Don't own Sherlock or its characters.
Hope you enjoy.
Pulse Point
John sighed happily, burying his face deeper into his pillow and smiling.
After forty-nine hours of following Sherlock around London for God knows what case, John was finally allowed some peace, some time to rest, and sleep, and dream, and just not be awake for however many hours he-
Knock, knock, knock.
"Oh God, no," he muttered to himself, waiting for the inevitable-
"John?"
John Watson was not a particularly emotional person but in that moment he found he was willing himself not to cry.
Damn sleep deprivation.
"John, are you still awake?"
"Go away, Sherlock," he said grumpily, turning onto his stomach and pulling the covers over his head.
"I need to talk to you."
"I'll talk to you in the morning."
"No, John, now."
"It can wait, Sherlock," he snapped, throwing the covers back and turning back on his side, his arm hanging over the edge of his bed.
"No, it can't."
"Have you blown something up?"
Silence. Then a churlish, "No."
"Is something on fire?"
An annoyed sigh. John smirked to himself; it was rare he ever got to really wind Sherlock up, and God knows he deserved it for doing the exact same to John on an almost daily basis.
"No fires."
"Burglar?"
Now a snort; he obviously found this amusing, the bugger.
"Of course not."
"Then it can wait until I've had some sleep."
"No, I need to talk to you now!"
"Sherlock!" John yelled, sitting up and scowling at the door. "For Christ's sake, it's twenty past four in the morning, let me sleep!"
"But this is important!" Sherlock hissed.
"You said that nearly fifty bloody hours ago when you dragged me off on a bloody magical mystery tour around London for some case I still don't give a damn about so for the love of God let me go to sleep!"
"John-"
"Sherlock," John cut in, speaking in a voice of forced calm. "Go into the living room, sit down and stay there for a very, very long time before I come out there and strangle you."
Sherlock scoffed. "You couldn't strangle me; my reactions are far too quick for you to be able to do that."
"Fine, I'll get my gun first and blow your sodding head off."
"You wouldn't do that," Sherlock said quietly, and John silently agreed with him, but he had to admit, he was close to at least giving him a flesh wound that would keep him quiet for a few hours.
Need to sleep before I actually try to shoot Sherlock, he told himself worriedly.
It had been just over three months since Sherlock had returned from the dead, announcing his arrival with a fanfare of gunshots, effectively destroying John's front door-he had moved out of 221B the day after Sherlock's funeral-and glancing up calmly at John's wide eyes and loaded gun, the door blowing in the breeze between them, the locks utterly destroyed. After a moment in which he waited for John to say something, to say anything, he decided to speak.
"It would seem you're in need of a new door."
That was when John had flown down the stairs and hit him.
It had taken time and tea, so many cups of tea, before John came around a week, looking at him when he spoke, answering his questions with half a smile, the light slowly returning to his eyes.
And as he healed, so did Sherlock.
When he first came back, he was no longer the sleek, refined Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.
He was rough, nomad Sherlock, otherwise known as whatever name he chose for himself that day, hair cut short and dyed bright blonde, matching stubble covering his chin and upper lip, his temple mottled with half-healed bruises, leaner, more muscled, skin still alabaster despite his travels around the globe, a new scar on his neck, just peeking out from his grey t-shirt, sleeves pushed back to reveal yet more injures, cuts, bruises, burns painting their way up his arms, torn jeans, bloodied knees, worn-down shoes, a battered backpack on the floor beside him, a gun locked in his hand.
And it was John who fixed him, day by day, helping him return his hair to its natural colour, treating his wounds, making him eat three meals a day plus whatever treat Mrs Hudson dropped off that day; John stayed in touch, Mrs Hudson kept 221B empty at the behest of Mycroft. It was a fair deal.
And just five days ago they had finally returned home, both carrying meagre amounts of possessions, Sherlock with his backpack, John with a small suitcase of clothes.
Everything else had been left at 221B; nothing had changed.
And how easy it was to fall back into their routine, right down to Lestrade calling with a case, and them running out the door to flag a taxi.
The pieces were fitting back together, the jagged edges becoming blunt, the pain not so raw.
John still dreamed of Sherlock's fall, just as Sherlock still dreamed of John being shot before his eyes. It was how it was going to be, and both knew it was a permanent fixture, a new piece to add to the puzzle that was their friendship.
But there was another, rather larger piece still remaining, and neither knew how to deal with it, this frightening elephant in the room.
John had a feeling this was why Sherlock was at the door. And he wanted to be coherent for this conversation, not cranky and half-asleep.
He heard an angry exhale from outside the door, followed by Sherlock saying coolly, "Jut one thing, I promise, and then I'll leave you alone."
It was either talk now or shoot Sherlock.
"Fine!" John snapped, jumping out of bed and marching to the door, grabbing at the door handle and wrenching it open to reveal Sherlock in his dressing gown, leaning against the wall.
"Thank you."
"Come in then, never seemed to stop you before," John grumbled, moving back towards his bed and slumping against it, lying half-on, half-off, his legs hanging over the side.
"I didn't want to wake you."
John laughed wearily. "That never stopped you before either."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, sitting beside him.
He remained silent, John's eyes growing heavier with each passing second until finally he felt a nudge to his side, opening his eyes to find Sherlock looming over him.
"Jesus," he muttered, moving his head back. "Bit of warning next time, Sherlock."
"Well you were ignoring me," Sherlock snapped, lying down properly and keeping his intent gaze on John's face.
John huffed at him, wriggling up the bed until his head met his pillow, Sherlock lying at his feet.
"You said you wanted to talk," he slurred, sleep again calling invitingly to him. "Talk."
The bed dipped and creaked slightly as Sherlock too moved up, taking his place beside John, his hand coming to rest against John's neck, taking comfort from the steady beat of John's heart.
John froze, his eyes open and locked on Sherlock's.
They had shared a bed before, the first few nights Sherlock had returned, despite John's original antagonism towards him. They needed each other close, and sleeping beside each other was more intimate to John than sex.
Not that he wanted to have sex with Sherlock. He just meant in general. Didn't he?
It was made even more so when John awoke suddenly that first night, eyes flying open as fingers brushed his skin lightly, the touch as soft as a feather's, resting against his throat.
And now that it had happened again, he met Sherlock's gaze curiously, just as he had the first time.
"Don't be checking my pulse, Sherlock, I am not in the mood for experiments right now."
Sherlock stayed silent, not wanting to tell John he always did this when his flatmate slept, keeping John close even now; didn't want to admit that he liked the feel of John's pulse beneath his fingertips, connecting him to John in what he believed to be the most intimate way, his life quite literally in his hands.
"Sherlock," John said softly.
"What are we?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and quiet in the darkness.
John closed his eyes wearily.
"What do you mean?"
"What I asked."
"Humans? Men?"
Sherlock sighed.
"More specific. You and I, this…thing we're doing."
"What are we doing, Sherlock?" John asked quietly, suddenly wide awake as fear spiked through his veins like ice. He kept his eyes closed, as though it would prevent anything bad from happening.
See no evil, he thought to himself, repeating it in his mind.
Sherlock hesitated. "I want to…clarify what we mean to each other, what we are."
"Friends?"
Sherlock snorted softly. "I'd say we were rather more than friends."
John's heart started to beat a little faster. He took a deep breath, and felt it calm some.
"So would I," he murmured.
"John," Sherlock whined. "Open your eyes."
With a sigh, he did so, finding Sherlock suddenly closer than he had been before.
"You could be one of those angels of Doctor Who," he muttered, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. No amount of deep breaths would soothe it this time.
Sherlock frowned. "What?"
"Nothing, doesn't matter. You were saying?" he prompted, unsure of whether he actually wanted to proceed with this. It could change everything, for better or worse, and he didn't know which way it was going to go.
He prayed it was the right way.
"John, I-when I was gone, I missed you," Sherlock whispered, and he looked almost ashamed of himself, as though he was admitting some terrible secret. "I thought about you, and it hurt. John, what I mean to say is I think-"
"I love you," John said in a rush.
"Yes," Sherlock breathed, almost in relief. "Yes, I do, and if you-"
"No, Sherlock, you don't understand," John said with a slight laugh. "I love you."
They smiled at each other, their expression mirrored on the other's face; hope, relief, love. Neither had ever looked so beautiful to one another.
"So what are we?" Sherlock asked.
"What about that thing…?"
Sherlock waited a moment, trying his best to be polite and not force the rest of John's sentence from his lips.
However, as the seconds turned to minutes he realised that John had fallen asleep.
Again.
"John!" he hissed, prodding him with his free hand.
"No more, S'lock, is still night-time," John muttered, wriggling until he found a comfortable spot, smiling sleepily as he did so.
"John, please," Sherlock pleaded softly. "I just told you I loved you, and you fell asleep."
"Sherlock," he said, though his voice had lost its sharp edge. "I can't even remember what I was going to say. Please let me sleep and we'll have this conversation tomorrow when I'm fully aware of what's going on."
"John, we are neither friends nor boyfriends; both are inaccurate descriptions of what we are."
He grudgingly realised Sherlock was right, as per usual. Neither 'boyfriend', nor 'friend' seemed the correct word for them; they were something else, something not as domestic, falling somewhere between the two.
Not that John particularly minded. He had never been as comfortable as he was right now. He loved Sherlock, Sherlock loved him; what else was there? He didn't need a label for them.
But, of course, Sherlock Holmes did.
Sherlock needed a name for everything, needed a neat, little label so he could file it away in his great mind, place it in the correct section so as to find it if he ever had need of it again.
"John, are you even listening to me?"
"Pot, kettle, black," John muttered, tilting his head up so he could see Sherlock's face.
"Very funny," he said, his expression stoic.
John sighed, forcing himself to wake up as much as he could; he could already feel a migraine coming on.
Moving slowly closer to Sherlock so as not to startle him, he threw one arm over his stomach, his head resting on his far too bony shoulder, their legs tangling together, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Sherlock turned his head, pressing his cheek onto John's hair, one hand cupping his shoulder, the other still at his throat.
John hummed contentedly, and then said gently, "I'm in love with you, Sherlock. I don't care whether I call you my boyfriend or my best friend or my partner. I just know that I never want to leave your side again. No more fake deaths."
Sherlock swallowed, his lips parted but no words came out.
John shifted slightly, tilting his head up to meet Sherlock's bewildered eyes.
"You're in love with me?" he breathed at last, wondering why his chest felt so tight, like every draw of breath was a battle, why his heart thudded, why it sang, why heat spread throughout his entire body.
"You know I do, I told you not five minutes ago."
"No, you told me you love me, not that you are in love with me; there's a difference."
And then he realised, his brilliant brain finally connecting the right way, seeing what was right in front of him, what was inside him, in every nerve and cell, what he'd been so blind to for so long.
This was love.
Sherlock Holmes, the man without a heart, was truly in love.
He suddenly remembered his conversation with John, zoning back in on his words, the look of exhausted fury on his face, the way his hand had curled into a fist, the other wrapping around Sherlock's wrist, moving it away from his neck.
"Yes, Sherlock, I'm in love with you, damn it, alright? I've been in love with you for a while now but I've been too bloody afraid of saying it to you as soon as you came back in case you bolted for freedom. Is that enough of a clarification for you? I love you and am in love with you, Sherlock Holmes, love of my life, forever and ever, never going to leave you, would die for you, will always protect you, my soulmate, lover, whatever else you want to add," he snapped, still trying to push Sherlock away so he could turn his back on him.
"No, John, wait," Sherlock pleaded softly, taking John's hands in his, bring them to his lips.
John tried to ignore the tremor that wracked his body as Sherlock's lips touched his skin.
"Don't, Sherlock," he warned, though his voice had a broken quality to it that hurt Sherlock's newly found heart.
"I'm in love with you too," he gasped. "And I didn't know it. I didn't, I swear. Me, not knowing something…and especially something so…so basic, so primitive to me, so important and vital to my life; I'm in love with you, John, I always have been. And I trust you, and I care about you, and I am always worried about you but I never thought I was in love with you. I loved you enough, yes, so much I thought it would destroy me. But being in love with someone…I didn't think I was capable of it but I am because it's you, and rather than destroy me it kept me going. It brought me back to you alive. And maybe you're right, maybe that is the only thing that matters, maybe we don't need a name for what we are."
Sherlock watched John apprehensively, taking in his slack-jaw, his wide eyes, the look of total disbelief on his face.
Abruptly, he closed his mouth, face clearing of any expression.
"Well…maybe there are a few words we could use," he started stiffly, formally. "Many different words that cover all the elements of what we are to each other.
"Such as?" Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing the back of John's hand.
John shivered again.
"Well, we are friends, so I am actually correct. And we're colleagues, and lovers, and partners, and we are both human men so I was right with that too."
"You said soulmates," Sherlock murmured, his eyes almost luminous in the dim bedroom, piercing John like blades.
"I did."
"Did you mean it or were you just saying it because you were angry and being sarcastic?"
"Sherlock, you're the detective here. Work it out."
Sherlock said nothing, instead he bowed his head, pressing his lips against John's in a chaste kiss.
John was still for a moment. And then the dam broke.
He grabbed at Sherlock's hair, running his fingers through his curls, pulling him closer, their chests rising and falling together, hearts banging against one another.
He broke away for breath, taking in Sherlock's half-lidded eyes, his swollen lips.
"Are you sure?" he whispered, and both knew he meant more than just what would happen tonight in this bed. He was asking for the future, for all the other nights, for every kiss they would share, every chase through London, every fight, every tear, every second they would spend together.
This was their version of a proposal and both knew it.
"Yes," Sherlock breathed, staring down at John with bright eyes. "You?"
"Oh God yes," John muttered in a strangled voice.
Their lips met again, passionate and lustful. Sherlock pressed his fingers harder against John's throat, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin.
This was all he needed. This was what he came back for.
This was what made it all worthwhile, John's heart beating, connecting him to Sherlock in ways both could never attempt to understand.
They were each other's pulsepoint, and that was all that mattered to them.