Work Text:
He could punch him.
“That woman was in hysterics, Sherlock. ” He says, running a hand through his hair.
Was it so hard for him to shut up for once? He couldn’t let her have one silent moment to grieve for her son?
This wasn’t the first time he had snapped at victims of a harsh crime. It happened so frequently to the point it was John's responsibility to smooth the wrinkles Sherlock left behind.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
“Problem?” He asks icily.
John flexes his hands into fists, tightening and releasing.
It always came down to this same argument. Sherlock would do something insensitive, John would be pissed, they’d argue, John would apologize, and Sherlock would meet him halfway.
“Yes. I didn’t know consulting detectives' requisites include being a prick to grieving mothers.” He pokes his tongue lightly into his cheek, and takes a long breath.
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“I invented the job, John. I make the requisites.” He says. “I was assembling a list of possible suspects and her hysterics were both bothersome and disturbing."
"Sherlock. She just lost her son. She gave birth to him." He sucks in a breath, releasing it slowly.
Sherlock takes out his phone, fingers tapping out a quick message. His eyes aren’t even focused on John as he says,
"I understand the maternal bond between a mother and child, John. However, crying had no purpose at the moment. He wouldn't have risen from the dead because of her grief."
John feels his blood pressure rising, and he grits his teeth.
"You didn't have to tell her to shut up," He hisses. "Is it such a struggle for you to act like you give a damn?"
Sherlock tenses, his fingers frozen at the keys.
"Work is my top priority at the moment." He answers. "Anything else becomes too laborious and irritating." He tucks the phone away, John beecoming the center of his attention.
There's an unrelenting feeling tugging at John's heart, and it aches because this is no longer about the woman or her dead son. It's about Sherlock’s feelings, it’s about John’s own feelings. How he wants something Sherlock cannot give. John wants his heart, he wants a flicker of concern behind his eyes, something other than this cold indifferent mask he wears so frequently.
He’s certain that last blow is directed towards him. And it’s just another reminder that Sherlock can never feel the same way he does. That Sherlock will never love him, and the fleeting glances and smiles are only post-case expressions of temporary joy.
There's a new found tension sprung between them after the discovery of his feelings towards the detective, and he hates it.
But more than anything, he hates how his hands tremble when Sherlock scrutinizes him, the way his stomach flutters every time he laughs, or even the way John’s gravitated towards him and a simple touch is never enough. It would be so much easier if he could ignore it all, tuck it into the back of head like the idea of a relationship with Sherlock had never occurred to him.
"Work isn't going to stand by your grave when you die."
"You will." Sherlock says, and it's not even a question. His eyes are fixed on the side of John's face, and John’s cheeks heat up.
The blush only angers him more. How is it that Sherlock can affect him so easily, yet no matter what he says, Sherlock will never be impacted?
"That's not the point, Sherlock. All I'm asking is for you to try and be a little more sympathetic to these people."
"And be like everyone else? " He snaps. "Is that what you want, John? Dance around the truth so I can preserve their fragile ego?" He purses his lips. "Why do you think I'm the only consulting detective? He asks flatly. "Because I care about people? No. Because I. know. facts."
John presses his lips together, shaking his head.
“And looks where it’s taken you.” He says, his words clipped. “You have friends who would die for you, and you barely even acknowledge them." He thinks of Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even himself. "It doesn’t take a lot of effort to thank them once in a while.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow. Brilliant, he’s finally figured out that this isn’t about the woman anymore.
“And it wouldn’t have taken a lot of effort to find a quieter spot to think when the woman was crying. It’s not going to kill you to give a damn.” John’s voice is dangerously low and quiet, but still audible over the street traffic.
Sherlock stays silent, his gaze clouding as though he’s interpreting something entirely cryptic. John isn’t going to wait while he figures himself out. He’s had enough of this.
"Sod this. You won’t listen to me, anyway. I’m just another person useful to your dayjob, and you’ve made it clear you don’t care for anything except your work.” He shakes his head. “You can't even bloody label the experiment jars at home. How can I expect for you to understand something so mature as sentiment?"
Sherlock's eyes snap back into focus, flinty and the color of the sky before a storm.
“It’s far better than pitying every human being to walk my way. It’s useless to stand around and cradle bleeding hearts. Not everyone cares for people like you do.” He sniffs.
John flinches, his scowl deepening.
He feels like a wounded soldier all over again, helpless and defensive and all wound up. His skin tingles, his shoulders hunch, and heat is knotting itself in his belly. He glares at Sherlock, wishing the burning glower will melt some of the ice he sees in his eyes.
The cab they had been waiting for finally pulls up to them, and Sherlock breaks the tense moment.
"This cab is mine. Find another one or walk home."
When the cab door slams shut, John can feel the leaden strain drain from chest, and he closes his eyes with a long sigh.
Did he honestly think he could change Sherlock? Did he think he could get him to care just a little bit? He's seen Sherlock’s care. Holding the tape lining a crime scene for John to go under, playing his violin to wake him from the quaking nightmares, smiling and laughing at John’s stupid jokes, the momentary concern when he's hurt.
Maybe it isn't’ about caring. Maybe it's about how John always wants more. He can never love with boundaries and maybe it's irrtating that Sherlock doesn't love him with the same fervid passion.
His shoulders slump and he raises his hand for another cab.
He can’t keep hurting Sherlock this way. He can’t keep hurting himself, either. Sherlock's a fire, burning, blazing, and beautiful, but too scorching to touch without scalding. But oh, he wants to.
Another cab pulls up next to him, and John gets in without a second thought. With a forced smile, he tells the cabbie to take him to 221B.
He closes his eyes and slumps against the well worn seats. The way back is much longer than he remembers.
When he arrives at the flat, he finds the door securely locked and Sherlock isn’t home.
The door to Sherlock’s room is open, so he must not have been back to the flat at all. That's unusual, considering 221B is where he's most comfortable.
John scrubs a hand over his face, and fishes out his phone. He'd text him. Just in case.
We need to talk. Let me know when you're coming back to the flat. -JW
There's no answer.
Voicemail:
Thursday 00:26 am
“Sherlock, it’s John. Erm. I..just wanted to talk about before. I don’t know where you are at the moment. It’s fine if you need time, but--just call me or text me back, okay?”
He hangs up, his fingers fiddling with the polished device. He sighs heavily, pushing himself to his feet. Sherlock would text or call when he was ready.
Voicemail:
Thursday 8:27 am
"It's John. I hope you're alright. I’d rather talk before the day starts, Call me, okay? I..didn't mean what I said. Please, just come home. "
Friday 00:37 am
"It's John, again. It's around midnight. Sherlock, if you're not here by tomorrow morning I'm calling Lestrade. You don't leave your phone anywhere. Call or text me. Just let me know you're okay."
Friday 11:36 am
"I'm calling Lestrade. Just in case. Be careful, alright? Don't do anything stupid."
“John?”
“Sherlock’s missing,” He blurts.
“I haven’t seen him since Wednesday morning. We had a row after the case, but I think he would have returned to the flat by now. He doesn’t like to leave his experiments unattended.”
His stomach knots, and he takes gulping breaths to calm his quivering insides. He knows he’s just being paranoid, but it’s his fault Sherlock isn’t home. He should have went with him in the cab, he shouldn’t have said those nasty things.
“Are you sure he isn’t just angry? Things like that do happen, you know. He could be staying with a family member, a friend, perhaps?”
“Greg. You know Sherlock’s habits as well as I do. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want to find him strung out on the streets, high. Can you have a look around?” He rubs the back of his neck.
“Of course. I’ll make it top priority. Did you call his brother? He’ll probably have more information on his whereabouts.”
John nods, “Yeah, I’ll call him right now. Ta, Greg. Let me know if you hear anything.”
“No problem, John. I’ll keep you updated.” Lestrade says.
John hangs up and dials Mycroft.
"Ah, John. What do I owe the pleasure?"
John swallows his distaste. Sarcasm is dripping through Mycroft's voice, and he's almost certain he won't cooperate unless there's incentive.
"Sherlock's missing," He says. "I was wondering if you caught anything on the CCTV. If not, do you think we could find a way to track his phone to a nearby mobile phone tower?"
There's silence.
"I understand your sentiment towards my brother, Doctor Watson. However, going through the footage of the CCTV could take all day, and I don't have the time to concern myself with such trivial efforts," Mycroft says.
"He's your brother. Does that not matter to you?" He chews heavily on his bottom lip. He’s tired of Holmes’ pretending not to care.
"I believe Sherlock is capable of taking care of himself. He'll find his way home in due time."
John draws in a breath and releases it before speaking. “If not for Sherlock, then for me. Please. I do the shopping, I make sure he eats, sleeps. I take care of him."
He hears Mycroft sigh.
"Just this once.” He can practically hear his lip twisting as he says, “Sherlock has deactivated any way to trace him through his mobile phone as precaution for any unwanted attention. Nevertheless, there should be some video footage available to assist with locating him. I'll have my people look into it, and I'll send the information as soon as it is at my disposal."
"Thank you." John says, the tightness in his throat easing a bit. It’s not too much, but it’s better than nothing.
There's a soft click when the call ends, and John drops his phone on the table.
I have reason to believe Sherlock has been kidnapped for ransom. -MH
What? Ransom? -JW
He’s been taken by a group of notorious kidnappers called, “Les Ravisseurs.” They’re known for abducting people of significance to gain ransom. I’ve been contacted, as I play a major role in the British Government. They requested three million pounds by midnight. -MH
John gulps, blinking again to make sure he's seen the number correctly.
Christ, three million pounds? Have they given an address? -JW
I believe that's what I just wrote, yes. They said to leave it under a placemat outside of 221B. Once they had the money, they'd drop Sherlock off the following day. -MH
What happens if we can’t pay it? -JW
They’re going to sell his organs to an organization that provide organ transplants to those with fatal illnesses. -MH
His mouth feels dry, and he places his phone back on the table. John's head drops to his hands.
He shouldn’t have insulted him, he shouldn’t have called him immature. He hadn’t known that those words might’ve be the last thing he said to Sherlock.
He hadn’t told him how his heart leaps every time he smiles, he hadn’t told him that his stupid smirk made him weak in the knees, and he’d never thanked him for saving him from living his life alone.
So much for teaching Sherlock sentiment, if he couldn’t even handle the basics himself.
This is all his fault. If only he’d stayed, if only he’d apologized, Sherlock would not be in danger. Sherlock would not be with a notorious group of kidnappers threatening his precious organs. (Precious? To him, they were.)
Words echoed through his mind on constant replay, his stomach knotting.
“How can I expect for you to understand something so mature as sentiment?”
Lestrade shows him the file on Les Ravisseurs. It had once been a massive criminal network that the British government had shut down and locked away. There was only one person remaining in the network they couldn't seem to catch. The abuductor must know Mycroft and Sherlock are related.
John records the areas that numerous abductions had occurred on a map of London, though he doesn't see how it will help. It’s just busy work to keep him from biting his nails off.
He’s working his way back into the 1970s, when Lestrade comes into the room.
“You should get some sleep, John. You’ve been here all morning and you look exhausted,” Lestrade says, sighing.
Lestrade doesn’t understand that going home won’t help him. He won’t be able to sleep. Hell, he can’t even breathe. Everything smells of Sherlock at the flat, and it’s just another reminder he’s missing, he’s hurting, he’s gone.
“We need to find him by midnight, or he dies,” John says, immovably calm. “Until then, I’m not sleeping.”
Lestrade pulls a chair up next to him, the legs scraping the floor. “We’re trying our best. We’ve tracked the cab that took him yesterday morning and there’s a CCTV Mycroft forwarded that shows him being pulled into another vehicle. We have partial plate ID. Both the NSY team and Mycroft’s people are searching. It may take a while.”
John massages his temples to try and soothe the throbbing.
“We don’t have a while,” He says through gritted teeth. “We have nine hours at most, and we’re not getting any closer.”
“Like I said, we’re trying our best. There’s nothing we can do but wait. We’re all worried about him too, John.” His voice is strained with false patience, and John wishes that, once again he kept his mouth shut.
“I know, I know. It’s just that--I said awful things. I need to make it right. I can’t let those things be the last I’ve ever said to him.” He avoids Lestrade’s eyes. “He’s bloody impossible, but..” He stops, his heart dropping into his stomach.
“I don’t want to live my life without him.” He clasps his hands together, and looks up to see Lestrade give him a heavy nod, offering a sad smile.
“We’ll find him,” He promises.
Neither of them really know if that’s true.
It's almost late evening when John hears Lestrade barking orders to his team. His head pokes into the room John had been waiting .
“We’ve traced the vehicle to a secluded location off of Whiston Road. We believe he’s in an the basement of a flat,” Lestrade says. “It’ll take a few minutes to get my team together.”
There’s a sharp barking of orders behind him, and Lestrade frowns. “Maybe longer than a few minutes.”
John’s fists clench. He doesn’t have a few minutes. The temperature outside is dropping by the hour, and he knows Sherlock has barely any body fat to keep him warm enough. Hypothermia's a major risk, not to mention all of the other things they could have possibly done to him.
John grabs his coat, his gun safely tucked inside the jacket pocket. He’s not going to wait for NSY to get their act together.
Sherlock needs to be rescued. Now.
The cab pulls up at the intersection of Whiston and Kingsland road, and makes his way to the only flat complex on the street. John’s thankful that he doesn't have to go through a series of buildings before finding the right one. He knocks heavily on the door, pointing his gun at it.
An elderly woman cracks it open, gasping, her eyes bulging. John quickly tucks his gun into his pocket.
“Erm. Sorry, ma’am. I..believe one of your renters has a friend of mine. I’m with Scotland Yard.” He keeps his voice steady, though he can already feel the pumping of adrenaline through his veins.
The woman trembles, and opens the door a little wider. “I..thought I heard noises from downstairs. I was frightened, I’m so relieved you’ve come. There was shouting and.. and..”
John nods, pursing his lips.
“Look, I have a friend who needs help. If you could let the backup in behind me, that would be fantastic.” He says brusquely, pushing past her. There’s a hatch in the floor, leading to a cellar, where he can hear shouts and heavy breathing. He eases the hatch open, carefully making his way down the steps.
The heady smell of mildew and cleaning supplies fills his nose, and there’s a bitter taste in his mouth.There’s boxes and boxes piled up in the corner of the room, and dust litters the floor.
He crouches, the stairs making a slight creak as his heart pounds in his ears. He feels breathless, his eyes darting to check for movement. He squints in the dim lighting, able to make out three figures.
One is Sherlock, alive, but motionless, his arms bound behind him with tight rope. It’s digging into his skin, leaving red marks on the pale of his wrist. John can make out dark circles under his eyes, his shivers and breaths slowing. He has to get to him.
There’s a man, pacing back and forth and swearing at the other stocky, wide-eyed abductor.
“What good is he if he’s dead by midnight?” He exclaims. “I asked you to make him uncomfortable, not deprive him of all heat until he’s fucking near death! I may as well do everything myself, instead of hiring you brainless imbeciles to do it for me!”
“He’s still alive,” The other man points out, “He might still be by midnight.”
His nostrils flare. “All I’m trying to do is earn some damn money. This is not a gamble. I want him alive, so I can hand him back alive. Do you think it’s easy trying to kidnap Sherlock Holmes, Abbot? That bloody Watson is always by his side. The one time he isn’t, you have to go and fuck things up!”
John’s muscles tense as he inhales. He takes two careful steps to them, his figure is clear even in the dim light. The two abductors are silent.
“Sorry, did you say Watson?” He asks, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. His gun is raised and aimed, his muscles taut in case of a quick getaway.
Abbot scrambles to his feet and points his gun at John.
The other man glares at him. “Don’t be an idiot! Shoot him!”
Before any man can press the trigger, John places his gun in Sherlock's direction.
Sherlock finally notices him, a small, drained smile on his lips.
“If you shoot me, I’ll shoot him,” John says lowly. “You’ll have two murders on your hands, plus a kidnapping. And, you’ll never get the money.”
The man glowers, taking a step closer.
“You wouldn’t. He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?” He sneers. “You wouldn’t shoot the man you love.”
John laughs harshly, stepping back.
“You’d be surprised. Love can drive you mad.”
He thinks he sees Sherlock’s mouth quirk in a smile, but it’s only in his peripheral vision, and it’s too dark to tell.
He’s standing solidly, his lips pressed together as his fingers flex on the trigger, waiting. The silence is stretched and drawn out, as the man considers John’s words.
He can see the steel in John’s eyes, the way he’s prepared to do anything for Sherlock. His heinous smile wavers, and he rubs a hand through his hair.
John can hear heavy boots pounding on the floor above them. Lestrade is coming. The man seems to hear it too.
He anticipates what’s coming before it happens, and he can see the bead of sweat lining the man’s brow. He's going to make a snap decision.
“Shoot him anyway.” The man instructs.
John turns to Sherlock, his voice strong as he says,
“I will always come to save you, Sherlock. I love you, and no person, no place, no thing, can take that away from me.” He feels tingly all over, his mouth dry and his heart pounding in his ears.
There’s a whizz of a bullet, and he drops to the ground.
He keeps moving, crouched low, bullets stirring the dust on the floor, loud explosions errupting from the weapon.
John narrows his eyes, focusing on a shifting black boot, a bullet flying dangerously close to his ear. There’s a loud explosion as his gun fires at Abbot’s boot, his ears ringing with the noise.
There’s a cry, and the bullets stop.
John straightens up as heavy footsteps trample their way down the cellar steps, and he hears guns cocking, encircling Abbot and his boss.
“Don’t move. We have you surrounded.”
It’s all over now.
Sherlock’s cold to the touch, although John is the one who shivers.
It frightens him that Sherlock almost feels like a corpse, frigid and unfeeling in his arms. He unties his wrists with care, brushing his lips against the angry red flesh.
His heart’s still pounding, but there’s a newfound anger that replaces adrenaline, and he wishes he would have arrived sooner.
He checks Sherlock’s pulse, slow and feeble underneath his fingertips. Sherlock shudders against John’s warmth, sagging against him.
“M’fine,” He stammers.
It’s enough reassurance to remind John not to panic. He holds him close, wrapping his arms around the small of his waist. John’s trying to provide him with as much body heat that he has available, but the shivers that wrack Sherlock’s frame do not stop.
There’s some kind of effort on Sherlock’s part to move away, as if he’s remembering boundaries, even in his cadaverous state.
“Don’t you move, you idiot. You can’t even stand. You’re going to sit here until the medics wrap you up all nice and warm, okay?” Sherlock makes a soft noise that sounds like assent, and buries himself in John’s neck.
Sherlock’s still quaking in John’s arms like a child with nightmares, and John feels he can never forgive himself.
“You were gone and I-” He cuts himself off with a deep breath, restarting. “I thought I had lost you. I thought I’d never get to tell you everything I’ve ever wanted to.” His warm breaths skim Sherlock’s skin. “I didn’t want words I didn’t mean to be the last ones I’ve ever said to you.”
Sherlock murmurs something incoherent, and it’s all John needs to knows he’s heard, and that’s enough for now.
Medics dash around the two of them, pulling them apart and wrapping Sherlock in layers and layers of thermal blankets, placing him on stretcher and attaching him to an IV.
John watches the scene unfold, trying to push his way back to Sherlock. He sees the abductors being arrested and shoved in police cars, workers clearing out the scene. He’s almost to the ambulance when Lestrade hurries over to John, blocking his way. John expects a lecture about running off, (Who would have thought he’d be the one being lectured?) but Lestrade only laughs.
“I could give you a whole speech about waiting for the professionals, but that wouldn’t have stopped you, would it?”
“Nope,” John says, craning his neck to try and catch sight of curly hair, or some bit of Sherlock.
“The strange thing is, you two don’t stop risking your lives if the other is in danger. It’s some fucked up way of expressing your love for each other,” He says, smiling wryly.
“Sorry?” John stills, his focus snapping to Greg. He hears love and he remembers. Why he came, what he said, and how he has to make up for every nasty word he’d said before. Sherlock may not show his care in the way most people show affection. Frequent smiles and hugs and extolling best qualities were not the way he did things. He shows his concern when John’s in danger, by risking his life, by laying everything on the line. It’s not an ordinary kind of love, but Sherlock's not an ordinary person.
Lestrade smiles, moving out of the way and gesturing for him to go ahead.
“Go on, then. I’ll take your statement later.”
John nods, swallowing, and clambers into the ambulance, claiming to be Sherlock’s doctor.
His hand’s twined in Sherlock’s the entire ride, and neither of them lets go until they’re forced to.
Sherlock’s half- propped up in the hospital bed, covered in blankets, his eyes fixed on John. The shivering had subsided a few hours ago, along with the tired glaze in his eyes.
He’s pale and his skin still has a blueish tinge, but John has never seen him more radiant, blazing with brilliance. It’s such a comfort, so familiar to him, that he can’t suppress the warm smile flooding his features.
They hadn’t been separate for very long, but the constant anxiety of Sherlock’s well being had made the hours stretch into days.
He places his hand gingerly on top of Sherlock’s, tentatively stroking his knuckles in a soothing motion.
His chair’s pulled close to Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock probably thinks it’s John’s trying to comfort him, but it's John who needs the comfort. He needs to hear Sherlock’s even breathing, he needs to feel warm skin under his fingertips.
“John-” Sherlock starts.
“Yes?”
“I knew you’d find me.” He smiles, meeting his eyes.
John has never been more thankful to see those eyes, his jutting cheekbones, the tangled mop of curls brushing his forehead. The constant ache that followed after every beat of his heart had vanished, leaving him a light, almost giddy state. He returns the smile, and his mind stutters back to his confession.
“Did you hear..what I said?” He asks warily, unsure how to proceed. He wants to save what lies between them, yet he wants to start something new. Is it possible to have both? Or is there only one option?
Sherlock squeezes John’s fingers, and it’s enough to plow him through the heavy emotion that thickens his throat.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean what I said before. I was furious with you. You’re maddening sometimes, and I’ve been so frustrated of you not caring, not even showing an outward expression of your care. I just-” His voice cracks at the edges, and he swallows. “I just wanted you to show me some kind of affection. It’s so hard to interpret your emotions because you’re so complex. You show your love in a way that most people don’t understand. Even I, could not decipher it.” He shrugs. “That’s love, I suppose.” He shuffles his feet, averting his gaze.
Sherlock inhales, a deep satisfied breath before speaking.
“We were both at fault. I find that it is easier to mask emotion under indifference than to convey true feelings. I could not jeopardize our friendship until I was certain you returned the sentiment.” His voice, though still distant, is dense with emotion, something that John so rarely hears. It's close to an apology as Sherlock would make, claiming they were both at fault. “Decrypting emotional intimations has never been my strong suit. I always believed you thought I was unfeeling, never casting a look in my direction because of your sexuality.”
John gives a short chuckle. He wasn’t gay. He still isn’t. But there’s something about the tempestuous storms and thrilling adventures that drive him mad for Sherlock.
“My sexuality has nothing to do with loving you, Sherlock. Love is love all the same.” He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. There’s something new in the way Sherlock looks at him. It’s like an open book, love engraved in every pore of his skin. It’s difficult to believe John hadn’t seen it earlier.
His stomach flutters, each brush of Sherlock’s fingers against his knuckles feeling like an electric jolt.
“So we’re okay, then?’
Sherlock’s eyes soften, and his free hand tugs at John’s jumper, pulling him close. He studies John for a moment, as if expecting him to pull back, but when John doesn’t move, he proceeds. They angle their heads, and Sherlock’s lips are pressed to his, in a firm, assured kiss. His eyes slip shut, the burning embers beneath his skin bursting into flames.
The gravity of the kiss drags him closer, until he’s practically on the hospital cot, his pulse hammering wildly in his chest.
Sherlock draws back, a small smirk playing on his lips. His skin is flushed with color and warmth, a complete contrast to the pale face he’d seen earlier.
John’s lips tingle, and he wets them. Would it be too much to ask for a second kiss?
“We’re more than okay,” Sherlock comfirms. His gaze is cloudy and unfocused, and John’s insides are positively glowing that he's had some sort of impact on the detective's dignified composure.
Sherlock bites his cheek, his piercing stare fixated with John’s lips.
John chuckles. “Well, I don't suppose I can get any mixed messages from that.” He shifts onto the cot, so he’s half sprawled on the too-small mattress and half on top of Sherlock.
“Don’t scare me like that again, alright? Don’t get kidnapped. Don’t antagonize anyone who kidnaps you, either. And especially don’t let them take you away from me.” He presses a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
Sherock’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Not if I can help it,” He says, looping an arm around John’s waist.
His eyes are sparkling with mischief and relief and joy and love, and John cannot tear his eyes away.
He doesn’t need Sherlock to say how much he cares for John.
He can see it now.