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Every morning on the dot, no matter if Sherlock was bleeding from his arm or carrying around Rosie like she was still a baby, Sherlock put the kettle on the stove for tea. He didn’t use the hot water himself, god no. Sherlock Holmes did not make his own tea, did not buy his own biscuits, he had a landlady for that. But after years of her constant nagging he had finally caved and helped the poor woman out.
The kettle always had hot water when Mrs. Hudson walked up the stairs to their kitchen. It was an experiment to see how long she noticed that fact that she never made the hot water herself. It just appeared there. Almost like magic, if John had a say in the matter.
So when Sherlock woke up that morning, a late start of six-thirty instead of the usual four-fifty-nine, he was not expecting a former Scottish sniper to be sleeping on his sofa. Six foot one; one-eighty five centimeters, one-eighty-seven pounds, and eighty-four kilograms. Early to mid forties, hands hidden by a blanket poorly draped across his chest that offered just enough warmth for him to enter the deepest state of rest. A heavy smoker from the ways his snore were labored and cut short between seemingly random fits of coughing that did nothing to wake him up.
The sniper had dirty, unwashed blonde hair as if he had left in a hurry. He was still wearing the clothes he had slept in; a dark grey cotton t-shirt, a pair of boxers that didn’t belong to him considering the size was one smaller than what he usually wore, and a pair of mismatched socks; one olive green, one robin shell blue. There was a tattoo on his left ankle, from the faded color and the barely perceptible outline, it was something gotten on a drunken bachelor’s whim. Something although the man didn’t regret, was also something he wasn’t exactly proud of either; telling in the way he tried to wear socks that covered most of it.
It was a tattoo of, ironically, a naked woman’s silhouette.
The intruder slept peacefully, his mind assuming he was safe enough to rest with both eyes closed. But Sherlock was not one to underestimate a man who had broken into his home without his notice. This sniper might appear to be sleeping like a babe but Sherlock knew better. A tiger was dozing with his fangs showing.
Sherlock recognized the size, brand, color, and suffice to say, feel, of those pair of boxers anywhere. They belonged to one Mr. James Moriarty.
This man who was sleeping in his home had facial scars littering his face from wounds too old to be from any sort of recorded deployment he would have been old enough to join, concluding they were from before. Long before, perhaps from when he was a child or even younger. Knowing who the man the sniper was associated with, sleeping with, Sherlock assumed the former. There were also straight edged scars running down his arms, wrists, legs, and thighs. They seemed too recent to be from his deployment, this man had been dishonorably discharged earlier in his life. Those scars were too new, perhaps a deeper attachment to Moriarty than Sherlock had originally assumed. It had only been three years since Sherlock had returned from the grave, a now inaccurate estimated five years since Moriarty had reserved dinner reservations with Death.
“Could you stop doing that thing? I can feel you watching me,” the man spoke in a rough, cracking voice that Sherlock was sure James Moriarty fancied. It did a considerable amount of things to Sherlock, much to his dismay.
“It’s not every day that I see a sniper in my-”
The man shifted and the blanket covering his hands and chest fell from his body. His hands were just as scarred as his face, if not more. But it was what was on his left hand that made Sherlock freeze. Two thin golden rings rested on his finger, two initials engraved on them.
JM and MH.
For the first time in a very long time Sherlock was breathless, falling back onto his seat. His legs failed him then, the sight so unbelievable he was sure he was dreaming. Some drug induced haze that John was going to scold him about later. It simply wasn’t possible.
Not Mycroft. His own brother. It must be someone else. It had to be. He and Mycroft were not close by any means, but he should have been aware of this. Should have seen this on the man. A husband was hard to hide from Sherlock, two were even more difficult, and those two being some of the most dangerous men in the world was just impossible. MH was common enough, Mike, Mitch, Mason, Matthew, Howards, Hughes, Henderson. Anything but not Mycroft Holmes.
A movement brought Sherlock back to the present; the man yawning and stretching his well toned body. His shirt was riding up his chest, his midriff and hips exposed for Sherlock to see. Two initials were carved into his skin, leaving them bare to the winds to scar up nice and clear for any who dared touch his skin. A clean JM, and a more recent MH.
“You alright? Your eyes are going glassy,” the man, Sherlock’s brother-in-law, asked with what could pass as concern. He scratched at his stomach, taunting Sherlock by making his eyes go back to the two names on the man’s sunburned skin.
“Just who are you?” Sherlock asked in a voice that left no room to argue. It was blood curdling to any average person who was unfortunate enough to hear it. Sherlock was not talking to just any man.
“I’m here to keep an eye on ya.”
“I asked a question, it’s usually polite to answer.” Sherlock glared at the figure that lounged on his sofa. This abhorrent man didn’t belong in his home. This creature didn’t belong anyway so near John. “Who are you?”
“You’re just peachy in the morning, aren’t ya?”
“I’m typically much worse, just ask Mycroft.”
The man huffed out a laugh, his whole chest rising and falling with it. “I forgot to set a timer. How long did it take you to figure it out?” His eyes were as blue as a freshwater lake. Was this Mycroft’s type? Murderous, blue eyed, dirty blondes? Did they have the same type? The very thought made Sherlock shudder.
“Too long.”
The man hummed in acknowledgment, closing his eyes to doze off once more. Sherlock wasn’t going to let him sleep until he got answers. Grabbing a throw pillow he smacked the soldier across the face. Apparently, neither of them were expecting Sherlock to be that quick because the man barely blocked the attack.
“Tell me how you got the two most irritable men in the world to not only marry you, but each other.”
He shrugged, grabbing the blanket off the floor and wrapping himself with it. Taking a brief glance at it, Sherlock realized he recognized it as well. It was a quilt that his mother had made for Mycroft last Christmas. John was currently using the one their mother had gifted him. “It just sorta happened.”
“This sort of progression doesn’t just happen,” Sherlock remarked, trying not to seethe in frustration. “Mycroft and Moriarty are two names that are uttered with the pretense of undiluted adrenaline. One does not simply expect to see their combined husband in his bleeding living room. Never in one’s wildest dream.”
“I’m the perfect spy,” the man stated, telling an inside joke that Sherlock was not a part of. Sherlock didn’t even know his name, his brother-in-law, this stranger in a world of poorly kept secrets. “I’m the one and only person that can tail you and not be seen.” A chuckle left his lips.
“You’re doing a tremendous job of that.”
“Mycroft never mentioned you being this sweet.”
“So Mycroft mentions me? He’s never mentioned you.”
“You wound me.”
Something was off about this man, besides the obvious, of course. Sherlock had noticed it earlier but he had been too busy making a room in his mind palace for the man. The sniper did not have a weapon on him. There was nothing concealed about him, his lack of proper clothing hid nothing among his form. He had nothing but his own two hands that were currently snuggled underneath Mycroft’s quilt. It was like he had left his home, and hopefully not Mycroft’s, in such an unprepared haste that someone of his special set of circumstances must have been running from something truly terrifying.
Or someone utterly horrifying.
“They don’t know you’re here.” It wasn’t a question, it was remarked in the same manner of stating that the sky was always gray in London. “At least, not yet. Mycroft is mellowing in his own age and Moriarty must be losing what remains of his mind if he allowed you to wander for this long.”
“I wasn’t wandering. I was actually trying to sleep before you interrupted me,” he yawned into his hand, pulling the quilt closer to him as if there was a draft. His body ran a little colder than most. Fitting.
“What exactly made you run from them?” Sherlock subtly admitted to being clueless. “I have so many possibilities in my mind that deconstructing them would take literal days.”
A long pause passed where nothing was said. Sherlock had thought the man went back to sleep from the way his body stilled to a complete lack of anything that would be considered movement. A good trait to have in a sniper when the slightest breath could give your position away. On the flip side, a pisspoor trait to have in a domestic partner; the inability to read one’s body language. Sherlock momentarily wondered what Mycroft saw in the man.
“I brought up that I wanted a kid.”
“To kill?” Sherlock had to clarify before he shot the man before he could get anywhere near Rosie.
“To raise-”
Two pairs of fast paced footsteps pounded on the stairs. Sherlock internally scolded himself for not hearing them sooner. He wanted more undivided time with this man. The consulting detective wanted answers that only he could provide. But before he could get anywhere, the younger Holmes brother just had to be interrupted by the older.
The door flung open to reveal two finely suited men with manic eyes. Their body language gave nothing away, even in times of distress, but Sherlock knew what to be looking for when it came to those two. The way Mycroft’s eyes landed on Sherlock, the way Jim’s landed on the sniper. All men in the room had their own agenda, their own priorities. Not to mention half of them were known to have a possessive streak.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Did that bastard lay a hand on you?”
This was said in unison. Sherlock didn’t think he’d live to see the day where the most feared men in history looked so panicked. Whoever this man was, Sherlock made a note to keep him close. If he got this sort of reaction from merely getting out of the house for a couple hours, then Sherlock could only dream of what would happen if he and John did a little meddling. Only nightmares could truly capture what would happen if the man was hurt in any way. If he was killed.
Sherlock thought that if anything happened to John he’d burn the whole world. But within thirty seconds of being in the presence of the lovers he knew that what he would do was child’s play for what they would do. The world would be nothing but ash, crumbling from its seams because one seemingly average life was gone from its surface.
The shock of the fact was even more paralyzing than the undeniable confirmation that James Moriarty was alive and married to not only his brother, but the sniper on his sofa. It just had to be this moment where John Watson chose to rise from his slumbers and investigate the commotion. The Holmes brothers had a lot of explaining to do.
Without preamble, Sherlock got up from his seat and went to make tea.