Talking with Sherlock is like conversing with a computer with an incredibly fast operating system. John tries to keep up with the datastream flowing from Sherlock as they work through the crime scene, which is both exhilarating and exhausting. Sometimes he wishes he could upload Sherlock 1.01, so he could stop feeling like his brain has too many tabs open, browser about to crash. He scribbles furiously in his moleskin. God forbid he should ask Sherlock to repeat his deductions.
When he reconstructs the murder in his blog later on, polishing their adventure with words Sherlock will find dreadfully sentimental, John is grateful . Glad he does not approach Sherlock's powerful intellect, because that would make Sherlock less unique, and dilute the strength of John's compliments. It is a small power he has, John knows, but he treasures it. The ability to sincerely praise Sherlock, and watch a smile bloom across his face, is a gift.
Which is why John cannot fathom Sherlock's behavior at this moment in time. This life-changing, soul-cleaving moment when John has finally told Sherlock he loves him.
Sherlock is sitting in John's chair. John kneels in front, his arms gently curved about Sherlock's waist, waiting for the smile to unfurl from the left corner of that gorgeous mouth.
He is not smiling. In fact, Sherlock has no expression at all. He stares straight ahead, unblinking. His body is a battlement, gone stiff as stone.
John presses his head in tightly to Sherlock's chest, squeezes his eyes shut, and prays he did not just make the greatest mistake of his life.
He is thinking of centrifuges.
Spinning whirring instruments. Separation of particles in the blood.
John's arms encasing him in this chair, brain spinning, all coherent thought forced to the outer edges, pressing against his skull
the vial taped inside the skull the truth contained but now poured out
he feels dizzy, lightheaded
I should sit down, I already am, makes no sense
and at the centre is John, his fixed point, always. He is the motor that spins the shaft that propels everything outward, every thought but this
john loves me
Separation of reason from emotion, fact from fiction, logic from love
synapses sparking, connections firing in left amygdala, john in my limbic system, leaking into my bloodstream, dopamine cascading, vasopressin dilating, pressure building, down there
Get a grip.
"Sherlock ?"
John attempts to keep his tone even and doctor-like.
Sherlock's forearms are glued to the chair, fingers curled deep into the leather. John can feel the coiled tension in his thighs and lower back, the muscles spring loaded, ready to leap like a Thomson's gazelle from John's grasp.
His head rises and falls on Sherlock's chest with each rapid shallow breath. John shuffles his body down a bit, and centres his ear over Sherlock's heart. Heart rate over 100 bpm. Even without a stethoscope , John can hear the panic between the beats.
Diagnosis : Sherlock, his best friend, is going into shock. And it is entirely, obviously, his fault.
With both arms still caged around his flatmate, John realizes that what was intended as embrace could very well be interpreted as capture. Sherlock is a wild thing he has trapped in his chair, who may have opted to play dead, in hopes John will move on to something more appetizing.
Of course he'd rarely been able to anticipate the actions of the mercurial detective, but this rigidity is certainly not what John expected. He had been so sure – why was he so sure ? - that his feelings were returned .
The only thing moving in the room is the second hand on Sherlock's watch. John stares at it. Regret notches up his spine with each passing tick . He cannot take back his words.
He considers releasing Sherlock, but there is this strange fear that if he lets go, Sherlock Holmes will will fly out of 221B Baker Street and never return.
The time is 7:57.
Oh God.
Does John realize how scientifically suggestive his body is ? Does he have any idea how many crazy experiments run through Sherlock's brain whenever he gets a glimpse of John's skin ? How grateful he is for those long loose jumpers ?
John's oatmeal jumper is bunched up from when he slid down Sherlock's chest, and for a terrifying second there Sherlock thought he was going to go lower, but no he stopped, he was probably counting Sherlock's heart rate. John Watson his doctor, his friend, his...
That soft pale band of skin is still exposed across his lower back and Sherlock wants so badly to touch it, but he's still hurdling denial in his head.
The way Sherlock Holmes challenges facts presented to him by others is almost an autonomous response. He cannot help but question everything, it's who he is. A consulting detective, called in to re-examine what everyone has dubiously called "the facts". He will not permit others to draw conclusions for him. Hence his reputation - brilliant, arrogant, argumentative, exasperating, tactless - all of it well earned.
So when John says "I love you, Sherlock", his first reflexive thought is : No you don't . Followed quickly by : You're not gay.
Perhaps he should review the facts.
John had found Sherlock's hidden vial of truth serum. Pretended to drug him, they argued about it, in a moment of madness Sherlock offered to take it, John refused. And he'd seen it in his face, all the hurt, what Sherlock had denied them both.
if you'd just told me....
and then, inexplicably, John had thrown himself into Sherlock's arms and told him he loved him.
Inconceivable. And yet, as John himself had pointed out, when had John ever lied to him ? He'd withheld the truth, certainly, but Sherlock was an expert in the science of repression, and could hardly fault him for that.
Why was it so bloody hard to tell the truth ?
The vial on the floor has rolled over to the edge of the fireplace. He could push John away, grab the vial, pour courage down his throat, John could not stop him in time.
His love deciphered, his words unstoppable, Sherlock could finally tell John,
The thin walls of 221 B require that most nights I must refuse to touch myself. But on those nights when I can hear you, your muffled groans above me, I cannot restrain my mind, nor my hands. I practically smother myself with my own pillow, gasping your name, praying you cannot hear me, but also praying you can. Hear my desire to be conquered by you.
You have been the centre of my fantasies ever since we met, John. Yes it's true. But who do you dream of ? Is it Mary ? Or maybe one of the names in your little black book, the one you keep in your bed stand. I know which ones are your favourites, John , the worn corners and the dirt from your fingers speak to me, say things I do not want to hear. The nineteen dates you've had since our cohabitation. All women. So, statistically speaking, not a man. Not me.
And yet, I observe . I cannot ignore evidence held out in plain view. The way you lick your lips, shuffle your hips and widen your stance when we stand close together. I imagine you trying to hide your arousal, as I do mine. More than once I have caught you staring, perceived something in those midnight eyes that dart away too quickly.
Sometimes I dare to think... to suspect you are deliberately planting clues, trying to get me to deduce your actions. You know me better than anyone, how actions speak louder to me than words ever could. I cannot trust words, not even my own. Especially my own. Have you truly forgiven me ?
So I observe, but I cannot conclude . With no scientific method to measure the depths of your affection for me, I must allow for large margins of error. My opinion on this matter can hardly be considered unbiased. It has been driving me crazy, this failure to reach a conclusion about us. The end of your marriage has only made things worse, because now you're back , one walking talking hypothesis in my flat, constantly in my thoughts. Every time we touch, even accidentally, probably accidentally, I have no choice but to think - margin of error margin of error margin of error. It is all so horribly aggravating, John, you've no idea.
Or perhaps you do.
John is about to give up on waiting for his embrace to be returned.
Finally, he feels movement. Sherlock reaches into his jacket pocket, nudging John's head up a fraction, because John is still too scared to look up.
Sherlock pulls out his phone and starts texting one-handed.
Fear flashes to anger alarmingly fast.
John jerks himself backward but cannot yet stand, legs gone weak, so he braces his arms against the chair, and glares at the carpet.
"What are you doing ?" Non-doctor voice now.
" Texting Lestrade. Get him to reschedule the meeting."
John had completely forgotten about that. They were expected at the courthouse in an hour.
So, good news : Sherlock is not in shock.
Bad news : He has somehow managed to download it to John.
Sherlock is making time for...what exactly ? John was only truly prepared for the confrontation about the drugs, the vial, get that bloody sorted. What followed was a roller coaster argument about the truth, then his confession, with no regard to consequences. John knew what he wanted, thought Sherlock felt the same, went for it.
John is, after all, a man of action.
Who has clearly lost his mind and is in no condition to meet the magistrate, hence the text from Sherlock, who is protecting his friend from further embarrassing outbursts , at least until John can get himself under control.
Or...
The man is usually two steps ahead of him at least, maybe ...
Why is the air over his head so heavy ? He cannot lift it, cannot look Sherlock in the face.
Chime for the return text. A cursory glance, then Sherlock returns the phone to his pocket.
" Forgive me John. I needed a moment to ... process what you said."
The air whoofs out of John's lungs, and he can no longer contain himself .
" Jesus Christ, Sherlock ! I'm having a heart attack here - and you're - on the phone ?!"
He heaves himself to his feet , on wobbly legs, clenching and unclenching his hands, which are clearly confused as to whether to slug Sherlock or grab him again. John knows this is all going to end spectacularly, hopefully not in violence, but he's not certain.
He decides to take cover.
" Look...Sherlock. You don't have to cancel the appointment. I know the work comes first. Nothing has to change just because – " but Sherlock cuts him off.
" Our meeting has been moved to tomorrow. Will that be enough time ? "
" Time ? " John feels heat blazing up his neck, the crimson in his cheeks.
Sherlock stands and moves incredibly close to him. Jesus, he's never given a damn about John's personal space.
"Do keep up John."
The voice is teasing, but higher than usual, and the hand reaching up towards him, those long fingers fraught with possibility, are definitely trembling.
John allows those fingers to cup his chin and lift it. He looks Sherlock in the eye for the first time since he told him he was in love.
The expression on Sherlock's face is a combination of many things, mostly adoration, and puzzlement, underlined with wonder. It stops John's heart.
Sherlock bends his head to speak directly into John's ear, soft and low.
" So brave. How are you so brave ? "
John has to grab him then, seize his hipbones, because the combination of those words in that voice has set off an earthquake inside him, and he needs to maintain his balance. After a few moments he pushes words up his thickening throat, and they come out shaky.
"I'm not brave, Sh-Sherlock. I've been - I've been feeling this way about you for a long time, but I never said – in fact I hated you for making me f-feel this way. At least I tried to hate you, I'm such an - "
- idiot " is silenced by Sherlock's long finger pressed to his lips.
John's tongue darts out to taste it, without thinking. He is a bit shocked by his own action, but even more so by the thought that wheels into his cerebral cortex .
What does the rest of him taste like ?
Sherlock can read his thoughts, he's sure of it. Well, if he truly is brave...
John flicks his eyes up to Sherlock's, and is relieved to see Sherlock's bemused expression, one eyebrow lifted. And then, there is the smile he has been waiting for. The curl of affection in the corner of his mouth, and John is transfixed by that cupid's bow , moving closer and closer ...
Clarity of thought. The centrifuge slows , emotion and reason coalesce into want, need, love .
Sherlock feels something shift deep in his chest. It is his last breath, the one the doctors could not push out of him, the machines could not reach, after Mary shot him. He's held onto it for so long. Now he wants to give it to John. It has always been for John.
Sherlock opens wide and kisses John slow, angling his head to make sure the seal is perfect. He can feel their airways join, their breaths exchanging at a cellular level.
It is an illumination, everything John has kept from him until now. His brain glows more brightly than ever, powered by the secrets he is pulling from John's mouth. As he tastes them on his tongue, the knowledge that they are given freely, wholly, to Sherlock alone, is overwhelming. He moans into John's mouth, and John responds instantly, grasping his neck, pushing his tongue deeper. Eventually they have to break off and recover .
"How do you feel ?" John gasps.
"Like I can breathe again."