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It’s January 31st, and John Watson is sitting in his favourite chair at 221b Baker Street. Sherlock is nowhere to be found, off investigating something or other, and so John is alone for the first time in a while. He could be out somewhere else – both Greg and Molly had asked him to go to one party or another – but he didn’t feel like going. He has no idea why, but he has no real desire to socialise. The fact that he’s struggling to even pinpoint why he feels this way is what he finds the most frustrating. If he knew why, he could do something about it, instead of wallowing on his own and reflecting on things.
For a little while, he wonders if it’s because of Sherlock’s return. It’s not that he’s not happy to have him back or anything like that, but rather it felt as though the two years without Sherlock in his life were wasted for nothing. And they were wasted. He wasn’t alive during that time but rather existing, half the man he used to be. Then Sherlock came swooping back into his life like nothing had happened, very much alive and highly malnourished, and it had been difficult to adapt.
In the beginning, John had been angry – maybe the angriest he’d ever been – and then, when the anger had died down, a mixture of relief and sadness had washed over him. He was relieved to have his best friend back, but he was also completely devastated that the other man clearly hadn’t trusted him enough to let him in on the secret. And even when Sherlock explained everything to him, including about how he did it to save John and that he couldn’t bring him along because it may have gotten him killed, John still couldn’t shake that feeling of vulnerability away.
But like every emotion, it didn’t last forever, and John was slowly but surely able to allow himself to feel normal again around his best friend. They were back to how they had always been, or near enough. And if he felt a flicker of that sadness every so often, well, no one else had to know.
That had been six months ago, and they were back to solving cases once more. It seemed like a leap of logic, and one which Sherlock would probably scold him for, but this being the first New Year with Sherlock back could well be the cause for his strange, oddly reflective state of mind. Or it may even be some sort of association thing, seeing as the past few New Year’s Eves have been spent drunk and alone. He’s not sure. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The odd mood seems to be here to stay.
As they often do when he’s not around, John’s thoughts go back to Sherlock. This man had come into his life and given it meaning for the first time in a long time, even ridding him of a psychosomatic limp. It’s a strange thought but it’s accurate on so many different levels. Even their friendship was a unique experience; it was the kind of companionship that was a once in a lifetime deal. Almost like soul mates. It was not something John thought he’d ever be lucky enough to experience, if he’s perfectly honest with himself. Of course he had friends growing up, although they were more mates than anything. He knew he could laugh and joke with them, but there was nothing deeper than that. And yet, a self-proclaimed Sociopath had been there for him through pretty much everything, showing him what it truly meant to love another human being in a unique way. And what’s what they had between them, didn’t they? A kind of love. One that was so different to everything else – that was indescribable.
Thoughts and memories twist through John’s mind, and he realises that it isn’t the only type of love that Sherlock has shown him. Either directly or indirectly, the man has shown him what it’s like to feel, and witness, almost every type of love imaginable, and that in itself is an almost laughable thought.
This was not how he’d pictured his night going: sitting here and realising just how much one man has changed his world. It’s almost funny that it’s a man who refuses to accept his own emotions as anything more than a tedious waste of time. Despite his mood, John smiles to himself.
&&&
The moment John opens his eyes, he immediately wants to fall asleep again. His head hurts, and he feels as though he has swallowed a piece of sandpaper. All he needs now is a runny nose, and it’ll be a full-blown cold. It would be all too easy to fall back to sleep, but he knows that Sherlock will only start complaining if he stays in bed too long. So he forces himself out of bed with the promise of a nap later and heads downstairs. Sherlock isn’t even in, so he got up for nothing. And now he’s fully awake. Bloody typical. He decides to poor himself a cup of tea and relax on the sofa instead.
Just as he sits down, he hears footsteps and immediately assumes that it’s Sherlock. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that it’s Mrs Hudson.
“John, I was just wondering if…are you all right?” Mrs Hudson asks, her voice sounding concerned. “You’re looking quite peaky, dear.”
“It’s just a bit of a cold, Mrs Hudson – I’ll be all right soon.”
“It’s Sherlock making you run around. It’s not good for your health, dear. Wait right there.” She rushes off before he can say anything. He sips his tea and waits, wondering what she’s so desperate to go and get.
She returns just over five minutes later with a bottle in her hand.
“I find this helps me when I’ve got a sniffle,” she explains, “The lovely Mrs Adams made it for me – it really does the trick. Now, you make sure you take it three times a day, you hear! I won’t have any of my boys feeling under the weather.”
John feels a burst of warmth for the woman in front of him. It takes him a moment to realise the feeling, seeing as it’s been a long time, but once he names it, it’s obvious really.
Love for a mother.
&&&
When John had watched his parents’ coffins being lowered into the ground, he felt nothing at all. The people around him were crying, but it was as if someone had pulled the heart out of chest and left a feeling of gaping emptiness in its wake. He would do anything to make it stop – do anything so that he could feel again – but what could he do? There wasn’t anything that could be done, save somehow bringing them back.
And John never thought that he’d ever feel that sense of loss again. But now he’s standing in front of Sherlock’s grave, it all comes tumbling back. That hole inside his chest.
Mrs Hudson had been by his side, ranting with angry tears rolling down her cheeks, but then she left. Now it’s just him and Sherlock. Well, him and what’s left of Sherlock. John wonders if the man looks like he’s only sleeping, or if the fall damaged his face too much. There was so much blood. He remembers seeing Sherlock’s eyes open, and for a second, John thought that maybe, somehow, the genius had lived and that this was some elaborate trick, but it wasn’t possible. Eyes that were usually so filled with life were empty. Covered in so much blood.
Oh god . Tears force their way to the surface. The numbness disappears suddenly, as if someone has forced his heart straight back into his ribcage without care. He feels the sorrow and the pain and the loss and the anger. Everything. Everything hurts so goddamn much. Why did his best friend have to kill himself? Why did Sherlock have to leave John behind?
The words start pouring out his mouth without thought. His body shakes as he puts everything he feels into every word – making them twirl and twist into every last syllable, just in case Sherlock can somehow hear him. He can feel more tears in his eyes by the end, but he does not allow them to fall. Instead, he straightens up, forcing a level of detachment that only the army could have taught him, touches Sherlock’s grave and then walks away.
That was the day that Sherlock taught John a valuable lesson: no matter who it is, whether it’s your parents or your best friend, love plagued with tragedy is the worst pain in the world.
&&&
The flat that he had bought when he returned from Afghanistan felt more like a coffin than a home. The bare, almost clinical, décor left him feeling claustrophobic and desperately alone. He could have bought some pictures or plants to liven the place up, but he didn’t see the point. Half the time, the idea of doing something so seemingly domestic made him uncomfortable. The other half of the time…well, he couldn’t be bothered to even bring a gun to his temple, never mind choose a painting.
But that had all changed once he moved into 221b Baker Street. When he entered it for the first time, he immediately felt a connection. It was almost like he was meant to be here with Sherlock. Gone were the tired, dull walls, and in their place was a flat filled with character and personality, and the few items he bought with him looked they like actually belonged. And somehow, for reasons he couldn’t describe, John felt like he belonged too.
And this feeling has never gone anyway. Even now, whenever John has had a bad day, once he steps into the living room, he feels instantly calmer – like his issues have melted away a little bit more on each step up to their home. Then he sits down with a cup of tea in his hand, taking in the familiar sights and smells, and he knows that this is what it feels like to have a home.
It is one of the best feelings in the world.
&&&
Mycroft and Sherlock have the strangest relationship, John decides, and this is coming from a man who dreads a phone call from his own sister. If you merely glance at it, it’s filled with sibling rivalry that borders on resentment. That’s how John had interpreted it initially himself. He had thought that Mycroft was nothing more than a possessive older brother that kept an eye out on Sherlock for his own gain or a sense of obligation, and that Sherlock hated Mycroft for some undetermined reason. John eventually realised that he couldn’t have been more wrong. And now he sees their relationship more clearly, he realises just how difficult it is to define. The last half an hour has been a testament to that.
Sherlock had been injured whilst on a case, and he was lying unconscious in a hospital bed. John knew that the other man would be very irritable when he finally woke up, but it was worth it to know that he was in the best place to make a full recovery. The details John had on what happened were vague, seeing as he wasn’t actually there when it happened. A surprise to no one, but Sherlock had ran ahead, which had obviously backfired, judging by the blow he had received to the back of his head. Whoever did it must have somehow snuck up behind him, and John wasn’t sure if he wanted to throttle the man for hurting his best friend or shake their hand for one-upping the consulting detective.
Either way, his stomach was slowly clawing itself to death with anxiety, because Sherlock still hadn’t woken up. There was a bandage wrapped around his head, several bruises littering his face and body, and his arm was in a cast after being broken as well. Judging by the state of the injury, someone had stamped on Sherlock’s arm repeatedly, and John felt a prickle of anger and a desire to protect his best friend from the world, for a second. That’s when Mycroft rushed in. It’s not like he ran in or anything, and John honestly cannot think of a time when he’s ever seen the oldest Holmes brother run anywhere, but he felt the urgency in Mycroft’s body language from across the room.
“What happened?” Mycroft asked.
“Not really sure, if I’m honest – he ran ahead of me,” John explained, “they’ve made a right state of his head, though, and his arm. The doctor said he should wake up soon.”
“And what is your prognosis, Dr Watson?”
He looked down at Sherlock, staring at his bruised face, before answering Mycroft. “I’d say that’s about right – normally I’d say possibly an hour, but knowing Sherlock’s stubbornness, we’re looking at closer to thirty.”
Mycroft nodded and sat on the remaining seat. John didn’t notice it, not right away. And then it hit him like a smack in the face. Mycroft was terrified. He never would have noticed it if he hadn’t known Mycroft for some time, but the signs were all there, even if they were incredibly subtle. It was his eyes that revealed the truth: underneath the cold exterior lay pure fear. He was afraid that Sherlock would never wake up, possibly even more so than John himself was. John let go of Sherlock’s hand and pushed his chair back, feeling, for possibly the first time, that he could relate to Mycroft on some level. The eldest of the Holmes brothers looked at John for a second, before moving his own chair forward and slipping Sherlock’s hand into his own. John hoped that the comfort that he had felt, when feeling Sherlock’s pulse, would do the same for Mycroft.
They stayed like that for over twenty minutes, neither of them saying a word. And then Sherlock opened his eyes. John had never seen Mycroft move backwards so quickly in his life.
“John?” were Sherlock’s first words.
“I’m here, Sherlock,” John replied, moving forward to look for any signs of concussion.
“I’m fine – I am not concussed,” Sherlock remarked. “Here to check that I’m still alive I see, Mycroft? Wouldn’t want anyone to think you were neglecting your duties as my brother, now would we?”
John turned to stare at Mycroft, and it was like he had imagined the Mycroft from only minutes ago. There was no fear or concern there – only apathy and boredom.
“Of course not, dear brother. I am, of course, glad that you are awake, but I have other matters to attend to. Good day.” And with that, Mycroft walked away, leaving John feeling utterly confused. Sherlock’s eyes actually softened for a second, if that really, as he watched his brother leave, before they returned to their usual calculated indifference. Thankfully, John was looking at Sherlock when it happened, or he may well have never noticed it.
And that’s it – the most confusing half an hour of John’s life is over. And, as John sits there in the uncomfortable chair as Sherlock complains about anything and everything, he wonders about what caused the rift between the two brothers. It must have been something serious, for it to have forced them into acting like they don’t care about the other. Because they both do care, in their own way. Mycroft wants to be there for Sherlock, that much is obvious, and he wants to take care of him. But he can’t. Sherlock wants to reach out to his older brother. But he can’t either. They’re stuck in a constant loop, and their damn pride gets in the way of building bridges between them. John wants to help – he really does – but he wouldn’t even know where to start.
He finally concludes that there really is nothing he can do, but it goes to show that love, including that between siblings, can be highly complex. And yet, no matter what words are thrown at each other, and no matter how much they seem to ignore each other’s needs, siblings still do love each other.
He should really phone Harry.
&&&
Lestrade and John have got on from the start, bonding over their exasperated fondness for Sherlock. They weren’t exactly best mates at the beginning, but they’d go out to the local pub sometimes and talk about their lives. Lestrade talked about splitting up with his wife, and John had spent many nights getting drunk with a depressed Greg.
“I dunno how I didn’t see it before, mate,” was what he would often slur out.
Not that John minded being there for his friend, and the other man definitely listened to him ramble more than once about various girlfriends that were doomed to fail from the start.
And then, of course, their conversations would often inevitably turn into a discussion about Sherlock: the common factor in their lives. They laughed at the amusing stories surrounding him, and they complained about his more asocial tendencies. He knew very quickly that Lestrade cared about Sherlock, despite the consulting detective pissing him off on a regular basis, but it was only during his description of how him and Sherlock met that John realised the extent of this.
“When I met him, he was in his twenties, but he looked so much younger,” Greg had explained, as he sipped his pint, “I honestly thought that he was only 18, and he was walking around London on his own at 3am. He had a mouth on him back then too – told me everything about myself despite being high as a kite. I was pretty impressed too and wanted to ask him more – didn’t even think of arresting the bloke.
“It was then that his brother arrived. He thanked me for helping Sherlock out, and I assume that meant for not arresting him. I dunno why I did it, but I asked him for Sherlock’s address – maybe ‘cause I was curious to hear what he had to say sober. After making sure I didn’t intend to use the information to arrest him, Mycroft handed it over.
I went and visited him the next afternoon, when Sherlock was back to normal. Or as normal as he gets anyway. The first thing he said to me was that the bloke I was after drove a white van and knew Samantha Davies. I had no idea how he did it, or even how he knew who I was, but it lead us to arresting the cousin of Davies, a woman found strangled in her flat, who confessed to the whole thing straight away. So I made a deal with him: if he got himself clean, I would let him help out with cases.”
“Did he get clean then?” John asked, deeply curious.
“Of course not, the stubborn git. He thought he could hide it from me, and at first I did…kind of ignore it, because he was still pretty much always right, but then he collapsed during a case once – not sure if it was from the drugs or from the lack of sleep or what – and enough was enough. He wasn’t to have another case until he was completely free from drugs.”
“What happened then?”
“He got clean then, ‘cause he knew I was serious. The withdrawal period was seriously rough on him – he almost gave up a few times – but he pushed through it. He’d never admit it, but Mycroft was his rock then; he was always there in the background, gently picking Sherlock back up again. I think he appreciated it, in his own way. So, anyway, he got clean, and once he’d been clean for six months, I started letting him help out on cases again.”
The pride in Greg’s voice was astounding. It was obvious that he was genuinely proud of Sherlock – a level of which far surpasses acquaintances or friends. But at the time, John couldn’t place it.
And now, over two years after that conversation, John finally can. For the first time since Sherlock’s death, John has just brought him up in conversation with Greg. He immediately regrets it. The man’s face crumples, and it’s like watching someone who has been reminded that he’s lost everything. There is so much pain behind Lestrade’s eyes, that John almost has to look away. And yes, after seeing that, he can describe the pain, and finally understand that level of pride, with a great deal of clarity.
Greg Lestrade looks like a father who has just lost his son.
&&&
Even at first glance, it was pretty obvious that Molly Hooper had the biggest crush on Sherlock. She would do anything for him, often without any form of praise or gratitude, with an awkward yet endearing smile on her face. He could ask her to chop her hair off, and she’d probably do it.
But then, as John spent more time with her, and then her with Sherlock in the room, it was obvious that the feelings ran much deeper than merely a crush. She was in love, and the person that she chose to fall in love with was Sherlock Holmes. That, in a lot of ways, was her biggest mistake. Because Sherlock was many things, but being interested in her was not one of them. And she knew that and yet a part of her held on anyway.
John remembers Molly doing something for Sherlock once. He can’t remember exactly what it was, but it was something that Sherlock genuinely needed. The other man had actually thanked her as well, and meant it too if his tone of voice was anything to go by. And Molly…Molly had looked like he had told her that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her eyes lit up with unadulterated joy; it felt like nothing could ever wipe that smile from her face.
In the time they’ve been friends, Molly has made John feel a lot of things – affection, gratitude and happiness – but in that moment, she made him feel a twinge of sadness. Because this was one of the times when hope got the better of her rational thoughts, and it would only hurt her more in the long run. And he knows how she feels. Because the love that Molly, and indirectly Sherlock, has shown him has nothing to do with witnessing someone else love another person unrequitedly. He already knows what that looks like – his parents were prime examples of that, seeing as his mother clearly loved his father more than he ever would with her. No, it’s the realisation that he understands far too well how Molly feels.
He knows what it feels like to be in love Sherlock Holmes.
&&&
John chastises himself for thinking about that, because it was so much easier when he was in denial about the whole thing. It was so much easier when he didn’t think about how Sherlock had shown him just how much one person can care for another – how all the other times in his life, when he had claimed to be in love with someone else, just seemed so bloody laughable now because they paled in comparison to these feelings that he had for his best friend. And John knows that he’s a fool. Possibly an even bigger fool than Molly, because he knows Sherlock better than anyone else, and he knows all too well that Sherlock has so many different quirks and personality traits, and none of them revolve around romantic feelings.
But unlike Molly, his day isn’t made by something like a smile or some gratitude, because he sees them often enough. His are more subtle than that. Because it really is the little things, like Sherlock making him a cup of tea when he’s had a nightmare, or Sherlock saving him the last spring roll because they’re John’s favourites, that he treasures the most. Sherlock Holmes is a man who will delete a piece of information as easily as breathing, and yet he remembers what John likes and what he finds comforting. That…that means more to him than he could ever put into words.
When Sherlock came back, John had tried to push everything back for the sake of trying to reconnect with a man that he thought was dead, and he’d been doing a pretty good job of it. Sometimes, Sherlock’s hand would accidentally touch his, or the man would lean against him as he fought his body’s natural desire to sleep, and John watched all his good work unravel before his eyes. His heart would pound against his chest, and he was always overwhelmed by the sudden urge to just screw his determination to keep this a secret and just kiss the man. Thankfully, it only ever took a few seconds of reminding himself that that was the worst idea ever before rationality took over. So, yeah, except for those small hiccups, he thought that he was doing really well. In fact, he could happily say that he was practically over the bloke.
And then, of course, something had happened to screw everything up. John had been almost fast asleep when he heard his bedroom door open gently and someone step in. A burst of adrenaline flowed through his body, as he lay perfectly still, listening out for any important sounds. There was nothing but gentle breathing. As carefully and as silently as possible, he turned his head to get a look at the person. There was little light, but they were obviously fairly tall, slender and had a mop of dark hair.
“Sherlock?” he whispered, when it finally clicked.
“So you are awake then,” Sherlock answered, stepping forward a little more.
John sat up properly and turned his bedside lamp on. “What is it?” he questioned, “is something the matter?”
“No, it’s fine now. Go back to sleep.”
It didn’t take a consulting detective to know that he was lying. Sherlock looked exhausted – even more so than usual – and he was trembling ever so slightly, and John doubted that it was because of the temperature.
“No, it isn’t fine. Talk to me, Sherlock.”
He could feel the discomfort radiating from the other man. Finally, after sighing, Sherlock had explained, “It’s ridiculous, really. I don’t even know why I wasn’t able to just ignore it. I had a…dream that you were…um…dead, and of course I knew it wasn’t real, but I found myself second-guessing myself. Actually second-guessing myself, John! So I came to check that you were…” his voice trailed off, and he looked everywhere but at John. Almost like he was ashamed of himself for it, which made John’s heart swell with affection.
“Come sit down, all right?” The “you look ready to collapse” was left unsaid. He was surprised when Sherlock walked over without argument, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at John with a calm intensity.
“I’ve had dreams like that myself, you know, and they’re…well, bloody awful. I’ve come to check on you, more than once, because of them,” he admitted then. If possible, Sherlock was staring at him even more intensely now, his eyes flickering over John’s face in rapid movements.
“Even before The Fall.” It certainly wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.” Sherlock lifted his hand up and moved it towards John, before seemingly changing his mind and letting it drop onto the bed. An awkward silence hung over them. John had found himself staring at Sherlock’s hand and wondering what the other man had been planning to do.
After a minute of staring, he realised what he was doing and snapped his eyes back, feeling foolish. Clearing his throat, he finally continued, “My point is that, well, it’s fine to have those kind of dreams and worry about them, even when you know they’re not real.”
“Do they ever get any easier to deal with?” Somehow, he knew that they weren’t just talking about John’s nightmares anymore.
“No, not really, but you just learn to deal with them, I guess. They stop all together, after a while anyway, so…” He ran his hands through his hair and sighed, “you look knackered, mate. Perhaps you should think of going back to bed soon?” It wasn’t just an unsubtle subject change – the consulting detective looked ready to drop.
“I’m not sure that I’ll be able to now.”
“Why…oh, oh well, you can sleep in here with me, if you want? I mean, of course, it’s up to you, and it’s fine if you don’t want to—”
“All right then,” Sherlock interrupted, before climbing into John’s bed like it was something they did all the time. John just sat there and gaped at him for a few seconds, until he shook his head and joined the other man. This was fine. It was just a guy helping his friend through a bad time, that’s all. They’d get through the night and probably never talk about it again. It’s all fine.
Sherlock seemed to fall asleep very easily, his breathing slowing down until there was only the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The only sounds coming from him was the occasional snuffle, and John couldn’t help but smile whenever the man made that noise.
But then Sherlock rolled over, until the man’s body was almost touching his, and John became hyperaware of everything. For such a thin man, there was a considerable amount of heat coming off him, and John could feel it all. His stomach stuttered and his heart pounded against his ribcage. Suddenly, every feeling, and every ounce of affection that he’d pushed back over the previous weeks, had pushed their way forwards. It gripped onto his chest and squeezed him tightly, leaving him breathless and with tears in his eyes. He was utterly foolish to believe that he could have got over Sherlock Holmes so easily. And having him in his bed, close enough to touch but so out of reach, was more painful than he could ever imagine.
John Watson didn’t sleep that night.
It’s now 11:45pm, according to the telly. The TV cameras are focussed on the various people who are standing near Big Ben and anticipating the next year. People are being interviewed, someone has proposed to their long-term partner, and the reporter is trying to be as cheerful as possible despite the cold weather.
There is no sign of Sherlock. John’s epiphany regarding just how many different types of love Sherlock has shown him means that his mood has lightened, and he now desperately wants the other man to return in time to wish him a happy new year. He keeps staring at the door, hoping to see Sherlock standing there, and each time he’s disappointed.
At 11:50pm, there’s still no sign of his best friend. He hates himself for it, but he feels disappointed anyway. Not that he has the right to; it’s not that they made plans or anything. Knowing Sherlock, he’s probably deleted that people celebrate New Year. They didn’t exactly do anything for it, the last New Year they spent together. Two years ago. The sends another shiver of sadness through him – two years feels like a lifetime ago.
At just after 11:55pm, the front door opens, but John isn’t going to even bother getting his hopes up; it’s probably one of Mrs Hudson’s friends coming to wish her a happy new year. Then there’s the sound of someone running up the stairs, and Sherlock is suddenly standing in the doorway panting slightly.
“I’m not too late, am I?” Sherlock asks, still sounding a little breathless. And, no, John shouldn’t find that kind of sexy, but he does. He pushes those thoughts away and stares at the other man. On the surface, Sherlock looks the same as he always does, and yet as John looks closer, he sees that Sherlock looks a little more uptight than usual. He’d say he looks a little nervous as well, but that can’t be right.
“Too late for what?” John questions.
“For midnight, of course. It is New Year’s Eve, John – keep up.”
John chuckles, although he’s a little confused. “No, it’s in...” he checks the telly, “two minutes. Why?”
“I can’t bring in the new year without my blogger.”
And he has to laugh, or else he’s pretty sure he’ll choke up, because of all the answers he was expecting, that wasn’t one of them.
And then Sherlock steps towards him, until he’s right in his personal space. His eyes are going a mile a minute, searching for something, but John doesn’t know what. John stares right back, feeling like he’s in a daze. He physically cannot look away.
The sound of the countdown on the TV breaks the spell somewhat, but it doesn’t matter – John has no intention of looking away. He wants to bring in the new year staring at the man before him. Staring at the man who has brought so much into his life.
“5…4…3…2…1…”
And John should be able to hear the crowd shouting “Happy New Year,” he really should, but he can’t because Sherlock’s lips are on his. It’s not his imagination, or somehow a dream. This is so very real. Sherlock’s lips are pressing against his, and John can’t do anything but kiss back, bringing the other man closer with his hands.
When they finally pull away, Sherlock’s eyes are closed, but they quickly snap open, staring at John once more.
“Why?” John asks, and he’s not even sure what he’s asking.
“Isn’t that what people do at midnight on New Year’s Eve?”
It feels like he’s been stabbed in the chest. Of course it was because of some kind of experiment on social traditions. How could he have been so stupid? Sherlock doesn’t have feelings for anyone, let alone John. And normally, he would find a reason to leave, or at least hide it, so that the other man doesn’t realise that he’s killing him instead, but right now, in this moment, John doesn’t care. He wants Sherlock to know. So he defiantly looks up at the other man and shows him the hurt. Sherlock looks confused for a second, before John imagines that it clicks.
“John, I…I’m sorry,” Sherlock manages out, obviously uncomfortable. John takes no satisfaction in watching the man struggle – he just wants to hear him out. “I didn’t mean to say that. You know what I’m like, particularly with…emotions.”
“What are you trying to say, Sherlock?” He takes a step back because claustrophobia is starting to claw at his chest, and he needs to just breathe for a second.
“What I’m trying to say is this…I used this societal tradition to my advantage. I wanted to carry out my plan with the least number of unwanted outcomes possible, including threat of physical harm. And so I used a situation where it was deemed socially acceptable to do so, hoping to get the result that I desired.”
John attempts to interpret Sherlock’s admittedly ambiguous wording, until he thinks he finally understands what the other man is trying to say. Stomach churning with even more anxiety, he responds:
“So, what you’re trying to say is that you used that people usually kiss on New Year’s Eve to your advantage, right?”
“Of course.”
“But why?”
“You know the answer to that, John. Say it.” And there’s a softness to Sherlock’s voice that John’s not used to hearing, and it’s that that gives him the confidence to say it.
“As an excuse to kiss me,” he whispers. It wasn’t meant to be said so quietly, but his brain isn’t functioning anymore. If he’s correct, and he’s pretty sure he is, then this beautiful, irritating genius in front of him actually feels something for him.
“Exactly. It was been a desire of mine for a while, and so I wanted to get it out of my system to return back to my usual self. It doesn’t appear to have worked, though.”
“What hasn’t worked?”
John only catches it for a second, but he sees it all the same: Sherlock is frightened. And he doesn’t understand, because surely he knows that John adores him with every fibre of his being? How could he not know?
Sherlock is beginning to pace now, his hands not keeping still for a second.
“What hasn’t worked, Sherlock?” John repeats, and Sherlock stops moving suddenly. He turns on his heel to face John, staring him down.
“My plan, John – my plan!” Sherlock exclaims, “One kiss was all I was supposed to need, and then these blasted emotions were supposed to be done with, but it hasn’t worked! I still want to, and I don’t understand why.”
He goes back to pacing again, muttering under his breath incoherently.
“Sherlock.” When there’s no response, John says it again but louder, and yet there’s still nothing. Losing patience, he storms over to his best friend and yells, “Sherlock, stop!” before placing his hands on the other man’s shoulders. Sherlock’s eyes are wide, almost manic.
“Sherlock, listen to me, all right? Oh, bugger this.” Acting braver than he feels, John pulls the other man down until their lips collide together. Sherlock gasps but tentatively kisses back, bringing his hands up to cup John’s cheek so firmly that it’s like he never wants to let go. But then all of John’s thoughts stutter to a stop, because Sherlock is opening his mouth and kissing him with everything he has and nipping and licking and biting, and, bloody hell, who knew the man could kiss so well?
When they pull away, both staring at each other like nothing else matters in the entire world, John cannot help but smile. Sherlock is breathless, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen, and it’s all down to John. He has managed to do what he’s never seen anyone manage before: mess up Sherlock’s immaculate appearance. He feels a swell of pride at this, as petty as it sounds.
“How long?” Sherlock mutters, and it takes only a second for John to understand what he’s asking.
“A long time,” he admits, “not sure when it started, to be honest, but after another girlfriend accused me of choosing you over her, I realised that it all made sense really. What about you?” “It was when I was hunting down Moriarty’s network that I realised the extent of my need for you in my life.” Sherlock’s voice sounds like he’s talking about the weather, rather than his own feelings, but as is often the case, his eyes betray him. There’s months of hurt and insecurity breaking down the veil of indifference that he normally tries to convey. John wants to hug him so tightly that all those worries disappear forever.
But then, rather surprisingly, Sherlock continues talking. It’s the most he’s heard him say that isn’t about a case, and he gets the feeling that it’s something that Sherlock has wanted to say for a while:
“When I came back, I had assumed that I was somehow misinterpreting my emotions, but then I saw you standing there, looking at me like you were unsure if I was real or merely the product of your imagination, and I knew that there was no mistake.
“I vowed that, if you somehow wanted to remain in my life, and I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had walked out on me, then I would find a way to experience you, even if it was just once.”
“You planned this six months ago?” John asks, his voice soft.
“Of course. I needed to make sure that—” Sherlock’s interrupted by John’s lips. He can’t help himself – he really can’t. Sherlock is just so goddamn adorable.
“John, I…what are we now then exactly?” Sherlock asks, when they pull apart again.
“I’m not sure, really. Boyfriends? Partners?”
“That means that I can kiss you whenever I like, correct?” Sherlock suddenly looks so much younger than his years. The person standing before John isn’t the 36-year-old man anymore, but rather a socially awkward teenage boy who has never been in a relationship before.
“Of course you do,” John replies with, grinning.
“Excellent.” And with that, Sherlock captures his lips once more.
&&&
It’s a while later, and they’re lying on Sherlock’s bed together. They haven’t done much, other than more kissing, but John’s happy with this. He wants this to last, and if that includes waiting a long time for Sherlock to even consider going any further, he’s happy to do so. Speaking of the consulting detective, he’s leaning his head against John’s shoulder and clinging to him like a child, his long, skinny arms wrapped around John’s torso.
For the first time in what feels like a lifetime ago, John can happily believe that this is the start of a new year. It is, after all, the time for new beginnings, and this may well be the most important beginning yet.
This time last year, he was either in an alcohol-induced state of unconsciousness or getting to that point, thinking that this was what his life amounted to, now that the most important person in it was dead. But now…now he’s got his miracle. Now he not only has Sherlock back, but he’s in his arms, tracing a pattern on John’s chest. It’s everything he’s ever wanted – he doesn’t remember a time when this wasn’t what the epitome of happiness was.
And yeah, he will admit that he’s a little worried. Two people that work together as friends and flatmates don’t always make it as a couple, and a part of him thinks that staying friends may have been the better option, because that was safe. He always knew what to expect from Sherlock when they were just friends, and now he’s not sure. This could lead to a dream or an absolute nightmare, and there’s no turning back now.
“John, stop thinking,” Sherlock remarks.
“I can’t help thinking, Sherlock – even ordinary people think,” John points out.
“You seem more than happy to sit there without a thought in your head most of the time,” Sherlock teases.
“Oh shut up, you.”
They both giggle at each other, Sherlock staring up at John with a look that can be described as affection. John feels his stomach flutter a little in response. When Sherlock rearranges himself on John’s shoulder once more, his eyes closing and his hand gripping onto John’s t-shirt slightly, John can’t help but stare at him. He looks calmer than he has for a while. Healthier, too. John notes that the other man has been eating more recently, and he likes to think that it’s partly his influence.
“Hey, Sherlock?” John whispers, running his hands through the other man’s hair. Sherlock makes a incoherent noise in response, so John takes that as a sign that he’s listening.
“Happy New Year.”
Sherlock eyes remain closed, but his lips turn upwards slightly. “Happy New Year, John.”
He smiles back, despite the other man not being able to see it, and then John settles down against the pillow and closes his eyes. He’s always known that Sherlock has changed his life in so many ways, but it’s taken really thinking about it to learn just how much love the other man brings, including ones he never thought he’d ever experience again: paternal, maternal, sibling, sentimental. And then the most important one of all, of course, being the kind that allows Sherlock to be in his arms like this. Romantic love.
And who could ask for more than that, really? John Watson certainly wouldn’t. He wouldn’t change a thing.