An Interesting Conversation
Arriving at the door of 221B Baker Street, John Watson set down his shopping bags (he always bought enough for two: old habits are hard to break. Besides, watching the food go to waste reminded him of watching it go to waste anyway as he would nag Sherlock incessantly to feed his "transport"). Hands fumbling slightly with the key (Seriously, would it kill people to make keyholes a little larger? And maybe keys not so bloody small?) he slotted it into the lock and turned it, pushing open the door with his shoulder, and dragged the groceries behind him into the living room.
As he stepped inside the dimly lit apartment (the only light came from the flickering orange lamps stationed at intervals by the sidewalk outside) he flicked the light switch, not immediately processing the tall figure by the windows, silhouetted in the glare of the lamps.
The figure stepped out of the shadows at the corners, revealing his face, and shedding light on his scarf and greatcoat.
"Hello John."
John stepped towards Sherlock, (but Sherlock was dead!) with a look of wonderment on his face and a tight, hot knot in his throat, as the fount of tears in his eyes burned and threatened to spill over. He took another step and now they were almost nose-to-nose. Sherlock could feel his breath, light on his face, smelling slightly of alcohol (had John been drinking? Was that Sherlock's fault? Probably.)
It broke Sherlock's heart (Moriarty was right, after all—he did have one) to look at John, and see what he'd done to him. Just looking at John, his John (for he is mine, and I am his—how could we ever have thought differently?) he could see the sleepless nights (circles under his eyes), the skipping meals (he'd lost weight), the restless wandering about the park (mud on his shoes), the neglecting of himself (hadn't shaved, hadn't washed in a little while, had turned to alcohol), the depression, (the self-hurt?) the haunted eyes… The guilt squeezed his heart into unfamiliar shapes, ones that felt like—remorse? Sorrow?—and he closed his eyes, unwilling to look any more.
John swung with all the strength in his arm (which was considerable). It made contact, bruising the side of Sherlock's jaw in a way that was sure to leave a purple-and-blue mark later. Sherlock staggered back, noting the way John's eyes were wild, the way his nostrils flared, how he held himself tightly, (fighting stance—adrenaline—ready for violence) how the anger and resentment and sorrow had boiled over at that moment into white-hot rage. There were a number of things Sherlock could have deduced about John, but in a rare moment of tact, he decided it was likely to cause John great frustration.
Of course, antagonizing John might not be such a bad idea, said his throbbing jaw, already turning purple.
"You were bloody dead! I saw you jump! You—!"
"I'm not dead."
"Apparently not, thank you, Captain Obvious! You've just come back from the dead, how the hell did you do that, and you expect me to just move on with that, oh, hello Sherlock, you're not dead, would you like a cup of tea! People aren't machines, not everyone is a computer like you, I would have thought you had learned that by now! Don't you care? I cried over your grave, I begged you not to be dead! You great blathering idiot, you bloody sodding bastard—!"
At a loss for words, John resorted to actions. Impulsively, he leant forward, tilting his head, and used his death-grip on Sherlock's lapel (which he had used to shake Sherlock as he yelled at him) to pull him down to John's level and pressed their mouth together. The kiss was hard and desperate, with no gentleness; at first, Sherlock was too stunned to respond. When he did, and their lips began to move together, the kiss softened into something more than physical need, and they could both sense the desperate emotions simmering beneath the surface.
John didn't understand how he could ever have fooled himself into thinking that he wasn't attracted to this man, heterosexuality be damned.
John twisted his fingers in the younger man's raven curls, pulling him, tight-fisted, closer, pulling their bodies flush together; Sherlock, uncertain, then more confident (his remarkable deducting abilities, apparently, applied to more than forensics) as he cupped John's face in his hands, (he felt stubble—hasn't shaved in a little while—hasn't been taking care of himself—oh John…) his long white fingers strong and firm.
Unsurprisingly, even though John had been the one to initiate the kiss, Sherlock quickly took dominance, scarcely running his tongue along John's bottom lip before letting it roam about his mouth, mapping it out. Even though it was gentle, it was passionate, and fanned the flames of a fire that had long burned in their bellies, spreading tingling roots of passion. In the burst of surprising pleasure the kiss gave Sherlock, the chaos in his head quieted, leaving the babbling a muted murmur, quelling his desperate need for something to occupy himself with, to keep him from boredom…John, and only John, could do this for him.
Sherlock's mind was constantly seething, hungering with an insatiable appetite, constantly searching for a case, a client, a clue, something, anything to bring him out of his boredom. He lived for the excitement, the thrill of the hunt, when one knew one's objective and ran tirelessly, caught up in the moment…Until it was over, the game dead at his feet, and he was brought back to reality once more. He was an angel among mortals, and the mundanely rotating world killed him slowly.
Until he was with John, and he could laugh and learn and live like the child he never was.
It felt like love.
John slowly pulled away, reluctantly untangling his fingers from Sherlock's hair, trailing them from his hairline to his jaw before complete releasing contact, searching his face anxiously. Sherlock's lids fluttered open, and he raised his eyebrows slightly at the way John was looking at him; his face seemed carved in stone.
"Interesting."
The deadpan response made the edges of John's vision go white with rage, (God, he seemed to be riding an emotional rollercoaster) and he unconsciously clenched his fists, digging his nails into his calloused palm.
"Sherlock, I just snogged you bloody senseless, and you certainly seemed to like it, and now all you can say is 'interesting'! I go against what I've believed about myself for forty years and say I love you, I say I bloody love you and all you can say is INTERESTING!"
"John, I must care about you too."
This, John knew, was the closest Sherlock ever got—could ever get—to a declaration of love. All of John's righteous fury deflated, like the air let out of a balloon. "Oh."
"Yes, oh. That is, if that is what you would like to call the conglomeration of chemicals currently throwing my neurochemistry into disorder."
"Sher—!"
Sherlock cut across his indignant exclamation, silencing him with a finger to his lips, tingling where it came into contact with his skin. "Shut up now. I want to kiss you again."
And we draw a curtain over the scene.
CUT!
3 Johnlock 4EVA!
R&R=3!
Don't forget!
This is my first fic, so yeah. One-shot, but… Well. Anyway, tell me whatcha think.
I was just imagining Sherlock returning to 221B Baker Street, post-Reichenbach Fall, and that in the euphoria of having him back, John…well. It's all in the fic. :3
Tell me if I should continue this…