant while John tried to carefully slide his knee out from underneath Sherlock's hand. Sherlock just gripped at it tighter, and John gave up, meeting Mycroft's amused look with as much defiance as he could. He wasn't going to apologise for being relieved that Sherlock was back, or be embarrassed that Sherlock was clearly just as happy to be back with him.
On New Year's Eve, they spent the evening at Angelo's while he plied them with an incredible amount of champagne – most of which John drank – and exclaimed at great length about how good it was to see Sherlock alive. They went down to the Thames for midnight and watched the fireworks over the Eye with what felt like the whole of the rest of London.
John glanced at Sherlock's faint frown of concentration as a shower of blue sparks cascaded across the sky and slipped his hand into Sherlock's, squeezing it to get his attention.
“You are absolutely not allowed to make fireworks in the flat,” he said, because he knew that look, and some things stood to be repeated.
“Of course not,” said Sherlock, eyes fixed on a series of bright green flowers bursting overhead. “I'll make them at Mycroft's.”
John laughed. “Well, if you must,” he said. Mycroft probably had an extremely expensive fire alarm, after all, and possibly even sprinklers. “Just let me know in advance so that I can alert the fire brigade.”
Sherlock pulled his gaze away from the fireworks and fixed it on John's face instead with a look that made John's breath catch in his throat. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the heady rush of realising just how much Sherlock cared for him.
Sherlock didn't bother saying anything, he just leaned in to John and pressed their lips together. They kissed while the fireworks continued to explode overhead, and it should have felt like the ending of a bad romance film, but instead it felt like a beginning.
“Kissing the person you mean to spend the rest of the year with,” said Sherlock against John's lips. “I almost forgot.”
“Not just this year, I hope,” said John, pulling Sherlock closer, until their bodies were pressed as close together as their lips.
“Every year,” said Sherlock. “I'll be kissing you at this time every year.”
“Good,” said John, and pulled Sherlock down into another kiss.
THE END
*
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no subject
Date: 2012-10-31 11:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 12:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:27 pm (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 01:33 am (UTC)I've loved this story so much I can't put it properly into words. You've blended these two worlds so amazingly, with so many special little treats added in. I've looked forward to every update, and this will definitely go on my favorites list.
Thank you so much for writing this! You are definitely brilliant.
no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 05:42 am (UTC)*mad applause*
no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 05:56 pm (UTC)I knew, of course. that you would find a way for the boys to be together, but the council scene wasn't at all what I expected - a wonderful surprise!
Really lovely story, I'll be back to re-read it!
no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 08:07 pm (UTC)i love that he has his own room and all!
about freedom, Mycroft i think the only way must be he falling in love because there is a lot of holidays against him already so his partner must be really worth of it!
and the boys will be so happy together!!
and every holliday!!
about may i thinking that dancing around John is not such a bad idea.
like Sherlock putting flowers around John and giving him a hand job with a flower scented oil sound like a good form to celebrated to me no? one hand job a year John and Queen may will be thrilled!!
no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-01 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-02 01:23 am (UTC)But really, I think I adored just about anything about this fic! :D And the ending made me awww and flail happily. I would love a timestamp in which John and a grudging Sherlock go about celebrating every holiday like crazy, lol. I'm so glad they got their happy ending and their forever. What a treat this fic was. Thank you. ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-02 01:24 am (UTC)“Most people are dead everywhere,” said Sherlock. “It's just that here they stick around.”
I loved this.
no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-02 01:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:29 am (UTC)Sherlock being such a dear, bring Sherrinfor'ds body back to their world, and Mycroft collecting Sherlock's violin so he wouldn't be that bored. Cute.
Jack was great too
no subject
Date: 2012-11-03 11:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-24 09:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-24 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 10:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 12:36 am (UTC)