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They are still standing there in front of the burned down ruins of Sherlock's old family home, John shivering a bit under his blanket in the cold night air, when one of Lestrade's man joins them and clears his throat to get their attention. John can see the guy looking sort of reverently at Sherlock while introducing himself as John Rance and explaining that Lestrade has tasked him with driving them home now. Sherlock just nods and follows the young man to his car. John trails behind and is thankful when Rance doesn't say anything about John dripping water all over the seats once they are inside the vehicle.
They spend the first few minutes in silence until they hit the main road. When Rance asks where he should take them from there, Sherlock suddenly chuckles. It's not a happy noise though. It’s short and sounds rough and defeated. It makes John turn to him, trying to determine what is going on in Sherlock's mind; if anyone can ever figure that out. Sherlock notices his gaze and turns to look at him as well.
"It just occurred to me, that it seems like I don't have a flat to go back to tonight."
John doesn't know what to say to that. He hadn't thought about it either until now. And it's not like he has forgotten what happened only this morning at 221B - honestly, John thinks, he will never be able to fully forget that - it's just that they had so much else to do to keep their minds off it and, frankly, John didn't want to think about it, it had been far easier not to. They haven't been back up in the flat yet but just seeing the carnage from the street had been enough to tear at John's heart, picturing the devastation inside. For so long 221B had been his home, even in those last years when he hadn't lived there anymore, it had always felt good to be there, it had felt right. And now this place, this sanctuary is gone. At least for now. And Sherlock has no place to stay.
"It's okay." John hears himself say before he truly knows what he's doing, "You can stay at my place." It really is a no-brainer, it's just the way John knows it has to be, the only thing that can possible be right. So he gives Rance the address and then turns back to the car window watching the landscape fly by. Eventually Rance - who keeps glancing at Sherlock in the rear-view mirror - seems to have gathered up the courage to strike up the conversation he's been longing to have since meeting them approximately 20 minutes ago. He tells Sherlock how amazing he thinks his work is, that he has been on Sherlock's website and read every single story on John's blog. Sherlock - usually boasting in someone else's praise for his work or being completely bored by it and shutting them down immediately - stays silent for quite a while but eventually seems to be taking pity on the guy and joins in by telling him how exactly he helped the Yard figure out the - in his mind - incredibly easy case of the two severed human ears send in a parcel to one Mrs. Susan Cushing.
John decides to take over from there, knowing that even though Sherlock tries his best to hide it, he is just as tired and drained as John himself feels. Hell, most likely even more. They've both seen terrible things tonight but at least it wasn't John's sister who had committed them so Sherlock should be allowed some room to deal with all of this in peace. Maybe there will be a chance for that once they are home… or well at John's house at least. But for now all John can do is shift the attention away from Sherlock a bit, giving him at least a minimum of space to himself. So John talks about a few cases that never made it onto the blog, explaining what the clients had told them and how Sherlock made his deductions from there. Rance hangs on his every word and when John turns over to look at Sherlock and sees the soft grateful smile on his face, he knows he would keep talking through the whole night and the next day and the next if it was what Sherlock needed of him.
It's already dawning when they finally come back to London and eventually park in front of John's house. John gets out the car and thanks Rance for the ride. The young man looks almost disappointed about having to let them leave but John's sympathy for him is limited. Right now he wishes for nothing more than to finally get inside the house and out of his damp clothes. It's driving him nuts, the way they keep sticking to his skin and making him feel chilly down to the bones. It barely registers to him that Rance whishes them both a good night - "Or eh… morning." - and says he hopes to see them again soon.
When they are finally inside, John immediately heads for the shower, leaving Sherlock to his own devices for the time being. When he comes back into the living room Sherlock has already made tea for the both of them. John knows Sherlock mainly did it just to keep himself occupied but he still appreciates the gesture when Sherlock hands him the still steaming cup. They sit there in silence because even after all that has happened in the past 24 hours there really isn't anything they can say right now to comfort one another. And they both know it so there are no expectations or obligations to suddenly, magically find a way to make it all better. And that is oddly comforting in itself, John eventually realizes.
---
Unsurprisingly they don't get any sleep that day. Soon enough Sherlock gets a call from Mycroft and he goes to meet his brother and his parents to talk about what will be happening to Eurus now and John has to go over to Molly’s to pick up Rosie. After last night John can barely look Molly in the eyes when she opens the door for him, holding an already dressed up Rosie in her arms. She looks better, more composed than on that video feed but John has seen the sadness behind her smiling face now. He wishes he could make it better somehow, or maybe that Sherlock could make it better, that they could tell her about the circumstances last night and that it somehow would make things easier. But John knows it wouldn't do a damn thing except humiliating Molly even further. There is nothing he or Sherlock can truly do for her because ultimately all of them - including Molly - know that Sherlock doesn't love her, not like that, not like she wants and deserves. It makes him feel oddly guilty, even though he has no idea why, and so he only mumbles his thanks to her for looking after Rosie before taking her out of Molly's arms and leaving again.
It all makes John wonder though. About Sherlock and his capability of feeling for other people. He thinks about it all the way home. Because no matter what Sherlock says about himself, John has glimpsed behind the facade Sherlock puts on for the public - the calculating machine Sherlock had aspired to be once upon a time - and seen one of the most emotional men he has ever known. Deep down John is sure that if Sherlock ever gave his love to someone, he would do it wholly and passionately - the only way Sherlock seems capable of doing things anyway. And that someone could consider themself lucky. But it won't be Molly, John knows that now. So… Irene Adler? Somehow that doesn't seem right either. Yes, Sherlock seems to be interested in her and John is not above admitting that she has indeed an intriguing personality but John just can't see it as a thing that could last. 'Only time will tell' he thinks. And no matter who Sherlock will choose eventually, if he chooses anyone at all, John just hopes that this potential someone will be ready for it and give Sherlock everything he needs. God knows, he deserves it after everything that has happened.
The rest of the day goes by in an overtired sort of trance and when the doorbell rings just after dinner and John opens up, it takes him a second to realize that it's indeed Sherlock standing on the doorstep.
"Can I stay here again tonight? Mycroft offered to pay for a hotel but…"
"No, no, it's okay.", John cuts him off, "Come in. When I said you could stay here I meant until… well until you figured out something different, I guess." John realizes that he didn't really make that clear last night. It just hadn't felt necessary because to him there was never another option. He and Sherlock have always lived together. Even after John had moved out of 221B he had spent more time there than at the house, so now that the flat is uninhabitable for the time being it only seems right for Sherlock to live with John for a while. He thinks about telling Sherlock all of this, to lay it out in words for him, but Sherlock just looks at him and as so often John feels like no words are needed anymore because Sherlock can read the important bits straight from his face.
"Tea?", John asks instead and without having to hear the answer turns around and heads for the kitchen, Sherlock in tow.
---
John sleeps horribly that night. At one point his overtired body finally catches up to him and lets him fall into a fitful sleep but soon enough he is awake again. When he looks at the clock and finds that it's already past 3 a.m. in the morning though, he frowns suspiciously at the little red numbers. Usually at this time Rosie would have woken him up already once. John's stomach clenches at the thought of something being wrong with his little daughter, no matter how irrational that fear might be, and knows he won't be able to get another second of sleep until he has made sure she is okay.
When he walks through the living room on the way to Rosie's room he finds the sofa he has made up for Sherlock, in lack of a proper guest bed, abandoned. From the state of the pillow John suspects Sherlock hasn't even lain down yet at all. He sighs, worry for his best friend’s well-being puncturing him like a little needle to the gut. And then he hears it: A soft deep voice coming from the direction of Rosie's room. John can't make out the words, it's so faint. Sherlock - because this is Sherlock's voice, John has no doubt about that, he would recognize this deep, soothing tone anywhere - is clearly making an effort not to wake John, but from the way the sound ebbs and flows John is fairly sure he's hearing a lullaby.
John just can't help it; the lure of Sherlock's voice has his feet softly creeping towards the door without him remembering making a conscious decision about it. Sherlock hasn't properly locked the door so all John has to do is push it open a little bit further and suddenly he's graced with what might easily be the most heartwarming thing he's seen in all his live. There in the middle of the room is Sherlock - still wearing yesterday’s suit - holding and rocking Rosie and – as suspected – singing her a lullaby. And now that he’s close enough John can actually make out the words too.
“How can there be a cherry
That has no stone?”
John almost chuckles to himself. The Riddle Song, of course. Leave it to Sherlock to educate Rosie in obscure puzzle solving from an early age on.
“And how can there be a story
That has no end?"
John can barely tear his eyes away from the lovely picture Sherlock and Rosie make, much less his ears from Sherlock’s all but heavenly singing voice, but it just seems so wrong to disturb them now, not when he can see that Rosie is on the brink of falling asleep and Sherlock seems to be genuinely relaxing for the first time in the past few days.
When he makes to close the door again however it gives a little squeaking sound and Sherlock’s song abruptly stops as he turns his head to locate the source of the noise. John can see Sherlock’s cheeks turning pink when he catches sight of him standing there in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock starts, still keeping his voice down to not rouse Rosie again. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
John just shakes his head, finally fully walking into the room to come to stand next to Sherlock and Rosie. “It’s okay, you didn’t wake me. I guess I’m just not used to sleeping through the night anymore.” And then, almost like an afterthought: “Why are you not sleeping?”
“Couldn’t.”, Sherlock replies, “Still too much information to process, I guess.”
Which John takes as Sherlock-Speak for ‘Still too riled up, but not going to admit that I’m feeling as much emotions as the rest of the world, maybe more.’
“Apparently, your daughter couldn’t sleep either.” Sherlock continues. “So we started a little club over here. But eh…” he averts his eyes, looking a bit abashed “I guess it’s time for me to go to bed now, or you know, the sofa.”
He hands Rosie over to John and makes for the door but John can feel Rosie immediately going restless again in his arms.
“Wait, Sherlock.”
Sherlock already halfway out the room turns to look at him. John starts rocking Rosie soothingly and all but whispers to Sherlock:
“You think maybe you could finish the song? I get the impression she really wants to know the answers to all those riddles.”
John swears he sees Sherlock’s cheeks going pink again even in the dime light of Rosie’s nursery. He bites his lips trying to work out what to stay to this and John prepares himself for some excuse or remark about how maybe Rosie should learn to figure out the clues herself, but instead Sherlock comes back into the room, softly closing the door behind him.
“Yes, of course, you’re right. Nothing more counterproductive to a goodnight’s rest than unsolved mysteries waiting to be explained.”
So John keeps on rocking Rosie softly in his arms while Sherlock comes to stand beside them and clears his throat. And then he starts singing again.
“A cherry when it's blooming
It has no stone”
John can’t help but close his eyes for a bit, just letting Sherlock’s voice wash over him while rocking Rosie in time with the rhythm of the song
“The story of how I love you
It has no end”
When he opens his eyes again Sherlock is looking at him and a warm weight settles in his belly at being at the center of Sherlock’s intense gaze while he keeps on singing in that unique voice of his that is almost as perfect as him playing his bloody violin. And then Sherlock moves in a little closer bending down to now more or less address Rosie directly as the song starts nearing its end.
“A baby when it's sleeping
Has no crying.”
They are standing so close that when Sherlock straightens up again after finishing the song his dark curls almost brush John’s nose.
“I think it worked” Sherlock whispers leaning even closer to John, his warm breath tickling John’s ear. John looks down at the peacefully sleeping girl in his arms.
“Yes.” he replies “Like a charm.”
The both of them share a soft smile before John puts Rosie down in her bed and quietly slips out of the room with Sherlock. They say goodnight in the living room and John heads back to bed to at least get another two or three hours of sleep. As he lies there the lullaby keeps replaying in his mind in Sherlock’s melodic voice and finally lulls him into a soft slumber.
–--
When John gets up a few hours later and makes his way to the kitchen, he finds Sherlock fast asleep on the sofa, the strain of the past few days eventually taking its toll. The blanket John had given to him however still lies on the chair next to Sherlock because apparently he couldn’t have been bothered to make use of it. John just huffs, goes over to pick it up and throws it over Sherlock’s sleeping form like he has already done so many times back at Baker Street when Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa after a particularly hard case or when he simply decided that it was just too much trouble to walk the few meters to his bedroom.
After a last glance at Sherlock John makes his way into the kitchen to make breakfast. And he will make Sherlock eats it too, he swears, because he suspects Sherlock hasn’t eaten anything at all yesterday. To John’s pleasant surprise though, it doesn’t take much convincing to make Sherlock eat something when he finally gets up an hour later and Sherlock’s already halfway through his third toast with marmalade when there’s a ringing at the door.
When John opens the door he finds Lestrade standing there on the steps, jacket wrapped around himself against the still chilly morning air.
“Greg?” John asks surprised “What can I do for you today?”
“Yes, well, ehm good morning. I actually wanna talk to Sherlock.”
John clears the way and points Lestrade in the direction of the kitchen before following after him. Lestrade sits down at the table opposite of Sherlock and drops a manila folder next to Sherlock’s plate. “I’ve got a case for you.”
“Yes,” Sherlock muses, “that much is fairly self-evident. What is not, is how you even knew where to find me.”
‘Good question’ thinks John, who had just asked himself the exact same thing, and turns to Lestrade as well. Lestrade’s gaze shifts a bit and he rubs the back of his neck absentmindedly before he answers sheepishly: “Your brother might have mentioned it.”
Sherlock makes a disgusted noise and shoves his marmalade toast to the side, clearly put off of food for now. “Mycroft really can’t keep his mouth shut during the afterglow, now can he?”
At that John looks in horror between Lestrade and Sherlock. “Are you actually implying that…”
But he doesn’t get any further because now Lestrade is gaping at Sherlock, “How the bloody hell could you’ve possibly figure that one out?”
“Wait.”, John says staring at Lestrade again. “You mean, it’s actually true?”
“Of course it’s true.” Sherlock all but huffs, “It’s obvious just look at him. And please don’t make me explain it to you in detail.”
“No.” John says, shaking his head. “No, don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I don’t wanna know the details.”
This is the sort of deduction process he will happily let Sherlock keep all to himself. He really doesn’t wanna know what signs to look for in the future to tell if Lestrade once again spent a night with Sherlock's brother of all people.
Lestrade clears his throat. “Anyway, about that case.” Not the cleverest way of changing the subject, John thinks but fortunately for all of them Sherlock seems willing to take it anyway.
“Is it a good one at least?”
“I think so. But decide for yourself” Lestrade says, nudging the file over to Sherlock.
It is indeed a good one. It keeps Sherlock occupied for a solid three hours and he only calls all of Scotland Yard stupid and incompetent once for not being able to figure it out on their own. And at least it’s enough to distract John from the shocking fact that apparently Lestrade and Mycroft have a… thing going.
Once the culprit is apprehended Sherlock decides to go back to Baker Street and assess the damage. John follows him with a heavy heart and sick feeling in his stomach. Half an hour later they stand in the ruins of what once used to be their living room.
“It’s…” “Not so bad.” Sherlock says at the same time as John proclaims it “terrible.” They both start laughing at that.
“Sherlock,” John points to the sitting area. “There is a whole wall missing.”
Sherlock giggles. “Yes, apparently Mrs. Turner is furious about that one.”
Now John has to laugh again too. It takes a while before they both have calmed down fully. It reminds John of the good old days when he and Sherlock were able to poke fun at even the worst of situations.
“So what are we gonna do?” John asks letting his eyes move over the wreckage again once they both have stopped laughing.
“The only thing we can do.” Sherlock says, picking up a chair “rebuild it.” He puts the chair back on its legs and promptly one of them falls off and the whole thing crumbles at his feet. Sherlock huffs. “Might take a while though. I guess I’ll have to take Mycroft up on his offer to pay for a hotel room after all.”
“No, I told you, you can stay at the house.” John doesn’t call it HIS house. He never has, not even when he lived there with Mary. It was always just the place where he was when he wasn’t at Baker Street. “I know how much you hate staying at hotels. And how much the hotel management hates you staying there.” He grins at that. “So let’s not make this complicated. You can stay over as long as it might take.” Sherlock looks at him gratefully and nods slightly.
“Thank you, John, I appreciate it.” he says and moves over to his bedroom.
Since Sherlock’s bedroom wasn’t in the immediate blast radius it’s not as badly damaged as the living area and Sherlock actually manages to salvage a good number of his clothes from the wreckage of his closet and stuffs them in a bag to take with him to the house for the time being. John surprises himself with how stupidly relieved he is that the even the bloody too-tight, purple shirt is among the pieces that survived.
---
They eat dinner at the Chinese restaurant a couple blocks over and afterwards head back to the house. Mrs. Hudson offered to look after Rosie until the next day and so John and Sherlock only take quick turns in the shower and then say their goodnights.
John heads back into the kitchen area to turn off the lights and when he comes back into the living room on his way to bed he sees Sherlock settling down on the sofa, awkwardly arranging his long legs to make them fit somehow and it just looks completely wrong and John won‘t stand for it, not if Sherlock has to stay here for another few weeks.
„Just get off that blood sofa, will you, Sherlock.“
Sherlock throws him a confused look but John squares his shoulders and soldiers on.
„The bed is big enough for two.“
And it‘s nothing if not the truth. The thing’s huge. He‘s spend some nights in it with Mary without any parts of their bodies ever touching, nights when he didn‘t even feel her presence there beside him. As long as John stays on his side of the bed and Sherlock on the other there won‘t be any awkward situations to deal with.
So before Sherlock can say another word, before he can tell John that it might not be a good idea, before John can have second thoughts himself, he turns his back on Sherlock and walks into the bedroom. Once he‘s settled on his side of the large bed he waits. And he waits a while but then the door creaks open. John doesn‘t sit up, doesn‘t look but he hears Sherlock‘s naked feet tap against the floor and then the both familiar and alien feel of the mattress dipping and the pull on the blankets as Sherlock slips in on the other side of the bed.
John is lying with his back to Sherlock and he doesn‘t turn, he just lets out a breath he didn‘t even realize he has been holding and then settles deeper into the pillows. He doesn‘t know what he thought might happen, why he made a big deal out of it in his mind because it‘s just like John told himself earlier, there‘s still a waste amount of space between the two of them, big enough that John can‘t even hear Sherlock‘s breathing and when he closes his eyes he can almost pretend that Sherlock isn‘t there at all. So really, as long as they stay like this it won‘t be weird. This can work.
But of course leave it to Sherlock to not play by the rules that where clearly implied in this whole deal.
To Sherlock‘s defense he doesn‘t do it consciously though. John is in that stage just between being awake and falling asleep when suddenly Sherlock rolls over and throws an arm over John‘s middle. John turns to face him to say something - most likely along the lines of ‚What the hell?‘ - and is faced with the fact that Sherlock is obviously fast asleep already and therefore not to be held accountable for his actions. And if that wasn‘t enough John‘s little maneuver just brought them even closer together, both of them lying in the middle of the bed now, heads turned towards each other. John thinks about waking Sherlock up and telling him to move over, he thinks about simply pushing him off, he thinks about getting up and maybe sleeping on the sofa himself, he thinks about all these things but in the end does none of it.
Because part of John is just too glad that Sherlock seems to be getting some proper sleep for the first time in days – not really counting those few hours on the sofa last night – and waking him up again now would almost be a crime. So John lays awake beside him and watches Sherlock for a while as his eyes slowly adjust to the dark. Sherlock‘s features are relaxed in a way John has rarely seen them because even when sleeping Sherlock usually looks like he has to solve some big mystery in his dreams. But not tonight. Tonight he looks downright peaceful lying there with his arm around John and his breath ghosting over John’s shoulder. And really it‘s not that bad. So John just turns over a bit until he‘s lying on his back and lets the steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest that’s now pressed against his side finally lull him to sleep.
In the early hours of the next day John wakes with a warm weight on his shoulder and discovers that Sherlock has apparently decided that it’s a much better spot for his head to rest than the actual pillows. John thinks he might let Sherlock even get away with it if it wasn’t for the fact that he really needs to get up to pee. So he detangles himself from Sherlock as gingerly as possible. Sherlock huffs a little as John slips away but stays asleep. And sure enough, when John comes back from the bathroom Sherlock’ still lying there, sprawled out all over the bed like he owns the damn thing. And John – still half asleep himself – thinks ‘to hell with it‘ and slips back into the bed and under Sherlock’s arm.
When he wakes up again around 6 o’clock Sherlock is already gone and John finds him in the kitchen making tea and toast.
They don‘t talk about what happened last night. Given the fact that Sherlock woke up first John is pretty sure he knows that he turned into some kind of human octopus but Sherlock doesn‘t breach the subject and John doesn’t either. Honestly he wouldn’t even know what to say, how to explain to Sherlock that he hasn’t done anything wrong and that John wouldn’t even be mad if it happened again tonight. In the end John just takes the pillow and the blanket from the sofa and stuffs them back into the cupboard, counting on Sherlock to take the hint.
And indeed, Sherlock - putting his powers of deduction to good use - does apparently manage to work out what John is trying to say without having to use words and that night John’s just been in bed a few minutes until Sherlock joins him. They fall asleep on opposite sides of the bed but when John wakes up he finds that they are once again tangled up in each other, having gravitated towards each other during the night. And John simply accepts the fact that this isn’t going away, and that it’s how things are going to be as long as Sherlock stays at the house with him. He finds he doesn’t even terribly mind.
---
During the next few nights John, to his own amazement, discovers that he actually sleeps a lot better with Sherlock around, hell it might be the best sleep John has gotten since returning from the war. Of course that doesn‘t mean that the nightmares are magically gone but when he wakes from one - sweaty and confused, heart pumping loudly in his chest – Sherlock rubs his shoulders until John manages to steady his breathing and stays awake with him until he’s sure John has managed to relax a bit and just his warm presence against John’s side, pressing against him in an almost protective sort of way is enough to make John go back to sleep eventually.
So John doesn‘t complain when he wakes up with a face full of dark curls or with his arm tingling form where Sherlock‘s head lying on it for the whole night has cut of the blood circulation, because for what he gets in return it seems a small price to pay. Sherlock in turn doesn‘t complain about being woken up by John‘s nightmares or being kicked in the shin that one time. It just works. And so things go on like this for the next weeks.
During the day John goes to the clinic while Sherlock, sometimes with the help of Mrs. Hudson, looks after Rosie and when he comes back they usually all head over to Baker Street together and work a bit on rebuilding the flat. On the weekends Molly, Lestrade and at one memorable occasion even Mycroft come to help them. John still suspects Lestrade somehow convinced Mycroft to join them that afternoon but he decides he really doesn‘t need to know how exactly he did it. Hell, even Mrs. Turner’s tenants help in the early stages of the rebuilding process and don’t even take the missing wall all too badly. (“I guess, this is one way to see your neighbors more often. Though maybe next time let’s just go to the pub together.”)
John is grateful for all the help from their friends but he also likes the almost peacefully quietness of those afternoons where it’s just him and Sherlock working side by side. Because in some weird way it feels like they aren’t just repairing the flat but rebuilding their relationship alongside it, fixing what had been broken that night in the Aquarium and the days and weeks after that.
In between John’s day-job and the work on 221B they also manage to solve some cases for the Yard, as well as for some private clients who they now meet in Mrs. Hudson’s living room for the time being.
Then one day when John comes back from work he finds another DVD in the mail. “I MISS YOU“ written on it the same way as the „MISS ME“ on Mary‘s message to Sherlock. John‘s heart constringes at the sight of it and he calls Sherlock, who just went over to the Yard to help out Hopkins with her latest case and tells him to come back to the house because he knows there is no way he can watch this alone.
And as it turns out Mary‘s final message is addressed to both of them anyway.
„When I‘m gone, I know what you two could become.“ and at that John‘s gaze catches Sherlock‘s for a second before looking away again quickly. But when the message is over and the screen goes dark he lets Sherlock sit down beside him and lay an arm around his shoulders. Instead of protesting John leans into the touch and they sit like that for what feels like an hour and at the end of it John finally feels like he‘s found some sort of closure.
–--
With everyone pitching in they make remarkable progress with the repairs on the flat and before long the missing wall is fully replaced, the rubble is cleared away and Sherlock somehow even manages to order the exact same furniture that they had before the explosion.
„Looks like you will have the house back to yourself soon enough.“ Sherlock says one evening over dinner. Just that afternoon the two of them and Lestrade had heaved the new sofa up the stairs with Mrs. Hudson shouting non-helpful instructions at them from below. John looks down at his plate and then back up at Sherlock.
„You know, I’ve been doing some thinking and I decided I’m going to sell it” He gestures around the kitchen. “The house I mean. It‘s just too big for a single man and an infant.“
„Oh”, now it’s Sherlock’s turn to look down at his plate. “Where will you go?“ He sounds nervous, John realizes, like maybe John will inform him now that he’s going to leave London and will never return. It would be hilarious how wrong he is, if John couldn’t see how much the mere thought hurts Sherlock. So he just clears his throat and continues because the sooner he puts Sherlock out of his misery the better.
„Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. If you wouldn‘t mind I would like to come back to Baker Street. I mean, we’ve been doing quite well as flat mates these past few weeks, haven’t we? But of course I could understand if you don’t want it to continue. I know it’s not easy living with a baby all the time and…”
“Nonsense, it would be an honor to have the two of you around.” Sherlock’s eyes light up and it’s just the reaction John had hoped for and he can feel a big smile spreading across his own face.
With all their different obligations to juggle it still takes some time to put the finishing touches to the flat. But eventually, on a Friday afternoon, John sprays the smiley back onto the wall behind the sofa and Mrs. Hudson even let‘s Sherlock put the bullets back into it without really complaining and then Sherlock plunges the knife into the board over the fireplace and it‘s done.
That evening all of their friends come over to celebrate; even Sherlock’s parents come to the city to join them. There is wine and there is laughter until the late hours of the day. Mycroft is the first to leave, claiming to have to attend some important meeting, even though his mother gives him a stern look at that. Slowly everyone else says their goodbyes as well until only Sherlock’s parents remain.
Sherlock’s mother empties her glass of wine and gets up from the sofa. “I think we should go now as well.” She looks at John who is holding a half asleep Rosie in his arms. “Oh and we are taking Rosie with us so you two can concentrate on moving John’s things on the weekend. How about that?”
“That’s a generous offer, Mrs. Holmes, but it’s okay, you really don’t have to. I wouldn’t want her to cause you any trouble.”
“Oh John, that’s nice of you to say.” Sherlock’s mother sounds like she’s tempted to pinch John’s cheek. “But I’m afraid I won’t take no for an answer. Remember you’re talking to the woman who raised Mycroft and Sherlock. In comparison our little Rosie here is a right angel.” She bends down over John to look at the little girl. “Aren’t you my dear?” And with that she takes Rosie out of John’s arms. “Don’t worry, she won’t be any trouble at all.”
“My mother likes children.” Sherlock states from where he is sitting in his armchair. “She’s still lamenting the fact that neither I nor Mycroft have produced any offspring for her to fuss over.” Sherlock’s mother looks at him like she would like to comment on that but decides to keep her mouth shut for now. Sherlock doesn’t pay her any mind whatsoever and keeps talking to John like his mother isn’t standing right there next to him. “Let her take Rosie. Really, you would do her a favor.”
“Well ehm...”, John looks between Sherlock and his mother, “If you really don’t mind, that would indeed be a great help to us. I brought a bag with her things when we came here this afternoon. It’s still there by the door.”
“Wonderful.” Mrs. Holmes declares and turns to her husband. “Come on honey, time to go home and leave these two alone for a while.”
“Yes alright, I’m coming.” Mr. Holmes gets up from the sofa and makes to follow his wife. “Sherlock, Dr. Watson, It has been a lovely evening. Enjoy your weekend and don’t worry, Rosamund will be in the most capable hands I can imagine. We’ll be back again on Monday to drop her off with you lads. And,” he adds while companionably squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. “if it’s any consolation, son, we didn’t really expected any grandchildren from you, given the fact that you are…” “Yes, thank you, dad. Time to go now. You still have a long way home and Rosie should be in bed as soon as possible. See you on Monday.” Sherlock all but pushes his parents out of the flat, throws the bag with Rosie’s things after them and slams the door.
“Did I say something wrong?” comes the voice of Sherlock’s dad through the closed door.
Mrs. Holmes sighs loudly. “He probably hasn’t told John.”
“Well then he should, otherwise he’ll never get…”
“We can still hear you!” Sherlock shouts, cutting off whatever his father was going to say. There is silence on the other side of the door and then the sound of footsteps down the stairs. Sherlock’s parents seem to start bickering again once they are downstairs but they are too far away by now to make out any actual words of their conversation. Sherlock rolls his eyes and looks at John apologetically. “Sorry about that. You know my parents, they are just so...”
“Normal?”, John prompts.
“I was going to say ‘embarrassing’ but I guess it’s the same thing when it comes to parents.”
John chuckles at that but sobers soon enough and fixes Sherlock with a questioning look.
“So what is it?”, he asks when Sherlock doesn’t seem to be coming forth with an explanation of his own.
“What is what?” Sherlock throws him a confused look but John can tell it’s just for show and Sherlock knows exactly what he’s referring to and just doesn’t wanna talk about it.
“What is it you haven’t told me?”
“Oh that. Nothing.” Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.
John just raises an eyebrow at that. “Yes sure, that’s why you practically threw your parents out of the flat. Come on Sherlock, just tell me.” When Sherlock still doesn’t say anything, John huffs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Very well then, if you aren’t telling me, you leave me no choice. I’m going to have to deduce it.”
Sherlock lets himself fall back into his chair and spreads his arms in annoyed invitation.
“Fine, do your worst.”
“Well,” John muses, “it all started with your father saying that he didn’t really expect any heirs from you so…” he tries to come up with a plausible explanation for that. “Is this about you not doing romance, because I’m pretty sure I know that already.”
Sherlock lets his head fall back against the backrest of his chair in defeat. Either because John is actually right about this or maybe just because he knows John won’t give it a rest until Sherlock finally fesses up to whatever it is. “ Well I guess the virgin thing might have played a part in it, yes, though it’s much more likely that he was referring to the fact that I’m gay.”
“Oh.” John says and “Oh.” and then “You are?”
Sherlock sits back up to look at John, cheeks red from more than the wine, John can tell.
“Yes, Yes I am.” John still stares at him owlishly as Sherlock starts worrying his bottom lip nervously. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, no absolutely not.”, John makes sure to reply as quickly and energetically as possible. “Like I said back when we first met: it’s all fine. I just never heard you say it before that’s all.” And it’s the truth. It’s not the revelation itself that is so surprising to John, he would be lying if he said there hasn’t been a time - before the thing with Irene - when he all but suspected as much. It didn’t bother him then and it certainly doesn’t now. He’s just taken aback by the fact that Sherlock said it out loud for the first time in John’s presence and he knows it’s probably a big deal for Sherlock to open up like that and talk about feelings. So he gives Sherlock an encouraging and grateful smile “I’m glad you told me now.” There is silence for a while. “So what about Irene then?”
“I’m pretty sure she told you that she is gay as well. We just happen to understand one another.” Sherlock looks as exasperated as he always does when Joh mentions The Woman. But at least now John sort of understands why.
“Well I’m sorry; for trying to push you towards her.” And then another thought crosses John’s mind. “So is there anyone else? Anyone I should know about?”
Sherlock turns even redder at that and hastily looks away. “No, no there isn’t anyone. Like you said, I don’t do romance. Or sex, or whatever.”
“Yeah, but you thought about it.” John can’t help but point out cheekily “Otherwise how would you know that you prefer blokes.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. “Very good deduction, John.”
“Yes, I think I might be getting the hang of it.”
Sherlock doesn’t even grace this with a proper answer, just gets up from his chair and puts out the remains of the flames in the fireplace.
“You are drunk and I’m gonna go to bed now.” Sherlock declares and leaves in the direction of his bedroom. John frowns after him. He really isn’t that drunk. Still going to bed doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea so he decides to just go and follow Sherlock’s example on the matter.
Two hours later however John is still twisting and turning in his bed, sleep as far out of reach as the solution to some of their more obscure cases. The worst thing is that John doesn’t even have a good explanation for it. He does feel tired and nothing happened today that would have him too riled up to find any sleep. Maybe it’s just the fact that he is not used to his rooms on the upper floor of 221B anymore. Still it’s not like he would rather be back in the house right now, he doesn’t miss it for a second. And he certainly doesn’t miss the waste empty bed that would be waiting for him there. Except… it hadn’t been all that empty these past few weeks, had it? He turns his head and groans into the pillow as the realization dawns on him that what he’s missing might actually be Sherlock lying next to him. The bed – even though considerably smaller than the one at the house – just feels too big and empty for one person and the room is eerily quiet without the sound of Sherlock’s soft breathing in his ear. It’s just a habit, he tells himself, he has slept fine all alone in his bed at Baker Street for years and he will learn to do so again… Just not tonight.
Accepting the fact that trying to find sleep is but a lost cause for now he gets up and heads down to the kitchen to get himself a glass of milk, only to find Sherlock already there in his pyjama pants surrounded by a collection of beakers and Petri dishes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks blinking in the sudden light from the kitchen lamp.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Sherlock replies, putting an object slide on his microscope.
“Yes I got that much, I mean what are you doing with all of this.” He gestures at the microscope and the chemistry equipment strewn out across the table.
“Oh, I’m conducting an experiment on the interaction between gastric juice, liver toxin and various chemical agents, when mixed with some other bodily fluids.”
“Ah right… wait what?... Okay nevermind.”
Of course when normal people can’t sleep they go to the kitchen to eat something or drink a glass of water. But not Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes – when unable to sleep - goes to the kitchen to conduct weird experiments. John wished he could be more surprised at that. He slides on a stool across from Sherlock and eyes an especially suspicious looking liquid in one of the beakers.
“Any mind-bending discoveries yet that will change the way we’re looking at our own bodily fluids forever?” If Sherlock notes the sarcasm in his voice he apparently elects to ignore it.
“No, I’m stuck.” Sherlock runs a hand through his hair in frustration and then fixes his gaze on John. “And what are you doing here?”
“Oh I was thinking about studying mold growth on various types of bread in relation to prolonged exposure to the climatic conditions of the common British fridge.“ Sherlock gives him a look and John rolls his eyes. “I just wanted to drink some milk.”
“We’re out of milk.”
At that John suddenly bursts out laughing because this is soo them and he had almost forgotten how good that felt; them being them, just John and Sherlock living in their flat and Sherlock forgetting to buy the milk. Damn he missed Sherlock forgetting to buy the bloody milk.
“Of course we are.” He says finally, still chuckling as he moves to get himself some water instead.
They just sit there in silence for a while, John watching Sherlock do his experiment and Sherlock concentrating on whatever it is he is studying, even though John can tell it’s not going the way Sherlock wants it to and soon enough Sherlock pushes away the microscope in frustration.
“It’s just no use. I’m not getting anywhere with this tonight.” He looks around the kitchen, maybe looking for a better way to spend his time and suddenly his eyes come to rest on John, a calculating expression on his face.
“Come to bed with me.”
John nearly chokes on his water and stares at Sherlock nonplussed.
“Oh don’t look at me like that.” Sherlock sounds annoyed but his cheeks are growing red. “You know exactly how I meant it.”
And yes, John is pretty sure he does. But still…
“Yes, but why?” Because there is no need for it anymore. They both have their own perfectly good beds here at Baker Street, they don’t have to share like they did at the house.
“Call it another experiment.” Sherlock says and John thinks he can see where this is going.
“You wanna see if you can fall asleep more easily with me around?”
“And vice versa. You have as much trouble as me trying to find some sleep; otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now.”
That’s true, John supposes and what the hell, it can’t hurt to try, now can it?
“Okay fine, let’s do this then.” and before he can think better of it he gets up from his chair and makes his way towards Sherlock’s bedroom.
In front of the bed however, John stops, not quite sure which side he’s supposed to take. So he just stands there and lets Sherlock make the decision for him. Sherlock settles down on the same side he used to be on for the past few weeks and John is kinda relieved about that. Still it feels different than back at the house and they are both aware of it. They lie there on their backs next to each other but not touching and staring up at the ceiling. ‘This is stupid’ John thinks. And it’s not going to work, not like this. He turns towards his flat mate. “Sherlock...” He stretches out his arm in silent invitation and Sherlock comes willingly, almost eagerly, like he’s just been waiting for John’s permission and the curl of his larger frame around John’s is as familiar as a well-worn blanket.
John thinks maybe their talk from earlier that evening ought to change things but he finds it doesn’t. They are still the same people they were this morning and they still mean the same to one another. If it hasn’t been weird before, it won’t be now all of the sudden.
John lets his hand settle at the nape of Sherlock‘s neck, fingers reaching up to tangle in Sherlock‘s hair. And when exactly has this become a thing they do, John wonders. It just happened without him really taking note of it. Not that he is complaining, because he quite enjoys the feel of Sherlock‘s silky curls under his fingers and also the way it makes Sherlock all but purr into his neck like an overlarge cat. In the back of his mind John is aware of his movements slowly becoming more sluggish and his eyes falling shut of their own accord and then the next thing he consciously registers is the sun streaming through the window the next morning and Sherlock’s head still pressed into the crook of his neck.
They spend the day going back and forth between the flat and the house, moving most of John’s possessions back into his room on the upper floor as well as putting some of it back in its place in the living area. After dinner they settle down in front of the fireplace, Sherlock doing God knows what on his Laptop and John reading one of the books he just brought from the house. It’s somewhere around 10 p.m. when John – already in his pyjamas by then – realizes that he’s been reading the same paragraph three times without really capturing its meaning. He puts the book down on the side table and turns to Sherlock.
“Okay, I think I’m going to bed.”
Sherlock doesn’t even look up from the computer just makes some undefinable noise that’s probably supposed to mean that he has at least heard what John has said. There is no use trying to communicate with Sherlock when he’s like that so John just gets up from his chair, takes a few steps and… stops in his tracks, because he doesn’t really know where to go. He looks into the direction of the door to the staircase and then back to where the corridor leads to Sherlock’s bedroom. Their little experiment from last night had all but proven successful but they haven’t really talked about what that means for the future yet.
Then Sherlock’s voice comes from behind him, still absentminded but firm at the same time.
“Go ahead, John. I’ll be with you in a moment.” And that settles it, doesn’t it? So John makes his way to the bedroom and slips into Sherlock’s bed… their bed? No, it’s been two nights; it’s way too early to call it “their” bed. It’s Sherlock’s bed and John is just staying there for the time being, until he maybe finally can sleep all on his own again, even though he begins to doubt that that will be the case in the foreseeable future. He buries his face into the pillows that smell like Sherlock’s stupidly expensive shampoo and somehow that’s enough that John is already half asleep when he feels Sherlock settling down beside him, tangling his legs with John’s and not even Sherlock’s ice cold feet are enough to pull John back from the brink of peaceful slumber.
---
The weeks go by like this. During the day John and Sherlock solve cases and take care of Rosie together; at night they lie entangled in Sherlock’s bed and if John is honest those might just be the best weeks of his life. But of course things can’t stay that way forever.
It starts slowly but Sherlock begins to act strained. John gets the impression that Sherlock knows – or maybe he deduced – that something bad is about to happen. Like a cat feeling an earthquake in advance. And so John can’t shake the feeling that there might be a new enemy to face soon, some evil creature lurking in the shadows just waiting for the chance to strike. But when he finally asks Sherlock about it Sherlock waves it away and assures him that they aren’t in any danger - at least not more danger than what comes with chasing criminals and solving murders for a living.
Still, something is bothering Sherlock. John knows Sherlock won’t admit it – and won’t tell him what it is. And in the end he doesn’t have to, because eventually the answer presents itself to John in the form of an attractive woman who comes to them with a case one sunny afternoon.
Sherlock is in one of his moods and he barely lets the woman finish her story before all but shoving her out the door again.
“What was that about?” John asks, eyebrows raised while he listens to the woman’s footsteps on the stairs. “A missing jewel, a nephew who mysteriously disappeared, and rain inside a closed room; that sounded right up your street.”
Sherlock turns away from the door, morning gown swishing around his legs with an air of pure annoyance. “It was boring.”
“So you know how it was done then?”
“Not a clue.”
John sighs. So obviously Sherlock’s just being a cock because he’s got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and the poor woman just got caught in the crossfire.
“She sounded like she could use our help. Maybe if we go after her…”
“Yes, I can imagine you want to help her.” Sherlock spins around to where John is still sitting in his chair and John suddenly finds himself on the wrong end of Sherlock’s temper, being pinned down with a dark look, barely contained anger apparently getting the better of Sherlock. “The brave knight who slays her demons. Maybe you even get a kiss for it.” And with that Sherlock moves past him and into the kitchen. John sits there dumbstruck for a few seconds than follows him, sudden indignation rising inside of him
“Now wait a minute, this is not what this is about. I wasn’t interested in her. I wasn’t even looking at her that way.”
Sherlock slams down the kettle onto the counter. “Well she was interested in you.”
“She was?” It slips out before John can think better of it. He can’t deny that it’s a nice boost to his ego that a woman as attractive as that looked at him and liked what she saw. Still at this particularly point in time it clearly was the wrong thing to say and John winces as Sherlock continues his abuse of the poor defenseless tea kettle.
“She kept looking at your hands but she wasn’t reading your notes, so obviously not interested in how you documented her case and more in how you held your pen, paying attention to your hands. She referred to some other cases we solved so she has read your blog, and liked it, otherwise she wouldn’t have come to us. At the part where she told us about how she noticed that the jewel was missing she made sure to let us know that she was only wearing her morning gown at the time – even though that had nothing to do with the case – and she was addressing you when she said it, clearly hoping you would picture it in your mind. So yes, I’d say clearly interested in you.”
John lets that sink in. As usual Sherlock’s deduction all make sense in hindsight and now that it has been spilled out for him John can see it too, the woman was flirting with him. And John, who prides himself on being much more experienced with social cues than Sherlock, hadn’t even noticed; to be honest he hadn’t even paid that much attention to her.
And then John finds the thing that is truly remarkable about all this, that one loose thread that’s worth pulling on.
“And that bothered you?” he asks and it’s enough to finally get Sherlock’s attention away from the tea kettle. “The idea of someone finding me attractive?”
“Nonsense, people find you attractive all the time. It doesn’t bother me.”
“They do?” Again that look from Sherlock. “So you… what… don’t like the idea of me noticing it? That maybe I would like her back? Wait… you don’t want me to date again, is that it?”
“I just thought it was very unprofessional of her. If she really wanted the case solved she should have paid more attention to relaying the details to me than crudely trying to flirt with you.”
Sherlock turns away again, obviously expecting the conversation to be over. But John won’t let him get off so easy, because he’s sure he’s on to something here. He stands there staring at Sherlock’s tense back and suddenly it all makes sense and it’s like he can read Sherlock the same way Sherlock reads a client.
“You think I might leave again and it scares you.” It isn’t even a question.
“Another deduction, John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds half flippant and half defeated.
“Just tell me if I’m right.”
Sherlock sighs and turns back to face him. “Okay fine, you are partially right.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Well it’s not that you might leave, you will, that much is fact. And I’m not scared of it, I’m just not particularly looking forward to it either. So yes, maybe I’ve been trying to prolong the inevitable a bit longer.”
It makes sense now, Sherlock’s bad mood, the way he’s been acting these past few weeks, like he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, fearing – because whatever Sherlock says, John knows what fear looks like – that one day he’ll wake up and John will be there with his bags packed, announcing that he’s moving out again, that this, whatever it is that has been going on between them, is over. And together with this epiphany comes a second one, namely that John himself hasn’t thought about the possibility of leaving at all. And why would he? He feels content with his life as it is there is nothing he’s missing and maybe if Sherlock only knew that…
“Sherlock, I’m not going to leave.”
The anger in Sherlock’s eyes goes away, leaving only melancholia. “I know this is what you might be thinking right now. After all, it hasn’t been that long since you lost Mary but look at you John, you’re healing. You don’t even wear your ring anymore.”
John looks down at his own hand and sure enough the ring isn’t there. John remembers taking it off for something at work and then never putting it back on again. Instead he tucked it away into the top drawer of the nightstand in the bedroom upstairs – the bedroom he doesn’t sleep in anymore – and he hasn’t even looked at it since then.
“You’re a romantic, John. One of these days you will find that this…” Sherlock motions around, apparently trying to encompass the flat, the crime solving and himself all at once. “this won’t be enough for you forever. Because as much as you love the danger and the excitement you also want a sense of stability and more than that someone who you can share not just your life, but also your heart with, because that is just who you are.” John opens his mouth to say something – even though he’s not quite sure what – but Sherlock stops him by holding up his hand. “And before you say I’m wrong, think about what you want out of life, not just now or tomorrow but in five years, in ten years.” And before John can properly wrap his head around any of this Sherlock leaves the kitchen and vanishes into his bedroom.
John stands in the kitchen for a while, thoughts drifting aimlessly until the whistle of the kettle brings him back to reality. He turns the kettle off but lets it sit where it is, too distracted to even care about tea. Eventually he makes his way upstairs to his old room, sitting down on the edge of the bed and staring out the window. He opens the top drawer of the nightstand and takes out the small gold ring he’d put in there a few weeks back. He wonders what Mary would say to all of this. She’d probably tell him that he’s an idiot and that she wants him to move on. But maybe that’s not the problem. Because Sherlock is right, John is moving on, he is healing. It happened without him noticing but somehow he managed to find happiness again. And still, that doesn’t mean that John is thinking about dating someone new.
The week before, a woman at the clinic gave John her number and John crumbled up the paper and tossed it into the nearest bin without even looking at it for a second. And it wasn’t just because of how guilty it had made him feel the last time and who that woman on the bus had turned out to be, even though it surely played a part in it. But mostly John got rid of it because he was just not interested. And he meant what he said to Sherlock, the way his life is now, it just seems too perfect to risk messing it up again by letting someone new into it.
And who could give John everything he needed in a partner anyway? Even if by some miracle he would end up with an assassin or black ops agent again, she would never be Mary… hell, she would never be Sherlock. And that makes him think about Sherlock living a life of his own. If John moved out again, who knows what would happen, what if – after all of John’s little speeches – Sherlock did decide to give romantic entanglements a shot after all? He pictures coming over to Baker Street for a case only to walk in on Sherlock kissing some faceless, nameless bloke and it sends a white hot current through his body that John used to associate with hearing Irene’s text alert on Sherlock’s phone. No, this is definitely not what John wants for the future.
So instead he follows Sherlock’s advice and closing his eyes he tries to summon a picture of what he wants his life to look like in the years to come. When he envisions it he sees Rosie growing up, he imagines her opening up Christmas presents and laughing while playing with her new toys, he sees himself in the audience at one of Rosie’s school plays and how he will have to attend parent-teacher conferences. At the last part he chuckles to himself because he can all but hear Sherlock having a go at the teachers if they would dare to criticize Rosie and… the train of his thoughts comes to a screeching halt because, well… Sherlock. It should be shocking how he just wormed his way into John’s fantasy, only it’s not, not really. It feels all but natural - logical even. And looking back John realizes that he has always been there, in his mind Sherlock had been sitting right next to him at Rosie’s play and when he thought about Christmas he pictured it at Mr. and Mrs. Holmes house with all of them around the Christmas tree.
He thinks about himself and Sherlock solving cases and chasing down criminals until they are too old to run around the streets of London anymore. And then, who knows? Maybe they would just spend their days at the fireplace, John writing about the adventures they had and Sherlock still helping the Yard just by sitting in his chair and going over files and crime scene reports. Or maybe they would just move to the country where Sherlock could finally keep the bees he seems so fascinated by but that Mrs. Hudson won’t let him have at Baker Street under any circumstances. On the weekends Rosie might come out to visit and maybe one day John’s grandchildren would be playing in the garden. But no matter what, he and Sherlock, they would be together. There just isn’t a better future John could imagine, no matter how hard he tried. This is what he wants, just him and Sherlock and Rosie and new adventures year after year; what more could anybody wish for?
So really, all that’s left to do is to tell Sherlock.
---
When John comes down to the living room again and he finds Sherlock sitting in his chair, suddenly John’s heart is in his throat. He somehow hoped Sherlock would still be in his own room, giving John a few more minutes to figure out what to say, or how to say it. But deep down John knows, he shouldn’t wait any longer, he’ll just have to make it up as he goes. So he sits down in his chair opposite Sherlock, takes a deep breath and begins.
“Look… listen, Sherlock. I thought about what you said; about what I want my life to be like.” Sherlock looks up, anticipation and sadness and maybe underneath it all a sliver of hope in his gaze. John takes another breath. “I want it to be like this, just like this. I don’t need more, I don’t need someone new in my life, hell, I don’t want someone new in my life. The way things are now, it’s pretty much perfect. And I will still be happy with the way it is in ten years and even in fifty years.”
He looks at Sherlock, waiting for a reaction. And there it is. For a moment John sees Sherlock looking relieved and happy but then a hint of bittersweet wistfulness creeps into Sherlock’s soft smile and this is not quite the reaction John had hoped for.
“So…” Sherlock hesitates, looking at his hands rather than John. “You wouldn’t change a single thing?”
“Well like I said, things are actually pretty great right now.”
Sherlock shakes his head like he’s berating himself for his own foolishness. “No, of course you’re right.” Sherlock stands up, ready to leave, to flee this conversation once again and John’s about to panic. He wants to know what he’s done wrong and fix it, he wants the smile back on Sherlock’s face, do whatever he can to make Sherlock happy because that’s just what you do when you love someone.
And with that, something – everything – falls into place, the last piece of the puzzle slotting in. It’s like when Sherlock explains his deductions to the lesser gifted and suddenly all the evidence aligns itself into one big picture.
And yay, Mary would definitely tell him that he’s an idiot. ‘I know what you two could become.’ Her words ring in his ears. He and Sherlock - they’ve been on this track ever since their first meeting at St. Barts. Only Sherlock derailed the whole thing by pretending to be dead for two years, leaving John to grief and regret and finally to moving on with his life. So when Sherlock finally came back John had already let someone new into his heart. But now Mary is gone and they are left again to their own devices. And John knows where they are heading. Some part of him has always known. And now they are at the tipping point, on the edge of something new, something more. And he realizes he had hoped that when the time came Sherlock would be the one to push them over. But now he sees it has to be him. He has to jump first, take this leap of faith and hope that Sherlock will follow.
“However, that doesn’t mean I can’t think of ways to make it even better.” He gets up from his chair and takes that one step that brings him face to face with Sherlock. “Because you are right, at the end of the day, I‘m just a big old romantic.“ And he looks at Sherlock putting all the things he feels, everything he can‘t say just yet into his gaze and reaches out to take Sherlock‘s hand in his as he goes over the edge.
Falling, John finds, is easy. Whatever happens happens. There is nothing you can do but wait and pray that the landing won’t shatter your bones – or your heart. He sees the understanding fluttering over Sherlock’s beautiful features, the way his breath catches in his throat.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, as sure as I will ever about something.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “But Sherlock, it doesn’t mean we have too. I meant what I said, I’m happy with how things are now and if that’s everything it’s ever going to be than I’m okay with that. So whatever you feel, whatever it is you want. It is all fine.”
“John…” Sherlock breathes.
“Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
John does as he’s told as Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s neck and pulls him close. Sherlock presses his forehead to John’s and for a moment they just breathe together before finally their lips meet.
Sherlock kisses like he does everything else, focused but reckless, throwing himself into it and trying to take in every last detail. There’s a feverish eagerness to it, an all but worshipfulness passion, and underneath it all a touch of insecurity. It’s not like Sherlock’s doesn’t know what he’s doing. John knows he has kissed people before, hell he has even seen it, but it has always been for a case, always with an ulterior motive behind it. Somehow John doubts that Sherlock has ever kissed anyone just because he wanted to. ‘But he’s doing it now.’ John thinks ‘And it’s me he’s kissing and it’s perfect.’ His head starts to spin but maybe that’s just the oxygen running low in his brain. But who cares? Breathing is boring; Sherlock might have been on to something there all along.
It’s only the ringing of the doorbell that eventually startles them enough to break the kiss and suck in some air.
“Single Ring.”, John states
“Maximum pressure, just under the half-second.”
“Client.” They finally say in unison.
“You want to?”, Sherlock ask still a bit short of breath.
John nods. “Yeah.”
And with that Sherlock clears his throat and shouts for Mrs. Hudson to open the door.
---
The interview with the client leads to an investigation at the crime scene and some new clues, that lead to the culprit and a chase through the rain-soaked streets London, which then eventually ends at the banks of the Thames and all three of them – John, Sherlock and the perpetrator covered in mud and brackish water.
John can tell Lestrade is trying not to laugh when he comes to pick up the guy and sees Sherlock and John covered from head to toe in nasty river slime. Lestrade also makes it clear that he won’t allow them within five feet of the leather seats of his car and of course no cab will take them either so the only option is to walk home. John should be furious and miserable but isn’t and when, halfway back to Baker Street, Sherlock slips his hand in his, John can’t help the smile spreading across his face in response.
When they finally make it home, Mrs. Hudson comes out the door to her flat, Rosie in her arms. She takes one look at the state they are in and shakes her head. “What happened to the both of you?”
„It’s a long story.”, is Sherlock’s answer to that. “I bet you‘ll be able to read all about it on John‘s blog soon enough.“
“Just please, get into the shower before you drip all over the house, will you?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at Mr. Hudson and apparently decides to let John do the rest of the talking in this conversation. “Of course, Mrs. Hudson, and thank you for looking after Rosie while we were out.” John takes a step forward to take Rosie from her but Mrs. Hudson waves at his appearance and yay, right, river slime. “Oh yes, I probably should shower first.”
“Yes, dear, that would be a good idea.” She looks him over again and apparently makes a decision. „In fact, you look like you could use the evening off. So don‘t worry, I‘m gonna put Rosie to bed.“
John doesn’t even try to cover how grateful he is for that offer. „Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.“
„Just remember I‘m...“
„Not my babysitter.“ John finishes.
„Exactly.“
„Noted. Thanks again.“
Upstairs, John all but insists on Sherlock going first in the shower because the idea of a muddy Sherlock getting bored in the living room isn’t really a comforting one. So while Sherlock is in the bathroom – hopefully not using up all the warm water – John goes to the kitchen, where they can at least easily clean the tiles afterwards, and does his best not to touch anything or move around. He even tries to concentrate on not dripping too much.
Soon enough however Sherlock comes back out of the bathroom, a towel slung around his hips and a smaller one in his hands to dry off his curls with it. John stands there dumbstruck staring at a drop of water that makes his way down Sherlock’s chest. It is nowhere near the first time that he’s seen Sherlock walking around their flat half naked; only now, with what happened earlier today there are suddenly all sorts of new possibilities linked to it.
Possibilities John tries his best not to think about too much while he’s in the shower, washing away the muck from the river bank.
When he comes back into the living room, Sherlock has thrown on a morning gown and made himself comfortable on the sofa. John finds he doesn’t really feel like going upstairs to get proper clothes and lets himself fall into his chair in only his bathrobe instead. He throws a look at Sherlock over on the sofa and catches him gazing into John’s direction, posture tense and biting his lower lip. All things considered, John thinks, Sherlock looks like he wants something but is not quite sure if he is allowed to have it.
“Come here.” John says softly and apparently those are the magic words because within seconds Sherlock is up from the sofa and before John can even get up from his chair Sherlock sinks down on his knees in front of him to be at the right height to lean forward and kiss John once more.
It’s even better than the first kiss. Still eager and passionate but even more deliberate and thorough, like maybe Sherlock has come to the conclusion that he can take his time with it because this – all of it – is not going to end anytime soon.
They keep kissing so long that John is sure Sherlock’s legs must be killing him when Sherlock eventually pulls away an inch.
“Come to bed with me.” Sherlock whispers against John’s lips and this time there is no mistaking his intentions not with the way his hands glide up along John’s legs to curl around his hips.
“Another experiment?” John asks teasingly nipping at Sherlock’s lower lip.
“If you’re up for it.”
Well something is going to be up for it if Sherlock keeps talking in that sultry tone of his.
“I wanna know everything there is to know about you.” Sherlock goes on, planting little kisses on John’s neck and shoulders “I wanna know the sounds you make when you lose yourself to your pleasure, how your face looks when you come, how you will feel inside of me. I wanna know which parts of your body are the most sensitive, where I have to touch for you to lose your composure. – I have my theories of course, but I’d like to confirm them.”
And really who is John to stand in the way of Sherlock’s scientific studies?
---
Later, much later, Sherlock wallows in the afterglow and probably also in the fact that all his theories have been proven correct, damn the bastard. How could he have possible deduced that John’s right nipple is more responsive to stimulation than the left one? He even knew about that sensitive spot at the inside of John’s knee and had made shameless use of said knowledge.
John lets his head rest on Sherlock’s chest, listens to the beating of the heart Sherlock so long denied even having while Sherlock is tracing patterns on John’s shoulder and humming a familiar melody. ‘The story of how I love you, it has no end.’ John thinks in time with the rhythm of the song and he is happy, and he is home.