This Thing All Things Devours - cypress_tree (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

The pub was called The Second Hand—just “The Hand” to its regulars. It was the type of grimy, shadowy building where no one bothered to clean the smaller blood stains off of the bar. Monday through Thursday it seemed deserted, rarely serving more than five people at a time. Today, however, was Friday, and within a half hour, the small building would be flooded. Weekly poker nights were held in the back room, welcoming players, gamblers, and anyone else looking for a drink and an entertaining way to end the night.

John Watson walked into the pub alone, nodding his head to the bartender as he passed. The front room was quiet. A dozen or so people sat at tables or at the bar, nursing drinks and checking their time every now and then out of habit. John headed towards the back doorway, obscured by decorative laser-bars that had gone out of style three decades ago.

The room he entered was large and spacious, containing one main table against the back wall and several smaller tables scattered around the sides. Every table was occupied by poker players, clutching their cards and sitting forward in their seats as spectators watched over their shoulders, placing bets on who would win the pot.

A man in a faded blue t-shirt dropped his face into his hands as he lost a game. He looked at his outer left forearm, where a timer on his skin counted down the years, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds of life he had left. Half of the spaces showed glowing green zeros. All he had were three hours and fifty-nine minutes. The seconds dropped away one by one as he stared at them in dismay. If he didn’t win more in the time he had left, the numbers would hit zero, the digits fading to black on his arm, and he would drop dead where he stood. John watched with pity as the man stood up and moved to another table to test his luck elsewhere. John rubbed at the numbers on his own arm in sympathy.

"Heeey, Johnny boy!" A short man with a messy ponytail waved, and John headed towards the back wall. Six players were seated at the main table, waiting for him. Five were regulars that John knew on a first-name basis. The sixth was a stranger. John wondered how he had gained a place at the top table so early into the night.

"How's it going, Jerry?" John asked. The man stood up to give John a friendly clap on the back.

"Not bad, not bad," he said, sitting back down and taking a swig of his beer.

"How's the new baby?"

"Good! Great! Wife's with her right now, of course. Had to get out of the house for a bit. Kept looking at that year on the baby’s arm like I was hungry for it. Too bad it won't start ticking down 'til she hits 25. If I could take some, I would. Especially now, after my hours got cut at the factory."

John gave a disgusted grunt. "You still working at that deathtrap?"

"Says the man who came down to five seconds just last week."

A red-haired woman laughed at them from across the table. She was seated with her back to the wall, her chair pushed close to the stranger to whom John had not yet been introduced.

"That's different," she said, dropping her head onto the stranger’s shoulder and smiling. "John's always been in control of his time. You have no control over whether that rickety old factory decides to sh*t computer parts onto your head while you're working."

John smiled at her. "Thanks, Ellie. Good to know someone here has some faith in me." He looked pointedly at the stranger, meeting his cold blue eyes, then quirked an eyebrow at Ellie. "You bring a friend?" he asked.

Ellie draped her arm further along the man's shoulders. “This is Sherlock,” she said. “We just met, but I think we have a thing or two in common, right, Sherlock?" Sherlock gave a distant smile at Ellie's words, but held eye contact with John. "He's here," continued Ellie, "Because he’s bloody f*cking rich.”

John reached across the table. Sherlock shook his hand with a strong grip and cold fingers.

“Good to meet you,” said John. “Rich, huh?” He glanced at the elbow-length fingerless glove peeking under the sleeve of Sherlock’s left arm—a form of added security more fashionable among the wealthy. “Not from our time zone, are you?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, smirking.

“Let me give you some advice, then. Don’t go waving your numbers around. It doesn’t end well.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched further upward, and John sat down in an empty chair across from him.

“Don’t you want to know how much?” Sherlock asked. “Everyone else did.”

“Don’t know and don’t care.” John cracked his knuckles, loudly. “Let’s play some poker.”

John kept a close eye on Sherlock during the game. He looked entirely out of place with his perfectly-tailored suit and fashionable black glove, and John wanted very badly to hate him. Thankfully, his mother had raised him better than that—always saying that you shouldn’t judge a person by their numbers, low or high. Instead of hating Sherlock for being rich, John tried to hate him for his smug grin, and the way Ellie fawned all over him. The fact that John thought the smug grin was disarmingly sexy wasn’t helping matters. Nor was the fact that Ellie’s flirting seemed to be entirely one-sided.

Sherlock played a good game. John watched his eyes, and could tell that he had noticed the way that Jerry tapped his fingers when he got nervous, and the way another player scrunched his nose whenever he got a bad card. He seemed to be responding to things that even John wasn’t picking up on, and he won an impressive number of hands seemingly without effort. Despite this, Sherlock was easily distracted, and kept glancing around the room as if he were looking for something.

Ellie didn’t approve of Sherlock’s wavering attention span. After he had been watching the doorway too long for her liking, she tried to pull his attention back by shaking his shoulder. Sherlock visibly jumped in his seat, and for a moment, John saw his mask slip. While Ellie pressed her face to Sherlock’s arm and tittered, he glared down at her with disgust for just a second before settling back to a cool, casual smile.

"See something you like, John?" John looked away from Sherlock to find that Jerry was grinning at him, knowingly. John tossed his cards on the table.

“Shut up, Jerry.”

“How long’s it been since you were with anyone? Weren’t you chatting up a girl at the bar a couple weeks back?”

“Think you must’ve been seeing things.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure I remember. Young thing. Her time had barely started ticking.”

John glanced up at Sherlock, but Sherlock was either not listening or was consciously ignoring him.

“How would you know? She was twenty-five for two, now shut up and watch me finish you with this next hand.”

Jerry gave a loud guffaw. “Don’t doubt you will, and you’re good, mate, but we both know this isn’t your game.”

As predicted, John won the next hand, and Jerry went out. Although Jerry enjoyed playing, he was really only there for the beer and the company. He muttered a half-hearted curse and offered a bet of fifteen minutes on John winning the next hand, as well. One of Ellie’s friends, a short-haired woman in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, took him up on it. When John did win, Jerry lifted his bottle in John’s honour.

“Thanks for the time,” he said. He held his left hand out to the mechanic. They clasped each other’s wrists, and she passed her time to him through force of will. Jerry looked down at his arm, watching as the fifteen minutes were added to his numbers.

After a couple of hours, the game came down to Sherlock, Ellie, and John. Each time Sherlock’s hand beat Ellie’s, she squealed, and smacked him, playfully. John found it incredibly irritating, but Sherlock just gave another smug smile as he waited for the next hand to be dealt. He seemed to be growing more and more distracted as the game went on, and eventually, he played a bad hand and went out. John suspected that he had lost on purpose.

“Come on, Sherlock, play again,” purred Ellie. “You’ve got the time, I know you have.”

Sherlock shook his head, batting her away as his eyes skimmed the crowd. When John shifted in his seat, Sherlock looked down at him.

“You waiting for someone?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes and tried to placate Ellie by buying her a drink. She pouted and huffed and put on a show until he picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles “for luck.” Ellie perked up and wriggled excitedly in her seat, then gave John a devilish smile as the next hand was dealt. Sherlock rolled his eyes when Ellie wasn’t looking.

Ellie was the only one who had ever come close to John’s record-setting win of one month and twelve days. She was a better player than most assumed by looking at her, using her flirtatious, non-threatening demeanour to her advantage. She beat John two hands in a row. He was just starting to get angry with himself when the final hand was dealt, and he saw that he had some rather good cards. He raised his bet, then looked up and waited for Ellie. As she studied her cards with concentration, John caught Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock leaned back in his chair and smiled at him. John looked away.

Ellie met John’s bet, but John could tell that she wasn’t as confident as usual. He ended up beating her with a straight flush to her four-of-a-kind.

Ellie slammed her fist on the table. "Bloody hell, John," she groaned. "Every f*cking time!"

John smiled at her.

"Good game, Ellie," he said. "Better luck next time, yeah?" Ellie just rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair, looking down at the five hours of life she had left.

There were three time capsules lying on the table—the standard method of exchanging time in public or with strangers. They were slim metal rectangles with a U-shaped opening at one end and a display on the front with space for fifteen digits. To add or remove time from the capsule, all one had to do was press their wrist to the opening and will the time one way or the other. John had won four days for the game. Jerry passed him the payout capsule that contained everyone’s bets, and John put his wrist to the opening, watching as the numbers on his arm went up.

Some of the spectators started going out into the bar, while some stuck around for another game. Jerry gave John another clap on the back before getting up and moving to a different table. Ellie bent down to put her heels back on. She started talking to Sherlock animatedly, her gaze drifting over to his arm more than was polite. Sherlock looked towards the doorway, then leaned in to speak into Ellie's ear. Her eyes lit up, and they stood, heading out towards the bar. Sherlock looked at John once more as he passed by. He nodded his head, but didn't say anything.

There were so many people in the back room that someone had set up a couple of tables in the front to handle the surplus. John sat at the bar, watching an impromptu card game with mild interest as he sipped at his beer. When his attention started wavering, he found that his gaze was drawn towards Sherlock, who was chatting with Ellie and two other women at a table in the corner. Feeling safe from a distance, John allowed himself to give Sherlock a quick once-over, admiring the delicate look of his hands where they gripped his glass, and the ridiculous length of his legs, crossed at the knee under the table. Sherlock was wearing a posh-looking suit that probably cost more time than John had earned in the last few months put together.

“Easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”

John turned around to find the bartender looking at him with a grin. He shrugged, but didn’t say anything, and the bartender walked away to serve someone else. John turned his attention back to Sherlock.

If Sherlock really did have as much time as he bragged about, John wondered what he was doing in a run-down pub in the middle of nowhere, betting with people who had no more than six months between them. It seemed like Ellie and her friends had considered this, but didn’t care about the answer. They kept exchanging curious glances with each other, but they weren’t asking Sherlock any questions.

Sherlock was in the middle of a conversation with one of Ellie’s friends. He was shaking his head at something she had just said when his attention was caught across the room. John followed Sherlock’s line of sight just in time to see a tall, gangly man sneaking out of a back door and into a hallway. When John looked back to Sherlock, he was putting on his coat and excusing himself from the table, clearly intending to follow. John took a few final gulps of beer and set his empty glass on the bar.

The door they had gone through was labelled “staff only.” John looked around quickly before slipping past, but nobody seemed to notice him. The hallway on the other side of the door was darker than the rest of the pub. Dim lights flickered in the ceiling, and the walls were lined with screens, all broken except for one, which displayed an old staff schedule from three weeks ago. The hallway smelled musty—as if there were mould growing under the tiled floor—and the air was damp and cold. A warm breeze drifted from the end of the hallway, where an exit door had been propped ajar.

John snuck over to the door quietly, but stopped when he heard voices. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but one of the voices was definitely recognizable as Sherlock’s low baritone. John leaned forward and peeked out through the sliver of open doorway to find Sherlock facing away from him, talking to the man that he had followed. John wasn’t sure what was happening, but something about it made him uneasy.

He saw it coming before it happened—the stranger made a tight fist, kept it at his side stiffly, and then, when Sherlock delivered what sounded by tone to be a particularly barbed comment, the man swung at him. Sherlock jumped back, startled, and the man swung again, punching Sherlock so hard that he stumbled and fell into a pile of empty plastic crates. The man reached for Sherlock’s arm.

John could no longer stand by and watch. He shouted “Oi!” and pushed the door open. The man took half a second to decide that he didn’t have enough time to rob Sherlock, then turned and immediately fled the scene. John ran after him for a few steps, but was more concerned about Sherlock, who was now sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. John knelt down next to him and ran his hands over Sherlock’s sides, checking for injuries.

“Are you alright?” he asked. He put a hand to Sherlock’s face and tilted him up to check his pupils.

Sherlock jerked his head away from John’s grasp, then held up a hand and paused. “Did you just hear that?” he asked. “He got in a car! I’ll never catch up to him now.”

“What?” John was still a few steps behind. “Hear what? What are you talking about?”

“The car! Two streets away at most, going in the opposite direction. Recent model, no more than three years old. Hand-driven, not AI. Really, are you deaf?”

John stood up. “What the hell is your problem? I just saved you from—”

“Saved me? Saved me, are you serious?” Sherlock frowned at John, looking him over head-to-toe. “Have a superhero complex, do you? Want to save real people the way you used to rewire soldiers?”

“Wha—how—”

“You were not saving me, I assure you. Everything was going exactly as I had planned. Until you showed up and destroyed it all.” He stalked to the end of the alley, peeked out from side to side, then walked back towards John with a scowl. “Now I won’t be able to find him again for days.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“That man is wanted for time theft. He’s stolen years across multiple zones. I was about to find out where he’s been keeping the capsules when you so kindly decided to save me.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about? Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” Sherlock stuck out his hand, and John shook it, carefully. “Or at least I will be,” he added, with confidence. “Once the Timekeepers are willing to take me on.”

“‘Consulting detective?’” John asked.

“That’s what I said. Tracking down stolen time can be a bit much for Timekeepers, especially when it crosses zones. They’re often out of their depth, and would benefit from my assistance."

“Isn’t tracking down stolen time their entire job?”

Sherlock smirked. “And the ones I know are dreadful at it.”

John stared at Sherlock, blankly. “Wait--you said I rewired soldiers. How did you know I was a war mechanic?”

Sherlock snorted. “Obvious. Your stance, your haircut—both say military. Couldn’t have been high ranking if you’re from this zone, so not in any leadership position. Your hands are scarred and callused. You’re obviously used to handling tools, and you’ve a steady grip under pressure. That alone is evidence enough, but you’ve also been injured—something bad enough to invalid you out. These days, the only human beings sent to the front lines are the war mechanics. It’s the only logical conclusion.”

It took John a moment to realize that his jaw had fallen open. Sherlock looked away, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip.

“That was amazing,” John said.

Sherlock looked back at him, vaguely surprised. “Amazing?" he asked.

"Yeah! You got all that just by looking at me?" Sherlock nodded, mutely. "I've never seen anyone do that before. That was extraordinary."

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, quietly. They stood in awkward silence for a moment before John spoke again.

“Is that how you found...that guy?” John asked. “By doing your—”

“By observing and deducing? Yes. Among other things.”

“And now—?”

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "I’ll have to track him down again. It took me three days to do so before, but with the new evidence I've gathered, it shouldn't take more than two."

"Evidence?" John asked.

Sherlock pulled a slim, modern phone from his pocket and turned on the hologram display. Its blue light reflected off his face as he tapped through dozens of photographs, documents, and handwritten notes.

"I've been working on this case for a week. Shouldn't be taking me so long, really. I'll be quicker once I've had some practice." He turned off the hologram, and the light disappeared.

John crossed his arms. "Is this your first case?" he asked, frowning.

"Well...officially, yes. If you want to get technical, then...they don't really know that I've taken it, but—"

"Wait—the Timekeepers don't know that you've taken—I thought you said you were a detective?"

"I am a detective. I'm a bit new at it."

John laughed. Sherlock looked at him defensively, as if he wasn't sure whether John was laughing at him or not.

"Well you'll be bloody good at it," John said. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed. "If your little 'war mechanic' show was any proof."

Sherlock gave a small smile to the concrete wall at his side.

"Well,” he said. “It's been nice indulging your curiosity, but I really have to go."

"Where are you staying?" John asked. “Now that I’ve ruined your plans.”

Sherlock looked towards the end of the alley. “There’s an old fallout shelter across the street from the ZoneFree bank. I spent last night squatting—”

“No.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “No?”

John shook his head. “With all that time on your arm, you’re not staying alone in some—”

“I’m perfectly capable of fending for myself. As you’ve just learned.”

“I—” Sherlock gave a pointed glare, and John let down his defences. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” His eyes flickered over to Sherlock’s arm. “I don’t think it’s the best of ideas, but...”

“Well it’s not as if I have many options. I can’t stay in a hotel without being tracked, and I—”

“You can stay with me.” John heard himself say the words before even thinking.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John looked away. “I mean, I live alone. It wouldn’t be any trouble, and it would make up for the fact that I’m the reason you lost him in the first place.” He rubbed at his numbers mindlessly. “And I could use the company. For a few days.”

The distant hum of music played from inside the pub, and a soft wind whistled around the corner of the alley, but the space between them seemed very quiet.

“Alright,” said Sherlock.

John looked up at him. “Alright?”

“I despise repeating myself.”

John grinned. “Okay, good. So...” He scratched the back of his head, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. “Well I have a match inside that I don’t want to miss out on—”

“A match?” Sherlock asked, quizzically. “You don’t mean poker.”

John laughed softly. “No. No, this is better than poker.”

Inside the pub, a small group of people were waiting at a table in a deserted corner for a Suicide match. The game wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t legal, but John lived off of the adrenaline rush. He had attended nearly every match for the past two years, and there were very few people like him—who could get their time down to under a minute without flinching.

His opponent that night was a man named Harrison. John didn’t recognize him. He had yellowed teeth and a sneer that seemed permanently etched onto his face, and he looked like he wanted to snap John in two. John sat down across from him and rolled up both sleeves.

Sherlock stood off to the side, between both John and Harrison. When he caught John’s eyes, John gave him a tight grin, but Sherlock turned away. He worried at the edge of his glove with his fingertips.

The referee pushed his way through the small crowd in front of the table, hushing people as he went.

“Quiet down!” he said sternly. “Don’t draw more attention than is necessary.” He carried two modified time capsules in his hands and stood them on the table as he spoke.

“Standard match,” he said. “Starts at two days. You each have two days on you?”

John and Harrison both nodded without speaking.

“Good. Wrists on the caps.”

John’s arm showed that he had six days, four hours, twenty-three minutes, and ten seconds. He held his wrist over the cool metal surface of the capsule, feeling it warm as his excess time was deposited. It had been illegally modified for use in the match. The seconds slowly transferred back to his arm to keep his time at exactly two days.

The referee examined their numbers and nodded.

“Ready position.”

John leaned forward. He and Harrison clasped hands, elbows standing firm on the table. Their left wrists rested over the capsules.

“You know the rules,” the referee continued in a monotonous voice. “Time will be drained from both of you at the same pace. Whoever pulls out first, loses. Meanwhile, each time you pin your opponent, their bet doubles.” He looked at John, and his mouth tugged to the side in a half-grin. “Now let’s see if anyone can come closer than ‘Deathwish’ here to dying.”

John smiled at the use of his nickname, and glanced over at Sherlock, whose attention was focused on him fully. John felt emboldened. He looked away and met Harrison’s scowl with confidence.

The referee leaned over the table, hovering one finger over the activation button on each capsule.

“We’ll start in three...two...one...go!”

Their time started draining, and Harrison immediately squeezed John’s hand. John was startled. Harrison was stronger than he was used to, but John held fast. Their arms wavered on the table, only moving by centimetres.

The crowd around them had now doubled in size. Some people started placing bets. Others walked away as soon as they saw what was going on—not wanting to be a witness if somebody died.

Harrison pinned John’s arm first. John could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, and he stood his arm up to begin again. His pride was hurt, but he didn’t worry. Harrison could pin him a million times, but so long as John’s time drained closer to zero, it didn’t matter.

They adjusted their grip in the centre of the table. John glanced across their clasped hands and looked Harrison in the eye. Harrison glared as if he could intimidate John into losing, but his arm was beginning to shake. John pushed harder.

Harrison’s palm was getting sweatier. He flinched, and glanced down at his numbers. Judging by the look on his face, there was nothing to worry about, so John didn’t bother looking at his own. While Harrison’s attention was diverted, John gave a sharp push and pinned him to the table. Their bets were even again, and the crowd cheered.

When they re-clasped their hands, John felt the familiar burn of strained muscles. Harrison must have felt it too, because his grip wasn’t as tight as it had been. He glanced at his time again, and his eyes widened.

John still refused to look; he knew they were close. His arm burned, and his elbow ground raw against the table. Harrison looked down again. He blanched, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. Keeping his grip tight, John finally checked his time. He had thirty seconds of life left.

Harrison’s grip was weakening. John pushed him to a 45° angle, counting in his head: twenty seconds...nineteen...eighteen...seventeen. He could feel the heartbeat in Harrison’s hand.

Finally, Harrison twitched, and John pinned him to the table. Harrison pulled his arm away from the capsule like it was burning him.

The mouth of Harrison’s capsule turned from white to red. As soon as it changed, he put his arm back over it, and his time was restored. His face was white as a sheet. The crowd cheered, clapping and hollering, but keeping their eyes on John. Someone knocked into Sherlock, spilling beer on his expensive leather shoes, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.

John pulled away from his own capsule, and its mouth lit up green. Though it was no longer draining his time, the seconds still passed. The crowd went quiet as John’s life slipped away. When he was down to three seconds, he looked up and met Harrison's eyes.

John held his wrist over the capsule with only one second left to his life. His time was restored as the crowd cheered again, this time louder. Harrison snarled and left the table, pushing his way towards the referee to surrender his bet. John felt intoxicated with pride. He looked up, searching through the faces that surrounded him. When he met Sherlock’s eyes, he grinned. Sherlock was looking at him like he was the most fascinating thing in the room.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Between Suicide and poker, John ended up winning nearly a whole week. He collected his time from the referee and walked out of the pub as Sherlock followed a few steps behind.

The city was littered with people, and skyscrapers suffocated either side of the street. Sherlock followed closely as John led the way through the crowds—past pawn shops and 59-second stores, their windows lit with garishly-coloured signs and advertisem*nts.

They pushed through a queue in front of the bank, and turned down a quieter and more serene side-street. There was a man curled up under the awning of a grocer. John did a double-take to make sure he hadn’t timed out, but it appeared he was just sleeping.

“You hold the record for that game,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence between them.

John couldn’t help walking a little taller.

“I do, yes,” he said. "What did you think?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, until John assumed that he wouldn’t be getting an answer. He thought about the look that Sherlock had given him when he won the match, and suddenly felt the need to show off again.

They turned onto one last street, and John led them up the front steps of his flat. Sherlock leaned against the door as John typed in his passcode. When it clicked open, he met John’s eyes.

"I think it was...interesting," he said.

Somehow, John felt that this was very high praise. He nodded his head and went inside, motioning for Sherlock to follow.

John’s flat consisted of nothing more than a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a small sitting room. He closed the door and secured all three locks, then took off his jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. Sherlock looked around the kitchen, studying the appliances and stains on the countertop. He ran his fingers over the shallow cut in the slate that John had made on his first day back from the army.

“You want anything to eat? Or drink?” John asked, trying to divert Sherlock’s attention.

“No.” Sherlock watched as John filled the kettle and leaned against the counter, waiting for it to boil. “I didn’t think people still used kettles. Doesn’t your tap boil water?”

John snorted. “Not everyone can afford all the comforts of modern twenty-second-century life.” There was a bite to his tone that he hadn’t intended, and he felt guilty when Sherlock abruptly looked away and started to wander through the sitting room.

John waited until Sherlock was absorbed in examining the wear of the carpet, then pulled a tablet out from under the clutter on the kitchen counter. He put his wrist to the sensor on its side and paid his water and electricity bills, watching as the numbers on his arm dropped lower. He felt a shadow pass over him, and looked up to see Sherlock peering at the tablet.

“You can take your coat off,” John said, his voice tight. “Put it over there.” He waved vaguely towards the other side of the room, and Sherlock walked away.

When the bills had been paid and the kettle had boiled, John fixed himself a cup of tea and sat down on the sofa. Sherlock gave a quick glance through the open door that led to John’s bedroom, then sat down at the other end.

Sherlock had rolled up his shirt sleeves during the poker game, and had never rolled them back down again. John’s eyes were drawn to the bare skin that was revealed between the bottom of Sherlock’s sleeve and the top of his glove. The contrast was striking—his arm was almost as pale as his white shirt. John took a careful sip of tea.

“Is this your first time in Zone 13?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I’d never have come if it weren’t for the case.”

“How did you hear about it? The case?”

“From my brother.” Sherlock looked down to brush a piece of lint from his trousers. “My family owns a bank, and—”

“Hold on,” John interrupted. “Your family owns a bank?” His eyes flickered to Sherlock’s arm of their own accord as he thought about how rich Sherlock had to be for his family to own a bloody bank.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, as if he were used to getting this reaction.

“Sorry,” said John. “It’s just—I don’t normally have more than three days on my arm, so the thought of anyone...” His voice drifted off into nothing.

John looked again at the expensive fabric of Sherlock’s suit, and the leather of his shoes. He wondered whether the people at the pub had known exactly how wealthy Sherlock was, or if they had underestimated him, like John had. He was thankful that Sherlock had taken up his offer to stay. Sherlock was practically a walking target for thieves.

When John looked up again, he found that Sherlock was watching him.

“Sorry,” he repeated. “Go on.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, my brother has always been interested in time theft, because of the family business. His responsibilities have made Darwinian capitalism something of a personal investment. I heard him talking about this thief, Kyle Walters, one day, and, being a detective, I wanted to see if I could track him down.”

“To impress your brother?”

“No! Most certainly not. Just for myself.” Sherlock started getting flustered, and John hid a smile. “Anyway, I knew that Mycroft wouldn’t want me to get involved, so I had to hack into the Timekeepers’ records to download their evidence.”

“You stole their evidence?” John asked, mildly impressed.

“It wasn’t that hard,” said Sherlock. He sounded flippant, but was obviously trying not to smirk. “Once I had the evidence, it was glaringly obvious where Walters had gone. Honestly, it’s appalling that the Timekeepers didn’t notice it before I did. I crossed through time zones until I got here, which I’m quite certain is his home base, and by asking the right people and visiting a few other pubs in the area, I was able to gather more information.”

He paused for a breath and seemed pleased when he caught John’s look of amazement. “It’s astounding what people will tell you when you wear the right clothes and say the right things. I discovered that The Second Hand was his local, so I decided to wait there for him to show up. Seemed as good a place as any. Easy to blend in, and he’d have his guard down.”

“You’re really something else, you know that?” John asked.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “You’re very liberal with your compliments."

“I could stop—”

“No, no, it’s...fine.”

John chuckled and looked away. “So now what?”

“I need to review my evidence.” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up for John to see. It showed a long list of files—pictures, spreadsheets, audio, and video recordings. “I’d also like to check Walters’s bank account to see where he’s spending time.” He put the phone back in his pocket and stood up to retrieve John’s tablet from the kitchen counter.

John frowned. “Um, that’s—”

Sherlock unlocked the tablet on his first attempt.

“You know that ‘1234’ is the most commonly-used four-digit pin number?” he asked, as John gaped. “Not a good choice. Anyway, I may be able to narrow down Walters’s location by tracking his purchases. Ideally, I’ll be able to find where he’s hiding the stolen capsules, but if not, I could probably follow him to wherever he spends them.”

Sherlock propped the tablet on the coffee table and turned on the holographic keyboard. His fingers started flying over the keys, and he switched between three different browser tabs.

“He spends the time right away?” asked John, feeling slow and dull as he watched Sherlock work.

“Yes. He doesn’t keep very much. It’s likely he purchases drugs or weapons or enhancements. Something like that.”

“Alright...”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the story behind them. John took another sip of tea before noticing that Sherlock’s fingers had stilled. He was watching John—following the motion of the mug every time John brought the rim to his lips.

“You sure you’re not thirsty?” John asked. Sherlock nodded, blinking twice as if to clear his mind.

They stayed up until the flats around them fell silent, and the noise of the city became a quiet hum. Sherlock began to talk about life in his own time zone, and John found himself enraptured. Sherlock was from Zone 4, one of the wealthiest zones in the country. He described a life of extravagance as though it were nothing. When he told John about escaping his bodyguards while being forced to attend a co*cktail party that his brother had arranged, John laughed.

“I’d like to visit,” he said. “I’ve never been to another time zone.”

Sherlock nodded towards John’s arm. “You wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

John felt a little insulted, but tried not to show it.

“The tolls alone would wipe you clean,” Sherlock continued.

“What do you mean? It can’t cost that much.”

“Well it’s a year to get into my zone.”

“A year?” John repeated. “That’s ridiculous! Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “They don't like zones mixing."

"That's not right, don't you think? To actively separate us like that?"

"Well it's not as if it's illegal to cross. You just have to save up a bit to get there."

John gave an angry sigh, rolling his eyes. "And it costs more to get into the wealthy parts of the country? They're purposefully keeping out the poor. It's segregation."

"Everything costs more in the wealthy parts of the country, anyway. You'd spend all your time getting in and then be unable to afford anything once you were there.” Sherlock plucked John’s half-empty mug from where it lay on the coffee table, and took a sip from it. “And it's not like there's anything very exciting there,” he said. “It's not worth the trouble."

"That's not the point," argued John. "I don't care if it's a worthless trip. I don't care if there's nothing out there but a complete wasteland. It’s the principle of the thing. I want to have the option to go there if I want to, without spending every minute I have in savings just to get in."

Sherlock nodded, slowly. "I suppose I can see your point," he said. "I've never had to worry about time, so it's...difficult for me to imagine your situation."

John laughed, dryly. He took the mug from Sherlock's hand and drained the last sip. Sherlock looked at the mug with surprise, as if he hadn't even realized he'd taken it.

"You’ve never known anyone who timed out, have you?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. "Yeah. Didn't think so."

"I've known people who have died," said Sherlock, defensively. "There was a Timekeeper I knew who got shot while chasing down a suspect. And I know two people who died in a car crash."

"But you've never known anyone who literally timed out. Who ran out of time?"

"I...no. I haven't."

John watched as Sherlock purposefully avoided eye contact, then he stood, taking his mug into the kitchen and putting it in the sanitizer with the rest of the dirty dishes. He sat back down on the sofa.

"Both of my parents timed out," he said. Sherlock looked up at him. "My dad when I was little. Too young to really remember it. My mum will have been gone for about four years, come next month. She was robbed, actually. By a gang of Minutemen. They left her with a little bit, but not enough to make it home before—you know."

If John had expected consolations and condolences, Sherlock wasn’t going to offer any. He toyed with the bottom edge of his glove, and his gaze wandered as if he wasn’t sure where to look.

“What is it like?” he asked. “Dying that way?”

John watched Sherlock’s fingers as they found a loose thread on his glove and twisted it against his thumb. A crease formed between John’s eyebrows, and he took a slow breath.

“Um...” He suddenly became aware of how much he had said, and how much he had never meant to say. He bit his lip and looked at Sherlock, seeing the hesitant interest in his eyes.

“Well, when people time out,” he said. “It’s...not sudden. You know it’s coming. And you do everything in your power to stop it. You sell your belongings and you take out loans. You offer them your own time, but...if they won’t take it, then there’s nothing you can do. Natural death is something you can see from a mile away. It hangs over you like a black cloud, then it creeps in towards you. It’s an inevitability.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, not looking at John. John wasn’t sure what was making him open up to this man. Maybe it was Sherlock’s honest curiosity, his desire to know about a life that he was sheltered from. John was just starting to realize how sheltered a life Sherlock had lived. It was overwhelmingly a good thing. He never had to wake up and wonder if he would have enough time to last the day. But there was something sad and empty behind Sherlock’s eyes, and John couldn’t help thinking that he was haunted in other ways.

When John found himself unable to stifle a yawn, he stood up from the sofa. "You must be tired,” he said. “It's what? 2am?" He stretched his arms to the ceiling, the green glow of his numbers reflecting off of his hair. He motioned for Sherlock to stand, but Sherlock just shook his head.

“I don’t usually sleep when I’m—”

“I’ve uh...only got the one bed," John interrupted. "But you can take it. I’m fine with the sofa.” He looked down at it with a faint grimace.

Sherlock paused. “That’s alright,” he said, slowly. “I don’t mind sharing if you don't.”

“You sure?” John asked. Sherlock nodded, and John’s heart thumped so loudly that he was afraid Sherlock would hear it. “Right, then.”

John rearranged the pillows on the bed, watching as Sherlock walked around the room and examined details in much the same way that he had in the kitchen and sitting room. He tapped at the touchscreen of John's computer and flipped through the pictures that were displayed in the digital frame that sat on his desk. He lingered over one—a photo of John in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, holding a wrench and standing on top of a hoverplane, smiling. John cleared his throat.

“Left or right?” he asked, his gaze flickering from the picture to Sherlock’s face.

“Left,” said Sherlock. He set the frame back to its default display.

John nodded, then paused."You can tell that I sleep on the right," he said."You got that just by looking at me, didn't you?

Sherlock smirked. "The sheets are more ruffled on that side. Your clock is on the right rather than the left bedside table. The left is actually devoid of any belongings, so you don't really use it, do you?"

John grinned and shook his head.

"Which," Sherlock added. "Also tells me that you aren't in a significant relationship right now.

John laughed. "All true. You make it look easy." He shuffled through his dresser and tossed a pair of grey-striped pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt to Sherlock. “Here, sleep in these.” He stripped down to his own boxers and t-shirt, tossing his clothes into a basket in the corner of the room. When he looked back up, Sherlock was pulling the shirt down over his pale chest, and the bottoms were hanging loosely around his hips. John’s eyes were drawn to a large scar over Sherlock’s stomach.

“How did you get that?” he asked, nodding towards it.

Sherlock tugged the edge of his shirt down further, and ignored the question. John felt that perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. He slid into bed, mildly guilty. Sherlock hesitated and glanced down at his glove.

“You can leave it on,” said John. "I wouldn't sleep bare-armed next to someone I'd just met, either. If I had much to take."

Sherlock eyed John’s numbers. He got into bed, lying on his back with his arm curled protectively over his chest.

"Shouldn’t you be more worried?” he asked. “Having less to lose?”

John shrugged and reached over to shut off the light. He turned onto his side, away from Sherlock, and closed his eyes.

“Has anyone ever tried?” Sherlock asked, after a moment.

John snorted. “What, to rob me? I live in Zone 13, of course people have tried.” Sherlock didn't say anything, but John anticipated the question. "Didn't end well for them," he said.

Sherlock gave a soft breath of a laugh.

John woke up the next morning in an empty bed. He checked his numbers out of habit, then remembered the events of the night before, and checked them again. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes.

John jumped when he noticed Sherlock in the corner of the room, sitting at the computer in John's ill-fitting pyjamas and reading whatever was on the screen with intense concentration.

"That was locked," John muttered.

Sherlock typed something quickly, and opened a new window. "Should have chosen a more secure password," he said. "I changed it for you. I'll help you memorize it later."

"Just write it down. Do you want breakfast?”

“No."

"Fine. I have to go to work."

"You're leaving?" asked Sherlock. He got up from the computer and followed John into the kitchen. "You're not going to assist me?"

"I've got three days left. I'd like to have more."

"Three days is plenty. How can that concern you when you came down to just seconds last night?”

“Completely different circ*mstances.” John opened the refrigerator and searched for something that wasn’t either stale or rotting. When he turned back around, Sherlock was staring at him with intense curiosity. John looked away.

"You aren't employed, are you?" he asked.

"Well..."

“Right.” He tried to wrap his mind around Sherlock's existence as he made himself breakfast. Sherlock turned on the hologram on his phone, flipping through pictures as John ate.

"So why did you need to break into my computer?” John asked, his mouth full of toast and jam.

“Planning,” Sherlock said. He twisted a hologram to face John. It was a map of the district that had been zoomed in to show John's neighbourhood. Sherlock stuck his finger through the hologram at the location of John's flat.

"We're here," he said. "I previously narrowed down Walters's flat to one of three locations, here, here, and here." He pointed, zooming out and shifting the map when needed. “I’d like to see if I can narrow it down further by taking a look at his bank records and seeing if anything has changed, now that he’s in the area again." He stole a piece of sausage from the edge of John's plate and popped it into his mouth. John moved his plate further away.

"Also," continued Sherlock. "I think I’ll get some new clothes. I've already worn that suit for two days, and none of your clothing will fit me comfortably.”

"Funny," muttered John. "I don't recall offering anything."

"Anyway, are you working tomorrow? I could hold off on actually visiting the location, if you'd like to join me." Sherlock was fiddling with the edge of his glove again.

John shrugged. "I’m free," he said. "I'll help you out."

Sherlock broke into a grin and turned off his phone. "Excellent. Genius needs an audience."

John rolled his eyes and brought his empty dishes to the sanitizer.

"Well since you'll be here all day," he said, nodding toward the dishes, "Those will be done in a minute. You can use your brilliant skills of deduction to figure out where they go in the cupboards. And if you're going out, you can spare a few minutes for a bottle of milk. The real stuff, none of that soy nonsense."

"You're asking me to buy you milk?"

"You're staying in my flat for a few days, sleeping in my bed, and presumably eating my food. I'll ask whatever I want from you."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his eyes showing the smile that he was determined to hide.

The building that John worked in was four stories tall, freshly built of shiny chrome and smoked glass. It was easily the most impressive building in Zone 13—an attempt to make the area look more attractive while at the same time keeping it productive. It employed about three hundred people, split between the programmers and software engineers on the upper levels and mechanics and other repairers on the lower levels.

John’s day was going fairly normally for a Saturday. He had spent the last few hours putting limbs back on soldiers and discussing the start of major work on a hoverplane. He was just at the end of his 15:00 break when his phone vibrated twice in a row.

15:28
I was unaware that there were different varieties of milk. SH

15:28
I got one of each. SH

John laughed to himself and stuck his phone back in his pocket.

"What's so funny?"

He looked up to see one of the programmers, Molly Hooper, looking back at him from the doorway of the break room. She tossed him a bag of crisps from her pocket.

"I owe you for last week," she said.

John smiled. "Thanks. And it's nothing. I just got a text. I sort of...have company right now, and—"

Molly raised an eyebrow. “Company from the pub? Jerry told me about the rich boy at poker last night."

"Yeah, well Jerry's a gossip."

Molly smiled and opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted when a teenage boy came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Ms. Hooper, we're having a bit of trouble with forty-five sixty-five. We can't get it to activate—"

"Okay, okay, I'm coming, shush." The boy hurried back to the lab at the end of the hallway. Molly looked at John, who was re-reading the texts Sherlock had sent. "I expect you to fill me in completely, you know."

"I know."

"The next time our breaks line up."

"I hear you, now go activate forty-five sixty-whatever."

Molly waved and headed back down the hall.

When John got home, his flat smelled like garam masala. Sherlock was cross-legged in the middle of the sitting room, surrounded by electronics. He was typing on John’s tablet, and seemed to have found and fixed the three other tablets that John had thought were broken. He had one laptop propped up on the sofa, another on the coffee table in front of him, and he had moved John’s desktop computer from the bedroom.

John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock pointed to a plastic bag on the counter.

"I bought Indian," he said. John shook his head and started opening containers of food.

"Any progress?" he asked.

Sherlock shoved the computers under the table, apparently his method of cleaning up.

"Thanks to Walters’s coffee addiction, I was able to trace him to one building," he said. "We can leave as soon as you get up tomorrow.”

John nodded and spooned a little extra food onto his plate before setting it on the island between the kitchen and sitting room. He slid a fork over to Sherlock, but Sherlock ignored it in favour of scrolling through files on his phone.

“Is that all you did all day?” John asked.

“All that matters.”

John sat on the opposite side of the island.

“You went shopping,” he said. “You weren’t wearing that shirt yesterday.”

Sherlock looked down at his shirt as if he had forgotten about it. It was steel blue, and complimented his eyes. He put down his phone and slid out of his suit jacket as if to show off.

“I needed something to wear that didn’t smell like the pub,” he said. “I got these trousers, too.”

“Didn’t know they sold that sort of thing around here.”

“Please, this is hardly quality. And I had to look everywhere to find a tailor.”

“You actually spend time on that sort of thing?”

Sherlock shrugged. He stood from the table and headed towards the refrigerator, leaning far into to the bottom shelf to get a can of juice from the back. John couldn't keep from noticing that the shirt seemed a bit tight, and when Sherlock bent over, the trousers did wonderful things for his—

"Do you want to see?" Sherlock asked. He stood up again, juice in hand, and closed the refrigerator.

John's gaze shot back up to eye level. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"My numbers." Sherlock sat back down across from him, and John felt his face heating.

"Oh. Your—um. No, no, you don’t have to." He ate a bigger-than-usual forkful of rice. When he looked back up, Sherlock was grinning at him as if he knew exactly what John had been thinking. He rolled his sleeve up to the elbow and pulled off his glove.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” he said.

If possible, John blushed deeper. He bit his tongue and watched as Sherlock tilted his arm towards him. John's eyes widened, and he looked between Sherlock’s arm and his face.

"Christ," he said. "Is that real?" Sherlock nodded. "You're f*cking maxed out. I've never met—I've never even seen anyone who was maxed out."

Sherlock looked down at the nines on his arm. "My brother has...connections," he said. "My family was wealthy to begin with, because of the bank, but my brother has made sure that we will never have to worry about time again."

John shook his head. He laid his own arm next to Sherlock’s and scowled, comparing their numbers. His eyes came to rest over a bruise on the inside of Sherlock’s elbow, and he pulled up the sleeve in order to see better.

“Did Walters hurt—” His eyes widened when he realized what he was looking at. “Oh.”

Sherlock pulled his arm away and put his glove back on. He rolled his sleeve down for good measure.

“I get bored,” he said.

“You’ll live forever as long as you don’t get fatally ill, wounded, or overdo—”

“Shut up.” Sherlock spat.

John looked at him with surprise, and Sherlock turned away.

John thought about the other people he had seen with needle marks on their arms—people from his own zone, unsure if they would live until the end of the week, and willing to act recklessly in order to make the most of what they had. It didn’t make sense for someone like Sherlock to risk himself when he had a near-infinite amount of time to take in all of life’s pleasures.

“How often?” John asked, tentatively.

“That’s none of your business.”

“I know it’s not, but I have the right to worry.”

“There’s no need to worry, I’m in complete control.”

John nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He thought briefly of his estranged sister. “I’ve heard people say that before.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, to say the least. John found that he didn’t have the appetite to finish his dinner. He spooned leftover rice back into its plastic container and put it in the refrigerator.

When he turned around, Sherlock had moved, and was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. John sat on the sofa behind him, and watched over Sherlock’s shoulder as he slowly swiped through files on a tablet.

“They found his thumbprint on a door,” Sherlock said, after a moment. He pointed to a fingerprint record on the touchscreen. “That’s how they knew it was him. He had been charged once before for criminal damage, so they had him on file already.”

Sherlock half-turned, looking at John quickly out of the corner of his eye. John slid off the sofa to sit next to him.

“Show me what else you have,” he said.

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

When John woke the next morning, Sherlock was gone again. John groaned through a yawn, and Sherlock appeared in the doorway. His hair was still tousled from sleep, he had a smudge of jam at the corner of his mouth, and he hadn’t changed out of John’s wrinkled pyjamas. He was holding a turner in one hand that appeared to be dripping egg yolk onto the floor.

“I don’t understand why there are flames on the hob,” he said.

John laughed into his pillow and got up to help.

Sherlock’s attempt at breakfast consisted of runny eggs, cold beans, and burnt toast with the burnt parts hidden by jam. He flitted around the kitchen barefoot, glancing up every now and then to catch John’s eyes. John watched, amusedly, thinking that he wouldn’t mind waking up to this sight more than once.

Sherlock set a mug of tea in front of John and sat down, picking up his phone.

“So how old are you in real time?” John asked casually, taking a bite of toast.

Sherlock didn’t look up from the hologram that he had begun studying. “Thirty-three,” he said. “Or twenty-five for eight, if you prefer. You?”

“Twenty-five for ten.” John smiled. “It’s funny,” he said. “I thought all you people were over a hundred.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You have a lot to learn about my time zone.”

“Could say the same to you.” John scraped the last of the egg from his plate, scooping it with a piece of toast. Sherlock looked up at him.

“You’re coming with me today?” he asked.

“I am.”

Sherlock just stared, expectantly. John smirked and took a slow sip of tea.

“Tell me how we’re doing this,” he said. “Do we have a plan?”

Sherlock went into the sitting room and plucked one of John’s tablets from its place on the coffee table. He brought up a hologram—a larger version of the map that he had shown John the day before.

“I was able to plant a bug in Walters’s credit card. As long as he carries it with him, we’ll be able to keep track of his location."

“He has a credit card?” John asked.

Sherlock looked confused. “Is that unusual?”

“In Zone 13, yes.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Anyway, the tracking bug is linked to my phone. If he goes near his flat while we’re in there, the phone will beep, giving us time to escape before he comes back.” He tapped a few buttons, and pointed to a blinking red dot that appeared on the map. “He’s far away, so he doesn’t intend to go back until the end of the day. He doesn’t use the flat for much more than sleeping.”

John drained the last of his tea. “And if he does come back?” he asked. “Do we have a plan for that?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“But if it does?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Sherlock stood and grabbed John’s jacket from the coat rack. “Let’s go.”

There was a bus stop at the end of John’s street. They paid the one-hour fare and sat together on a sticky brown seat in the middle of the bus. John let Sherlock sit on the inside so he could watch the tall and tarnished buildings as they sped past. Most of the windows were darkened or obscured by shades. Some were falling apart, crumbling at their foundations or from the top down. There was a long queue outside the timelenders, waiting for the “open” sign to light up. John watched Sherlock's face, trying to judge what he was thinking.

John was well aware of what the city looked like to outsiders—overcrowded, crumbling, neglected. It was easy to ignore this when he was young, when he was going to school with other kids who were like him; their families living day-to-day, some less certain than others that their parents would be alive at the end of the month. As an adult, his perspective had shifted. He realized that broken-down buildings were not the norm—that in other zones, it was unheard of to witness people timing out in the streets. He developed a fierce protectiveness for the people around him, who fought through each day while being constantly faced with their own mortality. They were strong, and they deserved better.

The bus took them to a quiet residential area that John had never been to before. The buildings were packed tightly together, and the emptiness of the street gave the whole neighbourhood an eerie feeling. There was a capsule factory nearby. John assumed that the occupants of these flats were in the middle of their twelve-hour shifts.

Sherlock led them to a small grey building with two entryways. They stood outside on the pavement while Sherlock checked his phone. Satisfied by the placement of the blinking red light, he walked towards the door on the left, John following close behind.

The door was old-fashioned, swinging out rather than sliding into the wall. It was still secured with a padlock, when the vast majority of modern doors required fingerprints. John had never seen such an old lock. He was just about to ask how they were going to get in if they couldn’t hack it, when Sherlock pulled a roll of tools from his coat pocket and knelt down in front of the door.

“What are you doing?” John asked, looking around to make sure no one was watching.

“Picking the lock.”

“What?”

“Picking the—John, what did I say about repeating myself?”

Before John could argue, the lock made a soft popping sound, and Sherlock sat back on his heels.

“An obscure skill, but a useful one to have,” he said. “Mycroft used to padlock his secret stash of sweets when we were young.” He turned the handle and led the way inside.

The front room was cold, dark, and sparsely decorated. John found a light switch on the wall and flicked it on, grimacing at the sudden glare. There were scuff marks all over the floor. Sherlock studied them with interest while John roamed around aimlessly. He entered a small side room to find a coffee table rotting in pieces on the floor.

“This is real wood,” he said, pointing at it. “I saw something like this in a museum once. You can tell it’s real because of the—”

Sherlock swept past without speaking, ignoring the table in favour of examining a nearby windowsill.

“Never mind,” John muttered. He waited, awkwardly, as Sherlock looked around at every crack and crevice, typing away on his phone.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He stopped suddenly in the middle of the room, looked around, and frowned, frustrated. His fingers twitched restlessly against his leg. He started rubbing at the inside of his elbow, as if the bruises under his sleeve were hurting him.

"Is there something in particular that you're looking for?" John asked, with growing concern. "I thought I was here to help."

Sherlock walked over to an armchair and knelt down to examine a pillow closely. His shoulders were tense, his eyes focused. He pulled back from the pillow with a sneer of disgust, then started rubbing at his elbow again.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock dropped his hand and headed toward a tight spiral staircase that led to the second floor. John followed behind, but had barely gone three steps before Sherlock stopped and stuck his arm out to the side to prevent John from going further. He knelt down and peered at a smudge on one of the lower stairs.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Shh.” Sherlock pulled an electronic magnifier from his pocket and took a closer look at the smudge. “It’s his,” he said, with a slight sigh of relief. “Walters was definitely here.”

“That’s a smudge.”

“It’s a footprint. Men’s shoe, size ten, very distinctive tread.”

“How do you know what his shoe print looks like?”

“I saw him in the alley.” Sherlock turned to face John, his expression showing his incredulity at John’s ignorance.

John shook his head in awe. “That’s...fantastic.”

Sherlock smirked. He put the magnifier back in his pocket and continued up the stairs.

There were three rooms on the top floor. They entered the one on their immediate left to find that it was filled with flimsy plastic boxes. Sherlock started poking through, but found nothing except a dead moth and a few broken bottles. Tired of being ignored, John tried to help with the search. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but didn’t stop him.

John’s foot caught on a bit of torn-up carpet, and he bent down to peel it back, finding a tiny SD card hidden underneath. He handed it to Sherlock, who looked genuinely surprised.

“Thank you,” he said, with pleased sincerity. He put the SD card into his phone, but there was nothing on it except for a few children’s video games, the high scores all listed as “STW.”

“Ah well,” said John. “It was worth a look.”

“I’ll study it a bit more intensely when we get ho—back to your flat,” Sherlock said.

John nodded.

The next room was a bedroom, containing only a single bed, a bedside table, and a bookcase. It offered an amazing view of the city, looking out over the side of the hill on which the building was situated. Sherlock took a quick glance inside, but didn’t linger.

“Tell me if you find anything,” he said, waving a hand to the room as he left.

John couldn’t help feeling a bit proud that Sherlock had left him with such responsibility. He immediately looked for any more upturned carpet, but was out of luck—everything was firmly glued down. He went over to Walters’s bed, which was pushed up against the wall, just underneath the window. He was admiring the view when Sherlock called to him from the final unexplored room.

“What is it?” John asked, peeking in the doorway. The room contained a sofa, telly, and a few stacks of books. Sherlock was standing in the corner, staring at something that John couldn’t see.

“Identify this for me.”

When John came closer, he realized that the object Sherlock was staring at was a small clickbomb—round and metallic, about the size of his fist. It looked just like the hundreds he had repaired at his job, and the few that he had seen in the war as a flash of silver flying past his head. His eyes widened, and his heart beat faster. He had to consciously stop his lips from twitching upward.

“Was this just...lying here?” he asked, his voice steady despite the circ*mstances.

“It hasn’t exploded yet, so I’m assuming it’s not—”

“Don’t assume.” John took a careful step closer. There was a blinking red light next to the bomb’s display screen, but it had no other defining features. Clickbombs came in many varieties, and not all were lethal. Unfortunately, there was no way to tell which it was until it exploded. Opening an activated bomb manually was never a good idea.

They stood in silence, neither one daring to move. John glanced over at Sherlock, who was biting his lip in frustration.

“I have to examine it,” Sherlock muttered.

“What? Why?”

“Walters left it for me. He knew I would be looking for him. It’s evidence.”

“Is it worth your life? Or well-being? Leave it be. We have to call someone to take care of it.”

“Can’t you disarm it? Didn’t they teach you how to deal with these things in the army?”

“Did they teach us how to open potentially live bombs?”

“You’re a mechanic, think of something! Use your brain!”

As soon as Sherlock raised his voice, the bomb snapped open. The display screen counted down from five seconds.

“f*ck, look out!”

John pushed Sherlock backwards towards the doorway, but they only got halfway before the bomb started to make a series of clicking noises. Sherlock stopped, despite John pulling his arm, and turned to look back.

“John, it’s glowing green.”

John would have sighed in relief, but there wasn’t time. “Cover your ears,” he said.

“What?”

“Your ears!” When Sherlock didn’t move fast enough, John clamped his hands over Sherlock’s ears, pressing tight and scrunching his shoulders up as if he could protect his own. Sherlock had just enough time to press his own hands over John’s ears before the bomb emitted a high-pitched screeching sound. It went off in three short bursts, then stopped. The green light dimmed. John sighed and removed his hands from Sherlock’s head.

“What was that?” Sherlock asked. His hands fell from John’s face slowly.

“That bomb wasn’t made to target humans,” John said. “That sound is meant to wipe the signals of enemy soldiers.”

“A sound? That’s it?”

“It’s effective,” said John. “And it could’ve caused some real damage to your hearing.”

“So you saved my ears?” Sherlock asked with amusem*nt.

“Yeah, well.” John suddenly realized how closely they were standing. He took a couple of steps back, looking down at his feet. “My ears are already damaged. Yours are—”

“Virgins?” Sherlock smirked.

“Oh, shut up.” John shoved Sherlock against the wall, and Sherlock chuckled under his breath. “Well, if he left any computers in the vicinity, they’ve been wiped. That goes for capsules as well. And I hate to say it, but your phone—”

“Will be fine. I backed it up on your computer this morning. Once I was sure your password was secure.”

“Somehow, I am not surprised.”

“Anyway, it’s clear that he’s not keeping the stolen capsules in this building. It’s possible that he purposefully misled us by showing us the location of his flat. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s picking them up right now.”

“You think he’s that clever?” John asked.

“I hope so. That would make things marginally more interesting.” Sherlock picked up the deactivated bomb from where it lay on the floor. “I’d like to return tomorrow,” he continued, turning it in his hand. “He’ll probably try to get rid of the capsules tomorrow night, and if we follow him, we can catch whoever he’s in league with, since I doubt that whatever he’s buying with stolen time is legal.”

“We?” asked John.

Sherlock looked at him, not a hint of worry in his eyes. “You’ll be accompanying me again, of course,” he said. “You have a taste for danger, and danger is almost certainly guaranteed.”

John wanted to argue, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Sherlock put the bomb in his pocket.

“Let’s go back to your flat.”

John was too filled with anticipation to sleep, and Sherlock never seemed to get tired himself, so they sat together on the tiny sofa, talking late into the night. It felt natural, even domestic. They faced each other with their legs folded up in front of them.

“So,” John said. “We catch Walters trying to buy something with stolen time. What then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “We find a way to keep him there, along with the drug dealer, either by distracting or incapacitating them. Then I call the Timekeepers and tell them where we are, and they finally admit that they should have listened to me in the first place.”

Sherlock started rubbing at his elbow again. When John caught his eyes, he abruptly stopped, a slight downturn of his lips showing his displeasure.

“I can give you some paracetamol,” John said, trying to broach the topic carefully.

Sherlock scowled, and shook his head.

“You’ve been doing that all day. If it’s bothering you—”

“I said I don’t need any.”

John looked away with a frown. Sherlock saw, and raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t take you for the judgemental type,” he said. “Especially considering your own vices.”

“What?” John asked, offended. “I haven’t used stims since I was a teenager, and then only a handful of times.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock glanced down at John’s arm, where the glow of his numbers was just barely visible under his threadbare shirt sleeve.

“I asked around,” he said. “You only go to the pub on Fridays, when you spend a few hours gambling before you take part in a Suicide match. They call you “Deathwish” because you continually allow your numbers to drop to the single digits for the sake of the adrenaline rush. You enjoy being a breath away from dying.” John was quiet, and Sherlock continued. “When you saw the bomb,” he said. “You shielded me. Was that for my benefit or your thrill?

John’s jaw clenched. “Shut up,” he snarled.

Sherlock was surprised, and had the decency to look vaguely apologetic. John felt the initial rage dissipate with his outburst, leaving a dull, gnawing anger in its place. His shoulder ached, and he rubbed at it absent-mindedly. He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring back at him with curiosity and trepidation.

John sighed. “There—weren’t any ulterior motives.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said softly, as if he were dealing with a wild animal. “Maybe not. But you do take risks. You like seeing the end of your life ahead of you, and you like escaping it at the last moment. You’re addicted to the rush.”

John frowned. “I’m not—” He sighed. “Look, I don’t want to fight.”

Sherlock sat back and relaxed a bit. “Nor do I,” he said. His gaze drifted off, and he gave a huff of humourless laughter. “But remember: you can only cheat death a number of times before it catches up with you.” He spoke the words with a lilt to his voice that John had never heard before.

“Did someone say that to you?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “My brother. The first, second, and third times he caught me...indulging.”

John moved closer and held out his hand, nodding towards Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock hesitated for only a moment. John cupped Sherlock’s elbow in one hand, pushing up his sleeve with the other to better see the bruising. He pulled the top of the glove down just a bit, but not enough to make Sherlock uncomfortable. His fingers traced over a fading needle-mark. When John looked up, Sherlock was looking back at him, his lips parted. John smoothed down Sherlock’s arm, feeling the texture of the glove. It was bold—touching another person’s numbered arm—but Sherlock didn’t even flinch.

“Do you ever take this off?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “You’d be surprised by the range of breathable fabrics they come in. And such stylish colours,” he added, sarcastically.

John laughed. “And you chose black. You think it makes you look mysterious, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s indignant denial was not very convincing. He tried to pull his arm away, but John held fast, and Sherlock didn’t struggle. John ran his finger along the thumb-hole of the glove, then traced the bottom edge over Sherlock’s palm.

“Most people around here just wear long sleeves,” he said. “Gloves attract attention.” He caught the edge of the glove between his thumb and forefinger. It was frayed, one short thread hanging loose from the stitching. “You fiddle with it when you’re anxious.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I do no such thing.”

“Then why do you think the edge is worn?” John’s fingers slipped from the glove and he rested his fingertips in Sherlock’s slightly-sweaty palm. He kept them there for just a moment, then pulled away. Sherlock tapped his fingers against his leg, then brought his hand up to massage the back of his neck. He didn't seem to know what to do with himself. John felt warm watching Sherlock get flustered, knowing that he was the cause.

“After Walters is caught, you’re leaving?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Sherlock nodded, slowly. “Yes. Back home, to Zone 4.”

John found himself becoming very interested in the pillow by his shoulder. He rested his head against it, his eyelids drooping.

“I’m going to stay up for a bit,” said Sherlock, abruptly. “Don’t wait for me.”

John would have felt insulted by the dismissal, but there was something about the way that Sherlock refused to meet John’s eyes that made him look nervous and unsure of himself. It was a complete turnaround from the co*cky rich boy persona from the pub.

“Alright,” John said, standing up. He smiled back down at Sherlock. “Goodnight, then.”

Sherlock only nodded.

The bed felt bigger than it had the night before. John laid alone in the dark, listening for the sound of Sherlock moving in the next room. He was rewarded for his patience when he heard Sherlock speaking in a low murmur, presumably on his phone. John laid still and strained his ears, but could only catch small snippets of the conversation.

"I don't want to...have you ever seen this place? They don't—"

Sherlock's voice went silent for a moment, and when he spoke again it was much softer, and John could only make out three words.

"...to leave him."

Sherlock's footsteps suddenly crossed the floor, and John heard the front door slide open and shut. All sounds from the other room ceased. John stayed motionless and listened for many long minutes. Finally, he gave up, and turned onto his side to face the wall.

At some point in the night, John felt the sheets shift, and other side of the bed dip. Sherlock didn't lie down immediately. At first, John thought that he was looking at his phone, but the glow of the screen wasn't visible at all. Finally, Sherlock shifted down under the covers. He laid closer to John than he had the night before.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

That night, John dreamt that he was standing in a 19th century sitting room. It didn’t look anything like his flat, yet it felt like home. He looked up and saw Sherlock lying on a sofa, wearing John’s pyjamas and a Victorian dressing gown. When their eyes met, Sherlock smiled at him.

The scene suddenly changed, and this time, John was running down an alleyway in a London that seemed a hundred years old. His feet pounded painfully against the hard pavement, but he kept going because he could hear Sherlock’s voice in the distance. Every time he thought he was coming to a dead end, the wall in front of him disappeared. He didn’t stop running.

The scene changed again, and this time he couldn't tell where or when he was. He couldn't see anything but Sherlock in front of him—naked and warm and kissing him. They were so wrapped up in each other that John wasn't sure where his body ended and Sherlock's began. Everything seemed to be the colour of Sherlock's skin, and everything tasted like his mouth. Everything smelled like his hair and his breath and his sweat. It was real and vivid, but it didn’t last. John felt himself slipping away just as dream-Sherlock opened his eyes to look at him.

They were both awake, lying on their sides. Sherlock was behind him, and his foot had somehow become trapped between John’s ankles. He was lying close—John could feel Sherlock’s breath against his neck. John felt warm and at peace, though the final dream had left him with a longing that almost hurt to carry in his chest.

They lay in bed for a few moments, completely still, each knowing the other was awake. They could hear the crying of a baby on the floor above them, and the gentle hum of John’s computer in the corner of the room. Sherlock shifted a bit closer, and John closed his eyes.

“How did you get it?” Sherlock asked, his voice rough from sleep.

At first John was confused, but then he felt Sherlock’s fingertips on his shoulder. The scar covered most of John’s back, and Sherlock traced its shape through John’s t-shirt.

“An explosion,” John said. “During the war. A clickbomb malfunctioned, and...well that’s mostly from the burn. But you can see where I was struck with a bit of shrapnel.” Sherlock traced over the textured line that was all that was left of the chunk of metal that had embedded itself in John’s shoulder.

“You can look,” John said, quietly.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock pulled up the edge of John’s t-shirt until most of his back was exposed. John felt the warmth of Sherlock’s fingertips before they even touched him. They brushed over desensitized snarls, and fell into dips of still-tender skin. They didn’t hold back.

“Did malfunctions happen often?” Sherlock asked.

“No. They’re very rare.” John felt Sherlock trace the scar all the way down to the small of his back. He sighed. “It was a freak accident, really. You probably read about it in the tabloids.”

“I don’t waste precious battery life on tabloids.”

John smiled. “Well, the story was there for about a day. More fuel for the anti-bot protesters.”

“Why did it malfunction?”

“At first they thought it was hacked. But it was really just a bug in the system. Very unusual. I was just unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Sherlock’s fingers stopped over John’s spine. He pulled the shirt back down and smoothed wrinkles out of the fabric.

“You're lying.”

John fell silent and didn’t respond, not knowing what to say. Sherlock shifted closer, then reached to pull John’s hand. John rolled over so that they faced one another, and Sherlock pressed John’s palm to the scar on his stomach, under his shirt. John’s heartbeat raced. Sherlock was looking at him, but John was reluctant to make eye contact. He stared down at his hand on Sherlock’s skin.

“We were driving home from my violin recital when another car crashed into us. Both of my parents died.”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered. Sherlock released his hand. John allowed his fingers to linger for just another moment before pulling away.

“Mycroft has been stiflingly overprotective ever since.”

“He cares about you," John said. He lowered his eyes and looked down at their feet, hidden under the blankets. "I know how he feels."

Sherlock didn't speak. John considered looking up, but he didn't trust himself to keep from doing something impulsive. He studied a small hole in Sherlock’s t-shirt instead.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s and squeezed it lightly, then sat up and left the bedroom without saying a word.

John made a big breakfast and forced Sherlock to eat, claiming that they would need the energy in case they ended up chasing down Walters.

"I dreamt I was running down an alley last night," he said.

Sherlock’s response was a sarcastic drawl. "You have prophetic dreams now?"

John thought about the other dreams he had had that night, and shrugged, looking back down at the eggs he was cooking. They ate while sitting at the island again, each on opposite sides. John abhorred the thought of going back to the way things had been—eating alone while reading the news on his tablet, only the sound of the telly for company. Having breakfast with Sherlock was a comfort.

"I don't want to go after him in the daylight," Sherlock said, abruptly, his mouth full of toast. “He'll want the cover of darkness. I say we leave at 19:00, just to be safe.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, we plan. You like planning, don't you?” Sherlock smirked and stole a strawberry from John's plate.

"You know," said John. "One of the reasons behind making you your own plate was to prevent you from stealing off mine."

Sherlock looked him in the eye and bit off the end of the strawberry.

After breakfast, Sherlock pulled out the SD card that John had found at Walters's flat. John sat down next to him, and they loaded it into the computer. Just like on Sherlock's phone, all that came up were video games.

“Why would this be in his flat?” John asked. “Are you sure there aren’t any hidden files? Correspondences or bank blueprints or...”

Sherlock clicked a few buttons and bit his lip, frowning at the computer screen. “Nothing,” he said. “This genuinely looks like a child's collection of video games."

John leaned back and watched Sherlock's eyes flicker across the screen.

"Here," said Sherlock, pointing. "It's a child's initials on those high score records. 'Stella' is her first name. Age six."

"Who is she?" John asked. "Was there any 'Stella' listed in your evidence? Family, maybe?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. He doesn't have any family. He lives alone." He clicked through a few menus, but couldn't find anything else.

An hour before they intended to leave, John suggested that Sherlock get in contact with the Timekeepers.

"If you don't want them to be with us, then they should at least be waiting somewhere nearby," John said. "We can't possibly hold Walters while they come all the way from Zone 4."

Sherlock seemed reluctant, but John badgered him until he agreed. Sherlock had the phone number of Elena Dimmock, the Timekeeper who had taken the lead on the case, and he paced the room nervously as he waited for her to pick up. John gave him a thumbs-up in encouragement.

Dimmock answered, and Sherlock barely got in two sentences before his face fell. From what John heard from the one-sided conversation, the woman didn't have much faith in Sherlock at all. John began to wonder if she had ever seen him work.

"I don't care—that's completely irrelevant! I am thirty-three years old, I’m not under my brother's rule!"

John hadn’t expected so much resistance. Sherlock paced across the room in agitation, and John felt guilty for suggesting the call.

Sherlock stopped suddenly in front of the window, and gazed out, turned away from John as he spoke.

"I'm not high," he spat. "I am in complete control of myself and if you would listen to me for a moment you would realize—I don't care what happened with Gregson! This is not the same as what happened with Gregson!"

He started rubbing at his elbow again. When the motion became aggressive, John stood up from the sofa and walked over to him, putting a hand on Sherlock's back. Sherlock startled.

“Forget them,” John said, speaking softly so that his voice couldn’t be heard by the woman on the other line. “We can do this ourselves."

John could hear Dimmock yelling over the phone. He caught the words "dangerous," "liability," and "not happening again." He tugged Sherlock's arm.

"Come on," he said. "We'll call again once we've caught him."

Sherlock's eyes flickered over John's face, and he nodded. He hung up without saying goodbye.

“She’ll be eating her words by the end of the night,” said John. “We’re going to get Walters. We’re going to stop him, and we’re going to show the Timekeepers what you can do. I promise you that.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder in reassurance as Sherlock stared out the window, his eyes distant.

That night was unusually warm and clear. The stars came out as the sun began to set, and the sky turned a vibrant shade of tangerine before it began to darken completely. John was pleased to find that this area of the city had less air pollution than his own, allowing the moon to be completely visible overhead.

They waited in an alleyway next to Walters’s building. John paced restlessly while Sherlock kept an eye on the window, watching the silhouette behind the curtain. John was standing at the end of the alley, making sure no one was paying too much attention to them, when Sherlock suddenly tensed.

"Did you see that?" he asked. "His shadow. He's getting ready to leave."

"How can you—" John was interrupted when Sherlock jumped down from a skip and ran to the end of the alley, peering around the corner. John stood behind him and jerked Sherlock backwards when he heard the click of the door opening.

"Careful," John hissed, pulling him back a few steps. "We don't exactly have a cover story for why we're hiding out in an alleyway next to his flat."

They both froze when Walters came down the front steps and started on the pavement towards them.

John looked at Sherlock with alarm. He was trying not to panic when Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist and shoved him against the wall in an impromptu embrace. Sherlock turned his head in towards John, his mouth by John's ear.

"We do now," he murmured.

John lifted his arms and awkwardly clung to the edges of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock kissed his temple as Walters's footsteps grew louder, passed the opening of the alleyway, and kept going down the street. John let out a sigh of relief. Sherlock kissed his temple again, and didn't move.

"He's gone," John said, quietly.

Sherlock hummed. "So he is." He pulled back and walked away to peer around the corner of the alley again. John cleared his throat.

"Do you think he saw us?" he asked. "It'll be a bit hard to follow him if he recognises us."

"He won't," Sherlock muttered, still watching Walters as he continued down the street. "He didn't see our faces, and it's dark enough that he wouldn't have noticed any identifying details.”

John looked around Sherlock's shoulder, to where Walters had just turned onto a side-street. Sherlock stepped out of the alleyway and started to follow.

"Come on," he said.

Keeping a good distance away, and trying to blend into crowds whenever possible, they trailed Walters as he walked through the centre of town, crossing into the eastern section of Zone 13, near the coast. John could smell saltwater in the air. A stray gull perched on a building overhead.

"Where do you think he's going?" John asked. Sherlock shrugged.

Ahead of them, Walters stopped in the middle of the pavement and pulled his phone from his pocket. He answered a call, walking for a few slow paces before coming to a stop again and ducking under the awning of a closed grocer's to talk. Sherlock pulled John into the entryway of a restaurant before they were seen. He plucked a menu from a stack by the door and scrolled quickly through the list of entrees, pretending to read.

"You think the capsules are in that bag he's carrying?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "But I think he only has one capsule, now. He probably combined all the time he's stolen into one. Easier to carry, and now he won't have to walk around with his own damning evidence."

Walters was still on the phone. Sherlock sighed and put down the menu, then pulled his own phone out of his pocket. He took a few discreet pictures of Walters, zoomed in as much as he could.

"What are you doing with those?" John asked.

"Sending them to Dimmock."

John grinned. "Good idea."

He caught the faintest hint of a smile just before Sherlock turned away. Sherlock sent the texts, and was rewarded a moment later when his phone beeped.

"What's it say?" John asked.

"She's on her way. They’re in Zone 11 right now, on another case. But they’ll be here."

John gave Sherlock a congratulatory pat on the back, then peeked down the street again as Sherlock typed a reply.

"Um, Sherlock," he said. "Walters is gone."

"What?" Sherlock burst out the door of the restaurant, nearly running into a man with a young infant in a pushchair. John stopped to hold the door open for them as Sherlock started walking quickly down the street, turning to look down every possible turn.

"Sherlock!" John called. He ran to catch up. Sherlock stopped walking and took out his phone again. He brought up a map and zoomed in to where they were located. He flicked the map from side to side, studying it for only a moment before closing it again.

"I know where he is," he said.

John followed as Sherlock took shortcuts down abandoned streets, leading them to a shadowed dead-end road. There was a pub nestled at the end, its blinking neon sign reading "The Turning Cog."

“He’s there, I know he is.” Sherlock headed straight for the pub without hesitating.

John jogged to catch up. “Are you just going to burst in on them like that? What if they’re armed? What if he recognises you from The Hand?”

Sherlock paused a few steps from the door. He took off his distinctive coat and scarf, rolled them into a ball, then shoved them behind a decorative keg.

John shook his head. "You still look posh."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took off his jacket, shoving it behind the keg with his other clothes. He untucked his shirt and mussed his hair. With a simple switch of posture and facial expression, his personality shifted into something casual and non-threatening. He looked to John for approval, giving a dazzling, carefree smile, and looking like an entirely different person.

"Impressive," John muttered.

"Do I need to take off anything else?" Sherlock asked, looking John over from head to toe. When he batted his eyelashes for effect, John snorted and pushed him forward.

"Okay, you've made your point.”

Sherlock flashed his much-more-characteristic smirk before tapping the touchpad on the door.

The Cog was much smaller than the Hand, and not only because it lacked a back room. The bar took up most of the space on the left-hand wall. Behind it, the bartender was filling a pint glass for a woman with blonde hair done up in a loose bun. They both looked up when the door opened. The woman carried her drink back to a table in the far corner, where another woman was waiting for her. They sat close together, their eyes following Sherlock and John.

Walters was sitting at a table on the right-hand side of the room, and he wasn’t alone. He was embracing a gaunt woman in a purple cotton dress. A young girl clung to his leg, and a pre-teen boy watched from the opposite side of the table, his arms crossed. John felt his stomach drop.

Sherlock sauntered to the bar as if he hadn’t seen them. He smiled widely and falsely at the bartender and ordered them both drinks, then leaned against the counter and casually looked around the room, his eyes never lingering on one thing for too long.

"I thought you said he didn't have any family," hissed John. Sherlock's eyes flickered over to the little girl, and he looked doubtful for a moment before shrugging.

"There was no marriage certificate in his file," he said. "Nor birth certificates for any children. They've obviously been in hiding."

“We can’t do it like this,” whispered John. “I don’t want him to be arrested in front of his children.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock muttered. The bartender slid two glasses across the bar, and Sherlock took a long sip. He wiped the corners of his mouth with one hand.

“This is unusual,” he said. “I was certain that Walters would be spending that time tonight.”

John looked at Sherlock, but motioned towards Walters's table with a nudge of his head. “He still has the bag with him. Maybe he’s meeting with his dealer afterward.”

Sherlock frowned. John glanced surreptitiously over at Walters’s table. Walters’s eyes flickered around the room every few moments, but he began to relax in the presence of his family. They spoke in low tones, the parents and son leaning in towards each other, the little girl kicking her feet under the table, too young to care about the conversation. When she became bored of everyone talking without her, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a handheld video game. She flicked it on with relish and curled her legs up on the bench to play. Walters smiled at her, and asked her a question. She grinned and showed him the screen, and he reached across the table to grip her shoulder, proudly.

"That's Stella," John whispered.

Sherlock nodded, silently.

“I don’t think he’s buying anything with that stolen time.” John turned to face Sherlock, starting to feel sick. “I think he’s giving it to his family.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Why go to the trouble?” he asked. “The children are under 25. He can’t give it to them.”

“They still have to eat. They need food, water, electricity. Look at their clothes, look how skinny they all are.” Sherlock frowned, and John realized the thought had never even occurred to him.

“You can’t possibly be surprised,” John said. “You must have seen cases like this before.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The only cases I’ve followed have been in Zone 4. The first was a drug addict, the second stole art, not time. The rest were just thrillseekers.” He fell silent, looking embarrassed.

John glanced over at Walters, who was sliding closer to his wife on the bench. They shared a brief kiss, then clasped wrists to exchange time. They leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, whispering to each other. John felt as though he were intruding, and turned away.

“What do you mean ‘thrillseekers?’” he asked.

“They enjoyed the rush. There isn’t much excitement in Zone 4.”

“What the f*ck—you can afford to do anything!”

Sherlock sighed and swirled a finger around the rim of his glass.

“We buy fast cars, but no one drives them." he said. "We only play sports that won’t cause bodily harm. We go on vacation to simulated beaches so we won't drown. We don’t travel and we don’t take risks.”

John stared at him, blankly. “Why?”

“Because risks get you killed.”

John was quiet.

“We spend time on possessions. Appearances. Nothing risky, and nothing foolish.” Sherlock leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the bar. “That is the life I’m running from,” he said. “That is the life I’m trying to escape with my detective work.”

He looked up at John, and John shook his head, at a loss. "No wonder your brother worries about you."

Sherlock shrugged. His phone gave a text alert, and when he read it, he bit his lip.

“They’re almost here,” he said. "Half an hour away."

“f*ck.” John looked over at Walters, having already made up his mind. He stood from the bar.

"John," Sherlock put a hand on his elbow, but didn't try to hold him back.

"Not for this,” John muttered. Sherlock's hand fell from his arm, and John walked over to Walters.

As soon as their eyes met, Walters was on alert. He whispered to his wife, and she glanced over at their children, her hand tightening into a fist on the table. Walters stood, blocking John's view of his family.

John raised a hand in a peaceful gesture.

“Listen,” he said, not entirely sure how to explain himself. “You need to leave. There’s a group of Timekeepers on their way here to arrest you for theft."

"Who are you?" Walters asked, his voice stern.

"John Watson. And this is Sherlock." John gestured behind him, where Sherlock was standing a few steps away. "Sherlock's a detective. We were—he was tracking you down, but—"

"Sherlock?" Walters peered past John, and his eyes suddenly lit with recognition. "You're that bloke from the pub!"

Sherlock nodded, but didn't say anything.

Walters sneered. “That’s just like you people. Come all the way to the slums to stop a man from taking time away from immortals?”

Sherlock was just opening his mouth to argue when John interrupted.

"In his defence, he thought you were using it to buy drugs," he said. "Plus, you stole so much that it was hard not to notice."

"That wasn’t entirely my fault,” Walters muttered.

Sherlock arched a sarcastic eyebrow. “Was it an accident?”

Walters took a step forward, and John shifted subconsciously into a defensive position.

“Alright,” said Walters. “Yeah, I stole. I have debts. I borrowed from some people, and...” He trailed off, and his wife put a hand on his back in comfort.

“You borrowed from Minutemen,” John said.

Walters nodded with a grimace. “Didn’t have much choice. I only borrowed two years, but I couldn’t pay it back as quickly as they wanted me to, and they convinced me to accept an alternative arrangement.” He glanced toward the door, nervously.

“They forced your hand,” said Sherlock. “They threatened to hurt your family if you didn’t cooperate. You’ve taken far more than you need, yet your children are still dressed in rags.”

John elbowed him in the ribs.

“Like I said,” Walters muttered, looking at his children again. “I didn’t have much choice.”

The pub was quiet. John glanced around the room to find that the bartender and the two women in the corner were barely subtle about their eavesdropping.

Sherlock’s phone beeped, and he looked down to read the incoming text.

“They’re close.”

Walters’s eyes widened. He turned back to his wife, who nodded at him, then he looked down at his children with a pained expression.

"Dad has to leave again," he said. "You kids go with your mum, and we'll see each other the next time I can—"

"Wait." Sherlock stepped forward, rolling up one sleeve so that his wrist was exposed. "Take some of my time, and go with them. Get out of this zone."

Walters's eyes widened. "Are you—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You're a sad excuse for a thief. If you keep stealing, you're just going to get caught again." He reached for Walters’s bag, but Walters pulled it away, instinctively. "I can give you enough to pay for rent for a year or so. If you find a job, you can start making your own way."

Walters stared at Sherlock in disbelief. John couldn't blame him. He had probably never been offered so much time in his life.

"What's the catch?" Walters asked.

Sherlock frowned. "Stop wasting my time with pointless cases." Despite his cold tone of voice, John could tell that Sherlock was nervous. He was fiddling with his phone in one hand and playing with the glove on his other.

“Why are you doing this?" asked Walters's wife, her eyes flickering between Sherlock and her husband.

"I have more than enough to spare," Sherlock muttered.

Walters glanced at his children, who were watching him with wide eyes. His gaze flickered over their patched and worn clothes. He set his jaw and held his hand out to Sherlock.

Sherlock paused. "I don't—" His phone gave another text alert. He pulled it from his pocket, and John glanced over to read the screen. It was from Dimmock.

“Five minutes,” John muttered.

"Mate, are you doing this or not?" Walters asked.

Sherlock still hesitated. "Do you have a capsule?"

"Sherlock,” John urged. “There's no time, just take his wrist."

He ran to the window and looked out. There weren't any cars in sight, and he couldn't see their headlights. He turned back to the room, where Sherlock was rooting through Walters's bag. "What are you doing?"

"I don't do wrist contact."

"For god's sake, he's not going to rob you, just take the man's wrist."

Sherlock had already pulled a capsule from the bag. John rolled his eyes and looked back out the window, wondering why Sherlock was so paranoid.

When Sherlock handed the capsule back to Walters, Walters gaped. He shoved it back into his bag.

"Thank you," he gasped. “I don't—I don't know what to say. I don't know how to express—"

"Yes, yes.” Sherlock looked towards the windows. “They’ll be here any minute."

Walters grabbed his wife's hand to help her out of the bench. The children scrambled to their mother, clearly knowing what to do in such a situation. The bartender, who until now had been watching the proceedings quietly but with great interest, finally spoke up.

"Go out the back door," he said. “It leads to an alley that'll take you to 21st Street. You can catch a bus from there to the train station."

Walters nodded and hustled his family towards the back of the room, where the bartender led them to the door. He glanced back once and nodded, stiffly, before disappearing.

John gave a deep sigh of relief. The two women at the corner table were staring at them both, slack-jawed. Sherlock looked over at them and rolled his eyes with disdain. One long finger tapped nervously at the edge of his phone. John noticed, and spoke up.

"That was a good thing you did," he said, his voice soft. "You just saved their lives. You know that, right?"

Sherlock shrugged and avoided eye contact.

John smiled. “You’re pretty amazing."

Sherlock swallowed and pursed his lips. John wanted to reach out and touch him, but held back. He cleared his throat.

"So um, what are we going to tell the Timekeepers when they get here?" he asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment, looking around the room as if it would reveal an answer. “We’ll tell them that Walters got away,” he said. “We’ll say that he came here to buy drugs with the stolen time, and that when we approached him, we were attacked.”

John was hesitant. “Attacked?" he asked. "Are they really going to believe that?”

“They will if we have witnesses.” Sherlock looked at the bartender, who had just stepped back into the room. He nodded, vigorously.

“Aye, tell me what to say and I’ll say it, mate. You have my word.”

The two women sitting in the corner nodded in agreement.

Sherlock took a deep breath, then straightened his posture. “I need you to punch me in the face.”

John just stood there, staring. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.” Sherlock turned his head and gestured to his cheek. “Punch me in the face.”

“Sherlock—”

“Do you want us to both get arrested for helping a criminal escape?”

“No, but—”

“Do you want my reputation to be completely destroyed, so that I’m never allowed to be on a case ever again?”

John groaned and rubbed at his temples. He knew they needed to look convincing, but he wasn’t particularly looking forward to this. He had almost worked himself up to it when Sherlock got to him first, slinging an arm around John’s waist and tackling him to the floor.

“What the—Sherlock!” He fell to the ground with Sherlock on top of him, then immediately pushed Sherlock off, swinging a fist at him, but careful not to use too much force. Sherlock was trying not to laugh. He pushed John to the floor and scrambled backwards, trying to stand up. John clutched Sherlock’s knees and pulled until Sherlock toppled back to the ground, falling forward. He grabbed at John as he fell.

John wasn’t sure who was doing what anymore. All he knew was that they were struggling and tumbling, and suddenly Sherlock was flat on his back, and John was sitting over his hips. Sherlock was laughing, his smile bigger and more genuine than John had ever seen it.

John tried to catch Sherlock’s flailing arms, finally succeeding by lacing their fingers together. He pinned Sherlock's hands to the floor above his head. He took a laughing breath, but when he met Sherlock’s eyes, they both became very still, and Sherlock’s smile melted away. It could have been the light, but John swore that Sherlock’s pupils had expanded.

Without a warning, Sherlock lunged up and flipped them both so that he sat on top of John in a reverse of their previous position.

“I think you’ll find that I can hold my own against you,” he said. He spoke in a deep whisper reserved only for John. John swallowed, feeling Sherlock’s breath against his face. He remembered that they were in a pub, and that there were three other people in the room. He could see the bartender looking down at them with one raised eyebrow.

Sherlock seemed to remember where they were as soon as John broke his gaze. He sat back on his heels, standing up and offering John his hand as if nothing had happened. John took it, and stood.

“I think that will do,” Sherlock said, looking down at his dishevelled clothing. John gave a firm nod, trying not to notice that another button had come undone on Sherlock's shirt. He looked over to the corner to see that the two women were whispering to each other with suppressed laughter.

A bright light pierced the room, accompanied by the squeal of car tires. John squinted against the glare.

“Good timing," he muttered.

The Timekeepers interrogated them for nearly half an hour. Sherlock repeated their story over and over—Walters was meeting with a drug dealer, and when John thoughtlessly approached them, they attacked. Both criminals ran out of the building just before things got too out-of-hand.

Sherlock was an excellent liar, and Dimmock seemed to be swallowing the story. She took a few notes, then walked off to verify things with the bartender.

"How long do you think they'll keep us like this?" John asked.

Sherlock watched Dimmock from across the room. John saw a hint of worry in his eyes, but it quickly disappeared.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's attention snapped back, and he shook his head.

"We're leaving," he said. He stalked towards the exit without any explanation. Dimmock glanced up at him as he left.

"Holmes!" she called. "Don't go any further than those cars outside. Your brother asked me to drive you home."

Sherlock waved a hand behind him in acknowledgement, but John knew that he had no intention of listening.

When the door slid closed behind them, Sherlock pulled his clothing from behind the keg at the entryway and got dressed quickly. He walked to the edge of the pavement, then stopped without warning. John almost walked into him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock took John by the hand and laughed—a low, soft sound that came from deep inside his chest. John's heart rate instantly doubled.

"We're running," said Sherlock. He tugged John's hand, pulling him off the kerb. They reached the end of the street just as the door of the pub opened, and a Timekeeper realized that they had escaped. Sherlock led them onto the busy main road, and they slipped into the crowd easily. John held tightly to Sherlock's hand. When he turned and saw the Timekeeper following them, he pulled Sherlock down a densely packed sidestreet.

"This way," he said.

They ran through the neon-lit city, taking shortcuts through alleyways and buildings. John wasn’t sure anymore where he was taking them. At first, he had just been trying to escape the Timekeeper, but as they got farther and farther away, it became less about hiding and more about running. They were no longer being followed, and every time they slowed down, they became very aware of their clasped hands.

Finally, John slowed to a stop. They were in a neighbourhood that he was familiar with, having visited friends there when he was a child. In the centre of a nearby roundabout was a large fountain, its statue covered in mildew. John reached down into the water, scooping some into his hands and splashing it on his face. He took deep breaths, his heart pounding.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, watching him closely. John looked up in time to see Sherlock's eyes follow a drip of water down his neck. He felt his skin prickle with anticipation.

"Nowhere near my flat," he said, holding eye contact with Sherlock. "I know the way home, but...” He looked down into the fountain. A gull overhead let out a rasping screech. "Have you ever seen the ocean?" he asked. "The real ocean?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Zone 4 isn't coastal."

John smiled. "I want to show it to you before you—" He bit his lip, trying not to think of the rest of his sentence.

Sherlock took his hand again, stroking his thumb over John's.

"Lead the way."

The night was dark and still, the moon a bright sliver in the sky. A cool breeze drifted off the water, causing the grass and reeds to gently sway. John led Sherlock down a thin metal platform that stopped abruptly at the opening of the beach. He hopped off the end, feeling the softness of the sand beneath his shoes. He was still holding Sherlock’s hand. When Sherlock hesitated at the end of the platform, John tugged him forward.

“Where are we?” asked Sherlock.

John smiled. “The ocean.”

Sherlock let go of John’s hand to kneel down to the ground and pick up a fistful of sand. He sifted through the pale bits of rock with his thumb, poking at the tiny slivers of mica and quartz that shined among grains of plastic.

“It’s low tide,” said John. He led the way down to the shoreline, Sherlock following slowly, as if in a trance. All the energy from earlier seemed to have dimmed, and he took each step very carefully, and with great purpose.

“You okay?” asked John. Sherlock just looked at him, a hint of sadness in his expression, and nodded.

John stopped a few steps away from the water, but Sherlock walked right up to it, his shoes sinking into the wet sand. A weak wave came up to lap at his feet, but he didn't move back. White foam clung to his soles. John put his hand to Sherlock’s elbow and tugged him away.

"Let's go to the sand dunes,” he said, his voice soft and quiet. He tugged once more before Sherlock followed.

They walked towards the grassy dunes that surrounded the beach. The crashing of the waves grew more and more distant, until they were far enough away that it was only a dull, soothing hum in the background. John led them to a small inlet with an unobscured view of the ocean. He took off his jacket and sat down on it awkwardly as Sherlock settled next to him. They were quiet for a few long minutes. John fiddled with a crab shell in one hand.

“So you’re headed back tomorrow?” he asked. He didn’t look up, but saw Sherlock nod out of the corner of his eye. “You have to go so soon?”

“Mycroft is expecting me. I refuse to go with Dimmock, but if I don’t go back on my own, then Mycroft will come for me himself. That would be undesirable.”

John bit his lip. “Alright.” He tossed the crab shell into a thatch of grass. Sherlock watched the movement of his arm carefully.

“How can you stand it?” he asked. At first, John wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Then, Sherlock reached over and took John’s arm. His sleeve had pulled up, exposing the ticking seconds of his time. Sherlock pushed the sleeve up to John’s elbow and traced over his numbers: 20 hours, 23 minutes, 8...7...6 seconds.

John shrugged with his opposite shoulder and shifted closer so that his arm was more comfortable in Sherlock’s grip. “Same way you can, I suppose,” he said. His knee knocked against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s fingers continued to graze over his skin.

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s not the same. I don’t even look at my arm, most days. I don’t need to. But you—what happens when you look down and realize you have five minutes left, and no way of getting more?”

“There’s always a way to get more.”

“What happens if there isn’t?”

“Then I run out.”

Sherlock was very quiet and still. The waves suddenly seemed loud, crashing against the shore in a repetitive rhythm.

“Sherlock,” John said. “You have to understand, it’s a way of life for—”

Sherlock cupped the side of John’s face in his hand, and John stopped speaking.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and urgent. He brushed his thumb just millimetres from John’s mouth. John leaned slightly into Sherlock’s palm, his heart almost vibrating his body with each beat. Sherlock didn’t kiss him. When Sherlock’s grip tightened on his forearm, John leaned in closer.

Sherlock gave an almost-imperceptible gasp just before their lips met. It made John smile, which made their first kiss toothy and awkward. John broke away shortly and tried to catch Sherlock’s eyes, which were hidden beneath lowered lashes. Sherlock was still holding onto John’s arm. He pulled John closer until John slid his arm under Sherlock’s coat, wrapped it around his waist, and leaned in again.

Their second kiss was longer. Sherlock’s lips were soft and dry, and they moved as if they weren’t sure what they were doing. John took control, and Sherlock seemed perfectly willing to let him. John’s fingers traced tiny circles over Sherlock’s back. The fabric of his shirt was frustrating. John wanted nothing more than to feel the skin underneath.

Their lips parted with a soft smack.

“Been hoping that would happen,” John said, quietly.

Sherlock stared at him, a light flush beginning to darken his cheeks. His hands were fisted in John’s sleeves.

“Did you know I was checking you out, that first night at the pub?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head, and breathed out a laugh. “Hmm,” John hummed. “And you call yourself a detective.”

Sherlock’s hands slid just a bit higher, to John’s biceps. His eyes flickered over John’s mouth, and he licked his lips. John’s heart started to race.

Sherlock kissed as if he were experimenting. He kissed only John’s top lip, then only his bottom. John nudged his lips open, and slipped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock let out a soft whimper, and tried to lean in closer.

John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, tracing his spine and smoothing over his shoulder blades. In contrast, Sherlock’s hands stayed still. His fingers clenched and unclenched on John’s arms. He held himself stiffly.

John put one hand on Sherlock’s chest and eased him down until Sherlock was lying on his back. His curls trapped bits of mica that glinted in the moonlight. He drew his knees up halfway, grinding his shoes into the sand.

John undid a button on Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock took a sharp breath. His face was pink, his lips parted, and his eyes wide. His brow was slightly furrowed, but he gave John a small smile when their eyes met. John leaned down again to kiss him.

“You already look ravished,” he said, teasingly. Sherlock huffed a nervous laugh.

John unbuttoned the rest of Sherlock’s shirt and let the edges fall to either side of his chest. Sherlock’s breaths were coming so quickly that John wondered if he was taking in enough oxygen. He could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat pound wildly under his skin. He leaned in to kiss Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock exhaled against his hair.

John had to part his legs and adjust to make himself more comfortable. Sherlock’s left hand was on John’s hip—his arm resting on John’s thigh. His right hand was by his side; the heel of his palm dug into the sand, absent-mindedly. As John’s touch drifted up and down his bare skin, Sherlock wriggled his hips, the sand shifting into tiny mounds around him.

John pressed a kiss to the centre of Sherlock’s chest, then reached down with one arm to put a hand on his leg. He brushed the underside of Sherlock’s knee, then slowly slid his hand upwards.

He kissed Sherlock’s chest again. His hand was high on Sherlock’s thigh when Sherlock tensed. John paused and lifted his head. Sherlock’s heartbeat was rapid, his breaths ragged. His fingers on John’s hip were trembling, and he was looking at John with wide, glassy eyes. John smiled at him gently, and removed his hand from Sherlock’s thigh.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

John laid down next to him and laced their fingers together, resting their hands over Sherlock’s chest.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just that I don’t want us to get sand in strange places. Not very comfortable.”

Sherlock looked sceptical, so John kissed him to make him forget it.

“Are you sure you have to leave?” he asked, when they parted.

Sherlock leaned in to kiss again, his breathing now more regular, and his heartbeat still fast, but under control. He squeezed John’s hand, tightly.

“I want you to touch my wrist,” he said.

John smiled and frowned at the same time, confused. “What?” he asked.

Sherlock was covering his nervousness with an expression of fierce determination. “My wrist,” he repeated. “Please.”

“Why?”

“Besides Mycroft, no one ever has before. I want to know what it feels like. With you.”

Sherlock looked down at his numbered arm, and John suddenly realized why Sherlock had insisted on using a capsule with Walters. He tried to imagine not having that type of trust with anyone—a life in which no one had ever exchanged time with him via wrist contact. He had never considered that it was possible to live like that.

John nodded, and Sherlock laid his left arm in the sand between them. John rolled up Sherlock’s sleeve and ran a hand down his glove. He leaned in to kiss Sherlock softly, then turned his arm over. Sherlock’s numbers were revealed one by one as John slid the glove off. They were flickering—a sign of arousal. John trailed his fingers over the green digits, then turned Sherlock’s arm over again. The nakedness of his pale skin made him look vulnerable. His wrist was completely exposed.

John put his palm on Sherlock’s elbow and trailed it slowly up his arm. Sherlock’s fingers were still slightly trembling, but John pretended not to notice. When his palm rested over the inside of Sherlock’s wrist, he looked up. Sherlock was staring at their hands, his eyes wide.

John swallowed and pulled his hand away, then held it out as if asking for a handshake. They clasped wrists, holding onto each other tightly. When John lifted his head to kiss Sherlock, grains of sand stuck to his cheek.

John was thoroughly distracted by the way Sherlock nibbled at his lips. His attention was called back when he felt a familiar nudge in his mind. Sherlock was trying to exchange time with him. He pulled away from Sherlock's mouth.

"No," he whispered. "I don't want it."

"I want to give it to you," said Sherlock.

"Well I'm not taking it. It's yours."

Sherlock stared at John as if he didn't quite understand, then gripped John's wrist tighter and kissed him again. John loosened his grip and ran his fingers lightly over the inside of Sherlock's wrist in a repetitive, hypnotic motion.

They fell asleep in the sand after kissing until their lips felt bruised. John spread out his jacket for their heads, and Sherlock draped his coat over their bodies. Sherlock slept without his glove, his sleeve rolled up. Their naked arms rested in the sand between them.

John woke up to the cry of a gull overhead. He immediately felt cold, and when he opened his eyes, he realized why. Sherlock was gone.

John sat up, instantly alert. He looked around, down at the shore, and back into the dunes. The tide had crept closer in the night. The reeds were still swaying in the wind. There was no sign of Sherlock.

The sun was just beginning to rise from behind a haze of grey clouds. John rubbed his arms for warmth. He looked down to check his numbers, and caught his breath—a year had been added to his time. He pressed his fingers to his wrist as if he could feel the ghost of Sherlock’s presence. He closed his eyes, briefly.

A chilly wind blew out from over the water, causing John to shiver. He pulled on his jacket, and put his hands in his pockets. There, he found something else—a small piece of synthpaper, folded into quarters. He held it his palm and stared at the note.

Meet me back here in one year. SH

John gazed around the beach once more, as if he would find Sherlock walking away, but it was completely empty. He was alone.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

When John returned to the flat, everything was back in order. His computers were where they belonged—their histories wiped, all notes that Sherlock had made, gone.

Despite having just woken up, John was exhausted. He peeked past the door of his bedroom, but found that he couldn’t look at his bed without thinking of Sherlock. He remembered the feeling of Sherlock’s hand running over his skin.

Later that night, when he opened his dresser, he realised that the pyjamas Sherlock had borrowed were missing.

One week later, John had lunch with Molly, and told her everything. They sat at a table in the break room, surrounded by people on all sides. John spoke so softly that Molly had to lean forward in order to hear him.

John couldn’t meet her eyes while he told his story. When he mentioned wanting to show Sherlock the ocean, he paused, and found it hard to continue. Molly put her right hand over his left, and squeezed.

After one month, John decided to stop moping. He went to the pub and chatted up lonely-looking people in front of the bar, but he never took anyone home.

When the bartender teased him about having a thing for blue eyes, John’s smile faded. He looked across the room at the woman he had just been speaking to, suddenly becoming aware of her pale skin and the dark curls that tumbled past her shoulders. He pulled on his jacket and left his glass on the bar, still half-full.

Due to an approaching deadline at the factory, John was sent to pick up a much-needed supply of magnetometers from a distributor near the coast.

He took a route that avoided the ocean. When he saw a glimmer of water in the distance, he turned his face in the other direction.

After two months, John quit poker. Jerry bugged him about it for a few weeks, but eventually gave up. Ellie went on to surpass John's old record. She offered to buy him a drink as a peace offering, but he didn't accept.

It took longer for him to give up Suicide.

It hurt, but it wasn’t the end of the world. John was distracted from his troubles when a damaged hoverplane came into the factory where he worked. It was a newer model, and his colleagues were excited about having the privilege to do the repairs. Their enthusiasm was contagious.

When John solved a problem that had stumped three other people—fixing the wiring that connected the AI unit to the directional controls—his supervisor gave him a bonus, and he was lavished with praise by his colleagues. For a moment, the world was a little less grey.

John wished he could see Sherlock react to his accomplishment. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock caring about hoverplane repair, but he still longed for that quiet look of admiration.

Life continued as usual, and John soldiered on. He still thought about Sherlock on grey mornings and lonely nights, but there were more pressing matters.

There was trouble in the United States concerning the daughter of a wealthy New Grennich businessman being kidnapped by a factory worker. The news spread quickly—especially when it was rumoured that the girl, Sylvia, was not quite the powerless hostage that the news stations described.

It wasn’t long before the truth was revealed, and the story exploded. Sylvia and her “kidnapper,” Will, were working together—breaking into banks, stealing time from the rich, and distributing it among the poor. The news stations warned about the possibility of “copycat Robin Hoods.”

John thought that it was a noble concept, but he didn't imagine it would take off.

John was wrong about the Americans. Vigilante groups started to spring up in time-currency nations all over the world. The news stations reported on new robberies nearly every day. The wealthy zones were panicking.

Someone tried to break into the bank down the street from John's flat, but didn't succeed. The criminal was caught by the Timekeepers, and timed out while waiting for his court case. His lawyer called it negligence—tried to get the jail shut down and the supervisors fired. Nothing ever came of it.

Midway through October, Molly's father timed out. Molly missed three days of work, and when John went to her flat, she was sitting in a floral armchair, calmly petting her cat and watching a news story about another bank robbery.

"Something has to change, John," she said. "We can't live like this."

John agreed, and they began making plans.

Molly was good with technology. Very good. She started reading up on bank surveillance and security systems, and it wasn't long at all before she was practicing her new skills on actual buildings. John watched over her shoulder as she showed him the video feed from the CCTV camera down the street. By the end of the week, she had hacked into the surveillance systems of three different banks.

The first bank they took was the one down the street from John. They broke in while it was closed and managed to steal two years before John had to escape.

He was almost caught coming out of the building. He came across a security guard that Molly hadn't seen, and ended up running out of the bank while the guard chased him down. John knew the city well, and was able to disappear in the crowd, losing the guard with ease. He took the long way back to Molly, just in case, and couldn't stop thinking of the night he had run through the streets with Sherlock as they held tightly onto each other's hands.

Molly was thrilled with the time John had managed to steal. They took six months each for themselves and left the extra year in the mailbox of a local homeless shelter.

John flipped forward on his calendar to where he had marked the day he would meet up with Sherlock again. He looked at his note—bright, bolded font standing out against the white screen. Half a year seemed very far away.

Molly said that they needed to go bigger, and that meant travelling to a different zone.

They had enough time by now that tolls weren't much of a concern. They decided to try Zone 10—wealthier than 13, but not so wealthy that the security systems would be impenetrable. They stayed in a hotel room across from D&T Bank as they made plans and studied the building.

It was almost a disaster. There were parts of the security system that Molly couldn't access, and John hadn't even got to the safe before he was facing the barrel of a security guard's gun. John froze. He knew that it wasn't uncommon for security forces in the wealthier zones to be armed, but he hadn't expected it from Zone 10. Molly was shouting into the comm unit in John's ear, but he didn't speak for fear of revealing her presence to the guard.

John saw someone approaching the guard from behind, and tried not to look, lest the guard get suspicious. The woman snuck up quietly and smacked the guard on the back of the head with the capsule she was carrying. John looked up at her, dumbfounded, as the guard fell to the ground.

"So are you robbing this place or what?" she asked.

Her name was Sally Donovan, and it turned out she was a friend of Molly's. They had grown up together, but Sally had moved to Zone 10 when her mother got a job promotion. She helped John take almost fifty years in capsules, and they snuck past Molly’s hacked security cameras before anyone saw them.

Sally insisted on joining the team, and after seeing how happy Molly was to see her again, John didn't have any argument against it.

After much discussion and deliberation, Sally introduced them to a former colleague. She assured them that Lestrade would be useful to their team, and she wasn't wrong. He proved himself on the first job he joined, and made himself indispensable by the third.

They were running out of a bank, panicking over the sound of sirens in the distance, when Lestrade broke into a nearby car and somehow managed to override the AI controls. They piled in, heartbeats hammering in their ears, and Lestrade drove them at top speed through the winding streets of Zone 7.

Sally leaned out the window and shot at the car that was chasing them, carefully aiming at the empty passenger side. The windscreen cracked, and the driver couldn’t see. He hit the brakes, crashing into the car behind him. Lestrade grinned and gave Sally a strong pat on the shoulder before driving them away to safety.

They had just finished a job in Zone 5. Usually it was Sally who travelled back to one of the poorer zones to distribute the capsules, but this time, John insisted on going instead. He said that he had unfinished business in Zone 13. Molly was the only one who knew what he meant, and when Sally and Lestrade started to question him, she shook her head behind John's back, and they stood down.

On a bright spring morning not unlike the one on which Sherlock left, John returned to the beach, one year to the day.

He waited until the sun went down. He kicked at the sand and breathed lungfuls of saltwater air.

Sherlock never showed up.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

“Molly, are you in yet?”

“Still working on it. Two minutes.”

John adjusted the comm unit in his ear and glanced down an empty hallway for what felt like the hundredth time.

“You know, I’m not sure we have that long,” he muttered.

“I can’t go any quicker, John, I’ve—”

“Okay, okay, just do it.”

They had spent the past week preparing for this job, and John suspected that they might be in over their heads. Sigerson Bank had security systems that Molly had never seen before, so instead of hacking in remotely, she needed John to plug her directly into the system. Everything was going smoothly so far, but something was making John nervous, and he wasn't sure what. He glanced around the empty office that he had hidden in and wiped dust off the security camera to his side. It didn’t usually take Molly quite this long. He touched the gun hidden at the small of his back.

“John, someone’s coming!” Sally’s voice sounded urgent. “Two guards—I tried to distract them, but they weren't having it. They're headed your way.”

“sh*t. Molly, are you in?”

“Two seconds, John.”

“Molly!”

John stood stock-still as he heard footsteps coming down the hall towards him. He arranged his jacket to hide his gun.

“Got it!” Molly said.

John pulled the datastick from the camera and shoved it into his pocket just as the footsteps approached the open doorway. A short, burly security guard did a double-take when he saw John and stopped in his tracks. He raised an eyebrow and quickly glanced around the small, dark room. Another guard—a blonde, blue-eyed woman who towered over both of them, came up next to him, looking at John with a frown.

“Um...loo?” John asked.

“What the hell are you doing back here?” the woman asked.

“Looking for the loo, I thought—”

“You thought we’d stick the loo behind the door that says “employees only?”

John gave a guilty cringe and shuffled his feet to appear non-threatening.

“Well, the public one’s always...nasty. And I figured the employees would maybe have something a bit nicer.”

“You expect us to believe that?”

“I—”

The male guard grabbed John by the elbow and pulled him roughly from the room. When John stumbled out the doorway, the guard grabbed his wrists and locked them in handcuffs. John's arms hung uselessly in front of him, where he couldn't reach his gun. He silently prayed they didn't search him.

The blonde woman gave him a curious look, then pulled out her phone, her eyes flickering back and forth between the screen and John.

"Hey, that's him," she said. She turned the screen to her partner, and his eyes widened.

"Is Mr.—"

"He's by the loan offices with his brother."

"Oh Christ, I hate that little sh*t."

"Don't we all."

The guard holding John gave a resigned sigh, and they started marching down the hall. John thought through his escape options.

“What’s going on?” Molly asked through the comm unit. “John, are you alright? Question for yes, statement for no.”

John cleared his throat and looked up at the guard leading him down the hall.

"So how do you know me exactly?" he asked. "Because I'm pretty sure I don't have a criminal record." It was true, and it was unnerving that the guards had recognized him. John laughed, trying to project ‘awkward and innocuous.’ "Well, there was that one time I got a penalty notice, does that count? I don't think that counts, it was just disorderly—"

"Shut up," the guard snarled.

“Shutting up, alright."

They came out of the hallway and re-entered the nearly-empty main room of the bank. John could see Sally standing by the exit, checking her phone casually and glancing up as John came through. He gave her a quick smile, then scanned the rest of the room as the guards led him towards the offices on the opposite side.

"John give us something," Lestrade said. "What do you need us to do?"

"Absolutely nothing happening this time of day, huh?" John asked. Neither guard gave a response.

"You can't expect us to sit here and watch," Lestrade muttered. John didn't answer.

The guards stopped short when the door to the loan offices opened. A tall man in an expensive suit walked out, arguing calmly with someone following behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder, and John followed his line of sight. His breath caught in his throat.

It was Sherlock—scowling and raising his voice with his rebuttal. The man he was arguing with could only be his brother. John was so astonished by Sherlock's presence that he didn't even hear what they were saying. His steps faltered, and he felt someone push him forward.

The female guard raised a hand to get their attention. "Mr. Holmes!" she called.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft looked over at them. When Sherlock's eyes met his, John felt his skin go cold. His emotions were warring between happiness, relief, anger, and fear. Sherlock opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but he didn't say a word. Mycroft’s face just barely hinted at surprise. The guards brought John closer.

"Found him in the back hallways, sir," said the male guard, shoving John in front of him.

Mycroft frowned, clearly irritated. "The orders were to bring him to me, and to me alone," he said, his voice restrained.

Sherlock turned to glare at him. “What? How—”

“You really should have chosen a more secure password for your phone, little brother.”

Sherlock seethed. The security guard looked over to his partner, not sure how to respond.

Sherlock looked almost the same as John had remembered—his hair was still unruly, his eyes still blue-grey and piercing. The only thing different was his clothing. He still wore his blue scarf, but instead of his suit and long wool coat, he was dressed in a dark leather jacket, slim black jeans, and heavy boots that came up to mid-calf.

John narrowed his eyes. "What the hell are you wearing?" he asked. Sherlock gave him half a grin, and John’s heart pounded faster.

The guards and Mycroft all looked from John to Sherlock, then back again. Mycroft's face had gone from surprised to curious. He watched his brother closely, completely ignoring the confused guards standing behind John.

Sherlock took a few steps forward and reached out to where John's hands were cuffed in front of him. He brushed his fingertips over John's palm, then tapped a few buttons on the control panel of the cuffs. They snapped open and fell to the ground with a thud.

"Learned how to get out of those a long time ago," he said, softly.

John came back to reality with the sound of Sherlock's voice. He elbowed one guard in the stomach, then kicked the other in the side of the knees. He whipped his gun out of his waistband and pointed it at Sherlock. Mycroft stilled. Sherlock just looked confused.

"I’m walking out of this building,” John said. “And no one’s going to stop me.”

Mycroft glanced at the gun and looked at John with a sort of distant curiosity. There were two more security guards approaching from opposite directions. John lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock by the arm, his palms starting to sweat.

"Keep them back," he shouted at Mycroft. He pulled Sherlock down until Sherlock's head was level with his own. Sherlock's body was twisted in an awkward position, and he stumbled into John, putting one hand to John's back to keep from falling. John could smell Sherlock's hair, and resisted the urge to close his eyes and breathe it in. He held the gun closer. Mycroft looked at the two other guards, and raised a hand. They stood still.

John started taking small steps backwards, pulling Sherlock with him. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and glanced at the gun, pointedly.

"You wouldn't," he said, sounding very certain.

“You willing to risk it?” John gripped Sherlock's arm a little tighter, though they both knew that he could break free at any moment. Sherlock glanced at John, his frown growing deeper.

John stopped walking when he sensed the exit doors behind him. He saw Sally out of the corner of his eye and motioned to the doors with a jerk of his head. She pulled a gun from her jacket and shot twice at the bulletproof glass protecting the main desk, then ran outside while everyone in the bank panicked. John gave one final glance to Mycroft, but Mycroft was looking at Sherlock, and didn't meet John’s eyes. John burst out the door, pulling Sherlock with him.

They flew down the stairs of the bank. The four guards behind them started shouting, but John pointed the gun at Sherlock again, and they fell quiet, standing at the doors, unwilling to go any closer lest John shoot.

"Not going to do much damage with the safety on," Sherlock said.

"Shut up." John turned down the volume of his comm unit, cringing as Molly and Lestrade started shouting.

"What's going on?"

"Are you alright?"

John saw Lestrade's car at the bottom of the stairs. Sally jumped into the passenger seat, waving through the window for John to hurry. John ran towards her and pulled the datastick from his pocket, pressing it into her palm.

"I'm going my own way, you guys go ahead."

Lestrade turned to look at him. "And how are you doing that? You bring your own car?"

"Just drive!" John shouted. He ran across the pavement, looking over his shoulder to find that the guards had begun to follow them. "Go!" he shouted again. He gave a sigh of relief when Lestrade began to drive away. He turned off his comm unit.

"Is that your bike?" John asked, pointing towards a sleek black motorbike that had created its own parking spot under the shade of a flowering tree. Sherlock nodded, dumbfounded. "Get on. Do you have an extra helmet?"

"No, I never ride with anyo—"

John took the helmet from where it rested on one handlebar, and shoved it at Sherlock's chest. When he let go of Sherlock's arm, Sherlock didn't flinch. He put on the helmet obediently. They made eye contact, and it was immediately obvious that Sherlock wasn't going to run. John swallowed.

"I said get on," he muttered, gruffly. He sat down on the bike and shifted forward. Sherlock sat pillion.

Sirens began to blare in the car park behind the bank. John turned to look at Sherlock over his shoulder.

"Your hand," he said. He took Sherlock's hand and pulled him forward to press his palm to the printlock. The bike started up immediately. When he let go, Sherlock twisted his wrist and grasped at John's fingers, but John pulled away.

"Hold on," John said. He directed Sherlock’s hand to his waist instead, and kicked off from the pavement. They drove away from the bank, catching up just behind Lestrade and Sally. Two solid black cars turned the corner towards them, sirens blaring.

John put a hand to his ear and turned his comm unit back on.

"Lestrade, lose the Timekeepers and go back to base. I'll meet you there."

"What about you?"

"We need to split up."

John could see Lestrade up ahead, blowing through a red light to take a left turn onto the main street. John kept straight, and was surprised to find that both black cars swerved to go after Lestrade. Sherlock's fists tightened in John's jacket.

"Okay, wasn't expecting that," John muttered. "Lestrade, you think you can lose them?"

A loud squeal came through the comm unit, followed by a shot.

Lestrade barked out a laugh. "Nice shot, Sally!"

"Lestrade?" John repeated.

"Yeah, I can do it. Shut up John, I'm driving here."

"Okay, see you at base; I'm turning off my comm. Watson out."

John flicked off his comm unit, focusing again on driving. Sherlock had shifted forward a bit with the movement of the bike. The warmth of his body was nostalgic. When John felt Sherlock squirming and shifting, he turned his head to the side.

"What are you doing?" he yelled over the engine.

Sherlock immediately stopped. After John swerved sharply to avoid a pothole, Sherlock shifted a little closer and wrapped his arms around John’s waist. He knocked John's belt buckle with the heel of one palm, and John pulled back with a sharp intake of breath. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock had done it on purpose or not.

The streets were nearly empty, since not many people drove in Zone 4. They passed the occasional cab or towncar, but for the most part, the road was theirs. John was driving fast, heading towards the base, when he noticed a car creeping up behind them in the distance. He glanced into the rear-view mirror and took a random turn. The car followed.

"sh*t," John muttered. He quickly tried to think of how to lose the car without the driver realizing that John was onto them. He took another turn and sped up a bit.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the roar of the bike. "Are you trying to throw me off?"

"We're being followed."

"What?" Sherlock leaned forward a bit, turning his head to hear better.

"I said we're being followed! It's probably your brother." John looked at Sherlock's face in the rear-view mirror. He looked surprised. "You thought he wasn't going to come after you?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John took another random turn, then sped up to get through a light just before it turned red. The car behind them swerved around a crossing limousine in order to follow. John glanced in the mirror and caught a glimpse of the driver.

"She's onto us!" he shouted.

"What?" Sherlock leaned forward again.

"I said she's onto us! Driver's a white woman, long brown hair—"

"Anthea. Take this next left."

John followed Sherlock's instructions, speeding up as Anthea began to follow closer. Sherlock clung on tighter, and John felt his heartbeat in his throat. He glanced behind them. Anthea was catching up.

"Take Driscoll Street up here on your right," Sherlock said.

"I can't—" John sped past the turn he was supposed to take, not seeing it quickly enough. "You have to give me more notice than that!"

"I can't hear you!"

John groaned and took the next right, hoping it would be almost the same. Sherlock took off his helmet in a fit of frustration.

“You’re heading towards a dead end!” he yelled. “Take this next turn.”

John followed Sherlock’s instructions. They were led to a main street with several narrow streets branching off on either side.

“Good,” said Sherlock. His arm tightened around John’s waist, and he slid forward so that they were pressed back-to-front. “Now stay on this road until the traffic lights up ahead.”

“Put your helmet back on before you get yourself killed,” John yelled.

"I can't hear you with that thing on! Take a right at the lights."

John had no idea where Sherlock was leading them, but Sherlock clearly knew what he was doing, so John followed directions. He glanced into the mirror again. Anthea was surging ahead behind them.

"This is it!" Sherlock shouted, excitedly. "Take this next right, then an immediate left. Careful—it'll be a tight squeeze."

John swerved quickly to the right, then saw the left that Sherlock expected him to take. For half a second, he panicked—the street was incredibly narrow, with barely enough space for the bike. He slowed down just enough to take the turn safely, and sped through. He glanced back to see Anthea squeal to a stop in front of the street. Her car wouldn't fit.

John burst out laughing with triumph, and Sherlock chuckled. He was still holding his helmet in one hand. It hung uselessly at his side as he clutched onto John with his opposite arm.

"Now follow this all the way through," he said. "Cross the bridge when you get to it." Sherlock had no qualms anymore about speaking directly into John's ear. John could feel Sherlock’s breath on his skin with each word. With the adrenaline wearing off, he started to feel irritated.

"Wait—where are you taking me?" he asked.

“Just trust me. Since you clearly don’t have a clue as to where you’re going.”

John rolled his eyes. He sped over the bridge and was just about to tell Sherlock off when Sherlock began nuzzling at his nape.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” John muttered, conflicted. “Take me somewhere I know. I have to meet up with my—”

He stopped when Sherlock’s arm tightened around him.

“I missed you,” Sherlock said, his lips brushing against the shell of John's ear.

John closed his eyes briefly before remembering that he was still driving. He sped up, then took an abrupt turn, then another, then another, until they were in the middle of a quiet maze of empty roads. He found an alley with enough room for the bike and slowly drove in. Sherlock’s arm loosened around him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

John pulled away and jumped off the bike, running one hand through his hair in an effort to tame it. He started pacing through the alley, unable to wipe the frown from his face. He felt cold without Sherlock pressed against his back.

“John?” Sherlock stood the bike on its kickstand and propped his helmet on top. He took a few steps as if to approach John, but stopped when John began to speak.

“You never showed up!” John yelled. “I waited a whole year for you, and you never showed up. Why would you even make that promise if you—”

“John, I—”

“Shut up." John felt like a kettle just starting to boil. "I waited for the entire day," he said. He tightened his fists at his side. Sherlock took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak, but John held up a hand to stop him.

"I was alone all morning and afternoon. And then, that evening, I saw a couple there, taking a walk.” He snorted an angry breath. “They jumped a mile when they saw me sitting in the sand. Probably thought I was going to rob them or something. I felt like a creep, but I kept thinking 'they'll see. Sherlock will show up, and then they'll see that I was just waiting—’” John stopped and swallowed.

“John,” Sherlock said. “I couldn’t—I was on a case that day, and I tried going the next day, but Mycroft—”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“No, I want you to know! I tried, I did, but then you moved, and—”

“I said shut up!” John grabbed Sherlock by the collar and pushed him against a brick wall. "Do you have any idea what it was like? What I was thinking? Where I'm from, when someone doesn't show up to a meeting like that, it means they've timed out."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, his mouth dropping open a bit.

"I couldn't have timed out. You know how much I—"

"There are other ways you could have died."

They were both quiet. John was standing close enough to see the heartbeat in Sherlock's throat. He closed his eyes. Sherlock's exhales stirred the hair at his forehead.

“I didn't consider that,” Sherlock said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"You owe me a thousand apologies," John growled.

"I’m sorry. I had no idea you would be so—"

John slid one hand around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down into a rough, biting kiss.

"Shut up," he muttered, pulling away again and taking quick, sharp breaths. "God, I missed you. For over a year, I missed you."

Sherlock's hands came up to frame John’s face, pulling him back for another kiss. When they parted again, they were both breathing heavily. John’s hair was still windswept, sticking up in strange places and refusing to lie flat. Sherlock's eyes were wide. They looked at each other in silence, then John cracked a smile and laughed. After watching him for a moment, Sherlock gave a chuckle of his own.

“I didn’t know how to contact you,” John said, tracing the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. “And then I thought that maybe you just didn’t want to—”

Sherlock nearly growled with disapproval. He tore off his jacket, dropping it to the ground with no regard for how much it cost. He rolled up his sleeve and pulled off his glove, then shoved his wrist at John’s chest.

“Here,” he said, brusquely.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, his fingertips coming to rest over a rapidly throbbing pulse.

“No one else,” Sherlock said.

They kissed again. John fumbled to pull off Sherlock’s scarf, and Sherlock tilted his head back, his eyelids falling just a fraction. When John mouthed over his throat, Sherlock’s eyes shut completely.

The alley was dead silent, but for the sound of lips against skin. John sucked a mark onto Sherlock’s neck, high and visible. He heard Sherlock let out a soft whimper, and he swallowed against a surge of arousal. He leaned forward.

When Sherlock pulled him closer, John was startled to find that Sherlock was hard. He closed his eyes and pressed his face to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“God,” he whispered. His fingers stroked Sherlock’s wrist over and over. He brought it to his mouth and let his breath ghost over the skin. Sherlock licked his lips.

“Please,” he said.

John met his eyes and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s pulse point. Sherlock gave a soft moan, and John caught his breath, a heavy warmth blooming low in his stomach. He pressed Sherlock into the wall with his whole body.

“Again,” Sherlock demanded, his voice wavering.

John swallowed, thickly. He kissed Sherlock’s wrist a second time, this time pressing with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock curled his fingers to touch John’s cheek, his tendons moving against John’s mouth. John leaned into the touch, then licked, boldly, in a broad stripe.

Sherlock whimpered, his hips jerking reflexively. He was panting now, eager and unravelling. His face was flushed pink, and he clutched at John’s shirt. John felt lightheaded. Seeing Sherlock like this—touching him like this—was intoxicating. He dipped one hand down to Sherlock’s waistband and glanced at Sherlock’s arm.

“Want to see,” he said, his voice deep and breathy.

Sherlock laid his arm flat on his chest. John unbuttoned Sherlock’s trousers and watched as his numbers flickered wildly. He kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, feeling harsh breaths against his cheek, then looked down between them and slid his hand into Sherlock’s pants.

The head of Sherlock’s co*ck was wet, smearing against John’s palm. John licked his lips. He closed his hand in a tight circle, and Sherlock tensed, tossing his head back against the wall. John only gave one brief tug before Sherlock choked out his name and came all over his fingers.

For an instant, Sherlock’s numbers flickered to zero.

“Oh my god,” John groaned, watching the digits with wide eyes.

Sherlock melted against the wall. John shoved his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck as he panted.

“You hit—f*cking—zero—” He opened his own trousers and wrapped a hand around himself. “God.”

Sherlock could only lean limply against the wall. John kissed and bit at Sherlock’s skin, and brought himself off in a few quick strokes.

Sherlock stared down at him with a stunned expression. John laughed, still trying to catch his breath, and kissed him.

“That was um...quicker than I expected,” he said.

Sherlock’s face turned red, and John immediately felt guilty.

“No no,” he said. “That’s not a bad thing, I just—”

“I’d never done that before.”

John smirked. “I told you, it’s fine.”

“No, I mean—” Sherlock looked away and sighed, frustrated. “Any of it.”

John stared at him for a moment, then worked out what Sherlock meant, and gaped.

“Are you saying you’ve never—”

Sherlock nodded.

“Oh.” John swallowed and looked down at the ground. “Hell, I just took your virginity in a dirty public alleyway.’”

“It’s not that dirty,” Sherlock argued, frowning. “And I believe it was more give than take.”

John rolled his eyes and sighed.

Sherlock looked down at his numbers. “Flatlining was slightly unnerving.”

John bit his lip to hold back a grin.

“Yes, well it’s more likely to happen, uh—with a partner,” he said, perhaps more proud than was decent. He pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and cleaned off his hand. “Though it doesn’t often happen your first time.”

“Has it happened to you before?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. Only twice, though. Two different people.”

“Hmm. I’ll take that as a challenge.”

John laughed.

They straightened their clothes and cleaned up as best they could. Just before Sherlock rolled down his sleeve, John noticed that the bruising was completely gone from the inside of his elbow. He took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it, fondly.

“So where are we going?” Sherlock asked. He stalked towards the motorbike and looked at John, expectantly.

John blinked. “Um.”

“I’m assuming you’re talking me back to your little hideout?” Sherlock waved a hand in the air, motioning vaguely in the direction from which they’d come.

John co*cked an eyebrow. “What, are you my hostage now?”

“I think you decided that for yourself when you pulled me along by gunpoint.”

“No, I think you decided that when you saw that the safety was on, and followed me anyway.”

Sherlock gave a mischievous smile and sat on the bike, putting on his helmet and shifting back to make room.

“You’re driving,” he said. “I rather like being behind you.”

John smirked and refrained from making an off-colour joke. He sat down in front of Sherlock, who immediately slid forward and wrapped his arms around him. John had to admit, he liked the feeling. Sherlock stretched forward and pressed his palm to the printlock, and they drove out of the alley.

John wasn’t sure what the rest of his team would say when he brought Sherlock back to meet them. Molly would understand—she always did—but Lestrade and Sally... He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to focus on the speed of the bike, the wind in his hair, and the gentle squeeze of Sherlock’s arms around his waist.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

John was a big believer in hiding in plain sight. Instead of breaking into empty flats, he usually insisted on finding a large hotel, paying for a suite legally, and setting up there until the job was done.

When they were finished, they left the hotel, cleared away any evidence of what they were doing, and moved along to another Zone. They played at being tourists or businesspeople to avoid suspicion, and the amount of time they spent on room service and excessive tips ensured that the hotel staff was usually willing to look the other way if anything strange happened.

John parked Sherlock's motorbike in the tiny car park reserved for the few guests that did drive their own vehicles, and walked into the lobby of the hotel. It was nicer than usual—there was a chandelier hanging from the hand-painted ceiling, and a string quartet was playing in front of an attached cafe. Every surface seemed to gleam spotlessly with gold plating. John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and grinned.

"Nice, huh?" he asked.

Sherlock was distracted by the musicians. He looked at John and nodded.

As they passed the front desk, a man in a crisp black suit fumbled to put away his phone and smiled widely at John.

"Afternoon, Mr. Holmes, sir," he said. "Can I get you anything? Pillow for your guest?"

Sherlock frowned. "Do I—"

"Uh, no, that won't be necessary," John said quickly, guiding Sherlock past with a hand on his back. "Think we've got enough in the room already. Thanks, though."

He led Sherlock to the lift and pushed him in, stabbing the "close doors" button before anyone could follow them. Sherlock looked at him, expectantly.

"I uh—sometimes use your last name when I reserve a room," John muttered.

Sherlock gave a sly grin. "John Holmes?"

"It's practical," John added, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes. "It's not a name I'm likely to forget, and people seem to know it. They assume that I'm related, but they don't ask—"

Sherlock slid an arm around John's back.

"Practical," he said. "Of course." He pulled John closer.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it," John grumbled. The lift doors opened, and he stubbornly shrugged out of Sherlock's grip and walked down the hall. Sherlock followed, laughing under his breath.

Suite 221 was at the end of the hall. John entered the code that activated the fingerprint lock on the door, then pressed his thumb to the touchpad. The door slid open with a hum.

"John!" Molly immediately stood from where she had been nestled cross-legged in front of her laptop. She took a step forward as if to run towards John, but stopped when she saw Sherlock behind him.

"Where've you been?" Lestrade asked, around a mouthful of chicken lo mein. Sally was sitting across from him in an armchair, and raised an eyebrow at John as he entered the room.

The door slid closed behind Sherlock. John took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair.

"Sorry," he said. "Got held up. We were chased by—"

"Wait, what’s he doing here?" Lestrade asked, pointing his chopsticks at Sherlock.

"Oh, it’s okay, he’s John's hostage," said Sally, irritated.

"I thought you'd get rid of him at the—"

"No," said Sally. "Apparently we're kidnappers now. John likes to make these decisions without consulting us."

John sighed. "Would you—hold on," he said. "He's not my hostage. He's just—" He took a breath and pulled Sherlock to stand beside him. The others stared at him, in wait.

"This is Sherlock," John said. "Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade and Sally's faces were blank but Molly gave a soft gasp.

"Sherlock?" she asked.

John looked at her and nodded. Her face softened into a smile.

"Is anyone going to fill us in?" Lestrade asked, exchanging a look with Sally.

"Sigerson Bank is owned by the Holmes family.”

"My brother," Sherlock corrected. "Mycroft."

"Oh, so now you've kidnapped the brother of the man who owns the bank we're planning to rob?" asked Sally. "John, I really wish you'd—"

"I didn't kidnap him. He's here willingly. We know each other. We've met. Before."

Sally and Lestrade were quiet. Molly sat back down at her laptop, and typed away, smiling. John inwardly groaned at having to navigate the introductions. He turned to Sherlock.

"You're staying," he said. "Take off your jacket and put it over there, with mine."

Sherlock gave a haughty look to Sally and Lestrade, who were both frowning at him, Lestrade with mostly confusion, and Sally with a little more annoyance. He tossed his jacket next to John's, then unravelled the scarf from around his neck. There was a darkening bruise high on the right side of his throat. Everyone's gazes were immediately drawn to it.

"Uh—" Lestrade stammered.

Sally just gave a soft, "Oh."

Molly's face turned pink.

John looked at Sherlock's neck, quickly trying to change the subject.

"So um...I figure he can help us. Probably knows a bit more about the security system at Sigerson." He sat down on an empty sofa. Sherlock sat next to him.

"That's only partially true," Sherlock said. "Mycroft keeps a lot from me. He wants me to take an interest in the bank, but he doesn't trust me with too much insider knowledge."

"Well you've got to know more than we do," said Molly, still typing at her computer.

Sherlock shrugged. “Undoubtedly, yes.”

"Well in that case, I'm glad to have you with us," said Lestrade. "And if John trusts you, I do, too." He held out a hand. "Greg Lestrade."

Sherlock shook it, firmly.

"You used to be a Timekeeper," he said.

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Uh—"

"I've known enough in my day to be able to tell. You were with them for five years? Seven? No more than ten. You became disillusioned by the injustices of the system. Found yourself arresting more people who genuinely needed the time than people who were stealing it for selfish reasons, so you left."

Lestrade looked at John, who was smiling.

"Um, seven years is right. How'd you—"

Molly stood up from her computer and reached over to offer Sherlock her hand. "My name's Molly," she said. "Molly Hooper." She sat back in her chair and waited.

"You're close to John," Sherlock said. "He mentioned you once, in passing. I believe you worked together?" Molly nodded. "You don't have his hands. Your calluses are in different places. You were a programmer, then. Probably pushed into it by your parents, who were in the same field, but you ended up genuinely enjoying it. And judging by the twitch of your eyelid when I mentioned your parents, I believe you lost them—"

John nudged Sherlock's arm as Molly’s smile suddenly faded. "Alright, that's enough," he said. Sherlock turned to Sally, but she didn't introduce herself.

"Sally Donovan," John said, motioning towards her.

Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Sally stopped him.

"Don't," she said. She looked at John, frowning. "You sure you can trust him?" she asked.

John nodded, firmly. "I'd trust him with my life. I already have."

"I hope you're right." She turned to Sherlock.

"Greg's not the only one who was a Timekeeper," she said. "Took me five years to realize I was doing more harm than good. But let's see if I've still got it, yeah?"

She pointed at Sherlock's boots. "The bike is brand new, and you've got the whole kit to go with it. You're more than wealthy—you've never had less than a hundred years on your arm, have you? You probably bought the bike to show your brother that you're not under his rule. If he's the one who owns the bank, he's the more responsible one—likely older, too—and he doesn't like seeing you zooming around, headed for death."

She paused, and the room was still. "The bank was left to you by your parents, am I right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Died in a car crash."

"Ah, real rebellious of you, then. The bike.” Sally stood up. “I've known people like you. Rich and careless. Don't think about anyone but yourselves. We've got a good thing going here, and I don't trust you not to screw it up."

"Sally—"

Sally held up a finger. "Let me speak, John.” She turned back to Sherlock. “If John says you're on the team, then you're on the team. John's in charge. But I've been screwed over before by people who were more interested in showing off and breaking the rules than in doing good for other people. So just know that I'll be watching. And if I see anything funny, believe me, the others are going to know about it. Understood?"

Sherlock stared up at her in mild shock, then slowly nodded, eyes narrowed.

“Understood,” he said.

Sally offered him her hand, and they shook.

“Screwed over by whom?” Sherlock asked.

“Don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“I think—”

John tugged Sherlock’s sleeve. “Don’t,” he said. “Let it go.”

Sherlock didn’t question further. Sally gave him a parting nod, and left the room.

"What was that all about?" John whispered to Lestrade.

Lestrade shrugged and put his empty container of lo mein on the coffee table.

“She’s got her reasons.” He glanced at Sherlock’s arm and sat back in his chair as Sally returned.

“So,” she said. “Where do we go from here?”

That night, lounging in the sitting room of the suite, everyone was a bit on edge. John couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. He kept glancing towards the windows, but never saw anything unusual when he looked outside.

After a dinner of leftover takeaway, they started getting ready for bed to prepare for an early start the next morning. There were two bedrooms in the suite, each with two double-sized beds. Lestrade had been sharing a room with John, but when he saw Sherlock exiting the bathroom in John’s pyjamas, he hesitated a bit. Sally caught on quicker.

"Hey, Greg," she said. "Why don't you take my bed. I can share with Molly."

John looked up, sharply, as Lestrade moved his backpack into the other bedroom. "Wait,” he said. “That's not—no one has to share but Sherlock and me. We're not going to—"

"It's fine," said Molly. "Sally and I used to have sleepovers in primary school. It'll be just like old times." She smiled at Sally and arranged her pillows to make room for two.

"Lestrade," said John. "You honestly think we'd do anything with you in the room? We’re—"

Lestrade held up a hand. "It's not that I don't trust you, mate. It's just—well you two ought to have...you know. Some time. To yourselves." He set his phone on the nightstand table and fluffed his pillow before lying down.

John looked at Sherlock, who was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with John’s toothbrush. Sherlock gave a foamy grin.

“Fine,” muttered John. “But I’m not going to bed right away. I think we should keep watch tonight.”

“You think they’re still looking for us?” Molly asked.

“I have Mycroft’s brother, of course they’re still looking for us.” John sighed. “We’ll split the night into two-hour shifts."

Sally raised a hand. “Wake me up when it’s time. I’ll go next.”

John nodded, and closed the door behind him as he left.

It wasn’t the first time they had kept watch after a job. This hotel was particularly suited for it. The balcony offered a perfect view of the main entrance below, and the street was lit well enough that John was confident he would be able to catch anything suspicious.

The night was warm, despite the light drizzle falling from the clouds overhead. The moon was a dull fuzz in the sky. John sat on a rocking bench near the edge of the balcony, one foot propped against the wall. A forcefield prevented the rain from blowing inside, keeping the space warm and dry.

The glass door opened behind him with a soft woosh, and John turned around to find Sherlock standing in the doorway. He was barefoot, wearing one of the dressing gowns that the hotel had provided.

“You should sleep,” said John, turning back around and not bothering to put any strength behind his argument.

Sherlock padded across the balcony and sat next to John, rocking the bench back and forth with one foot. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

"So is this what you've been doing while we were apart?" he asked. "Robbing banks?"

John shrugged. "Sort of. We just started about six months ago."

"What else did you do?"

"Can't you deduce that?" Sherlock raised a humourless eyebrow, and John huffed a laugh.

"Not much," he said. "Same as before, really. Work. That's about it."

"You kept going to the pub?"

"No. I stopped gambling. And I stopped Suicide." John looked over at Sherlock’s hand, where it rested between them. "Thought about what you said. When we met again, I wanted to be...better."

Sherlock shifted closer, so that they were pressed side-to-side. John gave in and linked their fingers.

"We've only known each other for four days," said Sherlock.

"Yeah." John looked at him. Sherlock was so close now that John could smell his skin. "You're different. I think." He hoped he wouldn’t start regretting the words that were falling out of his mouth. He looked away.

"Different from whom?"

John shrugged. "Everyone."

He leaned forward to get a better glimpse of a black car that had pulled up in front of the hotel, but when he saw that it was a group of laughing, inebriated teenagers, he sat back. Sherlock put a hand to John's cheek and turned his head to the side so he could look into John’s eyes.

John smiled. "I'm trying to keep watch here," he said, in a near-whisper. "You're distracting me."

Sherlock kissed him until John was only distantly aware of the outside world. When they broke apart, Sherlock sat back on the bench and stared soberly ahead.

"Wouldn't want to distract you," he said.

John laughed.

The drizzle started to calm into a light mist, and the clouds became less heavy and more like sheer wisps of colour over the sky. Sherlock rested his head on the back of the bench, and closed his eyes. He became so quiet and so still that it looked like he was asleep.

John leaned forward and stretched his arm over the edge of the balcony, passing through the warm wave of heat that marked the edge of the forcefield. He pulled back his rain-dampened hand and rubbed it over his face, the cold water helping to keep him awake. When he sat back on the bench, Sherlock was looking at him.

“What did you do?” John asked. “While we were apart?”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Led the Timekeepers astray on the Walters case. Avoided the cases that Mycroft gave me, and took my own instead. Dropped the drug habit, which you noticed.”

“Just like that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Two months at a facility. I had incentive. And a one-year deadline.”

John’s stomach couldn't decide if it wanted to twist in on itself or flutter like it had wings.

“I did intend to see you again,” Sherlock continued. “I wanted to. I just...”

John nodded. “We met again purely by chance. What would have happened if we hadn’t?”

“I would have found you.”

“You say that, but—” John turned to look at Sherlock, and stopped. Sherlock was staring at him with a confidant intensity. John licked his lips and turned away.

The rain had stopped completely, and John had all but forgotten the crowd below. The balcony felt very warm.

“I kept a picture of you,” Sherlock murmured. He was still looking at John.

“Hmm?”

“From the frame in your room. I copied it onto my phone before I left.”

John’s mind was blank for a moment, then he remembered the first night they had spent together.

“The one of me on the hoverplane?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. He shifted on the bench then leaned forward and kissed John’s cheek.

“It’s not a very good picture,” John said, rapidly losing control of his thought process as Sherlock started kissing a line down his neck. “My uniform’s dirty. I hadn’t showered for a week.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock purred, grinning against John’s skin. “It was inspiring.”

John swallowed. “Oh.”

“I looked at it almost every night.”

“Almost?”

Sherlock laughed, softly. He kept his face tucked into the crook of John’s neck and slid one hand onto John’s knee.

John shifted, though he wasn’t sure if it was to move further away or to move closer.

“I have to keep watch,” he said, turning to press his cheek to Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock didn’t seem overly concerned. His hand moved further up, and John’s legs parted just a fraction. John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own.

“What did I say about distracting me?” he whispered. He guided Sherlock’s hand up his thigh. Sherlock’s fingers were just coming blessedly close to the bulge in John’s trousers when the balcony door slid open.

“John?”

John startled, slamming his elbow into the back of the bench. He muttered a curse and rubbed at his arm, looking up to see Sally raising an eyebrow at him.

“I set an alarm,” she said. “Just in case. Your shift’s over.”

Sherlock stood, giving John a heated look over his shoulder as he passed Sally and headed back into the suite. John took a slow, steady breath.

“I hope you didn’t miss anything while you were distracted.”

“Sally, please.”

Sally sat down on the bench where Sherlock had been.

“Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

John nodded, curtly. “Thanks.”

John half-expected Sherlock to pounce as soon as he stepped into the bedroom. Instead, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at his feet. He glanced up as John shut the door quietly behind him.

“Are you alright?” John asked, because it seemed like an appropriate question.

Sherlock nodded.

John walked over to him and stood between his knees. He tilted Sherlock’s chin up and gave him a chaste, close-lipped kiss. Sherlock shifted back on the bed. He took a handful of John’s shirt and pulled him closer.

John crawled over Sherlock, and the world was thrown into sharp relief. John was hyperaware of everything—the scent of Sherlock's musk, the sound of rustling bed sheets, the feeling of expensive cotton beneath his palms.

"You said you missed me." He fell to Sherlock's side, lying half over his body. "When we were driving earlier..."

"Did I?" Sherlock asked.

John propped himself up on one elbow and found that Sherlock was looking at him, amusedly. He narrowed his eyes.

“You know you did, now you’re just being a prat.”

Sherlock smiled and flipped them over so that John was on his back. They were sideways on the bed, their feet dangling over the edge.

"I may have thought of you," Sherlock said. He kissed the base of John's throat and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. "Once or twice."

"Oh, is that all?" John asked. "Because I thought I heard something about 'every night?'"

Sherlock chuckled. "I said almost." He sat up, straddling John’s hips.

“Did you mark it on your calendar? Twenty-third of June—must think of John today, then I’m set for the year.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John briefly on the mouth.

“I thought of you often,” he said. "Why do you think I took the picture in the first place?"

He pulled off John’s shirt and tossed it on the floor.

"You know, I’m not entirely sure," John said, quietly. He put his hands on Sherlock’s thighs, enjoying the feeling of warm skin through the soft fabric.

Sherlock didn't explain. He trailed a hand down John's chest, pausing briefly at his belt buckle, then slid the belt off and dropped it over the edge of the bed. He pulled off the glove that John wore to conceal fifty years of stolen time, raising an eyebrow at the number.

John reached up to pull the dressing gown off of Sherlock's shoulders. The t-shirt Sherlock was wearing was tinted pink due to a laundry mishap. It was too large in some places and too small in others, and truthfully looked a little awkward. John gripped the worn bottom edge and pulled it up and over Sherlock's head.

Sherlock swallowed loudly enough to be heard in the quiet room. John licked his lips.

"You're lovely," he murmured. "Didn't get to see you properly, before."

Sherlock moved off of John's hips and laid down, his head on the pillow. He drew up his legs as if to protect himself. John crawled up next to him as Sherlock took off his glove and reached for John with his bare arm. He curled it around John’s back and pulled him down for a kiss.

The feeling of Sherlock's naked forearm against John’s scarred skin was intoxicating. John felt lightheaded. The numbers on their arms flickered like bolts of lightning.

Sherlock relaxed as they kissed, and straightened out his legs. He was still wearing John's ill-fitting pyjama bottoms, and John was still in his jeans. John looked down at Sherlock’s fingers as they started fussing with his flies in short, nervous movements. Sherlock’s lips were pursed, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. He glanced up and caught John’s eyes. John kissed the crease between Sherlock’s eyebrows.

Sherlock pulled the jeans off of John’s hips in a series of tugs, and John moved to lie between Sherlock's legs. When he started kissing Sherlock's neck, Sherlock closed his eyes and ran his hands up and down John's back. John scraped his teeth lightly over Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock gave a soft "ah."

"You like that?" John asked, his voice rough.

Sherlock nodded. His hands gripped John's waist, tightly.

"I want to know what you did with my picture. Tell me." John slid a hand down Sherlock's chest, played with the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, then delved inside. His fingers tickled at the edge of Sherlock's public hair, but pointedly ignored his now-obvious erection.

Sherlock blew out a frustrated breath.

"I—just—" He tried to shift towards John's hand, but John pulled away.

“Did you touch yourself?” John asked, his voice almost more air than sound. “Thinking of me?”

Sherlock’s breath hitched.

“Was that a yes?” John pressed his hips down, circling them in a lazy grind against Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded messily, and John closed his eyes.

"Oh—god, Sherlock." He kissed Sherlock again, breathing hot exhales into his mouth. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind—Sherlock lying in bed, one hand in his pants, the other clutching his mobile, John's picture displayed on the screen.

"Tell me what you want,” John groaned. “I'll give you anything."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and rolled to the side. He tucked his head under John’s chin and started sucking kisses at his collarbone.

“Tell me,” John repeated. One hand dropped down Sherlock's back to squeeze his arse.

Sherlock stilled. “I don’t want—I’m not interested in penetration,” he said.

John nodded. “That’s fine. There are plenty of other things we can do."

Sherlock ducked his head and kissed John's chest. His face was flushed pink, and John suspected that he was trying to hide it. He buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair.

"Sherlock," he whispered. "Do you want me to take you in my mouth?"

Sherlock shivered and nodded, his eyes wide.

John licked his lips. He pushed Sherlock over onto his back and shifted down to rest between his legs. Sherlock instinctively drew his knees up and tilted his hips towards John. John leaned in to kiss the bit of belly above Sherlock's waistband. He tugged the pyjamas down just enough to run his tongue over Sherlock's hipbones. Sherlock drew a startled breath.

John smiled against a scattering of freckles on Sherlock's skin. He propped himself up on his elbows and eased the pyjamas off of Sherlock's hips. John closed his eyes and swallowed, thickly. He took a slow breath in an attempt to calm himself, then wrapped one hand around Sherlock's co*ck. Sherlock tried to stifle a cry, but failed.

"Ah!"

John looked up to find Sherlock laying with his head tilted back, eyes scrunched closed. His mouth was open, taking tiny gasps of air. The sight of him made John’s face flush.

John kept one hand on Sherlock's hip, his thumb brushing over the hollow where thigh met torso. He kissed the tip of Sherlock's co*ck, brushing his lips against it just the slightest bit. Sherlock gave another sharp cry, and John stilled for a moment, afraid that someone had heard. He pulled away and licked his lips.

"You're so sensitive," he said. His voice was strange even to himself—low and slightly slurred. "This may not last long."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked down the length of his body, staring at John's lips. As Sherlock watched, John leaned in to take the head of Sherlock's co*ck into his mouth. Sherlock fell back again, and held his breath. One hand tightened in the sheets, the other groped for John's hand, where it still pressed into Sherlock's hip. He clutched John’s fingers tightly.

John slid down until nearly Sherlock's entire length was in his mouth. Sherlock's breaths became loud and ragged. He twisted the bed sheet in one hand.

Sherlock's reactions were making John ache. He tried to grind into the mattress, but didn't want to take his attention away from Sherlock. John felt a fierce desire to make this memorable for him, and from the looks of things, it wouldn't be too difficult. Sherlock kept trying to thrust up into John's mouth, but John pinned him down. He bobbed his head forward and back, enjoying the incoherent noises that Sherlock let escape. He felt Sherlock’s legs start to tense on either side of him. When John swirled his tongue one last time, Sherlock gave a loud gasp. He arched almost completely off of the mattress.

John forced himself to keep his eyes open, fighting against instinct in order to watch. When he swallowed and pulled away, he was panting slightly. He kicked off his boxer shorts and was about to wrap one hand around himself when Sherlock gave a grunt of disapproval and motioned him up.

“I want to,” he said, his voice still a bit breathless.

John crawled up next to him and gave him a wet, messy kiss as Sherlock stroked him with one sweaty and trembling hand. John breathed heavily against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock's inexperience was obvious; he was clearly finding the angle a bit awkward and kept trying to adjust his wrist. John squeezed his eyes closed. The fact that Sherlock had never touched anyone like this—the fact that he had never made anyone else feel the way that John felt right now—

John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s, his breaths short and staggered. Sherlock stroked him through his org*sm. He kept his eyes focused on John’s mouth. When John’s breathing started to even out, he looked at Sherlock and gave a slightly dopey smile.

“That was perfect,” he whispered.

Sherlock turned pink.

John reached over to the bedside table for a tissue. He cleaned off Sherlock’s stomach first, wiping his come off of Sherlock’s skin. He tossed the dirtied tissue onto the floor and put a hand on Sherlock’s arm where it lay between them.

“Tired?” he asked, stroking his fingers over Sherlock’s numbers. Sherlock nodded in response. “Get some sleep. Not sure what we’re doing tomorrow, but whatever it is, you’ll need your rest.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, just looked at John as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. John lifted Sherlock’s hand and kissed the inside of his wrist. Their eyes met, and John felt his heart rate pick up again.

“Well, hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but I’m a bit of a cuddler.” He turned onto his side and nestled back against Sherlock’s front, pulling Sherlock’s arm around him. He held Sherlock’s hand against his chest and ran a thumb over his knuckles.

The room was quiet; the sounds of the city muffled by the thick glass window. The sheets were pulled up around their shoulders, keeping them warm and snug. John felt entirely at peace. He drifted off to sleep, feeling puffs of breath against the back of his neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so content.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Sherlock was not a graceful sleeper. John was the first to wake the next morning, and he was surprised to see that Sherlock looked like an utter mess. His hair was a tangled bird's nest, his limbs were sprawled awkwardly across the mattress, and he was drooling onto his pillow. John held back a chuckle. He brushed a curl away from Sherlock's forehead before getting out of bed.

Everyone else was already awake, and looked up as John closed the bedroom door gently behind him. Lestrade gave him a roguish grin, and Molly and Sally exchanged a glance.

"Morning!" Lestrade said, cheerfully.

"Morning." John walked over to where they sat and picked up a banana from a complementary fruit basket on the coffee table. He sat down on the sofa next to Sally and peeled it, noticing suddenly that everyone was completely silent, staring at him. He paused with the banana halfway to his mouth.

"What?" he asked.

Molly look down to stare intently at the laptop balanced on her knees.

Lestrade shrugged. "Interesting choice of breakfast," he quipped.

Sally threw an apple at him.

Despite the disaster at Sigerson, they decided to stick with the plan they had made before entering Zone 4—they were going to rob Morgan Bank. Morgan was much smaller, with a security system that Molly was familiar with. It was on the outskirts of the area, and it would be incredibly easy to sneak through on their way to Zone 5, where they planned to lie low until Mycroft let his guard down. If everything went smoothly, they shouldn’t have any trouble going through unnoticed.

Once they were in, it would be simple. The president of Morgan had had his phone hacked three years earlier, resulting in a few embarrassing privacy leaks. As a result, he had become a bit of a technophobe. He refused to use any type of electronic lock for his bank's safe, preferring instead to use an old-fashioned padlock. He kept the key around his neck at all times.

Fortunately, there was a duplicate key, and thanks to hours of recorded security footage, Molly knew where it was hidden and how it was protected. All they had to do was sneak into the president’s office, find the key, and open the safe. Theoretically, it was easy.

John returned to the bedroom to find Sherlock lying diagonally across the bed. He was awake, and looked up as John came in.

“There you are,” he said. “Pass me my phone, I can’t reach it.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s outstretched hand and ignored him. He started shuffling around the room, packing up his things.

Sherlock frowned. “What are you doing?”

“We’re moving out,” John said. He picked up his socks from the bottom of the mattress, squeezing Sherlock’s foot where it lay under the tangled sheet. “We’re headed to Zone 5 to lie low for a bit, but we’ve got one quick job to do on the way.”

“I don’t even have any of my things,” Sherlock mused with a pout. “You can’t make me wear those trousers again. They’re still covered in sem*n.”

John chuckled. “You’re coming with us, then?”

“Well it’s not as if I have anything better to do.”

John looked up at Sherlock sharply, and Sherlock grinned.

“Berk,” John muttered.

“Anyway,” continued Sherlock. “I’ll be a great asset. Don’t groups like these have a ‘mastermind?’”

John rolled his eyes. “Okay, firstly, you’re not coming on this job. Second, even if you were, you would not be the ‘mastermind.’”

“What do you mean I’m not coming on the job?” Sherlock sat up in bed, the sheets pooling in his lap. John glanced down his chest appreciatively, then quickly looked away. “You need me.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “No offense, but we’ve been doing this for the past six months.” He tried to shove one last t-shirt into his overstuffed backpack, and frowned when it wouldn’t fit.

“Are you serious?” Sherlock asked, affronted. “Have you completely forgotten the Walters case?”

“Robbing a bank is not like solving a crime. In fact, it’s the complete opposite.”

“And therefore I can tell you exactly what not to do.”

“We’ve been doing fine on our own. I’m not putting you in harm’s way for no reason.” John gave up trying to shove the t-shirt into his backpack. He sighed. “Just stay here with Molly and I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“But I want to go! It could be dangerous.”

“And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. You just want to go because you think it’s rebellious. We’re not doing this to show off.”

Sherlock gave an angry sigh and leaned back against the pillows. John tossed him the extra t-shirt.

“Put this on,” he said. “You can’t walk around naked all day, and if you keep at it, I’m going to want to go three rounds in under 24 hours. And I just don’t know if I can do that.”

Sherlock pulled on the t-shirt, laying back again, luxuriously. He tugged the sheet down to reveal his hipbone, then tugged it again, a little slower.

“Trousers would be a good idea,” muttered John. He tossed Sherlock’s trousers in his face, and turned away when Sherlock pulled them on without putting on any pants beforehand.

“You’re staying, and that’s final,” he said. “We can do this ourselves. Everything will be fine.”

Everything was not fine.

Things went smoothly in the beginning. Sally managed to draw security away from the corporate offices, Molly had no trouble communicating with everyone via wrist cameras, and John and Lestrade slipped through to the president’s office just fine. It was only once they got in that everything fell apart.

“It’s in a hidden drawer in the left leg of the desk,” said Molly. “Hold up the camera—show me.”

Lestrade held his wrist to the desk and waved it around in aimless circles.

"Slower, slower—you're making me sick."

John glanced down at his own camera, seeing Molly frowning at the screen with concentration. Sherlock watched over her shoulder, his arms crossed. He looked at John, and his lips twitched to the side.

"There!" said Molly. "Stay still—it's right there."

John knelt down to see where Lestrade’s wrist was pointed. There was a tiny bump of a seam running along the joint where the leg of the desk met the surface. He pressed his fingers to it, and found that it could be pried open.

"Got it! Thanks, Molly, you're a lifesaver." He pulled until he drew out a small lidded box—the perfect size to hide something flat, like a key. As expected, the box was locked with a padlock of its own. John set it on the desk and pulled a roll of tools from his jacket pocket.

"Good luck," said Molly.

John pursed his lips and slid a torsion wrench and half-diamond pick into the lock.

"I see you’ve learned some new skills over the past year," said Sherlock. "Last I remember, you didn't know what lock picking was."

John smiled. "Yeah, well, I can only do cylinder locks. If I were better, I could break us into the safe, but—" He held the box up to his ear and closed his eyes as he listened for the sound of the lock's pins falling into place. He put down the half-diamond pick and switched to the hook pick. When he heard the last pin, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's open," he said, with a smile. Lestrade patted him on the back and watched over his shoulder as John opened the box.

"Um—problem," John said, frowning. "It's empty."

"What?" Lestrade grabbed the box from him, examining all sides and shaking it in one hand. "Yeah, Molly, there's nothing here," he said. He flipped the box upside-down and banged on the bottom, to no avail.

"Are you sure it's the right one?" asked Sally, whispering so she wouldn’t be heard while she stood watch in the lobby.

"No—I mean, yes, that's exactly where it should be.”

John ran his fingers over the seam under the table, but there was nothing else there.

"f*ck," he muttered. "Do you know where else it could be?"

Molly didn't answer. When John looked down at the video feed on his wrist, she was turned away from the camera, looking down at a tablet in her lap. Sherlock had disappeared from behind her.

"Molly?"

"I'm trying," she said, sounding worried.

John stood and started looking around the room, holding his camera up to the desk, in case it prompted any guesses. The desk was covered in piles of half-finished paperwork and an excessive amount of office supplies. There were pictures of the president’s family scattered to one side. Three coasters were stacked on the right, but they clearly weren’t used very often, because the false wood was stained with a series of coffee rings. John wiped at one with the textured fingertip of his glove.

He stopped when the comm unit in his ear beeped—the sound of someone going offline.

“Who was that?” John asked. He looked down at Lestrade, who was studying the underside of the desk. Lestrade shrugged.

“That was Sally,” said Molly. “I don’t—I don’t know where she went. I’ve lost her location.”

John felt his heart race faster. Sally only turned ever off her comm unit when she needed to concentrate, and didn’t want people “inside her head,” distracting her. It was possible that someone thought she was suspicious, and she was being questioned. John glanced toward the door, afraid to peek outside, in case anyone was coming towards them.

“Can you see her on the cameras?” he asked Molly.

“No, I told you, I’ve lost her loca—”

The comm unit beeped again.

“Sorry,” said Sally, muttering quietly. “But we have another problem. There's a security guard headed your way. I tried to stop him, but—”

John’s heart rate spiked. He looked down at the desk angrily, frustrated by not only losing the time they planned to steal, but also in losing the key. It made their entire trip today completely pointless.

"How far is he?" asked Lestrade.

"Uh, I'd give you five minutes."

John slammed his fist on the desk. "f*ck."

"John, show me the desk again."

John looked down at his camera. Sherlock had returned and was peering over Molly's shoulder, leaning closely into the screen. Molly grimaced a bit as Sherlock pushed her to the side.

"Why, do you think you know where it's hidden?" John asked.

"No."

"Then why—"

"Just let me see."

John rolled his eyes and pointed the camera at the desk, half-heartedly. He trailed it from one end to the other so Sherlock could see everything.

"Slower."

"Sherlock, we have to leave, we don't have time—"

"Get in closer."

John shoved his camera closer. Lestrade stood by the door, peeking out into the hallway. He turned back to glare at John.

"John!"

John glanced at him and shrugged, keeping his wrist pointed to the desk, hoping that Sherlock saw something that would help.

Lestrade waved to catch John’s attention again. "Someone’s coming," he hissed.

John crept over to the door and stood pressed to the wall next to Lestrade. They heard footsteps coming down the hallway. John held his breath. The footsteps approached the door and paused. John saw Lestrade tense.

"Hello?"

John's eyes widened, and he looked up at Lestrade. The voice continued.

"Oh, hey mate, I called you earlier, where were you?"

John sighed in relief. The footsteps started again, continuing down the hall as the security guard carried on his phone conversation. When the man turned a corner at the end of the hallway, Lestrade let out a low laugh.

"Close one," he said.

John shook his head. "Too close. We have to get out of here. Molly?"

“You should be able to make it out before anyone sees you.”

John peered out the doorway. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he turned into the hall and walked quietly back the way they had come.

"Wait—" Sherlock's voice came through the comm unit. John looked down at his camera to find Sherlock leaning in again, pressing down on Molly's shoulder as she frowned at him, her face pink.

"Sherlock, get off of Molly." John kept walking down the hallway.

"No, go to the safe, I can get you in."

"We can't get in without the key."

"Yes you can. You can override the need for a key with a four-digit passcode."

Lestrade stopped walking.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "This bank is owned by James Morgan. He doesn't use tech for anything other than—"

"Please, this is the twenty-second century. Did you think there wasn't even a digital code as a backup?"

John looked down at his camera. "Molly didn't see anything about a digital code."

"That's because the lock isn't connected to the rest of the system. Go to the safe and I'll give you the passcode."

John and Lestrade exchanged a look.

"Wait, how do you know the passcode?" asked Sally. She was speaking louder now—John assumed that she had already moved out of the building.

"I just figured it out,” Sherlock said, sounding smug.

Lestrade gaped. "What?"

"Just go to the safe!"

John looked at Lestrade. Lestrade nodded.

The safe ended up being protected by not just one lock, but five. John wondered if all of those keys should have been in the box, or if they were scattered around the president's office—or even around the whole bank. He realized how unprepared they had been.

"Sherlock?" he prompted.

"Do you have an electromagnetic pick?"

"Yes, of course."

"Turn it to the highest setting and use it on every lock. One of them will have a chip at the end that should reset with enough magnetic energy."

John took the pick from his jacket and adjusted the settings. He used the torsion wrench to hold down the plug of the first lock, then inserted the pick. When he clicked a button on the side, the magnet was activated, and the pick jerked in his hand. The lock didn’t react.

"Not the first one," he muttered. He did the same to the second lock, but was unsuccessful.

"Are you sure about this?" Lestrade asked, looking into his wrist camera. Sherlock didn't answer.

John moved down to the third lock, holding his breath as he pushed the button on the pick. Finally, something happened—the lock let out a tiny beeping sound. When John pulled out the pick, a holographic screen and keypad appeared on the door of the safe. The screen flickered for a moment, then displayed the message "authorization needed."

"How did you know that was there?" asked Molly.

John looked down at his camera in time to see Sherlock smirk.

"The passcode is 2164," Sherlock said, ignoring Molly's question.

"Wait, wait—" said Sally, her voice betraying a bit of worry. "Answer Molly. How do you know this, because if this goes wrong—"

"It doesn't matter—I’m right."

"I don't care. How do you—"

"Sally." John looked down at his camera. "Sherlock, you can't leave us in the dark like this. How did you know about the lock?"

"Mycroft, John. Are you completely forgetting my background?"

"Mycroft told you the passcode to someone else's—"

"Mycroft has dealt with this bank before. That's how I know about the existence of the digital lock. I deduced the passcode."

"How—"

"John, do have a bit more faith in me than that. Just enter the number."

Lestrade and John looked at the screen, the hologram flickering, waiting for a code.

“John?” Sherlock asked. John looked down at his camera. “Remember the alley, the first night we met? I knew instantly that you were a war mechanic. You called me extraordinary.”

John took a deep breath and entered the code. The screen disappeared. John bit his lip. A green light over the safe flashed three times, then the door silently slid open.

Lestrade laughed, and John gaped.

"I'm liking that boyfriend of yours," Lestrade said, clapping John on the shoulder. He walked into the safe, running his gloved hands over the capsules that lined the walls. John peered in next to him as Lestrade started packing an empty bag.

"Sherlock," John breathed. "How the hell did you—"

"Simple." John looked down the camera on his wrist, where Sherlock was smiling with pride. "It was on the president's desk. There was a framed picture of his daughter. Fairly new picture, because there were finger marks through the dust on the edges—through the ‘upload’ button on the side. So recently taken then, obviously a picture of her at a birthday party. Her own party, since she was wearing a new dress. The number of candles on the cake said she turned six. Six years ago was 2164. She’s his only child, it makes sense that he would use her birth year as the code.”

“Fantastic,” John whispered. Sherlock’s smile grew wider, and John breathed out a laugh. “f*ck,” he said. “Sherlock, when I get back there I am dragging you into the bedroom and giving you whatever you want.”

Lestrade made a noise of discomfort.

Sally groaned. “Ugh, John.”

Lestrade shoved a full bag of capsules at John’s chest, and pulled another empty bag from his pocket. He started to fill it, working quickly.

John looked down at the bag in his arms, opening it up to gaze inside. Each capsule held one hundred years. Banks liked using them because they were bulky and awkward to hide, making them harder to steal. Splitting the bank’s time into multiple capsules meant there was less likelihood of someone swooping in and stealing everything. It also protected the time from hackers, who would be able to steal the time easier if it were stored digitally. There was something very archaic about the art of the bank robbery.

John ran his finger over the display screen of one capsule, thinking about how much 100 years could buy. He looked up from the bag when Lestrade stiffened in front of him.

“Did you hear that?” Lestrade asked.

John looked towards the door. There were footsteps approaching in the distance.

“sh*t!”

Lestrade shoved another two capsules into his bag and zipped it closed. They heaved the bags onto their backs, snapping them into place.

“What’s wrong?” asked Molly. “Is someone coming? There’s no one in the hallway.”

John didn’t answer, for fear of someone hearing his voice. He glanced down at his camera, where Molly was studying the tablet in her lap.

“Oh—” she said, looking guilty. “You tripped an alarm.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lestrade in a loud whisper. “The code worked!”

“The code did work, but apparently, using it triggers a signal to security.”

“Well now what?”

The footsteps came closer, and John and Lestrade hid against the wall to either side of the door.

A lanky blonde security guard poked his head inside. He spotted Lestrade, but didn't have a chance to react before John punched him in the gut and pulled him into the room. He pushed the guard to the ground and disarmed him as Lestrade attacked the guard behind him.

“Guys, there’s a second exit!” Molly said. “If you can get out of there I can unlock a few doors for you. I’ll send directions to the car for Sally.”

Lestrade took a punch to the face, but recovered quickly and shoved the guard against the wall. He kneed the man in the crotch and threw him to the floor. The guard didn’t get up.

“John!” Lestrade shouted, pinching his nose to stop it from bleeding.

The guard that John was fighting struggled to get up, and kicked John in the shin. John stumbled, grabbing the door of the safe for balance. There were still capsules inside, so he took one and swung at the guard’s head. The guard fell unconscious.

“Where are we going, Molly?” John asked.

“Take a right. I’ll unlock the door at the end of the hallway.”

Their footsteps pounded against the cold white tile. John’s stomach clenched. He heaved his bag higher up on his shoulders. He could hear Lestrade sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve to keep from leaving a trail of blood.

The door at the end of the hallway slid open as they approached. They slipped through, coming to a second hallway, just as long. John stopped short when he saw a guard in a glass-windowed room. He ducked out of eyesight.

“There’s someone in the room next door,” he whispered. Lestrade peeked around the corner, then jumped back, his lips pursed. His nosebleed had started to slow.

“Can you sneak by?” asked Molly. “The exit’s right at the end of the hallway. Sally just pulled up.”

John looked around the corner. “We’ll have to crawl,” he said.

“Better than getting caught,” Lestrade muttered.

John took a breath and knelt on the floor. He started to crawl on his hands and knees, keeping as close to the wall as he could. He looked up over his shoulder to make sure his bag wasn’t visible over the windowsill.

“Um, I know you don’t want to hear this right now,” said Molly. “But they’re trying to kick me out of the security system.”

Lestrade swore.

“Are they succeeding?” John asked, crawling faster.

“Not...yet.”

The end of the hall was only a few metres away.

“I’d hurry, if I were you,” Molly said, meekly.

John’s hands slapped across the tile, grit digging into the heel of his palms. He could tell his knees were going to bruise. He looked up and saw the exit door open, a soft, warm breeze drifting tantalizingly near.

“Go, go, just go,’ Lestrade said. He pushed the bottom of John’s bag to move him forward.

“Hurry!” Molly said, urgently. “Oh!” The exit door started to close just as John jumped up and slipped through. It clipped Lestrade, nearly catching a hanging strap on his bag.

Sally was idling at the edge of the pavement. They jumped into the car and drove off just as an alarm sounded in the distance.

John stared out the window, chewing on his bottom lip until it was raw. That was a close call—much closer than it should have been. His heart was still racing. His knees hurt, he had a cut on one hand, and Lestrade was lucky that his nose wasn’t broken.

John couldn’t wait to do it again.

The rush of the escape was still humming through his veins. He looked at the two bags of capsules by his feet. There was more time there than anyone in Zone 13 would ever have imagined seeing.

John felt a flush of pride. He looked down at the camera on his wrist. The screen was blank, but looking at it now made him think of Sherlock’s triumphant smile when the safe door slid open. The way Sherlock had dramatically rattled off his deduction, how he had saved the whole job from failure just because he saw one picture on the president’s desk...

Sally parked the car close to the hotel’s entrance, and John shoved the bags of capsules into the compartment they had created in the backseat. They locked the car and walked into the hotel casually, Lestrade trying to cover his swollen nose.

“They probably tracked us,” Sally said, pacing back and forth once they were alone in the hotel’s lift. “We have to pack up and leave.”

John nodded, but was barely listening. He rocked on his heels, his hand clenching at his side.

“Half an hour,” said Lestrade. “Shouldn’t take us longer than that.”

The lift doors opened, and John walked briskly down the hall, straight towards their room. It took him two tries before the lock would accept his fingerprint. He bit his lip in frustration.

Sherlock was across the room, reading Molly’s computer screen from over her shoulder. He looked up as John stormed towards him.

“Believe I promised you something,” John muttered, taking Sherlock’s hand.

He dragged him towards the bedroom while Sherlock stumbled a couple of steps behind, grinning.

Lestrade frowned. “You did hear me say half an hour, yeah?”

“Won’t take that long.”

John pushed Sherlock into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind them.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to go down when they left the hotel. Rays of amber light shone between the shiny chrome buildings of the city, and the sky above darkened into a deep Oxford blue. John drove Sherlock’s motorbike, and together they followed Lestrade’s nondescript black car through the empty streets.

Zone 4 was beautiful—populated and busy, but not suffocating like Zone 13. The main road was lined with shops and boutiques, where immaculately-dressed shoppers spent weeks on clothing and home furnishings. The pavements were wide to accommodate the crowds. People carried shopping bags and chatted, followed everywhere by imposing bodyguards dressed in pressed black suits. John felt their eyes as he drove past.

The streets slowly emptied until they were the only two vehicles in sight. John squinted into the distance and saw a concrete wall ahead of them—the border between zones.

They slowed down as they approached the toll gate.

John reached out to place his wrist over the collection capsule, but Sherlock batted his hand out of the way.

“I’ll do it,” he said. He deposited the required 10 months, and the gate opened. John turned to look at Sherlock over his shoulder.

“I have the time,” he said.

Sherlock didn’t respond. John turned back around and drove through the gate.

Zone 5 was a smaller city, though obviously still wealthy. They settled in a vintage-themed hotel with old-fashioned rotating doors and oriental rugs in each room. Grandfather clocks took the place of digital ones, and there was hardly any neon in sight.

By the time they got settled in their suite, they were exhausted. John changed into his pyjamas almost immediately and shuffled into the bedroom that he and Sherlock would be sharing. Sherlock was already in bed, the sheets pulled up close around his neck. He was lying on his side, staring at the empty space next to him as if he could make John spontaneously appear. John shut the door quietly, smiling when Sherlock met his eyes.

“Tired?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer. John slid into bed next to him, and turned out the light. He laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and felt Sherlock’s eyes roving over his face.

“What?” he asked.

Sherlock shuffled closer. He pressed his mouth against John’s shoulder, and spoke in a low muffle.

“Do you always come back with scraped knees and bruises on your sides?”

John frowned up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t have happened if—”

“You had me under the impression that you were professionals.”

“We are professionals. I told you, we’ve been doing this for months.”

“You were unprepared and easily caught. You didn’t have a backup plan.”

John didn’t argue, and Sherlock moved closer. His fingers traced circles over John’s arm. John turned onto his side. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could just make out Sherlock’s face in the residual light from the alarm clock on the bedside table. He reached out a hand and touched Sherlock’s cheek.

“Do you want to come with us?” he asked.

Sherlock’s fingers stilled.

“I know that’s what you’re getting at, and honestly, I’d be stupid not to see how you could help. If it weren’t for you, we’d have left empty-handed today. You see things no one else notices. We could accomplish a lot more with you than we could without.”

Sherlock’s fingers started moving again as his mouth stretched into a grin.

“Even if you hadn’t asked,” he said. “I’d have found a way to follow somehow.”

John laughed. He picked up Sherlock’s hand and brought it to his lips.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” he said. “I would never forgive myself if—”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

“I’m in charge, so you’ve got to listen to what I say. If I say abort, you abort. Whether or not we’ve got the time.”

“I know, John.”

John licked his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Welcome to the team, then.”

There was a chill to the air outside the covers. John shifted further down and closer to Sherlock, drawn in by his body heat. Sherlock‘s eyes were closed, his breaths becoming slow and even, yet his hands wouldn’t stay still. He rubbed over John’s back with one, then tugged at the hem of John’s shirt with the other.

"Up," he whispered.

John kept his arms in place.

"I'm really kind of tired," he said, sheepishly.

Sherlock opened his eyes so he could roll them, dramatically. "I don't want sex. Just let me see."

John bit back a grin and let Sherlock pull the t-shirt over his head, then roll him over onto his stomach. John slid his arms under the pillow, crossing them beneath his head. He felt Sherlock's hand on his spine, tracing it up, and briefly cupping the back of his neck. John closed his eyes.

"Feels nice," he murmured.

Sherlock flattened his palm against John's back. He stroked one finger at the edge of the puncture scar on John's shoulder. John could hear the question in his silence, but Sherlock didn’t give voice to it immediately. He ran his fingers gently over John’s skin, sliding them up to scratch through the hair at the base of John’s skull.

“It was close,” he said. “Obviously, you were turned away when it exploded.”

John frowned.

“You told me that it was an accident—the wrong place at the wrong time. But that’s not true. You saw it coming, and—”

“You can’t possibly tell that just from my scars.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I can tell because I know when you’re lying, and when you told me about your scars a year ago, you lied.”

John tensed, and Sherlock’s hand stilled.

“Your left eyelid twitches when you lie,” Sherlock said. “And you blink more frequently.”

John turned his head to face in the other direction. “Just drop it.”

“I want to know—”

“You really don’t pick up on social cues, do you?” John rolled onto his side, his back to Sherlock. “Forget about it.”

Sherlock didn’t move, and didn’t speak. John stared across the room, wishing that the mirror against the wall was just a bit lower, so he could see Sherlock without having to meet his eyes. After a few moments of silence, Sherlock pulled away.

It took longer than usual for John to relax. He could tell that Sherlock wasn’t sleeping, either, but neither of them spoke. John sighed deeply in an effort to calm himself. He closed his eyes and tried not to think.

When John woke the next morning, he was alone and half-cold. Sherlock had left his side of the sheets pulled down, leaving John’s body exposed to the chilly morning air.

John grumbled and pulled them back up, shifting further down in bed. Memories of the night before came flooding back to him, and he felt a vague pang of guilt. He pulled his shirt back on and walked out into the other room.

Lestrade and Molly were chatting on the balcony, having breakfast. The balcony door had been left open to allow the breeze to drift through. Sunlight lit the room, combating the chill of the wind. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, staring blankly at the telly, though it was turned off.

John poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down by Sherlock’s feet. He took a sip from his mug.

“This your favourite programme?” he asked, looking up at the blank television screen. “I find it a bit dull, but to each their own.”

Sherlock scowled at him and curled his legs up, away from John.

John took another sip of coffee and reached down to pat Sherlock’s ankle. “You’re rather childish, anyone ever tell you that? Stubborn, rude, a complete prat when you want to be—”

Sherlock looked up. “I thought you were trying to make amends? This isn’t—”

“Narcissistic, sometimes just plain irritating, and you really have no concept of social niceties.” John looked down at Sherlock, who was staring at him with a blank expression. “God, you’re brilliant, though. Gorgeous, too. You have a great sense of humour, you’re braver than you realize, and really, you’re a better person than you think you are.”

Sherlock blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and looked back at the telly. He stretched his legs out so that his calves rested over John’s lap.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

John nodded and squeezed Sherlock’s knee. He looked up when he heard a chair scraping across the balcony floor. Molly walked into the room, typing on her phone with one hand.

“Morning,” she said, cheerfully. She slipped her phone into her back pocket and looked up with a smile.

Lestrade followed behind, closing the balcony door as he entered.

“We’re going out,” he said.

“You too?” John asked. “Where’s Sally?”

“She went back to Thirteen to give away what we got last night. You didn’t need any, did you?”

John knew the answer, but checked his arm anyway, out of habit.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t bought anything.”

Lestrade nodded. “Alright. Well Molly wants to go see the library. We’ll probably do some research, be back later tonight.”

Molly pulled on her jacket and fixed her hair in the mirror as Lestrade went into the other room for his coat.

“Don’t get into too much trouble while we’re gone,” she said, catching John’s eyes in the reflection.

John waved a hand at her, dismissively.

When Lestrade came back, he nodded goodbye to Sherlock and John and asked Molly a few questions about where the library was located before walking out the door. It slid closed behind them, and locked into place.

John gave Sherlock a mischievous grin.

“We have this whole suite to ourselves,” he said, tickling at Sherlock’s inseam. “What should we do?”

Sherlock snorted. “If you think I’m going to lie here and have sex with you all day, you’re gravely mistaken.”

“Well you wouldn’t be just lying there, you’d be an active participant.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked. He sat up and gave John a proper good morning kiss, then flopped back down.

“I’ll order us some breakfast,” John said. “I’m assuming you haven’t eaten, and have no plans to eat?” He tried to catch Sherlock’s eyes, but Sherlock avoided him, looking around the room, aimlessly. “Right. Breakfast it is. Get up.”

John ordered more food than they could finish—fluffy scrambled eggs, thick pieces of bacon, and browned sausage flavoured with herbs. A handful of tiny mushrooms were served in a scalloped china bowl, and a plate of toast sat next to an assortment of unusual jams spiced with ginger and cardamom. They ate in bed, just for the novelty of it, lounging on top of the white cotton duvet and being careful not to crush too many crumbs into the sheets.

John watched Sherlock nibble at a corner of toast while reading the news on his phone. He glanced away from the screen to delicately lick a smear of russet jam off his thumb.

“What?” he asked, when he caught John staring.

John shook his head. “Nothing.” He took a sip of coffee, and imagined sharing many mornings just like this.

After breakfast, John insisted that they leave the hotel and tour the city. He picked up a map on their way out of the building.

“We’ll get you some new clothes,” he said. “And then we’re going to be proper tourists and see the sights on our day off.”

They found a high-end boutique specializing in men’s suits, and Sherlock spent over an hour getting fitted, choosing between fabrics, and arguing with John over whether or not there were actually shades of black.

After making delivery arrangements, they walked through the main shopping centre. Neither of them had the patience for more shopping, but they pointed out interesting things in the windows as they passed. When the shops became more spaced out, the street led them towards a public park, lush with greenery. They bought overpriced sandwiches and two bags of crisps and found an empty bench, where they sat down for lunch. A group of university students were playing rugby nearby. John watched the game with nostalgia.

“The ginger is in love with the long-haired brunette,” said Sherlock.

John laughed around a mouthful of sandwich. “Oh? And how do you know that?”

“Body language. He touches him when it’s unnecessary to do so, and he just tossed him the ball.”

“He didn’t toss him the ball! They’re on opposing teams. The ginger got tackled and had to let the ball go.”

“Right into the arms of the long-haired brunette?”

John frowned and watched the players more sharply. It did seem like the ginger was paying quite a bit of attention to his opponent. When he glanced at the brunette’s arse a bit too obviously, Sherlock snorted.

“Told you,” he said. “Unfortunately, the brunette is straight.”

“There’s no way you can tell that without stereotyping.”

“Don’t insult me, John.”

John rolled his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s sleeping with the captain’s sister.

“Sister?”

“Possibly mother.”

“Mother?!”

Sherlock smirked.

There was a small cluster of stone buildings at the other end of the park, one of them an art museum. John insisted on going in, as admission was free, and he wasn’t sure if they would ever get the chance to go again.

“This is amazing,” he said, gazing at an impressionist painting by an artist he didn’t recognize. “Where I’m from, the museums don’t have real paintings like this. Just projections on the walls.”

Sherlock frowned. They were three-quarters of the way through the huge labyrinth of a room before John noticed that Sherlock was getting restless.

“I thought you’d like fine art,” John said, walking over to the next painting—a landscape of a grassy meadow overlooking a city. “You seem to enjoy pretty things.”

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye, then glanced around the room quickly. “I do,” he muttered. He took John by the elbow. “This way.”

John stumbled along, following Sherlock into the stairwell, down two floors, and under the hollow underbelly of the staircase. He found himself pressed against the wall and snogged while the doors above them opened and closed, footsteps echoing over their heads.

After a moment, Sherlock pulled back and looked at John. John’s cheeks felt heated. His lips were swollen, and his eyelids were heavy and drooping.

“My favourite works of art are interactive,” Sherlock murmured, leaning in again.

John was just beginning to think that maybe they should stop if they wanted to go out in public looking halfway decent, when he heard a text alert coming from his back pocket. He removed his mouth from Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s hand slid briefly over John’s arse before retrieving the phone. He unlocked it without asking for the password, glanced at the screen, and gave the phone to John.

“Ugh. Must we?” he asked.

John read the text.

Molly Hooper
18:23
meet for dinner? i’m with sally and greg

John chuckled. “I think we should,” he said. “I’m pretty sure they’re starting to believe that we don’t do anything but have sex all day.”

Sherlock groaned. John cuffed him upside the head.

Molly sent them the address to a quaint cafe not too far from the museum. The host led them to a cobblestoned courtyard with vines crawling over the walls. Molly was sitting with Sally and Lestrade at a table in the corner, shaded by a yellow-and-green striped umbrella.

“How’d the drop go?” asked John, as he took a seat next to Sally.

She nodded. “Good. Normal. They thanked us profusely, as usual.”

John smiled and glanced over at Sherlock, who was toying with his napkin, pretending not to listen.

A waiter came to take their orders and place cold glasses of water in front of them. Everyone’s eyes skittered back and forth as they waited for him to leave. Once he did, there was an unavoidably awkward silence.

Lestrade was the first to break it. He cleared his throat.

“So,” he asked. “How—did you two meet?” Sally gave him a derisive look, and Lestrade shrugged. “It’s a perfectly normal question.”

John snorted. “Yeah, if you were my mum, maybe.”

Lestrade smacked him in the side, and John laughed. He glanced at Sherlock, who looked bored out of his mind already.

“We met at the pub. Sherlock’s a detective, and he was on a case when I—”

“Almost destroyed everything I had been working for.”

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who returned the expression, softened with a gentle fondness.

“What kind of case?” Lestrade asked, leaning into the table with interest.

“Theft,” Sherlock answered. “Unsurprisingly, the Timekeepers in my zone were having some trouble. I solved the case for them.”

“They hire you to do that?”

“Not exactly.”

Sally raised an eyebrow. “You went after thieves? Bit ironic, isn’t it?”

“Just as ironic as your own history with the Timekeepers.”

Sally frowned and looked away.

“Besides,” Sherlock continued. “I choose which cases I take. The thieves I tracked down over the past year were no noble outlaws. The case that sent me to John’s zone was different.”

Together, John and Sherlock explained the Walters case. Sherlock went on at length about evidence and observations, then John took over, and started to explain how Sherlock had sacrificed his own time to save the lives of the Walters family.

He was enjoying telling the story, showing off Sherlock’s heroics, when Sherlock abruptly stood and excused himself to the toilet. John started to follow him, but Sherlock pushed him back down with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll be back,” he murmured.

After Sherlock had left, John looked around the table and steeled himself.

“I told Sherlock he could come with us on the next job,” he blurted.

Sally pursed her lips, and Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but no one spoke a word. John continued.

“You all saw what he did with the password yesterday, you can’t tell me he wouldn’t be useful.”

“He has no stake in this,” Sally said. “He’s from Four, he doesn’t care what goes on in the poor zones.”

John shook his head. “How can you possibly say that after hearing what I just told you about the Walters case?”

Sally didn’t answer.

“He guessed the password, Sally. And he was right.”

“Yeah, and I’m starting to wonder about that, too. How do you know he didn’t—”

John tightened a fist on the table. “Didn’t what?” he asked, his voice like steel. “What are you saying?”

Molly put a hand on Sally’s arm and looked at John.

“Stop it,” she said. “I thought we trusted each others’ judgement?”

Sally looked at her. “I do, I just—” She sighed and her shoulders loosened. “John, you’re not infallible. He could be using you.”

“I don’t know,” Lestrade mused, swirling ice cubes around the bottom of his glass. “It would be a long con. They first met over a year ago.”

Sally looked at John, who stared back at her with a fierceness in his eyes.

“He gave me a year of his own time so I would live long enough to meet him again,” he said. “This isn’t a con, and it’s not a f*cking fling.”

Sally gave a slight nod. Her eyes flickered past John, and John felt a presence behind him. Sherlock slid back into his chair. The table was quiet.

“I hear you’re coming with us on the next job,” Sally said.

Sherlock looked at John, then back at Sally, hesitantly.

“You think you can do that password trick again?”

Sherlock smirked. “Undoubtedly.”

It wasn’t long before the food arrived, and the conversation slowed. John noticed Sally glancing across the table at Sherlock a few times. She seemed quieter than usual, but he was confident that she would come around.

Molly asked Sherlock some questions about growing up in Zone 4, but Sherlock wasn’t very forthcoming with information. Conversation turned to travelling—to who had been to which zones, and what things were like there. Lestrade revealed that it wasn’t his first time as a tourist in Zone 5—he had come when he was younger, in celebration of his birthday.

“Yeah, this is where I turned 25,” he said. “My time started here.” He glanced down at his gloved arm, as if remembering it.

“Where were you?” Molly asked.

“At the pub with some mates. I didn’t know when it was going to start, but I knew it would be sometime at night. Happened while I was on my second pint, and it felt like a kick in the chest. Everyone wanted to see it, once it happened.”

"That's sad," said Molly. "I wouldn't want it to start that way—surrounded by people, not able to have a moment to yourself."

Lestrade shrugged. "I liked it. It was cause for celebration. Why? How did yours start?"

Molly looked down at her arm, hidden under the sleeve of an embroidered turquoise cardigan. “I was sleeping,” she said. “It woke me up in the middle of the night. I looked at the mirror on my bedside table to see what I would look like for the rest of my life.”

"Isn't that what all girls do?" Lestrade asked.

Sally smacked him. "Sexist."

"You saying you didn't?"

"Couldn't if I wanted to. I was in the middle of my T-23."

"Your time started while you were in the middle of your written exam?"

"I ignored it and kept working. Aced the test."

"And officially became a Timekeeper."

Sally smiled, proudly. "What about you, John?" she asked. "What's your story?"

John looked away. "Uh, it's not—"

"Oh, John's is good!" said Lestrade, grinning. "Tell 'em!" He leaned back in his chair and plucked a chip from his plate.

John rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the wall as if it were fascinating. He felt Sherlock kick his leg with one foot.

“Yes John,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “Tell us.”

“Mine’s embarrassing,” John muttered.

Lestrade snorted. “Didn’t seem to think that when you told me."

"Yeah, well when I told you I may have been inebriated." John sighed in defeat and avoided eye contact. "I was in bed when mine started. Uh—not alone." Sherlock broke out in a grin, and John looked at him, pointedly. “It was my first time with this particular girl, and it just happened at a really inopportune moment.”

Lestrade gave an amused chuckle.

"Really?" asked Sally, snickering. "I've seen that happen in movies, but never in real life."

"Yeah, well it has to happen to someone. And it's not the sort of thing that belongs in a teen comedy, believe me. It was awful. She gave me a moment when it happened. Just to gather myself. But I think my mind was elsewhere during the main event. And we didn’t see each other again after that."

"Tragic," Lestrade deadpanned. He suppressed laughter and looked over at Sherlock. "What about you?" he asked. "How did your time start?"

The humour disappeared from Sherlock's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"Was it like on telly?" Molly asked. "With the lavish parties and gifts and things?"

John had been pleased that Sherlock was being included in the conversation, but when he looked at Sherlock's face, he saw a hint of strain. Sherlock had one hand on the edge of his chair, and was gripping it tightly.

"Were you around other people?" Lestrade asked.

John interrupted.

“Um—are we done with dinner? Because if so, we ought to give our table to someone else.”

Lestrade frowned over the abrupt change of subject, but Sally seemed to understand. She glanced at Sherlock quickly.

“Yeah,” she said, trying to catch the attention of the waiter. “I think I see a queue outside.”

They paid for the meal and gathered up their things. On their way out of the restaurant, Sherlock put a hand on John’s arm and squeezed, gently. John turned to look at him, but Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes.

That night, John entered the bedroom to find Sherlock standing by the window, gazing outside at the people on the street below. He slid his arms around Sherlock's waist, and they stood together quietly, the faded light of the city illuminating the room. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.

"I don't remember when my time started," Sherlock said, quietly. "I was working on a case for Mycroft, and I didn't realize until after it was over that I was missing two days."

John kissed him again.

"I get caught up in things. And I forget—"

"I know."

"To eat and sleep and—"

"I know."

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned around in John's arms. John felt Sherlock's hand brush over the scar on his shoulder. Though Sherlock hadn't meant anything by it, John closed his eyes.

“I didn't completely lie," he said.

Sherlock's hand tensed.

"It was a clickbomb, and it did malfunction. That was the truth."

Sherlock didn't respond, but his hand started moving. It slipped under John’s t-shirt and stroked over the textures of his back. He was careful to use his palm, and only the pads of his fingers. He avoided even a hint of a scratch.

"I wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sherlock stilled again, and John opened his eyes. Sherlock was looking at him with a hint of curiosity and excitement.

"You were targeted?" he asked. “No wait—you took someone’s place. You saved them.”

John bit his lip.

"You're embarrassed, why are you embarrassed? Don't they award medals for that sort of thing?"

John snorted. "Not to mechanics. They did that back when they still used human soldiers. No one gets a medal for saving a bot. Or a tinscrewer."

Sherlock frowned at the pejorative. "I want to know," he said.

John met his eyes.

"I was in the repair bunker, fixing soldiers, and I heard a loud crash. Some kind of explosion had gone off nearby, and it knocked over a pile of supply crates that hadn't been unloaded yet."

John dropped his eyes and cleared his throat. Sherlock's hand started moving on his shoulder again.

"There was a clickbomb—a live one—lying on the ground. People were scrambling to get away from it, but it was acting unusual. The display screen was blank, so we had no idea when it might explode..."

John trailed off. Sherlock pulled him a little closer.

"I turned around, and there was this bloke trapped under the rubble. We made eye contact, and he started screaming for me to help—"

"And you went back," Sherlock finished.

John gave a strained smile. "Not right away." He pulled back just a bit. "I wasn't going to help him. I was going to turn around and run the f*ck away, but—I'd gambled away a lot of time the night before, and when he waved at me, I noticed how much he had. He should've been wearing a glove or something, because he had weeks. Almost a month. And I thought that if I saved him, and he were feeling particularly generous, maybe he'd give me a bit."

John couldn't face Sherlock. They were silent for a moment, Sherlock's hand still stroking over John's back. When John spoke again, his voice was much quieter.

"I was helping him to run when the bomb exploded behind us."

Sherlock squeezed John’s waist, gently.

"I would have let him die if it weren’t for—"

"No one is entirely self-sacrificing," Sherlock interrupted. “Pure altruism doesn’t exist.”

John shrugged.

"You would have done it anyway. You wouldn’t have left him there."

John wasn't so sure. He closed his eyes and was faced with images of the man’s face, screaming and pleading for John’s help while John spent agonizing seconds in selfish consideration. He thought of what had happened afterward—waking up in hospital, with an extra two weeks on his arm. He had gambled them away before he was even off bedrest.

John’s brow furrowed when he felt Sherlock's fingers slide over his neck and into his hair. He opened his eyes.

“Let’s get some sleep,” he muttered, trying to turn around.

Sherlock held fast. “You’re not doing this again,” he said. He pulled John closer. “I don’t care what you were thinking when you did it, the point is you did. You saved a man’s life.”

John swallowed and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s chest.

“You’re not the only one who’s done a good thing for the wrong reasons,” Sherlock said, softly. “The work you’re doing now more than makes up for whatever was in your head nearly ten years ago.”

John huffed a laugh against Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock held him tighter.

“Thank you,” John murmured.

They slid under the bedcovers side-by-side. When John closed his eyes, he could feel Sherlock’s breath rustling his hair.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

They stayed in Zone 5 for two weeks, playing at being tourists, hiding in the hotel suite, and watching telly for any news of the crimes they had committed in Zone 4. There was one short report, but it was quickly forgotten when a group of twelve thieves took a bank in Zone 3 and got away with two thousand years.

Since then, it had been almost too quiet. John couldn’t help worrying. He laid on the sofa, tangled with Sherlock, and stared blankly at the muted television.

Sigerson Bank was mentioned briefly in the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. John tensed.

“He knows I’m here of my own volition,” Sherlock said, quietly. “He’s not stupid.”

John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “I half-expected us to get stopped at the toll.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “If Mycroft catches me, I’ll only find you again.”

“Not if I’m in jail for bank robbery.”

Sherlock lifted his head from John’s chest. “He already knows where we are,” he said. “We’re being followed. There have been people watching us ever since we moved to Zone 5.”

“How long have you known this?”

“Since we arrived.”

“Why haven’t they approached us?”

“Because he trusts you.”

John was quiet for a moment, and Sherlock continued.

“When I got home after the Walters case, Mycroft discovered almost immediately that I was missing over a year of my life. When he asked me about it, I said that I had given it away. It was true, of course, but I’m sure he did some snooping of his own.”

“That’s why he had my picture.”

Sherlock nodded. “I didn’t realize until we met again, but it doesn’t surprise me. He has always been interested in my personal affairs.”

“Affairs?”

“It’s a turn of phrase.”

John laughed, and Sherlock laid his head back down.

“Do you think he’s going to approach us?” John asked.

“He will intercede if he finds it necessary. But he’s not watching us constantly. He just knows where we are at any given time.”

“How?”

“That’s his little mystery.”

“Did you just admit to not knowing something?”

“Oh, shut up.”

John chuckled.

They didn’t discuss it further, but somehow, knowing that they were being watched made John feel a bit better. As long as Sherlock did not come to harm, John had Mycroft’s unspoken trust.

He couldn’t say how long it would last. They had a job planned in the next couple days—their first with Sherlock—and it tied John’s stomach in knots just thinking about it. There wasn’t much he could do—he knew Sherlock wanted to come, and he knew that the rest of the team could use him, but he couldn’t help being nervous over how things would work out.

John tightened his arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock kissed his chest.

The day of the job crept ever closer, until finally, after much planning, discussion, and deliberation, the day came.

“Are you ready?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded.

“Remember, if it’s between your life and the time, your life comes out on top, no question about it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond. “John.”

John nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”

There was an unseasonable chill to the clear summer night. Between the waxing moon overhead and the yellow lights illuminating the corners of the car park, it wasn’t quite as dark as John had hoped. He and Sherlock hid under the canopy of an overgrown oak tree. Lestrade was across the road from them, glancing over every now and then, waiting for John’s signal.

John adjusted the comm unit in his ear.

“Molly? Is the coast clear?” he asked.

“There’s one guard stationed in the inside hallway. He’s not going anywhere—you’ll have to deal with him.”

“Fine.” John signalled to Lestrade with a nod of the head. They snuck towards the back employee entrance of the bank, all three of them standing to one side of the door. Molly’s speedy typing could be heard in the background of the comm unit.

“Keypad opening now,” she said.

A tiny hatch slid open next to the door, and John entered four random numbers. The keypad gave a negative-sounding beep and slid closed again. Molly re-opened it, and John entered another four random numbers. The hatch slid closed with another warning beep.

“You sure this is going to work?” asked Lestrade, watching as the hatch slid open again.

As if on cue, a voice came through on the other side of the door.

“That you, Kate? You forget the code again?”

The door opened to reveal a short, smiling man in a wrinkled security uniform. His smile quickly disappeared when he saw the three men standing outside.

“sh*t—”

John hooked an arm around his elbow and pulled him roughly from the door. While the man squirmed, Lestrade held a chloroform-soaked rag over his nose and mouth. The guard fell limp. John, Lestrade, and Sherlock walked into the deserted hallway of the bank.

John passed the unconscious guard to Lestrade, who secured his arms and legs.

“We’re in,” John said to Molly. He turned to face the exit door, where Sherlock was closely examining the frame. “Find it?” he asked.

Sherlock held up one long index finger, and didn’t answer. John stood just behind him, waiting.

"There," said Sherlock. He pointed to a small translucent square of film stuck to the wall, then peeled it off with two gloved fingers. John took it and angled it in the light. There was a strong fingerprint barely visible on the film.

"That should do," he said. "It's clear enough for a printlock, anyway. Let's go."

The hallway was lined on either side by offices, all vacant until the bank opened the next morning. There was a security camera set up in the corner of the ceiling, facing directly at them. John glanced at it, warily. Though he knew Molly was supplying the security office a fake video feed, it was unnerving to have the camera facing him. They headed towards the stairwell at the end of the hallway.

The stairwell was secured by a printlock and a four-digit passcode. Thanks to Sally sneaking into the bank less than an hour earlier, they had one half of what they needed. John pressed the visifilm to the touchscreen by the door. It blinked green, then displayed a numeric keypad.

"Molly?" John asked. "Passcode?"

"One second," she replied. John bit his lip.

"Oh for god's sake," said Sherlock. "It's obvious. 2102, the year the bank was founded. Something the employees will remember, but not the customers."

John looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He entered the passcode, and the edges of the door glowed green to signify that it was unlocked.

"Never mind, Molly," he said. "Sherlock—"

"I know." John could tell from the tone of Molly's voice that she was smiling. "I’ve had the passcode since I hacked in. I just like seeing him do that."

John saw Sherlock preen out of the corner of his eye. "Don't encourage him," he muttered.

The door slid open silently with a tap. There was one floor above them, and two below. They paused for a moment, letting the door shut behind them, and listened for any sign of life. They heard nothing.

"Okay," said John in a low voice, "We're in the stairwell. Do you see Sally?"

"Well, yes and no. She's on the floor below you—third room down on your left—but there aren't any cameras in there."

Lestrade cringed. "Bad sign."

"She can handle herself." John touched the waistband of his trousers out of habit, then remembered that he didn't have his gun with him. He bit his lip.

“Let’s go,” he said.

He led the way down the bare concrete stairs, then unlocked the door at the bottom. It opened into another hallway, much like the first. It was eerily quiet, and the complete lack of noise was making John nervous.

“You’re sure she’s here?” asked Lestrade. “I don’t hear any—”

A short cry came from a room down the hall. They walked quickly to the door that Molly had specified, and stood still for a moment, listening. There was a rustling sound coming from inside. John unlocked the door, and held his breath as it opened.

They peered inside, and John had to try hard to hold back a laugh.

"Told you she could handle herself," he said.

Sally was standing in the middle of the room with three unconscious guards on the floor by her feet. She brushed a curl out of her eyes.

"Took you long enough.”

Sherlock stared. “They had you handcuffed.”

“Oh, did they?” Sally kicked at the unlocked handcuffs at her feet, then turned to John. “They were careful not to identify themselves. I’m not sure who has the highest security clearance.”

John bit his lip. “And likely using the wrong code will set off an alarm. Did you check their pockets?”

“Yeah. They all have ID cards, but there’s no security specifications.”

Sally handed the ID cards to John. They all looked the same: a name, barcode, signature, fingerprint, and one photo, animated to switch back and forth from headshot to profile every few seconds. None of the cards gave any indication of their security rank.

John looked up at Sherlock. “You think you can figure out who the boss is here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The fact that you need to even ask that question—”

“Okay, I’m not asking then, just tell us.”

Sherlock moved closer to the guards. He nudged at one and knelt down to examine them all up close.

“This one,” he said, pointing. “His shoes aren’t as worn—he’s used to sitting behind a desk and doesn’t get out on the floor as often. His uniform isn’t as wrinkled, likely because he didn’t see any action all day, and just came out to deal with Sally. And there’s a mark on his finger, here. He gave a blood sample for the DNA lock on the safe. This is where his finger has been repeatedly pricked.”

“Amazing.” John licked his lips, then pursed them. He saw Sally shake her head out of the corner of his eye. “Alright,” he said. “Get his fingerprint and DNA and we’re set.”

While Lestrade took the guard’s fingerprint with an extra piece of visifilm, Sherlock plucked two hairs from the guard’s head and sealed them in a plastic bag. Sally and John set to work tying up the other guards with cable ties. Once the guards had been restrained and shoved into a far corner of the room, John stood up and looked down at their handiwork with something like pride.

“Okay, moving on.”

The safe door reached from floor to ceiling. It was made of thick metal, with a touchscreen control for the three-step locking mechanism. When John activated the screen, an opening appeared, with a prompt to insert an ID card.

John pushed the card into the slot, and was rewarded with a soft “ding.” The screen changed to prompt for a fingerprint. John pressed the visifilm directly in the middle of the screen, warming the back with his thumb to give it body temperature. The lock dinged again.

“So far, so good,” John muttered. Lestrade was shifting from side to side behind him. He could hear Sally pacing.

The screen changed again with a prompt for DNA, requesting a selection between hair, blood, and saliva samples. John selected hair, and a tiny hatch opened in the side of the door. He placed one of the guard’s hairs inside, and the hatch snapped closed. John held his breath.

DNA accepted.

Charles Casey confirmed

“Perfect,” Sally murmured. Lestrade chuckled. The screen changed again.

Please deposit 50 years for entry.

“sh*t.” John sighed and started to pull off his glove. “This one needs a deposit,” he said.

Sherlock put a hand on John’s elbow. “Wait, a deposit?”

“Yeah, some banks do that. Ensures that only people with enough time can get in.”

"That wasn't part of the plan."

John shrugged. “There’s always something.” He bared his wrist and held it over the collection capsule that had sprung out from the safe.

“How much do you have?” Sherlock asked.

“Just enough. Fifty years and two days.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Sherlock reached for John’s hand, but Lestrade grabbed his wrist. “Take my time,” Sherlock said.

“John won’t let us use our own,” said Lestrade. “Trust me, I’ve tried to convince him.”

“John—”

John watched the numbers on his arm whittle down to just two days. He ignored Sherlock’s stare. When fifty years had been deposited, the lock gave a series of beeps, and a loud shifting sound could be heard from inside the safe. The large metal door opened on its own. John looked inside and smiled.

“We’re in.”

Lestrade handed everyone an empty holdall, then he and Sally went right into the safe. They began stuffing their bags full of capsules. John was about to step inside when Sherlock pulled him back. John turned around to face him.

Sherlock ran his hand down John’s forearm, then took his wrist and looked down at John’s numbers. He rubbed his thumb over the passing seconds.

“I’ll be fine,” John said, softly. “I’ll get it back when we close the safe.”

Sherlock squeezed his wrist, gently.

“Let’s go.” John pulled his glove back on to cover his fingertips.

They went into the safe and started loading their bags with capsules. There was barely enough room inside for four people. Lestrade accidentally hit John in the ribs, and Sally kept elbowing him in the back. They worked as quickly as possible. Lestrade was the first one out, and set his bag on the floor as he glanced down the hallway.

“You guys almost ready?” he asked.

Sally heaved her bag onto her shoulder. “Done,” she said. She stepped out of the safe.

She had only just passed the threshold when a loud ringing sound split the air. John jumped.

“What happened?” He looked from Lestrade to Sally and back.

“The safe had a weight trigger—you took too much out,” said Molly. “Give me a minute.”

John grabbed Sherlock by the back of his shirt and pulled him out of the safe.

“Let’s go,” he said. The alarm turned off, and they could heard footsteps on the floor above them. They headed towards the stairwell.

“Molly, how many guards are here?”

“Just two, plus the ones you tied up.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can make it out without too much trouble.” John unlocked the stairwell door. They heard a door open on the floor above them. Voices echoed down from above.

A man peered at them from over the stairs just as John started climbing up. The man pulled out a slim silver gun and shot a blue bolt of energy at John. It missed by centimetres.

John stopped short and turned around, pushing the others to go back.

“Scramblers,” he said. He looked frantically at the other staircase, leading down to a second underground level. “Molly, what’s downstairs?”

“Mechanical room, servers—”

John started walking. “Can we get out that way?”

“It’s a maze, but I can tell you where to go.”

John ran down the stairs, the others following close behind.

“I thought you said they didn’t have guns!” called Sherlock.

“Scramblers aren’t guns,” Lestrade answered.

They unlocked the basem*nt door. Motion-activated lights came on as they entered the hallway.

“Straight down,” said Molly. “Cut through the last door on your left. It’s unlocked.”

They were halfway down the hall when the security guards started coming through, scramblers raised.

“Vatican cameos!” John yelled. They ducked to the floor, still running, as blue shots flew over their heads.

The door at the end of the hall wasn’t electronic. Sally reached it first and swung it open, holding it for the others as they rushed through behind her. John pushed Sherlock ahead of him, shielding Sherlock with his body.

“Ahh!” He felt a sting in his back, and realized he was hit.

“John!”

“I’m fine, I’m—” John shoved his glove down to his wrist and looked at his numbers. The scrambler had done its job—the digits flickered on his arm, taking and giving and taking again without settling on any one amount. John hoped that when they stopped, he was left with enough time to escape.

“Go out the door on the other side of the room,” said Molly.

“John.” Sherlock pulled John towards him as they ran. He clung to John’s arm and watched, waiting for the numbers to settle.

One day, twenty-three hours—twelve hours, fifty-five minutes, nine—one day, one hour, seven—one—zero—four

John rubbed at his arm as if he could stop the numbers from changing. He heard the security guards opening the door behind them. Sherlock pushed John ahead. They started running down the next hallway.

“How big is this place?” asked Lestrade.

“The basem*nt’s actually bigger than the building itself,” said Molly. “End of the hall, second-to-last door on your right. It’s locked, but I can open it for you.”

When John looked down at his arm again, his numbers had stopped changing. They had settled at only three hours and thirty-one minutes. John counted himself lucky. Hopefully, they would be out of the bank by then.

Sherlock grabbed for John’s wrist, but John pulled it away.

“How much?” Sherlock asked.

“Enough.”

“How much?”

The door at the end of the hall slid open. They entered a small office. When the door closed again, John turned around and jammed a lock pick into its touchscreen. It burst and fizzed with electricity.

“Molly?”

“Take the door on the right, then the staircase up two floors. There’s an exit. I’ll have the car meet you.”

John took a step forward, but Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist and held him back.

“We’ll catch up,” Sherlock said, his voice flat. He flung open a small, narrow door to reveal a storage closet, then tossed in his holdall. He pushed John inside after it.

“Um—” Lestrade and Sally hovered by the exit, not sure whether to listen to him.

John tried to get past Sherlock, but Sherlock wouldn’t move.

“Go!” John yelled to the others. He dropped his holdall in the closet and took a step inside. Sherlock closed the door.

The space was small—lined with metal shelves on three sides that were stacked with reams of synthpaper, boxes of styluses, and spare computer parts. John could hear Lestrade and Sally’s footsteps in his ear. Sherlock moved closer. His breath was warm against John’s face.

John put his hand to his ear and pulled out his comm unit. Sherlock did the same. Now, the only thing they could hear were the voices of the guards coming down the hallway.

“You know the code?”

“Yeah, give me a—sh*t.”

“They jammed it!”

“Wait, lemme—”

There was a banging sound against the door, then a rattling. Sherlock took John’s arm and looked down at his numbers. John swallowed.

The door of the office opened with a grinding of gears. John’s heart nearly beat out of his chest.

“That door there, they’re going for the back exit!”

Footsteps pounded across the linoleum, and the opposite door slid open and shut. John let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The office fell silent.

Sherlock still had John’s arm in his grip. “Three hours,” he murmured.

John looked up at him, and tried to gain control of his breathing. Sherlock’s eyebrows were knit with concern. John shrugged.

The closet was lit only by the light of the numbers on John’s arm. His glove was bunched around his hand, allowing his digits to glow in a dull green haze. Sherlock’s eyes flickered from John’s arm to his face. He slid his palm over John’s wrist and held tight. John licked his lips. He had exchanged time with countless people throughout his life—his mother, his sister, friends, and colleagues—but there was always something different about sharing time with a lover. John closed his eyes.

It was as if something was nudging at his mind. He felt Sherlock’s presence inside of him—the slightest brush of Sherlock’s consciousness against his own. He had the option to will it away—nudge back until Sherlock was pushed out. He didn’t. Instead, he allowed Sherlock to enter.

John opened his eyes and looked down at his numbers. He felt Sherlock hovering at the edge of his mind, a part of Sherlock in tune with him.

The hours on his arm went up slowly—Sherlock was lingering, making it last. The three became a four, became a five, became a six. Sherlock pushed a little faster, and the days went up, one by one. When John had a week on his arm, he nudged Sherlock away.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice hushed.

Sherlock slowed the exchange, and John’s numbers stilled. Though they had stopped exchanging time, they still held fast to each others’ wrists. John leaned up on his toes and kissed Sherlock, softly.

“Thank you,” he said.

When the room had been quiet for some time, they turned their comm units back on and asked Molly to help them escape. She told them when the coast was clear, and they made a run for it. They clung to the shadows outside the building, making their way around to where they had left Sherlock’s motorbike.

“You alright?” Lestrade asked. They could hear his car’s engine in the background of the comm unit.

“Fine,” said John. “Sherlock lent me some time.”

“I figured.”

They attached the holdalls to Sherlock’s bike and drove away from the bank. The night air was cool against John’s face. His blood was still pumping fast through his veins.

“That was kind of a mess,” said Sally. “Next time, can we figure out if they have scramblers before we get in?”

“Sorry, guys,” said Molly. “They must have bought them off the books.”

“That’s alright, John’s still alive, isn’t he?”

Sherlock’s hands tightened on John’s waist. John smiled.

"That was exciting," Sherlock said, his voice light and a little too innocent. John wondered what he was up to immediately. "Very exciting."

One of his hands slid down onto John’s thigh. John took a sharp breath.

"It's not always like that," said Lestrade, seemingly ignorant of the mischievous tone to Sherlock's voice. "Despite what you saw this time and last, there are jobs where we get off without a scratch."

John heard Sherlock remove his helmet and clip it onto the bike. He was about to protest when he felt Sherlock’s mouth on the back of his neck. Sherlock’s hand slid up and down on John's thigh.

"It must be hard," Sherlock said into the comm unit. "For you to get off. Like that."

"Uh—"

Sherlock leaned a little closer into John. His hand slid briefly over John's crotch. John caught his breath.

"Um, guys," he said, a slight gasp to his voice. "We'll uh—meet up with you later, we just—we have to—"

"Hey John? Don't tell us."

John heard Sally snicker, then the comm unit went silent. Sherlock chuckled.

There was a traffic light up ahead. John took a right-hand turn onto a smaller street. He saw a deserted car park and started to slow down, but Sherlock removed his hand from John's thigh.

"Keep driving," he said.

John glanced around the empty lot.

"Why, what's wrong with this?" he asked. "There's no one—"

"Keep driving."

John rolled his eyes and sped up again. Sherlock mouthed at the back of his neck. He put his hand on John's leg again, stroking up and down.

"You want to get a room somewhere?"

"No, John." Sherlock smiled against John's skin. John started getting very suspicious.

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking—"

"This street is very quiet and deserted, isn't it?"

"Oh, god." Sherlock bit John's trapezius muscle, and John shivered. Sherlock's hand crept over to John's crotch and lingered a little longer.

"You dressed to the right," Sherlock said. He unbuttoned John's trousers and lowered his zipper.

John swallowed. "This is really, really unsafe."

"Isn't it?" Sherlock purred. He caressed John's co*ck through his pants. "I can feel you growing bigger under my hand."

John licked his lips. He tried hard to concentrate on the road. Sherlock thrust his hips towards John's arse and breathed hard against the back of his neck.

"Go faster," he said, speaking right into John's ear.

John sped up. Sherlock smiled.

When the street curved to the left, John saw headlights coming towards them. Sherlock pulled John’s trousers open wide, and slid his hand into John’s pants. John choked out a cry.

It was unlikely that the people in the car could see them—they would have to be looking for it, and if even if they were, John's shirt was covering Sherlock's hand. Even so, John felt an exhibitionist thrill. He held his breath. Sherlock gave a strong tug as they sped past the other car. John’s whole body spasmed.

John could feel Sherlock laughing behind him. He kissed John's neck, starting at his nape and working his way around to kiss the side of John's jaw. John turned slightly towards him to give him better access.

The bike swerved.

"John!"

John quickly set them straight again, his heart racing. Sherlock pulled back and nosed at John's hair. "Pay attention," he said. He removed his hand, spat into it, and then gripped John again. He started stroking faster than before.

"Ah—sh*t," John muttered.

Sherlock was merciless. He ran his thumb through the wetness at the head of John's co*ck. He kept thrusting his hips into John's arse. He smashed his face into the crook of John's neck, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock, I can't—"

"Yes you can."

John tried to take a steadying breath. He realized that he had slowed down significantly in his distraction, and he sped up a bit, the wind ruffling his hair. Sherlock reached to the side and yanked up John's sleeve, pushing his glove down to expose his flickering numbers. He bit the back of John's neck, and John's spine arched. He tried to thrust into Sherlock's fist, but found he couldn't do it while driving.

"Sherlock—"

The world around him seemed to curl in on itself, the edges of his vision turning black. He kept his elbows locked, arms steady as he pulsed in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock was murmuring against his neck, but John couldn't hear what he was saying. He looked up—realizing suddenly that he hadn't been facing the road.

"f*ck!"

The bike wobbled through dirt for a bit before John guided them back to the road. Sherlock clung tightly to John's hips, laughing with his head on John's shoulder. John flushed. He changed his mind and drove back to the side of the road, slowing down and parking in the grass.

John got up and pulled Sherlock off the bike by his collar. He smashed their lips together and spun them around, walking Sherlock backwards towards the edge of the woods.

"That was ridiculous," he breathed. He pushed Sherlock up against the nearest tree trunk. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"You flatlined," Sherlock said, barely audible against John's lips. "I saw you."

John groaned, completely unsurprised, but sorry he had missed seeing it. Sherlock pulled him in for another kiss. John obliged for a moment, then unbuckled Sherlock's belt and slid to his knees.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Later that night, John gathered everyone around a table in the hotel suite. They strategized—went over what they had done wrong, and what they could do better to make the next job run smoothly. They started making plans for the next couple of weeks.

As they spoke, Sherlock rested one hand on John’s knee under the table. He stroked gently with his thumb, and drew lazy circles with his fingertips.

When they went to bed, Sherlock wordlessly stripped them both of their clothes and pushed John onto the mattress. John tried to look him in the eye, but Sherlock avoided his gaze. He lay on top of John, pinning their hands above his head and grinding slowly against him until John begged for more friction. John came without a hand touching him. He bit Sherlock’s shoulder to stifle a cry.

"I liked sharing time with you," John said.

They lay quietly, Sherlock’s chin digging into John’s chest, John’s hand in Sherlock’s hair. "I liked having you in my mind. You felt...close."

Sherlock rested his cheek against John’s collarbone and took his wrist.

"Pass me five minutes," he said. "Slowly."

John closed his eyes.

There were moments in his life when the exchange of time had been nothing more than a brief flicker of activity in the back of his brain; when he had passed time over so quickly that he hadn’t even sensed the other person’s mind at all. Not with Sherlock. With Sherlock, John wanted to linger.

He pressed into Sherlock’s consciousness and was welcomed. He felt instantly warmed and invigorated. Sherlock’s mind felt like the humming of bees—constant activity, even in the peace and silence of this moment. There was a hidden thread of affection that John wasn’t sure Sherlock wanted him to see. Being together like this felt so natural and so perfect that John was sorry to stop.

“Now me,” Sherlock murmured. He sent the five minutes back to John, just as slowly. John slid back into his own mind, then felt Sherlock pushing forward to enter.

They lay in the quiet of the hotel room, moving time back and forth between them, coming and going from each others’ minds until John felt dizzy from the intimacy. When John felt Sherlock fading away, he opened his eyes. He saw the numbers on his arm slow to real-time. Sherlock had fallen asleep.

They headed to Zone 6—a wealthy seaside town with a bank that sat right on the coast. The hotel they planned to stay in didn’t have any available suites, so they chose two rooms right next to each other, with large forcefield-protected windows that looked out over the water. When the windows were set to maximum transparency, the ocean breeze drifted through the room and ruffled the bedsheets.

They started planning their next job later that night. They sat in a circle and studied blueprints that Sally had obtained from a contact in town.

Sherlock swiped an image to the side of the synthpaper and zoomed in on the layout of the safe.

“We should detonate the door,” he said. “This design is vulnerable to explosive force, and the soundproof room would ensure that no one would hear.”

Lestrade leaned forward in his chair, peering at the image that Sherlock had expanded.

“Yeah, that sounds good, but where are we going to get explosives?”

“Get me the materials and I can make them. I’ve done it before, though not for a few years.”

“You’ve made explosives before?”

“They were experiments.”

Sally raised an eyebrow.

“Anyway, it won’t be all that difficult to gather the materials. I know a few distributors for the more obscure ones.”

Lestrade looked up at John, who nodded.

“Detonation it is,” John said. “Now how are we getting in?”

The morning of the job, Sherlock got another text from Mycroft. He tilted the screen towards John.

Mycroft Holmes
9 July 2170
8:05

I advise against this, but if you must, it may interest you to know that security is lax on the southwest staff exit.

John looked up at Sherlock with a frown.

“Is he helping us?”

Sherlock sighed. “‘Helping’ is too generous of a verb. Ensuring maybe.”

John co*cked his head in question, but Sherlock didn’t explain further.

Thanks to Mycroft’s advice, they got into the bank without being seen.

Sherlock’s explosives were effective.

Later that night, Sherlock’s skin smelled of ammonium nitrate. John pressed him against the door as soon as they stumbled into their hotel room. He felt bits of debris and dust in Sherlock’s hair.

“Can’t believe you—” he gasped, biting kisses against Sherlock’s mouth, “you know how to make a f*cking bomb.” Sherlock grinned, and John felt his teeth.

“I know quite a lot of things,” Sherlock said. He slid both hands down to John’s belt and pulled it open, roughly. John gasped. “You want me to show you?”

They skipped Zone 7 and moved on to Zone 8. John had been hoping to lose Mycroft’s spies, but Mycroft sent a text later that night that proved they had not outwitted him. John chose to ignore it.

Zone 8’s largest bank, Hound & Knight, was located across the street from a fancy French cafe with outdoor seating. John, Sherlock, and Lestrade sat at the edge of the patio, spying on three bank employees who laughed loudly at each others’ stories as they shared a basket of chips.

“You see a weak link?” asked Lestrade, watching.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and nodded. “The one on the left.”

“Why?” asked John.

“He spent most of his life in a poor zone. Probably Thirteen or Twelve. He’ll sympathize with your cause.”

“Our cause.”

“Right.” Sherlock stole a carrot from John’s plate.

“I’m going to regret asking this,” said Lestrade. “But how can you tell?”

“The way he moves. He’s not used to having as much time as he has now. He moves like John does.”

“What does that mean?” John asked.

“You do everything a little too fast.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Not everything.”

Sherlock looked at him, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Okay could we flirt some other time?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock received a text while he was in the shower. John picked up the phone when he heard the notification chime. The screen was locked. The phone chimed again in his hand.

“It’s his brother, isn’t it?” asked Molly, watching John from across the table.

John nodded.

“He rang earlier, but Sherlock didn’t pick up.”

“They don’t really get along.”

“Hmm.” Molly closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair, pulling her legs up in front of her. She toyed with the end of her ponytail.

“John, we’re safe, right?” she asked.

“Yeah,” said John, sounding more confident than he felt. “We’re safe.”

The Hound & Knight job did not go as planned.

Security locked the iron gate surrounding the premises before they were able to reach the street. Sherlock ducked into the small alcove that housed the gate’s controls, typing fast to hack it open. John, Sally, and Lestrade stood a few feet away, guns raised as they waited for the guards who would inevitably come running after them.

John heard Sherlock swear loudly. As he turned to look, he heard a shot, and a bullet grazed his side. He grunted with pain and clutched at the shallow wound.

“John!” Sherlock yelled.

John ducked behind a nearby tree and looked up to see Sherlock running after him. Sally and Lestrade were taking cover farther away. Sally stared at Sherlock, dumbfounded and angry.

“Sherlock, go back!” John said. “You’re supposed to be getting us out!”

Sherlock lifted John’s shirt, visibly sighing with relief when he saw that John had barely been nicked.

“You’re being shot at,” he muttered, angrily.

“We’re all being shot at, just do your job!”

Sherlock scowled, but went back to the security controls. The gate finally opened with a start, and they made it to the waiting car just as five guards filed out the gate after them.

Sally seethed. She sat in the passenger seat of the car and stared straight ahead, her shoulders tense, her hand tightened into a fist on the armrest. When they were in the safety of the hotel room, she gave Sherlock hell.

“You could have got us killed! You risked all our lives!”

“We’re all still here, aren’t we?”

“You’ve got to concentrate—”

“I was!”

“What did you even expect to do? If John had been shot, there’s nothing you could have done about it! The best thing to do would be to get him out of there, and to do that, you’d need to unlock the gate!”

Sherlock practically growled in frustration. He turned on his heel and stormed towards the bedroom, pushing a chair to the floor when it got in his way. He slammed the door shut behind him. John started to follow.

“John—”

John turned around to find Sally looking at him, concern laced with anger.

“It's not that I don't care about you, it's just—we’ve got to follow the plan if we want to get out alive. It was his job to get us out alive, and he put that at risk.”

John nodded. “I know.” He sighed and looked back at the closed bedroom door. “I’ll talk to him.”

The bedside lamp was motion-activated. It lit the room with a dull yellow glow, but Sherlock hadn't turned on any other lights. He was cast in shadow, standing by the window and looking up at the night sky. His arms were crossed. He didn't turn around when John entered.

“I should have known,” he said, his voice quiet, but firm. “I could see your reaction. I should have known that it wasn’t a serious injury.”

John crossed the room to stand next to Sherlock, and they stared out at the city lights—bright windows and glowing neon signs on every building.

“It’s okay to worry,” John said.

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes unseeing.

“But you did have a job to do,” John continued. “You have to stick to the plan—work for the greater good of the team, not just me.”

The air between them was thick. Sherlock didn’t respond.

“That being said...I think I'd do the same if it were you.”

Sherlock looked down at him, but John didn't meet his eyes.

"You wouldn't," Sherlock said. "You're too practical."

John leaned towards Sherlock until their shoulders brushed. "I hope I never have to find out."

They took Culverton Smith while the bank was open. Sherlock faked a medical emergency to distract security while John, Sally, and Lestrade snuck into the back hallway. They came away with 500 years in under an hour’s time.

At Milverton, Sherlock and John went into the bank disguised as maintenance workers. They helped Sally and Lestrade get in through a loo window, and together, they all snuck to the basem*nt. Forty-five minutes later, Sally and Lestrade were out the back exit, and Sherlock and John left through the front door with capsules in their toolboxes.

Their next job did not go so smoothly.

John saw it happen in slow-motion. They were on the roof. Footsteps were pounding up the stairs towards them. Sally was plugging Molly’s chipdrive into the lock that released the fire escape. The first guard to burst through the door raised his gun and shot.

Sherlock started moving before anyone could think. He pushed Sally out of the way, and the bullet struck his arm. John yelled out Sherlock’s name.

Everything faded into silence. John turned around, standing with his spine straight and jaw clenched. He shot the offending guard in both legs.

He was only distantly aware of the ladder falling into place behind him.

Sherlock curled into himself in the backseat of the car. John crowded in next to him. Sherlock’s face was white, his hands shaking. John wondered how many times in his life Sherlock had been injured.

The bullet had taken a chunk out of Sherlock’s arm, but it certainly wasn’t fatal. John tore off a piece of his own sleeve and pressed it to the wound to staunch the bleeding. The blood was a red bloom against the pale cotton of his shirt.

“It’s alright,” John murmured. “It’s alright.” He took one of Sherlock’s hands and held it tightly in an attempt to still his tremors. “You’re alive,” he said.

Sherlock didn’t speak. He stared down at his own blood on John’s fingertips.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock looked up. His eyes slowly came to focus on John’s face.

“Have you ever bled before?”

Sherlock didn’t give an answer. He struggled to take a deep breath.

“You’re going to be fine.” John rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s fingers. He leaned in and whispered soothing words into Sherlock’s ear until his breathing began to even out. When John pulled away, Sally was watching them both from the passenger seat, her eyes wide.

It was the most they had ever stolen. They got away with over 1500 years.

The next morning, Sherlock received a text from Mycroft.

Mycroft Holmes
7 September 2170
7:46

That’s enough.

He turned off the phone and handed it to John, who placed it back on the bedside table. Sherlock shifted down under the blankets until John could no longer see his face.

“We should learn all we can about the employees,” said Sherlock. “We want to be able to predict their decisions, know what moves they will make. If we get caught, we may be able to talk ourselves out of trouble, but to do that, we need to know who we’re convincing.” He pointed to a list of names on his tablet. “Look for anyone who may have come from a poor zone. They’ll move differently—faster, sharper. They’ll jog when they don’t need to, they’ll check their time more often out of habit. These people could be sympathizers to our cause.”

John looked up, but Sherlock didn’t seem to realize what he had just said.

“Any questions?”

It rained that night. John stared up at the ceiling as Sherlock knelt by his feet, kissing a trail over his legs. When John spoke, his voice could barely be heard over the drizzle on the roof.

“You said ‘our.’”

Sherlock didn’t bother lifting his head. “Mmm?”

“When you were telling the others your plan, you said ‘our cause.’ Instead of ‘your.’”

Sherlock looked up. He shrugged, nonchalantly, and leaned back down, mouthing his way up John’s inner thigh. He nosed at golden-brown hair.

“You’re one of us, now.”

Sherlock sighed. “Do you care at all for the fact that my mouth is just centimetres from your co*ck?”

John laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s just—” Sherlock crawled up to lie on top of him, pulling the blankets along as he went. “I like knowing that you’re working for our cause and not just for me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Sentiment.” His voice was chiding, but warm. John squeezed him closer with one arm.

Despite Sherlock’s lack of patience, and the fact that he expected a bit too much from everyone’s observation skills, his plan worked nearly perfectly. They were able to make it to the safe and out the back exit without being seen.

The downside to the back exit was that it opened out into a tightly-secured employees-only car park. A woman had just pulled in, and was fixing her makeup in her compact mirror as she let the car’s AI find her a parking spot. It pulled in so close that there was no way she would miss them once she got out of the car.

John thought quickly about what Sherlock had said. He saw the woman check her time before pulling her sleeve down. When she shut the car door, she glanced at her time again and swore, then opened the door to grab a glove from the passenger seat. When she turned around, John noticed a glowing blue tattoo on her ankle.

“She’s from Thirteen,” he whispered.

Lestrade frowned. “How do you—”

John stood up from behind the skip just as the woman approached. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“Hour Hand?” asked John.

“What?”

“Your tattoo. That’s the logo for Hour Hand Housing.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, hesitatingly. John saw Sally stand out of the corner of his eye. Lestrade and Sherlock followed.

“Are you—”

“Robbing the bank? Yes.”

“Did you stay at Hour Hand?” asked Sally. “My mum works there.”

The woman’s eyes darted from Sally, to John, to the entrance of the bank. “I volunteered there for ten years. Being at the shelter is what made me want to work with life loans.” She moved closer to the skip, out of the line of sight of anyone inside the bank. “What’s your mother’s name?” she asked.

“Helena Donovan.” Sally smirked. “‘Hell,’ if you get on her bad side. Here, I have a picture.” She took her phone out of her back pocket. The woman came closer to see.

“I recognize her! Not the name, but—” She looked up at Sally, then back down at the picture. “That’s your mum?”

Sally smiled and swiped to another picture: her and her mother, side-by-side, their arms around each other’s shoulders.

“Oh, I see it. You inherited her freckles.”

Sally put her phone back into her pocket. “You hear about the ‘anonymous donation’ they received last spring?” she asked. “Enough to keep them from going under?”

The woman nodded, briskly. “That was you?”

Sally grinned.

The woman gave them her keycard and instructed them to leave it in a potted plant on the other side of the gate. They followed her instructions, then split up—heading to their two different parking spots.

Sherlock and John were passing by a bus stop on a deserted street when Sherlock abruptly stopped walking.

“John—”

John turned around and Sherlock motioned him into the steel-walled bus shelter. The inside was lined with brightly lit ads. Up against the far wall was a wanted poster—John’s face, framed by his name and bolded, capitalized words. CRIME: ROBBERY. REWARD: 150 YEARS.

“Only 150?” John asked with amusem*nt. He chuckled to himself and looked up at Sherlock, who was staring at the poster. "You thinking of turning me in?"

“I have to go back,” Sherlock said.

John blanched. “What?”

“He’ll project your face on every adscreen. You’ll be on telly, all over the internet. You’ll be stopped immediately the next time you go within one mile of a bank.”

John looked back at the poster and didn’t answer.

“If I go back, he’ll stop. I have to—”

“Wait, when you say go back—are you leaving me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We need to take Sigerson. For everything. We need to empty the safe.”

“You think that’s going to stop Mycroft from wanting you to come home?”

“No, I think that’s going to show him that I’m no longer playing by his rules. Convince him that he has no power over me.”

John nodded, only partially convinced. “Okay...”

“You’re coming with me.”

“Well that wasn’t in question.”

Sherlock smirked.

“We were planning on robbing Sigerson anyway,” continued John. “The others will come with us.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded. “Good.”

They stared at the poster for a moment longer, then John slid two fingers through one of Sherlock’s belt loops and pulled him backwards.

“Can we go home now?” he asked. “You just led us through a very successful job, and you know how very successful jobs make me feel.”

Sherlock grinned. “Wouldn’t want to leave you waiting.”

John was about to head out of the bus shelter when Sherlock grabbed him by the waist and pushed him right up against the wanted poster.

“What are you—”

“Shh.”

Sherlock glanced at the poster, then back at John. He leaned in for a kiss.

“I really do like that picture of you,” he murmured.

Something about his voice made John’s heart race a little faster. Sherlock looked back at the poster. He licked his lips, then ducked his head to kiss John’s neck.

“What are you doing?” John asked, getting breathless. “We’re in public. Again.”

“No one can see.”

“You don't know—ah!”

Sherlock tugged John’s hips forward so that John could feel Sherlock’s half-hard erection.

“You can’t possibly be that turned on just from one picture,” John said, with a short moan.

Sherlock sucked a mark into his neck.

“Watch me,” he growled.

“Where were you?” asked Molly. She got up from her chair and walked over to them, looking them over for injuries. John abruptly tried to hide his giddy smile. “I was starting to get worried.”

“We’re fine,” said John. He stilled Molly’s hands and squeezed her shoulder. “We just uh—we took the long way back.”

Sally snorted. “Looks like they went to church, going by the state of Sherlock’s knees.”

Molly’s eyes widened, and John turned three shades of red. Sherlock glared and tried to brush the wrinkles out of his trousers.

They gathered the others the next morning.

There were only the slightest of hesitations. Despite the risks, everyone agreed to go back and try Sigerson again. They hoped that after this, they could move on to the inner circle of Zones 2 and 1. If they could pull off Sigerson, they might be ready.

When the group had made their decision, Sherlock looked slightly stunned. John put a hand on his arm.

“I told you they’d help you out,” he said.

It happened later that night.

John was watching an admittedly terrible reality programme, and Sherlock was pretending not to pay attention. He held his phone in one hand and scrolled through the menu, but his eyes were glued to the television screen. When a contestant on the programme gave a very stupid answer to a very simple question, Sherlock pursed his lips to hide a smirk.

John caught his breath. He felt as though his blood were infused with warmth and light. He stared unseeingly at Sherlock, then blinked several times. When he could see again, he found himself gazing at a tangle in Sherlock’s hair and a fingernail that had been bitten too short. The angle of Sherlock’s elbow seemed beautiful to him.

Sherlock chuckled at the telly, and John looked away. He took a slow inhale and calmly considered the weight of four-letter words.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

John's eyelids fluttered open to reveal a pitch-black room. He felt a warm, heavy weight on his body, and a soft, wet mouth on his neck. He slowly remembered where he was—a hotel room in Zone 4. He hummed and closed his eyes.

"What time is it?" he murmured. He rested a hand over Sherlock's back, and felt Sherlock's mouth stretch into a smile.

"Time to get up."

John groaned. "It's still dark."

"I know. But we're leaving."

John opened his eyes, his sleepiness ebbing away to make room for growing alarm.

"What?" he asked. "Why, what happened?"

"Nothing, calm down." Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. It was almost too dark to see; John could just make out the silver flicker of Sherlock's eyes. "I'm taking you to my house."

John frowned in silent question.

"I just got word from a contact in town—Mycroft is away for the weekend at a conference in First Zone."

"Oh." John felt a bit disappointed over the wasted potential. If they had known earlier that Mycroft would be gone, they could have—

"No, we wouldn't have been able to take Sigerson while Mycroft is away. He tightens security when he's gone." Sherlock rolled off of John and settled on his side. “Plus, I’d rather steal right out from under his unattractively hooked nose.”

John snorted. "Okay. So why are we going to your house?"

Sherlock breathed a short laugh. John felt it across his face.

"Why do you think?" Sherlock asked. "I’m using hospitality as a thinly-veiled excuse to get you into my bedroom.”

John chuckled, and Sherlock patted him on the chest before sitting up, pulling the warm bed sheets with him.

"Ugh."

"Come along, John. Pack a bag."

John changed into worn jeans, the light blue shirt that was Sherlock's favourite, and a darker blue jumper. He packed a few things into his backpack, then followed Sherlock out the door of the bedroom.

Someone had left a window cracked open in the main room. The early December air invigorated John’s senses, his blood humming with the childish excitement of doing something he probably shouldn't. He looked at the clock on the table. It was 3am.

Sherlock hadn't packed anything, so he didn’t have anything to hold in his hands. His fingers twitched nervously at his sides. John caught his eyes, and smiled.

"I feel like we're running away," he whispered. Sherlock grinned. He started towards the door, but John paused behind him.

"We should leave a note," John said. "If they wake up and find us gone, they'll panic."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Being sneaky about it is half the fun."

"It won't be fun for the others when they think we've been kidnapped." He tapped a few buttons on the note screen by the door and scribbled a message with his finger—gone away for weekend, be back sunday. Sherlock slipped out into the hallway, and John closed the door quietly behind them.

Since Sherlock knew the way, he insisted on driving the bike. He moved like a waterfall, all smooth turns and gentle stops. John shifted forward as close as he could, his knees tucked tight against Sherlock’s hips.

The roads were empty, but despite the hour, the city was surprisingly lively. They passed large, expensive flats. Music could be heard in the streets, and the silhouettes of dancing partygoers were visible in the windows.

After the flats came the mansions. John stared in awe as they started passing sprawling properties, each with an excessive amount of security. Like the flats, many of them were lit, parties continuing well into the morning hours. People came and went, dressed in everything from tuxedos and co*cktail gowns to stiff, pressed suits and short, tight dresses.

John shook his head. This life was unrecognisable. John was still getting used to having fifty years on his arm—to not having to double-check his time whenever he bought himself lunch. He couldn’t imagine the opulence of going to a different party every night—not having to worry about work the next day—about making enough to pay his bills and still live through the night.

Sherlock pointed at a tall gate of glowing blue energy, the entrance controlled by a security guard in a small kiosk.

“We're going in the back way," Sherlock said.

They went around the property until they came to a wooded area along the side. Sherlock drove off the road and down a small dirt pathway between the trees. When they could no longer see the street, he parked the bike and got off, removing his helmet and running a hand through his hair. John followed him further along the path until they could again see the glowing blue gate ahead of them.

"This way," Sherlock said. He led them right up to the gate and stared at it, his eyes moving quickly side-to-side.

"What are you looking for?" John asked.

Sherlock held up a finger and shushed him. John rolled his eyes.

“Here,” Sherlock muttered.

The gate was separated into partitions—thin metal columns placed between each panel of energy. Sherlock knelt at the bottom of one column and started digging in the dirt. Soon enough, he pulled a tiny metal box.

John watched over his shoulder as Sherlock pressed a button on the side and entered a password on the tiny display screen. The box beeped once, and the panel in front of them flickered, then disappeared. Sherlock stood quickly, slid the box into his pocket, and shoved John through the gate.

"Five seconds," he said.

The gate shuddered to a close behind them. John looked up.

Sherlock's house was the biggest residential building that John had ever seen. It was sleek and modern, made of dark chrome and glass—not the cheap recycled composite of many buildings in Zone 13.

John’s breath caught. He pursed his lips and looked at Sherlock, who was standing just a couple of steps behind him. Sherlock watched John’s expression closely.

“You live here?” John asked.

Sherlock looked up at the house and shrugged. “Well, not at the moment.”

The gate had opened up to the side of the building, far in back. They crossed a large grassy yard and passed by a garden with more species of flowers than John could name. Past the flowers was a squared-off space that looked to John like nothing more than a lot of dirt with a few weeds growing in it. It was in sharp contrast to the rest of the property—lush green and well-manicured.

“What’s that?” John asked, pointing.

Sherlock followed John’s gaze. “My poison garden.”

John burst out laughing. There was something about the scraggly patch of dirt that was strangely comforting. It was a relief to see it there—visible proof that not everything about this house was picture-perfect. There was some humanity to it, and that humanity stemmed from Sherlock.

John slid his arm around Sherlock’s waist and tugged him closer to kiss him, fervently. When they parted, Sherlock had a flush high on his cheekbones. He stared at John from under heavy eyelids, as if he’d forgotten entirely where they were. John squeezed his hand.

"Aren't you taking me inside?" he murmured.

Sherlock nodded.

They went in through a tiny greenhouse filled with healthy, thriving plants. It was at least ten degrees warmer than outside. John looked around at long work tables covered in empty pots and piles of dirt. He wondered whose job it was to take care of them.

"This way," said Sherlock, motioning him forward.

They walked out of the greenhouse and into the kitchen. The lights flickered on as they entered, and John took a moment to look around the room. Everything was neat and clean, wiped and put away, all sleek lines and shiny, smooth surfaces. As a result, the room felt cold and distant. John couldn’t help disliking it.

"This doesn't feel like you," he said. "I can't imagine you eating in here."

“Oh?” Sherlock asked. “Why not?”

John shrugged. “You’re messy. And warm. I don’t know, sometimes you give off the impression of being like this, but you’re not, really. You’re not structured and stiff, like this room is.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment.

“We should go upstairs,” he said, decisively.

They didn’t even make it to the bottom of the staircase before Sherlock grabbed John by the waist and shoved him against a table, kissing him slowly on the lips before moving across his jawline and taking an earlobe between his teeth.

John gasped. His eyelids fluttered open, and he saw a high-ceiling front entry room lit by an enormous chandelier. A split staircase carpeted in rich garnet led up to the next floor. His eyes opened wider as he stared at the expensive decor.

Sherlock pulled back. “What is it?”

John looked over his shoulder to see the table. It was either real wood or an incredibly good fake. He looked up at the vase in the middle, overflowing with tall, bushy rosebay.

“This house,” he said. “It’s ridiculous. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Sherlock shrugged and stepped forward again to nuzzle John’s hair.

“Want to see some more?” he asked. “The second floor is even more impressive.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

“I’m a show-off, it’s what we do.”

John shoved Sherlock away with a laugh, then took his hand and started up the stairs.

Sherlock’s bedroom was at the end of a long hallway. They walked with their hands clasped, bodies pressed closely together. John went slowly so he could admire the paintings hanging on the walls. He peeked into the lavish, elaborately-decorated guest rooms, all of which had their doors propped wide open.

Sherlock matched John’s pace, allowing him to take in the sights on his own time. When they reached the end of the hallway, Sherlock opened the door and put a hand to the small of John’s back to usher him inside.

Sherlock’s room was spacious and surprisingly neat—not at all what John had expected, after seeing the way Sherlock littered hotel rooms with dirty clothes and empty takeaway containers. The only real mess seemed to be on his desk, where stacks of chemistry equipment were carelessly strewn across the surface.

John took a few steps inside and walked over to a bulletin screen that took up most of the space on one wall. It displayed a list of files, organised by name and date. A few notes were open, Sherlock's scratchy handwriting listing details and observations that made no sense out of context.

"Is this where you record your detective work?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and tapped at a few windows to close them. He scrolled through the list of files.

"Cases are organised by the victim’s last name, experiments by the date they were started." He tapped a folder entitled "Henderson," which opened to display several different notations, the one on top stating "affair with housekeeper—question Susan."

John shook his head. "Amazing," he murmured.

Sherlock smiled.

John wandered to Sherlock’s dresser. On top was a handful of coins, a hairbrush, and a human skull that looked real, for all John knew. He raised an eyebrow.

“My friend,” Sherlock said, by way of explanation.

John laughed.

A large, white-sheeted bed sat in the far corner, pushed up against both walls. There was a window right about where Sherlock’s chest would be while he laid down. John knelt on the mattress and crawled across to look outside. It was dark, only a few glittering lights visible in the distance. The mattress dipped as Sherlock followed, sitting close behind him. John swallowed.

"I'll bet you just lie here all day and stare out this window.”

Sherlock put one hand on John's waist and kissed his nape. John could feel the warmth of him all along his back. He leaned into Sherlock's touch and closed his eyes.

"You smell like car exhaust," Sherlock rumbled.

John barked out a laugh. "Oh, please, whisper more sweet nothings—you're so good at it." He turned around to find Sherlock wrinkling his nose, dramatically. “As if you smell much better.”

Sherlock grinned. “Bath?” He suggested. “My bathtub fits four.”

“I am a little concerned about how you know this.”

“I’ll explain another time.”

John smiled and shook his head. He followed Sherlock off the bed and into the ensuite bathroom.

As John had expected, the bathroom was enormous—decorated with white tile and dark brown false wood, bright turquoise towels and accents.

Sherlock went straight to the bathtub and turned on the tap. The room began to fill with steam, fogging the mirrors and the window high up above the bath area. John watched, entranced, as Sherlock began to undress.

“Are you going to bathe in your clothes?” Sherlock asked, amused.

John shook his head and shrugged out of his jacket. He folded it up neatly and placed it on the countertop. Sherlock perched on the side of the generously-sized bathtub, his eyes dark as he watched John unbutton his shirt.

“You’re making me nervous,” John muttered, fumbling a button.

Sherlock turned away to test the temperature of the water.

When the bathtub was full, Sherlock slowly stepped inside. The tub was so large that he had room to stretch his legs without his feet hitting the other side. John dipped a hand into the water, feeling awkward, yet uncertain as to why.

“That feels nice,” he said.

Sherlock took John’s hand and tugged. Once John was in the bath, he realised he wasn’t sure how he should position himself. He froze for a moment. Sherlock grabbed him by the waist and pulled him back, parting his legs so that John could rest comfortably between them, cushioned against Sherlock’s chest.

It was the first time John had ever bathed with someone. He had shared showers before, but they were never like this—luxurious, quiet, and intimate. He leaned his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock brushed his lips over John’s temple without kissing him.

“Why did you want to come here?” John asked, tentatively.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“I don’t think it’s just because you want to have sex in your own bedroom.”

Sherlock’s chuckle jostled John’s head.

“Are you worried about Sigerson? Is this a last hurrah?”

“We can take Sigerson.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

John felt Sherlock shift.

“I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“Just tell me why you’re concerned, if you think we can do it.”

“If we get caught...Mycroft will get me out of trouble, but he won’t do the same for you. We’ll be separated. Again.”

“Not for long,” John murmured. “I’ll get myself out. I’ll—I’ll find a way.”

Sherlock snorted. “Optimist.”

John smiled. He leaned up and kissed Sherlock, slow and sweet. The water rippled around them in tiny waves. Sherlock ran his tongue along John’s lower lip.

“I’m not letting you go that easily,” John said.

They kissed again, this time less chaste. Sherlock’s hands slid up John’s chest, resting right where his neck met his shoulders. John turned around to sit over Sherlock’s lap, knees on either side of Sherlock’s hips. When he leaned forward, he could feel Sherlock’s growing erection against his own.

Sherlock drew his legs up. John ground forward, and Sherlock gasped.

“Wouldn’t have been able to do this in the hotel bathroom,” John said, a teasing lilt to his voice, even as it roughened. “Good thing you had this idea.”

“The intention was for us to get clean,” said Sherlock.

John pulled back to look at him, and caught a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye.

“Then let’s get clean,” he said. He reached for a bottle of shampoo in the corner of the bath and squeezed some into Sherlock’s hair. He tangled both hands in Sherlock’s curls, massaging with his fingers and creating a rich later. Sherlock held John’s waist, his thumbs running over the crease of John’s thigh.

“This mop is a mess,” John muttered.

Sherlock had his eyes closed. He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a half-grunt/half-whimper. The tiny sound sent all of John’s blood southward. He captured Sherlock’s mouth in another kiss, hands still caught in his hair. They kept kissing until John felt shampoo lather running down Sherlock’s face.

“Let’s rinse you off, yeah?” he asked. He dipped his cupped hands into the water, but paused.

Sherlock’s head was tilted back, his eyes closed. Rivulets of water dripped down his neck, and every inch of his skin glistened. John’s heart thumped hard in his chest.

“I thought we were rinsing?” Sherlock asked, with a smirk.

John dipped his now-empty hands back into the water and poured a handful over Sherlock’s hair. He licked Sherlock’s neck, then reached down for more water. When Sherlock’s hair was free of suds, John grabbed a nearby towel and patted his face dry.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, eyelashes still sticking in endearing clumps. He pulled the towel from John’s hands and tossed it over the edge of the tub. Grinning, he leaned forward until John lay with his back against the cold tile of the bathtub, the water line right beneath his collarbone. Sherlock had him in his lap.

“You going to do me, now?” John asked.

Sherlock thrust his hips forward. John gave a short grunt of surprise, and a wave of water splashed against his chin.

“Again,” John whispered.

Sherlock rocked back and forth, one hand between them, holding them in place as they rubbed against each other. The friction wasn’t quite enough to bring them to org*sm, but John didn’t care. He arched his back and squeezed his thighs around Sherlock’s hips, closing his eyes to savour the feeling of warm water and Sherlock’s co*ck against his.

A wave of bathwater splashed John in the face and he sputtered, opening his eyes and blinking repeatedly to clear his vision. Sherlock chuckled and slowed his thrusting, apologising with a kiss.

“Trying to drown me, you berk?” John muttered.

Sherlock kissed him again.

John’s back was starting hurt from the awkward angle, so he sat up, and Sherlock pulled him onto his lap. Sitting like this, their height difference was just about gone. They kissed slowly and hungrily, their lips slick.

Sherlock nipped at John’s bottom lip. John dropped one arm from around Sherlock’s neck and let it fall beneath the surface of the water. He took their co*cks in one hand.

John breathed harshly against Sherlock’s ear, every other exhale ending in tiny helpless noises that he would never be caught dead making in any other situation. Sherlock tilted his head into John’s neck. His gasps sounded vaguely like stuttered cries of John’s name. John squeezed his eyes closed tightly.

He could feel himself right on the brink when Sherlock tugged John’s arm down from his neck and gripped his wrist in a tight, wet palm. He pushed into John’s mind almost forcefully, adding minutes quickly to John’s numbers. John couldn’t hold back the moan that was wrenched from his throat. He felt positively overpowered by Sherlock. Sherlock was right there in his head, a rush of adrenaline and arousal. The numbers on his arm went up fast and faster, blinking and flickering wildly, until John felt Sherlock’s body go stiff and his mind seemed to explode with intensity. Feeling Sherlock org*sm tipped John over the edge. He gasped Sherlock’s name as he came.

The exchange of time had stopped, but Sherlock was still holding onto John’s wrist. His grip was looser now, and he stroked John’s skin with his thumb. John pressed a kiss to the crinkle of skin by Sherlock’s eye. He leaned back to see Sherlock properly.

“That was—unexpected,” he said.

Sherlock let go of John’s wrist, frowning.

“What?”

“That—thing you did. Giving me time while we—it’s a little—um—”

“You didn’t like it?”

“No, no I—” John sighed. “f*ck, I liked it a lot, I’m just saying. It’s a really private thing to be in someone’s mind while they’re having an org*sm. It’s just—”

“But you liked it?”

John looked away. “Yeah, um—”

Sherlock looked at him questioningly. John shook his head and laughed.

“We should shower,” Sherlock said, moving to get up. “That wasn’t the most effective bath in terms of getting clean.” He pressed a button on the shower’s control pad to open the drain.

“Well it’s not as if I haven’t come on you before,” John said.

A blush returned to Sherlock’s cheeks, and he licked his lips, hastily looking away. John filed this reaction under “things to examine more closely in the future.”

The shower involved a bit of lazy snogging and the occasional grope, but when Sherlock started complaining about wrinkling fingertips, John turned off the water. Sherlock pulled some large, fluffy towels from a cabinet, and they dried off before making their way back into Sherlock’s bedroom.

John felt clean and warm and comfortable. He realised suddenly how tired he was—mostly from spending hours driving the day before, and from not getting the proper amount of sleep after Sherlock had woken him at 3am.

John heard Sherlock’s footsteps behind him, and turned around to find Sherlock stepping out of the bathroom, his thin dressing gown hanging open as he towelled his hair dry. John’s breath got caught in his throat.

“You going to put anything on?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head and tossed the towel onto a chair.

“Right.”

John shifted back on the bed to make room for Sherlock. He arranged two pillows next to each other and lay down, but felt an uncomfortable lump underneath his head. He reached under the pillow and pulled out rumpled fabric.

Sherlock was just shrugging out of his dressing gown, and lurched forward as John started to recognise the clothing in his hands.

“Is this—”

Sherlock tried to pull the bundle away. “Those should be washed,” he said.

John held fast. “No—these are mine. The ones I lent you.” He looked up at Sherlock, confused.

Sherlock refused to make eye contact. “I didn’t have a second pillow,” he said. “I must have grabbed them off the floor in the middle of the night.”

“What are you saying, you have three pillows right—”

“The others are too thick to double up. The clothing was a more comfortable size.”

John grinned, not fooled at all. Sherlock scowled.

“I’m concerned about neck strain,” he said.

John leaned forward and kissed him. “You utter sap.”

John fell asleep on his side, facing the wall. Sherlock was buried almost completely underneath the blankets, one arm slung over John’s waist. John stared at the moon, hovering over the trees, on a descent through the early morning sky.

When he woke up, John was fuzzy-brained, his thoughts sticking in his mind like marshmallow. He felt the sun on his face, and Sherlock’s mouth on his stomach. He opened his eyes.

“You going to wake me up like this every day?” he asked. “First my neck, now...” His voice was raspy, so he coughed to clear his throat.

Sherlock didn’t speak, just continued kissing the same spot over and over on John’s stomach.

“Are we getting out of bed today?” John asked, running a hand through Sherlock’s hair.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Mmm. Good.”

Sherlock started moving up John’s body, kissing over his chest, then his throat, finally making his way to John’s lips. They kissed for a few long, languid moments. John felt that familiar warmth in the pit of his stomach again, and this time, he almost said it. He bit his tongue against the words that tried to escape his mouth.

They lay in bed until well past noon, kissing, touching, talking, and sometimes just laying next to each other in complete silence.

When John got hungry, they wrapped themselves in Sherlock’s dressing gowns and wandered downstairs to raid the refrigerator. They made sandwiches and loaded a tray with fresh fruit and bottles of water. They carried the tray back upstairs and ate on Sherlock’s bed.

When the food was gone, John carefully moved the tray onto the floor, then tackled Sherlock backwards. He pulled the dressing gown off of Sherlock’s shoulders, and kissed down Sherlock’s arms, across his numbers, over his wrist, and into his palm. Sherlock’s fingertips dragged across John’s cheek, and John crawled back up to kiss him on the mouth. One hand slid down Sherlock’s chest and settled in the dip of his hipbone. It was just drifting further in when John heard his phone ring on the bedside table. He lifted his head.

“Why—” He reached for the phone, but Sherlock gave a loud whine in protest.

“Now? Really, John?”

John smiled down at Sherlock’s dramatic pout.

“It could be important,” he said.

“It couldn’t possibly.”

John reached for the phone again, but Sherlock grabbed it first, and tossed it across the room and onto an armchair. John stared in disbelief.

“You’ll pay for that,” he growled. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrists and pinned them above his head, kissing him fiercely as if to punish him. The phone rang again, but this time, they both ignored it.

When the sun had gone down, and they were both sated and refreshed from dinner, they laid in bed in the dark room, tangled together with the lights off, and the moonlight streaming in through the window. They faced each other, laying on their sides and not speaking a word. Sherlock’s eyes were closed. John stared at the shadows and highlights that the light cast over his face.

“Have you ever created a loop?” Sherlock murmured.

It took a moment for John to register what Sherlock was asking. “What?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, but didn’t repeat himself.

“No,” John answered. “I’ve never been that close to someone.”

Sherlock nodded and looked down at John’s arm, resting between them. John swallowed.

“You want to,” he said.

“I want to know what it’s like.”

“It’s hard. It takes coordination.” John took Sherlock’s wrist, rubbing over the pulse point. “But if it works, it’s like...opening someone up and looking inside. Or so I’ve heard.”

He looked down again, and they both were silent. John clasped Sherlock’s wrist in his palm. “Focus on breathing,” John said. “You exhale while I inhale. Give on the exhale and take on the inhale.”

Sherlock nodded, a small smile on his lips. They both closed their eyes to better concentrate.

“Ready?” John whispered. Sherlock squeezed his wrist in answer.

John listened to the pattern of Sherlock’s breathing. When Sherlock exhaled, he pushed time towards John. John felt Sherlock breach his mind, then slowly slip away, a slow wave on the shore. When Sherlock took a breath, John blew one out, and pushed his own time back to Sherlock.

They fell into an easy rhythm of giving and taking, pushing and pulling, until something clicked, and they fell into perfect synchronisation. John got the feeling of being in two places at once—in his own mind, and in Sherlock’s. He was hyperaware of Sherlock’s presence, as if he were surrounding him and being surrounded by him at the same time. He opened his eyes halfway just in time to see Sherlock leaning forward to kiss him.

Sensations were amplified. The feeling of Sherlock’s lips against his own consumed John, and nothing else in the world existed. He could feel the kiss from both points of view—the suction of his lower lip being pulled into Sherlock’s mouth, and the gentle nip of Sherlock’s lips as they did the pulling. The intensity of it was startling.

John shifted closer, putting his free hand on Sherlock’s bare collarbone. He could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat in his own chest. He could feel every wrinkle, bump, and hair on Sherlock’s skin. He slid his hand down just centimetres and felt the heavy drag of his fingers, the tug of friction.

Sherlock opened his mouth and John was taken over by the the feeling of his tongue, the taste of him and the smell of him and the warmth of him. Everything seemed to hum with energy. Sherlock moved one leg to slide between John’s, and pressed their hips together with an urgent insistence. John felt both their arousals spike, and quickly jerked his hips back to keep from coming immediately. Sherlock gave a low chuckle. He rocked forward on John’s thigh, and John felt a jolt of Sherlock’s pleasure burst through him. He rocked back, making Sherlock gasp. Their connection severed.

“Sit up,” Sherlock husked.

For a moment, John felt as though he were moving through molasses. He was drunk on Sherlock’s mind.

“Wha--”

Sherlock crawled out from under the covers, his movements slightly clumsy. He pulled John’s arm with an urgent tug. When John was sitting up, back against the headboard, Sherlock climbed onto his lap and leaned over to open the drawer in the bedside table.

“Oh f*ck,” John murmured.

Sherlock slicked one hand with lubricant. He took hold of John’s wrist in his other, and John felt Sherlock push back into his mind. Their loop was quickly restored.

Sherlock gripped both their co*cks, and John gave a loud groan. He was more turned on than he’d ever been in his life. He felt not only his own arousal, but Sherlock’s, too. Everything about them fell into rhythm—the exchange of time, their breathing patterns, and now the eager rocking of their bodies. John was distantly aware of their breaths falling out of synch—of Sherlock taking shorter gasps, and of himself holding his breath for brief periods of time. Their mental connection stayed strong.

The buildup was fierce and fast. It was mere minutes before John could feel himself starting to lose control. Sherlock’s mind was buzzing inside of him. He felt flighty and frantic. Waves of stimulation came from his body. John could feel Sherlock’s tension and desperation. Sherlock tugged once more, twice, then—

John could feel the moment his time stopped. He blacked out for seconds, then came back to himself, taking great gasps of air, distantly aware of Sherlock groaning his name. Their connection had been severed when John flatlined, but it flickered quickly back to life. John could feel flashes of Sherlock’s org*sm. He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, overcome.

Their breathing slowed, and John opened his eyes. Sherlock was staring at him, a look of dazed awe on his face.

John laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.”

They lay down silently, hearts still pounding. John ached with feeling. His chest wanted to both cave in and explode outward at the same time. Looking at Sherlock was almost painful, but John couldn’t turn away. When Sherlock licked his lips, John found it to be the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered.

John felt his throat constricting. “Let’s go to sleep,” he said.

Sherlock pushed John gently onto his back, and John shifted onto his other side so that Sherlock could nestle up behind him. Sherlock held him tightly, one hand pressed against John’s back, the other wrapped around his front, holding him in place. They were so close that John could feel Sherlock’s chest move with each breath.

John reflected on everything they had done that day—woken up together, bathed together, rested together, and given each other pleasure. He put his hand over Sherlock’s, and the words just fell from his lips.

“I love you.”

Sherlock kissed John’s head and entwined their fingers.

John woke up to the sound of his phone receiving a text message. At first he ignored it, but it beeped a second time, and John remembered how Sherlock had tossed it across the room the day before. John had since retrieved it and replaced it on the bedside table, but he hadn’t bothered to check his messages. He looked at Sherlock, still sleeping soundly, then leaned over and picked up his phone.

John’s eyes widened when he realised he had not one, but five missed calls, and several texts.

Greg Lestrade
30 Nov.
21:26
you seen molly?

Sally Donovan
30 Nov.
21:30
You don't have Molly with you, do you?

Greg Lestrade
30 Nov.
22:02
worried about molly, call back asap

Sally Donovan
30 Nov.
23:15
Molly’s missing. CALL US.

Greg Lestrade
1 Dec.
8:12
PICK UP YOUR f*ckING PHONE

Greg Lestrade
1 Dec.
8:13
molly's been kidnapped.

John sat upright in bed, heart suddenly pounding. Sherlock gave a sleepy groan and tried to pull the covers back over his head. John listened to his voice mail. It was Lestrade, sounding stiff and angry, his voice just on the edge of frantic. He flew right into explanation.

“John, Molly’s been kidnapped. This—we just got the call like five minutes ago. Sherlock’s brother wants him back. Molly went out yesterday and—she didn’t come back, and Mycroft called me. He wants Sherlock. Says he’ll give back Molly in exchange. Um—”

John could hear Sally’s voice in the background, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Anyway, f*cking call me when you get this. You’re not picking up your phone and you’re not answering your texts and I don’t know what to f*cking do, so just—call.”

The message ended. John looked down to find Sherlock staring up at him, wide awake.

“We have to go.”

“John—”

“Get dressed.”

John climbed out of bed and picked up his backpack, carrying it into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a long time before turning around and punching the wall behind him.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

The drive back to the hotel was tense and silent. Sherlock sped through the streets, taking sharp turns and shortcuts between buildings. John stared at the road with unseeing eyes, his hands fisted tightly in Sherlock’s jacket. He longed to go back to the night before, when they were completely wrapped up in each other, perfectly synchronised. Now, the entire day had gone to hell.

They arrived at the hotel, and Sherlock swerved into a parking spot. John led the way inside without speaking a word. When they got to the suite, Lestrade was standing by the window. His hair was in disarray, as if he had run his hand through it one too many times. He looked distant and weary.

"Thank f*ck," he muttered.

John crossed the room quickly, Sherlock hovering behind him.

"Have you heard anything?" John asked.

"No, he hasn't contacted us again." Lestrade's eyes flickered quickly to Sherlock. When he looked back at John, John felt as though he were being accused of something. "Sally's pretty f*cking angry."

"Where is she?"

"She went out for a bit, said she's gonna make some phone calls to Timekeepers she's still in contact with. But—she's on the warpath for him, specifically."

John rolled his eyes, irritated. "It's not Sherlock's fault that his brother's a f*cking—"

"Yeah, well good luck explaining that to Sally.”

As if on cue, the hall door slid open, and Sally walked in. Her eyes were wide, her knuckles pale where they clutched her phone. She took one look at Sherlock and swung a fist. John blocked it, pushing Sherlock out of the way.

"I knew it!" Sally yelled. She struggled to push past John. “You—This is your f*cking fault, you bastard!”

"I didn't do anything," said Sherlock. "This is Mycroft's—"

"—following us around like a lost f*cking puppy. With your infinite—"

“Sally—”

“Shut up, John. He hasn’t cared about a single person here except you. And you were too busy f*cking him to bother to take Greg’s phone calls, so you can f*ck right off.”

John felt Sally’s words like a slap across the face. His arms fell limply to his sides.

Sally paced the floor, glaring at Sherlock.

“I knew it,” she said. “I knew bringing you on was a bad idea. You’re not one of us—you never were. You don’t know what our lives are like. What do you know about suffering? About loss?”

Sherlock bristled.

“You’re just a privileged f*cking brat who has nothing better to do because John’s the only one who can stand you. You never should have come.”

"You wouldn't have completed half the jobs you went on without me."

“Ugh.” Sally sneered.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

“‘I’ve been screwed over before’—isn’t that what you said?” he asked.

Sally looked up.

“When we first met, you said ‘I’ve been screwed over before by people like you.’”

"Shut the hell up."

“John didn’t know who you were referring to, so it was someone you met before you joined this group. You said they were more interested in showing off than in doing good. They were probably showing off to impress you. A man, then—romantically attached. That would explain why you hate me so much—John is doing exactly what you tried to do—bring a lover along on jobs. But it didn’t work out very well for you. What happened? Did he do something stupid? Something that got you caught?”

“Sherlock—” John put a hand on Sherlock’s arm, but Sherlock kept going.

“That can’t be all of it—you’re much too angry. It must have been worse. Why did you stop being a Timekeeper? Did you take a noble leave to help the little people, or were you thrown out when you were caught abusing your power?"

John pulled Sherlock’s arm, causing Sherlock to break his glare with Sally and look down at him.

Sally’s hands were tightly fisted at her sides, but she didn’t move. She gave John a long, pointed stare, then turned, stalking towards her bedroom and slamming the door behind her.

Once she had gone, Sherlock did the same. He turned away from John and walked quickly towards their own room. John and Lestrade were left alone. John looked at the door through which Sherlock had gone.

“She’s never really trusted him,” Lestrade said, quietly. “You had to have seen this coming.”

John nodded. “I know.”

Lestrade took a few steps towards Sally’s door, then stopped.

“We need both of them. If we want to get Molly back.”

John nodded.

When Lestrade had gone, John took a deep breath and opened the door to his bedroom. Sherlock was standing on the other side, staring at the blank wall in front of him.

"Sherlock—"

"She's right."

John stopped short. "Don't. Don't say that."

"It's useless, John.

"It's not—"

"It's completely useless!" Sherlock turned around and paced the room, agitated, both hands in his hair. "You think you're doing anything? You're not! Stealing from the banks isn't going to change the system. Giving to the poor isn't going to help them."

"We can help them for a while. We can give them some relief—alleviate—"

"John, why do you think the zones that are in power have stayed in power? Why do you think the Timekeepers exist, really? When the poor zones start getting too much time, the rich zones just increase the cost of living. How many times in your life have you seen the price of coffee rise?"

John was quiet. He looked down at the bed in front of him. It was made neatly, tight corners and smooth covers.

"They will do whatever they need to in order to keep the rich zones rich and the poor zones poor. It's a systemic problem, and a little crew of five people isn't going to change anything."

"Then why did you come with us?"

When John looked up, Sherlock looked away.

“Sherlock? If you think it’s pointless, then why did you help us? Why did you plan with us? Why did you lead us through that job in Zone 7? You’ve been with us for six months, following us around the entire country! If you thought what we were doing was pointless, then why bother?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He bit his lip.

“We might not have the power to change the entire system, but even just a day is the difference between life and death.”

John walked around the bed and sat down on the other side.

“It’s statistically unlikely," Sherlock mumbled.

“What?”

“This is my first relationship. It’s statistically unlikely for me to have found—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “—to have found you so soon.”

John gave a startled laugh.

Sherlock sat down next to him, and John took his hand. They sat together in silence until they heard a sound coming from the other room. Lestrade said something to Sally, and she answered—her voice calmer now, more controlled.

“You know you have to face her again,” John said.

Sherlock snorted. “I know.” He traced the edge of John’s hand with his thumb. “You know this isn’t your fault.”

John didn’t reply.

Sally tensed as Sherlock came into the room. Sherlock eyed her, cautiously.

"You got any ideas for fixing this?" Sally asked, stiffly.

Sherlock nodded.

They sat around the coffee table.

John’s biggest concern was how to move around the bank in secret without Molly there to hack into the security system. Sherlock suggested infiltrating the security office and taking over from the inside.

“If I can reach the main computer, I can activate the failsafe that Molly planted back in June.”

Lestrade, Sally, and John all looked at each other, blankly.

“What failsafe?” John asked.

“The one she left behind when she hacked in. The—oh god, are you really all clueless?”

John frowned. “She didn’t say—”

“Every time Molly hacks into a feed, she leaves behind a bug that, upon activation, will supply a false video feed to the security cameras for another half-hour without Molly having to be in the system. That way, in case she’s kicked out, you have the remaining half-hour to escape without being seen. The bug is untraceable, and is programmed to stay in the system until she pulls it. She left it in because she knew we would be returning.”

“Why didn’t she tell us this?”

“There was no need. She’s never had to use one before.”

John just shook his head, stunned.

“She’s very clever, you know,” said Sherlock. “Cleverer than you lot.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade muttered, dryly. “So once you activate the bug, we have only half an hour before the cameras go back to normal? That can’t be enough time to—”

“We should be able to rescue Molly in that time. If we’re very lucky, we can also rob the vault.”

“How likely is that?” John asked, looking at a blueprint that Sherlock had pulled up on his tablet.

“Have a bit of ambition, John. We just have to get to the vault, and if we’re caught, you can shoot our way out.” Sherlock grinned. “It will be the middle of the night, there won’t be very many people there to catch us. We can do things the old fashioned way—destroy the cameras, incapacitate the security guards...”

John bit his lip in thought. He honestly couldn’t tell how serious Sherlock was about achieving both—if he really expected them to take the vault as well, or if he was only suggesting it to downplay his concern for Molly.

Either way, there was no other choice for dealing with the security system. They would have to use Molly’s failsafe, and see how much time they had once they got inside. He nodded.

“Failsafe it is,” he said. “Now let’s figure out how we’re getting you to that computer in the first place.

They were finishing up final details, making plans to head in that night, when John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the incoming text.

unknown number
1 Dec.
11:37
Take the phone into the bedroom and close the door behind you.

John’s stomach dropped. He stared down at the message, trying to keep his breathing regular and his face from betraying his anxiety. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Be right back," he said. He stood up. Sherlock tensed as if to follow, but John smiled at him reassuringly, and after a moment, Sherlock sat back in his chair. John breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the bedroom. He pulled out the phone and sent a text back to the unknown caller.

1 Dec.
11:39
i'm alone

He stared at the screen for only a moment before the phone vibrated in his hand.

"Hello?"

"John."

John's pulse raced faster. Though he had only heard the voice once in his life, he knew immediately who was speaking.

"What do you want? Where's Molly?"

"That first answer is a bit obvious, don't you think?"

John walked to the other side of the room, speaking softly so his voice wouldn't be heard.

"You know he's a grown adult and can do what he wants?"

"I hardly think robbing banks is an appropriate activity for someone with Sherlock's potential. He could have a much brighter future ahead of him."

"You can't control him."

"I can influence him."

John heard a noise from the other room, and paused. He glanced over at the door, but it didn't open.

"John, you broke my trust."

"I didn't—"

"He got shot."

John huffed out an angry breath and moved further towards the far wall.

“You know you’re putting his life at stake with every bank you rob. A bit selfish, isn’t it? Asking him to tag along with you.”

“I never asked him to come. And he’s not tagging along. He’s a member of the team.”

“You seem to be drawing him quite deeply into this life of crime.”

“He’s here of his own free will.”

“Is he really?”

John didn’t answer.

"You care about him, correct?"

"I love him."

There was a short pause, as if Mycroft hadn't anticipated this. "Then you'll want what's best for him," he said, carefully. "You know that Sherlock's abilities are unique. He could have a career with the Timekeepers, tracking down—"

"Thieves like me?"

"He would choose his own cases, as he had been doing before you arrived. Vigilantes are not the only ones robbing banks. There are those among us who seek immortality by less legal means than others."

"You seriously want him to work in law enforcement? He'd be bored."

"He'd be safe."

John allowed himself half a moment to think about it. He looked up when he heard another noise, and was sure now that there was someone on the other side of the door.

"I want Molly back," he said, quietly.

"Convince Sherlock to come home, and you'll have her."

The bedroom door opened. John hung up the phone.

Sherlock crossed the room slowly.

"What did he say?" he murmured.

"What did who—"

"John."

John sighed. "The same thing he told Greg, probably. He wants you back, and if you go back, he'll release Molly."

Sherlock took the phone from John's hand and started tapping buttons.

"Sherlock, maybe it's best—"

"No."

"It's safe here. It's—you have family, you could have a job. You’d live a long life in this Zone."

Sherlock looked up and met John’s eyes. He held out the phone. "Mycroft called from his office. Molly is definitely being kept at the bank."

John nodded.

“There’s no question,” said Sherlock. “We’re going tonight, as planned.”

John put the phone in his pocket.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

John watched Lestrade unscrew a grate over an air duct, where Sherlock was to be lowered down into the ceiling and inside Sigerson Bank. There weren’t many lights on the roof, and the thin white sliver of the moon was hidden behind dense cloud cover. Though they had all agreed to this method earlier, John was having second thoughts.

“It makes the most sense for me to go,” Sherlock argued. “I know the building better than any of you do.”

John frowned. “Hey, I studied the blueprints. I could—”

“Knowing it on screen is not the same as knowing it in real life.” Sherlock shook his head. “There’s barely room enough for one person,” he said. “And I’m thinner than you, so—”

John gaped in mock offence. “I can fit inside an air duct, you arse.”

Sherlock grinned and poked the soft of John’s waist, teasingly. “It will be easier for me. I’ll be able to crawl around like a swamp adder.”

One last screw fell to the ground, and Lestrade removed the grate.

“Ready,” he said.

John peered into the opening. There was a sharp drop—ten feet, according to the blueprints—and he couldn’t see the bottom. Once Sherlock was lowered down, he would have to crawl through a maze of metal tubing until he lay over the security office. He would then activate a stunstick, drop it into the office, and wait for the guards to fall unconscious before breaking through the ventilation grate.

“You have your respirator?” John asked.

Sherlock patted his pocket and nodded.

“And your comm unit’s working fine?”

“Yes, unless you’ve been speaking in stereo this whole time.”

John pursed his lips.

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock murmured. “I’ll stay in touch. All you need to do is wait.”

“That’s the part I hate.”

“Are you ready?” Sally asked, catching their attention.

Sherlock nodded, gave John one last lingering look, and shimmied feet-first into the air duct, allowing his long legs to dangle down the empty shaft. Lestrade and John held firmly to the rope that attached to his harness.

“Go ahead,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock held tightly to the rope and leaned back. His bare feet made only the softest of padding noises against the metal as John and Lestrade slowly started lowering him down.

“Almost there,” Sherlock murmured, his voice like a whisper in John’s ear. After they had lowered him a few more feet, he spoke again. “Alright, stop. I’m taking off the harness.”

John and Lestrade held tight to the rope. They felt a brief tug, then Sherlock’s weight disappeared. Lestrade started pulling up the empty harness as John peered down into the air duct, looking for any sign of Sherlock at the bottom.

“Can you see down there?” he asked.

A green glow appeared in answer, the dull light of Sherlock’s numbers just barely illuminating his crouched figure. He bent down and wriggled onto his stomach.

“On second thought,” he said. “I might be a bit tall for this.”

John gave a nervous smile, watching as Sherlock started to crawl away. The green light disappeared.

Everyone on the roof stood in silence, unable to do anything until Sherlock dismantled the security system. John stared into the middle distance. He could hear an occasional huff of breath over the comm unit, but otherwise, Sherlock was quiet.

After several long minutes of silence, Sherlock spoke.

“I’m there,” he murmured. John’s head perked up, and he made eye contact with Sally and Lestrade. “Two guards. Chatting. Going to put in the respirator.”

Sherlock was silent again. He wouldn’t be able to speak while holding the respirator in his mouth.

“Dropping stunstick.” Sherlock’s words were muffled. John heard the soft mechanical inhale of the respirator.

Everything was quiet but for the sound of Sherlock’s breathing, its quickened pace betraying his nervousness. They heard distant voices—presumably from the security guards—but there was no sound of yelling or raised alarm.

“Is everything alright?” John asked. “Hum once for yes, twice for no.”

Sherlock hummed once. John allowed his shoulders to relax.

After a moment, they heard shifting. There was a small gasp of air as Sherlock removed the respirator.

“It worked,” he said, his voice just lower than his natural volume. “The gas has dissipated, so I’m unscrewing the air vent. John, you would never fit through here.”

“Shut up,” John muttered, smiling with relief. He turned to Sally and Lestrade. “Alright, let’s go—we need to make the most of our time.”

They walked across the roof, moving freely now that they knew no one was watching the cameras. John peered over the edge, looking for security guards. They heard Sherlock cursing under his breath as he tried to fit through the ventilation opening.

“What was that you said about being thinner than me?” John asked, amused. Sherlock ignored him.

There were no guards on the far side of the building, so John led the way down a fire escape, jumping to the ground when the ladder wouldn’t fully lower. There was only one entrance to the building on this side—far down, near a very open area. John felt a bit queasy looking at it, noticing that it was visible from multiple angles.

Sherlock made a soft thud.

“I’m in,” he said. “I can see you at the back entrance. Don’t move—There’s a guard around the corner.”

John stopped short and motioned for the others to press themselves against the side of the building.

“What should we do?” he asked, quietly.

“He’s headed your way, you’ll have to deal with him.”

John walked confidently to the corner. Just as the guard came around the edge of the building, John grabbed him in a headlock and slammed him into the wall. The guard struggled a bit, but John hit him again, and he was knocked out cold.

“Is that the only guard?” John asked.

“Mmm...yes, but I wouldn’t mind seeing you do that again. Should I send someone after you?”

John snorted. “Very funny. Just unlock the door.”

The lock on the outside door required a fingerprint and a four-digit pin number. Sherlock was able to override both from the security office. When the door opened, John, Sally, and Lestrade entered a brightly-lit hallway.

“Are there any employees here?” John asked. “Besides the guards?”

“Not right now,” said Sherlock, still typing. “But keep quiet.”

They walked down the hallway, tense and hyperalert. The walls were a cool grey, the carpeted floor made from a similar shade of recycled fibre.

“There’s no one around the corner,” said Sherlock, as they neared the end of the hallway. John peered around carefully, anyway. “I’m in the second room on your left.”

John recognised this hall as the one he had snuck into when they had tried to take Sigerson the first time. The office that he had hidden in was further down. At the end were the double-doors that led to the public front room of the bank. John hoped that this time they would have more success completing the job.

The second door on the left slid open without a sound. Sherlock stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, still barefoot from his crawl through the air duct. He nodded his head to motion them inside.

“Greg and I will keep watch out here,” said Sally. “But give us a warning before you activate the bug.”

John went into the security office, handing Sherlock the shoes that he’d kept in his backpack. The door slid closed behind him.

The office was small, but not cramped. Two rolling chairs sat in front of at least three dozen screens, each displaying a different video feed. Some feeds flickered back and forth between multiple cameras. Others stayed concentrated on one area.

The two security guards were slumped on the floor. John stepped around them, standing behind Sherlock as he sat down in front of a computer.

“Molly’s being kept on the second floor,” Sherlock said.

John looked up at the video screens.

“Where is she?”

Sherlock pointed to a screen in the upper right corner.

“Behind that door. There aren’t any cameras in the room, but I’ve noticed security acting suspicious around it. It’s one of the three rooms we highlighted on the blueprints.”

John nodded and watched Sherlock type.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked. “With Molly’s—bug—thing?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“I mean—you know how to activate it? Sherlock?”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

John found Sherlock’s clipped tone worrying. He stepped back a bit to give Sherlock some space. He collected the empty stunstick from the floor and shoved it into his pocket, then checked on the guards.

It was eerie how they lay so still. Both men were breathing, and had strong pulses. The stunstick’s gas was potent, invisible, and odourless, but its effects could only last for a short period of time. John estimated that they only had about ten more minutes before the guards started stirring. He pulled one man into a chair, propping him up into a relaxed sitting position, then nudged Sherlock’s arm.

“Stand up,” he said. Sherlock stood without looking at him, continuing to type, hunched over the keyboard. John positioned the other guard similarly. When the two men woke up, they would be sleepy and their memories would be slightly fuzzy. With any luck, they would both assume that they had fallen asleep.

“Have you found it?” John asked, getting nervous.

Sherlock nodded, shortly. John stood behind him, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder at the computer screen. Sherlock had highlighted a file that looked to be nothing more than a mix of letters and numbers with an obscure file extension. He clicked on it, and was instantly asked for a password.

“You know the password?” John asked.

“She told me.”

“She didn’t tell any of us.”

Sherlock looked at John over his shoulder.

“Once I type in the password, the bug will be activated, and we’ll have half an hour to save Molly and rob Mycroft.” He paused. His eyebrows were just slightly knit. “Are you ready?”

John nodded. “You hear that guys?” he said into his comm unit. Lestrade and Sally gave affirmative answers, and Sherlock readied himself, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. John’s heart was thudding against his ribs in anticipation. He put a hand on Sherlock’s back, right between his shoulder blades. Sherlock relaxed almost imperceptibly.

The password was a long string of letters and numbers that John was surprised anyone could memorise. Sherlock stabbed the “enter” key, and turned, almost knocking John backwards.

“Let’s go.”

“We don’t have someone on the inside anymore,” said John, as they walked briskly down the hallway. “We won’t know when someone’s coming, and we won’t be able to unlock doors without Mycroft’s personal passcode and fingerprint.”

They stopped at the door to the stairwell. John reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin sheet of visifilm containing a copy of Mycroft’s fingerprint. John pressed the film to the lock, and a numeric keypad appeared on the screen.

“Did you get his passcode when you were in the computer?” Sally asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “You think Mycroft stores his passwords in something so easily hackable?” He stared at the lock, biting his lip, then tried entering four numbers. The lock buzzed and lit red.

“You know you only have three tries before it sounds an alarm?” Lestrade warned.

Sherlock tried another number. The lock buzzed again. The red light flashed, threateningly.

“We have limited time—”

“I know that!”

Sherlock took a sharp breath and held it, then closed his eyes, thinking. Just as John’s anxiety peaked, Sherlock opened his eyes and stabbed another number into the lock. It lit green, and the door slid open. They all went through and started up the stairs.

“2137?” asked John, quietly. “Isn’t that the year you were born?”

Sherlock looked away.

They all ran quickly up the staircase, but had just about reached the landing when a shot of blue energy hit Sally in the chest. She stumbled backwards, pulling John and Lestrade with her.

“Scramblers!” she hissed.

John reached for her arm. “Are you alright? Check your time!”

Sally pulled off her glove and watched her numbers flicker.

“Where did it come from?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock walked up a few stairs.

“There’s a security bot in the corner,” he said. “John, do you recognise it?”

Sally’s numbers were still scrambling, so John walked up towards Sherlock. They stayed just out of the robot’s range.

“It’s an S-148,” John said, squinting. “It has a short range, but excellent aim. It detects body heat.” He pulled Sherlock back down. “How much?” he asked, looking at Sally.

“Twelve hours,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

John nodded.

“Take more,” said Sherlock. He pulled off his own glove and held out his hand.

Sally’s mouth opened in surprise, but she shook her head.

“No, I’m okay.”

“If things don’t go according to plan, then you’ll need it.”

“No.” Sally gave one last glance at her arm. “I’ve had worse. I’ll be fine.” She pulled her glove back on and didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Thanks.”

“How are we getting past it?” asked Lestrade. “We’re running low on—”

“Time, yeah, I know.” John ran a hand through his hair.

“Just shoot it,” said Sherlock.

“In the middle of the echoing stairwell? And alert everyone to our presence?”

John walked up the stairs and looked at the robot. It was very small, no bigger than a hand’s-width across.

“If we could obscure the sensor...”

“Throw something,” said Sherlock. “Take this.” He pulled off his leather motorbike jacket and handed it to John. “Buy me a new one with Mycroft’s time.”

John gave a tight smile and took the jacket.

“Better let me, mate,” said Lestrade. “You might be able to shoot, but I’m the one who can throw.”

He took the jacket from John’s hand, balled it up, and threw it at the bot. It fell perfectly—completely covering the sensor, and toppling the whole thing over. Blue flashes of light lit beneath the surface of the leather.

John ran up the stairs and knelt in front of the bot.

“Just leave it there!” hissed Sally. “We don’t have time!”

John pointed the bot towards the wall. Shots were still firing furiously, and John could see where the leather was starting to wear from the continuous blasts of energy. He knew the jacket was only a temporary fix.

“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” He handed Mycroft’s fingerprint to Sally, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small set of tools.

Lestrade and Sally hesitated.

“2137,” said Sherlock. “Go!”

Sally turned away first, Lestrade quickly following.

“I meant for you to go with them,” said John, quietly.

Sherlock smirked.

John opened the back of the bot with quick, practised movements, shots still firing against rapidly thinning leather. He cut a few wires and pulled out some gears, then dropped the lifeless bot on the floor and handed the ruined jacket back to Sherlock.

“Let’s go.”

Lestrade and Sally were waiting on the other side of the door, just out of sight of another long hallway similar to the one downstairs. There were footsteps walking down the hall, but the footsteps didn’t sound hurried—the security guards hadn’t heard them enter. John pulled his gun out of his waistband and motioned to Lestrade, who was taking a stunstick from his backpack.

“Two of them,” Lestrade whispered. “Not sure the gas will reach both.”

“Well, now that you’ve prepped your throwing arm...”

Lestrade grinned and signalled to the others. Once everyone had put in respirators, he snapped open the stunstick and tossed it. It was only a few seconds before they heard the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

“Hawkins?”

John cringed. The other guard had been too far away. They listened as his footsteps came closer.

“Do you have another?” John asked, urgently.

Lestrade shook his head, eyes wide.

When John peered around the corner of the hall, the other guard had just found the empty stunstick on the floor. He looked up and pulled a gun from the holster at his side. John turned around the corner quickly.

“Get back!”

A bullet bounced off of the wall across from him, and John swore. He looked around the corner, took a shot, and missed.

“Only one,” he said to Sherlock and Sally. Another bullet glanced off the wall. John took a quick breath and shot back. The guard cried out, but kept shooting, coming closer now. John could see Sherlock watching from the end of the hallway. He held his breath.

When John turned back around the corner, the guard was aiming at him, eyes narrowed. John shot, and hit the man in the side.

“Got him.”

They all moved out into the hallway. The first guard was still knocked out from the gas. John wasn’t sure if the second was alive or dead. He felt guilty as he stood over the man’s body.

“Self-defence,” said Sherlock, coming up behind him. “He tried to kill you.”

John nodded and turned away.

“Let’s stuff them in this storage closet,” said Lestrade. “They could wake up before we get Molly out.”

The end of the hallway split into two different directions—left and right both leading to more offices, with stairwells at either end. The room that Molly was being kept in was at the end of the right-hand hallway. There wasn’t a single security guard in sight. It made John nervous. He looked over his shoulder, where Lestrade and Sally had moved one guard and were dragging the second across the floor. Sherlock was watching with a frown.

John looked down at his arm. They had about fifteen minutes left until the security feed went back to normal.

“Hurry up,” he called. “Let’s go.” He turned around the corner.

Something was off—John felt it in his gut. He slowed as he neared the middle of the hall. He looked around, but didn’t see anything unusual. Still, it felt—

“John, come back!”

John turned at the sound of the urgency in Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock pushed Sally and Lestrade back, then dashed towards John, pulling him out of the hallway. His hand was tight on John’s wrist.

“Sherlock, what—”

Sherlock pulled off John’s glove and let it fall to the floor. They both looked down at his numbers.

0000:00:0:00:05:16

John’s eyes widened. “What the—”

“Time drain—that whole hallway’s rigged.”

“sh*t, how did you—”

“The guards are wearing neutralizers. Here—”

Sherlock took John’s wrist. They were still for a moment. Nothing happened.

“What’s wrong?” John asked. “Why—”

Sherlock gripped John’s wrist tighter. His eyes widened. John felt his heartbeat start to pound.

“Sherlock?”

“He couldn’t have,” Sherlock muttered. “He wouldn’t—” He screwed his eyes shut and pressed his palm as flat as he could against John’s pulse point. The seconds continued to pass on John’s arm—nothing was exchanged between them.

“What’s going on?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Inhibitors.” He tugged John quickly down the hall—away from Molly. “It’s impossible to exchange time here—we have to get to the ground floor—the public area.”

“What?” John stopped short. “I can’t—Molly—”

“The others can take care of Molly! John, you have five minutes!”

Sherlock gave John’s wrist another sharp tug, and they started running quickly towards the stairs, Lestrade and Sally standing dumbfounded in the middle of the hall.

“You know what to do!” John called over his shoulder. “Take the neutralizers off the guards! Keep in touch through the comm units!”

“But—the lock! We need the fingerprint!”

Sherlock skidded to a stop and squeezed his eyes closed.

“f*ck,” muttered John.

“Take it.” Sherlock unlocked the stairwell door and held it open, handing the visifilm to Lestrade. “We’ll go to the basem*nt. There’s a door I can get through and I don’t think there would be inhibitors—”

Lestrade took the visifilm. “Yeah, good, go!”

Sherlock and John turned into the stairwell and raced down as fast as they could.

“We won’t have time for the vault.” John said.

Sherlock shook his head. “We never did.”

They flew past the ground floor and were halfway to the basem*nt when John saw a flash of blue. Sherlock stumbled and pushed John back.

“Where the hell are those shots coming from?” John yelled. He found his answer when he leaned over the railing and saw a security bot on the next landing.

“Shoot it,” said Sherlock.

“We’ll be—”

“I don’t care who hears us, just shoot it!”

Sherlock started down the stairs. John took out his gun and shot the bot to pieces just as it swivelled in Sherlock’s direction.

“You were hit,” John said, as they came to the bottom of the stairwell. “How much?”

Sherlock pulled down his glove.

“Plenty.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m fine!”

There were two doors on the bottom floor. One was just like the others—secured with a printlock and a four-digit pin. The other had a different type of lock with no printpad. The door was nestled in the corner of the stairwell, looking dusty and abandoned. Sherlock headed straight towards it.

“I used this door once to escape from my bodyguards,” he said. “I created my own admin code.”

He looked down at the screen of the lock and started tapping buttons as if he had done it a hundred times before.

John nodded, then looked away, remembering the others. “Lestrade, you there?” he asked.

“Yeah, we’re about to go into the room. You okay?”

“So far. I want to know what’s going on. Keep us—”

Their connection was cut off with an ear-splitting screech. John cringed and pulled the comm unit out of his ear.

“They know we’re here,” said Sherlock. He removed his own comm unit and pinched it into pieces between his fingers. “How much time do you have?”

John looked down at his arm. “Little under three minutes.”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

The lock beeped, and the door made a soft clicking sound.

“Follow me.”

Motion-activated lights flickered on as they ran past shelves full of office supplies and computer parts. Sherlock stopped suddenly in the middle of the room and took John’s wrist. He squeezed tightly, but nothing happened. The numbers on John’s arm continued to count down. When the minutes place changed from three to two, Sherlock blanched.

“It’s not—I thought it—” He turned and ran towards a door on the other side of the room.

“Where are you going?” John asked. “How are we going to get through?”

There was no lock on this side of the door. It opened when Sherlock shoved it, and they came to another stairwell much like the first.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock had stopped just outside the door. His face was pale, and his breaths were coming quickly. John suspected it wasn’t entirely from the exertion of running.

“I can hack it,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “Or break—” he ran halfway up the stairs, then stopped short and pushed John back down.

“There’s a bot—” he said. “I can’t—”

“Sherlock, calm down!”

“You have a minute, John! You have one minute!”

John refused to look at his arm. He stared up at the door—potentially the only thing keeping them from the main floor of the bank, and it was—John frowned. The lock was lit green.

“It’s not locked,” he said, his voice sounding dazed to his own ears.

Sherlock turned to look. John blinked and squinted as if he were hallucinating, but the lock didn’t change.

“Stay behind me,” said Sherlock.

“You’ll be shot.”

“I was already shot, and I still have thousands of years—I can spare more!” Sherlock started up the stairs, one arm behind him to keep John in place. John glanced down at his time—forty-two seconds, forty-one, forty.

The bot fired, and Sherlock grunted as the shot got him in the chest. His glove was still pushed down. John could see the digits on his arm scrambling.

The bot shot again just as they reached the door. Sherlock took it in his shoulder. He pushed John into an empty hallway.

Thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine...

They ran down the hall, making no effort at being quiet or secretive. They heard voices and footsteps, but couldn’t tell where they were coming from.

Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen...

If John remembered right, there was one door left. He saw the lock lit a threatening red, and his heart nearly stopped. Sherlock slammed into the door with his whole body, but it didn’t show even the slightest sign of caving.

Fourteen, thirteen, twelve...

“You can’t—Sherlock, stop!”

Sherlock shoved against the door again. He turned quickly and took John’s arm, but no time was exchanged.

“Sherlock, listen to me!”

Nine, eight, seven...

John grabbed Sherlock’s hands, his shoulders, the back of his neck.

“Just—let me say this—”

“John—”

“Sherlock, I—”

The door slid open. John didn’t stop to think. He ran through. When he turned around to grab Sherlock’s wrist, they collided together and fell into a heap on the floor.

Three, two—

—three, four, thirty seconds, one minute, five minutes, one hour, three hours...

John watched the numbers on his arm go up, and was finally able to breathe again. His heart was pounding. He couldn’t see anything but the green numbers imprinted on his skin. Sherlock was holding him so tightly that John knew he would bruise.

One day, three days, one week, one month, six months, one year...

Sherlock had his eyes screwed shut. His whole body was tense, and the hand that wasn’t on John’s wrist was fisted in John’s jacket. John focused his attention on the connection between them and felt Sherlock’s near-paralysing fear and anxiety.

Three years, four years, five years...

“Hey, I’m alright now,” John said, a tremor in his voice. “You can stop.”

Sherlock didn’t let go, and John didn’t push it. Ten years became fifteen, became twenty. John loosened his grip on Sherlock’s wrist.

“Okay, Sherlock, I’m good.”

The exchange started to slow. Sherlock looked up, and John gave him a wavering smile. Sherlock’s gaze drifted slightly past John.

“Well if that’s settled, Mr. Holmes would like to see you.”

John turned around. There was a woman standing behind him, wearing a professional black dress and matching modest heels. She was holding a phone in one hand—her fingernails painted a pale pink, the screen of the phone casting light on a small stone pendant that hung above her neckline. She glanced up from the phone with a distant smirk.

“Now?” She turned and made a quick fluttering hand motion before walking away. Four security guards grabbed Sherlock and John and stood them up, shoving them forward to follow.

Mycroft’s office was predictably posh. He was sitting at a dark hardwood desk, ornately carved, with scuffs and scrapes that flaunted its age and price. Sherlock and John had been led to two empty chairs in front of him. Sherlock was leaning back, attempting to look calm and fearless, but John could see tension in the tapping of his foot and the twitch of his fingers against his knee.

Mycroft was looking at a laptop screen. He hadn’t spoken a word to them yet, and had barely acknowledged their presence, except for a brief second of eye contact right after they had been led inside. John cleared his throat, more angry than afraid. Mycroft looked at him over his computer, then clicked it closed. He put both elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his folded hands.

“Aren’t you going to thank me for unlocking the doors?” he asked, casually.

Sherlock scowled, and John glared. Neither spoke.

“It took longer than I expected for you to arrive."

“Where’s Molly?” John asked.

“You are very single-minded, aren’t you Mr. Watson?” Mycroft spoke in the slow drawl typical of immortals. He sighed as if the topic were boring him. “She is safe. As are the other two. We’re holding them for a while.”

“Holding them?”

“I told you—they’re safe.”

Mycroft opened his laptop again and turned it towards John. It showed a security feed—Molly, Sally, and Lestrade were in what looked like an interrogation room. Molly and Sally were sitting next to each other at a table, talking. Sally had one hand on Molly’s back. Lestrade paced the room, restlessly.

“You may not speak to them until after I’ve—”

"This is all a little dramatic, don't you think?" Sherlock interrupted. He leaned forward, scowling at his brother.

“What, the kidnapping?” Mycroft shrugged and closed the laptop. "When playing with children, one must play by children's rules."

"You've always thought of me as a child, haven't you?"

Mycroft smiled—a polite show of teeth without any emotion. He turned to John and opened his mouth, but Sherlock spoke again before Mycroft could get out a word.

"I'm not staying."

The room was quiet. John wasn’t sure what to say.

Mycroft toyed with a piece of synthpaper. “I know, Sherlock.” he said. He drew the pad of his finger over the edge of the paper, then pressed it down firmly on the desk. “You’re very involved. However, I don’t know what you hope to accomplish with these robberies.”

“You wouldn’t, would you?” John asked, angrily. “Do you even know what life is like outside Four? Have you ever even been—”

“Yes, John. I have been to your zone, in fact.”

John bristled. “Then how can you stand this place?”

“This is what is expected of me.”

John looked around the room—at the antique wooden desk, the expensive baubles decorating the walls. There was even a real bound book in a glass display case in the corner. It was a flashy show of excessive time.

“This is disgusting,” he muttered.

“What can I do about it, John? What would you have me do?” Mycroft rubbed at his temples, his professional facade slipping into hopelessness. “I was born into this position. When our parents died, I was expected to take over. Would you have me destroy my parents’ legacy—blemish the Holmes name—in order to rebel against a system that is stronger and more powerful than I am?”

“It would send a message,” John argued. “Maybe you wouldn’t destroy the whole system, but it would certainly show that aren’t going to put up with it.”

Mycroft chuckled under his breath. John had heard the same laugh from Sherlock dozens of times before.

“You are much nobler and braver than I,” Mycroft said. He turned to Sherlock. “I’ve never had as much power as you think I have, little brother. If anything, I’m more helpless than you.”

Sherlock dropped Mycroft’s gaze. When Mycroft spoke again, his voice was softer.

“Are you in love with him?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock hadn’t hesitated. John felt dizzy. He had known there was no reason to doubt, but Sherlock had never said it before. John looked up, and saw Mycroft looking back at him.

“I won’t be able to help you anymore. I can’t risk that.”

“We never asked for your help,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft smiled, fonder this time. “I know.” He looked down at his hands. “I can’t stay in contact with you. I can’t promise to help if you’re ever caught. But in the future, if we could find a way to coordinate a meeting without surveillance...I would like to see you again.”

Sherlock nodded, curtly.

“How much do you have right now?”

“I don’t want your—”

“How much do you have?”

“More than I need,” Sherlock snapped. “It’s irrelevant, I’m not keeping it. I don’t want to have any more than John.”

Mycroft frowned, but Sherlock didn’t relent. “Very well.”

When he stood from behind his desk, the door immediately opened, and two security guards came back inside. Mycroft held up a hand, and they stood by the door in wait.

“You’re letting us go?” John asked. “What’s the catch?”

Mycroft smirked. “Well I’m not letting you rob this bank. And if I find you on my property again, there will be repercussions. However, aside from that…”

He looked at Sherlock, seeming to search his brother’s face for some answer to a question he hadn’t asked. When he turned back to John, he looked satisfied.

“Just be careful,” he murmured. “Take care of him.”

John nodded. The guards led them out the door. Mycroft didn’t follow.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

The bathroom mirror wasn’t kind to John. His hair was pulled into random tufts, he had the imprint of a bedsheet pressed into his side, and the bruise on his neck would still be visible above the collar of his shirt. When he met his own eyes in the mirror, there were crinkles at the edges from a smile that wouldn’t disappear.

John looked out the open doorway and saw Sherlock lying sprawled on his back, poking at a pillow with one foot. At first, he didn’t catch John looking, but after a moment, he rolled his head to the side, gave John an appreciative glance-over, and grinned.

John felt his cheeks flush. He wet a flannel with warm water and walked back out into the bedroom.

“You are stunning,” he whispered, kneeling down onto the mattress. He wiped Sherlock’s stomach clean, watching the tug of pale skin under cloth.

Sherlock hummed with pleasure and trailed a finger along the arch of John’s foot.

John folded the flannel in half and wiped the edges of Sherlock’s mouth with a clean corner. Sherlock gave a devilish smile, and John kissed him on the forehead.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

There was a shiny silver capsule lying on the bedside table. John picked it up and Sherlock moved into a sitting position, leaning up against the headboard of the bed.

“How much are you going to keep?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “How much do you have?”

“Don’t go by what I—”

Sherlock took John’s wrist and looked at the numbers on his arm.

“Forty-nine years,” he read. “That’s how much I’ll keep.”

John rolled his eyes, fondly. “We won’t have the same amount forever. We do pay for things separately.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He held the capsule to his wrist and started depositing time.

“What are you going to do with it?” John asked, watching.

“Don’t know.”

“It’s the only time we have that we haven’t stolen.”

Sherlock nodded. The numbers on his arm started to slow.

“We could keep it, you know. For the future.”

When Sherlock’s time was down to forty-nine years, he pulled his wrist away.

“Yes,” he murmured. He set the capsule back on the table and leaned towards John.

When John opened the window later that morning, he was greeted by bright sunlight and the sort of fresh air that was only found in the wealthy zones. Zone 3 was unlike anything he’d ever seen—clean, slow-moving, and extravagant beyond belief.

Sherlock had dressed and gone out into the main room of the suite. John could hear the low rumble of his voice as he spoke with Sally about the job they had planned for later that night. John smiled to himself, then pulled on some clean clothes and stepped out of the bedroom.

Sherlock and Sally were leaning over a large unrolled screensheet—blueprints of the four-story bank that they planned to rob. Sherlock was pointing at a corner of the screen, explaining something quietly while Sally nodded, chewing her bottom lip in thought.

Ever since they had left Sigerson, Sherlock and Sally had been getting along. John wasn’t sure what had caused it, but they were amicable now, and when they did hurl insults at each other, it was only half-hearted. This made the group feel more at ease, and their work got done quicker and more smoothly.

John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed, and offered Sally a cheerful “good morning.” Lestrade and Molly were sitting nearby, Molly on her laptop, Lestrade reading the news on his tablet.

“There any more of that?” John asked, nodding towards Lestrade’s mug of coffee.

Lestrade shook his head. “Sorry, this is the last of it.”

“There’s tea in the kitchenette,” said Molly, glancing up briefly from her laptop.

John nodded in thanks and Molly gave him a warm smile.

It had been four months since Molly’s kidnapping. When they were released from Sigerson, Molly had been shaken up, but said that it could have been worse. Mycroft had kept her in a bare but comfortable room; she had only been moved to the cold metallic interrogation room when Lestrade and Sally arrived. She said that she was treated very politely, though firmly, and she never felt as though her life were in danger.

“He just wanted you back,” she had said to Sherlock. “He didn’t want to hurt me.”

Sherlock had frowned at this, and John was still angry, but Molly hadn’t suffered any real trauma, and it wasn’t long at all before she was back to her normal self. John suspected that they all had underestimated her bravery.

John stepped into the suite’s tiny kitchenette and dropped a tea bag into a clean, white mug. He poured boiling water from the tap and waited for the tea to steep before adding a splash of milk. He brought the mug to his mouth and inhaled the steam with a sigh.

“I think the pleasure you get out of a cup of tea is near org*smic.”

John looked up to see Sherlock leaning against the wall, watching him.

“When it’s properly prepared,” said John. “The tea tastes better in this zone. It’s probably pure—no chemicals or fillers.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved closer.

“I told Sally about the side entrance,” he said. “As long as Molly can get her past the first door, there won’t be any problem with the retina scanner.”

John nodded. “Alright.” He took a tentative sip, grimacing when he burnt his tongue.

“Molly’s testing the security system now. She should be inside within ten minutes.”

John nodded and looked at Sherlock, momentarily distracted by the way his trousers hugged his hips.

“John?”

John’s attention snapped back. Sherlock was raising an amused eyebrow. He crossed his arms in mock disapproval.

“Yeah, I heard you,” John grumbled. “Sally’s good, Molly’s good, we’re all set. We’ve known that, though. I never thought we’d have any problems.”

“I never said you did. But as newly-appointed co-leader, I thought it was expected of me to discuss these things with you. Is this not what co-leaders do?”

John snorted. “Okay, sure.” He took another sip of tea, more careful this time.

“If you’d rather just put me in charge and call me the ‘mastermind’...”

“Okay, that movie last night was a bad idea. No more heist movies.”

Sherlock smirked. “As long as everything goes smoothly with Molly, we’ll be ready to go.”

“Good,” said John. “Thank you.”

He looked up to see excitement and anticipation glimmering in Sherlock’s eyes.

At 1am that night, John peered down through a hole in the roof of Magnussen Bank. He scanned the empty room beneath him, but didn’t yet see any sign of Lestrade or Sally.

“You did the calculations yourself,” he said, turning to Sherlock behind him, who was triple-checking the ropes that would be supporting their weight. “You know they’ll hold.”

Sherlock nodded. He stood from his crouched position and walked over to John. His bright silver eyes skimmed the floor of the bank.

“Are you worried?” John asked.

Sherlock snorted.

“You look like you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried. I did the calculations myself.”

John grinned. He looked down into the bank one more time. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “They should be moving into position any minute now.” He stepped away from the edge of the hole, turning his attention upwards, instead.

The night was warm and clear, hinting towards an early summer. The stars were bright, twinkling in a black velvet sky that felt endless from such a high level. When the wind blew from the north, it ruffled Sherlock’s hair and made the leaves rustle in the trees. John took a deep breath of clean air and watched Sherlock run a hand through his curls.

“We could stop this, you know,” John murmured. Sherlock looked up, his face lit by moonlight. “We’ve already done so much—and we’re not the only ones. There are other people robbing banks, re-distributing time, even destabilising local economies...”

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought.

“This could be our last job. We could get a flat together and—”

“No,” said Sherlock, shaking his head. “You need this. I need this. I don’t want to stop. Not yet.”

John nodded, secretly pleased. “Alright.”

“John—” Sherlock put a hand on John’s arm, and John turned to meet his eyes. “There will be a time when I say yes. Just—not this time.”

John smiled. “Okay. When you’re ready, tell me. We’ll always have that capsule. 1,895 years to spend however we want.”

Sherlock’s hand loosened on John’s arm, his fingers dragging down John’s glove to rest over his palm.

“I want a poison garden,” he said.

John laughed. “Alright. I want a tap that boils water.”

“I want a new motorbike that doesn’t have bullet holes in it.”

“Hey, the bullet holes were your own fault. If you hadn’t—”

“If you had driven a little faster—”

“Oh, shut up.” John watched Sherlock’s index finger trace his life line. “I also want a dog.”

“A dog?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “If you get a dog, then I get bees.”

“Bees? Fine. Just keep them away from my dog.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh. He squeezed John’s fingers once, then let go. They both peered down into the bank, looking for any sign of the others.

“Not a flat,” Sherlock said, quietly. “A house.”

“That’s awfully permanent.”

“I want to die there.”

John looked up, but Sherlock refused to meet his gaze.

“When?” he asked.

“I never wanted to live longer than a century.”

“Oh.” John took a slow breath. “Then I won’t, either. We have the power to control when we die. Don’t think I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

“You want to die at the same time?”

“Asks the man who had two thousand years, yet set his time to forty-nine.”

Sherlock gave the ghost of a smile. John brushed his knuckles over the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“Where do you want to live?” he asked.

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, Lestrade came into view below. He waved up at them, making the “all clear” signal with one hand. Sally walked out from a different hallway, shoving a gun back into the holster at her hip.

John checked the knot on his harness one more time to soothe his nerves, then got into position, crouching next to Sherlock.

“Ready?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded.

John was just about to lower himself down into the building when Sherlock put a hand over his.

“John—” he said. “I’m rather fond of Sussex.”