Adjust
Word Count: ~ 8,200
Summary: John might not be entirely straight and Sherlock might not be entirely adverse to relationships. It's too bad they insist on being just that, though … until they can't, and they have to decide between walking away for good or adjusting.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/OFC (hinted), Sherlock/Victor Trevor (past)
Rating: R
Spoilers: The Great Game
Setting: after The Hounds Of Baskerville
Warnings: Sexual situations, language
Contains: Slash
Author's Note: Written for the holmestice comm and especially pandoras_chaos, who – among other things – likes introspective, realistic stories with angst and tension. I hope this fits the bill, even if I didn't get porny (I tried, though, it just didn't fit).
Beta: A big 'thank you' to tardisjournal for a very quick and thorough beta. As always, it helped a lot.
Disclaimer: I'm not making money with this fanfic. The tv show Sherlock and the characters appearing within it belong to their producers and creators. Any similarities to living or dead persons are purely coincidental and not intended.
xxx
Sherlock wasn't oblivious to what people thought about him. Of course he wasn't. After all, he'd spent years carefully cultivating his image as a high-functioning sociopath. He'd gone to great lengths to keep people on their toes and away from him, until everybody he encountered only saw what he wanted them to see: the cold, arrogant bastard who cared about nothing but himself and his cases.
What he projected to the outside world wasn't his genuine self, of course. It wasn't true that he didn't care about others. He'd just learned that lowering their expectations of him as someone to turn to as a friend or steadying presence saved him a lot of time. He could focus on the case and facts, on solving the puzzle, instead of drying tears and offering comforting words.
That didn't mean, though, that he didn't know emotions, couldn't relate, didn't feel passion or affection or any of those other things. He could relate very well and he'd become a master at using the emotions of others to his own gain – something that would be impossible if he didn't understand. He was also more than experienced in being hurt, in being disappointed and left behind or ignored. Most of all, he knew how vulnerable caring about someone made him. It still surprised him how much the thought of Redbeard's death stung and almost made his eyes water in grief, as if he was still the child he'd been back then. He also knew how unguarded love made a person. Opening up, letting someone in and being left behind after sharing the most intimate thoughts and experiences hurt just as much as losing a trusted friend to death.
It all added up to caring not being an advantage and Sherlock had decided long ago that he should avoid involvements that went beyond his professional relationships. The rule was bent sometimes with Lestrade or with Mrs Hudson or his family, but it was never supposed to be broken.
Twenty minutes at a swimming pool with a consulting criminal and a bomb made him break it for John repeatedly.
It was for that reason that he was just trying to help right now: because he cared and wanted John to be happy. Mostly because an unhappy John made for a miserable blogger and companion, but also because John was the most important person in his life right now.
Apparently, he'd got it wrong somewhere along the way, because John's hands flew up to his chest, pushing, and dislodging Sherlock's lips from his. Sherlock stumbled back and against the kitchen table. John stared at him with wide eyes, stepping half-way into the door leading towards the stairs as if he was ready to run, his face flushed in embarrassment.
"Sherlock," John said, looking completely stunned. "What do you think you're doing?"
Sherlock stepped towards him again.
John raised a hand. "Don't."
Sherlock obeyed, leaning back against the table once more. John stared at him while he tugged his jumper down nervously. Then he cleared his throat.
Aware that John deserved an explanation, Sherlock said, "John ..."
John put a finger on his lips to shush him. Sherlock had always loathed that gesture but then again, he had to admit that he had surprised John quite a bit and he was willing to overlook it.
John nodded to himself and then met Sherlock's eyes, saying, "I had some toast. I asked you whether you wanted tea. You came up to me and kissed me. Did I send mixed signals?"
"I find indecision appalling."
John nodded, closed his eyes and then asked, "Come again?"
Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "You first realized that you were attracted to men about four months ago. I was getting tired of you brooding over it. You were making very slow progress in the matter, too. You clearly wouldn't have made a first step towards one of the more anonymous pubs in the next five months – maybe six – and that was just an unacceptable time frame. You will find that I saved you some time once the shock has worn off."
John seemed dumbstruck, only able to mutter, "What the fuck, Sherlock?"
"Problem?"
"You can't just go and do that!" John snapped.
"I was trying to help. You always tell me to help you out more."
"By buying the milk sometimes, not by sexually assaulting me in our kitchen!" John started pacing back and forth. "Christ, Sherlock, are you really that socially dense?"
The words stung, but it was a familiar ache and Sherlock managed to keep his face blank.
"Did you really not recognize that this situation might be a bit not good in my eyes? In anyone's eyes?"
Sherlock gave a sigh. "Don't be melodramatic. My advances were clearly welcome, judging by-"
"No!" John interrupted him, pointing an angry finger. "No, you don't get to tell me why I enjoyed you jumping me … in our bloody kitchen!" The outburst was followed by silence, only interrupted by John's watch starting to beep. John cursed and switched it off. He ran his hands through his short hair and closed his eyes, then he gave a helpless laugh. "This day is buggered anyway," he muttered, yanking his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. He turned back to Sherlock and took a calming breath. "I have to go to work but we're not done here." When he said that, he always sounded like Sherlock's mother after yet another failed experiment had somehow damaged the upholstery or the wallpaper … or the oven.
Sherlock had taken to reacting the same way to John that he had to his mother. "This was important."
John looked tired all of a sudden. "I don't know how this could have been important in any way, Sherlock. Frankly, it's none of your business." With that, he turned away and left through the kitchen door, his steps thumping down the stairs slower than usual.
Sherlock swallowed against a lump forming in his throat – the niggling fear that he'd made a mistake, looked at a problem the wrong way. The conclusions he'd drawn thanks to his observations over the last four months were correct. He knew they were! He'd made sure before he'd tried the kiss. He couldn't have been that wrong, could he?
He slumped down on the couch and curled his long frame into as tightly a ball as he could. There was no other way: he would go through all the clues again, look for a hint where he could have gone wrong. He owed himself – and John – that much.
The feeling of disappointment that John's rejection and obvious shock had brought were quickly shoved into the farthest corner of his mind – irrelevant.
xxx
John hated himself.
He'd become very familiar with the feeling after he'd returned to England, broken and useless and lonely. It had vanished the moment Sherlock had entered his life, had made himself at home in every nook and cranny of John's awareness. Sherlock had changed everything.
John thought that pretty much everyone was very wrong about Sherlock. At least partly – he really could be an arrogant git. Sherlock was far from a sociopath, though, as much as he himself maybe wanted to be. He was too friendly with Lestrade after cases wound down and too gentle to Mrs Hudson when she had a bad day. He was too much of a friend to John – period – to be someone who didn't care about others. He'd given John purpose and a home and he'd started to fix him. So all in all, John had been happy with where he was heading, had been content with his dull job just as long as solving crimes with Sherlock could make up for it.
A confrontation at a swimming pool with a madman and close contact with a bomb made him re-evaluate that.
He'd been so relieved when it had been over – adrenaline fading from his bloodstream and hysterical giggles setting in – that he'd almost placed a kiss square on Sherlock's lips. He'd caught himself just in time, disguising the motion as a stumble.
He'd written it off as what it had quite possibly been at that moment: just relief and the search for some form of release. Coincidentally, though, the number of his dates started to dwindle down to next to nothing over the next few weeks. He'd had an excuse ready for that as well, of course: he'd been told too often lately that he should pay more attention to his girlfriends than to his flatmate. A ridiculous notion in his eyes. It was just that, sometimes, Sherlock needed him more for various reasons: they were just having a break-through in the current case; it was danger night; Sherlock had hinted at performing an experiment way-too-flammable for John's taste and needed supervision; Sherlock had asked him to stay in and that was a rare thing and kind of important because he seemed lonely sometimes. At this point, his girlfriends had turned to ex-girlfriends pretty fast.
John had started to think that he only needed to find a woman who would be willing to put up with Sherlock. A few dates later, he'd realized that that was an impossible and also kind of a fucked-up attitude. He'd remembered the almost-kiss in the swimming pool, then, and noticed that he'd always preferred to spend time with Sherlock instead of his respective girlfriends. And he hadn't even minded that much.
Doubts had sneaked in then.
Not in their friendship or his attitude or Sherlock … he'd started to doubt the one thing he had always felt the most sure of: his sexuality. And he'd realized that he might be a tiny bit attracted to Sherlock. He'd clamped down on that at first, refusing to think about it further, but it was like a nerve lying open that was continuously touched and prodded.
He couldn't stop thinking about it.
Couldn't stop trying to imagine himself with Sherlock, just to prove that it was impossible … finding that it wasn't that absurd.
Couldn't stop being horrified about having wanked to it twice already.
Because he wasn't gay.
He wasn't interested in men.
Except, he kind of was ... wasn't he?
He'd never coped well with insecurity or weakness, especially if others knew about it. He'd managed to hide this particular problem for a few months, though. Or at least he'd thought he had. Sherlock, of course, knew. If John was lucky, Sherlock had no clue that John felt more than attraction for him. That he'd fallen in love, just a bit. If John was lucky, he only knew that John was struggling with his sexuality in general. Nevertheless, that didn't change the fact that he knew something and he would use it to his advantage because that was what Sherlock Holmes did: he manipulated others to get his way.
So John had to set him straight. Right now.
"Sherlock," he said as soon as he entered the flat after a slow working day. Sherlock was lying stretched out on the couch in his mandatory thinking position: clad only in pyjama bottoms and a thin t-shirt under his blue silk robe, black curls dishevelled and elegant hands folded under his chin. The open nerve in John's mind was practically vibrating, sending a jumbled mess of thoughts through John's brain about how gorgeous Sherlock really was and whether, if he would slip his hands under that shirt to find smooth, pale skin, Sherlock would let him kiss him again.
John clamped down on those thoughts decisively.
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
The fact that he hadn't even been home for five minutes and was already losing control irritated him just as much as Sherlock's complete ignorance of his very presence, so John didn't feel too bad about snapping, "Sherlock!"
Sherlock turned his head lazily, but kept his eyes closed. "I heard you the first time."
John huffed and hung his jacket on the back of the door, straightening his jumper. "You could have reacted."
"Why?"
John closed his eyes, took a deep breath. It was a good thing, really, that Sherlock was being a prat. It distracted John from the thoughts he didn't want to have.
Sherlock opened his eyes, looking John up and down before facing the ceiling again. "You're agitated," he said calmly.
"Good guess," John replied sarcastically, putting his hands on his hips. "It's not bloody obvious or anything."
"I assume you want to tell me now that kissing you was out of line and that you're straight."
John pressed his lips together, then he answered tightly, "Yes."
Sherlock made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. "Fine. It won't happen again."
John stared at him, opened his mouth … and fell short. He cleared his throat and stepped closer to the couch. "What, just like that?"
Sherlock turned his head to look at him with raised eyebrows. "If you want to keep pretending-"
"There's no pretending involved!" John interrupted heatedly. "I'm not gay!" He knew he sounded awfully defensive, so it was no wonder Sherlock just sighed and turned his gaze to the ceiling once again. John thought that it couldn't hurt to insist in a calmer voice, "I'm not."
Sherlock gave a half-hearted shrug. "I don't care."
John blinked. "So, what was this morning about, then?"
"That was for your benefit, not for mine. And don't tell me you didn't enjoy it at least a bit. Your body betrayed you. I saw your pupils."
Bloody, genius prat! John narrowed his eyes. "So you're telling me you didn't enjoy it?"
Sherlock shrugged. "My body did. It's biology."
Actually, John thought, that sounded rather sensible. He should have gone for that defence himself. "That goes for my body, too. I reacted to someone-"
"A man."
"Someone!" John insisted. "Someone kissed me and I haven't ..." He cleared his throat. "Well, I was … inactive … for a while."
"You haven't had sexual intercourse with anyone for three months and seventeen days. Your last was that horrendously stupid PE teacher, Felicity. She didn't enjoy it." Sherlock's voice sounded far too calm to relay those facts and to crush John's memory of what he'd thought hadn't been that bad a performance, really.
John closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear why Sherlock thought what he did. On the other hand, though, he was far too curious. "What?"
Still in that eerily calm voice, Sherlock explained, "Her orgasm was fake."
John ran a hand through his hair, clutching at the short strands. "Jesus, did you listen to us?"
"Your room is above mine."
"I thought you were out! I wouldn't have brought her here, if ..." John raised his hand, taking a calming breath. "No, wait, I don't care. What matters is: what happened this morning doesn't mean a thing. I'm not gay. It was biology."
"All right. As long as it doesn't distract you from cases any longer and you will stop that broody silence."
John stared at him. "You don't believe me."
Sherlock cursed softly and sat up, apparently giving up on any semblance of peace and quiet. "Does it matter what I think?"
"It bloody well does!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and raked his hands through his curls, making them stick up at odd angles. "Fine. You're not gay. I believe you."
John nodded. "Thank you." He turned towards the kitchen.
"Bisexual, though."
"Christ," John muttered, halting in his tracks.
"Your dormant attraction to men isn't dormant anymore and it's coming up kicking and screaming. It won't stop bothering you until you acknowledge it openly or start to have sex with men secretly. Statistically, openly acknowledging it makes people happier."
John whirled around to him. "Shut up, Sherlock. What do you know? You probably never had sex with anyone in your life so what makes you such an expert?"
John noticed it – the split second it took for Sherlock's lips to crook into his usual self-confident smile and for his eyes to shutter back into the neutral mask he wore. That split second, that tiny moment, was a sure sign of Sherlock's brain processing an insult and then trying to pretend he didn't care. John had seen it plenty of times, had been the reason for it sometimes, too, and he hated it. He hated everything about this stupid situation.
He hated himself for being a coward.
Grabbing his jacket from the hanger, he muttered, "I'm going out." He didn't wait for an answer.
xxx
It was intentional, Sherlock knew. Of course it was. He didn't move, just remained on his back in his bed, book still in hand.
The woman's giggle was high and annoying while she stumbled up the stairs with John in tow, John making shushing noises he certainly didn't mean when they passed Sherlock's door. Sherlock closed the book and put it on the beside table, switching off the light. The street lamps painted thin strips of light on his ceiling, coming through his curtains. The door to John's room fell closed but Sherlock could still hear everything.
He listened because John wanted him to listen and he took it as the reprimand that it was.
She liked the sex with John, but she didn't like John very much because she left, with only a short, embarrassed glance at Sherlock in the kitchen, before the sun came up.
xxx
John finally made it out of bed and down the stairs to the kitchen close to noon. Sherlock was sitting bent over his microscope at the cluttered table, wearing the same things he'd worn the day before. One of his hands was adjusting the dials, the other taking notes. John muttered a greeting and didn't get an answer, which was pretty normal, so he started to prepare himself a cup of tea with an extra dose of ibuprofen, and had some dry toast over the sink. Sitting at the table with Sherlock seemed uncomfortable, somehow, especially after last night. Sherlock and John had never discussed bringing others home for sex, but John had always taken care not to bring anyone when Sherlock was in. The women he dated had their own flats anyway and being away from Sherlock's all-knowing gaze generally seemed healthier for his relationships.
When John put his cup in the sink to be washed up later, he was hyper-aware of Sherlock's gaze resting on his back, probably deducing everything he didn't already know about him. John closed his eyes and rubbed his face, putting on the kettle again.
The burbling of the water heating battled the uncomfortable silence, but couldn't quite keep it at bay. John dropped a tea bag into his mug and took a deep breath, turning to face Sherlock with his arms crossed. Sherlock, of course, was looking into his microscope as if he hadn't even noticed John.
"Sherlock," he said quietly.
A vaguely interested noise came from him. He seemed far too intent on whatever he was watching through his microscope to raise his head.
John knew he was bluffing. "About last night ..."
"What about last night?"
John let out a breath. "I'm sorry."
Now, Sherlock raised his head. "You're apologizing?"
John met his gaze head-on. "Yes. Yes, I am."
"But you were only making a point. It didn't affect me negatively in any way."
John sighed and turned away to pour water into his mug. "Frankly, Sherlock, I ... don't know what's going on with me at the moment."
Sherlock made a thoughtful noise and turned back to his microscope. "I would tell you but you wouldn't like it."
John leaned back against the kitchen counter. "It's complicated, Sherlock."
"I wonder," Sherlock said, "if it would be easier for you to accept if you weren't so keen on presenting yourself in a way you deem appropriate."
John stared at him, resigning himself to the fact that they would have this conversation. It would probably be good for him to talk to somebody and while Sherlock wasn't best suited, being the subject of John's feelings, as long as he remained unspecific, it should be fine. He let out a breath. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"You put far too much weight on what others think of you."
John sipped his tea and thought about that for a moment. "Maybe," he finally admitted. He cupped his hands around the mug. "You shouldn't have kissed me like that, just to prove a point," he started after a short stretch of hesitation, "but I shouldn't have pushed you away."
"Instinctive reaction," Sherlock said neutrally, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"You surprised me."
Sherlock gave a non-committal shrug and looked into his microscope again, making some more notes. John watched him for a while while he drank his tea: the way the morning sunlight played with Sherlock's dark curls and his single-minded focus on his experiment. He was more than most people saw and John wished so very badly for him to give up his self-imposed loneliness. He cleared his throat. "You know, if you ... if you wanted to see someone, you know I wouldn't have a problem with it, right?"
"Married to my work," Sherlock answered without looking up.
"Yes, but ... you enjoyed that kiss yesterday."
"As did you."
"All I'm saying is that it would be fine by me. It would all be fine."
Sherlock looked up at him, his grey eyes intense and focussed. "I know."
John swallowed under his gaze. "Do you?"
"Do you?"
xxx
Sherlock watched John. He knew they'd had some kind of break-through with their talk in the kitchen three weeks ago. John had been quiet since then, brooding or writing blog entries that never got posted. And he looked at Sherlock a lot. Sherlock in turn took care that John didn't notice that he knew John was staring. He let him. He knew it would pass, knew he was a safe option at the moment for John to consider, but not the safe option when it actually came to dating. So as soon as he came to terms with his identity, John would get to a point where he would go out and indulge that romantic side of his, the one that craved companionship and matching rings and all the things that Sherlock didn't need.
Sherlock could live on his own. John couldn't.
And right now John felt insecure and off-kilter and unhappy, and while the kiss had helped to push him into the right direction, Sherlock had underestimated the deeply rooted denial in John. So it wasn't a hardship to let John stare and think. Sherlock liked him too much not to allow it. They would be able to get back to normal once John had solved his problem. And normal was always preferable when it came to their dynamic. Not normal was far too off-putting and confusing.
In the meantime, Sherlock spent a lot of time in his mind palace in between cases, lingering outside the door that held his feelings for John. The door that was only allowed to be open a crack, except when it was time to store another memory. Then, he walked in carefully, trying not to disturb anything – everything in there was so fragile. He didn't want anything to break. He'd been through it once and he didn't want to repeat it.
There was another room next to John's, only separated by a door, but Sherlock never entered it. He was too scared to even look inside, see the wreckage, the broken remains …
John clearing his throat distracted him from his thoughts. He turned his head a bit to look at him from the corner of his eye. John was perched in his armchair, sitting on the very edge of the seat … as if he wasn't quite sure whether to stay or pace. His face was tense, the lines around his mouth and on his forehead cut deep.
He'd made a decision.
"Sherlock," he said softly, "could you listen to me for a moment?"
"Listening."
John nodded once, got up and stepped closer. "About … that morning you … kissed me ..."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are we still talking about that?"
John closed his eyes and crossed his arms. He looked like he was struggling to hold himself together.
Sherlock looked at him, waited.
Finally, John opened his eyes again and walked around the coffee table, sitting on the edge of the couch, not quite touching Sherlock. "I wanted to kiss you back, but I didn't because … I don't know." John stared down at his hands, entwining his fingers and squeezing until his knuckles turned white.
"Denial," Sherlock said.
"Denial," John whispered and looked up at him, his blue eyes sincere.
When John leaned forward and kissed him, it wasn't entirely a surprise. With Sherlock still lying down, the angle was awkward and the kiss a little bit clumsy; a press of lips against lips and the barest hint of tongue before John pulled back. His pupils were slightly widened and Sherlock was sure that he would feel an elevated pulse if he touched John's wrist now.
Sherlock sat up, causing John to straighten. He looked slightly alarmed, as if he didn't quite know what he'd done or why ... or how Sherlock would react.
He looked ready to laugh it off.
Sherlock didn't think that the progress they'd made in the last minute or so should be wasted, so he slid his hand up John's arm and to the nape of his neck, pulling him in. John came willingly, their lips meeting firmly and with more self-confidence than before, and when John opened his mouth, Sherlock deepened the kiss quickly. John's short hair slid through Sherlock's fingers when he flexed them to pull John closer, and one of John's hands clutched the lapel of Sherlock's dressing gown. John moved closer until their chests touched and buried one hand in Sherlock's curls, holding him in place while he took control of the kiss, gasping whenever their lips parted for a second just to close the distance again.
The kiss was unhurried and gentle and when John finally pulled back and broke it, he was smiling. "Nice," he said hoarsely. His cheeks were slightly flushed and his eyes looked happier than they had in weeks.
"I strive to exceed at everything I do," Sherlock answered.
John chuckled and licked is lips. Unexpectedly, he said, "Thank you."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You're thanking me for a kiss?"
"No," John answered. "Not just for a kiss. For everything, really. I … I didn't appreciate how you helped me out in the last few months and I should have." He nodded and seemed to be ready to get up, but then he changed his mind and instead grasped Sherlock's hand. "I feel safe with you. I would never be able to talk about this with anyone else. I'm just …" He took a deep breath. "... scared."
Sherlock knew that it took a lot for John to admit to it, so he acknowledged it with a nod and a squeeze of John's fingers.
John got up and laughed nervously. "Well, I think I'll ... call it a night."
It was a lie, Sherlock could tell. An excuse to go up to his room and think about the kiss and analyse it from every angle. Sherlock understood John's need to do that and it was for the better anyway. It would give him the chance to store the precious moment in the room that held his feelings for John. He could have a short look around while he was in there. He couldn't risk more than that. To John, he said, "Good night, then."
John smiled and one of his hands brushed through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock allowed the gesture, even leaning into the touch a bit before he caught himself and shifted back slightly. John dropped his hand and nodded. "Good night."
xxx
Harry had told John once that she hadn't known that she was gay until it had hit her, like a lightning bolt. She'd received sudden clarity in a moment she would have never expected to. She'd been hugging her best friend after a night out. It hadn't been the first time they'd hugged, either, but something had shifted in that split-second, changed, and she'd known that she was in love. Maybe she'd been from the start but she'd only realized it then, right there, on the pavement in the pouring rain. Or maybe she'd fallen for the girl, whose name she couldn't even remember anymore, in that very moment.
It was very likely that Harry had only fallen for her then, though. She'd always found love that way: quick and sudden and violent. Then losing it the same way.
It had never been like that for John. He'd always fallen in love gradually; allowed himself to wade deeper and deeper with every date, every glance, every laugh. He'd been in love with three women in his life, and had had about ten relationships that lasted longer than three months that had deserved the name. He would like to say that women liked him, but apart from the three he'd loved, that was probably not really true. They were attracted to him, but they didn't like him. It was easy for him to chat them up, flash a smile, invite them out. It was hard for him to let them in.
'Trust issues,' his therapist had said.
Only five people had managed to really get past all the lines of defence in John's life. Five that weren't family, anyway. The three women he'd said 'I love you' to, an old commander of his and Sherlock. Sherlock, who he'd got closer to with every case, every glance, every giggle. Sherlock, whose attitude had destroyed pretty much every relationship he'd started after his return to England. Sherlock, who he risked his life for; who risked his life for him. Sherlock, who played the violin whenever John woke from a nightmare. Sherlock, who John managed to get out of his strange moods better than even his own brother. Sherlock, who he'd hated for letting Irene get so close. Sherlock, who he loved for practically ripping the bomb vest off him in concern.
Sherlock, who had confirmed a sneaking, unwelcome suspicion John had had ever since Irene, by kissing him breathless in the kitchen and then acting as if it didn't matter.
"Do you?" Sherlock had asked, and John had been too scared to answer because, yes, he knew it was all fine. He had no problem with same-sex relationships. What he had a problem with was wrapping his mind around the idea of himself in one. It scared him because he didn't know how and he was too old to go through the whole sexual awakening thing again, wasn't he?
On the other hand: it was Sherlock! Frustrating, brilliant, funny, utterly gorgeous Sherlock. Who oftentimes seemed just as lost as John when it came to connecting to others but was less skilled in covering it up. Who'd returned John's kiss the night before. It hadn't been bad. It had been bloody fantastic, to be completely honest.
The physical part of it all might still scare John on some level, but he thought that at least he had the kissing down.
And since John had already dipped his toe into this particular deep end, he thought that he might as well jump.
Sherlock had worn a path into the hardwood of their flat all day, going from the couch to the microscope on the kitchen table and heading back again repeatedly. They had no case on, so it had to be an experiment that kept him so occupied. John didn't really care what it was, as long as it kept Sherlock busy and out of trouble. John had used the time to get the washing done and then the ironing – which he hated – and he'd forced a piece of toast and some tea down Sherlock's throat.
Finally, around tea time, Sherlock made a triumphant sound and slapped his hand on the kitchen table.
"Prove you were right?" John asked, not bothering to turn in his armchair to look at him. Even though he had no idea what Sherlock's experiment entailed or what his theory had been, the question always fit.
"Of course," Sherlock answered.
John folded the newspaper he'd been reading. "Want go out for dinner then?" he asked casually.
There was a pause where there shouldn't have been one and a knot of dread settled in John's stomach. He knew that he'd sounded a bit nervous.
There was no reason to be: they had dinner together all the time.
There was a big reason to be: he wasn't asking exactly for a platonic dinner.
John winced, steeled himself, and turned around. Sherlock was standing at the table with his hands on his hips, staring at John thoughtfully. Of course Sherlock had figured it out. He always did.
John swallowed. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock sighed, turned away and answered, "No."
John froze, the dread spreading through his entire chest to lodge in his throat. "No?"
Sherlock started to shuffle the books and papers together he'd spread all over the kitchen table. "That internet platform you use for your female contacts, they also offer the possibility to meet 'like-minded' men. Refer to them. Maybe they'll have more success setting you up when the other partner is male as well."
John stared at him. The words hurt more than he'd thought was possible. He gave a chuckle, trying desperately to downplay his reaction. "I was just asking about dinner."
Sherlock frowned, his dark brows almost pulling close enough together to form a line. He gathered up the used samples, dumping them in the sink for getting rid of them properly later. "You were asking for a date."
John closed his eyes, opened them slowly. "Fine … but we kissed."
Sherlock scoffed. "Yes," he replied. "At no point did I insinuate the need for you to buy me dinner in return."
"The need for me to ..." John took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I'm just … asking you out for dinner to do something nice together."
"A date."
"For God's sake, yes!" John snapped. "Okay, let's call it a date!"
Sherlock paused in his clean-up, then he sniffed and packed the microscope into its case. "Not interested."
"Why not?"
"I'm married to my work, remember?"
"So, what was yesterday about then?" John asked angrily. "The kissing and the touching and the ..." He shook his head, unable to understand how he could have been so very wrong.
Sherlock looked at him, burying his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe. "As I said, I was just trying to help you. Had I known it would serve to attach you to me, I would have refrained."
John crossed his arms. "So it had nothing to do with you trying to help me to come to terms with my attraction to you, but blokes in general?"
"Yes."
"Fatal mistake in your deduction, Sherlock, because I'm actually attracted to you in particular."
Silence crashed into the space between them.
Sherlock froze. He didn't look at John while he explained slowly, "That's the emotional component of our living and working together speaking, John. You can find someone else. Someone better suited."
John shook his head. "Well, I want you."
"I have no use for a relationship." Sherlock tilted his head and looked at him curiously. His grey eyes lit up with an idea. "You said you feel safe with me, though, and I understand that at this point in life, a coming-out and relearning of sexual practises might be hard on you. If you would like to experiment with me, we could-"
"Christ!" John exclaimed and turned away.
"John-"
"Of course you don't get it, do you?" John asked, turning back around to face him. "I'm not looking for experimentation or a shag or whatever else along those lines that you conjured up in your head. I'm actually interested in more, Sherlock."
"That would be stupid," Sherlock answered, "and destructive to our friendship."
"Right, because this isn't," John scoffed.
Sherlock looked at him, no answer forthcoming. John couldn't tell what he thought. His face was blank. John hated when he did that and he hated that he wasn't able to do it himself. Sherlock was probably able to see it all on John's features: the embarrassment, the shame, the anger … the fear.
John brushed both his hands through his hair. "I don't know why I even bother." Grabbing his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair, he shook his head. "I really don't."
He slammed the door on his way out, walking fast to attempt to erase Sherlock's neutral, cold expression from his mind.
xxx
Sherlock's world consisted of tools. He had his lab equipment to analyse and experiment with, he had his skull to share thoughts with when nobody bothered to listen, he had his violin to express emotion when he couldn't find the courage or the words, he had his nicotine patches and the needle to widen his horizons should he get stuck.
Even human beings were tools for him, to a certain extent. Lestrade to get cases, Molly to get competent assistance in the lab, Mycroft to get through locked doors.
John was there to get groceries and supplies, to help Sherlock battle loneliness he didn't want to admit to having, and to bring enlightenment when he asked the right stupid questions. To see the good, praiseworthy things in him that everybody else liked to overlook because he was more often honest than polite.
Sherlock knew that in a world where everything and everyone was a tool to him, he could be nothing else but a tool as well. He could be used for more things than the others, of course, but still, in the end, he was just as much a tool. He solved cases, he provided answers, he did scientific work, he had the financial stability that John sometimes lacked, he was not completely lost in a fistfight, he made people face the truth whether they liked it or not.
Others indulged in romantic relationships and deep friendships that limited their use and blunted their minds. Sherlock didn't, which was why he was multi-purpose and sharp.
These days, he sometimes didn't mind getting distracted, just a bit. Dinner with John at Angelo's, or an evening of Scrabble with John and Mrs Hudson. Just sitting and watching John on his laptop, as he concentrated hard and typed infuriatingly slowly. Or leaning down over John's shoulder to read what he was writing and catching a whiff of his aftershave or shampoo. Sometimes, just taking half an hour to lie in bed, hand in his pyjama bottoms, staring at the ceiling and imagining what would happen if he were to go upstairs and crawl into John's bed. He didn't indulge too often, though, scared of losing his edge to distraction. Even though he longed for it sometimes … he longed for John's warmth against his body and John's hands in his hair and John's lips against his, especially now that he knew how it felt ...
"Please stop playing the violin."
Startled from his thoughts, Sherlock whirled around to the door where John was standing, rumpled from sleep and bleary-eyed. He'd lost track of time somehow. Baker Street outside the windows was only lit by the street lamps. The last time he'd consciously noticed anything aside from his fingers on the strings and the bow in his hand was when John had come home and when a couple had had a fight on the pavement in broad daylight.
Sherlock lowered the violin, his shoulder muscles slightly stiff and his fingers stretching reluctantly. "You knew when you moved in that I would do this."
John huffed an irritated breath. "This is the third night in a row, Sherlock. You play when I leave for work and you're still playing when I get home and it's becoming annoying, so just stop, please, for just a few hours and get some sodding sleep!"
"I slept while you were at work today."
"Yay for you. Now do me the same favour!" John turned to leave.
"Move out if I'm such a nuisance, John!"
John stopped dead.
Sherlock didn't quite know where the words had come from but now that he'd started, he thought that he should finish. "If you can't stand the thought of me not returning your affections, just leave." Sherlock could see that John was tired and angry but he refused to feel guilty. Playing the violin was something he couldn't keep from doing sometimes.
John crossed his arms and stepped further into the lounge. "Oh, and who would share the flat with you then, you genius? In case you didn't notice, you're not an easy person to live with!"
"I should probably thank you then for taking pity on me!"
"It's not fucking pity, it's me being scared that you would go back to the needle if nobody supervises you!"
"I don't need a babysitter! You can tell Mycroft that!"
"What, you think I'm still here because Mycroft asked me to?"
"What else could be the reason?"
"You know the reason, God damn it, I love you!" John snapped his mouth shut and paled visibly, looking stunned at his own outburst. He met Sherlock's eyes then – determined and daring.
Sherlock turned away and set his violin down, doing so slowly and carefully, processing John's confession.
John continued softly, "I only ever moved in because I found you interesting, I stayed because you became my best friend and then, I fell in love with you and the biggest mistake that I have ever made is telling you that because you act like you don't care, even though you do. I know you do. I know you." The hardwood groaned when he stepped closer, the sound uncomfortably loud in the night's silence. "Please, Sherlock, tell me the truth. I realize you might not return my feelings but don't go and disregard our friendship."
Sherlock's fingers stroked down the polished wood of the violin thoughtfully. "You must understand that I'm a tool."
He heard John sigh deeply. "I'm tired, Sherlock. I haven't slept properly in over forty-eight hours. So, please, don't be cryptic."
Sherlock straightened and looked out the window. "Romantic entanglements tend to make people stupid. Look at Donovan. Smart, strong, capable and she lets herself fall for an idiot like Anderson who is doing nothing but holding her back."
"Which one of us is Donovan in this example?"
Sherlock turned around to John and answered his faint smile with his own weak version. "You never held me back," he said. "What I said in Dartmoor … I was being honest." He became serious and buried his hands in the pockets of his robe. The fingers of his right hand curled around the emergency cigarette he kept in there. "I'm being honest now. Romance would blunt my mind, distract me from my work."
John shook his head. "That's not a good enough reason, Sherlock. You know I would never keep you from your work."
"Not intentionally, but you would expect romance – and don't say you won't because you're a romantic – and I would feel obligated to give into it because I don't want to lose you and that's where weakness starts."
John crossed his arms. "By caring?"
"By caring too much."
"You're scared."
Sherlock scoffed.
"No, really," John said, his blue eyes narrowed. "That's what all of this is about. That's what every relationship you have is about. You're scared. People think that you're not aware of what you say, that you don't grasp that you're being hurtful, but I suspected a long time ago that you do know about the hurt you inflict because you get especially vicious whenever someone tries to show they care or whenever someone tries to get a positive or affectionate reaction out of you. And most people turn tail and run." He stepped closer.
"You don't."
"Well, as I said, I had a suspicion a long time ago and I'm not easily scared. So," he said, unexpectedly hooking his arms around Sherlock's neck, getting on the tips of his toes to look directly into his eyes, "keeping you from your work because I expect romance and you would feel obligated – invalid, because I can cope without flowers and candy and I feel more comfortable as a giver than a taker in a relationship anyway. Also, I'm painfully professional if need be, so no romance during a case is all right. Try again."
The weight and warmth of John's skin against Sherlock's nape was slightly distracting. "I can be a bastard. You wouldn't like me very much."
John chuckled. "I already don't like you very much some days, Sherlock. Try again."
"I'm unreliable."
"No, you're not. Not where it counts."
Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's and closed his eyes. "I am very fond of you."
John laughed softly. "That's not a reason against it, Sherlock."
"Others might find it a good pressure point."
"Can't get more dangerous than it already was," John said softly, looking into Sherlock's eyes, close enough to go slightly cross-eyed. "Still here."
John leaned in then and kissed Sherlock, just on the lips but lingering. Sherlock's hands found John's hips, pulling him closer before he could stop himself. John broke the kiss but didn't move back, hovering and breathing deeply.
Sherlock raised a hand, ran it through John's hair, cupped the back of his head. He had only one reason left and he knew it was invalid before he even uttered it. "I might hurt you."
"You will. And I will hurt you. And then we will pick up the pieces and become better. That's what relationships are about."
Sherlock had no arguments left, no reasons to give, no defence at all.
He closed his eyes in defeat and pressed their lips together, deepening the kiss as soon as John opened his mouth and pulling him flush against him, supporting John's weight when he stumbled slightly. John tasted of his toothpaste and smelled of laundry detergent and other dreadfully domestic things that Sherlock didn't want to crave … and yet, he did, on some level.
John's hand slipping underneath his bathrobe and tucking up his t-shirt to settle on the skin of Sherlock's hip surprised him a bit. He pulled away from the kiss and looked at John, seeing his pupils blown and the skin of his cheeks flushed and his lips reddened. It was a gorgeous sight, so Sherlock wrapped one arm around John's waist and eased his fingertips underneath the elastic of the pyjama bottoms he was wearing. He stopped when he reached the seam of his pants.
John gasped, staring at Sherlock's cheek, and swallowed thickly. "I'm scared, too, you know," he whispered, raising his gaze to look into Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock could feel that he was trembling, tense, and he nodded. His fingers slid out of the bottoms and higher to settle on John's back. John wrapped his arms around him in an embrace and Sherlock rested his cheek on John's head, letting the burning heat of the moment calm to a gentle warmth. "We should go for dinner tomorrow," he said.
"Today, you mean," John replied gruffly and muffled a yawn against Sherlock's shoulder.
"Today," Sherlock conceded, adding hastily, "Work permitting."
John chuckled. "Work permitting," he agreed.
In his mind palace, Sherlock entered the room that held his love for John, looking at all the fragile contents one by one, making sure there were no cracks showing, before he stored the new sensations and memories.
The door to the adjoining room was half open, teasing Sherlock with the possibility of spreading the chaos beyond it into John's room as well. He didn't need to look inside to know what it looked like: the floor littered with shards, sharp and some of them bloody where he'd stepped on them in the past. He'd thought about deleting this room so often, but had always refrained, keeping it as a reminder of what happened when he opened himself to someone completely. And now, that he had a good reason to delete it, to start afresh, he couldn't. Its base of fear and insecurity was running too deep by now, was too strong.
He tightened his hold on John and hurriedly closed the door, locking it firmly, hoping it would serve to keep fears and chaos at bay.
He had just decided that Victor Trevor was someone John didn't need to know about.
Not yet.
END
05/14