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Outside everything is quiet. Not that things aren’t quiet during the day, John thinks. That’s one of the first things that surprised him when they arrived in Dubai, how quiet this huge city was. How calm. During the day the heat is just too strong, bordering on suffocating, and people do their best to stay inside. The tourists don’t venture out before late afternoon, preferring the air conditioning of hotels and the cold water of the swimming pools. John and Sherlock booked adjacent rooms but have slept in the same one for most of the duration of the case. They’re not used to being far from each other anymore, not since Mary shot Sherlock and John thought he would have to do it all over again. The funeral, the mourning, the grief that seemed to never end. The nights spent looking at a glass of scotch, wondering if he would end up like Harry. Truth to be told, he had never hated her as much as when Sherlock was dead. Because at least she’d had her chance with Clara. And she had managed to fuck everything up. Sherlock had never been his, not really. Not in that way. Still it had been enough at the time, before the fall, to live with Sherlock, to bask in Sherlock’s light. Until Sherlock died. But it’s no use thinking about this now. Sherlock came back and is still alive and it’s all that matters, truly. John can deal with the want and the longing, has been for years, as long as Sherlock is here and doesn’t go anywhere.
He suddenly feels the need to see Sherlock, to touch Sherlock, to reassure himself that Sherlock is really there with him. The lack of sleep and the heat make everything feel a bit surreal, as in a dream, and John needs. He grabs the bottle of scotch, compliments of Mr Al Maktoum for a job well done, and steps outside on the hotel’s room balcony. Sherlock is sitting in a chair, facing the Burj Khalifa lake. It’s not so late that the music accompanying the choreographed fountains has stopped playing every half hour and for a moment John takes in the spectacle. It’s a strange city both modern and out of time. The building are new and high, resorts are being built everywhere, it’s a weird mix between Disneyland and a metropolis. It’s surprisingly peaceful.
John sits next to Sherlock and pours himself a drink. Sherlock turns his head and gives him a small smile, the one that’s just for him John thinks, before lightning a cigarette and resuming his careful watch of the city. John’s okay with that, just the mere presence of Sherlock next to him is enough to comfort him and appease him, to make him feel better. Sometimes he thinks that it shouldn’t work, he and Sherlock, that they shouldn’t fit so perfectly but there’s something in Sherlock, a brutal honesty, a refusal to be anything else but himself that has drawn John to him from the moment they met and has never let him go. It’s not the danger or the cases, as Sherlock seems to believe, that makes it impossible for John to leave him, but this harsh light that emits from him and sometimes makes everything else in the world looks grey and flimsy. Everything is brighter when he’s next to Sherlock. More colourful. Some people have this kind of thing in them. They don’t choose it, it just is. John has always been attracted to that and amongst those people he has never found someone as luminous as Sherlock. Harry was like that too, before the alcohol consumed her and she became a shell of her former self. Still when he sees her – not too often since it hurts to see how damaged she is – he can see glimpses of her former glory and how he used to admire her. Sherlock and her are alike in a way. Proud, destructive, true to themselves and also so easily breakable.
“When I was at uni I couldn’t keep a girlfriend for long” John says. He doesn’t know if it’s the warmth of the alcohol or the strange mood he finds himself in, reminiscing about Harry and what used to be, but he suddenly feels like talking. They don’t usually talk, he and Sherlock, at least not about the important stuff, but here, where everything is both new and ancient, and a bit unreal, it’s fine. Sherlock turns to look at him but doesn’t say anything, sensing that John isn’t quite finished yet.
“So you see, it wasn’t just because of you,” John laughs. “Harry wasn’t like that though. She met Clara really early and there’s never really been anyone else for her. I used to resent that. That she could have found the love of her life so easily when I found it so hard.”
“Found?”
John curses himself silently. Of course Sherlock would notice the past tense.
“When I was younger I mean.”
“Hmm.” It’s noncommittal. A way to let John know that Sherlock won’t probe any further. And suddenly John wants him to probe. He wants Sherlock to push, to ask why. Why did John ask him if he had a boyfriend the day after they met, why did John ask him about Irene after what he had overheard at Battersea Station, why was John perfectly happy to spend his stag night alone with him. Sherlock never pushes, not when it comes to John’s feelings anyway and it has been driving John mad for years. He can’t force Sherlock to do anything, he can’t, and if Sherlock doesn’t want him he has to be content with what they have because it’s already better than anything he could have imagined when he was younger and dreaming about the life he wanted to live, but it still hurts. No matter how many times he thinks he’s over it, it still hurts that Sherlock doesn’t seem to want more. Maybe he does though. There were glimpses sometimes. Just after Sherlock announced that Mary was pregnant in the middle of the reception. And wasn’t that a laugh John thinks, wasn’t that hilarious that Sherlock had suddenly seemed so sad about a baby that wasn’t even John’s. Then there was this time on the tarmac, when John had thought for a second that maybe, maybe Sherlock was about to say something. Confess something. He didn’t know what he would have done if Sherlock had said that he loved him at the time. It seems that he can barely even recall those days; so numb from Mary’s betrayal months after, he barely could recall his own name at the time. Could barely feel. And then when he moved back into Baker Street they hadn’t talked about all that again. John can’t tell if it was a coping mechanism, a way to forget about all that had happened since Sherlock had died and John had grieved and married a woman who didn’t exist, or a way to stop thinking about the future and what it might entail for them.
John stands up and leans on the balcony’s rail. He closes his eyes, trying to relax, trying to let the memories go.
“You know that’s not how conversation is supposed to go, Sherlock.”
“I thought we had established that I was bad at chatting?”
John laughs. “Yeah well in this case you could make an effort.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Why not tell me something you’ve never told anyone? We could make it a game.” Sherlock likes games. He’s terrible at losing them but he likes playing them.
“I don’t need a game to tell you something like that, John.”
All at once, John turns, facing Sherlock. Sherlock is looking at him, eyes bright and earnest, his face strangely youthful. John loves this expression on him, the one that makes him forget everything they went through and always reminds him of their very first evening together, when they’d ended up laughing against a wall after having chased a cab all across London. That’s the expression he wants to keep and cherish forever.
“I know Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
“Why don’t you ask me something you want to know and I’ve never told you?”
John shivers at the thought of all the possibilities, all the questions he could ask Sherlock. Slowly, he makes his way back to his chair and pours himself another glass of scotch, trying to give himself some time to think about it. Among all the things he wants to ask, have you ever been in love, are you in love with me, what happened when you were a child to make you so guarded, why did you do drugs, what were you going to say on that bloody tarmac, he settles for one that has been bothering him for years.
“Did anything ever happen between you and Irene?”
“Really, John?” Sherlock’s expression is a mixture between amusement and incredulity. As if of all the questions John could have asked him this one is both unexpected and somewhat funny.
“Yeah well. I’ve always wondered. I mean I did leave you two alone.” John knows that his tone is defensive and he can feel himself blushing but damn if he’s not going to get an answer to this question. It’s not like he’s lying, even though curiosity is not the only reason he wants an answer. He had left Sherlock and Irene alone at the time, trying not to think about what might happen between them and utterly failing at it. Even now, years later, he can feel a surge of jealousy at the mere thought of Irene and Sherlock together, Irene touching him when John couldn’t, still can’t.
“We didn’t, we never…” Sherlock begins and John feels an abrupt rush of relief so powerful it almost makes him dizzy. “I wasn’t interested in her. Not like that.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I thought you knew that. I did tell you.”
“Told me what?” John asks, suddenly feeling as if they’ve been having an entirely different conversation the whole time.
“That girlfriends were not my area.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be interested in a woman, one time. Maybe you just don’t do relationships.”
“No.”
They stay silent for a moment. John doesn’t know how to ask his next question, doesn’t even know if he has a next question to ask. Everything feels dangerous. Sherlock is still staring at him intently and he’s so close that it takes almost all of John’s willpower not to reach for him and touch him.
“Is it my turn then?” Sherlock asks. “To ask a question?”
“I guess so. If you want.” John doesn’t really know what Sherlock could ask him that he hasn’t already deduced but then, he guesses that some things are a mystery for Sherlock too.
“Did anything ever happen between you and Sholto?”
The question is so unexpected that for a minute John isn’t sure if he has understood correctly. Trust Sherlock to ask the one question John thought he would never ask, the one that has been lingering, unformulated between them since that first dinner at Angelo’s. Why now? It’s not as if John hadn’t asked again after Irene had happened not to be dead, it’s not as if John hadn’t tried during his stag night. It’s not as if John hadn’t been back home for months. Maybe Sherlock just feels it too. That this is a night open to new possibilities, that here, far from everything they know, they can start again, fresh and anew.
“No.” And it isn’t a lie, it isn’t because nothing had happened at the time, they simply couldn’t.
“John.” There’s a warning in Sherlock’s voice, as if he knows that John isn’t telling him the whole story.
“No.” A pause, and then: “He was my commanding officer. Nothing happened.”
Just after uttering those words, John feels an undeniable relief crashing through him. A deep calm settling in him. Something that tastes like contentment. He finally said it. After all those years, keeping this story to himself, lying by omission about his sexuality, lying about himself, he said it. He can feel himself tearing up and he doesn’t even care if it seems stupid, he suddenly is more at peace than he ever has been. Now that he said it once, that he admitted it, he can’t go back and knows he won’t. Not for his parents’ sake, who hated Harry for coming out, not for Sherlock’s sake, for fear that he might get scared of John’s feelings, not even for the sake of the normal life he’s always thought he wanted to live and failed at doing so.
“John?”
John blinks and focuses on Sherlock again.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For telling me.”
“Yeah, well. I guess it was time,” John says, faintly. It’s not really funny or clever but Sherlock gives him a blinding smile and the want John felt earlier comes back, rushing through him. “Sherlock, I,” John begins, getting up, but he’s too quick, the alcohol making him dizzy and he stumbles over Sherlock. Sherlock catches him, preventing him from falling and John manages to regain balance, one hand in Sherlock’s hand and the other on Sherlock’s armchair. He almost laughs, thinking about his stag night and how this scene strangely resembles it except it wasn’t intentional this time.
Sherlock’s hand is still in his. John wants to kiss him.
He knows it’s stupid. After years of longing and a want so fierce and so deep that it has become an intricate part of himself, here is definitely not the place to finally crack, but he isn’t sure he can hold back any longer. He looks at Sherlock’s face, searching for a clue, a sign, anything that would tell him that what he wants to do would be welcome. Sherlock isn’t looking at him though, he’s looking at their entwined hands – like the night before the fall, so long ago but John can still remember every detail of that night, has spent countless days going through them again and again, wondering what he could have done, what he should have done for it to end differently.
Sherlock’s face reveals nothing and John suddenly can’t stand it anymore. If he doesn’t do it now, while he’s still feeling the alcohol pleasantly warming his body, in this strange city that seems to be suspended in time, after having finally acknowledged something that he has had to keep hidden for years, he never will. He tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock finally looks up at him. His eyes widen, taking in John’s expression and John wonders how he must look. Does he look determined? Is his resolution pouring out of him? Still Sherlock says nothing and John takes this as an encouragement. He takes in Sherlock’s face one more time. Whatever happens, whether Sherlock rejects him or not everything will be different in a few minutes and John wants to cherish this moment. Sherlock is heartbreakingly beautiful but it’s not the same alien beauty that shook John to the core when they first met. At the time Sherlock had seemed untouchable – which hadn’t stopped John from wanting to touch him, hold him, take him apart – but now he seems strangely small, fragile and human. John knows him now. John has held him while he was drugged and has put him to bed, John has seen him die in front of him, has held a wrist with no beating pulse and felt his world crash around him, John has had Sherlock’s blood dripping on his hands from where Mary shot him. John has seen him drunk, relaxed and as happy as he’s ever seemed, has seen him crying and begging on his knees for forgiveness. He has seen him panicked, at his most inhuman and at his most vulnerable. It all comes down to this. John knows Sherlock. Not in his details but in his entirety.
John gently disentangles his hand from Sherlock’s to cup Sherlock’s neck, leaving him a chance to say no, one more chance to break the moment. Sherlock doesn’t move. Around them the night is fading and a few rays of light are breaking through the darkness. Everything is still, and it seems somewhat absurd that this moment, the moment for which John has been waiting for ages, would be so calm and quiet. But that’s okay, John thinks. They have gone through grief and heartbreak and rage together, they have burned and combusted and this is a new beginning. A resurrection of sorts.
John feels everything settling around him, the silence of the night infusing his veins and anchoring him. Slowly, oh so slowly, he inclines his head down and closes his eyes just before their lips meet. Their mouths barely touch but it’s earth shattering all the same and then, then Sherlock lets out a tiny surprised gasp and John opens his mouth and kisses Sherlock more firmly, his palm pressing against Sherlock’s neck, tries not to think at all or he feels like he might burst into tears. John can’t tell if he’s drowning or suddenly resurfacing after having spent years – his whole life really – underwater but he can feel wave after wave of emotion crashing against him and Sherlock’s mouth against his, Sherlock’s skin under his fingertips are the only things that keep him breathing.
John kisses Sherlock again and again, for all the times he’s wanted to kiss him and couldn’t, for all the times he wished he had kissed him while he thought Sherlock was dead, for all the times he thought about kissing Sherlock in dreams and only woke up to find out that it was Mary next to him and tried to quench the ever burning guilt. He kisses Sherlock, Sherlock’s tongue heavy and hot against his, and a little bit clumsy, and John knows, knows that Sherlock never really did that before, let someone kiss him because he wanted to, and it satisfies this primal and territorial urge that John always seems to have when it comes to Sherlock, the urge to be the first and the only one, the urge to claim and leave his mark on him. He knows now that if he wanted to Sherlock would let him mark him, possess him, Sherlock who is responding to him beautifully, Sherlock who is letting out soft sounds, small whimpers and broken moans. John moves closer to Sherlock, almost sitting on his lap, making their bodies touch, aligning them perfectly as if they had always been meant to do that. As if they had been designed to. As if the universe had somehow known that they belonged together, against each other.
John can feel the desire coursing through him, the sharp edge of arousal, Sherlock solid and warm in his arms and also – he knows – infinitely breakable. This is not the place to take this further nor is it the time, never mind how much he wants it, how much he aches with it. If they were at home maybe, maybe he would take Sherlock to bed and undress him carefully, making a thousand fantasies reality. He would kiss Sherlock’s entire body, would worship him until the sun had settled on London and they were both exhausted and sweaty but it’s not the place. Not the time. The city is awakening, soon the cabs will roam the streets, taking people to work and they have to stop and go inside before it becomes too dangerous to continue.
John gives himself a few more seconds to indulge in this, this kiss in the open, tilting Sherlock’s head, kissing him deeper, crushing Sherlock against him a little more before gentling the kiss and pulling back. Sherlock breaths a small “oh”, as if surprised that it should end and John wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Suddenly everything seems lighter, in him and around him, as if a weight he hadn’t be aware he was carrying had been lifted. He feels faint and relieved, so relieved that everything is finally as it should be. They will have to talk about it, of course, but that discussion doesn’t belong to this night. All that matters, at this precise instant, is that he’s finally allowed to touch Sherlock and it’s more than enough. It’s almost too much.
John opens his eyes to see Sherlock looking at him intently, his face frozen between a surprised expression and something akin to wonder. And then Sherlock smiles and it’s hesitant and shy but also joyous and John instantly thinks that it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and wishes he could capture this moment, as fleeting and breakable as it is, and keep it with him forever – a tiny parcel of pure happiness. It is too much and John can’t help himself, he has to say it, those words he never said, he couldn’t say.
“I am so in love with you.”
It comes out as a quiet murmuration. An undeniable truth.
“John, I,” Sherlock begins but John cuts him off, shaking his head to signify don’t. He doesn’t need to hear it, not now at least. He would explain, explain that having Sherlock against him is enough, that knowing that Sherlock wants him too is ground shattering and breathtaking but Sherlock nods slightly, meaning that he knows, that he understands.
“Come to bed,” John says.
John opens the balcony door and steps inside. Once Sherlock is inside too, he takes his hand again and guides him to bed. He strips down to his boxers and waits for Sherlock to do the same before lying down. Sherlock settles next to him, almost touching him but appearing unsure. John takes him into his arms, resting their foreheads together. He kisses him again, tenderly, kisses him as if they have all the time in the world and in truth they now do.
John knows they should at least try to sleep but he doesn’t want to, has never felt so awake and alive. He almost wishes they could stay like this forever, entwined, kissing again and again, aroused but not wanting more, content in their silence, knowing that this, right now, is all they need. That they, somehow, found peace in each other. So they don’t sleep. They kiss and sometimes John stops to look at Sherlock, to reassure himself that it’s real, that it isn’t a dream, that they’re really, finally, doing this. He pauses to exchange tiny smiles with Sherlock, to bask in the feeling of holding Sherlock in his arms and breathing in Sherlock’s scent. And then they do it all over again.
The sun eventually breaks through, settling all over the city and John can hear the muffled sounds of the cars in the distance, reminding him that they’re not alone and have a plane to catch later. Sighing, he removes himself from Sherlock’s arms.
“I’m going to make us some breakfast,” he says.
John crosses the room in direction of the small kitchen. They don’t have a lot to eat but John doesn’t want to call in for room service and disturb their tranquillity. He manages to find some bread they bought when they arrived and puts on some water to boil for the tea. He senses, more than hears, Sherlock coming behind him before feeling Sherlock’s arms encircling his waist. Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck and John senses the feeling of unreality that has been surrounding him since he first got out of bed to join Sherlock on the balcony evaporate. They are miles away from home, in a city that looks nothing like London, with its giant avenues and tall skyscrapers, in a hotel room that couldn’t possibly be more different than their flat, with its modern furniture made of dark wood, but with Sherlock next to him, behind him, around him it feels like home anyway and John knows, with a certainty so absolute that it leaves room for no doubt, that they’re going to be just fine.
Inside everything is quiet.