Author Notes: Merry Christmas, happy holidays or just a great time to everyone! :) This story is Christmas themed and I hope you will take it as the gift it is meant to be. Enjoy the read and let me know what you think. :)
Coming to Town
The door opened quietly to the interior of the pub. A cold breeze carried the promise of snow and ice to the few lone patrons of the pub, who looked up at the newcomer, but quickly turned their focus back to their respective drinks, as they realised that he wasn't one of their drink-buddies. Not that they would have recognized him, even if he had spent every evening in their company.
In a cheap novel - the kind that John loved to read - the protagonist would have made the statement that his own mother wouldn't have recognized him as he was now, but this was of course nonsense. Sherlock couldn't speak for the Mums that the unimaginative authors thought up, but Mummy would have only raised an eyebrow at him, told him that the new look didn't suit him and dragged him inside for mint pie and a hot chocolate with rum. Afterwards, she would have brought him a bowl with hot water to get the modeling wax from his nose - but only after she had taken a hundred pictures of the perfectly modeled bump in the center of his face. There would have been a break from all the nagging by homemade eggnog in front of the fireplace, before Mummy would have attacked his beard. Actually, she would probably have lured him into the bathroom with the promise that he would be allowed one cigarette if he shaved off the monstrosity in his face.
Not that it was monstrous at all, Sherlock had made sure that his full beard was trimmed neatly, so as not to look like a drug addict. In fact, combined with his dark rimmed glasses and the silver stud in his right ear, he appeared more like an artist. A little alternative and crazy, but still respectable and probably even well adjusted to society. Not that Mummy would agree of course. The stud would only get him a raised eyebrow, but if Sherlock started to walk around the house with a fake limp - like he had planned for the evening - she would give him a tongue lashing that would make his ears ring for days.
A small smile broke out on his face as the image of Mummy in her best holiday jumper and an apron - threatening him with a rolling pin - flashed before his mind's eyes, before he pushed the thought away. He couldn't allow himself the sentimentality of picturing his parents in their home, around the Christmas tree, otherwise he might lose it and give himself away. Something he couldn't risk, not now that their plan had progressed so far and an end was finally in sight.
In fact, Sherlock admitted as his eyes focused on a lone man at the bar, he couldn't even risk this outing. Mycroft had warned him against it - had even threatened to withdraw any and all help if he went through with it - but Sherlock had insisted.
"That's crazy, brother dear! Even for you."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft's dramatic exclamation and leaned back in his comfortable armchair. He had to admit that while his brother was an annoying meddler that he at least had a good taste when it came to the furnishings of his home. And he also had a waste collection of exquisite whisky, Sherlock mused with a wry smile as he took a sip of his drink. Usually, he wasn't one for enjoying the comforts of blazing flames in the fireplace, a comfortable armchair and an excellent drink, but after six months undercover he deserved some luxury.
"And this behavior is overly dramatic even for you, dearest brother," Sherlock countered with a lazy smile. "Moriarty's network is almost completely destroyed. His branches in the US, Asia and Africa are gone. We only need to finish off the ones in Europe, especially the ones I assume to be in Serbia and the net will be gone."
"That's exactly my point." Mycroft's hand hovered over the small table between them and finally closed around his tumbler - Sherlock had already devoured all the sandwiches. "The mission is almost complete. A few months, maybe half a year more and we are done, but we can't allow ourselves to make any mistakes now. If anyone - no matter if they are part of Moriarty's network or not - gets wind that you are still alive, then the whole plan will be destroyed. Worse yet, your friends will be in danger again. Your jump and the grief you put them through will have been for naught if they are killed now, because of your stubbornness and..."
"No one will recognize me. I will wear colored lenses and glasses. My wardrobe won't remind anyone of Sherlock Holmes and I can easily speak with an American accent to destroy any suspicions. Add a beard, a fake limp and an earring into the mix and I will be unrecognizable.. Maybe, I will even do something to my nose. I always wanted to try modeling wax to see if I could make my nose look like yours. A large bump in the middle of it and some wax to make it extra broad should do the trick."
Mycroft didn't rose to the bait and only shook his head at Sherlock's descriptions. "I know how well you can play a role. The film and theater industry lost a great actor, when you decided to become a detective, but Sherlock... John knows your disguises. He will recognize you and..."
"I will color my hair ginger. Combined with the length it is now, it should do the trick." The announcement was delivered in a clipped voice and Sherlock would have smirked at Mycroft's open mouthed expression if the situation had been any different.
"You love your hair and you always said that dying it would destroy its structure Especially considering that you will need to bleach it first. There is no way that ginger will take otherwise, seeing how dark your hair is."
"I know what I said and you are stating the obvious."
Sherlock glared at the contents of his glass and finished them off in one gulp. Mycroft had always teased him about his hair - probably because he had started to turn bald in his thirties - and Sherlock admitted that he was a little obsessive about his curls. John had complained a thousand times about the expensive shampoo and conditioner - and all the other styling products in the bathroom - but Sherlock had refused to use the cheap products that his flatmate had always bought. He didn't care about the quality of food or if he appeared at Buckingham Palace in a sheet, but when it came to his hair, Sherlock would only use the best products. There was also only one barber that Sherlock trusted with the complex task of cutting his curls every three to four months. It had taken years to find someone, who knew his way around curly hair - Sherlock had allowed his hair to grown down to his waist because he hadn't trusted anyone with a pair of sharp scissors, after a former disaster. One reason why his hair was already reaching past his shoulders, because he couldn't just appear at his barber, after his supposed suicide had been plastered all over the news. At least, it would add to his disguise if his hair was longer than usual, although he already dreaded to use dye on his curls.
"That you would go to such lengths, only to see a friend..."
"I merely want to make sure that John is alright."
Mycroft arched an eyebrow at the statement. "You have all the reports. You know that John still lives at Bakerstreet. That he works as many shifts as possible and that he hasn't moved through all the stages of grief. You are aware that he doesn't have a girlfriend, that he doesn't go out with friends and only goes to the pub once a week for a few drinks. There is no need for you to meet him at the pub... especially not at Christmas Eve."
"And yet," Sherlock reached for the decanter and filled his glass to the brink. "I will still do it."
"How sentimental of you, little brother."
Sherlock only snorted at the obvious trap and toasted Mycroft with the expensive whisky. "One Iceman in the family should be enough, brother dear."
The remainder of the evening was spent in silence and Mycroft didn't comment on Sherlock's ginger turned hair the next day. Obviously, he had realised that there was no way to keep his brother from John's side for Christmas Eve.
"Are you ordering something or just enjoying the view?!"
The grumpy voice of the bartender brought Sherlock back to the present. He managed a rueful smile as he limped his way to the bar and stopped right next to John. His former flatmate sat slumped on the bar stool and didn't so much as look up, when Sherlock sat down next to him.
"Two pints of whatever he has," Sherlock gestured to John. "for my mate and I."
The bartender only shrugged and nodded, while his words finally got John's attention as his eyes focused on him. Sherlock held his breath as light blue eyes flickered over his long ginger curls, the ginger beard, his dark rimmed glasses, his large and slightly deformed nose, the brown eyes, to the dark blue sweatshirt and jeans and finally the silver stud in his right ear. He only relaxed when John shook his head with a frown. "You aren't my mate."
"And yet," Sherlock put an easy smile on his face, as he exchanged money for the drinks. "I still bought you a pint."
"Yeah and that's not weird at all."
Sherlock barely held back the sappy smile as John's lips thinned into a skeptic line. It was the same look he always wore, whenever Sherlock decided to start a new experiment at the kitchen table. "Listen, I will give you the money for the pint and we forget..."
"I thought we could both use each other's company." The words burst out of Sherlock, before he could stop them and the look in John's face moved from skeptical to annoyed.
"I don't know how you got that idea, but I'm fine on my own, thank you very much." He reached for his wallet and then stopped. Sherlock watched fascinated as the expressive eyes of his friend clouded over with anger. "You are one of these fucking paparazzo, aren`t you?!"
Sherlock barely managed to stay on his stool, as he flinched away from John's angry gaze. "Listen, I have put up with your kind for months now. I don't care why you thought it a good idea to bring a story of the mourning best friend of Sherlock Holmes at Christmas Eve, but I assure you that it isn't. So, if you don't fancy a trip to the hospital with a broken nose, then I suggest that you piss off now and..."
"William Scott Vernet." Sherlock held up his fake documents like a shield to ward off John's fury. "I work as a professor at the university of Chicago." He located the card in his wallet and held it out to John for inspection, while thanking his brother for thinking of such details. "I came here for the holidays to... meet up with an old friend, but..." Sherlock added exactly the right portion of despair and hesitance to his words to appeal to John's good heart and replace the anger on his face with sympathy and embarrassment. He actually hated to play his friend like this, but it was necessary if he wanted to spend at least a couple of hours with him and Sherlock had already proven that he would do everything just to ensure John's continued existence. What was one more white lie to enjoy his company for an evening?!
"I'm sorry." John handed back his documents and visibly deflated as he took another swallow of his beer.
"It's fine." And it was. Sherlock had learned from Mycroft how the journalists had chased after John for the first few weeks after his faked death - and some were still after a story - and he had hated himself for putting his friend through this. On top of forcing John to grief for him, but there had been no other way. Sherlock had checked - and argued with his brother - for endless hours, until they had decided that there was only one way to defeat Moriarty. It had worked - of course, it had worked - but Sherlock wasn't sure anymore if the price hadn't been too high. Especially now, when he was confronted with how tired and sad John still looked. He wasn't supposed to look this way. Not ever and certainly not months after Sherlock had died. Sherlock had calculated that John would have moved on by now - found a new flat and a girlfriend - but he hadn't and this was surprising. After all - no matter what the media said - they had only been friends. That didn't mean, that Sherlock would have ever recovered if John had died, but then his feelings for his friend were of a different nature. Where John only saw him as a mate, he was so much more for Sherlock. More than a flatemate, a colleague or even a friend. John was... his reason to live - and die if the occasion called for it.
"You could just say that you love him," the resigned voice of his brother sounded in his head and Sherlock sighed inwardly. He would never be able to confess his love to John, not when he knew that his friend didn't return his feelings. If he was very lucky, they would be able to be friends again - if Sherlock survived the last part of his mission.
"So, you said that you wanted to meet up with a friend and now you are here. Drinking by yourself. What happened?"
Sherlock smiled inwardly, as John reached for the pint he had bought and at how his friend tried to make his outburst up to a complete stranger.
"He threw me out." Sherlock shrugged casually, but John only frowned at that.
"You came all the way from Chicago to London, so he must be a really good friend. You planned on staying with him, so he didn't throw you out, because he didn't expect you and had different plans. You don't appear guilty, just defeated. So, you are either a colossal arse and upset your friend or he did something that really hurt you. Which one is it?"
"You are very... perceptive" Sherlock took a large swallow of his own beer to buy himself some time. He hadn't thought his story through. It had only been meant as an opening to get John to talk. How could he have expected that his best friend would use Sherlock's own methods to deduce a stranger. A warm feeling spread through his chest at the proof that his friend had learned more from him than Sherlock had ever believed possible. Now, he only needed to come up with a believable story to stop John from becoming suspicious again. Think, Holmes, how could a friend of yours hurt you - he didn't want to play the arsehole card - so badly that you are now drinking with a complete stranger? The answer came to him a second later, when he wondered how John could hurt him. It was very easy.
"We - James and I - hadn't seen each other for a year, but I always had... feelings for him and when I confessed them, I... he threw me out. Said that we weren't friends anymore and that he didn't want to have anything to do with a... a faggot like me."
Sherlock didn't have to fake the way his voice broke at the thought of John ever reacting to a confession of his feelings like this. He would rather die than to ever hear this words from his best friend.
"That sucks." John shook his head, eyes filled with sympathy as they met Sherlock's. "It might sound bad, but at least you now know that he isn't worth it."
Sherlock almost chuckled at how John cringed at his own words, after they had left his mouth. God, he hadn't had so much fun in ages - not since Moriarty's appearance - and all only because of John's mere presence.
"Sorry, I mean... I'm sure it is hard on you now, but you took your chances and you don't have to ponder what if scenarios anymore."
Sherlock nodded, making an effort to put a mixture of hurt, sadness and resignation onto his face, before his mind jumped onto something John had said. "You sound like you are pondering what if scenarios?" He almost regretted the question, as a dark shadow passed over John's features and swallowed every light, until only a deep sorrow remained.
"You could say that." John took another swallow of his beer, his eyes fixed on a spot on the bar and Sherlock waited. He knew John well enough to be aware that it would only achieve the opposite of what he wanted, if he pushed his friend now. No matter how curious he was to hear John's story - and how stupidly hopeful his heart was hammering away in his chest - Sherlock had to wait. Either his friend would come around to talking or he wouldn't.
Minutes ticked by, their pints got emptier and Sherlock had almost resigned himself to bidding his goodbye - as it got closer to closing time - but finally John raised his head. "Two double shots of your cheapest whisky," John ordered from the bartender and passed one to Sherlock.
"Liquid courage," he joked and they both chugged their drinks down. Sherlock ignored how the whisky burned its way down his throat and stomach as he waited for John to start his tale.
"I had a friend - a best friend," John started, not meeting Sherlock's eyes which was for the best or he would have noticed the unmistakable longing in them. "He was a genius and a complete nutter."
John sighed wistfully and took another swallow of his beer. "We lived together. Solved crimes together and got into a lot of trouble."
Sherlock barely managed to school his features into something neutral, as John looked up and he was forced to come up with some reply that wouldn't give him away. "It was this bloke - Sherlock Holmes - you mentioned before? I have heard of him, but only in passing."
A chuckle fell from John's lips at this. "He would have thrown a tantrum, if he had known that he wasn't so well known everywhere, being the only consulting detective in the world." A smile flickered over John's face, before it was gone an instant later. "I always wanted to tell him that... he was more than a friend to me." A resigned laugh fell from John's lips and Sherlock flinched at the unexpected sound. "I can only imagine how well such a confession would have been received."
Much better than you can start to imagine, Sherlock admitted inwardly, as he clung to the glass in his hand lest he did something he would regret later... like kissing John, all consequences be damned.
"He would certainly given me the married to his work speech. It would have been awkward as hell, but now I think that it would have been worth it."
Sherlock watched helplessly as John ran a trembling hand through his hair and chocked on his breath, before he got back his composure. God and to imagine that Sherlock had done this to him. He had jumped and reduced his best friend - the love of his life - to a trembling mess, who was telling a stranger about his life regrets, because he had pushed away all of his friends after Sherlock's suicide. He was such a bastard and he certainly didn't deserve someone as good and pure as John in his life and yet... Sherlock could neither leave nor tell John the truth. He could only stare at his friend, as he slowly fell to pieces right in front of his eyes, without being allowed to hold him.
"Sometimes... I wonder if he wouldn't have jumped if he had known that I love him." John's breath hitched at the words and Sherlock felt like his heart was about to break into a thousand pieces. "Maybe, then I would have been enough even if he didn't return my feelings. It could have been enough for him to know that someone loved him just the way he was and I... didn't give him this hold, because I was afraid of being rejected. I'm such a coward. Sorry." John added as a sob was forced from his throat and a single tear ran down his cheek.
Sherlock could only trace its path in shock. John had never cried - at least not in public - and now he was falling apart at a pub, at Christmas Eve, because of him. Because he loved Sherlock and...
John's words finally sank in and left a bittersweet taste on Sherlock's tongue as he swallowed them down. They burned worse than the cheap whisky as they left a trail of warmth and pain in their wake. If only Sherlock had known that John returned his feelings, then he would have found a way to stay with him. They could have hidden in one of Mycroft's safe houses or John could have come with him onto his mission. Maybe, John would have even come up with an idea that didn't involve Sherlock faking his death - his friend's mind worked vastly different from his brother's and his own. It was a mute point of course. Sherlock Holmes had died. John was mourning him and it wasn't said that he would still feel the same, when Sherlock came back to him. If he came back to him.
Sherlock gulped down the last of his pint and watched as John did the same. He didn't know if his friend would ever forgive him, after Sherlock had put him through so much pain. And even if he did, it wasn't said that John wouldn't move on until Sherlock finally managed to make a reappearance in his life. The mission could take months or even years. John could be married by then. Happily living in the suburbs with a wife, children and a dog. Sherlock would only be allowed back in his life on weekends - if he was lucky. He must have made some kind of sound at the terrible imagination of his future, as John's sorrow filled eyes met his in surprise.
"I'm sorry if I upset you." So typical of John to apologize for being human. "You have been through enough this evening and I make it even worse with my story." An embarrassed laugh fell from John's lips as he gathered his things and hopped from the bar stool. Sherlock followed him.
An icy wind greeted them as they left the warmth of the pub. There was definitely a promise of snow in the air. The streets were glistening in the lights of the streetlamps and the first dark clouds were chasing away the stars that lit the nightly sky. Sherlock could practically imagine how thrilled most children would be if they woke up to London covered in snow. They would beg their parents to go to a park with them to build a snowman and engage in snowball fights, until they were frozen to the bones. Then there would be hot chocolate and biscuits and... Sherlock had to stop this train of thought as it threatened to take him back to the Christmases of his childhood. Days filled with building forts in the garden and ambushing Mycroft with a well placed snowball. Hours of sitting in front of the fireplace and drinking hot chocolate, while trying to steal as many mint pies as possible, before Mycroft got to them. No, it wasn't advisable to fill his mind with so much recalled happiness, when he was standing outside in the cold with his best friend, who didn't even know who he was.
"What must you think, I haven't even told you my name yet, but you already know that I was in love with my best friend, who committed suicide in front of me."
"So, what is your name?" Sherlock was glad that he hadn't accidently called his friend by his name or he would have had a lot to explain. He hadn't even realised that John hadn't introduced himself.
"John Watson."
They shook hands in front of the pub and Sherlock couldn't help the tremor that ran through his body at the contact. It had been much too long since he had touched John and now that he had...
"We could spend the night together!"
Sherlock could almost see his brother gasping in horror at his plump come on, but he didn't care what Mycroft thought of him. He was desperate. In a week's time, he would be shipped off to Serbia, without the assurance to ever see John again. They might only have this one night and Sherlock wanted to get as much out of it as possible... if John was amenable, of course.
Blue eyes widened in disbelief and Sherlock held his breath as he waited for John to tell him to sod off or to laugh at him, but his friend surprised him yet again as a careful smile won over his face. "Just to make this clear. We have only just met and now you ask me to... what exactly? Have sex with you?"
It sounded horrible if put this way, but Sherlock wasn't one to give up so easily. If the worst happened, John would sometimes think back of a tactless stranger, he had met at Christmas Eve. It was worth the risk. "Problem?"
Something flickered in John's eyes, but it was gone too fast for Sherlock to identify it, as his friend barked out a laugh and shook his head. "I must be crazy, but... No. No problem. My place, though."
Sherlock nodded his consent, not trusting his voice to form any words, as John halted a cab. One last night with John at Baker Street, it was all Sherlock could have hoped for, for Christmas. No matter what the next months would bring, he would have the memories of tonight. Memories that still waited to be created.
With butterflies in his stomach and a nervous smile on his face, Sherlock climbed into the cab next to John and allowed the scenery of London to fly by on his way home.
OOO
It was strange, almost surreal to enter his own flat as a guest. Sherlock had to keep himself from racing from room to room to inspect what had changed in his absence, which would have certainly given him away. Instead, he focused on taking in as much as possible - while keeping his limp believable - as they entered the living-room.
The usual mess of papers, bills and books had been cleared away, but otherwise not much had changed. Their armchairs were still in the same place as when Sherlock had left Baker Street the last time. The dagger still stuck in the wall above the fireplace, although it didn't hold any important papers in place anymore. His violin and stand had been cleared away by Mycroft, just like his chemistry equipment, so Sherlock didn't look for it, but he couldn't help the surprised gasp, when his eyes fell on an old friend. Billy, the skull still sat on the mantelpiece, although he was now wearing a terrible looking reindeer hat.
"Sorry, this place must look... weird to you."
John's apologetically words reminded Sherlock that he should be surprised by the furnishing of the flat. That his first thought shouldn't be how stupid the Christmas tree in the corner looked or how much he detested the Christmas themed decorations above the windows and how he wondered if Mrs. Hudson had made John put them up. It was entirely likely, especially if she had promised him a baking tray full of biscuits. The ones with the almonds on top or probably even some cinnamon star cookies. It certainly smelled like a jar of cinnamon and cardamom had exploded in the living-room. A scent that made his mouth water in hopeful anticipation. The only reason why he had put up with the Christmas party last year had been because of all the baked goods from their landlady. Maybe, he would be lucky enough to find a forgotten biscuit somewhere around the flat. Nevermind that he shouldn't fantasize about the taste of Mrs. Hudson's delicious biscuits - maybe she had also made the chocolate ones this year - when he wanted to pretend that he had never set foot into this flat before. Instead, Sherlock should be staring at the skull in distaste or at least shock, if he didn't want John to question him.
"Most of the things are still from Sherlock. I just couldn't throw them away."
"It's fine."
It wasn't. Of course, it wasn't fine that John could neither move out nor get rid of Sherlock's belongings, because he was mourning his friend. A friend, who had disguised himself to spend a night with John, without him knowing.
Sherlock swallowed against the self-hatred that started to rise in his throat at the realisation of how much of a bastard he was. He would at least take a minimum of comfort from his time spent with John, but his friend would only remember a terrible Christmas Eve spent with a stranger.
"Maybe, this wasn't such a good idea," Sherlock murmured, before he could think twice about it.
"Oh."
He looked up just in time to see the crestfallen look on John's face before it was gone. Great, now he had hurt his friend again. He was in top form tonight.
"I mean, we are both mourning and... I don't want to make it worse. For either of us."
Some of the hurt cleared from John's face, as he took a few tentative steps in Sherlock's direction, until he stopped right in front of him. "I understand and if you have changed your mind, that's fine. We can still spend some time together, maybe havw a drink, but..." John licked his lips like he always did when he searched for the right words. "I would still like to take you to bed with me. I haven't been with anyone since Sherlock... went away. I couldn't and if I did I would feel like cheating on him and my partner, but it feels like it would be different with you." An embarrassed chuckle fell from John's lips. "I don't know why it would be different, though. Maybe, because neither of us expects anything to come from this or because we are both lonely. Or it's this bloody, joyful season and I just... I would like to not be alone tonight, if you are still amenable."
How could Sherlock possible say no after this? He couldn't. Even if John didn't know that he was sleeping with the man he loved and although it wouldn't be the same for Sherlock as if he did, but he couldn't deny John this comfort. And maybe, only maybe, John felt different with him because a part of him felt that the stranger in his flat was in fact Sherlock. Some part of his brain had made the connection and while John didn't have access to it, he could still sense it. The theory sounded completely crazy, but it calmed Sherlock's nerves to the point that he could lean down and claim John's lips in a kiss. It felt different than he had imagined. Not just the sensation of how his friend's stubble rubbed against his skin, but... everything. The way John's arms came around his back. How he opened his mouth to let Sherlock's tongue in. The taste of whisky and beer as Sherlock licked into his mouth. It wasn't how he had pictured his first kiss with John. It was better and worse at the same time and Sherlock would forever cherish it.
He couldn't say how long they had kissed, when John drew away and looked up in Sherlock's eyes. "Bedroom, I think."
It was good that John held his hand as he led him through the flat, otherwise Sherlock would have given himself away by heading towards the stairs. As it was, another lump formed in his throat, as John led him right to his own bedroom. In how much pain was John that he had searched for comfort by sleeping in Sherlock's bed?!
Thankfully, John didn't turn on the lights - or the look in Sherlock's eyes would have let to a lot of questions - as they stumbled into the room. Their ungraceful shuffling and stumbling made it unnecessary for Sherlock to fake a limp, even as he doubted that John would have noticed such a difference. He was too busy kissing Sherlock as to notice anything of importance as they made their way to the bed.
God, how long had Sherlock longed to have John like this, to kiss and hold him, to show him how much he loved him? Much too long and part of it still wasn't possible, but Sherlock decided to ignore this small inconvenience for tonight. There was no place for what ifs when all they had was the present.
"God, I really want you," John whispered against his lips and Sherlock's knees almost gave out as he felt his friend's hardness through the layers of clothes. Maybe, it was only a biological reaction to the intent filled closeness of them, but Sherlock wanted it to mean more. And who was to say that he couldn't allow himself this illusion. He had nothing to lose, after all.
"Let's get rid of these."
Sherlock smirked at John's inhale when he grabbed the hem of his friend's jumper and freed him from it in one swift motion.
"Yes, let's. "John agreed, a breathless note in his voice.
The next few minutes passed in a flurry of movements as they undressed as fast as humanly possible, until they were both as naked as the day they were born. The faint twilight that filtered through the window was barely enough to make out the outlines of each other's bodies and Sherlock quietly mourned the fact that he wouldn't be able to explore John's body by sight, but it couldn't be helped. He might pass as a complete stranger while dressed, but there was no way of telling if John would be fooled by him while in the nude. He had seen Sherlock in various states of undress often after all. Not even his long, ginger curls would be enough of a disguise if John decided to be more perceptive than usual.
Sherlock pushed that thought out of his mind as he had more important matters to focus on. His hands greedily found John's body. His skin was softer than Sherlock had expected. Soft and vibrating with the strength that was usually hidden under layers of wool, but which Sherlock could feel in every flex of his friend's muscles. Sherlock could have spent hours like this; touching John everywhere, cataloging every hair and every freckle until he had a more detailed map of his friend's body in mind than he had of London's streets. But his exploration abruptly came to an end when his right hand stroked over the uneven edges of John's scar. His friend all but flinched away.
"Sorry." Sherlock carefully placed his hands on John's arms. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." The movement of John's head was barely visible in the semi-darkness. "The scar is from a bullet wound. I was an army doctor. I should have warned you about it."
Oh, Sherlock's eyes widened in the dark as he understood just how self-conscious his friend still was about his scar. He shouldn't be, but there had probably been enough lovers that had given him a different feeling and Sherlock hated them all. Not only because they hadn't seen past John's body and seen what a wonderful and special man he was, but also because they had been allowed to touch his friend before Sherlock had ever gotten a chance. He didn't allow any of these thoughts to show as he placed a brief kiss on John's lips and pushed him in the direction of the bed.
"No need for a warning. I don't mind scars. I have a few of my own." Sherlock inwardly cringed at the last part as he realised that he had given John the perfect opening for questions, but thankfully his friend appeared more interested in other things after the reassurance he had just received.
A hoarse groan left Sherlock's throat as they landed on the bed in a heap of naked flesh and John didn't lose any time in attacking his lips with abandon. Their tongues battled and their teeth clicked together as they moved around on the bed, until John came to lay on top of Sherlock.
"Alright?"
Sherlock answered by clutching at John's shoulders and drawing him down for another heated kiss. He had never felt like this during sex. His whole body felt hot and strung tight as blood pulsed through his veins and made his cock swell with aching pleasure.
John was rutting against him. His lips still firmly attached to Sherlock's and his hands buried in his long curls. Shivers of lust shot through his body as John pulled at his hair just in time with the movement of his hips. God, but maybe Sherlock would keep them longer from now on. It was an exquisite pain that soon morphed into pleasure as Sherlock found the friction he needed and all but started to hump John's leg. Any other time, he would have been embarrassed by such a wanton display, but he was too far gone to care at this point as his whole body was vibrating with lust and screaming for release.
And they were both getting close to the edge. Sherlock could feel it in the way John panted into his mouth while his hips stuttered and how his own body copied his movements. It was only a matter of minutes, before they would both come and then... it would be over. The realisation acted like a cold shower to Sherlock and he didn't even have the time to think about his next actions, as one little word left his lips. "Stop."
John obliged at once. His hips halted in their movements and he broke away from Sherlock at once. He might even have scrambled to his feet if strong hands hadn't kept him where he was.
"I don't want to come like this." Sherlock could only imagine the frown on John's face at these words. He had had enough One-Night stands himself to understand that such a statement was rather unusual, but now that it hung in the air, Sherlock better made the best of it before this night ended in disappointment for both of them. Thankfully, there was no need to think long about how he wanted to come instead and his lust-clouded mind couldn't come up with a way to stop him from making the request fast enough. "Take me, John!"
The breath hitched in John's chest, but he didn't make a move to scramble for supplies even as Sherlock felt his cock twitch against his stomach.
"Are you sure? We barely know each other and..."
"I won't insist, but I really want to. Call me crazy, but after tonight I just need this and... I trust you."
Sherlock held his breath as seconds ticked by in silence while John considered his words. He hoped that they were convincing enough, coming from a - for John - complete stranger, because he really wanted... No, needed to have this connection to his friend. Mycroft would accuse him of being sappy, but Sherlock wanted for John and him to become one at least for a short amount of time. Even if it was the only time, Sherlock would always be able to carry this moment in a special place of his Mind Palace.
"Alright, but only with condoms."
"Of course," Sherlock agreed as he sagged in relief, before he was snogged to within an inch of his life once more. His cock rose back to full hardness at the renewed attention and soon Sherlock found himself panting once more when John drew back and pushed against his shoulder.
"Turn on your stomach. Preparation is much easier this way."
Sherlock didn't hesitate as he turned onto his front and rose onto his knees, arse presented to John like an offering to a God. He didn't question if it seemed odd to his friend that he apparently trusted a stranger to such an extent. In fact, Sherlock wasn't capable of questioning anything anymore when he felt John's slicked fingers between his arse cheeks. His whole body vibrated with anticipation as one finger circled the ring of muscles, until it slowly pushed passed it and inside Sherlock.
"God," he rasped out as John moved his finger inside him to stretch him. He should have expected that his friend wouldn't hurry the preparations along even if he was - to his knowledge - only sleeping with a complete stranger. John was too considerate a lover and too good a human being to take the chance of hurting anyone, who trusted him with their body.
Still, Sherlock couldn't stop himself from hissing in surprise when John added another finger and scissored them inside him. It didn't hurt per se, but it had been a long time since Sherlock had done anything like this and the additional stretch took him by surprise.
"Okay?"
John's other hand stroked his cheek soothingly and Sherlock nodded, even as his breath hitched when gentle fingers ghosted over a scar on his behind. He clenched his hands into fists as he waited for John to recognize it and to make the connection, but the fingers of his friend only stopped briefly as they felt the unevenness of the skin before he resumed his former activities.
Sherlock moaned as John brushed against his prostate and stars exploded behind his closed eyelids, but even this stimulation couldn't stop his mind from flashing back to the day when the scar on his left buttock had been created. It had been embarrassing beyond imagination.
"John! John!"
Sherlock scrambled with the belt of his trousers even while he screamed for his friend and flatmate. He just hoped that John hadn't gone out to run some stupid errand - like doing the shopping - otherwise Sherlock would be forced to call an ambulance or Molly and he wasn't sure which would be worse.
While Molly certainly wouldn't call the press to tell them about Sherlock's mishap, he also didn't dare to imagine what the view of his bare backside would do to the shy pathologist. Even Sherlock wasn't cruel enough to play with Molly's affection for him like this, when there was no chance that he would ever return her feelings. Still, she would certainly make less jokes on his expanse than the doctors at the hospital, so if John didn't show up in the next five minutes, Sherlock would be forced to call her.
"If this is a new social experiment of yours, I must advice you not to try it in public. Especially not in certain clubs, where such a position would be taken as an offer."
"Very funny, John." Sherlock laced his voice with as much impatience as possible, while being bent over the kitchen table with his trousers around his ankles and his arse in the air. "Could you maybe save your jokes until you have stopped the bleeding."
This got John into motion - as Sherlock had assumed it would - and a second later his friend was inspecting his behind very closely.
"There is a scale of wood stuck in your left buttock." John sounded as fascinated as he sounded shocked. "I will need to get it out and then you might need some stitches. How the hell did you manage that?"
Sherlock blushed crimson. "I didn't look when I sat down on a bench at the park."
"The great Sherlock Holmes didn't look... I will mark this day red in my calendar." John chuckled and then Sherlock heard how he retrieved the first-aid kit. "This might sting a little."
It stung, but Sherlock had never been as grateful for pain as during this humiliating procedure. If it hadn't been for the discomfort, he doubted that he would have gotten his body to behave. Having John's hand on his bare arse was a dream come true, but under the circumstances Sherlock would have died of shame if he had grown an erection in the process.
He sighed in a mixture of relief and disappointment, when John finished with the stitches - only two - and started to clean everything away.
"Make sure that the stitches don't get wet. They will dissolve on their own, when the cut is healed. I'm only afraid that there will be a scar. A shame really."
Sherlock didn't think of commenting on John's words and when he later thought back to them it was too late to ask if his friend had paid a backhanded compliment to his arse.
"God, John!"
The stretch of three fingers inside him brought Sherlock back to the present - he couldn't have spent more than a few seconds recalling the memory - and he eagerly pressed back against John to take him in even deeper.
"Beautiful," John whispered and reached around Sherlock to stroke his cock, until it felt like every nerve ending in his body was on fire. Only then, when Sherlock believed that he would come any moment now, John withdrew his hands and all sensations completely.
"John," Sherlock whined and was met with a chuckle.
"Give me a second." Plastic crinkled and indicated that John had gotten out a condom. "Turn on your back... if you like. I'm not a huge fan of doing it from behind, but if you don't like..."
Sherlock had already turned around and spread his legs, before John could even finish the sentence. He was aware of how wantonly he must look. His spread legs revealing his slick and fluttering hole, while his cock laid hard and heavy against his stomach, smearing pre-come onto his skin. If it had been anyone but John, Sherlock would have felt self-conscious about this position, but he trusted his friend. Even when said friend didn't know who he was in bed with, he knew that John would never hurt anyone intentionally - as long as they weren't bad cabbies.
"You are really something else."
It sounded like the highest compliment to Sherlock as John pushed a pillow under his hips before he moved to kneel between his spread thighs.
"Ready?"
All Sherlock could do was nod as his mouth had suddenly ran dry, but it was all the confirmation John needed as he leaned over Sherlock and pushed into him. There was a slight burn - there always was - at first, but Sherlock paid it no mind as he relaxed into the sensation. Soon, it only felt like a huge stretch and when John leaned forward to capture Sherlock's lips in a passionate kiss all thoughts about even the slightest hint of a discomfort were forgotten.
"Move!" Sherlock more gasped than ordered between breathless kisses and braced his feet flat on the bed to urge John on.
"Oh yes!"
It was all the warning Sherlock got before John obliged. He started with slow deep thrust which only managed to sent more of Sherlock's blood rushing southwards as the indirect stimulation of his prostate sent sparks of pleasure through his whole body.
"So good."
Sherlock would commit John's moan to memory forever, especially as it got mixed up with his own as his friend leaned farther down, until Sherlock's cock was perfectly trapped between both their bodies. Add to this the change in angle and Sherlock felt like he would pass out from sheer pleasure as John started to hit his prostate with each thrust.
"Faster! Harder!"
God, he wanted to feel John. Not only now, but tomorrow and for as long as was humanly possible. He wanted to sit down and be reminded of how his friend had pounded into him with abandon, until they were both screaming and groaning their ways to their orgasms.
Sherlock couldn't say who came first. He only felt his own orgasm crashing over him as he came between their bodies with a cry. He must have blacked out for a bit, because when he next became aware of his surroundings, John was crashed down on top of him and breathing heavily. There was no question that he had also reached his peak and Sherlock closed his arms tentatively around his friend as long as he had a chance to do so.
Sooner than Sherlock had feared, John stirred on top of him and slowly pulled out. Sherlock watched wordlessly as he knotted the condom and threw it away from the bed - from the sound of it into a waiting waste-paper basket. So, this was it. He had gotten more than he had hoped for tonight, but he still needed to leave. His heart gave a painful throb at the idea of leaving John behind again, but Sherlock didn't see any other way. He had to continue his mission if he wanted to keep John alive and...
"I will shower first and then look if I can find some clean pants for you to wear."
Sherlock blinked slowly in the dark as his still befuddled brain tried to make sense of John's words. "What you want me... to stay?"
A quiet sigh fell into the dark between them. "If it's fine with you, yes. I understand that this is only a onetime thing, but... I would like some company tonight."
The statement left John wide open for any snarky remark Sherlock might have at his disposal, but there was no chance that he would even consider upsetting his friend now. He just nodded and then - remembering that John couldn't see him - added verbal consent as well.
"Alright, I will stay."
"Great. Five minutes."
Sherlock couldn't see it, but he was sure that John beamed at him before he raced to the bathroom. And if it helped his friend that a presumed stranger stayed over for a night, then Sherlock wouldn't take this comfort away from him. After all, it wasn't that a night spend sleeping next to John was any more dangerous to his disguise than what they had already done together.
"Your turn!"
Sherlock managed to get to the bathroom, before John could turn on the light in the bedroom - he was still nervous about his friend recognizing him if he saw him naked - and hurried through the necessary steps. A short but throughout shower, emptying his bladder and using the toothbrush John had placed on the sink for him. He barely remembered the contact lenses and his false nose and cursed quietly as he removed both parts of his disguise. The lenses ended up in the toilet - he didn't have either the necessary containers nor the liquid with him - and the wax in the bin - carefully rolled in a few pieces of toilet paper. It would be necessary for him to leave, before John woke up in the morning. Even his friend would notice such drastic changes in his face over night.
With a quiet sigh, Sherlock made his way over to the bedroom where John was already huddled under the covers on his side of the bed. He had turned the lamp on the nightstand on and Sherlock hurried to slip into the pair of pants his friend had provided before he turned off the light and slipped under the covers next to John. He had only just managed to get comfortable on his back, when John scooted closer and bedded his head on his shoulder.
"I just need..."
"It's fine, I understand."
And Sherlock understood. He couldn't even describe how good it felt to be this close to John. To feel every breath tickle his neck, while their hearts beat close together in tandem. His only regret was that John couldn't take the same comfort from his embrace as he took from his friend's closeness. Not, when John didn't know who he really was, but Sherlock hoped that this night had given John at least some relief from the pain he felt over his death.
For the first time in months, Sherlock fell asleep with a smile on his face and in the knowledge that no one would murder him in his sleep. He was safe in John's arms.
OOO
Sherlock came awake with a content sigh. For once, he didn't need to deduce where he was after he had just woken up. His bed and room were easy to recognize and Sherlock almost laughed out loud in joy, before the memories of the last night came back to him. Christmas Eve. Meeting John at the pub. Following him home. Having sex with him. Sleeping next to him.
Carefully, Sherlock turned his head to the side and relaxed, when he noticed that John was still snoring lightly next to him. Good, that would make things easier.
With slow but intent movements, Sherlock freed himself from John's light embrace, before he collected his clothes from the floor and limped to the bathroom. He needed to get away before John woke up. There was no guarantee that his friend would be fooled by his appearance in bright daylight and without the mind slowing effect of alcohol in his system. Better to get away before John became suspicious. Maybe, Sherlock would leave him a message to make sure that he didn't take his disappearance to heart and...
Sherlock stared into the mirror in the bathroom... their bathroom. His long, ginger curls and the beard looked grotesque in the artificial light. More so with his eyes being back to their natural color and without the glasses - which had gone missing in their hurry to undress last night. He looked like an intruder in his own home and yet... this wasn't his home anymore. John was living here alone, because Sherlock had faked his own death. He had destroyed everything that they had created and left John with the shattered pieces of their lives together.
A lump formed in Sherlock's throat and choked him until a sobbing breath fell from his lips. He couldn't do it anymore. Without a conscious thought, he opened the cabinet over the sink and rummaged through it until he found what he had looked for: Scissors.
Ginger curls collected around his feet, until Sherlock was content with his work and his hair was almost the same length as the day on which he had jumped. Nodding to himself, Sherlock rummaged through the cabinet again, until he found John's razor and his beard joined the fate of his hair. He only stopped, when his face was completely bare shaven.
There was nothing he could do about the color of his hair - he would have to wait until it grew out in its natural color once more - but nothing spoke against a quick shower with his own shampoo.
With a smile, Sherlock reached for the bottle that John had kept, but never used and enjoyed the feeling of the expensive product on his scalp. The well-known scent should make it even easier for John to accept that it was really him. Of course, he could have easily convinced John that it was him by demonstrating knowledge that only the two of them were private too - and he might still be forced to use this method - but he wanted to be as much himself as was possible, when he told John that he was alive.
Sherlock swallowed hard as he climbed out of the bathtub and dried his hair with a towel. He had thought that he would be able to walk away from John after last night, but it was impossible. He must have drunk more than expected to come to such a stupid conclusion. How was he supposed to leave this flat - his home - and John - the love of his life - behind for a second time, after all that had happened. It would destroy him if he were to go away on another mission without any assurance that he would survive. He couldn't do it. No matter how selfish this made him, but Sherlock wouldn't be argued out of it. Not that there was anyone here who could argue with him. Mycroft was at home at their parents' place and he would only learn of what Sherlock had done after the fact.
A slight smirk turned Sherlock's lips upwards as he imagined how his brother would curse after he learned that his feelings had gotten the better of him. Still, no matter how angry Mycroft got, Sherlock was sure that his brother would find a solution. There were other men who could undertake Sherlock's mission - men better suited for it than him. It should also be possible to hide John and him away - preferably together... if John could forgive him.
Sherlock took a deep breath, banned all dark thoughts from his mind, threw one last glance in the mirror - except for the stud and his ginger hair he looked like himself again - and exited the bathroom. He made his way back to John's side and only took one moment to appreciate the sleeping form of his friend before he placed a hand on his shoulder.
"John, wake up."
His friend's eyes blinked open sluggishly, a small smile on his lips as he nuzzled against the hand. "Sherlock?"
Not completely awake then if he was asking such a question, Sherlock noted even as his heart fluttered in his chest at the thought that John was dreaming of him.
"Yes," he simply replied and jumped in surprise as John sat up with a start. Blue eyes wide and disbelieving as they focused on him. They roamed over him, jumping from his shorter, curly hair to his eyes, nose and clean shaven face, then to his naked body, only to come back up to his eyes again.
Sherlock fidgeted nervously on the bed, unsure how to proceed. Was he supposed to say something? Did John need him to verify that it was really him? Should he start in on some private story, maybe mention the cabby or the business with Irene Adler? His mouth was already open to deliver some kind of speech, when John beat him to it.
"You bastard!"
Sherlock didn't have time to react as John threw himself at him and... hugged him close.
"You stupid bastard!"
Stunned, Sherlock sat with his lap full of John and unsure how to proceed. Certainly it couldn't be this easy. John should rant and rave at him, probably even beat him for what Sherlock had put him through. There was no way that John could simply accept that Sherlock wasn't dead and hug him... right?
Carefully and aware that the moment could easily shatter, Sherlock closed his arms around John's back and felt how a bone deep shiver went through his friend before he relaxed in Sherlock's embrace. It was impossible to say how long they stayed this way as John clung to Sherlock like he would vanish if he let go and Sherlock found himself murmuring sweet reassurances in his friend's ear. Neither of them mentioned John's quiet sobs or the tears that fell on Sherlock's shoulder as he clung to his friend.
When Sherlock's legs started to grow numb, John finally withdrew but still kept a hand on his arm as he sat down next to Sherlock. He didn't show any intention of wiping the tears from his face and so Sherlock swiped his thumb under both of his eyes, a wobbly smile on his face. "John."
"I thought, I was going crazy." John admitted in a hoarse voice. "At the pub, I thought there was something off with... well you but I couldn't put my finger on it. I felt connected to you right away, that's why I took you home with me. Christ!" John ran a hand through his hair in agitation. "The scar on your arse... everything in me screamed that this man had to be you, but how could you after you had jumped... right in front of me."
"John." Sherlock reached out in an offer of comfort, but his friend slapped his hand away.
"There was blood everywhere and you didn't have a pulse, I checked! Why, Sherlock... why..."
"There were snipers, three of them. One for each of my friends - Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you - and Moriarty let me know that I had to jump or you would all be killed. I had planned everything with Mycroft and it worked. I was declared dead and could go on to dismantle Moriarty's worldwide network." The words left Sherlock in a rush and he looked pleadingly up at John, when his friend only stared at him. "Please John, say something."
His friend shook his head, opened his mouth, closed it again and finally managed to get some words past his trembling lips. "So, it's over now? You are back and this was your grand entrance?"
Bitterness colored John's words as he gestured to the rumbled sheets and color rose in Sherlock's cheeks at the implications. It wasn't optimal that John was thinking this way, but at least he hadn't thrown him out just yet, that had to count for something.
"No, I... only wanted to see you, before my next mission. I didn't plan on this." The heat in his face intensified as he gave a nod to their former activities. "I also didn't plan on showing myself to you, but..."
He bit down on his lower lip, suddenly afraid to open up to John completely. Which was stupid, considering what they had done last night, but it felt like too much too fast. They should have had all the time in the world to come to the point in their relationship when they woke up next to each other in the morning. Sherlock certainly hadn't imagined their first morning after to contain awful confessions about faked suicides and hurt feelings. Not that it wasn't entirely his fault, but still...
"But what, Sherlock?"
There was an angry hiss to John's words and Sherlock averted his eyes to the floor as he forced the words out that he had carried with him for much too long. "I couldn't leave you, not again. It would have destroyed me and... I didn't want you to continue mourning me. You deserve to be happy and I only realised how much I hurt you, when I saw you last night."
Sherlock took a shaky breath, but forced himself to continue before John could interrupt. "My mission isn't complete, so we will both have to go into hiding, until Mycroft's men can destroy the last of the network. I'm sorry to put you through this. It's selfish and you have every right to be angry with me, but I can't help that I love you!"
Oh fuck, was the first thought that shot through Sherlock's head as the words still echoed through the room. He hadn't planned on confessing his love to John. Not like this. Not when everything was still raw and tender.
Fearing the worst, Sherlock blinked up at his friend who sat frozen - a look of pure shock on his face - and Sherlock's heart sank. It didn't matter that John had confessed that he loved him last night. These words had been spoken to a stranger, when his friend hadn't even entertained the idea that Sherlock was still alive. Now, the world had changed overnight for him and there was no way to predict how John would handle it. Certainly not with sudden outburst about undying love or...
"I love you too, you daft git!" For the second time this morning, John surprised him with a watery smile and a kiss pressed to his forehead.
Stunned, Sherlock blinked at him. "I thought you were angry with me?"
A hoarse laugh sounded from John at this. "Oh believe me, I am. Still... I have missed you so much and I have dreamed of having a second chance at life with you and now that I have it, I will be damned if I throw it away. It doesn't mean that I won't get pissed at you for all the shit you put me through, but right now... I'm too happy to care."
A huge weight lifted from Sherlock's chest at the words and he couldn't blink fast enough to hold back the happy tears that spilled over onto his cheeks as he pressed trembling lips to John's.
"Merry Christmas, John."
A choked sob was torn from John's lips as he pressed up against Sherlock and claimed his lips in a desperate kiss.
They still had a lot to do. Sherlock needed to call Mycroft to plan their next steps. John and he also had to work through a lot, but for now he was more than happy to forget all of these obligations. For now, Sherlock only wanted to hold onto John as their kiss grew more passionate, until they sank back onto the bed together, accompanied by the peal of bells that called everyone to church in celebration of this morning.
Merry Christmas, indeed.