This story will contain mature themes including male on male sex, violence, and swearing. If you don't like those things then this story is not for you.
Please read the AN at the bottom
Mycroft heard it over the speakers in the van before he saw it. He burst out and found himself face to face with a building alight with flame. And no sign of Sherlock, John, or Greg anywhere. He quickly pulled out his mobile and dialed for help, as he was certain that the men they'd come with were trapped inside as well and would be useless, then he ran towards the building without hesitation.
Covering his face and trying to breathe through the fabric of his sleeve, Mycroft made his way around fallen and falling and flaming crates trying to find his brother and the others. "Sherlock?" he called, coughing after as some smoke snuck into his lungs. There was no answer.
He tried calling out a few more times with no luck, but just as he was about to move to another area of the building, he noticed something under a bit of rubble. An arm. Swallowing thickly, he approached it, hoping to God that it was still attached to whoever it belonged to, and thankfully it was. Moving some of the larger chunks, he found Lestrade underneath. "Greg? Gregory?" Mycroft knelt next to him, checking to see if he was awake. Or more importantly breathing.
Lestrade gave a low groan, hacking violently as he fought his way back to consciousness. "M...Myc?"
Mycroft let out a breath of relief. He managed to move some more of the debris and gently pulled him out with hands under his arms. The smoke was starting to get to him more as he worked and he bent down lower. "Stay with me, Greg. Do you think you can crawl?"
Lestrade gave a weak nod, trying to force himself to open his eyes against the haze. He was fairly sure he could manage crawling. The task only seemed the slightest bit daunting. He rolled and braced himself on his hands and knees.
Mycroft nodded in reply. "Good. Follow me." He started to crawl, leading Greg back the way he had come in. Or at least trying to. Somewhere along the way he started to feel like they were going in circles what with all their dodging and swerving.
Greg was trailing behind, one of his arms throbbing painfully. Well, most of his body was in pain, but his arm was definitely damaged in some way. He couldn't dwell on it, though. Right now his main focus was keeping his eyes on Mycroft and getting out.
Finally Mycroft found a back door, and he spluttered as he hit fresh air again. He turned back to make sure Greg was still behind him and then motioned some of the medics over. Thankfully they had arrived quickly. They reached the pair just as Greg collapsed into the grass in a fit of coughing, and scooped him up to take him to the ambulance.
Mycroft followed behind, his concern split between watching Greg being fixed by the paramedics and looking back at the burning building. It was going to crumble at any moment, he was sure, and he still didn't seen Sherlock and John. But he was pulled into a separate ambulance and given an oxygen mask before being whisked away to the hospital. He could only hope that they made it out alright.I.:.O.:.U
When John next opened his eyes, his ears were ringing, and he coughed roughly against the scent of gasoline and the thickness of smoke. It was hot. Very hot. Fiery hot. And he was on top of Sherlock. Greg and everyone else were nowhere in sight. "Sherlock?" he choked, then coughed again. "Sherlock, are you awake?" He shook the man's shoulder. The building groaned ominously.
Sherlock was half awake, aware of pain in his head similar to the one after the car accident, though not as intense. He must have been blown backwards and knocked his head on the ground. " 'M awake," he slurred, squeezing his eyes shut as they stung from the air around them. After coughing a bit he managed to wheeze out, "Just can't win." with a smirk.
"We have to get out of here, Sherlock," John said, no amusement in his tone. "The building's on fire. It's going to collapse." He sat up, but didn't stand. Crawling would be safer. "Can you move?" He cast his eyes about, trying to locate Lestrade through the rubble and the thickening smoke.
Sherlock experimentally wiggled his toes and bent his legs, then sat up. "Yes." He noticed John looking around and put a hand on his shoulder. "We have to go, John. He'll be alright."
John bit his lip in concern, but he knew Sherlock was right. He started to shuffle along, keeping as low to the floor as possible. The smoke still stung in his throat and filled his lungs, and he coughed roughly, eyes tearing from the burn. The exit seemed impossibly far away, and there was plenty of burning rubble to navigate through on the way there.
Sherlock followed, copying John in keeping low to the ground and blinking to clear his eyes so he could see him. He hoped that he was right and that Lestrade was okay. For John's sake if not for his own.
John yelped as a chunk of rubble from the ceiling crashed to earth just in front of them. The sound caused him to inhale a sudden mouthful of air, which had him coughing and retching moments later. The smoke and the lingering effects of the chloroform combined were not pleasant.
"Come on, John, we're almost there," Sherlock urged, rubbing his back a little. They couldn't stop, even for a moment. Taking the lead, he managed to find a hole in the wall where they could squeeze out.
John followed behind and just when it seemed like they would never find a way out, they were in the cool, fresh night, and he sucked in the first fresh air he encountered with a long wheeze. They crawled a few extra yards away from the building, for safety's sake, and then collapsed, both coughing hard to expel the smog from their lungs. Every spasm made them feel better and better. In another moment, nearby paramedics had rushed over and were examining them.
John, for once, allowed himself to be man-handled and manipulated by the paramedics without question. He and Sherlock were hauled to the back of one of the ambulances and given oxygen masks to help them breathe. Blankets were draped around their shoulders, and they were on their way to the hospital. John dropped sideways, leaning gratefully against his husband as a paramedic cut away the leg of his trousers to get at a minor burn.
Sherlock moved an arm out of his blanket and under John's to wrap an arm around his waist. The paramedics looked at his ear which he found funny being that that was the least of his problems, and they checked him for a concussion which he luckily managed to avoid this time.
The detective rubbed his hand soothingly over John's waist, trying to distract him from the pain of the burn that was being prodded by the medics' fingers. When they reached the A&E, Mycroft was standing at the entrance. He actually looked relieved but it only lasted for a split second before he was back to a weaker version of his usual mask. "Greg is alright. His arm was broken in a few places and they're going to operate to set it back in place. But other than that and some bruises, he should be fine."
Sherlock's shoulders dropped a little and he felt John's do the same. He hadn't even realised how worried he'd actually been for Lestrade. But he supposed that he couldn't deny the fact that he actually liked him. Not that he had to say it out loud.
"That's it, then," John croaked, voice rough from the smoke. "It's over. It's...over." He could hardly believe it. His head spun, and if not for the support of Sherlock's body, he might have swooned.
"Yes. It's over," Sherlock repeated. Saying it didn't solidify it like he thought it would. It was more like a dream than anything, as if any second he would wake up and realise it was morning and that they had to do it again for real this time. But they had done it. There had been a few bumps but overall they were successful.
John turned into Sherlock's body, wrapping his arms around the other man tightly. Even as the paramedics tried to coax him out of the ambulance to bring him inside, he held on. Mycroft must have 'encouraged' them to leave because soon there was just silence and the two of them. He cried. But these, for once, weren't tears of distress. It was over. It was finally over, and he was just so relieved.
Sherlock rubbed John's back and rocked him gently as he felt his own tears starting to fall. He'd done so much more crying since he came back, but even he couldn't suppress the emotions welling inside him from knowing that he and John were free at last. After a moment, he reached around for John's left hand and slipped his wedding ring back on, kissing it before hugging John again.
That only started John's tears anew. He gripped Sherlock's hand, entwining their fingers so their rings clashed. "I'll never take it off again," he swore. "Never."
Sherlock nodded, John's fresh sobs increasing his own. "I know." He squeezed John's hand tightly. "I love you."
"I love you, too," John replied. "I love you, too. So much."
Eventually, when they both felt they had gotten everything out of their system, the two settled down and were reduced to soft sniffles. John was the first to pull back from their embrace, and looked up at his husband. "We should...check on Greg," he suggested, clearing his throat.
Sherlock nodded, wiping away a few stray tears from John's cheeks. "Yes, let's go." He held onto his husband's hand as they climbed out of the ambulance and walked into the hospital.
They walked in silence for a few moments, John leaning into Sherlock in the absence of his cane. "Mycroft seemed pretty worried about Lestrade," he said, looking just a touch amused. It seemed like an odd thing to say in light of the situation they'd just been through, but he thought it might lighten their mood.
"You think so?" Sherlock asked, turning to look at him. He could see the little bit of laughter in John's eyes and it made him smile. "What are you implying, John?"
"Oh, nothing," John said. "Just that Greg's been a little lonely since he finally split up with his wife."
"You think Mycroft...and Lestrade?" Sherlock had to let out a laugh at the idea. "Well, I would say that it's not possible because Lestrade is straight and my brother doesn't do sentiment but then there's us. I suppose anything is possible." He had noticed that the two of them talked a lot more than they used to, but he thought that was just a result of recent events.
"I think it's possible," John said. "You're right. Greg and Mycroft do sort of mirror us in a way, so why not? Anything is possible among the friends we keep."
"Yes. Absolutely." Sherlock leaned in closer to whisper to him as they approached Greg's room. "You do realise that now I will have to tease Mycroft about his little crush on the D.I."
"Don't be too hard on him," John scolded. "You're more alike than you think, meaning he's potentially completely oblivious to it."
Sherlock grumbled a little. "We're not that much alike," he muttered. But he could see John was serious. "Alright, I won't lay it on too thick. Just a little ribbing."
"Good," John said. "And wait a bit, yes? We've all had a bit of a stressful day."
Much as he wanted to poke fun at his brother, Sherlock would hold back. John was right; now was not the time. "Whatever you say, love." He pressed a quick kiss into his hair as they rounded a corner and went into Lestrade's room. Mycroft was inside already, leaning against a wall and looking almost too nonchalant. He gave them a small nod. Sherlock couldn't help a faint grin as he led John to one of the chairs so he could sit. How could he not have noticed the way Mycroft was acting sooner?
Greg was just coming to, his eyelids fluttering open and his lips parting in a groan that fogged the oxygen mask still strapped over his nose and mouth.
Mycroft immediately looked up and leaned forward, but then just as quickly regained composure and cleared his throat. He stepped over slowly to Greg's bedside. Sherlock moved John's chair, careful to make sure that it didn't screech against the floor, and brought the both of them closer to Greg as well.
Greg let his tired eyes sweep over them. "Two Holmeses...three, really...in one room. God help me." His voice was rough and weak, but he was smiling. Mycroft's lips twitched up just a bit. If Greg could joke right out of anesthetic then he would be just fine.
"We can always leave if you like," Sherlock said with a little smirk.
Lestrade shook his head, not realising that Sherlock was trying to mess with him. "You're all okay?" he murmured, eyes lingering on Mycroft a bit longer than the others.
"We're all fine," Sherlock said.
"We're all incredibly lucky," Mycroft added. He met Greg's eyes for a moment before looking down at his arm, now encased in a cast. "How do you feel?"
"Fine," Greg murmured. "I'm fine. It's just a broken bone. I've had much worse, believe me." He sighed. "It's over, then. We're done with Moriarty."
"He was extricated and taken away before the explosion," Mycroft said. "I made sure he was put directly into maximum security solitary confinement. The rest will be dealt with later."
"He's being executed," John said firmly, though he still looked like he needed confirmation of this. "He has to be. He's too dangerous. Normally, I wouldn't want to see any man killed, but...Jim Moriarty deserves it."
"Yes. He most certainly does," Sherlock said, the hatred clear in his voice. He squeezed John's shoulders where his hands were resting.
Mycroft nodded. "The cell is merely temporary until arrangements are made. But it won't be long before Moriarty is once and for all dead."
John closed his eyes. So many years and so much pain, and this was it. This was the end. And they were all alive and, for the most part, well. John would always limp, and Lestrade's arm would probably ache when it got cold, but those scars were nothing compared to what they might have been had Moriarty been allowed to continue.
"I should tell you, then, Sherlock," John said, turning and looking up at the man behind him. "Our adoption papers went through."
Sherlock's eyes widened, the anger in his face draining and a smile spreading over his features. He stepped around to squat in front of John, hands on his knees. "We're going to be parents," he said quietly, the grin refusing to disappear.
John matched the expression brilliantly, beaming at his husband. "We are," he said. "We really are."
Sherlock leaned up and took John's face in his hands, capturing his lips. Mycroft muttered something about sentiment and rolled his eyes, though his eyes were not as cold as usual. Lestrade cringed. "So...I'll be dealing with four Holmeses, then?" he teased, light-heartedly. "I think that's four too many..."
"Yes, well," Mycroft started. "At least you're not going to be the uncle who will most likely end up babysitting when the two of them run off on their adventures. Or whatever else they might be doing."
"I didn't need that thought," Greg replied instantly. "And honestly, if the kid is going to be raised a Holmes, I'm sure he's going to be brought along on some of those adventures. You two did want a boy, right?"
Sherlock didn't bother pulling away from John, instead making some humming sounds and waving a hand at Greg.
"I believe that was a yes," Mycroft supplied.
"Going to name him Hamish?" Greg said dryly, and at that, John broke away from Sherlock and laughed loudly.
Sherlock pouted a little at the loss of the kiss, but then looked thoughtful for a moment. "Actually, it does have a ring to it. Hamish Watson-Holmes."
John gave a fond smile. "Yes," he agreed. "It does. I wouldn't mind, if you wouldn't."
Lestrade groaned, rolling his eyes, but smiling.
Sherlock turned around and made a face at the Detective Inspector, before turning back to John. "I wouldn't mind at all."
"Then Hamish Watson-Holmes it is," John said happily. "He's going to be brilliant, just like you."
"And he'll have a big heart like you." Sherlock was practically glowing just thinking about it. The timing was just perfect, and they could actually bask in their shared happiness.
"So he'll viciously interrogate a witness and then apologise for it," Lestrade said flatly. John found himself laughing again and Sherlock couldn't help a little chuckle himself. It did sound like an accurate combination.
"I'm just dying to meet him," Mycroft deadpanned.
"We get to bring him tomorrow," John informed them. "According to the letter, he was born two months ago. We'll be a bit banged up for it, but that's okay. Maybe he'll grow up to think we're superheroes."
Sherlock's smile widened, if that was even possible. "He'd be right. You're definitely my hero."
John flushed. "Very sentimental of you, Sherlock," he teased. "I think I've been a bit of an influence on you. Good or bad, I wonder?"
"Good I think. Though others would tend to disagree." At that Sherlock shot a look at Mycroft who just rolled his eyes again.
John laughed. "Come on, Sherlock, give him a break. He may be annoying-" at this Mycroft interjected with 'I'm standing right here.' "-but he's still your brother. And Hamish's uncle. And I want...I want Hamish to have as many people to love him as possible."
Sherlock's eyes warmed. "I know, love. I was just teasing." He pecked John on the lips. "He will be well loved, I'm sure. Everyone who meets him will love him."
"Good," John murmured. "Good. That's all I could ask for, that he be loved." That, and that his son could be raised in a world without fear- at least without the kind of fear he and Sherlock were used to being faced with. Fear of missing his favourite programme on the telly, maybe. Not fear of death, of being followed and watched and being the unwilling participant in a horrid game.
Sherlock gave him a smile. He wanted the same thing of course. He wanted Hamish to experience the kind of caring and love that he never got when he was a child, not since his mother was alive. Especially from himself and John, if not Mycroft, Greg, and the rest of their pseudo-family. It was like they had both agreed that first night when they had decided to start a family; they were going to be better fathers than the ones they had.
John leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "We should get some rest," he said. "And then we'll be taking Hamish home before we know it."
"Yes. Let's go home." Sherlock stood up and offered his hand to John.
John smiled, slipping his hand easily into Sherlock's. It always felt right, like their hands were made to be put together. "Feel better, Greg," he said, glancing over to the bed. Lestrade gave a sleepy grunt in response, already dozing.
Sherlock gave his hand a squeeze and they started off, the detective once again acting as John's crutch. "Good night, Mycroft," he said, just a note of teasing in his voice. He had a feeling that his brother would probably be staying in or around the hospital tonight. Mycroft just gave a little hmph, taking the chair John had been sitting in.
John chuckled as they left, heading to a lift. "How would you feel about it, then?" he asked, bringing back the topic they'd been discussing before going into the room. "Your somewhat-boss, dating your older brother?"
Sherlock shrugged. "What does it matter to me? Mycroft can do whatever he wants, or rather whomever. Just as long as they don't start describing their sexual endeavours to us." He grimaced at the thought.
John laughed again, brightly, the weight of Moriarty gone from all of his expressions. "I doubt they would do that, Sherlock," he said. "Most people keep those sorts of things quiet."
"You're probably right," Sherlock said with a nod. "At least, I hope you are." He smiled at the sound of John's laughter. Sherlock just loved it when he laughed. Hopefully it would be a sound that he would hear much more often now.
"I'm right more often than you care to admit," John teased. He gave in to his weariness and let himself lean a bit more heavily against his husband as the lift went down. "I can't wait to get home and sleep. Preferably for a very long time."
"Agreed." For the first time in a long time, Sherlock actually felt lethargic. He hadn't been sleeping in the days leading up to today and was also physically and emotionally exhausted from the events. "We can have a lie in before we meet Hamish. Maybe I'll even bring you breakfast in bed." When the lift reached the ground floor, they exited and stepped out of the hospital onto the pavement. Sherlock lifted his arm to hail a cab.
"I think you should have a few supervised lessons with me before you start cooking on your own," John said as they got into the cab, more serious than joking.
Sherlock pretended to look insulted. "I'm not that incompetent in the kitchen." Though he didn't press that issue too much. Handling dangerous chemicals he could do, but a frying pan and an egg, that was a different story. Perhaps breakfast in bed was best saved for their first anniversary.
John just smirked and settled into Sherlock's side for the ride home. He had nearly fallen asleep by the time they were back in front of their wonderful flat at Baker Street. But he forced himself to stay awake long enough to get inside and to bed.
Sherlock could see that John was was struggling with his leg and staying awake, so halfway up the stairs he scooped the other man into his arms to carry him. John yelped, his arms shooting around Sherlock's neck, holding on tightly. "It's still a bit of a shock when you do that," he said.
Sherlock grinned at him. "Sorry, love." He gave him a chaste kiss, carrying him into the flat and bringing him to their room. He laid John down on the bed before starting to strip out of his burnt smelling clothing.
John watched carefully. Sherlock hadn't acted like he'd been in any sort of pain throughout this whole thing, but he knew that he might be hiding some injury in favour of making the medics focus on John instead. "Are you okay?" he asked, scanning for any hint of burns or bruises that had been concealed by his clothes.
Sherlock looked down at himself. He ached a little, like there would be big bruises on his back tomorrow, and his head was still throbbing a bit, but it was nothing major. He kicked off his trousers and climbed into the bed. "I'm perfect." Because in the end, what were a few injuries when they were finally safe from Moriarty? "What about you? How's that burn?"
John looked down at his freshly bandaged leg. Sherlock looked alright for now, but he'd be keeping an eye on him. "Fine," he decided. "Not horrible and thankfully not permanent."
Sherlock frowned at that. He still felt like John's limp returning was his fault, and he would have only felt worse if anything else was added on top of that. He pulled his husband towards him and pressed a kiss into his hair before starting to help him undress as well. "Hopefully we'll only get better from here."
"We will," John assured him, moving when he needed to until he was down to his pants. "I know we will. The only thing that's going to get worse is our sleeping habits, but babies have a tendency to cause that."
"Well, perhaps your sleeping habits. I'm already awake most of the time." Sherlock smiled at him, snuggling against him now that they were both ready for bed at last. "Perhaps I can take the night shift, per say."
"We should split it, Sherlock," John argued lightly, nestling his head in the crook of his husband's shoulder. "It's only fair. And you should really try to start sleeping more. If Hamish sees that you never sleep, he'll grow up thinking that's normal."
"My body is conditioned not to need as much sleep anymore," Sherlock said. "Even if I wanted to, I'm not sure I could."
"You can recondition it," John said, giving him a sly look. "I'll just have to start tiring you out."
"Oh?" Sherlock smirked. "And how do you propose to do that?"
John chuckled. "I'm sure I'll think of something," he assured him. "But right now, I'm already tired out, and I just want to sleep."
"I agree wholeheartedly. But I will look forward to it in the future." Sherlock leaned down and kissed him, lips lingering there for a long moment. "I love you," he murmured, and behind those words were all the elation he was feeling because he and John were safe, home, and about to add another member to their family.
"I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes," John said softly, returning his kiss. He settled comfortably against his human pillow, carefully maneuvered his leg into a comfortable position, and closed his eyes, rejoicing in the fact that he no longer needed to worry about letting his guard down to get much needed rest.