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The front door bangs shut, and Sherlock hears John’s footsteps on the stairs. He’s taking them one at a time, dragging his feet slightly so the tip of his shoe occasionally catches on the edge of a step. He hears John hesitate outside the door before he pushes it open and steps into the kitchen.
“Evening,” John says, shrugging off his coat and throwing it over one of the kitchen chairs. Sherlock grunts in response, not looking up from his microscope. In his peripheral vision, he sees John shrug and cross the room and start to make tea. He bangs around for a while, his movements obviously distracted, and after a few minutes he stops and turns to face Sherlock.
"Sherlock, I need to talk to you."
Sherlock still doesn't look up. John has approached him with similar statements before, and it generally turns out to be that Sherlock needs to stop taking John’s things, or leaving his things lying around everywhere. Not something worth breaking his concentration for.
"Sherlock, I'm serious."
Something in John's tone catches his attention, something he can’t pinpoint, and he raises his eyes. John is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his normally open face unreadable. Sherlock looks him in the eye, and John drops his gaze. Oh. He's nervous.
"Sherlock, Mary and I - " John starts, then hesitates.
Sherlock refrains from snorting, but it’s a near thing. Mary. God, he should have been better prepared for that, should have nipped it in the bud before it had a chance to go anywhere. He'd just assumed John's relationship with her would go the way of all his others; over before it really got going, when John's prospective partner realised John would always pick Sherlock over them.
Mary is different. Mary understands, in a way that the others hadn't, what John needs from Sherlock, what they need from each other. She doesn’t complain when John breaks a date with her because Sherlock needs him for a case; she doesn't mind the body parts in the flat; she isn't bothered by Sherlock's abrasiveness. John, in return, makes so much more of an effort with her. There are rules, rules about when Sherlock is allowed to text John, when Sherlock is allowed in John’s room, rules about date nightabsolutely set in stone, unless the situation is life or death.
Sherlock can grudgingly admit that John does an admirable job of balancing the two of them. Cases are priority (“someone needs to make sure that brilliant brain of yours doesn’t end up painting the pavement,” John says cheerfully, and Mary, curled up next to him on the sofa, would laugh) but otherwise, more and more, Mary comes first. It’s infuriating. He needs John around sometimes, for reasons that have nothing to do with a case. John makes him tea; he cleans the flat; he listens to Sherlock talk about his experiments; he asks questions, sometimes even intelligent ones. John is there in a way no one ever has been in Sherlock’s life. But John is around less and less these days, and any day now --
Oh.
John is fiddling with a thread on his jumper and looking anywhere but at Sherlock as he starts to speak again.
“Sherlock, Mary asked me --”
“-- to move in with her,” Sherlock finishes. John’s eyes widen predictably, and Sherlock marvels that John still seems genuinely amazed by Sherlock’s deductive abilities, even such a trivial example of them as this.
“Well, yes.” John picks up a clean slide sitting on the bench next to him, turning it over and over in his hands.
“And you’ve said yes.” That much is obvious from the way John’s still nervous, still unwilling to look at Sherlock properly.
John hesitates before finally raising his eyes to Sherlock’s.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Sherlock stares at him for a moment before nodding.
“Fine.”
There’s a pause, and Sherlock returns his focus to the specimen under his microscope, ignoring his thundering pulse and hoping John can’t read anything of his racing thoughts in his expression. He can feel John’s eyes on him; the man is positively radiating confusion. It’s clear he’d been expecting a few scathing remarks on the subject of his relationship, or maybe sulks. Possibly both.
“Is that all?” John asks quietly. The hurt in his voice is nearly palpable.
“I don’t see what else there is to be said on the subject,” Sherlock says, and he can’t believe that his voice isn’t shaking, that he sounds perfectly calm and rational. “It is the next logical step in the progression of your relationship. I’ve been expecting it for some time now.” Liar.
“Oh.”
John doesn’t say anything further, and after a minute he leaves the room, dropping the microscope slide onto the table. Sherlock remains seated at his table, forcing his breathing to remain steady until the front door closes three minutes later.
The moment it does, he pushes himself up from the table and strides into the living room. He throws himself down on the sofa and tries to think above the mantra of John’s leaving, John can’t leave, he can’t, he can’t he can’t he can’t.
*
John doesn’t slam the door behind him; he’s not angry, after all. He turns up his collar and starts off down Baker Street with no clear idea of where he’s going. Walking always clears his head, and that’s exactly what he needs right now.
He’s not sure what he was expecting. Had he thought Sherlock would throw himself at John’s feet, arms around his knees, and beg him to say? That Sherlock would tell him, outright, that he needs John, that he doesn’t want John to go?
No; obviously, he hadn’t thought that would happen at all: he knows Sherlock better than that. But he’d hoped for at least some token admission of Sherlock’s regret, some indication that he would miss having John around. An acknowledgement that having John around is better than not having him around. That he and John are more than flatmates, that they’re friends.
John shoves his hands harder inside his pockets and scowls. Maybe they aren’t friends. Sherlock has never been the demonstrative kind, he’s never told John that he likes him, that he enjoys his company. But then Sherlock is awkward with words when it comes to expressing emotion -- that, uh, thing, that you offered to do, that was, uh, good -- and John long ago gave up expecting such things.
But no; Sherlock does care about him, John knows he does.
John is selfish enough to want Sherlock to miss him, want Sherlock to feel his absence, and he is self-aware enough to realise it. There’s something between them, something undefined that John has never had with anyone before. They just...fit. Sherlock can irritate the hell out of him, and he knows he frustrates Sherlock sometimes, but whether they’re arguing or laughing or running, it always feels so natural. And now it’s going to change.
John quickens his pace, and, deciding that the cold is too much for him, he ducks into the coffee shop on the corner. After ordering a cinnamon dolce latte (a slightly embarrassing preference, but he feels he deserves it, and besides, he is never able to drink these in front of Sherlock so he might as well indulge while he’s alone), he sits in a corner booth and sips his drink, eyes trained on the window, watching the passersby unseeingly.
His phone beeps.
Pick up some more sugar while you’re out. SH
Before he can compose a reply, it beeps again.
Bleach, too. S
John realises he’s smiling and pockets his phone hurriedly; it is dangerously close to sentimentality, but John suspects that he is going to miss texts like that.
They’ll still see plenty of each other, surely? He doesn’t expect Sherlock to stop dragging him along on cases: he doesn’t want him to. Their relationship will shift, naturally, but the change doesn’t have to be bad. And his feelings about Sherlock...well, they’re complicated at best, and some distance between them might be a good thing.
And he does want to live with Mary. Mary, God, Mary is something else. John is often, and fervently, grateful that he met her. Apart from being sharp as a tack and possessing a surprisingly dry, almost dark, sense of humour that John can’t get enough of, she’s absolutely the least clingy or possessive person John’s been in a relationship with. She understands that what Sherlock does is dangerous, and that he needs John, and that John needs to be there to stop Sherlock sometimes. She seems to see the way they fit together and is more than willing to share.
John isn’t quite sure how he got so lucky.
*
They were lying in John’s bed, sweaty and exhausted in the best possible way, not arsed to move to clean themselves up, giggling over some joke carried over from dinner. After a moment’s silence, she turned to him and said frankly,
“You’re a bit in love with him, aren’t you?”
“W-what?” he spluttered in return, whipping his head around on his pillow to stare at her. This was decidedly not normal post-coital conversation.
She laughed and poked him in the ribs.
“Sherlock? Your flatmate? The tall, weird one with a disturbing love of the macabre? Go on, it’s fine, admit it.”
He was silent for a long moment, heart pounding, mind full of all the half thoughts he’d been pushing away and things he’d tried not to feel.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. A little bit,” he managed eventually.
“Oh stop looking so panicked,” she said, moving even closer and draping her arm across his waist. “I half fancy him myself -- have you seen that arse?”
He burst into surprised giggles at that point. What an utterly ridiculous conversation to be having. Mary joined in, her face pressed into his neck, her dark hair tickling his chest.
“I don’t mind,” she said when they could breathe properly again. “Just...” She raised her head to look him in the eye, and she was still smiling, but her eyes were serious. “If this, you and me, becomes something, something serious, just...don’t lie to me about it.”
He kissed her then, grateful, and nodded.
“I promise.”
*
John has kept his promise. She’d asked him, when they’d talked about moving in together. How he felt about leaving Sherlock, how he felt about Sherlock now, almost a year after that first conversation. He was honest with her. He doesn’t know how he feels, not with any certainty. He loves Sherlock, absolutely. But he’s never let himself dwell on the idea of being in love with Sherlock. He knows that the only thing that lies down that road is madness. And possibly heartbreak. He loves Mary. He wants to live with her, to be with her. There are times when Sherlock still comes first, times when Sherlock needs him and he needs Sherlock, but he’s trying.
The words tripped and tumbled awkwardly out of his mouth, disjointed and confused, and Mary just said, “Oh, love,” and kissed him.
John finishes his drink and stands, ready to face the cold again.
John walks for two hours before going home.
The facts, then.
John is moving out, to live with Mary.
Mary lives thirty minutes away on foot, eighteen if one is running.
In terms of practicalities, it could be a lot worse. John will still be quite easily available when Sherlock needs him for a case or a second opinion. Whether John will want to come along is another question. John’s almost always eager to help. Sherlock knows he often enjoys the casework nearly as much as Sherlock himself does. But perhaps he’s growing weary of it? Perhaps he views this as an opportunity to start again, to have the life he’s always wanted?
If given a proper alternative, rather than simply sitting at home alone, will John still want to come with him?
Useless to speculate, not enough data. Back to the facts.
Sherlock will, as a result, be living at 221b Baker Street alone.
It’s been a while since he’s actually needed a flatmate. The work is fairly steady now, and the private consulting business that he does in addition to aiding Scotland Yard generally pays well, if somewhat sporadically. John handles the money; bills, food shopping, and so on, and although it will be tedious to have to do it all himself, he’s certainly capable.
And yet...
He doesn't want John to move out.
Sherlock hesitates to call this a fact. It’s certainly true, but he can’t quantify or explain why it is so. Without any understanding of the reason behind it, it is a useless piece of data.
Why, then? Why did he have such a sudden, violent reaction to John leaving? Even thinking about it now makes his hands curl into fists, makes his stomach knot and his fists clench.
Sherlock opens his eyes and scowls at the ceiling. He climbs off the sofa and stomps over to his armchair, huddling in it with his arms around his legs. Why does he want John around so very much?
He begins a mental list.
1. John is useful to his work. He’s quick on his feet; can fight far dirtier than Sherlock had imagined; he’s incredibly handy with a gun. John is good, but in a way that doesn’t hamper Sherlock. John’s moral compass is dead straight, and it apparently frees him to do things that most people would hesitate over, like shooting a killer, without a second thought.
2. He likes it when John does things for him. John makes tea; cleans the flat. Pays the bills. Does the shopping. It leaves Sherlock free to do more important things, although he does have to endure John’s nagging about how much he eats and the body parts in the kitchen.
3. He enjoys John’s company. He likes John, strange as the idea still is to him. John can be dull sometimes, but not nearly so often as the rest of humanity. John is surprisingly funny; surprisingly different; John thinks Sherlock is brilliant and doesn’t hesitate to say so.
Sherlock squeezes his eyes together, frustrated, and presses his forehead against his knees. None of this is making him feel better. He leaps off the armchair and returns to the sofa, closing his eyes and tapping his lips thoughtfully.
He deletes the list and tries to start again, but can only reach one conclusion.
The idea of living at 221b Baker Street without John Watson simply feels wrong. Not wrong in a moral, good-versus-evil sense that Sherlock has no time for; wrong in the way a purple sky or a silent London is wrong. It makes his skin itch.
Thirty-two minutes later John enters the living room and, catching sight of Sherlock on the sofa, sleeves rolled up, two patches on, asks,
“New case?”
“Hmm?” Sherlock replies, feigning nonchalance so he can get a good look at John before replying. John’s been walking for a good while -- his cheeks are flushed and his eyes bright, not to mention his wind-tousled hair. He stopped for coffee at one point -- probably one of those ridiculous flavoured ones he thinks Sherlock doesn’t know that he drinks -- Sherlock can see a tiny touch of foam on the right corner of John’s upper lip. “No, nothing new. Just...processing data on an old one.”
John nods and takes off his coat, hanging it up before slumping into his armchair and turning on the television.
The six o’clock news is the only sound in the flat.
It makes him jumpy and uncomfortable, and he starts making excuses to be away from the flat more and more. He pesters Molly at Barts to let him use the lab; takes cases he normally wouldn’t, dull ones that are solved within hours. He doesn’t allow himself to think about what it’s going to be like once John’s actually gone.
John tries to ignore the way it gnaws at his chest, the thought of not seeing Sherlock every day, of not having Sherlock as a permanent fixture in his life. And the way it hurts that Sherlock doesn’t seem to care, that he doesn't even appear to want to spend time with John before he leaves.
And then he feels stupid because it’s not like he’s choosing between them, between Sherlock and Mary. He and Sherlock aren’t, and have never been, in a relationship like that. Sure, their friendship is weirdly co-dependent, and sometimes it feels like he’s closer to Sherlock than he’s ever been to anyone else, but there are other times when it feels like he doesn’t really know Sherlock at all.
John sighs and shakes himself out of his reverie, determined to get at least all his books packed today. He crosses to the bookcase in the living room and stares at it. Some of his medical texts and journals Sherlock has more or less appropriated for his own use, and John hesitates over them, running his fingers along the spines, wondering what he should do with them. Sherlock probably doesn’t even remember that the books were once John’s, and John doesn’t really have any need for them anymore. And as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he loves the thought of leaving something of his here, something that Sherlock will look at, will use, even if Sherlock never makes the connection. Half-shrugging, John moves further down the bookcase and starts pulling off the books he still thinks of as being unquestionably his.
He finishes quickly, not lingering on the task, and shoves the box into the corner. He feels exhausted, far more than the activity warrants, so he makes himself a cup of tea and sits at the kitchen table, sipping it slowly, trying to think of what he still has left to pack.
He hasn’t realised how many of the things in the flat were so much more theirs than his or Sherlock’s. Some things are obvious; Sherlock’s violin, John’s gun (although...), mostly their clothes and personal items. But things like books, kitchenware, even the occasional item of clothing (there’s a scarf Sherlock wears that John could swear is his, a soft cashmere one, a gift from an ex-girlfriend, but Sherlock ignored him when he said it, so he can only assume that he’s wrong) and the odd collection of things that inhabit the living room.
John doesn’t want to leave it all behind, but he knows he can’t take it either.
Frowning, Sherlock crosses to the bookshelf, noting the gaps in it -- John’s clearly been packing. There’s even a box in the corner labelled Books, taped up and waiting to be carried downstairs. And yet... Sherlock examines the titles left on the bookshelf.
At least twenty of them are certainly John’s. Sherlock pulls one off the shelf, an old medical textbook, and opens it. He stares at the words Property of John Watson scribbled in John’s slanting hand in the top right hand corner. He runs his eyes over the other books and realises that every single one of them is one he’s looked at before. Some he’s read cover to cover, others he’s glanced at once or twice for a reference.
Something twists in his chest at the thought of John skipping over these, leaving them here for him, and he shoves the textbook back onto the shelf and stalks off to bed.
Cursing under his breath, Sherlock grabs his coat and strides out of the morgue.
What he really wants, though, more than anything else, is for Sherlock to burst through the door and drag him out on a case, one with lots of running, dangerous and exhilarating, like the first day they’d spent together. It’ll be exhausting, and Sherlock will be maddening and brilliant. They’ll come back here, so late it’s early, and they’ll laugh and jostle each other up the stairs, and John will catch Sherlock’s hand just as he’s about to go enter the flat, and Sherlock will turn and look at him like he has done a few times in the past and John will finally have the courage to do what he’s wanted to for years, and lean up, pulling Sherlock towards him and --
John shakes himself out of his thoughts and scowls at the drink in his hand. He doesn’t usually have thoughts like this unless he’s had quite a bit more to drink, but he supposes he’s already feeling maudlin and sentimental tonight, and it’s only to be expected. But it’s not fair to Mary, however honest they are with each other, and John can only hope he feels a little less torn in two after this move.
Then the front door bangs open and Sherlock sweeps in, cheeks pink from the cold. John sits up straighter and stares at him. Apart from a brief meeting in the kitchen yesterday morning, he’s not seen his flatmate in nearly four days. Now he’s here, and he’s smiling a little tentatively, and John can’t help the warmth in his chest and the grin that spreads across his face.
“Is that...food?” he says disbelievingly, in lieu of a proper greeting, staring at the plastic bag in Sherlock’s hand.
“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock retorts, making his way into the kitchen. He bangs around for a bit, then reemerges with cutlery, a plate, two glasses, and a bottle of wine. He’s lost his coat and jacket in the process, and he sits down next to John on the sofa and offers him a takeaway carton and a fork.
It’s ravioli, and it smells divine.
“I didn’t know Angelo’s did takeaway,” John says as he scoops it onto the plate and takes a bit. It tastes every bit as good as it smells, and he feels so enormously happy he thinks he might burst. It’s embarrassing.
“He doesn’t,” Sherlock says. “Not usually.” John rolls his eyes and laughs.
“Of course,” he replies, “anything for you, right?” Sherlock smirks, but doesn’t speak. “Are you eating?”
Sherlock produces a second fork and helps himself to the food off John’s plate. John learnt long ago not to complain when Sherlock does this, to simply be thankful that his friend is eating at all. Besides, it’s kind of...cute.
Bugger.
They sit and eat (Sherlock gives up after a few bites, but John doesn’t push it), mostly in companionable silence. Once the food is gone, Sherlock pours them both another glass of wine, and the conversation starts to flow. Completely voluntarily, Sherlock tells John about his first proper case, back when he was still at university. John is mesmerised; Sherlock is usually rather reticent about his past, and John’s only been able to pick up scraps of information about Sherlock’s life before they knew one another. He drinks it in, picturing Sherlock at uni, young and (even more) reckless, flushed with the excitement of discovering his passion, at being allowed to do it, at being listened to and being right.
He laughs in the right places, mutters about Sherlock’s brilliance, and Sherlock rewards him with a broad smile and a faint blush, and tells him another story of one of his early cases.
The conversation peters out naturally and comfortably, and somehow they end up watching television, slumped next to each other on the sofa, John’s feet on the coffee table. Poirot is on, and while Sherlock does not voice an objection to it, he picks the plot to pieces as they watch. John doesn’t mind -- Sherlock is far more interesting than the episode itself -- and laughs heartily at Sherlock’s dismay when the his predicted culprit turns out to be innocent.
“I can’t believe you got it wrong,” John says, still giggling, as he stands to collect the dishes and take them into the kitchen. Sherlock trails after him, scowling.
“If it had been logically consistent and realistic, my prediction would have been right,” he says, pouting. “I’m not to blame for the failure of the writers.”
“You’re just jealous that Poirot is a better detective than you,” John teases him. He puts the plates in the sink, too tired to wash up properly, and gets himself a drink of water. The beer and the half a bottle of wine he’s drunk are buzzing pleasantly under his skin, leaving him feeling soft and relaxed.
“No, he’s not,” Sherlock says, and John can almost hear the pout.
“No, he’s not,” John agrees, turning to look at him.
Sherlock says nothing for a moment, then he smiles at John, a completely disarming, heartbreaking smile, and John’s heart thumps and he thinks, oh fuck.
He looks away and scrubs at his eyes with his fists, feigning more tiredness than he feels, because if he stays, he’s going to do something stupid.
“I should --” he says, gesturing towards the stairs. Sherlock nods and steps out of his way. Their shoulders brush as John passes him, and he hears Sherlock’s breath catch. Closing his eyes, he forces himself up the stairs, Sherlock’s soft “good night” barely registering.
He puts on his pyjamas quickly and slumps onto his bed. There’s a part of him that still wants to go downstairs and pull Sherlock into his arms, just to see what would happen. He’s never seriously thought about Sherlock’s feelings for him -- the man seems to struggle with the idea of having a friend, let alone anything else, and John’s been much more preoccupied with his own conflicting feelings. But there have been times, few and far between, when there’s a look in his eye that John can’t help but think --
He gets under the covers and picks up his phone, the sudden urge to talk to Mary, to gain some reassurance and firmer ground, overwhelming him.
I love you. Can’t wait for tomorrow. It’s going to be , he starts to type, then stares at the screen. He shakes his head and erases it.
This is harder than I thought it would be.
The reply comes quickly.
I know it is, love. We still don’t have to. I want you to be happy.
John groans and turns his face into his pillow. For the first time, he wishes Mary were a little more jealous, a little more...normal, that she would issue him some sort of ultimatum. But she’s always left him to make his own decisions, always trusted him far more than he trusts himself.
I want to. I do. I just... He can’t think of what else to add, and just sends the message as is.
I know.
I love you. He doesn’t know what else to say.
The reply takes a little longer this time.
I love you too. Get some sleep, I’ll be there at eight. Don’t torture yourself. He’s a big boy, he’ll be all right without you.
John sighs and switches off his phone, rolling over onto his back and staring at the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come.
“Sherlock?” he prompts uncertainly when Sherlock doesn’t speak. Sherlock starts slightly, as if he’s forgotten John was even in the room, and then sighs.
“John, I need to --” he begins, uncharacteristically hesitant. His shoulders are hunched, and John can see the tension all down his back. “I just wanted to --” He stops again. John can see his hands curling tightly over the edge of the mattress.
Without a thought, he reaches over and tugs at Sherlock’s elbow, guiding him down onto the bed. Sherlock goes willingly, swinging his legs onto the mattress so he’s flat on his back, stretched out beside John. There’s still a decent amount of space between them, but John can feel the warmth from Sherlock’s body and can sense the tension in his muscles.
He wants to say something, he wants to hear Sherlock say something, but he’s not sure he’s ready to hear what may come out of either of their mouths. So he watches Sherlock instead, taking in his profile; striking cheekbones, lips, his eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. He’s radiating such an air of unhappiness that John aches in sympathy.
God, I’m going to miss you so much, he thinks. He reaches out, needing contact, just a single touch between them, and closes his hand lightly around Sherlock’s wrist.
Sherlock jumps at the contact, then glances down at John’s hand, staring at the place John is holding him for a long time. His breathing changes, speeds up, and then he looks away, up until he’s staring directly into John’s eyes. The expression John sees there makes him flush, his stomach swooping; Sherlock’s are wide and surprised, almost scared, and God how has John managed to miss this?
After John leaves to go to bed, Sherlock paces the living room, stomach in knots, entire body aching with discomfort, longing for something that he can’t put a name to. It’s beyond frustrating, it’s an itch he can’t scratch, no more than he can stop his feet from carrying him up the stairs, to the door of John’s room.
He stands there for a full five minutes, forehead against the door, eyes closed, trying desperately to figure out what it was that he wants, why everything hurts so much. It’s no good though, he can’t concentrate with John just on the other side of the door, and he pushes it open and creeps inside.
It’s clear from John’s breathing that John is still awake, but he doesn’t speak while Sherlock slips across the room and sits down on his bed. Sherlock hasn’t a clue what he’s doing, what he’s going to say, and he has never felt so uncomfortable in his own skin.
And then John says his name and pulls Sherlock down next to him, and all Sherlock can think is I’m going to miss you. I miss you now, and you’re not even gone yet.
They don’t speak, but John’s face is turned towards him, watching him. His gaze is heavy, and Sherlock is glad for the darkness as he feels the heat flooding his cheeks. He thinks about John, about their first night together, that ridiculous, exhilarating case, how much better everything was because John was there. He thinks about John not being there anymore, about him being with Mary all the time the way he’s usually with Sherlock, and he hates it. He wants John here, he should have made John promise never to leave, and --
A warm hand slips around his wrist, index finger stroking his flexor tendons gently.
The contact is a spark, a whole mine of new data, and it runs through Sherlock’s skin and into his blood and his mind and the world tilts ninety degrees and everything slots into place. He feels the brief, familiar rush of a connection made, a clue observed, a mystery solved, before other feelings take over. He stares down at where John’s hand is clasping his wrist, at where their skin is touching, suddenly so very not enough and half of him wants to leap up and flee the room under the pressure of this new revelation.
The rest of him wants to lean over and kiss the information into John’s skin, press it against his lips until John understands what he’s done to him.
He raises his eyes to John’s. He can’t stop himself from doing it, even though he knows John is going to be able to see everything in them. He normally has no problem hiding his thoughts, with disguise and subterfuge, but he’s not had enough time to process this. And besides, it’s too big; it almost feels bigger than him, and he doubts he’ll ever be able to hide it from John.
John understands, Sherlock knows he does. It’s all in the way his eyes widen in surprise and then soften around the edges, the way his lips part slightly and his grip on Sherlock’s wrist tightens fractionally.
But John doesn’t speak, so neither does Sherlock.
Sherlock tries not to want it, not to enjoy being drawn close to John in his bed. Being able to smell John’s shampoo and feel his skin.
He’d rather taste it, but that’s neither here nor there.
They end up on their sides, facing each other, knees tucked together in an odd tessellation of human limbs, fingers clasped together. John falls asleep first, his breathing deepening and his face relaxing, and Sherlock holds sleep at bay for as long as he can, certain he’s never going to have this again.
They’re not tangled together, not really, and there’s nothing particularly compromising about their positions. Except that Sherlock is gripping his hand like it’s the only thing tying him to Earth, and it doesn’t even occur to John to let go. He stares at Sherlock’s face, hard lines slackened by sleep. He reaches up with sleep-heavy fingers to trace along Sherlock’s jaw and cheekbone, down his neck and back up, revelling in the warmth of Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock stirs under John’s touch, and John chastises himself for disturbing him. Heaven knows the man gets little enough sleep as it is. John should have let him be. Sherlock opens his eyes, and they’re blurry and unfocused for a moment. The only thought in John’s wonderfully fuzzy mind is how much he wants to kiss him.
John shifts closer, and Sherlock mirrors the movement, one of his long legs sliding between John’s. He leans in, until their foreheads are touching, both their heads on Sherlock’s pillow.
John can feel Sherlock’s breath on his lips.
“Morning,” he whispers. He tilts his head slightly, and Sherlock’s hand comes up to rest lightly on his neck, his index and middle fingers catching strands of John’s hair between them. Sherlock is still smiling, and John shifts even closer, eyes sliding shut, allowing himself to relax into the full, happy warmth.
It’s then that his brain chooses to wake up completely, and with a jolt that feels like an electric shock, it reminds him that he has a girlfriend, and he’s moving in with her today, and that he should absolutely not be wrapped around his best friend in bed, half a second away from kissing him and not stopping.
It’s like a bucket of ice water thrown over him, and he jerks back, untangling himself from Sherlock and jumping off the bed. He thinks for a fraction of a second about getting dressed, but the need to just get the fuck out of there before he does something stupid overwhelms him.
“John?”
God, Sherlock’s voice has never sounded so fragile, but John can’t look at him, he can’t do this, not to Mary or to Sherlock. They both deserve better than half his heart.
“John, I --”
Something in his tone leaves John helpless, and he pauses at the door and he turns to look at. The mingled expression of confusion and unhappiness sits awkwardly on Sherlock’s features, clearly unused to the territory.
“John,” Sherlock starts again, still hesitant. “Don’t...”
John waits, forcing himself to be still when he’d rather be running out the door.
“Don’t go.”
It’s obvious that he’s not just talking about here and now, that he’s not just asking John to come back to bed so they can talk this out, and it only makes John feel worse.
“I’m sorry,” he says helplessly. He doesn’t close the door behind him.
His heart is still racing; he can still feel Sherlock’s fingers on his skin, his breath on his lips. He still wants to go back upstairs and kiss Sherlock senseless, until there’s nothing between them but skin and sweat. He presses his forehead into the cool wallpaper and groans.
It’s just that it’s not the only thing he wants.
Mary’s coming here in -- he checks his watch -- an hour or so, and he’s leaving with her, and he wants that too. He wants the life they’ve started to build together. It’s what he’s always imagined having, what he’s always wanted.
And he loves her, God, he really does. She’s the first proper friend he’s had since coming back to London; one who wasn’t connected to Sherlock in any way except through John himself. Yes, she’s funny, and easygoing, and gorgeous, but mostly she’s just Mary, and John loves her.
It’s selfish and unfair, but he wants them both and he can’t help but feel that he doesn’t deserve either.
On the one hand, it’s hard not to feel like he’s getting ahead of himself; Sherlock’s made no declaration, he’s not said what he wants from John. But John can see behind his closed eyes the look on Sherlock’s face last night, how easily he’d slipped into John’s arms this morning, the tiny fracture in his voice when he’d asked John not to leave.
Knowing what he knows, knowing how Sherlock feels, can he still do it? Can he still bring himself to go?
You ruined this, he thinks. He’s not sure how, exactly, but the look on John’s face when he’d left had said it all.
He’d been acting without thinking. No, he’d been acting on instinct, which wasn’t quite the same thing. In his experience, his instincts were generally good and true. It had been the most natural thing in the world to lean into John’s embrace, to shuffle closer to him until they were sharing breath and body heat. Every cell in his body was urging him to lean that tiny bit closer, to press his lips against John’s and let everything else slip away.
But John has Mary. John is leaving him. Oh, he knows how that will go. They’d make the effort to see each other in the beginning (or rather, John would make the effort, and Sherlock would let him); texts and comments on each other’s websites. John would come running if Sherlock said he needed him, things wouldn’t change much, not in the beginning. And then John would reply with a Sorry, got other plans this evening and it would be a one-off at first, but it would keep happening until they saw each other once every few months, if Sherlock was lucky.
It’s unacceptable.
And now John knows how Sherlock feels. And from the way John had touched him, had leaned in, had so nearly kissed him, there has to be a part of John that wants this just as much as Sherlock does.
The most he can hope for is that he hasn’t ruined their friendship irrevocably.
He allows himself a few more minutes in John’s bed, surrounded by John’s smell and the lingering warmth, hating himself for the weakness it demonstrates. It’s pathetic, but he knows this isn’t a chance he’s going to get again and he wants to savour it.
Then he forces himself to get up, go downstairs and get dressed, and work out what he’s going to say to John.
“Oh, John,” she sighs. She sits down next to him and takes one of his hands into both of hers. Her hands are warm and soft, and she’s wearing the red cashmere scarf John bought her for Christmas, and she smells fucking wonderful. “What is it?”
I feel like I cheated on you. I don’t know if I can do this. I love him. I love you.
He’s not sure where to start.
“You said,” he starts, mustering his courage, “back in the beginning, you said you didn’t want me to lie to you.”
She nods; he can feel it in the movement of her hair against his arm. She’s looking straight at him, but he can’t meet her eyes. He focusses instead on their joined hands, on where her short nails scrape lightly across his palm.
“I don’t want to. Lie to you, that is,” he clarifies.
“I know you don’t, John. I really do.” Her voice is steady, but he thinks he can hear an undercurrent of some suppressed emotion, and he knows she’s trying to be calm and composed for his sake. It only makes him feel worse.
“I love him.” It’s all he can manage.
Mary’s breath catches, but only slightly, and she doesn’t freeze or pull her hands away or yell or do anything at all but watch him steadily for another few moments.
“I know,” she says finally, exhaling. It’s clear she understands exactly what he meant by those three words, understands the extent to which that love has carried John. “And you love me too, don’t you?”
He nods silently.
“Oh, John,” she says again.
They sit in silence for a while, John running his index finger along her hands, tracing the lines of her palm and the shape of her fingers.
“You have to choose,” she says after a lengthy pause. John closes his eyes. “And you know you do. I’m not laying down some kind of ultimatum here,” she continues, “I’m not saying you need to either be with me and never see him again or vice-versa. I wouldn’t try and deprive you of his company, John, not ever. I know the way you two need each other. Besides, it’d be a shitty thing to do anyway.”
She pauses, and John nods, but he feels breathless, drawn tight, and waits for her to go on.
“But I know you, John,” she says simply, and he can’t help but look up to meet her eyes. She’s smiling, but it’s small and a little wry. “You’ll run yourself ragged trying to make us both happy. I love you. And I’m more selfish than you think. I do want most of your attention, I do want you to want to be with me more than him. For you to come with me, for us to have a life together. But I also want you to be happy. So you have to choose which of us comes first.”
And that’s it, really. He knows he has to, he’s been thinking about it all morning (and much, much longer than that, if he’s honest), and he feels absolutely torn in two.
He thinks about leaving with Mary, about living with her and loving her. Marriage, maybe, possibly even children. Still seeing Sherlock, when he needs his help on a case, or just wants an audience, or when John misses him like a fucking phantom limb. But he can so easily imagine getting swallowed up by this new life, and it’s not an unpleasant image. Watching telly on the sofa with Mary, sex becoming comfortable and well-practiced. Having the things he’s always wanted, but having Sherlock too, a friend and occasional colleague.
He thinks about pushing his feelings for Sherlock into a locked corner of his mind. He imagines sealing off a tiny bit of his heart, just for Sherlock, not ever forgotten or given up, but lived with, coped with, dealt with. Mary has been brilliantly understanding so far, and he doesn’t expect that to change. She’ll always know that there’s a part of his heart, his love, his devotion that she can’t have, that is and probably always will be Sherlock’s, and that if he commits to her, he’ll never do anything about it.
He thinks he can do it. He knows he can.
“Mary, I --”
There’s a crash from upstairs, and they both jump. It’s quickly followed by Sherlock’s voice floating down the stairs.
“It’s fine, just that jar of eyeballs. I’ll clean it up.”
There’s no way he can do it.
Because what about Sherlock? Now John thinks about Sherlock living here, alone, without John there to make sure he eats occasionally, and falls asleep in at least vaguely appropriate places. Sherlock, normally so bad at asking for help, who has learned to say that he wants John to come with him on cases. Who tells John, sometimes, when it’s too much, when the blackness is closing in and he needs to be distracted. Who still seems surprised by John’s amazement, his faith, his friendship.
He thinks about Sherlock’s face when he’d asked John not to leave. He’d looked confused and uncertain, yes, but also resigned, like he never really expected John to stay.
Mary’s watching him, and from her expression, John knows she’s at least two steps ahead of him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry. I thought I could, I did, I didn’t know until right now that I can’t --”
She stops his awkward tumble of words with a kiss.
“I know,” she says when she pulls back. She rests her forehead against his, and her breathing is harsh, her eyes screwed shut.
“He needs me,” John says miserably. “I mean, I need him just as much, I love him, but he, we --”
She actually reaches up and slaps her palm over his mouth to stop him speaking.
“John,” she says as she pulls back, her tone mock-stern. “I know.” She gives him a half smile, but there are tears in her eyes and John is certain he’s never going to forgive himself for making her cry. “I always wondered, if when push came to shove...” Mary doesn’t complete the thought, and all John can do is shrug helplessly.
She blinks rapidly for a few moments, clearly trying to get herself under control, then stands and makes her way down the stairs. Even now, John almost wants to call after her, to follow her down and promise her everything he wishes he could give her.
At the bottom, she stops and turns.
“This...this isn’t goodbye, John. I want us to be friends, I really do. I think you need a friend, someone who understands about you and him,” she adds, glancing at the ceiling. “Just...give me some time, yeah?”
The size of her heart astonishes him, it humbles him, and John is down the stairs in an instant, reaching out to wrap his arms around her. She hugs him back tightly, whispers, “I’ll call you,” into his neck, and then she’s gone.
John sits there a while longer, almost numb with the magnitude of the decision he’s made. Then, finally, he turns and heads slowly back into their flat feeling bruised and raw.
He freezes, crouched on the floor, then quickly stands and drops the dirty rag in the sink. As he washing his hands perfunctorily, he runs over what he plans to say, what he’s spent the last hour and a half trying to figure out.
John chose Mary; he did so weeks, months ago, and because a little of John is better than no John at all, he needs to say something to remove any potential awkwardness and make John still be willing to see him. He can’t stand to have John treating him differently now that he knows about Sherlock’s feelings.
Thankfully, John is alone. When Mary arrived, Sherlock was afraid she and John would both come upstairs and that he’d have to somehow be polite (or at least not openly hostile) and unflustered. It isn’t something he would ordinarily struggle to fake, but Sherlock’s feeling blindsided and off-kilter today and he would rather not have to try. But she left fairly quickly, presumably to give John some time to talk to Sherlock.
Sherlock has no doubt that John told her everything, because John is good, and honest, and the thought of not telling her probably hadn’t even occurred to him.
The moment John enters the kitchen, Sherlock starts speaking. It’s vital that he get to speak first, before he has to hear John say “Look, Sherlock, I care about you, but...”
“John, I need to say something to you, and it would be best if you let me finish before responding.” It comes out a little bit rushed, but his voice is perfectly steady.
John blinks.
“Um, okay,” he says hesitantly, and sits down at the kitchen table. He looks slightly wary, but he gazes steadily at Sherlock and waits for him to speak.
Sherlock studies him. John’s forehead is a little creased and he still has rumpled bed-hair that Sherlock’s fingers itch to reach out and straighten. Sherlock can’t tell if he’s worried, confused, upset, calm, or any other specific emotion, and it disconcerts him not to be able to interpret the expression on John’s usually easy-to-read face.
“What happened this morning was inappropriate of me,” Sherlock says without further preamble. Direct is always best. “I apologise if it made you uncomfortable, and I can assure you it won’t happen again.” The words are stiff, but good -- impossible to misunderstand.
John’s eyes widen, and another indecipherable look crosses his face. Sherlock bites his lip in frustration. He prides himself on knowing John better than anyone, but right now he simply can’t get a handle on what John’s thinking.
“It would be unfortunate if it made things uncomfortable between us,” he continues a moment later, “as I have come to regard you as a friend” -- he can’t help the way his voice falters slightly over the word -- “and an integral part of my work.” He clears his throat and looks away from John’s eyes. He hadn’t meant to; he’d been planning to be composed and completely unemotional throughout, but he can’t seem to help himself. “You can be sure that my...feelings for you will not inconvenience you in any way, and it would be best if you simply forgot about what happened last night and this morning.”
John stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, and Sherlock squirms under the attention.
“Your...feelings for me,” John says eventually, speaking slowly as though he’s feeling his way. “What are they exactly?”
It’s exactly the question Sherlock didn’t want him to ask. He’s avoided putting a name to them himself, as though saying the words, even in the privacy of his own head, will somehow make it that little bit too real.
John must know, so why is he making Sherlock say it?
“You really need me to spell it out for you?” he asks, keeping his tone dry, almost mocking.
“Yes, I do, actually,” John replies hotly. It’s the first outright display of emotion he’s shown since entering the kitchen, finally giving Sherlock something to respond to. So he glares at John who scowls back at him, arms crossed against his chest.
But after a moment John sighs and slumps, leaning forward to place his elbows on the table.
“So what you’re saying,” John says, staring at the table, “is that you’re sorry for what happened, before, and that you’re fine with me moving in with Mary and not living here anymore, as long as I can continue to be part of your work when you need me?”
Fine is hardly the right adjective. It’s nothing near it in fact, but the general point is correct and Sherlock nods.
“Why?” John asks.
The response is completely out of the blue, and he gapes at John for a moment.
“What do you mean why?” he says when he finds his voice. “Why what?”
“Why are you fine with that?” John demands. He slams his palms down on the table and stands. After a moment, he makes his way around the table and stands directly in front of Sherlock who can’t help but take a step back, until the kitchen counter is digging into him. He notes John’s stance - legs spread, shoulders squared, arms crossed. He’s begging for a fight. “Is that what you want, what you really want? For me not to be here anymore? For me to be with Mary? For us to not see each other every day?”
Sherlock has no idea why John is suddenly so angry, nor what the emotion he can sense lingering beneath it is. This conversation is not going at all to plan.
“John, what --”
“I’ve never known you to be satisfied with anything than your own way before, Sherlock. So either you really are fine with this, or you’re capitulating for some other reason.”
“John --”
“No; I’m right and you know it. What is it that’s so hard for you to say? I want to understand, Sherlock. I need to know.”
“What is it that you want to hear?” Sherlock snaps, finally unable to take it anymore. “That I’m in love with you? That I hate the thought of you leaving, being with someone who isn’t me, but I’ll take what I can get from you? That seeing you once a fortnight is better than not seeing you at all? I don’t want your pity, John.”
In the ringing silence that follows, Sherlock watches as every single bit of anger drains from John’s expression and demeanour. John’s blue eyes widen, and he takes a hesitant half step forward, and Sherlock still can’t bloody well tell what he’s thinking.
“Pity? Sherlock, I --” John starts. He stares at Sherlock, eyes wide, then reaches out and fists the front of Sherlock’s shirt. For a crazy moment, Sherlock thinks he’s about to hit him, but then John’s other hand is cupping his neck and drawing him down and John is kissing him.
It’s just a brief, gentle brush of lips, and before Sherlock can process it, John leans back until he can look at Sherlock properly and gives him a small smile. Then he steps forward, fully into Sherlock’s space, slides his other hand around Sherlock’s waist, and brings their mouths back together.
Sherlock kisses back, uncertain if this is a beginning or an end, but unable to stop himself, and isn’t it hateful, the way he can never stop himself when it comes to John? He pulls John even closer, wraps his arms around his shoulders, and lets everything else go, lets himself have this one good, perfect thing, even if he’s never going to have it again.
John tastes marvellous, of things Sherlock can’t put a name to, and he’s making soft, delicious sounds into Sherlock’s mouth. He slides his fingers into John’s hair, thumbs teasing at the skin of his neck, cataloguing the texture, committing it to memory.
The kiss ends -- far too soon -- when John reaches up and grasps the sides of Sherlock’s head, and pulls them apart.
“You idiot,” he says fiercely. “How could you not know? How did you not see how hard this was for me? You see everything. Why did you never tell me?”
“I --” For almost the first time in his life, Sherlock is utterly at a loss for words.
“I love you,” John says, and even after everything that’s just happened, the shock of hearing those words hits him like a punch in the gut.
“B-but what about Mary?” is all he can manage, the worst of all possible questions.
John sighs and steps back, removing his hands from Sherlock face. His shoulders slump, and he looks unbearably weary.
“I do love her,” he says slowly. “It’s just that you and me...” John lets the sentence trail off and shrugs, giving Sherlock another small smile. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time, I think, and I’ve never let myself imagine you felt anything like the same way for me. And even aside from that...what we already are to each other...”
John is clearly struggling, unable to find the words to explain what he means. There are too many dizzying revelations in that sentence for Sherlock to possibly process right now, but he absolutely understands what John is trying to say: he’s felt it for a long time; he just hadn’t expected John to see it, too.
He takes John by the arms and pulls him back towards him, still not able to believe this is allowed. John is warm and yielding though, so Sherlock leans forward and kisses him again. John’s lips part under his, and the kiss grows deeper, John’s tongue swiping at his lips and licking into his mouth. Sherlock clutches him tighter and slides his hands down till they’re around John’s waist. John’s hands are fisted in his suit jacket, almost painfully tight. Sherlock slips one hand down and presses it against John’s back, pressing John against him.
John breaks the kiss suddenly, pushing Sherlock backwards, stepping away so he’s out of Sherlock’s reach.
“I’m sorry,” John gasps out, not looking Sherlock in the eye. He scrubs a hand over his face, and Sherlock’s stomach tightens and he curses himself for believing that this was actually happening.
“It’s no matter, I understand,” Sherlock says, hoping he’s managed to keep the tremble in his voice to a bare minimum, “I know that you love her and it’s fine, you can probably catch her before she gets home, and --”
“No,” John cuts him off firmly, shaking his head. He reaches up and takes Sherlock’s face into his hands again, holding it still and forcing Sherlock to look at him. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, have you listened to anything I’ve said? That’s not what I meant. I’ve made my choice. I want to be with you, whatever that means. I just meant that...I need some time, to get my head around everything. This thing with Mary just ended,” John drops his hands and looks away, “Christ, about fifteen minutes ago. I can’t just...” He swallows and looks unbearably sad, and Sherlock can’t help but reach out and brush his fingers against John’s cheek. John looks back at him. “I just... I don’t think I can just jump straight into --”
Sherlock silences him with a brief, close-mouthed kiss, a sign of affection and reassurance rather than passion. “I understand,” he says simply. John sighs and leans against him, his arms going around Sherlock’s waist, and his forehead pressing into his shoulder.
It’s going to take a while to get used to this, to the fact that he apparently has John, here and in every way imaginable, but for now Sherlock simply holds on.
John’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he waits for his toast pop. He flips idly through a magazine he found lying on the kitchen table – it’s possibly Scientific American, but he’s not really paying enough attention to know. He’s mostly thinking about the way Sherlock looked as he swept out the door this morning, coat collar turned up, eyes bright with excitement, practically vibrating with energy.
Sherlock looked good. John is still getting used to the idea that he doesn’t have to push these thoughts away anymore, that he doesn’t have to feel guilty about admiring the cut of Sherlock’s cheekbones and the curve of his lips, that it’s allowed. Encouraged, even.
He hears the front door open, and a few moments later Sherlock enters the kitchen, looking smug and satisfied. There’s colour in his cheeks and a smile on his lips and he looks so happy that John’s heart beats a little faster.
“John, I am a genius,” he announces, dropping his gloves on the kitchen table.
“No, do tell,” John replies drily. “I had no idea…” His voice trails off as Sherlock steps in close and takes John’s face into his hands. John tilts his head back and leans into it just as Sherlock bends to kiss him. Sherlock absolutely goes for it, sliding John’s lips apart and his tongue in, holding John’s head at the perfect angle. His lips are soft and wet and it’s both perfect and not nearly enough. John lets his hands rest on the small of Sherlock’s back, under his coat, kissing him back with equal enthusiasm but letting Sherlock take the lead. It’s starting to dawn on him that this is different from every other time they’ve kissed in the last few weeks, that this is definitely going somewhere, hopefully somewhere that involves nakedness and orgasms.
And, for the first time when considering it, he doesn’t feel a twist of guilt in his gut, or a pang in his chest. He doesn’t think about how Mary felt pressed up against him like this, he doesn’t miss her, not like he has done. For the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t feel torn.
But Sherlock is backing off slowly, retreating until they’re just exchanging brief presses of lips. Every time John thinks he’s about to stop, he presses one more to John’s mouth, as if he can’t help himself. The thought makes John smile, although he’d rather Sherlock kept kissing him.
Eventually, Sherlock pulls away and, resting his forehead against John’s, taking a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” he says, hurriedly, like he’s embarrassed. “I’m sorry.” The surprise is enough for John to open his eyes and pull back to look at him properly. Sherlock rarely apologises for anything, and John can’t think why he would choose to do so for this. “I know you said that you didn’t want to, that you couldn’t…” Sherlock’s voice trails off and the light goes on in John’s mind.
This is Sherlock trying to respect his wishes, to do what he asked, what he’s been doing, John now realises, for weeks. Every time it seemed like their casual touches and brief kisses were going to turn into something more, Sherlock pulled away and clattered off to do something else. John is well-used to Sherlock’s short attention span when he isn’t on a case and yes, perhaps John was still trying to sort through his lingering feelings for Mary, so he didn’t push the issue. He didn’t even really notice. But now, John knows what he wants.
“It’s fine,” he says, taking Sherlock’s lapels into his hands and pulling him back in. “No, really, it’s a lot more than fine.”
He kisses Sherlock this time, makes it as slow and deep and dirty as he can. It’s a kiss that definitely promises sex, hopefully in about the next five minutes, and he feels Sherlock’s arm wrap around his waist, the other dropping to John’s arse and lifting him right onto his toes.
“Why d’you have to be so bloody tall,” John grumbles, short of breath against Sherlock’s mouth when they part. Sherlock smirks and goes right back to kissing John, lazily stroking his tongue against John’s as he holds them pressed close together. It feels amazing, and John’s about ten seconds from going for Sherlock’s belt when he remembers where they are.
“Romantic as spontaneous kitchen sex is,” he manages as Sherlock’s mouth leaves his to kiss along his jaw, making John shiver when he licks at the soft spot beneath his ear, “I’d really rather do this somewhere horizontal. And soft. Like a bed. I am too old for sex in the kitchen.”
Sherlock laughs softly and then buries his face in John’s neck, arms around him. He does this sometimes, out of the blue; wraps himself around John completely and goes silent, like he doesn’t quite believe John’s still here, like he needs reassurance.
John doesn’t say, merely tightens his arms around Sherlock. After a long moment, he kisses Sherlock’s neck and pushes gently at his shoulders, then tugs him through the kitchen and hallway towards his bedroom. Sherlock follows willingly, pressing right up against John’s back, and John can’t help but turn and push him up against the wall outside the bedroom, licking and sucking at his neck. It’s swung right back from tender and a little and tentative to intense and hot and needtogetyounakedrightnow.
They make it to Sherlock’s room and John’s a little nervous now, and he can tell Sherlock is too. The awareness that this is new and different territory hangs between them, that this is something they’ve both wanted and waited for.
But then John rolls his eyes when Sherlock demands that John hang his coat up properly rather than just dumping it on the bed, and Sherlock snorts when John can’t open the condom packet with his lube-slicked fingers, and John suddenly realises this really doesn’t feel all that different. He half-laughs against Sherlock’s mouth, and he thinks Sherlock gets it, because he relaxes, tension John was unaware of draining from him until he’s completely pliant under John’s touch.
And then it’s Sherlock’s gorgeous hands on his skin, Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his waist, Sherlock’s voice a litany of John, John, John in his ear. It’s also little uncoordinated, and it’s over more quickly than he’d like, but John doesn’t worry about it. It’s not perfect, but it’s them, and that’s better.
Afterwards, they end up with Sherlock’s head on John’s chest, and John pushes his fingers into his hair, something he’s wanted to do for longer than he cares to admit. He can’t remember ever being more content.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice is quiet and slightly slurred; he sounds half-asleep, and John’s not far behind.
“Mmm?”
“I’m glad you stayed.”
John can’t help the embarrassingly wide smile Sherlock’s words bring to his face. It’s not like he doesn’t know that, like he doesn’t remember exactly how Sherlock looked, sitting in his bed and asking him to stay, but it still feels so much better to hear Sherlock say it.
He tugs Sherlock up by his arms and kisses him soundly.
“Me too,” he says.