IT'S ALL FINE AGAIN — WITH ONE MINOR ADAPTATION…
Aka a jump forward in time in my 'It's all fine' universe.
Warning? I'm just having fun with them, because my mind gets silly sometimes, and I don't think they will get hurt in the process anyway ;)
ONE
JOHN
John awoke and knew he had an unexpected but bloody serious problem.
He just had had the most uneventful dream: he and Sherlock, looking at each other across their table, for a silent, time-suspended moment. Nothing particularly exciting, right? But it had felt comfortable, and soothing — because for once he had dreamt of an alive Sherlock. And it had been very vivid.
And his body had surprisingly, but quite obviously, reacted to it!
Bit not good. Big time.
Panic crept in, and John took a deep breath to calm down.
Pragmatically, he rationalised, this was understandable. Damn problematic, but quite logical, all considered.
John knew that he loved Sherlock, nothing new here after all. The genius brat had been the most important person in his life, since about a few days (scratch that) hours (scratch that too) minutes after meeting him. The attraction had been inescapable, gravity-like, right from the start; and had never diminished, in the contrary.
But John had suddenly lost Sherlock, for what he had believed to be forever — even if a part of his brain had always maintain hope against all hope (but that little voice in his head had grown weaker with each day passing without Sherlock reappearing; and more than a f*& #$% year had gone by…)
Then — BANG! — two weeks ago, John had been granted his miracle, and Sherlock had come back.
So. Think.
No matter (or thanks to?) the hurt, the anger, the betrayal, and all the doubts he hadn't completely been able to shake off yet, OF COURSE, once the shock would have settled, his body would feel a pull that had never been there before, would need to reassure itself about Sherlock's irrefutable yet still unbelievable, dreamlike presence, and would crave Sherlock's closeness to the point that they could never be too close enough…
See? Logical.
There would probably be help groups for that kind of situation, if people were more regularly known to come back from their grave…
So: nothing to worry about for now. Surely, this was just a phase. Uncalled for, irrelevant, awkward and stupid and 'my life was complicated enough already, thank you' kind of phase; but a logical phase he would have to get through as quick as possible, simple as that.
He just had Sherlock back; he wasn't going to fuck it all over (no pun intended) and risk losing that man again…
In their early days, John had used to wonder if Sherlock might be gay — after all, anyone they ever met had appeared to assume so.
It's only a few months ago, when the new secretary of the surgery had in passing hinted that she believed that John was gay, that John had realised that he had done by then the same mistake as everyone else. People always needed to put others in neatly labelled boxes, to give sense to their world; and so, as a man, if you didn't seem interested in flirting with women, and if you were never seen in the company of any woman, then people automatically catalogued you as gay. That you just didn't give a damn about sex in general or that you were too heartbroken to get in that mood were never considered as options.
Then there had been Irene Adler, and John had thought that maybe Sherlock was in fact straight.
But then, it had dawned on him that, if Sherlock actually bent one way or the other to start with, it wouldn't matter anyway. Because Sherlock wouldn't be available — be it because he was genetically wired that way, or because he had rewired himself because it would be so beneath him to succumb to any kind of unreasoned desires.
Imagine: Sherlock, having any kind of libido? Not in this realm, huh.
John would have figured this one out even without Mycroft's (irrefutable — the man knew by one glance if you had slept on a sofa or a lilo, remember… and don't forget that he had more than probably always had more than enough CCTV's surveying his little brother) allusion: Sherlock hated to have to sleep *but when he did it was for days on end*, or eat *but when he did he ate a week worth in one hour* — Shut up! — and more than probably despised himself anytime he needed to use the loo…
No, really, the idea only that Sherlock would ever willingly give in to more than the absolutely minimum necessities to keep his amazing brain working felt truly surreal.
*A shame though, with the passion he was capable of, and with those long fingers, and that perfect O-mouth, and—*
Damn! Where the hell were those thoughts coming from?
*Remember that that passion was generally somehow related to more or less decaying body parts; and that those fingers were only gentle on the violin — and even then, not always; and that that mouth was mostly full of lethal venom.*
John took another deep breath to clear his head.
There. Fine. He could do it. The battle plan was simple but should be sufficient: cold showers, breathing exercises, getting out now and then — Sherlock was used after all to his occasional need for 'some air'... He would be fine. They would be fine.
He just had to ignore the fact that he shared a flat with the most observant person on Earth… and pray (that thought only — because he only thought of God in very, very desperate situations — being a real give-away of the seriousness of the situation, he could admit to himself…)