Work Text:
A quick briefing on Sherlock's reluctantly-come-to-terms-with feelings for John: he wants to hold his hand when handcuffs are not involved. He wants to stun the members of NSY when he kisses John in front of them. He wants to kiss John not in front of member of NSY because quite honestly they would ruin the moment. He wants to wrap his arms around John and feel his existence. He wants to trace things into John's skin while John is asleep. He wants to tell John he is beautiful and amazing and the best thing that has ever happened to him every minute of every day. He wants John to never leave. This is why he remains quiet.
A quick briefing on John's reluctantly-come-to-terms-with feelings for Sherlock: He wants to run his hands through Sherlock's hair as often as he wants. He wants to kiss him every morning and every night. He wants to stun the members of NSY when he kisses Sherlock after a brilliant deduction. He wants to hold his hand when handcuffs are not involved. He wants to wrap his arms around him on those rare occasions when he does sleep. He wants to believe Sherlock can feel things the way he does. He doesn't want to make things awkward, because he knows if he does confess his feelings, Sherlock will politely decline and then things will be strange and rehearsed-feeling and John wants things to stay how they are since he doesn't live in an ideal world. This is why he remains quiet.
-
John placed a shirt in his bag and sighed as Sherlock flopped on his back on John's bed, all over his neatly folded clothes.
"Do we really have to, John?"
"Yes, we do."
"Why can't we make some of Lestrade's men do it?"
John looked at him.
"Fine. Not the best idea. But camping?"
"You're the one who said the dealer was going to make the drop at a campsite tonight."
"Well, he is."
"Well then. We're going camping."
"But what does one bring camping?"
"Clothes. Food. Sleeping arrangements."
"Sounds horrendous. Indoors was invented so people don't have to be outdoors, yet people seek out the outdoors to voluntarily get bitten by bugs and eat undercooked food."
John hummed noncommittally.
"Are you listening to me, John?"
"I believe I got the gist, yeah."
Sherlock sighed, stood up, and stalked off.
John smirked.
-
Later, John placed a tent that he had rented nearby in the boot of the car, along with a camp stove, kindling, food, and water.
"Sherlock?" he called.
Sherlock trudged out with an expensive-looking backpack on his shoulder.
"Ready?" John asked.
"I suppose."
"Good. Let's go."
They drove to the campground in silence, Sherlock sulking out the window and John whistling. He hadn't been camping since he was a kid. Now he could go without Harry's whining. Well, Sherlock would probably whine twice as much, but it seemed far more bearable just because it was Sherlock.
They arrived; John checked in; Sherlock asked if they could stay in a cabin; John said no, it has to be a pad; Sherlock sulked some more. While John set up the tent (which was much harder than he remembered), Sherlock rather conspicuously staked out the other sites near them. He deduced a family of four (the daughter has a smoking habit and the mother is having an affair) and stared at the couple on the site next to them until they left for the store.
"Really, Sherlock?"
"What?"
"You know what. Can't you be even slightly decent?"
"I'm camping, John."
"You say that like it's the worst thing ever to happen to you."
"Maybe it is."
"You know it's not. Now shut up and help me set this tent up."
Sherlock got up from the picnic table and did as John instructed. He noticed, of course, that there was only one tent, but he didn't comment on it.
Once things were sorted, John decided to go on a hike, since the dealer wouldn't be there until sundown. Sherlock didn't know what to do with himself. He couldn't think outside without a bug landing on him every ten seconds. He wound up inside the tent, but it was stuffy and warm. He lay back. This was agony. An hour later, John returned for dinner. Sherlock watched with an odd fascination while John boiled water and dumped it into silver packets proclaiming gourmet meals. They turned out undercooked and soupy, but John said part of the fun was skipping dinner and eating s'mores.
Sherlock informed him he had never had a s'more and thought the whole idea rather messy and crude.
John said that was the idea.
A short while later, John had a decent fire going in the ashy metal circle at the far corner of their site. He handed Sherlock a stick with a marshmallow and instructed him on how to hold it over the fire properly.
"No, don't stick it in the middle of the flames--"
"It's more efficient--"
"It'll burn. See? Drop it in the fire and get another."
"This is all pointless and wasteful."
"You'll see. Now hold it just there, by the logs. Where the heat is."
"I know how a fire works."
"Sure. Now, turn it over every few seconds so it cooks evenly."
"I could have figured that out."
"Of course you could have."
They stood in silence for a while.
"John?"
"Hm?"
"What do I do when it's done?"
"I'll show you." Sherlock followed John over to the picnic table where a square of chocolate and broken graham cracker waited. John eased the gooey sugar off the stick and onto the cracker.
"There. Now put the other one on and eat it. Like a sandwich."
Sherlock looked at John dubiously and bit into it.
Almost instantly, the cracker crumbled and the marshmallow got stuck to his lips and face.
"I was right. This is the messiest thing I've ever eaten."
"But it's good, right?" John asked. He bit into his own.
Sherlock tilted his head. "Yes."
John smiled. "Want another?" Marshmallow was fused all over his mouth and Sherlock very much wanted to kiss it off. John, alternatively, wanted to kiss the sugary mess around Sherlock's mouth off.
"Yes."
John grinned.
-
It ended up, much later, that they were sitting, possibly a bit too close for two straight men, in front of a dwindling fire and watching the sunset. John thought it was all very romantic. Sherlock was never one to notice romantic things.
"Pretty."
"Thought you didn't care about things like that."
"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate them."
John held a long stick in his hand that he had been occasionally stoking the fire with, but he had long ago given up and the charred stick lay dejected next to him. The dull yellow semicircle settled lower in the sky, tree branches outlined in stark relief against the bright background. Wispy clouds stained purple and pink drifted across the horizon. Stands of orange and red made up the rest of the picturesque scene. Background static of insect chirps filled the silence comfortably. Eventually, a blue-black blanket settled in the sky. Pinpricks of silver winked at them from the heavens.
John shifted his position slightly. His pinky brushed Sherlock's.
Sherlock shifted his own position slightly. His pinky climbed over John's and crossed them. He pretended not to notice.
Sherlock fixed his eyes on smouldering pile of ashy logs in front of him. A glowing underside of burnt-white sticks concealed clementine-orange cores. A warm orange light resided dully in the center, an occasional spark wafting up to blink out among the stars a few seconds later.
John glanced at Sherlock. His alabaster skin practically glowed in the firelight and his hair was an inky silhouette, reflecting sunset colors in its shine. He looked back at the stars.
"The dealer should be here soon."
"Hm." John nodded in agreement.
"We should go to the tent."
"Yes, we should."
Neither moved.
Sherlock slid his gaze from the horizon and fixed it on John's upturned face. His blue eyes flickered with sparks from the fire. The lighting made him look young and yet serious, stoic. A breeze ruffled his hair.
But as much as he wanted to stay there, the dealer really would be there soon, so he stood and retreated to the tent. John joined him a second later. They lay side-by-side on their stomachs, shoulders touching in the narrow space, looking out the entrance at the path in front of them that the dealer would venture down to get to his drop point.
The night was grey in all senses of the word. Hazy outlines of the water pump and picnic table made up nearby landmarks. Then the unsure expanse of gravel path in front of them. Another campsite, and then trees. So many trees. Rough outlines of leaves and branches, darker black against the sky. And the sky, oh, the sky. There were so many stars, more stars than Sherlock had ever seen. He found his eyes drifting up to look at them more and more as the minutes passed. Silver shards of glass, broken bottles on asphalt, pock-marks in the fabric of space. If he looked long enough, gossamer galaxies formed pathways between the stars, twisted like cloth. John shifted towards him and suddenly Sherlock was aware of how warm John was compared to the chill of the night.
John could feel Sherlock's hair brushing his ear and it tickled but he didn't want to move even slightly. Despite the mat underneath them, he could still feel the stiff ground and that alone warranted movement a little closer to Sherlock. John found himself watching the stars. He hadn't seen them in such quantity since the long nights in Afghanistan, stretched out on the sand, one hand on his gun, warm air blustering over him and his men.
"That's the North Star," he whispered, extending his arm to point at a specific star. "And that's the Big Dipper." His finger traced the shape of the large spoon. "And that's the Little Dipper." He traced the little spoon. Sherlock nodded and followed John's gestures. He shifted a little, for a better view, maybe, and nudged his shoulder closer to John's. John didn't say anything or move. Sherlock felt a little bolder. He rested his head on John's shoulder with a mutter of, "It's late."
John had to keep himself from, a) flinching, b) gasping, and c) kissing Sherlock's forehead. In that order.
Sherlock's head snapped up at the sound of footsteps crunching in front of them. The dealer. John met his eyes and nodded. Sherlock fumbled for the night-vision camera and flicked it on. Even from the indistinct film, he could tell it was their suspect. He texted Lestrade and in moments police cars surrounded the sites. Red and blue lights drowned out the stars and the sirens silenced the insects. Irritated campers exited their tents. John chuckled.
"They're not going to be too happy," he said.
"Who is while camping?"
John rolled his eyes.
Lestrade walked up to their tent and squatted down.
"Thanks. We're bringing him in now. I'd offer you a ride back, but you're already set up. It'd be a shame to take it all down now-- and noisy. These campers are about ready to riot."
John chuckled. "I'll stay, thanks. Sherlock?"
"I'll stay."
John couldn't believe Sherlock's reply.
"Really? Thought you hated camping."
"Well, like Lestrade said. Wouldn't want to fight a bunch of aggravated hikers at two AM." In reality, Sherlock was actually rather tired and John was here, so if he was going to sleep, it would be here.
"Alright, then." Lestrade stood up. "Have fun, then. I'll be in my climate-controlled flat with electricity and internet."
"Yeah, well--" John tried to reply but gave up partway through. They lay and watched as the lights dimmed and the police cars receded into the distance. Then the stars were back and they watched those. Sherlock's head eventually found its way back to John's shoulder and they were silent for a time.
"It's late." John broke the silence.
"Hm, yes," Sherlock replied. He lifted his head from John's shoulder.
"We should sleep." He shimmied backwards and sat up. The sleeping bags were shoved at the back. Sherlock sat back too, but he had to duck his head so he didn't knock it against one of the supports. John laid the sleeping bags out on the mat, but didn't open them. He tossed Sherlock a pillow and then lay down on his back. Sherlock followed John's lead.
It should be established at this point that the tent really was very small, a one-person tent, and as anyone who has ever been camping knows, a one-person tent can accommodate two people, but only if said two people were to lay close together, or else both would end up squished against the curve of the side. This is especially true if said two people are grown men and one is roughly six feet tall and the other has the build of a soldier. Especially then.
Because of where John had placed the sleeping bags, when Sherlock laid down both his shoulder and hip connected with John's own, two bright spots of energy. He could feel John's breath slow, but not quite to sleep. His own breathing mimicked John's until they both dangled on the cusp of unconsciousness. Sherlock was close enough to John to feel a tantalizing haze of heat from that direction, but far enough to feel the chill of the breeze over most of his body. His subconscious, half-drunk with exhaustion, introduced a little idea to his conscious. His conscious was about to go home for the night, eat dinner, see his kids, so he quickly passed the idea to the brain, who faithfully executed the idea via Sherlock's limbs. Sherlock moved to his side and deftly positioned his limbs so one arm was tucked neatly between his chest (which was pressed to John's side) and John's shoulder and the other was slung across John's chest. His calf hooked John's ankle and twisted them together.
"Cold," he muttered as an afterthought.
Once Sherlock moved, a series of important chain reactions occurred in John's conscious and subconscious to lead him to his next movement very much like the series of chain reactions that had caused the original movement.
John's first emotion was surprise, which led to the realization that Sherlock was on top of him, which in turn led to the acceptance of the fact that he was thoroughly and irrevocably in love with Sherlock. Which then led to wariness and fear that if he didn't move favorably Sherlock would retreat to his prior position, which would not be okay. So he moved the arm not blocked by Sherlock's torso and rested it on the nape of Sherlock's neck. From here he could-- oh, God, could he? He tentatively lifted the hand up and stroked downwards. He could. John let his fingers tangle in Sherlock's curls and move methodically around. Sherlock's inhales and exhales slowed further and John's with them until the two men had both dropped over the cliff and were asleep.
-
At some point during the night, Sherlock had moved so most of his torso was positioned on John's. In turn, John's other arm had moved to cup Sherlock's side. Their legs had also further tangled, and Sherlock's knee was currently slung across John's thighs.
John awoke to the sun beating through the thin material of the tent. He was warm. Very warm. And when he opened his eyes, Sherlock was laying on top of him. Fortunately, it didn't seem to be just him who had sought out the touch, though, since Sherlock was quite literally on top of him.
Sherlock awoke much the same way John did. But when Sherlock opened his eyes, John's were already there, waiting for him. Blue met hazel for a long moment before either spoke.
"Good morning." John was the first to speak.
"Mm." Sherlock grumbled in reply. It wasn't a committed grumble, though. More like a I'm-not-quite-sure-what-to-say-in-this-position grumble. He made a tentative move to get out of John's way, but ended up with his head suspended over John's, dark curls framing his unsure face. Again, their eyes met and Sherlock found himself frozen.
Well, in John's brain, subconscious had left for the day even though conscious wasn't quite awake yet. Which made it very easy for the brain and heart to get a small movement past them. The motion was very small, really. He just moved his head up a little. And Sherlock's lips just happened to be in the way of his. But if there was any way to jump-start someone's heart rate and conscious thought, it was that motion.
Sherlock's conscious woke up much earlier and much faster than most people's. This was why John kissed him first. This was also why Sherlock nearly toppled over when John did.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"Was that an accident, or..?" (A very well-timed accident, John thought.)
"What would you like it to be?"
"You can't answer a question with a question. I asked first."
"You practically squashed me last night. Not to mention your freezing feet."
"So you kissed me in retaliation?"
"Maybe I did. Now, you could get off, or I could do it again."
Sherlock didn't move. So John kissed him. Again. This time Sherlock was ready, and he kissed back.
It was an awkward position, though, with Sherlock on top of him. John tipped them both to the side and moved his hands so one carded through Sherlock's hair and the other draped across his back. Sherlock's hands cupped John's face and stroked across his cheekbones. Their legs wrapped together at the calves and knees, feet toying with each other. John's tongue slipped across Sherlock's bottom lip and the man's mouth opened willingly. Their tongues slid together, caressing, exploring, teeth nipping and grazing.
"God," John gasped. His fingers slipped through Sherlock's hair again and came to rest on his scalp, massaging and scraping. Sherlock broke the kiss to stare at John and catalogue his findings. Pupils dilated-- check. Elevated pulse-- check. Heavy breathing-- check. An incredibly endearing pink flush in his cheeks-- check. Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's. They were so close, close enough that Sherlock could feel every breath John took, notice every time he blinked and long lashes obscured his icicle-blue eyes. He mentally photographed every line on John's face, every hair, everything. He never wanted this to end.
John could see Sherlock's eyelids flutter over nearly black eyes. He had the privilege of watching a blush creep of the man's neck to his cheekbones. He could reach out and taste his lips again, for God's sake. And Sherlock's long musician's fingers were still stoking over his face, slowly, teasingly slowly. The man's curls were flattened where they had been mashed against his chest all night, but the rest were sliding though his fingertips deliciously. John brought one hand up to Sherlock's temple and smoothed back the hair slowly. Sherlock's eyes fluttered and he bumped their noses together, possibly unintentionally. John smiled.
"You are beautiful," he whispered.
"You are too," Sherlock replied. John could feel his deep baritone rumble through his own bones. He couldn't help but steal another kiss from the detective. They lay like that for a while, breathing in time, unable to look away from each other. Sunlight streamed through the synthetic fabric of the tent as the day crawled on. Sherlock's hands took to exploring John's torso. They stroked down his arms, feeling the muscle there, then over his back and sides, around to his stomach, then back up to cup his face. Slowly, over and over, recording every plane, every curve, every notch and dip.
John did the same, fingers sliding over Sherlock's ribs, counting each tangible row of bone, then he traced his shoulder blades and ran a finger down his spine, counting off vertebra in his head. Sherlock shivered at the touch and John lost count. John smiled again and kissed Sherlock, intending for it to be slow and languid. However, two other things happened at the same moment. One, Sherlock's phone rang. Two, John's stomach growled. At least one had to be answered.
Sherlock groaned and hauled himself up. He grappled for the phone and answered it.
"What?" he barked.
"Sherlock, I need you to come in for testimony. When--"
"Love, I'm gonna make breakfast," John whispered. He pecked Sherlock's cheek and left the tent.
Sherlock checked that John was gone before speaking into the phone again.
"You just interrupted the best snog of my entire life, so I will come in when I feel like it." He hung up the phone without waiting for a reply. Lestrade was left dazed and disturbed on the other end. Sherlock tossed the phone down and left the tent.
"It's nearly eleven," John said from his position by the camp stove. "I suppose it'll be more lunch than breakfast."
"Mm," Sherlock agreed. He watched John pour boiling water into two packets that proclaimed 'pasta rigato and cheese sauce,' both of which he doubted. Once John had put the pot back down, he strode up and wrapped both arms around John and rested his head on his shoulder. He could duck his nose into John's neck and inhale his smell-- smoke and lingering aftershave and pine trees. He made a mental note to check what John smelled like at home.
John very much wanted to spin Sherlock around, pin him against something, and snog him until they were both incoherent, but there were no walls anywhere near them. A tree, maybe, but that afforded little space for him to brace his hands. John was beginning to see the unfavorable side of camping.
At that moment, Sherlock would not have minded being pinned against something and snogged incoherent. He hated camping.
"Food's ready," John said.
"It's undercooked anyways," Sherlock replied. "Let it sit longer."
He did. It was still undercooked. Later, Sherlock sulked by the car while John packed up the tent. He would never admit it, but Sherlock was watching the lines of John's back curve with strength and dexterity. It was really mesmerizing. A while later, John met him at the car with gear over his shoulder.
"Could've helped, you know," he said.
"Why should I? You insisted we go."
"And look how that turned out." John smirked. "Not bad, in my opinion." He kissed Sherlock as if to punctuate his statement.
"The outcome has nothing to do with how painful the process was," Sherlock replied.
"Really? I thought they said the journey is worth more than the destination." John dumped a pile of gear in the boot of the car.
"'They' are often wrong."
John shut the boot and got in the front seat, Sherlock in the passenger.
"I suppose you're right."
"I usually am."
"No need to be an arse about it."
Sherlock smirked an leaned back in his seat. Perhaps he would add a campsite to his mind palace next.