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In the privacy of his own mind, Sherlock Holmes could admit to himself that the arrest of Dr. John Watson's wife, Mary, had been truly spectacular. His older brother, Mycroft, had orchestrated the entire thing, and Sherlock had no doubt that Mycroft had played up the drama just for Sherlock. It was the only explanation that made any sense. A helicopter in the middle of a suburban street at sunset? Several dozen armed Security Services members in body armor bursting from neighbors' homes? Even with how dangerous and how well-trained 'Mary Morstan' had been, it was overkill. The only possible conclusion was that Mycroft, ever a lover of the dramatic, had decided to make the arrest of the woman who had nearly murdered his little brother as dramatic as possible.
Sherlock shot a careful glance over at John, sitting across the seat from him in the back of the cab. John did not look back, keeping his gaze focused on the seatback in front of him, the tense jaw evident even in the shadowed profile that was all Sherlock could make out.
John was not taking the arrest as well as Sherlock had hoped. John had, of course, known what was coming; he'd been the one to suggest it to Mycroft several days before when the truth of Mary's shammed pregnancy had finally come out and there was no longer a baby for whom he needed to stay faithful and supportive. But John had been unusually tense and silent over the last three days while Mycroft had been coordinating the arrest, avoiding both Mary and Sherlock by taking extra shifts at the clinic and by going out drinking with coworkers in the evenings.
Considering what an abysmal liar John was, his choices had probably been wise. Mary could not help but know John was furiously angry with this second breech of trust, so she wouldn't have found John's absence suspicious.
That John had also been steering clear of Sherlock, though, was worrying him. Sherlock could easily pull five different scenarios to mind that could explain John's deliberate avoidance of him, but the one that worried him the most was the one that went 'John Watson still thinks of you platonically. You always have been and always will be just his best friend, despite what you think you may have been seeing over the last year.'
Sherlock wanted to shift and shuffle on his seat, burn away some of his nervousness with movement. He held himself rigid and still, though, kept his breathing even. He would not allow himself to jiggle like a Year 4 student that needed the toilet. The only times he was unable to hold himself still were when his mind was flinging itself madly against the walls of its metaphorical prison, desperate for distraction. Unbidden, Sherlock's eyes slid to John's rigid profile again; Sherlock's mind had plenty of distraction just now.
The cab turned onto Baker Street and Sherlock felt relief rising through him, a sigh choking in his throat as he fought to leave it unvoiced. They were nearly back to the flat, exactly as John had requested once Mary had been taken into custody. His exact words had been, "Please, get me out of here."
"Of course," Sherlock had said at once, and had then frozen as he realized he had no idea to where he was meant to be getting John, exactly. Where did you take the man you were in - possibly unrequited - love with after his wife was arrested on multiple counts of murder and espionage?
John had correctly interpreted his silence and his blank expression, the way John frequently seemed to do. "To Baker Street. Away from... here." And John had thrown an angry hand back towards the home he had been sharing with his wife for the last seven months.
Sherlock sprang from the cab as soon as it had slowed enough for him to safely do so. He was up the steps and opening the door into the front entryway before he realized that he should have paid for the cab rather than leaving John to do it. He froze for a second on the threshold, body half-turned back towards the cab as he quickly ran through a mental tally of how many times he had left John to pay for their shared cabs; it was their pattern. It was natural for him to have sprung from the cab and left John to pay, but John had just watched his entire marriage fall apart over the course of eight months. Sherlock should have paid for the cab.
"Are we going in, or are we just going to 'oscillate on the pavement'?" John asked, coming up behind Sherlock, his voice terse.
What was there to say to that? As usual, Sherlock could not think of anything to say, and so he said nothing. He stepped into the flat quickly, his Belstaff swirling behind him as he headed up the steps to 221B, leaving the door open for John to follow after him.
He was pulling his scarf off and stuffing it into a pocket of the Belstaff before he was halfway through the sitting room doorway, shrugging his heavy coat off and tossing it negligently onto the sofa as he stepped past it. He paced the sitting room, at a loss for what to do. John's heavy footfalls were coming up the steps now, the sound so familiar that Sherlock felt oddly comforted by it. John, coming home.
John sighed when he spotted Sherlock's Belstaff on the sofa. As usual, John had remembered to remove his own jacket and hang it downstairs in the entryway, something Sherlock almost never remembered to do. Usually, John would mention the Belstaff and Sherlock would snarl something and carry it through the flat to throw it across a chair in his bedroom, but today John just shoved the Belstaff over and collapsed onto the cushion next to it, leaning his elbows onto his knees and pressing his face into his palms.
Sherlock stared at John as he paced past the coffee table on his way towards the kitchen doorway, taking in all the subtle clues on display. John's posture indicated he was feeling exhausted, possibly emotionally strained. His shoulders were tight and pulled up slightly towards his ears, a protective pose. Conclusion: he felt overwhelmed by the day.
What could Sherlock say?
"I'm sorry about Mary." No, John had initiated the arrest; he had wanted her gone. Sherlock being sorry about the loss would make it seem as if he regretted what was a necessary action.
"That's one less criminal on the street." No, that sounded too much like he was rubbing in John's decidedly poor choice in a woman with whom to settle down.
"Do you need anything from me?" No, because what if John said yes? What, exactly, would Sherlock then do? What did you do for someone who's just arranged the arrest of their criminal wife?
John lifted his face from his hands with a heavy sigh, staring at Sherlock. He spoke, his voice annoyed. "Would you stop pacing? It's not your wife that's just been taken away to pay for her crimes."
Sherlock threw himself into his armchair, which he happened to be passing at that point; John sounded angry. Was he angry at Mary? At the situation? At Sherlock?
What was the point of being a genius if the one person who truly mattered was so impossible to figure out?
"Right. Thanks. That's better," John said, and he sounded weary now. He was staring at Sherlock, something like regret in his expression as he clasped his hands together just below his chin. Was he sorry for snapping at Sherlock? Not enough evidence to come to a reliable conclusion.
The silence dragged on as Sherlock stared at John, his brow faintly furrowed as he tried to understand what John's regretful expression and slowly drooping shoulders could possibly mean. Finally, John pushed up from the couch, clearing his throat as he stood. "I'm going to put the kettle on."
Tea. Of course. That was what Sherlock should have offered earlier instead of pacing the room in useless silence.
John walked into the kitchen, clicking the kettle on and then reaching automatically for the clean flannel folded on the side of the sink. He turned the tap on and for several moments, the sound of him quietly cleaning the dirty dishes waiting in the sink filtered through the flat, John falling back into his usual role without a thought. Nearly three years break from being Sherlock's flatmate but after ten minutes of being back, he was falling straight back into the accustomed pattern.
The water turned off within a few minutes; there hadn't been many dishes as Sherlock didn't tend to eat much even on his best days. The rumble of the kettle boiling replaced the rush of water from the tap and John moved around the kitchen, getting out tea bags and mugs. Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, watching as John seemed to appear and disappear from behind the eclipsing bulk of John's armchair positioned between the kitchen and Sherlock.
When John finally walked back into the sitting room with two mugs of tea, he looked more relaxed. He settled into his armchair across from Sherlock, leaning forward to offer Sherlock his mug and Sherlock took it with a soft 'mmm' of thanks, bringing it up to sip the hot liquid. It was perfect, the way John always made it. After Mrs. Hudson making his tea and never quite getting it right for the last year, it was a relief.
The silence stretched, John's eyes downcast and staring down into his mug of tea with a somewhat mournful expression. His wheat-and-salt hair had gained a little more salt over the last week, undoubtedly due to the stress of Mary finally admitting the pregnancy was false and she had only been using it as another way to tie John firmly to her. Thankfully, John's face looked the same as it ever had: warm and soft, comfortably lived in and lined with life experiences. Perhaps the bags under his eyes were a little more pronounced that evening, yet another testament to the last week of stress, but Sherlock felt sure that a month or two without Mary's lies weighing on his mind would return John's face to the precise visage of which Sherlock had grown so fond.
Finally, Sherlock set his mug of tea on the small side table next to his armchair and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely, and eyes locked on John.
"Are you all right?"
John looked up, surprise sweeping over his face. "I... uh... yeah. I'm doing all right. I mean, considering."
"Right," Sherlock said, voice soft. "That's... good, isn't it?"
"Yeah." John set his own mug down, leaning forward to mirror Sherlock's pose, his elbows on his knees and clasped hands hanging. "We'll need to go by the house again tomorrow. I need to at least pack up my clothes and toiletries. I doubt I'll want to pack much beyond that. I won't... I don't want anything else from the house, honestly."
"No; why would you?" Sherlock said, and did not miss the tightening of John's jaw. He had said the wrong thing, then. Sherlock pressed his lips together for a moment in consternation before rushing to repair his mistake. "If there are mementos you need, we can make room for them in the flat: photographs, knickknacks, things of Mary's you want to keep for reasons of sentiment..."
John's entire face had gone tight and angry now. Sherlock was definitely not saying the right things. This always happened, though. Sherlock was good at facts, but he had spent so many years suppressing and denying his own emotional inner life that he had completely stunted his ability to deduce emotional situations with any reliability. John tended to let his emotions live just under his skin, bursting forth unexpectedly and clouding up their conversations. At this particular moment, John had seemed resigned to leaving his old life behind, but Sherlock had been wrong about that. When he'd tried to backpeddle and comfort John about missing the life he would no longer have, John had gotten angry. There was no right answer; there never was. No matter how much Sherlock wanted to say the right things to John, do the right things for John, be right for John, somehow he was always coming to precisely the wrong conclusion.
"I could happily forget the last year and a half with her," John said, his voice tight and angry as he stared hard at Sherlock. "Please, trust me when I say that there is no 'sentiment' in me for my life with her."
"Then I don't understand why this evening seems to be so hard for you," Sherlock said, his frustration clear in his voice. "I'm trying to make this transition back into our life together easier for you, but I'm not sure what you want from me."
John stared at Sherlock, mouth hanging slightly open, eyebrows drawn down heavily. Finally, he raised one hand to rub it over his forehead, sighing, leaning even more heavily onto his elbows where they pressed against his knees. "What do I want from you? Isn't it obvious?"
"No, John, it has to be one of the least obvious things in my life at present," Sherlock snapped, sitting upright in his chair and pressing his fists against his thighs, his body held straight and tight.
"It's the same thing I've wanted for the last four bloody years, you idiot; I want you. Just you. That's what I want. And it's something I can't have, which is just the icing on the cake of the last ten years of my life. As much as you completely twisted my life around, I was completely mad over you, and you turned me down because it's not the sort of thing you can do. So, I find someone else and even marry her except it doesn't actually stop me from wanting you and, anyway, she's an assassin who was hired to keep an eye on me on the off-chance that your suicide was fake - which it was - and that you might return - which you did. Except that you'd already gotten rid of all of her contacts by the time you came back, so she was stuck in limbo until she decided to take matters into her own hands and shoot the man I loved. Thankfully, she didn't kill you, but it pretty well ended any positive feelings I'd had for her. I was ready to walk away until, once again, you stepped in and completely twisted my life around by telling me to stay with her and trust her. I do that, because it's what you want and it's not like I have any better options, and anyway, she's carrying my child and it's the decent thing to do. Except I find out that the baby I thought I was sticking around for has actually been faked. The ultrasound she'd had done was never performed and I'd just been the fool in her ongoing melodrama. So, here I am, as good as single once again and back to where I was four bloody years ago: still madly in love with you and I still can't have you." John broke off, breathing hard. His face was flushed, his pulse pounding so hard that Sherlock could see it pulsing in the veins in John's temples. He wanted to say something, but he'd lost absolutely every single word that he had gathered throughout his entire life except for one: 'John.' Even that one word, though, was stuck in Sherlock's throat in the face of John's confession.
John took in Sherlock's expression - and what look could Sherlock possibly have on his face? Did he look shocked? Stricken? - and John's jaw tightened. "Yeah. I can't have you, I know that... but I can have this."
John pushed up from his chair and stepped towards Sherlock in one smooth movement, planting his hands on the armrests on either side of Sherlock's body. His head dipped down and his lips brushed against Sherlock's in the softest, most chaste kiss imaginable. There was a pause, John's breath tickling over Sherlock's lips, and then John's lips returned, pressing slightly harder the second time as he twisted his head, seeking the right angle.
Action. Reaction.
Sherlock twisted his own head, changing the angle to give John the access he was seeking. John's eyes were shut, his eyebrows drawn down in an angry, defiant expression as his thin lips moved against Sherlock's. John's lips parted slightly to allow him to suck softly at Sherlock's full bottom lip, and Sherlock opened his own mouth in response, his breath shuddering out of him in a silent sigh.
This was good. This was beyond good. The cocktail of hormones and chemicals that had tormented him for months were now slamming into his brain in a heady rush. He could feel his cheeks flushing and his breath speeding. Every second seemed to stretch and he was able to catalogue every stray hair in John's eyebrows, the way his eyelashes fluttered each time he flicked his tongue against Sherlock's lower lip, the dusting of silver in the hair on his temple, the unsteady sound of his breathing. Every new bit of information was rewarding because it was coming to him from millimetres away and it was happening because John was kissing him.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, John was breaking the kiss and pushing violently away from the armchair. He was glaring at Sherlock as if Sherlock had done something to betray him, his heavy breathing more reminiscent of John Angry rather than John Excited.
"I... I uh..." Sherlock still had not managed to master his once extensive list of useable words.
"What the hell was that?" John demanded, hands clenching at his sides as he glared down at Sherlock.
"You were kissing me?" Sherlock had meant it to be a statement, but the last word turned up slightly and turned it into a question.
"Because it's something I've wanted to do for years. Why the hell did you kiss me back?"
Sherlock blinked. Surely, John was not this thick. The silence stretched and Sherlock could see John's anger was quickly fanning itself into rage the longer Sherlock went without speaking. "I wanted to."
John's laugh was not even remotely amused and he twisted away from Sherlock to stare at the sofa with violence in his eyes. After a second, he turned back to look at Sherlock who was still sitting in his armchair and still struggling to keep up with the conversation. "Another trick. Like jumping off the roof of St. Bart's and like the bomb that you 'couldn't turn off.' Just another one of your bloody tricks."
"No, John -" Sherlock began, pushing himself out of his armchair, but John was backing away from him, one hand held out towards him as if John meant to physically push him away if he approached.
"Don't. Not tonight, Sherlock. I cannot deal with one... more... thing tonight." He emphasized his words with careful precision, his lips twisting into the faintest smile although there was absolutely no humor on his face. "I shouldn't have said any of what I said. It was beyond stupid for me to think... it doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything," Sherlock insisted, standing just in front of his chair. He wanted to reach for John, but every signal he could read from John right now said 'try it and you'll regret it.' He shifted from foot to foot, unable to stop the fidget as wave after sickening wave of adrenaline thundered through his body, his fight or flight instincts urging him to do something. He was breathing much too quickly.
"No. It won't change anything, all right? I'll just... we'll forget I said any of that, right? Flatmates. Best friends. Pretend I didn't... I don't want to fuck this up, too!" The last came out in a furious shout and Sherlock rocked towards John, unable to stop himself. John's body language still very clearly said he did not want Sherlock coming anywhere near him, but Sherlock's desire to cross the space between them was overwhelming him. He couldn't seem to catch his breath and his hands were beginning to shake.
"You won't," Sherlock said, his voice very soft and thin.
"Exactly," John said, letting his breath out in a heavy sigh. "It's not too late to take it back. It doesn't change anything. You can trust me, Sherlock. I won't act on it again."
John rubbed his palms on his thighs, staring across the sitting room at the sofa once again. After a moment, he grabbed his cold mug of tea off the small table beside his armchair and walked into the kitchen, every movement sharp and angry. Sherlock heard him pouring out the tea and washing the mug, listened to the sounds of John and domesticity and home and comfort. He was still frozen in front of his armchair, held captive by the weight of everything he wanted to say but everything he knew he shouldn't say because he always said the wrong thing so surely these things would be wrong, too.
"Me, too, John. I've been driven to distraction by you, as well. For years."
"I love you, too, John. Only you. Perhaps only you in my entire life."
"You twisted my life, too, John. I thought I had everything figured out, but you surprise me every single day. I'll never stop trying to understand you and you will never be boring."
"You can have me, John. Anything you want of me, you can have."
His breathing had become erratic, coming out of him in sharp sobs and entering him in hitches and gulps. He felt like he was smothering. John was leaning heavily into his hands which he had braced against the kitchen counter, his head hanging limply. It wasn't until the sight of John in the kitchen began to blur that Sherlock realized that his eyes were full of tears waiting to fall. One blink and they would be slipping down his cheeks.
He denied himself the blink, holding his eyes wide. He pressed his lips together to stop the tremble he could feel coming. He wouldn't let the emotions overwhelm him. He just needed to find the control to hold on until John had gone upstairs to his bed which would surely happen at any second; John was sighing and pushing away from the counter, reaching out to turn off the light over the sink.
Blink.
"I'm heading up to bed," John said, moving toward the sitting room door. He threw one last glance at Sherlock as he reached for the doorknob and froze, fingers inches away from touching metal as he stared at Sherlock. He was taking in the tears, the unsteady breath, the shaking hands, and the alarm on his face was growing with each second. "God, Sherlock, what...?"
"It's not a trick," Sherlock said, his voice thick from tears and his words broken up as he gasped at the too-thin air of the sitting room. "I kissed you because I wanted to. It's amazing that someone as brilliant as I obviously am would take so long to understand what was happening, but the reality is that emotions often confuse me. It wasn't until your wedding reception that I fully understood what it was I was feeling and that it was you who had caused it. Of course, by then it was far too late for me to act on it. Now you have acted on it, and you're telling me that, once again, I have come to it too late. You would rather we go back to our life before I left to dismantle Moriarty's web, would rather pretend that kiss never happened?" Sherlock's breath hitched again as his chest tightened, pain pressing in like a physical weight until he felt like he couldn't draw a breath. It was the worst feeling in his life, worse even than being shot in the chest by Mary. He made a choked sound, pressing one shaking hand to his mouth as he struggled to draw in enough air to speak. He was growing lightheaded as he panted small, wheezing breaths around the aching horror that his entire chest had become. "I can't, John."
"Jesus," John whispered, moving quickly to Sherlock's side. His hands were on Sherlock's biceps, easing him down into his armchair, and Sherlock reached automatically to clutch at the front of John's jumper with shaking hands. "You're hyperventilating, Sherlock. I need you to calm down and take a proper breath. Sherlock. You're going to black out if you don't - look at me. Breathe with me."
He locked his eyes onto John, hands tugging insistently at the thick wool of the jumper as he watched John breathing slowly and evenly. Sherlock forced himself to slow his own breathing, focusing every part of himself on John and taking in the details automatically. John's expression was the professional mask he wore when he was being Dr. Watson, an automatic disconnect from the situation. John's pupils were tightly constricted; he was upset by Sherlock's reaction. John's hands on his arms were gripping firmly but not overly familiarly. Conclusion: Sherlock had done the wrong thing yet again.
The tightness in his chest was passing. He no longer felt light-headed. His hands had stopped shaking. Emotions were slowly being sublimated as he focused on what his senses could tell him.
John had lowered himself into a crouch in front of Sherlock, but he rose now. It wasn't until Sherlock felt the tug at his hands as John pulled away that he remembered he'd been holding fistfuls of John's jumper. He released it and let his hands drop into his lap. He stared down at his knees, slightly ashamed of how he had let his emotional reaction overwhelm him.
"All right now?" John asked, his voice sounding very Dr. Watson in that moment.
"Yes," Sherlock said, his own tone the cool, disconnected one he typically used around strangers.
"Look at me," John ordered, and Sherlock's eyes flicked up automatically. John's eyebrows were drawn down again, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he stared unblinking into Sherlock's eyes. "I need to make sure I'm understanding you: are you trying to tell me that you're as in love with me as I am with you?"
"I... yes," Sherlock said, his body tightening again as he prepared for another rejection and a plea to return to their life as best friends.
"Jesus," John whispered, his eyebrows relaxing as he stared down at Sherlock. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his knees just in front of Sherlock, his hands coming to rest on Sherlock's knees as he absorbed the single word. "I thought..."
"What?" Sherlock prompted. He needed some clue to know how to behave. Was he supposed to shut down and act like the deductive genius that always impressed John? Did he need to stop speaking entirely? John was not giving him enough information to work with. Best to remain quiet and wait.
"You said you were married to your work," John said, disbelief coloring his words.
"I was."
"But you don't feel things like other people," John said. "I mean, Irene Adler and Janine..."
"I don't understand what they have to do with this conversation," Sherlock said coolly, still fishing for information.
"You can't love me! It's completely impossible!" John blurted out.
"And yet, I do, so it obviously isn't impossible."
"You love me." John whispered the words, eyes going wide.
"Yes."
"And I love you."
"So you've said."
"But..." John's forehead creased as he continued to look at Sherlock's face, obviously not seeing whatever it was he needed to see. "You love me?"
"Yes, John." Confusion? Yes, definitely confusion. Disbelief as well. There was hope on the edges of the emotional maelstrom, and it was the hope that made up Sherlock's mind. Gently, he settled his hands over John's where they rested on his knees, fingertips stroking lightly over calluses and scars as he slowly wrapped his fingers around to press against John's palms. Moving very carefully, watching John's face for any change that might indicate he was doing the wrong thing, Sherlock leaned forward, closing the gap between them by small increments. John was not pulling back. The confusion and disbelief were melting off of his face and the hope was growing. His pupils were dilating as Sherlock moved closer. Conclusion: Sherlock was doing the right thing.
Sherlock mimicked John's earlier chaste brush of lips, enjoying the combined experience of the flutter of lips and the blast of John's exhale against his face. John's hands were twisting in his until he could clasp Sherlock's hands roughly, John pressing forward and taking control of the kiss, his lips moving on Sherlock's with desperate intensity. John's tongue tickled across the soft swell of Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock didn't stop his soft sigh of pleasure, mouth trembling slightly open. John's tongue sought Sherlock's, John's hands squeezing Sherlock's as his stomach pressed into Sherlock's knees. Sherlock could taste John's need in his mouth as the other man deepened the kiss. It tasted the way Sherlock remembered feeling years before when the only thing that mattered was his next hit, his next high. Did John really want him that much?
John broke the kiss, panting hard as he tipped his head up slightly to press his forehead against Sherlock's, his eyes so close that they eclipsed everything else. There were tears hanging on John's lashes.
"John?"
He gave a soft huff of laughter, correctly interpreting the concerned question in Sherlock's voice. "No, I'm all right. I'm happy. No, wait... I'm delirious." One of John's hands twisted free from Sherlock's, coming up to stroke gently down Sherlock's cheek and then back to plunge into the curls behind his ear, holding tightly. John hesitated, pulling back just enough to be able to see Sherlock's face clearly. When he spoke, his voice sounded hesitant. "Not a trick?"
"Not a trick," Sherlock confirmed, watching the play of emotions across John's face. Thankfully, confusion was long gone and disbelief was following after it. John looked hopeful and... yes, delirious.
"This is real?" John asked, fingers stroking through Sherlock's curls.
"Completely," Sherlock said. "John, look at me. Don't just see; actually observe."
Silence as John's eyes flicked across his face, his eyes, his mouth. Was he taking note of the blown pupils, the elevated respiration, the slight tremble that Sherlock could feel in his lips? Was John coming to the correct conclusion?
The hand cupping just behind his ear moved, holding tight to the back of Sherlock's head as John pulled him down into another heated kiss, claiming Sherlock this time without hesitation. Ah. He had come to the right conclusion.