Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock. The story title is borrowed from Michael Nyman, it's one of the pieces from the soundtrack of "The Piano".
Author's notes at the end this time.
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The Heart Asks Pleasure First
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Part 1: Singular
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Coming home to John is a difficult affair. Sherlock has planned every single step of it (1. surprise John by being alive, 2. explain, 3. move back in, or rather: stay, because technically never moved out, 4. engage John's help in explaining it to Mrs Hudson), but somehow, it all goes wrong.
John isn't pleasantly surprised at all. Sherlock spent a lot of time imagining his face upon the discovery that his best friend is alive; he couldn't possibly have imagined John's actual expression.
There's disbelief, followed by some rather violent reliving of raw, visible pain, terror even, followed by anger, shouting, followed by uncoordinated grappling. Then John tries to punch Sherlock, and they grapple some more. At one point, they end up on the floor, still in each other's grasp, panting, at a loss what to do next.
Sherlock has forgotten about his plan, because John is shaking and his eyes are wide, and Sherlock notices that he is trembling as well: he didn't think he'd become emotional, but seeing John, even before anything was said or done, was a shock, sending jolts of anxiety and joy and possibly longing through him, and there's too much data to process: he'd forgotten about John's immediate proximity and what it is able to do to him, to his heart and his usually high-functioning brain. He must have deleted it in order to be able to leave, two years ago. Also, their unexpected mutual breakdown is taking him to places from the past two years he doesn't want to revisit: not today, preferably not ever.
He stammers as he tries to explain, all his carefully chosen words unserviceable now because neither John nor himself are even as remotely as calm as Sherlock so wrongly anticipated, and he keeps stumbling over how to put things, making it all sound trivial.
The realization of what a tremendous idiot he has been does not exactly help. He knows John, at least he thought he did, how could he not have expected this? While he planned his fake suicide, he was aware that it was going to hit his friend hard, had actually seen him grieving later on, for heaven's sake, and yet- he had been stupid. Utterly, unforgivably stupid.
"I'm sorry, John," he manages to add once he's finished outlining his endeavours, "for doing this to you." He actually feels shaken: he'd not forgive anyone if they had done this to him. How can he expect John to?
John however is not like him. Where Sherlock is the dark angel, John is the fair one.
The doctor's hand wanders up to Sherlock's face, as if the visual isn't enough: "I've missed you so terribly," he whispers, and Sherlock closes his eyes: he was lost, untethered while he was away. There were days on which he felt like he was in danger of pushing away from the ground if he wasn't careful, could veer off into space without a chance to ever return. He doesn't know whether it's actually worse now that he's back and John hasn't yet had the chance to make up his mind whether he'll ever forgive Sherlock or hate him for the hell the detective has put him through.
Sherlock is shaking at the prospect of reject; all the time, he's mostly been focusing on getting home at all. None of the many scenarios he imagined about their reunion included the cold fury he read in John's eyes earlier; he expected to have to apologize in some form, but never for John to try and hit him. He can feel the mirroring tremor in John's limbs and realizes that despite it all, it's a momentary relief to be with John; his presence has always had a soothing effect on him.
He's been on Sherlock's mind constantly; the task which the detective'd set himself had required him to cross boundaries even he hadn't crossed before. He felt less than human at times, and it had been the thought of John which had kept him sane, he was certain of that. John had always been human, had always been kind and patient. Now it turns out that his bodily contact is not only comforting as well, but also desirable.
Eyes still closed, Sherlock pushes himself closer to John until their foreheads are touching, his own hand finding John's neck. They stay like that for an unaccounted amount of time, gradually calming down.
When they let go of each other, John's eyes are brimming: "I'll have you back," he says, hoarsely, "because I can't let go of you again. No matter how angry I am with you right now, it could never match how much I grieved."
At this, Sherlock's eyes begin to sting as well. "Forgive me," he says, very softly, and for once, those words don't sound like the text from a play but like something appropriate, heartfelt. Good God, what is this man doing to him in return? "Please, John."
"I'll give you time, you and me both," John answers, sounding choked. "We'll sort it out."
"What if we can't? Resentment is one of the strongest emotions there are." Sherlock can barely get the words out. He needs some kind of assurance from John, just a few words, even though he knows John couldn't possibly predict what is going to happen.
John looks as though someone has punched him. He sounds timid, exhausted even, but he never takes his eyes off Sherlock: "Love is stronger."
The detective's stomach drops. He's never experienced this, feeling like laughing and crying at the same time, and it's simultaneously wonderful and horrible.
Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath, visibly sagging.
"Hey," John says, taking hold of his shoulder, steadying him. It's what he does, isn't it? It's what he's always been able to give to Sherlock: consistency. Balance.
Both their limbs eventually begin to ache under the strain of being all tangled up, but they soak up each other's closeness and warmth like rays of light, don't even notice that the air in the living room is actually rather chilly.
"Love," Sherlock murmurs, reinforcing his grip on John and pulling him close, meeting no resistance. They wrap their arms around each other and hold on tightly until their trembling subsides.
Later, they have tea; the kitchen is clean and tidy, no beakers or pipettes lying around anymore. The rest of the flat seems unaltered, even Sherlock's notes are still on their stand by the window, he notices.
They don't speak, but there's a sense of calm. John can't take his eyes off Sherlock, drinking him in, noting every little change, reading him. Sherlock waits for him to finish his scrutiny; his skin is itching, a phantom phenomenon because already he is missing John's touch. He's been absent for so long, but now that he's back, it's suddenly unbearable.
He ponders this, trying to understand: before, they only touched each other when necessary. It had been fine that way, even though Sherlock had sometimes wondered how it'd feel to have John stroking his hair, or even kissing him. He usually subdued those thoughts, though; most of the time, the Work had predominated anyway, and then Moriarty had struck.
There had been moments during his time away in which Sherlock had not been able to subdue how much he missed John, and on those days he had to be extra careful not to slip up, or push away from the ground.
"I wanted for you as well," he hears himself say, and John's pensive expression softens considerably. He isn't wont something like that coming from Sherlock.
"You're tired," the doctor states, half a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, fleeting but unmistakable.
He's right, obviously getting better at deductions: Sherlock hasn't had any decent sleep for two years.
The emotions are wearing on him as well, though he'd never admit that.
"That's not why I said what I said just now," he says nevertheless, needing to make that clear.
"I know," John gets up. "Still."
He circles the table, reaching for Sherlock's hand and pulling him from his chair. Wordlessly, not letting go of the detective, he pulls him towards his old bedroom, in which John is sleeping nowadays. It's largely unchanged as well, even the framed poster of the periodic table is still there.
Sherlock looks around with a forlorn expression, but he doesn't get to dwell on the surge of homesickness he belatedly experiences, because John pulls him down onto the bed with him, and he willingly entangles himself with the other man once more, sighing almost with relief once they are settled: it's warm and comfortable and John's scent is all around him. This, whatever it is, seems the only sensible thing to do right now.
They doze for a while; they are weary, but they don't want the oblivion of sleep, they need to be awake for this. They want to be awake for this.
"Tell me I'm not dreaming," John says at one point. "I don't want to wake up and find it's all been in my mind. Or worse, I don't want to wake up and find you have gone back to considering yourself above all human emotions and this was just an exception, a weak moment you gave in to."
"You still think I'm a machine," Sherlock mutters, appalled.
"No," John shakes his head, "and I never really thought so. But you used to be so... detached. On purpose. You let me in, at least on the surface, but you tried to keep out of the more complicated human involvements." Except with Irene Adler, which was different somehow. The memory still leaves a bitter aftertaste on John's tongue; he's still jealous of her, even though it seems childish.
"And yet you had me involved," Sherlock replies, softly, "more than you knew. That day on the roof... if the sniper had shot you, I'd have followed you."
John gasps, the force behind it shaking his torso and reverberating through Sherlock's chest.
"Don't say something like that," he demands. "I want you to live."
"Life is not worth it without you." Sherlock's voice is so quiet now that John has to strain his ears to understand. "I know that now."
"So you understand how it was for me these past two years," John says, some of his anger flaring up again. "It was terrible, Sherlock. It wasn't only the loneliness once you were gone, or how much I wanted you to be there because things just weren't the same without you. I kept thinking about how scared you must have been up there, how terrified by the prospect of jumping, and how awful you must have felt if you felt compelled to end your life. I wished I could have saved you, been there earlier. And I couldn't get rid of that image, seeing you lying there..."
He pauses, doesn't wish to conjure it up right now. "And I wished we hadn't had that row." There are tears running down his cheeks, and he doesn't bother trying to stop them.
"I'm sorry." The slight tremor in Sherlock's voice is genuine. "I'm so sorry." He pushes closer against John, shivering: "I often don't understand other people," he murmurs, "and I don't need anyone else. But you are different."
Giving a watery laugh, John reinforces his grip around him: "So you're saying you need me?"
It takes a moment until Sherlock is able to answer, because he knows that this going to change everything that was. Yet he also knows that he wants that change, and that it has already begun anyway, two years ago.
"Yes," he therefore replies, "I need you."
John shudders, sobbing once more: "And I'm not dreaming?"
"I don't hope so."
"God-" John sounds astonished, breathless. He breathes in and out rather heavily a few times before he speaks again, his words butterflies against Sherlock's temple: "You've no idea how much I love you."
At that, Sherlock's eyes begin to sting again, and something akin to John's sobs from earlier escape him as he struggles to keep his composure. He cranes his neck so he can look at the doctor, whose face is as lovely as he remembers it, even though it has a few more lines and there are tears and a bit of snot right now. It's important, however, that he looks at John while he says this, because he's rarely said it before and it does mark a singular occasion, after all: "I love you too," he states, and this time, his voice doesn't waver at all.
Both of them are breathing heavily now, struck by the immensity of their words and what they imply.
John resolves the puzzle of how to follow up something like that by leaning in and tenderly nuzzling Sherlock's face with his own. Their breaths mingle, and after a moment of silent appreciation, the doctor tentatively kisses the detective. Sherlock closes his eyes in order to be able to focus on the caress of John's lips on his own, the gentle pressure, the affection.
It's easy to reciprocate, and he wonders how it is possible for something to be easy and complicated at the same time. How can John love him and tell him so even though he hasn't yet forgiven him? How can he hold him like this when he wanted to punch him only a few hours before? But those musings are idle right now, because kissing John is doing something to Sherlock's brain which is effectively slowing it down. It still feels good, however, and for once, he doesn't mind that he can't think clearly anymore.
When they eventually pull back, John regards Sherlock with a rather solemn expression: "I couldn't hate you," he murmurs, "even if I tried."
Sighing, he settles against Sherlock's shoulder, his hand wandering up to the other man's face again, tracing the line of his jaw with one finger.
They stay like that, listening to each other's heartbeat, pondering the novelty of being outspokenly in love with one another.
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To Be Continued
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Thank you for reading, please be so kind to leave some feedback.
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Author's notes:
So, things aren't all resolved between them now, and healing takes time, as we all know, but the story's off to a start. Even though I really liked how Moffat and Gatiss wrote it, I love to explore possible other post-Reichenbach scenarios (you might have noticed).
Season 3 has shown us a range of emotions not only on Sherlock's side, but I thought it was astonishing of what our favourite detective is capable of, and, as I have said on other occasions, I do believe that his time away must have changed him in certain regards, and profoundly so. He's too intelligent not to have learned from his experiences.
Furthermore, I'm not a native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes (I know, I tend to get my tenses wrong).
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