Sherlock Holmes let his head rest heavily in the cushion of his armchair, his feet dangled loosely over the head rest. He was propped upside down, measuring the amount of time it took the blood in his body to vacate his limbs and rush to his head. Sherlock was grimly interested in how long he could stand the roar in his ears before he passed out. He was doing this for a case. Actually, no, he had solved that case hours ago. Stretching the extent his personal endurance was far too fun, more importantly, he was bored.
John came home to find Sherlock upside down in his favourite armchair, asleep. He snored quietly, expelling the air from his lungs in gentle, breathy grunts. His mop of unruly curls tickled his face as they tumbled over his forehead. John rolled his eyes; Sherlock was wearing his best suit, tailored and expensive, now frustratingly wrinkled. John started towards the kitchen to get something to eat, intentionally knocking Sherlock's foot and jolting him awake. Sherlock gave an unattractive snort, and grumbled a bit as he pushed his feet off the headrest, he had bent his neck at a crooked angle as he slept, and he tried straightening the kink out. John came back into the room and huffed a laugh at his friend's face, flushed an alarming shade of vermillion. Sherlock scowled, his hands fluttered about his torso, smoothing out the creases in his shirt and scrubbing a hand over his face in an action he probably believed would help the blood drain from his cheeks and back to the rest of his body. "Is there any particular reason why you were sleeping upside down?" John asked calmly, flopping into the other chair and snapping open the paper. Sherlock sniffed haughtily, brushing off his shirt collar and running his fingertips along the edge to sharpen the fold.
"No. Not really. Does one need a reason to sleep in deviant positions these days?" He enquired, stalking to one of the large bookcases that encompassed the far wall of the flat. John noted a slight sway of wooziness in his friend's walk that could only have been brought into effect by Sherlock standing so suddenly after being upside down for that length of time. It was another small action which reminded John that Sherlock was more vulnerable than his confidence and general gait allowed others to perceive.
"One does not. Though it might do one good to get out of the flat so one does not completely lose touch with the outside world." John jested, finding humour in his friend's endearingly pompous language. Sherlock impaled him with the daggers of his glare across the room. John just smiled; Sherlock would sulk and get over it very quickly. Sherlock Holmes didn't hold grudges; reserving a certain level of antipathy in such situations. There was no room in his brain for the pettier, unnecessary emotions. "Ahah!" The exclamation of triumph came from across the room where Sherlock was teasing out the thick ring-bound folder from the shelf. John looked up with surprise as Sherlock flipped it open and thumbed through the plastic wallets with impatience to a section bookmarked with a slip of green paper. "This is what I needed." He said, drawing out the paper and folding it crisply to fit into his blazer pocket.
"What does that paper have to do with the case?" John asked.
"This man's life depends on it." Sherlock said, holding aloft a photograph.
"That's a severed foot."
"It's a very important severed foot."
"Is it his?"
"No, and that my dear John is what is so remarkable."
"I see where you're going with this..." Sherlock's eyes lit up bright with joy at his friend's revelation.
"No, I don't, where are you going with this?" Sherlock's face darkened with a scowl.
"Scotland Yard" He said, taking off without another word, leaving John to fall behind at his heels.
Lestrade examined the photograph carefully, squinting his eyes into tightly puckered slits in an attempt to focus on the relevance of the evidence. Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet impatiently. "So, what you're saying is, this man Truman, is innocent." Lestrade said with some deliberation.
"Ahah, you follow, excellent." Lestrade frowned as Sherlock snatched the photograph from his hands.
John glanced up just in time to see Sherlock look away. He had been staring at him with malignant interest; something flickered vaguely behind his gaze that John couldn't quite place, an emotion he should be incapable of possessing, however fleeting. But it was there all the same.
"No, Sherlock wait!" Lestrade bellowed as Sherlock strode away. "Where are you going, hey, stop!" He called, extending a long arm and latching onto the sharp shoulder blade beneath the thick coat. Sherlock whirled around,
"What? What could you possibly want you blind, thick skulled snivelling idiot? Damn it Greg! I've told you everything I know, work it out for yourself. Just for a change, so I know you're capable of such competent thought, don't be so bloody stupid!" Sherlock's face burned furiously, a scarlet blush crept across his cheeks, mottling his pale skin, creeping like a mould over his long neck and behind his ears. Lestrade kept his expression neutral and calm. His eyes were shocked, but behind that they betrayed a soft glassy sheen of sadness and pity. His arm remained locked onto Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock shook him off roughly. John felt his breath falter and die in his chest as he watched the two men caught in their reverie.
"I think you need to go home, Sherlock." Sherlock was shaking visibly, his eyes stared unseeingly past Lestrade and tears were pricking his eyes. Sherlock nodded slowly, woodenly, he was so close to breaking down right there, but he couldn't. People were staring. People would talk. Sherlock turned; he took a sharp, brisk breath, and walked away.
Lestrade turned to John, his face was pale. John stared after his friend, then back at the Detective Inspector with a questioning look. "He has these, uh, moments, sometimes." Lestrade said, "It's never been this bad before, usually when he's under extreme stress." He trailed off, frowning a little, pressing the tips of his fingers against his temple. John wondered privately what could have caused this outburst. Sherlock had very few distractions during this case; his mind was on impeccable form, and he hadn't even eaten in two days, so it couldn't be his digestion. "That's the frailty of genius. Sometimes the mind overpowers the man." Lestrade said cleverly. He watched as John walked away, oblivious as ever.
Sherlock Holmes silently cursed himself, his brain, his heart, his body, every fibre of his being ached with embarrassment and regret. Of course he hadn't been talking about Lestrade when he said all those things. Ignorant though he was, Lestrade was a good man, who did his job to the best of his, somewhat limited, ability. Sherlock had been talking about himself, scolding his own stupidity. How would it ever work? He had driven away the only person he had ever felt close to. He resented those moments when his feelings and emotions ganged up on him like that, they broke through, he tried to shut them out for so long, but eventually they overpowered him. It was more than unfortunate that one of those moments had come when there were so many people to experience his internal anguish. It was devastating however, that one of those people was the very same who had brought about this turmoil inside of him.
John fell a few steps behind Sherlock, watching the tall, elegant man almost running now, down the street and round the corner. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was running away. John didn't know what to do; he was following, but only because he also didn't know what this new Sherlock was capable of. He didn't know this man. He wanted to comfort him, so he did the only thing he could think of. John reached out to Sherlock, his bare fingers inches away from Sherlock's gloved fist. John touched his thumb to Sherlock's knuckles, and then his forefinger found the smooth dip of his wrist. The younger man turned sharply, he was frowning, he watched as John took hold of his hand, flipping it palm up so he could lace their fingers together. It was awkward and embarrassing, Sherlock's skeletal joints curled around John's fleshy paw with uncertainty, he mapped his palm and held it keenly. John's offering of companionship was accepted, and they moved through the tide of bodies like ghosts. Their joined hands were lost in the sea of people, nobody paid any attention to the tall beautiful man holding the hand of a short stocky army doctor, and it was pleasantly gratifying to know that nobody cared if they were holding hands, because if John let go, Sherlock thought he may fall apart.
They climbed the stairs, still joined so tightly their palms pressed together. Sherlock unlocked the door and they stepped inside their flat.
Mycroft Holmes jiggled one knee where it rested atop the other. He hummed a little tune and stared fixedly at the mantelpiece where that skull leered at him with dark hollow sockets. He checked his watch again, an expensive crystal face blinked at him, the delicate rolled slivers of gold illustrated the time in roman numerals. He sighed; waiting was such a bore. He resented the legwork locating his disobedient little brother was bound to incur, much preferring to bide his time lurking in Sherlock's horrifyingly disorderly flat he shared with that army doctor fellow. Mycroft ran a long finger over the smooth wood handle of his umbrella, feeling the tiny bumps and pocks buck against his skin. He slid the handle toward him just a little way, enough so that the curved hook detached itself from the body of the appendage, revealing a flash of the cold polished blade concealed within the hilt. The lock clicked in the door across the room, his brother had returned. Mycroft snapped the blade back into the hilt and winced as he felt its keen bite against the flesh of his hand. Droplets of crimson welled to the surface and he licked them away with a quick flick of his tongue as the door opened onto what proved to be an astonishing development.
John gaped a bit, his jaw slack, he whipped his head to look at Sherlock, who's only portrayal of even feint amusement or alarm was betrayed behind the icy flicker of his glare. John was suddenly acutely aware of one particular part of his body, currently in possession of the world's only Consulting Detective. Neither moved, and Sherlock continued to hold John's hand tightly in his own. Mycroft stood gracefully and strode towards them; he drew himself almost to eye level with his brother, which was no mean feat, as he stood a full two inches shorter than his sibling. Sherlock thrust his chin out proudly, his eyes narrowed in defiance. Mycroft smiled a long indulgent smile, a bit too wide to be genuine. Then he flashed John a quick little glance which was congratulatory, but held the bitterest hint of foreboding. Then he left them standing in their living room, and skipped lightly down the stairs, swinging his umbrella by his side. He deeply regretted not betting money on this.
Sherlock twitched as the door slammed shut behind his brother, and the sound reverberated around the building. Then he turned very slightly toward John, his gaze passed unseeingly into the distance before lowering and coming to rest on his face, his soft, blue eyes, and for the briefest of seconds, his lips. They both broke their gaze in the same instant; Sherlock loosened his hold on John's hand, letting it slip through his fingers. John blushed furiously, a frown drawing his brow together in frustration and confusion. He tried hard to ignore the lingering warmth Sherlock's touch left on his soft, pink palm.
- - - - -Later that day - - - - -
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock drew the lurid blade along his forearm, droplets of blood swelled along the shallow cut. He picked up the dish and scraped the side gently against his skin, letting the blood drip into it. "I need a sample of my blood." He said, sliding the dish underneath the microscope. "Couldn't you, I don't know, prick your finger or something?" John said, rushing to the sink and wetting a cloth, hurrying over to press it to Sherlock's arm which continued to bleed steadily. John felt the heat of Sherlock's forearm pulsating through the cloth, like he was burning him. He let his hands linger a little longer than was necessary over the pleasant fiery sensation. Sherlock flinched in surprise, he shooed John's hands away to hold the rag himself, but smiled at the sentiment. There was a pause as he processed the results of his experiment, "No." He said, holding up one hand to show John the tiny pale pin pricks peppering the pads of his fingertips. John frowned and stalked to the living room, flopping down into his favourite chair. The chair was warm. Again. Why Sherlock couldn't stick to his own chair John would never know.
- - - - - 11pm that night- - - - - -
John groaned, yet again the time had passed without him noticing. It crawled past as he watched, seconds dribbled, minutes dawdled, and hours loped by sluggishly. But, like most things, it was most active when nobody was keeping an eye on it. They were watching a documentary about birds; the flat was warm and cosy, and John could feel his eyelids becoming heavy. Before long, he had slipped into an uncomfortable sleep, his hand propped against his cheek, legs curled beneath him in an awkward half crouch. He was roused by a sharp prodding against his ribs. John squirmed with discomfort and dragged his eyes open, Sherlock was staring at him intently, one long pale arm outstretched, his shirt cuffs rolled up to his elbows, the slender bow held lazily in his hand, the end jabbing him painfully in his slightly podgy stomach. John smacked the bow away with an annoyed little huff; Sherlock cracked a grin as John settled back into the chair. The TV was still on, the tiny bright birds flitting about the screen in an intricate mating dance. The beautiful colours in their plumage shimmering as the male found his place atop the female bird. The ritual made him slightly embarrassed, even more so when he remembered how the day's events had unfolded.
Sherlock was staring at him with a bemused glint in his eye, or was John imagining things? He rose unsteadily, his legs tired and stiff beneath him. "I think I should go to bed. It's late." John said as he staggered away from the sofa ungainly, Sherlock caught his arm with a chuckle and led him towards the door. John made the mistake of looking up at Sherlock, who looked almost nervous, his eyes were unfocused, and his grip was tight and possessive on John's arm. They reached the landing, the light of the streetlamps glowed lazily though the smoky glass and settled on the carpet at their feet in a sickly orange haze. They stood in silence outside John's door. It was so quiet and peaceful they forgot to breathe. Sherlock looked at John, and gave a curt nod, releasing his grip and starting down the stairs. John cast his eyes down and swallowed the lump of disappointment he felt swelling in his chest. He spread a hand over the wood of the door, feeling the cool timber ageing under his touch. For a moment he stood, concentrated on breathing, caught in the stillness of the evening.
Then he felt it, the faintest whisper of a breath on his neck. John Watson turned, and saw Sherlock Holmes silhouetted against the window. His hair was tousled and he had an air of defiance about him, quite different from that which he usually wore. John held his breath. Sherlock moved closer, wrought with indecision. Then he stepped into to him so their bodies touched lightly. John felt Sherlock's heart thrumming against his chest, a frightened bird throwing itself valiantly against the cage of his ribs. Then, gently, as though John was the most delicate and fragile thing he could imagine, Sherlock dipped his head and brushed his lips hesitantly against Johns. John gave a little gasp of delight, and pulled away carefully from the Consulting Detective; he wanted this to be perfect, because it could be one of the most important moments of his life. The tender skin of his lips tingled with anticipation; Sherlock took an accepting little breath of defeat, and sucked his lips into his lungs as if he was embarrassed by them. John shook his head sadly, oh no, did he really think John hadn't dreamt of this moment ever since their first case together? John found his voice, it was so quiet and meek he was surprised Sherlock even heard, "Are you sure this is what you want?" he said shakily, fighting back the desire that bubbled beneath his skin from their close proximity. Sherlock didn't give an answer, just looked at John desperately with hope and longing reflected in his pale eyes. John reached a hand up to touch Sherlock's cheek, felt the smooth cool skin beneath his fingertips, he traced a path with his index finger over the hollow cheeks, over Sherlock's ethereal features and down his long elegant neck. Sherlock shivered with pleasure and snaked an arm around John's body, pulling him closer. John stood on tip-toe and pressed their lips together once more, sucking gently on Sherlock's plump bottom lip. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's soft, dark hair, pulling him down to him, deepening their kiss.
Sherlock closed his eyes, lost in John's soft lips, his tongue, which was lazily flicking against his own with dizzying results. John smelt of tea and warm woollen jumpers, of long, happy afternoons and cosy winter evenings, it was addictive and comforting, it was right. This time it was Sherlock's turn to break their contact, he stared for a moment, drinking him in, then he said to John very slowly and deliberately, to make certain that he would hear; "John Watson, I have never wanted anyone as much as I want you right now, and I want you for as long as I live." John's eyes sparkled with joy, he grinned from ear to ear, and Sherlock felt a great surge of love for the army doctor, "And possibly for a little bit longer after that." He tried to say, but the breath was knocked from his chest as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and dragged their bodies together once more in a tight embrace. John laughed breathlessly against Sherlock's chest; the detective nuzzled his hair affectionately, resting his chin on the shorter man's sandy hair.
For a moment on the landing of 221B Baker Street, time seemed to cease to exist, not a sound was to be heard, except the shuddering breaths of the two people who had finally come together, the stolen glances and the flirtatious banter, the joyous laughter and the hurt and comfort, had all melted away to expose a love which was so pure and beautiful it almost hummed between them, and an everlasting friendship, which ran even deeper.