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John doesn’t get a lot of down time. He’s either at work at the surgery, at work helping Sherlock, looking after the flat, looking after Sherlock (who knew a grown man required so much, for lack of a better word, babysitting?), or spending time with Mrs Hudson. In between, he’s having a pint with Lestrade or Mike Stamford or, until he all but gives up, going on dates with various women.
But now that the dating thing has pretty well dried up, John has a little more free time on his hands. Sherlock tends to fill it of course; as a person, he’s very much a liquid, expanding to fill not only the available space, but time. Once in a while, however, John finds himself with no shifts, no chores and, most importantly, no Sherlock. So when he can, he indulges.
When people look at John, they see different things: Lestrade sees the calm, capable soldier who keeps Sherlock in line, as well as the bloke; Mycroft sees the same, but with the core of steel that can turn a reasonably kind man into a killer. His girlfriends saw someone solid, sweet, dependable: marriage material. Sherlock sees the most, of course: the soldier, the healer, the keeper of hearth and home, the man who connects with others, the worrywart, the man’s man. With the exception of one or two long-term girlfriends, no one has ever seen John Watson, the romantic.
For such a blokey bloke, for such a manly man, John is truly a romantic at heart. Not a mushy, write-a-love-poem about his lady love’s ebon hair and sparkling eyes romantic, but a bouquet-bearing, hand-kissing, grand, sweeping gesture-making romantic. With his serious girlfriends, John has been known to send one red rose for the age his lady turned on her birthday. He’s been known to drive all night to surprise her at school, just because. He’s dressed up in a nice suit or, more recently, his dress uniform, for a fancy dinner. When his girlfriends see this side of him, they can’t believe how lucky they are, and many a woman has cried herself to sleep or tried to drown the pain with martinis and hen parties when the relationship inevitably ended.
Sherlock has never seen this side of John. He has no idea it exists.
~~
When John arrives home after a shift, the flat is dark. Mrs Hudson is in Surrey, visiting her niece, and Sherlock is still at Barts’. He had sent John a text to that effect earlier in the day; thrilled with the prospect of a little alone time, John had picked up pizza and a romantic film.
John doesn’t really get a lot of romance in his life anymore. Since he’s been effectively Sherlock-blocked from all relationships with women, he now has to get it vicariously through others. Besides, he defends himself (to himself), he’s secure enough in his masculinity to be able to watch a chick flick every now and then.
Tonight, his favourite: The Notebook.
The pizza is hot, spicy and delicious; the beer, from the drawer in the fridge labeled Sherlock do not touch!!! is cold, and the movie is sweet, as always. John sighs as Allie and Noah talk about the future of the Walker Plantation, and crosses his arms when Allie’s parents send her to New York. He scoffs every time Lon is onscreen, and his heart swells as Noah begins to restore the Plantation. A house for a woman: it’s the kind of gesture John can appreciate.
Just as Allie and Noah are rowing back to shore in the rain, as Noah tells Allie he wrote to her every day for a year, Sherlock comes sweeping up the stairs, coat flaring, bag of... are those human tongues?... dripping on the floor. John hastily pauses the film and takes a swig of lager.
“Good day?” He calls.
Sherlock snorts. “I’m going to graph the last fifty cases Lestrade has called me for help, to show him that they were all laughably easy, a five or six at best. Maybe when he sees quantitative data, he’ll put more effort into getting his staff up to scratch. Honestly, John. Why can’t there be a locked room murder? Or a good serial arsonist? Oh, it doesn’t bear considering!” He slams the door of the fridge; John makes a mental note to check his drawer later; just because tongues are used to taste food, doesn’t mean they are food.
After flipping on the kettle, Sherlock goes to hang up his coat and kicks off his shoes. “I need a shower. Tea?”
“None for me, thanks.” John tilts his bottle in Sherlock’s direction. “But I can make some for you.”
He gets a crooked smile for his pains, and the detective sweeps from the room in a rustle of aubergine silk.
John watches a few more minutes of his film, pausing again when the kettle boils. He’s back on the couch, a fresh bottle of lager in hand, tea on the coffee table, when Sherlock returns in grey pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt so thin, John’s sure he could spit through it. He flops bonelessly onto the couch and picks up his mug, tucking his bare toes under John’s knee. Glancing at the television, he rolls his eyes.
“Really, John? This is even more mindless than your usual drivel. All that ridiculous time travel or pointless rugby.”
“You know, you don’t have to watch, Sherlock,” John replies mildly. “I was here first.”
Sherlock groans dramatically. “Please. Overwrought, mindless nonsense. Romantic films are complete bollocks. They create an unrealistic standard for relationships and set them up to fail. There is no such thing as a soul mate, or fate or destiny. Really John, I’m quite surprised at you.”
“Well, I like them. I think they’re sweet, and I like the escapism. Besides, sometimes I find them... inspiring.”
Sherlock looks affronted, like he can’t believe his friend is saying such moronic things. “Inspiring? Inspiring? Oh, please. Any woman who needs a house to help her make a decision between who she should spend her life with, isn’t worth it. No one is worth that effort!”
John sips his beer as Allie’s mother hands her the bundle of letters she kept secret. “I feel sorry for you, Sherlock. A great love only comes once in a lifetime, if you’re truly lucky, and the right person is worth the effort. Relationships can be hard, but if it’s the right person, you don’t mind putting in the work, you know?” He shifts on the couch as he replaces his beer on the table. “There’s a reason these films do so well, you know. You’re right, I think people know subconsciously there’s no such things as soul mates, and they know that not everything just works out for a happily ever after, but it’s nice to think that sometimes, maybe, it really is just that easy, you know? Life can be hard, but a belief that things can just fall into place can make it a little easier to bear sometimes.”
Sherlock scoffs as he gets up to put his mug in the sink. “Don’t feel sorry for me, John. I feel sorry for you. To feel the need to make such a grand, extravagant, gesture… It defies logic. I wonder how secure you really felt in your past relationships, if you felt such a thing necessary.”
“Look, Sherlock,” John says; his voice is getting tight, the way it does when he’s getting ready to tell the detective what a twat he’s being. Besides, it’s getting to his favourite part of the movie, where Allie breaks it off with Lon and the film returns to the present day, and Sherlock is ruining it with his negativity. “You must have felt something for someone, at one point. How would you do it?”
Sherlock blinks; clearly, he hadn’t anticipated the question. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, clearly the grand extravagant gesture isn’t your style. But if you felt something for someone special, affection, or love, even, how would you show it? Hearing the words is all well and good, but you’re a man of action. So go on, put your money where your mouth is. How would you impress the love of your life?”
Opening his mouth, Sherlock pauses, frowns, then closes it again. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone, but at least stop slagging off my film, okay?” John reverses the DVD so he can watch the whole ending properly, and he doesn’t hear the faint click of Sherlock’s bedroom door closing.
~~
Sherlock and John continue to work cases together, and John all but forgets their conversation as the days progress to weeks. But then, something odd happens.
Many odd somethings, actually.
Sherlock is… considerate, is the best word for it. He holds doors open for John, rather than charging through first. He orders takeaway without having to be asked. He makes tea for the both of them and, once, dinner. And he becomes a lot more… well, there’s no other term for it.
He’s a lot more touchy-feely.
He clasps the cuff of John’s sleeve instead of giving his usual, peremptory, “Come along, John!” when he’s ready to go. He nudges John’s elbow to draw his attention to something. When he hands John his tea, Sherlock’s slender fingers barely brush along John’s; it’s so soft, John thinks he imagines it, except it happens again and again. And on one memorable occasion, when they’re sitting in the back of Lestrade’s car while waiting for the loose ends to be wrapped up on another case and Sherlock is leaning in to show John something on his phone, the doctor could swear the detective turns his head enough to brush his nose along the ridge of John’s ear. The sigh is quiet and the exhale almost imperceptible, but John’s convinced it’s there.
He can’t fathom what’s made Sherlock so odd lately. The last time Sherlock acted this way, John had been kidnapped and rescued in a rather daring fashion after being held for nearly a week, and Sherlock had touched him continuously for about a month in an effort, it seemed, to reassure himself of John’s presence and recovery. These touches are more subtle, to the point of, for the first week or so, John’s sure he’s imagining them.
~~
John’s lying in bed one night, reading a crap mystery novel (he’d hidden it under his mattress to keep Sherlock from ruining the ending) when it hits him like a ton of bricks.
All the tea, the food, the little touches… it’s Sherlock’s response to John’s challenge, all those weeks ago.
And then something else flashes through his mind.
Some time ago, not long before this new, improved Sherlock, John had come home to find Sherlock on the couch, wrapped in his bathrobe, the television on, and Sherlock actually watching it. Not surprising, since it was a nature documentary on the BBC. As he recalled, John hadn’t paid that much attention to it. He’d had a terrible day at work (involving vomit and pus) and all he’d wanted at the time was a hot shower, a hot mug of tea, and his warm bed with his crap novel.
But he must have been paying more attention than he’d thought, because David Attenborough’s voice fills his head and the subject matter immediately springs to mind.
Animal displays.
Specifically, animal courtship displays.
The touching, the bringing of food, the consideration… Sherlock is adapting the behaviour of various birds and mammals to their situation. He’s using natural behaviour which has worked for hundreds of species for thousands of years instead of a grand, dramatic gesture. And he’s using it to court John, of all people.
It’s so… Sherlock.
And it’s very sweet.
And pretty damn irresistible.
And suddenly all of John’s protests, all of the But I’m not gays are meaningless. Yes, Sherlock has interfered with his relationships with women to the point that John can’t even have one anymore, but if he’s completely honest, it’s not that big of a deal. If he truly minded, he would have told Sherlock off, ignored him when he texted or swept through one of his dates. Truthfully, he hadn’t been trying all that hard with the last woman he dated, and he hasn’t even been trying to find a replacement. And that fact hasn’t bothered him at all.
John makes a decision. He tosses his book aside (it really is crap, and even he can tell it was the governess), flings back the covers, and marches to Sherlock’s bedroom. He knows Sherlock will be planning on sleeping tonight; he’s been up for four days straight looking for jewel thieves, and he’s finally burnt himself out. John knocks on Sherlock’s door before he loses his nerve.
When Sherlock opens it, John swallows. Sherlock’s wearing the same grey pyjama pants and threadbare t-shirt he had on when John had been watching The Notebook. His curls are tousled, like he’s been gripping them, and his collar is gaping where he’s stretched it out, revealing his prominent collarbone.
The two men stand on opposite sides of the threshold, staring at each other. Finally Sherlock sighs.
“You figured it out, I see.”
“I may not be you, but I’m not a complete idiot.”
“I never said you were.”
John steps closer. He’s not quite in Sherlock’s room yet, but he’s nearer to the man; close enough to see the detective’s blood pulsing in his throat.
“But I’m used to something bigger. More dramatic, yeah? What would you have done if the subtle approach hadn’t worked?”
Sherlock takes a step forward; they’re both in the doorway now. “I suppose I would have had to be more aggressive, John.”
John swallows again. “Well, you made fun of my idea of romance and my film, and your approach was a little too subtle and lizard-brained for me. So go on, then. Show me your new method.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my approach; animals have been using courtship rituals for millennia to continue the species. For instance, some creatures use grooming to indicate interest and availability.” He runs his fingers through John’s hair, brushing his thumb over the ridge of John’s ear.
“Others may use vocalisations.” His voice rumbles in his chest as he speaks, and John feels his blood cells abandoning their usual posts and rushing south. His eyelids droop closed.
“Many mammals, as well as insects, give off pheromones to indicate readiness.” Sherlock leans toward John, tilting his head so his face is in the curve of John’s neck, and breathes deeply; John’s knees go weak.
“Most primates use an obvious indication, however… They simply present.”
And Sherlock presses his groin against John’s hip.
“Oh my God.” John’s breath whooshes out, taking the words with him.
“Romance is overrated, John. It’s a human construct created to explain people’s motives for their behaviour. But animals are logical, driven to survive… They don’t waste time or energy on something dramatic, when simple will do.”
Sherlock stops speaking, and John squeezes his eyes even more tightly closed; he doesn’t want any other sense interfering with listening to the other man’s words right now.
“However. I admit, there is something about you, about my… response, to you, that makes me want to consider feelings. Yours and mine. You loom large in my mind, John, and far from being a distraction, you are a catalyst for my thoughts. But, God help me, John, I’m not the type of man who brings flowers or pulls out chairs. And I certainly won’t restore a house for you.”
John chuckles. Far from breaking the mood, it seems to enhance it.
“But I will defend you from harm, as much as I can, of all kinds. And I will bring you food, and feather our nest, such as it is, and—“ He’s cut off by John taking one last step and wrapping his arms around him.
“I get it, Sherlock. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
~~
John never stopped being a romantic: he brought Sherlock flowers on their anniversaries, dressed up for dinners, and once, with Mycroft’s help, flew to Japan to surprise Sherlock at the conclusion of a case. Sherlock showed his animal instincts in other ways: he labelled his body parts clearly, made tea without being asked and, in their later years, created varieties of honey to John’s taste. It may not have been a Hollywood ending, but it was theirs; and while it wasn’t always perfect, it was perfect for them.