Work Text:
[2:36 am]
The living room is dark, only lit by the glow of the television screen, playing one of the episodes of Thomas & Friends. Watching it was a very fascinated detective who was storing in his mind palace the names of all the locomotives. There was something truly captivating in the way he enjoyed this show, maybe it was because there was only one narrator and most of the episodes consisted of a 4-minute small story teaching kids the wonders of friendship, teamwork, and accountability, or maybe there was something peaceful to his mind as to watch the beautiful sceneries surrounding the rail tracks where the locomotives moved via radio controls.
Everything surrounding him brought his mind back to how late it was. How Archie was snoring on the sofa next to him, how Mariana had left him to go to sleep 30 minutes ago after showing Sherlock a “true Spanish novella,” and how Watson slept soundly in his room, unaware that the detective was watching a show where the target audience is toddlers.
He should also go to sleep, but his mind ran wild with their latest case and how he had made a small mistake that could have taken the life of an innocent person, and almost prevented him from solving it. The detective couldn't have the privilege of being late with his deductions.
Sherlock was focused on the show, as Henry (his least favorite locomotive) was stubborn about not wanting to ruin his green paint by leaving the tunnel when it was raining, when he heard a scream coming from Watson's bedroom, which made him jump from the sofa. His breath quickened as well as his pulse as he stared at the closed door to the man's bedroom. He kept his unwavering eyes on the door while he went down to grab a metal bat from under the sofa. Sherlock exhaled silently, turning off the TV with his free hand, plunging the room into complete darkness while walking closer to the door of his bedroom, and raising his weapon when he saw a light appear from under the door.
You can't blame Sherlock for instinctively thinking someone had broken into Watson's bedroom, especially because it was the only room in the whole house that had a window that did not lock. The detective and Mariana have been asking John to find someone to fix it, but the stubborn doctor just keeps saying that ‘there is nothing to worry about since we live on the second floor’ and ‘I would hear someone coming up with a ladder’.
Utter nonsense, if you ask Sherlock, since there were several possible ways to get to Watson's window without needing a ladder. On the nights when boredom consumes him, he thinks of proving these theories by getting inside through his window just to show Watson how wrong he is.
And it wouldn't be the first time someone had broken into their apartment, that being criminals wanting revenge on their dead/incarcerated partner/s, or just a fan of the podcast who has a parasocial relationship with the group. It was just a simple and obvious option as to why Watson let out a scream…
Sherlock needed him to be alright.
So without hesitation, the detective opened the door abruptly, seeing the small lamp on the bedside table only lighting Watson's figure. The first thing he noticed was John's wide eyes and the clutch he had on his blanket. Someone had to be in the room with them.
“Sherlock?!” Watson called out as the detective, looking around the room with a raised bat.
“Shh,” Sherlock put his indicator on his own lips as he walked inside the room, seeing no signs of an intruder. “Where are they?” he whispered.
“W-who- Sherlock, what are you doing?!” Watson took the blankets from his body, sitting on his bed as he rubbed his eyes.
“I heard your scream.” He walked further into the room, opening the closet door, ignoring the pile of unfolded clothes inside, as Watson sighed loudly.
“Don’t look in there- C'mon mate,” John said tiredly, not even making an effort to get up and stop Sherlock; the man looked embarrassed. “There’s no intruder, Sherlock. I'm safe.” He tried to hide his shaking hands under his armpits, which left him even more self-conscious about the wet patches on his shirt. “A-And where the hell did you get that bat?!”
Sherlock, who was now checking the bathroom inside his bedroom, looked back at John sitting in his bed, with his leg bouncing up and down anxiously. He walked tentatively to the room again, letting his bat fall onto his side and finally noticing Watson's state who looked up but avoided the taller man's gaze as Sherlock’s adrenaline of a possible intruder faded away. His eyebrows were furrowed and his wavering eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks were stained with the dry watermarks of the few tears he had shed before the detective came into the room, and there was also a small bite mark wound on the corner of his bottom lip which trembled as if he was close to crying again. The sweat stains on his shirt were more noticeable now that Watson was properly in the light, the skin on his forehead glistening from the cold sweat and the constant state of shock John found himself in, with the simple fact that his breath was rapid and his voice, when he called for Sherlock, was weak.
“You had a nightmare.” Sherlock let go of the weapon, letting it lean on the wall close to Watson's desk, also ignoring the question about the sudden appearance of a metal bat in their apartment.
“Sorry if I woke you up.” Watson’s voice wavered as he also ignored the way Sherlock just decided to affirm instead of asking, making him aware that the detective had just a few seconds to deduce that from his state.
Sherlock pressed his lips together as he stood there in the middle of the room, feeling powerless over the situation with his hands behind his back. “You didn’t wake me up. I was watching television.” He made a noise with his throat, looking at the ground. “A very curious and interesting documentary about tank engines.” John let out a small chuckle, being the only joy he could muster at the moment, as Sherlock let himself smile for a bit. “Would you like to talk about what is troubling you?”
It's not unnatural for the detective to talk about his feelings. He has been very honest from the very first day, knowing it was the best way to let Watson know who he was and who he would be dealing with. They even shared a heartfelt conversation about Sherlock's morals and memory in that same room. But one thing always stayed the same.
Watson was emotionally constipated. He is never one to talk about what's bothering him or what Sherlock can do to help, most of the time putting his safety in danger by not telling Sherlock what he is thinking… Well, the detective does the same thing in most (all) of their cases, but Watson does it because he doesn't know how to be vulnerable with himself and others.
So we have a doctor who is terrible with emotions and a detective who is horrible at deducing emotions. It was bound to be incredibly complicated.
Watson's expression quickly changed from a soft smile to a frown as all the thoughts of the nightmare came flooding back into his mind. “Do you want to know about it?”
“I would like to understand your night terrors better since it has been a common occurrence lately.” Sherlock knew that it was somehow getting worse. The most he has seen of John’s nightly torments is him leaving his room at night to drink tea and calm himself before going back to bed, or just staying up until he could see the first few rays of sunlight pour through the kitchen window. Sherlock would normally keep him company so they could both go to sleep until the early afternoon, but they never talked about what troubled him. He was supposed to be the insomniac one, not Watson.
But he had never heard the man scream as if he were being attacked. “And…I wouldn't want you to suffer this burden alone. But only if you want to share it with me.”
Watson was always caught off guard whenever Sherlock showed this kind of affection towards him. He knew the man cared for him, but it was a strange contrast to the man's usual cold and blunt nature. Yet John has grown to appreciate the moments when he does show that softer side.
The side that confirms that Sherlock Holmes has a heart full of love to give.
“Yeah…Okay.” John muttered, shifting a bit on the bed. “Just, uh, come here.” He mumbled as he patted the space on the bed. Sherlock took no time to sit down next to Watson, pressing his palms on his knees.
“I can imagine it is a very difficult topic for you to talk about, so it must be a bad memory.” Sherlock easily deduced. “Something that could cause you a great deal of stress.” And then he remembers. “Is it about the war?”
John kept his hands on either side of his body, gripping the sheets. “Honestly, I'm not sure if it's easier for me to tell you about my nightmare or for you to deduce it.” he lets out a dry chuckle, his head still turning to the side so Sherlock wouldn't see his expression. “But you're right. It was about the war,” he admitted. “A few bad memories all sort of meshed together- I don't know, it was just…” He went silent for a few seconds, struggling to find the words to describe it.
Sherlock notices his struggle to explain his dream as John's breathing starts to quicken. The detective couldn't even comprehend the extent to which the man beside him had suffered in the war; he knew the facts, the bomb, the trap… But he was not the one with mental (and physical) scars to cause such a reaction, even after being awake.
“You don't need to talk about what happened if it causes you any kind of distress, Watson.” He spoke slowly as he went and held John's hand as a way to feel his pulse, to understand if he needed medical attention. “You're here with me, Mariana, and Archie. Focus on that.” Sherlock leans a bit forward to see Watson's face. “You are home.”
John let out a ragged breath as Sherlock grabbed his hand. Felt the man's rough thumb rubbing against the skin of his hand, grounding him to reality. He let out a small sob as his breathing slowly returned to a more normal pace, and he held onto Sherlock's hand tightly.
“I-I…Yeah, I know.” He muttered. “I'm here. I'm home.” He whispered, repeating it like a mantra, trying to remind himself of what was real. From the warmth of Sherlock's body beside him to the hand pressed firmly against his.
Would you like to hold hands or talk about your feelings?
John couldn't help but smile at the memory of them in the park and how natural Sherlock had made hand-holding sound as if John Watson was capable of receiving that kind of care and love from anyone, especially from his best friend. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He decides to rest his head against his shoulder, breathing in softly the man's scent. Sherlock's gaze softened as a small smile grew on his face. He continued rubbing his thumb on his hand, now with a different purpose than what he had originally thought of. John didn't need medical attention; he needed company and a hand to hold.
“You don't have to thank me, John. As long as I'm alive, you won't have to go back to war.” Sherlock looks down at Watson's face resting on his shoulder. “I'll make sure of that.”
The doctor kept his gaze down on their hands, bringing his free hand to wipe the few tears that had stubbornly fallen down his cheek, the last reminder that the nightmare indeed had happened. “Yeah-h,” he muttered in response, as he leaned further into the detective. “I'll hold you to that.” He joked weakly, squeezing his hand, getting a small chuckle from the man beside him. As small as it was, Watson felt it vibrate through Sherlock's body, consequently ending up feeling it on his head as it was pressed onto his shoulder.
He made a mental note that Sherlock lifted his shoulders a bit whenever he laughed.
John was still shaking slightly from the emotion, and his t-shirt was still messy from the sweat. Sherlock noticed it was making him uncomfortable as he squirmed beside him like he didn't want to press his body against the detective's side so as not to get sweat on his clothes. Sherlock couldn't care less about it, but he knew John wouldn't admit he felt uneasy.
“Do you want to change your shirt?”
“Yes, it's just really, uh…” John let out a small sound as he tried to find the words to describe how uncomfortable he felt. “It's just really gross,” Watson mumbled as he attempted to discreetly pull at his shirt. Taking his head away from Sherlock's shoulder, thinking it was bothering him.
Sherlock nodded, knowing exactly what he had to do to help his friend, now feeling more useful. He looked at the bathroom as he let go of John's hand. He got up and walked towards the bathroom without saying a word, leaving a perplexed John on the bed. He grabs a towel, passing it underwater for a tiny bit, just enough to clean the doctor's skin.
His first idea was to give Watson the towel and let him clean his body by himself, giving him emotional support while doing so. But the urge to help his friend, to not let him go through it alone, was stronger than anything. Everything regarding John that he keeps stored in his mind palace overwhelms him to the point of no explanation.
He then walked back into the bedroom with the towel in hand and stood in the middle of it just staring at Watson, thinking it would be enough for the man to understand that Sherlock wanted him to take his shirt off.
Obviously, it wasn't enough.
“What is it?” Watson asked, frowning.
“Take off your shirt.”
“What?!” His eyes widened as he tried not to get embarrassed at how his cheeks grew hot instantly.
“So I can clean you and then change your shirt?” Sherlock asked, not understanding why John would react like this. “Oh, or do you prefer doing it yourself?”
John's mouth opened, then closed as he felt his hands shaking a bit still. It was awfully intimate to have your flatmate and best friend clean your skin for you, but Sherlock wanted to help, and the doctor could see it in his expression and the way the detective's eyes just carried this tenderness of a man who had nothing else to offer.
“No, no…It’s fine.” I want your help, and I'm grateful for it. He wanted to say, but instead, he just chuckled and said, “Next time, don't ask me so bluntly.” He slowly got up from his bed, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it over his head.
John never felt ashamed of his body; he knew every scar and other marks covering his skin from the war, and it was never a problem whenever he was intimate with someone else and had to show those parts that made him who he was. From the scar on his leg because of the bomb to the one on his left shoulder from a bullet.
But there was always this kind of pity about their looks that he absolutely hated.
He hates to see a woman take off his shirt and look down at the discoloration on his stomach with a weak smile as she quickly moves her gaze away instead of acknowledging it. It was part of him, of his history and it shouldn't be ignored or pitied like John was some porcelain doll about to shatter because of the trauma that was left on his body.
Watson was able to recognize that Sherlock was surprised to see all the scars and marks. This was probably the first time the detective was allowed to see John's body with no other distractions occurring around him. But he did not see any sign of pity, of the weak smile, or the avoidant gaze. Sherlock was looking as if he were mapping every single one of them. All the embarrassment left his body to know that if someone would truly appreciate him for who he was, down to the bone…
It would be Sherlock Holmes.
The detective carefully got closer and lifted the towel to his chest as he started to gently clean his friend. He heard John wince slightly at the touch of the damp towel on his bare chest, but continued his task as the doctor stayed unusually quiet, just appreciating the moment when the “coldest, most detached detective in London” was taking care of him because he wanted to.
The silence was welcome on John's side, but Sherlock found it suspicious and oddly perplexing since the man hadn't known true silence since he started living with Watson (not that he preferred the silence anyway). He glanced up as the towel stopped on his shoulder, just above the bullet wound, assuming that John was not enjoying it.
Which brought a frown to the doctor's face and the almost immediate question, “Why- Why did you stop?”
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows at his wrong assumption, understanding that the man in front of him was waiting for him to continue. “You went quiet. I thought you were uncomfortable, so I stopped.” He explained his train of thought, pausing on his shoulder as he felt his hands getting colder while he held the wet towel.
“No, no, it's fine-” John insisted as he lifted his hand and pressed it against Sherlock's “I didn't dislike it, I swear”. He muttered, avoiding Sherlock's gaze and embracing himself for what he had to say next. “I want your help, Sherlock.” It was odd to admit something like this for some reason, but the way Holmes's hands felt, gently cleaning his body, had just felt right.
“Alright.” His expression and gaze softened as he continued cleaning the man in front of him. Sherlock cleaned his shoulders and his arms, stopping for a bit at his hands and staring at a small mark there, close to his wrist.
“Hm.”
“What?” Watson opened his eyes (when did he feel so comfortable as to close them?) and looked at his wrist.
“This one is so small…But it still made a scar.” He studied it as he had done with the others, categorizing them, but this one did not fall into any of the groups he was making in his head. Especially because it's not from his time at the war. The skin was perforated, missing a small bit of it (couldn't have been made by a gunshot because of how tiny it was), but there was no need for stitches. Not only that, but it looked older; it could easily be mistaken for a sign.
“Oh ahah! I had forgotten about that one.” Sherlock could hear the smile on Watson's face, but he still looked up to see it on his lips. “This one's from my time in high school.” He then pauses and looks back at Sherlock, seeing the man look intently at him. “What?”
“You're not going to tell me more?”
“The great detective can't figure it out?” Watson teased, but Sherlock was quick to throw a smirk at him.
“I can and I did.” He looked back down at the towel, continuing his cleaning to the man's sides, lifting his arms. “I just want you to tell the story.”
“You don't have to lie, Sherlock.”
“I'm not, I know someone stabbed you with a sharpened 2B pencil and you had the graphite penetrate your skin.” He sighed. “And that you probably walked around showing it off when it healed.”
“You couldn't possibly know that.” John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock gave him another knowing smirk. “Shut up.”
“Would you care to tell me the story?”
“Just say it’s making you anxious not knowing who and why.”
“It is not.” He continued, walking around John to clean his back. “I'm just tired.”
“Hmhm.” John chuckled before looking up at the ceiling. “There was this girl in my class-”
“Of course-”
“And she was beautiful, every boy wanted to be with her. Let's call her uh… Clara.” He tried really hard to remember her name, but it was lost in other memories. “And-d I was the lucky lad who she decided would be her boyfriend. All the boys were so jealous of me, but at the same time, it felt like everyone knew something I didn't.” He looked a bit behind him to see Sherlock paying attention to his story while he cleaned his back, which helped him relax his muscles. “Until a month later, when my class joined other classes for a presentation, did I end up meeting her other boyfriend, Percy, whom she had been dating for far longer.” He chuckled. “Y-You should have seen his face, Sherlock. I didn't know if he was about to cry or punch me. Well, he ended up doing both as he also stabbed me with the pencil since I may or may not have told him that Clara looked for someone who could actually satisfy her.”
“But wasn't she deceiving you as well?” Sherlock asked with a small giggle.
“I was stupid, alright? And I was uh…Shorter than Percy, so I felt like I needed to prove myself. But anyway, I ended up breaking everything with Clara and started hanging out with Percy. We became best friends for a while, even during college, but then I went to war and lost contact with most of my friends from that time.”
“Would you like to regain contact with them?” Sherlock asked, bringing the towel to the other's neck, and lifting his hair with the help of his free hand.
“I'm not sure.” Watson shivered because of the cold towel touching his hot neck, looking down at his hands. “I have changed a lot since my high school days…Hell, even my college days.”
“You still like to get drunk, that didn't change.” Sherlock walked back to his front with that same smirk that angered and charmed Watson. “I think the listeners of the podcast love to recall ‘The three students’ case”
“Haha, yes, yes, very funny.” Watson rolled his eyes, watching the detective pick up his sweaty t-shirt off the ground before he could say, “You don't need to do that, mate. I was going to put it to wash in the morning.”
Sherlock was already walking to the bathroom with the dirty shirt while saying, “I don't mind it.”
Of course, he doesn't. How could Sherlock be remotely disgusted by Watson? He has seen more of the doctor than anybody else, and somehow he still stays.
They both stay.
He grabbed a dry towel to clean John better and walked back into the room, standing in front of Watson again and putting the big dry towel around him. “I believe they would be lucky to have your friendship back, John,” Sherlock says, rubbing his hands on the other’s arms with the pretense of warming him. “I would even dare to say that I would be very fortunate to have your company back when I was in college or even high school.” Maybe it would have been more enjoyable if you were there. “Especially high school.” He says more determined.
Whenever Sherlock spoke to him like this, John wanted nothing more than to tell him to stop. Stop before it gets too much. To stop before the pressure in his chest became so great that he could suffocate on the desire to want something that he didn't fully understand. He was not sure if he wanted to understand it…
John has felt it before Sherlock. He can't lie to himself because deep down he has seen the faint light of something that is new but somehow has always been present. A light that is scary but comforting, like a ‘welcome home’ or a warm hug, where the hands don´t know where to fit and touch.
And Watson was terrified because he liked it.
“I'm not sure if you would have liked me back then.” Watson looked away from the intense gaze, pulling the towel around his shoulders and cleaning himself. “I was a proper dickhead who just wanted to go to parties and get drunk.” He swallowed hard. “I don't even think we would have crossed paths to be fair.”
“No, we probably wouldn't.” Sherlock smiled softly. “But if that led you to the version you are now, then I wouldn't want it to be any different. I'm glad I met you when I did.” He then turned away to look inside Watson's closet, not noticing the fact that John was left speechless. “Now, let's see what we have here.”
“Alright, enough of that-”
“Enough of what?”
“O-Of…Whatever you're doing!” Watson gestures wildly with one hand while holding the towel around him with the other.
“Choosing a shirt for you?” Sherlock frowned, picking one that had been a gift from one of the fans of the podcast. “I quite like this one.” He turns towards the doctor again, showing what the shirt said, ‘I'm a father to +1000 gay children’.
“No, uh- It's the way you’re talking to me. Like I’m perfect.” As if that's the real reason why you want him to stop. His brain screamed at him to stop talking before he would have to explain everything to a man who only searched for answers and always found them.
“Perfection does not exist, Wats-”
“Yes, I know, I was exaggerating! I just…” He sighed. “I don't know how to explain it.”
“Explain what? Is this still about the nightmare?” Sherlock tilted his head, walking towards John.
“No, no.” He exhaled hard before pressing his lips together. “I'm going to make a comparison here, and I need you to understand it without asking any questions.”
“But what if I don't understand it?”
“I need you to.” He whispered with a certain desperation to his voice.
“Alright.” Sherlock crossed his arms, still holding onto the shirt, as if he were accepting some kind of challenge.
“Whenever you say those things about me or just the way you” John looked up, catching a soft glow in the detective's eyes. “look at me…I feel my chest hurt, no wait- I feel it burning. Yes! I feel it burn from my throat to my lungs and sometimes to my stomach- as if I'm drinking the most alcoholic beverage you have ever tried.”
“Are we talking about Absinthe with an 89% ABV or the Spirytus Rektyfikowa-” Sherlock started saying with an almost perfect Polish accent before Watson stopped him.
“It doesn't mat- Wait, have you tried that vodka?” Watson turned to him, confused.
“Yes, but it was mixed with pineapple juice.”
Watson shook his head before continuing. “Anyway, it doesn't really matter. I just feel this burning, and I don't know what to do about it.” Maybe John felt vulnerable because of the nightmare to say all of this. Maybe the idea of having to go back to war scared him so much to the point of needing to have this conversation with his best friend, even if the outcome turned out to be disastrous. “I feel like if I do something about it, no matter what happens, it will keep on burning until I can't do anything else.” He blushed under the weight of his own words.
Sherlock seemed to acknowledge it as they stayed quiet for a second before the detective spoke again. “And do you feel it every time I talk or look at you?”
“I said no questions, I just needed to get this out of my chest,” Watson said, grabbing the shirt and pulling it over his head.
“Well, that is not fair.” Sherlock continued looking as Watson put on his shirt, wanting to catch his eye. “I'm involved, I should know more.”
“I-I can't do this tonight, I shouldn't even have said anything-”
“I want to understand, please.” Oh, and that is really not fair… It was not fair to see the glint in Sherlock's eyes as he spoke.
So, he quickly said. “Yes. Every Time. Sometimes it’s faded into the background when you annoy me, but it comes full force whenever you simply smile my way or tell me ‘Good Morning Watson’ or ‘Welcome home Watson, did you buy penne?’” He tries to imitate Sherlock's tone before continuing. “It's so domestic, and it keeps eating at me.”
“I see.” Sherlock pressed his lips together before continuing. “I'm sorry, Watson, I need to ask you one more question, and I need you to be straightforward with me.”
There we go.
“Do you hate me?” The way Watson slowly looked at Sherlock, to make sure he was serious or not, would be almost comical if it weren't for the painful way the detective looked at him as he expected answers.
“No- No, god no, why would you think that?!” The distress on his face and words softened Sherlock's expression.
“You made a comparison between my actions and alcohol, and I'm not the biggest fan of drinking, so I just assumed-”
“You're not?” Watson furrowed his eyebrows. “But you always come with us to the pub or- Or last Halloween when we got drunk while watching The Conjuring.”
“I don't want to be the only one not drinking.” And you always have a smile on your face when I get too tipsy for my own good. “And I got inebriated that night because I despise those movies.”
“Still, that doesn’t make any sense!” Watson brought his hands to his head, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I don’t hate drinking.”
“It is a strange comparison then, especially with the way you were describing it.” Sherlock kept his attention on Watson's behavior. “You quite like drinking, I would even say that you adore it-”
“Just call me an alcoholic, mate, it's easier.” He lets out a dry chuckle.
“So, you're saying that you like the way I talk and look at you?”
“Wow, amazing detective work there, Holmes, someone should write a book about you, but now go to your room, it's late and I want to sleep-” He started rambling, looking at the clock on his bedside table.
“I don't understand why you're embarrassed, Watson.”
“Stop-” He said, pressing his hands on the other's shoulders, holding him. “I'm not embarrassed.”
“You are! You are flustered and your breathing has quickened, you can't seem to look directly in my eyes, and…” Holmes brought his hand to the other's wrist. “And your pulse is rapid.”
“What have I told you about taking my pulse without my permission?” But Sherlock continued to ignore his pleadings.
“Well, when you talk and look at me,” He stared intently at the other's face, lowering his hand. “I wouldn't say that something burns in my chest-”
“Oh god stop-” John tried to interrupt.
“-but it is definitely a warm and pleasant feeling.” He continued before smiling, “I would categorize it more as being drunk.”
“You said you didn't like getting drunk?” John said suspiciously.
“No, I said I didn't like the act of drinking itself, but if drugs help me concentrate on my thoughts, being drunk makes my head go quiet and feel weightless.” The detective was now speaking while putting his hands on John's as if it would help him understand. “It does make me feel flustered and does make my heart pound, but I don't want it to stop.”
“I have to admit I kinda got lost.”
“You're the one who started making metaphors with drinking!” Sherlock laughed as Watson accompanied him. “What I'm saying is that I also like when you talk with me, when you look at me. Especially when your whole attention is on me and you praise me for my work.” He gave him a soft smile, and Watson wondered how the detective could be so honest with his feelings. “You have to understand, John, that before you and Mariana, there were little to no people who enjoyed my company, and even the few remaining eventually went away without sparing a second glance.” Sherlock's hands, always so cold, now felt warm and tender. “I'm telling you not to be embarrassed because you're so special to me that it pains me that you think I wouldn't feel this much for you.”
Watson opened his mouth, but there was no sound to be heard as he closed it again to rethink and engrave this whole conversation in his memory. Part of him wished he had his microphone with him.
“I-...I don't think I can do this, Sherlock.” He looked down at their hands, wondering how his stupid nightmare had caused this conversation to start, how his stupid feelings and his stupid vulnerability put him in this position.
“What do you mean?”
“Seriously, I thought you would have deduced this by now.” He held Sherlock's hands back, almost pulling him as he looked back up. “I'm a selfish man, if you give me something, I will want more and more…And it won't be good for either of us.”
“I'd say that we both indulge in things that are not good for us.” Sherlock tried to understand what Watson was trying to convey, but everything the man said was just another part of their ‘friendship’ that Sherlock had felt before; he just didn’t know how to prove that to John. “Whatever it is you need, you can gladly take it from me. Anything you want.”
The detective doesn't even question it, and that amazed Watson. He couldn’t help himself but take an uncertain step closer to the man, wondering what he was thinking. How could someone be so willing to offer anything to another? Was Sherlock fully aware of everything that was going on? Aware of the weight of his words?
“You do not know what you're saying.” Sherlock's eyes started moving from one of John's eyes to the other and then to his mouth before quickly pulling up again to match his half-lidded gaze.
“I want to be selfish and say that I do.” They want more and more and more. And Watson had enough of pulling and pushing as his chest burned like the furnace of a locomotive, moving with the only purpose of wanting more and more.
He ran his hand carefully to Sherlock's cheek, cupping it and watching the detective open his mouth slightly as the noise of the night outside that room quiets until it fades completely. Watson nodded with his head, asking Sherlock if he could continue, hearing the man exhale in response like he was breathless just from the touch on his cheek.
“Do you still think you can give all of it to me, Sherlock?” He stepped closer, and now it would take just him leaning into the detective to get what he wanted. What he needed.
Part of him wanted Sherlock to pull him away, to tell him it's not what he thinks, and finally leave him alone. But from the way Sherlock was looking at him as if he could burn the world to bring some heat into his already aflame heart, he knew the detective wanted answers, and he was so close to getting them, he was not about to give up now.
“Yes.” He whispered as if they were in a room full of people, as if there was any need to whisper like a secret between the two. But that was all Watson needed to close the distance between them and kiss him.
The kiss began tentatively. Lips meeting softly, almost reverently, testing the waters of something fragile as Watson closed his eyes and Sherlock felt the need to memorize it in his mind as if the moment might shatter if they moved too quickly. But once Sherlock closed his eyes and brought his hand to John's neck, it was as if all his questions had been answered, and he could finally give in and rest.
Their breaths mingled in the narrow space between them, trembling with the weight of anticipation that has lingered far too long. There's an unspoken hunger beneath tenderness…A quiet desperation as if the years they've waited for this, even unknowingly, have etched longing into their very core. Slowly, Watson deepens the kiss, the tentative giving way to the inevitable as they grasp each other's hands, afraid of the other letting go.
It felt like coming home.
Watson became aware that Sherlock was indeed kissing him back, even if shyly, so he needed to make sure everything was alright as he pulled back to stare at the other, who leaned again searching for his lips.
“I was right…” Sherlock whispered, still breathless, making Watson frown.
“About what?” He bites his lower lip instinctively, seeing it attract Sherlock's gaze.
“About knowing what I was saying. I was right.” That made John chuckle as Sherlock stared at his lips. “Again.”
“You're not always right.” Watson rolled his eyes.
“No,” Sherlock said firmly, now caressing John's cheek. “Kiss me again.”
And the detective felt John's smile on his lips when he leaned again to kiss him now more gently, holding each other in a tender embrace as if the other was to be taken away. Feeling each other's heartbeats through their thin clothing, only this time Sherlock did not pay attention to the heavy rise of Watson's pulse; instead, he focused on making a mental note of how he, surprisingly, liked the way John's mustache touched his upper lip and his trembling skin above it.
Maybe they were going too fast, maybe they needed to stop and question what it all meant, but once they both got the first taste of what they had been missing, it would be close to impossible to separate them.
Unless they both needed air, which was the case at the moment.
“This was…Interesting.” John pressed his lips, feeling a flush rise from the back of his neck to his cheeks.
“Indeed.” Sherlock made a noise with his throat. It was not awkward; nothing between them was ever awkward, but it was obvious that they were both scared about how to continue.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, John?” And how has Watson ever survived with Sherlock calling his name like a prayer?
“It's really cold in my room, you know?” It was mid-autumn, but the temperature was still nice and warm for both of them to be comfortable with t-shirts and shorts.
“Is it?” Sherlock frowned, eyeing John with a questioning look but still carrying himself like a kid who had just had candy for the first time.
“Yes…Especially my bed-”
“That's because you still haven't asked someone to fix that window; it keeps letting in drafts of air.” Sherlock chuckled, looking at the window before looking back at Watson like he would disappear if he looked away for too long. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked, seeing Watson lift an eyebrow and wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist, hugging him.
“Deduce it, detective.” And the man lifted his eyebrows at the sarcastic tone in John's voice, before noticing the way the doctor was slowly pulling him towards the bed.
“Oh! You want me to lie down with you?”
“I can't believe you're the best at your job sometimes.”
“It's because I have no competition.” He smirked before seeing John's worried gaze.
“But yes, I do want that…Unless you don't want it.” And before Watson could say another word, Sherlock sat on his bed pulling the man with him.
“I only have one request: I’m sleeping on the side closest to the wall.” He smiled, hearing John’s giggle. “Your bed is more comfortable than mine anyway.” He waited for Watson to lie down before doing the same next to him. “But I'm not sure I can sleep right now.” He whispered after Watson pulled a soft blanket over them.
“That’s fine.” He turned around to grab his phone before getting himself comfortable next to Sherlock. “Do you want to continue that documentary you were watching?”
“I would like that, yes.” He said after grabbing the phone from Watson and putting the name of the kid's show on YouTube, silencing Watson's questions and provocations, simply saying, “Turn off the light and come here.”
And it is fascinating, even after everything that just happened, how Watson still fell asleep peacefully holding Sherlock close to his body like they have done this a thousand times before. Maybe even more peacefully than he has slept in months, maybe years… How incredulous it is to have the best detective in London in his bed, pausing the episode with a yawn and looking at the first rays of sunshine that enter the room by the window with a smile.
He turned around and looked at how John's hair shone and how nothing could disturb his sleep, not even the chaste kiss Sherlock placed on his forehead before falling asleep with Watson's steady breathing next to him.
Needless to say, John’s nightmares decreased after that night, and even if he would wake up crying or screaming to one, he would be sure to look at Sherlock and know that he was indeed home.