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When John wakes up late in the morning, thick raindrops are pattering against the glass of his bedroom windows and the tip of his nose is being tickled by the chilliness of the air.
Yesterday evening, on their way home to 221B after their latest case, the sky had been clear and the temperature pretty mild for a day towards the end of March.
Balancing two half empty cartons of Chinese take away in their hands and still high on adrenaline, they'd stumbled up the steps to their flat giggling so loudly John had feared they might wake Mrs Hudson up.
As they'd reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and Sherlock had turned around to him, his eyes sparkling and the hint of a smile still playing at the corners of his lips, John had almost told him that he loved him. At the last moment, he'd managed to hold himself back.
If only he knew how Sherlock would react. Does he feel the same? If not, would it bother him to know that John feels more than friendship for him? Would he ask him to move out?
Stopping himself from thinking any further, John throws back the blankets and sits up at the edge of the bed.
He begins to freeze almost immediately, so he buries his feet into his slippers and throws over his dressing gown as quickly as possible before walking over to the window nearest to his bed to turn up the heating and draw back the curtains.
As expected, he's greeted by a grey, sunless sky and freezing rain.
But John isn't about to let the return of winter spoil the beginning of his day off.
He doesn't need to head to work through the rain, and because they've managed to go grocery shopping only a couple days ago, before the arrival of their new case had taken over all of their time as usual, he also won't have to brace the torrent outside to get to the shops.
So John walks down the stairs, lights a nice, warm fire in the living room hearth and makes himself comfortable in his chair with a cup of tea, a slice of toast, and several editions of newspaper which he hasn't gotten round to reading during the last few days.
About a quarter of an hour later, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom with a sleepy-eyed expression on his face. He has wrapped his favourite, blue silk dressing gown over his pyjamas and around his thin frame, and, as John notices, is padding over the, probably icy, linoleum of floor of the kitchen with his bare feet.
“Come over here to the fire, before you catch a cold.”
“That's exactly were I'm headed, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock replies, the hint of a smile flickering over his face. He let's himself fall into his chair opposite from John, and stretches his legs towards the flames.
After a moment, Sherlock starts to wriggle his toes slowly, probably so the warmth can float around his digits and reach every millimetre of skin. Evidently savouring the heat radiating onto the skin of his face, he leans his body forward slightly and closes his eyes contentedly.
Suddenly, John feels himself overwhelmed with a wave of affection for the man in front of him, and for a short moment, he is tempted to pour out his heart to Sherlock.
But, just like yesterday evening on the staircase, he catches himself at the last second.
He remembers the newspaper in his lap, which he is unconsciously gripping with increasing pressure, lifts it back up to his face, and resumes his reading.
Sherlock continues to warm himself up for a few more minutes, then he vanishes towards the bathroom.
A while later, he returns, his dressing gown now on top of a white shirt and a pair of black trousers, and his feet being warmed by a pair of socks.
“I'll go and have a shower then,” John says, folding up the last one of the newspapers.
Soon, his own morning routine is finished, and he settles back down in the living room to write up a report of their latest case.
After fishing for his laptop underneath the pile of case notes, books, and other objects on the coffee table, he makes himself at home at the table between the two windows.
The soft sound of John's typing is soon joined by the hiss of a Bunsen burner flame and the occasional clinking of beakers and test tubes in the kitchen.
An hour later, when the account of their latest adventure is complete and John closes the lid of his laptop, the rain continues to gently patter against the windowpane next to him. To his own surprise however, John finds that he still doesn't mind the bad weather outside. The fire is keeping the flat warm and cosy, and, while John isn't sure when exactly the handling of dangerous chemicals, poisonous substances and human body parts in a kitchen has acquired that attribution, Sherlock's machinations nonetheless seem to have a weirdly calming effect on him.
It's almost a quarter past noon already, so John decides he's going to potentially disturb those experiments and try out the pasta recipe which he's found a few days ago. Sherlock seems to have a penchant for Italian food, so John has hopes that he's going to love it.
As he starts chopping onions and slicing tomatoes and chilli for the sauce, Sherlock appears behind his back, peeking inquisitively over his shoulder. “This is a new recipe,” he states.
“Mmhm, yes it is,” John mumbles while tipping the onions from the cutting board into the bubbling olive oil in the pan.
When John turns around he sees that Sherlock's regarding him with narrowed eyes. His gaze flicks a few times between John and the pan on the stove, then he returns his attention back to his experiments on the kitchen table with a thoughtful expression on his face.
Twenty minutes later, after Sherlock's rearranged his test tubes and microscope to make room for two plates, they're both sat down at the kitchen table. John's just about to lift the first spoon of his chilli-tomato pasta into his mouth when Sherlock let's out an astonished “Oh!”
“What's wrong? Did I put too much chilli in? Is everything all right?”
As John's trying to anxiously gauge Sherlock's expression, the man bursts out into laughter in front of him.
“No, no, you didn't put too much chilli in. It's delicious. Fantastic, in fact. It's better than Angelo's spaghetti.”
John can feel himself go as red as a beetroot. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure.”
“Right.” Still trying to recompose himself, John adds jokingly, “Maybe apart from my gun and surgical dressings I should start carrying a field kitchen with me on our cases. Perhaps this way I could tempt you to eat something while you're working.”
“John, how am I supposed to think or even just to run fast with my stomach having drained all the blood and energy away from my brain?”
“I'm not saying that you should overeat yourself, you daft sod,” John retorts affectionately. “I know that you're often too absorbed in your work or too excited to even remember eating, but what if one day you'll just faint in the street because you've forgotten to eat. Or, what if you'll get kidnapped, and you already haven't eaten for days, and then, then you'll be too weak to...” Realising the full weight of what he's about to say, John's voice suddenly deserts him. But he's sure Sherlock knows how that sentence would have ended. Letting out a shaky breath, John looks up into the man's eyes. Sherlock's looking at him with a gaze even more intense and inquisitive than the one from earlier. John feels a lump form in his throat.
“It really worries you.” Sherlock's voice has gone very soft.
Tentatively, John swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yes, yes it does,” he says in a tone of voice almost as soft as Sherlock's.
Sherlock nods contemplatively, and then, looking back up again, declares, “I'm making no promises. But in the future, I'll try to eat something during cases. If I forget, you can remind me. Will that put your mind at ease?”
“Yes, yes it will,” John answers, a brief and still a bit shaky smile passing over his face.
“Good.” John's smile is reflected on Sherlock's face, and they return to eating the chilli-tomato pasta in front of them.
For a few minutes, they both remain silent, but not much later, and they are a giggling, laughing mess again. So much so that John almost knocks over one of Sherlock's various tubes and containers with his elbow.
“What would have happened if I had spilled it?” he asks, eyeing the suspicious red substance inside the, thankfully sealed, glass vial.
“Oh, not much,” answers Sherlock nonchalantly. “I reckon you'd have gotten the disinfectant from the cupboard and scrubbed the table furiously.”
Letting Sherlock's words sink in, John takes the vial up into his hands and holds it up into the light. “Wait, this is blood, isn't it!?!”
“Calm down, it's only pig's blood,” Sherlock says, an amused lopsided grin beginning to spread over his face.
“Only pig's...” John can't help but burst into a fit of giggles. “Are you saying that I've just eaten my lunch next to a vial of animal blood?”
“Yes.” Sherlock apparently can't hold himself back any longer, so he joins John in his fit of giggling laughter.
Later, after finishing their meal and doing the dishes, John puts new logs into the simmering embers of the fireplace and then nestles himself back into his chair again. The whispering of the burning fire and the crackling of the wood being devoured by the flames are soon drowned out by the roaring and bubbling of water boiling inside the kettle. With his eyes closed, John listens to Sherlock preparing tea in the kitchen. The clink an clank of the teapot and two cups being taken out of the cupboard and deposited on the counter-top, the soft rustle of tea leaves, and the sound of first water, then tea and milk being poured.
Finally, Sherlock appears next to John's chair, placing one cup of tea onto the side table.
The second cup still in his hand, he winds his way around his own chair to the window.
Outside, the heavy rain has ceased at last, but the sky is still grey and a light drizzle has begun to fall.
Taking careful sips from his tea, Sherlock watches the goings-on in the street below.
Not for the first time, John is struck by how beautiful Sherlock is. His long and thin fingers wrapped delicately around the teacup, he is leaning back against the wall of the window bay in effortless grace. The faint light streaming in through the glass setting his pale skin aglow, contrasting dark locks falling over his forehead and curling around his ears, he appears almost otherworldly.
“Anything interesting?” John asks, indicating with his chin towards the street.
“Just a woman walking her daughter's dog, and a young man with his girlfriend who has forgotten that today's her birthday. He's contemplating whether he should give her the novel which he has actually bought for his aunt. She should leave him immediately.” John can feel his mouth starting to crinkle into a smile. “And...there's another man, accompanied by a woman. They're seeking shelter from the rain inside Speedy's. He's clearly cheating on his wife with her.” John can't help it. He let's out a small laugh.
Smiling, Sherlock takes one last sip of his tea before placing the cup on the table next to the window.
“Would you like some violin music?”
“That would be lovely.”
Striding over to the other side of the room Sherlock takes the violin and its bow out of their case and into his hands.
“Something brooding, given the weather, or perhaps a fanciful piece to offset the gloom?”
“I’d love…you.”
The words tumble out of John's mouth without thinking. They are still true though.
He loves Sherlock. More than anything.
And he wants to enfold him in his arms, to caress him, kiss him. To make love to him.
But he can't tell him that. At least not yet. Not right now.
Hopefully, Sherlock doesn't catch on to the double meaning of his words or, even worse, detects the turmoil of feelings taking place in his chest.
At first, Sherlock looks disconcerted, then, for the fraction of a second, his eyes seem to narrow and his gaze to zero in on John.
He must have imagined it however, because when Sherlock starts speaking a moment later, he sounds completely casual, as though nothing has happened.
“You mean something I’ve composed myself?”
“Yes, yes that's what I meant.”
Sherlock nods and lifts violin and bow up to his shoulder. The bow touches the strings and warm, soft notes begin floating through the room.
With his eyes closed, Sherlock let's his body sway to the music, allowing his feet to move in small steps. His dressing gown wafting gently around him, he dances slowly through the living room.
The music seems to wrap itself around John, enveloping and protecting him like a blanket. After a while, he let's his eyes fall shut as well.
As the piece progresses, every muscle in John's body relaxes and the chaos in his mind ceases.
When he senses it to reach its end, he reopens his eyes and watches Sherlock come to a stand a few feet away from him, drawing the bow over the strings for the final time.
“That was beautiful. And very calming, actually.”
“Really?”
Suddenly feeling self-conscious, John adjusts, “Well I'm no music expert, so perhaps I can't make a profound judgement, but to me it was perfect.”
“No, no you misunderstand. You are the best person to make a judgment about this piece. The only one, in fact.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I've written it for you.”
“For me?” John's staring at Sherlock, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open in shock.
“You know...” Sherlock begins to explain hesitantly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “A few weeks ago, when I was up late, finishing the saliva experiment, I heard you screaming upstairs. Then, a bit later, your footsteps, as you were walking around in your room. You had obviously had a nightmare and couldn't go back to sleep.”
“I remember that night. I went to the window to catch some air, and then... you began playing downstairs... I listened to you, and my breathing started to calm back down... I didn't realise that you were doing it for me, though...”
“I thought music would perhaps be able to help you. A few minutes after I'd begun to play, I heard you go back to bed. I kept playing until I was reasonably sure that you'd fallen back asleep. You didn't have another nightmare for at least one sleep cycle afterwards. So--”
“Wait... I didn't have another nightmare for at least one sleep cycle afterwards? Sherlock... It was already two in the morning when I woke up... One sleep cycle lasts one to two hours... And it also took some time before I was back asleep... Does this mean you stayed up for me until after four in the morning?”
“It was 4:30 if I remember correctly. Anyhow, the music had proofed itself effective, so after that night, I decided to compose a piece designed specifically to help you go back to sleep after a nightmare.
One of the ways the brain reacts to music is by synchronizing the heart rate and breathing frequency to it. So apart from melody and pitch, I took a special care to the rhythm. Over its course the piece slows down from 70 to 50 beats per minute.”
“The average adult human heart rate while resting, and while asleep,” John supplies.
“Yes.” Sherlock gives John a small smile.
“The piece you played earlier, I think its rate doesn't go down that far though?”
“No. That's because it's only part one of three. I played only the first part because I wanted you to relax, not fall asleep.”
“One part of three? Sherlock... I... I don't know what to say.”
Overwhelmed by all Sherlock has just told him and needing a moment to process everything, John falls silent.
Just as he's about to recollect himself however, the silence is broken by Sherlock.
“John... there's something I need to ask you...”
In John's head, alarm bells start ringing. His heart starts beating faster.
“I'm not entirely sure, but I think yesterday evening, on the stairs, you wanted to tell me something... and earlier, you wanted to as well.”
Now, John can feel his heart racing in his chest.
Luckily however, Sherlock doesn't seem to expect an answer just yet. Taking a deep breath, he continues, “You have memorised what I like to eat and what not. You've tried out a new recipe to surprise me with a new dish. You worry about me. You make sure my feet are warm so I won't catch a cold. You pester me about my eating habits. It distresses you to think of me in pain or suffering. You are afraid I might die or be killed.”
It's the familiar rush of words. The one John's come to associate with Sherlock deducing someone, the suspect of a case, or a passer by on the street.
Except that this time it's not delivered with pride and sureness.
Because this time it's personal. It's about John. It's about them.
John can hear the anxiety in Sherlock's voice. Can see the nervousness in the cramp of his fingers. Recognizes the fear in Sherlock's eyes as his own.
It makes him want nothing more than to take that fear away from Sherlock.
“I love you.”
Sherlock's staring at him, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open in shock.
“In every sense of the word,” John adds. “That's what you wanted to ask me, isn't it?”
Relief washes over Sherlock's face. His lips start to crinkle at the edges. A radiant smile breaks out on his face.
“I love you too.”
Himself beaming, John leaps out of his chair at the same time as Sherlock starts rushing towards him. Meeting halfway, they draw each other into a tight embrace.
His head coming to rest on the other man's shoulder, John buries his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck.
He closes his eyes, feeling the weight of Sherlock's head against his temple, and breathing in the scent of his skin.
Eventually, they start drawing away from each other, but only so far to be able to look at each other. From their position on Sherlock's back, John let's his hands slide upwards, over Sherlock's neck and into his riot of curls, carefully cradling Sherlock's head.
Sherlock's hands have found their place at the base of John's neck, his thumps slowly stroking up and down there, brushing John's hair back and forth.
Mimicking Sherlock's movements, John tentatively strokes one of his thumps over Sherlock's cheek.
“Alright?” John breathes.
“Yes.”
Slowly, they begin to move, letting their heads lean in more and more, until the gap finally closes, their eyes fall shut, and their lips meet.