Work Text:
“From Bird, for Sherlock: Were you and Victor Trevor in a romantic relationship?”
John frowns.
“That’s not– you don’t need to answer that. Christ.”
They’re doing a mailbag. Generally the Patreon listeners know better than to pry into either of their personal lives, but he’ll digress. Apparently some of them don’t.
“It’s alright, Watson, I don’t mind.”
“No, seriously! I mean– yeah, we’re content creators, but we’re entitled to our own privacy! What does it matter to them if you and Victor were in a relationship or not?”
“Sure, but what does it matter to them what your favorite childhood song was?”
John sputters. “That’s– that’s different–”
“How? They’re both questions we’re willing to answer.”
John sighs.
“Well go ahead then, I guess.”
“Right, then. For Bird– yes, we were.”
John…
should probably not be surprised.
His eyes widen anyway.
“What– really?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Well I didn’t– I wasn’t gonna assume anything.”
“So you suspected.”
“Well that makes me sound weird, mate.”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows at him.
“Oh, would you sod off?”
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
It’s late at night and the room is dark.
This isn’t unusual. John’s stayed up one too many nights plagued by dreams of bombs and wailing cries for the dark to bother him anymore. The sheets are halfway kicked off, the monsters under his bed aren’t scary anymore.
It’s not war that keeps him up tonight, though. It’s a certain man, one who’s sleeping not too far away tonight.
One who neglected to tell him about his ex, who’s been coming around the flat lately with food or gifts and small talk.
There is a certain… realization he’s had lately.
John’s always known, on some level, that he could be attracted to men, but that was always in theory. In practice, it’s always been women.
The odd guy is hot, sure, but he’s never been in love with one.
Until now.
It keeps him up at night, wondering what Sherlock’s curls would feel like under his fingers, even though he knows. Wanting to trace the shape of his lips, stare into his eyes until he could pick out every single color that swirls inside them.
He wants to get as close to the man as he can. He wants to sleep next to him every night and memorize his breathing patterns. He wants his pulse embedded into his wrists.
Maybe that’s odd.
Anyways.
The point. The point is that he really, really likes Sherlock, and it’s keeping him up at night.
The calluses on his fingers from playing violin all bloody night will brush his arm in the morning and it’ll send a jolt of electricity up his spine.
And he–
Doesn’t like thinking of himself as a jealous person, necessarily, but Victor comes around all the time, and maybe–
maybe there’s an ulterior motive.
He hates himself for thinking it. Victor’s a perfectly nice man. He doesn’t deserve to be the butt of John’s own insecurities.
But god, it makes his stomach sink.
And he decides sleeping would be preferable to this train of thought, so he buries his face into his pillow until he falls prey to his body’s needs.
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
“Would you mind if we had a friend over for dinner tonight?”
John doesn’t even look up from where he’s sat hunched over his computer, editing out a particularly nasty comment from their new case. He moves one of the speakers off his ear.
“Who’s friend?” John asks.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Mine, obviously.”
“Sure. Who’re you inviting, then?”
“Victor.”
John’s head snaps up at this, though Sherlock has lowered his head to type at his phone.
“Victor?” he asks, immediately regretting his tone of voice, because Sherlock looks up at him, eyebrows furrowing in concern. His lips purse and his face does a funny little thing that John can’t read.
“Yes, Victor,” he says. “...I can invite him, yes?”
“Yeah–” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment. “Yeah. That’s– that’s completely fine, mate.”
“Well. Good.”
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
victor trevor
Would you like to come over for dinner?
aww that’s sweet
i wouldn’t want to impose
I’ve invited you.
You’re not imposing.
i’m over all the time though
john and mariana must be getting pretty tired of me
hah
Of course not.
We’d love to have you.
you know you’re so much sweeter than people give you credit for?
well
one person specifically
cough cough
Haha
I assure you, Watson gives me credit for being sweet.
All the time.
Just not on the mic.
well maybe he should 😒
He’s very good to me.
Really.
I mean it.
okay okay i get it sherlock
you love him you want his babies n all
I never said THAT.
you might as well have
i’m just teasing
i’ll be over in a bit
love ya!
Read 6:34 pm
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
Dinner, by all counts, is almost perfect.
Almost.
Mariana makes a lovely curry with paneer that they eat with rice. John swears he sees God when he takes his first bite, which Mariana laughs at.
“You’re so dramatic,” she says, while John is leaning back in his chair with his eyes shut and his hands clasped.
Everyone gets along fine. He holds affable conversation with Victor, even making him laugh a couple times, and he thinks they could probably be friends if John weren’t the worst person in the world. He’s funny, he’s smooth, he can tell a story insanely well (which, well, so can John, and he gets compliments on it, so. Take that.) and he adores Sherlock. It’s sickening.
He steals the cashews that Sherlock sets aside on his plate (because he hates cashews and he’s bemoaned it all the time) and pops them into his mouth, and Sherlock huffs out a laugh at his antics, and John tries not to grip his spoon hard enough for it to be noticeable to anyone at the table. His hands go over Sherlock’s as he tells a story about Sherlock making an enemy out of someone at uni, how he read him for filth and left everyone in the dining hall with their mouths hanging open as he put on his performance, and Sherlock’s cheeks go dark as he waves off Victor’s starry eyed praise, and John grits his teeth. Did he sound like that when he’d first met Sherlock? Surely not. He’s got to be deliberately showering Sherlock in compliments, it’s no secret that the man basks in them. He has the right to be concerned, as Sherlock’s friend.
He almost tells another one but Sherlock taps his arm and they have a conversation with their eyes, and he switches the topic to some grocery shopping escapade.
Victor and Sherlock just naturally lean into each other’s space. It must be the familiarity, the fact that they know each other so well and have for so long, that even after so much time apart they fall right back into old habits. It’s happened to John enough.
Sherlock starts laughing before Victor even finishes telling a joke like he knows what he’s going to say. Sherlock goes to say something and Victor beats him to it and Mariana remarks that it’s almost a race, and Victor laughs and swats Sherlock’s arm and teases him about his competitive streak and how he’s always wanted to be the first and the best at everything, at least everything that matters. As if Victor matters that much.
There is a burning behind John’s eyes and he has to swallow around the lump that’s steadily growing in his throat. This is stupid. It’s just dinner, nothing’s even happening, he’s being stupid and irrational and possessive and everything his exes have hated about him and yelled at him as they broke up with him, Sherlock doesn’t owe him anything, they’re not dating, if Sherlock wanted to go and fuck off with Victor he’d be well within his rights to do that and they’ve known each other longer anyway and he probably likes Victor so much more than John and he knows what Victor’s lips feel like under his and he’s probably cuddled up with him after a long night and found comfort in his arms where John finds none and holds pillows tight to his body because he hasn’t felt anyone’s body next to his in a long time and he never will and he never will and he
never will and he
never will and he never will and he
pushes in the chair and it makes a loud scrape against the floor and he
is vaguely aware of mumbling some excuse about needing the loo before booking it down the hallway to his room and he
locks the door leans back on it slides down to the floor trying to refocus his vision on his shaking hands and he
can feel tears sliding down his cheeks but he’s helpless to do anything and he always has been always overreacting always going too far and he
buries his face in his lap and sobs as quietly as he can which just makes them violent making his chest heave and his body shake and he
knows this is stupid because Mariana and Sherlock obviously like him they live with him don’t they he knows this is a stupid insecurity to have he knows he knows he knows and he
doesn’t make it back to dinner.
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
Sherlock is laughing.
It’s 1:30 in the morning, and he’s bloody laughing.
John’s not stupid. He knows he’s calling Victor. He’s been up all bloody night.
(Why? That’s not important.)
It shouldn’t make him mad. It shouldn’t! Sherlock having friends is a good thing. To be honest, he’d been worried that he didn’t have many good friends outside him and Mariana. So Victor is a good thing.
He has tried to convince himself of this many, many times, and inevitably, it always fails.
Christ alive. He’s a horrible person.
He doesn’t have any claim to Sherlock. Actually, Victor probably has more claim to him. He’s known him since uni. Uni, where they were—
dating. kissing. cuddling. intertwining. merging. close.
His heart beats, irregular in his chest. Which might be concerning, but it might be because Sherlock has let out a particularly piercing cackle followed by a gasp and a few soft giggles that sound like they’re being muffled by his hand and John can picture it and then he’s picturing Victor on the other line with his stupid half-smirk half-smile on his face and his blood boils.
He doesn’t know why.
The man he loves is getting new friends. No one ever got hurt by being friends with their ex, surely not.
The thought makes John snort. Yeah, right. He’s tried that one too many times and gotten utterly fucked over.
Well, there.
That must be it. Yes. John is worried about Sherlock because though Victor’s nice and all he’s still his ex. They broke up for a reason, right?
It’s nothing else.
It can’t be.
Because anything else would make John a bad friend, and he is a lot, but he’s not that.
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
Christ alive, nowhere in London is safe.
This was supposed to be a nice, normal walk, free of Victor and any Victor-related distress. Just walking the dog with his best mate in the whole world. They are still best mates. John is his best mate and his first priority.
But Victor, bloody Victor, has taken up walking dogs as a way to gain some extra money to take care of his dad (and it would be admirable if John didn’t… well, hate his bloody guts), and so they’ve just happened upon him at the park.
As always, his hands are all over Sherlock, grabbing his arm and holding his hand and John wants to yell at him to fuck off but he can’t, because even if he doesn’t touch Sherlock, Victor probably can.
“I’d really love to come along on one of your cases, mate,” he’s saying while John seethes. “It’s been so long since I got to see you do your thing. You know, obviously not counting…” he kisses his teeth. “Yeah.”
“You could always just listen to the podcast,” John says through gritted teeth. “We just had a new episode come out.”
“Yeah, but it’s not really the same, is it?” Victor says. “It’s so enthralling watching you live, Sherlock.”
“Well, thank you,” Sherlock mumbles, his lips quirked up. “We have a very busy schedule, but maybe if you’re ever in the area–”
“Yeah, maybe not,” John cuts in. “Really hard for the mic to pick up three voices in the first place, and it’d be hell for the listeners to try and keep up with three voices constantly instead of just the regular two.”
“But Mariana comes with us on cases all the time,” Sherlock frowns.
“Yeah, well, she’s a girl,” John says, short.
“You know, I wasn’t that serious about it,” Victor smiles easily. “I do really enjoy the podcast. You’ve done a great job on it, John.”
“Yeah, thank you, I know,” he says. He knows Sherlock is giving him a Look right now but he can’t be arsed to care, and he doesn’t look up to check. He stares down at Archie instead, panting, probably tired. Nuzzling into his leg, and then Sherlock’s, and then he sniffs Victor’s leg a couple times, and decides to lay directly on top of his shoes.
Bloody traitorous wanker.
Sherlock and Victor are probably staring into each other’s eyes, he doesn’t know and he doesn’t bloody care.
“Right, well, that’s my cue,” he says. “Archie’s getting tired. It’s probably time for his nap.”
“Oh, what?” Victor whines playfully. “We were just getting started!”
“Yeah, sorry mate. Ta,” he says, not sorry at all, and he’s not gentle when he drags Sherlock off with him to 221B.
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
“Am I an arsehole?”
Mariana startles.
“What?”
John’s perched on her desk while she files their bills. She looks at him from over her glasses.
“You know. To Victor, to Sherlock.”
She smiles suddenly, like she knows exactly what he’s talking about. Even though that’s obviously not true.
“To Sherlock? No. To Victor? Yes, absolutely,” she smiles.
“Oh, are you serious?” he frowns.
“Yeah. John, get real, that dinner was awful. Not to mention you dragging Sherlock home yesterday– which, don’t try to pretend with me, I know why you did that.”
He sighs into his hands.
“I dunno why, he just makes me so mad. ”
Mariana, at this, actually shuts her computer, swivels around in her desk chair, and stares him in the face.
“Look me in the eyes. John. Look me in the eyes. And tell me you ‘dunno why he makes you so mad’.”
It’s startling, to say the least.
“Is it– is it that serious?” he stammers.
“Estas menso, John?” she hisses. “Of course it is! I know you’re not this stupid, I know you’re not.”
John pouts at her. “I’m hurt, Mariana.”
“John, please,” she begs.
“I dunno, sometimes he just– well, that’s his ex, innit? I have a right to be a little concerned that he’s coming back into his life.”
Mariana looks like she might cry.
“Yes. Sure. Okay. But did you have any problem with him before that damned mailbag, John?”
“You listen to the mailbags?”
“Of course I do, that’s not the point. You were fine with him, friendly even, before Sherlock told you that they used to date. And now you seriously want me to believe that you’re concerned Victor’s trying to– what? What do you think he’s trying to do, even?”
“I– get back together with him? Probably?”
Mariana takes her glasses off, sets them on her desk.
“Sure. That might be concerning. But you’re so worked up about it, John. And you don’t know why they broke up. Maybe they’re good for each other. Maybe if Victor and Sherlock started dating again, they’d both be happier for it. Maybe– yeah, I’ll stop.”
John’s white-knuckling the desk, looking down at his lap.
He sighs. Bites his lip.
“Obviously I know, Mariana, I’m not oblivious,” he mumbles. “But that makes me a bad friend, doesn’t it? That I can’t be happy that he has a– whatever, because of my own selfishness.”
She hums. “I don’t think so. If you try to be happy for him I don’t think so.”
“But I can’t.”
“But you’re trying. The effort is half the effect, John.”
Mariana puts her hand over his.
“Anyway, I think you have it wrong. They’re not dating. You should shoot your shot.”
He splutters. “I don’t— I didn’t— what— what gave you that idea?”
“If you’re going to act stupid, get out of my office.”
“Excuse me?”
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
Admittedly, John is a bit tipsy.
Only a bit, really! He’d been out with Stammo and The Gang, a couple hours maybe, he feels a bit dizzy but really, that’s it. He’s ready to go home and just chill out on the couch watching slop telly and taking the piss with his favorite person in the world (and maybe falling asleep on his shoulder, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves).
He’d left early, actually. He loves the boys, really, he does, but something about the past week (or someOne) has left him a bit exhausted, and he just can’t keep up with the energy of his friends.
So he walks back home by himself, the sky starting to darken, only tripping up a few times (four times isn’t that many, right?). He’s not worried– he knows the way back home.
He fumbles with the key for a couple seconds, his hands a bit shaky– he’s not that drunk, honestly, even though his eyes are drooping a bit and he has to support himself a bit on the door. It’s– it’s a key. Who hasn’t struggled with keys before.
He manages his way in, smiling at Mariana at her desk.
“Oh, you’re back?” she asks as he slowly starts ascending the staircase.
“Hello to you too,” he mutters.
“Are you drunk?”
John scoffs, affronted. “Am not.”
He then walks into the stair railing.
“You sure?” she asks.
“I’m just– tipsy. I haven’t had that much.”
She hums, turning back to her computer.
“Be rational, John,” she says.
He raises his eyebrows. What?
He’s not a violent drunk or anything. Not that he’s drunk. Bloody hell.
He leans on the railing as he treks up the stairs, fiddling with the key again. He can hear voices inside, faint. There are laughs. Hm.
The lock jams, and he kicks the door a couple times before it finally gives, and–
There he is, on the couch, with Sherlock.
Victor.
And maybe he would be a little more rational, and he should be, considering Mariana told him to be bloody rational, but damn it, maybe he is a little drunk, and he doesn’t fucking want him in the flat right now.
“Hey, John!” Victor says, smiling. Leaning into Sherlock. An arm around his shoulder.
John doesn’t see red, but it’s a near thing.
“I thought you’d be back later,” Sherlock says, a frown just barely curling his lips. John’s fingertips feel like they’re freezing and burning at the same time, his heart dropping into his stomach.
Oh, he really doesn’t want me here.
“Can we… erm. Can we talk, Sherlock?”
“We’re talking, aren’t we?”
John gets proper ticked off when Sherlock acts like he has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, and it might show on his face, because Victor suddenly looks very uncomfortable. Serves him right.
“I mean alone.” he snaps.
“Right then.” Sherlock stands up, looking down at Victor apologetically.
He practically drags Sherlock by the arm into the kitchen. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John’s determined to get the first word.
“Do you mind letting us know if you’re going to have people over?” he mutters. “I come home wanting to pass out on the sofa and oh! Look at that! There’s someone there already!”
“I asked Mariana. She said it was fine,” Sherlock says, short.
“Yeah, well, I live here, mate,” John says.
“I thought you were going to be out much later. I thought he’d be gone by the time you were back home,” Sherlock says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I thought there wasn’t going to be a problem.”
John sighs. “You could’ve at least texted me, y’know?”
“You have your friends, I don’t see why I can’t have mine,” Sherlock scoffs.
“I’m not saying you can’t! I’m just saying this is a shared living area, mate, I wanna know if he’s around,” and he might’ve given away his hand, because Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and it feels like he’s been pried open by that bloody eyebrow.
“Do you have a problem with Victor, Watson?” he says, slowly. “Because he’s a lovely lad, you know. I’ve known him for a while. He’s a very close friend.”
“Bloody hell, I get it mate,” John says. “It’s like that. Fine! I don’t give a damn anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asks, narrowing his eyes.
“You like him better than me! Fine! Whatever! I don’t mind. If you want to go make out with him on the couch I don’t care. I don’t– I don’t blame you for wanting to reconnect with him, or– whatever. I just– let me not be here while you do whatever it is you’re doing.”
“You keep saying you ‘don’t care’, but it’s quite obvious that you do. Even to me.”
“Can you just warn me next time?”
“What is your problem, Watson?”
“I don’t have any problem, Christ, do you just– I’ll just go to my bedroom, shall I? I don’t want to interrupt you or anything.”
Sherlock makes a high pitched noise, his hands curling into fists. “Just tell me what I’ve done wrong, please.”
It hits John like a freight train.
“Mate–” his voice goes soft– “you’ve not done anything wrong. It’s just me. I just– yeah. I have problems.”
“I don’t want you to,” he says. “I’d like it if you and Victor got along.”
“I just don’t think that’s in the cards, mate.”
“Why not?”
It almost sounds petulant. And–
he gets it.
He does.
And he doesn’t know what possesses him– the alcohol, the weight of his sinking heart in his chest, the way Sherlock’s looking at him, eyes big and eyebrows furrowed, disappointed.
“I like you a lot, Sherlock,” he says. whispers.
“I like you too, Watson, you know that,” he replies.
“No, I– really like you, Sherlock, I– love you, really–”
and where did that come from, Christ, he wasn’t supposed to say that–
and Sherlock is looking at him, like John’s shattered his world, God, he probably has, how’s he going to explain himself? This is awful of him, and–
Sherlock leans into him.
“Sherl–” he gets out, and then his lips are pressing against his, and they’re kissing, god, kissing, finally–
What? Wait, what?
He breaks the kiss.
“What?”
Sherlock looks bewildered.
“I thought– did I get it wrong?”
“I thought you were dating Victor, mate?”
They say it at the same time, and they stop– look at each other– and burst into giggles.
“ Victor? We broke up in uni!”
“I dunno, you’re always around him lately– how would you have gotten it wrong? I just told you I love you, bloody hell–”
They lean back in again, lips slotting together, though not perfect, not yet.
Sherlock’s hand cups the back of his head and he melts into him, throwing his arms around his neck.
He breaks off, smiling.
“I’m sorry, Watson,” he says, and John shakes his head, smiling, too.
“No, I’m sorry, I’ve been a right knob, haven’t I?” he says. “I ought to apologize to Victor, too.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t mind,” Sherlock smiles.
“I probably should anyway, mate.”
He should, actually, go back out to the living room, apologize to Victor, invite him over to dinner.
Nah.
He leans in.
°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃✿°.💚⋆
victor trevor
hey is everything alright mate
you and john seemed kinda iffy when i left
Everything’s perfectly fine.
I’m sorry you had to leave early.
what happened???
i hope it wasn’t about me or anything
Can I be frank?
It was.
All fine now, though.
and did anything else happen
you know
👀
If you must know.
Yes.
We are together now.
well don’t thank me
Why would I?
oh nothing
i didn’t do anything
haha
I wasn’t under the impression you had.
Victor?
What are you implying, exactly?
a gentleman never matchmakes and tells, sherlock
😁
What.
Victor.
Victor?
You’re online. I can see that you’re online.
Answer me.
Victor.
Read 3:20 pm