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Faint light filtered into 221B Baker Street through drawn drapes, casting the living room in pale, sombre tones. The space was tidier than usual, and the fireplace was lit. It was a quiet afternoon, occupied only by two men.
Sherlock Holmes sat in his leather armchair, a steaming mug of tea cradled in both hands. He wore a navy dressing down over his dress shirt and pressed black trousers, and dark stubble shadowed his jawline, chin, and upper lip. His hair was an unkempt mop of ebony curls, his skin sallow and under eyes bruising as a result of many sleepless nights and recent drug abuse. His angular features were marred by a partially-healed cut on one eyebrow.
John Watson sat in the faded red armchair opposite him, in a dark blue and green tartan button-down shirt and dark wash jeans, holding his own mug of tea. His face was drawn, exhaustion and grief carving lines around his mouth and eyes. His silvery hair was trimmed short at the sides and combed back at the top. He lifted his eyes to look past Sherlock’s shoulder, staring intently at the window.
Sherlock took a drink from his mug, his focus affixed to the floor. Something felt off between them, and it made him apprehensive. Before, there was very little he would not express, no matter how insensitive. But now, he was inclined to bite his tongue, lest anything disturb the very delicate balance of their relationship.
Sherlock sighed. “Still a bit troubled by the daughter,” he remarked softly, “Did seem very real, and she gave me information I couldn’t have acquired elsewhere.” He raised his piercing blue gaze to meet John’s slate-grey eyes.
The sight of Sherlock’s bloodshot left eye, a brutal reminder of John’s violent outburst, made John tense with self-loathing. “But she wasn’t ever here?”
“Interesting, isn’t it? I have theorised before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost anything.” Sherlock sniffed, glancing down pensively.
John nodded. “Hm. So you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn’t know.”
“Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind.” Sherlock’s eyes strayed from John again, contemplating the notion. “I’m intrigued.” He took a sip of his tea.
“Oh, I know you are…”
Sherlock tilted his head ever-so slightly.
“Which is why we’re all taking it in turns to keep you off the sweeties,” John added.
Sherlock lowered his mug. “I thought we were just hanging out." The hurt undertone in his voice was only partially an act, as his lips upturned into a fleeting, feeble smile.
John inhaled sharply and looked at his watch, then back at Sherlock. “Molly’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, I do think I can last twenty minutes without supervision.” Sherlock attempted another smile, but it was no more convincing than the first.
John averted his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to leave him alone, but he couldn’t stand the way his presence made him feel. The unbearable brew of guilt, uncertainty, and longing. “Well, if you’re sure.” He took a sip of his tea.
Sherlock turned his head, severing eye contact, to prevent John from noticing the emotions written plainly on his face.
John set his mug down on the tray atop the round table beside him, resting his hands on the chair arms and shifting to the edge of his seat. “Uh, sorry. It’s just, um, you know, Rosie.”
Sherlock’s expression transformed into one of sudden realization. “Yes, of course. Rosie.”
“You’ll be okay for twenty minutes?”
“Yes. Yes. Sorry, I–I wasn’t thinking of Rosie,” Sherlock made a dismissive motion with his hand, a gesture intended to alleviate John's doubt.
John stood. “No problem.”
Sherlock glanced down initially, collecting his thoughts. “I should, uh, come and see her soon,” he suggested, looking up at John with cautious hope.
John curled his fingers into fists at his sides, an anxious habit. “Yes.” He turned away and strode woodenly towards the open door.
Behind him, Sherlock lowered his head and gazed into the black depths of his tea. He could already feel the grips of loneliness constricting around him. He raised his head suddenly, struck by an impromptu thought. “Oh, by the way, the recordings will probably be inadmissible.”
John pivoted on the landing, taking a few steps back into the room. “Sorry, what?”
“Well, technically, it’s entrapment, so it might get thrown out as evidence,” Sherlock explained. “Not that that matters; apparently he can’t stop confessing,” Sherlock let out a short, humourless breath of a laugh.
John lowered his eyes to the floorboards briefly and clenched his jaw. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Sherlock pressed his lips together in a flat line and looked anywhere but at John.
John nodded, flexing the fingers of his left hand, then returned to facing the doorway. But he didn’t leave. Not yet. Instead, he lingered there, on the threshold, conflicted.
Sherlock peered into his mug again, then lifted his head and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Are you okay?”
Laughing sarcastically, John made his way back into the room a second time. “Uh, what? Am I…” He stammered. “No. No, I’m not okay. I’m never gonna be okay." The volume of his voice rose and his tone sharpened. "But we’ll just have to accept that. It is what it is; and what it is is ... shit.”
Sherlock cast his eyes downward, nodding in understanding.
John inhaled deeply through his nose and bowed his head, gathering every ounce of strength he had for what he was about to say. “Hm.” He elevated his gaze to Sherlock once more. “You didn’t kill Mary.”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped up, connecting with his.
“Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No one made her do it. No one could ever make her do anything. But the point is: you did not kill her,” John assured him, his declaration firm and genuine.
Sherlock’s eyes fell to the carpet, distant. “In saving my life, she conferred a value on it,” he spoke quietly, hesitating for a moment. “It is a currency I do not know how to spend.”
John stared at Sherlock, at a loss for words. He turned his gaze away, then back to him again. “It is what it is.” His smile was short-lived and tight.
Sherlock nodded, inclining his head.
John pulled in a steadying breath. “Uh, I’m tomorrow, six ’til ten,” he stated awkwardly. “I’ll see you then.”
Sherlock held up his mug to him in a mock toast, smiling. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yeah.”
For the third time, John turned to leave. He was stopped dead in his tracks by the text alert noise of Sherlock’s phone, which was a very familiar, female orgasmic sigh. Sherlock, his mug at his lips, snuck a quick glimpse at his phone.
Turning round and coming in yet again, John furrowed his brow at Sherlock. “What was that?”
Lowering his mug, Sherlock’s gaze flitted nervously about the room, acting confused. “Mm?” He swallowed his mouthful of tea. “What was what?”
“That noise.”
“What noise?” Sherlock asked him, still feigning ignorance.
Slowly, John approached him, frowning.
Sherlock avoided looking at him.
John paused to stand in front of his armchair, deep in thought.
“John?” Sherlock pressed, the silence putting him on edge.
John straightened. “I’m gonna make a deduction.”
“Oh, okay. That’s good.” Sherlock managed to maintain a calm, unaffected exterior, but internally he was dreading the possibilities.
“And if my deduction is right, you’re gonna be honest and tell me, okay?”
“Okay. Though I should mention that it is possible for any given text alert to become randomly attached to a–”
“Happy birthday,” John interrupted.
Sherlock’s head snapped up. He gazed at him in stunned silence for a long moment, before acknowledging his conclusion with a nod. “Thank you, John. That’s... very kind of you.” He couldn’t hold eye contact with John for very long, because he knew that his eyes might betray him.
“Never knew when your birthday was.”
“Well, now you do,” he replied, softly, taking a sip of tea.
John felt a surge of frustration clenching in his chest. “Seriously, we’re not gonna talk about this?”
“Talk about what?” Sherlock inquired, not daring to meet John’s eyes.
“I mean, how does it work?”
“How does what work?”
John forced a brief smile. “You and The Woman.”
Screwing his eyes tightly shut, Sherlock released a sigh of exasperation.
“D’you go to a discreet Harvester sometimes? Is there, uh, nights of passion in High Wycombe?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed by this new low of obliviousness John had sunk to. “Oh, for God’s sakes. I don’t text her back.”
John chuckled, moving a few steps across the room. “Why not?” Stopping to look at him, he grinned. “You bloody moron!”
Taken aback by John’s raised voice, Sherlock gaped up at him.
“She’s out there,” John said loudly, pointing towards the doorway. “She likes you, and she’s alive. And do you have the first idea how lucky you are?” John rested both hands on his hips. “Yes, she’s a lunatic, she’s a criminal, she’s insanely dangerous – trust you to fall for a sociopath. But she’s, you know…” He trailed off, at a loss for further words.
“What?”
“Just text her back.”
“Why?” Sherlock challenged, finally meeting his eyes.
“Because High Wycombe is better than you are currently equipped to understand.”
Sherlock glanced down, his lips forming a pout. “I once caught a triple poisoner in High Wycombe,” he remarked, attempting to change the subject.
“That’s only the beginning, mate.”
Sherlock sighed. “As I think I have explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people…”
“…would complete you as a human being,” John cut him off, completing his sentence for him.
“That doesn’t even mean anything.”
John leaned closer to him. “Just text her. Phone her. Do something while there’s still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, Sherlock: it’s gone before you know it. Before. You. Know it.”
Sherlock’s eyes flicked nervously up at John a few times, hearing an entirely different meaning to those words and desperately wishing he could bring himself to act on them.
John tilted his head in the general direction of the window. “She was wrong about me.”
Sherlock’s eyes met John’s. “Mary? How so?”
John glanced at the fireplace, inhaling deeply, and stepped closer. “She thought that if you put yourself in harm’s way I’d... I’d rescue you, or something. But I didn’t – not ’til she told me to. And that’s how this works. That’s what you’re missing. She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Get yourself a piece of that.”
Immediately, Sherlock leapt to John’s defense. “Forgive me, but you are doing yourself a disservice. I have known many people in this world but made few friends, and I can safely say…”
“I cheated on her.”
Sherlock’s rebuttal died in his throat.
John gestured toward Sherlock, feeling disgusted with himself. “No clever comeback?” To Sherlock’s surprise, he turned to face something– someone he believed no one else could see. The ghost of his wife, Mary. “I cheated on you, Mary.”
Sherlock blinked, realization dawning on his face, but remained silent as he turned his head in the same direction as John.
“There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I’d been playing with Rosie.” He paused, then raised his eyes, grimacing. “And this girl just smiled at me. That’s all it was; it was a smile.”
Sherlock’s eyes settled once more on John, transfixed.
“We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying – that’s when.” John swallowed harshly, his eyes welling with tears. “That’s all it was. Just texting. But I wanted more. And d’you know something? I still do.”
Upon hearing this, Sherlock felt a traitorous flicker of hope. But he dismissed it instantly, telling himself that John was still referring to the woman on the bus.
“I’m not the man you thought I was; I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point.” John sniffed, his eyes stinging. He bit his lip, his voice breaking, “That’s the whole point. Who you thought I was … is the man who I want to be.” Swallowing, he fought off the tears threatening to escape.
For a long moment, John just stared straight ahead. Then, gradually, he let his head drop into his left hand as he finally broke down. Wordlessly, Sherlock put down his mug and stood from his seat. John’s back rounded as he sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks. Slowly, Sherlock crossed the room.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, cautiously raising his arms. This was uncharted territory for him. He hesitated, fearing rejection, then carefully laid his left hand on John’s arm and his right on his back. Gliding it upwards to gently cradle John’s neck, he inched closer as he slid his left arm up around his shoulder to mimic the way John had hugged him at his wedding. His heart was pounding, and so was John’s.
“It’s not okay,” John whimpered, tearful, choking on his grief as he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s chest.
“No,” Sherlock whispered, lowering his cheek onto the top of John’s head and inhaling deeply the familiar scent of him. “But it is what it is.” Blinking rapidly, he held him tighter, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent his own tears from falling.
John let out a strangled sob, letting the hand positioned between them drop away from his face. No more barriers remained. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat when John took a fistful of his shirt, gripping onto him while he wept. Sherlock’s lips were so close, so very close, to grazing John’s soft hair. He wanted nothing more than to kiss him, to kiss his pain away. But he couldn't, wouldn't, do that to John.
They were in much closer proximity to one another than they had ever been, nearly pressed together, but to him, there was a distance between them that only the right words would surmount. But what were the right words? He’d grappled with his feelings for so long now, he wasn’t even sure if he could say something after all this time, let alone whether he should.
“John?” Sherlock whispered, pausing just in case John decided to reply. No answer. He exhaled the shaky breath he’d been holding. “I love you,” he breathed.
He waited for John’s reaction with bated breath, his heart racing. When nothing was said in return and no movement of any kind was felt, he closed his eyes and wondered if he’d spoken too quietly to be heard. Either that, or John had heard him and chose not to reply. Sherlock didn't know which was worse.
Neither man knew how long they stood there, although it felt like rather a long while before John eventually began to withdraw. Sherlock’s arms relinquished their hold, releasing him from his embrace. A tense silence hung between them, weighted with the words they’d never dared to speak aloud. Although John was no longer touching him, he had yet to move further than a single step away.
Sherlock bit his lip, hanging his head. He desperately wished he could take back those three words. Stuff them back down his traitorous throat and lock them in his chest. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered.
John frowned, tilting his head back to face Sherlock. “What?”
Sherlock refused to meet his eyes, clenching his jaw.
“Did you mean it?”
Sherlock's breath snagged in his throat. Ah. So he had heard. There was a long pause. A very heavy question hung in the balance, laden by years of ambiguous gazes and acts of devotion bordering on downright madness.
“Yes,” Sherlock finally murmured.
“Sherlock, look at me.”
“John, I’m not an idiot. I know you’re grieving. I know that this is quite possibly the worst timing, and I don’t... expect anything. I’m not asking for–”
“Sherlock, shut up. Shut up, look at me, and listen to me.”
Sherlock pressed his lips together, hot tears pressing at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t do what John wanted. He couldn’t let him see the pain swimming behind his mask of indifference, because that would mean exposing the very weakness he’d carefully hidden for what felt like an eternity.
“I loved Mary. I really did.”
Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know.”
“I don’t regret a single moment I had with her, and I certainly don’t regret Rosie. But…”
Tentatively, Sherlock met John’s eyes, waiting for the end of that sentence.
“But," John paused, inhaling a deep, bracing breath. "I loved you first. Ever since that first case, with the mad cabbie.”
Sherlock froze, blinking rapidly, rendered mute and incapable of processing this new information.
“But you left. You faked your death, and you disappeared for two years. Two bloody years. I had to try to move on, or I think I would have gone insane. I only wish you’d said something sooner, before you disappeared. Before I met Mary. I guess I could have said something, but… you know. You’re you, and I’m me. You’re Sherlock Holmes, the perfect, aloof genius, the man who sees everything and reveals nothing.”
In spite of himself, Sherlock’s lips curled into a sincere smile. “Oh, John Watson. As ever, you see but you do not observe.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m not perfect, I never have been. You’ve always been the better man of the two of us. You are the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever known. You are perfect.” His smile turned sad. “I don’t deserve you.”
For a short stretch of time, John just stared at him. The intensity of emotion behind his slate-grey eyes was breathtaking. Potent. Heated. Sherlock couldn’t identify it; it confused him to no end. Then, before Sherlock could comprehend his intentions, John pulled him down by the lapels of his dressing gown. The next thing he knew, John’s lips were moving against his. John was kissing him, and he was kissing him back. Sherlock took ahold of John’s face, cradling it in both hands and sliding his long fingers into his soft, silvery hair as he deepened their kiss.
John moved his hands down from Sherlock’s lapels to his chest, applying gentle pressure to maneuver him backward. Sherlock gasped as his back slammed into the bookcase. John pressed his hips against him, both men moaning in unison at the additional contact. Before the situation could escalate any further, they broke apart for air, John leaning against Sherlock.
Sherlock chuckled breathlessly, the sound reverberating in his chest, and kissed John’s forehead. “You’re also a damn good kisser."
John let out a small giggle, then lifted his head to smile up at Sherlock. “So… Does this mean you want me to move back in?”
Sherlock’s smile dimmed into a more serious, anticipative expression. “Do you want to?”
John grinned. “God, yes.”
“I’m sure we can make room for Rosie,” remarked Sherlock.
John nodded.
Clearing his throat, Sherlock furrowed his brow. “It’s not my place to say but … it was just texting,” he stated gently. “People text.”
Heaving a sad sigh, John averted his eyes.
“It’s not a pleasant thought, John,” Sherlock continued. “But I have this terrible feeling, from time to time, that we might all just be human.”
John returned his attention to the tall, lanky man in front of him. Their eyes met, pale blue connecting with cool grey. “Even you?”
“No… Even you.”
John lapsed into thoughtful silence, taking the time to consider his words. Then, resurfacing, his eyes concentrated on Sherlock again. “Cake?”
Sherlock looked perplexed. “Cake?”
“Well, it’s your birthday. Cake is obligatory.”
“Oh, well. Suppose a sugar high’s some sort of substitute.”
“Behave.”
Sherlock gave him a sly smirk, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Why don’t you make me?”
“Maybe I will,” John quipped.
“Hm…” Leaning into John, Sherlock brought both hands up to cup his face, a cheeky smirk forming on his lips. “Or, alternatively, we could skip the cake?” He suggested, his baritone voice low, husky, and enticing.
John raised his eyebrows. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Have been for the past four years, but thanks for noticing,” Sherlock purred, bending down. His lips grazed against John’s, their touch teasing, before Sherlock kissed him with proper passion.
This kiss was more urgent than the first. It escalated rapidly, a rush of hungry mouths and explorative hands. Very soon, they were both breathing heavily and grappling at each other’s clothes. Fingers crept beneath shirts to trace spines and dig into bare skin. Hips moved of their own volition, craving friction. The heat, the mutual need for gratification, was becoming unbearable.
For Sherlock, this was an entirely new kind of high. A biochemical intoxication. Pure, unadulterated hunger. His knees were weak, his heart was racing. It was electrifying, this euphoric loss of rationality, and far more addicting than any synthesized substance. For once in his life, his brain seemed to shut down, as instinct and carnal instincts seized control. Every new sensation incited another wave of feverish ache. It was utter madness, irresistible. Surrender was inevitable.
Their lips parted, as John stood on tip-toe and lowered his mouth. Letting his head fall back against the bookcase, Sherlock groaned as John mapped out the length of his neck with slow, open-mouthed kisses. Reaching out to grab one of the belt loops on John’s trousers, Sherlock tugged, because even though their bodies were flush against one another, it wasn’t nearly enough.
John lifted his head, gazing up at Sherlock smugly. “Bedroom?”
“Dear God, yes,” Sherlock gasped, his desperation audible.
John took a step back, smirking. Sherlock watched curiously as John crossed the room, approached the cabinet to the right of the dining table-slash-desk, and opened one of the drawers. He rummaged around until he found what he wanted, then turned to face Sherlock. In his hand was the iconic, paparazzi-adored deerstalker cap.
Sherlock wore a look of intrigued bewilderment. “Seriously?”
“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” John stated, striding back over to him.
“And?” Sherlock challenged, but accepted the hat from him nonetheless.
“And, I want to see you wear the damn hat and nothing else.”
The corner of Sherlock’s lips upturned into a seductive smile as he donned the cap. “I think that can be arranged…” He leaned in, tilting his head ever-so slightly to one side. “Doctor Watson,” he whispered in his ear.
Taking John by the hand, Sherlock led him through the kitchen. Upon reaching his bedroom door, they exchanged conspiratorial grins. Sherlock reached down to hastily turn the knob. The second the door was open, John took Sherlock by his narrow hips and pushed him inside. They collided, too delirious to care about how sloppy the kiss was. John kicked the door shut behind him with a loud slam, giggling as Sherlock's dexterous fingers got to work on the buttons of his shirt.