Chapter Text
Once upon a time, in an ordinary cottage, in an ordinary village, there lived two extraordinary men.
The first, Sherlock, was tall and dark-haired and, despite his thirty-three summers, unfinished. He had long since become master of his considerable intellect, but he had no such mastery of his considerable heart. To the contrary, he flew fast from all feeling in his constitution. If he wondered, from time to time, whether he might in fact fear emotion, he possessed syringes and solutions enough to spare him examining the issue at any length.
The second man was called John. A veteran of a faraway war, John was short and fair and old before his time: had tended the wounded, been shot, taken fever, been given up for dead. He had a scarred shoulder and a dodgy leg and a tendency to wake himself up shouting; he was at once patient and irritable and calm and concerned. Fierce despite his failings, he felt himself and Sherlock a pack, something dear to protect.
They lived, these two men, in mutual orbit, a trail of teacups and tobacco ash blazing behind them. They often traversed the dirt roads between villages to solve crimes intricate and gory, and they could have done so indefinitely but for one thing: Sherlock would do anything to stop himself being bored.