Eventide

Author: CK

Rating: P16 (P18 version available on AO3 - same title, same penname!)

Summary: Sometimes you needed to lose everything first before you dared and bravely walked into the unknown.

Disclaimer: Leave it all to the BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. I'm actually quite happy with them having it - even if the BBC could be a bit quicker with passing it on to us.

Author's Notes: Sequel to "Sunrise", fifth and last part in the "Solace" series that explores how it goes on from this story and John and Sherlock's new arrangement. Can be read as stand-alone story.

For full version, please visit my AO3. Story will also be added to my personal archive later that day (link in my profile) :) If you don't mind explicit material, I strongly suggest you read the full version, as it also contains futher development on the emotional side for both John and Sherlock.

The pictures were going to stay with them forever. They would never forget that case. John and Sherlock both knew it as soon as they arrived at the crime scene - one with a broken body lying at the foot of a high building. They shouldn't have been there; they shouldn't have been called in. Lestrade would have known; but it was DI Dimmock investigating the case, oblivious to the bigger picture, only realizing what he had done when it was too late.

From the rooftop the victim had fallen - jumped or pushed, it didn't matter then. All that mattered was that this was their past. Pictures and memories buried in their minds were dragged out violently, back into the light, into reality and awareness. Not that they had ever really been gone. But pretending had worked well in these past months.

Sherlock expected rejection. And John... John expected nothing. Only that things wouldn't change. Because enough had changed already.

The case was solved quickly; it was murder indeed, not suicide. Not that it helped the two friends much, whose wounds were ripped open once again. Wounds once sustained by things done wrong, decisions made without considering the outcome; wounds that had closed after Sherlock's return, but never entirely healed.

The weight on both their shoulders had suddenly increased tenfold, and when they returned home in the afternoon hours, no word had been spoken for a while, and wouldn't be for another. The air between them was filled with things unsaid; things that couldn't possibly be limited to the restriction sentences posed. They just followed their routine, making tea, checking e-mails, updating the blog, awaiting Mrs. Hudson's obligatory visit that, much to their mutual relief, didn't come this day. Her cheerfulness the two men couldn't have taken; not in an emotionally charged atmosphere only waiting to be acted upon.

It hit John then that they had never really talked about what had happened. He had shown his anger and disappointment for a while, but then readily accepted Sherlock back in his life, because he knew all too well that he needed his friend. Living without him had been torture enough, had come close to driving him insane even, the dreadful loneliness eating at him - just as did the guilt he had always felt over not preventing the Fall, and Sherlock's defamation that he had believed lead to it.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had been glad the subject hadn't been brought up again so far. He was not the one to talk things through, not when they concerned matters bar logic; matters of feelings, emotions. Now, however, he expected a word on what they had skillfully avoided to address for nearly a year. May John have been angry and resentful in the weeks after his friend's return, they nevertheless had mostly foregone saying much about it, until one day John, and with that both of them, had moved on. It stopped being of importance; it stopped being an issue urgent enough to bother with.

Facing their past that apparently wasn't as past as they had made themselves believe questioned their non-decision to leave the subject behind, though. It made Sherlock wonder if he shouldn't rethink events, after all, and he saw how it made John retreat into painful memories of an unforgettable loss.

The evening flew by and heavy silence threatened to suffocate them as they went through routines that were a mere excuse for... whatever. They danced around each other, even physically, trying not to get to close to the other when they moved around the room. It was ridiculous, that much they both thought of it, though neither tried and changed it. Two, maybe even three hours their avoidance went on like this - until, eventually, it was John who broke the silence with a frustrated growl.

"Sherlock, listen-" he began, but was almost immediately interrupted.

"I'm sorry, John," the other man said, his voice tinged with nervousness, and received an irritated look in return.

"I know."

"No, I-" Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, for once annoyed by his own emotional incapabilities. "I don't think you do. I was always sure of my own decisions. I rarely, if ever, had reason to doubt them. When I... went away, I knew it was the right thing to do. I still believe it was. Yet I never considered the outcome for those around me, for... for you. I'm not familiar with people caring for me, especially not strangers outside my family. I told you once that I don't have friends; I never had any, never for long, never... never like," he motioned between them, "this." Heavily the detective sat down on the couch, looking up at John who stood rooted to the spot, his facial expression changing between emotions so fast that Sherlock couldn't keep up reading them. "What I did - it was to protect you, as well as Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but it was also... it was to get away. I couldn't understand it and I was...," he took a deep breath, searching for the right words, "afraid that one day, sooner or later, I'd lose you. My only friend. So I rather made the decision on my own, to consciously know when it would end; to be... prepared."

"But you couldn't have known what Moriarty was planning." It was a statement, not a question. John had gone over facts and events again and again, piecing together every last bit of information he could find; he knew that as clever as Sherlock was, there were a few details that had been unpredictable.

"I had... you would call it a hunch, I think. Despite several variables, there were only so many turns and paths the situation could take. And I knew Moriarty well enough to only include the most dramatic ones in my calculations. I knew for sure how it would end the moment we met Richard Brook."

"Why didn't you just tell me? Why, Sherlock?" Even though John's voice was shaking a bit, it - he - was much calmer than either of them would have expected. The detective saw the tiredness in his friend's eyes, his demeanor, and how all he wanted was to understand. He was past anger, past disappointment. They had moved on from this part of their lives a while ago now; this was just about smoothing the page that had remained crumpled, and closing the chapter, hopefully finally finding at least part of that inner peace they longed for so much.

"I was hoping it would be easier for you if you turned away from me just like everyone else. I didn't... Your... loyalty and your faith in me... I had no idea they were so strong." Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, turning his head to look out of the window where dark grey clouds were visible over the rooftop of the building across the street.

John opened his mouth to answer, and then snapped it shut again right away. He wanted to tell his friend that he should have known - and then reminded himself that this wasn't any random person. Sherlock wouldn't have known. He didn't. Whatever had destroyed his confidence when it came to other people and the truthfulness of their affection towards him, it apparently weighed so much that no matter how often John confronted him with his trust, no matter that Sherlock himself even had acknowledged their friendship, the genius still doubted it. And more than ever, the doctor's heart ached for this man who knew so much, but not the beauty of true companionship.

Finally able to move again, John took the few steps towards the couch and lowered himself next to Sherlock. He turned to face his friend, and nudged him to do the same.

"Know one thing, Sherlock - us being friends means that I'll be there for you. At times I'm going to be mad at you, I'm going to yell at you for another body part in the fridge, another experiment messing up the kitchen, or another moment of socially questionable behavior. There'll be other times I won't talk to you because I'm angry, and there'll be times I'm gonna be out for hours on end just to avoid you." The younger man beside him straightened his back, ready to defend himself, but John didn't give him the chance to speak when he, after a small pause for emphasis, continued, "But never, ever, doubt that I stand by your side, or that I believe in you. You can trust me, and you can trust that before I don't see actual, believable, very damn good proof that you've done something that isn't easily forgiven, I will never not have faith in you. I'm your friend, Sherlock, your best friend - and you are mine. You are the most important person in my life, and to convince me that you are any less the man, the good man, I know you are, requires more than anyone can probably ever come up with. I have no intention to leave, and while life's not always predictable, you can at least make the best of it, and I hope this is exactly what we're going to do. Together."

Sherlock stared at John for a long while then, his mind reeling, the gears in his head turning so fast they would have caught fire, hadn't they just been element of a figure of speech. He progressed his friend's words, familiarizing himself with them; understanding them, bit by bit, ever so slowly. When it came to relationships, he had always been full of doubt; he didn't know it any other way. Facts, figures, science - those Sherlock relied on, had never been disappointed by. People, on the other hand, had rarely given him reason to let his guard down, to allow them to secure themselves a place in his life; his heart.

In time he had learned that John was not people. That there was a difference in what he could expect of the one person who didn't just call him a freak and turn away again upon meeting for the first time. But the part of him that was ever-apprehensive of feelings, of relying on another person as vital part of his life, had once again dominated his willingness to just this once trust and believe it was real. By now he knew it was, and this knowledge had managed to become stronger than any resentment of interpersonal attachment - and any distancing himself from friendships; from relationships.

The man sitting next to him would be there, come heaven, come hell, and Sherlock finally recognized this to be infallibly true. He was his friend, his best friend, and whatever happened, he could be assured of his support and presence - and his affection.

"Let's go to bed, shall we?" John then said, a smile in his eyes where it didn't yet pull at his lips. And suddenly there was something else entirely. A yearning, an indefinable impulse to pursue what Sherlock believed would be the ultimate validation of their connection. The demand inside him for it was strong, and confirmed him in his idea.

There was a bond to seal.

-o-o-o-

Their showers, taken separately, didn't take more time than necessary. They both sought each other's presence, emotionally raw after their conversation, but at the same time more convinced than ever of their companionship, and everything it entailed.

John emerged from the bathroom to find Sherlock already in bed; lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He turned his head when he heard his friend enter the room, and shifted aside, lifting the blanket for John to crawl beneath. They settled down, both on their sides, looking at each other; anxious, thoughtful, hopeful. It could have lasted moments, or hours, or even days, this silence between them, this wordless communication. Time didn't exist. Just them. And their reassurance that they were both alive and well. But this reassurance came with yet another question they hadn't addressed earlier: was it enough?

To John, it wasn't. He had seen Sherlock die, and for three years lived with the thought that he had lost his best friend. When he returned, John at first hated the younger man for putting him through all that pain and misery. But anger soon gave way to overwhelming relief, lifting a burden off his shoulders, his very soul, he had thought he'd have to live with for the rest of his days. And then came their arrangement and with it one feeling manifesting itself: The need to keep and to protect. Sherlock was never to leave him again, not as friend, not as the one person completing him. It was what had led them to this point - the moment when they were about to cross the last threshold, dip over an edge they'd been dancing along for weeks now. Yes, they had cuddled and kissed, but this... this was different. This was the final step, and there would be no turning back from it; not for John anyways. And he would make sure that it was the same for Sherlock.

He didn't know that there was no intention of turning back; that Sherlock was ready to take that step. Was ready to walk the path that was going to lead from there also. They'd come a long way; going from flatmates to colleagues to friends; drawn to each other, at first out of their need for companionship, and later for comfort. They were two lonely souls who hadn't dared to hope for another to accept them like they were, and be willing to share days and nights, laughter and danger, adventures and routines.

It was new to Sherlock; it was nothing he had expected to ever find. He knew he wasn't considered a normal person, even though he had never understood which definition of 'normal' people could possible apply to anyone, as humanity was a portrayal of diversity. But normal or not, he wasn't one to indulge in relationships, let them steal his time. They never bore that kind of importance to him.

Curiously enough, with John it hadn't been a distraction so far. The sharing of a bed, the closeness, the kissing. It had also stayed in the bedroom; whatever happened in that room happened in another world, one detached from their daily lives as cohabitating consulting detectives. Logic told him that he didn't have to worry about distraction now suddenly coming to pass only because they entered into sexual relations, something that had always kept him from pursuing the same; his life offered no room for diversions he saw no primary use of.

Now he faced needs he was new to, and felt ready to initiate something he hardly knew anything about. Of course he had had his share of... experiences; after all he'd been a youth ruled by hormones at some point as well. His memories of it, however, were anything but favorable. It was unpleasant and embarrassing; it had made him decide that women and sexuality in combination were of no appeal to him. It was an unsolvable mystery; years and years of trying, albeit occurring irregularly, had led him to the conclusion that the absence of logic didn't support insanity - doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome. Later he understood that he'd been nothing but a toy, oblivious and easily used to learn and research, but never to appreciate.

There was no second thought about what he was to John - his friend had made it more than clear. And nothing put Sherlock more at ease in the prospect at what was to come than his faith in John and their mutual affection.

Gently, carefully, Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's, all but awaiting a reaction; a permission. He pulled back, barely a breath away, when at first there was none, but it couldn't have been more than the fraction of a second the older man's hesitation that was none lasted.

There was nothing innocent to the kiss that followed then; nothing exploring like it had been in the past days since their first accidental lip contact and then continued practice of the same. It was frantic and sloppy and life-seeking, because after the emotional affirmation, they both needed to know that they still had each other physically as well. And they would, for as long as they were going to be able to manage - to hold on. For the moment, however, all that mattered was that they were together, and that, right then, no one was able to separate them.

John gave a surprised grunt when Sherlock grabbed his hips and, struggling a bit because their mouths still clung to each other, pulled him atop his own body. And then John felt it - the helpless attempt to push down his pants, and the younger man wriggling to get out of his own. It was when he almost violently forced himself to interrupt a kiss he didn't want to end, and looked down at his friend.

"Sherlock, are you sure?" he asked, and wondered where from his lungs got the air to speak.

"John?" was the reply he got, a question in his friend's voice just as it appeared in his eyes.

"If we do this... I want it to be real, I need it... to be real."

"I don't think I understand. How is this not," he felt the word on his tongue for a moment, "real?"

"No, I mean... I need you to really want that. If you have doubts, if it is only because of what happened today, if you rather not-"

"There are no doubts, John."

"Just... please don't think you have to do it."

"I don't." John exhaled, then swallowed hard, ready to draw back. But Sherlock hadn't finished yet. "I want to."

-o-o-o-

There was more than just want to it. There was a hunger inside both of them, and yet a gentleness that slowed and pronounced every driven action, until they both rose to the blissful oblivion of an indescribable height.

To kiss each other came natural to both of them when, after their climax, they returned to where they had begun, lying on their sides, facing each other. They leaned in at the same moment and captured the other's lips, and John smiled into the caress as they leisurely brushed their mouths and tongues together while hands roamed aimlessly - just to touch, to feel, to not have it end yet. Panted breaths were exchanged, their lungs demanding room to draw air in, but pulling away seemed out of question; what a faraway and foolish thought it was to not lie skin to skin, and remain a unity.

Eventually, they reduced contact nonetheless, at least between their faces, to look at each other. From under heavy eyelids Sherlock took in John's features, glistening with sweat, covered in a pink hue, and felt this unsettling and yet calming emptiness in his mind. Although, it wasn't entirely empty - for there was one person occupying it, and a rich diversity of feelings belonging to this person. Sherlock moved his hand from where it rested on John's hip up to place it over his lover's heart, feeling the still-quickened beating, gently curling his fingertips into the skin, as if he would be able to fold his hand over the organ that symbolized life, and keep it safe this way.

"Okay?" he heard John's voice, but missed the movement of his lips, as his eyes were locked onto the man's before him, unable to look away. A thousand things he should have thought of to reply with; a thousand explanations and analyses was what he had done in each and every situation, for so many years. But this was a novel occurrence, and an exemplary also, leaving him, while still confused, with an equally pleasurable, content feeling that, even though experienced only once, was already becoming addictive.

Closeness. Tenderness. Intimacy. Care and affection. How had he ever foregone this? But he knew right when the question entered his mind - he had never had anyone like John in his life. No one to trust. No one he felt close to. No one to stir and challenge his mind and heart in the same powerful way. John was the exception.

He nodded then, as an answer to a question that could have referred to this moment just as it did to their lives. Yes, he was okay. They were okay.

What once started as the oddest of relationships had now become an inseparable partnership, a connection of two people who found strength and comfort in each other. They had gone from strangers to friends, and from friends to lovers - but most of all, they had gone from the bitter assurance that they'd remain alone to unshakable certainty that they were now two halves of a complex whole they'd fight to never have torn apart.

END

That's it, the last part of the series - thanks to everyone who read, favorited and reviewed. My next project will be a longer one, and I can't wait to see how this goes... ;)