Work Text:
Sometimes Sherlock reminds John of a storm.
He was a less of a man than he was a sea, rough and unpredictable. Some days the waters were calm - these were the days that John liked the most. When he woke to the sound of Sherlock playing something on the violin, days that tasted of tea and smelled like cotton, days that stretched ahead of them like honey. A hazy, golden promise of a day that held nothing but smiles over mugs and naps on the sofa.
But other days the waters were wild, a raging storm that John didn't know how to weather - didn't think he’d ever actually learn how to navigate the turbulent waters that Sherlock lay beneath of. There were times where John would look at Sherlock and realise that it wasn't him at all, his skin and bones replaced with saltwater and shipwrecks, and he would worry that this time, he wasn't going to get him back.
Sometimes, John thinks he has finally learned how to brave the storm, and other times he feels as if he has been drowning all along.
It made John laugh to think that Sherlock had once played pretend as a pirate, because nothing fit him better. Sometimes he looked at him and thought that it was as if his younger self had merely grown up and started playing a different game, a more dangerous game. A game that wasn't fun anymore, but he continued to play it anyway. He had shrugged off the eye patch in favour of a suit, traded the ship for 221b Baker Street, spent his days looking for cases instead of searching for gold. Sometimes he feels as if it’s a game he’s excluded from, one that Sherlock has never asked him to play along with him. And he’s bitter, because if he was a pirate too, maybe he would have learned how to better control the sea.
Sometimes, Sherlock was a storm, and today was one of those times.
He’s sitting next to him on the sofa, but he may as well be on a different continent. John has learned the signs by now, he knows how to forecast the weather inside of Sherlock’s mind like it’s something he’s studied. Maybe he has.
In the past, he would have called Mycroft. He would have searched the house for drugs. He would have asked Mrs Hudson for advice, for a helpline, he would have worried and fretted and rambled on about the different types of tea leaves in the hopes that it would be enough to distract him, enough to soothe the sea. He would have done something. But now he does nothing but watch Sherlock, watch as the tides pull at him, watch as the waters threaten to drag him away. He watches the storm rage and know he can do nothing but wait - wait for it to calm, or wait for it to destroy them both.
He’s sitting next to him on the sofa but John thinks it might as well be a raft.
Something had changed after. After Sherrinford, after Euros. Sherlock always seemed to be a little… crumpled to John, a mix of lack of sleep and a mess of curly hair that reminded him of Sunday morning bedsheets. Sometimes John got the urge to straighten him out. But lately it was worse, as if his friend was collapsing in on himself day by day, like a supernova.
Sometimes he thought that it was because Holmes was too much to take in all at once - he was an abnormality of a man and the human eye couldn't comprehend him in one so it had to break him down into pieces. One day you’d see his eyes, eyes that captured the storm inside that you couldn't look at for more than seconds out of fear that they’d drag you out to sea. Another day you’d focus on his frame, the way his body stretched and moved like an animal, like a cat. Like a predator. You’d focus on it until you thought you could see the way his bones moved under his skin, willing yourself to look deeper, as if the secret to understanding Sherlock Holmes lay under his skin, under his bones. Days were made out of seeing something about Sherlock you hadn't before, moments that were woven out of a crook of a smile, out of freckles on his collarbone, a patch of pale skin, a lock of hair. A lifetime made of nothing but these moments stitched together, a patchwork blanket of Sherlock Holmes.
And then he’d open his mouth, and he either said something which made you wonder if he was the smartest man in the world, or wonder how on earth you hadn't slapped him yet.
Other times, John thought it was just because that was Sherlock - crumpled.
John had wanted to kiss him, and he didn’t.
Sometimes Sherlock got nightmares.
He didn't admit it - not that John had ever asked. But he didn't need to - storms were hard to ignore when they were raging in the room next to you. On the good nights, it would be nothing but shouting, a hoarse scream that John would feel more than hear. Sometimes he shouted for Euros, sometimes he shouted curses. Sometimes he shouted ‘John’, and those were the times that haunted him the most, a nightmare that would hide around the corner from him while awake. On the bad nights, John felt as if this was going to be the night he drowned once and for all.
There was one night in particular that John still thought about, the memory of it clinging to his skin, burning his throat. It was a week after they had returned to 221b, one week of jokes and smiles and normality shattered in a night of bad dreams, and a storm so wild it threatened to break through Sherlock’s skin as he clawed at his own arms as if he was a dam willing to burst. It wasn't just the nightmare that haunted him, it was what came after. It was John sliding into Sherlock’s bed, the hissing in his mind that told him this was a bad idea, the pounding of his head as he ignored it and snaked an arm around Sherlock’s chest, holding him against him so tight he was sure he could feel his heart beating against his chest.
It was the sinking feeling that he was an addict, and once he had this once he would want it again.
The next morning he woke up lying there alone, the sound of Sherlock playing violin seeping through the crack in the door. He wanted to confront Sherlock about it, tell him to get help, but how could he when every word felt like a blade in his throat? When the word ‘therapist’ tasted like acid? He told himself he’d tell him after breakfast, but then Sherlock smiled at him and John would have sold everything to keep that moment suspended in time. He told himself that they’d talk about it tomorrow, but they didn't. They never did.
Which is how he’d taken to sleeping like this - curled in on himself on an armchair in the corner of Sherlock’s room. He told himself it wasn't good for his legs. He told himself it was for his sake - not Sherlock’s - that he didn't want to sleep alone, that it was easier to see to Rosie if he wasn't in bed. He told himself that Sherlock wouldn't know, that he’d always leave before he’d awake. But they both knew that he was a cleverer man than that.
Sometimes Sherlock had nightmares.
Now was one of those times.
John was closing the distance between the chair and the bed before he even realised what his legs were doing, a side effect of being a father to a child who could never sleep without screaming. But this wasn't his daughter that was screaming, this was his friend, his best friend, his…. Sherlock. For the longest time John and Sherlock’s relationship had teetered on the edge of friendship, a slim shadow of what the word really means. But then John is on Sherlock’s bed, his fingers gripping his shirt and his name in his mouth like a curse and he realises how little it matters, because he’s looking at John, wide eyed and terrified, and John realises that Sherlock isn’t the storm, but that he’s been drowning too. Later John would blame his actions on Rosie, on the lack of sleep, on the way that Sherlock looked at him then - desperate and knowing and alive - but for this moment he decides to forget it all, and so he kisses him. He kisses him, and even as lips brush against lips John doesn't understand. Because John and Sherlock have never been something, their relationship has always existed between the spaces in the words ‘friends’, in the unsaid words that were pushed into corners as if they could be ignored, but this - this can't be ignored.
This is real - this is John’s hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and this is Sherlock kissing him back, and this is fingers on jaws and lips against lips and this is real.
John kisses Sherlock as if he really had been drowning. He kisses Sherlock as if it’s his only hope, and maybe after all this time, it is.
He didn't know what he expected. He supposed he had always thought kissing Sherlock would feel like something that would move the earth, something that would calm the storm. He had expected electricity and fireworks, but all he feels is a hunger, a fire. As if an ember had been sparking this entire time, and he had just begun to feed the flame. He feels it burning steady until he worries about scorching Sherlock and pulls away, slowly, because once this moment is over he has to deal with the one that comes after, and he’s not sure if he’s ready. Not sure if he’d ever be ready.
Sherlock is silent for a moment, and John worries that this is it. He worries; this is the end. He worries; he’s broken the thread that was pulled so taut between them already and he doesn't have the strength to repair it.
But then Sherlock is saying “again” and John thinks he is dreaming it.
“What?”
“Again.”
So he does.
This wasn't earth moving, or storm calming, or something he felt like writing a thousand songs about.
But Sherlock tasted like coffee and autumn and not - playing - pretend and he felt like home, and for John Watson that was enough. That was more than enough.
“I didn't know you…” John started, trailing off. Because he didn't quite know how to finish that sentence - didn't know he what? It had never been a case of not knowing Sherlock, it was a case of knowing and yet not seeing. Knowing, but not having the guts to admit it to himself. “I just didn't know.” He finished.
“Well.” Sherlock breathed, “it is what it is, I suppose.”
And so John kisses Sherlock like it’s the most simplest thing in the world.
And maybe, after all this time, it is.