Archive of Our Own ^beta

The curtains at the window swayed in harmony with the sounds of the first rain of the evening.
The breeze entered as if trying to call attention to itself, but no one in the upstairs flat noticed.
*****
No one noticed anything other than the chaotic scene that had been unfolding in the parlor of 221B Baker Street.
Each of the four individuals was too preoccupied with their own feelings to pay attention to what was happening outside.
*****
Sherlock leaned against the wall by the stairs, his arms folded tight across his chest, fingers entwined in the fabric of his purple shirt sleeves — his knuckles turned white from his grip.
He was caught in the storm of his own mind as he soaked in every detail and dissected the chaos that had begun fifteen minutes and twenty seconds ago.
His keen, ever-changing, color eyes wouldn’t linger longer than a few minutes on Mary or David, but found their way back to John Watson like a moth to a flame.
His flame.
*****
He was trapped in a state of confusion, torn between the decision of whether to maintain his presence or to silently make his way toward the stairs and exit through the door to the outside world.
He felt the pull to run — yet he also needed to remain.
To run —because he was acutely aware of his involvement in this catastrophe.
To remain, as it might result in a beneficial outcome for him.
Either way, he felt obligated to maintain silence, as hard as it was for him.
Refrain from intervening —from articulating his views, as it encompassed the complex nature of human emotions.
*****
Human emotion was a complex phenomenon that consistently confounded Sherlock.
Even though the situation was obvious, Sherlock could not determine what any of the three individuals in front of him would do next.
*****
The downstairs bell had rung earlier, and the three participants in this drama had climbed the stairs to enter the flat.
Mary, David, and John.
“Don’t —just don’t say a word,” John warned and directed his voice toward Sherlock as he stomped around the room.
John was authoritative in his anger as he presided over the seating assignments for David and Mary.
He paid little attention to Sherlock, and so Sherlock had taken his position against the wall.
*****
David occupied the ottoman, which John had forcefully propelled to the center of the room with a swift kick, emphasizing with vigorous gestures that David was to sit there.
David’s head was down, his fingers twisted between his knees, as he failed to suppress his loudly audible sniffles.
David continually looked up at Mary, who tried to deny his existence by simply being indifferent to him.
*****
Mary, upon John’s signaling, had positioned herself in the old, cushioned chair, which was once John’s favorite.
The Union Jack pillow was held firmly against her chest, with her hands gripping it so tightly that her knuckles appeared pale.
Her tears flowed down her face, which soaked the pillow between her chin and chest.
******
John established himself between the couple, his hands gesturing wildly in the air as he moved, growling and pacing back and forth like a lion.
Whatever he was trying to say got totally lost in all his incoherent snarling.
He would pause, turn to each individual, including Sherlock, open his mouth, yet no words would emerge —only indistinct grumbling.
And once more, he would start pacing back and forth, head down, with his hands clenched behind him.
*****
Sherlock determined that it was evidently beyond the authority of Mary or David to make any decisions regarding their future.
John would, by a simple sentence, significantly influence the future of these two individuals.
*****
The complex interactions of individuals consistently intrigued and perplexed Sherlock.
He could never grasp the reasons behind people's irritation when he conveyed the truth to them.
Then John would express his exasperation at him through a subtle shake of his head, and it profoundly affected him.
*****
In the heat of John’s fury —in the intensity of right now, Sherlock found himself contemplating whether John genuinely grasped the significance of this situation.
Sherlock recognized that John was completely unaware of anything beyond the present moment.
Such an intense rage consumed him that it left no room for other considerations in his mind.
But this was and would be a game changer for all of them.
Sherlock fervently hoped, selfishly hoped, that it would result in a most favorable outcome —for him.
*****
As he leaned against the wall, Sherlock was able to observe John intently — every subtle movement of his hands, how he stood, and how his face contorted in anger, but, to Sherlock, it also revealed a deep sadness underneath.
He recognized that at the bottom of it all lay the anger and embarrassment for failing to perceive Mary's actual character.
Was it because Mary let him down or because he let himself down by not intuitively knowing what Mary was like earlier in their relationship?
*****
It was as though a television display showed John’s thoughts in vivid letters to Sherlock, who could read every nuance, gesture, and finger movement.
But John still remained an enigma to Sherlock.
No matter how hard he tried to deduce him, John always evaded giving Sherlock that ‘aha’ moment.
*****
It was hard to believe a time without John, but years ago, Sherlock had been searching for someone to share a flat at 221 Baker Street, which was in an upscale area of London.
From the moment that John Watson walked into the lab at Barts, Sherlock was unable to comprehend the reasons behind the increase in his blood pressure and heart rate.
*****
Upon arriving at 221 that early evening, Sherlock exited the taxi and suppressed his surprise upon seeing Doctor John Watson poised to knock on the door.
Sherlock’s heart raced like a wild stallion as they walked up the stairs.
The chaotic state of the parlor surprised John, prompting Sherlock to hurriedly rearrange books and other items to convey that he had recently moved in as well, and that’s why the disorganization.
*****
Their first dinner they had, that night at Angelo's Italian restaurant tested Sherlock’s feelings as John grilled Sherlock on his love life.
Instead of providing a forthright response, however, Sherlock circled the subject.
He explicitly indicated that women were not his area of interest, but avoided discussing the topic of a boyfriend.
He claimed he had no time for other entanglements, as he was utterly involved in case solving.
*****
The guilt associated with having to suppress his deepest, most private emotions toward John persisted even now.
Sherlock still noticed that his breath would catch whenever John displayed a particular smile or showed him the sparkle that lit his beautiful blue eyes.
This perplexed the man, who consistently believed that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side—but he did not perceive himself as a loser.
The emergence of these new emotions presented a conundrum that Sherlock found both tantalizing and frightening.
*****
John was a doctor and a former army captain who had saved lives, and he was also very much a ladies’ man.
And that was why Sherlock concealed his emotions, fearing that any expression or physical contact might repulse John and lead to a complete withdrawal.
John’s laughter, his blue eyes, and sun-kissed blond hair would all become inaccessible to Sherlock, which Sherlock would not risk.
He was determined to keep John close, regardless of the implications of everyone assuming they were a ‘couple.’
*****
The sounds that were emitted by each individual who now sat in 221B Baker Street captivated Sherlock as he examined them, hoping to foresee the outcome.
With every stride John took, Sherlock's eyes followed like a hawk tracking its prey.
John took three steps to the left, turned, then five steps to the right, turned again, and proceeded with two steps to the left.
His words accented his steps —or maybe it was the other way around.
But Sherlock could discern the underlying pain embedded in those words.
*****
In the early years of their living together, when John was out, Sherlock would frequently address John’s vacant chair as if he were still sitting there.
Sherlock had returned ‘from the dead’ to discover that John had moved in with Mary, a woman he had met and became romantically involved with.
*****
John had been made to suffer through the faked death of his ‘best friend’ for two years, and even though Sherlock had apologized countless times, John's resentment toward Sherlock lingered into the present day.
Sherlock would never admit, even to himself, how he longed for John’s footsteps echoing through the flat, shuffling papers, brewing tea, and catching the latest shows on the telly.
*****
In the days that led up to Mary and John’s wedding, Sherlock had called David, Mary’s on-again and off-again sex partner, to Baker Street and instructed him to steer clear of Mary.
But regardless of his undertone of a threat, Sherlock recognized that the two of them were resolute in their intention to maintain the relationship.
*****
And so they were all assembled in the flat, Sherlock, David, Mary, and John.
John's fury was unmistakable, visual, and very unsettling.
Sherlock remained silent, apprehensive that John might direct his anger towards him rather than the two sniveling people.
*****
On the surface, Sherlock had demonstrated his approval of John's marriage to Mary despite being aware of her complicated past, and even assisted in coordinating the wedding arrangements.
He chose not to disclose his apprehension about Mary or his profound personal feelings concerning the man currently rampaging across the carpeted floor.
*****
As he watched John Watson at his most irrational, he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement course through his body.
With John this angry, would he leave Mary?
Would he return to Baker Street?
And so he lingered—lingered and observed as this spectacle unfolded.
*****
There was always a palpable energy that enveloped John and Sherlock whenever the two were near each other.
When John focused those blue eyes solely on Sherlock, the air crackled, which sent a tingling sensation across Sherlock’s skin.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and Sherlock’s blood quickened as every thought he had narrowed down to John, and John alone.
*****
Influenced by Sherlock's words or actions, John's eyes could radiate with an intensity similar to the sun or chill with the frigidness of Antarctica, and that singular factor could transform Sherlock’s perspective and redirect his course.
Yet, Sherlock remained unable to articulate his emotions in any sort of logical manner.
Why that was, Sherlock could not say, and no matter how hard he tried to deduce it, to use all his mental powers, no answer came to him.
*****
John suddenly swung around and directed his gaze entirely on Sherlock, which made Sherlock wince.
John opened and closed his mouth, mumbled incoherently, while his hand shot up like a rocket and his index finger trembled in the air as he pointed accusingly at Sherlock.
But just as quickly, John turned away.
Then, like a moth drawn to a flame, he faced him again, his expression a tangled web of anger and confusion.
“You knew — this,” he growled, that finger that again pointed at Sherlock, which stabbed him in the heart like a sword.
“You knew, and yet—yet,” John’s lips puckered tightly, which permitted only subdued growls to surface.
Those blue eyes shone as dark as a stormy night.
“Why didn't you — you — fuck— let me know? I'm sure you — you with your great powers of deduction, knew all about her. About her and David. This is your fault. You knew—you knew,” he struggled to speak, “and did —shit about it.”
“John, it is important to recognize that the decision was ultimately yours to make, and —”
“Shut up! Shut up! Do you think, for once, you absolute git, you could keep your damn mouth shut?”
“But you—.”
God, fucking damn you! Shut the fuck up!”
John lost control as he stomped and paraded between his wife and her lover.
*****
John redirected his focus to the visibly shaken David, who sat curled up like a pretzel, his shoulders hunched and his head buried deep between his knees.
“You— get out! Get out before I lay into you. NOW!”
David jumped up and skirted around John and Sherlock, giving them as wide a berth as possible on his way toward the door.
He not once glanced back at Mary.
His footsteps were very audible as he stumbled down the stairs toward the door leading outside.
It slammed with the finality of their relationship.
*****
Mary rose halfway up from her seat, seemingly intending to follow David, but in the end, she opted to sit back down, unable to suppress the faint sob that slipped out.
John’s face contorted in rage, and he drew so close that their faces were almost touching.
“Get up, you — you —-we're going home.”
She leaned back to avoid him, apprehensive that he might hit her, but instead, he about-faced and descended the steps without pausing for Mary or glancing back at Sherlock.
Mary followed silently, her head lowered, resting against her chest.
*****
Sherlock experienced significant disappointment upon John's departure.
He pouted as he brushed his fingers over his hair, which looked more out of control than usual, and discovered that his legs had weakened.
He just managed to move to his chair, plunging into it with no regard for where his arms and legs landed.
*****
An emotional whirlwind swept through him, leaving him utterly baffled.
He ached for someone — but not just any someone — that someone being John.
For the very first time in his life, he felt an undeniable urge to become intertwined with another soul.
And that soul had possibly left his life for good.
*****
Before John, Sherlock had not found it necessary to evaluate the circumstances surrounding his actions.
He would respond instantly and quite verbally, disregarding the other person's emotions.
Now, however, he had to restrain himself and examine his words before saying anything that John would deem inappropriate.
*****
As the days passed without a word from John, Sherlock maintained a tight grip on his emotions.
To be honest, he had no idea how human emotions functioned, so he didn't try to guess what John would do next.
And so, to prevent boredom from setting in, he contacted DI Greg Lestrade, and they both delved into the intricacies of a particularly bizarre murder case.
John, if there, would have provided his medical advice and would have vocally complimented Sherlock’s swift deductions.
In Sherlock’s mind, he kept hearing John’s voice, and it kept him on the bare edge of sanity.
*****
Sherlock concluded that John would most likely continue to work in surgery, the primary purpose being to escape his current situation.
Having to share a home with Mary would likely be too much for John, and he would look for any way out.
An innovative approach to get home late enough for Mary to be sleeping would be to work overtime or have drinks with other doctors at a local pub.
*****
Had it truly been two months, six days, and five and a half hours since Sherlock last communicated with John?
Sherlock was experiencing significant distress due to John's absence.
He missed his voice, his laugh, his eyes, his— his —everything.
*****
This situation required a definitive end, and Sherlock could conceive of only one method to elicit a response from John Watson.
A crime scene.
However, one with a distinctive quality that would grant John an edge over Sherlock, thanks to his extensive medical expertise.
*****
Sherlock dispatched a text message to DI Lestrade, infused with an extraordinary sense of urgency.
Find a case where a body has been mutilated that requires a comprehensive understanding of human anatomy. Find it NOW! It’s of the utmost urgency.
*****
It took two hours and fifteen minutes before Sherlock heard Lestrade's footsteps echo on the stairs as he walked up to the flat.
“Tell me. It had better fulfill the requirements that would be sufficient to attract John's interest,” Sherlock burst out as the Inspector calmly took a seat — John’s chair— Sherlock noted — and crossed his legs.
Sherlock eyeballed the ragged edges of Lestrade’s trousers and knew his wife had finally left him.
*****
“I have two cases. One involves a homicide that’s only two days old, and the second involves a string of jewelry thefts that all happened last night. Come in to the precinct later this afternoon, and I’ll have all the paperwork ready for you.”
Lestrade sat there, unsure of what to do, and looked for any evidence that John might have been around after the debacle had occurred.
*****
Shortly after, John had invited him out to the pub for a drink, but it turned out to be John’s drunken tirade.
On and on it went until Lestrade realized that John was on a drunk lamentation, and Lestrade grabbed him under one arm, dragged him out of the pub, and drove him home.
*****
“I imagine the homicide would best suit my purposes. Well, what are you waiting for? Go! You must have work at the Yard?” Sherlock’s voice resonated with sarcasm.
After Lestrade's footsteps had subsided, he rose and jumped up and down with excitement, clapping his hands.
He removed his mobile from his pocket.
meet me at police station in an hour. Lestrade needs help. SH
John’s answering almost at once signaled to Sherlock that he was waiting for a text —a call from him.
John: can’t. Working.
*****
Was John truly engaged in work, or was he simply using it as an excuse to evade a meeting with Sherlock?
Having no other option, Sherlock donned his coat, secured his blue wool scarf around his neck, exited the door, and called for a taxi to convey him to the police station.
*****
John put the mobile in his smock and tried to resume with the next patient.
With a deep growl, he asked his nurse to bring in Mister Fando.
He was not in the mood to continue because his mind kept pulling him back to ‘that night.’
*****
How he managed to refrain from hitting Sherlock when everything fell apart was unique because John Watson’s temper was well known.
His anger at the man knew no bounds.
It required no complex reasoning to conclude that Sherlock must have been aware of Mary’s liaisons with David from the beginning.
And had not informed him!
*****
John reached halfway into the pocket, the mobile at his fingertips, but stopped and let it drop back down.
His pride and stubbornness now prevailed, which left him without any option to reach out to Sherlock.
And so he avoided interacting with the man in order to preserve what little dignity he still had.
*****
Home by the late evening, with the three perps safely taken off the streets, Sherlock moved about the flat, the mobile always close within hearing range.
His concern for John's well-being was prominent, and even DI Lestrade observed his distraction as they worked together.
*****
Sherlock poured water into the teapot before he realized that he had poured enough for two.
He lost concentration and set the pot on the hob.
He tried to sit.
Crossed his long legs and uncrossed them and spread them wide as he sank deeper into his chair.
But then his body refused to stay still, and so he rose to pace the parlor, his thoughts concentrated on a singular focus.
John.
At this moment, was John still working?
Was he seated alongside Mary, embracing her as they watched the telly?
All forgiven?
*****
Wait!
What was that?
As he heard the door open downstairs, Sherlock experienced a surge of excitement, as his landlady, who resided on the lower floor, had been absent for several weeks.
It could only be one other person.
Only he and Doctor John Watson had the keys to the front door.
Yes, it was the sound of John's footfall on the steps, and—based on the resonance of the steps—he appeared to be bearing a considerable weight.
When John reached the top of the stairs, which was the entry to the flat, he let the two bags drop with a loud clonk and, in relief, rubbed his hands together.
*****
Sherlock's heart pounded with intensity, and he felt the blood rush to his cheeks.
Relieved to see him?
YES!
But with suitcases?
Was it possible that this indicated—?
Sherlock found himself so utterly disoriented that his powers of deduction faltered completely.
*****
John surveyed the surroundings, avoiding direct eye contact with Sherlock, and took a deep breath.
“Sherlock—can I stay —for — awhile?”
He could only respond with a silent nod, apprehensive that his voice might betray his unease.
*****
John removed his jacket and hooked it alongside Sherlock’s greatcoat on the rack.
He remained stationary, seemingly preoccupied with what to do next, his head hung low and eyes on the floor.
But then he gripped the suitcases in either hand and made his way to the steps that led to what used to be his bedroom.
He paused, turned, and said in a whisper that was barely audible to Sherlock, “Tea? Did you eat anything tonight? I could make —,” and his words hung in the air.
*****
How could he inform John that sustenance was the least desirable option for now, but the trumpeted beat of his heart kept him from a biting response.
As if John could read his mind, he took a sharp breath, “idiot. You haven’t eaten at all today, have you? I’ll make something—if there’s anything in the cupboards that’s not an experiment.”
The luggage fell to the floor again as John, head down and still steering clear of Sherlock’s gaze, stepped into the kitchen.
*****
Sherlock sat immovable but drawn in by the warm, inviting sounds from the kitchen.
It’s John!
He’s here!
Each clatter and crash resonated like harmonious music to Sherlock.
*****
Sherlock had allowed the unwashed dishes to accumulate, creating a chaotic scene on the counter and in the sink.
Sherlock caught the sound of John's frustrated sighs, cutting through the steady flow of water as he tidied up.
*****
“Not bringing anything into the parlor. Come in this kitchen to eat,” John shouted over the noise of plates clattering on the table, as the aromas enveloped Sherlock's senses.
Sherlock leaped to his feet and saw bacon, eggs, and toasted bread on the table.
The smell was wonderfully inviting, as if eager to enhance the prospect of spending time with John.
*****
“Tea is almost ready. Now sit and dig in. And—no ifs and buts. You’ll eat it all—do you hear?”
John's voice exhibited a fierce determination, particularly at this moment when his 'soldier' persona emerged, which always sent a delightful shiver down Sherlock's spine.
*****
The tea kettle emitted its shrill warble, and John took it from the hob, poured two cups, and carefully put the kettle on the metal trivet.
Sherlock eyed the meal, shot a glance at John, who had sat across from him, and then zeroed back in on the plate like it held the secrets of the universe.
Maybe it did, Sherlock decided as he heard John say very forcefully —“Eat.”
He picked up a fork and filled his mouth, but he was feeling queasy at the unknown factor— John.
*****
Somehow, John sensed his hesitation, but that didn’t stop him from hounding Sherlock.
“For fucks sake, Sherlock. I know damn well that you probably haven’t eaten a thing in days. Now,” and John brought his fork on the table with enough force to bend the tines, “EAT, DAMN YOU!
Sherlock was startled at the volume of John's voice, and without further ado, he grasped the fork and conveyed a portion of the egg to his mouth.
Every morsel posed a challenge, yet he persevered until the plate was empty.
John had finished long before but waited, his fingers drumming impatiently.
As soon as Sherlock set his fork down on his empty plate, John wasted no time gathering all the dishes and turned toward the sink to wash them.
*****
Sherlock sensed John’s dismissal of him without John having to voice it and took off into the parlor.
Sherlock felt super jittery, like a mouse as it crept up to a trap with the smell of cheese so tempting, but waiting for that thing to snap.
He tried to enter his mind palace to find something to concentrate on, but his concentration centered around the person clanking dishes in the kitchen.
*****
John strolled into the parlor while he was still wiping his hands with a white dish towel.
Sherlock inwardly smiled when he remembered the fuss that John made after finding a sickly green spot on one.
As soon as he learned that Sherlock had been using them to eliminate hazardous substances from various locations and items in the kitchen, he went out and purchased two white ones with blue stripes.
He announced loudly that these were to only to be used exclusively
—and he emphasized that word—for wiping their dishes and such.
*****
John looked around and then stepped back into the kitchen.
Was it to confirm that Sherlock hadn't simply vanished?
Sherlock remained silent, deep in contemplation, and his mind swirled with thoughts as though it were a stormy sea.
*****
John reentered the parlor without the towel and slowly proceeded toward his suitcases, which were still near the steps.
He turned to look at Sherlock and quietly said, “I’m taking my stuff upstairs to my room, that is, if you haven’t cluttered it with your junk.”
“No. It’s just — it’s good,” were the first words that stumbled out of his mouth, but not what he intended to say.
What he was going to state was that he had changed nothing in the hopes that John would return, but that would have given John the impression that Sherlock did want him back.
And he did!
But could he actually voice that —at this moment?
He felt uncertain about what was appropriate to express, so he opted for minimal words, simply stating, “It’s good.”
That statement may not have conveyed the intended message effectively, but it was for the best —he hoped.
*****
Sherlock had to wait until late evening to hear John's quiet, barefoot footsteps descending the stairs.
Sherlock was lying on the sofa and turned to catch a glimpse of John.
He was still in possession of those faded blue striped pajamas from those early years, and now his hair was disheveled from his recent shower.
John shifted from one leg to another, defensive in his stance, and extended his tongue to lick his lower lip.
“Did you—never mind, I know the answer,” and shuffled to the kitchen.
*****
Sherlock rose, took hold of his laptop, and settled into his chair with his legs splayed open.
He was attired in a blue silk robe layered over blue trousers, and balanced his laptop somewhat unsteadily on his knees.
He inhaled the scent of John's shampoo and smiled to himself because —that’s John.
That scent brought back memories of better days.
*****
There were rattling sounds from the kitchen, and John entered the parlor with the tray full of two teacups, the sugar bowl, and a platter of Sherlock’s favorite biscuits.
It was placed on the coffee table with a flourish as if John had to force himself not to show his anger.
“You will have something,” was John’s only words, and it was more a demand than a request.
Sherlock decided it was best not to argue, and despite his desire to avoid eating, he bent over and began to indulge in the idea of—John.
*****
John took the teacup and two of the biscuits in his hand, and as he sat, he uttered, “You know, since I walked in here, you’ve hardly said a word to me –about anything. Don’t you have questions?”
Sherlock observed the palpable tension in the air, which mirrored his feelings, as he contemplated whether John was aware of his hesitation to engage in conversation.
He was apprehensive that, should he articulate the wrong sentiment or express it improperly, John might pick up and go.
*****
Sherlock contemplated what John expected him to say.
He recognized that this was not the appropriate time to demonstrate his deductive abilities.
He knew John had desired Mary, and Sherlock was under no circumstances going to undermine that.
John might defend Mary to the bitter end.
Knowing and being aware of Mary's infidelity from the outset, Sherlock kept this knowledge to himself.
Let John find out through other means, he had decided.
*****
With his gaze lowered, Sherlock felt his heart beat faster as he observed his flatmate resume his customary position in what was ‘his chair’ —as though he had never been absent.
*****
This specific moment, this particular time, could represent a crucial turning point for them, and if Sherlock were to mishandle this situation, he would find it impossible to forgive himself.
Consequently, he needed to proceed with caution.
In both actions and expressions.
Enjoy this precious period of time and count your blessings!
*****
Sherlock reasoned that the most prudent course of action was to ask a nonsensical question.
It was nonsensical because he was already aware of the answer.
“Are you still working at surgery?”
John snickered, “Wow! That was the last thing I expected out of your mouth. But yes, I am. And because you’re itching to ask, I'll tell you that I'm currently in the process of getting a divorce from Mary.”
*****
Relief settled in Sherlock's stomach.
But the main question was the one he was itching to ask and afraid to ask, yet it lingered just on the edge of his tongue.
‘John, would you be moving in —here — if you leave Mary?’
*****
“Let me tidy up, and then we can talk. Sound good?” John said, his tone still frosty.
Sherlock's stomach did a little somersault, and suddenly, that little bit of food he had eaten seemed to question his choice.
What could that mean?
A talk?
What were they going to talk about?
Or— actually —what was it that John wanted to talk about?
*****
Sherlock couldn’t decide what to do as he heard John puttering in the kitchen, so he stood and moved to the window to stare at —nothingness.
When it came to John, Sherlock found him to be unique and unlike anyone else he had met in all his adult years.
Someone capable of reaching his heart.
John had quickly filled two spacious chambers in his brain, which he referred to as his mind palace.
All of his distinct smells, giggles, outbursts of rage, and especially —those unexpected looks he gave Sherlock.
The allure was as compelling as a heroin shot and provided a comparable high, which left a unique afterglow that set it apart from the experience of any drug he had taken.
*****
Sherlock observed that during specific instances when they were alone, particularly following a pursuit or in moments of stillness, John seemed to harbor similar feelings yet chose to conceal them.
Concerned that if he brought it up, John would bolt like a cheetah to avoid confronting the possibility that there might be —.
*****
When Sherlock was being condescending and insulting, John would instantly assume a military posture, hands clasped behind his back and feet slightly apart.
It was John's way of showing his quiet dissatisfaction, and so, not wanting to incur his disapproval, Sherlock would promptly stop.
*****
But it was those times when his blue eyes would exhibit a glint of wry amusement at Sherlock’s eccentricities that, unbeknownst to John, Sherlock would cave and become like a marshmallow.
Soft and pillowy.
*****
Time seemed to slip away as Sherlock sat in his chair, legs tucked beneath him and hands clasped under his chin, lost in thought.
The world around him faded, and he was adrift in a sea of contemplation.
“O—kay, John,” Sherlock expressed himself with a hint of uncertainty, contemplating whether to stand or continue to sit
as John stepped back to the parlor.
“You know, never mind,” John said and shook his head, appearing uncertain about his next step.
“I think I’ll get dressed and take a walk. We need some supplies, so I'll stop at Tesco’s.”
He put on his coat and stepped out the door, offering no further conversation or glance toward Sherlock.
*****
It appeared that John was exhibiting a degree of hesitation regarding this 'talk.’
Sherlock contemplated whether he ought to apply his analytical skills to discern the subtleties of John's talk.'
Would it be possible that John might experience pressure and opt to depart instead of responding?
Sherlock sat, contemplating intensely, yet without any clear direction to go.
His mind palace refused to come up with a suitable answer because, as always, John was not easy to read.
Sherlock understood that the presence of two suitcases indicated his unexpressed wish to move back in with Sherlock.
Or was it merely the desire to escape from Mary, and 221B Baker Street was just a convenient location?
*****
Eventually, nature called him to the loo, and when he returned to the parlor, the brown bags of Tesco were on the coffee table.
John’s hair was encrusted with silvery droplets of water, and with an almost apologetic look, he said, “It’s raining out again, so I cut my walk short.”
“Let me help you,” Sherlock advanced toward the bags, utterly unaware of John's eyes and mouth widening in surprise.
“You’ll do what?”
“You heard me. I don’t repeat myself.”
Sherlock grabbed a bag in his arm and trotted into the kitchen before John could move.
“Wait, wait,” John huffed as he hoisted the last bag and dramatically dropped it onto the kitchen table beside Sherlock’s array of scientific gadgets.
“Why, all of a sudden, have you decided to help? Usually, you wouldn’t even bat an eye when I brought in the groceries,” he chuckled.
*****
John crossed his arms and beamed mischievously as he watched Sherlock endeavoring to unravel the mystery of where each grocery item belonged.
“Some things really do change, don’t they, John? The winds of time sweep through our lives, bringing new experiences and lessons to learn. Change is the only constant, and we must embrace it with open arms as it shapes our journey in this grand adventure we call life.”
“Oh, do shut up, Sherlock. Your pontificating is over the top.”
*****
Sherlock removed a carton of milk and eyed it curiously while he weighed whether to place it on the upper shelf or the door of the refrigerator.
Sherlock pressed on, utterly unfazed by John's words,“ Isn’t it fascinating how everything evolves, yet some things remain timeless? Truly, change is the heartbeat of existence!”
With a heavy heart and a resigned sigh, John couldn't help but acknowledge that Sherlock was, unmistakably, still Sherlock.
John extended his hand and gently tapped the door shelf, where, at last, Sherlock placed the container, but not without a sprinkling of sighs.
*****
John nudged Sherlock gently with his shoulder, a playful gesture that spoke volumes.
“Here. Let me finish up,” and began pulling foodstuffs out of the bags, pausing to flash Sherlock a charming smile.
It lit up the room for Sherlock.
No!
It was the spark that ignited his whole world!
*****
“All this trying to help is because you want me to cook dinner, isn’t it? That’s your motivation for the assistance. Or wait—you’re bored, aren’t you?”
“Come now, John. My motives are pure and simple. I want to help. Please don't let my incredible vulnerability persuade you in any direction.”
John turned to look at Sherlock, his mouth open and sniffled, “You incredible twat. Your vulnerability, indeed.”
Without another word spoken by either, John finished, folded the bags, and placed them in the bottom cabinet.
John stepped into the parlor, and Sherlock followed closely behind as he experienced a sense of dislocation akin to that of a child in an unfamiliar setting.
Why was John here?
What was he about?
*****
John tried to school his facial muscles into a neutral expression, all the time acutely aware that Sherlock was waiting for him to speak.
Sherlock’s fingers tapped against the chair armrest, which he had unglamorously plopped into, and his eyes moved restlessly to look anywhere but at John.
John parted his lips to speak, but silence enveloped him, and he found himself at a loss for words.
Sherlock wondered if he should initiate.
Should he initiate?
Or —should he wait for John?
*****
“I did say we’d talk, so let’s do that,” as John picked up the Union Jack pillow that still sat in what once was ‘his chair.’
After shaking it and fluffing it, he placed it on the chair and sat down with it behind his back, and crossed his legs.
He bit his lip, worrying it with his tongue, and coughed.
*****
Unable to maintain composure, Sherlock stood and began to move methodically back and forth between his chair and the window, fearing what would happen and wondering how to halt what he believed was the inevitable.
His right hand continually navigated through his already tousled curls, oblivious to the fact that he was engaging in this action.
*****
“Sherlock. What the hell is the matter with you? You’re acting so — I don’t know —so not yourself! For god’s sake, sit down! I don’t know what’s going through that big brain of yours — but SIT DOWN.”
The volume of John's voice startled Sherlock, and it increased his discomfort so much so that when he tried to sit, he teetered on the edge and nearly toppled to the floor.
Righting himself into his leather chair, he was determined to what—?
*****
John huffed, “Sit straight. Damn you! You have as much self-control as a skittish kitten. Can’t understand what—oh, never mind. For god’s sake, Sherlock! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
*****
And then there was a complete lack of sound.
A deep silence.
Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge to break the ice.
To do what he did well, and that was —.
Wait a minute!
No!
He would refrain from making any witty comments or provocative assumptions because, truthfully, whatever he might say might trigger an unwelcome retort from John.
He had to allow John the opportunity to articulate his thoughts first.
*****
The oppressive quiet felt like a dense fog that hovered in the air.
Silent except for the distant noise from outside.
Silent except for the tick-tock of the big clock on the wall.
*****
In that instance, Sherlock recalled a once distant feeling.
A loneliness that he never knew had surrounded him, and now it forced him to confront and remember the gaping chasm that was his life before the arrival of Doctor John Watson.
So any wrong done now—any sharp or witty reply from him might be so detrimental as to remove John from his life again—permanently.
*****
John's mouth felt parched, and his heart raced like a runaway train headed in a direction he couldn’t fathom.
It seemed as though the whole universe had hit the pause button, suspended, as it eagerly awaited his words to break the silence.
As the agitation began to take hold of him, he became restless and stood up, made his way to the window, then proceeded to the desk, where he took up a pen and then dropped it.
He sensed that this was the most pivotal moment in his life, and if he were to be completely honest with himself — it truly was.
He had no idea how to approach the subject of —them.
After what seemed like an endless stretch of time and agony, John let out a deep groan and sank back into his seat.
*****
Sherlock was acutely aware that John was about to say something very intense, and his mind formed the only conclusion he could draw under the circumstances.
John would, in his inimitable way with words, voice his profound discontent with Sherlock’s methodology concerning the circumstances surrounding Mary.
Sherlock surmised that John would declare his intention to sever all communication with him.
His guilt settled deep into his stomach, curled around his intestines, and threatened to swallow him up.
Go ahead, John Hamish Watson, Sherlock thought, get it over with.
His chest felt so constricted that it left him breathless.
Get it over with.
Raise your voice and put an end to any possibility of happiness in my life.
*****
John's lips moved in a futile attempt to speak, yet it seemed like an invisible barrier stifled his voice.
He couldn't utter a single syllable.
Despite his best efforts to prepare for this speech by rehearsing it over and over again, it all of a sudden felt like his brain was jumbled, and his tongue had disappeared down his throat.
*****
Sherlock found himself in a challenging position, as it was always his need to interject—to show off his ability to deduce any situation.
But what he was deducing right now was — nothing!
He was unable to interpret John's unease or the non-verbal moans that escaped his lips.
All he could comprehend was that — in this moment — within these four walls — his life would be turned upside down forever.
*****
Sherlock knew he had no choice but to accept whatever John offered, whether it involved an infrequent dinner together or an occasional chase of a nefarious villain through the bustling streets of London.
It was John's decision to make, and this silence just intensified the situation.
*****
John cleared his throat once, twice, and consistently enough for Sherlock to see that he was going to attempt to construct complete sentences rather than mere fragments.
“Sherlock. I’m so fucking mad at you, you know. You fucked me up royally,” his growl now tamed, but his eyes refused direct contact.
*****
As was his customary way, Sherlock could not refrain from contradicting even at this darkest of moments, and he opened his mouth to speak.
But John was quicker and raised his hand, “NO. No, you —. Let me talk first. I need to finish this, then you can—if I see any reasoning in it—have your say.”
*****
Silence!
Deep as the Marianus Trench in the ocean —silence.
High as the Himalayan mountains —silence!
The silence deepened as darkness enveloped the outside world, and neither would break the stillness by activating the lamps.
*****
Once again, Sherlock could hear John clearing his throat, but now the darkness obscured John's face, which prompted Sherlock to lean forward and pull the chain on the lamp situated on the tiny round table alongside his chair.
Although the illumination was minimal, it was enough to cast shadows and give him a glimpse of John’s outline.
It was enough to see John’s tongue wiping his bottom lip, a clear sign of his unease.
*****
Sherlock detected a subtle chuckle as John said, “You’re an idiot, you know. From the beginning, you knew. You knew this thing between us. You knew, but —.”
Sherlock was on the verge of articulating his thoughts when John interjected, and his words caught Sherlock off guard.
“You and I had— something special together. Something from the very day we met. But, you damn git, you fucked it up when you jumped from Barts, you know —and— and — well, it’s taken me quite a while—and lots of therapy, you know — until I finally forgave you—well, mostly. Yeah, mostly.”
*****
Silence again!
Big as the cosmos —silence!
John pressed his lips together and inhaled deeply, releasing the breath as he simultaneously delivered a slap to his knee.
In the eerie hush, that sound cut like a hot knife through butter, which made Sherlock bounce in his seat.
*****
It was clear to Sherlock that nothing he had ever experienced before could compare to this sensation.
It was a —feeling—nothing intuitive —but it resonated deeply within his essence—his heart—and it was both dreadful and magnificent!
At which point in his history had he experienced such a profound sense of unease regarding the potential presence of another individual in his life?
Never!
*****
“Are you with me, Sherlock? Thinking about a case, are you? Forgot I’m here, right? You damn —!”
Sherlock snapped back to reality and promptly replied, “No, John. No! I look forward to your response with great interest.”
“Cut the bullshit, Sherlock. I know you well enough by now.”
“No, no, John. Kindly proceed.”
No, Sherlock contemplated — you are unaware of this transformed version of myself that fervently yearns to proclaim my love for you, but is unable for fear of your response.
*****
John leaned forward, as if to underscore the words that were about to come from him.
“So, since this bit, you know, this thing with Mary, I’ve finally got it through my thick head, which, by the way, can be just as dense as yours.”
John noticed Sherlock's smirk, and he let out a sigh as he realized that Sherlock was —Sherlock.
*****
“You know —this is no joke! So just quit trying to anticipate or deduce what I’m going to say, okay?” and let out another sigh.
This was Sherlock Holmes after all.
The most narcissistic, most melodramatic man he’s ever known.
*****
Sherlock lowered his head, at a loss for suitable words of apology, and just waited for John to speak.
However, John was utterly clueless about how to proceed.
He was surprised by how difficult this was turning out to be.
He had rehearsed and rehearsed this meeting over and over.
Couldn’t let things go wrong.
Not this time.
*****
Once more, the unending silence appeared, and to Sherlock it was like a precursor to impending disaster.
The silence was so profound that Sherlock could discern every breath John took, observe the movements of his lips as he opened and closed his mouth.
He contemplated with dread the implications of the stream of words that surely would follow.
His existence teetered on the edge of this silence.
*****
John's left hand moved across his face, despite the absence of any moisture, and with another sigh, he stated, “I now see how you honestly believed that keeping me in the dark about Mary and David was in my best interest. And also—I now know that you —that you were —for once in your life—not going to interfere by spouting, out loud, those damn deductions you always manage to do. Soooo,” breathing in audibly and exhaling just as strongly, “Sherlock Holmes. I forgive you. But, you know, you’re still an asshole,” as he pointed a finger at Sherlock and chuckled.
*****
In a tiny yet significant way, Sherlock felt a sense of relief wash over him as he accepted that John wasn’t ready to sever ties completely, at least not just yet.
John rose to his feet, and as he turned on the lights, Sherlock couldn't help but notice that he swayed a little before settling down on the couch.
“Do, do you want to watch telly with me?” His voice betrayed his lack of conviction as he asked.
*****
Was that all?
No other declarations but— ‘do you want to watch telly?’
Sherlock was now bewildered.
Was that really everything John had to say?
And if that was the case, what was he doing now?
*****
“John —I —will —how?”
Sherlock faltered in his speech as he stumbled over his tongue.
John chuckled heartily and gave the cushion beside him a friendly pat, as if he was inviting warmth and camaraderie back into the air.
“Come sit next to me. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
In response to those words, John lowered his head and retreated behind the comfortable shell of shyness he had developed over the years.
The situation had become slightly more personal than he intended.
*****
“Before we turn on the telly, let me say —well— I’d like to move back in. If— if you’ll have me. This is not a last resort, you know. I can always get myself a little place. But I thought, well, if you could still use a flatmate. To share expenses, I mean. I’d gladly be here.”
*****
Sherlock had scarcely risen from his chair when he collapsed back into it, as if the weight of his unbelief anchored him down.
He couldn’t even blink an eyelid, but sat —still —unmoving.
He had misheard— he knew he had.
Was John requesting a return to 221B?
*****
In his need for certainty, Sherlock rose slowly to his feet and sat nervously beside John, avoiding eye contact out of fear.
Fear of rejection.
“Are you implying that you want to permanently reside at 221B — with me?” in such an uncertain way that it astonished even Sherlock.
John extended his hand to cover Sherlock’s and then firmly grasped it.
“ Colleagues, partners —or, Sherlock Holmes — whatever, we want it to be, I’ll be here —with you.”