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Six months, two days and forty four minutes after his return to Baker Street and Sherlock had very nearly met his maker for real, again. He glanced surreptitiously, at the man sharing the cab ride home, a deep and unexpected feeling of foreboding washed over him, making his breath still for a moment.
If he hadn’t stepped around that corner in time, if he hadn’t seen the glint of sharp metal in the half light, if he hadn’t gotten between the knife and John.
He didn’t know what to do with these thoughts. He didn’t know how to feel these feelings but they were there, deep and sharp and intense and no matter how much he told himself that sentiment was a weakness, he could not make them stop.
John was mad. Sherlock didn’t need his deductive skills to know this. It was all in plain sight. The tightness of the jawline, the clenching and un-clenching of the fists, the slight bouncing of the right knee and the fact that John was stubbornly refusing to look anywhere except out of the cab’s window.
What had John expected him to do, just stand there and let his only friend be sliced open, wouldn’t John have done exactly the same for him? Sherlock was fine after all, one of the advantages to a good wool coat was that even the sharpest of blades had a hard time getting all the way through. Sherlock slipped a hand under his coat, to his left side. Not even bleeding anymore, didn’t even need stitches, just a simple dressing, it’ll be gone in a week or two.
The cab pulled up and John tossed some notes at the driver as he climbed out, Sherlock followed more slowly, apprehensive of the berating he was fully expecting to get once inside.
Seventeen steps up and John rounded on him. “What the hell did you think you were doing Sherlock?”
Sherlock frowned but before he could reply with his usual offhanded response John was talking again.
“I can’t lose you again Sherlock, I just can’t.” John voice was low, roughened with emotion.
“I know.”
It was John’s turn to frown, his confusion plain in his face. It said ‘What no flippant, offhand comment, no sarcastic denial of feelings?’
“I was right you know.” Sherlock continued “Sentiment is a weakness found on the losing side.” He turned, discarding his coat and paced back and forth slowly. “Except once again you ….you show me there is an exception to every rule.”
John watched the detective silhouetted against the window, his mouth slightly agape.
“Don’t you see.” Sherlock tone was turning agitated, angry even. “I know because I can’t lose you either. It’s frustrating, annoying, confusing, debilitating. I want to tear my hair out, scream at you to leave me be and yet the thought of you not being here ….” He shook his head, ground his teeth and turned away.
The light was fading, Baker Street below was slipping into shadow. Sherlock watched the light fade, at once hoping and dreading that John would say something. Would this friendship fade like the light, would his only friend disappear into shadow, had he revealed too much?
Sherlock started at the touch. It was a light, warm touch, a hand on his shoulder. He turned slowly, his eyes wide and fearful. John was looking up at him, a strange expression on his face. For a moment Sherlock recoiled, he couldn’t bear pity from this man but something in John’s eyes stopped him. John’s hand was moving up to his face, cupping his cheek gently. He had never been touched like this, was this affection?
John was moving up, rising on his toes, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. John’s lips, warm and unexpectedly soft, pressed into the edge of Sherlock’s mouth. For a split second Sherlock froze before that magnificent brain shut down and let his heart take over. His hands rising, arms encircling, Sherlock leaned down. He fell head long into that kiss, letting himself go completely.
As Sherlock’s brain spluttered and sparked back to life, panic bloomed and he slipped, arms still encircling John, down to his knees. A soft sigh escaping his lips, in relief, as he felt gentle fingers pushing into his hair.