Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“When did you first know?”

John’s voice is quiet, and Sherlock—pleasantly distracted by the way John’s toes curl against the rug—almost doesn’t hear the words over the crackling of the flames in the fireplace.  He looks up as the question settles between them; John is still, ostensibly, reading the paper but a quick observation shows that his eyes are fixed in one spot and all of his attention is directed towards the object of his question.  A more thorough scrutinization reveals the tension in John’s shoulders, the tight set of his jaw, and the slight tremor of the fingers in his left hand, not to mention an overall air of forced nonchalance in both his voice and his posture, all of which leads Sherlock to the conclusion that John has been steeling himself to ask this question and that Sherlock’s answer is Very Important.

Sherlock looks away, towards the fire, before he can become too distracted by the way the firelight catches in the gold strands of John’s hair.  He’d be a fool if he didn’t understand exactly what John was asking.  No need to ask for clarification on that front.  He wonders, though, if John will like the answer.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” he offers.  

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the small smile that pulls at one side of John’s mouth, can see the way his shoulders relax back against the chair.

“Deal.”  There’s a wisp of paper as John sets his reading aside and leans his head back, folding his hands over his stomach and watching Sherlock beneath heavy-lidded eyes.  “You first.”

Sherlock nods.  “Fair enough.”

He meets John’s eyes and raises his hands to steeple them in front of his mouth.  He’s about to give his answer when John’s gaze flickers, dropping down to linger over Sherlock’s fingers before sliding back up, his pupils just dilated enough to send a frisson of heat spiraling through Sherlock’s veins. Unhelpfully, John slides his toes along the arch of Sherlock’s foot.  It stalls him, and for a moment he forgets what he’s supposed to be saying because he knows exactly what John is thinking about, can see his memories of their morning spent in bed written all over his face.  It flashes before Sherlock’s eyes in an instant like an indecent slideshow, spurred on by the spark of John’s touch—John’s hands in his hair; the warm, comforting weight of him; his lips against the soft skin of Sherlock’s belly; the slick heat of his mouth around Sherlock’s fingers—

“Sherlock?”

The memories scatter, but the desire they brought with them remains.  It coils down into the pit of his stomach, tugging at him insistently with each sweep of John’s toes along his arch. He lowers his hands back to the arms of his chair, the leather cool and familiar beneath his fingers, which tap anxiously against the material.

“You okay?”

There’s genuine concern in John’s voice, which makes something warm settle in Sherlock’s chest.  It’s easier for John, he thinks, because he’s done this before whereas Sherlock often finds himself lost in unfamiliarity, drowning in the sheer depths of his own emotions.  It’s only been a few days—three days, 7 hours, and 29 minutes, to be precise—since their relationship…evolved, and Sherlock has since realized that he’s never equipped himself to deal with the absolute onslaught of feelings that comes with such intimacy.

He takes a deep breath.  “I’m fine,” he says, but John gives him that Look, the one that says he knows there’s something Sherlock isn’t saying and he’s going to be insufferable until he knows what it is.  Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “I’m fine, John.  I simply haven’t found the proper balance between physical stimulation and cognitive process.”

John’s brow crinkles in confusion, and it takes a moment, but he gets there in the end as evidenced by the slow, soft smile that he tries and fails to contain. “Is that your posh way of saying you can’t think when I touch you?”

Sherlock wants to be annoyed, but he can’t, not when John is looking at him that way, relaxed and so sincerely pleased.  A small smile of his own works its way onto his lips, and his eyes slide away as warmth that has nothing to do with the fire rises to color his cheeks.

“You may have an answer to one question, and only one question,” he says, nudging John’s foot.  John nudges back, and Sherlock’s smile widens.  He looks back up, steepling his fingers once more and quirking an eyebrow. “Which will it be?”

John’s expression, open and relaxed now, goes even softer as his eyes rove Sherlock’s face, and for some reason it makes Sherlock’s heart pound a fierce rhythm against his ribs.

“The first one,” John says gently.  “When did you first know?”

Chapter Text

When did you first know?

The question is a simple one in theory, and it’s also one to which Sherlock has given quite a lot of thought in the past, most notably when he was in his depressed moods and wanted to torture himself with the more wonderful images of John that he had stored up in his Mind Palace.  It’s no longer torture to remember those times, to picture those small smiles and shared giggles that were so frequent early on in their acquaintance, but there is still a dull ache that resonates within him at the thought they had wasted so much time.

He flicks through his favorite memories now, a quick perusal before settling on one that seems so very inconsequential but that he has never been able to shake away.  John is watching him, that same impossibly soft look in his eyes, a look that Sherlock still can’t believe is directed towards him.

Sherlock pulls his bottom lip between his teeth briefly and then takes a deep breath, settling his hands on the arms of his chair again.  “The first time I knew was the day we met with Sebastian.”

John frowns.  “Sebastian?”

“Sebastian Wilkes from the bank, you remember.”

John’s eyes light up.  “Oh, the Blind Banker case!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and is on the verge of making a comment about how John really needs to work on his titles, but John’s expression suddenly shifts, the light in his eyes fading and his lips turning downward.

“That long ago?” he asks, and there’s something so unexpectedly sad in his voice, a quiet note that squeezes Sherlock’s heart.

He clears his throat.  “Well.  Yes.  I was—it was quite early on in our…friendship that I realized I was…”

Falling in love with you.  The words won’t form even though he’s thought them so many times that it’s become an integral part of who he is.  But neither of them have said it out loud yet, a fact which hadn’t really seemed important until this moment.  

There hadn’t been any dramatic declarations, no emotional outbursts.  It had been simple, in the end; John had come home with the shopping, heavy bags hanging from each hand, and Sherlock had turned from his place by the window (where he’d been watching as John trudged down the street, head bent against the cold).  And John had met his eyes and given him that smile, the one he frequently used to hide behind when he was feeling more emotionally tired than usual, and Sherlock had decided right then and there.  In three strides he was across the room, and it turned out that deciding to kiss John Watson had been the simplest thing he’d ever done.

He remembers the way John’s mouth, so cold from the biting chill outside, had warmed beneath his lips, his tongue; the way John’s shock had melted almost immediately, fading into heartfelt reciprocation as the groceries spilled to the floor at their feet and his hands, free of their burden, slid into Sherlock’s hair. From there, the bedroom was only a few stumbling steps away, and neither of them had looked back since.

Saying the words simply hadn’t seemed necessary after everything they had told each other with their bodies.  All of the longing and frustration and emotion had come pouring out of them in such a physical shape that they had never stopped to really define it with words.  Or perhaps, Sherlock thinks now, they had both been too afraid to give them voice.

“Sherlock.”

John’s hand touches his own where it’s curled on the armrest, and Sherlock is startled out of his memories.  He realizes he must have been silent for some time because John has moved, is now perched on the very edge of his seat, his knees nearly knocking against Sherlock’s.

“There you are,” he says, smiling softly, his head tilting as he searches Sherlock’s face for clues as to where his mind might have taken him.

Sherlock lets out a breath and flips his hand over, catching John’s fingers in his own.  “I’m sorry, I was…distracted.”

“You all right?”

“Yes.  Yes, I’m fine.  Where was I?”

John rests his elbows on his knees but keeps hold of Sherlock’s hand, folding it in between both of his own.  “The day we went to see Sebastian.”

“Right.  Yes.  It was before that, though, before the case began.”

John’s thumb rubs a warm, smooth line back and forth across Sherlock’s palm, and it makes him want to close his eyes and just exist in this moment, a feeling he can’t ever remember having had before he’d let John Watson touch him.

“I don’t remember,” John says, sounding apologetic, which is ridiculous. Sherlock supposes he must think they’re talking about some significant moment in their lives, something that should stand out.

He shakes his head.  “No, you wouldn’t.  It was…you had just come back to the flat.  You’d gone out to get the shopping.”

John’s confusion seems to increase, and he opens his mouth, but Sherlock goes on before he can say anything.

“You were in a bit of a state,” he says, and he can’t help the fondness that colors his tone.  “Apparently the chip-and-pin machine had been giving you some trouble.”

Realization dawns slowly across the lines of John’s face, first in the widening of his eyes and then in the shaping of his lips into a small “oh.”

“You…that was when you knew?” he asks, and he sounds so disbelieving that Sherlock laughs.

“That was when I began to know, yes.”

John shakes his head slowly, seemingly bewildered.  “But…why?  I was such a grumpy arse that day–”

“It was cute,” Sherlock says before he can stop himself.

John’s eyebrows rise so high on his forehead that Sherlock almost can’t see them beneath his fringe, which is quite a feat considering the length of John’s hair.  Sherlock’s cheeks flood with heat, and when John opens his mouth, presumably to give him the teasing of a lifetime, he glares as fiercely as he can.

“Not.  A.  Word,” he says through his teeth.

John’s mouth shuts with an audible click, but his eyes are wide, and he pulls his lips between his teeth in a clear effort to restrain his laughter.  Sherlock continues to glare at him, but it doesn’t seem to be having any effect whatsoever, and only a few seconds pass before John can no longer contain himself.  He breaks down into uncontrollable giggles, leaning forward to press his forehead to the back of Sherlock’s hand, which he still has a hold on.

Sherlock sighs and falls back against his chair in a dramatic fashion.  “Oh, go on then.”

John shakes his head, still bent double.  “Cute,” he gasps through his laughter. “I didn’t even know you knew that word!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John’s giddiness is infectious, and, try as he might, he can’t quite keep his own face straight.  “Well, you should’ve been recording it because I’m never saying it again,” he says, but the sour effect he’s going for is lost in the twist of his lips.

John straightens up, tugging at Sherlock’s hand insistently.  “Oh, god, c’mere,” he says. His eyes are damp, and his smile is so huge he can hardly kiss properly, but Sherlock really doesn’t mind, not when John is climbing clumsily into his lap, his hands warm on either side of his face, tilting it back to get better access to his mouth.

“I can’t believe you think I’m cute,” John whispers, and Sherlock pinches his side in retaliation.  John’s answering laugh bubbles up against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock’s hand curls around the back of his skull, holding him there.  John’s lips turn soft and pliant, his smile fading with a soft noise as Sherlock’s tongue slicks into his mouth.

He’s lost in it almost instantly, in the press of John’s body, the heat of his hands through the thin fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, the feeling of John’s hair between his fingers.  His mind goes quiet except for the thought of more, and his hips push up, seeking blindly, wanting—

“Mm, wait,” John murmurs, and his hands curl around Sherlock’s shoulders, stilling him.  “Not yet.”

“Hmm?”  His brain is too weighted with lust to say anything more coherent, a fact that would have horrified him only a week ago, before he knew what it felt like to have John Watson in his arms.

John pulls away slightly, sitting back against Sherlock’s thighs.  Sherlock attempts to follow, but John catches his chin in one hand, his thumb sliding across his lower lip, causing tingles to erupt down Sherlock’s spine.

“We had a deal, remember?” John says.  His eyes remain fixed on Sherlock’s mouth for another moment before he lifts them to meet Sherlock’s hooded gaze. “You tell me yours, and I tell you mine.”  He smiles.  “My turn.”

Chapter Text

It’s a familiar phrase—“You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”  Sherlock knows it’s often used in a sexually suggestive way, and that knowledge does nothing to help him concentrate on John’s words when John’s body is so close, when his thumb is still lightly pressed against Sherlock’s bottom lip, when John’s warmth is surrounding him so thoroughly.

His hands flex where they’ve come to rest on John’s thighs, the denim of his jeans rough against his palms.  He knows what’s underneath that thick fabric.  He’s seen, felt, tasted everything that John keeps so tightly hidden during the day, and he longs to do it all again.

Arousal, Sherlock has found in the past few days, makes him bold in situations where, before, he would have been hesitant.  “Tell me, then, so I can take you back to bed,” he says.  It feels like a small sort of victory when John’s pupils dilate further, his tongue darting out to swipe across his lips.  Sherlock leans in, intent on following John’s tongue with his own, but John’s hand slips down to his chest, holding him at bay.

“Patience is a virtue, love,” he says, and it’s the endearment more than anything else that freezes Sherlock in place.  It’s the first one of its kind, and it has slipped from John’s mouth as though he’s been saying it for years.

It’s easiest to pretend as though that one simple word hasn’t just made something in Sherlock’s chest tighten.  He forces his body to relax until his back is once more pressed against the chair.  The only obvious sign of his reaction is the frantic beating of his heart, but that can easily be passed off as arousal, plain and simple.

“I’ve never had much time for patience,” he says, catching John’s hand where it rests against his chest.  He brings it up to kiss his knuckles, one by one, watching John through his lashes.  

Infuriatingly, John only smiles, despite the flush that’s deepening on his cheeks, spreading down his neck.  “What if I promise it will be well worth the wait?”

Sherlock rests his cheek against the back of John’s hand and looks up at him sideways.  He means to say something teasing or snarky, but what comes out instead is, “You’re always worth the wait.”

One corner of John’s smile falls away, pulling the rest of it down as well.  It’s a slow transformation; instead of the soft, warm amusement, laced with desire, Sherlock is now faced with an expression that he doesn’t understand.  It isn’t sadness; he knows what sadness looks like on John’s face even if he wishes he didn’t.  But it isn’t happiness either.  It’s something that’s gotten stuck in between, something that looks as if it could be pushed in either direction.  His eyes, so blue and clear, flit back and forth between Sherlock’s own, and his mouth wavers as if it can’t decide what it should be doing.

Sherlock lifts his head up, trepidation flooding his chest, pushing out the flutter that the word “love” had dropped in there.  He opens his mouth, unsure of what he’s going to say, but John suddenly takes in a deep, shuddering breath.  His eyes close, just long enough to be more than a simple blink, and then he’s speaking.

“The first time I knew,” he says, and his voice is more even than Sherlock had been expecting.  “The first time I knew was at the pool.”

Sherlock’s hand spasms, tightening around John’s.  He would never admit it, but he still sometimes has nightmares about that night.  It seems ridiculous, after everything else they’d been through since then, but nothing has ever frightened him as much as seeing John Watson wrapped in explosives.

A light touch to his jaw has him meeting John’s eyes again.  “In all the years I’ve known you,” John goes on, “I’ve never seen you look the way you did when I stepped out with that vest on.”  He leans forward until his forehead touches Sherlock’s.  “You were so...lost.  Just for a second, you were lost.  You thought our life together was all a lie.”

Sherlock sucks in a breath, but it’s pointless to argue because it’s true, and John already knows it’s true.  It doesn’t matter anyway because John kisses him before he can say anything, and it’s soft and simple and easy.

“I wanted to tell you,” John says against his lips.  “I wanted to step forward and pull you into my arms and tell you that it wasn’t a lie, that the only thing I’d done to deceive you in our time together was hide how much I wanted you.”

“How could I have missed such a thing?” Sherlock says around the ache in his throat.  “How could you have hidden that from me?”

A hand at the back of his head holds him in place, and John's lips move against his temple, speaking into his curls.  “You were afraid.”

“But I wanted you.  I wanted you so much it hurt.  That night...so many nights before...all the nights after, I wanted you.  Why couldn’t I see that you wanted me, too?  It should’ve been so obvious!”

John releases a breath that ripples across Sherlock’s skin and makes his hair flutter.  “You won’t like the answer.  It’s illogical.”

Sherlock turns his head until John’s eyes meet his own.  “Tell me anyway.”

He’s graced with a small, sad smile.  “Sometimes the things we want the most are the things we’re too afraid to go looking for.”

“That’s ridiculous.”  The words are out of his mouth before he’s even thought about saying them, and John’s laugh is short but sincere.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Well, it is.  Why wouldn’t I have been looking for something that I wanted?" 

There’s pressure against either side of his hips as John pushes up onto his knees, takes Sherlock’s head between his hands, and kisses his forehead, his lips lingering just there at his hairline.

“Because you were afraid that I wouldn’t feel the same.  Just as I was afraid you wouldn’t feel the same.”

“Unthinkable.”

John laughs again, but it sounds almost choked as he sinks back down against Sherlock’s thighs.  When Sherlock gets a good look at him he sees that John’s eyes are too bright, that his throat has to work harder around a swallow.  He reaches up to press his palm to John’s cheek, and John closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“We wasted so much time, you and I,” he says, and Sherlock can hear the pain behind the words.

These are the moments in which Sherlock feels out of his depth.  Learning how to kiss John was easy; learning how to make love to John was easy; learning that allowing himself to stare endlessly at John without reservation was easy.  But he hadn’t yet learned how to navigate the emotional depths of John, how to soothe and comfort, how to ease his sorrow.

Physical is easiest, so he begins there.  He urges him closer, presses a kiss to his lips, to his cheek, one to his jaw, another to his neck.  He curves his arms around his back, his hands moving firmly up and down the taut line of John’s spine until that body practically melts into his own, until John’s mouth finds his again.  Only then does he speak, words shaping themselves around the softness of John’s lips.

“It wasn’t a waste, John.  No moment spent with you could ever be considered a waste.”

John’s breath of laughter is muffled against Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Who would’ve thought you would be such a bloody romantic?” he asks hoarsely. 

Sherlock takes a breath, his tongue swiping out over his lips.  “I’m not a romantic,” he says softly.  “I’m just in love with you.”

Chapter Text

It shouldn’t be a surprise, not really, not after the past three days.  Not after the ease with which they had fallen into this new intimacy.  It was clear from the moment they first woke up together in Sherlock’s bed—John’s naked body, warm beneath his own, Sherlock’s arm draped so comfortably across his waist—that this was not simply some sexual urge that had needed to be purged from their systems.  It wasn’t some shallow base need to satisfy and then discard; this was a longing, deep as the ocean itself, that had been yearning to flow out of them for as long as they had known each other.  It was them, as they always should have been, reaching their full potential as a pair.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise, Sherlock thinks, when John’s breath catches, when he goes so very still, his face hidden against the hard surface of Sherlock’s shoulder.  It shouldn’t be a surprise that Sherlock is in love with him.

But it seems he is mistaken because for a long while the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the loud drum of his own heart in his ears.  After a full two minutes of silence, he can stand it no longer.

“John?”  He cups John’s face, urging him to sit back so that he can look into his eyes. 

“Yes, yeah,” John says, the words rushing out of him.  He grips Sherlock’s wrist, pressing his lips hard to the palm of his hand.  His eyes are shut tightly, and his hand trembles where it’s clenched around Sherlock.

Sherlock lifts his other hand, brushing the fringe back from John’s forehead, letting his fingertips trail down one heated cheek.  “Not good?”  

He’s only half-joking, if he’s honest with himself, only half-sure that his declaration won’t be spurned.  John’s laughter is hoarse but sincere, and Sherlock smiles as it tickles his palm.  Some of the tension eases out of John’s grip, his thumb sweeping over the thin skin of Sherlock’s wrist in apology.

“It’s more than good,” he says.  He opens his eyes, and they’re bright and brimming, but there’s a smile on his face, more real and open than Sherlock has ever seen.  He leans forward until their foreheads touch.  “I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

Sherlock nudges forward until their lips meet, their first kiss with the truth of Sherlock’s words between them.  John relaxes into it with a small, appreciative sound, and Sherlock’s words are a murmur.  “How much more plain could I have made it?”

John’s kisses moves to his jaw.  “I could ask you the same question.”

Something happens in Sherlock’s chest, something that makes it feel as if the air has gotten confused on its way to his lungs, and he suddenly understands John’s frozen reaction from before.  He’d thought it ridiculous that John didn’t simply know, that John hadn’t guessed it the moment Sherlock had kissed him.  But now it makes sense except that it doesn’t make any logical sense at all because Sherlock realizes that, although he had spent three days basking in John’s love, he had never truly stopped to give it that particular name.  He had known, but he hadn’t known.  Somehow they’ve been saying it, talking about it, without ever talking about it, and now the words that began this conversation have spawned a new revelation.

When did you first know (that you loved me) (that I loved you)?

“You have to say it,” Sherlock whispers.  He tries to keep his voice even, but a waver of his desperation betrays him.

John lets out a breath that tickles Sherlock’s ear.  “I love you.”

The words are spoken, gentle and unwavering as only John can be; they slip down inside of him and fold themselves into his chest like flowers pressed between the pages of a book.  He has the utterly sentimental thought that these are not words to be kept in his brain, not words to be hidden away in his Mind Palace with all the rest; these are words to be kept in his heart.

But John isn’t finished.  Now that he’s said them out loud, he can’t seem to stop the flow of words.  He crowds as close as he can to Sherlock until they’re pressed together, and his head is a warm, comforting weight in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

“I love you, Sherlock, I’ve always loved you.  Maybe I wouldn’t have always called it that, but you’ve been my—I don’t know how to say it—my...my favorite person since the day I met you.”  His breathless laughter sweeps out over the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s throat.  “Christ, that sounds so childish, but it’s—it’s how it is.  I’ve never wanted to be away from you, not since the day I walked into that lab and you tore my whole dull existence apart.”

Sherlock kisses his shoulder, his neck, his ear.  “You have never been dull, John Watson.  Not to me.”

John turns his head, finds Sherlock’s mouth with his own.  “I'm not sure I’ll ever fully understand that.”

It’s not a surprising response given everything he knows about John’s self image, but it still makes Sherlock’s eyes sting.  “It doesn’t matter if you understand it,” he says, voice muffled by lingering kisses, “as long as you believe it. 

John pulls back, and his gaze is softer than Sherlock has ever seen them.  “You’ll be here to remind me.”

Sherlock cradles John’s face between his hands.  “Always.”

John’s answering smile is worth everything, all the years of heartache and frustration and confusion and pain.  It’s worth every second of waiting that it took to reach this moment.

“Always,” John agrees, and Sherlock knows, without a doubt, that the course of their future together has been decided and that it will never waver.

He smiles, his hands smoothing down John’s chest.  “Now,” he says in his deepest voice, the one he knows goes straight to John’s head.  “Take me back to bed.”

After all, they’ve waited long enough.