Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s on a whim that John enters the shop at all. He’s looked at the shop’s sign nearly every day for two years, and never once stepped inside it. So on his lunch break, he walks across the street and steps inside, and is immediately assaulted with bright colours and the overpowering scent of incense.

He finds it hanging on the wall in the back. He reads the little card stapled to the wall next to it, and something hidden away in the words causes his chest to tighten. With one look it says everything he needs to, everything he can’t, and it’s so perfectly Sherlock that it’s almost painful.

John waves the shop owner over.

“How much for that?” he asks.

The woman smiles, her eyes twinkling like she knows something he doesn’t.

▪ ▪ ▪

They never talked about sleeping together. It just sort of happened, and John went along with it. Sherlock had his own desires, his own strange, funny sort of need for human contact, for physicality, and John didn’t question it. He still dated women, went home with them, and tried to ignore the way Sherlock looked at him the next morning, the way that look made him feel.

If Sherlock slept with other people, he kept his tracks well-hidden. There were no unusual marks on his neck, no smudges of make-up on his collar, no hand-shaped bruises on his hips. He smelt like his own shampoo and laundry detergent, his own skin, the occasional cigarette or cinnamon biscuit.

John would leave, then come home again, and Sherlock never once said anything.

▪ ▪ ▪

“You’re still sleeping with other people?” Harry asked over dinner one night. “John—”

“He doesn’t care,” John stabbed his chicken harder than necessary.

Harry snorted. “Right. And that’s why he left teeth marks on the back of your neck. Because he doesn’t care.”

John turned his coat collar up around his ears.

“Just eat your fucking steak,” he said.

▪ ▪ ▪

Sherlock didn’t care.

He didn’t.

John told himself this, again and again. Sherlock didn’t care. This wasn’t anything – this didn’t mean anything. It was just sex, just letting off steam, celebrating a case closed. It had nothing to do with emotions, or affection.

John rubbed the back of his neck. He felt the bruise.

▪ ▪ ▪

“Very romantic,” the woman had said as she wrapped the gift in black tissue paper. “Very dangerous.”

John handed her the money.

“Keep the change,” he said.

▪ ▪ ▪

It stays tucked away in his pocket, where John can ignore it and pretend he doesn’t know what it means.

Sherlock does experiments with ice in the living room, his hands wrapped around a glass bowl. Later, when he touches John in the fading light, the dim glow from the television, his fingers feel frozen, leaving goosebumps where they land.

▪ ▪ ▪

They wrap up their next case a week later.

John showers and shaves. Sherlock showers next, and John orders take-away. He sits at the kitchen table as he waits. The paper bag from the shop rests on the table in front of him, still closed. John stares at it.

The bathroom door opens and Sherlock steps out, toweling his hair. John hears him pause in the hallway, then the creak of floorboards when he walks closer, entering the kitchen.

“You’re still here,” Sherlock says.

John clears his throat. “Well, yeah. I live here.”

“No, I mean…” Sherlock looks away, avoiding his eye. John’s chest tightens.

“Here,” he says. He nudges the paper bag closer to Sherlock. “This is for you.”

Sherlock stops drying his hair.

“What is it?” he asks.

John smiles. “What’s it look like?”

“A bag,” Sherlock says.

“It’s a present, idiot,” John says.

Sherlock drapes his towel over the back of the closest chair, pulling it out to plunk down onto it. He picks up the paper bag and inspects it, tilting it over in his hands, curious.

John nods. “Go on and open it.”

Sherlock glances at him.

“Whatever it is, it’s small. Not too heavy. Breakable – glass? Judging by the tissue paper, the bag, and the overwhelming stench of incense, you got it from one of those hippie novel–”

“Just shut up and open it,” John laughs.

Sherlock sighs and opens the bag, pushing the black tissue paper aside. He reaches in and digs around, then pulls his hand out.

John brings his chair closer. “I’m sure you already know what it is, but just in case you don’t, the info card is at the bottom of the bag.”

“No, it’s – it’s fine,” Sherlock says, staring at it. He brings it closer to his face, holding it so the glass doesn’t reflect the kitchen light. The skull almost glows against the black velvet inside the glass casing.

Sherlock swallows. John nibbles his bottom lip.

“Black vulture,” Sherlock says, finally. “They’re incredibly careful when choosing their partners, but they mate for life.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. “Well, the card says ‘aggressively monogamous’. I thought that was kind of funny. And, um. Fitting, I guess.”

Sherlock looks at him.

“I’m trying to apologize, all right?” John asks. “For being a tit.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Sherlock says.

“I should have paid more attention,” John says.

Sherlock smiles.

“You see, but you do not—”

“Oh, shut up,” John laughs.

“So,” Sherlock holds the case out at arm’s length, admiring the skull. “One of those proper relationship things, with an ‘aggressively monogamous’ partner. Think you’re up for it?”

John leans in and kisses him. “I think I can handle it.”