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<|text|> quiet “fuck.” “Hey, Cas,” he says out loud, a shaky smile pulling at his lips. “How, um. How are you?” When Meg comes home an hour later to find him staring at nothing, she doesn’t ask questions. She wraps Castiel in a hug and holds him while they watch TV and drink heavily until Castiel falls asleep, cradled against the warm softness of her chest. He dreams of green eyes. Before he’s even back upright, the door opens a sliver, and there’s Cas, dark hair messy as always, blue eyes wide. He’s holding up his phone, the lit-up screen displaying the numbers “9-1-1”. Other Sam glares at the pair of them, in an uncanny imitation of the Sam who left two minutes ago. “Can we go put him down now? He really will be alright, but he needs a place to rest.” “Sammy? Sammy, are you alright?” The words are barely above a whisper, having to scrape their way past the giant lump in Dean’s throat. Still, Sam nods. Their first kiss ever, shy and tentative, when Cas came to pick him up at the bookstore for their first date. There wasn’t anybody else at the store, and waiting just seemed so stupid, so Dean decided to ask for a kiss hello. Cas indulged him; smiled and leaned in across the counter. “It could have caused me serious injury!” Donatello insists. “There could have been gravel in it. I could have lost an eye!” Meg picks up her fork again, jaw working. “That’s nice of you to offer, but I think we’re good here. If Clarence needs anything, I can help him out, right?” Dean’s mind is racing, torn. This offer is everything he’s ever wanted, presented to him on a silver platter: a way to take care of his ma. An easy life of pleasure and leisure for them both. By the time they’ve exhausted the subject, Cas feels warm and content, and he finds himself leaning forward more and more, cursing the table that separates him from Dean and his plush, tempting lips. “Do the campus police know this is happening?” he asks. Even though Castiel is still new to Franklin College, he’s been here long enough to learn that an unauthorized gathering serving alcohol is guaranteed to get broken up before midnight. “Hey, um. Wanna hang out again some time? I mean, since you’re new in town, I could… I don’t know, show you around?” “What about Dean?” Naomi asks, searching Castiel’s face as though trying to catch him in a lie. He tries not to take it personally. Deception and emotional subterfuge have been a staple of their relationship for as long as he can remember, and it’s a hard habit to shake. “No, I know that,” Dean says quickly. “At least, I think I do. I know we haven’t explored all the options, or whatever. Let’s just eat.” At the inn, he runs into Balthazar, who apparently picked up a rare night shift at reception. “Morning, Cassie,” he says, smirking. “You look like you slept worse than I did, and I didn’t sleep at all.” Dean looks extremely amused by it all.

<|output|> <|example|> quiet “fuck.” “Hey, Cas,” he says out loud, a shaky smile pulling at his lips. “How, um. How are you?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> If Clarence needs anything, I can help him out, right?” Dean’s mind is racing, torn <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “Morning, Cassie,” he says, smirking <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 <|example|> By the time they’ve exhausted the subject, Cas feels warm and content, and he finds himself leaning forward more and more, cursing the table that separates him from Dean and his plush, tempting lips <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> ” “Sammy? Sammy, are you alright?” The words are barely above a whisper, having to scrape their way past the giant lump in Dean’s throat <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> ” At the inn, he runs into Balthazar, who apparently picked up a rare night shift at reception <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> This offer is everything he’s ever wanted, presented to him on a silver platter: a way to take care of his ma <|indexes|> 5 |

<|text|> “This stuff always gets Sam real riled up too. His arguments with Donatello are more predictable than death and taxes. Shame Jess is missing this.” Instantly, the alarm bells in Dean’s brain kick back into gear. How does she know his name? And why does it matter? Should he lie? Or run? “It’s not like we would’ve actually let them vote,” Charlie says quickly. “We had a whole civil disobedience thing planned. I was gonna handcuff myself to the podium.” “If she wants us to visit her, we absolutely will,” Castiel says, because that much he’s certain of. No matter what changes he needs to make, he has no interest in cutting his mother out of Claire’s life completely. Signora Linetti has appeared in the doorway of her shop, scowling at Castiel, so he ducks his head and starts walking first out of the square, then up the nearest street. “You should learn Italian if you like it so much,” he says, mostly just to fill the silence. As he refills the customer's mug, someone to his right says, “Hey, change the channel, would ya? Clippers game is on. Final quarter.” After that night of awful food and amazing sex, Cas is different. He touches Dean freely, and lets Dean touch him back. With almost absurd ease, they fall back into a place of comfort with each other, bantering and fighting and generally getting up in each other’s business. (They also have a lot of sex, on any surface around the apartment that will support their weight. And one that, as it turns out, doesn’t.) “Aren’t you nervous?” Castiel whispers at him as they stand in front of the door, waiting to be admitted. Dean almost opens his mouth to lash out at Cas for starting with this shit, again. The first time he ever saw Cas dry-swallowing a pill, the glassy stare and vacant grin after — it broke something in him that he’s not sure he can ever put back together. He looks different. Of course he does: it’s been twenty years. The angle of Cas’ jaw has sharpened, and he has a bit of stubble on his cheeks. But he’s still Both women blush a little, but neither of them argue, and Dean thinks he sees the smallest possible smile twitch at the corner of Claire’s mouth. When they finally broke up, he wasn't even as upset as he maybe should have been. Certainly not as upset as he still gets on the rare occasions when he talks about Cas. Which is why, for the most part, he A small spark of hope springs to life inside Dean, and when Cas asks to use the bathroom first, he agrees immediately. They’d usually do their bedtime routine together, might even share the shower if they’re feeling especially frisky or affectionate, and Dean misses it with a bone-deep ache. But he tries to comfort himself with the thought that at least they get to share a bed, and that’ll just have to be enough. “How’d it go at the artists’ agencies this morning? You find a new job?” Mary asks, pretending not to notice the

<|output|> <|example|> “This stuff always gets Sam real riled up too. His arguments with Donatello are more predictable than death and taxes. Shame Jess is missing this.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> The first time he ever saw Cas dry-swallowing a pill, the glassy stare and vacant grin after — it broke something in him that he’s not sure he can ever put back together <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Signora Linetti has appeared in the doorway of her shop, scowling at Castiel, so he ducks his head and starts walking first out of the square, then up the nearest street <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Certainly not as upset as he still gets on the rare occasions when he talks about Cas <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Of course he does: it’s been twenty years <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> way Dean is crowding into her space, pushing her away from the stove in a battle of inches. Castiel swallows, deeply confused by the turn his day is taking, and just a little concerned about this woman’s mental state. “We’ve never met. I’ve never been to your store before. How could—” he tries, but Mildred silences him with another glare. “Yeah,” Dean chimes in. “But we don’t want you guys to think that anything needs to change, just because Cas and I wanna spend some time together. You two are always gonna be the most important people in our lives. Alright?” From the other side of the small living room, Mary snorts. “That radiator’s got it in for you, son. It never does this to Cas shrugs, looking slightly defensive. “That’s why I thought it would be a good learning experience for me.” Maybe Dean should call her some time and talk about Cas. Or even about Jimmy. Right now, with this new perspective Sam’s given him, it doesn’t seem impossible. Dean turns the heat on the stove to low, wiping a smidge of sauce off his hand with the dish towel. Then, he steps around the kitchen island and slots himself behind Cas, chin resting on his shoulder. Cas leans back against him, savoring the solid warmth. When they finally straighten, they’re both a little red in the face, whether from embarrassment or heat or the position they were just in, it’s hard to tell. For the fifth time in the past ten minutes, Castiel considers leaving. He could just do it — get in his car, pick his way down the byroads of Tybee Island back to Highway 80 and never look back. The lease document now rests on the side table of Castiel and Claire’s room at the inn, waiting for his signature. According to Dean, it’s fine for Castiel to take his time looking it over. At least, that’s what Castiel thinks Dean said, but he became distracted at that point, because Dean offered to exchange phone numbers “just in case.” (In case of what, Dean didn’t specify.) “Maybe,” Dean says, shrugging easily. “But it’s not wrong. No matter what Claire had at your mom’s house, it wouldn’t have made her happy. Not while her dad was miserable.” He's probably wrong, because most of the time it seems like Cas doesn't even know how to be afraid of things. Still, that little glimpse of Donatello runs a finger across one of the bookshelves, searching. “Now, where do we have… ah yes. Here.” He taps a particularly large tome bound in blood-red leather, and a panel opens in the wall next to the bookcase. “Be that as it may,” Mildred says, waving him off with a kind smile. “Even if I had an accounting job to offer, I can’t pay you the kind of salary you’re accustomed to, and I won’t be offended when it’s time for you to move on. After all, you’ve got your little one to think of.” She inclines her head at Claire, who is busy comparing candy hauls with Dave and Lou next to the horses’ stable. When

<|output|> <|example|> way Dean is crowding into her space, pushing her away from the stove in a battle of inches. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Still, that little glimpse of Donatello runs a finger across one of the bookshelves, searching <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> they stop to catch their breath, Dean keeps his hand on the back of Cas’ neck and Cas leans their foreheads together, both of them reluctant to give up physical contact altogether. When the kiss breaks, they’re both breathing noticeably faster, but Dean’s smiling so hard it almost hurts, and Cas’ answering smile is just as bright. Dean rests their foreheads together. He kind of wants to keep kissing, but that might lead to other things, and it somehow doesn’t seem like that should be where this evening is headed. As Dean watches the two of them making heart eyes at each other, his lungs suddenly feel too big for his chest. It's one thing having to deal with this when it's just him, but with Cas in the room too... it's too much. “Besides,” Castiel continues, “Charlie told me a lot of people choose to keep their underwear on. No one’s going to judge you if it makes you more comfortable to do it that way.” He turns his eyes to the heavens, mock-thoughtful. “Well, except for me. I’ll definitely be judging you.” In the blink of an eye, the Mustang overbalances and tips over onto its roof. Residual momentum keeps it sliding along another few feet as Dean rounds the next bend of the road, out of sight. Dean’s hands come up to cup Castiel’s ass, pulling him closer. Castiel hitches one of Dean’s legs up over his arm, then takes hold of his cock and lines himself up. “Well, uh, I’ll see you around then,” Cas says, grabbing his two coffees and turning to go with what he hopes is a few shreds of his dignity still intact. “Dean?” Sam’s voice, quieter than before, calls him back just as he’s reached the doorframe. Mom is already out of hearing, talking to someone from housekeeping at the other end of the corridor in a broken mix of English and Italian. “I don’t remember,” Claire mumbles, pushing her steamed carrots to the far edge of the plate and wrinkling her nose. Cas to mind. He’d fully expected Cas to shove him or yell at him or punch him. He might not know all that much about kissing, but he knows that what happened between him and Cas is not how this is usually supposed to go. Slowly, Cas says, “I think so. They were both recent arrivals. Alone and friendless. No one would have missed them for a while.” The words hit a little too close to home, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine. Sam brushes a long strand of hair behind his ear, triggering Dean’s Pavlovian response to grab a pair of scissors, a razor or maybe just a sharp knife. “If I’m honest, I felt a little less guilty about leaving because I knew you had Cas to help you through it.” “Hello to you, too, Bobby!” Charlie calls back. “I came to talk to you about the place next door, and I brought some newcomers, so try not to scare them off.” Betty squints at Castiel in that particular, discerning way of hers, but answers the question. “He wanted to

<|output|> <|example|> they stop to catch their breath, Dean keeps his hand on the back of Cas’ neck and Cas leans their foreheads together, both of them reluctant to give up physical contact altogether. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Besides,” Castiel continues, “Charlie told me a lot of people choose to keep their underwear on <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> No one’s going to judge you if it makes you more comfortable to do it that way <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Dean’s hands come up to cup Castiel’s ass, pulling him closer <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> “Well, except for me <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> go get drunk with his friends, and when I said I didn’t feel like doing that, he acted like an asshole. So I yelled at him and left.” Cas’ breath hitches in the darkness, and for a long time, there’s nothing but silence. Then, so quietly that Dean almost misses it, “Maybe we can try to remember together.” “You wanted a paycheck. There’s a paycheck in Urbana,” Gabe says evenly as he approaches the attendant’s desk. Cas tenses up and leaps out of his chair. The smile from a second ago is gone, replaced by crackling, radiant fury. Dean jumps up too, putting a steadying hand on Cas' shoulder. First Sam, and now Cas. He's too damn old to have others keep fighting this battle for him. “The shifter case needs some on-the-ground investigation because we don’t know what face the creature’s wearing right now or where it hides out. The vamp case is a milk run. Takes nothing but a couple hands and some machetes, so I figure Dean can take point on that.” The words fall from Dean’s lips with practiced ease as he leans against the Impala’s passenger side and takes in the view below. He pulled over to take the call, and he couldn’t have chosen a better spot. He’s on a lookout point off Mulholland Drive, high up in the hills. Below him, the maze of streets and freeways threads through the city, outlined by a constant pulse of pinprick lights. The concrete giants of downtown rise up in the hazy distance, polluting the night sky with their fluorescent glare. , sitting on the hood of the Impala. He’s got a small, fond smile on his face, and more crow’s feet than he ever remembers seeing in the mirror. Cas is sitting to his left, looking back at him, nose crinkled in that damn smile Dean just left behind in the hallway. The weirdest thing, though, is that he’s wearing his angel clothes: Jimmy’s old, navy-blue suit, and that stupid flasher coat Dean always secretly loved. Naomi waves the objection away. “Oh, as a teenager, certainly. But I always thought, ‘Well, this is what teenagers are supposed to do, isn’t it? They’re supposed to over-dramatize everything and blame their parents for every perceived slight.’ I truly didn’t realize that you still think of your childhood as an unhappy one, even now.” When Castiel pulls up in front of the two-bedroom duplex he and Dean used to share, the windows are dark, which is to be expected. What’s unexpected, however, is that Dean’s Impala isn’t in the driveway. What if Dean has gone to visit someone? Or worse, what if he’s spending the night with someone who is very much not Castiel? “Yeah, all those little cubby holes used to have drawers in them with different sizes of screws and stuff. Anyway, I thought about selling the place when he died.” Dean’s smile is slightly crooked, as though he’s recalling a bitter memory softened by time. “But the building had good bones, and a great view of the square, and I’d kinda been thinking about coming back

<|output|> <|example|> go get drunk with his friends, and when I said I didn’t feel like doing that, he acted like an asshole. So I yelled at him and left.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” “You wanted a paycheck <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “Oh, as a teenager, certainly <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> home for a while. I’ve got a culinary degree, so closing down the hardware store and opening up a diner seemed like a good compromise.” “Can’t be.” He shakes his head, ice-cold dread sliding down his spine at the mere memory of that place. “I watched Sam twist my… Dean touches their lips together, tasting pistachio where he knows there isn’t any, feeling the sun warm his face even though it’s long since gone down. Cas makes a soft noise of relief, and Dean wants to melt into him. He was already pretty tired of building undercarriages for SUVs by then, and the payout from John’s life insurance was his ticket to college. The second the man steps forward, Cas’ hand moves instinctively to the shotgun on the shelf behind him. A moment later, Josie emerges, sans lackey. She’s wearing a purple silk gown that flares out at the bottom and, Dean notices when she turns to pick up her cigarette case from a marble side table, plunges deeply in the back, leaving a wide expanse of smooth, pale skin on full display. All the while, Castiel is sick and aching with the silence of his phone. He should block M, should delete the app, should do any number of things. Instead, all he does is stare at the last message M sent, until the screen blurs before his eyes. “I know,” he says. There is something genuinely sad about admitting it like this, out loud, all pretense abandoned. “That’s exactly the problem.” “Inappropriate,” Castiel corrects automatically, then grimaces at himself. “I’m sorry those girls were being mean to you,” he adds, even though it feels rather inadequate. “And I think you should get to play soccer with the boys if you feel like it.” Dean grunts his agreement just as the sound of fussy throat-clearing reaches him from the other end of the carriage. It’s Adler, of-fucking-course. Castiel nods. He knows this about Dean’s childhood, though Dean doesn’t like to talk about it much. Still, with tempting images of undiscovered food and unfamiliar sights dancing across the screen in front of him, he can’t help asking, “But… don’t you want to travel Eventually, a comfortable silence falls between them, and they watch the sun sink below the hills in the distance as Jimmy takes ever more daring leaps off the side of the play structure. “Remember I told you I was an entitled asshole who prioritized my career over my daughter?” Castiel answers with a sigh. “God, to think I might still be working at my family’s company. We never would’ve met.” “So if we’re getting a new place to live, can we live here?” Claire asks, snuggling into Castiel’s lap and clutching the small, fuzzy bear she’s still holding. “I like it here. There’s horses, and Jack, and a lot of nice people like Jess and Charlie and Bobby and Dean." When he doesn’t find either the table or the colt, he squints. It’s really goddamn bright in the room. Why the hell is it so bright? His room doesn’t even have windows. By the time Cas gets up, everything is back to normal. Dean

<|output|> <|example|> home for a while. I’ve got a culinary degree, so closing down the hardware store and opening up a diner seemed like a good compromise.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” “Can’t be <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “I know,” he says <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> The second the man steps forward, Cas’ hand moves instinctively to the shotgun on the shelf behind him <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> doesn’t even think to mention the nosebleed; it’s just one of those things that happen sometimes. Two men witness a tender moment between Dean and Cas and call Dean a homophobic slur ("faggot"). A fist fight ensues, after which Dean and Cas head back to Cas' house and have sex. The morning after, Dean gets upset and fights with Cas. He denies that he is bisexual and claims that his sexual relationship with Cas was part of a phase, and that he will get back to "normal" once he leaves college. Even in the dim, jaundiced lighting of a decades-old movie theater, surrounded by half-broken furniture and the trash of a week’s worth of other patrons, he’s the closest thing to perfection Castiel has ever seen. A constellation of freckles dots the bridge of his nose, and his smile is almost too bright to bear. He smells like summer-warm grass and clean sweat, along with something sweet and homey that Castiel couldn’t possibly put a name to. Contrary to what he said earlier, Sam doesn’t actually wait until they get to a lunch place to share what he found out. Dean knows his little brother’s enjoying this just as much as he is — doing research again, interviewing people, working a case. It’s hard to stay mad at each other for long. Castiel unzips his hoodie and slips out of it, throwing it unseeing on the floor as his tongue pushes into Dean’s mouth. He tugs at the hem of Dean’s shirt, trailing his fingers up Dean’s spine with soft, fluttering touches. Dean sighs into his mouth before he steps back and pulls his shirt over his head. Castiel’s hands slide reverently over the newly revealed skin of Dean’s chest, first his eyes and then his tongue following in their wake to caress the freckled skin. Castiel can feel Dean’s quiet, rumbling moan as a vibration against his lips. Dean looks up and seems to be trying to return Castiel’s smile, but other than a slight twitch of his jaw, he doesn’t succeed. “The guy I do these jobs for... Crowley. We’re supposed to have an exclusive arrangement. He’s in this, I don’t know, turf war with another guy named Nick. Nick is the one whose crowd Meg was part of.” “Hello to you too,” Castiel says, pretending to be annoyed. But how could he possibly be, when Dean is next to him with kiss-bitten lips, and the memory of Dean’s half-hard cock pressing against Castiel’s thigh a minute ago is still fresh in his mind? The port was thriving, even as the rest of the city had lost much of its population to the suburbs, and the combination of well-paid union work and cheap real estate finally kept John from wanting to move again. Dean probably shouldn’t say what he thinks about that, but he’s never claimed to be a smart man. “His mom’s been in prison for three years. Seems like she should wanna spend her first night back with her son.” Once all the dishes are put away, though, Dean abruptly turns serious. “I did have an ulterior

<|output|> <|example|> doesn’t even think to mention the nosebleed; it’s just one of those things that happen sometimes. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Nick is the one whose crowd Meg was part of <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Dean looks up and seems to be trying to return Castiel’s smile, but other than a slight twitch of his jaw, he doesn’t succeed <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> motive inviting you here tonight, kiddo. And it kinda has to do with the whole ‘monsters are real’ thing.” Sometimes, when Castiel feels particularly maudlin, he makes it a point to stroll past his old house and think back to the first time Dean ever walked him home, or to the last time they… Castiel cuts off that train of thought before it can fully pick up speed. It’s a beautiful, sunny morning, and he won’t let himself go to that dark, regret-stained place today. “Right,” Dean shoots back, trying and failing to keep his own lips from curving up. “Can’t spell sar Dean doesn’t respond right away, but he raises his arm and waits for Castiel to move in closer, until he’s resting against the solid warmth of Dean’s shoulder. “I don't know about that, Cas. Today, I looked someone — an ancient, all-powerful someone, but still — right in the eye, and I lied to her.” Dean’s chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh. “I told her I’d never hurt her.” Today, Castiel walks into the room to find one of the two working machines already in use, so he heads to the one at the very back and starts loading his and Jimmy’s things. He adds soap and digs in his pocket for his stash of quarters. When he’s finally located a few, below several pieces of lint and a rock that Jimmy picked up on the way home from school, he drops them in the slot. “Ehh.” Donatello wags his head dubiously. “Too small to be truly useful.” He turns to Dean. “And you?” Here it is! The last chapter of this crazy, inter-dimensional trip of a story. (Plus, an epilogue, which is also posted!) In late August, Sam comes for a visit, in between his summer internship and the start of the fall semester. Dean takes him all over the city, showing him all his favorite places. Wherever they go, memories of Jimmy’s laughter and the glint of Cas’ blue eyes follow him like a shadow. “He’s neither Chinese nor a girl,” Dean snaps, then clamps his mouth shut, realizing that if Freddo’s already drawn his own conclusions about what Dean’s here for, it’s entirely possible he’s just outed himself by accident. To a random dude who probably thinks guys who like guys are the scum of the earth. This chapter is where the "infidelity" tag comes into play. If you're concerned, there's a spoilery description in the endnote for the chapter. Dean looks closely at Mills, watching her face for any hint of mockery or deception. She doesn’t so much as blink at the scrutiny. “Why now? Crowley’s been around for years.” He runs his fingers through his son’s hair as he speaks, tugging on it gently until the dark, messy strands lie feathered across his lap. Jimmy’s hair is the exact color of his own. The narrow, sharply defined jaw and blue eyes are his too, but Jimmy’s occasional flashes of brash confidence are all Meg. “Yeah,” Jack agrees enthusiastically, nodding at Castiel. “The Dragonfly Inn. They got two horses, Walt and Roy. The guests get

<|output|> <|example|> motive inviting you here tonight, kiddo. And it kinda has to do with the whole ‘monsters are real’ thing.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Can’t spell sar Dean doesn’t respond right away, but he raises his arm and waits for Castiel to move in closer, until he’s resting against the solid warmth of Dean’s shoulder <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “Right,” Dean shoots back, trying and failing to keep his own lips from curving up <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Today, I looked someone — an ancient, all-powerful someone, but still — right in the eye, and I lied to her <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> to ride them for free.” “I’ve wondered sometimes.” He pulls Cas even further down, until Cas’ weight is resting on his forearms and he’s chest to chest with Dean. When he’s got Cas where he wants him, he plants a gentle kiss on the crow’s feet next to Cas’ left eye. “I know Jimmy didn’t have , or big boxer shorts. (Which, honestly, is even better than the pair of pants Dean was picturing.) And yeah, he giggles every time he sees the place now. But Freddo does too, so at least Dean’s not the only immature one. “You’re looking at the Douglas County 135-pound wrestling champ,” Dean grins back, and, God, when’s the last time he’s told anyone about Castiel doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he doesn’t. He keeps his hand on Dean’s back, though, thumb stroking across it. “Fuck.” Cas’ eyes are glazed, darting across Dean’s face. “Take your pants off. Now.” Arousal sears through Dean as he stumbles off the bed, shaky fingers undoing his belt and pulling down his jeans. He watches, frozen, as Cas pulls his own shirt over his head and undoes his belt, shoving his sweats and boxers down in one go. Castiel wants to think he struggled with the decision to forgo a good night’s sleep and, depending on how long he will need to stay at the hospital, the wages for two shifts the next day. But really, there was no struggle. “Yeah, um, that. Seemed like maybe it wasn’t the best way to go. Deano, he… didn’t seem to enjoy that particular joke.” He bundles his son into the back of the Continental and drives across downtown to the hospital. For the moment, his grief over Meg’s death has receded to a dull ache in the background. To his own surprise, as soon as he picked up the phone and heard Dean’s voice, cracked with panic, the need to find him and hold him close became more important than any other consideration. Castiel holds up the pile of crumpled, coffee-stained receipts shoved haphazardly under the mousepad of the computer at the reception desk. At the threshold of the bathroom, he stops short. Meg is in front of the mirror, dabbing at her split lip with a wet towel. One side of her face is starting to swell, purple spreading across one cheekbone. She’s taken off her blouse, leaving her in a black tank top. The top does nothing to hide the textured snake winding up her arm and licking at her neck with a forked tongue. Cas doesn’t let go of him until they get there, and Dean’s sure he’ll have finger-shaped bruises on his arm tomorrow, but he goes along without a fight. Dean looks up, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed with heat. “Condom?” he asks, running a hand up and down Castiel’s chest as he withdraws his fingers. Would it have been more exciting to show the capture on-screen? Sure. But the acted segments on either side of the movie of the week are no more than eight minutes long, and Dean somehow doubts Ketch would have agreed to participate in a scuffle

<|output|> <|example|> to ride them for free.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> to ride them for free <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> The top does nothing to hide the textured snake winding up her arm and licking at her neck with a forked tongue <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 <|example|> But the acted segments on either side of the movie of the week are no more than eight minutes long, and Dean somehow doubts Ketch would have agreed to participate in a scuffle <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “Take your pants off <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> He watches, frozen, as Cas pulls his own shirt over his head and undoes his belt, shoving his sweats and boxers down in one go <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> Now <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> Seemed like maybe it wasn’t the best way to go <|indexes|> 6 6 <|example|> For the moment, his grief over Meg’s death has receded to a dull ache in the background <|indexes|> 7 7 |

<|text|> that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit. When Missouri looks back up at Dean, her expression is a good deal less soft. “As for your second question, I did know Gordon, but it never hurt to take time for a polite greeting before jumping right into other people’s business.” Just like that, Dean’s looking at another guy’s erection. It’s thick and blood-flushed and curves up a little towards his stomach, and Dean is bowled over by much he wants to know what it’ll feel like in his hands. Cas looks a little self-conscious now, peering up at him with uncertain eyes. “Still good?” “Well,” Cas says, already rising from the couch. “Thank you very much for your time, Missouri. We should be on our way, but you’ve been very helpful.” “That was the most fun I’ve had in ages,” Castiel says, once his lungs have somewhat recovered from the strain. “Years, maybe.” Dean pockets his phone and puts that statement in his already respectably sized “can’t deal with this right now” pile. “Well, if we don’t know where she went, we should…” Dean swallows heavily, a weird mix of emotions swirling in his gut — gratitude for Cas, along with anger at him, Sam, Jack and everything about this whole, fucked-up situation. The knight wasn’t based on Castiel, exactly, but they do share some basic traits: a reluctance to let others penetrate their defenses; the inability to carry a tune. It’ll have to do. If you have to be working somewhere after dark, Ellen’s 24-Hour Diner isn’t the worst place to do it. For a moment, Dean says nothing. He looks up at the night sky, wishing he knew enough about astronomy to be able to find Andromeda. Are those stars even visible where he is, or at this time of year? A stream of sticky, wine-dark liquid hits Ketch squarely across the eyes. With a snarl, Ketch claws at them, tries to blink them open against the glue-like substance coating his eyelashes. When Cas’ fingers wrap around Dean’s, holding him tighter, jerking him faster, Dean comes all over both their hands with a shout. He sinks forward again, boneless, letting Cas grab hold of his hips and fuck into him until, with one last, guttural groan, Cas paints Dean's insides with his release. “Dean,” Cas says, infinitely gentle. “If there’s even a small chance of saving you, I’m going to take it.” “I can help with that.” There’s no hesitation in Mills’ voice whatsoever, and that alone is such a relief, Dean almost does start to cry. “Come see me first thing tomorrow. I work out of Central Community Station, over on Sixth.” Probably sensing his moment of hesitation, she adds, “No one’s gonna arrest you. We’re just talking, for now.” Castiel lets himself fall backward and Dean follows him down, trailing a soft, open-mouthed line of kisses down the column of Castiel’s throat. Castiel tips his head back, his hands drifting down to his belt, but Dean bats them away gently and gets to work himself, kissing each letter of Castiel’s tattoo as he gets the belt undone. Doing his best impression of casual, Dean

<|output|> <|example|> that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Just like that, Dean’s looking at another guy’s erection <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 <|example|> “As for your second question, I did know Gordon, but it never hurt to take time for a polite greeting before jumping right into other people’s business <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> It’s thick and blood-flushed and curves up a little towards his stomach, and Dean is bowled over by much he wants to know what it’ll feel like in his hands <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> ” Probably sensing his moment of hesitation, she adds, “No one’s gonna arrest you <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> saunters over to the kitchen. When he picks up his phone and finds no missed messages, he’s not surprised. But it still stings a little. “Family-friendly,” Meg finishes for her, making a face as though the mere idea is offensive, despite the fact that she seems to enjoy family movie nights with Claire just fine. Before Dean can flare up, Cas cuts him off, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe. “Dean went for a drive and confirmed they don’t have croats here. Which fits with the theory we talked about: alternate universe.” Somehow, they make it out of the elevator bank closest to the ICU, and Castiel tugs Jimmy along by the hand, trying to find the reception desk so they can ask where Dean might have gone. These sensations are new and exciting, but they pale in comparison with a warm, golden glow that calls to my newborn consciousness. “Can’t say we’ve met. Nice to meet you, Cas.” Garth holds out his hand to Cas, who’s gotten off the couch, presumably to better tower over Dean even though he’s actually an inch or two shorter. “Night, Cas,” he murmurs. By the time Cas says, “Goodnight, Dean,” Dean already has his back turned and his eyes firmly closed. Dean’s eyes drop to his palm, to the lopsided C carved into it. He turns up the overhead light, stands right under it, and snaps a picture. With a deep, slightly shaky exhale, he sends it off; just that, and a single word. A question, and a hope. “I don’t know what that means, but maybe you could write your Santa a letter, Daddy,” Claire says, helping herself to some popcorn as well. “Meg, did you bring any Sour Patch Kids this time?” “You can touch me if you want,” he whispers, kissing a trail along Dean’s cheek all the way to his ear. White noise buzzing in his head, Dean sits back on his heels and grabs the bottle, squirting a bit of liquid into his hands and rubbing them together to warm up. Still, Cas hisses when Dean’s fingers close around him, sliding up and down his shaft in slow, careful motions. The woman steps closer still, pinning him in place with her mismatched eyes, and Dean can smell her foul breath on his face. He’s in the lobby of the Rooster’s Sunrise Motel again, but the colors look washed out somehow, the oranges and reds less blindingly cheerful than he remembers. The reception desk, chairs and side tables are fuzzy around the edges, marking the places where Dean can’t quite remember the details of each item’s shape, or the way it was angled. Dean considers bringing up the curse thing again as they leave the doctor’s office, but there are shadows under Cas’ eyes so dark they look bruised, and he keeps picking at his thumbnail, which he only does when he’s about to blow up in someone’s face. Bottom line, Dean decides to let it go. But Dean is busy at the diner or with odd jobs around town most days, and Castiel isn’t the kind of person who pushes

<|output|> <|example|> saunters over to the kitchen. When he picks up his phone and finds no missed messages, he’s not surprised. But it still stings a little. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Somehow, they make it out of the elevator bank closest to the ICU, and Castiel tugs Jimmy along by the hand, trying to find the reception desk so they can ask where Dean might have gone <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> Which fits with the theory we talked about: alternate universe <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> to make plans with someone unless they offer first. In his more pathetic moments, Castiel finds himself hoping that something around the house is going to break, as Dean seems to be Bobby’s go-to maintenance man. Perhaps Dean would come over and make short work of the job, then Castiel would offer him a drink for his trouble, and they’d sit and talk. As friends, of course. The universe strikes its next blow about an hour later. Castiel has no classes to teach today — a small mercy — but the state of his fridge and pantry is pitiful, and the nearest decent grocery store is half an hour’s drive away. Dean watches as Kaia’s eyes dart to the side of Claire’s face. Claire seems to notice, because she turns a little, and their eyes catch and hold. Dean chuckles. “Yeah. You two—” He points back and forth between Claire and Kaia. “—should definitely come.” Those people don’t know, or choose to ignore, the other life that goes on behind the scenes of a Chicago night. As he exits the garage, two uniformed cops cross his path. Their eyes slide over him, and they keep walking. “And you never got in touch after they found me,” Dean says, his voice too carefully even to be anything other than hurt. “Why, Cas? When I knew you… between the two of us, you were always the brave one. You were never scared of anything. Why—” “Dean, what are you doing?” Cas whispers against Dean’s lips, trying hard to call to mind all the reasons why he was supposed to keep his distance from Dean. “Silenzio, Bruno!” Cas and Amara answer in unison, and Dean likes the way Cas’ eyes light up when he laughs. Cas saunters back to his reading chair, Russian tome already back open on his lap. “I’m beginning to rethink the merits of death by rebar,” he growls, eyes fixed firmly on the page. Claire nudges Castiel with her elbow. “Daddy, are Bobby and Donatello gonna fight?” She looks more excited than scared at the prospect. It feels odd, sitting on the familiar, saggy two-seater couch in the living room without Dean there to keep Castiel company. Dean prays to whoever is listening that Sam won’t ask any follow-up questions. He’s certainly not prepared to talk about the whole confusing situation with Jimmy. Not when just thinking about Jimmy’s message from last night makes his stomach squirm in a way that has nothing to do with his hangover. ( He teases into Cas’ mouth with his tongue and grinds down with his hips, feeling the way Cas is hard in his baggy sweats. “Yeah — conductor, train conductor? It’s a joke, Cas,” Dean prompts. “Not a great one, sure, but you’ve heard of those, right? Jokes?” Dean watches for another moment as Cas heads for the laundry room, shoulders hunched over the unwieldy basket, worn jeans too big for his lean frame. He paced and mumbled and fretted for about two more hours, but then he curled up with his laptop and started researching flights to China. That done, he started filling out applications: first for

<|output|> <|example|> to make plans with someone unless they offer first. In his more pathetic moments, Castiel finds himself hoping that something around the house is going to break, as Dean seems to be Bobby’s go-to maintenance man. Perhaps Dean would come over and make short work of the job, then Castiel would offer him a drink for his trouble, and they’d sit and talk. As friends, of course. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Dean chuckles <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> ( He teases into Cas’ mouth with his tongue and grinds down with his hips, feeling the way Cas is hard in his baggy sweats <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> In his more pathetic moments, Castiel finds himself hoping that something around the house is going to break, as Dean seems to be Bobby’s go-to maintenance man <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “Not a great one, sure, but you’ve heard of those, right? Jokes?” Dean watches for another moment as Cas heads for the laundry room, shoulders hunched over the unwieldy basket, worn jeans too big for his lean frame <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> a passport, then for a travel visa. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Garth climbs up to the podium, waiting patiently as everybody takes a seat again. “Alright. Before we get down to business, who had, ‘Donatello threatens to quit as mayor at least ten times before the end of the year’?” About five people raise their hands. “Great,” Garth says. “You know the drill. Jess is the treasurer for the betting pool, so she’ll be the one to pay out your winnings. For now, let’s get on with talking about the Thanksgiving feast.” “Cas, I… I don’t even know where to start.” Dean fidgets, hands twisting and scratching at each other in his lap. “I should never have worked that job with Meg. I thought it was the right thing to do, but…” He huffs a mirthless laugh. “God, I was so damn stupid.” and two other Led Zeppelin songs he remembers, half-expecting Crowley to appear and disperse Castiel’s creation like so much smoke. But the forest that surrounds them, the warmth of the flames, remains unbroken. to take care of Jack. He knows very well that the school will only allow the children to be picked up by certain people specifically authorized by their parents at the beginning of the school year, so it makes sense that Sam would be here. “Yeah, you never wanna argue with this one about snow,” Benny calls from the kitchen. “It’s like he’s got a sixth sense.” Dean keeps going south along Boyle, trying to think on the fly. From the backseat, he can hear quiet muttering, but he tunes it out and turns up the volume on the Clippers game again. “So, so sure,” he says, and dives in again, hitching one of Cas’ legs up for better access as he grinds down again. “You saw my website?” Cas asks, shy and pleased as he lets Dean take his hand and pull them down onto the couch next to each other. “Two kinds of comfort food, together at last,” Rowena says dreamily. “It seemed like a match made in Heaven.” “Seems likely,” Sam says. “I found my wallet on the desk in my room. I don’t think I’d leave without it, unless I was forced.” Castiel’s fingers tighten around his mug as he tries to resist the impulse to throw it at Balthazar’s head. Because, very annoyingly, Balthazar is right. “The ideas just won’t come,” he says, hiding his face behind a sip of coffee. “I’ve been a little preoccupied, as you might imagine.” He's probably just stating a fact, like he does sometimes. But Dean's already on edge about pretty much everything, and just like that, all his irritation with Cas comes rushing back. “Just trying to work the case here, Cas," he hisses. "You know, like I've done all my life. You got a problem with that?” Max comes to stand behind Castiel, admiring their combined reflection in the full-length mirror. Castiel always thought it was a little ridiculous for Max to cram one of those into his tiny bedroom, but it’s helpful tonight. “It’s been said,” Dean mumbles, doing his best to ignore

<|output|> <|example|> a passport, then for a travel visa. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> But the forest that surrounds them, the warmth of the flames, remains unbroken <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> the heavy weight on his chest as he strides past Charlie and heads further into town. Claire and Jack come running back at that point, and Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand, but the memory of Dean’s smile warms him long after it’s faded from Dean’s face. The words sting and rip, deep in Castiel’s core, but he can’t let Dean see. He can’t make himself more vulnerable than he already is. Instead, he hardens his voice. “That’s not how it works, Dean. You can’t just turn it off.” Castiel moves in close again until their chests touch. He runs his palms up and down Dean’s back with gentle, barely-there touches, but he doesn’t take things further. Rowena nods, looking pleased. She runs her fingers gently across the top of the suitcase, almost caressing it. “Yes, dear. Creation is the enemy of oblivion. Every other ingredient of the spell is merely an accelerant. Window dressing, if you will. Creation is the only thing capable of tearing a hole in Hell.” “Cas.” The sound of his name on Dean’s lips has Castiel’s other hand traveling lower, between Dean’s cheeks, to tease at Dean’s rim with a slick finger. Maybe he does, because for the first time Dean can remember, his father is letting a stranger get away with challenging one of his decisions. Dean isn’t about to let him even put that insane suggestion out there. “No way, Sam. Absolutely not.” “Don’t worry. I like beer just fine,” Cas says, taking a sip and relishing the crisp, slightly bitter taste. “So this is where you usually go for drinks?” “Sure,” Meg agrees, tossing a handful of popcorn in her mouth as she sprawls out at the opposite end of the couch from Castiel. “It’s a lot like that, if Santa liked to wear flannel and had a much better jawline.” “Don’t know,” Sam says. He gets up, stretches and starts reshelving the books. “Their records stop in the 1950s. But the bunker has clearly been inhabited since then. And based on everything we’ve seen, I’m thinking another version of the three of us lived here.” When they were leaving Donatello’s house, he promised he’d be right behind them and find another way into the basement. Dean was about seventy-five percent sure it was a line to get rid of them. Dean nods frantically and lets himself be dragged upstairs. Castiel has never been more grateful that the room where the children are sleeping is on the ground floor, safely out of hearing. Jack walks over until his reflection joins Castiel’s in the mirror, looking handsome in a light grey suit with a succulent buttoniere that matches Castiel’s own. “Do you not want to marry Dean anymore?” Jack asks, with a confused tilt of his head. place is too. It turns out this bunker used to house members of a secret society called the Men of Letters. They researched and chronicled the supernatural.” When Rowena steps away, she looks the most flustered Dean has seen her so far. “Well,” she says, fanning herself with a small smile. “I was hard pressed to find the resemblance between you and Samuel

<|output|> <|example|> the heavy weight on his chest as he strides past Charlie and heads further into town. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Claire and Jack come running back at that point, and Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand, but the memory of Dean’s smile warms him long after it’s faded from Dean’s face <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “No way, Sam <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> before, but I think I see it now.” Dean chuckles. “Good point.” There’s a beat of silence, then, “D’you still have the flask? It’s kind of… a family heirloom.” Something about Dean’s eyes tightens when he adds, “Was my dad’s.” “So, Garth.” Dean leans forward, because if anything hatches from that wet spot, he should at least be out of claw-swiping distance. “Whatcha got?” “Oh, right. I forgot,” Bobby says, every word dripping with sarcasm. “This is all for the greater good. This is you bein’ a goddamn hero.” “You’re not supposed to do that, you know,” she says. “You could actually get the bleeding started again when you remove the paper. Try leaning forward and pinching your nose instead.” When Dean walks through the bunker’s front door, the place seems deserted. He considers calling out, but instinct honed from years of dodging croats tells him not to draw attention to himself like that. “Now, now, boys, don’t fight!” Amara sweeps them both into a hug that smells like the flowers on her dress. She smiles at Dean, eyes glittering. “You must be Dean! Castiel has told me so much about you.” There’s a pair of legs resting on the floor of the corridor that leads to the laundry room, like someone’s slumped against the wall. They’re a woman’s legs, wrapped in dark denim and high-heeled black boots. “Right,” says Donatello, somewhat flustered and trying to cover it by shuffling a stack of papers on his podium. “This meeting of the 25th of October has been called to address a matter of the most grave urgency.” Like a roll of film, always paused in the background and just waiting to start playing at the worst possible moments, the memories unspool, showing Castiel everything that happened that night. And the morning after. “No, but look, we never even watched Star Wars,” Charlie protests, flailing her hands at Cas, who’s enjoying Dean’s struggles from his comfortable perch on the couch. “Your boyfriend over there is going to keep going through life, not knowing what Princess Leia looks like in a bikini.” “Or,” Dean says, around a sudden flutter of nerves, “you could sleep in my bed. With me. If you want.” “Potato skins don’t belong in mashed potatoes, end of story,” Dean says as he shoves a large tray of turkey legs at Garth, who almost buckles under the impact. “I like you, dude,” Charlie says, clapping a not-exactly-gentle hand on Cas’ shoulder. “You can stay. Now, what can I get you two lovely gents?” When he went to college here, crossing the Easter River always felt like coming home. Once you were across, you’d officially arrived in the town of Easterbridge; home to all his best memories and a few of his worst. As Castiel uses the empty paper bag to wrap up what’s left of the ciabatta loaf for Aunt Amara, he thinks that maybe having a Dean swallows his bite of meatloaf. Instead of spearing another one with his fork, he glares across the table at Cas. “I “I can respect that,” Dean says softly. “But honestly, if you don’t mind sticking to my baby brother, Sammy, I

<|output|> <|example|> before, but I think I see it now.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Once you were across, you’d officially arrived in the town of Easterbridge; home to all his best memories and a few of his worst <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “You could actually get the bleeding started again when you remove the paper <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 <|example|> before, but I think I see it now <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> “This meeting of the 25th of October has been called to address a matter of the most grave urgency <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Once you were across, you’d officially arrived in the town of Easterbridge; home to all his best memories and a few of his worst <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> “No, but look, we never even watched Star Wars,” Charlie protests, flailing her hands at Cas, who’s enjoying Dean’s struggles from his comfortable perch on the couch <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> She smiles at Dean, eyes glittering <|indexes|> 6 <|example|> ” “You’re not supposed to do that, you know,” she says <|indexes|> 7 7 <|example|> Instead of spearing another one with his fork, he glares across the table at Cas <|indexes|> 8 8 |

<|text|> could talk about him all day.” “That’s Cas, and his daughter is Claire. They’re spending a couple days in town,” Dean says, grinning at them before he fixes his eyes on the spectacle by the gazebo again. Rowena claps her hands together, looking openly delighted. “Oh, my darling Samuel! Yes, he did say you were coming.” She lowers her voice until it resembles the respectfully hushed tones of a funeral director at the graveside. “Something about a suspected curse?” “The fuckin’ nerve of that—” Bobby starts, but Dean doesn’t let him finish. He stalks back to the office, trying his best to have his face composed by the time he opens the door. “Dude, no.” Dean steps forward, chasing after Castiel and grabbing hold of one of his hands. “I liked it. Just… didn’t expect it.” The Impala’s passenger door creaks as Castiel opens it, and Dean’s warm, easy smile is the first thing he sees when he slides onto the bench seat. Castiel tried a few more times — “Do you ever hook up at parties? Is there anyone you like?” — but he always received non-committal, monosyllabic answers. “Oh, yeah, we’re good. Fine. Awesome. Peachy.” Sam’s frown is practically audible over the phone line, and Dean probably should’ve stopped talking three adjectives ago. “Cas is here, too,” he says, already panicking. “I miss you, too.” These are words they’ve said to each other before, and they feel right, comfortable, familiar. But what if, someday, those words aren’t enough anymore? What if a lie by omission really does cost him the thing he loves most in the world? But that voice gets weaker and weaker as the day goes on. The fact is, Dean never called after. He hasn’t responded to Castiel’s text. The timing of his trip out of town could be a coincidence, but it doesn’t feel like one. Cas nods. They sit and watch the screen, but Dean is more focused on the solid warmth in his arms. He lets himself fall into the comfort of it until he drifts off. Castiel finds that he has quite a few questions, but only one that truly matters. “What are your expectations for the hours you want employees to keep?” “More to the point,” Cas pipes up, and Dean glares at him, because he wasn’t done. “How do we get back?” “He’s here with me,” Cas rumbles as he steps out from behind Dean, squinting at Vic, who has several inches on him. “I’m covering this story for the Baltimore Brain. What can you tell me about the victim?” “Oh yeah?” Dean says, not raising his own gun, but also not relaxing out of his defensive stance. “How do we know “Why—” Castiel starts, breathless, then gulps another deep inhale before he attempts to talk again. “Why do you ask?” She hovers another few seconds, looking like she wants to say something else, possibly suggest a psych eval. But she seems to think better of it, retreating with a small smile and a, “Have a good night now.” “Well, I guess that’s that,” he says, when he’s finally capable of forming words again. “I’d better go.” But the

<|output|> <|example|> could talk about him all day.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” But the <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> What can you tell me about the victim?” “Oh yeah?” Dean says, not raising his own gun, but also not relaxing out of his defensive stance <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> What can you tell me about the victim?” “Oh yeah?” Dean says, not raising his own gun, but also not relaxing out of his defensive stance <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> end of the world will not wait for Castiel’s whims. It’s important to move fast — to stay one step ahead of God himself and his capricious sister. Perhaps, once this fight is done, there will be peace and rest for Castiel and his family. Dean’s entire face goes slack when he gets a good look at Cas, blue eyes dark and questioning, searching his face for permission. “Is this OK?” Cas asks, his voice a bottomless rumble. Once he’s adjusted, Dean opens his eyes to find Cas staring at him with naked awe, but also an undercurrent of worry. “I’m not hurting you, am I, Dean?” “You really should get that coat. You’ve been drinking, and it’s close to freezing out here. Remember what happened—” Dean tries to keep a straight face, he really does, but it’s a lost cause. He cackles. “Dude, I’m messing with you. It’s still just your intro speech, and then the test and the fight with me, and then your little closer.” Imitating Cas’ gravelly growl, Dean recites, “‘These undead abominations will never be allowed to roam free. Not while I’m around. I’m Castiel Krushnic, vampire hunter.’” “Jack’s not actually mine. Not by blood, I mean,” Dean says. “I adopted him from foster care.” He blows out a breath, leaning both arms on the counter as if to steady himself. “I was married for a couple years when I was younger, about a decade ago. It didn’t work out, though. She wasn’t real interested in moving from DC to a tiny place like this, and we’d already been fighting because I wanted kids and she didn’t, so…” He trails off, shrugging. “After that, I tried dating a couple times, but the dating pool’s pretty shallow out here. Eventually, I kinda gave up on the idea that I’d have a family of my own.” For someone whose brain is still struggling to pick up the pieces, it seems like a pretty accurate summation of their current situation. “Great.” Dean looks up and down the sidewalk and, seeing no one, leans in to kiss Castiel softly on the lips. “There. Kinda needed that.” Unsure of what to do with himself after the unmitigated disaster of the conversation with his mother, Castiel goes to bed. He lies in the darkness for a long time, a plan slowly forming in his head. What he and Claire need is some distance from the routines they’ve fallen into, and time to reconnect. The fear of parenting Claire without Amelia still scratches away at the back of Castiel’s mind, but he pushes it away. Being a stranger to Claire for the rest of her life seems far more terrifying. “Go, Daddy, go!” Claire calls from the back seat, inherently excited for anything that involves a road trip and the word “Christmas.” It’s not actually Christmas yet, not for another two days, but the official Novak Christmas celebration was always held early, even when Castiel and his brothers were young, so that Naomi and Charles could invite as many business contacts as possible. Actual Christmas was, if anything, a low-key affair by Novak

<|output|> <|example|> end of the world will not wait for Castiel’s whims. It’s important to move fast — to stay one step ahead of God himself and his capricious sister. Perhaps, once this fight is done, there will be peace and rest for Castiel and his family. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He cackles <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> It didn’t work out, though <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Perhaps, once this fight is done, there will be peace and rest for Castiel and his family <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> standards. Except, no. Not nothing, exactly. There’s something inside him, like a hook caught in his chest, pulling him along. Not painful, but definitely… urgent. He can hear the hopeful inflection at the end of his sentence, and he knows Cas hears it too when the corner of his mouth twitches a little. “I just…” Cas starts, shrugs, tries again. “I don’t like people thinking of her that way. She’s not my mom, obviously. But she’s the closest thing to one.” Dean’s being an ass and he knows it, but the city police department has a bad reputation for a reason. So he can’t help getting in a shot every once in a while, even though he’s sure that Jo is clean. The last thing Castiel wants is for Sam to see him fall apart, which is something that is very clearly on the verge of happening, judging by the lump in his throat and the tremor in his hands. ago, Dean. That’s all it took. I came to this crazy town, and because the people here cared about me and Claire, I found my way to the life I wanted, the person I wanted to be. But most of all, I found Eventually, Cas does. His eyes are vivid with rage and, now that the adrenaline of the fight is presumably starting to dissipate, fear. “We’re trapped in here, Dean,” he croaks. “He’s never letting us go.” Rubbing at the pizza grease coating his fingertips to buy time, he says, “My hands are a little dirty.” “Well,” Donatello says, sounding only the vaguest bit apologetic. “You have to see things from my perspective. As mayor of the town, it falls to me to apprise our citizens of any significant new developments and discuss whether they’re in the town’s, ah, best interest.” “Humanity in all its beauty, Cas,” Dean answers, grinning obnoxiously. Leftover unease from their earlier, interrupted conversation still simmers under his skin, but this isn’t the time for it. He needs to be focused on the hunt. “Hey, Claire?” he says, running a hand through his daughter’s hair. Claire’s eyelids are already starting to sag, the excitement of the past few hours clearly catching up with her. “Don’t flatter yourself,” Meg growls, but with a kiss to the top of his head and a squeeze of his shoulder, she departs to join the seething crowd of revelers. Castiel takes advantage of the reprieve by settling down with Meg on the couch again, trying to focus on their conversation and resist the urge to drink the entire bottle of wine that’s sitting in one of the kitchen cabinets. Bobby slams his fist on the desk, making Dean jump. “You think Lucio’s the kind of guy who’ll just let her go? Then you ain’t got an ounce of sense, boy. No matter how much money you and her make for him, he’ll The argument is mostly sound until he calls his boss in Kansas and asks to take next week off. She’s not happy about the short notice, but she approves his request. The next morning, Castiel lets his two staff members in the Beijing office know

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

<|output|> <|example|> “You think Lucio’s the kind of guy who’ll just let her go? Then you ain’t got an ounce of sense, boy <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Not nothing, exactly <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> The next morning, Castiel lets his two staff members in the Beijing office know <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 <|example|> She’s not happy about the short notice, but she approves his request <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> She’s not happy about the short notice, but she approves his request <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> Not nothing, exactly <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> The last thing Castiel wants is for Sam to see him fall apart, which is something that is very clearly on the verge of happening, judging by the lump in his throat and the tremor in his hands <|indexes|> 6 6 <|example|> ” “Humanity in all its beauty, Cas,” Dean answers, grinning obnoxiously <|indexes|> 7 7 |

<|text|> that they might have to cope without him for a week. “Whatever, jerk,” Sammy says, his annoyance obviously just as fake as Dean’s outrage. “I’ve got an event to cover for the paper in a little while. Just came by for some coffee to go.” Which is why she’s dismayed when a man steps onto the bus and slides into the seat right next to her, crowding her. She looks up to reprimand him, but when her eyes meet his, fear stops the words in her throat. Dean’s face heats up to roughly the temperature of a volcano mid-eruption. “Um,” he mumbles, feeling the need to do something, anything, to get away from the scene playing out in front of him. "I'll just go. Get something." He turns away from the bed, arms swinging awkwardly at his sides. What does he usually do with those? He can't seem to remember. There’s more beer, and another round of shots, and by the time they stagger out of the Roadhouse, it must be well after midnight. When Castiel stumbles over a loose brick in the sidewalk, Dean puts an arm around his shoulders. “I hope so,” Cas says quietly, looking down at the form in Dean’s hand. “That he’s happy, I mean. We get so little time together, I… I don’t always know.” Mildred, clearly unbothered by the gentle reproof, stretches out her hand for Castiel to take. “Well, I’m so glad you’re choosing to stay with us, dear. It’s a little slow just now, so soon after the summer holidays and before the leaves have properly changed.” “Am I too late?” The words are out of Dean’s mouth before he’s fully processed them, but he may as well go with it now. He scans Cas’ face, hoping his eyes are telling Cas all the things he wants to say, but can’t. Not here, under the flickering, fluorescent lights, with a fussy, older man clearing his throat noisily behind him. Dean and Jack do eventually arrive, about ten minutes late. (Ten minutes that Castiel spent fretting that his earlier kiss somehow scared Dean off coming altogether, even though his rational mind is well aware that where life with small children is concerned, appointment times are vague guidelines at best.) “But you mentioned just now that a lot of the… the monsters you used to hunt have vulnerabilities. Things that can hurt them.” “Alright,” Castiel echoes mindlessly. Sam starts to walk to the door, but Castiel calls him back. “Sam?” Cas is standing by the front door, one hand still on the light switch, his expression grim. Garth is sitting on the floor next to the shattered remains of Ketch’s former chair, looking just as stunned as Dean feels. There’s no trace of either Ketch or Mick. Cas, who was frozen in place at being attacked with a kiss in the middle of a motel room at two in the afternoon, suddenly springs to life. With an appreciative hum, he raises his hand to the side of Dean’s face and pulls them closer again, meeting the kiss with gentle but insistent pressure. Cas tries to pull away, but

<|output|> <|example|> that they might have to cope without him for a week. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Mildred, clearly unbothered by the gentle reproof, stretches out her hand for Castiel to take <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> Missouri’s grip holds firm. “You’re a good man, I can tell. Please. Be careful.” A helpless, half-hysterical laugh bubbles up Dean’s throat. “That’s actually the first thing you ever said to me.” Cas sighs and resolves to shift his attention back to his brother, who has been acting extremely suspicious all evening. Gabe, as always, is playing next to Cas, whereas Charlie is almost all the way at the other end of the stage. Yet, Gabe has dashed over to her seat after each song so far, bending over to whisper in her ear. Every time, Charlie giggles and practically bounces with excitement at whatever Gabe is telling her, which Cas finds rather worrying. “Well, you already said the doctor and the shrink found nothing wrong with you." Balthazar shrugs, the picture of innocence. “It didn’t seem Dean chuckles softly and rubs at the back of his neck. “See, I wasn’t sure… honestly, I kinda thought you were straight. It’s part of why I never made a move. Well, that, and it’s unbelievably awkward to be shot down in a town where everybody’s bound to find out about it within an hour.” Dean stops in his tracks and turns toward him. “No, I— you’re right. Fuck, we both handed in our theses today, so we gotta celebrate, right?” “Great,” Dean says, tonelessly. Should he go for the pair with a bit of blood already painted on? He’d say it’s too cheesy, but “too cheesy” has never really been a deterrent on this show. Cas smiles, shy and pleased, and that smile is what gives Dean the boost to reach for the waistband of his boxers and pull them down until he’s naked and exposed in front of his best friend. He barely manages to resist the urge to reach down and cover himself. Cas nods and almost leans across Dean to get to his suit jacket, which is hanging on a hook next to his bed. But he thinks better of it. “It’s, uh. If you open the curtain right there behind you, it’s in my jacket. Inside pocket.” The silence in the room is so absolute, Dean thinks he can hear the sound of a lonely cricket five miles away. Dean shrugs and flicks his brother’s forehead, making the bangs swing. “Maybe I’m just tired of your face, bitch.” It all starts when Castiel wakes up with a raging headache and a heart heavy with regrets. Not regrets about walking away from an ill-advised drunken hookup with Dean, exactly, but even with the memories of last night somewhat hazy, he can’t deny he probably could have done a better job extricating himself from the situation. “It was a freaking snowball, Donatello,” Sam says from his accustomed seat to the right of the podium. “It’s hardly the end of the world.” “I curse you, Dean Winchester,” she hisses, pointing a clawed finger at him. A tarnished silver ring with a cracked gemstone sits on that finger, like a bug perching on a withered branch. “Your beloved will forget your very existence.” Dean looks after him, shaking his head fondly, before he turns to Castiel. “What do

<|output|> <|example|> Missouri’s grip holds firm. “You’re a good man, I can tell. Please. Be careful.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It’s part of why I never made a move <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “See, I wasn’t sure… honestly, I kinda thought you were straight <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “Well, you already said the doctor and the shrink found nothing wrong with you <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> you say? You wanna join us at the diner for post-game analysis?” Dean only has a couple of bags, so when they get home, he offers to help carry some of Cas’ shopping. It’s not exactly a hardship, because Cas’ apartment is right next to Dean’s own, at the end of the fourth-floor corridor. “I’ve been told before,” Cas says, voice as cold as he can make it when those infuriatingly distracting freckles are right in front of his face. Every single one of Dean’s nerve endings is still thrumming by the time he pulls into the parking garage at home. Heart hammering in his chest, Castiel hits “send.” Perhaps he should have asked to be allowed to retrieve his personal effects, but all things considered, it doesn’t seem necessary. The only personal item he keeps at work is a picture of himself with Claire and Amelia, and he has another copy of that on his nightstand. Sam surges forward, spilling a little of his beer on Dean’s shirt, but Dean can’t get himself to care when his brother’s arms are wrapped tight around his shoulders. “We haven’t even left the station, and you’re already a wet blanket,” Charlie pouts and squeezes him harder than should be possible for someone that small in size. Dean is in the driver’s seat of a 2012 Honda Accord with a V8 under the hood. According to his phone’s timer app, he arrived thirty seconds ago. Four minutes thirty to go. “Right,” Charlie agrees. “So we were thinking, why don’t the four of us have ourselves a bit more of an adult activity?” “C’mon, let’s look around,” Max says, grinning and still pulling Castiel by the hand. Castiel takes note of the drinks tables at either side of the room. There’s soda, water and lemonade only, but Castiel knows Max has a flask in his suit, as most people at the ball probably do. “Piacere,” Dean echoes, and he thinks he’s grinning. Next to him, Cas looks like he just bit into a lemon slice. Ketch slants his eyes at Dean, their brown sparkling with delighted malice. “When this town is mine and I’ve finished turning it into a feeding ground for my nest, beautiful Castiel here is going to reign at my side.” His expression darkens. “And there’s not a thing “How does that help me?” Dean asks, his voice rising along with his impatience. “I’m trying to figure out how While Dean works, occasionally pausing to shoo away Charlie and Eileen when they try to look over his shoulder, everyone else mingles. Castiel stays put in his seat. His attention is on Dean, and he completely misses Sam’s approach until the younger Winchester looms right next to him. The front of his jeans feels uncomfortably tight, and he’s thrusting into and against any part of Cas he can reach. He can barely scrape enough brain cells together to undo his zipper over the hard line of his cock. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize he’s going to need both hands for that job, so he pulls back the one that had a death grip on

<|output|> <|example|> you say? You wanna join us at the diner for post-game analysis?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Dean is in the driver’s seat of a 2012 Honda Accord with a V8 under the hood <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> Heart hammering in his chest, Castiel hits “send <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> He can barely scrape enough brain cells together to undo his zipper over the hard line of his cock <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “I’m trying to figure out how While Dean works, occasionally pausing to shoo away Charlie and Eileen when they try to look over his shoulder, everyone else mingles <|indexes|> 3 3 3 3 <|example|> There’s soda, water and lemonade only, but Castiel knows Max has a flask in his suit, as most people at the ball probably do <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> He can barely scrape enough brain cells together to undo his zipper over the hard line of his cock <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> Ketch slants his eyes at Dean, their brown sparkling with delighted malice <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> Cas’ hip. But Cas presses closer again, taking hold of both of Dean’s wrists and pulling on them until Dean’s hands come to rest on two firm, round ass cheeks. . Right there. Just like that, Dean.” Castiel reaches behind himself to wrap his arms around Dean’s neck and Dean steadies him with a hand on his chest as Castiel moves faster, chasing completion. Bobby emerges from the office two minutes later with an older woman, her gray hair cut short and neat, and her cheerfully flower-patterned blouse a good match for her tinkling laugh. “She just... she doesn't seem...” Cas looks down at his hands, watching them fidget with his phone, but Dean squats down to catch his eye again. His expression is determined, every line of his body angled to show that he’s taking charge of the situation. Cas wishes he had the words to say how much he appreciates it. Instead, he says, "She seems so sure of her story." “Welcome back, horror fans,” Cas tells the camera, eyebrows furrowed grimly. “Did you know there are some people who don’t believe in vampires?” His voice is equal parts incredulity and disapproval. “Well, we’re about to prove them wrong. You’ve already met these two local businessmen—” he points an admonishing finger at Dean and Ketch in turn “—Dean Smith and Arthur Ketch, who are suspected of being the undead. Blood suckers. Monsters preying on the young and beautiful of our town. Tonight, we’ll discover the truth of the matter… together.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Cas watch the motion, like a hawk intent on its prey. After a quick check for animals in the road, he drives just a little faster. Dean nods, swallowing hard enough that the motion of his throat is visible even on a grainy camera image that’s traveled halfway around the world. Dean finally looks up, something desperately vulnerable in his eyes, and Castiel has never hated the distance between them more. “Fine, whatever,” Dean mumbles, eyeing the bike with obvious reservations as Castiel jumps off and tilts the handlebars in Dean’s general direction. “Fair, and completely pointless,” Garth says and, well, he isn’t wrong, but Castiel is not about to admit that out loud. Not when Dean is practically lit up with glee at the front of the room, thoroughly enjoying the commotion. Finally, Cas turns. As Dean watches, one of his gorgeous blue eyes clouds up. His fingernails curl into talons, and his hair grows past his shoulders, streaks of gray threading through it. When he smiles, his teeth are mottled and jagged as gravestones, and suddenly he’s not Cas at all anymore. In the innermost compartment, he keeps a picture: the one he took of Dean at Tombstone, in his cowboy hat. From the pocket of his coat, Castiel retrieves its match: the photograph of himself that he used to summon the crossroads demon. It's a little creased, but otherwise hasn't suffered from its brief sojourn underground. A voice says “Dean” and he jolts awake. He thinks there was darkness before, but now there’s a room of solid stone, and

<|output|> <|example|> Cas’ hip. But Cas presses closer again, taking hold of both of Dean’s wrists and pulling on them until Dean’s hands come to rest on two firm, round ass cheeks. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Bobby emerges from the office two minutes later with an older woman, her gray hair cut short and neat, and her cheerfully flower-patterned blouse a good match for her tinkling laugh <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> After a quick check for animals in the road, he drives just a little faster <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Just like that, Dean <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Blood suckers <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Finally, Cas turns <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> Dean finally looks up, something desperately vulnerable in his eyes, and Castiel has never hated the distance between them more <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> “Fine, whatever,” Dean mumbles, eyeing the bike with obvious reservations as Castiel jumps off and tilts the handlebars in Dean’s general direction <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> a man before him in a knight’s armor, pinning him in place with his blue-eyed stare. Cesar glances at Cas briefly before returning his attention to the empty doorway of the restaurant. “About a week ago. I was ready to report him missing after a couple days, but then I ran into him in the street. He… he seemed…” “So here’s the thing. Lucifer might be gone, but I still feel like I can hear him in my head almost all the time, you know? He was with me for years. You don’t just walk away from that.” “I’ll watch ‘em,” Garth calls from the other side of the diner. “I can get you references from all my babysitting clients. Mr. Fizzles is a big hit with everyone.” Dean hums his agreement and moves in for another kiss, this one sweet and chaste. He gets up to dispose of the condom and grab a washcloth from the bathroom. When he walks back in and hands Cas the cloth, Cas mutters a quiet "thank you" but won't meet Dean's eye. Hell or not, Castiel bristles at having his grief and suffering minimized by what is, at least in outward appearance, a small, balding businessman. “Dean is not meant to be here,” he says through gritted teeth. “He doesn’t belong in Hell.” “I was,” Other Sam says, reaching up to push some of his hair behind his ear. It’s the same nervous tic Dean’s seen on his own Sam a thousand times. “But when I woke up here, Lucifer was just... gone.” Annoyed, Castiel taps his fingers against the kitchen countertop. “It’s still none of your business. I’m going to pick up Jimmy now. Are you planning to spend any time with him today?” Despite Cas’ best intentions, Dean’s voice is a magnet, and Cas may as well be composed of iron filings. His eyes lift, purely of their own volition, to center stage, where Dean is bending over his microphone, caressing it suggestively as he winks at the females in the audience. The song is, ostensibly, about a woman defending her lover, but the fact remains: it’s an ode to a man, sung by someone who has rarely left Cas’ thoughts since their first meeting. “Oh, thank fuck.” Dean’s relief is obvious even through the closed door. “Got worried when you wouldn’t answer your damn phone. You mind letting me in? I need to talk to you.” He watches as the head nudges at Dean’s entrance, listens to the rough, wanting sound tearing out of Dean’s throat at the sensation. He pushes gently, slowly, past the initial resistance, then slides inside inch by inch, watching Dean’s face for his reaction and trying not to be overcome by the warmth and tightness enveloping him. Knowing Cas always locks the door when he’s home, Dean doesn’t even try the knob before he digs out his keys. When he’s finally gotten a hold of them with his still-shaking fingers, he immediately loses his grip. The keys drop on the concrete floor with a jarring clink of metal. Cursing, he stoops to pick them up. It takes about twenty

<|output|> <|example|> a man before him in a knight’s armor, pinning him in place with his blue-eyed stare. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> gone <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> When he’s finally gotten a hold of them with his still-shaking fingers, he immediately loses his grip <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “It’s still none of your business <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> ” Dean hums his agreement and moves in for another kiss, this one sweet and chaste <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> minutes to get the whole scene set up again, but eventually, Dean and Ketch are each tied to their chairs, with Mick hovering in the shadows just out of view. Cas looks a little lost as he takes in the sad, bare landscape of his office. There’s really only a desk and a chair left, alongside an empty bookcase and filing cabinet. All his things are already packed up in boxes, ready to be picked up by movers and shipped back to Kansas. But that question doesn’t have an answer — not a real one that can be promised. So Dean doesn’t ask. Instead, when his mom’s voice rings out from the sidewalk beyond, he brushes one last kiss against Cas’ lips and walks out of the shadow of the alley to meet his family. The most fashionable resort in 1920s Palm Beach was called The Breakers, but the descriptions of the hotel in this fic are based on the Castiel is at a loss as to how to answer. Is this complete stranger offering to invite them out for a meal? “Uh…” he tries. “I don’t really know—” Cas hunches his shoulders against the icy breeze coming off the lake. “I still think we should have taken that Florida engagement Singer’s agency was offering.” “Don’t scare away my customers, dude,” the woman behind the counter says, eyes sparkling with barely contained glee. “Despite what you might think, not everyone wants to be flirted with.” Castiel feels the same stab of regret he does every time he’s reminded of what he’s lost. It’s strange, yearning for something he can’t remember having. Castiel’s arms almost give out when he feels Dean’s mouth, wet and hot, on the small of his back, and then the flat of his tongue, trailing and teasing across his skin, but never dipping lower. “Yeah, Cas, but it’s better if I don’t tell you where I am, just until I can figure out what the hell happened.” Another moment of silence. “Cas, I’m so…” They end up having lunch at the diner, and it turns out that Benny’s talents in the kitchen extend not just to breakfast food, but also to burgers and crab cakes. Cas huffs. “It’s not that easy. I know myself, Dean.” After another beat of silence, he adds, “I need someone to keep an eye on me.” “You know, Claire,” he says, “you probably don’t remember going across that bridge before, but it’s really something. It has two different spans, and they’re each almost five miles long. I always thought driving across it felt a little like flying over the water.” “Dean,” Cas says, trying hard to suppress the undertone of impatience in his voice, but Dean knows him too well. He can tell it’s there. “C’mon, think about this. If there’s the first sign that we’re in over our head, you can leave, and I’ll be right behind you. But…” Cas’ eyes flick to Sam, and he nods, like he’s confirming something to himself. “But I believe Sam when he says he isn’t possessed anymore, because whatever the hell happened here, I think it did something to

<|output|> <|example|> minutes to get the whole scene set up again, but eventually, Dean and Ketch are each tied to their chairs, with Mick hovering in the shadows just out of view. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Cas looks a little lost as he takes in the sad, bare landscape of his office <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “But I believe Sam when he says he isn’t possessed anymore, because whatever the hell happened here, I think it did something to <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> me too.” Most of all, for Cas. Dean knows Cas came along because he was scared to stay alone at the bunker, even though Dean hid all those pain meds and never told Cas where. But Cas is worried that if he’s left by himself, he’ll go looking for them, or just go out and buy more. Dean lies back and lets Cas slot himself between his knees. Cas lines himself up with Dean’s hole and, with an agonizingly slow movement, slides inside, inch by inch. Cas’ breath is coming faster now, a drawn-out, ragged moan escaping him. It takes another week for anything more than kissing to happen. Despite the ever-present ticking of the clock that’s running out their limited time together, Cas insists on taking things slow. Staring at his own feet is easier than seeing Cas’ face twist into that half-sincere expression of pity people tend to get, on the rare occasions when Dean talks about his family’s sob story. “Anyway, when I was a senior in high school, he wrapped his car around a tree. Mom used the life insurance payout to get the car fixed up and gave it to me as a graduation present. The rest went into savings for my college tuition, so here I am.” Before long, John lost his job at the port. Bobby came through for the family again, using his union connections to get him another gig, this time at the GM plant just outside the city. But it soon became clear that John wouldn’t be able to hold down any kind of steady employment anymore, and money got to be tight. The pie tins are already filled, standing ready on the kitchen table, but Dean has two other sets of dough rolled out flat on the counter. He’s standing in front of one of them, holding down a sheet of parchment paper that has the letters “C-L-A-I-R-E” drawn on it, like a cookie-cutter template. Jack and Claire perch on chairs on either side of him, Claire tracing the letters carefully against the raw pastry dough with the tip of a pencil. As if the fangs and the monkey suit and the idea of being on camera weren’t all sufficiently humiliating, Dean got stuck giving Cas a ride to Ketch’s house. Apparently, Cas’ old Continental finally crapped out on him, and Garth can’t take him because he’s schlepping all the camera equipment. (They’re really just taking the one handheld camera though, and Garth drives a minivan, so Dean is extremely suspicious of that particular excuse.) Cas swallows down his slight disappointment at finding out that Dean is not, after all, asking for a date. “Oh. The woman who died in Old Goucher?” Cas leans forward as well, which puts his face only a couple of inches from Dean’s. “Are you serious? Any connection to Meg?” . And, according to Mildred, you’ve been known to clean rooms at times,” she adds, looking as though this news physically pains her. Dean nods, that fierce, determined glint in his eyes again, and gets up, pulling Castiel along to the bedroom. Castiel never bothered to put

<|output|> <|example|> me too.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Bobby came through for the family again, using his union connections to get him another gig, this time at the GM plant just outside the city <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> Apparently, Cas’ old Continental finally crapped out on him, and Garth can’t take him because he’s schlepping all the camera equipment <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> The woman who died in Old Goucher?” Cas leans forward as well, which puts his face only a couple of inches from Dean’s <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Bobby came through for the family again, using his union connections to get him another gig, this time at the GM plant just outside the city <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> The pie tins are already filled, standing ready on the kitchen table, but Dean has two other sets of dough rolled out flat on the counter <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Castiel never bothered to put <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> (They’re really just taking the one handheld camera though, and Garth drives a minivan, so Dean is extremely suspicious of that particular excuse <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> his clothes back on, so there’s nothing to do but pull down Dean’s boxer briefs before they fall into bed together. Dean doesn’t mean to scoff, but it comes out anyway. Ever since he and Nick broke up, he’s gotten about a hundred less-than-sincere versions of “there’s no guarantee, even with soulmates” or “at least you had some good years together, right?” There’s another couch at a right angle from where Jimmy has settled, and Castiel sinks into it, waiting for Dean to join him. Dean sits, letting his head slump against the wall, but leaving several respectable inches of space between them. The town meeting lets out forty-five minutes later. When Castiel walks home, it’s with one hand holding Claire’s, and the other clutching a list with contact information for more than a dozen potential clients. Whether you've been here from the beginning, joined halfway through or found this months after the fact, I really appreciate you reading! There’s no reason to suspect Crowley has people tracking his movements, but he can’t afford to make mistakes. When Meg told him they’d be discussing the details of the job at the lake in MacArthur Park, Dean almost refused to go, until he considered the merits of the location. The lake is out in the open, sure, but it’s so open that no one could possibly hide while still staying in earshot of a conversation. At the same time, it’s a popular neighborhood spot. Dean could have been there for any of a dozen reasons, with no intention of meeting anyone — let alone Nick. Cas is at his computer, typing away, but pales when Dean walks in. “Holy shit, what happened to you?” Behind him, he hears the squeal and huff of overtaxed air brakes as the truck swerves to avoid the Mustang. The Mustang’s tires screech, the driver losing control as he tries and fails to come to a full stop. The car skids onto the gravel shoulder, then up the cliff side, two wheels riding up at an impossible angle. “Thanks, Benny. Sorry,” he says, a little flustered, as he shovels the patties onto the plate set aside for them. “You have to drink some to help your stomach,” Betty says, putting one of the shots in front of him. “There’s an expression for that in English, right?” Garth rejoins the fray, and with a combined effort of tugging and shoving, they manage to dislodge Mick and hold him down. There’s an unpleasant taste in Dean’s mouth, entirely unrelated to the remembered one of salty cherry pie. When the suitcase opens, the light that suffuses Sergei’s face and the wall at his back isn’t golden. It’s instead a deep, unearthly blue, oscillating and twisting and throwing bizarre patterns across the smooth, round lines of Sergei’s cheeks and forehead. Next to Castiel, Sam gasps. Cas rolls his eyes in response to Dean’s sass, but says, “I’m not certain. I was in my room and suddenly lost consciousness. When I came to, I found myself in a bedroom on the ground floor of this house.” Two days later, Garth rings the doorbell when he stops by

<|output|> <|example|> his clothes back on, so there’s nothing to do but pull down Dean’s boxer briefs before they fall into bed together. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Two days later, Garth rings the doorbell when he stops by <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Sorry,” he says, a little flustered, as he shovels the patties onto the plate set aside for them <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> The town meeting lets out forty-five minutes later <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> The Mustang’s tires screech, the driver losing control as he tries and fails to come to a full stop <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Next to Castiel, Sam gasps <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> to deliver Castiel’s mail and hands Castiel a portfolio filled with references from happy parents, alongside pictures of Garth in a clown costume, making balloon flamingos and butterflies for delighted crowds of children. (Castiel’s knee-jerk excuse about needing to check with Andrea before he makes any kind of commitment deflates when Garth points out that Andrea’s testimonial is one of the more enthusiastic ones in his portfolio — a surprisingly high bar to clear.) Dean doesn’t mind the walk, or the idea that someone could be waiting to jump him from behind one of the concrete pillars. Growing up, a lot of guys thought the boy with the pretty face made an easy target. Dean taught them differently. “Why don’t we take them along?” At Dean’s surprised look, Castiel hurries to add, “Not for every date, obviously, but Claire and Jack are a part of our lives. It’s important that the two of us fit together, but it’s just as important that the four of us do.” “And when we get out?” Fueled by the sheer nuttiness of the situation, Dean can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out. “We’re going on a date.” Castiel glares back and forth between them both. “Meg. Apologize for casting aspersions on Dean’s mashed potatoes,” he says, in a tone he hopes brooks no argument. It seems to work on Claire about eighty percent of the time. When Meg still looks mutinous, he adds, “Apologize, or I’m never inviting you to another movie night at my house.” Just as they did the last time they cooked together, they move easily around each other in the kitchen. Except this time, Castiel makes a conscious effort to touch any time an opportunity presents itself: a hand on Dean’s elbow to move him to the right. A brush of their arms as they work on prepping ingredients side by side. With every touch, Dean’s shoulders seem to lose some of their tension, and his smiles come more and more easily. “Sorry to hear that,” Charlie chimes in from where she’s cleaning one of the coffee makers at the far end of the bar. “If you ever wanna escape again, we’re here for you.” As a result, he’s still awake when Dean emerges, pink-cheeked, wearing pajama pants and a sleeveless white undershirt that does absolutely nothing to conceal the constellation of freckles across his shoulders. Silently, but emphatically, Cas curses every single one of them. Dean’s voice is beautiful — deep, soft and heavy with feeling. Castiel vaguely recognizes the tune as an Ella Fitzgerald song, but he has a hard time believing that he would enjoy any other rendition as much as this one. “I should be apologizing to you,” Cas says, his tone an unusual blend of formality and warmth. “Dean and I left rather quickly. It was impolite after you offered us hospitality.” There is a little bit of awkwardness while everyone gets settled, but the four of them quickly fall into a routine of putting on pajamas, brushing teeth and reading stories. It’s incredible how easily they all seem to fit together — seamless, almost. Mercifully,

<|output|> <|example|> to deliver Castiel’s mail and hands Castiel a portfolio filled with references from happy parents, alongside pictures of Garth in a clown costume, making balloon flamingos and butterflies for delighted crowds of children. (Castiel’s knee-jerk excuse about needing to check with Andrea before he makes any kind of commitment deflates when Garth points out that Andrea’s testimonial is one of the more enthusiastic ones in his portfolio — a surprisingly high bar to clear.) <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” “And when we get out?” Fueled by the sheer nuttiness of the situation, Dean can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Castiel vaguely recognizes the tune as an Ella Fitzgerald song, but he has a hard time believing that he would enjoy any other rendition as much as this one <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> to deliver Castiel’s mail and hands Castiel a portfolio filled with references from happy parents, alongside pictures of Garth in a clown costume, making balloon flamingos and butterflies for delighted crowds of children <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Growing up, a lot of guys thought the boy with the pretty face made an easy target <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> “We’re going on a date <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> “Sorry to hear that,” Charlie chimes in from where she’s cleaning one of the coffee makers at the far end of the bar <|indexes|> 5 |

<|text|> Cas wanders in shortly after. Bleary-eyed, he curls up on the couch next to Dean, and they both sit and doze until the sun starts peeking in through the window. Dean takes him in. He’s seen Cas in jeans a lot, but never in flannel. It’s a good look for him. “Coulda worn the ones from Sam’s room.” “Are we all back to normal now, Billie? Is everyone back in their own universe?” Jack asks, but the room is empty apart from the four of them. Damn cosmic entities and their inability to say a proper goodbye. Earlier that day, he ditched the blood-spattered Camry in an empty lot by the side of the highway, then called a cab to take him into town, where he had his Baby stashed in a municipal parking lot. The throaty purr of her engine as he rides back downtown makes him feel marginally calmer. Relief sweeps through Dean on a wave so powerful, it almost knocks him off his feet. “Yeah, I’ve got it. Listen, I don’t want it. If you just tell me a time and a place, I’ll—” “It’s from—” Castiel tries, but breaks off, too focused on tracing the curling outlines of the words — Dean doesn’t miss the way the woman’s eyes fix on Cas and study him intently before sliding back to him. “Good to meet you, Dean Winchester,” she says, her voice soft, but tinged with the kind of weariness that comes from past grief. “I’m Missouri Moseley.” Castiel snorts. “It’d take an apocalypse to take the Roadhouse down, and I’m not sure even that would do it, considering how many of the regulars have nuclear shelters in their backyards.” They transfer Cas’ shopping to Baby’s trunk, then wait together for Bobby to arrive. It takes more than half an hour, and Cas keeps fussing about wasting Dean’s time, which Dean does his best to discourage. It’s not like he had any big plans for the night. "Not sure I'm feeling that optimistic about her chances, or ours," Dean growls as he levers himself off the floor with a groan. Cas tries to cup one of his elbows for support, but Dean shakes him off. He's shown enough weakness for one night. "The shifter's killed at least two people already, and I doubt she'll come quietly if we track her down." My next WIP is going to be a screwball comedy AU with musicians Dean and Cas on the run from gangsters at a Florida resort. “I didn’t know you were coming to visit!” Claire says, grinning up at her grandmother. “Come on, I’ll show you my room!” With that, Claire pulls Naomi into the house, leaving Castiel to gape after them. Cas tries to stand, but sinks down again immediately, grimacing. “Shit. I think I cracked a rib or something.” The bubbles explode, one by one, in agonizing slow motion, when Dean raises his free hand to Castiel’s hip, stroking a gentle finger across the jut of bone there. “Nope,” Dean says, waving cheerfully at Garth, who’s just walked in. “He refused to let Sam shop at his store for two months

<|output|> <|example|> Cas wanders in shortly after. Bleary-eyed, he curls up on the couch next to Dean, and they both sit and doze until the sun starts peeking in through the window. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Nope,” Dean says, waving cheerfully at Garth, who’s just walked in <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Yeah, I’ve got it <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> ” They transfer Cas’ shopping to Baby’s trunk, then wait together for Bobby to arrive <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Relief sweeps through Dean on a wave so powerful, it almost knocks him off his feet <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> He's shown enough weakness for one night <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> Cas tries to stand, but sinks down again immediately, grimacing <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> after. Backed off the permit idea though.” Dean leans in for another kiss. It’s nothing like the last one — it’s a slow, careful thing, suffused with tenderness and reassurance. When Dean pulls back, there’s a small, shy smile on his face. Castiel scowls at her, even knowing that a) Betty will not be cowed and b) it’s not actually her fault that he did an incredibly stupid thing. At least in theory, he’s supposed to be an adult of sound mind, capable of making his own decisions. “And you’re still here,” Dean says. There’s something proud, almost awed, in his voice. “You and Gabe are using the skills you’ve got and earning your own keep. Good for you, Cas.” Dean bites the inside of his cheek, trying to think of what to say. He can’t even imagine what it’d be like, not to have his mom around. Yeah, she’s annoying sometimes, but he loves her. All at once, Castiel’s body feels too small to contain the warmth spreading through his chest and all the way to his fingertips, so he pours it into Dean instead. It’s not their most passionate kiss, nor their longest. But it’s the one that carries a certainty within it: that what is between them is here to stay. As Castiel and Claire say their goodbyes and walk out through the diner’s front door, however, Charlie trails along behind them. “Don’t mind me,” she says cheerfully. “I’m just heading over to Bobby’s store. I have to talk to him about something.” She looks between Castiel and Claire. “You guys feel like coming?” “Works wonders,” Amara says, nodding as she spoons a big pile of the vegetables onto Dean’s plate. Dean pokes at them with his fork, still not sure. “Ain’t no skin off my back,” Bobby says, shrugging. “Is that what all the fuss was about, comin’ here in the first place?” for the best.” Her eyes unfocus for a moment and her forehead creases, as though in memory of an unpleasant event, but then her face resumes its previous, quietly cheerful expression. “I only came back because I realized I’d forgotten to leave the recipe Dean asked for, the one for the Rice Krispie treats, and then… well… I saw the remains of that pitiful cake in the kitchen, and I couldn’t resist whipping up another one before I left again. Those boys do love their cake, don’t they? Especially Dean.” “Me too,” Cas croaks, punctuating the words with a particularly forceful thrust. “Dean, if you don’t want me to… tell me, if…” Blowing out a tired breath through his nose, he turns to the driver. His hands shake a little with residual adrenaline as he points to the paper with Cas’ address on it, praying that Cas didn’t get one of the Chinese characters wrong or something. Cas shrugs, but that second corner is joining the first one now, forming a full-blown smile. It’s shy, but it’s there. Thoroughly unsettled, Castiel simply nodded along when Rowena advised them to go visit the woman who cast the curse immediately. He let Rowena practically push him and Dean out of

<|output|> <|example|> after. Backed off the permit idea though.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> His hands shake a little with residual adrenaline as he points to the paper with Cas’ address on it, praying that Cas didn’t get one of the Chinese characters wrong or something <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> ” Dean leans in for another kiss <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> her shop, and it didn’t occur to him until they were halfway to the car that he never even offered to pay Rowena for her services. They head outside, just in time to see an ancient green Fiat putter up the unpaved road that leads to the cottage. Dean’s dad has taught him a thing or two about cars, but he doesn’t need any kind of special knowledge to know this one isn’t going to last much longer. The engine misfires twice as they watch, and each time, the exhaust belches black smoke. “Sounds good,” Dean says, a bright grin lighting up his face. For the first time, Castiel notices that it’s a very nice face indeed. Freckled, and somehow boyish despite the deep lines around Dean’s eyes and mouth. “I’ll see you inside, uh—” There are usually a few customers, just enough to keep busy, but not enough to be stressful. Tonight is especially quiet, no more than three night owls hogging seats at the long bar, with its chrome edges and cheaply upholstered stools. As soon as Adler wraps up his sanctimonious speech (“there will be no violations of curfew,” “I will not abide hanky panky between members of the band,” etc. etc.), followed by a much more agreeable one from Donna, Dean slinks off. “Nothing,” Dean says flatly. “I’m sorry, too, I guess.” He turns on his heel and leaves the pantry without another glance at either Castiel or Meg. Castiel is helpless to do anything other than return that grin. “You know very well that it was. You’re fishing for compliments.” Dean goes to the kitchen and grabs another beer while he thinks, trying to put himself into Cas’ mindset. After a deep breath in and another one out, Dean turns off the TV. He has no idea what he was trying to watch anyway. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Garth!” "There just haven't been enough live births to fill the beds," the nurse said, a little curt, and if Castiel could read this human right, then it seemed like she was also a little guarded. "I'm sorry, do you want to talk to my clinical manager or your wife's attending physician?" He played the mixtape again from the beginning, listening to it and letting the music settle him into his bones, the way his small stint as a demon hadn't. “It’s done,” Castiel croons before turning to the sleeping Warlord Prince. “Come, we must bring Prince Winchester home.” "Look, that means jack-squat right now if we can't get up to seventh heaven without Meta-troll finding out," Dean reminded Castiel, looking into the words. Knowing Dean, it would take concrete proof before he even thought about himself being the man of the prophecy. “I dunno. I was able to push the shields back, so maybe I can make a tunnel all the way to the communal eyrie,” Dean suggests instead. “There are more able-bodied males there, and we could fight them off without having to drain my Jewels.” “Goddamnit, I knew you weren’t as out of touch as you were pretending to be!” Dean grumbles, making quick work of their clothes, discarding

<|output|> <|example|> her shop, and it didn’t occur to him until they were halfway to the car that he never even offered to pay Rowena for her services. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "There just haven't been enough live births to fill the beds," the nurse said, a little curt, and if Castiel could read this human right, then it seemed like she was also a little guarded. "I'm sorry, do you want to talk to my clinical manager or your wife's attending physician?" <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Tonight is especially quiet, no more than three night owls hogging seats at the long bar, with its chrome edges and cheaply upholstered stools <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> them in a pile that is messier than Castiel’s own. (I wanted to add Take me Home, Country Roads... but... it was a 1997 song. I guess it's a BONUS track then XD) "Just to simplify things so all non-angels present can understand," Gabriel paused looking meaningfully at Kevin, "my grace fuels the flow between the treasury and the babies. It does all that work for me Here, Dean didn't even know if it had been hours, days or years. There were no markers that he could rely on at all, not even mealtimes because he didn't need to eat. Not to mention the time velocity conundrum. Charis stepped behind Dean, peeking out from behind his back and watching Lucifer intently. There was a soft tremble in the hand that gripped Dean's shirt, followed by an insistent tug for Dean to move away from the lights that were the Cage. Dean wasn't sure if he was all right with being a shield to an unknown entity running freely in Heaven. Thankfully for Castiel, it only takes Balthazar a few seconds to come, despite the Ring of Obedience. “You and your bus obsession. We talked about this. Those are contortionist seats. People die in those things. I’ll drive you to Los Angeles. Stop trying to leave me.” Dean stepped back and wiped Castiel’s cheeks with his thumb. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I… Sam just means so much to me, has been my whole world for so long, there didn’t seem to be a point to wanting anything else.” or Requiem Æternam which requests for God to grant eternal rest to souls, let perpetual light shine upon them, and let the souls rest in peace. It asks God to bring souls in Purgatory to Heaven. Dean would admire the view more if he didn't hate heights. The treetops that litter the landscape below his feet suggest that they are far above the ground. Castiel nodded then turned, probably to speak to Balthazar, his lips in a slight grimace to discover he was gone. If Castiel were Dean’s, he’d never leave him alone. The band on his chest loosed slightly. Being with Castiel had always been easy. After driving into the early morning, Dean had announced that the next stop would be their last before they settled for the day in a city in Ohio. When Castiel still had grace, the Cage had looked like a monstrous thing: built with light and sound and power and will. It was something that angels had rarely touched, and was guarded with the strictest of confidences. In Raki'a they had stood as silent guards, because Lucifer's power was strong even behind its locked doors. “I’m sure,” Dean croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Go, go. I need to take a long shower, anyway. The moose will probably be back soon. He went sightseeing, ‘cuz he needed some time to himself.”

<|output|> <|example|> them in a pile that is messier than Castiel’s own. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> People die in those things <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> It was something that angels had rarely touched, and was guarded with the strictest of confidences <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> I need to take a long shower, anyway <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|example|> more. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|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 | <|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|> 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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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|> 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 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|> Being fat in August sucked, and the garage didn’t have the best AC <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|example|> more. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|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 | <|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|> 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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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|> 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 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|> Being fat in August sucked, and the garage didn’t have the best AC <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|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 | <|example|> more. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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|> 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 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 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|example|> good number of contracts our way <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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|> 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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Cain lightly bit down and a high-pitched whine escaped his mouth, but he was too far gone to care <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|example|> it, belching loudly. "What can I say? I like to keep my boy happy." <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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 | <|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|> 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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> It needed some soothing, and he knew just the thing <|indexes|> 0 |

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

<|output|> <|example|> <|example|> it, belching loudly <|indexes|> 0 |

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

<|text|> <|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 | <|example|> comes up the outside stairwell. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> anticipation. “See you then.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|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 | <|example|> quiet “fuck.” “Hey, Cas,” he says out loud, a shaky smile pulling at his lips. “How, um. How are you?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> “This stuff always gets Sam real riled up too. His arguments with Donatello are more predictable than death and taxes. Shame Jess is missing this.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> way Dean is crowding into her space, pushing her away from the stove in a battle of inches. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> they stop to catch their breath, Dean keeps his hand on the back of Cas’ neck and Cas leans their foreheads together, both of them reluctant to give up physical contact altogether. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> go get drunk with his friends, and when I said I didn’t feel like doing that, he acted like an asshole. So I yelled at him and left.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|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 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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> He probably deserved this for all the pictures he’d sent, but damn it, Dean had waited long enough <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|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 | <|example|> quiet “fuck.” “Hey, Cas,” he says out loud, a shaky smile pulling at his lips. “How, um. How are you?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> “This stuff always gets Sam real riled up too. His arguments with Donatello are more predictable than death and taxes. Shame Jess is missing this.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> way Dean is crowding into her space, pushing her away from the stove in a battle of inches. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> they stop to catch their breath, Dean keeps his hand on the back of Cas’ neck and Cas leans their foreheads together, both of them reluctant to give up physical contact altogether. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> go get drunk with his friends, and when I said I didn’t feel like doing that, he acted like an asshole. So I yelled at him and left.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> home for a while. I’ve got a culinary degree, so closing down the hardware store and opening up a diner seemed like a good compromise.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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|> His arguments with Donatello are more predictable than death and taxes <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> way Dean is crowding into her space, pushing her away from the stove in a battle of inches. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> they stop to catch their breath, Dean keeps his hand on the back of Cas’ neck and Cas leans their foreheads together, both of them reluctant to give up physical contact altogether. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> go get drunk with his friends, and when I said I didn’t feel like doing that, he acted like an asshole. So I yelled at him and left.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> home for a while. I’ve got a culinary degree, so closing down the hardware store and opening up a diner seemed like a good compromise.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> doesn’t even think to mention the nosebleed; it’s just one of those things that happen sometimes. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> motive inviting you here tonight, kiddo. And it kinda has to do with the whole ‘monsters are real’ thing.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to ride them for free.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> way Dean is crowding into her space, pushing her away from the stove in a battle of inches. <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|example|> way Dean is crowding into her space, pushing her away from the stove in a battle of inches <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> home for a while. I’ve got a culinary degree, so closing down the hardware store and opening up a diner seemed like a good compromise.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> doesn’t even think to mention the nosebleed; it’s just one of those things that happen sometimes. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> motive inviting you here tonight, kiddo. And it kinda has to do with the whole ‘monsters are real’ thing.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to ride them for free.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> saunters over to the kitchen. When he picks up his phone and finds no missed messages, he’s not surprised. But it still stings a little. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> home for a while. I’ve got a culinary degree, so closing down the hardware store and opening up a diner seemed like a good compromise.” <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> to ride them for free.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that might rumple his immaculately pressed suit. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> saunters over to the kitchen. When he picks up his phone and finds no missed messages, he’s not surprised. But it still stings a little. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to make plans with someone unless they offer first. In his more pathetic moments, Castiel finds himself hoping that something around the house is going to break, as Dean seems to be Bobby’s go-to maintenance man. Perhaps Dean would come over and make short work of the job, then Castiel would offer him a drink for his trouble, and they’d sit and talk. As friends, of course. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a passport, then for a travel visa. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> to ride them for free.” <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> Perhaps Dean would come over and make short work of the job, then Castiel would offer him a drink for his trouble, and they’d sit and talk <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> to make plans with someone unless they offer first. In his more pathetic moments, Castiel finds himself hoping that something around the house is going to break, as Dean seems to be Bobby’s go-to maintenance man. Perhaps Dean would come over and make short work of the job, then Castiel would offer him a drink for his trouble, and they’d sit and talk. As friends, of course. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a passport, then for a travel visa. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the heavy weight on his chest as he strides past Charlie and heads further into town. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> before, but I think I see it now.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> could talk about him all day.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> end of the world will not wait for Castiel’s whims. It’s important to move fast — to stay one step ahead of God himself and his capricious sister. Perhaps, once this fight is done, there will be peace and rest for Castiel and his family. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> standards. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that they might have to cope without him for a week. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Missouri’s grip holds firm. “You’re a good man, I can tell. Please. Be careful.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> to make plans with someone unless they offer first. In his more pathetic moments, Castiel finds himself hoping that something around the house is going to break, as Dean seems to be Bobby’s go-to maintenance man. Perhaps Dean would come over and make short work of the job, then Castiel would offer him a drink for his trouble, and they’d sit and talk. As friends, of course. <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> Perhaps Dean would come over and make short work of the job, then Castiel would offer him a drink for his trouble, and they’d sit and talk <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> before, but I think I see it now.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> could talk about him all day.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> end of the world will not wait for Castiel’s whims. It’s important to move fast — to stay one step ahead of God himself and his capricious sister. Perhaps, once this fight is done, there will be peace and rest for Castiel and his family. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> standards. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that they might have to cope without him for a week. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> before, but I think I see it now.” <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> end of the world will not wait for Castiel’s whims <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> standards. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that they might have to cope without him for a week. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Missouri’s grip holds firm. “You’re a good man, I can tell. Please. Be careful.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> you say? You wanna join us at the diner for post-game analysis?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Cas’ hip. But Cas presses closer again, taking hold of both of Dean’s wrists and pulling on them until Dean’s hands come to rest on two firm, round ass cheeks. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> standards. <|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 |

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

<|text|> <|example|> you say? You wanna join us at the diner for post-game analysis?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Cas’ hip. But Cas presses closer again, taking hold of both of Dean’s wrists and pulling on them until Dean’s hands come to rest on two firm, round ass cheeks. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a man before him in a knight’s armor, pinning him in place with his blue-eyed stare. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> minutes to get the whole scene set up again, but eventually, Dean and Ketch are each tied to their chairs, with Mick hovering in the shadows just out of view. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> me too.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> you say? You wanna join us at the diner for post-game analysis?” <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> minutes to get the whole scene set up again, but eventually, Dean and Ketch are each tied to their chairs, with Mick hovering in the shadows just out of view <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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|> 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 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 | | <|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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|> 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 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 | | <|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 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 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 | | <|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | | <|example|> it, belching loudly. "What can I say? I like to keep my boy happy." <|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 | | <|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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 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 | | <|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 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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | | <|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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|> 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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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|> 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 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 <|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 <|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 <|indexes|> 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 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 <|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 <|indexes|> 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 <|indexes|> 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 <|indexes|> 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 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 <|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|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 |

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

<|text|> <|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | | <|example|> it, belching loudly. "What can I say? I like to keep my boy happy." <|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 | | <|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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 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 | | <|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 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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | | <|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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|> way Dean is crowding into her space, pushing her away from the stove in a battle of inches. <|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 | |

<|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 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 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 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|indexes|> 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 <|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 <|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|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 |

<|output|> <|example|> He probably deserved this for all the pictures he’d sent, but damn it, Dean had waited long enough <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> Still in a huff, he trudges alongside the road, his coat collar turned up against the freezing wind, until, finally, a cab pulls over for him. “Oh, come on, don’t act like you didn’t get them,” John said, cramming his phone back into his pocket and retreating to a safe position several feet away from Sherlock. “You declined my call, so I know you had your phone on you.” Sherlock’s smile was softer than John had ever seen before. “You’ve let go. I could feel it. You’re always so incredibly controlled, even now that we’re together. But you let down your guard, you finally let your restraints go and embraced yourself fully, the way I do. And I’m incredibly thankful and honoured to have been part of this. And I can’t wait to marry you.” “The way you—with the people—,” Sherlock panted, the metallic taste of utter exhaustion on his tongue. “That was— You are—” The rest of the sentence got stuck somewhere in his aching lungs as John turned around. He slams the door behind her with a dramatic swish of his dressing gown and stomps over to where the golden light of the early evening sun floods through the window. “I just don’t like the thought of him running around London without help. You know how he gets…,” he adds in what he feels is his last attempt at making Mary see how impossible the idea of Sherlock Holmes without John Watson is. “It’s all laid-back. No dress code, no fancy drinks, only nibbles; like the good old days at uni, you know,” Greg said and patted Sherlock’s shoulder before heading back to the door to greet some more guests. “There is a good chance my mental capacities are hereditary. Look at Mycroft and Eurus. What if a child I father would be… just like me?” “Not great at keeping secrets?” John bristled, turning to Sherlock. “I’ve kept a bloody huge one for thirty years, thank you very much. I thought we’ve had that discussion after you came back. Well, nice to know you’re still convinced that I can’t—” John opened his eyes. The pale light of breaking dawn shone through the windows and illuminated the hospital room. He must’ve fallen asleep for a while. It had seemed paramount to put in some security measures against the memories, the tiniest of walls to keep out the nauseating feeling of loss. 45 minutes into the conversation, Greg joined them with Molly in tow. Among those familiar faces, Sherlock began to relax a little. Then again, it might have been the vodka. His second cup of John’s mixture was already half-empty and a cosy warmth saturated his insides. Even now, both finally fully dressed, the endorphins were almost too much to bear. Anticipation sizzled in his veins as if his blood had been carbonated. He could not help but bounce a little on his toes. He caught Sherlock’s plush lips in a hard kiss, hand finding its way into dark curls, tongue demanding entrance. All mocking aside, John thought, having hours and days between cases to just do had he risked everything he currently had with

<|output|> <|example|> Still in a huff, he trudges alongside the road, his coat collar turned up against the freezing wind, until, finally, a cab pulls over for him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “It’s all laid-back <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> All mocking aside, John thought, having hours and days between cases to just do had he risked everything he currently had with <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> No dress code, no fancy drinks, only nibbles; like the good old days at uni, you know,” Greg said and patted Sherlock’s shoulder before heading back to the door to greet some more guests <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “You’ve let go <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> He must’ve fallen asleep for a while <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> John? Surely, he could somehow have talked himself out of this situation. After all, he was Sherlock “Sherlock, what are you doing here?” Molly asked, eyes clouded with sleep. Her mussed hair lay on her shoulder in a loose braid and her arms tightly wrapped a dressing gown around her figure, the thin fabric with little ladybirds on it a futile barrier against the freezing cold leaking in. John is standing there with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, waiting for Sherlock to get closer. When they are only a few feet apart, he nods his head slightly and gives Sherlock a sheepish smile. “Hi.” This. Is. It. The last chapter. I can't believe that I wrote more than 65.000 words in only a few months. Thank you all for sticking with me throughout this journey. Enjoy the finale :) “I was in the military, guys. We got terribly bored between missions,” John said confidently and shrugged with a grin. “We’re still waiting on the toxicological report and the sweeping of the scene. I wanted to head back over now if you care to take a look? Molly said she’d call as soon as she finds anything interesting. Maybe someone knew about poor Jason’s condition and used it to mask his murder,” Greg mused and grabbed his jacket, missing the eye roll Sherlock couldn’t suppress. I couldn't get myself to upload this chapter without the next one to ease your pain a little--because the next few words are gonna be brutal (at least they were for me while writing them). So, get ready and power through! “It’s fine. Suits you.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand a little tighter. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I just wanted to surprise you with breakfast, as a thank-you for last night.” He turns the corner into the entrance hall, bumping into a woman. Ignoring her angry “Excuse you!”, he rushes past her and out into the winter air. “No,” she protested, fear rising in her eyes, along with tears. “No, please. I don’t want to go back there. He said I never have to go back. He said we’d go away together.” “This was nice, wasn’t it?” John said as he carried the dirty glasses to the sink. Despite Mrs. Hudson’s affirmation, their guests had stayed for several hours, engaging in pleasant conversation, eating cake and coaxing the story of their reconciliation out of John and Sherlock. It was already dark out when Molly and Greg finally packed Rosie’s stuff up and left together with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, the latter shaking with insuppressible giggles. He favours darkness, brooding clouds, and shadows coming to life. As do the criminals that make his occupation worthwhile. His insults are locked and loaded but as soon as he returns to the sitting room and finds John in the red armchair all words seem to vanish from his brain. He proffers John his cup of tea and retreats to his own seat in front of the fireplace. A warm hand was placed on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, giving all the reassurance Sherlock needed. Gradually, everyone became giddy and frolic, discussing their revelations—all except for Sherlock

<|output|> <|example|> John? Surely, he could somehow have talked himself out of this situation. After all, he was Sherlock <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> As do the criminals that make his occupation worthwhile <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> ” “This was nice, wasn’t it?” John said as he carried the dirty glasses to the sink <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> I can't believe that I wrote more than 65 <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Is <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> The last chapter <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> who hadn’t taken a sip since the very first statement. He had never done anything that even remotely resembled sexual contact except those awkward kisses with Janine and, in hindsight, those had been a terrible waste. It couldn’t take the others much longer to notice how little he could participate in this. Does that make her sympathetic silence better or worse? Is it just polite of her not to point out his misjudgement or is it so painfully obvious that he’s hurting that it renders words completely superfluous? He swerves to the kitchen and prepares himself a cuppa. The soothing scent of the hot liquid fills the small space and wafts after John as he carries his mug back to the sofa. For a few slow seconds, he just breathes in the vapours and puts his thoughts in order. “That’s because I’m busy. Urgent cases to solve,” Sherlock lies, carefully layering his voice with impatience. If he just can get rid of John before all dams break… Lestrade let out a sigh, hands running through his salt-and-pepper hair. With his foot he pushed the second chair in Sherlock’s direction, metal legs scratching over the floor. At the sight, Sherlock’s restless feet refused to carry him any longer and he collapsed onto the cold seat. “The watching’s fine. Great, really,” he finally rasped out. “I just don’t… usually…” He cocked his head suggestively, conveying the last part of the sentence. “You told him that you love him?” she and Greg exclaimed in perfect unison, both completely flabbergasted. “Care to let us join you in your funny little head, Sherlock?” Greg chimed in, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “By the way, I’m still not gay, Mrs. Hudson. I’m bisexual,” John objected. Technically, he had never lied to anyone. “Why did you drink beer on the stag night then if you can’t stand it?” Greg asks as Sherlock glides back onto the seat with a colourful cocktail in his hand and a satisfied smile on his lips. “Oh, it’s alright as long as I’ve got little Rosie here,” John replied and gave his daughter a kiss. Using her like this was wrong, he knew, but the opportunity was just too good to miss. He hadn’t flirted with anyone in ages. The fact hadn’t bothered him in the slightest but, now, old patterns were woven back into the silk he poured from his lips, like second nature. John opens his mouth after a few tense seconds but now the emergency protocol in Sherlock’s brain finally gains traction. “Listen, John,” he says, before John can form words, “I didn’t mean for you to see it, not like this. I don’t know what Lestrade was thinking but I can assure you I had nothing to do with it. He was absolutely right when he told me not to do it. I would never want to get between you and Mary.” Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s and let out a relieved little laugh. “I love you so, so much. Both of you.” Cal hadn’t hurt Jason after all. He had just tried to protect his sister and manoeuvred himself

<|output|> <|example|> who hadn’t taken a sip since the very first statement. He had never done anything that even remotely resembled sexual contact except those awkward kisses with Janine and, in hindsight, those had been a terrible waste. It couldn’t take the others much longer to notice how little he could participate in this. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Does that make her sympathetic silence better or worse? Is it just polite of her not to point out his misjudgement or is it so painfully obvious that he’s hurting that it renders words completely superfluous? He swerves to the kitchen and prepares himself a cuppa <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> The soothing scent of the hot liquid fills the small space and wafts after John as he carries his mug back to the sofa <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> I would never want to get between you and Mary <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 <|example|> He had never done anything that even remotely resembled sexual contact except those awkward kisses with Janine and, in hindsight, those had been a terrible waste <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Hudson <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> ” Cal hadn’t hurt Jason after all <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> “I just don’t… usually…” He cocked his head suggestively, conveying the last part of the sentence <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> into the shallows. He was only a kid in a hopeless situation. As soon as he’d hear that Laney was safe, he would not resist his arrest. Sherlock and John would make sure that Lestrade and his officers would do everything in their power to spare him a conviction. They would testify on his behalf if necessary. Everything would be alright, Sherlock was convinced. Sherlock picks up another praline, one of those with a salted honey caramel filling, and feels the aching behind his sternum subdue a little as the flavour blossoms in his mouth. “Once. When I did my master’s. I ran into him on campus. He didn’t even recognize me. I had been clean for three years but that day…” Sherlock lowered his head again, his stumbling breaths ghosting over John’s neck. His mind was in high gear, acting out every single one of John’s possible reactions to his proposition. With every passing second, Sherlock felt more stupid to have sent the text at all. Why, God, Sherlock has always had a sweet tooth, resorting preferably to sugary treats whenever he is absolutely forced to eat. If it were socially acceptable he’d have his coffee with five or six sugar lumps but he’s learned quite early that two is the maximum people won’t frown at. Being frowned at is not something Sherlock usually concerns himself with but on some occasions it’s better to keep up the appearance of a proper English gentleman instead of looking like a child set loose in a sweet shop. At his words, heartfelt and brimming with love, John felt his own eyes water. Taking Sherlock’s face into his hands, he captured his lips in a long, tender kiss, trying to pour all of his own love and elation and sheer gratefulness into Sherlock’s mouth. As they parted again and looked at each other, both their cheeks still flushed from sex and now wetted with tears, silent, intimate laughter bloomed between them, acoustic manifestation of the joy overflowing. “Just his flatmate. And his blogger,” said John, determined to get back at Lestrade the next time he saw him. Sherlock looks genuinely offended. However, his stare forfeits some of its fierceness due to the colourful cocktail umbrella tickling his nose as he drinks. “Which parts?” “John, we don’t have to pay. And if we did, I thought you wanted to treat me to dinner?” Sherlock mocked but still pulled his wallet out of his coat pocket. John took it and swiftly rummaged through its folds until he found what he was looking for: the note. Even with his poor deduction skills, he perceived how often it had been unfolded. Sherlock must have read this at least a dozen times. The sight stung with fresh guilt but John fought it down. He throws another glance over John’s shoulder and steps closer. “Look,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial, “do you remember what we talked about at the wedding? About you choosing, or really not choosing Mary.” It’s refreshing to see Sherlock care so much, to see him try so hard to measure up to the responsibility he’s

<|output|> <|example|> into the shallows. He was only a kid in a hopeless situation. As soon as he’d hear that Laney was safe, he would not resist his arrest. Sherlock and John would make sure that Lestrade and his officers would do everything in their power to spare him a conviction. They would testify on his behalf if necessary. Everything would be alright, Sherlock was convinced. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Sherlock must have read this at least a dozen times <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> And his blogger,” said John, determined to get back at Lestrade the next time he saw him <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> “Which parts?” “John, we don’t have to pay <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Taking Sherlock’s face into his hands, he captured his lips in a long, tender kiss, trying to pour all of his own love and elation and sheer gratefulness into Sherlock’s mouth <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Why, God, Sherlock has always had a sweet tooth, resorting preferably to sugary treats whenever he is absolutely forced to eat <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> been entrusted with, to see him make an effort to live up to John’s high opinion of him. Sherlock is alarmed. He has never seen John cry like this before, not trying to quell the tears, not trying to be brave and fight through it. He looks small and forlorn as his weeping fills the flat. And Sherlock has never loved him more. Until Cal raised his gaze and met his. Eyes like glimmering bits of coal stared at him, full of fear, of desperation, of anger, of determination, of – The pain, carefully kept at bay, hits him with full force. Sherlock’s stomach turns and he desperately wishes he hadn’t indulged on Mrs Hudson’s lasagne. “I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me, I really am; for giving me Rosie, for finding me in my darkest hour and bringing a little light and normality and security into my life again. But if you knew me as well as I suspect you did, then you know that I never belonged to you, not really. You have seen it, the truth that I took so long to accept. And I really hope you know that it doesn’t invalidate anything that was between us. I loved you, God knows I did, just not with all the love I am capable of. And you loved me, I know you did. Although I didn’t deserve it. I’ve never been completely honest with you, didn’t show you all of me. If you can see me now: This is who I am. I want Rosie to grow up with my real self. I want the people I love to see me like this. So, take a good look, wherever you are now. And tell me, you’ll forgive me. Give me your blessing to move on.” In some distant, forgotten corner of his being, he noticed tears swelling, mixing with the snowflakes in his lashes. Involuntarily, he let a little sob escape his throat. At the sound, he felt John withdraw, leaving his lips agonizingly vacant as they parted. All his nervous, deafening thoughts came flooding back into his head as if John had broken a damn by interrupting their contact. This was worse than all the cold turkeys Sherlock had endured combined. With sudden mortification, he realises that he hasn’t thought any further than this. He’s put the alarm system in place but there’s no further plan of action. John positioned himself between his legs and closed his lips around Sherlock’s pulsating cock, applying the slightest bit of suction. The world dwindled to the animalistic sounds escaping Sherlock’s chest as he began to move. It was new. It was different. It was fulfillment. His headache has finally given up and made room for a nagging, ever-present hum. He tries not to listen too closely and heaves himself out of bed. He mounts the last few steps, stopping on the landing to listen to Sherlock, the words now easily distinguishable: Shopping was even more of a nuisance than usual; firstly, because he had quite a few stops to make, especially for Sherlock’s birthday, secondly, because there was a

<|output|> <|example|> been entrusted with, to see him make an effort to live up to John’s high opinion of him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” In some distant, forgotten corner of his being, he noticed tears swelling, mixing with the snowflakes in his lashes <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> With sudden mortification, he realises that he hasn’t thought any further than this <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> I want Rosie to grow up with my real self <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> But if you knew me as well as I suspect you did, then you know that I never belonged to you, not really <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Give me your blessing to move on <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> gorgeous detective waiting at home, miraculously yearning for him. It took all of John’s remarkable self-control to not abandon his task and run back to Baker Street. But he had to finish this first—and do it right and diligently. John can’t take his eyes off of Sherlock’s long, slender fingers as they move over the strings, plucking and stroking so tenderly. His heart is beating heavily, in the rhythm to the song. “I’m just trying to do my part,” Sherlock said humbly, lowering his eyes. Today they matched the colour of the sky in an almost mythical manner. Or maybe it was rather the sky that tried to imitate those otherworldly irises, John contemplated. “Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes widened the slightest bit before his face found a neutral expression again. John kept caressing his fingers to keep him calm just as much as himself. “You never told me about them.” “I know that all of this—,” John began, moving impossibly closer, “this vulnerability, this intimacy—can’t be easy for you, letting down your guard like this. After all that’s happened between us and the things I’ve done, your past with Alex and everything, you are still willing to let go of your fears, to open up to me, to let me try and love you. And I think that’s remarkably… brave.” “You can’t imagine how much I wished that what you had seen wasn’t the truth. God knows, I told myself it wasn’t, for years and years. I tried everything to make up for that defect you saw in me, the same mar you disowned your daughter for. I tried so hard; in school, in sports, in college, all my life, just to make sure that you and Mom could be proud. You had cast Harry out and I had to be the perfect son if I didn’t want to end like her.” Sherlock waits, unable to speak or move, his eyes fixed on John. His heart is beating heavily in his throat, a second away from leaping out of him. John is right. Sherlock has no doubt about it at this point. It has taken him long enough to realise and longer still to accept it but, with all the data at hand, there is no longer room for any other conclusion. With a sudden realization that moulded his lips into a perfect circle, Sherlock remembered that both of them had affirmed the fantasizing-about-someone-in-the-room-statement, too. Regarding Molly, that hadn’t surprised him—everyone knew how obsessed she was with Sherlock—but, now, he suspected that he had missed something significant there. She hasn’t left him out of her sight for the better part of three weeks now, bringing him tea and biscuits ( “A favour?” she asks, her worry apparently dissolving back into annoyance. “Couldn’t that’ve waited for another hour?” She doesn’t even try to stifle the following yawn. “Right, I’m sorry,” John said seriously with a gentle stroke across Sherlock’s shoulder. “I haven’t even apologized for the whole thing at the park yet. I was such an idiot. I just panicked when you started talking about me quitting my job and you just looked so adorable in

<|output|> <|example|> gorgeous detective waiting at home, miraculously yearning for him. It took all of John’s remarkable self-control to not abandon his task and run back to Baker Street. But he had to finish this first—and do it right and diligently. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> His heart is beating heavily, in the rhythm to the song <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “You never told me about them <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Or maybe it was rather the sky that tried to imitate those otherworldly irises, John contemplated <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “I haven’t even apologized for the whole thing at the park yet <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> the snow and I guess I tried to convince myself that I didn’t feel attracted to you by hitting on anyone else really. That must’ve been horrible for you. Only when we got home and you didn’t talk to me anymore, I realized what a dick move that was.” Sherlock lets himself be pushed onto his bed, his fingertips already burning at the loss of contact. “We are not a couple, Sherlock!” John roared, raising his fists and eyes to the ceiling as if he was trying to convince a stubborn God or the universe itself of his heterosexuality. Every night from then on, they closed the distance a little further, one inch, one bit of skin at a time. Sherlock’s fingers crept up John’s arm, barely moving a millimeter per minute, found their way around his waist the next night, onto his back, until the two of them were finally tightly aligned in an unfamiliar hug. They no longer left before dawn now but untangled their bodies with the first rays of early morning light breaking through the curtains, still not a word about last night leaving their lips. John pauses. The words of the letter flicker before his eyes, seem to shake in the warm light of the sitting room until John realises it’s his hands that are trembling. “That is not dancing,” Sherlock disagreed, rather to fulfil John’s expectations than actively disliking the idea. “Oh, Sherlock,” Molly sighed and covered her mouth with one hand. The tiny ladybirds on her dressing gown seemed to scuttle away from Sherlock in disgust. He couldn’t blame them. Not that Greg has had any part in the festivities. If he’s honest, he’s still a bit miffed about the whole thing. He was supposed to join them at the last bar on their route later that night but the two lightweights ended up in a jail cell before he had even finished his shift. John settles in next to him, leaves space for Sherlock to explore, lets him lick and brush and nuzzle his way. “You have to take me upstairs,” Sherlock repeats in a petulant tone that would’ve put any four-year-old to shame. “You got me drunk and now you have to take me upstairs.” Greg downs his first pint in big gulps. Seconds later, he can already feel his muscles gradually ease out of their rigid state. The buzzing of his nerves quietens a little against the background of the grainy football game flickering over the ancient telly above the bar. Sherlock shook his head, reluctantly meeting John’s incredulous eyes and preparing himself for the inevitable rejection or mockery that had to follow such a confession. A grown man who didn’t masturbate, who didn’t even know how to please himself, let alone someone else? How would anyone want to be with someone as inexperienced as this? He pauses for a second, eyeing Sherlock with a fist of pity twisting his guts. “Will you be alright? I can stay if you want.” Neither one daring to move a finger, John and Sherlock watched the intruder squat down only a couple of meters away, his back turned

<|output|> <|example|> the snow and I guess I tried to convince myself that I didn’t feel attracted to you by hitting on anyone else really. That must’ve been horrible for you. Only when we got home and you didn’t talk to me anymore, I realized what a dick move that was.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “You got me drunk and now you have to take me upstairs <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> ” Greg downs his first pint in big gulps <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> A grown man who didn’t masturbate, who didn’t even know how to please himself, let alone someone else? How would anyone want to be with someone as inexperienced as this? He pauses for a second, eyeing Sherlock with a fist of pity twisting his guts <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> The words of the letter flicker before his eyes, seem to shake in the warm light of the sitting room until John realises it’s his hands that are trembling <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Sherlock shook his head, reluctantly meeting John’s incredulous eyes and preparing himself for the inevitable rejection or mockery that had to follow such a confession <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> ” Greg downs his first pint in big gulps <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> towards them, and rummage around in his pockets. Every few seconds, he nervously looked over his shoulder. Sherlock crouched deeper into the shadows, weighing his options. “What?” Sherlock asked, flustered. Him playing games with people apart from Mycroft usually resulted in catastrophes. But now that he knows John had planned on telling him about his feelings—rather than just letting the kiss speak for itself—Sherlock can’t help but wonder. Sherlock now followed a new approach altogether: He tried to reciprocate these acts of kindness up to his own capability—which didn’t allow for much, really. Pleasing people was not Sherlock’s strong suit; that had been made clear throughout his entire life. Yet, there had to be ways for him to show John how much he loved having him around again but, as always, Sherlock couldn’t quite figure out what made John Watson tick. “Sorry again that it’s gotten so late. Work was hell today,” said John and made two cups of tea with such experienced movements that he didn’t have to pay any attention to it. The chances for this speech to meet the standards of what other people consider normal were small, to begin with; But the more Greg listens to Sherlock’s propositions the more concerned he becomes. “And then what?” Sherlock hissed, the accusations stinging in his chest. “You let your clearance rate drop to the floor? You need me.” That can’t be right. As far as he remembers, the Beast sings this song about Belle. Why would he use male pronouns? Or has he misheard? “You really are insatiable, aren’t you?” John chuckled, raising his head to face the taller man again. Had Sherlock woken up in the middle of the night, filled with new nightmares starring a savage John taking advantage of him, stalking him like prey until Sherlock had no choice but to succumb? Or had he beheld John in the harsh, revealing daylight, his body aging, his wrinkles a little deeper, his hair a little greyer, and been disgusted by the first man he had allowed access to the sanctum of his body? Did he regret taking this step, now that the effects of the wine had worn off? At first, the screen is completely obscured by what looks like dark red and grey fabric, motioning in front of the lens. A faint rustling and clicking is heard as something brushes over the microphone. Greg watches as a figure moves away from the camera, having turned on the recording, and settles on the same sofa he is occupying right now. The distinctive wallpaper and the smiley in the upper left corner leave no doubt. “I’ll have a quick wash if you don’t mind,” John said finally, ungluing his hand from Sherlock’s thigh once more. Rosie’s little hands fisted in his shirt and John turned his head to place gentle kisses on her forehead until her cries slowly ebbed away. Sherlock spent the following night at the hospital’s lab, trying to identify the poison that he was sure had killed Ethan but couldn’t find anything. As he picked up John from the hotel the next morning, Sherlock resembled a dead body himself.

<|output|> <|example|> towards them, and rummage around in his pockets. Every few seconds, he nervously looked over his shoulder. Sherlock crouched deeper into the shadows, weighing his options. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> As far as he remembers, the Beast sings this song about Belle <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Rosie’s little hands fisted in his shirt and John turned his head to place gentle kisses on her forehead until her cries slowly ebbed away <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Had Sherlock woken up in the middle of the night, filled with new nightmares starring a savage John taking advantage of him, stalking him like prey until Sherlock had no choice but to succumb? Or had he beheld John in the harsh, revealing daylight, his body aging, his wrinkles a little deeper, his hair a little greyer, and been disgusted by the first man he had allowed access to the sanctum of his body? Did he regret taking this step, now that the effects of the wine had worn off? At first, the screen is completely obscured by what looks like dark red and grey fabric, motioning in front of the lens <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> towards them, and rummage around in his pockets <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Pleasing people was not Sherlock’s strong suit; that had been made clear throughout his entire life <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Sherlock now followed a new approach altogether: He tried to reciprocate these acts of kindness up to his own capability—which didn’t allow for much, really <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> ” That can’t be right <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> John had carefully watched out for any signs of fatigue in his friend over the past few weeks. He didn’t want to miss Sherlock’s distress again as he had with his nightmares. Now that Sherlock hadn’t slept two nights in a row, John was tempted to order him to rest but he knew that it was no use as long as the case wasn’t closed. Besides, he was still disgruntled because of Sherlock’s recklessness and not in the mood to force some self-care on the detective. Sherlock’s head jerked back as if John had just slapped him across the face. He turned back around and looked at the older man, aware that every inch of his body was now radiating the hurt and heartbreak this last blow had caused him. John’s eyes met his with stony inexpressiveness. This was it. Without another word, Sherlock grabbed his coat from the hook and left the flat. John placed his hand on Sherlock’s thigh in a tender motion, lingering. Every touch from his friend still set Sherlock’s nerves on fire, but over the past months he had become accustomed enough to it to prevent his muscles from twitching or tensing under John’s fingers—a reaction John seemed to interpret as disapproval every single time, leading him to end the contact immediately. If he only knew how much Sherlock craved these innocent brushes and squeezes and pats. Yes, if he only knew. His voice was barely more than a deadly whisper but the cashier stared at him as if he had shouted. The look on her face—shock, confusion, defiance—made Sherlock’s synapses sizzle like high-voltage lines, sending white-hot sparks to his eyes and overriding his self-control mechanisms. How did this horrible woman dare to even look at his John with anything other than utter admiration? It is also one where listening to the song provided is firmly recommended (if you're not into electro at all, just skip it. The lyrics are included and really say everything you need to know). “I know this sucks, mate. But you’ll get over it eventually. Getting your heart broken is a fundamental human experience. Happens to all of us. Even to those who are as far from being human as you. You’ll make it through, I promise. And I’m here for you if you need to talk. Just don’t sabotage the wedding, alright? For John.” He’s missed the bust of the Waters family for this utter shite. 18 months—18 months of overtime on bad coffee—he’s invested in the investigation, and in the final hour of triumph… Donovan is right; Now, to make matters worse, Paul Jones will get all the credit, that pompous, incompetent arsehole. It took all of John’s self-control to let go of Sherlock and unlock the door. They both tiptoed up the stairs and expertly jumped the creaking fifth step to avoid any noises. Accidentally summoning Mrs. Hudson wasn’t a pleasant prospect—too many nosy questions, too many minutes wasted talking. Although their movements were exceptionally sneaky, it was a wonder that she didn’t hear the deafening thumping of John’s heartbeat, he pondered. He was convinced the

<|output|> <|example|> John had carefully watched out for any signs of fatigue in his friend over the past few weeks. He didn’t want to miss Sherlock’s distress again as he had with his nightmares. Now that Sherlock hadn’t slept two nights in a row, John was tempted to order him to rest but he knew that it was no use as long as the case wasn’t closed. Besides, he was still disgruntled because of Sherlock’s recklessness and not in the mood to force some self-care on the detective. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Even to those who are as far from being human as you <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Even to those who are as far from being human as you <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Besides, he was still disgruntled because of Sherlock’s recklessness and not in the mood to force some self-care on the detective <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Hudson wasn’t a pleasant prospect—too many nosy questions, too many minutes wasted talking <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> whole house was shaking with the intensity of it but probably it was rather his hand trembling than the bannister beneath it. John forced himself to draw deep steady breaths, stretching his treacherous fingers that already missed the feeling of silky curls and candent skin. The taste of Sherlock still lingered on his tongue, celestial and sweet as nectar, making every inch of his body scream for more, more, Morning arrives and brings gifts of fresh, mellow air and blinding sunlight. Greg feels the slightest headache creep up his temples though he can’t quite tell if the alcohol or the unwarranted revelations about his friend are to blame. The air in the flat seems mellower and warmer all of a sudden, as if one of the soft summer night breezes has snuck inside and brought the scent of oleander and lilies with it. “Noooo,” Sherlock whined and buried his head in John’s lap. Drawing in a sharp breath, John quickly fought down the beast in his groin that raised its head curiously at the close proximity of Sherlock’s face. That had to wait. The woman’s mouth stood agape, giving her the look of a carp in an existential crisis. Sherlock felt a grim sense of satisfaction rush through him and took a deep breath, readying himself to fire another round of words sharp enough to sever limbs. A warm hand on his forearm stopped him. “It’s alright, bumblebee,” John mumbled into her silky blonde hair and soaked in his daughter’s comforting smell, but half an hour passed and Rosie still wailed on. “It’s alright, daddy’s here.” “Well…,” Sherlock initiated his explanation until their words fully penetrated his consciousness. “Wait, you Rosie is rolling around in her crib, crying at the top of her lungs, as John enters the nursery. He reaches down and hoists her into his arms, his fatherly instincts overriding the torrent of thoughts rushing through his head. Rosie bawls into his ear and John gently bounces and swings her, hastily going through his mental checklist. “I love you. More than anyone has ever loved anyone else,” Sherlock replies and he’s never meant anything more in his entire life. . I expected that, after her, your standards would be raised but, apparently, you haven’t changed a bit.” Next to Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson both snivel into their handkerchiefs as John gets up and embraces Sherlock in a clumsy hug. ?” Familiar anger sizzled through John’s veins now and he withdrew his hand. Images of Sherlock’s soaked figure being dragged out of the river rose in his head. How could he even think about doing something like this to him? Sherlock diligently studies the chips before picking one up. “I’d rather not,” he says and begins to munch on the fried food. “Of course, there was.” Sherlock got out of the make-shift tent and eyed the surrounding garden. His explanations left his lips almost involuntarily as he made his way back to the front of the house, knowing very well that John and Greg would follow him. “His missing shoes. I don’t think they are actually missing. Yes, I bet if we look

<|output|> <|example|> whole house was shaking with the intensity of it but probably it was rather his hand trembling than the bannister beneath it. John forced himself to draw deep steady breaths, stretching his treacherous fingers that already missed the feeling of silky curls and candent skin. The taste of Sherlock still lingered on his tongue, celestial and sweet as nectar, making every inch of his body scream for more, more, <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> whole house was shaking with the intensity of it but probably it was rather his hand trembling than the bannister beneath it <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> John forced himself to draw deep steady breaths, stretching his treacherous fingers that already missed the feeling of silky curls and candent skin <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> for them in the house we’ll find them. Jason just didn’t put them on. He followed the suspect out into the garden in a hurry, hence bare feet. It was so important to him that he didn’t bother putting on his shoes although it was freezing out. The other person obviously wanted to get away as fast as possible, so he had to react just as quickly. And since the suspect wasn’t exactly considerate enough of Jason’s lack in footwear to return to the house or at least the terrace in spite of the emotional connection we’ve already established, I’d say it had to be quite the heated argument.” Instead, the consulting detective was solely struggling with his sheets which had slipped down to his waist. He was obviously still fast asleep but facing unspeakable horrors in his dreams. Dark stains of sweat bloomed on his shirt and his breathing was erratic and accelerated as he lashed out furiously. A desperate sound like a howl from a hurt wild animal rose from his mouth: “ “What did you do?” John finished his question, his voice barely audible above the drumming of his heartbeat that had been startled into a hard, anxious rhythm. That John was the one driving them back from Norfolk was nothing short of extraordinary. But the last two days had been nothing if not extraordinary. Hope you liked it! :) As always: Concrit is welcomed and, of course, comments and kudos are, too! <3 It will be a beautiful day tomorrow, Greg supposes. A storybook wedding, with clear skies and golden sunshine illuminating the blushing bride. Decorating the tree was a lot more fun. The whole evening was spent in the warm glow of fairy lights, reflected by the growing number of golden and ruby ornaments spread over dark green needles. Rosie sat in her highchair, gnawing on her teething ring, and watched them carefully as they put the shiny balls up; John at the bottom half while Sherlock used his longer arms to reach the top branches. This distribution had not been agreed upon initially and the fact that John’s jumper always slid up to reveal a delicious piece of lightly tanned skin was almost enough to make Sherlock want to swap tasks. On the other hand, making fun of John for not being able to reach the top of the tree, no matter how much he stretched, was pretty entertaining, as well, and a lot less dangerous. Giving his lungs time to recover, John shifted his focus to Sherlock’s chin and neck, trailing hot open-mouthed kisses down to his collarbone. Long, slender fingers fisted in the fabric of John’s button-down in a desperate attempt to pull him closer. Sherlock’s head fell back, exposing even more creamy white flesh for John to attend to, and small sounds escaped his chest again, somewhere between a sob, a moan, and a gasp. At the noise, John’s already rock-hard cock, pressing against Sherlock’s arse, gave an almost painful twitch, rebelling against the layers of fabric constricting it, a wild famished animal rattling at its cage. With a groan

<|output|> <|example|> for them in the house we’ll find them. Jason just didn’t put them on. He followed the suspect out into the garden in a hurry, hence bare feet. It was so important to him that he didn’t bother putting on his shoes although it was freezing out. The other person obviously wanted to get away as fast as possible, so he had to react just as quickly. And since the suspect wasn’t exactly considerate enough of Jason’s lack in footwear to return to the house or at least the terrace in spite of the emotional connection we’ve already established, I’d say it had to be quite the heated argument.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Instead, the consulting detective was solely struggling with his sheets which had slipped down to his waist <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Decorating the tree was a lot more fun <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> At the noise, John’s already rock-hard cock, pressing against Sherlock’s arse, gave an almost painful twitch, rebelling against the layers of fabric constricting it, a wild famished animal rattling at its cage <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> in response, John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s pale skin in ferocious urgency, too lightly to draw blood but certainly with enough force to leave a mark. Indulging in the taste and the string of whimpers that vibrated in the throat right beneath his mouth, John replaced his bite with hungry suction as if he could transfuse a fraction of Sherlock’s being into his own. “I—,” John begins, then lets his tongue slip out to wet his lips. “You didn’t reply to my messages.” “Yes. Yes, right.” Sherlock emerges from his thoughts and pulls a few handwritten documents from the folder. “I’ve consulted this book and, apparently, my job is to simultaneously praise and make fun of John to entertain the guests. So, I made an index of his admirable qualities to include in the speech as well as a few thoughts on possibly funny anecdotes although I’m admittedly struggling with this part.” “Of course, I can change by myself, I am not a child,” came Sherlock’s indignant reply, his voice still carrying the weight of the nightmare, but John took it as a good sign that he could already snap at him again. And, honestly, he was relieved that he didn’t have to undress Sherlock. This situation was already awkward enough without the dizzying mix of emotion such an act would probably entail. Mr. Beaumont saved him from his thoughts as his empty but resolute voice cut through the silence: “I checked his pulse but he was already ice cold. Then we called the police. What else do you need to know?” even. After all, there was a gigantic number of issues to be addressed: their love confessions, their relationship status, their level of physical intimacy, when and whom to tell about this, how to handle cases from now on,… Questions and concerns whirred around Sherlock’s head like a swarm of hornets, a roaring, all-consuming buzzing that smothered him. How was he supposed to handle this? He wasn’t good at these human things. That was John’s area. He needed John to guide him. Without him, Sherlock was lost, bereft of his senses, stumbling about blindly, deafly, numbly. The last twenty-four hours had altered their relationship forever. Surely, there were some ground rules Sherlock didn’t know about, ground rules he would most certainly break without even meaning to. This was uncharted territory for him, terrifying and possibly deadly uncharted territory. His heart drummed in his throat, only goading the hornets on further with its savage rhythm. One of them, all of them, would sting him eventually, would inject him with their venom until his body would collapse under the pain. And there’s the pout that comes when the puppy dog eyes don’t work quickly enough. Honestly, it’s like dealing with a four-year-old. Sometimes John just doesn’t have the patience to engage in a battle of wills against Sherlock. His half of the bed is warming up now. It’s nice being here with John, much nicer than being all alone in his own room with the rain slamming against the window. John’s fingers slide into the hair at the base

<|output|> <|example|> in response, John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s pale skin in ferocious urgency, too lightly to draw blood but certainly with enough force to leave a mark. Indulging in the taste and the string of whimpers that vibrated in the throat right beneath his mouth, John replaced his bite with hungry suction as if he could transfuse a fraction of Sherlock’s being into his own. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> And there’s the pout that comes when the puppy dog eyes don’t work quickly enough. Honestly, it’s like dealing with a four-year-old. Sometimes John just doesn’t have the patience to engage in a battle of wills against Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> His heart drummed in his throat, only goading the hornets on further with its savage rhythm <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> One of them, all of them, would sting him eventually, would inject him with their venom until his body would collapse under the pain <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> What else do you need to know?” even <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> of his neck and Sherlock tips his head back to meet them, almost letting a little hum of pleasure escape. He wriggles around to get properly comfy. His wolf has been gradually quieting since he got into bed with John, and now that he’s stroking his hair it’s completely silent, if a little tense. He wonders whether his wolf is in fact a cat. It’s clearly enjoying this petting. He is too. He’s so relaxed that he feels himself tense in surprise at a new flash of lightning, but then John’s fingers find a sensitive spot and he melts. He feels as much as he hears John breathe out a laugh. “How is wolf life treating you, brother?” Mycroft asks. “Have you decided to see sense and come to our specialist centre yet?” “I can see you’re doing all you can,” he says, staring into his mug. “I’m sorry if I overreacted. I’m just worried about him.” Sherlock knows hundreds of pieces and he plays most of them. Which does John mean? He plays a few snatches of melodies from various pieces until John’s eyes light up in recognition. Curiously though, John doesn’t leave. He stays at the side of the bed, shifting from foot to foot, looking anywhere but at Sherlock and Nyx. Nyx picks up on his nervousness, pulling her ears back slightly, a quiet whine escaping from her throat. After tense seconds, John lets out a decisive huff of breath, making both Sherlock and Nyx jump, and then feel incredibly foolish. John sidesteps it. “His wound is healing well, he was brilliant on our last case and his headaches have been better over the past few days. What else is there to discuss? He’s fine.” “Your brain is bored, isn’t it? Deduce them.” He makes a sweeping motion at the people passing by on the street. “That was…” he struggles for a suitable word and then resolves the struggle by surging up to kiss Sherlock deeply. John will come to rescue him. It will take less than an hour, by Sherlock’s estimate. And when he arrives and unties him, Sherlock will treat him exactly the same as always. So he will be clean. He’ll find a flat, something in central London, well located to get to any crime scene. He will let, no, Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to feel what the wolf can feel. The wolf is in his mind palace now. It shouldn’t be so hard. But it takes him more than one attempt. More than three. There’s no obvious He doesn’t need a doctor; he has self-diagnosed a broken heart and he has self-prescribed cocaine. He doesn’t need his doctor. His hand finds Sherlock’s hip, tugs at his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock shoves them down and off, making John whine when Sherlock’s hand leaves his dick. He sucks at John’s sensitive neck again, and is rewarded by John’s arse pressing back against his cock. Back inside, Sherlock picks up his clothes in his mouth and goes straight upstairs. John listens to him changing back into his human form. There are a few tense moments, sharp breaths, then Sherlock comes

<|output|> <|example|> of his neck and Sherlock tips his head back to meet them, almost letting a little hum of pleasure escape. He wriggles around to get properly comfy. His wolf has been gradually quieting since he got into bed with John, and now that he’s stroking his hair it’s completely silent, if a little tense. He wonders whether his wolf is in fact a cat. It’s clearly enjoying this petting. He is too. He’s so relaxed that he feels himself tense in surprise at a new flash of lightning, but then John’s fingers find a sensitive spot and he melts. He feels as much as he hears John breathe out a laugh. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “How is wolf life treating you, brother?” Mycroft asks <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He sucks at John’s sensitive neck again, and is rewarded by John’s arse pressing back against his cock <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> John listens to him changing back into his human form <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> John listens to him changing back into his human form <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> John sidesteps it <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> He wriggles around to get properly comfy <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> back downstairs, human and in pyjamas. He’s surprised to see John still in his wolf form. Throughout this there's a hand on his shoulder, probably Lestrade's, probably the only thing that stops him detaching from the earth and floating off. As they take John away from the alley the hand pushes him towards the ambulance and he stumbles, clumsily. The paramedics don't stop him getting in the back of the ambulance. He doesn't hear what they're saying. Sherlock spends an evening trawling the internet for information about the Were packs of London, but finds nothing except people loudly proclaiming that they saw a wolf. Sherlock smiles, a real, proper, rare Sherlock smile. He’s always pleased when John figures out his compositions. Together they walk into the water. John jumps around and splashes. There’s more sand underneath the water which doesn’t seem fair to Sherlock. He snaps at a moving bit of water. It’s salty, yuck. He tries to lick it away and ends up more salty. John jumps too close to him and soaks him. Sherlock leaps on him in retaliation. Now they’re both soaked. Much better. He’s usually very careful not to think about Sherlock like this. There are so many reasons why it wouldn’t work, so many ways it could go wrong. He’d rather die than live without the friendship they have now. He almost did, before he met Sherlock. He doesn’t want to jeopardise it. Better not to think about it. . He doesn’t understand how John is staying so calm. Sherlock’s wolf is running circles in his head and it’s driving him insane. Sherlock is pleased at his own ability to communicate despite being in wolf form. He follows John to the kitchen and waits as he rinses the handle of his mug and makes tea. That done, he heads to his armchair, but Sherlock huffs at him and nudges him towards the sofa. , it means. Right, yes. Because he has to let his instincts guide him more in the city. Sherlock carefully takes a (metaphorical) step backwards and allows his wolf more control. He can feel its excitement at being let loose. Sherlock moves then, grabs John's hips and pulls. John falls against him and presses him flat against the bed, biting at Sherlock's full lower lip. “We both know you’ll steal my chips the second they’re placed in front of me,” John replies, and leads them to the town’s only pub. “Okay,” Sherlock says, but inside he’s not thrilled about the prospect of having to help John up another set of stairs. When they get back they need the light on. The sky outside is beginning to dim. Sherlock feels a twinge of something and tries to categorise it. Nerves? Yes, he is nervous, just a touch. Anticipation is practically a given. Curiosity. That one’s not hard to identify. Curiosity is his standard state of being. A passing need to just do He occupies himself with turning off the lights and opening the door. A gust of wind sends it flying open. Raindrops spatter over the floor. Sherlock looks even less impressed. John jumps up onto the bed and

<|output|> <|example|> back downstairs, human and in pyjamas. He’s surprised to see John still in his wolf form. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John falls against him and presses him flat against the bed, biting at Sherlock's full lower lip <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> A passing need to just do He occupies himself with turning off the lights and opening the door <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> There are so many reasons why it wouldn’t work, so many ways it could go wrong <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Anticipation is practically a given <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> John falls against him and presses him flat against the bed, biting at Sherlock's full lower lip <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> Nerves? Yes, he is nervous, just a touch <|indexes|> 5 |

<|text|> burrows under the covers. He turns a few times, then curls up. Sherlock gets in on his side. It must be his side by now. Their warmth heats the bed. Perfect. But maybe it could be better. He shifts again to rest his head on Sherlock’s chest and shoulder. Sherlock’s arm reaches around and his hand buries itself in John’s fur again. He strokes him gently. John is drifting off to sleep already. Sherlock’s pyjama top smells lovely. His eyes droop. I recently read another fic that had Sherlock playing the same piece, so the author of that fic and I must've gone down the same google search route. Heh. Then things tighten up. Here is a version of himself with complete control over his music. It’s sharp, no frills, not leaving space for any sort of emotion. The control lessens gradually, moment by moment, as they go back to London. But there’s an underlying sadness in the music now. It’s what he wanted, but thought he couldn’t have. There’s a spike of violence, the sadness increases, then the music becomes claustrophobic, dangerous. This is when he was kidnapped. The energy increases, the tempo increases: John to the rescue. Then the music soars, all trace of sadness gone. John kissing him. The soaring music gradually settles, diminuendo, morphs back into the cottage theme and ends. This is where they are now. John comes to full alertness instantly. He sits up, and they both hear the inner door to the flat open and close. “It doesn’t have to take over completely,” John says. “Does your mind palace have a garden? You could build it a kennel.” He pulls his hand away from Sherlock’s chest for a full body stretch, yawning, nose scrunching up. He sits up, then slides out of bed. Sherlock instantly feels disappointed. Why won’t he stay longer? There’s something not entirely relaxed about how he’s holding himself. Is he embarrassed? Surely John has shared beds with countless people. Sherlock knows his reputation. When he has Sherlock squirming he moves down further, mouthing over tense abdominal muscles. He bypasses Sherlock's cock in favour of licking along a hipbone. Then small, teasing kisses down his thighs, which have fallen open and are quivering. A warm hand over one knee, a playful nip at an ankle, then John reaches Sherlock's feet, lifts one and drops a kiss right where the splinter was, shooting a cheeky look up at Sherlock. Sherlock surprises himself by bursting into a giggle. He almost immediately sobers up, pressing his lips together. He quickly turns back to the stove so Sherlock won’t see the pang that gives him written across his face. Then John gently presses his lips to Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and he just can’t help it. The kiss is nothing more than that but they stay that way for a few moments, pressed together, both here, both alive. In the late afternoon they arrive where they’ll be staying: a charming holiday cottage on the Sussex coast. It’s isolated, with its own path down to a cove and a sweeping mass of land behind

<|output|> <|example|> burrows under the covers. He turns a few times, then curls up. Sherlock gets in on his side. It must be his side by now. Their warmth heats the bed. Perfect. But maybe it could be better. He shifts again to rest his head on Sherlock’s chest and shoulder. Sherlock’s arm reaches around and his hand buries itself in John’s fur again. He strokes him gently. John is drifting off to sleep already. Sherlock’s pyjama top smells lovely. His eyes droop. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John kissing him <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> Is he embarrassed? Surely John has shared beds with countless people <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> burrows under the covers <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> It’s isolated, with its own path down to a cove and a sweeping mass of land behind <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> it. They meet the owner there. John pays the deposit in cash. Sherlock has to admire the effort he’s put into this. This must have been the reason for the phone call he made from the car rental office. After, the owner gives them a cursory tour. The cottage is a mix of cosy, modern, basic and rustic, like a countryside version of 221B, but with less mess. He imagines John didn’t have much choice in picking it, but luck, if luck exists, seems to have thrown them the perfect place. “Get your gun, John. I have the note dropper on camera an hour ago, and you’re going to follow his route.” They decide to start at the top of the hill and work their way down. They climb up to the trees at the top. After walking through the trees for a few minutes, Sherlock suddenly gasps and dashes ahead. John wonders what could have him so excited. There’s not a dead body up here, is there? Sherlock wakes slowly, warm and rested. He opens his eyes to the clear morning sunlight, the gentle blue stillness of the sea side bedroom, and John’s sleeping face. He’s rolled over in the night; he’s now facing John, who must’ve fallen asleep still stroking Sherlock’s hair, because he has one arm stretched out towards him, fingertips resting lightly against Sherlock’s chest. He’s stronger and faster as a wolf, but as a human, he can use his gun. Changing is a vulnerable process, but he’ll have to do it at some point; Sherlock is probably tied up, and John will need his fingers to release him. Right. He changes back, dresses, and quickly sends a text to Mycroft describing the location and situation. “Mm, you know,” John says, after a particularly sharp bite to Sherlock's collarbone which makes him rather vocal, “I’d carry you to your room because I think you’d enjoy that, but my back isn’t what it used to be.” John takes off his pants, and Sherlock very carefully doesn’t look at him as he takes off his own. John turns off the main light, leaving just the lamps on. Of course, not looking doesn’t mean that Sherlock doesn’t see. He knows now where John was bitten. His scar is on the outside of his right thigh, high up, just below his hip. It’s not as obvious as Sherlock’s will be — teeth can pierce silk shirts more easily than heavy army uniform fabric. It explains a few things, though. The psychosomatic limp makes a lot more sense. Sherlock was an idiot not to have deduced it before. Newspaper man — Ste — groans. John hears Sherlock whimper. He sounds muffled, gagged. Tom? Who’s Tom? Who has he killed called— “Do you think we don’t know what we’re doing, Mycroft?” John asks. “That Sherlock needs doctors and psychologists to hold his hand?” “You will be pleased to hear,” John says, after a few quiet moments, “that moonrise is quite early tonight. Late afternoon really. But we’ll wait until it’s fully dark. We have some things we can do until then.” Changing back is

<|output|> <|example|> it. They meet the owner there. John pays the deposit in cash. Sherlock has to admire the effort he’s put into this. This must have been the reason for the phone call he made from the car rental office. After, the owner gives them a cursory tour. The cottage is a mix of cosy, modern, basic and rustic, like a countryside version of 221B, but with less mess. He imagines John didn’t have much choice in picking it, but luck, if luck exists, seems to have thrown them the perfect place. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He knows now where John was bitten <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> I have the note dropper on camera an hour ago, and you’re going to follow his route <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> easier than changing into wolf form. He knows his human body well. Again he feels the burning pain, the stretching, the itching, then he’s standing, human again. He feels curiously tall. Sherlock flops down onto the sofa. John throws a blanket into his lap and Sherlock musters up the energy to shake it out over his nakedness. John wraps himself in another blanket and sits beside Sherlock. Their thighs touch. Sherlock is no expert on these matters, and he’s too tired to think it through, but he feels like they might be closer now. Sherlock comes back downstairs, his cheeks pink from the heat of his bath, hair mad from a rough towel drying. Lestrade changes tack. “What about his new, uh, condition? It hasn’t been that long since he was bitten. Could it be related?” And then there’s kissing. So much kissing that he sometimes thinks he’ll burst just from the kissing, just from what he’s feeling. Then John takes it further, pushes him up to that delicious edge with his hands, his fingers, his mouth, until he tumbles over and breaks apart. John is always there to pull him back together. Sherlock does the same for John, discovers his sensitive spots, his ticklish spots, touches him everywhere, learns what he likes. Now that he is allowed to touch John as much as he wants, is encouraged to even, he can’t stop. He wants to know everything about John’s body. He loves the noises he makes. The knowledge that it is “What splinter?” John asks, causing Sherlock to splutter in outrage before he realises that John is teasing and flushes a deeper shade of pink. John smirks and pointedly doesn’t think about other ways he could make Sherlock that pretty shade of pink. “John, sit down.” He guides John to his chair, to be sure he actually will sit down. “I will make the tea.” John clears his throat, looking away from Sherlock’s nakedness. “Yeah, uh. Good night, Sherlock. Or, good morning, I guess.” When John’s noise reaches a certain pitch, takes on a certain note of begging, Sherlock removes hand and mouth from his cock. He glances up at John, smiles, then rubs his cheek up John’s cock like a cat. His barely-there evening stubble scratches lightly against John’s sensitive skin. John has let Harry believe what she wants about his and Sherlock’s relationship for ages now. It’s easier than arguing. He could get used to this. Maybe he could trick Sherlock into watching something besides BBC documentaries in the future. The nurse smiled apologetically. “The doctor would like to keep him in a little longer, I’m afraid.” And yet, hanging on barely more than threads, John carried on, ever the brave soldier. Every day, every night, he marched onward with bleeding feet and steely stubbornness, Sherlock always by his side to catch him as soon as his legs would ultimately give in. He hailed a cab, only curtly naming his address before falling silent on the back seat. Cold fingers fidgeting with his phone, Sherlock tried to occupy his mind with anything but the prospect of another night of a warm

<|output|> <|example|> easier than changing into wolf form. He knows his human body well. Again he feels the burning pain, the stretching, the itching, then he’s standing, human again. He feels curiously tall. Sherlock flops down onto the sofa. John throws a blanket into his lap and Sherlock musters up the energy to shake it out over his nakedness. John wraps himself in another blanket and sits beside Sherlock. Their thighs touch. Sherlock is no expert on these matters, and he’s too tired to think it through, but he feels like they might be closer now. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He could get used to this. Maybe he could trick Sherlock into watching something besides BBC documentaries in the future. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Every day, every night, he marched onward with bleeding feet and steely stubbornness, Sherlock always by his side to catch him as soon as his legs would ultimately give in <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Cold fingers fidgeting with his phone, Sherlock tried to occupy his mind with anything but the prospect of another night of a warm <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> The nurse smiled apologetically <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> He wants to know everything about John’s body <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Again he feels the burning pain, the stretching, the itching, then he’s standing, human again <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> and far too appealing John pressed against him—or worse, John insisting on sleeping alone—when his text alert beeped. Instead of his usual acknowledgment, wrapped in some polite nonsense about dinner, a reply popped up that made Sherlock’s already caffeine-accelerated heartbeat speed up even more. “I’ve told the Beaumonts,” Lestrade affirmed. “And the Chief Superintendent has certainly seen enough deaths in his day to know that, sometimes, there’s nothing you can do.” The dreams usually followed a simple structure: Sherlock regained consciousness in a dark and oddly featureless room, chained to the back wall. Mere feet away from him, yet too far to touch, lay John, chained up as well. He gave Sherlock a frightened look before a dark figure entered the room and approached John. Then, the worst part began. Sherlock had to sit there on the floor while John was being methodically tortured before his eyes. Sometimes it was Moriarty, sometimes Mary, sometimes the latest murderer they had caught together. Completely immobilized, Sherlock had to watch his friend bleed and suffer. And it was “We only—” John interrupts himself. Lestrade doesn’t know his secret. “He changed recently. Monday night into Tuesday morning was the last change. Sherlock has been fine with it.” The piece runs chronologically. It begins with the first cottage section, the one that John heard before, long, low, and comforting. Then comes the first change. Gradually the cottage theme morphs, becoming something more complex, and then suddenly it’s completely different. This is Sherlock’s music at its most violently emotional, confused, uncontrolled, lost… Again, with no discernible reason, Sherlock catches hold of his wolf. This time he holds on and on and on. His muscles tense. He thinks of his dream. He thinks of running with his wolf. He forgets everything else. His transport, the room, John… Something switches inside of him, and suddenly his muscles are burning, as if they’re being stretched past endurance. His skin itches, but he can’t move his arms to scratch. Through a rushing in his ears, he hears John’s voice. John is quiet. Normally Sherlock kicks him out of the room if he needs to go to his mind palace. But now he’s lying in John’s lap, allowing him to see, allowing him to know Sherlock’s Then John looks over his shoulder at him. "If we're going to share a bed, you might as well make it worthwhile." Sherlock opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing. He lowers his violin and bow, looks to John and blinks in surprise. In the light of the fire John’s eyes are wet and glistening. “I need to shower first,” Sherlock replies, but makes no effort to move, sliding his hands slowly up and down John’s back. “I feel like a whale,” Sherlock complains as they leave the flat that night. John has stayed true to his word and provided Sherlock with an impossible amount of food throughout the day. Thanks to everyone reading along and sticking with me so far! You can hit me up at hannahrrrr.tumblr.com An old man with age-related insomnia out for a walk. Nothing unusual there. The slow, dragging pace he has to go at

<|output|> <|example|> and far too appealing John pressed against him—or worse, John insisting on sleeping alone—when his text alert beeped. Instead of his usual acknowledgment, wrapped in some polite nonsense about dinner, a reply popped up that made Sherlock’s already caffeine-accelerated heartbeat speed up even more. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “We only—” John interrupts himself. Lestrade doesn’t know his secret. “He changed recently. Monday night into Tuesday morning was the last change. Sherlock has been fine with it.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> “I feel like a whale,” Sherlock complains as they leave the flat that night <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Sometimes it was Moriarty, sometimes Mary, sometimes the latest murderer they had caught together <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Completely immobilized, Sherlock had to watch his friend bleed and suffer <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> He forgets everything else <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> "If we're going to share a bed, you might as well make it worthwhile <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> frustrates him, but he can’t break character. It takes him half an hour to make his way to Baker Street. He doesn’t enter the street itself. A few streets away is a rusted fire escape. At the top of that, he strips off the disguise so he’s in all black; then it’s a leap across to a ledge on the building opposite and a scramble up to the roof, and he has a clear shot, a simple run with a few jumps to reach 221 Baker Street. John wakes him the next morning. It’s half nine already, later than he’d expected. He blames his wolf, who keeps sleeping ridiculously long hours. Sherlock finds his wolf more easily this time, and doesn’t take long to change. John follows after. Even now, after a couple of years, the change is still a little painful, like working out muscles that have never been used before. It’s gone the moment he’s in wolf form. His phone pings with a text. For a mad second he thinks it might be Sherlock, but it’s just Mycroft, telling him that his team is working on tracing the second vehicle. John sits back with a huff. All the leads are out of his hands and there’s nothing more he can do. The walk back to the cottage along the coast path takes longer in the dark. Sherlock has to keep putting a hand out to steady himself on John’s shoulder, the bags he’s carrying tipping him off balance. John is always there to right him. “I need to return the torch to the pub, too,” John continues. “I’ll buy a couple for us in town while I’m there.” “‘Obsession’ is unfair,” Clara says. “But you can’t blame her. She didn’t see how Sherlock turned your life around.” “Trust me,” John says, picking out a jar of jam from the small selection. “Changing makes you hungry. Very hungry.” Through the darkness he can see two men silhouetted against the light. They’re sitting at a fold-out table, making it hard for John to assess their size and strength. He edges closer to the wall, away from the pool of light. There’s a rustling noise farther off, beyond the table. A third man sitting apart has just turned a page of newspaper. Beyond him, barely perceptible in the darkness, huddled against a wall, Sherlock’s unmistakable silhouette. John’s on the wrong side, damn it! John takes him to a large, open plain of grass. Here they can relax their guard a little; anyone approaching them will be easily seen. Sherlock wags his tail. His wolf (and he himself) is pleased that John has brought them somewhere that they can play. John sees his excitement and offers him the wolfish version of a grin. This will be much better than prowling cautiously through dark alleys. John’s tone implies that there’s still more to be done. Sherlock had expected that. It won’t matter for another month, though. Mycroft stands. Apparently he’s got all the information he wanted. The goodbyes are tense. Sherlock is keen to get rid of him, and John isn’t too fond of Mycroft

<|output|> <|example|> frustrates him, but he can’t break character. It takes him half an hour to make his way to Baker Street. He doesn’t enter the street itself. A few streets away is a rusted fire escape. At the top of that, he strips off the disguise so he’s in all black; then it’s a leap across to a ledge on the building opposite and a scramble up to the roof, and he has a clear shot, a simple run with a few jumps to reach 221 Baker Street. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John sees his excitement and offers him the wolfish version of a grin <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Changing makes you hungry <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “Changing makes you hungry <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> He doesn’t enter the street itself <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Even now, after a couple of years, the change is still a little painful, like working out muscles that have never been used before <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> either. Mycroft himself won’t hang around for a social visit once he’s got what he wants. A slight twitch from John, and then he’s off, running flat out, joyous. Sherlock tears after him through the wet grass. He’s so Carefully John works in a second finger alongside his first. He’s used to the stretch now, welcomes it, wants to feel John filling him up. Two fingers become three, then suddenly Sherlock has to tug on John’s hair, pull him off his cock. “Text Lestrade,” John replies. “I’m sure he could use your help on something. Or check your emails. Last I saw there were over five hundred in your inbox.” The flannel lands with a squelch near the door, and John settles over Sherlock and lets himself be kissed lazily but thoroughly. Mycroft offers a few more directions. “Remember that we might lose him. They’ve been rather good at avoiding CCTV thus far.” Around half an hour later, Sherlock finishes playing and reemerges from his head. John has been staring, apparently also lost in the music, and he blinks a few times to come back to himself. Damn him. Sherlock tries so hard to be immune to Sherlock's small ‘pleases’ and puppy dog eyes (he knows if he turns around now there will be puppy dog eyes), but Sherlock is just too good at convincing him. No. Scratch that. John is just too bad at resisting him. He turns. Sherlock's mouth is hanging open, catching his breath, his lips rosy and kiss-swollen. His eyes are closed, long eyelashes fanning his cheeks, which are still tinged pink from their exertions. His face is relaxed, young, sated. God, he looks “Would you please stop being so obvious but refusing to do anything about it?! I’m dying of impatience here.” Sherlock sighs. John is right. Headaches make him fuzzy-brained. He can’t think straight; his mind stagnates. He can’t stand stagnation. He understands theoretically that he should accept his wolf, but at what cost? What changes to his intelligence? The fun of play is slightly ruined when they get out of the water and Sherlock discovers that the sand is sticking to him more than ever. He tries to shake it off the whole way up the beach. Big clods of it stick to his paws. John takes pity on him and shows him how to roll in the gravel to get it off. Once it’s gone they’re off again. They run up and down the hill. He follows the chirping of night insects. They practise hunting them. He can move almost silently. Like a whisper of wind. The human side of him is impressed. He stalks a night chirper — slow, focused, deadly. John ambushes him from the side. A lesson for his defences. “No, he doesn’t,” John quickly objected although the lie didn’t sound very convincing. That bloke actually could have been his twin brother as far as he could tell. He was sure that, fifteen years ago, he and that actor would have been nearly indistinguishable. ,” he cautiously joined John in the chorus, their voices intertwining into an enchanting harmony. Goosebumps spread from the base

<|output|> <|example|> either. Mycroft himself won’t hang around for a social visit once he’s got what he wants. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “No, he doesn’t,” John quickly objected although the lie didn’t sound very convincing. That bloke actually could have been his twin brother as far as he could tell. He was sure that, fifteen years ago, he and that actor would have been nearly indistinguishable. <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Damn him <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> John has been staring, apparently also lost in the music, and he blinks a few times to come back to himself <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “Text Lestrade,” John replies <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Headaches make him fuzzy-brained <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Headaches make him fuzzy-brained <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Goosebumps spread from the base <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> A slight twitch from John, and then he’s off, running flat out, joyous <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> of his skull. With the glass, he wanders back to the bedroom and opens his bag. Although he has only one outfit packed he takes so long to get dressed that Mary is ready before him. “C’mere.” John tugged at his fingers until Sherlock was closely snuggled against him, half-covered by the Belstaff, his head resting against John’s chest. Breathing a kiss onto Sherlock’s scalp, John murmured: “Now, please, tell me what’s wrong.” Although the scenes were mangled by pain and blood loss, he could piece them together quite reliably: the gun that had gone off — Cal who had dropped it like scalding metal the next second — the officers rushing up the stairs and arresting the boy — Greg following closely behind and calling the ambulance — Sherlock’s pale face as he pressed his scarf down on the wound. Greg quirks his brows. “Why not? Too embarrassed by how plastered you both were? The great Sherlock Holmes, unable to hold his drink?” He grins. Sherlock tried to answer but the words got stuck somewhere in his ribcage. He could only stare at John—brilliant, blinding John—and nod eagerly in agreement, in understanding, in encouragement. Mrs Hudson’s shrill voice lifted the fog of arousal and brought John back to reality. For a second, the flat around him seemed altered and oddly confusing, like kissing Sherlock had pushed them through a wormhole into an alternate universe—one with a distinctly smoky smell to it. And I would be super interested if any of you have headcanons about John's note from TLD. It bothers me so much that we didn't get to see what it said so I included my own (brutal) version. Any other ideas? :) They bore into his own with such intensity, with an irresistible, gravitational force pulling Sherlock into his orbit. John’s forecast had been wrong. It took them almost three full days to solve Ethan Nichols’ murder. Witnesses were nowhere to be found and almost everyone they interviewed acted suspiciously. As it turned out, the idyll of the village was nothing but a carefully cultivated façade, covering up more grudges and dirty little secrets than John would have thought possible. And one, Sherlock and he agreed, must have been the death of Ethan Nichols. They ended up in a narrow street framed by shabby blocks of flats. The names on the bell panel were smudged and barely readable. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell that hit him as they were buzzed in and entered the building. As hard as he tries to avoid the image before him, there’s just no use. John belongs here, in this chair, in He still couldn’t believe his luck. Some part of him was only waiting for this new wonderful thing he had waited for all his life to be ripped from his fingers again. All good things ended eventually, didn’t they? You just had to make it count while you still could. A white wall of fury blinded Sherlock at his words. After all this time, after witnessing the nightmares that still tormented him, John still hadn’t understood. He still didn’t get what Sherlock had done

<|output|> <|example|> of his skull. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “C’mere <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell that hit him as they were buzzed in and entered the building <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> for him. “It’s alright,” he says, gently running his thumb over the soft skin just below John’s hairline. “It’s okay.” Sherlock isn’t articulating words anymore, only belting out almost desperate notes. Each one breaks through John like a wrecking ball, leaving nothing but dust and debris. Once again, Sherlock has demolished the foundation of John’s identity. Over the course of the night, John dozed off a few times, only to be tortured by visions of Sherlock, his face pale and agonized, his hands clutching his chest were shards of his broken heart had pierced through his skin, colouring his shirt red with blood. Every time, John awoke with a start and a pain in his own chest that made him trace the fabric of his jumper to ensure he didn’t bleed. “Laney, we just want to find Cal before he gets into trouble. You don’t want Cal to get into trouble, do you?” .” John’s voice became more confident and Sherlock no longer fought the adoration that shone from his face. It can’t possibly be of any advantage for him to read these messages. Not after three weeks of deafening silence. Sherlock examined her closely; the way her cheaply coloured hair framed her turgid, starkly rouged cheeks; the company-issued t-shirt that clung to her sinewy body; the nicotine-stained fingernails. His voice dropped to menacing depths as he cocked his head and said: „Did you seriously just try to shame him for buying formula for his child?” And John? He never struck Greg as someone inclined this way but, well, people are complicated. But he had decided to propose to Mary, so the whole matter was resolved. At least that’s what Greg thought. He’s pretty sure that the prospect of having breakfast with his wife and all his friends and family, who’ve, by the way, made it all the way to London and stayed the night for his wedding, shouldn’t be quite this unnerving. A pale moon stared back at Sherlock, ignorant of the hearts broken and lives destroyed beneath, unfeeling. God, how he envied it. He’d given everything to return to his numb existence, void of all the sentiment that this damned man had snuck into his heart. But the damage was done. This bell could not be un-rung. And Sherlock Holmes had a feeling, loving, aching heart now pounding in his chest. Making it stop called for radical measures. If all this video contains is another lecture about body language and how all of John’s friends secretly despise him, he’ll have to have a word with Greg. “Guess what, bumblebee,” John murmurs into his daughter’s hair and a smile spreads on his face. “We’re going home.” The lump in his throat grows with every step, the grocery bag weighing him down as if it were filled with lead instead of apples, toast, and beans. He will miss all of this. But what other choice is there really? “This isn’t your fault, Sherlock,” the DI said, his soothing voice piercing Sherlock’s ears like red-hot needles. “Stop beating yourself up. Neither of us saw that coming.” “Thank you,” John called over his shoulder, already halfway up the stairs, taking

<|output|> <|example|> for him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “It’s okay <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “Guess what, bumblebee,” John murmurs into his daughter’s hair and a smile spreads on his face <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> two steps at a time. Sherlock just shook his head. He wouldn’t ruin this. And maybe the game would reveal other interesting facts about John. That alone was reason enough to stay. Sherlock caught only half of the pleasantries and stories about their kids John and Angelo exchanged. He focused all his mental energy on regaining control over his heartbeat and breathing as long as John was still occupied with something else. He needed to calm down, to keep his composure or John would mistake his nervousness for discomfort or worse. Counting the duration of each breath he took— “Condoms? I know your blood is massively supplying another organ than your brain right now but, as a doctor, you should still know that there is no way you can get me pregnant,” Sherlock panted. “I’m inexperienced but I haven’t lived under a rock for the past thirty-six years. I’ve seen movies,” Sherlock grumbled as he tied his scarf. Before he could grab his coat, steady hands were already holding it up to help him slip it on, lingering on his shoulders for sweet seconds. Somewhere in Sherlock’s head, Mycroft raised his eyebrows with a belittling click of his tongue at John’s repeated courtesy but Sherlock couldn’t care less. Whatever false sense of pride might’ve been hurt by these gestures—it had been washed away by wine and shared secrets. Sherlock’s mouth opens without his conscious command, inviting John’s tongue in, and even this is not close enough. His hand sneaks into John’s hair, holding him in place because this can never end. He can never let John go again. They stepped out onto the cold street. It was barely past nine and the dark air buzzed with people visiting bars and restaurants. A group of merrily chattering women passed and eyed them both, their interested gazes injecting Sherlock’s mind with an unpleasant thought. He busied his hands by turning up his collar as they directed their steps back to Baker Street. Having hung up both jackets, John sat back down on the sofa and checked his messages. Up until now, he had almost forgotten about the world outside of their cozy flat and he wasn’t particularly keen on re-entering it. Maybe Sherlock’s getting rid of his phone wasn’t so dumb after all. Was death by instalments any less cruel to them than a brief jump or the shot of a gun? What could possibly justify the pain he’d cause all of them? Just because he couldn’t stand an existence without John? He was willing to die for them. Wasn’t it even more courageous to stay alive for them even if that entailed misery? Pain remained pain. But at least, this way, Sherlock stayed the only one it was inflicted on. As the younger man’s pale hand returned to his skin, John’s face relaxed again. His eyes slid closed completely and a soft satisfied bumbling vibrated in his throat. The fact that he was able to alleviate John's discomfort relieved Sherlock immensely. He adjusted his own figure to a more comfortable position, now sitting beside his friend with crossed legs and his sheets wrapped around

<|output|> <|example|> two steps at a time. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> And maybe the game would reveal other interesting facts about John <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> But at least, this way, Sherlock stayed the only one it was inflicted on <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Wasn’t it even more courageous to stay alive for them even if that entailed misery? Pain remained pain <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> his shoulders. He cooled John’s forehead, switching hands whenever their body temperatures aligned, and watched as John drifted back and forth between sleeping and waking. Slowly, pale sunlight crept into the bedroom. The tea had apparently rehydrated him enough to allow his body to spare some fluids for tears again. With quiet steadiness, they dropped from his chin. Molly and Greg both remained perfectly silent while Sherlock cried, freely and unashamedly, but the looks they shared whispered of compassion and… understanding. They both had lived through their share of unrequited love, too, Sherlock realized. At least this once, his inner workings didn’t estrange him from the rest of the world but made him belong. He was able to love—even if no one would ever love him back. What kind of monstrosity could he possibly be if he was capable of such sentiment? “We don’t think so, Cal,” John assured him, making a tentative step towards the boy. “We’ll vouch for you. All you have to do is give me your gun.” “I take your word for it. This is hardly my area of expertise, John,” Sherlock said with an apologetic smile. Having uttered his concerns, at least to some extent, seemed to change the air between them, rendered it mellower, homelier, and gave Sherlock the strength to open up. Under his breath, he added: “I don’t know how to do this.” John laughed and attacked his mouth with kisses. “At least I’m not too hurt to snog that grin off your face.” Sherlock let his head fall back upon the pillow as John climbed half on top of him and began to torture him with little bites and bruises again—always on the verge of hurting but not quite there. Sherlock let out an involuntary gasp and dug his nails into John’s backside, evoking an equal sound of pained pleasure. All his nerves were alight with the feeling of John’s fingers, John’s lips, John’s cock against his thigh. He tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box. A small card—dark blue letters on heavy, off-white paper—lay on top of the phone. He picked it up and read: Something about this slip feels odd, causes a surge of adrenaline John can’t quite place but he knows better than to dismiss his natural instincts. Sherlock is hurting, Greg knows it. He can’t leave him here, drunk and vulnerable. The bastard’s enough of a drama queen to do something stupid in his desperation. And if he’s actually hit by a car, Greg wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. He turns and straightens his jacket resolutely. “You should drink at least two glasses of water and then go to bed, sleep off the booze. Maybe take some aspirin straight away, be a step ahead of the hangover. Things will look different in the morning, you’ll see. Just make sure you’ll be good to give that speech, be John’s best man.” “You didn’t answer the door, Sherlock. Did you put the bell in the freezer again? You always—,” Mrs. Hudson complained before Molly interrupted her: “What’s going on with you two? Why are you crying?” He only now

<|output|> <|example|> his shoulders. He cooled John’s forehead, switching hands whenever their body temperatures aligned, and watched as John drifted back and forth between sleeping and waking. Slowly, pale sunlight crept into the bedroom. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Did you put the bell in the freezer again? You always—,” Mrs <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “We’ll vouch for you <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> realises how awfully quiet the house can be without Mrs Hudson’s constant chatting, humming, and hoovering. Even the bodily resources needed to digest a pound of lasagne and two dozen pralines don’t seem to suffice to take the edge off his thoughts. Sherlock felt the lump rise in his throat again, coarse and painful. Pictures unfolded before his eyes: of a familiar, beloved little body lying on the ground, skin just as white as the snow surrounding it, blonde curls covering a blank face, tiny fingers limp, never holding on to his hand again. Greg gives Sherlock a curious side glance, not quite sure what to make of this demonstration. “Is… Is that you, playing the guitar?” It is this smile, this fond and somewhat sheepish expression that flashes over John’s face every now and then that is driving Sherlock insane, that makes watching and waiting and wishing just not good enough anymore. “I threw everything out when I moved back in with you. I didn’t exactly want to store stuff like that in our shared bedroom. Could’ve made things awkward.” John cranes his neck, angles Sherlock’s head with gentle movements and invites him in. As their tongues touch, lightning strikes in Sherlock’s mind, eradicating every thought other than the taste of John. “What names would you like to call me?” John replied with a mischievous grin and a sparkle in his eyes that made Sherlock’s knees a little wobbly. He quickly raised his gaze to the thickening clouds overhead. It must’ve been one of the sober nights, then, when it first happened. He woke, the darkness of his old room he occupied once more pressing into his eyes like a blindfold, to find somebody next to him. Sherlock had silently sneaked into his bed, had crept under the covers without a word, without touching John or trying to wake him. “Well, usually I wouldn’t have chosen a restaurant where neither of us has to pay but I didn’t exactly have time to make a reservation anywhere else,” John chuckled. John felt Sherlock relax on the sofa next to him as the movie progressed. From time to time, he would tilt his head in thought or fidget a little but, overall, he seemed quite content. John fought a grin creeping up on his lips at Sherlock’s fruitless attempts to look cool and disinterested. “No,” he says with an apologetic shrug. When John bites his lips and turns to the bartender for another drink, he adds in an attempt to distract him: “Great wedding, man.” For a moment, Sherlock is intrigued by the idea of hacking into Mycroft’s bank accounts to follow the money trail. On second thought, it’s not even worth the effort. Yet, here he is; still as stupid and dependent and addicted to the special high only Sherlock can provide him with. Despite all the hurt he’s caused him, John has to admit to himself now that he would abandon anything, everything for the spot at Sherlock’s side. “Looking for something?” Sherlock said, rising to his full height and swiftly bridging the distance between him and the stranger. ?” His tone was demonstratively casual but

<|output|> <|example|> realises how awfully quiet the house can be without Mrs Hudson’s constant chatting, humming, and hoovering. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Looking for something?” Sherlock said, rising to his full height and swiftly bridging the distance between him and the stranger <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Despite all the hurt he’s caused him, John has to admit to himself now that he would abandon anything, everything for the spot at Sherlock’s side <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> As their tongues touch, lightning strikes in Sherlock’s mind, eradicating every thought other than the taste of John <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “No,” he says with an apologetic shrug <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> realises how awfully quiet the house can be without Mrs Hudson’s constant chatting, humming, and hoovering <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> Pictures unfolded before his eyes: of a familiar, beloved little body lying on the ground, skin just as white as the snow surrounding it, blonde curls covering a blank face, tiny fingers limp, never holding on to his hand again <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> Sherlock felt the lump rise in his throat again, coarse and painful <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> the blue of his eyes darkened in vigilance. Sherlock could all but hear John’s mind switch into soldier mode in light of this dangerous terrain they had suddenly stepped on. The video ends with a few scattered chords and Sherlock shooting an insecure smile at the camera. Then the screen turns black. “Alright.” He tugs his mouth up into a smile, an act as strenuous as if he had decided to lift the bed frame instead. “Thank you.” Or maybe it was just those hands, those arms that held him, cradled him, pulled him back down to earth. Sherlock opened his eyes. Mycroft’s face above him had lost all colour. His eyes were wide with the same panic that still heaved Sherlock’s chest in rapid motion. ,” John continued, reverberating Sherlock’s smile even brighter upon meeting the pallid eyes hovering above him. He radiated a warmth that had nothing to do with the fever. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. It was already afternoon as the epiphany hit Sherlock. What if Ethan hadn’t been killed to keep someone else’s secret but because of a secret of his own? After another examination of the body his hypothesis was confirmed: Someone had strangled Ethan Nichols to death and applied a chemical solution with hundreds of pinpricks to mirror the reaction of a jellyfish attack to cover their tracks on his neck. Knowing about Ethan’s morning ritual and that water would wash away even more of the evidence, the murderer had dumped the body into the ocean in hopes the apparent jellyfish markings would label his death a tragic accident. He was rummaging the drawers for a pair of trousers when his panicking brain finally registered the information billowing at the outskirts of his consciousness: There was faint music seeping through the bedroom door. He halted abruptly, staying perfectly still and listening for a few seconds, all his nerves on edge. His ears didn’t betray him. A melody was playing, coming from the sitting room, if he wasn’t mistaking. John even knew that song. With his heart barely beating, he strode across the bedroom and opened the door. I kinda wanna apologize for misleading all (or at least some) of you with the last chapter's cliffhanger. I couldn't resist it! :D And I desperately wanted to involve Mycroft in all of this :) It wasn’t me who just stormed out, it wasn’t me who didn’t pick up his bloody phone! Have you any idea how worried I was? And what do you mean without a word? I’ve told you that I’d be out and that I’d come back to talk things over. That is more than you had the courtesy to tell me.” He had been shaky but focused as long as he had something to do, as long as he could help. But, God, the unfiltered fear that had taken over as soon as the ambulancewoman had pushed him aside and kneeled down next to John. For a beat, silence coloured the air between them. “Thank you.” Sherlock’s throaty voice sent a shiver through John’s body. He bent down and placed a tender kiss on his lips,

<|output|> <|example|> the blue of his eyes darkened in vigilance. Sherlock could all but hear John’s mind switch into soldier mode in light of this dangerous terrain they had suddenly stepped on. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Then the screen turns black <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He was rummaging the drawers for a pair of trousers when his panicking brain finally registered the information billowing at the outskirts of his consciousness: There was faint music seeping through the bedroom door <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Knowing about Ethan’s morning ritual and that water would wash away even more of the evidence, the murderer had dumped the body into the ocean in hopes the apparent jellyfish markings would label his death a tragic accident <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> I couldn't resist it! :D And I desperately wanted to involve Mycroft in all of this :) It wasn’t me who just stormed out, it wasn’t me who didn’t pick up his bloody phone! Have you any idea how worried I was? And what do you mean without a word? I’ve told you that I’d be out and that I’d come back to talk things over <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> It was already afternoon as the epiphany hit Sherlock <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> Sherlock opened his eyes <|indexes|> 5 |

<|text|> feeling them turn up into a slight smile under his touch. When the three of them enter the sitting room, she turns her head assess the newest arrivals with an affected air of disinterest. At the sight of Sherlock however, her eyes widen and her face goes white in surprise. “Sherlock Holmes,” she spits, voice dripping with disdain. “What are “Funny you should say that,” Mike grins as though he’s just thought of something especially brilliant. “Was talking to a friend of mine, Sarah, just this morning. She’s looking for someone to fill a vacancy in the Bart’s A&E. ‘What am I going to do with all these doctors who're used to nothing but runny noses and the odd case of the clap? It’s like a bloody battlefield most nights,’ she said.” Every atom of his of his being, Alpha or otherwise, longs to tear out her throat. It takes all his willpower to turn heel and force himself to march away instead. When she calls after him as he’s storming away, asking him what she should say, the strained tether on his fury finally snaps. Sherlock gnaws his lip and clutches at John's fingers steadyingly. John stares back calmly, ever Sherlock’s rock, patiently waiting as he disentangles fact from fear in his mind. After a few moments Sherlock takes a deep breath and relaxes his grip. ” He insists again, frantic now; sheer panic suffusing his voice. It's a level of panic he's never felt before And with how long you’d been on suppressants for, the odds of us conceiving were downright infinitesimal.” “The most perfect infant in the whole of human history,” John agrees immediately, nodding without hesitation as wraps an arm around his little family and cuddles them close. “Scientific fact, that.” “But as it so happened,” Sherlock continues, “I broke my arm falling from a tree on our estate in the summer months, and developed something of a troublesome fondness for laudanum during my recovery.” over being so caringly attended to by its alpha. Everytime John’s small, warm hand rubs along the knobs of his spine, or reaches out to steady his elbow as he rises on shaky legs from the floor, a warm rush of adoration races through Sherlock’s veins. It’s even worse when John gives a pleased little smile at the sight of Sherlock diligently tucking into a meal, or yawning and lying down for an afternoon kip on the sofa. A bubble of omega gratification instinctively swells inside his chest over having pleased his alpha, only to just as swiftly burst, leaving him prickling with embarrassment over being so hopelessly clichéd. “So, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft continues on blithely, unbothered by John’s lack of reply. “I’ve been informed that, for the past several weeks, my brother’s been traipsing about every available era looking for you. And now that he’s found you, here you are; visiting in person. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” “You were an army doctor," Sherlock announces, staring down at him speculatively. John doesn't know what's prompted the non-sequitur but he nods in confirmation regardless. The idea has never

<|output|> <|example|> feeling them turn up into a slight smile under his touch. <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> When the three of them enter the sitting room, she turns her head assess the newest arrivals with an affected air of disinterest. At the sight of Sherlock however, her eyes widen and her face goes white in surprise. “Sherlock Holmes,” she spits, voice dripping with disdain. “What are <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” “You were an army doctor," Sherlock announces, staring down at him speculatively <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> ” He insists again, frantic now; sheer panic suffusing his voice <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> After a few moments Sherlock takes a deep breath and relaxes his grip <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> occurred Sherlock before, but he would be more than amenable to some sort of copulatory arrangement between them. He wouldn’t even be averse to the occasional placebo-cycle heat, so long as they haven’t a case on. His relations with Victor may have been largely unexciting, but this unexpected venture with John has been incredibly stimulating thus far. Do they practice that in medical school? Possibly they chant, in unison, the most abjectly mortifying queries known to humanity, crescendoing until they finally reach a sort of nirvana of shamelessness. Seems unlikely. But maybe. Sherlock comes to again the next morning, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, with a distinctly unpleasant feeling of More importantly, he’ll be able to expand exponentially upon John’s wing. He has approximately seventeen minutes before John rouses. No time to lose. He raises a hand to stroke John’s hair and begins with itemizing all potential sexual acts and positions that John would likely be amenable to. for Alphas and Betas who enjoy that sort of thing, and are prepared to pay for it.” Mycroft elaborates, as if Sherlock isn’t not even when his own life’s been at risk. He wants nothing more than to tear their throats out with his teeth, but he can’t risk John’s safety. Sherlock breaths a mental sigh of relief that it’s nothing like the over-large monstrosities that the Alphas in pornography present. It’s slightly longer and girthier than the average Beta’s, but not by much. The true difference lies in the spongy looking erectile tissue at the base of it, where his knot will form at climax. It’s swelling slightly already, in reaction to the scent of Omega in heat permeating the air, but remains soft and yielding for the time being. “No,” he agrees, glancing down at the screen. “Because it’s a duplicate that I had made, into which you’ve just entered the numbers one, oh, five, eight.” He strides across the room to his chair and fishes the real phone out from beneath the cushions. “I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway.” ” Sherlock snipes back in a harsh whisper of his own. “It was hardly as if I needed to put in great effort on my part to hide things from you, given how much time you’ve spent avoiding me.” “Yes Lestrade,” Sherlock drawls sardonically, “given that John is an alpha, I certainly wouldn’t expect With an unearthly shriek of rage, Marie springs from the couch and flies at Sherlock, taking everyone by surprise. The force of the impact sends the two of them toppling from the ottoman, and they hit the floor in a flurry of arms and legs, and Sherlock immediately rolls onto his belly beneath Marie, in an effort to either scramble out from beneath her, or to shelter his face from her clawing hands. Undeterred, she straddles his back and rains blows down upon it. Distantly, over the sound Marie’s screaming epithets in his ear, he hears John curse vehemently. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock offers an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “You didn’t make a fuss about him when you were busy recall doing a substantial

<|output|> <|example|> occurred Sherlock before, but he would be more than amenable to some sort of copulatory arrangement between them. He wouldn’t even be averse to the occasional placebo-cycle heat, so long as they haven’t a case on. His relations with Victor may have been largely unexciting, but this unexpected venture with John has been incredibly stimulating thus far. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Do they practice that in medical school? Possibly they chant, in unison, the most abjectly mortifying queries known to humanity, crescendoing until they finally reach a sort of nirvana of shamelessness <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> No time to lose <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> for Alphas and Betas who enjoy that sort of thing, and are prepared to pay for it <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> amount of pleading over the course of his heat with John. None of which ended at all unpleasantly. Alpha, who managed to breed him in only one mating. He shifts from foot to foot disconcertedly as he tries to rein it in, but finds it far more difficult than usual to subdue it. "Mhm; 'Harry Watson'. Given the unlikelihood that you just so happened to buy a secondhand phone once owned by a fellow Watson, clearly a family member’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Now, As the pressure unbalances Sherlock and he drops back against the mattress with a surprised puff of air, John growls and takes a step forward. “Yes,” Sherlock agrees more than a touch breathlessly, helpfully squirming out of his pyjama bottoms atop the duvet. “That sounds like an excellent plan.” he finishes in his mind with a blush, embarrassingly aware of the people around them that might overhear. Not that they wouldn’t be able to put two and two together from the fact that their discussing Sherlock’s we call him something that doesn’t make him sound like he’s my surly old Granddad down from Edinburgh. I’m not suggesting we call him something ridiculous! Just something nice, and simple, Like… like… oh, I don’t know — When he looks up be locks eyes with John and sees the sudden understanding of his hesitation to spread the news fall into place. The careful fiction that he’s woven around himself over the years is rapidly unravelling before his very eyes and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Not that he's set down in this path. Even those who know the truth forget it often enough, without any obvious tells to remind them. But once he’s grown soft and round, there’ll be no denying it or forgetting it any more. “Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street?” Sherlock questions sternly, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and tugging her close in a playfully protective gesture. “England would fall.” Admittedly, paying off every seller in a two mile radius was an excellent idea. It’s certainly proved to be an effective fail-safe. “I didn’t know that you two were… You’ve always said that you’re not shagging!” Lestrade disregards him entirely to turn and grin at John, playfully punching him in the arm. “You sly fox! You bloody well pulled the wool over my eyes! I never even suspected! When is the little mite due?” "It was unforgivably gaudy anyways," Sherlock dismisses flippantly as he throws up the window sash to air the room. "The Lady Fitzgerald has both the taste and needlepoint skills of a common magpie. Really, I’ve done society a great service; ensuring that no poor soul need ever subject their eyes to that monstrosity again." With a gasp he buries two fingers inside himself, and opens a certain full-to-bursting room within John’s wing of his mind palace, letting the carefully stored memories within spill out. “Indeed,” Sherlock agrees with a shudder of revulsion. “An Alpha child would immediately become the next Holmes heir. And, of course, should the child present as an Omega instead, they’d still

<|output|> <|example|> amount of pleading over the course of his heat with John. None of which ended at all unpleasantly. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Admittedly, paying off every seller in a two mile radius was an excellent idea <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> Now, As the pressure unbalances Sherlock and he drops back against the mattress with a surprised puff of air, John growls and takes a step forward <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> “Indeed,” Sherlock agrees with a shudder of revulsion <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Not that they wouldn’t be able to put two and two together from the fact that their discussing Sherlock’s we call him something that doesn’t make him sound like he’s my surly old Granddad down from Edinburgh <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> want for nothing. So in either case, you needn’t be concerned, financially speaking.” “We can stop along on our way back to Baker Street,” he offers, tapping out a response to whatever message has come through with a frown as he sits back. The three men march out the flat and out of sight, and Sherlock lowers the now blood-soaked cloth from it’s place over his nose to allow John to begin carefully swiping at the half-dried trails of blood covering the lower half of his face. “I am arresting you on suspicion of murder in the first degree,” Lestrade informs Marie in a low, cross tone as he carefully snaps his cuffs around her wrists. “You do not have to say anything; but it may harm your defence if…” “Shall I tell him?” Irene asks him, glancing down at him with an amused tilt of her head. He tries to shake his head, force himself to his feet, but his limbs refuse to cooperate. He lets his eyes fall closed in surrender as she continues. He brushes off any concern he’d been feeling with a grin, and throws himself down the stairs at Sherlock’s heels. When they arrive at the location of Edward’s flat, there’s a young officer in uniform waiting outside the building entrance to direct them to the correct floor. The flat itself is photoshoot-ready; outfitted entirely in sleek, minimalist chrome and white, everything within giving the distinct impression of being eye-wateringly expensive. In the midst of it all, flanked by Sally Donovan and another officer, a beautiful blonde Omega perches at the end of one of the long leather sofas, looking just as elegant and flawless as her surroundings. to be the one currently gestating our offspring. Lovely— well, now that’s over with, we can get to work.” “Nonsense John. As Mrs. Hudson’s favourite telly programmes seem quite insistent upon; everyone knows posh omegas There’d been a good week of awkward tension, but they’d thankfully managed to fumble their way back to their usual camaraderie without much fuss. Which isn’t to say that John hasn’t been struggling with that dark, unwelcome Alpha part of his mind, and it’s recurring insistence that Sherlock is Sherlock chokes mildly on his own drink at the unexpected change of subjects, and briefly considers lying. the scent is coming from hits him, alongside the wave of scent. He gapes up at Sherlock with a start. “It’s you!” in all his life. The only thing keeping him alert is pain and adrenaline from the rising sense of dread that’s beginning to set in. “I beg your pardon?” John sputters. He attempts to remove Sherlock from his lap, but the omega stubbornly resists, and proves himself to be surprisingly stronger than he appears. “Sherlock, this is most irregular!” , the Omega inside of him whispers insistently, and despite his desperate desire to agree, he gathers his resolves and forces himself to rebuff it. He’s cut off as Sherlock arches hard beneath him, crushing their lips together. He groans in surprise, instantly and undeniably aroused, despite himself. After a moment his mind asserts itself and he forces himself to pull back.

<|output|> <|example|> want for nothing. So in either case, you needn’t be concerned, financially speaking.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> The only thing keeping him alert is pain and adrenaline from the rising sense of dread that’s beginning to set in <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Lovely— well, now that’s over with, we can get to work <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 <|example|> The three men march out the flat and out of sight, and Sherlock lowers the now blood-soaked cloth from it’s place over his nose to allow John to begin carefully swiping at the half-dried trails of blood covering the lower half of his face <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> So in either case, you needn’t be concerned, financially speaking <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> “I beg your pardon?” John sputters <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> He tries to shake his head, force himself to his feet, but his limbs refuse to cooperate <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> He lets his eyes fall closed in surrender as she continues <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> Sherlock squirms prettily against his hands, and his cock stirs to life beneath his nightshirt. It’s easy; to fantasize about the simplest option. She’s the modern, open-minded sort, of course; alpha, beta, omega — it wouldn’t wouldn’t matter to her in the slightest what he is, so long as he wanted her back. He knows it's been cruel of him to string her along as he has, never confirming for her the one tiny detail that would have nipped her little crush on him in the bud once and for all. But his pride, vanity and selfishness had stopped him. "John," he cries out urgently, reaching back to paw ineffectually in the direction of John's head. The alpha's hips falter as he too clearly arrives at the same realization. John swallows and licks his lips before continuing haltingly, just as Sherlock attempts to cut him off. “I spoke with Mummy yesterday,” Mycroft breaks the silence. “I couldn't help but note you haven't yet shared your happy announcement with her.” did,” Eddie spits, his gaze trailing off toward the far reaches of the room unseeingly, his voice softening as he continues. “It wasn’t… it was never meant to be like this. She was never meant to be Philip’s; she was supposed to be As if it weren’t already splendid enough as it is— if there's anything that could suitably distract John from his ridiculous goal, it’s a serial killer with a penchant for dismemberment and anatomical trophies. Sherlock smiles up at John tremulously in response, even while, inside of him, his Omega deflates pitifully at John’s words. “Always been able to keep myself distant…” He pauses to sip at the now-flat ginger ale before rambling onward. “To divorce myself from... “Yes, you’re great. Now, I’ll be next door if you need me.” John laughs from above him softly, but there’s a strange edge to his voice. “I’m a doctor,” John laughs, stroking Sherlock's hand reassuringly all the while. “He hasn’t been shot, he's just having a baby. Nothing to panic about.” friendly enough, it's still the countryside, and the last thing he wants right now is to deal with some dramatic moralizing and being tossed out on their arses. He looks to Sherlock for help, only to find the berk has already wandered away to nose about the pub. “Yes, he's been in touch.” Mycroft acknowledges sourly in reply. “Seems desperate for my attention,” his voice sinks, taking on a substantially more ominous air, “which I'm sure can be arranged.” Little more than a week later, Sherlock even deigns to accompany him to Tesco’s to do the shopping- an event so rare that it was probably foretold by some long dead mystics- and when they return home, it’s to find a decidedly uninvited houseguest. Then John appears in the kitchen doorway, hurriedly combing his fingers through his damp hair and looking hopeful. He’s dressed in a neat button down and his best jeans, and it’s then that Sherlock sourly recalls he’s headed on a “Yeah!” She agrees, bobbing her head before she babbles on cheerily, “I think it's lovely that you’ve come down here in person before he

<|output|> <|example|> Sherlock squirms prettily against his hands, and his cock stirs to life beneath his nightshirt. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “He hasn’t been shot, he's just having a baby <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Sherlock squirms prettily against his hands, and his cock stirs to life beneath his nightshirt <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 <|example|> “I spoke with Mummy yesterday,” Mycroft breaks the silence <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Then John appears in the kitchen doorway, hurriedly combing his fingers through his damp hair and looking hopeful <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> “Always been able to keep myself distant…” He pauses to sip at the now-flat ginger ale before rambling onward <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> ” Mycroft acknowledges sourly in reply <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> passes over! Even his parents don't come visit anymore. His brother does; but well... Sherlock doesn’t appreciate that very much so...” He stares at his reflection in the mirror, frowning at how ridiculous he looks in his latest ensemble. The oversized, broad-shouldered blazer hangs on his body awkwardly, making him look like nothing so much as a overdressed scarecrow. He shrugs out of it and throws it to the ground in frustration. He springs from his seat and, crossing the room in two long strides, determinedly reaches for the doorknob. As he does, however, he vividly recalls the morning that his heat— and all it’s wonderfully disinhibiting hormones with it— had finally subsided. He freezes, his hand dropping to his side before he retreats back to the toilet. He sinks back down onto the lid, his heart squeezing in his chest at the memory of that morning, and their painfully stilted conversation over the breakfast table. He trumpets to the room at large. “The particularly antiquated legal statute that allows the practice of employing an unrelated alpha to sire an heir upon an omega dependens.” When the car shuttling the three of them away from Heathrow pulls up in front of Mycroft’s own townhome in Queen Anne’s Gate, Sherlock is momentarily surprised. Then, with a wince, he recalls the necessity for Mycroft to minimise the knowledge of his brother’s involvement in the situation as much as possible. When Mycroft shows them to the formal dining room, Sherlock plants himself in one of the armchairs by the fireplace to lick his wounds. “I haven't seen him all night,” the bartender shakes his head, though at least he seems to know precisely who Sherlock is asking about. “You tried The Quagmire?” unrelated Alpha in public. When their scents make it clear upon closer approach that they’re unbonded, the more conservative types shoot them scandalized grimaces over the fruit and veg. “I beg your pardon?” Eddie blanches, aghast, placing his tea down on the tabletop with a shaking hand. But the look is too practiced and deliberate, a hint of panic underlying its surface. “I can’t believe that you would insinuate something so- so... As John nears completion, he feels his knot swelling and dithers, slowing his hips. While he knows it to be his responsibility as an alpha to bond his omega to himself, he's never done before, and he hesitates to cause his lover any pain. She excuses herself to the loo as soon as they get in, which gives him entirely too much time to fidget alone in her sitting room, desperately trying to ignore the leaden weight in his gut. He halfheartedly welcomes the snog she initiates when she finally joins him on the sofa, trying his damnedest to convince himself that the overwhelming sense of wrongness is nothing more than nerves. astonishingly oblivious though he usually was— had noticed. When the DI had peered over the rim of his coffee cup to ask with a concerned frown if he felt unwell, Sherlock had accepted defeat. Having absolutely no desire in the slightest to elaborate upon his current state, he’d hastily

<|output|> <|example|> passes over! Even his parents don't come visit anymore. His brother does; but well... Sherlock doesn’t appreciate that very much so...” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” He stares at his reflection in the mirror, frowning at how ridiculous he looks in his latest ensemble <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Having absolutely no desire in the slightest to elaborate upon his current state, he’d hastily <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> made his excuses and fled, claiming a touch of flu, before the actual situation could become any more obvious. “Yeah?” The corners of John's lips curl upward in a rakish smile and Sherlock stares, wondering if John's smile tastes any different. Utterly illogical — He can see John retreating further and further into himself by the moment— his shoulders tensing and pulling together. “Like that doesn't happen in every senior home already,” John scoffs. “The system's there for therapeutic reasons. Immersive nostalgia therapy. Plunge you into a world of memories. Helps with Alzheimer's- that's what they say at least.” Despite his reservations, Sherlock manages to choke down the sandwich in record time, and they depart for New Scotland Yard in fairly short order. With no active crime scene to pick apart as of yet, they hole up in Lestrade’s office with the entirety of the case files instead. A reasonable enough deduction actually; working with the limited data set of his knowledge as a medical professional and Sherlock’s personal history with narcotics. “It’s for his own safety,” she bargains, plainly attempting to manipulate John by way of playing his protective instincts toward Sherlock against him. “You want my fingers?” He asks, dipping the digits in question inside shallowly, the sound of his breath harsh in the quiet of the bedroom. Sherlock nods feverishly and squirms, not trusting his voice. The arousal is different now than it was during his heat — like the difference between being a bit squiffy and dead sober — but he still at least,” Sherlock concedes with a mild grimace, determinedly ignoring the embarrassed flush he feels creeping up his cheeks. “I Nevertheless, a momentary call to Mycroft, and immediate arrangements would be made for him to depart Baker Street, for just long enough to… resolve the issue. And then, upon his return, he could could resume life as usual, with John none the wiser. While the hot water had beaten down on him in the shower, he’d painstakingly scrubbed two days of sweat and bodily fluids from his skin, and tried not to panic. He’d failed utterly. The preposterous idea he’d conjured up during his heat— of them establishing some sort of “Condom?” John says, then after a beat, drops his head down onto Sherlock’s shoulder with groan. “You don’t have any, do you.” “Yeah, okay,” John nods, “that’s fair. And if I can coax Sarah into keeping the results out of the system for the time being — buy us a bit of time?” “Don’t be absurd,” he scolds John with mock seriousness as he bites into it with ravenous delight, barely managing to contain a moan of pleasure. It's remarkable how much better everything tastes during these brief lulls in his nausea. “That’s all great,” John acknowledges. “Fantastic, really. You’ve been doing brilliant. But you’ll need to keep it up. This isn't something you can give up as a lark when it gets tedious; it’s a John chuckles warmly and offers him another ice chip. Sherlock opens his mouth and accepts it gratefully, just as their sour-faced nurse bustles back into the room. Sherlock spreads his legs welcomingly and John settles

<|output|> <|example|> made his excuses and fled, claiming a touch of flu, before the actual situation could become any more obvious. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Plunge you into a world of memories <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “It’s for his own safety,” she bargains, plainly attempting to manipulate John by way of playing his protective instincts toward Sherlock against him <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “It’s for his own safety,” she bargains, plainly attempting to manipulate John by way of playing his protective instincts toward Sherlock against him <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> between them, with a contented sigh into Sherlock’s mouth. He reaches down between their bodies to guide himself into place, rubbing his cock over the wet slit a few times, before finally pushing forward to sink in with a deep groan. “She wasn’t even a very good girlfriend to be honest. Always making little snide comments about how I wasn't very Alphalike. Not at all worth the split lip and black eye. I figured it wasn’t worth the fuss after that- it’s not as if I need a heat to get a leg over.” John twitches his shoulders against the duvet in a prone approximation of a shrug. “Besides which, with no Omegas in the Army, I hadn’t even “I couldn’t’ve wished for a better first word, honey,” John quietened him. “The two people I love most in all of this world and they share a name for me.” Sherlock had to be worried sick by now, probably running circles into the ground, blaming himself. God only knew what he would do. “So, it’s most likely a stomach bug. Good call to get Rosie out of here.” Sherlock once again admired John’s ability to prioritize everyone else’s safety and well-being, even while vomiting his heart out. “Because Greg invited us and I promised we’d show up,” John replied. “Besides, I couldn’t stand the thought of falling asleep on the sofa by 10 pm. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all. I just want to go out and feel young again, for one night, Sherlock. Lately, all I’ve been thinking about is nappies and teething and if Rosie should’ve started to walk by now. Dear God, I just want one night off, just getting a little drunk and talk to adults about adult stuff and be a little reckless and silly. So, can you, just for this one night, have a few drinks with me and chat with people without complaining? For me?” He recalls the afternoon they spent at the florist all those months ago, looking at roses, lilies, and baby’s breath for the wedding. Mentioning his own floral preferences couldn’t have been more than a passing comment. “What a pretty name! Hi, Rosie. I’m Kristen.” She took Rosie’s tiny hand and shook it. Facing John again, she added: “And you are?” His mind is an ever-racing, ever-running machine, knowing neither rest nor closing time. Its lights are always blinking, engines always groaning, the conveyers transporting a ceaseless series of ideas from one hemisphere to the other through a maze of tangled synapses until they finally dump them into Sherlock’s consciousness. A left, a left, a right, a leap through a gaping hole in a fence. Sherlock hasn’t tested the limits of his newly-gained stamina, and the bite on his side is burning. If his disappearance after the wedding has proven one thing it’s that he can’t be relied upon. He’ll always be as volatile as any other force of nature. “Sure. I can pick her up from daycare, too, if you want to,” he says, pleased to find that his voice doesn’t betray the jumble in his head. On the worn-out sofa, they indeed found

<|output|> <|example|> between them, with a contented sigh into Sherlock’s mouth. He reaches down between their bodies to guide himself into place, rubbing his cock over the wet slit a few times, before finally pushing forward to sink in with a deep groan. <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “I couldn’t’ve wished for a better first word, honey,” John quietened him. “The two people I love most in all of this world and they share a name for me.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> A left, a left, a right, a leap through a gaping hole in a fence. Sherlock hasn’t tested the limits of his newly-gained stamina, and the bite on his side is burning. <|indexes|> 2 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” Sherlock had to be worried sick by now, probably running circles into the ground, blaming himself <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “Because Greg invited us and I promised we’d show up,” John replied <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> He’ll always be as volatile as any other force of nature <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Mentioning his own floral preferences couldn’t have been more than a passing comment <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> “So, it’s most likely a stomach bug <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> a girl, tightly rolled into a ball under one of the shock blankets. Her ginger hair blurred into the orange fabric and she looked distinctively pale under her freckles. Even while asleep, she had her brows knitted in worry. Maybe Sherlock already figured it out by himself. He has been a little quieter lately, has even declined some of Lestrade’s—according to Sherlock, absolutely boring—cases to spend more time with Rosie. Mrs Hudson fumbles with her buttons. “I’m just saying, I don’t have to go. We can postpone. I can stay.” “Yes, obviously.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. The motion seems to worsen his dizziness, as Greg notes rather contentedly. Held back by invisible chains, John halted again. Every inch of his being ached to step in, to walk up the stairs and be at ease again. Yet, the soldier within him knew that he was about to access unknown territory that called for caution. There might now lie landmines beneath those floors he had walked a thousand times, there might be spring-guns hidden behind curtains. Bracing himself by a deep breath, John entered the hallway. As he dragged the pushchair in behind him, Mrs. Hudson scurried from her own flat and greeted him with an expression on her face that tightened John’s chest. Sherlock threw him a sharp glance. “—and b) who would go through the ordeal to drag his dead body all the way here and lean him against the shed. Have you seen the boy? He was, what, 6’, 6’1’’—and rather on the heavy side. Dragging him must’ve cost some effort. He was already dead. Why not just leave him in the dark garden and get away as fast as possible?” “Sure.” Sherlock smiled, his mind instantly taking him to sweet tea and lush fields full of blooming flowers and bustling bees. Sherlock’s face lights up. “A case! A case, of course. But which one? John usually chooses the most commonplace ones for his blog and he pads things with all this unnecessary drama and emotion.” He snorts indignantly. “For once, I could select one with actual features of interest, like that one with these extraordinary markings on the skull or that time we collected all these samples of—” “I thought I’ve made myself clear, love: It was never about the cases. It’s always been you. I’d follow you anywhere, on a secret international spy mission or the dullest office job you can find. You’re not getting rid of me.” “Oh, hi, Greg,” Sherlock said in an attempt to sound casual and forced himself to smile. It felt more like a grimace, unnatural and hollow. He just wanted to talk to Molly, the one person in front of whom he never needed to pretend to be bulletproof. Finding Lestrade here, now, in his state, was more than bothersome. Couldn’t his two friends have chosen a more convenient time to become a thing? “How did he react?” asked Greg, the frown carved so deeply into his features that Sherlock doubted it would ever vanish again. He needed some. Now. Gasping for breath, Sherlock jerked to a halt and looked around. He was standing

<|output|> <|example|> a girl, tightly rolled into a ball under one of the shock blankets. Her ginger hair blurred into the orange fabric and she looked distinctively pale under her freckles. Even while asleep, she had her brows knitted in worry. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Gasping for breath, Sherlock jerked to a halt and looked around <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> He has been a little quieter lately, has even declined some of Lestrade’s—according to Sherlock, absolutely boring—cases to spend more time with Rosie <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> He was already dead <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> on Vauxhall Bridge, the dark waters of the Thames gurgling beneath him. His whole body was aching, the icy air burning on his flushed face. He must’ve been running for at least half an hour to get here. Frantically, Sherlock padded himself down and let out a sigh of relief as he felt something in his coat pocket. He pulled out his phone and wallet. As if it had only waited for this clue, a nerve-wracking sequence of artificial sounds resounded throughout the dim glow of the lampposts and the phone’s screen lit up with one calamitous syllable: JOHN. It was still early. The matutinal city, its busy buzzing subdued by the layers of snow the night had brought, seemed still fresh and full of promise. The clouds had vanished and given way to a blushing sun that coloured the sky and warmed John’s face through the window. He closed his eyes for a second, revelling in the relief that the new morning had broken eventually. Even a night like this couldn’t last forever. Sherlock looks at the letter for a second. He’s written it weeks ago, has been poring over it ever since—and still can’t shake off the doubt. His ears seem to ring with the unfamiliar chime until he’s not even sure he’s heard it anymore. Maybe he imagined it, his bored brain deciding to torture him with a reminder of his pathetic state. Sherlock watched in surprise as John held the note carefully over the flame of the candle until it caught fire. He dropped it on their empty dessert plate where it crumbled to ashes in seconds. “I don’t want you to look at that ever again. I know I can’t undo the past that easily but I will spend my present and my future making up for it. If that is what you want.” John carefully approached him, bare feet tapping on the kitchen floor, and wrapped his arms around his naked waist, believing for a second that his hands would just grasp thin air, a mirage. Sherlock startled a little as John’s fingers reached him but then leaned into the touch and slowly turned in his grasp until their bodies were aligned in a tight hug. “Alright, alright,” Greg appeases him, rather taken aback by Sherlock’s reaction. “Let’s just do the rest of the speech then and come back to this point later, shall we?” Are you still there? I really didn't mean to wait this long before posting again (felt like ages for me, at least) but I had work and some real trouble getting this chapter onto (digital) paper. I hope you are not disappointed with the result of my struggles :) “And that he is the only one for whom I ever felt anything like this,” Sherlock added, his voice now so weighed down by guilt that it barely bridged the wooden table top between him and his friends. overreaction, made Sherlock’s throat close up. All this damn sentiment clouding his judgement. He hadn’t wasted a single thought about the effect of the little phone-throwing incident. Of course, he knew or at

<|output|> <|example|> on Vauxhall Bridge, the dark waters of the Thames gurgling beneath him. His whole body was aching, the icy air burning on his flushed face. He must’ve been running for at least half an hour to get here. Frantically, Sherlock padded himself down and let out a sigh of relief as he felt something in his coat pocket. He pulled out his phone and wallet. As if it had only waited for this clue, a nerve-wracking sequence of artificial sounds resounded throughout the dim glow of the lampposts and the phone’s screen lit up with one calamitous syllable: JOHN. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Frantically, Sherlock padded himself down and let out a sigh of relief as he felt something in his coat pocket <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> He’s written it weeks ago, has been poring over it ever since—and still can’t shake off the doubt <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> least strongly suspected that Mycroft still kept tabs on him. That a loss of signal under such circumstances would rather sooner than later gain his attention was comprehensible but, still, annoying. And poorly timed. Mycroft’s presence would complicate matters even further. He had to get rid of his brother, now. .” The sound of New Year’s cheers and glasses clinking together clogged the room as John and Sherlock stared at each other. Some version of Initially, Sherlock had been determined to stay up all night in order to avoid the nightmares. According to Mrs. Hudson’s insistent assertions, his screams never failed to reach her flat, so, they would most certainly wake John and Rosie sleeping in closer proximity. He had retreated to his room to give John some peace and quiet, lain on his bed and wandered around in his mind palace to keep himself occupied for a few hours. His plan hadn’t quite worked as anticipated. Sherlock scolded himself for his lack of self-control. His transport had betrayed him once more and fallen asleep without his permission. And now John knew. Lestrade continued the questioning but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Rowley produced anything useful. Apparently, Cal only came home every once in a while. His parents didn’t know where he spent his nights, where he worked, if he had known Jason. Once again, Greg shifts his weight as if standing on one particular spot for too long would burn his feet. For a beat, he eyes John with such intensity that he feels his face heat up. In light of this new, almost mindful Sherlock, John’s and Rosie’s return to 221B Baker Street had been a breeze. As soon as John set foot into 221B later that remarkable November day, he knew that things were going to be okay. Being back in one flat with Sherlock felt like lapsing into a hot bath after being outside in the cold for far too long; the tension immediately drained out of them both as they relaxed into what seemed nothing short of their natural habitat. From this point on, everything around them just flowed smoothly; The lease on the house John had lived in with Mary could be terminated remarkably fast although John suspected that Mycroft had pulled some strings in that matter. In one of the most ridiculous and blissful afternoons of John’s entire life, they had painted Rosie’s nursery in a light daffodil yellow and Sherlock had singlehandedly fixed a bordure of cute little bumblebees to the wall. Even the issue of the shared bedroom had resolved itself. He blinked rapidly at John who, in return, gave him a slightly concerned look and placed a tender hand on Sherlock’s forearm. His muscles twitched involuntarily under the touch, making John retreat his comforting fingers in an instant. Sherlock winced even more at the loss of warmth on his arm and reached suppliantly for John’s hand—in vain. At this very moment, Angelo’s chunky figure approaching their table attracted John’s attention. “Please tell me we’re not that soppy,” John said, his fingers instinctively finding Sherlock’s to betray his words. Through the daze

<|output|> <|example|> least strongly suspected that Mycroft still kept tabs on him. That a loss of signal under such circumstances would rather sooner than later gain his attention was comprehensible but, still, annoying. And poorly timed. Mycroft’s presence would complicate matters even further. He had to get rid of his brother, now. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> For a beat, he eyes John with such intensity that he feels his face heat up <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> For a beat, he eyes John with such intensity that he feels his face heat up <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> From this point on, everything around them just flowed smoothly; The lease on the house John had lived in with Mary could be terminated remarkably fast although John suspected that Mycroft had pulled some strings in that matter <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> In light of this new, almost mindful Sherlock, John’s and Rosie’s return to 221B Baker Street had been a breeze <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Even the issue of the shared bedroom had resolved itself <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> of his dizzy brain, Sherlock sees John’s face shining down at him. “What now?” he asks, still slightly out of breath. John’s smile broadens. He brings one of his hands up and dries his face with his sleeve. “I love you, too, you know, I really do. You amazing, fantastic, infuriating human being, I love you.” “We were obligated to transfer him to a psychiatric facility, suicide watch and everything. But someone pulled some strings”—he gave Sherlock a less than subtle side look—”and managed to get him into one of the… private establishments instead of the state-issued ones. He’ll have some time to calm down there, get a psych eval, and then set things straight before his trial. Someone already stood bail for him.” “I know.” John licked his lips as he watched Sherlock drink, waiting for his judgement. This habit of his never ceased to confuse Sherlock. Did John even know that his tongue often slipped out like this when he looked at him? At the sight, Sherlock’s skin began to prickle as if his blood had been carbonated as well. He gave John an approving nod and diverted his gaze back to Stella and Marcus. The blood pooling in his groin had already risen to almost unbearable temperatures. His whole body was smoldering, torrid, parched by the sun that was John. He was seconds away from igniting, combusting under John’s skilled strokes. The passion of their kisses, interrupted by positively filthy noises, only added fuel to the raging inferno beneath Sherlock’s skin. Every grip of John’s hand, every graze of his teeth—placed with surgical precision—poured another gallon of gasoline into his bloodstream. Sherlock gravely shakes his head. “I honestly don’t think your relationship with Mr Chatterjee would survive any delay of your romantic getaway. Even taken this weekend at a lovely, little bed and breakfast into account, chances are you will break up within the next two months.” “We’re not gonna investigate anything further this evening. What does it matter if you’re slowed down at night?” “Well, what is she saying then? It wasn’t Dada or Daddy or Papa or anything,” John said, shrugging and feeling a little knot form in his guts. He really ought to spend more time with his daughter. Maybe then he would be important enough in her life to be her first word. John’s face lit up even more. “I’m sorry to have left you in the dark for so long, us both actually. I thought it was time to turn the lights on. No more hiding in the shadows, no more disguises, no more covers. I want to see you.” “Are you still on for watching her on Tuesday?” John asks as he re-enters the kitchen and picks up Rosie’s diaper bag, unaware of Sherlock’s doings. “If you’re going out, would you mind calling at a chemist to… get some stuff?” Sherlock asked, audibly catching his breath, pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed with arousal. “You go get ready, I’ll take care of her,” John said with a deflated smile and Sherlock scattered off to the bathroom. After a beat, John began stroking his side, voice

<|output|> <|example|> of his dizzy brain, Sherlock sees John’s face shining down at him. “What now?” he asks, still slightly out of breath. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> No more hiding in the shadows, no more disguises, no more covers <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> The passion of their kisses, interrupted by positively filthy noises, only added fuel to the raging inferno beneath Sherlock’s skin <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> ” “We were obligated to transfer him to a psychiatric facility, suicide watch and everything <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> ” “I know <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> “You go get ready, I’ll take care of her,” John said with a deflated smile and Sherlock scattered off to the bathroom <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> once again lowered to that soft, soothing purr: “We could both… take care of it ourselves, maybe just watch each other?” “Hey, why am I the one getting twirled around, by the way?” John complained, pinching Sherlock slightly as they continued dancing. And yet, Sherlock has still risked it all, has put his fragile, little heart out there, hidden so long from the world’s callous touch, and offered John to leave his mark. Sherlock gestured over to the hedge guarding the property. Something was rustling in them. Next to him, John fell silent as abruptly as if someone had pressed a mute button. Everything was perfectly still. Then, the rustling resumed, more forcefully this time. He pressed his eyes closed, not wanting to let the disenchanting truth seep in; There was no one by his side to hold him like this. The bed beside him was empty and the slowly heaving breast on which his head rested was nothing more than his own pillow, saturated by the fantasies of a deprived brain and body. Sherlock was once more impressed by his own mental capabilities. This felt incredibly real. And pretending that it was a few minutes longer wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? “Your John? That is more than good enough for me.” John’s voice, as soft as the thickening snowfall, echoed in Sherlock’s ears, the only sound still audible, the only one that mattered. “Do you know… I’ve always hated my name except when you say it… the way you pronounce it—it always makes it sound so special.” “I’ll never get that picture out of my head again!” Sherlock roared with laughter, only spurred on by John’s embarrassment. His amusement, however, didn’t deter him from memorizing every single detail about the body on the screen, wondering if John looked anything like him. From that moment on, he followed the film with much more enthusiasm. “Oh God, John, yes,” he moaned in a dark, husky voice, being rewarded by another shiver that visibly made its way down the other man’s spine. Maybe he really was a natural, Sherlock pondered, at least when it came to arousing John, “But you don’t feel things like that.” John’s voice was barely audible. Sherlock had never seen him look this small. “It bloody isn’t,” John snivels into his shirt. “It’s the furthest fucking thing from okay. No, no, it’s not—it’s not okay.” The waiter brought their drinks, interrupting John’s expectant hush. After John had tasted the wine and the waiter had left again, Sherlock finally took a deep breath and forced out a single sentence: “I would like that.” Still, he decides to make use of the agreeable weather and walk. It’s quite a significant distance he has to cover, at least an hour on foot, but it’s not like he’s got anywhere else to be. For a moment, Sherlock was sure that unconsciousness would overwhelm him once more—too intense was this divine sensation, too heavenly for a mortal to experience. How could one human heart handle such colossal amounts of love? And if he was to be ground by the sheer weight of such affection, pulverised, atomised—Sherlock would

<|output|> <|example|> once again lowered to that soft, soothing purr: “We could both… take care of it ourselves, maybe just watch each other?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Sherlock was once more impressed by his own mental capabilities <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> ” John’s voice, as soft as the thickening snowfall, echoed in Sherlock’s ears, the only sound still audible, the only one that mattered <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> once again lowered to that soft, soothing purr: “We could both… take care of it ourselves, maybe just watch each other?” “Hey, why am I the one getting twirled around, by the way?” John complained, pinching Sherlock slightly as they continued dancing <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> ” John’s voice, as soft as the thickening snowfall, echoed in Sherlock’s ears, the only sound still audible, the only one that mattered <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> No, no, it’s not—it’s not okay <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> ” Still, he decides to make use of the agreeable weather and walk <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> “It bloody isn’t,” John snivels into his shirt <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> happily accept his fate as long as John was with him. As long as John would stay. “You fainted.” John couldn’t stop a smirk forming around his mouth despite his worry. “When was the last time you ate anything?” She is so soft, so warm, so perfect. Sometimes, John can’t fathom his love for her. It’s almost frightening in its intensity and of a different colour than everything he’s ever felt before, like a new lens slid over his vision. He had known at that moment, he suspected now, when they had returned to Baker Street, chests heaving with heavy breaths and completely inappropriate giggles. That had been the moment, the moment he had fallen in love with John. He had never stood a chance really, had been drawn in from the very first second he had lain eyes on the pretty soldier, the real-life hero, the war-addict. No, he hadn’t stood a chance to not fall for John Watson. And now, finally, eight years later, he was still not done falling, but John was there to catch him. And it certainly wouldn’t measure up to John’s reputation. After all, he’s supposed to be the romantic. At half past five, he couldn’t stand it any longer. With as little noise as possible, he got up, folded the sheets to a neat pile, and put his greatcoat and shoes back on. A faint snore came from the bedroom but nothing else disturbed the silence. Molly and Greg were both fast asleep. Sherlock tiptoed to the front door and closed it carefully behind him. It was well before dawn and the night enveloped him in gracious darkness. He had to walk quite a bit to one of the busier streets to finally get a cab. “Sherlock?” Mary asks with raised brows and John’s stomach drops. The name alone seems to be enough to short his nervous system. Sherlock broke the silence by setting down his cup and saying: “Don’t you want to take your clothes off?” The laptop boots up with a tired hum and John uses the waiting time to take a greedy gulp of his whiskey. Shoes and shirts and trousers land on the floor down the hallway as they stumble toward Sherlock’s bedroom. “But that’s just it, isn’t it, John. In ten minutes, you'll have left, and I have to wait a week just to see you again.” “It’s cold,” he defends weakly, a flush of heat warming his cheeks. It's humiliating how, despite his logical mind, as the pregnancy continues he’s more and more often helpless against these sudden flares of instinctual Omega response. ” He announces urgently to John as he swings the door open and ducks in one smooth move. From the corner of his eye, he sees John hit the floor safely Sherlock clears his throat, which suddenly seems dry and parched, and tries again. “I may have neglected to share some relevant news with you regarding my… current condition.” “The testing will have to be fairly thorough though,” John adds with a frown. “Since the brothers have both the same carrier and sire, the lab needs to know to check

<|output|> <|example|> happily accept his fate as long as John was with him. As long as John would stay. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But that’s just it, isn’t it, John. In ten minutes, you'll have left, and I have to wait a week just to see you again.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> It’s almost frightening in its intensity and of a different colour than everything he’s ever felt before, like a new lens slid over his vision <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> No, he hadn’t stood a chance to not fall for John Watson <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> After all, he’s supposed to be the romantic <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> “You fainted <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Sherlock tiptoed to the front door and closed it carefully behind him <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> A faint snore came from the bedroom but nothing else disturbed the silence <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> From the corner of his eye, he sees John hit the floor safely Sherlock clears his throat, which suddenly seems dry and parched, and tries again <|indexes|> 6 <|example|> ” “It’s cold,” he defends weakly, a flush of heat warming his cheeks <|indexes|> 7 7 |

<|text|> a wider selection of markers than usual, or the test could prove inconclusive.” It's a two for one weekend! Since I took far, far longer with this installment than I'd ever meant to, I've decided not to hold off with this final chapter. Miss_Communication delivered a lightening-fast beta on this one for me so that I could get this up tonight, so three cheers for her! Any remaining errors/gross grammatical offenses are mine and mine alone. ” He gestures to the array of brightly-coloured pages. “It accounts for nearly every moment of her day, and is fully accessible by her husband, his brother, and the entire staff? That’s not for the sake of “Deny it all you like Dr. Watson; you wish that he belonged to you. But he doesn’t. And frankly, even if he of this is obvious, mate.” Lestrade scoffs good naturedly up at him. “And I know it’s not really your area, but people As he’d exited the bath and returned to his bedroom to dress himself, he’d carefully constructed a simple, forthright statement of reassurance: Later that afternoon, in the car on the way to the base, John scents the air discreetly, and his nose wrinkles with distaste. “Oh, I thought you hired the car- you never said it was Mycroft's.” “Sherlock,” John scolds, staying him with a gentle touch to his forearm. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere in this state. I’m sure there’s just a bit of a misunderstanding. We’ll get this sorted and— “ “I do believe that was implied by my hesitation to inform you.” Sherlock’s tone is his usual arrogant drawl, but his posture is forced and there’s a lingering tremor in his hands that he tries to disguise by clutching at his armrests. When his voice cracks slightly as he continues on, John’s observed all he that needs. “It’s a marvelous scientific opportunity that should no He shouts, bending forward to cradle his head in his hands and tug ruthlessly at his hair. The older woman sitting across from him startles, shooting him a scandalized look across the carriage. “Sorry, sorry,” he offers, shamefaced, before he gets up and makes his way up the aisle to wait by the doors as they arrive at the next station. Mike Stamford, on the other hand, is just as cheerful and gregarious as he always was in uni (if a bit rounder). They buy coffee from the small stand at the end of the path, then settle in on a park bench to chat. Mike is still at Bart’s, having made the transition over the years from student to teacher. “No, I'm, uh- I'm engaged. I have a fiancé. She's called Molly.” Sherlock explains in a rush, and John frowns at him in bewilderment, casting an eye about as if Molly might pop out from behind one of the cars parked nearby at any moment. So he finds himself wandering the back corridors of the Argyll Rooms, to avoid the inane tittering near the entrance; where the bulk of the guests preen over the cleverness of their costumes, and try to surmise which Raja is actually

<|output|> <|example|> a wider selection of markers than usual, or the test could prove inconclusive.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Oh, I thought you hired the car- you never said it was Mycroft's <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> ” Lestrade scoffs good naturedly up at him <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “And I know it’s not really your area, but people As he’d exited the bath and returned to his bedroom to dress himself, he’d carefully constructed a simple, forthright statement of reassurance: Later that afternoon, in the car on the way to the base, John scents the air discreetly, and his nose wrinkles with distaste <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> We’ll get this sorted and— “ “I do believe that was implied by my hesitation to inform you <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> ” Lestrade scoffs good naturedly up at him <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> a Duke, or shepherdess a certain dowager countess making the most of her widowhood. Towards the end of the corridor, he catches the faintly spicy scent of an omega’s perfume. As he rounds the corner, he comes across a tall, lithe figure swathed in a swirling, feathered domino of all black; fidgeting with their bejeweled mask in the shadows. ”Look Mycroft," John begins hesitantly, "I understand that you're worried. I do. But it’s going to be just fine. People all over the world do this every day, and they're not even Sherlock Holmes. And besides, he has me, doesn’t he?” John twitches a fond smile at Sherlock over the rim of his mug as he finishes off his tea. It really would be an ideal solution come to think of it— if John weren’t so determinedly inclined toward females. For the best, in any case, as the last thing that he needed was having to fend off the bungling advances of the any of obnoxious Alphas or the Beta males that the yard was positively teeming with. He'd much rather hole up at a Baker Street to wait out the the entire bothersome affair privately. He had several experiments on the go that he’d been meaning to attend to, and this was a good a reason as any. And really, he can’t help but be honestly quite impressed. It’s a rare occasion for anyone to successfully manage to trick Both summary justice for the ill treatment of Mrs. Hudson, and a cathartic release for all his recently pent up frustrations. Even John's arrival doesn't dampen his enjoyment of it in the slightest. It's reassuring on a primal level to know that, even now, despite of the diminutive stowaway inside of him, he's still perfectly capable of defending his territory. . At this rate, he’s beginning to believe they may just carry on as such right up until the moment he delivers the child. The Omega in him tries not to feel slighted by the implied lack of notice from his Alpha, especially given that it works so well to his advantage, but it regardless of the attempt it still smarts. but it’s going to waste. “It’s the new sexy,” he parrots her own words back at her sarcastically, and Clearly put out by not being the centre of attention, Irene pipes up from her post over the remaining Beta. Keeping her pistol unwaveringly trained on the unconscious man, she grins wolfishly in Sherlock’s direction.

<|output|> <|example|> a Duke, or shepherdess a certain dowager countess making the most of her widowhood. Towards the end of the corridor, he catches the faintly spicy scent of an omega’s perfume. As he rounds the corner, he comes across a tall, lithe figure swathed in a swirling, feathered domino of all black; fidgeting with their bejeweled mask in the shadows. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It really would be an ideal solution come to think of it— if John weren’t so determinedly inclined toward females <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> I do <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> And really, he can’t help but be honestly quite impressed <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> <|example|> Still in a huff, he trudges alongside the road, his coat collar turned up against the freezing wind, until, finally, a cab pulls over for him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> John? Surely, he could somehow have talked himself out of this situation. After all, he was Sherlock <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> who hadn’t taken a sip since the very first statement. He had never done anything that even remotely resembled sexual contact except those awkward kisses with Janine and, in hindsight, those had been a terrible waste. It couldn’t take the others much longer to notice how little he could participate in this. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> into the shallows. He was only a kid in a hopeless situation. As soon as he’d hear that Laney was safe, he would not resist his arrest. Sherlock and John would make sure that Lestrade and his officers would do everything in their power to spare him a conviction. They would testify on his behalf if necessary. Everything would be alright, Sherlock was convinced. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> been entrusted with, to see him make an effort to live up to John’s high opinion of him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> gorgeous detective waiting at home, miraculously yearning for him. It took all of John’s remarkable self-control to not abandon his task and run back to Baker Street. But he had to finish this first—and do it right and diligently. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the snow and I guess I tried to convince myself that I didn’t feel attracted to you by hitting on anyone else really. That must’ve been horrible for you. Only when we got home and you didn’t talk to me anymore, I realized what a dick move that was.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Still in a huff, he trudges alongside the road, his coat collar turned up against the freezing wind, until, finally, a cab pulls over for him. <|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|> into the shallows <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> into the shallows. He was only a kid in a hopeless situation. As soon as he’d hear that Laney was safe, he would not resist his arrest. Sherlock and John would make sure that Lestrade and his officers would do everything in their power to spare him a conviction. They would testify on his behalf if necessary. Everything would be alright, Sherlock was convinced. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> been entrusted with, to see him make an effort to live up to John’s high opinion of him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> gorgeous detective waiting at home, miraculously yearning for him. It took all of John’s remarkable self-control to not abandon his task and run back to Baker Street. But he had to finish this first—and do it right and diligently. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the snow and I guess I tried to convince myself that I didn’t feel attracted to you by hitting on anyone else really. That must’ve been horrible for you. Only when we got home and you didn’t talk to me anymore, I realized what a dick move that was.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> towards them, and rummage around in his pockets. Every few seconds, he nervously looked over his shoulder. Sherlock crouched deeper into the shadows, weighing his options. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> into the shallows. He was only a kid in a hopeless situation. As soon as he’d hear that Laney was safe, he would not resist his arrest. Sherlock and John would make sure that Lestrade and his officers would do everything in their power to spare him a conviction. They would testify on his behalf if necessary. Everything would be alright, Sherlock was convinced. <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> As soon as he’d hear that Laney was safe, he would not resist his arrest <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> the snow and I guess I tried to convince myself that I didn’t feel attracted to you by hitting on anyone else really. That must’ve been horrible for you. Only when we got home and you didn’t talk to me anymore, I realized what a dick move that was.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> towards them, and rummage around in his pockets. Every few seconds, he nervously looked over his shoulder. Sherlock crouched deeper into the shadows, weighing his options. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> John had carefully watched out for any signs of fatigue in his friend over the past few weeks. He didn’t want to miss Sherlock’s distress again as he had with his nightmares. Now that Sherlock hadn’t slept two nights in a row, John was tempted to order him to rest but he knew that it was no use as long as the case wasn’t closed. Besides, he was still disgruntled because of Sherlock’s recklessness and not in the mood to force some self-care on the detective. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> whole house was shaking with the intensity of it but probably it was rather his hand trembling than the bannister beneath it. John forced himself to draw deep steady breaths, stretching his treacherous fingers that already missed the feeling of silky curls and candent skin. The taste of Sherlock still lingered on his tongue, celestial and sweet as nectar, making every inch of his body scream for more, more, <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> for them in the house we’ll find them. Jason just didn’t put them on. He followed the suspect out into the garden in a hurry, hence bare feet. It was so important to him that he didn’t bother putting on his shoes although it was freezing out. The other person obviously wanted to get away as fast as possible, so he had to react just as quickly. And since the suspect wasn’t exactly considerate enough of Jason’s lack in footwear to return to the house or at least the terrace in spite of the emotional connection we’ve already established, I’d say it had to be quite the heated argument.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> in response, John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s pale skin in ferocious urgency, too lightly to draw blood but certainly with enough force to leave a mark. Indulging in the taste and the string of whimpers that vibrated in the throat right beneath his mouth, John replaced his bite with hungry suction as if he could transfuse a fraction of Sherlock’s being into his own. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> And there’s the pout that comes when the puppy dog eyes don’t work quickly enough. Honestly, it’s like dealing with a four-year-old. Sometimes John just doesn’t have the patience to engage in a battle of wills against Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> of his neck and Sherlock tips his head back to meet them, almost letting a little hum of pleasure escape. He wriggles around to get properly comfy. His wolf has been gradually quieting since he got into bed with John, and now that he’s stroking his hair it’s completely silent, if a little tense. He wonders whether his wolf is in fact a cat. It’s clearly enjoying this petting. He is too. He’s so relaxed that he feels himself tense in surprise at a new flash of lightning, but then John’s fingers find a sensitive spot and he melts. He feels as much as he hears John breathe out a laugh. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> the snow and I guess I tried to convince myself that I didn’t feel attracted to you by hitting on anyone else really. That must’ve been horrible for you. Only when we got home and you didn’t talk to me anymore, I realized what a dick move that was.” <|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|> And there’s the pout that comes when the puppy dog eyes don’t work quickly enough. Honestly, it’s like dealing with a four-year-old. Sometimes John just doesn’t have the patience to engage in a battle of wills against Sherlock. <|indexes|> 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 | <|example|> towards them, and rummage around in his pockets <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> whole house was shaking with the intensity of it but probably it was rather his hand trembling than the bannister beneath it. John forced himself to draw deep steady breaths, stretching his treacherous fingers that already missed the feeling of silky curls and candent skin. The taste of Sherlock still lingered on his tongue, celestial and sweet as nectar, making every inch of his body scream for more, more, <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> for them in the house we’ll find them. Jason just didn’t put them on. He followed the suspect out into the garden in a hurry, hence bare feet. It was so important to him that he didn’t bother putting on his shoes although it was freezing out. The other person obviously wanted to get away as fast as possible, so he had to react just as quickly. And since the suspect wasn’t exactly considerate enough of Jason’s lack in footwear to return to the house or at least the terrace in spite of the emotional connection we’ve already established, I’d say it had to be quite the heated argument.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> in response, John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s pale skin in ferocious urgency, too lightly to draw blood but certainly with enough force to leave a mark. Indulging in the taste and the string of whimpers that vibrated in the throat right beneath his mouth, John replaced his bite with hungry suction as if he could transfuse a fraction of Sherlock’s being into his own. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> And there’s the pout that comes when the puppy dog eyes don’t work quickly enough. Honestly, it’s like dealing with a four-year-old. Sometimes John just doesn’t have the patience to engage in a battle of wills against Sherlock. <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> of his neck and Sherlock tips his head back to meet them, almost letting a little hum of pleasure escape. He wriggles around to get properly comfy. His wolf has been gradually quieting since he got into bed with John, and now that he’s stroking his hair it’s completely silent, if a little tense. He wonders whether his wolf is in fact a cat. It’s clearly enjoying this petting. He is too. He’s so relaxed that he feels himself tense in surprise at a new flash of lightning, but then John’s fingers find a sensitive spot and he melts. He feels as much as he hears John breathe out a laugh. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> back downstairs, human and in pyjamas. He’s surprised to see John still in his wolf form. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> burrows under the covers. He turns a few times, then curls up. Sherlock gets in on his side. It must be his side by now. Their warmth heats the bed. Perfect. But maybe it could be better. He shifts again to rest his head on Sherlock’s chest and shoulder. Sherlock’s arm reaches around and his hand buries itself in John’s fur again. He strokes him gently. John is drifting off to sleep already. Sherlock’s pyjama top smells lovely. His eyes droop. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> it. They meet the owner there. John pays the deposit in cash. Sherlock has to admire the effort he’s put into this. This must have been the reason for the phone call he made from the car rental office. After, the owner gives them a cursory tour. The cottage is a mix of cosy, modern, basic and rustic, like a countryside version of 221B, but with less mess. He imagines John didn’t have much choice in picking it, but luck, if luck exists, seems to have thrown them the perfect place. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> easier than changing into wolf form. He knows his human body well. Again he feels the burning pain, the stretching, the itching, then he’s standing, human again. He feels curiously tall. Sherlock flops down onto the sofa. John throws a blanket into his lap and Sherlock musters up the energy to shake it out over his nakedness. John wraps himself in another blanket and sits beside Sherlock. Their thighs touch. Sherlock is no expert on these matters, and he’s too tired to think it through, but he feels like they might be closer now. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He could get used to this. Maybe he could trick Sherlock into watching something besides BBC documentaries in the future. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> and far too appealing John pressed against him—or worse, John insisting on sleeping alone—when his text alert beeped. Instead of his usual acknowledgment, wrapped in some polite nonsense about dinner, a reply popped up that made Sherlock’s already caffeine-accelerated heartbeat speed up even more. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “We only—” John interrupts himself. Lestrade doesn’t know his secret. “He changed recently. Monday night into Tuesday morning was the last change. Sherlock has been fine with it.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> frustrates him, but he can’t break character. It takes him half an hour to make his way to Baker Street. He doesn’t enter the street itself. A few streets away is a rusted fire escape. At the top of that, he strips off the disguise so he’s in all black; then it’s a leap across to a ledge on the building opposite and a scramble up to the roof, and he has a clear shot, a simple run with a few jumps to reach 221 Baker Street. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> whole house was shaking with the intensity of it but probably it was rather his hand trembling than the bannister beneath it. John forced himself to draw deep steady breaths, stretching his treacherous fingers that already missed the feeling of silky curls and candent skin. The taste of Sherlock still lingered on his tongue, celestial and sweet as nectar, making every inch of his body scream for more, more, <|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 <|example|> And there’s the pout that comes when the puppy dog eyes don’t work quickly enough. Honestly, it’s like dealing with a four-year-old. Sometimes John just doesn’t have the patience to engage in a battle of wills against 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 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 <|indexes|> 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 <|example|> He could get used to this <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> of his neck and Sherlock tips his head back to meet them, almost letting a little hum of pleasure escape. He wriggles around to get properly comfy. His wolf has been gradually quieting since he got into bed with John, and now that he’s stroking his hair it’s completely silent, if a little tense. He wonders whether his wolf is in fact a cat. It’s clearly enjoying this petting. He is too. He’s so relaxed that he feels himself tense in surprise at a new flash of lightning, but then John’s fingers find a sensitive spot and he melts. He feels as much as he hears John breathe out a laugh. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> back downstairs, human and in pyjamas. He’s surprised to see John still in his wolf form. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> burrows under the covers. He turns a few times, then curls up. Sherlock gets in on his side. It must be his side by now. Their warmth heats the bed. Perfect. But maybe it could be better. He shifts again to rest his head on Sherlock’s chest and shoulder. Sherlock’s arm reaches around and his hand buries itself in John’s fur again. He strokes him gently. John is drifting off to sleep already. Sherlock’s pyjama top smells lovely. His eyes droop. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> it. They meet the owner there. John pays the deposit in cash. Sherlock has to admire the effort he’s put into this. This must have been the reason for the phone call he made from the car rental office. After, the owner gives them a cursory tour. The cottage is a mix of cosy, modern, basic and rustic, like a countryside version of 221B, but with less mess. He imagines John didn’t have much choice in picking it, but luck, if luck exists, seems to have thrown them the perfect place. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> easier than changing into wolf form. He knows his human body well. Again he feels the burning pain, the stretching, the itching, then he’s standing, human again. He feels curiously tall. Sherlock flops down onto the sofa. John throws a blanket into his lap and Sherlock musters up the energy to shake it out over his nakedness. John wraps himself in another blanket and sits beside Sherlock. Their thighs touch. Sherlock is no expert on these matters, and he’s too tired to think it through, but he feels like they might be closer now. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He could get used to this. Maybe he could trick Sherlock into watching something besides BBC documentaries in the future. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> and far too appealing John pressed against him—or worse, John insisting on sleeping alone—when his text alert beeped. Instead of his usual acknowledgment, wrapped in some polite nonsense about dinner, a reply popped up that made Sherlock’s already caffeine-accelerated heartbeat speed up even more. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “We only—” John interrupts himself. Lestrade doesn’t know his secret. “He changed recently. Monday night into Tuesday morning was the last change. Sherlock has been fine with it.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> of his neck and Sherlock tips his head back to meet them, almost letting a little hum of pleasure escape. He wriggles around to get properly comfy. His wolf has been gradually quieting since he got into bed with John, and now that he’s stroking his hair it’s completely silent, if a little tense. He wonders whether his wolf is in fact a cat. It’s clearly enjoying this petting. He is too. He’s so relaxed that he feels himself tense in surprise at a new flash of lightning, but then John’s fingers find a sensitive spot and he melts. He feels as much as he hears John breathe out a laugh. <|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 <|example|> He could get used to this. Maybe he could trick Sherlock into watching something besides BBC documentaries in the future. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 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|> back downstairs, human and in pyjamas <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> it. They meet the owner there. John pays the deposit in cash. Sherlock has to admire the effort he’s put into this. This must have been the reason for the phone call he made from the car rental office. After, the owner gives them a cursory tour. The cottage is a mix of cosy, modern, basic and rustic, like a countryside version of 221B, but with less mess. He imagines John didn’t have much choice in picking it, but luck, if luck exists, seems to have thrown them the perfect place. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> easier than changing into wolf form. He knows his human body well. Again he feels the burning pain, the stretching, the itching, then he’s standing, human again. He feels curiously tall. Sherlock flops down onto the sofa. John throws a blanket into his lap and Sherlock musters up the energy to shake it out over his nakedness. John wraps himself in another blanket and sits beside Sherlock. Their thighs touch. Sherlock is no expert on these matters, and he’s too tired to think it through, but he feels like they might be closer now. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He could get used to this. Maybe he could trick Sherlock into watching something besides BBC documentaries in the future. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> and far too appealing John pressed against him—or worse, John insisting on sleeping alone—when his text alert beeped. Instead of his usual acknowledgment, wrapped in some polite nonsense about dinner, a reply popped up that made Sherlock’s already caffeine-accelerated heartbeat speed up even more. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “We only—” John interrupts himself. Lestrade doesn’t know his secret. “He changed recently. Monday night into Tuesday morning was the last change. Sherlock has been fine with it.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> frustrates him, but he can’t break character. It takes him half an hour to make his way to Baker Street. He doesn’t enter the street itself. A few streets away is a rusted fire escape. At the top of that, he strips off the disguise so he’s in all black; then it’s a leap across to a ledge on the building opposite and a scramble up to the roof, and he has a clear shot, a simple run with a few jumps to reach 221 Baker Street. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> either. Mycroft himself won’t hang around for a social visit once he’s got what he wants. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “No, he doesn’t,” John quickly objected although the lie didn’t sound very convincing. That bloke actually could have been his twin brother as far as he could tell. He was sure that, fifteen years ago, he and that actor would have been nearly indistinguishable. <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> of his skull. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> for him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> two steps at a time. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> his shoulders. He cooled John’s forehead, switching hands whenever their body temperatures aligned, and watched as John drifted back and forth between sleeping and waking. Slowly, pale sunlight crept into the bedroom. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> it. They meet the owner there. John pays the deposit in cash. Sherlock has to admire the effort he’s put into this. This must have been the reason for the phone call he made from the car rental office. After, the owner gives them a cursory tour. The cottage is a mix of cosy, modern, basic and rustic, like a countryside version of 221B, but with less mess. He imagines John didn’t have much choice in picking it, but luck, if luck exists, seems to have thrown them the perfect place. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He could get used to this. Maybe he could trick Sherlock into watching something besides BBC documentaries in the future. <|indexes|> 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 <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> Their thighs touch <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> frustrates him, but he can’t break character. It takes him half an hour to make his way to Baker Street. He doesn’t enter the street itself. A few streets away is a rusted fire escape. At the top of that, he strips off the disguise so he’s in all black; then it’s a leap across to a ledge on the building opposite and a scramble up to the roof, and he has a clear shot, a simple run with a few jumps to reach 221 Baker Street. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> either. Mycroft himself won’t hang around for a social visit once he’s got what he wants. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “No, he doesn’t,” John quickly objected although the lie didn’t sound very convincing. That bloke actually could have been his twin brother as far as he could tell. He was sure that, fifteen years ago, he and that actor would have been nearly indistinguishable. <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> of his skull. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> for him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> two steps at a time. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> frustrates him, but he can’t break character. It takes him half an hour to make his way to Baker Street. He doesn’t enter the street itself. A few streets away is a rusted fire escape. At the top of that, he strips off the disguise so he’s in all black; then it’s a leap across to a ledge on the building opposite and a scramble up to the roof, and he has a clear shot, a simple run with a few jumps to reach 221 Baker Street. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “No, he doesn’t,” John quickly objected although the lie didn’t sound very convincing. That bloke actually could have been his twin brother as far as he could tell. He was sure that, fifteen years ago, he and that actor would have been nearly indistinguishable. <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> for him <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> for him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> two steps at a time. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> his shoulders. He cooled John’s forehead, switching hands whenever their body temperatures aligned, and watched as John drifted back and forth between sleeping and waking. Slowly, pale sunlight crept into the bedroom. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> realises how awfully quiet the house can be without Mrs Hudson’s constant chatting, humming, and hoovering. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the blue of his eyes darkened in vigilance. Sherlock could all but hear John’s mind switch into soldier mode in light of this dangerous terrain they had suddenly stepped on. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> feeling them turn up into a slight smile under his touch. <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> When the three of them enter the sitting room, she turns her head assess the newest arrivals with an affected air of disinterest. At the sight of Sherlock however, her eyes widen and her face goes white in surprise. “Sherlock Holmes,” she spits, voice dripping with disdain. “What are <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> occurred Sherlock before, but he would be more than amenable to some sort of copulatory arrangement between them. He wouldn’t even be averse to the occasional placebo-cycle heat, so long as they haven’t a case on. His relations with Victor may have been largely unexciting, but this unexpected venture with John has been incredibly stimulating thus far. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> amount of pleading over the course of his heat with John. None of which ended at all unpleasantly. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> want for nothing. So in either case, you needn’t be concerned, financially speaking.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Sherlock squirms prettily against his hands, and his cock stirs to life beneath his nightshirt. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> for him. <|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 <|example|> When the three of them enter the sitting room, she turns her head assess the newest arrivals with an affected air of disinterest. At the sight of Sherlock however, her eyes widen and her face goes white in surprise. “Sherlock Holmes,” she spits, voice dripping with disdain. “What are <|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 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> two steps at a time <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> realises how awfully quiet the house can be without Mrs Hudson’s constant chatting, humming, and hoovering. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the blue of his eyes darkened in vigilance. Sherlock could all but hear John’s mind switch into soldier mode in light of this dangerous terrain they had suddenly stepped on. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> feeling them turn up into a slight smile under his touch. <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> When the three of them enter the sitting room, she turns her head assess the newest arrivals with an affected air of disinterest. At the sight of Sherlock however, her eyes widen and her face goes white in surprise. “Sherlock Holmes,” she spits, voice dripping with disdain. “What are <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> occurred Sherlock before, but he would be more than amenable to some sort of copulatory arrangement between them. He wouldn’t even be averse to the occasional placebo-cycle heat, so long as they haven’t a case on. His relations with Victor may have been largely unexciting, but this unexpected venture with John has been incredibly stimulating thus far. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> amount of pleading over the course of his heat with John. None of which ended at all unpleasantly. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> want for nothing. So in either case, you needn’t be concerned, financially speaking.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Sherlock squirms prettily against his hands, and his cock stirs to life beneath his nightshirt. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> passes over! Even his parents don't come visit anymore. His brother does; but well... Sherlock doesn’t appreciate that very much so...” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> made his excuses and fled, claiming a touch of flu, before the actual situation could become any more obvious. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> between them, with a contented sigh into Sherlock’s mouth. He reaches down between their bodies to guide himself into place, rubbing his cock over the wet slit a few times, before finally pushing forward to sink in with a deep groan. <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “I couldn’t’ve wished for a better first word, honey,” John quietened him. “The two people I love most in all of this world and they share a name for me.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> A left, a left, a right, a leap through a gaping hole in a fence. Sherlock hasn’t tested the limits of his newly-gained stamina, and the bite on his side is burning. <|indexes|> 2 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> realises how awfully quiet the house can be without Mrs Hudson’s constant chatting, humming, and hoovering. <|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 <|example|> When the three of them enter the sitting room, she turns her head assess the newest arrivals with an affected air of disinterest. At the sight of Sherlock however, her eyes widen and her face goes white in surprise. “Sherlock Holmes,” she spits, voice dripping with disdain. “What are <|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 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> A left, a left, a right, a leap through a gaping hole in a fence. Sherlock hasn’t tested the limits of his newly-gained stamina, and the bite on his side is burning. <|indexes|> 2 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 |

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