The thing that most people failed to realize about Sherlock Holmes was that above all, he was an artist.

Scientist, yes. Consulting detective—preferred title. Brother—unfortunately. Englishman, technically.

Fugitive, for the time being.

But people assumed that he was what his occupation was, with the heart of a scientist to match his brilliant brain.

Absurd, of course. One had only to look into his old flat to see that. Scientists at heart lived by organization. Scientists kept things clean and neat, and Sherlock secretly thrived in chaos, at least at home. He was the man who kept body parts in places they shouldn't be, after all.

No—Sherlock had a scientific mind, but an artistic heart. It was obvious—why couldn't people seethat? He craved creativity, he lived in near-squalor and disorganization. He wanted crimes to be a work of art. He played the violin to think.

Artistry. Sherlock craved artistry. That's what made being a detective so perfect. So few people realized that there was no real divide between logic and beauty, because logic, mathematics, physics, motives—they were all gorgeous.

Ordinary patterns. Boring. Dependable. Lovely.

That's what made Prague so perfect.

Sherlock loved London, with its urban sprawl and busy clamor, because it was so big, so buzzing with organized chaos.

London—not an option. Give Mycroft time.

Prague—better option. It would do. Besides, Sherlock had always liked Prague. It was almost its own hidden world which operated seamlessly in a Gothic sort of way. The colors, the shapes were different here.

Cobblestones. Dolls in shop windows. Street performers caked with make-up, playing outdated instruments. Hidden, twisted alleys. Streetlamps and shadows.

Fascinating.

"You can't come back to England. Not even for him."

"That won't be a problem. He's refused to see me."

"Can you expect anything more out of him? He's just a man, Sherlock."

"Wrong—he is much more. Where are you relocating me?"

"Paris. Your French is up to par, I assume?"

Sherlock didn't like Paris. He'd leave the day after he arrived.

"I assume you'll try and fly the coop after you arrive—just keep in touch. And no more sleuthing. You can't draw attention to your identity."

"I understand, Mycroft."

Mycroft was stupid. Helpful, but stupid. What was Sherlock meant to do if he couldn't solve anything?

Sherlock tried, in earnest, for his own safety. He spent days at a time learning the intricacies of Prague and desperately seeking something artistic to revel in. Anything to take his mind off where he was and why he was exiled there.

There were small things to pass the time. The astronomical clock, for instance, built in 1490. Legend said that various occult mysteries were encoded in the symbols of the clock.

Tedious. Sherlock deciphered the code in days. Dull.

The same clock, every hour, released wooden saints from the trapdoors and played a little puppet story about morality. Very fitting.

Gargoyles and gods stared down from Staré Mêsto. Tombstones piled high in Starý Židovský hřbitov. A mess of styles and eras in Prague Castle. Plenty to observe. Sherlock loved it at first, because there was so much to calculate and take in. The physics behind a flying buttress or Gothic spire.

It took about two days for Sherlock to get distracted. Distraction—nasty. Painful. He didn't like to think—

Not about him.

No.

If Sherlock spent months, years, waiting for him to come and forgive him, he would definitely waste away. And John wouldn't want him to waste away.

John.

How, how, how had he been so utterly foolish? How had he been compromised so quickly by another human being?

He wanted…

He wanted to go back. He wanted to change things. He'd made too many errors, hurt too many people. He should have cut his losses, shot Moriarty as soon as they were alone, consequence be damned. He'd be dead, but John wouldn't hate him so much. It's hard to hate a dead man. Sentiment gets in the way.

He wanted him back.

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't avoid thinking about John. Surrounded by beauty, by quirk and style, Sherlock could only think of how gorgeous, gorgeous, John was.

Gorgeous because Sherlock didn't think it possible for someone who seemed so maddeningly ordinary to be so surprising. John was both constant and unpredictable. John could be depended on—tea, jumpers, griping about fungi samples in the microwave. John was always changing—soldier, doctor, partner, flatmate, detective.

John would smile at Sherlock when he said something clever. John didn't even know how blindingly perfect he was, didn't understand how Sherlock could never let that perfection die. Putting John in danger was never an option.

He wanted John back. He knew he didn't deserve it, didn't deserve him. He'd gone too far.

He still couldn't help himself.

"Prague, dear brother? I'll admit I'm surprised…"

"Has he said anything to you?"

"No."

"What's he been doing?"

"Sherlock, I am NOT going to be your liaison. Be patient."

"Mycroft, please."

"…He went out for drinks with Lestrade last night. Came back stumbling drunk, fell up the stairs. The cane got in the way. Fell asleep in your chair."

"He should be more careful."

"Mmm. He can take care of himself."

Sherlock, of course, could not be expected to stop his business as a consulting detective. He had to have something to devote his mind to, or else it would wander somewhere bad, somewhere irreversible. But he needed security if he was going to go about it.

There was a pub he liked—it reminded him of his skull back home. It was dark, made of stone, and underground, with lamps and moth-eaten velvet booths. Coffins functioned as tables. He loved it.

There were dimly lit booths in the back, usually reserved for amorous couples. Sherlock paid the owner of the pub to keep one booth, cramped and hidden in back, with the light off.

He'd used the excellent homeless network here to spread rumors underground about a man who was willing to solve crimes, under the table, no questions asked.

People started to come in trickles. He solved most cases from the table, but sometimes he'd go out into the city and solve it from there. He made sure the clients never saw his face.

It was distraction. He needed distraction. Needed artistry. Needed John.

"Th-They said you could help me," the woman said in nervous Czech. "I've already gone to the police, and since it's only been 24 hours, all they can do is file a missing person's report…"

"You have reason to believe that he is in real danger?"

"He…we have a lot of debts, sir. He had people that he owed. Debts I can't tell the police about."

"Ahh." He leaned back, further into obscurity, and pressed his hands to his lips. "You think his creditors killed him to settle the score."

"I—I would not put it past them, sir."

The darkness was thick—he could only tell she was shaking from the small tremors through the table. "Stop worrying. It will get you nowhere."

"I'm—I'm sorry?"

"He isn't dead, ma'am. If he were, you would have received a warning that you were next. No, they want ransom, or labor, if you can't pay for his return."

"I—what am I to do?"

"When was he taken?"

"Last night. He went to throw out the trash…"

"Who exactly do you owe?"

"The Skullcatchers."

Sherlock smiled. A Czech gang, sometimes associated with the Golem. "They keep headquarters by the Vltava River. They keep hostages in the River Bank Hostel during the winter months. I'd start there, go to the police, get them to send a small troop to the hostel. Your husband will be fine."

"Th-thank you, sir, thank you."

"Nothing of it. You can see yourself out. Come back tomorrow if there are any problems, or if I was wrong. But I'm rarely wrong."

She left, whispering profuse thanks, and Sherlock waved her off. "Next, please."

He should have been paying attention.

Metal against the floor.

Thumping, uneven—indicating a limp.

Smell of a leather jacket, familiar.

"Hi," the voice said, English. Sherlock tensed. "I'm here to get help in a missing person's case. I heard you were the man to go to."

Sherlock breathed in, once. Exhaled. Tried to stop his hands from shaking. "Yes."

"Brilliant. I lost someone a few months ago. Need to find him, but the police can't know I'm looking for him."

"Did he give you any indication of where he was going?"

"No. But I got a tip from his brother that he'd be in the city."

Sherlock smiled, shaking still. Thank goodness he was shielded. "But you don't know where specifically."

"I heard whispers when I got here. They all pointed to you… I mean, they told me you were the man for it."

"I am." Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and leaned forward. "Who is this man?"

"A friend. My best friend, and I really want him back."

"Ah. Why did he leave?"

"Because he was a complete bastard."

"Then why do you want him back?"

"Because I want some more data," John said, "to test out my hypothesis."

"What's the hypothesis?"

"You can be totally, horridly in love with someone, but not trust them."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I think 'horridly' is a bit insulting. To me."

"Who said I'm talking about you, Holmes?"

"John," he whispered, desperate, feeling his heart bubble and break. Sentiment. Weakness. John. He reached across the table for John's hand, and to his surprise, John didn't pull away.

Instead, he traced patterns on Sherlock's wrist and long fingers, and Sherlock shivered with the power of proximity.

He cleared his throat. "Mycroft told you."

"He owes me big-time."

"And you're here…for me."

"Figured you'd be a lonely sod, moaning all the time about how tedious life is without me."

"It is."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Sherlock nodded, cursing the darkness now. It kept John's features out of sight. He began to move his hand slowly, rotating his wrist as John continued his reassuring patterns. "Why are you here, John?"

"I missed you. I…needed…."

"I know. Me, too."

"Hell, I wish I could see you. Dodgy place you picked, mate."

"You haven't forgiven me so quickly."

"No," John said uncertainly. "No… I'm working on it. I thought we could work on it, together."

"Possible. Entirely possible." Sherlock swallowed. "You said you love me."

"Yes. I do. And you love me back, you berk. I knew you were going to wallow…"

"I wasn't wallowing!" Sherlock hissed, but that only made John giggle.

"Right. Well, I already spoke with Mycroft—he wanted to fake my death, so I couldn't be tracked here, but that would only hurt our friends back home, losing both of us. So he faked some military paperwork, clearing me to work at a military base as a medical consult."

Sherlock frowned. "They think you went back to the army?"

"I wrote letters…told them this was what I needed to do to clear my head." John's grip tightened on Sherlock's wrist. "I can always go back, if you don't want me here."

"I do. Don't be absurd. I simply assumed you wouldn't want to see me again."

"Don't be a git. You remember how much I wanted you to stay with me in the hospital."

"You were full of painkillers," Sherlock pointed out, "and you were a bit…overstimulated."

John snorted. "Wouldn't mind being a little more overstimulated, if you know what I mean."

"John, there is a time and place for sex jokes. This isn't one of them," Sherlock said. "Are you really sure you want to do this? Give up your life back in London, be on the run with a fugitive that you love but still cannot trust?"

"You're going to earn that trust, Sherlock," John replied. "I think you can manage that. It might take a while, but I'm sure you'll get creative with ways to make it up to me. And in case you were wondering, that is meant to be sexual."

Sherlock resisted the urge to growl. "You want this?"

"I want you. I don't have anything else in my life, outside of you. Probably pretty bloody unhealthy, but it's what I want. I'm willing to take the best of what you can give me with all our baggage, Sherlock." John leaned in. "Let's make a deal. I won't bring up anything—anything—that happened over the past few months, but you aren't allowed to either. No wallowing in guilt, whatsoever."

"Are we to just forget everything that happened?"

"Not forget. Move on. I can't live like this…thinking about what you did and why you did it. It's been driving me mad, and it hurts too much." John lowered his voice. "It took us a while, but it's you I want. I can't have you if I keep thinking about how much you've hurt me, but I can't live without you. I know that now. So we take it one step at a time."

"Everything I did," Sherlock reminded him, a bit brokenly, "was because I love you."

"I know that. Let it go, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock didn't know how he could ever do that. If John stayed, miraculously, and never got fed up with the memory of what happened lingering over them, he could not be counted upon to forget. Everyday, he'd see John limping, aching, and he'd remember.

John squeezed his hand. "You love me."

"Obvious."

"Say it again?"

"I dislike repetition."

"I don't fucking care. Again."

Sherlock didn't know how to argue, so he just leaned over the table, clasping John's hands, and pressed his cheek against John's.

Pulse elevated. Like a rabbit's. Breathing quickly, shallowly.

"I love you," Sherlock said, "if that's ever going to be enough."

"It is, for now," John said softly, and he tilted his head to kiss Sherlock. Before he eliminated the negative space between them, he whispered, "Let go."

It might take years, Sherlock reasoned as they kissed in the dark, but he imagined, with this kind of encouragement, that he could learn how.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope you've enjoyed this journey as much as I have. Please leave reviews and comments and lovely wishes. Happy Christmas!