The main door to 221 shuddered against it's frame.
The whole of the foyer felt the reverberation as the aged plaster flexed; even the half-circle table against the wall trembled with the force.
"Sherlock!"
Nothing.
"Sherlock?!"
Still no answer.
The steady measured thump of the boots hitting the treads caused no acknowledgement either.
"Bloody hell, mate! Answer your damn-"
Once he reached their landing he could hear it through the doors.
The plaintive sounds barely escaped.
Now why in the world was he playing like that?
John stood there for a moment just listening to the heart-rending litany that was being played out in their main room. He almost felt as if he were invading something private, something precious possibly. Sherlock was still so very enigmatic. John did not want to upset the man if he was having a particularly evocative fit of inspiration.
When would be the next time Sherlock actually expressed himself if he did?
Better to leave it then. Now he knew, John was alright with it.
Seventeen more stairs and a full hour later found John in his rooms going through his nightly routine. Freshly out of the shower John sat at the antique roll-top desk still in his dressing gown, towel thrown over his shoulder out of habit, as he opened the drawer. Long hand would be soothing tonight. Dip-pen, ink, and his leather laced journal extracted he sussed out the knot with relative ease and opened to the next clean page to begin writing.
January 12, 2010
He is at it again. This is the third time I have heard Holmes play in this manner in little over a weeks time. It began immediately on Twelfth Night. All evening he had the parlor locked from within ignoring Mrs. Hudson and I. We could hear him, but while he was in his own world, well, we know when he is lost to us...at least he was kind enough to allow kitchen access through the side slider so I could brew a cuppa before heading to my rooms.
On the 9th I came in very late from a double shift (damnable flu) covering for Sarah and I found myself in a very similar situation. Sherlock obviously playing, emotively, and room locked away.
Now, I have yet to mention this because he had warned there were times he needed his privacy, and I see no reason to not allow it ever, as much the man has managed to peer into every corner of my existence.
Tonight though?
Sherlock left a crime-scene. Faffed off leaving myself with Lestrade. Mid-deduction.
Yes, now you see why the concern...
Where do I find little Holmes? In the parlor. Doors locked. Playing again.
Is he setting up some sort of mystery? Maybe remnants from our incident at the pool have him tumultuous? He has refused to speak about it to anyone.
Is he actually finally allowing himself to admit he's human and can feel like the rest of us?
~JHW
January Thirteenth woke early,cold, and barren.
John made his way into the kitchen, ink still staining this smallest knuckle, part of the side of his hand as well. He knew Sherlock would see it and hoped it would let him know he was truly enjoying the Christmas gift. As he went to flick on their kettle, John noticed Sherlock's bedroom door open. This almost never happened. Coming fully alert he grabbed one of the kitchen knives and pressed the back of it to his forearm to steady and strike if necessary.
So many things had been running through his mind last night. If he were honest with himself, John had missed a few minor changes in Sherlock's behavior since the pool, but being sleight, he had pushed many of them away. Now, this morning, if he had been paying attention, an open door should not have startled him. But this was also John, battle-weary, prepared John. The semtec coat had reinforced mentally the chance of skullduggery, possibly mayhem, a million-fold and John would meet the challenge to keep them both safe.
Silently, the door whispered on it's hinges until the room-facing side tapped gently against the grey linen papered wall behind it. The room was cast in as soft, wintery early morning glow that allowed John to see well enough to know that the only person there was a sleeping Sherlock. He found himself releasing the breath he had been holding, smiling gently at the slumberous relaxed form that was all softness and deep dark dark curls.
John stole into the room, not wanting to disturb his friend, just to adjust his covers. At least, that is what he was trying to make himself believe. Sherlock was quarter covered, his duvet long since pushed away, only his heather grey sheet clinging for dear life barely pinned at the sleeping man's waist. The sheet moved easily up his friend's body after a moment of wrangling, but the duvet would be decidedly more difficult. Being January, and rather cold in the early mornings at 221B, John figured it would be worth it to lean precariously onto the bed to reach the warm covering and save him from a sickly Sherlock.
The damnable thing was staunchly entrenched on the furthest side of Sherlock's body and his footboard was desperately trying to digest the rest of the aubergine material. This would be work, but, yes, still worth it. John forced himself to put the kitchen knife on the bedside table so he might attempt to tuck Sherlock into the cocoon of covers flung around the bed.
Just remember sick Sherlock. You don't want a sick Sherlock on your hands do you?
Yes, the over-stretching would be worth it.
Just as John thought he had finally grasped enough of the duvet to release it from under Sherlock's side, the man chose to flop onto his back, forcing John off of his tip-toes from whence he was, to laying partially over the lanky body beneath him. It was just then that John felt the slightly higher temperature of the exposed skin under his body as the sheet had not made the move, once again leaving Sherlock in a state of nudity and John precariously now draped over in just his housecoat, vest, and boxers.
Alright, John, get your arse off your mate, and call it done, yea? We don't need him waking to-
"John?" Sherlock sleepy baritone quizzically muttered.
Bugger. Caught. Well no shame Watson, you were trying to keep him from sick remember...
"Shh, Sherlock," John tried to push himself back toward the ground. "Just fixing your covers. You'll catch your death not covered up. Especially without bedclothes." Successful, John took the covers and ensconced Sherlock once more into the deadly soft coverings. "See there, just right. Go back to sleep. It's early yet."
"Yes, early days. Still you could come rest with me..."
"Early days- Rest with-" It was taking John time to catch up to where Sherlock had already run ahead. This was nothing new. "Shh...bà, mo leanbh...sleep...I'm just going to brew my first cuppa. If you need, I'll be in the next room."
"Oh, ta, John Watson. Don't go using your brogue on oneself." Sherlock smiles still lax, but the teasing tone was not missed. "Deux peut jouer à ce jeu Jean..."
"Nope. Not in a battle with you. Rest. Or don't." John exasperated made to leave Sherlock's room once and for all resigning himself to a sick Holmes in a matter of days.
Then the long fingers caught his wrist.
"Please- John," Sherlock voiced haltingly, "come to bed? Just rest with me?"
This was a good idea that had turned left into badness, then made a u-turn straight back towards hell. It was awful enough that John had opened this proverbial Pandora's Box, but it was another matter entirely that he wanted to lay with Sherlock. More than that. So much more, such a slow burn that it had taken him a moment to even recognise it, but the semtex had blown it all away in it's aftermath. Well, metaphorically at any rate.
Well, if he was going to hell, he would have wonderful company. In for a penny as they say...
Resigned, John walked first closing the bedroom door and latched it. Safety predominately in his front thoughts. He knew Sherlock wouldn't budge over so around the creaking floor to the other bedside John went, being very mindful of the current books and papers Sherlock were currently studying. Another reason this was a bad idea, all he needed was to upset some important balance of thought lacing the work together. John gently shuffled his dressing gown off to slide down to the exact spot he stood opposite Sherlock's restful form.
"I don't know why I do these things for you, you know?"
"You like being needed, John. As a matter-"
"Cor, blimey! Shut it...please." John shuffled his body into the empty chilled sheets getting comfortable for what looked like a nice posh lie in. He needed sheets like these. Sin they were. Feeling flip, he added, "Fancy a cuddle do we?"
"John, if you don't want to be here to help, just say so."
"I'm just taking the piss. Rest, please. You need it." He propped on his elbow finding himself looking directly into Sherlock's dream hazed eyes. "Spent over half the night on your ruddy violin, and don't deny it."
How he wished to...no John...timorous and all that himself can be.
Sherlock stayed silent. And still.
Alright...
"Sherlock, come here."
"Just can we please just-"
"No, Sherlock. Come here. You obviously need some form of comforting or something. It's fine."
Well, it actually was very much not fine, but-
"I just need to know you are here, John. Beside me."
"Ah..."
The Pool...
"Yes, I am." John extended his hand under the covers to brush the back of his fingers to Sherlock's hand. "I somehow remember you saying you never needed comfort because you weren't exactly human, but I'm going to give it to you anyway alright."
"My exact words were, 'I am many things, John, but I'm afraid that-' "
"Sherlock. Shut it. I'm serious, or I will be drastic."
"But I'm not, John..."
That's it. Final straw...all that...
The kiss was soft yet insistent. John found himself boldly bringing his hand to curl within the fingers he had just brushed with uncertainty. He was going to prove to one Sherlock Holmes that he was, indeed, human. John dropped to nibble the petulant lower lip before retaking the lush mouth beneath his once again. Christ, this was just fine. More than.
Hmm...wonderful...Holmes...
"A stór..."John brought his body against Sherlock, all warmth and angles. "God, you are magnificent."
He hummed into his neck before plaiting kisses that were meant to cherish along Sherlock's pinking collar as the man beneath him closed any distance that was left between. John had decided to keep this as slow as possible for the both of them. After all, they had all day, didn't they to get used to this? New dynamics and all.
Yes, this was very good indeed.
January 13, 2010
Everything has changed.
He is, indeed, the most beautiful person I have ever known.
~JHW
January Fourteenth found John spooned by his lover.
His.
Lover.
"Finally..."
The word slipped from his mouth in wonder. He and Sherlock, together. The newness was so very light, so very fragile. Underneath though, they had forged such a foundation for all this wonder, he was firmly optimistic. Hopeful, joyous, enraptured...he was a kid again. Wanted, right now, to pounce on his bedmate, roll around, attack him with nothing but jubilant glee. Yet this, Sherlock wrapped around him, was so very nice. His Sherlock, quietly breathing, in a form of stasis sleeping peacefully. Quiet.
"You are so very wonderful..." John spoke gently into the mornings chilled air as his arm met Sherlock's and covered the hand on his stomach. He teased his fingers along the top of the long dexterous hand remembering fondly all that it had done the night previous. Mapping him, ensuring pure bliss, bringing him new experiences too. "Oh, Sherlock, I think I'm in love with you...madman."
The exploratory kissing, gentle nudging of nose on hip, the breathing in. His fingers pressing against Sherlock's thigh, bringing them through the dark exorbitantly curly thatch that, while groomed, was still left in a state of frisson jauntiness from John's needing hand as he had greedily licked from base to semi-hooded (by that juncture) top.
This line of thought was making him even more 'aware' than he had been as he first awoke...
He satisfied himself by curling into the warm gap between them, closing the distance, breathing in yet again. Even though they had showered before fully retiring, all John had to do was breathe to remember. The scent of Sherlock, hid most times, laid bare for him on his skin as he tasted the sheen that had built between his shoulders; the small of his back. In the teasing nip which, wound up blooming under less discrete pressures, on his lovers inner thigh before he kissed it better.
So many things open and outstretched before them now.
"Mphmmm..." came the snuffle underneath the duvet. John felt the heated breath against the base of his neck. "Johmmmm..."
John lovingly half-laughed at the semi-communication. It seemed as if Sherlock had decided that his hands, well, and their bodies should do the conversing. That kissing, obviously, would be the best use of their mouths at this present time. He could find no fault in this line of theory, especially as it seemed that Sherlock had decided it was time for him to wrest John's voice into action, finding himself pleading and praising in the same moment being driven into newer climbs.
Oh, this was dangerous.
"But, oh!"
So very welcome.
"Sherlock! Ma 's e ur toil e...tearnaich..."
"Parler français ... Jean ... français..." Sherlock chided as he moved lower, edging down John's spine, he could not help but wrythe. Sherlock's tongue pressed so intimately to John's sacrum before biting parted-mouthed, breathily lapping at the sensitive area causing John to curse smartly in Sherlock's preferred language. "Yes, much better... je t'aime aussi..."
"Juste m'embrasser maintenant s'il vous plaît...Sherlock!"
Indeed, just this once, Sherlock listened to the need his doctor had for him, brought himself from the covers and kissed John with everything in him, between them, giving weight and value to the words that had just crossed one another's lips. It would not be spoken often, but those syllables were the most sacred issuance either would ever state.
"Again, John, say it..." He demanded of his lover, wanting to hear, to etch into memory. "English, John...please."
John greedily gripped Sherlock's hip depressing them together, carded the other hand in the dampening curls, deeply taking him into a kiss leaving them both breathless. If Sherlock wanted to remember this, how could he ever deny him? Parting, less that a scant centimeter of breath between them, he gazed into the verdigris eyes of the beautiful man above him.
"I love you..."
And it was now Sherlock's turn to be breathless and lost for all language.
After all, this was the beginning...