The long cab ride lacked the usual camaraderie between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes that typically followed the successful conclusion to a case. Sherlock did not recount the most amazing of his deductions. John did not praise the detective's brilliance. Sherlock did not express admiration for John's skill in a fight. John did not propose a celebratory dinner. Sherlock was alone.
The sound of the key being forced into 221B Baker Street's lock clashed against the silence that had surrounded Sherlock since he left Greg Lestrade and his team to process the murderer. Usually Sherlock prided himself on the ability to pick a lock quietly, much less let himself into his own home. But after the events of the evening, his hands were shaking.
John's hands were steady, as steady as the determined set of his jaw.
Sitting on the couch, John was silhouetted against the faint light filtering through sitting room windows. When the two men had departed for New Scotland Yard that morning, sunlight had been streaming through those same windows. Now, over twelve hours later, the room was in almost complete darkness. The doctor was still wearing his coat and did not turn as Sherlock entered their flat, giving the impression he had been as still as a statue since beating Sherlock home. John maintained his position as Sherlock furiously pulled on the individual fingers of his leather gloves.
At the slap of the gloves on the table, John asked, "Are you throwing down the gauntlet?"
Sherlock yanked his scarf from his neck and threw it on his chair.
"You know I am more than capable of meeting your challenge," said John, with a defiant jut of his chin.
Sherlock let out a sound of irritation as he unbuttoned his long coat.
"I'm not going to apologize."
The detective's body language screamed his rage as he glared at John.
"I'm not, Sherlock. I don't care how angry you are. I'm not sorry."
Sherlock quickly stepped over the low table in front of the sofa and hauled John to his feet. He grabbed the right sleeve of John's coat.
"This is a bullet hole," said Sherlock, through clenched teeth.
"Yes, it is. And luckily, I'm left-handed."
"That isn't the point."
"No, the point is we are both fine. The bullet merely grazed the fabric. The suspect was apprehended, and the case is solved. It's over."
John moved to walk around Sherlock, but the taller man grabbed both of his arms and held him in place.
"You jumped in front of me. You tried to take that bullet for me."
Spinning out of Sherlock's grasp, John said, "Yes. And I have every right to make that decision."
"No, you don't!"
John halted his movement towards the stairs that led to his bedroom and faced his furious flatmate. "Listen to me. I have already put you in a grave once. I will go there myself before I let it happen again."
For some reason, the calm tone of John's voice enraged Sherlock even further. Whatever remnant of control he had snapped, and he launched himself towards John. "If I have to bury you, I will follow you right into the ground. You hear me, right into the ground!"
As the words faded into silence, Sherlock realized he had pushed John to the wall. With his hands braced on either side of John's head, Sherlock became aware of the contact of their bodies, and he gave into the temptation to breathe in the tantalizing mixture of sweat, gunpowder and John. Frustrated by this temporary weakness, Sherlock let out a howl of disgust as he slammed his right hand against the wall.
John did not flinch.
As he gazed into the trusting eyes of his best friend, Sherlock felt the anger drain from him. He turned and walked over to the table they used as a desk. He could not bear to look back at John, as he said quietly, "I am sorry, John."
Sherlock heard John approach, but still was surprised by the hands on his shoulders, gently turning him around so the two men were facing each other. Sherlock was not ready to meet John's eyes, so he rested against the edge of the table and kept his head down.
John was having none of that. His hands caressed Sherlock's face as he whispered, "What are we fighting for?"
As Sherlock struggled to come up with an answer, he was interrupted by the touch of John's lips to his own.
Sherlock broke the kiss. "John?"
Their foreheads pressed together, and Sherlock felt the warmth of John's breath against his mouth as he replied, "Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
John responded with another tender kiss.
Adrenaline, Sherlock thought. "This is adrenaline."
Sherlock heard the smile in John's voice as he said, "Not for me," before bestowing brief kisses over his cheeks, jaw, eyebrows.
Sherlock tried to come up with some reason John would kiss him. "Have you been drinking?"
"Deduce for yourself."
Sherlock felt John's lips part against his and could not resist the allure of the gentle slide of tongues. No alcohol, just the taste of John. In that instant, the addict found his new drug. Sherlock had to stop this before he was too far gone.
"You have always denied wanting this."
John nuzzled Sherlock's cheek with his nose. "I was fitting the data to the hypothesis, not the hypothesis to the data."
"You're throwing my own words back at me?" Sherlock fought the urge to bite John's neck.
"Yes, while throwing myself at you, if you hadn't noticed."
Sherlock pushed at John half-heartedly. His friend gave him some space, but did not let go. Sherlock found himself clinging to John's shoulders, dizzy with confusion and want. "I need you to explain."
John grabbed one of Sherlock's hands and kissed his palm, before holding it firmly as he spoke. "I'm a man who has always been attracted to women. Only women. I did not expect to fall in love with a man. I think I was starting to become aware of my feelings subconsciously before you went away. I had stopped dating, if you recall. I had chosen a life with you, but never really inspected the reasons why. And then you died, and I had to move on with my life. Mary knew, though, She's the one who helped me realize what you meant to me." John paused and shook his head. "These feelings were so counter to who I thought I was that I didn't understand them. I do now. If I'd felt this way and you were a woman, I'd have had you on this floor long ago. But that doesn't matter to me any more. What matters is I want this, and I want you."
Even in the dim light of the room, Sherlock saw the certainty on John's face as he continued. "And you want this, too. I know you better than anyone else. I've seen the signs. Just a few, very subtle, but they are there. You want us to be together." John sealed this statement with a kiss.
There is a room in Sherlock's mind palace marked "Do Not Enter". Marked with at least one thousand signs. Every time Sherlock gives into temptation and enters the room, he vows never to enter again and puts up another warning. Because this is John's room, the one with the memory of every chaste kiss, every lingering touch, every heated glance, and every hurtful denial. The room contains all of Sherlock's fears for John in their years apart, and every dream of the future that kept him going. The future in which Sherlock returned to a fight which ended in a passionate embrace, their mouths pressed together with bruising force. The dreams of a kiss that did not feel like this, this one that was so gentle and loving and questioning…
Sherlock had to ask. "You're sure? You must be sure." The doors to the John's room in the mind palace were about to burst wide open.
John tipped Sherlock's face so they were looking into each other's eyes. "Remember what we said at our sham of a wedding?"
Sherlock could not help but smile at the thought. I will love you until the end of my days. "I meant every word." He bestowed a chaste kiss on John's nose, as he had done on their fake wedding day, and felt John relax.
"So do I. If this doesn't work, it'll still be true, and we'll still be friends. Not even your death changed that. That's the reason I'm willing to give this a try".
How can I fight this man? Why would I ever want to? John had forgiven the unforgivable and trusted Sherlock despite his deep-rooted trust issues. John Watson was the bravest and best man Sherlock had ever known. If he thought this might work… Sherlock made the exhilarating decision to no longer be afraid to walk the halls of his mind palace with John. He took a deep breath before saying, "Do or do not, there is no try?"
John laughed, exultantly. "Sherlock Holmes, are you flirting with me?
"Is it working?"
"God, yes." John drew him closer, and Sherlock held nothing back from this kiss.
John ruined his effort by giggling.
"John." Sherlock was convinced that laughing should not be happening at this point.
"What does it say about us that this isn't even the craziest thing we've ever done?"
Sherlock grinned and cupped John's beloved face in his hands. He looked at his own madman, his adrenaline junkie doctor-soldier and said, "This is the best thing we've ever done."
For a moment, the two men embraced, heads buried in the valleys between neck and shoulder. Sherlock started to nose the coat away from John's shoulder, to better get at the scent of him.
"You can use your hands, you know."
Sherlock removed John's coat, then tossed it aside. He moved to draw John closer, but was stopped while John peeled off Sherlock's suit jacket. As he ran his hand down the length of Sherlock's torso, John said, "You'd think the amount of time I spent wondering how these buttons do not burst off would have clued me in to what I was feeling."
Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John's waist. "You always wear loose clothing, hiding your strength in plain sight." He kissed the doctor's temple. "Such a fascinating collection of contradictions, you are." He trailed kisses down John's neck, enjoying the soft noises he elicited. He moved his hands towards the small of John's back, but paused when he touched warm metal.
"Right. I should probably put the gun away," said John. He reached around and grabbed the gun, ensuring the safety was on before leaning over and stretching towards the mantle. John giggled as he barely placed the gun up against the skull, because Sherlock kept his arms around John's waist.
Sherlock captured John's laughter with his mouth, kissing him deeply. John's knees brushed against his legs, and Sherlock noticed that John was toeing off his shoes. Oh. Sherlock moved his hands to John's belt buckle, but let go when John gasped.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." John grabbed Sherlock's right hand and placed it back on the buckle.
"It's okay if you don't want this," said Sherlock, gesturing to their intertwined legs. "I'd resigned myself to never having you that way. Please don't out of obligation."
With hands in dark curls, John drew Sherlock's face back down to his. Nibbling and licking along the line of Sherlock's jaw, John replied, "Does this feel like obligation?"
"John, please." Sherlock disliked the plea in his voice.
Steady hands slowly unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt. The detective pushed off his shoes as John guided him towards the kitchen. His hands were shaking too much to undo the clasp of John's belt, so Sherlock instead drew up the hems of John's jumper and the shirt underneath. John briefly stopped touching Sherlock so he could help remove the clothing, then placed his hands on Sherlock's hips until the taller man leaned against the kitchen table.
Sherlock groaned softly as John crowded Sherlock to the table and said, "This is amazing. I can feel that you want me." He rocked their hips together. "I don't have to wonder if you're pretending. You really want me."
Shocked by the disbelieving tone of John's voice, Sherlock asked, "Why would anyone not want you?"
John stilled. Sherlock recognized the control of the soldier running headlong into danger.
"Bed. Now."
"You don't have to."
"I want this. I want us." John once again rocked his hips against Sherlock, and the two men moaned at the press of each other's hardness. John reached down to unbutton the cuffs of Sherlock's shirt, while placing soft kisses on his exposed collarbone.
Sherlock was light-headed. Blood rushing to parts other than my brain. John filled all of his senses, blocking out other external input. For all that Sherlock had more experience with men, John had more experience as a lover, and his methodical affectionate onslaught was overwhelming Sherlock. In a good way. Sherlock rested his cheek against John's and hummed contentedly. He could feel John smile.
"Starting to believe me?"
Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt and pulled John tight against him, bare chests finally in contact, the feeling accentuated by the relative darkness of the flat. "Yes." His voice was a deep purr against John's ear and brought goosebumps to John's flesh.
The two men eventually arrived in Sherlock's bedroom, random articles of clothing strewn behind them. The point of no return. So many times Sherlock had imagined this, so many times he had locked the dreams away in his mind palace, unable to delete the temptation. He'd thought his attraction to John would ruin their friendship, the bond he'd needed so desperately to repair after his return from the dead. That the bond became stronger than ever and could lead to this moment was something he'd never allowed himself to logically hope for. And now Sherlock was here with the only man, the only person he'd ever truly loved. He smiled as he realized the point of no return had actually occurred years ago in a lab at St. Bart's.
He inhaled shallow breaths as John ran his hands up and down Sherlock's bare torso. The bright light of a full moon shining through the window provided the only illumination in the room.
"I haven't been with a man, ever." John kept his eyes on the wanderings of his hands over pale flesh.
Sherlock kissed John's forehead. "I haven't been… in a long time."
"It's a good thing I'm a doctor and you're a genius."
Both men burst into laughter.
Sherlock nibbled the curve of John's ear. "We won't do anything you aren't ready for."
"I appreciate that. Still, you know, this is going to be messy and awkward."
"John, doesn't that describe you in general?"
In payback for the teasing, John pushed Sherlock off balance and onto the bed. Sherlock grinned at the predatory look in John's eyes, and he removed the remainder of his clothing while John stripped himself. Sherlock moved up the bed and enjoyed the hunger on John's face as the moonlight illuminated Sherlock's naked body.
"What are you waiting for?"
"Impatient, as always." John smirked as he knelt on the bed, and slowly started to crawl forwards. He carefully avoided any contact with Sherlock, who found himself unable to predict what John would do next.
"What are you doing?"
"Enjoying the view."
As am I. John was trim and well-muscled. He had to be to hold the push-up position he was in above Sherlock.
"You are more beautiful than I imagined," John whispered.
"Touch me."
John arched one eyebrow.
"Please."
"Sherlock Holmes, I have you begging, and I haven't even touched you yet."
At the smug tone of John's voice, Sherlock decided to retaliate. In one continuous movement, he swept out one of John's arms and flipped him over by intertwining his legs with John's. Once John was on his back, Sherlock mimicked his push-up position.
"Now it's my turn to make you beg."
Instantly, John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, dragging him down and providing the friction they both desired. At the sensation, John threw his head back and laughed.
Sherlock looked down at the joyful face of the man he loved, the man who loved him back. An improbable future, once thought impossible, became the truth. Oh, this will be fun. Sherlock joined in the laughter and moved against John again.
The laughter quieted and was replaced by softer sounds and louder gasps and loving words. And it was fun. And messy and awkward. And amazing and fantastic and extraordinary, quite extraordinary, just as it had been from the very beginning.