Chapter Text
Present time…
John closes 'Magickal Minds' with a gentle thud and eyes the shining stone with a fond smile.
The amethyst stone that Sherlock had given to him all those months ago, has remained a fixture on the mantle in 221b from the moment John moved in, three weeks after that day in the rock garden.
It had been a surreal experience, seeing 221b in person, without warped mirages and a floating violin, but when he saw it – he was immediately in love.
He felt at home. John had to restrain himself from laughing when he walked into the living for the first time, suitcases in hand, and saw Sherlock looking like he hadn’t slept in days and furiously searching through a pile of papers on the desk between the two main windows.
The place was a mess.
At the time John wasn’t sure if Sherlock forgot the exact time John was arriving, or if the man was that disorganized – John has since discovered, through living with the man, that no matter how disorganized everything appeared to him, there was order to the chaos that only Sherlock seemed to understand. The first time John tried dusting, he flipped out and John was subject to a lecture on the importance of dust patterns and knowledge they can give.
John still found that moment very amusing when he thought about.
Not as amusing as the moment Sherlock looked up from his pile of case notes, saw John standing there (in Sherlock’s defense, John had arrived an hour earlier than he thought he would) and blinked at him like he couldn’t believe John was really standing there.
It was the first time they had seen each other since the day Sherlock left the Centre, although they had been in contact via phone, mostly texting.
The funny part happened after their first hellos.
Tension bled from Sherlock the moment John stepped into the flat (John himself was relieved and happy beyond words to not only be in a place that felt like a home, but that it was with Sherlock, the man John had since fallen in love with) and Sherlock gave him a visibly delighted smile – made all the more endearing by the complete disordered nature of his appearance; hair wild and askew, robe half-hanging off one shoulder, shirtless and wearing a ratty pair of pyjama trousers.
It was when John put his suitcases down and gazed over the disordered room that Sherlock seemed to jump like he’d remembered something, and Sherlock panicked.
Well, panicked was perhaps a bit strong, but the way Sherlock’s eyes widened and suddenly whirled around the room took John by surprise, and he had been about to ask what happened – when he realized what Sherlock was doing.
Sherlock was tidying, or at least he was trying to. He picked up pillows from the floor, threw them onto chairs and seemed fixated on straightening the items on the mantle, fixing a pile of letters there with a dagger that seemed to come out of nowhere, all the while pushing paper and books out of the way with his feet.
It didn’t really help all that much, but it was, in short, bloody adorable. A thought John kept to himself.
John could only hold his breath of laughter in for so long.
The way Sherlock whirled with tornado like force to face him, and stared at him with narrowed eyes and an indignant expression in the face of John’s mirth, made John bite his lip to keep from laughing anymore.
He told Sherlock not to worry about it at the moment. Sherlock had huffed and seemed to stomp away into the kitchen, pulling out one of the wooden chairs and sitting down; immediately drawn to an open notebook and laptop on the surface.
Clearly Sherlock didn’t appreciate having his efforts laughed at.
But it really was hilarious, and sweet in a way.
Living with Sherlock isn’t easy, at times it is far more difficult than even John can anticipate, more than once John has had to walk away, take a stroll outside and get some air so he wouldn’t say something he’d regret. A lot of it came down to the fact that both Sherlock and John are relentlessly stubborn about their point of views, clashing is inevitable.
In spite of that, it has been the most fulfilling and satisfying fourteen months of John’s life.
Assisting in Detective casework with Sherlock is incredible, and not just because seeing the man work his Magick – both figuratively and literally – is always a sight to behold, but John genuinely enjoys it.
The first time it became apparent exactly how useful the combined power of their Magick could be, was when they were chasing a thief through London side streets who had the annoying, yet objectively useful, ability to run impossibly fast.
There was no way Sherlock and John were going to catch up to him conventionally. John didn’t have to ask what Sherlock intended when the man stopped and turned to face John with urgency.
John reached out and grasped Sherlock’s shoulders at the same moment he closed his eyes and jolted.
It wasn’t the first time John had seen Sherlock’s ability to project himself, but it was the first time John assisted. Due to the suspect’s speed, he had gained a significant amount of distance on them, past Sherlock’s distance to project.
John Augmented his power to give him an extra boost, and hopefully give him the extra distance he needed. While Sherlock wasn’t able to physically interact with the suspect, what he ended up doing was effectively herd him back towards them. Projecting like Sherlock is able to do isn’t exactly common, and when the man appeared out of thin air in front of the suspect it expectedly frightened him and he ran in the opposite direction. What followed was a series of much the same appearances, that eventually led to the man running directly down the alley Sherlock and John were hiding in; under the arch of a shadowed doorway. John had released Sherlock, and Sherlock inhaled sharply as he reoriented himself.
At that point it was a matter of Sherlock handing John a pair of handcuffs (John found out later he’d swiped them from Scotland Yard last time they were there) that worked much like Magickal wrist restraints, and John jumping out at the exact moment the subject ran in front of their hiding spot.
It was a fun evening.
It is often difficult in a different way of course, one time Sherlock was kidnapped and locked in a room with no doors, and Magickal barriers even Sherlock couldn’t break, and slowly filling with water. The only reason he didn’t die was that they, Lestrade, Mycroft and John, found him in time and John’s bond with Sherlock, plus his own Magick, allowed him to break the barriers in concurrence with Sherlock on the other side; both men focused simultaneously and in a flash of light the barriers shattered before their eyes. Once that was out of the way, John warned Sherlock to step to the left, and he fired a bullet from his gun while simultaneously increasing its power and velocity, when it hit the metal a huge whole was blasted clean through it; causing the water within to poor out onto the cement floor. After that, getting Sherlock out was relatively easy.
No matter that they risked their lives every day doing what they do, that was the first time John was shaken at how close he’d come to losing Sherlock that day. John forced Sherlock to bed, since the man refused to get checked out at the A&E, and poured himself a tumbler of scotch and sat in his chair, staring at the empty fireplace for hours.
That was five months after John moved in. And it was the moment he realized he had fallen, and landed hard.
That truth always became especially apparent when Sherlock played the violin, John discovered quickly that Sherlock was a genius in many ways. He held John spellbound with the beauty those fingers produced upon the string instrument.
It was only when Sherlock scratched away horribly at the strings in frustration in the middle of the night, when some people were actually sleeping, that John was less than pleased.
Suffice to say, life was – is a constant, strange, mad adventure.
The first time John saw Sherlock levitating; John had come home from the shoppes with several bags of groceries and nearly ran into Sherlock levitating cross legged, in the middle of the living room, eyes closed and his hands rested together in front his chin. John was surprisingly – to Sherlock - unfazed, and merely edged around the floating man and proceeded to put the groceries away.
John and Sherlock mesh and work together brilliantly. They give each other support and another person to talk to, not only that John can say with 100% certainty they are the others best-friends.
John has even grown close to Greg, the latter calls them pub buddies; Sherlock twisted his nose with some distaste the first time he heard Greg use that term. And while John could never say he was close with Mycroft, he’d grown to respect him – up to a point, Sherlock is right about one thing in regards to Mycroft, his brother is very nosy and often situates himself into their lives without prior warning.
And Mrs. Hudson was a wonderful, excited energy that greeted John the first time he entered 221. It was as clear then as it is now that she loves Sherlock dearly, and dotes on him. The few times John was away, visiting old friends or his sister, he knew Sherlock wouldn’t starve himself to death (his eating habits, or lack thereof, are a constant source of bickering between them) as Mrs. Hudson insisted on feeding him with tea and biscuits, sometimes sandwiches, which Sherlock loves even if the man would never openly admit to it. Not just him though, John too.
She is honestly the best landlady John has ever had, and a saint for putting up with them and Sherlock’s mad antics.
When John had a conversation with her that revealed her colourful past, which ended with the story of how she met Sherlock, she said how she will always be grateful to him for making sure her abusive husband couldn’t ever hurt her, or anyone else, every again.
John loved her even more after that, and, if possible, Sherlock.
Over all, John is happy.
And even though their relationship hasn’t grown beyond that, John has continued to respect Sherlock’s rock garden entreaty of ‘needing time’, and since the man hasn’t yet brought it up again since that day, John assumes he isn’t ready to say anything. Maybe he never will be. There is nothing John can do about that, nor would he even if he could.
It kills John, honestly, a little each day to see this man, and be this close to him but have to restrain himself from reaching and kissing him; on the top of Sherlock’s head when he’s bent over his microscope in the kitchen, John on his way to making tea, or when Sherlock falls asleep on the sofa after two days without sleep, completely dead to the word, and all John wants to do is ruffle his hair and kiss his cheek.
John never truly realized how much of a sappy romantic he was, until thoughts like those began popping in his head more and more frequently.
Even though, over time, the two of them have of course grown closer, Sherlock more and more consistently comfortable and relaxed in John’s presence, taking John’s advice and words to heart in a way he doesn’t do with anyone else, John has noticed that Sherlock is still often wary of physical contact with John. Or rather, when even they touch, a shoulder, an arm, Sherlock is obviously content for a moment before a veil falls over his face and he pointedly avoids John for several hours.
John hasn’t talked to Sherlock about it, and each time that happened he has left the man to his own devices. The one time John tried asking him; Sherlock changed the subject before John could barely get a word in.
At one point John had the thought that it wasn’t John himself Sherlock was wary of, but of his own reactions.
It is very, very difficult not being privy to exactly what is going on in Sherlock’s head – when John can see, and feel, that there are moments when Sherlock is deep in thought in such a way that he shuts out the world around him, not quite masking his expression, a battle of emotions evident in the lines of his face.
One effect of their bond that grew over time is that on occasion when one of them is feeling an emotion particularly strongly, the other can feel it.
And John can feel that Sherlock is torn, emotionally.
Sherlock is a contradiction of complicated, predictable and utterly unpredictable. Honestly, it is one of the things that most intrigues and frustrates John about him. The point is, John could guess what Sherlock seems to be increasingly torn about – but in all likelihood he would be wrong.
And in truth, John didn’t want to build up hope that Sherlock might feel the same way about him, or even push his own feelings onto Sherlock if they’re unwanted.
They may be able to feel when the other feels a strong emotion, but it is never specific and unless there is obvious context more often than not John can’t tell what the emotion is being triggered by.
So John is hesitant to guess, and has long decided that when or if Sherlock wants to talk, he will talk.
John may have been privy to much of the man’s emotional network when inside his head, but in many ways Sherlock remains a mystery that John doubts he will ever fully know. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.
In the meantime, John will have to contend himself with loving Sherlock from afar.
And that’s ok. In the end, if nothing more comes of their relationship, John will be happy having Sherlock as his best-friend, because that is privilege enough.
Even with the painful aspects of it, John has never felt more content in his life.
Life is pretty fantastic.
John sighs, smile fixed on his face.
It is winter, again, and outside 221b’s windows snow is falling in a gentle cascade. They haven’t had a case for a few days, which Sherlock has been bouncing off walls about, and if he wasn’t near stomping around the flat like a petulant child, he was in silent visage in his black leather chair by the fireplace.
Sherlock was more withdrawn than usual, and earlier today he went out to St. Bart’s because the coroner – an old friend of his named Billy, an interesting young witch – had some organs in from a man who had been found dead in a swamp, surprisingly well preserved.
John made a note to thank Billy when he saw him next; a Sherlock bored and in need of distraction was often volatile. That particular tendency did get worse after Sherlock quit smoking, and restricted himself to as needed nicotine patches. John considers a slightly grumpier Sherlock a worthwhile consequence to the man not puffing himself with endless nicotine, at times Sherlock disagrees.
Even if it came in the form of a rotting corpse, John is grateful that Sherlock finally had something to do, no matter how long it lasted.
John had no particular desire to go, so he remained and began working on writing up their latest case ‘The Geek Interpreter’. As much as John loves the bugger, he is grateful for the few hours of peace he’s had.
It has been several hours, and other than a few texts to comment on the state of the corpse – ‘a vestigial tail, why did he never have it removed, interesting - SH’ or ‘digestive system remarkably well preserved - SH’, followed immediately by, ‘I’m hungry - SH’ and the last, sent two hours ago, ‘Have you ever seen the stomach contents of a man preserved in peat? – SH’, was sent to John along with a picture.
John lost his appetite immediately after.
Overall, it’s a typical day in 221b.
John had received a text from Billy half an hour ago, letting him know that Sherlock had left.
Sherlock hadn’t informed him of any prior plans, and John does find it odd that he heard Sherlock had left from Billy.
When John texted him to ask if he was coming home, Sherlock had replied with a single, terse ‘yes – SH’. Not unusual in of itself, but Sherlock has been more withdrawn lately and John is growing a bit concerned.
The journey from St. Barts to Baker Street is not long, Sherlock should’ve been back by now.
John looks at the clock – ‘7:00pm’ – and makes note of the time, deciding he’ll text Sherlock again in ten minutes if he hasn’t arrived yet.
John wasn’t overly worried, if Sherlock were in any actual physical danger John would feel it due to Coniuncti Sumus.
In the meantime, John put aside the Doyle book on the table beside his chair, and picked up his laptop lying beside it.
Sherlock may poke fun, repeatedly, at John’s blog; but as John constantly reminded him, they got a lot of business from private clients because of it.
John had taken a break from writing up ‘The Geek Interpreter’ to rest his eyes and read, with that done he opens his laptop; new blog entry up and ready, halfway done.
John resumes typing, if a bit awkwardly with the laptop ironically on his lap – but there is no way John is moving from the fire. The electric heat had broken down again, and at the moment the fire is the only thing heating the entire flat, but with the help of a bit of Magick on John’s part, it was flooding every room with comforting heat.
‘…Sherlock got me to do some research (which involved me going into a comic shop... oh, the things I saw...) and it turned out that, as expected, sales of KRATIDES had shot through the roof -
Bang!
John rapidly stops typing at the sound of the door downstairs opening and closing loudly, probably due to the strong wind outside.
Who could be –
But John’s fleeting confusion is gone when he hears familiar, if marginally slower, footsteps ascending the stairs.
Sherlock. John exhales a bit in relief and recommences writing for the moment, wrapping up the paragraph he’s working on.
Sherlock seems to stop for a moment outside the closed, living room door. John pauses again and looks up towards it with a slight frown.
“Sherlock? You alright?” John calls out.
The door opens.
Sherlock strides in, Belstaff coat and thick woolen silver scarf (courtesy of his mother, John met his parents when they visited unexpectedly last month), aloof like he hadn’t just been loitering outside his own living room door.
“Of course.” Sherlock says as he unwraps the scarf from around his neck and throws both it and the coat onto the sofa; exposing the clean cut suit and white shirt beneath.
John blinks quickly. Something’s off.
Sherlock has yet to look in John’s direction, and the man is currently running on some high energy from one spot in the flat to another, awkwardly straightening loose books, paper and various items they have collected as mementos from various cases; a locket, a bejewelled dagger, a skull (not from a victim, thank God, but from a museum – it was gifted to Sherlock from an anthropologist when he and John solved a series of break ins which resulted in stolen irreplaceable items of history), among others.
John watches him carefully, until Sherlock ends up in front of the fireplace and begins – bloody hell – straightening unopened mail.
Without taking his eyes away, John closes his laptop and puts it on the table beside his chair.
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” If it was a case, or some experiment that had him this disordered, he usually liked using John as a sounding board for his frustration or excitement.
John doesn’t think that’s what this is, not only does his current behaviour contradict it, the primary emotion John is feeling from Sherlock right now is anxiety.
Sherlock jolts, almost like he’d forgotten John is right there, and takes his hands away from the mantle. He doesn’t answer John, but he does sit himself heavily in his chair; his right foot tapping against the ground, fingers drumming random patterns on the armrests.
Still, Sherlock pointedly avoids John’s gaze, instead he stares into the glowing flames of the fire.
His face is heavily masked and unreadable in a way John has long since associated with Sherlock hiding something.
If John couldn’t feel the man’s obvious and extremely heightened anxiety practically filling the room, he might regard the odd way Sherlock was acting as some unexplainable quirk of his – of which there are many.
John leans forward. “Talk to me.” John implores softly. He clasps his hands, elbows resting on his knees with his hands dangling between them.
Sherlock’s brow furrows in response to John’s words, and the jumpy energy he was previously exuding deflates entirely. Sherlock exhales deeply and rests a palm against his face before running slightly shaky fingers through his hair and ruffling his locks angrily.
“Sherlock, seriously-”
“Go on a date with me.”
John is speechless. “I-”
“Last year I know you expressed…romantic sentiment towards me, and while I realize enough time has passed for feelings such as those to change or disappear altogether, if you are still amenable I would like to take you out to Angelo’s, for a proper date.” Sherlock’s panicky drumming with his fingers on chair arms increases and he finally turns away from the burning fire and looks John square in the eye with unblinking determination.
John gulps and tries to calm the frantic racing of his heart.
Am I sleeping? Is this even real? I was certainly not expecting that.
John feels his eyes begin to water. Shit, am I seriously going to cry? That’s just embarrassing.
Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Veteran of Afghanistan, crying over the man he’s in love with asking him out on a date.
His old army buddies would probably have a good laugh if they could see him now.
John rests his face in his hands in effort to cover his shining eyes and get some goddamn control over himself.
“I know I am not an ideal romantic partner and that I have no prior relationship experience to speak of-” Sherlock is speaking even faster now, with perhaps a tinge of alarm, maybe because of John’s reaction, in his voice. “-feelings are barely tolerable to me on a good day and I am likely to fail in making you happy, or keeping you sexually satisfied-” Jesus Christ. “-But over the past several months, you have become a great value in my life, more so than I could’ve anticipated, not just in the Work but for me personally, and I realize now that despite years of having no wish to feel anything like it again, I know what I feel for you is…beyond the boundaries of friendship, that it has been steadily growing for quite some time and I would like to-”
“You love me?” John drops his hands and looks up at Sherlock in shock.
Sherlock’s mouth shuts abruptly.
John curses himself inwardly. The man didn’t actually say it idiot, and now you’ve put him on the spot -
“Yes.” Sherlock utters almost too quietly for John to hear, in a way that sounds like he is putting the final nail in his own coffin.
John’s heart stops and he just…stares at Sherlock, heart somewhere in the vicinity of his Elf shoe slippers.
(A gag gift from Greg this Christmas, which John has no intention of telling him he actually wears because they are that bloody comfortable)
There is no hesitation in Sherlock’s eyes, but there is, very obviously, fear.
The poor man looks barely a stone’s throw away from running back out the door he just came in from.
Oh.
Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction, has no idea how I’m going to react. And he’s actually afraid.
Sherlock often has a major blind spot when it comes to observing love in others directed towards his own self, but with their bond John had assumed the man would know how John feels.
Maybe he does, and is just scared that John won’t want to be in a relationship regardless –
Oh!
Admon. Of course.
In the memories, Admon had all but openly admitted he reciprocated Sherlock’s feelings, at least to a degree – even though at the time it would’ve been worlds more dangerous to be in a relationship with a man, and John isn’t married either, Sherlock is afraid that John will love him, but choose not to be in a relationship with him anyway.
Even though knowing his love wasn’t completely unrequited, that still would’ve stung Sherlock deep.
Yeah, I should probably get a hold of myself and say something before Sherlock panics.
John breathes deeply, if Sherlock can be brave and lay his heart bare – so can you, and moves as far forward as possible without falling off the chair.
John fixes Sherlock with an unblinking stare, allowing every single emotion Sherlock makes him feel to show on his face.
The movement catches Sherlock’s attention and he watches John warily, clearly trying very hard to mask his own emotions in effort to remain in control.
John bites his lip.
“A few things, first; I love you too, for all that you are, you silly wonderful man and if you think I won’t want to be with you when it is killing me to not jump you with your ridiculously bouncy hair and beautiful face right here right now-” Sherlock freezes and gapes at John, deep red blush high on his cheeks. “-then you need to work on your observation skills.” John inhales. “Second, you will have to get the milk at least twice a month and stop using it up in your mould experiments, I don’t exactly enjoy bits of mould floating in my tea-” John barely manages to hold in his laughter at the taken aback expression on Sherlock’s face that quickly turns to affronted. He snorts and looks away from John, eyes closing gently, but there is a very obvious smile building in the corners of his mouth. “And third-” John hesitates for a moment. This causes Sherlock to open his eyes and look at John curiously. “-forget the second, because I know there’s no way you’ll remember.”
Sherlock laughs.
A happy, full-bodied, laugh.
John smiles widely. There.
Sherlock wipes an errant tear from his eyes, and the way he looks at John…John is so overwhelmed he can’t even begin to describe how he’s feeling, and this time there is nothing that can stop him from crying tears of joy.
“John?” Sherlock stops laughing and looks at John with concern.
Bugger. John presses the balls of his hands into his eyes. “I’m fine, fine, I’m fine.” Very convincing. Shut up.
Oh god, this is actually happening.
John has never felt happier in his life.
He hears a thud and suddenly there are long fingered hands gently pulling John’s away; exposing his tear-track stained face.
Sherlock is kneeling in front of him, holding John’s hands securely between his own.
It makes John feel better that he isn’t the only one with watery eyes. His heart pangs, because the last time John saw Sherlock in tears with this amount of raw emotion was when John experienced the memory of Admon dying.
There are so many reasons why Sherlock approaching John like this, admitting his feelings, is such a big thing for him to have done – his past has not exactly been easy. Neither of theirs has, albeit in different ways.
John never really expected they would end up here, and now they have.
And Sherlock loves him.
John couldn’t take his eyes away from Sherlock now even if he wanted to.
They have never been this close before, both of them exposed.
John’s mouth parts when Sherlock slowly reaches up with a trembling hand, and holds John’s face in the cradle of his palm; wiping away tears with his thumb.
John clenches his eyes shut to keep more tears from spilling, and turns his face into Sherlock’s hand, breathing in shakily.
Oh god oh god oh god…
John can feel both of their Magicks coming to life along their skin. Through his eyelids John can see a faint glow.
“John.”
John opens his eyes at Sherlock’s plea. Sure enough, wherever their bare skin is touching, Sherlock’s hand on his face, hands clasped on John’s thigh, there is a faint, golden glow emanating.
Sherlock is watching him with such intensity; a contrast to the tears marking his own face, John feels weak in the knees.
“I want you to know-” Sherlock breathes in, body trembling, and John grasps Sherlock’s hand on his thigh tightly. “-that you are in no way a replacement-”
“I know-”
“Please,” Sherlock stops John with a thumb firmly pressed across his lips. “Let me say this, I’m not – it’s not in my nature to express my emotions, and I need you to know how much you mean to me so you don’t stop believing or doubt how important you are to me even when I don’t-”
“I know. Sherlock, it’s ok.” Sherlock was near hyperventilating, John had to say something. “Really, baby steps, you’re important to me too, alright?”
They have time now, oh so much time.
Sherlock nods, and leans forward to rest his forehead against John’s.
“So…is that a yes?” Sherlock mumbles with a small smile.
John snorts and rolls his eyes. “Of course it is, you idiot.”
“Good.”
They smile silently at each other for a moment.
Then, Sherlock turns his face and presses his lips to John’s.
It is their first, real, kiss.
Oh…god.
John groans and slides his arms around Sherlock’s neck, squeezing him tightly; one hand lightly pulling at Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock moans and pulls John to the edge of the chair, their torsos fully aligned, arms wrapping around Johns waist.
John feels a bit lightheaded, and has to release his lips from Sherlock’s so he doesn’t pass out. Now that would be embarrassing, or maybe Sherlock would take it as a compliment.
Neither man pull away, keeping their hold on each other tight with foreheads pressed together.
“Wow.” John huffs with a smile, breathing heavily.
Sherlock hums deeply with a nod, and pecks John on the lips with a contented smile.
He pulls away then, but only to rest his face against John’s neck and increase his hold on John by grasping fistfuls of John’s oatmeal jumper.
“I love you.” Sherlock breathes out against John’s skin.
This is my life now. John exhales shakily with a blissful smile, damn you tears, and grasps Sherlock’s back equally as tight.
John turns his head and kisses the lobe of Sherlock’s ear.
“I love you too.”
Sherlock whimpers, and cries silently against John. The glow surrounding them strengthens with the depth of emotion being expressed; a very physical manifestation of the sheer joy of the moment.
And John knows, that this, right here…
This is the happiest he has ever felt in his life.
John has never been more ready, or excited, to live the rest of it.
Magick, really is, real.
~ oh when I'm cold, cold
there's a light that you give me when I'm in shadow
there's a feeling you give me, an Everglow…