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Day One
“I’m going to grow a beard,” John announced from behind his newspaper. Sherlock studied the specimen under my microscope, jotting down a note on the pad beside him. It was a full five minutes before John tried again. “Sherlock?” I’m living with a child, his tone said.
“Yes.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Facial hair.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I guess.” Silence. “Any thoughts?”
“If it’s as bad as the moustache was, I’ll hack it off.” John laughed.
It wasn’t ‘til that night that Sherlock actually started thinking. What would it be like? John-With-A-Moustache was grumpy. He had a new fiancé and didn’t need Sherlock or his cases. John-With-A-Moustache was almost a symbol of Sherlock’s biggest insecurities when it came to John – that one day John would realise that Sherlock really was as needy and annoying as everyone else found him, a John who definitely had no interest in men (Sherlock couldn’t even bare to think about that). Sherlock didn’t like John-With-A-Moustache. Perhaps John-With-A-Beard would be similar, a man who shouted at me more often or got more angry about fingers in the fridge. Or perhaps John-With-A-Beard would be gentler or more intelligent or more dangerous. Perhaps the most frustrating thing was there was no way of telling.
Sherlock stared at John’s face, as if it could reveal the answers Sherlock desperately needed. John was watching James Bond on TV (Sherlock was supposed to be too), eyes absorbed on the picture and oblivious to the rest of the world. A momentary explosion lit his face, highlighting the bags under his eyes, the blonde streaks in his mostly grey hair, his small nose, his soft lips. It also highlighted the small stubble on his chin (small enough that a less obsessed observant man would miss).
Sherlock had imagined a hundred times over what it would be like to kiss John. Anyone who had an interest in men would have, but it had become a hobby of Sherlock’s. A few of his favourites were stored deep in his mind palace and relived on occasion (John pressing Sherlock against an alley wall, dominating and hungry after a case and not even possessing the patience to wait until they got home; John warm and soft and sleepy in bed in the morning, dappled light dancing across his skin as Sherlock’s fingers followed, Sherlock’s body rumbling with John’s chuckle; Sherlock on John’s lap in John’s armchair, John watching Sherlock’s bouncing curls in admiration and whispering to Sherlock how beautiful he is as Sherlock rides him without touching his cock like a good boy). Sherlock had even imagined it with his moustache in his desperation (in those fantasies, he promised to shave it the next day), but never had he once imagined John with a beard. That wasn’t even saying much as Sherlock had very little experience with kissing people at all.
John turned and caught his eye, studying his look of deep concentration. For a second they simply looked at each other, Sherlock trying to convey all his emotions in one expression in the hope that John could do something with that information. “You’re thinking too much. Just watch the movie,” John murmured instead. Sherlock obediently turned his head towards the next hour of mindless violence. He’d do anything for two hours of uninterrupted close proximity to John.
It was a beard, it was facial hair, it was stupid. It was all he could think about.
Day Three
“Good morning,” John greeted as he walked into the kitchen in his dressing gown and messy hair. Sherlock looked up as John started about making tea. Sherlock was about to reciprocate the statement but instead froze. Yesterday Sherlock had managed to distract himself with an experiment to survive the day but he realised that today he would not be so lucky. John’s facial hair was visible.
It wasn’t much, just a bit of scruff, but there was no way in denying how different it made him look.
In silence John looked at Sherlock, lifted his fingers to his cheek, and then headed straight for the bathroom to see for himself. The kettle boiled.
Day Five
It was simple. The kidnapper was the neurotic aunt. Or the jealous cousin. Or hired by the parents? At least, it had been simple until John started playing with the stubble on his face. Over the past two days Sherlock had valiantly managed not to focus on his facial hair too much but every day that was growing more and more difficult. He had already picked up the habit of scratching his cheeks, spent at least 2 extra minutes in the shower in the morning and even more time in front of the mirror.
Lestrade moved to stand beside Sherlock and gave him a curious look, reading the frustration on his face. Sherlock had been called in on a relatively boring case but Lestrade had insisted due to the short time the ransom note had given them. Sherlock had grumbled but given in when John insisted, he could never really resist John. “All right there?” Lestrade asked quietly, a hand over his eyes to protect him from the overcast, midday glare. His eyebrows pulled down in a sympathetic frown and Sherlock bristled. He didn’t need Lestrade’s pity, in fact he should be absolutely fine. It wasn’t as if John’s behaviour should have such a direct impact on Sherlock’s brain function. And yet…
“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped before giving all of them a long monologue of deductions and the suspect, making up half of it on the spot. By the time I finished, John everyone was staring at him with admiration and wonder, as usual but John’s expression warmed his insides. Sherlock had almost come to expect John’s compliments but it did miracles to reassure Sherlock. How could he ever believe John would get bored of him when John smiled at him like that? After all this time John was still sort of amazed by what Sherlock did and Sherlock realised with some amazement that he didn’t mind John expressing this, even if it did get repetitive. John no longer voiced his, however he’d just give a small smile that said everything. The sort of smile that said ‘you’re bloody brilliant’ and ‘even though you annoy the heck out of me, it’s worth it all for these moments’ and ‘I could fuck you so hard it’d break the bed right now’.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
However, today John had A Beard and his smile was different. It was sophisticated, mature. It had the sort of charm of the history professors Sherlock had secretly swooned over in uni, before he got a grip on his transport (before he met John). Hot.
That was interesting. Before then all The Beard had been was new and different and, by extension, unnerving. But perhaps this could be something else.
John pointedly coughed, something he does when he’s happy with Sherlock (i.e. not angry enough to shout). Sherlock gave him a questioning look. “Lestrade says they can take it from here to locate the murderer so we can go home if we want. He seemed rather concerned, are you alright?” Sherlock nodded and bit the inside of his lip, not entirely sure if he trusted himself enough to speak. John nodded. “Shall we get a cab?”
The crime scene had not been far from Baker Street so it was not a long ride but it was a quiet one. As soon as he was inside, Sherlock was in his Mind Palace going over the case for good measure. Somehow the facts still seemed fuzzy, his mind was unfocused instead of sharp as a dagger. The only other times his mind had felt this disorganised was on the back end of a high.
“And I went to say thanks and... I was hooked. He's like a drug. He told me about the terrorist plot and I was hooked.”
Sherlock almost groaned in frustration, thinking about John’s blog was definitely not helping. Perhaps he should delete it from his mind palace, only he found sentiment was the one thing he couldn’t delete, which was why he had an entire floor dedicated to John.
“Sherlock,” John began, breaking the silence with a very serious tone. “If something was bothering you, if something was wrong, you know you can always talk to me, right? I know I’m not good at talking about my feelings…” John sighed. They both knew it was true. “But if it was something you needed, I’d do it. If you thought you had the urge to relapse like before or…. I don’t know, anything really. You could tell me, right?”
It’s not that simple, Sherlock wanted to say. Part of him wished he could tell John but the rest of him was too afraid. “Yes,” Sherlock replied.
“Good,” John said, but as if he knew Sherlock wasn’t telling him everything. Sherlock couldn’t quite make out John’s expression but he thought he could see traces of concern and fear. What is he afraid of? I couldn’t leave him if I tried. Sherlock’s gut coiled with guilt at the thought that he’d caused it.
Day Six
Sherlock lounged on his chair, legs dangling over the side of the armrest and reading up on a study of fungi growth in corpses. John was in his respective chair, reading a trashy action novel with a worn spine. The domesticity of it was calming, Sherlock noted pleasantly. I loud rumble interrupted the silence and Sherlock turned to glare at John’s phone on the coffee table. Closing the book with his finger between the pages to hold the spot, John got up to check. “It’s from Lestrade,” John announced, then began reading, “It says:
Found kidnapper – cousin – but we’re too late. Cousin has been arrested for murder. Tell Sherlock because I already texted him but either he didn’t get it or he’s ignoring me.
Shit, I’m sorry,” John finished, lowering the phone to look Sherlock in the eye.
“You’re sorry?” Sherlock asked, “What for? It was hardly your fault I miscalculated” Lie. It wasn’t intentional, though, so it would show his hand a bit be unfair to John.
John sat down heavily again, scrubbing his face with a hand, “I’m just being empathetic. Cases mean a lot to you and I know you get upset when you mess things up,” I would be if I weren’t so distracted.
Sherlock waved a hand, “it’s fine. Well, it isn’t fine, but there’s no point on getting caught up about it. I expect I’ll have a new case soon.” John blinked in surprise. “What?”
“Nothing, you’re just taking it surprisingly well.” Sherlock knew he should be more emotional about it but lately he felt his emotions had been all used up by the sheer overwhelming amount of John filling up his mind palace.
Day Seven
Sherlock didn’t know what time it was or how long he’d lay curled on the couch but he knew that as long as he’d been there he had been thinking about John. And his dreadful beard.
It wasn’t so much dreadful as abominable, despicable, horrendous. Distracting. Sherlock had spent far too much time mapping it out in his head, predicting what it would look like as it grew fuller, imagining it in different lightings and how it would move with his face with his smiles and frowns. Now Sherlock had two Johns in his head: John-With-A-Beard and John-Without-A-Beard. John-With-A-Moustache, however, had been kicked out long ago.
Sherlock frowned and perched his fingers under his chin as he listened to John distantly banging up the stairs. Apparently work had dragged on, as it lately had. Sherlock had the feeling John might be thinking of leaving as he knew how terrible an employee he was. As John opened the door, he gave Sherlock a cursory glance but left him in peace. John was too tired and Sherlock’s head was too loud so they were both rather quiet, until John placed a bowl of pasta in front of Sherlock.
“Not hungry,” Sherlock grumbled.
“When was the last time you ate a meal?” he asked. There had been toast and honey a day before but somehow Sherlock didn’t think that qualified.
Sherlock shrugged instead, ignoring the bowl until I caught his glare. “Sherlock, eat,” John demanded with an even voice. His jaw was stiff and he gave Sherlock a challenging glare. Sherlock felt his neck heat up and felt a little ashamed of himself, causing his cheeks to blush as he submitted, sitting up to take the bowl on his lap.
John softened immediately, giving Sherlock an easy grin. “Did you even move while I was gone?” He joked. He angled his chair to face Sherlock before picking up his own bowl and digging in.
“I was trying to revise my mistakes,” Sherlock said, “So that next time I wouldn’t get it wrong.” Which he had been doing before he got distracted… which was exactly the problem. Sherlock heaved a sad sigh.
John gave him a genuinely sympathetic look. “It could have happened to anyone, there’s no need to beat yourself up over it. I’m sure you’ll get it next time.” Sherlock wished he could be so optimistic.
Day Nine
“Are you alright?”
“Yes.”
“You just seem a bit tense. “
“Do I?”
“You sure you don’t want to go back home or something?”
“I said, I’m fine.”
Day Sixteen
“You haven’t taken a case in ages,” John announced, arms laden with grocery bags as he entered 221b. Sherlock said nothing in reply but got up to buzz around John’s shoulders and check what was in every bag. Nothing unusual but a bottle of nice wine, which meant either he had a date or he was finding Sherlock difficult to deal with. Sherlock didn’t know which was better. John stopped after putting the milk away to turn to him with his usual concern. “Why haven’t you taken a case? You never go without a case voluntarily.”
Sherlock turned away, pointedly avoiding John’s face and John’s beard. “It’s nothing.”
John paused for a moment, as if in thought. Finally, he said slowly “If you’re not doing anything else, do you want to,” he scratched his beard, “do you want to go to a restaurant tonight?”
Sherlock mused, they didn’t do it often but generally that involved a lot of John flirting with strangers and Sherlock feeling jealous. Honestly, Sherlock didn’t feel up for it. He hadn’t seen John flirt with a woman in months and he wanted to avoid breaking the dry spell at any cost. Sherlock declined, “I ate at lunch, and anyway there was an experiment I had planned to start tonight.”
“Of course,” John replied. Sherlock thought he heard a hint of disappointment in John’s voice, then again if he had been right with every wishful hunch about John, that would mean he was interested in Sherlock. Which obviously wasn’t true.
As it turned out, John went to the pub that night with Stamford anyway. Sherlock wondered if Stamford would have been there if Sherlock had gone, but dismissed it. It didn’t matter. Sherlock resigned himself to a quiet night waiting for John to come back in front of his microscope. If John came back before work at all.
Day Twenty
“I can’t do it,” John announced.
Sherlock looked up from his petri dish. “Do what?” he frowned.
John got up from his chair, leaving his long-discarded newspaper and cold tea on the table beside it. John walked around the table and planted his hands on the back of the chair opposite to Sherlock. He was not about to sit down, he was bracing himself. “This. You’ve been quiet for weeks, you’ve eaten less than usual if that’s possible. As far as I can tell you haven’t been smoking or relapsed yet you’re barely taking cases or even talking to me anymore. If I’ve done something wrong, just tell me but stop…” John trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words. “What’s going on in that crazy head of yours?”
Sherlock’s eyes darted around, but he couldn’t move. Like a deer in front of headlights. He opened his mouth, about to brush off John’s comments but found he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
John sighed and ducked his head. He spoke the rest with a soft voice, eyes directed at the floor tiles. “It started when I got this beard, right?” Sherlock didn’t confirm nor deny so John kept going. “It’s a bit ridiculous but if the change is too much for you, I could get rid of it. I’m still not sure about it so if it’s coming between us I’ll lose it in a heartbeat-“
“No!” Sherlock cried in horror unable to contain himself, with eyes wide as saucers and a hand clapped over his mouth. This conversation was starting to get too close to the problem he’d been avoiding for years.
John looked up, brows drawn in confusion. “You’ve been acting differently because you like it?” John asked dubiously. Sherlock nodded hesitantly. “Sherlock,” John commanded.
Sherlock lowered his eyes to the floor. He felt cornered and for once didn’t have something witty. So he spoke the truth. “It’s distracting. Before you were distracting but I could cope with it, I’d learned to cope with it. Then you got the beard and it made it worse because I couldn’t force it to the side of my mind. My focus is like a flashlight, I use the entirety of its power to zone in on things but I keep getting distracted, which is ridiculous because it’s just facial hair!” Sherlock’s hands were in his hair, as if ready to yank it out, yet he still hadn’t met John’s eyes.
“What makes me distracting?” John asked with genuine curiosity. His tone was so innocent for a question that could ruin their entire relationship.
Sherlock blushed. “You’re hot.”
For a full minute, neither of them spoke. Then John said slowly, “You find me attractive?”
“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled. This was absolutely humiliating.
“How long ago did you come to this conclusion?”
“You killed a man to save me. I mean, obviously something was there before that but that was just transport.” Sherlock felt the weight of his words on his shoulders.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sherlock looked up with slightly red eyes. John was boring into Sherlock’s eyes, seemingly desperate for answers. Sherlock helplessly gave them to him. “I’ve been through a lot, and I know I’ve put you through a lot but… I couldn’t bear to lose you. Please don’t go, John, it doesn’t matter, we can go on like before.”
John gave a cocky smirk, much to Sherlock’s confusion. “Oh, love. I don’t want it to go back to the way it was.” Sherlock could barely believe what he was hearing. “In fact, I would very much like to kiss you. Is that okay?” John smiled at him reassuringly and Sherlock searched his face but found no trace of this being a joke. Sherlock nodded.
John came around the side of the table and cupped Sherlock’s jaw. Slowly, he leaned down and planted a soft kiss upon his lips. Sherlock stretched his spine as much as he could, leaning into John as much as he could without actually getting off his chair. When their lips broke apart John stayed close, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he breathed.
Sherlock hummed with his eyes still on John’s lips, “Me too.”
John gave a soft chuckle, “We’ve made a right mess, haven’t we? We could have avoided a lot of trouble.”
“Kiss me,” Sherlock replied.
John licked his lips and leaned in again. This time Sherlock gave back wholeheartedly, licking a little at John’s lips until they opened. John swept an arm behind his head and tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s wild curls. In retaliation, Sherlock brought his fingers up to run through John’s beard. Sherlock moaned as John sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. Finally, they broke apart, both gasping for air but holding on tight.
“What do we do now?” Sherlock whispered.
John shrugged, “Whatever you want, love.”
Sherlock bit his lip, “I want you to call me that more often.”
“Okay,” John replied and then leaning in for a kiss too quick for Sherlock to react to. “Did you even realise I was asking you out last week?” John giggled at Sherlock’s confused face. “I’ll take that as a no,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to be more obvious next time.” John kissed him again, just ‘cause he could. “Sherlock Holmes. Would you like to go out. On a date. With me?”
"It's not like you're proposing," Sherlock said but he blushed nonetheless. "But it's late, all the respectable places will be shut. Anyway, I'd rather spend time kissing you."
"That can be arranged."
Sherlock smiled coyly, "You're keeping the beard, though right?"
John looked at him seriously. "Whatever keeps you happy, darling. I love you."
Sherlock's eyes started stinging. He couldn't be crying, that would be a ridiculous reaction. Nonetheless, Sherlock wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. "I love you too, John."
"Oh, come here," John hugged Sherlock and held him tight.