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Three weeks. It's been three weeks since John's seen Sherlock. Surely that's not an unreasonable amount of time to miss your best friend so much that your chest feels hollow, right?
John sighs, sinking into the overstuffed armchair Mary bought. It's modern and tasteful and lovely, and it's all wrong. There's no tartan blanket on the back, the springs don't sag, and there's no chemical burn on the arm. John rubs his fingers over the phantom memory of the holes on his old chair before looking up, feeling Mary's fond, concerned gaze on him.
"You should go visit him."
"I'm a grown man; I should be here taking care of my lovely pregnant wife. Not out gallivanting with Sherlock."
"Gallivanting, is that the new term for it?" She grins, voice teasing and eyes sparkling with mirth. John bites his cheek and does his best to quell the flush he feels spreading across his cheeks.
"I'm not sure what you're implying, dear wife." John shifts in his chair, willing it to open up and swallow him whole.
"John," she says, her voice suddenly serious. "You mumble in your sleep."
John opens his mouth, a litany of defenses and excuses at the ready, but Mary holds her hands up in a peaceful gesture.
"I'm not jealous, love. He was first. I know, I know, you're about to insist that you don't love him, not in that way. But I think I'm relatively qualified to judge who you do and don't love. It's fine, John. Really. You need to sort your feelings out, and I promise you..."
She crosses the sitting room, half a dozen quick and tiny steps, and squats down in front of John's chair. He reaches out to take her hands, to stabilise himself as much as to stabilise her.
"Whatever you decide, we'll find a way to make it work."
John blinks and coughs, his throat thick and dry. "I miss him, Mary. So much." His voice cracks and they both make a point of ignoring it.
"I know you do, John. I know. I do too." The look on her face makes it plain that she's telling the truth, but there's no way the depths of her feelings for Sherlock are anywhere near the pang John feels whenever he looks over at the sofa, expecting to see the long, lanky form of one grumpy consulting detective and finding a pair of tasteful throw-cushions instead.
"Are you..." He frowns. "Do you..." He lets one of her hands go and rubs his face. "Do you want a threesome with Sherlock, is that it?"
Her laugh is gentle and musical. "It's not a sex thing, John. Not specifically. Does he even, I mean, is he...?" She trails off, chuckling. John knows exactly what she's trying to ask, and he's not entirely sure what the answer is. "It's a life thing, John. We're grown-ups. We can be reasonable. Anyway... think about it." She gets up, groaning softly and cupping her belly as she stretches. There's no real sign of the baby, not yet, but she's already taken to holding her hands protectively over herself. John smiles, reaching out to stroke her hip.
Mary shuffles across the sitting room and grabs her coat off the hook by the door, shrugging into it. John blinks, confused, wondering if he's forgot some dinner arrangement or other. It's too late for much else at this point.
"It's late. Are we going somewhere?" He starts getting out of the chair. Mary's soft laughter is like bells, warming him, helping fill the confused hole in his chest somewhat.
"I, my love, am going out. If you're not going to go gallivant with Sherlock, I will. Someone needs to, or he'll shoot more holes in poor Mrs. Hudson's wall."
Panicked, John bolts out of his chair. He loves Mary, he really does, but there's no way of knowing what she'll do with her knowledge of John's feelings. It's probably time someone tell Sherlock, and that someone should definitely be John. He doesn't need to think about it. He knows how he feels about Sherlock, knows it in his bone and his sinew and his muscle. He's just never been able to admit it, not until now.
***
As Mary puts the car into park in a serendipitous spot not far from 221 Baker Street, she turns to John and reaches for his hand. His body's on autopilot now, his heart thrumming in his chest. When he proposed to Mary, he'd pretty much managed to quash the idea that he had any feelings for Sherlock. There'd been a few near-misses since then, the dance lessons, his stag night, but he's managed to keep that corner of his heart on lockdown in favour of what passes for a normal life.
And now, suddenly, he's about to put it out there, and at the request of his wife? It's all happening too quickly, and he still has no idea how Sherlock's going to react, and maybe they should just go back home for now.
"We can wait, you know. You can think this over if you want," Mary murmurs gently, as if reading his mind. It's bad enough that Sherlock does it, now this? Does John really want two people in his head at all times?
If he's being honest with himself, he's had two people in his head since Sherlock miraculously whirled back into their lives. Before that, even. He sucks in a deep breath.
"No, I'm ready. He might very well just laugh me out of the flat, better to get it over and done with now." Mary squeezes his hand, comfort and strength in one gesture, and John squeezes back before stepping out of the car.
***
Sherlock's staring out the window; posture loose in his rumpled tartan dressing gown, draped loosely over his shirtsleeves and trousers. John grins. He loves that one, it feels strangely old world, and he'd been teasing Sherlock about wearing it more often. He's not superstitious, doesn't put stock in charms or signs, but thinks it bodes well for what he needs to say.
He’s about to clear his throat, making his presence known, when Sherlock turns to face him. Sherlock's expression is flat and guarded, made all the more ambiguous by the fact that turning around has cast his face into shadow.
"John." Sherlock smiles, but the gesture doesn't quite reach his eyes. Not, at least, until Mary comes bustling up behind John. John tries to pretend that it doesn't hurt that Mary warrants a warmer reaction than he does, tries not to read too deeply into it. He clenches his hands, fists at his hips, and swallows thickly.
"Hello, Sherlock. Busy?"
"Never too busy for the Watsons." He smiles again, but something about the words ring a bit sharp and pointed in John's ears. Sherlock is hurt. Lonely. John bites his lip, takes a few deep breaths to calm his pounding heart.
Instinctively, John starts heading to his chair before noticing that it's missing. He tries to form a joke in his head, a glib comment, but he's too shocked, too pained. He just swallows thickly and drops into the low-slung wooden chair next to the sofa instead. Sherlock eyes John curiously and throws himself onto the sofa, taking up as much real estate as he can. Mary just laughs and stands behind John, leaning on the chair. He cranes his head, about to insist she sits instead, and she just rolls her eyes.
For a moment, both John and Sherlock stare at Sherlock's empty chair, the empty spot where John's chair should be, but neither says anything.
"Go on then, make your announcement. Where are you headed? Edinburgh, further North? Off this godforsaken rock entirely, somewhere on the continent?" Sherlock's voice is snappish, abrasive. John is confused by the question. Taken aback. For a moment he debates the idiocy of what he's about to do. But it's plain that Sherlock's current attitude is masking deep pain.
"We're not... no..."
Mary chuckles again. "We're not going anywhere, Sherlock. John has something else to tell you. And if he doesn't blurt it out, I will."
Sherlock huffs, rolls his eyes before closing them. Blocking everything out. Building a wall. Sod it, sod him, sod the wasted years between them that have resulted in this distance. John takes in another deep breath and grips the arms of the chair to steady himself.
"I'm in love with you, you sulky bastard."
Whatever Sherlock was expecting to hear, that absolutely wasn't it, and his priceless reaction was absolutely worth the sheer terror of just blurting it out.
For a moment, he doesn't move at all. He sits up abruptly, dressing gown fluttering about him. He opens his eyes, opens his mouth. Closes his eyes. Opens them again. Closes his mouth. Stares at Mary, then John, then Mary again.
John is yearning to stand up, to go to Sherlock, to run screaming from the flat. He does none of those things. Mary places one hand soothingly on his shoulder, anchoring him. He feels lighter for having said it, untethered, nearly dizzy with the rush of it all. Sherlock is still blinking, stunned by the revelation.
Mary squeezes John's shoulder before gently shoving him in the direction of the sofa. He stands up, briefly wondering how his knees are even still holding him up. Sherlock still hasn't said a single word, but he sits up and swings his legs off the sofa, a hazy invitation. John sits down next to him, close enough to feel the warmth emanating off Sherlock but not so close as to smother him.
"Sherlock? Say something? Please?"
Sherlock blinks and shakes his head, sending his curls bobbing in a way that makes John's fingers ache to touch them. It's as though every thought, every urge he's been repressing for so long are all floating to the surface, now that Mary's gone and stirred the pot up so thoroughly.
"If this is your idea of a joke..." Sherlock's eyes narrow briefly, but the expression on his face is still otherwise blank.
"No, Christ. No." John digs his fingers into his thigh, tries to calm his pounding heart.
There's a shuffling noise that causes them both to turn their heads. Mary's pushed herself away from her perch on the chair. "I... I think I'll go down and see how Mrs. Hudson is." She backs away, and John pulls his eyes away from her and back to Sherlock.
His eyes are wide and his lower lip is pinched between his teeth, and John thinks his heart may break if he studies Sherlock's face much longer. He closes his eyes and sighs.
"Forget I said anything. I should go..." He shifts, about to get up off the sofa when Sherlock's hand darts out, fingers long and cool and smooth, to wrap around John's wrist. He's still maddeningly silent, but the gesture is clear. Stay.
Twisting, John repositions himself so he's facing Sherlock properly now. Either consciously or not, Sherlock mirrors him without ever letting go of John's wrist. Uncertainty is painted across Sherlock's features, softening them. It's alien, and utterly beautiful.
"I've... I'm... this..." Sherlock stammers, lost for words, and John can't help the grin that paints itself across his face.
"Not really your area?" John chuckles, and it's enough to break the tension between them. Sherlock laughs too, and the sound reverberates deep in John's chest, blooming warmth through his body.
"Not really, no." Sherlock's familiar dryness is back, rounded at the edges with the amusement he saves only for John.
Emboldened, John reaches up with his free hand and cups Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb across those cheekbones. He almost expects them to be sharp, but Sherlock's skin is soft and warm, pliant under his fingers. Sherlock sighs quietly, leaning into the touch.
His heart's pounding furiously now, the rush of blood in his ears drowning out everything else, but there's only one thing John wants to do. Emboldened by Sherlock's positive reaction, he leans forward, closing the space between them, their lips so close he can feel Sherlock's warm, rapid little puffs of breath on his lips.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John?"
"I think I'd quite like to kiss you right now. May I?"
Sherlock's eyelids flutter for a moment, before he allows them to slip shut. John studies the soft, dense fringe of his lashes, his entire body vibrating in anticipation, waiting for Sherlock's reply.
"John," he murmurs, almost inaudible. "You know how I hate it when you ask stupid questions you already know the answer to."
And they're not kissing. And then they are. It's tentative, and hesitant, and a little bit awkward when Sherlock's teeth bump John's upper lip. And it's all the more perfect for it. John shifts his weight slightly, pulling Sherlock closer to him, wrapping his arms around that narrow torso, feeling Sherlock's whole body trembling against him.
He runs his hands up and down Sherlock's back, soothing him, parting his lips very slightly into the kiss. Sherlock gasps quietly and runs his tongue along the inside of John's upper lip. It's beautiful and strange, not what John was expecting and absolutely, perfectly Sherlock.
Eventually, though, Sherlock pulls away. His eyes are wide and sparkling, side-lit by the streetlamps coming in through the window, his cheeks rosy. John says nothing, merely raises his eyebrows.
"Little overwhelming, yeah?"
Sherlock just nods, sucking on his lower lip. It's full and pink now, engorged with blood, and John's heart skips a beat at the knowledge that he did that. He leans against the back of the sofa, and Sherlock leans forward, tipping into him and burying his face in John's throat. Whatever John expected of this awkward confession, cuddling was not it. He smiles into the plushness of Sherlock's curls.
"Mary?" Sherlock's voice is muffled, the question mumbled into the skin of John's neck, but John knows exactly what he's trying to ask.
Unthinkingly, John nuzzles into Sherlock's hair before replying. "She's, um, yeah. She's more than fine with whatever happens. You should thank her. She's the one who told me to tell you."
Sherlock huffs out a quiet little laugh against John's neck. It tickles, but not unpleasantly. For a moment things are silent. Not yet awkward, but unless John can think of something to say, it might just get there.
Thankfully, they are saved by Mary yet again. He hears her familiar steps coming up the stairs, along with the clinking and tinkling of a heavily laden tea-tray. John shudders to think what exactly she and Mrs. Hudson were talking about down there.
She places the tray down on the coffee table, and John smiles gratefully at her. Sherlock lifts his head and stares at her, as if he's not entirely sure how to react. He blinks slowly, and opens his mouth. John tenses slightly, suddenly worried about what Sherlock's about to say, suddenly worried this was all a disastrous idea.
Instead of barbs, sarcasm, or whatever it was John was expecting, Sherlock lets out an enormous yawn, and John giggles.
"Christ, Sherlock, when was the last time you slept?" Mary's voice is gently chiding, and John's heart swells at the sight of her so genuinely concerned.
"Mmm...." Sherlock mumbles a vague non-reply without ever opening his eyes. He leans to one side, burrowing his face into John's neck. John can't help it, his arm slides around Sherlock's shoulders again and it feels absolutely perfect. How had it taken Mary to point things out for him to realise what he already had? He buries his face in Sherlock's curls and inhales deeply, the scent both excitingly new and comfortingly familiar all at once.
"Sherlock..." Mary's like a dog with a bone. Sherlock sighs, huffing against John's neck.
"What day is it?" He sounds whiny and petulant. It should be annoying. Instead, John thinks it might be one of the most adorable things he's ever heard. He catches Mary's eye and she's smirking.
"It's Thursday, Sherlock." John murmurs against Sherlock's temple.
"Er... Two days then. Two and a half. Ish."
"Okay, both of you. Up!" Mary claps, startling Sherlock into a more alert state. They both sit up straight like naughty schoolboys and John bites back a giggle. "We're going to bed now."
Sherlock's eyes go wide, a flush of pink spreading across his cheeks. His look of innocent shock is unbearably lovely, and John kisses impulsively him on the cheek. Again, it feels more perfect than John can comprehend, like they should have been doing this years ago.
Mary smiles, leaning over and kissing both their foreheads in turn.
"Relax, Sherlock. You need sleep. You have a big bed. We don't need to do anything you don't want to do."
Grumbling quietly, Sherlock stands, and a rush of cold air surrounds John. He comforts himself with the knowledge that it's only temporary. As three limbs of the same organism, they shuffle through the kitchen and down the hall towards Sherlock's bedroom.
John can’t help it, he bursts out laughing when he opens the door. His chair is sitting in the corner of Sherlock’s bedroom, buried in magazines.
Sherlock wakes up slightly, and John can tell he's about to come up with some ridiculous excuse, but he merely raises one eyebrow and Sherlock nods, dropping down onto the bed.
“Sentiment?”
“Sentiment.” Sherlock’s acknowledgement is irritated but resigned.
Mary giggles. Sherlock scowls at her, but the expression is playful. Once again, John marvels at how well this is going, how lucky he is.
Sherlock does his best to stifle another yawn and John crosses the room to his dresser. His clothing is all exactly where John remembers it to be, tidily folded and sorted by colour. He pulls out one of Sherlock's soft, well-worn crewnecks and a pair of rumpled pyjama trousers and tosses them onto the bed.
"Give Mary one of the other shirts." John nods and pulls out a second one. It will be comically large on her, more like a nightshirt, but it'll work. For a moment, John wonders what he'll sleep in, when a familiar swath of striped fabric catches his eye. He pulls the folded bundle out, heart fluttering in his chest.
"I was wondering where these had got to. I thought I must have forgot to pack them."
He turns to look at Sherlock, whose face is a strange combination of bashful and defiant. "I... I wasn't wearing them. I just..."
"Oh, you poor ridiculous sods, the two of you. Part of me is glad that you're both emotionally constipated, or there'd never have been room for me!" Mary chuckles. She's stripped down to her knickers, shimmying into Sherlock's shirt. Her only concession to decency is that she's facing the wall. John notices Sherlock staring at her with uninhibited curiosity, and grins.
Sherlock furrows his brow, staring at the folded pyjamas on the bed. His fingers fly up to the button at his throat, but he makes no move to undo it. John sits on the bed, reaching up to squeeze Sherlock's hand comfortingly before kissing him quickly on the cheek.
"Suddenly shy, are we? Go change in the loo, it's fine."
The smile Sherlock gives him is watery and grateful, and he ducks into the bathroom to get changed. While he's gone, John undresses quickly and steps into his comfortable old pyjamas. He turns down the covers just as Sherlock slinks back in, rumpled and adorable, and yawns again.
For a moment, things feel as though they're going to turn awkward. Sherlock looks at John, who looks at Mary, who merely rolls her eyes and gets into bed.
"I like her, she's efficient." Sherlock says blithely, squeezing John's hand. John laughs and crawls into bed behind Mary, sighing contently as the mattress dips once more while Sherlock settles in behind them.
He feels warm here, safe, surrounded. They fit together well, like a set of measuring cups, or matryoshka dolls. Mary turns to kiss him gently, and he returns the kiss before turning to kiss Sherlock. Everything flows, as though this is the most natural arrangement in the world. It may be unconventional, but as he feels Sherlock's breath against his neck, the slackness of two bodies falling asleep on either side of him, John smiles to himself again. Convention is overrated.