Copy That

The light does little to illuminate the container. It's only the faintest of slivers along the floor, and if John hadn't been waiting for it, he probably wouldn't even have noticed. He stands silently, stretching his legs, warming up, in case he needs to move fast. Beside him, Sherlock is doing the same.

John doesn't ask if Sherlock has a plan. For one thing, John's good at this shit. It's what he's been trained for. For another, there's really nothing they can do, but seize an opportunity when it presents itself and he trusts both himself and Sherlock to follow the other's lead.

There's no noise outside yet; still his heart beats at a faster pace, adrenaline getting his body ready for combat now that he's moved from sitting and waiting to actually doing something. The worst part, the nerve-wrecking waiting in the dark for the blade to come down on their heads, that part is almost over. He breathes in deep, closes his eyes, settles. He can and will do this, whatever it is; he's ready.

Then suddenly Sherlock grips his shoulder painfully hard. "John," he hisses. "John."

"What?"

"There's a fly."

"Yeah, so— oh fuck. Fuck me." John opens his eyes, turning his gaze this way and that until he can see the fly properly. "You'll need to give me a bit beforehand, 20 minutes?" They are a bit pressed for time. "Otherwise I'll be useless."

Sherlock squeezes his shoulder. Okay, then. John fixes his gaze on the fly. "Copy that."

It feels like being sucker-punched. John has never before turned into something so tiny, and his body is telling him that it doesn't approve, not one bit. This was worse than the caracal, worse than the guinea pig. This was a freaking nightmare. John chokes, gritting his teeth against the pain and the rising vomit as he crashes to the ground. His teeth hurt, his eyes are on fire, his shoulders feels like something's ripping out of them. He writhes, panting, until he can't move anymore, the pain is just too great. It drowns out everything else.

When it abates, later, later, so much later, he thinks that his estimation of twenty minutes was perhaps just a tiny bit optimistic. He's also already dreading the change back. Dear god. John shudders, then freezes when he notices a strange humming, whirring sound. The sound stops as well.

Oh, of course, the wings. He can feel them now, on his back, about as long as his body. An experimental move of his — not shoulder blades, but... fly shoulder blades? John isn't up on insect anatomy. There hasn't been any need for that previously. Maybe he should remedy that as soon as possible. — an experimental move of his shoulder blades has them whirring back to live. He puts some more energy into it and is gratified to notice he's taking off from the floor, even though he's really more dangling in the air than flying. He's still exhausted and aching all over. Figuring out how to steer is hard (though he manages, somehow), figuring out where to go less so. He can still see the sliver of light before him, but it's brighter now and looks more like a hundred slivers, which yeah. He vaguely remembers some school biology lesson about insect eyes. Fly eyes. Vaguely.

John lurches towards the light, flying in anything but a straight line. He almost smacks into the door, stops himself just in time, and more drops than lands, awkwardly, right in front of it. His legs (all six of them) are easier to manipulate into doing what he wants. He doesn't even have to think about it, but he gets distracted by the fact that every time he brushes against the door above or a crumb or anything his leg is telling him how that thing tastes. Cold metal, as it turns out, leaves something to be desired taste-wise.

Then he's on the ship proper and— Jesus, all these things, all these things. John can't take them in. So many, and most of them showing up several times and fuck, his eyes won't close. (No eyelids, he notices, absently. He has no eyelids.)

John's wings start moving involuntarily and before he knows he's up in the air, being blown this way and that by the wind. He tumbles, somersaults mid-air, is almost bashed against some kind of surface before he gets a hold of himself and his bloody wings. This time his attempt at a landing cannot even begin to qualify as such. He hits the ground, stumbling over his own legs, before standing shakily.

Okay, this won't do. He needs a moment to reorientate himself, figure out where he's ended up — before that, figure out how to process what he's seeing, Jesus. John rubs his front legs over his eyes, his actual eyes (no eyelids), clearing them. Devotes a whole minute to centering himself, attention turned inward, before even trying to figure out his sight (which is awful. Even being drunk and seeing things double and triple has never been this bad. He can feel a headache coming on atop the pains and aches, and changing back can seriously not happen quickly enough.) or his position. (John-couldn't-find-his-own-arse-with-a-map-Watson makes a reappearance, though given a choice between a fly and a cat, he'll take the cat any day.)

John turns this way and that, trying to figure out where the cargo container is. He thinkshe recognises it somewhere off to his left (This makes sense; the wind is coming from his right.) and sets out towards it on foot, wary of braving the air again.

Judging the distance, he estimates that it'll take him fifteen minutes all in all; he thinks, he hopes because the thought of Sherlock sitting in that container, calling his name and not getting an answer makes something twist inside his gut.

By the time he's a quarter of the way to the container, his legs have sorted themselves out and he starts feeling vaguely like he only needs a day or so before he can change back. A day he doesn't have.

Except for the crashing of the waves, the hum of the engine and the squawks of seagulls, it's eerily quiet. No crew up and about (yet), at least not in this part of the ship. John thanks his lucky stars and starts creeping out of the shadow of the wall towards open space. He's barely gone more than a couple of steps when there's a sudden movement up above and about three billion birds race towards him. Shit. Shit, he's a fucking fly and he's going to get eaten. John starts moving his wings almost instinctively and then there's the wind again, but he's fighting it more this time, almost has some control of where he's going and where he's going is away from the birds of hell. (He feels like a character in a Hitchcock movie, only even more terrified because if he were human, he could at least do something like fight or run on two legs. Of course, if he were human he wouldn't even be in this situation.)

John flits about, heedless of where he's going and almost flies straight into a window. He pulls up at the last second. The seagull is not so lucky. At the very least, it must have a concussion. On second thought, that looks like a broken neck.

John settles down on the roof of the, the bridge trying to still his racing heart. He curses as he realises he's farther than ever from Sherlock. There's a thump reverberating from below him, and the door opens. John hears footsteps. Two, he thinks, even if it looks like three thousand men. They pull out their cigarettes and light up, staring into space for a while. Near the end, their lips move and then one half of the three thousand men jerk their finger(s) in the direction of the cargo bay (John thinks it's the right direction; it looks that way). The other half nods and starts to follow, and this is his chance. John takes flight, heading towards one (1,500) of the men like a drunk bug, finally landing — more by accident than design — on his head. (It tastes of gunpowder and chemicals.) He waits, tense, for the man to raise a hand and try to hit him, but nothing of the sort happens. Maybe he hasn't noticed. Maybe he doesn't care. Either way, John doesn't dare move in case he attracts attention.

The men keep walking, weaving through the containers, heading straight for where John thinks Sherlock is still being kept, and this is so not good. John takes off, flying towards the roof of the container opposite and landing about half a meter from the edge. The men pause, one (1500) stands a little to the side and pulls out his gun while the other opens the door to reveal Sherlock (all several hundreds of him) standing there, hands raised just slightly before he moves the left at the speed of a snail towards the door. "John and I would still like to remain a while."

And then he pulls the container door back shut.

If John weren't writhing in absolute agony, he'd be laughing his head off.

As it is, he's trying his damnedest to remain silent as the wings draw back into his back and his eyes start running together like sugar heated in a pan. He's on fire; he's bursting out of his own skin; he's breaking and reshaping and biting his tongue (human tongue) to keep from making even if the tiniest of noises.

There's blood in his mouth. It runs down his chin and pools underneath his face, but John cannot be bothered to wipe it away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees one of the Russians pulling at the container door with all his might while the other keeps his gun trained at it. Sherlock will not be able to hold it closed indefinitely, not compared to that bear of a man, and John needs to act now.

'Move,' John thinks at himself. 'Move, damn you.'

He's straining, his limbs are fighting him for every inch, but John fights back and finally manages to raise himself to all fours.

"Blyad', zapri dver'!"

The man pulling at the door turns to look back at his companion.

"Cherez dnya dva, u nikh ne budet sil, chtoby prodolzhat'."

John doesn't understand what they're saying, but he can take an educated guess as the big and burly Russian locks the door again and they both move away.

Well, John thinks, that was anti-climatic. He feels darkness pulling at him as the adrenaline leaves his bloodstream. John bites his lip hard, trying to keep himself in the here and now.

Crawling towards the edge takes most of the strength he doesn't have to begin with, and he only just manages not to pitch forward and break his neck falling down. It's a close thing, though. Ideally, he'd rest before trying to jump down, but while he thinks the two Russians have given up for now, they might only be getting reinforcements. Sitting back on his legs is somewhat easy, moving about till he's sitting with his arse on the roof, legs dangling down is somewhat less so, and he still needs to jump down.

John rubs a hand over his eyes (eyes closed, his hand is touching the lids, the lids. He's never been so grateful to have eyelids), then grips the edge and pushes himself over it. The landing's hard and he pitches forward, his knees absorbing some of the shock and that is going to leave bruises, but he doesn't break anything and his kneecaps still feel intact. He's crawling again, putting one hand before the other, knees scraping along the floor; then he's at the door, still needs to push himself up, does sosomehowand strains to pull the handle open.

A second before the door smashes into his face, he remembers to tell Sherlock that it's him. Not that it stops the momentum of Sherlock apparently throwing all his weight at the door and the door banging right into John's forehead.

He blacks out.

The air is sticky, when he comes to, and smells vaguely of rubber. He's lying on a hard surface, with something warm pressed up against his back, breathing into his ear. There's the humming of an engine, the sound of waves breaking on a ship, a certain lack of gunfire, but a certain amount of squawking from seagulls, which has him tensing up before he remembers that—

—that he's on a ship with Sherlock, that he's human sized, that this is the North Sea, not Afghanistan.

"They took no note of our break-out yet," Sherlock murmurs, keeping his voice down to a low volume and avoiding sibilants. (Whispers always attract more attention.) "How are you doing?"

John takes a moment to take stock. His head hurts; he's sore and exhausted, and his knees feel like they're swollen slightly. "I'm okay."

Sherlock squeezes his side.

"I will be," John amends. "Where?"

"Under tarp."

"Wait till night?"

Sherlock nods against his back. By unspoken agreement, they stop talking and listen for the sounds of alarm instead.

John tries to relax, but ultimately fails. Waiting is always the worst part. He's good with action, but the tense muscles, the vigilance and fearful anticipation that is sharpening his reflexes, preparing him for fight or flight, and that no one can keep up for the amount of time that passes before any action can be taken at all, the sudden spikes when an unexpected noise close by shakes him out of the stupor he's falling into again and again — that, all that, he deals badly with. (John has yet to meet a soldier who excels at it. He doesn't think it's possible.)

There's very little to distract him from it, however. He does not want to focus on his pain and exhaustion, and the only other input is the feel of Sherlock pressed against his back, the fine hairs near John's ear moving every time Sherlock breathes out. It's pleasant; it's more than pleasant in fact, but it's also entirely too distracting. John glances at his watch.

Two hours till sunset, and it's best if they leave in the small hours of the night when most of the men on board are asleep. All in all, it adds up to an unbearable long while of waiting. John sighs inaudibly and resigns himself to ten hours in hell.

"I can walk fine," John grumbles, shaking off Sherlock hands as he rises to his feet. A moment later he's stumbling because his leg has fallen asleep. He throws Sherlock a look, daring him to comment.

So, of course he does. "I can see that."

John ignores him and turns towards the tarp, trying to rearrange it to look vaguely like it did before. It doesn't end up looking perfect, but it would do, he decides after a few seconds and looks up to signal he's done.

Sherlock turns and walks off, assuming a confident and easy gait. John copies him. From afar, they might look like they belong — well, John might. Sherlock's coat is a bit too posh, but they can't do anything about that.

For the first time on this case, things actually go off without a hitch. They don't meet anyone, no alarm is raised, they find a lifeboat, they lower it even if John's muscles still feel like rubber, and are about a mile from the ship before John realises something.

"We have no idea where we're going, do we?"

Neither John nor Sherlock are sailors; admittedly, Sherlock has the currents of the Atlantic ocean (near Europe) memorised in case an interestingly murdered body ever washes up on the shore, but knowing where they're drifting is about as helpful as knowing what time it is or that the human body can only survive for so long without water. Drinkable water, that is, which the Atlantic is not. In other words, it makes John worry.

"If you were a bird—"

"No."

"You could fly to—"

"No."

Sherlock frowns at him, and fine, fine flying to get help is a good idea, John's got to admit. As long as he doesn't end up in France or Spain or Portugal or... as long as he ends up in Britain, finding someone talking to a 'John' shouldn't be a problem. But ending up in Britainis the crux of the problem, or part of the crux at least.

"I suck at flying," John finally confesses because, really, there's no other reason not to do it.

"You suck at flying," Sherlock repeats slowly as if he of all people needed time to process this really simple statement.

John raises his chin. "I wasn't born with wings. Walking on four or six legs I can figure out, but wings and flying is kind of a step above that." He wonders when he started feeling the need to defend his lack of talent in flapping his wings and steering in the right direction. (Possibly around the time when Sherlock started looking at him as if he were particularly incompetent for not being able to.)

Sherlock presses his lips together and John sighs. John understands him, he does. John is feeling nauseous from hunger half the time, and when he's not feeling nauseous his head is killing him; he's so thirsty he keeps catching himself chewing on his bruised lower lip in an unconscious attempt to - he doesn't know. Drink his own blood? Imitate suckling? Distract himself? He doesn't know. "If it looks like this is our only option by tomorrow, I'll give it a shot."

Sherlock nods and turns his attention away from John, towards the vastness of the surrounding ocean or, more likely, towards the inside of his equally vast mind.

John goes back to contemplating their lack of water and sustenance and thinks about the likelihood of turning the loose threads of his shirt into a functioning fishing line. Unlikely to work, he finally decides, scratching his chin where the hairs of a burgeoning beard are causing an itch. (He keeps eyeing Sherlock's face every once in awhile because he cannot remember ever seeing Sherlock less than perfectly shaved and this is a sight he'd like to remember for the rest of his days, which, admittedly, might not be all that many.)

In between observing Sherlock, worrying about their survival and trying to stave off another headache by sheer strength of will, John falls into a light doze.

Near evening, Sherlock, whose feet have migrated downward and who is now lying in the lifeboat in the same pose in which he usually occupies the sofa (and thus leaving John not much room to stretch out himself, tall bastard), speaks to John after hours of silence. "The exertion from sexual intercourse would leave us even more dehydrated than we already are." He pauses — rather dramatically, John thinks. "On the other hand, I'm bored."

Well. John tries to weigh being stuck in a small space with a bored Sherlock against stupidly having sex. Both would hasten his demise, he finally concludes, but having sex would be more enjoyable.

John puts a hand on Sherlock's ankle, and Sherlock's expression morphs into that stupidly adorable look that is half smugness and half delight and the combination always serves to make John catch his breath because it approaches what passes for genuine happiness with Sherlock and because nearly all the time that it appears on his face it's because John put it there.

Giving into Sherlock's brand of insane stupidity (genius or not, it's stupid; and John, as a doctor, should really know better) is worth it just for that.

He almost goes to sleep, but he's never left anyone unsatisfied and he's not about to start now. While John's contemplating the state of Sherlock's trousers, specifically the bulge between his legs, a sudden beam of light blinds him momentarily, and he looks up to see—

"A ship. Sherlock, there's a ship!" A white one (definitely not the cargo ship). John scrambles to his feet, almost upsetting the boat in his haste and starts waving his arms.

The ship sounds its foghorn.

"Sherlock," John crows. "We're getting rescued!"

Sherlock throws him an offended look, the one that says, 'do you take me for an idiot; of course, I've noticed.' "Maybe," he grumbles, "you should put your trousers on then."

"If you can go to Buckingham Palace in your birthday suit, I can be rescued half-naked," John immediately returns, but he can't manage to keep a straight face and ends up grinning at Sherlock.

Sherlock grins back.

Sherlock's is the only bathroom in 221b Baker Street that has a shower, which John had found inconvenient at first, then stopped caring about, and is now glad for. It gives him an excuse to hover near Sherlock's bed until Sherlock looks up from his laptop and tilts his head in silent invitation. John grabs two bottles of water from where he'd put them earlier (by the door) and climbs into Sherlock's bed, dressed in nothing more than a pair of off-red boxers and a shirt. He holds out one of the bottles towards Sherlock, wriggling it in front of his face until Sherlock snatches it out of his hand in exasperation.

"Drink," John orders when Sherlock makes a move to put it on the bedside table. He opens his own bottle, takes a swig, and raises his eyebrow expectantly.

Sherlock glares at him, but does unscrew the top and put the bottle to his lips. He drinks about a third before lowering it slowly and in a way that is entirely too suggestive of what else he could be putting his lips on and sucking.

Fuck it, John thinks, shoves the laptop out of Sherlock's hands and onto the bedside table, and pounces on him.

John takes another shower and fetches more water bottles from the kitchen. He clambers onto Sherlock's bed, not waiting for an invitation this time, and settles down next to him. Sherlock's attention remains on the screen for the most part, but he moves his arm to better accommodate John.

John's a little tired, a lot tired actually, and his knees are still giving him some trouble (even more now after a round of exertion), so he mostly drifts in and out of wakefulness for the next several hours while Sherlock checks on his website, sighing at the lack of anything interesting, and keeping up with his newsfeed (also sighing at the lack of anything interesting). At one point, John wakes from a light doze to find him looking at a page of, "Myths of Afghanistan?"

John frowns, staring at the website.

Sherlock tenses almost imperceptibly before clearly forcing himself to relax. "The Baskerville experiments found their way into the public conscious as myths."

Something tight settles over John's torso, squeezing. He licks his suddenly dry lips reflexively before giving it up as a lost cause. "You don't believe that there's a scientific explanation."

Sherlock clenches his jaw, but remains silent. John is getting the sneaking suspicion that it's because he thinks that after eliminating the impossible, the only remaining answer — however really, truly, incredibly fucking improbable— is 'no, I don't' and that Sherlock simply doesn't want to entertain the notion. That he's deliberately closing his eyes against the obvious conclusion because it would wreck havoc with his worldview.

Hell, it wrecks havoc with John'sworldview.

"I mean," John says a little desperately, "glowing bunnies, Sherlock. There's a lot of things that—"

"John," Sherlock snaps. "You've shrunk to the size of a fly. Before that you were a guinea pig. You-" he interrupts himself, running a hand through his hair. John has never seen Sherlock this agitated before. "It cannot be science."

Well, that...that is what John should have been expecting all along. Had been expecting, in a way. John tries to wrap his head around it. It's more difficult than he thought because he still feels like it cannot be. He thinks he needs to hear Sherlock actually say it. "So, I'm under a curse?" And he doesn't know if it's really because he won't believe it otherwise (and when has Sherlock's word become the word of god?) or if he just wants someone to share the misery of experiencing a paradigm shift of this magnitude.

"I," Sherlock finally replies, "I wouldn't call it a...curse." He hesitates over the last word, before it spills from his lips in a rush as if by saying it really quickly he could hide that he'd used it at all.

"But it's magic."

Sherlock look like he's trying to skin John with his eyes. "Yes, John. Against my better judgment and every law of physics, it'smagic." He spits the word out, then buries his face in his hands, and all but groans.

"Right," John says slowly, around whatever obstruction is blocking his airways. "'Right." He turns his head away and stares at the ceiling for a while.

"I think I found the relevant myth," Sherlock says after a while, "but there's no information about how to reverse it — if you want that."

John knows what that means, knows it even as the smell of gun oil and sweat and desert wind rises up in his memory. Their best bet is and always has been Afghanistan.

John thinks, and considers, and mulls it over in his mind, and he just doesn't know what to do, what to reply. He doesn't know if he wants this fixed so much that he wants to go back into the war zone, more importantly he doesn't know if he wants it so much that he'll drag Sherlock along, who's used to danger, yes, but not like Afghanistan. Never like Afghanistan.

Fuck, he's not even sure anymore if he really wants to be fixed at all. Few civilians use 'copy that' and John has studiously been avoiding watching war movies (though he hasn't actually felt the need to watch one). It's as contained as it can be, and it's even sometimes useful, he has to admit.

It's just, it's — John has been cursed or, god, spelled or whatever it is and, and magic.

"Of course, we can go and just see what we can find out about it."

John doesn't need to look at Sherlock to see the glint of hope and anticipation in his eyes, and he kind of wants to throttle him for just rolling with this particular punch. Or maybe for being Sherlock and being curious and wanting to know anything that isnot boringeven if it might kill him. "Sherlock," he says, finally twisting his head to glare at him.

"What? No, let me guess what you will say." Sherlock's chin is raised and he's staring at John coldly. "It will be dangerous."

He's stressing the words, and they echo inside John's mind, increasing in volume until John flinches away from them.

Of course, John has no stones to throw; and Sherlockhas never kept John out of whatever dangerous adventure he'd decided to plunge headlong into, has given John the choice how and where and for whom to risk his life. And John is an idiot.

"I guess," he says, " it's time to brush up on my Pashto, then."

"I have been wondering," Sherlock says in a deceptively casual tone, which has John putting down the teacup he's holding and preparing for the worst, "if changing into another person, while not providing you with their skills, might give you their … sensitivities." He flicks some imaginary hair off the cuff of his shirt. The aubergine coloured one. Sherlock is dressed but for his socks and shoes, which John finds curious but isn't going to question.

"Like their allergies?" John asks.

"Or their erogenous zones."

Ah, John thinks and swallows. Sherlock is clearly trying to break John before the day has even started. He picks up his cup again and takes another sip. "I clearly remember there being a rule about no experiments before breakfast. I'm sure of it." He remembers it well because it was the consequence of that incident two weeks ago where John stumbled out of bed and into the living room to suddenly find himself turned into Sherlock again. He hadn't even seen Sherlock yet that morning, but he had seen him before he'd gone to sleep. Sherlock then proceeded to question him about who he'd been dreaming about and if it could have been Sherlock.The answer was that he didn't remember, which — in Sherlock's eyes — of course meant they had to repeat the experiment, which in turn lead to the creation of another rule. (Sherlock caught him later that week after a nap.)

"You've almost finished your breakfast."

And that is true.

John thinks about Sherlock.

Then he thinks about Sherlock's cock.

And then he thinks about standing in the bathroom and feeling the fabric of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms on his skin, and wolves down the last bit of bread.

"Appetising."

John drains his teacup and says, "Oh, shut up."

There's something off about the way Sherlock handles his interactions with the Pashtun. Something not wrong, something too right in fact, and John doesn't think it's simply Sherlock having researched the customs perfectly.

"You've been here before," John states, and it's nota question. Sherlock doesn't treat it as such either and refuses to answer. "You have." And maybe John sounds a little accusing there.

He considers when Sherlock could have possibly found the time to travel to bloody Afghanistan and why he would, in fact, travel to bloody Afghanistan in the first place, and comes up with the answers rather too quickly.

"When you told me that you went to Israel, right after that business with Irene Adler — oh Jesus." In the light of Irene Adler's quite feasible survival, Sherlock's lack of a reaction when John told him about the witness protection program took on an entirely different meaning. "You helped her escape."

Sherlock doesn't acknowledge John's deduction, doesn't need to. It's there in the quirk of his mouth and the hint of pride in his eye, and Sherlock doesn't really need John to protect him at all. Not like this, not from that.

They're both happier plunging into danger head-on — and together.

Finding a witch in Afghanistan is harder than finding good coffee in a vending machine, and the only reason that John and Sherlock are even getting close is because John can, actually, also turn into a woman. His lack of native speaker competence however is a rather big hindrance.

"American?" she asks him before John has managed to speak more than three words.

"British," he replies because denial would be utterly futile and almost certainly counter-productive.

"Hmm."

John clears his throat. "Look, I'm sorry that I—" —copied your sisters body and used it to sneak into your house to talk to you. That wouldn't go over well, he thinks, even though it's the proverbial elephant in the room. "I'm sorry," he tries again. "I'm here because—"

"You crossed underneath a rainbow, and now you want to know how to get rid of your gift." She moves away from him, towards the table where she had been cutting vegetables before John found a way to be invited in. Sits down and reaches for the knife, starts cutting again with precise motions and utter surety.

"The trigger phrase is—" not as bothersome and ubiquitous now.

"Inconvenient? Too obvious?"

John nods, but feels that he shouldn't. The burka is making it harder to read her face, but the woman (the witch) seems contemptuous — of him, he thinks.

"It would be; it always must reflect the shape of the magic." The precise motions never stop or turn more violent, but they still somehow manage to look aggressive and disapproving. "Go and find another. Walk backwards, and think of your name. Now get out; get out and stop fooling around with my sister's body!"

John inhales, opens his mouth to — thank her or apologize again or both.

"Out."

He leaves without saying another word.

"I have been wondering," Sherlock says one night while they're pressed against each other in a tent that is too tiny by half for Sherlock's long limbs. He's pulled his legs up, making the most of the few inches that the position (Sherlock in front, John spooning him) provides. "The transformations are obviously painful. On a scale from one—"

"Eleven," John replies. "Definitely eleven."

Sherlock pauses to think this over. "I see."

"I mean, it actually depends on what I change into. Another person, okay. Painful, but okay. An animal? Painful, and getting more horrible the smaller it is."

"Hmm. That makes sense especially in the light of the fact that your transformations always take the same amount of time."

Well, that is news to John. "Are you sure? Because some seem longer, and the one in the bathroom where I changed into myself didn't seem to take any time at all."

"I am sure, yes. Well." Sherlock hesitates. When he continues, he sounds a little chagrined. "I couldn't really time the last one, but the others all lasted equally long. The pain during the animal transformations must be greater both because you're turning into something quite different and with less mass — and I'd really like to know where that is going; changing into energy perhaps? — and because you're doing it in the same amount of time that it takes you to change into a human."

"Energy."

"E = mc2. Einstein's theory of—"

"I know what it is, Sherlock," John snaps, before nipping at Sherlock's ear. Sherlock twitches, and rubs against John and - and it is way too cold to have sex. "I was surprised you knew given that you completely forgot about heliocentrism."

Sherlock stiffens. "I didn't forget. I merely deleted it from my memory because it bears no relevance to day-to-day life."

"And Einstein does?"

"Yes."

John wonders if he should ask, then decides that no, he's sure Sherlock has a brilliant reason for this, but he's not really all that interested in it. Given that the last time he'd asked something like that, Sherlock had treated him to a thirty-minute monologue about the importance of the modern novel to the collective unconscious and John hadn't even pretended to listen for the last ten of those, which had Sherlock scowling at him and throwing himself on the sofa with a huff, well. Better not to have a repeat of that.

Some days, John thinks that Sherlock decides what is important and what isn't according to whether or not he finds it interesting or entertaining. Aside from obviously important facts, like the distance that high-velocity blood splatters travel, that is. And-

John stops mid-thought, opens his mouth. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask what Sherlock is doing, but it's actually quite obvious what he's doing. "Stop moving."

"Friction creates heat."

"If you don't stop it with the physics, I may have to — Jesus Christ."

Sherlock doesn't reply because he's pulled up John's hand to his mouth and is busy sucking on his fingers while rubbing against John and oh, god.

"I— you're not allowed to copy me."

Sherlock hums and releases his fingers with a wet plop. "Something tells me you don't really mind."

"Sherlock," John grits out. "Remember that I know all your erogenous zones and I can reach a fair few of them from here."

"Firstly, you don't. Secondly, I'm hoping that you'll become a little more engaged in this activity, so go ahead."

In hindsight, that really hadn't been much of a threat at all. John caves and licks at Sherlock's neck before freeing his hand from Sherlock's grip and working it into Sherlock's pants. Sherlock's hips jack forward.

"So about this bet."

"Yes?"

"Wanna give me a chance to prove my own skill? The morning is still far away."

Sherlock's voice, John notes with a certain amount of smugness, is unsteady when he replies with a simple yes.

For all that John and Sherlock are mostly trying to fly under the radar, they keep running into people rather a lot of the time, and not just because they need to restock supplies. It's—, they're not trying to avoid the Pashtun because going to any country and setting out to avoid interacting with the actual people of that country strikes John as stupid? Arrogant? He doesn't know.

They are trying to avoid interacting with anyone from the West, however, because neither John nor Sherlock wants to give Mycroft the chance to track their movements. (John feels more than a little nervous at the thought of Mycroft of all people knowing what he can do. He has an inkling that his life would no longer be his own once the man with the minor role in governmentlearns of his ability, and Mycroft would be able to see all the ways in which he could use John's talents.)

As such, John and Sherlock have more than a fair share of conversations with people from various backgrounds and cultures and different beliefs in terms of myths and superstitions.

Sherlock is in research heaven.

John is growing progressively more horrified at all the things that could possibly be true, now that he knows that magic is real.

And that's not even taking into account all the myths from all over the world, starting with simple things like gold pots at the end of rainbows and very definitely not ending with Herne the Hunter and being turned into a hunting dog for the rest of your life, and — and that is actually something he can see happening to some poor sod with an extremely rare name.

Dear god, he will never look at fairy tales the same way again.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock ignores him in favour of listening intently to a description of the properties of mehergheeah, which seems to be a love plant. As in, a plant that forces whoever ingests it to return the love of the person who has given it to them.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock holds up his index finger in the universal gesture for 'one moment'. John tries to be patient. Hell, he tries to look like he's enjoying himself because he doesn't want to insult the people kindly sharing their meal with them. He scribbles down a few words in his notebook. They're pretending to be writing a book on legends of Afghanistan, and while John knows that Sherlock has almost perfect recall, everyone else doesn't. So he's forced to write down all kinds of things he'd rather actually not think about.

"And it only grows on the Siaposh hill?"

"Only there, yes."

John takes another note.

"I wonder what makes that hill so different."

The man looks at Sherlock, confused.

"I mean, why are some places magical and others not? What makesthem so?"

The answer seems to be God. It has Sherlock gritting his teeth in frustration because that is a non-answer to him. John puts a hand on his arm to remind him not to snap at the nice people playing hosts to them.

"Thank you," John says, closing his notebook. He smiles at their hosts, while increasing the pressure on Sherlock's arm.

"Yes. I mean, thank you," Sherlock echoes.

"Oh, I know a lot more legends," the man says, and John winces inwardly because, because, well. Herne the Hunter, and love potions, and creatures of the night. He does open his notebook again, though, and hopes these legends won't cause him more nightmares.

The man smiles widely at him. "Have you ever heard then of the Serpent of Vaihund?"

They keep travelling the country, chasing the proverbial rainbow, and every day John is getting more and more convinced that he actually doesn't want to be fixed, doesn't want to be cured. It's not that he doesn't see the danger. (Mycroft, Baskerville.) It's just — it isuseful. They would not have survived their trip on the Russian ship otherwise; he's certain of that.

He's finally ready to admit as much to Sherlock when the weather suddenly decides to cooperate, and they're standing there in the sunlight, underneath the light drizzle, looking at the rainbow.

"I don't want to," John blurts, feeling stupid because they've wasted a lot of time on this.

"I know," Sherlock replies before, fucking shit, taking off running.

John doesn't blink, he doesn't, but from one moment to the next the rainbow's moved from in front of Sherlock to behind him, and Sherlock's shouting something (in German, John thinks) and falling to the ground and by the end John is looking at an exact replica of himself.

John walks forward and reaches down to pull Sherlock (himself) up. Sherlock sways, holding himself as if he's hurting all over (which he likely is).

"Guess I can return the favour now," John says, and leaves it up to Sherlock to decide if he means 'by turning you into a guinea pig' or 'by turning you into me and fucking you till you come so hard you forget who you are'.

He does the latter, but is tempted to try the former more than once.

Then Moriarty walks away a free man from a trial that should have put him behind bars for good, and Sherlock and John need to think of something fast because they care about Mrs Hudson and they care about Lestrade and John can take care of himself.

"This is my note," John says, staring down from the rooftop at the buzzling street. On the other side of it stands Lestrade, mobile phone pressed to his ear. It's too far to see, but John can imagine the look of dawning realisation on his face as he breathes, "Sherlock."

"Look at me. Keep your eyes on me." Don't look down to where Sherlock is hiding, blood running down his face from a superficial wound.

Lestrade looks, and John throws the phone away and steps onto the ledge. Somewhere down on the street a woman, Molly, screams and one of Sherlock's homeless network is running into Lestrade, making sure he doesn't actually see John (Sherlock) hit the street. John doesn't because he's throwing himself backward, raising his left hand to his eyes. The mouse he's been holding looks at him, terrified, and John whispers, "Copy that." before letting it drop the last few inches to the ground.

The transformation never gets any easier. John breathes through the last of the shudders, waiting for them to subside. In a little while, he will get up and scuttle inside. He will change back; he will turn up at St. Bart's, he will be informed of what Sherlock has (supposedly) done, and he will be (ostensibly) devastated.

And then he and Sherlock will leave England to raze Moriarty's network to the ground.