Okay, so this is the first fanfiction that I have ever published so I really don't know if this is any good. I'm not a native speaker, so I hope my English is at least okay and I am very sorry for any mistakes. And this is slash - just so you know.
Darkness surrounded him and for a moment he neither knew what had awoken him nor where he was. Then, gradually, it came to him that a loud noise had shattered the peaceful silence of the night. At that thought he panicked for a moment, feeling involuntarily reminded of threatening gun shots that tore through the hot air in a country south of here. Afghanistan, he thought to calm himself down, that was long over. No need to think about it right now.
Only then it came to him that there was only one reason for a noise like this to sound in the usually rather quiet flat in 221 b Baker Street. And he sighed.
„What the hell, Sherlock.", he murmured to himself, wondering whether to go down and look what his flatmate had done – again – or just to remain in bed and hopefully forget about the incident until the next morning, so that he wouldn't have to complain about it to Sherlock who would, inevitably, ignore it anyway. His bed felt so warm, he was tempted to stay where he was.
'Sherlock can look out for himself.', he thought, tugging the cosy blanket up to his chin. He was already dozing off again, when a second bang violently interrupted his sleep. John started at the sound and jumped out of his bed, exasperated. Whatever Sherlock was doing, he had enough of it.
With naked feet and dressed only in his pyjamas, he stepped down the stairs. In the kitchen, a light was burning and when he entered the small room, yawning, he saw Sherlock standing there, hunched over a Bunsen burner and a blue liquid that he heated above it. When he looked up at the sound of John entering the kitchen, his dark curls fell into his face and he slightly lifted one eyebrow.
„Are you incapable of sleeping?", he asked conversationally and continued to stare at John's dishevelled features, with his short hair standing in all directions and his crumpled pyjamas hanging loosely around his well-built body. All the while, John noticed, Sherlock never stopped his experiment, stirring in the liquid, frowning while doing so.
„Anybody would be incapable of sleeping when their flatmate was conducting rather...let's say loud experiments in the middle of the night. It's..." He briefly glanced at his watch. „...3 am and just so you know, I actually have to work tomorrow."
Sherlock made a sound that was neither acknowledgement nor excuse and concentrated fully on his experiment again. Gradually, John felt anger rising in himself. 'Stupid, egoistic git.', he thought.
„Somehow I can't imagine that this experiment is so utterly important that you couldn't do it tomorrow morning just as well. Maybe when I'm working and you're bored anyway?", John said, trying very hard to remain calm.
Sherlock looked up for a split second and John felt his blue eyes piercing into him. He felt a bit uncomfortable and started shifting from one foot to the other, while at the same time sure that Sherlock would notice. That thought made him feel even more embarrassed. God, why was he feeling so embarrassed all the time?
'It's just that look.', he reassured himself. 'Everybody would feel insecure around someone who can look through you with no difficulty whatsoever and has no scruples using whatever he finds out against you.'
„Are you suggesting that I can't find an occupation without you by my side?", Sherlock asked ironically. „For that would be highly presumptuous."
„I'm not!", John said annoyed. „I'm just proposing you postpone this little...chemical session of yours until tomorrow, so that I can sleep, thank you very much."
„Sleeping.", Sherlock answered with contempt. „How utterly dull."
„Yeah, well, Sherlock.", John replied bitterly. „I know, genius that you are, you sometimes forget about all the inconveniences that we ordinary human beings have to live with, but most people actually have jobs and working hours and have to be rested in order to..." He trailed off as Sherlock didn't seem to be listening to him anyway. Instead, he threw another glance at the liquid that had meanwhile turned into a disconcertingly bright shade of green. „What are you doing anyway?", he asked reluctantly.
Sherlock looked up, half smiling this time, and they locked eyes again.
'Don't start shifting.', John told himself and focused on standing absolutely still, although unsure whether Sherlock wouldn't be able to deduce something from this as well.
„Oh, you wouldn't understand, John, believe me.", Sherlock murmured. „But I can tell you what made the loud noise..."
„Noises.", John corrected against his own will and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
„Anyway, noise, noises – oxyhydrogen gas." He made an impatient gesture with his hand and the dressing gown he wore slipped down his arm, revealing more of his pale skin that looked fragile against the stark blue of his clothing. „Unintentional side effect of course, but anything can go wrong with chemistry."
„Yes, yes.", John replied, feeling suddenly very tired. He didn't know why he was standing here anyway, trying to talk sense into somebody who didn't listen to anybody and certainly not to him. He felt extremely annoyed at Sherlock, a feeling he was quite used to, and he had no clue how he should sleep at all that night if Sherlock continued doing what he did. But standing on the cold kitchen tiles, he suddenly felt as if he was being ridiculous, not Sherlock. Sherlock was standing there, all pale and beautiful, his dark curls framing the sharp features of his extraordinary face, a face with deep blue eyes and high cheekbones, and he was wearing an expensive satin dressing gown and he looked as if he didn't have a care in the world, all intelligent and certainly doing something really important, John thought, so much more important and glamorous than what he'd be doing tomorrow, checking on patients with colds and flues, nothing life-threatening, all tedious...dull.
John felt cold as he thought of it. He didn't mind being in Sherlock's shadow all the time, he didn't mind that he was not famous, not tall and handsome, not rich, not extraordinarily intelligent – at least, usually he didn't mind. But that night, as he was standing in the kitchen with Sherlock, everything about them seemed so opposite to John that he almost felt a touch of envy.
'The great Sherlock Holmes.', he thought bitterly. 'And his loyal blogger, John Watson, who has to work 8 hours a day in order to pay the rent.'
It was then that he noticed he'd fallen silent and so had Sherlock. But Sherlock hadn't continued his experiment, instead he had laid down all his instruments and stared at John so intensely that the doctor felt himself blush. He tried to look away, but felt he couldn't move his eyes from Sherlock whose face had softened a bit. He no longer looked as aloof as before.
„I...I should...probably go to bed.", John said quickly, running a hand through his short hair. „Ehm...sleep well...or rather stay awake well or whatever."
„I...", Sherlock said in a rush, then seemed to regain his composure, nodded briefly at John and continued: „I will try to keep the noise down. I didn't mean to disturb you."
„Thanks, Sherlock.", John answered honestly and then escaped from the kitchen as fast as possible.
When he lay in his bed again, John found he couldn't sleep. In his mind, he replayed the scene he had just witnessed.
'What was different tonight.', he thought, almost desperately. 'Something was different between Sherlock and me tonight.'
But he couldn't grasp the feeling. He saw Sherlock before his eyes, a clear image, tousled hair and intense eyes, but it was the first time that a feeling came attached to the thought of his friend. A burning emotion formed itself in John Watson that night and he wasn't sure whether it was a negative or a positive one. He just knew he wanted to get rid of it again – quickly.
It was his show and John knew that he enjoyed every second of it.
They were all grouped around him, Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan and himself, other police officers stepping into the room from time to time, then quickly leaving again. And everyone in the room, no matter if it was Lestrade, staring earnestly at the slim detective, or Anderson and Donovan, watching every single one of his moves with contempt, or even John himself couldn't help but be fascinated by Sherlock's swift movements, and the deductions spilling out of his mouth at an enormous speed.
„Woman, in her early fifties, three children – all grown-up by now, used to be fond of them when they were just toddlers, now she is no longer – pictures of them in her purse, but from the time when they were young, a bit faded out, haven't been renewed in the meantime. Married, but estranged from her husband, met..." Sherlock frowned for a moment, and cocked his head slightly to one side. „Oh, met the very same husband today, but didn't want to seem too eager for reconciliation, when she was in fact eager to make up - that's why she took her wedding ring off for one day, although normally she still wears it regularly. The body was moved after the murder, but in a very erratic fashion, so the murderer was probably scared by his own deeds – can be seen in the small blood stains that are spread around the whole room." He locked eyes with Lestrade for a moment and raised one eyebrow as if to say „Don't tell me you didn't notice all that.", then he continued in his usual fast speed. „Must've been the husband who killed her, obviously she hadn't time to meet anybody else, as she only arrived here half an hour before she was murdered. She stayed in a hotel room here in London, so she didn't normally live here, just came into town to meet that husband of hers, he probably being the only one who even knew she was here at all – secluded life, no close friends, you get the idea." This time Sherlock threw a short glance at John, and the doctor could feel that it was a questioning look that he was been given. Not knowing what Sherlock was on about, he shrugged and Sherlock turned to look back at Lestrade. He got up from where he had knelt beside the dead body which was all splattered with blood. The husband had evidently hit his wife with a heavy object several times, spreading blood all over her, John thought. How terrible it must be to be killed by somebody you had once loved so much that you married him.
„I don't know why you even called me.", Sherlock said derisively.
„Oh, you know perfectly well.", Lestrade answered grumpily. „No one here even knew she was married, no wedding ring on her and all, how should we find out that her husband killed her?"
„The wedding ring hadn't vanished from the earth, it was simply not in the location you supposed it to be, that means on her finger. That's hardly an obstacle, is it?"
Lestrade murmured something unintelligible and then quickly left the crime scene, Donovan and Anderson following him. It left John and Sherlock alone in a room with a dead body sprawled out between them. Sherlock didn't move.
„Shall we...maybe leave?", John suggested, feeling disturbed by Sherlock's intense look.
„Hm? Oh, yes, definitely yes." He nodded curtly at John and quit the room. John followed him, feeling rather strange. He could still feel Sherlock's eyes on him.
They quickly left the noises and lights of the police cars surrounding the building in which the murdered woman had been found behind them, stepping into a quieter London area, into the narrow back streets that would eventually lead them to their flat in Baker Street. John wasn't sure why but he felt exhausted and longed for the comfort of his home. Sleeping would be great, he thought, even if it was just for a few hours. It was Friday evening and he was glad the weekend was finally around. It had been Wednesday when Sherlock had awoken him in the middle of the night with his experiments and he felt he was still tired from that experience. He hadn't been able to sleep after that episode for some time and had felt terrible in the morning. And secretly he had blamed Sherlock for this, but of course he hadn't uttered a single word of complaint.
„Everything alright?", Sherlock suddenly asked casually.
John almost flinched at the sound of his voice disturbing his trail of thoughts.
„Ehm. Yes?" He cleared his throat. „What...what should be wrong?"
„Don't know." Sherlock shrugged vaguely.
„Then why did you ask?", John asked, suddenly suspicious. „You never bother with courtesies unless you want to achieve something."
„Oh, I was just..." Sherlock hesitated, seemingly staring into the void for a moment, gathering his thoughts. „...concerned."
„About what?"
„You didn't seem your normal self today."
John stopped walking and stared at his friend, confused. Sherlock immediately realised that he was no longer by his side and stopped as well, turning around. They stared at each other, standing on the side-walk, while it gradually started to drizzle. John didn't know why he was so surprised by Sherlock's seemingly normal comments on his behaviour, only that Sherlock had never done this before. And there was something else. He felt that Sherlock was right. He had behaved strangely today, but he wasn't able to grasp in how far.
„What did I do that was unusual?", he enquired.
„You lacked enthusiasm." Sherlock frowned a bit, but he didn't stop looking at John. „Normally you want to know how I come to form my deductions. You are interested in all details, especially as you want to write them down in your blog. Sometimes you even...pay some compliments." He cleared his throat and John could detect a hint of embarrassment in his voice, but it quickly went away. „However, I have noticed that you haven't even updated your blog in quite some time."
John didn't know what to say. He just shrugged and continued walking, leaving Sherlock standing on the side-walk. Some moments later, he heard his friend catching up with him, but they didn't speak again as they walked towards Baker Street.
Sherlock was right, there was no doubt about it. Somehow today as he'd watched the detective go about his usual work of looking at murder victims and putting together the circumstances of their death he hadn't felt the same as all the times before. Normally, he'd be fascinated by Sherlock's gift for perception, his unbelievable intelligence and his superiority over everybody else, himself included. Today, however, he had felt...resentful. It astonished him. He had never before felt resentful towards Sherlock. He had felt emotions in all their extremities, had been outraged at his friend's behaviour, but he had never felt that he couldn't bear to be with Sherlock anymore. But when he'd been standing in that room and Sherlock had - with such effortlessness – stated the exact circumstances of the woman's death and everybody had looked at him in surprise, there had been that feeling again, that feeling that he had felt for the first time when he'd awaken him with his loud noises some days ago. And still he wasn't sure whether it was a good or a bad feeling. It was an unknown mixture of emotions, but one of it was definitely...
It was envy, John thought surprised, pure envy. He had never been one for envy. He just didn't feel envious of other people. He'd always had enough self-confidence as not to feel inferior to anybody else. And now, here he was, boiling with envy at somebody he considered his best friend. What was wrong with him?
After all, he had lived with Sherlock for more than six months and living with Sherlock meant being in his shadow. He was after all nothing more than Sherlock's sidekick, the person whose opinion Sherlock asked for but never seemed to be able to put to any use, no matter how much he claimed that it stimulated his brain to hear the opinion of a normal human being. Everyone always spoke to Sherlock, casting a random glance at John from time to time, but never wasting another thought on him. Sherlock was the intelligent one, the interesting one of the two of them, and as if it weren't bad enough, John thought bitterly, Sherlock was the handsome one. Black curls, blue eyes and high cheekbones, perfect. He even dressed perfectly, John added in his thoughts, no woollen jumpers or the like, rather black shirts and trousers, casually framing his lean, tall body. His mouth felt strangely dry as he thought of this, of Sherlock's intense look, his intelligent face frowning at a complex thought racing through his mind, while he impatiently tossed a dark curl out of his face...
He didn't know how to deal with this, he just didn't know, John thought that evening, as he watched Sherlock play the violin, a melancholy, almost desperate tune, that caught John's innermost feelings perfectly. Sherlock was standing near the window, his eyes closed, seemingly playing the sad melody out into the dark, cold night that surrounded Baker Street on quiet evenings like this, embracing their little flat firmly. John had his laptop on his knees, trying to write something in his blog. After all he couldn't just stop doing this, especially now that Sherlock seemed to have noticed. It would have seemed...weird. He'd been blogging about Sherlock all the time he knew him and he had no reason, no reason at all, John reminded himself, to stop now. But if he was honest to himself, he had no idea what to write.
„You don't have to pretend to write in your blog, John." Sherlock said suddenly as if he had read John's thoughts and the doctor realised that his friend had stopped playing the violin. „I can always look it up and check for myself if you have written something new – not that I'm that desperate for some Internet news on myself. I think the world can do without daily information on Sherlock Holmes." He picked some strings on his violin and grimaced a bit at the sound of it.
„I'm not pretending, I'm actually trying to write something, which would be easier if you didn't interrupt me." John hissed, surprised at his strong reaction. After all, it was the first time that they had spoken since the scene in the streets and Sherlock had annoyed him much less than on normal days. He had just peacefully played the violin instead of conducting some strange, potentially loud and/ or bloody experiment. Then why did he feel so aggressive towards his friend?
„Sorry.", John added after a second in which both of them had been silent, Sherlock obviously slightly confused at and at the same time highly interested in his friend's strange behaviour. John could feel the thoughts racing in Sherlock's brain, putting information next to information, comparing John's reaction to all his normal reactions, taking in his body posture, his facial expression, everything, and forming thoughts after thoughts, deductions after deductions.
„I'm just tired." John felt he had to say something to break the uncomfortable silence that lingered between them, Sherlock taking every information on his friend in and John trying to give away as little as possible. Hell, if he himself didn't even know what was wrong with him, how should Sherlock ever find out?
„I'm going to bed.", he murmured finally, and left the living room hurriedly. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and only when he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness of his room, he felt himself calm down. But as the agitation left, a deep sadness began to settle itself on him. He felt Sherlock slipping further away from him and he didn't know how to make it stop. If only his feelings would stop going insane at the thought of his friend, if only he could untangle that strange mix of anger and envy and...but as he lay in the perfect dark and tried to push the thoughts on Sherlock away, he didn't dare to think of it, of the only positive emotion that he had felt deep inside him amidst all those raging, negative ones.
Back in the living room, Sherlock put the bow on the violin with more force than necessary and played a lively tune aimed at regaining his peace of mind, trying to put John's behaviour and the many possibilities of reasons and consequences out of his mind.
It didn't work.
In the two following weeks, neither Sherlock nor John made any attempt at a serious conversation. They both felt that something was wrong between them, but what exactly John still couldn't lie his finger at and if Sherlock knew, he didn't let it show. They communicated much less than before. John was secretly glad whenever he could leave the flat and work and took as many extra shifts as possible. Whenever he came home and Sherlock was there, the detective was playing the violin or conducting some experiment, barely looking up when the doctor entered. Mostly, they didn't exchange more words than absolutely necessary, which wasn't much where Sherlock was concerned. John knew that Sherlock had clients and probably interesting cases to solve, and he felt a huge disappointment when he realised that Sherlock had stopped asking him along whenever something potentially interesting occurred. He felt angry at Sherlock for having him cut out off his life so easily, but then he remembered that he did the same by refusing to face the feelings he experienced when Sherlock was around, and their consequent lack of communication. John knew that it was him who had stopped talking, that he had made the first step and that Sherlock was only too aware of it, but he wasn't sure where he had gone wrong and he didn't feel capable of mending the rift between them, when so much was unsaid and so much had to stay that way.
He even considered moving out, just to escape the cold silence that hung between him and his (former?) best friend. But then, he thought evasively, he would have to talk to Sherlock about that and he didn't want to talk to Sherlock about anything of importance right now. He didn't and at the same he did, he wished for the old times when he and Sherlock had just got along without any complications. Everything had been so easy. He had never had any kind of relationship to any human being that had been so extremely simple. Yes, Sherlock had annoyed the hell out of him, but John had still been capable of liking and appreciating him like no other person he had ever known. As complicated as Sherlock was, he and John had been perfect together. Perfect. But whenever John thought of Sherlock, he thought of him being intelligent and beautiful and wonderful and he felt resentment against his friend rising again, a resentment that he didn't understand, mixed with a terrible sense of loss and longing that he didn't understand at all.
It was a Friday night when things changed. John had come home from work late and felt every working hour in his bones. Outside, it was raining, the raindrops sliding down the windows of 221 b Baker Street with a definite sense of destination. At the same time, one could hear the rain beating against the roof at a steady pace. It was a strangely reassuring noise, John thought, as he showered and slipped into his bed, without having seen Sherlock that evening. He was probably out, hunting criminals in all of London. John felt a stab of pain at the thought of this, but he tried to repress it. It was, after all, he thought determinedly, no longer his problem.
It was around 2 am that a noise made him start in his bed, much like the night when Sherlock had conducted his oxyhydrogen gas experiments. But this wasn't a loud noise, it was more of a soft, tapping noise that normally wouldn't have disturbed his sleep. Shortly afterwards, however, one of the steps creaked and John realised that somebody – Sherlock probably, who else? - was passing along his room, heading off in direction of the living room. John was used to Sherlock being awake at night, but he felt that it was rather strange for Sherlock to come up to the doctor's room – for there was no other room up the stairs – and then leave again without even having spoken to him. 'Very strange.', John thought and before he had even thought it through, he had gotten up from bed. He felt cold in his boxer shorts and the thin T-Shirt he was wearing and for a moment he stood there, unsure what to do. He didn't want to confront Sherlock about his behaviour, after all, John thought sarcastically, who was he to ask Sherlock why he behaved so strangely, when he hadn't properly spoken to his best friend in almost two weeks, let alone looked him in the eyes.
Maybe something was wrong. No, something had to be wrong in order for Sherlock to come up the stairs and leave without doing whatever he had intended to do. Sherlock wouldn't stop doing something he had decided to do, he just wasn't the type.
'Decide.', John said to himself, shivering in the cold air. He didn't want a confrontation, but if something was wrong with Sherlock, whatever it might be, he didn't have the heart to leave him alone. He just had to know. So he braced himself for whatever might come and left his room, stepping down the stairs into the living room. At least it was warmer here, he thought as he closed the door behind him, gradually recognising Sherlock's shape, huddled on one of the soft sofas near the fire place in which, to John's surprise, a fire was burning. Like John, Sherlock was in his night dress, but unlike the doctor he wore black satin pyjamas which looked fascinating against the paleness of his skin. Hesitatingly, John stepped closer to his friend and cleared his throat. Sherlock looked up, but only to shortly acknowledge John's presence, then he continued to stare into the warm flames. Unsure how to proceed, John took place on the armchair near the fire and tried to establish eye contact with his friend, something which he hadn't tried in quite a while.
„Sherlock...", he said doubtfully and shrank back a bit when Sherlock's eyes finally met his own, capturing him with his intense stare. „Everything...alright with you?" When the detective didn't answer, John added quickly: „I mean, I heard you come up to my room – the stairs creaked.", he explained because Sherlock still hadn't moved a single muscle in his face, just sitting there and staring. „I thought something had to be wrong."
For a long time, silence reigned, not unlike it had been in the two weeks before.
„I couldn't sleep.", Sherlock said finally as if that simple statement would explain everything.
„Why not?"
„Have to think."
'Cryptic', John thought, slightly annoyed, 'but very much like Sherlock.'
„About what, if one may ask?", John said in a voice that was slowly turning sarcastic.
„Everything." Sherlock continued to stare into the fire.
„Oh, come to the point, Sherlock!", John burst out loudly, his patience wearing thin. „It's 2 am in the morning, I've had a rather stressful day at the hospital and if you're not going to tell me what the hell is wrong with you, I'm just going back to bed and let you wallow in whatever it is you're displaying at the moment!"
Sherlock didn't seem upset by his angry speech, he cocked his head to one side and examined John carefully. Suddenly, John felt insecure again. He didn't like Sherlock's blue eyes roaming over him, sparkling under thick black eyelashes. There was something so unsettling about it. So very very much intense and close to him. Sherlock's gaze seemed to John so private that he couldn't stand it and he looked away, now staring into the fire instead of Sherlock.
„I was right.", Sherlock said and when John still didn't look at him, he continued: „There is something wrong with you."
„So you say.", John repeated quietly and hoped Sherlock would simply change the topic or lose interest or whatever, however unrealistic that was. Sherlock didn't just lose interest in something as fascinating as this.
„You can no longer stand my presence. I annoy you. But not..." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. „...in the way people normally feel about me. You're not annoyed because you are afraid of me and my extraordinary intelligence." John glared at him when he heard that, but Sherlock continued nonetheless, shrugging as if to say: What can I do about it? „In the beginning, you felt very comfortable around me. You considered me your best friend. You still do, but something has changed. You feel...threatened by me." The detective frowned at his own words as if he couldn't believe them.
„Look, Sherlock, I..." John ran his hand through his short hair in exasperation. „You're maybe right, there is something wrong with me. I don't know, I..." He sighed slightly. „I don't understand it myself. You are my best friend, nothing could change that, and still..."
„And still you even thought about moving out.", Sherlock completed his sentence and his face betrayed no emotion. When John started protesting, he shook his head and added: „Don't deny it, I know you did."
„I am very...really, deeply sorry." John answered quietly, feeling guilty at the accusation that his friend hadn't really voiced but that still cut through to him. „It was just...I didn't know how to go on, we didn't talk to each other and..."
„You didn't talk to me.", Sherlock said with a sudden vehemence that surprised both of them. „I talked as much as always, but you couldn't look me in the eyes and you became so very much tangled up in how much you couldn't stand me anymore because I was so intelligent and clever and quick and sharp and handsome and you felt you were none of it." He pressed his lips together, as if he had said too much and his words had sounded so bitter and full of emotions. John had never heard him like this before.
„It's true.", John admitted. „You were always...so extraordinary and I felt I couldn't compete with you."
Sherlock snorted and suppressed anger still surrounded him like a thick cloud.
„Yes, you envied me so much, I could feel it and it disgusted me because you had it all so wrong."
„Why?", John asked, confused.
„I told you once..." Sherlock sighed, a hushed sound that didn't fit his normal demeanour at all. „...I told you that I am not a hero." His blue eyes met John's and there was a softness in them that he had never seen before. „I am not, John. And I am not perfect. And you know that, and you wouldn't want to trade places with me, no matter what you think now. Think about it. Think about it. Think about what I am." John didn't like the look on his face, all painfully distorted. „I am highly intelligent, yes, I can solve crimes that no one else could solve, yes, my deductions are almost constantly right, yes, and it is true that people depend on me for that. But they do only that, John. They do not like me, they respect me because they have to. They do not even admire me, they think of me as a freak, a strange being, something of which they are sometimes so afraid." Sherlock gritted his teeth for a moment, then he looked back at John and shook his head. „You would never want that, John. You love to be liked by everyone. I don't understand why you would ever be envious of me."
„You...are certainly right.", John answered after a pause, feeling suddenly ashamed for all the negative emotions that he had bunkered against his friend. Sherlock was right, he didn't want that for himself, he liked Sherlock for what he was, but he often wondered how Sherlock could stand to live like that, to bear the frightened and confused looks of everyone around him and still be so self-confident, so arrogant, even if all of it was just a show. He felt he needed to explain himself to Sherlock and couldn't quite make out the words, because how should he explain the feelings that had all become tangled up into one explosive mixture, the feelings that he didn't understand himself?
„I owe you an explanation.", he finally said and when Sherlock tried to interrupt him, he stopped him by shaking his head firmly. „You are, as always, right. I don't want to be like you. But I thought you were...so...everything that I was not, all elegant and, of course, immensely intelligent, and..." He nearly choked on the word. „...beautiful and I don't know why, I couldn't deal with it." He felt himself blush and he couldn't quite look at his friend. „And I'm very sorry for my behaviour in the last two weeks. I wish we could just...go back to being friends and everything could be normal between us." He shrugged helplessly. „I mean, if you could just forgive me and we could continue solving crimes, that means, you'd be solving and I'd be tagging alone, blogging about you, then everything would be well with me."
Sherlock seemed to consider that for a few moments. He had his fingers leaned against each other, contemplating John's words, his eyes turned to little slits. Then, finally, he shook his head and John had a sinking feeling.
„No?", he asked in disbelief.
„No.", Sherlock said. „I don't think we can quite go back to being friends again."
„Why not?", John replied, feeling more and more desperate. „I'm really sorry, Sherlock, you must believe me..."
„That's not the point.", Sherlock interrupted him firmly.
„What is then?"
„You don't want to be my friend."
„But...what else..."
And then John knew and he saw in Sherlock's eyes that he had known all along, their whole conversation being a plot directed at this outcome. And he sighed deeply as he realised what his friend had been trying to tell him, something which he himself ought to have known, must have known somewhere deep inside, but couldn't admit to himself. He felt like drowning in his emotions and suddenly he knew what that strange positive feeling had been, a feeling that he hadn't experienced in a long time and he hadn't recognised it, but merely because he couldn't believe that he could ever be in love with a man, and especially not with this man, Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, his flatmate, his...colleague or whatever, who now sat opposite of him, his knees drawn up to his chin, encircled by his long arms, staring at John with eyes that suddenly betrayed every emotion in him, so much sadness and tenderness and even pity that John had never seen in them before.
„Sher..." John stared at his hands. „How, how did you know? And how long?"
„Wasn't so difficult to deduce.", he answered quietly and when John glanced at him in disbelief, he shrugged. „You were acting strangely all of a sudden, you didn't meet my eyes anymore, blushed in all sorts of situations, you couldn't stand to be near me – it didn't take me long to notice that it wasn't a sudden abhorrence of my person that made you act like that but rather...well, the opposite of abhorrence." He glanced at his friend and there was suddenly a hint of insecurity in his voice. „I am very sorry."
„And now?", John asked and he felt himself grow more desperate. He jumped up from the armchair and started pacing up and down, finally coming to rest near the window. He rested his hands on the window sill and stared out into the black void. He felt as if the end was nigh and he knew he couldn't bear it, he couldn't bear to be torn away from Sherlock, couldn't hear those final words he knew would come. „Please.", he said, suddenly turning to Sherlock and he realised that tears were forming in his eyes. „Please, just don't...I mean, can't we just forget the whole thing? I didn't mean it, I didn't even know until now and I really wish we could just get back to..." He trailed off and turned to the window again. Tears were running down his cheeks and he couldn't bear it anymore, he just stood there, as the forms and shades blurred before his eyes, and he tried to make not the slightest noise so that Sherlock wouldn't know that he was crying because of him, because he loved him and wanted to be with him and couldn't and couldn't and couldn't.
„John..."
He started at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice much closer to him than he'd have thought. He had soundlessly left his place and stood right behind John and the doctor suddenly felt how a hesitating hand was put on his shoulder. He was very aware of that hand that lay there in absolute stillness. They had almost never touched before and John knew that this was the most inappropriate moment of all to be touched by his best friend, the man he loved, when all that Sherlock could offer him was compassion and consolation.
„Sherlock...don't.", he said quietly, wiping away his tears, attempting to be unobtrusive in doing so. When he was finished and Sherlock still hadn't moved, he turned around to look at him, momentarily confused by Sherlock's body so close to his own.
„It's okay, just...I'll just go to bed.", John said defeated.
„Don't cry.", Sherlock said in such a sensible voice that it almost broke John's heart. „It's really not very productive at the moment."
John tried to smile, but couldn't really manage.
„I know."
Sherlock's hand suddenly moved from his shoulder to his cheek and John felt his heartbeat increase, while he frantically tried to stop himself from looking at Sherlock's face (so close to his own), tried to ignore Sherlock's breath (gently stroking the skin of his face), Sherlock's smell (surrounding him), Sherlock's eyes (capturing him, drawing him in), Sherlock's lips...oh, he couldn't even begin to think about those lips.
„That's also...not very productive.", he managed to say.
„You haven't even waited for my answer.", Sherlock said quietly, resting both of his hands on John's shoulders, drawing him even closer.
„Sherlock, just..." John made an attempt at putting as much rationality in his voice as Sherlock had done before and felt he was failing miserably. But he couldn't, he just couldn't think straight with Sherlock's lips just centimetres away from his own.
It was after all only a question of leaning into the other person's body or not, with their lips only such a short distance from each other, and at that instance Sherlock decided to lean into the warmth of John's body and his mouth and John felt soft lips on his, and arms that were no longer on his shoulders, but circled around his waist and he knew that he had wanted this and nothing else. His eyes were closed and he could feel Sherlock kissing him again and again, soft kisses on his mouth, that seemed to be directed at reassuring him. There was nothing sexual about this, John thought and he was relieved and worried at the same time. He drew away a bit, forcing Sherlock to stop kissing him and as he looked into his friend's blue eyes, he could suddenly feel his nervousness.
„Sherlock, Sherlock..." He held his friend at a distance. „We should talk about this."
„I don't want to talk about it.", Sherlock answered rashly. „I just want to do it."
„Do...do what?"
„I don't know, the kissing and...all the rest.", Sherlock said vaguely, not looking at John and it suddenly reminded the doctor of something he should have remembered before, some time before Sherlock had started kissing him, so innocently, John thought and hated himself for this thought, for Sherlock would have loathed being thought of as innocent. But he knew for certain that Sherlock had never kissed somebody before, had never done „all the rest". And he didn't know how to react to that. He himself longed for the kissing and the hugs and maybe even all the rest, although he felt tired, but he knew he couldn't just press on, when he wasn't even sure what Sherlock was aiming at.
„Look, Sherlock, do you really want this? And you don't just do it because you pity me or you want to say that everything is okay between us or..."
„I am fully aware of the conclusion that you are bound to draw due to my present behaviour.", Sherlock said sharply and met his eyes again. „Since I have found out that you...are in love with me, I have started to examine my own feelings and they are..." He cleared his thorat, now definitely embarrassed. „...alike."
It hit John with all the force there was. He hugged Sherlock because it seemed to be the appropriate reaction to a declaration like this, but his confusion just got worse as he clung to that warm body that surrounded him and he rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder and, being nowhere near as tall as his friend, it fit perfectly. He could hear Sherlock's breath and felt it at the same time, a slow, steady rhythm, but he also sensed his nervousness that wasn't getting any better. And he knew how much Sherlock hated being nervous and, even worse, having somebody else perceive such a feeling, when he normally tried to act so self-confident, so aloof.
„And now?", he asked silently, refusing to let go of his friend when he had only now been granted the privilege to touch him and hold him.
„We could...move somewhere else." Sherlock's voice sounded hoarse, almost a whisper.
It was all so quiet, with none of them really speaking and the only sound the gradually slowing rain out in the streets. And John felt as if all of London had gone to bed and had left the two of them together, but all alone, in a darkening flat.
„I could sleep then.", Sherlock added, still not raising his voice so that John not only knew that he was only speaking to him – who else was there to speak to? - but also felt it.
„You could've slept before, I guess, you were just trying to get me to talk to you and intentionally made the stairs creak.", John murmured back, not offended at all by the usual plotting of his friend.
„Correct.", Sherlock admitted and then he stepped back and took hold of John's arm – not daring to touch his hand, John thought, far too intimate when they were both still treading on unknown ground – and guided him up the stairs to John's bedroom. John followed him obediently, and when they reached his bedroom and he felt Sherlock hesitating, he guided him to his bed, where they both sat down in the coldness of the room, and they didn't look at each other. It was a relief, John thought, not to have to scan each other's faces, interpreting every movement. But now that they were here, Sherlock so close, he felt something stir inside him, something more than just pure affection and he didn't know what to do tonight, how to go about doing whatever they were supposed to be doing. One side of him wanted to just lie there, his arms wrapped around Sherlock, feeling his warm body against him and to sleep, all so romantic and peaceful and quiet. But then, he thought uncertainly, what would happen in the morning? Wouldn't they be going back to pretending nothing had happened between them, going back to being mere friends? He didn't want that. And he sensed that he wanted Sherlock, wanted to touch every part of him, to taste his mouth and his skin and to go beyond the chaste kisses that Sherlock had given him tonight. He wanted a change, a definite proof that something had changed between them, a symbol of their new-found relationship. And he knew there was only one way to achieve it, although that meant doing something which he had never done before, at least not with a man, and Sherlock...he didn't want to think about it.
„Should we...lie down?", John suggested, trying to put his friend and himself at ease.
„It's cold." Sherlock nodded and they carefully lay down beside each other, drawing the blanket over their bodies. John wrapped his arms around his friend – lover? - and softly kissed Sherlock's temple. He could sense that Sherlock held his breath at this and he continued to kiss his cheek and finally his mouth. It felt warm and safe, but he didn't want to stop there. Slowly he opened his mouth, sliding his tongue above Sherlock's smooth lips until he let him into the warmth of his mouth, gradually kissing back. And from that moment on, John thought, it was sexual, there was no denying it, and it would be difficult to stop when he hadn't slept with anyone in such a long time and wanted Sherlock so much. He could feel Sherlock tremble slightly beneath him, as they continued to kiss, no longer carefully, but fiercely, their lips hard against each other, their tongues swirling around, and he put a steady hand in Sherlock's dark curls to calm him down. They felt silky beneath his touch and he knew that he was beyond help, he pressed Sherlock down, moving his body so that he lay on top of him and put his other hand under Sherlock's pyjama shirt, relishing the feeling of his naked skin against his. He heard his friend groan slightly, and then Sherlock tore at his shirt and within a short moment, their tops had gone and their bare chests touched.
And John knew that Sherlock could sense his body's reaction to this and he himself could feel Sherlock's erection through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts and as he watched Sherlock panting beneath him, his eyes fixed on John's face as if to distract himself from what was going on, he knew that he had to slow things down, no matter what. He kissed Sherlock softly on the lips, holding his face with both hands.
„This is too fast.", he murmured unconvincingly.
Sherlock shifted beneath him and looked discontented.
„John.", he said firmly. „Let's just get on with this."
And then he kissed him and his hands started rubbing and stroking all kinds of John's body parts, making him moan and curse under his breath, until he finally freed him of his shorts and John's cock touched Sherlock's bare stomach. Their eyes met for an instant then and as much as John wanted to ask Sherlock if he really wanted to go on with this, he couldn't. He saw a hint of insecurity in his friend's blue eyes, but there was also a certain firmness and he knew that Sherlock was asking for permission to continue with what he had started. When there was no sign of resistance, he reached out for John's member, stroking it until John couldn't think straight anymore, reduced to panting and groaning, all sensation, all touch...he held fast to Sherlock as he came and afterwards, as he did the same for Sherlock and felt his unsteady breath on his skin, he was glowing inside, all nervousness forgotten, it no longer mattered that Sherlock was a man and that he had never done this with a man before.
Finally, he lay on his back, resting his head on one arm, while Sherlock was curled up next to him. He threw a glance at his watch. 4 am. He was glad that it was Saturday. Casually, he ran a hand through Sherlock's soft hair, uncurling it and then letting it snap back again.
„Sleepy?", Sherlock whispered and John just nodded as he knew that Sherlock would sense it even if he couldn't see it. Then he took a deep breath.
„Was it...okay?" He hadn't dared to ask this before although it was important for him to know. He had an obligation to know it, John thought, so much responsibility, when Sherlock hadn't done this so far and he had wanted nothing but to make it as pleasant as possible.
„It exceeded my expectations.", Sherlock answered and, maybe realising that this was no reply that would reassure his friend, he added: „It was nice."
„Oh. Okay."
„I didn't want you to stop once you had begun.", Sherlock added after a few moments, thoughtfully. „I wanted it to happen as fast as possible so that I didn't get the possibility to...change my mind. Not because I didn't want you, but because I was..."And John knew what he wanted to say and he leaned down to kiss Sherlock to stop him from expressing emotions that he didn't want to put into words, like love and fear and insecurity. And in between kissing him, he murmured „I love you." and he thought he heard Sherlock whisper something like „Love you."
And it made him happy.