1. John Watson cannot date while Sherlock Holmes is a part of his life.
It is four in the morning and they've only just got back, bursting through the door of 221B Baker Street in a flurry of coattails and stray flakes of snow. Sherlock is babbling about the case they'd just brought to a head, and by morning the police will have caught up with the paperwork, the case will be closed, and Sherlock will spiral into deadly ennui once again.
The thrill of the chase is what Sherlock lives on. The only pity is that his brilliant mind can dissect the facts and build from them the most marvelous of deductions in such a short time. It's a beautiful thing to watch, but it means he falls apart that much more quickly when the heat is off.
Sherlock is a hurricane, and he sucks in facts and spits them out like bullets. He doesn't care too much where those bullets land—in innocent people, in his brother, in himself. He wounds those, like Molly, who dare to try stepping closer. Smarter folk, like Mycroft, know to tiptoe around him.
John stands in the eye of the storm, with no idea of how he's gotten there.
Sherlock knows he's smarter than everyone else, and he never hesitates to say it. John is the only person he will jump through hoops for, going the extra mile to tell him it's not personal, he doesn't mean it that way.
But he treats people like rubbish, that much is true and cannot be helped. The only headway John's made into lessening the veracity of Sherlock's barbs is that sometimes, on very rare occasions, Sherlock's sharp eyes flick to him for advice, perhaps paired with "Not good?"
Maybe someday he'll learn how to ask that question before he goes off on someone.
It is the last straw at the Christmas party, when Sherlock strings out John's long list of failed relationships in front of the woman he was hoping would change his luck. Sherlock can't...he can't even remember each one, can't remember how many John's got up to, can't remember who came after the "boring teacher" and there's a good reason for that.
That is a very worrisome night for John, as he and Mycroft watch Sherlock teeter on the razor's edge of addiction and relapse, and part of John thinks that it's better this way, better that he's not with a woman who would rather he go off with her than look after a friend.
Weeks later, as they enter the apartment and stomp the snow off their shoes, John searches Sherlock's face for the familiar traces of adrenaline and wild elation, and finds them rapidly depleting. It will only be a matter of time before the hurricane is restored to full energy. It hits him, then, that the reason his relationships fail is not because he sometimes needs to look after Sherlock—it's because he always needs to.
These woman are at an age where stability is desirable, and they certainly don't find such a thing in John Watson, who looks very plain on the outside but is just as thirsty for danger as Sherlock is. Sherlock's his enabler, the man who makes his flashback dreams go away by replacing them with fresh, exciting mysteries. He did have dreams, horrible ones. The calmer he tried to be, the worse they would get. They've been gone for quite some time, approximately the same amount of time he and Sherlock have been friends.
Friends. He'd never have thought it. Sherlock is an alien, he really is. He looks alien, his mind is alien. John has never stopped being surprised that he should be the one Sherlock would let in. Sherlock was looking for a flatmate, and would anyone have done? If someone other than John had applied first, would he be Sherlock's friend by now?
John's not sure how he knows, but he thinks the answer is no. Perhaps Sherlock took a shine to him because he could see the glimmer of trauma in John's eyes, knew he could bait it and reel him in. There's no slack left on the line, anymore. John's in deep.
He's exhausted from the night's adventures and retires to bed shortly after the two of them strip away their coats and enter the flat. Sherlock won't sleep, he knows. So he trudges to his room, prepares for bed, and falls into his mattress, feeling the anxiety of the day begin to creep away.
His train of thought goes something like this:
He wishes that there were a woman in bed to greet him, a pretty, familiar, warm woman who would coo over him and ask him how it went and perhaps she'd be willing to have a go, despite the late hour. But immediately he retracts the sentiment. She would demand to know where he had been, and be shocked at his proclivity towards putting himself in harmful situations. She would be hurt if he had to leave during a date. She would want to know what was wrong with her, and what was wrong with him, and he realizes that the only person who is ever truly going to understand him is Sherlock. The perks of being in a relationship are so tempting, particularly on a cold night, but in the end he knows that such a thing would only create unnecessary burdens on both parties.
He realizes another thing in the morning, when he comes to the sitting room and finds that Sherlock has fallen asleep on the sofa.
Sherlock's pale face is completely relaxed, every minute wrinkle smoothed, and he is breathing steadily.
John wonders, as he fixes himself tea and toast as quietly as possible, whether that mind ever really rests. Sherlock doesn't sleep very often, and it is the restlessness of his brain that causes him so much discomfort, but perhaps, John thinks, it is because he is afraid of turning off his mind. Perhaps in sleep his thoughts are calm, but it is the transition between being awake and asleep that bothers Sherlock the most. Perhaps Sherlock thinks he will become bored of his dreams, and boredom is his greatest fear.
John isn't going to stay long, not while there's grocery shopping to do and he's already slept in late. But before he goes, just as he's finishing his nearly cold tea, he pauses at the edge of the sofa. He almost feels guilty at the way his eyes rove over the sleeping body of Sherlock Holmes, but his appreciation for said man only grows the longer he looks.
2. He cannot imagine his life without Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock is breathtaking in almost everything that he does. His absence of emotion and his overdose. His voice, strength, mind; his doubt, weakness, and heart. In the middle of buzzing excitement, and in repose.
It's a terrible time for it, but John hears echoes of Irene Adler speaking in his head.
"Yes you are."
"Look at us both."
By the time the sun has set and risen four more times, Sherlock is on another case. The wind outside has been blistering, ice whipping about in the air, and John goes through the motions of stomping off his shoes before he follows Sherlock up the stairs, rubbing his numb fingers.
"Did you see his hands?" he asked, fixing John with the same intense gaze which he usually reserved for moments of intense thinking.
"No," said John, but Sherlock charges on, anticipating the answer before it is given.
"Red and raw. Indicative of overly frequent hand washing."
"Guilt, perhaps?" John suggests offhandedly, not paying much attention. He puts on the tea and lights the fireplace, greedy for its warmth.
"Been reading too much Shakespeare, John? No, it is not so abstract a thing. Notice also his conscious refusal to shake my hand, and the use of his shirtsleeve to touch the handle of the door. No, he is clearly germaphobic, and far too conscientious to touch a common surface with his bare fingers. We know that the killer left no prints on the knife or the doorknob of Mr. Dillard's office. No doubt Lestrade is attempting as we speak to extract a viable print, but you and I can quite safely assume that our disgruntled, obsessive compulsive ex-employee was not responsible for his former boss's death." He says it all very quickly, as is his custom.
"How do you figure? He wouldn't have left prints because he doesn't want to touch anything. He seems like the most likely culprit, to me."
"Ah," Sherlock says with some relish. "Did you not see the bottom of the dead man's shoe?"
"His shoe?" John was playing along. Sherlock did love to school him.
"The body had been searched, thoroughly, no doubt for the flash drive the killer assumed Mr. Dillard was carrying. The killer had been wearing gloves up until this point: sterile plastic gloves, the type which have been powdered on the inside. There was a smudged white palm print on the bottom of his shoe where killer hurriedly removed and replaced each shoe with his bare hands, carefully enough not to leave a print, but carelessly enough to leave the powder trace behind. An obsessive compulsive germaphobe would never touch the bottom of a shoe with their bare hands."
"And this is the whole basis for his innocence, is it?" John replies, unconvinced.
"Of course not, don't be daft."
And so the two men banter on, John straightening up the living room while Sherlock dances among his thoughts, seeing complicated strings of words, numbers, facts, locations, all connected in an ethereal web John can only dream of but is magnificent to see in action.
Sherlock loves explaining his logic, but before John he'd yet to find a person who enjoyed hearing it. He'd press on others to just observe, deduce; he wrote a whole website about it, after all. But his patience is easily tried by the slow, calm minds of every other person around him.
But he takes his time with John. The doctor is getting better at it each day and nothing seems to delight Sherlock more than John being able to keep up with him. Sometimes he deduces things all by himself, and Sherlock is pleased.
It was probably, he supposed, the way John would feel if Sherlock did something socially appropriate without having to consult him.
Sherlock burns like fire, and John is flame resistant.
"So, the question is, who had access to Mr. Dillard's office and was able to enter and leave without suspicion? Mr. Dillard was working late the night he died, and was killed approximately twenty minutes after midnight."
John tries to work it out, but he knows that his mind is the tortoise to Sherlock's hare, and the attempt would be largely pointless. Still, he considers who would have been wise enough to wear gloves and leave no traces of himself, while at the same time passing unnoticed through a highly secure multimillion pound business facility? He would have stuck out like a sore thumb.
Unless he was supposed to be there. Who was supposed to be at Dillard's office at midnight? Who would have been there late every night, entering each office?
"The janitor?" John proposes mildly.
Sherlock abruptly stills, staring into space as though seeing the very universe around him before gravity comes crashing down again and he jerks back as though blown away.
"Yes, John! Of course, of course he wouldn't...!"
He's off again. John shrugs, but he's smiling, and goes to make himself a fresh cup of tea.
As it cools, John watches his roommate, who has at last sat down, steeple his fingers. He is too thin, which gives him the air of intellectual desperation that so intimidates and impresses people, including John. Sherlock fills the gaps in his life.
No, that's not quite right.
Sherlock does lurk in the gaps, but he is glue. He holds John's life together, pieces shattered by injury, rejection, PTSD. To the outsider, his presence is inconspicuous, even threatening (if John's therapist is anything to go by), but it is vital.
I need this man in my life, he realizes, and yes, it has taken this long to discover. Or admit. He's not sure which. I need you, he thinks so intensely that when Sherlock turns to look at him he's terrified he's just said it aloud, but Sherlock says, "Don't overdo it, John. I can see the steam coming out of your ears."
"Very funny." He means to say it flatly but there is such affection in his voice that Sherlock's eyes widen a telltale hair's width, but he says nothing more.
3. He will never date again.
And that's okay. That's just fine, because Sherlock is the one who puts the adrenaline in his veins, and Sherlock is the one who brings him peace. Simultaneously. It's such a strange thing.
"Don't make people into heroes, John."
He can't help it. He's convinced that there is no situation Sherlock cannot get them out of. He's the knight in shining armour. When John sees his face, it feels like being home, being at rest. His unpredictable ex-soldier heart is quelled by those hawk's eyes, the cheekbones, the way his lips unseal before he releases all of his observations and deductions and, god, that look he gets when John mutters a hushed "fantastic", or "that's brilliant".
But it's not true—Sherlock cannot solve everything. John knew that early on (he killed a man for Sherlock, their very first case together), but it hasn't stopped him thinking it. He's surprised Sherlock keeps him around at all, for all the good he feels he does. And that's the storm again, isn't it? John stands at the heart of it, in the calm, and he is only very rarely injured by the tempest; rather, he is protected by it.
No one else will be able to get close enough to hurt him, with Sherlock there. They can try.
Irene Adler is the most successful exception to this rule, but John was not the one she was aiming for.
Moriarty, too, has breached the walls. He's under Sherlock's skin and it worries John.
Moriarty will get to Sherlock any way he can, and through John is the fastest way to his nerves, and that's what worries him: it's not that Sherlock isn't infallible, it's that he would give it all up for John.
They've been running, and John is reminded of that night, when he was freed from his walking cane, from his psychosomatic blockers, and the same exhilaration pounds in his blood.
It's dark and foggy but the chill can't touch him now, standing next to Sherlock, their backs to the wall, panting. The sloshing sound of the moor is far off but soothing.
He stares at Sherlock and knows he must be just as flushed as his companion, whose cheeks are burnished red. Sherlock is smiling, truly smiling. John is, too, like an idiot. They're laughing.
He can't help it, he can't, god help him—John's reaching for Sherlock's coat and dragging him in close, needing their pounding hearts to match, and threading his fingers in Sherlock's tangled black hair. He's holding him in place, terrified that Sherlock will run away, but their lips meet in a tentative brush. It's enough to set him on fire again. When he pulls away Sherlock's eyes are glimmering in the dim light, expression unreadable, but by the next moment he's touching John in kind, deft fingers stroking his neck in a way that makes him shiver even though the touch is unsure, underexperienced.
And oh, isn't it funny that this would be the one realm in which John has the upper hand.
He has to lean up to reach but it doesn't matter because they're kissing again. Sherlock—he's kissing Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes who has never been with a woman. With anyone, even those women who had all but lain down at his feet, and John is granted that honour before anyone else...
Incredible, baffling. Sherlock tasted...tasted so...
"John," he murmurs, sounding out of breath, and it isn't a question. It is as if he is saying 'of course it's you, John. Of course.' Sherlock's thumb is just by his lip, each fingertip pressing separately on his face as if he is something of extreme value.
It's so childish, almost feminine, the way John's arms stretch up to circle behind Sherlock's neck and his knees feel like buckling and he can hear the universe saying yes.
Sherlock is way out of his depth, judging by the way he's becoming fervent as his leash on stoicism loosens, and that's intoxicating, being responsible for making Sherlock Holmes lose control.
John hopes that his feelings are coming through loud and clear. His release of breath—I need you. His insistent lips—you have changed my life. The press of his body along Sherlock's—don't stop doing it.
He realizes belatedly that he doesn't need to be doing this. Sherlock would probably rather he didn't; there's quite enough static in the air, enough that a snap of his fingers would set them aflame on an average day. Theirs is a symbiotic relationship, neither living without the other, and closing the physical gap isn't necessary, not really, but it's the only way John knows how to be sure, absolutely sure, that it isn't all in his head.
John's not great at reading people, not the way Sherlock is, but he doesn't need to be. He's still a mystery to John, but not all the time, not anymore. Sherlock indulges his desperate kisses and the needy hum in his throat, and that is proof enough that John's heart isn't lying to him.
He's not great at reading people, but he's getting much better.