o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Dark brooding clouds thundered overhead, startling both men and beast. The rain, relentless in its attack, soaked through the clothes of those who dared venture outdoors.

Two men stood in the company of an open fire, drinks forgotten in their grasp.

"Sending a letter was risky," Paul Jefferson broke the silence, save for the crackle of the burning logs and the drum of rain.

"You seem to be preoccupied of late. I believed a letter to be necessary to catch your attention."

Paul turned to the man standing opposite, the other effortlessly mimicking the movement.

It was as if he were looking in a mirror, save for an ugly scar that ran across the other mans face; a horror of marred flesh.

"I admit, I have been engaged of late-"

"I do not care how you spend your time. I do, however, care if it begins to interfere in our plans."

"Alistair." Paul cautioned, grip tightening around the brandy.

"It seems you are letting your emotions cloud your true purpose."

"I have not forgotten our goal-"

"Your actions prove otherwise."

Paul calmly placed the crystal glass above the fireplace.

"If you think me the fool."

"Prove me wrong, dear brother." Alistair Jefferson snarled, his gaze cold. The atmosphere held an undercurrent of resentment.

"Sherlock Holmes will not delve deeper into this case."

There was a pregnant pause before the other man gave a curt nod, brandy passing scarred lips.

"The shipment will leave the harbor in a three weeks time. Then, brother dear, revenge shall be ours."

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

They had been but boys when their mother had passed, left in the care of their father; a good honest gentleman who looked after his sons with the utmost care. Years passed and times became harsh. The banks demanded that their debts be settled; the boys watched as their father worked himself to the bone, health wasting away. The twins had been sent to work to pay off their father's debts. They had no one, save for each other. They spent cold, restless nights glued at each others side, their small hands gripping for comfort and for warmth. It would be years later that their fortunes would change.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

"You look very nice," Mary smiled gently as she squeezed her husbands hand, though her attention was for the man sitting across from her. Sherlock Holmes gave a fleeting smile as he tucked the napkin around his lap.

"Thank you. You look...very pregnant...ow!" Sherlock sniffed, his ankle throbbing from the sudden kick. John tried to hold back a scowl.

"What I mean to say is 'very lovely'. You look absolutely radiant." Sherlock redeemed himself, picking up the fork and stabbing down at the main course. Mary managed a smile, not before giving her husband a knowing glance.

"What's the occasion, besides the baby." Sherlock inquired, placing the fork down, food utterly forgotten. His almond eyes darted to and fro between the couple seated across the table. "Asking me to dinner. I know how you love my company, Mrs. Watson."

"Well..." Mary began but John interrupted.

"We want you to be the godfather."

Sherlock's gaze fell to Mary's swollen belly. He sniffed. He coughed.

"I beg your pardon?"

"After much consideration, John and I have thought it best that you be the babies godfather." Mary tried to give her best smile though her heart was not in it. She and John had argued, for over a month on who the godfather would be. John would not change his mind. Mary, too tired to continue, had finally agreed.

"I-I-I-Are you sure you want me to-to be-this baby?" Sherlock was still staring. Mary coughed, her hands covering her stomach impulsively.

"Yes old boy." John grinned ear to ear. The detective flared his nostrils.

"I don't know what to say." Sherlock's mind was spinning, his heart felt as if it were being torn in all directions.

"Say yes." Mary reached over to take Sherlock's hand in her own. "It would make John and I very happy."

Sherlock felt his facial muscles twitch. He glanced up from the unborn child and stared into John's steady blue gaze.

"If you insist."

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Sherlock closed the door behind him, letting his hat fall from his grasp. The night seemed but a dream. His fingers itched for his violin; the taunt strings lost in music of the past. He was to be a godfather. To John Watson's child.

"How was dinner?"

The detective looked at his flatmate; green eyes meeting brown. He opened his mouth though no words formed on his tongue. Instead he stripped off his coat, leaving it a pile on the floor. He ignored the disapproving glare from Paul.

"What did the good doctor want?"

"Want?" Sherlock managed, searching for his pipe.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Holmes."

Sherlock didn't seem to hear the other man. Instead he was searching. Searching for his pipe. His violin. For anything.

"Sherlock."

The detective found himself pushed against the wall, the taller man's eyes hard gems.

"Godfather."

Paul frowned but didn't move.

"You see, I am to be a godfather." Sherlock muttered the word as if tasting some foreign delicacy for the first time.

"What did you say?"

"If you insist."

"So you agreed." Paul inched closer. He could smell rosemary, lavender and brandy. Intoxicating. "Because it was for him."

Slight shock passed across the smaller man's face.

"Why is it that even though I am here, you seek the affections of one who can never be yours?"

"I –" Sherlock began but his lips were suddenly engaged in a fierce kiss that tasted of the sea and liquid fire. Seeking hands wove themselves into the detectives dark hair, unyielding. Paul felt Sherlock's lips part ever so slightly. When the kiss broke, they were both breathing hard.

"Take it off." Sherlock just stared at the other man, mind frozen. Paul slowly smiled. Long fingers deliberately pulled on the suits buttons, seeking hardened muscle. Sherlock felt his breathe hitch; he tensed unsure of what to do. Paul Jefferson felt the hunger coil up through his belly; he leaned in biting at the exposed flesh. He felt the dark haired man tremble beneath his kisses and touch. Jefferson grinned.

o.O.o.O.o.O.o

Sherlock pressed his open palms against the walls, gazing at shameless green eyes. His body was betraying him; Sherlock's heart was screaming for John's sweet kiss and tender care. But John was married. John was going to be a father; he could never be his. But John – The detective felt his knees weaken as Paul reached between his legs, the fabric tight and straining.

"Let him go." Paul whispered, palm gently moving. The man pinned against him was as taunt as a bow string, brown eyes conflicted. "Let John Watson go."

Sherlock swallowed, sweat sticking to his brow. His cheeks were flushed and his breathing laboured. He bit his lip at the sudden absence of touch but jumped as warm hands found their way against heated flesh. Sherlock had never been touched by another so intimately; the sensation was...maddening. He groaned as the pace quickened, his hands sweaty against the wall. Sherlock didn't think he could maintain a standing position. Paul leaned in, bit at the detectives neck and with a practised motion made the other man see stars.