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<|text|> I loved a person of the same sex. Would I react as Jonah had done? Resigned, but understanding? Would I get angry? Justify myself? And might I have reacted differently when he told me about it? Perhaps I should have been more honest with him, told him of the experiences I had had in Afghanistan, when the nights were long and lonely? Should I have mentioned Harriet? No, not a good example. I had already told Jonah that we did not have a good relationship with each other and that she still insisted that I was incapable of having a relationship, but if he would have asked me whether her coming-out had an influence on our fraternal relationship, I would either have to admit to that or admit that I had not supported her when she needed my help most urgently. When I was honest with myself, I was still ashamed that I had crawled into my room instead of protecting her from our father. Nor did it help that, after her departure, I had become the favorite victim for his anger; my bad conscience still plagued me. I put a hand on his shoulder, wanting to make him turn toward me so I could take a closer look. Only then did I notice that he was trembling. Brother Francis joined us and looked at his fellow-brother, no less worried. . John felt a shiver run down his spine. The touched the transcript of the phone call and thought of the words he’d heard just before Sherlock jumped. His stomach clenched at the memory of standing on the pavement, being struck by the bicyclist, staggering up to try to reach Sherlock, fighting his way through the crowd, taking Sherlock’s wrist, looking into his lifeless eyes. He downed the rest his beer in a gulp, trying to summon the courage to pick up the pages. As the friar disappeared into the confessional with Brother Jonah, I left the church and roamed around aimlessly, at a loss as to what to do next. I stopped at a long row of windows and looked out into a bright blue, cloudless sky; had it not been for such terrible events, it would have been a beautiful, clear fall day, one of the kind rarely seen. Beside me was one of the priests who had previously served in the Mass, a man in his forties with even, dark skin, short black hair, and gold-framed glasses whose simple elegance fitted the rest of his appearance. He made an unobtrusive gesture to follow him to a chapel to the side. I did, casting one last worried glance at Jonah. Best to put away those gloomy thoughts! She had a turkey to baste, piecrust to crimp, potatoes to peel and she needed to lay a fire in the living room fireplace. As soon as I started toward him, I again felt the familiar lump in my throat. Actually, I thought I had finally left this stage behind me. Reaching out to touch his shoulder, John murmured, “Sherlock?” He could see that Sherlock’s hands were trembling. Sherlock’s

<|output|> <|example|> I loved a person of the same sex. Would I react as Jonah had done? Resigned, but understanding? Would I get angry? Justify myself? And might I have reacted differently when he told me about it? Perhaps I should have been more honest with him, told him of the experiences I had had in Afghanistan, when the nights were long and lonely? Should I have mentioned Harriet? No, not a good example. I had already told Jonah that we did not have a good relationship with each other and that she still insisted that I was incapable of having a relationship, but if he would have asked me whether her coming-out had an influence on our fraternal relationship, I would either have to admit to that or admit that I had not supported her when she needed my help most urgently. When I was honest with myself, I was still ashamed that I had crawled into my room instead of protecting her from our father. Nor did it help that, after her departure, I had become the favorite victim for his anger; my bad conscience still plagued me. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> His stomach clenched at the memory of standing on the pavement, being struck by the bicyclist, staggering up to try to reach Sherlock, fighting his way through the crowd, taking Sherlock’s wrist, looking into his lifeless eyes <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> chest expanded to maximum capacity, then he let out the breath on a shaky sigh. He kept his face averted and his head braced in both hands. "We're expecting you back for tea!" he shouted after me and grinned broadly, when I then jokingly saluted. He said nothing else, giving me time to clear my mind about his unusual emphasis on the word 'accident'. Then he looked me straight in the eye. Sherlock watched several emotions play over John’s features, one after another. And when John’s face settled into lines of weary resignation, fear flickered painfully through Sherlock’s gut. Sherlock rounded the sofa and sank into the soft cushions. He glanced toward the telly and the detritus on the coffee table before him. A commercial for feminine hygiene products showing a young woman riding a horse in white jodhpurs and white blouse blared on the expensive television. A green glass ashtray near his knee held the partially smoked joint that Mrs. Hudson had obviously snuffed out when they entered the room. Hastily I rushed over to him, crouched beside him, and felt for his pulse - weak, but present. With the sleeve of my sweater I pushed the broken pieces of the cracked bottle aside to get closer then lifted his upper body so I could take a closer look at the wound on his head. I let out my breath, relieved. Only a flesh wound. But still, he was unconscious and that worried me. I thought about letting him lie here while I ran to get help, but I soon realized how nonsensical such behavior would be. After all, I had the appropriate knowledge of treatment of emergency patients - I was just missing the right equipment. I took a quick look at the motionless young monk and estimated his weight at about 70 kg. To go up the steep stairs would be difficult, but not impossible. Nevertheless, it would simplify the matter considerably if he were at least conscious, because that could facilitate the transport. An arm still around his back, I tapped him with my free hand again and again against his cheeks. John thought about yelling Mycroft’s name again, sure the phone on the end table would ring immediately but suddenly he just didn’t feel like engaging in the outside world. And Sherlock loves it, simply loves it, when John tries out his idea that night, in their big bed, in the dark. Frank held up a beefy mit. “Whoa, kid. Sit down.” He paused while Sherlock sank into the vinyl chair. “Why don’t you want to go home?” "Thank goodness," I mumbled and got up so the paramedics could take care of their patient right away. Even as I got up, I felt the light touch on my arm as the young monk tried with the last of his strength to hold me beside him before dropping his hand in resignation. It was the saddest thing I had ever seen. I could not suppress a soft sigh as I closed my locker door, and grabbed my jacket and backpack. Dr. Burke was right. I had made mistakes

<|output|> <|example|> chest expanded to maximum capacity, then he let out the breath on a shaky sigh. He kept his face averted and his head braced in both hands. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> An arm still around his back, I tapped him with my free hand again and again against his cheeks <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> It was the saddest thing I had ever seen <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> I could not suppress a soft sigh as I closed my locker door, and grabbed my jacket and backpack <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> I took a quick look at the motionless young monk and estimated his weight at about 70 kg <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Sherlock watched several emotions play over John’s features, one after another <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> more often lately, had been inattentive and had even brought a patient to critical condition, because it was lost on me simply that he had significant symptoms of a stroke. Mycroft rolled his eyes but complied with a sigh, turning his shoulders away from his brother and glaring out of the window. Oh, what was all this? I would skip the Vigil, I decided. I crawled under my covers again and turned my face towards the wall, away from the window; I did not want to be tempted to stare again. Perhaps William himself had long since gone to bed to get a little sleep. Or - and the thought now preyed on my mind very stubbornly - he had not arrived at all. Could it be that someone had intercepted him on the way? I was not comfortable with that thought. It was not forbidden to sneak through the corridors at night, but as he seemed to be under observation anyway, it might lead to unpleasant questions. But why did I care? He was an adult, he could take care of himself. And I would see tomorrow morning if he was alright. Sherlock discusses his encounter at the restaurant with his brother. They both realize that John has not had the full picture the past two years. His penetrating glance rested on me, his forehead was creased with wrinkles. It seemed as if he was going to infiltrate my thoughts to look for an answer to his question. Suddenly his features relaxed and his lips opened, breathing a soft 'Oh'. “Reading through your messages will help me remember what I was thinking and what I was doing while you were away.” John held Sherlock’s gaze, willing him to deduce what he meant so he could stop talking. When it was obvious to him that Sherlock didn’t, he continued, “It’s like therapy. Remembering things, how it felt. It helps me. You know, work things out. In writing.” I unfolded the note, which by now had already yellowed slightly, and read the tiny, yet legible, handwritten words. According to his information, Francis had been mistreated as a child by his parents and housed by the youth welfare office in a children's home in Tralee. He had quickly adopted the prevailing Catholic moral teachings and had acted out - sometimes by force - against anyone who did not meet these values. He was a good student who passed his exams with top marks but he clearly lacked empathy. Nothing was known about the time between graduation and entry into the convent - he obviously had not said anything on his own and nobody had asked him either. Sherlock had speculated that he had to be in contact with one of the drug dealers during this time. He occasionally received mail from his old home, allegedly from his parents, to which, however, according to Sherlock's investigations, he had had no contact since early childhood. Shortly after Francis received the last letter, Jonah had sent the orange pips. A word on the note had been smeared to the edge and circled, making

<|output|> <|example|> more often lately, had been inattentive and had even brought a patient to critical condition, because it was lost on me simply that he had significant symptoms of a stroke. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It seemed as if he was going to infiltrate my thoughts to look for an answer to his question <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> But why did I care? He was an adult, he could take care of himself <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> In writing <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> it difficult to decipher it. I could not remember the last time I had consciously pronounced these words. Feeling strangely fulfilled, convinced that I was on the right path - wherever it might lead me. I walked further and further into the dark church, which at that hour was illuminated only by the lamps in the entrance, the Eternal Light before the tabernacle, and two large candles on the altar, which flashed there in unobtrusive glass vessels. And John closed his eyes and shook his head again. Suddenly one dinner, one expensive bottle of wine, seemed a small gesture. Insignificant. There wasn’t anything he could reply - Sherlock was right. He heard Sherlock move and opened his eyes to watch Sherlock drop to his knees in front of him. Fisting his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, John tugged to draw Sherlock’s head back enough to allow their eyes to meet. “I’m going to fuck you blind,” he whispered savagely. I'm not sure what reaction I’d expected from Sherlock. What I got was a blissful smile, another kiss from lips so unspeakably tender, and finally, after I had let go of his hands, he signed slowly with obviously heartfelt emotion. The high, wooden double doors of the west portal were closed but, as I noticed after a slight pressure on the brass latch, not locked. I pushed them open just far enough to slip through and close them silently behind me. I found myself underneath the organ mound in a small entrance area that was dimly illuminated by four ceiling lamps, with a small basin filled with holy water on the left, while on the right a wooden shelf held songbooks for guests. In fact, I had noticed that sometimes some people from the nearby village appeared, mostly old, single women. However, they brought singing-books with them, as I had already observed. This voice was definitely familiar to me, only the speaker sounded strangely panicky, the voice at least an octave higher than usual. The fight went out of Sherlock. His shoulders sagged as he turned toward his husband and spoke, softer now. “John. How can you think I don’t want this.” Sherlock gestured between the two of them. I gave up. Apparently there was no chance to talk him round when it came to leaving the monastery. But at least I wanted to know the reason. And that, in a nutshell, was John’s answer. His subconscious had skipped several steps ahead while his conscious mind had been ruminating. John sighed, allowing his mind to realize what his heart already knew: he couldn’t marry her. It wasn’t fair to him, it wasn’t fair to Sherlock, and it certainly wasn’t fair to Mary. Mary was a wonderful woman. She deserved someone who could love her without reservation – not a husband whose heart belonged to his best friend. A vessel with the inscription Vitex Agnus-Castus caught my eye: chaste tree. I thought of how he'd had a bunch of the dried plants when he came to see me that night. Had he not alluded to my feelings towards him, but wanted to give me a

<|output|> <|example|> it difficult to decipher it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> I'm not sure what reaction I’d expected from Sherlock <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> hint? After all, that evening we talked about how it would be possible to help Jonah ... I reached for the container hastily, unscrewed the cap - and stared at about 500 grams of finely ground chasteberry. That could not be right, I was sure! On the verge of desperation, I shoved my hand in, searching for a hidden clue that I did not find. Now my nerves were actually at breaking point; I could not think of another place to continue my search. I thought frantically about the conversations I had had with him, especially trying to recall what he had said to me when he came to my room a few days ago, but soon realized that this conversation was only superficially about Jonah - instead of talking about how to help him, to protect him from the latent threat posed by the author of the letter, we had tried to figure out where we stood concerning our relationship. Whether feelings could be involved in the game was completely out of place. Even though I still had no answer to this question, I could say one thing quite clearly: Whatever had been behind this conversation - it had not been a hidden clue to a potential poisoner within the monastery walls. Just pathetic, John realized. His life – his dreary sleepwalking through endless days of the same thing, over and over and over. "This is our meditation room. Normally, it’s used for seminars attended by our guests or for retreats in small groups. Of course, it also serves for private prayer but most of us prefer to pray quietly in our cell or in front of the Blessed Sacrament. Since you are our only guest at the moment and the next retreat is scheduled for Advent, hardly anyone uses it at the moment, especially since the older brothers are not particularly eager to climb to the top floor. " The fact that William had a brother astonished me - someone who had such traits as those he had revealed to me, I would have rather considered the typical only child. But the entry in the elegant handwriting of my so passionately revered monk proved the opposite - Mycroft Holmes was written plainly there, including a mobile phone number and a London address - Hampstead, if I was not mistaken. I could not resist raising my eyebrows a little. If his brother could afford an apartment in such a posh neighborhood, the family must be extremely well-heeled. One more reason to wonder why William had renounced it all to go to the monastery. "Whether or not I leave this convent, if only for a few hours, is not up for discussion. I'm sorry, John. I appreciate what you did for me, but this point is not negotiable. " I felt my cheeks blush slightly. Caught. I shook my head as if I could thus expel the unpleasant thoughts that started me haunt again. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here, because actually I did not really know exactly what haunted me and slowly crept

<|output|> <|example|> hint? After all, that evening we talked about how it would be possible to help Jonah ... I reached for the container hastily, unscrewed the cap - and stared at about 500 grams of finely ground chasteberry. That could not be right, I was sure! On the verge of desperation, I shoved my hand in, searching for a hidden clue that I did not find. Now my nerves were actually at breaking point; I could not think of another place to continue my search. I thought frantically about the conversations I had had with him, especially trying to recall what he had said to me when he came to my room a few days ago, but soon realized that this conversation was only superficially about Jonah - instead of talking about how to help him, to protect him from the latent threat posed by the author of the letter, we had tried to figure out where we stood concerning our relationship. Whether feelings could be involved in the game was completely out of place. Even though I still had no answer to this question, I could say one thing quite clearly: Whatever had been behind this conversation - it had not been a hidden clue to a potential poisoner within the monastery walls. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> His life – his dreary sleepwalking through endless days of the same thing, over and over and over <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here, because actually I did not really know exactly what haunted me and slowly crept <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> into not only my sleep, but also robbed the joy of life from me. There was a time when John would have thrilled to hear Sherlock’s offer to do chores but now it just made him even more cross. Sherlock was just throwing out trifles to try to salvage his comfortable, settled life after John had spoken the one word that couldn’t be taken back. A landline phone on an end table began to ring. John grabbed it savagely. “Mycroft! I need to talk to Sherlock “But he claims he didn’t know about the secure site! His reaction seemed honest. He truly does not remember our last conversation d. He says he grieved for the past two years.” Sherlock wanted to believe it was true, that John had not merely cast him aside when he was no longer in London. John thought he’d drop off quickly, since he’d been up over 36 hours, but his mind churned endlessly. He pulled the laptop close again and decided to start at the beginning and work forward this time. Opening the first message that had been posted two years ago, he read” Carefully, I groped for the confessional in the dark church, which was somewhat hidden in the side doorway. I pushed the heavy velvet curtain aside and slipped inside to find that everything was just as I remembered - even the smell of old wood and sweat was similar. Just as I pushed the curtain back and went into the side doorway, I heard a faint crackling, followed by frantic steps on exactly the same path I walked. I hurried back into the confessional and listened intently - I did not want to be seen here late in the evening but I was as eager to know who else was roving around here in the middle of the night. "No Jonah - doctor’s orders. Stay here and rest. At least today and tomorrow. Until ... well, until we know how William is doing. " Blood tests confirmed that John suffered from varicella zoster infection - Chickenpox. Other than quickly transferring John to an isolation room and making him as comfortable as possible, there was nothing the doctors could do. The only antiviral available at the base hospital was Tamiflu, which did not treat varicella zoster infection. Mrs. Hudson’s eyebrows flew toward her hairline. “Broke in!” He eyes locked on Sherlock’s. “You broke into Frank’s yard? With all of his security?” As I passed through the lobby, I spotted Tessa speaking with a middle-aged man with heavily groomed, reddish hair, waving an umbrella next to him, looking through the entries in the visitor list. She noticed me and nodded unobtrusively in my direction whereupon the man, dressed in an elegant black three-piece suit, turned to me and examined me from top to bottom. He approached me and stood so close that I felt uncomfortable at the lack of distance. John let his head drop forward on the pillow so he could see what was going on below his waistline. His cock stood flat against his belly, weeping and flushed, and below it Sherlock’s big hand

<|output|> <|example|> into not only my sleep, but also robbed the joy of life from me. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John let his head drop forward on the pillow so he could see what was going on below his waistline <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> into not only my sleep, but also robbed the joy of life from me <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> He pulled the laptop close again and decided to start at the beginning and work forward this time <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> cradled his bollocks. Sherlock’s fingers stroked gently and John drew in his breath on a groan when he realized that Sherlock was stroking both John’s sac and his own cock, the underside of the head where it nestled against John’s bollocks. Almost tenderly he stroked Sherlock through the tangled curls and I was tempted to dismiss my suspicion as unfounded - had he not pulled a latex glove off his hands after applying the anointing oil and hastily disposed of it in the wastepaper basket. I had been half hidden behind the door but now I rushed forward, grabbed the man by the collar of his habit and hurled him against the wall with all my might. He shrieked in anguish when his back hit the hard surface with a loud crack. I stared with rage into the blue eyes of Brother Francis, who, though dazed by the impact, twisted his lips into a wry grin. The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock. John ran a hand over his tired face. "Just... Tell me that Sherlock's safe." He ordered kindly. He didn't want to think of Mary at that moment. "It doesn't matter how he found out, Sebastian, he knows, and if I don't do this, God knows what he'll do to you." One of the military wives, a young girl who was barely older than Sherlock, had come over and introduced herself as Sam, then offered to take him for a drink. He had agreed, which he rarely did, but he needed to. They didn't talk throughout their drink, but when the time came, they had hugged, and parted ways. The words came so suddenly, they almost shook the detective to his core. He hadn't even noticed that John was sitting in his old chair in the living room (he had even forgotten that John still had his key), and it took all he had not to go running to him right off the bat. Instead, he said nothing, and quietly slipped his coat and scarf off of his thin frame, and walked quietly to his own chair. By popular demand, I brought back this story from its' metaphorical grave, so, here it is! I said there would be a sequel, so, here's your little sneak peak at it!! "Stop where you are!" Came a rough, gravelly voice from behind the building. Out of the corner of their eye, they could see the tall, silver-haired Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard coming toward them

<|output|> <|example|> cradled his bollocks. Sherlock’s fingers stroked gently and John drew in his breath on a groan when he realized that Sherlock was stroking both John’s sac and his own cock, the underside of the head where it nestled against John’s bollocks. <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> I had been half hidden behind the door but now I rushed forward, grabbed the man by the collar of his habit and hurled him against the wall with all my might <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> with a gun ready. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands above your head. Don't try to run. Just do what I say, and this can be easy." He growled, his feet scraping across the pavement as he got closer and closer. Effie smiled. "Nice of you to join the party, Dr. Watson." She called out smoothly, like she were greeting guests at a dinner party. He pushed the door opened, and stepped up beside the doctor, keeping a safe distance between them as to not bother him. John didn't move. "I... I figured that you would want to be alone, but I didn't think it was wise." The detective whispered. He hesitated. He didn't want to tell her he was meeting with Sherlock, just in case she thought he was going to go back to the cases, but lying would do nothing. It was impossible to lie to Mary, and he promised he would always tell her the truth. All hatchets had been buried since Effie Taras sat down on the cold ground, her legs stretched out in front of her, her ankles crossed, and looked down at her hands as she picked at her fingernails. "How about this, pretty boy. I'm going to tell you a story, and you tell me what you think I mean." She briefly looked up at him, and when he leaned back in the chair, straightening up to listen, she smiled. "Think back twenty two years ago. You were sixteen, and you were taking a trip to the Ukraine with your brother I think it was. You got wind of a possible child trafficking ring in the East. You, being you, decided it would be a good idea to check out. You searched, found evidence, but the police wouldn't listen to you. So, you decided to go check it out by yourself. After a few days, you managed to find the group, and you saved the life of a ten year old girl. She was about to be raped and murdered, and you saved her. The next day, you left the Ukraine. No one ever knew what happened. To this day, no one knows. John Watson doesn't know, that handsome Detective Inspector of yours doesn't know, the police forgot after a while, even you may have forgotten what you did." Effie paused and gazed up at Sherlock with eyes that suddenly seemed so utterly familiar that he would have fallen if not for the chair. "But I'll tell you one thing; that little girl never forgot." "Well, between your dangerously high fever, raging infection, severe dehydration, cracked ribs, slight blood loss, and the remainder of the more minor injuries, I'm honestly surprised you managed to walk five miles in the desert and still be alive." Mycroft replies rather bitterly. Effie shook her head. "Not really, I work for his favorite sniper's ex-wife, and she's just as bad. But, like I said, Mary and I aren't working for the deadman now, but Mary still thinks she does, considering his most recent pop-up across the world. Strange though, his silence." She

<|output|> <|example|> with a gun ready. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands above your head. Don't try to run. Just do what I say, and this can be easy." He growled, his feet scraping across the pavement as he got closer and closer. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Effie shook her head <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> He didn't want to tell her he was meeting with Sherlock, just in case she thought he was going to go back to the cases, but lying would do nothing <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> But, like I said, Mary and I aren't working for the deadman now, but Mary still thinks she does, considering his most recent pop-up across the world <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> "But I'll tell you one thing; that little girl never forgot <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> said almost too nonchalantly. Dana Carlisle came back alive, she would have the credentials of a Secret Service agent under Mycroft Holmes. She's not considered a threat, she's not considered a criminal, in fact, no one actually knows her past record. I had it wiped. If Lestrade were to look her up, he'd get nothing but an MI6 record, which is confidential. Only we know the truth. I thought of it as a way to say thank you for what she did for us." Everything starts to fall. He sees everything at once; the rooftop of Bart's, Baker Street, Serbia, the tall one's face as he delivers blow after blow to his body, John's horrified expression as he watched him fall... John. John was between patients at the clinic, and he had a few minutes to himself. He hadn't spoken to Sherlock in nearly a month, and he had to admit that he missed the overbearing prat. She nodded. "Of course, I'll be the one to have to fix it if anything goes askew." She replied. "Now, I'll have a team ready to clear your body out of there after Sherlock jumps, and we'll get you out of the country. Bassy, you'll have to stay for a few days, to keep an eye on things, but you'll have to pretend like Jim's dead for real. Grieve. Get drunk. Whatever. It doesn't matter, just look really distraught. Then, we'll ship you out to meet him wherever you guys end up, and you'll be free to travel and be merry. You said it yourself, Magnussen thinks that you'll do whatever to get the better of Sherlock Holmes, so once you're dead, he'll turn the other way." Sebastian took a step back and sat down on the bed, hanging his head. His shoulders were shaking ever so slightly, and all Jim wanted to do was reach out and hold him, tell him he was staying... He suddenly looked up, and there were tears in his eyes as well. "Come away with me. Fuck Magnussen, fuck Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, all of that shit. We'll pack up and we'll just go. Anywhere, I don't care where, but we'll go somewhere else, and we won't have to do this anymore." He seemed to be almost pleading with the consulting criminal. He sounded so broken, so terrified for the first time since he and Jim had met. It was terrifying. It wasn't exactly much to go on, but it was a start. The doctor began to search the flat, searching rooms, searching around on the floor, but eventually came up short. There was nothing. Sherlock's stuff was covering the table space as it always was, fingers in jars, a few eyes, some other random appendages that he was often experimenting on. John couldn't help but sigh as he looked at them. After coming up short in the kitchen and dining room, he decided to check the detective's bedroom. He hadn't been in Sherlock's room for ages. It was possibly the cleanest part of the house, except for the occasional algae experiment or the smell of

<|output|> <|example|> said almost too nonchalantly. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> " She replied <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Get drunk <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> It doesn't matter, just look really distraught <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> " Sebastian took a step back and sat down on the bed, hanging his head <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Anywhere, I don't care where, but we'll go somewhere else, and we won't have to do this anymore <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> chemicals. Sometimes, having a chemist for a flatmate was a bit... Grueling, but he managed. Some nights he even missed it. John smiled down at him, then pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "Come on, you. Your daughter needs you." John sighed. "Okay, answer me this. What were you going to say? Right before you got on the plane, you said you had to tell me something, and then you made a joke, and left, but you and I both know that that wasn't it. So, tell me, what did you really want to tell me?" and he couldn't stop it. What if John was next? What if he never knew? Who would tell him? He would just keep on living with Mary, he would cry and mourn and grieve all over again, for the third time over "Bassy, you forget, Sherlock has his own strapping soldier boy." Dana said. "Johnny-boy's a tough little cupcake." Sherlock tenses, then pulls away, and looks up at him with questioning eyes. "You're lying. You didn't sleep at all." He deduces, his glossy baritone voice becoming strained, like it always does when he figures out something he doesn't like. Greg ignored her question, and waved her away, turning around to meet her concerned eyes. "Go get John and Sherlock on the phone. Do it "You made that mistake, Mary, not me." She replied softly. "Put the gun on the floor, and step away." The doctor threw the file in his hand on the table in front of his friend, not really caring that all of the paper inside it had gone all over the place. He'd care about messes once they found Sherlock. "For one, I know that my wife is a murderous animal, but I already knew that. Now she's trying to kill him again, only this time, she might actually fucking succeed." John shouted before turning around and punching the wall next to him hard enough to split the skin on two of his knuckles and dent the drywall. Sherlock didn't remember arriving home, but the next thing he knew, he was lying in his bed with Lestrade sleeping in a chair in the corner. Mrs. Hudson was sitting beside him, rubbing calming circles into his back while he slept. Her eyes were red and puffy, and it only took Sherlock a fraction of a second to deduce that his brother had informed her of what had occurred back in America. She didn't say a word to him. It was her loving look that broke him. The loving look from the woman who was more like a mother to him than even his own mother was the one that finally broke Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock looks confused. "I deduced that early on, yet you never dated a man all throughout our friendship, and it was evident even when me first met that you hadn't in a while. Why did you stop dating men?" The detective watched as his friend faltered. He didn't even realize that John was gripping both of his arms, and was now dangerously close to his face. He watched as

<|output|> <|example|> chemicals. Sometimes, having a chemist for a flatmate was a bit... Grueling, but he managed. Some nights he even missed it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Now she's trying to kill him again, only this time, she might actually fucking succeed <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Sherlock didn't remember arriving home, but the next thing he knew, he was lying in his bed with Lestrade sleeping in a chair in the corner <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Some nights he even missed it <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> his hard expression fell, and was replaced by nothing but sheer emotion He made his way around the bed, and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He scowled slightly at the sight of how unruly his hair looked, but the moment he thought back to the events of the night, and suddenly, he didn't mind so much. He brushed his teeth and pulled his pair of pajama bottoms back on, just so he could feel a little more decent, not that his partner cared. The American laughed breathlessly and bitterly at John's remark, and dropped his head. "I won't go to prison, Dr. Watson." He whispered. He pulled the gun out of his lap, and aimed it right at one of the barrels, sending a spark of terror through Sherlock's body. "I'll die first." "Not even that, really, just..." John's voice trails off, and he sighs. "I'm old, Sherlock. That's the truth of it. I'm old, and getting older every day, and it's getting harder and harder to explain that I The hesitation was longer this time, but finally, Sherlock cleared his throat. "I love you too, John." He replied so quietly, it was hard to hear. When they pulled away from one another, Sherlock watched as John released his hand, and gave him a pained smile. "I'll come home. Just leave a light on." John only tightened his grip. "Sherlock Holmes, you are so smart, and I need you to use that big brain of yours. You can tell if a person is lying just by the way they're standing, and I need you to look me in the eye, and tell me that I'm lying." "We'll work it out." John didn't even let him finish the thought. "One way or another, we'll work it out. Mycroft can make himself useful." He slowly closed the distance between himself and Sherlock, with his arms slightly outstretched, like he were approaching a frightened child on one of their cases. "If you'll have me, though, I want to come back to you." So, when the doctors released him, Greg took him to the airport where he sat on a private plane that belonged to Mycroft, utterly silent, and then stayed the entire drive back to Baker St. The DI drove them back to the flat, and the whole time, Greg Lestrade had his hand on Sherlock's arm, occasionally giving it a light squeeze whenever Sherlock jumped. Sherlock straightened himself up, and got to his feet to leave, but hesitated when his gaze dropped to the letter on the table. He picked it up once again and read it over, smiling down at the purple ink that stared back up at him. He wasn't exactly sure why he was smiling, but for whatever reason it was, he didn't question it. He thought about that mad woman who brought them together, and shook his head. Later that night, with the lights out and John once again spooning him up from behind, Sherlock feels an odd bout of bravery, and so asks, “Because it’s hardly as if I can make it across the room

<|output|> <|example|> his hard expression fell, and was replaced by nothing but sheer emotion <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Later that night, with the lights out and John once again spooning him up from behind, Sherlock feels an odd bout of bravery, and so asks, <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> He picked it up once again and read it over, smiling down at the purple ink that stared back up at him <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> in this state, let alone out of the flat to--” “What were you going to say?” he is still petting Sherlock’s hair, the side of his face. Sherlock turns into John’s palm where it has come to rest on his cheek. . Untouched by the wretched thing making a misery of Sherlock’s life. Feeding on his life force from inside his own head. This alone remains pristine in all it’s colors, smells, and sensations. Perhaps it is because Sherlock never allows himself to look. Whenever they are together in this way, it is always John’s front to Sherlock’s back. He can hear, feel, smell, John. But cannot see him. Perhaps this is their saving grace. That’s what the nightmare had been about. About John leaving. Not Sherlock. Not the flat, even. Simply Sherlock’s bed. And that had caused Sherlock to panic in such a way that it had brought him to consciousness, gasping for air, for comfort, “Wait, hang on!” John marches over, ripping Sherlock’s phone from his fingers. “You are not getting anyone else to buy your drugs for you either.” “Hmmm.” Sherlock routes around for his box containing individually packaged sterile needles. He finds it under a pizza box and opens it up, fishing out a needle and ripping the packaging open. “Now, where’s the cocaine.” he wraps a band around his arm as he waits for a reply. “Wiggins?” Sherlock jolts awake. He’s not in his flat. He’s in some dingy meth den, by the looks of it. He turns to the side of the mat he’s sleeping on and sees Wiggins working at a table covered with vials upon vials, and equipment all used for one very delicious purpose. “I’m going to go make breakfast.” he says, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder as he lets go of him. “Want anything in particular?” he asks over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen. Weeks go by in this fashion, one puzzle after another. It’s a distraction. There is no exaltation or elation of the soul. Sherlock’s lethargy had worn off, but his world still remained in varying shades of grey. Even taste had become muted. Smell becoming a blur of sameness. Everything swirling together in a humdrum mix of apathy and agony. “That’s not… “ Sherlock trails off. Swallows again. Nods. “Yes.” he says breathlessly. “A hug is… fine. S’fine.” He shakes his head several times, trying to clear it. Was this a fever-dream? Had he taken drugs at some point today and simply forgotten? Sherlock can tell that John is on edge. He checks his watch supertiously and finds he’s been incapacitated for nearly forty-five minutes. Sherlock thinks of spending the rest of the day in bed, but eventually decides against it. Without drugs in his system, the next best thing is to try and wrangle a case free from Lestrade’s grasp. Something over a seven. And then he’ll get another case, and then another. If he gets enough cases in a row he can forget about the fact that his heart is breaking. “Forget it,” John smiles at him once his eyes have made it back to Sherlock’s face, “Just

<|output|> <|example|> in this state, let alone out of the flat to--” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Weeks go by in this fashion, one puzzle after another <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Sherlock’s lethargy had worn off, but his world still remained in varying shades of grey <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Everything swirling together in a humdrum mix of apathy and agony <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> He’s in some dingy meth den, by the looks of it <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> He’s not in his flat <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> feel the music, or whatever.” “No I’m not using again!” Sherlock does snarl this time, “I’ve wanted to! But I don’t. Not anymore. Not since—“ John turns around to fully face Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock draws in a sudden breath and snaps his head forward once more. Those eyes of his are so overstimulating. It is the unmaking of Sherlock and he knows it. “No, Sherlock. Not good. Ruining thirty kids Christmas’ is pretty ‘not good’.” John told the pavement, refusing to look at his flatmate. People turned their heads to look at the mad man shouting about Santa, but did not try to stop the obviously intoxicated Father Christmas, nor did they move out of the way as Sherlock and John rapidly approached. Sherlock just curls up more, hugs himself harder, feels himself begin to shake with what has nothing to do with being cold and wet, and everything to do with the storm raging on inside him. John Watson could be a menace when he wanted to. And he could be oh so wrong about an astonishing amount of things... So why did Sherlock feel like crying? “S’not ready yet.” Wiggins rolls his chair to the far side of the table. “Here, take this.” he separates some fine powder from a large pile into a not-so-thin line. Come morning time, Sherlock will tell himself it was nothing but a dream. Straight men do not, as a rule, enter into relationships with gay men. Or did John think he meant… a what? Platonic relationship? Wasn’t that just called friends? Hadn't they already established that that’s what they were?! And so Sherlock will bury himself in the morning newspaper and refuse to make eye-contact with John. Even though he will be supremely aware of John’s eyes being a near constant presence on him. The cab ride back to Baker Street is quiet; Sherlock hunched up against the door, head pressed against the glass as he looks out the window; John on the other side of the cab, shooting Sherlock worried looks. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. Do you have the window open?” John asked, rubbing his arms and shivering as he approached his madman, who perched on a windowsill, head stuck out said window. The living room was dark, and Sherlock was outlined by the orange-gone-pink streetlamps. They lay in a heap on the floor from where they’d landed afterwards. Sherlock is soaked, John too, a little. Odd. Sherlock had only been thinking about it, he hadn’t actually intended to— He sits up on the side of the bed and then just stares at his wardrobe for a while. Feeling broken and defeated, in a way that has nothing to do with his recent drugs binge. He already feels the impulse to ring up Wiggins. He’ll give it a few weeks, at least. Knowing Lestrade won’t give him a case if he tests positive for anything. And annoying aware that John and Mycroft would’ve told him about this latest relapse. “I’m not going anywhere unless you’re coming with me.” John says in a voice that is at once fierce and soft. “Right! Got it!” John rushed forward and

<|output|> <|example|> feel the music, or whatever.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “I’m not going anywhere unless you’re coming with me <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Even though he will be supremely aware of John’s eyes being a near constant presence on him <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Even though he will be supremely aware of John’s eyes being a near constant presence on him <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> together he and Sherlock got Santa’s hands behind his back, Sherlock cuffing the man with the cuffs John handed over. “No, I know,” John shakes his head against Sherlock’s back, sniffs again and raises his head so his nose is directly behind Sherlock’s ear, “I know you can’t help it. When you get like this.” “Morning.” he says brightly, folding up the newspaper and setting it on the tiny end table next to him. “Tea?” he asks, already getting up to go make it. Thank God. Sherlock doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach John starting in on the questions just this moment--or ever, if he is being truly honest with himself. But he knows John will ask his questions at some point, for he can feel the need for answers burning in John, radiating outward from his chest and warming Sherlock’s back with it’s hateful heat from where they are pressed together. Sherlock wakes to an empty bed. There’s an instant crushing sensation in his chest, and so he closes his eyes, tries to get himself under control. Sherlock supposes he’d been through this enough times with the rest of the lot to have expected this, though he was always shocked anew each time. But... John had never seen him through a relapse before. Or a detox. And yet here he was. Still by Sherlock’s side. Still, to the supreme shock of Sherlock, sleeping in his bed with him. Sherlock had never got such powerful, deep, or frequent, sleep in his life. He was compelled to bed each night by the promise of John’s warm embrace. By his accepting presence. They sit, staring at each other. Sherlock in his chair, and John in his own. In front of the fire that John had felt compelled to build in the fireplace when Sherlock had first sat down but made no motion to speak. They also had a finger of whiskey each, another compulsion of John’s when Sherlock had continued his silence past the twenty minute mark. always be the one to answer these questions first?” he turns his glare to John. “Remember what I said about taking responsibility?” he raises a brow. .” Sherlock says more forcefully. “Not what--what I was going to say.” he tries to control his stammering, but his body shakes so intensely it’s making his teeth chatter. “Yes, well... “ Sherlock clears his perpetually blocked throat. “This sort of thing… I mean… Is it… okay?” Sherlock shakes his head at his own stupidity. ' The cigarettes were the only thing lifting his spirits—the slight amount that they were—and he knew in his heart of hearts, that if he’d been given the opportunity for anything harder, he would have taken it without a second thought. Luckily or not, his lethargy has kept him from venturing out and doing so. “Get tha fook off me!” The Santa shouted as Sherlock wrestled with him to the ground. “I’ll fookin’ kill ya!” John awoke, sleep-slowed arm reaching for the Sherlock he thought he was sure to find. When he was met by nothing but empty, cold sheets, he groggily blinked awake, lifted his head

<|output|> <|example|> together he and Sherlock got Santa’s hands behind his back, Sherlock cuffing the man with the cuffs John handed over. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John had never seen him through a relapse before <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “Tea?” he asks, already getting up to go make it <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> By his accepting presence <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> There’s an instant crushing sensation in his chest, and so he closes his eyes, tries to get himself under control <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> and looked about the room. too much. It’s not as though he were being unsafe. Nothing that stupid. It’s just… sometimes it’s hard to measure out the correct doses when you’ve been on a drug binge for a few days. Though he knows he managed to make a list. It’s in his breast-pocket. So it can’t have been all that bad if he managed to write it down first… Right? Sherlock wants to tell John all these things, from how nice his hand feels, to the stories behind every imperfection on his own. Instead he allows John to pull him to his feet. .” Sherlock barely manages to force out. The word issued in a gust of air as if he’d just had all the wind knocked from him. And I was listening to 'Friday I'm In Love' by The Cure when I wrote the end. Def give that last song a listen if you haven't already. The lyrics are very Johnlock, and very perfect for this particular fic. “J-John?” Sherlock asks, body shaking so fiercely that it rattles his chest, shakes the words as they come out of him. His phone is laying next to his head, however. Sherlock reaches an arm up to grab it, socking himself square in the eye on the first attempt, but eventually managing to maneuver his limb correctly and grab the damned thing. Best to send a text to Mycroft. Just in case. Now that he thinks of it, perhaps... ? But, no. He didn’t have the energy for it. If he started puking out the window he’d probably just fall right out of it. Down onto the hard, unforgiving pavement. Down until he hit the end of his life... John just shakes his head in Sherlock’s periphery, and then rubs Sherlock’s back as he tosses up into the toilet once more. “Then what was it that I just saw, hmm? What happened to you, just now, when you checked yourself out for He’s been awake for seventy-four hours. They’d solved the case five hours ago. Ever since Sherlock has been sitting on his hotel bed, staring at the blank wall across from him. It’s four in the morning before John wanders into the sitting room. He rubs at his eyes and peers into the mostly dark room before his eyes land on Sherlock sitting in front of his microscope, watching the magnificent chemical reaction the instrument allows him to observe. Though he’s still very  aware of John’s presence. Almost as if he’d known it all his life. “Oh,” Sherlock chuckles at the zapping sensation of the action. He suddenly feels much more inebriated. “Oh, this s’nice, isnnitt?” He smiles to himself. “I’ll just tell tha’ “Yes, thank you,” Sherlock’s voice sounds as wispy as his constitution. He clears his throat and gives a baritone, “Thank you, John.” And though John had said it many times that night before he’d finally succumbed to his exertions, Sherlock hadn’t been able to respond, too caught up in the sweet rapture and newness of everything. He thinks, now that John is asleep, he may just be able to say it. Speak the

<|output|> <|example|> and looked about the room. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It’s not as though he were being unsafe <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Though he’s still very  aware of John’s presence <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> The word issued in a gust of air as if he’d just had all the wind knocked from him <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> John just shakes his head in Sherlock’s periphery, and then rubs Sherlock’s back as he tosses up into the toilet once more <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Though he’s still very  aware of John’s presence <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> He suddenly feels much more inebriated <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> <|indexes|> 6 <|example|> They’d solved the case five hours ago <|indexes|> 7 |

<|text|> words aloud. For the first time in his life. To anyone. “W--Wi--” Sherlock tries to call out for Wiggins, but the music is far too loud, even if he could manage to say the man’s name. “NO!” Sherlock’s breaths punch in and out of him faster and faster as he panics more and more. “Who are you!? No, stay away!” he takes a deep breath to scream, “WIGGINS!” he calls out. What was the point of coming here if Wiggins was just going to let random men come in and have their way with Sherlock while he was incapacitated? WHAT WAS THE POINT?! Sherlock’s eyes did that thing where John could see the absurd amount of thoughts whirring past them, as if they were one of those old microfilm readers that used to make John seasick back in school. They let him have a glimpse into Sherlock’s mind palace. Among the flickers of emotion that John was able grasp before they passed by, wonder and shock seemed the most prevalent. . How dare John stump him? HIM, Sherlock Holmes! The world’s greatest Consulting Detective. No, the world’s John pretended to think it over. “That would be quite mad, wouldn’t it?” he looked up at Sherlock, smiled. “I’m actually starving. Where were you thinking?” “Oh, GOD!” Sherlock shouts in frustration, slamming his skull down, perhaps a little too hard, on the desk. “No problem, yeah,” John waves his thanks off, sitting back down but leaving the journal abandoned, elbows on his knees as he leans forward, hands clasped together, “You sure you’re alright?” Sherlock doesn’t turn around to acknowledge he’s heard John, or say anything in return, but he does tilt is head, ever so slightly to the side. He is listening, to whatever John has to say. The door to the flat opens, John comes in, talking about how silly it was for him to forget his umbrella. That you’d think after five days he’d get the hint. Sherlock knows the exact moment he notices him because he stops his mundane rambling. “Try what, exactly?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow in suspicion as John walks past him and straight to the coffee table, pushing it out of the way along with the two living chairs facing the couch, clearing a large space in the center of the room. “Yes, Love.” The petting continues as Sherlock releases the hand. It’s brushing away tears that Sherlock wasn’t aware he’d shed. “You talking now?” John asks, raising his head up a bit, neck creaking audibly, so he can get a look at Sherlock’s face. It isn’t a big thing, and it isn’t violent in the slightest. Just a casual grab on the arm to halt Sherlock’s retreat. But Sherlock feels all the anxious energy leave him in a flash. In fact, all sensation, all his senses, are immediately dampened, gone cold, and underwater, floating up, and barely holding onto his physical form, just by the bite of nails into his palm. There’s silence. Sherlock can hear each of John’s breaths as they come and go. He has the breathing cadence he gets when he’s thinking. At the door John finally releases Sherlock

<|output|> <|example|> words aloud. For the first time in his life. To anyone. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> There’s silence <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “Try what, exactly?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow in suspicion as John walks past him and straight to the coffee table, pushing it out of the way along with the two living chairs facing the couch, clearing a large space in the center of the room <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> Among the flickers of emotion that John was able grasp before they passed by, wonder and shock seemed the most prevalent <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “Yes, Love <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> No, the world’s John pretended to think it over <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> Where were you thinking?” “Oh, GOD!” Sherlock shouts in frustration, slamming his skull down, perhaps a little too hard, on the desk <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> There’s silence <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> and goes for his bed, pulling back the blanket and sheet, as if this were some posh hotel and John was a merry maid. Like a bird leaving offerings to a potential mate, or a pagan leaving offerings to a God, John continues to bring Sherlock things, attempting to change his black mood. “At least pretend to focus, Love.” John coughs, eyeing the crime-scene techs who were shooting them dirty looks. “ he says it in such a way as to let Sherlock know just how he was humouring him. “And you looked...” “Hmm? No.” Sherlock answers, shaking his head. He needs to get himself under control. That’s the third time in the past two hours that he’d been caught staring at John. And it was only just now turning eleven in the morning. “I’d like to take you to bed every night. Hold you ‘til you fall asleep. Be there when you wake up.” “Then yes, of course,” he breathes out, leans back, apparently able to see Sherlock’s face even though Sherlock can’t see his. “Of course this can stay. I can stay. “What, snort it?” though Sherlock is already rolling up his sleeves and pushing his greasy hair back. John’s mouth drops open in disbelief, he shakes his head before, “Nothing,” he sits back in his chair, grabs the newspaper and fluffs it out, “Nothing. At. All.” “Just, I…” Sherlock doesn’t know how to say it without saying it. Oh how he wished he had that capacity to make subtle implications and sub-textual references, the way John and so many other people seem to have. Then he could allude to this. Then it wouldn’t be so damned difficult. “You… do realize I’m a homosexual?” “So,” he starts, decides he needs another drink, polishing off his glass. He finally meets Sherlock’s eyes. “Let’s talk.” But Sherlock doesn’t want to ‘just try it’. He wants to meditatively walk this room in a circle until he’s worn a path in the rug. He turns to leave, and that’s when it happens. Must be Wiggins. His paranoia had him jumping through windows only all too often. At least they're on the first floor, this time. Sherlock will deal with this later. Hopefully he won’t have to though. Wiggins is fairly self sufficient. That’s why he likes him. That and the drugs. ‘Damn my brain!’ Sherlock curses, ‘Function within stated parameters or cease to function entirely!’ He threatens himself. The hand that had gripped Sherlock’s arm moves to his back, caressing. Touched starved as he was, it was this he craved from Seb. That and the drugs. With Seb it was a package deal. He’d fuck you, even hold you afterwards, all as long as you were willing to chase oblivion with him. Sherlock was never one to turn down a good chase. “It’s alright, Love. It’s alright. Shh, shhh. That’s it. You’re awake now. S’alright.” John is brushing the sweat-matted hair away from Sherlock’s forehead, petting his face and hair. Shushing him and soothing him until Sherlock finally begins to settle. He takes a deep breath, looking at his room cast in the early grey of morning light. He doesn’t

<|output|> <|example|> and goes for his bed, pulling back the blanket and sheet, as if this were some posh hotel and John was a merry maid. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> At least they're on the first floor, this time <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He needs to get himself under control <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> Hopefully he won’t have to though <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> I can stay <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Touched starved as he was, it was this he craved from Seb <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> You’re awake now <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> <|indexes|> 6 6 <|example|> Oh how he wished he had that capacity to make subtle implications and sub-textual references, the way John and so many other people seem to have <|indexes|> 7 <|example|> That’s why he likes him <|indexes|> 8 8 |

<|text|> know what this means, having John spend the night in his bed, cradling him, caring for him. He doesn’t know what it means. But he does know how he feels about it. And that he doesn’t want it to stop. “Because, there’s the kick when you first snort it, and then all you want to do afterwards is to sit down and ponder on things for a while.” Lestrade had called after them, but they’d ignored him. They knew this song and dance. Knew they’d just come in tomorrow morning and fill out their reports. It was just a habit of Lestrade’s to insist they immediately come down to the Yard after they finished a case. Sherlock had been waiting for this--John and him together in this way--to become mixed and blurred with the grey sameness of everything else. But this alone had stayed his. The sun had set hours ago and the flat had gone dark with its loss. The only light available was whatever happened to filter in from the windows. Regardless, Sherlock turns his face into the carpet. Inexplicably not wanting to be seen by the man he was perfectly fine being held by. “It means, Sherlock.” he takes a deep breath, leans forward again. “That I would like to take you out. On dates.” John ducked his head back in, absolutely freezing, but unable to suppress the laughter at Sherlock dusting off the snowflakes that must now be coating his own hair. Sherlock takes the straw with a put upon sigh, though he’s already thrilling in the idea of whatever this is and how it will feel once it meets his blood/brain barrier. Before John could ask if they could please shut the window so they wouldn’t freeze to death, Sherlock dropped his head down and pressed his lips to John’s in a sweet kiss. Sherlock opens his eyes but the figure he sees won’t stay put long enough for him to deduce a thing, and maybe there’s actually three figures, not just the one. Though who can really tell? John loved that photo; a confused and red-eyed Sherlock--from the camera flash, not drugs (thank God)--arms full of Chinese takeout and that hat clumsily balanced on his head. It ended up framed and on the wall above the fireplace. Even all these years later, John will be walking, or pacing, in front of the fire, and see that picture. And for a moment he’ll be filled with memories of Sherlock tackling Santa, of that stupid hat--which they still have somewhere--and the rest of that night. He'd remember how they’d zoned out together on bad telly and good Chinese food. How they’d ended up falling asleep and waking up snug as a bug, wrapped up around each other. How they’d had their first kiss, complete with morning breath and Mrs. H interrupting them as things got heated. John would remember all that, and it would bring a smile to his face. It was, to this day, his favorite picture of Sherlock. And he was pretty sure it always would be. “Because!” He shouts, throwing his arms up, “I’m bored!” Sherlock

<|output|> <|example|> know what this means, having John spend the night in his bed, cradling him, caring for him. He doesn’t know what it means. But he does know how he feels about it. And that he doesn’t want it to stop. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Because!” He shouts, throwing his arms up, “I’m bored!” Sherlock <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Though who can really tell? John loved that photo; a confused and red-eyed Sherlock--from the camera flash, not drugs (thank God)--arms full of Chinese takeout and that hat clumsily balanced on his head <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> And that he doesn’t want it to stop <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> They knew this song and dance <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> lifts himself up so that he is sitting on the back of his seat, feet where is arse should be, “You say you’ve been paying attention,” Sherlock has a dark, judgmental smile, “But I have told you time and time again—“ As John handled the still kicking and spitting Santa, Sherlock stood up, suavely dusting off his coat, and then noticed the small audience that had gathered. The first thing he notices is that sound is back on—a fire truck races by, birds sing from somewhere, and the everyday white noise of Baker Street floats in from the open window. Most of that went over the kids heads, parents too. But the part about Santa being a lie and Christmas being 'bad' seemed to stick. . Would not give his body the satisfaction of knowing it had broken him. So he doesn’t. But his breaths do become ragged, his shoulders hitch up and down in a jilted way. But he doesn’t cry. Sherlock breathes in the scent of John’s hair, holding him tighter. John makes a small sound in his sleep, but just nuzzles closer. Sherlock has never felt like this before. So free yet so grounded. So light and energized yet so bone tired and heavy. He’s satisfied beyond measure, in every possible way. He can’t imagine a world where he might need drugs when he has Sherlock shuts himself inside his tiny bedroom and proceeds to collapse on top of his bed. He lays there, face flat on the duvet, for what could have been either hours or minutes, before crawling up the bed a bit and turning on his side, curling up on himself in the fetal position. As often happens, a drastic upswing follows Sherlock’s downed spirits. One day he wakes, revitalized and energized. Almost uncomfortably so. As if he is hooked up to some machine, being shocked, sparks zinging out across his nervous system, setting him alight. With one last contented sigh, Sherlock feels himself being pulled under into the realm of dreams. Tomorrow will be a new day. Filled with tea and newspapers. Cases and John. And even It’s not as if he hadn’t been expecting this, over the last few days as his constitution improved. John was just sticking around out of some Doctorly duty. Sherlock had finally pushed him too far this time. Finally showed John his full hand. And John was disturbed, disgusted. John wanted to leave. And so he finally had. it was forty-five minutes. I was keeping time, you know—But that’s not—That’s not the point, Sherlock.” Sherlock has to do a double take as he was certain John had gone out to get milk just moments before. That was the point of the skull, wasn’t it? For someone to talk to while John was out. Oh! No, it wasn’t. It was someone to talk to because he refused to talk to John. That was it. John shrugs again, both his shoulders and his lower lip. His grip on his glass tightens. “Kind of teetering on the line, I think.” “He’s trying to shake us off in the crowd of other Santas!” Sherlock was already

<|output|> <|example|> lifts himself up so that he is sitting on the back of his seat, feet where is arse should be, “You say you’ve been paying attention,” Sherlock has a dark, judgmental smile, “But I have told you time and time again—“ <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> But he doesn’t cry <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> And even It’s not as if he hadn’t been expecting this, over the last few days as his constitution improved <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> John wanted to leave <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> I was keeping time, you know—But that’s not—That’s not the point, Sherlock <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> It was someone to talk to because he refused to talk to John <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> It was someone to talk to because he refused to talk to John <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> And so he finally had <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> running towards the brightly colored, flashing lights of ‘Christmas Town’--or so said the poorly hung up sign. Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, laid out spread eagle and feeling a lovely sluggishness pulse through his veins, enveloping him in a warm, comforting embrace. Though all he can manage to ‘ponder’ on is John. Where he’s at. If he’s worried about him. If he’s mad at him. This won’t do Sherlock doesn’t remember the trek to his room. Nor does he remember falling asleep. But he does remember waking up, warm in his own bed. Warmer for the body pressed up behind him. And warmer still for the peace beating within his heart. Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder, not making to pull Sherlock to face him, but just resting, just testing out this new territory. When Sherlock doesn’t make to buck him off, John scoots closer, crowding in behind him and wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s side. Sherlock can’t fathom the need for sex when he can’t feel the majority of his body, but he knows that tone and the look Sebastian’s giving him. He sighs internally before nodding as much as Seb’s hold on him will allow. They decided against a cab, as the mall wasn’t too far off from Baker Street--and isn’t that just lovely? Seeing as they’d both received a lifetime ban from the place. The silence lasted a good ten minutes into their walk home when Sherlock couldn’t contain himself anymore. He can hear the springs of John’s own hotel bed creak as he lifts himself off them. Then he can feel the bed dip as John joins Sherlock on his. It is not long before that now familiar warm presence is behind him once more. The only balm he’d found to comfort his soul. “NEARLY an hour, unresponsive--And the thing is, Sherlock, it’s not how you usually get when you go into your mind-palace.” “Do you want to be?” comes the immediate reply, though he’d hoped John was asleep, even though he knew he wasn’t. “Shit, sorry!” John exclaims, his heart pounding in his chest. He turns his head quickly, trying to see whether Sherlock is nearby. To his luck, the detective is still in the back of the shop, having an enthusiastic conversation with another customer about the ‘belt’ John had picked up earlier. Each and every comment left as we all took this journey together left Tad and I grinning. We'd screenshot comments and do the internet equivalent of poking each other to make the other read comments that tickled us. He wanted to be with John. That was a fact. They worked well together on cases — John was smart and clever enough to keep up with Sherlock. Attractive and brave; confident and brilliant in bed. There was more. There was always more. He shifted on the sofa as he let his thoughts race, and finally, it struck him. “Look,” he started over. “Let’s not do this here, right? I’m sorry about not correcting the server. No need to have that ruin our night.” “No,” Sherlock snaps as he lifts himself up to his full height and

<|output|> <|example|> running towards the brightly colored, flashing lights of ‘Christmas Town’--or so said the poorly hung up sign. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Shit, sorry!” John exclaims, his heart pounding in his chest. He turns his head quickly, trying to see whether Sherlock is nearby. To his luck, the detective is still in the back of the shop, having an enthusiastic conversation with another customer about the ‘belt’ John had picked up earlier. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” “Do you want to be?” comes the immediate reply, though he’d hoped John was asleep, even though he knew he wasn’t <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> ” “No,” Sherlock snaps as he lifts himself up to his full height and <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder, not making to pull Sherlock to face him, but just resting, just testing out this new territory <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “Look,” he started over <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> If he’s worried about him <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> glowers at John. “You are not about to take this away from me because...you got wrapped up in the moment!” John sighs but agrees, bringing his free hand up to trace outlines across Sherlock’s chest. They should clean up, but he doesn’t want to move — doesn’t want to ruin this slice of peace, a fragment of what they’d had before. It feels so easy like this. Here, they know exactly how to talk to each other, how to ask for what they want and give in return. Why had they even broken up? He can’t remember. If every time was like that; Sherlock turns his sketchpad over wordlessly, revealing the rough form of a figure, sitting on the sofa, holding a newspaper. Sherlock let out a long and loud giggle that he knew wouldn't be possible unless he was very close to several sheets into the proverbial wind. John's easy-going charm and steely confidence were absolutely knocking down his defences, but his superbly dry yet decadent wit would be what made Sherlock crumble completely. “No, but you’re a scientist, Sherlock. If anyone can create the scent of John Watson, it is yourself.” Sherlock needed more wine to make it through yet another one of these ridiculous dates set up by Molly. She had promised that this one was intelligent enough to at least keep up a general conversation. Ted was much older than Sherlock went for but handsome and a highly skilled lawyer. Unfortunately, though, Ted also asked way too many questions. Sherlock sighed, stood up from the corpse and swivelled around. His magnifying glass snapped closed, the echo of it ricocheting around the morgue. The DI and Molly's faces stared back at him as if they had just recalled where they were. John sinks forwards, resting his forehead against the polished wood. He’d almost forgotten. For three glorious hours, he had convinced himself that nothing had changed, that the detective at home was still his. “Sherlock,” John says, his voice strong and commanding enough to cut through the shouts. “Calm down.“ Irene punctuates her question with a simple raised eyebrow, and Molly cry-laughs again. This type of reaction is becoming quite a habit. “What is it?” John continued, then giggled at the puzzled look that Sherlock gave. “The cologne, I mean. Is it from a particular store?” The higher functions of Sherlock’s mental capabilities want to complain about being treated like he can’t manage the simplest of tasks. However, the scent of John is everywhere and him straddling Sherlock’s hips is beyond cheating.

<|output|> <|example|> glowers at John. “You are not about to take this away from me because...you got wrapped up in the moment!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> The DI and Molly's faces stared back at him as if they had just recalled where they were <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> John sinks forwards, resting his forehead against the polished wood <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “Sherlock,” John says, his voice strong and commanding enough to cut through the shouts <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “The cologne, I mean <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> <|example|> John took Sherlock’s hand and answered firmly. “Yes, no doubt about it. Lets stop wasting time here on the pavement. I want to marry this man before he changes his mind.” He turned toward the doors and hauled Sherlock along by the hand, trusting that Mycroft would escort Mrs. Hudson. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> I can not imagine that it was Brother Williams' family that summoned this priest, so I'm worried that ... " <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and to the novice’s table, where I greeted Brother Francis with a friendly nod and took the seat to his right. After a brief look around the room I remained standing like all others until grace was spoken and the brothers took their seats. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Damn the cases.” John said, and Sherlock gave a mock gasp. “The more remote the better. I’d have you all to myself if I could.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> whatever.” He looks back down into his whiskey, concern creasing his brow, mouth twisted up to the side by his obvious discomfort with the situation. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> felt as if he were going to choke. He didn’t want more, but he did want to please Sebastian. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "He doesn’t live here anymore," the blond man replied, without answering my question. He took a drag of his cigarette, already burned down to a small stump, then tipped his head back and blew the smoke into the air. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> been doing then? Nothing stood out in his memory. Just an ordinary day. He’d probably woken early, cycled to work. Met patients, written prescriptions, referred some to specialists. Cycled home, had dinner with Mary, perhaps followed by sex. Just an ordinary day in his small, petty life. He’d been sleepwalking while Sherlock was taking down nearly two dozen dangerous international criminals single handed <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John took Sherlock’s hand and answered firmly. “Yes, no doubt about it. Lets stop wasting time here on the pavement. I want to marry this man before he changes his mind.” He turned toward the doors and hauled Sherlock along by the hand, trusting that Mycroft would escort Mrs. Hudson. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Damn the cases.” John said, and Sherlock gave a mock gasp. “The more remote the better. I’d have you all to myself if I could.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> I’d have you all to myself if I could <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> and to the novice’s table, where I greeted Brother Francis with a friendly nod and took the seat to his right. After a brief look around the room I remained standing like all others until grace was spoken and the brothers took their seats. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Damn the cases.” John said, and Sherlock gave a mock gasp. “The more remote the better. I’d have you all to myself if I could.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> whatever.” He looks back down into his whiskey, concern creasing his brow, mouth twisted up to the side by his obvious discomfort with the situation. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> felt as if he were going to choke. He didn’t want more, but he did want to please Sebastian. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "He doesn’t live here anymore," the blond man replied, without answering my question. He took a drag of his cigarette, already burned down to a small stump, then tipped his head back and blew the smoke into the air. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> been doing then? Nothing stood out in his memory. Just an ordinary day. He’d probably woken early, cycled to work. Met patients, written prescriptions, referred some to specialists. Cycled home, had dinner with Mary, perhaps followed by sex. Just an ordinary day in his small, petty life. He’d been sleepwalking while Sherlock was taking down nearly two dozen dangerous international criminals single handed <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> place. Sherlock stayed silent. An occasional flinch was his only response to John’s ministrations. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> take out his anguish and frustration on his husband: Sherlock, who had been surprisingly supportive throughout the surgeries, the hospital stay, and the tedious recovery. Sherlock, who he’d continually pushed away until finally Sherlock had even stopped trying to engage him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> last to take his place in the choir loft, but settled on the edge, while all the other men went to their usual places. I decided not to let myself be irritated; my interest in the young man had brought too much trouble to both him and myself. Nevertheless, it was noticeable that he would only passively participate in the service. It was only recently that I had discovered that there was also a plan for the liturgical ministry, which assigned certain tasks to each brother, such as the recitation of psalms or the service on the altar, and which was valid for one week. Brother William should have assisted the priest who led the Eucharistic celebration this week, as he had done on the preceding days - but now he stayed in his place, gazing into space, and seemed to hardly notice his surroundings. Was it worry about his protege Jonah, or was there something else? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> painted the downstairs powder room for my mother this morning. Obviously some paint dripped onto my hair.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> John forced Sherlock’s chest and shoulders to the mattress, making his long back arch. Sherlock submitted without resistance, turning his head to the side and to watch John over his shoulder. The cheek presented for John’s gaze was flushed, sweat-slick curls clinging to forehead, mouth slack while John’s brutal thrusts elicited an endless stream of involuntary sounds from the arched white throat. Thrusting brutally, John ground out between clenched teeth, “Feel <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> was halfway up the staircase by the time Sherlock entered the foyer. Her frightened face turned toward him as she hissed, “Hurry!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> and to the novice’s table, where I greeted Brother Francis with a friendly nod and took the seat to his right. After a brief look around the room I remained standing like all others until grace was spoken and the brothers took their seats. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Damn the cases.” John said, and Sherlock gave a mock gasp. “The more remote the better. I’d have you all to myself if I could.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "He doesn’t live here anymore," the blond man replied, without answering my question <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> been doing then? Nothing stood out in his memory. Just an ordinary day. He’d probably woken early, cycled to work. Met patients, written prescriptions, referred some to specialists. Cycled home, had dinner with Mary, perhaps followed by sex. Just an ordinary day in his small, petty life. He’d been sleepwalking while Sherlock was taking down nearly two dozen dangerous international criminals single handed <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> place. Sherlock stayed silent. An occasional flinch was his only response to John’s ministrations. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> take out his anguish and frustration on his husband: Sherlock, who had been surprisingly supportive throughout the surgeries, the hospital stay, and the tedious recovery. Sherlock, who he’d continually pushed away until finally Sherlock had even stopped trying to engage him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> last to take his place in the choir loft, but settled on the edge, while all the other men went to their usual places. I decided not to let myself be irritated; my interest in the young man had brought too much trouble to both him and myself. Nevertheless, it was noticeable that he would only passively participate in the service. It was only recently that I had discovered that there was also a plan for the liturgical ministry, which assigned certain tasks to each brother, such as the recitation of psalms or the service on the altar, and which was valid for one week. Brother William should have assisted the priest who led the Eucharistic celebration this week, as he had done on the preceding days - but now he stayed in his place, gazing into space, and seemed to hardly notice his surroundings. Was it worry about his protege Jonah, or was there something else? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> painted the downstairs powder room for my mother this morning. Obviously some paint dripped onto my hair.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> John forced Sherlock’s chest and shoulders to the mattress, making his long back arch. Sherlock submitted without resistance, turning his head to the side and to watch John over his shoulder. The cheek presented for John’s gaze was flushed, sweat-slick curls clinging to forehead, mouth slack while John’s brutal thrusts elicited an endless stream of involuntary sounds from the arched white throat. Thrusting brutally, John ground out between clenched teeth, “Feel <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> was halfway up the staircase by the time Sherlock entered the foyer. Her frightened face turned toward him as she hissed, “Hurry!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and threaded it between their bodies to capture Sherlock’s rock-hard cock. Sherlock’s skin felt hot and dry, distended over the thick vein that ran the length of his cock, and he shuddered violently when John stroked down the hot length. Taking a moment to readjust his hips to line up his own aching erection with Sherlock’s, John stretched his fist to accommodate the girth of the two of them together. Sherlock jerked like he’d touched a live wire then snapped his hips into John’s fist faster and faster, making little ‘aha’ sounds with each exhale until he shuddered and came, scorching John’s belly with his release. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> said their apologies and agreed that none further were needed. John wanted his first note to echo Sherlock’s tender words, not apologize for injuring him further. He opened a new document and began: <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> crucial detail for her. The trigger for my gloom. When I did not respond, she tried again. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> been doing then? Nothing stood out in his memory. Just an ordinary day. He’d probably woken early, cycled to work. Met patients, written prescriptions, referred some to specialists. Cycled home, had dinner with Mary, perhaps followed by sex. Just an ordinary day in his small, petty life. He’d been sleepwalking while Sherlock was taking down nearly two dozen dangerous international criminals single handed <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> When I did not respond, she tried again <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> last to take his place in the choir loft, but settled on the edge, while all the other men went to their usual places. I decided not to let myself be irritated; my interest in the young man had brought too much trouble to both him and myself. Nevertheless, it was noticeable that he would only passively participate in the service. It was only recently that I had discovered that there was also a plan for the liturgical ministry, which assigned certain tasks to each brother, such as the recitation of psalms or the service on the altar, and which was valid for one week. Brother William should have assisted the priest who led the Eucharistic celebration this week, as he had done on the preceding days - but now he stayed in his place, gazing into space, and seemed to hardly notice his surroundings. Was it worry about his protege Jonah, or was there something else? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> painted the downstairs powder room for my mother this morning. Obviously some paint dripped onto my hair.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> John forced Sherlock’s chest and shoulders to the mattress, making his long back arch. Sherlock submitted without resistance, turning his head to the side and to watch John over his shoulder. The cheek presented for John’s gaze was flushed, sweat-slick curls clinging to forehead, mouth slack while John’s brutal thrusts elicited an endless stream of involuntary sounds from the arched white throat. Thrusting brutally, John ground out between clenched teeth, “Feel <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> was halfway up the staircase by the time Sherlock entered the foyer. Her frightened face turned toward him as she hissed, “Hurry!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and threaded it between their bodies to capture Sherlock’s rock-hard cock. Sherlock’s skin felt hot and dry, distended over the thick vein that ran the length of his cock, and he shuddered violently when John stroked down the hot length. Taking a moment to readjust his hips to line up his own aching erection with Sherlock’s, John stretched his fist to accommodate the girth of the two of them together. Sherlock jerked like he’d touched a live wire then snapped his hips into John’s fist faster and faster, making little ‘aha’ sounds with each exhale until he shuddered and came, scorching John’s belly with his release. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> last to take his place in the choir loft, but settled on the edge, while all the other men went to their usual places. I decided not to let myself be irritated; my interest in the young man had brought too much trouble to both him and myself. Nevertheless, it was noticeable that he would only passively participate in the service. It was only recently that I had discovered that there was also a plan for the liturgical ministry, which assigned certain tasks to each brother, such as the recitation of psalms or the service on the altar, and which was valid for one week. Brother William should have assisted the priest who led the Eucharistic celebration this week, as he had done on the preceding days - but now he stayed in his place, gazing into space, and seemed to hardly notice his surroundings. Was it worry about his protege Jonah, or was there something else? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Brother William should have assisted the priest who led the Eucharistic celebration this week, as he had done on the preceding days - but now he stayed in his place, gazing into space, and seemed to hardly notice his surroundings <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> was halfway up the staircase by the time Sherlock entered the foyer. Her frightened face turned toward him as she hissed, “Hurry!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and threaded it between their bodies to capture Sherlock’s rock-hard cock. Sherlock’s skin felt hot and dry, distended over the thick vein that ran the length of his cock, and he shuddered violently when John stroked down the hot length. Taking a moment to readjust his hips to line up his own aching erection with Sherlock’s, John stretched his fist to accommodate the girth of the two of them together. Sherlock jerked like he’d touched a live wire then snapped his hips into John’s fist faster and faster, making little ‘aha’ sounds with each exhale until he shuddered and came, scorching John’s belly with his release. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> said their apologies and agreed that none further were needed. John wanted his first note to echo Sherlock’s tender words, not apologize for injuring him further. He opened a new document and began: <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> crucial detail for her. The trigger for my gloom. When I did not respond, she tried again. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a soft creaking; somewhere in the distance I could hear the faint roar of a brook. In the sky, millions of stars and between them the full moon shone with all its might and bathed the garden beneath me in a ghostly white light. But on the other side of the building there was still impenetrable darkness. I sighed, closed the window, and stood in the middle of the room. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> And most importantly, I did not realize you knew that it’s my birthday. " <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> if only Sherlock asked. And he’d offer up his body for Sherlock’s enjoyment if that was what Sherlock needed. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> was halfway up the staircase by the time Sherlock entered the foyer. Her frightened face turned toward him as she hissed, “Hurry!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John wanted his first note to echo Sherlock’s tender words, not apologize for injuring him further <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> crucial detail for her. The trigger for my gloom. When I did not respond, she tried again. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a soft creaking; somewhere in the distance I could hear the faint roar of a brook. In the sky, millions of stars and between them the full moon shone with all its might and bathed the garden beneath me in a ghostly white light. But on the other side of the building there was still impenetrable darkness. I sighed, closed the window, and stood in the middle of the room. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> And most importantly, I did not realize you knew that it’s my birthday. " <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> if only Sherlock asked. And he’d offer up his body for Sherlock’s enjoyment if that was what Sherlock needed. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> unkind to his brother, but he did want to paint a realistic picture of John Watson in the hopes Sherlock would be objective. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> encountered. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> how much he enjoyed his new job. Being told he’d never play again had seemed like the end of his dreams. But he now had a new lease on life in coaching the team he loved. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to death. Their blood guilt shall be upon them.’ That’s Leviticus 20:13-15.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> leather-bound book. I did not want to interrupt him in his studies, but I felt such an urgent need to apologize to him that I could not miss this chance. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> crucial detail for her. The trigger for my gloom. When I did not respond, she tried again. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> But he now had a new lease on life in coaching the team he loved <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> if only Sherlock asked. And he’d offer up his body for Sherlock’s enjoyment if that was what Sherlock needed. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> unkind to his brother, but he did want to paint a realistic picture of John Watson in the hopes Sherlock would be objective. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> encountered. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> how much he enjoyed his new job. Being told he’d never play again had seemed like the end of his dreams. But he now had a new lease on life in coaching the team he loved. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to death. Their blood guilt shall be upon them.’ That’s Leviticus 20:13-15.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> leather-bound book. I did not want to interrupt him in his studies, but I felt such an urgent need to apologize to him that I could not miss this chance. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> picked up with the spread of news of Sherlock’s return, he took on fewer and fewer surgery shifts in favor of wild chases and all night stakeouts with Sherlock. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> if only Sherlock asked. And he’d offer up his body for Sherlock’s enjoyment if that was what Sherlock needed. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> I did not want to interrupt him in his studies, but I felt such an urgent need to apologize to him that I could not miss this chance <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> how much he enjoyed his new job. Being told he’d never play again had seemed like the end of his dreams. But he now had a new lease on life in coaching the team he loved. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to death. Their blood guilt shall be upon them.’ That’s Leviticus 20:13-15.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> leather-bound book. I did not want to interrupt him in his studies, but I felt such an urgent need to apologize to him that I could not miss this chance. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> picked up with the spread of news of Sherlock’s return, he took on fewer and fewer surgery shifts in favor of wild chases and all night stakeouts with Sherlock. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> picked up the jar, unscrewed the lid, laid it on the nightstand, and drew closer to the bed. Slowly he dipped his thumb in the oily liquid and marked the young man's forehead and palms with the sign of the cross. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> how much he enjoyed his new job. Being told he’d never play again had seemed like the end of his dreams. But he now had a new lease on life in coaching the team he loved. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|example|> how much he enjoyed his new job <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> picked up with the spread of news of Sherlock’s return, he took on fewer and fewer surgery shifts in favor of wild chases and all night stakeouts with Sherlock. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> picked up the jar, unscrewed the lid, laid it on the nightstand, and drew closer to the bed. Slowly he dipped his thumb in the oily liquid and marked the young man's forehead and palms with the sign of the cross. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> struggling to put on the appearance of mourning his friend. If he’d only known! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> you about the secure site, how to access it and the password? John! I sent you 400 messages! Please tell me you read them!” Sherlock’s composure cracked. He clutched at John’s arms, trying to will him to understand. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> for permission to reinitiate a physical relationship with the man he now realized he’d loved for so long. Sherlock smiled and John saw the same realization reflected in those pale eyes that he hoped his eyes displayed. Moving his hands to cup Sherlock’s face, John placed his lips gently against Sherlock’s. He tried to convey all the tenderness he felt through the chaste brush of lips. He moved his lips to Sherlock’s cheekbone and planted the softest of kisses there, then on to the soft spot just in front of his ear. “I’m sorry,” John murmured softly. “Can you ever forgive me?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to his ears. He held his breath while he listened to the conversation the first time through, not realizing he was doing so. Afterward he let it out in a loud gust, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> was nice just sit together quietly and communicate only through the touch of our hands. Perhaps we would have stayed like that all afternoon, had Sherlock not suddenly been gripped by a coughing spasm. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> picked up with the spread of news of Sherlock’s return, he took on fewer and fewer surgery shifts in favor of wild chases and all night stakeouts with Sherlock. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “I’m sorry,” John murmured softly <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> you about the secure site, how to access it and the password? John! I sent you 400 messages! Please tell me you read them!” Sherlock’s composure cracked. He clutched at John’s arms, trying to will him to understand. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> for permission to reinitiate a physical relationship with the man he now realized he’d loved for so long. Sherlock smiled and John saw the same realization reflected in those pale eyes that he hoped his eyes displayed. Moving his hands to cup Sherlock’s face, John placed his lips gently against Sherlock’s. He tried to convey all the tenderness he felt through the chaste brush of lips. He moved his lips to Sherlock’s cheekbone and planted the softest of kisses there, then on to the soft spot just in front of his ear. “I’m sorry,” John murmured softly. “Can you ever forgive me?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to his ears. He held his breath while he listened to the conversation the first time through, not realizing he was doing so. Afterward he let it out in a loud gust, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> was nice just sit together quietly and communicate only through the touch of our hands. Perhaps we would have stayed like that all afternoon, had Sherlock not suddenly been gripped by a coughing spasm. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> erection. He was a little alarmed when Sherlock dropped his hand and leaned forward on both elbows, groaning, “John, come on.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> you about the secure site, how to access it and the password? John! I sent you 400 messages! Please tell me you read them!” Sherlock’s composure cracked. He clutched at John’s arms, trying to will him to understand. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Perhaps we would have stayed like that all afternoon, had Sherlock not suddenly been gripped by a coughing spasm <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> was nice just sit together quietly and communicate only through the touch of our hands. Perhaps we would have stayed like that all afternoon, had Sherlock not suddenly been gripped by a coughing spasm. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> erection. He was a little alarmed when Sherlock dropped his hand and leaned forward on both elbows, groaning, “John, come on.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> I loved a person of the same sex. Would I react as Jonah had done? Resigned, but understanding? Would I get angry? Justify myself? And might I have reacted differently when he told me about it? Perhaps I should have been more honest with him, told him of the experiences I had had in Afghanistan, when the nights were long and lonely? Should I have mentioned Harriet? No, not a good example. I had already told Jonah that we did not have a good relationship with each other and that she still insisted that I was incapable of having a relationship, but if he would have asked me whether her coming-out had an influence on our fraternal relationship, I would either have to admit to that or admit that I had not supported her when she needed my help most urgently. When I was honest with myself, I was still ashamed that I had crawled into my room instead of protecting her from our father. Nor did it help that, after her departure, I had become the favorite victim for his anger; my bad conscience still plagued me. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> chest expanded to maximum capacity, then he let out the breath on a shaky sigh. He kept his face averted and his head braced in both hands. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> more often lately, had been inattentive and had even brought a patient to critical condition, because it was lost on me simply that he had significant symptoms of a stroke. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> it difficult to decipher it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> hint? After all, that evening we talked about how it would be possible to help Jonah ... I reached for the container hastily, unscrewed the cap - and stared at about 500 grams of finely ground chasteberry. That could not be right, I was sure! On the verge of desperation, I shoved my hand in, searching for a hidden clue that I did not find. Now my nerves were actually at breaking point; I could not think of another place to continue my search. I thought frantically about the conversations I had had with him, especially trying to recall what he had said to me when he came to my room a few days ago, but soon realized that this conversation was only superficially about Jonah - instead of talking about how to help him, to protect him from the latent threat posed by the author of the letter, we had tried to figure out where we stood concerning our relationship. Whether feelings could be involved in the game was completely out of place. Even though I still had no answer to this question, I could say one thing quite clearly: Whatever had been behind this conversation - it had not been a hidden clue to a potential poisoner within the monastery walls. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> into not only my sleep, but also robbed the joy of life from me. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> cradled his bollocks. Sherlock’s fingers stroked gently and John drew in his breath on a groan when he realized that Sherlock was stroking both John’s sac and his own cock, the underside of the head where it nestled against John’s bollocks. <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> with a gun ready. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands above your head. Don't try to run. Just do what I say, and this can be easy." He growled, his feet scraping across the pavement as he got closer and closer. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> was nice just sit together quietly and communicate only through the touch of our hands. Perhaps we would have stayed like that all afternoon, had Sherlock not suddenly been gripped by a coughing spasm. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> with a gun ready <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> chest expanded to maximum capacity, then he let out the breath on a shaky sigh. He kept his face averted and his head braced in both hands. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> more often lately, had been inattentive and had even brought a patient to critical condition, because it was lost on me simply that he had significant symptoms of a stroke. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> it difficult to decipher it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> hint? After all, that evening we talked about how it would be possible to help Jonah ... I reached for the container hastily, unscrewed the cap - and stared at about 500 grams of finely ground chasteberry. That could not be right, I was sure! On the verge of desperation, I shoved my hand in, searching for a hidden clue that I did not find. Now my nerves were actually at breaking point; I could not think of another place to continue my search. I thought frantically about the conversations I had had with him, especially trying to recall what he had said to me when he came to my room a few days ago, but soon realized that this conversation was only superficially about Jonah - instead of talking about how to help him, to protect him from the latent threat posed by the author of the letter, we had tried to figure out where we stood concerning our relationship. Whether feelings could be involved in the game was completely out of place. Even though I still had no answer to this question, I could say one thing quite clearly: Whatever had been behind this conversation - it had not been a hidden clue to a potential poisoner within the monastery walls. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> into not only my sleep, but also robbed the joy of life from me. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> cradled his bollocks. Sherlock’s fingers stroked gently and John drew in his breath on a groan when he realized that Sherlock was stroking both John’s sac and his own cock, the underside of the head where it nestled against John’s bollocks. <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> with a gun ready. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands above your head. Don't try to run. Just do what I say, and this can be easy." He growled, his feet scraping across the pavement as he got closer and closer. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> said almost too nonchalantly. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> chemicals. Sometimes, having a chemist for a flatmate was a bit... Grueling, but he managed. Some nights he even missed it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> chest expanded to maximum capacity, then he let out the breath on a shaky sigh. He kept his face averted and his head braced in both hands. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> hint? After all, that evening we talked about how it would be possible to help Jonah ... I reached for the container hastily, unscrewed the cap - and stared at about 500 grams of finely ground chasteberry. That could not be right, I was sure! On the verge of desperation, I shoved my hand in, searching for a hidden clue that I did not find. Now my nerves were actually at breaking point; I could not think of another place to continue my search. I thought frantically about the conversations I had had with him, especially trying to recall what he had said to me when he came to my room a few days ago, but soon realized that this conversation was only superficially about Jonah - instead of talking about how to help him, to protect him from the latent threat posed by the author of the letter, we had tried to figure out where we stood concerning our relationship. Whether feelings could be involved in the game was completely out of place. Even though I still had no answer to this question, I could say one thing quite clearly: Whatever had been behind this conversation - it had not been a hidden clue to a potential poisoner within the monastery walls. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> into not only my sleep, but also robbed the joy of life from me. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> cradled his bollocks. Sherlock’s fingers stroked gently and John drew in his breath on a groan when he realized that Sherlock was stroking both John’s sac and his own cock, the underside of the head where it nestled against John’s bollocks. <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> with a gun ready. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands above your head. Don't try to run. Just do what I say, and this can be easy." He growled, his feet scraping across the pavement as he got closer and closer. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> said almost too nonchalantly. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> chemicals. Sometimes, having a chemist for a flatmate was a bit... Grueling, but he managed. Some nights he even missed it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> hint? After all, that evening we talked about how it would be possible to help Jonah ... I reached for the container hastily, unscrewed the cap - and stared at about 500 grams of finely ground chasteberry. That could not be right, I was sure! On the verge of desperation, I shoved my hand in, searching for a hidden clue that I did not find. Now my nerves were actually at breaking point; I could not think of another place to continue my search. I thought frantically about the conversations I had had with him, especially trying to recall what he had said to me when he came to my room a few days ago, but soon realized that this conversation was only superficially about Jonah - instead of talking about how to help him, to protect him from the latent threat posed by the author of the letter, we had tried to figure out where we stood concerning our relationship. Whether feelings could be involved in the game was completely out of place. Even though I still had no answer to this question, I could say one thing quite clearly: Whatever had been behind this conversation - it had not been a hidden clue to a potential poisoner within the monastery walls. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> The detective, who was lying on his belly on the disgusting floor, saw John's eyes flicker to his face for a brief moment. John was nervous. He and Sherlock both knew the risk that Jason Kelleher held, and for the moment, he also held all of the cards. The man was an ex-US Navy Seal, as well as a Central Intelligence agent who had been caught selling international secrets, and had been on the run for months. On a special request for Mycroft, they tracked him down, but had misjudged his ability to outrun even Sherlock Holmes. They knew that he was telling the truth when he said he would kill Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> with a gun ready. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands above your head. Don't try to run. Just do what I say, and this can be easy." He growled, his feet scraping across the pavement as he got closer and closer. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> said almost too nonchalantly. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> chemicals. Sometimes, having a chemist for a flatmate was a bit... Grueling, but he managed. Some nights he even missed it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> his hard expression fell, and was replaced by nothing but sheer emotion <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Later that night, with the lights out and John once again spooning him up from behind, Sherlock feels an odd bout of bravery, and so asks, <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> in this state, let alone out of the flat to--” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> feel the music, or whatever.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> together he and Sherlock got Santa’s hands behind his back, Sherlock cuffing the man with the cuffs John handed over. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and looked about the room. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> with a gun ready. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands above your head. Don't try to run. Just do what I say, and this can be easy." He growled, his feet scraping across the pavement as he got closer and closer. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Later that night, with the lights out and John once again spooning him up from behind, Sherlock feels an odd bout of bravery, and so asks, <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Just do what I say, and this can be easy <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> his hard expression fell, and was replaced by nothing but sheer emotion <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Later that night, with the lights out and John once again spooning him up from behind, Sherlock feels an odd bout of bravery, and so asks, <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> in this state, let alone out of the flat to--” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> feel the music, or whatever.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> together he and Sherlock got Santa’s hands behind his back, Sherlock cuffing the man with the cuffs John handed over. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and looked about the room. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> words aloud. For the first time in his life. To anyone. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and goes for his bed, pulling back the blanket and sheet, as if this were some posh hotel and John was a merry maid. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> know what this means, having John spend the night in his bed, cradling him, caring for him. He doesn’t know what it means. But he does know how he feels about it. And that he doesn’t want it to stop. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> his hard expression fell, and was replaced by nothing but sheer emotion <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Later that night, with the lights out and John once again spooning him up from behind, Sherlock feels an odd bout of bravery, and so asks, <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> know what this means, having John spend the night in his bed, cradling him, caring for him <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> John took Sherlock’s hand and answered firmly. “Yes, no doubt about it. Lets stop wasting time here on the pavement. I want to marry this man before he changes his mind.” He turned toward the doors and hauled Sherlock along by the hand, trusting that Mycroft would escort Mrs. Hudson. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Damn the cases.” John said, and Sherlock gave a mock gasp. “The more remote the better. I’d have you all to myself if I could.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> and to the novice’s table, where I greeted Brother Francis with a friendly nod and took the seat to his right. After a brief look around the room I remained standing like all others until grace was spoken and the brothers took their seats. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Damn the cases.” John said, and Sherlock gave a mock gasp. “The more remote the better. I’d have you all to myself if I could.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> been doing then? Nothing stood out in his memory. Just an ordinary day. He’d probably woken early, cycled to work. Met patients, written prescriptions, referred some to specialists. Cycled home, had dinner with Mary, perhaps followed by sex. Just an ordinary day in his small, petty life. He’d been sleepwalking while Sherlock was taking down nearly two dozen dangerous international criminals single handed <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> last to take his place in the choir loft, but settled on the edge, while all the other men went to their usual places. I decided not to let myself be irritated; my interest in the young man had brought too much trouble to both him and myself. Nevertheless, it was noticeable that he would only passively participate in the service. It was only recently that I had discovered that there was also a plan for the liturgical ministry, which assigned certain tasks to each brother, such as the recitation of psalms or the service on the altar, and which was valid for one week. Brother William should have assisted the priest who led the Eucharistic celebration this week, as he had done on the preceding days - but now he stayed in his place, gazing into space, and seemed to hardly notice his surroundings. Was it worry about his protege Jonah, or was there something else? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> was halfway up the staircase by the time Sherlock entered the foyer. Her frightened face turned toward him as she hissed, “Hurry!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> crucial detail for her. The trigger for my gloom. When I did not respond, she tried again. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> if only Sherlock asked. And he’d offer up his body for Sherlock’s enjoyment if that was what Sherlock needed. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> how much he enjoyed his new job. Being told he’d never play again had seemed like the end of his dreams. But he now had a new lease on life in coaching the team he loved. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> picked up with the spread of news of Sherlock’s return, he took on fewer and fewer surgery shifts in favor of wild chases and all night stakeouts with Sherlock. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | |

<|output|> <|example|> John took Sherlock’s hand and answered firmly. “Yes, no doubt about it. Lets stop wasting time here on the pavement. I want to marry this man before he changes his mind.” He turned toward the doors and hauled Sherlock along by the hand, trusting that Mycroft would escort Mrs. Hudson. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Damn the cases.” John said, and Sherlock gave a mock gasp. “The more remote the better. I’d have you all to myself if I could.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Damn the cases <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> last to take his place in the choir loft, but settled on the edge, while all the other men went to their usual places. I decided not to let myself be irritated; my interest in the young man had brought too much trouble to both him and myself. Nevertheless, it was noticeable that he would only passively participate in the service. It was only recently that I had discovered that there was also a plan for the liturgical ministry, which assigned certain tasks to each brother, such as the recitation of psalms or the service on the altar, and which was valid for one week. Brother William should have assisted the priest who led the Eucharistic celebration this week, as he had done on the preceding days - but now he stayed in his place, gazing into space, and seemed to hardly notice his surroundings. Was it worry about his protege Jonah, or was there something else? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> was halfway up the staircase by the time Sherlock entered the foyer. Her frightened face turned toward him as she hissed, “Hurry!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> crucial detail for her. The trigger for my gloom. When I did not respond, she tried again. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> if only Sherlock asked. And he’d offer up his body for Sherlock’s enjoyment if that was what Sherlock needed. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> how much he enjoyed his new job. Being told he’d never play again had seemed like the end of his dreams. But he now had a new lease on life in coaching the team he loved. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> picked up with the spread of news of Sherlock’s return, he took on fewer and fewer surgery shifts in favor of wild chases and all night stakeouts with Sherlock. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> you about the secure site, how to access it and the password? John! I sent you 400 messages! Please tell me you read them!” Sherlock’s composure cracked. He clutched at John’s arms, trying to will him to understand. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | |

<|output|> <|example|> last to take his place in the choir loft, but settled on the edge, while all the other men went to their usual places. I decided not to let myself be irritated; my interest in the young man had brought too much trouble to both him and myself. Nevertheless, it was noticeable that he would only passively participate in the service. It was only recently that I had discovered that there was also a plan for the liturgical ministry, which assigned certain tasks to each brother, such as the recitation of psalms or the service on the altar, and which was valid for one week. Brother William should have assisted the priest who led the Eucharistic celebration this week, as he had done on the preceding days - but now he stayed in his place, gazing into space, and seemed to hardly notice his surroundings. Was it worry about his protege Jonah, or was there something else? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> And he’d offer up his body for Sherlock’s enjoyment if that was what Sherlock needed <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> Not that Sherlock cared. Not that he could be bothered to think of Kendal as something other than John’s Goddaughter. “Alright. I’ll take you home.” John said, placing an arm around Kendal’s shoulders before looking up at Sherlock. “Go talk to Lestrade. We’ll see you tonight.” “That’s what he thought, yes. As it turns out, he was just as susceptible to suggestion as the rest of us.” “And this is my mum and dad,” he said, introducing the pair behind them. Immediately, the woman pushed forward and smiled, showcasing perfect white teeth behind maroon lips. John knew that she was thinking of her dad. Little girls weren’t supposed have thirteenth birthday parties without their fathers in attendance. Now his arms were crossed, and his anger towards the man sitting across from him was seething under his skin. “Doesn’t she have a-“ Sherlock exhaled, remembering one deduction he had forgotten. “Kendal’s mother left.” It was his fault. He was so wrapped up in this child that wasn’t even his, so enchanted by her sad eyes and sweet voice. “Uh, yeah.” Victor said, looking flustered, but not uncomfortable. John had a feeling that he was asked this often. Kendal wanted to protest. Of course it wasn’t alright, of course John was clearly still mourning Sherlock. Of course she was a poor substitute for a man who constantly took him on adventures, who gave him lives to save, who probably never needed him to hold him while he grieved. “Don’t you have to be at the clinic?” Mrs. Hudson asked, barely taking her eyes off of the coffee table she was dusting. “Because if you don’t run fast enough, I’m going to catch you.” Sherlock said. “And I can think of at least fourteen different ways that I can kill you with just my hands, and I’m sure you’d rather just try to pursue a life on the run.” “Mrs. Hudson had to go out this morning,” John said, handing her the steaming mug. “But she wanted me to tell you ‘happy birthday’ and remind you that your guests will arrive at seven this evening.” “It’s alright,” He said. Unlike Sherlock, he didn’t ask before pulling her into his arms. “You’re alright.” “Not hungry. And yes.” Kendal said, sitting down. “I have a song. I just haven’t been...well, focussing.” Kendal shook her head. Even if it wasn’t okay to cry, which she knew it was, nothing could have stopped her from doing so. Nothing else was okay. She wanted her dad. She missed her dad like she would miss her own heart, and she wanted to believe John when he said that it was okay, she wanted to take some kind of comfort in the refuge of these unfamiliar arms, but how could she? She was twelve and had already lost what was dearest to her. Did people come back from that? But still, she and John almost never touched. He sometimes moved hair out of her face or placed his hand on the small of her back when they moved through crowds, but he never pulled her into his arms or kissed her forehead, like her father would have. “Because he-“

<|output|> <|example|> Not that Sherlock cared. Not that he could be bothered to think of Kendal as something other than John’s Goddaughter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> She wanted her dad <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> John had a feeling that he was asked this often <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> John had a feeling that he was asked this often <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Even if it wasn’t okay to cry, which she knew it was, nothing could have stopped her from doing so <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> “You’re alright <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> Immediately, the woman pushed forward and smiled, showcasing perfect white teeth behind maroon lips <|indexes|> 6 <|example|> “You’re alright <|indexes|> 7 <|example|> “I have a song <|indexes|> 8 |

<|text|> Kendal shook her head. “He was innocent. John could have helped him prove that, and he just- he just left.” Which meant that Sherlock didn’t know, either. How could the world’s cleverest man be so remarkably dense? “I’m Victor’s mother, we’ve known Kendal for years and years. Isn’t she something? Oh, you must be so proud of your daughter,” she gushed, taking one of his hands between both of her own. John nodded his head. For the most part, Kendal’s wishes were granted. The party seemed modest and sweet, but still celebratory. “Tea sounds fine, but I can make that-” Something caught her eye on her way to the kitchen. “John?” She asked. “That’s nice of you,” Kendal said, taking a sip of her tea. John couldn’t help but notice that Kendal looked the least little bit sad. He had, on rare occasions, seen her fully smile as more than a courtesy or a facade. Her smile now had the edges of a grimace, like it took extra effort to keep it in place. She had gotten better at crying as quietly as possible in the last few weeks. She knew to keep one hand pressed over her mouth to muffle the sobs, to duck her head enough so that her hair covered her face. If anyone looked directly at her, they would know she was upset, but they would also know that they should leave her alone. “She’s turning thirteen in a few weeks,” She told John one day when Kendal was at Victor’s. “And I thought it would be good for all of us to have a little party, don’t you think?” He wasn’t sure what to expect when Kyle Burke, someone who had called him about his duties (he had literally used that word) to his late friend. John tried to stop himself from laughing, not out of genuine humor, but just marveling at how Kendal and her friends had learned a song older than they were. She wrinkled her nose and looked down at her tea. “The ensemble members keep stepping on each other’s lines. Victor and I are having trouble with our waltz because my costume is so cumbersome and- well, he keeps stepping on my hem and...eh, it could just use some work.” “It’s good to see you, mate.” He said, shaking John’s hand as he crossed Baker Street’s familiar threshold. “You’ve changed a few things, haven’t you?” He asked, looking at the streamers festooned from the ceiling. “It was,” John admitted. “I can’t imagine we would have kept on for much longer, after all, we weren’t getting much younger.” “I think so, too. I’ve been off-book for a while, but I’m worried about what I’ll wind up doing when they expect us to be off-book tomorrow.” He came home to Kendal. They watched telly together. Sometimes he came home while she was playing her guitar in the living room and told her to stay when she offered to go to her room. She learned songs he talked about liking. Somehow, he wandered over to the jewelry counter, half-heartedly perusing the selection of diamond bracelets and dangling earrings, all things that

<|output|> <|example|> Kendal shook her head. “He was innocent. John could have helped him prove that, and he just- he just left.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John tried to stop himself from laughing, not out of genuine humor, but just marveling at how Kendal and her friends had learned a song older than they were <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> were for women, not for barely-thirteen-year-old girls. “She’s still adjusting, you know, poor thing.” Mrs. Hudson went on, like she was reading this thoughts. “And I’m sure she’s just shy and a little frightened. It’s not your fault, of course, dear..” She said to him meaningfully. “She’s a very sweet little thing, really.” John’s head raised, a terrible ache running through his heart like a dagger. He used to be greeted by music, but it was from a violin, not from a voice. It was born at the hands of a brilliant and horrible man, not from a sweet pre-teen. “In his honor, indeed.” John said. “If you want, I’ll tell you about all the cases he didn’t solve and how those bullet holes got in the wall.” He wondered how lonely he would have to get before he started dropping mothers of his goddaughter’s friends’ a line. “I think you’re ready for tomorrow,” Mrs. Hudson said, sliding her script across the table to Kendal one day. This had become a routine for them; Kendal came back from rehearsal after school, Mrs. Hudson made her tea, and in exchange for drinking and eating a few biscuits, Mrs. Hudson would run lines with her. MYCROFT: Lay low for at least 48 hours. If possible, try not to make it too apparent that you are back at Baker Street. Victor realized that Kendal probably would have been more sympathetic towards Sherlock’s plight had her own father still been here, but he also realized that if her dad were there, they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. Kendal felt eyes on her. She was used to it, she had been treated as the mourner-in-chief for almost two weeks, now. It was wearing. All of these people who had gathered to mourn were gazing at her with pitying eyes, feeling so very sorry for the little girl who had lost so much. John looked down and silently cursed Mycroft. He already knew everything about Kendal and her arrangements before he even called, he had a team walking into an abandoned house to retrieve a guitar within five minutes, but he couldn’t have been bothered to grab the right one? “And you said you wanted things from me. I’ve certainly never been in a romantic relationship with anyone like you, so there’s every possibility that I won’t be able to fulfill your desires immediately, but you’re a patient man, to be sure-“ The Summer ended. Kendal started eighth grade. He woke up early with her so they could have breakfast together. “Well- I mean, he and Sherlock weren’t boyfriends, but he’s- he’s mourning him like you’d mourn a lover. You should hear the way he talks about him, like Sherlock hung the moon and saved it a million times after.” Kendal felt sick at herself for being angry with them. They were just being kind, just looking out for her. The lasagna she ate for dinner was bubbling in the pit of her stomach. “Of course,” she said, reaching behind the glass and plucking it out of the display. “For your daughter?” She asked, taking it to the cash register

<|output|> <|example|> were for women, not for barely-thirteen-year-old girls. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It was wearing <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> If possible, try not to make it too apparent that you are back at Baker Street <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> Victor realized that Kendal probably would have been more sympathetic towards Sherlock’s plight had her own father still been here, but he also realized that if her dad were there, they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> ” John said <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> “If you want, I’ll tell you about all the cases he didn’t solve and how those bullet holes got in the wall <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> She was used to it, she had been treated as the mourner-in-chief for almost two weeks, now <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> at the end of the counter. That was when she felt her knees hit the floor. She curled inwards, her arms wrapped around her torso, her forehead nearly touching the bathroom tiles. The tears came immediately. There was no steady progression from whimpering to crying to sobbing, she went straight to weeping. Kendal didn’t try to cry quietly; she was alone, there was no one who would try to comfort her. John hadn’t drank in months, and that was thanks to the almost-teenager that he was wandering around a department store for. Should he read into that? Kendal had been held at gunpoint when she said it, so there was every chance that it was borne of hysteria. “Sherlock needed a distraction.” Kendal hiccuped, sitting up. “That was the only thing I can think of.” 3. Be Kyle’s carry-on until she turned eighteen. This was by far the most repulsive, but probably smartest possibility. Kyle was a businessman (Kendal never really bothered finding out what he actually did or what he sold or whether or not he was an axe-murderer; he was her dad’s best friend and that had been enough explanation for her entire life) who traveled constantly. Kendal knew that Kyle was fond of her, but she also knew that most of that fondness came from love of her dad. She would always be in Kyle’s debt; he had been the one to sort through all of the legal mumbo-jumbo and explain her financial situation (Kendal had every quid her father had ever made or inherited, but she could barely touch it until she was an adult) to her once her father passed away, and he had been the first to hug her tight while she tried to wrap her head around the worst news she had ever received. But constantly being at his side, probably slowing him down, was a poor way to repay him. And if he ever grew enough balls or grew mean enough to tell her that she was a liability, he would probably send her to some boarding school, which would make her feel like a true orphan. But being at a boarding school would mean being away from Victor and Amy and Oliver (whom she had not even considered moving in with. They had four children, for Christ’s sake) and whatever happened, she could not lose them. She could not bear to be away from them for any length of time. It just wasn’t something she was capable of. “Do you think they give roles to people just because they’re mourning?” Kendal asked Victor on their way to lunch later that day, after the initial joy of being cast had passed. “Because if so, you’re going to have to pick up my slack.” This devastation was different. It had long, straight brown hair and a frown and a voice that sounded like the saddest song he had ever heard and large blue eyes that almost looked like William’s. John walked to the doorway. Kendal was there, on the bathroom floor, folded in on herself, weeping as he had wept so many times

<|output|> <|example|> at the end of the counter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> at the end of the counter <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> They had four children, for Christ’s sake) and whatever happened, she could not lose them <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> since the whole of his heart went away. “And Kendal knew,” He said, shaking his head. “We’re taking her shopping tomorrow. Or to the movies. Or to a musical on the West End, whatever she wants. Maybe even all three.” “John!” Kendal found herself yelling on her way out of the room. She met him in the middle of the hallway and nearly collided into him. John’s lips paused on Sherlock’s ring finger. “She will be,” He said after a moment. “We’ll just have to take a little extra care of her.” John had bought her new shampoo. She lived here, now. Her father was dead, dead and gone and so far away from her. Unreachable. Gone. Nothing left. Not a trace. Sherlock nodded his head. “How could I not?” He wondered, a small smile on his lips. “You- the most capable and kind doctor in the world. You should invent a career for yourself- you’re truly the only one in the world.” Kendal was all that was left of William Evans, but there wasn’t much left of her. Here she was, keeled over on this bathroom floor, these choking, racking sobs shaking her weak torso. Kendal placed her blankets and comforter (she got cold easily, especially at night) on top of her sheets and arranged her pillows on top of those. Kendal shifted slightly, resting her palms on his chest, pressing her cheek into the fabric of his sweater. Kendal went through the list in her head. Each mental bullet point was a potential solution and why it absolutely would not work. “Yes, I do.” Kendal said with an air of finality. “I just...I know that I’ll be good, here. I know that this is the right thing to do.” “Believe me, I know.” Kendal said, rolling her eyes. “And I’ll fill all three of you in over lunch, then I hope we can focus on auditions. You know, the important thing that’s happening today.” Sherlock didn’t waste time wondering about that and walked back to the living room. He took his violin from the mantle, fiddled with the tuning pegs for a moment, and set it on his shoulder. Then Kendal started singing, and there really was something about her, wearing a blue gown with her hair curled and a microphone subtly taped to her cheek, that pulled him into the performance itself. Kendal knew what to do, she knew how to perform. Victor snickered. “He came to the show and mum said he couldn’t stop smiling. I think that’s evidence enough.” Ms. Granger and Mr. LePort had looked sad during her entire audition. That agitated Kendal. She stayed agitated through the cold readings they had her do and fought to stay demure and cast-able during their well-meaning inquiries. They asked her how she was, how she was holding up, how well she had done... Kendal wasn’t his daughter, and that was never going to change. But she was his goddaughter and, more importantly, she was his. Kyle smiled. “You’re just like your dad.” He stooped down to hug his best friend’s daughter. “Call me if you need anything.” “Yes, he knew that Harry liked a drink because

<|output|> <|example|> since the whole of his heart went away. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> She stayed agitated through the cold readings they had her do and fought to stay demure and cast-able during their well-meaning inquiries <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Unreachable <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Kendal placed her blankets and comforter (she got cold easily, especially at night) on top of her sheets and arranged her pillows on top of those <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> I think that’s evidence enough <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> ” “John!” Kendal found herself yelling on her way out of the room <|indexes|> 6 6 <|example|> since the whole of his heart went away <|indexes|> 7 7 <|example|> Maybe even all three <|indexes|> 8 8 <|example|> ” “Yes, he knew that Harry liked a drink because <|indexes|> 9 |

<|text|> of the scratches by the charging port, he knew that my- ah, that my bloody limp was psychosomatic, he just- and he just rattled it all off to me like it was nothing, like it was just second nature, and I’m sure it almost was to him, and he could never resist the chance to show off.” Kendal bolted straight to the maniac and jumped on his back, wrapping her arms and legs around his torso, tackling him fairly effectively. She glanced over at the naked bed and knew what had to come next. She was glad, at the very least, that it was a queen, just like her bed at home. It saved her from buying new sheets. Kendal was very particular about sheets and realized how much she loved her own as she spread them across this new bed. Other people’s were, anyway. John spent his last birthday discovering the difference between cheap gin and expensive gin, and realizing that when you’re sad enough, it all works the same. “Advanced music...” John felt his voice die down to a whisper. He felt inferior, sitting here in this living room, knowing nothing about the child who also lived here, aside from her preference to neon-colored shampoo. While Sherlock was explaining how and why he managed to fake his own death, John found himself looking down at his arms, tightly crossed on his chest. “He was brilliant, that’s why he was a terrible flatmate. He could- ah, he could look at you and tell you things about yourself.” “If you’d like,” He said. “I understand that things may be more complicated, with…” He glanced down the hall. John nodded his head, remembering what it was like when he was new to London, a lonely man with a small army pension, who had no idea that what awaited him in London would change everything forever. Kendal shrugged. The gesture looked like it required a lot of effort. “It’s fine. We’ll...we’ll probably figure something out.” John took a deep breath and climbed the stairs up to 221B. The clinic hadn’t been easy on him today. On days like this, it felt like nothing was easy on him. Everything that happened afterward surprised him. He didn’t expect to see a reflection of himself sitting right there in William’s living room, he didn’t expect his heart to open and break all at once the second that his reflection started talking. John couldn’t remember the last time he told someone that he loved them. He vaguely remembered the last person he loved, but he couldn’t dwell on that, not tonight- “It’s okay,” Victor said, circling his arms around her so that he was holding her completely. “It’s okay.” There was a guitar case, her guitar case, in the middle of the living room, hidden between the two armchairs. “Don’t you have some explaining of your own to do?” Sherlock asked, glancing at the child behind him. “Kyle’s on a train bound for Dublin right now.” Kendal said. “He has a conference call in about an hour.” What a ridiculous term. It implied a closeness that he and Kendal didn’t have. It reminded him of

<|output|> <|example|> of the scratches by the charging port, he knew that my- ah, that my bloody limp was psychosomatic, he just- and he just rattled it all off to me like it was nothing, like it was just second nature, and I’m sure it almost was to him, and he could never resist the chance to show off.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” There was a guitar case, her guitar case, in the middle of the living room, hidden between the two armchairs <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “It’s fine <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends. There was no way that William would die, there was no way Kendal would ever need him. Everything was so secure back then. Next was a picture of Amy, Oliver, Victor and herself after Amy’s dance recital. Amy had danced beautifully that night and they had all told her so for hours afterwards. She put that one on top of the bookshelf. “My mum used to read your blog,” Amy, her friend with bright red hair, said when they were introduced. “She wanted me to tell you ‘hello.’” She glanced at her dresses, blouses, and sweaters and made a mental note to ask John about a place to hang them up. Maybe she would get around to asking him about that in four or five years when this place felt like home. For now, she carefully put them in the drawer beside her shirts. John wished William were still alive. John wished Sherlock were still alive. He and Kendal were scrambling without their other halves in this world, trying to fit around one another like the wrong puzzle pieces. Well, there was that one time, during her first week there, when he found her in the bathroom, but Kendal didn’t like thinking about that night. Eventually, they arrived back at Baker Street and climbed the stairs back to their flat. Kendal’s heart started aching for John as she turned over his stories in her mind. Sherlock had saved John, on some level. He hadn’t told her that, but there was something about the way he spoke about his life before him that let Kendal know. She forced herself to look ahead at the shrine. A picture of herself and another man was surrounded by white flowers. Funeral flowers. She looked at that version of herself, that happy little girl with that wide smile. She looked at the man’s photographed blue eyes, the only blue in the world that was exactly like hers. Kendal was sitting in her normal seat, scribbling something in her notebook. There was something about Kendal, wearing her school uniform (Victor wasn’t sure why their public junior high school had elected to require uniforms. His dad said it was something about tradition. He didn’t mind, especially since the “uniform” was just a white button-up along with a tie or scarf of the school’s colors. Kendal, he noticed, tended to wear her shirt with high-waisted pants in the winter and skirts in the Spring, sometimes with black knee-socks, which made him believe that Kendal maybe liked looking like she had a uniform) and with her hair held back by a blue headband, that seemed nice. It seemed normal. It seemed like everything was back to normal. One didn’t normally feel things in transport. But this time John did. There was a sense of an abnormal flickering, of everything being wrenched out of phase so that you were left seeing or feeling somehow at a wrong angle, one you were never meant to experience. It was John thought, increasingly desperate at the thought of the two universes slipping further

<|output|> <|example|> a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends. There was no way that William would die, there was no way Kendal would ever need him. Everything was so secure back then. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> One didn’t normally feel things in transport. But this time John did. There was a sense of an abnormal flickering, of everything being wrenched out of phase so that you were left seeing or feeling somehow at a wrong angle, one you were never meant to experience. It was <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> He didn’t mind, especially since the “uniform” was just a white button-up along with a tie or scarf of the school’s colors <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> It was John thought, increasingly desperate at the thought of the two universes slipping further <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> He and Kendal were scrambling without their other halves in this world, trying to fit around one another like the wrong puzzle pieces <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> For now, she carefully put them in the drawer beside her shirts <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> and further out of synch while this madness went on. He managed to push Sh’lok up against the wall again and land a few more punches, but within seconds he was on the floor again while Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson went at Sh’lok together— But it was a feeling he didn’t care to take for granted. He never felt that presence quite as strongly as when he felt he had something to communicate to protect this ship, Sh’lok, keep it safe and running—even in this dysfunctional context—so that you’ll be able to keep this unique knowledge secure while you come to fully understand it. By doing this you’ll keep the secret of the technique safe from those who’d try to find ways to exploit it for personal gain or Imperial advancement… and probably wind up destroying not just themselves, but everything else.” Mr. Sh’lok glanced at Lieutenant Donovan. “Just received a distress call from a mining-facility planet around Alphecca,” Donovan said from her post. “A place called Janus Six.” Nor did it: all he got was another blank look. “Will you take us where we can meet the others?” John said then. If he’d noticed this kind of thing going on before, it had been in the form of slight  disappointment that the chess board hadn’t been getting what had for a while been its nightly workouts. And truly, John missed Sh’lok’s presence in his off time. But this was what a long mission was like: people cycled in and out of their routines, sometimes purposely so as not to go stale. They had been spending a fair amount of time together during and right after the omicron Ceti business: who knew, maybe a Vulcan needed to pull away a little after something that intense. He turned away from her, because of course he was, and the less sign he showed of it, the better. “The Halkans have something you want,” she said to his back. “Or is it all some clever means to advance you to the Admiralty?” The moment Sh’lok started getting lost in that imagery, John swiftly turned his attention back to that shadowy avoidance-shrouded place in Sh’lok’s ground of being. “Watch out,” John said to her and to the crewmen looking around the rocky place in which they materialized. “We know their development is primitive—” the drumbeat said in Sh’lok’s mind, and John was in complete agreement as he settled himself on his back once more, let his knees fall open, reached up to touch Sh’lok as his Vulcan knelt between his legs and pulled him partway up onto the slope of his thighs. John found the lube, filled a hand with it, warmed it, reached out for the weight and heat of Sh’lok’s penis and stroked it wet and slick until Sh’lok cried out uncontrollably with the pleasure of it. Sh’lok looked at him, and John realised that his sudden wince of pain was not merely about what the thing inside him was doing to his nervous system. “Captain,” Sh’lok said, “I think you know. Or suspect.” a soul,” Sh’lok said, and frowned one of those superior-scientist frowns

<|output|> <|example|> and further out of synch while this madness went on. He managed to push Sh’lok up against the wall again and land a few more punches, but within seconds he was on the floor again while Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson went at Sh’lok together— <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Mr <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> He never felt that presence quite as strongly as when he felt he had something to communicate to protect this ship, Sh’lok, keep it safe and running—even in this dysfunctional context—so that you’ll be able to keep this unique knowledge secure while you come to fully understand it <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “Watch out,” John said to her and to the crewmen looking around the rocky place in which they materialized <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> But this was what a long mission was like: people cycled in and out of their routines, sometimes purposely so as not to go stale <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> “Will you take us where we can meet the others?” John said then <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> in which he specialised. “And in this case I must hasten to add that scientific research on this subject has been well contaminated with wishful thinking, subjective or irreproducible results and confirmation error…” Sh’lok looked at him from under long dark lashes, took a deep breath, and very softly said, “Ready when you are.” “No, nothing in particular. Why?” Though John wasn’t sure that he was the right person to be asking about that right now. Sh’lok seemed to have gone on a slightly different shift rotation over the last couple of weeks, and he hadn’t been on the Bridge all that often when John was, as well as doing a lot of meditation in the evenings. He shot a glance at Donovan and Hudders beside him: saw their ever-so-fractional nods. He didn’t have to look back at Lestrade: he knew what the answer would be, when he had a patient on the table. to be comfortable in this chair. “Lieutenant Donovan,” he said, “I think I can handle maybe two or three more of those calls before my stomach turns.” It didn’t last more than a second or so, of course, and there then ensued a bout of mental and physical rough-housing that John found himself enjoying tremendously despite knowing that there was no chance in Hell he could win it. Months of sparring with Sh’lok in the gym had taught him that the Vulcan’s strength far surpassed his own. All this meant from John’s point of view was that he had to be quicker than his opponent, smart about exploiting momentary opportunities for leverage, and always prepared to do something unexpected that Sh’lok wouldn’t have had time to anticipate. He concentrated on this, while also resisting by sheer stubbornness Sh’lok’s attempts to use the mindmeld to interfere with John’s nervous system or his muscular control. and then with a kind of shattered grace Sh’lok was up on his knees and pushing John down on his back, kissing John’s nipples (and John squirmed and gasped, being exquisitely sensitive there, and of “Indeed, Captain,” Sh’lok said. “That is unquestionably part of what I am doing.” And his voice went a bit aloof. “I must say that while technically interesting, this is… rather a disappointment. My mother did not raise me for a career in physical-plant management.” “Well, I've made my report to you,” Vanderberg said. “Production’s stopped. Nobody’ll go into the lower levels, and I don't blame them. If the Federation wants pergium, then you're going to have to do something about it.” He glared at John. Sh’lok’s gaze slid away from his, and John saw those eyes crinkling at the corners, and the mouth twitch into an upward curl. “Mmm.” A sound of neither agreement or denial, but certainly one of amusement, and as dark as a panther’s purr. “…In any case, who are we to judge?” He wasn’t left much time to keep trying to think of some way to put off killing Sh’lok, as the Vulcan leapt down off the dais toward him, coming down in a crouch that John knew meant he was ready to jump again in

<|output|> <|example|> in which he specialised. “And in this case I must hasten to add that scientific research on this subject has been well contaminated with wishful thinking, subjective or irreproducible results and confirmation error…” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Sh’lok seemed to have gone on a slightly different shift rotation over the last couple of weeks, and he hadn’t been on the Bridge all that often when John was, as well as doing a lot of meditation in the evenings <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> All this meant from John’s point of view was that he had to be quicker than his opponent, smart about exploiting momentary opportunities for leverage, and always prepared to do something unexpected that Sh’lok wouldn’t have had time to anticipate <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> to be comfortable in this chair <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> ” He glared at John <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> ” “Well, I've made my report to you,” Vanderberg said <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> a second. Sh’lok glanced at the way John was holding his “I could phaser you out!” Sh’lok said, the timbre of his voice higher than usual. John lifted an eyebrow at the sound. It was odd and a bit unsettling to hear that deep steady baritone change register and go so raw around the edges. Sh’lok’s penis, full and hard, rose up toward John when it was freed and then settled to lie angled over the well-defined muscles of his belly, quivering gently with his pulse. It was nearly as thick as John’s, though a bit longer, standing up with a slight inward curve from beautiful heavy testicles lightly furred with black hair, and shading from a pale ivory-green at the root to a soft olive at the head. The foreskin seemed ampler  than John’s and longer as well, with a faintly visible ridge hinting at the frenulum beneath. The whole effect was most appealing, as long and elegant as the rest of the man. Sh’lok glanced back the way they had originally come. “The search team is gathering in the main tunnel.” “Thank you,” John said. “I appreciate it.” And then he sat himself back down in the center seat, rubbing his back and wishing something could be done about the damn thing’s cushions and the issue of back support… except that he’d never take the thought any further, because no one was “And it would be a crime, don’t you think, to waste the opportunity to resume our business of, um, exploration.” John shook his head, got up and stretched. “You saw how the weather’s been since we got here,” he said. “Ion storms every other hour, plasma flares from Halka’s sun at a moment’s notice… That one CME yesterday could have taken a nacelle off us if the angle had been any less acute, Mrs. Hudson said.” “Which happens to be my point.” Lestrade flung his hands in the air in frustration. “The thing won't die, even at temperatures and radiation which would burn Sh'lok and your niece to ashes!” John filed the concept away for further consideration in advance of being beaten again (which he certainly would be) as the Transporter Room doors whooshed open for him. Except for Mr. Anderson, the most senior Transporter tech, he was the first in. “You’re early, Anderson. Very good. All sorted?” He started to laugh, and Sh’lok looked at him oddly. John just shook his head, waved a hand helplessly. “Sorry, I just had this picture of all these Sh’loks—” He strode across the ornate mosaics of the central hall and from there through a series of carven doors, keyed by material and carving style to the information they held. Right now, though, it wasn’t data he needed. It was personality, and the certainty and power linked to it: an area securely held deep within the virtual infrastructure of Sh’lok’s mind, protected by a maze to which the follow-the-left-wall solution would prove woefully inadequate. When the shimmering stopped, John found himself standing in bright sunshine, with a slight warm breeze ruffling his hair. He took a deep breath, aware of any number

<|output|> <|example|> a second. Sh’lok glanced at the way John was holding his <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> When the shimmering stopped, John found himself standing in bright sunshine, with a slight warm breeze ruffling his hair <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> of alien scents borne on that wind, but also of one that reminded him strongly of grass, the plain green grass of Earth. As they entered the Bridge, Donovan looked up at John. “Captain? We're standing by on Vulcan hailing frequencies, sir.” Which was a minor relief at a moment like this, though Greg was still cursing under his breath at how badly supplied this Sickbay was with the kinds of drugs that best suited Sh’lok’s finicky anatomy. The lack implied some uneasy things either about this universe’s Lestrade’s attitude toward Sh’lok, or (another possibility, both less and more disturbing) his unwillingness to rock the cultural boat by ordering in more than minimal amounts of them. There was just Sh’lok’s face went still and his eyes lit with an expression that John knew very well: deduction, in progress at high speed. “Yes, of course,” he said, “the entire landing party.” Sh’lok gestured with the phaser, his attention already going to the shocked-looking Lestrade. “Captain, stand over there. Doctor, it is time for answers—” S’kroft’s gaze caught and held John’s for a moment, almost as if he was looking for something. Wondering what that might be, John met that look and held it in return, as that something-cool crept softly down his spine again. had made Sh’lok briefly withdraw from direct confrontation. The move was of course tactical. John’s own Sh’lok had shown him what a Vulcan did who suddenly lost control of a meld: they retreated to a safe place or inner stronghold to recoup. “But not impossible, Mr. Sh’lok,” John sai, pacing away for a moment.. “The Denevan that flew into the sun cried out that he was John snorted a little rueful laughter at himself and glanced over his shoulder at Bradstreet. “Readout?” John felt the rumble of the words in his chest, and in response a wash of excitement and heat ran about under his skin as if he’d brought one of those fierce hot winds back from Vulcan with him. He swallowed. Then, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the silver-dark ones above him, John reached his left hand up to touch Sh’lok’s cheek. The helmsman leaned over his console—propping himself up on it, rather— and looked over the controls. “No change from last reading, sir.” touched was coming hotly alight with the touch of John’s hand, any kind of organised thought simply becoming unavailable with the intensity of it, the hunger increasing as it was fed. “Hailing on all frequencies, sir,” she said. “The full spread of this region’s common languages and tradespeech dialects have been attempted. No response.” She looked peeved. “Now using standard interstellar symbols.” “I was—” He never saw her initial glance at his board, as he had immediately got busy burying his face against her neck. “—getting bored! Of course—” His hands went up her back and she let them, let his face drop down from her neck and his lips find their way into her cleavage. “—this isn’t the time,” she breathed into his ear as the light started to flash on his console and he was too busy closing his eyes and shivering

<|output|> <|example|> of alien scents borne on that wind, but also of one that reminded him strongly of grass, the plain green grass of Earth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “—getting bored! Of course—” His hands went up her back and she let them, let his face drop down from her neck and his lips find their way into her cleavage <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> John’s own Sh’lok had shown him what a Vulcan did who suddenly lost control of a meld: they retreated to a safe place or inner stronghold to recoup <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> with arousal to see it, too full of the sound and feel of her warm breath in his ear canal to hear it. Sh’lok held himself still for a long moment. There it all was, laid out so clean and simple. To this woman he and his life were merely pieces to be moved around the board for her own purposes… and not only his life, but also that of the inexpressibly precious one that she had used his to destroy. His loathing for her could hardly be expressed in words. As a bare beginning, It took John a moment to find his voice again. “All right,” he said. “Well. Then maybe we could take a quick look at one minor issue before we start exploring this together. And that would have to do with, um. Orientation…” John swallowed. “Now we’re about ready to bridge power from the engines to the transporter,” Mrs. Hudson said, “but you've got to get down there and free the board so we can lock in.” John shook his head, grinning. “You may have let him run things up till now, but he’s no match for you,” he said. “You know it. Wouldn’t surprise me if a lot of the crew knows it too. Time hold them off,” he said. “There will come a time when it will not be safe for me to remain aboard. There is a chance that should their influence over my body increase sufficiently again, they will immediately order the organism inside me to hasten its growth process—so that it may attack the crew of liked, things had started to come apart. But the data remained, for her memory was excellent (as a comms officer’s had to be) and though the necessary memories were buried deeper than the least-used of fifteen or twenty interplanetary languages or the details of what Denebian slime devils liked for lunch, it was still there, and she fished it up. With one final great heave John pulled free what he’d been touching. It was a heavy smooth stone, cool, polished, perfectly round; and all the fires of all the stars that “Thank you. See what I mean, I can’t even keep them all straight any more, there are so many of them already.” John nodded. “We're aware of that. If mining conditions here weren't so difficult, Janus VI could supply the mineral needs of a thousand planets. But what happened?” “The end of life,” Sh’lok said in a high strange monotone, somehow sounding almost resigned after the previous anguished cries. “Murderers—” And something more desperate. "And Where John stood, though, all that tremendous space was piled high with treasure: everywhere the glitter of gold, jewels by the tonne, a thousand kinds of rich and precious things. Everything was tossed and tumbled about, in heaps, in drifts, in dunes almost. It was a treasure the likes of which John’s world could never have seen. Abruptly the darkness and the immobility came undone as Sh’lok was forcibly yanked away from Lestrade. When his eyes started working again, Greg gasped for breath at the sight of John Watson, slapping a hastily scooped-up

<|output|> <|example|> with arousal to see it, too full of the sound and feel of her warm breath in his ear canal to hear it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Then maybe we could take a quick look at one minor issue before we start exploring this together <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> It was a heavy smooth stone, cool, polished, perfectly round; and all the fires of all the stars that “Thank you <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> ” John nodded <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Sh’lok held himself still for a long moment <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Hudson said, “but you've got to get down there and free the board so we can lock in <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> ” John shook his head, grinning <|indexes|> 5 |

<|text|> phaser against his hip and shoving the momentarily off-balance Sh’lok back against the diagnostic bed. “Still got questions, huh?” John growled. “Then let’s get you sorted!” And around them, in the dream, a starship on course for Altair VI took inventory of the souls within her, found her long-divided heart to finally be whole in itself… then smiled (in the manner of theoretically inanimate objects) and continued on her way across the oldest, longest night. “I won't be able to give you the exact cause until I get their diagnostic panels back from the lab,” Lestrade said. “But they’re both in extreme pain. I’ve sedated them both heavily… but your sister-in-law seems to have a high tolerance, and the tranquilliser hasn't affected her much.” embarrassingly wealthy, insofar as that kind of wealth mattered at all to a Horta. The last of the legal paperwork that Lieutenant Arbuthnot had given John to sign had involved the mining facility’s newly formalised licensing agreement with the Horta species, and John for one didn’t feel the need to make too much song and dance about the fact that Vandenberg and his people were now all the Hortas’ employees. No answer came back for second after second but squeals of static and solar noise. Mrs. Hudson looked over at John with the beginnings of a grim expression. “Captain,” she said, “we'll get too close to the sun.” “Well, all right.” Sh’lok cleared his throat. “Some of it can, yes. But not all. I need your help, because there’s something lost here that must be found.” He looked embarrassed. “It’s been much abused, you see, the connection between—“ The look with which she favored him now was trying hard to be detached and unmoved, but it was not succeeding. There was a gleam of contempt in her eyes that belied it. “Your name has been much whispered among our people, Sh’lok,” T’Eyreen said. “At first as the strange disrespectful one who spurned his House’s ancient traditions and went forth to seek his fortune among humans. Your story became a cautionary tale, and I realised I had no desire to be consort to one whose tale was told behind closed doors for amusement. Yet of late you are whispered about again, this time as one who despite all expectations has somehow managed to rise high in the Federation’s estimation, even to being called the best First Officer in Starfleet. As such, now you are becoming a legend among our people. And I came to know I also had no desire to be the consort of a legend, lost in the shadow you cast.” John momentarily found himself wondering if, when he went looking for evidence of the Polish Sicilian Whatever-It-Was in the ship’s computer, he would in fact find it—not because it had ever previously existed, but because for his own amusement Sh’lok had gone out of his way to create an apparently-substantiating entry in the ship’s data banks for John to find. “I sort of hate this to be over. For this little while… no responsibilities. Nothing but here, and now, and us…” Breath hissed out of

<|output|> <|example|> phaser against his hip and shoving the momentarily off-balance Sh’lok back against the diagnostic bed. “Still got questions, huh?” John growled. “Then let’s get you sorted!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Your story became a cautionary tale, and I realised I had no desire to be consort to one whose tale was told behind closed doors for amusement <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “Still got questions, huh?” John growled <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> ” John momentarily found himself wondering if, when he went looking for evidence of the Polish Sicilian Whatever-It-Was in the ship’s computer, he would in fact find it—not because it had ever previously existed, but because for his own amusement Sh’lok had gone out of his way to create an apparently-substantiating entry in the ship’s data banks for John to find <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “Then let’s get you sorted!” And around them, in the dream, a starship on course for Altair VI took inventory of the souls within her, found her long-divided heart to finally be whole in itself… then smiled (in the manner of theoretically inanimate objects) and continued on her way across the oldest, longest night <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> ” John momentarily found himself wondering if, when he went looking for evidence of the Polish Sicilian Whatever-It-Was in the ship’s computer, he would in fact find it—not because it had ever previously existed, but because for his own amusement Sh’lok had gone out of his way to create an apparently-substantiating entry in the ship’s data banks for John to find <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> “I sort of hate this to be over <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> John at the thought of what it would be like when those trousers were gone, when that mouth—now breathing warmly on him through the cloth—would be able to have its way with him without any barriers being present. But even as he was reaching down to press Sh’lok’s face more closely against him, Sh’lok let him go, looking up at John with eyes both dilated to near-complete darkness and brimming with mischief. “My apologies,” he said. “I was consulting some of your experiential and technique-related resources, and I became…” He cleared his throat. “Distracted.” That had occurred to John as well: it was too crucial a move to be mistaken for coincidence. “Do you think the creature is trying to push the colonists off the planet?” them. So save their world! And then start changing yours enough for the better so you can deal with that data and go hunting. You’re the smartest man in any room, and “He said he was transporting down to the surface, sir,” she said. “Your orders were that no one was to beam down unless you authorised it.” She threw Sh’lok a glance that was extremely dry, but also amused. “And knowing Mr. Sh’lok’s Those arousal-darkened eyes gazed into his from very close, and the expression was a touch uncertain. Oblivious to this, S’kroft was gazing narrow-eyed at T’Kait and T’Eyreen alike. T’Eyreen dropped her rebellious gaze to the sand underfoot, and T’Kait drew herself up and visibly smoothed her face to a mask. “I ask forgiveness,” she said, and stepped away toward where she had been standing before…but still quite close behind T’Eyreen. “You’re only half-Vulcan,” John said. It wasn’t a fact to which John normally drew his First Officer’s attention, knowing he was sometimes ambivalent about some of its implications; but right now it was a vital element of what they were discussing. “What about the human half of you?” “Can’t be helped, Mr. Sh’lok,” Watson said. “An actual threat to life so close to our patrol corridor will always be more of a priority than some meeting to set a timetable to form a steering committee to determine the venue for talks meant to eventually start sorting out the Orions. Assuming they John thought, hearing the ragged edge of unexpressed compassion in Sh’lok’s words. But he had no leisure to entertain that thought any further, for the creature was moving again—away from them, though. Donovan touched several controls. The voice that spoke into the air was hushed and weak-sounding, yet frantic. “Please hurry! The Vulcan nodded, his attention still bent on the nodule. John finished his tea and wandered over to look at it himself… by way of an excuse to look more closely at his First Officer. “You seem fascinated by this rock,” John said after a moment. Lestrade and the coverall-clad assistant vanished into a nearby lift. “Do you post sentries?” John said. “Guards?” But the humanoid shook his head. “They are here,” he said. “You’ll see. The Others will come for you. They come for all like us.” The chain of deductions that flowed from these few minutes was straightforward, if startling, based

<|output|> <|example|> John at the thought of what it would be like when those trousers were gone, when that mouth—now breathing warmly on him through the cloth—would be able to have its way with him without any barriers being present. But even as he was reaching down to press Sh’lok’s face more closely against him, Sh’lok let him go, looking up at John with eyes both dilated to near-complete darkness and brimming with mischief. “My apologies,” he said. “I was consulting some of your experiential and technique-related resources, and I became…” He cleared his throat. “Distracted.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Do you think the creature is trying to push the colonists off the planet?” them <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> The Others will come for you <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> It wasn’t a fact to which John normally drew his First Officer’s attention, knowing he was sometimes ambivalent about some of its implications; but right now it was a vital element of what they were discussing <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “You seem fascinated by this rock,” John said after a moment <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> But he had no leisure to entertain that thought any further, for the creature was moving again—away from them, though <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> John finished his tea and wandered over to look at it himself… by way of an excuse to look more closely at his First Officer <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> on data points which had unexpectedly removed themselves from the realm of the impossible, and were therefore unavoidably true. For one thing, parallel universe theory, so long mooted, was apparently now concretely proven. Sh’lok wondered ever so fleetingly whether he would someday be able to write a paper on the subject—or would survive its publication. That outcome was in any case far down a long dangerous series of causal branchings, since his life was in fact already forfeit for treason. Sh’lok had after all recognised the landing party not to be genuine officers of the Empire, and had failed to immediately denounce them; so should anyone else discover these officers’ imposture, there was a high probability that his death would closely follow theirs. John sat silent in the center seat, watching his crew go about their work as if nothing unusual was happening, coming and going in what looked like complete calm. However illusory this performance might or might not have been, he blessed them for it. But there were things they couldn’t hide; and when he heard the turbolift door open behind him, followed by a kind of stoppage of breath all around him, his insides clenched like a fist. Dr. Lestrade said, drawing his tall silver-haired self up as he settled his tricorder at his hip, “enough of that from He knew that Vulcans found the whole concept of lying morally repugnant. But in watching Sh’lok carefully over their initial missions, John had quickly seen that his First Officer was quite expert at finding ways to avoid telling the unvarnished truth when his duty or his own ethics required it. It would be interesting to float the “You’re making that up, aren’t you” concept and see whether Sh’lok went all indignant at the very idea, suddenly changed the subject, or just raised one of those expressive eyebrows at his Captain and told him he was in check again. Correct,” Anderson said. “It's your play. I hope you succeed, because the order would fall on me next. And you know how Captain Watson's enemies have a habit of… disappearing.” Bones stood there looking so insufferably superior that John had to stifle an urge to hug him. But it occurred to him that he had better things to do with that urge… and that someone else in the room, who had been in a rather combative mood as regarded intimacy that day, might possibly take such a gesture the wrong way. Within half an hour, John was down in the lab with the others as Dr. Hooper carried the creature in its containment module into the heavily shielded test cubicle, setting it down on a platform under a hastily rigged light-generator plate. “Your figures,” he said to Sh’lok as they sealed the cubicle shut, “are of course accurate…” Taking the upper lip between his, now. Ever so gently sucking at it. Letting it go and then finally, finally coming to grips with that luscious-looking lower lip. Stroking it in turn… then just the briefest nip. Not enough ever to hurt, just enough to get the tissue’s attention, bring the

<|output|> <|example|> on data points which had unexpectedly removed themselves from the realm of the impossible, and were therefore unavoidably true. For one thing, parallel universe theory, so long mooted, was apparently now concretely proven. Sh’lok wondered ever so fleetingly whether he would someday be able to write a paper on the subject—or would survive its publication. That outcome was in any case far down a long dangerous series of causal branchings, since his life was in fact already forfeit for treason. Sh’lok had after all recognised the landing party not to be genuine officers of the Empire, and had failed to immediately denounce them; so should anyone else discover these officers’ imposture, there was a high probability that his death would closely follow theirs. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> But it occurred to him that he had better things to do with that urge… and that someone else in the room, who had been in a rather combative mood as regarded intimacy that day, might possibly take such a gesture the wrong way <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> However illusory this performance might or might not have been, he blessed them for it <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Sh’lok had after all recognised the landing party not to be genuine officers of the Empire, and had failed to immediately denounce them; so should anyone else discover these officers’ imposture, there was a high probability that his death would closely follow theirs <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> blood in a bit, heighten the sensitivity. of it all. It was only by the sheerest accident that John caught sight of Mr. Sh’lok moving quietly over to the engineering station. “Mrs. Hudson…” he said. . “Their pacifism is of a depth and commitment that even Vulcans might envy,” Sh’lok said, “were we a people who indulged such distasteful emotions. Our past—with its early acquisition of interstellar travel capability—necessarily equipped our own species with far more pragmatism about violence in self-defense. Such was necessary to survive through discovery by other species in ancient times, and into the present. But the Halkans, only newly discovered by other worlds and species, have had the leisure to maintain their stance so far.” small flourishing hydroponics facility: she was also a xenobotanist). She started the legalities rolling, and to John’s eye they looked nearly impenetrable; but to his relief, all he would have to do was sign off on the preliminary agreement Arbuthnot derived from the already-extant boilerplate. get enough of that mouth). It also left Sh’lok in a position to carry on a conversation (and check to see whether John was paying enough attention) while simultaneously thoroughly examining and analysing John’s privates for differences and similarities to his own. At least that was his One way or another they never really stopped touching each other. Sometimes it was simply for the pleasure of being able to do it without the proprieties and strictures of the Service in the way. Sometimes the attraction between them simmered up into arousal again, but with the edge of urgency relieved for the moment, they could simply relax into the gentle heat of it, with or without the mindmeld. And while the meld admittedly had its attractions—the incredibly swift interlace of thought with thought, of shared imagery and sensation—there was also a pleasure in the pace and sound of the spoken word that both of them enjoyed, in having to take one’s time to guess or understand the other’s thought and motive. After all, they had been functioning that way quite effectively for a long time now. And even the mere spoken word gained all kinds of nuance when whispered or breathed softly right into another’s ear, while elsewhere hands touched or stroked and spoke their own language. S’kroft’s gaze went back to Sh’lok. “Thou nam’st these outworlders ‘friends’. How dost thou pledge their behaviour?” “Mine,” John whispered. He wrapped his legs around Sh’lok’s waist and pulled him in closer still, and Sh’lok cried out in near-anguished delight. John did. Tunnel after tunnel after tunnel, Horta-hollowed cavern after cavern… all gleaming smooth, many of the tunnels ridiculously long, intersecting and branching and interweaving in three dimensions. He shook his head, stymied. John stood there gazing at the schematic and trying to think clearly. There was only one good thing about the last fifteen hours of stress: they had worn the worst of the edge off his initial fear and rage. Both were still there, but both were reduced to a kind of dull roar. “I can’t afford to guess wrong,” John said under his breath, as if to someone

<|output|> <|example|> blood in a bit, heighten the sensitivity. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> of it all <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> John did <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> who wasn’t there. “Oh, go on, Sh’lok, get it over with,” John said. “There’s nothing for you to do up here right now except twiddle your differentials and mock a bunch of minor planetary functionaries.” Lestrade looked around him and shook his head a little. “And they still go mad at this time. Perhaps it's the price they pay for having no emotions the rest of the time…” The woman in purple sat there looking at them as if she couldn’t begin to imagine why these things should ever be a topic of conversation. He broke off as if afraid to say it. But what he was thinking hit John so hard that he actually reached out to this Sh’lok and took him by the shoulders and gripped him, shaking him a little in absolute triumph. “That, oh my God Sh’lok, that one of them’s a John Watson like me, maybe even a Captain of an While this was one of the less-than-perfectly defined aspects of his duties as Captain, John knew most of the ship’s gossip, especially as it involved his officers. Anderson had had a wife on Earth, in the British Midlands somewhere; there had been a divorce, and it had been messy. While that relationship was coming undone, he and Donovan had become an item. And then the itemhood had come undone as well—mostly from Anderson’s side, said the scuttlebutt; guilt, anger, an inability to accept his own responsibilities in the matter as a whole. Off the miners went in their various directions, leaving the Captain and Sh’lok alone in the dim corridor. John turned to his First Officer and saw him looking unusually still and intense: listening. “Mr. Sh’lok? Something flashed across Kara’s face—a kind of shock, perhaps, and maybe even a touch of doubt, in the face of  John’s utter certainty and the sudden sternness of a man who had no doubts about which way The touch of velvety skin against his mouth, warm and delicate, was unquestionably accentuated by that sharp rich scent, stronger here and so desirable. John just smiled and gently stroked the foreskin halfway down over the long graceful head, opened his mouth, and guided Sh’lok in, closing his lips around him… about doing his bloody job, has kept him on his feet and functioning this long. He’s a mess.” Bones rubbed his eyes. “And not long for this world if something’s not done right quick.” Sh’lok’s eyes narrowed. Far from trying to contain his anger at all, it was getting more evident by the moment. “I have made my request, Captain,” he said. “All I require from you is that you answer it, John looked down at the still face and even now, even in this horrible moment, had to smile with affection. “He is very much like our own Mr. Sh'lok, isn't he,” he said softly. He nodded to Lestrade. “You’ve got that minute.” A thought presented itself that Sh’lok had had earlier and hadn’t been sure what to do with. “By saving my life in this way, you have conferred a value upon it.” He met Lestrade’s gaze, though he didn’t really

<|output|> <|example|> who wasn’t there. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “And not long for this world if something’s not done right quick <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> ” Bones rubbed his eyes <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “Oh, go on, Sh’lok, get it over with,” John said <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> He nodded to Lestrade <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> “Oh, go on, Sh’lok, get it over with,” John said <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> “You’ve got that minute <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> John turned to his First Officer and saw him looking unusually still and intense: listening <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> wish to. “I must admit that it is a currency I do not know how to spend.” After his ordeal on the Tantalus colony, he’d seen the Sickbay monitoring video that Lestrade had made of Sh’lok and Dr. Simon Van Gelder, locked together in mindmeld. It seemed deceptively serene at first, until you noticed something very specific: the expression of frozen horror on van Gelder’s face. Initially John had written that off to the terrible mental trauma Van Gelder had suffered at the hands of the colony’s head. Not the air, not the heat, not— It was—” Sh’lok shivered a bit. “It was starting to break the fever, that ferocity of yours. That purpose. A sense was starting to creep in that I was fighting for… the wrong mate.” Sh’lok swallowed. “A little longer— He hoped she was right. “Good luck. Watson out.” And he put the communicator away as the lift doors opened on the Transporter room’s deck, thinking of how Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Lestrade were up a Jeffries tube somewhere half the ship away, finishing their work, sending a signal— Lestrade shook his head to clear it and saw Sh’lok’s face twist into a snarl of frustration. His hands shot up to grip John’s face as he’d gripped Greg’s—but John’s expression went fiercely resolute as his own hands lifted and his fingers pressed into matching locations on Lestrade winced once, and then again, his eyes going tense  with something that John first read as pain and then thought and got hold of it again, but John leapt on him, forced him to drop it again as he pushed him down on his back near the front of the dais, and brought his own weapon up to shove it down toward Sh’lok’s throat. Sh’lok began to develop a faint shade of expression that to John looked uneasy. “Captain,” he said, “I do not wish to find myself opposing you. But if you continue on your present course, this confusing, inexplicable behaviour—” “Yes, I know, Molly.” Sh’lok paused. “I want you to know that I’m sorry about the plomeek soup.” He saw her head go up a little with surprise… but then their work had brought them together often enough that she knew how rarely Sh’lok saw any need for those two words in dealing with other sentient beings. “Do you suppose,” he said, having given her a moment or two to get over the shock, “that you might consider making some more?” Bradstreet was looking at his tricorder at the moment. “Captain, that power we picked up on above? We’re getting closer…” He sighed as the Transporter room doors hissed open for them. Mrs. Hudson herself was behind the controls… no accident, John was sure. She gave him a very innocent look that nonetheless suggested she was expecting to be briefed in full when John got back, and would probably break out one of her collection of Scotch whiskeys to encourage him. All he could do at the moment was waggle his eyebrows at her and get up on one of the pads. The air filled with a savage sizzling noise

<|output|> <|example|> wish to. “I must admit that it is a currency I do not know how to spend.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “It was starting to break the fever, that ferocity of yours <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Do you suppose,” he said, having given her a moment or two to get over the shock, “that you might consider making some more?” Bradstreet was looking at his tricorder at the moment <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> She gave him a very innocent look that nonetheless suggested she was expecting to be briefed in full when John got back, and would probably break out one of her collection of Scotch whiskeys to encourage him <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> “Do you suppose,” he said, having given her a moment or two to get over the shock, “that you might consider making some more?” Bradstreet was looking at his tricorder at the moment <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Sh’lok began to develop a faint shade of expression that to John looked uneasy <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Lestrade were up a Jeffries tube somewhere half the ship away, finishing their work, sending a signal— Lestrade shook his head to clear it and saw Sh’lok’s face twist into a snarl of frustration <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> It seemed deceptively serene at first, until you noticed something very specific: the expression of frozen horror on van Gelder’s face <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> and Dimmock reeled backwards, his features contorting into an awful grimace as he went rigid with pain. Sh’lok followed him until he had Dimmock pinned against the wall, twitching and moaning against it. Just when John thought he couldn’t bear it any more, when he thought despite all his best intentions he was going to shout at Sh’lok to stop it, Sh’lok pulled back and deactivated the device. “…Well, maybe not if we can get the Halkans to see sense and let the Federation take them under its wing.” John reached up and indulged himself in just a moment’s worth of slipping his fingers through those silky curls that were also only his to see when Sh’lok was off duty and the built-in timer on his esoteric Vulcan custom hair product had counted itself down to zero. “Mr. Sh’lok,” John said, dropping into the center seat and swiveling toward his First Officer. “Report?” “I've charted the positions of the deaths and acts of sabotage,” Sh’lok said. “Here, here, and here.” He pointed at the screen as Vanderberg returned to his office. “If the times of these incidents are to be accepted as accurate, the creature would have to have moved at an incredible rate of speed.” She nodded to both of them with slightly awkward dignity and turned away to head a few doors back down the corridor, to Sh’lok’s quarters. Dr. Hooper pressed the buzzer, and the door slid open for her. She vanished inside. “Aye, sir,” Anderson said, sounding most dubious, and glancing at John and then hastily away, as if trying to hide a thought. Mary whipped around toward him and all the anger that had been seeping out of her eyes now leapt back into them. Resigned, John headed back and nodded at Dr. Hooper, who was looking a bit uncomfortable. In fact, she was blushing. And there was the poor man himself on screen, Tharn, looking drawn and anguished, and still resolute. John’s insides twisted at the sight of him, and the thought of what he was about to put him through. “Aye, sir,” Dimmock said. On the viewscreen the huge, blinding, bloated sun veered away to starboard, vanished. “and in light of their present life situations, in line with options available to them in Vulcan law, they’ve agreed not to continue the relationship.” John sent Giotto and his crewman off to brief and redirect the rest of the security team, warning them that the creature now on the run was in this sector of the mining facility and was wounded. “And Giotto,” John said as they turned to go. “The man who died in the tunnel here— See that his personal info file is on my desk when we get back up to the ship.” That split second of anguished inattention was all it took for Sh’lok to leap forward again, roundhouse-swinging the “Well then,” John said. “Nothing terrible’s happened, so I suppose we can safely leave the crew running things by themselves that long.” And even more, he could have used some context on the man who came after the red-headed woman. He was in a slightly different version

<|output|> <|example|> and Dimmock reeled backwards, his features contorting into an awful grimace as he went rigid with pain. Sh’lok followed him until he had Dimmock pinned against the wall, twitching and moaning against it. Just when John thought he couldn’t bear it any more, when he thought despite all his best intentions he was going to shout at Sh’lok to stop it, Sh’lok pulled back and deactivated the device. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Aye, sir,” Dimmock said <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> of the silver over-tunics worn by the other men—one cut low and square to show off the impressive musculature of his chest. He was carrying a polearm with a long curve of blade down one side of it, like a razor-sharp feather of some steel bird’s wing; and he wore a peculiar sort of cap-and-half-mask that left his eyes uncovered but hid his nose and mouth. prospects are about to change significantly. Killing a Starfleet officer as the latest in a string of serial murders will doubtless cause a noticeable shift in your career trajectory.” . What was there now was frankly a masterwork built out of bone-memory-guided calciridiograft and clonilage; it would be sheerest ingratitude to resent it. And though the big overlapping patch of autoderm covering it wasn’t perfect no matter how many times John had to get it regrown, it all He could have laughed at the unlikely indignity of it if he wasn’t so completely pissed off. There was a third man between Bradstreet and the turbolift door, and then Bradstreet himself. John slid a sidelong glance in the Doctor’s direction. “Blame Lestrade,” he said. “That was no tri-ox compound he shot me with. He slipped in a neural paralyser.” It was hard not to be appreciative of such cleverness exercised on the fly, especially when it had saved his life. “Knocked me out… simulated death.” John dismissed the Security detail, thanked Mrs. Hudson, and headed out. Lestrade went with him in an advanced state of annoyance. “John, that man is Unfortunately the Security guard didn’t seem inclined to take the suggestion. “I’ll have to check with Security Chief Anderson, ma’am.” All around her, the Bridge crew’s attention was jerked away by that sound from the little drama unfolding at the Comms station.  Everybody looked up, and all eyes went just a little scared, and every crewman and officer on the Bridge leapt up to salute the man who’d just come in. They headed off down the hallway, John in the lead, Lestrade after him with Luma, and Bradstreet bringing up the rear with the control that Lestrade had handed him for Sh’lok’s body. John had most of his concentration on the communicator in his hand when they came to an intersection with another corridor— Put that way, the omission was striking, but John wasn’t at all sure what it meant. “So,” he said, “somehow or other, before all the Hortas were gone, their hatched eggs, the shells… went away?” Now he could understand Lestrade’s unwillingness to say the words. “I don't know why, or where, but she must have taken it.” John’s shock was beginning to wear off now, and heating up into anger. Lestrade was following him, confused by the muted response. “What's the matter, John? We can do it!” Quickly John realised that all this treasure, every single piece of it, was a fragment of data, or of memory. And this incredible mind held so much data cached that John kept wondering The next moment he moaned with anticipation as he felt the first blunt kiss of Sh’lok’s cock against his entrance. John kept his eyes fixed on

<|output|> <|example|> of the silver over-tunics worn by the other men—one cut low and square to show off the impressive musculature of his chest. He was carrying a polearm with a long curve of blade down one side of it, like a razor-sharp feather of some steel bird’s wing; and he wore a peculiar sort of cap-and-half-mask that left his eyes uncovered but hid his nose and mouth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Everybody looked up, and all eyes went just a little scared, and every crewman and officer on the Bridge leapt up to salute the man who’d just come in <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “Knocked me out… simulated death <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> ” John’s shock was beginning to wear off now, and heating up into anger <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> He slipped in a neural paralyser <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> Sh’lok’s and bore down against that sweet touch. As he did, John felt the slick broad head press in, and in, and Lestrade shook his head, glancing up from his tricorder. “She’s not, John. No change in reading. She doesn't know.” He looked down at the readout again, scowling. “And there’s something else going on with her cerebral function that I really don’t like—” There they did their almighty best to just hold him in one place. Even with four of them it was hard work. John could barely spare the attention to register the sound of the turbolift doors opening again as Sh’lok writhed and struggled in their grasp, once again yelling, finally almost —and was instantly dropped to the floor in a looselimbed heap, struck down by what seemed to be a phaser bolt from outside. Except that it was For a moment she was plainly shocked to hear a sentiment she would never have expected from him—or rather, from the other him. Yet that look too shifted, and unexpectedly Mary’s gaze, locked on his, was telling John that right now there was one thing she particularly wanted to be. After perhaps a minute the hum started to die away again, and as the room went quiet once more the helmet lifted away a little from Kara’s head. Her body seemed to relax a bit; her eyes opened. around John’s neck, and then found enough purchase to roll the two of them over again. Once on top he lifted John with one hand by the strap around the back of his neck and with the other by the fist clenched in the neck of his uniform tunic, shoving him up onto the central dais and nearly over the edge of the little firepit there as he tightened the “Having seen what you are—” And John could hear what this Sh’lok would do anything not to be made to say: thereafter, would have brought him any momentary breath of relief from the pain assailing him, he instantly found such hopes to be misplaced. Now, as he made his way to Sickbay and Lestrade’s office, he understood that whatever else happened to him now, he must leave Starfleet as soon as possible. Every corridor in this vessel spoke silently to Sh’lok of the man who would no longer walk here beside him, smiling, arguing, just John swung into the Bridge and found all his officers intent on the viewscreen and their own sensors. One after another they started reporting off to him. “Phaser banks standing by, sir,” Dimmock said. He breathed out in slight relief. They were doing the same calculations he had been doing, then, though he needed no computer for them. They would soon be as aware of both the ticking clocks as he was. who were able to enter his quarters without him authorising their entry first, and of those, only one of them was female. He had heard her outside his door before she’d even touched it. John thought, glancing down at the sheathed knife affixed to this Sh’lok’s golden sash-belt. He could just imagine what his own Sh’lok would

<|output|> <|example|> Sh’lok’s and bore down against that sweet touch. As he did, John felt the slick broad head press in, and in, and <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Except that it was For a moment she was plainly shocked to hear a sentiment she would never have expected from him—or rather, from the other him <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> Now, as he made his way to Sickbay and Lestrade’s office, he understood that whatever else happened to him now, he must leave Starfleet as soon as possible <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> say about such a thing. for, why humans were so insistent on keeping them around in the first place, instead of abandoning them as liabilities. That mind dove swiftly inward and soon found the outer core of John Watson, assessing it with some astonishment and pressing in deeper still. And as it did so, inevitably it came up against John’s experience of another Vulcan... and then intimate contact with the Vulcan himself. “At the risk of appearing insubordinate,” Sh’lok said, “I feel I must claim that position for my own.” “Yes,” John said, glancing at something on the floor that he and Sh’lok had passed while chasing the creature it had fallen off of. “We took a bite out of it.” Anderson was still in shock that she would dare do such a thing. It took him a moment to recover enough to start leaning forward again. He snarled at her, “You take a lot of chances, Lieutenant!” “You have twelve hours to consider your position,” John said, hating this whole situation more intensely by the second. Sh’lok had paused by one tunnel wall, his tricorder warbling softly. John moved back to him. “Mr. Sh’lok? Find something?” , it was as if red-alert sirens started going off inside John’s head. The turbolift stopped as it reached deck five, the doors hissed open, but John couldn’t  look away as Sh’lok turned toward him. And suddenly the thought of anyone else doing that with Sh’lok bothered him, bothered him irrationally, bothered him a Sh’lok instantly perceived that there were lines in his face that did not belong there. They had not been there an hour ago when John left to beam down to the planet… and they John continued his circle around the room, trying to get a sense of what things were, and mostly failing. “You say you're breathing, pumping blood, maintaining temperature? Is it possible that you're re-circulating air, running heating facilities, purifying water?” John gave Sh’lok what was meant to pass for a resigned look and stepped away. “If you gentlemen are finished, would you mind laying in a course for Starbase Ten, Mr. Sh’lok?” John got up and went to have a closer look at it, standing beside her. “It's not that bad,” he said, hoping she might tell him something more useful about the device. Reports and other paperwork kept John in the center seat for long after cocktail hour. There was also the immense relief to deal with that came with knowing that Lestrade would be able to save Rosie after all... though soon enough would come the difficult business of finding her the care and help she was going to need after losing her parents in such traumatic circumstances. Finally, when everything was logged, John turned to poor Ensign Zahra, who had been having a yeoman’s orientation for the record books and probably was heartily sick of the sight of him. “Yeoman,” he said, “record this for Starfleet Command—” sensitive than most, not less. And quite soon the children I studied with realised that. They used to plot to find excuses to touch me, in order for me to feel how

<|output|> <|example|> say about such a thing. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> They used to plot to find excuses to touch me, in order for me to feel how <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> ” “Yes,” John said, glancing at something on the floor that he and Sh’lok had passed while chasing the creature it had fallen off of <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Reports and other paperwork kept John in the center seat for long after cocktail hour <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> “You say you're breathing, pumping blood, maintaining temperature? Is it possible that you're re-circulating air, running heating facilities, purifying water?” John gave Sh’lok what was meant to pass for a resigned look and stepped away <|indexes|> 6 6 <|example|> “At the risk of appearing insubordinate,” Sh’lok said, “I feel I must claim that position for my own <|indexes|> 7 |

<|text|> much they disliked me.” Sh’lok knew…), stroking his chest, his flanks… then bowing himself over John’s hips. He spent some moments first gently rubbing his cheek against John’s cock, again with that sense of unbelieving delight… and then turned his head and started stroking it with that soft, soft hair. John snorted. “…Bloody mindmeld,” he muttered. “But he does let his tech folks do all the ‘unimportant’ stuff? Including, particularly, John was readier for it this time, but still starting to simmer with a low fury that for the moment felt far preferable to the recurring gut-fluttering fear he’d been working so hard to master. “Doctor. You were not there to hear what I said to my Clan-brother before I returned. He bade me live long and prosper. I told him I would be doing neither. Leaving the issue of prospering aside… I would not have lived long past John’s death.” Sh’lok swallowed, looked away. “It was no threat; merely a statement of fact. For those who either by intent or accident have done violence to one who—one who they… Well.” He shook his head. “In Vulcan experience, life seems to make a habit of finding them some way, fairly quickly, to depart.” She tried to run, but John caught her by her upper arms first. “How does it work?” he demanded. “Show us! We'll protect you.“ stopped. Thousands of the nodules were shattered and lay crushed and broken, scattered around and ground to fragments by machinery and boots, trampled on like so much garbage. —” He swallowed again. “So when you reach out to me, and touch… if I hold still, it’s because the longer the moment lasts, the less I… That is to say…” “Very well. Increase to warp seven. This is life-or-death stuff for them; wouldn’t be kind to keep them waiting.” , sunshine, your grasp of physics may be a wonder to behold, but your chemistry’s not all it’s cracked up to be “Do they come from the sky?” he said at a hazard, thinking that possibly this man be talking about aliens. Or perhaps he had some rudimentary knowledge of spaceflight, or at least might have seen a ship— “And for that sin, in your mind, they all deserved to die horrible deaths,” Sh’lok said in his coolest and most unmoved voice, one calculated to infuriate. Sh’lok gazed down into John’s eyes, his expression growing more amused but still seeming a little at sea. John watched, feeling the tension ratcheting up, and though this scene would have been enough to command his attention, other matters needed it too. He flipped his communicator open. “Lieutenant Commander Giotto.” Except then the Transporter room came fully clear and real around them, and John sucked in a breath of utmost relief and got down off the pads in a hurry, heading over to the figures standing behind the main control console. “Sh'lok was right, it was a rough trip—” John said. Lestrade shook his head, incredulous. “John, leaving aside the logistical difficulties… where are you going to look? In this whole galaxy, where are you going to start looking for Sh’lok’s brain?” and the bone, could be

<|output|> <|example|> much they disliked me.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Increase to warp seven <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “Doctor <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “Doctor <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> You were not there to hear what I said to my Clan-brother before I returned <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> skittish. But when you were stuck in a place like this, where equipment had been moved around and some drugs were missing or replaced by congeners (particularly cheap or inadequately tested ones) that Greg didn’t trust: Shortly thereafter John was standing behind Lestrade’s desk, not quite at attention but in a most erect and intent parade rest, staring down into the monitor there at the image of Admiral Komack. owned), and he saw him now as his father had shown him to Sh’lok in mind, long ago: the ruddy fur still glossy and rippling (its owner being overdue for the post-winter clip), the front right fang not yet broken. His heart leapt in him: not just at the sound of that voice—itself dark in this darkness, part of it, and oh God “As, I would say, are you,” Sh’lok said, picking up a discarded undertunic and not even needing to look at it before handing it to John to be dealt with or put away. “Since you were the one who mentioned the Klingons and the Romulans…” In any case, with every breath Sh’lok’s dark fragrance was curling into John like some exotic musky incense, making it harder and harder to concentrate on anything but sex. John was barely out of the doorframe before Sherlock was approaching and leaning past him to hand the cabbie his fare. When John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock flashed him a dark look that said he would do no such thing. "If you're looking for my wayward brother, he's been closed up in the studio for weeks now. London Fashion Week was a success for him, so he's been working day and night on commissions. I've more or less been relegated to a secretarial position." "You alright in there, mate, sure you didn't drown or anything?" Lestrade's raspy growl filtered through the door warily. John opened the door, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. "Hiding out are we?" The hours passed and though his stretched out legs grew tired and his arms ached, Sherlock held steady. "This is wonderful, John," Mike's voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, gently nudging John back to the present. "Professor Loughton is most certainly going to want to publish this interview in the Daily Scientist. I'm thrilled." fault that he felt like he’d fallen several stories and landed in every painful way possible. The only thing that hadn't hurt was his face. John rolled his eyes and returned to his make-up. “Could have been something, if you hadn't interrupted.” He picked up his face powder and smoothed it on his cheeks, watching the wrinkles fade under the layer of pale powder. "Mycroft," his clipped between gritted teeth, spitting the name out like a curse. "Yes, I've read your ridiculous report. All of those sweets are scattering whatever brain you might have, and your waistline, apparently. I won't be meeting with Moriarty or that underhanded snake, Magnussen. Why James would place an infantile fool like that over his financial department is beyond me." “Stop it,” Sherlock hissed, startling John out of his pessimistic musings. He was cross. Sherlock snatched John's glass

<|output|> <|example|> skittish. But when you were stuck in a place like this, where equipment had been moved around and some drugs were missing or replaced by congeners (particularly cheap or inadequately tested ones) that Greg didn’t trust: <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> John was barely out of the doorframe before Sherlock was approaching and leaning past him to hand the cabbie his fare. When John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock flashed him a dark look that said he would do no such thing. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> " fault that he felt like he’d fallen several stories and landed in every painful way possible <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> of champagne and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter, before grabbing John by the arm and hauling him out of the hall and out the doors. With a quick call, the driver was pulling up to the kerb, but Sherlock didn't wait for him to open the door. Sherlock pushed John inside first and followed after, immediately reaching for the button to roll up the partition. “I'll be out in a moment,” Sherlock shouted through the door, glad that at least his voice didn't tremble. “Make tea, please!” John returns home one final time and makes a request of Sherlock that may alter the outcome of his bleak future. “John Watson?” Holmes asked, by way of greeting. John nodded in affirmation and stretched out a hand, which was promptly engulfed in the man’s large, warm grasp.  “Sherlock Holmes.” Mike's lips were parted in awe and John resisted the urge to reach out and close his mouth. "You can't say no, John, you have to take it," his friend implored. "Do you know how many people would kill for an offer like that?" She stared at him, waiting. John shook his head, unable to hold her gaze. “I wanted to be in a better state.” This was Greg’s first thought upon being rudely awakened by whatever the fuck his bloody lunatic flatmates were getting up to downstairs. texting, which he knew Sherlock preferred. "I hear your diet isn't going well for you, Mycroft. You nearly put a hole through the stairs on your way up. Rest assured, Mrs Hudson would have your head for that; not mine." He sighed, hugging Sherlock closer. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. You've been wonderful…” And he had, so why was something tickling just at the back of his mind? Why wouldn't the uneasy feeling fade? Although it wasn't safe to run his tests at home without a certified medical personnel to supervise, Sherlock didn't trust getting others involved. If anyone else found out about John's condition, they would take him away and he’d be nothing more than a specimen. Sherlock knew, because he would have done the same if it were anyone other than John. No, no one could know, or Sherlock would never see John again. He’d be subjected to strangers poking and prodding at him for the remainder of his life, or what life he may have left. Only time could tell, but until then, Sherlock would do all he could to keep his partner alive, no matter the cost. Holmes’ palm slid up the small of his back, warm enough to light a fire in the pit of John’s belly as they slowly meandered up his ribs, dragging his shirt along with it. Hot breaths on his neck made his heartbeat stutter and his hips hitch against the leather couch, until John was panting into Molly’s mouth. Holmes was a hard, rigid line against the crack of his arse, his cock eager and insistent even through John’s denims. “Yes, well…” John muttered, finally releasing his grip on the vanity table. His skin was flushed with excitement, but his chin dipped down to his chest,

<|output|> <|example|> of champagne and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter, before grabbing John by the arm and hauling him out of the hall and out the doors. With a quick call, the driver was pulling up to the kerb, but Sherlock didn't wait for him to open the door. Sherlock pushed John inside first and followed after, immediately reaching for the button to roll up the partition. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Sherlock pushed John inside first and followed after, immediately reaching for the button to roll up the partition <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> "I hear your diet isn't going well for you, Mycroft <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> and he refused to meet Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. “You're not done yet.” Sherlock turned, willing Lestrade to leave, but instead, the man followed him to the bedroom where the bag of nappies and baby powder were, along with the wipes. Anthea made it seem simple. For a woman who didn't have or want children, she was knowledgeable in the childcare area. Sherlock fumbled the first few times, but the fourth go was a success and now he considered himself a master of the skill. One must be a Jack of all trades. They spoke at the same time, stumbling over one another’s words with the same nervousness one would expect out of two teenagers on their first date. He stretched languorously atop his sheets, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he snuggled down into his pillow. John could stay in bed for the rest of the nigh- John smiled and dropped his gaze, smoothing his hands over the sheet between them until Sherlock caught it with the hand not tucked under his head. “It was brilliant,” he replied, squirming a bit under Sherlock's intense gaze. It Sherlock snarled at the thought of how long he’d been waiting. No, Mycroft could try, but Sherlock knew his brother better than anyone else. He often forgot that Sherlock had eyes and ears of his own, and the necessary resources to bribe anyone he so chose. Not even Mycroft’s own “thoroughly vetted” staff were immune to the siren call of money. Dangle a few hundred pounds here, a well-disguised but decipherable threat to line that offer, and the promise of more where that came from, and Sherlock held the strings to Mycroft’s puppets. When he was opened and slick, Sherlock removed his fingers and John placed the head at his entrance before sinking onto him. They didn’t bother with condoms, as their profession required regular STI screenings. Neither of them would have been able to shoot the video if any of the tests came back negative. Maybe a part of him also enjoyed feeling Sherlock without the added layer of latex. After he’d read the letter John left on the kitchen table, Sherlock had known that it was John's way of saying goodbye, but that was unacceptable. John could feel his hand trembling under his duress. How did they see him, now? A shaking, mess of a creature; destroyed and mentally fragile, a burden. The hand that had been weaved into his hair was now gripping his thigh in a tight grasp. Holmes was restraining himself, John realized. Sherlock hadn't stayed long afterwards. He’d retreated to John's minuscule bathroom and washed himself off, then left without a word. He knew himself well enough to figure that it wasn't enough to assuage his appetite. He’d return, and John would be there waiting for him. Everyday following, Sherlock would monitor his phone in case Jasper called, and occasionally sent texts of his own that went unanswered. A quick message to Mycroft would ensure that Jasper was well accounted for, and all Sherlock could do was wait for his return. He’d never been

<|output|> <|example|> and he refused to meet Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. “You're not done yet.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He knew himself well enough to figure that it wasn't enough to assuage his appetite <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Maybe a part of him also enjoyed feeling Sherlock without the added layer of latex <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> ” Sherlock turned, willing Lestrade to leave, but instead, the man followed him to the bedroom where the bag of nappies and baby powder were, along with the wipes <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> They didn’t bother with condoms, as their profession required regular STI screenings <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> He’d return, and John would be there waiting for him <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> torn before, never experienced what it was like to have to choose. There were times in his life when Mycroft gave him an ultimatum, the most recent being his last relapse, in which he had to choose between the drugs or his custody of Jasper. Of course Sherlock chose his son, and completed the rehab program on the condition that he see Jasper every day. For a while, Sherlock didn't answer, though his gaze stayed steadily locked with John's, a silent clash of wills to see who would give in first. It seemed like miles between them, though they were barely a foot apart. John wanted to close it, press Sherlock up against the counter and kiss his smug face. The younger male looked up to the man standing across the room and like an epiphany, he realized how selfish he was being. Sherlock needed him. His son had just walked away from them both, and all of it was by John's own doing. What kind of man would he be to walk away and leave such ruin in his wake. John sat up to run his hands through his hair in annoyance. At this rate, John was going to go prematurely bald. “No, Sherlock- just… no. That's not how it works.” The kitchen was chaotic, as Sherlock preferred it to be; everything was right where he wanted it, save for a small space on the table that had been cleared to make room for a couple of plates. Sherlock set the bag from Angelo’s atop a stack of papers and skirted around the table to stand beside John. , John," he stated, as if it were beneath him, which John would bet his life that was exactly what the prick was thinking. “Mm,” Sherlock moaned, catching the soft flesh of John’s lobe between his teeth and balancing it on his tongue. “It is taking every Sherlock hadn't been more elated than when he’d been presented with a John donning a bespoke suit that hugged his subtle curvature like a glove. Sherlock refused to leave the flat without a taste, and like a good boy, John gave it to him, spoiling him with luscious kisses and swollen red lips descending to his cock. Molly writhed in his lap, biting her lip to stifle a whimper as she rode John with short, quick thrusts. A deep, throaty growl rumbled through the floorboards beneath John's bare feet, pulling him from his dark memories, and he glanced over through the haze of his own change to see Sherlock, weight balanced on both feet with one hand braced on the ground while his skin trembled and blurred. Sherlock's bared teeth had lengthened into sharp points and his jaw creaked ominously as his mandible stretched to accommodate the new form. Honestly, John had no idea and no answers to give. He hadn't stayed long enough to prod Holmes for more answers, and the man obviously had elsewhere to be. What could the alpha have possibly gone through to become so cold. John found himself honestly wanting to know the truth of Sherlock's past, though there was no way

<|output|> <|example|> torn before, never experienced what it was like to have to choose. There were times in his life when Mycroft gave him an ultimatum, the most recent being his last relapse, in which he had to choose between the drugs or his custody of Jasper. Of course Sherlock chose his son, and completed the rehab program on the condition that he see Jasper every day. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John sat up to run his hands through his hair in annoyance <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> ” The kitchen was chaotic, as Sherlock preferred it to be; everything was right where he wanted it, save for a small space on the table that had been cleared to make room for a couple of plates <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> His son had just walked away from them both, and all of it was by John's own doing <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> to read it on his skin or his face, or the way he held himself. John squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, forcing his muscles to relax. He'd never given himself like this to anyone, but John was sure that staying tense wouldn't make this experience enjoyable. John wasn’t completely surprised. Ten years in the industry and he’d learned to work with what he had. Holmes wasn’t the first complete tit John had the misfortune of working with. He was, however, the best-looking one so far. John was afraid for Sherlock, and if he were to be honest, he was also frightened for himself. Could he possibly bring himself to go down that road again? He cared about Sherlock, maybe even loved him, but would it be wise to pursue a relationship with an addict? Wouldn't that mean that Sherlock's first love would always be the drugs? It was late. The shelters were filled for the night, so Jasper would have to find a place to sleep. It had been three days since his last wash in the loo at a restaurant he didn't even remember the name of. The water had been tepid and the instant rush of cold air on his skin upon emerging was harsh and biting. He missed the comfort of a warm bed and hot tea. The free cup they gave out at the shelter were always bitter and over-steeped. Jasper was sick to death of soup and he would kill for a bacon butty. The director called for a cut and a crew member brought Molly a bottle of water, which she drank down. John still hadn’t quite escaped Holmes’ wandering hand, and his partner seemed reluctant to break contact as they stood. Sherlock turned his head to John, lips twitching near the corners as he held back a smile. "I believe so, yes." "Fuck, is an accurate analogy," Sherlock whispered hotly in his ear, before he turned John's head roughly and captured his lips in a bruising kiss, thrusting his hips more vigorously now against the smaller man's. Their cocks were lubricated with precome now, and Sherlock dropped a hand to their erections. He pushed back the foreskin and stroked once, twice, thrice with a heavy hand before letting go and grabbing John's hips with both, aligning their bodies and setting a punishing pace Sherlock seemed to be the quicker of the two to recover. He rolled off of John and laid beside him on the floor, looking over to make sure he was okay. Sherlock swooped down and took his lips on a punishing kiss, and John was helpless to its spell. Sherlock's teeth clashed painfully with John’s but it wasn't enough, they weren't close enough. Sherlock pressed him back against the door, fitting his thin waist between the ‘V' of John's splayed legs. A smirk played at the corner of Holmes' lips, coy and suggestive. The distance between them pulsed with a palpable electricity that sparked wildly with attraction... and danger. John blinked once, and then again, slowly, clearing his thoughts. "Really, I'm fine on the couch, and besides, I don't really sleep

<|output|> <|example|> to read it on his skin or his face, or the way he held himself. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "I believe so, yes <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Their cocks were lubricated with precome now, and Sherlock dropped a hand to their erections <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> A smirk played at the corner of Holmes' lips, coy and suggestive <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> and danger <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> " "Fuck, is an accurate analogy," Sherlock whispered hotly in his ear, before he turned John's head roughly and captured his lips in a bruising kiss, thrusting his hips more vigorously now against the smaller man's <|indexes|> 5 |

<|text|> much throughout the night. I wouldn't want to wake you or anything." John stared. He might as well be without a tongue, because he couldn't get his lips to move, couldn't push the words out, get them past his larynx. Mycroft was holding out the folder, expectantly patient, but John couldn't move. His strings were cut and his equilibrium was off. "I figured there was something you weren't telling me," he started slowly, "so I thought I'd find out myself." John had never heard Jasper's voice so flat and unanimated before, and John stood, feeling intimidated and admittedly frightened. Jim's smile widened as he peeked into the envelope, and in a moment of unadulterated pleasure, he sang, “I know something you don't know!” John began to pull Sherlock’s cock in earnest until Sherlock was buckling over him, his long upper half nearly draped over John as tremors wracked through his body. “John, JohnJohn, They set her on her feet, and she skipped to the stair, clicking her heels before she stepped down. More male dancers stood on either side of the steps, holding her hands as she danced down them effortlessly. Lady Grey grabbed one of the dancer’s ties, pulling him forward pleadingly, her red lips parting in a coy grin. “Black star!” Then on the other side her, she wove her hand into another man’s tie. “Ross Cole!” Lady Grey pushed them away in disgust before stomping down the stairs. “Talk to me, Harry Zilder, tell me all about it!” She turned and fell back, expecting the men to catch her. Over the palms of their hands, Lady Grey stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. John imagined long, pale finger drawing the strings of silk pyjama bottoms, a strong hand wrapping around a blushing erection. Sherlock whipped his phone out of his pocket and dialed Lestrade's number, swearing when he didn't pick up on the first ring. Many believed that taming an Alpha involved whips and chains, and radical methods of breaking one's spirit. Sherlock was aware that there were many tamers who chose such means to get through to an Alpha, but Sherlock chose a rather unconventional method. Finally, Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and turned to John, dropping his eyes so that they didn't meet John's when he began to speak. “You weren't meant to see me in such a state, John. I… I owe you an apology.” Janine led the way to the office door and knocked softly. Inside, he could hear papers being shoved around and Holmes' deep voice arguing loudly with someone on the phone. "It’s no fault of mine that you're too busy sticking your face between your secretary's thighs you can hardly do your job. I sent you a list yesterday of everything that was to be shipped out, and now I have clients calling me due to your inadequacy to stay on task..." Sherlock could hear it as clearly now as he could his own heartbeat, in that moment. John wanted to be there just as much as Sherlock wanted him to be, and he was ready. Sherlock straightened

<|output|> <|example|> much throughout the night. I wouldn't want to wake you or anything." <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “John, JohnJohn, They set her on her feet, and she skipped to the stair, clicking her heels before she stepped down <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> up from his slump and prowled towards John, crowding him against the wall. With a steady hand— far steadier than John’s gelatinous knees—Sherlock tilted his chin up. “Another time perhaps,” he said softly, before bending close to lay a sweet, lingering kiss on John’s lips. “I wouldn’t dare pass up an opportunity to see you like this again, though a more ideal location would be preferred.” John's eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline at the revelation, and Sherlock smirked back, suitably smug. “Three years ago, Angelo was implicated in a particularly vicious murder. I proved to Lestrade that he was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.” "Tell me you're taking the piss, Sherlock," Lestrade said, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair tiredly. "You've got to be- there's no possible Growling, he ripped away to unclasp the other belt, and made quick work of the stockings. He had been planning on slowly stripping those knickers away, but he had to have him then, or he thought he just might die. It was a cold statement, one that even John felt the sting of, and Victor stepped away, as if scalded. What could accurately describe the pain of watching a loved one leave, with no knowledge as to whether you will ever see them again? It was the slowest of tortures; always dwelling on your last minutes with that person, and whether you said everything you needed to say before they were gone. Afterwards, when the heavy breathing and hot panting died down, the slick on their body cooled, John tried to remember a time when there was another that made his heart beat in his chest the way that Sherlock could. If Sherlock decided that John wasn't what he wanted, would John ever find someone else that made his every breath feel sweeter, the ache in his body, so pleasant? When Sherlock finally released him, John awkwardly scurried off in the direction of the den, with semen crusting uncomfortably on his stomach and in his navel. The entire walk back, he prayed that his progress to the nearest bathroom wouldn't be impeded by anyone, most of all Victor. The last thing he needed was to fight the man over Sherlock. It was just a one-off, a momentary lapse in inhibitions that he was already regretting, but the hunt had been so successful and Sherlock, so alluring. "I don't think you quite appreciate the restraint I exercise in not setting you straight, Mr Watson." Sherlock's baritone rumbled over him like satin sheets and midnight storms, sultry and deep. "You are quite careless with your words."

<|output|> <|example|> up from his slump and prowled towards John, crowding him against the wall. With a steady hand— far steadier than John’s gelatinous knees—Sherlock tilted his chin up. “Another time perhaps,” he said softly, before bending close to lay a sweet, lingering kiss on John’s lips. “I wouldn’t dare pass up an opportunity to see you like this again, though a more ideal location would be preferred.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> What could accurately describe the pain of watching a loved one leave, with no knowledge as to whether you will ever see them again? It was the slowest of tortures; always dwelling on your last minutes with that person, and whether you said everything you needed to say before they were gone <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> Not that Sherlock cared. Not that he could be bothered to think of Kendal as something other than John’s Goddaughter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Kendal shook her head. “He was innocent. John could have helped him prove that, and he just- he just left.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> were for women, not for barely-thirteen-year-old girls. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> at the end of the counter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> since the whole of his heart went away. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of the scratches by the charging port, he knew that my- ah, that my bloody limp was psychosomatic, he just- and he just rattled it all off to me like it was nothing, like it was just second nature, and I’m sure it almost was to him, and he could never resist the chance to show off.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends. There was no way that William would die, there was no way Kendal would ever need him. Everything was so secure back then. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> One didn’t normally feel things in transport. But this time John did. There was a sense of an abnormal flickering, of everything being wrenched out of phase so that you were left seeing or feeling somehow at a wrong angle, one you were never meant to experience. It was <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> and further out of synch while this madness went on. He managed to push Sh’lok up against the wall again and land a few more punches, but within seconds he was on the floor again while Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson went at Sh’lok together— <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Not that Sherlock cared. Not that he could be bothered to think of Kendal as something other than John’s Goddaughter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> One didn’t normally feel things in transport. But this time John did. There was a sense of an abnormal flickering, of everything being wrenched out of phase so that you were left seeing or feeling somehow at a wrong angle, one you were never meant to experience. It was <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Hudson went at Sh’lok together— <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> at the end of the counter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> since the whole of his heart went away. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of the scratches by the charging port, he knew that my- ah, that my bloody limp was psychosomatic, he just- and he just rattled it all off to me like it was nothing, like it was just second nature, and I’m sure it almost was to him, and he could never resist the chance to show off.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends. There was no way that William would die, there was no way Kendal would ever need him. Everything was so secure back then. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> One didn’t normally feel things in transport. But this time John did. There was a sense of an abnormal flickering, of everything being wrenched out of phase so that you were left seeing or feeling somehow at a wrong angle, one you were never meant to experience. It was <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> and further out of synch while this madness went on. He managed to push Sh’lok up against the wall again and land a few more punches, but within seconds he was on the floor again while Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson went at Sh’lok together— <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> in which he specialised. “And in this case I must hasten to add that scientific research on this subject has been well contaminated with wishful thinking, subjective or irreproducible results and confirmation error…” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a second. Sh’lok glanced at the way John was holding his <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of alien scents borne on that wind, but also of one that reminded him strongly of grass, the plain green grass of Earth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> with arousal to see it, too full of the sound and feel of her warm breath in his ear canal to hear it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> at the end of the counter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> One didn’t normally feel things in transport. But this time John did. There was a sense of an abnormal flickering, of everything being wrenched out of phase so that you were left seeing or feeling somehow at a wrong angle, one you were never meant to experience. It was <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends. There was no way that William would die, there was no way Kendal would ever need him. Everything was so secure back then. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> One didn’t normally feel things in transport. But this time John did. There was a sense of an abnormal flickering, of everything being wrenched out of phase so that you were left seeing or feeling somehow at a wrong angle, one you were never meant to experience. It was <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> and further out of synch while this madness went on. He managed to push Sh’lok up against the wall again and land a few more punches, but within seconds he was on the floor again while Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson went at Sh’lok together— <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> in which he specialised. “And in this case I must hasten to add that scientific research on this subject has been well contaminated with wishful thinking, subjective or irreproducible results and confirmation error…” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a second. Sh’lok glanced at the way John was holding his <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of alien scents borne on that wind, but also of one that reminded him strongly of grass, the plain green grass of Earth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> with arousal to see it, too full of the sound and feel of her warm breath in his ear canal to hear it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends. There was no way that William would die, there was no way Kendal would ever need him. Everything was so secure back then. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> One didn’t normally feel things in transport. But this time John did. There was a sense of an abnormal flickering, of everything being wrenched out of phase so that you were left seeing or feeling somehow at a wrong angle, one you were never meant to experience. It was <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|example|> a time when he was so sure of himself and his friends <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> a second. Sh’lok glanced at the way John was holding his <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of alien scents borne on that wind, but also of one that reminded him strongly of grass, the plain green grass of Earth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> with arousal to see it, too full of the sound and feel of her warm breath in his ear canal to hear it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> phaser against his hip and shoving the momentarily off-balance Sh’lok back against the diagnostic bed. “Still got questions, huh?” John growled. “Then let’s get you sorted!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> John at the thought of what it would be like when those trousers were gone, when that mouth—now breathing warmly on him through the cloth—would be able to have its way with him without any barriers being present. But even as he was reaching down to press Sh’lok’s face more closely against him, Sh’lok let him go, looking up at John with eyes both dilated to near-complete darkness and brimming with mischief. “My apologies,” he said. “I was consulting some of your experiential and technique-related resources, and I became…” He cleared his throat. “Distracted.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> on data points which had unexpectedly removed themselves from the realm of the impossible, and were therefore unavoidably true. For one thing, parallel universe theory, so long mooted, was apparently now concretely proven. Sh’lok wondered ever so fleetingly whether he would someday be able to write a paper on the subject—or would survive its publication. That outcome was in any case far down a long dangerous series of causal branchings, since his life was in fact already forfeit for treason. Sh’lok had after all recognised the landing party not to be genuine officers of the Empire, and had failed to immediately denounce them; so should anyone else discover these officers’ imposture, there was a high probability that his death would closely follow theirs. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> blood in a bit, heighten the sensitivity. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> a second. Sh’lok glanced at the way John was holding his <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> on data points which had unexpectedly removed themselves from the realm of the impossible, and were therefore unavoidably true <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> phaser against his hip and shoving the momentarily off-balance Sh’lok back against the diagnostic bed. “Still got questions, huh?” John growled. “Then let’s get you sorted!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> John at the thought of what it would be like when those trousers were gone, when that mouth—now breathing warmly on him through the cloth—would be able to have its way with him without any barriers being present. But even as he was reaching down to press Sh’lok’s face more closely against him, Sh’lok let him go, looking up at John with eyes both dilated to near-complete darkness and brimming with mischief. “My apologies,” he said. “I was consulting some of your experiential and technique-related resources, and I became…” He cleared his throat. “Distracted.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> on data points which had unexpectedly removed themselves from the realm of the impossible, and were therefore unavoidably true. For one thing, parallel universe theory, so long mooted, was apparently now concretely proven. Sh’lok wondered ever so fleetingly whether he would someday be able to write a paper on the subject—or would survive its publication. That outcome was in any case far down a long dangerous series of causal branchings, since his life was in fact already forfeit for treason. Sh’lok had after all recognised the landing party not to be genuine officers of the Empire, and had failed to immediately denounce them; so should anyone else discover these officers’ imposture, there was a high probability that his death would closely follow theirs. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> blood in a bit, heighten the sensitivity. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> who wasn’t there. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> wish to. “I must admit that it is a currency I do not know how to spend.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and Dimmock reeled backwards, his features contorting into an awful grimace as he went rigid with pain. Sh’lok followed him until he had Dimmock pinned against the wall, twitching and moaning against it. Just when John thought he couldn’t bear it any more, when he thought despite all his best intentions he was going to shout at Sh’lok to stop it, Sh’lok pulled back and deactivated the device. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> phaser against his hip and shoving the momentarily off-balance Sh’lok back against the diagnostic bed. “Still got questions, huh?” John growled. “Then let’s get you sorted!” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|example|> phaser against his hip and shoving the momentarily off-balance Sh’lok back against the diagnostic bed <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> blood in a bit, heighten the sensitivity. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> who wasn’t there. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> wish to. “I must admit that it is a currency I do not know how to spend.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and Dimmock reeled backwards, his features contorting into an awful grimace as he went rigid with pain. Sh’lok followed him until he had Dimmock pinned against the wall, twitching and moaning against it. Just when John thought he couldn’t bear it any more, when he thought despite all his best intentions he was going to shout at Sh’lok to stop it, Sh’lok pulled back and deactivated the device. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of the silver over-tunics worn by the other men—one cut low and square to show off the impressive musculature of his chest. He was carrying a polearm with a long curve of blade down one side of it, like a razor-sharp feather of some steel bird’s wing; and he wore a peculiar sort of cap-and-half-mask that left his eyes uncovered but hid his nose and mouth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Sh’lok’s and bore down against that sweet touch. As he did, John felt the slick broad head press in, and in, and <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> say about such a thing. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> blood in a bit, heighten the sensitivity. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Sh’lok’s and bore down against that sweet touch <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> and Dimmock reeled backwards, his features contorting into an awful grimace as he went rigid with pain. Sh’lok followed him until he had Dimmock pinned against the wall, twitching and moaning against it. Just when John thought he couldn’t bear it any more, when he thought despite all his best intentions he was going to shout at Sh’lok to stop it, Sh’lok pulled back and deactivated the device. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of the silver over-tunics worn by the other men—one cut low and square to show off the impressive musculature of his chest. He was carrying a polearm with a long curve of blade down one side of it, like a razor-sharp feather of some steel bird’s wing; and he wore a peculiar sort of cap-and-half-mask that left his eyes uncovered but hid his nose and mouth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Sh’lok’s and bore down against that sweet touch. As he did, John felt the slick broad head press in, and in, and <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> say about such a thing. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> much they disliked me.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> skittish. But when you were stuck in a place like this, where equipment had been moved around and some drugs were missing or replaced by congeners (particularly cheap or inadequately tested ones) that Greg didn’t trust: <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> John was barely out of the doorframe before Sherlock was approaching and leaning past him to hand the cabbie his fare. When John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock flashed him a dark look that said he would do no such thing. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> of champagne and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter, before grabbing John by the arm and hauling him out of the hall and out the doors. With a quick call, the driver was pulling up to the kerb, but Sherlock didn't wait for him to open the door. Sherlock pushed John inside first and followed after, immediately reaching for the button to roll up the partition. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and he refused to meet Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. “You're not done yet.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> and Dimmock reeled backwards, his features contorting into an awful grimace as he went rigid with pain. Sh’lok followed him until he had Dimmock pinned against the wall, twitching and moaning against it. Just when John thought he couldn’t bear it any more, when he thought despite all his best intentions he was going to shout at Sh’lok to stop it, Sh’lok pulled back and deactivated the device. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> John was barely out of the doorframe before Sherlock was approaching and leaning past him to hand the cabbie his fare. When John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock flashed him a dark look that said he would do no such thing. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> But when you were stuck in a place like this, where equipment had been moved around and some drugs were missing or replaced by congeners (particularly cheap or inadequately tested ones) that Greg didn’t trust: <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> John was barely out of the doorframe before Sherlock was approaching and leaning past him to hand the cabbie his fare <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> Castiel rolled his eyes at Gabriel but didn’t comment. He touched the NovaWatch that was resting on his desk but decided against wearing it, settling on solely using Polaris instead. “I’m ready,” he announced. of the Vonnegut’s books he’d been looking at were left in the shelves. He pinches the bridge of his nose against the headache that he feels was approaching before straightening from his slouch and moving towards the “I’m tired of all this walkin’. Let’s go find the rides, Sammy,” he said with a wide grin as he brought his attention to the map from the brochure. Sam took advantage of his height to look over people’s heads then pointed to the booth. Crowley translates this whole piece to: “You, celestial being, have been created to be an angel of the Lord.” “If you don’t want to be in the Lady’s court, think you’d travel with me? I’m looking for another court after Winsol.” He’d been silent from the Biggerson’s, and to the two thermal-gas stations they refilled the feedwater in. “He gave me some funds and a place where I could learn Craft. Now I know it would have cost him. Where would a slave get money, you know?” Alfie shrugs as he finishes with the trough, fills it up, and heats it then switches to the feeding buckets. Finding the hotel’s notepad, Castiel penned a quick letter to Dean. He left the note at the side table before stealing a brief touch. He brushed the short brown locks away from the sleeping man’s face, his fingers curling into themselves when Dean moved. “I don’t need a fancy degree to tinker with machines,” Dean scoffed. Most of what Dean did was self-taught, as natural and instinctive as breathing. “I’m not gonna need to make those machines anyway because I left that behind. Why do you want me to learn stuff I ain’t gonna need?” Dean steeled, preparing himself for the cronfrontation. The road tapered off slowly and circled into a roundabout, its center island filled with electric blue lines covering a giant, gaping hole that dropped off into an abyss. They circled the Cage, noting the blaze of light in intervals on the Cage's diameter. Dean parked the Impala on the side of the road as Ash jumped out and went around the Cage. This is also the reason why I had absolutely the WORST time getting a pre-reader, because I don't know anybody in fandom? Heya!! you guys are my first ever fandom friends? Again thanks to the pre-readers that I did end up getting. You guys are the BESTEST. It took a few minutes, but he heard the creak of the front door. His shoulders tensed. Why did someone follow him out here? He needed to be By the time that Lucian decides that they’ve done enough shopping and should eat, they’ve spent more than a fortune and have the merchants send up the parcels to the eyrie. Dean couldn’t believe how good-looking this man was. It should be against the law to be this attractive. Dean does miss Castiel's sarcasm. They are alone in a house with no dividers;

<|output|> <|example|> Castiel rolled his eyes at Gabriel but didn’t comment. He touched the NovaWatch that was resting on his desk but decided against wearing it, settling on solely using Polaris instead. “I’m ready,” he announced. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He touched the NovaWatch that was resting on his desk but decided against wearing it, settling on solely using Polaris instead <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> It took a few minutes, but he heard the creak of the front door <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Sam took advantage of his height to look over people’s heads then pointed to the booth <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Dean couldn’t believe how good-looking this man was <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> They are alone in a house with no dividers; <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> it's obvious when they're visibly I cried so much in episode 300 guys, I'm happy I released the first chapter before that came out. Aww that was a lovely family reunion. “So, this is it. Your bus stop,” Dean stated the obvious while looking anywhere but at Castiel. “I got you in just in time for your 8:50 ride.” Now that they were returning, Dean realized that he was about to be stuck in a motel room with a sulky brother after an unresolved fight. Impulsively, he parked at a nearby coffee shop, Castiel walking behind him. Dean figured the Chevrolet would be safe where she was, doors locked. He would even be able to see her from the inside. “Jack releases what he takes immediately,” Castiel explains when he follows Dean’s gaze. With his other hand, he closes his fingers around Jack’s. “He can amplify a spell you’re Casting as well with the power that he’s leached. I suspect it’s why he’s an Opal.” Taking a deep breath Dean peeks around their shoes. Yes, the Darkness is still there. But there’s also darker webs and an insistent tug that draws Dean deeper. Walking with his dad for support, they navigate the abyss and descend slowly. Finally, Dean feels like the power is too full, and his ears would pop from the weight. Castiel opens the inner barriers of his mind to Jack and shows him how to open the space that all Blood could access with Craft. The depths of Jack’s mind create a shallow pocket, showing hints of how deep the nestling’s power well will manifest. Distantly, Castiel feels that Balthazar cast a Purple Dusk shield around the perimeter. It would prevent Jack from flying too far out but allowed him the illusion of freedom. He gives a startled yell as he tries to grasp for anything that he can clutch at, and a deadly calm washes over. In those few desperate moments, trying to reach for something to break his fall, Dean has accepted that he might die here, in his foolish quest. “Is Mikulmas even a word?” Dean had never heard of a Mikulmas, ever. Dean got a pointed return stare from Castiel, so he straightened and dropped back towards the couch beside the angel. “Mikulmas might explain the baking, but it doesn’t explain Black Beauty and Tornado over there.” Dean relents, letting his fingers drop. “You don’t need to decide now, we have tomorrow. Just think about it.” "Excuse me, I didn't mean to disturb," comes the familiar low voice of Cas from the entrance of the stable. The deep gruff voice of Emmanuel shouldn’t have affected Dean as much as it did. They were strangers, but Dean was partial to Emmanuel’s chiseled face and scruff. Benny would skin Dean alive if he tried any shenanigans, but Benny also knew Dean flirted with everyone. "Cas, meet my hunter buddy, Benny. We've been best buds since they released us from the schoolroom." “Thank you, Captain, but I do not want to not wish to detain you from your duties. I just wanted to experience the departure.” It was a plausible explanation. Balthazar And

<|output|> <|example|> it's obvious when they're visibly <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> I suspect it’s why he’s an Opal <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> that statement opened up another can of worms. He should have told Cas to stay away from hunts while he was alive. He didn't want to think where angels were sent when they died. They certainly didn't go to Purgatory, since in his entire year there, no angels were littering the floors and trying to get revenge on Castiel for their deaths. "Are you telling me that Cas is just, what, going to stop existing?" In less than a year, they’d sold two hundred units. Gabriel excitedly put Castiel to work for upgrades. He obliged with neural uplink technology, which took out the need for gestures to get the Polaris to respond. The rock that had lodged itself in Dean’s chest since his dad’s pronouncement started to grow heavier. It was oppressing and massive and it wouldn’t allow Dean a gasp of air.  “Don’t change the subject. Did you know I was engaged to you?” Sam relinquishes his hold on it as Dean fishes a Swiss knife from his pocket and opens the package with shining eyes. He rubs his hands together before retrieving four plastic guns, almost offensive in its bright orange and blue. The rest of the box is filled with bullets of blue foam-tipped with soft orange plastic. Castiel expected them to drive further, but they stopped at a motel. All became clear when Dean showed them the next attraction. Lucifer tapped his finger against his lip pondering the quandary before spreading his arms wide, in so doing, created a chaise for him to sit on while Michael had a utilitarian chair with a long table decked for food. “Carry on then, you know I’d hate to be the blight of a party.” "Well, he is an angel," Kevin said, eyes still on the screen, back braced against the couch and the armrest. "We could always just pray." “I’m Kevin Tran, Third Officer, with responsibility for safety.” Castiel hadn’t even noticed him come in. Kevin was dark-haired with narrow slanted eyes that looked too young to be wearing the formal white uniform designating his rank. He dropped booklets around the table, looking at the group expectantly. Cas even showed him a cross-section of an apple with its core forming a five-pointed star. Dean had never seen an apple halved that way before, so it was his first time seeing the configuration. Once while Castiel was looking at the pies, Dean heard him mumble something along the lines of: “Prosperity for the family. Mystery of Michael. Protection of the Trinity.” Dean closes his eyes, then shakes his head. He climbs off Castiel and lays down beside him. Dean took Castiel’s hand. “They should. You’re a person, Cas. No less than they are.” Castiel was being driven to work when the call arrived. The five-hour time difference between Stava and Palo Alto meant that Dean had done so at an ungodly hour. He’d wanted an immediate answer, not knowing that Castiel wasn’t in California anymore. Castiel stared at the NovaWatch blankly. He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the entire conversation. , where he was Chinese-Filipino. I went with that in this series.

<|output|> <|example|> that statement opened up another can of worms. He should have told Cas to stay away from hunts while he was alive. He didn't want to think where angels were sent when they died. They certainly didn't go to Purgatory, since in his entire year there, no angels were littering the floors and trying to get revenge on Castiel for their deaths. "Are you telling me that Cas is just, what, going to stop existing?" <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> , where he was Chinese-Filipino <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> And it’s true, one in every 5 seamen are Filipino. Once the guitars and the synthesizer replaced the sounds of the crickets, Dean turned to Cas. "This song was supposed to be in the movie Gabriel's words rang a chord in Castiel. The Winchesters had been brought back to life several times, but the core of the matter is: someone had brought them back. There had always been a deal, a third party involved when they were resurrected. that they could order him to marry? Hadn’t he already given his enough of his life to the family? He’d wanted to travel and see the world, and his mother asked him to stay and help expand the business. He’d stayed because he was a dutiful son. Dean smiled despite his split and bloodied lip, eyes trained on Metatron and Gadreel as well before he said casually, "Care to open the Gates now, Mister Caretaker?" “Of course, Dean.” He became quieter and then blew out his cheeks before dropping his forehead on Dean’s shoulder. “Please don’t take your anger out on me again,” he mumbled. There was a moment of stunned silence before Gabriel corrected, “‘Damn’ or ‘Fuck,’ Cassie. If you’re going to run away, at least have the proper fucking vocabulary to go with it.” There’s a brief flash of teeth, predatory and satisfied after the hunt. Castiel leans forward and rubs one smooth cheek against Dean’s stubble. "Okay, Dr. Badass, I just wanted a ballpark figure." Dean closed his eyes. He did not want to think of the math involved there. They were fucked, period. "So if a lot of these souls wanted more than this soap opera, I'd be spending more and more time driving and less and less time fishing?" "It's crazy up here, man. I'm grasping at straws," Dean said, frustration showing in the furrow of his eyebrow and the hard press of his lips. "No one knows how Heaven works. I don't even know how to go up to the Throne in Aravoth." Fairy Tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten. “Tonight the Eve of Winsol, it is that of the holly that wins. The oak licks his wounds before they meet again on the longest day.” Hannah punctuates her stories by walking around, the fire exaggerating her shadows. “And so the oak retires for the next six months until it is his time once more to serve.” After receiving their treats (Dean with more funnel cake, Manny with lemonade, and Sam with apple slices mixed in freshly ground honey roasted peanut butter), they wandered the buildings at a sedate pace. When Manny kept glancing at Dean’s food, Dean held the pastry out so he could take a piece. When Sam tried, he got his hand smacked away. Jack tips his head in thought. “Not for two decades at least. He said he spent that time on a rotation with the coven. He told me he was very thankful when I came because he finally stopped roaming.” The sun steadily climbed the horizon, bathing them in its

<|output|> <|example|> And it’s true, one in every 5 seamen are Filipino. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Dean smiled despite his split and bloodied lip, eyes trained on Metatron and Gadreel as well before he said casually, "Care to open the Gates now, Mister Caretaker?" “Of course, Dean <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> warmth while the rest of the mast lights were being switched off. The griffin lets out a small huff before it flaps its wings a few more times, finally able to clear some of the smoke. It produces a soft trill while Dean is still suffering on the floor. Impatient, the creature crouches, moving silently against the underbrush until it strikes its head behind a shrub. Once it straightens, it has a boy dangling by his upper shirt, hooked through its beak. Dean was up in his elbows with weapons deciding which ones he should bring. He didn't think he'd be needing them this time around when he hadn't needed it the first two times, but Lucifer had a way of getting under your skin, and the familiar cold steel was a comfort. Well, that made sense. Michael didn't seem the type to set Lucifer free, by mistake or by intent. That wasn't even taking into account if he Castiel reaches for his feathers by folding the wrist of his wings. He could only frown at the ones that are farther from his grasp. Castiel is reasonably sure that Michaela is saving his wings for Lucian, which causes him to shudder. If Michaela is harsh, Lucian is ruthless, and her brand of cruelty sinks into his very bones. They had spent the day glued to the bunker's sofa: watching TV in Gabriel's case and talking with Kevin in Castiel's. Kevin snorted as sounds of Katja stalks over to Dean. She picks the knife she'd been using for the vegetables brandishing it in front of her. Benny, finally free from the bindings due to Dean's spell, jumps on her back. It causes her to lose her grip on the weapon. Castiel trailed his finger over an Enochian Dictionary, missing the feel of paper. Movement on Bobby’s porch distracted him from investigating further, though. “Right, you bossy moose,” Dean mutters as he cuts the dough the size of gerbils and then stretches them out between the tops of his fingers, rotating the pizza as he goes. Michaela came to him nightly and played with him daily, partaking in pleasure but not allowing him release. "Why don't you read your prayers, man?" Ash asked in confusion as he counted through the lot. There were enough letters to fill a shoebox. And if that didn't make Dean feel like a girl, he didn't know what did. "I get mine by e-mail, but I don't think I get “Y’all can bring in yer clothes and have showers if ya’ want, but try not to use all my hot water. The thing don’t work right if it’s empty. Got two rooms upstairs for ya’. First doors, up the stairs. Take yer pick,” Bobby said while waving his fork in that direction before turning to Castiel. “Figure you can find a place to bed down.” going to class? He could pick up anything mechanical and take it apart only to put it back together, working twice as well as before he’d tinkered with it. He’s Dean’s eyes were drawn to the thousands of shipping containers. His ears picked up the phantom sound

<|output|> <|example|> warmth while the rest of the mast lights were being switched off. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He could only frown at the ones that are farther from his grasp <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Kevin snorted as sounds of Katja stalks over to Dean <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Dean was up in his elbows with weapons deciding which ones he should bring <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Got two rooms upstairs for ya’ <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> of the cranes whirring. Behind him, Sam was taking in the crates and the bustle of the port. That’ll wake him up from his dozing on the train. Sam curled his hands into fists and took a deep breath. “Well, maybe you should have come on your own then.” Sam stalked towards the door, while Dean called out for him, but he was too enraged, so he slammed it shut and left. The night was cloudless, and there was little to no steam to hamper the view. He wanted to pull out the astronomy book and match its pages with the evening sky. “Do you know what my mother said when I was younger and whacked a table with a wooden sword? ‘No, child! Never hit the antiques. If you really want to practice your sword fighting on something Castiel evaded one of Gadreel's lunges before turning to answer Dean's call, as he'd always tried to answer Dean in the past. Arm bleeding with grace through the gashes that Gadreel's blade had given him, Castiel took flight. A vein pulsed across Dean’s temple in time with the rapid beating of his heart. “You don’t understand,” he said through gritted teeth. “He’s Dean doesn't realize that he mouths the syllables along until he mutters, "ZAMRAN," and he promptly divests both himself and Castiel of their clothing. Dean steadies himself as a wave of fatigue hits him with the casting. “How did you even find me?” Castiel demanded as Luke folded him into a steam car with a tinted divider between the back and front. Luke had a driver waiting for them who’d snapped to attention once they’d arrived. Dean shakes his head and takes several to tuck under his plate before he reaches for a piece of Castiel’s creation and tastes it thoughtfully. “It ain’t half bad. I kinda expected the peanut butter and jelly to flop.” Castiel was sure he would drop dead of exhaustion afterward. The only saving grace was the galley plying them with food and Castiel’s surreptitious glances at Dean. "The stars have fallen." There were no angels in heaven. It sounded like the beginnings of a prophecy written in a stone tablet. And if it wasn't, then it damn well should be. "I guess you would be in a barren place without Heaven's soldiers." “They don’t.” Jack pushes his bowl, and Castiel leans over to see. It’s milk littered with few pieces of nuts and spots of dark brown where chocolate has melted. “I chopped up a Snickers, Baby Ruth, and 3 Musketeers then put it in milk.” The scent of freshly ground beans kick-started his day, and he headed back towards their cabin. He quietly entered the room and put the coffee on the end table beside the bunk. "Holly." She smiled in remembrance, and although there was pain there, there was also an amazing capacity for strength. "I wasn't able to hold her in my arms. I—" “Your father has it in his head that you’ll get purpose once you marry.” Dean scoffed while Mary patted the back of his fingers. “It doesn’t hurt that the merger will send a

<|output|> <|example|> of the cranes whirring. Behind him, Sam was taking in the crates and the bustle of the port. That’ll wake him up from his dozing on the train. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “It ain’t half bad <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “How did you even find me?” Castiel demanded as Luke folded him into a steam car with a tinted divider between the back and front <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “It doesn’t hurt that the merger will send a <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> good number of contracts our way.” Gabriel took a deep breath and closed his eyes, acknowledging the evasion but giving Castiel his space. “Balthazar has been calling and calling, and I took the first airship out that I could manage.” There was accusation in the tone, but before he could go on a tirade, Gabriel deposited a box before Castiel. Going tree climbing was not exactly as easy as Gabriel made it sound. Not only did they need to find a tree that was similar enough to the Tree of Life, but they also needed to connect the earthbound to Heaven. It was something that required both an intricate hand for casting the spell and massive amounts of power to do. After Kevin and Dean had successfully cast the angel out of Sam with the sigil Kevin had found for them, Castiel and Gadreel had faced each other a couple more times. Because Gadreel had known the Men of Letter's headquarters, it had forced Castiel—while he had been graceless—to reinforce the bunker against angels. Dean’s dad collapses near the doorway, while Dean huddles behind the cabinet, motioning for Sam to stay silent when Sam starts a protest. Dean listens in on them because he knows they’d never tell a child like him whatever is happening. It was elegantly done in black, with six glittering points in silver. Ursa Minor in all its glory against an empty sky. Underneath the lid, a vial nestled between cardboard foldouts. It contained two translucent lenses. The box included sterilizing fluid, a small cog-and-wheel lift to retrieve the lenses from the bottle easily, and manuals. He turned towards the gruff sound, a vividly remembered voice, and gaped in horror. Castiel was kneeling in the middle of the hallway, the space he occupied drenched with the bright red of his blood. It was jarring in the fact that it was the only color that shone vividly. He sat on the bench alone; Kevin was respectfully waiting inside the car. Castiel watched mothers dust their children off, brushing away the soil they'd picked up after a day of playing, and packing their things for home. He watched silently, composing his thoughts, before bowing his head. It reminded Castiel when he ran into Dean and Sam at the forecastle of NISC Twelve and later with Dean alone at the sunrise. There was a twinge of guilt when he hadn’t disclosed his real name to them. The brothers invited him to their car and their company, but he just couldn’t risk Michael finding him prematurely. He didn’t even want to examine the emotion he felt when Dean had openly flirted with the receptionist at the motel. When he arrived, Dean stopped in the doorway, took a couple slow breaths, and wiped away the beads of sweat forming at his brow. Being fat in August sucked, and the garage didn’t have the best AC. He was always sweaty, and moving didn’t exactly help. “Anyone wanna split some pizzas?” As if he’d read Cas’s mind, Dean said, “We’ll just have to get this tight too, right?” with a wink, and Cas couldn’t agree

<|output|> <|example|> good number of contracts our way.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> When he arrived, Dean stopped in the doorway, took a couple slow breaths, and wiped away the beads of sweat forming at his brow. Being fat in August sucked, and the garage didn’t have the best AC. He was always sweaty, and moving didn’t exactly help. “Anyone wanna split some pizzas?” <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Anyone wanna split some pizzas?” As if he’d read Cas’s mind, Dean said, “We’ll just have to get this tight too, right?” with a wink, and Cas couldn’t agree <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> more. A month or so after the button-popping incident, Dean called Cas into his (their) room before they left to go on a hunt. It was their first complex hunt in a while, one that would require FBI badges, fake 'official' phone calls, the whole nine yards; the past few months had mostly been straightforward salt-and-burns. And when Cas opened the door and saw Dean, he realized his mistake. The chair creaked as Dean leaned back, the old, cheap furniture not used to bearing such a heavy load. Dean was red in the face, sweaty, and panting shallow breaths. Cas would almost say he looked like he'd been to the gym, except for the fact that he'd never known Dean to go to the gym in all the years they'd known each other. “Lower,” Dean said around a mouthful. “Left. Mm, yeah.” Another sandwich down the hatch, and he sighed, eyes closed. “Pass me the apple?” “Yeah, they were-” Head spinning, Dean turned around and faced Castiel, and their eyes locked. “Wait. Rolling his eyes, Cas did the same to the brownie, plopping it down on Dean's shelf of a stomach. "Any day now," Cas said when Dean didn't make a move for the food. In any case, Dean had come to terms with his muffin top long ago. He didn’t have a problem sporting a little extra padding, and he got to eat whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, so it was a fair trade, really. Basically, it was exactly the opposite of what Dean had expected. His big, flabby gut and double chin and chubby face and graying hair raked in more dough than he’d ever gotten before at a bartending gig. All because, for some goddamn reason, an unreasonably large amount of young gay men had the hots for his fat ass. "You gonna eye the merchandise all day, or are you gonna eat those?" Dean asked with a smirk. "Cause if you're not-" “They fit me just fine,” Dean said, just to be contrary, and his jeans button took the opportunity to pop off and hit Sam in the leg. Dean felt his cheeks heat up as Sam laughed, but at least his stomach felt better. “Fuck off, Samantha.” Sam, more compliant now that Dean was actually done with his meal, rubbed a bit of his belly halfheartedly. "Buddah's got nothing on you," he joked weakly. "Jesus, Dean, you really made a pig out of yourself." “So full,” he whispered as he gently rubbed, and Dean whimpered quietly. “No wonder you’ve got this big old belly, eating like this.” Mother's voice whispered). "Look at me. I'm not exactly svelte, but is there anything particularly satanic about me?" He slapped his stomach for emphasis, and Cas gulped. "What would you two gentlemen like to eat this evening?" the waiter asked. He said gentlemen, but he was only looking at Dean. Well, Dean's lips, but Dean understood. He had a great set of lips. Cas only wore his uniform pants anymore, as they were the only ones Dean had modified, and all the pants he'd brought with him refused to button over or under

<|output|> <|example|> more. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> His big, flabby gut and double chin and chubby face and graying hair raked in more dough than he’d ever gotten before at a bartending gig <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "Look at me <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> " “So full,” he whispered as he gently rubbed, and Dean whimpered quietly <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “Pass me the apple?” “Yeah, they were-” Head spinning, Dean turned around and faced Castiel, and their eyes locked <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> It was their first complex hunt in a while, one that would require FBI badges, fake 'official' phone calls, the whole nine yards; the past few months had mostly been straightforward salt-and-burns <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> "Jesus, Dean, you really made a pig out of yourself <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> Dean felt his cheeks heat up as Sam laughed, but at least his stomach felt better <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> his belly. And a belly it was; Cas's love of sweets showed in his soft love handles, curvy hips, and ever-expanding gut. He could feel his torso jiggle with every move he made, his flabby belly straining desperately at his shirt buttons and hanging over his mutilated belt, patches of pale skin visible between the buttons after a large meal. His belly had continued to grow in soft and supple, and Cas often found himself squeezing a roll on his stomach or side, amazed (and embarrassed) at how big he'd gotten in just ten weeks. And terrified of how his family would react when he went home for Thanksgiving break. But he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. Dean complied, grunting when his belly got in the way. There wasn't much room sitting sideways on the seat like this, and as a result Dean's gut sat high in his lap, his legs not having enough room to spread and give his stomach more space. been at the restaurant for over two hours. The only reason he wasn't bored was because he had been constantly eating. I’ve gotten requests for more fat!Dean in the past, and there was also an anon from... almost a year ago now (whoops) who gave the prompt which inspired this particular fic: Near the end of his fourth lap, Cas just couldn't take it anymore and slowed to a walk. He clutched at his belly and panted like a dog, his overtaxed body groaning in pain, the stitches in his sides almost unbearable. Some time later, Dean was roused by a large hand on his stomach, and he hummed when it started to rub in wide circles. Castiel got through them much more easily, his belly actually helping him, as it kept him from sitting up too far and sped up the process. It was still tiring, though, and Cas lay prone on the ground afterwards, looking up at the ceiling and wheezing. Suddenly, his view was blocked by a scowling Coach Walker. Dean finished off the rest of his feast and eyed the deep-fried oreo stand. “Round two?” he asked, sounding hopeful. He sucked at his depleted smoothie and turned sad eyes to Cas, one hand resting on his belly. “We’re still hungry, alpha.” Thought I'd add an index to make this fic easier to navigate, especially when it starts to get bigger. Now to get comfortable. After weighing the pros and cons of struggling to unclasp his bra himself, Dean shrugged and stepped into the hot tub still partially clothed. If the water stretched stuff out it was really just doing him a favor. knew! I mean, you weren't very discreet. You left the tags on," Dean said, frown slowly morphing into a grin. "You mean you thought you were being sneaky?" Sam burst between them and into the house, yelling something about them taking too long, and Dean chuckled and pushed Cas inside ahead of him. He was immediately pulled into Mrs. Winchester's plush frame for a hug, and although Castiel had never met the woman in his life, he hugged back. It just

<|output|> <|example|> his belly. And a belly it was; Cas's love of sweets showed in his soft love handles, curvy hips, and ever-expanding gut. He could feel his torso jiggle with every move he made, his flabby belly straining desperately at his shirt buttons and hanging over his mutilated belt, patches of pale skin visible between the buttons after a large meal. His belly had continued to grow in soft and supple, and Cas often found himself squeezing a roll on his stomach or side, amazed (and embarrassed) at how big he'd gotten in just ten weeks. And terrified of how his family would react when he went home for Thanksgiving break. But he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He clutched at his belly and panted like a dog, his overtaxed body groaning in pain, the stitches in his sides almost unbearable <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> His belly had continued to grow in soft and supple, and Cas often found himself squeezing a roll on his stomach or side, amazed (and embarrassed) at how big he'd gotten in just ten weeks <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> felt right. And if he secretly compared their hips during the hug - hers were just a little wider than his own - nobody needed to know that. Mr. Winchester gave him a firm handshake next, and Cas felt a twinge of jealously as he tried not to eye the man's large, round belly. Somewhere along the line, Cas's love for junk food had turned into a love-hate relationship with his own growing body, and Castiel always felt a weird rush of satisfaction whenever he was the largest person in the room. It was, however, an amazing way to progress his relationship with the cute southern cashier. Due to his increased presence, he slowly learned that the man's name was Benny, that he was from Louisiana... and that he was also the baker. It was the first day of baseball tryouts, and while Cas didn’t strictly need to be there - he was already a senior captain, he didn’t exactly need to secure a spot on the team - he and his co-captain, Michael, had come to show their support. They were helping the coach set up drills before the other boys arrived, and as such, Castiel was just walking back from the outfield when he slipped on a stray bat and ate dirt. It was probably their dietary differences, Cas reasoned. While Dean leaned towards hearty food and the occasional slice of pie, Cas' day was filled with sugar, fat, sugar, and more sugar. Castiel probably consumed between half and an entire cake over the course of his average day, plus whole milk to wash it down, plus whatever else the cafeteria was offering. Plus the M&Ms he'd taken to keeping in their room. Ever since Dean had introduced him to the world of sweets, Cas couldn't get enough. Dean ended up making way too much, as he'd just used the first recipe he found without looking at how many it made, and he definitely had enough meat for five sandwiches. Shit. But Dean Winchester wasn't a quitter, and he didn't feel like packing away the leftovers, so he shoveled down five sloppy joes while leaning over the kitchen counter, sauce dripping down his wrist. He was full to bursting and panting like a dog by the end, but he finished it all. "You've been replacing the rest of my shit," Dean said. "I'd assumed you'd replaced my suits, too. Goddammit, now we'll be late because I need to go to fuckin' "Shit," Dean muttered, sitting down on the bed heavily, his belly pooched out onto his lap. When he spoke next, his voice carried a hint of a whine. "Cas, I don't I really did go overboard on this prompt - this final part is the longest one yet! Hope you liked it! There's not enough chubby!Cas in the world :) “Hello, darling,” Cain said, and Dean opened sleepy eyes and yawned. “You were quite the distraction at work today.” His breath came in harsh pants and he could practically feel Cas’s eyes glued to him, and he subconsciously tried to regulate his breathing. Stupid crush. It was almost

<|output|> <|example|> felt right. And if he secretly compared their hips during the hug - hers were just a little wider than his own - nobody needed to know that. Mr. Winchester gave him a firm handshake next, and Cas felt a twinge of jealously as he tried not to eye the man's large, round belly. Somewhere along the line, Cas's love for junk food had turned into a love-hate relationship with his own growing body, and Castiel always felt a weird rush of satisfaction whenever he was the largest person in the room. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” His breath came in harsh pants and he could practically feel Cas’s eyes glued to him, and he subconsciously tried to regulate his breathing <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> soothing to Dean that it was one-sided, made it a little less unbearable when another stupendous belch escaped his mouth without permission. God, "Work truck. Seat goes back farther than Baby's," he grunted as he patted he car's dashboard affectionately. "Haven't driven her in a month or so." #2: Fair warning, it gets pretty smutty towards the end, which is kinda rare for me lately. Hopefully y’all don’t mind ;) Cain smiled indulgently, already reaching for the next one even though Dean was still chewing the first. “Of course. I brought out about three dozen, although there are another couple dozen in the fridge for later. If you want them, that is.” Dean used both his hands to rub his stuffed gut down. He could feel the hard ball of his stomach underneath the many layers of his fat, and he smiled a little, because even when he was full to bursting, his stomach wasn't completely hard. It was too big and soft and had too many rolls for that to ever happen. "Lay back," Cas commanded, and Dean did so without a second thought. He scooted back against the cool leather seat and laid down, palming at his dick and pushing his belly out of the way with his other hand. But his hands fell when Cas leaned down and put both of his hands on Dean's big gut, squeezing his fingers around the fat, and they both moaned. I’ve had this in my drafts for a while. It’s not based on a prompt, but who doesn’t love chubby!Dean in a baseball jersey?? And I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist the title pun. Dean pressed himself along Cas's back and Cas felt his panties get a little tighter at the sight, because his body dwarfed Dean's, his fat frame completely obscuring Dean's in their reflection. Dean reached around and trailed his fingers across Cas's swollen belly. Cas shivered. Cas engulfed the poor chair he was sitting in, and each shift of his weight made it creak and groan loudly. His wide hips hung over the edges and his fat belly spilled into (and past) his lap, and Cas often used the top of his gut as an armrest, table, or shelf. The food carton was resting on it now but Cas found that his arm was nonetheless tiring from the repetitive motion of hand to mouth. A moment of silence followed, broken only by the sound of silverware on cheap ceramic. When he finally got the point, Dean's eyes widened. He dropped his hands to his belly and held it gingerly, groaning as if he was just now realizing how much he'd eaten. "Oh, fuck." Dean stood by the bed in a pair of what seemed to be painfully-tight boxer briefs and a pair of cheap black slacks stuck around mid-thigh. He was scrunching his face up as he yanked at the pants harshly, belly (and pecs, and arms, and sides) jiggling at the quick motions of his hands. The pants remained stubbornly around his thick thighs, refusing to be pulled up an inch, and Cas sucked in a quick breath

<|output|> <|example|> soothing to Dean that it was one-sided, made it a little less unbearable when another stupendous belch escaped his mouth without permission. God, <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> "Oh, fuck <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> I brought out about three dozen, although there are another couple dozen in the fridge for later <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> " #2: Fair warning, it gets pretty smutty towards the end, which is kinda rare for me lately <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> at the display. Dean looked up at the noise and scowled at Cas. The night of Dean's birthday, Cas stood nervously in front of their mirror as he waited for Dean to come back from the gym. He'd been so confident when buying these, but studying himself in the mirror, he felt a little unsure. “An exception to the rule,” Cain said, and Dean laughed and tilted his head back as he chugged the sparkling wine in one go. It bubbled and popped on its way down, and Dean made a face, shifted his weight a bit, pressed a palm to the side of his gut, and let out a resounding belch. When the Righteous Man chooses reincarnation over an eternity in Heaven, Castiel is lost. He begins searching for the soul he knew in an Earth that has been vastly changed by the times. Being Dean’s nursemaid in the sick room is easy. While the Healers puzzle over Dean’s condition, Castiel mops Dean’s sweat and cleans his body, Hannah passes by to cheer him up. to do it, but what was Castiel supposed to do with that knowledge? Tell Dean that Castiel was the fianceé he’d left? is, whatever mistakes I make, it is not because of a misguided sense of loss I have of the Righteous Man, but because I am not infallible and I make mistakes Charis stepped out of the small circle after him, took a lungful of air in the third heaven, and smiled. She looked around in fascination at her surroundings, giving Dean the idea that she'd never been dropped in the mortal's afterlife before. That was kind of sad because though the angels had a lot of wonders in their respective heavens, there was certainly something different about mortals' memories. But Dean couldn’t pay attention to the words when Castiel’s lips were so close, and his breath caressed Dean’s cheek on every exhale. She hummed noncommittally, looking at Dean and finding that maybe she wasn't alone in this after all. "How did you die?" The cloak was made of a deep red velvet to ward off the cold, with golden embroidery on its inner lining. Whoever made it heaped all the runes of protection that could be afforded a piece of cloth on it. Dean supposed grandpa Henry could have used it when he had been out adventuring during his time in the Men of Letters. Charlie gave him a tour of the engine room, including another opportunity to admire Dean at work. Castiel didn’t bother to disturb him. Ghosts still existed inside the towers because despite the salt circles, ghosts are attached to places where they died or organic material that family members have kept. These are difficult to contain even with the knowledge of the supernatural, and people have died inside the towers, making it easy for ghosts to inhabit. , but what could he offer? That he worked at the Bevell’s factory for a few dollars and at the Roadhouse at night for room and food? That he saved up all he could for Sam’s tuition, and he feared that it still wouldn’t be enough?

<|output|> <|example|> at the display. Dean looked up at the noise and scowled at Cas. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> When the Righteous Man chooses reincarnation over an eternity in Heaven, Castiel is lost. He begins searching for the soul he knew in an Earth that has been vastly changed by the times. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> "How did you die?" The cloak was made of a deep red velvet to ward off the cold, with golden embroidery on its inner lining <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> "How did you die?" The cloak was made of a deep red velvet to ward off the cold, with golden embroidery on its inner lining <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> That with Mary’s money and even Cas’ contribution, he didn’t know if they’d survive the year? "When my Father made Heaven, He built it as one sphere. Aravoth, named the highest, was just where He placed His Throne." Castiel threw a rock at the middle of the lake. Dean gave him a glare, and Castiel belatedly realized he'd probably scared the fish away. "When Lucifer Fell, He had to break Heaven apart, so that He could contain the Morning Star in his Cage. To be strong, the Cage must be Sam dragged his feet across the rickety boards, being a bit petulant about the entire move, but Dean helped him to get settled. Tomorrow was Christmas morning, but Sammy wasn’t used to celebrating the season and Dean himself barely remembered Christmas cookies and baked apple pies. Michael was up on a grandiose stage. “Good Evening, everyone! Thank you for coming. I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves.” It had taken Castiel the better part of the entire day, getting the interview with the COC and talking to the various medical personnel, but one thing was irrefutable: there was indeed a high perinatal mortality rate in the wards. It was an unprecedented mortality rate, higher than even the times when there had been no antibiotics, no hospitals, and midwives had no concept washing hands before delivery. “Shit,” Dean gasped, his eyes sliding closed. He pawed at the back of Cain’s head until he got the message and trailed his lips lower down Dean’s body, only stopping when he was tonguing at Dean’s tits through the wet, sheer fabric of his bra. Cain lightly bit down and a high-pitched whine escaped his mouth, but he was too far gone to care. He hadn’t allowed himself to eat what he wanted since he was twenty, and now that the floodgates were open, it was pretty hard to force them shut again. Dean had rediscovered a love of pie and burgers, a love of being full, a love of feeling warm and lazy and content after a big meal. What he had not discovered was a love of the resultant weight added to his body. Cas handed over the pizza without prompting. “This is ridiculously filling,” he said. “I feel like I’ve eaten four slices instead of two. Maybe you can help me out, it’ll take me forever to get through the leftovers. I don’t think I have any room left in my fridge.” With one piece of pie left, Dean moaned like a porn star as his left hand trailed down to massage his mountainous belly. It had progressed across the table during the course of his feast and was now encroaching into Sam's space. Sam, disgruntled, tried to ignore it as he played some game on his phone. Dean wasn't mad at Sam for ignoring him, as they "Just give 'em here, sweetheart. I'll double fist 'em," Dean said with a laugh. The waiter flushed again - and again, how goddamn Dean kissed back without hesitation. Cas snuck his hands around Dean’s waist, and when Dean grabbed Cas’s butt, the coach blew his whistle and yelled

<|output|> <|example|> That with Mary’s money and even Cas’ contribution, he didn’t know if they’d survive the year? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Shit,” Dean gasped, his eyes sliding closed. He pawed at the back of Cain’s head until he got the message and trailed his lips lower down Dean’s body, only stopping when he was tonguing at Dean’s tits through the wet, sheer fabric of his bra. Cain lightly bit down and a high-pitched whine escaped his mouth, but he was too far gone to care. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> It had progressed across the table during the course of his feast and was now encroaching into Sam's space <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Sam, disgruntled, tried to ignore it as he played some game on his phone <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> something about keeping it PG. They broke apart and ignored their teammates’ mutterings of ‘finally’ and ‘about time,’ giggling together as they strolled off the field, arms tucked around each other, triumphant. Dean shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his gut absentmindedly, unsure of how to solve this problem. The table was bolted down, so there was no moving it. There wasn't a lot of space between the booth and the table, so there was no way he could squeeze in there. And he wasn't gonna chicken out and ask to be seated at a table with chairs, either. He was a Winchester, and Winchesters didn't back down. "Mine's Dean," he said, even though he'd never given a customer his name in the month he'd worked at Purgatory. "So, Cas. You don't drink a blowjob shot using your hands." "I-I could let those out, uh, if you want," Dean stammered, avoiding eye contact. "Done it a lot for me and my family." Eventually the hunt for a new uniform began in earnest, because there weren’t exactly a lot of Dean’s size lying around. Dean sat there wallowing in self pity for a few minutes longer, rolling the red gatorade he’d bought between his hands until it no longer felt cold. Then he twisted the cap off and chugged it just to have something to do besides think, and he noted that yeah, red was still the best, but the drink reminded him that he was hungrier than he’d been in a while. Including the past week, during which he’d been starving himself. Okay, he’d supposedly been He led Cas to the mirror with a dazed expression on his face, and Cas couldn't help but feel a rush of satisfaction. Dean and Cas fell into a routine over the course of the next couple weeks. They'd wake up, get breakfast with Dean's brother, go to class, get lunch with Charlie and Dean's other friends, finish their classes, and then go to their various after school activities. Cas had joined the book club, much to Sam's - Dean's brother's - delight, while Dean was captain of the robotics team. But while classes were educational and book club fun, Cas's favorite part of his routine was getting dinner. With Dean. Everyone on the team was still beyond ecstatic, Cas included, so it wasn’t entirely his fault when he ran up to the pitcher’s mound and planted a big kiss right on Dean’s lips. Sam crunched on his salad, trying not to look at Dean as they talked about various subjects, apparently embarrassed by his public gluttony. Dean didn't hold it against him, though; he knew Sam loved him, and so what if he thought Dean was being a pig? He was right, after all, Dean thought as he tore into a steak. In what seemed like no time at all, Dean had plowed though five more ice cream bars. He carefully arranged the empty box and wrappers on the counter for a picture, but no, that wasn’t good enough. He needed more to send. As much as he wanted to, Dean at least had enough social

<|output|> <|example|> something about keeping it PG. They broke apart and ignored their teammates’ mutterings of ‘finally’ and ‘about time,’ giggling together as they strolled off the field, arms tucked around each other, triumphant. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> But while classes were educational and book club fun, Cas's favorite part of his routine was getting dinner <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> With Dean <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> In what seemed like no time at all, Dean had plowed though five more ice cream bars <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Then he twisted the cap off and chugged it just to have something to do besides think, and he noted that yeah, red was still the best, but the drink reminded him that he was hungrier than he’d been in a while <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> There wasn't a lot of space between the booth and the table, so there was no way he could squeeze in there <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> He needed more to send <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> graces to not jerk off in a restaurant. He reluctantly left his straining cock alone as he returned his attentions to his belly. It needed some soothing, and he knew just the thing. “Take your time,” Cain said, putting the strawberry back on its plate. “Let me help you feel better.” When Dean deposited Cas on his bed, Cas refused to let go of him. "Wanna snuggle," he slurred, nuzzling against Dean's stomach where it pushed over his waistband. His eyes caught sight of the half-finished bag of candy still in Dean's grasp, and he added, "Wanna The creature makes a slight huff followed by a chirp; then it butts its head against Dean's uninjured shoulder which earns Dean's smile. Dean forgot about the tape, because of the apocalypse. Lucifer fell back into the cage, taking Sam along with him. Castiel left for Heaven, and Dean stopped recording songs. Unfortunately, after their encounter in the forest, their 'wolf' has gone to ground. And they have not spotted her since. As Dean's days dwindle into weeks with no sign of their adversary, the hunter gets upset at the smallest things. The only thing that can calm him is his time with his horse. "Cas, you're not a soul here, and you're not an angel either," Gabriel warned. "Heaven will treat you different from what you're used to. She might treat you as other. You will not be able to create as freely as other souls who truly belong in Shehaqim, you will travel as mortals travel. You might be constrained by Heaven's boundaries." Balthazar’s wings flutter in time with his fingers, waving Castiel’s concerns away. “What’s life without a little bit of risk?” Castiel was already sitting down on one of the couches by the time Dean had closed the lake house door forcefully. Dean stalked to Cas folded his arms in front of him and narrowed his eyes. “Okay, I was patient the entire day today with you being sketchy and shifty with destroying my kitchen—“ Cas's gut surged out in front of him, hanging over his belt and bouncing with every movement he made. It had started to sag, the doughy fat easily succumbing to gravity, and Cas had to tuck his shirt in if he didn't want his lower belly roll to peek out of the bottom. His gut was really more like three rolls stacked atop each other, the biggest and softest on the bottom, filling out and straining at all his shirts and almost liquid-like in its shaking softness. Then came the next roll, his upper belly, the difference marked by a deep crease a few inches above his belly button, and then the small roll atop which his newly-formed breasts sat. Everything was covered in deep, angry stretch marks. It was a marked difference from Dean, whose solid, smooth gut perched primly over his waistband. Cas loved Dean and Dean's body, but he still had mixed feelings about his own. "I know," Dean said smugly, producing a half gallon of whole milk from behind his back. Castiel took it with greedy hands and chugged a third of

<|output|> <|example|> graces to not jerk off in a restaurant. He reluctantly left his straining cock alone as he returned his attentions to his belly. It needed some soothing, and he knew just the thing. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> The creature makes a slight huff followed by a chirp; then it butts its head against Dean's uninjured shoulder which earns Dean's smile. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> "Wanna snuggle," he slurred, nuzzling against Dean's stomach where it pushed over his waistband <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Everything was covered in deep, angry stretch marks <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “What’s life without a little bit of risk?” Castiel was already sitting down on one of the couches by the time Dean had closed the lake house door forcefully <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> "Cas, you're not a soul here, and you're not an angel either," Gabriel warned <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Castiel took it with greedy hands and chugged a third of <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Unfortunately, after their encounter in the forest, their 'wolf' has gone to ground <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> it, belching loudly. "What can I say? I like to keep my boy happy." I have one more fic I’ve almost finished and one I just started, but I love new ideas!! Leave me a couple in the comments if you want! "I'm straight," Dean said without thinking. That was his usual reply to the more polite kids, his way of letting them down easy, even though Dean's bisexual ass was about as straight as a corkscrew. Even when he was this full, Cas’s belly was pliant and liquid-like, wobbling atop his lap with every little movement. Dean’s eyes locked onto Cas’s naked gut automatically and he licked his lips, shifted forward in his chair until he was close enough to touch. Cas couldn’t help but notice how Dean needed to spread his legs, let his plump belly slot between them, to do so. After giving them Cas’ order as well, Dean hung up and lumbered towards the couch, readying himself for the unbearable wait. His unofficial spot was the battered love seat, the cushions sunken in from years of supporting his hefty weight, and Dean sighed wearily when he sat down, took the strain off his back and knees. He spread his thighs and his gut filled the space. These days, keeping his belly high up in his lap left Dean with cramps and overtaxed lungs, so Dean tended to sprawl across his seat to make himself more comfortable. It wasn’t like anyone had a chance of squeezing on the couch with him anyway, so Dean didn’t feel bad about taking up more space than strictly necessary. This was the question buzzing in Cas‘s mind one weekend as he studied his own shirtless form in the mirror. He wasn't fat yet, not really, but he certainly couldn't be called skinny anymore. His torso was lined with a layer of soft, doughy fat, and even though it couldn't be more than twenty-five or thirty pounds, Cas's small belly and curvy sides jiggled much more than he would have expected. Dean's belly was bigger than Cas's own, but he didn't jiggle nearly as much. Not that Cas paid a lot of attention to Dean's belly or anything. He finally dragged himself out of bed a little before ten thirty and marched out into the kitchen with his pajama bottoms slung under his middle and the matching shirt unbuttoned. Dean scarfed down two energy bars, ignored his growling stomach, and went through the rest of his morning routine (minus the shower, he’d have to do that after he worked out anyway) with a heavy lump of anxiety sitting in his chest. Just before eleven, he stood with his hands on his hips in front of his closet, trying to remember where his gym shorts were. Assuming he hadn’t thrown them out. God, when was the last time he’d worn gym shorts? “Kind of.” Sam sat up straight, and while a part of Dean missed the kisses, a bigger part of him was glad that Sam’s attention had been diverted. It had become a little too much. Though he still kept his

<|output|> <|example|> it, belching loudly. "What can I say? I like to keep my boy happy." <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Sam sat up straight, and while a part of Dean missed the kisses, a bigger part of him was glad that Sam’s attention had been diverted <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Just before eleven, he stood with his hands on his hips in front of his closet, trying to remember where his gym shorts were <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> This was the question buzzing in Cas‘s mind one weekend as he studied his own shirtless form in the mirror <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> hands on Dean’s stomach, and that was okay. “I like bellies. They make great pillows, not to mention that they’re super sexy.” Tugging Dean's sweat-soaked tank top over his head when the locker room door closed behind him, Cas blocked out the quiet snickers when his pale, flabby belly spilled out in front of him. His eyes were suspiciously wet as he hurried into an empty shower stall, his parents' voices spinning around his head for the first time in a long time. with the added weight. Not that Dean wasn't beautiful without it, but something about the new softness and curviness to his features hit Cas in just the right spot. By the time break rolled around, Castiel genuinely could not button his uniform shirts any more. No matter how hard he tugged and sucked in, the sides refused to close, and he arrived at Dean's house in one of Dean's stretched-out workout shirts that refused to stay down over his belly. Turned out he hadn't needed to worry about Christmas at all, as his parents were doing some pilgrimage in Jerusalem all break. While Cas was slightly saddened - he hadn't seen his family since they'd dropped him off at school, after all - it was overshadowed by a huge wave of relief. He knew he'd have to face Mother and Father some time, but he was happy putting it off for as long as possible. Eh, it happened. Not like he couldn’t lose the weight, Dean told himself. And he could pick up some new jeans after the hunt. When Dean shrugged on a flannel and had trouble buttoning it, he added shirts to his mental list. bad. Very bad. It was over twice what he’d estimated. God, Dean needed to do something about this before he ended up a five hundred pound fatass. But he couldn’t go back on a diet, not after such a wonderful taste of freedom... though he could probably stand to get a gym membership. And maybe he could start eating a normal amount of food. In the meantime, however, he needed a temporary fix to the problem, because Dean couldn’t exactly wear his puffy jacket everywhere. Sam swore he heard a faint popping noise as Dean was yanked from the driver's seat, his belly jiggling like it was made of jello. There were red marks in the shape of a steering wheel on Dean's gut. Sam pulled Dean's shirt down as quickly as he could, but it was very tight and still didn't cover his brother's entire stomach. A bit of his underbelly popped out below the shirt and it actually looked like Dean wasn't wearing a shirt at "Oh, dude, you didn't even have to ask," Dean said, mouth already watering. He took the plate and placed it on his belly, the way he'd been eating for a while now, as the table was much too far away. Dean took a bite of the dark, crumble-topped pie, not even bothering to ask what it was, 'cause he knew anything Benny baked would be delicious. Dean’s eyes lit up and he

<|output|> <|example|> hands on Dean’s stomach, and that was okay. “I like bellies. They make great pillows, not to mention that they’re super sexy.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> In the meantime, however, he needed a temporary fix to the problem, because Dean couldn’t exactly wear his puffy jacket everywhere <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> quickly moved his chair around to Cas’s side of the table. “Of course,” he said, already reaching for the carton. Though it took him a while - twenty-seven minutes, but it wasn't like Cas was counting - Dean managed almost all of the food on his own. Well, Cas kept up the belly rubs on and off, so not Taking a huge chance, Dean grabbed Sam by the wrist and placed his hand on the side of his stomach. Sam’s ran his thumb across a stretch mark without hesitation. While he was glad they had a promising pitcher, Cas was mostly excited because he’d be able to see Dean for the rest of the season. And, since Cas was the second baseman, he’d also get to see Dean from the “Boring,” Dean said as he slid into a chair, masterfully hiding a wince. He forced memories of the cheesecake incident down. “Your parents here yet?” “Baby wants funnel cake,” Dean agreed, and while Castiel knew it wasn’t good for him, he couldn’t say no to his beautiful mate. He’d grab something healthier to balance it out. And that's how the night ended, with Dean on his hands and knees on Benny's bed, his belly hanging low as Benny plowed into him from behind. A perfect ending to a perfect date, as far as Dean was concerned, and when they set up another date while laying in Benny's bed, he knew his baker felt the same. “Sideways, baby,” Dean murmured, and Cas huffed out a breath. He knew the drill by now; he hadn’t been able to fit through single doors straight on for about a year now. Cas turned to the side and slowly shimmied to the right, one hand on the door frame, one in Dean’s, and he had to suck in a bit to get the fattest part of his belly through the small space. Dean looped an arm back around him once he was through, and Cas was relieved to see that the scale was only a few paces to their left. He needed a rest. Hauling himself around was extremely difficult, and the fifteen or so steps he’d taken so far were pushing it; usually, he’d have taken a break already. When he'd gotten the job, Dean had been completely befuddled. They'd hired an older guy to work at a club for college kids, which, okay, but a fat older guy? One who had to squeeze his flabby ass into leather pants and a too-small vest every night? And who would probably A, pull in shit tips and B, look completely ridiculous while doing so? Dean knew he wasn't exactly ugly, but still. "Sorry," Cas muttered, hands busy desperately trying to keep his shirt from bunching up over the lower curve of his stomach and exposing his predicament to the world. "My pants broke." Though he really just wanted to know, Cas sighed in resignation. “Five eighty?” he guessed. It had to be a big number to get a reaction like that out of Dean, and maybe it was a bit of an overestimation, but maybe not. That night,

<|output|> <|example|> quickly moved his chair around to Cas’s side of the table. “Of course,” he said, already reaching for the carton. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Sam’s ran his thumb across a stretch mark without hesitation <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> He’d grab something healthier to balance it out <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> They'd hired an older guy to work at a club for college kids, which, okay, but a fat older guy? One who had to squeeze his flabby ass into leather pants and a too-small vest every night? And who would probably A, pull in shit tips and B, look completely ridiculous while doing so? Dean knew he wasn't exactly ugly, but still <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> "Sorry," Cas muttered, hands busy desperately trying to keep his shirt from bunching up over the lower curve of his stomach and exposing his predicament to the world <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> as Cas made new holes in his belt with Dean's pocket knife, he decided that he could deal with a bit of a belly if it meant he could eat the food he loved, even if he didn't like it that much. But Dean seemed to like it a lot, so maybe it would grow on him. Dean sighed as another twenty-something wearing too much glitter ordered a blowjob shot, winking at Dean like he was the only one who'd thought of the joke. He was the first one of the night, at least, so kudos to him, but he certainly wouldn't be the last. Mind reeling at the realization that Dean was probably correct, that he'd probably caught up to Dean's weight - something which had taken "Because you're usually all about working out," Sam said with a smirk, and goddammit, Dean didn't need to take this shit, even if he could usually brush off Sam's teasing easily. He grabbed his crutch angrily, pushed himself off the couch, and hobbled as quickly as he could away from Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Asshole. “It was a little more gradual than that,” Dean protested weakly. He barricaded himself back in his office for the rest of the day, worried that people would start to suspect that his body shape was less than natural, even though he knew that it was probably only Becky. Girl was a freakin’ stalker. He got another intern to bring him a BLT and fries for lunch, devoured the food in minutes, and spent the rest of the workday feeling hungry even though he knew that he’d had a fairly reasonable lunch. Dean lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling. He tried counting the lines in the wood. He started drumming ‘Africa’ on his belly. He sighed melodramatically and threw an arm over his face, blindly groped for the bowl of truffles he knew was on the coffee table. himself, but Dean was feeling down and he really wanted Chinese take out, so fuck it, he was gonna treat himself. Dean stuck his bottom lip out, resigned to his fate. He'd started his third plate a minute ago and was not looking forward to getting them refilled, as his big, lard-filled gut was actually beginning to seal him into the booth. Getting out would be a bitch. In the middle of his pile of potato wedges, Dean finally caved and unbuckled his pants once again. His snap fly burst apart and he unzipped for good measure, and Cas was transfixed as Dean’s gut surged further across his lap, a wide strip of pudge visible that wasn’t covered by shirt or pants. Mary didn’t bat an eye, and Sam just snorted and called him ‘fatso,’ so apparently this was a fairly common occurrence in the Winchester household. “No, I mean it.” Dean wiped the sweat from his brow, waddled another step forward. “I have a strict no dick policy, starting now. You’d fuckin’ agree with me if you knew what it was like to be pregnant in goddamn June. In goddamn But until the problem was solved, Dean

<|output|> <|example|> as Cas made new holes in his belt with Dean's pocket knife, he decided that he could deal with a bit of a belly if it meant he could eat the food he loved, even if he didn't like it that much. But Dean seemed to like it a lot, so maybe it would grow on him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> His snap fly burst apart and he unzipped for good measure, and Cas was transfixed as Dean’s gut surged further across his lap, a wide strip of pudge visible that wasn’t covered by shirt or pants <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Dean stuck his bottom lip out, resigned to his fate <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> couldn’t exactly go without pants. There was a case nearby, and while Dean probably could have gotten away with lazing around in his robe otherwise, he’d already told Sam that he and Cas would take care of it. And these were his only clean pair of jeans. Dean laughed. “Of course,” he said. “It’s not every day that you hit seven hundred and thirty-two pounds, baby. We can do whatever you want.” Cas chuckled. Dean did like to show him off on the rare occasion they went out, and he always kept a possessive hand at the small of his back while they walked (more like waddled, in Cas’s case) together, like someone might snatch him away if Dean wasn’t careful, as if a lot of people were trying to land an obese ex-angel. And the only place they really went on dates was the local buffet, because they had special seats for people of Cas’s size, and Castiel sincerely doubted that anyone went there to pick up men. And Dean was the only one for him anyway. "Thanks, babe," Dean said, a hint of a blush on his cheeks. He pulled Cas down for a longer kiss, both of them humming contentedly. "You're amazing," he said after they broke apart, words muffled into the side of Cas's neck. Anything to get some of Cain’s layers off. Dean nodded eagerly and stood, remembering how full he was when his middle fell into place over his waistband. “Fuck,” he hissed, and he clutched his belly. Cain used to carry him when he was like this, and while he was way too heavy for that now, Dean still turned pleading eyes to the other man. He could make the journey himself but that didn’t mean he wanted to. Thankfully, Dean’s abundance of striped and patterned shirts helped hide the full extent of his weight gain from the general public, though the same could not be said about his pants. During the week he’d started having to button his slacks beneath his rounded tummy, let it push over his waistband, and he hated the way it made his stomach bulge out, how it made him look bigger than he really was. Dean had started to self-consciously tug at his shirts when he sat, tried to avoid looking down and showing off his double chin. He sucked his stomach in during presentations, slouched when sitting to hide his protruding middle, and was miserable by the time his end of the week get together with Sam rolled around. It was kind of difficult not to feel insecure, no matter what Sam said. Dean Winchester was also quickly approaching middle age. Didn’t mean he was any less of a badass, but it did mean that his head was becoming a nesting ground for grey hairs and that his metabolism had fucked off to who-knew-where. Pudge had been popping up here and there over the past few years, and he might have possibly gone up a pants size recently, but it really wasn’t a big deal. Everyone softened up a bit when they hit thirty-five,

<|output|> <|example|> couldn’t exactly go without pants. There was a case nearby, and while Dean probably could have gotten away with lazing around in his robe otherwise, he’d already told Sam that he and Cas would take care of it. And these were his only clean pair of jeans. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Fuck,” he hissed, and he clutched his belly <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> And Dean was the only one for him anyway <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Cain used to carry him when he was like this, and while he was way too heavy for that now, Dean still turned pleading eyes to the other man <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> and Dean was five years past that expiration date. It was just a thing that happened to people as they got older. Before Cas could decide if he wanted to voice his concerns, Walker blew his whistle and everyone took off, leaving Cas to trudge slowly after them. His stomach bounced vigorously, and his back was sore, and he'd had too much to eat at lunch, and running a mile was the last thing he wanted to do right now. A week passed, and then another. Hiding his belly was one thing, but by the time Dean was two months into his new diet-less life, he found that his little double chin didn’t just appear when he looked down anymore. Dean stopped shaving in the hopes that a beard would cover the way his chin had settled into a pocket of fat. In the meantime, he scrambled from the elevator to his office as quickly as possible in the mornings, ate lunch by himself, and thanked who or whatever was watching out for him that he didn’t have a meeting until the next Friday. When Dean was almost done with his third plate, the cute waiter approached with what looked like someone else's order. He lived up to his words by giving Cas a long belly rub after his feast, Castiel whimpering every so often, his gut pooled onto his lap. Dean had brought a huge amount of food, expecting leftovers, but Cas had eaten it all. He didn't regret it, even if his stomach was very angry with him. And when Dean sucked him off later, Cas held his still-bloated belly in both hands because he needed to keep it from smothering Dean. The ice cream slid easily down his throat and joined the Chinese in his stomach. His bare belly - Cas generally didn’t wear shirts when it was just him and Dean in the house - crept slowly across his thighs as he ate, and by the time the container was empty, he was bloated beyond belief and stuffed to the gills. Cas could barely take short little breaths as he sat there, flexing his fingers, feeling decadent. Finally the rush of champagne slowed to a trickle, and Dean held the bottle upside down over his open mouth to make sure he got every last drop. He set the bottle down with a triumphant clack, huffing and puffing, struggling to catch his breath. And Dean still had no idea. One day, when Cas overheard Dean complaining to Sam (who also had noticed Dean's increasing weight, though they'd made an unspoken pact not to say anything to him) about how his jeans had shrunk in the wash, Cas drove to the nearest Goodwill and purchased five worn, faded pairs of jeans two sizes up from Dean's current pants. He replaced them while Dean made dinner and made a mental note to donate Dean's old jeans. Dean whimpered and grabbed Cain’s wrist, tried to guide it further down his body, but Cain just kept tracing above the delicate lace, avoiding the one place Dean really needed attention. He ran

<|output|> <|example|> and Dean was five years past that expiration date. It was just a thing that happened to people as they got older. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He set the bottle down with a triumphant clack, huffing and puffing, struggling to catch his breath <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> his fingers along the sensitive underside of Dean’s belly and Dean shuddered, goosebumps popping up on his arms. He probably deserved this for all the pictures he’d sent, but damn it, Dean had waited long enough. The first thing Dean did when he got home was strip off his pants. He had to practically peel himself out of them, wincing as he rubbed at the angry red marks left under his belly and around his hips. He changed into his ‘me day’ attire to cheer himself up — his set of silk pajamas that he was was not ashamed to own in the least — and flushed when he had to leave the bottoms untied to fit around his chubby middle. And when said middle made teeny gaps between his shirt buttons. Ugh, these were supposed to be his sexy clothes. did he have a dirty mouth on him. He shook Dean's gut and Dean whined again, wondering what he’d gotten himself into, though he wasn't complaining. Pretty much canon, but with chubby!Dean. Short and sweet, no pairing - just Dean and a pair of jeans ;) The day before New Year's Eve, they went shopping for new clothes for Cas. Using the money his parents had given him, Castiel bought shirts in XLs and 2XLs depending on the style, and some jeans and slacks in forty-twos which buttoned under his gut nicely. Dean made Cas try on the size pants he wore - thirty-sixes - and they didn't even come close to buttoning, leading to a make out session in the dressing room. When Dean blinks awake, he’s not sure how many hours have passed. The house is utterly silent around him, and the only source of illumination is the flicker of a dim light in the corridor at his back, reflecting off the shards of multi-colored glass on the floor. They sag onto the mattress together, still breathing hard. Dean grabs some tissues from the nightstand and hands a few to Cas as well. When the mess on their stomachs and hands is more or less cleaned up, he reaches for Cas and pulls him close, Cas’ face tucked into the side of his neck. Finally, Cas’ voice penetrates through the haze of Dean’s panic, and he starts to be able to hear actual words past the frantic thudding of his heart. The footsteps round the corner closest to Dean, accompanied by the frantically jumping beam of a flashlight. The light hits Dean’s eyes, and he flinches. Cas nods, and Dean dives in. The weight on his tongue is heavy, solid and warm, stretching his jaw and overwhelming his senses. It’s been years since he’s done this, and he’s never particularly liked it. The vulnerability that comes along with having another man’s dick in his mouth, the inability to properly defend himself if things go sideways — it’s not something he was ever totally at ease with. Alarmed, Cas thumbs through his phone, determined to call Dean back and figure out what in the world is going on. He never gets the chance, because at that moment, a frantic bellowing

<|output|> <|example|> his fingers along the sensitive underside of Dean’s belly and Dean shuddered, goosebumps popping up on his arms. He probably deserved this for all the pictures he’d sent, but damn it, Dean had waited long enough. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> When Dean blinks awake, he’s not sure how many hours have passed. The house is utterly silent around him, and the only source of illumination is the flicker of a dim light in the corridor at his back, reflecting off the shards of multi-colored glass on the floor. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> The house is utterly silent around him, and the only source of illumination is the flicker of a dim light in the corridor at his back, reflecting off the shards of multi-colored glass on the floor <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> The vulnerability that comes along with having another man’s dick in his mouth, the inability to properly defend himself if things go sideways — it’s not something he was ever totally at ease with <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Pretty much canon, but with chubby!Dean <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> comes up the outside stairwell. All three of the newcomers look pretty damn confused, but he waves them off. “I’ll explain later. Seriously, though, why aren’t you dead?” Dean ducks his head, but there’s a pleased smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’re just saying that to get in my pants.” He scoots back to press small bites and kisses up the inside of Castiel’s thigh. “Oh wait,” he says, smirking. “Already there.” Dean returns a minute later, clutching a glass filled almost to the brim. “How did you know to ask for ‘coffin varnish'?” Cas asks, as Dean sets down the drink in front of him. So these days, Dean’s the director, the makeup artist, the lighting guy, the sound guy, the special effects guy and the guy who fetches everyone coffee. (That last part isn’t technically in the job description, but he started when he first got hired, and he never really stopped.) Resigning himself to his fate, Castiel climbs out of the truck and trails along in Mildred’s wake, following her quick, determined strides to the front door of the store. There’s a dull, hollow ache in Dean’s chest as he watches his best friend, the man he’s shared his life and home with for almost a decade, get ready to leave him behind. “Out of immediate danger,” she says, eyebrows pulled together in slight disapproval as she studies what is most likely Bobby’s file. “Whoever worked him over wasn’t pulling any punches. We think there was a baseball bat involved.” She grimaces, like she’s not sure she should be telling him more, but she does anyway. “They broke his pelvis. He’ll be able to walk again, but it’ll take several months of physical therapy. He’s got a long road ahead of him.” Dean takes a deep swig from his bottle and bangs it down hard on the coffee table, daring Castiel to take the bait. “Run!” Dean calls, and all four of them set off down the alley at top speed. With their longer legs, Dean and Castiel soon overtake Claire and Jack, but all four of them are out of sight by the time Donatello’s enraged shouts ring down the alley. In the few hours between the kiss and their departure back to the bunker, Cas looked like he wanted to pull Dean aside several times, but Dean’s brain helpfully supplied him with increasingly flimsy excuses for why he needed to be somewhere else right the fuck now. “Sheesh.” Dean grabs a paper napkin off the nearest stack, balls it up and throws it at Benny. “Can’t a guy be in a good mood without getting the third degree?” Dean mumbles something and stalks off, and Castiel exchanges a quick glance with Charlie, one that he hopes conveys With a screech of rubber on concrete, Dean turns onto Sixth. The sound of sirens has the two thugs in the backseat glancing over their shoulders and cursing a blue streak, but Dean can’t worry about that now. He just has to get where he’s going. Castiel has to fight the overwhelming urge to let out an extremely undignified squeak of

<|output|> <|example|> comes up the outside stairwell. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> There’s a dull, hollow ache in Dean’s chest as he watches his best friend, the man he’s shared his life and home with for almost a decade, get ready to leave him behind <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> comes up the outside stairwell <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> anticipation. “See you then.” Meg rolls her eyes at him. “Whatever you say, Margaritaville. Now, are you gonna pull that stick out of your ass or not?” Well. Cas does sleep sometimes now, but not every night, and never more than an hour or two. Chances are, he’ll be awake. Cas’ face lights up, and Dean grins back at him until his face hurts from the strain. Eventually, though, his eyes are drawn away from Cas' face and down the lines of his body, frustratingly hidden under that boxy suit and coat. “Cas, I… I’m really trying to play this cool, but I’ve waited a long time to get here, and…” Dean turns his eyes to the ceiling, trying to picture the front page of a newspaper passed to him by a smirking Zachariah. “2014. August.” “You know what?” Dean spreads his arms wide in a general challenge to the room. “Y’all are just jealous you don’t get any of my sweet, sweet tender kisses at the end of the night.” Missouri smiles, but she looks tired. “That’s where we may run into some difficulties. My grandmother told me the second board was buried with Kennard.” When the woman steps away, Cas looks up, the customer-service smile sliding off his face, replaced by complete shock. Dean tries for a grin. “You know,” Cas says, letting his head loll to the side so he’s looking right at Dean across less than two feet of couch. “I always thought my soulmate would turn out to be a man.” He’s not wrong, Dean realizes. The pork strips lining his favorite pan are well on their way to graduating from 'crispy' to 'charred.' “Oh, right.” Dean springs to his feet with as much grace as he can manage right now, which isn’t much. “Sorry, man.” He tucks himself away, then holds out his hand. Cas uses it to pull himself up, bringing them face to face again. Dean’s brain instantly supplies him with flashbacks to the last time they were standing this close, just a few minutes ago, and what followed right after. “This way, please.” Mick extends one arm in the direction of the entrance, motioning for Cas and Dean to precede him into the dark, cool interior of the mansion. “What?” Dean blinks at Cas’ regret-stained eyes, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. “No, I’m the one who— I was a dick last night. I shouldn’t have—” He shakes his head and decides to start over. “What’re you even sorry for?” “I did,” Donatello says, on the exhale of a world-weary sigh. Apparently sensing Dean’s discomfort, he adds, “It’s not At that exact moment, the curtain drawn all the way around his bunk opens on the left-hand side, and a head pokes in through the gap. The words sound pleasant and reassuring, but there’s a challenge sparking at the back of Dean’s eyes. Castiel finally retrieves the loaf of bread from underneath his shirt and thrusts it at the boy. “Here’s your bread.” Sam is standing across from him, red-faced. “If you think I’m letting you put my brother’s private life to a town-wide vote, you’ve got another thing—”

<|output|> <|example|> anticipation. “See you then.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Eventually, though, his eyes are drawn away from Cas' face and down the lines of his body, frustratingly hidden under that boxy suit and coat <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Sorry, man <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> ” Missouri smiles, but she looks tired <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> ” Dean springs to his feet with as much grace as he can manage right now, which isn’t much <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> ” He tucks himself away, then holds out his hand <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> “That’s where we may run into some difficulties <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> “This way, please <|indexes|> 6 <|example|> Dean tries for a grin <|indexes|> 7 <|example|> The pork strips lining his favorite pan are well on their way to graduating from 'crispy' to 'charred <|indexes|> 8 <|example|> Now, are you gonna pull that stick out of your ass or not?” Well <|indexes|> 9 |

<|text|> He breaks off when his eyes fall on Dean. “Oh. Hey, Dean. Cas.” Looking more than a little worried, he raises both hands, palms out, in a “Sure, why not. Never was much of a fan of curses anyway,” he muses. “I like to come by my souls honestly.” He smiles with all the wickedness of the infernal creature he is. “What’s my line?” By the time they pull up in front of the Brewster House, Dean’s not entirely sure how they even got there, let alone so quickly. All he knows is, maybe doing that fight scene with Cas later isn’t going to be such a chore after all. “I need to be touching you,” Castiel says, his always-deep voice lowered further by the irresistible, urgent heat boiling under his skin. “Right now.” “Yeah, sure, man. Whatever you need. I’ll give her a call to let her know you guys are coming. She takes walk-ins, so it shouldn’t be a problem.” The sound of a pen scratching against paper. “You want me to come too?” “When things ended with him, was it—” Once again, Naomi pauses, clearing her throat before she continues. “Did it have anything to do with—” “What d’you mean?” Dean moves away from the doorframe, perching on the edge of the bathtub so they can talk face to face. When Cas bottoms out, he bends down, kissing Dean long and thorough. There’s nothing desperate or urgent about it — it’s affection and closeness and everything Dean was convinced they’d never have again. Cas surges forward, kissing Dean with all the desperation and want he's kept bottled up for nearly two weeks now. Dean responds with enthusiasm, meeting Cas’ tongue with his own and moaning into the kiss. “Today is the anniversary of John’s death,” Jess says softly. “Every year, on that day, Dean just takes off. Nobody’s really sure where. He closes down the diner, and he won’t answer calls or respond to texts. Then, the next day, he just… comes back. Like nothing ever happened.” Dean looks down at the minor assortment of fake vampire teeth in various sizes, all laid out on the craft-slash-makeup-slash-prop table so he can choose the set that fits him best. “I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," Jack says, and hooks his arm into Castiel’s. The doors open, and sunlight streams into the corridor. A gentle slope of verdant grass spreads out in front of Castiel, and with one last glance at Jack's cheerful smile, he walks down it. “Oh, by the way,” Dean says, “if you decide to join us, just follow the signs in the hallway. They’ll have the name of our group on them.” Dean almost stomps his foot in frustration. “For fuck’s sake. Yes, I know him! I work here. Is he OK?” Everything feels too dry — the inside of his mouth, his nostrils, even his fingertips. Cautiously, he blinks his eyes open, only to shut them again immediately. The second time he tries it, he cups one hand across his forehead, shielding himself at least somewhat from the onslaught of daylight. Dean’s expression crumples, his lips shaping themselves around a

<|output|> <|example|> He breaks off when his eyes fall on Dean. “Oh. Hey, Dean. Cas.” Looking more than a little worried, he raises both hands, palms out, in a <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Yes, I know him! I work here <|indexes|> 0 0 |