Setting: End of TLD, during and post-The Hug. Needed to stretch that scene a bit longer to resolve my hunger for intimacy. Fix-It fic.
Summary: Spoilers for S4:Ep2 TLD and S4:Ep3 TFP. Picks up where Lying Detective left off. Sherlock holds John, and it is finally a time for truth.
AN: I couldn't leave the series the way Mofftiss left it after The Final Problem. Not beta'ed.I apologize for any overt simplicity of prose that eluded my hasty edits. I was deeply compelled to finish this and share with the beautiful fandom we have all built together. I still believe. " 'Hope' is the thing with feathers-"
John continued to sob against his shirt, and for once, Sherlock knew what to do. The flannel of John's shirt was worn and soft, a contrast to the tempest in which his best friend was trapped. He pressed his hand more firmly to John's nape and rubbed his arm slowly up and down John's back. He had wanted to display this sort of sentiment to John in fairness for all the times that John had granted him compassion when he least deserved it. His shirt was properly wet now, and he closed his eyes to savor the sensation of physical proof that he was useful, that he was helping.
"Mary didn't know me at all." The words were unbidden, said begrudgingly, but Sherlock knew it was only John's hatred of himself finally laid bare.
"I think she saw what you couldn't see about yourself," Sherlock said with gentleness, intending to say more but John's breathy sobs had grown faster and wild, with no discernable cadence.
"John, you must breathe," he said, recognizing the onset of an anxiety attack. For all their differences, it was one of the few things they shared. "Slow and steady, John. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Breathe with me."
"Sherlock, I fucked it up. I buggered everything good in my life-"
"You must breathe with me," Sherlock commanded, gripping John's shoulders tightly and cutting off his babbling. He exaggerated his breaths, massaged John's nape. In what seemed like hours but was only minutes, John was leaning heavily into him, mostly breathing in sync, interrupted with intermittent hitches.
"You're wrong," John said. His voice was small in the flat.
It was not often that Sherlock was found in error. He frowned, searching for the right words in his taxed brain, but John continued before he could cobble together a sentence.
"You always saw me for what I was. Predictable, flawed by stupidity. You told me often enough."
The teeth of Sherlock's ignorance dug into his heart; He had begun to bitterly hate his past self. "Did I not say you were my conductor of light? Everything I said at your wedding, it was-" he trailed off, a lump rising in his throat.
John's breath hitched again and his voice was thick, but still unmistakably sardonic. "As I recall, you called me that because I was only smart enough to channel your brilliance."
Sherlock winced. He rested his chin on top of John's head, unwilling to let go, determined to be understood. "Yes, that is what I meant-initially. It...it took some time for me to comprehend what I truly meant."
John didn't speak, but he was near enough now that Sherlock could feel the brush of his lashes as his eyes closed.
"A conductor of light, yes, but even more a conductor of my...the only light within me, small though it may be. What I meant was-" he swallowed, mouth a bit dry, knowing John could feel the movement of his throat. It was strangely intimate. "You make me a better man, John Watson."
Tears burned in John's stinging eyes once again, and all he could do was press his face into Sherlock, completely overwhelmed. "I'm sorry if I upset you," Sherlock murmured, the rumble of his soft baritone a shelter for John from the world, from Mary, from himself.
"God, Sherlock-" but his voice wouldn't cooperate.
"I have something more to say, but I am hesitant."
John clung to Sherlock with abandon in a way he would be embarrassed about later. "Don't say you're leaving. You can't."
"I-I am not leaving," Sherlock said, tears forming unbidden. "I am reticent to take advantage of your emotional vulnerability, and my declaration will not-"
"Jesus Christ Sherlock, just say it or-"
"-I love you, John, I've loved you since we met," Sherlock blurted. Both men grew still.
Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot, and John detected a tremor in the arms that held him. "All those insinuations that we were a couple...I tried to tell you before-before the wedding, but I couldn't come between you and Mary. You moved on without me, and I was selfish to think I was anything more than a friend to you."
John tilted his face up to regard Sherlock's, but the detective wouldn't meet his gaze. "I wanted you to be happy. My vows at your wedding were for you, only you."
John squeezed his eyes shut, the pain blooming in his heart threatening to choke him. It was obvious now, but that didn't matter, did it? Damage done. He failed to comprehend. Even as he had wrestled with his own...
"Sherlock," he whispered, opening his eyes. He found himself staring into the detective's watery gaze, the tears making his eyes a deeper blue. Those cheekbones that he had teased often now glistened in the waning afternoon sun filtering into the flat. Sherlock looked terrified yet resigned, and John's heart broke again so deeply that he felt the dull ache of emotional pain transmuted, his chest twinging with sharpness.
"Sherlock," he repeated, disentangling his arms and taking Sherlock's face gently between his hands. "I never moved on. How could I when…I love you, too. Since that first night." Every instinct screamed for him to look away, to ignore, but hadn't that gone on long enough? He met Sherlock's gaze resolutely, his heart anguished and yet swelling with the frail hope of something more. "We're a pair. Fuck-ups left and right. But...we are both still here. Right now."
"I don't love you like a brother, John," Sherlock said, his tone sober.
"Nor I you."
A moment of silence passed, then John leaned forward into Sherlock's arms again and pulled the other man against him, arms sliding along Sherlock's narrow waist and up, feeling the angles of his shoulder blades through the expensive silk shirt. Something tight within unclenched slowly. Arousal was there, certainly, but mostly a delirious sort of relief. He chuckled softly and nuzzled Sherlock's chest.
Abruptly a finger crooked under his chin and he beheld a flash of Sherlock's eyes, his pupils wide, before Sherlock's lips captured his own with a fierceness that made John lightheaded. He moaned in his throat, eyes rolling back. It was nothing like he had imagined. Nothing mattered beyond the feel of Sherlock against him, warm and firm, the slight burr of his barely-there stubble on John's upper lip. Sherlock drew away for a second, panting, naked hunger radiating from his posture, his eyes promising satisfaction. Hot need shot through John. He stood on tiptoe and drew Sherlock's head back down, refusing to stop at one kiss.
Sherlock pulled away minutes later, his legs wobbly. "We should, we should talk before, before-"
"We won't go beyond snogging," John said. "Well, tonight we won't." He grinned. "This is, ah, this is what I wanted, but I could never hope-"
Sherlock nodded jerkily, his hands fisting in the hem of John's shirt. John took a deep breath to steady himself, ignoring the insistent signals from below his waist.
"This is not new territory for me, but it has been...some time."
"That goes for both of us," Sherlock replied.
John quirked an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you had made yourself emotionally available to anyone, ever."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You don't have to be emotionally available to have sex, John."
John laughed. He brought Sherlock's hand up and kissed it before holding it against his cheek.
"What now?" Sherlock asked, watching John intently.
John considered this. His mind was calm like it had been before Sherlock's Fall. "Right now we both need sleep. I'll call Greg and see if he doesn't mind taking Rosie one more night. God, everyone else has seen my child more than I have. I'm a shit father."
"We can fix that when you move here." Sherlock gave a shy smile and fished his mobile from his trouser pocket, fingers ghosting over the screen. John smiled with fondness. He would love seeing this smile-the smile for him-more often. He was unable to dwell on what living with Sherlock again would mean. It was simply too hopeful, he realized, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.
"Yeah, we can. But, those details are for tomorrow. Today has been enough." He took Sherlock's hand and led him to Sherlock's bedroom, inexplicably tidy and with a clean comforter, John thought, getting a whiff of lavender when he drew it back. Bless Mrs. Hudson. He toed off his shoes and stripped to his pants and crawled in, not waiting for Sherlock, who hesitated and dithered a bit before also stripping to his pants.
John settled onto his side, and moments later Sherlock slid in behind, curling around him, twining their legs together.
"How is this possible?" John mused. "It's more than I deserve. My wife died and I never-" Sherlock's arm looped around his waist, and a warm finger fell across John's lips.
"Never love anyone who treats you like you're ordinary."
John laughed outright. After the long winter of his life, didn't he deserve a chance to see what the changing of seasons would bring?
"What is it with you and Oscar Wilde?"
"He saw the world the way it is. It is what it is, isn't it, John Watson?"
Yes, John supposed. It is what it is. Blemishes, missteps, retiring affection. What was love without uncertainty?
"It's a good thing you're not ordinary," he replied, trapping Sherlock's wiry arm with his own.
"Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world."
~ Oscar Wilde