Anderson woke up in the early hours of the morning with an arm over his lower back. He turned to face the arm's owner, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's face looked unguarded in sleep, his face clear and his eyes shut. Anderson found himself smiling as he looked at the face, because it seemed like a kind face, even though he knew that deep inside, he wasn't. He smiled slightly and lay like that for a while, enjoying the thoguht of being 'the other man' for once, but then felt bad because he didn't really want Sherlock's relationships to fail, not really. He kind of just wanted his to succeed. He still felt bad. The face is pale and the moon light falls across them in lines from the blinds on the windows. It's a full moon tonight. He slowly rolled over in the bed, and moved Sherlock's arm to rest by his side, and sat up. He sat or a long time, looking down at the sleeping man and smiled gently, before moving to the bathroom.
He turns the shower up to as hot as he can stand before moving under it, and he considers how this whole mess started. Sherlock had only been married for a year and already he was sleeping around. It intrigued him, and puzzled him. He washed his hair with Sherlock's shampoo, and considered that maybe he shouldn't have taken Sherlock up on his offer, should have said no, should have known better.
He still thought it was oddly romantic. The kisses were illicit, and the nights were full of danger. The feeling of Sherlock's fingers on his cheek and the feeling of Sherlock's hair between his fingers. The brick wall his head hit someplace between 221b and the crime scene. The glassy look of post – coitus bliss in Sherlock's eyes, the cool of Sherlock's feet touching his own equally cold feet in the night. It all held a dreamlike quality to it, someone unlike he'd ever felt, and that was coupled by the bitter disappointment of Sherlock getting married, and the awful realization that Sherlock didn't hold the same affection he did. He should have known better. He knew Sherlock was dangerous when this started. He knew his heart break, yet he did it anyway. He should have known better.
He throws the soap bar at the glass. It bounces off and falls onto the tiles of the shower floor. He kind of wanted it to break, he thinks, as he stands under the miserable pressured shower in 221B, let Sherlock explain that to his mister right. He wanted to watch John's face as he realized that Anderson was better at this then he was. He wants Sherlock all to himself, like he'd thought he would have. Should have known better. Should know better. He didn't want to ruin Sherlock's relationship with John, but at the same time, he was too selfish to let him go. He wants to go back to bed. He wants to put his head on Sherlock's shoulder when they watch TV. He wants their feet to entwine in the sheets and he wants so very badly to be in John's place. They only have a few hours until John gets home from visiting his sister, and Anderson wouldn't want to here when he is, or there would be trouble, for both of them, he is sure.
He watched his feet in the shower, the water curls down his very pale and very bare legs. It swirls down the drain and he wonders if maybe he can wash Sherlock off with the water, and if he can, how would he go about it? He scrubs his arms with a wash cloth, and makes sure to remove all traces of the other man from his skin, so the only thing left is a love bite on his lower ribcage. The policy was nothing where anyone could see. Sherlock always stuck to the policy. So did he. Thinking back, he considers getting back into bed and biting and kissing Sherlock everywhere, so that he would have no choice but to explain it to John.
He only spent another few moments in the shower, before getting out and drying his hair with someone else's towel, and then exiting naked, and crossing 221B back to Sherlock's bedroom. John sleeps in here now as well, he supposes, as he tugs his underwear back up his legs, and pulls his shirt on as well, and finds his work pants amongst the mess of clothing. His were the smaller size, eventually concludes, and struggles to get his fingers to cooperate with the belt. He considers telling John, but then he would spoil the other's marriage. He has better things to do, (And he wants Sherlock to be happy) He did up his shirt, and then sat on the bed, finding a note pad in the dressing room drawer. He writes out a note for the other man, and sits it on his bedside table on top of his phone.
'Sherlock.
Don't make my mistakes; don't call me again.
P. A '
It's simple, and it's somewhat ominous. It's perfect. He leaves Sherlock in bed, and heads back to his own flat. The ride is agonizing. He pulls over somewhere, and he cries for what feels like a lifetime, because he doesn't want this bridge to go up in flames. He loved this bridge most and while he was used to being alone, somehow sitting alone in his car, halfway between Sherlock's flat, and his own in the wee hours of the mornings while crying himself stupid felt lonelier then it should. The radio doesn't help. Turning the heat down doesn't help. Nothing helps. He starts driving again after a while, his wet hair sticks to his face, and his knuckles feel like they're frozen against the faux leather grip of his steering wheel. He comes to his house and he can't find it in himself to let the wheel go. As if there'll be a finality to the movement, like this really will be the end. At least, he thinks, opening his door, he can warm his hands on the burnt bridge.
It is nearly a year of dancing around one another that Sherlock contacts him again. He would like to think he was counting down the moments, or he expected Sherlock to run back to him but it in fact comes right out of the blue as well. Much like his emotions for Sherlock, upon seeing the man's initials at the end of his text, as if Anderson has changed the name or deleted his number from the phone he can't really afford to replace. His feelings come at him in a wave of emotion wrapping him up and throwing him into a desire to write back.
The text itself is pretty harmless, actually.
John and I had a fight. I need a place to stay. –SH
It doesn't look any different to other texts on his phone and it doesn't really hold much more significance for him then the others that he has because really he doesn't get many texts from anyone these days. Too many burnt bridges really.
Don't you have other people to stay with? –A
He adds his own initial after as more of a joke than anything else. Sherlock knows who he is. He has no desire to tell him more and yet he still wants to fit in with the perceived notion of a group that the other man had. It was a strange feeling to have inside, so angry, but so desperate for love at the same time. He felt confused. And a little sad as well.
No. –SH
Anderson considered it for a long moment. Did he really want Sherlock in his house? Well obviously the answer was yes, he was pretty much in love with the man for Christ sake. But if he came over they'd be right back to where they had been a year ago.
If you come over, you know what will happen, don't you? –A
The reply comes thought quickly but he doesn't reply right away because he doesn't want Sherlock to see how desperate he suddenly feels to have the man in his arms pressed against his chest while he fondly rests his nose in Sherlock's hair. Or how he wants to sit with him in front of the fireplace and talk about the meaningless of life.
He reads the reply.
Yes. – SH
Alright, fine. He decides, if Sherlock wants to be like this then this is what he gets. He decides that if Sherlock wants this to start again then he will as well.
Alright. –A
You know the address. Knock twice. –A
So this was it, then. He was going to ruin another marriage. His flat was miserable compared to 221B, the wallpaper was twice as ugly, the carpet always smelled like mildew and he could almost touch both walls of the bathroom with his hands. But it was some kind of home. Maybe not his, but then again, hadn't someone once said that a home wasn't a place but a person? Maybe Sherlock was his home. He wonders if Sherlock was actually his home or if he was simply lonely and bitter. Perhaps it was a mix of the two. Perhaps it was neither. His whole life feels like he wad trapped in a dream, a dream that filled his blood with molasses and ruined his emotions.
The knock to the door indicates to him that Sherlock was not really far away from his house when he sent the texts. He expected Anderson to say yes, bastard. He slowly approaches the door, and his feet feel like they're rocks and he dreads the night ending and Sherlock going home to his husband. But he's still grateful for any moment he can have with his love. So he opens the door to see Sherlock standing on his door step with a slightly bruised cheek. He moves aside to let the other in, and leads him to the couch. "Sit." He sighs. Sherlock complies. He sat as well.
There is a long moment of silence between them. Anderson runs through everything he wanted to say t the man for the last year. He can't force the words out. "Oh Sherlock." He sighs and the words feel strange in his mouth and he suddenly wants to sleep. Sherlock lets out a small sigh. They sit in the stale mate for a long time. They have no cause to move and no cause to talk. Eventually, Sherlock feels the weight of silence and he breaks the still air between them.
"Shall we get to it, then?" He asks, standing as if to take off his clothes, Anderson gave him a quizzical look.
"Why are you undressing?" He questions, Sherlock sighs louder, with more emphasis.
"I loathe to repeat myself, Anderson. We should get to the sex so I can sleep." Anderson could well have laughed at him. He let out a small breathy noise. Sherlock raised his eyebrow.
"Why are you laughing?" He demanded. Anderson shrugged.
"I'm just surprised that you think I want sex in return for you coming over." Sherlock tilted his head slightly.
"Well…Isn't that what you said?" Anderson shook his head, and stood up, putting his arms over Sherlock's shoulders.
Ï don't really want to have sex." He said, rather softly, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek.
"Well what do you want?" The other demanded. Anderson pulled him back on the couch and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest.
"I want to hold you in my arms while we fall asleep." He admitted softly. Sherlock looked a little shocked, but after a second, he put his head against Anderson's shoulder. He didn't say anything for a long time, and he wondered if Anderson had fallen asleep.
"Can you love two people at once?" Anderson nodded, but followed that up with
"Yes, of course you can.' He replied, "Why?" Sherlock offered him nothing in reply so Anderson returned to enjoying the weight against his chest and the warmth of another body in his arms. Sherlock didn't say anything after that, until Anderson got to his feet, and lead Sherlock to the bedroom. Sherlock stops him outside the room, and pushes him up against the wall. They laugh between the kisses, breathy and soft, and Sherlock has to lean down to kiss him. Anderson's hand is slightly more tan then Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock manages to pick him up and carry him into the bedroom. Anderson can't stop laughing, not even when clothes are discarded.
Feet curl.
Eyes water.
Skin touches.
It's hard to walk out when it's in your own house, Anderson thinks, as he lay still, with Sherlock close to his chest. He has no desire to let the man return to John and briefly toys with the idea of how hard it would be to kidnap Sherlock. Too hard and too time consuming, as well as Sherlock's beast of a brother that would have killed him by now if Sherlock hadn't said not too. So he makes no attempt on it. He supposes Sherlock will go home to John now. They will make love, and he will remain the unwanted mistress. It's heartbreaking, but ultimately what he's come to expect by now. Sherlock gives him a curious look when he wakes up,
"You're still here." He murmurs, pulling Anderson in close, despite his normal position as the smaller spoon. Anderson rolls his eyes quietly, but doesn't say anything at first, just letting Sherlock drag himself from the depths of sleep.
"It's my house, Sherlock." He reminds kindly, and presses a kiss to Sherlock's eyelids. The other yawns and then chuckles quietly.
"It is." He agrees. Anderson shakes his head again and kisses Sherlock's nose this time. Sherlock regards him with a slightly curious look.
"You're very affectionate." Anderson nods.
"I suppose I am." Sherlock stretches a little.
"You love me." He said, with a little sigh. Anderson nods again.
"Well done, detective." He offers. "But don't worry. I know my place. I know what we are." Sherlock nods again but is unable to find any words of comfort for the scientist. Sherlock kissed his cheek gently. Anderson gave a small breathless laugh.
"I love you as well." Anderson shook his head in response, and moved his hand to rub at Sherlock's lower back.
"You don't have to lie to me." He stated. Sherlock gave a small half nod and looked to be considering something. Anderson could see the gears behind his eyes clicking.
"I'm not lying to you." Sherlock continued, "I really do love you." He said, as Anderson shook his head. "I just…Love John more." Anderson kissed him gently, one on each eyelid, and then each cheek, the bridge of his nose, the tip of his nose and then on his lips.
"I hold no illusions, Sherlock." He murmured, as Sherlock's eyes fluttered open again to rest in Anderson's own blue eyes. "I know who we are." He said, and put an arm around him. "I just want to pretend for a while." He sighed, blissfully. Sherlock shut his eyes again, and put his head on Anderson's shoulder. Anderson slung one arm over Sherlock's hips and seemed content to lay like this for a while. His fingers traced the curve of Sherlock's spine, and passed over the bumps of his vertebrae as they lay still under the blankets, admiring the silence that passed between them.
Sherlock leaves at mid-day, with one kiss on his cheek. Anderson runs himself a bath, to wash all the traces of the other man from his skin, and attempt to wash his soul clean as well. He scrubs and he hates the egg yolk faded colour of his bathtub. He resolves to purchase a new one, even though he knows that he never will. He considers telling John about Sherlock's exploits, but then decides very quickly he didn't burn his bridges and set himself on fire to see Sherlock's relationship go under as well.
He doesn't try and end the relationship after that. For the next two years the relationship carries on in secret. He doesn't start a relationship of his own. He should have, but he didn't. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock. At crime scenes, they pretend they hate one another, no moment of kindness passes between them, because no one can know. No one should know. He thinks that maybe this is how he's destined to live.
He confides in Sally, one night, they're both slightly tipsy in his disgusting flat. Both of them have considered resuming where they left off. He confesses to her everything. Every moment, how much he loved Sherlock, asked what he'd done to deserve this and she pats his back and tells him it's alright, even though it's not. It's like once he opened up he couldn't stop, and it such a relief to have it all off of his chest. She pats his back and tells him it's alright, and that they'll be okay.
They continue in secret for three more years. Anderson spends a lot of time alone. Sally gets a promotion that moves her away from him. He regrets not having any children. He watches Sherlock and John be happy. It's a bitter way to live. But when Sherlock is with him he feels some semblance of joy. Every moment they touch is electric. The moments when Anderson has him, he never wanted to be anywhere but there.
It's miserable and wonderful at the same time.
Are you free tonight? –SH
He was always free if Sherlock wanted to come over. He'd cancel his own birthday if he could could steal one more moment to have Sherlock in his arms. That may have been a little dramatic, but then again, he never did anything halfway. Not once.
Of course. –A
He doesn't get another text. They normally don't arrange things through text. He wonders why start now.
He slowly cleans up the living room so that there's nothing to show Sherlock how bored he is. It takes him forty five minutes to Show up, and Anderson was considering maybe just going to bed. He doesn't really feel like sex tonight. He feels like a hot chocolate and a movie.
He answers the door to a very pleased looking Sherlock, holding a folder. He holds it up for Anderson to see. He recognizes it. Divorce papers. He frowns at Sherlock, and opens his mouth for a moment, but Sherlock took that as permission to kiss him. He puts his hands on the sides of Sherlock's face and then pulls back. "What did you do." He asks, when he comes back to himself, "My god, Sherlock." He stutters, hands still on the sides of his face, "What the hell did you do?" He demanded, fingers digging slightly into Sherlock's cheekbones. "What did you do!?" He asked. Sherlock gave him a funny smile.
"I told John." He said simply, "He told me it was you or him." Anderson shook his head, and pulled Sherlock closer to him,
"You colossal idiot." He said, before kissing his hair.
"I picked you." Sherlock whispered.
"It's not too late, you can still fix this." Anderson said, wrestling his phone out of his pocket, Sherlock put his own hand over Anderson's.
"I've been cheating on him for over five years." He murmured, "It's not….It's not fair on him." Anderson sighed deeply and pushed his hair out of his face for a moment. He looked at Sherlock for a long moment.
"Sherlock." He murmured. The other man put his hands on the side of Anderson's face. Anderson looked him right in the face for a long moment, before leading him into the house.
"So. You're saying yes, then?" Anderson starred at him blankly.
"To what?" He asked.
"Marrying me.' Anderson blinked slowly, like he was trying to make sense of the whole crazy situation. Marry Sherlock? It was something he may well have dreamed about but he had no interest in being some kind of rebound or sense of duty. (That being said, of course, he'd never known Sherlock to have a sense of duty before) "I mean we've been together for almost five years, you and me it just seems like the next logical step…" Sherlock said.
Anderson continued to study his face, the details and creases in his skin.
"You're holding divorce papers and you're asking me to marry you? Isn't divorce a little more complex than that?" He asked,
"Yes…But, well, I told him a long time ago, the divorce was only finalized today. I'm already moved out."
"Where is he going?" Anderson asked.
"He has another flat." Sherlock said, quickly, egger to get to Anderson's reply, no matter how cool he tried to play it.
"And where are you going to stay, smart arse?" Sherlock gave a slightly lopsided smile
"Well…I was hoping to move In with you…" Anderson gave him a tight lipped smile, and reached up to put his arms over Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock put his hands around Anderson's hips and kisses his forehead. Anderson looks like he's still contemplating it.
"If I say yes, then I want you to know that I'm not your rebound. " He said. Sherlock nods quickly.
"Of course not." Anderson seems satisfied by this so he kisses Sherlock's cheek.
"Alright." He agreed. Sherlock managed to lift Anderson off the floor again, but Anderson thrashed until Sherlock was forced to put him down. "Don't do that without telling me!" He complained, but allowed Sherlock to kiss his forehead again. He couldn't help but smile up at him for a moment.
"Now I have you…I can't let you go." Anderson said, softly, as Sherlock finally. Sherlock gave a little chuckle and held Anderson tighter.
"Neither." He murmured. Anderson just smiled, and leant up for another kiss. A moment passes between them and Anderson wonders if he's doing the right thing.
"I'm not expecting you to be loyal." Sherlock says, after a moment, "If that's what's worrying you." Anderson ponders this for a moment.
"You incredible…Knob." He laughed, "I've been loyal to you for the past five years." He said, Sherlock can't help but breathe a sigh of relief.
"Have you?" He asked. Anderson nodded.
"Look around and deduce it if you don't believe me." He sighed. Sherlock looked around and then back too Anderson, and kissed him again.
"You're amazing." Sherlock says, in slight disbelief. Anderson leant up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips gently.
"Maybe." He replied, "Now…Take your coat off. I want a hot chocolate and a cuddle on the sofa.' He said, releasing Sherlock from his arms.