Work Text:
Sometimes, time is a circle, everything returning to its beginning.
John had moved back into his room upstairs with Rosie, and everything fell back into a predictable pattern. Cases, John, Rosie, cases. Sherlock felt more content, more whole, than he had in years. If he was being honest with himself, what he was feeling was happiness; a happiness he hadn't known since before the Fall.
On Friday nights, sometimes Mrs. Hudson would offer to watch Rosie, and John would order Chinese food. He brought it into the salon, poured a couple fingers of scotch and watched something mindless on the telly. Sherlock would inevitably end up watching with him, with his own glass, pointing out the inaccuracies of the movie and eating far more than he normally would. By the end of those evenings, John would nod off with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock would almost always fall asleep there as well, reveling secretly in the feeling of John's body next to his own. It was like they were dangling on the precipice of something, but neither of them wanted to fall off the edge.
There was something to be said for taking chances.
One Thursday night, John was reading a book in his chair, with a cold cup of tea next to him and the child monitor on the side table. Sherlock was perched in his own chair, his fingers steepled over his lips, watching John.
"I propose we go out to eat tomorrow night," Sherlock blurted out.
John glanced up, his eyebrows rising to his hairline. “What?”
"Instead of Chinese and whatever inane programme you were planning on subjecting me to tomorrow night, I would like for us to go out to dinner. Together."
As Sherlock waited for an answer, his heart started pounding.
”Um, okay. Sure.” John went back to his reading, his lips twitching upward into a small smile.
Satisfied, Sherlock went over to his violin and played one of John’s favorites.
The next night, John spent a bit longer than usual in the shower and he had obviously shaved as well. He came down in his good jeans, a dry cleaned shirt and jacket—his date night outfit. Sherlock was in the salon, shrugging on his jacket, and he froze, looking at John.
John frowned slightly. “Is this—is what I’m wearing okay? I wasn’t sure where we were going—”
"No. No, it’s...perfect," Sherlock said, turning to adjust his collar in the mirror to hide the slight flush of his face. He was wearing his aubergine shirt, because John had always loved it.
"Shall we?" Sherlock said, striding over and opening the door for John.
John didn’t walk through, however. He just stepped closer to Sherlock, his eyes lingering on Sherlock’s throat over his collar.
"Just tell me something first," John said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.
"Yes?”
“Is this a…” he stopped, biting his lip.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioningly. John shook his head, breaking the gaze. ”Never mind. Let’s go.” He walked past Sherlock and started down the stairs.
He took John to Angelo’s, and they were led to their normal table. After the waiter took their wine order and left, Sherlock pretended to look at his menu, but he really took the opportunity to sneak a glance at John.
It had been so long. All they had been through, all the loss, the pain...it had all been worth it, because John was with him again. But Sherlock had to know if John wanted more. John had to know by now...he must know how Sherlock felt. But there was only one way to find out.
They had a lovely meal, sharing a bottle of wine, and John’s eyes glinted in the candlelight. As they chatted easily over dessert, Sherlock knew he had the perfect moment to do it. He looked up at John, who was watching him, a soft smile on his face… and he started to say it, but for some reason, he couldn’t. It was too much. What if John left again? He couldn’t bear it; he would rather have John like this, than not at all.
When they were finished, Sherlock got up from the table and shrugged his coat back on. John followed him outside, and they walked at a leisurely pace back to the flat. When Sherlock was about to use his keys to open the door, John grabbed him by the elbow.
"Hey," John said, pulling him to a stop. "Don’t you think we should…”
John’s eyes flicked downward, and Sherlock was suddenly extremely aware of John’s proximity. His heart started beating against his chest ferociously.
"John," Sherlock said, his voice cracking slightly.
"Hey, look at me," John said, reaching up to cup Sherlock’s face with one hand. “It’s just me, yeah?”
Sherlock didn’t move, feeling the skin of his cheek under John’s hand warming slightly. They were as close as they had ever been. John blinked up at him, seeming to realize the same thing, and he started to drop his hand. Sherlock immediately reached up and pressed his palm to John’s hand, keeping it in place.
John pressed his lips together.
"John," Sherlock said. "John, please. I want…”
“You want?” John asked, his voice soft.
“You.” It was so simple, when it came down to it. I want you, John Watson. I want whatever you would give me.
"I—" John began, but before he could say more, Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to John’s.
John made a noise of surprise, and Sherlock realized what he had just done. He was about to pull back when John made another, more gutteral noise, and his hand slid back into Sherlock’s hair as he pushed Sherlock back against the door. He caressed Sherlock’s lips lightly with his own, flicking his tongue against them, until Sherlock felt his lips part involuntarily to accept him. John was pressed up against him completely, now, and Sherlock felt so lightheaded that it was if he had been deprived of oxygen, but he didn’t dare break away. He was kissing John Watson, finally, and John was kissing him back.
John nipped his bottom lip, and Sherlock felt his knees buckle, a small groan escaping his lips. John’s lips curled upward slightly, and he held Sherlock up as he continued to snog him so thoroughly that Sherlock completely forgot that they were in a public place.That is, until someone wolf-whistled at them from across the street.
John broke off the kiss, his eyes widening as he pulled back. “Shit,” he cursed, his breath ragged. His lips were pink from the snogging, and his eyes were much darker than usual, trained intensely on Sherlock. He was still holding Sherlock up, which was good, as Sherlock’s whole frame was trembling and his legs seemed to be made of gelatin. The warmth that had started in his chest had now spread to his entire body, more concentrated in particular areas than in others. The sensation was so strong that he couldn’t really breathe.
"So…" Sherlock swallowed. He glanced over at the group of people across the street, of which one member (a man in his early twenties) was watching them with keen interest. "Now what?”
John smiled, a rare smile, and pulled him down by the collar for another lingering kiss. He leaned back fractionally to whisper against Sherlock’s lips. “Now, you take me to bed, Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything, but as lips slid upward into a grin. “With pleasure,” he whispered back.