A/N: Some of the dialogue is taken directly from the actual episode. What can I say, I love sticking to the cannon only to dance sharply away from it *winks*.
Such Nice Things
If ever there were miracles, now was the time for one. Fingers to temples, face screwed up in concentration, eyes darting beneath their lids like REM sleep-How to diffuse a bomb…how to diffuse a bomb…he hadn't been lying about that. Physics? Of course. Chemistry? No problem. Deduction? All day. But engineering? Not enough. He didn't know, he didn't…but he had to try. Sherlock sprinted down the corridors of his mind palace, skidding to a stop outside a door labeled "Engineering." He crashed through the door into a lab-like room, but he didn't stop to look around. He raced around the room, ripping open drawers and rifling through the papers within, scattering them on the floor around him. Come on, come on, there had to be something, anything! But he was too frantic; his eyes darted from the pages before he'd had a good look, and things were blurred about the edges. He blinked and suddenly found himself in a library, a film reel playing all of his favorite memories of John. John. No no no, I've got to concentrate! And he willed himself back into engineering. But there was nothing to find.
"I can't!" Sherlock yelled, every ounce of frustration erupting from him as he came back to reality.
He panted, staring into John's eyes. John stared back, disbelief painted on every feature of his face. Because he, Sherlock, had failed.
"Oh my god!" John said, turning away.
Sherlock ripped off his stifling scarf, kneeling down by the bomb, looking for an answer. Forget Parliament, forget the hundreds of people that would die, forget himself; he had to save John.
"This is it," John said, almost matter-of-factly.
No, this wasn't it! Sherlock's search became for frantic, feeling along the bomb, trying to think of something.
"Oh my god," John said again.
That's when Sherlock found it; the little switch on the side of the bomb. He switched it to the "off" position, and passed his relieved laughter off has desperate muttering. Of course there was a switch, there's always a switch! Damn emotions clouding his head, that was all. But there was an opportunity to be had here, and Sherlock took it. He looked slowly up at John from his position on the ground, his face a mask of disbelief.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"What?" John said.
"I can't…I can't do it, John." It was surprisingly easy to hold the façade, perhaps because the feelings had been all too real just a moment ago.
"I don't know how. Forgive me."
"What?" John said again with astounding disbelief.
Sherlock was always able to read people, always. Most of what he knew about John was what he'd deduced. But these emotions…he'd never been good at them.
"Please, John, forgive me, for all the hurt that I caused you," Sherlock said.
And he really did mean it; not about the bomb, but the whole "not dead" thing. He really was sorry. If only John knew, if only he could tell him what torture those two years had been, being parted from him. But he'd never been good at emotions.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, this is a trick," John insisted.
Sherlock fought the urge to smile. Faithful John, never giving up on him. Not when he'd told him the deductions were a trick, not even now.
"No," Sherlock lied.
"Another one of your bloody tricks,"
"No," god, how long was he going to stay angry?
"You're just trying to get me to say something nice," John said.
Well, yes, Sherlock thought, unable to hide the smile this time. "Not this time," he said.
"It's just to make you look good even though you've behaved like…" but John couldn't go on. Tears were coming; he was trying to hold them back.
Sherlock felt guilt filling his stomach. He really had underestimated the hurt he'd caused. His poor John. Just please…forgiveness…that's all he wanted. They both sighed. Sherlock felt unbidden tears in his own eyes. They weren't part of the façade, they were real. Because he cared…he cared too much…for John. And he was still so—
"I wanted you not to be dead," John whispered.
Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. The words meant more than he wanted them to.
"Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for," he said. "If I hadn't come back you wouldn't be standing there and…you'd still have a future…with Mary."
That was perhaps the most painful thing, which of course made it the most confusing. Mary—smart, beautiful, John's fiancé—who he wanted to hate but didn't, and he couldn't understand why it hurt him so much.
"Yeah, I know," John said, pacing back and forth in a desperate search for words. "Look, I find it difficult, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff."
"I know," Sherlock said, after all, he did too.
"You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known," and John's whispered voice broke near the end.
A warm feeling spread through Sherlock's body, and he looked up at John with touched surprise. This was something he thought he'd never hear.
"Yes of course, I forgive you," John said.
Happiness…that's what the warm feeling was Sherlock decided. And he noticed he'd dropped the façade a few moments back. As he stared at John, the latter took in a huge, steadying breath.
"I love you," he said.
Sherlock stared at John, unable to process what he'd just said. His entire body seemed to have gone numb.
"What?" Sherlock whispered; it was his turn to not understand what was going on.
"I…love…you," John repeated, staring steadily at Sherlock with his stormy blue eyes.
I love you. I love you. The feeling was coming back into Sherlock's body. It felt as though his chest had been filled with helium, like his organs were fluttering upwards. He'd never felt this before…what was it? He thought back to all the times he'd spent with John, searching for similar feelings. Whenever he made a particularly impressive deduction and John said "amazing"—no, that was pride. Whenever John defended him and stuck by his side, his loyalty—affection, ah yes, that was closer! Let's see, whenever John smiled at him…when they were in the midst of the chase…when they spent quiet evenings at home…when John made fun of him, calling him a show-off and reminding him to "pop his collar" and the like…yes. Sherlock knew the feeling now. It was joy, all consuming overwhelming joy, because John Watson loved him.
"I love you too," Sherlock said, bewildered, a few tears falling down his smiling face.
John looked like he felt the same way Sherlock did when the former said it first, but Sherlock was impatient. There was no time for that! He held his arms out to John, desiring only to hold him, to feel him in his arms. A fire lit behind John's eyes, and he ran for Sherlock, collapsing into him, and their lips connected almost before John hit the ground.
Their kisses were frantic, their hands going everywhere, both feeling as though they could never be close enough. Years of pent-up passion were their fuel. John's lips and hands were desperate, as though he was trying to know every bit of Sherlock he could before time ran out. It took Sherlock a few minutes to remember John really did think these were their last moments. In fact Sherlock, his head so full of John, had believed that too. He'd completely forgotten they were safe.
Sherlock wrenched his mouth away from John's, who simply continued to explore his jaw and neck.
"John," Sherlock gasped.
"Oh, just shut up for once," John moaned.
"John, we're safe, we're safe," Sherlock said, grabbing John's shoulders and pushing him away a bit to make sure he understood (though it burned him).
"What?" John said.
"The bomb. It's stopped, we're safe."
"The bomb…" John pushed himself up and crawled over to the bomb. Of course, he saw the counter had stopped.
"You utter…"
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, laughing a bit at John's annoyance. "There was an off switch."
"An off switch?"
"There's always an off switch. Terrorists can get themselves into quite a bit of trouble if there's no off switch."
"So I was right, it was a trick!"
"Yes, yes, you're very smart."
"I don't believe you!"
"Aw, but you said such nice things," Sherlock said, putting on a bit of a pout.
John rolled his eyes and was on Sherlock again in an instant, and Sherlock was all too happy to comply.
"I suppose that does give us a bit more time, eh?" John said, his voice muffled by Sherlock's coat.
"Oh, that reminds me, I called the police."
And the police chose that moment to appear around the bend, shining their lights and banging around.
John pulled back and stared at him. "You called the police."
"Of course I did."
"Damn you!" John said, standing up.
"Hey, if all this hadn't happened you'd be grateful!" Sherlock stood up too.
"Oh, that doesn't matter!" John crossed his arms over his chest, looking as tense as Sherlock felt. "How long is it going to take to get out of here?"
"Not to worry John," Sherlock said with a grin. "You know how fast I can talk."
Sherlock didn't really pay attention to the whole affair with the police; the interrogation, the questions, the inevitable confusion of ordinary people. He just explained everything he knew at light speed, hyper-aware of John standing just behind him…so close. Now they were in a taxi on their way back to Baker Street. John had his hand firmly clamped on Sherlock's leg, as though he was afraid he'd somehow dissolve into thin air if he let go. But he didn't mind, it was nice.
"I don't think I've ever heard you talk so fast," John remarked. "And that's saying something."
Sherlock looked away from the window to gaze at John.
"I promised you, didn't I?" he said with a smile.
But the smile faltered. There was something he wanted to do, something he'd always wanted to do but even now was afraid to do it. He thought about it carefully. They'd both been through so much recently, and tonight was a night of confessions and experiments. He decided to do it. But it would make him so vulnerable.
Heart pounding, hands shaking, Sherlock leaned over until his head rested on John's shoulder. He sought security in the hollow of his neck, the warmth of his body, that particular scent that clung to his skin. He sighed.
"Are you alright?" John asked.
"I'm fine, John." When had those words ever been truer?
A few minutes later and the taxi stopped outside 221 B. Sherlock and John climbed out and hurried to the door. Sherlock felt the electricity of closeness spark between them. He wondered if John felt it too. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them in the hall when they got inside.
"Oh there you boys are. Where have you been? Mycroft's been calling—"
"Not now, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock interrupted, grabbing John's hand and dragging him up the stairs before she could say another word.
Once inside their flat Sherlock slammed the door and bolted it, then turned around to gaze at John.
"Are you blushing?" Sherlock said with amused disbelief.
John rubbed his face, no doubt feeling the fire burning beneath the skin.
"Ah…I suppose I am."
"Why on earth would you be doing a silly thing like that?"
"Well, just…ahem…ah, Mrs. Watson, you see. We were having a conversation the…the other day and I…well, I-I told her you weren't my boyfriend."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well that wasn't exactly a lie now, was it?"
"No, but…"
"But nothing! Since when have you cared?"
John shook his head and stared at Sherlock—the stare he always gave him when the former thought the latter was overlooking basic human feeling. Sherlock merely grinned at him, nodding his head towards the bedroom. John laughed a bit.
"You really are impossible," he said.
The two walked into Sherlock's bedroom, but as the bed came into view Sherlock froze, feeling a bite of fear and nervousness. Nerves! Those weren't something Sherlock Holmes suffered from.
John seemed to notice and turned around, looking concerned.
"Hey, you okay?" he asked.
"It's just…" Sherlock licked his lips and stared around the room, as though all the answers and reassurance he needed were hidden somewhere in the corners. "John, I…I've never done anything like this before."
"Well that's okay, neither have I," John said softly.
"No, I…" God, why was this so hard? "I mean I've never done anything like this. Anything. Not ever."
A warm smile crossed John's face when he understood. He stepped closer to Sherlock.
"Hey, it's fine," he said, rubbing Sherlock's arms. "It's all fine. Don't be afraid."
Sherlock nodded, a small smile crossing his face.
"Now come here," John said, sitting on the edge of the bed and discarding his jacket.
Sherlock stepped forward obediently, every nerve ending alive with nervous anticipation. John patted the spot beside him, and Sherlock sat. Then John reached up and carefully removed Sherlock's coat and scarf. Next was his suit jacket, then both their shoes. With shaking hands, Sherlock unbuttoned John's flannel. Why so many clothes? Sherlock thought. Why so many layers? John was working on his purple shirt now, button-by-button. When the shirt was open, John ran a hand down Sherlock's bare chest. His tactile nerves exploded, sending signals to the pleasure centers of his brain.
"Just like this," John murmured as Sherlock worked on his plaid shirt. "Gentle and familiar."
"It what way is this familiar?" Sherlock piped.
"Shut up."
"Oooh-kay."
John reached out to cradle Sherlock's face in his hands. "I meant every word I said."
"I know," Sherlock nodded.
Sherlock felt that he should say something now, but he didn't know what. He gazed into John's stormy eyes, his pupils dilated to endless black pools, and the words just came. "John, I...I always thought that love was an unfortunate weakness…human error…a flaw in the chemistry of the brain. I told you once that alone I'm safe. And I always believed all of that. But if I was right John…I don't want to be safe. I never want to be parted from you because…oh god I love you."
"I love you too," John said, and leaned in to kiss him again.
"Just tell me one more thing," Sherlock said.
"What?"
"Why are my clothes still on?"
John laughed, and they continued to shed their garments.
The passion here and now was different from the passion they'd shared in the carriage, Sherlock thought. Then it had been a desperate, consuming, impatient thing. Like a raging forest fire. Now it was slow, savored, and strong, like the glowing embers. And that was a wonderful thing…
It was late, late in the night, and Sherlock lie awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, floating in a bliss that no amount of nicotine patches could ever compare to. John was sleeping next to him. Sherlock could feel his warm form pressed against his side. He rolled over to that side to get a better view. He reached out a hand and began to pet John's back. Sherlock made a mental note, adding this to the list of most pleasurable things in this world; that included deduction, a good case, the thrill of the chase, etc.
"I wonder if this will end up in the blog," Sherlock mused.
"Unlikely," John muttered through the pillow.
"I thought you were asleep!" Sherlock said, propping himself up on his elbow.
"I was," John said, rolling over. "But you're idea of gentle petting is more like karate-chop massage!"
"Hahaha, I'm sorry." Sherlock laughed.
"Never mind. What time is it?"
"Almost four-thirty," Sherlock said, checking the clock across the room.
"Have you been up all this time?" John asked.
"Couldn't sleep," he said with a shrug.
"Is that my fault?"
"hmmm…maybe," He said coyly.
But just then an uncomfortable thought occurred to Sherlock, and he dropped back down onto his back with a sigh, turning his face away from John.
"Something wrong?" John asked.
"No, it's just…what are you going to tell Mary?"
The truth was, Sherlock was terrified of the answer. He'd gone over all the possibilities after John had gone to sleep. The one that kept recurring was "nothing," as in, this was a secret, possibly one-time thing. After all, he had practically proposed to the woman.
"Are you worried about that?" John asked.
"No," Sherlock lied.
"Well, I admit it's not going to be easy. I mean, we had a nice thing going. I was moving on. Then you show up out of the blue and change everything. Believe me, I've thought about this a lot—"
"What are you going to tell her?" Sherlock demanded
"The truth, Sherlock," John snapped. "I'm going to tell her the truth, and that I'm sorry. My decision was made the second you said you loved me back."
Sherlock turned back to John, feeling moved.
"Honestly, for a genius you can be such and idiot sometimes," John shook his head.
An instant later Sherlock had pulled John's lips to his; trying to put all the words he couldn't say into the kiss. By the feel of it, John understood. Sherlock had never been shown any kind of tenderness before, but John showed it over and over again throughout their lives together. It filled his entire being with such strong, implausible feelings. To Sherlock everything was a map, or information, or a puzzle waiting to be put together. But he couldn't apply any of that to John. At one time he could, but not anymore. Being with John, it was unpredictable, terrifying, and new. God, this man was going to ruin his life! And Sherlock was enjoying every minute of it.
