Work Text:
John sat on his bed, anger burning through the grief he could no longer swallow. Sherlock had reached for him from abroad with words bleeding onto the screen: miserable, desperate, in pain without you. John had mistaken his confession for theatrics. He called Sherlock a drama queen, telling him to focus on the case.
Now Sherlock moved through 221B like a wounded animal caught in a trap, all teeth and claws, tearing tenderness apart before it could touch him. John had seen him survive bullets with less violence than this. He had offered John the softest part of himself, and John had made a mockery of it.
John wiped his face. The tears kept coming.
Then music trembled through the floorboards.
He opened his door. The old gramophone played “You Belong to Me.” Sherlock stood at the foot of the stairs in blue pyjamas and his dressing gown, pale and barefoot, hand extended. His face held no anger now, only the terrible nakedness of someone asking whether he was still wanted.
John descended, each step an apology.
Sherlock’s blue eyes were shining.
“If you want to hold me, if you want to know me again, if you want to love me, just take me home.”
John took the last step and his hand as the first tear rolled down Sherlock’s cheek.