Work Text:
John closes his eyes from his position on his armchair, wincing as another loud crash emerges from the kitchen. He sips his tea, willing himself to ignore whatever Sherlock is up to, hoping that maybe if he does, the situation will somehow resolve itself. It's Christmas Eve and he's been run off his feet with work, helping with cases and preparing for he and Rosie's second Christmas back at Baker Street. The first had been a nice, if not slightly quiet affair, but now that Rosie was older, John was realising how much effort went into creating "christmas magic". To his surprise, Sherlock had also thrown himself into the spirit of the season, but there was a slightly manic edge to the way he was going about it, as though his very life depended on it. John has to admit that the flat looks very festive, all ready for the small gathering they're hosting Christmas afternoon that has become something of a tradition.
His carefully laid out plan to leave Sherlock be is destroyed in the next moment when there's another loud crash and this time the unmistakable sound of something smashing. He heaves himself to his feet with a sigh, making his way to the source of the noise, Sherlock now uttering a string of curse words. John can now smell burning, never a good sign.
"Sherlock, whatever you're doing, do you think could you keep the racket down to a dull roar? Rosie's just gone down for her nap and I..." he says as he enters the kitchen, but the rest of his rant dies on his tongue as he surveys the scene before him.
He's not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't Sherlock (along with most of the kitchen) covered in flour and icing sugar, fanning burnt sugar cookies and looking so defeated that John can't bring himself to be truly cross about the mess. Sherlock puts down the hot tray with another curse, automatically putting a burnt finger in his mouth.
John scrambles to tidy the smashed glass then helps Sherlock dust off his flour covered shirt and reaches up to rustle his black curls, shaking out
a small dusting of flour. His eyes travel over Sherlock's face and he reaches out with a grin.
"You have powdered sugar on your nose."
Their eyes meet as John brushes it away gently and John tries not to blush as he pulls his hand back and wipes it on a nearby tea towel.
"Is your hand okay?" he asks softly, and Sherlock extends his hand for inspection.
John examines it for a moment, determining that it's not serious, thankfully, and directing Sherlock to run it under the cold water of the tap. As Sherlock tends to his pink skin, John can’t help but notice that he looks sad and somewhat defeated.
"What's all this about then, hey? You know we could have just bought some cookies," John asks quietly, gesturing to the multiple batches of cookies (some burnt, some not) and the mess around them.
"Not that I don't appreciate the effort," he quickly adds, noticing how Sherlock's shoulders have slumped even further.
"I thought making cookies from scratch is what you do at Christmas," he replies with a shrug.
John doesn't reply, sensing there's more that Sherlock wants to say.
"I just...wanted everything to be perfect. For Rosie. And you. After all, who knows if you'll even be here next year."
He says the last bit quietly, a slight blush creeping across his cheeks. John is baffled, not just by Sherlock's obvious awkwardness but also the words themselves.
"Why would we...why wouldn't we be here next year?"
Sherlock looks down at the flow of water from the tap, refusing to meet John's eyes.
"Well I mean, this...arrangement...you and Rosie living here...it's obviously not going to be forever," he states, clearly trying hard to keep his tone even and emotionless.
"It's not?" John asks, still confused and now also a little bit hurt.
Sherlock says nothing and still won't look at John, so John scrambles to put the pieces together himself.
"Look, I know it must have been a huge adjustment going from living alone to living with grieving widower and a baby. And I want you to know that I really appreciate everything you've done and the effort you’ve made. But I understand if you don't want this forever. I know it's...a lot."
Sherlock looks up and now it's his turn to look confused.
"It's not that, John. It's been...wonderful having you and Rosie here."
At this John feels a blooming warmth in amongst the sudden panic that this conversation has brought on.
"But I know one day, you’ll start dating again and you'll meet someone you connect with and then you'll leave and Rosie will have a new mother and -"
"Sherlock, hey," John interrupts, gently placing a hand on Sherlock's arm.
Sherlock finally looks up at John and his expression makes John's heart ache. He's trying so hard to conceal his hurt with a careful mask, but John has known him for far too long and far too well to be deceived.
"I'm not...going anywhere, okay? And I'm not interested in dating anytime soon, trust me," he assures Sherlock.
Sherlock says nothing, back to examining his own hand, still under the running water of the tap.
"I...I'm sorry that I made you feel like this was temporary. Or that I don't appreciate you and everything you've done for me and Rosie," John says softly.
And it's true - Sherlock has been nothing short of wonderful these past 18 or so months - supporting John with childcare and everything else that goes into running a functional household. John never would have thought him so capable and thoughtful but would freely admit that he'd been thoroughly proven wrong, and was immensely grateful. The thought of not living here, of he and Sherlock going their seperate ways and John shacking up with some random woman was not just unappealing but actively upsetting.
"Thank you for saying that, John. But I assure you that this isn't about my feelings, it's about logic. I'm simply being realistic that this could well be our last Christmas together. At least here at Baker Street."
John's heart hurts again at that, but it feels imperative that Sherlock knows he's not about to just up and abandon him.
"I'm just not...interested...in the slightest...in dating," John insists, feeling himself start to sweat even though the room isn't particularly warm.
But Sherlock just nods, as though that makes sense.
"Because of Mary?" he asks softly, meeting John's eyes with something akin to empathy.
John clears his throat. It's been over two years since Mary passed but it still stings when he hears her name, and he reminds himself that this is normal and okay.
"Yes, I suppose because of Mary," he replies, nodding.
And Sherlock nods too, accepting this. So John doesn't know why he says the next part.
"And because of you," he blurts out before his brain can stop him.
Sherlock's eyes snap up to his, surprise clouding his features, before forcing his expression back into the mask.
"John, I know I've not exactly made things easy when you've dated in the past but I assure you in future -"
"It's not just that, Sherlock," John interrupts.
"Well, what then?"
John clears his throat again, his face growing red and the back of his neck prickling.
"Your hand is probably okay now," he says, turning off the running water and checking Sherlock's burn, which is looking far less angry.
But Sherlock won't be so easily distracted.
"What, John?" he asks firmly, and John suddenly wants the floor to open up and swallow him.
"It's just that...I'm not...that is...I can't bring myself to be interested in anyone when you're here being all...brilliant and fascinating and...looking like...well...like that..."
John trails off with a vague gesture at Sherlock's bewildered face and feels utterly mortified. Why did he say that? He's supposed to keep thoughts like that strictly in his head! Sherlock looks lost. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, opens it again.
"Looking like...what?"
Sherlock's expression reminds John of what feels like a lifetime ago when he used to poke fun of Sherlock for his prominent cheekbones and the way he'd turn his coat collar up to look mysterious. John sighs and runs a hand over his red face.
"Forget it. I shouldn't have...please just forget it."
There's a moment of silence between them and John can practically see the cogs turning in Sherlock's mind as he struggles to understand. He seems to slowly recover, wiping his hand with the tea towel and turning to the mess of a kitchen.
"Well, aside from...all of that. I know you have...needs," he presses, and now he sounds embarrassed, but apparently determined to continue.
"Needs that I can't meet."
They briefly make eye contact and there's a blaze of heat that takes John's breath away. But then Sherlock's attention is back on clearing up the dishes and he says the next part so quietly that John has to strain to hear him.
"Because I'm not, you know, a...woman."
John sighs again, stepping forward to help Sherlock with the clean up.
"Sherlock, it's not..."
He pauses, unsure of what he should or shouldn't say. God, why is this so difficult?
"It's not that," he finally admits.
Sherlock's eyes snap back up to his and John would swear he looks hopeful, if he didn't know better.
"I know you're not...interested in relationships. And I'd never want to...put that kind of pressure on you," John says softly.
Sherlock says nothing for several long moments, brain going offline as John had seen it do several times before, notably when he'd asked Sherlock to be his best man.
John cleans. And waits.
Sherlock seems to come back to himself, closing his eyes as his brain works frantically to put together the pieces. Finally, he seems to arrive at a conclusion, his eyes flying open and lips forming a perfect "oh". He slowly steeples his fingers under his chin, in a gesture that's become more than familar to John, if not still slightly irritating, and surveys John carefully, his expression light.
"You're interested in a physical relationship with me," he states bluntly, and John almost chokes on his own saliva.
Undeterred, Sherlock says "if I were willing."
John feels his chest tightening, heart hammering. Sherlock was never meant to know about this and John is furious with himself for saying too much. And, let's be honest, also a bit embarrassed.
"Don't be embarrassed, John," Sherlock says matter-of-factly, and John almost rolls his eyes.
But then Sherlock is standing close to him, taking John’s hand in his larger one. John looks up, heart in his throat, and sees that Sherlock's expression has softened.
"I am, in fact, willing. To try, at least."
John can't believe what he's hearing, but before he even has time to process his words, Sherlock is leaning toward him with a very clear intention. And John longs to give in and close the gap between them, taking what he's wanted for such a long time.
"Sherlock, I can't," he says quietly, agonised.
Sherlock pulls back, looking horrified.
"Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to misread-"
Panic fills John - the last thing he wants is for Sherlock to think John's rejecting him.
"Sherlock!" he exclaims, stopping the other man's panic in its tracks.
"It's not that I don't want to. God, you have no idea how many times I've thought about this exact scenario..."
Sherlock's lip quirks and he steeples his fingers again.
"But?"
John sighs.
"But...what if it doesn’t work out between us? I can't...lose you, Sherlock. Not again."
And his chest constricts again at the thought, but then Sherlock's warm hand has found his again and it's hard to think of anything else.
"You're right," Sherlock says softly.
"There is a chance that it won’t work out. So we deal with and move past it, like we always do. But what if it does? What if we could have everything we never knew we always wanted?"
John looks up at Sherlock and his eyes are so genuine and warm that all of John's protests are starting to melt away. He strokes down Sherlock's arm with his free hand and Sherlock steps a fraction of an inch closer. John's hand comes to rest on Sherlock's chest and it's warm and sturdy and everything he wants.
"It's still...a big risk," he ventures, his voice no more than a whisper.
And now they're standing impossibly close and John's eyes are on Sherlock's lips and licking his own lips.
"Could be dangerous," Sherlock murmurs back, closing the space between them but giving John one last chance to protest.
John doesn't, and their lips meet, slow and tentative but sweet. John carefully moves his mouth against Sherlock's, revelling in how soft and perfect and plush his lips feel. A thrill of pleasure shoots up John's spine as he nudges Sherlock's lips open and Sherlock grants him entrance with a soft hum of contentment. They practically melt into each other, Sherlock clearly lacking in experience but following John's lead and learning remarkably quickly. They break apart breathlessly, John taking Sherlock's face in his hands and stroking sharp cheekbones with his thumb. Sherlock's arms are around John and he's never felt so warm and content and safe.
"Oh Sherlock, this is..."
He trails off, not even sure how to articulate the huge wave of emotions crashing over him.
"The best Christmas present I've ever had," he finishes, somewhat lamely.
He knows it's corny as hell, but it's true. And the next day when their little chosen family come over and share drinks and festivities and exchange knowing smiles because it's oh-so-obvious what's gone on between them, neither John nor Sherlock can bring themselves to care.