There was a tightness in my chest as John came in the flat today. He walked right past me and I flicked my eyes to the floor. "Whatever it is I've done, I'm sorry and I'll never do it again," I offered. "That's just it Holmes. You don't even know what you did."
At my lover's verbal distance from me my head snapped up. "Then why don't you tell me what it is so I can fix it?" I questioned. "Our anniversary isn't until four months from now, your birthday was two months ago, I haven't been nasty to you, and I bought you biscuits!"
John gave a humourless chuckle. "We don't have an anniversary Sherlock."
I let out a single sound and then bit down my sobs as tears flowed down my cheeks. John was clanging in the kitchen, noisily preparing tea, so I doubt he could have heard me.
"We are a couple of mates who shag occasionally. Besides, you would be rubbish in a relationship Sherlock."
"You're my mate." I said stiffly and retreated to my room, closing and locking the door. Curling into a tight ball on my bed I let the tears flow down my face and soak into my pillow, staring ahead at nothing. I didn't know where I had gone wrong. Everything had been going so well, I had been happy when John had expressed reciprocal interest in me. I adored him with my eyes as we made love. Bodies are messy, yet fragile. Not just anyone had access to mine, surely John knew that? Frankly, he was the only one to ever have access.
At Sherlock's weird parting tone I looked up just in time to hear his odd parting words before watching him walk to his room and close the door. He wasn't walking his usual graceful slink, he walked heavily and a bit off balance. "You're my mate." What the hell did that mean? I just wanted to give him a bit more grief over telling off a girl I had been interested in. She was cute, though not as cute as Sherlock when he came in my room later that night in his robe and climbed on my lap before I pushed him a bit roughly onto the bed and told him "No". He looked crumpled and confused then, not cute at all. "I'm angry at you Sherlock. This is not the time," I had said, just wanting some pancakes or something in the morning to compensate for his possessiveness. Then it was a bit fun just now when he didn't know what bothered me. I have a feeling I missed something though.
Sherlock was always that way just before sex though. He was hesitant but earnest, almost shy. I'm not sure what he's thinking or maybe the sensations are just that wonderful to him but his face lights up during our activities, happier than I've ever seen him.
So I had come in the door, he was unusually repentant, I made my last parting jabs before bringing him tea and then hopefully having sex after a bit of teasing, then he had gotten sad and left. He thought we had an anniversary coming in four months. What happened eight months ago, or twenty months ago, or just in that time frame in general that Sherlock would want to celebrate?
Eight months ago, Sherlock and I had had our first sexual experience together. Then it hit me. When Sherlock said 'our anniversary,' he literally meant our anniversary. He's thought we were together for eight months, and rebuffing the girl's advances never even factored in as something I might be upset about in his brain because he knows I'm a monogamous person and thought I would turn her down myself. John, you bastard. I had broken Sherlock's heart and afterwards he still called me his mate.
Fighting the burn in the back of my eyes I marched out the door, unable to bear the replaying of Sherlock's broken walk back to his room. As I walked through the streets, everything started fitting together. Sherlock was lighting up for you. He was adoring you. And you were fucking with him, literally and figuratively. He's in love with you. It was so obvious, in all the time we had lived together I had never once seen him pursue a relationship with anyone, but in my head we were 'blowing off steam.' I didn't want to get my hopes up because I didn't think I could ever hope to touch his heart.
I pushed through my roiling shame and sorrow and London's mist back to our flat, where I hoped Sherlock still was. I climbed the stairs and walked in to see Sherlock staring out the window. "Please Sherlock, give me twenty minutes." I asked.
He turned from the window and walked to the couch. On his way, he began methodically unbuttoning his shirt, which was looking quite wrinkled and worse for wear. Catching on and horrified by the implication, I rushed to him and stilled his hands. I began rebuttoning his shirt while he tensed and became skittish. "No Sherlock I want to talk, I don't expect a sexual favor, never at a time like this."
He didn't calm down at all, so I guided him onto the couch and I sat beside him, not too close, but not like he repelled me, because oh God if that wasn't the opposite of the truth.
"You've done nothing wrong." I began but he interrupted. "No, I pinpointed it. It was when I turned down that girl for you. I understand if you want to keep your options open. It's okay if you pursue other people John, open relationships often work-"
"No no no! Sherlock, that's not what I want!" He curled, if it were possible, even further in on himself. "Please Sherlock, how could you think I could do that to you?!" I cried. "I've been a terrible boyfriend, but hopefully I've got my head on straight now. I was as stupid as a doorknob not to know we were together and Sherlock-" I paused, gathering my wits for my love, "I am also in love with you and it would be my honor to be your boyfriend, if you would have me." I searched his eyes, looking for mercy, then wondered if that would be presumptuous and looked down.
"You were a good boyfriend," he began. At the past tense I felt tears careen over my lashes and down my cheeks. "But you don't love me and groveling doesn't suit you."
My eyes flashed up, ready to challenge. No one dared tell me my own feelings. But Sherlock wasn't done. "How convenient, a confession of love right after seeing the proud man fall. You're not going to ensnare me again!" By the end he was hissing out the words with a crazed look on his face.
I knew if I struck he would flee, so I had to tone down my anger and say something baffling. "I light up for you too, you know," I said as gently and evenly as I could, slowly advancing towards him. "On cases when you show the world how brilliant you are, I love you. When you play your violin like an angel, I love you." I held those violin-playing fingers gently in my hand and looked up directly into his eyes. "When you lay over the entire couch in your dressing gown and organize your mind palace, I love you. When you snip at Mycroft and when you're rude to Molly and when you're falling asleep in your chair and I help you to bed, I love you. I never thought I could have you, so I didn't show you as I should have." I leaned in to his heart and breathed over it, finally realizing that Sherlock is the rare kind of creature who mates for life and for some reason chose me, "I'm sorry. I love you, and I'll take care of you," then laid a gentle kiss over that tender organ I could feel thumping under my lips.
He tilted my head up and I looked into his beautiful eyes. "It's yours," he said simply and I moved his hand to my chest. His large hand curled over my heart and it made a valiant effort to thump right into his palm. "As is mine," I promised.
He leaned in to kiss me and unlike our hard snogs of before, this one was soft and tender, like a perfect first kiss. I lipped his bottom lip and proceeded to worship him with my lips, making me feel like I was floating away. Dying by kissing Sherlock. I could not think of a better way to go. He mewled and stumbled a bit before I directed him back to the couch and straddled his legs. Now at approximately equal height I could snog him well. His hands dropped to my bottom but when I failed to grind against him he pulled back. "Snogging is usually a prelude to our sexual activity," he said, sounding a bit confused.
"Snogging can also be a prelude to snogging," I said, a bit unsettled that he thought physical affection and sex were the same thing. "And our sexual activity is called making love, Sherlock."
A huge grin split his face. "If that is the case, I am ready for the next act," he teased. We started kissing again. Sherlock really was a genius, I thought as he did something amazing with his tongue. A long time later when our kisses began to lose their finesse, his deep voice rumbled through my mouth. "We are both tired. Come sleep with me John." I gave his plump lips one last peck then got off his lap. He led me to his room, where his sheets were a bit rumpled. He hurriedly turned them down and began taking off his clothes. I did the same until we were both in boxers and followed him into his bed, facing him. I gathered him in my arms and said softly, "If I am ever such a dunce again, you have full permission to hide the tea from me until I put the pieces together."
"Your words, not mine, John. I don't want to be solely responsible for a tealess John."
"It'd be my own fault and infinitely better than a Sherlockless John," I told him honestly.
He wrapped his arms around me and moved his legs so they were entwined with mine. Leaning his forehead against mine, in that small intimate space between us, he whispered, "I love you with my whole heart, John."
I kissed his forehead, then his hair, then his nose. "I love you too, my love."