Work Text:
“So, she’s alive then.” John paused “How are we feeling about that?” Sherlock didn’t answer, instead his focus was drawn by the empty streets, below. Everyone was already shuttered in with their loved ones, their families, their friends, all eagerly waiting. Sherlock felt a twinge of sadness. He just wanted to… reach out. What would that feel like? Big Ben’s booming call reverberated along the streets and roads of London, heralding the arrival of the New Year, as the clock finally struck twelve.
“Happy New Year, John.”
“Are you going to be seeing her again?” John asked cautiously. Sherlock picked up his bow, resting it against the strings for just a moment, before letting the mellow notes of Auld Lang Syne wash over him. He couldn’t help the sadness that crept from his fingers and from the strings into his music. May old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind. These lyrics had never resonated with him so strongly before he thought, almost smiling. It died before it could reach his lips. He wondered if John had picked up on that. He risked a glance up at him but John wasn’t looking at him, seemingly caught up in his own harried thoughts.
He reached the end of the song and stood for a moment in the silence that followed. He whirled round to see that John had retreated to his armchair and was staring thoughtfully into his glass of whiskey. And Sherlock can’t help himself. The words tumble out one after the other.
“It was never about Irene, John.” The rich baritone of his voice stretches across the silence that had fallen between them.
“Huh?” John startled, ice clinking in his glass as his eyes shot up to meet Sherlock’s. A bloom of warmth unfurled delicately in his chest and this time he couldn’t catch the little smile that surged forward before it tugged at his lips. John glanced away for just a moment before meeting Sherlock’s eyes once again.
“It’s okay Sherlock.” He cleared his throat, swallowed, a pause. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I realise that, John” He looked down at the violin still in his hand and then placed it carefully down onto his chair. This moment seemed entirely unreal; lit with Christmas lights and the flickering, crackling from the fireplace, dust motes freezing in the midst of their pirouettes and harried dancing in the space between him and John. The moment lay electric and pregnant with what lay unspoken between them.
“I realise that now.” Sherlock took a small step forward. John nodded.
“Did you–” he cleared his throat again, and stretched his left hand out against his thigh, reminiscent of his old tremor, “want to talk about it?” Sherlock nodded, the barest tilt of his chin, down towards John. If this was going to be the only time that he could share what he felt, then so be it, but he did not want to hide anymore, not from John. The force of keeping it supressed was flaying him alive.
“This was never about Irene” another small step forward “John”. He could see John open his mouth, watched his inhale. Sherlock interrupted him before he could speak. If John spoke now, he might lose his nerve entirely and that wouldn’t do. Hope beat fervently against his ribcage. John cared for him deeply, of that he was certain. Maybe– just maybe– he let himself fall for just a moment, wrapping himself up in the possibility of returned affection, letting the warmth suffuse through him. Then he extinguished it. Hope was a dangerous game. No, this he needed to say without agenda or expectation.
He swallowed, his hands suddenly feeling far too empty. He smoothed down his jacket, the fabric prickling against his palms.
“Irene made me to confront things about myself that I thought I succeeded in burying a long time ago. Things– sentiment–“ Sherlock realised that he was no longer looking at John and flicked his eyes back up, to see the confusion written across his face. His cheeks burned and he nearly looked away again. Nearly. “I err…” he faltered, cleared his throat and tried again, this was important. “Irene forced me to think about the feelings I have, for you. It was all about you, John. I do not love Irene Adler. I am in love with you.” The words came out altogether, messy, undignified as is often the way with these things. “It’s you, John. It’s always been you. Of course…” he added hurriedly “I say this completely without agenda, I do not expect anything from you but I wanted to start this year being completely straight with you.” He hesitated a moment, allowing himself to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Although, I do appreciate that may have been a poor choice of words, on my part.”
John was on his feet, stood in front of Sherlock. When had that happened? It was John’s turn to take a step forward. They were so close they were almost touching.
“Oh Sherlock.” John’s voice was quiet, reverent. “I got that so very wrong, didn’t I? He blinked, somewhat dazed and unsure how to proceed. Then he reached out and touched Sherlock, letting his hand rest against his arm.
“I’m not– I mean I don’t– but– but with you Sherlock, none of that seems to matter. This is new for me too, but I just want to– Can I just? His fingers tightened against Sherlock for just a moment. His other hand grazed against Sherlock’s hip for a breath before lifting it up to rest against his shoulder. “Okay?” he asked, his eyes brimming over with uncertainty. Sherlock nodded and shuffled forward just a little more. John’s fingers trailed up his neck, danced against his jaw. Sherlock shivered in their wake. He let himself be drawn down as John guided them together. And then their lips touched, a soft, warm pressure and then John pulled back ever so slightly. He swiped his thumb across Sherlock’s bottom lip, his hand trembling ever so slightly. “I love you too, Sherlock. I think I always have.” Sherlock smiled as he pulled John against him once again.
And so there they stood in the middle of the flat completely wrapped up in each other and in all the possibility that the New Year would bring.