Archive of Our Own

“They’re doing another series of ‘Escape to the Country.’”

Sherlock’s head came up from where it had been bent over his microscope. He peered across the table at John, whose face was obscured by the newspaper. Sherlock watched for a moment as a hand appeared around the edge of the paper to snatch a piece of toast then disappeared once more.

He waited patiently. Generally, information like this was intended as conversation—John didn’t always expect a response, but sometimes he appreciated it. It was usually best, though, to see if he had anything more to add.

“They’ll do three houses, like before, with one of them being the mystery house.”

Sherlock waited a little longer before asking, “Is that…good?”

The paper rustled and the corner folded down. John’s face appeared, still somewhat softened by sleep, and he grinned at Sherlock. “Nothing on ‘Escape to the Country?’”

“No. Have I watched it?”

“Once or twice. Last new series was a while ago, though.”

“Oh.” Sherlock scanned his memory for any traces, but it was quickly obvious he’d either deleted the programme or not paid any attention when watching it in the first place. “What’s the premise?”

“They take people who want to move out to the country and show them a few homes in and around the area they are interested in. They show what the place is like, how house prices are, what sorts of homes are available. That sort of thing.”

“I see,” Sherlock said softly.

He resisted the urge to look back down at his blood samples and instead maintained eye contact with John. He looked into John’s stormy dark blue-grey eyes and was once again astounded that this confident, clever, competent man had chosen to be his friend. HIM—Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, he’d gotten used to being alone and to parroting Mycroft’s mantra that caring was “not an advantage.” But then this doctor-soldier had marched into his life, and everything had changed. He had changed. John had changed him, and it was good. Somehow, he had managed to find his soulmate and, as luck would have it, his soulmate was Dr. John (Hamish) Watson.

That John didn’t seem to realize how firmly he held Sherlock’s heart in his hands, well, that was simply the way it was. Sherlock thought John probably suspected by now, but Sherlock was convinced that even if John had been hitting on him that first night (which, of course, he wasn’t), the opportunity had passed. Now, with everything they’d gone through with Mary…

No. Things were fine as they were. Better this than nothing at all.

“You enjoy it, though? This series?” Sherlock asked, watching as John took a sip of tea and swiped at crumbs on his chin. John hadn’t shaved yet, so there was a hint of stubble there. It had silver in it now, too, just like the hair on John’s head.

“Yeah, I do,” John replied cheerfully. “I like seeing the options in all the places. You know—get an idea of what it might be like to live somewhere green. Maybe with a view of the sea.”

“That’s something that appeals to you. Living in the country.”

John shrugged, popping the last of his toast in his mouth. “Maybe someday,” he said finally. “I don’t know. What about you?”

“Never considered the idea, really.” Sherlock stretched and straightened his dressing gown. “I don’t know that I could be happy living anywhere but London.”

“Hmmm.”

Sherlock returned his attention to his samples, though he was well aware John was still watching him. He tried not to fidget under the scrutiny. Likely John was wondering if he’d eaten anything healthy since yesterday. He’d been informed that Mrs. Hudson’s Bakewell tarts didn’t count as a food group.

At length, though, John pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “I’ll have my shower then. Do you need the loo before…”

“No. I’m fine.”

John hesitated before finally turning and leaving the room. Sherlock watched him go, rubbing absent-mindedly at the suddenly achy space under his sternum.

Three weeks later

John was bouncing on his heels as they waited on the train platform at Victoria Station. He was wearing Sherlock’s favourite khaki green jacket. John hadn’t worn it in some time—not since Baskerville, Sherlock thought ruefully. It suited him well, though, and made for a sharp-casual travelling look when paired with dark denims and plaid shirt.

“You’re chipper this morning,” Sherlock grumbled, sipping his very hot coffee.

“Yeah, well, this is exciting. Don’t you think?”

“It’s a case. Missing person who no one is missing. Well, almost no one. Murder, probably. No body. Police not interested.” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s a 7 so far.”

“But come on—we get to be on telly!”

“We’ve been on television before.”

“Crimewatch, Newsnight and that stupid gossip program don’t count,” John sighed. “This is different. “This is ‘Escape to the Country,’ Sherlock! Remember? We were talking about it—”

“Of course I remember a conversation we had three weeks ago,” Sherlock huffed. “I just don’t see why you’re so giddy. It’s fake. We’re just pretending.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t know that. Think about the houses we’ll get to see.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John started to smirk. “All right, then, think of all the fun you’re going to have deducing the people that live in those houses, even if they have nothing at all to do with our case.”

Sherlock considered that and found himself somewhat mollified. “I suppose. But isn’t it going to bother you?”

“What?”

“Pretending to be a couple?”

John’s lips pursed and he looked down and away. “No. It’s for a case, like you said. The only way to get on the programme, which is the only way to get access to the suspect’s house.” John’s head came up again. “Unless you’d rather do this with Molly or somebody?”

“What? No!” Sherlock said swiftly. “Why would I—unless you’d rather I did this with Molly or…somebody?”

“No. No!” John shook his head vigorously. “I just wanted to—you know—in case you were…uncomfortable.”

“Why would I be uncomfortable?” Sherlock asked, trying not to sound offended.

“No reason at all,” John sighed again. “Look, it’s fine, yeah? We’re both fine. It’s all…fine.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

John turned away to stare off down the tracks in the direction their train would soon be pulling in. Sherlock stared at the back of John’s head.

The train trip was silent. John dozed against the window while Sherlock continued to fret over their awkward exchange at the station. Perhaps using John’s interest in the show hadn’t been such a good idea. If he tried, he could probably still have Mycroft find a way to get the suspect away from the house long enough for a quick break in. He’d just thought…

Well, obviously he’d thought it would make John happy. They’d be working a case and doing something that John liked at the same time. He liked seeing John happy. He liked making John happy. It felt…nice.

“Mmmmmm.”

Sherlock glanced over at John who was waking. “Oh, hello. Nice of you to join me.”

John smirked, stretching. “Shut up. Prat. Be nice to me—one day you’ll find out what it feels like to get old.”

Sherlock snorted. “You’re not old.”

“I’m older than you are.”

“Barely.”

“Enough,” John insisted, chuckling. “It counts. Where are we?”

“Only a few minutes out of Eastbourne.”

“Right. Guess I’d better…”

“Yes, you had,” Sherlock agreed.

By the time John returned from the lavatory, the train was gliding to a stop at the platform. John collected their bag and followed Sherlock off the train. As they exited the platform and made their way across the concourse, a young woman began waving at them. She was holding a sign with “Holmes and Watson” written in large block letters.

“Oh my word, it’s really you,” the young woman gushed as they approached. She was short and on the plump side, with a pleasant face and curly red hair.

Sherlock instantly identified her three—no—four-year relationship with her girlfriend (and three cats), passion for photography and classical music, and volunteer work with an HIV/AIDS support charity (that was a cheat, really, as the badge was still pinned to her jacket) and decided she was probably harmless.

“It’s really us,” John agreed jovially.

“I’m Francine,” she replied, sticking out a hand. “Hullo!” She shook first John’s hand and then Sherlock’s. “This is such a—well, it’s probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to me on this job.”

“Right, so you’re to take us on to the hotel?” Sherlock asked.

“Exactly. Yes,” Francine chuckled. She turned and began leading them out of the station toward the car park. “Sorry. Bit star-struck. Isn’t every day you meet a world-famous detective duo!”

“Well, I don’t know about world-famous—” Sherlock started.

“And finding out that you are partners in life as well! That was just…wow.” She shook her head. “We do get the odd same-sex couple now and again, but to have such a famous pair on our program is just so exciting.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a look, though Sherlock was quick to look away.

John cleared his throat. “So, uhm, when do we get started with everything?”

Francine led them to a silver Land Rover and unlocked the doors. “You’ll meet with the producer and the presenter first thing in the morning. We’ve got Michael back again!”

“Michael Bennet!”

Sherlock was taken aback by the genuine excitement in John’s voice. And the delight on his face.

“You’re a fan?” Francine asked.

John grinned as he threw their bag into the back. “Well, I enjoy him. He has a wonderful voice.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed now. Was John being facetious?

“Oh, he’s fantastic,” Francine agreed. “We’re lucky to have him back with us.”

Sherlock tried hard not to say something derisive as he climbed into the back seat beside John. This Michael, whoever he was, would bear watching.

Francine climbed into the driver’s seat and settled in. As they pulled away, she glanced at them in the rear-view mirror. “We’ve got you in a lovely hotel here in town,” she chirped. “Great views. And your meals are included, of course. Tomorrow will be a big day. You’ll see two properties and do some additional filming. The day after, you’ll film the mystery house and the final interview with Michael.”

“Sounds fine,” John replied.

“So what drew you to Sussex?” Francine asked.

“Uhmmm…” John began, looking to Sherlock.

“Old friend of ours has a cottage nearby,” Sherlock cut in smoothly. “Pretty place.  Really inspired us to invest in a property down here. It was time to start thinking about life in a quieter place.”

“Aww, that’s lovely,” Francine sighed. “Will you still work, though? For the police?”

“Yes, yes of course,” John assured her. “Sherlock’s work is far too important to give it up.”

John glanced at Sherlock and smiled at him fondly. Sherlock had to work quickly to prevent a look of shock. They were in character, of course. John was merely helping to paint the picture of a deeply intimate relationship.

“I’m so glad,” Francine said. “So many baddies put away on account of your work, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, I—” Sherlock started.

“But then,” Francine continued with a broad grin. “I don’t imagine you’d have got far without Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock glanced at his lap, clearing his throat, before hazarding a look back in John’s direction. John was still smiling at him. He’d seen the look before. It was the same unaccountably soft expression John had given him after the CIA attacked Mrs. Hudson. He loved this look. Loved it on John’s handsome face. Loved that it was directed at him, even if it was only pretend.

“No,” Sherlock said softly, eyes still locked with John’s. “I would be absolutely nothing without John.”

He took John’s hand—for effect, he told himself, to further the charade. John let him, and even squeezed his fingers in return. Sherlock rested their joined hands on his thigh. He waited for John to say something, but John just gave him a small nod and turned back to stare out of the window.

The rest of the drive was peppered with Francine’s questions about the forms they’d filled out and their “costuming.” Sherlock insisted he would wear his coat both days. Francine attempted to make a case for some variety. John snickered at both of them during the exchange.

“Here we are!” Francine called at last.

John disentangled their fingers and hurried to get out of the car. Sherlock lagged behind, watching his best friend (his heart) following Francine into the restored Victorian hotel building without a backwards glance.

“Yes,” Sherlock grumbled, as he retrieved their bag from the back of the Rover. “Here we are.”

Later that evening

Their sea-view room was a relatively pleasant affair, with soothing colours, comfortable furniture and a good-sized bath. John was sitting against the headboard with his legs stretched out on the left side of the large, four-poster bed, flipping through telly channels. He was nibbling on some of the complimentary biscuits the production company had left in a basket for them, along with some pleasant-smelling tea.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had unpacked and was ensconced on his laptop. He had most of the details of the case clear, he thought.

“Sure you don’t want some?”

“Hmmm?”

“Tea,” John said. “Do you want some?”

“No. Busy.”

“So is that our case?”

“Yes. Most of it.”

“Walk me through it, then,” John said gently, pulling his legs up to cross them. “What are we looking for tomorrow?”

“Melville Heatherton disappeared two and a half weeks ago. He was a well-known, well-liked member of the community of Pevensey Bay.”

“And no one has any idea where he is?”

“Rumours abound: he’s gone on extended holiday; he’s emigrated; he’s come into an inheritance and decided to move to the family home in the north...” Sherlock trailed off and studied his monitor. “A letter was delivered to a local estate agent—supposedly signed by Heatherton—engaging them to manage the care of Heatherton’s seaside house and property for a period of two years while he was ‘away from home to deal with a number of business matters.’ Police concluded there was no evidence of foul play.”

“But they’re wrong, of course,” John said with a half-smile.

“Of course,” Sherlock confirmed. “Heatherton’s only employee was not convinced.”

“Oh, right. That was Phyllis.”

“Phyllis Gamble, which is a terribly ironic moniker for a timid 60-year-old woman who’s lived and worked in the same small village for more than 30 years.”

“And she said there were no plans to emigrate, move or travel. She got the email—”

“Also supposedly from her employer,” Sherlock interjected.

“Right. And in it, Heatherton offered her a generous stipend for the period while he was ‘from home,’ as well as a reference in case she wanted to find other employment,” John finished. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there, facing the small desk where Sherlock was working. “She was absolutely sure the email was not written by Heatherton, and she was suspicious about the source of the money that appeared in her bank account.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock confirmed. He stood and paced to the bay window directly across from the end of the bed. “But she shared this with the police, who had the letter from the estate agent. They allowed her to see it, and she had to admit that it was her employer’s signature.”

“That satisfied the police.”

“Of course it did,” Sherlock said snidely. “It put an end to their investigation, particularly because no one else had reported him missing and the house showed no sign of forced entry or any kind of struggle.”

John rose and padded to where Sherlock was standing. “So what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that Heatherton was engaged in a long-standing dispute with his neighbor to the east—a Mr. Rufus Gutteridge.”

“The novelist?”

“The same,” Sherlock affirmed. “You’ve read his work?”

“Just one.” John made a face and shook his head. “And what was the disagreement about?”

“Gutteridge is not very popular, at least according to Mrs. Gamble. He’s lived in the area all his life, but while Heatherton—a relative newcomer—sat on committees and the parish council, always won the gardening trophy, and had his poems as the centerpiece of a local literature festival—for which he also served as a judge—Gutteridge couldn’t get a sniff.”

“So, jealousy?” John asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. He turned to look out over the view.

“Possibly.”

Through the window Sherlock watched people walking along the seaside across the street from their hotel. Couples. So many couples…

“Heatherton was a poet?”

“Yes.”

“Any good?”

“Not bad, all things considered,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “A bit sentimental for my taste.”

“Oh?”

“Love, longing, heartbreak,” Sherlock said, suddenly feeling very awkward. “Not exactly—”

“Your area. I know.”

Sherlock could not help his pained expression, or closing his eyes against the knowledge that John would never know just how much Sherlock’s area those very things had become. Fortunately, John was nodding at the carpet.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to focus. “The, uh, the local librarian was happy to share some of his unpublished works, too. Not at all bad, though he has never garnered much national attention.”

“Oh. Well then what did he live on?”

“He owned a fair bit of property in the area. Most of his income was in rents.”

“Right.”

“There’s something that isn’t quite adding up, though.”

“Well, we’ll see the Gutteridge place tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled. “And that begs the question: Why exactly is he selling up?”

“Dunno. When you saw the place was listed and cooked up this scheme, I did make sure to include specific details in our programme application that would ensure we’d get his place on our list. Unfortunately, the producers haven’t said anything about the sellers of the places we’re to look at.”

“Inconvenient.”

“The production crew may have more information tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock sighed. He peeked at John out of the corner of his eye. “For now, I feel like supper. You?”

“Starving.” John padded back to the side of the bed where he’d left his shoes. He balanced himself with one of the bed’s posts as he tugged his shoes on. “Apparently, they have an amazing seafood buffet downstairs.”

Sherlock glanced at the bed, his brow furrowed.

“What is it?” John asked.

“I know we couldn’t ask for two beds, but…”

John looked behind him. “It’ll be fine. It’s a big bed. Lots of room for both of us.”

“Okay.”

“Come on,” John chuckled. “Let’s worry about this later. I could murder some mussels.”

The next morning

“Why is there so much standing around?” Sherlock hissed between his teeth.

“Calm down,” John whispered, a smile plastered on his face for the benefit of the camera crew milling around them. “This is just how television works. A lot of hurry up and wait.”

“Bored.”

“I know. Just…hang on. We’ll start soon.”

Sherlock sagged back into the park bench they’d been directed to when Francine dropped them off at the local nature area. The producer had introduced herself and provided some preliminary information. Now they were waiting for the presenter to arrive to get started with the first interview.

Sherlock was irritable from lack of sleep. Despite John’s insistence that the bed was big enough for the both of them, Sherlock hadn’t slept a wink. He’d laid on his back, unmoving, terrified to get too near the spot on the left where John was sleeping, for fear…well, it was simply too risky. Frankly, he was disgusted with himself for failing to consider this particular problem when he came up with the ‘Escape to the Country’ idea in the first place.

John dropped a heavy hand onto Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock hadn’t even realized he’d been bouncing it. He tried not to think about John’s lovely, nimble fingers digging into his thigh.

“Sit. Still.”

“Sorry.”

There was a commotion near the car park, and suddenly another great crowd of people shifted back in their direction. Sherlock spotted the producer chatting with someone as they walked—he was tall with darkish hair and a conventionally handsome face.

“Oh, hey, that’s him!” John exclaimed. “That’s Michael Bennet.”

“The presenter? About bloody time.”

“Sherlock,” John chastised gently. “Look, he’s been on loads of programmes. Really lovely manner. Great voice. He’s fun to watch. You’ll like him.”

Sherlock watched the man in question approaching them with a critical eye. “Funny, but I always thought your tastes ran in quite a different direction.”

“My…tastes? No, Sherlock,” John started shaking his head. “No, I don’t fancy him. I’ve just…always appreciated his work.”

“Liar,” Sherlock whispered, leaning in to breathe this last into John’s ear. With that, he released his grip on the hand John had left on his knee—he slid his fingers away from the underside of John’s wrist, where he’d been taking John’s pulse.

He stood abruptly as the producer and Michael arrived. Introductions were made, and Sherlock found he had to pull a slightly slow-witted John to his feet and prompt him as things got underway. By the time the interview began, John had recovered somewhat. Yet Sherlock caught John staring at him once or twice, looking at him as though seeing him for the very first time.

The rest of the morning passed in painfully boring and predictable fashion. The interview was tedious and they’d had to redo a couple of answers. Apparently he’d been a bit “unapproachable.” The first house they were taken to see was nice, but relatively forgettable: a converted Victorian coach house with a huge loft (that could be used as a laboratory), a modern kitchen, four bedrooms, a library and a small garden with a distant view of the sea.

Sherlock marched through the rooms with the cameras in tow, offering random responses (“Hugely.” “Charming.” “Fine.” “I suppose.”) to John’s questions and exclamations. Instead, Sherlock occupied himself—as John had predicted—with deducing the family that lived in the home. Though even that had hardly been worth his time.

A former city boy moved to the seaside with his wife of at least ten years and one child. City Boy was having an affair with his secretary (boring) and his wife had taken up dancing and prescription drugs. The child was eight or nine and clearly bright, but suffering from bullying at school. She wouldn’t last much longer by the look of things. Sherlock was considering saying something to someone when John tugged him into the small pantry to tell him Michael had just confided the family was moving because their daughter needed a fresh start. All would be well.

By the time they reached Pevensey Bay, Sherlock was nearly vibrating with the need to get on with his case. He couldn’t bear to look at Pretty Michael any longer, or to watch him dancing attention on John. Nor could he stand the strain of feigning a relationship that did not exist…but that he wished with every fibre of his being DID exist.

“Hey, you okay?” John asked.

They were together in the back of Francine’s Rover. She was busy trying to follow the satellite navigation system’s instructions to the second house—Gutteridge’s place.

“Yes. Fine.”

“Sure?”

“Why do you like him?”

“Who, Michael?”

“Obviously.”

John shrugged. “I don’t, really. I mean, I don’t know him, do I? He’s just someone off the telly, and he happens to be a decent presenter.”

“Could have fooled me,” Sherlock muttered glumly.

“What’s that?”

“At last!” Francine cried, easing the Rover into a parking place. “I was beginning to think I’d really got us lost. Sorry about that.” She turned to face them over the seat. “You two can go ahead in—they should be set up for you. I’ll be waiting when you’re finished, to take you back to the hotel.”

“Thanks, Francine,” John replied cheerfully.

“Absolutely not a problem. This has been a real treat for me.”

Sherlock slid out of the back seat, with John right behind him.

“And good luck!” Francine called after them.

They walked in silence through an old wooden archway in the ten-foot hedge separating the property from the lane. Inside the small back garden, the crew had set up a tent with sound and other equipment.

The house itself, built to face the sea rather than the lane, was an Edwardian masterpiece, with red brick on the main floor and Tudor-style white stucco and dark timbers above. The windows were large, mullioned affairs surrounded by dark shutters.

“I can see why he was jealous of Heatherton’s gardening trophies,” John whispered as they made their way through overgrown bushes and dead plants.

“Clearly Mr. Gutteridge has given up on the idea,” Sherlock replied quietly.

“Ah, there you are,” a voice called as they neared the house. Michael appeared from down the side of the house and waved them on. “We’ll start out front, with the view.”

“Right. Sounds good,” John agreed.

“What did you really think of the first place, John?” Michael asked sociably, keeping pace with John while Sherlock fell in behind them.

“I liked it. Not really our taste, as I said, but it was really well done. Don’t you think Sherlock?”

John and Michael glanced over their shoulders at him, but he merely shrugged. He was sure he was scowling, but he didn’t care. He wanted to prove Gutteridge was a murderer and take John home, miles away from Michael bloody Bennet.

Soon enough, with the intro filmed outside, Michael was leading them through the main floor rooms of the house. Sherlock tried to pay attention to the discussion—and to where the cameras were—and make the appropriate noises at the appropriate times. He followed John through a cozy sitting room, a full formal dining room, library and period kitchen before Michael took them back to the front foyer.

“Now I realize that this one is in need of modernizing, and the garden could use quite a bit of care, but what do you think so far?”

John glanced at the camera quickly before answering. “It certainly ticks several of the boxes, doesn’t it Sherlock?”

“Hmmm, yes. On the sea, main floor library, large kitchen, and a formal dining room for entertaining. I assume it also has a cellar?”

“It does, yes. I know that’s very important for you both. Why don’t you take some time and have a bit of wander on your own and then we’ll meet up again out front?”

“Great. Thanks,” John said swiftly. Once the cameras stopped, to allow Michael to make his exit, John turned to the producer nearby. “Would it be possible for us to have a look without the cameras, just for a moment or two?”

“Oh, I don’t think—” she began.

“Oh, go on, Myra,” Michael urged. “This is going to be a hugely popular episode. We can afford a few extra minutes.”

“Fine. Five minutes and then I’m sending the cameras back in.” She left through the front door with the two camera operators behind her. Michael moved to follow, but paused.

“Look, it’s none of my business, but are you two…all right?” He looked from Sherlock to John and back again. “It’s just—I know this is a big step and if you’re having any doubts, just remember that you don’t have to make an offer on any of the places.”

John looked sheepish, nodding. “Right, we…we’ll remember. Thanks.”

Michael nodded once more and left, closing the front door behind him.

“Come on,” Sherlock barked, grabbing John by the arm.

“What is it? What have you found?”

“Remember I said that Mrs. Gamble identified the signature on the estate agent’s letter as Heatherton’s?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock dragged John into the library, skidding to a halt beside the huge oak desk. He pointed at the old fashioned blotter. “What do you see?”

“Impressions of writing, left behind from when he’s signed or written on top of—hang on. Sherlock, this…” John traced a hand over the faint depressions in the blotter. “This is a signature. The same signature. Over and over. Jesus—it’s Heatherton’s signature. Gutteridge was practicing it!”

“Indeed. And in the garden, that spot where everything had been torn up? Traces of the Valerian plant, which is very useful as a natural sedative. Mrs. Gamble said Heatherton was a wine connoisseur, didn’t she? That he was the head of the local appreciation club?”

“Yes.”

“There are several books in Gutteridge’s library about wine and how to become a collector, and there are several tell-tale vintages in the kitchen wine rack.”

“But…what of it? How would he—would he have, I don’t know, lured Heatherton here somehow? With the promise of a special wine? Drugged him, maybe?”

“That’s what I think, yes. But the question is what has he done with the body? There are no traces of any significant digging in the yard. There’s no question of burying anything on the beach and Gutteridge doesn’t own a boat. What—”

“Oh, Sherlock, this is too bizarre.”

“What?”

John walked away from the desk and bolted for the foyer.

“John! Where are we going?”

“Poe, Sherlock!” He skidded out into the hall and began looking down the corridors for something.

“Poe? As in Edgar?”

“Here!” John shouted, finally spying a door tucked away under the main stairs. He threw the door wide and took the steps two at a time. “Yes, Poe. Edgar Allan. Remember the Cask of Amontillado?”

Sherlock followed, still searching his memory for… “OH! Oh, my god. He’s here. Somewhere in the cellar!”

John found a switch at the bottom of the stairs and lit up the dank cellar space. They split up, each searching for some sign of a hidden room or hole in the floor. It did not take long before Sherlock found a small section of wall that looked very much like it belonged where it was, but upon careful examination made one side of the house slightly shorter than the other.

“In his defense,” Sherlock said blandly, “he did have the sense to use old bricks so the new wall would blend in.”

“Jesus!” John said, sounding ill. “I can’t believe this sick fuck actually did it. He actually bricked someone into his cellar.”

“We need to get the wall down.”

“We need to call the police.”

“Hey!” A voice called from the top of the stairs, followed quickly by footsteps. “What are you two doing down there?”

More footsteps and suddenly the small space was lit up by the camera’s lights. The camera operator poked her head around the side and gave them a look.

“Not sure you guys should be down in this part of the house.”

Sherlock ignored her, still searching for the means to break down the wall. Finally, he spied an old sledgehammer resting forgotten in a corner. He retrieved it and took a swing at the wall.

“Hey—what the hell!!” The camera operator backed away, still filming. “Are you out of your mind? What are you doing?” She reached out a hand to try and grab Sherlock’s swinging arm, but John pulled her back and out of the way.

“You have to trust me,” he said firmly. “He knows what he’s doing. A crime has been committed and Sherlock’s just solved it.”

“We’ve just solved it!” Sherlock corrected.

“I’m going to call the police,” John continued evenly, taking his phone out and dialing 999. “But I promise you, he’s doing the right thing.”

Sherlock swung the hammer again and again, pounding on the bricks while John relayed the details to the police. Sherlock knew there was no rush, not really, but he needed to know they were right. As he took hit after hit, quickly making headway, he could hear noises coming from within.

“Oh my god,” the camera operator groaned, starting to back away. “Oh my god. What’s in there??”

“He—he’s still alive. John! He’s still alive!”

“Jesus!” John dropped his phone and leapt forward. He began pulling at the loosened bricks as Sherlock continued working on the weak spot he’d already made. They ignored the chaos as more of the television crew made their way into the cellar, and the shouting for them to stop.

By the time the police arrived, they had freed a very frail Melville Heatherton from the small space. Weak from lack of food, he was still able to convey that there was a leaking water pipe in the corner of the place he’d been imprisoned, and he’d managed just enough water to stay alive—hoping against hope that someone would come for him.

The cameras were still rolling, capturing every moment of the dramatic rescue, the arrival of the police and emergency medical personnel, and the reactions of the television cast and crew.

Michael made his way to where Sherlock and John were standing. “My god, that was amazing! I mean, we’ve all heard what you can do, but blimey!”

John’s chest puffed out as he slapped Sherlock on the back. “He’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“It was nothing,” Sherlock demurred.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Michael replied, shaking his head. “You’ve just saved that man’s life. And I understand the police already have Mr. Gutteridge in custody. That’s not nothing.” He turned to John with a smile. “It must be wonderful to work with someone like Sherlock every day.”

“It is,” John affirmed. “Absolutely.”

“But this wasn’t just me,” Sherlock interrupted sharply. “John was the one who put the clues together. He recognized the significance of what we found!”

“Well, I…”

“John is absolutely amazing!” Sherlock insisted loudly. “And that is precisely why I am in love with him!”

He froze, instantly aware of John’s stillness beside him. Michael was unfazed, of course, as were the rest of the crew. As far as they knew, Sherlock and John were already a couple. They wouldn’t recognize the significance of the confession Sherlock had just made—they wouldn’t recognize the horror or dismay on John’s face, or what that meant.

Sherlock looked down into his friend’s face, heartsick.

“Sherlock…” John began gently.

Sherlock bolted, dashing up the stairs, out into the back garden and the heavy rain that was now falling, and made for the lane. He kept running until he reached the main road and took out his phone to call a cab.

Thirty minutes later

Sherlock stormed into their hotel room and slammed the door behind him, not caring that he was dripping all over the carpet. He was still breathing too hard and his heart rate was too fast. It was a disaster.

Yes, Gutteridge would go to prison and Heatherton would—miraculously—recover. But John…

John knew, and nothing would ever be the same. John would leave. He would leave forever and then…what?

Sherlock spun in circles, trying to gather his thoughts without success. How could he go back to life without John? How could he live alone now that he’d realized he had a counterpart—a mate, in every sense of the word? How could he possibly—

“Sherlock.”

He turned at the sound of John’s voice. He hadn’t even heard him come in. John was standing just inside the closed door, still wearing his jacket. He was soaked through from the rain.

John strode toward him, never taking his eyes from Sherlock’s face.

“It…I…just forget…”

John stopped right in front of him, their toes nearly touching. Sherlock stared down into the much-loved face of John Watson, heart aching.

“Is that what you really want?” John asked, his voice low and full of emotion.

Breath caught in Sherlock’s chest. “W-what?”

“Do you really want me to forget that you told me you loved me? In front of Michael Bennet and the entire film crew?”

“You don’t have to go,” Sherlock rushed out. “From 221B. You can stay. I won’t ask—I won’t…”

Sherlock’s words died in the air as John placed his right hand in the centre of Sherlock’s chest.

“When you deduced that I was attracted to Michael, I wasn’t surprised or embarrassed,” John said softly. “Because you got it wrong.”

“What?”

“You were wrong, Sherlock. Just like the sugar. Good thinking, but...it occurred to me right then that we’ve never talked about it. That I’m bisexual. And if we’d never actually talked about it—really talked about it—and if you had somehow written off my clumsy attempt at seduction that first night after we met, then you might not actually know…might not actually realize…”

“John.”

John gazed up at him with smiling soft eyes. “Oh, Christ, Sherlock. How can you possibly not know how much I love you? How much I’ve always loved you? How could you think that anyone other than you could make heart race?”

Sherlock choked a little. Sputtered really. “But…but y-you…you said you liked him.”

“As a television personality. That’s all.”

“But he flirted with you!”

“And I didn’t flirt back.”

Sherlock was reeling now, his mind struggling to accept what he was hearing. “But if you love me, then why…you married her. Mary. You chose her! You left me!”

“You were dead, Sherlock,” John said evenly. “You left me and I…I didn’t cope well. I fell for someone else because she made me feel a little bit alive again, and I was committed to her. Foolishly. Stupidly. And I put us all in danger because I—” John blew a breath out between pursed lips. “Because I was still angry at you. I followed through on my relationship with Mary, because I felt I had to. And because you made it clear...”

“Why would you listen to what I said about that? I had no idea what I was talking about! I was an IDIOT!”

“You are an idiot. So am I, but you know that,” John rumbled. “The point is, Sherlock, I love you. I’ve always loved you. It’s always been you for me, too. Always will be. Don’t you know that by now?”

Sherlock his head violently, damp curls tossing droplets everywhere.

John chuckled and swiped the extra moisture from his face. “Well, I do. Mary was a disaster, and I deserve every bit of the blame for not seeing what she was. And for not having the courage to just tell her what I was. Which is yours. If you’ll have me.”

Sherlock felt dizzy and knew suddenly that his knees were going to give out. The ringing in his ears somewhat drowned out John’s soothing voice as his doctor bore his weight to the bed and stretched him out over the coverlet. Gentle hands rubbed at his chest and urged him to take deep, even breaths. And he was trying, but…

John loves me. John loves me. John loves me.

“Easy, now,” John urged. “Easy breaths. That’s it. You’re all right. I’m here, and I’m never leaving you again.”

Sherlock turned to look into John’s eyes. His dear face was so near; John had stretched out beside him on the bed.

“You love me. You love me. Really?”

John nodded, eyes twinkling. “Really. You?”

Sherlock blinked. Him, what? Oh, yes. “Yes, I do. Really love you.”

John nodded and smiled. His gaze shifted from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth. Sherlock’s lips parted unwittingly, tongue peeking out to dampen them.

“Sherlock,” John whispered brokenly. “Can I?”

“Please,” Sherlock begged. “Please, John.”

John dipped his head, his nose nudging against Sherlock’s cheek as his lips gently covered Sherlock’s own. The kiss was achingly soft and yet wildly erotic—at least for Sherlock. His body came alive at the touch, and his fingers instinctively curled into John’s jacket to pull him closer.

John sighed into the kiss and rolled closer to Sherlock. He slanted his lips over Sherlock’s mouth and gently prompted Sherlock to open for him. Sherlock did, desperately, and could not contain the moan deep in his throat as John’s tongue slipped inside.

Sherlock tried to turn into John’s body, writhing to be nearer as John plundered his mouth. John fumbled at the lapel of Sherlock’s jacket, finally managing to slide a hand beneath to cup Sherlock’s pectoral.

Sherlock’s cock twitched at the contact of John’s palm with his nipple through the thin silk shirt. He gasped, blinking as John pulled back a little to check on him.

“Okay?” John gasped.

Sherlock nodded, pressing his chest against John’s deft fingers. “Please,” he squeaked.

John’s soft laughter rumbled in his chest. “I think maybe we should take a minute to, uhm…” He tugged at Sherlock’s jacket.

Sherlock leapt to his feet tearing the wet clothes from his body as quickly as he could. John was soon standing beside him, giggling as their fingers tangled over buttons and zips. In short order, they were both naked.

Sherlock glanced down at the man he loved and revelled in his body. John was short, true, and it had been years since the army kept him in true fighting trim. But he was fit and strong and every scar, every mark was John. And Sherlock loved every single bit.

He was drawn back to himself by a gentle hand stroking down his side.

“Sherlock, you are gorgeous.”

“No, I’m n—”

John placed a finger to his lips. “No. Don’t say that. I won’t let you. We may not be perfect, by some magazine’s standard, and neither of us is getting any younger—especially me. None of that matters, because we are perfect for each other. These bodies?” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and flattened the palm over his chest while he pressed his own hand into the soft, lean flesh of Sherlock’s belly. “They belong together.”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

Sherlock bent to capture John’s mouth, and John met him halfway. Where their first kisses had been sweet and searching, these were desperate and laced with want. Tongues stroked and teased while hands did likewise. By the time John turned them back to the bed and eased Sherlock back down to the mattress, Sherlock was shivering with longing.

He arched into John’s body as John rolled on top of him. His pelvis pressed upward, aching for contact with—

“OH, GOD!”

Sherlock’s head fell back into the mattress as John’s cock slid into place beside his own.

John groaned with the first shuddering thrust, driving their hardness together. He rolled up and back, finding a rhythm that quickly pushed Sherlock to the edge. John held Sherlock’s gaze as they rocked together, chasing completion.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John breathed. “So much. I w-want this forever. Say you’ll marry me. Please.”

“Oh, god, yes, John. Please more. I need…so close…oh, god, oh, god…”

“That’s it, my love. YES. Let go. Let it happen. I’m here. I love you.”

Sherlock cried out as he came, eyes rolling back in his head with the power of it. He clung to John, wordlessly begging for tenderness, indulgence.

“Oh, fuck, oh, Christ yes. You feel amazing. Sherlock, Sherlock, SHERLOCK!!”

Sherlock was beginning to return to himself as John shuddered and spent against him. He wrapped both arms around John’s shoulders and drew him down into a fierce embrace. He muttered nonsense as John finished and collapsed in his arms.

When they had both regained some equilibrium, John rose and padded to the bathroom. He returned with a soft flannel to wipe them both down and then helped Sherlock pull the bedding down so they could crawl beneath. Sherlock settled into the heap of soft pillows and John snuggled into his side with his head on the same pillow.

They lay like that for some time, staring at one another and occasionally kissing.

Finally, Sherlock reached up to brush one finger over John’s weathered cheek.

“So we have one more house to look at tomorrow.”

“It’s okay,” John chuckled. “We don’t have to go on with this now that we’ve found our killer.”

“What if I want to?”

“Do you?”

“Sussex is growing on me.”

“And the work?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Won’t be able to work forever.”

John snorted. “Yes, you will.”

“Okay, I will,” Sherlock conceded with a giggle. “But I can do that from here.”

“And what else will you do down here, to fill the time?”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, stroking one hand over the firmness of John’s bicep. “I’ve always thought I might like to keep bees.”

Epilogue

Michael approached them with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, chaps. Looks like the owner lost track of the time and hasn’t vacated quite yet.”

“That’s all right,” Sherlock replied pleasantly, tightening his grip on John’s hand.

“We’re in no hurry,” John concurred, beaming.

Michael looked from one to the other. “After all the excitement yesterday, you two seem…”

“We are,” John confirmed. “It’s all good.”

“I’m so glad,” Michael said softly. He glanced back to the cottage as the front door opened. “Ah! And now let’s see if we can find you your dream country escape here in East Dean.”

The front door of the red and grey stone cottage was flung wide and a dark-haired woman emerged backwards, struggling into her coat and fighting with an umbrella as she tried to close the door behind her.

“I’m so sorry,” the Irish woman said as she turned. “I completely—Sherlock?”

Sherlock and John goggled at the woman before them.

“Janine?” John muttered.

“Oh, do you three know each other?” Michael enquired.

Sherlock could only nod dumbly.

“Well, isn’t this a turn up,” Janine laughed. “What in the world are you two doing here? And on this program? Wait, are you…you aren’t really…are you?”

She looked between them where their hands were tightly clasped.

“We are, yes,” Sherlock confirmed, his chin rising defiantly. “John and I are together.”

Janine smiled at him, a little indulgently. “Well, it’s about bloody time.”

Sherlock relaxed instantly and a smile creased his features.

“I don’t mean to intrude on the reunion,” Michael began, turning to Janine. “But I’m wondering…would you like to stay and show John and Sherlock your lovely cottage for the show?”

“I would be delighted,” Janine confirmed. “Since we’re here, why don’t we start with the grounds?”

“Sounds perfect,” John agreed.

Janine led the way, with Michael, John and Sherlock falling into step in her wake. The camera, too, was not far behind.

“There are some lovely fruit trees in the back. And a garden, though I was never much for fussing with the veg. Oh, and there are the beehives.”

“Beehives?” John and Sherlock cried together.

Janine stopped, looking over her shoulder at them. “Yeah, beehives.” She grinned at Sherlock. “I was going to get rid of them, but I never got around to it. A woman from the village has been keeping them for me. You like bees, don’t you boys?”

“Sherlock does,” John said proudly. “He’ll make a wonderful beekeeper.”

“I suspect he will,” Janine agreed. “Now that he has you to help him. I’m told it’s a big responsibility, but I suppose that’s not so frightening if things are right and you’re ready for it.” She winked at Sherlock. “Just like love.”

John smiled at Sherlock, squeezing his hand. “Right?”

Sherlock squeezed back. “Ready.”

Janine chuckled, but kept walking. “Come on, then, lads. Let’s go see your future!”