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The creak of the downstairs door opening echoes up the stairs and John wakes in the darkness with a soft intake of breath. For half a moment he lies still on his back, disoriented. At the sharp snick of the front door being pushed shut around a howl of frigid air, he comes fully awake in a flood of adrenaline. Either someone’s breaking in or Sherlock is home early -- John desperately hopes it’s the former.
He rolls onto his stomach and braces himself up a bit on his forearms, listening intently to confirm there isn’t actually someone breaking in. He hears the dragging slide and click of the deadbolt, the soft thud of a suitcase set down, and then Sherlock's unmistakable light tread on the stairs. Shit he thinks, scrubbing at his face. He knew he shouldn’t have given into the temptation. But as dusk had fallen on their fourth day apart, he found his feet carrying him through the kitchen and down the short hall to Sherlock’s bedroom.
His shadow, caught by a lamp in the sitting room, stretched in where he didn’t dare to tread. Even though he wasn't due home for another three days, John felt sure that as soon as he set foot in the room Sherlock would somehow be able to tell. So he stood in the doorway, clenched hands kept carefully to his sides.
John let his eyes drift over the room, barely able to make out the cluttered bookshelves and framed newspaper clippings in the dim light. After a moment, though, looking wasn’t enough. He only hesitated a moment before he took a breath and crossed the threshold, socked feet silent against the cold hardwood. Once inside John’s gaze fixed on the neatly made bed. He stepped closer and ran his palm over the silky wood of the headboard. Trailed two fingers over a plump pillow. Exhaled into the darkness.
He had thought to lie down for only a moment, just to feel that much closer to his absent flatmate. But when he wormed under the blankets he knew he was done for. The bed was warm and soft and smelt deliciously of Sherlock; the heavy eiderdown duvet embracing him in a way that its owner hadn’t yet. Almost immediately he felt his eyelids drooping. So what if Sherlock will know, John thought drowsily, I want him to. To know that I was here, spread out in his space while he was gone.
Because this was the thing: over the last year, after Magnussen, after Moriarty, after Mary, after everything had fallen apart. After the weeks of wary silence, after all the shouting. When it had all given way to a quiet acceptance and companionship, things had been … different. By autumn as the days grew shorter and colder, their gazes had grown longer and warmer. John felt certain now that they were moving together toward a destination. Neither was in a rush, but they were getting there all the same.
John had thought for sure that it would happen at Christmas. By silent agreement to avoid anything reminding them of the previous year, he and Sherlock decided to spend the holiday at home. Sherlock had hesitantly suggested a small Christmas gathering but looked relieved when John declined. In the end Mrs. Hudson, horrified at overhearing their plans to order takeaway, insisted that they come down to her flat for a proper holiday dinner.
And despite a spirited discussion about the merits (or lack thereof) of roasted brussel sprouts and far too much pudding, the three of them had quite a merry time. Mrs. Hudson broke out the brandy and after several glasses proposed a toast -- "To the pair of you, and to John finally being back where he belongs." John sensed vaguely that perhaps he should be affronted at that, but he couldn’t think of why and so toasted with gusto. He tried to catch Sherlock's eye as he did, but Sherlock had tilted his head down and had the faintest flush of pink staining his tops of his cheeks. John swallowed the brandy feeling smug.
After the meal, John insisted on doing the washing up and Sherlock disappeared up the stairs for his violin at Mrs. Hudson’s request for some carols. There was a tower of dishes, and between the music and the brandy Mrs. Hudson dozed off on the sofa quite quickly. Sherlock continued to play, drifting from Christmas carols to something gentle that sounded like one of his own compositions. John finally turned around, drying the last of the serving platters, and this time he succeeded in catching Sherlock’s eye over the instrument.
And there it was, finally. What he had been looking for since he’d moved back in last spring – since they’d met, if he was being honest. Sherlock’s smile was soft in a way John had never seen, his features all conveyed contentment and willingness. Yes, his eyes said, never breaking from John’s. Yes, I do and yes, I will.
John fully planned to return to their flat, grab Sherlock, and snog him until New Year’s, but as they were climbing the stairs Sherlock’s mobile had gone off. And again. And twice more. Even from the step behind, John could see Sherlock’s posture tighten from open and relaxed to razor sharp and focussed. By the time he reached the landing, John knew there was a case on. And an exciting one, judging by the crinkles at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. When he finished typing, he looked up at John with barely-contained excitement.
“Antwerp, John! Four murders -- all expats -- coded messages, another one’s gone missing, their Lokale Politie are stumped. Go! Pack! Our flight’s in an hour.” He whirled down the hall to his room, swiping furiously at his phone.
“Sherlock." The tone made him freeze and look up sharply. John knew he could already read it on his face, but he continued anyway. “I can't. I can’t just fly off to Belgium -- I’m scheduled at the surgery tomorrow.”
“Cancel,” Sherlock demanded, charging toward him until they were chest to chest and glowering down. “Tell them you can’t come.”
“No, it’s not that simple. Everyone’s already planned on being out, I’m covering for the other doctors gone on holiday. We’ve had the schedule worked out for weeks, there’s no one else to cover.”
Sherlock’s anger was rapidly melting into despair as he realized that he could have John by his side or the case, but not both.
“You’ve got to go,” John said firmly. “They need you.”
Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something very badly, but in the end he just turned and headed back down the hall.
Not willing to hang around to watch Sherlock pack, John trudged up to his room, where he flopped onto the bed and released a frustrated growl into his pillow. Why was it that every time they were right on the brink of something, it never actually happened? He was beginning to think they were already so close that they’d never manage to get there.
By the time he heard Sherlock dragging his suitcase out of the flat, John had pulled himself together. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs, looking down to the landing. Sherlock was carefully knotting the scarf John had given him that morning around his neck. He felt his heart give a painful tug, even though he knew it wouldn’t be long. It never was with Sherlock.
As if reading his mind, Sherlock looked up to meet his eyes.
“A day,” he insisted. “Maybe two.”
He cleared his throat as he slipped on a pair of gloves. “I was hoping that when I get back …” he stopped and looked uncertain in a way so unlike himself that it made John smile. He had an overwhelming urge to crash down the stairs and press his lips against the wrinkle between Sherlock's eyes.
“Go solve the crime, Sherlock Holmes,” John said in a teasing tone that he hoped was just this side of outright flirting.
Their eyes remained locked for several seconds before Sherlock nodded, hefted his suitcase, and disappeared into the cold night.
But Sherlock had been wrong, and the handful of texts John received over the last four days conveyed that he’d be away for at least a week. What is he doing home so early? John thinks in frustration. Why didn’t he text? Immediately on the heels of the thought he realizes that his mobile is charging in his bedroom. Where he ought to be. Fuck. John has plans for their reunion, ones that don’t involve hastily wiping his drool off of Sherlock’s pillow. He sinks back into the bed, shoves his arms up under the pillow, and considers his options.
And really there are none, are there? In Sherlock’s brilliant and infuriating way, he probably even now knows that John is in his bed, awake. He hears the briefest pause in Sherlock’s step as he rounds the landing and spots the flat door standing open, where John normally would shut it before bed. He can practically hear Sherlock’s brain whirring from the bedroom.
The steps move into the flat, a bit slower now, and there’s the whisper of wool against wool. John lets his eyes slip shut and rests his right cheek against the pillow. He envisions Sherlock unwrapping the scarf from his neck, shrugging out of his coat, toeing off his shoes. Before John feels ready, the steps move closer and stop. Sherlock hovers in the doorway.
There are at least a dozen things Sherlock could say. If their positions were reversed, John wouldn’t be able to resist an anxious Got home early! or Christ, it’s cold out there!. And truly, Sherlock would be well within his rights to a Why are you in my bed? or What are you doing?.
As it happens, Sherlock says none of these. After a long silent moment that seems to expand to take up the whole of the flat, he lets out a gusty breath with a “John” on the back end, nearly too soft to be heard.
John hums a soft confirmation and waits to see what will happen next. His heartbeat pounds in the ear he has pressed to the pillow and a tightness settles in his chest. He can’t see Sherlock’s face from where he is, so he lets his eyes drop closed again, cheeks warm in the darkness. Will Sherlock turn back to the sitting room and sleep on the couch? Leave the flat? Stand and watch him all night?
But no, even as the thoughts race through his mind Sherlock is already moving into the room, steps sounding surer. John shifts to his side and wriggles back a bit, thinking Sherlock might want to sit, but when he glances up he realizes that Sherlock has moved across the room to the wardrobe. And he’s undressing. John raises his head so quickly that he feels momentarily dizzy -- or maybe that’s just the sight Sherlock’s lean, pale back being revealed as he unfastens his cuffs and tugs the dress shirt off. He isn’t in a hurry, nor does he seem self-conscious. When his hands go to his flies, John eyes slide shut and he swallows dryly.
He pushes his face deeper into the pillow and listens to the muffled sound of trousers being pushed to the floor. John can’t resist another peek and can just make out dark briefs that interrupt the pale length of Sherlock’s body. He drapes the trousers over the back of the chair and, without hesitation, approaches the bed to pull back the duvet.
"Alright?" he says softly.
John hums another response and then Sherlock is slipping his long, lean legs under the covers and settling on his back, one arm flung over his eyes.
There’s still nearly a half meter of space between them on the bed, but John feels a rush of pleasure course through his body. Of all the ways he has pictured this happening -- he has pictured many, many ways -- he never imagined Sherlock would just slip into bed with him chastely and without comment.
Before he can think about it too much, he slides his body nearer, closing the distance between them. He doesn’t touch, but gets near enough to feel Sherlock's body heat, the slight shift in the blankets as he draws breath. He settles his right cheek against the edge of Sherlock’s pillow and waits a couple of even breaths before speaking quietly.
"I've missed you."
He isn’t expecting a response, so it catches him by surprise when a moment later Sherlock rumbles, "Obviously."
He raises his arm enough for their eyes to meet and a giggle erupts from John’s chest. Sherlock gives an answering smirk and stretches until he twists onto his side. John's laughter falls off into a chuckle and he feels as if he were shining, his body humming with contentment at their proximity. Sherlock nuzzles into the pillow, which shifts under John’s cheek, and lets out a yawn so deep that John can hear his jaw click. Before he can even try to resist, John is yawing too, his mouth opening just as Sherlock's closes.
They stare across the pillow at each other, Sherlock mirroring John's sleepy smile.
"I’m really quite knackered," Sherlock admits, sounding apologetic. John can only imagine Sherlock hasn’t slept at all the whole four days -- John certainly hasn't. "I'm afraid ..." He let the sentence trail off, so that John wonders if it had been intended as a complete thought.
"It's fine," John whispers back. "Tomorrow."
"Yes," Sherlock agrees, his eyes already slipping shut.
John watches in the dim, bluish light of the room, listening to Sherlock’s breaths growing even. His hand is shaking as he carefully slips it into the space between them, stopping with his pinky just barely brushing Sherlock's. Never have his fingers felt as sensitive as they do now, reaching out to bridge the last of the space between them.
Sherlock’s eyes don’t open, but on an exhale he presses his hand into the mattress, slipping it neatly beneath John’s and interlacing their fingers. John shuts his eyes and takes a shallow breath. His hand is tingling in every spot where Sherlock’s skin rests against it. His heart feels as if it will burst.
Tomorrow, there will be time to finally broach the topics that have been nearly six years in the making. There will be time for confessions, declarations -- even consummations. But for tonight, John is content to stay here, their world reduced to the back of his hand pressed tight against Sherlock’s palm, breathing together and dreaming of all that will come.