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John shoulders passed an armed soldier as he heads for the back door of the carriage. The small space is packed and surrounded by camo-clad men in helmets now, and the way they each move around him (as a unit) briefly brings John back to his own army days, but that’s not his place now. He reflects that, especially considering the last few minutes, his place is beside the recently returned Sherlock—but even the idea is still like a fantasy. There’s an unsteadiness in his left hand when he lingers on the thought for too long.
As he squeezes through the door and hops off the back of the carriage, John is careful to avoid the live rails. He runs to catch up with Sherlock’s silhouette gliding down the tunnel ahead. He tries to fall into step beside him, but a bomb-disposal unit—dressed in puffy blue jumpsuits with brightly lit helmets—is walking between the rails in their direction. So John walks behind and talks to Sherlock’s broad back.
“Not sticking around then? I thought you’d want to gloat when Mycroft shows up.”
The coat in front of him swirls when Sherlock spins and continues to walk backwards as he replies: “Mycroft won’t show. No field work, remember? Besides, they can still muck it up, John. Just because these idiots possess the knowledge of how to dispose of a bomb doesn’t mean they’ll be successful. No, I’d much rather be back at Baker Str—”
Sherlock trips and stumbles suddenly backward, and John lunges forward, grabbing his friend’s arms and heaving him toward his own body. Their chests collide, the force of it setting John off-balance, and as he feels his gravity shift in the direction of the rails, strong hands thump against his lower back and draw him back to centre. They meet in the middle—John’s hands crushing Sherlock’s biceps and Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s waist, his hands pressing on John’s lower back. John is breathless. The contact is startling. An involuntary shiver runs the length of his spine as he slowly looks up at Sherlock’s own disconcerted expression.
“Sherlock…are the rails still live?”
Sherlock peeks down at the ground and shrugs. “Could be. It will take some coordination between the Underground and Bomb Disposal to have the power cut. I’m sure they’re working on it.”
“You’re an idiot,” John breathes, stepping out of their embrace. He shakes his hands and shoulders out. Something unfamiliar titters in his limbs, but John knows how to soldier on. With a stern expression, he raises a pointed finger and directs it down the tunnel and toward the light at the unfinished station. “Walk. Facing forward. We just survived a bomb; I won’t have you trip and die because you were too busy orating your distrust of, by the way, highly trained professionals who will, I’m sure, dispose of the bomb quite nicely.”
A grinning Sherlock raises his hands in mock surrender, turns (his coat twirling around him in a manner that activates a sort of automatic-eye-roll in John), and dashes down the tunnel. He reaches the platform in moments, leaps up, twists in the air, and lands primly on his bum with his legs dangling over the edge. He clasps his hands in his lap and appears to wait patiently.
“Stop mocking the short people,” he calls to his mad comrade from down the tunnel. Sherlock’s responding laugh bounces and echoes in the shaft, reaching John from all directions at once.
John trots up to the bright station and sighs as Sherlock’s features come into focus. Sherlock is grinning like a child with a secret, his legs merrily swinging. “Need a boost?”
“No. Thank you,” John grimaces as he reaches up and places his hands on the platform. He bounces on his toes to mentally judge the distance he’ll need to jump up. If he could step on the rail it would be just enough extra height…
Sherlock is chuckling as he drops down off the platform, cups his hands together and crouches beside John. “I won’t tell anybody,” he whispers.
John releases a sigh heavy with exasperation (Is this really what he wished for?), but he slips his foot into Sherlock’s hands, and Sherlock boosts him up to sit on the platform. John has barely settled before Sherlock is leaping up onto the platform again, sliding neatly over to sit beside John. He can’t seem to stop grinning.
John laughs a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much.”
Sherlock claps his hands and spreads them wide like he’s addressing an audience on the tracks below. “Plenty to smile about, John. I’m back in London. We didn’t die just then. You’ve forgiven me—”
“Under duress,” John interrupts.
“Are you saying you were insincere?” Sherlock pouts, letting his hands fall back into his lap.
“No, I’m saying you’re a bad friend for playing the we’re-going-to-die card just to hurry up my pardon for your frankly deplorable actions.”
“I’m the bad friend!” Sherlock cries, but like John, there’s mirth in his voice. “Since I’ve returned, you’ve attempted to strangle me, hit me in the face—twice—and let’s not forget that pulling you out of that fire was no treat. You’re welcome, by the way. Everyone else hugged me, but from you I’ve had nothing but grief.”
John shakes his head as he laughs. “Sherlock Holmes doesn’t hug.”
“Yes I do.”
“Oh, so Molly surprised you with a hug then?”
“Yes, a brief, slightly awkward embrace at the morgue. I allowed it. Mrs. Hudson hugged me several times after I’d disarmed her of the cooking pot. Anderson’s hug was less than comfortable, but it’s Anderson, so that’s to be expected. I offered him a solid shoulder pat in return.”
John is laughing fully now. “Oh, and I’m sure Lestrade’s hug was the best of all.”
“It was!”
John’s hysterical, wiping tears from his eyes. “Lestrade didn’t hug you,” he gets out between giggles.
“He did too. He called me a ‘bastard’ and then pulled me into a manly, firm embrace. It was the best hug of all of them. Not that I have much experience in these matters.”
John pauses laughing long enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but he cascades into another fit when he sees the candour in Sherlock’s face.
“Oh no, you’re serious. Lestrade really did hug you!”
John loves the way Sherlock’s deep chuckles reverberate through the tunnels. It’s as if the bricks reach out and tug at the passing sound waves, slowing them enough to bounce back at John until his chest and cheeks are swollen with the delighted echo.
The two men sit, dangling their legs off the platform, for some time as they regain their breath. Then Sherlock is hoisting himself up and pulling John to his feet also. They walk down the adjoining passageways in relative silence, their footsteps resonating against the steel ribs. Twice they pass an incoming team, lugging equipment and bomb suits, but nothing more than a nod is exchanged between them. The hidden Underground is chilly. John walks with his hands deep in his pockets to keep them from trembling. It’s not until they’ve climbed the last ladder to the last tunnel that will lead them into Westminster Station that John really hears Sherlock’s earlier words.
“So, I’m really the only one who hasn’t hugged you, then?”
Sherlock glances at him sideways but doesn’t slow his pace. “Just teasing.”
“No really, it is a little odd though, isn’t it. I mean, if Lestrade…”
“You already said it: Sherlock Holmes doesn’t hug. I was simply trying to deflect any more discussion of—”
“Wait, Sherlock,” John says, catching his friend’s coat sleeve and halting their trek. They stand awkwardly in the half-light as John gathers his thoughts. In the distance, he can hear the mumblings of passing passengers and toll machines clicking open. Standing there in front of Sherlock though, all the sound seems to fade and it’s just the two of them in a tunnel under London. “You know that I don’t mean anything by… I mean that, just because I haven’t… It’s just that it’s taken me some time to adjust—”
“Oh for goodness sake,” Sherlock huffs before stepping close and wrapping his long arms around John’s frame. He squeezes John tight and brief, his arms a cage over John’s, and in a second he is stepping back and turning away, his eyebrow raised in a clear expression of happy-now?
But the contact startles something awake in John—the same electrified energy that coursed through his body when they caught one another earlier—and suddenly there is nothing more he wants than to hug his best friend.
“Not yet,” John says as he steps in front of Sherlock and deftly implants himself in the taller man’s space. And it’s amazing, John thinks, how naturally his body fits against Sherlock’s as he slides his hands inside Sherlock’s ridiculous coat and around his torso. He forces himself to ignore the tiny shudders of discomfort in his friend’s body as he settles his hands on Sherlock’s broad back, because as John tucks his head under Sherlock’s chin and rests against his chest, he realizes that he needs this contact; he prioritizes this rare embrace higher than Sherlock’s general distain for physicality. Sherlock is warm and solid. He’s real. A restful sensation flows down John’s spine, like even though his mind knew Sherlock was back, his body still needed to be told, and now all that hurt and anger and longing can finally drain away.
Determination to make this last is firm in John’s mind. Now that he’s here, he’s not leaving. Just like Sherlock is never leaving again. When Sherlock’s arms shift, John clenches his own tighter, and though there’s a soft grunt from above, he grins as strong arms wrap around his body and a broad hand threads through his hair and rests there, cupping his head and holding him close. When Sherlock’s lips press a soft kiss on the top of his head, and are gently replaced by a warm cheek, John finally exhales.
In the station beyond, several trains arrive and depart as they hold one another, but neither hears the trains and neither eases their grip.
John breathes in every slice of the moment: the scent of the wool coat and scarf blending with Sherlock’s own unique pheromones, like sandalwood and citrus—a detail John had never noticed until it faded from the flat. He can hear Sherlock’s heart beat fast and steady, and it’s the most beautiful affirmation John can imagine. His nerves are lulled by its steady rhythm. John has a feeling that tonight, for the first time in two years, he’ll sleep soundly, with no weight resting on his chest, nor grief tugging him to restlessness, nor regret startling him awake with a name on his lips.
Sherlock’s fingers fidget in John’s hair. “John,” he whispers. “Are you asleep?”
John chuckles. “No.” A pause. “You were right, though.”
“Of course I was,” Sherlock assures, his embrace tightening briefly. “About what?”
“This. A hug. I should have done it sooner.”
He feels rather than hears Sherlock hum in agreement. Sherlock shifts again.
“Just as a curiosity regarding the social convention,” Sherlock says quietly into John’s hair, “exactly how long does a hug usually last?” John grins and starts to pull away, but his heart skips a beat when Sherlock tightens his embrace and stutters: “No, no, I’m not being subtle. I’m actually asking. That is, unless it’s been too long already?” John imagines Sherlock grimacing above him, his nose scrunching as he tries to calculate social customs in relation to muscle fatigue or endorphin rate of release or whatever else it is that Sherlock can quantify.
“However long you like,” John responds, his cheek still pressed up against Sherlock’s chest. “There’s no rule. You just do what feels right.”
“Ah. I see.” John speaks Sherlock; he clearly doesn’t understand. John briefly wonders how long Sherlock would maintain the hug if John were to just…continue hugging. A wicked little grin spreads across John’s face as he imagines Sherlock running pi through his mind while trying desperately to remain motionless for fear of breaking the hug too early and upsetting John. He entertains the experiment (and inwardly acknowledges that Sherlock’s penchant for experiments may be infectious), but takes pity on his friend. With one last squeeze, John pulls away and steps out of the warm encirclement of Sherlock and his coat.
Sherlock gazes down at him fondly, but also somewhat puzzled.
“Better than Lestrade’s?” John teases.
“Yes…”
John grins. “You’re not sure why.”
“No…”
John laughs and, side-by-side, they turn toward the light of Westminster Station. This will keep Sherlock’s mind busy for days; feelings still seem to baffle the mad genius, and John doesn’t plan to offer any hints on this one. No, Sherlock would have to muddle through the human experience on his own.
But John would be there to offer a hand…or a hug…on the days when his friend needed him.