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“If this is what you need, I'm willing to do that for you. Be that person for you.” Sherlock's long fingers danced around the table, quivering slightly as they made the decision to reach out against the clasped hands of the man across from him.
“Soo yoouu don't. Want to go out?” John drew out his words slowly, as his eyes danced over his partner's face. The extended touch shivered up John's arm as he withdrew his hands from the table fiercely. His hands folded neatly in his lap, one thumb scratching over the nail of the other.
“John, this isn't about me. You know what I want.” Sherlock stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I thought I knew what you wanted when you said ‘Yes I’d like to date you.’-"John bobbed his head from right to left as he spoke. His eyebrows fought for control of his forehead as his face contorted into confusion and anger. “But apparently not!” John finished, his voice rising in his throat. John coughed down the frustration as he scanned the restaurant for witnesses.
“You’re upset with me, yes?” Sherlock questioned, his voice as level as ever.
“Great deduction there.” John mumbled.
“Is it something I did? Is the restaurant not good enough? I mean the chicken was-”
“Jesus.” John breathed quietly. His lack of understanding infuriated John but at the same time he enjoyed how out of his element Sherlock was. He took some twisted pleasure in watching Sherlock scramble for John's affection, as John had so often in the past. “Sherlock. Do you like going out with me?” John asked.
“I like making you happy.” He nodded.
“Thats not fair.” John whispered, shaking his head slightly as he picked at the remainder of his meal with his fork. “You KNOW that's not what I mean.” He grumbled down into the face of the lightly decorated plate. “You know that's not what I mean, Sherlock.” He repeated with more confidence as he met the striking blue eyes of his date. “I don't want to go out with someone who doesn't want to go out with me. Simple as that.”
“I do want to go out with you, because you want to go out with me.” He spelled out as if John wasn't getting the concept. The more John understood the more stupid he felt- stupid for ever thinking Sherlock would be interested in him, the way he was in Sherlock.
“Do you. want. a romantic relationship with me?” He asked.
“I- I know you need that. To be happy. And well, I understand that you are romantically interested in me. I don't mind fulfilling that need for you. I don't want to see you have to settle or struggle or be upset. I'm trying to prioritize and preserve your joy. It not only makes life easier, but it makes me happier when you are happy. I enjoy being the person that brings that to your life. Do you understand?” He explained.
“That. is selfish.” John cleared his throat. “You don't like me but you can't stand to see me move on or be happy with someone else? That's selfish. And whatever this is, isn't going to work out.” John straightened in his seat and glanced around for a waiter to bring the check.
“What is selfish is you not wanting to date me because I want to please you.” Sherlock scoffed. “No, I don't particularly enjoy dates, or physical touch, or public displays of affection, or many other things a relationship entails but I'm willing to do those things for you.”
“I want to find someone who does like those things, Sherlock. Who is physically and romantically attracted to me. Not just platonic. I want to know that they love me the way I love them. I don't want to feel like loving me is a chore for you.” John's eye caught a waiter turning the corner of another table.
“John, It’s not-”
“Check please.” John nodded to the woman who had been flagged down. She gave a kind smile and chirped ‘of course, right away!’ before continuing her efficient stride around the restaurant.
“John.” Sherlock sighed, as if trying to bargain with him.
“Do you need a to-go box for that?” John waved his hand towards Sherlock's food without making eye contact. His hands shuffled around the table as he consolidated his side of the table.
“John!” Sherlock said with a little more vigour, scoffing at John's childish behavior.
“Ill see you tomorrow when the agency opens.” John stated, crumpling up his straw wrapper.
“John, just listen.”
“It's alright Sherlock, seriously. We’re alright. I'm upset, but it's alright that this didn't work out. We'll still be friends. We'll still be partners. Just drop it.” He assured Sherlock, no matter how much he didn't want to.
Sherlock nodded with a hum. He turned a piece of his food over with a fork. Sherlock found himself profoundly at a lack for words. He had never been so compliant and quiet when asked. It was baffling.
Eventually Sherlock glanced up at John, who was checking something on his phone, and mustered “I’ll take the to-go box.”
John set his phone down and turned his gaze towards the woman who returned with the checkbook. He smiled warmly and she returned the favour.
“Was everything to your liking?” she asked, leaning into John.
“Everything was perfect.” He responded.
He asked for the box and continued the conversation effortlessly while he scribbled his number down next to a large tip. John slid his card on top of the stack and she carried it away with a grin.
Sherlock forced himself not to scoff at the boldness of the action. Swifty, Sherlock stood and strode out of the restaurant. John didn't glance after him until he was sure that Sherlock wasn't going to look back. Watching his companion strut down the sidewalk made John's gut turn with unease. He had to tear his gaze away from the way his companion's coat fluttered in the wind. John quickly dove his face into the last sip of his water. When a soft hand pressed his card back into his palm, he did not look up. Instead, he quickly pocketed it and limped into the cold.
John wasn’t chasing after Sherlock. At least, he told himself he wasn't. He just planned to sit back with the bottle of wine he had bought for the duo, and watch some bad reality TV.
However, when he climbed up the stairs to his flat, the gentle violin that hummed through the halls drew him slowly into the second floor living room. The vacant room was quite a relief to the exhausted man, he wasn't in the mood to be lectured to. The strings rang out in a painful melody. John wondered if Sherlock was composing for him, an honor only reserved for the toughest of thoughts. He doubted it. John slipped off his shoes and slumped back into their couch, letting his eyes melt closed. He pretended Sherlock was playing him to sleep as he had many times in the past. It had become a tradition between them whenever John was having a particularly hard time sleeping.
Eventually the heavy darkness of sleep enveloped John's thoughts. Sending each worry down the neck, to the guillotines blade- the violins bow.
~~~
John was woken suddenly and violently by a stray bullet burrowing itself into John's shoulder once again. As it had thousands of nights before. His hand flew up to the sore scar, pulling up a blanket he didn't remember dressing himself in alongside it.
When he recognized his surroundings again, he sighed. The four familiar walls that contained him were always a sight for sore eyes, or legs. His relief was soon replaced with confusion as he noticed the shifting weight that pressed against his side. The messy dark curls that decorated his arm were accompanied by dry calluses wrapping around John's wrist. It was a sight John never really got to see, Sherlock asleep. Peaceful, unmoving, gentle.
John couldn't help but let out a huff of appreciation, a laugh floating on his breath as well. The way Sherlock was half curled and slumped against John was surely uncomfortable, and greatly amusing. Sherlock's limbs slotted in knots around each other, posing in ways John previously considered impossible.
John admired Sherlock's face, his normally sharp and combative expression melted into content rest. His usually done up curls lay flat and messy over his face, any product washed out. It was different, and so lovely. John's hand slid down from his shoulder to Sherlock's forehead. He slowly pushed the dark tangles out of his face, behind his ear; and in that moment he could let himself pretend. Pretend that Sherlocks slowly, steady, inevitable breath- rising and falling, and flowing against John's arm, would be there for a lifetime. That this weight and warmth could greet him whenever. He let himself get swept up in whatever romantic fantasy he had envisioned when he had finally confessed to Sherlock, earlier that week. They could be anything, just for this moment.
John's other hand- which was half trapped under Sherlock’s weight, and was held around the wrist by him- slid slowly out of Sherlock’s grasp. His larger fingers slid under the resting hand, slinking in between the bony fingers of his partner. Their hands conformed to the others curves, pressing into each other comfortably.
John sighed and closed his eyes once again, this time less anxious about the future of his friendship. Just as he was about to drift off to sleep again he heard a quiet mumble, accompanied by Sherlock's jaw shifting against John's forearm. ‘It's not a chore.’ came the rumble.
“Whats that?” John hummed, keeping his eyes closed, barely registering the words.
“Its not a chore, loving you. It's the easiest thing I've ever done.” Sherlock continued, his eyes staring down at the way his palm slotted into Johns.
John took a moment, his brows furrowed slightly as he blinked his eyes open. He had to make sure he didn't imagine this in his half asleep state. “Oh.” he whispered.
“I couldn't tell you if I love you romantically, or platonically, or however else… but I do. There is surely no other word for it. I'm sorry I’m not enough, I’m sorry I can't enjoy dates without being high, I'm sorry your touch makes my skin crawl, I'm sorry I don't enjoy sex. I just want to love. Be loved. By you. With you.” Sherlock rambled quietly.
John sighed. Fucking hell. He scanned Sherlock’s face before his gaze trailed down the oversized, stolen, shirt that Sherlock dressed himself in. There he was met with dozens of puncture wounds, some old, some new. Two were definitely created that day.
John hummed. It wasn't surprising that the confession was the result of Sherlock being heavily under the influence.
“Right.” He pressed his lips together, now fully awake. “Right..” he kissed his teeth over the ‘t’, shifting in his seat and swinging his legs off the couch. “I love you too.” He replied after a moment, with no other response coming to mind.
Sherlock nodded. They sat in silence for a while. John didn't sleep again that night, but he watched as the extremely high man beside him drifted off, succumbing to whatever he consumed.
~~~
They never spoke of that day again, but the next morning they held hands while reviewing their case. The next few weeks ‘I love you’s slowly slipped into their vocabulary. Once or twice a month John would invite Sherlock to celebrate a case at a fancy restaurant. Sherlock didn't mention the fact it was a date, and John didn't mention the fact Sherlock was high. Eventually, after an extremely tentative first kiss, they became fairly frequent over the course of that year. Nothing needed to be defined, but John never ended up replying to the waitresses' texts. He had everything he needed.