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John was threading through the early morning London rush hour, having picked up Rosie from friends outside of the city, his mind deep in thought. He didn’t even remember how it had started exactly. The past months were just one giant blur of pain and grief and sleep-deprivation. It must’ve been some few weeks after he and Rosie had returned to Baker Street. The flat he and Mary had lived in was simply tainted. How could he raise his daughter in the same rooms where her mother had laughed and lived and loved her? How could he cross a hall where she would never walk again, how could he sit in a kitchen that would forever be void of her voice? They needed to get away, to start fresh—or at least as fresh as John could manage.
Sherlock’s proximity and his manic energy when working cases had proved helpful in overcoming depression once before, so John fell back into tried and tested patterns. Sherlock didn’t tire of assuring him how welcomed he was and John assured him of his gratefulness in return. Eventually, life found a way to restore some form of normality.
But things weren’t like they had been those seven years before. They tiptoed around each other, courteously and more softly than before. There was a strained sort of amicability between him and Sherlock now, each carefully avoiding addressing the issues that lurked in every corner of their home—misplaced trust, betrayal, hurt, heartbreak. At lot less bickering filled the air of 221B, a lot less snark and exasperation. And a lot less laughter. Every day seemed to consist of the same polite conversation, the same exhausting duties, the same glass whisky too much. And yet, no one looking in through the windows would’ve guessed that they weren’t a perfectly content makeshift family, mourning a tragic loss, yes, but content still. John knew better. They were slowly falling apart.
Sherlock was clean but set on a hardly less destructive path, taking case after case, barely sleeping, eating only every few days. He looked thinner and more worn-out by the minute and John didn’t say anything. He fought his own demons.
He was drinking too much, he knew it. But the alcohol exquisitely numbed the world’s sharp edges, especially at night. John had been tormented by nightmares for so many years now that they had become a nuisance he had barely noticed anymore. Since Mary’s death, however, the dreams had become more vivid, more detailed, more brutal. As soon as he closed his eyes, the familiar images of a blazing sun and screaming bullets mixed with Sherlock’s falling figure, blood streaming over the pavement and filling the well he was drowning in. For months, he hadn’t found a single night of unencumbered sleep, except when he was black-out drunk. With whisky saturating his bloodstream, he spent the nightly hours in blessed unconsciousness that unfortunately lacked permanence and made him long for its eternal cousin as soon as morning came.
It must’ve been one of the sober nights, then, when it first happened. He woke, the darkness of his old room he occupied once more pressing into his eyes like a blindfold, to find somebody next to him. Sherlock had silently sneaked into his bed, had crept under the covers without a word, without touching John or trying to wake him.
John neither spoke nor moved. He just lay in the perfect blackness of the night and listened to Sherlock’s shallow breathing, keenly aware of his own hammering heartbeat. He was sure Sherlock knew he was awake but neither of them dared to break the silence. Eventually, the steady waves of Sherlock’s breaths rocked John back to sleep. When he woke, Sherlock was gone.
John would’ve been sure he had only dreamt up this strange nocturnal encounter but a few nights later it happened again. And then again. Sherlock stole into his room and into his bed, and then they just lay there, aware of the other’s waking presence until John finally fell asleep again only to wake alone. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t even dare to let on about this odd shift in their habits. When had they ever talked about the important stuff?
It wasn’t that John didn’t like the feeling of Sherlock’s body heat slowly seeping through the sheets into his own skin—quite the contrary. It had something dangerously addictive about it, being gently enveloped by Sherlock’s scent and sound. Soon, John found a peculiar feeling of loss blooming in his chest when he was deprived of the other man’s warmth next to him.
One of those lonely nights, the aching right beneath his sternum threatened to take over, to slowly choke the life out of him. So, John got up and made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom, careful not to bump into the furniture or make any other noise. The door still creaked as he opened it and John heard Sherlock stir in the darkness. But once again, neither said anything as John approached the bed and slipped in next to Sherlock.
It took another week before they first touched. John couldn’t even remember who had come to whose room that night. He only recalled the feeling of his hand brushing against Sherlock’s under the covers, the pitch-black silence around them offering a welcomed disguise for this most unthinkable deed. Tentatively reaching out, exploring this new territory, they wrapped their fingers around each other. John’s heartbeat drummed a savage rhythm upon this innocent yet world-altering touch. As he fell asleep that night, hours later and still holding Sherlock’s hand, he felt a bit of the weight lift off his shoulders.
Every night from then on, they closed the distance a little further, one inch, one bit of skin at a time. Sherlock’s fingers crept up John’s arm, barely moving a millimeter per minute, found their way around his waist the next night, onto his back, until the two of them were finally tightly aligned in an unfamiliar hug. They no longer left before dawn now but untangled their bodies with the first rays of early morning light breaking through the curtains, still not a word about last night leaving their lips.
In silent agreement, John permanently joined Sherlock in his bed at nightfall, limbs pulling each other into an embrace that grew almost desperate in its tightness. And nothing more happened. They only held onto each other with fearful steadiness because letting go meant drowning in the high tide that had flooded their life. It was nothing but a lifesaver, John thought, an anchor in these darkest waters, a safe haven after Mary and Moriarty and Eurus. Sherlock wanted to console him, nothing more. He was trying to make up for the pain and the loss, offering a little safety, a little solace. Just like he was babysitting Rosie, doing his chores (at least sometimes), or dragging John along to crime scenes—He was just trying to help. And for once, John found himself too weak to refuse it even though the thought of Sherlock’s sole, noble intention tugged at his guts with vicious claws.
So, John refrained from deepening their touch, from sparking something less chaste but infinitely more dangerous—no matter how much he wanted to. Sherlock’s form pressed against his was heaven and hell all at once. Because this wasn’t meant to be more. Even when the impulse to place a kiss on Sherlock’s exposed collar bone grew into painful urgency, John restrained himself, repeating the same words in his mind over and over again: That is not what this is. Do not take advantage.
And they still didn’t talk. Whatever was happening between them, it was fragile and so delicate that John didn’t dare touch upon the subject lest it might break. As long as the sun shone, he simply lacked the courage to even think about it. Only under the cover of darkness, when he felt Sherlock quiver beneath his touch, his pelvic pointedly turning away from John and his breath caught for just a second, he began to wonder if there was a chance of it meaning something else. As a doctor, John was accustomed to the way bodies reacted to such close proximities. It didn’t mean anything, nature just worked that way. But, still, his mind returned to the same question every single night. Did Sherlock share his feeling? How could he? He didn’t feel things like that. Did he?
To make matters worse, the daytime began to soar up to new heights of discomfort. While John at least found some rest in their nightly closeness, his brain relying now on Sherlock’s presence rather than a bottle to keep the monsters at bay, Sherlock’s state seemed to worsen even further with every passing day. He was distant, moody, and unusually quiet. His cheeks grew hollower and his eyes were now permanently reddened and bloodshot as if he had been crying. More often than not, he left in the early morning or locked himself up in his room all day. Only the clicking sound of the key turning back each night gave John an unmistakable sign that he was still welcomed to share his bed. Sometimes he retreated to his own bed, nevertheless, just to give Sherlock an out if he wanted one, only to find his friend cuddling up to him a few hours later.
Last night, they had finally reached the breaking point. Lying in Sherlock’s bed, one giant mess of arms and legs holding on for dear life, they breathed against each other’s skin, John’s rhythm becoming more relaxed by the minute. Although Sherlock’s muscles beneath the thin layer of his t-shirt were still as tensed up as the first night they had hugged like this, John couldn’t help but relax in the comforting embrace to the thud of Sherlock’s heartbeat.
He was on the brink of sleep when he felt soft lips press onto his forehead. Involuntarily, he held his breath, a shiver making its way down his spine. He was unable to move, unable to react. Was this really happening? A kiss on the forehead didn’t mean anything now, did it? Maybe it had just been an accident. Surely it had just been an accident. Before John could shake off his stupor, Sherlock cautiously loosened his grip and rolled onto his back. The moment was gone.
John didn’t know how he ever fell asleep afterward but he must have had since his subsequent dreams were full of Sherlock—the walls coming up behind his eyes, shutting him out, keeping all those secrets in. Even if it hadn’t been an innocent accident, if there was something Sherlock felt for him, it could never work, not after everything that had piled up between them. The leap they both would need to take was just too big. After all, they were still coming undone, still crumbling and breaking apart under the pressure of their past.
John’s hands clenched around the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white from the pressure. He needed to do something, he needed to end this vicious cycle of hurting and guilty silence.
Then he heard it. The radio host curtly announced the new artist and as soon as the first few lines hit John’s air, his breath caught in his throat. There it was, their situation woven into lyrics, his feelings sung in someone else’s voice. And he knew what he needed to do.
***
Sherlock was tired all the time now even if he didn’t want to admit it. He barely slept at night, carefully holding a slumbering John in his arms, like a silent guard against the terrors that besieged him at night. John needed him, needed someone to protect him from the shadows that haunted him or he would end up like his sister, like Sherlock, an addict. He couldn’t let Rosie lose another parent, Sherlock swore it. That’s why he couldn’t allow himself to sleep while on duty. This was too important. He owed it to John, after all he had put him through. And this worked. John had cut back on the whisky significantly already, all because Sherlock offered the stronghold of his body for him to take shelter in, even if he didn’t realize it.
But the sleep-deprivation wasn’t what got to Sherlock. There was permanent exhaustion carving into his body that slowly but steadily gnawed the flesh off his bones. A few more weeks and his transport would give in, worn down by the constant torture of having John so close and yet being unable to bridge the final distance between them.
He craved the nighttime now as much as he feared it. Sometimes he needed the whole day to prepare for the hours in which John was lying next to him, his arms wrapped around Sherlock so tightly that he could almost bring himself to believe that the intimacy was actually meant for him, that John didn’t think of his late wife, didn’t pretend to be holding Mary instead of him.
He stayed in his room or roamed London for as long as he could possibly allow himself, only returning after twilight when the darkness offered cover for his wasting heart. John took the hint, turning off the lights in their flat as well. It made it easier for him too, Sherlock guessed. Pretending was less difficult when your eyes didn’t betray you.
And yet, he had ruined the illusion last night, given in to temptation. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He could only hope that John had already been asleep, even if his breathing pattern and pulse had suggested otherwise. He would probably never know. After all, they didn’t talk about any of this, ever. Even if he had wanted to ask John about it, or at least observe any changes in his behavior, he didn’t have the opportunity since John had got up early to pick up Rosie, leaving Sherlock alone to be tormented by his thoughts.
It had come as a welcomed excuse to abandon Baker Street for the day when Lestrade had shown up and requested his help with reviewing cold cases. John had returned in the middle of their conversation, slumping down in his armchair with an almost cheerful smile and not even offering to accompany him. Sherlock’s stomach had turned. Maybe John had finally grown tired of his presence altogether. Maybe he was finally back on his feet now, no longer needing Sherlock’s assistance. Maybe he was so appalled by Sherlock’s overstepping last night that he couldn’t stand the thought of being around him any longer. Maybe he would leave Baker Street again, forever this time. Sherlock had thrown on his coat and left before he could give in to the annoying habit of shedding a tear at the thought.
Now, almost twelve hours and as many cups of frankly horrible coffee later he had been practically thrown out by Lestrade who threatened to have him escorted if he didn’t leave on his own to get some sleep. Perhaps Sherlock should lace his tea with laxatives the next time he saw him, just as a petty little act of revenge.
He stepped out on the curb in front of the Yard and felt freezing, steady rain needling his face. In any other weather, he would have considered walking home, just to waste some more time.
He fished his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text, as had become custom over the past few months—for the sake of this new uncomfortable courtesy.
To: John (20:25)
Leaving now, home in 15
SH
He hailed a cab, only curtly naming his address before falling silent on the back seat. Cold fingers fidgeting with his phone, Sherlock tried to occupy his mind with anything but the prospect of another night of a warm and far too appealing John pressed against him—or worse, John insisting on sleeping alone—when his text alert beeped. Instead of his usual acknowledgment, wrapped in some polite nonsense about dinner, a reply popped up that made Sherlock’s already caffeine-accelerated heartbeat speed up even more.
From: John (20:28)
Sherlock, you know I’m not good
with these things. But if you feel
anything for me, please listen to
this:
Underneath the message, a link was attached, shining blue and intriguing in the falling dusk. Sherlock swallowed, his thumb hovering for a second over the display before clicking. Another application on his phone opened and to his astonishment music began to play. Sherlock quickly turned up the volume, ignoring the cabbie’s irritated look in the rear mirror, but the first few words got lost in the traffic noise. He held his breath, intently listening now to the deep, pleasant voice singing:
…But I’m gonna love you with the
His thoughts were racing to the beat setting in. What was this supposed to mean? Why was John sending him this song, asking him to listen to it—if he felt something for him. Sherlock bit his lip. Did he know? Had he finally caught on to him, after all these years? Love you with the—what?
I feel like you’re holding back
Cause lately we’re just not talking
Just not talking
You’re gone every other night
You’re crying when I’m not looking
When I’m not looking
He did know. Sherlock let out his breath. When would he finally learn to not underestimate John bloody Watson? Of course, he had noticed how Sherlock was struggling with their new arrangement. He suppressed the urge to bang his head against the cold car window and instead forced himself to blend out everything but the song. This was John, speaking to him. And he needed to listen.
It chokes me up to see you living in hell
While lying next to me
If only you knew that you don’t need to be strong
Sometimes, just let it be
This was nice, he guessed. John had seen that he was hurting and was now trying to comfort him, in this admittedly strange but sweet way.
I know that you’ve been hurt before
Broken dreams and burned-out hopes
But I’m gonna love you with the lights on
I’m gonna love you with the lights on
I see the scars upon your soul
I feel the pain that’s in your bones
But I’m gonna love you with the lights on
I’m gonna love you with the
Lalalala Lalalala Lalalalala
Love you with the lights on
Love you with the lights on
Lalalala Lalalala Lalalalala
love you with the lights on
love you with the lights on
Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears—how had he come to be such a crybaby?—and his fingers closed tightly around his phone, still blaring music out of its weak little speakers. If this was John, the words he couldn’t find himself but needed to express, then he had just told him… But that couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. Maybe he just liked the song and wanted to share something nice with Sherlock for once.
“Hey, would you mind turning that—“, began the cabbie but Sherlock interrupted him with a deadly glare and a violent “Shhh”.
Don’t run away and hide
Don’t stay underneath those covers
You’ll drown in cold water
We don’t need the sun to shine
As long as we got each other
We got this
This needed to mean something. Why else would John be so cryptic about it? He could’ve just sent the song or chosen other words—any other words—to prompt Sherlock to open the link.
It chokes me up to see you living in hell
While lying next to me
If only you knew that you don’t need to be strong
Sometimes, just let it be
The song was encouraging and sanguine, almost cheerful, and Sherlock felt his lips quirk up into a lopsided smile. It had to mean something, it just had to.
I know that you’ve been hurt before
Broken dreams and burned-out hopes
But I’m gonna love you with the lights on
I’m gonna love you with the lights on
I see the scars upon your soul
I feel the pain that’s in your bones
But I’m gonna love you with the lights on
I’m gonna love you with the
Lalalala Lalalala Lalalalala
Love you with the lights on
Love you with the lights on
Lalalala Lalalala Lalalalala
love you with the lights on
love you with the lights on
And if you trust that I can keep you warm
Through the dark and stormy nights
We can stay awake together
Until it’s alright
Stay awake together, it echoed in Sherlock’s mind, until it’s alright. And John would love him. That was too good to be true. Tears were now freely flowing over his cheeks although he couldn’t quite tell if they fed on happiness or something else.
Lalalala Lalalala Lalalalala
Love you with the lights on
Love you with the lights on
Lalalala Lalalala Lalalalala
love you with the lights on
love you with the lights on
Sherlock listened to the song three more times, still not quite sure if he was to believe his ears. When the cabbie finally pulled up in front of 221B with an indignant comment about music, Sherlock handed him a few pound notes, apparently giving a more than generous tip going by the sudden change in the cabbie’s demeanour. Twenty pounds or two thousand—Sherlock couldn’t care less.
With weak knees and trembling hands, he approached the door, for a second torn between opening it and running at full speed in the opposite direction. What if he had completely misjudged the situation, this message? What if John was just waiting in his armchair, with Chinese take-out on the kitchen table, and the same carefully constructed mask of cordiality plastered on his face? Sherlock couldn’t take it. He wouldn’t take it. They needed to talk at some point, to sort themselves out—why not tonight when everything was on the line anyway. Whatever followed now, it could only be better than this charade they’ve been putting up lately. It was better to rip a band-aid clear off, wasn’t it?
There was neither Chinese take-out nor John in his armchair when Sherlock entered the flat. Everything was dark, as usual, and Sherlock felt his insides drop with equal parts disappointment and relief. They leaped right back up the next second, however, when he noticed the gleam seeping through the crack under his bedroom door. He surely hadn’t been the one who had turned on the light. As if magnetically pulled in, Sherlock crossed the hall, not even stopping to take off his coat. He allowed himself one short pause, though, just to catch his breath and brace himself, before opening the door.
It took a second for his eyes to adjust, to take in the whole scene that unfolded before him. There in the middle of his bedroom was John, surrounded by dozens upon dozens of burning candles and small lamps, collected from all over the flat, a shy smile fluttering over his lips as he turned to Sherlock. Even amidst the golden light from uncountable sources, he seemed to glow the brightest, his radiance illuminating every single dark corner of Sherlock’s mind. Maybe he had already collapsed, Sherlock thought, body giving out somewhere on the pavement, and this was John, the archangel, greeting him in heaven.
“You’re here, thank God,” John said with a relieved breath of air, gesturing for him to come in.
“John, what—,” was all he managed to get out as he stepped into the room like a moth being drawn in by the flame.
“Have you listened to it?” John’s voice was calm and steady though not quite concealing the nervousness saturating it. He clenched and unclenched his fist in the way he always did when he was trying to get his feelings under control.
Sherlock tried to answer but the words got stuck somewhere in his ribcage. He could only stare at John—brilliant, blinding John—and nod eagerly in agreement, in understanding, in encouragement.
John’s face lit up even more. “I’m sorry to have left you in the dark for so long, us both actually. I thought it was time to turn the lights on. No more hiding in the shadows, no more disguises, no more covers. I want to see you.”
Those bloody ridiculous tears were brimming in Sherlock’s eyes again but at least his voice had come back to him in time to object. “But—but then… you’ll know it’s me.”
“I already know it’s you, Sherlock. Who else but you would I want to share a bed with?”
“Mary.” The name cut through the warmth of the room as if someone had smashed in a window, letting the cold autumn air invade.
For a second, John looked utterly confused before his expression melted into something incomprehensibly soft. “I’m not thinking about Mary when I’m with you.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I’m thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you, to be honest.”
“Oh.” Sherlock let the syllable drop to the floor, his eyes following it, unable to take in the confusing gloriousness of John any longer. He saw feet stepping closer and hands reaching for his own. With cheeks heated by the candlelight or the blood rushing into them, Sherlock forced himself to look at John again, being met by an inquisitive gaze of way too blue eyes.
“The lights are on now,” John said, intertwining their fingers in an assertive motion and stepping even closer.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, the word barely audible over his heartbeat.
John pinned him down with his eyes, coming closer, closer. “And now I’m gonna love you.”
Warm lips met Sherlock’s in a tender kiss and sent an avalanche through his body. Every fibre, every bone, every cell seemed to be filled and overflowing with John, only John. Sherlock let himself sink into the kiss, eyes falling shut and hands holding on to the only fixture left in the universe. John, only John. John, who wanted him, John, who loved him, even with the lights on.
They parted and looked at each other, faces tinted red and gold. Sherlock let out an incredulous sigh of deliverance and John’s tasty, tasty lips turned up into a smile that beamed even brighter than a million candles ever could.