I'm lost again, it's happening
When you're around I just go weak
All I wanna know, is it mutual
Then I never want to leave
Then I'm ready to run, ready to fall
Think I'm ready to lose it all
Jessie Ware - Running
John thought he was a remarkably patient man. In his career and outside of it, he'd proven time and time again that he could be tolerant for endless amounts of time.
But this, this was something he couldn't ignore. He couldn't bear this, this all consuming passion, this need. In John's defence, he'd lasted a good few months.
But now, as he was literally metres away from a serial killer who collected the middle finger and little toe of his victims, he couldn't think of anything but Sherlock's lean body pressed up in front of him, bent slightly over to catch a glimpse of their killer. And his body was definitely reacting in ways that were completely inappropriate. But Sherlock didn't comment and instead leapt onto the axe-wielding man. Sighing momentarily, John jumped onto the man as well.
About an hour later, John and Sherlock were at the police station, undergoing a lecture form Lestrade.
"Why can't you just wait? Is it really that difficult? I mean, I know you're impatient but I didn't think it would be that hard to just wait when faced with a serial killer holding an axe!"
Of course, all of this was directed to Sherlock. Then Lestrade turned to John. "And you! I thought you'd have wanted to keep Sherlock safe! You can't let him keep on doing this, you can't defend him all the time and sooner or later we're not going to get there in time! And not even for him, for yourself John – you could've died tonight,"
John didn't say anything as he knew the man was right. The killer tonight, a man called Alex Grass had almost killed both him and Sherlock and it was pure luck that they hadn't been seriously injured. Sherlock had been fine as he hadn't really done much after the initial leap, leaving John to wrestle with the man. But John had been taken a few shots to the stomach, groin and eye before he managed to pin Grass down and let Sherlock wrench the axe away from the man.
Normally, they just laughed at Lestrade, but this reprimand had left him feeling sick. What if something had happened to Sherlock tonight, what if Sherlock had gotten killed? A vivid image invaded John's mind, of Sherlock's pale body on the cold metal table that was too familiar to John, with missing fingers and toes.
John swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat. He nodded briskly and apologised hoarsely. Lestrade accepted curiously – he had noticed the change from the typical reaction. Sherlock's head whipped round as well, his head cocked to the side, studying John intensely. His coloured glass eyes piercing as they flitted over John's body.
"Right, now that the reports have been written up, what do you say we go and get a takeaway? Millie has been driving me insane," Lestrade had ended up sleeping on their sofa that night, and had driven them all to Scotland Yard that morning after a call on a vicious murder that had left Donovan clueless.
Two weeks after that, they were on another case, and John was pissed. They'd been dealing with a man whose boyfriend had gone missing and even though Sherlock had declared it barely a two, when he'd discovered that they'd lived on a honey farm – he'd agreed to take up the case. The man, called Michael Terrence, had been suspiciously happy.
Now John wasn't angry that they'd had to leave their home in London for the week, or that the train ride had been awful complete with a baby vomiting all over him. John didn't even mind particularly that he'd been given a shitty room whereas Sherlock had been given a fucking suite in the mansion Terrence lived in. What was pissing John off was the fact that Terrence, despite his missing boyfriend, was flirting shamelessly with Sherlock; and the thing that aggravated John most, was that Sherlock 'I'm married to my work' Holmes was flirting back.
Sherlock had just finished inspecting the house when Terrence had insisted on drinks on the deck – and had not been swayed by the polite and then cold protests and excuses that had been thrown his way. Christ he's persistent John thought as Terrence pushed Sherlock and him into deck chairs before disappearing into the house.
John watched him as he left. Michael Terrence was tall, well-built with a nose erring on the large side and small hands. He had hair that hung curled around his cheeks in soft honey-coloured curls. His eyes were hazel and were free of wrinkles and bags, unlike John's. Terrence also had quite clearly expensive taste – clothes and otherwise.
He looked over to Sherlock. "Thoughts, then?"
His flatmate was in his thinking pose, hands palm to palm as if in prayer, fingertips tucked under his chin. His long legs stretched out before him and his shirt sleeves rolled up the elbows in the heat.
As John spoke, Sherlock looked over to him and cleared his throat quickly before saying, "All evidence points to the boyfriend taking his passport and leaving, after putting a vast sum of money in his own account from Michael's. Dull,"
"Are you not going to tell Terrence this?" John asked, continually shocked from Sherlock's lack of social skills when it doesn't benefit him.
"Of course not, I haven't seen the bees yet. We're going to need to be here for at least three days before I'm happy with my observations,"
John just gaped at him.
"Bees really are marvellous creatures John," Sherlock winked at him. John just stared until Michael came back out with three beers with slices of lemon and ice in.
That evening, Sherlock laid down on his bed, belly down and head propped up by his arms as John pulled stinger after stinger out of his back and legs. Terrence stood at the end of the bed, his eyes greedily soaking up the sight of pale skin. John scowled as he brandished his tweezers over and over again. Sherlock groaned.
"John! Be careful!"
"What possessed you to go disrupting the bees without having them smoked first and without wearing a fucking suit?"
"Unnecessary precautions John,"
"Un … How can you say that when I'm digging their blooming stingers out of your back?"
"John did you know that honeybees can perceive movements that are separated by 1/300th of a second. Humans can only sense movements separated by 1/50th of a second. Were a bee to enter a cinema, it would be able to differentiate each individual movie frame being projected,"
"That's – I think you're delirious from pain,"
"And they are entirely herbivorous when they forage for nectar and pollen but can cannibalize their own brood when stressed,"
"Sherlock-"
"Honey bees are the only insect that produces food eaten by man,"
"That's lovely Sherlock, but-"
"And the brain of a worker honey bee is about a cubic millimetre but has the densest neuropile tissue of any animal,"
"Sherlock!" John shouted. Sherlock blinked. Michael shifted on his feet. "Enough with the bee facts, okay? I don't even understand how the hell you've managed to withstand this many bee stings,"
"I'm not allergic John, and I built up a sort of immunity as a child."
John just shook his head and started to put Anthisan on the wounds, ignoring Sherlock's winces.
That night as he tossed and turned in his bed, John received texts.
I hear that you've let Sherlock near bees. Good luck, Dr Watson. MH
John could've done with that luck hours previously, to be honest he sent back a quick:
How is he not in agony? He got stung like eight times! JW
The reply was almost immediate.
Sherlock has had a fascination with bees since he was a young child. His body is well accustomed to the stings from bees. Tomorrow he will be somewhat intolerable, but not much more than usual. MH
Fantastic. JW
John was just on the cusp of sleep, so ready to give in the blackness flirting at the edges of his mind, when on the night stand, his phone vibrated loudly. Grumbling angrily, he picked it up. It was Sherlock this time, and John was so close to ignoring it, but the content made him stop.
This is horrible. Come to my room. SH
John had to re-read the message three times before it finally registered in his brain. What was horrible? The distance, the unfamiliarity, the stings? John ignored it but stayed looking at his phone until he was messaged by the unknown number again.
Tell Michael I send my regards. MH
John fell asleep with a scowl on his face.
In the morning, John went down to the kitchen after getting dressed, where Michael's cook was serving breakfast. He offered to help and after it was declined, sat down at the table, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
After a moment or two, Michael entered, Sherlock close behind. Sherlock was wearing only boxers and a loose silk dressing gown – which had the initials MT embroidered on the right breast pocket.
John was in a bad mood for the rest of the day, and refused to help Sherlock when he got stung twice more.
That night, he received more texts from Sherlock.
John, you were angry today. Why? SH
Come to my room, I have some information about bees. SH
I like Otter's too. SH
River Otter's mate for life. SH
River Otter's hold hands when they go to sleep, so they don't drift apart SH
Sherlock, go to sleep. JW
The next day, Sherlock refused to break the news to Michael so John did. He tried not to feel gleeful as the other man sobbed. He grinned when Sherlock gagged at the man's snot bubble. Hours after, Lestrade arrived to pick them up after much cajoling down the phone from Sherlock.
Two weeks after that, John was in a club, watching as various men reached out to touch Sherlock's writhing body.
The music pounded and thumped and John could barely hear himself think over the boom of the bass. His drink was warm, his shoulder ached and he should've been in bed two hours ago. Sherlock was undercover, gathering information – or so he claimed. John stared shamelessly as Sherlock's body swayed and moved to the music, his form and beauty sticking out in the sea of people. John wondered where on earth the other man had learnt how to dance like that.
He was turning back around from getting another beer when he saw that Sherlock had stopped. A man was grabbing at him and Sherlock was staring him down and talking fast, no doubt delivering insults. But clearly the man couldn't hear as he didn't cease in his groping. After a gulp of beer, John charged to his flatmate.
When he got there, the Grabby Man was still there, clinging drunkenly to a disgusted Sherlock, who was still trying to extricate himself from the man's iron grip.
Grabby Man was taller, taller than John (not surprising) and taller than Sherlock. Beefy too.
John crept up behind him, dragged him away from Sherlock, before throwing the hardest punch he thought he'd ever thrown. The black eyes and busted lip Grabby Man had no doubt got had been worth getting thrown out on their arses. Luckily, Lestrade had picked them up.
A week later after that, John was literally paralysed with lust as Sherlock sashayed around their flat in nothing but a sheet. John was very, very sure it was the same one that he'd visited Buckingham Palace in. Sherlock was uttering something inane as he pottered about and John just kept his eyes on his book and the pillow on his lap. Twenty minutes later, when Sherlock was still walking around in that stupid sheet, John choked out, "Jesus Sherlock, don't you think you ought to put some clothes on?"
Sherlock had looked momentarily affronted before storming into his bedroom. John didn't seem him for the rest of the day.
The day after that sheet incident – they were locked inside a cell together. They were completely exhausted after a crazy chase and were close to lulling off to sleep. Lestrade stood outside, lecturing them. But this time, it was something completely different to anything they'd heard before.
"You two have been pining away for each other for months. I'm sick of it. Sherlock, it's time for you to stop making John jealous, John you need to stop trying to hide something that's so painfully obvious – I think you're offending Sherlock. Now, you two aren't leaving this cell until you've talked through your differences."
"Oh, if only someone had done this to you and your insufferable wife, maybe she wouldn't have left you hm?" Sherlock sneered.
"Sherlock," Greg began tiredly, "Just shut the fuck up." He left the room, and left Sherlock and John in an awkward silence.
After twenty minutes of excruciating silence, John spoke up. They were at opposite sides of the cell and John was staring at his hands, neck and face red as managed to get through the words.
"Sherlock, I really like you. In a way that's definitely not appropriate for a flatmate. But.. I-I understand that you're married to your work and –"
"You imbecile, were you not listening to a thing Lestrade said?" The shorter man looked over and was shocked to see a flush of red up Sherlock's neck – and two spot of colour on his high cheek bones.
John's eyebrows furrowed before realisation dawned on him. At the same moment, Sherlock was opposite him.
"Won't this change things?"
"We're practically together anyway, are we not?"
"I… I guess,"
"Good," Sherlock leaned forward, a small press of lips and before John could possibly comprehend it they were gone again and Sherlock was settled into him.
Holy fuck they were cuddling. Shit, Sherlock is snuggling with him, in a police cell. Sherlock is pressing against him, rubbing his nose into his neck and his hand is resting on his chest and ohmygodohmygod.
"John, stop thinking so loudly." Sherlock murmured, before taking John's tapping hand in his own and gently clasping.
The fell asleep holding hands.