chocolamousse: (Sadyna)
[personal profile] chocolamousse
Title: Going Home
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Romance
Rating: PG-13
Beta: The unique [ profile] verityburns
Word count: 2805
Translation into Chinese by Lowtension available here.
Summary: Sherlock has too many secrets and just longs for home. John goes from shock to shock and has the BAMFiest time of his life.

Author's note: Some time ago [ profile] atlinmerrick demanded in an imperious tone that I write a Sherlock fic involving aliens and celery. (Don't ask. But if you ask, take a look at the comments here). Of course I had an insouciant laugh and waved a dismissive hand at this ludicrous idea. *sighs* Well. At least you know who to blame. Happy birthday, Atlin!

They are coming. They are coming to take me back home. Except that it's not home any more. Home is now this immense and fascinating city that teems with surprises and mysteries. Home is this funny little flat with a skull on the mantelpiece. Home is John.

It's too soon. I haven't even had time to tell him, to explain. I'm not supposed to tell anybody and I'd never have thought I ever would. Secrecy is second nature with me. Until John. John is different. It was easy in the beginning but for some time it has been more and more difficult not to speak when I can see so much trust and affection in his eyes. I feel as if I betray him. Many times I opened my mouth to tell him everything and every time I thought better of it, feeling sick and terrified at the idea of his probable reaction.

And of course, as if it wasn't enough, there is this new secret now, this stunning and wonderful feeling that I had never experienced, that I thought I was unable to experience, and that I experience for John. But I'd have kept this secret for ever, revealing it would have destroyed what is between John and me and what is between John and me is the most precious thing I have in the world. John is the most precious thing I have in the world. Losing his friendship is unthinkable. Losing him is unthinkable.

And yet, I'm going to lose him today. I always knew I'd have to go back one day and I didn't mind, I had never become really attached to anything. Until John. In John I found, for the first time, something that was worth living for or dying for. Mycroft understood immediately. He looked at me with a bit of pity and said, "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." He's right. For us it's not an advantage. You begin to care and suddenly your life is inextricably intertwined with that of a short man with a radiant smile, and when it's time to go back it's as if your heart is torn away from your chest. I thought I had plenty of time. There was so much data to collect after all, so many things to learn, and maybe it could have taken me a whole life, a whole life with John, so many moments to share, so many chances to tell him.

Now, it's too late. Too late to tell him properly, too late for everything. I've just got the message, as John had already left the flat for shopping. They are coming. They are coming to take me back and there's nothing I can do. If I were the only one to suffer I could perhaps stand it. But John will grieve too, I know it. I'm not certain I can stand that.

They're here. I can hear their steps on the stairs.


Seventeen steps. There are seventeen steps in our staircase and I curse each one of them as I go up with a heavy shopping bag in each hand. Sherlock would gladly live on takeaway food only but I'm firmly determined to make him swallow some fresh produce now and again. The living-room door is open and, hindered by my bags, I enter this way.

Sherlock is there, standing with his back to the fireplace, but he's not on his own. Two men face him, two tall strangers in plain dark suits, a dark-haired one and a grey-haired, older one. They turn to me when I come in and something in them reminds me irresistibly of Mycroft, probably their air of self-importance. The only thing they're lacking is umbrellas. They don't look like potential clients. Sherlock is still and stares at the ground. He doesn't react to my arrival. Something is wrong. The two men don't seem threatening. I put my bags down on the floor.


He closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. Definitely something wrong. I instinctively take a step towards him and immediately the man on his right, the dark-haired one, moves forward and speaks. His voice is posh, his smile completely false. I hate him straightaway.

"Doctor Watson, I assume? We won't trouble you for long. We just came to take Sherlock."

"Take him where?"

Sherlock has opened his eyes but keeps them fixed on the ground. I can't read his face. The fingers of his right hand twitch convulsively.

"To where he comes from. Now, if you will excuse us..." He turns to Sherlock. "Shall we go?"

Sherlock looks up at me at last. It's a shock. I can only see fear and grief in his eyes. I've never seen him like this, not even on that evening at the inn in Grimpen. That's enough.

"Nobody goes anywhere as long as I don't know what's going on here. Sherlock, talk to me."

The two men seem a little surprised but don't protest. They turn to Sherlock, who gulps and starts to speak.

"John, listen... I... I'm not... John, listen..."

His voice is so strained. He can't find words. Sherlock Holmes can't find words. The man on his left sighs with a slightly exasperated look.

"Great heavens, emotions now. Let's get this over with. Doctor Watson, we don't want an incident and since it seems we can't put an end to this regrettable scene without an explanation, I will give you one. You are a sensible man, I know I can trust you to keep it to yourself. Nobody would believe you anyway. The facts are simple: we came to take Sherlock back to his planet. To our planet."

God knows I've heard a thing or two since I met the Holmes brothers but that takes the cake. "Sorry, what?"

He repeats patiently, as if he was talking to a particularly slow-witted child. "We take Sherlock back to our planet."

"Right. Don't take exception but do you really expect me to believe such bloody stupid things?"

"It matters little to us. You asked for an explanation, you have it."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't believe in aliens."

"It is your most basic right. Now..."

"Listen, I'm a doctor. I've dressed enough of Sherlock's wounds to be sure he's not an alien."

"Well, we are not aliens. Not in the literal sense of the word. Biologically speaking we are human, exactly like you. We share the same genetic inheritance. Intellectually speaking, on the other hand..." He smiles suavely.

"Totally improbable. Impossible. That's nonsense."

"This is precisely what we said when we discovered your planet. And yet, here you are."

I open my mouth to answer and close it again at once. That's a good point. I feel I have somewhat lost control of the situation. I turn to Sherlock so as to be done with this rubbish. He looks quite miserable.

"Sherlock, talk to me. What is all this bull about?" He doesn't answer. He just looks at me. And I suddenly have the inner conviction that, unbelievable as it may seem, what the stranger has just said is true. I turn to the men again. "But you speak English!" I exclaim in a desperate and paltry burst of rationality.

"We are very good at foreign languages," replies the older one.

My mind goes a little blank. "I think I need to sit down." I totter to my armchair and try to sort my ideas out a bit. "Do you want to invade us or something?" It's the first thought that occurs to me and I'm afraid it won't improve the idea these people have of our intellect. The two aliens / men / whoever they are look slightly offended.

"Invade you?" repeats the grey-haired one who seems to be the other one's superior. "Goodness gracious, no. We are scientists. Our only purpose is science."

And he starts to explain. I have a feeling that he rather likes that. He paces up and down between the fireplace and the sofa and seems quite pleased with the sound of his voice. I feel as if my head is filled with fog but I vaguely understand that Sherlock has been trained to collect data since his childhood and that his mission here was to put together as much information as possible about our civilisation. I hear but I don't really listen. I stare at Sherlock. He's from another planet and I suppose I should feel something about that but I'm gradually becoming aware of the only thing that really matters: Sherlock is leaving. His mission is over and he's leaving. And it's only now, as the fact sinks in, that I realise what his leaving really means to me. The revelation takes my breath away. It's of course just as I'm about to lose him that I understand what he is for me. Such a bloody cliché.

I notice that the man has stopped talking. He's laid his hands on the back of Sherlock's armchair and he's looking at me as if he expected a comment. The other bloke, still standing beside Sherlock, just seems bored. Sherlock looks... defeated. It's the first time I've seen him with this expression. And the last time too, quite obviously. I heavily get up and turn to him.

"So, you're leaving." You're leaving me. This is what I mean. He's deserting me. I feel anger creep over me and I don't care if it's not very fair. He told me I was his friend, his only friend, and now he deserts me.

"John, I'm sorry, I..."

"Don't bother, I understand. Work comes before everything. Married to your work, isn't it? Your work is over. You can go back since this is what you want."

It's as if I had struck him with a whip. He jerks his head up and his eyes blaze. "This is not what I want!"

"Why are you leaving, then?"

"What else can I do, now that... But John, if I... If I could... If you... Oh, God, can't you see? Can't you see?"

I look at him. He doesn’t seem defeated any more. His whole body, a little leant towards me, quivers with tension. He slightly holds out his hands to me in a gesture of entreaty. His eyes are both imploring and desperate. I look at him and I see. For the first time I see, because for the first time he lets me see.

Well, that changes everything. If Sherlock doesn't want to leave, if he, well, feels for me what I feel for him, the situation is completely different. It's time to remember that I'm a soldier. I'll fight and keep what's dear to me or I'll die fighting. I take Sherlock's arm and pull him to me while going back some paces, until I stand between him and his two compatriots. I face them, straighten up to my full height and look at them defiantly. They exchange a puzzled look. The older one raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture and smiles.

"Come, Doctor Watson, be reasonable. He belongs to our people. He's ours."

"No," I growl. "He's mine now."

I can hear Sherlock gasp slightly behind me. I grab the first thing I come across, adopt my most martial posture and prepare to fight. Our two visitors seem flabbergasted. I take a look at Sherlock over my shoulder. He too seems flabbergasted, but also quite smug. For some seconds I really feel heroic. Then I realise that the first thing I came across happens to be a celeriac that was sticking out of the shopping bag. I'm defending my beloved against two aliens with the help of a celeriac. This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. And I invaded Afghanistan. But, on the other hand, this is probably the most important thing I’ve ever done in my whole life and I don't feel the least bit embarrassed. Unlike the dark-haired man, who gives a forced little cough.

"Doctor Watson, that is a celeriac. It is hardly a lethal weapon."

"It all depends on the way you use it."

The two aliens look unimpressed, maybe with good reason, and the situation seems to be at a standstill when Sherlock gently shoves me aside and takes a step forward. He doesn't look at all scared or downcast or bewildered any more. He holds his head high, the look in his eyes is assured, his whole being expresses self-confidence. This is the Sherlock I know. When he speaks his voice is perfectly calm.

"I'm not going back."

The older man uses his special voice for slow-witted children. The patronising bastard. "Sherlock, stop this nonsense. You must go back. We always go back in the end. That's what people do."

"I don't. My mission is finished, you said so. I'll give Mycroft all the data and he'll convey it to you. I have done with you. You know I'll be no use to you over there if I decide not to be. And you know I won't harm you by staying here."

"Mycroft will be furious. He will order you."

Sherlock lifts up a challenging chin. "I'd like to see him try."

"You know you won't be allowed to ever go back after that, don't you?"

Sherlock looks at me. His eyes soften. He smiles. "I'll never want to go back."

The grey-haired alien seems unsure. The younger one just seems completely overtaken by events and I can't blame him. A few seconds go by. I realise I’m still brandishing my celeriac and hasten to lower it. Sherlock winks at me. Eventually, the older man sighs.

"Well, it seems our presence here is not required any more. Sherlock, it is my duty to inform you that..."

"Leave", says Sherlock.

And they do, with as much dignity as possible.

Sherlock and I are on our own. He slowly turns to me, his eyes rove some inches away from my face, he nibbles at his lower lip. I put my celeriac back into the bag in order to give an impression of composure. There's an awkward silence. Finally, Sherlock gives me a smile, a genuine and just a little tentative smile.

"Am I, then?" he asks.

I'm confused. "Are you what?"

"Yours. Am I, really?"

I'm afraid I'm blushing a bit. "Well, yes. I think you are. If you want to be, I mean."

His smile broadens. "I think I want to be."

"Right. That's good. It's settled then." I feel slightly dizzy and a little euphoric.

"You've got questions," Sherlock says.

"Yes, loads. But later. For the moment I may be a bit in shock."

"It's quite normal. Finding out that your flatmate is from another planet doesn't happen every day."

"Oh no, I'm not talking about that. That explains a lot actually. I always thought there was something otherworldly about these eyes and these cheekbones."


"And of course your eating and sleeping habits should have aroused my suspicions."


"Not to mention your first name obviously."

"In fact it's quite a..."

"And I must say that your spectacular ignorance about astronomy is all the more appalling."

"That's really not..."

"Oh God, I called you 'Spock' once, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock casts an outraged look at me and seems to be about to have a sulk. Quite possibly there's nothing more adorable in the whole world. And probably in the whole universe. I feel as if my chest is going to burst with happiness. I give him a gentle thump on the shoulder and his pout turns into a smile in spite of himself.

"It's not that which dazes me," I explain. "I was talking about..." I vaguely wave my hand between him and me. "You know..."

"Oh. So you don't mind, really?"


"Well, I'm... special."

I smile fondly. "Sherlock, you've always been special to me."

He beams at me. "Yes, but I am... They told you I was genetically identical to earthlings and it's true but I am..."

In order to put an end to his babbling I cup my hands around his face. It works. He stops dead and looks at me with wide eyes. "You are Sherlock. I am John. And I love you."

And I kiss him.


And John kisses me.

It is, to the best of my knowledge, the first kiss between an earthling and a native of my planet, which is an extraordinarily important fact from the historical point of view. I couldn't care less. I can only feel the softness of his lips on mine and the warmth of his hands on my skin. I can only feel love. For the first time in my life I am exactly where I belong. John slowly breaks the kiss, draws back his head a little, looks me in the eyes and smiles.

I am home.

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