Work Text:
John Watson is not an idiot.
He's not a genius like Sherlock Holmes, of course, and in comparison to the world's only consulting detective, he realizes he might come across as a bit slow on the uptake sometimes, but after all, so does everybody else. He'd always gotten top marks at school, and passed his bachelor's degrees of medicine and surgery with flying colours. He has no doubt that he's a fairly intelligent man – despite making some decisions that many people would call stupid. Like giving up a promising career as a doctor to join the army, or moving in with a self-proclaimed sociopath, for example.
No, John Watson is definitely not an idiot, but when he looks back now, he has to admit that he should have realized what was going on sooner.
The first time it happens, John is in his chair in the living room, pretending to work on his blog while in fact waiting for Sherlock to conjure up another hint for their latest case. Until now, all leads have turned into dead ends, but John is certain Sherlock will come up with something, and he wants to be there when it happens. Suddenly, there's a loud bang from inside the kitchen, followed by the crash of a chair toppling over, which almost makes John drop his laptop in his haste to get up. Sherlock is already standing at the sink, running water from the tap over his right hand. “It's nothing,” he says without even turning to spare John a glance.
John frowns at the forbidding form of Sherlock's back. “I'd rather have a look and decide that for myself, ta.”
When John is standing next to Sherlock at the sink and giving him another stern look, Sherlock finally heaves a heavy, put-upon sigh before turning off the water and offering up his hand for John to examine. There's a patch of skin on the palm of his hand that has turned a bright, angry red and is already beginning to swell despite the cold water, but it doesn't look like any blisters will form. Only a first-degree burn, then – they've both had worse during one case or another.
“So, does the doctor concur with my initial diagnosis?” Sherlock asks as John turns the hand over to check the backside. No additional burns. Well, that's something, at least.
“You already know I do,” John says with a smile. “How about you keep that hand under some more water while I fetch the first-aid kit from the loo?” Sherlock rolls his eyes but for once, he does as John has suggested without voicing a complaint.
John returns from the bathroom with the kit in one hand and a tube of burn relief gel in the other. “So, what happened?” he asks as he sets kit and tube down on the counter next to the sink – the kitchen table is completely covered in Sherlock's chemistry paraphernalia with some glass shards scattered in-between. Without knowing what exactly caused the explosion, John is going nowhere near that table. He does, however, pick up the chair lying on the floor and puts it next to the sink. He then pulls up another chair so they can both sit next to the sink.
“I was performing a chemical analysis of the elements in the soil samples from the Bromley crime scene,” Sherlock explains as he takes a seat and holds his hand palm-up for John. “It seems one of the samples contained an unexpectedly high amount of nitrogen, most likely in the form of ammonium nitrate. Fascinating. It could easily...”
Sherlock falls silent as John carefully dries his hand and picks up the tube of topic analgesic. He applies a generous layer of the clear gel and then wraps the hand loosely in sterile gauze. He's so focused on his doctor's task that he doesn't notice Sherlock's strange silence. When John finally looks up, satisfied with his work, Sherlock's eyes are strangely absent and his face is blank. Ah, gone to his mind palace, then. When he returns, he'll probably have figured out where they can find their suspect based on the soil sample's unusual chemical reaction and whatever else Sherlock managed to notice that everybody else missed. It'll be amazing, and John is looking forward to telling him so.
Because he knows from experience that it's best to leave Sherlock to it when he's in this state, John grabs both kit and gel and puts them back in the cabinet before returning to his seat in the living room. There's really nothing to be done until Sherlock figures things out, so he picks up his laptop and returns to working on his blog.
***
When it happens for the second time, John is running late for work at the clinic because his old alarm clock didn't ring. He should have known it was a stupid idea to pull an all-nighter with Sherlock and then to decide it was more expedient to stay over at 221B than to travel all the way back to his own home in Wordsworth. And if that isn't already enough, his phone is missing, too. Damn it, he's looked everywhere for it, but hasn't been able to find the stupid thing. He could, of course, ask Sherlock, who'd probably be able to deduce its whereabouts within a fraction of a second, but Sherlock has been in one of his darker moods lately... composing melancholy tunes on the violin, not eating, barely talking. Right now, he is lying stretched out on the sofa, fully-dressed, with his eyes closed and his hands steepled in front of his chin. His 'do not disturb, thinking in progress' posture.
Another look at his watch tells John that there's no time left to delay the inevitable, so he steps into the living room and clears his throat. “Sherlock? I'm looking for my phone – do you know where it is?”
Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, but he does at least deign to answer John's question. “In my right trouser pocket.”
“What...?” John just can't believe it. The bastard's had his phone all this time without bothering to tell him? God, one of these day he is surely going to kill the man. “Why?”
“The battery was dead on mine, so I used yours.” Sherlock still hasn't moved on the sofa, and it doesn't look like he is going to hand over John's phone himself any time soon.
“Right,” John sighs and steps up to the sofa. It's not like this hasn't happened before – Sherlock has absolutely no regard for other people's personal possessions or privacy. Hell, when John still lived at Baker Street, Sherlock used John's laptop more often than John did, and since the very beginning of their friendship, John has been fetching him everything from a cup of tea to hydrochloric acid when the git can't be bothered to do it himself because he thinks he has something more important to do.
John slips his hand into the trouser pocket of Sherlock's bespoke suit, and easily finds his phone ensheathed by the silky fabric of the lining. He slips it out and puts it into the inside pocket of his own jacket, huffing angrily. If he fails to observe the hitch in Sherlock's breath, well, it's hardly his fault, is it? He's annoyed and in a hurry, and without another word, he heads out of the door and down the stairs.
***
The third time it happens, they are walking down a darkened back alley. Well, actually Sherlock is walking in great strides, each one of them taking him further and further away from Lestrade's crime scene. John on the other hand is trying to get the long-legged git to stop and listen to him. So far, he could have just as well been talking to the dirty brick wall encompassing them on either side for all the good it's done.
“Sherlock, will you please just listen to me?” John calls to Sherlock's coat-clad back. “I know you're angry with that stupid wanker Ewell, but there's a child's life at stake here. You can't just leave because he called you names – you're the one who insulted him in the first place!”
Sherlock still won't slow down, and a look over the back of his shoulder shows John that they've already walked quite some distance; he can barely see the blinking lights of the police cars parked at the crime scene anymore. Normally he'd just keep following Sherlock until he cools down – in time, Sherlock's mind will turn back to the case, and he'll deduce something brilliant from what he already saw back there. This time, however, John can't wait for that to happen. A child has been kidnapped, and he needs Sherlock to cooperate with Lestrade's team right now. Talking doesn't seem to do the trick, however, so he's going to have to change tactics.
With a sharp exhale of air, John forcefully grabs Sherlock's upper arm and yanks hard to make him turn around. Abruptly, they are standing face to face, breaths mingling in the frigid February air. “Sherlock,” John pleads, “I'm the last person to disagree with you on the topic of Ewell's incompetence; honestly, he's worse than Anderson, but please keep in mind that this is a missing persons case. There's no time for you to have a sulk, okay?”
Sherlock, meanwhile, has gone very still. He's looking at John with a strange intensity in his eyes; not absent like he has retreated to his mind palace, but like he's... waiting for something? Or maybe cataloguing something? After what feels like minutes but can surely only be a few seconds, he blinks rapidly, and his gaze turns to John's hand that is still gripping Sherlock's arm. Damn, he really shouldn't have just grabbed Sherlock like that. Hastily, John removes his hand. “Sorry, I didn't mean to...” They should probably have a proper talk about it, but the clock is ticking mercilessly. They'll just need do it later, when there's more time. First things first. “Right, um, Sherlock? Can we, you know, go back to the crime scene now?”
Sherlock schools his face into its usual cold, arrogant features and nods. “Of course. That's what I was going to suggest.”
***
One could rightfully say he should have seen it coming, but it still takes John by surprise when it happens for the fourth time. Sherlock is in hospital – again. This time though, it's bad. Really bad. John had been reluctant to give him anything, even just a mild sedative, to calm him down after all that had happened, but Sherlock's body desperately needs the rest, which didn't leave John with much of a choice in the matter. Now, Sherlock is finally sleeping in the private room Mycroft has quickly but unobtrusively procured.
John is sitting next to the bed in one of the hospital's uncomfortable plastic visitor chairs. It's long past midnight, and John is terribly tired, but he won't leave Sherlock alone in this unfamiliar place, not when he's like this. So vulnerable. Of course, John wouldn't have been able to get any sleep either at 221B or at home with Mary, anyway. He's still too keyed up by the past week's events – they had been hunting down a serial killer when Sherlock had suddenly gone missing for three days. John had finally found him in an abandoned warehouse, drugged and bruised. They'd pulled guns on each other, and for a little while, John had been afraid that Sherlock had lost it. In the end, though, Sherlock had trusted John.
A groan from the bed drags John from his reverie, and he's immediately by Sherlock's side, gripping the bed's cold metal siderail until his knuckles turn white. Sherlock is still sleeping, but he's tossing and turning, his sweat-slicked face contorted in pain and fear. God, who knows what that bastard did to Sherlock during those three days. John's grip on the rail turns impossibly harder as his mind supplies a myriad of unhelpful and disturbing images.
Sherlock groans again in his sleep. He's managed to get himself entangled in the sheets, and is now fighting to get free. John carefully pulls the corners of the sheet from where they are stuck, trying his best not to startle Sherlock by any sudden movements. When Sherlock jerks sharply once again, his finger's brush John's hand, and they immediately wrap around it, holding on to him. John freezes. Sherlock's grip isn't very tight, and he could probably try to slowly ease out his hand without waking Sherlock, but... it feels nice, actually. Those long, elegant violinist's fingers covering his shorter, stocky ones. He doesn't want to take his hand away.
Sherlock's sleeping figure, meanwhile, has stilled and his face no longer shows any signs of terror. Slowly, his breathing begins to even out and deepen. Some of those unruly black curls of Sherlock's are plastered to his still-damp forehead. The familiar urge to brush them back into place is none the less compelling for all that John should be used to it by now. Usually, he manages to tamp that feeling down and resist the urge to touch, but right here, right now, in this hospital room illuminated only by the cold fluorescent lights spilling from a crack under the door, he can't. He feels guilty for taking advantage of Sherlock, for not asking his permission, but tonight, he needs this, needs to feel the warmth of Sherlock's skin and the steady beat of his pulse. He needs all the proof his senses can give him that Sherlock is alive and well.
He carefully tucks the stray curls back into place. As of their own volition, his fingertips brush ever so lightly over Sherlock's temples while his other hand is still covered by Sherlock's own. Before he can stop himself, his whole hand is cupping Sherlock's face, his thumb gently brushing those ridiculously sharp cheekbones. He's honestly shocked when he finds Sherlock unconsciously pressing into his touch.
God, what is he supposed to do now?
Suddenly, he remembers the other incidents. The explosion in the kitchen, his phone in Sherlock's pocket, the confrontation in the alley.
Oh.
John's not the only one affected, it seems. And it does make perfect sense, now that John thinks about it. His dressing gowns made of fine, flowing silk. Those expensive, tight-fitting suits that positively hug his lean frame. Sherlock playing the violin, gently coaxing the most sublime sounds from it, caressing the instrument and swaying with the music, eyes closed not in concentration but in abandon. Nobody who's seen that can deny that Sherlock is a sensuous creature, even though he enacts a cold and distant persona in public. In private, Sherlock's never been afraid to be physically affectionate with Mrs Hudson, hugging her and kissing her cheek every once in a while (though those occasions have been few and far between). John just never realized Sherlock would like being touched by him.
He's never even let himself consider the possibility. After the disastrous conversation at Angelo's that first night, he'd been convinced that Sherlock didn't want what normal people wanted. Sherlock just wasn't like that. And it was fine, it was all fine, just as he'd told Sherlock on that occasion. Their friendship had been the best thing that could have happened to him, and John had not been willing to risk it just because of some completely inappropriate (and clearly unreciprocated) sentiment. Keeping a safe physical distance had made it much easier to push any unwelcome feelings aside. That hadn't prevented him from completely falling apart after Sherlock faked his death, of course, so when Sherlock came back three years later, not getting too close was simply an act of self-preservation.
God, he's been such an idiot.
Still, he needs to remind himself that this is just a simple, physical need. There's nothing more to it, no hidden emotions or secret desires. Sherlock doesn't feel things that way – he's made that exceedingly clear in the past, not least of all by going on some crazy spy adventure to dismantle Moriarty's network all by himself and leaving John behind. Again.
What, then, is John supposed to do about this?
The problem isn't that John doesn't want this. Oh no, the problem is how much he does want this. Touching Sherlock, and doing all those other things he wants to do that he has very painstakingly not been thinking about, especially since meeting Mary. Christ, he's getting married in just a few weeks time, he really doesn't need things to get more complicated than they already are. Any sane person would know that it's just too dangerous.
He could just ignore it, of course, pretend he never realized what effect his touch had on Sherlock. Continue as if nothing had happened, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't notice John being aware of it. That would be a bit not good, though, wouldn't it? Cruel, even. Sherlock is his best friend, after all, and when your best friend needs you, you ought to be there for them. Comfort them and help them, not ignore them because you're afraid of getting too involved.
And anyway, it would be a futile attempt, because if he's being completely honest with himself, he knows that at the end of the day, he can't deny Sherlock anything, whether he asks for it intentionally or unintentionally. Back at the pool with Moriarty, he had put his life in Sherlock's hands. Hell, he'd even been willing to die if it gave Sherlock even the slightest chance to escape. So if Sherlock wants this, if he needs this, John is going to give it to him. He wants to see Sherlock happy, and if it costs him a sleepless night or two (or more), well, he'll just have to face it and keep a tight lid on his useless, stupid feelings. Honestly, he should be used to that by now.
Careful not to wake Sherlock, John slowly extracts his hand from Sherlock's grip and removes the other from where he had been cupping that angular, beautiful face. He's made up his mind, and now he's going to put his newly gained knowledge to good use. Quietly, he folds down the upper siderail and pulls his chair closer until it's right next to the bed. He takes a seat and laces their fingers together, his head resting on the bed's mattress. In his sleep, Sherlock gives a contented sigh. John's face is so close that he can feel Sherlock's breath ghosting over his skin. Despite not wanting to (he really ought to watch over Sherlock in case there are any complications), John's eyes drift shut as he listens to Sherlock's deep and regular breathing.
Even before he can properly wake up, John becomes aware of the fact that he is being watched. Disoriented and groggy, he slowly opens his eyes and finds himself just inches from Sherlock's face, his quicksilver eyes boring into John's.
He lifts his head to look straight back at Sherlock, a grin now stretching his lips. “Good morning, sunshine. How are you feeling today?”
For a moment, Sherlock seems uncertain and hesitates, but then the edges of his mouth slowly turn up in return until he's fully smiling. It's a real, lopsided smile, not one of those manic grins or carefully calculated simpers he puts on like any of his disguises.
“Much better, I think,” Sherlock says as he lets his gaze drop to the mattress between them. John's eyes follow his. On top of the crisp, white sheet, their hands remain clasped together.