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THE SIGN OF THE TWO
Following the death of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson had been through hell and back.
After the jump, John wouldn’t leave Baker Street for days, he just sat in Sherlock’s chair, hoping for a miracle, that somehow he would burst through the door into the living room, laughing as if it was all just a fun prank, and demand that John got out of his seat at once.
Then, the funeral came around and he couldn’t bear going back there anymore. Greg took him in and let him crash on his couch for a while. He and Molly even volunteered to pack his things up and bring them to the small flat they helped him find. It was no home for John, it probably never would be, but at least he didn’t feel like a leech on Lestrade’s back anymore.
John didn’t argue or protest, he barely had an opinion on the matter, he was functioning on autopilot. He went to work, he came home, he slept. The only emotion he expressed was anger at Ella’s questions, ripping his wounds open, and after a couple of appointments he didn’t go anymore.
Overall, John was no pleasant company to be around, but that did not stop the new nurse who started working at the clinic. At first, she would just sit with him during their lunch breaks, in comfortable silence, but as the weeks went by they began talking more and more. She made John laugh for the first time in who knows how long and she convinced him to go out with her. Mary Morstan slowly began to put the broken pieces of John Watson back together.
Upon Mary’s request John continued to see his therapist, and managed to talk about many of his problems, but it was Mary to whom he finally opened up about what had been hurting him the most.
One evening they were sitting on John’s couch, wine in hand, chatting, and the subject of Sherlock, one usually avoided at all costs, came up. John went very quiet for a while.
“John?” asked Mary, voice filled with worry.
John didn’t answer for a few moments. He was uncertain if he would be able to say what he wanted to, but he had to. He had to finally tell someone. Maybe, it would make it easier somehow.
“I loved him,” he said at last, and tears began streaming down his cheeks. “I miss him so bloody much.” For the first time since Sherlock’s death, John Watson cried.
“I know, I know,” answered Mary in a soft voice, then she took him in her arms and held him until he had no more tears left to cry.
Beside Sherlock’s death, there was also the problem of his destroyed reputation. He admitted to being a fraud, causing the press and the internet forums to overflow with disappointment, wild conspiracy theories and people screaming that they knew all along. John didn’t believe them for one second. Neither did Greg or Molly, who spent every free moment trying to clear Sherlock’s name.
It took them almost two years, but Sherlock’s name made the headlines again with overwhelming evidence of Moriarty’s scheme to discredit the once beloved consulting detective.
The confirmation of his late friend's authenticity eased something in John. He felt ready to at least try to move on. He wanted to ask Mary on a date, but first he had to go back to Baker Street. He had to close that chapter in his life.
He opened the familiar front door with the keys he never returned to Mrs. Hudson and slowly stepped inside. Memories rushed back into his mind, him and Sherlock out of breath, laughing their arses off, the many times Sherlock all but dragged him down those stairs to take him along to some wild case…
Mrs. Hudson heard him enter, invited him in and served him tea brewed with more fury than he ever thought possible. He didn’t call or show his face for two years, he deserved it.
They then went upstairs, and John was thankful that the landlady didn’t have it in her to rent out the flat again. Everything was as he left it, just sitting under a thick coat of dust.
As Mrs. Hudson pulled the heavy fabric of the curtains aside, letting the sunlight shine on the flat, she asked the question he had been expecting since he arrived. Why was he there?
“I’m moving on. I’ve met someone.” At that, Mrs. Hudson cried out in excitement. “We’ve been friends for a while, but we’re going on a date. At least I’m asking.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, what’s his name?” John couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that. Mrs. Hudson was convinced he was gay from the moment he set foot in 221B.
“Her name is Mary, she’s a woman.”
“A woman?” asked the old lady, completely scandalised. “You really are moving on.”
“For the last time, Mrs. Hudson. I am. Not. Gay.” John instantly regretted the amount of anger he let seep into his tone. He wasn’t lying, technically, at least. Considering the feelings he’s had for Sherlock, he was bisexual, but that was not a can of worms he wanted to open with Mrs. Hudson while standing in the flat he used to share with the man who as he suspected never loved him back. Even if he did, it didn’t matter anymore, did it?
………..
No sooner had Sherlock finished clearing out the last of Moriarty’s network, than the bloody Serbians captured him. He spent a few days in their loving care before Mycroft waltzed in posing as a superior officer, sat down on a chair in the corner of his cell and watched his tormentor do his job for a while. Sherlock knew his chance was here and he used the information he deduced to get the man guarding him to run home in hopes of catching his cheating wife in the act.
He was, secretly, glad for Mycroft’s interference, but of course his dear brother had other motives than simple care for his sibling, a terror threat in London was in need of solving. Whether Mycroft helped him because he needed him to deal with the terrorists, or insisted that only he could solve the case to help him, didn’t interest Sherlock for one second. He was going home.
Why on Earth Sherlock Holmes thought that a busy restaurant, where John was going on a lunch date, would be the perfect place for revealing that he was in fact alive, was a mystery even to the man himself.
“Look, I realise I probably owe you some sort of apology, but are you really keeping that? it looks ridiculous,” Sherlock laughed pointing at John’s moustache, after marching into the restaurant and stopping next to his table. Mary, after one look at the two men, knew she wouldn’t be going on another date with John.
Sherlock was taken aback by the anger that filled John a second later as the full wave of emotions awakened by his presence washed over the man. Before he knew he was lying on the cold tiles, his back on fire as he fell on the bruises he got in Serbia. A fleeting thought flew through his head about this not being the way he imagined John on top of him, but he quickly dismissed it as he felt the other man’s hand tighten around his neck, as if he wanted to make sure he actually died this time around.
They rolled around on the ground, Sherlock trying to escape from John’s iron grip until they were pulled apart by the other guests, and quickly escorted outside by the staff.
“One word, Sherlock, that’s all I would have needed. But nooo, you let me grieve, you let me think you were dead for two fucking years,” yelled John at him on the pavement.
“I couldn’t…” Sherlock tried to explain himself, but John stormed off.
Mary stepped beside Sherlock and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “ Why couldn’t you tell him?”
“Moriarty. I had to be sure his network was destroyed before I returned, he was in danger.” Sherlock answered with surprising honesty considering he was talking to a stranger.
“I got to know him not long after your death, he was completely destroyed.” Mary sighed. “He was just beginning to move on and you exploded back into his life and the first thing you said to him was insulting his honestly horrible moustache.” She chuckled at the absurdity of that.
“I wanted to contact him so many times,” admitted Sherlock, eyes gazing after the other man.
“I’ll talk him ‘round,” said Mary, she patted the man’s shoulder, then went after John, who was waiting for her on the corner.
To Mrs. Hudson’s delight, Sherlock returned to Baker Street to reclaim his spot, and to her disappointment immediately began to work on the terrorist threat his brother warned him about, leaving destruction in his wake.
He produced a map of London from a drawer, then began pinning up pictures of the markers, the people he observed carefully, because a disturbance in their routine was the sign of greater things in motion. He sent out members of his homeless network to report about the people, then as the intel came in he slowly crossed them off his list.
Sherlock hadn’t known what John’s company meant to him until he lost it. For the last two years he felt more lonely and isolated than ever before. For a long time he instinctively began talking to John, expecting him to be following him, like he always did. Now, John made it clear he didn’t want to see him, but Sherlock was in desperate need of some company outside of Mrs. Hudson.
Mycroft visited him and they spent a pleasant afternoon together, filled with their usual bickering, but his company was tolerable for only so long, not to mention Mycroft’s aversion to ‘leg work’.
Not wanting to return to the skull, he finally recruited Molly to act as his companion for a day. He didn’t get a chance to thank her for her help in faking his death anyway, and this was the perfect opportunity to do so.
With Molly in tow, he solved a row of cases, but the most fascinating case was the one he couldn’t solve right away. While wiping the Underground's security footage, a Mr. Shilcott discovered a man who disappeared from the carriage between stations. What was most interesting though, was the fact that the man was one of Sherlock’s markers. Mycroft’s intel was right, something big was in motion.
As they left Shilcott’s flat, the footage from the station in his pocket on pendrive, but also in his mind palace, running in the background of Sherlock's thoughts, he stopped dead in his tracks. Five minutes. The ride should only take five minutes, yet it took that train ten. Interesting.
To close the day with style, Sherlock invited Molly for chips. “I know a fantastic fish shop. The owner always gives me extra portions.”
“What, did you get him off a murder charge?” asked Molly half joking as they were walking down the stairs.
“I helped him put up some shelves,” answered Sherlock, and a smirk appeared on his face. Based on the surprised laughter behind him, Molly was familiar with the euphemism.
“I’m sorry but I have an early morning tomorrow, maybe next time,” excused herself Molly, but the thought of some crispy fries have already infested her mind. “Or, I could go with you to buy some and go straight home…”
“Wonderful,” delighted Sherlock. He stopped at a landing between two floors and turned to look at Molly. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“It’s my pleasure,” said Molly flustered.
“No, I mean it. Moriarty miscalculated, because he thought you didn't matter to me, but in the end you mattered the most. Thank you.”
Molly pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. “Just don’t make me fake your death again,” she laughed, and they were off to buy chips.
……….
(John’s flat, just after the incident in the restaurant)
“John, just let him explain himself,” pleaded Mary. “You’re glad he’s back, I know that you are.”
“Maybe. I’m way too bloody angry to care,” answered John, his voice cracking. “Sherlock. Fucking. Holmes.” He shouted at the wall of his flat. “Can you believe his nerve?”
“I like him,” shrugged Mary.
“What!?” John’s anger was displaced by disbelief.
“I like him,” repeated the woman with a soft smile, and John felt somehow calmer.
“What do you think of the moustache?” asked John after a long pause. “Is it really that bad?” Both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock found it an abomination, John hoped that at least Mary would take his side.
A guilty expression took over Mary’s face. “I didn’t know how to tell you, I’m so sorry.” John rolled his eyes and grunted something before slumping down on the sofa.
Realising she wouldn’t get much more out of John for a while, Mary took out her phone and did what she wanted to do for so long, but didn’t want to upset John by doing it before. She pulled up John’s old blog, and soon she was lost in about their adventures, and she was enamoured by how clear John’s love and admiration for Sherlock was in his writing.
Meanwhile, after a bit of sulking, John went to the bathroom, which Mary only noticed when he heard the water running. She decided to annoy John for a bit and began to read loud enough for John to hear she was talking.
“...I couldn’t help thinking what an amazing criminal he’d make if he turned his talents against the law.”
“Hey, don’t read that,” protested John as he emerged from the bathroom.
“The famous blog…” Mary said without looking up.
“Come on…” tried John once again.
“It’s ancient history, yes I know, but it isn’t ‘cause he’s…” Mary forgot what he was about to say, when she looked up to see John’s face covered in shaving cream. “What are you doing?”
“Shaving it off.”
“Because Sherlock hates it.” There’s no doubt in Mary’s voice.
“You hate it,” John tried to shut her down.
“You’re shaving for Sherlock Holmes,” grinned Mary.
“Apparently everybody hates it.” Said John, even though he already knew Mary saw through him, and it was pointless trying to convince her otherwise.
“Are you going to see him,” asked Mary in a hopeful voice.
“I don’t know,” sighed John. “I honestly don’t know. Not yet.”
It was the next day, late afternoon when John decided to go to Baker Street. He realised that Mary was right, even if he was still angry with him, he could at least let Sherlock explain what happened. He knew his friend. Sherlock was rude and obnoxious, but he was a good person, and though it took several drinks for him to admit it, he enjoyed John’s company. He wouldn’t disappear on John for two year without reason.
The street seemed perfectly normal, busy with life as John walked up to 221B, but all of a sudden, some bloke bumped into him, John felt a needle enter his neck and the world went black.
The next time John opened his eyes, his body felt numb and weak, he couldn’t move his limbs. As he came to his senses he realised he was buried under a pile of tree branches. Not good.
……….
Sherlock just got home after his day with Molly, slumped down in John’s chair, still in his coat as he heard the front door open and somebody running up the stairs, crying out John’s name in panic. Mary. Why was she looking for John here?
Mary showed him a text message she received. Skip Code. Save John Watson. Save John Watson. John. Sherlock’s mind has never worked so fast, he was sure of that. The plate of chips fell from his hands and scattered on the floor of the landing as it clicked in his mind. Saint James the Less, a church. He set off running to the street, planning the best route. Twenty minutes by car. Too long. Sherlock pushed the sense of panic creeping in into the back of his mind and focused. Motorbike, he needed a motorbike.
A few seconds later he was speeding through the streets of London, Mary behind him, the poor bastards who’s bike he took no doubt confused and outraged. The buildings blurred beside them as Sherlock manoeuvred the bike between cars and through narrow alleyways.
As the enormous pile of firewood on the square in front came into view Sherlock knew where John was. They, whoever they were, put him under the growing flames and he was about to be burnt alive by the unsuspecting crowd celebrating Guy Fawkes Night.
Sherlock parked the bike as close as he could and set off rushing through the crowd, pushing the people to the side, with Mary right behind him. Sherlock dug into the pile of wood, disregarding the flames that almost set his coat on fire, all he cared about was getting John out. He finally got a hold of the man and pulled him out from the fire, letting him lay on the concrete, as panicked cries rose around them.
John seemed disoriented, a few bleeding cuts framed his face where the bark scraped his skin, and his sweater looked a bit charred, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. A sigh of relief left Sherlock's lips as he and Mary knelt beside John, waiting for the ambulance one of the by-standers had enough composure to call.
As far as Sherlock knew, John still didn’t want anything to do with him, so to respect his wishes, he didn’t follow him and Mary to the hospital, instead, he turned his collar up against the cold night wind, and walked home alone.
……………
The next day
“Sherlock,” called out John as he stepped into the dim sitting room of 221B, clicking on the light and closing the door behind him.
Sherlock was sitting on the floor cross legged in his pyjamas and crimson dressing gown, facing the wall above the couch that housed all the information about the terror-attack case. He didn’t react for a moment, then his eyes flickered open and he slowly took in his surroundings. His face formed into a rare expression of surprise as he laid his eyes on John. He jumped up from the floor and stared at the doctor, clearly expecting another round of shouting. Instead John said the following.
“You saved my life, thank you.” He gave Sherlock a small but genuine smile before continuing. “I’m still bloody angry at you, don’t think for a second I’m not.”
Sherlock’s face was unreadable for a moment, he was carefully considering what to say, a clear indication as to how much he cared. “I understand. Let me explain what happened,” he said finally, ”Then, you may continue to be as upset with me as you deem fit, it’s well deserved.”
John nodded in acknowledgement and moved to sit down in his old chair, taking the union-jack pillow in his lap to fidget with its corners. Sherlock beelined over to his own seat, sat down and leaned forward a little, resting his hands on his knees.
“My disappearance was mostly Mycroft’s plan. Once I got called to the roof we calculated thirteen likely outcomes and prepared for each. It was quite obvious that Moriarty wouldn’t let me take the stairs, so we had to come up with another way for me to get down alive. I considered Jumping to another roof but they were too steep, and…”
“Look, Sherlock, I don't really care how you did it. Not right now,” interrupted John. “Why? Why did you…” Why did you leave me?
Sherlock seemed baffled for a moment, why wouldn’t his blogger care about his thought process, but then he shook his head and returned to the relevant part of his story.
“He had snipers on you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, that would only stand down if I died.”
John’s mouth opened in surprise. “Sherlock…” He didn’t know what to say.
“Only he could have called them off, but he blew his brains out. I couldn’t reveal myself before I dismantled Moriarty’s network or they would have completed the job.” Sherlock paused for a moment, considering how much he should reveal to John about his lone adventures. “That’s what I’ve been doing this last two years, before Mycroft pulled me out to solve his little terror threat.”
John nodded, but continued to stare down his lap for a while, digesting what he’s just learned.
The continued silence from John seemed to have loosened something in Sherlock as he continued to speak with an unusual degree of forthcomingness.
“I’m sorry, John. You can’t imagine how many times I stopped myself from reaching out, but I couldn’t. I had to keep you safe, I couldn’t have lived with myself if I dragged you into any more trouble, or worse, if I got you killed.” Sherlock sank down on his knees between the two chairs, his right hand running through his hair in a nervous motion.
John finally looked up from his lap to the man kneeling in front of him, and met Sherlock’s eyes. They were the beautiful grey-blue orbs he remembered and missed so deeply, but instead of mischievous fire or disdain for the world, they were shining with forming tears, the face surrounding them formed into a clear expression of desperation.
“Please, forgive me,” breathed Sherlock and finished his plea.
“I forgive you,” blurted out John and in that exact moment he found himself on the floor in front of Sherlock. He curled his arms around the other man and pulled him in for a hug, resting his head in the crook of his neck. “You’re my best friend, ‘course I forgive you,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder.
They remained there for a long while, wrapped in a hug more meaningful than any physical contact either of them had experienced before, only moving when John’s knees began to protest against the strain.
Later, they were sitting in their respective seats again, and John asked what had been bothering him all night. “Last night, who did that? Why did they target me?”
Sherlock had been all too aware of the red cuts on the side of John’s face, which he acquired last night, and he had wondered much the same. “I don’t know,” he admitted honestly.
“Are they trying to get to you through me? Is this connected to the terrorist attack?” Both were great and logical questions, Sherlock thought. “I don’t know, I can’t see the pattern,” he answered, his frustration growing as his mind ran in circles.
“Why would an agent give his life for something so insignificant? An underground terrorist attack, that’s all we know.” He went on to explain his markers to John, and the one who was acting out of line, Lord Moran. The main rat, the man on the disappearing carriage.
John was bouncing off ideas at Sherlock as he always did, when the pieces fell into place. Underground network. of course. “Look, seven carriages leave Westminster, only six arrive at St. James Park. It’s obviously been detached,” explained Sherlock to a very confused John. It was the 5th of November, the parliament was to vote on an anti-terrorism bill, and Lord Moran, who had been working for North-Korea for a considerable amount of time, was not going to attend.
They got on a call with Shilcott and began checking the map of the underground network for any sign of a station between Westminster and St. James. Bingo. Sumatra Road, an abandoned project barely anyone knew about, and it was right under the Palace of Westminster, the perfect place for a bomb if one wants to blow up the parliament. Sherlock grabbed his coat and took off, John sprinting after him.
They exited the cab, threw a few notes at the driver and rushed down the stairs to Westminster station. As they neared the platform John fished out his phone from his coat and started dialling 999, but when Sherlock protested, he, against his better judgement, pocketed the device and hurried inside the access tunnel the detective broke into.
As they hurried down the stairs he reconsidered his previous choice and pulled out his phone again, but it was too late, there was no signal anymore. He sighed and continued after Sherlock, his anxiety heightened.
The pair reached the Sumatra Road platform but there was no sign of the carriage. Could they have misunderstood the intel? No. Sherlock dipped into his mind palace for a moment, then as he found the answer, he hurried towards the rails and began walking down between them into the tunnel, John right next to him, their hand almost touching with every step, the light of their torches bobbing in the dark tunnel in front of them.
They passed under a vent shaft with demolition charges inside, and the lost carriage was not much further down the rails. John’s pulse quickened, as he visualized the plan of the terrorist. If they manage to set the bomb off, there was enough explosives there to collapse the entire palace of Westminster, no doubt killing most, if not all the MPs present.
John hurried forward and pulled the carriage door open, peeking inside to check there was any immediate danger. They climbed inside, eyes and torches immediately scanning the space for the bomb, which at first glace seemed to be absent.
“It’s empty, there’s nothing here,” said John, hoping that they were wrong and there would be no bomb at all, but of course the could never be that lucky. Sherlock spotted something. He lifted up a seat cushion to reveal explosives and wires there. “This is the bomb. The entire compartment is the bomb,” stated Sherlock. They both looked for the main control centre, where they hoped to find a big button labelled ‘Off switch’.
Sherlock stepped on a loose panel on the floor and he forced it open to reveal the core of the bomb. John forgot how to breathe for a second, his mind overwhelmed with panic. He slowly forced himself to calm down, and wished he hadn’t listened to Sherlock and called bomb disposal. It was probably too late for that now, as they would have needed to go back to the surface to get a signal.
“What do we do now?” asked John, desperately hoping that Sherlock knew what to do. He stared at the bomb, which was an intimidating looking a metallic object with wires running into it, a large timer on its side.
“I have no idea,” answered the detective, his face almost as panicked as John’s.
“Think of something, you’re Sherlock Holmes, you’re as smart as it gets,” John tried to calm both of them down, and he trusted that Sherlock would solve this, he always had a plan, a deduction, a way to get them out of any mess.
Fortunately, the timer still stood on two minutes and thirty seconds, meaning they had some time before it went off. John went through his military training in his head, searching for any memory of being taught bomb disposal, but nothing came up. It wasn’t exactly information doctors were required to learn.
“Could we rip the timer off?” he asked in an attempt to at least feel somewhat useful.
Sherlock shook his head. “That would set it off immediately. Usually there’s an off switch right on the bomb but I can’t find it. It’s either hidden or this one can only be controlled remotely…”
The timer started ticking down.
Two minutes twenty-nine seconds…
Two minutes twenty-eight seconds…
“My God,” John began nervously pacing down the length of the carriage, a sudden burst of anger flowing over him. “Why do you never call the bloody police, Sherlock? Why?” He shouted, but his anger quickly redirected to himself. He didn’t call them either, he let Sherlock talk him out of it, and he didn’t need much convincing.
“It’s too late now,” resigned Sherlock. He stepped closer to John and put a hand on his shoulder.
Two minutes three seconds...
“You should go John,” he said, his voice pleading and sad.
“It’s too late for that, I couldn’t get far enough away and I’m not bloody leaving you.” John stayed silent for a moment, looking for a solution. “Use your mind palace,” he ordered Sherlock.
“My mind palace?” repeated Sherlock. “You think I have ‘How to dispose a bomb’ tucked away in there somewhere?” He was upset. By the ticking of time, the closeness of death he avoided so many times already, and by John’s still overbearing trust in his abilities.
“You sorted away every fact under the Sun, Sherlock, so yes.”
“Maybe,” said Sherlock, a flash of hope in his eyes. He closed his eyes and concentrated.
One minute forty seconds…
It took a good thirty seconds for Sherlock to re-emerge from his thoughts, which seemed like an eternity to John as he was watching him. Sherlock opened his eyes and immediately dropped to his knees next to the bomb. “I have an idea.”
John paced across from Sherlock, unable to help. He couldn’t bear to look at the timer, but as Sherlock gave out a frustrated grunt, he couldn’t stop himself.
Thirty seconds…
“ Come on Sherlock, you can do this,” said John, but it came out as more of a plea than encouragement. “Think. Please, think.”
John closed his eyes and prepared for being blown into pieces, but just as the countdown neared its end he heard Sherlock whisper. “I think I did it.”
John opened his eyes and peeked at the timer. It was frozen at four seconds. He gave out a relieved sigh and watched as Sherlock slowly stood up, as if he was afraid his movement would set the bomb off.
In a second John was in front of Sherlock, his hands on Sherlock’s face. “You did it you bloody idiot,” he exclaimed, grinning like a fool. “I could kiss you right now.” John didn’t know which one of them was more shocked, but Sherlock brought up his hands to rest on John’s face, and dipped his head to kiss the other man, slow enough to give plenty of time for John to pull away, say it way a joke, that he wasn’t gay, but John mirrored his movements, closing the space between them.
It was an experimental touch of lips, chaste and short, but in that moment it meant everything. Sherlock pulled back in second, but as their eyes met John nudged the back of Sherlock’s head back towards himself. This second kiss was longer, a gentle play of lips, Sherlock's hands slid down around John torso, while John buried his fingers in Sherlock's black curls.
The moment ended as they heard noise from outside, and peeking behind Sherlock, John could see a group of policemen approach.
He broke out in a huffing laughter. “You called the police.”
Sherlock rested his head against John’s as he answered. “Of course I did, and they were miserably late.” Now both of them were laughing, and did their best to ignore the officers as long as possible, to just exist together for a moment.
Sherlock and John left the bomb squad to tend to the explosives and headed home. They settled down and while munching on the biscuits made by Mrs. Hudson, they shared the story of their adventure with her, but upon a silent agreement reached through a single glance, they decided not to mention the kissing part. She might have gotten a heart-attack in her excitement.
The landlady disappeared down the stairs to make more tea. Although Sherlock hasn’t been home for more than a few days, the kitchen upstairs was a complete disaster already.
“So…” started John when they were completely alone for the first time since the carriage. “We kissed.” He sounded genuinely surprised, as if he was just only grasping the full extent of the events.
“Yes we did,” acknowledged Sherlock, a happy smile dancing on his lips as he looked at John sitting in his chair across from him, like he always did. “Would you like to do it again?” His voice was hesitant, afraid of John’s rejection. ‘Hmm… No thanks. This was a mistake, I’m not gay, you know .’
John looked at him, his eyes wide open. “Yes… I would love to.”
Sherlock strode across the space between them and stood before John. He bent forward, framing John’s face with his hands. John’s left hand grabbed the lapel of Sherlock’s suit jacket, while the other settled on the nape of his neck.
Their lips met in a kiss more urgent and passionate than their first, nerve endings firing at the contact. One of Sherlock’s hands slid down to John’s chest, the other moved to the arm of the chair for support. John nibbled on Sherlock’s lower lip, and he sighed into the kiss.
The need for air finally separated the couple. Sherlock sat down cross legged on the floor in front of John, and looked up to see him smiling at him. He mirrored the gesture, then took one of John’s hands in his, drawing little patterns onto his palm.
“You will move back in,” stated Sherlock with such conviction as if John’s belongings were already there.
“Of course,” answered John, grinning, but he shook his head at Sherlock’s tone. He wouldn’t have said no for anything.
As Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson ascend the stairs once again, he stood up and returned to his chair. They haven’t discussed who to tell about their relationship yet, though the nosy landlady was bound to find out soon enough.
Mrs. Hudson stepped into the sitting room and placed the tea on the table. “You should invite your friends over to celebrate, boys.”
“Wonderful idea,” agreed Sherlock immediately. “Tomorrow evening would be perfect.” John was surprised, Sherlock rarely agreed to social events, and definitely not with such enthusiasm.
“I agree, but why are you so keen, Sherlock?” inquired John, sensing that the other man was not saying something.
“My parents are in town and I’m supposed to dine with them and Mycroft. My dear brother might just have to deal with them alone.” Sherlock smirked, and John laughed.
“Alright, I will cook,” offered John. “And I’ll text everyone. Molly, Mary, and Greg. I won’t bother Mycroft, he’s a busy man.” Sherlock snorted at that.
It was getting late, John decided on going home for the night, but he returned the next morning, exiting the cab with a duffel bag on his shoulder and bags of groceries in his hands. Unless Sherlock wanted to go out, he was ready for a day in.
When John stepped into the living room, he found Sherlock lying on the sofa, dressed in pyjama pants, a T-shirt and a dressing gown, spaced out.
“Hello,” greeted John the man, removed his coat, then moved into the kitchen to put the food away. He opened the fridge to find it pleasantly body-part-free. Sherlock got home only a few days ago, John wouldn’t bet money on it staying that way.
John heard a slight ruffling behind him, - apparently Sherlock registered his arrival, and decided to leave the sofa, - but was surprised when he found himself being hugged from behind. Blue-silk clad arms sneaked around his torso, and a head came to rest on his shoulders, soft, black curls tickled his skin.
John slowly turned around in Sherlock’s arms, weaving his own around Sherlock’s lean body, his head pressed into Sherlock’s chest. John’s hands started out on an exploration, sneaking under Sherlock’s dressing gown and settling on his sides, touching, caressing.
Sherlock loosened his hold on John to be able to kiss him, their lips locked in slow exploratory motions, and as Sherlock’s lips opened under John’s their tongues met in a beautiful, gentle dance.
Sherlock moved his hands to John’s sweater, urging him to remove it, John obeyed, tossing the garment on the back of a chair, and it was soon joined by Sherlock’s gown.
They stumbled towards Sherlock’s bedroom, not wanting to break the contact of lips, the roaming of hands. Sherlock’s long fingers unbuttoned John’s shirt with precision and pushed it down his shoulders.
They separated long enough for John to grab the hem of Sherlock’s T-shirt and drag it over his head, but as he looked down Sherlock’s naked torso, he saw bruises breaking up the alabaster of skin with colours of fading purple, green, and yellow. Although he couldn’t see it from this angle, based on the direction of the bruises, he suspected his back was similarly injured. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gently asked him to turn around.
“Sherlock…” John’s voice broke as he looked at Sherlock, memories of him pushing Sherlock onto the hard, tiled floor of the restaurant came rushing back. These bruises were older than that, but it must have hurt like hell to be tacked and land right on them. “I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock understood what he meant and nodded. He brought a hand to John's face, wanting to guide his lips back to his, but without his shirt or gown, John could see the marks left behind by the cuffs he was held in on his wrists.
John took each of Sherlock’s hands in his, and brought them to his lips, breathing a small kiss on each. “Sit on the bed?” John asked Sherlock.
Sherlock settled on the middle of the mattress, John knelt behind him and began kissing down Sherlock’s neck, along his spine, carefully avoiding his bruises, but touching every centimetre of uninjured skin, as if the contact would heal the rest, murmuring soft ‘I love you’-s and ‘I’ve got you’-s into Sherlock’s back along the way, comfort himself as much as Sherlock. It was sweet reassurance that they really were together again, closer than ever before.
A blanket of peacefulness settled over Sherlock, and as his eyelids grew heavier, he leaned back against John, the back of his head resting on his shoulder. Sherlock nuzzled John’s cheek with his head, a content smile on his face, giving the impression to John that he would be purring if he could.
A while later, Sherlock turned towards John, first for a lazy, loving kiss, then to ask him, “Would you sleep with me? Just sleep, I mean. I couldn’t last night.”
John nodded, happy to give comfort to Sherlock, especially when he knew he never slept much, especially when on a case.
“Move,” he nudged Sherlock playfully to get him off the blankets. They settled on the pillows, facing each other, their legs intertwined after a bit of awkward shuffling. As Sherlock slowly drifted off to sleep, he felt John press a soft kiss to the top of his head. He has never felt safer.
The news of the failed terrorist attack, and Sherlock’s glorious return circulated with lightning speed. Reporters and fans began circling Baker Street like sharks, waiting for Sherlock and John, mostly Sherlock, to make an appearance.
When John arrived in the morning the street was still mostly empty, but after they woke from their late-morning nap, John was grateful that he already did the grocery shopping.
The couple drew in the curtains, and stayed inside, not wanting to face the growing number of paparazzi, and hoped they would give up soon enough. However, as the evening rolled around and their guests arrived, the situation seemed only to worsen.
“You have to give them something or they’ll never leave,” advised Molly.
“They would rather starve on your doorstep,” added Mary, jokingly, but John was begging to think she was right. He took a peek at the street, and a smaller crowd was gathered under their window. They had to get rid of them before they brought out the tents.
“Come on Sherlock, be nice to them for a bit, then they’ll leave you alone.” John gestured towards the door.
“Dull,” declared Sherlock, but he stood up and reached for his coat, then followed John out onto the landing.
“Good luck,” called Greg after them.
Sherlock was halfway down the stairs, when John spoke up behind him. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Being back, being a hero.”
Sherlock gave a dismissive sound.
“You love it.”
“Love what?” Sherlock was smirking with his back to John.
“Being Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock turned back, with pretend outrage. “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.” He walked back to John, pressed a small kiss to his lips, then took his hand and led him down the stairs towards the front door. Before stepping outside he let go of John's hand to put on his famous detective hat. He might as well go all in.
They stepped outside and they were immediately surrounded by an overwhelming wave of cameras and microphones, but with John by his side, Sherlock felt like he could face anything there was to come, even a flock of story-hungry reporters.