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After many months of sharing a flat with Sherlock, John is quite used to being surprised by him on a regular basis. Shocked, even. There have been a lot of instances in which Sherlock has given him a proper scare, entirely without meaning to - it kind of comes with living with him.
The head in the fridge comes to mind, of course. Or the time John woke in the middle of the night to find Sherlock in his bedroom, a flaming Bunsen burner and a knife in his hands. Not to mention the incident just last week when he came home covered in blood, leaving it to John to rip his shirt off in panic to check for wounds.
Nonexistent wounds, of course. It was a cow's blood, apparently. Which Sherlock informed him of afterwards, helpful as ever.
Still, none of these incidents come even close to resembling the downright blackout John experiences when Sherlock comes home with a strange man one night, introducing him with the words “Victor, John. John, this is Victor, my boyfriend”. Like they aren't the last words John ever expected to hear from him. Like they don't change everything in a matter of seconds (and honestly, John doesn't even want to think of the extent to which this changes things, but it does), and all this happens in such a short amount of time that John can do nothing but stare blankly.
There is a moment of silence as Sherlock is shrugging off his coat, the stranger dutifully giving him a hand, and John is contemplating whether he's misheard, only that his hearing is perfectly fine and said man's arm, now wrapped around Sherlock's back, is clearly suggesting otherwise.
“Sorry?” he asks eventually, realising a little too late that he's been staring at the man – Sherlock's boyfriend, apparently – with his mouth hanging open.
“My boyfriend, John,” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes in irritation at having to repeat himself.
John shuts his mouth, swallowing audibly. A lot of things go through his head at once, things like aren't you supposed to be married to your work or something and what the fuck and why is he so goddamn tall and other, more instinctive thoughts he can't phrase, doesn't want to, necessarily. Not here, under Sherlock's observant eyes and with his bloody gorgeous boyfriend in the room.
He also notes that in this second quite a lot of unexpected things are happening, so it's really no wonder that he's left with a distinct feeling of dizziness. A lot of things he's desperately unprepared for, too. Like meeting his best friend's boyfriend for the first time (after not even having known that there was a boyfriend, or the possibility of one, at that). Having to make a good first impression. Worrying about not coming of as an utter dickhead because he's staring at the man like he's the eighth wonder of the world - or worse, coming off as homophobic because yes, this is a man. And this is Sherlock, his best friend, revealing this side to him, letting him in on something they haven't discussed since their first dinner and, judging by the way he just dropped this on him with no warning whatsoever, trusting him to not mess this up.
Right. Damage control. John is nothing if not a soldier. He knows how to deal with unexpected situations.
“Right, yes, sorry,” he splutters as he gets out of his armchair, focusing on the strange man as he crosses the distance between them.
He's tall, about the same size as Sherlock, if not a bit taller. Slim, but defined in a way his tight-fitting clothes don't conceal in the slightest. The dark tone of his skin makes for an appealing contrast to the paleness of Sherlock's own, and some part of John thinks that they really shouldn't look so good together because it's just unrealistic, but, well, here they are. They look like a pair of models straight out of London Fashion Week. (Not that John knows anything about that.)
“Victor, was it? I'm John Watson. Nice to meet you.” He extends his hand to the man who then steps forward, taking it with a smile that just about leaves John blinded.
“Victor Trevor. The pleasure is all mine.” Huh, John thinks when he hears the slight American accent. Interesting. “Don't worry, I won't be intruding for long. I'm just here to pick something up.”
“Oh no, please, you don't have to leave right away,” John hurries to say, stepping aside. “Do come in, you're really not- disturbing anything. I'd love to hear more about you,” he adds with a side glance at Sherlock.
“He really can't stay”, Sherlock cuts in, ignoring the silent reproach as he swiftly moves past John. “He's got an early start tomorrow.”
Victor gives John an apologetic smile. “He's right. I'd love to come over another time, though.” He actually winks at John. The intensity of his focus is slightly unsettling. John wonders if Sherlock likes it, and hates himself for it a second later.
He swallows. “Yeah, lovely. Absolutely.” Sherlock reappears behind him, handing Victor a book. He takes it before John can catch the title.
“Thanks.” He is now directing that blinding smile at Sherlock and John is suddenly very aware that he is a) the shortest person in the room (by far) and b) the only person that isn't in a relationship with half the other people present.
The second realisation gets even worse when Sherlock and Victor lean towards each other, meeting halfway in a soft kiss, with Victor's hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder like it belongs there. Like it's a perfectly usual thing that's happened hundreds of times before. John doesn't mean to stare but finds himself unable not to do just that. There are no tongues, but it's clear that this isn't a first occurrence. Sherlock's eyes are actually closed for the time their lips are touching.
John feels very light-headed all of a sudden. This must all be a bit much for him to take in. He resists the strong urge to clear his throat, tactfully averting his eyes when they part.
“Goodnight, then,” Sherlock says, his voice soft, and Victor smiles at him again. John wonders how Sherlock isn't suffering eye damage from the brightness of it yet.
“Goodnight,” Victor echoes, taking his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to extend it to John again. “John, it's been a pleasure.”
“Yeah, yeah, come back soon,” John gets out, dully staring after his slim figure as he leaves.
Sherlock shuts the door after him, disappearing into his bedroom without a word of explanation. When he returns in his pyjamas John is still standing at the door, trying to process what just happened. Sherlock gives him an inquiring look, but refrains from commenting.
John clears his throat. “So.”
He waits for Sherlock to say something, but Sherlock seems perfectly content settling on the sofa with his laptop, ignoring him. John resists the urge to state the obvious by saying exactly what's been going through his head for the past five minutes, You have a boyfriend?, determined not to make more of an ass out of himself than he already has. “He's... charming,” he settles for eventually, crossing his arms before his chest, then immediately uncrossing them when he realises how defensive it looks.
Sherlock chuckles, the sound unsettling John even more than the entire encounter just now. It sounds like he's thinking of something John doesn't know, a private little joke he isn't in on, and John knows he's probably very likely (definitely) overreacting, but it stings. Since when has Sherlock had private jokes without him? Since when has he had such an enormous part of his life that John just- didn't know about, had no place in?
“He is, isn't he,” Sherlock says then, shaking John out of his gloomy thoughts.
“Er... yeah.” He hovers in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. “How long have you been together, then?”
“Oh, not long.”
John wonders if Sherlock is being deliberately vague just to irritate him.
“Right. And how are we... feeling about that?” He briefly shuts his eyes when the last time he's asked Sherlock that very question pops into his head. Back then, with Irene, he really wanted to know about Sherlock's feelings, having been so sure that there had to be something. Now, he briefly wonders whether the question is meant more for Sherlock or himself. He pushes the thought back for later.
Sherlock graces him with a frown that conveys loud and clear just how idiotic his question actually sounded. He supposes it did. He takes a step forward to mask his uneasiness, meaning to sit down in his chair, then stops. He hovers there for a moment before stepping back again. A moment too long for it to go unnoticed.
Sherlock watches him, the frown deepening at his indecisiveness. “Good, obviously,” he says, and it takes John a moment to remember what he's referring to. “What's the matter with you?” he then enquires, his eyes searching John's face in a way that leaves him feeling completely transparent.
“Nothing. I... nothing.” He shakes his head once, then makes up his mind. “I'm going to bed. Um. Good night.”
He doesn't wait for a reply before turning around and climbing the stairs to his room. He shuts the door with a deep groan, closing his eyes as he briefly supports himself against it.
John knows that he's in love with Sherlock. It's as simple as that. He's been aware for a while now that his affection is long past the platonic nature he likes to pretend it's of. Not that he dwells on it. Most days, he doesn't even think of it, actively. It's just something that's there, a terrible, sweet kind of pain he's accepted long ago, has gotten used to, even. He's always known that Sherlock wasn't interested, and that was fine. John has still always been the most important person in his life, the one he shared everything with, the one he trusted to see all of him. And John thought he could live like that, if that was all he ever got. He even stopped dating, for God's sake, knowing well enough that no relationship would ever last, being perfectly content just being Sherlock's friend instead, being exactly what he wanted him to be.
But that was before Sherlock brought home a boyfriend and changed everything.
John settles on his bed, running a hand over his face. And how are we feeling about that? Obviously – Disbelieving. Jealous. Dreadful. Afraid.
Afraid? Yes, John thinks, uncomfortably aware of the fear making itself known in the pit of his stomach. Why is he afraid?
Well. Easy. Sherlock isn't one to bring just anyone home. If he's ever had a relationship before (and John's stomach twists at the thought of not having known something as vital as that, having been shut out of this part of his life completely), he's never introduced his partner to John. Which makes this – serious. Serious enough for him to... take the next step at one point? Move out? Leave John behind?
John tries to imagine himself alone at Baker Street. He tries to imagine himself alone anywhere. It doesn't work. Sherlock is an integral part of his life, there's no point in denying it. Living without him seems... pointless. Unmentionable.
And yet. What can he do if Sherlock decides that their flatshare has run its course? He stares blankly at the wall. It's entirely within the realms of possibility now, and suddenly he feels stupid for never having considered the option before. Yes, he and Sherlock got along better than either of them had expected. But just because he considers their living arrangement permanent doesn't mean that Sherlock feels the same. Especially now, with a boyfriend in the picture.
John groans as his back hits the mattress. What a mess he's gotten himself into. He just had to go and get dependent on his flatmate, with no backup plan whatsoever in case something like this happened. In case he was to be left behind again.
He rolls on his side, closing his eyes firmly as he tries to clear his mind of all thoughts. Tearing his hair out now over the possibility of something is useless. He'll sleep on it, and maybe things won't look so bleak anymore in the morning.
Things are pretty much the same in the morning, but John doesn't allow himself to dwell on it. Not too much, anyway.
So Sherlock has a boyfriend now. That's fine. John can live with that. Somehow, their entire life is changed now, but he's adapting.
It's only when he meets Sherlock at a crime scene to find that he's taken Victor with him that John realises how very much he is not adapting to the situation.
Sherlock and Victor both smile when they see him and John fights the impulse to turn on the spot and leave again.
“Hey,” he gets out instead, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Hello, Victor. Didn't expect to see you here.” He hopes his voice doesn't sound as flat as it seems. It's only been a week since he's last seen the man, but somehow he seems even more attractive than last time. John grits his teeth.
“Yeah, we were together when Sherlock got the call.” Victor gives Sherlock an intense look, clearly meant for his eyes only. “It was kind of... spontaneous.”
John doesn't even want to know what that grin is supposed to mean.
“Ah,” he says.
Sherlock's eyes settle on him at that, so John pulls himself together and clears his throat. “So, what have we got here?”
Sherlock's gaze lingers on him for a little longer, but then it drifts to the body on the floor and he starts listing the facts. He's in top form today. John is reminded of their first case, the first time he witnessed Sherlock's brilliancy. A smile creeps up on his face despite himself as he watches him rattle off deduction after deduction. He almost forgets that Victor is next to him, smiling as well.
“That is brilliant,” he says when Sherlock is done, before John even gets the chance to open his mouth.
Sherlock looks pleased and John swallows back the words that were already on the tip of his tongue. Right. Not up to him anymore, apparently.
He spends the remaining time standing around, feeling utterly useless while Sherlock deduces away with Victor by his side to impress. He shifts his weight when Sherlock solves the case, wrapping things up with the DI in charge before approaching John, Victor following right behind.
“Dinner?” he asks, and John is painfully reminded of their first case once more. He's not particularly thrilled about the prospect of being the third wheel for another few hours but tries to will the feeling away. (It doesn't work.) Sherlock seems happy about his suggestion, though, so there isn't much of a decision to make.
“Starving,” he says quickly, before Victor can steal that word too. Sherlock smirks at him, clearly remembering the exchange as well. John gives him a tight-lipped smile in response and hopes that it doesn't look as false as it feels.
“Sorry, I can't stay. I've got a conference call in an hour,” Victor says. His arm comes around Sherlock's waist. John determinedly doesn't look away. “You two have fun, though.” He leans in, catching Sherlock's mouth in a kiss that is anything but chaste. A faint taste of bile threatens to rise in John's throat as he watches him tease his way between Sherlock's lips, Sherlock willingly parting them, raising a hand to his shoulder. The kiss may or may not last ages; John, despite not having averted his eyes, is none the wiser. When they part, his own chest is heaving as though he's the one who's just been thoroughly snogged.
“I'll text you,” Sherlock says, sounding a bit breathless, and it's that final detail that nearly makes John snap something in half. He swallows twice, tasting bitterness in his mouth. He crosses his arms in an attempt to push back the boiling heat in his stomach - and something else underneath, something more prickling (want, John's mind helpfully supplies, what he feels is want) -, accompanied by the constant sharp sting of knowing that Sherlock will never kiss him like that. Will never even want to.
Victor smiles at John and he gives a sharp nod and a strained smile in response, stepping closer to Sherlock without meaning to as he watches him leave.
Sherlock takes in his stiff posture and raises his eyebrows. “Alright?” he enquires.
“Fine,” John lies. Sherlock looks about as convinced as John sounds. “Just- really hungry.” That'll do. It's not a lie per se, he guesses. He is hungry, though food isn't particularly the first thing on his mind.
Sherlock still looks doubtful, but nods towards the exit. “Let's go, then. Can't have my blogger starving.”
John gives a strained half-laugh and follows after him.
Something has to change. John is clearly the only one who's unhappy with the situation, and he's not going to let himself ruin this for Sherlock. It's time to get over it, he decides.
In an attempt to force some sense into himself, John asks Sherlock to invite Victor over for dinner sometime.
He is horrified to discover during that dinner that Victor isn't just gorgeous and charming (and apparently always dressed like a supermodel), but also witty and smart and funny and, in short, superior to John in every way.
He's standing in front of the mirror that night, staring at his own reflection - the grey strands in his hair, his pronounced eye bags, farther down the flab on his stomach that just won't go away, and every single thing Victor has said during dinner runs through his head until he has to tear his eyes away because he simply can't stand it anymore.
John really could have lived without that realisation.
The next time Victor joins them on a case, John bites his tongue and remains silent. He's determined not to spoil this for Sherlock. If he wants to have them both with him, John will not make a fuss. He wants him to be happy, after all.
Sherlock is definitely happy by the end of the day, because this case ends a little differently than the last one. It starts with a classical “the murderer is still at the scene” moment, resulting in an injured sergeant, a wild chase through the streets of Southwark that thrills John with the excitement and familiarity of the two of them running after some criminal halfway through the city (only that Victor is tagging along this time and he can hear his heavy footfall behind him as they run, and he tries really hard not to dwell on it but it's kind of impossible), another stabbing victim that gets flung into Sherlock's arms as John wrestles the murderer down, an ambulance and an hour at the Yard, and then, finally, Baker Street.
John leans against the door case when they get home at last, exhaling deeply. He feels wide awake and hyper aware of his surroundings, the post-case high not yet worn down. The adrenaline and the traces of all the emotions he's been confronted with tonight still soar in his veins; euphoria, jealousy, worry, the lingering sense of imminent loss, pain-
Sherlock's eyes settle on his. “Alright?” he asks, and John only nods, because what can he possibly say? How can he explain? Sherlock continues to look at him, a crease appearing on his forehead, before turning back to Victor as if suddenly remembering that they aren't alone. Victor is looking down the length of Sherlock's body with a shake of his head.
“Look at you.” He sounds a bit breathless, like they haven't stopped running a while ago already. “You got blood on your shirt.” One of his hands comes to rest on Sherlock's waist almost intimately, and Sherlock looks down to where he's touching him. John swallows, feeling like an intruder. Taking care of Sherlock has always been his job. He liked it. It was what he was good at. Seeing Victor taking his place so easily-
“Indeed,” Sherlock says, taking the blood in with a slight frown. Which, in return, causes a frown on John's face. What's he doing, sounding so surprised? He's Sherlock Holmes, he has no business not noticing things. When he's covered in blood, he bloody well knows it.
Then Sherlock looks up, catching Victor's eyes with a playful quirk of his eyebrow. “I better take it off, then.”
Oh, John thinks dully. Oh, no.
He can't deal with this. He absolutely cannot bloody deal with this.
“Right.” He clears his throat, the blood rising in his cheeks. “Um. I guess that's my... well. I'm- going out. Have fun.” He turns on the spot, too horrified to await either of their responses. If they even heard him, as lost in each other as they looked.
Have fun? John groans as he flees from the flat. He doesn't know what he hates more, the happy couple, himself or the situation as a whole. He clenches his fist a few times before stopping in his tracks, realising too late that he doesn't have any cash on him. He half turns around before stopping again. There is no way in hell he can go back there now. He sighs, then takes out his phone.
Would it be terribly rude to ask you to invite me for a pint? Right about now?
Greg's reply is almost instant.
I'll accept the story behind this in exchange for the drink. Metropolitan Bar as usual? Just got to wrap things up here, be there in twenty.
“You're a saint, Greg,” John sighs when they sit down, each of them a glass in their hands.
“Say that to my boss the next time you see him,” Greg replies dryly, clinking their glasses before taking the first sip. “Right,” he says, setting the glass down and focusing his eyes on John. John knows that look. It's the one suspects usually find themselves under when taken in for questioning. “Out with it. What's the matter?”
So John begins to explain. He's past the point of caring about how he sounds, babbling on about the Molotov cocktail of emotions seeing Sherlock with someone else provides – someone so gorgeous and infuriatingly perfect, too. Everything just spills out, and Greg's quiet understanding only drives him to speaking more and more.
“That's a right mess you're in there, mate,” Greg remarks in sympathy when the words have finally dried out.
He supposes that's true. He's never actually said that he's in love with Sherlock – not even to himself, out loud, he realises – but he's never had to. Greg understood without needing to ask, and he's a valuable source of comfort whenever things get a little overwhelming with Sherlock. He just gets it. That John is in love with Sherlock is like a given fact, long known. A fact that Sherlock seems unable to observe – John is aware of the irony. It's almost enough to make him chuckle.
Greg gives him a long look. “You think there's any chance he feels the same? I mean, we know now he's into blokes, at least.”
John lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Try again,” he remarks dryly. “He's got Victor, hasn't he? I'm hardly a match.”
“Oh, I wouldn't say that.” Greg quirks an eyebrow. “Do I really need to remind you of your many engaging qualities?” John manages a weak chuckle and Greg pats his shoulder. Then his eyebrows come together, his face growing more serious.
“Besides, I know I always say this, but he's different, with you. You didn't know him – before. You changed him. You changed everything. And the way he looks at you – it's like you're the centre, John. The question and the answer. There's a reason everyone assumes you're together, you know. You don't just look good together. You just... click. You complement each other in a way I've never seen with anyone before. Not even romantic couples. I know for a fact that he feels deeply for you, deeper than for anyone else he's ever met.” He raises his eyebrows. “I'd even say Victor, if I had to bet. Look, I don't presume to know what's going on in that mind of his, but I'm sure- no, I know that if it ever came down to it, he'd choose you.”
John wishes he felt the confidence that makes Greg say that.
“But he's still with him,” he says, staring down his glass. “He still chose Victor.”
“I don't think he chose anything,” Greg dissents. “As far as he's concerned, he has both of you, doesn't he? I mean, for God's sake, the man doesn't even know you're available for anything- romantic. I'm not so sure Victor would still be in the picture if he did.”
A deep sigh escapes John's lips. “Yeah, but whether that's true or not, I can't just burst in there and declare my everlasting love for him, can I? He's with Victor now - I may have had my chance but I blew it, it's done. It's not my turn anymore. And I couldn't- I couldn't stand to ruin what he has with him. He seems- so content, and that's worth more than anything, isn't it? I just want him to be happy. And me interfering with this- this really good thing in his life, this thing I didn't even know about for god knows how long, wouldn't- it wouldn't make him happy.”
He almost chokes on the words, realising with horror that he has to blink a couple of times to keep his eyes dry. “I'm not gonna act on the slim chance that he'd be open to something if he knew I was interested. That's just not going to happen. Not when he's just found someone. I value our friendship too much for that. Like I said, it's done. I'd never- I could never do that to him.”
Greg sighs. “You know this relationship might not last forever, right? I mean, he's still Sherlock. He never stuck with anyone for as long as he did with you. This might be over before you know it.”
“Yeah. Might be.” John sounds entirely unconvinced.
“Ah, mate,” Greg says, reaching for his pint and taking a sip. “That really is a right mess.”
“Yeah,” John agrees quietly. “Quite the mess.”
They order another pint after that, drifting off to different topics soon. John's grateful for the distraction Greg provides with his stories, taking his mind off whatever's happening at Baker Street as they sit and drink.
He's mortified when Greg yawns, checking the time on his phone. “Christ, that late already? About time I went home, I think. What about you?”
“I can't go back there yet,” John exclaims, horrified by the mere suggestion. “What if they're still- at it? Oh, god.” He turns to look at him. “Can I sleep at yours, Greg?”
“John. Mate.” Greg gulps down the rest of his beer, then puts his hand on John's shoulder. “Listen to me. Despite what everyone's saying, Sherlock's just human. As is his supermodel boyfriend.” He cringes at John's utterly miserable expression. “What I'm saying is, we've been here for over two hours. I doubt even he has that much stamina.” He shrugs. “You're welcome to kip on my sofa anytime, but I doubt that's the solution to your problem.” He gives him a pointed look. John feels his shoulders slump further, all the misery from earlier returning at once. It's somewhat sobering.
“No, you're right. I'd best be headed back, then. Before they start feeling up to a round two.” It's a half-hearted attempt at a joke, but Greg's sympathetic look tells him it didn't quite work.
“Call me when you need to talk,” he says before they part. “God knows we need to stick together when it comes to Sherlock.” John nods thankfully, then starts heading home.
He's grateful to find the flat completely silent upon his return. The feeling doesn't last long when his brain helpfully supplies ideas of what exactly could have evoked that silence, and so he shuffles upstairs and quietly slips under the covers, feeling absolutely miserable.
John wakes with a dull headache and a dry mouth. He blinks a few times until the light doesn't hurt his eyes anymore. A groan escapes him when he sits up, then drags himself to the door. He feels entirely too hungover for the amount of alcohol he's had last night. Middle age catching up, he thinks gloomily. He needs coffee, he decides. Immediately.
John tiptoes down the stairs and is relieved to be greeted by silence, the door to Sherlock's bedroom still being shut. Good. He's not sure he could have dealt with the two of them first thing in the morning, knowing exactly what they were up to last night.
He shuffles around the kitchen, sighing a little as he prepares coffee. He decidedly doesn't let out a yelp when he turns around to find that he's not quite as alone as he thought.
“Good morning, John,” Victor says, his amusement evident in the smile playing on his lips. He sips at a steaming cup of coffee as he watches John from where he's sitting in his chair.
John's chair.
John sees red for a second. He steadies himself on the kitchen counter, closing his eyes as he inhales deeply. “Morning,” he gets out when he's calmed down enough to speak, sounding a little strangled. They both look at each other for a moment, the silence stretching out between them, and John can't think of a single thing to say. “Have you had breakfast yet?” he asks eventually, not actually concerned about his wellbeing but rather trying to break the ice.
Victor shakes his head. “I don't usually eat breakfast,” he says with a shrug, and John's secretly relieved about not having to serve him a meal in his own goddamn armchair.
“Right.”
He purses his lips, taking a sip from his mug for the sole purpose of having something to do while he twists his mind to think of something to say. He shuts his eyes in relief when he hears Sherlock's door opening that moment, saving them from having to continue the strained conversation.
They both watch as Sherlock comes around the corner, his eyes settling on John before drifting to Victor in his chair.
“Morning,” John says, some of his anger deflating as he takes in the softness of his expression. Sherlock can be so gentle in the mornings, when there's no case and he has a bit of downtime and calmness. Despite the image of himself he presents to the public he isn't actually a full-time whirlwind, blasting from one case to the next, living off the adrenaline, the high. Sometimes, in between cases, in the mornings or afternoons or late at night Sherlock is stripped down to his most basic form, shuffling around the flat, retreating from the stimulation he otherwise seeks so desperately.
It's strangely endearing, and John becomes aware that he's smiling at Sherlock like an utter idiot. Embarrassing. “You want coffee?” he asks in what he hopes isn't that obvious an attempt to mask the affection welling up in him.
“Please.” Sherlock's voice is still raspy from sleep and John moves to fix him a cup. His smile becomes strained when he turns around, seeing Sherlock now seated in his chair across from Victor. Right. Of course. He swallows around the thick something in his throat he doesn't want to name as he carries both his and Sherlock's cups into the living room and, following a childish impulse, deliberately blocks Victor's view as he hands Sherlock the beverage. He may linger in the space between them a little longer than necessary, looking down to Sherlock's lanky figure and completely ignoring the man behind them, but if he does, neither of them acknowledges it.
Sherlock accepts the cup with a smile, his eyes following John as he settles on the sofa, trying not to feel like the third wheel he so obviously is. (And when has that ever worked out for him?)
“How are you feeling?” Victor's deep voice tears him from his thoughts and John frowns. He's not sure whether this is a conversation he wants to witness. Sherlock's smirk only confirms this suspicion.
“Great,” he drawls, holding Victor's smug gaze, and suddenly John can't look at him anymore, lounging in his armchair like that with his hair dishevelled and the blatant obviousness of afterglow practically dripping from him. It's infuriating. Maddening. And a not so small part of John keeps asking why he isn't the one who gets to experience all this with him, as the allegedly most important person in his life. What it is that makes him not good enough.
The train of thought hurts and John tries to let it go, withdrawing from the conversation completely as he frowns into his cup. Of course, trying to deal with being hurt is much more complicated than being angry, and soon he feels the familiar anger rising in him again. He's trying, he really is trying with Victor. But being banished from his armchair and having to watch him being disgustingly relaxed and easy with Sherlock, in their living room, borders on the impossible.
One of these days he's going to snap, John thinks bitterly, glancing up to watch Victor sit in his armchair, and if he doesn't stop feeling so at home in a space he wasn't invited into, he can't guarantee for it not to happen within the next few minutes.
Surprisingly enough it takes John another few weeks to snap, and when he finally does, it's not quite how he expected it to happen.
They're at a crime scene (without Victor, which John's happy about, but which ironically also triggers the very thing John's not happy about at all and god, he really can't get a rest, can he) and he can feel something's off, sense the hostility one of the young sergeants exudes, but he doesn't give it much thought because he's here with Sherlock, and there's a thousand different things Sherlock could have done to piss him off and honestly, he doesn't even want to know.
But then he hears it. “At least he's left his poofter boyfriend at home, the bloody fag,” loud and clear enough for everyone to hear, certainly for Sherlock to hear, and John doesn't quite believe it. Can't believe it. Because this is just simply and plainly too much. He's felt like shit for actual weeks now, Sherlock's happiness being the only thing keeping him sane, and now this prick comes along and thinks he can just take that from him, and Sherlock, though he seems taken aback, doesn't even look like he's going to reply, all too used to the abuse, apparently, and something inside John just snaps.
“You bastard.” The words are out before he makes the conscious decision to say them. “You fucking bastard.” He steps closer to the sergeant. “How dare you? How fucking dare you use those words against him? How dare you speak to another human being like that? What the bloody hell went wrong with you? You think you have the right to talk to him like that, to degrade him, because of who he is? Think again, you bloody bastard.”
He's so close now that the sergeant takes a step back, his eyes wide in alarm. The sight gives John a grim sort of satisfaction. He knows he ought to stop, that he's gotten his point across. But it feels so good, so good to have all the pent-up frustration of the past weeks pouring out of him like this. “You know well enough that one word out of his mouth is worth more than anything you could ever say, you prick. So shut up. Just shut up, stay shut up, and think before you speak for once.” His chest is heaving, and it's only when silence falls that he notices he's effectively cornered the man. The blood is rustling in his ears as he takes a step back, smiling darkly when the sergeant doesn't move, frozen on the spot.
When he turns around he finds Sherlock, along with the entire team, staring at him in silence. He ignores everyone else, only has eyes for Sherlock, who's looking at him unmovingly.
“Come on, Sherlock,” he says, keeping the snap out of his voice with difficulty. It felt good to have a go at that bastard, but he's not nearly done. Oh no, he has enough rage left in him to snap at each and every one of them, but also enough mind to realise that that might not be the best course of action. He puts a hand on the small of Sherlock's back, careful not to pour his anger into the touch. “We're leaving.”
A moment passes before Sherlock moves, and John follows behind him, ignoring the half-mumbled comment of “who's the boyfriend now” as they leave the crime scene.
Sherlock walks beside him in silence, shooting him a glance every few seconds. He still hasn't spoken.
John chews on the inside of his cheek. He takes Sherlock's hand, only feeling slightly guilty when he thinks of Victor, and gives it a firm squeeze before letting go again. He pretends not to feel a pang in his stomach at the loss of contact, but Sherlock looks so deep in thought that he doubts he notices.
Sherlock approaches him a few days later, hovering in the door frame until John looks up from his laptop.
“Something the matter?” he enquires, checking Sherlock from head to toe automatically, looking for any apparent injuries. It's not like he hasn't been hesitantly approached like this before, following some minor accidents in the kitchen or elsewhere.
Sherlock merely shakes his head once. “I was wondering what your plans are. For tonight,” he specifies when John furrows his brow in question.
“Oh.” He shrugs. “No plans, really. Thought I'd stay in, catch up on EastEnders or something.” He raises his eyebrows. “Why?”
Now Sherlock is shrugging, leaning against the frame. “I could join you, if you like.”
“Oh?” The corner of John's mouth quirks up in surprise. He half expected an invitation to tag along to whatever Sherlock and Victor were up to, but this is much more pleasant. “You're not meeting Victor tonight?”
“No. I thought I'd stay in with you, if you're amenable. Just... the two of us. Like the old times.” John doesn't miss the slight hesitation or the sentimental touch the words have to them. He fights a smile at the thought of Sherlock having missed this, them, as well and doesn't quite manage.
“Sounds great,” he says at once. Sherlock smiles at that.
“Chinese? We can get takeaway,” he proposes. John grins. “Perfect.”
They stay in and order their favourite dishes, swapping and sharing as they eat like they've always done, watching crap telly and talking about everything and nothing at once. It almost feels like the old times when nothing stood between them. Victor's name doesn't come up once, and it's the best night John's had in ages.
Sherlock is meeting Victor again a few nights later. John, having decided to stay in himself, knocks on Mrs. Hudson's door after dinner to check if she wants to come up. She's going out as well, however, so John settles in his arm chair with a book and prepares for a quiet night in by himself.
He looks up when he hears a key turn in the lock downstairs, then Sherlock's steps on the stairs. He glances at the clock in confusion – but no, he hasn't lost track of time, it really is quite early. Sherlock opens the door and walks inside without a word, acknowledging John's presence with only a glance as he shrugs off his coat.
“You're back early.” Sherlock takes off his scarf too, not gracing the obvious statement with a reply. He seems to be deep in thought about something, John can tell from the crease on his forehead. “Had a good evening, then?” he asks when it's clear that he'll get no reaction. Sherlock then sighs a little, barely audible.
“Define good,” he says, more to himself than to John. That makes John sit up. He quirks an eyebrow, trying not to feel alarmed by his strange behaviour.
“What's wrong? Sherlock?”
“Nothing's wrong.” Sherlock shrugs. And then, with his next breath, “Victor and I broke up.” He hovers in the kitchen in silence for a moment before heading for his bedroom.
John gapes at him from his chair, then jumps up to follow him. “Oh, Christ, Sherlock, what happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Sherlock says, stopping in the middle of his room, looking somewhat lost. Eventually he settles on the bed. John can barely make out his features in the dark, but Sherlock has left the lights untouched and he doesn't want to turn them on himself. “It's not a problem. It was never meant to be anything serious. Victor and I got along much better than I'd thought to be possible, but-” He hesitates before finishing. “It couldn't last.”
“God, Sherlock, I-” John's head is spinning with this unexpected turn of events, making it harder for him to enunciate. “I don't presume to understand what happened there, and I know it's not any of my business if you don't want to tell me, but- god, I'm so sorry.”
Sherlock looks up at that, his face only partially lit by the moonlight coming through the window. “You really are, aren't you?”
It's an honest question, no signs of mockery or defensiveness. John frowns.
“Of course I am,” he says, trying to get behind the meaning of the question, the reason he asked. “I want you to be happy, Sherlock. You're-” The words get stuck in his throat for a moment. Best friend is true enough, but it seems hollow somehow, not fitting. “You're the most important person in my life,” he settles for instead, crossing the distance between them to sit down next to Sherlock. “And whatever it is that happened, I'm sorry about it.”
Sherlock blinks a few times, then lowers his eyes to the ground. And suddenly a terrible thought crosses John's mind. “He hasn't- he didn't-” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. “Sherlock, did he do something? Did he... hurt you?” He swallows, trying to hold back the anger flaring up in him at the mere thought. “Has he touched you in some way that you didn't- want?”
Sherlock looks up again, directly into his eyes with an expression John is unable to read, and John is certain that every thought he's currently having is written on his face. That Sherlock sees that if the answer is anything other than a clear no, John will turn on the spot to find Victor and hurt him.
He shakes his head. “It wasn't anything like that. Victor didn't do anything.” John listens to the words, trying to determine whether they ring true. But there's no shame hidden in them, no sign of lying. Sherlock sounds solemn and it's obvious that he's in deep thought about something, but what he just said is the truth. John allows himself to relax a little. “Okay,” he says, licking his lips. “Then... nothing happened? It just didn't work out?”
“Precisely. In fact, we ended it on a mutual understanding. We're still going to see each other, presumably. Just not like that.”
“And you're just... okay with that?” He feels the need to elaborate when Sherlock looks at him, his eyebrows drawn together. “Sherlock, that's what- three months of your life that you've been together? I'm just saying, that's not just a couple of days. And it's been a good three months, hasn't it?” Well, not for him, but he isn't the priority here. “It's... it's okay to feel sad when something like that ends.”
“Yes,” Sherlock concedes. “But I don't.”
John knits his brows in confusion. For some reason, Sherlock really does appear rather unaffected by the situation – though the absent look in his eyes betrays complete apathy.
“If you're not sad about the break up, then what is it?” he enquires. Sherlock's eyes snap up at that and John sighs. “Sherlock, I know you. I know when something's up.” He doesn't know why this is so important to him, to be let in now. Maybe it's the weeks of feeling left out, like he's lost his part at the centre of Sherlock's life to someone else. He knows there's an edge of desperation to his voice, and he doesn't think it goes unnoticed. “Please, just- let me be there for you. Just let me in.”
Sherlock looks at him for a long time. “Can I ask you something?” he enquires eventually.
John raises his eyebrows, but nods. “Go ahead.”
“You weren't happy about me having a boyfriend.”
Oh. So he had noticed. Well, there's no point in denying it. John considers trying to explain himself (and how to go about that without using the words jealous, pining and love), but it wasn't a question and so John doesn't answer.
“But you still wanted me to be happy in this relationship,” Sherlock continues. “Why?”
This is heading towards dangerous territory then. John is very aware of the fact, but he doesn't know how to change the course of their conversation now, and, looking at Sherlock's open and honest face, he realises that he doesn't want to. He's tired of it. He's felt like a coward for months, he isn't going to back down again now. If this is how it all comes out, then so be it. He's done with hiding. Done with feeling like shit. If this goes wrong, at least they'll both be miserable together.
He takes a deep breath. “Because, like I said, you're the person who matters most to me and I want you to be happy, regardless of how I feel.”
Sherlock clearly isn't following, or maybe he just wants to hear him say it out loud. “Then why didn't my being happy make you happy, if that's what you want?”
“Because...” John sighs. He squeezes his eyes shut. This is harder than he thought. But if Sherlock is asking, he deserves to know the truth. He tries again. “I wanted you to be happy together. But it also- bothered me in some ways.”
He feels the question coming before Sherlock has even opened his mouth. “Why?”
“Because I saw what he gave you. I mean, he's kind of perfect, isn't he?” He winces internally, his brain helpfully supplying that this isn't the best thing to say after they've just broken up a moment too late. He continues regardless. “I saw all that you had together, and I suppose... it made me feel bad because I could never give you that.”
It's too dark to properly see, with Sherlock's face averted like that, but John's fairly certain that he's doing his adorable blinking thing again, the one where he stares blankly and tries to process something he can't quite grasp. John's stomach flutters at the thought of causing him to do that.
“But... you... wanted to,” Sherlock eventually says. It's not quite a question, but John hears the uncertainty behind it. He swallows hard. It's all or nothing now. In for a penny...
“Yes,” he admits, and something inside him feels terribly exposed, like he's just made a big mistake, but some other part feels positively euphoric because it's finally out, it's done and over and whatever happens now is up to Sherlock, it's out of his hands. It's strangely liberating, this kind of exposure. And once he's admitted that to himself he feels a rush of adrenaline, his veins brimming with the hormones. He almost smiles when his pulse speeds up. Not haunted by the war, missing it, is what Mycroft Holmes said to him that first night so long ago. Still right, he thinks.
“Yes, I did want to. I've wanted to for a long time, Sherlock.” He licks his lips, savouring the rush pulsing through him. This is it. This is it. This is the kind of feeling alive only Sherlock can give him, could give him from the start. He's like a drug, he's said once, and it's so accurate, it's so, so accurate. “I still do.”
It takes Sherlock approximately 34 seconds to reply. Not that John is counting.
“Do you,” he breathes out, turning his head so he's directly looking at John, and John nearly loses himself in the intensity of his eyes. “Can I ask you something else, then?”
John swallows around his heart in his throat and nods. “Of course.”
Sherlock briefly closes his eyes, and he looks so perfect in that still moment, like a marble statue, a creature of moonlight and beauty and divinity, that John almost misses the question he poses.
“Will you kiss me?”
He opens his eyes at John's sharp intake of breath. “Do you want me to?” he asks, the words sounding strangled even to his own ears. His eyes move to Sherlock's lips on their own account and Sherlock's gaze follows the movement. His tongue darts out briefly, running over his full bottom lip, and John doesn't realise that he's leaning in until he's so close that he can feel Sherlock's breath on his face. Like the pull of one magnet to another, he thinks, somewhat dizzily.
Then Sherlock parts his lips, the “yes” coming out as a gasp, and before either of them knows it their lips meet in an electrifying, swift motion and they're kissing.
They're kissing.
Something inside John buzzes at the sensation, the mere knowledge that Sherlock is touching him like that sending sparks through his body. Objectively he knows that it's not groundbreaking (okay, it is a little bit, John thinks, because this is Sherlock kissing him, Sherlock wanting to kiss him), that they've barely started. But it feels like something in him unlocked the second their lips touched. It feels like he's coming into his own, like the earth has steadied beneath his feet. Like an integral part of himself is finally clicking into place. It feels right.
Sherlock makes a soft sound against his lips, something close to a whimper, and the warm touch of his lips against his own changes as he shifts. A hand comes up to his shoulder, the other moves to John's jaw, and only then does he start moving. The warm pressure is almost chaste. It's a soft play, chase and capture between their lips, getting to know the shape of each other's mouth, the warmth, the feeling. It's the best thing John has ever experienced. Judging by the grip of Sherlock's hands on him, the firm pressure of his lips as though he wants to get closer still, he feels the same.
John's arms come around Sherlock naturally as he shifts closer. The sensations of the kisses feel all the more intense in the half-light of the room, the quietness, only disturbed by their hands moving over clothes and skin, their lips parting and meeting again, and John loses himself in it.
Eventually it's Sherlock who breaks the kiss, not moving away from him, just holding his lips where they are. As if any distance between them at all is too much right now. John opens his eyes and nudges his cheek with his nose, waiting for him to articulate what's on his mind.
His mouth parts and John draws back a little, raising his finger to trace Sherlock's extravagant upper lip, the exaggerated bow shape, marvelling at the fact that he now knows what it feels like eagerly pressed against his own mouth. He looks up and his eyes meet Sherlock's.
“How long have you-” he begins, his rough voice resonating down John's spine in the most pleasant of ways.
“So long, Sherlock. For so long. God, I-” Now John's the one struggling for words. “Can I-,” he tries again, unable to sort his thoughts. Sherlock nods before John can think of an ending to that sentence.
“Anything,” he says, and the word sounds so sincere that John doesn't doubt it for a second. “Anything you want, John.”
And John really can't think of anything to say to that, so he just leans in and kisses him again. And again. Sherlock's arms around him seem to tighten even more and suddenly their position isn't nearly sufficient. John gently nudges Sherlock's body, guiding him down until his back hits the mattress. He is over him in a second, their lips never parting as he shifts over his sprawled body on the sheets. Parting from him is, in fact, the last thing on John's mind. And Sherlock evidently sharing the sentiment, seeking out the touch of his lips time and time again when they break apart for air, is exhilarating.
He was wrong earlier. He thought saying it out loud felt euphoric, but this, this is euphoria. It's pure joy, music in his bloodstream, a tingling sensation at the end of every nerve in his body and it's glorious.
“John,” Sherlock groans against his lips, changing the angle to dive right back into the touch. The kiss deepens again (John couldn't fight it if he wanted to) and then slowly turns into something chaste, just a warm, firm pressure of lips against lips, staying there without moving away.
“John,” he says again, and this time it's almost a sigh. John feels his lips stretching into an inevitable smile and Sherlock follows suit, wrapping his arms around John's neck. “Come here,” he mutters and John happily complies, rolling off Sherlock's body without letting go of him. They both come to rest on their sides, holding each other in a tight embrace, being as close as at all possible. A moment of silence passes before either of them finds their voice.
“I didn't know you wanted this,” Sherlock breathes out, the warmth ghosting over John's skin. “I honestly didn't know. I didn't see.”
“It's okay,” John mumbles, rubbing his hand over Sherlock's back. “I didn't, either. We know now. It's all fine.” Sherlock exhales a deep breath and pulls him even closer.
“What about you?” John asks, his low voice the loudest sound in the quiet bedroom. “How long have you felt like this, then?”
Sherlock is silent for a beat. “Quite long, too,” he admits. John's eyebrows lift.
“What, really? Define 'long' – a couple of weeks? More?” Sherlock nods and John stares at him in disbelief. A thought then crosses his mind and his eyes widen. “Oh, you- before Victor, you mean?”
He nods again. John lifts his head, raising his eyebrows. “Is that why you broke up?” he asks carefully, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that this is a thing that has happened, that him lying in Sherlock's bed, with Sherlock, is also a thing that has happened. He briefly wonders whether this is a dream his brain has made up for him, but then decides that he couldn't have come up with this if he tried.
“Yes. In a way, it's the reason we were together in the first place too.” Sherlock's thoughtful tone catches his attention.
“How do you mean?” John blinks in confusion. Sherlock sighs, looking at the ceiling.
“You might not have noticed that I wanted this, but others... did. Mrs. Hudson,” he adds when John gives him a questioning look. “My brother, obviously.” That sentence is accompanied by a slight roll of his eyes and John can't hide the grin unfolding on his face at that. “I'm pretty sure Lestrade knows, too.”
“Well, he knows about me, either way,” John admits, wincing in sympathy. “Poor Greg. If he suspected we were both pining after each other all this time... It must have felt like the worst joke in the world.”
Sherlock chuckles at that. Then he turns his face to John again, tightening his grip on him. “It was Mrs. Hudson's idea, for me to get a boyfriend. She said not doing anything would never get us anywhere. According to her, me seeing someone could potentially evoke jealousy in you, or help me get over you, at the very least. 'Testing the waters,' she called it.” He frowns. “In hindsight, I'm not so sure she didn't know about you as well. It almost seems like she planned this.”
John hums. “If I had to bet I'd definitely say she did,” he agrees. “She played us both quite well. Can't say that I mind, though.” He grins. “She's smarter than she lets on.”
“That she is,” Sherlock agrees, the smile audible in his voice.
John shakes his head. “She'll be so happy when she finds out. She did always want us to get together,” he muses.
“I'm happy too,” Sherlock quietly says into his neck. It almost sounds like a confession. John raises a hand to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, sweeping strays out of his face as he looks up at him.
“Me too.” He dips his head to catch Sherlock's lips in another kiss, simply because he wants to, because he can. Sherlock responds willingly. “I'm really, really happy,” he adds when they part, snuggling closer to him. “I never thought I'd get to do this. Ever,” he admits, because it's easy to say these things in the dark, so close to each other that they can feel their hearts beating between them. “I can't quite believe it yet.”
Sherlock hums, the low sound running through John's body in sparks.
“You could kiss me again,” he suggests, and John can't help but giggle at his feigned seriousness. “Perhaps that'll help you believe it.”
“Perhaps,” he agrees, leaning closer until their lips are all but touching. He grins when Sherlock lets out an exasperated huff, closing the distance between them himself.
This, John thinks as Sherlock's hand comes up to his jaw while he kisses him fervently, this is bliss. This is Sherlock Holmes of all people kissing him, pressing up against him. He thinks that this is all he'll ever want in life.
He's still grinning into the kiss when he rolls over and pins Sherlock to the bed as he settles on top of him. Sherlock hums approvingly as he reaches up to touch him again, and then John stops thinking altogether.