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The first delicate rays of sunlight forced their way through the gap between the thick curtains. A faint beam stretched across the threadbare carpet, chasing the shadows to the corners of the room as it crept forward. The trill of a blackbird entwined with the deeper, more insistent cooing of a wood pigeon, the very first of the dawn chorus. It was so very different from the mechanical hum of the city with its ever present roar of traffic, the bubbling clamour of people, of life turning, always in motion.
Sherlock turned his head to look at John. He was turned slightly towards Sherlock, one hand tucked under his head, the other lost under the duvet. His eyes were soft, his breathing steady, lost to the peace of sleep. Sleep mussed and bundled in blankets he looked so much younger, not that age had been unkind to him. The passing years had changed him but not degraded him as time sometimes has the propensity to do. He burned even brighter now than when Sherlock first laid eyes on him, a lifetime ago. His dusty blonde hair was now heavily adorned with silver as was the stubble that ghosted across his jaw. The story of his life was etched into his skin; the crow’s feet at his eyes told of laughter, thick and full bodied, of adventure, of sprints through London streets where life coursed through veins chased by adrenalin and of course, of quieter, more domestic moments of soft smiles and warm skin. Then the creases across his forehead told of his pain, his anger, his sadness, of tears shed and wounds buried but not quite healed.
He watched as dust motes spiralled and danced on John’s exhale as it escaped between parted lips and marvelled at the man before him. He lived his life with a staunch determination, refusing to be broken by the trials that life spun for him and there had been plenty. The chinks and cracks that he had sustained over the years only served to show the light burning deep within him, ever present, unwavering. Sherlock was in awe of that, ashamed of the shadows that dwelled inside himself in the presence of John’s light. He was luminous, a burning star at the centre of Sherlock’s universe. His gravity made Sherlock feel grounded and safe in a way he never had, before John. His fists and his trigger finger had proven their strength many a time, railing against Sherlock’s carelessness but that was not what he meant. John stood fast in the path of Sherlock’s self-destruction, fingers grasping, holding Sherlock together as he threatened to fly apart, ripped at the seams and lost in the tumult of his mind. He knew that John could not come out unscathed, was left bloodied and scarred by the effort of holding Sherlock together, but he refused to let go even as the demons that stirred within promised to devour him and threatened to extinguish John’s brilliant light. And Sherlock hated that about himself. The thought that he might destroy him crouched, heavy and bitter, in the pit of his stomach. A wave of nausea swept over him as the self-loathing oozed thick and viscous through his veins, urged on by the ugly beat of his heart. The doubt came next, the fear that John would leave, that John should leave. It was an old thought but it could still paralyse Sherlock, lacing his thoughts with paranoia and panic. He swallowed thickly, trying to calm his heart which had started a frantic staccato rhythm against his ribcage. These thoughts were unfounded, he knew that. John had proved himself time and time again, with his words, with his touch. But Sherlock knew he took too much and worried that one day he would cross the line.
He smiled sadly, ‘a man with a heart that offends with its lonely and greedy demands’. Yes, John was too good for him, but Sherlock could no longer imagine a life without him. The days of chasing highs, of self-administered poison, of fierce and reckless solitude seemed distant, the corners of the memories now dog-eared and stained by time. Now John was all around him; John with his mugs of tea and his ugly jumpers, John as hard as iron and as warm as down, burning steadily alongside Sherlock’s chaos, John who was loyal and fierce and John who’s hands told the story of his love as he explored the plains of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock knew that the world didn’t understand; he was a freak, a sociopath, unfamiliar with matters of the heart but John shot them down as he took Sherlock’s hand in his, fed him hope and peace with a brush of lips against lips. He could be a better man for John and if he had to spend a lifetime proving it then that is what he would do. It was easier when they were like this, alone and distanced from the hustle and bustle of London, of the demands of the work, sensation scratching and picking at his mind, scattering him in so many different directions. Here, now, his focus was laser sharp. It was easier to soothe his sharp edges when they were safe and cocooned in this way.
John sighed as he stirred to consciousness, his soft sleepy smile drawing Sherlock from his thoughts, stilling his self-flagellation with a firm hand, soothing his pain as he took his heart, cupping it tenderly in his hands. John reached out and pulled Sherlock to him, pulling him out of the shadows into the light, the sunlight spilling through the window and into the light emanating from within him and Sherlock relaxed into John’s arms. With John there, it was going to be okay. It was always going to be okay.