fanfiction.lol^{fun, silly, low-stakes fandom}

Chapter Text

It all started with a door. No magic, no fairies turning me into a real boy. A little underwhelming if you ask me. I would have been disappointed had I not been in pain and scared out of my mind. And you must keep in mind I might have talked about being in pain before, but it was merely a figure of speech. Nothing could have prepared me for the real deal.

But back to the fateful door.

For some unbeknownst to me reason, I wasn't feeling like acting too much like a real person on that particular day. Perhaps because Sherlock got on my nerves, and I felt mischievous. 

I don't like being ignored, and yet... he kept doing it. It wasn't like he refused to acknowledge my presence; he would definitely not go this far unless I gave him a good reason to. However, being the academically smitten man he sometimes can be, he was too busy reading some thick and indescribably dull book.

As he was reading and only ever responding with "mhms" and "ahas" to whatever I was trying to tell him, I came up with an admittedly silly idea. I decided to give him a good scare and teach him a lesson! My idea was to leave his bedroom for a while and then launch back inside through the door next to his desk. I also wanted to yell "boo!" at him like a ghost. That's what ghosts do, right?

Yes, the plan could have been better. And yes, I was unlikely to scare Sherlock at all, but I was craving activity and attention. And minds which are bored almost to death don't always come up with the best ideas. If I were lucky, he'd roll his eyes. It sounds desperate, but it was better than nothing at the moment. At least I would get a reaction out of him.

So, I left his room and waited in front of the door. I may or may not have rubbed my hands like a villain. Had I had a moustache, I would have twirled it. Presumably, I wouldn't know for sure, as I don't have one. 

I waited in front of his door until enough time had passed, and I figured he would have forgotten that I had left in the first place. It must have been around ten minutes.

And then I launched at the door. I was smiling in anticipation, and I swear, I could already see his startled face in my mind's eye! Then I'd get the attention every imaginary person deserves. It's our birthright, you see!

But then… then came the pain. Although I did not know what it was back then. I would likely sound dramatic to anyone who has never been ethereal, but at first, I believed I would die any moment. I saw black and an occasional star. It was overwhelmingly scary, and before realising what was happening to me, I lost balance and landed on the floor. As you can imagine, this experience was not entirely pain-free either. Still, my head definitely hurt more than my posterior.

I must have remained seated on the ground for quite some time, but I was too shocked to care. Sherlock says I was groaning; I must have been. The thump against his door and the noises I was making while on the floor were enough to catch his attention, and I heard him call my name.

"Please... come," I said, and oh, I must have sounded distressed. It was enough to make him abandon his horribly boring textbook and come check on me. 

"What is it, Jon?" He asked as he came out of the room, but he did not look nearly as worried as I would have hoped; on the contrary, he looked slightly annoyed and obviously expecting me to be playing a trick on him. 

Of course, I couldn't answer his question.

"I... I don't know. I tried to jump through the door, but I failed, so I ended up on the floor," I replied, placing my hand on my aching forehead. Of course, it was slowly dawning on me that I'd hit my head - it was throbbing like a beating heart, and oh, believe me, when you have never owned a head before, the throbbing feels tenfold as awful.

"Of course you did. Let me guess, you hit your head, too?" He spoke mockingly, sighing and rolling his eyes and all these other wonderfully bratty things he does whenever I succeed in getting on his nerves.

Only, I was not in the mood for this. I was in shock, and the more I thought about the implications of what had just happened to me, the more my thoughts raced.

Would you like to know what else feels different when you have never had a corporeal body and are suddenly stuffed into one? Right, you experience having a heartbeat, but you haven't inhabited your body for long enough to filter it out, so you actually feel every thump.

Naturally, I came to the conclusion that a demon had taken possession of me. Why else would I feel and hear a throbbing in my chest? I was imaginary! We don't have beating hearts! I was convinced it was a demon who was trying to break out of my non-existent rib cage. 

I admit the conclusion wasn't the most logical one, but I was terrified. I was experiencing things I had never experienced before, so forgive me for the silliness.

I felt the hard floor; my weight pressed me against it. I felt a chill in the air, which gave me goosebumps. Everything was suddenly so different, sharp and intense, and before I knew it, I was... hyperventilating. And that is not a pleasant experience.

"Something is happening, Sherry... Something..." I was rambling like a maniac, looking left and right. In terror. Shivering. Struggling for breath. It's not a pretty sight if you ask me. I was losing my mind, and finally, Sherlock began taking me seriously. 

"It will be alright, Jon, just breathe slowly," he knelt beside me, and he was calmness incarnate. I loved him so much in this brief moment. He had this patronising tone, but his confidence gave me some of my strength back...

Until he touched me, that is. He wanted to place his hands on my shoulders to help me calm down, but he likely never expected to feel something this solid. And I was solid. For the first time in my life, I was as solid as he was. 

Sherlock... flinched and landed on his posterior, too. His reaction did not calm me down. And he tried so hard to keep his cool and sound confident as he spoke to me, but he failed so terribly. I would have felt bad for him had I not been too busy with my own horror.

"What is the meaning of this, Jon? How are you- How-" He jumped back on his feet and started pacing back and forth. I could only tell him I did not know, but that something was pulsating in my chest, and I did not like the sensation at all.

"Do you mean a  heart ?!" He exclaimed, and his tone was all over the place. Was he enraged, frightened, appalled, or mocking me again? I couldn't tell. Either way, he pronounced the word so loudly that I forgot my misery for a moment and stared at him. "So you have a heart now... unbelievable..."

Then my hand moved to my chest, and yes, it made sense that a heart would feel like this - not that I'd know; I'd never felt one before.

"I'm not feeling alright..." was all I could say. The hyperventilating was making me dizzy, and nothing so far suggested that this experience meant anything other than my impending demise. "I don't want to die, Sherlock, I still have so much to do..."

I did not. Other than keeping a secret or two from my friend, he'd sooner or later find out the truth with or without my help. I did not want to die, but honestly? It wouldn't have been such a significant loss if I had, at least up to that point in my story. That realisation stung a lot, and you can guess - it did not help with my panic.

"You aren't dying, Jon, you are... Hah!" Sherlock finally stopped pacing around, but the anxiety was still there. He smiled in disbelief, but he was not amused or happy, and his smile looked grim - Sherlock was as terrified as I was. "It makes no sense, no... this... this is insanity !" he cried out again, took a few steps back, and began shaking his head. I'm not going to lie; his mood swings weren't helpful, and I wished he'd stop startling me.

I... may or may not have started crying a little.

"Please, tell me what is happening to me, I'm so scared..." I remember saying before I began weeping into my hands. Of course, the weeping did not last long - the feeling of my own hands on my face cut it short and gave me yet another shock. And, of course, there was a non-familiar stinging in my new pair of eyes and the strange feeling of having something run down my face.

"I can feel myself..." I said as I wiped my tears and observed the wetness on my fingertips. I had never looked at my palms before, but in that moment, they were fascinating - so natural and human. I had no clue how they had looked before.

"Give me your hand." Sherlock's voice was closer than anticipated - he had knelt before me without me realising. He sounded a little calmer, but he did not look the part, for he was trembling like a leaf in the wind. It took me a while to process what he'd requested from me, but eventually, I reached out my hand, and he took it between his palms, and they felt so different from what I had ever imagined.

"Your hands are... different from mine, they feel..." I could not name the sensation, but it wasn't unpleasant or painful. 

"Cold. They... are always cold, Jon. Unlike yours." Sherlock's voice cracked a little, and his grip around my hand tightened. I'd rarely seen him so shaken, and I wished I could be the one who could offer him comfort, but I was quite shaken myself.

And yet still, I had just learned something new about him; I had spent fifteen years with him, but I had never known his hands were always cold. 

"What does all of this mean, Sherry?"

"I don't know. But we will figure it out together."

I'd rather not bore you with the details of how long it took me to get used to standing. I wouldn't say I was like a toddler; I definitely had more control over my body, but I was overthinking every single movement too much. More often than not, I ended up not doing anything at all. I had always been a thought  - something not bound to the physical world. Initially, I often forgot that I could no longer move from one point to another without actually doing the work. 

The first step was getting up from the floor - something I wouldn't have managed without Sherlock. I was suddenly about 180 pounds heavier than I was used to weighing, and gravity was nothing I'd had to deal with before. Things that are normal to regular humans posed the most significant challenges to me, and every step I took made my heart race faster and faster.

Sherry had once told me I couldn't grasp the true horrors of mortality, and I remember protesting. Good Lord, had I been naive to do so. I recalled this during my first day as a human, and suddenly, his words sounded like the wisest thing a human had ever said. I was in a position where I feared I'd die any moment; I feared I did not breathe right or that I would forget breathing altogether and suffocate. I was sure I'd fall down the stairs and break my neck. 

Ah, the stairs. 

You see, Sherlock was desperate. He was convinced he'd lost it entirely. Therefore, he was eager to leave the manor and confirm I had become corporeal by asking people on the street if they could see me.

The problem was that this plan required us to leave the house, and leaving the house required me to walk down the stairs, and I was not mentally prepared for expert-level walking exercises. I could barely walk on even ground without having a panic attack!

It wasn't fun - it wasn't fun at all - but Sherlock was trying hard not to let me see how scared he was because he knew I needed him to be strong. Of course, I could see it regardless - I knew him better than anyone, and the least I could do was walk the god-forsaken stairs down and help my friend get the answers he was so desperately looking for. 

And I needed the answers, too.

And I did. It must have taken us at least half an hour to reach the ground level. I must have clung so desperately to him that I'd left his upper arm bruised, but somehow, we made it, and after a short break, we finally walked through the front door.

It was a lovely sunny day in Cordona. Of course, I was blinded at first, but after explaining to me for the hundredth time that, no, I was not going to die and that, no, this light was merely the sun and not God coming down to earth to take my soul to the realm of the dead, Sherlock and I finally left the garden and walked down the street. 

Thinking of this very first day of my new life always surprises me. Mostly because I had never expected Sherlock to show so much patience towards anyone, but on that particular day, he was the most patient and compassionate person I have ever met. I like to think he simply cared for me too much to get irritated by my baby-bird-like behaviour. Recalling this makes me smile even now.

I remember holding his arm during the whole ordeal. I was too afraid I would fall or... dissolve. Anything was possible in my mind. Sherlock says people were giving us very peculiar looks, but I guess I must have been too excited and nervous to actually pay attention to such details. Of course, Sherlock was trained to always pay attention, no matter how troubled he was. He is pretty impressive. My first hours are really blurry to this day, but yes, we must have caught many people's attention because… actually, I will get to this story later.

We took a stroll, and I was vibrating, feeling too many things at once - more than I could process. There were so many sensations I'd never known before. It was like I had entered a whole new world. Even the cobblestones under my feet amazed me because they felt different from walking on grass.

"I don't think I need to ask people, Jon; it's undeniable that they are seeing you..." Sherlock said once we reached Vernet Street. I couldn't tell if he was relieved or regretful, but he sounded like the little boy I once knew - like the Sherry from ten years ago. Insecure, fearful, small. I had adjusted to my new situation enough to start paying attention to him again, and I hated seeing him so uneasy.

"Shall we go home? I can't believe I'm saying this, but I've had enough excitement for the moment," I suggested, hoping the walls of our manor would provide both of us the comfort we desperately needed. Sherlock nodded, and we turned back.

I tried to interact more with my surroundings on our way back - I had finally gathered enough courage to greet the people we saw in passing. However, nobody ever greeted me in return, which puzzled me quite a lot, and every time, I felt Sherlock tense up even further.

Shortly before reaching the manor, we were stopped by a policeman, and I remember fearing my heart would burst out of my chest as I lifted my hand and waved at the man. I tried to say "hello ", but my voice failed pathetically.

"Is this man bothering you, sir?" said the man, and of course, he was talking to Sherlock. Still, he was definitely looking at me as he spoke, and that had never happened before. I'd never felt so exposed in my life, and I took a step back, all while refusing to let go of Sherlock's arm. 

"I'm not…" I tried speaking again, but was not as prepared to talk to strangers as I'd hoped. Luckily, Sherlock jumped in.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied, and suddenly, his voice was made of steel. He seemed quite irritated, and I did not understand why, even though the reason should have been apparent to me. "He is my friend, and he never bothers me, which cannot be said about you, officer. Come on, Jon, let us continue our walk and leave the kind man to his job. Not that he'd make a difference." Sherlock said and pulled at my arm. His rudeness surprised me a little, but I did not protest.

As we walked away, I remember turning around to look at the policeman, who was mumbling something I couldn't understand.

And then a thought crossed my mind and made me halt. I couldn't think of another reason why everyone seemed to avoid and suspect me.

"I am hideous, am I not?" I let go of Sherlock for the first time since we'd left. It had to be it - people were shallow enough to be unkind to anyone who did not look appealing. I was quite disappointed in humanity. It wasn't like I had chosen my face! Sherlock had!

Sherlock's eyes widened a little. Once again, disbelief was written all over his features.

"Seriously, Jon? "Of course, he immediately recognised I was dead serious, and his face softened a little. "You are not hideous. They are just being unfriendly to you because… " 

All of a sudden, he looked pensive, sorrowful even. I did not understand the swift change in his mood, but apparently, something about me appalled people, and he knew what it was.

"Does it matter why they act like this?" He asked, and although I knew it pained him to answer my question because he did not want to hurt my feelings, I nodded.

"It's because… You are not dressed like a fine gentleman, Jon. You know how essential disguises are for my work." He finally replied, and I sighed in relief. It was really the clothes, wasn't it? I looked down, and suddenly, it all made sense. I looked like a street urchin! I really stood out in Grand Saray! 

"It means I simply need different clothes, then! People will finally talk to me if I dress better, right?" I was still a little shaky, but I was also beginning to enjoy my new form of existence. I was excited. I had always wanted to be real, always, since the very first day I'd appeared. 

"Yes, you simply need to change your way of dressing, and you will likely become quite popular, Jon. Much more popular than me, I assume. But let us go home for now, shall we?" Sherlock smiled at me, but I couldn't get rid of the feeling that he was forcing his smile, for his eyes still bore sadness I couldn't explain.

Without saying a word, we entered our garden. It was still noon; the day had only begun, but it had already changed our lives, and we needed a break.

Chapter Text

"Why are you ignoring me? Can you talk to me? This is disturbing."

I meant it. I looked around us and scanned the street, and although it was the middle of the day, I couldn't shake off the ominous feeling. Of course, London was not Cordona; it wasn't sunny and cheerful, but the street was busy and full of life - people were rushing in every direction! A boy, whose voice had not yet broken, was trying to sell his newspapers, and there was even an ice cream stand, although barely anyone cared for the ice cream in the rainy weather. But all in all, nothing about my surroundings seemed alarming, yet the feeling stayed. I felt on edge and threatened even though no threat was in sight, which was why I wanted Sherlock to finally stop ignoring me.

He was walking in front of me and paid me no attention at all. I wondered what that was all about, but he wouldn't tell me, no matter how many times I asked, and I was starting to feel frustrated with him.

"Silent treatment is not okay, Sherlock. We are better than this," I grumbled. Tired of following him like a stray dog, I stopped in the middle of the pavement. It was not the smartest move: a woman walked right into me and almost fell. Of course, I apologised, and after checking on her and ensuring she was all right, I eyed my friend again.

He had stopped, too. He wasn't facing me yet, but I still heard him mumble.

"There is no 'we', Jon. You are on your own now." And just like this, he picked up the pace again, leaving me behind.

"What? No … " I was gutted, to put it mildly. I didn't know what I had done to deserve such harsh words, but I couldn't let this sit. I also picked up the pace, and once I reached him, I grabbed him by the arm and made him turn around and face me. I expected anger, sorrow, anything but the sheer indifference I saw in the once affectionate face. It made the blood in me freeze.

"What are you talking about, Sherry? On my own? " I pleaded desperately, the soul within me crushing, breaking into pieces. "I am your friend, you can't throw me away, all the years … " 

For what? Did he hate what I had become so much? Did he not care that it wasn't my fault? Yes, I had always wanted to become a real person, but not at any price - not if it meant losing him. Did he believe it had happened only because I had wanted it badly enough?

"Let me go, Jon." I knew he wanted to shove me away at that moment - there was a flicker in his eyes, a rage I hadn't seen in a while. However, he did not want to make a scene. The street was busy, like I said. I couldn't bear such hostility, not from him who carried the other half of my soul. I did not listen; I clung to him with all I had. I believed we could still mend it; if I found the right words and convinced him, I'd be ready to forgive the cruel way he treated me. I don't think he can do anything that I can't forgive. I would always forgive him.

I did not find the words, however. I could only plead, but my despair left him unmoved. It broke my heart.

"Is this man bothering you, sir?" A man's voice came from behind - a bobby. I tried to reply, but Sherlock was much faster, and my voice failed me again.

"Yes, he is, actually. Could you remove him from me? He wouldn't leave me alone."

All I could do was shake my head in disbelief. My throat closed up, and I choked on the words I wanted to say. All strength to fight for our friendship was gone. I had not given up, but I was unwanted, and I couldn't change it. 

What I could change, however, was the way the bobby tried to pull me away. Or at least I believed I could. I was hurting quite a lot, and I did not like being dragged away like a criminal. I did not feel like being touched at all. 

"Let me go." It was my turn to say these words now. 

"Calm down, Jon," he said. I had no idea how he knew my name, but he was pretty damn strong for a man this lanky - he dragged me away like a lifeless doll, and despite my physical strength, I couldn't do anything to free myself from his clutch.

"No, let me go!" I sobbed and tried to pull away, but my arms no longer listened to me. And neither did my head as I tried to turn around and see where Sherlock was. The street around us was suddenly dark.

"Calm down, Jon; it will be all right." The bobby spoke again, but I did not believe him. Nothing was all right. Was I losing control over my body? Was I to become invisible once more?

And the most prevalent question - would Sherlock want my friendship again if I were no longer a real person?

I was done with being dragged away - each step brought me further from my friend. And I was scared: I only wanted to find Sherlock and fix this mess. I focused all the strength I had left into my arms and pushed the man away - and I finally succeeded. He fell on the hard pavement. 

I was free. However, when I looked at him, he was no longer the bobby who'd dragged me away - he was Sherlock now and seemed worried.

"Sherry ... I didn't mean to hurt you, but he was ... " My words sounded slurred and unclear. 

"It's okay, Jon. Calm down." He stood before me with both hands placed on my upper arms, gently stroking them. Had he already forgiven me? I couldn't keep up with his moods; that much was clear.

"No, it's not okay. This is why you hate me, isn't it?" I hid my face in my palms; the light hurt my eyes.

"I don't hate you, Jon. Look at me!" 

His voice was quiet. He sounded like he always did; the hostility was suddenly gone. It took me a moment to gather myself, but once I did, I removed my hands from my face and looked at him.

Sherlock was sitting on the bed in our room.  In Cordona. I had not been in London at all. Why had I thought I had?

"Have you come back to your senses? You were having a bad dream. You were tossing and turning quite a lot," Sherlock clarified before my mind could form the question. A dream. This was new as well. 

Dreams are funny things to me. They are fuzzy, intense, and illogical. And yet, they remind me of my life before, if you can call my imaginary existence a life. Dreams hit very close to home even today; they are more familiar to me than the human world. I'd go as far as to say I had lived in a dream-like state for fifteen years before I had finally awoken. Like the sleeping beauty - but with fewer kisses and more pain. 

And speaking of pain, I had a bump on my forehead where I'd hit the door. It's irrelevant to my story, but I think it's worth mentioning in case you've wondered about it.

In the beginning, I often struggled to tell dreams from reality. And when I woke up from my very first dream, it took me a while to adapt to the real world again. I pulled Sherlock close in a hug - laugh all you want, but I wasn't convinced he didn't hate me and didn't want me gone yet. I needed the comfort - the dream had messed with my head. The sudden display of affection must have shocked him quite a lot; he sat there like a frozen person until I let go, but he didn't seem to mind it either. He even tried to return the hug, but I figured he'd forgotten how to do that.

"You haven't slept at all," I commented once I had finally shaken away the remaining emotions the nightmare had stirred. I observed Sherlock from head to toe to ensure he was still my friend and not some rude bobby for one last time. He was fully dressed, and it was past four in the morning. 

Of course, he hadn't slept, you would say; it had been an eventful day, and he didn't know how to cope with the change, so he couldn't find rest. And you would be right! However, his inner turmoil only fed my insecurity. I wished he'd simply be happy for me.

I knew him better than this, I honestly did, but I was still adapting as well. I didn't know how to cope either, and I was terrified he'd grow to dislike the new person I had become.

"I … was reading, and there is only one bed anyway," Sherlock replied. I hummed in return. Of course, he had been reading, I thought; he had spent most of the day reading. All we had done on my first day as a person was waste the little money we had on occult books once the textbooks from the public library had turned out to be of no help. And it was obvious that books wouldn't give him the answers he sought. 

Still, before the conversation died altogether, I decided to act curious. Of course, it would have been nice to discover how and why I became a real person, but searching for the answer was not as thrilling as experiencing life. And I did not want to experience it without him, but he didn't seem very interested.

"Did you find something out?" I asked half-heartedly, not looking at him. I knew he'd read me like an open book either way (ha!), but I tried to conceal how insecure all of this made me feel. Whether I succeeded or not, he left it uncommented. 

"No," he sighed and shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing about imaginary people becoming real, nothing even vaguely related at all."

"What a bummer."

I hated the silence that followed. We had rarely sat there in silence before. I could tell he felt it was well, and his mind worked hard to think of something to say. I was doing the same. Of course, he was faster.

"Oh," he exclaimed and made me look up from the ground - anything, I welcomed anything that would break the ice that had suddenly formed between us. "I seem to have forgotten to get you something to eat, Jon. I suppose you require sustenance now," he looked at me apologetically before he burst into what I can only describe as a desperate, manic laughter. "What an awful friend I am! I am even worse than I imagined I'd be."

"Why are you awful? You only forgot to feed me because you haven't eaten yourself," I replied. Foul mood or not, I couldn't bear hearing him talk badly about himself - it was against my nature. "You are simply forgetful," I smiled, "and neglectful of your own needs. If anything, you are much more awful to yourself than anyone else." 

"Thank you very much for the kind words, but I wasn't hungry," he quipped - his mood had brightened a little. He jumped up from the bed and beckoned me to follow him. "Get up; there must be some biscuits left. I shall not let you starve."

"I'm not an infant, Sherlock," I replied, but I wasn't much better than an infant, really. I hadn't even realised how hungry I'd been. Talk about intuition and self-preservation; my own body was an unsolvable mystery to me.

And then I knew why he had spent the day reading instead of having fun with me. I got up from the bed, but before he could leave the room and disappear into the darkness of the hall behind the door, I reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder.

"You never need to worry about me, Sherlock. I promise I will be fine. I might be quite helpless now, but I am a fast learner."

"I know," he whispered, and I could feel him relax a little.

Do you want to know about another unique experience that you've never been corporeal? It's seeing yourself for the first time - the way nature intended.

After the biscuits, which had tasted better than I'd ever imagined (they had melted in my mouth! I had almost cried from delight), Sherry and I fell asleep on the small bed. I didn't dream of him hating me again, and eventually, we woke up at noon and decided to have a proper meal and some tea. Of course, we had nothing at home other than biscuits, so we were forced to go out for better or worse.

And for better or worse, I needed to get into fresh clothes. And for better or worse, I did not own any other clothes, so I was forced to borrow some from my friend. He lent me a brown suit (because I wanted to look proper this time), and after giving me some vague instructions on how to put it on, he left our room. 

There was a lot to unpack there. Figuratively and literally.

As you can imagine ... I had never seen my own body, and I was thrilled to see what was hidden beneath my usual outfit. Sherlock had never done me the favour of manifesting me naked. It was all entirely new to me, and I was quite nervous, but Lord. I. Loved. What. I. Was. Seeing.

Call me vain, but Sherlock had really done a great job there. I was evenly tanned, which made little sense considering I always wore clothes, but I was grateful regardless. And I was handsome - I had just the right amount of muscle to look well-trained and strong without looking too bulky. 

No, it's not arrogance, mind you; it wasn't my own work that I admired - it was his and his alone. He had really made a gorgeous man out of me. And most importantly, nothing was missing. Everything was there - if you know what I mean. 

I couldn't keep this to myself; I was too excited not to talk about it with my dear friend and creator. I peeked through the door to see Sherry standing in the hall, impatiently waiting for me to finally get dressed. I couldn't help the silly smile on my face. You might think I was oversharing quite a lot, but it was Sherlock! With whom else was I supposed to share my joy if not him?

"I don't know if you care, but I ... I got everything. Thank you for that." I nodded slowly and ambiguously, hoping he understood what I meant.

He looked at me as if I were speaking in Spanish. "Everything? Please, be more precise, Jon. Everything entails ... pretty much everything as the word suggests."

Oh, there they were again - the arrogant smirk and the eye-rolling. I wished I didn't have to say it out loud. He was the most brilliant man in the world, yet he was so slow sometimes. 

"I mean... everything is how and where it's supposed to be. All in all, I look amazing! A job well done, Mr Sherlock Holmes. You can come in and see for yourself." 

Yes, yes, silly me and my lack of understanding of social conventions. I beg your pardon, but he had imagined me this way! I was simply being polite. Why wouldn't he be curious to see me - his own imagination made flesh?

It finally dawned on him; the look on his face - priceless. 

"Are ... are you suggesting I should come in to see you ... undressed, Jon? Is this what you are ..." He had turned as red as a lobster within seconds. I really didn't get what the big deal was back then.

"Why not? I have already seen you naked. I have nothing you don't have yourself."

"Good Lord, have mercy!" He cried.

Apparently, my suggestion had somehow scandalised him. "Your loss," I replied and closed the door again, but I feared I'd upset him. Or he was simply too hungry and, therefore, in a bad mood. Either way, I figured I'd better get dressed and never suggest this again.

His suit wasn't a great fit, but neither had been my old shirt. Apparently, his imagination had not been great enough to give me fitting clothes. He was no designer, though, so I didn't blame him even if I couldn't understand it back then. Eventually, I was done dressing up. I decided against wearing the jacket and the tie and left the first two buttons undone. What can I say? It is my trademark. I did want to look proper, but I also wanted to stay true to myself, and I knew he wanted it, too, although he'd never say it out loud.

"How do I look?" I finally stood before him, and even though I only got a short 'Great.' in return, I could tell he liked how I wore the suit. I am not stupid - of course, I'd figured out he'd been upset by the idea of me changing the way I dressed entirely the day before. And the last thing I wanted was to upset him - we had both undergone a great change and needed time to get used to our new lives.

And there we were - back outside again. It was a cloudless day in Cordona, and after I'd survived twenty-four hours as a real person without perishing, I felt ready to take over the world. I was still a little shaky in my interactions with others, but I was getting the hang of it. I even complimented a beautiful lady's floral hat, and when she heard me, she smiled and hid her flushed face behind her fan. How amazing was this?

"Did you see her, Sherry? She got flustered! She shouldn't have gotten flustered at all; her hat was lovely; I really meant what I said." I was ecstatic, a bubbling mess, but people were seeing me, talking to me, reacting to me! Probably questioning my sanity, too, but who cares? I didn't.

"I thought the hat was rather insipid," Sherlock replied, but the corners of his mouth rose, "but either way, here is the restaurant. Shall we go in, or would you like to flatter a few more women before breakfast?" 

"Haha."

The place was relatively small, but their menu was solid. It was quite pretty, too - live ivy decorated the brick walls, which made it feel almost like we were outside and not inside. We found a table pretty quick, and while I was busy observing and occasionally waving at the other guests, Sherlock placed our order. I didn't know how anything tasted, so I decided to trust him on this.

... until the last words of his order reached my ears.

"Yes, you heard correctly, nine cups," he sighed impatiently as if he had not just ordered nine cups. 

The waiter looked at me helplessly, but I could only shrug in return. Once the man left, I cleared my throat.

"So, after reading all the occult books on Cordona, you have finally moved on to tarot card readings for answers. I don't think Nine of Cups should be taken so literally, though," I raised my eyebrow and leaned back in my chair. I have always loved teasing him before breakfast, and some things never change.

"I am not going to ask what you mean, but I can assure you it's all for a very crucial experiment." He mirrored my stance and smirked at me. I was in for a treat!

"An experiment. I have only been alive for a day, and you are already considering experimenting on me. I thought I was your friend. Tut-tut!" I shook my head in a feigned disappointment and watched his smirk grow wider. That smirk stirred something in me, but I was too new to the physical world to name the sensation.

"I have always considered it, Jon, but your lack of a physical form stood in the way."

I could no longer keep a straight face. "What a bad boy you are."

Whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the waiter, who appeared with a tablet. Before long, our breakfast was served. It consisted of two plates with scrambled eggs, each for either of us, a pot of coffee, a pot of tea, a pot of cream, and, well ... nine empty cups accompanied by nine endearing saucers with pink roses on them.

"Are we building a tower?" I asked as I watched Sherlock place only one of the cups on his side of the table. Apparently, the other eight were for me. It did not look like a tower, however. Instead, he built a horizontal line with the saucers and placed the infamous cups on them. 

"A dam? A hedge? No? A train!" I exclaimed, even though none of it made sense to me.

"No, Jon, we are not building a train with the cups." An eye-roll. Of course. I had likely deserved it.

"I really hope this doesn't turn out to be boring because you've already put too much effort into the buildup."

"Would you be so kind as to keep silent for a brief moment?"

I groaned, but I kept silent. Sherlock took the pot of coffee and poured some of it into four of the cups. The other four he filled with tea. Then, he took the sugar pot from the table and added sugar to each beverage's second and fourth cups. He repeated the same with the cream, but this time, he added it to the third and fourth cups. Once he stirred everything, he finally took his place on his side of the table. For himself, Sherlock chose tea with some cream and no sugar. 

And there I was, sitting with eight cups of coffee or tea before me, either pure, with sugar, with cream or with both. I was speechless - gone were the humour and the jokes. I genuinely did not know what to say.

"It's easier this way. I'd have to figure out what you prefer to drink at breakfast sooner or later. I'd rather know it sooner." Sherlock said while looking out the window and acting as if none of this meant anything, but he wanted to get to know this new me. His little gesture meant the world.

And I preferred coffee with both sugar and cream.

"What shall we do with the rest?" I finally asked once I'd picked the beverage of my choosing. I love coffee to this day, but this first cup will always remain the best one I have ever had. 

"We shall drink it, my friend. We have many more books to read and no time for sleep," he replied to my greatest displeasure.

Chapter Text

Being a person, a corporeal person is a wild ride. I had never imagined it like this before. My ability to do so was solely based on my own experiences, and as an ethereal person, my experiences were very limited. And to my imaginary mates out there who might be reading this: having a body is much more intense than you think! It only took me a couple of weeks until I began regretting ever wishing for it. However, let's start at the beginning.

It began two and a half weeks after my transformation. Having our meals outside the manor had become a habit by then - we couldn't cook, of course. I was as willing to learn cooking as I was to learn anything else other humans did, but we did not have the time. Sherlock was still obsessed with discovering why I had become a real person. We read every book we got our hands on, every newspaper, every document, but of course, we never found any answers. It did not seem to dishearten him, however. It was the opposite - the constant failures motivated him to continue his research even further as if to spite all odds. I would go as far as to say that the matters of my sudden transformation were so pressing to him that he seemed to have forgotten why we were staying on Cordona in the first place. And I had begun believing that God, or whoever it was, had made me real just to distract him from the real reason. I was thankful for that, I really was, but I was growing tired of reading boring scientific books all day, every day. Naturally, eating together was the bare minimum he could do to make my life more enjoyable.

In the beginning, Sherlock complained about it a lot; he was used to skipping meals quite frequently and eating three times a day was a waste of precious time in his eyes. I couldn't let this sit - food was a new concept to me, and I enjoyed every bite. I may not have been entirely truthful then because I always pretended to suffer greatly from hunger to get him to share a meal with me. I even went as far as to claim I was in pain because I was hungry - I suspected he saw right through me, but it worked well for a while, and eventually, he stopped complaining altogether. It simply became a thing we did together. Before long, he'd stop at a restaurant when it was about time for dinner, and he'd get us a table without me having to ask at all. I was pleased. 

We had the most enjoyable time during our meals. Sherlock always made a point to order a dish I hadn't had before, and then he observed my reaction with great interest as I tried it. I suspect he even took notes about the dishes I enjoyed and those I didn't because he always took his notebook out during our meals. I suppose he needed to turn the whole matter into an experiment to be able to enjoy it. This gesture touched me, however, and naturally, I began to do the same, although he rarely voiced his preferences. To him, food was all the same and only there to sustain him, not to taste well. My notes about his favourite meals ended up being rather short, but at least I had gotten him to have them. It was a win. I still saw myself as someone whose whole purpose was to make sure he took care of himself, and therefore, I was very proud of the progress.

This was when it happened. When I least expected it, when I had finally begun feeling good in my own skin.

It began like an ordinary day insofar that I woke up after Sherlock had already begun his day. We still shared a bed - his savings weren't enough for furniture, and neither of us wanted to sleep in Violet's room. Well, and Mycroft's room was off-limits, if only because Sherlock held grudges against his brother. Of course, these weren't the only reasons. We had never addressed this verbally until then, but we had never spent the night in different rooms. Sherry had lived for six years before we met, but he had no recollection of them. Therefore, he had no recollection of ever being alone in a room - I had always been there. I was feeling exactly the same. What had seemed like solitude to many had never been real solitude, and having to separate for the night was a challenge for both of us we were not ready to face yet.

The way I woke up that day should have already warned me that it was like no other - it was almost noon, and I never slept this long. I was so parched that my throat hurt. In fact, everything hurt. It was freezing, too. It was like I had woken up right in a nightmare, and when I tried to get up, I realised it was more challenging than I was used to - it was as if my head had suddenly grown twice its size and was accordingly heavy. It had not grown, however - I checked. 

"Sherry?" I called my friend, who was sitting at his desk and reading. What a surprise, I know. 

"Jon! I see you are finally awake. I was just about to go out looking for a prince to kiss you," he said, smirking again. I humoured him and smiled, but I suspected it looked forced at best. I was feeling too uncomfortable to enjoy the banter.

"I feel odd. My body aches everywhere." I mumbled and looked at him, expecting he'd know what was wrong with me, but he simply sighed.

"Just take a hot bath - we did walk quite a lot yesterday. It should make you feel better. You love bathing anyway, don't you? See you in a few hours, then." He gave me another sassy smirk before he buried himself in his lecture again.

It was a solution I liked - I had come to realise that hot baths were even better than food. In fact, I had spent every evening of the past weeks in the bathtub. It was like magic to me - the way warm water seemed to heal every little ache my body felt, from the ache I felt in my feet after spending all day running from bookstore to bookstore to the one I felt in my back from sitting in an uncomfortable position and reading all day. 

Sherry did not share my sentiments, of course. He only spent as much time as necessary in the bathroom and not a second longer. 'The purpose of bathing is to get you clean and not to turn you into an amphibian, Jon' or 'We could have spent all this wasted time reading, Jon. Don't you want to know why you have become corporeal?'

Of course, I didn't listen to him. I simply enjoyed myself, and when he suggested I take a bath, I immediately felt a surge of energy, which helped me get up and do just that. My head still felt heavy, but I was sure I was going to be alright. As expected, the water provided instant relief to my aching muscles, and I leaned my head against the edge of the tub to rest it.

... And that was it for a while.

The next thing I remember was Sherry's voice coming from behind the door. I didn't quite understand what he was saying, but I found myself unable to respond in a way that he could hear. I could only mumble at best! The water was still warm but no longer hot, and I couldn't, for the love of me, raise my head from the edge of the tub.

Sherry's voice sounded concerned, but I still failed to understand what he said. Before long, he entered the bathroom and knelt down next to me.

"Are you alright? Why didn't you reply, Jon? I was worried" 

"I don't know. My head is so heavy." I spoke quietly, weakly - I barely recognised my own voice like this. The pain, which had been dispelled by the water initially, had come back tenfold, and my entire being was shaking. I knew something was wrong, but my mind refused to form a coherent thought. It wasn't a bad thing - it was the only reason why I had not yet panicked and started speaking of dying again. That happened later.

A cool sensation against my face startled me from my momentary slumber - I had nodded off for a second despite the painful imprint the edge had begun forming against my cheek. No pain and no cold could keep me awake. It was Sherry's palm that I felt - something I only realised a little later.

"You are hot, Jon," Sherry muttered, and I somehow managed to raise an eyebrow. I didn't know where the sudden compliments were coming from.

"Thank you very much. You too." I sighed and grinned slightly, and suddenly, the cool sensation disappeared.

"With this, I meant you have a fever, Jon! You are burning up, and the warm water is not helping. Come on, we should get you out of the tub and back into bed." With this, he jumped back on his feet and reached down to grab me by my arm.

You see, whoever had turned me into a real person had put much effort into making me strong and attractive. They had completely forgotten to give me a good immune system, however. I wonder if that means they had half-arsed my transformation. Either way, I ended up with a cold only two and a half weeks after becoming real. And as with many other first times, it was unforgettable.

It was a miracle that I didn't trip as I exited the tub. Not without help, of course - Sherry had wrapped both arms around me to help me keep my balance, and I leaned against him like a lifeless doll. Of course, he had gotten all wet in the process - something I had tried to warn him about, but he didn't seem to mind it a lot. Once outside, I finally let go of him and supported myself against the wall while trying my best to put my bathrobe on - I didn't want to scandalise him again by walking around naked, you see. The whole thing was already difficult as it was, but there was some strange feeling growing inside the depth of my stomach that made me halt for a moment. At least I was done dressing.

"I don't feel…" was all I managed to say before the feeling rose up my throat and made me gag. Apparently, my body knew better how to handle this situation than my mind, for my hand pressed against my mouth all by itself. I froze, and my eyes filled with tears. Breathing was difficult, too, but I dared not speak to communicate this to Sherlock.

"You can throw up into the toilet, Jon." Sherry had figured out what was happening to me, but I only shook my head in response. Nausea is very scary for newcomers! Don't judge me!

"Yes, you can do it, believe me. Just kneel down next to the toilet and… let it go. You will feel better afterwards."  

I wasn't convinced, so I whimpered instead, which caused him to raise an eyebrow and point towards the bowl.

"Jon. Toilet. Now." It was an order. Reluctantly and through tears, I listened. My body was still quite tricky to balance, so I fell on my knees instead of kneeling down properly. The impact hurt immensely, but I had more pressing problems than this.

I don't have to describe the process of throwing up to any of you corporeal people. It's terrifying! I wept quite a lot.

"Is this how you live?" I finally asked once I had emptied my stomach entirely. Tears were blurring my vision, and I had begun shaking even more than before. It was the worst thing I had ever experienced!  "When will I get better? I can't do this any longer, Sherry." It was the confession of a dying man, but it seemed to amuse Sherlock for a reason beyond my comprehension. I had never seen him as a cruel person. I had been wrong.

"You fell sick an hour ago, Jon. You still have a few days of this ahead of you."  

"No," I shook my head in disbelief while hugging the toilet bowl as if my life depended upon it. "Don't say days, no, I can't do this. Please, tell me this is a joke." He was no longer simply amused - he was fighting hard not to laugh now! The audacity of my so-called best friend made me question what sick world I had ended up living in.

"Yes, Jon, you can and you will. It's likely just a cold. I will get you some medicine, and you will get better soon, I promise. You better brush your teeth before going back to bed, however."

"Just a cold? JUST a cold?" I couldn't believe my ears. I was suffering greatly! I couldn't even get up on my own!

"A friend once told me that ginger helps with an upset stomach." He smirked. "I suppose you don't have any ginger?"

I had decided not to speak to Sherlock any longer after he ridiculed my suffering. However, I quickly gave up on my intentions - I depended on him entirely. He helped me get up, brush my teeth, and change into a fresh pair of pyjamas before I could finally lie down. Once I felt the soft pillow under my head, I sighed in relief and spread my limbs. It was a feeling better than any bath, better than any meal I'd had. It was the Heaven on Earth, the cherry on top, the crème de la crème - you get the idea. I was still in pain, my muscles aching, my head throbbing, my throat scratching, my stomach rebelling, my nose running, my consciousness slipping. However, lying in bed felt like coming home. Still, the thought of feeling like this for days greatly troubled me. It shouldn't have come as a surprise - I had been by Sherry's side during countless colds and cases of flu, but I hoped, desperately hoped, for a miracle.

"I shall get you some medicine and something to eat." Sherlock was still standing by the bed and watching me. His voice broke the spell of momentary sleep once again.

"What do you mean?" I slurred and raised my head an inch before falling back into the pillow - it was useless. I gave up.

"I mean… I shall get you some medicine and something to eat." He was still feeling incredibly cheeky, apparently. I couldn't believe this guy!

"I heard you the first time, but what am I supposed to do?" 

"You are supposed to do precisely what you are doing right now - lie in bed and wait for me." 

It sounded fair and reasonable, but I wasn't reasonable. I couldn't think clearly at all, thanks to the fever, and I was sick for the very first time in my life. I did not know if people like me, who had not been born naturally into this world, could survive a cold. For all I knew, I was the first one to ever face this challenge. I was scared!

"What if I die while you are away? I don't want to die all alone! People have died from a cold before, Sherry." I muttered and pulled the blanket to my mouth, desperately trying to warm myself up. From time to time, a pained groan escaped my lips without my permission. I felt the weight of the bed shift slightly, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Sherry sitting beside me. The humour was gone from his face.

"I swear you will not die from this. Do you trust me?"  

It took me a moment before I nodded. Not because I doubted him but because I saw where this was going. Of course, I trusted him - I trusted him so much that I knew I'd take a bullet from him if he requested me to. I would not hesitate to die for him if he needed me to. He smiled gently in return and placed his hand on mine. "It's complicated, isn't it? Being a person. For what it's worth, you are doing great, Jon. I would never want to switch places with you and experience every woe of corporeality for the very first time again. Now sleep. I will be back by the time you awake." Even if I had wanted to protest, closing my eyes and resting felt too tempting, so I did that.

The rest of the day passed like this. I did not die while Sherry was gone. In fact, I didn't realise he had left the house at all - by the time I opened my eyes again, he was urging me to take a pill he had brought. And we did not have our meals in a nice restaurant this time. Instead, we ate hot chicken soup on a tablet in our bed, and it was just as delightful as always. The soup gave me some strength back, but the fever did not sink despite the medicine. Slowly but surely, I had accepted my fate to suffer like this for a couple of days, even though I hated it. However, it seemed sickness made me constantly sleepy, and I figured if I simply slept more, the time until my recovery would pass faster.

Ultimately, the break wasn't unwelcome. It wasn't how I had wanted to spend it, but I was grateful we didn't spend yet another day running from bookstore to bookstore. I was convinced there weren't any of them left either way - we had been quite busy. While I rested in bed, Sherlock kept reading, although I figured it was only a matter of hours until he was through with the very last book we had gotten. Was he going to finally give up after we ran out of ideas on how to continue our research? I seriously doubted it, but only time was going to tell. Pondering about the direction our lives had taken, I finally fell into a deep sleep, which could not be disrupted so easily.

I woke up in the middle of the night. The light in our room had been extinguished, and I found myself lying in complete darkness. It was an eerie feeling, especially with the balloon hanging on our ceiling and looking like the oversized head of a creature standing at the foot of our bed. It wasn't pleasant, but I rested in the knowledge that Sherry was with me. I closed my eyes once again and tried to fall back asleep.

But he wasn't with me. It didn't take long to realise I was completely alone in the room - with my limbs still spread in every direction, I could feel both ends of the bed, and he was definitely not lying in it. I was fully awake all at once. 

It wasn't just fear, mind you. It was much deeper than this. It was a sense of abandonment, an unfamiliarity, and a silence I had never heard in my life. It was the complete lack of life around me - it was as if something essential was missing. Because he wasn't there. I did not hear his breathing, and I did not sense his presence, which had always been around me. I can't possibly make any regular person understand how severely I felt his absence. He wasn't just a regular friend - he was more like the air in my lungs, and without him, I was suffocating. It was as if someone had removed all my limbs, and I hadn't been given any time to adapt. If I hadn't realised how dependent on him I was until then, the dread I felt only because he wasn't with me spelt it out very clearly, and despite the fever and dizziness, I got up on my feet almost immediately.

Leaving the warm bed wasn't easy. The nightfall had made my head even heavier, and I was sure my fever had reached its all-time highest right before I had woken up. I trusted my feet to lead me to Sherry because my mind refused to play its essential part - no matter how hard I tried to focus, I couldn't tell where I was half the time. Occasionally, I couldn't even tell why I was looking for him. I simply wandered around along the manor's walls and called out his name, hoping he would eventually hear and find me. In retrospect, I imagine myself like a confused and disoriented ghost haunting the manor. If that's how they feel, then I genuinely pity them.

I can't tell how long I had been searching for him. By the time he found me, I had somehow walked down the stairs without breaking my neck, which was a miracle in itself. I was sitting on the very last step and leaning against the railing. The sound of his voice and his cold palms against my cheeks brought me back to my senses - at least to an extent.

"Great Lord, you are much hotter than you were when I left you," he spoke with great concern, but I grinned stupidly anyway, which earned me some scolding. "Seriously, Jon? You don't even know where you are, but you still find this amusing?"

"I'm on Cordona, Sherry," I replied proudly, but my mood soured almost instantly. "You left me to die all alone because I am a burden to you, didn't you?" I whined. I had spun this tale in my head while looking for him, and my confused mind did not question it for a moment.

"This is the fever talking, isn't it? There was no room for me in the bed, and I wanted to let you rest. I retired into Mycroft's room. Come on, let's get you some medicine." I tried to protest, but he stopped paying attention to my words. Considering how much nonsense left my mouth that night, it was likely the right thing to do. I have forgotten most of it, but Sherry swears I feared a large-headed monster was following me.

When I opened my eyes again, we were both in Mycroft's bed, which was twice as large as ours and at least ten times more comfortable. Thanks to the medicine, my fever had sunk a little, and I could think clearly again. It was two o'clock in the morning, as the large clock on the wall told me. Sherlock was still awake and, once again,  reading.

"You really never give up," I laughed tiredly and narrowed my eyes - despite being small and relatively weak, the gas lamp still hurt them.

"Hello, Jon. No longer hallucinating monsters, I assume?" He smirked and turned the page of his book.

"Says the man whose favourite hallucination has come to life." He did not deny it - just smiled. It was good to know I was still his favourite after the whole ordeal. Not that I really had competition. "I panicked when I found myself all alone. Sorry about that. I guess I should learn to be less dependent on you, but being all alone is..." I was losing the trail of my thoughts again and found myself struggling to finish the sentence. Luckily, he did it for me.

"Unusual. I know. I couldn't fall asleep either." He did not raise his head from his book as he spoke. I chuckled and closed my eyes.

Some time passed in silence, but there was a question on my mind, which kept me from falling asleep again - a question I had wanted to ask him for two and a half weeks now. I had never dared to, but the fever had emboldened me.

"Say, Sherry... would it be so bad if we never found out why I suddenly got a body?"

He placed his book on the nightstand before sitting up in the bed and turning towards me. "I refuse to accept this possibility. It makes no sense, Jon. It goes against everything I believe in, and I believe in logic - in facts! I know I can't be wrong, and yet..." He choked on his words - the matter tormented him greatly. 

"You might have to accept it - we have searched every bookstore, Sherry, turned every stone. And it is also a fact that I am here. You will not find a logical explanation for this. You know you won't. What would it look like?" I paused. It was the last thing he wanted to hear. "Aren't you even a little happy that I am real?" I whispered, partially because of exhaustion and partially because I wasn't sure I wanted him to hear my question.

He took a moment before replying. Then he sighed and lay down again, facing the ceiling. "I am happy for you. I know you have always wanted this. I know how much you have suffered because you couldn't have it." 

I cracked my eyes open if only to look at his face. There was a melancholy in his eyes, which pierced me like a knife.

"Have you never wanted this?" I asked, but it was a watered-down way of asking if he mourned my transformation. I didn't know if I could live with myself knowing he did.

"I don't think I ever cared, Jon," his voice cracked a little, but before I could feel a certain way about his answer, he interrupted my thoughts. "You must not misunderstand - it's not because I did not care about you, but rather ... because you have always been enough, with or without a physical form." With this, he turned to face me and placed his palm on my cheek, as he had done many times that day. "You have always been the best companion... the best friend I could imagine. Your corporeal body did not make you better because you were already enough as you were." I smiled tiredly, and my eyes fell shut again - I couldn't keep them open for long.

"Did it make me worse?"

"No." he chuckled." You are still the same person to me, Jon, my best and only friend. I only worry about you more now, but I am happy that you finally have what you have always wanted. You deserve it." 

It was my turn to chuckle - of course, he did worry. He was so stuck in his head that he always worried about something, and when he didn't worry, he obsessed over something. Most of the time, he did both.

"I have been very needy lately. Again, sorry about that."

"But it's only fair, is it not? I have needed your presence and support for over a decade. I suppose it's your turn now to need me. But this is not what I mean when I say I worry, Jon." He paused, likely contemplating whether he should elaborate or not. Speaking about feelings had never been his strong suit. Facing me must have felt too intimate all of a sudden - he rolled on his back again. 

"You can tell me. The fever will likely make me forget it anyway." I reached out and wrapped my arm around his middle." Come on, no need to be shy around me. I won't judge you."  

He first snorted in disbelief, then exhaled deeply before speaking up." I … don't think the world is made for people like you, Jon. You are kind, sensitive, and empathetic. I fear it's only a matter of time until… it breaks you." The way it had broken him - it was a thought neither of us wanted to speak out loud. It hurt him greatly to talk about this matter - he had squeezed his eyes shut and didn't seem interested in opening them again. I understood why he felt like this - by watching me become real, he felt as if a part of himself was exposed to the world, a part he had desperately hoped to keep hidden and safe. No matter how much I wanted to, I could not take his fear away. My grip around him tightened, and I lay my head on his shoulder.

"I promise you, I will never change. Whatever challenges the world throws in our path, we will face them together - always together. It will be alright, Sherry." I spoke quietly. My mind was becoming too foggy to hold our conversation for much longer, but I felt him slightly press his cheek against my forehead.

"I hope you are right. I never want to lose you, Jon."

It didn't take long before I began dozing off again, but before sleep took over entirely, a thought crossed my mind: there was no way Sherry did not think this was nice. Just lying like this, holding each other close and resting. It was a valid reason to not dislike my transformation completely. I loved it, and I smiled a little before entering the realm of dreams. This time, I did not awake until morning.

P.S. It took me four days to recover from the fever and about two weeks to recover completely. I would lie if I said I had gotten used to being sick by now - I still hate it with a burning passion, but I no longer think I will die whenever I catch a little cold. And naturally, Sherry got sick as well shortly after I did, but his symptoms were milder, and he had no fever, so he decided to not let his sickness disturb him. He still stayed in bed for a day, however - I made him. And I fed him with as much chicken soup as he allowed me to.

Chapter Text

It had finally happened. After weeks of wasting our savings on occult and theosophical books, we had finally run out of money, for the most part. We still had enough for a week or two, but it couldn't keep us above water for much longer. Sherry disliked having to put an end to his investigation, but if we wanted to survive and not starve, we had no choice but to pick a side case or two. And nobody was willing to pay him for the research on imaginary people becoming real, although I bet he believed he deserved to be paid after spending so many weeks doing just that. I don't think anyone has ever researched this topic more than he has, maybe aside from children hoping for a visit from Santa.

Of course, he could still have asked Mycroft for financial aid, but his pride stood in the way. And to be fair, both of us doubted Mycroft would grant him his wish and give him money without forcing him to board the first ship back to England. Sherry's big brother did not want him on the island, and although my friend did not know the reason yet, he had long realised there was something fishy about Mycroft's secrecy. It motivated him to do the opposite and remain in Cordona as long as necessary. I even suspected he planned to stay on the island forever, only to spite his brother. He is pretty stubborn, my Sherry.

The general idea was to head to the police station and pick one of their beginner-friendly cases. They have a pinboard for them for everyone to see. These cases did not make a person rich, but the money the police offered was enough for the two of us to stay above water. Sherry was not a beginner, of course. He was better than the whole police force combined, but as an honorary member of Cordona's Finest, he only had limited options, and the officers were too vain to give him their best cases just yet.

However, there was also the matter of myself...

Sherry wanted me to stay home, and no matter how much I protested, I couldn't change his mind. I was unable to use a gun, had zero non-imaginary combat experience, and even though he didn't want to say it out loud, it was clear he saw my presence during a police investigation as a liability. He did not believe I could help him at all, not while inhabiting a human body without the advantage of being invisible to everyone else. I knew he only had my well-being in mind, but I felt my transformation had only diminished my worth in his eyes. It slowly became a sore spot for me, so after spending a whole day quarrelling with him and still failing to convince him to let me accompany him to the police station, I became increasingly frustrated.

"So when things finally start getting interesting and fun, you abandon me, but making me waste the short span of my life reading dull occult books is ok?" I was running out of arguments, so I resorted to polemics, which left him equally unmoved. His stubbornness was as solid as ever, and my frustration did not seem to bother him in the least. He ran a comb through his hair, cleared his throat, and brushed off the dust from his clothes before replying. What a fine gentleman, I know.

"You are free to spend the day however you want, Jon. I will no longer force you to read if education is such a waste of time in your eyes. In fact, I no longer expect you to show any interest in the event which has transformed you, even though it primarily concerns you. But you cannot come with me." He remained composed as he put on a jacket. I furrowed my brows and glared at him. Education? He couldn't possibly believe the books we had bought were in any way educational!

"Fine, then go! Leave me behind like an abandoned pet or ... a piece of furniture. Perhaps I will leave, too, and never come back!" It was an empty threat and sounded quite bratty even in my own ears. I still wished he hadn't laughed when I said it. A few moments later, he realised he had hurt my feelings by doing so. He did not apologise verbally, but I knew him well enough to see the regret on his face. He knew how much I hated being taken for granted, but before I could decide whether I should forgive him so quickly or not, we heard a sound coming from the main hall.

"It seems we have a visitor. A sailor, if I am not mistaken." He got up from the chair and turned around to face me. I avoided his eyes for the time being and stared out of the window, still pouting. It seemed I wasn't ready to forgive him just yet, after all. "Come on, let us check it out together. Please." I was still a little hurt, but the softly spoken 'please' soothed my mood. The truth is, he doesn't need much to make me forgive him. He is sarcastic and has an affinity for cynicism, but he never means to hurt a person. A quick glance at him did the rest - his brows were furrowed, and he looked pensive. And I was not made of stone! How could I look at him and not forgive him? Before I could stop myself, I smiled in defeat and watched the corners of his lips rise as well.

The police station visit was moved to the next day. I don't know if our last interaction had inspired Sherry to change his plans in order to prevent the situation from escalating any further or if it had actually been the young artist who had pretended to be a sailor, but for some reason, we found ourselves in Old City. We hadn't talked much on our way there, but there was the silent understanding to let the topic of having me join him during his investigations rest until we got back home. 

It took us only a short time to find it - the Gallery was not far away from the market. It was a place Sherry had been invited to on the very first day we'd spent on the island, and somehow, its owner, a blond artist called Verner Vogel, had finally managed to lure my friend in by making an associate of his dress up and play pretend. He had 'planted the seed' in Sherlock or something along the lines - it was a code word the young pseudo-sailor told Sherry to use once he saw Vogel. It sounded a little tryhard and pretentious to me, but I left it uncommented and enjoyed the opportunity to spend a day away from the books.

Of course, gratitude was not the only feeling I felt. My interactions with others had been relatively limited so far, and having a 2-on-1 with a man as eccentric and mysterious as Vogel made me anxious. I did not know how to feel about him. Usually, I had a good intuition when it came to people, even to the ones I barely knew, but Vogel was an exception to that rule. There was something off about him, but I could never quite put my finger on it. Either way, he definitely drew people's attention, and even Sherlock was not immune to his charm. And that rarely happened. It made Vogel quite special.

After our long walk in the heat, we finally entered the Gallery, which seemed empty at first glance. The first thing I noticed was the scent - it smelled pretty nice inside, albeit artificial. The cool air was very welcome after we'd just spent almost an hour at the mercy of Cordona's sun, but to my greatest disappointment, there were no refreshments in sight, and I was feeling parched. The rooms were decorated with potted plants and marble tiles on dark wooden walls. The colour scheme differed from what I had seen so far in similar places, but it looked tasteful. And to be fair, we hadn't visited many galleries during our childhood, so what did I know?

As I was looking around and getting familiar with our surroundings, Vogel's voice startled me. "Mister Holmes, I see you have brought a friend! How very surpriring!" And there he was - our host. He was facing away from the entrance, but he still noticed that Sherlock had not come alone. I assumed he had seen our reflections in one of the paintings. Either that, or he had actual eyes on the back of his head.

Something about his tone made my heart skip a beat. It was almost silky, almost pleasant if not for the edge, which I did not doubt could cut like a blade. Vogel had something of a hawk posing as a dove. He was ... impressive. Thrilling. Intimidating.

"This is Jon. He is my friend like you said," Sherry replied. I had been looking at Vogel the whole time, but something in the tone of Sherlock's voice alarmed me and made me eye him instead. There was a crack in Sherry's usual facade - he seemed on edge about the situation, and even though I didn't know what to think of it yet, it made me tense up even further as well. I had never considered it before, but I believed he actually cared about Verner Vogel's opinion. It made me frown. I cleared my throat, but before I could say anything, the man before us finally turned around to face us and spoke again.

"Jon? Jon who? You surely have a surname. Or is it a secret? Have you brought me a puzzle, or are you too shy to speak for yourself, Jon?"

He was looking at me now, lips forming a self-satisfied smirk while he pierced me with his gaze through the tinted glasses. If he was a hawk, then I was a mouse or a rabbit. The question took me by surprise. There was no plausible reason I could think of why I wouldn't have a surname. We had never discussed this before! It also made no sense why I would keep it a secret, and as Sherlock had already introduced me as his friend and not as a relative, the name Holmes was out of the question. It was clear that Vogel expected an answer from me and not from Sherry. It was like the first human exam in the history of mankind, and I feared I was about to fail unless I said something. So I did.

"Jonson. My name is Jon... Jonson." I offered him my hand with the sweetest smile I could fake without having practised beforehand and hoped he couldn't hear how fast my heart was pounding. I regretted every single one of my life decisions that led to this moment of improv and awkwardness.

"You surely jest!" Vogel exclaimed, "There is no way this is your name!" He still seemed endlessly amused about the whole situation, but there was no going back for me now. He took my hand, and I squeezed his one a little too tightly in return.

"I am dead serious. My parents hated me, seeing how-" I gave Sherry a quick glance. He looked petrified. Stunned. He was dying inside. "-seeing how my surname existed long before I did and how I was the unwanted ... seventh son. They could only think of six names, which is why they had decided to stop at six children. Naming me Jon Jonson was an act of revenge on their part, I suppose. But I have to say my siblings have wonderful names, unlike me! Names like... Bruce Jonson and... Peter Jonson. Very normal names which sound much more believable than Jon Jonson." I laughed, but I wanted to cry. I have to admit, at this point, my mind had gone blank. It was mainly my mouth that ran the show. I was a horrible liar! "They still loved me! I mean..."

"Didn't you just say they hated you?" Vogel's voice was so loaded with amusement that I wondered how long it would take him to spill it everywhere and drown us in it.

"It was a love-hate relationship," I answered and finally let go of his hand. Suddenly, I wanted to get away from this place as fast as possible, to hide and never come out, but again, I couldn't think of a reason to leave the Gallery without embarrassing Sherlock and raising even more questions. "I, ugh, I would love to have a look at your exhibitions while you and Sherry, ugh, I mean you and Mister Holmes have a chat." I felt like a genius for thinking of this excuse as I left the two of them behind and rushed into the next room. I dared not wait for a reply, and I definitely dared not look at my friend. I feared I had messed up. Perhaps I was a liability, after all.

Once I had gotten away from their sight, I hid my face in my palms and stayed like this for a while. Exhibitions, right? As if I was in the right state of mind to enjoy the art! The sound of their voices still reached my ears, but I couldn't process the spoken words. Somehow, I couldn't believe this was the person I was. I had always deemed myself much more social and communicative than Sherlock, but when confronted with actual humans, I failed more miserably than he ever could. Of course, the realisation terrified me - quite apparently, no amount of natural affinity could make up for my lack of experience, and I was already a twenty-one-year-old adult. I wondered if I was doomed to always be like this. I didn't want to hide inside all day; I wanted to see the whole world and talk to people. I wanted to have fun with them, and I wanted them to have fun with me, too, without thinking I was a weirdo or creepy.

As I was pondering about how I failed to act as a believable human being and how much I felt like an alien imposter wearing human skin, Verner Vogel and Sherry continued their conversation. I didn't have the mental capacity to listen to them until the voices suddenly moved closer to me, and soon, both of them entered the room I was in. Had so much time passed since I had left? I still needed some space, but apparently, my break from socialising with Vogel was over.

"Mister Holmes, I am certain a genius like yourself doesn't need assistance inspecting a simple crime scene! Like I said, I am dying to get to know your friend better, and I am certain he could only profit from spending some time with others." The first sentence surprised me - I had no idea a crime had taken place in the Gallery, and the second almost made my jaw drop. I had been quite good at disappearing before, but somehow, it did not work while inhabiting a corporeal body. It was a bummer, really. 

Of course, Sherry did not need me to inspect the crime scene. He had likely requested my company primarily for my own sake - I was not prepared to be left alone with someone like Verner Vogel, whose oddity was almost as apparent as his attempt to attack Sherlock's ego by insinuating he needed my help. 

Yet it appeared that only I viewed Vogel's intentions as obvious - Sherlock seemed to hesitate and consider the other's words instead of dismissing them as cheap provocation. And one must never show weakness when facing a hawk - but it was a lesson my dear Sherry had yet to learn.

While studying my face and reactions with great interest, Vogel leaned closer to my friend and whispered in his ear loudly enough for me to hear as well, "He is allowed to talk to others, is he not? I wouldn't judge if I found out you two had a certain agreement-" His eyes were resting on my face the whole time and made a shiver run through my spine - something he noticed. Just like he saw how his attempt to get close to my friend got on my nerves. It made him smirk ever so slightly, but this smirk was quite confident it had won whatever battle he believed he was fighting. I don't think I had ever wanted to punch a man so badly up to that point in my life.

"Please, spare me the speculations!" Sherry seemed irritated and a little abashed, and finally, he took a step away from the other. That sealed it - we were the odd ones, even weirder than Vogel, and there was no way to explain our friendship and my bizarre behaviour in a way that wouldn't end with both of us locked up. There wasn't a single person who would believe our story. We had no intention of telling anyone how I had come into being, but how else were we supposed to explain any of this? "Would you mind staying here, Jon?" Sherry asked me after a brief moment of contemplating, and there it was again - the regret. He had no choice but to cave in, and he hated it. I didn't know what to say. There was no plausible reason for me to refuse to stay behind and chat with Vogel. I was an adult man and not a shy kid. Adults don't get away with these things.

"What kind of a crime?" My voice cracked no matter how unbothered I was trying to sound, but before my friend could reply, Vogel did.

"A mere theft, Mister Jonson, nothing of great interest to you, I am certain." 

I could only nod and smile at my friend. I had promised him he didn't have to worry about me, and I meant to keep that promise. Sure, I had rambled like a lunatic about seventh sons and vengeful parents giving their kids silly names, but I wanted to prove to him that I was quite able to exist in this world like a real person. Again, he smiled back (which did not go unnoticed by Vogel) and wordlessly entered the basement.

"It's a nice gallery," I said but refused to face Vogel just yet. Instead, I pretended to be looking at one of the paintings next to me. In reality, I did not see anything - my mind was too occupied to see what the beautiful paintings depicted. I can't say for sure what it was that I feared. I guess I simply did not feel right. Not like a person who had the right to dwell in this world - it was a right I believed I had yet to earn.

"Which of the displayed pieces do you find most impressive, Mister Jonson?" The ever-amused Verner Vogel. I wondered if he was trying to mock me. He always sounds like he is mocking a person whenever he opens his mouth, so I felt I wasn't very far off from the truth. I took a deep breath.

"If I had to be honest ... I didn't pay much attention to them. I'm far more interested in the crime scene and in what Sherlock is about to discover." He had begun pacing around the room, circling around me from a distance.

"Did you mean to say Sherlock or ... Sherry?" He said the name in a way that made my skin crawl before stopping right next to me. It irritated me to no end. I knew he was trying to get a rise out of me, but much like my friend, I failed to resist the provocation.

"I'm afraid you don't have the privilege to call him that, Mister Vogel. It's quite disrespectful, considering you barely know him."

"Oh my, I meant no offence, but I see my mistake. My sincere apologies if I overstepped, Mister Jonson. Of course, I am not as close to him as you are. But I must say I am relieved to see he has someone like you who is so eager to defend him even when he is not present. Although I must say, I am surprised I didn't see you when I first met him. He seemed to be quite distraught at the graveyard. He would have needed a loyal friend like you at his side. Were you too busy?" He chuckled at the last words. I wasn't a good actor either - instead of playing polite and well-mannered, I frowned and glared at him.

"I was there. Should have paid more attention to your surroundings instead of painting the crypt."

"Touché." He laughed. "Am I to assume you have arrived together, then?" He eyed me from the side, looking all too well-intentioned and friendly.

"I don't know why it matters, but yes, we came together."

"It makes sense, then," he seemed lost in thought all of a sudden. 

"What does?"

"It makes sense why he had booked a double room in the hotel and why I haven't seen your name on the list of visitors. But worry not, my friend; your secret is safe with me. You truly are the best friend a man like Sherlock can have, are you not?" 

I wish I knew how to reply. Of course, Vogel was right. Of course, I had been staying in Sherlock's room at the hotel. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His hand patted my back, and then he disappeared without saying another word.

Chapter Text

"What are you thinking about, Jon? Or should I address you with Mr. Jonson from now on?" Sherlock's voice cracked a little even though he tried his best to keep a straight face - he liked his humour the same way he liked his beach visits: dry. I huffed, and my arms crossed all by themselves. It was my defensive stance whenever I sensed he was trying to get a rise out of me. In reality, I had considered buying a giant watermelon from the merchant on my right after we finished our business with Bernadotti. Still, I didn't feel like sharing these thoughts with him anymore after he'd teased me again.

"I'm glad to see mocking me amuses you so greatly," I said, but I knew I deserved it a little, although I still mostly blamed him for the uncomfortable conversation at the gallery. I had messed up, but I had never been good at lying and improvisation. He should have known that much and briefed me before we entered the place.

After a moment of silence, I spoke again. "I don't like him," I said under my breath. My eyes did not meet Sherlock's - something told me he didn't share my views on Verner Vogel, and I couldn't understand why. The man was strange! Something about the way he spoke raised the hairs on the back of my neck. He was sly, cunning, no one to play around with. Yet Sherlock did not see it like this, or at least he did not mind what he saw. It was incomprehensible how he'd see a red flag and simply ignore it.

"I believe you are paying too much attention to his words, Jon. Ultimately, it doesn't matter what he thinks of you... or of both of us, for the matter." He was in good spirits. Apparently, he did not mind Vogel's conclusions a lot, and I decided to drop the topic for the moment.

In the meantime, and much unlike my friend, I struggled with my mood. While I was thankful for the case and the opportunity to get out and have a little fun, what we had discovered so far was everything but fun. I was utterly disappointed with mankind, to the point I was not able to help myself once I met the British Envoy Thomas Norton. And that, well... The thought of this man made me groan in disgust.

"Do you think that pig would remember what has befallen him once he comes to his senses?" It was the only thing that had happened that day that lifted my spirits a little. I chuckled to myself at the memory of punching the man, although the feeling had been more appalling than anticipated. Something about the fleshly vessel of a person giving in under one's own force disturbed me. And my hand hurt still - I observed my knuckles as I spoke, but they looked normal.

"We never introduced ourselves," Sherry smiled, seemingly unbothered by the violence we had resorted to. His eyes were scanning the market in search of the clothes merchant. He did not seem to dislike punching people as much as I did - likely because he'd already gotten used to it. "And even if he remembers our faces, it would be unwise to say anything. He knows we know. There ." He nodded in the direction we were supposed to follow.

"I didn't need your help, by the way. I would have handled him just fine on my own," I threw in, but it didn't really bother me, and I smiled at him. Sherry had knocked the man out with a single blow and put an end to our interrogation pretty fast, and that was always fun to witness, so I couldn't complain too much. After Norton had passed out on the floor, we had stared at him for a brief moment and then left the City Hall as if we'd never been there. It wasn't the usual way Sherry did things, but I could tell he had enjoyed this as well.

"The truth is, I wanted to punch him just as much." He smiled back. His confession came as no surprise. His spirits were truly good that day - he needed cases and mysteries like flowers needed sunshine and water. He was flourishing whenever he had a case. "Now, let us get our tattoos, shall we?"

Of course, the tattoos were temporary, but we needed to blend in if we wanted to enter Bernadotti's property without being noticed. And for obvious reasons, Sherry did not want us to be noticed. If anything, I was grateful he didn't send me home immediately but let me join his investigation instead. Though I assumed he knew there was no way I'd leave him in the middle of it. The best he could do for me was to infiltrate the businessman's warehouse without taking any risks. After we'd put on appropriate clothes and gotten the tattoos, we headed to Bernadotti's warehouses in the hope we'd find out how and why the man had gotten involved in all of this. I assumed Sherry already had an idea about that, but he did not share it with me, and I saw no connection between the businessman and Thomas Norton.

"A quick lesson in improvising: I shall introduce myself as Jon. What about you?" Sherry nudged me while walking and eyed me in anticipation. I could only stare back for a while, which seemed to amuse him again.

"I, uh... Atlas?" All of a sudden, I couldn't think of a single male name that wasn't Sherlock or Mycroft. Or Atlas . I was truly awful at this! It made me feel utterly useless, but Sherry did not seem to share my sentiments - he just laughed instead.

"Really, Jon? Atlas? You can't think of a single ordinary name? How about Pete? Do you like it?"

"Yeah, why not," I grumbled, but then a better idea crossed my mind. "Oh! How about Nabe? Can I be Nabe? You can be Laura!" I almost tripped on a stone from excitement, yet my friend did not seem very enamoured with my suggestion.

"I would rather die, Jon." An eye-roll. Classic. I clicked my tongue.

" Nabe . Name's Nabe. It's you who is Jon now, Jon ," I said and grinned at him. He mumbled something under his breath, but I no longer listened, for I did not want him to rain on my parade again.

As we approached the warehouse, I found myself struggling to keep my cool. I'd have taken Sherry by the arm had I not believed it would make us look even more suspicious. All I had to do was to let Sherry do the talking as always, but I still feared they'd see through our act. A look around revealed countless crates with different kinds of imported goods, although I suspected not all of them were imported legally - something Sherry had mentioned in passing before we'd gotten there. The labels definitely did not fit the actual contents. Still, we seemed to raise no suspicion among the men who were dressed and tattooed just like us. Or rather, we were dressed and tattooed just like them . Either way, we had definitely nailed the disguise! Our names weren't asked until we reached one of the warehouses, which was guarded by a man who looked older and infinitely more threatening than both of us combined. Much to my surprise, Sherry introduced himself as Laurence and me - as Nabe. I could barely conceal the proud smile on my face before the man finally invited us in.

And then everything began unfolding too fast. In retrospect, both of us would have to admit that the guard had managed to deceive us much better than we had managed to deceive him . He had known our tattoos were fake from the very start. We'd later find out we'd been spotted by an informant when we had asked the merchant for them, meaning Bernadotti's men had been expecting us - the infiltrators - from the very beginning. Of course, we didn't know any of this until we entered the warehouse and heard the door lock behind our backs. The sound confused me at first, and so did the five or six men who were staring us down with guns in their hands. I didn't understand what I was witnessing until I was pushed to the ground by no one other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

" Stay down! Don't move! " His tone suggested he'd not accept any protest from me, and before I could ask him what was going on, he had already pulled out his gun and disappeared from sight. At first, I couldn't get a clear picture of the events, thanks to a large barrel blocking my view. Of course, I couldn't simply stay hidden for long. I knew I wouldn't be of immense help, considering I was the only unarmed man in the room, but at the same time, leaving Sherlock to the hands of fate did not sit well with me either.

I crawled from behind the barrel to get a better view, and at first, it seemed as if Sherry did not need my help at all. It was always a delight to see him fight! It didn't take long before he incapacitated the majority of our enemies. He used a rope to tie their hands behind their backs. I had to restrain myself from cheering for my dear Sherlock loudly every time he landed a blow and knocked a guy out. Yes, I am very much against violence, but it was warranted! They had set a trap for us!

After a few minutes of fighting, there was only one man left, but he moved with more confidence than the others. It was understandable, seeing how his armour was heavier, and while I was certain Sherry would send him to sleep in no time, armour or not, the tables had begun to turn. Whenever Sherry lunged at him, the man seemed fully prepared and successfully blocked each of Sherry's attacks. Unlike my friend, who was starting to feel exhausted (it was very apparent even from the distance), the other man had mostly stayed out of the fight until his mates had all been brought down. He was still warming up, but Sherry was almost at his limits.

It was when it happened. Out of nowhere, the man lunged at Sherry again, and this time, he landed a punch to my friend's jaw, sending him to the ground. Without hesitating, the man aimed at my friend and fired, and even though Sherry rolled over and dodged the bullet, it was only by a hair's breadth.

I couldn't watch this. I knew I had to stay out of it and hide behind the barrel, but I was no coward. There was no point in surviving any of this if something happened to Sherlock. I had always known this. Of course, I had always known this! He had created me to protect him, to shield him from harm, to always be there for him. I had not given it much thought since I had become a real human, but among all the things that had changed, this aspect had not.

I felt no fear in that moment. Without hesitation, I got up on my feet and grabbed a gas lamp, which lay not far away from the barrel. "Hey, over here!" I yelled, and once the man turned to face me - the source of the sound he'd just heard, I threw the lamp in his direction. I had imagined it much more impressive - that I would actually hit him with the lamp and incapacitate him, but it turned out I wasn't that great at throwing. The lamp burst a few feet away from him, but it served its purpose - for a moment, he became disoriented, and before he had the chance to figure out what was happening, Sherlock had already gotten back on his feet and thrown him to the ground. A second later, the man was knocked out cold, and both I and my dear friend sighed in relief.

I would lie if I said I wasn't a little proud. Of course, Sherry had done the actual work, and I had only assisted a little towards the end, but I had still helped him and proven myself to some extent. I wasn't that useless - I wasn't a liability. I could still help him even if I had no experience. I smiled at him, and he chuckled and smiled back while still struggling to catch his breath. It was not only important to me because I wanted to be useful to him. I couldn't imagine staying behind while he hunted criminals and risked his life. I wanted to share this part of his life with him, just like I had always done, and I wanted to be there and intervene before something terrible happened to him. I did not mind giving everything, even my newly gained life, if it meant keeping him safe, and I couldn't keep him safe if he left me behind. Of course, I was planning to learn to use a gun and to fight. I wanted to do whatever was needed.

These were the thoughts swirling in my head when I heard it.

"You snotty bastards!"

At first, I believed one of the bound men had decided to attack us verbally, but in the corner of my eye, I saw someone standing. However, my reactions weren't fast enough to see who that was before I heard the sound of a gun being fired.

There was pain. Sharp. Burning. In retrospect, I know I shouldn't have done so, but when the bullet entered my body, I couldn't help screaming in agony and terror. It hurt more than anything I had experienced in my brief life as a person. Time moved in a slow motion from there on. I finally saw him - a man not much older than Mycroft holding a gun pointed in my direction. Shaved head, a sour face, thin, but definitely not someone you want to meet in a dark alley. It was when I knew I was done for. Nothing in his facial expression suggested he'd hesitate. He had not come to merely wound me - he had come to kill, and it was only a matter of seconds until he fired again.

Involuntarily, I fell back on the ground and squeezed my eyes shut at the impact. I didn't want to see how he fired the very bullet that was going to end me, and it was too late to hide or run. I did not want to see it coming - I simply wanted to close my eyes and never open them again if that was where I was supposed to die. And at that moment, I did not regret not living my short life to the fullest. I did not regret wasting it with occult books instead of going to the pub. I only regretted leaving Sherry behind. My supposedly last thoughts as a living, breathing human belonged to him. I knew my demise would hurt him, but he'd never openly show it. He'd suffer alone and never ask for help because that's how he was. Stubborn, prideful, not willing to show anyone his real face. I couldn't take it.

"Sherry..." I doubted he could hear me, but that wasn't the point. It just felt right to use his name as my last words.

Then I heard another gunshot. And another. And another. And my mind went blank.

Chapter Text

I expected to die, convinced my eyes would never enjoy the beauty of another Cordonian sunset. On the floor of a dusty warehouse surrounded by enemies, leaving behind the one person in the world I never wanted to leave, I was sure I'd found my last resting place. I lay there, partially preparing myself for the agony that was going to follow once the adrenaline rush passed, while the other part of me turned off a switch in my mind and engulfed me in darkness. I had hit my head pretty hard when I fell to the ground, which only added to my state of shock and general disorientation. Aside from my aching forearm and head, no pain came, but my mind refused to form a coherent thought, so I drew no conclusions from the fact alone. I was so disconnected from the reality around me that I couldn't tell if I hadn't died already. In those moments, I wasn't myself. I wasn't a person but a scared animal driven into a corner. I knew there was someone I cared for there with me, but his face slowly faded from my mind's eye. I believe I tried to cling to that thought - to the thought of him, but it slipped away like water between my fingers. 

I felt I was being held upright while a hand wandered through my body. A strong odour filled my nostrils and made me grimace as I slowly dared open my eyes. It smelled like stone - stone that was melting and omitting a horrendous smell in its misery. It almost choked me. Black power, I thought, even though these two words had no specific meaning to me at that moment. And underneath the melting rocks, I smelled iron.

The first thing I saw was a face - a face beautiful but pallid and twisted from grief in a way that made my heart sink. The full lips were whispering something to me, but it took quite a lot of effort to connect the sounds I was hearing to words.

"Please," he was saying. "Please, Jon." Like a mantra, he was begging me to look at him, to say something, to come back to my senses. He held me upright with one arm, and my throbbing head leaned onto his shoulder. With the other free hand, he searched my body. His eyes were bloodshot and widened and filled with tears which occasionally ran down his cheeks, and they were eagerly following the movements of his fingers as they inspected my torso. He was searching for something - for a wound, I concluded. I would have released him from the torment much sooner had I known better. But I did not know better. "You will not die here, Jon, I promise, I swear to all that is holy, you will live-" frantic, even his very breath was trembling as it entered his lungs, and upon entering, it shook his entirety. The more I observed him, the more I knew this was not what he usually looked like. The distress didn't suit him as well as a cheeky smile on the lips.

"Sherry, the shooter- he is behind you!" It was suddenly dawning on me. That he was kneeling next to me with an armed killer on the loose. That there was no time to inspect my wounds; he needed to get the hell away! I tried to push him to the ground, but he did not budge. It was as if he hadn't heard me at all, completely lost in a trance, and my injured arm lacked the strength to move him an inch. "Get away, Sherry, you have to get away," my voice cracked. Again, nothing but his shaky hand, which grappled my shirt.

"Are you hurt? Aside from your arm, I can't see…" 

"I don't think so, but please, the shooter-"

"That's good. It's good." I would have mistaken the sound for a chuckle had it not sounded so desperate. A deep sigh of relief came from his very core, and his body relaxed. I tried to animate him to move, to hide, to get away from this place, but instead, he pulled me close to his chest, cradling my head like a babe. "It's over," he whispered. "It's taken care of, Jon, it's over…"

"Sherry, what-"

"It's over. You are safe now."

I felt the strength leaving his body as he held me, and he kept repeating the same words over and over again, each time a little quieter than the one before. He was not being himself, but for the moment, I simply enjoyed his embrace. Being close to him felt like medicine for my soul after what had just happened.

But it didn't last long until I came to my senses entirely and understood what he had been saying all along. The silence around us betrayed it, and so did the strong smell of black power on him. "It's over," he'd said. He had meant it. The multiple gunshots I had heard had never missed me - they had never been aimed at me to begin with. My heart broke at that moment, but I had to look and see for myself, even if the strong smell of iron filled in the blanks.

And there it was - only a few steps away from where we were, a whole lake of blood had come into being. And in its middle lay the man who'd tried to kill me only a few minutes ago, lifeless. I couldn't stomach this view, but Sherry trembled so much, and how could I blame him? This horror in front of my eyes - it had happened for my sake. My eyes filled with tears, but I couldn't let him see. He was tortured by guilt already, even if he'd been given no other choice. I pulled him close - as close as my injured arm allowed me, and felt him further relax against me. He lay like a sparrow with broken wings in my arms.

"Sherlock, listen to me. You cannot blame yourself for this. Do you hear me?" I whispered in his ear, but he remained wordless. The strength had left his body entirely. "You had no other choice. He would have killed me. Blame me! I should have listened to you! Come on." I pushed him away from myself to have a look at him, but his eyes remained downcast. Every movement of my left arm hurt like hell, but I cupped his face with both hands and tried to force him to look at me. "I should have stayed at home and trusted you with this. This is not on you. Do you hear me?"

Finally, a reaction, but his gaze had glazed over in a way I disliked. Yet he was looking at me - looking at me for a while before he spoke. "I would do it again," he muttered, "If someone threatened you, I would do it again. I could never let anyone harm you." His lips formed a bitter smile, and his eyes closed again. 

I didn't know how to respond. I shook my head and pulled him close once more. He rested against my shoulder immediately, seemingly too exhausted to stay upright for a second longer. "No, Sherry. I wouldn't want you to hurt anyone for me. But you never have to do this again. I will do better, I promise. I won't get in your way anymore. "

After a few moments of silence, he attempted to raise his head and turn back to look at the remains of that man, but my grip around him tightened, and he could no longer move. I knew he had to come to terms with it in his own way, but everything in me rejected the idea of letting him torment himself over something that wasn't his fault. And so many things that had happened to him weren't his fault - the thought made the pit in my stomach grow. "No, don't. I will get you out of here. You hear me? Let us get away from here. Let us get away and forget. We will go home, and everything will be alright again. Come on, Sherry." He didn't respond.

The following minutes remain blurry in my mind as well. I pulled him back on his feet, and although he didn't seem eager to move, he did not protest either. Together, we headed to a door on the right side, but we were both moving in a nightmare-like state - I suspected he had shut down entirely for most of it. Bernadotti's remaining henchmen did not regain consciousness before we left the large warehouse and found ourselves in much fancier-looking rooms - in this regard, we were quite lucky. There were people in the new place as well, but they seemed frightened and did not stand in our way - something neither of us felt like commenting on, but I felt Sherlock tense up against me. Soon, the entrance to Bernadotti's company stood large in front of us, but instead of leaving this hellhole behind, Sherlock hesitated. He insisted on talking to the man who owned this place - he said he had gone there to finish the case, and leaving without doing so was not an option. I understood his reasons, but I was worried for him. I didn't think he was capable of having a discussion with anyone. Still, I agreed and followed him to the man's office. 

Despite my worst fears, Bernadotti didn't seem to care a lot about the man my friend had killed. I know I should have been happy that we'd be let off easy, but it upset me - the lack of care for the deceased felt inhumane, and even though I prayed Sherry would forget the events as soon as possible for his own sake, at that moment, I was glad that he wasn't as callous as to brush them off like the man's boss. He ended up striking a deal with the businessman - one which was supposed to benefit Neila the most, and then we left.

And that was the end of it - of our first case together since my transformation. Or it should have been the end had things not gone so terribly wrong, but of course, neither of us was going to forget this day for some time.

We took a rickshaw to our home. Neither of us felt like speaking, yet I kept watching Sherry at all times. The events had taken a great toll on him, and I wished I could undo them. I wished I could make him forget, but alas. I was powerless. Despite my new physical body and my new way of living, which I generally considered to be good things, I felt more powerless than I had ever felt in my entire existence. It frightened me to know I could no longer shield him from harm in the only way I knew, that I was now a limited person who could only offer him words of consolation and a hug - both of which did not seem to reach him at the moment. It was almost like my new form had become a barrier which separated us, making it impossible for me to touch his soul in a way that had once been my privilege. I could no longer be what I had always been meant to be. 

I don't know why I hadn't noticed this before - that I couldn't feel what he felt. I looked at him, read his expressions, and made assumptions about the thoughts that went through his mind, but aside from this empathy, which is typical for most humans, I no longer felt his feelings inside me. I still felt sadness when I saw it written on his face. Only, it was my sadness now. I no longer felt it because I was a part of him, and he - a part of me, but rather because I hated seeing him sad. 

It terrified me. It made me feel disconnected from him. As a new human, any form of disconnection was unwelcome - every little change I noticed in myself and in the way we related to each other frightened me to my core. And at that moment, when he needed me most, the disconnection became an unbearable burden.

I was still bleeding profusely. I was hurting in multiple places. Had I not been there on that day, he wouldn't have shot a man for me - these thoughts kept rushing in, and all of a sudden, I couldn't see why I had wanted to become real in the first place. I had been quite naive and never considered the damage this transformation would do to our lives, but I couldn't go back now. I could only sit next to him and watch his deep sorrow without being able to help him.

"Please, say something," I pleaded. Whether he heard me or not, he did not move for a while, and I believed I would go mad. Hopelessness clawed at my soul. If shooting a man - a bandit who had wanted to kill us - weighed on him so heavily, then how was he supposed to handle the truth he so hoped to discover? And how was I to help him through the pain that awaited him?

"You must not think that I regret it, Jon. I simply wished it hadn't come to this." He had placed a hand on my shoulder. Without realising it, I had hidden my face in my palms, which must have alarmed him. I have never been very good at concealing my feelings, and I was feeling only despair and complete devastation back then. I felt him slip away from me, going somewhere I could no longer follow. And I regretted it - I regretted ever wanting to become a being separate from him, for he was my home.

"Yeah, I know." My voice cracked again and I straightened my back. He wanted to reply something, but our rickshaw had stopped - we had arrived home. 

"Let us go and bandage that arm of yours, shall we? It seems the bullet has passed right through it." He gave me a sympathetic smile and a pat on the back. Always the strong one, always the prideful one. I did not believe for a second that he was feeling better so suddenly, but my visible distress had animated him to act like it.

I hated it, but I could say nothing. He wasn't wired that way - he would not budge under pressure even if I confronted him and begged him to open up. I could only nod and exit the vehicle while hoping this day hadn't traumatised him for life.

"We'll get through this together. I promise." It was all I could give him back then. And while I was still terrified, I tried my best to believe it.

Chapter Text

Sherry had become an unsolvable mystery to me. 

I knew him better than ordinary people got to know each other on a regular basis, don't get me wrong. Still, I had to observe him now to understand what was happening inside his heart. It made me pay more attention and see details I had missed seeing before because I'd never needed them. I suddenly had to rely on my senses - on my newly gained human senses - to understand him and thus, I became aware of the tiniest changes in his expressions, of the slightest twitch and the most subtle glint in his eyes. Feeling the urge to compensate for the terrible disconnect I was feeling, I began studying him in great detail, just like he studied a crime scene. These little things I noticed became my lighthouses in the dark sea of uncertainty - they were little gateways to him, and I cherished them dearly.

I ... may or may not have started writing them down. A little like this:

• I told Sherry a joke about a snowman and a vampire. He groaned, but his eyes flickered, and the corners of his lips twitched a little. GOOD ✓.
• I asked Sherry if he was alright too many times today. He pretended it only annoyed him, but I think it runs deeper, for his eyes glazed over. BAD ✖.

It was scary at first, but a few days after the traumatic events at the warehouse, which I desperately wanted to forget, I was beginning to get used to the change. It was a welcome distraction and a pleasant one, too. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to experience a switch in perspective when it came to him. I had only known him from the inside, in a way nobody real knew another, but I was finally getting to know the person the rest of the world saw - the person on the other side of the mask that he wore. And I wanted to know all that was him!

But it was also when I began noticing the oddness in the way he acted towards me. He wasn't like that around others - not that he often met others, but whenever he did, he met them with confidence and, I daresay, even impudence. He'd insult a man twice his size and not bat an eye. He'd reject the prettiest girl I'd ever seen and not even feel sorry for hurting her feelings. Always keeping people at arm's length and sheltering himself from them, using his smugness as an armour like a rose uses its thorns - that was the Sherry the world saw.

He was different around me. Much more sincere and open. This wasn't new, for I had always been his one and only friend in the world - something that made me endlessly proud. Yet I couldn't help feeling that something was bothering him and that something was directly related to me. 

I assumed it was because he never seemed at ease anymore. I saw how he avoided looking at me for too long whenever he caught me staring and how his voice changed when talking to me. I couldn't understand what had triggered this change. 

But was it even a change? Had he ever been any different? I could swear he had, but to my horror, I couldn't know for sure - having lived the life of a very limited being, I had never had so much room for interpretation before.

At first, I blamed the events at the warehouse. Whether he liked it or not, I knew they were haunting him, for he'd often wake up calling my name, his face covered in cold sweat. He'd never tell me about his dreams, but he'd ask to hold my hand every time, saying that my closeness made him feel grounded whenever he lost himself in a nightmare. 

However, even with that day in mind, I couldn't understand why he'd act so differently around me. He didn't seem to blame me. After pondering it for a long time, I wondered if I was simply imagining things. Still, even if I convinced myself I was, it stayed in the back of my mind and... I can say neither of us was ever at ease anymore. Something unspoken hung between us and grew, something I couldn't clearly see. It grew each time I tried to meet his gaze, and he turned away.

What was it? Did he no longer enjoy being around me? The thought hurt like a thorn in my side, even if I had no reason to think this. Not after he'd killed a man for me. Or was that the reason?

"You are staring again." Sherry's voice tore me away from these thoughts and made me turn my head away in a hurry. I'd been caught red-handed again. As I mentioned before, observing him had become my hobby in those days. Naturally, this had not escaped his attention - nothing ever truly did. He didn't seem very bothered by it, but neither did he seem unbothered. Yet it wasn't something I could simply stop doing - it happened involuntarily most of the time. Even when I tried forcing myself to focus on other things and granting him the privacy he suddenly required, he'd somehow always steal my attention.

"Apologies." I cleared my throat. It was a hot day, and we rested outside after training for a while. It had been his idea to teach me to defend myself better, and for all I could tell, I was doing quite well for someone this new to the world.

"I don't mind it unless I know my observer has ulterior motives." He turned the page of his book as he spoke, seemingly no longer feeling exhausted. Unlike me, who was still fanning himself with a piece of torn paper and trying to catch his breath.

"I don't know what you mean," I countered and got up from the grass.

"Are you saying you aren't observing me because you still believe I am not doing well? I know you, Jon. I made you up, remember?"

A smirk. He looked amused by the banter, but I could only groan in return. Caught red-handed again. "Perhaps I simply wish you were more honest with me, Sherry." I stepped forward to the bench, but he had buried his head in his lecture again. Our conversation had ended. 

"Fine," I sighed and threw myself back on the cool grass, "but don't complain when I feel I need to keep a close eye on you. It's my job to ensure you are doing well, as you know." 

It was meant to be a lighthearted joke accompanied by a sweet smile, but the last sentence seemed to bother him, although he said nothing. Still, his face darkened a little and made my heart sink. It was another downside of observing him closely - I noticed whenever I'd said something wrong much sooner than I wanted to notice. It gave me the feeling of being incapable of communicating with him without pushing the wrong buttons. "I don't mean to say I see it as a chore. I enjoy being with you and making sure you are alright. May I not?"

At first, he left the question unanswered, but eventually, his expression softened, and he spoke silently, "You may. Just don't overdo it. Despite what you might believe, Jon, it is not your job. Not anymore." He said the last part more to himself than to me. I couldn't ignore it.

"How do you mean this?"

"Nevermind. Have you rested enough? We shall continue while the weather is still pleasant. There will be a thunderstorm tonight." He closed the book and jumped back on his feet, suddenly appearing chipper and ready to take over the world. I frowned, and I knew he saw me frown, too, but he happily ignored my soured mood. This conversation, too, had ended. After contemplating asking again and not getting an answer, I got back on my feet and began stretching my arms. 

It was no good. Sherlock Holmes could never be forced to talk when he didn't feel like it.

We spent the day training outside, with the occasional five-minute breaks. For now, we stuck to sparring and teaching me how to avoid being hit, although Sherry took great care to not overwork my injured arm. It was a fun day, and more often than not, I came to admire his undeniable skill. He was the kind of a man who noticed every twitch of a muscle and estimated every move of his opponents long before they decided to make them! Despite being stronger than him (something he only seemed to notice now), I landed on the soft grass much more often than I ever got to touch him. But I was a good sport, and I found my countless defeats more amusing than I found them disheartening.

"You are really good at this, aren't you," I'd say and laugh, and I'd refuse to get up from the ground for a whole minute while catching my breath. And he'd play cool but smirk when he'd think I wasn't looking, then scold me for slacking.

What wasn't so pleasant was doing so much physical work in the heat, but eventually, I found a way around that little problem - by dumping a whole bucket of water on myself! I was very glad I'd come up with the idea after seeing a wet dog pass by our home. The freshness of the cool water filled me with new energy and motivated me to train more. Still, for a reason beyond my comprehension, my action seemed to disconcert Sherry.

"Are you scared of wet people, Sherry? Don't worry, there is not enough water on me for you to pass out," I quipped, and he rolled his eyes and said:

"Unfortunately, there is more than enough water on the grass for us to slip and break our necks."

And I remember thinking, what a silly bluff! There was no way this was a safety concern! It was likely his uptight sensibilities, which were offended! Luckily, he pulled himself together after a moment, and we continued our training until the late afternoon.

By the end of the day, all of my muscles were sore, and I desperately needed a hot bath, but all in all, I felt it had been a good and productive day. Of course, bathing with an open wound in my arm wasn't as easy and fun anymore since I was to avoid direct contact with bath water. Still, to my relief, the pain had generally weakened over time. I could finally move my arm more freely without flinching, which meant a great deal. It was the side with my dominant hand, after all, and since that fateful day, I'd found myself needing more help with ordinary daily things than usual.

"It looks good," Sherry mumbled, running a finger along my upper arm. We were sitting on the bed in our room, and as always, he was about to inspect the wound and bandage it. "It will leave a scar, though," he added silently, and something about the thought seemed to unsettle him. He looked almost pensive as he stared at the gauze before he began wrapping it around my arm.

"I do hope it does! Many admirable men have scars. It will make me look dangerous and like nobody you'd want to mess around with," I stated out loud, and something about the way I said it made Sherry burst into laughter and forget his task for a moment.

"Of course, you'd want a scar. You are impossible, Jon. But no amount of scars would be enough to make you look dangerous."

Before I could think of a fitting reply, the laughter was gone, and bright lightning illuminated the sleepy street in front of our window. It almost made me jump, but Sherry remained calm. He had been right - a thunderstorm was coming over Cordona. It was common for hot days to end in a storm. And that scorching day promised to become the storm of the century.

I welcomed the whiff of fresh air and the subtle scent of ozone. Of course, it had been him who had told me where this smell came from - he was my endless source of information about the world. I didn't welcome the pensiveness in his face, however. That thing between us that kept on growing. That thing that remained unspoken and drove us apart.

"Do you not enjoy having me around anymore?" The words fell from my lips like a curse, and I immediately regretted them. But the last two weeks had been difficult and made me feel insecure about many things. I kept my eyes on the window, unable to face him.

"How could you think that?" I heard the gauze fall on the bed, and after speaking, a heavy sigh arose from Sherry's chest. A brief silence. "This is not what I meant earlier."

"Then what did you mean?"

Again, silence. I didn't have to face him to know he struggled to answer my question, but I was glad he hadn't dismissed me again. I was terrified, too. There was a pit in my stomach and the growing need to take it all back - to take all these questions back and simply be content with whatever time he chose to spend with me. Until it was over. 

But how was I supposed to live with the thought that my presence was bothering him?

It was pouring so fiercely within a few seconds that I could barely see the other side of the street. It was a fitting weather for a heavy topic like this.

"I suppose it hasn't sunk in yet, but you are no longer there just for me, Jon. It is not your job to take care of me. You are a man on your own, and you are finally free to live your life as you prefer, without my approval or obeying my wishes. Without following me. "

His voice cracked in a way that left no room for doubt in his sincerity, but finding out this had been on his mind all along baffled me.

"But this is not what I want!" I furrowed my brows and turned to look at him, but he was staring at the gauze and not me. Again, avoiding my gaze and shutting me out.

"I know. But don't birds which are raised in captivity always fear their first flight outside the cage? Yet they adapt, Jon. I know I must let you go, even if I dread this moment more than anything else. "

Captivity? Cage? I wasn't sure how to navigate the absurdity of it without offending him and invalidating his feelings, but in my ears, he had spun a nonsensical tale about the way I supposedly felt. I was insulted that he only saw me as a prisoner and not as a friend who had chosen to remain by his side. And I thought that he couldn't mean what he was saying and simply used it as an excuse to push me away. Oh, I was sure he believed it! But he had always been good at deceiving himself and burying the truth deep in his soul.

"Tell me you are not being serious! I don't stay by your side because I'm scared to be free from you. I stay because I love you! From the bottom of my soul, I love you, Sherry! You are the most precious person to me." 

I took hold of his hands. It wasn't the first time I had told him this; I had done so countless times during our fifteen years together, and I believed he needed to hear it again. Despite his cold exterior, which denied such emotions, he greatly desired to be loved unconditionally.

But all humans did - there lay my mistake, and it didn't take long to realise it. A few brief moments after the words left my lips, I felt something I had not felt before: the painful need to hear him say these words back.

He finally looked at me, and his eyes softened, but the response seemed stuck in his throat. Only his lips moved a little, but no sound left them. It didn't take long before he averted his eyes again and mumbled, "I appreciate it. I really do."

A loud thunder and the sound of tree branches hitting our window.

I couldn't move anymore - his reply had struck me like lightling. It was no surprise - this same thing, this same conversation, had happened many times and always ended this way. However, this one time, it upset me and created a lump in my throat, which threatened to choke me. It was a new emotion, as strong as the storm that threatened to flood the streets of Cordona. A lightning tearing through the skies, and a lightning tearing through me. I sat there looking at him, but my mind was becoming too clouded. Letting go of his hands, I got up from the bed. I knew he struggled with big declarations of love, but his silence became too much for me to bear. 

"Good to know that you appreciate it. I, uh, I think I need to get some fresh air." 

I tried my best to sound unbothered, but I knew I failed. He couldn't have missed the change in my tone, the way my voice broke, and in the corner of my eye, I saw him move as he called my name, but I no longer listened. I wanted to get away from this house, rushing towards the exit without paying attention to whatever he wanted to say. I didn't think I could process it anyway, even if I stayed.

This was worse than the cold, worse than the bullet. I felt like I was falling apart, like my soul was torn into pieces, and before I realised what I was doing, I had entered our garden. I didn't want him to see how I crumbled; the thought of him seeing was as unbearable as the pain. Despite its ferocity, the harsh rain felt soothing once it hit my face. I don't think I could see at all at that moment - the ache in my heart had taken over me, and without thinking, I found myself next to the gazebo. However, seeking shelter under its roof seemed pointless. The last thing I needed was comfort.

This strong, all-consuming emotion terrified me - I had never felt this hurt before, but I couldn't, for the love of me, understand what had upset me this much. Nothing about our relationship had changed, and I had been content with it for over a decade, but it seemed it was no longer enough. I could only conclude it was I who had become a different person. A selfish person who couldn't love another without expecting anything in return. It wasn't who I wanted to be. Was this what he had meant? Had he seen the change in me before I had? There were two parts in me now - one who felt guilty for letting him down and abandoning him and another who felt heartbroken and let down by him, and their battle petrified me.

But hadn't he killed a man to save my life? How could this not be enough? I couldn't make sense of myself.

When he reached the door, I was completely soaked in the rain. Blinded by the entrance lights, he didn't see me stand in the dark of our garden, and the heavy rain dampened his voice. Nevertheless, I knew he was calling for me, and I heeded his call.

"I need some time alone," I finally said when I reached him and stepped into the light of the entrance. Although the temptation was present, I couldn't simply disappear into the night and let him worry about me - we didn't do such things to each other, even when we were fighting. I was hurt, but I didn't want him to suffer for it. He seemed to relax a little when he saw that I was still there, but the deep frown on his face stayed.

"You are misunderstanding me-"

"I am not," I cut into his words and tried to smile at him, hoping to provide him some comfort and reassurance, but I fear it looked like a grimace. "It's alright, though. It really is. I simply need some time for myself, Sherry. I will come back, I promise. Don't worry about me."

And just like that, I turned away and headed towards the manor's front gate, ignoring the rain. I managed to take a few steps before I felt him pull at my arm. 

"Don't leave," I heard him plead, but no matter how much I wanted to listen and give him whatever he wanted, everything inside me recoiled. I couldn't face him just yet before having sorted this out with myself. Without turning towards him, I tried to free myself from his grasp, but he wouldn't budge. "No, don't leave," he said again, and I felt my resolve crumble. Yet, I knew I couldn't stay.

"Sherry. Please. Let me go," I whispered. As if burned by these words, he finally released my arm and stepped back. I had not meant to sound so definite, but my words had the desired effect. Instead of prolonging this any further, I left.

I wouldn't say I knew where I was going, but I finally understood why they called it a broken heart. There was an invisible wound in my chest, and it refused to stop bleeding invisible blood. Meanwhile, my feet took me to arbitrary spots on Cordona, not minding the apocalyptic weather conditions. Yet, no amount of walking and rain could clear my head. I regretted how I had left, but I couldn't return. Not being loved by the only person I loved was too much, and the hurt made me hope I'd dissolve in the rain instead of being confronted with this ever again. Rationalising and bargaining with myself did not help me feel better, and I found myself wondering how these useless methods always worked for him. I concluded that they didn't.

So I walked. And I walked. And I walked.

It felt like hours had passed, and my strength slowly left my body when I finally reached yet another gazebo close to the shore. After considering my options and realising I had no options to begin with, I fell on the bench and closed my eyes. The leaky roof barely provided any shelter, but it was the best I could get without having to walk further, and I felt too exhausted to function. 

Dark thoughts rushed through my mind: how he'd never want to see me again. How I'd let him down. How I did not deserve him at all - I, the most unnatural being walking on earth: a phantom made flesh. And lastly - how I'd likely get terribly sick if I fell asleep in the rain. It was still summer, but the night was cold, and I felt its chill seep into my bones. 

Yet I couldn't get up, not keep myself awake for much longer, even as my whole body began shaking. There was no way to get warm in that storm; no dry wood for a fire, no warm hotel room for a man without a penny on his name. And still, sleeping there seemed better than going back, although I missed Sherry's warmth more than ever. 

Would he find sleep that night? And who would be there for him if he awakened from yet another nightmare? I knew he didn't deserve to be deserted like this, but knowing wasn't enough to make it hurt less. I wanted to go back to being my old self again, but that ship had sailed the moment I'd hit my head on that door. And no amount of guilt could make this new me settle for not being loved by him.

Then so be it, I finally thought. There was no point in trying to solve a problem which couldn't be solved, and I was becoming too exhausted to think. 

But before giving in to an unpleasant, wet, and cold sleep, I cracked my eyes open again for no other reason than to scan my surroundings one last time. And there it was -  a dark figure only a few feet away from me, staring at me while the rain released all its anger on its frame and soaked it just as much as I had been. Of course, I knew it was him. Despite my dwindling strength, I pushed myself up and brought my body into a seated position.

"I couldn't... I cannot let you go." He stepped into the light of the gazebo, looking devastated and suddenly aged by a decade. It didn't need a genius or a detective to tell he was freezing, too - he still wore the same wet clothes I'd left him with. He'd likely followed me all the way there, through the whole island. My escape had backfired miserably.

"Sherry, you will catch your death like this-"

"I do... love you." A pained laughter shook his body, but it didn't stop shaking even as the laughter died. "I haven't said this to anyone for over a decade, Jon. I have difficulty saying these words again. The last person I said them to left me when I needed her most. But I mean them. How could I ever not love you? My dearest friend and companion."

I didn't know how to answer. Guilt made me stare at my feet. He gave me no reason to doubt his affection, but I felt like I had forced this out of him, and I felt ashamed. And yet, I found myself feeling happy, too. With a couple of words, he had made the pain disappear and no amount of guilt and shame were enough to ruin the great relief that I felt. How selfish I was. But he had never told me he loved me before.

"I don't know what's going on with me. This is why I needed to get away. I don't understand myself. You should have stayed home. It's freezing cold," I whispered. 

Yet he simply said, "Nothing," and walked closer to sit on the bench beside me. His lips had an unhealthy pale shade now, and he was trembling. 

"Nothing?"

"Nothing is going on with you. All humans want to be loved. No matter how much they deny it or pretend to be selfless, they all want to be important to someone. It's how they... no... how we are. One could argue it's our animal ancestry, but we can't always win against our nature."

But I was not meant to be like this, I thought. "I'm sorry. For everything I've put you through. None of it was planned."

"I believe I have put you through more through the years, and none of this is your fault. But we should go home instead of addressing this now," he replied. After some time we spent sitting in silence and freezing together, he got back on his feet and beckoned me to follow. It was a discussion worth having, but my frozen limbs agreed with him, and the way to our manor was long. 

It was dawning already, and despite the storm, the sky had begun changing its colours into a warm, peachy-pink shade. I stepped into the rain while Sherry lingered by the gazebo. After a few steps, which I took alone, I turned back to rush him to come along, only to find him looking at me. He stood there and stared with the same expression I'd seen so many times. A softness. A pensiveness. All tense and bothered by something he'd not share with me. Only this time, he held my gaze.

"Oh, Jon. If only you knew…" he whispered as he slowly walked closer, but I was too mesmerised by him to ask him to finish his sentence. I couldn't tear my eyes from his face now that he was finally looking at me.

And suddenly, the world had stopped spinning. Only we two existed, only Sherry and I, safe for the vanishing distance between us. I no longer cared about the cold, even if I knew we'd likely end up with a fever again. But at that moment, I knew I'd rather suffer a hundred fevers than miss this. His wet hair was stuck to his face, and I brushed it away once he reached me and placed both hands on my sides. He looked strangely ethereal to me.

It lasted only a brief moment. First, I felt his warm breath against my face, and then, the brush of his lips against mine, gentle and soft like the touch of a feather. I was left breathless and drunken. I remember him stepping back, suddenly worried he'd done something stupid, but I could only smile before I pulled him close to kiss him again. 

At that moment, as our lips met again and again, the only thoughts on my mind were how I could do this forever. How kissing him made my heart leap and my head - delightfully dizzy. How I could taste the rain on his cold lips. How feeling his gloved hands on the back of my neck gave me goosebumps. How he gasped against my mouth and made my whole being tingle. How hungry his kisses were, and how they awakened the same hunger in me.

And then I knew that some truths could be conveyed without words.

Chapter Text

We didn't make it back home that night. 

Emotions weren't enough to protect us from the impending hypothermia. After walking through the pelting rain for what felt too long, we reached the hotel "Il Palazzo del Lusso" before we reached Stonewood Manor. Once we saw the front gates and the inviting bright lights coming from the lobby, the decision to just book a room and end our wet and cold misery became so easy that we didn't need to agree on it out loud. It was like a safe haven in the raging storm! Too frozen to continue our stroll even a minute longer, let alone the thirty minutes it would have taken us to get to our house if we were lucky, we simply looked at each other, nodded, and then walked through the gates. 

A hotel room also had other advantages, such as the option to order hot tea without preparing it yourself while fighting the cold. The thought of tea alone made me smile in anticipation as I picked up the pace.

Eager to get rid of our soaked garments as fast as possible, we didn't want to waste too much time in the lobby. Thus, Sherry walked straight to the receptionist and asked for a room and dry clothes for the two of us without engaging in any distracting pleasantries. At the same time, I stayed a little behind and looked through the illuminated foyer and the connected bar. It was after four in the morning, and only a few guests were still awake. Naturally, all eyes were on us—the soaked, visibly distressed intruders, who were not only the sole entertainment they could get at this hour but also an impossible pair. Where else would you see someone like Sherry book a room with someone like me? I couldn't help waving awkwardly at one elderly gentleman whose gaze seemed shamelessly glued to me to the point he'd stopped blinking. Fortunately, he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his brandy.

After Sherry's assistance in solving a murder less than two months ago, the staff simply couldn't deny his request, no matter the time, and the receptionist offered us two rooms to pick from without letting us wait for too long. 

We had already earned ourselves a few curious looks, but choosing the room with the king-size double bed instead of the one with the two single beds made the young (and overworked) man in front of us stare as if we'd just done something unfathomable. I expected his jaw to drop to the floor any minute. I admit all the attention made me nervous, but Sherry was either too oblivious to how all of this seemed, or he simply did not care. 

Naturally, the second possibility made him seem much more unshakable and cool in my eyes, so I stuck with it, choosing to believe he was simply that unfazed by other people's opinions.

After signing, he eagerly took the key and said we'd likely check out in a few hours again. Of course, his addition only confirmed the receptionist's first impression of the nature of our relationship. We got a raised eyebrow and a "You can always count on our discretion, Mr Holmes", but Sherry only huffed in response. I was amazed and perhaps a little flustered, too. Not because I had a dirty mind but because it drove the point home even further. We had been painting an obvious picture for all of Cordona to see. Not only today but over the past months. 

Not that I minded. I didn't, but being exposed to other people's attention wasn't something I could get used to that fast. Most people need decades to learn not to care.

Then, we finally entered our room, and it was luxurious! It was likely the best room they had to offer, and because of his good relationships within the hotel, Sherry had gotten it for a great price. A four-poster bed was in its middle, with a remarkable dark green canopy and at least six different kinds of pillows. It looked so comfortable that I couldn't resist sighing in delight at its sight. Lighting struck at that moment, illuminating the sky and revealing the breathtaking view out of the window - the dark, raging sea. And when I say breathtaking, I mean it quite literally - I stopped breathing for a moment, amazed by the terrifying forces of nature revealing their might before our eyes.

"I feel like some sort of a king sleeping here," I exclaimed, but my enthusiasm dwindled fast once I began paying attention to my freezing bones again. After entering what was to become our new home for the next couple of hours, I was faced with the fact that getting the cold out of our bodies would be much more complicated than I'd ever expected. Tormented by the awful sensation, it was the last thing I'd wanted to find out that night.

Naturally, my first idea was to draw us a hot bath, not only because I loved baths but also because there was no way to light up the fireplace during summer. 

Of course, my suggestion was dismissed. Apparently, jumping into hot water after being exposed to the cold for too long wasn't the way to go unless one wanted to risk falling into a state of shock. The transition into a warmer bodily temperature had to happen slowly and steadily - something Sherry explained while chattering and trembling like a leaf in the wind. And I remember wanting to cry at that reveal because even after getting rid of my wet clothes and switching them for one of the two fluffy navy-blue bathrobes which awaited us on our bed, my body did not seem to get any warmer. 

It was quite the opposite - the warmth of our room made me shake even more, to a point where I saw no other option but to accept my defeat and crawl under the sheets, where I intended to wait until I felt better again. There wasn't much else to do either way.

Of course, I had nobody else to blame but myself. The guilt of putting Sherlock through this ordeal simply because I couldn't control my emotions tormented me. He looked awfully pale! Although I felt physically unwell myself, I thought I had no right to complain any more. When he joined me under the covers, perfectly stoic but still unable to suppress the severe trembling, I could only embrace him in an attempt to warm him up, and I mumbled, "I'm sorry."

"It's alright, but please, pick better weather conditions next time you decide to have a fit. I think it's safe to say this isn't enjoyable to either of us," he replied with a shaky voice and buried his face in the fabric of my bathrobe to warm his cheeks. I deserved the response, but the gesture felt rather rewarding. I don't think I deserved that. I still enjoyed it.

Having no other means to warm ourselves up, we eventually ordered a whole pot of herbal tea with honey and lemon to our room. Then we drank it slowly as we held each other close under at least three additional wool blankets we'd found in the wardrobe. The tea didn't taste good, but its delightful warmth made up tenfold for the unpleasant thyme flavour.

Still, it was a long and very weary process because no amount of tea and no number of blankets succeeded in repelling the chill that had seeped deep into our bones for what felt like hours. We were too exhausted and done with the world to talk, so we simply sat on the bed, leaned against the back wall, and watched the storm. Each lightning revealed large, threatening waves and made Sherry tense up at their sight. He hated water that much.

By the time we finally stopped trembling and felt somewhat normal again, a new day had already begun. I'm not going to lie - drained from the previous one and not having had the chance to rest yet, I'd never despised seeing the sun more, and even the beautiful view of the sunrise above the horizon didn't excite me.

"I don't want to think about leaving the bed today. I'm too tired to think or even walk down the stairs again," I muttered after finally closing the curtains and slipping back under the warm covers. I felt a little better, but the warmth of the incredibly soft and comfortable hotel bed was still very welcome. I wished we could take it back home - it was definitely better than ours. I knew we'd have to pay for another day if we didn't leave by noon, but at that point, my whole body was starting to ache from the training we'd done. Hot and cold waves washed over me and made me feel almost feverish. I simply needed to sleep - preferably for a week.

To my great pleasure, Sherry didn't put up a fight.

"I wouldn't mind some rest myself," he said in a weary voice. His eyelids seemed to be getting heavy as well, and he stretched a little before pulling the blanket over me. "We could order some food to our room later. We should have enough to be able to afford this little vacation without risking financial ruin." It was a suggestion I liked, and I finally felt myself relaxing next to him.

"I could try their ceviche... this time, with my real mouth," I added and moved closer. I had not had any alcohol, but my head was spinning, and I closed my eyes.

"As opposed to trying it with your ethereal one?"

I laughed. "Yeah, my ethereal one doesn't really taste things. It can talk just as much, though, so it's not entirely useless."

It was comfortable, existing like this. We had shared a bed countless times, but for the first time, Sherry's closeness felt intentional, and as my mind began drifting away, I pondered how strange that was. It was likely only a switch in perspective, but so much had happened in a couple of hours that I wondered if any of it had happened for real. Lying in the warm, cosy bed with him pressed against me and thinking about these things, I fell asleep.

I know you wonder what changed between us after the kiss we had shared in the rain. The truth is that the change was more minor than one would imagine. We had always been very close. Initially, it was nothing but a subtle feeling of freedom and nervous anticipation to me - the freedom to explore and express these new emotions I carried and to allow myself to have them in the first place without fearing Sherry would mind. And an anticipation of seeing what the future would bring us despite our unusual circumstances.

Of course, I didn't feel this composed and optimistic when I woke up next to him in the hotel on that particular day, only a few hours after the gazebo. In fact, I was quite anxious. I remember almost convincing myself that I had only dreamt of our kiss. From a logical perspective, it made no sense why he'd participate in such tender expressions of love when he'd never shown any interest in them before. I feared I was experiencing what the poets call 'an unrequited love' that had revealed itself to me in my dreams.

And who would ever want to bring up such a dream in front of their best friend who had sworn off such passion forever?

But how was I supposed to not talk about something that had taken over my mind? I couldn't think of anything else!

It didn't take me long to accept that it had not been a dream. After that, I don't think I moved at all for almost an hour. Afraid of waking Sherry up and not knowing what to say and how to interact with him anymore, I lay there as if I had been turned into stone. Because no amount of playing it down helped me calm down. It meant a great deal to me.

That moment at the gazebo had given sustenance to a dormant seed I'd borne in my heart, and something beautiful had sprouted. Feeling his warmth and steady breathing against my skin didn't help me feel any less transfixed by him, either. The memories of how good it had felt to kiss him and to be kissed by him with such fervour made me feel drunk, but I was also very troubled.

"I know what's on your mind," I blurted out the moment he opened his eyes and sat up. He'd turned his back on me, searching the ground for the slippers the hotel had provided us, but my words made him eye me from over his shoulder.

"Oh? Do tell. I presume having you develop psychic abilities isn't as unlikely as it would have seemed two months ago, before you gained a body after walking into a closed door." He looked as amused and cocky as always. I didn't know where this conversation was going, but his nonchalance made me respect him infinitely more. In return, I could only stare at my hands.

"I know you've never wanted any of this. You are scared it will affect you in ways you can't predict," I took a deep breath. "I'd understand if you want us to stop here." 

I meant what I said, even though I dreaded to think of ending what had just begun. But the last thing I wanted was love, which came from a place of obligation. If he regretted what had happened between us, then it was over. There was no other option. 

"No beating around the bush, then," he sighed. Perhaps he'd wanted to address this at a later point. Or never. "Would you be alright if I wanted us to stop and pretend nothing happened? Would it not hurt you?" I felt choked up by what seemed like a suggestion, but his expression gave away curiosity more than anything else. He was merely asking because he wanted to know what I thought.

Lying was an option, but not one I'd pick - not when it came to this. After a moment of contemplating my words, I replied, "It would. But I would survive it, Sherry. A real friend would never want you to enter a relationship you don't want, and I am your friend before I am anything else. Nothing matters more than knowing that you're happy." Even though I felt something heavy in the pit of my stomach, I meant every word and smiled at him. I felt only love and deep care for him. How could I not put him first?

He didn't reply immediately. There was the old, pensive look on his face again right before he turned away. I knew I'd have to handle it better this time, no matter what came.

But it wasn't rejection that followed. He remained silent for a while, seemingly reflecting. I simply sat on the bed and waited, occasionally spotting a seagull through the tiny crack in the curtains. The rain had long stopped, and Cordona was again full of life and noise. It was odd how everything went back to normal even after the biggest storm.

"I haven't felt like this since yesterday, Jon," I heard him say, and he sounded almost defeated - like he had struggled with it for a while, and lost the battle. "You are right - I am scared, but I have come to realise that fighting these... sentiments is more difficult than anticipated. Believe me, I've tried for some time." He sighed deeply and let himself fall back on the bed. I watched him, puzzled and unable to grasp the full weight of his words at that moment, but saying them aloud seemed to lift a massive weight off his chest.

"You have?"

"I believed I was in control, but then you changed. You were no longer a figment of my imagination but a real person. I don't know how to navigate this situation yet, but you must have figured this out already. I have never been good with people or... feelings. Now I have to face both in you."

"I see," I replied. I wasn't as troubled with his words as with everything he left unsaid. The idea that he'd had to deal with this, whatever it was, all by himself bothered me and made me feel like I had let him down.

I had thought of it many times before - the possibility of him developing feelings for someone had always been present, no matter how much he used to deny it. And yet, I also knew better than anyone how difficult such an occurrence would be for him to handle, and I'd always hoped I'd be the first person he'd share this with, the first person to encourage and root for him and even cheer him up if anyone broke his heart. For many years, I had seen myself as a mere tool to make him happy at any cost. Yet somehow, it had never crossed my mind that I would become this very source of distress to him. I felt both blessed and awfully guilty. 

"I had no idea," I finally said. 

"That was the point of never telling you."

Many questions were swirling around in my mind, but most refused to be formed into coherent sentences. After a while, I lay down next to him and joined him in staring at the ceiling. I was feeling restless, and his closeness was soothing.

"You prefer men, don't you? I am not an exception; I am the rule, am I not?" It was odd how I'd never considered this before. And there had been signs. Had I been this oblivious, or had I simply been limited due to my previous form of existence? I couldn't tell, but I saw it clear as day now.

Yet he struggled with the answer. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but nothing came out, and I figured it wasn't something he was ready to face yet. So it could wait. I turned to the side to look at him better and placed a palm on his upper arm. "You don't have to reply." A sigh left his lips, and he nodded. 

"What about you?" he asked almost instantly, likely eager to switch the subject to me. 

And I chuckled. "I haven't gotten a clue. I haven't been around for that long. I don't really know much about myself yet."

"That's quite obvious," he laughed a little and turned to look at me, too. Only a few rays of sunlight fell on the bed, and the tiny dust particles danced in their fire. They made him look like a dream - too surreal to be true. Too perfect, too fragile, too prideful, too devastatingly gorgeous. 

"But I know that I prefer you over anyone else."

He smiled at my words, and after a moment of hesitation, he reached out and caressed my face gently.

"So do I."

He was still very tense, and the sweet gesture took great effort, which made it all the more precious to me. It was all it took - just like this, my mind was blown away. The way he looked at me made my heart swell. Before I could question what I was doing, I leaned in, and my lips found his. The air around us quivered at our touch. There was no uncertainty on his part - I felt his hand move away from my cheek almost immediately, and his fingers dug deep into my robe as he pulled me closer and returned my kiss. Without the rain and the cold to intrude my senses, his mouth felt almost too soft when it brushed against mine, and I could only hum in delight.

We didn't really know what we were doing - my knowledge of kissing was based solely on some novels I had read in secret, but the technicalities were the last thing on our minds either way. Not that there was a lot else on our minds. Our lips locked again and again, merely enjoying the feathery touch while we both melted into each other's arms. Then, I felt him grasp me by the shoulders and push me back into the pillow before hovering over me. This side of him - the hungry one, the sensual one, took me by surprise again, but I wasn't going to leave his energy unmatched. Reaching up and tangling my fingers in his hair, I pulled him closer. 

It was a bliss. There was a need in me - the need to break both our walls and let our souls coalesce into one, and when I felt him tilt his head and sigh into my mouth, it was almost like I'd fulfilled that. The world around us disappeared. Only he existed to me, and I knew I would never love anyone else the way I loved him. The very idea seemed absurd.

It took a while before we caught our breaths again. We lay there, holding each other tight and placing drowsy pecks all over the face of the other. Then, we ordered some food. We talked for hours on end about everything that crossed our minds, and we were happy. I don't think I'd ever been happier than in those first days. Not before and not after.

And like this, the new chapter of our lives began. He was a man with many boundaries, and I knew I ought to not cross them, but it was not as difficult as that sounds. In fact, loving Sherry was the easiest thing I'd ever done. It felt natural. Unavoidable. Final.

But our little vacation had to come to an end. After spending a whole day and the following night doing nothing but falling for each other, we eventually had to leave the hotel. So we jumped back into our by-then-dry clothes and headed downstairs to pay our tab. And although Sherry still did not bother paying attention to the receptionist's all-knowing gaze, there was somebody else in the hotel lobby he couldn't afford to ignore. Someone I was not prepared to face yet. Someone who knew of my existence.

"Finally. I don't have all day to wait for you to finish playing around." His voice startled me, but I dared not look at the direction it came from. I was petrified - everything around me seemed to freeze, the sounds of daily hotel business fading into a distant echo. I knew that voice. I'd heard that voice almost every day for fifteen years. 

It was the voice of Mycroft Holmes. The only other person in the world who loved Sherry as much as I did. And he did not love me.

Chapter Text

Being disrespected is a harrowing experience for most. That doesn't change when the person has been imaginary before. In fact, we tend to crave acceptance and validation more than people who were born into this world. Even as we get accustomed to our new, physically-restricted form of being, we never entirely forget how we came to be. The feeling of not fitting anywhere isn't something a person forgets easily. I know I never did. I don't think I even saw myself as entirely human - I had no mother and father, no ancestors, and only God knows what kind of blood ran through my body, if it was real blood at all and not some sort of red goo.

However, sometimes, being disrespected is the lesser of two evils. You ask yourself, when? What makes a person overlook their sense of pride and appreciate someone else's disregard for their being?

And I'd reply... it can happen to you when you meet Mycroft Holmes.

a

"Come, Sherlock. A carriage awaits. Like I said, I don't have all day, and we have much to discuss." His voice echoed through the hotel lobby. It was stern and calm, but he radiated irritation. He had gotten up from the chair at the hotel entrance and urged Sherlock to follow him in an attempt to remove themselves from this unusual situation.

"You can say goodbye to your friend; I am sure he will find his way home without your assistance. Given he has one."

A low blow, you'd think - likely addressing my less-posh appearance. I was wearing my old attire again - the faded shirt and trousers were pretty comfortable, unlike Sherlock's tailored suits, and I preferred them most days. Mycroft had not looked at me even once since he had caught my attention, which was a clear sign of disdain. Yes, I was slightly offended by the remark, but he didn't talk to me - that was already a win I was willing to take.

I hoped I'd suddenly become invisible again. I was sure Sherry and I would find a way to be happy together even if I didn't have a body - we'd lived like this for fifteen years. We were professionals at imagining things! Trying to manifest that wish, I stepped back as if hoping to fade away into nothingness, only to be grabbed by the arm and pulled back by Sherlock.

"He does have one. He lives with me," he said casually, and for reasons I couldn't comprehend, he seemed all too pleased with himself! I presume he didn't quite grasp how much I dreaded a confrontation with his older brother and why. In the meantime, I had forgotten to breathe.

"I don't mind taking a walk-"

"You will do no such thing. Mycroft is to be a mere guest in our home. He can return to London anytime if he doesn't abide by our rules. Or he could book a room here - ours just got free, and he could afford it without the discount," Sherry said loudly enough for the whole lobby to hear. Then, he gave me the sweetest of smiles, only to avert his gaze a moment later and glance at his brother.

Oh, it was a game between the two. Sherry was challenging Mycroft. I'd seen this hundreds of times before and always enjoyed watching him contest Mycroft's authority, even if it meant putting himself in an awkward position. In another world, I would have smiled back and even applauded him for standing up for himself, but in this world, I was in no position to do so.

You see, Mycroft was intimidating to anyone who wasn't Sherlock or imaginary, and I no longer fit in either of these categories. He wasn't a vile man, but he was a man of endless resources, a man who had begun working for the government at an age at which most boys can't spare a thought on anything that isn't booze or sex: a genius, a prodigy, and the only man who could outwit Sherlock and make him look like a clumsy, ignorant kid without effort.

Mycroft was as cold as ice and as sharp as a blade. Willing to cover up the most prominent scandals at any cost, it was very easy to disagree with his dubious sense of ethics, but disrespecting Mycroft directly was something only Sherlock could allow himself to do. Mycroft was a man to whom the bigger picture justified all means. Casualties were a number written down in an old notebook, which he used to ignite his fireplace in the evenings. A man who had enough potential to rule or destroy nations but who was also loyal enough to serve ours.

And in the eyes of that terrific, remarkable man born for grandeur, I was but a stranger who had spent two nights in a single-bed hotel room with his little brother, likely tainting the latter's spotless reputation forever. It was a mess Mycroft would have to clean up. With tons of money, that is - he never did any actual cleaning. I needn't remind you that relationships like ours were not only frowned upon in Cordona but also utterly illegal in England, which was still Sherlock's home.

I wasn't ashamed of what we had going, but I was an enemy in Mycroft's eyes. Challenging him was foolish because he loved only one thing more than he loved power and duty: Sherlock. Anyone who posed a threat to his brother was to face the consequences, and any potential male beau was a threat with a big, capital T.

But it wasn't just intimidation that made me want to back away. I had known this man for fifteen years - enough time to become fully aware that he wasn't fond of the person called Jon. He had always tolerated my existence in Sherlock's life, but it had never been more than that. Concerned and likely out of his depth in the parental role which was imposed on him by the death of their parents, Mycroft indulged Sherlock a lot when it came to me. Yet I was nothing but a symptom of madness to him - a flight of fancy, a delusion Sherlock ought to overcome preferably sooner than later.

And yet, still, he was also the only person alive other than Sherlock who knew me. He was the only other person I had ever interacted with through my friend, and to say he hadn't shaped parts of me as well was ego-driven and self-deceptive. In a way, he was also family to me, even if he couldn't stand me. Over time, as the three of us lived and grew older together, a sense of hierarchy emerged. I saw him as my elder, whom I judged and respected in equal measure, and the last thing I wanted was to make him hate me even more than he likely did already.

Needless to say, the scales weren't that balanced for Sherlock. The older he grew, the more defiant he became, and the judgment long outweighed the respect. He was a rebel, if only because he could get away with it. While standing in the hotel lobby and doing everything to spite his older brother, Sherlock viewed my growing unease as an overreaction.

Introducing myself as who I was had already backfired once when I had been put in the position of having to interact with Vogel, so this time, I decided not to speak. I simply stood next to Sherlock, stared at my hands, and trusted he'd know best what to say.

After a while, Mycroft sighed. "Fine. We will do it your way." With these words, he turned toward the exit, very confident he would be followed. Nothing was fine, but he wasn't a man to discuss private matters in public.

Did I want to ride a carriage with him? Oh, at that moment, I'd rather have been boiling in a large kettle in hell with some carrots and celery, but despite how I felt, I couldn't abandon Sherry and let him deal with the consequences of our decision all by himself. Utterly horrified and uncomfortable, I approached the vehicle while holding Sherlock by the arm.

Somehow, this seemed to amuse him.

"Calm down, he isn't going to bite you - I won't let him," he spoke with unmatched confidence and smiled as if he wasn't talking about Mycroft but about Bud, the spice merchant, who had an aggression problem.

"He could let my body disappear, and not even you would find it, Sherlock," I whispered back, once again too aware of my own mortality. My words made him halt, and he looked at me with annoyance. I'd offended him. After a loud huff, he approached the luxurious carriage and opened the door, but he turned to look at me once more before entering.

"I doubt it would come to this, but if it did, I would gladly prove you wrong."

"Gladly? You would gladly look for my mortal remains? What a lucky man I am," I frowned, which earned me a raised eyebrow and a cocky smirk before he disappeared inside. With a heavy heart, I followed.

"It's been only a minute, and I am already plagued by the urge to claw at my face from sheer boredom," Sherlock sighed theatrically and leaned back. The carriage had just started moving through Cordona. It was an expensive thing and a possession of Mycroft himself. Black walnut lining met wine-red, velvet benches, which were more comfortable than most chairs and even a few beds. The satin curtains were drawn and shielded our eyes from the strong Cordonian sun. But of course, I couldn't enjoy the extravagance. I could only stare at my feet and make myself as small as my new (fairly bulky) body allowed me.

"Who are you?" The question roared like thunder, and my vision unfocused for a fragment of a second, so unexpected it came. Mycroft was finally looking at me, but what was I to reply?

"I'm-"

"It's none of your concern!" Sherlock snapped, his arm stretched to the side as if to serve as a wall between me and his brother. I could only look at him in awe - not because I agreed with his offensive approach (I saw it as self-defeating) but rather because the gesture touched me a little. Against Mycroft, he resembled a cat threatening a rottweiler with its claws, but it made me feel warm. When I realised he was most likely doing it because he knew I couldn't deal with the situation and that he hoped he'd redirect Mycroft's rage towards himself, I felt guilty about being a burden to him again.

But I wasn't going to let him fight our fight all alone! So, ignoring Mycroft for a moment, no matter how difficult it was to ignore this unmovable rock of a man, I took Sherry's hand and smiled at him.

"You don't have to defend me, Sherry. I can do that just fine by myself."

"What is the meaning of this?" Mycroft hissed, and while it was unclear if the handholding, the nickname, or both had outraged him, Sherlock jumped in.

"He is my partner. In romance. He is my romantic partner," he stated matter-of-factly and squeezed my hand. It wasn't like we had established what we were already, but he would say anything to irritate Mycroft even further, so I could only nod in return.

A groan filled the small carriage and made the thick air vibrate. "So you have finally gone mad. Is that what this is?"

"Do you mean like our mother? Would you like to send me abroad and tell the world I suffer from consumption as well?" Sherlock spat.

I will be entirely honest: this wasn't the direction I hoped this conversation would take. After Sherlock's cleverly weaponised remark, it derailed and ended up in a screaming match between the two. Accusations rained down like the icy raindrops from two nights before, and naturally, when we reached Stonewood Manor and entered the garden, they weren't nearly done. At least, I didn't matter for the time being. I could pretend I didn't exist again - the sound of their bickering was so familiar that I didn't even have to try hard. I was basically teleported back in the '70s the moment I heard phrases like "responsible adult" and "unscrupulous lackey".

It wasn't the first time, but it was exceptional nevertheless. There was a newly found rage in Sherlock - one I hadn't seen before, primarily due to the fact that Mycroft had kept Violet's illness a secret. Sherlock had bottled up a lot of his frustration over the course of the last two months, and it was finally boiling over. Yet, Mycroft wasn't the only one who kept secrets.

But how could I tell him everything when I believed he wouldn't be able to handle the whole truth? As I watched the quarrel unfold even further near some unfamiliar wooden crate in our garden (what was that enormous thing doing there all of a sudden?), I came to realise a terrible thing: we'd come to Cordona to find out the truth about her. Even though my transformation had posed a great distraction, Sherlock would soon apply himself to his ultimate goal. And when he found out about the way she had died, then...

"My name is Jon. I have been his friend for fifteen years," I exclaimed, overcome by intense desperation and the urgent need to make them stop yelling. Too many lies were placed on my shoulders, and I couldn't carry yet another one without buckling under their pressure. I succeeded - they stopped fighting, but the sudden silence was so oppressive that I believed I'd gone deaf.

"More importantly, I know you. And you know me. Indirectly. Somehow, I became a real person."

Nothing good was to come out of this - that was what the look in Sherlock's eyes told me. He stared at me, troubled by my confession, but it was too late to take it back.

"He is right," his voice quivered as he spoke. "It seems impossible, but he is..." Yet he couldn't continue. And how could he? Two months later, we still had not found an explanation for my metamorphosis. I closed the distance between us and put a hand on his shoulder to soothe his evident distress. No matter how disobedient and bold Sherlock appeared before his brother, Mycroft's opinion wasn't that irrelevant to him, after all.

"Let me handle this. I can do it on my own," I whispered. It concerned me, above all. I was done being Sherlock's burden to carry.

In the meantime, Mycroft hadn't said a word. He stood there, unshakable and composed, with both hands behind his back, and observed our every move. Shaky and with a racing heart, I stepped towards him, but before I could open my mouth and try to reason with him, he spoke.

"Is it money?"

"What?" I looked dumbfounded. The question made no sense in the context.

"I am asking what you hope to gain from taking advantage of my brother's delusions. Is it money? Or is it blackmail material? Have you taken pictures of whatever you've done in that room?"

"Neither! I-"

"Get away! Leave my home and my life!" Fast like the wind, Sherlock posed himself between us. His whole body was trembling, but it wasn't fear that caused this severe reaction. It was cold fury caused by Mycroft's appalling accusation.

But what had I believed would happen if I came out with the truth? Who would believe it? How massively had I messed everything up? At that moment, I felt like I had irreversibly destroyed our lives. In retrospect, I suppose we should have seen this coming. Mycroft had made up his mind about me long before I had spotted him in the hotel.

"It's my home, I own this house. I could have both of you removed if I wanted," Mycroft returned calmly. It wasn't a threat - he was merely informing us. Of course, I couldn't let it sit either way. His words had stung me badly.

"Do you think I would leave Sherlock if we were to end up on the street? I won't," I quavered. This conversation made me feel dirty and gross - like some rare kind of leech. But such thoughts had never crossed my mind! I couldn't make him believe my story, but it didn't really change anything for me. His mistrust only made our lives more difficult, but we weren't thinking about giving up. "I don't care for your money. You can't keep me away from him even if you offered me the whole world in return."

"He is right," Sherry, who had calmed down a little, moved beside me and mirrored my stance. "You are out of your depth. You should go home and leave us alone. You are unwanted here!"

After eyeing us thoroughly, Mycroft snorted. "Then go ahead. Destroy your life for a man. I had such high hopes for you, Sherlock, but in the end, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Soon, the beautiful carriage took off, leaving only the two of us behind.

"Just a little more," Sherlock grunted.

"It's easier for you to say," I replied, breathing heavily. "Want to switch positions?" My foot almost slipped, but I regained my balance before falling back, which would have led to my inevitable and excruciating death. "I need a break," I gasped once I had secured the feet of the large bed on the third step of the staircase. I still had to support it with my whole body weight, but that wasn't as difficult as having to push that enormous thing up the stairs. It was made from sturdy mahogany and weighed more than two cows. I mean, I assume it weighed more than two cows. I've never actually carried two cows.

Still, the realisation that the task would be more challenging hadn't changed Sherlock's mind.

"It won't fit through the door," I said for the tenth time. It was a nightmare to imagine dragging this thing all the way up, only to be forced to carry it back down when it didn't fit. Unlike Mycroft's room, ours only had a normal-sized door.

"Would you like to bet on it?" Sherlock replied, but his tone sounded angry and not at all playful. That didn't motivate me to bet on anything, and a joke replacing 'bet' with 'bed' seemed too out of place on that day.

The confrontation with Mycroft still lingered in Stonewood Manor. The moment the carriage left the premises, Sherry ran inside the house like a madman, heading straight to his older brother's bedroom. I followed him shortly after.

"I am done sleeping on an old, hard bed made for children!" He yelled. "This is my house! He doesn't get to claim the best pieces of furniture and then let them rot like he did with our mother! Actually, he doesn't get to have a room at all from now on."

I grimaced but didn't say a thing. Did I agree with the accusation regarding letting Violet rot there? I didn't, but there was no point in reasoning with Sherlock whenever he got so passionate. As long as he didn't do anything more dangerous than stealing Mycroft's old bed, it was best to indulge him.

Of course, being accused of being a sponge searching for blackmail material didn't inspire me to defend Mycroft, either. I needed a hot bath to wash away the filthy feeling of being accused of something this awful.

And like this, we ended up dragging Mycroft's gigantic bed up the stairs and to our room.

"I will turn his room into a laboratory. Or a library! Both would be more useful than anything he's ever done!" Consumed by the fiery speech, Sherlock let go of the bed and started gesturing and pacing around.

I felt myself buckle under its weight and yelled: "Please, hold the bed!" while my short life started flashing before my eyes.

Fortunately, he reacted on time and grabbed the thing by its headboard.

"Can we get this over with? I'm over this day," I whined once I realised I would live (for now). Sherlock obliged wordlessly. I suppose it finally hit him - anger wasn't a good advisor.

The bed did fit through our door, meaning I would have lost the bet either way. We positioned it next to the wall and then moved Sherry's old childhood bed down to Mycroft's room. All in all, the whole endeavour took us at least three hours, and once we were done, we were done.

At least the bed was remarkably cosy. Being able to sleep comfortably was going to improve our lives immensely.

But the distraction of hard, physical work only helped us this far. Sherlock was disappointed and hurt by his brother, and my spirit was utterly crushed by the events. The day passed in silence, and when evening approached, we didn't find ourselves in the mood to dine out.

Instead, we stilled our hunger with old biscuits and tea, and although I loved their taste, I found myself unable to stomach them at the moment. That had never happened before. Later, I'd find out that there was a difference between hunger and appetite.

"It's not your fault," Sherry eventually said. We had finally changed into fresh clothes, and he had taken upon changing my bandages - something we hadn't done in days. I was lucky that my wound wasn't infected despite all the neglect.

I sighed, "I don't know if I agree." I regretted being honest with Mycroft, for I didn't feel the truth had changed anything for the better. "But even if it's not my fault, this day couldn't have gone any worse."

"I beg to differ. We could have died on our way here, hit by lightning," Sherry joked, and although I wasn't in the mood, I was glad he was feeling a little better and smiled at him. At least all the destructive fury had mellowed.

I was deeply distressed because I didn't want to imagine a future where Mycroft was no longer a part of Sherlock's life. Despite the former's negative traits, I knew his love for Sherry paralleled only mine. I feared I had destroyed this.

"I need to take a walk," I said once he was done treating my wound, and silence had started creeping into the room again. Then I added, "I will not try to sleep in the gazebo again. I just need some fresh air. I will be back quickly."

Sherlock hesitated but eventually nodded in agreement. He disliked letting me go anywhere all by myself, and if I'm honest, I disliked being all by myself, too. Still, having the independence to have ten minutes for oneself was something we both saw as crucial if we wanted to lead normal lives. Acting as if I was still an ethereal being was contra-productive.

And like this, I left the house after giving him a short peck on the lips. That little gesture turned out to be the best part of my day. The large crate still stood tall in our garden. Somehow, we'd all been too occupied to pay it any attention.

But before I exited our garden to enjoy an energising stroll through Cordona's streets, something else caught my attention. There was a new letter in our mailbox, which had been empty only a few hours prior - Sherlock made sure to check it a few times a day. There was no mail service this late. I frowned, but I was too curious to ignore it. To my surprise, the card I found inside was addressed to "Jon".

"You are late," Mycroft said calmly. With a cigarette in hand, he was leaning against the back of the carriage, which seemed empty. I couldn't help but look around, but nobody was there - only the two of us. The confusion I displayed made him snort again.

"You couldn't have known I would come," I replied, slightly defensive and irked by his condescending demeanour. His eyebrows rose ever so slightly as if to disagree, and I could swear I would have been able to tell he was a Holmes even if I hadn't met him before. It was their general smug aura which could make anyone's blood boil. Unfortunately, it reminded me too much of Sherry to hate. I took a deep breath.

"You have to listen to me-" I began, only to be interrupted.

"I don't have to. I choose to."

That made me frown.

"Do you? You have been interrupting me all day, which leaves the impression you only choose to listen to yourself." I thought I should turn back and leave the smartarse behind - Sherry awaited me back home. And yet, I felt I had to do this. Despite how he had treated me all day, he was Sherlock's brother. He was family.

My reply seemed amusing to him. "So you've got a bite, after all." That was it. A mere remark, which I chose to brush over and skip to what I wanted to say, although it felt good to get a little acknowledgement from him.

"I did not lie," I started again. "I'm Jon. I know how improbable it sounds that someone like me would suddenly become a real person with a real human body, but this is what happened! We have been trying to find a reasonable explanation for months but have yet to succeed. But, Mycroft, you know me!"

I paused for a moment to take a breath. So far, his expression betrayed nothing - he simply stood there and listened, emotionless and unmovable like a mountain. If that was what Sherlock aimed to become, he had a long way to go, and I hoped he would fail.

Although I felt like a rambling lunatic compared to him, I didn't let his silence discourage me.

"You have seen hundreds of pictures of me. Every single sketch, every single painting Sherlock has made to portray me, you know. I could describe every corner of our house back in London, every peck of dust the housekeeper tends to forget to clean. You know how I look, and even if you didn't know how I sound until now, you know my manner of speech. But above all, you know him. You can't possibly believe he is so mad that he would fall for the trickery of an imposter pretending to be me. And where would Jon be if I wasn't Jon? He wouldn't disappear in the most inconvenient of times and let some scum fool Sherlock! You know your brother doesn't talk to anyone but you about me. How would anyone get to know me well enough to impersonate me without his consent? And so fast, too? We have only been here for two months!"

My breathing was heavy; the message - was too important to convey without getting emotional and a little desperate. I didn't know what would happen if I failed to make Mycroft believe me, but I knew I had only this chance.

"I have seen your pain whenever she favoured him," I almost choked on my words - walking on very thin ice, I feared I'd crash down and drown. But I had to keep on walking and praying for the best! "I have seen how much his grief after her death smothered you. I have seen your guilt and your love for him even if you fail so miserably at showing it-"

"Stop it!" He finally snapped. Suddenly, he was closer to me, and I stepped back without intending to. I had irritated him too much for my own good, and his once-calm face was now entirely twisted by hostility. Neither of them liked to have their vulnerabilities pointed out. Sherlock had gotten used to it when I did, but Mycroft had not.

But had I convinced him? I didn't know.

And so I continued.

"But that's not all. I...," I faltered. If I played my cards unwisely, I'd end up dead. Because what I was about to say was Mycroft's biggest secret. My biggest secret as well. Ultimately, it was something only Jon - I - would know. "I was in the garden on the day she..."

"Don't!" he cried out. Even if I wanted to finish my sentence, I was stunned.

"I know what happened, I-"

"Don't say a word!" Mycroft roared, his right index finger shooting up and pointing at me.

Time stood still. At least it felt like it wasn't passing for me. Exhaling deeply, I looked down at my feet. The animated speech had overexerted my nerves, and I felt dizzy.

The park was too silent for my taste. Not even the crickets came to keep me company that evening. Suddenly tired and in dire need of sleep, I only wanted to go home to Sherlock. To the comfort only he could give me.

"Does he know?" Mycroft asked after some time.

"No," I shook my head.

"Are you intending to tell him?"

"No!" I exclaimed without hesitation. Saying it out loud made the guilt I already felt almost unbearable. "He is not ready," I sighed. "He would come to the wrong conclusion."

A relieved sigh left his lips. Without saying anything for a while, he took out another cigarette from his etui and lightened it.

It's funny what kinds of thoughts can cross one's mind, even in such intense moments. Back then, I simply thought about how I had not tried out smoking with my new body yet. All the mess had kept my mind too occupied.

"I admit I have always underestimated you, Jon," he said after a while. "I knew you were mouthy, but I must admit you possess some common sense regarding my brother."

He said it so casually, but I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I gasped and took a step towards him.

"Does it mean you believe me?"

"Believe you? You misunderstand me, Jon," he blew out some smoke before throwing the butt of the cigarette to the ground. He didn't bother stamping it out. "I knew who you were from the beginning. For what do you take me? An idiot?"

I was shocked. I tried to speak, but instead, I stared at him with my mouth open widely. What was the point of this sick game he was playing? I believe I wanted to run home and cry myself to sleep after I'd put so much effort into convincing someone who didn't need to be convinced.

"What? Why?" It was all I could say at that time.

"Because I had to know if you were worth keeping around. It seems we are on the same page: Sherlock must never find out. And whether I like it or not, he cares for you. I'd rather spare him the pain of losing you."

"What would you have done had I wanted to tell him about the garden?"

"I can be very persuasive."

"Oh, no!" I cried out in disgust. Such threats were very repulsive to me, even if they were hypothetical. "Keep this to yourself and your shady associates. Otherwise I'll lose all the respect I have for you." I shuddered.

"I don't need the respect of people as reckless as the two of you. Holding hands on the street? Engaging in intimacy in a public gazebo? Jon Jonson?"

My whole face was set on fire. He knew about everything, about every step and misstep we had taken. Of course, he'd had Sherlock followed! How ignorant of me to believe that won't be the case while having him in our lives!

"You could have asked me without the charade," I said defeatedly.

"I don't do anything without a reason, Jon." He remained silent after this. I couldn't make sense of it at the time, but even then, I didn't believe he had toyed with me for fun. Mostly because I didn't think he was capable of having fun. Yet he wasn't going to open up and tell me why. There was no point in asking again.

"I need to go home. Sherry is waiting," I exhaled and rubbed my eyes with my thumb. "Just to inform you, I will tell him I met you. I don't lie to him for no reason. But first..." My head was buzzing too much to continue talking to him, but this part of the conversation still made little sense. "How did you know? You don't strike me as someone who accepts miracles without questioning them. I know he didn't, and you two aren't as different as you imagine to be."

Mycroft sighed, seemingly contemplating his following words. Just when I was about to lose patience and simply walk away and forget I'd ever asked, he replied, "You are not as unique as you think, Jon."

Unable to process even more new information, I didn't feel as surprised by the implication of his words as I would have felt under different circumstances. It left me untouched at the moment.

"Are you saying there are others like me?"

"Good night, Jon."

I groaned. "Yeah, you too." Talking to him had drained me entirely. Was this how Sisyphus felt after a long day of climbing and bouldering? Poor guy. I knew I ought to try to find out more, but it seemed like a futile discussion to start. Instead, I turned around, eyeing the park exit.

"And Jon..." I heard him call. I stopped and turned to look at him one last time.

"I shouldn't be telling you this, but you two have been too careless. If anyone finds out how you've come into being, not even I would be able to help you. Greet my brother from me."

Chapter Text

Eventually, all good things come to an end. You know the saying. Before we'd had the chance to solve the great mysteries that defined our early days as a pair of two real persons, summer began fading away. There were still a few hot days ahead, but there was an undeniable chill in the air, and from time to time, we'd see a yellow leave or two amongst the green ones. Despite how eventful our life on Cordona had been until that point and the many unanswered questions that threw dark shadows all over us, a certain calm followed. In the end, even Mycroft let us be, aside from the well-dressed gentlemen who always seemed a tad too interested in their newspapers whenever we passed them and the occasional case he'd drop in our mailbox. Although Sherry was always inclined to reject his brother's requests, we both needed the money and more often than not, the cases turned out to be interesting, anyway.

But all in all, tranquillity overshadowed everything by the end of summer 1880, and we let everything that troubled us await its turn while we simply enjoyed our lives for a little while. We lived in the eye of the storm, but we were ignorant and happy there.

It was when I began feeling it for the first time – the itch. One could simply call it boredom, but I knew boredom and that itch was different. It was new, exciting. A little frightening. In retrospect, I can say that it was my need to discover myself in ways most real people do – by finding out what they do and don't like, as well as their limits and boundaries. It's a normal process everyone undergoes while growing up, but to me, every new discovery about myself awakened a strange fear. Don't misunderstand; I was curious to get to know myself, but I wasn't quite prepared to be entirely separate from Sherlock just yet - when you've identified yourself through another person for over a decade, you don't simply stop and become independent within a few months. Ultimately, what he had said about the birds living in a cage turned out to be very spot on, even if not in the same way as he had feared.

But the itch stayed despite my initial doubts, and before long, I found myself branching out. I was as insecure as a baby deer on its feet, but no matter how difficult it must have been to watch me become more and more my own person, Sherry was there with me every step, always having my back. He watched me approach new people and engage in meaningless chatter, watched me try out new clothes and styles, new foods, new everything, while he stayed in the background and observed, ready to intervene should I ever need it. He was my guide, but he also let me do my own thing.

I also tried out hobbies. I figured out I wasn't bad at everything, and it honestly surprised me. It was easy to compare myself to Sherry and despair, but even though I was nowhere near as good as he was at painting and drawing, my flowers still looked like flowers. Whatever I wrote still read well even though I'd never had English lessons – it was merely my handwriting that desperately needed some improvement. There was a natural artistic talent in me, and never having created anything before didn't stand in my way too much, because I wasn't aiming for perfection. I didn't question this until a little later, and he did not comment on it.

Then, there were skills in which I was superior, despite him having had a head start of more than twenty years. For one, Sherlock cannot cook to save his life! After spending tons of money in restaurants and bakeries, one day, I finally decided that we were grown enough to start cooking our own meals. Naturally, he initially refused. However, even after I'd somehow managed to convince him to try and fry some eggs and meat, the end result was, well… dreadful. Next to him, I looked like a five-star chef. It was when I realised that experience wasn't always more important than enthusiasm and the willingness to try, and before long, I ended up preparing our meals at least a few times a week. There was this soup* I made that he loved a lot. I think I made him gain a pound or two with that soup alone.Of course, I'd also finally found something I was better at, and that was quite amusing by itself. I didn't let him live it down for a while.

Eventually, venturing into the world and experiencing it like a proper person would, started to feel like fun. There was more to it than just the hobbies - knowing that I might not be the only one to undergo such transformation motivated and inspired me as well. Even if there were only two of us, former imaginary people, I was no longer all alone in this bizarre fate, and that meant the world to me. Of course, Mycroft's words had been both cryptic and threatening enough to kill every sliver of hope that I'd ever meet another like me, but at that point, the mere knowledge that I wasn't as big an anomaly as I'd thought was enough to make me feel more human.

But, of course, branching out did not mean neglecting Sherlock. It was quite the opposite – I hoped my more profound knowledge about myself would help us strengthen our connection and that we would get to know each other on a deeper and, I daresay, healthier and less dependent level. While ignoring the storm that had started brewing three months ago around us, I began planning our future.

"I could pick an instrument. The violin," I suggested one day. We were having a picnic in our garden. Sherry had not wanted to participate at first until I had reminded him how it was likely the last hot day we'd have that year before summer finally passed its reign to fall and its cold showers. Ultimately, he'd said yes, although it had not been my argument that had convinced him – he'd only joined to make me happy.

"Would you like that?"

"I would. I haven't gotten any real hobbies, Sherry. What is a man to do without anything to kill time with? I can't make food all day - I'm not a mom who has to feed a dozen hungry mouths." I was lying on the grass and idly tossing and catching a pomegranate I'd gotten from our garden. I was admittedly too full from the cucumber sandwiches and lemonade I'd made and didn't feel like doing anything else at that moment. In the meantime, he'd picked a book to read while resting on our blanket.

"Besides…," I chuckled, "…I know you would enjoy listening to me once I get good at it." I paused my game to turn to the side and catch a glimpse of him as I said that. Although he was trying his best to hide his face behind his lecture, I could see the corner of his mouth rise just a little.

"It would be silly to pick a hobby just to entertain me, Jon."

"Maybe… but you would like it, wouldn't you? Especially if I did it just to entertain you." I grinned.

"This is a preposterous assumption," he finally put the book down and tried to look oh-so-serious, but I burst into silent laughter, and he couldn't help smiling back at me. Of course, the book shot up immediately to hide his reddening face. He'd always deny it, but he has a soft spot for big gestures and sweet words. "You are impossible."

"May I not learn to play the violin to please the ear of my…?" 

But I couldn't say it. Despite everything, we didn't use these kinds of words when it came to us - at least not when Mycroft wasn't around to scandalise. We were what we were. It was fine this way.

"I think I will do just that," I concluded our conversation and tossed the fruit up in the air once more. This time, I failed to catch it, and it landed somewhere behind me. What a pity!

"Do as you will."

But it wasn't until the afternoon that I got to pick the violin we'd gotten from a case we'd solved. Good intentions to learn skills only to flatter Sherry weren't enough to make me want to leave the sunshine. The day spent outside had simply been too pleasant and relaxing for both of us.

Eventually, we ended up back in our bedroom. We'd consumed too many sandwiches to even consider dining that evening, so we simply decided to round off the day with some peace and quiet before going to bed. It wasn't like us, you would think, to take so much joy in the silence instead of seeking adventure and fun, but I like to believe that at that point, we both sensed that we ought to cherish the calm while it lasted. 

I no longer needed to wear a bandage – the bullet wound I'd gotten had healed just enough, although it was not very pleasant to the eye. Still, I no longer felt restricted in the movements of my left arm, so when I grabbed Sherry's new violin and smiled at him, I felt ready to produce the most horrifying sounds a man with a musical instrument had ever produced without paying the price in the form of physical pain. For a moment, he put his lecture down on the table, leaned back into the armchair we'd placed in our room, and eyed me in anticipation.

Of course, we both knew that I couldn't play. He couldn't play either, but he'd at least had a physical body with two hands for decades. Among the two of us, he was always going to be the one with the more refined movements, the less clumsy one who didn't drop things all the time because having limbs was totally new. But it didn't mean I wasn't going to give it a try regardless, even if it meant ruining his evening with unbearably unpleasant sounds.

So, after clearing my throat, I picked the bow, gave him a playful wink, and…

… and then I lowered it again. The realisation felt like a locomotive hitting me right in the face. I stared at him wordlessly, mouth ajar, and I watched the smirk slowly vanish as he saw that I was in a shock-like state. It must have been quite odd from his perspective to see me so stunned for no apparent reason.

"Did you change your mind about picking the violin?" he asked, tone still teasing, but I could tell that my reaction was starting to unnerve him. He leaned forward in the chair, body all tense and eyebrows furrowed. "Jon?"

And I? I was euphoric. Once the initial shock washed away, I burst into laughter.

"You are so not going to believe this!" I paced around, violin and bow still in my hands. I was too excited about the discovery to know what to do with myself. The joy in my voice must have eased his worries, and he sighed in relief.

"I can't believe anything if you don't share it with me."

"I will, but you will have to close your eyes first. Trust me."

He hesitated at first, but after I gave him a reassuring smile and a nod, he once again leaned back and did as I'd asked – he let his eyes fall shut and rested both hands in his lap.

And then… then I played for him. I played a melody we'd both known since our childhood together, a melody we'd recently heard at the old music teacher's place. Despite being entirely new to the physical world and its limitations, there was nothing as easy to me as making the violin sing this perfectly melancholic tune. It was like breathing to me – as essential to my being as having a heartbeat and just as effortless.

Not for a moment did I think that was normal, and neither did he. We'd both been surprised by my ability to paint, but this - this was something else. Once I finished the piece, I placed the instrument down on the desk and finally dared to look at him and see his reaction. It was his turn to stare at me in shock.

"How?" was all he managed to ask.

"I don't know," was all I managed to reply.

I looked at my feet, not knowing what to say to make his apparent unease disappear, but the truth was that I was happy. I looked at my hands and couldn't believe they had been able to play an instrument they had never touched before. Of course, it wasn't a skill I'd spent years refining, but to say I didn't feel pride regardless… now, that would have been a big lie.

"The moment I took the bow in my hand and led it to the violin, I realised that I knew how to play, Sherry. I know it to the smallest detail! Do you think it's because I used to play for you before I got this body? That I somehow kept all my imaginary skills?"

Still too perplexed, he simply stared at me, slightly shaking his head. "I… I can't say."

I took a deep breath and sat down on the bed, but excitement leaked from every pore of my being, and despite all my efforts to handle the situation with grace, I was quite jittery. It was something big, a new discovery that amazed me and made me vibrate with joy, and that joy threatened to burst out of me if I didn't release it soon in a more controlled way.

"I can always play for you. I can… likely play other instruments, too. I could become a great virtuoso!" And just like this, within seconds, I saw myself playing for large audiences, finally having found a place in the human world that belonged to me and me only. Perhaps this was what I needed to feel like someone whose existence wasn't all wrong and unnatural – a purpose outside of him, something I did for myself and myself only.

Only if he could share my great joy with me, but Sherry was still quite shaken, and the more I rambled about my bright future as a great musician, the more his discomfort grew. What was a miracle to me was yet another unsolvable mystery to him, and he'd had enough of these for a lifetime. 

Eventually, his silence became too loud to ignore, no matter how elevated my mood was and how ignorant of my surroundings I became when I was excited. It made me put an end to my monologue and take a deep breath to calm my nerves before speaking again.

"I am freaking you out, am I not?"

Finally, my words brought a smile to his lips, although his stance remained tense. "A little, perhaps. I can't make sense of you to this day."

I nodded, and we remained like this for a while. This time, his reaction didn't manage to sour my mood - I no longer doubted the depth of his love and his ditress didn't make me feel that insecure. Still, it was undeniable that my everchanging nature had become a thorn in his flesh. And yet…

"We have the chance to find out more about my transformation. The answers to all these questions are just under our noses." I finally added, quite confident that he knew what I meant.

But just like the first time I'd mentioned Mycroft's cryptic words to him, his mood shifted for the worse, and he withdrew. I knew he had his reasons, but it felt wrong to always leave too much unspoken between us. Instead of dropping the topic, I got up on my feet and knelt on the floor next to him.

"Sherry…" I spoke quietly and took his hands in mine. "It's not like you to back off. I know you want to pursue this, so why aren't you? We read every single book on the island, and we remained just as clueless! This is our chance. Why would you miss it?"

A silent gasp left his lips. He was staring at our entwined fingers for some time before raising his head and looking me in the eye with a mixture of regret and affection.

"I will figure it out, I promise. I simply find myself… troubled by Mycroft's warning. I would like to plan our next steps thoroughly before we take them, and if my deductions are correct, there is nothing left to investigate before we get back to London. The occurrences he has hinted at have not happened here, and he will not tell us anything, Jon."

"Now, this is nothing like you," I mumbled. He wasn't the type of a person to get scared by a warning, but the kind who always faced danger head-on. Reckless and brave – that was the Sherry I knew and loved, even when his recklessness and endless pride made him put himself in grave danger. He was likely correct, and there was nothing we'd find out while on Cordona, but he seemed too relieved about that fact for me to simply ignore it. It had bugged me for a while.

But when his eyes involuntarily shot to my left arm and the half-healed wound, I began to understand. He was scarred as well, albeit not visibly. A bird who no longer felt free to roam the skies.

There was nothing I could do to help him recover, but I pulled him close and wrapped my arms around him. Sitting on the floor next to me, he let his head rest on my shoulder and sighed deeply.

"When I saw you fall, it was as if the world stopped moving," he said quietly. "I was no longer myself. I simply pulled the trigger - he was a danger to you that I needed to eliminate..."

"I know," I whispered and my grip around him tightened. The shaking of his voice whenever he spoke of that accursed day broke my heart. "You did what you had to do. None of it is your fault." The peck I placed on his temple drove a hum out of him. Without saying another word, he wrapped both arms around my neck and locked our lips, and although his kiss felt desperate and frightened, I couldn't help getting lost in the heavenly feeling of his soft lips. We spent some time like this, and while kisses and caresses weren't enough to heal all the wounds, they made us feel good enough to forget the bad things for a while.

Despite how much the new discovery had initially unsettled him, he still asked me to play for him one more time before we headed to bed. This time, we both enjoyed the music and joked a little more about my bright future as a great violinist before we fell asleep in a tight embrace.

When we woke up the following day, we rushed downstairs. We'd slept too much, and the sandwiches from the day before hadn't been enough, after all. That is to say, we were both hungry as hell, and some warm coffee was also more than welcome. 

But much to our surprise, we were not the first ones to enter our main hall on that day. The intruder had long left, but they'd left a package with a little note. 

"It seems you are invited to a party tonight," I chuckled, but the oddness of it all made my heart sink. There was something offputting about that mask and the long black robe that the intruder had left for Sherlock along with the invitation. But ultimatelly, it was seeing Verner Vogel's signature that I disliked the most.

Chapter Text

I wasn't fond of Verner Vogel. His mannerisms were off-putting enough to give me a feeling of subtle unease whenever he crossed my mind. As expected, his peculiar invitation to Manchios' Manor made the ever-present pit in my stomach double its size once again. I was so troubled that even Sherlock's odd costume gave me goosebumps. Only his visible curiosity in the mysterious event stopped me from begging him not to go – I knew his interest had been awakened, and it was against his nature not to follow that trail.

A shady invitation and a mask - two things that promised a mystery of the fun kind. It wasn't something I could offer him at the moment because, despite the many unanswered questions regarding my transformation, none of it seemed entertaining to him anymore. Uncertain how to proceed, he handled the problem of my metamorphosis with kid gloves, turning to other matters whenever they arose.

Of course, I decided to escort him all the way to the event, even though I hadn't received an invitation myself. It was a rather cool evening in September – the first such evening since we'd come to the island. Still, it didn't rain, and I was not to miss an opportunity for a stroll when the weather played along. I'd also never seen Cordona in the fall before, and I was eager to witness its new attire, which slowly transitioned from green to different shades of yellow and red.

The sun had not yet set when we approached the luxurious mansion. To my surprise, my expectations of receiving curious and judgmental looks from all passersby because of Sherry's odd garments weren't met - the citizens of Cordona barely spared him a glance. I concluded it had something to do with the other masked men, who were all seemingly on their way to Manchios', too.

For all its strangeness, this appeared to be a well-known event, not a rare and mysterious occurrence among the Cordonian natives. There was no bewilderment in the air, except for my own. The knowledge didn't entirely soothe my mind, but it was reassuring to know it wasn't some twisted trap explicitly set for Sherlock by the evil mastermind Verner Vogel.

We reached the manor just before the church clock struck 8 p.m., and I had to admit to myself that the place didn't look as uninviting as I had expected and feared. The stone path leading up to the entrance was illuminated by lanterns. There was a champagne reception for all the masked guests, and the front yard looked well-kept and pretty with its lush bushes and ripe pomegranate trees. It didn't seem like a sketchy place where many crimes happened and where Sherlock would have to fear for his life. That was enough for the moment.

The guests were all dressed identically, but despite their eerie appearance, there was happy chatter coming from every corner of the garden, making the event seem less dangerous all of a sudden. My worries were temporarily dispersed, allowing me to breathe freely again.

"What a bunch," I murmured, watching them greet one another and trying to figure out what this was all about. The air was charged with excitement for reasons I couldn't yet understand, but I wasn't immune to the good mood they emitted, and not knowing the reason for it didn't stand in my way of starting to feel pretty cheerful myself. It stung that I had gotten no invitation after all.

In the meantime, Sherlock's eyes scanned the guests with what I can only describe as unrestrained scepticism, silent, annoyed hums leaving his mouth to drive the point home - he didn't want to be there. "I hope I'm not wasting my time," he finally said, exhaling loudly.

"Let me guess, they don't look creepy enough for your taste. They're too jolly to hide a great murder mystery. "

"Very sharp," he scoffed, already turning away from me and heading towards the entrance. "I will put this behind me and find out what he wants before I waste even more of my evening." He did not wait for a response. I understood that he was in a hurry, but I didn't know what to do with myself. As the only person violating the dress code, I stood out too much, and the looks I got didn't make me feel like my presence was valued.

"Hey, wait-"

"I will hurry, Jon," he said without turning around, waved his hand in the air, and disappeared behind the large entrance.

And then I was left there. Standing in the garden, trying to stay out of the way of passing guests. Alone, inexperienced, and out of place. That got tedious after some time because Sherlock didn't return as fast as he'd hinted he would. One after another, the guests began following his example and disappearing inside, and before long, I remained the only person in the large garden, aside from the doorkeeper, who gave me an occasional glance. It took a couple more minutes until I found the courage to approach the man and try to find out what kind of party it was. He dismissed me with a few polite, but cold remarks that let me know I had no business being there if I had no invitation. My heart sank once again, but I saw no other way than to leave, if I didn't want to be dragged out by the guards.

It was self-explanatory that I kept watching the exit from across the street, waiting for Sherlock to finally leave the accursed mansion. However, at 8:30, he'd still not come back from whatever was happening in there. The feeling of unease began to spread in my heart when the first crickets started chirping after sunset. The time passed, but there was no sign of him, and I began to suspect foul play once again.

Yet the streets of Cordona were busy. As I mentioned before, it was a cool but pleasant evening, and the Cordonians enjoyed the good weather while it lasted. The street lamps illuminated my surroundings, and I heard energetic chatter coming from all directions. For a short while, I couldn't pay attention to anything else but the unrest in my heart. However, eventually my thoughts started to wander.

I wish I could say they wandered to happier places. In reality, they found themselves back in Stonewood Manor, back in a garden that seemed long forgotten. The terrible memories that lay only a few feet under the very bed we shared every night threatened to steal the air from my lungs. These memories were the reason why we'd come to Cordona, after all. Because he wanted to remember. Everything else was a welcome distraction, but I could still hear the clock ticking.

He wasn't ready for the whole truth - not yet.

08:45

Sherry was gone for three-quarters of an hour by the time the restlessness had become too big a factor, and I decided to get back to my feet to shake away the haunting thoughts. Compared to what awaited us in the foreseeable future, the shady event seemed much less relevant, but I had lost my patience. I shook my head and decided that the best way to pass the time was to approach someone and try to find out more about what was happening behind the tall walls of Manchios' Manor. My main goal was to intervene should I dislike what I heard, but at the back of my head, I also liked to imagine Sherlock's astonished face when I smugly announced that I'd found out what kind of event was taking place without actually entering the building. If he kept me waiting, I'd make sure to rub it in that I'd solved the mystery before him.

Or had I? It wasn't like he was going to tell me anything related to a possible case before he thought it was something worth telling.

Still, despite the amusing pictures in my head of beating him to the mystery this one (and only) time, I felt shaky as I walked towards a group of smoking young men.

"Evening, gentlemen," I spoke in the most accent-free English I could muster and thanked God that I'd picked a nicer attire for the evening. Grand Saray isn't a place where fine gentlemen enjoy being addressed by people in less expensive clothing.

To my relief, they greeted me in return and didn't seem to mind my unusual hairdo. I smiled at them.

"I saw many masked gentlemen enter this mansion," I began, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible and not like someone whose dearest person had entered the building and not left for longer than he was able to stomach. "Would you happen to know what sort of event is taking place, by any chance? I've been wondering for almost an hour. One can say I'm new in Cordona."

Talking to strangers was still a challenge, even after three whole months. While trying to appear pleasant and merely curious, my heart pounded in my chest, and I felt sweat form at the root of my neck. The feeling that I didn't belong had by then become a constant in my life.

But despite how this interaction made me feel on the inside, the three men didn't notice a thing. They exchanged a few curious looks, chuckled uncomfortably, and finally, one of them (a blond, tall man not much older than I) replied in a husky tone. "They're indulging in… indecent behaviour. That's why the masks - cowards, the lot of them."

"...I don't understand."

"They go in there to have sex with strangers."

"I've heard they even sacrifice animals and drink their blood," one of his friends, a smaller redhead with glasses, chimed in.

"I wouldn't be surprised," the blond man replied and pulled on his cigarette, seemingly lost in thought - the idea seemed to intrigue him.

"I see... Thank you. Have a nice evening." I replied, trying my best not to show how much this piece of information had disturbed me, but on the inside, I felt as though I was falling into a black void. I walked away quickly, but no longer saw where I was going. Lamps and pavement and fences and buildings - all melted into a dark grey mass that wanted to swallow me. There was a new feeling in me - one I couldn't describe or name, but the intensity I could only compare to what I had felt as I had walked into the storm.

But above all, I felt fear. Sherlock had been inside this cesspool of debauchery for almost an hour, and I didn't trust Vogel.

I had to find a way in.

Circling around the manor and hiding behind bushes in an attempt to avoid the gaze of the doorman, I found a small passage that led to the back of the house. The windows on that side of the vast building were dark, giving me a dangerous sense of security because, to me, it meant that no one was behind them. It was foolish, but at that moment, I believed I could sneak inside without getting caught. I still tried to move as soundlessly as possible before I finally found what I had been looking for - a low window hidden behind a rose bush. No sounds or movement came from behind, so without overthinking too much, I took a large stone from the ground and smashed the thin glass.

My heart hammered in my chest, and my instincts screamed at me to turn back, but I ignored them - for his sake, I couldn't afford to pay them attention. I tried my best not to scratch myself on the thorns and the glass shards as I put them aside before going in with my feet first. And just like this, once having made sure that I'd not get stuck in the small frame on my way down, I jumped into the darkness.

To my great relief, I landed on the stone floor without injuring myself. It took me a moment to get accustomed to the darker surroundings - then, I found myself in what appeared to be a wine cellar with a staircase at the opposite end.

It took me a minute or two until I had gathered my courage to start moving around the place I had just invaded, but still, every sound made me jump and break into cold sweat. I heard a pair of distant voices engaging in what seemed like a very fiery discussion, but I was still too far away to make out their words. My steps were slow and careful – without the required attire, I would stand out too much, so I figured it was best to get to my friend before bing noticed by everyone else.

Eventually, I reached the old, dusty staircase that led to the ground floor and saw that its door was wide open upstairs. But it wasn't only the ground floor and the sunlight I was walking towards – the two voices were becoming clearer with each passing minute. Was there no way around the quarrelling couple? I still couldn't make out their words, but they were now close enough to tell that neither of them was Sherlock or the blond oddball who'd made him come to this place. After taking a deep breath and praying to whoever would listen not to be caught, I finally left the dark cellar.

It looked like a dressing room, and although the voices were very audible there, the two were nowhere to be seen. I recall being so tense that even the buzzing of a fly would have been enough to send me into panic. Still, despite my troubled state of mind, a specific something on my left couldn't escape my attention. On a hanger next to what looked like a makeup table, there was a long black robe paired with a white mask. And I couldn't help grinning from ear to ear at the sight.

I believed that day was my lucky day. Of course, while ignoring that this whole affair could have been avoided altogether, I welcomed this unexpected blessing in disguise. Or should I say my blessed new disguise?

I could tell them that I was a guest and had gotten lost in the mansion – there was a 50/50 chance they'd believe me, which was still 50% more than before. So after putting on the abandoned visitors' attire (I left the mask out for now, but still took it with me), I stepped out of the dressing room, finding myself in a strange corridor illuminated by very sparse and warm light.

As I paced, moving closer and closer to the voices of the two men, I couldn't help the growing uneasiness in my chest. Perhaps I wouldn't have found the floor cushions lying in every corner disturbing, had I not been reminded of the words of the gentleman I had met outside. I wouldn't have found his words disturbing either, had Sherlock not entered this place all alone and not left it for almost an hour. This new, nagging feeling lay low in the core of my stomach, making me sick and making it harder to focus on anything else. It almost made me too careless, but I managed to shift my attention back to my surroundings on time, before walking right into the two fighting men.

Just before reaching the adjoining room and entering what sounded like a battlefield, I stopped and peeked around the corner. And what an odd sight my eyes saw! The two I'd heard since I'd entered this bizarre mansion were a couple I'd not anticipated to see - an elderly man in a robe who was yelling and gesturing, and a man around my age or younger, who was as naked as the day he'd been born. The latter's appearance and the words exchanged between them didn't end my doubts – in fact, they made the blood in me run cold, for they painted a clear picture of the nature of this event and confirmed my worst fears.

And what was worse, the old creep seemed to harass the young man and impose his desires on him in a way that made my stomach turn. Although the two seemed too distracted by their heated dispute to notice me should I be careful enough not to make sounds, I missed my chance to sneak past them. Something about the increasingly aggressive nature of their conversation prevented me from moving - I was frozen in my spot.

A theatrical piece involving a sex scene before the gathered audience was one of the topics they fought about, but the discussion always seemed to return to what seemed to bother the elderly man more than anything else – the young man called Fabio did not want him nor love him. That seemed to aggravate him increasingly, and as a reaction to being harassed so shamelessly, Fabio's words grew progressively sharper as well. But before I could decide how to handle this unwelcome situation, given that their problems weren't my business and I was only here for Sherlock, the decision was made for me.

After a particularly hurtful remark by Fabio, followed by him turning his back on the old man to pick up what looked like a golden shawl, the latter grabbed a full wine bottle by its neck and raised it above the clueless young man's head, ready to strike.

And despite not wanting to be caught by either of them, I couldn't stand still and let fate decide. Without thinking twice about what I was getting into, I jumped from my hideout around the corner and yelled at Fabio to watch out!

The following events unfolded too quickly.

Fabio raised his head, eyes following the sound of my voice, but he didn't seem to have understood what I had just said.

The old creep, on the other hand, was caught red-handed trying to inflict severe damage to the back of Fabio's head. He stumbled back in shock, trying to hide his makeshift weapon behind his robe, and before he could gather himself again, he tripped and fell backwards against the wooden tea table. A thud followed, then silence.

The severity of the situation wasn't immediately apparent to me. I may or may not have made an amused remark at the time as I took a step towards the two, not thinking much about the old creep's well-being. Sure, he had just tried to possibly murder the other, but his overreaction and the dramatic fall that followed were indeed somewhat funny to me. It was the young man, Fabio, who seemed panicked all of a sudden as he rushed to kneel beside the old man.

"He is dead!" The words came out raspy and full of despair, making me freeze in my spot once again.

"You can't be serious."

"His neck is broken," Fabio hissed before jumping back to his feet. He was pulling his hair and shaking his head in disbelief. At the time, I didn't understand his reaction, given how much he seemed to detest the deceased.

There was that - I'd just startled an elderly man so much that he'd died. Too petrified by the sudden turn of events, I could just stare at the two of them. I should have felt guilty, perhaps, but all I could feel at that moment was confusion.

In the meantime, Fabio had started pacing around, his breathing - uneven and shallow, and he kept muttering things under his breath that I couldn't catch.

"They'll pin it on me," he said suddenly, voice scratchy and shaking. "I am just as dead as he is. May he be damned, I knew he would be the death of me!" The despair turned into anger, and he glared at the dead body as if his words could get the man to awaken again and fix his mistake.

"It was an accident, and for what it's worth, he was just about to smack you pretty hard," I said and then added, "You should sit down."

But he didn't respond.

"We need to go to the police," I continued. "I saw everything - I will be your witness, and my friend - he is the greatest detective on the island." Sherry... it was he who needed my attention the most, but how was I supposed to simply leave after this? I couldn't abandon a crime scene even if no crime had happened. Also, the young man seemed to be too shaken to be left alone, and I wasn't a monster who lacked compassion.

Fabio gave a hollow laugh, covering his face with both hands. "You think that matters? Do you not know who he is?"

Of course, I didn't know who the dead pervert was. I didn't associate with people like him who harassed boys who were young enough to be their grandsons. "Not really, no..."

He turned fast, his eyes catching the light and looking entirely wild all of a sudden. "Kurt Manchios - the owner of this place, and one of the wealthiest men on this island. And I'm a nobody. People like me don't get trials. We get hanged!"

I knew what he meant, even if I wished he didn't have a point. Cordona's injustice was great, and we had witnessed it over and over again. And the knowledge that this pervert was likely an acquaintance of Vogel's made me feel like throwing up right there and then. To know these people had invited Sherlock there – it was maddening!

Fabio's voice cracked again and tore me away from my thoughts. "You think this hasn't happened before? I've seen men like him get away with worse and laugh about it afterwards. The police work for people like him. He dies - I'm the one they will blame, if only because I was present."

"I'll testify. I'll tell them exactly what I saw and Sherlock, he-"

"This mask belongs to him, too." He pointed at he mask I was still holding in my hand, his hand shaking. "Not having a mask on your own means you were not invited at all. You broke in, didn't you? I know people like you…" I wanted to protest, but a silent, desperate laugh shook his entire body, rendering my arguments pointless. "They'll say we were in it together. That you were here to rob him. That I lured him. That it was all planned."

"But that's not true!"

"And they'll say you're lying," he spat. "That I paid you off or fucked you into lying for me."

The words hit hard. Of course, I knew that Sherlock could fix this, but I couldn't convince Fabio to listen. And I couldn't just leave. Oh, how much I wanted to go!

Fabio picked up his shawl and wrapped it around his waist, covering himself a little. Then, he started pacing again like an agitated lion in a cage that was too small. "I should've run. I should've run the second he fell. Why didn't I?"

"Because you would have seemed suspicious."

He stopped in front of me. "People like me are always suspicious. But if I run now, I'd have a head start."

I didn't know what to say to that. I understood him, but it was going to backfire fast. It wasn't the right approach of the situation! He was about to do irreversible damage to his own credibility.

"My friend is a detective, he will not let an innocent man go down for murder that never happened! Listen to me,-" I stepped closed to him, closer to the dead body which gave me chills, and then, I leaned in, trying to talk some sense into him, "-you have to do it the right way! Let's go to the police and tell them everything! It will be alright!"

But before he could consider the said, there was a noise.

Not from the room. From the large gate at the opposite end.

Footsteps. A metallic creak of a door hinge.

I turned toward the noise, holding my breath.

There was the unmistakable jingle of keys.

And out of nowhere, Fabio grabbed my arm. "You are coming with me."

I tried to shake him off, but before I realised what was happening, I was facing the sharp blade of a knife pointing in my direction.

"No." His voice was determined now – he had made up his mind. "I will not die for this! You are coming with me!"

"Please, don't- "

His hand didn't move toward me, but I could see the threat in his eyes. Not out of anger -it was fear that made him act this stupid. He'd do anything not to face the police.

I opened my mouth again, but he didn't flinch. And I didn't want to die there.

I nodded.

And without another word, I followed him back through the corridor.

Chapter Text

A cloud of warm air arose from my lips and disappeared into the grey of the cool September dawn. Cordona was sleeping soundly - only the echoing steps of the early dockworkers betrayed that we weren't all alone on its streets. Stretching my stiffened neck, I inhaled the cool air while wishing I'd had the chance to rest a little before having to welcome another day. My head was buzzing with sounds that hadn't been there a few hours ago; I couldn't chase them away. A pair of haggard cats fought over a stale piece of bread right in front of us. After a while, a man in a blue nightgown threw a glass bottle out of his window to shoo them, and it ended up shattering loudly only a few feet away from where we stood. Exaggerated by my exhaustion, the sound put a strain on my ears and mind, and I groaned in displeasure.

But my discomfort, albeit not small, wasn't a match for what the young man next to me seemed to be going through. The feeling of dread had distorted his features so much that he appeared to have aged by a decade overnight. I had no doubt in my heart that, after hours upon hours of talking sense into him, I had convinced him to do the only right thing. Still, he looked so defeated that I took no pleasure in feeling right at that moment. Every step he took, he took as if walking the path to the noose, and no words of consolation could take away his fear. I saved mine - I was feeling sore from all the talking either way – my vocabulary entirely spent.

Fabio...

Once we had left the manor through a back door I had missed on my way in, we'd rushed to the small room he owned near Harbour Ave. I didn't go there freely, but the knife in his hand motivated me greatly not to resist too much. After we sneaked into his home, he locked the door and buried the key in the pocket of the robe I'd stolen from Manchios' wardrobe and handed over to him to cover himself. Then, he took a seat on the floor, blocking the exit. The knife didn't leave his hand, so provoking him by screaming for help wasn't an option, even if I doubted he'd actually harm me.

And like this, I became his prisoner for the following hours. At first, he ignored my attempts to convince him to let me go. Still, it didn't take long for him to acknowledge that running away was not a sensible option. Over the course of the night, he opened up more and more, revealing his reasons for having second thoughts on abandoning everything despite his initial and very rushed reaction to flee the crime scene. He told me there was a young woman he couldn't leave behind, but he also didn't want her to live on the run, for they'd already done that. And that they had been through too much together to part ways like this over a crime that wasn't one. After the shock of what had happened progressively faded away, Fabio recognised how guilty running would make him look and how he'd never be able to return to this place he'd learned to see as a home in one way or another.

I, for my part, told him about Sherry - about all the cases we'd solved together and the justice we'd brought to Cordona on so many occasions. I told him that neither of us would let anything happen to an innocent person. I swore on my life that I'd take his case to the government (and with that, I meant Mycroft) if that's what it took to make sure that he never saw the inside of a prison cell.

Hour after hour, his resolve to do something foolish and rushed crumbled. Oddly enough, my words became more and more confident through the course of that night and by the time he finally let go of the knife, I had almost forgotten that I wasn't a real person but an anomaly acting like one. I suppose being thrown into the cold water like this helps us all, real or not, adapt faster.

By the time we finally left his place to tell the police what had happened, a new day had begun. But if seeing the blue police barriers placed around the entrance of Kurt Manchios' debauchery manor didn't surprise me a lot, considering the corpse we'd left behind, the news that all guests had been arrested made the blood in me run cold.

The image of Sherry in a cell, treated like a vile criminal - it was unbearable.

Eventually, we ended up on the street facing Cordona's police station and watching the two cats enter round two of their fight for The Bread. I knew that Fabio had come to believe in my words by then, at least when it came to his case, but the sight of the white door made him falter nevertheless. The fear that he was making a mistake weighed heavily on him, so I gave him a moment to gather his courage, while I was left to deal with my thoughts all alone.

I thought about how Sherlock had spent the night surrounded by twisted people like Manchios - how the likes of them preyed on attractive young men once they got their hands on them. He'd spent so long at the accursed party that I'd felt the need to crash it (and how badly that backfired!)

On the other hand, I knew him - and trusted him enough to know he'd know how to deal with the puny old perverts. And if I looked into myself, I also reckoned that Verner Vogel wasn't driven by feelings of lust when it came to my friend. I disliked him, and had no doubt he was playing a false game with us, but it wasn't like that - I was certain of that.

Still, the tension in me grew - the longer we waited and listened to the commotion inside, the bigger my aversion to entering the station became. By the time I took a step forward, it had reached a level only second to Fabio's, but I couldn't tell why.

On a logical level, it made little sense. When I lay out all my reasons to dread this confrontation, I couldn't pinpoint what bothered me most, but there was a lump in my throat as I grabbed the doorknob and pressed it down to open the door. My heart sank for no apparent reason.

"It will be alright," I muttered, both to myself and my new companion.

"I hope you are right." Fabio's voice had grown thin and weak, but even though he was scared to death, he followed me in.

It took me only a step inside to confirm my hypothesis that I didn't want to be there at all. Despite the early hour, the station was swarming with foozlers in police uniforms with dark shadows under their eyes, and masked kooks who didn't seem to care enough about their own dire circumstances to keep quiet. Laughter and inappropriately jolly chatter assaulted my senses from all directions; the place reeked too much of alcohol, the lights - too bright for my tired eyes, the sounds - too messy and loud. If I'd followed my instincts, I'd have covered my ears and eyes and curled up in the first dark corner I'd have found, but I hadn't gone there to rest.

"You look as if it's not I who will hang for murder but your windy self. Get it together," I heard Fabio hiss from behind, but even if I'd wanted to say something witty in return to ease the tension, we were interrupted by a nearby officer who'd seen us standing by the door and taking too long to decide how to tackle the situation.

"Good evening, I mean... good morning, gentlemen. Have you been interrogated yet?"

If there were a contest for the most tired-looking person present, then the twenty-something young officer would have won by a mile. By the look of his gaunt face and the stains on his uniform, he'd not been at home for a while. He also smelled funny. I might have felt sorry for him and the way he was being exploited - probably for a pitiful salary on top of it all - but I still couldn't stop myself from answering the question clearly aimed at Fabio.

"If we say yes, would you let us go home? -'s not a very efficient way to catch a murderer, if you ask me." The remark made him stare at me with confusion and a dash of humiliation, and I wondered if I had been briefly possessed by Sherlock's cynicism as I cleared my throat.

"Of-of course not," he stuttered, pretended to straighten his jacket, and gestured for us to move along past a small group of cloaked degenerates. "You have been at the gathering at Manchios' manor, I suppose," he tried again, while scribbling something into his notebook.

"Not at all. My friend here,-" I allowed myself another jest, pointing my thumb at the frightened Fabio behind me, "-simply likes dressing like a creepy cult member and roaming the streets all night for fun."

My remark was not well-received; it got me a glare and a muffled "Stop this!" from Fabio. I knew a person who'd have appreciated my sense of humour, but that person was nowhere to be found, and I had scanned the foyer half a dozen times already. Not finding him there made the lump in my throat grow bigger and bigger, and I found myself not paying attention to whatever the officer was instructing us to do next.

I needed to see him - needed to confirm that he was alright above all. But a small part of me also needed to confirm that he hadn't...

No, these thoughts were absurd. Breathing in sharply one more time and closing my eyes to blend out the station for a brief moment of much-needed privacy, I fought with myself, trying to shake them away. They were driving me mad.

"Is there a man called Sherlock Holmes among the arrested?" I finally blurted out a tad louder than before. The past ten hours and all the ordeals I had been put through were slowly catching up to me and making me bristly and progressively more impatient than usual. Besides, none of these peelers could be trusted to take our statements without finding a way to turn them against Fabio. Or myself, for the matter. Especially not when tiredness had worn down their already slow minds.

And I wanted to see Sherlock so badly... to give up the reins I'd never been meant to take for so long... to feel him close to me again. I felt like I'd been lost in the woods for countless weeks and was yearning to return home.

"I knew your face was familiar," the officer exclaimed after looking at me thoroughly, pulling me away from my thoughts. "You are Jon - Mr Holmes' assistant!"

"I prefer the term partner, but that would be me, yes."

"Well, he is in the back, interrogating the arrested. Is this man-"

"We would like to talk to Sherlock and nobody else. Good day." I shot a glance at Fabio to make sure he'd follow, then rushed to make my way through the crowd to where I believed Sherlock would be. I had been rude not to let the officer finish, but I could lament my bad manners later.

Only a little more - he was not in the head office, not with the rest of the officers. I'd never spend so long without him, never had to make so many crucial decisions without his guiding hand. It had been less than a day, but I missed his face, his beautiful voice, his piercing grey eyes that softened whenever their gaze fell upon me. From the perspective of anyone ordinary, I likely seemed too dependent on him, but as I walked the corridors and looked for my Sherry, I couldn't think of anything other than how badly I wanted him back at my side.

The archives.

I finally heard a familiar voice coming from there, and it made my heart jump. The voice seemed angry, but this was another thing I could question and deal with later, once I'd finally found him. My Sherry. I shot a quick glance behind to make sure that Fabio was still following me, then I sped up to open the door.

My eyes fell on his frame almost immediately upon entering, noting that he was still wearing the black attire Vogel had sent him. My entrance seemed to have interrupted him mid-sentence, and it took him a short moment to process that it was I who had walked in. Our eyes lingered on each other, making my breath catch. Because upon seeing him stand there, utterly exhausted and pale in the light of the lamp, I could only think how I'd never seen anyone so devastatingly beautiful in my life. Just looking at him made my pulse quicken. My remarkable, radiant Sherlock!

Without regard to the elderly man he'd been talking to so angrily right until then, he dropped all he was doing, rushing to me and pulling me close into his arms. This is when I knew that I had arrived at my destination - that I'd found my way back home. In the meantime, the man cleared his throat, muttered something along the lines of "I assume that's him" and about giving us a minute, then walked past us, leaving the room.

"Jon...," Sherlock called my name like a prayer. I sensed that a great weight had fallen off his shoulders the moment he'd seen me. I hated knowing that I'd troubled him again, but in that moment, all that mattered was that I'd finally gotten to him. He buried his face in my neck, which gave me goosebumps and made my heart ache with love that was too great to contain. I could have stayed like this for hours, all the tension suddenly gone from my body and replaced by warm feelings of happiness and infatuation. It was funny how only a few hours away from him had this effect on me, but I didn't mind it at all.

But the sweet reunion didn't last long, and I'd barely gotten to enjoy it properly. Because only after a second, he let go of me, his whole body stiffened all of a sudden and a mask of hostility falling over his face. This sudden change baffled me, thinking it had been I who'd provoked it.

"You... How dare you?" he snarled.

Instinctively, I followed his gaze - it was now piercing a hole through Fabio, who was still standing behind me. In the next moment, before I'd had the chance to understand the situation or react, Sherlock took a step towards the young man, planting himself in front of him and barely leaving any room for him to escape confrontation.

"Whoa! Calm down!" Astounded by the unexpected and uncharacteristically aggressive approach, I stepped to the side, placing myself in front of Sherry to form a barrier between the two. "He isn't an enemy! What's gotten into you?" I exclaimed, putting a hand on his shoulder and making him face me again, but he would barely budge.

"Not an enemy? Then, pray tell, what was the order of tonight's events?"

Pause. I was too stunned to know how to respond.

"I know you broke in and watched Kurt Manchios fall, and then… What then?" He raised an eyebrow, gave me a moment to answer, but only a huff left my mouth.

"Did you flee the manor at his side, because you value his company so greatly?" he sneered, making it crystal clear how much he doubted that possibility. "Verner told me of his appeal to others, but I find it hard to imagine that he would possess such extensive powers over you, Jon."

The implication, albeit soaked in sarcasm, embarrassed me. In the meantime, Sherry had taken a step back and stared me down like a hawk watching its prey. It was I who was being interrogated, and if I were a stranger to him, I would have broken into a sweat. Seeing me defend Fabio had only added fuel to a fire that had been burning for some time in his chest. He knew how it had played out - he'd likely known for hours.

What he hadn't known all this time was where Fabio had taken me and what he'd done to me once we'd left.

"How do you even know..."

"Your footsteps. You have not merely disturbed the dust on the cellar floor, but also stepped into red wine, leaving a perfect imprint of your boot soles on the carpet. Do you believe I would fail to recognise the traces you have left behind, or that I would mistake you for somebody else?"

His words were a slap in my face, and my mouth fell open in disbelief. But I couldn't deny that his unparalleled display of deductive skill stirred something in me, thrilled me, even if it was I who was at the receiving end that day. I'd not even noticed the spilt wine next to the dead Manchios. Had the bottle broken during his fall? I couldn't tell.

"Brilliant..." I muttered in awe. Even in intense situations like this, I couldn't help feeling inspired by him. There was truly nobody like him.

My compliment seemed to come unexpectedly, but he recovered so fast from its effects that I didn't get to enjoy his bashful face for longer than the fragment of a second. With eyes fixed on Fabio again, he continued talking to me. "How did he get you to follow him? Was it a gun? Or a knife?"

"I would never have hurt him. I'm not a murderer!" Fabio's voice cracked so severely that it made me feel helpless. I hated being the reason for his distress. I didn't need to turn around and see him to know he was on the verge of breaking down - that he'd already concluded he'd hang for his wrongdoings. He'd not acted smartly, but he'd been beyond scared for his life - still was. It had been my persuasiveness that had made him come to the station and face the police, and I hated that he was coming to regret it.

"Sherry-"

"But you are a murderer, are you not, Fabio? I questioned Matista - I know that the two of you disposed of-"

"No!" I cried, loud enough to stop Sherlock from finishing his sentence. I knew enough of Fabio's past to understand how far he'd been pushed - far enough to take a life to regain his freedom - and I couldn't let Sherlock use something so dreadful to inflict pain. "Please. Don't go there. Not for me or anyone else." Cupping his face and meeting his gaze, I spoke so softly that only he could hear my words. "He did nothing to harm me. He is simply a young man who's terrified out of his mind. He has done nothing wrong, and you know them. You're aware of the sloppy work they do and the number of innocent men they've wrongly accused. He has every right to mistrust them. He is also a victim here, Sherry; he is at the bottom of the chain, unlike you. Please, don't be vindictive. I'm alright, I swear."

Sadness and vulnerability replaced the anger in Sherlock's eyes, and suddenly, I could see everything reflected in them. My transformation. My first cold, my fears, my attempts to fit in. The night of the storm. The gunshot. The man he'd killed for my sake. Co-existing with me had been a constant battle for him. It still was. It was taking its toll every day. Asking for leniency for Fabio was a lot, and I knew he never intended to go further than lashing out at the man for what he had done to me. I knew he'd never have Fabio arrested. He'd simply been too scared for the life of a person he loved to handle this better.

"I'm so sorry," I said again - for the hundredth time. It gained me a tired nod and an exasperated sigh that came from the depths of his heart.

"You are a free man, Fabio," Sherry spoke again after a moment he'd needed to gather himself. His tone was more composed now, but his eyes never left mine. He was a fair and compassionate person - a lover of truth. But that night, he hadn't wanted to be compassionate. He was doing it only for me. "I had solved the case long before you appeared - every clue implied an unfortunate accident and a paranoid witness fleeing the scene with a hostage. Admittedly, I was merely waiting to ensure that Jon is safe before having my final word with the chief inspector. You were quite clever to not harm him."

Or I would have made you regret it - he didn't need to say this part out loud. In moments like this, he was Mycroft's brother, and he'd already shown how far he'd go for me. And to say that didn't flatter the selfish part of my being - it would be a lie.

I turned to Fabio, offering a comforting smile - I didn't have it in me to look for the proper words to bid him farewell after everything we'd been through. He looked entirely drained, but there was a hint of relief on his face as he murmured a "Thank you, Jon," and gave Sherlock a silent nod.

Then, he turned and left the archives and the two of us alone. Despite having become his prisoner for the night, I had no negative feelings towards the young man. I believed he deserved happiness more than most people I'd met. It was unfortunate that we hadn't met under different circumstances, for I could see myself becoming his friend.

Sherlock's eyes, too, followed Fabio as he walked out, his expression - unreadable. When the door closed, and he'd made sure we were truly alone, he turned back to me, sighing and shaking his head; it was his way to finally release all the bottled-up tension.

However, before I'd gotten the chance to say or do something, his hand pressed against my chest, right above where my heart was, demanding my immediate full attention. A second later, that hand was pushing me backwards towards the door until I felt its flat surface press against my body. Wordlessly, he caught my face between his palms and pressed his lips against mine with a force and a need I'd not known he possessed. Not wasting time, his hands began trailing my shoulders, arms, and chest, and before long, my head started spinning.

It wasn't the time, nor the place, but knowledge and logic did not work well against my desire to be with him. Instead of setting him straight, I pulled him flush against me, caging him in my arms - and took my turn to press him against the hard wooden door with the entirety of my body. Delightfully high on my feelings, I revelled in the taste of his plump and soft lips and the quiet gasps against my mouth as his fingers ran through my hair.

Then, he pushed me a step back. Flushed and fighting for breath, with lids half shut and a hint of a smile, he studied me wordlessly until he'd collected himself.

"Doing this here was new, but much needed," he stated.

I could only chuckle - the sight of him like this awakened feelings in me that left no room for a verbal response. I'd been confronted with human desires too much in the past hours to not have my mind wander in that direction and pose questions I had no mental capacity to tackle yet. A tinge of guilt remained, though - the context of my thoughts, no matter how indulgent they were, was everything but pleasant. I hated feeling so dirty for wanting him - I loved him more than life, and my feelings were worlds away from whatever the deceased Manchios had felt for Fabio. I only hoped he saw it this way, too.

I suppose my discomfort at the unintentional parallels my mind had drawn was visible to him. As the lump in my throat grew again, his expression changed.

"Why did you stay in there for that long?" In the end, I couldn't leave the topic untackled, even if it threatened to ruin the mood. It was eating at me.

His eyes widened upon hearing my question - in surprise, amusement, and disbelief. "You cannot think that I would ever join this degeneracy."

"No," I sighed. In the end, and despite my irrational feelings of jealousy, I knew that. However, something else haunted the back of my mind. "But I think he has a hold over you. It scares me. Why would he invite you to that place? And why would you stay?" I watched his reaction - saw him speechless, then struggling to find an excuse that might absolve Vogel, but he found none. In the end, he knew as well as I did that Vogel was playing a game. He'd always known. The truth was simply that Sherlock wanted to play along. The issue - that he became reckless when a game was too good.

"We spoke," he said after a moment of silence, "of my mother, of how I see life… and somewhere along the way, I lost all sense of time. In retrospect, it was a mistake, but I could never have imagined it would lead to this."

Confiding in the devil, making himself vulnerable to a vulture that'd taken him to its nest. I wanted to say something, but a voice inside told me he'd not listen to reason when it came to Verner Vogel. It would be like admitting he was out of his depth - like admitting defeat. And at the end of the day, he enjoyed the older man's company, too. He challenged him in ways that I couldn't. Whatever they had going - it was undeniable. The only thing I could do was to offer a comforting hand, even if everything in me recoiled as I struggled to simply accept that Vogel had irreversibly gotten under his skin.

"Well..." I walked over to him and placed my palm on his shoulder. "It turned out well in the end. For now. Except for Kurt Manchios. Just don't let your guard down too much, Sherry. I fear he might hurt you."

"I will not."

We stayed like this, with our backs against the door, too many things going through our heads to allow us to move yet. The sounds outside quieted too, Manchios' guests - likely having already left. A new day meant a new beginning - something I desperately needed.

"And, Jon, the things that happen in that place, what they do there..." Sherry spoke again, turning to face me. He tried to hold my gaze for the time being, but his sensibilities wouldn't allow it. He went back to staring at the ground instead.

"We don't have to..." I whispered as I watched him struggle to find the right words he wanted to say. No matter how much I wanted him, his needs always came first to me, and I wanted him to know that. Reaching out, I ran a thumb along his jaw, making him look at me again.

"I know," he smiled. "But I came to the conclusion that I would like to. Someday. With you."

My heart fluttered, and thousands of butterflies took off in my stomach, making me lightheaded. The urge to kiss him again was impossible to resist. This time, there was no urgency when my lips brushed over his. Tired and raw, I simply enjoyed the soft, sloppy kiss for what it was.

A thud at the door put an end to our intimate moment. It was about time for us to stop blocking it either way. Taking a step back, Sherry let the elderly gentleman, who was presumably the chief inspector, enter the archives again. The man looked like all of us - exhausted beyond the healthy point and eager to put an end to this case and go home. There was a brown folder in his hand that he held up for us to see.

"Mister Holmes. I take your suspicions were finally confirmed, and we can classify Kurt Manchios' unfortunate death as an accident," the man stated. Once he'd received a brief confirmation from Sherry, his attention turned to me. "What about you? To my knowledge, you are a witness, but didn't flee the scene on your own terms. Would you like to press charges against the man named Fabio?"

Not even in a dream, I thought to myself, but instead, I simply said "No."

Nodding, the man handed over the folder to Sherlock, said a few words about how pleased he'd been to join forces with my brilliant friend to solve the case and how he should try to stay out of trouble from now on. Then, he excused himself and left once again.

Sighing in relief, I believed it was over once and for all. I believed we'd now head home and finally get the rest we both needed.

But a glance at my friend and the sight of his shaky hands as he stared at the brown folder raised a few questions. I'd not paid much attention to the object until then, dismissing it as a protocol of the case or something equally uninteresting, but the emotional response baffled me.

"What is that?" I posed the question, not yet grasping the severity of the matter. I still needed time to process the past twelve hours and how they had ultimately helped us become closer.

I did not expect the reply. In retrospect, I should have.

"It's my mother's police file," Sherlock replied in a trembling voice. "Everything regarding her death is in here. This is what I have been looking for, Jon."

The noise of the station slowly faded away, and I didn't know how to respond. The long night was over. The worst - yet to come.

Chapter Text

The human condition often demands that we choose the lesser of two evils. Sooner or later, every one of us faces such a choice. And once made, those choices return to us in the dead of night - haunting us and making us grieve for what can't be undone. They make us wish to turn back time and rewrite the path that led us there.

But deep down, we always know the truth - the alternative was never truly an option. To live with the knowledge that your suffering is the desired outcome - that's cruel. But it is life.

In the end, we can only play the hand we're dealt. And mine was the sort that makes seasoned players cut their losses and walk away.

But I had to keep playing.

My judgment was too clouded to come up with a sensible answer once I heard Sherlock's words. Feeling the sudden urge to intervene, I took his free hand in mine, searching for his eyes.

"Let's do this later," my voice cracked. I knew postponing the inevitable was futile and would only buy me a few hours, but it was still a few hours more I would have. I was a drowning man so desperate that I believed a straw could save me. Yet my demand seemed to confuse and irritate him.

"I cannot make sense of it - why would we wait? It is the truth - and the very reason we came to Cordona," he protested, waving the brown folder before my eyes, but even if I hated being so intrusive with him, I did not let go of his hand.

"Because I can't do this now." The trembling in my voice had spread to my entire body, and my grip tightened. "I can't. Please. Let's go home and handle this matter when we've rested."

It was coming - I felt it. And he wasn't ready. I'd been a part of his soul for too long not to know he would handle it badly. There was a hollowness in him that was starving for an extreme. A tragedy was about to unfold and I was feeling helpless. He'd been too devastated by her death and too heartbroken by the last year of her life. He'd been shattered into pieces by the torment she'd had him undergo and by the great love he had for her still.

His irritation did not seem to ease, but after a moment of silence, he nodded. "Very well. Perhaps it's unwise to confront whatever lies ahead without resting first. Our night was too long already."

Only then did I let go of his hand, empty smile on my lips, but the desired relief didn't come. He didn't comment on my visible distress, likely too afraid to ask a question whose answer he didn't want to hear. In retrospect, I think he must have been aware - or at least suspected - that I knew. It was likely his love for me that made his suspicion too bitter to face. Yet.

Without another word, we left the archives; he led the way, and I followed. The police station had indeed become more peaceful after Manchios' guests had gone home, and the rays of a new dawn painted its rooms in a warm orange colour. It was as tranquil as the calm before the storm.

Still, I was grateful for every moment of calm I got, for it was not meant to last. In fact, it was cut short by a much-hated sound.

"Mr Holmes! Still working at this hour?" The unpleasantly silky voice was again loaded with disproportionate amusement - it made my skin crawl and my stomach drop. Out of all the people in our vast world, Verner Vogel was the last one I wanted to see in a moment like this. But as luck would have it, my day was meant to keep getting worse, and I couldn't suppress the irritated groan. "And Mr Jonson is right behind you, although he doesn't seem all that happy to see me."

"Don't mind him, it's been a long night, and our spirits are low," Sherlock replied, eager to change the topic before the conversation derailed and became too unpleasant. Much to my regret, he seemed interested in conversing with Vogel - he walked up to the man and asked how he felt after spending the night in the station.

I, for my part, did not deign to reply to Vogel, nor was I interested in what they had to discuss. Instead of forcing myself through that charade again and having to pretend I didn't want him gone from Sherlock's life, I walked past them, glancing at my friend. "I will be waiting outside in the fresh air. It reeks here."

I hated it there. This treacherous man bought me more time - something that I knew I should be grateful for, even if he hadn't done it intentionally. But it stung nevertheless - to know he'd invited Sherlock to that appalling gathering only to mess with us both. And that, despite all, Sherlock still enjoyed having him around.

The square by the police station had filled up with people and chatter. On any other day, I would have enjoyed the commotion, which made the small island feel alive and busy. Young couples strolled past me hand in hand, while newspaper boys shouted sensational headlines, hoping to sell a paper or two. Even a street promoter was there, calling out for participants to join a scavenger hunt. Yet, I could only head to the next bench and once there, rest my face in my palms to blend it all out.

The past sleepless night caught up to me again, this time hitting me tenfold and drowning my senses in the muddy waters of exhaustion. Yet, my mind still raced like a horse with unsteady legs. Even more than the night before, I heard the clock ticking.

He wasn't ready.

If he'd been... I'd likely not lived long enough to be there still. Both the cause and the circumstances surrounding her death - they were too much for him to bear. I knew it, knew it, knew it without a doubt! Panic was overtaking me - I raised my head in a single abrupt motion, eyes scanning the area before me, seeing he'd not come out yet, and cursing Vogel once again. I knew his world would crumble - and I might not be able to pick up the pieces anymore. But my desperation and my prayers didn't seem of matter - Cordona kept on moving through its day.There was no help coming, no advice from a wise mind, no shoulder to cry on. Yet, then, in my darkest hours - a sparkle of hope...

There was a well-clad man standing a few feet away from me. Young, with a scar on the neck, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, body angled perfectly toward the police station's entrance. All benches were free, but he'd rather stand by the street lamp.

And I knew what this meant - I'd seen them around every corner, wordlessly following each of our steps and disappearing once we'd approach them.

This man was not interested in me. Or rather, he was much more interested in somebody else - in Sherry, who was still wasting time with his favourite degenerate. But that didn't stop me. Shooting up from the bench, I crossed the distance between us without wasting time.

"Tell Mycroft that Sherlock has Violet's file. He needs to know. Please, go to him immediately," I urged, my heart racing like mad in my chest. I glanced at the door again, knowing Sherlock ought never to see me talk to an agent, knowing that what I was doing would be seen as betrayal of the worst kind.

"I beg your pardon, but do I know you?" The man asked, drawing my attention back to himself. My brows furrowed, and the pit in my stomach threatened to make me throw up at any moment - preferably on his polished shoes. I couldn't believe I had to deal with these games of pretend on top of everything that was happening!

"Name's Jon, glad to meet you. Your boss won't be happy if you fail to warn him on time that his brother is about to make the greatest mistake of his life. But if you'd rather pretend not to be a spy for the British government, I'm willing to turn around and pretend this conversation never happened."

And with this, I turned my back on him and walked back to my bench, all while taking deep breaths and holding them in to soothe the harrowing fear that had taken me into its grip. I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to ten, let the air leave my mouth slowly on the exhale, but all these methods did nothing to make me feel better.

Once I opened my eyes again, the man was gone, and I hoped and prayed to God I'd been right about him. But before I could consider my remaining options, I saw Sherlock heading in my direction from across the plaza. The sight of his quickened pace made me feel dizzy.

"Shall we?" His eyes studied me briefly once he'd reached me. To my relief, he'd not seen me with the agent. "You look awful. I merely let Vogel know of the case's outcome. In return, I was forced to endure a lecture I'd not requested about my own stubbornness in pursuing the truth." He frowned - Vogel had managed to sour his mood. Under other circumstances, I'd have leapt with joy and prayed his mood towards the man stayed sour for eternity. But Vogel had a point this time.

"I told you he was an irritating fellow," I forced a smile and got up on my tired feet again.

"Perhaps I shall listen to you more often."

"Perhaps."

But those were empty words - they rubbed salt into the gaping wound. When it came to what mattered most, he'd never listen. Yet saying this out loud was pointless, for we both knew it already.

And so I followed him in silence, watched him pace through Cordona's streets and occasionally turn to check on me. After the first time, he stopped asking why I didn't walk beside him but slacked behind. I suppose he must have known that it wasn't mere exhaustion that tormented me, but once again, he chose not to question my dishonesty openly. He simply nodded and walked on.

Dread, anticipation, curiosity, hope, relief - these things blended in together into an expression that made him look almost frantic, like a madman. But whenever his eyes fell on me, whenever he looked back at me, I liked to tell myself that there was also love I saw, buried underneath the disappointment that kept growing. And even though my heart broke each time, I smiled - couldn't help but smile when I saw his lovely face illuminated by the autumn sun.

"Can we walk through Miner's End?" I asked after some time. A sinister idea had been born from my weary mind the moment we'd set into motion. The lesser of two evils - a sacrifice of all I loved so he wouldn't have to suffer more than needed. Wordlessly, he obliged - kept following the street instead of turning left. The silence weighed heavily, threatening to crush me, but it wasn't until we reached Caesar's Bridge that I allowed myself to cave under its burden. At its highest point, I stopped.

It didn't take him long to notice and turn to look at me - it was likely my shadow that revealed I'd ceased walking.

"Have you at last decided to be truthful?" He sounded hurt - he wasn't a man who was easily deceived, and I was a terrible actor who'd put no effort into his deception.

I shook my head - it was my last attempt, but even if I knew the outcome already, I had to try to change it. A drowning man, indeed.

"Please, don't look into her file." My voice cracked terribly - I put everything into these simple words, all while knowing they would fall on deaf ears.

He sighed, eyes downcast - I supposed he couldn't look at me any longer. "You are asking the impossible. Worse still, you would never have requested this, had you not been aware of the contents of that file." He looked at the brown folder, which was still resting in his hand, and my heart prepared for the worst.

But instead of opening it, he continued. "I forgot everything. You never did. But I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you've been deceiving me all these years because you were trying to protect me."

"Of course!" I exclaimed, walking up to him, opening my mouth to speak again, to explain myself, but not getting the chance to.

"Whatever is inside must be truly devastating."

My heart ceased beating - the entire world ceased moving for a second, because I could no longer imagine coming back from this. "Yes..." My eyes burned with tears that ran down my face a moment later. "I'm the living proof, Sherry. This truth will break you into pieces." An involuntary sob shook my chest, and I wiped away the tears. The gesture was in vain - more followed. Desperate to feel him close, knowing he was the only one who could make the pain in my soul go away, I pulled him into my arms. If only I could hold him forever, but I could feel him slipping even as my grip around him tightened.

A hand touched my upper arm, making me lean back and look into his eyes. They were full of sorrow, but a comforting smile adorned his lips, and he cupped my face. Despite everything, he loved me. Despite the lies, he was willing to forgive me.

But it was not enough.

"I have to know regardless," he whispered. Five fateful words sealed the bitter deal. I knew he'd never back away - that his heart would always choose the truth. Mycroft wasn't coming - he was too late. And I knew what had to be done.

Taking a step back and letting go off him, I recalled our last kiss at the station - how sweet and gentle it had been. With the back of my hand, I wiped away the tears one last time and let my lids fall shut. There, in my mind's eye, I saw our memories play like a theatre piece - a childhood filled with games and an adolescence filled with mystery and the attempts to rebel against Mycroft's rule. I saw all the nights we'd fallen asleep in each other's arms and the future we'd never get to have, filled with passion, love, and adventure.

"I love you. Never forget that," I whispered at last.

I loved him way too much to let it happen - too much to choose his love over his well-being. I'd rather be his villain.

"I hope you forgive me one day". Before he could react, I tore the folder out of his hand. He always let his guard down around me - mine was a betrayal of the cruellest kind. With one swift move, I sent it flying down into the water, never to be seen again.

And for the first time, I truly understood what it meant to lose him.

Chapter Text

A thud woke me up early.

That isn't to say that I'd been able to sleep well and long in Mycroft's room - the old children's bed was hard and uncomfortable, and my thoughts always began racing the moment my head hit the pillow. But after dealing with severe exhaustion and insomnia for so many nights in a row, I'd been tired enough to fall asleep. Unfortunately, I'd done so without getting the chance to change my clothes for the night or to slip under the blanket to warm myself up.

Until the thud and the movement in the hall startled me from my nightmarish slumber. They put an end to my restless dreams, bringing me back to a reality just as awful. And to make matters worse, I was freezing.

Sherlock had gotten up already.

With a heavy heart, I forced myself up as well. Step by step, I approached the door and opened it quietly - stared at him across the hall. He was putting on a jacket and checking his appearance in the mirror, but the creaking of the door and the sound of my footsteps made him halt.

He knew I was standing there.

Still, he said no word to me.

"Hey..." I mumbled.

My greeting didn't inspire him to reply, but he ran fingers through his hair again. There used to be mornings when that gesture meant he was preparing himself for an adventure and wanted to look proper. Now it only meant he was trying not to look at me.

To say my heart was broken would be an understatement. The days after I'd destroyed the file had been miserable. I wished he had yelled at me, cursed me - even a punch in the face would have been a punishment I'd been willing to accept.

Instead, he'd withdrawn. I'd watched something break in him - something that I couldn't fix. After the initial outburst he had after seeing the file go down, he simply resigned. Aware of my precarious position, he would never have thrown me out on the street, but my company became unbearable to him. Not merely bothersome or irritating - hurtful. He'd not look at me at all when he didn't have to. He'd force himself to accept my presence only because I had nowhere else to go. He hadn't even asked me to move out of our room - he'd simply not entered it anymore when I was there, which I couldn't take in the end.

But did I deserve his leniency? Despite having acted in his favour, I believed I didn't. Hurting him so much had been something I'd consciously decided to do, and the guilt had hollowed me out in return. I didn't know how to live with myself after causing so much pain to the person I loved more than anything.

But telling the truth - it was not an option. I would never.

"Do you have a case? You are up so early." I asked quietly once I saw him head towards the door. He'd barely spent a moment in the manor since the bridge. Unlike me, who'd not left it for more than a week and dwelt within its walls like a phantom.

My words made him stop, but he didn't turn around to look at me. It took him a moment to reply, obviously battling with himself on whether or not to do so at all, and when he did, it was in a flat, frigid voice.

"That's none of your concern."

Then, he was gone - the front door closing loudly after him.

I knew I'd see nothing of him until I caught a glimpse of him going up the grand staircase long past midnight. He'd look tired like he hadn't slept for days, and no matter what I said or did, he'd not engage. Not quite ignoring me - just reminding me with a few carefully picked words that he wasn't willing to forgive me. That I could never fix this unless I told him everything I knew about Violet's death, because I had destroyed all means for him to figure it out otherwise.

And I knew that nothing would change, no matter how much time or space I gave him. He wouldn't heal, nor would he move on. Whatever we'd once had - it had been destroyed in the same dark waters that had swallowed her file.

"Is this how you've felt all these years?" It was a strange thing to try to bond over, but if anyone was experienced in navigating a strained relationship with Sherlock, then it was him - Mycroft Holmes. It was pretty much for the same reason, too. I suppose I'd been a hypocrite all along - watching them clash over secrets I'd kept myself, but still getting to enjoy Sherlock's affection to my heart's content.

But it had caught up to me in the end. One could say that justice had finally been served.

"There is no need for sentimentality. It accomplishes nothing and only clouds one's judgement." He stood tall in the front yard, seemingly unmoved by everything that had occurred - the very opposite of me, whose world was crumbling and who'd spent the last hour alone in the gazebo despite the cold wind.

I snorted at the remark - he truly never changed. But there was an odd sense of comfort to his unalterable nature. "Why did you come? I'm not in the mood for a lecture."

"It is my house. I would also like to make sure that you won't cave under pressure. Destroying the file was the right decision, but he won't stop trying to sway you. Why do you think he has cast you off?"

"Because I betrayed his trust."

"Because he knows you won't be able to take his resentment forever." That was spot on - I wouldn't be able to take it forever. But it didn't mean I would be swayed. Yet he continued, "Because he hopes you will fold. This cannot happen."

I rubbed my forehead and sighed. Despite having slept a little, I couldn't shake off the weakness and weariness from my body, and I didn't feel like listening to his motivational speech. Or like having any conversation for that matter - not if it was going to make me feel more isolated than I already felt.

And Mycroft was a master at being physically present while eliciting a feeling of complete abandonment in those around him. In a way, he'd always been the opposite of Jon - the bodiless being I'd once been.

"I will not fold. Is that all?"

It took him a sweet second, which he spent examining me, but he eventually replied, "Yes, for now. Goodbye."

It was meant to be the end of it, and a part of me welcomed the dying sound of his footsteps on the grass. But there was another part of me, whose heart sank at the realisation that these few lines were the most human interaction I'd gotten in a week.

And how much it terrified me to be left all alone again - how much I feared I'd vanish any second if I found nothing else to cling to.

Even Mycroft's company, as discomfiting as it was, was better than the stillness. It was infinitely better than Sherlock's absence, which had filled the entire manor and turned the air in its rooms into poison. I couldn't bring myself to enter this haunted place again unless he welcomed me there.

Instead of bidding Mycroft farewell, I got back on my feet.

"Wait…" I said aloud. It made him halt, then turn toward me again.

"Anything else?"

"Are you the one providing him with cases? He spends his days wandering the island. I figure it's not because he enjoys nature that much."

"Sherlock needs a distraction. It's best if he has something else to occupy his mind, and our nation profits from his skill."

So it was a yes. I nodded. There was a sense of relief to know what he was up to - it soothed my racing thoughts a little. But my heart still ached.

An attempt to read Mycroft's expression proved to be pointless - if he'd been a book, then he'd be one with seven seals. The control he had over himself, from the grounded, almost apathetic sound of his voice to the facial expressions which never changed without his permission, was remarkable and menacing at the same time. I knew I would never find comfort in this man, so confiding in him was silly, but none was to be found elsewhere either. All I needed was an ear.

"I..." I felt myself fidget, fearing the words I was about to utter. They got stuck in my throat, and it cost me a great deal to force them out. "I need money."

I saw him raise an eyebrow. "And what for? Has he also started denying you food? I hadn't thought him capable of such cruelty towards you." The idea seemed to amuse him a little. Under other circumstances, I would have been offended, but not having my struggles taken seriously by Mycroft was the least of my concerns.

"Because I have none to my name... or a proper name to begin with. And I think I have to leave," I mumbled. My vision started clouding. "I have to leave the manor."

"And why would you want that?"

I shook my head and stared at the patch of grass before his feet, trying to blink the tears away and failing. Admitting it aloud was the hardest part - it was the single most painful thing I'd had to do up to that moment.

"Because he doesn't want me here." In the end, it turned into a sob.

The truthfulness of my words was undisputable to me. It was Sherlock's home, and he'd spent too many days avoiding it because of me. He wouldn't talk to me, always feeling burdened by my presence. I'd figured it constantly reminded him of what I had done.

And I'd known it would come to something like this. It was what I had chosen at the very end. Yet I'd been remarkably naive when I'd believed I'd be strong enough to endure it. The least I could do now was to free him from myself.

"Are you truly capable of living on your own?"

"Does it matter?"

"That depends on whom you ask." The remark caught me off guard. There was truly only one person to whom I mattered, and that person no longer wanted me. I couldn't help but laugh bitterly. I held no great love for Mycroft in my heart, but the last thing I needed in my state of mind was his pointed cruelty.

He must have noticed that he'd pushed it further than I could handle at the moment - he sighed and added, "Moving out might be for the best until he's grown tired of his childish grudge. It's best not to indulge him by giving him what he wants - namely, more of your grovelling."

I wished I could say I did not grovel, but he was spot on, even if entirely tone deaf. I watched him walk up to me with his purse in his hand, not minding the anxious tremors in my body.

"This should be enough to live comfortably for an entire month," he spoke in his usual tone, nonchalantly handing me five thousand manghir as if they were pocket change.

But a month was one third of the time I'd lived as a real person, and the thought of not being with Sherlock for that long - it made something deep within me crack.

I reached for the money and mumbled a "thank you". After this, he studied me briefly and then left.

"Il Palazzo del Lusso" became my new home, although the word home is definitely pushing it. I'd chosen to walk there to free my mind, but nothing was freed in the process. If anything, Cordona appeared hostile to me after so many days of complete isolation. The chatter around the corners turned into mockery, the friendly faces - into ugly grimaces. The vibrant colours which had once defined the world to my new human eyes had all turned grey, and dark clouds began following each of my steps.

In a way, the hotel became my shelter once more. Only this time, it was no cold summer rain that made me seek it out, and I was all alone.

I booked a small room under the name Jon Jonson, and then rushed to retreat to its comfort and away from humanity's reach. But I found no comfort there either. I suppose one cannot run away from one's own conscience. In the end, the change of scenery didn't make me feel any less devastated by the loss of the person I loved.

And while I liked to tell myself that I had done the right thing by leaving, I knew he would not feel happy to see my room emptied. I'd left him a note, making sure he wouldn't worry too much, but a note wouldn't be enough to undo the disappointment. I knew that he wanted the truth, and not my departure. Just as I knew I could never give it to him.

Restlessness cost me my sleep once again, and I couldn't force myself to think of food either. By the time the clock hit midnight, I knew he'd soon arrive home - and he'd soon see that I was gone.

And what then?

What then?

A day passed like this. Then a night. Every time I heard steps outside, I listened closely, hoping they would stop at my door. A few times, they did, but they were gone by the time I got up from the bed.

Of course, I hoped he'd come to me. Was I too foolish to hope? What would have been the point? He couldn't forgive me. I'd made a decision knowing what I would be giving up. There was no salvation waiting around the corner, but hope died last.

When my inner world was this dark, the corporeal world, which I had just begun to discover, lost its appeal entirely. It only made it more difficult and tedious to retreat as I could no longer just snap my fingers and vanish into thin air. I had to force myself to take care of my bodily needs, too, because I didn't want to get sick again. However, eating only when I started to feel faint and neglecting to shave for a day or two were signs that I wasn't doing a great job.

Most of the time, I spent staring out of the window of my room, waiting for something to happen, all while being unable to unwind or find solace in anything. But in the end, I could do nothing, and I felt asking for forgiveness again and forcing him to make the decision not to grant it to me again would be unfair to him.

So once more, I was mindlessly pacing around the corridors of the hotel, barely registering the well-dressed people who seemed to be enjoying their stay. Laughter and music enveloped me, but their sound was so distant that I wouldn't have noticed it immediately had they suddenly stopped.

There was a familiarity in ignoring the people around me and pretending they couldn't see me - it was the only thing that felt right and natural to me at that moment. I'd not left my room all day because I knew it would scandalise the upstanding folks to see someone unkempt inhabit the same hotel as them, but I'd not found the energy to freshen up and make myself look appropriate again until the afternoon.

Still, even after I'd done so, I'd felt stupid for caring. The hotel lobby had nothing to offer me either way, except for a piece of toast that I'd spent half an hour chewing on. Then, I'd begun walking around, absentmindedly making my way back to my room, but not minding it all too much when I turned around the wrong corner. It made little difference where I was, as long as I wasn't with him.

Somehow, I'd ended up in the lobby again, my mind slowly growing too blurry and my focus slipping, when I heard a familiar voice. Not the familiar voice I'd hoped to hear, however.

"Mr Jonson!"

I froze, hoping and praying to all that was holy to vanish. Swallowing hard, I turned around slowly, not trying to hide the dismay written all over my face. What did I care if Verner Vogel knew that I disliked him? That man was a pest, but he wouldn't stop bugging me!

"Lovely," I groaned. "What can I help you with?"

"Oh my, what could have soured your mood so terribly? Wait, don't tell me. A birdie told me there was trouble in paradise, and initially, I refused to believe that anything could come between you two. Then, I saw Sherlock walk the streets all alone, and it made me think. Although I could have sworn you'd reconciled again. Isn't it why you are here? It's a lovely place for lovers to rekindle the flame."

Dizziness clouded my senses the moment I heard Sherlock's name, but I no longer had any strength left in me to feel irritation. I only felt empty.

"I can't make sense of you," was all I could say, frowning at him. Why did he talk so much?

"Since you're staying at the hotel, and I happened to meet him in the foyer mere minutes ago, I assumed he was staying here with you. Good Lord - do you suppose he's here with someone else? Already? Oh dear, I fear I shouldn't have said a word." With a hint of theatricality, Vogel raised a hand to his lips, a small, sneaky smile tugging at their corners. I knew he was enjoying this greatly, for whatever reason, but I wasn't willing to give him the satisfaction.

"As long as he's not staying with you, I will live." With these words, I turned my back on him, heading towards the general direction of my room again.

Did his implication hurt me and make me want to cry? Of course! But I wasn't as stupid as to let him play me like this. I knew Sherlock too well to assume he'd just run into some stranger's arms to spite me. Who did Vogel think he was to make me doubt his loyalty to me?

But as I took a few steps away from Vogel, I heard him call again.

"By the way, he seemed so troubled by the loss of Violet's file-" The words made me halt again and turn my head to look at him. I hated it, but how could I not stop and listen?

"-I felt it was my duty to help. How did he lose it, even? He'd not share the details."

"What are you saying?"

Even though he tried to look remorseful, he failed.

"As it happens, I had time to spare while being held at the station. As a good and caring friend, I was naturally intrigued when I discovered that Officer Oswald had found Violet's file. Since I'd known him for a while, he granted me the favour of letting me have a look inside. It wasn't merely curiosity, mind you - I rather suspect I felt compelled to intervene-"

"What did you do?" The blood in me was running cold. The walls started closing in on me, and I took a step closer to him.

"I found the contents of the file rather unspectacular. The garden, the blotches on her face, the incision - gruesome details, certainly, but nothing that hadn't already been the subject of rumour back in the day-"

His words had taken the air from my lungs. No longer able to reply verbally, I simply stared at him as I watched his eyes darken with excitement. Oh, he loved everything about this.

"-The more it surprised me how strongly he reacted to this piece of information. He simply left the hotel without a word. I hadn't meant to upset him, of course, but I admit I couldn't quite comprehend why such insignificant details were so meaningful to him. Hadn't he known them all along?"

There are things in this world that, once set into motion, can no longer be brought to a halt. Events that cannot be prevented, because they are predetermined and unalterable.

"Do you think I shouldn't have said anything, Mr Jonson? I truly believed I was only helping a friend, but now…"

I had no words left for Vogel. As the world began collapsing around me, I turned around and ran - ran to the exit, ran to the first rickshaw I found outside.

But I knew I was already running late.

Chapter Text

It all ended with a door.

One tucked between two arched windows, hidden in the back of our home. I suppose it wasn't very obvious at first - its faded paint was somewhat similar to the tapestry, and the sparse light made it easy to miss. All in all, it was unnoticeable on first glance.

But deep inside, I knew that the reason he'd not opened it until that dark day was not because he'd not seen it there. He'd avoided the corner behind the stairs - he'd searched the manor from top to bottom, but always turned around before going that way.

Yet he had finally done it, and on that fateful day, I found the door wide open. The yellow light of the sunset was pouring into the manor through its gaping mouth. The air had cooled down, and the draught made me shiver.

Just like him, I couldn't bring myself to pass through it at first. Its very sight made me feel unwell and dizzy, and I stood there, petrified and not knowing if I had the courage to enter the garden and see how everything I feared came true all at once.

But it didn't take long until I set myself in motion. With a heart pounding so heavily that it hurt, I took a step. My thoughts were a blur, and I fought for breath, yet still, I moved closer, closer to the light. Closer to the mouth that had swallowed him.

My eyes struggled to spot him at first. Overgrown and forgotten, the garden looked nothing like I remembered, and the contrast to my memories made me feel disoriented.

But there he was - kneeling in the dirt, eyes downcast, back turned on the house.

"Sherry..." I gasped his name, but I was scared to approach him at first. He was close to the pond, by the spot where Violet had drawn her last breath. Seeing him there made me feel sick.

He heard me call him - he raised his head and turned around to look at me. The grudge he'd held over the file seemed to be gone, but I had never wanted it back this much as I did in that moment. It had been replaced by a sorrow I couldn't bear to see.

This was my sign - I ran toward him. Without waiting, he jumped back to his feet, rushed towards me, too, and let himself fall into my arms. I could catch him just before he lost balance, and I clung to him with all I had.

The moment I felt him in my arms again, I stopped breathing. The world around us was falling apart, but I was allowed to hold him tight again, to feel his breath, to inhale his scent, and to revel in his warmth. I pressed him close to me, so that I could feel every heave of his chest, whispering his name again and burying my hand in his soft black hair.

Only quiet sobs left his mouth. I knew there was a lot on his mind, but for the time being, he needed comfort and someone to show him that, despite everything, he was loved - and always would be.

So I whispered to him, "It's okay," took his face in my hands, kissed his cheeks and his teary eyes a dozen times. I knew it wouldn't be enough, but what else could I give him? My love for him was everything I had, and I knew his pain was far too great for me to take away.

In an instant, his arms wrapped around my neck, and his lips blindly sought mine, but even as he kissed me deeply, the tears never stopped coming. I could taste them on his mouth and feel them on my skin as I tried to swallow his devastated sobs. They made him tremble, yet the moment I tried to pull away and check on him, his grip around me tightened.

"Not yet, Jon, I don't want to let you go yet," he breathed against my lips through tears, then pressed his mouth on mine so hard that it made him whimper.

He lingered like this for a while.

It was no kiss of love and desire, but a kiss of grief.

It didn't take a genius to understand its meaning, so once again, I pulled away, aiming to bring distance between us, and he finally let me go. I hadn't liked the way he'd clung to me so desperately - it had made my stomach drop.

Yet I couldn't form a question. In the end, I didn't need to.

"You know what has to be done." His voice broke, and he gasped for air, yet he still tried to wipe away the tears from his face.

I could only shake my head. "What does?"

Struggling to regain composure, he pronounced every word a little too clearly to make his conviction sound believable. "My mother is dead, and it is my fault. There is only one way to give her the justice she deserves." I wasn't sure what his intentions were in that moment, but I knew they weren't good. Trying to close the distance between us once again, I took a step forward and reached out for him, only to be pushed away.

"No." The shaking in his body was subsiding, and a mask was slipping over his face now, as if it could deceive me - me of all people! But it was enough to strengthen his resolve, to give wings to his decision. "I made you my accomplice and forced you to carry the burden of my crime for decades, while I forgot."

A bitter laugh came from him and made me swallow hard.

"No," I said, "I carried no burden, Sherlock, I knew you were a little child who never had any ill intentions. It was tragic, but no crime." What I left unsaid was that, albeit horrible, her death had been the only thing that had saved his life that day. I was happy he'd survived it.

But, perhaps, that knowledge was too much for him as well.

"A man died in prison for that crime, Jon. My good intentions bear no meaning. They cost Otto Richter his freedom and my mother - her life."

"No..." I protested, shaking my head again, but what could I say to change his mind? Yet I knew I had to try. "Sherry, listen-"

"All things considered, it's good that you were severed from me." Another sob shook his frame as he forced an anguished smile. "You deserve a life that isn't tied to me, you deserve true freedom."

"What life without you? Sherlock, please, don't say this."

I stepped forward and grabbed him by his upper arms, opening my mouth to say something, and this time he didn't push me away - he raised his hands to cup my face instead.

"It is fortunate that you are here, standing before me as a man of flesh and blood. I've never believed in miracles, but I have finally come to see it as one." A few tears ran down his face again. "And it's a great relief that you will not be forced to bear the consequences with me - there is comfort in knowing that you will get to be free."

"What, Sherlock?" My heart raced. "What are you talking about?" I mirrored his gesture, holding his beautiful face in my hands and brushing away the tears with my thumbs, and I felt my vision cloud, too. "Sherry..."

"I have to repent. I have to go to the police and set it right."

"No...no!" Everything but this. I wrapped my arms around his frame, pressing him close to myself again, then pressing my forehead against his so that I could feel his breath on my face. "You can't. Please."

"It is decided. But you will find happiness again, Jon."

"No!" I let go and took a step back. It was sheer panic and helplessness that I felt - air wouldn't fill my lungs, and the world was becoming grey and foggy. But he did not falter - there was deep hurt in his eyes, and yet, I saw a flicker of relief in them too. It pierced my heart like a blade. "I am begging you, begging you, Sherlock, don't destroy yourself."

A deep sigh left his lips. "It will hurt at first, but you are strong enough to withstand it. I believe you might even come to realise that my decision was a blessing in disguise one day."

"How can you say this?" Tears were streaming down my face as well now. How could he even think I'd not shatter completely if he abandoned me - if he destroyed his own future and forced me to watch? "I know you don't believe it - you are deceiving yourself to make it easier."

"I knew it since the beginning - that this day would come. That I would have to let you go. I only didn't know how and why."

"It did not come. You are choosing it in this very moment," I choked, my nails digging deep into my palms.

Yet he only smiled bitterly, trying and failing yet again to wipe away all tears. "I am, I suppose. I would hate you to think that I don't love you-"

"No."

"-I do. Which is why I have to let you go, don't you.. don't you understand this?" He raised his voice in frustration, but I was feeling the same. Yet my strength - it was dwindling. "She was not the last person I killed, either, do you not understand what that makes me? Do you not see what I am?"

"This is the easy way out, and you are looking for reasons to justify it. A solution that's too neat for this mess. Yet you are choosing it over..."

Us.

"Don't do this. Please, Sherry, don't," I pleaded with him again, but he only shook his head ever so slightly.

I did not think I could ever recover if he walked away. The manor would become my prison as well. "You say you love me, but you've always hated yourself more. You have no love for yourself left, and it's making you blind and destructive!" I cried uncontrollably and hid my face in my palms, but I didn't think I could do this any longer - not after two weeks of grief and heartbreak.

And I had always known it would come to this, had I not? I did not believe I could change his mind with words, but I couldn't force him to stay and turn him into my prisoner either. In the end, it was a hopeless fight.

"I hope you forgive me one day, Jon," his voice broke, making me look at him again. However, seeing how devastated he was only made me recoil even more. Seeing the tenderness in his eyes angered me. Why did he look at me so lovingly when he was about to leave? He called it justice, but it was annihilation, and although he'd spun this tale of me finding happiness without him, he was destroying both of us at once.

"If you choose prison over your own future...over us... Then I don't think I ever could," I muttered. My words seemed to pain him, but he forced a stern face regardless.

"Perhaps... that's for the best. Then I shall respect your decision. Goodbye, Jon." With these words, he turned away, back towards the manor, but I couldn't let it happen just like that, so I walked up to him and took him by the hand.

"Please, don't go," I sobbed and clung to him with all I had. "Please, I'm begging you." Had I believed that falling on my knees would change his mind, I would have done so.

But instead of budging, he tore his hand away from mine.

"I have made up my mind," he said, harsher than before. "Jon. Please, don't make it any harder than it already is." Without another word, he picked up the pace again.

"I hope you know that I don't believe you!" I called after him, "And I know you don't believe any of it either! But once you've gone to them, you will not be able to take it back!" My words made him stop before he'd reached the threshold.

But before hope could take root in my heart again, he left.

As I watched him disappear into the darkness of Stonewood Manor, I thought that I was a coward. That I'd not done enough to prevent this or to stop him. I believed I should have fought him harder still. I suppose people often choose guilt over admitting they are at the mercy of someone else's will. He'd done it, too.

I'd wanted to run after him, beg him to stay over and over again until he agreed, but my body wouldn't let me. Frozen in my spot, I remained in the garden, my legs refusing to take a single step. After some time, after I'd cried all my tears and prayed to all deities to intervene and received no reply, I was left empty.

I knew I had lost - that there was no point in fighting anymore. In the end, it was not a decision I could make for him - it was not my right. I had not been wise enough, perceptive enough, to change the course of things.

That, too, is one of the downsides of being a real person - it takes strength to keep on moving, but there was nothing left in me. There had once been a fire blazing, but it was extinguished now. The world became a dim, barren place.

Like in a daze, I must have sat down on the bench at some point, stared at our initials we'd carved into its surface as kids until they were burned into my mind and spaced out until it was already night.

Time stood still for me from the moment he left - my world had ended right there and then. Hearing Mycroft's voice after some time and seeing him approach me in the dark perplexed me, but I couldn't, for the love of me, force myself to respond to whatever questions left his mouth.

What was the point of them all? He seemed to be animated by all this, but I no longer saw a reason to speak to him. Or anyone, for that matter. Did he not see that it was too late? Eventually, he must have left the garden without getting any sort of reaction out of me, aside from a couple of brief words that I no longer remember.

Neither do I remember getting back inside, but I must have done so at some point.

The manor, the small bed in Mycroft's old room, the dark corridors, and the lights I never turned on anymore - they became my new, empty world. A prison meant to sustain a vessel I no longer needed. From time to time, people I did not know would enter that forgotten, haunted place and try to engage with me, but I couldn't make myself understand what they wanted. They seemed to know my name, and I supposed they had been sent by someone, but in the end, it did not matter.

I wasn't starving - there was always something to be found in the kitchen whenever I'd become hungry enough to force myself to get up, but I didn't care enough to question how it had ended up there. Same for other necessities - they simply appeared wherever I needed them.

Days, weeks, perhaps months passed like this. I couldn't tell. I was not living, only functioning, biding my time, waiting. My life had become too hollow to enjoy, so I saw my existence as a punishment I had to endure.

Above all, I wished I could turn back time - to find my way back to my old self that could retreat, enter a decade-long slumber on a whim, and not feel a thing anymore. I'd never known or appreciated the freedom I'd had, and now it was gone.

I saw Mycroft once more during that time. Illuminated by the light of the window in his old room, I couldn't see his face clearly.

"Sherlock will be leaving Cordona for good," he said to me. He was to be exiled, but at least he would be free. In the end, neither of us would get what we wanted - the irony of life. I suppose I felt some relief, even though it barely registered. "The ship sails tomorrow morning. It would be unwise if you decided to follow him. A relationship like yours would ruin him in England."

I'd not spoken in so long that I felt rusty when I forced the words out between two drags of my cigarette. "I'm not planning on following him. Hope that helps you sleep better at night."

Why would I? He'd left me behind, even gone as far as to ask the police not to let me visit him in his cell - turned my own ill-considered words about not being able to forgive him against me, even though he should have known me better. He'd cut me off like a festering limb and not looked back. I saw no meaning in forcing myself into his life anymore. He'd made his choice, and he had not chosen me.

Mycroft studied me for some time, then added, "Good. He will start a new life in England. He will recover, eventually. We will all put this unpleasant chapter behind us."

"You will," I whispered. I would not.

Putting out my cigarette in the ashtray, I got up from the chair. My head was getting way too heavy - I couldn't form a coherent thought. Having lain down on my bed and turned my back on him, I didn't feel like talking anymore, so after a brief moment of silence, he headed towards the door.

Yet, he stopped before leaving to say, "I need a pair of eyes on the island while I'm gone. Once you've gotten over this, I have work for you." He didn't wait for a response before he disappeared. I did not consider his words at all at first. For the time being, I did not care enough to think about my future.

I wish I could tell you that I rushed to the harbour in the morning, sneaked onto the ship, and found my way back to Sherlock.

But by the time I'd arrived there - not to follow him but to see him one last time - the ship was long gone. The schedule had changed that morning, but I was partially to blame as well. I'd simply not found the strength to leave the manor earlier.

In the end, it was for the best.

Or so I tried to believe as I sat on a cold rock by the shore, watching the sunrise paint the waves golden. It was winter already, and I hadn't left the manor in so long that the season change and the tiny snowflakes shocked me greatly. The year 1880 was coming to an end, and I'd not even dressed properly for winter. Somewhere along the way, I'd lost myself entirely. If I had even been there to begin with.

But as I finally found my way back to the manor, I still made sure to lock the front door behind myself.

Lest someone decide to bother me again.