Author's note: Ok, so here it is - Part 3 of the Greenhouse Effect Series :) Sorry for the wait.

I'll try to put up at least 2 chapters per week, hopefully more. It all depends on how much time I manage to steal from boring-life obligations.

Just a short note - the rating will go up to M at one point. However, keeping in mind that there may be people who don't like reading smut, but waited for the 3rd part of the series, I wrote that particular chapter so that whoever wishes can skip it and continue reading without losing the thread of the story :) I will, ofc, leave a note when the rating goes up :)

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Ages from now, in a moment when we began again

Ages from now, in a moment that is still numerous cases, several broken bones and countless memorable instants of breathless ecstasy away, local children will run through a garden overgrown with vegetation, flora running wild and untamed around skeletons of old beehives. They will play hide and seek in the forgotten garden, with the most daring ones trying to find their way into the old cottage in its middle (the one their parents will warn them not to enter). The children will laugh and shriek and run around, carefree and rampant in their enthrallment with the microcosm nature has created for them on the very same grounds that once hosted a microcosm of different sorts. Older children will tell tales of two men who used to live in the cottage, London blokes – an eccentric with a collection of silly hats and a passion for bees, and a doctor with a set of old dog tags and a cane he never used for walking, that ended up as one of the legs on a scarecrow they've put up in the vegetable garden, during their third summer in the cottage. The children will recall how the one with silly hats and strange, empyrean eyes always knew if one of the kids was hiding something, how he threatened to tell their parents about it if they ever made him cross, but never did, always just winking at them with a smirk if he happened to pass them by in the village. The children will play and tell stories and buzz around until their grass-stained knees are tired and wobbly with fresh air and excitement, when they will go back to their warm homes for supper and a bath, leaving the garden to sleep for the night, the dried-up mud on their sneakers the only souvenir of the day's exploits .

Running around, these little soldiers of mischief will climb trees and hide in shrubs, looking for clues of mysteries hidden in the soil, of some stories so much more interesting than their own (because they won't know yet that their very lives will have the potential to become the greatest mysteries and the most fantastic adventures of all). They'll go around reining like ultimate rulers in this little kingdom of natural chaos, where no place is off-limits to inquisitive minds and fearless hearts that are yet to learn how to do trig and chemistry, but appear to already be skilled in the art of stick-swordsmanship. No place, but one. In the deep recesses of the lush anarchy of greens, there will stand a single structure left untouched by any hand, in play or otherwise – a shrine of sorts. A small greenhouse, with several panels of glass missing – a toll paid to Master Time – will remain, like a piece of sacred ground, unchanged (bar the already-mentioned unavoidable alterations owed to the simply transient nature of all things material), as tribute to the pair that built it. With their initials carved into the two moss-covered paving stones in front of the its entrance, the greenhouse will be the only trace of the two men who survived ends of worlds and endured to see births of new ones, the only memento left behind, even when those children playing around it are old and grey, or when their grandchildren climb the same trees they'd once ransacked for ripe fruit in early autumn.

But what no one will know – not the children, nor anyone that will happen to come after them – is that before they inhabited this little planet in a calm corner of Sussex Downs, the eccentric and the limpless cane-carrier lived in a very different world. One that they built from remnants and ruins of previous worlds that they've lost or given up, for themselves and for each other (because, in the end, was there any other way to live? Any other reason to do so?). The children won't know that the strange but winsome duo once ran, just like them, only through a different garden – one made of bricks and steel, with cables and wires hanging about instead of plants, and fire-escape ladders for climbing instead of trees. They won't know the full story of two veterans of London's battlefields, because London will seem light-years away and a lifetime ago (but it won't be – it will be forever with them, preserved in the dust on the tea set they never use but cherish, and in the very fabric of two chairs, non-matching but somehow complimentary, that will be the first pieces of furniture ever to be delivered to the cottage).

Ages from now, in a moment that is still numerous discoveries, several broken promises and countless sincere apologies away, local children will run through a garden overgrown with vegetation, a garden to which they will feel inexplicably drawn by some unseen force. They will make it their make-believe battlefield and the hours spent playing there will be the best of times. Why? Because hearts speak to hearts over the abyss of time and, while the children will not know it, their hearts will respond to the call of two other hearts, long gone, ones that could never refuse an adventure – ones who never knew any other way to be than beating slightly too fast with the thrill of the chase. Ages from now little soldiers of mischief will play where two other soldiers of mischief once lived, unaware of all the stories these two men have written across the parchment of each other's lives, not with words or ink, but with silences and looks and actions that spoke louder than any combination of letters ever could.

But that is ages from now, in a moment that is still numerous blog posts, several broken tea cups and countless unusual love letters (read: intriguing corpses and breakfasts without bio-hazardous bits in them) away. So, let's go back to now – there is a world being born, a world whose birth one wouldn't want to miss.

29th January, 2016

The kiss ends. The kiss ends, as everything always does, but it doesn't mark an ending – it marks a beginning. (Or maybe, just maybe, it marks the admission of something that began years ago.) Either way, it leaves a silence in its wake, a silence that smells of wet soil and new life. But as it is usually the case with all infant things, this new life is as clumsy as a newborn foal. This new world, born to two men who somehow managed to take all the detrimental aspects of who they are separately, and use it as fertile ground in which a single bit of a 'together' can grow, doesn't quite tick yet, so mistakes and wrong steps are bound to occur. And John Watson doesn't waste time making the first one.

"Well, at least this time I know you're doing this because you want to, and not because you're high." John says lightly, teasingly, meaning to break the tension. But as soon as the words are out, he wishes he kept quiet, stuck to the subtext. Subtext is safe where words are blunt and clumsy.

Sherlock's face does a funny thing – not quite a flinch, but something similar, as if it is being punched by tiny, invisible fists, and John uses his best Sherlock-voice to mentally call himself an idiot.

"No, Sherlock, sorry. That's not how I meant it. I just meant to say...I meant to say, it's...nice...to know that it wasn't just a one-time thing. A mistake. I didn't want it to be a mistake, to you."

"Once again, John, you prove that while you are usually above the average dullness of the masses, you have an amazing occasional tendency to be an idiot. I very rarely make mistakes, and choosing you, in any given context, never did, nor will it ever, qualify as one." There is determination mixed with what a more ignorant person might mistake for detachment in Sherlock's voice, but the cold wave of Sherlock's voice is counterpoised by the conflagration in his eyes. It is an admission and a compliment, and so utterly, typically Sherlock-like, because he manages to sound both superior and expose himself in a way that offers more vulnerability than ever before. John doesn't really know what to do with this Sherlock, this more human and less sociopathic-superman version that stands before him.

"I don't really know how to do this." John admits, because sometimes, just sometimes, saying things just as they are really is the best option.

"What, kissing? Oh, I think you did pretty well." Sherlock's eyes host a glint of amusement.

"Git. No, not kissing, that's not what I meant– wait, sorry – 'pretty well'?"

"Yes."

"Just pretty well?"

"Do you really need me to wax poetic on your kissing skills?"

"First of all, I never thought I'd hear you say that combination of words, so this just became slightly surreal, and second of all – no, I don't need you to wax poetic."

"Don't sulk, John, it's not becoming on you." Sherlock's tone is a very clear indicator that he is doing his best not to smirk.

"I'm not sulking."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Do you always have to have the last word?"

"It just so happens that the other side always seems to run out of valid arguments before I do. So, yes."

"You're impossible."

"Hardly."

And just like that, they're grinning at each other, still a bit awkwardly, but it's them, slightly new, slightly more tender than usual, stumbling on new (foreign) ground, but stumbling together rather than apart. Something new is growing from the desolate, muddy planes of recent months and all the destruction that had occurred in that time, but it's not flawless and it isn't easy. Have you ever seen a young plant breaching the layer of dirt that covered the seed, pushing its way into the light for the first time? It isn't easy, it isn't elegant, but it is a wonder to behold. It's the first test of resilience. But even when that test is passed, there are new ones waiting in the future.

"We should head back, you're still supposed to be resting, you're not out of the woods yet."

"I'm fine."

"You're at high risk for PAWS."

"And you're at high risk of violent death, but I don't see that stopping your from going on cases with me."

"Yeah, not really the same thing, you know."

"Actually..."

"We're going back, Sherlock." John chastises softly. Sherlock pouts in way that would put a five-year-old who's just lost at dodge-ball to shame.

"Fine. I hope my clothes stay wet enough for me to drip all over Mycroft's ridiculous carpet" he says, brushing a wet strand of hair out of his eyes, a wishful look colouring his face.

"Of course you do." The fondness in John's smile is unmistakable as they make their way out of the greenhouse. The temperature drop is somewhat of a shock as the warm humidity is replaced with sharp winter air.

"We better catch a cab, or we'll catch our death like this" John pushes the words out between his slightly chattering teeth.

"No need" Sherlock replies.

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous..."

"No need for a cab, because transport has already been sent, apparently."

John's gaze follows Sherlock's pointing finger and falls on the oh-so-(too)-familiar car that usually serves as an announcement of Mycroft's presence (or at least involvement in whatever matter he deemed his business this time).

"Oh, lovely." John says, and it's only half-sarcastic. In one hand, John doesn't really feel like playing Mycroft's games, but in the other, they are soaking wet and shivering in the wintery air – not a very responsible thing to do, least of all by a doctor. He starts towards the car, but Sherlock's arm blocks his way.

"John, since it is unlikely we will get much privacy to discuss any of this in the next couple of hours, I suggest we take this opportunity to settle some things."

"Well, when you put it like a business contract, why not." John teases, and then lets Sherlock continue.

"You said you don't know how to do this. Just for sake of clarity, does 'this' refer to relationships in general, the fact that I am a man and thus not your typical preference, or the fact that we are two men living together in a rather co-dependent symbiosis, endangering our lives on a daily basis as way of having fun, and you fear whatever step we take next will endanger that symbiosis?"

"Urm...well, none of that and all of that really..."

"You're being contrary again, John."

John looks as if there are words chocking him.

"I'm not very good at this – saying what I feel. That's what I mean when I say I don't know how to do this."

"And you're supposed to be the expert in that field, out of the two of us" Sherlock murmurs, and John barks out a laugh.

"Yeah...guess we're properly screwed then. It's...it's just all a bit new, you know. I mean it's you and you're...well, so many things, and it's me, and all that's happened with us. We've been through a lot, Sherlock. We are complicated enough as it is, and this will certainly add new complications. This is not to say I am not willing to put up with them, just that this changes some things. And about you being a man – sure, not my usual thing, but I think I passed that bridge somewhere in my mind sometime after Mary left. It took some time, but in the end I realised that I've never been this deep in with anyone, Sherlock. I mean you fake-died and then came back and still, here we are. We've lived through more crap than most married couples, and still we somehow managed to fall back together. So, if my lot is that the person I just can't seem to escape – the one that I don't want to escape – is a man, well then that's what it is. In the end, it's all just transport, right?"

Hearing his words repeated in this context, Sherlock admires the way context works. It manages to transform a dismissive remark into a voicing of acceptance which summarises perfectly what really matters. They're Sherlock-and-John, and if they were Martian or had three heads, it wouldn't change a thing. Still, Sherlock feels the need to reiterate some of his previous statements.

"I did say there wouldn't be perfect conditions."

"You did."

"I asked if that could be a problem."

"And I said no. I'm still saying no. There's nothing perfect about anything we do, Sherlock. There never was, at least not in the regular sense. I was depressed war veteran when we met, and you were on the path of becoming an eccentric recluse constantly teetering at the edge of addiction. And then we met and decided to solve crimes together like comic-book heroes. And then you died and came back to life. Those are no perfect conditions – that's just ridiculous. But it's us. We're ridiculous, only sometimes it's not in the ha-ha sort of way. Either way, I don't know how to do this, I don't know how this will work. It will probably be ridiculous, too. But I am willing to try and see what happens."

"In that case, I feel obliged to warn you that I, too, have a limited knowledge of how to proceed."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you saying you don't know?"

Sherlock's mouth morphs into a pinched expression, as if someone just forced a pickle down his throat. John laughs again, a warm sound contrasting the cold, dormant landscape of the Botanical Gardens.

"Well, that settles it then. We're both clueless."

"I have never been clueless in my life" Sherlock says, indignantly, and John just shoots him a look which makes Sherlock want to act on impulse and kiss him. But there's a car waiting for them, a car with eyes and ears, and while Sherlock is in no way embarrassed of any of this, he would rather if they could avoid Mycroft's meddling for a bit longer.

"Shall we?" he asks, and the walk side-by-side down the swerving paths. Their hands brush, but neither reached to take hold of the other – that's not who they are. Handcuffs, guns, code-words and brawls with criminals – that's their hand-holding, their version of flowers and love-notes, their sweet-talk and dancing. They're not perfect, they're ridiculous.

Reaching the car, they fall silent, and as the door flings open to reveal Mycroft, Sherlock's wish comes true- he is still wet enough to eat least leave a stain on the seat of Mycroft's car, if not his carpet.

"John. Sherlock. If you wouldn't mind getting in, I am rather anxious to get home. I've had a long trip." Mycroft demands.

"You didn't have to pick us up, brother mine. I didn't know you yearned so to see me as soon as possible." Sherlock snarls.

"I couldn't resist." Mycroft deadpans. "Please do try not to leave mud all over the floor."

John and Sherlock smirk at each other and then proceed to in silence and for once it seems as if Mycroft is the one feeling most discomfort (John can almost feel Sherlock's glee related to that fact). Cold water is still making their clothes stick to their skin, but the hot air circulating in the car makes the shivering a bit less violent. Sherlock and John sit in silence, soaked and slightly giddy, like two schoolboys being escorted home after an impromptu adventure, not regretting any of it in the least. Even though there are three people in the back of the car, there are only two in the world made of not knowing (but being willing to find out), dried mud, and ridiculous new possibilities. It's a world they chose. But the trick to helping it endure is to keep choosing it, time and time again. It's the trick to saving the(ir) world. It's the key, but it's also something else:

It's a trick that neither of them knows yet, but that both of them have already used, unknowingly, and that one of them will soon have to become aware of. Become aware of, and implement, this time knowingly and with intent. And sometimes choices are ridiculous. Only, it's not always in the ha-ha sort of way. Sometimes it's not in the ha-ha sort of way at all. Sometimes it's the exact opposite.

Oh, and yes, PAWS - Post Acute Withdrawal Syndrome

Thanks for reading :)