The first time John sees Sherlock in disguise, he's dressed in a security guard outfit, infiltrating an art gallery. Somewhere in between fighting The Golem, and saving the little boy on the other end of the line, John's mind begins to wander.
As do his eyes. He can't help them strolling over Sherlock, admiring the way the standard security uniform jacket clings to the lithe consulting detective's body. It feels so utterly inappropriate and sinful. He knows that there is a lot at stake, that Moriarty could rip their world apart at any given moment, but for now everything is safe and good. All thanks to Sherlock's intellect…and that disguise.
The noise that he makes in the back of his throat as Sherlock throws the jacket into his 'disguise wardrobe' is utterly sinful. He hopes that Sherlock didn't hear it, and swallows down the saliva rising in his throat.
Sherlock's ears become a splendid pink as he turns to face John. And god, John's heart beats so fast that it's all he can hear and feel. His whole body thrums with a mixture of apprehension and fear. He feels like a kid again caught doing something he isn't supposed to. He waits with baited breath for Sherlock to say something - anything - but in the end nothing is said.
He watches as Sherlock begins to walk towards his bedroom. The younger man's hands pause as they twist the doorhandle. It is as though a great debate and internal struggle is occurring inside his head.
John's breath is still baited, his chest stuttering painfully, as part of him hopes Sherlock will turn around and say something. He can't describe how hurt and disappointed he feels when this does not happen.
Instead Sherlock mumbles something about feeling exhausted after the case, and they should probably both get some sleep. The door slams shut, and John is left to feel alone and incredibly foolish.
As he wanders into the kitchen to boil the kettle and make himself a cup of tea, he mentally kicks himself. Foolish, John Watson. He berates himself for making that ridiculous wanton noise, and swears to himself that he will never let Sherlock in costume effect him in this way ever again.
The second time it happens, John is still thrumming with adrenaline from punching Sherlock in the face. Once he's done throttling Sherlock, his clenched fist shakes, and he watches in horror as a cut just above one of Sherlock's cheekbones bleeds.
He's thankful that he was able to restrain himself from punching anywhere important. He wouldn't have been able to refrain from resenting himself if he'd damaged the younger man's perfectly sculpted features.
When Sherlock slips into the vicars outfit, John feels his heart speed up in his chest. Seeing Sherlock, a self proclaimed atheist, dress up as a religious figure, was enough to stir something dark and dangerous inside him. This time he doesn't allow himself to get caught of guard. He pushes down the urge to moan, and is once again whisked away in a mad adventure that he would later title 'The Scandal Of Belgravia' on his blog.
Irene Adler's words ring in his ears. "Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face…I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."
He feels completely exposed. Sherlock and Irene's eyes are both on him. She stares at him knowingly, and Sherlock's steady gaze deduces every inch of him. The small creased frown that forms on the detective's face makes John feel sick inside.
His stomach churns and twists itself into a tight knot. All he can think is : he knows, oh god, he can see right through me, can't he?
In that moment John feels like his affection and unrequited love towards Sherlock is plain obvious. He may as well be wearing his heart on his sleeve. He doesn't have long to dwell on it because the next thing he knows is there's a gun pointed at his head, and C.I.A agents are demanding Sherlock opens the safe.
The case of The Woman becomes so intricately complicated, and Sherlock is more affected by it than John likes if he's being honest. There is a feeling that burns deep inside of him, even as he lies about Irene Adler being in protective custody. At first he can't quite pinpoint it. But when he closes his eyes, a flicker of bright green flickers boldly. And he knows then, that he is jealous.
He wishes he could affect Sherlock in such a way. He would give anything to have Sherlock pine for days over him. Somewhere deep down he wants Sherlock to not eat, to not sleep, and to compose sad music based on his feelings for him.
That was a terrible, selfish desire, and that night he doesn't sleep at all because the guilt he feels drowns everything else out.
His breath catches in his throat. His fingers tighten on the mobile phone. His heart clenches inside his chest. It's like the man that stands on the rooftop is reaching down and tugging at strings attached to the beating organ.
He tries to reason with Sherlock, begs for him to step away from the edge.
And, oh god, Sherlock, please just come down? We can work this out. Together. Just…come down, please. No. You're not a fake. I believe in you. That should be enough…Sherlock. Oh god.
Everything seems to go into slow motion as the detective spreads his wings, as though preparing to take off into flight. When he falls there is a pitiful second where John thinks that Sherlock really does have wings, and he'll fly safely away. But then comes the horrifying crack of bone on pavement.
The whole world shatters around John. His legs start to carry him forwards, the shock so heavy that at first he doesn't notice the bike that hits him. He's on the ground for a few moments, then he's running forwards again.
This is just a trick. Sherlock isn't really dead. He can't be. That wasn't how the universe was supposed to work. It was supposed to be John Watson and Sherlock Holmes forever. They were going to solve cases, and blog about it until they were both old and grey in their silver years.
When he reaches…the body…he crumbles. His knees bend beneath him as he pushes past the nurses and the medical staff, and his fingers lunge forwards. He has to find a pulse. If he can find a pulse, then things will be OK.
When his fingers connect with nothing he physically sways. It's like someone is playing a sick joke on him. As Sherlock's body turns, John is greeted by the sight of his bloodied and crushed skull. The eyes that John loved spending hours staring into were now cold and glazed over with death.
He wishes that this was one of Sherlock's disguises, but as the man's body gets carted away, John is left staring at a patch of dark crimson. He knows then that this can't be a disguise, that the blood isn't just 'dressing', and he had lost more than he ever thought he was capable of.
"God no," he sobs out. "Jesus, no. Not you Sherlock, never you."
He sinks to his knees by the patch of red and just breaks down. At some point Greg turns up and a shock blanket is placed around his shoulders. The silver haired D.I speaks to him but in his hazy, not quite real mindset John finds that he can't hear the words coming from the man's lips.
He feels sluggish these days. It's like when Sherlock was alive he was living live ten paces ahead of the rest of the human race. Now that he is…dead…life was back to being dull and mundane. This was so much worse than when John had first come home. He'd been lonely then, but he hadn't had many close connections. After Sherlock…
He hadn't realised how utterly in love he'd been with Sherlock until it was too late. There were words that he'd always wanted to say, but he'd pushed them down because he'd always considered his impulses as selfish and one sided. If Sherlock was alive right now John wouldn't care about that anymore.
Every night, when he attempts to sleep, he dreams of the perfect moment. He walks up to Sherlock, taking him by surprise. He places his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, squeezing gently but firmly. He thinks about the height difference, about how he will likely have to stand on his tiptoes. His hands will find their way into those luscious, soft curls, and he will lean in. Before Sherlock can contemplate what John is about to do, he will be shut up by a sweet, tender kiss. Once the initial surprise wears off, he imagines Sherlock being a particularly enthusiastic partner. He was always so full of life, so his kissing technique was bound to follow suit.
Each time John dreams about this, he wakes up feeling warm all over, a smile on his thin lips. Then it hits him. He's never going to get that moment with Sherlock. The opportunity to take Sherlock as his, kiss him all over, and wash him in affection is gone. It kills him inside every time he comes to this realisation.
After that John always falls into a nightmare. He relives the fall over and over again. Each time he feels more and more helpless. Guilt settles in his stomach as he recalls calling Sherlock "a machine" and when he sees him step off the ledge he screams and wakes up sweating and shaking.
It isn't any coincidence that his leg is starting to pain him again. The tremor in his hand is back again, too. He's falling to pieces. Hardly able to take care of himself. He doesn't eat and he doesn't sleep. When the nightmares get too bad he selfishly slips into one of Sherlock's silk dressing gowns - the blue one is his favourite - and he find himself listening to the music Sherlock composed on CD's.
When he closes his eyes he can almost convince himself that Sherlock is there in the room with him. The happier music on the CD's are like soft lullabies that lull him into a false sense of security, and he drifts off into thankfully dreamless sleep. The sadder, more emotional crescendos bleed into his own sadness, and he sits there clutching at Sherlock's dressing gown sobbing like a grieving lover. But they weren't lovers, and that makes the pain so much worse.
I'm losing my sanity, John thinks as he sits in his therapists room. It's been weeks since they buried Sherlock, and yet the time period feels significantly longer. He doesn't know how he's gotten through life this far. He's thinner now, tireder, and so bloody done with talking about his feelings. He's stopped writing on his blog. It had gotten too hard after the media started to twist his every word, to try and add more fuel to the whole "sherlock is a fake" fire.
He doesn't want to speak. He can't. It's too hard. But the morning prior to his current therapy appointment convinced him that he needed a top up with the trick cyclist. But now he is here, his mouth is dry, and he finds it hard to reach for the words he knows he needs to say.
"John," Ella starts, as she scribbles something on her notepad. This time John refrains from reading the notes upside down. "you came to me today because you have something to say."
"I, yes, I know. But this is hard for me. I…what I'm about to say is frankly insane."
"Say it, John. Whatever you need to say is clearly bothering you. It's not healthy to keep your thoughts inside."
John sucks in a deep breath through his nose, then exhales shakily, nods. His eyes open, bright with the threat of tears, and he forces the words out of his lips. "Yesterday morning I saw Sherlock Holmes alive."
He hates the skeptical look she gives him. The tremor in his hand shudders, and he clenches his fist so tight his knuckles turn white. He knows that he's crazy, bonkers, stark raving insane! He's fully aware that Sherlock is buried ten feet under dirt, but he also knows what he saw.
It all started with a trip to the local TESCO's to pick up some milk. It's the first time John has stepped out of the flat in days. He knows that he looks terrible. The bags under his eyes are dark and prominent, his face is slumped in a permanent grimace, and his stubble has become so scruffy he looks like a tramp.
He picks up the milk, has a fight with another chip and pin machine, almost gets kicked out of the shop because of his yelling, then begins his depressing journey home. His leg is just about bearable today, but he knows it won't stay that way, and he wants to get home before the pain becomes excruciating.
He is unable to afford a taxi. He'd stopped bothering with work after Sherlock's funeral. Taking care of himself, bring in a steady income, hardly seemed to matter anymore. He wasn't sure why Mrs Hudson was still putting up with him when he could barely meet the rent. Though he had a sneaky suspicion that Mycroft might have something to do with it.
He doesn't know why the elder Holmes continues his surveillance of him. It isn't as though Sherlock is alive anymore. Mycroft shouldn't feel obliged to take care of John, or protect him any further. Perhaps he's worried John will follow Sherlock into the darkness?
John had thought about it countless of times. He still had his revolver in his bedside drawer, but each time he came close, he thought about what Sherlock would say if he were still alive. So disappointing, John. Shooting yourself? How very dull and mundane. Do you see now, John? Caring isn't an advantage.
Sometimes John thinks about the prospect of Sherlock returning somehow, only to find out John has died, and that killed him inside. Sherlock would need him if he ever returned to Baker Street. It was a a ridiculous thought because he was never going to return. He wasn't going to come walking through the doors of the flat. Dead men don't do that.
John walks home, cursing how heavy the milk is, and how difficult it is to carry it with one hand. He has to carry the bag in the hand that shakes, because the other one rest on his cane and supports his weight. As he turns around the corner he spots a little music shop.
In the shop window he notices a violin sitting proudly on display. It's so like Sherlock's violin that his heart skips a beat, and he stops. He stares at the instrument, eyes tracing over the strings mournfully. As he stops and stares he notices a movement in the corner of his eye, and turns towards it.
Cheekbones. He soaks in the eyes and watches as they pass through a myriad of colours; Ice-blue with flecks of green and golden brown. The thick, black curls that are slicked back with gel are the finishing touch that make John's heart contort.
The man locks eyes with him and freezes. He's suddenly yelling something through the glass. John doesn't hear him. He's too busy fainting. His body rushes to the ground. Someone catches him so he doesn't hurt himself. The deep baritone next to his ears begging him to be OK is like torture, and he lets the blackness take him. He hopes that this is just another one of his nightmares. He'll wake up in his own bed. It's not real. It can't be.
When he wakes up he's tucked under his covers back in 221B. There is a steaming cup of tea waiting for him on his bedside table. He pushes himself into a sitting position and reaches out for the cuppa. Mrs Hudson must have made the tea. She was still in the habit of making copious amounts of hot beverages, only now her attention was tuned on John and not the consulting detective.
As he picks up the cup, he sees a piece of paper lying on the saucer, and it's like his whole world comes crashing to an end all over again. On the paper are four words written in intricate, joined handwriting.
He recognises that handwriting anywhere. He traces his fingers over the letters, raises the piece of paper to his lips, caresses the black ink. Just when he thought it was impossible to shed any more tears, he finds thick droplets cascading down the bridge of his nose, splashing onto those four simple words.
The words read: I believe in John Watson
As the ink smudges he finds himself being crushed by those words. But then a thought occurs to him and his lips tremble and form a weak smile. It wasn't a dream. He is alive. He left this for me.
He shakes the paper before his tears can smudge the ink too badly, then he slides it under his pillow. Now when the nightmares hit him he'll have something that will ground him. He'll be able to look at Sherlock's hand writing, caress the paper, kiss the places where the man he loved has touched.
After that point John starts seeing Sherlock everywhere. He sees him on a poster on the tube - it's an advertisement for an orchestra - and Sherlock sits at the front playing his violin. His heart warms up inside his chest. He half considers picking up tickets and attending the concert just so he can see Sherlock play.
But that would blow Sherlock's cover, wouldn't it? That would never do. Unforgivable! As Sherlock was yet to return, he was obviously under cover, and John walking in there as large as bloody life would only give things away.
"Handsome, isn't he?" he hears a woman comment from close by. He turns to face her and is greeted with the sight of a short, pretty blonde.
He hums in agreement and wipes at his mouth, realising that he'd been so busy daydreaming about the concert he'd actually started to salivate.
He starts to talk to the woman. That's where he first meets Mary Morstan.
It feels like the day he met Sherlock all over again. The world spins a full 360 degrees around him. Things are about to change in a way he hadn't anticipated.
He's certain that he sees him when he's in a pub drinking with Greg. There's a boxing match on the TV, and he's there, on the screen as one of the opponents. His mouth runs dry as he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes dilating as they inspect the muscular body. He notes the way Sherlock's thick curls start to stick to his head with sweat. Beads of the clear liquid drip down the man's pale body like raindrops racing down a windscreen.
"You alright mate?" Greg glances over at him, eyebrows raised in concern for his friend.
John realises what he must like. All of his past partners have always told him how easily affected he is, how sensitive, how when he is interested it's blatantly obvious. He was like an open book when it came to his sexual activities.
He can picture his dilated pupils, the rosy blush creeping down from his cheeks to his neck and chest. He's painfully aware of how tight his trousers have become. As he glances down he can see the tent there, so visible anyone within seeing distance would be able to tell what religion he is.
"Mmm, yeh, I'm fine." John mumbles, a tad drunkenly. He didn't eat before he came out and the alcohol has gone to his head unsurprisingly fast. His eyes wander back up to the television screen, and he lets out a groan that seems to fill the whole pub. The needy sound had escaped in response to seeing Sherlock winning the fight with an accurate punch.
He watches as Sherlock turns to the screen, and he swears down that the man winks! It's like he's flirting with John though the screen. That's just plain unfair. Everyone's eyes are on him now. The pub owner is scowling at him disapprovingly, and Greg…is bright red in the face with mortification.
"Ah," John giggles drunkenly, stand to his feet, sways. "You've caught me out a bit here mate. I'm just going to…" his voice trails off as he stumbles off drunkenly the toilets so he can deal with his erection.
He slams the cubicle door behind him, locks it, and takes himself into hand. His skin feels like it might be on fire, but he welcomes it, falls into the pit of ecstasy. All the while he holds a perfect image of a sweaty, flirtatious boxer Sherlock behind his eyelids. It's too much to bear thinking about, and he finds himself tipping over the edge in no time at all.
Sherlock's name tingles on the tip of his tongue a long time after he is done. He collapses next to the toilet, his knees buckling beneath him. His head rests against the cool porcelain, and he pants and groans in pure post coital bliss.
When he at last stumbles back out of the cubicle, Greg is there. How long had he been there? When he saw the look of pity that almost screamed "poor sod, he knew. Greg had heard…everything.
He holds up a hand and shakes his head. He doesn't want Greg's pity. He knows that what he did is wrong, and messed up in ways he can't quite comprehend, so he doesn't need a lecture on it. He actually just wants to get blind drunk to forget everything.
He tells Greg this, and thankfully the D.I just nods, and agrees to getting absolutely bladdered. As they enter the pub and order some hard liquors all John can think is oh god, I'm worse than Harry.
John's body does not thank him in the morning. He can't remember how he got home or what happened. If he feels this bad, he can't imagine what Greg feels like, who probably arrived at work a good few hours ago.
He aches all over, and his head thumps with a hangover from hell. He doesn't want to move. He wants to stay curled up under his covers for the rest of the day. He'll sleep off the hangover in the day, then he'll probably drink again at night.
His plan is cut short when he becomes aware of someone breathing next to him. His heart constricts as he turns around and faces the person who is laid next to him. He opens his eyes, winces immediately, and sees Mary lying by his side.
He feels sick and it has nothing to do with last night's alcohol abuse. He doesn't know what happened, or how they ended in bed together, but he hopes to god they didn't have sex. As he lifts the covers to see if she is naked or not, the bile rises in his throat. She is completely starkers. They both are. And it's so obvious what they got up to that it's like a slap to the face.
He scrambles out of bed and hurries to the toilet. When he gets there he immediately throws up. The only thing to come out of his mouth is a vile liquid that tastes like reused liquor, which makes him throw up further. In the end he is retching up his own stomach acid.
His mouth tastes terrible and he hates himself. He feels like he's cheated on Sherlock. Which is ridiculous, of course. He was never in a relationship with Sherlock, and now the man isn't in John's life anymore.
He thinks about how he'd probably used Mary for his own devices last night. That thought makes him hate himself even more. Though he'd had countless of partners in the past John had always been courteous of the other person's needs. He'd never been such a hateful, abusive person. And that's what he had been, wasn't it? What else did you call having sex with a woman whilst you are blind drunk to get over the love of your life?
He hears footsteps approaching and he scrunches his eyes shut. He refuses to turn around because then that would make this real. He can't face his actions, not yet.
"Please," he begs, his voice a tight rasp. "Just leave me be. Whatever happened last night… I can't do it again."
"John…we never…we didn't get that far."
His head snaps around, forcing a sharp grunt out of him. "You were naked…in my bed…and we didn't?"
She shakes her head, a sad smile on her lips. "You fell asleep before we could get that far."
"Oh." John frowns, and runs a hand down his face. He feels a wave of relief wash over him, but it's outweighed by a spike of guilt. "I'm sorry, Mary. I'm not like this usually. I never drink that much, but…"
"You were trying to forget about him."
He sniffs, nods. "I'm that obvious, huh?"
"Well…yes. And when we started things out it's all you could talk about."
"Oh god," John, mortified, allows his head to thunk down on the toilet lid.
"It's alright." She says, but he picks up on the tone of disappointment in her voice. "You love him, don't you?"
He swallows thickly, not denying it one little bit. "He's all I can think about these days. It's starting to consume me."
"Well, if he is alive, he doesn't deserve you. He's left you here all alone to grieve."
John's eyes glaze over sadly. "I'm sure he has his reasons."
She leaves him be after that. The day passes slowly. He spends most of it clutching the toilet bowl feeling sorry for himself, his head and stomach both churning with the after affects of last nights' alcohol.
Ella tells him to move on. She says to him that it's unhealthy to have sexual fantasies about a dead man. She's concerned when he keeps on bringing up the subject of seeing Sherlock in different disguises. When he reads her writing this time he sees that she is referring him to a psychiatric ward. After that he outright refuses to keep his appointments.
He spends his days laying about aimlessly, thoughts of Sherlock swirling around in his head, until he is so sad he cries, or so aroused he has to take himself into hand and stroke himself to completion.
His nights are mostly spent at the bottom of a bottle. His alcohol consumption has gotten so severe now that he doesn't go out to the pub anymore, he buys the drink in so that it is readily available. Sometimes when he is blind drunk he swears he sees a certain consulting detective. He grins giddily every time he sees the worried expression on Sherlock's face.
" Tis your fault!" He exclaims, his words slurred around the edges. "You should hurry up and return to me. I can't…I can't hack it without you, Lock. Please."
He swears he hears a whispered promise. He feels the tingle of lips on his forehead as someone tucks him into bed. Some water and two painkillers are placed by the side of his bed, and a hot water bottle is placed under the covers with him to help with the alcohol shivers he's sure to get somewhere early in the morning.
It's the anniversary of when he first met Sherlock. For the first time in months he is sober. He didn't want to waste the day away in a drunken haze. He needs to remember the good times with Sherlock, or he is sure to drown in the bad times.
He finds himself sitting in Angelo's. Surprisingly hungry for once, he orders the carbonara dish. He sticks to water, despite how tempting the wine menu is. He does not want to fall for his demons, not tonight.
As he sits by himself, someone places a candle down on the table in front of him. Without looking up, John rolls his eyes, lets out a weary sigh. "That won't be necessary. You can clearly see I'm on my own and…"
"They say it's more romantic this way, sir."
John freezes. Behind the ridiculous Italian accent, the familiar deep baritone lies. It sends a shudder right through him. He's terrified to look up in the direction the voice came from. What if it isn't who he hopes it is?
His eyes slowly dare to trail upwards. He sees a tuxedo, a silly bow-tie, a pair of spectacles sitting on the bridge of a man's nose, and an obscenely stupid black marker mustache. Behind the disguise all he can see is Sherlock through and through. He stands there in front of John looking all the more like a ghost, wavering on the one spot, as though preparing for John to explode.
The eyes that settle on him are as tired and haunted as he feels. Those cupid bow lips tremble with so many unspoken words. When he does speak, John stands instinctively, his fist colliding with the table out of anger and shock.
"Hello, John."
He wants to be angry. He wants to scream, shout, throttle Sherlock to the ground. His fist remains clenched as he tries to ground himself. He forces himself to breath as normally as he can manage in this moment, and allows himself to really inspect Sherlock.
When his shock starts to dissipate, he realises that Sherlock is not only trembling, but full on shaking. This isn't just a man that is scared of facing John's wrath. He's seen this before in soldiers that have been tortured or severely injured. Sherlock Holmes is having a panic attack. He immediately jumps into doctor!John mode.
He practically leaps across the table towards Sherlock. He winces when this causes the man to flinch, and softly apologises, his hands held in front of him in the world-wide known gesture of 'I mean you no harm'
When he continues to approach Sherlock he's careful to use slow, gentle body language. He looks at Sherlock when his hands start stroking the material of his shirt. His eyes say 'this OK?' and he receives a small nod in response.
His hands are all over him, inspecting him for injuries. He can't see anything that is overall obvious, and perhaps that's worse, because it means the scars Sherlock bears are not physical, but physiological.
But then again…when John's hand reaches Sherlock's back, he feels a ripple of taut muscle. He doesn't care about public decency. He pulls the waist jacket and the shirt out of the trouser band, and pushes his hand up so he can fully explore the flesh that waits for him there. What he feels makes his gut do a forwards roll, and he feels furious.
His fingers brush past a raised, ugly scar. Laceration, a voice whispers inside his mind. When Sherlock whimpers in pain John's hand jerks back fast. "Jesus…Sherlock…Oh christ. What happened to you?"
"The…uh…Serbian side… of the puzzle was more tedious than I'd anticipated." Sherlock's breath stutters in his chest, and he sounds a little wheezy. Oh, right, panic attack. Stupid John. Must be all that alcohol, it's rotted your brain.
John forces Sherlock to sit down, pushes the panicking man's head down between his knees, and he talks softly to him till he starts to breathe a little more evenly. When Sherlock next looks up at him, the man's eyes are blurry with tears, and the rims of his eyes are bright red. John decides that it's best not to mention that.
"I thought you would be furious with me. I calculated that you would punch me at the very least."
John's lips twist into smile in spite of himself. His voice is still very low, very hushed. He doesn't want to push Sherlock so soon after his panic attack. It could very well trigger him into having another one.
"Oh, I'm furious. Fuming. I've never been so pissed off."
"Then…"
"Then why haven't I punched your lights out?" John snorted loudly. " God, you have no clue when it comes to human nature, do you?"
Sherlock smirks, almost back to being his usual self. "Nature? No. Human? Hmm, no."
John just shakes his head and laughs. The sound tingles in his chest and feels good. When was the last time he laughed? He can't remember.
"I love you, you idiot. God, I wanted to punch you so bad, but then I saw you shaking. I don't need to punish you, looks like someone else got there first." His face darkens and he scowls. The anger he felt towards Sherlock is starting to leave him. Right now he's starting to become furious at the people who hurt Sherlock.
When he snaps out of his dark thoughts, he notices Sherlock seems to have frozen. He's worried that it might be another panic attack, but this time is different. If Sherlock were a computer then John is certain this is what he would look like if he was glitching.
"Sherlock?" He asks, tone tender and caring. "What's wrong?" The man blinks at him. Frozen. Face blank as a piece of paper. "Can you stop this please? It's getting a bit scary now."
"You mean-"
"Yes?"
"That you-" John can't see where Sherlock is going with this. He's so confused and utterly lost. "love me?"
Oh. Oh god. How could Sherlock even question that? Wasn't it blindingly obvious? Hadn't John been pining after the detective from day one? Wasn't the fact that he'd completely fallen apart whilst Sherlock was 'dead' enough to prove how much his heart belonged to Sherlock Holmes? Apparently not.
"Of course," he says, looking up at Sherlock through his eyelashes, heart feeling heavy with the love he had for the man. "I love you."
"Oh." Sherlock freezes up again, but this time John isn't going to allow him to run off into his mind palace.
He does what he has dreamed of doing for so long. This time without the difficulty of the height difference as they are both more or less sat down. He leans close into Sherlock's face, hands moving to smooth down some stray curls, and he kisses Sherlock without hesitation.
He revels in how warm and pliant Sherlock's lips are, and for a moment he takes the time to feel the light pulse through the man's lower lip. Their hot breath mingles together and it's all so good, because it all means Sherlock is alive, and he's his…he belongs to John now. He is absolutely not going to let Sherlock forget that.
He makes sure of this by being the dominant kisser. He takes the lead and nips and bites at Sherlock's plush lips whenever the younger man decides to get a bit too carried away. It's been such a long time since John has been kissed, and he is so sensitive, that he almost comes completely undone at the seams.
He knows that it would be indecent and filthy to continue what they are doing in Angelo's, so he makes an executive decision and pulls away from the kiss. He's quite pleased with himself when Sherlock huffs in protest.
"We're going to have to take this back to 221B," John murmurs. He reaches his smaller hand into Sherlock's and tugs him to his feet. "I'm not about to indulge my public sex kink. This moment…it needs to be special. I, ugh, I've fantasied about this moment for years, if I'm being honest."
Sherlock wholeheartedly agrees with John. His long, slender fingers link tightly, and he squeezes. It's as though he is asking for reassurance, and John is more than willing to give it. He presses a light butterfly kiss to Sherlock's lips and squeezes back just as tight.
They are hardly able to control themselves on the way home. They tumble into the back of a taxi cab, reminiscent to the cab in their first case together, and they clutch to each other so tight that they're practically in each others laps. John's hands smooth over the lapels of Sherlock's tuxedo, as he admires how gorgeous this particular disguise is.
The cab driver clears his throat awkwardly, looking at them in his front mirror. " Where to boys?"
John, not looking away from Sherlock's dilated pupils, gives him the address. He slips a couple of twenty pound notes over to the cab driver. "That's for putting up with our antics. You'll get more, plus the cab fare when we arrive."
"Your antics…" The man sounds skeptical, but seems to be happy being bought off.
John ignores the cab driver, and he re-positions himself so he is actually on top of Sherlock. His legs slip around either side of Sherlock, and smiles deviously as he leans down for another delicious kiss. This is too good to be true. Sherlock is alive and John is snogging him like a bloody teenage boy in the back of a London taxi cab.
He hears Sherlock mumble something into the kiss along the lines of "whatareyouupto?" John applies more pressure against the lips underneath his, and chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating deep in his chest.
He starts to canter his hips expertly, which leads their groins to come in contact with one another, and Sherlock lets out a responsive gasp. The devilish grin on John's face widens when he realises Sherlock is now as hard as he is, his impressive length pressing against John's own.
John teaches Sherlock all about the art of dry humping. All the while they explore each other's mouths, tongues dancing in time with one another. By the time the cab pulls up on Baker Street they're so close that it's a struggle to get out of the cab.
Somehow, John is able to throw more cash at the taxi driver, whilst Sherlock clings to him like he's becoming a fifth ligament. They tumble and stumble about in the darkness.
There's an awkward moment where John fumbles with the keys and it takes a while to open the door. All the while Sherlock insists on distracting John with kisses.
So many kisses. They start on John's lips, start trailing down his jaw, find their way onto his neck. As they practically fall through the door together, Sherlock decides he's had enough of gentle kisses, and his teeth start to explore John's skin too.
When the teeth sink in deeper into his neck than John has ever imagined possible, he grunts in surprise. As it's been years since he's been with a man, he's used to being the one giving out the love bites, and he's forgotten how good but peculiar it feels.
God, was Sherlock a vampire? The teeth retracted, and just when John thought things couldn't get any more heated, a wet tongue begins to lap at the open love bite. Fuck. I'm so dead. That's it, isn't it? I've died and this is my perfectly sinful punishment.
He spins and moves to clutch at Sherlock's wrists. He tuts and tsks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Now Mr Holmes, I have a perfectly good idea what I'm going to do to you."
"Mmm, show me, Watson."
Even with his wrists restrained, there is nothing John can do about the actions of his mouth, and Sherlock continues his torturous biting and licking and kissing. It's too much. The wet, slurping and smooching sounds are enough on their own to almost drive John to the edge.
It's like his mind is going into a sensory overload, unable to take all of the unexpected stimuli. He needs to focus, though. This isn't just about him. It's about Sherlock, too. It's about making him feel good, and making their first time as special as it can possibly be.
Then it strikes him all at once. The enormity of what they are going to do together. He takes a step backwards and he forces Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock doesn't want to stop, he whines stroppily, and tries to reach for John's lips once more.
"Sherlock, ugh, I don't know how to put this delicately."
"What?" The frowny face that Sherlock makes is so adorable that John wants to kiss the little frown lines away, but he refrains himself from doing so, because this is important.
"Ugh, have you done this before?"
"Well…" Sherlock trails off, shrugs, looks shamefully away. The way his voice trails off is very telling.
"I thought so." John licks his lips. "Moriarty…he used to call you the virgin."
"Is that so wrong? I just…I've never been interested before, John. I'm attracted to men, I do not deny that, but this is the first time I have ever wanted to actually participate in sexual activities."
"Yeh?" John smiles softly, feeling quite proud of himself, because he was the exception to Sherlock's rules. "That's fine, Lock. It's all fine."
Sherlock blushes so hard the tips of his ears burn bright red. "I like it when you call me, Lock. It feels…more intimate."
"I like it too, Lock." John reaches out a hand to him. "We'll take it slow, alright? I want to get this right."
"I want that, too." Sherlock whispers. "I've been an idiot, John."
"Of that, I am aware." John affirms, but then adds. "But right this minute I don't particularly care. We're here together and you're alive."
With that said John drags Sherlock into the downstairs bedroom.
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed, brimming with nervous and excited energy. He shakes with anticipation as John starts to help him out of his disguise. It's a shame really, because Sherlock makes such a handsome waiter, and it seems a pity to divest him of the clothes. But then again…John gets to see him naked.
He can tell Sherlock is feeling self conscious about his scars, so the first thing John does as a courteous lover, is make sure he reassures Sherlock that it's OK. He asks for permission to touch the scars, and the younger man nods stiffly.
The touches are inquisitive, as he starts to learn of all the horrors Sherlock must have lived through. The tips of his fingers run over lacerations, tiny raised bumps, marks that look like someone put out their cigarette out on his skin, until he feels absolutely nauseous.
His lips press against one of the thicker scars, and he closes his eyes. Again he feels guilty for ever leaving Sherlock on the day of the fall. Perhaps John would have been able to be in on the plan if he hadn't left…he would have been able to protect Sherlock!
"John," Sherlock whispers brokenly. "It's not your fault. Stop that."
"I know, I know, I know." He sniffles, and god his erection is starting to wane. Way to kill the mood, John. "I just…they hurt you Sherlock, and I should have been there to help you."
Sherlock turns and tilts John's head back, nuzzling him and showering him in kisses. He mumbles a torrent of "not your fault" and "it's OK, I'm here now."
He kisses Sherlock back reverently, until he feels his waning erection flag back up, and the room becomes unbearably hot. Then again, unlike Sherlock, he is still fully clothed. Sherlock makes sure to change that fact immediately, and things picks back up from where they had been going.
It's an exploration of their bodies. It's a dance that they're learning together. Hands move to previously closed off, forbidden territories. It's new for both of them and that somehow makes it so much more special.
It turns out Sherlock is an incredibly responsive partner. John finds this out by personally exploring every inch of his pale, lean body. When his lips find their way onto one of Sherlock's nipples, tongue swirling around the perfectly round bud, the moan that Sherlock lets out is borderline animalisti and carnal.
"John, oh god, I need-"
"What Sherlock?" He asks as he slurps obscenely at the nipple his lips are clamped around. "Tell me what you need."
"I need you inside me. Please."
John's eyes darken.
"Oh god, yes."
The preparation side of things, the foreplay, has always been John's favourite part of sex. Seeing your partner coming undone is incredibly arousing, but seeing Sherlock coming undone is another thing entirely…
His fingers bend crookedly as he searches for the small bundle of nerves inside Sherlock. He's a doctor, so he knows a dangerous amount about the human body, and once he's found what he's looking for he repeatedly hits that spot, all the while stretching his fingers out, preparing Sherlock for what is yet to come.
Sherlock is speechless as his spine arches off of the mattress. Guttural sounds spill from his lips and he rocks back against John's fingers, trying to sink as far back onto them as he can. He does it so naturally it feels like this isn't the first time at all. Trust Sherlock to learn things quickly in bed.
"Ready?" He asks softly as he pulls his fingers out.
Sherlock looks straight into his eyes and he already looks so utterly debauched. "I have never felt so utterly prepared for something in my life."
John takes that as a confirmation that this is OK, and then he proceeds, very carefully drawing himself close. His cock lines up with Sherlock's entrance and he pushes inside gingerly, not wanting to hurt him.
The grunt and slight discomfort Sherlock must feel is expected. He remembers his first time with a man. It's never particularly comfortable when it's your first time, and it's bound to feel a little strange. He drowns Sherlock's whimpers out with a kiss.
He makes sure to check with Sherlock every single step of the way, to make sure he is OK with everything is happening. He takes it slowly, choosing to make love to Sherlock, rather than to fuck him senseless. He can't believe how tactile Sherlock is. It's like he has been so touch deprived in his life that he is pouring a whole lifetime of his love and attention into making love with John.
John's hand reaches down to the bobbing erection pressed between them, and he strokes Sherlock off in time with his loving thrusts, jerking his hand in the way he knows he likes on himself.
As they move together it's like electricity flies between them. Sparks of pleasure rise through their bodies as they move in sync with each other. When their lips lock and battle against each other its like the whole world just melts away, and it's just them. Just how it should always have been.
They chase their orgasms together, hot breath swirling between them, heat radiating off of of their rippling muscles. They find themselves tipping over the edge together, both falling into orgasmic bliss.
Sherlock moaning his name has to be the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.
In post coital bliss Sherlock is a limpet. He curls himself around John tight, practically smothering John in his body. He's a cuddler, John thinks to himself, as he hugs Sherlock to him tight.
As he turns to stare at Sherlock's sleeping face, he giggles to himself. Sherlock still has that ridiculous black marker mustache on his face, though it's now a little smudged after their activities together.
He can't bring himself to wake up his sleeping lover, so instead he just kisses the spot where the mustache is, and he settles down for a night of sleeping tucked up against Sherlock Holmes.
"I love you so much, Lock." He whispers. "More than you could ever know."
Sherlock's arms squeeze him tighter and he talks in his sleepy post-coital state. "I rather share the sentiment."
John's heart has never felt so full to the brim with love and happiness.