Work Text:
The case is over but I’m still a bit hyped up. I can feel the steady hum of adrenaline as it courses through my body, making my fingertips jittery as I scroll through the emails in connection to my blog. I’m trying desperately to calm the familiar buzz in my brain but it isn’t exactly working, not tonight anyway. So much is the same, yet so much has changed too. After six long months of denying it, I finally decided to let myself relax into the idea that I might actually be in love with my flatmate and, as one usually does when confronted with these sorts of things, I discovered that I was in for the ride of my life from that point on.
While daily life had remained pretty much the same, I still wasn’t quite sure where Sherlock stood even after trying countless times to court him in my own little ways. While bringing him tea and his favourite biscuits didn't quite do the trick, I was fairly certain that I could do better. At most times, I would have said that he didn’t really pay me much attention while he was on a case but something about this one seemed to shift him closer to me than he’d ever been before. Perhaps it was the military focus? Or was it the occasional bouts of PTSD that the killer seemed to have been prone to?
In general, Sherlock was brilliant as always but, this time, he was even more impressive than usual and also a bit more vulnerable if I let myself admit it. It’s true that he’s a genius; I’ll never understand how he does it - figures everything out the way he does - but I think that’s part of the beauty of it and I can't really let myself miss out on it all this time.
“Hey, Sherlock, take a look at this one,” I say suddenly as a particular email headline catches my eye. I’m not sure why, but I’m extremely eager to get him out for another case as soon as I can. Maybe, the same energy from this case will transfer onto the next one if I’m quick enough…
Before my mind can run away with all of the little scenarios it tries to conjure up, I find myself face to face with something I don’t see very often and it shuts down any hope I ever had of continuing on yet another adventure tonight. Sherlock is curled up beside me in the back seat of the cab, his chocolate curls falling just perfectly over his brow as his shoulders rise and fall with the gentle sound of his snores. He’s sound asleep… Ironically, it’s the sweetest yet most frustrating sight I’ve ever seen. While one part of me wants to wake him up in order to test my theory of his vulnerability further, the other part wants to cherish the current gift of vulnerability that I've just been given.
A soft whisper slips from the detective’s lips and I furrow my brow. He doesn’t usually talk in his sleep, but he has been running himself ragged for about six days straight this time so I suppose anything is possible. With this in mind, I dip my head a bit, tilting my ear down in hopes that he’ll do it again. I don’t have to wait long before my persistence is rewarded and, when the sound comes again, I can feel my cheeks burn in surprise.
“John…” he murmurs and it nearly takes my breath away.
My name… He’s said my name… in his sleep…
I chew my lip, thinking for a moment before bringing my hand up to hover hesitantly over is curls. It’s a knee-jerk reaction but I’m not sure how he’d react if he woke up to me petting him like a dog. ‘Just do it… what’s the worst that can happen?’ my brain taunts me, twisting my arm so that I give in to the temptation. My fingertips graze the thick locks at the back of his head - just testing the waters - and I nearly moan from the softness that seems to materialise beneath my touch. It’s hard to believe that his hair is even softer than I could have ever imagined, but I can’t keep myself from going a bit further now that I’ve actually touched it.
Feeling a bit braver, I allow my hand to dip further toward the front of his head as I brush the curls back from his forehead. The usual tension between his brows has softened and it’s strange to actually see him this relaxed. Do you ever stop thinking? Or do you only crash when you’ve pushed yourself as far as you can manage?
It’s a stupid thought, really; I know the answer already.
The cab pulls up just in front of the door to 221B and I can’t help the little stab of regret that I feel as I realise my little moment is slipping away from me. It was nice while it lasted at least and, who knows, maybe he’s just getting more comfortable with me now that I’ve relaxed a bit myself… Without much preamble, I tear myself away from my flatmate in order to pay the cabbie before doing my best to shoulder Sherlock out of the cab and up to the door, jostling him terribly as I fumble for my keys.
“Eyes,” Sherlock mumbles and I nearly drop my keys as he sways against me.
“Eyes?” I ask, feeling a small hint of alarm bells ringing in the distant corners of my brain. Knowing Sherlock, “eyes” could mean a number of things, including something very very awful and disgusting that I’m about to have to deal with upon entering our quite questionable home.
Sherlock’s head dips sleepily as I unlock the door and the sudden shift in his weight nearly takes both of us down in the entryway before I can get him propped against the bannister. “Yes, eyes…” he says, his eyes blinking open in a confused sort of way. “Your eyes, John…”
The heat returns to my cheeks and I catch him once again as he sways on his feet, our faces only millimeters apart now. “Wh-what about my eyes?” I ask, fighting back the wave of self-consciousness that threatens to swallow me up on the spot as I feel his soft breaths against my lips. What on earth is he on about this time?
“Have they always been that color?” he asks, leaning close enough that his nose brushes mine and I feel my breath catch in my chest.
I blink up at him, somewhat stupidly, as my brain finds it difficult to supply a stream of intellectual words to my subconscious. Instead of a combination of the suave and debonair things that I had hoped to say in a moment like this, the only thing my awestruck intellect seems capable of is a half-strangled “What?” that sounds like it’s been wrenched from the back of my throat using the proverbial jaws of life.
Sherlock huffs softly, his eyelids drooping once again before snapping them back open. He fixes me with a calculated, yet strained gaze, and I can’t help the feeling of helplessness that washes over me. “Blue,” he says, cupping my chin in his hand and pressing his forehead to mine. “No… not just blue… Deep blue… like the depths of the darkest oceans…” His words trail off after a moment in what some would mistake for a drunken haze as he stares into my eyes without quite seeing me now.
I take the opportunity to shake my head, freeing myself from his grip as my heart hammers in my chest. I can feel the overwhelming urge to run, to leave him stranded right there in the stairwell, but I talk myself down from it as best I can. He’s tired and vulnerable yes, but nothing says that he doesn’t mean the things that he’s saying now. Right…?
“Aaaaaaand, now’s the time to get you to bed, I think,” I answer, finally able to conjure up something more than a couple of half-arsed replies. “Bit of rest should do you some good and we can talk about this later, then.” I shift Sherlock’s weight in my arms, putting an effective end to the conversation. It’s true that I've been struggling to pinpoint how he felt about me, but, in light of recent events, I have come to a startling realisation that I may not actually be as ready as I'd hoped.
“Afraid of the intensity that comes with being in love with Sherlock Holmes?” my brain snickers in spite of itself and I shake my head to clear the thought. Getting him to bed will do us both some good: Sherlock can sleep off the detrimental effects of being awake for six days straight and I can have some space to think. God knows I’m definitely going to be needing it now…