Chapter Text
John reaches the lane; Sherlock feels splintered steps and cold garden beneath his feet. He shouts, My bones are wax.
John stops.
I’ve comb for marrow, Sherlock says, but it won’t hold honey. I’m hollow.
Next he knows, he’s on his back and blinking into John’s so-close face.
You fainted, John says, one palm on Sherlock’s bare chest.
Sherlock tastes metal and gunpowder and burnt flesh where rose oil once was. Thinks, I must love you in such a way that you remember yourself; says, Impossible. I never faint.
Right. You had a lie-down in the mud, then. John leans his forehead against Sherlock’s. I’m sorry, he says, his breath warm on Sherlock’s lips. I’m so sorry. I never thought you’d be so affected.
You’re an idiot, Sherlock mutters.
John’s grinning when Sherlock kisses him.
Let’s wash up before we--before anything else, John says against Sherlock’s mouth. They help each other to their feet and up the steps, and John builds the fire as Sherlock draws the water from the well.
You first, says John, when the tub sits steaming. Sherlock strips and eases in; John ladles water over Sherlock’s hair and lathers peppermint soap in Sherlock’s curls. Says, I want to find us a house.
John massages Sherlock’s scalp; Sherlock says, honey-thick, I know a place by the River Baker.