Work Text:
John pauses just inside the doorway of the flat and lowers his satchel onto the tatty chair in the corner of the sitting room. He's a few minutes late for his shift with Sherlock, but Molly had reassured him by text that it would be fine. It's only 10 minutes, but he still worries. Withdrawal is never a pleasant process.
He takes a few quiet steps and peers into the kitchen, spies Sherlock at the sink, the kettle on, two mugs set out for tea. He's wearing a dark blue shirt, black trousers, and, not surprisingly, his rumpled blue dressing gown.
Sherlock glances over his shoulder, flashes a wry smile through the now familiar stubble. “I've been good, I promise.”
“Sorry I'm late. Busy day.” John moves to the table, slides out a chair, and sits. He laces his fingers together. “How are you feeling?”
Sherlock’s brow crinkles, but he busies himself with a cutting board and lemon. “Better. One day at a time, as they say.” He slices into the lemon with a small sharp knife.
John nods. That's how it is for him, too -- second by second, minutes into hours, hours into days. It’s getting better, incrementally. The rawness of grief and regret is slowly healing, scarring over.
“How’s Rosie?”
John is pulled from his reverie. “Great. She's putting everything into her mouth these days. And she’s sleeping better, so… yeah, good.”
They fall into silence and the water rumbles. They've talked everything to exhaustion the past week. Everything easy, that is. There are things John hasn't said, difficult conversations they haven't broached. But John isn't ready, not yet.
He watches Sherlock's hands, remembering how they felt skimming up his back to his neck, large and warm, cradling his head as he wept against Sherlock’s chest just days ago. John rubs his forehead, a faint ache stirring behind his eyes at the memory. It was the moment he cracked wide open, and it was the moment he could finally start feeling something again.
“Shit!”
The knife clatters onto the worktop and John snaps his head up. He pushes his chair back and crosses quickly to Sherlock's side. “What happened?”
A bright red ribbon of blood trickles down the length of Sherlock's left index finger. The knife must have slipped. John guides Sherlock’s trembling hand to the sink, turns on the tap, holds it gently under the water, cleansing it with a bit of soap. The cut isn't deep, thankfully. He finds a clean tea towel, wraps it around the wound, knowing Mrs. Hudson will be miffed about the blood stain.
“Sit down and keep pressure on that.”
Sherlock complies and John rummages in the bathroom for the first-aid supplies.
“I'm fine,” Sherlock grumbles when he returns.
But John sees Sherlock's hands shaking, unsteady, a symptom of withdrawal. He doesn't comment, instead turning to the boiling kettle. He prepares the tea, sets the steaming mugs on the table, followed by sugar, lemon slices, and spoons.
Still standing, he motions to Sherlock's hand. “Let's have a look.”
Sherlock unwinds the cotton towel. A few pieces of lint stick to his finger, but the bleeding has stopped. John reaches for the ointment.
Sherlock pulls away. “I can do it myself.”
John waits a beat, watches the tremor in Sherlock's hands.
“Yes, but I'm the doctor,” he says firmly, taking Sherlock's hand into his own. He dresses the cut slowly, the kitchen filling with an herbal and citrus scent. He can hear his own watch ticking. Sherlock's gaze is fixed on the tea mugs, his expression somber.
“There.” John finishes with the bandage and takes his seat facing Sherlock. They each slide a mug closer, adding sugar and lemon.
“My hands aren't… They're still shaky,” Sherlock finally confesses.
“That'll pass in time. Just, maybe no knives for awhile.”
“Right. No sharp objects.” Sherlock tries to smile, then looks down into his tea. “I can't even hold a razor steady.”
John wraps his hands around his mug, letting the warmth penetrate his fingers. He forms a thought, dismisses it, then lets it form again. It might be a good idea, or a terrible one. He says it anyway. “I can help you, if you want. To shave, I mean.”
Sherlock looks up, surprised.
“Sometimes a shave helps clear the cobwebs,” John clarifies, feeling a bit foolish. Maybe it was a stupid thing to offer. “Or not.”
He takes a quick drink, averting his eyes. When he dares to glance up again, Sherlock is skimming his fingers over his scraggly beard. John wants to dismiss the subject as quickly as possible, skip over what was possibly an insult. Sherlock isn't completely helpless.
“Okay.”
John’s mug stops midway to his mouth, Sherlock's acceptance unexpected.
John sets his mug back down. “Okay,” he echoes. After a moment of thinking, he lays out the plan. “After we finish our tea, you go lather up, and I'll do the rest. Easy peasy.”
“Lemon squeezy,” Sherlock finishes drily, holding up his injured finger.
John smiles, glad the situation isn't left hanging awkwardly.
When they're done with the tea, he clears off the table while Sherlock disappears into the bathroom. John hears the taps running to warm the water, the clink and rattle of Sherlock moving items in the cabinet.
After another minute he pops his head in. Sherlock is wiping his hands on a towel, his face and neck covered in lather.
“Ready?” John asks.
Sherlock nods and hands him the razor.
“Just… have a seat.” John tosses a towel over his shoulder and fills the sink with water while Sherlock sits on the edge of the closed toilet seat.
John balances the silver razor in his fingers, getting a sense of its weight, noting its high quality. He turns to Sherlock, who is looking up at him calmly.
“Have you done this before?” Sherlock asks, his voice low.
“Not in a long time.” The few times John had ever shaved another man was in Afghanistan. He had helped tidy up several wounded soldiers when the infirmary was short-staffed. The men had been grateful, glad to feel clean again. John is nervous suddenly, highly aware of the cramped space, their close proximity, the triple blades gleaming.
“I trust you.” Sherlock holds his gaze, waiting.
The reassuring words help John focus, and he turns his attention to the task. He takes a breath, places a finger under Sherlock's chin to steady him, then lowers the razor against his left cheek. He finds a starting point and begins, a satisfying rasp rising from the trail the blades cut through the lather.
John finishes the first stroke and pauses. “Okay?”
“Fine.”
After a few more strokes, John finds a rhythm, tilting Sherlock's head, adjusting the angle, hearing the rasp, rinsing the razor in the sink. He goes slowly, working deliberately. He is attuned to the blade in his hand, aware of the vulnerable skin under his fingers. He will not cause a nick or cut; he will do this as carefully as surgery.
As John works, Sherlock sometimes closes his eyes, sometimes keeps them trained on John.
John swishes the razor in the sink, stretches his back, steps in again between Sherlock's spread knees. He resumes on Sherlock's right side, gliding the razor beneath the curve of cheekbone. His intensity begins to relax, his hands are steady.
The scrape, scrape of the blades against the dark scruff fills the small room, the rich scent of sandalwood rises from the lather, the warmth of Sherlock's body hovers around John's periphery. John is gradually mesmerized by the sharp, odd angles of Sherlock's face, so very different from his own squarish jaw.
“Upper lip,” John prompts and Sherlock tilts his head back, tightens his lip over his teeth. The razor glides along in short strokes, revealing the deep cupid’s bow.
“Chin.” John tips Sherlock's head up slightly and he crouches just a bit. He catches Sherlock's eye for a moment, smiles slightly. It's impossible to hold a conversation like this, yet he's glad for the silence, happy to share this quiet moment.
Sherlock stares at the ceiling, his hands loosely clasped in his lap, the shakiness much less obvious. John wonders what Sherlock is thinking, how he feels being groomed like this.
He wanted to do this for Sherlock, wanted to return an intimate gesture as gratitude for Sherlock's understanding. When Sherlock drew him into that hug, the world was crushing him, breaking him into pieces, and Sherlock held him together. John doesn't know how to repay that kind of debt. He can offer his time, small favors, his friendship, his loyalty. He will be here for Sherlock through thick and thin.
John nudges Sherlock's chin an inch higher, angles the razor just under his jaw. The familiar face has re-emerged, lean cheekbones and full lips. It's just the scruff under the jawline and neck, and they'll be done.
John can't help but notice how long Sherlock's neck is, how the tendons flex as he shifts his head. He never tires of looking at him, truth be told. There never was a face, a brain, a human being quite like Sherlock Holmes.
John finishes a few gentle strokes up Sherlock's neck, just above his Adam’s apple. He steps back to assess his work, checking for any missed spots. He lays the razor on the edge of the sink, scrutinizing Sherlock's face. Not a errant patch, not a nick in sight.
His gaze moves to the small line of shiny pink skin at the inner corner of Sherlock's eyebrow, the tell-tale marks of the stitches that Molly removed yesterday. John had caused the cut there, blackened Sherlock's eye. Guilt stabs through him again, remembering a blur of white-hot anger, fists flying, lashing out, mindless with rage and grief, an unrecognizable animal consuming his body.
God, how he wishes he could take it all back, undo all the damage they've caused each other. He should not have blamed Sherlock and shut him out. He should not have hurt him so viciously. Sherlock should not have ruined himself for John to save.
John’s throat tightens. He's not finished. There's something he still has to do. He reaches out, traces the tender skin above Sherlock's bloodshot eye with his fingertips. He swallows, trying to find the right phrase, but can only say the simple words weighing heavy in his heart. “I'm sorry.”
Sherlock shifts his gaze to John’s face. Their eyes meet, and John knows he understands his meaning. Neither can look away. “Grief is a strange beast,” Sherlock says quietly. “It drags you into dark places… but the light eventually breaks through, I think.”
John's fingers slide down to cup Sherlock's cheek. “Forgive me,” he whispers hoarsely.
Sherlock leans into the warmth of John's open palm, unguarded. “Of course I do.”
John cradles his cheek, time standing still, their touch a conversation. The messages passing between their skin elude direct translation; the impressions are swirling: raw, delicate, fiery, soft, yearning, claiming.
The corner of John's mouth quivers and he turns away, hiding the hot tears threatening to spill over. He blinks a few times, leans against the sink, takes a deep breath, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions. Deep down, he knows he wants more, but when, and how, to what degree… he can't yet answer.
Sherlock reaches wordlessly for a towel and slowly dries his face, wiping away the last traces of lather. John dabs at his eyes with his sleeve, clears his throat, not knowing what to say.
Sherlock rises to his feet and stands behind John, looks at himself in the mirror. He runs his fingers over his face as if testing the smoothness.
John glances up at their paired reflections, his eyes catching Sherlock's in the mirror. Etchings of fine lines, dark circles, silver hair… They're middle-aged, world-weary, broken. How do they start over? How do they rebuild their complicated relationship, and how do they let it grow, possibly, eventually, into something more?
Sherlock rubs his jaw, tilts his head. “Have I ever told you... I like your hair this way. It's good.”
John raises his eyebrows, caught off guard. That was the last thing he was expecting to hear. “Oh, well… just tried something different…”
“Much better than the mustache.”
John laughs despite himself, knowing Sherlock is purposely lightening the mood, giving them a path back to easier territory. He’ll take the opening; there are only so many floods of emotion he can handle in a day. He's still recovering, regaining his footing.
John smiles, and Sherlock's mouth curves up in return. They'll find their way through this, John realizes. They're bound together, a bond forged through the best and the worst of circumstances.
“I'm hungry,” Sherlock announces, shrugging off his dressing gown and walking toward his bedroom. “I've been thinking about that cake place.”
John lingers in the hallway, pulling himself back together. “More cake?”
“Wouldn't mind trying another slice.” Sherlock tosses his dressing gown onto a chair and picks a suit jacket from the wardrobe.
“Triple Chocolate?” John suggests.
“Or Red Velvet. Can't decide.”
“One of each, then.”
They walk to the door and lift their coats from the hooks.
“So tomorrow,” John begins, pulling on his jacket, “I could bring Rosie ‘round with me after work. If that's alright with you.”
Sherlock pauses in the midst of winding his scarf around his neck, being careful of his bandaged finger. “I'd like that.”
They share another small smile, then Sherlock leads the way down the stairs. He waits on the pavement as John pulls the heavy door shut by the brass knocker.
They hunch into their coats against the January wind and start walking, their pace evenly matched. This is the way they’ll find their way back to each other, bit by bit, step by step, side by side.