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A Wednesday afternoon, cast in the dreary blues of early January, finds John at Sherlock’s door, debating whether or not to knock. He doesn’t want to intrude — of course not. But he hasn’t seen or heard from Sherlock since breakfast, after which his flatmate had made it clear he was going back to sleep for the rest of the morning. The flat has been quiet since, and John doesn’t quite believe he’s really been sleeping all this time.
He knocks softly, before he can lose the nerve. “Sherlock?”
There is no answer, and John remembers he may well just be asleep, finally catching up on much-needed rest.
Even so, he can’t shake the urge to check on him.
He pushes the door handle down, and the mechanism unlatches with a click. He’s glad for his slippers; they dampen the sound of his footsteps enough he doesn’t think he’ll disturb Sherlock if he really is sleeping.
John is, with a weird sinking feeling, not surprised to see that Sherlock is entirely conscious.
“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice quiet. Sherlock’s slouched in a weird position on the floor, his laptop ignored in front of him. The screen is dim.
“Hrmngh,” Sherlock responds. His eyes are open, but glazed over. John’s chest twists.
“Hey,” John says again, kneeling down next to him. “You okay?” He frowns, and holds a hand to Sherlock’s forehead, but there’s no sign of a fever.
Sherlock groans again, his eyes fixing dazedly on John’s jaw, then his cheek. He’s having one of those bursts where he can’t look at things straight on, and he can’t speak, and John thinks he knows why.
He reaches over to close the laptop.
Sherlock makes a small sound of protest.
“Not right now,” John says, and looks over his flatmate with concern.
His hair is ruffled more than usual — like he’s been running his hands through it — his skin is pale far beyond its usual extent, his face flushed an ill colour, and he’s shaking. It’s almost imperceptible, the tremor in his muscles, but it’s there. He hides himself well.
“When’d you last eat?” John asks, even though he knows Sherlock can’t speak. His answering whine is telling enough. “C’mon.” He holds out a hand, and Sherlock stares at it blankly for a moment as his thoughts catch up. Then he takes it, and John helps him to his feet.
He sways for a moment, lips parted, eyes not quite seeing, but John steadies him. Just a hand on his arm, but it helps.
It’s taken years for him to be able to do that.
Sherlock is not quite walking, not at this stage. No, a more apt term would be drifting, John thinks — his skin is a ghostly shade, his eyes tired and glassy. He’s not talking, he’s not deducing. He’s just drifting along, stumbling like a flame in the wind.
John catches him. Every time.
He catches Sherlock, and he encourages him along. “Take your time,” he assures his flatmate as he pauses for a moment to grip the doorway, his eyes downcast. “It’s okay.”
They move slowly. John isn’t going to rush him. He can’t. Not when Sherlock’s tired and hungry and vulnerable. It’s taken so long, so bloody long, to get the man to open up, to not push John away when he struggles, to accept help.
John’s his friend, and Sherlock has set a vast amount of trust on him by allowing this small moment of weakness to be known. John intends to treat him well in kind.
“There we go,” he says as Sherlock descends, shaking, to sit at the kitchen table. He rubs his friend’s shoulder, hoping his pride is tangible.
Food. Time for food.
There are no leftovers — they’d polished off the remains of the Lebanese takeout last night — but there were some things in the freezer. John digs through them, ignoring the swiftly–approaching numbness in his hands for the sake of Sherlock.
“How d’you feel about sausage rolls?”
Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes, but he nods very slightly: just the tiniest incline of his head, a flickering of his gaze, and then back to neutral. John prides himself on being able to pick up on it, on seeing the tiny ways Sherlock moves and exists. Nobody else stops to notice them.
“Brill.” John busies himself with that. There’s half a dozen left, and he sets them all down on a plate. If Sherlock can’t eat them all, he will.
A minute and a half in the microwave, and off they go, whirring round. John fiddles with his hands for a bit, watching Sherlock. Poor guy is knackered, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by.
John frowns.
All he wants to do — all he really, truly wants to do — is give him a hug. Gather him up and hold him, assure him that it’s all okay, it really is. That he doesn’t mind that he gets like this. That he wants to help Sherlock. He bites back the urge, however tempting it is. However hard it is to do so.
Sherlock needs space, and he needs warning, and he’s certainly never shown interest in John touching him more than he does. He’s pushing the line of just friends already.
It’s okay.
It’s fine.
John is a perfectly functional man, with perfectly intact impulse control. He can help Sherlock without caving to his selfish wants. Sherlock deserves to be lo — appreciated, without the burden of someone else’s desires.
The microwave beeps.
Sherlock jumps a little, and John is comforting him on instinct before he’s even realised his mouth is open. “All okay, just your food, nothing to worry ‘bout, Sherlock… now here you go.”
The smell of mincemeat and pastry permeates the air. Sherlock breathes it in deeply. The steaming sausage rolls pop with heat. “Mm,” he replies, a transient acknowledgement, and looks sideways at the plate.
He picks up a sausage roll, then drops it down again, blowing on his fingers. John winces sympathetically, leaning back against the counter to watch. A strange, fond protectiveness aches in his chest. He feels like a guard dog, watching over Sherlock as he eats.
He feels useful.
Sherlock lifts the plate, carefully, holding the edges, and blows gently on the food. The steam dissipates. Gingerly, he takes a roll, breathes on it again, then takes the tiniest bite.
The relieved look on his face is worth every moment walking slowly in the hall, every five AM violin practice, every gunshot and every rainy road at midnight. It’s worth everything, to be able to help Sherlock like this.
He eats the first one slowly, then moves to the second. Sherlock is not a messy eater by habit. His childhood simply wouldn’t have allowed it. But sometimes he slacks, he lets go a bit. When the third falls apart on his fingers, he licks the crumbs right off. It’s hypnotic.
He eats the fourth. And the fifth.
His eyes begin to flicker around, taking things in. His hand doesn’t shake as he wipes crumbs from his chin.
John’s heart swells with pride when he eats the final one.
He presses off the counter, moving round the table to stand behind Sherlock’s chair. He means to take his plate, he really does, but instead John does something neither he nor Sherlock expect:
“Good job, love,” he says, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple.
Sherlock notices it before he does.
John’s flatmate freezes, and he can see his jaw tighten. He wonders what’s wrong for the dizziest moment before he remembers why he’s inches away from Sherlock’s neck, why he’s hovering behind his chair like he has any right to be there. His breath stutters.
Sherlock is shaking. He’s tense because he’s trying not to tremble. John hopes it’s not with anger.
Something crosses his face, an expression that flickers into existence as briefly as a lighter flame. He’s — Christ, he’s suppressing a smile.
What the fuck.
Before John can adequately apologise for the lapse of judgement, before he can promise it will never happen again, and beg, please, to never talk of this again, Sherlock makes a pained noise, and John freezes too.
He’s rooted to the spot, he couldn’t move right now even if the fucking flat was on fire. He grips the back of Sherlock’s chair so hard his knuckles are white.
Fear pangs through him — surely Sherlock knows it all from that. Even though he’s out of sorts, John was so bloody obvious, it’s impossible he didn’t notice. And the love, oh, God, he’s never hated the entire concept of pet names with such a burning passion before.
The fear spills over into panic, flooding John’s senses. Sherlock doesn’t appreciate invasions of his space. That was stupid — reckless — he’s already struggling enough without John pushing all that onto him — he knows — fuck, fuck, fuck.
Sherlock is very, very still. He doesn’t say a word.
His throat bobs as he swallows, and John stares.
The moment drags on, endless, and John wishes the world would end at this very convenient moment. He wishes for something to happen, anything at all, anything to break this vacuum between them. He doesn’t care if it’s an armed robber or a nuclear explosion or fucking Godzilla, he just needs this moment to end and to never have to talk about it, ever.
Sherlock breaks the agonising silence with even more agonising words.
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispers hoarsely, still not looking at him. It’s the first thing he’s said and — it’s not — it’s not a, “ What the fuck, mate?” — he’s not —
John’s brain goes into overdrive.
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.
“What’re you —” John clears his throat, trying to soothe his raspy voice, and very carefully stands up, the same way one extricates themself from a bed shared with a lover in the morning, trying desperately not to wake them. He can’t be so close. He’ll do something stupid again like —
No. No. He can’t panic now. He can panic later, but not now, not in front of Sherlock. Man’s been through enough today, and it’s not John’s place to force more struggle upon him.
Sherlock twists around in his seat. His eyes flicker over John. “For — for helping me, John. Thank you.” He stutters over the words as if they’re unfamiliar — they are.
He doesn’t get to thank anyone. Nobody sees fit to help Sherlock Holmes, brilliant fucking man he is, and John’s heart breaks, right then and there. It shatters in his chest, and he can feel it like glass, and he might just be about to break down.
“Yeah,” he forces out, ignoring the shards of composure that are still gently tinkling in his chest cavity. Probably bad for your lungs, to have glass in there, he thinks absently. “‘Course.”
Sherlock frowns at John, tilting his head in a silent question: what’s wrong?
John looks away. “Um,” he says, then falters, swallowing nervously, clenching and unclenching his hands. God, his head hurts.
Sherlock waits patiently for John to pick up the trail of thought.
“Sorry I — um, y’know — I, er, I wasn’t really thinking —”
“I’m not upset,” Sherlock cuts him off levelly. He’s not angry. He’s so incredibly calm . Just ten minutes ago he was silent and shaking, now he’s the one comforting John. Fuck. “If that’s what you’re concerned about.”
John wrings his hands mutely. Sherlock watches him for a moment.
“Do you regret it?” he asks, very quietly.
“Well — I — um —”
“John,” Sherlock says, with enough intensity and such a breaking noise to his voice he could be pleading. His eyes are dark and worried.
“I mean,” John mumbles, “I — I know you don’t li — don’t like that kind’f stuff. M’sorry. Really am.”
Sherlock pauses for a moment. John can see him working through his words, organising his thoughts like those little alphabet magnets. The moment hangs, caught in amber like an insect, the winter sun dipping out of view, deepening the shadows of the room.
“I wanted it,” Sherlock says finally, so quietly that his voice dips into a whisper. His gaze is fixed on John, intense, wanting.
God.
God.
‘I wanted it. Do you still regret it?’
‘Is it you or is it me?’
With an extreme force of will, John says, coherently, “No. I don’t — I don’t regret it.”
Something absolutely beautiful, something awestruck and starry, passes over Sherlock’s face. “John,” he says, and his mouth is moving around John’s name like it’s holy.
John ducks his head. He can’t bear the way Sherlock is looking at him, looking at him like he’s everything. His eyes are stinging. He can taste blood. The world is ending and beginning here in this very room.
The chair scrapes across the floor.
John stiffens, shrinking in on himself. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of. Sherlock wants him — oh good God. Sherlock wants him.
Two socked feet appear in John’s swimming vision. The gray ones, lighter stripes — he bought those. There’s a hole in one from an incident with the Bunsen burner. He screws his eyes shut.
“John,” Sherlock repeats, with that same intensity, his voice a keen, a plea.
Sherlock doesn’t hug. He just doesn’t. For hellos and goodbyes, he nods, if he affords any acknowledgement at all. For well dones and thank yous and (John dares to think there have been any, he dares to think he is wanted in the way he yearns to be) I missed yous, he might flash that funny, perfect little smile of his, the one where his eyes crinkle up and he pulls his head back a little, and he just seems… lighter.
But he doesn’t hug.
John dimly remembers one of his primary school science projects: a vinegar and baking soda volcano. The vinegar does perfectly well on its own, but adding baking soda ruins that calm, foaming up and making a mess over the table.
The fact that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t hug reacts about as well with the fact that he is hugging John right now.
He’s — oh God.
“Oh my God,” John says, and he clutches at Sherlock’s shirt. This can’t be real, he thinks in a daze. I’m just gonna wake up, and it’s gonna be a normal day —
As usual, Sherlock stops his train of thought like he’s a tree falling on the tracks: sudden, and strong, and there’s nothing John can do about it. He’s a force of nature. He’s just like that.
This time, instead of coming closer to him, it’s when Sherlock pulls away that makes John’s heart skitter.
He’s looking at John in a way he’s never been looked at before. Like he’s everything.
He’s tracing John’s shoulder blade with a hand, circling a figure-eight. The other hand is on his lower back. He’s warm, and he’s solid, and he’s real, and he’s holding John.
John doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“May I —” Sherlock’s eyes flicker to John’s mouth. He looks… enraptured.
John realises with a sudden and confronting clarity that Sherlock wants this. He said. He said he wants to touch John. To — to kiss him. He wants John to do the same to him.
“Please.”
Sherlock looks at him for a moment longer, unreadable, then dips down to press his pretty mouth against John’s.
He’s nervous. He’s in awe.
He’s perfect.
John tightens his hold on Sherlock’s button-up, grabbing on for dear life as Sherlock breaks him into a million pieces with the gentlest kiss.
He whimpers into Sherlock’s mouth, uncaring of how pathetic he sounds. Sherlock rumbles back, arms tightening around John.
He wants Sherlock.
He can have Sherlock.
A hand finds its way to John’s neck, and the kiss deepens, and John is going to go insane. Sherlock bloody Holmes — touching him — wanting him —
Sherlock is guiding him, trying to move, and John follows him. He’d follow him to the ends of the Earth, if he asked.
He lo —
Sherlock’s got him up against a wall. He’s eager, kissing John fervently, hands moving up to hold his neck. John slows it down.
“Hey — I get — but can we just —” he pants against Sherlock’s mouth.
“Of course,” Sherlock says, stilling, and it’s that voice, the I’d do anything for you voice that does it.
Sherlock is kissing his neck, gentle as ever, hands on John’s waist, pretty mouth making John feel good while he just leans back against the wall, drained, when he notices.
“Are you —”
“Yeah,” John says, squeezing his eyes shut. Embarrassment flushes his cheeks. Sherlock is here, being so sweet, so patient, and he’s crying all over him. “Sorry,” he sniffs.
“Don’t be,” Sherlock says quietly. “Please. Don’t be sorry for feeling.” He reaches for John’s jaw, holding it, his hand almost meeting John’s mouth. “I want you to feel. I will help you however I can with anything bad. I will try to ensure plenty things good.”
John breathes heavily through his nose, and rests his head on Sherlock’s collarbone. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Sherlock hums, and holds John close.
~
Waking up the next morning is rather disorienting, if only briefly. He can sleep anywhere — military habit — but he’s gotten quite used to his room upstairs.
Instead, he finds himself in a familiar but not-his room, with something — no, somebody — lying next to him, and he blinks in drowsy confusion.
He soon finds himself more than settled by his company, and not distressed in the least by his location.
It’s a time without words, these minutes as the sun hangs in balance, neither day nor night. They don’t need words, yet. Later, there will be things to do, people to help. Breakfasts to make and cases to solve. They’ll talk to police and intrusive elder brothers and curious landladies and murderers before the day is out, but not yet. Not now.
Now is just for them.
John allows the memories of last night to filter through his mind. Sherlock waits, long body curled next to John, eyes tracking his every movement.
I didn’t dream it, then, John thinks happily. He stretches out with a pleased sigh. His joints pop. Sherlock watches.
He turns over.
Sherlock has been at his side, awake, for quite some time, waiting for him, he’ll learn later. Right now, John’s focused on far more pressing matters, like the curve of Sherlock’s spine, the way he’s almost coiled around John, the hand that does not waste time in creeping up to his chest.
John focuses on Sherlock’s body, and his hands, and his sleep-mussed hair. In turn, Sherlock focuses on him. His gaze is adoring, his eyes soft, and he dots kisses down John’s neck. He’s nervous, and he’s careful, and he’s so single-mindedly determined to ensure John’s happiness.
In this moment, in this twilight before the noise of London descends, and in the moments after, in the warm sputter of the shower as they start their very first day together, and in the popping of frying eggs, and in the lazy morning they spend together, still learning they are allowed to touch, and in every moment after that, he loves Sherlock.