Not beta'd or brit-picked. Hope you guys enjoy!
I do not own BBC Sherlock in any way shape or form.
"Who would you grow old for?"
He was asked this in a drugged haze sometime in university, where the days and nights seemed to blend together after he discovered cocaine. There were days where he would not attend lectures because it was all boring; it was a lot more interesting to see how far he could push himself to the edge of existence using just a needle and his seven percent solution. He would lie horizontal on his roommates couch and watch the world tilt on its axis while he spun at the center of it all.
She had said this, in an equally drugged haze, and he glanced over at her with his usual stare that often made others shy away from him. But her eyes were glazing and bright and she looked at him seriously. She repeated the question. He did not need to think about it.
"No one."
"Exactly," she laughed. It was almost manic. She goes on to rant:
I am here and young and my bones have never felt stronger in my life. Do you know I've been twenty for six years? I love my life and the people I love won't die because they are the same as me; we are all the same.
Sherlock stared at her for a long time and watched as her mouth formed words that made no sense or were so idiotic that he wanted to bleed out of his ears onto the shag carpet that covered the floor of the flat. He knew what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to find a way to control how he thought, and at that moment, cocaine worked better than anything he had tried before. This was it. Nothing else seemed important.
If he thought about it, about growing old, he would grimace at the possibility of wrinkles and loss of function because who had time for any of that? He looked down at his legs encased in dark blue jeans and stared at the wearing hole on the left knee while he breathed in and out until that was all he knew how to do.
And if the next day, he decided that spending his time on his roommates couch with his roommate's drug dealing girlfriend was a waste of time, no one knew why because the one person who had any possibility of knowing had forgotten it had happened in the first place.
Sherlock moved on, and he did not stop for anyone.
He does not know where the idea of Stopping came from. He knew from a very young age that his mother was always the same. She did not age at all. When he asked Mycroft about it, he'd explained it as bluntly as possible.
"Science is able to stop the aging process, if one wishes to stay young for a very long time." His brother had explained.
"So I won't be old like grand mère?" Sherlock asked, remembering the woman's wrinkles and strong hands.
"Not if you don't want to be."
He'd asked Mycroft if he'd thought about it; growing old and staying young. His older brother simply looked away from him, the cutting lines of his frown obviously showing he was upset about something. It was not until later, that he found out that despite one being able to stop the age process, they could still get sick.
His mother died of lung cancer a long while later, when he was eighteen. At the viewing, he had to hide in the men's bathroom and laugh bitterly at how she looked only a little older than him. He did not cry at the funeral, but Mycroft did. Eleven months later, his older brother decided to Stop and Sherlock lost the appeal in it. Because what was the fucking point, anyway?
It wasn't until he overdosed for the second time that he decided that maybe it was time to stop the drugs and maybe just Stop. He was 27. The withdrawal hurt more than procedure afterwards, and when he came out of the hospital he did not feel any different.
Mycroft would stop looking at him with something resembling worry, at least. He was surprised at his brother's sudden interest in his life. Sherlock often thought that Mycroft did not feel worry unless the country was in immediate danger. He realized he was wrong on the tiled floor of a bathroom he was unfamiliar with, where the drug swept through him hot and fast and left him empty and unwilling to care whether he lived or died.
Sherlock remembered the time his older brother came to him after he'd fallen out of the tree in the garden. Sometimes, when he dreamed, he thought about the second time he overdosed and Mycroft finding him. Mycroft had that same worry in his eyes when the burning clarity of the drug faded into something blurred and broken. Suddenly, he was seven again and his brother was cradling his head in his palm while he cried that his arm hurt.
Despite his insistence on not having emotions to speak of, sometimes Sherlock felt like everything was too much and the entirety of the world was crushing in on his chest. The moment he woke in a hospital bed with his brother at the end of it, looking as if he might break with the weight of Sherlock's almost-death, something that was buried somewhere deep and secret in his chest lit up and burned so that the only thing he could do was close his eyes and fall back asleep to the steady beeping of his own heartbeat.
So when he emerged from the hospital and met Lestrade standing outside near his issued car, Sherlock breathed out a relieved puff of air that it was not his brother. He would not face him again after realizing that maybe he meant more to the man than he originally thought.
"I'm to take you to your new flat under the instruction of a Mr. Mycroft Holmes." The graying haired man said. He was not happy.
Sherlock did not talk to him and proceeded to sit in the passenger seat. The constable muttered under his breath.
"I didn't sign up for this," he informed Sherlock at a stop light.
Halfway through the drive, Sherlock had told the man about his failing marriage (cheating wife) and where he had been the past few hours (crime scene, obvious by the dirt on your shoes). Lestrade gaped at him and gave him his card in exchange for his own number, and it was a few days later that Sherlock received a call from the man asking his opinion about a dead man in a locked room.
He solved it in two hours and found something better than cocaine. Naturally, he became addicted.
He meets John Watson when he is three years past 27. The man is a retired army doctor and he has a psychosomatic limp that does not last for long and he is not Stopped. Sherlock knows why, but it is still fascinating because he has never known anyone to look so old. The man is 34 and yet he looks 40, but Sherlock sees him and tries to understand the possibility of someone looking older than they are.
Because of his injury, he is unqualified for Stopping. Sherlock knows this because of the way John shifts his shoulder on rainy days. He also knows that John hates aging because he spends an extra ten minutes in the bathroom with the mirror before he goes to work.
Sherlock will sit on the couch of his flat and watch as the man putters about because for some strange reason it is distracting and fascinating. He even remembers that Sherlock is there, and occasionally turns to him and asks if he wants tea or if he could please remove the eyes from the microwave thank you very much.
Despite the fact that Sherlock is Stopped, they live comfortably. John does not question Sherlock's reasons why, because there is always a why to Stopping. John's was nonnegotiable and Sherlock's was out of obligation and they are perfectly comfortable not speaking to each other about it because it does not matter.
It does not come up until a night where they get to drinking in the flat after a particularly strange and thrilling case. John is sitting in his chair with his third glass of wine from the client and Sherlock is sitting with his first glass on the floor. They are both exhausted and the alcohol catches up to them quickly.
"How old are you, anyway?" John is blunt. He likes this about John.
"27 for three and a half years." Sherlock answers honestly.
John laughs, "I was 25 for three years before I went into the army. They don't allow Stoppers to enlist. But I went anyway because I thought I'd come back and Stop again and everything would be fine."
A gloom passes over his face. Sherlock shuffles closer so that he sitting in front of John's knees and he is looking down at the carpet that is not shaggy and his knees are not jean clad at all.
"Do you regret it?" Sherlock asks.
John takes a sip of wine, "I don't regret meeting you."
And it's the truth and it is glorious. Sherlock feels those words of truth wash over him like the warmth of the alcohol did an hour ago but it's different because it's like nothing he has ever felt before and it seems to sit permanently somewhere in his chest while the wine warmth fades into something obscure and bad-tasting. There is something between them, he knows. He does not understand because John is not entirely gay and Sherlock was only gay that one time with Victor and he does not know the truth about himself because he is honestly too scared to find out.
They are close, John's knees are right in front of him and if they opened slightly he could insert himself into the small space and close the distance between them. He could, he really could.
Instead, Sherlock looks up and John is asleep with his glass almost falling out of his hands and Sherlock curses his timing while he stands and closes his hands over John's. He feels skin that should be rough, but it is not. Hands that are older than his, but they are smooth and strong and he looks down at John's sleeping face and wonders if this is what luck is, because he is so lucky to have met this man. He takes John's glass and puts it on the coffee table before grabbing the blanket on the end of the couch and draping it over the smaller man.
When he goes to bed that night, he thinks over and over in his head about his old roommate's couch and the girl's voice.
Who would you grow old for? Who would you grow old for?
Together, they face snipers and hounds and The Woman and explosions and gunfire. Together, John grows older and Sherlock stays the same. It is a year later, after Sherlock finds the answer to his question on a rooftop while looking down at the man on the ground, that he decides it is time.
And isn't time a wonderful thing, after all, so long as he has John for all of it? Time is meaningless if you have too much of it and no one to spend it with. He understands it now and hates that girl even more for it. Because she did not understand the gravity of that question like he understands it now.
He falls, and watches John Watson's heart break. He falls, and is wheeled into St. Bart's where Molly starts him going again. He is not Stopped when he leaves the hospital that night in new clothes and with a bad bleach job on his hair. He will stop at nothing to protect John and find him again when he is finished. He promises himself this and he disappears for three years.
When Sherlock sees John again, it is on a summer night that is just cooling down from a small rainstorm and Baker Street is lit up from the inside as though it has waited all this time for Sherlock to come home. He picks the lock and walks up the steps as quietly as he can before knocking on the door.
John answers after a long time and he is older and tired and his features crumple in on themselves when he sees the ghost outside his door. Sherlock looks older as well, and John wonders about that for a moment, Sherlock can tell from his expression. Then he is being pulled inside and John is touching his wrist and breathing hard and panic is swimming in his eyes.
"John. I'm here. It's alright. Calm down." And Sherlock puts his hands on John's like that night so long ago.
And his hands are a little roughened from the dry summer air, but they are strong and they hold on to him as though it is all that is holding John up. He looks so long and hard at Sherlock that he allows himself to look at John in the same way because he feels like he deserves this. He saved the man and John saved him and now they are even on those grounds but Sherlock can feel the guilt of leaving crushing him somewhere inside.
"Sherlock," John says finally.
And then he punches him.
Later on, Sherlock will blame his unconsciousness on his lack of sleep and food. He wakes up against the wall with John in front of him, using a flannel to clean the blood from his face. His nose is broken, but John sets it and afterwards it throbs almost as uncomfortably as his heart.
"Sorry, but you deserved that." John says.
Sherlock laughs and does not meet the other man's eyes. He laughs as he looks out at the window, where it has started to rain again and the lights of London are blurring in the distance. He laughs until John hauls him up and takes him into his old bedroom, where John has obviously been sleeping. He laughs as John helps him sit on the bed and then removes his shoes. He laughs until John is lying next to him in the dark, and the old familiar sounds of Baker Street rattle through his bones, then he cries without meaning to.
He cries and it is quiet and he feels John's arms tighten around him as something wet seeps through his shirt on his shoulder, where John's head lies.
Life goes on. Time goes on.
Who would you grow old with?
He knows the answer now but it does not make it any less comforting. They have not spoken about that night where John held him in his arms as he cried his relief and his happiness into the dark ceiling. Relief at being home, happiness at seeing John again. There were days in his absence where coming home did not seem possible and here he was.
John still looks at him as though he may disappear and he hears from everyone about the hell he put the man through. But he is safe, so that is more important. What is important is that he knows the answer and he changed his biology for John even if John does not know it was for him yet. He decided on the roof that day, and he regrets nothing.
"So you've started aging again, yeah?" John asks him one day while they are eating after a case.
Sherlock picks up his Lo Mein clumsily and out of practice. "Obviously, John. I am almost 31, now."
For some reason, this is funny and John laughs. He laughs so hard, he drops his chopsticks and soon enough, Sherlock is laughing with him. The young couples in the restaurant are looking at them strangely and Sherlock's stomach hurts by the time they are finished.
They leave the restaurant and John asks him why as they walk, trying to sound casual. Sherlock turns to face him, trying to make the other man understand.
"Because I found something to grow old for, John."
John looks at him funny for the rest of the night.
It doesn't happen until after a case where the gun was required and the chase was glorious. One for the blog, Sherlock reminds John in the cab on the way home. John laughs and the cab ride is silent the rest of the way, where something builds between them stronger than it has ever been before. Sherlock remembers the feeling the night they drank the wine together and he remembers the feeling of John's hands in his.
They come in through the front door and it is almost like the first time when they lean against the wall with smiles lighting their faces. It is almost like the first time, except John turns and looks up at him with something burning in his eyes and Sherlock looks back because he's answered that question and this is what he wants. More than anything, he wants John even though they will not be young forever. Sherlock will fall into that unknown void with him, if the other man should wish it.
He does not know who starts it, but he feels John's hands on his neck and he is bending down and their lips are touching and it is glorious. Sherlock runs his hands through the shorter man's hair and feels the softness of it against his fingers and he revels in it. John is pulling at his lower lip, and he opens his mouth to him so that he can taste John and it is like tea and adrenaline and he pulls the man closer because-oh, that is amazing.
John pulls away, "Upstairs. Bedroom," he says.
Sherlock nods and quickly runs up the stairs with John following closely behind. Sherlock closes the door and John slams him against it as soon as it locks. Then they are kissing again and Sherlock feels John's hands on his arms and suddenly they are helping him out of his coat. It falls to the floor and he is clawing for John's coat to be off as well.
They stumble over each other's coats when they make their way to Sherlock's bedroom. While they undress, they talk.
"This is fine, isn't it?" John asks.
Sherlock stops unbuttoning his shirt and stares blankly at the man in front of him. He steps forward and leans his head into the shorter man's neck so that he is bent at an awkward angle that almost hurts but he places his lips near the underside of his ear and John shivers. Sherlock breathes out a slow breath onto the skin and John has to reach for his shoulders and grip hard so he does not collapse.
"Perfectly fine," Sherlock says as he straightens.
John pulls him down again and moans into his mouth. Sherlock's eyes flutter and he runs a hand along John's half unbuttoned shirt. It is gone within a few seconds and he revels in being able to touch John's bare skin. It is burning warmth that he wants nothing more than to feel all of it and categorize the difference of the skin on his left knee to the skin on his right. The scar on John's shoulder is not as big as he'd hoped, but it sits there, a slight discoloration that puckers slightly at the edges. He brushes his fingers against it lightly and then follows them with his lips because this brought John to him. And he is so lucky.
Eventually, they make it to the bed where they quickly divest themselves of any clothes and sit staring at each other for a few moments. Sherlock looks at John's strong arms and scar and the trail of light brown hair that sits neatly above his cock. John is wonderful and Sherlock is speechless until the man descends upon him and he is gasping into the man's mouth.
When John slips his knee between Sherlock's legs and slides himself up so that they are touching, they both gasp in unison. Then they are moving and the friction of it creates a slow building pressure in his spine that he knows he wants but this is not enough. He wonders if anything will ever be enough because this need is consuming him and he feels like every point of his body where John is touching him is no longer his.
"John," he says his name and he looks down at him while pausing. "I need-I need.."
"What do you need, Sherlock?"
The friction has stopped and his eyes are so focused on him now, so full of black pupil that the blue is almost swallowed away. Sherlock cannot think and John reaches down and gently touches him so that he jerks into the movement and this brings everything back into focus.
"John-please; I want you to fuck me," and it is a question and a plea that makes John's eyes flutter in arousal and he responds by fully kissing him on the lips.
"Yes, you beautiful man. Budge up," he pushes Sherlock's knees up and runs into the bathroom attached to the bedroom.
He returns with a condom and lube and Sherlock is lying on the bed, absolutely sure that he looks at least as debauched as he feels. John stares down at him for a moment and then joins him on the bed where he proceeds to kiss him lightly on the lips and run a hand down his stomach so that his cock twitches in response.
"We'll go slow, okay?"
And they do and by the time Sherlock is ready, he feels as though something in his chest might burst and his lungs are full of air and John. When John slides inside of him, he lets his head fall back against the pillows as he hisses with pleasure. There is a long second where John stays completely still, eyes shut tight with the feeling of Sherlock surrounding all of him. Sherlock hooks his legs into John's lower back and rises up to meet all of him.
"Oh my-Jesus Christ, Sherlock." John's voice is rough and low and Sherlock can feel it rumble through him from where their chests are connected.
"Move, John," Sherlock whispers impatiently because all he wants is John to fill all of him and for them both to feel it.
They begin to move and Sherlock loses all capability of thought with the feeling of John on him and inside of him. John slides a hand up the sheets so that it rests on Sherlock's. He is gripping the sheets hard in his fists and John eases one of the palms open and locks their fingers together and they are moving and John is hitting that spot inside of him that is making him quiver. He is close and he tightens his legs around John in warning.
"J-John. I'm..going to," Sherlock manages to speak, but John silences him with a firm, desperate kiss and then he is coming.
He is vibrating with it, so that all he feels is the pressure of the other man inside of him and the firm grip of their hands touching against the mattress. He does not know if he makes a sound, but his mouth is slightly open when he returns to himself and John is staring down at him with something like wonder in his eyes.
"Ohmygod," he climaxes and Sherlock feels the shudders crash through the body over his. Sherlock feels words breathed on his skin where John is burying his head and they feel something like Sherlockgodiloveyouimissedyo u.
When John comes back up and looks at him, he watches the expressions on the other man's face and is amazed because he gave them being. John lowers his head onto Sherlock's chest and breathes out a sigh that makes him deflate. They lie like that for a while, until the air becomes too cool to lay naked in.
They clean up and exchange shining smiles as they move back into bed with each other, where they immediately curl together. John runs a hand through Sherlock's hair and stares up at the ceiling.
"The other day, when you said that thing outside the restaurant, did you mean what I think you meant?" John asks.
Sherlock looks up at this man and tilts his head. "Not good?"
John laughs and it is deep and full and Sherlock can feel it all the way to his toes which are wrapped around the other man's feet. They look at each other and Sherlock can see the small lines forming around John's eyes where he has laughed and he can see the lines around his mouth where he has frowned. He can see the man's life written on his features and he wonders why anyone would want to do away with such a map, such a history.
"No, Sherlock. Very, very good."
And one day, when John is curled up on the couch in 221B, Sherlock will lay down so that his head is resting on the other man's lap and his legs are extended out so that they almost go over the arm on the other side. He will lie down and he will ask John this question:
Who would you grow old for?
And John will answer with a smile,
You, always you.
Thanks for reading!