Chapter Text
John wakes to the bleeping of a heart monitor. He feels vaguely as if he ought to be hurting, but if he is then the pain has gone to some quiet corner of his brain and is sitting quietly and not making a fuss. Morphine, he concludes, and opens his eyes. He’s in a small white walled room, clearly in a hospital, and attached to drip. In the corner is a chair and a man with a tumble of dark hair, bent over his own hands. Sherlock has a small yellow ball of fire trapped between his palms and is watching it burn.
“Sherlock?”
The man’s head jerks up. “John.” His voice sounds hoarse, hopeful. He gets to his feet and moves towards John. A moment’s hesitation and he places a hand on John’s. John feels a brush of coat - it is distinctly damp.
“You pushed me into the swimming pool,” John realises.
Sherlock blinks a few times. “Yes.”
“You should change your clothes. You’ll catch your death.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Not important.”
There is a pause.
“How bad is it?” John asks.
Sherlock looks at him for a moment, his lips tightening. He walks to the foot of John’s bed, and rummages around a little in the trolley that is parked there. He comes back with a mirror.
“I don’t know if-“ John begins, suddenly unsure if he can face what surely must be the ruin of his face without a little more preparation, but it is too late. Sherlock has already turned the mirror on him. He – doesn’t actually look different. He leans forward touching his cheek, which he clearly remembers being on fire – no burn. No marks at all. Sherlock tilts the mirror and John a hefty bandage on his chest – prodding them slightly he can see a savage burn spreading out from his breast bone across his chest. Apparently it is the only sign of the fire that had nearly consumed him.
“They’re putting you on antibiotics to prevent infection.” Sherlock says shortly. “You may require a skin graft.”
“Thank god,” John says.
Sherlock twitches slightly at that. “Thank god?” he says. “Does it escape your attention that you have a third degree burn on your chest?”
“Yeah, only - I thought it would be much worse,” John says. “To be honest, back there – I thought I was a goner.”
Sherlock turns away from him, setting the mirror back in place.
“I guess you saved me,” John says. “Thank you.”
Sherlock gives him a dark look. “I’d ask you to consider the fact that I am the one who was responsible for your being on fire in the first place.”
John considers, as requested.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“If I’d-“
“Moriarty pushed me,” John says. “It wasn’t. Your. Fault.”
Sherlock’s jaw tightens.
“What was the point of all of that anyway?” John asks. “What was Moriarty trying to prove?”
Sherlock shrugs. “A test,” he says. “No doubt the first of many.”
John thinks about that, and about what Moriarty has said. I’ll burn the heart out of you.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“When I was – when I knocked into you. I felt something. Not just the fire I – heard a voice in my head. Er, it sounded like you.”
Sherlock goes very still.
“That, um, that fire thing, is it-“ John pauses, not entirely sure how to proceed.
Sherlock tilts his head back for a moment, looking at the ceiling. For a long moment he is silent and John thinks he is going to ignore the question. Then he lets out a long breath, and looks back at John.
“Mycroft always said it was a mark of intellectual immaturity. The inability to control the base emotional instincts manifests physically. And the sparks fly upward. ”
Sherlock pronounces the word emotional as if he were referring to something disgusting he'd found at the back of their fridge.
“No offense to your brother but that sounds like a load of old balls.”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches reluctantly.
“Perhaps you would prefer my mother’s view. She says I have too much heart.”
“Yeah?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Different ways to say the same thing.”
John isn’t so sure about that, but lets it pass.
“So,” he says instead. “When someone touches the flames….”
“They get burnt,” Sherlock says. “Obviously.”
“And they get a backdraft of whatever it is you’re feeling.” John says.
Well, that explained why Sherlock was so cagey about the whole issue. Awkward, for such an incredibly proud man to have his emotions broadcast like that, against his will. He looks at Sherlock, who is studiously looking down at John’s quilt.
“Did you – were you always like this?”
“From birth? No. The first time it happened I was eight years old. Red… the family pet was unwell. He had to be put down. I woke up in the middle of the next night on fire.”
“That must have been terrifying.”
Sherlock shrugs. “More so for everyone else. I knew the flames weren’t hurting me but my family didn’t, not at first. Mycroft still has burns on his hands from trying to put me out.”
John recalls this meeting with Mycroft in the warehouse, gloved hands resting on the umbrella.
“Jesus. And – and it really doesn’t hurt you at all?”
“It doesn’t,” says Sherlock. “It appears to burn harmlessly unless it encounters another person. I’ve experimented of course, but it appears to be beyond the reach of science. Or any kind of logic.” The words are very bitter.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” John says reassuringly.
Sherlock gives him a closed off look, and then shrugs, looking away. John feels a sudden wave of pity for his friend, who had learned to be so afraid of what his own feelings.
“Um, by the way,” he says. “I should probably say. About what I heard, when I was burning.”
Sherlock’s face is completely expressionless. “Yes?”
“I’d be the same way if – if something happened to you. You know? I wouldn’t know what to do either.”
There’s a long pause in which Sherlock stares at him as if John were on the witness stand and Sherlock were determined to prove he was perjuring himself. Then he looks away and his shoulders visibly relax. “I know,” he says.
Sherlock is unusually quiet in the weeks after John comes back from hospital – at first, John thinks it’s maybe just awkwardness at having his combustion issue exposed, or perhaps residual guilt for John’s injuries. He finds Sherlock looking at him often when he thinks John isn’t aware of it, that familiar closed off look on his face. Sherlock starts ducking into his room at odd times, sometimes stopping mid-sentence and just walking off. John doesn’t know what to make of it.
Then one day they are in the kitchen and John brushes past Sherlock en route to the kettle. There is a soft rushing sound, and when John looks back, flames are erupting across Sherlock’s arm, on the exact spot where John had touched it. Before John can say a word Sherlock puts down the beaker he is holding, picks up his coat and walks straight out of the flat.
Neither of them mention the incident when Sherlock returns, several hours later but John can’t help dwelling in it and on the white scared look on Sherlock’s face when he saw the flames.
A couple of days later it happens again. They are sharing a Chinese take-away, and Sherlock is delivering a set of particularly amusing deductions about the delivery boy, and his recent unfortunate escapade with a garden hose. John leans back in his chair, laughing helplessly and all of a sudden there are flames blooming over Sherlock’s chest, a soft flickering rose colour edged with gold. John stops laughing, suddenly feeling rather short of breath. Sherlock looks away, dropping the chopsticks back into the bag and moves to stand up.
“No don’t-“ John says. “It’s – pretty.”
Clearly pretty was the wrong word to use, since Sherlock gives John a burningly angry look and stalks away into his room. The door rattles on its hinges as Sherlock yanks it closed.
Damn, John thinks.
John thinks about what happened, thinks about it all night, replaying the moment when the flames had started, the brief vulnerable expression on Sherlock’s pale face. He is making Sherlock flame up, making him feel – something. He’s sure of it. Practically speaking, it could be anything, of course. Annoyance, amusement, guilt. Nausea. But remembering the soft quality of the light, the flush it cast over Sherlock’s face, John is certain it isn’t any of those things. Maybe he’s being an arrogant bastard, but he thinks- he thinks Sherlock likes him. That maybe he’s attracted to him and … Bloody hell. What does he do with that?
As a rule John isn’t attracted to men. And Sherlock is his friend. Which means he should probably be troubled by the idea, and concerned about hurting his flatmate’s feelings. Instead John feels a flood of warmth to the belly at the idea, and with it, a prickle of arousal. Maybe next time they are in the kitchen he won’t just brush past Sherlock, he’ll move closer. Put a hand of his waist maybe, pull him into John’s body. Touch the long graceful curve of Sherlock’s neck, place a hand under his jaw. Tilt his head back and then…
…probably get third degree burns again. Right. John groans to himself rolling over onto his front and burying his face into his pillow. This is going to take some pretty serious figuring out.
John does think about it a great deal over the next few days (during which Sherlock, naturally, avoids both coming within touching distance of John or entering into anything like a conversation) and is starting to think he might have come to a conclusion when a distraction arrives in the form of a young woman named Helen Stoner. Helen seeks their help on account of her sister Julia, who recently died in mysterious circumstances, and the troubling news that she is developing symptoms similar to the ones Julia experienced before her death.
John discovers puncture wounds, resembling a snake bite on the woman’s ankle, as well as a series of unexplained speckles on her body. Sherlock is, for some reason, convinced that the death was caused by something in the bedroom and declares that the only course of action will be for him to spend the night in it. Well, John isn’t letting Sherlock do something like that on his own, not even if Sherlock is still avoiding making eye contact with him and tensing every time John walks into the room.
Julia Stoner’s bedroom is small, an old fashioned four poster bed taking up the bulk of it. Sherlock sits on the bed, back against the headboard, and folds his hands and closed his eyes in his typical ‘I’m thinking deep thoughts don’t bother me’ pose. John isn’t fooled.
“Budge up,” John drops onto the bed opposite Sherlock, the springs creaking. He grabs a pillow and positions himself against the backboard at the foot of the bed.
Sherlock’s fly open in alarm and he moves his feet a little reflexively out of John’s way.
“So,” says John. “What do we do now then?”
“Nothing,” says Sherlock. “We wait.”
“Ah,” says John. “Might be a good opportunity to talk, then.”
“Talk?” Sherlock sounds like he’s never heard such a thing suggested before.
Deliberately John shifts his feet and moves to brush his socked foot against Sherlock’s leg. He moves the foot back out of the way pretty sharpish and sure enough a plume of flame leaps up from the spot he touched. Sherlock sits as motionless as a statue, staring at John.
“I’ve got a theory,” John says.
“Oh yes?” Sherlock says, very coldly.
“You’ll like it,” John says. “It starts out with Mycroft being wrong.”
“That is always a benefit,” says Sherlock but his tone doesn’t grow any warmer. He’s staring at John as if he’s a specimen under a slide. It’s a little disconcerting.
“That,” John says, gesturing at Sherlock’s burning thigh. “Mycroft reckoned it was because you didn’t control your feelings enough, right?”
Sherlock's lip draws back in the beginning of a sneer. “That is correct.”
“And I expect you tried to, didn’t you? He probably taught you things, exercises, all that mind palace stuff…”
“In the early years we experimented somewhat.”
“Did any of it work?”
“Some of it,” Sherlock glances away. ““Emotions are largely - relational in nature. It takes two flints to spark a flame. For someone with my condition, caring is not an advantage.”
“So you avoided getting close to anyone, and – that worked?”
“It did,” Sherlock says, and his eyes meet John’s with a flash of something dark.
John takes a breath. “Like I said, I think Mycroft got it wrong. I don’t think it happens because you aren’t controlled enough. Actually I think it might be the control that’s the problem.”
That gets Sherlock’s attention. “Oh?”
“Think about it, Sherlock. You bottle things up all the time, barely let yourself show anything. It’s, like, physics – that energy has to go somewhere.”
Sherlock stares at him. “I do wonder about you scientific education, John. For a qualified doctor you have some very peculiar ideas.”
“Have you ever tried it?” asks John. “Trying not to control your emotions – have you ever tried just showing people how you feel?”
Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, and John wonders if he is simply going to ignore the question. But when he speaks his voice is lower and a little rougher than usual.
“How exactly would you suggest I do that?”
“Well,” says John. “You could try just – talking.”
“Talking.”
“Yeah,” says John. “I know it’s not easy –I’m not good at it either exactly but. I think it’s worth a try. We could do it now. It’ll be an experiment.”
“I don’t think…”
“I’ll go first,” John says.
Sherlock hesitates for a long moment, and John thinks he can see fear momentarily warring with curiousity in Sherlock’s eyes.
“All right,” he says at last.
“OK,” John clears his throat. “Well. What I want to say is – uh. I’ve never known anyone like you. You’re insane and domineering and –frankly bursting in the flames is probably the least weird thing about you.”
“I see,” Sherlock looks away.
“And I love it.” John says. “I love all of it. You’re the best friend I ever had – you’ve turned my life around completely. I’ve never felt so alive as I do when I’m with you.”
Sherlock looks back at him, lips parting slightly. John watches as the flames that have been dimming into non existence on Sherlock’s thigh, suddenly flicker back to life dancing up Sherlock’s body to light on his chest.
Now for the hard part. John surreptitiously wipes his palm, which seems to be very sweaty all of a sudden, against his trousers.
“And - I’m not gay,” he says. “But, uh. I think you could be an exception, in that respect. If you wanted to be, I mean. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
Sherlock lets out a breath, and the flames pick up to a roar, covering Sherlock’s body with a shifting golden veil of light and heat.
“Your turn,” John says.
Sherlock blinks rapidly for several seconds. “John - I can’t-“
“Just say what you’re thinking.”
Sherlock closes his eyes briefly and then opens them, taking a deep breath.
“I’m-“ Sherlock says. “I – like you, I find the nature of our friendship – different from what I’ve experienced in the past. Your company is – congenial.”
Trust Sherlock, John thinks, to respond to what was basically a declaration of love with language that sounds like something from an 18th century etiquette guide. The flames, John notices, have diminished just a little bit, shrinking back from Sherlock’s face. He wonders if Sherlock has noticed.
“Go on.”
“I also have felt that your presence,” Sherlock stops to frown as if searching for the right words. “Enhances my appreciation of being alive.”
“Good,” John says, and smiles broadly at him.
Sherlock begins to smile tentatively back. “What you did – what you offered to do at the pool, especially. That was – good.”
The flames are definitely retreating, John thinks, shrinking back over Sherlock’s shoulders, flickering lower and lower.
“Anything else?”
“Since then – since the pool – and seeing you hurt…”
One flame leaps up, a sickly yellow black, over Sherlock’s chest, but immediately disappears again.
“I’ve been conscious of… something. There’s a feeling..” Sherlock lifts a hand and places it over his breastbone – John’s breath catches – over his heart. The flames on his body rush inward, caught around that one point, Sherlock’s hand over Sherlock’s heart.
“I think of you constantly,” Sherlock says. “I find myself - wanting, constantly. But I can’t be entirely sure what it is I want.”
“We can figure that out,” John says, quickly. “Together.”
Sherlock's lip curls bitterly. “If you’re referring to sex,” he says. “I doubt we can.”
John’s smile fades a little . “You don’t- want that?”
“It can’t have escaped your notice that recently I burst into flames every time you touch me. I won’t risk burning you again.”
“Sherlock,” says John, and points to his chest where the last flames flicker and die into nothing. Sherlock glances down at the point where the fire had been, blinking.
“You see?” says John. “You made it go out. You can do this.”
“ That hardly proves…”
“ I think it does. “ John says. “Listen – we don’t have to rush into anything. We can take it slow, as slow as you need so that you can feel you’re in control. As long as you want to. Sherlock, if you don’t want to we can-“
“Yes,” says Sherlock. “No, I mean – I want to.”
John feels a smile spread over his face. “Great.”
John gets up onto his knees and moves up the bed so that he’s beside Sherlock, face level with his.
“John, be-“
“Careful, I know,” John says, and settles himself making sure there is a good few inches of space between him and Sherlock. “I won’t touch you. But – I thought perhaps…”
“What?”
“It might be all right, at first – if you touched me. You’d be in control and wouldn’t be surprised by anything I did.”
Sherlock is silent for a moment.
“If you want to.”
“I do,” Sherlock says, and very slowly raises a hand, watching it through narrowed eyes as he places if gently against John’s cheek. They both wait, breath caught. No flames. Sherlock’s thumb gently brushes the line of John’s jaw and then he leans forward, resting his forehead against John’s. John can feel his breath brushing warm over his own lips. It takes all John’s self control not to tilt his head and bring them closer.
“I’d like to kiss you,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “But I don’t think I can be sure...”
“It’s OK.” John says. “Later. We’ll take it step by step.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock says, brushing his cheek against John’s and taking in a deep breath. “You smell of soap.”
“Do I?” John says.
All of a sudden Sherlock’s body tenses and John feels a moment of fear that something has gone wrong. But when Sherlock raises his head there are no signs of flames – instead his eyes are wide with realisation.
“Soap, John! Oh, why didn’t I think…? We need to check the contents of Helen Stoner’s bathroom. Immediately!”
And Sherlock is on his feet right away leaping towards the door. John watches him, feeling sheer affection bloom in his chest.
Sherlock hesitates at the door, looking back at him.
“Coming?”
John grins at him, getting to his feet. “Right behind you.”
One Year Later
On the morning of their first anniversary John wakes to the sound of Sherlock’s violin. He smiles for a moment, luxuriating in the pleasant ache of his body, the sensation of being cocooned in sheets that still smell of Sherlock. This is all still new – it took almost ten months for Sherlock to feel confident enough in his own control (or as John would say, lack thereof) to let John take him to bed. Worth the wait though, as John said afterwards as they lay sweaty and panting in a mercifully un-scorched mess of sheets. Definitely worth the wait.
“I know you’re awake,” Sherlock calls through the door. “I can hear you thinking.”
“Liar,” John calls back cheerfully, but he gets up and starts to pull on his clothes.
Sherlock opens the door and sticks his head around it. “Hurry up,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you.”
John entertains himself while getting dressed by speculating on what Sherlock might be referring to, and hoping fervently that it has nothing to do with that experiment Sherlock was running featuring human mucus and a stolen soap dispenser. When he finally gets out, Sherlock is standing by the window, holding his violin and bow in the attitude of a concert violinist waiting to be called to the stage.
“What is it?”
Sherlock merely points at John’s chair with the bow and John resigning himself to being ordered about, goes to sit down.
“I’ve composed something,” Sherlock says. “For the occasion.”
“The occasion?” John says, and Sherlock glares at him. “Oh, right. Brilliant. I wasn’t sure if we were, er, celebrating. But I’m glad we are. I did get you something actually – nothing special just cufflinks but…”
“John,” Sherlock rebukes, and John falls silent. Sherlock licks his lips and launches into what is clearly a pre-prepared speech.
“Anniversaries are an occasion on which to express and reaffirm emotional bonds,” Sherlock says. “I read a book about it.”
“Right,” says John, suppressing a smile. “’Course.”
Sherlock had actually read rather a lot of books on emotional intelligence during his getting-to-grips with-the-smoking-habit period. John had privately found it rather amusing to see Sherlock with an expression of uttermost seriousness, poring over pop psychology titles such as ‘Emotional Intelligence- How to Channel Your Inner Goddess’. Amusing, and rather endearing. He knows better than to express the sentiment, however.
“This piece,” Sherlock declares. “Is intended to do both.” He gives John a serious look. “I hope you’ll give it proper attention.”
John obediently leans forward, waiting. Sherlock clears his throat, straightens his back and begins to play.
As the first notes start flames leap up from Sherlock’s chest, small flickering violet points of light. John catches his breath – he hasn’t seen Sherlock catch fire for a while, and it usually doesn’t put him in a good mood when he does – but this to his surprise when he looks up Sherlock is watching his face and smiling.
The song is beautiful, a sweet, lilting tune that builds slowly towards a crescendo. As it reaches the high point, the flames also leap upward towards Sherlock’s throat, purple flames suddenly shot with crimson and gold. The tune changes again to something softer and more playful, the flames dimming to a clear yellowish green, dancing up and down Sherlock’s arms, before the tune swells again and slows deepening the fire to an amber ball, hovering around Sherlock’s chest and flickering out as Sherlock finishes, the notes dying into silence.
“Well?” Sherlock asks, after a moment. John clears his throat, attempting to find his voice again.
“Sherlock,” he says. “The music… it was directing the fire. You were directing the fire. Weren’t you?”
Sherlock smiles, a big genuine Sherlock smile, eyes crinkling.
“Did you like it?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” says John. “It was beautiful.”
“I’ve been practising for months. The music acts as an emotional channel. But in time I’m confident I’ll be able to do control the fire even without the music to help me.”
“That’s incredible,” says John. “That really is. Bloody unbelievable.”
“Imagine the advantages in crime solving,” Sherlock says.
John raises a finger “No setting fire to criminals,” he says. “It’s unethical.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t planning to do that. But fire can be an excellent pressure point. There's nothing like it for exposing a person's priorities.”
“That's true,” John says, remembering the swimming pool and Sherlock's horrified face. "Well," he says, getting to his feet. “This definitely put my cufflinks to shame.”
Sherlock’s eyes soften a little as John gets closer. “I don’t care about that.”
“I know,” says John, and takes the violin from his hands carefully setting it down on the desk. “Do you know what I’m going to do now, Sherlock?”
Sherlock must have some idea, because he lowers his voice an octave, seductively. “What are you going to do, John?”
“I’m going to kiss you.” John says. “And I’m going to keep on kissing you until you beg me for mercy. And then, I’m going to kiss you some more.”
Sherlock’s eyelashes flicker. “Oh really?”
“Yeah really,” says John. “And you know why?”
“Why?”
John places his hands on Sherlock’s hips, and pulls him close into his body.
“Because I can,” he says.
And he does.