A typical Tuesday afternoon found John Watson in an introspective mood. Mostly, he was occupied by the wavering direction of his life. The cases were good fun, certainly (though as a byproduct his recent divorce hadn't been very good, and as far as he could tell, dear Mary was still spreading vicious rumors about him and Sherlock on the Internet). To be living with Sherlock again though… well…
That was good.
Probably.
John wondered how he managed to find the patience for all the peculiarities and annoyances that came with being the best mate of one of the most interesting intelligent and completely mad men in all the world.
For better or worse, he took immense pleasure in discovery of all kinds, no matter the form it came in. Which molds flourished best in what climate? What was a person's deepest darkest secret and how did it make them work? How he could control them with it?
For some reason – well, John suspected he knew the reason - Sherlock took as much pleasure from his hobby as he did from having John 'catch' and then subsequently scold him for trying to cheat in his battle to quit smoking.
Even this infantile, attention-seeking behavior didn't stop him from being a genius though. Sherlock's mind was a wonder. A treasure. A palace, and somehow he had the extraordinary ability to expel any information he found trivial from it (including but not limited to celebrity names, anything concerning their cousins in Canada, and the reason John preferred that body parts not be kept in the fridge).
Often, when on a case or even for no apparent reason at all, Sherlock went for days without sleep, and occasionally even longer without speaking (just like John had been warned). When he decided that he had to eat, only the essential nutrients would be considered for sustenance, and even then only in specific forms he found palatable. Indulging the transport any more would apparently bring his mind and body out of the adrenaline-filled "survival mode" he was so accustomed to living in. Maybe that was the secret behind his brilliance – simulating extreme conditions and forcing his body and mind to work double-time all the time.
Amazingly, he even managed to live completely abstinent (as did John, but not by choice) and had always done so (if Mycroft's comments in Buckingham Palace could be believed). It wasn't exactly hard to imagine. Sherlock the Virgin. While even a (very very very) heterosexual man like John would admit that Sherlock was rather handsome in certain lights, there were people out there with no interest in sex. Asexuals. Among them Sherlock was probably King. Sherlock wanting sex? Of course not. It was plebeian. It was tedious. It was pointless. People were boring. It would distract him from the Work. Maybe something to do with not wanting to bother placating the appetites of his transport.
Or maybe even Mycroft was right again – perhaps Sherlock was scared.
In any case, it would be unusual to see the world's only consulting detective feigning interest in another person long enough to actually getsex out of them (he would bear any cross for the sake of a case, but outside of the Work, Sherlock hated exerting the energy), nor could he imagine another person (other than perhaps dear Molly and The very-atypical Woman) actually wanting to have sex with him after spending a brief period in his presence.
And anyway, the man was married to his Work.
Well.
Welllll…
That wasn't completely true.
There was something else.
Something not completely unthinkable…
And if it was true, it was certainly in a very platonic way.
But still…
Although Sherlock had married the Work, somewhere along the line John had become an essential piece of the machine. A cog in Sherlock's processes. Sherlock had called him a director of light once, and that's what John was. Sherlock's life revolved around the Work, and after they had met it started to revolve around the Blogger as well.
In turn, John's life revolved around his Sleuth. His dedication to Sherlock was the reason behind the divorce, and if he was being completelyhonest with himself, the reason behind every failed relationship of the last seven years.
In that way… they were a bit married. A couple, just like The Woman had said. It was weird, and Sherlock was a bloody awful husband anyhow. Always leaving him at crime scenes. Disturbing his sleep with those late night explosions and that damned violin.
It was easy to see though. Anyone who had been close to Sherlock before and after John's appearance in his life could attest to the changes. There was delicacy now. Mild sanity. Maybe care or kindness, even if it was only present to make John "shut up about it already". There was an enthusiasm for life and a tolerance of the less interesting people.
Well.
Occasional tolerance.
"Boring. Get out."
"Sorry?" poor blonde Abigael-something blinked at Sherlock from John's chair to the left of the fireplace blankly. Sherlock didn't even look up from the obituaries as he took a preparatory breath (the man liked to solve the little secret murders that showed up occasionally).
"You've got heavy bags under your eyes and have spent the duration of your time in this room appraising the value of your surroundings.. Probably an interest in unusual memorabilia. The brands you wear all come from different shops, the majority of which are exclusive brands that spend over fifty million pounds nationally on advertising. Shopping addiction? No. Stiff neck. Gained just over twenty pounds in the last two years. Your desk job wouldn't support a shopping addiction. More likely materialistic. Easily influenced? Also possible. Wearing rather expensive jewelry, but along with cheap polish. You didn't buy the clothing, handbags, or jewelry yourself - he bought it for you, but it's at least a year old. Showing signs of wear and overuse, and you have no idea how to take care of it because you're not used to prolonged use. He hasn't bought you anything in a while. You're worried he's spending on another women".
She stared at him, shock apparent but restrained, "…Sorry?"
He turned to the next page, "Get out".
"But is ee? Cheatin' I mean".
"Sherlock" John piped up with a warning, glaring at the consulting detective from his temporary perch on the couch. He was in the middle of a blog entry about last week's case - some messy business involving an Irish boy's club. Solving it took Sherlock all-of four hours. Completely brilliant.
Be nice to the poor girl, thought John towards Sherlock. Sometimes he thought Sherlock could read his mind. Usually it was true. She doesn't know any better.
A grimace, "No, he's not cheating".
"But how'djya know if ye never saw em?" she eyed John suspiciously, as if he were somehow forcing Sherlock to withhold information. It's exactly the opposite – John knew for a fact that whatever Sherlock was about to say to her, she wouldn't want to hear.
But apparently he was too late to stop it.
"He knows you love expensive things. He's saving up for the perfect ring" Sherlock crinkled his nose, "You have obvious commitment issues. Multiple affairs and lovers on the side. If he's cheating too, that will absolve you of all guilt and you can find a justifiable reason to leave him without feeling bad about possible future losses. Get out of it before it gets messy. Stop wasting my ti-".
She was out faster than Sherlock could take a breath.
Sigh. There couldn't be anyone out there as mad as Sherlock Holmes. There just couldn't, "Not nice"
"Debatable"
"You could have skipped the part about the lovers"
"I wanted her to leave"
Another sigh. John tried to go back to his blog.
"…and I disapprove of the unfaithful" the last word was drawn out, like it left a poor taste on the tongue. A glance in John's direction. An accusation? We're not really married Sherlock.
But damn John if he didn't find it at least a little endearing.
Sherlock was often trying to isolate John from the outside world. He sulked whenever John went out with Mike or Greg. John suspected Sherlock of orchestrating small and subtle revenges, and taking measures to prevent John's leaving the flat when unnecessary.
Unlike Mary's ostracizing jealousy though, Sherlock's felt like a blanket. It felt like he was trying to monopolize John. It felt like home.
Usually the doctor didn't like to think about why he wouldn't discourage Sherlock's possessiveness, but at this point maybe he had to.
Thus the 'introspective mood'.
Sherlock's brief glance turned into a stare. The intensity burned John's skin. He couldn't tell if it was uncomfortable or exciting.
"Stop whatever you're thinking about, it's distracting".
But in the end it was annoying and John could do well without it. He felt a headache coming on – maybe it was time for another walk.
Of course, John knew Sherlock followed him almost every time he left the apartment – lord knew what he found so interesting – but it was the principle of the thing. A change of pace. A moment to think. God John needed to think, "Going to the shop".
"Batteries," Sherlock pronounced the request in the way only he could. Both offhanded, precise, elongating every syllable, "Every kind they have"
That was going to be expensive. And heavy, "Did you deposit the Burmworth check?" Sherlock had no mind or patience for accounting – upon John's return to 221B Baker Street he'd made John take over the whole ordeal and joined their accounts.
Married indeed…
Sherlock held it up above his head in response. John snatched it, "And the bank then".
The walk to the bank was long, but a straight shot. Just the thing John needed. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, sighed, and thought about Sherlock.
The taller man very rarely shared details about his life before John, but assumptions could be made. He would have had very few friends. He had been raised by his grandmother, after there was some sort of crime in his immediate family. After the little outburst a moment ago, John could assume there had been some sort of infidelity between the parents going on.
Look at me, Sherlock, He thought, I'm deducing you.
Their first drug bust (and not their last, unfortunately) Sherlock had self-diagnosed himself as a sociopath. Indeed, Sherlock was prone to boredom. Impulsiveness. Manipulation. Schemes. He found empathy difficult. John was no psychologist, but growing up with that personality couldn't have been easy.
A sad, lonely childhood. Attention when he was clever. Adolescence in exile. College years in experimentation. Arrest. The criminal world was a challenge, but instead of rising in their ranks it would be more interesting to conquer them. The Work. Just a distraction from the addiction. But Sherlock couldn't stand to work in the system. There were too many rules. So arbitrary. So limiting. No, he had to make his own way. He made up his own job title. A DI assigned as his keeper, to supply him with matters of interest and prevent a relapse.
This was all conjecture on John's part, of course. Bits and pieces he'd gleaned from Missus Hudson, Mycroft and Lestrade over the years… but it felt like he knew already without asking.
John knew a lot of things without asking.
Sherlock was the most important thing in John's life, and it was pretty plain to him that Sherlock was in love with him. At least to some degree. Whatever degree was possible for him. This much the doctor knew. Perhaps he had always known, but that was the one thing he could never give.
Even if John couldn't return the feelings... he could at least act in a way that didn't hurt him. Sherlock was a surprisingly fragile man. Lonely. Lashing out at a world that rejected him. Desperate for something, but he didn't ask. Maybe he didn't know how to ask, or what to ask for.
Well John didn't know how to either.
He deposited the check and picked up what felt like four stones worth of batteries. Lugged them down the roads. Through the door. Up the steps. Into their home.
Unsurprisingly, John found Sherlock in the flat in bedclothes, as if he had never left. Maybe he hadn't been followed this time. Maybe John was the mad one.
The man in question was sitting at their kitchen table peering down into one of his microscopes. He gave no acknowledgement that he knew John was there, and gave no thanks for the batteries that John dumped next to him on the table. John started to arrange them by size and shape, while halfheartedly trying to peek at whatever was in the slide. Something red.
John remembered the times that Sherlock solved cases aloud, stopping just in time for John's exclamation.
Brilliant!
Well he was.
Sherlock would probably deduce the world if it made John praise him.
There were also times when John said something particularly keen. Those were the times it was most obvious that Sherlock loved him. A little.
He would radiate warmth from his cold, cold eyes.
Stolen glances.
Lingering touches.
An excel spreadsheet on Sherlock's desktop labeled "JW".
Maybe Sherlock wished he could take back what he said that first night. The brief period where Sherlock wasn't interested.
Maybe he wished John would love him back.
Maybe he wished that John didn't know at all.
You think I'm so unobservant, John thought, moving behind Sherlock's chair, but I know you.
For a long moment, John considered the still, broad shoulders before him. Angular. Tense. The things those shoulders had carried. With and without John. They'd probably go through a lot more in the years to come. Those delicate, sad shoulders always holding up the world.
This man had saved thousands of lives.
He had saved John's life.
A warm wave of affection blossomed in John's chest. This couldn't go on.
He let a sigh out through his nose, frustrated.
Fuck it.
Slowly, the Blogger slid his hands over the shoulders, feeling them stiffen at the unexpected contact, and rested his chin on the Detective's head. It smelled of warmth, dust and walnut.
"Not a word," he said it sternly. It was imperceptible, but he could feel his voice shake. Sherlock probably noticed.
John could actually feel Sherlock thinking. Panicked brainwaves bursting out and exploding. He thought he felt a tremble in the shoulders.
And then suddenly he was being kissed.
John was sure he hadn't seen or felt Sherlock move, but in an instant he had hands cupping his cheeks and the softest lips the world had ever known pressing themselves against his.
His heart thrummed. What had he done. What had he done. There was no turning back now. Oh god. He wasn't ready. He didn't know anything about being gay, no matter what they say about army boys. What was he supposed to do here you can't just flip a switch for that sort of thing. Oh god what was John going to do now dear god dear god.
The panic was setting quite nicely as Sherlock pulled away. There was a question in his eyes, behind fluttering lashes. And vulnerability. Fear.
Oh Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, John was so sorry. John had made him wait. He'd made Sherlock wait and he'd made him suffer.
The truth was that John Watson would do anything for this madman. It had always been that way and it always would be. Swallowing, he steeled his resolve and went in for another kiss, thanking the heavens above that Sherlock didn't sport any kind of facial hair.
There couldn't be anyone out there as mad as Sherlock Holmes. There just couldn't.
That was, of course, unless you considered the man who was trying to love him.