Chapter 8: Coming Home

After reports and questioning and medical examinations and having to leave Mrs Hudson in the hospital for observation, John finally unlocks the front door of 221B and opens it, looking over his shoulder when Sherlock remains at the bottom of the few steps.
"Okay?" he asks, though Sherlock looks far better than just 'okay'. He looks at peace and shaken to the core at the same time.

Sherlock stands still, looking somewhat out of place in his non-descript, dark blue tracking suit he was given at MI6 and with his right arm in a sling. And he cannot seem to take his eyes off of the face of building before him, as if he can't believe that he is truly here. That it is over. Finally, finally over.

John smiles, understanding. "Home?"

Sherlock lowers his eyes until they meet John's. "Yes." He holds John's eyes long enough for the other man to understand that he is talking about more than just his London and his Baker Street. He is also talking about his John.

Their smiles widen, and, finally, John tilts his head sideways to the open door and holds out his right hand. "Coming?"

Releasing a deep breath, Sherlock takes the offered hand, and John entwines their fingers, pulling Sherlock inside.

The door closes behind them, and Sherlock once more stops John after a few steps in the quiet of the building. John stands and turns one step above him, both of them at the same height, now, and neither letting go of the other's hand.


Sherlock blinks and bites his lips. How can he say that he needs... he just needs. Just a moment. They're home. LondonBakerStreetJohn. Home. A year of so much pain and danger and near death... And then the finish line. A finish line of secret agents, family, explosions. Over.

"Everything has happened so fast." Sherlock swallows. And out of all that has happened, one thing – one horrible thing – doesn't let go of him. "You... with the gun. As if I'd never been away, reversing the situation I forced you into." His eyes cloud.

John's expression softens.

"And now... returning to England, MI6, barely a moment to breathe. To talk. About things."

John licks his lips. "Is this about the kiss? Because..."

"Of course it's not about the bloody kiss!" Sherlock doesn't let him finish. "It's about what I have done to you!"

John looks at a desperately intense Sherlock, who is vibrating with uncertainty, now that they are home where everything is supposed to be as it was, except nothing is as it was, and Sherlock doesn't know how to fix it.

"I am useless at this," Sherlock bursts out when he can no longer contain it. "I don't know how to beg forgiveness. I never did anything that I felt warranted it. But I am begging you, John."

John keeps his right hand in Sherlock's and uses his left to cup his cheek. "I have already forgiven you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes widen in innocent incomprehension.

John smiles. "I will freak out and be very mad at you once I've realised that you're back and safe and not about to disappear, and then you will probably do something recklessly dangerous, far too soon... but I forgive you."

Sherlock's eyes frantically dart from one of John's to the other, finding nothing but truth and love and home. He uses his hold on John's hand to pull him closer and into a kiss that feels so much less painful, now that Sherlock believes that John will not abandon him for all that he has done to him.

John grants Sherlock his kiss, even allows himself to reciprocate for a moment, but then gently tilts Sherlock's face out of the connection with a soft push at his cheek.
"Sherlock... you don't have to do this..."

Sherlock blinks, not at all happy at the interruption, and frowns. He knows that their pull, their desire, is mutual. Why, then, must John be so... He blinks, again. Oh. Of course. Stupid.
"Don't be absurd, John."

John has to grin at the rebuke. He can't help it.

"Do you honestly believe that I would kiss anyone to make amends?" He sounds truly insulted.

John giggles a bit, more at the tone of voice than the words, making Sherlock grin back. "No," John agrees. "No, you wouldn't." Because... of course Sherlock wouldn't.
This time, it's John who initiates the kiss, and they remain on their stairs for a long moment, all the cares in the world locked outside.

Only a hair's breadth away from John's lips, Sherlock eventually asks, "Since I wanted to go home so badly, it never occurred to me to ask," he brushes John's lips with his, again, "if you would have liked a holiday in Paris, as well."

John hums into another kiss. "Hmm, no. I wanted to go home, very badly, too."

They grin against each other's lips in complete accord.

"Also, your brother will be busy shagging Bond in Paris. We should leave them to it."

Sherlock pulls a face. "Kindly refrain from mentioning any family members in compromising positions."

John snickers, keeping his arms around Sherlock's neck and the man effectively in place. His smile softens. "They make a good couple. Surprisingly well matched..."

Sherlock agrees, nodding slowly. He remembers seeing them together, hearing Bond talk about his Quartermaster. He's always known that Desmond isn't quite as detached as his brothers... Still...
"Surprisingly, yes."

"I think he's doing well for himself," John adds, his smile suggesting that Desmond isn't the only Holmes doing well for himself.

Again, Sherlock nods. "And he has Bond's back, knows that he will always come back to him."

John licks his lips and clears his throat. "Always...?"

"You have my word."

John's eyes sting, and he kisses Sherlock, once and firmly, before he does something silly like starting to cry, again.
"Welcome home, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulls John into a hug with his good arm and looks past him and up the stairs.


"Oh, that is fucking gorgeous!" Q's voice rings out in the ridiculously expensive Parisian suite (of course with a view of the Eiffel Tower from the bed where he is currently having his brains fucked out), and he arches upwards, clings to James' torso with both his legs and to the headboard with both his hands.

As he eases into the body beneath his, James growls into Q's neck where he has every intention of leaving a mark that Q will have to parade around with for a week. (He expects Q to return the favour, soon...)

Q groans, loudly, and he throws back his head, breathing heavily, allowing himself to feel everything, again. Everything that has no place in the field or his department. Breathe in, take in, take.

James leaves off the neck and captures Q's lips in a deep kiss, fucking and claiming his mouth with his tongue, relentlessly. He unclasps Q's hands from the headboard and instead presses them into the pillow, entwining their fingers.
"One might almost be inclined to believe that you only love me for my cock."

Q laughs loudly as sensations of desire and excitement and danger and James course through him.

James grins back, giving a series of particularly hard thrusts in response that turn Q's laughter into unleashed groans.

"I fucking love you, James!" is really all Q can say, anymore.

"Gorgeous," James gasps before he bites and kisses Q's lips. "Such a good fuck. Best. Such a tight hole..." He babbles filthy nonsense, meaning every word, never stops biting the lips and drinking the moans. "Slick and tight and greedy hole. Q! My... my..."

"Yours. All yours, James. Always," Q almost sobs the words and frees one of his hands from James' hard grasp to reach between them and jerk his cock in time with James' more and more erratic thrusts.
"James. Oh, god, James, your cock. More. Just... more. Harder. Fuck! Fuck me!"

James now slams into Q's willing body, watches Q's eyes glisten with unshed tears of passion and emotion, watches his breath hitch, his body twitch and his mouth gasp.
"Yes, come on, come on, do it, Q..."


James fucks him through his orgasm, and when Q's body goes limp, he once more takes a hold of the second hand, holds himself up with their fingers clasping tightly and ruts into the hole that is his and his alone. Fucks out the danger and worry and adrenaline and love; fucks the most beautiful lover he's ever had.

When he comes undone, he falls into the open arms of his Quiartermaster and feels gentle fingers run over his sweat-slicked back as he calms down. His breathing slows in the crook of Q's neck, and he kisses the soft patch of skin.
"I love you," he murmurs. He doesn't often feel like it needs saying, but it does, now.

Sometimes, people are taken for granted, even though they could be taken away by whatever life throws at them, at a moment's notice.
James remembers Sherlock. Sherlock, who had to do the taking, himself, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. A shudder runs through him at the thought of having to play dead for the one person who makes life make sense.

Q tightens his hold, caresses James' nape with soft fingers and kisses the top of his head.
"I love you as much."

James smiles and tilts his head back to look at Q. Yes, Q can still read him like a book.
"It was good to have met your brother," he says. "I understand better, now."

Q rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch, amused. "Kindly refrain from mentioning my family members while your cock is still up my arse."

James chuckles, which makes him slip out of his lover, and Q joins the laughter with his own.

Then Q pushes at James' shoulder. "Off. You're getting heavy."

James complies and rolls to the side but immediately pulls Q close, again.
"Do you think Sherlock is shagging Watson, yet?"

Q unsuccessfully tries to hold back a snicker.

James just grins.

"Well..." Q says after a moment and a kiss and a revelling hand against James' cheek. "Sherlock isn't like me. He might need some more time, if he's even into that." He blinks. "Which I think he is, but, well, he's Sherlock..."

James keeps to himself that he's pretty sure Sherlock would be 'into that' from what he's read between the lines of the talks they've had.
Instead, he says, "I suppose they're home, by now."

Q nods. Then he smiles. "So am I."

Bond smiles back and agrees with a kiss.

The End



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