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Nothing is to compare with the imposingness of the somnolent nightfall—vehicles, the copper doorbell from the opposing bakery and the moon’s faith lightning bleed into the scenery of London. Autumn chillness slackened the shadow’s corners, turning everything into a pool of redness, broken twigs and the city’s implacable silence. At such moments, John ponders how does it come that he still hasn’t appreciated the city’s splendour?
This unstoppable sense of gratitude pools in his head, like freshly completed blog article—inspiration strikes without even shooting, chariot of beauty came upon his lonesome rumination by the big window in his living room. Their living room. Without a hint of interruption, the city communicates with him in a language even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t comprehend.
Those unfathomable whispers taught John Watson what Sherlock meant when he boasted about the city’s surprises—by pulling his jumper on, he opened the window met by soulless abyss of gloom, soaring as the shop’s showcases went black. Mysteries are better served cold and unsolved—the intricate philosophy his flatmate shared with him. Yes it was mutual, strange and extraordinary just like their life together, but it was that life with Sherlock which taught John that London was the maestro to their enigmatic moments and it was this small heart nested in John’s chest, which sang a plea every time he saw the tall man undress by the door.
John was colour blind.
Not the traditional idea of someone who doesn’t see colour, but rather the one who cannot recognize them. Partly, he’s been told this is an affect of being parted with his soulmate. Truthfully, he’s never experienced any need to seek for his twin-flame, to base a relationship on reciprocated compassion and understanding. Thankfully, Sherlock never missed a moment to exalt his elation about colours—a coy man of strong principles, superiority issues and calloused fingertips, described colours like wildly enamoured poet.
He would always compare the crimson liquid streaming from the bodies to the shade of wrath, Christmas red candle or scarlet poppies. He thumbs John’s palm and tells him to imagine the sea’s waves—untamed, like a sky of crayon blueness, stars twinkling like wax poured over. Sherlock’s eyes are blue. Impeccable, angelic blue.
Mrs Hudson’s music is sweeping the night off its tremendous feet, carrying the universe’s power and saints’ denied sins. Delectable evening indeed—if it wasn’t for something weird the doctor’s eyes caught amidst the darkness. He might be delusional from the high amount of caffeine in his body, hyperactive or even confused, howbeit John Watson is never crazy enough to see things.
“Oh, dear!” Mrs Hudson’s voice appealed behind him, as he’s left the front door unlocked. Silly habit inherited by Sherlock’s misunderstanding of personal space. “Am I seeing it right? What is Sherlock doing to this streetlamp?”
John watched closely as if the unstable lift Sherlock has hopped on would vanish into thin air, but unfortunately it didn’t. Sherlock has been trying to change the streetlamp’s bulb and by the same token, he’s climbed on this massive machine and did his own thing as people complimented his desire to volunteer. Oh, there is no way he was being a good neighbour!
“I’ve got no clue, Mrs Hudson,” he signed and closed the window, “but I reassure you I’ll go take a look by myself.”
After the doctor wrenches his coat from the hanger and leaves his rented apartment to give this stubborn man a solid ted talk, the lightning of the whole street went off. Afraid to catch the grumpy neighbour’s attention, John skidded to the streetlamp, tugging on Sherlock’s darkly-clad sleeve. He’s irrevocably shameless. His smile surpassed the stars' glory and soon after, the whole street’s lighting came back with a snap of the detective's fingers.
“Jesus, Sherlock! What were you even doing up there?” his nervousness escalated and the other was seemingly enjoying the scene. "You are doing this on purpose, aren't you?"
“It’s been a wonderful evening thus far, John!” he greet as if nothing happened. “I’d appreciate it if you would lend me your phone for a bit, please?”
Unbeknownst to the both men, something attracted them together like magnets—electrifying and visceral. Neither could quite define this cellar, divine feeling crawling in between, it’s waltzing into their fantasies and eating the remains of everything unspoken. Both were highly aware of its existence. For instance, whenever John is talking to a relative in a personal way, Sherlock likes to snap out of his “possible outcome” theories, snuggle by the couch and ask sulkily the other to greet whoever he’s talking with. Similarly, John never misses a chance to tidy up the dishevelled piles of books after Sherlock had dozed off.
All of those meant something—it’s a voluptuous discord of intimacy and unfinished poetry. It’s the smugness sketched over Sherlock’s perfectly symmetric face, deserving of a portrait hanged in Buckingham’s most exuberant hall and Sherlock wants this fearless soldier’s heart only for his eyes at times. As overwhelming as it becomes, as easy it gets for the two to convey it through small gestures. Through small touches, just like this one.
With tentative pat of his hand, John guided the man hovering a few feet over him. Sherlock was too busy to type over the elder’s phone.
“What was that fiasco just now?” he questions, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “How aren’t you cold?”
“I’ve just solved a case that’s been lingering in my to-do list for a while.”
“When has Lestrade given you a new case?”
Provokingly, he pulls his sleeve and lowers the leather material of his gloves, “20 minutes ago.”
“You are insufferable!”
“And fully aware of that, also I was simply conducting a little experiment. See, on footage there was a woman disappearing like a phantom in the middle of the street. I’ve calculated what is the possibility of the woman being taken as hostage the moment one of the streetlamps go off, for example if it has overheated. Then, with a little bit of assistance by an ex-murderer who owed me a cup of tea, I managed to stop the electricity of the whole street,” he pulled little clip razors, “after cutting some wires too, of course.”
“What was the purpose?”
“To see if one of the streetlamp’s lightening can be controlled! You are so lame-brained, Watson! Now I’ve used by home-made tool to control the time in which the lamp switches on and off, I can perfectly make it switch off the moment I pass under it. Just like the victim from the footage, then disappear and switch it on again. She’s self-sabotaged it.”
“How could you be so certain?”
“Lestrade asked the exact same thing! Oh, Watson, you are my silly little John,” the elder’s heart skipped in attempt not to show any affection by Sherlock’s flattening words. Sometimes even insults are appealing and sometimes even a riot run by the brunet’s luscious curls aren't enough. As they enter the apartment, Sherlock trashes on his spot, feeling it warmed up. Oh, John. “So I told him she’s slowed down before the footage, it was suspicious and I clearly saw her hand pressing something inside her pocket.”
“Then, you could actually switch on and off one of the streetlamp and not pull the neighbour’s chain?” aghast, John steadied himself by the kitchen table. He couldn’t summon any assertiveness, just pure shock, adoration and astound.
“I was trying to impress you.”
“You certainly did from the very beginning with your brilliance, honesty and humane demeanour towards people. Poor or rich, you’ve always been there even if they underestimated you. You’ve done so much shadow work for the sake of your interest in acquiring equality for those deprived. Sherlock, if corpses could speak, they’d chat with you all day!”
The other’s eyebrows furrowed deeply, “then, ignoring the creepy scene you just described vividly, what would your truth be John?”
He can't answer.
////
Some tragedies were destined from the beginning—there isn’t a failure, as despondent and discouraging as seeing Sherlock in the state he was in. Shortly put, in the wee hours of the morning he disappeared right after turning on the stove, with the kettle over. He isn’t risking to set the apartment on fire, because like nobody else he knew that John won’t sleep for longer than five minutes after he’s left the apartment. This place was s crime scene of disguised emotions and enigmatic confessions. The only evidence was John—sleepy and unready for the briskness of London’s vanity.
Something preposterous happens, different than what they have been through.
Lestrade appeared on the door at nine in the evening, carrying a sodden piece of clothing. In it, there was a diary. Leather-bound, scorched but unharmed, this invaluable item said ‘Sherlock Holmes’ on the title page. With fascination, he looked at the impatient man who gave him a relieving smile.
“It was found by accident, almost. Sherlock will probably explain it to you when he comes back.”
“Wait,” the doctor prevented him from sprinting downstairs, suavely inviting him to come inside. “Tell me a little bit about it, the sooner I know, the faster I’ll help Sherlock from getting into trouble.”
Lestrade laughed genuinely at this—John’s anger at his reaction was misplaced, but he couldn’t help staying into this pointless den while Sherlock was working his fingers to the bone out there. For what? To be pulled into some non-sense? John regrets not waking up a minute earlier.
“Worry not, Doctor Watson! We received anonymous signal that there is an evidence from a murderer, buried in the area of the lake. You know this lake where Anderson dropped his phone? Some workers were digging around water pipes and making a major reconstruction, when we interrupted them to find a piece of clothing soaked in blood, in which we found this diary. To be frank, I didn’t anticipate Sherlock to be that impulsive, one cavernous God of his logic knows what’s inside!” John exhaled in a flaky sign, clasping his chest with one hand. You’ll end me one day, Sherlock. "Also, he might be a bit upset, because I’ve freed him from the case, or rather he freed himself because it didn’t intrigue him.”
“He’ll be devastated,” John murmured with unmoving face, but Lastrede knew this humourless expression. It’s time to go and leave those details to them.
“I’ll trust his appetency for rationality, if he says this case is nothing but some scams messing around, I’m inclined to believe him,” sorrowful heaviness painted his face under the golden lighting of the hall, “then, Doctor Watson, have lovely evening and greet Sherlock from me.”
“I’ll tell him, goodnight.”
The clichéd smiles they exchanged weren’t very sincere, fretful and wary—the other man was dying to save himself the effort and leave this minor case to be smoothened over time and forgotten in the archives, but what John assumed threw him into great contemplation. Sherlock wouldn’t reject a brand new case, once he gnaws on something he doesn’t let it go until it isn’t dead, or until it kills him. John himself has seen those grievous extremities and even if Sherlock looked ignorant, he was probably more than obsessed with it before even picking the pen.
The dinner was usually shunned, even if he’s laboured the whole afternoon to prepare it. The canned biscuits and amber champagne he’s bought are forsaken by the door and absolutely unappetizing now the thirst was clawing up his diaphragm. John wondered if he isn’t breaking into Sherlock’s personal space—but after rinsing his blood-covered back, seeing him get a seizure and complain about the littlest things, John thought it couldn’t be worse.
The pages of the dairy opened by themselves leading him to the middle—a paper divider separated two scruffy pages. Definitely his handwriting! The doctor examines with excitement, although the lines following did not meet his expectations.
February 6th 1887
Our carriage has departed northern from London, we are after a madman who’s attempted to break into Bagshaw’s house. (note: fragrant merchant – accent—exotic smell of citrus—hasn’t travelled to exchange.) My friend Watson looks wretched and I’m very aware it may be because I didn’t wait for him to finish breakfast properly. (urgent: buy John a box of Ceylon tea.) We are expected to arrive in the evening when the family must be home. (check: threshold, the daughter’s nails, if they are not chipped and damaged, call Mycroft.)
John looks at the ceiling for a second to make sure he isn’t dreaming—footsteps from the street reminded him that this is complete reality. He’s either miscalculating the possibility of another pair of a detective and doctor with the very same names living centuries back, or there are some unresolved questions for longer than he’s known.
He read the date again and continued reading.
... There is a cosy restaurant from where I can buy myself a sandwich and savour the sunrise before I repay for the innocent man’s death. All his fragrances are traded from overseas merchants, although his wife insisted he hasn’t left the country. If she’s covering him for that, there must be another reason too. Tell Mycroft to search for cheap fragrance shop in the area—if none, arrest him. He’s gotten the scents from the victim, who’s been abroad. Note he’s done unholy things with this wife, the revenge was deadly...”
“Oh, Sherlock!” he laughed. “You are fucking insufferable even now!”
... John may never forgive me for the mistake we’ve been caught in. I’ve never been more than a sinless hunter with foppish coat and broken violin, but without him even this little dignity and beauty I have in myself slips into oblivion. His words are obscure and impertinent, every single vow coming from this man sets a fire and brimstone explosion in my heart, my insecure heart which is unsure how to step into this flaring intimacy. Last night, the moon was a sparkle of newsprint paper, howlite pale lamp bringing common sense to my abandoned soul as the grimace of clouds were her lampshade. This abyssal darkness ended as his boundless touch came, sensual and new, under the bridge we’ve promised to stop.
Can the moon shine if people didn’t exist to bring some darkness?
“Wow.”
He strengthened his back—that’s definitely something between a cruel joke and a twisted truth. What happened next convinced John that it’s most likely the second option—through the door came Sherlock Holmes. Not just the untamed beast of enigmatic aura, discord and magnificence, there was an eruption of colours coming like a trace of daylight after a long nap. John is stupefied—is he dreaming or perhaps, Sherlock put some of his happy pills into John’s mug this morning?
He saw colours again.
All crème shades of the furniture had a blast in the doctor’s vision, he was so immersed into this, that his head began to hurt. Almost delirious, he saw colours even in Sherlock’s steps. Now he knew how thorns weren’t ruby like rose petals and the tea’s fermented shade is a way milder than assumed. Then he sees a pair of gemstones worth a private exhibition only for his sight—Sherlock’s eyes are alluring from this distance, clever and magnanimous. Widening pupils which didn’t simply analyze outside the box, they eliminated the whole box. They are blue.
“John? Hey, are you still here with me? Are you feeling okay?”
One of his hands is quivering and John’s heart is churning to take it fondly and press his lips to the ashen skin. How alone would he be if he has lost his detective again? His hands clasped over Sherlock’s gloved hand, propelling for him to do something, anything to keep his safe. Sherlock’s mouth is opened in frozen affirmation, eyebrows shaping a sickle.
“John, you are seriously worrying me. Are you feeling alright? Should I call Mrs Hudson?”
“No, Sherlock...” his survival instincts kick in as he inhales rapidly, getting a light pat of Sherlock’s feverishly hot hands over his back, up and down, rhythmical as a steady heartbeat, slow as a romantic dance.
“John, why are you laughing? What’s the matter? John, please tell me so I can help you. At least let me hold you until it pass, please?”
“You were wrong, Sherlock.”
“About what? About who?”
He doesn’t even question any of the recent cases, as if he’s stuck in the present and all that held meaning now, over head and matter, was John’s security. So typical for soulmates—John’s eyes filled with bitterness again and Sherlock is quick to stroke his carotid artery, up to his scarred chin and discoloured face.
“That’s right, John. You were really dizzy for a moment, can you hear me now?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what I was wrong about, or should I figure it out myself?”
“Technically, you were. Now I’ve got a solid proof you weren’t. You said blue isn’t a warm colour, but I’ve never seen a colour as warming and appeasing as blue,” his nose automatically buries itself into the unruly, curly-headed man’s scent, now matching it with the colours he’s wearing, with the colours he’s radiating and diving into. “Oh, Sherlock, I don’t want any other colour around me, but this blue. Even if I’m gone.”
“So, you see colours now?” peculiar rancour deepened his voice—partly sad and partly disappointed, as if he knew John may reject him even now. Then, with the usual hurry in his movements, which brought even more spellbinding colours, he yanked the dairy from the armchair and with condemnation, he grit his teeth helplessly. Or maybe he’s going to reject him? “How long have you known about this?”
“About what specifically, Sherlock?”
“About the fact we are soulmates, now as it is established, I can’t keep it away from you.”
“You knew?”
“The only thing I’ve never been certain in my whole lifetime, consider this as compliment,” Sherlock’s legs are crossed one over another as he sat where John did a minute ago. Staring into the galled hearth, he demanded facts, as he does in every case. Unfortunately, answers are no longer in this hearth and Sherlock’s mind lumbers away in sentiments, countless and banal convictions even his heart didn’t support. “I know you are a sceptic, but you have my word that his is real. I have memories from our past relationship, John.”
“How long have you known about this then?”
“I’ve always known it, but I don’t know where this dairy has been. To my recollection, I personally made its grave down the lake, away from human’s green and away from you.”
“Sherlock,” John took his cane reluctantly, “I might have changed since my past life.”
"You can't have faith in such baseless stories and I honestly can't blame you," if guilt had colour, then it must have been an apathetic harbor grey, "we've been caught multiple times, hence you stayed homeless for a few months, I was ordered to move out of London."
"Sherlock," with tender voiceーSherlock's senses alarmed for the cologne of the devilーeloquent and caring, he's never changed for his own good. "I'm not going away this time, I'm right here so we can figure this out. I don't want you to do this on your own. Does the past matter?"
He dismissively throws the diary a few meters across the room, gaining a frown by the younger.
“Past is objectless. I’ve never lowered heroes on the level of humans, yet I had my heart set on becoming one. This extraordinarily complex I’m having is a result of seeing people who are judgemental, preferring to stay out of their mind capacity, suppressing their innermost sixth sense to beg me later on not to reveal their secrets. I’m so tired, John. For once I wanted to live in peace. This life I’ve dedicated to helping people, but never taking credit for any of the foolish riddles I solve, because popularity wrenched the person I loved and I was alone, John!” agitated shout came and thank God John knew it wasn’t meant for him, because a second later, Sherlock buries his face in his hands and cried for all the occasions he had to resist.
“No, love. You've surpassed my craziest expectations I could have for humanity," all of his fancy english vocabulary flew out of the window, landing in "Baker" Street's cold concrete, "would you tell me what is wounding you so much, Sherlock?"
"Past and present couldn't possibly have a tipping point and in contrast to all my beliefs they do. Your sympathy and loyalty were this crossroad, between the possible and the unproven. My only way out of this crisis was the scariest case I've been given, it was you and it has always been you," jittering at the anxious thoughts, Sherlock paced around the room, "how could you make past and present flow into one and the same, John?"
“I could be anything for you, Sherlock,” he took his most cherished spot right by Sherlock’s slender legs, outstretched forward. “Were there people, circumstances or certain misunderstandings that could have separated us?”
“No,” in clipped tone he leaves no room for arguing, scathed lips, chapped by the grim weather, were caught in wrestle with his thumb and John is starring at them for too long. Remembering the colour—paint of warlike canvas and the taste of Italian takeout. This wholeness of Sherlock’s finest look, scarred emotionality and brilliant mind was just fragmented by the fire. His scrupulousness when thinking was adorable—graceful windswept hair and rain-kissed skin under the mahogany mantle-clock. “Humans...” he hissed, “Providing for the dog which bites your hand later on, John.”
“What would you mean?”
“We’ve been reported by civilians whose lives once depended on our engagement with the cases. Humanity is a misdeed we protected from barbarous treats and I couldn’t save the most human, endearing and unabashed one,” at last, his gaze trailed off the fire’s vigour, he took his violin and pulled the strings in a nurturing touch. He played something melancholic, old, almost giving John a déjà vu. It’s so familiar, he could have known it from somewhere? The homeless man playing around the bridge? Mrs Hudson’s ringtone? No, it was different kind of familiar, the type which you could burn yourself with.
“Don’t, Sherlock...”
“Oh, John...” In repulsed twist of his neck, he jabs a fingers and plays again, looking at the timid flames dying down as gunned hopes. “Why must one always kill?”
“Don’t take appreciation too seriously when you can have mine. Comparing items isn’t the same as with human beings, Sherlock. Exactness isn’t found in our nature, we adjust, evolve and change and you can’t stop people from doing that,” Sherlock looks at him with the saddest pout, “well, you could. Not in this sense though! Sherlock, we can try again. That’s the whole point. Our society has become more tolerant nowadays and I'm here to stand up for you. I may have changed from a past life of mine, but my feelings haven’t.”
Sherlock leveled himself up in the armchair. “So, what are you suggesting?”
To kiss you. “I’d be more than glad if you could sleep in my bed tonight. It’s not much different than the night when you got wasted and passed out in there, weeping like a wounded whale.”
That’s the smirk rebelling against stagnation, frightened of not knowing things. John’s heart somersaulted at the idea of this perfect man knowing too much about peoples’ most shadowy aspires. He’s reading him and deducing feelings he may have lost the second he saw this beautiful man leading the way out of everything cruel and meaningless. Roaming between pathless dangers, always leading to the same safe room. His exuberance and arrogance were the coping mechanisms, helping them stay sheltered from the unwashed blood. The sweetest smiles may hold the darkest secrets.
“Really? Very well! I thought you’d like to kiss me, to be honest.”
“Wait, how would you know?” he snaps, unleashed tension seeping between their enclosing faces. “Is there any surreal connection which allows soulmates to read their thoughts? Why can’t I hear yours then? Sherlock! Why are you smiling? How did you know I wanted to kiss you?”
He leaned closer. “You just told me, darling.”
“Moron! I'm not repeating myself a second time. Stop provoking me!”
"I thought you like being provoked."
He’s succumbing to depths his past relationships didn’t reach—the shallow disappears as his feet moved instinctively. Sherlock himself knew those feelings so well he could lecture students on what aesthetically harmonious place feels like. John is a bit confused at first—gratification simmers shortly after Sherlock’s lips pressed into his and like teenagers sending love letters to each other, their promises were left with the most powerful afterthought—a signature of their mutual future.
“You are lovely,” John said quietly, silhouettes of two standing by the fire, drool and warmth flooring into each other’s mouths. “You are beautiful,” his kisses became tender, “you are perfect.”
Sherlock groans at the lengthy kiss—he’s already developing a dependency of John’s unsure, yet loving kisses. Sherlock is kissing like he’s been born to do that, undignified by the old couples sleeping in the same block of flats. It’s insatiable and sensual, slow and patient, it’s a crime where evidences linger in the form of adored flesh, racing hearts and sleepless companion. Sherlock is a thin man with strong frame, ravishing the details of the other—his contorted heart thudding against his own as they hugged, the chemistry, undeniable and cinematic, comes as they finish this session of making out with gentle giggles. Funeral of coldness and happiness being reborn, that’s the simple secret of life they both never quite perceived.
Awestruck and shy, John praised the younger by sheepishly laughing it off, pushing his shoulder backwards as they relaxed in their armchairs again.
“Now, while I’m busy looking for some answers into this dairy, you can explore the colour of the sink and do the dishes, John,” he smirked, throwing his head back, “do the dishes or I won’t do you.”
With forbearing and even-tempered chuckle, John masked his smugness with a comforting forehead kiss, snuggling Sherlock closer before whispering a sweet, overly sweetened nothing into the shell of his ear, “Bold of you to assume you’ll be doing me.”
////
John acted upon boldness, but little did he know he’s unleashed a thunderstorm right in his bedroom! It was past eleven o’clock when he took a long shower, right after Sherlock, and prepared to tuck himself into something not as ill-fitting as his working attire. After doing the dishes and checking the door twice, he went to his bedroom and turned on the nightstand lamp, startled by the sudden appearance of Sherlock in the middle of his bed.
“Sherlock! Hell you scared me!”
With negligence, Sherlock looked at John and back to his book, without paying much attention. It’s different than the last time. It’s conscious. Real, ecstatic and exciting—like the first teenage love sleeping next to you in unstable tent in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock is an island no compasses functioned at and John is a castaway, alone with this overwhelmingly big island.
“You are shaking like a leaf for real! I’ve been an asshole, a traitor, a fake, indignant, a liar, everything but scary! I guess you have some natural respect from me.”
He scoffed turning off the lightening.
“Hey, John! I was reading!”
“No, you were persecuting my love towards you. Go to sleep now.”
Bickering like the next-door couple was nothing less than cute. The hollow void watching over his most vulnerable state matched with the lack of words neither of them needed. Sherlock knew his heart synchronized with John’s, reaching peak of exhilaration, creating resonance. Sherlock doesn’t remember his last time he slept for whole six hours without dozing over the kitchen table or at the backseat of a cab.
This, by contrast, felt secure. A relationship is trustworthy once you know someone will return. Like Houdini, Sherlock managed to escape death and return in his full glory, carrying the burdens only one unloved heart could recognize. Similarly, John waited a lifetime and a bit more, a life closer to being at the place he belonged to and a breath away from destroying his pristineness. After a minute of pretending to be asleep, real tiredness came. As John began to see wonderlands of sugarcanes and military officers in bride dresses, something as scary as a bomb leaped over him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Sherlock has thrown himself over John, making a pool of limbs and a mess of low noises as he adjusts his position. It’s funny since the elder’s height came last of importance per usual, but now he could feel Sherlock’s scrapped knees by his feet. So unfair! He assesses his assertiveness once again pushing Sherlock away, who stubbornly held him closer. “Let me cuddle you, John.”
“Too clingy, darling. Let’s switch positions a little bit so I can hold you properly.”
Sherlock smiled in the darkness at John’s willingness to cooperate and be a fearless, soldier limited edition blanket. He rolls on his left side as he read some people derive positive effects from being left-side sleepers, allowing John’s arm to wrap itself around his midriff, hand scraping his hair in random pattern. He’s gingerly rubbing the same pattern over John’s hand in order to return the gesture. His hands are always so heated he may be having chronic fever—John’s body is a cosy kettle in December’s ferocious blizzard. John benefits as well, Sherlock is the sexiest air-conditioner and it’ll come handy in just a few months.
“You aren’t sleeping,” John whispered soon.
“No,” the other’s belated response came as John pressed a poignant, almost parental peck to Sherlock’s narrow cheekbones, up to his brow, “how would you know?”
“I know your breathing pattern after falling asleep.”
He isn’t to judge him, Sherlock does that and many other bizarre symbols of love readily, without even worrying he’ll ever receive the bitterness of John’s judgement. Painstakingly benign and protective, his own lips kisses John’s knuckles before stroking the bridge of his nose, slowly and firmly and John held him like the most precious thing in this timeless and vast universe, a law of attracting each other the way only twin-flames knew.
At the end of the dayーit's never about going beyond your subconscious fear or overrunning the biggest challenges. At the verge of the pit humans were destined to fall into, it was just enough to be held, kissed and not alone.
Then John wriggles until the lines of his body don’t fit like second skin to Sherlock’s. He’s manifested not just a photographic man, a long-term connection and devotion to die for, but also an extremely private person. Sherlock loves in private, he counts his losses in private, he’s dreaming and working in private and yet had the cogency of indubitable strength to carry such realizations and lessons to the crowd. He’s a great leader with good heart and he’s never taken credit for the tears of relief he’s gifted to many.
“Sherlock.”
“Mm?”
“Is this my shirt?” evidently, it was. The shirt ran half-way Sherlock’s upper body, too tight around his biceps and overall asymmetric. John doesn’t mind it—the scent of his skin was so mossy, a distinctive bergamot perfume with balsamic and warm undertones. Then, he’s honoured for a plain cotton shirt of his to be worn by the human he adored this much.
“You are keeping an eagle’s eye on your belongings, great deduction!” Sherlock quips as a puff of John’s breath fell over his neck. “You’ll be even happier seeing whose underwear I’m wearing.”
“Wry little thing, I can’t catch up with the troubles you put me in! Aren’t you a peasant whose heart was just melted by a long lost match?”
“Oh, keep lying to yourself. I’ve always known you are the one even without the diary being found,” with a smirk he turned, “now you decide if I’ve been wearing your pants for all those years for nothing and definitely reconsider Mrs Hudson’s loyalty because she was the one sneaking a pair or two for me.”
He’s impossible! John squeezes the tall body in a hug and Sherlock already recognizes the touch-deprived insecurity in John’s hands, learning his body by pressing kisses like colourful pushpins over a map. Sherlock’s body doesn’t possess a herculean power, but it’s agile and masculine still. The soul beneath this cold exterior was what enchanted the doctor, attracting him like a bird to lighthouse.
Sometime after midnight, they’ve stilled to full relaxation, but both had a childlike theories and confessions, which magically kept their eyes widely opened. Sherlock proceed to turn to John, fully facing him, taking one of his hands in his own and playing with it, as if it’s a work of art.
A loving hand is worth being the brush of a masterpiece.
“John...” Sherlock’s voice is withered and drowsy, the elder’s beauty cut by moonlight. They pause kissing for a moment, like unfazed adults they began talking without expressing their affection through physical contact. “Everything that belongs to me, belong to you. You are allowed to tidy up, move and go through my belongings as you wish.”
John knew that, he also knew how every crease of Sherlock’s body belonged to him.
“Tidy it up? So you want me to be a domestic boyfriend?”
“That’s not what I meant darling,” he strokes John’s cheek and tucks the blanket from both sides of his body—then John was a little cocoon, abiding by Sherlock’s rules. “You may though, or else.”
“Or what?”
“I’ll tickle.”
John smiles again, a little prudish smile escalating into a belly laugh. He’s always allowed himself to laugh like this with Sherlock, because he was generally a safe person. The one who is capable of pulling a manipulation show and lead the most horrifying criminals into a pantomime of delusions. At the same time, he’s safe. Trustworthy, always respectful of John’s space (excluding the rare occasions when he’d intervene in his dates) and romantic in his own subtle and direct way. Being a kind human thereupon means being safe with those who love you.
Tonight, John didn’t have any more significant intentions than just making Sherlock feel accepted in this insane world—that there is a place, a home, a human who wants him to be protected by the outer forces. Someone who treasures his intellect and would never oppress his potential. John wanted to be that person. Just him and nobody else.
"What would I do in this world without you, John? No one is capable of handling me like you do."
"That's alright," he says in response to the whimsical twist of the man pulling him closer. "I'm not leaving you anytime soon."
"Wherever you go, take me with yourself."
"I'll try by best."
"Promise!"
"Sherlock..." chaste peck is exploding like confetti over John's lips and he's so in love there is no way of declining. "I promise, I'll be your hideout."
He's such a brat even tired.
“I’m falling asleep,” Sherlock says, perplexed and sleepy. There is a spot of them surging in the middle of the bed, there is a wild consequence of kisses and inseparable embraces. The untangled mess of arms and legs after them wrestling, drinking into each other’s portrait and breathing into each other’s hair was finally over as they began to fall asleep—no longer chased by the problems of the past.
“Sleep, love. I’ll be right next you,” Sherlock gave him a thankful, tiny kiss on the chin before dozing off and just a second later John looks at the distorted image of the dairy blending with the background of a London night under the veil of winter. “I won’t let anything do us apart anymore. I promise you will never be away from me, Sherlock. I won’t let anything take you away."
His body bucks towards Sherlock'sーseeking protection, touching every little movement of his soulmate's chest.
So he doesn’t let him go.
////
The morning doesn’t differ from a classical one on “Baker” street—the address of all crazy events and unresolved tension. John washes the rest of the dishes as he paces around the apartment. By the bedroom door, he doesn’t notice Sherlock’s home slippers so he’s obviously home, probably doing an experiment he’s definitely cleaning up later. John eventually came out of their shared bedroom.
“Love, are you home?”
When no answer came, John’s whole system was alarmed that something wasn’t okay. He’s unsure how to control his reactions—his body is senselessly obeying to the adrenaline. He would analyze the crippling silence and go out of his racoon, but when it came to Sherlock, he was quick to act before over-thinking all opportunities and spine-chilling scenarios.
“Sweetheart, can you tell me if you are home? Give me a signal?” he’s really trying to figure out any unwelcomed presence in the apartment, “Sherlock, love, are you in here? Is everything okay?”
He went into the living room, the spot Sherlock made up to be their royal parlour or even scientific lab. Taken aback, he looked at the man standing a meter away from Sherlock’s armchair and after detecting no danger for his soulmate, his eyebrows curled in amazement.
“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s brother was standing at a similar height as his brother, leaning to his beige, quant umbrella.
“How lovely, you have pet nicknames now? It’s heart-warming!”
“Why is he here, Sherlock?” John muttered with distinguished lack of conviction.
“Don’t worry, I asked him to come by this morning. That was my first job after waking up, but he’s probably in a big rush so don’t bother serving tea.”
John is relieved and stunned by Sherlock’s cynical, yet unerring comments—nippy and treacherous, like him. On the other hand, pride flared up in his chest knowing Sherlock’s skin has been touched, kissed and taken care of by him. With equal vulnerability and impending yearning, he crosses his arms to preserve this sweetness into him for a bit longer. Must he prevail over the butterflies ricocheting in his body—or kneel? With apparent joy, he walked past Mycroft and sat beside Sherlock.
“What has brought you here?” asked John.
“Oh John, congratulations on seeing colours again! I’m pretty much passing by to say bon mariage, lovebirds,” a sly grin is caved in his atrocious grimace, John is already agape, “furthermore, my dearest brother Sherlock may be consulting with me for a dowry—you’ve taken lives in order to save others, Doctor Watson. That’s noble enough to get your own sher-land yard, no?”
“Enough, Mycroft.”
The moment John senses a wave of distress flooding through his lover’s blood, his hand reassuringly found Sherlock’s and entwined together in a clasp. Even the size of their hands is making the differences to avidly urge them into becoming a whole. Sherlock’s dimples appeared with a restful smile—John is immediately relieved. Expanding his heart with each beat, they crave the closure, salacious nudity of the soul, the screech of Sherlock’s violin welcoming comfort and the London’s intimidating scenes lurking in behind the wreaths of suspicion everyone seemingly had. That’s home.
“Your public display of affection is absolutely ridiculous and merely pleasant to behold,” John almost snapped at the purposeful attempts of Mycroft to irk both of them—but he must be here for a reason? Eccentric and unfitting, he still wouldn’t disrupt their privacy like this. “I came for entirely different thing at first place, it seems like Sherlock wanted to consult with me for a complex case you’ve been brainstorming over. Sherlock, I mean.”
“John is equally as dedicated to the work, methodical and well-organized. He’s able to provide both silence and eloquence and not to mention he’s perfectly capable of overpowering you in the simplest microbiology problem,” it is more of a hiss than a treat and now looking at both man sitting in front of each other, John doubts they are brothers—even sworn enemies wouldn’t pull such menacing cards at each other.
“Intelligent people don’t need answers brother, but it appears that John rarely has any.”
This is utterly hurting Sherlock and seeing Sherlock’s rage, John’s doubled.
“They don’t, but you are here now because you didn’t have the audacity to speak yours up,” Sherlock breaks John’s stagnant and cool glare by overstretching his arm to get the dairy lying over the new piano at the nook. The music sheets are dishevelled so are John’s thoughts, looking at both of the men having a game of their own. Undeserved and raw competitiveness dressed in shrewdness. “The dairy was found by the lake where we’d go picnicking as kids, the area has been isolated because of the bloody rag this book has been wrapped with. Is this a coincidence that my item, happened to be where we used to go as kids?”
John rested his chin over his fist.
“Are you implying something? Sherlock, don’t allow some provocation to subdue you, it could be anyone who dislikes you, there are plenty.”
“Well then,” he tolerated, “because I stayed under the impression it was someone who loved me.”
“What?” Mycroft barked and John’s smile widened—he’s getting the idea without Sherlock even elaborating.
“Reading the dairy over and over again, I searched for clues who could have buried it in there and why now. Of course I wouldn’t have called you if it was someone potentially dangerous for my relationship with John so I quickly figured this out. On some of the pages I saw a text saying, that a soulamte is a system of tissues, contracting muscles and yet it is the holiest form of art known to the mankind. Then it is added that “he’ll see in vintage, movie in black and white until he doesn’t meet his soulmate or collapse in oblivion,” isn’t that believable?”
“So, you think I wrote this at the end of your dairy? Do you personally imagine me to do a lowbrow thing like this?”
“Yes, firstly because you pick the most obvious and sentimental place, secondly because it’s your handwriting and third because you congratulated John on returning his colour-recognition abilities when nobody beside me knew.”
Mycroft’s adam apple blobs at the intensity—he’s said something so wrong. The style, the way he conveyed care is so familiar to Sherlock. He must have torn the page or chain it to shackles. New mystery is being solved and Mycroft’s silence was a sign of agreement. Sherlock looks at his watch, rubbing John’s thigh slightly. Meanwhile the other is wonderstruck. “John, are you alright?”
“Yeah... My mind is still trying to catch up. What was the point of the bloody rag?”
“He’s just dramatic,” Sherlock wavered his hand dismissively. "Also, he told everyone not to give me access to the case, that's why Lestrade made it sound like I rejected it, in reality I told him I know the answer before the case has even begun."
“I was acting upon impulsiveness! There were threats surrounding both of you and I was the only confidant Sherlock has, I took an oath his secret would go to my grave. It did so, centuries back I found some of my invaluable items and purposely put it in dirt—you’ve taken the hint very well.”
“Of course,” Sherlock smirked, running his fingers up and down the leather cover of the dairy, “the text you left to be inherited by angels as so well-written, only a genius could do this. Me and my lovely John had passed away long after this piece of sincerity and honesty was written and there is only one man capable of doing so. I enjoy this sympathetic side of yours Mycroft.”
“Do so, because you won’t see it again!”
“Wait! Won’t you tell us at least, why now? You knew I was Sherlock’s soulmate and we’ve lived in denial for so long, why didn’t you hand it to him earlier?”
A loud guffaw roared and Mycroft turned once again, heels clicking tactfully with the clock, “because I got bored with the tension lingering between you two, my brother’s sex drive decreased so did his mental competence and wit. I couldn’t allow his mind to deflate because of his arrogant ass living in denial, so count that as a favour,” John’s eyes goggled, almost popping out of their orbs and splashing into the cup of soluble coffee.
Their tension was something Mycroft experimented with and as it has seemed struck in a never-ending cycle of disputes, turmoil and possessiveness. Now he’s grateful for this man interfering in time, maybe a bit uneasy because he's kept such secret for so long, but as he Sherlock told him later from his observations “He didn’t know by now too, he’s playing around. The second he found it he reported.”
"I'm glad I had had influence over your sexual affairs, now if I may, I'll head to work."
"Mycroft," John said, "why don't you stay over for breakfast? Even better, we can go to the bakery and it'll be my treat, you are my brother-in-law after all."
"I'm what?"
Sherlock laughed so hard and Mycroft's expression was so funnyーJohn was pulled by Sherlock is a tender kiss, before they headed downstairs.
"Why not? Let me get Mrs Hudson too!"
John and Mycroft were left by energetic Sherlock running through the door and both knew, holding back from a colorful future, wasn't worth the pain from the past.
"John, hurry up or I'll eat all the sweet bread!
"We are coming, baby!"