The Middle Distance

Title: The Straw Man Fallacy
Fandoms: Sherlock/The Wicker Man (1973)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other Characters: Lord Summerisle, Miss Rose, Willow MacGregor, Alder MacGregor, Mr. Lennox, The Librarian, other Summerisle villagers and OCs
Rating: NC-17/explicit

Summary:
“Mr Holmes, I'm not in the habit of approaching . . . consultants. But you are correct. I have great faith in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. And until recently, I also had faith in the rule of law. Only the second one has wavered. Three years ago my fiancé, Sgt. Neil Howie of the West Highlands Constabulary, went to investigate an anonymous report of a missing child in a remote place called Summerisle. He never communicated with me while he was there, and he never returned.”

Summerisle is not a welcoming place to visitors, but it shows its best face at May Day. For ulterior motives.

Chapter 7: Dressed in the Fruits of the Wild

Masks come off, rabbit holes are excavated, and what happens on Summerisle doesn't always stay on Summerisle.

This is story is now essentially COMPLETE, though there will be an Epilogue soon.

Sherlock squirmed a little, restlessly, then started to push himself up off the ground, using John's aching thighs for leverage. For one moment, he leaned back, into John's quick, stolen, private kiss. Then Sherlock folded himself up and away. As he rose to his feet, he winced a little, and John instinctively grasped his waist to help push him up.

“Are you sore?” John asked apologetically.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Just . . . slippery.”

“Oh,” John chuckled. “We'll get you cleaned up soon.”

A change came over Sherlock as he wrapped the robe back around himself. All trace of nerves or exhaustion or softness or vulnerability were gone from his beaming face. Sherlock acknowledged the cheers of the villagers with a quick shake of his fists in the air, and he looked like nothing so much as a victorious prizefighter.

Wonderful, John thought. His ego has a whole new playground.

“Share the applause, John,” Sherlock said, holding up John's hand as he bowed. “You did most of the work.”

Cut him some slack, John told himself, choking back a snicker as he shared Sherlock’s last bow. You were proud of yourself when you first got laid too. Admittedly, you were fifteen, but still. And your first time didn't have life-or-death consequences. This was the weirdest post-coital afterglow John had ever had; all those hormones had to go someplace, and they expressed themselves as profound relief, ridiculous fondness for the madman who’d got them into this and then out of it again, and a certain trippy hallucinatory daze.

The music of the villagers began to increase and build in pace and intensity. The pipers and drummers had resumed their instruments, playing with volume and frenzy. The people were grabbing each other, some beginning to lead up to performing their own matings on the heath; others were hungry for food, and they led each other by the hands back down to the path towards the village, where there would be feasting and drinking and dancing all night.

Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose stepped in front of Sherlock and John, and the fox-masked girl stood beside them. “We want to invite our most honoured guests to a very civilised feast,” Lord Summerisle said.

“Where the conversation can be private,” Miss Rose said pointedly.

Fox-face finally took her mask off, and John boggled at what he saw. Sherlock gave a quiet chuckle as John blurted, “Anthea?!?” John stepped back a little, shaking his head. Once again, he’d been miles behind and over his head.

“All will be explained, John,” Sherlock said. He really did look a little tired now, and that grass-stained white robe seemed insufficient to guard against the rising evening wind from the sea.

“As usual. Don’t keep me waiting too long,” John said resignedly, as Ivy pulled up at the top of the hill, driving a larger two-horse buggy that could possibly sit five more, if two were willing to be very cozy indeed. Which they were. John discreetly traced his fingertips gently across the underside of Sherlock’s knee. Considering what they’d just done, it was kid stuff - but it was private and intimate, and it made Sherlock shiver, just a little, or perhaps that was the chill.

By the time they pulled up to the manor, the staff had a hot, excellent meal waiting. Lord Summerisle poured more of his magical Scotch – for such a rare brew, his supply didn't seem to dwindle much.

Everyone was very eager to attend to Sherlock, and by the time he finally admitted he'd really like a bath, it was already ready. The mission to find Sherlock's clothes in the crowd had been still ongoing the last they'd heard – and they better find them, John thought, he really liked that white shirt. At it wasn't the aubergine one he loved most to see Sherlock in, or the blue, or one of those sleek black ones . . . well, good thing Sherlock had left the coat and scarf safely back at the inn; there'd be blood if those had gone missing.

“My apologies,” Lord Summerisle said. “It's very likely they've been cut up for souvenirs and charms by now. They'll be replaced at my expense, of course. It's the least I can do.”

Therefore, John was treated to the sight of a moist, wet-haired Sherlock relaxing back in one of Lord Summerisle's chairs, drinking Lord Summerisle's Scotch and nibbling at Lord Summerisle's lamb, and wearing Lord Summerisle's dressing gown – a tartan of course, predominantly green, and of course Sherlock looked lickable in it. But the sleeves were a little too long for him.

“We must go downstairs,” Lord Summerisle said. “I do apologize; it's a long walk. But there are things that must be cleared up, before we're all relaxed and exhausted and socially lubricated – as we should be on May Day night.”

Only right, John thought, as Lord Summerisle led the little party out of the parlour and across a long, drafty foyer leading to the very oldest part of the house. Summerisle Manor is a castle, so it must have a dungeon. He was impressed by it; it was so . . . medieval. An imposing oak door swung onto a dark, lichen-covered stone stairway leading downward. The way was long and winding, and they paused only to let Lord Summerisle light flickering lamps set into the damp walls. Gaslight, John thought. This part was last modernised at least a century ago. Who or what had the first Lord Summerisle kept down here?

As they all walked down the dripping, dank underground hallway at the lowest level, John heard rough voices talking.

“Yeah, and the way Howie screamed and screamed and screamed as the fire went up his arse . . . tried to be all high and mighty but he was cryin' and pissin' himself when they took him up there. It was great. And the smell – swear I could tell what was him and what was the sheep.”

“You could not. It was all the same, it was all meat. Like when a steak falls down the grill.”

“Shame it didn't happen this time. Would have loved to hear that ponce screaming like that.”

“Naw, I wished they'd chopped his stuck-up head off. Saw a video once, a beheading. The blood shoots everywhere and the body twitches and the head doesn't even realise it's dead for a few seconds . . .”

“Ooh, that've been great. But faggots are for burning.”

They stopped up short when they saw who was standing in front of their cell. John, Sherlock, Lord Summerisle, Miss Rose, and Anthea. Blossom. Whatever.

“You should be glad you've got bars protecting you,” John said.

“You should be glad the Goddess wouldn't want you,” Lord Summerisle said.

***

Branch Burns sat glumly in a cell by himself, poking gingerly at the bandages on his stomach where John's antlers had gored him. From what John could tell of the wound - as the one who inflicted it as well as from a doctor’s point of view - it seemed more painful and embarrassing than serious.

John saw him cringing - at the nasty talk of his former co-conspirators, maybe? Oh, John hoped so - and he didn’t look up right away at the approaching sets of footsteps.

“My condolences for your loss,” said Lord Summerisle, formally and insincerely.

Branch just shook his head sadly and finally looked up. His pale face was streaked with tears. “She wasn't wrong,” Branch said. “The Goddess of the fields took her sacrifice. Tell him, Miss Rose. You know. You were Her. I saw it in your eyes.”

Miss Rose said nothing, biting her lip.

“I almost killed you,” Lord Summerisle said, his careful neutrality crumbling. “You conspired against me. You nearly undermined me in front of all of our people. You tried to manipulate us to kill a man who is ten times better than you.”

Another twinge of pain crossed Branch's face – emotional or physical, hard to tell, John thought. Likely both.

“Your plan – if it worked, which it would not have done – could have led to my eventual death in the long run,” Lord Summerisle said. “That didn't bother you at all?”

Sherlock stepped forward – if anyone could work an ill-fitting dressing gown and a few stray bits of holly and ivy still caught in his hair, it was him. “That was Branch's plan, but it was only one of Hazel's plans. She wanted to be the High Priestess, the power behind the throne, with a Lord Summerisle as her consort. Whether it was the current one or the next one made little difference to her. She wanted to be prepared for contingencies.”

Branch at last stood up painfully, using the iron bars to raise himself from the floor. “Do you think I didn't know that? She loved the gods above all.”

“A recent development, I understand,” Sherlock said, rocking a little on his feet and smirking coolly. “New converts are often the most . . . fervent. You do understand that she'd have been willing to put you in the wicker man if she felt the gods wanted it?”

“Yes, I understood that,” Branch said. “I'm not as dumb or naïve as you think I am, Mr. Holmes. You might ask, why conspire with someone I can't trust? Because my situation had become intolerable. Here I was, a mere employee when I should be an heir. We are not Christians here. No one on Summerisle cares a whit about sex and babies outside of matrimony. Why couldn't my own father acknowledge me? Why should he be ashamed?”

Lord Summerisle stood up ramrod-straight, at his full imposing height. There was rage in his eyes but sadness in his voice. “I was never ashamed of you, Branch,” he said. “Until now.” He turned stiffly and walked away. Miss Rose stood a moment and shook her head sadly, and then followed him.

Branch slumped down, utterly dejected. Anthea gave Sherlock a little smile. “Now I think I know how Mycroft feels every time he has to apologise for you.”

“Hardly my concern,” Sherlock sniffed haughtily.

Anthea sighed and shook her head. “Well, Branch is still my brother.” She pushed in between John and Sherlock and reached for his hand through the bars. “He'll come round, Branch. I'll talk to him.”

Branch smiled a little stiffly and let his sister comfort him. “He listens to you, sometimes,” he said ruefully. “You were always his favourite. You figured it out so long before I did. Maybe someday you'll be Lady Summerisle and I'll be your butler. If you'd hire me.”

She smiled sadly. “He's sending you to the mainland to seek your fortune. I think that's good. You could still do really well. You know Mum and I will help you.”

Branch looked up at her and got a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. “I don't suppose there's a chance of a job for me with your employer?”

She laughed softly. “After you conspired to set up his little brother as a human sacrifice? I think not.”

“Fair enough,” Branch admitted. “Bridge burned.”

Sherlock lightly tugged on John's sleeve, pulling him back up the hallway and towards the high, dripping stone stairs. To let Anthea be Blossom again, in privacy with her twin.

John was feeling just a little bit lightheaded again, as everything he thought he knew about Anthea -- which wasn’t much at all, and had turned out to be even less than he thought - rearranged itself. Summerisle. Brother. Father. Well. Categorise that later. His first concern was still Sherlock.

“So. Let's talk,” John muttered quietly. “Um, about what we did out there – are you okay?”

“Of course I'm okay, why wouldn't I be?” Sherlock said impatiently. “We didn't do anything that millions of people aren't doing even as we speak just for the fun of it.”

“I just, I mean – it was under duress.”

“It was under duress, yes,” Sherlock said, searching John's face with his keenest grey-green gaze. “For you as well.”

John nodded. “True. Guess I got used to the idea pretty fast. I'm still more concerned about you, though.”

“Why?”

“Because it was so weird, and you never did that before.”

“Why are so you fixated on that? One must always do everything for the first time once, obviously, and once that’s out of the way, one goes on to doing it other times.”

John looked up at him, struggling to hold the intensity of his gaze. “So you might want to do it . . . other times. Right?”

“Right. Correct.” Sherlock gave a Cheshire-cat smile. “Even with a man, then, you can enjoy it that much. Useful to know,” Sherlock said, his eyes gleaming in the dim lamplight.

“Well,” John said. “I guess I have to admit I'm a little more gay than I thought. And so you are, then. I always thought you might be, but I was never sure.”

“Inasmuch as it was relevant before, which wasn’t very, I do find myself mostly attracted to men, yes,” Sherlock said, his voice falling into back into his assured, all-knowing comfort zone, reciting information to himself and any surrounding eager ears to anchor himself. “You weren't lying when you said you weren't gay, and you weren't in denial. You're not gay. You're slightly bisexual, contingent on situation and opportunity. You had male partners in the Army and you enjoyed it. But when you came back to civilian life, you compartmentalised.”

“You're on the right track so far,” John said. Sherlock's chest reflected dark golden gaslight between the lapels of Lord Summerisle’s robe. John itched to touch it. He did. “All of that is true.”

Sherlock went on, picking up a little nervous urgency. “Your dominant inclination is towards women, so when you resumed what you thought was normal life, those are naturally the attractions you pursued. You associate sexual activity with men with the military, wartime, and remoteness from civilian reality. But when you work with me, you see a different battlefield. Our work is dangerous. I am dangerous. That blurred the line. It opened the box just enough for you to experience attraction towards me.”

“True enough, as far as it goes,” John said, nodding, thinking about standing up on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock just once at the crest of his nearest cheekbone. He did, and nearly lost his balance on the slippery stone step. Sherlock caught him by the upper arm, and did not let go.

“As far as it goes?” Sherlock said a little sharply, frustrated with himself. “What am I missing?”

“The same type of thing you usually miss,” John said. “And I find this difficult. As you know. But . . . I think it's because you weren't around to observe me when I thought I'd lost you forever. The regrets. The what-ifs. The things I wish I'd said and done. You should have seen it after you came back, but it was almost like you were being willfully blind. And that's not like you.”

Sherlock sighed, and he took John's hand that had crept back to his chest, and covered it with his own, laying it still directly over his heart. Which was pounding. “I thought I saw. I did see. But I was determined to guard against wishful thinking. I may have been . . . overzealous in that regard.”

Something settled in John's belly, warm and melting and slow as honey. “I did the same thing,” John said, and kissed him. “You were overzealous about that. I was too.”

 

Anthea came up behind them on the slimy, mossy stone steps, poking Sherlock in the ribs almost affectionately as she pushed past to lead the way. After all, she’d been here before.

“So you, ummm, watched that? Out there?” John muttered.

Anthea paused for a moment, breathing deep as they climbed, laughing quietly. “Not the whole thing, no. Mr. Holmes the Elder is almost family to me now, so it turns out it felt a bit incestuous. Couldn’t do it, not all the way. I turned my head sometime during the, er, oral stage of the performance.”

John felt his face blush hot. Not as much relief there as he’d hoped. Then he started to laugh again, at her attempt at discretion. “Okay, good. That was . . . good. I think.”

Sherlock laughed too, a free and fluttering sound. Anthea turned on him quickly and said, “Don’t be too relieved. If you’re not good to John, I’ll send pictures to Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s smile froze dead and cold on his face. John laughed harder.

Anthea turned to John, eyes sparkling impishly. In that moment John could definitely see her Summerisle heritage shining through. “And if you don’t treat Sherlock well, I’ll send them to your therapist.”

***

“Drink and eat and enjoy,” Miss Rose said, when Sherlock and John had finally sat down again with them both. “You've earned it well.” She put her hand on Lord Summerisle's arm. “Come sport with me for a while, my love. Let the young people talk amongst themselves.”

Lord Summerisle looked at Sherlock and John and Anthea with some reservations. But the pressure of Miss Rose was clearly the most important, and he let her lead him up the stairs, laughing a little as she elbowed him in the side.

Everyone waited until they heard a door shut.

Anthea sat slowly nursing her glass and watching John and Sherlock's faces. She looked beautiful and put together as always – but there were still tracks of tears, from that one moment when she had been genuinely afraid. “They’ll be completing the final component of the ritual. Sealing the magic. Best done by the High Priestess and Priest in private. And they’ll be eavesdropping on us too, of course.”

“Of course,” John nodded acceptingly. “Sherlock, you promised me you’d explain it all. Go on, do your thing. You know I love it.” There was no wiping that dopey grin off his face, and this time John wasn’t even moved to try.

Sherlock turned to John to explain, having never got the memo that it might be rude to tell someone else’s life story in front of them. “Blossom and her fraternal twin brother Branch were, like several babies every year, listed in the village registry as 'fireborn' – conceived asexually, by the fire-leaping ritual, therefore, no father listed. Of course, this is a convenient way to register children born on the wrong side of the blanket. Their mother, Lavender Burns, no longer resides here – I recognised her name from a list of research scientists currently employed at Baskerville.”

“That's the truth, John,” Anthea said. “Both sides of my family have deep roots on Summerisle. My maternal great-grandparents contributed to Operation Mistletoe, the secret occult workings that Churchill commissioned to fight in the spiritual world against Hitler's Ahnenerbe.” She smiled with clear pride.

“They didn't find out until the 1970s that the field agent they'd reported to during the war was Aleister Crowley,” Sherlock said. “There were several centers for these experimental operations. Gerald Gardner's coven in New Forest. Dion Fortune's society in London. What remained of the Order of the Golden Dawn. And of course, Summerisle, tasked with protecting Scotland and the surrounding seas. Operation Mistletoe was credited with Rudolf Hess's little flight of fancy. Forty years ago, the British government approached the present Lord Summerisle's father with a request to place a secret research facility here. Not unlike Baskerville, but much smaller, and more focused on flora than fauna. It's fallen into disuse in recent decades, but it still carries a certain cachet. The previous Lord Summerisle agreed, but with the condition that some island children with certain talents should be allowed to apply for roles of . . . great importance, if they had the interest and skills.”

“Hence my position,” Anthea said. “Mycroft knows most of this.”

“Lord Summerisle has a private mobile and wireless node – of course he does,” Sherlock said. “So naturally I pickpocketed his PA for his mobile phone, and wasn't as surprised as I could have been to find familiar numbers in it.”

“Sherlock and I have a code of our own,” Anthea admitted. “Sometimes we have to try to bypass Mycroft. Sherlock should just be glad my mum's still at Baskerville – do you know what it's like to try to get a swarm of hybrid, climate-change-resistant bees with less than a day's notice? And Mycroft had the Lear in Istanbul. I’d have come sooner, but the helicopter needed special preparation to transport the swarm. I know how to fly it of course, but I needed to jump through some hoops to get the clearance. Especially since the trip is near the limit of that model’s range. If I didn’t know I’d be able to refuel here, I couldn’t have done it at all.”

John sat back and took another drink of Scotch, stunned and startled. Sherlock and Anthea apparently had custody of a very deep rabbit hole indeed.

Sherlock smiled. “Granted, those hardier bees are a bit more aggressive than the norm, as they demonstrated, but taking that risk is still preferable to no pollination at all. I didn't anticipate that. It was an accident that Hazel was so terribly allergic.”

John's head was still swimming. “So - the helicopter I heard last night. I thought I dreamt it. They’re in my dreams all the time, from Afghanistan. Sherlock! When I heard you leave Willow’s room last night, you were going out to meet with her, weren’t you?”

“'Yes, we had to discuss timing,” Sherlock said, dismissing that as a totally uninteresting line of conversation. “‘Anthea' means 'blossom' in Greek,” he went on. “A good choice for the new identity she took on when she she was talent-scouted by MI6.”

“It's less . . . hobbity,” Anthea said.

“Branch doesn't have the talent you do,” Sherlock said to her. “He's not nearly as clever, as this plot showed. Trying to play a long game, and couldn't even see how it might come back to bite him, especially when he hitched his star to someone as out of control as Hazel, or should I call her Martha?”

“He was always angry,” Anthea said, shaking her head a little. “It’s not entirely out of character. He figured out the truth a lot later than I did, and he was resentful. Felt he should have been more than just Lord Summerisle's most trusted employee. But he hasn't exactly acquitted himself well now, has he?” Anthea said, a little sadly.

“Branch wanted to be acknowledged. He wanted his birthright. He wanted to be sure he'd inherit when the time came,” Sherlock said. “It's not a terribly unreasonable thing to want. But then Lord Summerisle would have to publicly admit that the whole idea of the 'fireborn' is absurd, which I suspect he is still too proud to do, and the concept still serves other purposes. I knew you had grown up under unusual circumstances, but it wasn't until I arrived here that I put it all together,” Sherlock said to Anthea. “Looking at Branch's face was the final key. I'm afraid he won't find the phone I pickpocketed unless he's an excellent diver. I only just made it before the range of Lord Summerisle's personal wifi ran out on me.”

Anthea sighed exasperatedly. “I'll have Mycroft buy him a new one. He really needs to learn to keep his wits about him more than he does. And after all this he probably still doesn't understand why Lord Summerisle doesn't think he's prepared to inherit.”

Sherlock snorted maliciously. “Even for nobility, that’s an entitlement complex on an epic scale.”

Anthea nodded. “I was surprised for a moment to see your code coming from that number. But not as much as I might have been if I didn’t know he’d make trouble sooner or later.”

“But I still don't understand,” John asked. “Why did Hazel come to Sherlock for help? Three years later?”

“Oh,” Anthea said. “My father has a strange sense of humour. Hazel had been pestering him for months – she clearly had designs on taking over Miss Rose's role, orchestrating the ceremony, choosing everything. And procuring a sacrifice, if one was deemed needed. He's always liked to hedge his bets. He always has a Plan B. If Sherlock was coming anyway, he'd keep him in reserve.” She looked at Sherlock with a little smile. “And I'm sure he thought that if you got too nosy, he'd have you taken care of.”

“That would be . . . ambitious of him,” Sherlock said.

“Well, you can't say you weren't taken care of,” Anthea said slyly.

“I realized that as soon as I met you, Sherlock,” Lord Summerisle cut in dramatically, standing on the stair landing wearing nothing but his kilt and Miss Rose’s ritual chalice in his hand. “And that to end you with the sword or the fire or the water would be a terrible waste of a brilliant mind – however, of course, our gods generally prefer the sacrifice of that which we love and admire, therefore . . . “

“Except Sergeant Howie,” Sherlock said, standing up, clearly startled by Summerisle’s abrupt appearance.

“He really did set himself up perfectly,” Lord Summerisle said, full of mock innocence. “What were we to think but that the gods had chosen him and sent him themselves?”

“I know perfectly well the setup wasn't all his doing,” Sherlock said. “You know that I know.”

“Yet he played into our hands in ways even I didn't foresee. And speaking of foresight, let us not speak ill of the dead - Hazel couldn't have been completely useless if she managed to deceive you for any length of time.”

“There's always something,” Sherlock admitted. “Of course she played her religious role well – she'd lived that way her whole life and only recently converted. All she did was let herself lapse back into the role that was so natural to her. And I didn't see it at the time because I didn't know I should be looking for it. The things about her that were off are clear to me in hindsight. But I ascribed them to her feelings for her late fiancé not being as deep as advertised.”

“Oh, I think she did love him,” Lord Summerisle said confidently. “Enough that she couldn't allow herself to believe that he died in vain. Enough that her entire worldview rearranged itself around his loss.”

Miss Rose came up behind Lord Summerisle and wrapped an arm around his waist. “She'd have gone over to you in a heartbeat, if only I were out of the way. Which I had no intention of being. Did you know, she actually quoted Gardner to me? To me. And it was his suggestion that it was a High Priestess's duty to gracefully step down when she was no longer young and beautiful. Even Gardner abandoned that one quickly, the clod.”

“You are even more beautiful to me now than you were when the Goddess first chose you for me many years ago. Your beauty grows with your wisdom,” Lord Summerisle said to her, and the truth of it was in his eyes. This was a man in love.

“Quite right,” Miss Rose said proudly. “I’m sure Howie was a decent man in his way. He probably deserved better in life. Still -- witches burning a Christian. I thought it had a fitting irony. You were right, my love. A true martyr’s death is a rare gift for a believer in modern Britain.”

“And you've deduced us all well, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” Lord Summerisle said. “You are always welcome back here.”

Miss Rose smiled and nodded and took her chalice back from Lord Summerisle and raised it in tribute. “Not only did you comport yourselves cleverly and help us a great deal, it really was an exemplary act of sacrifice to bless the fields. You were sincere after all -- but the passion in your lovemaking was real, and it was a joy to witness. Please visit us again. We'd be honoured to host your handfasting.”

Anthea laughed. “Can you imagine the look on Mycroft's face?”

John cleared his throat. “Look. I apologise for not getting the joke, but --”

“A handfasting is a type of pagan marriage ceremony, John,” Sherlock said. There was just a glimpse of a strange expression that crossed his face – it could have been nothing, but it also could have been something.

Lord Summerisle retreated into another room at the top of the stairs and returned with a very excellent old violin. He led them all into the parlour and glanced pointedly at Sherlock, setting the violin down. Lord Summerisle began to play the piano. Sherlock took up the violin, knowing a command when he saw one. They improvised a theme on ‘Sumer Is Icumen In,’ via Vaughan Williams.

Miss Rose swayed and smiled, and Anthea gave John a fond, sympathetic look. John thought that when he’d first met Anthea, he’d never have wanted her to look at him like that, but now, damn, it was good to have an ally.

Ivy came in and told them all the cart was waiting to take John and Sherlock back to the Green Man Inn if they wanted it. They did, even though Lord Summerisle offered to host them in one of his guest rooms in grand style.

John felt that the Green Man was more their space. Their room, their things, that one big bed he had every hope of really making theirs.

***

 

“Something's still bothering you, isn't it?” John said back in their room, watching the play of light and shadow on Sherlock's slightly frowning face as John took pyjamas out of their respective suitcases.

“Yes. Hazel met all the requirements at least as well as I did. She came here of her own free will, trying to find out what happened to her fiancé. She came with some of the will of a king, if not an earthly one – she actually tried to evangelise and do missionary work, at first. There's little doubt she was a fool. And, just like Howie, she was raised in a strict religious environment with strong prohibitions against premarital sex. By the time she converted, she'd already set her cap for Lord Summerisle and wouldn't settle for anyone less; he declined to give her what she wanted, and then she hedged her bets by playing hard-to-get with Branch. Therefore: virgin.”

“Oh.”

John looked out the window, at the vivid green fields that had been full of writhing flesh the night before and now were innocent, verdant farmland, fit for any family-friendly postcard. “But wait – she was already dead when we, er. Because of the bee stings. And Miss Rose seemed satisfied.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Unfortunately, I wasn't planning for Hazel to die. That may have negated one thing I was hoping to achieve: it leaves an opening for the more bloodthirsty faction of Summerisle politics to claim that it wasn't our sacrifice that restored the crops, it was hers. However, considering that Branch Burns is unlikely to fan the flames again any time soon, we have to trust that Miss Rose and Lord Summerisle can manage their own business themselves in the near future.”

“So, I still don't quite get this,” John said. “Howie died because he didn't play the game as well as you, is that what both you and Lord Summerisle are saying?”

Sherlock sat back, eyelids flickering rapidly. “Yes. But that's not the only reason.”

“Oh?”

“Howie died because he didn't have a John Watson,” Sherlock said quickly. “I'm very fortunate; I don't suffer from that particular condition, the lack of a you. If I did, I’d very likely be dead now. My head severed; my drowned body floating abandoned in the sea; I could be a collection of ashes and bone chips blown away by the wind. Gruesome death is a constant possibility in my line of work – the strength in my constitution is you.”

John was stunned and moved, and yet still carrying something that didn’t sit quite right with him. “You still don’t seem terribly upset about it. Howie or Hazel. So you think – anyone who isn't lucky enough to have someone like me deserves to die?”

“Deserves to die?” Sherlock said, “Of course not. I made no judgments about deserving. I'm only talking about balance of probability.”

John stood up slowly and stretched, plucked at his dirty clothes, and told Sherlock, “You've had a bath and I haven't. We'll talk about this more after my shower.”

***

At least part of John felt much better about the whole situation when he came back from his shower and found Sherlock already in bed. He was wrapped up in the sheets and shirtless – pantsless, possibly? Oh, maybe. John certainly hoped so.

John shut and locked the door and stood there in nothing but a towel around his waist, hands behind his back.

“So back to that whole sex thing,” he said nervously, running a hand through his damp hair. “It seemed you were – that it was - intense for you,” John said nervously. “I mean, I don't want to pry, but -” This was supremely difficult to even begin to choke out, even though objectively speaking it was ridiculous to be so afraid. John didn't even know how to begin to mention the fact that he'd tasted tears on Sherlock's cheek.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, staring off into space. “That's true. I didn't expect to have such a powerful emotional response to a foreign object in my rectum.”

John stared at him for just a second, completely gobsmacked. He was surprised to hear himself say in an impressively deadpan voice, “That's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Sherlock turned to him sharply, with that endearing puzzled scrunch between his eyes. “Really?”

John managed to hold himself still for a long, long moment before collapsing into helpless snorting laughter. “Of course not, you tit! I had you! I totally had you!”

Sherlock froze for a moment as the penny dropped. “Oh yes,” Sherlock gasped after his own laughter hit. “You had me all right, you totally had me.” He recovered quickly and spoke in a deeper, more serious voice. “Would you like to have me again?”

“Um. Yes,” John said, caught off guard and therefore terribly honest.

“Good, I feel the same way,” Sherlock said quickly. “I'm glad for the necessity. Who knows when we would have spoken up otherwise. I'm glad our hands were forced.”

“Not just our hands,” John said, walking closer to the bed.

Sherlock sinuously moved under the sheets until he was near the edge of the bed, looking straight up at John. With one long arm he reached out to John’s hip, and unwrapped the towel with a quick yank, dropping it to the floor. John resisted the instinct to cover himself; the urge only lasted an instant, and then he felt that piercing grey-blue gaze slide up and down his naked body like a long, firm caress. The warmth on his skin that lingered from the bath intensified in his cock. Yeah, that made sense, that Sherlock could start to get it hard just by looking at it. “No, John,” Sherlock said, and his voice was full of something John so rarely heard there - only in the presence of intense cleverness and masterful crime and beautiful music. Reverence. “More. So much more.”

John was flushed and trembling, wondering what Sherlock would do next, but this was not a moment he was willing to break, not with that raptness on Sherlock’s face as he studied John up and down, seeming to see through his very skin.

Sherlock did something John did not expect: he just smiled, almost shyly, and backed off a bit and held up the sheets, a clear invitation for John to crawl in beside him. John found himself wrapped up in a lazy half-embrace as Sherlock pulled John close. When John had settled his head on Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock took a deep breath. “Are you . . . happy?”

“Oh God yes,” John sighed, and felt Sherlock relax. “Strange,” John went on. “I thought you were - just not that interested. Like sex is something ordinary people get excited about and you don’t. Like football or famous people.”

Sherlock sighed, and hoisted himself a little bit up the pillows and headboard and nudged the sheet down a little. “I always thought it was a simple, base drive. But it's actually so rich and complex.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, smiling.

Sherlock took John's hand and placed a fingertip on his own nearest nipple, and moved it slowly. “This. Just this one spot. Every single type of touch feels different. Your finger, dry. Your finger, wet. Two of your fingers, circling, two of your fingers pinching gently, or pulling hard. Your lips, softly. Your lips sucking quickly. Your tongue, licking. Your teeth, biting. Gentle. Hard. Slow. Fast. I could spend hours categorizing all the sensations of the things you can do to this one tiny point on my body, and the intensely arousing effect it has on the rest of me. And when you repeat them on the other nipple, which should be a perfect mirror, they're slightly different – (and here Sherlock moved John's fingertips over to the left to demonstrate his point.) “Everywhere on my body, every possible way you can stimulate me, is so full of different minute, fractally different permutations. Even the places that aren't obvious erogenous zones respond in ways I never could have imagined.”

Sherlock fell back against the pillows. “I have only begun. Barely begun. Is it like that for you? Every type of touch on every part of you feeling exquisite in different ways?”

John just kept circling Sherlock's nipple, eager to hear whatever he had to say, wanting to start working harder again soon, because Sherlock’s erotic monologue had left him breathlessly hard. But he knew this was important so he looked up into Sherlock's burning, curious eyes and said, “Yeah. That's exactly how it is. When it's good, anyway.”

“You’d classify our first time as ‘good,’ then?” Sherlock said. John looked for the smirk. It was there, but it seemed oddly unsure of itself.

“Fuck yes,” John said.

“Good,” Sherlock said.

“You’re a natural.”

“The guiding instincts are powerful, I noticed,” Sherlock said. “But I learn everything quickly.”

John scooted closer until he could roll and lie against him. He turned his eyes up to Sherlock’s, determined to choke out everything before he chickened out and the window of opportunity closed. “It upset you for a minute. What Miss Rose said about handfasting.”

Sherlock was going to try to deflect, John could just tell, so he gave Sherlock his best “don't lie to me” face. One of these days that might actually start working.

“It wasn't a joking matter to me,” Sherlock said quietly.

“It isn't to me either,” John said, holding Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock's eyes went suddenly wide.

“This isn’t just sexual, for me,” John said. “It's really, really not. I mean, it is. Of course. Very, very sexual. But it's everything else too. And I mean everything.”

Sherlock lay there blinking for a few long moments – barely breathing, barely moving, heart fluttering like a caged hummingbird – while this sank in. John suppressed the temptation to cover that sweet, confused, dazed expression in kisses, and he just waited.

A switch flipped, and next thing John knew there was a shove and a twist and John was on his back under a wild and ardent Sherlock who was kissing him desperately.

That feels a lot like a yes, John thought. “We still have a lot to talk about,” John said in between kisses. “I mean, we. . . . can’t just rush into . . .”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said quietly, once he had John splayed out beneath him like a starfish, for his own delectation. Sherlock hoisted himself up on hands and knees and just looked at John for a long time, face to neck to shoulders to chest to belly to groin.

“I wonder what it is about you, John,” Sherlock said. He leaned his weight harder on one hand so he could use the other to brush fingers over John’s bullet scar -- but not for very long, it was just the entry point to keep caressing, wider and further and lower. “You’re average for a man of your age, in so many ways. Except for your penis, which looks average when flaccid but is definitely not so when erect, and frankly I feel proud of myself for taking it so easily. And yet --”

John smiled and laughed a little. “Maybe ‘cause I’m not insulted by any of that? I mean, if I heard some of it from anyone else, I would be. But not from you. Because I know you.”

Sherlock smiled as he ran his hand around the swell of bone at John’s right hip, probing at the sensitive skin and muscle above. “That’s a good start. But that’s not all of it.”

“You’re the genius,” John said. “You tell me.”

Sherlock sucked in breath hard through his teeth as he propped himself up over John. “The scent of you and the slump of your shoulders delights me. Every time you lick your lips, my blood rises. This has been true since I met you. When I had to be away from you, the only thing that gave me a little comfort, a little pleasure in the worst nights, was my memory of the sound of your voice. Your clothes are atrocious, and I like that, because it makes me want to rip them off you that much more. I can only conclude that must mean that I’m desperately attracted to you. As to why? I think it’s because you’re brave and steady, and you know how save lives and you know how to end them. Also, your pubic hair is redder and less grey than the hair on your head, and I’m only just now seeing that, and it’s amazing. Do you know how uncommon that is?”

“No, is it, really?” John said.

“Well,” Sherlock admitted, “I have seen a lot of naked men over the years, but -”

“All of them were dead,” John finished.

Sherlock smiled shyly.

“Didn’t think you’d know what to do with a live one,” John said. “You learned fast. You liked doing it out in front of all those people, didn’t you? Showoff.”

“I am a showoff, John. It’s what we do.”

“Mmm, yeah,” John said, a bit of a challenge in his voice as he ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, feeling the strength and tension in them as they held so much of Sherlock’s weight. “But now it’s just us. Come on then, show me some more.”

“Yes. And there is so much more we can do.” Sherlock lowered his head, his voice dark and deep near John’s ear. “Just you and me.” He sank down on his elbows and just barely brushed John’s lips with his own. Deceptive. Treacherous. When John reached up to pull Sherlock by the hair into a deeper kiss, he found his wrists pinned to the bed.

Captured, John gazed up, heart pounding. Just because Sherlock had discovered his own hormones didn’t mean that dazzling computer-chip mind would stop reading every detail and processing it into information. John shivered with a strange frisson. “You like to take charge in bed,” Sherlock said. “Not because you crave power, but because you’re a caretaker.” His voice was assured as usual but rawer, breathier. “You have trouble just letting your partner work on you.”

John was panting and writhing beneath Sherlock -- oh, and he liked that long, lean weight on him; Sherlock was heavier than he looked, all muscle and bone -- but not trying to free himself.

“You’ll let me,” Sherlock said. He was so sure. “Because I want to learn you.” His voice was vibrating against John’s ear and jaw as his lips caught and tugged skin and his teeth scraped gently. “Let me.”

God, how many hands did Sherlock have? How could John feel so trapped and so caressed at once? The heat of skin all over his, sweat beginning to rise where they pressed together. How many mouths did Sherlock have? It felt like more than one, licking and kissing and sucking at edges of tendons and creases of skin, drawing out electric surges up and down John’s spine. When John’s hands were released, he simply twined one in Sherlock’s hair and clutched as that keen analytical instrument of a head moved slowly down his shoulder, laving the scar tissue with tongue and then downward to torment his nipples with lips and teeth.

“Fuck, Sherlock, you’re amazing,” he cried in a strangled whisper.

“You’re so complex,” Sherlock declared into the soft plane of John’s belly. “Infinitely . . . could study you for years, your nerves, your responses . . . there’s so much to know . . . your skin alone, here,” as he bit down lightly on John’s hip and worried the skin a little with a small shake of his head.

That really is one of the most romantic things anyone’s ever said to me, John thought but didn’t say. Instead he arched and squirmed against Sherlock, rubbing his fevered cock against Sherlock’s chest, tugging on Sherlock’s hair. “Come on up here. Kiss me. More later, I just want to - now, please.”

Sherlock surged up and melded his mouth back against John’s, their tongues delving deep together, as Sherlock’s cock nuzzled up against John’s in their sweat-damp trap of their bellies. John spread his legs wide and lifted them to lock around Sherlock’s hips, digging his heels into the strong, clenching backs of his thighs as they rocked together wildly, creaking the bed and slamming the posts against the wall.

They heard Willow pounding angrily on the other side, and it only spurred them on harder.

Sherlock gave a fierce little cry and flailed his arm out at the nightstand where he’d placed the lube he’d pocketed from the ritual. One-handedly, a little awkwardly, he coated his hand and managed to smear as much as he could around his own cock and John’s, and found his long fingers could wrap around both at once. Then it was all kissing and gasping and groaning and writhing. John dropped his head back against the pillows, baring his throat, baring his teeth,, and then biting his lip as Sherlock got some artistry in his movements, a little swing and roll to the obscene pumping of his hips as they rutted together. Sherlock’s squeeze on their cocks was almost painful when he came, sliming up the space between them with musky wetness, biting at John’s shoulder - but John was right along with him, clenching his legs violently around Sherlock as the fiery contractions made John’s body seize up rigid with spasms of pleasure.

They held onto each other, sticky and shaking, for a long time, regaining breath. “That was . . . base,” Sherlock panted. “Animalistic.”

“Yeah, sure was,” John said, nearly giggling, hand tangled in Sherlock’s curls. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

“Still also complex,” Sherlock said, his voice wrecked. “Yes. I liked it very much.”

“That counts as sex, too, you know,” John said, kissing Sherlock’s temple and then his cheek.

“I know,” Sherlock said, slumping his head down on John’s shoulder for just a moment, splaying a hand out over John’s pumping heart.

“Doesn’t have to be, y’know, penetration for it to be . . .” John murmured. He felt this was an important point, but a lot of other important points he wanted to make were getting lost in the fog of blissful, contented exhaustion.

But Sherlock just couldn’t let it go and sleep at last, not yet, talking as much to himself as to John. “But why that act specifically? Definition of virginity in a man who prefers men - there’s no official definition at all, is there? I might have ceased to be a virgin the moment you took my penis in your mouth . . . no, not then, I think there’d have to be an orgasm for it to count. At least one, ideally two.” He looked uncertain on this point. “Anyway, it was best that there was no ambiguity. I wasn’t keen on being burnt alive on a technicality. My lack of fitness for future sacrifices had to be demonstrated so as to leave no doubt in anyone. Best to mimic the procreative act as closely as possible. It’s clearly a cornerstone of their ritual symbolism. I think everyone was satisfied, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, smiling. “Especially you. And all ‘mimicking of procreative acts’ aside, even on Summerisle, I’m pretty sure you’re not pregnant.”

“It’s highly unlikely,” Sherlock agreed, finally starting to calm down. “I was careful not to leap over any bonfires.”

John laughed slightly maniacally into Sherlock’s hair as he held him close, no longer worried it would be his only chance. Sherlock seemed reluctant to crawl off John for even as long as it would take John to wipe half-heartedly at the mess that fused them together. But Sherlock finally settled at last, holding John from behind with an arm around his waist.

Soon John was able to answer a long-ago question. Yes, mine is a snorer. But an elegant one.

***

Bright and early the next morning, Sherlock was gone and Willow breezed in uninvited, and had a giggle at the state of the room – and of John, who lay limp and boneless and half-asleep in the wreck of the sheets, face pressed into the pillow.

“I hope you're happy,” he grunted as she opened the curtains and let in the too-bright morning sun. “You people have created a monster.”

“I'm not happy,” Willow said cheerfully. “I didn't get a wink of sleep, and I'm the one who'll be washing those sheets.” Then she sprouted a little secret smile when she caught John's eye. “But I think you are. Happy.”

John propped his head up on his hand and looked at her sleepily. “Yeah. You're right. I am. Happy. I really am.” He smiled, and then a warm feeling burst inside his chest. He wouldn't tell her but the emotional impact of what had happened last night, at dusk, and then again around midnight, and again around 3 AM (when Sherlock half-awoke with his cock fully awake, expecting John to do something about it; John was glad to oblige), was only fully hitting him now.

Willow patted John on the head, kindly. “It really was a beautiful sacrifice. I could tell, Sherlock enjoyed it so much, and you worked so well together. I couldn't have done any better myself.”

“Well, thank you,” John said. “Thanks for your help, and I'm so sorry about the sheets.”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” Willow said lightly. “If you want to leave a mess of your spunk lying around on an island full of witches, that's your business.”

John almost sat up straight before remembering he was naked under the tangle of sticky cotton. “Um. Hadn't thought of that. Could we – buy them and burn them?”

She shook her head. “Burning's really not recommended. And there's no point to it. We've already worked our magic on you. Can't you tell?”

 

***

“Oh, you two look . . . healthy this morning,” Anthea smirked.

“Fresh air,” John said. “Exercise.”

“So I heard from Willow,” Anthea said. “One would think you thought just once wasn’t enough to make sure the job was done.”

“I’m sure Mycroft has told you all about my addictive personality,” Sherlock sneered.

Anthea winked. John blushed.

“Well, I have to get the helicopter back to Baskerville before Mum needs it, or I’ll live to regret it,” Anthea said. “So I can take you as far as Dartmoor and you can hire a car from there.”

“Fine,” John said. “Thank you.”

Nearly all of Summerisle had turned out to say farewell, as the propellers of the chopper whipped their hair and clothes. Lord Summerisle shook hands with John and Sherlock, and Miss Rose hugged and kissed them. There were no long speeches, but there was a lot of understated gratitude, and a long moment when Lord Summerisle became just a father again, embracing his daughter.

She took the right path in life, John thought, and he hoped Branch would find his way around to it eventually.

Sherlock turned his back and took his seat in the helicopter just over their luggage. To which had been added John’s rack of antlers, and Sherlock’s holly-and-flower-crown, hanging off one tine of the rack. “Sentiment?” John whispered to him, smiling.

“It will balance out the room, opposite the buffalo skull,” Sherlock said, looking out the window with a tight little smile. John smiled back at him and pretended he hadn’t noticed that underneath Sherlock’s coat was, yup, a jar of dried foreskins. Can’t take him anywhere, he thought tenderly.

“Do you boys want me to book you a room at the Cross Keys?” Anthea asked, shouting over the roar of the engine, as she guided the chopper to a comfortable altitude over the mesmerising, primitive beauty of the Scottish Isles. “Hasn’t changed much. I hear they got a pug.”

“That’s all right, Anthea,” Sherlock shouted back. “I want to continue my new research at Baker Street. As soon as possible.”

“Research?” John shouted.

“You, John,” Sherlock said. “On every surface.”

Lovely as the landscape was beneath them, that set John to wishing it would ride by faster.

 

~THE END

(But watch this space for the epilogue!)

Entire Story on AO3

Chapter 1 on LJ
Chapter 2 on LJ
Chapter 3 on LJ
Chapter 4 on LJ
Chapter 5 on LJ
Chapter 6 on LJ


Whew. What a long, strange trip it's been. Huge thanks go out to winter_hermit and snogandagrope for epic beta-reading, and to all the readers who've supported this story chapter-by-chapter. Could not have done it without you. Truly.




Much of what Sherlock and Anthea are saying about Operation Mistletoe is true, or at least a very well-documented legend. There certainly was an occult aspect to World War II, on both sides, and prominent British occultists of the time were definitely involved in the war effort, with their particular specialized skills. Ian Fleming, future author of the James Bond series, was involved - and hey, if you want to get even more meta and what-fourth-wall about it, it's not impossible that they could have had some contact with Royal Air Force Intelligence, where young Christopher Lee was employed.

Katherine Kurtz's novel Lammas Night is a great fictionalized account.

Bios of some of the figures involved:

 Aleister Crowley

Gerald Gardner

Dion Fortune

 
Dion Fortune's first teacher was a Dr. Theodore Moriarty (1873-1923); any relation? And Crowley's health was beginning to fail by WWII but he certainly still could use his extensive experience with occult espionage - having gone to the US to work for anti-German counterintelligence during WWI (don't ask him about the Lusitania. Seriously, don't.) Might he have had contact with an allegedly Irish-American double agent allegedly named Altamont? That's a deep rabbit hole, my friends!



Don't forget to check out THE FANMIX! Especially winter_hermit's cover art, it's so fucking metal.