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Sherlock wakes slowly, confused by the warm light filtering through his eyelids. He's facing the window, he realizes. He's facing the window, it's past midday, and he's not in his own room. And he's got his arms around John, who hasn't moved much at all in the night and is still cradled against his chest.
Right. So that did happen, then.
His pale gaze rests on the other man, his expression bemused. Last night was a series of the most confusing events the detective has experienced, subjecting him to an unfamiliar array of emotions. But if this is the result he can expect from such events? He could do without the bomb strapped to his friend's chest, of course, and maybe it would be nice to have his room back. But it's hard to dwell on that when he's happy, and warm, and feeling quite content.
Dr. Watson would be pleased, this is probably the first time Sherlock has slept through an entire night-- he usually sleeps in two to four hour chunks at most.
Since the good doctor is still deep in the throes of sleep, and he clearly needs as much peaceful rest as he can get, Sherlock does not disturb him. Instead, he begins his mental dissection of the past eighteen hours or so. The Pool Incident is replayed, overlayed with the team of men working over their flat, preceded by John being picked up by the gunman. The pub, possibly with the flat still a work in progress at that point. The return, the state of their shared space, the dismantling of his room.
The mint.
Ah. And the 'nothing important' that seemed to cause distress, but wasn't dangerous enough to be worth mentioning immediately after their flat had been violated.
Then after that. The awkward offer, his equally awkward acceptance. Sharing a bed, the nightmare, the confirmation. And now, the morning after. Over and over, back and forth, Sherlock works his way through the night from every possible angle, trying to focus on the puzzles and the pool and Moriarty. But then he takes a breath, smells John's hair, and his mind is pulled inexorably back to the present.
He smiles, shifting just enough to ease some of the pressure on his hip, and watches the doctor while he sleeps.
John is deeply, deeply asleep. A calm sleep; none of the stress from the previous night shows on his face, and very little of it has touched his body. He needs a shave and a shower, and the morning light reveals some finger-print bruising on his bicep (presumably courtesy of Moriarty's crew and their rough handling while he was unconscious), but his expression is peaceful in a way that makes him look much younger than he is. The doctor's brow is smooth (and still pressed at an awkward angle against Sherlock, his sandy hair pushed to one side), and his mouth is slack at the corners. His breathing is slow and regular.
But nothing can last forever. Before a half-hour has passed, John begins to shift into a lighter sleep; a sleep that involves some interestingly childlike facial expressions in conjunction with those small noises he seems to make regardless of his level of consciousness. Fingers splay reflexively against Sherlock's belly and then relax-- John's arms are still between them, and he's shifted somewhat lower during the night.
"Mmh," says John, and opens his eyes. He finds himself looking at pale skin, and it takes him a few blinks to bring it into focus.
Slowly, John tilts his head back and his gaze follows an aristocratic neck up to a very familiar face. And?
"...Morning," says the doctor quietly, a single furrow appearing between his brows as he studies the other man. Right. So that did happen, then.
In a miraculous turn of events, John Watson does not tense, or pull away, or kick Sherlock out of his bed, or become exceedingly flustered. In fact, the only real change in his expression is his familiar squint and a very slight flush to his cheeks (which is not unreasonable for the situation, really). After all, he sorted all this out mentally last night (er, in a way,), and he's still fine with it (again, in a way) as of this morning. Fine enough, at least, to stay where he is and enjoy the body heat and the way they seem to fit together. It is comfortable, pure and simple.
Too bad he needs to piss like a racehorse. After another moment or two of examining Sherlock for any major warning signs that spell danger, John does extricate himself carefully from the other man. He stretches, rolls, and sits up, then pushes himself out of bed to pad the relatively short distance to the small upper WC. After a moment of silence (and then the expected non...silence...), a sharp curse comes from behind the closed-over door.
"Sherlock--! They took the handle off the loo!" How petty can you-- what the hell kind of burglars would do that?
...The exact same kind who would leave presents on the bed.
Right. Ugh.
Slender fingers brush against the bruises, a frown creasing Sherlock's brow, then he sighs quietly and takes this opportunity to gently trace some of John's exposed scars. They're more apparent when the doctor's skin isn't pale with cold, and quite interesting.
The press of the doctor's hand against his belly startles him from his examination of an interesting scar-- shrapnel, if he's not fooled by the awkward angle he's regarding it from-- and brings Sherlock's attention back to the present. Watching John return from sleep is a lot more pleasant and peaceful than watching him regain consciousness after a hypothermia-induced coma, he decides. This is an activity he'd gladly enjoy again in the future. The coma? Not so much.
"Afternoon, actually," he corrects John lazily, not even bothering to ask how the doctor couldn't tell by the direction and quality of the light streaming through his window. They're probably late for something, or have missed a call from Lestrade by this point in the day. He couldn't care less.
His pale gaze is disturbingly even, ready to absorb and evaluate John's reaction. The lack of any discernible regret, anger, or other complicating emotion is a pleasant surprise, and when Sherlock realizes that John was examining him for the same reason he actually cracks a grin.
The doctor is released from Sherlock's clutches without major incident, and once the bed is his alone the detective kicks the sheets off, sprawls upon his back and stretches luxuriously. The curse goes almost unnoticed for a moment, then he double-takes upon actually registering what was said.
"They what?" he calls back, surprised laughter in his tone. What a twisted character this Moriarty is proving himself to be. "Jiggle the float."
Sherlock rolls over onto his belly, propping his chin with one hand. He should get up, get dressed, and get to work on fixing up the flat. But he's comfortable, his clothing is all the way over there, and he still needs to talk to John about something.
Another muffled curse floats out of the WC before the sound of heavy ceramic scraping over itself proves that John is following instructions. Scuffle, flush, the taps of the sink, another scuffle, and John reappears with a look of irritation on his face that fades to amusement as soon as his eyes find Sherlock again.
"Jesus," he says, and chuckles. "Look at you, all stretched out like a bloody moggy."
One of his hands tucks up beneath the hem of his undershirt, and he scratches his stomach. It's late-- it's bright outside-- the flat will take days to put back together. They were both nearly killed last night, a madman invaded their home, and it's an utter certainty that both of their phones will be packed full of messages from Lestrade and Mycroft. But John, who feels surprisingly well-rested considering his binge-drinking and subsequent nightmare, stands at the side of his own bed and seriously debates crawling right back in it.
Still, propriety. John fights the urge; he recognizes on some level that doing so would require (at least for him) another awkward conversation, as the fact that Sherlock allowed and offered certain things in the dark of night does not automatically prove that he'd welcome it during the day. And John still needs to figure out why he wants to ask it of him. Easier to move on and enjoy the memory.
With a quick, regretful glance at his side of the bed, John turns to pick up the clothing he so carelessly left on the floor and return the pile of fabric to something resembling order. "Mmhf," he says while bent over, and straightens with his crumpled jumper before he continues. "Hope your brother took care of things at the pool." Things like removing the bomb. He lays the folded jumper on top of his dresser and returns for the trousers. "Because we're going to have our hands full with this mess for a while."
"Mm," he cocks his head, grinning. "Shall I purr?"
The detective runs a hand through his hair, which naturally is none the worse for wear after a full night's sleep, scratches idly at the side of his neck, and feels a sudden, slightly ridiculous urge to roll onto his back and stretch again. Pale eyes peer up at the doctor, piercing, as if he can hear the debate going on inside John's head. But Sherlock is back in top form, and his expression is unreadable.
"Mycroft is nothing if not thorough," the dismissal of John's concern is casual, distant, while Sherlock does indeed decide to roll over onto his back. He wriggles his shoulders into the bed, flexes his toes, and looks, for all the world, as if he has no intentions of leaving any time soon.
Until he turns his head sharply to the side to stare directly at his flatmate, hands steepled over his chest.
"I think you owe me an explanation." The detective's mind has returned unerringly to the mysterious 'nothing' of course. It's not the morning, exactly, but since it was technically morning when John made his initial deflection it's logical to assume that he meant after they awoke the next day. His mind wanders briefly-- why are the terms used for such things so vague? One would think that people would be more precise about something as important as time.
It actually takes Sherlock a few moments to realize that his statement was rather vague, and that a normal person with his normal brain might not have followed the logical path from Pool > Mess > Mystery Present. It takes another, briefer moment for him to realize that there are other things John could very reasonably assume he meant.
"Ah," he begins, pulling himself up to lean back against the headboard. "About the 'nothing important' from last night."
There's a moment where the doctor freezes-- he did indeed assume Sherlock meant, in that instant, any number of other things. But upon clarification, the immediate flush that returns with a vengeance and crawls down his neck makes it clear that he'd almost rather have talked about any of those other things. God damnit.
In hindsight, John realizes he was lucky Sherlock didn't shake him out of a sound sleep demanding information. The detective is not usually one for patience and, as far as the doctor is concerned, this is a remarkable display of self-restraint on Sherlock's part. It was rather short-sighted of him to hope, in the aftermath of the last 24 hours, that the other man's mental hard drive would have accidentally deleted that small bit of information.
"It's still not important," he mutters, but it's a half-hearted attempt. He knows that this is a no-win situation, and he's already moving... not towards a hiding place, but towards the door. John reaches out, grabs his comfortably worn robe on the way past, shoves his feet in his slippers, and heads towards the stairs. He's not going to watch this; best to go down to the kitchen and see if Moriarty's men left them with a functional kettle.
"Bottom drawer of the dresser, left side." John's voice calls, when he's already a 'safe' distance away.
Sherlock will find two things there-- and it will be easy to deduce how they were arranged on the bed. Two roses tied together with a ribbon, none the worse for wear for their time spent closed in with John's old shirts; one tall, lean and a deep purple in colour, the other shorter, more open, and a pale yellow. A small plain card attached to them has a cheerful but elegant copperplate script:
Play safely, boys. While you still can! -M
Under the roses? Two (cinnamon-flavoured) condoms, still in their wrappers.
The noises coming from the kitchen are almost violent.
Without alcohol as a confounding factor, the detective is able to conclusively determine that John's flush is indeed caused by embarrassment, which is caused, in turn, by a reminder of that 'nothing important.' This makes the doctor's assertions that it still isn't important into a bald-faced lie, so far as Sherlock is concerned. Anything that arouses his curiousity is important.
He startles forward a bit when John begins to leave-- there's no way he could have hidden it outside the room last night, not in his state-- but then recognizes the look of defeat on the other man's face, and leans back to wait. Sherlock is still obscurely proud of his doctor for not giving away the hiding place as soon as they entered the room, he's growing quite clever.
As soon as the location is revealed he bounds impatiently out of bed, pulling the drawer open... and then, silence.
If John expected to hear any sort of reaction from upstairs he will be sorely disappointed. After a few moments, the only noise is the sound of ceramic scraping and then the toilet flushing. A tap, running water. Then silence again.
When Sherlock re-appears he's swapped his undershirt for a thin robe and his boxer-briefs for light trousers. And he's got the roses in one hand. He sweeps into the kitchen, looking about, then drops the roses in a tall beaker and fills it with water. "Don't have a vase, this will do." He's grinning as he raises the beaker in a salute, then sets it down in the middle of the cluttered table.
That done, he claps his hands together and whirls to face the doctor. "Coffee? Or did they ruin that too?" Sherlock seems entirely unconcerned about Moriarty's little present; his current slightly manic behaviour is something John will recognize as the after-effects of sleep. It's possible that he'll actually choose to eat something today, as well.
"Not sure I would choose cinnamon. Wouldn't it burn?" Now he's examining one of the condoms, curiously. Let's just pretend the detective isn't actually that naive, shall we?
"No coffee," John replies immediately, trying to smother the last of the blush. It's done, get over it.
No coffee... not because they don't have any, but because there is an odd smell coming from the coffee maker, and-- more importantly-- because Sherlock has slept. He does not need coffee right now. In fact, John will do everything he can to avoid allowing Sherlock further stimulants until the natural high he seems to be on starts to wear off. "Tea," the doctor orders firmly.
Oddly enough, John doesn't feel like he needs the coffee either, even after last night. There's a first time for everything.
"Well," he swallows. "Isn't that what he said he'd do?" John sounds a little ill as he replies, and it's hard to say what the cause is: the thought of Moriarty's threat, or the aftermath of Sherlock discovering the present. Still, he makes a colossal effort and does his country proud: he Keeps Calm, and Carries On. "Burn you?"
Turning back to the kettle, he examines it closely before filling it with water and setting it on the stove.
John glances at the roses with an unreadable expression, then goes back to finding safe mugs for them to use. And he has no idea where the teapot is, or if it is Sherlock's fault or Moriarty's that it is missing.
Sherlock sighs dramatically at the doctor's orders and flops into a chair (after checking to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting on it). It's not as if he could get up and help John, no, clearly it makes more sense for the detective to sit at the table and continue twirling the shiny red bit of foil in his fingers.
"Well that doesn't make any sense."
The proclamation is typically vague, and he rubs idly at his chest before pulling the robe tighter about himself. His gaze flicks around the room, making a more thorough inspection of the damage done. All his experiments, likely ruined or deliberately tampered with. He'll have to start over. They probably shouldn't trust the food either, but that's not a huge concern for Sherlock, just another blip on the radar.
"He said he'd burn me, but that gift rather implies that he expects you to do the burning, doesn't it?" He shrugs, tilting his head to one side and rubbing along his jaw before continuing. "And that's certainly not where my heart is." With his calm expression, it's impossible to tell if this is one of Sherlock's infamous blind spots (hello solar system), if he's playing some daft game, or if he just honestly isn't bothered by the situation in the least.
His brows quirk as a thought strikes him, and he looks up at the doctor while he works away at their tea. "Ah, he meant that as metaphor. I see." No you don't, Sherlock, you really don't see at all.
"Still, I expected something a bit more clever."
Poor John. He opens the oven-- ah, there's the teapot-- and then stands so abruptly at the detective's comment about burning (and who is to be doing it) that the oven door slams shut with a bang. The shorter man stares at the detective, blank-faced, and his mouth moves twice before he manages to speak. "Honestly, Sherlock."
Shaking his head, the doctor, his feathers good and ruffled by Sherlock's insistence on discussing this, goes back to his attempt at making some tea that won't poison them both. It feels like a group of trouble-making, 5-year-old pranksters were set free in the flat; he just wishes it was easier for him to distinguish Sherlock's brand of crazy from the chaos left behind by the intruders.
Luckily for Sherlock, John Watson does not mind making tea. Luckily for Moriarty, their tea has not been adulterated.
"I've had just about enough of clever," he says peevishly, setting one clean mug down a bit harder than he perhaps should have. "Enough clever to bloody well last forever." Suddenly, John whirls, temper flaring. "And I can buy my own sodding rubbers!"
The detective's expression is utterly without guile, his head tilted just so. He smiles suddenly, eyes crinkling, and gestures for John to continue making the tea. Carry on, good Dr. Watson.
While the kettle is brewing and John is seething, Sherlock concludes his examination of the kitchen. Shouldn't be too hard to set to rights, but they'll have to go do some shopping and replace a few of the appliances if John's going to continue to insist on things like cooking and eating. He's pretty sure they'll never get the blender properly clean, it'll be useless both for food and experiments now.
"Mm," he sighs quietly, contentedly. With a careless gesture he pushes the other chair out, crossing his feet upon it, and grins over at the doctor "That's a lie." The condom is still in the hand he lifts in a mocking 'tsk tsk' gesture.
"Haven't had enough of me yet, and I'm the most clever person you know."
John's little outburst makes him drop that hand quickly, tucking the offending rubber into one pocket. But he's still grinning. "So what flavour do you buy then, John?"
"You're not 'clever'," John retorts immediately, the other mug thunking down beside the first-- this is why they go through teacups so quickly. The doctor's tone says he means what he says. Sherlock Holmes, in his experience, is very rarely 'clever' just for the sake of being so. Satisfied in himself, yes. Egotistic, frequently. Arrogant, on a regular basis. But there's usually a purpose to his actions beyond the act itself. In comparison, Moriarty's brand of 'clever' seems somehow... distasteful. Uncouth.
The doctor exhales sharply, then makes an amendment. "...You're brilliant. That's different."
Sherlock's timing is absolutely excellent. The kettle's whistle is a lovely accompaniment to the short, gutteral string of curses that John gives voice to as he rescues the boiling water from the element and fills the teapot. They are not having this conversation. Not having it.
"I don't buy flavours," John says scathingly. "Now for god's sake, put it away. Better yet, throw it out!" John's brows furrow. "It's probably inoculated with some sort of communicable disease."
To be fair, John's experience of Sherlock Homes is fairly narrow... and not entirely unbiased. His 'clever' mockery of Anderson and Donovan served no purpose but to reassert his superiority, a fact he has little need to prove to anyone at the Yard. Sherlock's past is riddled with such events, little jabs here and there, a trail leading up to shortly after he met the doctor. Since then, it's fair to say that the detective has mellowed. At least when John is around. Sometimes.
He bristles at first, pulling his feet back and straightening in his seat, but then is suitably mollified by being proclaimed brilliant. Much better.
And watching John's reactions to all this, incidentally, is a true delight. Sherlock hasn't had this much fun since he was solving Moriarty's puzzles. He's actually managed to make the stoic ex-soldier curse, how remarkable.
Fortunately for John, his last statement distracts Sherlock from another round of deliberately awkward questions. "Ohh," his voice lowers, and he pulls the condom from his pocket to look at it more carefully.
"Now that would be clever."
That earns the detective a stare he probably doesn't see, considering the current focus of his attention.
"No," John says slowly, drawing the word out in the same way a teacher might, after a student has said something spectacularly ignorant, "That would be psychotic." Which means it's highly likely, and something John would like to avoid. Should have flushed them down the toilet, doctor. Would have been better for everyone.
Alright, that's-- that's enough of this. Enough of johnny-hats and roses and awkward sexual subtext. John squares his shoulders. Yes. Done.
The doctor runs one hand through his short hair, then tightens the belt of his robe. The kitchen gets a long, displeased look; he is not looking forward to the arduous task of returning 221B to its former glory. Maybe he can convince Sherlock to dispose of some of the more cumbersome objects that litter the flat. Then again, maybe not.
With a sigh, the doctor pours two mugs of tea. The first, he lowers over Sherlock's shoulder, setting it down on the congested table surface in front of the distracted detective. The second, he picks up and carries out of the kitchen with him.
Only to be reminded that all the sitting surfaces in the living room are currently unusable. He stops, blinks, and returns stiffly to the kitchen, then sits almost primly on the chair which Sherlock had been using as a footrest only moments ago.
"I hope Mrs. Hudson doesn't come up with the flat like this," he says finally, in an obvious effort to change the subject. He studiously avoids looking at both the roses and the condom. "She'll think we had a punch-up."
Psychotic, clever... is there really any difference? Clearly not in Sherlock's mind. He tucks the condom away-- undoubtedly so he can test it later to see if John's theory is correct-- and returns his attention to the doctor.
Watching his reaction to the state of their flat is interesting, John seems to be more upset by the inconvenience than the damage to personal effects. Although, to be fair, most of the doctor's belongings were unharmed.
In contrast, Sherlock's always had an oddly bipolar relationship with his things and his living space. On the one hand, he's fiercely territorial and possessive-- last night's intrusion sparked a rage he rarely feels. On the other hand, he has quite literally picked up and left all his earthly possessions behind him. More than once. So right now he's caught between anger at someone else touching his things, and not caring at all because it's just 'stuff.'
He takes the tea with a murmured "Thank you," tapping his fingers against his mug to count the seconds before John realizes that there's nowhere to sit out there, and returns. Much nicer for them to be able to enjoy a cuppa together, regardless.
Sherlock takes a sip of the tea and sighs appreciatively. A shrug is John's only reply at first. The detective is clearly unconcerned about what Mrs. Hudson may think. "Tell me, John, how do you ever manage to talk about sex with your girlfriends?"
Damn the man, but he's entirely deadpan as he asks, then enjoys another mouthful of tea.
To be fair, John has been back in the country for a relatively short period of time. Before his arrival at Baker Street, his 'personal effects' consisted of an empty flat, a pistol, some clothing, a book or two, and some useless knickknacks that came second-hand from Harry or Clara. Most of what decorates the flat belongs to Sherlock, or were pieces that Mrs. Hudson decided to furnish the place with-- he's simply claimed territory, not objects. The personal effects that actually belong to him are new enough that most of them could be easily replaced.
The doctor sips his tea, and looks generally put-out by the whole business. But it's a relaxed sort of put-out; the kind he wears like a comfortable blanket.
Until Sherlock speaks, that is. John lifts his chin, and the look he gives his flatmate is as close to a non-verbal warning as the doctor is capable of giving. But oddly enough, he takes the time to answer, testing a sudden hypothesis that answering Sherlock's taunts as though they were valid questions will bore him into letting the matter rest more quickly than any other course of action. "I don't usually have to talk about it," he says evenly. Which is true, actually. John is excellent at picking up women. He's just complete bollocks at keeping them. "Not directly. We talk around it. It just happens."
Non-verbal communication. Which John is using in spades right now to tell Sherlock Holmes to shut the hell up about sex.
"You're very sensitive about this," he comments mildly in response to the aggressive body language, his voice suggesting he's taking notes for future reference. Exhibit A: a proper gentleman, scandalized by indecent conversations.
Sherlock listens carefully, nodding, appearing to show clinical interest in John's sparing explanation. And it does make sense, really. The doctor pursues women with an overt sexual interest, so the act of having sex is an inevitable end-point if they prove to be compatible. It's difficult to imagine John having a casual friends-with-benefits style of relationship, because that would require negotiation of some sort, but then that person on his blog did suggest that John was rather the promiscuous sort.
Conclusion: it's not that John is unwilling to talk about sex in general. It's this particular conversation. With him.
"Yes, I suppose it is safe for it to 'just happen' with a woman," Sherlock acknowledges, downing the last of his tea and rising briskly to his feet. After all, there's no real question of what goes where in a typical male-female encounter. That part he leaves unsaid, although Sherlock raises a brow, employing a little bit of his own non-verbal communication to make his implication clear.
The empty mug is deposited in the sink-- try not to die of shock, Dr. Watson-- and Sherlock reaches into a cupboard to pull out a large rubbish sack.
"Seems as good a place as any to start," he explains, and begins to toss anything that will be too annoying to clean into the bag.
John is not ready to start cleaning the flat yet. Not only has he not finished his morning tea, but he's also still too busy squinting at Sherlock. The chance to relax while Sherlock Holmes does the tidying up may be a distant third consideration, but it's an admittedly petty one, and he wouldn't be able to indulge in for more than a few minutes before getting up and pitching in. He's not that kind of man.
"I am not sensitive about it," says the doctor, thoroughly proving Sherlock's point. And when he realizes it, he takes it with poor grace. Ironically, John doesn't seem to realize that he's been given the opportunity to move on to a new subject, and it is his own stubborn nature that is now extending the conversation-- which was exactly what he seemed not to. "Sex is a perfectly-- a perfectly normal, natural part of life." Who are you trying to convince, John?
Well. As Sherlock knows, John isn't always the most logical person. "Besides, it is safe. I'm safe. I'm a doctor. I'm careful." He's a little defensive, now. "Listen, when did you get such an interest in this? You've never been on about it before." John's tea rests on one knee, forgotten for the moment while he watches the detective.
It doesn't upset Sherlock in the slightest to be tidying while John is enjoying his tea-- he is simply done with sitting, and there are things to be done. Even if the doctor were to wander off and do something else he'd hardly be bothered. That's just not how he thinks. One benefit of being fairly impulsive and acting on a whim most of the time is that he has similarly low expectations of those around him.
"Mm hmm," he acknowledges with a grin, glancing back over one shoulder before he empties what used to be a fresh container of pasta into the bag. John probably doesn't want to look too closely at what else was in there with the rigatoni. "Of course it is." He checks the pasta sauce, sees that the seal has popped, and tosses it in the rubbish without even bothering to see what perversion they visited upon it.
Goodness, has he already filled one sack? The flat is going to be gutted by the time they've finished. "Never said you weren't careful," Sherlock leaves the bag at the top of the stairs and unfurls a second with a grand flourish. "And that's not what I meant by safe."
And then he stops, facing the doctor squarely and staring down at him. John's become defensive, muleish, and he's going on about this a lot more than the detective expected. As tempting as it is to continue being vague, he chooses instead to answer that question with one of his own.
"Why does my interest bother you so?"
It's probably unfair to mention that Sherlock's silk robe has slipped open a bit, exposing more of that pale skin than is usually seen under his fitted shirts-- a pale sliver, right down to the waistband of his trousers.
John's gaze follows Sherlock around the kitchen, but his mind is not along for the ride. He is watching without observing, if you will. His brain is different with other matters; a poor-man's psychoanalysis of what he's currently feeling and why he's feeling it, followed by an attempt to suss out the reason that everything he's feeling right now is intrinsically related to Sherlock Holmes. And then the man in question is staring down at him, and his attention is wrenched back to the present.
"I-- what?" John says, taken aback. One of the (many) conflicting aspects of the ex-soldier's personality is this: he is generally unfailingly honest with those around him, while at the same time being completely incapable of being honest with himself. That trait shines through brightly right now. "I'm not. I mean, it doesn't. Bother me." His brow furrows, then relaxes, then furrows again; he looks down at the forgotten mug held now in both hands.
The perils of the English language strike again: Sherlock's attempt to be less vague could not, in fact, be more ambiguous. When John's gaze comes up from his tea a few moments later, it falls naturally on that pale strip of skin (it's almost eye-level, after all) and John Watson realizes with a sudden belly-deep twinge that he knows exactly what it feels like to have his fingers spread across it. Some rapid blinking follows this realization, and he swallows before he forcing his eyes further upwards.
"...What did you--" Wow, what happened to your voice, John? It went all husky. Want to try again? He coughs once. "What did you mean by safe, then?"
"You're acting as if it bothers you."
Unfortunately for John, Sherlock is both watching and observing. He sees it all, piecing together the inner conflict, the confusion, the hesitation. The way the doctor's gaze lingers. A swallow. His voice, suddenly thicker. A cough, hoping to mask it. All that and more, the tiny signals that the doctor isn't even aware of himself.
Sherlock's been observing this, on some level, since that first night.
In typical fashion, none of what he sees registers in his expression. The master detective would be an amazing poker player, if he didn't find the game dreadfully tedious after playing a few hands. There's no fun in it once you've discovered everyone's tell, after all, past that point it's simply a game of chance.
Safe. He had hoped that John would understand the implication, but it appears not. Pale eyes widen dramatically and he looks away, before folding his hands and rocking back on his heels-- as if about to deliver a speech of some sort.
"As you know, John, when a man is with a woman there is a natural progression to just 'letting it happen,' as it were," Sherlock pauses briefly, then forges on. "If a man is with another man, however, that does raise the question of who is 'on top.' Need I explain further?"
John does claim that he isn't gay, after all, perhaps he does need it spelled out more clearly.
The first time someone swims out over an ocean drop-off, there is a certain feeling. Even though the water hasn't changed on the surface, there is an instinctual knowledge that instead of friendly sand within reach, there is instead a yawning, deep chasm below, filled with unseen creatures and icy blackness. That there is no safety, only death. And that faltering, even for a moment, will have consequences that are infinitely more severe than they would have been only moments ago.
That is what John Watson feels now. He is out of his depth, and if he makes a mistake here, he may very well drown.
John doesn't know why he finds Sherlock attractive. He doesn't know why he has caught himself more than once studying the tendons in the other man's neck, or the artful way a curl of dark hair lays over pale skin. He doesn't know why he's drawn to him, why he follows him, why he is more comfortable sharing this flat than he has ever been, anywhere, with anyone, ever. And until very recently, he hasn't admitted anything to himself beyond acknowledging silently to himself that he considers Sherlock his best friend, and that his life would not feel normal without him. Each new realization is confusing; almost painful.
He doesn't think, Am I gay? He knows that he isn't.
But for a moment this morning when he woke up against the other man, it's just that it didn't seem like such a bad idea.
"I don't understand," John says miserably. He's having trouble treading water now, and the gulf is right below.
And then all the things that make John John come together into one awkward, confused, hesitant sentence:
"Are-- are you saying you want to be on top?"
"I don't see how you couldn't understand, I mean the mechanics of it are fairly straightforward--" Sherlock begins, rolling his eyes. But then he stops.
Perhaps some tiny thread of humanity manages to get to him, like a loose thread in a shirt collar that tickles until you just have to stop what you're doing and deal with it Right Now. Or maybe it's the look on John's face. Or the tone of his voice. Or maybe, just maybe it's the same basic instinct that told Sherlock to just hold him, be close to him, be quiet and understanding. Just be.
This feels like one of those moments, where his future with Dr. John Watson-- the future he desperately wants, he can admit that to himself now-- could be set in stone, or ruined forever. Somehow, this feels more dire than watching John stand there, wrapped up in a bomb, not even twenty-four hours ago.
"Are-- are you saying you want to be on top?"
And then Sherlock stammers, frankly and utterly surprised.
"W-what?"
And John is suddenly standing, simply because he can't sit any longer. The tea, gone cold, is nearly dropped to the table; it slops, but thankfully does not tip over. The doctor faces Sherlock, his body automatically stiffening to military attention (it feels like even in his robe, the movement should somehow produce an audible snap when he does so). For a moment, the poor man looks as though he's going to bolt even if it means going straight through Sherlock to do so.
"Well?" John says aggressively, desperately. "You were saying something, don't tell me you weren't!"
His brain is already working on an exit strategy. Denial? Maybe, if the situation calls for it. Passing it off as a joke? Won't work, he's too wound up. Nothing will work, because it's Sherlock, and Moriarty's chilling words that come back to him now-- the ones he spoke when John had a hold of him-- the ones that came right before the laser's red dot traced down to hover on Sherlock's pale forehead:
You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson...
It's not that he's afraid of Sherlock's rejection. The fear in his eyes now is not a teenager's fear of being mocked, nor a vain man's fear of being physically undesirable.
It's his fear of being alone. He reaches out with one hand to grip the back of the chair he jolted out of, and that's what turns his knuckles white.
"Well, of course I was," he speaks quickly, too quickly, startled by both the question and John's subsequent reaction. It's not as if he hasn't considered the logistics himself in the past, it's just... the detective didn't quite expect to have John speak so bluntly, after being so delicate earlier.
The sudden aggression almost makes Sherlock take a step back-- a frightened man is far more dangerous than any other opponent. Except perhaps a drunk in close quarters, they're impossible to predict. But he holds his ground, quirking his head to the side while he regains his focus.
John's afraid. What could he be afraid of. Mockery? Unlikely, he's used to that by now from Sherlock. He's undeniably attractive, so far as men go. And it's not as if the detective would choose to no longer live with him after-- oh.
He reaches out to rest his hand firmly upon John's, leaning forward so the other man doesn't have to look up at him.
"That would be something we'd have to discuss, don't you think?"
John's body is so rigid it looks like it must hurt, but conditioning and habit have long since turned the formal posture into his own personal version of hunching in a chair with both hands over his eyes. He doesn't even hear Sherlock's first words-- there's no 'of course' about any of this.
Oh god, you've done it now, mate. His brain races. Say goodbye to this place; say goodbye to everything you've been getting out of bed for. Funny, what words do-- funny how they can be worse than guns and explosions and bombs and psychopaths wearing Westwood. Better get your cane-- you're going to need it. Story of your life. It's going to be hard driving past here. If he gets mad, I'll leave-- say it was a misunderstanding-- which is true. Not that I've ever understood him, but I thought I understood -me- a touch better than this nonsense...
And then Sherlock touches his hand, and leans closer, and the diatribe of John's brain is immediately silenced. Wait, what? Wait.
He stares at the other man, processing his words at face value, and then processing the meaning behind him. Turning them over for alternate meanings. Trying to figure out what it all means, and whether or not he's blundering into another misunderstanding. Sherlock's eyes are a fascinating colour, a shade that John has never seen in anyone else. Pale-- extremely cold at times, but they have a way of going soft when he wants them to. They're doing it now, and that-- mixed with a wave of relief so powerful John feels giddy-- conspire to drain the fear from John's expression. It's replaced with slowly dawning comprehension.
Watching John leave military attention is like watching the spring thaw. It takes a while, but when it's over, everything is full of life and warmth again.
"Yes," John finally says. "...Y-yes, I expect we would."
And, hesitantly, he places his remaining hand over top of Sherlock's.