Slim fingers nudge at the ridges of his spine. He flinches at the contact, the cool touch tickling his bare skin.

"Stop it..."

The fingers persist, running softly over the base of his neck. Gooseflesh rises, prickling upwards at the intimate touch.

"Sherlock. What have we said about consent?"

"I hardly think it counts, John." Says the voice nestled into his shoulder. "You've been very consenting thus far."

John can't suppress his smile, rolling over as he turns to face the man beside him. Sherlock's hands move to cover his shoulder, tracing the round scar on his shoulder. He leans forward and presses a kiss to it, his lips soft against the rough and uneven tissue. John noses into his hair, slowly inhaling the sweet, earthy scent as he kisses Sherlock's temple.

"I can still taste you, what you're feeling, even after my…well, whatever happened to me." He murmurs into the soft curly down. "It's like…mint, clear air, snow…bliss. Pureness. You feel happy."

Sherlock looks up at him, resting his chin on John's collarbone. He smiles, unguarded and genuine, one of those rare sights that even John can count on one hand.

"I am happy."

John leans down, kisses him softly, his hands tracing patterns over the curve of Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock hums lowly, pressing forward as his tongue lines the seam of John's mouth, but just as soon as he advances, he retreats, breaking away to press his face into the curve of John's neck.

He sighs, and John closes his eyes, feeling his warm breath against his skin. They lay there together, in silence and revelry, in the moment that seemed so inevitable yet so long in coming. The path they had taken to bring these quiet minutes into realization had been full of yawning unknowns, great pits stretching before them, but the first step had revealed a ground more solid than frightening, a reward worth the sacrifice.

John thumbs against Sherlock's arm, tracing a circular path. That's all they were: a circle. Always in motion, neverending. Sherlock raises his head to rest on his chest, staring at the wall.

"Hey, come back to me."

Sherlock makes a noise of acknowledgment, but his eyes are still far away, concentrating on something John can't understand. He waits a moment, letting all his thoughts coalesce.

"What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock's fingers tap against his scar absentmindedly, in a way that brokers no argument on what his mind has settled on. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, reflective in a way that John hasn't quite heard before, in shades of something that sounds like uncertainty.

"What happens now?" He asks.

John chuckles. Sherlock can feel the vibration throughout his head, right to brain.

"Like you want all your questions answered." He says softly, words from long ago, before all of this. When they met.

Sherlock turns to look at him—really looks at him—and whatever he sees there makes him relax. He lets his head fall back to John's chest.

"There is something that's been bothering me." John confesses, and Sherlock can hear his heart quicken. His heart. Such a new and novel thing, that he might hear John's heartbeat where once there was none.

"Mmm. Speak."

"I never got to fly with you, did I? I know I promised."

That's what he was worried about?

Sherlock pushes himself up, his elbows coming to either side of John as he stares down at him. The coverlet billows around them, the heat from their bodies rising into the cool room. The light of the morning crosses his face as he reaches down to touch John's face, grazing his fingers against his lips.

"Hmm. Not to worry." He smiles. "There are other ways."

Sherlock wakes to raised voices just outside his bedroom. He rolls over, reaching for a body that is no longer there, the sheets long-cold and empty. Groggily, he grabs his watch off the nightstand. Almost noon—a very indulgent lie in.

He untangles himself from the bed, feet on the cold floor as he shrugs his thin dressing gown on, though he'd rather forgo it altogether. Something that sounds suspiciously blonde and good tells him they have guests who would most likely appreciate not being greeted with six feet of naked, thoroughly-shagged detective. Propriety, thy name is John.

The voices grow louder as he steps out into the hall, coming from the parlor. John's voice, standing out among them all.

"What do you mean they're gone?" He's saying as Sherlock crosses the threshold.

Mycroft and Lestrade turn to look at the new arrival. His brother's brow raises, but he says nothing. The news must be bad, then, for him to pass on the offer of such low-hanging commentary.

His eyes meet John's.

"Harriet and Mortimer are missing." John tells him, his face full of worry.

Sherlock glances away, passing over his brother, though he can't bring himself to look at John either.

"I know." He says finally.

"You know? You mean—you knew they were gone? This whole time?"

"Not this whole time, John, that's ridiculous. Don't think I'd hide that from you—"

"Then why am I just finding this out now?" John asks, looking to each of them. "You all knew, and no one thought to tell me?"

"I had more pressing concerns, and it's not like you were in a fit state to answer me if I had!" Sherlock responds, feeling color rising to his cheeks. His body knows he isn't telling the whole truth.

John exhales deeply, a still and somber expression falling over his face, the one that Sherlock hates seeing because it means he's made up his mind and decided to be the hero, alone.

"Right. I'm going out." He says, turning and heading back to their room, where the majority of his clothes are, have been since before he left and returned.

"John—" Sherlock starts, following him down the hall.

He's already shrugged a jumper on, looking around for a coat.

"Don't stop me, Sherlock."

"I'm not stopping you, you absurd man. I'm coming with you."

"What?" He asks, pulling on an old leather jacket. "No. Out of the question."

He moves to exit the room, but Sherlock's there first, shutting the door with a long arm.

"Why? Why does it always have to be you? Why do you always go alone?"

Why do you never take me with you? Why are you always running away?

"Sherlock, if it were Mycroft—"

"Oh, don't even insult us both with the comparison, John, you know very well that I understand the situation just as well as you do. I know what Harriet is to you, and Mortimer as well." He pauses a moment and the bristled irritation falls from his voice, softening. "Let me go with you."

John stares at him for a moment, eyes darting over his face.

"No."

"Why? Because you think I could get hurt? Because I could die? I have news for you John, and I'm sure you've realized it: you've already done that to me. You've already been hurt for me, fought for me, died for me…don't you think I would want the same?"

"That's the thing, Sherlock. I came back. I don't think you get a second chance."

"I'm willing to take that risk."

John laughs, hollow and mirthless. "Of course you are. But what if I'm not?"

Sherlock almost says what he's thinking: too bad. But he doesn't, for once listening to his own better judgment. He hesitates, searching for the words that will make John believe him, and he knows that he can't plan the right words any more than he can convince John that the way he feels is real and genuine. If John could die, then there is no world left that Sherlock wants to be in. He must know this; he has to.

"You told me that there will never be a day when you don't want me at your side. You know that I feel the same way—you must know how I…that I love you."

Oh, how he wishes he told him in any other setting other than this one, half-dressed and dangerous. He takes his hand from the door, certain now that John won't run.

"Since I love you," he continues, licking his lips, "you are in a truly unique position to know that someone like me isn't going to let you go so easily. I brought you back, John. You have to know that there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, for us. I'm not going to feel like this ever again, about anyone else. You're it. You know that. Only an idiot would think I wouldn't follow wherever you went."

He steps forward, his chest almost touching John's, who's looking up at him with some unfathomable expression, wide-eyed and endless, too deep for him to peer into and know with certainty what it was; very well, he'll take a guess: love.

"Let me go with you." He says softly, touching the side of John's face; John shuts his eyes. "I can help you...we're better together than apart, as I'm sure you've realized."

"Sherlock," John starts, leaning into his palm, "even if you did, even if I said yes, you have no way of fighting whatever might be waiting for you."

"That's rather pot meets kettle, don't you think?" He says lowly. "If we're meeting on mortal grounds, John, I'd say you haven't a leg to stand on."

"So we're just two humans going against an immortal, supernatural evil, then?"

"That's the idea."

"Brilliant." John deadpans, and Sherlock can see him losing faith in the future second by second.

"But," he adds, "with a good plan in place, who's to say we don't have just as good a chance as he does?"

John laughs at that, at the absurdity of their lives now, laughs at the sheer craziness of the man before him. Sherlock smiles, not letting his hand leave John's face, even as it fades.

"I'm here for you now, John. Say yes. Take me with you."

John looks at him. They both know he'd rather any other alternative, but this is the hand they've been dealt, and he knows now that whatever involves him will just as surely involve Sherlock Holmes.

"You're sure?"

He nods, leaning down to kiss him for a long moment, sweet and perfect. "I'm sure."

John kisses him back, something sharper, harder, lining his affections. Something hopeful and terrified.

"Come on, then. Let's end this."