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It was a testament to how very exhausted he was, not since Afghanistan had he experienced such bone weariness, that he hadn't noticed how exactly Sherlock had managed to get them home until he was gently shaken awake.
“You sure he doesn't need A & E, mate?” Lestrade turned off the car and turned back with a concerned frown.
Not a cab then.
Sherlock never agreed to a ride in a police car. Not even Lestrade’s unmarked one.
John blinked a few times to clear the grogginess and swallowed around what felt like dry cotton in his throat. He realized with a start that he and Sherlock were huddled in the middle of the back seat, and that he was inelegantly slumped against Sherlock's chest, with the mad man's arm wrapped around his shoulders.
He felt warm. Safe. Intimate.
Wait.
Stop.
John tried to push away, but a wave a dizziness hit him and he leaned back against Sherlock with a sigh. The hand wrapped around his bicep tightened minutely and John swore he felt Sherlock's breath hitch.
“Just take a minute to get your bearings, John.” Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble John could feel vibrate through his chest and into his own head.
If it weren't for Lestrade watching them, a wary sort of smirk on his face, John could have stayed right there forever.
But Lestrade was there, smirking like an idiot (did he just snap a photo with his mobile? Bastard), but still concerned. And Sherlock wasn't prone to physical acts of affection, or any affection at all (married to his work). His actions felt protective. Almost possessive. As if he were trying to keep John near, and everyone else out. But what...
Oh. Oh fuck.
John caught a whiff of chlorine from the depths of the parka, that damned parka (not his own coat), and it all came back. The lingering fuzzy, foggy around the edges, feeling of being drugged. The ache in his ribs and back from the fight he'd put up before the brutes managed to knock him out. The phantom weight of semtex strapped to his chest. Moriarty's grating sing-song lilt.
The brief look of betrayal on Sherlock's face. Brief, but all too real. Such deep, agonizing hurt. John would never forget, it would haunt him. Left him feeling… ill… Oh christ...
Sick. Shit.
John scrambled, shoving a stunned Sherlock away, and fumbling with the door just a moment too long. He stumbled to his knees just in time to be sick on the pavement rather than in Lestrade’s back seat.
He heard the low, harsh and rapidly whispered arguing from within the car, but paid it no mind as he coughed and spat. With his arms wrapped gingerly around aching ribs, he stayed there shivering with his knees folded awkwardly beneath him. The car door closed and he felt Sherlock crouch down next to him.
Close. So very near.
Sherlock offered him an open bottle of water. He took it, rinsed his mouth twice, then quickly drank half of it down. He suddenly felt as if he were dying of thirst, and nearly choked in his rush, until a firm hand came to rest on the back of his neck and another took the bottle away.
“John, slow down.” Sherlock murmured near his ear. “Breathe. You're going into shock, and Lestrade wants to drag you to the hospital.”
“No. No hospital.” John ground out and leaned into Sherlock's touch.
“Then breathe,” Sherlock repeated. The hand at John's nape slid down to rub his back. He froze and took in a sharp breath when John winced. “He hurt you. That… psychopath hurt you.”
John shook his head. “Not him. His goons.”
“What? John, what did they do?” Sherlock resumed rubbing his back, and though the touch was gentle, John could sense the tension of fury in the way Sherlock's posture stiffened.
“I put up a fight is all.” He shrugged and took the water back from Sherlock. “Three against one. Not a fair fight, but I held my own. For a bit.” He forced a humorless laugh, which resulted in a cough. Sherlock did not laugh with him.
“I'm going to kill him.”
“Sherlock…”
“He has to be stopped, John. He would have killed you tonight, and I…”
“Us,” John rasped.
“What?” Sherlock leaned closer.
“He would have killed us. Could have. I couldn't let him hurt you… I…” John coughed again.
“John.” Sherlock waited for John to look up at him. “I am going to stop him. I swear to you.”
John was stunned by what he saw in the changing, sea before a storm, eyes. Fury, yes. Rage. Fire and passion. But something… Something else. Something more. Something that drew John up and halted his breath. He shivered against it and Sherlock's hand on his back moved to close around his bicep.
“I need to get you inside. Up off the ground.” The intensity of Sherlock's gaze softened, but his eyes. There were no words to describe those eyes.
Damn.
Damn it.
John was lost. And he wasn't really listening, but Sherlock might have asked him if he could stand. John nodded dumbly and let Sherlock do the work for him, lifting him up to his feet, taking most of his weight, maneuvering him to and through the front door. And he just let him.
He knew then without a doubt, he would always let him
John would follow him anywhere. Kill for him. Obviously. Die for him. Without question. Fight with him. For him. Stand beside him. Go any distance. Or simply just... stay.
All of it.
He wasn't sure how Sherlock got them both up the stairs, but he stumbled up the last one, and the strong arms around him tightened and held on.
“Sherlock,” John turned to face his flatmate. His friend. His… “Wait.” He hesitated only a moment before placing his hand in the middle of Sherlock's chest.
“John?” Sherlock gazed down at him. Confused, yes. A bit of concern. But more.
Christ he hoped he wasn't misreading.
“Sherlock, I know…” John's words left him, and he toyed with Sherlock's scarf a moment. “You don't… Sherlock, I…” He sighed and dropped his head. It should never be so difficult. But he needed Sherlock to know. Everything. And it all seemed too much. Too big.
“John.” A look of startled understanding crossed Sherlock's face, followed quickly by relief and then fear. Before John could react, Sherlock was pulling him to his chest, wrapping him in the most all encompassing hug he'd ever known. “John.” Sherlock whispered against his hair. “It's been a long night. You've been compromised. It's okay…”
“No!” John shook his head and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “I have to…”
“John, you… we nearly died. It's understandable to have an emotional reaction. To experience feelings that might easily be mistaken for…”
“Not a mistake. Sherlock, you are not a mistake.” John leaned back only far enough to look up at him. “I made this choice that first night.”
Sherlock took a shuddering breath. “I'm not a good man.”
“Patently untrue.”
“I'm difficult.”
“Yes.”
“I hurt you. Make you angry.” Sherlock sniffed and looked away. “Leave you behind and drag you to danger.”
“Just don't go where I can't follow, and the rest will be forgiven.” John brushed his hand up Sherlock's arm, along his shoulder and gently turned his face back toward him.
“Why?” Sherlock's voice was thick with emotion, and the look of guarded insecurity on his face broke John's heart.
Stillness eased upon them.
The muted sounds of London at night mingled with the faint sound of Mrs. Hudson's television. The house settled around them. They breathed in tandem, subtly in and out.
John could feel Sherlock's pulse slow under his fingers.
They stood, unmoving, just outside their flat. The scuffed and abused threshold before them, symbolic of so much more in that moment than any of the countless other times they'd crossed it before.
“I,” John took a deep breath and shored up his courage. “Sherlock, I think I might… And I understand if you don't… Or can't. It doesn't… It's okay, you know? It's all fine…”
“Oh, John,” barely a breath. Sherlock leaned in and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “I…”
“I love you.” John whispered and he ducked his head so he wouldn't have to see the rejection.
Sherlock held him closer, his breath gone a bit erratic. “John.”
“It's true.” John mumbled against Sherlock's chest. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I meant it. It's okay if you can't. If… if you don't want this… want me. It's okay. I'll be okay… We could just…”
“No! John, no.” Sherlock pushed him back a step and took him by the shoulders. “Look at me? John please?”
When John looked up he gasped. Sherlock looked wrecked. An emotional mess. That more still shone in his eyes. Were those tears? Was he was smiling?
“You. You, John Watson. Do you see what you've done to me?” Sherlock dropped his hands and let his shoulders slump. “Want you? How is that even a question. I thought it obvious by now that I need you. Wanting was a matter very short lived. but I never allowed myself to hope.” He wrinkled his nose in disdain. “A troublesome sentiment, hope.”
“Sherlock.” John stepped back in close. “D'you think I…”
“Please?”
John leaned up and guided Sherlock gently down. A soft brush of lips. A bit of pressure pressed to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. His smooth jawline pressed to the day old stubble of John's cheek.
“I love you.” John felt more than heard Sherlock's whisper against his ear.
“Do you.” Not a question, but a timid validation.
Sherlock hummed in confirmation and pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot below John's ear.
“Happy birthday to me,” John sighed against Sherlock's neck.
“John.” Sherlock stepped back and cupped John's jaw with his hand. He looked devastated. “Is it really? Is this really your birthday?”
Checking his watch, John nodded. “For about an hour more.” He turned his face to kiss Sherlock's fingers, then leaned into his touch.
“That's why you were going to meet Sylv…”
“Sarah,” John closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.”
“Sarah,” Sherlock let his hand fall away, but John grabbed it and urged him to put it back where it had been. “You should probably call her. If you want…”
“We broke it off weeks ago. Just friends, going out to get a bit pissed to spite old age.” He kissed Sherlock's wrist. “I don't want…” He shook his head. “You. This. I want this. If you'll have me.”
“How did I not see?” Sherlock brought his other hand up and brushed John's cheek with his thumb.
“You were distracted,” John smiled a lopsided smile up at him.
“I'm sorry.” The heaviness was back in Sherlock's tone.
“Don’t be.” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. “She knew. Saw it before I did. Said she thought I needed to explore my options. All of them.”
“I should send her flowers.” He turned John's face up and kissed him slow and sweet. “I am sorry,” he whispered when they parted.
“Sherlock,” John sighed.
“I am. For this night. For…” He groaned. “For placing Moriarty’s target on you. For almost getting you killed.”
“We're here now.” John turned his head just enough to kiss Sherlock's jaw.
“But you will always be in danger because of me.”
“Better together than you on your own.” Another soft press of lips, this time to Sherlock's pulse point.
“This is probably a bad idea.”
“Oh, most assuredly.” John managed a genuine chuckle.
“I will, without fail, ruin more birthdays to come.” Sherlock's eyes were wide with uncertainty, though his mouth quirked in a tiny smile.
“This wasn't even the worst one.” John thought back to the birthday spent under fire, when he'd lost more men, boys in truth, than he could save. To the first birthday after he'd lost his mum. His eleventh birthday, and the first time his da raised more than his voice against him. He shook his head and realized Sherlock was watching, likely seeing all of that. “Maybe top ten, but not the worst, by far.” He leaned up and pulled Sherlock into a lingering kiss, more heated and desperate than the others.
Sherlock panted, his hands still holding John's face near. “It was still a rubbish way to spend your birthday. If such mundane frivolities are of interest at all.”
“There's still a little time to redeem the day. If that's the sort of frivolity you'd be interested in.” John winked.
Flushing crimson, Sherlock nodded, and kissed John's forehead. Taking John's hands in both of his, he stepped backwards toward the door of their flat. “Could be dangerous.”
“I'm still here.”
“You're sure? This, me, I'm what you want?” Sherlock sounded uncertain. Frightened almost. “Because I won't be able to go back. This is it for me. You… John, you're…”
“Oh god, yes.”
Sherlock backed into the sitting room, pulling John across the threshold with him. He let go of one hand only long enough to close and lock the door.
“Happy birthday, John.”